As I sit here and write this I’m shaking my head, judging my early character and finding it seriously lacking. Forgive me, but I am an old man and my mind is wandering. I will get to the point.
Have you met her yet? My Jennie?
She was employed to look after my mother and my younger sister, your grandmother. I first saw her on the first day of her employment here. What beauty. I can still remember her wide-eyed, flushed innocence as she stood in the main hall, holding her hat in her hands in front of her as she looked around the space in wonder.
She had just turned eighteen. I was twenty-three and I had to have her. I was the young master of the house. She was a lowly servant and no one could gainsay me. But she did, at first.
Good lord, but was she a clever one. She recognised my attentions for what they were and for the most part she managed to avoid being in the same space as me on her own. If ever it did happen she would gracefully slide out of my reach.
I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I saw her everywhere. Even heard her laughter in birdsong. No one else could compare. Not one of the daughters of the other Glasgow families held a candle to Jennie. They all faded when compared to her light. I would not be satisfied until I had her. I somehow convinced myself that once I did get her out of my system, as it were, I would go to my parents and tell them I was ready to pick a wife from one of the more desirable families in the city.
That was until the night when everything changed.
It was Hogmanay. The house was full to bursting – not an easily achieved endeavour with all this space – and my whisky-fuelled lust would not be refused. I tracked her down to her quarters, having checked first that the rest of the staff were lost in their own revels.
She cowered in the corner, her face pale with fear. But I could see nothing but my desire to conquer her. I ordered her to strip and lie on the bed or I would have her sacked. (Still, now, at those words my heart quails.)
What skin. What a form she took. Like a classic statue given flesh.
I was poised above her. My knees forced her thighs apart and I could feel her muscles trembling. She had turned her head to the side and her eyes were screwed shut. Then she gathered the last scraps of her courage and turned her head so she could look into my eyes.
‘You are better than this, master.’
She spoke so quietly I couldn’t make out the words. She repeated them and I was so taken aback that I met her eyes; and in that second something passed between us, and I was instantly shamed. Jennie was at my mercy but she showed such courage and dignity, despite what was happening, that I couldn’t fail but be moved. With that simple look she managed to reach the human in me and tell him she was also human, not a thing to be used with such lack of care, and cast aside.
I fear this description does little to illustrate the profundity of that moment; but I beg you to accept it as fact and know that it changed my life.
Burning with shame, I removed myself from her, made myself decent, and I bade her dress. I muttered some pathetic apology and left the room to find more whisky and prayed that if the golden liquid judged me that it would not also find me so wanting.
For a few weeks thereafter I avoided her, which was surprisingly difficult in such a large house, particularly when my sister was constantly chasing me to play with her. Jennie was her maid, so she was never far behind.
I acknowledge that this must have been terribly difficult for Jennie – to come face to face on an almost daily basis with her would-be attacker. But – I’m searching for a silver lining here – perhaps what it did do was let her see that there was more to me than the monster who appeared in her quarters that fateful evening.
My sister was a determined girl even then, and she would persist until I read to her or played checkers or snakes and ladders, or, on summer days, she would pester me until I played games with her on the lawn.
I found myself in those moments – when I finally acquiesced to my sister’s demands – playing to Jennie, trying to win a smile from her. I was ostensibly pleasing my sister, but simultaneously trying to win the good favour of her maid. If any of my university friends could have seen me, how they would have laughed.
At first, Jennie resisted my attempts to persuade her of my more lofty intentions. I was a good man, not the monster she’d had brief glimpse of, and I would prove it to her. Then, one day in the garden with my sister, I sensed a swing in Jennie’s poor opinion of me. It may have been the sunshine, or the warm breeze, or the perfume from the flowered borders, but something changed. We were playing at quoits and the girl who became your grandmother was being particularly petulant. I gave into her mood and allowed her to win, deliberately missing the target when it was easily mine.
Jennie was in attendance as usual, and she noticed my ploy. She didn’t meet my eye, but her mouth twitched in a suppressed smile. How can I convey what that moment meant to me? Was this forgiveness? Acceptance? An acknowledgement that we two older people were at the behest of this small girl? Or was it more? I could only dream that it was and I sought out that reaction more and more until she was all I could think about.
I managed to meet her regularly in the house as she carried out her other duties and if ever I won a smile, I would chalk that up on my board of success.
Trying to get her on her own was hellishly difficult. We were from different classes, and our social positions defined us utterly. Change was happening in other strata of society, but at a glacial pace, and it was happening even slower with the rich. For what were traditions but a way to protect our privilege?
I was determined to win her, not as a thing to possess in a moment of lust, but as my wife. One afternoon, we managed to persuade my sister that the heat meant she had to have a nap, and I cornered Jennie at the far end of the garden. I say cornered, but I kept my distance, frightened that I may scare her.
But she could see my intentions had transformed and she listened to me. She agreed that our situation could not be much worse, but she would welcome my attention provided the outcome would be honourable and that she would not be thrown on the scrapheap.
I was energised by this. I said I would go to mother and father and tell them I was in love and demand that they accept my choice of wife. This was almost the 1940s, I heard myself say.
Jennie counselled caution. She could now see that I was a good man and that I had been driven to force myself on her by a combination of youthful lust and whisky. She would consent to me wooing her in secret and we would take it from there.
Soon she admitted she was also in love with me – how wonderful that news was to my ears – and consented to long, languorous kisses under the shade of the willow tree where we would be out of sight of the rest of the household. Which was not easy, let me tell you. Mrs Winters, the housekeeper, seemed to dislike Jennie and watched her like a hawk. She always gave her the worst possible jobs to do and went out of her way to make life difficult for her.
A little power can make a large change in some people and I noticed this in Mrs Winters. Since she was promoted to her post, the power it afforded her went to her head and she lorded it over all the other servants. If she knew that Jennie owned my heart, her position would have been threatened; I’m sure she would have done anything to stop that from happening.
We made plans. We would get married and have a brood of children. There was talk of war at this point, but in our naivety we were certain we would be unaffected. My parents could be persuaded – they would be persuaded, I insisted – to accept her as my choice. And if they didn’t then I would leave and earn my way in life some way.
Jennie tried to convince me this was folly. I should not give up my position in life for her, she said. She wasn’t worth it. Even now her self-deprecation humbles me. Back then I determined I would prove to her that she was worth it and at the right time make whatever sacrifices it took to ensure she became my wife.
Then war was forced upon us. An Act of Parliament meant I was served a notice of conscription i
n October of that year. My choice was the army, navy or air force. I chose the air force, as many of my class did, and with a heavy and fearful heart I was sent off to war.
I promised Jennie I would come back to her and that the country would be a changed one after we had beaten Hitler into submission, as we were certain we would. Then surely a modern climate would allow for us to be together?
On my last night before I left for military training, Jennie came to my room in the dead of night. We made love. No three words can adequately describe what happened apart from those three: We made love. It was wondrous and sustained me through many truly difficult times during the war years. I tried to withdraw before I spilled my seed, but my Jennie held me close, whispering in my ear that, if the war took me, at least she might have my child.
The morning I left for war my parents called me into the reception room and announced that they were well aware of my – they called it a ‘dalliance’ – with one of the maids. Mrs Winters had discovered her leaving my room early that morning. My parents said they had put it down to youthful folly and the fear of never returning from the fighting. The girl would be sacked, of course, in case it gave her ideas above her station, and it would never be referred to again. I prevailed upon them to keep her in work, for where else could she go? The world was tightening its belt. There were no jobs. Besides, I convinced my parents that Jennie meant nothing to me. It was, as they said, folly. I knew it was less than Christian, I said, but I had used her before I went off to fight the Germans.
My heart quailed as I spoke these words and as I shrunk from the lies I was telling. I managed to add that, as my sister was fond of Jennie, wouldn’t it be an added pain for her to lose her loving big brother and her maid, all at the one time? My parents were convinced by my argument and agreed that Jennie would not be released.
It was months before I was able to return home. I was sent to London and engaged quickly in activities that were crucial to the war effort. While I was away I missed my Jennie terribly. I couldn’t write to her, for that would have given away our secret. I did consider disguising my handwriting and writing anyway, under an assumed name, but I was certain that Mrs Winters would read the letters so anything I wanted to say to Jennie would be read by that woman first. That, I couldn’t bear, so I resisted.
I prayed that Jennie might write to me, but she had no way of tracking me down. Everything was done in such secrecy in those days, particularly amongst the people with whom I was working.
Eventually I was given leave before an important mission – at last I was being sent to the front – and I was able to come home. And what a return. My world had collapsed. No one knew the real extent of our relationship – that Jennie and I were nominally engaged – so no one had considered that I should want to learn what became of her.
Can you imagine my state when I came home to find she was dead? The horror of it? The earth had caved in during my absence and I knew nothing about it. In my ignorance of Jennie’s situation, I had been unable to do anything to help her.
It was Mrs Winters who found her and the picture she drew for anyone who would listen was one of unimaginable horror. Jennie was a witch, Winters said; she had found her eating a child while casting a spell. Can you believe that was given any credence? My parents were not stupid people, yet they were all taken in by the force of Mrs Winters’ persuasion.
I was able to deduce that the child was mine and must have come into the world early. How she managed to disguise her state is anyone’s guess, but she was unable to hide it any longer when the baby arrived. It was to all our shames that Winters was the one who found her and therefore was able to shape the narrative into one that best suited her purposes.
To give the woman the benefit of the doubt, I don’t think that even she realised the experience would kill Jennie, for what woman would wantonly wish that upon another? But kill her it surely did. I managed to pull some strings and obtain her death certificate. Loss of blood was the reason given for Jennie’s death. When I read that on the official document, my own loss was indescribable.
I could describe at some length here how I felt in the days after my discovery, but I will spare you that. It would run for pages and it would not make pleasant reading. Suffice to say, I cut my leave short and went back to my military life with an avowed determination to make someone pay for what had happened. I made sure I was sent to the front; if I managed to get myself killed in the process that was just fine by me.
Of course, suicide by Kraut didn’t happen and I lived through what was undoubtedly the darkest period of my life – experiences that would scar anyone.
Until that is, I received a cure for my wounds from the most unlikely source: my Jennie.
Crazy as it seems, she came back to me.
I catch myself writing this and consider that you will no longer consider it crazy, for I’m sure Jennie will have made herself known to you. She is one of heaven’s lost souls, I’m certain, trapped in this state by the force of the violence and betrayal perpetrated against her.
I used to lie in her bed at all hours and read to her. That was her favourite time, my reading to her. She didn’t care what it was, just that my voice issued the words of great writers. It was how she made herself known to me the first time.
The war had been over for five years. Loneliness was a weight in my chest and the only way I could alleviate it was to go to her room and read out loud. The first time I felt her presence she came to me like a benediction. It was as if a feather was brushed against my cheek, then the weight of her was beside me on the bed.
I’ve spent the following years trying to ease her torment. I know she blames herself for the loss of our baby, and I know she will never forgive herself for this. I only hope my voice and presence gave her some sort of peace.
As for Mrs Winters’ assertion of witchcraft? Utter claptrap. That was not Jennie, but the old bitch refused to counter her claims for the remainder of her life. I’m only pleased that her daughter, who also entered service in the family, turned out to be such a source of support to me in my declining years.
This has turned out to be quite the missive, my young Ranald. I only hope that I’ve held your interest. And I pray that its message is received by a welcoming mind. My Jennie, the library and the house is in your care. This is where she is at rest for evermore and the responsibility has fallen to you to look after her. It is almost more than I can bear to think that Jennie might be betrayed by this family once again. And I pray that everything I have provided for you and your security is enough of an enticement to see you carry out my wishes.
Your Uncle,
Alexander
32
Ranald was feeling far less woozy on his medication. His previous experience told him that the first few weeks might be difficult, and he was relieved that he was at last approaching something close to normality.
Sure, his emotions were being held at a distance by the drugs, and his libido had returned to a somnolent state, but at least he could process thought. Which helped when considering everything he’d learned and experienced recently, and the new details that Alexander’s letters had just dumped on him.
Foremost in his mind was that she was real and her name was Jennie. He wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t a cocktail of drugs that was causing vivid dreams and experiences. Jennie was there and she was a ghost.
The house was haunted. It was a thrilling and terrifying thought.
But ultimately he’d found her presence a positive one. He enjoyed the dreams, the sex felt real, and reading to her in the lift was completely absorbing.
Another question occurred to him: was he sure he hadn’t simply been experiencing a delusion – another symptom of his illness on top of everything else? How could he possibly rationalise the irrational otherwise?
It was like having two minds in one head. He stood up. Do something. Go somewhere. Talk to a real human being.
Only then did it occur to him – with a crush of guilt – that be
sides Jennie, he and Alexander held something else in common: both of their actions had resulted in the death of an innocent woman.
The Hacketts’ cottage was at the far end of the property. It was built of red sandstone, had a red door and was set over two floors. As Ranald approached he thought what a shame it was that, under Marcus’s plans, it would be destroyed. It was picture-box pretty, with a planter by the door filled with red and yellow blooms and window boxes on the lower-ground windows holding the same.
The door held a shiny, brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Worried that he was about to spoil it with his dirty fingers, he wiped his hand on his jeans before lifting it.
The door was answered almost instantly.
‘Danny,’ Ranald said in greeting, and took in the dark-brown cords and red-and-blue checked shirt. This was the first time Ranald had seen Danny wearing anything other than his working dungarees.
‘Mr McGhie,’ Danny replied, his eyes barely lighting on Ranald’s face.
‘Mind if I come in?’
Without a word, Danny stood back and allowed Ranald entry. The hall was a small, bright space, with a staircase and four doors leading off it. The walls were half covered in wood panelling, which should have made the space feel smaller, but it was painted in a light tan. One door was open; Danny pointed towards it.
‘If you…’ he said. ‘I’ll have to…’
‘I need to speak to you, Danny,’ Ranald said, aware from Danny’s stance that he was about to leave. Ranald took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘I need to talk to you about that…’
Ranald heard footsteps behind him.
‘Ranald,’ said Mrs Hackett. ‘Can we offer you a wee cuppa?’ She was also almost unrecognisable in her ordinary clothes. She was wearing a light-blue twin-set and a matching knee-length skirt. For the first time Ranald really thought of her as an individual, not just a woman who worked for him. He shook his head at how easily his mind had become closed.
House of Spines Page 24