Fields of Blue Flax

by Sue Lawrence

  Charlotte tickled her chin. ‘Oh, Charlotte, look at her.’ There was such sadness in her mother’s faint voice. ‘Are you managing at Corrie?’

  The baby stirred, and opened her large eyes, gazing straight at Maud.

  ‘Oh, look. How beautiful her eyes are, my love.’ Maud smiled then put down her fan and peered closely at the child. Suddenly she drew back, with a sharp intake of breath. ‘The eyes, they are so brown, so dark…’

  Maud panted for a few moments while Charlotte tried to pat her mother’s narrow back, as she had been doing for years when she had an attack. But Maud’s wheezing worsened. She struggled for breath, trying desperately to draw air into her tight chest. Her bony shoulders rose as she took one last strained gasp for air and slumped back onto the seat.

  Charlotte put her hand on her mother’s brow. ‘Grieve, fetch a doctor. Now!’

  Bob Grieve set off, running full speed up the street. A kerfuffle at the courtroom door drew Charlotte’s attention. It was her father.

  She took one last look at her mother then bolted across the road back to the waiting woman and they both hastened away down the street. At the end, she turned back to see her father stride towards the carriage, three members of the kirk session behind him. They were all in black, tailcoats flapping; a murder of crows.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  2014

  Christine and Mags were in Mags’s garden with a cup of tea, sitting on the wooden bench in a bower framed by two coral-pink rhododendron bushes.

  ‘Those apple trees give us too much shade at this time of year,’ said Mags. ‘I’ve asked Doug to chop off some of those high branches but he keeps wittering on about his fear of heights.’

  ‘Oh, I think it all looks gorgeous out here. You’re so lucky to have a well-established garden. Our hedge is so short, there’s no privacy from the nosey neighbours.’ Christine looked to her side. ‘Are those lily of the valley over there? I thought they were a spring flower?’

  ‘No, mine flower till July. The garden’s north facing so maybe that’s why. They’re on the wane.’ Mags sipped from her mug. ‘Are you looking forward to the summer holidays? I can’t believe it’s that time already, it feels like it was Easter just recently.’

  ‘I know! I thought we might do another visit to Register House if you’re up for it? See if we can pin down Elizabeth Barrie and try to check if her mother was the same person who was the minister’s daughter, the one with lily of the valley on her tombstone.’

  ‘That’s just so unlikely, Chris, and the more I think about it, why on earth would you have a paternity suit if it wasn’t for the money. You know, alimony. And surely a daughter of the manse wouldn’t need any? It’s not like they’d be paupers or anything.’

  ‘True, unlike the woman we thought was her mother, what was her name again?’

  ‘Margaret Barrie.’ Mags took a mouthful of brownie. ‘You’ve not tried these brownies yet – there’s a new flavour today, guess what’s in them?’

  ‘You know I’m rubbish at this.’ Christine nibbled on a corner. ‘Cinnamon?’

  Mags nodded. ‘Yeah, your taste buds are improving! I was going to bake a different batch this afternoon. Why don’t I give you a couple to take down to Gateshead tomorrow? You can have them with your coffee, take your mind off the court thing.’

  ‘Thanks, that’d be great.’

  ‘I’ll pop round with them tonight.’ Mags glanced over at her cousin. ‘Chris, are you still positive you want to go to the hearing tomorrow?’

  ‘Definitely, he’s got to turn up tomorrow. That’s twice he’s not attended so it’s his last chance. And with the witness statements, he’s really got no option but to plead guilty.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’

  ‘You’d just get cross with my driving,’ said Christine.

  ‘Well, you are a bit slow.’

  ‘I’m not slow, I’m safe. And better that than cause the kind of accident that nearly killed my two children.’

  ‘You’re right. Sorry.’ Mags frowned. ‘Okay, I won’t come. But you’re not planning anything are you? You won’t confront him or anything?’

  ‘No, I just want to see him being sentenced. That’s revenge enough.’ Christine looked at her watch. ‘Right, I should go. I need to fill the car with petrol on the way home.’

  They picked up the tea tray and went back into the house. ‘I’ll pop round tonight with brownies for your journey,’ said Mags.

  ‘Brilliant, they’ll be my breakfast.’

  They hugged each other and Chris headed for the gate before turning back. She called back, ‘How’s it going with Auntie Bella’s bucket list?’

  Mags grinned. ‘The thought of an octogenarian smoking dope still kind of freaks me out, but hey, if that’s what she wants, I’ll ask around. See you later.’

  Mags tidied away the things from the tea tray then unfolded the ironing board and picked up the overflowing laundry basket.

  She had just finished folding the shirts and putting them away upstairs when she heard a shout from below.

  ‘I’m home, darling!’

  It was Doug. She looked at her watch. Strange, he was very early.

  She went downstairs and wandered along the corridor towards the kitchen. He came towards her and gave her a kiss. ‘My last two patients cancelled so I thought I’d just come home. Have you got much on this afternoon? We could go and do something together?’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘Like what?’

  He shrugged. ‘I dunno, go for a walk or… Oh, what about a cycle down to South Queensferry or something?’

  She wound the flex round the iron. ‘If you want, though Lottie said she might pop in as she’s got the afternoon off too.’

  ‘Lets just go now, Mags. We can have a late lunch somewhere.’

  ‘Well…’

  They heard the front door slam shut, and Lottie strode into the kitchen.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ She glared at Doug.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Mags. ‘Why are you looking at your dad like that?’

  ‘I’ll let him tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what? Doug?’

  But Doug was silent, his face grey.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Mags repeated.

  Lottie hesitated, briefly, then looked at her father. ‘He’s a lying, cheating bastard.’

  There was a deathly hush.

  Doug looked at Lottie, eyes imploring.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Mags bit her lip.

  ‘Sit down, Mum.’

  Mags sat heavily on the chair that Lottie pulled out for her. Doug remained standing by the ironing board.

  ‘It all started when I found a letter hidden inside the piano. Then that story Anna told me about genetics, even though it’s not true, it got me thinking. And Jack’s eyes, they’re just like Dad’s.’

  ‘What the hell are you getting at?’ Mags asked. Doug’s face was haggard; he had the look of a condemned man.

  ‘I found a letter from Dad to someone,’ said Lottie. ‘To Auntie Chris.’

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Doug.

  ‘Dad is Jack’s father.’ Lottie’s shoulders slumped and she leaned forward to take her mother’s hand.

  Mags burst out laughing. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lotts, just because they’ve both got brown eyes.’ She turned to her husband. ‘What’s this all about, Doug?’

  He looked at the floor and said nothing. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ said Lottie. ‘But it’s true.’

  ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’

  ‘No,’ said Lottie, staring at her father. ‘It’s true. He and Auntie Chris had a fling and the result is Jack.’

  Mags swallowed. ‘Get me some water.’ Doug darted to the sink and filled a mug with water. He placed it carefully on the table beside her and she downed it in a couple of gulps.

  ‘Doug, tell me it’s not true?’

  Doug looked up at the ceiling. ‘I’d love to, Mags, really I would, but wh
at Lottie says is true. Jack’s mine, but it was not an affair. We’ve kept it a secret from you all for so long now, I hoped it would all just go away and…’

  Mags opened her mouth wide. ‘Go away? So all that stuff you’ve told me about finding Chris unattractive over the past twenty-five years has been rubbish. You’ve lied all this time to me and to Lottie and to… God, does Jack know? And how about Gerry? Anna?’

  ‘No. Nobody knows.’

  ‘And is Chris aware we know?’ she asked Lottie.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Mags slumped onto the table and buried her face in her hands.

  No one said a thing until Mags sat up straight and looked at her husband. ‘Doug, get out of here. Now.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘Lottie, don’t tell anyone about this, not a whisper, do you understand?’

  Lottie nodded.

  ‘Mags, darling, I can explain everything. It’s not what you think.’

  ‘Ha, I’m sure it’s not.’ She picked up her mug and hurled it at his head. He ducked and it shattered against the pale cream wall.

  Doug snatched his car keys and slunk down the corridor and out of the house.

  ‘Want a glass of wine, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, that… No, actually, I won’t. I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Lottie said, walking towards her and reaching out her arms for a hug.

  Mags shivered and said, ‘Nothing, darling, just play me something lovely on the piano, please.’

  ‘Soothing or loud?’

  ‘Music I can rage to.’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  4th June 1860

  Charlotte Whyte had just sat down in the seat allocated to her in Forfar Sheriff Court when a noise behind her made her turn. It was her father dressed in his minister’s vestments and on his arm was a stooped old lady, head bent low. Charlotte peered round and realised this was no old lady, it was her mother. She looked ghastly. Why had she come, had he forced her? She tried to snatch another look but they sat down and she could see only him, his steely gaze taking in the stark courtroom and finally settling on his daughter. She cast her eyes down to her lap, brushing at her skirt as if it were covered in dirty stains.

  She was as bewildered as she had been three days before when her father’s man Mr Lamb had delivered the letter summoning her to court. The letter with its legal phrases made little sense to her but it was easy to see her father’s malevolence behind it.

  Sheriffdom of Forfar

  Initial Writ

  -In Causa

  -Charlotte Whyte, Corrie, Parish of Forfar, Pursuer

  Against

  -David Barrie, The Village, Tannadice, Parish of Forfar, Defender

  -The Pursuer craves the court:

  To find and declare that the defender is the father of Elizabeth

  Barrie, an illegitimate child born to the Pursuer on 29 February 1860.

  How was this necessary? She knew her father had registered the birth, but she had never seen the birth certificate.

  When Mr Lamb had brought the letter, she had asked why the kirk session was doing this, for she had neither asked for this nor given her consent. And why had her daughter been named Barrie rather than Whyte? He remained silent, merely pointing to the document.

  She had tried to read the writ but could get no further than the statement that she and the defender had had carnal knowledge out of wedlock and that she had given birth to an illegitimate child. How could her father be so cruel to expose her to such public humiliation?

  When Mr Lamb eventually spoke, his reply gave no comfort. ‘The Defender denied paternity of the child, Miss Whyte, so the case will be heard at the Sheriff Court on the 4th of June. Your father shall arrange transport for you and I need not add that the baby must not be brought to court. No doubt you can make arrangements to have her minded?’

  Charlotte felt sick. She glanced up at the ruddy face and thick whiskers of Mr Lamb. ‘My father is insisting upon this?’

  ‘He is, Miss Whyte.’ He left the room, taking his stale stench of sweat with him.

  Charlotte was startled from her thoughts by the wigged clerk calling out her name. ‘Charlotte Whyte against David Barrie,’ he announced to everyone.

  ‘This is an action of paternity over an illegitimate child, my Lord. It is tabling today so it is a first calling; there is to be a hearing.’

  Charlotte could hear an indefinable rustling from the gallery and glanced up at the audience. Behind the wooden railings were the public benches and a couple of rows of people, presumably locals keen to witness the spectacle. Mercifully she recognised no one from the village; that would have heaped even more humiliation upon her.

  The proceedings seemed to have no more to do with her than the writ her father had lodged without her agreement. The Sheriff on the high bench in front of her was addressed by a lawyer in a gown, apparently her advisor, though she had never spoken to him. Presumably her father had instructed him as to his daughter’s ‘wishes’.

  ‘I represent the pursuer, Charlotte Whyte, my lord. The defender is unrepresented. The defender denies paternity, so a trial will be needed.’

  ‘Is that correct, Mr Barrie?’ asked the Sheriff. ‘You deny being the father of this child?’

  ‘Please stand,’ the clerk ordered.

  David stood up, folded his arms in front of him and looked straight at the Sheriff. Speaking softly and slowly, he said, ‘I am the father of the bairn, Elizabeth Barrie, I dinnae deny it, sir.’

  Charlotte gasped. She leant forward to look at him, and for a brief second their eyes met. Those beautiful, deep-set eyes of his. She saw the compassion in them as he tried to smile at her. She shook her head and mouthed ‘Why?’

  David looked back two rows towards where the minister and his wife sat. He stared, features rigid with loathing.

  ‘You understand what this means, Mr Barrie?’

  David nodded and the Sheriff said to the lawyer, ‘I will find him as confessed but you have not asked for inlying expenses for the birth of the child or for aliment to support the child.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the Sheriff, turning back to David. ‘David Barrie, in terms of your confession I will grant the Pursuer’s Plea in law and declare you to be the father of Charlotte Whyte’s child, Elizabeth Barrie.’

  At that, the clerk pronounced the court dismissed and Charlotte heard a rustle behind her. She turned to see her mother stumble out from her seat and stagger towards the door.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  2014

  Christine placed her handbag and the little basket from Mags on the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition, peering at the dashboard to check the time. Eight o’clock, that should give her plenty time to reach the court in Gateshead by eleven, when the hearing was due to start.

  As she took the slip road out of Edinburgh onto the A1, she thought through the implications of the text she had received from Doug the previous evening.

  It had been about nine o’clock and she was sitting on the sofa beside Gerry, who was engrossed in the football. Seeing Doug’s name on the screen, she turned her back to her husband as she put on her glasses and read. The message was full of typos and there was no punctuation; he must be drunk, extremely drunk. It read, ‘tje secrets out say notjing til we cam corobbrate storys be in toucj later’. She stared at it, not moving a muscle. Gerry was still staring at the screen, his fists clenched as he watched a player running for the goal. She slipped off the sofa and stole towards the door, running upstairs to try and call Doug. It went straight to answer phone. She paced up and down the bedroom, trying again and again.

  What part of the secret was out? And who knew? She went to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water then grabbed a towel. In the mirror her eyes were wide with fear.

  She went downstairs and sat down beside Gerry, who had not moved.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ She rushed to the door.
Please don’t let it be Doug, she thought.

  She opened the door and there stood Mags, beaming, a little basket in her hands.

  ‘Oh, Mags.’ Christine faltered. ‘How are you?’ She scrutinised her cousin’s face.

  ‘Fine.’ Mags looked a little strained but she smiled again. ‘Here are your brownies for the journey tomorrow. New flavour, think you’ll like them.’

  ‘Thanks. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘No, I don’t have time, got a cake to ice for a catering job.’

  ‘Oh, brilliant! Well done.’

  There was an awkward silence. Mags handed the basket to Christine. ‘Right, must go.’ She looked into her cousin’s eyes, a strange expression on her face, and said, ‘Goodbye, Christine.’

  She turned quickly and headed towards the gate. Christine shouted goodbye, but Mags didn’t look back.

  Funny, she thought, Mags hadn’t called her Christine for years.

  All the way to Berwick-Upon-Tweed, Christine mulled it over: Doug’s text then Mags’s strange visit.

  Doug’s phone was still switched off, so she decided to concentrate instead on the court hearing. She was trying to imagine how Colin Clarkson would appear in court. She thought about first seeing him in A&E with his daughter and then more recently on that Sunday she had seen him outside his house. Would he have on that same shiny suit?

  She shivered as she thought of the day of the crash, the worst in her life, no question.

  A large road sign indicated that it was nine miles to Alnwick, and a small sign just past it read ‘Brownieside’. Why had she never noticed that name before on her journeys south to see the kids? It was like something from Enid Blyton. And then she remembered Mags’s brownies, and realised she was starving.

  Keeping her eyes on the road, she removed the cloth from the top of the basket with her left hand. She smiled as she laid the cloth neatly over her lap. How well Mags knew her: she hated crumbs in her car, and had always forbidden the kids from eating anything on journeys apart from boiled sweets, to much consternation from Gerry who said they would rot their teeth.

  Christine lifted back the foil in the basket and picked out a large brownie. She bit in; they were gorgeous as ever. Mags had told her it was all about the quality of the chocolate and the dark brown sugar – and was it duck eggs that made them even richer? Anyway, these were really delicious. What on earth was the flavour? They were incredibly more-ish.