By Sue Lawrence The past came flooding back and she felt she was in a place she did not want to be

The Night He Left: Episode 36

The girl came to stand beside her aunt and stared at Ann as if she had never seen a lady at close quarters.

Ann looked more closely at the girl and realised she was wearing a dress similar to those that Lizzie wore; in fact, it may have been one of the items that Ann gave annually to the church for the poor.

Ann stood up tall and looked down at the woman, her face enveloped in puffs of smoke.

Could she not do without tobacco and buy kindling for the fire?

“I’ve come to ask you about the train, Mattie. I heard you were on the water yesterday.”

“Aye and what’s it to you?” Her opaque, dead eyes swivelled up towards Ann.

“My husband was probably on board and I need to know if he is in the water.”

“Come near, let me have your hand.” Mattie reached out one of hers and Ann removed one of her dark green kid gloves.

The woman felt all over her hand then said, “I can tell you are a lady, but I know you, don’t I?”

Ann withdrew her hand. “From Glenisla, you know me from there,” she whispered.

“Can you tell me if my husband, Robert, is in the river?”

The girl crouched next to Ann and rubbed her fingers along the scalloped edges of her woollen cloak. Her hands were filthy, the nails caked in dirt. “What colour does the lady wear, Elspet?” “Green, Auntie Mattie, dark green like moss on the stones.”

Sixpence

Ann drew her cloak around her and watched the child’s breath condensing in the cold room.

“Do you have no money for kindling for the fire?” “Not till I gang out the morrow with my melodeon,” said Mattie. “Nothing till then.”

Ann pulled a small purse from her pocket and took out a sixpence. She put it in Mattie’s hand and tried to pull away but the woman held fast.

“Where did you stay in Glenisla? The big house? The manse?”

“It was a long time ago, Mattie.”

Ann managed to retract her hand and watched as Mattie turned the sixpence round and round in her fingers.

“So, can you say if my husband is there?”

Blind Mattie pocketed the coin and extended both hands. “Give me them again, the both this time. Elspet, go to the door and stand still, I don’t want your spirit to get in the way.”

Slowly, Ann reached forwards with both hands. “Look straight at my eyes. Nowhere else.”

Ann felt her hands being gripped tight then loosened then gripped once more, the bony fingers playing up and down her palms in an increasingly frantic rhythm.

This went on for some time as Mattie’s head moved from side to side, her dead eyes glazed. Her lips moved but no noise emerged.

After what seemed an interminable time, Ann’s hands were released and she sat back. Mattie stopped rocking and spoke.

“Your husband is not in the water; he is not one of those poor bodies floating to the surface.

“There are so many, down in the icy depths, but I can see nothing of yours down there.”

Ann took a deep breath.

“Elspet, fetch my melodeon.”

“It is by your side, Auntie Mattie.”

The woman patted her hand around her until she found the instrument. When she played, the haunting melody filled the air and a deep, visceral ache swept over Ann.

The tune was once more To the Weaver’s Gin Ye Go and for the first time in years, Ann felt tears begin to trickle down her face.

The music continued and she began to shake as she sobbed silently.

The past came flooding back and she felt she was in a place she did not want to be.

Mattie finished the tune and placed the melodeon at her feet.

Ann sat up straight, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

Composed

Mattie pulled the sixpence from her pocket and stretched out her hand.

“Elspet, gang out for some kindling. And get a wee poke of meal from Janet Smith. We’ll have porridge today.”

Ann, now more composed, got to her feet. She looked down at Mattie who was picking up her pipe.

“Thank you, Mattie. I hope you enjoy your porridge.”

Mattie put her pipe to one side of her mouth and turned her head up towards Ann.

She beckoned with a finger and Ann drew closer.

“It is a good thing you are not wearing mourning. For he is not dead, but sleeping.”

Ann went towards the door and turned as Mattie called to her.

“You are not as you seem, young lady. The past has a hold on you. Do not ignore it, you might need people from back then.”

She puffed on her pipe then turned back towards the empty hearth.

2015

Fiona watched Jamie saunter along the path, his knee socks as usual down at his ankles. He stepped onto the grass, kicking the autumn leaves into a golden flurry.

Beneath the magnolia tree, he picked up a stick and started jabbing around on the ground.

He was several weeks into the first term at his new school, and seemed to have settled in well.

Fiona was so relieved, the guilt she had felt at uprooting her son somewhat abated.

She knocked on the window and beckoned him inside.

“What were you digging for with that stick, Jamie?” “The summer house. Remember, Pa said it used to be at the back of that tree. There must be foundations or something.”

He shrugged off his blazer and dropped it over the back of a chair. “Pa’s going to give me a spade from round the back and I’m going to dig.

“Ben Conti said his grandpa found treasure in their garden back home.”

“I’m not sure Granny’ll be too pleased if you start digging up her lawn while she’s away, so make sure you don’t make a mess.”

Fiona poured him a cup of tea. “Come and have a drink. Granny’s left some rock buns. D’you want one?”

Jamie nodded and sat down at the table. “Here you go. She placed a plate in front of him. How was the school trip today then?”

“It was cool. We saw where the train fell into the sea!”

“I’m not sure that’s cool, there were a lot of people killed that day.”

“Yeah, they’ve got this memorial thing – well, it’s three slabs of stone – on the riverside.”

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.