Even in the drab grey costume, she was instantly recognizable.
‘Miss Murgatroyd!’ Flora was at a loss.
‘Miss Flora!’ Arabella gasped. ‘I saw you… in the crowd there. I thought… I must speak to her… explain…’
‘You don’t need to explain ‘ said Flora quickly. ‘You have met Mr Harding. We are visiting the exhibition.’
‘May I speak with you, for a moment?’ Arabella laid a hand on Flora’s arm.
Tactfully, Will strolled on for a few paces.
Arabella nodded briefly at him then turned back to Flora. ‘I must I beg you: say nothing of this to the other guests.’
‘But of course…’ Flora began.
‘I am just between engagements,’ said Arabella. ‘This is just to keep in practice, you understand, until the call comes.’
‘I quite understand,’ said Flora, ‘and you may be sure I won’t mention it if you’d rather I didn’t.’
‘Thank you.’ Arabella grasped Flora’s hand. ‘Some people outside our profession can be very insensitive.’
‘Certainly.’
Arabella turned away. ‘I must return to my place on stage,’ she said grandly. ‘The next piece—a lament for those who sailed from Greenock to the shores of Nova Scotia—is a very touching one. A challenge for those muscles in the diaphragm.’
‘Indeed,’ said Flora as Arabella turned to take up her place at the spinning wheel.
‘Let’s move on,’ she said to Will when she caught him up. ‘We haven’t seen the Tartan Shop, or the History section, or Bruce’s sword.’
She glanced back and saw Arabella bent over her wheel, then raising her head and bursting into song—a strong, vibrant and, it had to be admitted, not very tuneful soprano.
‘I’ll explain later,’ she said, after they had toured the exhibition.
‘Over tea?’ Will suggested.
‘A good idea.’ Flora realised she was quite hungry.
‘Come on then.’ He led her into the tea room and found a table for two. ‘What will you have?’ He passed the menu to Flora.
‘Oh, a scone and butter, please.’
‘This is a special occasion,’ said Will. ‘Let’s have the high tea.’
Flora had already looked at the menu. The fixed price high tea was a shilling - for ham, sausage and egg. Could Will afford it? She had no idea of his status in the shipping office; surely as a clerk he wouldn’t earn that much. She wondered briefly whether she should offer to pay, as women sometimes did nowadays, but perhaps that might hurt his feelings. She hesitated.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘it’s a treat—my treat—and besides, I’m hungry.’
Flora smiled, remembering how he tucked into the platefuls of soup that Nelly put before him. ‘I like to see a laddie eat,’ she would say as he passed his plate for more.
‘There,’ he said after he had given the order to the waitress. ‘Now tell me all about Miss Murgatroyd.’
At first Flora had thought it comical—the would-be operatic heroine reduced to singing in a… well, a fairground, wasn’t it? Suddenly, it didn’t seem all that funny, but rather pathetic.
‘You’ve met her,’ she said. ‘She has a room in the house,’ she added briefly. ‘That’s all. There really isn’t much to tell.’
‘I remember,’ said Will. ‘She was at the table that night I came to supper.’ Will was a friend, a good friend by now, but Arabella’s secrets were not to share.
‘But,’ Will began, ‘she said something about being an opera singer, waiting for the call...’
‘Did she?’ Flora was vague. ‘ Yes, maybe she did. Do you want that piece of bread and butter?’
‘If you don’t,’ said Will. ‘It’s a pity to waste it.’
Flora said no more. She leant back in her chair. ‘That was a treat,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
On the way home, Will glanced sideways at the girl beside him, her cheeks flushed with the day’s excitement. ‘Enjoy the day?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ Flora smiled. ‘ I think we saw everything: the boats on the river, and the model of Falkland Palace… and the Highland village.’ She was silent, remembering Arabella. Of course she would keep Arabella’s secret.
*
There were other secrets in the house, Flora realised.
Miss Craig, for example. From time to time a woman, maybe in her 30s, would appear on the doorstep. ‘I’ve come to speak to Miss Craig,’ she announced.
‘I’ll call her,’ Flora said, hesitating a little. This woman was one of the group she had seen at the meeting. You could hardly mistake her—tall, with sharp beaky features, and wearing a long grey coat. Miss Craig, napkin in hand, hurried to the doorstep.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ the woman said.
Miss Craig was furious. ‘I told you not to come here.’
‘Why ever not?’ the woman sounded surprised. ‘Surely you’re not ashamed of the movement?’
‘No, well… that is…’ Miss Craig stammered.
The dining room door was open and Flora could hear voices.
‘You were keen enough at first,’ said the woman. ‘And we do need all the support we can get.’
‘Well…’ Miss Craig hesitated, ‘I was, but I’m not one of the militants. I don’t believe in burning buildings, breaking windows, destroying property, that sort of thing.’
‘That won’t get us the vote,’ the woman rejoined.
‘And what’s more,’ said Miss Craig, ‘I don’t want you, or any of the others, coming here. This is my home.’
‘And a very fine house it is, to be sure,’ said the woman, a sneer in her voice.
‘I am a lodger here,’ said Miss Craig with dignity.
‘Oh, indeed? Well, I’d better go. Just remember, we meet next Thursday—you know the plans. I hope you’ll be there.’
The woman turned and made her way down the steps. Miss Craig looked after her as she stumped down the path.
Back in the dining room Nelly was serving up a steamed jam pudding. ‘None for me,’ said Miss Craig. ‘ I’m not hungry.’ She closed the dining room door behind her and made her way upstairs.
‘And what’s the matter with her?‘ Mr Turnbull looked up from his plate. ‘If there’s extra helpings going - nothing like a good steamed pudding,’ he added.
Flora had heard enough of the doorstep exchanges to realise that Miss Craig was in some sort of trouble.
I wonder if I should offer to help? she thought. Though she’d probably refuse. But what was the matter?
Chapter 11
What with one thing and another, Flora decided, it was a relief to get out into the sunshine. Indoors there was Miss Craig behaving very oddly. And Mr Turnbull, florid faced and flaring up at the least thing. And of course Arabella, practising her singing almost all day.
But, Flora checked herself, they were a friendly lot. No one complained when the laundry was late. No one objected when Flora had forgotten to order the fish for Friday. Gradually, she was becoming more sure of herself. Really, she thought, there was nothing to be afraid of. Except… and she pushed the thought away.
But it was pleasant to be out of doors on such a fine day instead of adding up the grocer’s bill or discussing menus for the following week.
‘I’m walking to the shops.’ Flora put her head round the kitchen door. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’
‘You might get some of these fancy iced biscuits if you’re passing the shop. They’re Miss Dunbar’s favourite.’
Flora peeped into the drawing room. Cousin Chris was asleep in her chair, so she closed the door quietly and set off. She took off her hat and swung along the road. People passing smiled at the slim girl walking briskly and lifting her face to the sunlight.
The shop was crowed when she got there. The owner, a chatty, good-natured soul, leant over the counter, dispensing pan drops and gossip in almost equal measure.
Flora looked around idly at the large bins for tea and coffee, the
slabs of yellow butter on the counter, the blue bags ready to be filled with flour or sugar. Two other customers leant on the counter, their heads close together.
‘She’s a fine auld body—always one to put her hand in her pocket,’ said one.
‘Oh aye, generous. Mind you, she’s got it to give,’ said the second.
‘The lass that’s come to stay, is she a relation?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said the first, clearly reluctant to admit ignorance.
‘Maybe a niece, or something like that.’
‘She’ll be well set up,’ said the first. ‘Got her foot in the door.’
Flora suddenly realised that they were talking about her. She skulked behind a large tin of biscuits and thought momentarily about slipping out of the door without being seen.
‘Mind you,’ said the first, ‘you wouldn’t get me living in that house. A queer-like place.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘You didn’t know? There’s a ghost, so they say.’
The shopkeeper gave a booming laugh. ‘Away with you. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Just a fairy story—a piece of nonsense,’ said the shopkeeper.
Suddenly they noticed Flora and there was a silence.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the shopkeeper.
‘I’ve come for those iced biscuits. They’re Miss Dunbar’s favourite.’ Flora tried to keep her voice steady, ignoring the two customers.
‘Oh, aye, I remember.’
The first woman, trying to recall what she had said about Miss Dunbar’s relative, shuffled her feet and said, ‘I’ll be away then.’ The second stood her ground.
‘Will that be all?’ said the shopkeeper pointedly.
‘Aye. I’ll come back.’
The shopkeeper was clearly embarrassed. Flora had been in the shop often enough and found the owner pleasant and helpful. But she had no idea that her place in the household was a source of gossip.
‘How much will that be? I’ll pay just now; no need to send a bill.’
She left the shop as quickly as she could, her face burning. How could people be so unkind? Then she remembered the afternoon tea at Aunt Mina’s and how the guests had sat around, sipping tea, and nibbling scones and shredding reputations. ‘Best to ignore gossip, wherever it comes from,’ she told herself firmly.
But the ghost… she had never heard of any spooky midnight promenades. Surely this was just gossip too? Perhaps I will ask Cousin Chris, she thought. However, during the next few days Arabella became confiding, even more chatty than usual. When she passed Flora on the stairs she would nod and wink as if they shared a secret—which of course, they did.
‘I am so glad you are in our midst,’ she said to Flora one morning. ‘ I feel safe when you are around. One can have utter confidence in a kindred spirit. Speaking of spirits,’ she went on.
‘Yes?’ Flora was intrigued. Now she would hear the whole story of the ghostly figure.
‘People say,’ Arabella went on, ‘that there is a ghost that walks the upper floors in the middle of the night.’
‘Really?’ Flora said, trying to keep her face straight.
‘Mind you,’ said Arabella, ‘no one has ever seen her—it is a her, I am sure. But one or two kitchen maids in the past, silly girls they were, heard the tale and wouldn’t stay another day. Ghosts indeed!’ she snorted. ‘I would like to see the ghost that would tangle with me.’
Flora also thought she would like to see the encounter. Arabella in her flowing garments, wearing a vivid scarlet toque, would be an imposing figure. Flora could imagine a timid little ghost in a white sheet, confronted by Arabella and most likely disappearing again instantly. She almost giggled but tried to compose her features into a suitably serious expression.
‘I am glad,’ said Arabella, ‘that you are not one of these silly suggestible girls. You are not afraid of ghosts, are you?’
‘Not at all,’ Flora assured her.
‘It is all a piece of nonsense!’ boomed Arabella as she sailed down the stairs.
‘Why did you not tell me about the ghost?’ Flora asked Cousin Chris.
Cousin Chris looked up from The Scotsman. ‘I didn’t think of it,’ she said frankly. ‘When I remembered, it was too late. You were already here. Why? Would you have refused to join the household?’
‘No,’ said Flora slowly. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘There,’ said Cousin Chris with an air of triumph. ‘I knew you were a sensible sort of girl.’
‘All the same, ‘ said Flora, ‘I would like to know more about her—or is it him? Just in case…’
‘When my father bought the house, oh, away back in the last century,’ said Chris, ‘he got it fairly cheaply, I understand. It had been standing empty for some time, and was in a poor condition.’
‘And perhaps not much better now,’ thought Flora, but she did not say so. The whole place cried out for a lick of paint, repairs to the roof, and woodwork.
‘People in the neighbourhood called it the haunted house,’ said Chris. ‘I understand some boys were in the habit of playing in the garden, which was very overgrown, and one of the lads had spun a tale about a ghostly figure that looked out of the windows and beckoned to them.’
Despite herself, Flora shivered.
‘Of course,’ said Chris briskly, ‘People believe all sorts of nonsense. It was supposed to have been a young woman, a servant in the house, who had been,’ she paused, ‘seduced by the young master.’ She added, ‘I have heard lots of very similar ghost stories, not very original I must say.’
Flora paused. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ she said. ‘There’s always some sensible explanation.’
‘Of course there is,’ said Chris, her eyes twinkling.
‘I think,’ said Flora slowly, ‘it was someone pretending to be a ghost. I think it was perhaps someone who’d heard the stories, and perhaps she dressed up in a long white sheet and went around the top floor, keening,’ she demonstrated what she imagined to be a ghostly sound, ‘Whooo… whooo.’ Then she stopped and looked directly at Cousin Chris.
Cousin Chris laughed. ‘It was me, or rather, it was I.’
‘I thought so,’ said Flora triumphantly.
‘Well, you see,’ said Cousin Chris looking a little shamefaced, ‘I was young and silly and thought it would be fun to pretend to be the ghost… I must say I enjoyed it until my father, coming upstairs, spotted me. “Is that you, Chris—what on earth are you doing dressed like that…?” He was really cross and made me promise never to dress up as a ghost ever again. I never told anyone. I was a bit ashamed, to be truthful, because I was almost grown up, well 17, and it was a silly, childish thing to do. So because I never mentioned it to anyone, the story persisted and to this day people believe there was a ghost wandering the upper floor.’
Flora smiled. ‘I think you must have been a very lively young girl, ready for a bit of fun and mischief.’
Cousin Chris laughed. ‘Well, that’s the story of the ghost.’
‘I won’t mention it to anyone,’ said Flora.
‘And now, my dear,’ said Cousin Chris, ‘you must tell me all about the suffragette meeting.’
‘Miss Craig is behaving rather oddly these days,’ said Flora. ‘I wonder if she has become even more involved in the movement.’
‘You must leave that to her. Don’t get involved,’ said Cousin Chris firmly. ‘She is a grown woman and can make up her own mind, make her own decisions. Now, you haven’t told me all about the exhibition. What was the most interesting part? Robert the Bruce’s sword, the history section…’
‘It was the Highland village,’ said Flora. ‘Very realistic.’ But she didn’t mention seeing Arabella. She had given her word—it was a secret.
Chapter 12
‘And what’s happened to her this time? That’s what I’d like to know.’ Nelly set down a dish of vegetables on the table and looked round. ‘Always the same,’ she said crossly. ‘I’m wasting my time cooking good
food for the likes of her.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be in,’ said Flora. ‘Maybe you could keep something warm for her? And I’ll have a word about letting you know if she’s to be late.’
Nelly was more or less pacified. ‘ That’ll have to do.’
But Flora was worried. Neither Mr Turnbull nor Arabella took much notice. They were both used to Margery Craig’s ways. ‘I wonder she wants to live in a boarding house,’ Arabella had said once. ‘Much better to be in rooms with friends.’
But Flora was concerned about Margery. ‘We are friends now,’ the woman had said. ’Please call me Margery… Miss Craig is so formal.’ She was seldom in now, and when she did join the rest of the lodgers, she sat, not saying much and ate her meal as quickly as possible before disappearing again.
Was it something to do with the suffragettes? Was it a man, perhaps? Flora didn’t think that very likely. She hardly liked to mention her worries to Cousin Chris. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps she was just imagining things. But all the same, she was worried.
She remembered that a few days ago, someone had rung the door bell, pulling the brass handle so that the bell jingled with a demanding sound. ‘Is she here?’ The woman on the doorstep wore a long grey coat and an uncompromising felt hat. Flora had immediately recognised her as the woman who had called a few days earlier. She remembered Miss Craig arguing with the woman, the raised voices.
Now Miss Craig appeared again and Flora slipped way back into the dining room. But she couldn’t help overhearing the exchange.
‘Well - have you made up your mind?’
There was a pause then Margery Craig said, ‘Yes. Yes, all right.’
Flora saw very little of Margery during the next few days. So she was astonished when one morning there was a ring at the door and she answered it to find the same visitor on the doorstep.
‘You’re Flora, aren’t you?
Flora bemused, agreed.
‘You’ve got to come. I’ve a cab waiting.’
‘But why?’ Flora was surprised. ‘And who are you?’
‘Never mind,’ said the woman impatiently. ‘I’ll explain on the way. You are one of us, aren’t you?’
House of Strangers Page 7
