The Road to Rowanbrae Page 24

  Mysie was busy from the very first day, and, when Sandy and Gina complained that George Street wasn’t the kind of area they could bring their friends, she told them not to be so snobbish. Her customers’ accent amused her at times, it was quicker and more clipped than the broad drawl in Burnlea and Turriff, but they were friendly outgoing women who came into her shop two or three times a day because they never seemed to plan ahead. Gina threw a few tantrums about having to sleep in the same bed as her mother, and Mysie felt obliged one day to confide in Gregor. ‘I suppose she’s missing all the attention she got from your aunt, for I haven’t the time to sit down and speak to her, but I can’t go on like this.’

  He frowned. ‘I’ll have a word with her when she comes home.’

  When the girl marched in a few minutes later – having been at a friend’s house for tea – he told her to sit down. ‘I know coming here was a big upheaval for you, Gina,’ he began, ‘but circumstances have a habit of changing. Your mother has to earn a living, and a shop of her own means that she is not dependent on anyone else. I sympathise with you at not having a room to yourself, but …’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to you – you’re not my father.’ She jumped up and flounced out.

  ‘If only I were her father,’ Gregor said, wistfully, and Mysie felt like running after her daughter and giving her the beating she deserved, but that would probably only make her worse.

  Gina did settle down eventually, although she often had a little dig at Sandy. ‘It’s all right for you, you’ve got a whole room to yourself, but I don’t have any privacy at all.’

  Sandy was coming home the worse for drink on several nights a week now, but there was never any mention of him having got into any trouble, and his mother was thankful for that, though she couldn’t understand why he was acting like this, nor where he was getting the money.

  *

  The bar of the Stanley Hotel was small and smoky, but this did not seem to bother the four young students who were obviously enjoying themselves. They had been making a round of several of the public houses near the harbour and were in very high spirits. They were amused by the antics of four raddled women as they made up to different men, and even laid bets amongst each other as to which of the prostitutes would succeed first, but they were a bit taken aback when one came over. ‘What the hell’s so funny?’ she demanded, belligerently.

  It was Bobby Phillip who answered. ‘Nothing, we were telling jokes, that’s all. We weren’t laughing at you.’

  Mollified, she gave a simpering smile. ‘I could gi’e you a good time, if you wanted. An’ there’s four o’ us an’ four o’ you, so what aboot it?’

  Bobby turned to his friends, devilment dancing in his eyes. ‘I’m game, if you are.’

  The drink they had consumed giving them Dutch courage, the other three nodded, and within seconds, they were all paired off and leaving the bar. Sandy Duncan wondered if the others had done anything like this before – he certainly hadn’t, but they were all a year older – and grinned as he jingled the coins in his pocket. Gregor Wallace had slipped him a pound note the other day, as he sometimes did, saying he knew how hard up students always were, but if he knew what some of his money was being spent on, he would have a fit. It served him right for poking his nose in and telling his mother to start a shop. If she hadn’t been so ready to listen to Gregor, she might have asked her son’s advice and they wouldn’t be living in George Street now.

  ‘Are you comin’ wi’ us, lovey?’

  The woman’s harsh voice broke into his thoughts, and he let her link arms with him. In for a penny, in for a pound … though surely she wouldn’t charge as much as that.

  The shop being so busy meant that Mysie had to work hard to keep her stocks up. After teatime each evening, she went down to the back shop to bake the bread, buns, cakes, biscuits, meat pies and fruit tarts which sold so well. She boiled or roasted the meats she got at the killing house along the street, and prepared the black puddings and tripe which were the only things some of the families in the area seemed to eat.

  Gregor, who came on Sundays for his tea, grumbled that she hardly ever had time to talk to him, and she did feel a little sorry about that, but it wasn’t as if he had nobody at Ashley Road. Maudie had turned out to be an excellent housekeeper and a good cook, and he often said that he was better looked after now than he had ever been.

  At times, after a particularly trying day, Mysie lay in bed wondering if she was stupid not to marry him. She didn’t love him, but she did like him – very much – and she often longed to be held in a man’s arms again. She was a widow, although most of the people in Burnlea wouldn’t think so, and it would be a relief not to have to slave over a stove every evening and all day Sunday.

  But Gregor was always there if she needed him, and it was shame, not guilt, about what had happened in her previous life that stopped her from accepting his standing proposal. Shame … and fear. Fear that the byre at Rowanbrae would some day yield up its terrible secret.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  1931

  At a very low ebb, Sandy kicked a stone out of his path. He hadn’t had any intention of seducing Beatrice Phillip, he’d only been fooling about, but now he’d lost his one true friend. Why did Bobby have to come back to his lodgings early tonight? He didn’t usually put in an appearance until after eleven. They had a sort of unspoken agreement – Bobby had given him a key, and had said that he could take a girl there any Wednesday or Friday, and it had worked very well until now.

  Reaching his tenement, Sandy crept quietly up the stairs and sneaked into his own room, praying that his mother wouldn’t hear. Flopping down on his bed, he closed his eyes and cast his mind back to his first experience of sex. Although it had been with a middle-aged prostitute, it had set up a need, but he had been timid about approaching any of the girls he knew and had carried on buying his pleasures. When he did venture to ask a female student to go out with him, he felt too shy to make any advances until one, bolder than the rest, asked him outright if he wanted to make love to her. He hadn’t thought of love in connection with the act, but had complied readily. Now, at twenty-four, he slept with anybody who was willing, students, shop-girls or prostitutes, and enjoyed every minute, especially since he had a warm place to take them.

  Tonight had been a mistake, though. Beatrice had been on her way to visit Bobby when Sandy ran into her, and he ought to have told her that her brother wouldn’t be in, but a devil had got into him and he had accompanied her to Bobby’s room. She had grown into quite a beauty since he’d seen her last – she was eighteen now – and the temptation had been too great, but he’d only got as far as kissing her when Bobby turned up.

  Sighing, Sandy reflected that he was lucky to have escaped unhurt; only his feelings had suffered, for Bobby had called him all the names he could think of before he told him to get out and never come back. ‘I should have known you could never rise above the trash you come from,’ his ex-friend had shouted, finally, and that had hurt more than anything else. His mother wasn’t trash, she was as good as Bobby Phillip’s mother, and worked a damned sight harder. The trouble was, she involved herself with men too easily. Doddie Wilson had been the first, but now it was Gregor Bloody Wallace. What did she need with another man when she had a son to look after her?

  The cook-shop was so busy that Mysie had very little time to worry during the day, but always at the back of her mind lay the thought that Sandy must be stealing money from somewhere to let him go out as often as he did. Waiting for the brawn to cook one night, she sat down on the old chair in the back shop to puzzle it out. She never left her purse in the house when she was in the shop, so she was certain he hadn’t been helping himself from that. He had only recently graduated from university and started work for Gregor, and his salary was a mere pittance. Was it was possible that Bobby Phillip had been paying for Sandy’s entertainment as well as his own? But Mr Phillip was sensible, he wouldn’t have given his son so much pocke
t money. It was more likely that Bobby had been dipping into Miss Wallace’s trust money. He was twenty-five now, so that was four years he could have been using it, and there wouldn’t be much left of it now. Then the answer struck Mysie like a thunderbolt. Sandy must have been dipping into his trust, that’s what it was. All the time she had been working herself to a shadow to keep him at the university, he’d been squandering his inheritance.

  After a few minutes, the anger that had boiled up inside her died down. It was his own money, after all, and he hadn’t been stealing, but why hadn’t Gregor told her? He must have known about it, but he would have realised that she would be upset, so maybe that was why he had kept it from her. She would ask him to tell her the truth when he came on Sunday.

  Her mind easier now that she knew her son was not a thief, Mysie let her thoughts turn to Gina, who seemed to be rather more settled. Most evenings, she sat upstairs reading while her mother was cooking in the back shop, but occasionally she went to the pictures with friends from the Girls’ High School. She was old enough at thirteen to lend a hand in the house, if not in the shop, but she had never volunteered to do anything, not even a little dusting. Of course, Miss Wallace had spoiled her from the very day she was born, but the old woman had not foreseen what her over-indulgence would lead to.

  When the brawn was ready, Mysie put it in the mould and went upstairs, where her daughter was sprawling on the couch in the kitchen reading a lurid love story. ‘There’s a letter for you, Mother.’ Gina gestured towards the mantelpiece.

  ‘It’s from Jess Findlater.’ Mysie’s spirits lifted. ‘I wonder if she’s coming to see us again? She hasn’t been for a while.’

  ‘That country woman?’

  The derisive tone made Mysie snap, ‘Yes, that country woman, and don’t forget I’m a country woman, too.’

  ‘But I can hardly understand a word she says, she’s so broad. At least you talk properly.’

  ‘I spoke like Jess when I came to Aberdeen first, but Miss Wallace told me to speak the King’s English.’

  ‘I wish we were still in Miss Wallace’s house. It was far better than this old hovel.’

  ‘Gina, you are not to say things like that. If I didn’t have the shop, you’d have to leave the High School and …’

  ‘Spare me the lecture.’ Gina started reading again.

  Itching to slap her, Mysie opened the letter. ‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said, after a minute or two. ‘Jess is coming to see us on Sunday, but she knows how busy I am and she’ll only be staying for about two hours in the afternoon.’

  ‘It’s my birthday on Sunday,’ Gina pouted, ‘and I was going to ask if I could have a few friends in, but if she’s coming, I’m going out.’

  Mysie bit back her anger. She knew quite well that Gina was too ashamed of the address to invite any of her friends to the house. Sandy would probably be out on Sunday, too – he was hardly ever in – and with neither of them there, she and Jess would have the chance to talk freely.

  *

  Jess had lost weight, and her face was redder than usual after the effort of climbing the tenement stairs. She sank into one of the armchairs at the fireside, looking much older than she had done the previous year, ‘An’ how’s your shop daein’?’

  ‘It’s still daein’ fine.’ Mysie couldn’t talk English to Jess. ‘I’m fair rushed aff my feet some days.’

  ‘An’ is Sandy an’ Gina keepin’ weel enough?’

  ‘They’re oot the day, but they’re fine. Sandy’s mair at Bobby Phillip’s lodgin’s than he is here, an’ I wish they wouldna drink so much, nae that I ever ken’t o’ them gettin’ into ony trouble.’

  ‘Bobby’ll be near ready to be a doctor, will he nae? He’d need to ha’e calmed doon a lot afore that.’

  Mysie laughed. ‘Gregor says doctors an’ ministers are often worse than other men, especially wi’ the drink an’ the women.’

  ‘Does Gregor still come an’ see you?’

  ‘Aye, he comes for his supper every Sunday.’

  ‘Has he … eh … has he ever asked you to wed him?’

  ‘A few times,’ Mysie laughed, ‘but I aye said no.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just as weel.’

  Jess had such a peculiar expression that Mysie felt a twinge of alarm. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I thought I’d better come an’ tell you mysel’. The laird’s sell’t some o’ his land.’

  ‘Rowanbrae, I suppose?’

  ‘Aye, some man fae near Oldmeldrum’s bought it.’ Hesitating for a second, Jess burst out, ‘He’s pullin’ doon your hoose an’ puttin’ up a new ane.’

  Wondering why her friend seemed so troubled, Mysie smiled. ‘Weel, it was nae use to naebody the way it was.’

  ‘Are you nae worried?’

  ‘Why would I be …?’ As the significance dawned on her, she was horrorstruck. ‘You think he’ll find Jeems?’

  ‘Weel, there’s diggers goin’, an’ you never ken. Jake says there wouldna be naething left, for the lime would ha’e …’

  Recalling her last glimpse of Jeems, with the trousers round his head showing no lime on them, Mysie wrung her hands. ‘I dinna ken what to dae, Jess.’

  ‘They havena touched the byre yet, an’ maybe they never will … och, I wish I’d never tell’t you.’

  ‘I’m pleased you tell’t me. It’ll nae be such a shock if the bobbies come for me. I aye ken’t it would come oot some day.’

  ‘Dinna worry, lass.’ Jess leaned over and patted Mysie’s hand. ‘You can tell them it must ha’e been Doddie that killed him, for naebody can touch him noo.’

  ‘I’ve thought for years it was Doddie that did it,’ Mysie muttered sadly. ‘I’m sure it wasna me.’

  Jess gave a satisfied grunt. ‘I’ve aye thought it wasna you. Weel, if onybody does find him, they’ll think Doddie buried him as weel, so we’ve naething to worry aboot, nane o’ us.’

  Jess dropped the disturbing subject and brought Mysie up to date with the latest happenings at Burnlea. ‘Andra White died in Febuwary – some kind o’ blood disease …’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s hit Pattie real bad, for she’s real poorly hersel’, an’ I think it’s consumption. She used to be that fat, but you wouldna ken her noo, she’s that thin, poor thing. Meggie’s awfu’ good to her, though, an’ doesna let her dae a hand’s turn. Nessie’s still in the mental hospital – she’ll never get oot noo – an’ Drew’s aye busy at the mill.’

  Sensing that Mysie hadn’t yet recovered from her shock about Rowanbrae, Jess tried to find a cheerier topic. ‘Mrs Phillip’s cook’s run aff wi’ ane o’ the married men fae Fingask.’

  ‘I hope it’s nae lang till she finds somebody else, though she doesna mind the cookin’ hersel’.’ Mysie bore no ill-will at Gregor’s sister for what she had said on the day of Miss Wallace’s funeral. It had hurt deeply at the time, but it was quite understandable in the circumstances, and she had sent an apology through Gregor when he told her about the cook-shop, and had wished Mysie luck in her new venture, so it was all over and done with.

  ‘I near forgot,’ Jess cried. ‘Dougal Mennie’s sellin’ his shop. Rosie says she’s nae keen on leavin’, but, my God, they must be weel ower seventy, the pair o’ them. An’ Eck Petrie’s retired, an’ him an’ Jean’s bidin’ wi’ Effie in Strichen.’

  This led to reminiscing about the stories Jean Petrie had spread, and how fair Dougal had always been with what he gave them for their butter and eggs, then Jess stood up. ‘I wasna forgettin’ it was Gina’s birthday, an’ I’ve knitted a Fair Isle jumper for her.’ She took a parcel out of her bag and laid it on the table. ‘Weel, it’s time I was goin’, or I’ll be missin’ my bus an’ your lad’ll be here for his supper.’

  Mysie saw her to the foot of the stairs, then went back to consider what was happening at Rowanbrae. Jess had said they could tell the police that Doddie must have killed Jeems, but she would hate to desecrate his memory, even t
hough she fully believed that it had been him. Sadly, her own memories of him were fading – it would be fourteen years come November since he was killed – and she couldn’t even picture his face now. It was another face, a revolting dead face, that had returned to haunt her now, and it could be months, years, until the new house was finished. Could she survive the suspense as long as that? And even if the body wasn’t found by then, the new occupiers might come across it at some future time.

  When Gregor appeared, about twenty minutes later, he could see that Mysie had something on her mind, but decided to let her tell him when she was ready. ‘How was your friend Jess?’

  ‘The same as she usually is.’ Mysie hoped that her voice was steady. ‘She was telling me who had left Burnlea and who had died, and I’ll soon not know a soul there. She said Mr Phillip has sold off Rowanbrae, and the man who bought it is pulling down the old house so he can build a new one.’

  ‘Margaret did say something about that, the last time I saw her. Is that what upset you – your old house coming down?’

  ‘I’m not upset … well, maybe I am. It’s queer to think of strangers living there.’

  Gregor shrugged and smiled. ‘You can’t halt the march of progress, and, anyway, it’s a long time since you left it.’

  ‘Yes, February 1915.’

  ‘Over sixteen years ago. When did you go there first?’

  ‘August 1905.’

  ‘So you were only nine and a half years at Rowanbrae, and I thought you told me you weren’t happy there …’ He halted, recalling that she had been happy for the few months her lover had been with her, then said, ‘You’ve been in Aberdeen longer than that. Don’t you consider that it’s home to you now?’

  ‘It’ll be fourteen years in January, but I don’t think it will ever feel home to me. I’ve got country roots.’ Looking at him, concerned for her as always, Mysie suddenly realised that she cared for him more than she had ever done. Her whole body ached for his arms around her, arms that would do their best to reassure her but could never banish her fears. ‘Oh, Gregor, I wish things could have been different.’