Mistress of Green Tree Mill

by Mistress of Green Tree Mill (retail) (epub)

  ‘I’ll work something out,’ Goldie told her when he called at Green Tree next day. ‘Don’t worry. Leave it to me.’

  * * *

  A week later a letter marked ‘Private’ was delivered by hand to the Green Tree office for Lizzie. When she opened it a small square of paper cut from the Courier fell on her desk top. There was no other message. The cutting gave notice of sale of a house near Errol on the banks of the Tay between Dundee and Perth.

  She was intrigued at this strange message from nowhere and because the weather was fine, she surprised her staff by taking the afternoon off.

  Climbing into her carriage, she handed the newspaper cutting to her coachman. ‘Drive me there,’ she said.

  It was a long time since she’d been in the countryside. She felt a deep happiness sweep over her as the carriage meandered slowly under shady trees and down dusty lanes for about nine miles. At last the horses were drawn up at the gate of a tree-shaded property standing on a hillock overlooking the river.

  She leaned out of the carriage window and stared at what looked like a dolls’ house. It had white-painted walls and a grey-slated roof from which two little attic windows peeped out like humorous eyes. Downstairs were two larger windows outlined in pale grey, one on each side of a door that was surrounded by a porch with stained-glass panels depicting tall irises in blue, green and purple.

  It seemed to invite her in, to entice her to visit it like the Gingerbread House in the fairy tale. Her skirts brushed against canterbury bells as she walked up a short brick path to the door. On the step she paused and looked at the riot of flowers in the garden: tall hollyhocks, clumps of scarlet and white phlox, purple clematis screening part of the wall, lavender bushes that scented the air beside the door, leggy roses and big white daisies with yellow hearts.

  The front door was unlocked. The rooms were empty of furniture but still managed to look cosy and comfortable. There were two downstairs rooms, one dominated by a huge black cooking range. The window of the second room was half shrouded by the clematis. Up a narrow little stair were two bedrooms with sloping ceilings. The clematis had made the ascent too and tapped at the windows as if trying to get in. The lavatory was in a little wooden shed at the bottom of the garden. A bundle of squares of newspaper stitched together with a piece of string hung on the back of the door.

  ‘I could be happy here,’ said Lizzie to herself as she walked through the rooms. The cottage was so unlike her imposing home in Tay Lodge that as soon as she crossed the cottage threshold, she would become a different person. She wandered through the garden entranced by its sublime atmosphere of peace and contentment and imagined herself growing old there, gardening, going inside to stir a pot on the range or sit by the fire reading. It would be a life of escape, a place of refuge from her everyday concerns. The calming atmosphere persuaded her that it would be possible for Mrs Kinge to divide herself in two.

  She returned to Dundee in a great hurry and sent a messenger to the office of the lawyer who was selling the cottage. When he came hurrying to discover what she wanted – requests from Mrs Kinge of Green Tree Mill were treated with respect – she presented him with the newspaper cutting.

  ‘What price is expected for that?’ she asked.

  He looked surprised, but it did not do to question any move by Lizzie Kinge. ‘It can be bought for a hundred pounds,’ he replied.

  She reached into her desk and brought out a bundle of notes. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said, counting them on to the desk.

  When she woke the following morning however the cold light of reason seized her. It was only because the place was so pretty. I don’t even know who sent me the notice. I’ve probably been a fool. Living in a cottage is only a dream, I wouldn’t last a day away out there. I’d soon be bored, she told herself.

  Resolving that when she reached Green Tree she’d send orders to the lawyer to re-sell the cottage, she dressed, but in the back of her mind the memory of the snug little place nagged away.

  Though it was early when she arrived at the mill, Goldie was waiting in her office. ‘What did you think of it then?’ he asked.

  She laughed in delight. ‘Of course! I should have guessed it was you. You’re such a romantic. How did you find such a perfect place for us?’

  With a grin he said, ‘I’ve been touring about looking, and that wee place was perfect. I hoped you’d love it the minute you saw it. If you do, I’ll buy it for you.’

  She shook her head, apparently sadly. ‘Oh what a pity.’

  His face fell. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  She teased him a little more. ‘I love it, but you can’t buy it for me.’

  ‘Why not? I’ll give it to you as a present.’

  ‘You can’t buy it because it’s sold already.’

  ‘Who to? How do you know? I’ll buy it from them.’

  She went up to him and threw her arms around him. ‘I know because I bought it and I’m giving it to us. The owners of Monte Bello and Tay Lodge are going to play at housekeeping…’

  When the papers arrived from the lawyer they discovered that their little house was called Gowan Bank – after the white daisies or gowans that thrived in its garden. The watchers in Green Tree Mill were surprised again that day when Mrs Kinge took a second afternoon off and rode away with Goldie Johanson in his imposing carriage.

  * * *

  On the day in late September 1918 when Lizzie and Goldie were inspecting their dolls’ house and squabbling happily about whether or not they should hang wallpaper in the tiny sitting room, Charlie was one of a line of tired and filthy men following a row of tanks across a field near Amiens.

  He looked around as he trudged forward and realized he knew the field. Ahead of him were a ruined farmhouse and barn which he remembered his unit fighting for in 1916.

  His rifle felt heavy in his hands and he had no desire to shoot anyone. Even if a German stood up in front of him he doubted if he would have the heart to pull the trigger. He was tired of killing, tired of death.

  Above his head the sky was a heavenly shade of blue and earlier that morning he’d heard a bird singing among the blasted trees. The sound had brought tears to his eyes in the middle of the devastation.

  The column fanned out as they approached the tumbled bricks of the farm buildings. A sinister silence hung over it and Charlie knew by instinct that Germans were hiding there. Their fear oozed out to meet his like the sinister fog that crept up into Dundee’s streets from the Tay on November evenings. In spite of his misgivings, he walked steadily on. He’d reached the point when there was no point in trying to avoid his fate.

  He turned a corner of the farmhouse and found himself looking down into a hole that had once been a cellar. The frightened face of a young German soldier in an iron helmet was staring up at him. The two looked at each other for what seemed like an age. Charlie saw that the German was cradling a rifle. He dropped his own gun and said, ‘Come on. Come out. I’m not going to shoot you.’

  The German, a blue-eyed man of about his own age, looked undecided, then with a shrug stepped out of the cellar, his hands raised above his head.

  ‘I’m glad it’s over,’ he said in English.

  Charlie and his captive walked back to the Allied lines together. The German had been a frequent visitor to London before the war for his father had business interests there. They were talking together in a friendly way when Charlie suddenly gave a cry and collapsed to the ground, clutching his calf. Because his guard was down, he had been wounded by a sniper.

  Charlie lay on the ground, trying with both hands to staunch the bleeding. As he watched his blood seeping through his fingers, he thought, This is it. The bugger’ll shoot me now, friendly or not. He closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet but instead hands were pulling him to his feet and an arm supported him.

  ‘You’re not badly hurt. I’ll take you to a field hospital. Then I’ll give myself up,’ said the young German.

  On Armistice Day Charlie Kinge was in a
tented field hospital behind the lines. He was recovering from a flesh wound in the leg and when the hospital was visited by a group of generals, one of them paused beside his bed and said, ‘You’re the fellow who brought in a prisoner in spite of being wounded, aren’t you? Well done!’

  All Charlie could do was laugh. He laughed and laughed, unable to fully believe that the nightmare was over and he was still alive.

  Chapter 26

  Charlie was slow in coming home. Almost as if to make up for his luck in avoiding the worst battles, Lizzie’s son was among the last to be demobilized, but that was only a minor annoyance. He was alive and, judging by his high spirits when he finally alighted from the train at Dundee, his old ebullience was restored to him. Lizzie clasped him to her on the platform and wept for joy. Maggy was there too in his reception committee, wiping tears from her eyes. In the background, though not of their party, was Lexie, grown up now and wearing a bright green hat that contrasted effectively with her flaming hair.

  When Charlie saw her, he left his mother and ran across to hug Lexie too. ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ she said for he had always been one of her favourite people. Though she recognized his recklessness, she was beguiled by his charm and blamed his mother’s indulgent treatment for his faults. Charlie reminded her of her beloved father. He had the same bright blue eyes and silver tongue. More than that, he was the only man of her family to have survived the holocaust. Davie and Robert were long dead.

  Charlie’s homecoming party was to be held in Tay Lodge. For days before, the domestic staff rushed to and fro preparing the most delicious dishes. Flowers filled the dining and drawing rooms and tiny shining Chinese paper lanterns were strung between the trees in the garden. A small band was engaged to play for dancing and a marquee with a wooden floor was set up on the expanse of lawn. There had not been such a social event at the gracious house in living memory.

  Lizzie invited all her business contacts and senior employees. Goldie’s name was on the list, but between themselves they decided it would be best if he did not accept for they deluded themselves that their feeling for each other had not been noticed and commented on by many people. The returned soldier dictated the rest of the guest list. On it were several of his boyhood friends – the few who had survived the war. Lizzie used to disapprove of them but she made no objection now.

  ‘I’d like to ask Rosie, Bertha and Lexie-for-short to the party,’ he finally told his mother.

  She grimaced. ‘Must you? I don’t mind asking Lexie but Rosie’s sure to make some sort of scene. She’ll think we’re being extravagant and depriving the poor, or something. She goes up and down the town talking at union meetings. What a terrible woman!’

  ‘I’ll invite them anyway,’ said Charlie, who had always respected Rosie for the robust way she stood up to him when he was a wild little rip playing in the Vaults.

  On the day of the party, Maggy sought out Charlie and whispered, ‘Rosie asked me to say she’s sorry she can’t come tonight but she sends her love.’

  ‘Is Bertha coming?’

  ‘Not her either.’

  He was disappointed but said, ‘I don’t blame them, I suppose. What about Lexie?’

  Maggy raised her shoulders to express ignorance. ‘She hasn’t said one way or another. I don’t think she’ll come, though.’

  Charlie sought out his mother to ask, ‘Is there any way we could persuade Lexie to come? I’d really like her to be here.’

  ‘She’s washed her hands of me,’ said Lizzie, ‘I haven’t seen her for months. It’s very unfair. I was kind to that girl.’

  ‘Did you see her at the station when I came off the train?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘I saw her but she didn’t speak.’

  ‘Why didn’t you speak to her first?’

  Lizzie was genuinely surprised. ‘I’m the older sister. I’m the one who’s been hurt. It’s her place to come to me. I’m sorry about what’s happened because I’d high hopes for Lexie. How’s she going to meet a suitable husband when she’s working as a weaver? She’ll be like all the others and marry some out-of-work kettle boiler who’ll stay at home and drink her wages.’

  Charlie was a connoisseur of women. He remembered the eye-catching girl in the green hat at the station and shook his head. ‘Don’t you believe it. She’s made for better things. Keep your eye on our little Lexie, Mother. I think she’ll surprise you yet.’

  While the band was tuning up their instruments Alex and Alice arrived. Charlie was surprised to see that his mother’s old friend, the grocery tycoon, was totally white haired and very old looking. He had heard his mother talk of the mill girl Alex had married, and was curious to see her. Lizzie nudged her son and said, ‘Here’s Alex and that girl. She’s spending his money like water.’

  Alice was long legged and as slim as a gazelle. Her walk was provocative and she shimmered up in silver gauze with a challenging smile on her painted face. Her blonde hair was coiled up and bound close with a diamond fillet that crossed her forehead. Diamond pendant earrings swung as she inclined her head to kiss her hostess.

  ‘You look lovely, Lizzie,’ she said in her now unaccented voice, the result of many elocution classes. ‘What a wonderful dress!’

  ‘I had it specially made,’ said Lizzie, lifting up the soft crepe of her skirt.

  ‘It’s so good to see you in a new colour,’ sighed Alice in a meaning tone, for Lizzie’s dress was a pale shade of cornflower blue. She had recently abandoned half mourning.

  Then Alex’s wife turned her teasing glance to Charlie. There was a flash in her stare as she surveyed him, manly and upright in his tail suit and white tie. She was preparing to play games with him too but their eyes met and something stilled her tongue. Her coquettish smile wavered, she dropped her eyes and looked at Charlie from beneath her lashes. He looked back as if startled by recognition of a kindred spirit. When Alex led his wife away, Lizzie saw her son following Alice’s flexing hips with his eyes. A cold hand of premonition gripped her.

  She had intended to whisper, ‘What do you think of her then?’ but the question died before it was spoken. She did not want to know his reaction to Alice.

  * * *

  In the first weeks of his return to Dundee, Charlie yearned for Canada. ‘The Government’s giving all returned soldiers a plot of land,’ he told his mother. ‘I’ve been offered one in Vancouver. All I’ve got to do is go back there and claim it.’

  Lizzie protested violently because she could not face the prospect of losing him again. ‘You don’t need their land. You’re the heir to Green Tree Mill. Besides it’s your place to stay with me now. I’m not growing any younger and I need help at the mill. You’ll have to learn to take over.’

  He tried to coax her round. ‘You’re far from decrepit, Mother. I saw the way people looked at you at the party. You’re still an attractive woman and you know it. You’ll not need me to lead you around for a few more years yet.’

  At forty-six Lizzie was indeed a good-looking woman and her love for Goldie had enlivened her so that she glowed and sparkled as she had not done since she was first in love with Sam. Still slim and shapely, she had few grey hairs and her face was smooth and unlined.

  ‘Don’t flatter me. That’s not the point. Now you’re home again, you’ll have to start showing an interest in the mill. I don’t want to think that all my work’s been for nothing or that you’ll not value what I’ve built up when I’m gone,’ she scolded.

  Charlie looked gloomy. ‘I’m not cut out for that sort of business. I’d rather have a farm in Canada.’

  Lizzie knotted her hands together and pleaded, ‘Don’t go away again, Charlie. Don’t leave me. You’re my only child.’

  She was blackmailing him but she loved him dearly and feared that if he left home again, they would be separated for ever. He recognized her distress and put an arm around her waist to reassure her. ‘All right, Ma. Don’t take on. I’ll try it for a little while anyway.’

  Lizzie pressed h
er advantage by buying him the car she had promised him. It was one of the finest automobiles in Dundee, a huge Daimler with enormous headlamps and leather straps around the bonnet. It made a noise like an enraged dragon when he drove off every night on unspecified pursuits of pleasure.

  * * *

  Charlie knew Dundee well and was greeted as a friend in many different places. Like his grandfather he was an easy mixer with all classes and was just as likely to feel at home in the caravan of one of the travelling families in Duthie Park or in the drawing room of a rich family at Broughty Ferry.

  The city he returned to was a place of ferment, where men who had survived the fighting were growing disillusioned. Instead of coming home to a land fit for heroes, they were plunged once more into the old round of poverty and unemployment. In grim-faced groups they stood on street corners while cold winds blew. When they presented themselves at mills, factories or workshops, they were turned away but now, with their memories of the trenches still fresh, they were no longer prepared to go uncomplaining. Their hearts burned with resentment and there was rage in their talk.

  The problem was that there was little work for them. When the war ended, the jute trade began slipping into another depression and a few people began looking to other ways of making a profit. Machinery manufacturers, lacking orders from the Dundee mills, started exporting to India where a jute industry was struggling into life. They did not realize that by selling expertise to their city’s rivals, they were cutting the home-based industry’s own throat.