by Sue Lawrence
‘What passage, Jean? Was there not a big pile of coal in there?’
‘Coal?’
‘Yes, coal. Sooty and black?’
‘Only a bit, but behind there was a light so I went past the coal to follow it, see if I could get away from her, from Matron.’
Jean started to whimper.
‘Oh, of course, I think it’s tomorrow the coalman does his delivery,’ said Jessie, swabbing Jean’s elbows. ‘So today there’d be almost none left in there. What happened then?’
‘I went along the little passage. It was low but I could still stand up.’ Jessie continued to clean the little girl’s arms. ‘Then suddenly it was steep and I fell and I slithered down the dark path and was tumbling and then I landed in some scratchy bushes.’
Jessie inspected Jean’s forearm and teased out something stuck in the skin with her thumb and forefinger. It was a thorn, prickly to touch.
‘That’s whin. Where were those bushes, Jean?’
Jean shrugged. ‘They were all prickly and I fell into them so I got myself out of the bushes and scrambled straight back up the slope, up the steep path to the coal again. And I sat and waited for Matron.’
‘But I don’t see how there was a path. Was it not dark at all?’
‘Not really, not at the bottom, there was some light at the end and when I tumbled into the bushes, I could see sun.’
Jessie was very still. ‘Did you hear anything, Jean?’
‘Just some noisy birds, you know those big squawky ones we see sometimes from the window.’
‘Herring gulls.’ Jessie nodded and dabbed at the girl’s face with the cloth. The only place she knew there were gorse bushes – called whin in her village – was along the shore. Was there a tunnel down to the sea?
Jessie finished scrubbing down the large table in the kitchen then peeked out from the door where she saw the lamps had just been lit. There was still a dim light coming in through the bars on the windows. She saw Matron and Effie standing close together at the foot of the stairs. Matron smoothed Effie’s pigtail back over her shoulders and was smiling. Jessie had only ever seen Matron smile once and that was when the Governor had announced it was her birthday and they all had to sing a special hymn for her at morning prayers. Jessie watched as Matron then touched Effie’s cheek and nodded, then continued along the corridor towards her room.
‘Effie!’ Jessie hissed.
Effie turned round, the pale, wrinkled face breaking into a smile on seeing Jessie. She came scuttling over.
‘Matron’s being really nice to you. Lucky you.’
Effie shrugged and followed Jessie into the kitchen. Then she stood, pulling at her skirt, looking around. ‘How are you, Winzie?’
When anyone else said that word, Jessie flinched. But from Effie’s mouth, it was somehow all right.
‘I’m fine. Effie, remember when you came to see me in the cellar you had some keys with you? One of them was for the little door. Do you still have them?’
Effie shook her head and clawed at the table with her long fingernails. ‘But I could acquire them.’
‘Could you?’
‘Yes.’
‘This evening?’
‘Yes. You want me to unlock the door?’
‘Yes. Would you do that?’
‘Yes.’ Effie stopped scratching and looked into Jessie’s eyes. Her dark eyes looked huge in her pale, gaunt face. Then Effie jumped at a noise behind her.
Molly bustled into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing in here, Effie? Are you after a wee piece of Matron’s cake again?’
Jessie could not believe what she was hearing, Molly giving away Matron’s cake. Molly picked up a knife and a small plate and went into the larder, returning with a piece of Madeira cake. Jessie knew it was called that as Molly only ever made two types of cake. One was yellow and was called Madeira cake, the other one was flecked with black bits and was called seed cake. These were only ever eaten by Matron and the Governor, dainty slices laid out on plates on their tea tray.
Effie rammed the cake into her mouth, swallowed, then cackled with laughter before running out the door and down the corridor.
‘Why do you give Effie cake when no one else gets it?’ Jessie looked at the open larder door. ‘Can I have a bit?’
‘No you cannot. It’s not for the likes of you. Nor me.’
‘Why does Effie get some? And also, why is she allowed those long fingernails?’ The other residents had to have their nails cut once a week and Matron cut them down to the quick so they hurt.
‘Get on with your work, Jessie Mack,’ Molly growled, turning towards the stove.
That night, Jessie lay in bed wondering when she should go and find Effie. She must have been in bed for an hour or so. Bertha was snoring, a light whistling sound that Jessie always found reassuring.
Jessie swung her legs off the mattress and pulled a shawl round her shoulders, then tiptoed, barefoot, out of the dormitory and into the darkness of the hall. She tilted her head to one side at the noise she thought she had heard before, but less distinctly. It was wheels, a slow, rhythmic creaking sound. Jessie crept downstairs, following the noise.
None of the lamps were lit but there was moonlight shining in between the bars on the high windows and enough dingy light to be able to see. The hall was empty, so Jessie continued towards the cellar door which was ajar. She listened at the door, before stepping down onto the first stair. It was dark so she stood still for a moment as her eyes adjusted. The creaking noise was louder now and she peered into the gloom to see a figure walk slowly across the cellar floor, pushing something. Jessie stepped down the steps, keeping her hand flat against the rough stone wall for support. She looked again and there was a figure, arms outstretched, shoving something large. It was Effie, pushing a big black pram, her head bobbing up and down with each bounce of the pram.
‘Effie? Effie. It’s me, Jessie.’
The wheels stopped. Effie looked up, fear in her eyes. Jessie crossed the cold stone floor and came towards her. A shaft of moonlight from a tiny high window shone down onto Effie who resembled a ghost, pale and wan.
‘Effie, remember you were going to see if you could get the keys?’
Effie patted her hand along the base of the pram. She lifted up a narrow mattress with one hand and thrust her other hand down, into the deep, square footwell and fumbled around. She removed something rectangular, like a wooden frame, and an ornate, rectangular box. Where did she get these things, Jessie wondered. She hoped Effie wasn’t stealing from Matron, or she would get into serious trouble.
Jessie watched as Effie lifted something that glinted in the dim light. It was the set of keys she had before. She must have hidden them underneath the pram mattress.
‘Thanks Effie. Does Matron know you’ve got these?’
‘It is not her concern.’
Jessie glanced up at Effie whose expression was more focused than she had ever seen.
‘Can you open the coal cellar door? Please?’
Effie patted the pram handles so the pram bounced a little on its springs then she turned towards the coal cellar. She selected one of the keys on the key ring, pushed it into the lock and turned the handle.
‘Thanks, Effie. Are you coming in with me?’
Effie shook her head then turned away.
Jessie bent down to go into the cellar then stopped. ‘You won’t lock me in, will you? You’ll leave the door open, won’t you, Effie?’
Effie nodded then held up her hand.
‘Wait, Winzie, wait! Illumination.’
Effie sped off up the stairs and Jessie waited. What was ‘illumination’? Jessie stared into the darkness, and wondered whether to return to bed. Soon, she heard footsteps on the stairs and she looked up to see Effie’s face, beaming, a lit candle in her hand.
‘Thanks, Effie. Hope you’re not going to get into trouble for this.’
Effie shook her head and walked back towards the pram. She pushed the handle again, the large
wheels creaking in a steady rhythm as they moved slowly across the cold stone floor.
Chapter 19
1982
Rona went to the window in the annexe and pulled open the curtain. She could see nothing. The fog was so dense, she couldn’t even see the garden wall a few feet away. It was thick and still, silent like heavy snowfall without wind, a hushed curtain falling from the sky.
Rona felt a twinge and realised it was the baby. She had begun to feel it moving recently. She held her hand low down on her belly, feeling the rhythmic twitch. She smiled. The baby must have hiccups. Rona was looking out at the eerie fog but not really seeing it, concentrating more on the comforting movement in her belly. Then there was a sudden booming noise and she jolted. It was only the foghorn out on the Forth; the fog must be just as thick down on the water. Even though she was brought up in the country and she was never frightened of the dark nor bothered about strong winds or gales, she always felt uneasy when it was foggy. She knew it was irrational, for it was nothing but thick mist. And there had been plenty of that on Lewis, where she had grown up.
There was a light rap on the door. Rona pulled the curtains shut and went to open it. It was Ian.
‘Really sorry to bother you, Rona. I know it’s your night off, but Mrs Bell wants to see you. I said you weren’t working but she insisted.’
Rona sighed and followed Ian out the door.
‘She kept ringing her bell, then refused to stop till I got you. Sorry.’
‘It’s okay, Ian. I was just going to look at her husband’s folders actually.’
‘Her husband’s folders?’
As they climbed the stairs, the foghorn boomed again.
‘Yes, he wrote a history of Newhaven. Apparently he was some kind of amateur historian. I thought we might find out about the history of this house.’
‘Bet that’d be worth a read.’ Ian stopped outside Room 12 and knocked.
‘Come in!’ an imperious voice shouted.
‘I’ll leave you to her, then. I’ll be bringing round the tea trolley soon.’
‘Thanks, Ian.’ Rona went in and stood beside Mrs Bell who was at the window in her pink, quilted dressing gown. She seemed to be looking for something outside.
‘Rona, I know you aren’t working tonight but I had to call you now. This has happened before, you see.’
‘What has?’
‘Do you recall, a week or so after I moved in here, there was a similarly foggy night, with the foghorn sounding too?’ As if on cue, the horn sounded on the Forth. It was louder from here, as Mrs Bell’s room was on the other side of the house. ‘Then a couple of weeks ago, the same thing.’
It had been unusually foggy these past few weeks. ‘So what happened?’
Mrs Bell put a finger up to her lips and bent her ear to the window. ‘Listen.’
Rona leant into the window and listened. There was a creaking sound, slow and rhythmic. God, it was that noise she had heard weeks ago, also on a foggy night.
‘You hear it? Now you see why I had to call you. I believe this noise only occurs when there is fog. I think it’s a cover for someone up to no good, so they can’t be seen.’
Rona grinned. Mrs Bell was always reading crime fiction; Agatha Christie was her favourite author. ‘I don’t think so. Look, we can’t see anything out there and even if it was a clear night, it’s only the garden out there and it’s all enclosed.’
‘Precisely. But I had a thought. I think that were you to go up to the attic and open the window, you would actually see into her garden.’
Rona frowned.
‘The Yank’s. During the day, I can see across your lovely garden and down to the sea. But within those high walls is her garden and no one can see a thing.’ Mrs Bell pointed at Rona’s belly. ‘Obviously you cannot, in your state, go up that ladder, but is that husband of yours at home?’
Rona shook her head. Craig had taken to going to the pub on their nights off, to play darts, he said. But his clothes never smelt of smoke when he came home, so was he actually at the pub? And if he wasn’t, where was he?
‘I think that something is going on in her garden at nights but only when it’s foggy. Listen!’ Mrs Bell scowled and bent her head again.
It was definitely the same sound, as if wheels were being pushed, slowly, somewhere down beneath them.
Rona looked at her watch. This was her only night off this week, she had no intention of spending it up in Room 12 with Mrs Bell. ‘I’ll see if Craig will go up to the attic next time it’s foggy. Right now, there’s nothing we can do. Sorry.’ Rona smiled. ‘Now, the tea trolley will be coming round soon. Why don’t you get back in your chair and put the television on?’
Mrs Bell tapped her stick on the carpet then walked over to the armchair to sit down. ‘She’s up to something, I’m sure of it.’
Half an hour later, Rona slumped onto the sofa and took a sip from her mug of tea. She swivelled round. Was that a noise at the annexe door? She peered over to check she had locked it then turned back, shivering. Rona wrapped her hands round her mug. Why did she have this feeling of uneasiness? Malaise, her mum used to call it. Everything was going well. She was going to have a baby in a couple of months, the care home was up and running, the residents and relatives seemed happy and they had done well in their first inspection. But she was exhausted. Was it because she worried about Craig? Rona had no idea if he was getting as much satisfaction as she was from running the home. He’d been a little strange lately. Actually, he had been a bit odd since she found out she was pregnant. Not distant, but just a little distracted and instead of enjoying their nights off together, Craig used them as an opportunity to go to the pub. Or so he said. When she’d asked him why he didn’t stink of smoke from the pub, he muttered something about the sea breeze blowing it off him on the walk home.
Craig did put in the hours during the day helping the nursing staff when needed and organising all the work around the home. And thankfully she had excellent staff who worked well in a team. She’d only had a couple of problems, including young Charlotte who kept forgetting to address Mrs Bell by her surname and had the audacity to called her Jane. Rona chuckled when Ian told her about that. Ian was a good worker, reliable and always on time, so good with the residents, patient and kind. He had offered yesterday to help her with the admin in his lunch hour. Craig had sat reading the paper in his break, even though he had a long list of things to do around the care home.
After checking again that the annexe door was locked, Rona put her mug down and picked up the heavy folder from Mrs Bell. Her husband’s history of Newhaven was, according to Mrs Bell, his life’s great opus and was certainly a hefty volume. Rona had been told that he was a lawyer but spent all his free time researching local history. Rona had been instructed to be careful with it. Now he was gone, it was Mrs Bell’s prized possession. She flicked through the pages and noticed that, though mostly typewritten, there were many pencilled notes written in the margins in spidery hand.
Rona started reading about Newhaven being renowned as a fishing port. The local fisherlassies travelled far and wide selling their fish, wearing the traditional outfits of striped petticoats and aprons. They also wore patterned paisley shawls on their heads and a thick band over their foreheads to carry the sturdy baskets on their back as they trudged round the city of Edinburgh and even as far west as Cramond. The fishing community was very tight, with marriage outside the village frowned upon. Even a girl marrying someone from Leith, just along the coast, was discouraged.
This was all fascinating, but she’d be here all night if she read every detail. Rona flicked to the back and noticed there was an index. She was scrolling down to Wardie House, so that she could read more about the people who built the house and first lived here, when she noticed an asterisk at the word ‘Smugglers’. She’d always loved hearing stories about smugglers when she was growing up, so, her curiosity aroused, she turned to page 47.
Mr Bell had written that smuggling was part
and parcel of many fishermen’s professions during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The merchants provided the cargo – tobacco, tea, brandy, wine – but it was the fisherfolk who supplied the boats and men to work as both crew and lookout. After the Union with England in 1707, when taxes increased hugely, smuggling became even more widespread. At some time during the eighteenth century, smugglers’ tunnels were built from Wardie down to the sea at Newhaven. And the customs men were invariably outwitted as the entrances to the tunnels along the shore were hidden behind the cover of prickly, dense gorse bushes. How the smugglers managed to get through their thorny blockade was a mystery, but they were able to unload their cargo to waiting men who dragged it uphill to the end of the tunnels situated within the grounds of respectable houses at the top.
There was, Mr Bell said, no record of when the practice stopped, but during the early twentieth century, solid stone walls were built along the shoreline from Newhaven to Granton and the gorse bushes all removed. The smugglers’ tunnels, he surmised, were still there, but no longer in use and most entrances had been bricked up. Perhaps some houses, he wrote, still had passageways out to the sea, tenuous links to times past.
Mr Bell went on to write about two particular houses having had tunnels down to the sea, though there could be more unrecorded. These two were documented because it was in these tunnels that fishermen and smugglers were caught by excisemen and punished – often by death. The houses were some of the oldest in the area and one was in Primrose Bank Road and called Inchcolm Lodge. She’d never heard of that one, but she read on. The other was in Wardie and was called Wardie Lodge House. Martha’s house.
Chapter 20
1899
Jessie got down on her knees and lifted the candle level with her head. She felt upwards with the other hand and touched the low ceiling above. The stone was cold and damp. She shuffled along a short way then held out the candle in front. She was conscious of taking short rapid breaths so she didn’t blow out the light. The ceiling was just above her head and she tried not to think of getting trapped inside here, crushed and squashed under the low ceiling. She looked ahead and saw something to her left. It was another passageway coming in from the side, presumably a tunnel to another place. She stretched out her hand and the candlelight shone a little way but she could see no further.