There was a picture-drome in Bathgate on the same side of the Steel Yard as the Railway Tavern and often the village children would go in to see the picture. Not having any money for a ticket and being too proud to admit it, Clementina would toss her hair and say, ‘I don’t like stupid pictures. I’m not wasting my time going in there.’
Left alone, she would stand for a while in the doorway listening to echoes of the dramatic piano accompaniment to the film that was showing inside. Or she would watch the traffic going by. Horses and buggies came spanking by and away up Engine Street; carriages lumbered along, rattling noisily over the cobbles; railway carts trundled past pulled by slow, plodding horses.
Sometimes Clementina couldn’t be bothered to go anywhere and just stayed in a quiet corner of the garden, listlessly making daisy chains with only the droning honeybees for company. Sometimes, lying on her stomach, elbows digging into the grass and head supported in her hands, she read a book purloined from the schoolroom cupboard. She liked the poetry books best, the beauty and rhythm of the words somehow giving her comfort.
But no matter what she did, another night had to be endured alone and then another day with Miss Viners.
Often she dreamed desperate dreams of running away to Edinburgh to try her luck with Alice. But she had no money—although at last it seemed that she might be able to save up enough and make the dream a reality. Out of the blue during one of her daily visits to the sitting-room, her mother had said to her father, ‘Clementina should get pocket money. I had pocket money when I was a child. I’m sure you did too?’
Clementina had waited with bated breath. Her father had not seemed very enthusiastic but—miracle of miracles—he had agreed. She still couldn’t believe it and carried her precious pennies about with her in the pocket of her pinafore. Every now and again she would finger them just to make sure they were there and that she hadn’t been dreaming.
She began to take a special interest in everything connected with Edinburgh, asking Miss Viners endless questions about where it was and what it was like. So desperate was her need to like the city and belong there that she even managed to surmount some of Miss Viners’ ghoulish descriptions of it.
‘The houses are all built of hard grey stone like tall tombstones crowded together on steep hills, with the castle on its craggy rock towering over them like an ancient mausoleum.’ Quickly warming to her subject, Miss Viners went on to say that Edinburgh was the place where the body snatchers were most active and where Burke and Hare lived and plied their evil trade.
However, the story that most affected Clementina and brought tears of distress to her eyes was the one about the little dog, Greyfriars Bobby, who after his master died lay on his grave every day keeping faithful watch over it for fourteen years until his own death.
‘Now he is buried near his master in the graveyard of Greyfriars Church,’ Miss Viners said.
There were pictures of the capital city in one of the schoolroom books and Clementina avidly studied them. She discovered that the city, although admittedly having a certain grey grimness, was enthroned on a grand scale on rocky hills with glorious views of the sea. It boasted of a palace as well as a castle and had so many beautiful historic buildings that it was known as ‘the Athens of the North’. She made up her mind that she was going to escape to this beautiful place. This knowledge was the only thing that helped her to survive.
21
Polly Gemmell was as frightened of Mrs Musgrove as were the rest of the servants, but underneath the fear a deep resentment burned. Mrs Musgrove knew all their ways and was forever on the watch. Her vigilance and tyranny made a menacing shadow over the house that even succeeded in affecting Cook, making her more and more bad-tempered and edgy. She literally jumped with nerves if, turning from the kitchen range, she unexpectedly encountered the tall black-clad figure of the housekeeper. The rustle of her bombasine dress or the metallic jangle of the huge bunch of keys that she carried was enough to make the housemaids tremble and everyone within hearing distance fall silent and wait apprehensively for her approach. Her shadow only needed to cross the entrance to the scullery to make Janet, the scullery-maid, burst into tears.
Even in the servants’ hall everyone kept their voices down in case Mrs Musgrove could hear. Off duty, books were read or whist played with an air of furtiveness. Only well away from the house could any of the servants breathe easily. Mrs Prowse often told Wattie McLeod that if it was not for her weekly meetings with him, she would go mad. Like the others, Polly Gemmell clung to the safety of, ‘Yes, Mrs Musgrove. No, Mrs Musgrove.’ Like the others, she kept her eyes safely and respectfully lowered in the formidable presence of the housekeeper. But inwardly she seethed with resentment.
Life was so unfair, she fumed. Why should she have to spend all of her time kow-towing to a sour-faced so-and-so like Mrs Musgrove? She shouldn’t have to take orders from her at all—she was a lady’s maid and as such was second to the housekeeper in rank. By rights she should take orders only from the mistress—not that she enjoyed that either. Why should she have so much of everything and such a life of ease? She wasn’t a real lady anyway—only a jumped-up farmer’s daughter; a wealthy farmer, maybe, but still only a farmer. As for the master with his boring prayers and sanctimonious texts! She knew what she would like to do with them. His latest had been, ‘She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.’ And he had used his lesson to lecture the servants on their duty to have ‘profound reverence for your superiors, submission under your trials and a spirit of thankful contentment with your lot’. Well, she wasn’t content with her lot. Far from it! Everything about it beat up to her head in bitter discontent. So many things infuriated her in Blackwood House, upstairs and downstairs; not the least of these was the text of advice and rules of behaviour stuck up in the servants hall:
DON’T THINK TOO MUCH ABOUT WAGES, SERVING IN A GOOD HOME IS OF GREATER CONSEQUENCE.
IF SOMETHING HAS BEEN LOST, OFFER TO HAVE YOUR OWN POSSESSIONS SEARCHED.
DON’T GOSSIP WITH TRADESPEOPLE OR SERVANTS.
DON’T READ SILLY, SENSATIONAL STORIES OR POISONOUS PUBLICATIONS WHICH ARE BROUGHT TO THE BACK DOORS OF RESPECTABLE HOMES.
DON’T LET CANDLES FLARE AWAY FOR HOURS WITHOUT BEING OF USE.
REMEMBER TO PRAY CAREFULLY AND REGULARLY.
Mr Blackwood was a great one for the Christianity, thought Polly. He had once said, ‘Rest assured of this, that we can never be truly happy or comfortable in this world till God gives us grace not only to submit to the position in which He has placed us but to be heartily contented and thankful for it.’
All very well for him and his pampered young wife to be heartily contented with their lot—it was easy enough for them. But why should she, Polly Gemmell, be contented with a life of intimidation and drudgery? There was so much in her which was fighting for expression; so much she wanted to have and enjoy; so much she itched to do.
For a long time, of course, she had accepted that the only escape from demeaning servitude was in marriage. All female servants knew that. And indeed she would rather marry Murdo McKay than be doomed to run up and down stairs fetching and carrying for a pampered doll like Mrs Blackwood, dressing and undressing her and God-knows-all-what.
But, damn it, why should she marry Murdo McKay when Robert Kelso was the man she wanted and she failed to see why she should not have him. They had never actually walked out together, but they had known each other for a long time. They had often talked together, they had even danced together. After all, he had no one else. Or that’s what she had always thought until recently.
Oh, any time she bumped into him he talked in the same friendly, teasing way he had always done. But one night she had been visiting her married sister and had come up the Whitburn Road into the Steel Yard when she saw him standing talking and laughing with the grieve from a farm over Torpichen way.
‘Hello, Robert,’ she said as she stopped beside him, mentally rubbing her han
ds in delight and determined to seize this heavensent opportunity and make the most of it.
‘Ah, Polly,’ he had smiled down at her, his eyes wickedly glinting. ‘No boyfriend tonight?’
‘Are you offering to fill the breach?’ she asked, cheekily as you like.
She caught him winking at his companion. ‘I might walk you home if you were extra nice to me.’
‘You would be surprised how nice I can be,’ she said and both men laughed.
‘Come on, then,’ she urged, taking his arm. ‘It’s late. Do you want to keep me up all night?’
‘You never know your luck,’ he said with another wink at his companion before bidding him good night.
Walking up the hills hanging on to Robert Kelso’s arm, her heart was nearly bursting with excitement. She felt so proud that she prayed for someone, anyone, to see them together. She could hardly wait to boast about every moment of being with him. The other maids at Blackwood House or any other house would give their eye-teeth to have such a man to themselves like this. But it was her, always her and nobody else that Robert Kelso talked to and walked up the hills with.
Or at least, so she had thought.
By the time they reached the leafy entrance to Blackwood House, she had been almost hysterical with secret expectation. True, Robert had not spoken much on the way up the hills, but then he never did speak much; there was always that kind of absent-minded way about him and often she had to repeat what she said to him before getting any response. Still, all the time she was chattering she was having exciting visions of being kissed and fondled by him when they got to the gates of the house.
When the moment came, however, to her extreme chagrin all he did was put his hand at the nape of her neck and give her the kind of affectionate, playful push he would give to a child.
‘Goodnight, Poll!’
The warmth of his big hand against her skin was too much of a torment to her. ‘Aren’t you even going to kiss me?’
‘No!’
She felt angry. He could be an awkward bastard at times, but her need was greater than her anger. She managed a coquettish look. ‘I’m willing to give whatever you want to take.’
‘Why don’t you marry Murdo McKay, Poll? He wants you.’
It was like a slap in the face. ‘And you don’t, you mean?’
‘I have never given you any cause to think I did.’
‘Oh, no?’ she said, bitterness overflowing like bile. ‘No?’
‘No!’
‘You’ve found somebody else,’ she accused, hardly able to credit it. ‘Who is it? Anybody I know?’
‘That’s none of your business. Goodnight, Poll.’ And he strolled away in a leisurely fashion as if he was just out enjoying the night air and she had never existed.
It was then Polly vowed she would find out who the dirty bitch was if it was the last thing she did. By the time she reached the side door fury was boiling inside her, giving her a raging headache. And her fury encompassed Robert Kelso.
Bastard! Bastard! she kept repeating to herself. Who did he think he was? And the slyness of him too. Nobody had seen him with any other woman except herself—nobody at Blackwood House, anyway. They would have taken the greatest delight in telling her so if they had, of that she was certain. Even if somebody from another house had seen him, the gossip would soon have reached her. Gossip travelled like a forest fire in the Bathgate hills. But she would ask, she’d ferret out the truth in some way, from someone.
Then, not long afterwards, a second blow came when Mrs Musgrove (may her black soul burn in hell!) dismissed her. No reason was given; there could be no reason, for she was one hundred per cent efficient—it was sheer evil spite that made the housekeeper do it. She hadn’t the nerve to say so to Mrs Musgrove, of course, but she told everyone else. Mrs Musgrove gave the job to some orphan girl from Glasgow, a pale scraggy creature who looked scared to death.
Polly had to go and stay with her sister in the village of Paulville, outside Bathgate, while she looked for another job. This was a terrible predicament to be in, because her sister Sadie’s husband was a mean bastard and grudged every crumb she put in her mouth from his table.
Sadie always made excuses for him of course: he was a miner, he worked hard and needed peace and quiet when he came off his shift.
‘Forgive me if I breathe,’ she had told Sadie.
He hardly earned enough to feed Sadie and the children, her sister said. Was it Polly’s fault if he was too stupid or too lazy to earn more money? She knew they thought there wasn’t enough room for her in their house either.
‘Do you think,’ she said to them eventually, ‘that I’d stay one minute longer in this place than I need to? This is not what I’m used to, you know.’
She meant it. The tiny terraced cottage in the Miners’ Row was sheer purgatory for her and she just had to find another place or do something else to resolve her predicament. She could see herself being forced to go to Edinburgh or even further afield. The trouble was that Mrs Musgrove had written her a character which was almost more damning than not having a character at all:
Polly Gemmell, aged twenty-eight, height five feet, six and a half inches, belongs to the Church of Scotland, is an experienced dressmaker and hairdresser. She is also a good packer.
She has an air of impertinence about her, however, that makes her unacceptable in the establishment at the above address.
At the same time as she was searching for a place with growing bitterness and desperation, Polly continued to ferret around trying to find out what was going on with Robert Kelso. It seemed very strange that no one knew or had seen anything. Oh, he had been seen speaking to various girls at different times, but when she had followed up these leads they had come to nothing. None of the girls was walking out with him, although they made it obvious they would like to, given half a chance.
Yet she was still sure there must be someone. Then quite out of the blue the most amazing, the most intriguing, the most incredible thing happened. Nothing she could be absolutely sure of, mind. But still… .
She had been taking a walk up the hills for a breath of fresh air and to get away from the impossibly cramped condition of the Miners’ Row for an hour or so, when she spied Robert Kelso riding down. Before she came near enough to speak to him she heard the rattle of a horse and carriage coming up the hill behind her and on looking round, saw that it was the mistress with Jacobs at the reins. She immediately drew back into the bushes, not wanting to be seen trailing up the stony road with her skirts dusty, her face bathed in sweat and her frizzy hair straggling down from her hat.
The gig stopped some way ahead of her and the master obviously wanted to talk to his grieve. Nothing unusual about that and of course Robert stopped to speak with his employer. But what did strike her as unusual was the expression on Mrs Blackwood’s face. Surely she was not mistaking a look of absolute adoration? There was a hint of intimacy too in the glance Robert gave the mistress before spurring on his horse. Yet surely it was unthinkable? Of course she was some distance away and just getting a side view. And yet… .
Polly had to go and sit down under a tree and try to sort out her confused thoughts and emotions. It would just be like that selfish, pampered bitch to want everything she could get and more. Well, if it was her, she would soon put a spoke in that wheel: she would write and tell Mr Blackwood! That would soon sort out Robert Kelso as well, because without a doubt he would get the boot and quickly. He’d be out of that farmhouse and a job before he knew what had struck him—and serve him right!
It would be an anonymous letter of course, but even so when Polly later sat down in a corner of her sister’s house, to actually write Lorianna Blackwood’s name took more nerve than she possessed. It was such an outrageous and shocking accusation. And after all, she could be wrong …
Eventually, gathering together all the courage and spite she could muster, Polly Gemmell put pen to paper. Whether she would have enough nerve to post the letter, she wasn�
�t quite sure. She decided that first she would do well to put a few miles between herself, the Bathgate hills and Mrs Musgrove. Especially Mrs Musgrove.
22
Late summer was the season for the Highland Games and from early morning, through the mists from the hills and valleys, came the farmers and the grieves, the horsemen and the ploughmen, the shepherds and all the local people. They came on foot, on horseback, in farm carts and everything else including four-in-hand brakes.
The Games were held in the High Acres fields. As all the vehicles arrived they were parked in a circle round the roped enclosure, prices being charged on a basis of so much for a two-horse and so much for a four-horse machine.
Clementina was always allowed to come to the Games and it had been the highlight of her year, as it was for everyone else. Apart from the excitement of the parade of pipers and drummers in their beautiful tartan and the events that followed, there was also the novelty of spending almost a whole day with her mother and father—the only day in the entire year when this happened. Even then she was mostly with her nanny, but her mother and father were in the vicinity somewhere and would quite often wander up to her, when her mother would smile and bend down enclosing her in the perfumed shade of her parasol, and ask if she was enjoying herself. She was also given pennies to spend at the shows and stalls that the gipsies set up nearby.
This year, however, she anticipated the event with little interest; perhaps because Miss Viners was such a dampening influence. Nothing enthused or excited the governess so much as talk of the dead. She managed to harrow Clementina at the Games by telling her the story of the young man who, after the battle of Marathon where the Greeks had won against overwhelming odds, had run twenty-six miles to tell the Athenians the news as quickly as possible and had dropped dead with exhaustion on arrival.
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