by Sue Lawrence
Jessie went into the dining room to fetch the bowls. Back in the kitchen, Molly was decanting some raspberry jam into a dainty little dish for Matron’s tray.
‘So it’s not true about the bones then? Not even cows?’
Molly sighed and put down the jam jar. ‘Some other poorhouses used to grind up bones a long time ago. Never here. They were from cattle and pigs, then they used the dust as fertiliser, on the fields – not in porridge. And they certainly never used dead babies!’ Molly motioned with her hand. ‘Now move along. I don’t want to hear anything more about this.’
Molly bustled out with the tray. Jessie darted into the larder and straight over to the sack of oatmeal on the floor. She opened it and looked inside. She plunged in her hand and felt the gritty meal run through her fingers. This was oatmeal, it was exactly like the meal in her mother’s scullery. And Molly’s porridge smelt sweet and nutty as it cooked in gallons of water on the stove. Babies’ bones – what nonsense! She returned to the kitchen, thrust the plug into the sink and started to pile in the dishes.
Chapter 7
1981
Rona sat in her kitchen listening to the sound of hammering and banging. Even with their door shut, the noise was deafening. The dust was settling throughout their annexe, seeping under the door. She’d just wiped a thick layer from the kitchen table.
Craig and the workmen had started on the bathrooms and today they were working upstairs. They had estimated they’d take three to four weeks to fit the en suites, provided they worked seven days a week. Today was Sunday and they’d been at it since eight o’clock. Rona’s devout Hebridean family would be horrified if they knew they were working on the Sabbath. She glanced at the clock – it was nearly time to take them a tray of coffee and biscuits.
Rona leant back against the chair and smiled. Gone were the days she had a secretary to make her coffee, when she was a lawyer in Dundee. Here she was embarking on a project which would cost them so much time and effort, a venture that was risky yet exciting. She and Craig were convinced that care homes were the way forward and they both knew it would be hard work but hopefully, in time, it would become a money-spinner. The concept of a residential home for elderly people that was less like an institution, more like a hotel, was novel. It would be expensive to run, but it would all be worth it. It had to be a success. She no longer had her dad to help bail them out financially. The money from his estate was almost gone, but the bank was lending till the care home was up and running. It would all be fine. It irritated Rona that Craig didn’t take a little more interest in the finances. Though perhaps one person worrying about whether they’d overstretched themselves was enough.
Rona opened the lid of one of the saggy cardboard boxes on the kitchen table. It was from one of the wardrobes in the cellar. Craig was going to take the wardrobes and that pram to the dump while the workmen were here with their vans. Rona had been scouring the Yellow Pages for a company that would hire out a dehumidifier to try to make the cellar less musty after Craig had cleared everything.
Rona peered inside the box and pulled out a couple of paintings. One was of a vase of flowers – garish, not attractive at all, although the frame was perhaps salvageable. The other, slightly larger one, was a portrait of a woman, again in a good frame. It was not as amateurish as the flowers, but at first sight, not remarkable. Though the more she gazed at it, the more she was drawn to it. The sitter’s head was tilted slightly to the side and she was unsmiling, in fact she seemed to lack any expression. She had dark hair, with clumsy brushstrokes of auburn through it. Her lips were crimson and her eyes chestnut brown. She wore a high black collar but there was a line of white as if she wore a white blouse underneath. Both hands were loosely clasped under her chin and swathed in pale fawn gloves which looked soft. Rona remembered her mother’s godmother had similar gloves which were made of kidskin. The woman in the painting held something silvery grey between the gloves.
Rona held it at arm’s length and gazed. She thought it must be Victorian. Could this be the lady of the house from the 1860s or 1870s when it was built? Rona set the painting on the table. The picture of flowers would go to the dump. This portrait she might hang in the hall.
Rona delved into the carton again and took out a jewellery box of dark wood and brass. She tried to open it, before realising there was a tiny keyhole in an ornate clasp. Rona removed all the other things from the carton, looking for a tiny key, but found nothing apart from old newspapers and books. She opened one of the books; it had a dark green leather cover and gold-edged pages. It was a Bible and inserted into the first page was a slip of paper stuck with glue. It read: ‘Sabbath School Lesson Scheme’. The date given was 1865. Rona turned a page and inscribed in beautiful flowery script was a name: Isabella W. Ramsay.
Rona opened a tiny book called Daily Light. It appeared to contain Bible readings for each day of the year. Written in a neat hand, in black ink, was, ‘To Isabella, with fondest love, E. M. R., October 1870.’ She flicked through the book and noticed pencil jottings throughout. She picked out a similar book, another Daily Light, this time inscribed by Isabella Ramsay, again in 1870, and another couple of tattered books, without inscriptions, which she put back into the box. Rona was about to open the old newspapers when she looked up at the clock. These would have to wait, there was too much to do. She went over to the sink to fill the kettle.
Bringing the coffee tray back down the stairs, Rona looked at the plate of crumbs. She’d put out some of Martha’s cookies that morning and they’d all been eaten. She certainly was a good cook – the casserole, cake and cookies she had given them were all delicious. When Rona asked her if she had been a professional cook or chef in a former life, Martha had snorted with laughter.
It was kind of Martha to be a friendly neighbour, supplying them with food, but Rona hoped that was the end of it. There was something about Martha she couldn’t quite pin down. She thought that sometimes the woman looked at Craig in a strange, almost flirty way. Rona never felt quite comfortable with her.
Rona loaded the dishwasher then picked up the two empty cake tins. She’d given Martha back her casserole dish when she delivered the cookies, so instead of giving Martha an excuse to call again, Rona would pop round to her house. Apart from one massive food-shopping trip to Willie Low’s, she had been stuck inside Wardie House all week and it would be good to get out. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
When Rona went out, she realised she didn’t know exactly how to get to Martha’s gate. She turned right, expecting to find an entrance, but there was none. She could see the roof of the little lodge house, but where was the door in? She walked round the block and eventually found a narrow black door, a gate, with a small letterbox, underneath some dangling ivy growing along the wall. She flicked it aside and turned the handle. It didn’t give, so she pushed her weight against it and shoved. The gate swung open and she was in a small garden, the grey stone lodge house straight ahead of her. She turned round to shut the gate but it had already swung itself shut.
Rona walked along the path, glancing back up towards her own house. She could just make out the top lintels of the bedroom windows of the back wing from here. Compared to this small lodge, their house looked grand and imposing. The building stone was different – the lodge looked older. It was probably pre-Victorian. Rona looked around at the small patch of straggly lawn and at the one sad, dying rose bush by the door; it was obvious Martha wasn’t a gardener. Apart from that it was all earth, dark and thick, some of it mounded up into little hillocks. There was not a flower or green plant to be seen.
Rona knocked on the front door and waited, noticing that all the curtains were pulled shut. She thought she saw a curtain twitching. As she stood on the doorstep, she began to feel slightly queasy. She shouldn’t have eaten that soup at lunchtime. Craig had insisted it’d be fine even though it had been made five days before. What could possibly go off in lentil soup, he’d joked.
The main door opened a f
raction and Martha’s head peeked out. ‘Hi, Rona, good of you to come over. How’re you doing?’
‘Fine, thanks. I brought your cake tins back.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Martha reached out to take the tins. Rona noticed she was standing with one foot firmly wedged against the door so it could not open any more. Rona waited to be invited in. Martha’s usual bonhomie was gone; they stood and stared at each other.
Rona attempted conversation. ‘Is your house older than ours? Looks like different stone. I presumed they were both built together.’
‘Yeah, this one’s older, from the early 1800s I think. Or even earlier. Anyway, thanks for these.’ Martha was about to shut the door.
Rona turned to go. A wave of nausea rushed over her. She felt the colour drain from her and knew she was about to be sick. Rona rushed over towards a mound of churned earth and vomited all over the dark soil. Martha was suddenly behind her, rubbing her back. ‘D’you need any help? Shall I take you home?’
Rona shook her head and stood up straight. ‘I’m okay now. Could do with a glass of water.’
‘Wait here,’ said Martha, rushing off into the house and returning within seconds with a glass.
Rona sipped it and looked up at Martha standing like a barrier between her and the house. Why on earth did she not invite her in? Martha had been in Wardie House for numerous cups of tea and drinks. Rona handed the glass back to Martha. She still felt a little bilious. She teetered towards the small gate in the wall. She stopped at the wall and turned round to see Martha standing in front of the door which was pulled to behind her.
Rona took a deep gulp of fresh air. ‘It’s a perfectly formed little garden isn’t it? So secluded. The house looks really cute too.’
‘It suits me.’ Martha waved. ‘Bye then, hope you feel better soon.’ She went inside and slammed the door.
Rona shook her head. What was wrong with some people? When she was growing up in the Hebrides, you’d always ask someone in. It was simply good manners and would be so insulting to leave them standing on the doorstep. But Edinburgh was a little more stand-offish, so perhaps Martha, as an American, presumed that was the norm.
Rona went out the narrow gate onto the main street, thinking that she needed to go and lie down, yet that was hardly likely to be peaceful with all those men banging and clattering in the house. She plodded wearily round the corner and headed up the driveway to Wardie House. She looked up at the ivy creeping along the tops of the windows. It was green with white edges, variegated ivy, just like Martha’s.
Part 2
Chapter 8
1899
‘Bertha, come on, you need to get up. Matron’ll be here soon for inspection.’
Jessie poked her bed-mate in the back. She’d just splashed her face with freezing cold water from the basin and was now back by the mattress, finishing dressing. Bertha stretched and yawned. ‘She was late yesterday,’ she mumbled, keeping her eyes shut.
‘That was just because of Mattie Thomson. She got the Itch so Matron put a mattress in the cellar for her to sleep. It’ll be even colder down there.’ Jessie shivered. ‘Annie Rae’ll get it next.’
‘Why’s that, Jessie?’
‘They share a bed. Remember? Matron gave us all that talk and said if we didn’t clean ourselves properly we’d all get it.’
‘It’s horrible,’ Mattie had told her. ‘You’re just itching all the time and you get red and sore. Even that ointment Matron rubs all over you – sulphur, it’s called – doesn’t help much.’
‘Anyway, Bertha, you’re not ill, you need to get up, or we’ll all get a row.’ Jessie tucked her hair into the small cap on her head and sat down to pull on her boots.
‘Can you get me my shift, Jessie?’ asked Bertha. ‘I’m cold, I’ll dress under the blanket.’
Jessie glanced towards the door. ‘Hurry up. Matron’ll be here soon.’ She flung the grubby brown dress at Bertha. ‘What’re you doing in the workroom today then?’
‘Same as usual. The knitting. It’s all they’ll let me do, I’m so bad at sewing. But even with knitting, I still can’t cast on right.’ Jessie smiled. Bertha was often punished for being slow at the chores they had to do. But she was slow at everything, both physically and mentally. She couldn’t even write her name easily, which was unusual for her age. ‘How many hours did you say we sat there knitting yesterday, Jessie?’
‘Twelve. You started after breakfast at eight then worked on till nine at night, with a break for dinner and tea.’
‘When’s it Sunday again, Jessie?’
‘Tomorrow. You’ll have to practise your hymn, remember I taught you it last week?’
Bertha shut her eyes tight. ‘Forgotten it, Jessie, sorry.’
Jessie shook her head. ‘I’ll teach you it tonight once we’re in bed. The minister said last week we were going to learn a new one tomorrow. I love singing.’
‘And you sound so nice when you sing, Jessie,’ said Bertha, pushing her straggly hair up under her cap.
‘Here, let me do that.’ Jessie pushed a clasp under Bertha’s hair to keep it in place.
‘Like a bird, that’s how you sound. Though I’ve never seen a bird.’
‘Don’t be daft. You must have seen a bird, they’re in the garden all the time. You can see them out the window if you stand on a chair.’
‘I’d like to touch a bird. It would be so soft wouldn’t it, Jessie?’
The door flew open and Matron stormed in.
Bertha jumped down from the wooden platform and yanked on her boots. She fumbled frantically with her laces while Jessie hurried to make the bed. The inspection started at the other end of the room. Both the girls and their bed had to be presentable by the time Matron arrived. Bertha’s hair kept tumbling down from the clasp.
‘Bertha Davidson,’ Matron yelled. ‘You look a mess as usual. Come over here.’ Matron brought out a long pair of scissors from the deep pockets of her starched white pinafore.
‘No, please, I …’
‘I’ve warned you before.’ She pointed her finger directly at Bertha then turned round. ‘You two. Jessie Mack and Annie Rae. Come here both of you and hold her down.’ The two girls sat Bertha on the chair as they had done before. She struggled, her frizzy hair tossing from side to side.
‘Bertha, just let her do it or you’ll get cut,’ whispered Jessie, who was staring, wide-eyed, at the gleaming scissors.
Bertha sat still. She screwed up her eyes till they were shut tight. The other girls in the dormitory all huddled round to watch as Matron approached, brandishing her scissors. Matron pulled a clump of Bertha’s hair up and yanked her head upwards. ‘If you cannot keep your hair tidy, then it will be shorn. How many times have I told you that?’ Matron’s thumb and fingers snapped together as she snipped Bertha’s hair, one clump at a time.
When she had finished, Matron pointed to the floor which was strewn with hair. ‘You! Sweep it up!’ Matron gestured at Jessie, pushed the scissors back into her pocket and stood up tall. Jessie fetched the brush as Matron stalked back along the narrow corridor between the wooden platforms. At the door, she looked back at them all. ‘I will cut the hair from every single one of you tomorrow if I see any one girl with loose hair. What is it I say?’
‘Loose hair means loose morals, Matron,’ the girls mumbled, all staring down at their feet.
‘You have five minutes to be downstairs for prayers and breakfast, girls.’
Annie was whispering into Bertha’s ear when Jessie returned with the broom. She helped Bertha wedge her cap tight on her head with hair grips. Bertha patted her hair and sniffed. ‘It’s your fault, Jessie Mack,’ she said as Jessie began sweeping the hair beside her.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You and your curse, I never got in trouble before you came.’
Jessie shook her head. ‘That’s a lie. We all get punished, you know that. You told me you used to get the tawse every week, have you forgotten?’
Jessie took the du
stpan and brush over to the corner and returned to see Annie Rae whispering again to Bertha. Then Annie ran towards the door, smirking. Jessie glowered at her then went to help Bertha up from the seat.
‘Annie says you’re a Winzie and you bring bad luck to everyone, not just me.’
Jessie’s whole body stiffened. She had not been called a Winzie for a long time, ever since she was flung out of Newhaven village after the fishwives – including her own mother – had accused her of causing the accident that made ten men drown. And all because she was the only female ever to have set foot on her father’s boat. Jessie had gone aboard just before they set off into that storm which devastated the fishing community. It had been her mother who had told Jessie to run and take the dinnertime pieces to the men on the boat just as they were about to throw off the mooring rope. They’d forgotten them and had to have the bread and jam pieces, there was nothing else for them to eat all day. They were all busy on board and she couldn’t just fling the pieces onto the boat, so her brother who was untying ropes on the harbour told her to take them on board, but to be quick. Jessie had scrambled down the ladder attached to the harbour wall, gone aboard and put the food tied up in a cloth down below. Then she had leapt off, nimbly, back onto the harbour just as Johnnie pulled the rope off its moorings and jumped back onto the boat with a cheeky grin and a wave. How could anyone have foretold one of the most devastating storms to hit the east coast of Scotland was brewing?
‘Jessie Mack, Winzie!’ Annie Rae called from the door before she bolted off down the stairs.
Bertha looked up and stared at the birthmark on her face. ‘She says you’re marked, Jessie, you bring bad things and what will you do next?’