by Janis Mackay
Frank nodded. “We know our place,” he said but I could see from the way he punched his fist into his hand he felt angry. He knew as well as anyone that Gaunt was a nasty piece of work. “And we’ve no money for doctors. And Gaunt says he’s no money for doctors neither. So Elsie here’s got me to watch over her. I do half her chores.” Elsie nodded appreciatively at that and patted his arm, then they both fixed their eyes on me. “But now you’re here, frae… Footer,” Frank raised his eyebrows at that, “you can muck in.” Elsie gave her brother an adoring look then reached over and hugged him.
While they hugged, I picked up the jacket Elsie had fixed for me and pulled it on, then the baggy trousers. I looked down at myself, patched up like a scarecrow. As I gazed down at this different Saul I got this horrible feeling, now that I was beginning to seriously look the part, that I might be here for the rest of my life, and I would probably forget that I had ever had another existence. It would fade like a dream. I’d be a nobody, lost in time.
Frank looked up and saw me in my 1914 clothes, but before he could make any comment I dropped the next bombshell. “We heard news of something else. Something that’s going to change everything.”
“What’s that?” Frank said, a protective hand on his sister’s shoulder.
“There’s going to be a war.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Frank pushed himself to his full height, which was about the same height as me though he seemed a bit older than all of us. “The folk in the town talk of little else. But we’re going to sort out them Huns, no question!” And with that he ran round the table, whipped up a knife and slashed it through the air like he was sword-fighting a ghost.
Elsie clapped her hands and cheered. “Slay the Hun!” she cried and punched her little fist in the air. “Chop off their heads, Frank. Let them know who’s boss round here.”
Then Frank wiped the blade of the kitchen knife across his trousers, bowed low, got more sisterly applause, and put the knife back on the sideboard.
“You deserve a medal from the King,” Elsie said. “Doesn’t he?” She beamed round at me. “With brave men like Frank Noble, Scotland is in safe hands.” Elsie, in a party mood, sang a wheezing verse of:
“Rule Brittania!
Brittania rules the waves!
Britons never never ne-ver shall be slaves!”
With Frank doing a wee jig about the kitchen.
“Join in!” Elsie shouted, but I didn’t know the words.
23
Agnes
A mobile phone would come in really handy. Saul sounds a bit frightened whenever we speak, and from what the women down at the green told me, he’s got reason to be. Mr Gaunt runs the mill and he sure gets his money’s worth out of the poor workers. Seems like he puts fear into everyone. Wouldn’t it be a treat to meet a rich person who was actually kind? Anyway, I am more and more convinced that Gran was right: John Hogg owned the house! But because he was unwell and confused, seems like it was easy enough for a sneak like Gaunt to sway him and tell him how to run his business. The women told me that when Mr Hogg was dying, Mr Gaunt kept trying to get his hands on the deeds of the house. Seems like Gaunt was doing anything to wheedle the whereabouts of the deeds out of Mr Hogg, but the last laugh of it all is that Mr Hogg – bless him – was losing his memory and forgot where he had hid the deeds. All he knew was that they were stored away somewhere safe! Somewhere special, that’s all he could remember! It seems nobody knows actually where the deeds are – so Mrs Buchan told the washerwomen. They have a gossip on market days, when she comes in to town to buy provisions (this means food). I saw her there today. Gaunt says the house is his, and Mr Hogg left no male heir so there is no one to contest him, the washerwomen told me. Well, I just smiled at the women, thinking to myself – actually, there IS one male heir. Because I have done my homework. Back in 2014, I went to Peebles museum and searched my family tree. Mr John Hogg has one male heir – Michael Brown, my dad.
Dear diary,
I wish Saul would turn up. I know I did say to him that I was happy in my hiding place. That wasn’t a complete lie, my sleeping bag is cosy and the grass under me is soft. Earlier I was happy, and excited, but right now I can’t sleep for thinking about the war. Plus there is an owl in a tree nearby that keeps hooting. At first I thought it was Saul, but it isn’t. It’s a real owl and it feels like an omen – an ill omen. Then there is the poem that Mrs Johnston told us. It’s going round and round in my head. And in the poem it isn’t an owl that is hooting, it’s gas shells, and it’s terrible. I read about what gas can do to people and it burns your skin and eats your flesh. And when the poet writes about old beggars under sacks, knock-kneed and coughing like hags, he’s writing about boys who are maybe nineteen. Or twenty. They are so young, but they are limping and blind – like they suddenly grew very old. And here I am, snug in my sleeping bag and boys who tonight are cosy in their beds will soon be in the trenches. Will said how there was no way he would go to war, but Will isn’t here. Life is different in 1914. More different than I imagined. When I get back I’ll tell him that. I’ll tell him how young folk are keen to do their duty and how men whistle tunes in the street.
I tried to remember a happy tune to blot out the poem, but it kept coming back. For ages I lay there, behind the garden wall, till I had remembered all the lines Mrs Johnston had recited to us. I tried to remember what Mrs Johnston looked like but her face kept fading. All I could hear was her voice: “This is the beginning of a famous poem. It was written by Wilfred Owen, a poet and a soldier of the First World War.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.”
I felt so sad thinking how, because a few people are power-hungry, millions of young people ‘doing their duty’ are going to die. And not just people, horses too! And it’s all going to begin tomorrow.
Eventually the owl stopped hooting.
Then suddenly I heard three whistles, and this wasn’t a bird. It was Saul. I was sure of it. I switched my torch off and stuffed my diary and precious pencil down inside my sleeping bag.
I whistled in reply and scrambled up.
“Agnes,” Saul whispered loudly, “I brought you some pudding.”
Great. I was starving, but I imagined the pudding would break up if he lobbed it over the wall. I couldn’t bear to lose it. “Meet me round at the gate,” I whispered back, “then you can pass it through. And Saul, I need to tell you about John Hogg and about the market.” By now the moon was up and it was possible to see a tiny bit. There were also a zillion stars.
“Ok,” Saul murmured. “But if you hear a horse, hide. Gaunt’s gone out. He could come back any time.”
“Race you to the gates,” I said, and suddenly, running near the den like that, it felt like we were back in our normal time. I got to the gates first. There I was, holding the bars like a prisoner and peering through eagerly waiting for him and pudding. I heard him before I saw him, footsteps padding on the stones. Then I spied a shadowy figure. “Saul!” I cried out, feeling so happy to see him. It was pretty dark but I could tell right away that Saul had an old-fashioned suit on. He looked like a proper servant now and I couldn’t help giggling.
“Sssh.” He glanced over his shoulder. He looked jittery. “Just don’t mention the clothes, Agnes, ok?” he whispered, shoving the crumbly cake through the bars of the gate. Like a starving beggar I took it and sunk my teeth into it.
“Ok,” I promised. “But listen, Saul, my gran was right.” My mouth was full of cake. “That Gaunt man pretends he owns this house. But Hogg put the deeds away somewhere r
eally safe, then couldn’t remember where. Somewhere special, that’s all he said. Can you believe it, Saul? And Saul, I’ve met my great-great-great-great aunt; I’ve got to tell you all about her.” I knew I was gabbling on and doubted whether I was making much sense. Plus I was talking with my mouth full. “Saul, did you know—”
Hooves.
We froze and stared at each other through the iron bars.
“He’s coming,” Saul whispered. “That’s Gaunt! He mustn’t see us out here. He’ll…”
“That’s two horses,” I whispered, “listen.” We both stood, our ears pricked up in the night wind. Eight hooves rumbled and pounded toward us.
“Hide!” Saul hissed.
24
I hid behind a bush. I shoved into it and tried not to yell out as the prickles scratched my hands and ankles. I heard Agnes scarper. The drumming noise of horses’ hooves came closer and closer.
“I expected you in a day or two,” I heard Gaunt say. “Forgive me, I had not understood when, in your letter, you said ‘soon’, it would be this soon. The rooms may not be quite ready. But you will have complete privacy, and this is indeed a pleasant town for country walks and taking the air.”
“I prefer to see hereabouts by bicycle,” I heard an American voice say. “You have one. In the advertisement for this hotel you did say ‘Guests are welcome to make use of the bicycle’.”
“Certainly,” Gaunt replied, as the horses drew to a halt by the gates. I picked up anxiety in his voice.
I’ve never seen a bicycle here. And because I’ve been searching for the deeds, I’ve been into pretty much all the rooms and the sheds.
The horses whinnied and pounded the ground.
“Anything you need, Mr Inglis, just ask.”
“And you have installed the telephone? They are all the rage in America.”
“I am, ah, thinking of installing one, certainly,” Gaunt bluffed, “but I believe these, ah, telephones will be more trouble than they are worth. If we wish to communicate we have letters, have we not? And you will find, should you wish to post a letter, that we have here in Scotland a most excellent postal service. Rest assured sir, you will have everything you need at Tweedside Hotel.”
Then I heard Gaunt jump to the ground, his feet landing with a soft thud. I heard a jangle of keys and the creaking sound of the huge iron gates being opened. At least Agnes would be safe once they came through. She could slip away then.
“Peace and quiet, Mr Gaunt, sir, is what I need.” The guest said ‘Gont’ rather than ‘Gaunt’, but I got a weird feeling about his accent. It was a heavy American one and then in patches it wasn’t at all. I’ve spent enough hours glued to American TV and films (my dad and I watch The Simpsons together – I’ve seen almost all of them and I saw the Lego movie just last weekend) to know a phoney voice when I hear one.
“Let us take a night cap in the drawing room,” I heard Gaunt say. There was a slight panic under his words. The guest’s rooms were definitely not ready. I bet there was no such thing as a bicycle, and I knew there was no fire alight up there right now. It had taken me ages to do the fires in Gaunt’s rooms again this evening, plus I had been helping Elsie. I needed to get back into the coal shed quick, fill up a pail of coal and be seen working.
As the two men on horseback passed the bush where I was hiding and carried on towards the house, I listened for Agnes. Sure enough I heard the three whistles, very quiet. I whistled back. She replied with two calls, which was a kind of over-and-out. I guessed she was going back to her sleeping bag. I pictured it snug and safe. It wasn’t a cold night, and it wasn’t raining. I did an owl HOOT – the gang call for goodnight.
Then I made a run for it. As they were busy round at the stables, I nipped in the front door. The place looked like it was expecting company. The gaslamps were hissing out a flickering greenish light. There was even a vase of flowers on a small table at the foot of the stairs. I ran down the corridor towards the kitchen. I was learning fast about servants and masters and knew Gaunt would bring his important guest to the front door. Back doors were for the likes of us. Probably Frank, muttering “Yes sir, no sir,” would be bent double under luggage. And probably Mrs Buchan would open the front door with a bow and welcome the American. Probably the gardener had tidied the flowerbeds. And probably Elsie was spitting on the silver spoons to polish them. So probably Saul Martin had better get a move on with the fires.
I legged it to the coal shed. No such thing as a gaslight here. But my eyes were getting used to seeing in the dark. The moon threw ghostly shadows about the shed. I fired a few lumps of coal into a bucket then grabbed it. I could hear the horses whinny and I could hear Frank’s voice. The stables were close by. It sounded like he was brushing down the horses. I nipped over. “Hey, Frank, how’s it going?” I asked, forgetting to speak old fashioned.
But Frank didn’t seem to notice. “They’re here,” he said, his face up close to the big dark face of a horse. “I never met an American afore,” he spoke more to the horse than me, “and dinna mind if I never meet one again. So much for an important gentleman. Ha! He didna say ‘Good evening’. There wis me holding his horse and helping him down. Not so much as a farthing tip for me, lifting his bulky bag down. He practically snatched it back off me, like I was some kind of common thief.” Frank shot me a glance. “Sorry,” he muttered, like I might take offence. “Then Gaunt bustles over and says how Mr Inglis is perfectly happy to carry for himself, then Gaunt hisses in my ear: ‘Be neither seen nor heard, Noble.’ Blooming cheek. The way he went on about the blinking American I thought I was going to be rich. I thought he’d be tipping us all pounds.”
“Yeah, blooming cheek,” I said. “Anyway, I better do the fires, eh?”
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Frank. “Goodnight Midnight,” he muttered, patting the big black horse. Then he reached over and patted the other one. “Goodnight Trickster. Sweet dreams.”
We hurried over the cobbled yard towards the house. I heard the horses neigh, like they were saying goodnight back to Frank, and I had this horrible image of all the thousands of horses that would soon be dying, caught in the crossfire in the First World War.
“The gents are taking a dram of whisky in the drawing room,” Frank whispered as we padded along the back corridor, slinking into the shadows when we passed the drawing room. Voices spilled out – mostly Gaunt going on about the fine views of the surrounding hills. We hurried on up to the second floor, pushed open the door of the guest’s room, and there was Mrs Buchan, puffing up a pillow.
She looked me up and down, then gave a little nod of approval seeing me wearing the terrible suit. “It’ll do, I suppose,” she snapped. “Now then Blackie, this room needs warmed. Can’t you smell the damp in the air? A roaring fire is what it needs.” She tutted when she saw that Frank was going to help me. She carried on sighing and smoothing down the bed sheets, as Frank kneeled on the floor by the fireplace.
I couldn’t help staring at Mrs Buchan, who had her hair up in a tight bun. She looked about fifty, and fed up. And Elsie said she wasn’t married. All housekeepers are called ‘Mrs’. I wanted to ask her about John Hogg and the deeds of the house. I did open my mouth. I did get as far as muttering, “Um, Mrs Buchan…” But she just scowled at me.
“Don’t stand there like you’ve been struck by lightning. If you can’t make the fire yourself, at least dust the mantelpiece. Lord knows I’ve been at it for hours, sewing up bed sheets, pummelling the mattress and airing blankets. And Frank, tell that no-good sister of yours the guest will need a jug of water by the bed, and a glass. A clean glass, mind.” Then her beady eyes were back on me. She saw my bare and manky feet. “Lord above,” she sighed then marched round the bed, pulled out a cloth from her belt and shoved it into my hands. “Wipe the soles of your clarty feet. Then see to it that Elsie finds you clogs.” She sighed again. “Standards have sorely slipped. I have seen to the bed. You see to the rest.” Then, glancing about the room and shaking her head, s
he strode out.
“The deeds of the house,” I mumbled, but she was already stomping along the corridor. Behind me I heard a crackle in the fire grate.
“Mr Hogg tucked them away somewhere safe, so word goes, and couldna remember where.” I swung round to stare at Frank, who was now bathed in an orange flickering glow. “I’ve a notion they could be hidden in the secret passage.”
I looked at him.
“Awesome,” I said.
Frank just screwed up his orange face, like I was talking a foreign language.
“Is there really a secret passage?” I asked, and was about to say, ‘Cool!’ but changed it to, “Cor! Sounds handy.”
He shrugged and poked the fire. “Or, p’rhaps he stuffed them in a tin along with the broken biscuits.” He grinned. “Or tied them wi’ red ribbon and put them in a drawer with his underwear and mothballs!”
He winked at me, then stood up, his perfect fire roaring away in the big stone fireplace.
“Don’t I get as much as a ‘Thank you kindly’ for saving your bacon?” he asked, nodding to his fire. “You’re no better than the American.”
“Totally, yeah, thanks Frank. That’s great. Appreciate it. Really.”
Just then we heard voices out on the landing. It sounded as though Gaunt and the very important guest were heading upstairs. “You will have total privacy here, Mr Inglis. No one will disturb you,” I heard Gaunt say loudly, like he wanted us to hear. There were grubby footprints on the floor and ash scattered about. If this was a hotel, I thought, it wasn’t even one-star. Frank grabbed my elbow and the coal bucket and steered me out of the room into the corridor.
“We don’t want to bump into his majesty, do we?” he mumbled, but I couldn’t see how we could avoid it. The footsteps were growing louder and heading our way. At the end of the gas-lit corridor was what looked like a full-length, wonky mirror. With the footsteps coming to the top of the stairs, Frank pushed the mirror – and it opened. “This way,” he whispered and stepped into the darkness. Something told me I was about to discover the secret passage. Suddenly it didn’t feel so awesome. Frank grabbed my arm and pulled me into a dark cupboard – again! The mirror door swung shut behind us.
