“There ye are, lad,” said a kind voice. “Come awa’ in.” Richard Cunningham came forward to shake hands with his new employee.
The room they were standing in looked over the yard, with the stables opposite and on either side, the large double doors to the warehouses. Beneath the offices was a wide arched entrance, through which men were carrying casks and rolling barrels which they had just unloaded from a tall ship berthed at the quay. The noise of rumbling barrels echoed through the building, drowning the squawking of the seagulls overhead.
The office was furnished with two tall desks, one with a high stool, and shelves laden with ledgers. Two small windows, one on either side of the door, looked out over the yard; a door on the opposite wall led to Mr Cunningham’s own office, into which Tom was now invited. It was a larger room, with a handsome mahogany desk on a Turkish carpet, two deep tapestry-upholstered chairs and prints of local scenes on the walls – Ailsa Craig, Dunure Castle and the ruins of Crossraguel Abbey. The room was light and airy, in contrast to the cramped outer office. The tall windows afforded a view of the bustling quays on either side of the river and, on the opposite bank, the huddled ruins of Cromwell’s fort commanding the mouth of the estuary.
“I’m glad you’re gonnae work wi’ us, Tom,” said Mr Cunningham. “We’ll start by showing ye the business and get ye tae help keep the books. But your faither says ye ken a lot aboot wine, so maybe there’ll be mair interesting things for ye tae dae once ye’ve learned a bit.”
This prospect lightened Tom’s mood somewhat but just then he heard a step on the outside stair and turned to see a skinny, carroty-haired youth of about his own age framed in the doorway.
“Come awa’ in, Mungo,” said Richard Cunningham, “and meet your new colleague. This is Tom Boyd, and he’ll be working wi’ ye. Tom, this is Mungo McGillivray, my other clerk. He’ll show ye the ropes.”
Mungo fixed Tom with a belligerent blue stare and muttered something about not needing any help. “I can manage the books fine masel’.”
“Aye, but I’m looking tae expand the business, and Tom here’s had experience frae Paris. He kens aboot wine, and he’ll be a lot o’ help there,” said Mr Cunningham, with an encouraging smile for Tom. “For noo, I want ye tae show him the books and go over the accounts wi’ him. After that, ye can tak him ower tae the warehoose. Dinna fash yersel’, laddie, there’s mair than enough work for twa.”
For answer, Mungo merely grunted. Finally, “Come on, then,” he said, flouncing with ill grace into the outer office. “That’s your desk,” he said, indicating the shabbier of the two, the one without a stool. For the next hour, he proceeded to pull down ledger after ledger and run through the columns of figures at full speed, so that Tom had no chance of understanding anything beyond the names of a few suppliers in France, some of whom were known to him, and some customers in Scotland. He had no idea at this speed how the book-keeping system worked, or how far back the accounts reached, as many of them seemed to bear no dates. He told himself not to worry; he could go over the books at his leisure once Mungo found something else to do.
Sure enough, “Got it, Monsewer?” asked Mungo eventually.
Tom did not rise to the bait, saying merely, “I’ll just gang ower the last bit again masel’”, whereupon Mungo took himself off to his own desk, settled himself on his high stool and watched with open scorn as Tom carefully went through the figures, trying to ignore his colleague’s distracting tactics – drumming his fingers on the desk, muttering to himself and indulging in a prolonged sneezing fit. Tom would have said something had he not been conscious of his father’s dire warnings about last chances and his own determination to cultivate his garden. Besides, he liked Mr Cunningham and in spite of Mungo’s efforts, he was beginning to make sense of the accounts.
Eventually Mungo sighed deeply and pushed himself off his stool.
“I’ll show ye the warehoose noo.”
Tom followed him down the creaking wooden stairs and across the yard, passing a group of men heaving casks onto carts bound for Glasgow, Edinburgh and Dumfries. “Oot the way, laddie,” sneered one of them, elbowing Tom in the ribs as he came a little too close. Tom wanted to remonstrate, but Mungo had already disappeared through the big double doors on the right, and he hurried to follow.
Entering the warehouse, his senses were assailed by the sour-sweet, woody smell of wine and the heady aroma of spirits from the casks and bottles on the heavy stands which stretched away into the gloom. A stocky, powerful figure with close-cropped brown hair and a livid scar on his broad face stood near the doorway with a sheaf of papers in his hand, ticking off the casks and bottles as they were carried to the carts.
“Adam,” said Mungo, “This here’s. . .”
“Haud yer wheesht, ye wee gommerel,” snarled the man. “Bide there till I’ve feenished.” He went back to his lists while Tom looked round curiously and Mungo twitched impatiently.
Finally the man Adam folded his papers and turned his attention to them. “Wha’s this?” he asked, staring inquisitively at Tom.
“Tom Boyd, the new clerk,” said Mungo. “I’ve tae show him the warehoose.”
“I’ll dae that, you get back tae the office.” As Mungo slouched off, he continued. “Adam Kennedy, at your service. I’m the head warehooseman. Ye’ll be Sir Malcolm’s boy? The one that’s been tae France?” His tone throughout bordered on insolence and ended with a leer. “I heard Mr Cunningham had ta’en ye on, but I cannae think why.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Anyway, I’ll show ye the warehooses.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Tom was taken on a lightning tour of the two warehouses, following Adam Kennedy as he strode around with a rolling, confident gait, pointing out the stores of wine, spirits, tea, coffee and salt.
“This must be worth a pickle,” said Tom. “Are ye no’ scared o’ thieves?”
“Scared?” Kennedy spat contemptuously. “Nae fear. It’s a’ weel locked up at nicht.” And he stared at Tom, as if accusing him of having designs on the stock. “So, hae ye seen enough? Get awa’ back tae yer office, then. Me an’ the lads tak’ care o’ everything doon here.” He glanced meaningfully at the two hefty young men lounging by the door, one of whom Tom recognised as the man who had elbowed him earlier. “Back tae work wi’ ye, Geordie, Wullie,” ordered Kennedy.
Back in the office Tom found Mungo, looking industrious for once, writing out invoices in a fine copperplate hand. “Ye can dae the envelopes,” he said graciously. “There’s a list on yer desk.”
The rest of the day passed in not very companionable silence. Mungo gave Tom a few easy tasks to do and let him spend some time going through the ledgers. His manner seemed to have moved from open scorn, through resentment to something like indifference, for which Tom was grateful. Nevertheless, at the end of the day he was glad to saddle up Sadie and set out for home.
*
At supper-time in the cosy family dining-room off the formal one, Tom looked round the table and felt glad to be back with his family after the trials of the day.
“Let’s see what Bo . . . Jeanie has got for us,” said his mother, removing the lid of the dish to release the fragrant aroma of a tempting rabbit stew. There was a pause as she dished it out and handed round the vegetables. Tom could see that Kate was squirming with impatience and his father and brother were trying only slightly more successfully to contain their curiosity. He braced himself for the inevitable questions.
“Weel, son,” said Lady Margaret once everyone had been served.
“It was fine,” he said, fearing his father’s anger if he dared complain. “Mr Cunningham was very . . .”
“Accommodating?” piped up Kate, who had heard from Jeanie about Tom’s most recent use of that adjective. Her mother silenced her with a look.
“. . . pleasant,” said Tom. “The business seems tae be thriving. I saw the books and warehooses, and helped wi’ some invoices.”
Kate yawned theatrically, earning another warning l
ook from her mother.
“Mr Cunningham said I might be involved in expanding the business,” continued Tom with a repressive stare at his sister.
“Hoo mony does he employ?” asked Sir Malcolm.
“Weel, there’s twa lads work in the warehooses, and twa or three mair come by tae help wi’ loadin’ and unloadin’. There’s a ship in frae France the day. And the heid warehooseman, Adam Kennedy.” Tom shivered, remembering the reception he’d had from that quarter.
“Adam Kennedy?” asked David. “I ken o’ him. Ye’ll no’ want tae cross him, he’s a hard man. I’m surprised Mr Cunningham employs him. Ye saw his scar?” Tom nodded. “They say he got that in a fight wi’ an excise man.”
“Ye think he’s been mixed up in smuggling?” Lady Margaret was shocked.
“It’s what they hint at,” said David, “but wha kens? Maybe it was the excise man the thief. Naebody kens the truth o’ it. Onyway, Tom, ye’d best keep oot o’ his way.”
“Are there just you and Mr Cunningham in the office?” asked his mother.
“Weel, Mr Cunningham’s only there sometimes. There’s his other clerk, the one that showed me the books an’ got me started. Mungo McGillivray, he’s cried.”
“Mungo,” said David. “I ken him weel. He was at skule wi’ me. What dae ye think tae him?”
“He was civil enough.”
“But no’ very . . . accommodating,” teased his brother. “Aye, that would be Mungo. Red hair, plooks an’ a chip on his shooder. Ye’ll need tae watch out for him, an a’. He lives wi’ his mither in a wee hoose in Mill Street, doon by the tannery. She’s a puir soul, no’ richt in the heid, aye beggin’ scraps in the mercats.”
Tom suddenly felt more kindly disposed towards Mungo. No wonder he was so resentful; he probably thought he was going to lose his place to Tom.
“Just see ye stick in at the job, Thomas,” said his father, wiping up the last of his plate of stew. “I see there’s a rhubarb pie. I hope it’s yin o’ Bob’s.”
CHAPTER 5
Friday August 10th
Next day, after a morning spent writing out invoices to the accompaniment of a deafening silence from Mungo, Tom was given an hour’s break and decided to cross to the South Quay and take a walk along the shore past Cromwell’s fort. The day was overcast and dull, with rain spitting in the wind.
He passed the fort at the mouth of the river, built by Cromwell over a hundred years previously to keep the citizens of Ayr in line; now abandoned, it was already falling into ruin. There was less of it than Tom remembered from his childhood; the townspeople were gradually removing the stones for domestic building.
The stiff breeze pulled at Tom’s coat as he started off along the shore. It was noisy, heavy going on the shingle and after a while he stopped to pick up a flat stone and, taking careful aim, he threw it hard and flat into the water. It bounced four times before sinking; Tom was satisfied he had not lost his touch.
“Is that the best ye can dae?” called a voice. Turning, he saw Alison Fleming standing further up on the sandy part of the shore. The wind tugged at her blue woollen plaid and her hair, strands of which were escaping her plain linen cap and blowing around her face, and put colour in her pale cheeks. She scrambled down the beach to join him at the water’s edge.
“I’m a bit oot o’ practice,” admitted Tom. “I havenae skited chucky stanes for years.”
“I dinnae suppose it’s a Parisian pastime,” laughed Alison. She selected a flat blue-grey stone and expertly sent it skimming into the waves. “Five!” she cried. “Your turn.”
Tom needed no further invitation and soon they were skimming stones like the children they had been not that long before, leaping and stumbling on the shingle and calling challenges, their laughter borne away on the wind.
Finally they stopped for breath and looked at each other, in accord for the first time.
“What brings ye tae the shore?” asked Alison. Tom explained about his job at Cunningham’s.
“I come doon here whiles masel’,” said Alison. “It clears the heid when I’m stuck wi’ the figures or I cannae think how best tae cut some cloth. I’ve a new order for some stays for Mrs Cunningham – that’ll be your new employer’s wife – an’ I want tae dae a guid job.”
“Has she been tae see ye already?” asked Tom, surprised. He explained about the supper party and the Misses McFadzeans’ recommendation.
“Weel, I’ve them tae thank for it,” replied Alison. “She’s an important client and I just hope I can gi’e satisfaction. She usually has modistes from Edinburgh and London.”
“It’s guid she’s gi’en ye an order in spite o’ what her brither-in-law says,” said Tom, then realised too late that Alison would be curious to know more and would not like what she heard. Sure enough,
“What dae ye mean?” she demanded.
“It was Mr James Cunningham, the elder. He said women should keep hoose and ken their place.”
“Did he noo? And did he say that generally, or did he talk aboot me?”
“I think ye did mention you . . .” Tom hesitated as he realised his evasive tone was cutting no ice with Alison.
“What exactly did he say?”
Tom swallowed hard, then plunged into as exact a summary of the conversation as he could manage, careful to omit the “shameless hussy” reference and include his mother’s and Mrs Cunningham’s attempts to defend her. Unfortunately, he forgot to stop when he reached the part about Maggie Osborne, the witch.
“So that’s it,” said Alison furiously. “Yon man, for a’ he’s a kirk elder, is a holier-than-thou slanderer. Aye, Maggie Osborne was my ancestor, but she was nae witch, just a clever woman brought doon by jealous, mealy-mouthed matrons and kirk elders and hounded tae death just because she was different.” She paused for breath, her eyes sparkling dangerously. “An’ you, Tom Boyd, I thocht ye’d ken better than tae gi’e ony credence tae thon lies, still less fling them in my face. Guid-day tae ye.” And she turned and stumbled clumsily away from him up the shingle, her eyes blinded by angry tears.
Tom wanted to go after her, to explain that he was on her side and hadn’t meant to offend her, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t listen. As he turned back towards the town, he caught sight of a tall, still figure standing some way off; James Cunningham, watching him like a black corbie eying a juicy corpse.
*
Alison hurried along the Sandgate, still fuming at Tom Boyd. Why did he annoy her so much? One minute, they had been laughing together like carefree children, the next he was repeating, with relish it seemed, things he must have known she had no wish to hear. The fact that she had asked him to do so did not cross her mind. “Graceless gowk!” she muttered. “If that’s what Paris does tae ye, I’m never gaun there.”
She was so angry she didn’t notice the bundle of rags in the doorway of her shop and stumbled over it. To her surprise, the bundle squawked indignantly and made to struggle to its feet, cursing the while. Alison saw a small hunched woman with dull, greasy red hair and a wild, haggard face, reeking strongly of ale.
“I beg your pardon, mistress,” she said. “I didnae see ye there.”
“Aye,” said the woman bitterly. “Your sort never dae.”
On closer inspection, the woman looked much younger than Alison had first thought, but she was obviously in difficulty, though whether from drink or injury it was impossible to say,
“Whaur dae ye bide, mistress?” she asked. “Can I see ye hame?”
The woman muttered another curse, staggered a few steps and collapsed against the wall.
“Come awa’ wi’ ye, mistress,” said Alison. “Tak’ my airm,” then staggered herself as the woman clutched her arm in a surprisingly strong grip and leaned heavily on her.
“Mill Street,” she croaked.
“Well,” thought Alison, “at least she has a hame.”
Mill Street ran behind the High Street, down by the river, and contained a brewery, a tannery and the hovels
of the poor.
They set off, staggering back down the Sandgate under the curious stares of the good townspeople of Ayr, turned right under the grim walls of the Tolbooth and passed through the vennel to the High Street, where a few local lads began to follow them, jeering.
“Haw there, Paisley Annie, wha’s yer friend?”
“She looks a likely lass. Hoo much is she askin’?”
The woman let go of Alison’s arm to aim a kick at the nearest boy, missed and fell backwards into the midden. Alison made haste to help her up from the rotting heap and they carried on to Mill Street, where the combined stink of fermenting barley, animal hides and urine almost made Alison retch. She struggled on, however, and presently the woman Annie turned in at the meanest hovel and staggered towards a low stool, one of the few items of furniture in the dark, dirty room.
Alison followed, catching her breath at the squalor of her surroundings. Spying a pail in the corner, she dipped the end of her plaid in the brackish water and tried to wash the worst of the muck from Annie’s hands and face. All the strength had gone out of the woman and she submitted meekly to Alison’s ministrations.
“Let be,” she said finally. “I’ll be fine noo I’m hame.”
Alison stood back and looked round the room. There was no fire in the mean hearth and the air was damp and clammy. Apart from the stool where Annie sat slumped there was a rough wooden recess bed with a straw mattress, a rickety wooden table and an ancient press. An old iron cooking pot lay abandoned on the hearth and empty bottles littered the floor.
“Would ye no’ like tae lie doon?” asked Alison, indicating the bed, for she could see that Annie was near collapse.
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