Fields of Blue Flax Read online

  Fields of

  Blue Flax

  Sue Lawrence

  First published 2015

  Freight Books

  49-53 Virginia Street

  Glasgow, G1 1TS

  www.freightbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Sue Lawrence 2015

  The moral right of Sue Lawrence to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or by licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 0LP.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-910449-10-3

  eISBN 978-1-910449-11-0

  Typeset by Freight

  Printed and bound by Bell and Bain, Glasgow

  Sue Lawrence was born in Dundee but lived and went to school in Edinburgh, before returning to Dundee to study French at university. She then trained as a journalist with DC Thomson.

  Having taken time off her career when, with her pilot husband, they lived in many different places – and her three children were small – she took up writing again after winning BBC Masterchef in 1991. She was cookery columnist for the Sunday Times then Scotland on Sunday and also wrote for several magazines and appeared regularly on TV and radio.

  She won a Glenfiddich Food and Drink Award in 2003 and two Guild of Food Writers Awards, in 1998 and 2001. She was President of the Guild of Food Writers from 2004 – 2008.

  She is author of 14 cook books, including Sue Lawrence’s Book of Baking, Scots Cooking and A Cook’s Tour of Scotland.

  For my family, with love

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  She strode over the bed of wet greenery towards the glade, pausing to bend down and rub a leaf between her fingers. Wrinkling her nose at the distinct smell of wild garlic, she straightened up and made for the gap between the trees. There, she stopped to look around. All was still and calm; not even the chirrup of birds disturbed the air. Perhaps they too were hiding in the spring mist.

  She glanced at the blanket of white ramson flowers all around, their beauty belying their pungent aroma. Though their leaves strongly resembled lily of the valley, the vital difference between the two was life and death, one deadlier than arsenic.

  Then she heard him approach, his footsteps soft on the damp vegetation. He checked he was alone then came to stand before her. Smiling, he looked at her, then extended his hand in front of him, showing the way. Together they walked, her skirt swishing against the wet shrubs, towards the cottage. He took the key from his pocket and looked at her again, his head tilted to one side. She nodded as he pushed open the door and they both stepped inside.

  As he pulled the door shut, another figure emerged from the wood into the clearing. Tall, lean and dressed in black, he picked his way nimbly over the moist weeds and clambered over the gnarled roots of the hazel trees. He took out a large handkerchief to mask a sneeze then pushed the cloth back, deep into his pocket. Standing still, he merged with the dark, knotted trunks all around. He cupped his hand round his ear, listening. But the only sound was the rustle of leaves on the trees, their lofty branches swaying in the breeze.

  A couple of hours later, the door creaked open. She looked out, then darted back inside, leaving the door ajar. A curtain was tugged open in the front room then she stepped once more onto the doorstep. As she closed the door quietly behind her, her expression changed. Once sombre, her eyes were now keen and a smile played on her lips. She hurried away from the cottage as if with a new sense of purpose.

  Chapter 1

  2014

  ‘That a new ring, Mags?’

  ‘This? No, it was Granny’s.’

  Christine snatched at her cousin’s hand and stared at the garnet and gold ring. ‘So how come you’ve got it?’

  Mags pulled the ring off her finger. ‘Here, you can have it if you want.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, I was just asking why you’ve got it.’

  ‘Mum can’t get it on her finger any more, her arthritis is playing up.’

  ‘Poor Auntie Peggy,’ said Christine, still staring at the ring in Mags’s palm.

  ‘It’ll go eventually to one of our girls, don’t worry, Chris.’ Mags grinned and put it back on.

  Christine bristled. ‘Of course it will, sorry, that makes me seem grabbing.’

  ‘It’s not exactly a family heirloom, garnets aren’t worth that much, but I really like it.’ Mags smiled as she held it up to the light.

  ‘Talking of family, I’ve got a favour to ask.’ Christine took a sip of her cappuccino. ‘You know I’ve been wanting to do this for ages, but I just thought, while Dad and your mum are still with us, we ought to ask them stuff about the family history.’

  ‘Why?’ Mags scooped the foam from the top of her mug and sucked it from the spoon.

  ‘I thought it might be interesting. If we knew a bit more about their parents, our grandparents, we could go into Register House and research even further back.’

  ‘You been teaching family trees at school, Chris?’

  Christine grinned. ‘You know me too well. Yes. So what do you reckon?’

  ‘Sounds as dull as dishwater to me but I can always chum you. As long as there’s plenty stops for coffee and chat.’

  ‘Of course there will.’

  ‘Have you got the death certificate?’ asked Christine.

  Aunt Peggy nodded and heaved herself up from her armchair. Once upright she looked down at her knees, as if willing them to work. She fumbled for the spectacles dangling round her neck on a chain
and shuffled towards the table.

  She peered down. ‘Here it is, sweetheart.’ Her hand, dappled with liver spots, rested on a large brown envelope. On the front, scrawled in black marker pen in large capital letters was, “Duncan – Death”.

  ‘It’s in here. I’ve got Grandpa’s too but you just want Granny Duncan’s, do you?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks, Auntie Peggy.’

  Christine had taken her father, Charlie, to see his sister in her house in Leith so she could ask them both about the family. The death certificate Auntie Peggy had just handed over was that of Christine’s great-grandmother, known as Granny Duncan.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re interested in the Duncans, Christine,’ said Auntie Peggy, settling herself back into the pile of cushions in her armchair. ‘I don’t think there’s anything other than mundane about them all. As far as I know, they’re all from Dundee and…’

  ‘No, Peggy, some of them were from a farming place to the north, can you not remember?’ Charlie interrupted.

  ‘Well, Mum had a McLauchlin cousin who lived in Kirriemuir but we know her other relatives were all from Dundee. The Duncan family shop goes back to the late nineteenth century, they were all involved in that, remember?’ Auntie Peggy looked at her niece. ‘The Duncans have been Dundonians for generations, I’m absolutely sure of it.’

  ‘Thanks, that’ll make it easy for me when I start looking them up.’ Christine eased the envelope into her handbag. ‘So, can you remember your Duncan grandparents?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Auntie Peggy, her weathered face wrinkling into a smile. ‘Grandpa Duncan was a gentle, kind man. I used to love sitting on his lap when I was little – he always smelled of pipe tobacco, he was forever puffing away on it.’ She laughed. ‘Can you imagine nowadays, a child being allowed to inhale pipe smoke like that?’

  Christine smiled and turned to her father, sitting beside her on the well-worn sofa, his scrawny frame hunched into the curves of the cushions. He seemed lost in thought and she momentarily felt a pang of sadness as she gazed at the strong jaw and rheumy eyes; his lack of interaction and forgetfulness was becoming a worry, she really ought to take him to the GP for those dementia tests.

  ‘But Granny Duncan, she was the opposite. We were scared of her as wee ones.’ Peggy continued. ‘I seem to remember she never hugged us, yet Grandpa was always one for a cuddle, strange really.’

  ‘Well, if there’s anything else you can tell me, it’s useful to have as much information as possible before I go to Register House,’ said Christine. ‘I’ve persuaded Mags to join me.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that, sweetheart. She’ll be more interested in the coffee breaks than the research. Your cousin’s never been one to dwell on the past, she’s more of a now girl, isn’t she?’

  Charlie opened his mouth then shut it again. He scratched his chin, frowned, and turned to his sister. ‘Peggy, can you not remember something about a family secret. It came to me just now while Christine was talking, but I can’t quite remember.’

  ‘I think I’d have remembered if there was anything vaguely juicy about anyone in our family. No, you’re imagining things, Charlie.’

  ‘There was something hidden, definitely,’ Charlie pronounced. ‘And secrets are bad, no doubt about it.’

  He turned away and gazed out of the window.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Peggy tutted, pouring tea from the shiny brown teapot in front of her. She turned to her niece. ‘Now, tell me about Jack and Anna, Christine. How are their studies going? And their love lives? Will I be needing to dust off my wedding hat anytime soon?’

  Christine shook her head and laughed.

  ‘Not yet, Auntie Peggy, definitely not yet.’

  Christine folded her coat over the back of her chair and turned to her cousin. ‘Right, here’s how we proceed.’

  ‘Okay, ready to be bossed,’ Mags said, taking a couple of sweets from her pocket and offering one to Christine, who politely declined. They were in Register House, at the east end of Princes Street in Edinburgh, to investigate the history of the Duncan family.

  Christine brought out the large envelope, removed the fragile document and spread it out carefully on the desk. ‘Here’s the death certificate. Your mum gave it to me.’

  Mags unwrapped her toffee and popped it into her mouth.

  Christine put on her glasses and peered at the parchment. ‘So, Elizabeth Duncan died on 26th January 1952, aged ninety-four, at 33 Park Avenue, Dundee, of myocardial degeneration.’

  ‘Pretty old for someone who’d had what Mum always says was a hard life.’

  ‘Exactly. I’d have thought seventy was a good age in those days.’

  Mags pointed to the certificate. ‘And it says her father, David Barrie, was a ploughman and her mother was called Margaret Harris.’

  Christine pulled the document away. ‘Watch your sticky fingers. This is all we’ve got to go on,’ she muttered.

  ‘Oh, God. Chill!’ Mags flung her jacket on top of her basket on the floor and sat back in her chair. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We go backwards to find Granny Duncan’s wedding certificate, birth certificate and so on. Can’t be that difficult, everyone else here seems to be managing by themselves.’ Christine pointed at the people all around them, sitting in front of computer screens.

  Christine started to take notes from the information on the certificate. ‘You know Dad’s losing it, so he can’t remember that much now, but Auntie Peggy’s memory is still brilliant, we’ll need to keep asking her things. I mean, all we’ve got is this.’ She pointed at the faded certificate in front of her.

  ‘Yeah, Mum’s memory’s pretty awesome, considering her age. It’s just her body that’s not so good. Her knees are giving her such grief but she refuses to do anything about it, says it’s all just part of getting old.’ Mags shook her head. ‘Bless her. Oh, I popped into your dad’s earlier and he mentioned that family secret again. Remember you said he’d insisted there was something but Mum said it was all rubbish?’

  ‘Yes. Could he remember what it was?’

  ‘Nope. But he said you know all about it and I need to speak to you.’

  Christine looked up from the screen. ‘Why on earth he thinks that, I don’t know. Oh and I’ve got a photo from Auntie Peggy as well. Here, have a look.’

  They both studied the black-and-white photo, taken in a park. In the foreground was a large, old-fashioned pram with a baby stretching up at one end.

  ‘Dad looks like a meerkat straining his neck up to see out better!’ Christine laughed. ‘Must be 1925, he looks about nine months old.’

  ‘God, how scary does our great-granny look!’ said Mags.

  The pram handle was held by a stern woman dressed in a dark suit and hat, with a fox-fur collar at her neck. Her eyes were downcast and her expression was uneasy, perhaps worrying that the baby might topple out of the pram, or simply irritated that her photograph was being taken. By her side and with hand firmly grasped, stood a little girl wearing a dress with a petticoat hanging down at one side. She was the only one looking directly at the camera.

  ‘Look at Mum, that tatty petticoat makes her look like an urchin from the poorhouse!’ Mags chuckled, then mouthed “sorry” at the man opposite who was scowling at them. ‘Bit like a library in here, isn’t it!’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go for a coffee.’

  ‘We’ve only got till five and there’s loads to investigate. It’s only half past ten, let’s wait till eleven.’

  ‘No way, I’m in serious need of caffeine.’ Mags pushed back her chair and looked around for the exit to the café.

  Christine sighed and stood up to follow her along the corridor. ‘So what else has Auntie Peggy told you about her? I only got the scary bit.’

  ‘Well, Mum said she never smiled, ever. That she had amazing brown eyes, really dark, almost black. And that she had been a servant in some big house in Dundee. That’s about it.’ Mags held the door open for Christine. ‘Does Uncle Charlie not remember
anything about her?’

  ‘He said she was the opposite of his other granny who was all warm and cuddly. Cappuccino or Americano?’

  ‘Don’t suppose they run to double espresso? I’ll go for Americano, but I’ll get these, Chris. You grab a table.’

  Christine drew out a chair at a table by the window and looked out at the rain streaming down the pane. She pulled her thick blonde hair back into a ponytail and tied a band round it. Lifting up the menu card, she started to fan herself. ‘Not exactly tropical outside is it, why on earth am I so hot?’

  ‘Age, Chris.’ Mags sat down. ‘Bloody menopause, yet another inconvenience of being a woman!’ Mags leant in towards her cousin as she took a gulp from her mug. ‘Talking of hot, have you seen that young guy serving?’

  Christine put down the menu and glanced up at the servery. ‘He’s about the same age as our kids!’

  Mags shrugged then peered over the rim of her mug at her cousin. ‘Have you got new eye make-up on? Your eyes look even bluer today.’

  ‘Yes, a new eyeliner, navy blue. Anna gave it to me.’

  They were first cousins and close friends, yet the two women were night and day. Christine had piercing blue eyes and a mane of thick, straight blonde hair. Though she was two years younger than her cousin, she appeared older, a reflection perhaps of the sensible, staid clothes she always dressed in. Whenever her daughter tried to get her into more trendy clothes, she insisted that standing in front of a class of eight-year-olds every day was not conducive to glamour. Knee-length skirts, thick black tights and sensible shoes were her daily uniform.