Cat's Cradle

by Julia Golding

  ‘Ye are a strange lass. I dinna ken what to make o’ ye.’

  I sat down on a rock to enjoy the prospect in greater comfort. The Moir brothers had taken off their hats to collect nuts from a bush a little further up the slope, Ian doing the high branches, Dougie scrabbling around at his feet.

  ‘I thought, professor, you’d decided I had two heads – a regular spawn of Satan.’

  Jamie leaned against the rock beside me. ‘Ye dinna fit here.’

  I was reminded of Nick’s insistence that the Irish labourers were not welcome in his patch. It seemed this territorial streak ran in us all. But still, it was odd in a manufactory with thousands of people from all over Scotland and further afield.

  ‘Why don’t I fit in? The mill employs all sorts. Bridgit says there are other Irish, people from the Isle of Skye, Edinburgh, Glasgow – what’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Ye speak funny.’

  ‘I speak funny! Most of the time I don’t even know what you are saying! Half your words probably never made it into Dr Johnson’s Dictionary.’

  Jamie chucked a stone over the edge into the river below. ‘Who’s Dr Johnson?’

  ‘Only the greatest man of our century – with the possible exception of Mr Sheridan.’ I thought for a moment. ‘And Mr Wilberforce.’

  ‘See! Now I dinna understand a word ye are saying!’

  I scowled at him, but then realized how ridiculous it was to squabble about an accident of birth. After all my travels, surely I should know better? I’d learnt that we didn’t live in one world, but lots of different ones where we all thought our concerns were the most important, no matter if we were a Creek Indian, Jamaican planter or London waiter. Unable to contain my laughter at his indignation, my shoulders began to shake.

  ‘What’s the matter with ye?’ Jamie asked in exasperation. ‘Are ye laughing at me?’

  ‘At us both,’ I gasped, wiping my eyes. ‘You’ve taken against me for something I can’t help, and I’m reacting like a prickly hedgehog whenever you challenge me. Don’t you think that silly?’

  He glared at me, making my laughter redouble. Then his mouth twitched. ‘A hedgehog, ye say?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That’s true. Then what does that make me?’

  I had regained enough breath to wave towards him and gasp: ‘Your choice. I don’t want to be charged with insulting you again.’

  He thought for a moment, biting his lip. ‘A dog in a manger,’ he declared, referring to Aesop’s fable where a dog sat on food it could not enjoy rather than see others eat it.

  ‘Very apt. So, pax then?’

  ‘Aye, pax. Take my paw.’

  We shook hands.

  He tugged at his waistcoat and stood up, staring out at the falls. ‘That still doesna mean that I like ye.’

  ‘No, of course not, professor. But I thank you, kind sir, for disliking me for myself rather than for my place of birth.’ I rose and bobbed a curtsey.

  He snorted, whether in amusement or disgust was difficult to say.

  A dog barked behind us. Startled, I dodged behind my rock. Jamie spun round, then went very still, like prey that had been cornered. The two Moirs hared off into the trees. I peeked out from my refuge to find Jamie confronted by a tall man dressed in green tweeds, a hat decorated with fishing flies. His eyebrows flourished like some rust-coloured plant life on his craggy face, a long moustache drooped over his lips. He carried a rifle which was now aimed at Jamie’s belly. A black Labrador waited at his side, watching Jamie with unfriendly intent, teeth bared.

  ‘Give it up!’ growled the man. ‘Show me what ye’ve poached!’

  A sickly white beneath his freckles, Jamie stuttered: ‘I s-swear to ye, Mr Brown, I havena taken a thing.’

  ‘I ken ye too well, Jamie Kelly, to believe that. Ye are a wudscud in need of a skelping, that’s what ye are.’ He raised his hand in a thrashing gesture. ‘And it’s a skelping ye’ll get the day by my hand. Show me what ye’ve snecked!’

  Thinking fast, I smoothed down my skirt, now thanking my lucky stars that I was wearing my London clothes rather than my mill uniform. I stepped out from behind my rock and fixed the ghillie with my best duchess glare.

  ‘I say, my man, why on earth are you pointing your gun at my guide?’ My tone was the most arrogant aristocratic drawl I could muster. I lifted my chin, staring him down; the rifle barrel sagged as he gaped in surprise at my appearance. I forged on.

  ‘I really cannot abide such loutish behaviour. This boy was showing me the falls. Is there a law against one of the master’s guests walking in his grounds?’ I crossed my fingers, hoping that the ghillie would not call my bluff. I didn’t even know if the master of the estate was at home.

  ‘Mistress,’ Jamie hissed.

  ‘Of course, I mean the mistress,’ I corrected, kicking myself for forgetting that the Bonnington estate was owned by a lady.

  ‘Ye know the mistress?’ marvelled the ghillie.

  Oh dear. I suppose I did push his credibility to the limit in my mud-stained clothing, not quite the fine lady I was trying to be.

  ‘But of course.’ I gave a gay laugh. ‘My parents are her good friends. We are here for the . . .’ I gazed around for inspiration, saw the ghillie’s hat, and improvised, ‘. . . for the fishing. And hunting of course. Not me, you understand, but my father. I thought I’d . . . er . . . embroider this view so I asked the boy here to show me the way.’

  I have no idea what he made of my explanation, but I had confused him enough to make him feel unsure of his grounds of complaint against Jamie.

  ‘The lady rarely has visitors from England,’ murmured the ghillie.

  ‘Well, today she does – unexpected ones. Our carriage broke down not far from here and she was kind enough to invite us to stay.’

  Jamie shook his head a tad, a warning that I was giving too much detail.

  I changed tack, choosing a direction I hoped would push the ghillie further into bewilderment. ‘You cannot deny this is a fine view. I’ve seen little to match it in my travels, not even in Paris. I can’t wait to get out my embroidery hoop and begin. My governess was right when she said it was one of the wonders of this part of the world.’

  I could see the ghillie’s eyes begin to glaze over. I continued.

  ‘Yes, I think chain stitch for leaves. See, over there.’ I pointed to the forest. ‘And satin stitch for the river.’ I tapped my lip, a gesture borrowed from Mr Sheridan. ‘If only I can find silks to do justice to the magnificence of the scene. I don’t suppose you know a good supplier of embroidery threads in the district, do you, Mr Brown?’

  The ghillie flinched as if I’d poked him with a needle. ‘Me?’

  I frowned. ‘No, you don’t look the embroidering sort. Your wife perhaps?’ I added hopefully.

  Jamie stifled a snort of laughter in an unconvincing sneeze.

  ‘I dinna have a wifie!’ growled the ghillie.

  I wasn’t surprised, not with eyebrows that had a life of their own and grizzly bear manners.

  ‘What a shame. I shall have to return to the house and consult my dear mother, Lady . . . er . . . Siddons. Yes, that’s what I’ll have to do. Good morning to you.’

  With a flounce of my skirts, I swept past him.

  ‘Boy, are you going to show me the way back or not?’ I snapped with sublime arrogance.

  My question unfroze Jamie. He tugged a fore-lock in my general direction and jogged after me.

  ‘This way, my lady,’ he called, passing me on the path and heading off into the trees.

  Once out of sight we both broke into a run, keeping going until our lungs felt as if they would burst. We reached the point in the estate wall where we had come over and found the Moir brothers waiting for us. I collapsed, hands on my knees, chest heaving. Jamie rolled on the ground, looking as if he were in pain.

  ‘Are ye hurt?’ Dougie asked Jamie, patting him to find his injury.

  Jamie sat up, pushing Dougie away. ‘Nae, but nae tha
nks to ye hen-hertit laddies.’ He gulped a couple of breaths and then the laughter escaped in great gusts. ‘Ye should have seen her, Dougie! She asked Ghillie Brown for embroidery tips, just like a fine lady. He was so bumbazed, he let us go.’

  Ian joined in the laughter and thumped me on the back. ‘Ye saved Jamie’s hide, that ye did. Lady Ross-Baillie is very fierce about trespassers. She’s so proud of her grounds and cattle, she’s given the ghillie orders to chase us all off – told him shoot if he has any doubt. That was well done o’ ye, Catherine.’

  I straightened up, my stitch beginning to ease. ‘It was fun. The ghillie was such a flat.’

  Ian frowned. ‘Flat?’

  ‘Gullible.’

  ‘Ah, ye mean a daftie?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’ I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if the soft-footed ghillie was still stalking us. We had relished our victory for longer than was wise, making no effort to be quiet. ‘But if it’s all the same to you boys, I think we should get back over this wall.’

  ‘Let me help ye,’ said Jamie, stooping by the wall and forming a cup of his hands to give me a leg-up. He saw that I was about to refuse. ‘Nay, Snippie, dinna make us lads feel so useless.’

  He needed to display his gallantry now I had rescued him from the fire-breathing dragon of a gamekeeper.

  ‘In that case, professor, I’ll accept your help.’ Putting my muddied shoe into his grip, I hauled myself to the top of the wall, trying not to display my ankles in the process. Once up, I helped Jamie and the Moirs climb, then we swung down on a well-placed branch and back to the safety of New Lanark mill.

  Jamie bowed, cap clutched to his breast. ‘I hope my lady enjoyed her excursion to Corra Linn?’

  ‘I am much obliged to you all,’ I replied, dipping into an elegant curtsey. ‘I am now going to retire to my couch and begin my tapestry. Good day, gentlemen.’

  ‘Dinna I get paid for my trouble?’ Jamie asked, his lips twitching.

  ‘In your dreams, professor. In your dreams.’

  I swept away, hoots of laughter ringing in my ears.

  SCENE 3 – REVELATION

  Over the next few weeks, my mission to find out more about my origins appeared to be going nowhere, like a carriage axle-deep in mud. I felt I knew no more about Mrs Moir than I had at the end of the first day. It was the punishment of Tantalus – the grapes of knowledge dangling just out of my reach.

  Perhaps I failed because the working week passed in a haze of exhaustion and on the one day when I had any free time (Sunday) I had no opportunity to see her, busy as she was with the household tasks. I must admit to a grudging admiration: like the majority of women employed in the mill, she never stopped trying to eke out a respectable existence for her family from meagre resources. A fierce little competition ruled in Long Row for the cleanest doorstep, prettiest window boxes and tidiest children (though admittedly Mrs Moir was never going to win that one with Ian and Dougie at home). As I walked past the cottage trying to find a natural excuse for my questions, she was perpetually busy, having no time for anything but a nod in my direction.

  I confided my frustration to Bridgit. We were sitting on the slope by the waterwheel one dinner hour. The wheel was turning slowly, water pouring from the paddles, tumbling from the millstream back down to the Clyde. You could become mesmerized if you stared at it for too long. Bridgit, however, had her eyes fixed on my frowning face as she laid out our picnic of bread and cheese. For weeks now she had counselled me in her gentle way to be patient, told me we had made progress, warned me not to expect too much.

  I didn’t really want to hear such sensible words – I’d always been more inclined to rush my fences – but I knew she was right.

  ‘But how can I find out the truth?’ I asked, wrapping a shawl more tightly round my shoulders against the nip in the air.

  Bridgit smiled, her violet eyes taking on a fond expression as she looked at me. ‘You could always knock on the door and introduce yourself – put an end to all this uncertainty.’

  I groaned and rubbed my knees. ‘If I did that, then what would be the point of all this time spent working with her?’

  She laughed at my indignant expression. ‘Don’t tell me, Cat, that you can’t do an honest day’s work without complaining?’

  I picked a bit of cotton off the hem of her skirt. ‘Course I can. I just find it so . . . so boring.’

  ‘I thought boredom was the privilege of fine lords like your Earl of Arden. The rest of us are too busy earning our living to worry about being bored.’

  I laughed at myself. She was right: I sounded ridiculous and self-pitying. I was pleased I’d brought her along; her good sense had helped keep me on track on more than one occasion.

  ‘What about you, Bridgit? Do you regret coming with me?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. My brothers were pleased to see the back of me and I . . . to be sure, I had no reason to stay.’ She couldn’t hide the note of regret despite her brave words.

  I touched her arm lightly. ‘I’m sure your brothers love you in their own way.’

  She shook her head. ‘I think not.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Then they have a strange way of showing it.’

  ‘They’re just bitter. Remember what it was like here at the beginning? I felt like thrashing Jamie for his snide words, but I didn’t, and now we’re friends.’

  Bridgit shook her head. ‘I doubt my brothers have escaped a thrashing, not with all the trouble they were stirring up.’

  ‘I’m sure they are safe. Syd knows what they mean to you. He won’t let justice be taken too far.’ I had received a letter from Frank just the day before, telling me Syd was mending well. There had been no mention of further trouble in the market, which suggested Syd had been able to keep a lid on things.

  Bridget passed me a wedge of bread topped with cheese. ‘He sounds a fine man, your Syd.’

  I chuckled. ‘Yes, he is – but he’s not mine.’ I took a big bite.

  And then, like the turn of the waterwheel, my thoughts spun into a new pattern in my head. Syd needed a new sweetheart; Bridgit needed someone to love and look after her. And I’d always fancied myself something of a matchmaker . . .

  I cast a sideways look at my friend, sitting at peace as she admired the trees on the far bank of the river, wisps of her long, dark hair waving in the breeze. Could she guess my thoughts? I hoped not, as it would only spoil my lovely idea if she suspected what I had in mind. I just knew she and Syd would suit if they gave each other a chance. And a match between them would have the added advantage that, like a marriage of state, it would be a way to reconcile the two communities, Londoners and Irish. Covent Garden could declare an end to hostilities. All I required was a little time to put my skills to work. That thought made me even more impatient to finish my task here in the north.

  The bell rang, summoning us to return. I brushed down my skirt, folded the empty napkin and tucked it back in Bridgit’s basket. ‘Come on, Bridgit.’

  Bridgit choked on a laugh at my unaccustomed enthusiasm. ‘So eager now?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve got work to do.’ I tugged her towards the mill, joining the stream of workers heading back to their looms. ‘Did I ever tell you how Syd saved me from a murderous sea captain?’

  November passed in a procession of cheerless, dank days. I rarely saw the sun, except for a fleeting glimpse at dinner time, as we now rose in the dark and returned to the dormitory after nightfall. Colds and snuffles passed from one girl to another like a baton in a relay race, and soon all of us were sporting unattractive red noses and teary eyes. Martha, who had still not warmed to my presence in her bed, complained that I kept her awake with my sneezing. I pointed out that her icy feet were chilling my back. I think that made it a stalemate.

  One frosty morning, I woke with a sore throat and aching bones. For one moment I considered the possibility that my malaria (caught while in the Caribbean) had returned, but then discarded that idea for
the more likely chance that I had succumbed to the influenza doing the rounds of the mill. Annie reported my condition to Goodwife Ross and I was allowed to remain in bed. Despite feeling wretched, it was a luxury to have the covers all to myself and sleep the day away. Bridgit came to visit after work, the Moir boys and Jamie sent a basket of chestnuts to cheer me, even the dominie sent a note wishing me a speedy recovery.

  Fortunately, I did not have the illness too badly and shook it after three days. Allowed Saturday off to recuperate, I was expected back at work on Monday.

  I emerged on Sunday afternoon to take a breath of air with Bridgit, walking somewhat wobbly like a newly birthed foal. She had invited me to eat with her rather than in the hubbub of the dormitory dining room. Giving me the warmest spot by the fire in the kitchen of the two-roomed cottage, Bridgit set about cooking a hearty stew for us and her landlady.

  ‘This is lovely.’ I stretched my hands to the grate, pausing to admire the neat arrangement of the kitchen. A little pot of geraniums sat on the windowsill; one late flower in bloom. An alphabetical sampler decorated the wall. By the other chair, the schoolteacher had a shelf of books – copies of The Rambler, Richardson’s Clarissa in many volumes, a collection of Shakespeare’s plays. I could imagine such a future for myself: a little cottage furnished with the belongings I had paid for out of my own earnings. A proper home.

  ‘So, tell me what’s been happening while I’ve been in bed,’ I said, stretching my toes out to the fire.

  Bridgit put the pot on the stove to stew and sat opposite me, wiping her fingers on her apron.

  ‘I’ve some bad news for you, I’m afraid.’

  I sat up straight. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The Moirs have gone down with the flu. Jeannie is very bad, they say. Mr Moir – you know he’s not healthy at the best of times – he’s seriously ill. The worst is that Mrs Moir has developed pneumonia.’

  Pneumonia. That was often a killer.

  I mentally chided myself when I realized my first thought had been fear that if Mrs Moir died I’d never find out the truth. So selfish. I gave my better self a shove to the fore.