The Observations

by Jane Harris

  ‘Whatever is the matter, marm?’

  She took my hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Oh Bessy,’ she says. ‘I just have to get better. You must help me. Will you do that, Bessy? Will you help me to get well?’

  More than anything I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her. Yet I didn’t do it. I wanted to say, ‘I would do anything for you, marm, anything.’ But I kept my potato trap shut. You see, I knew better now than to frighten her off by gushing or pestering her, she didn’t care for that kind of behaviour as I had discovered to my shame when I read her Observations. Perhaps I had allowed my feelings to run away with me. And being a kind person, missus tolerated me for a while, but she wouldn’t have welcomed it, some wee skullion clinging to her petticoats like a bad fart. In the end wasn’t she quite right to have put me at bay?

  When you got to know her (like I had) you seen that she was delicate as a butterfly, and like a butterfly would flutter away if pursued. The only way to catch her was to sit stock still so that she might venture closer. And after a while (if you were lucky) she might even settle, quivering, on your thumb. No doubt about it, I’d have to keep myself in check and be careful not to frighten her away. No fool me! This time I would be more prudent.

  So I didn’t embrace her or any of that tripe. All I says was, ‘Of course I’ll help you get better, marm.’ And left it at that.

  To master James we maintained the fiction that missus had got up too quick after writing a letter. The man was no gull but he seemed to swallow our story. Needless to say there were no more noises from the attic no strange occurrences about the house, not a bit of it. Missus gained strength with each day that passed until one morning she seemed so much better that I allowed her to get up. She sat in her chair for an hour staring out the window and later (since she appeared none the worse for the experience), we went for a short walk, arm in arm, around the vegetable garden.

  The day was crisp and cold but I made sure that she was well wrapped up in her cloak and mittens. The garden was a shambles so it was. Apart from the cabbages and onions, the autumn vegetables were tramped down and withered or blackened by frost. The pea and bean nets had collapsed and the ground was covered with slimy brown leaves that had blown down from the woods. The few remaining cauliflowers had rotted where they grew. ‘Cauliflower soup,’ I says to missus and feeble jest though this was it made her laugh. I could feel the heat of her hand through the mitten. Her nose and cheeks were pink from the cold and the breath rose from her in gusts, like steam. All around was death and devastation yet she seemed alive and for the first time I began to believe she was going to be all right. The relief of it washed through me like a swig of Godfreys.

  Later I stole a few moments from preparing dinner and sought out master James in the study to let him know that—at last—it looked like his wife might be getting better. He had been standing behind his desk when I entered, thumbing through a small book and now he glanced up from its pages.

  ‘That is good news,’ he says. ‘If it is indeed the case.’

  ‘Oh it is, sir. I think she’ll be right as rain in a week or so.’

  The book in his hand snapped shut, he tossed it down on the desk between us, like a challenge. ‘In that case,’ he says. ‘She will—in your opinion—be fully recovered in ten days time. By next Thursday.’

  ‘Well I couldn’t be so precise as to say exactly—’

  ‘I’m afraid I need you to be precise, Bessy.’ He had spoke sharply but then he paused and stroked his whiskers and seemed to soften a little. ‘Perhaps I should explain. We have been invited to a Soiree next Thursday evening, in Edinburgh. A rather important function, hosted by our Reverends brother, Mr Pollock. The fountain I am purchasing for Snatter will probably come from his foundry in Glasgow and I have some plans that I need to discuss with him. This would be the ideal opportunity. And he is very keen that my wife accompany me. I had it in mind to take her away for a few days, in any case, for a change of scene. It’s not good for her being shut away from the world. I suspect her isolation here has contributed to this—this collapse, whatever it is. So I intend to take her to town. And, while we are there, it would be—convenient—for us both to attend this Soiree on Thursday. Now, if I am not mistaken, you are suggesting that she will indeed be fully recovered by then.’

  ‘Well, sir, I think she might but I don’t-’

  ‘Think is not good enough, Bessy. I need you to ensure that she is well.’

  The way he stared at you it made you want to look away, but I held my ground.

  ‘Sir, if missus is not recovered by next Thursday then might I suggest that she stays at home and you go to the important dinner yourself.’

  He smiled smoothly. ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple, Bessy. As my wife, she is invited and expected. Now I will be very busy for the next few days, and I want you to keep a close eye on her and make sure that she is well enough to accompany me. I hope you understand what I mean.’

  I was not sure that I did and tellt him as much.

  ‘I mean—let me put it plainly to you.’ He planted his fists on the desk and leaned towards me. ‘She is to be kept calm and quiet and she must be discouraged from entertaining any notions about this house being haunted. It has upset her. You are not to let her talk about it and you are not to become involved in these—wild imaginings and—and—flights of fancy of hers. It will only make her worse.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to protest that this was exactly what I was trying to do but instead, I found myself leaping to her defence.

  ‘She has heard noises, sir. And strange things have happened that can’t be explained. If I were her, in her position, I would be thinking the same thing, sir.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you have been encouraging her to believe this nonsense.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir, I have been doing everything in my power to convince her otherwise.’

  ‘Well then.’ He sniffed. ‘Fresh air is what she needs. Take her out tomorrow.’

  ‘But-’

  He waved away my objections. ‘I have just spoken to her about it and she is agreed it would be a good idea,’ he says. ‘Go to church, or Bathgate. Look in at shop windows. Amuse yourselves. Call in at the railway station and regulate your watches.’

  ‘But sir-’

  ‘That will be all, Bessy.’

  He picked up his book and, opening its pages, began to read.

  Go to church, look in at shop windows, regulate your watches—now you’re talking! Now there’s a flipping Jamboree and a ½!

  Next morning, Biscuit Meek brought the carriage round. It was a drafty old ramshackle affair that went out with The Ark. Perhaps it had been grand once but now it had bits hanging off here and there and all the fabric inside had worn away. The windows were cracked and the stuffing was coming out the seats. There was even a hole in the floor you could have put your leg through and if you glanced down unexpectedly you got quite giddy to see the road rushing away beneath your feet.

  Missus did not seem to remark upon any of these details or find them unusual, she simply stepped over the hole in the floor and sat very quiet in the corner on the way to town, fingering her purse and gazing out the window. I took the place opposite her, to catch her in case the horses should stop suddenly (although the likelihood of them doing anything suddenly was slim, they were that ancient). At first, I tried to engage her in conversation about what we might do in Bathgate (she had talked about looking at materials for a dress) but as she did not reply with anything other than a distracted ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ I soon gave up and stared out the window myself. There was buck all to see except cows and sheep and the odd coal pit. This was the first such journey missus and I had undertook together, indeed I had not been further than Snatter since my arrival at Castle Haivers. In different circumstances I might have enjoyed the trip, going in the carriage with her, all this. But my over-riding mood was one of anxiety. I could only hope that she was well enough to be out and that
the day would not be a strain on her nerves.

  It looked like Bathgate was still under construction, everywhere you turned there were ½ raised buildings and men digging foundations and carts carrying stone and mortar. Biscuit Meek set us down outside a hotel on one of the main streets. Dear joy the place was going like a fair. No sooner had we alighted than missus bought a pot of yellow crocus from a flower stall then set off walking at a great lick. Since I hadn’t a baldy where we were, I had to skitter away after her. Compared to the great cities Bathgate is a rats-arse of a place but it was such a long time since I had been in a town of any size and we led such a quiet life at Castle Haivers that it all seemed hectic to me. To think I used to stroll about Glasgow where the streets were twice as wide and fifty times as busy without turning a hair! And now my heart was racing at this modest bustle of people, carriages, handcarts, livestock and horses. Passers by seemed to throw themselves into my path deliberately. To add to my confusion, snow began to fall, it whirled and gusted in icy flakes, enough to blind you.

  Missus might as well have put wheels under herself she moved along that quick, it seemed a remarkable recovery of strength. Before too long we had left the well-built streets for the narrow, crooked lanes of the old town, where it was much gloomier. After a few moments, she turned a corner and juked into an old-fashioned drapers. In goes yours truly after her and gladly so for my bake was fair froze.

  The atmosphere in the shop was close and cosy, there was several people waiting to be served. 4 or 5 ladies stood talking in the middle of the room and two others were seated in chairs beside the counter. I went and stood next the fire at the back. Out the corner of my eye, I watched missus. Pot of crocus in hand, she was moving along the shelves, gazing at materials. The heat from the coals and the murmur of the ladies chatter soon lulled me into a little daydream. I watched a man lay a bolt of grey worsted on the counter. Framed by the large window, he began to cut the cloth with shears, in the background snowflakes tumbled out the sky in pucks, as though the angels were emptying sacks. Behind me, the bell tinkled and the shop door opened and closed as some other customer came in. One of the ladies at the counter was taking forever with her order. Every time you thought she’d finished, she started wittering on again. I looked round, to check that missus was not getting impatient. She was no longer stood at the shelves where I’d last seen her and so I turned to the counter—but she wasn’t there either. Remembering the tinkle of the bell, I peered around to see who had come in but nobody had come in at all. With a dull thud in the pit of my gut I realised that when the door had opened and closed it was missus that had slipped out.

  I lashed over to the entrance and stepped outside. At first I could see only strangers but then I recognised missus. She had raised the hood on her cloak and was heading uphill. I called out a few times, but she didn’t look around. Then she turned a corner and disappeared from view.

  Since I hadn’t a notion where we were, I had no choice but to go after her, my feet slithering on the slushy ground. Upon turning the corner, I glimpsed her in the distance and called out again, but she gave no sign that she’d heard me. Instead, she crossed a little square and began walking even faster up a broad street. I charged after her. As far as I could tell, we seemed to be heading back towards the new town. Snow continued to tip out the sky in blinding flurries. I paused for a moment to wipe a few flakes off my eyelashes and when I looked up again missus had disappeared. In panic, I ran along the pavement, glancing in at doorways and shop windows. On the other side of the street, set back behind a burial ground, was an old whitewashed church. A movement there caught my eye. Glancing over the churchyard wall I seen her, a dark grey shape in a cloak flitting between the gravestones. What in the name of flip was she up to?

  I found the gate and went in. The churchyard was overgrown, narrow paths led between crowded rows of stones that jutted in all directions like snaggle-teeth. Now that I was inside, it was hard to get my bearings. I began walking towards where I thought I had last seen missus but the track led me in a direction I had not expected and so I turned back and chose another route. The snow eased off, then of a sudden ceased to fall. As I advanced, I peered this way and that around the ivy-clad headstones, but saw no sign of missus or any other soul. I had just begun to lose faith in this 2nd route when I glanced over at the adjacent footpath and saw the pot of crocus laying on the ground beside one of the graves. What was the go here? I scrambled between two headstones and emerged dishevelled on the other side. However, missus was nowhere to be seen.

  This part of the churchyard seemed newer than the rest. I realised that the crocus pot had been set down beside the grave, rather than dropped in haste as I first thought. The headstone beside it was of white marble and the letters of the inscription were delicate and curved. My gaze was drawn towards the top of the stone, perhaps because the name carved there had lately been at the forefront of my own thoughts.

  Nora Hughes.

  For dear sake! It was as though I had both read her name and thought of it in the same moment. I was shocked and yet not surprised at all. In a way, I realised I had been thinking of Nora so much that it was almost like stumbling across my own name writ large upon a gravestone. No sooner had I thought that than someone touched my shoulder. I leapt about 6 foot in the air. Only to find missus standing next to me, with a trowel in her hand, she used it to point at the stone.

  ‘You see?’ she says. ‘This is where she is.’

  With that, she knelt down and began to clear the snow from a small patch of ground at the foot of the grave.

  ‘This corner is marked out for Roman Catholics,’ she says. ‘It was lucky that we got her in here, otherwise I don’t know where she would have been put. Space is short in this graveyard, but James managed to arrange it.’

  She stabbed at the frozen earth with the trowel. I was forced to wonder where this implement had come from. Had she brought it with her, concealed about her person? Up the sleeve of her cloak perhaps or in some other private place? Had she planned this graveyard trip all along?

  The ground was hard as a monks mickey and the trowel made little impression on it. Missus glanced up at me. ‘D’you think it is too cold to plant these?’

  ‘I don’t know, marm,’ I says. ‘Where did you get the trowel?’

  She glanced at it. ‘From the sexton,’ she says. ‘He gave it to me but only grudgingly. He thinks it too cold to plant anything.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s right, marm. Why did you run away from the shop?’

  She made an impatient, tutting sound. ‘Oh it was going to take hours,’ she says. ‘With that dreadful woman. I got tired waiting.’

  ‘But you left without saying anything, marm.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I knew you would be right behind me!’ She banged the trowel impatiently on the ground. ‘Blast this weather!’

  She looked so pathetic and frustrated, I forgave her for running off.

  ‘You could leave the flower in the pot for now,’ I says. ‘And then we can come back when the weather is warmer, and plant the bulbs.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she says. With a reluctant sigh, she gazed at the grave. ‘I did so want to get something into the ground today.’ She glanced up at me again, a little anxious. ‘Do you think Nora will know that I came? If I don’t plant the crocus, I mean. If we just leave it here, by the headstone, will she know it?’

  It was not often that she deferred to me on any matter but I supposed it might be something to do with me and Nora being Irish and so I nodded.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I says. ‘I’m sure she will. I mean—Nora will know up in heaven. It’s not her ghost that will know, because there is no ghost, is there? It’s her angel self. Else why would people leave flowers on graves? And they do that all the time.’

  That seemed to put her mind at rest. She spent a moment or two positioning the plant pot at the end of the grave. Then she began scraping the snow off the headstone. I watched her in silence.

  After a
moment, I hazarded a question. ‘Were you here at the burial, marm?’

  ‘No,’ she says, regretfully. ‘James thought it would be for the best if I didn’t attend.’

  She took out her handkerchief and unfolded it. In preparation for tears I thought, but then she used it to wipe the remaining snow off the headstone.

  ‘You are wondering something, Bessy,’ she says, without either looking up or pausing in her labours. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, marm,’ I says but then curiosity overcame me. ‘Well—only perhaps, what happened to Nora. I did hear that she was killed by a train on the railway.’

  For a moment missus stood nodding, as though politely thinking this over. And then she began to speak.

  ‘Nobody is quite sure—how it happened,’ she says. ‘There was—a celebration—a party of some sort, in one of the bothies. It was summer. We always take on more hands in spring and summer to cope with the extra work. The bothies were full, I believe, and it was a holiday, the day of the Free Gardeners Parade. I don’t quite know what Nora was doing in the bothy. She didn’t normally mix with the farm servants. As you know yourself there is not much time or opportunity to do so. But anyway that night, I’m told, Nora had gone to join the celebration after her work was done. At some point, late in the evening, she left the bothy. Nobody saw her go, she must have slipped out, unnoticed. A lot of drink had been consumed by the farm servants, and so all the stories are rather vague and unhelpful. I don’t expect Nora was drunk. She was not that kind of person. At any rate, I was surprised the following morning when she did not appear for work. And then, when I went to her room to look for her, I saw that her bed had not been slept in.’