After three solid hours of intensive information flow at the university in Edinburgh I was ready for a strong coffee and sustenance. I made my way from campus on foot and slipped into one of the numerous bookstores scattered around the perimeter. The Book Cellar had a stunning collection of new and used books, and that tantalizing scent of dust and magic, but most important at the moment, it had an Italian espresso machine that could work miracles of caffeination. Armed with a large cappuccino and an oatcake topped with plum jam, I settled into a vacant armchair and pulled up the address of Reverend Craig’s friend Amanda Forrester. Her shop, Woolies, was located about a couple of miles away on the other side of the Meadows. An easy walk, as long as the weather held. According to the website, Woolies sold handcrafted knitwear, along with all manner of knitting supplies, and also offered classes from beginner’s to advanced.
As I made my way south and westward from the university area loaded with takeaway restaurants, bars, and apartments, I watched as the neighborhood transitioned to an older residential area known as Morningside. It wasn’t a posh neighborhood by any means, but it was clean, safe, and well cared for.
Woolies had taken over the basement and ground floor of a terraced house near the park. I stood at street level considering the sign. Down was lessons and group sessions, up was the retail shop. I opted for up. A small bell tinkled as I entered. Two large bay windows on either side of the door filled the front of the shop with light. An abandoned ball of yarn and needles sat on the window seat of the bay to my right. As I made my way further into the shop, I was confronted with row upon row of gorgeous sweaters and shawls stacked on tables and in antique armoires that comprised the front third of the shop. I touched the delicate designs in awe.
Further back, the walls were covered with honeycomb like shelves displaying a mad array of wools. Mohairs, alpaca, merino, cotton, and silk in a dizzying array of colors. I was not a crafty person and had never so much as touched a knitting needle, but staring at the walls of color and texture, I was suddenly tempted.
“Can I help you find something?” a voice asked from behind me.
I turned and saw a ginger-haired young woman sitting in the corner working an old-fashioned spinning wheel twirling an undulating piece of fluff into a long strand of yarn. I watched, fascinated, as her fingers manipulated the cream-colored material in her hands.
“I was looking for Amanda Forrester.”
“You’ve found her,” the woman replied with a smile. She carefully placed her work in a basket at her feet and rose from the spindle, brushing bits of wool from her black tank top and faded jeans. “How can I help?”
She studied me with warm, earnest eyes of deep hazel, and I couldn’t help feeling the question was genuine and far-reaching.
“I’m a friend of Reverend Craig Andersen,” I began,
“You must be Abi, then.” Amanda smiled and extended a hand. “Craig called and said you’d be stopping by.” She gestured to a faded floral couch set amidst large baskets of sale wool and a wall of assorted-sized needles. She shooed away two cats to make space and we sat. “I understand you have some sheep.”
“For my sins I’m the responsible party for nineteen wayward sheep, all of whom are set to be sheared this week. I hate the thought of just throwing the wool away, but Reverend Craig thought you might have some use for it.”
“We always need wool. What kind of sheep do you have?” Amanda asked.
“Cheviot mainly,” I offered, “but that’s about all I know. I’m not a farmer by any means, just a city sap who can’t stand to see those sad little faces going off to the slaughterhouse. I took on the first lot about seven months ago when my neighbor passed away. The rest came as word of my ovine retirement home spread.”
Amanda shook her head and chuckled softly. “That’s brilliant, and I’d be happy to take the wool off your hands, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay you for it. Is that a problem? I’m not sure how much Reverend Craig told you about our operation here.”
“He told me a bit, but I’d like to hear more.”
Amanda pointed to the front of the shop. “All the knitwear in the front room is made right here in Scotland. Fifty percent of the profits from the sales in the shop go to help fund the Shepherd’s Rest, a retreat for woman that are facing abuse on the home front.”
“How many residents do you have?”
“It varies. At the moment we have six women and one child.”
“That’s wonderful. Reverend Craig speaks very highly of what you’re doing here.”
Amanda picked up a skein of wool from the arm of the sofa and began to roll it into a neat ball. “Craig was a close friend of Moureen Templeton, the woman that founded the shelter. Moureen came from a wealthy family, but still suffered for many years in an abusive marriage. After her husband passed away, she made it her personal mission to educate people. She wanted them to understand that abuse isn’t limited by age, or sex, or financial means. It can happen to anyone, anywhere.”
“How did you become involved with the shelter?”
Amanda smiled fondly. “About four years ago Moureen walked into Woolies and asked me if I’d be willing to teach some knitting classes as part of the care and counseling program at the Rest. She thought the knitting would be practical and calming. She was very persuasive. I came into the fold and I’m still there.”
“But how did you go from giving knitting lessons to being in charge?” I asked.
Amanda laughed. “I’m not really sure. It was all kind of a whirlwind. One minute I was proposing that we use part of the revenues from my wool shop to support the shelter and the next I was being groomed to take over. It all came to a head when Moureen learned that she had cancer and realized she wasn’t going to be around much longer. She offered me a seat on the board of directors and started training me.”
“Is the shelter close by?”
“Yes. Only three blocks away, but we try to keep a low profile. No signs on the door or flashy brochures. It’s all by referral.” Amanda glanced at her watch. “I was planning to run over during my tea break. Would you like to come and see?”
“If you’re sure I wouldn’t be a disturbance.” It would be nice to see what my fleeces would be supporting, and if Reverend Craig wanted me to try to help these ladies, I needed to see what I was getting into.
“Of course you won’t be a disturbance,” Amanda said. “I just need to go and make sure nothing is—” A shadow flitted across Amanda’s face and for a moment she looked as if she was having second thoughts about asking me to come, but she caught herself and finished with, “I need to make sure everything’s alright.”
As we left the shop, Amanda donned a gorgeous sweater in a dozen shades of green that brought to mind the dappled light in a forest on a summer day. It was spectacular and she confessed to having created it herself. There was no doubt. She was an artist.
I followed Amanda down the pavement as we skirted along one side of the park. Walking next to her, I felt self-conscious. Her hair was cut in a stylish bob that swung as she moved, enhancing the gold flecks that ran through the muted ginger. If there was any question that she was a natural redhead, it was silenced by her remarkable peaches-and-cream complexion. Her attire was casual, but the fabulous sweater paired with the trendy Ray-Bans that shielded her eyes from the sun made her look like a movie star trying and failing to go unnoticed.
Amanda made a right at the next corner and continued on to the last house on the street, which was lucky enough to share only one wall with its neighbors. It boasted a small square of grass in the front and plenty of windows. We went up the front stairs and into the sitting room. I noticed that all the windows facing onto the street had been tinted to prevent anyone outside from looking in. No doubt privacy was a critical issue for the Rest’s residents. Amanda dropped her tote bag on the sofa and led me back to the kitchen, a large open space with a communal table at one end. A petite woman with mousy brown hair caught up in a claw clip on the top of her head was deftly peeling potatoes at the sink.
“Sheila, this is Abi Logan,” Amanda said as she went to plug in the kettle. “Abi’s interested in what we are doing at the Rest.”
Sheila glanced my way. She looked me over and I felt I’d been given a quick but thorough assessment. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup and, although her eyes were guarded, she exuded a sense of compassion. She waved a paring knife in my general direction before looking back to her spuds. “Nice to meet ya,” she said.
“And this is Jenny Woodyard,” Sheila added, pointing back over her shoulder to a woman who had come along the hall after us, “one of our guests.”
“You alright, Jenny?” Amanda asked. “Thought you were working this week.”
“Aye, but my client’s just round the corner so I popped in for a cuppa tea and a warmer cardie.”
Sheila dried her hands on a towel and brought two more mugs to the table. “Jenny’s a home healthcare worker,” she explained. “Works for the council’s health clinic round the corner. They assign her to patients who need help with the day-to-day doin’s. I tell you she’s a saint for all she does for these folks, and some of ’em can be right buggers.”
Jenny was rail thin, and probably no more than in her late twenties. I couldn’t fathom how she managed to haul elderly patients around that were ill or potentially even immobile, but her smile was warm and her enthusiasm genuine.
“I can be a bugger right back if I have to,” Jenny chimed in.
“You still enjoying the job?” Amanda asked.
“You know, I really am,” Jenny admitted. “I keep telling the others, it’s so easy to get bogged down in your own problems, but if you just get yourself out there and do something for someone else, it’s amazing how much better you feel.” Jenny glanced at the clock on the wall and waved the blue cardigan in her hand in our general direction. “Ouch, gotta run. I’m due with my next client in ten minutes. See ya tonight.”
Jenny dashed out the front of the house, slamming the door in her wake.
“There she goes,” Amanda said with a chuckle. “Always a mad whirl with that one.”
“She certainly seems to be doing—well,” I said for want of a better word.
“Not all of our guests are the miserable, pathetic creatures people imagine them to be,” Amanda said.
I could feel a flush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. “I didn’t mean it that way.” I hadn’t intended to sound judgmental. “I guess I was just a bit surprised that she was so upbeat.” I took the mug of tea I was offered and sat at the table with Amanda and Sheila.
“Our girls have been victimized,” Sheila explained, “but they aren’t necessarily still victims, if you get my drift. By the time they’ve made the decision to make a change, to walk away from their abuser and the power that person has in their lives, they’re often much more at peace with themselves and more optimistic about their futures. Jenny’s a prime example.”
I nodded. Sheila seemed to have an astute grasp of the emotional state of the residents that made me suspect she’d personally experienced the pain that they were going through.
“Everything else okay ’round here?” Amanda asked, looking to Sheila.
“I just tried to call you at the shop,” Sheila replied, her lips forming a grim line. “Urquhart’s on the way over. Said he wanted to have a word.”
From the look of distaste on Amanda’s face, this wasn’t welcome news. “Oh, dear.” She sighed. “We know what that’ll be about.”
I was tempted to ask but didn’t want to seem too nosy.
“Come on Abi, if Richard’s coming, I’d best give you the tuppence tour right away.” Amanda made a sweeping gesture around the kitchen. “This is Sheila’s domain. She feeds us all and takes care of ordering food and managing the household expenses. Don’t know what I’d do without her.” Sheila grinned and made a quick bow before returning to a pile of carrots by the sink.
I followed Amanda through a door and down into the cellar. The stairs were rickety and the air below smelled of earth and spice. Someone had tied bunches of herbs from the ceiling beams where they hung to dry, filling the air with a richly fragrant aroma. Stacked on the ground below were wooden crates of potatoes and onions and green beans, all with SR painted on the ends.
“This is where we store provisions. We’re so lucky to get masses of fresh produce from Templeton Farms.” Amanda gestured to the crates along the wall. “The farm is run by Moureen’s kids, Colin and Greer Templeton. They inherited their father’s estate and they’ve made a real go of it, farming organic produce virtually year-round using adaptable greenhouses. Whatever they’re flush with comes our way two or three times a week free of charge.”
Amanda pushed a stack of crates back against the wall to open a path through the stores. “When she died, Moureen established a fund to help support the operations of the shelter, but it grows more expensive to run every year. Now we often have to rely on donors to keep us afloat. The free food is a real boon.”
“Looks like a lot of veg,” I noted, counting at least twenty-five white plastic containers labeled POTATOES, GREENS, and CARROTS.
“The wooden crates on top are ours. The sealed plastic bins underneath are produce committed to restaurant clients. Colin and Greer sometimes store stuff in our cellar where it’s cool and easily accessible. We’re centralized here and it helps them out. It’s the absolute least we can do with all they give us for free.”
I followed Amanda back up the stairs and into the common area once more. The furniture was a bit shabby and the walls needed a coat of paint, but overall the building was sound and the ambience was cozy and relaxed. As I looked around I suddenly had an odd sense of déjà vu, mixed with a quick flash of visual memory from my childhood. I saw myself following my mother to a house she sometimes visited as a social worker. In my mind I saw her moving around a very similar room squeezing a hand, giving a hug, talking in a low, soothing voice. These misty memories came rushing back, tumbling one over the other. Mum would’ve loved what the Rest stood for. Thinking of her brought tears to my eyes. “I imagine that this place is a great comfort to the women who find their way here,” I said softly.
“We certainly work to make it a haven,” Amanda replied. “A port to ride out the worst of the storm. Our goal is to provide our guests with a place where they can learn to be self-sufficient and eventually move on with their own lives, hopefully away from their abusers.”
“What about Sheila? Is she a resident or an employee?” I asked.
“Sheila’s a special case. She came to us first as a guest, but she’s been such a help. She’s stayed longer than most because of her daughter. Nine months already.”
“Do you get many kids here?”
“Usually only briefly. When women leave with their children, we try to get them settled quickly with family members. It’s better for everyone concerned. Sheila’s family is way down in the south of England and she doesn’t want to drag Nora away from everything she knows. Once school’s out for the year we’ll see what happens, but for now, we’re lucky to have her. Sheila’s often the first one new guests confide in. She’s walked the path they’re on and they feel comfortable with her.”
Amanda moved around the room straightening the chair cushions and gathering up a couple of abandoned coffee mugs. A loud knock at the door made both of us jump. Amanda handed me the coffee mugs. “Would you mind taking those to the kitchen,” she said as she went to answer the summons. I did as she asked but loitered in the passageway, curious to know if this was the arrival of the dreaded landlord.
I caught a brief glimpse of a tall, thin man with a pinched face as Amanda ushered him into the front room. His eyes were hard and humorless. I didn’t envy Amanda that conversation.
Back in the kitchen I handed Sheila the cups and she returned a quick smile. “Was that Urquhart?” she asked softly.
“Severe-looking man? Looks like he could spit nails?”
Sheila grimaced. “That’s the one.” She placed the used cups in the sink and returned to open the kitchen door. We could hear the voices down the hall, though initially the conversation was indistinct. Sheila placed another mug of tea on the table in front of me and sat down, raising a finger to her lips. I wouldn’t have eavesdropped myself, but I wasn’t about to stop Sheila from doing so.
We sat in silence for several minutes as the voices grew louder. I wondered if I should slip out the back, but I hadn’t said goodbye to Amanda and felt awkward just leaving.
“But you’ve only just sprung this move on us,” Amanda insisted, no longer speaking in hushed tones. “We need more time. The board of trustees has to vote and if they don’t approve, you still have to make a good-faith effort to find an alternate location.”
“You are lucky in this day and age to be given a building rent free anywhere in the city limits, Ms. Forrester,” Urquhart insisted, his voice rising to meet hers. “Schedule a board meeting as soon as possible and let’s get on with the vote.”
“We can’t schedule anything yet,” Amanda challenged. “Not while we’re in the process of replacing a board member.”
“We can manage with just five members,” Urquhart insisted. “Or if you like, I can replace Chris right away. I know just the man.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Sheila murmured from across the table.
“Too late,” Amanda shot back. “I’ve already offered the position to someone.”
“Who?” Urquhart demanded.
“I’ll forward the details to you, but she’s perfect. Has plenty of experience with nonprofit boards and she’s a businesswoman.”
“Fine, but she won’t be eligible to vote on this issue,” Urquhart snapped. “We need to vote quickly. I’ll expect to hear from you with a meeting time and place in the next twenty-four hours.”
The door to the sitting room flew open and Sheila and I simultaneously sat back in our seats at the kitchen table, looking as nonchalant as we could manage. Urquhart never even looked our way. He simply strode down the hall and slammed the front door behind him. Amanda joined the two of us, her skin looking a bit more like milk now than cream.
“I suppose you heard all that?” she said.
“A word here and there,” I admitted.
Amanda rested her head in her hand. “Things just seem to be going from bad to worse.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but Reverend Craig mentioned you were having some problems with your landlord. Can he really force you to move if you don’t want to?” I asked.
“Under the terms of Urquhart’s agreement with Moureen Templeton, he’s committed to providing the Shepherd’s Rest with a ‘suitable’ building for a period of twenty-five years, rent free.”
“Wow, that’s a heck of a deal. How did she manage that?”
“She never said, but best I could figure, she took advantage of her husband’s connections to Urquhart. They were old friends, and according to Moureen they had some shady business dealings that they wouldn’t have wanted to become public knowledge.”
“And Moureen Templeton used that information”—I started to say to blackmail, but went with—“as leverage to get Urquhart to agree to the deal she wanted.”
Amanda inclined her head. “That’s what I think. Moureen was shrewd. She always said, ‘Never let emotions clutter your thinking about money.’ This arrangement has been a great thing for the Rest, but unfortunately, over the past two years the value of the property has skyrocketed. Urquhart’s no fool. He can make a killing renting this place to someone else. So he wants to move the Rest to this ghastly property he owns over on the Campbell Road, and since he gets to determine the ‘suitability’ of the building, we’re essentially screwed.”
“Is there no way to contest his decision under the terms of the lease?”
“We could sue him, but that’s a joke. We could never afford that. The other option is to push him to propose a different building, but if he doesn’t have one available, we’re stuck either taking the first one, or renting on the open market. Of course, we can’t afford to rent on the open market, so there we are.”
“What about the new board member?” I asked. “Any help there?”
Amanda flushed. “I’m afraid I was bluffing. We’ve been looking for a new board member, and Reverend Craig had a suggestion, but I hadn’t asked yet.” Amanda looked across the table at me. “You wouldn’t consider it, would you?”
“Me?” I leaned back, surprised. “No offense, but we’ve only just met.”
“I know, but Reverend Craig thought you’d be a great fit, you’re familiar with charity boards and well, frankly, we could use another woman on deck. I know you’re probably insanely busy, but would you consider it? We don’t meet that often, and it is a good cause.” Amanda and Sheila sat watching me hopefully.
I sat there feeling a bit like I’d just fallen down the rabbit hole. I came to do a good deed with my fleeces, and before I could catch my breath I was being recruited to sit on the board of the shelter. It was sudden, but I had to admit I already felt drawn to the Rest by an invisible thread that linked me to my mother and my own passion for the underdog in any given fight. Not only that, Reverend Craig wanted me to help his friends, and for his sake I was willing to try. “I’m not sure I can help,” I said finally, “but if you’re willing to take a chance on me, I’ll give it a go.”
“Thank you.” Amanda exhaled all at once. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it. Urquhart seems to think he can keep you from voting, but I don’t think he can. I’ll check and make sure one way or the other.”
Amanda was a fighter. I admired that. I studied her face carefully. I generally had a reliable instinct about people—a subconscious resonance born of years of capturing the good, the bad, and the ugly in telling portraits. Finding and reflecting the inner person was what made those pictures noteworthy, and it often paid off in my assessment of people. I closed my eyes for a moment and let Amanda’s three-word snapshot bubble to the surface; practical, nurturing, afraid. Why afraid? If I was going to help her, that was something I’d need to discover for myself.