Fields of Blue Flax (15 page)

‘Oh yeah,’ said Gerry, stirring eggs in a pan. ‘Sure you don’t want some scrambled eggs before you go?’

Christine picked up her jacket from the back of a chair. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Okay. Have a good time with Jenny. Must try to meet her some day.’

‘Yes.’ She peered at the eggs. ‘You’ll need to soak the pan before you wash it.’

‘Okay, boss.’ He smiled. ‘Still reckon you should have got the train.’

‘I told you, Sunday timetable’s a nightmare.’

He nodded. ‘Drive safely.’

Four hours later, Christine slowed down at the end of
a street and parked the car. She got out her phone and checked the address. Where was it? She remembered the type of car from the police report so scanned the cars parked down this tree-lined suburban street.

Number twenty-six – there it was, a small red-brick semi. She removed the sturdy black leather case she had brought with her and put it on her lap.

She’d had the entire morning to think as she drove south. She had felt a frisson of something – was it fear? – as she drove past Gateshead on the A1, knowing that was where the kids had had their accident. But now here she was in Pontefract, and she was still undecided about what to do. She looked up and down the street but could not see his car. She looked at her watch; twelve thirty, maybe he was out at the shops. She would sit and wait.

Twenty minutes later she noticed a blue car approach in her mirror. She didn’t move as she watched it drive along the road and park directly outside the house. It was the Nissan. Christine peered through the window. A man got out. He was about forty and dressed in a shiny suit and garish orange tie. The passenger door opened and she could see an elderly lady sitting on the seat.

Christine unclasped the binding on the leather case and removed the binoculars. She lowered her window and looked closer. The lady, smartly dressed in a navy coat and matching woollen hat, looked about her dad’s age. She was swinging her legs out from the seat in slow motion; the action reminded her of Auntie Peggy emerging from a car, cautiously, knees first. The man rushed round to her side and handed her a stick; leaning on his arm, she pulled herself to a standing position.

She heard the back door slam and a girl with two bouncy
bunches in her hair appeared on the pavement. The man pointed inside the car and the girl picked up two books. The girl skipped along her garden path and up the steps to the front door. Christine adjusted the binocular lens and saw that the books were identical; black and thick. Bibles. They must have been to church.

The man guided the old lady slowly up the path and into the house. The little girl reappeared a couple of minutes later and sat on the doorstep with an ice lolly. She removed the paper and licked. The man came out, patted her head then took the paper from her before going back inside.

Christine felt numb. This was not how she had imagined things to be when she saw Colin Clarkson. Though she hadn’t had any idea what would happen, this pleasant domestic scene was unexpected – returning from church with a lady that could have been her aunt and a child that could have been her daughter at that age. Christine felt her heart begin to race. He was a father, why the hell did he not feel more remorse for nearly killing her two children? And why was he driving like a madman with a little girl in the car? Surely he could at least have apologised, asked about Jack… She let out a long breath then slowly raised the car window and rammed the binoculars back into their case. She scrabbled in her handbag, found a pill and swigged it down with some water, then turned the key in the ignition and began the long drive home.

Chapter Twenty-six

1864

Tannadice church was packed. Easter Sunday was a time when every single member of the parish was obliged to attend. Charlotte took her seat on the wooden bench at the brand new organ and checked that her book of psalms and paraphrases was at the right page. Her father’s selection of music was nothing if not traditional. ‘
Christ the Lord is Risen Today’
was an obvious choice for Easter and Charles Wesley a safe lyricist, but her father would not contemplate it, even though she had been telling him about the abundance of new hymns being written.

She had hoped that, since he had at last bowed to pressure from the kirk session to replace the old piano – not with a new piano but with an organ – he might also consider new music. But when she had told him the congregation were sure to enjoy these new hymns, he had sneered. ‘Our traditional psalms have served us for aeons, why should we change? Furthermore, the
enjoyment
of my flock is not why I was called to serve the Lord, Charlotte. Our established music will suit us fine here in Tannadice.’

As ever, he made her feel naïve and irrelevant.

She looked around at the congregation and noticed the daffodils and snowdrops that adorned some modest bonnets throughout the pews. In the front rows all the ladies seemed to have on new outfits for Easter. She was certain she had not seen Mrs Mackay in that shade of green before. And Miss Grant had never worn anything other than black in church; that silver colour at least matched
her straggly grey hair. In the side pew, Lady Munro was resplendent in black and cream stripes.

She was not sure what her father would think of these fashionable dresses in the kirk. He had told her so often that she was permitted to wear only dark colours. A fortnight earlier, she had arrived in the vestry before the service wearing a dark grey dress with a cream lace collar and he had ordered her to hurry home and change into something more appropriate.

It was five minutes to go till the beadle ushered him in so she straightened her back and shuffled on the bench. It was so uncomfortable, but she wasn’t permitted a cushion. She was about to start playing when a jostling a few pews behind her made her look round. A woman was urging two little girls in plain bonnets and drab fawn frocks to squeeze into the narrow wooden pew. The woman skelped the back of one of their little heads then shoved them along. The girls sat with heads tilted up, looking up at the empty pulpit and the huge bible opened upon the lectern. The woman kept her head down, as if seeking anonymity.

It was Margaret Barrie with Elizabeth and Jane. Charlotte took a deep breath then looked up as the beadle bowed deeply and her father entered the sanctuary. The congregation stood and she began to play the first hymn.

After an hour and a half of her father’s sonorous voice thundering from the pulpit, she played the final amen, then saw Margaret Barrie stand up and gesture for the little girls to follow.

She finished the tune then smiled at the choirmaster. ‘Mr Ferguson, I need to speak to one of Father’s parishioners. I shall return presently to collect my music.’

The elderly man nodded and she darted past the choir
and out the back door of the church. Round at the front of the building she craned her neck to see over the emerging congregation. Past the yew trees, she could see her father at the door, greeting his adoring flock.

He was nodding in acknowledgement of their approbation as his congregation filed past. Charlotte noticed, not for the first time, that his aloof expression and affected manner made his attempts at a smile more of a sneer. She was reminded of the last verse in Robert Burns’ poem, Holy Willie’s Prayer:

But Lord, remember me and mine

Wi’ mercies temporal and divine!

That I for grace and gear may shine
,

Excell’d by nane!

And a’ the glory shall be thine!

Amen! Amen!

‘Ah, Charlotte, that was an enlightening sermon, was it not?’ Lady Munro stood at her side, smiling through black teeth. She had heard someone suggest, unkindly, that the discoloured teeth were due to the claret she consumed on a regular basis.

‘It was, Lady Munro, perfect for this beautiful Easter day.’

‘Indeed, the zeal of your father never fails to impress.’ She inclined her head. ‘Good Day, Charlotte.’

‘Good day,’ she said and stretched her head up to look again towards the door.

There they were at the foot of the steps. She rushed over, though she knew Lady Munro was watching.

‘Mrs Barrie, it is indeed good to see you back in the village.’

Margaret Barrie looked up, unsmiling, at the tall figure. She glanced over at Lady Munro who raised her chin and walked on ahead.

‘Aye, well we couldnae stay much longer wi’ my cousin Jeannie when her man took sae ill, so we’re back. I’ve got some work in the village.’

Charlotte was not concentrating on what the woman was saying, she was gazing at the girls. One had curly hair and large brown eyes, pools of molten chocolate. Her lips were rosebuds. The other, whose hand Margaret held, had lank hair and freckles. As Cookie might say, not a bonnie child.

‘The girls?’ she whispered.

‘Aye, here’s Jane and this tinker’s Elizabeth.’ She took hold of the pretty girl’s ear lobe and pulled her towards her. The little girl winced but said nothing. ‘Say guid morning to Miss Charlotte, girls, then we must be away home.’

The girls obediently murmured their greeting, Elizabeth twisting a ringlet round and round her finger as she looked up, entranced, at Charlotte.

‘May I call upon you one day, Mrs Barrie?’

‘If you must.’ The small woman scowled. ‘Ye ken the auld cottage in the main street, that’s where we are.’

‘Thank you. I would love to perhaps take them for a walk or…’

‘I’m no’ sure the Minister would like that. He just aboot ignored us at the door the now.’ Margaret turned to leave and shoved the girls forward. ‘Goodbye, Miss Charlotte.’

The woman headed towards the wrought iron gate, the plain girl skipping beside her. Elizabeth, however, stood still for a moment, gazing up at Charlotte, her little bright face animated, before turning and running full pelt towards the gate.

Chapter Twenty-seven

2014

The church was freezing. Christine took her dad’s walking stick and put it in the umbrella stand at the end of the pew. ‘Can’t you keep your bonnet on, dad? You’ll get a chill!’

‘Christine, all men must remove their hats in church.’ He tutted and turned to his sister sitting alongside.

‘Look, there’s Bella,’ said Peggy, turning fully round to stare down the aisle. ‘Goodness me, she’s put on weight since I last saw her!’

‘Mum!’ Mags hissed, ‘you’re speaking far too loudly.’

‘And I’m not sure you should wear red at funerals,’ said Peggy, pointing at Auntie Bella waddling down the aisle, dressed in bright scarlet.

Bella took her seat in the opposite pew. When she noticed the four of them sitting so close to her, she beamed. She opened her mouth to say something then stopped as the undertaker asked the congregation to stand.

The coffin passed the end of their pew and they all glanced towards it.

The funeral wake was a jolly affair. The older guests clung onto their sherry and whisky glasses as the waiters weaved around offering refills. Auntie Bella was one of the few women drinking whisky and every time she came back into the room after a cigarette break outside, she called over a waiter to top her glass up. Now she was sitting by the buffet table, legs akimbo, her woollen skirt stretched, taut between her knees.

Beside her was the table laden with food. Mags and Christine had watched the elderly guests all pile their plates high the moment the waitress had said, ‘Help yourselves.’

Mags whispered, ‘God, you’d think all the old folk hadn’t eaten for days. Look at them!’

‘I know and half of them are on their third or fourth dram.’

There were half-empty plates of sandwiches, sausage rolls and cakes beside her. Bella picked up a scone, peered at it over her glasses, then took a large mouthful. The cream and jam smeared on her lower lips so she licked them and took another bite, before putting it on the plate balanced on her lap.

Christine and Mags approached and Bella slapped the chairs beside her. ‘Sit down, girls. Tell me your news!’

After they had told her about their children, Christine said, ‘Auntie Bella, we’re doing some research into the family history. It’s fascinating, isn’t it, Mags?’

Mags nodded and smiled.

‘Anyway, we’ve done really well, got back to the nineteenth century easily but then we came to a complete standstill for Elizabeth Barrie, your granny. We can’t seem to find a birth certificate.’

‘Yeah, she only comes into existence from 1871 when she’s fourteen and a domestic servant in a big house in Dundee,’ Mags added.

‘Has your dad not told you, Christine?’

‘Told me what?’

‘Well, about her secret?’

Christine’s eyes lit up. ‘He kept saying there was a secret but couldn’t remember what. Auntie Peggy said he was talking nonsense.’

Christine and Mags dragged their chairs nearer.

‘Well, it was on Granny’s deathbed. She called in her children – my mother Annie and your Grandpa Douglas’

‘And what did she say?’ Mags was impatient.

‘Well, this is what Ma told me about Elizabeth Barrie. Her father was married to someone else and her parents had had an affair. But when Elizabeth was born, for some strange reason she was brought up by the Barries instead of her real mother, even after David Barrie died young.’

‘So it’s true,’ said Christine. ‘But Auntie Peggy didn’t know anything about it.’

Bella shrugged. ‘Maybe your Grandpa Douglas only told Charlie. Or, more likely, he told neither of them and Charlie eavesdropped.’

‘Well that would explain why he can’t quite remember all the facts,’ said Christine. ‘Is there anything else you remember?’

‘Let me think,’ said Bella, picking up her empty glass. ‘Oh, Mags, would you be a good girl and get me another dram. Someone must have drunk mine.’ She handed Mags the tumbler.

‘Don’t say another thing till I come back, Auntie Bella!’

A long draft of whisky later, and Bella started again. ‘There was something else, now what the heck was it…’

‘Something about Elizabeth’s real mother?’ asked Mags.

‘No, we definitely never knew that.’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘There was something to do with the church or the churchyard or something, now what was it?’