by Cavendish
Anger gave her courage and she kept her voice calm. “Give the doll back to the little girl,” she said. Whether it was the authority in her voice or whether he was simply tired of the game, the older boy lowered the doll. He stared her straight in the eyes and ripped off its arms, before throwing it down onto the filthy street.
With a raucous laugh, he set off, his fellow bullies running after him. Miss Carmichael quickly retrieved the doll before any further damage could be done to it. The street was busy with people going about their business. Not one person had come to her aid, or the aid of a distressed little girl, who still stood, her eyes streaming with tears.
Miss Carmichael turned the forlorn and filthy toy over in her hands. “I’m afraid she’s in a sad way. What do you call her?”
The little girl turned her reddened eyes up to her. “She doesna’ have a name. Just Dolly.”
“Well, Dolly is a name. And a very pretty name too. What’s your name?”
“Isobel.”
“That’s a very pretty name too. Now, Isobel. I have an idea. Why don’t I borrow Dolly, take her home with me and see if I can repair her? Would you like that? I could give her a bit of a wash too. Then she would be all clean and pretty.”
At that moment she wished she could take Isobel home with her too. At this rate the doll would be cleaner than its owner.
Isobel hesitated, then nodded, a hint of a smile warming her face. The child would be really quite attractive if she was scrubbed up and happier.
“Then that’s decided. I’ll walk you home and then I’ll know where to bring Dolly when she’s mended and washed.” A sudden thought struck her. “You do have a home, don’t you, Isobel? With your mummy and daddy?”
Isobel paused, then nodded.
“Take my hand and show me where you live. I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
Once again, hesitation. Miss Carmichael had the distinct impression there was something Isobel wasn’t telling her, but now she slid her hand into Miss Carmichael’s and the two made their way along the Close, weaving in and out of the other pedestrians, taking care not to step into the stinking gutter. At the junction with Farquhars Close, Isobel withdrew her hand. Miss Carmichael looked down.
“I must awa’ now,” Isobel said.
They were outside a recently collapsed tenement. The place was uninhabitable. Ceilings had caved in, all the windows were gone. Surely she couldn’t live here? “Let me take you home, Isobel. If I don’t know where you live, how will I return Dolly to you?”
The little girl skipped off, turned and waved. Three men, the worse for drink, veered in front of her, blocking her from Miss Carmichael’s sight. She moved to one side to let them pass and when they had done so, there was no sign of Isobel.
Miss Carmichael caught up to where she had last seen her, by the side of the ruined building. “Isobel?” She called her name repeatedly but to no response.
Most extraordinary. Peering through into the building, she could see nothing but fallen timbers, ruined plaster and broken furniture.
An elderly man stopped next to her. “I wouldn’t go in there, Miss. It isn’t safe.”
“No, I can see that,” she said. “Does anyone still live there?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “People will make a home almost anywhere if they have no roof over their heads, but no one goes in there. Not since it fell.”
She looked back at the building. “It does look extremely dangerous.”
“Oh, it’s not only that. Some folk would live with that. No, it’s the ghosts, you see.”
“Ghosts?”
The man nodded. “Some strange things happened in that place. Murders and such. The dead come back, they say. At night. Sometimes in the day. Doesn’t do to linger around here.”
Miss Carmichael wondered if he was having a little fun at her expense but he looked serious enough. “Have you seen any…ghosts here?”
“I’ve seen things I can’t explain. Shadows. Things that couldn’t be there. People.…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t do to talk too much about such things. If you take my advice, you’ll get back to the New Town. Not so many ghosts there.”
“Thank you for your advice,” Miss Carmichael said.
His glance took in the doll she was carrying. He seemed startled to see it. He pointed at it. “Where did you get that?”
“A little girl gave it to me.”
The man crossed himself. “God bless you, Miss. I must leave you now. Please, go back home. Throw that thing away.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly.…” The man had gone, moving faster than she would have thought someone of his obvious age could manage.
* * *
“What an odd thing to say,” Lucy said, handling the doll with obvious distaste.
“I thought so too. Do you think it can be saved?”
“It’ll need a good wash first and then I should be able to sew the arms back on. It’s very old, isn’t it? Must have been in that child’s family for generations.”
“I should imagine so. Probably the only toy the poor girl has. I’m still worried about how I can get it back to her. There are so many dwellings packed together. She could live in any one of them.”
“It’s only small. You could take it with you each time you go down there. You saw her there once. You’re almost bound to see her again.”
“That’s another odd thing though. I’ve got to know most people and the children by sight if not by name around there and I’ve never seen this child before in my life.”
“Maybe her family just moved to the Closes.”
“Possibly.” Miss Carmichael sighed. “You’re probably right though. Now I’ve seen her once I’ll most likely run into her every time I go there.”
“I’ll get started on this then,” Lucy said and left her to mull over the day’s events and the little girl with the sad eyes.
There was something else bothering Miss Carmichael about Isobel. Yes, that was it, the child looked strangely out of time. Her dress, if you could even call it that – more like a shift or a nightdress – was fairly shapeless, but definitely old-fashioned, and the child’s face…not a modern face.
Who are you, Isobel?
* * *
“Robbie has something he wants to say to ye, Miss Carmichael.” Mrs. McDonald pushed the boy forward. Miss Carmichael smiled down at him as she stood in the McDonalds’ one room.
The boy put out his hand as Miss Carmichael was certain he had been instructed.
“Now what do ye say, laddie?”
“Thank ye, Miss Carmichael,” the boy said shyly.
“He loves the books you brought, Miss. His faither says he should put them down and get on with some proper work but every spare minute, he has his nose in a book.”
“You are most welcome, Robbie. I shall bring along some more next week.”
The boy smiled. Now was the time. Mr. McDonald had again secured a couple of days’ laboring. For a short time, at least, things weren’t so desperate for the family.
“Moira, I’ve been thinking. Robbie is a bright lad. He deserves a good education. I know he attends school now, but not all the time and probably not to the standard of which he is capable. As you know, I have no relatives, but I do have the resources to ensure Robbie has the education that he richly deserves. He can also come and live with me so that he may be close to his school and.…” Miss Carmichael faltered. Her carefully, oft-rehearsed speech had deserted her. One more sentence and she would have ruined everything. She didn’t want to imply the obvious truth. That Robbie could hardly be educated at a good, private school by day, only to return home in his smart uniform to a slum in the Old Town.
“It’s all right, Miss Carmichael,” Moira McDonald said. “I know what you mean and I thank ye from the bottom o’ my heart for thinking so much of my laddie. B
ut my Andy won’t hear of it. He’s a proud man, Miss.”
“I know he is, Moira. And like so many of his gender, a stubborn one. But he’s also a good man who wants the best for his children. I’m sure you can persuade him that he could have so much more if you would simply take me up on my offer. Promise me you’ll consider it.”
Robbie’s eyes looked as if they grew any larger, they would pop right out of his head.
“And how about you, Robbie? Would you like to go to a good school where they have more books than you could ever read in a lifetime?”
The boy hesitated for a moment, looked at his mother, then back at Miss Carmichael. A broad grin lit up his face. He nodded vigorously.
Miss Carmichael took his chin between her thumb and forefinger.
“See what you can do, Moira. I’ll be back next week and you can give me your answer then.”
“I will…and thank you, Miss. Thank ye for everything you do for us. Please be careful in the street. Andy tried to have a word with the Bain lad’s faither but he’s in prison for thieving. The lad’s roaming wild again. I swear he has the de’il himself in him.”
“I’ll be careful, Moira. Thank you for warning me.”
Another encounter with the Bain boy was not a prospect she relished. Ever since the girl, Mairead, had gone wherever she had gone to and Miss Carmichael had returned to visiting the Old Town on her own, she had dreaded encountering him – with or without his motley assortment of friends.
Now, with the daylight hours shortening as autumn progressed, dusk was already falling, casting the usual gloom over the Old Town.
Deep in the shadows, a figure moved slowly into the light as Miss Carmichael approached.
“Ah, it’s the old cow again, I see. What have ye got for me today?”
Miss Carmichael pulled her coat tighter around her and pressed on. The boy barred her way. Miss Carmichael felt panic rising. She must show no fear. Boys like him thrived on it.
“Out of my way, please,” she said, proud that her voice remained firm.
“Make me.” He grinned.
Miss Carmichael sidestepped this way and that, but each time, the Bain boy stopped her.
“Young man, kindly remove yourself.”
“No. Not till ye gi’e me yer purse.”
“She’ll no’ be daeing that.” Mr. McDonald’s voice boomed out across the street. “But I’ll be seeing ta ye in ways ye cannae imagine if yer dinnae leave her be.”
“Y’auld Jessie. Ye dinnae scare me.”
“Nae? We’ll see aboot that.”
Miss Carmichael ducked out of the way as Andy McDonald’s fist met with Donald Bain’s eye. The boy backed off, muttering obscenities. His eyes blazed and for a second, Miss Carmichael truly believed she had witnessed a devil in the boy. He scarpered as fast as his feet could carry him.
“Are ye awreet, miss?” Mr. McDonald said. “He’ll get himsel’ in prison like his faither and good riddance that’ll be.”
“Thank you once again for coming to my aid, Mr. McDonald. I’m not quite sure how that would have ended had you not arrived when you did.”
“Shall I walk ye back to yer hoose, Miss?”
“I’m sure I shall be all right now, but if you could accompany me to the High Street, I should be most grateful. There are usually enough people there to deter ruffians like Donald Bain.”
Mr. McDonald looked uncertain about this, but Miss Carmichael was adamant. He said his farewells as the High Street became Lawnmarket.
Anxious to get home before full night descended, Miss Carmichael kept up a steady pace, hindered by a stiff wind that whistled around her head and threatened to dislodge her hat.
Back in the comfort of her own home, she ordered tea. Lucy brought it, set it down and handed Miss Carmichael the child’s doll.
“I washed it and mended as best I could, Miss, but it was in such a state.”
Miss Carmichael turned the doll over in her hands. Lucy’s neat stitches were barely in evidence. The doll was rather more patchwork than it had been, but she knew the little girl would love it. If only she could find her again.
* * *
The little girl found her. It was as if she had been waiting for her, on the corner of Henderson Close.
“There you are, Isobel.” Miss Carmichael handed over the repaired doll to the little girl with wide eyes.
She grabbed it and cuddled it so tightly, Miss Carmichael feared the stitches would burst, but Lucy’s needlework held firm and the child’s grubby face broke into an angelic grin.
“Now you must promise to take good care of it. Probably best if you don’t take it out on the street with you. Here, take my hand and I’ll walk you home.”
The little girl seemed reluctant to tear one hand away from clutching the doll but she did so and clutched Miss Carmichael’s hand. A few yards away, she caught sight of the Bain boy, on his own, smoking. He glared at her but didn’t move. Don’t come any closer. Please.
Distracted, Miss Carmichael barely registered the little girl removing her hand from hers. She looked down and behind her. No sign. It was as if the girl had vanished. Again.
Donald Bain slunk away, grinning.
Pull yourself together, Miss Carmichael told herself. She made her way back up Henderson Close, intent on visiting a few shops on Princes Street. A new every-day hat had proved a necessity when Lucy announced that, sadly, her old winter one had fallen victim to moths.
“I don’t understand it. I put it in mothballs but the little bug – blighters chomped through it anyway.”
“Never mind, Lucy. I think I deserve a new hat. That one is years old. The moths are welcome to it.”
She smiled at the memory, then gasped as Bain charged out in front of her.
This part of the street was unusually deserted. The boy barred her way but there was something different about him. Surely he hadn’t been so tall a few minutes ago? Nor as broad-shouldered.
The boy stared at her, malevolence in his eyes. His lips parted to reveal his rotten teeth. He was Donald Bain but he wasn’t the Donald Bain who had taunted her, threatened her and tried to steal her purse. No, this was another creature entirely. This was the creature she had seen that day, skulking in the shadows, and he had taken on Donald Bain’s form.
Silently, she recited the twenty-third Psalm.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.…”
He spoke and the voice wasn’t his. His lips moved, but the words weren’t his. The sky darkened. “You do not belong here, woman. Get back to your own place. Leave us alone.”
The harsh, rasping voice grated on her nerves with its inhuman pitch. She fingered the small gold cross she always wore. The creature saw her.
“That will do you no good. I am master here. Not your God…not your…Christ.” He spat the word out and was gone. As if he had never been there.
The sky lightened. Miss Carmichael stood, too stunned to move, for a few seconds. Had she really seen him? Maybe she had suffered a momentary delusion. One person went by and eyed her curiously before moving on. A couple she recognized walked past on the other side of the street. The man doffed his cap to her.
Miss Carmichael nodded at them, shook herself and resumed her walk. But she wouldn’t buy a hat today.
Back home, Lucy opened the door. For the life of her, Miss Carmichael had been unable to get her key to stay in the lock, her hands trembled so much.
“Miss, whatever’s happened?”
Lucy helped her over the threshold and off with her coat and hat. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“At least I could blame that on my over-active imagination.” Miss Carmichael struggled to regain her composure, angry that tears pricked her eyelids. She hoped Lucy ha
dn’t seen them.
“You go into the warm now and I’ll bring you some nice, strong tea.” Lucy opened the living room door and Miss Carmichael settled herself in her chair. She took a deep breath, wishing it calmed her more than it did. Her tea arrived promptly and Lucy poured her a cup.
“Lucy, please would you ask Reverend Smalley to call on me at his earliest convenience? I feel I am in need of some spiritual guidance.”
“Of course, Miss. I’ll pop around there straightaway, as long as you’ll be all right while I’m out.”
“Yes, thank you, Lucy. I shall drink my tea and I’ll be fine.”
Miss Carmichael knew Lucy was longing to know what had discomposed her so badly but until she had spoken to the Reverend, she didn’t trust herself to tell anyone what she found so hard to comprehend herself.
* * *
Reverend Smalley put down his teacup. “From your account, I would say you have indeed had an encounter with pure evil, Miss Carmichael. I must confess that in all my years in the ministry I have never witnessed anything as extreme as your experience yesterday. I was called once to a young woman who was flailing her arms and screaming obscenities but the poor girl turned out to be afflicted with epilepsy and I believe another mental disorder. Certainly not possessed by a demon. I am not at all surprised you felt so shocked and unnerved.”
“But what is to be done about it, Reverend? The boy lives on the streets down there. There’s no telling what he might do. He seems particularly averse to females of any age and I fear for us all.”
Reverend Smalley shook his head. “I think I must consult with the bishop on this. It really is so far out of my own experience, I feel I too need some spiritual guidance.”
* * *
Miss Carmichael closed her front door and polished her spectacles, deep in troubled thoughts. With evil of such a nature as the Reverend believed unleashed on the streets of Edinburgh, was anyone safe?
