“It’s no’ my bed, it’s Mungo’s.”
“Mungo?”
“My son,” said Annie with unexpected dignity. “He’s a guid laddie.”
“So whaur dae ye sleep?”
Annie pointed vaguely at a pile of dirty straw in the far corner. Alison could not believe that a mother could speak with pride of a son who kept the only bed to himself and let his mother sleep on stinking straw on the floor.
“Whaur is Mungo noo?” she demanded sharply.
“At his work. He’ll be hame soon. Ye’d better go. He’d no’ want tae find ye here. He disnae haud wi’ company.”
Alison wanted to wait until the son came home and give him a piece of her mind, but seeing her hesitate, Annie struggled to her feet and shouted “Get oot o’ ma hoose. Ye’re no’ wanted here.”
Behind the anger, Alison could sense fear so, not wanting to cause trouble, she made for the door. As she pulled it to behind her she thought she heard Annie whisper “God bless ye, dearie.”
As she hurried back to the shop, Annie decided she must do what she could for the woman called Paisley Annie and resolved to find out more about her and her son.
*
Tom strode into the warehouse yard, his thoughts in a turmoil. He was cursing himself for mentioning Maggie Osborne to Alison and trying to understand the unease he had felt at the sight of James Cunningham. As he started up the stairs to the offices he heard a clatter of hooves behind him and turned to see Mrs Cunningham, clad in a russet velvet riding habit, reining in a magnificent chestnut mare. All the men in the yard stopped to admire the sight, but as Adam Kennedy moved to help her dismount she shot him a scornful look and called, “Monsieur Tom, aidez-moi à descendre, s’il vous plaît.”
Tom, blushing, stepped forward and held out his arms. A moment later he was standing with his hands on the shoulders of her expensive russet velvet, conscious of her warm breath and elusive French perfume. They stood for a moment, very close, then she turned to Kennedy. “See to my horse, Monsieur Kennedy. Is my husband in the office?”
“Yes ma’am,” muttered Kennedy, touching his bonnet but shooting a murderous look at Tom.
“Then come, Monsieur Tom.” Laying a surprisingly strong hand on his arm, she gathered up her skirts and crossed the courtyard, seemingly oblivious to the hot stares of the men. As they mounted the steps Tom could feel waves of envy and resentment from below and was aware of the cool mockery of the woman at his side.
Mungo started guiltily as they entered the front office, quickly concealing some papers under the open ledger on his desk. Tom pretended not to have noticed. He didn’t trust Mungo yet.
Mrs Cunningham paused at her husband’s door. “Merci de m’avoir accompagnée, Monsieur Tom,” she breathed with a dazzling smile.
Tom, trying hard not to blush, gave his best bow as she disappeared into the inner office.
“Quite the braw gentleman, aren’t we?” sneered Mungo. “Gallivantin’ roon’ the toon an’ makin’ sheep’s eyes at the boss’s wife while ithers dae a’ the wark.”
Tom instantly felt ashamed.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Look, Mungo, I ken it maybe looks like I’m after your job, but Mr Cunningham aye says there’s work enough for baith o’ us. Forbye, I ken ye work hard and I’m willing tae be guided by you. I dinnae want ony bad feeling between us.”
Mungo stared at him and let an uncomfortable silence stretch between them. Finally, though, he grinned and said, “A’ richt, we’ll try tae get on. Just as long as ye remember I’m the boss.”
They worked on at their books through the afternoon. Mungo now and then darted glances at the closed inner door, through which could be heard a low murmur of voices, rolling his eyes and conveying to Tom through a series of unmistakeable gestures just what he thought was going on inside. Mungo was a talented mimic, so that when the door finally opened and Mr and Mrs Cunningham passed them on the way to the stairs Tom had to try hard not to burst out laughing. Once they were gone,
“Ye dinnae think . . .?” asked Tom.
“Oh aye, they get up tae all sorts. She’s a wanton hussy, thon yin. Ye’ll need tae watch yersel’, I saw the way she looked at ye.”
Tom sighed and went back to his invoices.
*
The weather had brightened during the afternoon and Tom felt his spirits lift as he drew near home. As he made his way through the yard after stabling Sadie he heard the familiar creak of the old swing which hung from the apple tree in the walled kitchen garden, and he found Kate swinging thoughtfully back and forth, munching an apple.
“Ye’ll mak yersel’ sick, wee sister,” he admonished. “Thae apples arenae ripe yet.”
“Ye’re right for once, big brither.” Kate made a face and threw the apple away. “Hoo’s the job?”
Tom settled on the bench by the wall beside her. “No’ bad. I think I’m getting’ the hang o’ it, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Mr Cunningham’s fine, but the ithers are still no’ that friendly. I’m getting’ on better wi’ Mungo, but . . .” Into his mind came a picture of Mungo hiding papers and this prompted another thought.
“But ...” repeated Kate.
Tom hesitated, finally saying, “I’ve a feeling mair goes on than meets the eye. They’re no’ keen on me gaun intae the warehoose, an’ Mungo was hidin’ somethin’ the day.”
Kate’s eyes widened.
“Smuggling!” she said. “Even I ken there’s a lot o’ that goes on.”
“Maybe, but Cunningham’s is a respectable business. Forbye, it’s thriving. I dinnae think they’d need to turn tae smuggling.”
“Mr Cunningham maybe disnae ken what they’re up tae in the warehoose. Or maybe he just disnae want tae ken.”
Tom thought, not for the first time, that his wee sister was too clever by half. She had put into words what until then had only been vague, half-formed suspicions in his mind.
“Mrs Cunningham came by the day,” he said, in an attempt to change the subject. Kate was instantly diverted.
“Oh, she’s so elegant, so French. I want tae gang tae France some day.” She sighed.
“Maybe ye will.”
“Dae ye still miss Paris?”
“Aye, but . . .” Tom surprised himself with his answer, “no’ as much as I did.”
“I’m glad. It’s guid tae hae ye hame, Tom.”
“It’s guid tae be hame,” said Tom, meaning it. “Come on, wee sister, it’s supper time. Best no’ tae mention smuggling, eh? Let’s keep it between oorsels, for noo.” He put a brotherly arm round her shoulder and they set off towards the house.
CHAPTER 6
Monday August 13th
The day was overcast again and the first drops of rain were falling as Alison called goodbye to her father and set off along the Sandgate with a basket over her arm and a determined step. This was to give her courage, for she was going back to Paisley Annie’s.
“You’re a fool,” said one part of herself. “She’ll no’ want charity, she might be roarin’ fu’ already, and what if Mungo’s there?”
“We’ll just have tae see,” said her other half. “Ye can’t not go.” Mill Street was already a hive of activity as she approached Annie’s hovel. The stink from the tannery and brewery was as overpowering as she remembered, and filthy prentice boys crossed and recrossed the narrow street carrying soaking animal hides and pails of fermenting hops.
“Watch yersel’, Miss,” cried a lad as he barged past Alison, spilling foul-smelling liquid from his bucket on to her shoes.
Alison jumped the gutter which ran up the middle of the street and knocked tentatively on Annie’s door. There was no answer, and no sound from within. Cautiously she pressed the latch and opened the door. The smell of drink and human waste hit her and as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she made out the figure huddled on the dirty straw, nursing an empty bottle and crooning to herself.
Alison put her basket on the dirty tabl
e and went to kneel by Annie.
“Annie, it’s me, Alison. Ye remember?”
Annie looked round wildly, belched loudly and clutched the ragged ends of her kirtle together over her greasy shift. Gradually her eyes focused on Alison and as recognition dawned she favoured her with a gummy smile.
“Aw, it’s the bonnie wee lass,” she said fondly. “Ye were here afore.”
“Aye, I’ve brocht ye some things.”
“Tae drink?” asked Annie hopefully.
“Tae eat. Just some bannocks and cheese, a wee bit butter and a couple o’ eggs.”
A strange proud light came into Annie’s eyes. She attempted to straighten up, glared at Alison and sneered, “Charity. I don’t need your charity.” She spat in the straw.
“Not charity,” said Alison, “just a wee gift from a friend. And ye’ll get nae mair if that’s how ye feel.” For a few moments the two women glared at each other, then Annie sighed.
“Eggs, did ye say? I used tae like a nice boiled egg.”
“Can I make a fire?” asked Alison, indicating the cold hearth.
“Nae wood.”
“Well it’s a guid thing I brocht a few sticks.”
Alison set to work. She swept the hearth for the first time in ages, judging by the coughing fit the work provoked, set and lit a meagre fire, then fetched some stray lumps of coal from among the stones by the tannery gate. She soon had a decent fire going and set water from the butt in the back yard to boil. While waiting, she swept the packed earth floor as best she could and pulled aside the grimy piece of sacking which covered the small back window. She could see down to the river, where a lone swan glided gracefully as the ever-present gulls wheeled overhead.
Ten minutes later she set a fairly clean plate of oat bannocks, cheese and a boiled egg in its shell on the table and turned back to Annie. She helped her over to the chair. Annie eyed the egg greedily, seized the spoon Alison had found in the table drawer, broke the shell and began to eat, slowly at first, then more hungrily. Finally, she wiped up the yolk with the last mouthful of bannock and sat back with a sigh.
“Guid,” she pronounced.
Tentatively, Alison said, “Could ye no’ dae that for yersel’, whiles?”
Annie’s face clouded over.
“Ower much bother. It’s easier just tae drink”
“Why dae ye need tae drink?”
Annie lowered her voice.
“Maybe . . . tae forget.” Then, her voice cracking, a faraway look in her eyes, she began to croon words Alison could scarcely hear.
“How often didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wouldst for aye be mine?”
Then, just as quickly, her expression changed and it was clear she would answer no more questions that day. Alison fetched her basket.
“There’s a wee bit mair coal tae keep the fire goin’. I’ll come back and see ye the morn.”
There was no reply. Annie’s mind was obviously far away.
As she made her way home, Alison wondered if she had done any good. One boiled egg wasn’t going to wean a woman haunted by her past off the bottle, but at least Annie was warm and fed for an hour or two. Alison was determined to confront the mysterious Mungo and decided to time her next visit differently in the hope of finding him at home.
*
The mysterious Mungo was at his desk, moodily counting up columns of figures. At the other desk, Tom was similarly engaged, but distracted by thoughts of what his sister had said about smuggling. How would they do it? Who would be involved? The most likely were the warehousemen; they were always reluctant to let him in there, as if clerks were not to be involved in the real business of the firm. The excise men could come and inspect at any time without warning, so how did they hide the contraband goods? Did the smuggled goods come in on the regular ships or did they have another source? How were the goods distributed afterwards? Most importantly, was Mr. Cunningham himself involved, the instigator even? He had always struck Tom as an honest man, well respected in Ayr and in Bordeaux, talked of as a future provost. Surely he would not jeopardise his position?
Tom glanced over at Mungo. Was he involved? Tom was aware he hardly knew his fellow clerk, and decided he would start by getting to know him better.
As if on cue, Mungo sighed deeply, threw down his pen and banged the ledger shut.
“It’s noon and I’m famished,” he declared. “Fancy a bite and a drink?”
“Is it all right if we baith gang oot?”
“Nae bother. We can just lock up for an hour. Mr Cunningham’ll no’ be in till later.” As they went out through the wide doors to the quay, Tom glanced over at the warehouse. As usual, Adam Kennedy was lounging in the doorway like Cerberus guarding the underworld. Tom wondered if he even let Mr Cunningham inside.
A damp drizzle was falling as they crossed the bridge and took the steep vennel down to the High Street, where the fishwives were calling their wares by the cross. The smell of fish mingled with damp dirty wool and excrement caught at Tom’s throat. Halfway down, a ragged figure appeared from a doorway and clutched at Mungo’s arm.
“Haw there, son, hae ye got a penny for me?”
“No’ the noo, mither,” muttered Mungo, brushing off her hand. He grasped Tom’s arm and hurried him away. They went into the crowded tavern at the corner where Mungo ordered up two measures of ale and some bannocks and cheese, waving aside Tom’s offer to pay.
“My shout the day, yours next time.”
They shook the rain from their plaids and found two vacant stools near the fire. Mungo launched immediately into a tale about a couple that had had to stand out in the kirk for fornication. Tom waited until he had finished, then said,
“Wha was it?”
“What dae ye mean?”
“Yon woman in the street. She ca’d ye son. Is that yer mither?”
Mungo blushed a fiery red, took a gulp of ale, then muttered, “Aye, that’s her.”
Tom said nothing.
“Ye’re wonderin’ why she’s in sic a state. It’s no’ my fault.”
“I’ve heard she begs in the mercats,” said Tom. “That’s no’ safe for her, if she hasnae got a badge.”
This obviously touched a raw nerve with Mungo. He leaped to his feet and for a moment Tom thought he would strike him.
“Mind yer ain business, can’t ye? Dae I meddle in your affairs? Hae I ever speired what ye were up tae in Paris? Fornication, I’ve nae doot.”
As suddenly as it had come, his anger subsided. He slumped onto his stool and sighed. “Look, my mither’s a drunk. She cannae get a beggar’s badge for I’m in work. I gi’e her money, but she spends it on drink. Oor hoose is a hovel, an’ it’s her job tae look efter it, but she disnae ken whaur she is, maist o’ the time. I dinnae ken what tae dae. She’s getting’ worse an’ I cannae thole bein’ at hame. I only gang there tae sleep. Just be thankfu’ your mither’s a saint, no’ Paisley Annie.”
His voice broke on the last words and he looked on the verge of tears. Tom felt sorry, but all he could think of to say was “Why dae they cry her Paisley Annie?”
“She’s frae Paisley, that’s why,” said Mungo in the weary tones of an adult addressing a small, ignorant child. “She cam’ here when she was a lass, she had nae folks, an’ she was in service wi’ some rich family. She never let on wha they were.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She’s never said, but it doesnae tak’ a brain tae work it oot. She got me an’ they turned her awa’.”
“So wha’s yer faither?”
“I dinnae ken, an’ my mither’s never said. I’m a bastard, richt enough,” said Mungo with a rueful grimace. “But hey,” he went on, “I’ve got my wits an’ a job. At least, for noo,” he added with a sly glance at Tom.
“Can ye get it intae yer heid, I’m no’ after yer job. Mr Cunningham values you, he said so, and . . .” Tom hesitated, “I’d like tae think we’re friends.”
“Friends!” crowed Mungo. “Weel,
aye, maybe . . .”
Tom clasped him on the shoulder. “Guid man. Weel, we’ve time for anither afore we need tae get back. My shout this time.”
CHAPTER 7
Sunday August 19th
Sunday, and for once the rain stopped and the sun shone on the righteous as they made their way to the kirk. Sir Malcolm decreed that the Boyd family would walk into Ayr for the morning service at the parish church, while Bob followed with the carriage in case the weather changed.
Dressed in their Sunday best, they made their way down the lanes between hawthorn hedges, enjoying the sun on their backs and doing their best to avoid puddles. Sir Malcolm, dressed soberly in his good black coat and tawny brocade waistcoat, gave his arm to Lady Margaret, in quiet dove-grey silk. Behind them came David in his good buff coat, Kate showing off her new black velvet jacket and striped satin kirtle, and Tom in his blue Paris coat.
“Bessie Gibney has tae stand in the kirk the day,” said David. “She’s had anither wean, an’ her no’ merrit. It’s a relapse this time, so she’ll be in front o’ the congregation a few times.”
“What’s a relapse?” inquired Kate.
“It’s when a lassie has stood before an’ hasnae learned the error o’ her ways,” said her brother. “Doesnae seem right tae me, the kirk session didnae gang efter the faither.”
“Wha’s the faither?” asked Tom.
“The De’il only kens. The lassie’ll no’ say. Like as no’ there’s a few candidates,” he added with a bitter laugh.
By now they were in the streets of Ayr and joining the throng of parishioners making their way towards St John’s Parish Church. Everyone was in Sunday best, but not every “best” was equally good. Fine ladies and gentlemen mixed with good burghers in plain broadcloth and poorer folk in flannel and hodden grey. The children of the poor, used to going barefoot, carried their one pair of shoes which they would put on at the church gate and try not to squirm with the unaccustomed pinching during the service.
Once inside the kirk the Boyds nodded and exchanged greetings with friends and acquaintances as they made their way to the family pew where the Misses McFadzean, resplendent in colourful silk and waving plumes, were already installed. Looking round, Tom saw Alison Fleming and a short, stooped gentleman he assumed was her father in a pew not far from theirs. Near the front, the forbidding figure of James Cunningham sat with the other elders of the kirk session, casting censorious eyes over the congregation, his gaze lingering disapprovingly on the bright McFadzean silks. On the far side of the kirk sat his brother Richard and his wife, whose fixed smile concealed, Tom guessed, unfathomable levels of boredom.
On Carrick Shore Page 4