Sunday 4 January 1880
Ann took a deep breath and rapped on the door. There was the scraping of a chair and the scuff of footsteps before the door opened. A girl, about eight years old, peered out at Ann through greasy, tangled hair. She had bare feet and a ragged plaid shawl round her shoulders. Underneath she wore a baggy dress that was far too big for her.
‘Aye?’
‘Is Mattie in?’
‘Aye.’
The girl continued to stand.
‘Who’s there, Elspet?’ a voice boomed out from inside.
‘A lady, Auntie Mattie, wants to see you.’
‘Let her in.’
Ann pushed the door and entered the room. She had seen worse, and smelled worse. Perhaps it was simply the pervasive odour of pipe tobacco. The walls were bare stone and a piece of jute hessian hung from an open window. She looked towards the empty fireplace to where Blind Mattie sat sucking on her pipe, her melodeon by her side.
‘Draw closer, will you,’ she said and Ann remembered the country lilt to her soft voice. She smiled as she looked at the old woman but then steeled herself; she must not give herself away.
The girl came to stand beside her aunt and stared at Ann as if she had never seen a lady at close quarters. Ann looked more closely at the girl and realised she was wearing a dress similar to those that Lizzie wore; in fact, it may have been one of the items that Ann gave annually to the church for the poor.
Ann stood up tall and looked down at the woman, her face enveloped in puffs of smoke. Could she not do without tobacco and buy kindling for the fire?
‘I’ve come to ask you about the train, Mattie. I heard you were on the water yesterday.’
‘Aye and what’s it to you?’ Her opaque, dead eyes swivelled up towards Ann.
‘My husband was probably on board and I need to know if he is in the water.’
‘Come near, let me have your hand.’ Mattie reached out one of hers and Ann removed one of her dark green kid gloves.
The woman felt all over her hand then said, ‘I can tell you are a lady, but I know you, don’t I?’
Ann withdrew her hand. ‘From Glenisla, you know me from there,’ she whispered. ‘Can you tell me if my husband, Robert, is in the river?’
The girl crouched next to Ann and rubbed her fingers along the scalloped edges of her woollen cloak. Her hands were filthy, the nails caked in dirt.
‘What colour does the lady wear, Elspet?’
‘Green, Auntie Mattie, dark green like moss on the stones.’
Ann drew her cloak around her and watched the child’s breath condensing in the cold room. ‘Do you have no money for kindling for the fire?’
‘Not till I gang out the morrow with my melodeon,’ said Mattie. ‘Nothing till then.’
Ann pulled a small purse from her pocket and took out a sixpence. She put it in Mattie’s hand and tried to pull away but the woman held fast.
‘Where did you stay in Glenisla? The big house? The manse?’
‘It was a long time ago, Mattie.’ Ann managed to retract her hand and watched as Mattie turned the sixpence round and round in her fingers. ‘So, can you say if my husband is there?’
Blind Mattie pocketed the coin and extended both hands. ‘Give me them again, both this time. Elspet, go to the door and stand still, I don’t want your spirit to get in the way.’
Slowly, Ann reached forwards with both hands.
‘Look straight at my eyes. Nowhere else.’
Ann felt her hands being gripped tight then loosened then gripped once more, the bony fingers playing up and down her palms in an increasingly frantic rhythm. This went on for some time as Mattie’s head moved from side to side, her dead eyes glazed. Her lips moved but no noise emerged.
After what seemed an interminable time, Ann’s hands were released and she sat back. Mattie stopped rocking and spoke. ‘Your husband is not in the water; he is not one of those poor bodies floating to the surface. There are so many, down in the icy depths, but I can see nothing of yours down there.’
Ann took a deep breath.
‘Elspet, fetch my melodeon.’
‘It is by your side, Auntie Mattie.’
The woman patted her hand around her until she found the instrument. When she played, the haunting melody filled the air and a deep, visceral ache swept over Ann. The tune was once more ‘To the Weaver’s Gin Ye Go’ and for the first time in years, Ann felt tears begin to trickle down her face. The music continued and she began to shake as she sobbed silently. The past came flooding back and she felt she was in a place she did not want to be.
Mattie finished the tune and placed the melodeon at her feet. Ann sat up straight, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.
Mattie pulled the sixpence from her pocket and stretched out her hand. ‘Elspet, gang out for some kindling. And get a wee poke of meal from Janet Smith. We’ll have porridge today.’
Ann, now more composed, got to her feet. She looked down at Mattie who was picking up her pipe.
‘Thank you, Mattie. I hope you enjoy your porridge.’
Mattie put her pipe to one side of her mouth and turned her head up towards Ann. She beckoned with a finger and Ann drew closer.
‘It is a good thing you are not wearing mourning. For he is not dead, but sleeping.’
Ann went towards the door and turned as Mattie called to her.
‘You are not as you seem, young lady. The past has a hold on you. Do not ignore it, you might need people from back then.’
She puffed on her pipe then turned back towards the empty hearth.