Fields of Blue Flax Read online

  Mags, on the other hand, was beautiful in a relaxed, bohemian way. One of Christine’s male friends had told her that men found her cousin sexy, though Mags seemed unaware of it. Her auburn hair invariably tumbled out of a loose bun and her hippy style of dress – boho skirts and bright, embroidered tops – made her appear a throwback to the sixties.

  ‘Is Gerry going to that dental conference next month, Chris? Doug’s talking about going so it makes sense if they drive down together.’ Mags twiddled with the chunky green beads round her neck.

  ‘He never mentioned it. Where is it?’

  ‘Birmingham, just before Easter I think.’

  ‘I’ll ask Gerry tonight about it. He’s been getting home so late recently. Gone are the days when a dentist only worked nine till five. Is Doug the same?’

  Mags nodded. ‘Certainly is. I sometimes wonder if he’s got a mistress. I mean, patients can’t be in the practice till seven, can they?’

  Christine took a paper tissue from a packet in her bag and wiped at the coffee Mags had spilt on the tray. ‘No, they can’t, but you know they often go out together for a quick pint after work.’

  ‘I know, I’m joking. Doug would never do that. Besides, why would he want a mistress when he gets to go to bed with me every night!’ Mags laughed. ‘Anyway, we don’t eat till after eight. If he’s late, it just gives me more time to get stuck into the wine.’

  Christine finished her latte and put it on the tray. ‘Ready to go back in? The next thing we need to do is check out Elizabeth Duncan’s marriage certificate – well, she’d have been Elizabeth Barrie – and that’ll tell us more about her parents, our great-great-grandparents, and where she was born and so on. Did your mum know when she got married?’

  ‘She said it was probably 1887 or 1888, but she wasn’t sure, though she knew Great Auntie Annie was born in 1889.’

  ‘Great, that helps.’ Christine stood up and lifted her bag. ‘Coming?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Mags picked up her basket. ‘Remind me why you’re so fascinated about this great-granny of ours?’

  ‘Well, I wanted to investigate the family in general, but after Dad mentioned that secret about her it just caught my imagination, I suppose. He said she’d had a really tough life.’

  ‘Imagine if she’d spent her entire life harbouring some great secret,’ said Mags. ‘Could explain why she always looked so bloody miserable.’

  ‘Not all secrets are bad,’ Christine mumbled, following her cousin back to the research rooms.

  Ten minutes later, Mags whooped and elbowed Christine at the next computer. Christine looked around to check no one had heard the shriek and smiled at an elderly couple who were both grinning over at them.

  Mags was jabbing her finger at the screen. ‘Look, I’ve found Granny Duncan’s wedding certificate.’

  Christine put her forefinger to her lips. ‘Don’t speak so loudly!’

  Mags spoke in an exaggerated whisper. ‘This is way more interesting than I’d have thought. Fab seeing it right here in front of us.’ She pointed to the name Elizabeth Barrie.

  Christine began to read, ‘Marriage of George Duncan, jute mill worker, aged thirty-four, to Elizabeth Barrie, domestic servant, aged twenty-eight, on 25th December 1888.’

  Mags chortled. ‘Look at their addresses, they both lived at 7 Ellen Street. God, even in those days, living in sin, amazing!’

  ‘Surely not.’ Christine frowned.

  ‘Mum always used to say, “There’s nothing new under the sun, Margaret, nothing new!”’ She pointed to the date. ‘Hang on, was that normal, getting married on Christmas Day?’

  ‘Probably. Christmas wasn’t such a big deal in those days in Scotland.’ Christine continued to pore over the details of the certificate. ‘Look.’ Christine pointed to the right side of the screen. ‘This’ll give us something to go on, their parents’ names. His are Donald Duncan, farmer, deceased and mother Susan Muir. Her father’s David Barrie, ploughman, deceased and her mother Margaret Barrie, née Harris.’

  ‘We know both fathers died before 1888, so we can get their death and wedding certificates and go backwards from there.’ Christine grinned. ‘Right then, you go for death, I’ll go for wedding.’

  ‘Cheers! I get all the fun.’ Mags said, swigging from her water bottle.

  ‘Can we print out this wedding certificate? It’d be handy to have, don’t you think? I’d like to show Mum anyway. Will I print one for Uncle Charlie as well?’

  ‘Okay, it might jog his failing memory.’ Christine leant back in her chair. ‘I wonder what weddings were like in Dundee in the 1880s.’

  Chapter Two

  1888

  ‘No’ sae tight, Jane!’ Elizabeth scowled at her sister who was tying a bow at the back of her waistband.

  ‘Are you wantin’ a full bow wi’ big loops or a wee yin wi’ lang tails?’

  ‘Dinnae mind, just make it looser, will you?’ She placed two hands over her stomach and exhaled slowly. She peered over her shoulder to supervise the bow. ‘That’ll dae fine Jane, though actually it’s maybe a bit skew-whiff. Can you try again?’ She ran her hands lightly over her hair. ‘Why’s my hair sae curly, it willnae settle doon right.’

  ‘It’s fine, Elizabeth. You’re lucky to hae oor Ma’s curls.’

  Elizabeth pursed her lips and raised her chin towards the ceiling until Jane had finished retying the bow. ‘Are you sure Mrs Donaldson disnae mind you takin’ time off tae help me get ready?’

  ‘No, I’ll only be awa’ an hour or two,’ said Jane, moving round to face her sister and pinching her cheeks between thumbs and forefingers.

  ‘Ow! What’re you daein’?’

  ‘Just makin’ your cheeks look rosy, like the country girl you really are.’ Jane smiled then ducked her head away before she got a slap.

  Elizabeth laughed then walked to the chair to pick up her coat. She turned round to check everything was tidy. It was gloomy inside, but not as bleak as outside; you’d think it was night-time, not the middle of the day, the December fog was so thick. She glanced at the cooking range, so clean it sparkled in the candlelight. She’d decided to black lead it last night and now it was gleaming; at least it looked like she had made a bit of an effort. The bed in the recess was covered with a new bedspread and two plaid cushions – gifts from her mistress, Mrs Donaldson – so with a bit of imagination you might think it was a sofa instead of a bed. She fastened the top two buttons of her coat then kicked at the bulge of the chamber pot at the foot of the bedspread to make the material hang down straight. It didn’t exactly look like the drawing room at the big house, but it was a lot more wholesome than most of her neighbours’ flats in Ellen Street.

  She frowned at the bare table. If she could buy even a small bunch of flowers for the church, she’d put them in a beaker once they returned, to make the room look nice. It would never be like the big house with tall vases of flowers in every room, but it would help. She shook her head. She couldn’t afford such luxuries and besides, Jane would clype and tell her mother who would rant about it being an unnecessary indulgence, spending precious money on flowers.

  But Margaret Barrie had made it very clear she would not be joining them today, so perhaps Elizabeth would just go ahead and buy a tiny posy on her way to the church. She went to the mantelpiece, reached up to shift the tea caddy to one side and lifted down a small blackened tin hidden behind it. She prised off the lid and removed a small coin which she wrapped in the handkerchief she took from her coat pocket.

  Jane turned round, a hairgrip between her teeth. Her lank hair was now pulled back into a tight bun. ‘Whit time does it start?’

  ‘Half past two.’

  George had left after his porridge for his job at the jute mill and was due to meet Elizabeth at the church at two. Since it was Christmas Day he could finish early and the minister was booked for half past the hour. His cousin Mary-Anne was coming from Nelson Street after she’d finished work at the mill. After the short service, they would al
l come back to Ellen Street for the usual Christmas Day broth then cloutie dumpling. It would be a small gathering, but it was all just a formality, a necessary ceremony; she and George had been together in this flat for some time anyway.

  She pulled the collar of her dark coat up around her neck and turned to Jane. ‘Thanks for helpin’ get it a’ ready. Try an’ get off early from the big house if you can. There’ll be plenty dumpling leftover for you to hae wi’ a cup of tea.’

  ‘Aye.’ Jane grinned. ‘Or maybe I’ll tak’ a dram wi’ my new brother-in-law.’

  ‘Aye, an’ maybe you willnae!’ Her sister shooed her towards the door, laughing. ‘Mind and behave yerself, ye gallus lassie!’

  Elizabeth blew out the candle by the bed and lifted the heavy key from the hook on the wall, locked the door and headed down the dingy tenement steps.

  Chapter Three

  2014

  Christine set the table with her usual precision. Each fork and knife was lined up alongside the charger plate, the spoon placed along the top and the glass set at the top right corner. She smiled as she recalled teaching the kids how to set the table when they were younger. Jack had been intrigued with the connotations of the word charger, asking if it had something to do with battles and horses. Anna had looked at her mother, puzzled, when she had told her the glass had to be placed at two o’clock.

  ‘She means at the two o’clock position of a clock,’ said Jack, ever helpful.

  ‘What if there’s two glasses?’ Anna continued, always one to question facts.

  ‘Two o’clock and one o’clock,’ Christine had said, trying not to sound like the teacher she was.

  ‘That’s silly,’ Anna had muttered before abandoning the lesson and heading for her doll’s house.

  Jack had just smiled then followed his younger sister out. He had always hated confrontation and had become a peace-maker at an early age, whereas Anna tended to thrive on conflict.

  It was a pity they couldn’t be here tonight for Gerry’s birthday dinner but neither of them could get away midweek, especially now they were in the middle of exams. They were due up soon for Easter, by which time Christine hoped she’d feel less frazzled. Her class of eight-year-olds were a nightmare; why hadn’t she opted for the little ones this year?

  The phone rang and as she crossed the room, she glanced at the table. The tulips looked good, the colour matching the dark burgundy napkins. Burgundy – dammit, she’d forgotten to get out the red wine and Mags always drank red at dinner, whether she was eating meat or fish.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was her cousin, wondering whether she should bring a cake stand. As usual, she was baking the birthday cake.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Christine. ‘I still haven’t got around to replacing the one that was smashed at Anna’s eighteenth.’

  ‘No probs. Half seven okay?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, and I promised Gerry we’d not go on too much about Register House and the genealogy thing. Think he’s fed up hearing about our family history.’

  ‘Doug won’t be interested either. We can talk about something else.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Christine. ‘Definitely not teeth though.’

  Christine poured herself a glass of water at the kitchen sink, and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. She was looking more and more like her mother these days and she knew why: it was those lines across her forehead and round her eyes. Her mum had only been seventy when she died but her face had been as wrinkled as a prune for years.

  Christine pressed her fingertips to her cheeks and frowned, thinking of Mags and her clear skin. She had hardly any lines, which was so unfair considering what a lush she was.

  Before she could forget again, she pulled two bottles of red out of the wine rack. As she rifled around in the cutlery drawer, looking for the corkscrew, she thought back to the previous week and their second visit to Register House. Mags had been looking for marriage certificates for the parents of both Elizabeth Barrie and George Duncan, while Christine concentrated on the extended Duncan family. She leant in towards the screen and clicked on the magnifying icon.

  ‘Mags, look at this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Here’s Elizabeth Barrie’s daughter. You remember Great-auntie Annie, Grandpa Duncan’s sister?’

  ‘Yes, she was a real sweetheart, lived in that tiny tenement flat with a kitchen no bigger than a cupboard. Is that her birth certificate?’

  ‘Yes, but look at the date. Anne Duncan, born at 7 Ellen Street, Dundee, on 26th February 1889.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum thought she was born in 1889.’

  ‘But don’t you remember when the wedding was? 25th December 1888. Elizabeth Barrie was seven months pregnant when she married.’

  Christine pointed her pen at the date and continued. ‘I know it’s no big deal now but surely then it was a bit scandalous. Seems a bit late to leave it, I mean she must have known she was pregnant well before then?’

  Mags tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Trish Hay – remember I told you she’s working at The Balmoral now – well, she did her mum’s family tree with her sister and almost everyone they found was either illegitimate, which they have to mark on the birth certificate, or born only a few months after the wedding. There were some illiterates too, as they have to mark a cross.’

  Christine leant back on her chair. ‘The thing is though, why did Elizabeth Barrie leave it so long to get married. I mean, the bump must have shown, surely?’

  ‘Suppose so. Hey, maybe our family’s far more interesting than we thought.’

  After a couple more hours of searching, they had found the marriage certificates of both Elizabeth’s parents, the Barries, and her husband’s, the Duncans. The Duncans all hailed from Dundee, the Barries from Tannadice.

  ‘Mags, why don’t I carry on looking for births, marriages and deaths for the Barries and you can look at the 1881 census. Might shed some light on what she did before she got married.’

  ‘Okay, boss.’

  After what had seemed an interminable trawl through many Barries, Mags gasped. ‘At last, found her! Well, it must be her. There are no other Elizabeth Barries born in Tannadice but resident in Dundee. She’s a domestic servant in a big house. See, here’s her name at the end of a long list of children… God, six of them! And there’s a governess and a nurse too.’

  ‘When was that census? 1881? It says she’s twenty-four, which doesn’t tie in with being twenty-eight at her wedding in 1888 though, does it?’

  ‘True, but maybe she lied about her age to get a job as a maid?’ Mags drew her pen down the screen. ‘The family owning the house is called Donaldson. See, David Donaldson was head of house, a linen manufacturer. They lived in Perth Road. That’s the main one coming into Dundee from Perth.’

  Christine turned from the screen to look at Mags. ‘Linen was a big business in the city, as well as jute. I can remember those houses on Perth Road, they’re big Victorian piles. They must have great views over the Tay.’

  Mags peered at the screen. ‘Look at the last name on the list for this household. It’s difficult to read but looks like Jane Barrie? Aged twenty-one. Both girls born in Tannadice it says, so it was probably her sister, she must have worked with her.’

  ‘It says she was a table maid.’ Christine rubbed her hands together. ‘See, it’s quite exciting, isn’t it. Let’s print out that page.’

  Christine opened the oven door. Why was the chicken looking so brown already, when it had only been in for an hour? She pulled out a drawer, ripped off some tinfoil and tucked it loosely around the top of the bird, frowning. Perhaps, on reflection, she shouldn’t have done that French recipe for chicken roasted with forty cloves of garlic. But she’d had it at Sabine’s house and it was delicious.

  She was already anticipating both Gerry and Doug moaning that reeking of garlic while peering into someone’s mouth was unprofessional. Dammit, why was she such a rubbish cook. Mags could whip up luscious food without even trying, th
ough you usually had to wait for hours till the meal was actually on the table.

  She heard a key in the lock and went to greet Gerry.

  ‘Hi, Chris,’ he said, shaking his umbrella at the door.

  ‘You’re soaking the carpet, Gerry!’ Christine scowled. ‘Here, let me take it.’ She grabbed the umbrella and rushed through to the kitchen.

  ‘Nice to see you too, Chris,’ Gerry said, shrugging as he followed his wife. He entered the kitchen and sniffed the air. ‘Wow, garlic! You trying to put tomorrow’s patients off?’ He chuckled and went towards his wife, pulling her into a hug.

  Christine drew herself away. ‘Sorry, Gerry, there’s too much to do.’ She took out a large wooden salad bowl and started tipping in bags of rocket and watercress.

  ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘Open the red, please. I couldn’t find the corkscrew.’ Christine turned to see her husband pulling the cutlery drawer out fully and lifting the corkscrew from the back. She bit her lip as she looked at him, his dark beard now flecked with grey. She had hoped he’d shave it off when he stopped being a student, but all these years later, perhaps as an attempt to cling to his youth, the facial hair remained. He looked up and beamed at her and she felt a pang of guilt that she was being so nippy.

  ‘Sorry, I know it’s your birthday, but my day’s been a nightmare. That new boy kicked off big time, and you know how stressful I find entertaining.’

  ‘It’s fine, it’s only Mags and Doug. They wouldn’t care if you gave them beans on toast.’ Gerry smiled then went to the fridge. ‘Would a drink help you relax?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll wait till we open the champagne, but you help yourself.’

  ‘Might just do that,’ said Gerry, stretching in for a beer.

  At quarter to eight, Christine removed the chicken from the oven with a sigh of martyrdom and shouted through to the living room, ‘If they don’t come soon, it’s going to be ruined.’