by Sue Lawrence
‘Grand. Thanks, Margaret.’ He pushed back the rickety chair from the table and went to the door. ‘See you at the cottage then.’
She nodded and took his bowl to the sink. She looked over at the cot, hearing one of the girls begin to stir, then bent down to pick up the basket of leaves and hung it up high on a hook.
In the little cottage in the woods, she lit the fire she had set the day before and began to chop onions. She had dug up two big ones the day before to provide the oniony flavour that ramsons should give. She peeled the potatoes, chopped them up small and plopped them into the pan. She had probably about an hour before he arrived so she had to work fast. The wee boys had been playing up and Agnes took longer to settle them so it had been later than expected when Margaret was able to leave the girls at her cottage.
She rolled up the leaves and sliced them as finely as possible. They were thicker than ramson leaves so would need to cook a little longer. The fire was burning nicely and she had just put the water into the pan when she realised she had forgotten the salt. Why was there nothing like that in this cottage? She would have to hurry home.
When David’s father had died, his estranged elder brother had tried to take the cottage, but, having then pilfered the family’s meagre savings, he headed for Canada. So his mother remained at the farm steading at Corrie and David kept this cottage, though Margaret had removed much of the furniture for their own home. She had only used it a couple of times, but once the girls were older, she would bring them out here to play in the woods.
She stirred the last of the leaves into the pan, set it on the swee which hung over the fire and rushed out the door. She hesitated then decided to lock it, just in case. She put the key deep into her pocket then strode through the trees before running quickly up the road towards home. Puffing, she poured some salt into a little poke of brown paper then retraced her steps. Fortunately there was no one about, the men all out working in the fields, the women all busy in their homes. She noticed a couple of small children playing at the other end of the street, but that was the only sign of life.
As she reached the glade, she heard someone approaching from the other direction. Margaret recognised the distant sound of a man whistling; it was him. She ran to unlock the cottage, shutting the door behind her. The tiny kitchen smelled good, a strong onion smell. Adding that piece of cow heel to the soup had been a good idea, it looked really appetising now. She added the salt and reached for the wooden spoon to taste. The spoon was at her lips when she remembered. With a start she dropped the spoon and rushed to the door where he sat on the step.
‘Why did you shut the door, Margaret? I thought it was locked.’
He sat there, muck from the fields on his hands, his boots filthy.
‘I like it here fine enough, but I still wonder about intruders. You ken those folk frae Oathlaw will be oot soon looking for mushrooms.’
He shook his head. ‘Food o’ the devil.’ He pulled off his boots, stood up and came inside.
‘That’s a fine smell, Margaret. Is it ramson soup?’
‘Aye,’ she said, glancing at him then turning quickly back to the stove. ‘Aye, ramson soup. Sit doon, I’ll get you a bowl.’
He sat down at the little wooden table on the only chair in the room. ‘Got to get another chair for this place, Margaret.’
She nodded and ladled out a brimming bowl of soup. She carried it over to him then stood at the door, looking out into the sun-speckled woods.
‘It’s late for ramsons, is it no’?’
She shrugged and looked round at him. He was spooning in mouthful after mouthful of soup. After a morning working in the fields he always ate like a starving man. She clasped her hands tightly together and looked away.
First she heard the thunk as the spoon dropped to the floor. Then a long, guttural cry of agony. She turned and saw him drop to the floor, clutching his stomach. ‘Cannae see! My stomach,’ he groaned. ‘Gonnae be sick…’
She rushed to get a cloth and put it under his head and he vomited into it, writhing like a mad animal.
She spun round and went to the front door.
‘Margaret,’ he croaked, ‘Dinnae leave me…’
She walked round into the garden and looked up at the tree house, wringing her hands. She nodded, affirmation before her that she had done what needed to be done. This was where the two of them had come, ‘just to learn, like at the school’, he had said. Davie was bright enough but his reading was atrocious and he could barely write his own name. She had taught him about books, helped him with his reading, he insisted it was nothing more.
But no one would make a fool of Margaret Barrie. Charlotte Whyte might be seen as superior to her, but she was no true lady after what she had done. And she, Margaret, had the upper hand: she was the one Elizabeth would call Ma, not Miss Charlotte, and that served her right. For she must have been a willing victim, not just an innocent seduced by her husband.
Margaret shivered as she thought of the two of them together in the cottage. The minister’s daughter and her Davie who she’d always taken for a good, noble man. Well, he’s paying for it now. She tipped her head to the side and listened. Silence. Slowly she rounded the corner to the front door and peered in. There was blood mixed in with the vomit by his head. His eyes were open, but she knew he was dead.
She pulled him towards the door, cursing the fact he was so heavy. She dragged him over the moss and grass to the leaning hazel tree opposite. Here she stopped, beside the fresh colony of mushrooms she had spied earlier. She let go of his hand and his arm dropped to the ground like a corpse on a hangman’s noose. All the way back to the cottage, she kicked up the vegetation to hide her tracks.
She retrieved the pan of soup and deposited the contents in the mulch underneath the large beech tree in the garden. She piled some branches on top then went back inside and took a pan of boiling water and scrubbed the wooden floor so there was no mark on it other than the odd burn from fallen candles.
She raked over the fire then opened a window just a crack, went to the front door and stepped out. She locked the door behind her and, empty basket in hand, trod her weary way home. She got inside, scrubbed her hands, stoked up the fire then went next door to fetch the babies.
It was not yet dark but the sun was low; there was a chill in the air. Margaret pulled her shawl round her shoulders and went next door to Agnes’s to ask if she could listen in for the girls crying – she wanted to go through the woods to look for Davie. He should have been home ages ago.
Agnes’s husband Billy said he would go with her and they set off down the road together. Grieve was just coming out of his house with his pipe.
‘Fine evening, is it no’?’
Margaret said nothing. She stood, her head stooped, eyes fixed on the road, as Billy explained what they were doing.
‘I’ll come along wi’ you.’ He glanced up at Margaret’s face, pinched into a frown. ‘He’s maybe had a pint over in Corrie and fell doon into a ditch.’
The three of them entered the wood, murky in the dying light. They tramped swiftly over the damp vegetation. As they approached the clearing, Margaret slowed down. She began to look around as if she could hear something.
‘I thought there was a noise, but it’s maybe just a rabbit.’
Billy and Grieve headed towards the leaning hazel tree.
‘Look! Here! And he’s…’
They both knelt beside him, and Grieve touched a hand to Davie’s cold forehead.
Slowly, Margaret walked towards them. She breathed deeply then bent over him. ‘Davie!’ She clapped both hands to the sides of her face.
Billy pointed to the mushrooms. ‘They’re deadly webcaps – he must’ve thought they were penny buns!’
Margaret nodded. ‘What will I dae, what will I dae now, these two babies and…’
‘But Margaret…’ Grieve stood up and looked at her. ‘You ken Davie hates mushrooms, he wouldnae touch them, never mind eat them.’
�
��No, you must been thinking o’ someone else,’ said Margaret. She stood up straight and said, matter of fact, ‘Shall we try an’ get him home?’
A couple of hours later, the body of David Barrie was laid out on the wooden table in his cottage in Tannadice village. There were four men around him, a dram in each of their hands. Agnes from next door and Elspeth, the cook from the manse, were sitting beside Margaret on the bed. The babies had been awake all evening with the commotion, but both had finally fallen asleep in Agnes’s arms and were now tucked up in their cot.
There was a knock at the door.
Grieve answered it. As he opened it, the candlelight flickered to reveal a tall black figure.
‘Mrs Barrie, I have come to pray for your husband’s soul.’
Margaret and the women sprang to their feet and the men slipped their drams behind their backs.
‘Thank you, Mr Whyte. Come away in, please.’
The minister removed his hat and strode over to her, mouth pursed in zealous resolve. ‘Mrs Barrie, before we pray, I feel it incumbent upon me to talk about his burial. He shall be buried in the churchyard alongside his father, if that is satisfactory?’
There was silence in the room as everyone looked at her.
‘That is kind, thank you.’
A low buzz of conversation resumed in the dingy room. He leant down to speak to her close. ‘I think perhaps we might find this is for the best. Now we may all be at peace.’ The long hiss of a sibilant S lingered then faded away.
She looked up at him and felt his eyes penetrate her soul.
Chapter Thirty-one
2014
Mags went upstairs to the study in the attic and wrinkled her nose. What on earth was that smell? It was reminiscent of joss sticks burning at student parties. She went to the window and found it was open a couple of notches, then picked up a box of matches from the desk. She started searching through drawers till she found what she was looking for. Cannabis. Doug had stopped years ago, before Lottie was born and vowed he would never smoke dope again. But he was obviously so fraught, he was smoking to try to calm down. What the hell was he so bloody stressed about?
He had just left ten minutes before in Gerry’s car and hadn’t said a proper goodbye as he rushed out the door, even though they wouldn’t see each other now until Sunday. Mags tucked the package back where she had found it, underneath a packet of staples, and decided she would speak to him about it once he was back from the dental conference.
Christ, was he even going to a dental thing, hadn’t he been to one just before the kids’ accident? Was he having an affair? She shook her head. She was sure he wouldn’t ever betray her, yet he’d been acting so strangely recently. She headed for the window, opened it wide then stomped downstairs.
In the kitchen she looked around for something to distract her. She picked up the folder of family history research and sat down to look at it. They had got so far, but still couldn’t find any record of Elizabeth Barrie before 1871. Would Chris ever get her mind off this fixation on the court case and back onto this? She doubted it. She closed the folder and looked at her watch. Might as well open a bottle, it’s that time of night, she thought, heading for the wine rack.
Lottie sat cross-legged on the floor of Anna’s Newcastle flat and proffered her empty glass to Jack, who lay sprawled across the bed. They all had their coats on and Lottie had her scarf wrapped round her neck, as the heating had packed in.
The three of them had just finished their take-away pizzas and Anna was ramming the cardboard boxes into the overflowing bin with her foot. She gave a final thrust then went to take the bottle of red from her brother. ‘Does Auntie Mags ever get really arsey with Uncle Doug and just bawl at him the whole time?’ she asked Lottie. ‘That’s what Mum and Dad were like last time I was up. They were so snappy, weren’t they, Jack?’
Jack frowned. ‘Er, no actually, Dad was fine. It’s Mum, she gets so cross with him. No idea why, he’s just trying to be helpful.’
‘She’s been pretty grumpy since the accident, hasn’t she?’
‘Well,’ said Lottie, ‘she can’t be worse than my dad is right now. He’s so bloody stressed these days. I mean, he looks terrible, really rough, like he’s got a permanent hangover.’
‘Uncle Doug could never look rough. You know my friends Mia and Jen really fancy him even though he’s ancient,’ Anna said, grinning.
Lottie smiled and picked up her glass. ‘Is there any more wine, Anna? It’s warming me up.’
Anna poured the dregs of the bottle into Lottie’s glass.
‘Thanks. Anyway, change of subject from parents – you know that girl Katie I babysit for? She’s thirteen, doesn’t really need a sitter but her mum wants me there. Anyway, she was starting work on some project on genetics and I told her about a fact I remembered from somewhere.’
She went over to Jack and took his chin in her hand. She tilted his face up and looked at him. ‘Yeah, you’ve got brown eyes, so Uncle Gerry’s must be brown too as I know Auntie Chris’s are really blue.’
Anna shook her head. ‘Nope, Dad’s are blue too, though not as kind of turquoise as Mum’s.’
Lottie sat down beside Anna. ‘Well, according to the Google search I did with Katie, it’s impossible for two blue-eyed parents to have a brown-eyed child.’
‘Oh yeah, that sounds kind of familiar, but is it not the other way round? Two brown-eyed can’t have a blue?’ Anna produced a slab of chocolate and broke it into pieces, offering it round.
‘Oh, yeah, maybe,’ said Lottie, taking a piece. ‘I’ll get some more info for Katie online. Her teacher’s an idiot so I said I’d help her with it.’
‘Any more wine?’ asked Jack.
Anna lifted up the covers hanging off her bed and peered underneath. ‘Nope, that was one I pinched from home anyway. No booze left. Let’s go down to the pub, might be warmer there.’
When she got back to Edinburgh the next day, Lottie went to visit her mum. She opened the kitchen door and saw Mags standing at the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, stirring a sauce, glass of wine in the other. She shook her head and grinned. ‘Look at you, Mum, your favourite pose!’
She gave Mags a kiss. ‘Did you have a good time, darling?’ Mags put down her glass and the spoon and gave her daughter a hug. ‘How are they both?’
‘They’re both good. Jack is completely recovered, according to the doctor, so no excuses if he fails his exams!’
Mags laughed and pointed to the wine bottle.
‘No, thanks. I’ve got to teach later. I’ll have a green tea.’ She headed for the kettle. ‘So it’s closure on that horrible accident for them all. Everything’s completely back to normal.’
Mags tasted her sauce then put on the lid and switched the gas off. ‘Well, apart from Chris’s obsession with revenge on the guy who rammed them, it’s really not healthy but she won’t let up.’
‘Is he not going to court?’
‘He didn’t turn up, so they’ve rescheduled. But she’s really consumed by it all, even though the kids are fine.’ Mags shook her head.
Lottie told her mum more about her visit to Anna’s then she got onto Katie and her genetics project. ‘So is it two brown-eyed parents who can’t have a blue-eyed child?’
Mags shrugged. ‘No idea, darling. You know I’ve never had any interest in science. Ask your dad, he was always into that sort of thing.’
Lottie had already booked a dental check-up for the next day with her dad, who was now back from the conference. Doug turned round from the computer in the corner as his daughter entered the surgery. He smiled and pointed to the dentist’s chair.
‘Hop up.’ Amy handed her a large plastic bib to put round her neck as he tugged on his latex gloves.
He pressed his foot on the pedal to lower the back of the reclining seat. ‘So what have you been up to?’
‘Well, remember I was down in Newcastle and…’
‘Open wide,’ he said, peering into her mouth. ‘Hmm, got
a bit of plaque build-up on the molars. You’re still using that electric toothbrush I gave you, aren’t you?’
She nodded, mouth wide.
‘Well you need to use it more at the back. But don’t go mad, like Mum does, it’s bad for the gums. Let the brush do all the work.’
He picked up an instrument and she relaxed her mouth. ‘Anna and Jack are both fine, by the way, fully recovered after the accident, according to the doctors. We were chatting about genetics so Mum said to ask you about the eye colour thing. You know how two parents with the same eye colouring can’t have a child with a different colour, but I can’t remember which way round it is. Can two browns not have a blue?’
‘Bollocks, that whole eye colour thing, really common misconception. Right, open wide!’ Doug stood over her, instrument in hand, concentrating on her teeth. Lottie looked up at the ceiling which was bare, apart from a glaring strip light. Why did dentists never have interesting things up there to take patients’ minds off the trauma of the violation on their teeth?
She returned her focus to her father and looked straight up at him as he scraped at her teeth in silence. God, he was a bit jowly these days, that was obviously all Mum’s fab food, though it could be the beer too. She stared up into his eyes. As she did so, she took a sharp intake of breath.
‘Sorry, Lotts, was that sore? Your gums are a bit sensitive there.’
She gaped at the deep brown eyes and did not move.
‘Are you all right, Lottie?’ Amy asked. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’
She nodded slowly and clenched her hands tight together on her stomach. She had seen eyes exactly the same just the day before. Her cousin Jack’s.
Chapter Thirty-two
18th June 1860
The clip-clop of the horse announced her arrival. The cart drew to a halt outside the imposing stone edifice of the manse and everything was still, apart from a snorting as the horse shuffled its head back and forth. It was early morning and a light summer mist hung low over the village.