The Sunday Girls (39 page)

‘She made your life a misery, Ann, and all you did was finally stick up for yourself. You’ll soon see that for yourself. Mrs Barrie was a wonderful woman and you’ll always have your lovely memories of her. Just think of all the nice things she did for you and vice versa. After all, she did enjoy you reading her stories, didn’t she?’

Granny was right. As I stood beside Jean, Dad and Grandad on the damp turf of the cemetery, I knew I would never be able to read a detective novel again without thinking of our wonderful times in the cosy morning room or on the sun-dappled grass in the garden.

I looked up and saw the Pringles moving towards the minister. Maddie came over. She looked cold and miserable and her hands were thrust deep into her coat pockets. Like Greg, Danny had also been unable to get away from work to come to the funeral and that possibly explained Maddie’s miserable expression. That and the fact that she had been deeply attached to Mrs Barrie, her godmother.

Still, she cheered up a bit when she reached me and she tucked her arm through mine as we walked towards the gates.

‘Maddie, do you know what’s happened to Miss Hood?’ I asked but she shook her head.

‘I don’t know, Ann. I did hear she wasn’t well and is maybe in hospital but she isn’t in the Royal infirmary. Maybe she’s in some private hospital.’

‘You heard about what happened? The day Mrs Barrie died?’

She nodded miserably then said, ‘I know Dad wants to speak to you, Ann, to explain everything, but what a terrible time you must have had at Whitegate Lodge.’

I thought she was on the verge of tears. I could feel the cold seeping through my shoes and I also tried hard not to burst into tears. ‘It was fine until Jean broke her leg,’ I said truthfully. ‘At least it was bearable but, when Jean left, it got worse and worse and, of course, my coat didn’t help. Miss Hood took such a spite at my having it. Poor Mrs Barrie …’ Tears threatened to erupt again and I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my grey coat – Hattie’s coat.

I saw Jean’s motherly figure coming towards us. She had overheard our conversation. ‘Aye, if I hadn’t broke this ruddy leg, then I wouldn’t have let Miss Hood bully you, Ann, but you’ve got to understand that Mrs Barrie had a dicky heart and she could have dropped dead at any time. And all these bouts of flu didn’t help but she always said she wanted to die quickly …’

I saw Jean was crying as well. I looked around for Dad and Grandad but they were with Maddie’s father. Jean moved ahead but Maddie held me back. She obviously wanted to tell me something that she didn’t want the mourners to overhear. ‘Do you remember the photograph, Ann? The one of the small child?’

I nodded.

‘Well I overheard my mother and Eva discuss Miss Hood a few weeks ago. It seems Miss Hood got involved with some actor when she worked in the theatre in London. She was a wardrobe mistress to Eva in those days. Well this actor came from the West Indies to play the part of Othello and to cut a long story short, she fell in love with him and she had a child. She thought they would get married but instead he took the little boy and disappeared back to Jamaica. The child was only about two at the time and Eva did all she could to help.’

I was shocked. ‘What a terrible thing to happen to her.’ I tried to imagine how I would feel if someone went off with Lily. I would be devastated. ‘Did she ever find her child?’

Maddie shook her head. ‘No. Eva even hired a private investigator but they had vanished. The investigator traced them to Jamaica but, by then, they had left and gone off to America and the trail went cold after that.’

‘She was cutting up the photograph on the day Mrs Barrie died. Why do you think she did that, Maddie?’

Maddie didn’t have the answer. ‘I’m just a student nurse in the men’s surgical ward so I wouldn’t know anything about mental health.’

Suddenly Jean was back at my side. ‘Ann, I’ve been told by yon man over there that we have to be at his office in Commercial Street next Wednesday.’ She pointed to a serious-looking elderly man who stood beside Mr Pringle, Dad and Grandad. ‘He’s a solicitor.’

‘We’ve to go to a solicitor’s office?’ I was perplexed.

‘Aye, next Wednesday at ten o’clock.’

Maddie said, ‘Yes, that’s one of my father’s partners – Mr Chambers.’

I looked at Maddie but she shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she said.

Back at the Overgate, Granny was as puzzled as I was. Hattie, however, was agog with excitement. ‘You must be getting a wee memento, Ann,’ she chirped. ‘Maybe it’s another coat.’

I was suddenly very angry. ‘Don’t mention that again, Hattie. That coat was the cause of all this tragedy, I’m sure about that.’

Greg didn’t share this view but he knew all about my terrible nightmares – night terrors of heavy candlesticks and a ravaged-looking Miss Hood.

It was the day after the funeral when he mentioned the visit to his parents’ house. ‘We can take Lily with us and go by bus. She will enjoy the change and maybe Rosie will have your handsome father all to herself for a couple of days.’

How perceptive he was. It was true Dad was looking a lot cheerier these days and, although he still had his pint of beer on a Saturday, he seemed to want to stay in the house with us – and Rosie, of course, who was a regular visitor to the Hilltown. Yes, I thought, things were definitely looking up in that direction.

As it turned out, the weekend was just the tonic I needed. The sun shone steadily and although the autumn air was crisp, the countryside was ablaze with multicoloured trees and fresh smokeless air. Lily was fascinated by the new scenery and she loved every minute of the visit, as I did.

Mr and Mrs Borland lived a few miles from Trinafour. The house, built of grey stone, was situated by the side of a grass-covered hill and right beside a clear running stream. It was enchanting, especially to my city eyes.

Mr Borland was a shepherd and, every morning, he set off early with his two dogs, Jassy and Jed. Lily went with him that first morning, just as far as the first sheep pen on the hill, but she arrived back in high spirits, her small face pink with pleasure and sunshine.

Later I helped Greg’s mum make a gigantic high tea of bacon and eggs, home-made bread and scones and pancakes, all washed down with strong sweet tea. As I stood in the warm, homely kitchen, my memories of Miss Hood slowly receded in my mind. Afterwards we all sat around a big roaring fire, listening to the trees swaying in the wind and hearing stories of lost sheep and wild winters – the daily job of a shepherd in fact.

‘You must call me Barbara or Babs and Dad’s name is Dave,’ said Greg’s mum. It was obvious she was proud of her son because she never stopped singing his praises – much to his embarrassment.

‘We were both so proud when he went away to the university in Glasgow,’ she said.

Dave nodded and I thought Greg blushed slightly. ‘Oh, stop it, Mum. Ann doesn’t want to hear about me. Heavens, it’ll be the family album soon.’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than his mother scurried away into a wooden cupboard.

I hadn’t known about the university and I was pleased to hear about his achievements. ‘What did you study at Glasgow?’ I asked.

He grinned in his lopsided manner. ‘What else? English Literature.’

‘Oh, how wonderful,’ I gasped. Still, I wasn’t surprised because Maddie had said he was a bookworm.

Babs appeared from the depths of the cupboard with a small leather-bound book. It was full of small sepia-toned and black-and-white photos of the family, all taken over a period of about twenty years.

There was Greg as a child and as a schoolboy and a studio portrait taken after his graduation – a serious-looking young man with a scroll in his hand.

He laughed out loud. ‘So now you know my case history, Miss Neill. Do you still want to know me?’

Lily clapped her hands. ‘Yes, yes, Greg. I want to come back and see the lambs. Dave said I could.’

Babs gathered her up on to her lap and gave her a cuddle. ‘Of course you must come back – anytime you both want to.’ She smiled at me over Lily’s head and I was filled with emotion at this cosy domestic scene. I couldn’t help but wonder if it would have been the same for us had Mum lived. But she hadn’t so there was no use in thinking about it.

Dave was speaking as he filled his pipe with tobacco from a well-worn pouch. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Ann, but Greg has told us about the awful situation at your work.’

Greg threw him a warning look but the man was just trying to be sympathetic. Suddenly the spectre of Miss Hood returned to my mind. Dave was still talking but I wasn’t listening. Then the words Salvation Army stood out and I looked at him.

‘Does the Salvation Army come here?’ I said, quite mystified.

Greg laughed. ‘Good Lord, no. It’s just that my cousin is a major in the Salvation Army in Dundee. We both went to Glasgow University and he’s now an accountant with a firm in Dundee. He loves the Army, just like Rosie.’

‘Well, Rosie doesn’t seem to attend so much these days.’ I didn’t mention that this could be Dad’s doing. Suddenly a memory emerged from the deep recesses of my mind – a memory from a few years ago. The memory was of Balgay cemetery under rain-filled skies and the young Salvation Army major who so movingly performed the service. The one I thought had been press-ganged by Rosie.

‘A Major Borland conducted my mum’s service,’ I said. ‘Would that be your cousin?’

Greg nodded. ‘Certainly looks like it. I met up with him after the service and I remember him saying it was heart-breaking – two children left motherless. Was that you and Lily? To think I could have met you then.’ He smiled at me.

‘What a small world, Ann,’ said Babs. ‘But no more talk of sad things. Get the board games out, Dave, and we’ll take Lily on at Snakes and Ladders and Ludo.’

Lily’s laughter was a joy to my ears as Greg and I sat quietly talking by the fire. Tomorrow it would be time to go home to Dundee but for now, it was pleasant to sit and dream in the semi-darkness that lay beyond the golden circle of the oil lamp.

Then on Wednesday, sharp at ten o’clock, I met Jean outside the solicitor’s office. A brass plaque at the end of the close stated that Jackson, Chambers & Pringle was to be found on the first floor. We gingerly ascended the stone stairs with their fancy wrought-iron banisters and finally arrived at a door with a frosted glass panel which had the firm’s name embellished on it in gold letters. This was where Maddie’s father worked.

Inside, a well-groomed young woman arose from behind an imposing desk. A typist sat at another desk but she didn’t look up when we entered. We were ushered into a small booklined inner sanctum, the shelves of which were overflowing with thick binders and even thicker law books. A man sat in the chair by the window. To our surprise, it was Mr Potter. Jean still had her plaster on and she hobbled over to him. He turned his watery eyes to us and muttered, ‘A bad business this, missus. Aye a right bad business.’

I stood stock-still, shock washing over me. But he muttered again, ‘I’m not meaning you, lass. No, it wasn’t your fault. It was that evil besom of a housekeeper.’

Before I could answer, a middle-aged man, with a wrinkled scraggy-looking neck and a thin emaciated body that seemed to be dwarfed by his sober dark suit, entered and introduced himself. ‘I’m Mr Jackson, solicitor for the late Mrs Barrie’s estate.’

We followed him into his office, a larger room with a window overlooking the street. It was a haven of silence except for the muffled voices rising up from the street.

Mr Jackson said, ‘We have handled Mrs Barrie’s affairs ever since her arrival at Broughty Ferry – not so much me as my late father. He knew Mrs Barrie well and he conducted most of her business affairs but now the estate is in my hands.’ As if running out of words, he sat down and began to polish his spectacles. ‘Please sit down, ladies and Mr Potter.’

He coughed and I tried hard not to smile because it sounded just as I had always imagined a solicitor would cough – discreetly and delicately. He began to read from a document which he held in his surprisingly muscular hands. His voice was formal, almost as if he were reading some official document. ‘It is my duty to inform you that, under the terms of the last will and testament of the late Eva Caroline Barrie, the sum of one year’s wages is to be paid to Mr Archibald Potter, Mrs Jean Peters and Miss Ann Neill.’

Jean gasped while I felt faint. ‘That was very good of Mrs Barrie to think of us,’ she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

We wondered if we should rise but the solicitor waggled his hand. ‘There is more,’ he said in his stuffy formal tone. ‘To Mr Archibald Potter I leave the sum of six hundred pounds and all the garden tools and any plants he wishes to take in full appreciation of all his hard work and dedication. To Mrs Jean Peters I leave the sum of six hundred pounds plus the choice of anything from the house, also in appreciation of her hard work and dedication.’

I felt so pleased for them. This windfall would be such a blessing for them. Then, to my utter surprise, he looked at me. ‘To Miss Ann Neill in loving appreciation of all her kindness in bringing alive my favourite reading material, I leave the sum of six hundred pounds plus all the books in the house – the leather-bound books and the novels – in the fond hope that she will remember an old lady.’

For a moment, I thought I was going to burst into tears and I tried hard to remain composed.

Jean, however, was unable to contain herself. She wiped her brow with large handkerchief. ‘Mr Jackson, may I say that Mrs Barrie was the nicest woman I’ve ever met and it was a pleasure to work for her. Bless her,’ said Jean while I nodded dumbly. ‘She was always kind to Ann and me and we’ll never forget her.’

There was no way I would ever forget her and, now she had left me this wonderful legacy, never, as long as I lived, would I forget her.

As usual, Mr Potter was as calm as ever. ‘Aye, she was a real nice woman, was the missus. It was a pleasure to do her garden. She never interfered – not like some I could mention,’ he said darkly.

His words brought back the memory of Miss Hood. ‘Mr Jackson, is Miss Hood in a hospital?’ I asked.