First published in 2006 by Birlinn Ltd
This ebook edition published in 2012 by
Birlinn Limited
West Newington House
Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.birlinn.co.uk
Copyright © Doris Davidson, 2006
The moral right of Doris Davidson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-219-1
Print ISBN: 978-1-84158-456-0
Version 1.0
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Contents
1925
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part Two
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Part Four
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
1939
Epilogue
1925
Should he tell his family how and why Charlie had died? Or should he keep the truth to himself?
The sickness that had swept over Albert in New Zealand, when he found out what had happened, surged up in him again, as it did every time he remembered. Was it fair to place the remainder of his children under that same stress?
In any case, could he trust himself to speak about it rationally? Could he sit down, when he returned to Aberdeen, and tell them that Bella Wyness had taken her terrible revenge on the Ogilvies at last?
Thank God – and God forgive him for even thinking such a thing – that Bathie hadn’t lived to see her prediction coming true.
Bathie – his own, dear Bathie, whom he had loved since the first day he saw her. Thirty-six years ago.
Part One
Chapter One
Just as Albert’s mother ladled out his potato soup, his father came into the kitchen and glowered at him.
‘What time o’ night’s this to be comin’ hame for your supper?’ he demanded. ‘Your mother’s got enough to do withoot waitin’ a’ hours o’ the night to get the table cleared.’
Having had his say, Wattie Ogilvie crossed over to the fireplace and held his backside to the heat, for the outside lavatory was cold, even in May.
‘A customer came into the shop just on seven.’ Albert glanced up at his mother as she laid his plate down in front of him. One lock of her dark hair had escaped from its hairpin confines, giving her a rather lopsided appearance, but her eyes were twin gimlets boring into him, and he knew she hadn’t been fooled by his excuse. ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he added, somewhat belatedly.
Nell’s expression softened. ‘Mr Duthie’ll never mak’ you manager, lad, even if you work twenty-four hours in the day.’
‘I’m as good as manager already.’ He blew on the spoonful of soup he lifted to his mouth. ‘The only difference is, I’m not getting paid for it. I’m just trying to set things out better, to make it easier for him as well as for me.’
‘He’s an auld man, Albert. He’ll nae change after forty year.’
‘That’s the whole point, Mother. It maybe worked fine for him forty years ago, but this is 1889.’
His rheumaticky knees refusing to bend with him, Wattie sat down with a thump. ‘You tak’ ower muckle on yoursel’, Albert. Let the man run his place the way he wants.’
Nell looked from one to the other as Albert lapsed into offended silence. They were so like each other, the two of them, their natures as well as their looks. Wattie’s skin was weatherbeaten from being at the fishing since he was a laddie, but, apart from that, Albert was nearly his dead spit – red hair parted in the middle, round healthy faces and moustaches even brighter than their heads – though Albert’s was less bushy than his father’s. But Wattie had a fine beard, while his son’s clean-shaven chin showed an attractive cleft, making him look younger than he really was.
Nell took the boiled beef out of the soup pot at the side of the range. ‘Belle’s been anxious for you to come in.’ The spaniel rose from the hearthrug at the mention of her name, and Albert patted her head affectionately. ‘Just five minutes, Belle, and I’ll take you out.’
When he finished his second course, which his mother had dished onto his empty soup plate, he lifted his jacket and cap and went out without a word, and Nell turned to her husband.
‘I’m worried about him, Wattie. He’s goin’ to get a real sair he’rt if Mr Duthie doesna mak’ him the manager.’
‘He’s nae a bairn, Nell. He’s near twenty-four.’
‘He’d maybe be mair content if he took a wife. Walter and Jimmy were wed lang afore they were his age, and they’re happy enough, even though they’re baith fishin’ oot o’ Grimsby.’
‘Albert’s aye been different,’ Wattie reminded her. ‘Aye wantin’ what he canna get.’
Their youngest son strode along the street, angry at his parents for believing that his ambition was to be manager of Joseph Duthie’s grocery shop. It was his own shop he wanted, but they’d think he was mad if they knew that.
It wouldn’t be right to set up in Torry in opposition to his present employer, of course, but he could go to another district of Aberdeen, so he always kept one eye open for a suitable property when he took Belle out. He had not yet come across anything he liked, and perhaps it was just as well, for he’d feel frustrated at not having the money to buy it. But there was no harm in looking.
Belle padded along beside him, sniffing in the gutter and squatting occasionally in a token gesture, so he spoke to her, as he often did. ‘I know my mother thinks it’s time I took a wife, but I’ll not think about that for a while yet. You’re the only lass for me, Belle.’
He’d walked out with a few girls since he’d been old enough to take an interest in them, but not one of them had caused his sap to rise, nor made his heart beat any faster. They’d all been common, ignorant lassies, and they’d disgusted him with their blatant attempts to trap him into marriage. He recalled the one time he had been roused, when he was only seventeen. The girl had been on holiday in Aberdeen, living with her auntie next door to the shop, and he’d asked her out after she’d hinted
that she was willing. She’d been a bonnie wee thing and he’d felt kind of drawn to her.
They’d walked towards the sea, then along the coast, and he’d unexpectedly wondered what it would be like to bed her. The urge in him had grown quickly, and he’d taken her, with no preliminaries, on a grassy bank at the side of the road. It had been over in a flash, and he’d felt rather let down that there was nothing more to it, though the girl had seemed pleased enough. He’d been glad when she went back to Glasgow the following day, for she hadn’t meant a thing to him, and he’d been very relieved that she hadn’t written afterwards to tell him that she was in the family way.
He’d never touched another lassie. It wasn’t worth the worry, and most of his leisure hours were spent in trying to broaden his knowledge. Having left school at twelve, he’d felt he needed more education before he would amount to anything, so for years he’d gone to the public library every Wednesday afternoon, his half day off. He’d been little more than a dogsbody to Mr Duthie when he first started working, but he’d known he was destined for much better things, and he’d grown certain of it as he grew older. It was entirely up to himself, for nobody got anything without having to work for it.
He was practically in charge of Mr Duthie’s shop now, but when all was said and done, he was still only an assistant, still single and still rather disgruntled with his life.
A wife would only complicate things, though, for she’d be forever on at him to buy new clothes for herself and for any bairns they might spawn, so he was far better off without one. Especially since she might turn out like his brothers’ wives, who thought about nothing but themselves.
‘We’ll take a look round Ferryhill on Sunday,’ he remarked to Belle. ‘I’ve heard it’s a nice area.’
Bathia Johnstone gave a little giggle when she thought of how clever she had been in asking for a dog for her birthday. Of course, her father had been against it, but she’d won him round like she always did.
She had never been allowed to go out on her own before, but here she was, this lovely spring Sunday afternoon, taking Spanny to the Duthie Park, where she would surely meet some boys of her own age. The only boys she knew, the sons of her father’s friends, were so namby-pamby they weren’t any fun, but real boys, ordinary boys, would have more spirit. She might even meet her fate amongst them, and be transported away from her present dull existence. She had read all about the facts of life, so she would never give any coarse philanderer the chance to seduce her – although it might be rather enjoyable if one tried . . .
Standing still for a moment to let Spanny inspect a tree, Bathia became aware that a young man was coming towards her – a tall, slim man with a very handsome face. His jacket was rough and didn’t match his baggy trousers, but she felt that she could learn to like him a lot. And when she saw that his dog was a spaniel like hers, she took it as a good omen.
He seemed to be deep in thought, however, so how could she make him notice her? It was really quite unladylike, but when he was almost abreast of her, she gave a discreet little cough to draw his attention. His head jerked up, revealing an attractive cleft in his chin, and he smiled when he lifted his shapeless cap. The bright red hair, parted in the middle, came as a surprise to her, but she recognized the naked admiration in his dark eyes as he walked past.
When she went to bed that night, she couldn’t stop thinking about the red-headed stranger, and wished fervently that girls could speak to a man without waiting to be introduced.
Albert’s dream that night was not about his shop, and in the morning, his mind was made up. He didn’t know her name, or anything about her, but he did know that the girl he’d smiled at was the only one with whom he would ever want to share his life, however long it took for him to find her again.
He haunted the Duthie Park every night that week, but without success. So when he entered the gates the following Sunday afternoon his expectations were low. He’d been all the way round once and was finishing his second circuit when he saw her coming towards him, and the hammering of his heart made him awkward and self-conscious. He hadn’t planned how he would approach her, but luck seemed to be on his side, because her little puppy sidled up to sniff round Belle.
The girl bestowed her dazzling smile on him again, so he removed his cap and said, tentatively, ‘Our dogs seem to have introduced themselves, maybe we should do the same. My name is Albert Ogilvie.’
She held out a gloved hand. ‘I’m Bathia Johnstone.’
Her voice was low and sweet, and he hesitated for only a second. ‘Would you . . . er . . . allow me to accompany you on your walk, Miss Johnstone?’ He held his breath in case she thought him too presumptuous.
‘I’d be delighted, Mr Ogilvie.’
Her acquiescent smile made Albert think of dawn breaking on a clear summer morning, lighting up the whole world, and he turned back with her, praying that Belle wouldn’t baulk at a third journey round the Park. But his dog was running around quite happily with the puppy.
Albert found himself tongue-tied, but the girl broke the silence before it became uncomfortable.
‘What’s your dog’s name, Mr Ogilvie?’
‘Belle. She’s nearly six. Quite old, really.’
‘She’s beautiful.’
They walked on a few more steps, then Bathia asked, ‘Do you work at all, Mr Ogilvie?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I have to work for my living. I serve in a grocer’s shop in Torry.’ Albert wished that he could have told her he was the owner of the shop, but it was better to stick to the truth. ‘I’ve been there since I left school when I was twelve, and I’m nearly twenty-four now.’
‘Twenty-four? You don’t look it, Mr Ogilvie. You have a very young face. I’ll be seventeen on my next birthday.’ She laughed suddenly, a little silvery trill that made Albert’s heart thump, and sealed his fate for ever. ‘To be quite honest, I’ve just been sixteen for about ten days,’ she confessed. ‘Would you have known that’s all I was? Does my face give me away?’
‘You’ve got a perfect face, Miss Johnstone.’ He had never paid any girl a compliment before, but she was perfect, every bit of her, from the shining brown ringlets under her bonnet right down to her dainty kid-shod feet.
She looked up at him coquettishly. ‘I like your moustache, Mr Ogilvie. Oh, do you think it forward of me, saying that?’
‘Oh, no. I think you’re . . . perfect.’ Why couldn’t he have found a different word this time? She’d think he didn’t have any vocabulary, when he’d spent years trying to build one up.
Her delighted laugh dispelled his fears. ‘I’m not perfect. My mother says my father spoils me by giving me everything I want. He would never let me go out alone, though, but I fooled him, because I asked for a dog for my birthday, knowing he would say I’d have to exercise it.’ Looking away demurely, she added, ‘I may as well admit, too, that I’ve been coming to the park every afternoon since last Sunday, hoping I’d see you again.’
‘I work during the week, but I’ve been coming here every night looking for you.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded pleasantly surprised. ‘I was afraid to come at night, but if you were here to protect me . . .’
‘I’ll be here every night.’ He noticed, with a pang of guilt, that Belle was flagging a little. ‘I’ll have to be getting home now, though. I think Belle’s a bit tired, for we’ve been right round the park twice already.’
She halted abruptly and bent down to pat his dog. ‘Poor Belle, we’ve exhausted you. We’re turning back now, Spanny.’
‘There’s no need for you to cut your walk short, Miss Johnstone.’ Albert said, hastily.
‘I want to go back with you. I enjoy your company.’
Her candour was fresh and gratifying. There was no guile about her, and none of the simpering, false modesty of the other girls he knew. They walked slowly back the way they’d come with no awkward silences – Bathia seemed to have the knack of drawing Albert out, and listened with interest to his little anecdo
tes about the customers he served.
They had left the park before he realized that he’d been monopolizing the conversation. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Johnstone. You’ll be tired of hearing about the shop, for you must be accustomed to doing much more interesting things than me.’
Wrinkling her small, turned-up nose, she said, ‘I don’t do anything at all, really. My father says I don’t have to work, so I play the piano, write letters to my aunts, embroider, read books.’ She came to a halt beside two granite pillars at the foot of a short flight of stone steps. ‘Here’s where I live.’
Albert’s eyes widened with dismay as he looked up at the large mansion, for there was no hope of him ever being allowed to court a girl who lived here. ‘Your father must be a very rich man, Miss Johnstone,’ he said sadly. ‘Our house would fit six times into this place.’
‘He’s a banker, Bank of Scotland, you know. I suppose he is quite rich, I’d never really thought about it. Well, goodbye, Mr Ogilvie, and I’ll see you tomorrow night, won’t I?’
Albert’s heart sank so quickly, he felt sick. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t see each other any more. I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve of you meeting a grocer’s assistant.’
She tossed her ringlets. ‘He doesn’t need to know.’ Then her eyes darkened with doubt. ‘Don’t you want to meet me?’
‘Yes, I do, but . . .’
‘Well, there’s no reason not to. Please?’
His doubts drowned in the depths of her beseeching eyes. ‘I don’t finish till seven, but I could be at the park gates at half past, if that’s not too late for you?’
‘Until half past seven tomorrow, then.’ She ran gaily up the steps and waved to him from the top, then turned to pass through the imposing doorway.
Albert’s feet executed a joyful skip. ‘Oh, Belle, I’m sure she likes me, and she’s absolutely . . . perfect. It’s the only word for her.’
It was. The delicate oval face, the swelling bosom, the nipped-in waist, the rounded curves of her hips before the fullness of her skirt hid them. How he’d love to . . . God, what was he thinking? He didn’t believe he would ever have enough courage to kiss her sweet, tempting lips, never mind anything more intimate.
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