Fields of Blue Flax Read online

  ‘And did you?’ Christine asked without lifting her eyes from the menu.

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘You and Doug, did you take Lottie there?’

  ‘Yeah, we took Lotts up a couple of times when she was a toddler. We kept saying we’d repair the tree house but never got round to it. Doug loved it there though.’ She smiled and picked up the menu. ‘Right, what looks good?’

  ‘I fancy the asparagus tart with salad.’

  ‘Oh, good shout, it’ll probably be from that farm down the road. I noticed a sign when we passed.’

  Christine got out her phone and began to Google. ‘I’m checking what lily of the valley signifies on a Victorian grave.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Mags pressed her thumbs to her temples. ‘Can I have one of your Nurofen, I can feel a headache coming on.’ She stretched out her hand.

  Christine opened her mouth to speak but instead leant down to pick up her bag, and rummaged inside. ‘Sorry, I must have had the last one in the café.’

  ‘Never mind. Maybe some food will help. I’m just going to nip to the loo.’

  Christine watched until Mags was inside the pub then abandoned Google to write a text, typing and pressing ‘send’ quickly. She then returned to Google.

  ‘I gave the man at the bar our order,’ said Mags, sitting down. ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Here we go,’ said Christine squinting in the sun. ‘Lily of the valley on Victorian gravestones symbolised innocence, purity and virginity.’

  ‘Oh, bless her, her father must have wanted that on her grave. How sad.’ Mags tore off a crust of bread. ‘Maybe the Victorians didn’t know the leaves are also lethal.’

  Christine’s phone vibrated. She glanced at it then slipped it into a zipped pocket in her bag.

  ‘Bring on the food!’ said Mags. ‘I am bloody ravenous!’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  1866

  Elizabeth sat on a high stool at the manse’s kitchen table podding peas, her grubby feet dangling as she bent her head over the trug. She put down an empty pod and turned to the elderly woman standing at the stove.

  ‘Cookie, can I eat just one pea?’

  ‘If you say please, I might let you.’

  Cookie walked over towards the child who was mouthing ‘please,’ and tickled the back of her neck. ‘You can even have two, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Thanks, Cookie!’ she said, picking up two tiny peas, one in each chubby hand. She popped them into her mouth one after the other and smiled. Her dark eyes glinted in the sunlight that was flooding through the window.

  ‘Come on, you’ve got to carry on podding those peas, lassie, or the Minister and Miss Charlotte willnae hae anything to eat for their lunch.’

  There was a knock at the back door and in walked Margaret Barrie. She wiped her feet on the mat, removed her bonnet and dropped it on a chair at the door.

  ‘Hello Elspeth, I hope Elizabeth’s behaving?’

  ‘Come away in, Margaret,’ said Cookie, ‘she’s podding peas for the Minister’s lunch.”

  ‘It’s awfie good of you to have her here. You’d say if she got in your way, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Margaret, it’s a pleasure, she’s guid company.’

  ‘Why’ve you no’ got yer shoes on, Elizabeth? You look like an urchin!’ Margaret pointed at her feet, mucky with soil.

  ‘Och, she’s fine. She was helping Grieve oot in the garden.’

  ‘Aye well, you let me know if she’s too much trouble.’

  ‘You ken Miss Charlotte likes when she’s around. She wanted her to go to the drawing room wi’ her this afternoon and hear her piano practice. She’s got a recital in the kirk hall next week and she’s been practising a’ day long.’

  ‘Oh, please, Cookie!’

  ‘I dinnae think that’s suitable, Elspeth. Look at the state o’ her.’

  ‘Dinnae be daft, Margaret. I’ll gie her feet a good scrub in the big sink an’ put her shoes on again. It’ll dae her good and the Minister’s to be oot all afternoon.’

  Elizabeth swivelled round and looked at Margaret. ‘Please, Ma. Please?’

  ‘Well, if Mrs Anderson disnae mind, then that’s fine. It’d gie me more time for my work. Thanks Elspeth.’

  ‘Ma, why d’you call Cookie Elspeth?’

  ‘Because that’s her name, Elizabeth. And you shouldnae be calling her Cookie. It’s Mrs Anderson to you.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Margaret, I’m fine wi’ Cookie. Besides, Miss Charlotte used to call me that when she was a bairn. She still does sometimes, I like it.’

  Margaret scowled then said to the child, ‘Just dinnae call her that when the Minister’s around.’

  ‘Nae chance o’ that, Margaret, he never comes into my kitchen.’ Cookie wiped her hands on her apron and retied the knot round her ample waist.

  ‘Just as well.’ Margaret sidled up to the Cookie and whispered, ‘I saw him last week glaring oot the windae as the bairn came to meet me at the gate. He looked like the devil himself standing there in his black. You’d no let her oot o’ yer sight, would ye?’

  ‘Dinnae be daft, Margaret, he’s…’

  The door at the far end of the kitchen swung open. A slim young woman, wearing a long, cornflower-blue dress and matching ribbon in her wispy blonde hair stood at the entrance.

  She nodded at both women then turned towards the large table. ‘So, Elizabeth, how are you today? Are you helping Mrs Anderson prepare my lunch?’

  ‘Aye, am podding the peas frae the garden and…’

  ‘Elizabeth, get doon from there and greet Miss Charlotte properly, like I telt ye,’ Margaret scolded.

  The child hopped down from the stool and bobbed in front of Charlotte, who laughed and said, ‘My, you make me feel like Her Majesty the Queen herself.’

  Charlotte picked up a couple of peas from the bowl and popped them into her mouth. ‘There is nothing like fresh peas, is there. A quintessential taste of summer, don’t you think, ladies?’ They hesitated then nodded in unison as she continued, ‘So Margaret, is it convenient if I keep Elizabeth after lunch and play her some music?’

  ‘Aye, Miss, I suppose that’ll be fine. She’ll put her shoes on, she willnae bring any dirt into the house.’

  ‘Good.’ Charlotte straightened her back and looked out the window to the garden. ‘Why doesn’t Grieve walk her home once he has finished in the garden?’

  ‘If Grieve disnae mind.’ Margaret stood at the door, sullen.

  Since Charlotte didn’t say anything further, Margaret picked up her bonnet, knotted the ties under her chin, and opened the back door. ‘See you later, Elizabeth. Mind an’ behave!’

  After the door had closed behind Margaret, Charlotte turned to Cookie and clasped her hands together at her waist. ‘You know Margaret rather well, I believe. It is not something I can ask her myself, but do you think she would mind if I started teaching Elizabeth the basic elements of proper speech? I already try to correct her when we are alone together, simply trying to eliminate all these ungainly ayes and dinnaes from her vocabulary.’

  ‘I’m sure that will be fine, Miss. Oh, look at the time, your father wanted lunch at a quarter to one today as he has a funeral at two o’clock. I should be getting on.’

  ‘Well, I shall see you after lunch then,’ Charlotte said to Elizabeth, leaning down to stroke her cheek gently with the back of her fingers. ‘Such soft skin.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes looked larger than ever as she gazed up at Charlotte. ‘Thank you, Miss Charlotte,’ she said, clambering back up onto the stool. ‘Will you learn me the piano too?’

  ‘Will I teach you the piano, Elizabeth?’ Charlotte’s eyebrows arched. ‘Yes, indeed I shall. It would give me great pleasure.’

  Elizabeth stared as Charlotte swept out of the door, her dress swishing against the wooden frame, before turning back to the trug full of peas on the table.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  2014

  Lottie sat at the kitchen table watchin
g her mother kneading bread. Mags pressed down the dough with the heel of her hands, turned and lifted it, then slapped it back on the table to begin again.

  ‘I don’t see why you bake your own when that new baker just down the road’s got the best bread in town. Even you said so, Mum.’

  ‘I know, their sourdough’s awesome, but your dad’s always loved my homemade bread and I thought I’d try to be nice to him. He’s so stressed at the moment, I don’t know if it’s that extra batch of NHS patients on his list or what.’

  ‘Well, it’s what he’s paid for, Mum. And bloody well paid compared to lots of other people.’ Lottie went over to the kettle and flicked it on. ‘Cup of tea?’

  Mags nodded and plopped the dough into a large bowl. She covered it with a tea towel and took it to the airing cupboard.

  ‘True,’ she said, shutting the cupboard door, ‘and thank God. I mean, the little I get for my cakes and things, I could hardly support anyone.’

  ‘Exactly. And I’ve only got about twenty pounds left till the end of the month.’

  ‘Darling, I can give you some.’

  Lottie filled the mugs from the kettle. ‘No, it’s fine, I should get my cheque from Mrs Hardy tomorrow, she’s owed me for Dan’s lessons for about three weeks now.’

  Mags removed a plaster from a fingertip and stared at a small cut. ‘That’s healed up nicely, but I’m always terrified blood gets into my cakes.’

  ‘Mum, that’s gross.’

  Mags folded her plaster over and flung it into the bin. ‘Speaking of which, do you know of any reason why I might find blood on the piano, Lotts?’

  ‘Where on the piano?’

  ‘I found a long streak of blood all down the white keys the other night. Didn’t like to ask Dad in case he got even more stroppy with me.’

  ‘Show me?’

  In the dining room Lottie sat down on the piano stool and raised her hands over the keys. ‘Which notes?’

  Mags pointed at Middle C then ran her fingers up the white notes a couple of octaves. ‘Somewhere about here?’

  Lottie stood up and lifted the lid of the piano stool where the music was kept. She rifled through the sheet music and, after selecting something, sat back down and raised her hands over the keys again.

  After a few bars, Lottie turned her right hand to the side, so her palm was uppermost, laid her fingertips on the keys and slid her fingers up two octaves. She played, using the same movement of her hand after another few bars, nodding at her mum. After a couple of minutes, she finished and sat back, shoulders relaxed.

  Mags stood smiling, as she always did when her daughter played.

  ‘It’s the glissandi, Mum. Dad goes berserk when he plays a glissando in this Debussy prelude. I’ve noticed his fingertips bleeding before. I told him he should change technique and do it like this.’ Lottie demonstrated the same movement but with her thumbnail. ‘But he insisted on doing it his way, using his fingertips, so the top knuckles bleed. Though it’s a long time since I’ve seen him do that. Last time was ages ago when he was in a foul mood.’

  ‘A bit like how he’s been for the past few days,’ Mags said. ‘So does this bleeding fingers thing happen to everyone who plays that Debussy piece?’

  ‘No, it depends how sensitive your fingertips are, and Dad’s are really sensitive. That’s why I didn’t think he ever played this piece now. Wouldn’t look good delving into a patient’s mouth with scabby fingers, even with those plastic gloves on.’

  Mags looked down at her hands and wiggled her fingers. ‘Never realised that about glissandos.’

  ‘Glissandi,’ Lottie corrected, raising an eyebrow. ‘They’re usually played from top to bottom but Debussy was always a bit different. Do you not remember that undergrad concert you and Dad came to and I’d to go on after Phoebe Begbie playing her Debussy? She’d left so much blood on the piano I had to wipe it off with my sleeve before I could start. It was disgusting.’

  ‘I’ve never noticed blood like that after Dad’s played though.’

  ‘He must be especially stressed right now. It’s really satisfying doing one, just bloody painful.’

  ‘Reckon I’ll stick to cakes,’ said Mags, heading back towards the kitchen. ‘Wish I knew what’s bugging your dad though, Lotts.’

  Christine walked up the steps to Register House and turned to look at the imposing statue of the Duke of Wellington on his rearing horse below. She heard someone calling her name and looked up to see Mags standing at the front door, waving at her. Well, that must be a first, she thought, Mags arriving before her. She trotted up the final steps and hugged her cousin.

  ‘Fancy a quick coffee first?’ Mags asked. ‘We need to discuss our strategy.’

  Christine pulled back her sleeve and checked the time. ‘Well, it’s only just after ten, but yes, okay, a quick one. We need to chat about that funeral Dad and Auntie Peggy want us to go to.’

  ‘Whose is it again?’

  ‘Their second cousin, I think. Jimmy someone. Never met him.’

  The two women made their way to the café.

  ‘And it’s this Saturday?’ asked Mags.

  ‘Yes,’ said Christine.

  ‘We won’t know many people,’ said Mags. ‘Auntie Bella will be there though, I imagine. She’s a hoot.’

  ‘Yes, larger than life, isn’t she? She used to smoke a pipe.’

  ‘And I can still remember at a family party not long after I got married – think it was Mum and Dad’s silver wedding or something – she asked me if I actually enjoyed sex. I was so stunned I couldn’t reply but she carried on regardless and told me she never really liked it but put up with it till her husband had that operation.’ Mags burst out laughing. ‘Way too much information!’

  Christine smiled and spooned up the foam from her cappuccino, then placed the spoon neatly on the saucer. ‘Right, let’s drink these quickly then get to work!’

  An hour later, Mags turned to Christine at the next computer.

  ‘Why the hell can’t we find her birth certificate? Did she actually exist?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose she might have been born in England, or Canada even. How on earth would we find her then? What’ve you been typing in?’

  ‘Just Elizabeth Barrie and her parents’ names, but I’ve been trying further afield than Tannadice and Dundee. Still nothing.’

  ‘Unless they weren’t both her parents? Did they go in for adoption in those days?’

  ‘No idea.’ Mags leant back against her chair and looked up to the ceiling. ‘I’ll try searching for Elizabeths in the general area around Tannadice.’

  Ten minutes later she prodded Christine’s arm. ‘Look,’ she hissed. ‘Read that!’

  Christine peered over and read out loud, ‘1860 births, Parish of Oathlaw in the County of Forfar. Surname Whyte. Name of baby Elizabeth, born February 29th at Corrie.’ She looked at Mags and shrugged. ‘So? Still no Barrie. Why do you think this is connected to…’

  Mags jabbed the screen with her finger. ‘Here, look. Name of father – David Barrie, farm servant. And then right below it says illegitimate. God, look what’s written here at the side, Chris.’

  In the left hand margin, written in the same hand, was an extra paragraph. It looked out of place: none of the other babies registered had anything written there.

  In an action relating to the paternity of a female child born 29th February 1860 named Elizabeth Barrie at the insistence of Charlotte Whyte of Corrie, Parish of Oathlaw, against David Barrie, farm servant, Tannadice. The Sheriff Court of Forfar on the 4th day of June 1860 found that the said child was the illegitimate child of the parties aforesaid. Signed George Stewart, Registrar. June 18th, 1860.

  Mags smiled at her cousin. ‘Reckon your dad was right, Chris. That must be the secret!’

  ‘Yes, but hang on, something’s ringing bells about the name. The mother’s name is Charlotte Whyte, and it’s an unusual spelling. Was that not the name on the grave with the lily of the valley? She was the
minister’s daughter, remember?’

  ‘God, yeah, but don’t be daft, it can’t be the same person. I mean, what are the chances of a farm labourer having it off with the minister’s daughter in those days.’ Mags shook her head. ‘We should try to find David Barrie’s death certificate next.’

  The search did not take long.

  Death certificate 1860

  Name: David Barrie, male

  Address: The Village, Tannadice

  Parent’s names: John Barrie, farmer, deceased and Lorna Barrie née Mackie

  Spouse name: Margaret Barrie, née Harris

  When died: June 25th 1860, Tannadice, Parish of Oathlaw Cause of death: acute kidney failure as a consequence of accidental poisoning

  Buried in Tannadice Churchyard

  Signed George Stewart, Registrar

  ‘Poisoning! God, I need another coffee. Let’s go over to the Balmoral and have one there, at least it’ll be made from proper beans.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Christine, grabbing her coat.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  2014

  The wind had picked up since earlier, canopies were flapping over shops and everyone was rushing, heads bent down towards the pavement. The flag above the Balmoral Hotel’s grand entrance was taut against the freezing easterly wind. Mags and Christine hurried through the revolving door and into the hotel lobby, a haven of calm from the storm. The concierge smiled. ‘Can I help you, ladies?’

  ‘Yes, please, where do we go for coffee?’ Christine tucked her hair behind her ears and smoothed down her skirt.

  ‘Up the stairs straight ahead.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mags. ‘Could you please let Trish Hay in HR know that her friend Mags is in there? In case she has time to pop in and see us.’

  ‘Certainly, Madam.’

  Trish was an old school friend of Mags, who had recently moved back to Edinburgh from London.

  They had just ordered coffee when a tall woman with flame-red hair rushed in.