The Night He Left: Episode 42

She lifted up the letter; it definitely felt drier. She could wait no longer

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.

The year 2015 “What perfume are you wearing, M?” Martha looked up from a large document spread on the table in front of her. “Jo Malone, honeysuckle and jasmine. It was a present from Allie, she gave me the body lotion too. Took me a while to take to it, but she loves it so thought I’d force myself to like it by full immersion! And it’s worked.”

“I should try that with Mum,” laughed Fiona. “She always witters on about how she hates the smell of jasmine, associates it with those big white lilies at funerals. God knows why.” She leant in towards Martha and inhaled.

“That’s lovely, give me a skoosh, please?” Martha reached down to her bag, lifted out her perfume and sprayed it onto Fiona’s wrist.

She breathed in deep and rubbed her wrists together. “I’m still keen to find out now about Dad’s family, whether there was anything in the papers in the early 1880s. Is the Archives room open over the weekend?”

“Yeah, all Saturday.”

“Thanks. Though not sure that’s Jamie’s idea of a fun day out. Mum and Dad are still away in the Hebrides.”

“Well, why don’t we take him to the football? You know how Allie likes any excuse to see Dundee United play.”

“That would be great, he’d love that. Pete kept promising he’d take him to Tannadice Park.”

“Okay, it’s a plan.”

Madness

“Great. He’s having tea at his friend Josh’s tonight and then we’re making his pumpkin lantern for the Halloween madness tomorrow night.”

“Is he going out guising?”

“Yeah, going with his pal Jack next door. They won’t go far.”

“Remember that year you and I were guising and got lost and had to ask some big scary man the way home.

“So your mum opened the door to see two little witches with hats and broomsticks and a random giant of a man wearing all black.”

“Yeah, she wasn’t too pleased. We were meant to stay with Penny Farquhar’s big brother, weren’t we, but we decided to do our own thing.”

Fiona turned a page in her book. “Did you realise Sir Thomas Bouch died in October 1880, only months after the disaster? Probably just as well, given the feeling of the locals.”

“Possibly the most unpopular man in Dundee’s recent history.” Fiona sat back in her chair. “Yeah, the entire city must have been in mourning.”

“Terrible, I mean, everyone must have been affected.”

“What was the population?”

Martha flicked through a couple of pages in the book. “It was only 45,000 in 1841 but the jute industry meant a huge increase. By the 1881 census it was 140,000.”

“Wow.” Fiona scribbled on her notebook. “When was the last body discovered?”

“Most bodies came ashore during January 1880. But even four months later, one was washed up somewhere in Caithness. Many were never found, obviously washed out to sea.”

“Imagine waiting for months and months to find out what had happened to your loved one. Or never finding out at all.” Fiona sighed.

“Oh, remember that McGonagall poem from before the disaster? Well, look at the last verse of this one written after the disaster.

“Like everyone in Dundee he blamed Thomas Bouch and his faulty bridge design.” It must have been an awful sight, To witness in the dusky moonlight, While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray, Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay, Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay, I must now conclude my lay By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay, That your central girders would not have given way, At least many sensible men do say, Had they been supported on each side with buttresses, At least many sensible men confesses, For the stronger we our houses do build, The less chance we have of being killed.”

Monday 5 January 1880

Ann pulled the clasp from her hair and shook her tresses loose. She buttoned up her nightdress and threw a shawl round her shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, she moved towards the fireplace. She lifted up the letter; it definitely felt drier. She could wait no longer.

She cleared her hairpins, combs and brushes aside and laid it on the dressing table. Slowly she opened the envelope and pulled out the crisp paper.

Hopefully she had not dried it too much. It was brittle, but as she unfolded the letter with a delicate hand, she could already see words.

The ink had remained clear. She took a large slurp of Madeira she had poured after her guests had left, drew the lamp nearer and began to read.

“My dear Ann, By the time you receive this in Tuesday’s morning post, I will be gone.”

Gone? What on earth did he mean? How could he have foretold the accident?

“And it is here in this missive I want to tell you my reasons. I know you will find this difficult reading, but I feel I owe a full explanation, to our children at least.”

And not to me, the wife who has put up with your foibles and moods for the past 12 years?

“I do not feel I owe you anything, Ann, having taken you from the deprived life you lived up in Glenisla, from the misery and hardship of work at my father’s jute mill in Alyth, to a life of grandeur and... ”

Here the ink bled over the page. She thought it read opulence. Ann sighed deeply. Was he to bring up his Master Bountiful once more?

Grateful

Had she not been grateful enough when she stayed at his aunt’s house in Perth for three long years then married him, ugly wee sprauchle though he was. Another sip. “But I digress. I like to think we had a happy marriage at the start. When we lived in our first house on Perth Road and the children were but babies, we were just fine. “Then you wanted more, bigger, better and so I had the Magdalen Yard house built. You had everything you wished for – staff, a large house and garden and two beautiful children. “That is when I began to feel an outsider. I was only included in your life when you needed me for social reasons, when we saw the Donaldsons, for example, or when we went to other jute mill owners’ homes for dinner. You dressed in your finery and, dear God, the bills I have had from Dundee’s finest couturiers, furriers and haberdashers have made my blood boil. “But did I remonstrate? Seldom, as you well know. I have only ever reproached you when you have not attended to your wifely duties in the bedroom. And that was not infrequent.”

More tomorrow.