SERIAL Northern Lights

Set in the 1800s Maggie had never set her sights too high, but things were going to change!

MAGGIE snatched an old working shawl off the peg and threw open the outer door. Lilias grabbed her arm.

“Bide a moment, Maggie! Where are ye off to?”

“Away from this house. Away from you!”

Shaking off her grandmother’s hand, she rushed into the street, the wind teasing out escaping tendrils from beneath the linen close cap. When she reached the grocery store a dishevelled reflection in the shop window mirrored Maggie’s agitation.

Peering apprehensively through the glass, she saw Samuel Cameron alone, readying shelves for a day’s work. She opened the door and stepped inside.

Caught off guard, he cried out joyfully.

“Oh, Maggie, it gladdens my heart to see ye!”

“I – I regret I’ll no’ be washing shop windows any more, Mr Cameron,” she stammered, flustered by the love light in his eyes.

Samuel swiftly recovered his composure.

“Well, Maggie, this is not unexpected. I heard the Cargills are to open a lodging-house. I wish you and your family great success wi’ the venture.”

“Thank ye kindly, sir.” Maggie kept her eyes downcast.

Beatrice Cameron chose that moment to appear and Samuel turned his head.

“Maggie won’t be washing our windows any more, Beatrice. She’ll help her grandmother start a lodging-house for the Bell Rock workers. It is a grand opportunity, but we will miss her, won’t we?”

“Indeed we shall, but I’m pleased Mistress Spink has favoured us wi’ an order for the lodgings and will remain a valued customer.”

Miss Cameron smiled but her eyes were cold. Maggie edged towards the door.

“I must go. Good day.” She bobbed a farewell.

Maggie hurried through busy streets and made her way to the edge of town where a well-trodden path began. Climbing upwards, she arrived at the summit of Arbroath’s high red sandstone cliffs. Down below, waves broke in a crashing froth over jagged rocks, though the sea beyond lay calm.

Maggie’s view was misted with tears. Though high on the cliff top, she had never felt so lowly. Why? In the last six years maybe she had lost more than beloved parents. Maybe she had lost her self-esteem.

Walking the streets scavenging for food had made her feel as ugly as the

rags she wore.

Maggie lifted her chin. But that wasn’t so! She couldn’t claim to be as fair as Cathy Mary, but her reflection in the looking glass revealed bonnie brown eyes, white teeth and a strong look of her handsome father.

She smiled, uplifted. Samuel Cameron loved her!

She knew bold fisher lads made hopeful eyes at her when passing in the street. If she’d ever thought of suitors, she’d supposed she’d wed a fisherman one day. She had looked no higher.

Yet, why not? She was Margaret Cargill, her father’s daughter. A grand catch for any man.

Head held high, Maggie headed homewards.

Twelve-year-old Amy was sorry she had told her grandmother an untruth. True, she would hate working in the lodginghouse; she loved working in the sailmaker’s yard and would miss her workmates.

But the real truth was that there was a special commission she must finish, for a very special customer.

Amy was part of a group of seamstresses in sailmaker Francis Webster’s yard. Mr Webster was an innovator who’d perfected the art of adding linseed oil to woven flax to make canvas waterproof. When sails were not sodden they were lighter, easier to handle and sped vessels faster.

By adding linseed oil to canvas, a distinctive yellow colour was achieved that was popular with sailors for capes and breeches, more pleasant to wear than smearing clothing with smelly whale blubber or animal fat.

Amy and the other children worked in an enclosure off the main cutting shed. They sewed small useful objects from offcuts of scrap material from mainsails.

They mostly made canvas buckets with wooden bases and spliced hemp handles, much in demand aboard ship since metal buckets were noisy, dented easily and scratched paintwork and decking.

The girls also made hammocks and kit bags of various sizes, including ditty bags. A ditty bag was a small canvas bag in which sailors stowed precious personal items such as pipe, baccy, love letters and poignant keepsakes.

Amy excelled at making these and was chosen to sew a ditty bag for a young gentleman who’d been accepted as a Naval recruit.

Her first meeting with thirteen-year-old William Walker was not auspicious. She insulted him through concern for his safety.

“Ye’ll no’ be a powdermonkey, will ye?”

“Of course not! I shall be a midshipman, very soon promoted to Naval officer!”

Chastened, Amy resolved he should have the finest ditty bag ever aboard a British man o’ war.

First, she begged offcuts of best sailcloth from the sailmakers. This was closely woven and strong enough to last a lifetime, though notoriously difficult to sew.

Yesterday, all the pieces had been measured and cut to her satisfaction. This morning she planned to sew, and not even her grandmother’s displeasure could stand in her way.

Cathy Mary, though willing to help Lilias when required, had no intention of becoming involved in running the lodgings.

She knew her family felt she worked in poor conditions in an overcrowded basement, and certainly her workplace lay below street level.

But to the rear of the building the ground dropped away to form a sheltered courtyard with a drinking well and an old plum tree, laden with fruit in season.

The spacious basement area, where the workforce sewed breeks for jolly Jack tars, overlooked the courtyard and was amply lit by several windows.

The whole edifice had an enclosed, ecclesiastical look, fostering local belief that it had once served as an ancient convent to an order of nuns.

The women worked under the supervision of Mistress Jean Gray, a sailor’s widow. Though strict, she worked just as hard as her employees and cared for their welfare as if for the children she’d never borne.

Alert to signs of illness or fatigue in the workforce, Mistress Gray believed in the restorative power of a short rest, a gentle walk in the yard if weather permitted and oatmeal bannocks washed down with clear water from the well.

If Jean Gray had permitted herself to have a favourite employee, it would have been Cathy Mary Cargill. So it was to her she turned after missing her footing on some stairs and spraining an ankle.

She had managed to hobble around, but when fresh spools of thread were needed from the upstairs storeroom she asked Cathy Mary to fetch them.

The door of the storeroom was kept locked except when a delivery was expected or a completed order was to be collected. Armed with the key, Cathy Mary unlocked the door.

Bales of canvas duck required to make the men’s trousers were stacked high, along with spools of linen thread, boxes of buttons, eyelets, thimbles, needles and scissors.

But beyond these lay a sight Cathy Mary could hardly believe. Bales of woollen plaid, silver grey silk, sprigged muslin and white bleached linen packed the shelves, as well as some of deep blue worsted.

Hanks of expensive embroidery thread lay in boxes, ribbons and trimmings spilled from wicker baskets and fringes and lace filled open hat boxes. Smaller boxes occupied a lower shelf.

Cathy Mary’s excitement grew. What she could make with this! Her clever fingers itched to do it.

She collected the spools Mistress Gray requested, locked the storeroom door and returned to the basement.

Mistress Gray noted her heightened colour. “Well?”

“Ma’am, could we no’ make women’s clothes?” Cathy Mary begged

“We’ve a profitable contract wi’ the Navy, girl. Besides, women dinna wear trousers and it’s said they bring bad luck to a ship.” The girl shook her head. “Plaid’s quick to sew. We could make skirts for the townswomen and still sew men’s breeks.”

Mistress Gray eyed her thoughtfully. She saw something of her former self in the girl standing before her.

“Very well, Cathy Mary. You will sew a plaid skirt and matching cape for me, to be done in one week.” Cathy Mary gasped. “I’ll need to measure ye, ma’am.”

“Indeed ye will.” There was amusement in Mistress Gray’s eye as she spread her arms and Cathy Mary reached for the measure.

What a week that had been, Cathy Mary thought

Cathy Mary’s eyes gleamed at the sight that lay before her

today as she hurried to work. She’d prepared patterns, cut plaid with her heart in her mouth and sewed every spare minute God gave.

Mistress Gray had not spared her in an unexpected rush order that came from the Navy and she’d sewed from dawn till past midnight, often by candlelight.

Her back ached, her eyes grew gritty and her eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep, but the task was completed on time.

She heated flat irons after work in the empty basement and carefully pressed seams on the finished garments before placing them on Mistress Gray’s work bench and stealing off home . . .

She was in a fever of anxiety this morning

as she went down the basement stairs. Reaching the workroom, she halted abruptly.

The women were not seated at the benches but stood in groups. Mistress Gray was nowhere to be seen.

“What’s amiss?” Cathy Mary said.

At that moment a door opened and Mistress Gray stepped out.

She wore a high-waisted plaid skirt over a grey silk pelisse, full sleeves gathered at the wrists, topped by a short matching plaid cape collared and fastened in a military style. A plain bonnet and parasol completed the vision.

The workforce sighed in ecstatic unison. One little lass spoke up.

“Oh, ma’am, ye look so –” “Ladylike?” Mistress Gray provided equably.

The entire workforce joined in spontaneous laughter and applause that echoed to the rafters.

Cathy Mary stood, amazed and close to tears.

Mistress Gray held up a hand for silence.

“I will tell you what I intend. Heaven knows we have plenty fine plaid lying idle in stock. You shall each have a free length and thread to sew a skirt.

“You will sew in your ain time and the work will not interfere wi’ sewing our sailors’ breeks or I’ll ken the reason why.

“When the skirts are made you’ll wear them when ye come to work so that folk can tell you are all smart Nunnery lassies.”

“A uniform, like sojers!” one woman exclaimed.

“Exactly.” Mistress Gray nodded. “And then I will pin a notice to the door.”

“Ma’am, what’ll it say?” Cathy Mary asked.

“Women’s skirts made to measure,” her employer answered. “That’ll do for a start.”

****

After Maggie stormed out Lilias felt badly let down. Ten stonecutters were due to turn up at the lodgings soon.

Lilias had planned that her three granddaughters, in aprons and caps, would be there to greet them, with herself in command. She would establish house rules to ensure there was no nonsense of the flirting kind.

Now her plans lay in tatters. She might act like a hard-hearted old woman at times, but even stone could break.

There was worse to come. The door opened and Alec rushed in.

“Michty, laddie, what’s ado?”

“My father had a spare kitbag, Grandmother. Where is it?”

“In the press.” He rummaged in the cupboard and came out with the empty canvas bag.

“I have to pack. There’s little time.”

“Where are ye going?” He looked at her. She could see no trace of the laddie who had gone whistling blithely to work early that morning.

“I’m to work out on the Bell Rock. The ship sails this afternoon and I’ll be on it.”

Shock hit Lilias with the force of a fist.

“You told us you’d never go!”

He shrugged.

“I’ve little choice. The press gang is heading north from Dundee. They’ll take me for sure if I’m found ashore.”

He was in his room, stuffing clothing into the bag. Lilias watched, helpless, in the doorway.

“They’ve no right. You’re under age!”

“I could pass for eighteen, Grandmother. War at sea is hard fought, with ships sunk and a desperate need to replace men.

“I still believe it’s even more important to have the lighthouse built and I’ve told Mr Stevenson I agree to the terms o’ employment. I’m to help the smith set up a forge upon the rock.

“Work will be a month at a time, living aboard ship without shore leave, working on the rock when tides allow, Sundays included.”

“Heaven help us!” Lilias moaned.

At that juncture the front door opened and Maggie came in.

“Maggie, your brother’s agreed to work on the Bell Rock! Maybe you can talk sense into him, for I can’t.”

Alec came into the kitchen carrying the full kitbag. He found his path blocked by the two women.

Maggie had considered herself head of the family in age and stature, but Alec was now a head taller and she had to look up to him. It was disconcerting.

“You said you’d finish your apprenticeship ashore in the work yard. There was no mention of working on the rock.”

“There’s a rumour the press gang’s coming, Maggie.”

“A rumour, so ye panicked!”

He flushed at the scorn. “No! In fact, I feel cowardly working ashore. Father would want me to help build the light, besides.

“The ship sails today wi’ Mr Stevenson and upward o’ twenty workmen to begin preparatory work, and a berth’s been found for me aboard.”

“He’s signed on for a month without shore leave, Maggie, working day and night when tides allow, even on the Sabbath!” Lilias added, wringing her hands.

Brother and sister looked at one another. Maggie crossed to the dresser and opened the drawer where the family Bible was kept.

She brought out a small book with red leather covers and handed it to her brother.

“Our mother’s prayer book, Alec. She’d want you to have it aboard ship when the weather’s wild.”

He took the little book reverently and tucked it carefully in a pocket.

He hardly dared speak lest he broke down and cried, so he hugged his sister and then his grandmother, mumbled a few words of farewell and left, the kitbag slung over a shoulder.

The two women watched him stride off towards the harbour.

“That was a good thought, Maggie,” Lilias ventured, still wary of a granddaughter who kept her at arm’s length. Maggie shrugged.

“I knew he wouldna change his mind. He’s stubborn, like me. But he’ll take good care of Mama’s prayer book and maybe take better care o’ himsel’.”

Next day, 10 men arrived and took possession of the lodgings. They were a mixed crew of stoneworkers from a granite quarry in west Aberdeen, and Lilias and Maggie stood by the bothy door to receive them.

Lilias took stock of their lodgers. They were mostly older men, attracted to work in the Arbroath yard by better rates of pay, but forced to leave families behind in Aberdeen.

There were murmurs of appreciation when the men viewed the standard of their quarters.

One of the older men, called Torquil Adamson, voiced general approval in the soothing charm of an Aberdeen accent, soft as butter.

“Well, Mistress Spink, they say it’s hard to please all parties but ye’ll no’ find dissenters here.”

“Then see you keep the place the way ye find it, Mr Adamson,” Lilias warned. “So we shall, ma’am.” But there was a roguish twinkle in his eyes.

Lilias turned her attention to the others. They were strong men, hands roughened and toughened by constant contact with undressed stone.

The youngest, Noah Taggart, was not much more than twenty-one, she reckoned. He was sandyhaired and and his blue eyes brightened when alighting upon Maggie, whose cheeks, Lilias noted grimly, grew pink.

This morning Maggie’s hands were folded modestly upon an apron covering a dark blue dress. Tendrils of dark hair escaped from beneath a muslin close cap.

The older men showed fatherly interest in a young lass who no doubt reminded them of

daughters left behind in Aberdeen. Others behaved to Maggie like older brothers.

Then there was Noah, whose blue eyes had sent a disturbing tingle through her whole body.

Maggie listened to the men’s cheerful banter as they settled into the new quarters and it gave her a bittersweet moment, as if her father and his crew were miraculously restored to the house.

She smiled wistfully. Noah Taggart watched, believed she smiled for him, and was encouraged.

The stoneworkers left for the work yard shortly after arrival and peace descended upon the house for the rest of the day.

Lilias’s thoughts turned to Alex upon the rock. Supper for herself and the girls would be a gloomy affair.

“Keep an eye on the loaves in the bread oven, Maggie. The boats are in and I’m off tae market.”

Lilias set off with a basket on her arm, enjoying the August sunshine. She loitered nostalgically by the

Boatie’s empty berth. Daft to mourn the loss, but the boat had been so much part of her Auchmithie days its absence left an ache.

“Ahoy, Mistress Spink!” Startled, she looked towards the harbour mouth. There was the Boatie, loaded to the gunwales with fishing gear, the old man Mungo Mcdougal resting on the oars.

He wore oilskins topped by a faded blue bonnet, a relic of Dundee’s famed Bonnetmakers’ guild.

“You were right, ma’am. One can row the Boatie just as easy as two!” He raised the ancient bonnet to her before pulling strongly on the oars, heading outwards.

Lilias watched him disappear beyond the harbour wall and went on her way chuckling.

Alec spent the night at sea aboard the Smeaton, specially built in Leith to ferry stone from quarries to harbour and as tender for the Floating Light, now anchored a mile and a half distant from the Bell Rock.

With upwards of 24 workmen aboard as well as the Smeaton’s crew, accommodation was limited and uncomfortable.

The ship tossed, rolled and swung at anchor barely quarter of a mile from the Inchcape shoal, waiting for the tide to recede. Alec slept fitfully.

At daybreak he went on deck and had his first sight of their workplace. He stared in awe at the spread of rocks and gullies emerging from the sea as the water drained away, leaving a landscape draped in seaweed glistening eerily in the dawn light.

The sea was calm that morning, though waves licked impatiently around the hidden edges of this mountaintop of solid sandstone rock which was never still, never peacefully silent, always edged with danger. He shivered and looked away.

Breakfast for so many extra men was cooked on deck in the open air, and was a cheerful affair of bacon, eggs and fried bread, with greedy gulls screeching above.

It was nearly six a.m. and not a moment of low tide to be missed, but before the men disembarked the traditional barrel of rum appeared on deck and the flagons came out.

The foreman smith, James Dove, handed a liberal measure to Alec.

“Here, laddie, drink up, it’ll keep ye warm when we reach thon outlandish place.”

Alec recoiled from a vision of his grandmother’s disapproving glare.

“No, thank ye, sir. My grandmother wouldna like it.”

A great bellow of laughter rose from the workers assembled on the deck.

“Drink up, son, your granny’s no’ here!”

Alec lifted the flagon and drank. The fiery rum filled his mouth, making him cough and splutter as he swallowed, bringing tears to his eyes.

For a moment he could not tell if the tears running down his cheeks resulted from the first taste of Lilias’s demon drink or if, suddenly lost and alone, he longed desperately to be home.

But then his workmates cheered, slapping him on the back.

“Well done! Now ye can call yoursel’ a man,” they told him.

Encouraged, Alec drained the flagon and stood gasping triumphantly, wiping his lips.

Following the others, he clambered down into one of the waiting dinghies. Fortified by rum and hearty companionship, Alec Cargill was ready to face any terrors the rock held in store.

Lilias and Maggie had formed an agreeable business partnership, working together in the lodging-house with a harmony that surprised them both.

“We’ll need tae keep better tally than this, though.” Lilias frowned, scratching her head as she counted out the lodgers’ rental in shillings and pence, the money kept in the press in a wooden box that had formerly held ship’s biscuits.

Maggie was up to her elbows in flour, kneading the daily bread.

“My father kept accounts for all his trade, and there’s an unused day book still in the drawer. A tick on the slate would serve should anyone asks for credit,” she observed, recalling how Samuel Cameron dealt with debtors in the grocery.

“They’ll get little credit frae me, Maggie, for I’ll no’ put up wi’ late payments, but I’m sweir to write down numbers in books. I can reckon in my heid as well as onybody and read better than most, but I’m no’ so easy wielding a pen,” Lilias admitted.

“Nae bother, Grandmother.” Maggie set the dough to rise on a trestle by the stove covered with a warm cloth, and dusted flour off her hands. “Papa made sure that we three lassies attended a dame school run by the parson’s wife.

“The woman was a stickler for reading, writing and figuring so I’ll keep an account book for ye.

“Maybe we should think about starting a bank account, too, or perhaps the Linen Company could keep the money for us. Folk tell me that’s as good as a bank.”

“What?” Lilias was outraged. “Wi’ highwaymen waiting on every hill track tae rob bank messengers carrying our cash? No thanks!

“We’ll store the takings in your pa’s iron deed box under the bed. It’s safer. A thief has tae get past me to get at it.”

The pair had a tacit understanding that Maggie would write the weekly list of groceries and Lilias would attend Cameron’s shop with the order. Maggie’s emotions still remained too raw for her to face Samuel.

Although their lodgers could expect a substantial daily meal cooked at the work yard, washed down with as much beer as was needed to replace sweat, Lilias felt bound to provide the hard-working men with breakfast and a light supper.

This proved popular and brought in useful extra pennies. As a result of the increase in regular orders, Mistress Spink was fast becoming one of the grocer’s best customers.

Lilias was surprised to find Beatrice Cameron waiting by the shop door when she arrived to place their next order. The woman looked agitated.

“My mother’s expressed a wish tae meet you, Mistress Spink. Would ye be kind enough?”

Surprised and curious, Lilias allowed herself to be led along the close beside the shop and ushered up an outside stair into the flat above.

The room they entered was stuffy and airless, much too warm for a pleasant summer day.

A woman sat in a chair by the window, carefully placed to give a good view of the street through heavy

lace screens.

This visit was obviously an out of the ordinary occurrence, Lilias thought. Beatrice was hopping from one foot to the other, agitated as a flea.

“Here’s the lady to see ye, Mother. Do ye want me to bide?”

“No. Away back to the shop, there’s customers waiting. Mistress Spink can show hersel’ out and I’ll chap on the floor when I need ye.”

The two elderly women took stock of one another. The invalid pointed with her stick to the chair opposite.

“Sit yoursel’ down, Mistress Spink. I’m Marion. What shall I call you that’s friendly?”

“Mistress Spink will do fine for now.”

Marion Cameron gave her a long, calculating look.

“You’re a widow, aren’t ye?”

Lilias nodded.

“Aye. Like yoursel’.” The invalid shook her head vehemently.

“Nah, nah! It’s no’ possible we share the same strength o’ feeling.

“There’s you, spry as you like, and me sat here broken-hearted these many years, still mourning my man.”

There was plenty Lilias could say concerning useless indulgence in self-pity but she did not want to offend the woman so early on in their acquaintance.

“It’s no’ only the passage o’ time that heals grief, it’s the hard work it takes getting on wi’ life all on your lonesome. You’re fortunate to have a son,” she remarked mildly.

A faint flush coloured Marion Cameron’s cheeks.

“Maybe so, Mistress Spink, and mair fortunate to have a dutiful daughter.

“Beatrice was betrothed tae Jeremiah Cuthbert, the blacksmith, when her father died, but she broke off the alliance tae care for her mother lying sick wi’ sorrow. My daughter knew where her duty lay.”

Lilias was tempted to storm out of the suffocating room and never return.

“And my daughter did not? That’s what ye imply, is it no’?”

“No’ exactly.” The other woman’s tone was more conciliatory. “You and your hubby took a scunner at the man she wanted tae marry and drove her away. I’ll grant ye that’s a wee bit different.”

Lilias simmered down, deflated.

“I confess I’ll regret that to the ending o’ my days. I didna find out till too late that Walter Cargill was a fine man.”

Marion Cameron sighed. “So he was, God rest him. He would have been as good as a son tae you, given the chance.”

Lilias swallowed and blinked away a surreptitious tear.

“Aye, well, I may have lost a dear daughter and son-in-law, but at least I have the comfort o’ grandchildren.”

She glanced tentatively at the woman seated opposite.

“Forby all your fine talk o’ duty, I pity ye, Marion Cameron.

“All you have at the end o’ the day is a spinster embittered by lost love and twa lonely bachelors who long tae marry and can’t.

“Three unhappy young folk tethered by duty to an auld woman wha’ chaps on the floor for attention wi’ a stick.”

Lilias had said too much, but it had to be said. She rose and prepared to take her leave.

“Wait! Dinna go. I’m thinking that we do share similar strength o’ feeling, Mistress Spink.”

Lilias paused a minute, then smiled sadly.

“Aye, well, Marion, maybe when dealing wi’ daughters, mair’s the pity.”

She made her way towards the doorway, glad to leave the stifling room.

Marion Cameron stopped her.

“You ken the way in now. Would ye visit me again?”

“Aye, I will, thank ye kindly.” Lilias nodded, reaching for the door handle. “By the by, the name’s Lilias.” To be continued.