The Observations

by Jane Harris

  ‘What will you do with my songs, sir?’

  He frowned. ‘I’m not quite sure, Bessy,’ he says. ‘If they are of any quality then the important thing is to have them committed to the page. Then they will not disappear. I may send them to my publisher, see what he makes of them. But alas! He is most importantly waiting for more of my own poems and I must finish the one I am writing.’

  ‘What’s it about, sir? If you don’t mind my asking.’

  ‘About? Oh! All manner of things, Bessy. All manner of things. At its simplest level, it is about the ghosts that are said to haunt parts of Edinburgh. The story goes that a few hundred years ago when plague was rife the City fathers walled off certain closes and left the residents and livestock to perish of the disease. And later, they hacked up the rotting bodies and carted them away. And ever since then, folk have seen and heard strange things. Shuffling noises. Creaking ceilings. Severed limbs. Disembodied heads with terrible eyes. Ghostly children with weeping sores on their faces. And deformed horrifying phantom beasts creeping about.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I says. I had thought he’d be writing a poem about a wee flower. Or a summers day. But here he was making my flesh creep and it was getting dark outside.

  ‘Do you—do you think there really are such ghosts, sir?’

  ‘What?’ he says. ‘No, no. It’s all just superstition. But of course, I am only using it as a metaphor.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In any case, tempus fugit, we must get on.’

  He struck a listening pose, hand on hip, head tilted forward, staring at the floor. ‘When you are ready, please begin. Perhaps not the song you sang last night.’

  I cleared my throat, trying not to think about deformed ghosts and weeping sores. ‘This is a song,’ I says, ‘about the time when we was coming over to Scotland on the—’

  Without even lifting his head, Flemyng held up his hand to interrupt me. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘No lengthy explanations. A good song speaks for itself.’

  ‘Oh,’ I says. ‘Right you are. Well—d’you want to know the title, sir?’

  ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘What is it called?’

  ‘“Ailsa Craig”,’ I told him. ‘It is called “Ailsa Craig”.’

  I was proud of this song, for it contained something of my own past, though in disguise. Here it is.

  All you who mean to tramping go, and cross the foaming sea

  A while draw near and you shall hear what happened late to me

  O Mary Cleary is my name, I’m twelve years old and pretty

  And when my father passed away we had to leave our country

  My mother took me in her arms, said do not cry my darling

  In Scotland we will try our luck, we’re leaving in the morning

  (Chorus)

  She said Scotland she is rare and sweet

  Scotland she is pretty

  All Scottish towns are green and neat

  And none beats Glasgow city

  We sailed that morning right enough, that truth I’m not denying

  But when I spotted land draw near, I thought my mother lying

  For Scotland she was just a rock, a-sticking out the sea

  An old worn tooth or caved-in skull, with stone of dirty grey

  No pretty towns nor parks of green, just cliffs and seabirds shrieking

  A lonelier place I’d never seen, the sight soon had me weeping

  (Repeat Chorus)

  What ails you dear my mother said, why look so broken hearted?

  I told her why I shed a tear and this she then imparted

  Fear not my love that island stump is not our destination

  That’s Ailsa Craig, the Fairy Rock, a landmark for our nation

  For that old Milestone marks the spot ½ way between our lands

  We’ll soon be docked at Broomielaw and shaking Scottish hands

  (Repeat Chorus)

  Now here we are in Gallowgate where the closes they are spacious

  The tenements in good repair, the landlords not rapacious

  There is no dirt upon the streets, no factory smoke is choking

  Our fortune’s made, we’re filthy rich. Perhaps you’ve guessed I’m

  joking.

  My mother lied in what she said, for Glasgow is no haven

  Now Ailsa Craig looks not so bad, to one who can’t be leaving

  (Repeat Final Chorus)

  When the last note was sung, I made him a curtsey and waited for his response. He showed his appreciation by patting the tips of his fingers thegether, several times, it was a bit like clapping, but without making a sound.

  ‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘Of course, I might change a phrase or two, here and there. But on the whole, it is a fair example of its kind.’

  Uncertain whether this was a compliment or not, I decided to take it as one. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I says. ‘Would you be wanting to write it down then?’

  ‘Yes, why not,’ he says. ‘Let me just . . .’

  He turned to the table behind him and lifted piles of paper until he had unearthed a pen and some ink and—finally—his eyeglasses, the last of which he fastened onto his face.

  ‘Now then,’ he says. ‘Fire away, Bessy.’

  In all I sang four songs for him that day. He wrote them down and put symbols by the words and when I asked him what they meant he told me that they showed the tune, at least they did to those that knew how to read symbols, to me they were gibberish and I still cannot tell a semi-quaver from a crotch.

  When it came time to leave I went skyting up the road with the 7 league boots on, for it was dark by this time and Flemyng had fair give me the wild squirts with all his talk of Phantoms. It was a great relief to be back in the kitchen at Castle Haivers. And once I was safe I began to feel a bit pleased with myself, that a poet might send my songs to his publisher. I couldn’t wait to see the look on missus face, knowing how much she longed to make a book of her Observations. But I decided to wait and see what happened before I tellt her, just in case he didn’t send them after all and I was left looking like a great ninny.

  As for Janets blethers the night before, I knew fine well there were no pots of gold about the place. But I did begin to wonder what she might have meant to imply about missus and Nora. As far as I could tell missus practically worshipped the girl. But I had no idea what Nora might have thought of missus. Perhaps she hated her. It occurred to me that I didn’t know much at all about MY RIVAL. And then I remembered what it said in The Observations about missus putting Noras things away in her trunk in the attic. What would there be in that trunk, I wondered? Surely, if missus made me keep a journal, Nora would have kept one too? There was no telling what she might have wrote in there about missus. Even if she did disguise her true feelings it might be possible to read between the lines. And I was curious to know more about her, this perfect flipping maid.

  I wasted no time in finding out. That very night I waited until missus and master James had went to bed and then sneaked out my room and down to the landing on tippy-toe. Behind a small door at the end of the passage was a set of wooden stairs that led up to the main attic. I’d never went up there before, never had reason to and besides I once had a quick skelly through the crack of the door and Jesus Murphy it would give you the creeps it was that dark and drafty.

  Now I opened the little door and crept up the stairs. Five steps and then a balustrade and above that a great dark space opening up like a cavern. As I emerged into the attic the icy air hit my face, it was a damp musty chill that bit into your lungs. I cannot say that I was not anxious. But I kept telling myself not to be hen-hearted and get on with it.

  Life at Castle Haivers did not create much that was surplus to requirements and a quick hoist of my candle showed that there was not a lot stored up there. Some old dining chairs piled in a corner, a few empty portmanteaus, a broken fire screen, a music case with a cracked glass door, that was about the size of it. And then I seen what I was looking for. It was set apart from the rest of the things agai
nst the wall and near the stairs. A servant trunk, canvas-covered. Although none of the luggage was expensive you could tell that this box was cheap and shoddy in comparison to the rest.

  I lifted the lid and peered inside. It was hard to see clearly in the shadows and candlelight. The first items that rose to my view were a pair of lace-up boots, well-polished and hardly worn, no doubt Noras Sunday best. I lifted one boot and held the sole against my own. Not much difference there, though I admit that perhaps her foot was a little smaller. Next the boots was a Bible and a whole pile of religious tracts. For dear sake could you not have guessed that she would be Holy? Next, an old-fashioned workbox, the lid painted with a picture of a girl in white playing with a hoop. Next a cloth doll in cap and apron. What a big fat baby she must have been, to have a doll! Beside that was a metal hair clasp painted with 3 flowers, like blue daisies, and a bottle of scent, which proved on opening to be Honeysuckle. Digging deeper, I found a folding knife with a horn handle, and right at the bottom a small bundle of linen, mostly undergarments and stockings, worn and darned but clean. The knife was a good one and might come in useful so I slipped it in my pocket. Under the linen I found a comb with a clump of dark hairs still clinging to the teeth. Dead girls hairs. That fair made my skin crawl.

  What with all those tracts and the dolly, I could just imagine her, so I could. Little Miss Perfect. One of those articles that’s happy as Larry all the time, no matter what. If you tellt her, ‘Away and chop down an acre of trees and carry the logs to Coatbridge on your back,’ she’d jump for joy. If you said, ‘Nora, we believe you have the typhoid, ’ she’d just tell you it was her hearts desire to go to heaven and meet her Lord. If you said, ‘Nora, the leg has to come off and what’s worse you have the leprosy,’ no doubt she’d have some flipping cheerful answer for you.

  But no sign of any journal whatsoever. So I was none the wiser as to what she thought of missus.

  Could I sleep that night. Could I chook. I lay there plotting how I’d take revenge on missus for ill-using me. Her boots might mysteriously develop holes in the sole. The hem of her frock could come down unexpectedly. Some of her linen could find its way back into the drawer unwashed. The sugar bowl might accidentally get filled with salt. A mouse might crawl under her bed to die. Little things that I couldn’t be blamed for. But everything I thought of seemed too trifling and silly.

  And then, the following morning, missus herself provided me with the means of revenge when she came to find me in the kitchen. She looked ill-slept.

  ‘Bessy dear,’ she says. ‘There are cobwebs on the hall ceiling. I want them brushed away, please. You will need to use the ladders.’

  ‘Yes marm,’ I says. ‘I’ll do it directly after breakfast.’

  I expected her to leave then, but she just walked about the kitchen with her arms folded. Perhaps she had some other command to give me. I waited but none was forthcoming. She picked up a nutmeg grater, examined it, set it down again. And then she says, almost as an afterthought, ‘By the way, last night there were some—sounds—in the attic. Noises. Were you—did you happen to go up there? For any reason?’

  ‘The attic?’ I shook my head. ‘No marm. Why would I go up there?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she says. ‘But I definitely heard noises.’ She fixed me with a hard look. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t you?’

  ‘Hand on heart, marm,’ I says. And if you say that, it means you can’t tell a lie or you will go straight to Hades in a handcart except of course if you have the fingers of your other hand crossed behind your back, any fool knows that old trick.

  The missus frowned. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘I’ll take your word for it. But did you not hear anything in the night?’

  ‘No marm. I must have been asleep. What d’you think it was, marm? Was it a gnawing sound?’ I opened my eyes wide. ‘Could it have been a rat?’

  She shuddered. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t think so. The ceiling in my room was creaking, as though someone was—pacing around, in heavy shoes. And I am convinced that I heard a deep cough.’

  ‘That must be some rat,’ I says. (Clearly, I’d not been as quiet up there as I’d thought!) ‘Do you want me to have a look for you, marm, put your mind at rest?’

  I stepped towards the door but her hand shot out to detain me. ‘No!’ she says. ‘That won’t be necessary. I shall simply get Hector to set a trap.’

  ‘As you like, marm.’

  I went back to stirring the porridge, thinking about the creaking ceiling. Something Flemyng had mentioned the day before came into my head, about the poem he was writing, the ghostly children with weeping sores and phantom beasties &c.

  ‘You don’t think, marm—no, never mind.’

  ‘What?’

  I knew at once from the look on her phiz that the thought had already occurred to her. ‘Well—you don’t believe in evil spirits, do you marm?’

  ‘Of course not!’ she says, but immediately began chewing her lip and frowning, the very glass and image of anxiety.

  She was scared of ghosts, I realised. And in that moment the idea formed in my mind, a way to get my own back. It was only a childish prank. How could I ever have foretold the terrible consequences of what I was about to do?

  11

  Both Strange and Startling

  Extracted from Bessys Journal

  Monday 30th November

  It seems the past few nights missus has heard noises in the attic I do hope she doesn’t worry about it too much. Any person of sense will tell you there is no such thing as ghosts although I have heard a tale or two would make your nosehair stand on end. Of course there are those that might say missus is quite correct to be anxious after all there is a particular atmosphere about Castle Haivers you might call it spooky. But that is easy explained, it is only because we are so remote here and the sky seems low and the wind whistles through the trees at night. Well in that case what about the inexplicable happenings? For Pete sake what are you talking about? Well if you give me a minute I will tell you, I’m talking about those times that you set something down and two seconds later when you go back to look for it has the thing not moved apparently of its own accord. That happens ALL THE TIME at Castle Haivers so it does. But again there is usually a simple explanation often you will find that some person has moved the thing whilst you were not looking. Or conversely it will transpire that you have disremembered where you set the thing down in the first place. It would be entirely wrong to jump to the conclusion that there is an evil or malevolent spirit about the place come to torment us. That is what I say.

  Tuesday 1st December

  I am beginning to wonder whether missus might not be right about those there noises in the attic for last night I do believe I did hear something myself. Just as I was about to fall asleep after writing in my journal I think I heard a few creaks and some shuffling steps. I suppose it did sound a little like someone walking about up there but more likely as I told missus, there is a rational explanation. A few slates have came off the roof and the wind has got in. Or it is just vermin. Not phantom beasts or dismembered limbs. Anyway Hector went up there this morning with traps &c. so we shall see what gets caught. I would put money on a rat or a pigeon. It might even be the cat. When Hector came back down I had to laugh he says to me in all seriousness ‘I do love nature’ and this with a bag of rat poison under his arm and the tails of 3 squirrels stuffed in the band of his hat.

  Wednesday 2nd December

  Nothing strange or startling.

  Thursday 3rd December

  Hector checked the traps in the attic this afternoon. All are empty as yet. But it can only be a matter of time. Apart from that nothing strange or startling, I do believe that we have been getting worked up into a froth over nothing.

  Sunday 6th December

  After a few quiet days last night about midnight I was laying abed when I heard noises coming from the attic. Right, says I to myself, once and for all I am going to find out what all this is about. And so I got
myself dressed and snuck up there with a candle. I was not happy about going up there of course but also determined to find out what is upsetting missus. I had a quick skelly about the place but could find nothing and was on the verge of heading back down when I seen somebody coming towards me up the stairs! Crumbs and Christopher it scared the behicky out me. Thank goodness, it was only the missus herself (she too had heard noises and this time bravely ventured forth to investigate) but she startled me so much I screamed and dropped my candle. I don’t know which of us got the bigger fright me or missus for her hand was shaking so bad that her own candle was in danger of going out. She asked me what I was doing and I tellt her that I had heard noises and come up to investigate same as herself. I tellt her that I had already searched the place and found nothing. Just to be sure we relit my candle with hers and had another look around but there were nothing out the ordinary we then compared what we had heard. Missus thought she had perceived someone walking back and forth. I told her that I had the same impression but I also thought there were sounds of someone crying or whimpering as well. At this news missus grabbed me by the shoulder all this. Who was crying? she says. And when I tellt her I didn’t know she says, Was it female? After some thought I tellt her it did sound more like a woman than a man. Then she wanted to know was it a young woman and I said yes it sounded more like a young one than old. Well when she heard this her face took on such a look of anguish, I was quite scared for her. Her eyes was practically out on stalks. Then she says to me in a whisper, Was it an Irish girl? and I had to say I didn’t know since I didn’t hear her speak but that for all I knew it might well have been. Well missus clutched her head and looked so strange after that I insisted we go downstairs and I put her back to bed. I do be thinking she was very brave to go up to the attic if I were a lady like her I am sure I wouldn’t dare have done so for fear of what horrible thing I might have found. Of course master James slept right through everything, you could fire a brace of cannon over him and he wouldn’t wake, it is only me and missus that are subject to these night terrors. I tellt missus that if she heard noises again she should just pull the covers over her head and try to sleep and not go wandering about in her nightgown, she will only catch her death.