The House of Lyall Read online

  Errand boys flashed past her on their bicycles as she stood gaping, the parcels in the baskets on their handlebars wobbling precariously when they rounded the corner, bells shrilling in warning. The pedestrians must have been aware of the danger, but the women were more concerned with striving to hold their skirts down against the wind, which made Marion recall a rhyme one of the old men in Tipperton had taught her brother.

  The devil sent the wind to blow the ladies’ dresses high,

  But God was just and sent the dust to blind the bad man’s eye.

  Eight-year-old Kenny had kept chanting it till their father had given him a good clout on the lug. Memories of Kenny made Marion think fully about what she had done. If she hadn’t run off – if you could call going on a train running off – she could have gone back and returned the five sovereigns before anybody noticed they were gone, but it was too late now. She had left her home and would have to stay in this huge unfriendly city, and she had no idea of where to go or what to do, though it might be wise to get away from the horrible stink of fish.

  She had noticed that most of the carts coming from her right were empty, while the ones going in the opposite direction were piled high, so it didn’t take very much gumption to tell that the docks were to her left. To be certain, however, she went to the edge of the pavement and craned her neck leftwards. Yes, she could see an array of masts with their sails tied up, so there were ships there, loading or unloading.

  She set off now away from them, turning a corner in seconds and going up a street of shops with houses above them, but even with money in her pocket, she resolutely kept her eyes away from the windows; she might need every penny before she got settled.

  At the top of the hill, a black and white tiled sign on the wall of the last granite building told her this was Bridge Street, which didn’t surprise her, though there was no water under the bridge she’d just crossed, only another road. The thoroughfare she had reached – it was the only way to describe it, it was so grand – was Union Street, according to the nameplate on the far side, and having heard of that before, she knew it was more or less the backbone of Aberdeen.

  Curiosity overcoming all her other senses now, Marion turned right and wandered round several of the large shops, stores really, and it was very much later when, emerging from one absolute wonderland, she caught sight of a clock on a building some way ahead. Twenty-five past five! No wonder it was getting dark and her belly was rumbling. She’d had nothing to eat since breakfast time. She was considering going back to the last place she’d walked round, where she’d seen people sitting having meals at the tables, when it dawned on her that all the shops she could see were now emptying before the doors were closed for the day.

  Disappointed, and hungry, she trudged on, Union Street changing to Castle Street and widening into a kind of large square, which soon narrowed again and became Justice Street. Halfway down here, wonder of wonders, she came across a pie shop, where several men in working clothes were waiting to be served. They were obviously buying things to eat somewhere else, and came out in ones and twos, each carrying so large a bundle that it looked as if they were preparing for a siege, but she went inside when one of them politely held the door open for her.

  The short stout man behind the counter saw her perplexed expression. ‘They’re night shift at the gas works,’ he informed her. ‘If you want, you can sit down an’ eat yours here,’ he added kindly. ‘You look worn oot.’

  ‘I’ve been walking a lot,’ she admitted, sinking down gratefully on one of the benches at the side. She was even more grateful when he set a plate down on the stained table in front of her, for there was a large mouth-watering pie on it, smothered in gravy and a big mound of juicy peas. There was also a big chunk of bread on the side for mopping up the last drops of moisture.

  ‘Was you makin’ for some place in partikler?’ the man asked, having no one else to serve at that moment.

  Dog-tired physically, Marion was as alert as ever mentally. ‘I was supposed to be goin’ to my auntie in Bridge Street,’ she fibbed, naming the first place that came to mind, ‘but she wasna in. She musta forgot I was comin’, so I’ve been shovin’ in time till I was sure she’d have to be hame for my uncle’s supper. But, if she hadna minded aboot me, she’d only be cookin’ for the two o’ them, and that’s why I come in here.’

  The man nodded, satisfied that she wasn’t in any kind of trouble, but the entrance of more customers took his attention off her. When a quarter of an hour later, she stood up to leave, he said solicitously, ‘You’ll manage to find yer wey back to yer auntie?’

  ‘I’ll go back the wey I come,’ Marion assured him, holding out a shilling because she didn’t know how much he charged.

  He waved it away. ‘Na, na, lass, that’s a’ richt.’

  ‘But I must pay for the pie.’

  ‘My treat, m’dear. Us Aberdonians are nae as mean as folk mak’ oot.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much then.’ It crossed her mind to ask if he needed any help in the shop, but he’d been so good to her already it wouldn’t be right to take advantage of his good nature.

  Of course, she did not go back the way she had come, but went on down Justice Street, then turned into Constitution Street, lined with an assortment of houses, big and small, but sadly she discovered in a few minutes that it took her down to the beach. It was much darker now, with just a scattering of tiny stars twinkling over the wide expanse of water. She’d heard more than one person in Tipperton saying that it didn’t matter what kind of weather it was, or what time of day, when you went to Aberdeen beach you’d be sure to find other folk there, but she couldn’t see a blessed soul!

  October was long past the season when the well-off from Glasgow and Edinburgh took holidays, and who on earth would come here at the back end of the year if they didn’t have to? Well, she was too tired to trail back to find a place to stay the night, but she’d have to have a rest. She’d feel better in the morning, more able to look for lodgings, and maybe a job, though she did have enough money to keep her going for a few weeks – months if she was careful.

  She was lucky to find, a short way along the front, a three-sided brick erection, likely for the use of mothers or nannies to keep a watch on their children playing on the sands, which afforded some shelter although it was fully exposed to the icy night wind howling in across the North Sea from the Arctic. It was bitterly cold, but she was so exhausted that she did eventually fall into a deep sleep from which she was rudely awakened in a few short hours by the screaming of the gulls circling overhead, probably hoping she’d some scraps to give them.

  ‘You’re unlucky this time,’ she shouted at them to scare them off. ‘I haven’t anything for myself to eat, so you’d better go and look somewhere else.’

  Standing up was an almost impossible task. Her whole body felt as if it were frozen stiff, and once on her feet, she stood looking miserably around her. With the dawning of the day came the realization that she would never survive if she didn’t find somewhere to live, and she didn’t know how to do that. She’d made a dreadful mistake when she ran away from Tipperton, an even worse when she stole the money. Was this God’s way of warning her that unless she went back and confessed to her crime, He would have to punish her? Deciding that it was better late than never to do the right thing, she still felt a great reluctance to move. Why didn’t she just lie down again and let the elements finish her off?

  But Marion was not a pessimist by nature, and it wasn’t long before she shook off her despondency. Far better to face up to her sin than cause trouble by practically committing suicide on a deserted beach.

  Nevertheless, by the time she had retraced her steps of the day before, her feet and legs still aching agonizingly, her spirits had taken another downward spiral. How could she face the Moodies again, after the banker’s wife had been so kind to her? And what about her father? He’d never been a violent man, though he’d often given her brother a wallop when he misbehaved, so wh
at if he lost his temper with her? What she had done was an awful lot worse than anything Kenny ever had.

  To stop her imagining the leathering she would get, Marion came to a halt to find out where she was. Without noticing, she had got back to Union Street and, if her memory served her right, she wasn’t far from the top of Bridge Street. Should she go home … or not? Still a child at heart, she gave herself a choice. If the next street she came to was Bridge Street, she’d go down to the station. If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t. That was fair, wasn’t it? Surely God wouldn’t argue with that?

  Not sure whether to be pleased or not, she found that the next street was indeed Bridge Street and, resigned to her fate now, she turned down it, her steps determined. At the entrance to the station, however, she was assailed by sudden misgivings. She had told Dod Cooper at Tipperton that she was going to her auntie in Dundee, and maybe that’s what she should do. Her mother’s sister did live there, and it would be a lot easier to confess to Auntie Bella than to her father.

  Unfortunately, after running down the steps and going to the ticket office, she was told that trains from there ran north only, and she’d have to go to the station at the other side of Guild Street to get a train to the south. She trailed back up to the street level, turning left as the ticket man had directed her, but – although it was only a matter of crossing the street and going along a wee bit – by the time she reached the LNER station, she was confused and completely demoralized once again.

  After taking a few faltering steps, she came to a trembling halt with tears streaming down her cheeks and her hands over her ears to blot out the cacophony around her. She stood thus for at least five minutes, nobody taking any notice of her until a gentle hand on her shoulder made her look up into the concerned face of a young man in a flat black hat and a priest’s flowing robe.

  ‘Are you lost, my child?’ he asked. ‘Where do you want to go?’

  Marion couldn’t answer that. She was lost, but not in the sense that he meant. ‘I’ve run away,’ she whispered at last, compelled by his calling to tell him at least part of the truth. But not wanting him to be under any misapprehension, she added, ‘I’m not a Catholic.’

  ‘Priests help all God’s creatures,’ he smiled, ‘even if they are not Roman Catholics. What is your religion, my dear?’

  ‘I went to the parish church at hame.’

  ‘Can’t I persuade you to go home again?’ At her tearful, mute shake of the head, he took her by the arm. ‘If you have nowhere to stay, the Church of Scotland, like us, runs a place where young girls may have a bed for the night. Would you like me to show you where it is?’

  They had just turned into Bridge Street when he said, ‘I haven’t asked your name yet. Mine is Father Bernard.’

  Marion wished that hers was more in keeping with the life she wanted to lead, and with a feeling of destroying all bridges behind her, she said, ‘My name’s Mar … Marianne … Marianne Cheyne.’ It wasn’t such an awful lie. She had just changed one letter and added another two, but it sounded so much better. It was just a pity she hadn’t thought of changing her last name as well.

  ‘Would you be looking for work, Marianne?’

  ‘I’ve been in service before.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you go into service. I know some ladies who run a children’s wear shop in Holburn Street, and they have been speaking of taking on a smart young girl to help them. Would you manage that?’

  ‘I’m sure I could.’

  ‘I shall take you there first.’ Father Bernard took her across the street and up a long flight of stone steps. ‘It’s shorter this way than going by Union Street,’ he smiled, as they made their breathless way to the top.

  After passing a beautifully turreted granite building which she took to be a castle but which he told her was the main post office, he led her into a narrow street which eventually led them out on to Holburn Street, where the shop was.

  While they walked, he told her a little about the ladies who ran it. ‘There are three unmarried sisters, but Miss Esther keeps house for Miss Emily and Miss Edith. They live in Strawberry Bank.’

  ‘What a lovely name for a house!’ Marianne exclaimed.

  ‘Strawberry Bank is the name of the street,’ he grinned. ‘Miss Esther, the youngest, seems quite happy to be the homemaker. Miss Edith, the brains behind the business, is the eldest, and Miss Emily, the middle one, is the quietest. They are dear ladies, all three.’

  The sign above the shop window read ‘E. & E. Rennie, Children’s Outfitters’. The two elderly ladies within raised their heads when the doorbell tinkled, their faces lighting up when they saw the priest. ‘Father Bernard!’ they chorused. ‘How nice to see you.’

  Marianne lost track of the order of events then, everything happened so quickly, but when she lay down that night in the attic room in the Rennies’ cottage in Strawberry Bank, she had an assistant’s job, she had two serviceable serge skirts and two plain blouses for work, and was also the proud possessor of a barathea skirt, and a cream silk blouse for Sundays … with a frill at the neck. These had been purchased for her by Miss Esther on Miss Edith’s instructions after Marianne told them that she had run away from home without any clothes because her father’s new wife made her life unbearable.

  As the priest had said, they were dear ladies, all three. Miss Esther was inclined to twitter a bit, probably because she was on her own all day and was glad to have someone to talk to. She was plumper than the other two, the result of testing her cooking for seasoning, likely. Her rosy face was round, her full lips nearly always turned up in a smile. Her white hair was often rather untidy, except on Sundays, she said, when Miss Edith put in her hairpins for her so that they would not fall out in church. Miss Esther could be classed as happy-go-lucky, Marianne decided.

  Miss Emily was indeed the quiet one, listening to what her sisters said when she was at home, yet able to keep up lengthy conversations with customers in the shop, or maybe it just seemed that way and it was the customers who did most of the talking. Not only was she the middle of the three in age, she was also middle in height, about two inches taller than Miss Esther, who was barely five feet, but shorter than Miss Edith, who was about five feet six. Miss Emily, although she had a pleasant heart-shaped face, was inclined to be rather prim and occasionally showed her displeasure by gripping in her mouth if anyone made a remark which she considered not in the best of taste. She was slim, but not too thin, and particular about her appearance, her black dresses immaculate and the soft, silvery coil of hair on the crown of her head with never one strand out of place. Miss Emily was … well, daintily quiet was the only description for her.

  Miss Edith had the strongest personality. She had a long face with clean-cut features and sharp-blue eyes. Her hair, dragged back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, was steel-grey, and her body was verging on the scraggy. Her words were clipped when she spoke, she gave the impression of being stern and forbidding at times, but Marianne soon got to know that it was just a veneer. Miss Edith was a sheep in wolves’ clothing.

  Marianne didn’t feel that she had deceived the Rennies. They were pleased to have an assistant – they would have fitted her out with clothes for the shop anyway – and she would work hard to repay them. Best of all, she still had four pounds nineteen shillings plus a few coppers left of the five sovereigns. She had better hang on to that in case … well, just in case. But come what may, she wouldn’t dream of stealing from her benefactors, or whatever the female version of that was.

  She had been really lucky this time. God had given her a wee taste of what he could do to her if she ever stole again … but she wouldn’t have to, would she? She’d been weak yesterday but she felt different now. She would work hard and make something of herself, do anything she had to, to make a success of her life – but she wouldn’t do anything dishonest.

  Chapter Two

  Trade had been very brisk in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but the lull during the first three mon
ths of 1895 gave the Rennies and their assistant time to clean shelves and glass cases properly and arrange their replenished stocks to Miss Edith’s satisfaction. It being found that Marianne had a penchant for setting out an eye-catching window display, she was allowed to carry out this important task at least once a week, more often if any of the items on show were removed and sold, which became a more regular occurrence as March came to an end and April brought sunshine along with its showers.

  The shop was extremely busy on Saturdays, but as Marianne – this was how she always thought of herself now – decided one Saturday in early April, while she went to fetch another batch of white wool from the storeroom at the back, the premises were so tiny that even four customers filled the shop and six made it look crowded. There had been a steady stream all afternoon today, though those who had to wait to be served showed no impatience. In fact, the eyes of the young mothers or elderly grandmothers were usually caught by something other than what they had come to buy, which meant extra sales, and was it any wonder with the Rennie sisters being so obliging and polite, no matter what?

  They darted about their little emporium like birds, from counter to shelves, or to drawers, or to stands, even to the window display, and didn’t mind laying out dozens of items for someone to choose from, be they expensive christening robes (lovingly and beautifully stitched by Miss Esther), or the cheap woollen mittens and bootees knitted by Miss Emily in the evenings while Miss Edith wrote up the books.