The Observations

by Jane Harris

  I made them all a curtsey then looked at missus. ‘Shall I sing another, marm?’

  She laughed very gay and fanned herself with her napkin, indeed she did look hot. ‘It was a most amusing song Bessy,’ she says. ‘But perhaps that’s enough for one evening. Besides, we must give our guests some more food.’ Then she turned to Flemyng. ‘What do you think, Davy? Given that example, would you be interested in collecting Bessys songs?’

  Flemyng, who had just taken a swift gulp of claret, almost choked.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ he says, when he had finished coughing. ‘I’m always interested in transcribing songs I haven’t heard before. How clever of you to suggest it.’

  Missus nodded. ‘That is decided then,’ she says. ‘I will send her to you and you can transcribe to your hearts content.’ Then she turned, with an air of finality, to address Mr Pollock MP.

  ‘James and I are great believers in the preservation of traditional tales and songs and the like,’ she says. (The liar!) ‘We must move forward, of course, but we should not forget our past,’ this with a nod at Mr Rankin, ‘in our hurry to meet the future.’

  Mr Duncan Pollock smiled, the way he looked at her you thought he might want to eat her (or at the very least give her a nibble). ‘I couldn’t agree more, Arabella,’ he says and raised his glass. ‘To our wise and most venerable hostess. And, of course, to her husband.’

  And with varying degrees of enthusiasm the company toasted missus and master James. The most zealous were McGregor-Robertson and Flemyng who hoisted their glasses high and echoed ‘To our hostess. ’ Reverend Pollock beamed at her without drinking while Rankin craftily lifted his wine straight to his lips with devil the bit of the toast in between, and Mrs Rankin held up her glass, a smile plastered on her face, but she too did not drink and there was not a squeak out of her for missus had surely put her in the shade.

  While they were eating, I cogged a bottle of claret and drank it in the pantry as the evening progressed so that by the time the guests were away and the kitchen was cleared, I was in a state of elevation. I had a real head on me to have a proper drink and got it in mind to mooch off and investigate one of the local taprooms. And so when Hector and C. Features had left and the missus and master away to bed, I snuck out the house.

  The shortest route to Snatter was over the fields but I wasn’t convinced that I could negotiate my way in the dark and so as precaution took the longer route down the lane and along the Great Road. Chancy for me there was a ½ moon and not much cloud, else I’d not have been able to see my foot in front of my face. After about a mile on the Great Road, the first cottages of Snatter appeared dark against the night sky. The place was deserted no doubt because of the late hour. I went straight to The Gushet, it was one of the first houses on the left. Even though the door to the porch was pulled almost shut I could make out the sound of laughter within. Here at the threshold, I hesitated. It was a good wee while since I’d visited such a place and I was still a stranger in those parts. Also, it suddenly occurred to me that missus wouldn’t approve of me being in an alehouse, not in the least.

  But what was I on about? Damn the fears of me doing what she wanted! I gave myself a shake. For dear sake catch yourself on, I thought. I whipped open the door and stepped inside only to find myself inside a long porch, the off-licence part of the premises. The hole in the wall was shut but just then a fresh burst of laughter came from behind it. I rapped on the hatch. Instantly, the laughter stopped. There was a brief silence followed by some agitated whispers and then scraping sounds as of chairs being pushed across a slate floor. I perceived yet more whispers and some unidentifiable rustling. Then silence. After a pause the hatch slid open and a whippet-faced woman with dark hair looked out. This had to be Janet Murray, the proprietor. I had heard missus mention her.

  ‘Aye?’ she says. ‘What can I dae for you?’

  At first glance she appeared to be alone but some telltale signs suggested otherwise. Several candles burned in the little taproom behind her and I could see a table around which a number of stools were gathered, now pushed back as though recently vacated by persons unknown. Tobacco smoke hung in the air. The table surface was marked with wet rings as might have been left behind by assorted overflowing glasses and here and there playing cards lay in disordered piles. But not a soul to be seen.

  Janet was peering into the darkness behind me. She talked through her nose.

  ‘What are you wanting?’

  ‘Just a drink,’ I says. ‘I know it’s late but I’ll stay here in the porch.’ And I set a coin on the sill of the hatch.

  The woman picked it up and studied it. Then she put it in her pocket and fetched me a glass of ale. She watched me take the first sip, then leaned forwards and spoke quietly.

  ‘I hope you dinna mind my saying,’ she says. ‘But I’ve got a few friends here at the moment.’ She jerked a thumb towards a curtain in the corner of the room. ‘We are just celebrating some good news. All at my expense, of course! They havnae put their hands in their pockets once! But now you dinna just mind if they just carry on celebrating, dae you?’

  She indicated the empty table behind her with a sweep of her hand.

  ‘No,’ says I. ‘Not at all. Go right ahead.’

  At these words, Janet leaned back from the hatch and gave a low whistle whereupon the curtain in the corner was pulled aside by an unseen hand and several reprobates filed into the room, each bearing a glass or mug, Sammy Sums was among them. It seemed they had all been standing in a very small recess and were pleased to be out for they shook themselves and stretched their limbs as they appeared. Then they took up their places at the table one after the other, giving me a glance or nod as they sat. Sammy Sums settled in the corner and began counting the spots on dominoes. Last to emerge was Biscuit Meek. He sneered when he seen me and looked utterly disgusted, a girl in a public house, look at the big titties on her, the disgrace, all this. Hypocrite! And when he took his place at the table, he deliberately chose a stool that meant he could turn his back. Various pipes were lit and the card game resumed.

  ‘You see,’ Janet says. ‘They’ve no paid for their drinks, not a penny, but I realise how it might look tae an outsider, no?’

  I knew fine rightly what she was up to. It was after midnight, the early hours of the Sabbath and she probably should not have been serving drink at all. But I cared not a pigs pizzle what she did.

  ‘And yourself, dear?’ she says. ‘Where are you on your way to this night?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ I says. ‘I work nearby is all and I came out for a budge.’

  ‘Is that so now?’ She looked me up and down with greater interest. ‘And where is it you work at? I have no seen you afore.’

  ‘Castle Haivers,’ I says. ‘I am the in-and-out girl up there.’

  Well. The look she gave me, you would think I had said that I worked the bellows for Old Nick himself. ‘Castle Haivers?’ she says. ‘Well now, indeed. The replacement.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You know. You replaced the girl that was there afore you?’

  I gave her my empty glass and a coin. The ale was not a patch on the knock-me-down we usually drank in Glasgow, but it was not too bad. She poured me another, this time studying me as though I was a specimen. There was a sign on the wall, ‘Rooms Available’ and directly underneath it said ‘No Vacancy’. I couldn’t work it out. Was there rooms or wasn’t there?

  Janet says, ‘Morag—the girl that worked there afore you—she was a regular here. Near enough every night she came doon. We had a right laugh thegether, so we did.’ She picked up her own glass and raised it to me. ‘Not that I care for gossip,’ she says. ‘But if you dinnae mind my asking, how does Mrs Reid treat you?’

  ‘All right,’ I says.

  ‘She doesnae lock you in a cupboard, leave you to starve for days on end?’

  ‘No.’

  Janet looked doubtful. ‘Have you got any wages oot them yet?’

  In fact, I had not
been paid what I was owed. The missus tended to give me bits of money here and there, but my full salary had never yet transpired. However, this was nobodys business but my own so I just says, ‘I have had wages, yes.’

  ‘Well you’re lucky,’ says Janet. ‘That James Reid would touch a man in a shroud for a penny. Just the one wee lassie tae dae all the work aboot the place—would you credit it? In-and-out girl, indeed! In a big hoose like that? It’s a piece of nonsense. They should hae a hoose-keeper and two lassies, at least, and your missus should hae a ladies maid all her ane. But Oh no! Not for that yin—he’s too much of a skin flint. Do you know what I am going to tell you?’

  ‘No,’ I says. ‘I don’t.’ (By this time I had her down as an old clashbag.)

  She pulled her shawl up closer around her neck. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Your James Reid would not keep a decent staff in his hoose—but he has nine chamber pots stashed under his bed, each one of them filled to the brim—wi’ solid gold.’

  I just looked at her. I tellt her that there was but one pot under the masters bed, that I emptied it every morning and that she could rest assured that what was in it was not gold.

  Janet widened her eyes. ‘Nine pots,’ she goes. ‘Brim full. How is your beer?’

  ‘The beer I’m not displeased with,’ I says. ‘But I’m less happy with the ant.’ For there was such a creature drowning in my glass, he sank to the depths as I watched, frantically waving his little arms and legs. Janet took a look at him.

  ‘He was probably just in the glass,’ she says. ‘Not the beer.’

  Well that bathed me with relief. I tossed out what ale remained and handed my glass back to her. ‘Thank you,’ I says. ‘I have to be going now.’>

  She looked at me of a sudden with great pity. ‘Och, you’re just a wee bairn. I dinnae like tae think of you going back to that dreadful place all on yer ane. You know there’s girls have died up there.’

  She could keep her gossip right enough—but these last words did give me pause. ‘Girls?’ I says. ‘What do you mean? How many girls?’

  ‘Well,’ says Janet. ‘Just one confirmed death. But there’s plenty disappeared.’

  I looked at her.

  ‘Oh aye,’ she says. ‘One minute they are there and then next morning all trace of them has vanished.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s just girls have decided they don’t like hard work and cleared out in the night. Is it not?’

  Janet glanced over at Sammy Sums like she might consult him on the matter but he was licking a domino and did not give the appearance of being an authority on any subject. The rest of the men (Biscuit Meek included) was engaged in drink and play and business with pipes, they had no interest in the clack of womens tongues. Janet turned back to me.

  ‘What does Mrs Reid say aboot that girl Nora, the one that died?’

  ‘She never talks about her,’ I says, which was true enough (although it did not take into account the screeds missus had wrote about Nora in The Observations).

  Janet widened her eyes at me and nodded, several times, as though I had proved something beyond doubt.

  ‘What?’ I says.

  ‘She wouldnae talk aboot her, would she?’ says Janet. ‘Nora was drunk and fell in front of a train, that’s the official story. But do you know what I am going to tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d be willing to bet that Nora didnae just fall on that railway line.’

  I looked at her blankly. ‘What are you on about?’

  Janet folded her arms and pursed her lips. ‘You want tae ask your Mrs Reid how that Nora died,’ she says. ‘See what kind of answer you get.’

  ‘Well I might just do that,’ I says.

  At the time, I didn’t pay her any heed. I was drunk and thought she was just a gossip, with her 9 pisspots full of gold and all this nonsense about Nora and missus and pressing me for information. So I kept my trap shut. In fact I was ready for my bed, so I gave her goodnight and left.

  It was not until much later that I began to wonder about what Janet had said and to have 2nd thoughts. And as I believe I have already pointed out, I don’t often have them.

  10

  I Have an Idea

  THE DAY AFTER his Important Dinner, master James was in the best of form chuntering away over his porridge so he was, chunter chunter chunter. The meal had been a great success because before Duncan Pollock MP had quit the house he’d invited the Reids (with especial entreaties that missus should attend) to his next Edinburgh Soiree. You should have seen master James, strutting like a crow in the gutter he was. For dear sake! He would never have got within a hounds howl of the Soiree, if it hadn’t been for his flaming wife.

  It was bucketing down all that day. In the afternoon, missus rang for me and when I made an appearance in the parlour she was all smiles and flummery about how wonderful my singing had been the night before. Marvellous, wonderful Bessy, she goes. Superb, marvellous, all this. I was a precious prize, a real find, a rare creature, so on and so forth.

  Well I’ll tell you this. So flipping rare and precious was I that she sent me out in the pouring rain! To hoof it all the way over to Thrashburn Farm and sing for Mr Flemyng. No doubt they wanted to boast to Duncan Pollock when next they seen him that they were ‘preserving traditional songs’ and the like. My eye! She was just using me to impress their flipping friends. It would have served her right if I’d just walked out and kept on walking and never gone back. I might even have done so, but for the rain.

  Thrashburn was about twenty minutes north of Castle Haivers, away up the lane and over a railway bridge. Missus had already sent Hector over with a note, warning Flemyng to expect me. I walked fast but by the time I got there I was drookit, the water running down my back. This I must say, Thrashburn was a right shambles. One gatepost was near falling down and everything about the place was overgrown with blackened weeds and grass. The farm building was only a single storey cottage with a small barn beside. A few sorry looking hens scattered as I walked across the yard.

  Flemyng himself opened the door to my knock and without a word he turned and showed me into the room. A fire burned in the grate and a lamp was already lit against the gloom. I glanced around, it seemed to me that every surface was hid by sheets of manuscript, crumpled parchment and stacks of books, which also stood in piles upon the floor. All the papers were covered in lines of writing and most of them had many scorings out. Flemyng looked different somehow and it took me a moment to realise that he was not wearing his spectacles. He paced about in the gaps between the book towers, scratching his head, while I took off my coat and shawl. At the time, I thought he was searching for something but on reflection I believe he was avoiding my eye out of shyness.

  As for me, an unfamiliar gentleman held few fears. ‘I never met a poet before,’ I says. ‘Tell a lie, I did meet a peddler fellow once, he had the most godawful pockmarks all over his face and he showed me a ballad he had wrote on a filthy old piece of paper. Would that be the kind of thing?’

  Flemyng stopped pacing and for just a second a scowl crossed his face. I don’t think he much liked my talk of peddlers and filthy paper.

  He says, ‘I have been known to collect peddler ballads, yes. But as I’m sure you are aware, my own poetry is something quite separate from that. A different order of verse, concerned with meter, rhythm, rhyme, scansion and—of course—meaning.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I says. I hadn’t a baldy what he was on about.

  ‘Not cheap and tawdry sentiment,’ he says. ‘Not that.’

  I don’t know why, but I felt vaguely insulted—but only in a very nice way.

  He gestured at a bottle on the sideboard. ‘Can I offer you a glass?’ he says.

  His hand was trembling and I noticed that the wine bottle was ½ empty. I wondered had he had a few knocks already to fortify himself.

  ‘No thank you, sir,’ I says, though in truth I could have murdered a drink, I had a bad head after all the claret and ale of the night befo
re.

  Flemyng lifted some papers off an armchair and placed them on the table. ‘Please do sit,’ he says, indicating the chair. Once I was seated, he crouched down beside me and spoke in a coaxing voice like as if he was talking to a baby.

  ‘Now then, Bessy,’ he says. ‘These songs of yours. Am I to believe that you have made them up all by yourself?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Excellent. That’s wonderful. So they are not something that you have picked up, for example, from the likes of this peddler chappie you were speaking about?’

  ‘No sir. I do know songs like that, ones I’ve heard about the place, “Anything for a Crust”, “Jessie O’ the Dell”, all them ones, sure everybody does. But I don’t confuse them with my own songs.’

  ‘Well that’s good,’ he says. ‘I am most grateful to your dear mistress for sending you to me. What a wonderful lady she is. Terribly clever, I think, and kind. And of course her beauty goes without saying.’

  Yes yes you fartcatcher, I thought to myself. It was on the tip of my tongue to say something. If only you knew what nasty things she writes in her book. Something like that. But I kept ‘stumm’, as my Mr Levy would say.

  Flemyng smiled at me, then stood up and threw more coals on the fire after which he turned to face into the room. He had his hands clasped behind his back and what with the sparks and smoke flying up behind him and the Holy look on his face he was the very glass and image of a Martyr burning at the stake. It made me want to giggle. To distract myself, I asked a question.