‘Sit down here beside me.’ Mysie patted the empty chair next to her. ‘I don’t remember who you are, but my memory’s not as good as it used to be.’
‘You don’t know me,’ he assured her. ‘My name is Ewan Duncan and I’m your son’s grandson.’
Mysie’s hand went to her chest, but her voice didn’t waver. ‘Sandy’s grandson? My goodness, what a surprise.’
‘My father’s name is Sam, and he was born in …’
‘It must have been 1935. It was the year I married Gregor, that’s why I remember. Is your grandmother still alive?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your memory, and yes, she is.’
‘You’re very like Sandy, now that I come to think about it. You’ve the same hair, the same eyes – you even walk like him. I should have guessed who you were.’
He told her the same as he’d told Gina, but Mysie gave a low sardonic laugh when he said that he had bought the bungalow at Rowanbrae. ‘So the Cattanachs had to sell it?’
‘I bought it from people called McGregor, so the Cattanachs must have given it up before that.’
The old lady seemed childishly pleased. ‘Pride always goes before a fall.’
‘It’s not that house I’m interested in, though, it’s the croft that was there before. Can you tell me anything about that? Why was it abandoned? Was there a fire?’
Mysie nodded. ‘Aye, that’s right, there was a fire.’
‘I guessed it must be that. How did it start?’
‘We thought it was a bit of peat that fell on the rug.’
Her sudden wariness made him wonder if she had a reason for not wanting to talk about it. ‘Was anyone inside at the time? Was anyone … hurt?’
‘There was just Sandy and me there, and we both got out.’
He wasn’t progressing very quickly, Ewan thought. Maybe he shouldn’t have come? How could this old lady tell him what he wanted to know? Still, now that he was here, he’d better keep on. ‘Did anybody you knew ever disappear? I mean, disappear and never turn up again?’ Noticing that she looked more wary than ever, he was sure there was a mystery of some kind to be uncovered. He was on the right track, if only she would come clean and tell him everything she knew.
‘Aye,’ Mysie said, uneasily. ‘You could say that, I suppose. You see, Sandy’s father walked out on us, and nobody ever knew what happened to him.’
This was more like it, and Ewan jumped in with both feet. ‘I could probably help you there. I’m having an extension built at the back of the house – a sort of utility room, you know – and the garage had to come down – it was a ramshackle wooden thing, anyway. I got the loan of a drill to break up the old cement floor first, and I nearly fell in a heap when I came across a skull.’ He stopped, watching his great-grandmother closely for signs of distress.
Mysie, however, was made of stronger stuff, and not a flicker of her inner turmoil appeared on her face as she wrestled with her conscience for a few minutes before saying softly, ‘Well, well! So it was my own great-grandson that dug him up, after all these years. That’s irony for you.’
Ewan was thunderstruck. Surely it couldn’t have been this frail creature who had murdered …? ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you about it.’
‘No, lad, I’m pleased you did.’ Mysie cast a quick glance round the room, where several visitors were now talking to the other residents of the home. ‘I’d like to tell you the whole story, get it off my chest, but not here, not when there’s so many old wives with nothing to do but listen to other folk’s conversations. You’d better help me to my own room.’
Gripping her elbow as she got her walking stick ready and rose shakily to her feet, Ewan felt himself trembling. Gina had said that she was the skeleton in the family cupboard, but her mother was about to tell him about a real skeleton, or all that remained of it.
When they entered her room, Mysie thumped into a seat with a sigh. ‘It’s a relief to me that it was you that found him, but it’ll be hard for you to believe what I’m going to tell you.’
She waited until he drew over a chair and sat down beside her. ‘You said you were interested in your family history, so I’ll start at the beginning, when I met Jeems Duncan first.’
While the story unfolded, Ewan wished that he had thought of taking a tape recorder with him – nobody would ever believe it if he told them this. Mysie, reliving the past, reverted to the dialect she had spoken then and kept nothing back, remarking, when she told him about the meal and ale, ‘An’ that was the nicht I fell in love wi’ Doddie Wilson. He was a good, decent man, an’ I’ve aye regretted thinkin’ it was him that killed Jeems. But I’m gettin’ ahead o’ my story.’
She talked candidly about what had caused the quarrel with her husband and what he had done in his temper. ‘I was near sure it wasna me that used that second knife, an’ Doddie was the only other person I could think on. Weel, I found oot, years after, that it wasna me … or Doddie.’ Her eyes, which had been on her hands all the time she was speaking, lifted and focused on Ewan. ‘But I’d best nae tell you who it was, nae yet. I’ll wait till I come to the time I learned mysel’, for a lot happened in between.’
‘Whatever you think,’ he murmured, astounded that any woman could have come through so much. ‘But I don’t want you to tire yourself out. I could come back another day to hear the rest.’
‘No, you’d best let me finish as lang as I’m into the swing o’ it. There’s nae that much left to tell.’
In spite of this assurance, the soft voice carried on for a further twenty minutes, detailing all the events right up to her leaving Burnlea, the dialect disappearing as she related what had happened to her after she came to Aberdeen as housekeeper to Miss Wallace. When Ewan learned the reason for his grandfather’s quarrel with her, he understood why his family had never had any contact with her, but could not associate Libby, the common tart she had just described, with Beth, the grandmother he loved. She had certainly changed.
‘When Gina found out she was illegitimate,’ Mysie continued, ‘she was so shocked she walked out, and Sandy left the house for good just minutes after her. That was when I agreed to marry Gregor, and it was him that helped me get over it. And I don’t know what I’d have done without him when I saw Sandy’s death in the paper in 1942. I was demented, and wished with all my heart that he had come to see me before he went off to the war. Then his letter came. I was only to get it if he was killed, so his officer gave it to a pilot to post in England. I still have it in my handbag there …’ She stopped abruptly, then sighed. ‘I think you’d better read it for yourself.’
Ewan passed over the rather dilapidated brown leather bag, and she took out an envelope, discoloured and crumpled from years of handling. ‘Read it out to me,’ she instructed.
‘Dear Mother,’ he read, ‘I am writing this to tell you that I bitterly regret quarrelling with you. You were not mistaken in what you thought about Libby, she was everything you said she was and I joined the Air Force to get away from her. It was only later that I realised how much she had changed from the time I met her, and if I come through the war, I might try to patch things up with her.’
Glancing up briefly, Ewan saw that his great-grand-mother’s lips were forming the words along with him, showing that she knew the letter off by heart, and he had to swallow before he carried on reading. ‘But now that I’ve made a start, I want to unburden my soul completely before I meet my Maker, though I doubt if He will accept me into heaven after the awful things I’ve done, because the fire wasn’t the worst. I should have told you at the time, but I was very young, and very scared. Brace yourself, Mother, this is going to be a terrible shock. It was I who killed my father.’
Gasping, Ewan looked up again, but Mysie said, ‘Aye, that’s a surprise to you, but go on.’
‘I heard him fighting with you and I went to the door of the kitchen and saw he had a knife in his hand. I thought he was going to kill you, so I crept over and picked another knife off t
he floor, but he jabbed at you before I was close enough to stop him. He didn’t know I was there, and I thought you were dead, so I lifted my arm to stick the knife in him. Being so young, I didn’t have any great strength, so if he hadn’t heard me just at that minute, he would likely only have had a small cut, but he did hear. He whipped round as my hand came down, and it was the force of his own body that made the knife go in right up to the hilt. I was only seven, remember, but I knew that I had killed him. Not knowing what else to do, I went back to bed, and when I heard you moving about again, and coughing, I knew you were still alive, so I fell asleep with an easier mind, although I was too frightened to say anything the next day. I tried to tell you on the night you learned that Doddie had been killed, but you wouldn’t let me.’
‘Aye,’ Mysie murmured. ‘That was when he said it was him filling the oil lamp that caused the fire and I was too upset to listen to him when he wanted to tell me something else.’
Bending his head again, Ewan read the rest of the letter. ‘I have often wondered where you hid the body, and you must have wondered who killed him. I did not really mean to, but I am not sorry I did, because he didn’t deserve to live after the way he used to treat you. As I grew older, that night often came back to haunt me, and I suppose that’s really why I began drinking so much, which is another thing I have to apologise for. Be that as it may, I trust you will forgive me for not telling you all this before. I pray that you never have to read this letter, but if you do, please remember that what I did that night was out of love for you, and that I still love you as much as ever. I will always be – your loving son, Sandy.’
As Ewan replaced the faded pages in the envelope, the lump in his throat almost choking him, Mysie looked quizzically at him. ‘I suppose you’ll be so shocked now, you’ll be wishing you had never tried to find out your family history?’
He couldn’t speak just yet, and pretended to consider. ‘I am shocked,’ he admitted, after a moment. ‘I’m shocked that you had such a terrible life, but I’m very glad you have told me exactly what happened, and I don’t condemn you nor your son. God Almighty, Great-grandmother, I don’t know how you didn’t go off your head after some of the things that happened to you.’
‘I don’t know myself, laddie, but would you mind not calling me Great-grandmother? It makes me feel really ancient.’ She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I’m not a hundred yet … though it’ll not be long. Gregor used to call me Maisie, but you could call me Mysie, if you like. Nobody’s called me that for a long time – not since Jess Findlater died – and I quite like it.’
‘Okay, Mysie it is. May I come back to see you? I promise never to bring any of this up again.’
‘I’d love to see you again, but before you go, will you … will you have to tell the police about what you found?’
‘No, it would only cause a furore, and I won’t tell anyone else, either. I’ll dig the thing well down, and cover it with fresh cement. Nobody will ever find it again, Mysie, I swear.’
‘Oh, that’s a weight off my mind. Bless you, Ewan.’
When he left, Mysie leaned back and closed her eyes. Fancy it being Sandy’s grandson that found Jeems. She had known he was bound to be unearthed some day, but she had begun to think that she was safe enough – that it wouldn’t be in her lifetime. She had been proved right about one thing, though – the head hadn’t been limed. Thank goodness her great-grandson would be the only one to know the truth about that traumatic night in 1914. Gregor had known, of course, he’d had to read Sandy’s letter to her, but she had trusted Gregor. He had seen her through a lot, brought her back to life after Sandy was killed, for his letter had had an even worse effect on her than his death. She’d been horrified to think that her young son had been a witness to his father’s insane rage; sick at picturing the child thrusting a knife into the man.
She had almost gone out of her mind then, and it had taken her much longer to get over than any of the other things that had happened to her. The other things. Being sold to Jeems for thirty pounds; losing her dear Jamie down the old quarry; discovering that she was expecting a packman’s child; finding Jeems and burying him; aborting that same night; the fire; Doddie being killed; Sandy and Gina leaving her; poor little Alexander. But Gregor had also seen her through that last two. Dear Gregor. She was grateful that she had been able to repay his devotion by nursing him in his last years, and it shouldn’t be long now before they were together again – for ever.
At five o’clock, the young nurse went to help Mrs Wallace to the dining room, and was quite surprised to find her sleeping. Some of the old folk slept nearly all day and wandered about all night, but Mrs Wallace wasn’t like that. She was always alert, but her visitor had stayed quite a long time, and she must have been tired out, poor soul.
‘Wakey, wakey!’ the girl sang out, and it wasn’t until she had shaken the old lady several times that she turned and ran to the office. ‘I think Mrs Wallace has died in her chair,’ she burst out when she opened the door.
Knowing how quick some of the young girls were in jumping to the wrong conclusion, Mrs Warrender went with her to check it out, but it was true. ‘I’ll have to get the doctor to write out a death certificate.’
‘She was a dear old thing,’ the girl remarked sadly. ‘I’m glad she died peacefully with a smile on her face.’
Mrs Warrender gave a long sigh. ‘Yes, it’s not so bad when they go like that, some of them have a terrible struggle. And Mrs Wallace has had a good innings, remember, she’d have been ninety-six on her birthday. Of course, she was very well off, and I suppose she’d had things easy all her life.’
The girl nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Some people have all the luck, haven’t they?’
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM BIRLINN
BY DORIS DAVIDSON
The Back of Beyond
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00VIGXQDS
Two young men from a remote Scottish village decide to make their fortunes in London, but can’t escape their close ties to home or the girl they leave behind…
Alistair Ritchie and Dougal Finnie have grown up in one of the most scenic villages in Scotland, but as they now have a desire to see the world, there is nothing to keep them there – not even Lexie Fraser, who’s been chasing Ally since they were fourteen. Lexie has troubles of her own: a sick mother and a missing father, his disappearance a complete mystery. She’d like nothing better than to cling to Ally, which just makes him more determined to break free.
But the lads aren’t destined to stay away forever. Marriage and babies follow – and so does war. London is no place for young wives and children, and where could be safer than the north of Scotland, the Back of Beyond? But what will their city-raised families make of it – and the folks they left behind?
Brow of the Gallowgate
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'Absorbing and fascinating' - Christine Marion Fraser
'It's a dismal day that doesn't include a dose of Doris' - Press and Journal
The brow of the Gallowgate is where Albert Ogilvie buys his property in 1890 - the shop he has dreamed of for years, and above it, a house with nine rooms to accommodate the large family he and his beloved wife, Bathie, desire. As their babies are born - there will be eight in all - Albert employs three sisters, one after another, as nursemaids. Bathie finds Mary and Jeannie Wyness more than satisfactory, but Bella, the youngest, is troublesome and sly, and creates a set of distressing circumstances resulting in her dismissal. The years go by, with their joys and sorrows, and war splits up the close-knit Ogilvies, some of whem eventually emigrate to New Zealand. And it is there that Bella Wyness, her resentment of the family grown to black hatred, will wreak her terrible revenge...
Cousins at War
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The sequel to her novel 'Brow of the Gallowgate', Doris Davidson's latest novel follows the fortunes of the Ogilvie family through the World War II.
Olive is determined to have her cousin Neil as her h
usband and won't allow anything or anyone to get in her way. So when her younger cousin Queenie is evacuated from London and begins to attract Neil's attention, Olive does all she can to avert the relationship. When warnings and threats fail, Olive concocts a web of lies to blacken Queenie's character and destroy her cousins' love. Despite Olive's success, her actions fail to secure Neil, who finds himself involved with other girls, finally meeting and falling for Freda. After this Olive will stop at nothing, no matter how despicable, to make sure Neil is hers forever. The consequences of her actions shock everyone and send the extended Potter and Ogilvie families into turmoil.
Duplicity and Other Stories
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A novella and collection of short stories by Scotland's favourite novelist.
Two men sit petrified on Christmas Eve at the thought of spending it in supernatural company; a young family makes a tense Cross-channel trip in fear of some unspecified threat; an old man contemplates jumping to his death at the thought of being evicted from the house in which he has lived all his life. In this book, Doris Davidson looks back over an immensely successful writing career in a collection of twenty short stories, which also includes her eagerly awaited latest work, the novella "Duplicity". Covering a wide range of themes and moods, these stories are a wonderful tribute to the skill and imagination of one of Scotland's best-loved authors.
A Gift from the Gallowgate
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This is the extraordinary story of a remarkable woman. Doris Davidson was born in Aberdeen in 1922, the daughter of a master butcher and country lass. Her idyllic childhood was shattered in 1934 with the death of her father, after which, in order to make ends meet, her mother was forced to take in lodgers. In part due to her father's sudden death, Doris left school at fifteen and went to work in an office, gradually rising through the ranks until she became book-keeper. Marriage to an officer in the Merchant Navy followed in 1942, then divorce, then her second marriage. Her life took the first of two major changes in direction at the age of 41, when she went back to college to study for O and A levels, followed by three years at Teacher Training College. In 1967 she became a primary school teacher, and subsequently taught in schools in Aberdeen until she retired in 1982. Not content with a quiet retirement Doris embarked on a new 'career' and became a writer, publishing her first work in 1990. Eight books later (and another one nearly finished), she is one of the country's best-loved romantic novelists and has sold well in excess of 200,000 copies of her books. In this engaging and candid autobiography, Doris Davidson recounts her growing up in Aberdeen in the '20s and '30's, the war years, her marriage and the unexpected paths her career has followed. With her novelist's skill, she brings into vivid focus a life of rich experience in a book every bit as riveting as her works of fiction.
The Road to Rowanbrae Page 34