Fields of Blue Flax

by Sue Lawrence

  ‘Dammit!’ She stomped to the sink and grabbed a cloth.

  Anna came into the room and burst out laughing. ‘God, Mum, what’s with the Jackson Pollock thing?’

  Christine’s eyes were blazing. She said nothing, just started to wipe at the mess, fist clenched tight around the cloth.

  Anna went towards her with a roll of kitchen paper. ‘Here, let me help. What happened?’

  ‘The lid wasn’t on right.’ She lifted the coffee machine to wipe underneath.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Organic watercress and spinach, took me ages and now it’s all over the counter.’

  ‘Mum, it’s fine, and the patient couldn’t care less if it’s homemade, organic or a tin of Heinz. You’ve got to stop treating him like an invalid.’

  ‘But he is an invalid! He was in intensive care, he could have…’

  ‘But he didn’t,’ said Anna.

  ‘Well the fact of the matter is he has two broken ribs and a fractured pelvis. I don’t want him getting up unless he absolutely has to. The whole thing just makes me so angry, I could kill the man who crashed into you, I really could.’

  ‘Mum, sit down,’ said Anna, taking the cloth from her mum and continuing to wipe up the mess. ‘Besides, my bruises still look a lot worse than his. Look how fetching this yellow hue is!’ She pointed at the lines of bruises across her chest.

  Christine started to laugh, then tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I’m just so tired I feel I’ve done nothing but cook and serve tea and coffee for all the visitors.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to stop being such a martyr about it all and let Dad and me help.’

  ‘Dad’s never here, Anna.’

  ‘Mum, that’s not fair, he does have a job to go to and…’

  ‘And what about me? Don’t I have a job? Just because I’m on Easter holidays.’

  ‘Mum, you’ve got to try to de-stress. Let me make you a camomile tea.’

  Christine’s shoulders slumped and she wiped at her eyes. ‘Thanks, Anna. What would I do without you.’

  Christine stood up and took a tray from the cupboard, setting it with knife, spoon and plate.

  ‘And Jack wants to get up for meals now, you don’t need to take him up a tray. Sit down!’

  ‘Well, I’ll just take him a snack just now. Maybe he can come down for dinner, we’ll see how he’s feeling.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  2014

  Mags got off the bus in St Andrew Square and strolled down onto Princes Street. The flags on the castle ramparts were flapping in the strong breeze. As she climbed the wide steps to the entrance to Register House, she wondered how on earth she had found herself so caught up in investigating her family history; a month ago she wouldn’t have cared. But since the accident, Christine had been constantly stressed; she seemed hell-bent on wreaking revenge on Colin Clarkson, even though the kids were fine.

  Although Christine wasn’t yet back at school, she insisted she had no time for anything apart from lesson planning, so Mags was going solo today. She sat down and took out her sheets of scribbled notes from her last visit.

  Maybe if she found something interesting in Register House she could suggest they drive north to Dundee and Tannadice to see where Elizabeth Barrie had lived. Concentrating on tracking down their ancestor was surely better than trying to hunt down a stranger for dubious reasons.

  Mags had just begun to look into the 1871 census when her phone beeped. She looked around, wondering if she’d be told off, but no one seemed bothered. It was a text from Doug asking where she was – he had just popped home for lunch and the house was empty without her.

  ‘Register House. Back this aft. Quiche in larder if you fancy.x.’

  A ping came back. ‘Thought that said quickie.’

  She shook her head and grinned. He was so predictable, but God, they were lucky – still besotted with each other, after all these years. So many of her friends were having marital problems: one was in the middle of a steamy affair and another completely indifferent towards her husband of twenty-five years. Which was worse, she wondered.

  Mags switched her phone onto silent, threw it into her basket, and continued trawling through the 1871 census for Elizabeth Barrie. Eventually she found an entry that seemed to match, though again her age didn’t fit. This Elizabeth Barrie was registered at a farmhouse in Strathmartine, which after a quick Google, Mags found was just north of Dundee. The farm was the home of the Patullo family – farmer John Patullo, his wife and their seven children along with a nurse, a cook and a table maid called Elizabeth Barrie, born in Tannadice.

  It was definitely her, there can’t possibly have been two Elizabeth Barries in a tiny village like Tannadice. But she was now said to be thirteen, which didn’t tie in with either her wedding certificate or the 1881 census. And she was the only Barrie working at the Patullos’, her sister was obviously too young.

  Mags tried to track down a birth certificate for Elizabeth, thinking that might shed some light on the mystery of her age, but with no luck. She did, however, find Elizabeth’s sister, Jane, born in April 1860 to mother Margaret and father David Barrie. She was about to print when something caught her eye. On the birth certificate, after David Barrie’s name and profession – ploughman – was a cross. He must have been illiterate.

  She continued trawling through births for a few years either side of Jane’s dates but found nothing for Elizabeth Barrie. So she went back to the 1861 Census and tried other Barries. When she came to Margaret Barrie in Tannadice, she gasped. The man in the next seat turned to look at her. ‘Brilliant when you find something you’re not expecting, isn’t it!’

  ‘Do you know what it means if it says “pauper”?’ asked Mags.

  ‘No idea, sorry. I’m stuck in 1917, Flanders. All they say is “Missing Presumed Dead”… Imagine!’

  Mags shook her head in sympathy then returned to the census on her screen. There was Margaret Barrie, aged thirty-eight, widow of David Barrie, ploughman, and she was classified as a pauper. Her daughter Jane was there, aged one. Where the hell was Elizabeth?

  She quickly looked back to the 1851 census and found Margaret Barrie aged twenty-eight, wife of David Barrie aged twenty-nine. No children were mentioned; so perhaps they had just got married. Their address in both censuses was simply ‘the village’, no street name. Mags printed everything off and went to the desk to ask the research assistant what it meant to be a pauper in the 1860s.

  The earnest young man talked at length about the Poor Law of 1845, explaining that after the Act was passed, it was up to an Inspector of the Poor to decide whether applicants for poor relief were legitimate. Obviously Elizabeth Barrie’s mother was suitable, otherwise she would not have had the word pauper written against her name in the census.

  Pretty sad, Mags thought, but surely that wasn’t the family secret?

  Chapter Sixteen

  1871

  ‘Why dae I have to put flowers on her grave, Ma?’

  ‘You liked Miss Charlotte, did you no’?’

  Elizabeth’s head dropped and she nodded, not looking up.

  ‘Right, so just come along wi’ me and we’ll hae a wee blether later.’

  Margaret Barrie handed Elizabeth a little posy of snowdrops tied with a length of twine. ‘Never seen snowdrops sae late, maybe the flax’ll be late flowering this year an a’.’

  They walked along the main road, heading out of Tannadice, the woman short and stout, the girl by her side tall and gangly. They passed the last little cottage in the main street and crossed the road. Margaret pushed the wrought iron gate and it creaked open. They both entered the churchyard and Margaret looked around.

  ‘Look for the one wi’ fresh flowers on it, that’ll be her.’

  Elizabeth pointed to the left side of the church, near the wall. ‘Over there, Ma, is that it?’

  They stepped between the grave stones and stopped at the freshly dug grave. There was no headstone, jus
t a pottery vase of fading blooms.

  ‘Why’s she no’ got her name on a stone like the others, Ma?’

  ‘She was only laid to rest two days ago, Elizabeth. The stonemason’s far too busy, she wisnae the only one taken by the influenza.’

  ‘Where dae I put it?’ Elizabeth held up her little posy.

  Margaret pointed to the head of the grave and watched Elizabeth lay the snowdrops in front of the vase.

  ‘Can we go now? I dinnae like it here.’ Elizabeth began to hop from one foot to the other.

  ‘Stand still, lassie, you’re in a graveyard! And it’s important you pay your respects to Miss Charlotte. Say a wee prayer for her, go on.’

  Elizabeth bowed her head and mumbled a few words.

  Margaret was staring at a headstone at the other side of the gravel path.

  ‘Is that Pa over there?’

  ‘Aye. But we’re no’ stopping there. Now, mind I said if you laid the flowers, that we’d hae a wee treat? We’re going to tak’ a walk to Auntie Jeannie in Oathlaw. We’ll hae a blether wi’ her then come home afore it’s dark.’

  Elizabeth nodded and started to walk towards the church gates. ‘So when the stone’s up, do I hae to come back, Ma?’

  ‘No, you’ll be awa’ by then. Awa’ frae the village.’ Margaret took the girl’s arm in hers and spoke in hushed tones as they walked out of the churchyard, along the road past the mill towards the stream and over the little, rickety wooden bridge that led away from Tannadice. They passed the pump where a half-empty bucket of water stood and continued the path that climbed steeply out of the village.

  ‘Now you’re eleven, you’re old enough to go oot and work. Auntie Jeannie’s sister-in-law’s the cook in a big house in Strathmartine and she says they need more help now there’s seven bairns.’

  ‘But, Ma, I do work. I help you wi’ your work at the manse an’…’

  ‘This’ll be a proper job and it’ll mean you get to share a bedroom wi’ just one other lassie. You’ll even hae your own bed, no’ like our wee house where we three a’ sleep together.’

  ‘But I dinnae want to leave you and Jane.’ She gazed up at Margaret, her deep brown eyes imploring.

  Margaret stopped in the middle of the path, puffing. Gnarled oaks hung over the verdant moss and sprouting bracken beside the path. Behind her, down in the valley, was Tannadice. Far in the distance, the hills soared above the lush Angus glens where the black cattle grazed.

  Elizabeth looked puzzled. ‘And why did you make me put flowers on Miss Charlotte’s grave?’

  ‘She was always good to you.’

  ‘But you never liked her.’

  ‘Me and her were always different. She was a lady.’ Margaret took a deep breath. ‘Your sister Jane’s no’ as strong and fit as you are, Elizabeth. I need her tae help me at the hoose, and you go out and work.’

  ‘But why can’t I stay on to work at the manse? Is it cause Miss Charlotte’s no’ there any more?’

  Margaret sighed. ‘Sit doon.’ Margaret eased her ample bottom onto a grassy bank beside a road sign that read ‘Oathlaw 1 mile’. She leant her back against the wooden post and looked up at Elizabeth standing above her, unsmiling, refusing to budge.

  ‘When my Davie – your Pa – died, Miss Charlotte was good tae you. She was starting to learn you the piano and even how to speak proper.’

  Elizabeth reached up a finger into her curly mop and twisted a ringlet round and round.

  ‘It was grand, you coming to the Manse wi’ me, helping me wi’ my chores and turning her pages when she practised the piano. She telt me you were doing well and she was even learnin’ you to play a wee bit yerself. In fact, she was a’ for getting you to sit beside her on the big organ bench in the kirk to turn the pages o’ the hymns on Sundays.’ She glanced up at Elizabeth, whose dark eyes were large in her pale angular face. ‘And then she died.’

  Elizabeth’s face crumpled. ‘But I still dinnae see why I have to leave home.’

  Margaret reached out to the girl but Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. Margaret struggled to pull herself up.

  ‘The fact is, Elizabeth, now she’s gone, the minister cannae bear to see you, you remind him o’ her when she was a lassie. An’ he’s still grievin’ for his one and only daughter. Now let’s hurry, Auntie Jeannie’ll be turnin’ those scones on the girdle.’

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  ‘Jeannie, I was just telling Elizabeth aboot working at Strathmartine wi’ Jessie.’

  The three of them sat at the large kitchen table in the farmhouse in Oathlaw round a plate of scones. Elizabeth leant over to the butter dish and scraped her knife over it then smeared butter thickly on her scone.

  ‘Aye, you’ll fit in fine there. You’re such a nice lassie, kind of refined somehow. Such manners she has, Margaret.’

  ‘Aye, she’s picked up a lot frae the manse.’

  Elizabeth who had been silent until now, looked at Jeannie. ‘How far is it tae Strathmartine?’

  ‘Oh, no’ far, aboot fifteen miles but I’ll see you there myself. We’ll go together on Saturday, it’s my day off. That’ll gie you tomorrow to get yourself sorted. And your Ma’ll come tae.’

  ‘Dinnae want to…’ Elizabeth sniffled.

  ‘Saturday will be just fine, Jeannie, thanks,’ said Margaret. ‘Right, Elizabeth, we’d better be setting off home before the night draws in. Thanks for the scones.’ She stood up and tied the ribbons of her bonnet.

  Elizabeth put on her coat, muttered thank you to Jeannie and turned to the door, shoulders stooped.

  ‘Where’s that braw smile o’ yours, Elizabeth Barrie?’

  Elizabeth turned back to Jeannie and forced a smile before following Margaret outside into the chill spring afternoon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  2014

  Mags heard the doorbell and put down her glass. She looked up at the clock. God, it was only five o’clock, Christine would be all judgemental. She hid the wine on a shelf behind the cake tin and rushed to open the door.

  ‘Hello, come in!’ She hugged her cousin. ‘I’ll make some tea.’ Mags led the way into the large, airy kitchen and filled the kettle with water.

  ‘Your kitchen is fabulous when it’s sunny, Mags. Look at all that light coming through the glass up there. You’re so lucky,’ said Christine, looking up at the clerestory windows.

  ‘Yeah, the extension was definitely worth it, even though we’re still paying off the loan.’ Mags laughed. ‘And will be for years probably.’

  ‘So what did you find?’ Christine asked, folding her coat neatly over her chair.

  ‘Well, I didn’t have long. They practically threw me out at four o’clock.’

  Mags poured two mugs of tea and filled Christine in on her day’s discoveries: Margaret Barrie was officially a pauper and a widow in 1861, and there was no sign of Elizabeth at all before the 1871 census in Strathmartine.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a nice lemon cake, want a bit?’ Mags lifted down a cake tin from the shelf and opened it.

  ‘Tiny slice please,’ said Christine, catching a glimpse of the half glass of red wine on the shelf.

  ‘Chris, you need to eat more, you’ve got all skinny since the accident. You need to build yourself up.’

  Christine shook her head. ‘That’s what Gerry tells me every single night. Drives me mad!’ She sipped her tea. ‘So what about her mother, Margaret Barrie then? What does the pauper thing mean?’

  ‘Well, I got the lowdown on what it meant to be officially registered in those days. It was a bit like welfare benefits, help was given towards food and rent. Anyone who was in a really bad way was sent to the poorhouse. Margaret Barrie still lived in her cottage in the village so she must have been given money by someone. Maybe the church helped the poor in the parish in those days.’

  ‘Did you find out anything about her husband? She was a widow so young.’

  ‘I know, terrible isn’t it, but since she wasn’t sent
to the work house, the Inspector of the Poor must’ve realised it was just a temporary thing. By the 1871 census she was living in the village and was classified as a domestic servant, still a widow and Jane was eleven and living at home.’

  ‘Anything else? Lovely cake, by the way.’

  ‘Came to a bit of a halt, sadly.’ Mags downed the last of her tea. ‘Glass of wine?’

  ‘No thanks, far too early.’

  ‘Anyway, since I knew he must’ve died between 1859 and 1861, I started looking at deaths for a David Barrie in Tannadice.’

  ‘Sorry, how did you know when he died?’ Christine frowned.

  ‘The baby – Jane – she was one in 1861, by which time David was dead.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sorry, carry on.’

  ‘I couldn’t find his death certificate though. But we at least know roughly when we’re looking.’

  ‘Christine sipped her tea. ‘They’re all from Tannadice, can’t be that hard, surely.’

  ‘You say that, but look how impossible it’s been to find Elizabeth Barrie. We know she must’ve been born at least nine months before Jane in the April of that year, so why can’t we bloody well find her?’

  There was a clattering in the hall and Lottie burst through the kitchen door. A young man with large geometric glasses, stood behind her, a small case in his hand.

  ‘Come in, Peter. This is my mum and my Auntie Chris.’

  He shook their hands firmly. ‘Nice to meet you both.’

  ‘Peter was on my course, he’s a piano tuner now.’ Lottie looked at her mother. ‘Mum, remember Dad mentioned that rattly low F? Peter reckons it sounds as if it might be loose copper on the bass strings.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mags. ‘Lottie, can you pop back just for a minute once you’ve shown Peter into the dining room, please.’

  A couple of minutes later, Lottie returned. ‘Yup?’

  ‘What about Dennis? Will he not be offended we’ve got someone else to tune the piano? He’s always done it.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Peter’s a mate, he’ll do it for nothing. And I’m not sure if Dennis is up to much anyway.’