by Sue Lawrence
Molly shut the door behind her and Matron gave a couple of dainty coughs. ‘Yes, I recall now. Your people say that you’re a hard worker, that you are used to cleaning and mending, though mending fishing nets is less precise than the mending required at Wardie House. Here, you will undertake all manner of work, whatever Molly or I need you for. Mainly kitchen duties at present.’
She sat up tall and peered straight ahead at Jessie, her dark eyes narrowing. ‘This is a poorhouse, not a hospital. Neither is it an asylum and yet we do have some patients who are perhaps not as well as they ought to be in both mind and body. If you have any problems with them, man or woman, come straight to me, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Matron.’
‘And do not attempt to become friendly with any of the girls in your dormitory. They come from desperate circumstances, worse than yours. You will remain separate at all times, except for sleeping.’ Matron ran her finger down a list of names on her desk. ‘You shall share a palliasse with Bertha. It is up to you both to ensure the mattress is turned and the blanket aired.’
Jessie nodded. She had no idea what a palliasse was.
‘The other girls sometimes need reminding to wash. In here, cleanliness is next to godliness. Once you have had your bath, you will assist at bath times with the younger girls and infants. I will have no unpleasant odours in this house. The Governor and I have sensitive noses.’
Matron tucked the sheet of paper back in the drawer. ‘I shall have reports from Molly of how you are doing and we shall see how you fit in.’
‘Thank you, Matron.’
‘One more thing, Jessie Mack.’
‘Yes?’
‘No one else in here knows about the curse you are said to bring with you. The residents will, however, notice you are marked.’ She pointed at Jessie’s birthmark. ‘You will ignore any talk of it. Also, if at any time I hear mention of witchcraft or ungodliness, you will be dismissed. At once.’
Jessie nodded.
‘Now go and get on with your work. And tie up that hair. I will not have loose hair. Loose hair goes with loose morals.’ Matron raised her chin. ‘Be on your way.’
Chapter 5
1981
Rona pulled open a wooden shutter in the bedroom. There was a row of six round holes along the window ledge. She looked up and noticed another six indentations along the top. After a moment, Rona realised what these were: holes for bars. There must have been bars on the windows. She’d noticed them in all the other rooms. Why would they have needed those? That American woman said it was a poorhouse; bars seemed more in keeping with a prison.
Rona looked around the bedroom. This was a good-sized room, unlike the one she’d just been in which was so small it must have been a converted linen closet. They were going to be hard-pushed to get a toilet and shower in that one, but if it had been fitted out at some time in the past to function as a hotel, there must have been room for at least a bed and sink. She and Craig were taking a bedroom each, opening windows and shutters and taking measurements for curtains and carpets, before the workmen started.
This room was large and had two windows, both overlooking the back garden. Rona peered out and saw the corner of the roof of the lodge house, where Martha lived, at the far end. But there was a tall wall and high hedge surrounding Martha’s garden, so it didn’t seem as if anyone could see into her grounds. The small garden at the back of their annexe would never be private, but when would she and Craig have time to sit out there anyway?
Rona pulled her tape measure out, hung it over the width of the first window and wrote the measurements in her notebook. Some residents might want their own curtains, but it would look better if they all had curtains when relatives came to inspect a room. Yes, this was a nice room, the size of it was ideal and that view would be fabulous once the overgrown garden had been dealt with. There were a couple of well-established apple trees but at the moment the rest of the garden was a mess. Rona had already been in touch with a local gardening company and they were due to visit on the first dry day this week. At the moment it was pouring outside and the house felt even colder and damper. She pulled her woollen scarf tight around her neck.
‘How’re you getting on?’ She leant round the door of the next room where Craig was on his knees in the corner.
‘Okay, I’m just seeing if this carpet’s going to be easy to rip up or whether I should ask the decorators to do it.’
‘And?’
‘Think I’ll just leave it to the professionals,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll get on with clearing stuff – I’ve got to return the hire van at the weekend. Can you give me a hand in the attic for a minute?’
‘No problem. A hand with what?’
‘Remember I said there was an ancient pram up there?’
‘Oh God, yes.’
‘I’ll need you to come up too. The pram’s huge, can’t manage to get it down the steps myself.’
They walked along the corridor and Craig pulled stairs down from a hatchway in the ceiling. They held onto the narrow rail as they climbed the steps.
At the top, they crouched down and looked around. The wooden gables criss-crossing the attic made it feel cramped. Craig wandered around, head stooped under the low beams and Rona followed.
‘It’s so cold up here. Thought heat was meant to rise?’
‘It is a bit chilly, isn’t it?’ Craig frowned. ‘Can’t see that pram anywhere. It wasn’t in the cellar, was it?’
Rona shook her head. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘That’s odd. The estate agents must’ve removed it. No idea why, though. Okay, let’s get back down. Is it time for coffee? We can use the new percolator.’
Rona looked at her watch. ‘Suppose so. I don’t feel like coffee though, my stomach’s not quite right. But I’m up for a cup of weak tea.’
Later that afternoon, Rona was in the kitchen peeling potatoes when she heard a yell. She ran out to the hall and noticed the cellar door wide open.
‘Craig? Are you down there?’ She heard a muffled, indistinct voice. ‘Where are you?’
‘Come down here!’
Rona stepped down the dingy stairs and onto the bare cellar floor. Craig was nowhere to be seen.
‘In here.’
She turned around and saw Craig’s head pop out from the little red door on the right-hand wall.
‘What’s in there?’ That strange, musty smell was still lingering.
‘You need to crouch down, the roof’s really low.’
Rona bent down and crept through the door. She used the large measuring tape from her pocket to jam the door open. She didn’t want to be trapped in here.
Inside was a small area, no bigger than a large cupboard, with a very low ceiling.
‘Reckon this would’ve been a coal cellar, but it’s not black or sooty, must’ve been painted over. Is there a chute over there?’ He pointed to the sloping ceiling at the back of the little room. ‘This torch isn’t bright enough. I’ll come back in with the heavy-duty torch and look properly down there.’ Something caught Craig’s eye. He pointed the torch towards the back of the door. ‘Come and see this.’
Rona was beginning to feel claustrophobic. She checked the door was still jammed open, then edged forward. She peered at marks on the wooden panel.
‘What is it?’
‘Letters, someone’s carved into the wood.’
‘W. I. N. Z. I. E. Winzie. What does that mean?’
Rona shrugged. ‘No idea, maybe someone’s name. Maybe an old Scots word – I’ll ask Mum.’
Rona stood up and banged her head on the low ceiling. ‘Ow,’ she said, rubbing her forehead. ‘I’m getting out of here.’ She brushed her hands over her face. ‘Ugh. Cobwebs. This place gives me the creeps.’
Rona stepped back into the cellar. In the dingy light she had to screw up her eyes to focus on something on the opposite wall.
Craig emerged from the small door and he joined her in the middle of the room.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘I don’t remember seeing that when we were down here a couple of days ago, do you?’
There, in the dim light beside the wall, was a huge old-fashioned black pram.
‘I could have sworn it was in the attic.’ Craig peered inside the pram. ‘What’s that?’
Rona saw what he was pointing at. There was a square footwell in the solid structure of the pram.
‘Somewhere to hide another baby?’ Craig raised his eyebrows.
‘Hang on, I remember Mum’s godmother, Auntie Jean, had one of these prams. Not as ancient as this one looks, mind you, Jean’s was from the 1930s. She kept insisting it was called a baby carriage. Anyway, hers had the same square hole. She told me there were no pushchairs in those days so when the baby was older it’d sit up in the pram. They just removed the mattress-base-thing and the toddler’s little legs would dangle in there. Clever, really.’ Rona looked under the pram. ‘Look, here’s the mattress, it fits over the footwell.’ She placed it inside. ‘But how did we miss it last time we were in the cellar?’
They both turned round at a noise.
‘Was that the bell?’ Craig asked.
‘Think so, I’ll get it, love.’ Rona turned and strode towards the stairs. ‘Get rid of the pram, would you? Creepy old thing.’
Upstairs, Rona crossed the hall and opened the door. Martha stood there, again dressed in black, with an emerald-green scarf.
‘Oh, hi, Martha.’ Rona opened the door wide. Was this woman going to make a habit of calling round every day?
‘Hi, honey, I’ve brought you a cake.’ She handed over a cake tin and stood on the doormat, smiling. ‘It’s an apple dapple cake, think you’ll like it.’
‘D’you want to come in?’
‘Only if you’re not too busy.’
‘I was just going to put the kettle on. Come on through.’
‘Thanks. I’d love a look around too?’
Rona sighed. ‘Okay, tour starts here.’
Chapter 6
1898
Jessie turned over on the narrow mattress and prodded Bertha in the ribs.
‘Are you awake? Can you hear that?’
Bertha grunted but did not move. Jessie lifted her head up a little and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dark. The twelve mattresses – which Matron called palliasses – were all crammed close together in this small dormitory. There were two long wooden sleeping platforms raised up along the central corridor. Along each platform were six straw-filled mattresses covered in coarse jute sackcloth. On each mattress slept at least two bodies, lying under thin scratchy blankets. None had pillows, but Jessie was used to that from her own home, although there she at least shared a proper bed, not just a straw mattress. She had to stop calling it her home, Molly had told her off about that. Wardie House was now her home – this huge, cold, dingy building with bars on the windows and strange noises and unfamiliar smells. There was no way of getting out of this place. She was resigned to being there forever.
Jessie told herself she was far luckier than the other girls – at least she was allowed outside into the garden once a day. The pale skin and wan pallor of the others showed that they never saw sunlight. Jessie had to go out every morning, whether it was sunny and bright or freezing cold with thick heavy frost covering the ground. Her first morning chore after breakfast was to get Molly her vegetables from the garden for the dinnertime soup. It was there, digging up tatties and onions or kail and looking up at the vastness of the stone house, where she felt alive. Indoors, she felt she was just functioning, not living.
It was the second time Jessie had heard noises in the middle of the night. No one else had mentioned them. But Jessie was the one in her family with the keen hearing. She was always first to hear the foghorns out on the Forth when the haar came in. She’d wake up her mother who would fret and worry until the men all came back safe from the sea. Until that day, of course, when they never came back and it was all her fault.
She missed the sea, the fresh, salty tang of it, the feel of the wind buffeting her and all the other fisherlassies as they sat alongside the harbour wall helping with the mending. They repaired the nets while their mothers went off with their laden baskets, selling fish to places as far as Leith and even up to the city of Edinburgh. They came back reeking of sweat from carrying the heavy creel suspended from a band round their foreheads.
In this big, cold house the only smells were stale odours from the poor folk who never saw the outside and who looked like walking ghosts.
Jessie listened again. She was sure she heard wheels, a soft creaking of wheels being turned, back and forth. Jessie bit her lip and laid her head back down on the hard mattress. Then came another sound she knew well – the foghorn, booming out along the Forth, warning the boats and ships of the North Sea haar rolling in. Her father used to say the wailing sound of the foghorn was like the deep moaning noise he’d heard once from a whale stranded on the beach. It was a sound of distress. She had heard many tales of the dangers of being stuck out on the sea in the fog.
Jessie bit her lip harder as she thought of her father. Dead, with her brother and eight others in that terrible storm, and all because of her. Her curse had caused their deaths. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek and snuggled into Bertha’s back for warmth.
‘What d’you mean, they grind up dead babies’ bones?’
Jessie turned to the tall boy who was holding out his tin bowl for porridge. He had just told her he was now old enough to be working with the men, even though he was only fifteen, and their job today was to crush babies’ bones.
The boy leant in towards her. He smelled funny so she wanted to draw back, but he started whispering. Jessie glanced round to where Molly was talking to Matron at the door. They were no doubt discussing whatever delicacy Molly had for Matron and the Governor today. Molly said Matron seemed to take little interest in food, whereas the Governor enjoyed both food and drink. His red nose reminded Jessie of Old Tom who was to be found every day at The Stone Pier Inn opposite the harbour. In summer, he was given a chair outside. He always had a tankard of ale in his hand. Jessie’s mum used to say not to go near him – he would lash out at the children nearby the more he had to drink. The one time she and Dorrie had no choice but to pass close by, the stink of him was enough to make them want to vomit.
‘The dead babies have their bones all hacked up then pounded up into dust and made into porridge.’ The boy nodded at the pot in front of her. ‘That porridge.’
‘That’s not true. It can’t be true.’ Molly waddled back over to the serving table, so Jessie asked, ‘This isn’t made from dead babies’ bones, is it?’
‘Billy, is that you telling tales again? Of course not, Jessie. Now get on with your work. And you, Billy Muir, be on your way.’ Molly thumped down the ladle and said to Jessie, ‘You’ve been here a good few months now. You know that boy’s trouble. Ignore him. Stay clear of all those boys.’
Once the last bowl of porridge had been ladled out, Jessie looked over the dining room where the Governor had finished morning prayers and was sweeping past them with his usual scowl. Squashed side by side on rickety benches at four long tables were the residents, heads bent low over the thin porridge. Two tables were for men and boys, two for women and girls. There was no conversation – no talking was allowed. Everyone had their heads bent low, concentrating on eating. Jessie started clearing the serving table ready to take the pan and ladle back to the kitchen.
‘I’m setting up Matron’s breakfast tray in her room. You stay here till they’re finished, then bring their bowls and start on the washing up,’ Molly said, heading for the door.
Jessie scraped the last dollop of porridge off the ladle into a bowl for herself, gobbled it down, then went to the kitchen with the porridge pot. She was heading back for the bowls when she stopped at the door. In the corridor was a tall girl, her back to Jessie, standing looking up at one of the portraits. Her long plait swung as sh
e tossed her head to and fro. How had she left the dining room so early? They were never allowed to leave until dismissed by Matron. Jessie was fascinated by the girl’s hair which was tied in a straggly pigtail that reached down her back to her waist. Jessie stared at the bare feet then up again at the swaying plait, trying to work out who she was. The girl turned around, slowly, and Jessie blinked in surprise. The face was not young and smooth, but wizened and lined; there was greying hair around her receding forehead. Jessie now saw she was not a girl, but an old woman, almost the same age as her granny. She darted back in to the kitchen and shivered as she plunged her hands into the water in the sink.
‘They did grind up the bones.’
Jessie jumped and looked round. The woman with the pigtail was standing behind her. Jessie realised this must be Effie and smiled at the woman everyone said was ‘a poor soul’. Jessie felt a pang of sadness looking at her, thinking of how she was sometimes called Mad Effie. Effie stood there, pulling at her tattered young girl’s dress and scratching at her head.
‘Did you miss your porridge, Effie? I might have a bit left here.’ Jessie scraped at the bottom of the pan.
‘Cows and pigs, all their bones were ground up, but ’twas mainly the babies,’ said Effie, nodding. She wandered off towards the door. Jessie watched her skip over the hall towards the stairs, her long pigtail bouncing up and down. From the back she looked young. All older girls and women had their hair up in tight buns. Bertha had told Jessie that Effie was very old – in her forties. Effie’s lined face was testament to the fact she’d had a troubled life. Molly had told Jessie to just ignore poor Effie who never slept at night and that was what made her mad. You become an imbecile if you don’t sleep, the girls had told Jessie. Effie hadn’t always been like that, someone had said. Well, Jessie felt sorry for her. Jessie knew how it felt to be picked on, to be laughed at.