Jenny Telfer Chaplin

by Hopes

  Sour looks were cast in Mary’s direction and she heard:

  “It’s all her fault, the bloody witch. She must hae put a hex on him.”

  “Aye, surrounded by illness – wasnae that what she told him?”

  “She never said a truer word. But she didnae tell him tae take the gypsie’s warning and be extra careful this day.”

  “Poor Gus, once he’s carted off tae the Royal – or what’s left o him – he’ll be lyin in a packed ward, sick folk all round him – fair surrounded by illness.”

  Not one of Mary’s workmates had a kind glance much less a comforting word for Mary as she trudged home wondering how much of today’s tragic events she should tell her mother.

  Oh well, she’ll be sure to hear a detailed account from some busybody or other, Mary thought.

  Chapter Three

  In the months following Gus’s horrific accident Mary found superstitious, ignorant people blamed her for the tragedy and its unfortunate aftermath. She became inured to the fact that not everyone – or perhaps not even anyone – appreciated her ‘gift’.

  Gift! Mary thought, Some gift. Mother was right when she likened it more to a curse.

  “Is yer tea no tae yer likin?” Mrs Gregg broke into Mary’s thoughts. “Ah thought ye’d be hungry after a late shift. That’s why Ah even made yer favourite wee doughballs. But ye’ve hardly even touched them.”

  Mary pushed the now congealing mess round the dinner plate. “The wee doughballs is lovely – no a thing wrong with them. No, it’s me that’s the stumbling block.”

  Her mother stretched out a gnarled, work-worn hand and stroked her daughter’s hair.

  “Stumblin block, ye say? No, never in a million years. Ye’ll never be that tae me. Ye’ll always be by own darlin wee Mary Jane. Ah know what’s troublin ye – is it still as bad as ever at the mill with naebody haein a kind word tae say tae ye. That’s it isn’t it?”

  Mrs Gregg gave a heartfelt sigh. “Ah just wish Ah could help in some way. Relieve ye o some o the pain and burden ... but truth tae tell Ah hae some troubles o ma own ...”

  Mary had been aware that her mother had seemed downcast and depressed for some time but steeped in her own misery she had given little heed to the fact.

  “What’s wrong, Mammy? ye’re not ill are ye?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. It’s just that our neighbours and even a wheen o ma church friends no longer talk to me – no even tae give me the time o day. Ye see, darlin, they’re saying ... they’re brandin ye as nothing short o a witch. A witch that puts the evil eye on innocent God-fearin folk. On that account they’re all givin me a wide berth as well. That’s the way o it. Maybe they’re feart it might be catchin.”

  Mary was heartbroken at these disclosures.

  Mrs Gregg gave a weary smile and muttered: “Maybe yer spirit friends will give us an answer, eh no?”

  Chapter Four

  1895

  At the bursting of another spring Mary’s hopes rose again that perhaps this year would be the one when she would meet her very own Prince in Shining Armour. However, it was always with the proviso that his intentions would be strictly honourable and above board, carrying in his hip pocket, at the ready, the essential and long-desired wedding ring.

  So here she was still at the self-same sink, still dreaming impossible dreams, and as ever at the beck and call of a domineering cook. Not that Mrs Scanlon was still in charge. She had died a year ago.

  Mary no longer dreamt of the handsome Tavish McCall proposing to his mother’s kitchen skivvy. No, he had married the Laird’s daughter in a grand high-society wedding. Try as she might Mary couldn’t keep her attention on the pile of dishes awaiting her and her thoughts drifted.

  Ah’ve seen other girls give in to the first man that looked their way and Ah suppose some o them – the lucky ones – made it to the altar in the nick o time.

  Mary gave her pots and pans another thump against the iron sink and smiled.

  Even auld Jock, the handyman who had a good word for everyone, joined in the downstairs gossip as they twittered on about Tavish’s baby being a ‘honeymoon baby’ and premature at that. Of course, Honoria being the Laird’s daughter got the benefit of the doubt – one law for the poor and another for their so-called betters. If it had been one of us, and unlucky, it would have been the poorhouse and the orphanage.

  The reality of her miserable life was back with Mary in an instant. Mrs Lennie, Mrs Scanlon’s replacement, shouted: “Mary, for the last time, either mend your slovenly ways or get the hell out of my kitchen.”

  Mary nodded dumbly, but gave no further sign of understanding the situation. Far from accepting this silent acknowledgement of her threat Mrs Lennie drew herself to her full height and continued: “Anyway, at the age you are now, many a young woman has at least managed to advance herself to the rank of an upstairs maid. Honestly! It’s ridiculous, not to say almost unheard of for a reasonably intelligent girl like you still to be a kitchen skivvy. It’s high time you got yourself sorted out, my girl.”

  At Mrs Lennie’s words Mary felt a surge of boiling anger. She flung down the sopping-wet dish cloth.

  “Get the hell out of yer kitchen – that’s what ye said? Right, just watch me. Here Ah go! Thanks for nothing, Mrs Lennie, goodbye.”

  Chapter Five

  With a feeling of laying down all her earthly burdens, Mary deposited the bag at her feet, stared at her work-worn hands, then leant her back against a high garden wall which fronted the seaside. What finally brought her out of her dwam was a voice saying: “Ah could carry yer bag for a sixpence, Missus.”

  Mary shook her head, not only in refusal, but in an attempt to clear her head. Blinking down at the owner of the voice, she thought: This wee lad disnae look as if he has strength enough to lift a pebble off the beach far less carry my bag.

  When Mary didn’t answer him the lad jerked his head towards her bag and said: “As long as ye’re no hopin tae make it as far as Kirn or Sandbank, Ah suppose Ah could dae the job for threepence.”

  Mary felt an instant empathy towards him – another human being almost as impoverished and devoid of hope as she was. His cheeky air of confidence that, of the two of them, he was in charge of the situation somehow raised Mary’s spirits.

  As the boy, obviously now despairing of an answer, seemed poised for departure Mary said: “What makes ye think Ah need yer help ... or even that Ah might have in my possession such a fortune as a silver threepenny bit?”

  The boy scratched his head then carefully examined his filthy fingernails.

  “Ah just thought ye looked like ma Mither. Just about ready tae drap down deid after washin, cleanin, and runnin after a wheen o rich folk in their big houses ... of course, Ah was hopin tae earn an honest bawbee or two ...”

  Mary laughed. “Well, thanks for the compliment! Ah didnae think Ah was looking like death warmed up.”

  “If Ah’m no bein too cheeky could ye say aye or naw about the bag. Ah’m wasting good earnin time standin here bletherin to ye.”

  “Ye are being cheeky, but anyway if Ah knew myself where the hell Ah’m going, where Ah could get another job, Ah’d gladly give ye the money to take me there. Now, that would be worth every halfpenny.”

  The boy clapped his hands. “Och, is that the way o it, Missus? A pity ye hadnae said that in the first place and saved the baith o us some time. If anybody knows all there is to know about the big houses round about Dunoon and the snobs in them it’s ma Mither. She’ll be able tae tell ye who’s lookin for servants and forbye she knows which houses tae avoid like the plague. Like, see that big white place up on that hill?”

  Mary’s gaze followed his pointing finger to the establishment she had left just that very morning. She nodded. “So what does she think o that fine house?”

  He shrugged and made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “Ma Mither says she widnae work there for a pension. Bloodsuckers, so they are.”

  “Well, for sure, she wouldn’t
get a pension. Maybe Ah should meet yer mother.”

  “Right!” The boy laughed. “Ah’m Peter Wright.”

  Peter lifted Mary’s meagre possessions and strode off with Mary hurrying after him along the West Bay and past the bustling Dunoon Pier to Ferry Brae. Puffing her way up Ferry Brae Mary thought: Dunoon is all hills no matter which way ye go. It’s either up or down and nothing in between.

  Reaching a small cottage on Hillfoot Street Peter ducked into a narrow lane between two cottages and Mary followed him to an outhouse – a coal or wood shed, Mary thought – which turned out to be home for the Wright Clan of steps-and-stairs children. Introductions were soon made and Mrs Wright insisted on making tea before listening to Mary’s plight.

  “There is one house that’s aye looking for help. She disnae seem able to keep staff very lang. Some stupid gossip in the town about the mistress being a spaewife and the house haunted. If ye're no afraid of that, Ye should try there.”

  Chapter Six

  Mary would never forget her first meeting with Miss Patten.

  Peter Wright, helpful as ever with an eye to any further monetary gain, had escorted her to the gate at Ivylea House, but there he stopped.

  “Ah’m no gaein in there. Ah widnae walk up that path even if ye were tae give me a fortune.”

  Mary laughed. “Well, Peter, Ah think we both know Ah don’t hae a fortune, but here’s a sixpence for all yer help and yer mother’s advice. Thanks for walkin me this far. Ah’ll manage on my own now.”

  The path was tree-lined with untrimmed shrubbery crowding in obscuring the view of the house. Trees grew together overhead making a dark tunnel which turned twice before Mary found herself again in full daylight before an oaken, brass-studded door. Although she felt apprehensive, the thought of turning tail and going back down that eerie path without having achieved anything partially overcame her fears.

  Here Ah am. So let’s get it over with. Probably a waste of time anyway. Who in their right mind is going to employ an unskilled kitchen maid without as much as a single reference from her previous employer? Best get the charade over and done with then hike up ma skirts and run like hell to the safety o the seafront.

  Mary took a deep breath. Right – here goes.

  The chimes of the ornate brass doorbell reverberated through the house it seemed to Mary for a long time with no reply.

  Ah’ll give it one more minute – then Ah’m off

  But the door was flung open and an elegantly-dressed woman of indeterminate age stood in the doorway.

  “Aha, you’ve come to Ivylea at last. You’ve been sent here haven’t you?”

  Mary nodded. “Yes, Mrs Wright of Hillfoot Vennel sent me.”

  Miss Patten harrumphed. “She was but a channel. You are not here by coincidence. This meeting has been arranged by forces from the Great Beyond.”

  Mary didn’t know quite what to make of this but was surprised to find she had the strangest feeling that she had come home. Ever since coming to Dunoon to flee the animosity generated by her ‘gut feelings’ and predictions in the past Mary had made a very conscious effort to try to ignore such premonitions and certainly avoided talking to anyone about them. Now in the doorway of Ivylea House she sensed a real welcome from Miss Patten and from whatever, or whoever, also lived there.

  Yes, she had come home.

  Had it not been for the auspicious meeting with Peter Wright and the later tea and sympathy with his mother Mary shuddered to think what fate might have befallen her.

  Instead of her fears, here was she entrenched, not as the lowly kitchen skivvy, but as the cook-housekeeper – chief cook and bottle washer as it were – in total command of Ivylea House. True, it wasn’t as big or nearly as grand as the ornate holiday homes built for the rich Glasgow merchants, their fussy wives and spoilt sons and daughters, but Ivylea House had its own ambience and style. It had also a very definite air of mystery.

  It was this latter quality together with the reputed eccentricities of the owner, Miss Elenora Patten, that was responsible for the rapid turnover in live-in staff. Mrs Wright had heard lurid tales of ghostly sightings and eerie séances – things that go bump in the night – but Mary, feeling that beggars could not afford to be choosers, had applied for the long vacant post. Despite her lack of training and actual experience at cooking, Mary had observed the methods and tricks of the succession of cooks at her previous post and was able to bluff her way, especially since Miss Patten was desperate to find staff of any calibre.

  As time went on the only things out of the ordinary were the frequent soirées over which Miss Patten presided. Her guests were regaled with tea and one-bite sandwiches made by Mary to her employer’s exact specifications then Mary having cleared the tea-things away on a large silver tray was dismissed.

  “Thank you Gregg, that will be all. You may now retire to your own quarters. Please ensure we are not disturbed in any manner whatsoever. When my guests are leaving I will personally escort them to the door. Goodnight, Gregg.”

  Following this dismissal in the grand manner Mary was left to her own devices after she had washed, dried and put away the dishes. She had become increasingly curious about what her employer and her guests did in the drawing room behind the heavy double doors. There was a grand piano in an alcove but there was never a note heard nor a voice raised in song. Did Miss Patten and her guests simply sit and chat? Why was it necessary to banish Mary to her room rather than have her serve late-night drinks or even snacks? She knew from the servants at her previous post that this was customary and the servants were rarely relieved of duty before all guests had gone.

  At last one evening Mary decided to satisfy her curiosity. Not brave enough or foolhardy enough to stand ear pressed against the doors and eavesdrop, she hid herself in a dark recess on the spiral staircase from which she could see and hear the guests as they left. Finally the doors to the drawing room opened and Mary at first could hear only the confused chatter of several people speaking at the same time. However, shortly she could make out snippets of conversation.

  “Miss Patten’s trance ...”

  “... spirit messages ...”

  “Oh ... when the table elevated ...”

  “I really could feel a presence ... a cold something ... actually touching my cheek ...”

  The guests finally all left and Mary was wondering when it would be safe to leave her hiding place.

  “Right then, Gregg.”

  It was Miss Patten’s irritated voice.

  “Out of there, at once! Come to the drawing room. Now!”

  Mary made her way down the stairs and into her mistress’s presence.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Gregg. I thought you were happy here. I thought we suited each other well enough, although it has to be said you’re not the world’s greatest cook are you?”

  Uncertain how she should reply, Mary stayed silent.

  “What really disappoints me is that you felt you had to be so secretive about it. Why didn’t you just ask me? After all, although I had realised from day one that, like myself, you were already in tune with the other side, I had no measure of the extent of your spiritual knowledge.”

  Mary thought back to the events in Glasgow which had made her flee to Dunoon. The strange feelings she had been desperate to hide from others. Was this what Miss Patten was talking about?

  “Why not just come right out and ask me? After all I am something of an expert in the supernatural.”

  “The supernatural ...?” Mary repeated in a daze.

  Miss Patten nodded. “I see now you might not be as advanced as I thought. I am very tired, so we’ll talk further in the morning. I do believe my spirit friends have sent you here not only to be enlightened about your own gifts but also to help me in my work. I believe I did say as much when we first met. But for now, goodnight, Gregg ... er ... Mary. That is your first name, my dear, is it not?”

  Dumbly, Mary nodded. On her way to the quiet of her cosy room she thought: Spiritua
l knowledge ... spirit friends? If my feelings and foreknowledge in Glasgow came from spirit friends they didn’t help me much did they?

  Chapter Seven

  Next morning it was a hollow-eyed and weary cook-housekeeper who made her way to the kitchen to greet the daily girl.

  The events of the previous evening now seemed like a dream and after a sleepless night Mary was no nearer to understanding the situation. Should she stay in her present employment? Was the choice hers? Would Miss Patten cast her out into an uncertain future with no money, no hope or prospects of betterment? There would be no helpful Mrs Wright to offer advice. Peter’s mother had died.

  As Mary started to clear the breakfast table, Miss Patten said: “Leave that for now, Mary. Better, tell Jane to clear up. Join me in the drawing room. If you are to continue in this house there are things we must discuss. And I must be sure of your loyalty.”

  Miss Patten seated herself then without further preamble said: “Mary, I have a woman here with a message for you.”

  Mary cast a furtive glance around the room. There was not another soul to be seen.

  At her housekeeper’s puzzled frown Miss Patten gave her a kindly smile.

  “Sorry! I don’t mean the woman is here physically as real flesh and blood. No, my dear, but she is in this room with us, calling me from the spirit world ... and as I said she has a message for you.”

  Feeling like a not-very-bright schoolchild and aware she was standing with her mouth open Mary tried to gather her wits.

  “Ah’m sorry, Miss Patten. Ah don’t understand any of this. Ah know nothin about dead folk deliverin messages. Ah did once seem to be told to see a friend home safely. But it was just a feelin I got. Nobody actually said anythin to me.”