Barra was sorry he’d opened his mouth. Poor Mrs Pascoe had probably been busy watering her garden when the rain had started – and he’d had to stay in all night. Still, at least Mam and Dad were talking again.
‘Is it Dunfearn tomorrow?’ Rose asked.
‘Aye,’ Chalmers answered. ‘I should be done at the Wilsons’ by early afternoon, and it’s myself that’ll be glad to see the back of it. Still, the job at Dunfearn’ll keep me going for a week or two,’ he went on happily. ‘I was lucky to get it. I just didn’t think the owners would be that quick to decide.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘I’ll maybe stop on the way out and see if I can get a word wi’ Stewart. Strike while the iron’s hot.’
‘Well, the Cunninghams aren’t staying long,’ Rose advised. ‘Olive was saying they’re going back on Friday night.’
Chalmers shrugged. ‘Hardly worth their while coming. But he must miss the old place.’
‘Not that much. Two visits in five years?’
‘Och, I know, Rose. But he’s got a hectic kind o’ life in the city, and you know she doesn’t care to be up here, away from her English cronies.’
‘Have you seen her yet, Mam?’ Barra asked, anxious for a full description.
Rose shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think any of us’ll be getting much of a look at her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Och, you know …’
‘No, Mam. I wouldn’t be asking if I knew.’
Chalmers peered over his glasses. ‘I hope that wasn’t a bit o’ cheek in yir voice,’ he warned.
Barra grinned at his mother, and she smiled back.
‘A wee bit … maybe. Sorry, Mam.’
‘OK,’ Rose said, tucking her feet up under her. Barra moved further down the sofa, careful not to disturb Socks who had pride of place on the plump cushion between Rose and himself.
‘Does she no’ like mixing wi’ us?’ he asked.
Chalmers’ expression became a trifle more fierce. ‘Why wouldn’t she? We’re as good as she is. Better, in fact.’
‘Why are we? Better, I mean.’
‘Are you no’ working at yir stamps tonight, son?’ A faint note of impatience crept into Chalmers’ voice.
Rose glanced at her husband. ‘I’m sure Mrs Cunningham’s all right in her own way,’ she explained. ‘But she set Helen’s back up no end, treating her like a servant, and ordering her about her own house.’
‘But it’s no’ Helen's house,’ Barra interrupted. ‘It’s Mr Cunningham’s house, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, technically. But Murdo and Helen have had the run of it for so long that you canna’ blame them for feeling like it’s their own.’
‘What happened to Hattie?’
‘What?’ Rose asked, trying to follow her son’s mercurial train of thought.
Chalmers got up to switch the channel. ‘Bloody rubbish they’re putting on,’ he muttered.
‘I was thinking …’ Rose said. ‘If we do well wi’ the bedders this year, we could maybe get a new set. They have them in cabinets now.’
Chalmers grunted. ‘There’s nothing wrong wi’ the set. It’s the putrid programmes they’re showing.’
‘What happened to Hattie?’ Barra asked again, more insistently.
‘Oh.’ Rose remembered the question. ‘Y’know fine, Barra.’
‘I know I know,’ he said, as impatient as his father now. ‘I know she’s supposed to have murdered her mother – which I don’t believe. But I’d like to know the details.’
‘What details?’
‘All of them,’ Barra insisted. He was fed up trying to get the story out of everyone – anyone! This time he wasn’t going to let it rest until he got some answers.
‘Youse were around then, you and Dad. You can remember the details, surely.’
‘A lot o’ bloody rubbish,’ Chalmers muttered again. ‘Where could thon poor cratur hurt a soul?’
‘What happened?’
‘Christ, Barra, give it a rest.’
Rose shot another look at her husband, which he pretended not to notice. She turned to Barra.
‘The whole thing got exaggerated over the years, but apparently Hattie’s father had run off when she was a baby, and her mother had gone queer in the head …’
‘Did nobody notice? That she was queer in the head?’
Rose shrugged. ‘She was a good enough worker, and it was hard in them days to hold on to a job and raise a bairn too. It still is. Some things never change.’
‘But they lived in the cottage. You’d think old Mrs Cunningham would have noticed.’
‘She wasn’t old then, Barra. In fact, she never got to be old at all.’
‘She was a flighty bit o’ stuff,’ Chalmers interjected.
‘There’s worse than her!’ Rose shot back. ‘At least she was a widow. It’s no’ as if she was going behind her man’s back.’
Chalmers picked up his paper, pushing his glasses further up his nose. Socks stretched and moved slightly, centring Chalmers in his line of vision. Chalmers glanced across. The bloody cat was smiling at him – an evil smile, if ever there was one. He turned to the sports pages and lifted the paper higher, covering his face as well as he could.
Barra folded his arms. ‘Could someone please tell me exactly what happened?’
Rose frowned at him. ‘You’re getting awful argumentative.’
‘I’m not! I would Just-Like-To-Know …’
Rose shook her head. ‘Well, anyway, it turns out Hattie’s mother had been beating her black and blue for years, and keeping her locked up in the coal cupboard …’
‘Why?’
Rose, too, was beginning to lose patience now. ‘I don’t know, Barra. She was queer in the head.’
‘OK,’ Barra relented. ‘Then what happened?’
‘It seems Alfie Cunningham was off on one of her soirées, and Stewart started crying and wouldn’t stop. He was just a baby, in his cot, and …’
‘When was this then?’
‘God. When was it, Chalmers?’ Rose asked.
‘Hmm?’
Rose remained silent, knowing full well her husband had heard every word.
‘Oh-h-hh! When was it now? Hattie was twenty-three at the time. I remember that. It was a year or two after the start o’ the war … forty, forty-one, thereabouts.’
‘Right,’ Rose said. ‘Well, the story goes that Hattie’s mother was holding a pillow over Stewart’s face, and Hattie tried to save him and whacked the old bitch with a bed-warmer …’
‘Wow!’
‘… But it seems her mother fell against a dresser, and they couldn’t prove if it was the bed-warmer or the corner of the dresser that had killed her.’
‘So that’s how Hattie got off?’
‘Aye,’ Rose answered. ‘And so she should have! Mind you, they tried to say that Hattie had done it from spite and made up the story just to cover herself. But Alfie Cunningham sat in that court right through the trial and insisted that Hattie was innocent. They said she had a lot to do wi’ Hattie walking free.’
Barra was thoughtful. ‘I don’t think so, Mam. I mean, if Hattie got put on the stand, then everyone must have known what she was like. They’d have known she’s not spiteful.’
Chalmers lowered his paper. ‘It was “Not Proven”, son. If they’d have been that sure, they would have acquitted her.’
‘But you don’t believe she could do that, Dad? You just said …’
‘I know what I said. But the law’s the law. “Not Proven” is how it came out.’
‘Mam?’
‘Of course she didn’t do it for spite!’ Rose retorted. ‘And the law’s not always right, either.’
‘Well, that’s a fine thing to be telling the boy!’ Chalmers protested.
‘Right is right,’ Rose insisted. ‘And wrong is wrong.’
Chalmers cracked his paper and returned to the football section.
Barra regarded his parents for a moment. ‘Are yis not talking again?’
‘Of course we’re talking,’ they said in unison.
Helen lay in the crook of her husband’s arm, her head resting on his chest. She sniffed his pyjama jacket, wondering how the smell of his pipe could penetrate even that. They’ll be washed first thing tomorrow, she decided, hoping that the rain would be off by then.
Murdo held her loosely, lulled by the warmth of her sturdy body, and the rhythmic buffeting of the rain on the window-panes.
‘So he didn’t give you any clue at all?’ Helen asked – for about the tenth time that day.
‘No, hen, he didna’. We talked of the fishing and the weather, and it was just like I told you. He’s going to lease out stretches o’ the river, and he’s off into the town tomorrow to set it up wi’ the factor.’
Helen sighed, worrying anew at the reason for the visit.
On his return with Murdo, Stewart had spent a scant few minutes in the kitchen. Murdo had set off outdoors again in pursuit of his interminable chores, and Helen was looking forward to enjoying some time alone with the young man. But as soon as she’d informed Stewart that his wife had retired once more upstairs, he had rushed to join her, casting a backwards glance in Helen’s direction.
‘We’ll talk later, Helen. I promise.’
She had the distinct feeling that there was something definite on Stewart’s mind – something he was trying to say, and couldn’t quite get round to. When she’d asked Murdo’s opinion, he had assured her that it was just her imagination. Helen wasn’t convinced.
There had been no evidence that Marjorie Cunningham was any happier about being in Drumdarg House than on her last visit. Helen had served the couple a lavish dinner but Marjorie had picked listlessly at her food and Stewart, despite enthusiastic praise for Helen’s cooking, had eaten little more than his wife. The couple seemed to have nothing to say to each other, and Helen couldn’t help but notice how forlorn Stewart looked.
‘Why come here at all just to visit the factor?’ Helen fretted. ‘He could’ve sorted that out from London. Even if he felt he had to come, he could’ve left herself behind. There wouldn’t be any reason for them both to be here.’
‘As a matter of fact, it was me that brought up the fishing,’ Murdo replied. ‘I don’t think it had entered his mind till then. I think he just got the inclination to see the old place again. No more to it than that.’ He rescued his arm and turned on his side.
Helen turned also. As the pair lay back to back, she briefly rubbed his behind with her own. It was a habit started over thirty years before, and still it brought a smile to his lips.
‘G’night, Helen,’ he yawned contentedly.
‘I love you, Helen Macrae.’
‘Me too, Murdo Macrae,’ she answered.
The last of the rituals over, Murdo settled into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Helen did not.
Wednesday dawned bright and clear and Rose hummed happily as she set to cleaning the front room. Chalmers had held her close before setting off for work, and she had chided herself for ever having doubted him. God, there wasn’t a man alive who could keep a clear head by the time Sheena Mearns had finished ‘dancing’ with him. Besides, it had been a party, and Maisie was right – Chalmers had had enough whisky in him to launch the Queen Mary.
‘Mrs MacGillivray phoned this morning,’ Rose informed Barra cheerfully. ‘She’s full up already. Looks like we’ll have some bedders for the weekend.’
‘Do I have to do the hoovering?’ Barra asked fearfully.
Rose paused, smiling. ‘Have you tidied yir room?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘If I do it right, do I still have to hoover?’
‘Oh, go on then.’ Rose smiled. ‘Do it right, and I’ll do the hoovering. Then you can go out – but not before.’ The sentence was wasted. Barra was already halfway up the stairs.
Rose lifted the lid on the stereogram, switching off the wireless and placing her favourite long-player on the spindle. As Nat King Cole’s mellow voice filled the room, she began emptying the china cabinet, preparing to wash her collection of ornaments. Reaching for a small glass horse she paused, and a shadow fell across her face. Jennifer Pascoe had given it to her – a souvenir from her honeymoon in Venice.
Rose gazed at it for a moment, then placed it carefully on the carpet. She walked into the hall and dialled the Pascoes’ number. Almost at once the phone was answered.
‘Jen, it’s Rose. I just wondered how Jim was doing.’
There was a second’s silence. ‘The doctor’s here now, Rose. I … I’m afraid he’s … Jim’s …’
‘What is it, Jen?’ Rose asked softly. ‘Is he worse?’
She could hear Jennifer swallow before answering, and held her breath.
‘He’s in a coma, Rose. It won’t be long.’
Tears pricked at Rose’s eyes. ‘Oh, Jen. I’m so sorry to hear that.’
‘Thanks,’ Jennifer whispered. ‘I need to go now, Rose.’
‘Of course. Of course. If you need …’
‘There’s nothing. Thanks anyway.’
Rose replaced the receiver. Walking slowly back into the front room, she picked up the little horse and lowered herself to the carpet. Her mind was numb, her ears deaf to the thundering on the staircase.
Barra hurtled into the room, and stopped dead. ‘Are you all right, Mam?’ he demanded.
She looked up at him, her eyes clouded. ‘Aye. I’m fine, son. It’s no’ me.’ Rose shook her head. ‘I just spoke to Jennifer. Jim’s in a coma.’
‘What does that mean?’ Barra knelt beside her. His eyes were a reflection of her own, deep with concern.
‘It’s the end, Barra,’ Rose said gently. ‘He won’t last much longer.’ The tears spilled from her eyes, and she wiped them angrily. ‘It’s just not fair!’
Barra grew pale. ‘It can’t be the end!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have to see Jamie, Mam. I have to go now!’
Rose slumped even further into the grey pile.
‘Barra …’
‘I have to go, Mam,’ he insisted, rising and stepping backwards away from her. ‘Will you be all right?’ he added breathlessly.
She nodded and Barra turned, racing through the kitchen and down the path. Rose could hear his voice even from here.
‘Ja-mie! Jay-meee!’
Rose got up and wandered to the back door, scouting the woods for any sign of Barra. He had disappeared from view, but still she could hear him. Socks was rubbing his fat body against her legs and Rose bent to lift him, burying her face in his silky fur.
If you’re really out there, she prayed silently, do something now! Please, please, do something now.
Hattie seldom ventured into the woods. Mostly she was afraid of them, the big trees that could cast dark shadows even on the brightest of mornings. She had no idea why she was there now, aware only that she had wanted to get away, away from all the strange sensations swirling around the big house. Everything there had become so raucous; the air was screaming with all the tension, until her own voice, her own footsteps, sounded loud in her ears.
Even the cottage was full of it, infected with the noise, the terrible din of her memories.
Her shuffling steps had brought her well beyond her usual territory. She should get back, back down to the Whig, and then home. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here at all.
Then she heard it – the wailing. Hattie clasped a hand to her mouth, gathering the remains of her courage, her eyes searching the small clearing above her. It was Barra! It was Barra doing all the wailing.
More curious than afraid now, Hattie pushed herself against the shrubbery. Why would poor Barra be sobbing like that? She should go to him.
But she stayed, unable to push herself forward. Moments passed, and still Barra sobbed. Hattie began trembling. Oh God, let him stop. Please let him stop.
But Barra didn’t stop. His small body wrapped around the old log, he wailed on. Then, just as Hattie could bear it no longer, he sat up, jamming his fists into his eyes.
‘I can’t! I can’t think! You said he’d have hair for his birthday. You promised!’
Once more Hattie’s eyes searched the clearing, but there was nobody else there. She started forward, just as Barra began again.
‘He can’t die, Jamie. You said nothing ever dies. You told me that!’ And then, quietly, the sobbing no more than a hiccup, ‘You better not let me down, Jamie. Angels shouldn’t be letting people down.’
Barra stood, and Hattie watched as he looked wildly around him.
Pale and confused, she set off, lumbering down the old trail faster than she’d ever moved in her life.