There was a Hilary Gibson who worked in the town for some time, but she has sadly died

Struan took a gulp from his glass. “The original plans for the house from 1871 showed a small stone structure in the garden. It was a little summer house, behind the magnolia.” “So when was it taken down?” “Don’t know. I can’t remember my grandfather mentioning it and he was born in 1880.” “It must have been lovely in the summer,” Fiona said, going to the window and looking out to the magnolia tree. “Would it have had large windows like Jamie’s drawn?”

“Definitely, they would have had lovely views over the river but complete privacy inside as it’s high up on the lawn. Maybe they wanted to sunbathe naked in there?”

Jamie stared up at his grandfather, eyes wide. “Would they have done that, Pa?”

“Who knows, young man. The Victorians were a funny lot, all prim and proper on the outside, but a den of iniquity inside.”

“What’s iniqu... ”

“Moving on,” said Fiona, grinning at her dad. “Open your other presents, Mum.”

Dorothy was staring out at the magnolia tree. “You must have some idea of when it was demolished?”

“End of the 19th Century, maybe.” Struan pushed his present towards Dorothy.

“Mine next, Dottie.” He downed his drink. “Now, who’s ready for another glass?”

Information

Fiona turned on her laptop and clicked on to her emails. Another one from Swansea Library.

Dear Ms Craig, As promised, some more information. Sadly it is not good news.

My colleague says there was a Hilary Gibson who worked in Woolworths in the town for some time, but she has sadly died.

He says he thought there was something in the local press about the death, but cannot recall what. However, since the graveyard is only next door, he took a picture for you, which might be of help.

I am so sorry that this news is not what you had hoped for. Yours sincerely, Joanna Coles

Fiona opened the attachment and stared at a photograph of a gravestone. She zoomed in and stared. It was a simple black stone, with two names engraved on it and picked out in gold.

It read: In memory of Hilary Jean Gibson, 24/6/1952–3/5/2004.

Below this was, and her son Peter Gibson. But there was no date.

Fiona leant back in her chair and let out a long sigh. What the hell did that mean?

Sunday 4 January 1880

James and Lizzie ran to the window and jumped up on to the seat.

“Mamma, come and see, snow!”

Ann crossed the room and joined her children on the window seat. The snow was falling steadily, thick flakes descending in great flurries.

The branches on the magnolia tree were bending under the weight of the heavy snow lying along their length.

The lawn was covered in a blanket of pure white, dotted by tiny black holes where birds had landed. “Can we go out, Mamma?”

“No, James, you cannot, I’m sorry. It is Sunday and we must all go to church. But you can sit here and look out, while I go and complete my toilette.

“Miss Graham needs you in the nursery shortly for your Bible lessons then we’ll all leave at half past nine.

“In the meantime, I intend to find those boots you both had last winter although I fear yours will be too tight, Lizzie.”

“And the toboggan!” James said. “Papa put it in the summer house after the last snow. I could go with Mr Baxter and get it?”

“As I said, Sundays are not for playing, even after church, but perhaps, if we see the Donaldson children out on the green this afternoon, you might join them briefly.”

“Papa would have let us out,” James muttered, scowling.

“Papa would most certainly not have let you children out.” Ann scolded. “He is the one who obsesses about Sunday rules.”

She stood up. “And now I must attend to things upstairs.” She ruffled her daughter’s hair then swept out of the room.

At half past nine, the family left the house for the walk up to Roseangle and to St John’s Kirk on Perth Road.

The snow had stopped but there was a thick slushy layer on the ground. Ann Craig walked with her two children by her side. James started to run ahead then slid and fell on to his bottom.

“James,” Ann hissed, stretching out a hand to her son. “Get up and stop walking so fast.”

James lingered, sulking, until Miss Graham arrived. She brushed the snow from his coat and nodded for him to walk on, which he did, snivelling. “Big baby!” shouted Lizzie.

Ann wagged her finger at her daughter then burrowed her hands deeply into her fur muff.

Mrs Baxter, struggling to keep her footing in the slush, clamped on to her husband’s arm.

“Why could she not have called a carriage on a day like today,” she whispered.

“You heard her, there are none available. If you walk slowly, you’ll be fine,” Baxter replied, patting her arm.

Ann looked round and chided their slowness. “Oh, do hurry up, it’s not so bad.”

Laughed

They arrived at the top of Roseangle and Ann looked towards the tenement buildings at the other side of Perth Road.

Four storeys high, with solid stone fronts dotted with long narrow windows.

“Mamma, what is it like inside those houses?” “Dark.”

“How do they get to the top floor? Is there a big stair like in our house?”

Ann pointed at a close entrance. “There’s stairs inside that go up to the very top floor.”

A couple of boys ran out of the close of one of the tenements and jumped into a pile of snow that had been cleared to the side of the road.

They laughed as they emerged, covered in wet snow. James and Lizzie both stared at the boys, who had no shoes on. They wore ragged trousers and dirty shirts.

“Where are those boys’ coats and boots, Mamma?” James asked.

“They have none, dearest boy.” Ann stopped near the entrance to the church. “Come along now, it’s time to enter the kirk.

“Best behaviour and no looking round from the pew, Lizzie, like you did last week.”

“Last week Papa was with us. Shall I take his seat, Mamma?” James looked up to his mother and pushed his shoulders up high.

“That would be good, yes, you might enter the pew last, James,” Ann said, drawing her dark grey cloak round her.

More tomorrow.

Sue Lawrence is a popular novelist as well as a cookery book author. The Night He Left is published by Freight. Down to the Sea, her first historical mystery, was published by Contraband in 2019. Sue’s latest book, The Unreliable Death of Lady Grange, was published in March by Saraband.