In one long trail, the streak of lights and fire plummeted downwards. And then, nothing. Everything was dark on the river

Sunday 28 December 1879. 7pm.

The storm raged on. In the pitch black, the thunder cracked as a roaring gale whipped through the narrow wynds and filthy closes of Dundee’s tenements.

The wind ripped trees from their roots as it continued east, howling round the dingy buildings as slates and chimney pots crashed to the ground.

Roofs from the bathing huts along the shore flew off as the wind rushed along the River Tay. The deep, tormented waters heaved upwards and crashed into foam-crested waves.

Above the maelstrom on the river, and far from the squalid homes of the poor, a large stone house was feeling the blast.

Though neighbouring houses were gothic in style, this was classical, with pediment and pillars.

The wind battered against the windows, rattling the casements.

A flash of lightning forked through the bleak sky as a figure appeared upstairs at a window.

The woman pulled the curtains open and placed the lamp on the table behind her.

She beckoned to the children by the fire, their eyes wide with terror.

“Come over here, my dears. There is nothing to fear. The storm sounds dreadful but it is simply the noise of the wind.”

Deep breath

As she spoke there was a crash as a slate smashed onto the cobbled path beneath.

She took a deep breath and put her arms round her son and daughter, who had scuttled over to join her.

“Shall we see Papa’s train?” James tipped his chin up in an attempt to see more clearly through the window.

“Will the train blow over in the big wind, Mamma?” “No, Lizzie, it will not. Papa shall be here as usual for your bedtime prayers.”

Ann lifted up her eight-year-old daughter and stood her on the window seat, adjusting the little girl’s long nightgown as she did so.

She tried to help her son but he clambered up on to the plump cushions himself. “I am 10 years old now, I don’t need help,” he muttered.

They gazed out through the whirling wind at the heaving waters beyond.

The full moon was obscured by dark, scudding clouds.

“There, see. Lights!” said James, pointing across the river, towards Fife.

Ann turned to check the longcase clock behind the lamp; it was nearly quarter past seven.

“It’s a little late, I do hope it won’t speed.”

She watched the lights of the train as it rounded the curve at Wormit and straightened up on to the bridge.

“It has passed the signal box now,” Ann whispered. “Papa says it must slow down over the bridge.”

As they watched the train continue at full speed, Ann clenched her hands tightly together.

The train entered the high girders and she held her breath.

“Look, more lightning, Mamma!” Lizzie cried, cowering into her mother, whose mouth opened wide.

For Ann saw not lightning, but a brilliant sheet of flame from the iron girders and a comet-like burst of fiery sparks from the engine.

In one long trail, the streak of lights and fire plummeted downwards. And then, nothing. All was dark on the river.

There was a sudden hush in the room while the rain continued to pelt against the window and the wind howled and swirled.

“Stay here,” said Ann, coming to her senses. “Do not move. I shall fetch Mrs Baxter.”

She fled from the room and ran downstairs to the kitchen, flinging open the door.

“Go and sit with the children, I must go out at once. I fear the train is over the bridge!”

2015

“Mum, it was really cool on the bus. We got juice and crisps and Jenny Baird was sick so the driver had to stop really fast, like a racing driver.

Fiona looked round from the sink, drying her hands.

“Sit down and tell me all about it,” she said, flicking on the switch of the kettle. “Was it a good trip?”

“Yeah, it was okay. It wasn’t the Peter Pan museum though, just the house where the man who wrote the book was born.”

“J. M. Barrie. So what did you see there then?”

“

VE Day was the day after my final shots were fired, I believe. But there were no celebrations of any kind.

Scone veteran and centenarian George Stewart who was fighting in Italy at the end of the Second World War.

“Stuff about when he was a child and things. And how they used to live in those days.

“Well, the teacher said it was a big house for rich people and that the ordinary folk wouldn’t even have had a toilet inside the house.”

Fiona made a pot of tea and opened the cake tin. “Bit of cake, Jamie?”

He nodded and rushed over to the kitchen dresser, peeling off his school sweatshirt as he went.

He opened the drawer and pulled out a pad of paper and a box of coloured pencils.

“I’ll draw you a picture of the statue they had in Kirriemuir. It’s Peter Pan with his pipe or flute, can’t remember what Miss Robb called it.”

He began sketching then slurped some tea. “Don’t be so noisy, Jamie, where are your manners?”

“That’s how Pete drinks his tea.”

“Yes, well, some grown-ups think it’s OK to have bad table manners, but it’s not.”

Jamie glanced up at the clock. “When will Pete be home?”

Beautiful

“Oh, yes, I meant to say, Pete won’t be home till later tonight so I’m cooking. You up for pizza?” He looked up from his drawing and grinned. “Cool.” She planted a kiss on his cheek as she headed for the door. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and leant over his piece of paper, pencil poised.

Later that evening, once her son was in bed, Fiona poured herself a glass of red wine and stood looking out the window.

It was a beautiful May evening, the sun low in the sky and the top of the hill still bathed in bright light.

She took a sip and wished Pete wasn’t working so late. She’d love to go and climb the hill, but didn’t like leaving Jamie alone.

It was a small and friendly village where everyone left their doors unlocked all the time, and the neighbours said he’d be fine.

Some had even suggested that she was being overprotective – but there was no way she would leave him by himself.

More tomorrow.