I don’t care what you say, I’m fed up with her airs and graces, she treats us like dirt

Fiona turned to the following chapter in her book, entitled “Relief Fund”. Most of the passengers were poor, travelling in the three third class carriages, and money was given where needed. McGonagall was right: Sir Thomas Bouch had a lot to answer for. Why had he not been up for trial? He was certainly blamed throughout Scotland for his lack of knowledge on structural engineering, but he died soon after the court of inquiry report had absolved him of guilt.

It concluded that the collapse of the bridge: “was occasioned by the insufficiency of the cross bracing and its fastenings to sustain the force of the gale. If the piers had been properly constructed and maintained, the bridge could have withstood the storm that night.”

Though, according to McGonagall, the girders needed sturdy buttresses to support them.

Fiona looked up at the clock. She had to go, it was an early pick-up from school and then an hour to get Jamie ready for guising.

The pumpkin lantern was looking pretty good; it had taken hours to make. And they would be eating a great deal of pumpkin soup for the next few days.

Hopeless

“Mum, this looks silly. Why have I got a black bin bag for my wizard outfit when Jack’s got a proper cloak?”

“Because Jack’s mum is a natural seamstress and I’m hopeless. Granny was going to do it before she left but then she didn’t have time. But it looks great, Jamie!”

Fiona leant back and looked her son up and down. “And I bet Jack doesn’t have a brilliant broomstick like this one!”

Jamie turned the old-fashioned broom round in his hand. “What are these spiky bits called again?”

“Bristles. They’re made from long birch twigs. I think the handle’s made from hazel wood. Pa said it’s been in the shed for decades.”

Fiona opened the box of face paints. “So do you want to look really scary? All white with only big black eyebrows?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, close your eyes.” Fiona daubed white paint across Jamie’s face, ignoring his cries that it tickled. Once she was finished, she gave his brow one last thick black line and smiled.

“There we are, go check yourself out in the mirror. I think you’ll find your cloak’s just as good as Jack’s!”

Jamie ran upstairs and she tidied away the scissors and black bags. What a palaver guising was. She couldn’t remember everything taking so long when she was a girl.

Jamie ran back downstairs, beaming. “So what do I take to put the treats in?”

“That other bin bag. You can take yours and Jack’s things. I presume the bigger boys’ll have their own bags.”

Jamie nodded.

“So, you’ve remembered your jokes?”

Jamie giggled. “Yes.”

“And the song?”

“Yeah, l hope we don’t have to do that though. Jack’s rubbish at singing.”

He skipped to the door, turned around and gave a sudden lunge at Fiona with the broomstick.

She jumped back and laughed. “Looking good, Jamie, looking good.”

She bent down to kiss his cheek then crouched down so they were face to face.

“Now remember,” she said, staring into his eyes. “It is really, really important to stay with the big boys. Jack’s cousins are old enough to keep you right.

“You have to stick with them all the time. Any nonsense and you won’t be going to the football with Martha tomorrow, and you certainly won’t ever go guising again!”

Jamie nodded then rushed to fling the door open before setting off down the path. She watched him running towards the gate, his broomstick held up high like a trophy.

Fiona shut the door behind him and sat down at the table. She picked up the face paints and arranged them back in their box then sniffed.

What a horrible smell, why had she not noticed before. It was a kind of musky, off smell. She slammed the lid down and headed for the fridge to pour herself a well-earned glass of wine.

Tuesday January 6 1880

Ann was about to push open the door to the kitchen when she heard voices.

“I don’t care what you say, I’m fed up with her airs and graces, she treats us like dirt.”

“You can’t say that, fair enough she gets sulky if she doesn’t get her own way but...”

Ann flung open the door and swept into the kitchen, head held high.

“Mrs Baxter, I need your help to fetch my mourning clothes from the attic. All of them.”

Baxter got to his feet and grabbed his cap from the table then headed for the door.

His wife was making a production of untying her grubby apron and did not look up at Ann. How dare they talk about her like that.

“Come along. We need to get down my other black gowns and the heavy black veil and that dark hat with the lace.”

She was fingering the jet brooch at her throat. “There should also be a black fur muff up there.”

Mrs Baxter folded her apron, placed it on the table and came towards her. “Very well, Mrs Craig.” She frowned. “Have you had any more news?”

Ann drew herself up even taller so that she towered over the rotund little housekeeper.

“No, but I have decided that, since I now know my husband was on the train, he is, sadly, deceased.” “Did the letter say that?”

Ann glared at the housekeeper. “The letter was illegible. We must all now accept the situation.”

She marched towards the stairs, the black silk crepe of her gown rustling. Mrs Baxter huffed along behind.

Mourning cap

“And I need you to ask Jessie to go to Bruce the milliner’s on Perth Road, to purchase a mourning cap. Ask her to take one of my other hats to size it.

“One made of tulle, perhaps with a little black lace. And with long silk streamers, of course.”

Jeannie nodded. “I’ll go with her. Just so she buys what’s required.”

“Good,” Ann said, walking up the stairs. “I shall be going out presently to the Donaldsons, but Miss Graham is busy with the children in the nursery all day.

“I have asked her to don black attire. And I should be grateful if you and Mr Baxter and Jessie wear black armbands.

“I do not, however, want the children to alter their appearance. I think children in mourning outfits are morbid and sad.” She looked at Jeannie whose mouth was open.

“And of course the children are sad. But they must continue their lives. Do you not agree?”

Jeannie Baxter puffed up the stairs then hung on to the banister to catch her breath. “It’s not for me to say, Mrs Craig.”

“Very well then. Let us get up there and open those trunks.”

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