Fields of Blue Flax (2 page)

‘There was something hidden, definitely,’ Charlie pronounced. ‘And secrets are bad, no doubt about it.’

He turned away and gazed out of the window.

‘Nonsense,’ Peggy tutted, pouring tea from the shiny brown teapot in front of her. She turned to her niece. ‘Now, tell me about Jack and Anna, Christine. How are their studies going? And their love lives? Will I be needing to dust off my wedding hat anytime soon?’

Christine shook her head and laughed.

‘Not yet, Auntie Peggy, definitely not yet.’

Christine folded her coat over the back of her chair and turned to her cousin. ‘Right, here’s how we proceed.’

‘Okay, ready to be bossed,’ Mags said, taking a couple of sweets from her pocket and offering one to Christine, who politely declined. They were in Register House, at the east end of Princes Street in Edinburgh, to investigate the history of the Duncan family.

Christine brought out the large envelope, removed the fragile document and spread it out carefully on the desk.
‘Here’s the death certificate. Your mum gave it to me.’

Mags unwrapped her toffee and popped it into her mouth.

Christine put on her glasses and peered at the parchment. ‘So, Elizabeth Duncan died on 26th January 1952, aged ninety-four, at 33 Park Avenue, Dundee, of myocardial degeneration.’

‘Pretty old for someone who’d had what Mum always says was a hard life.’

‘Exactly. I’d have thought seventy was a good age in those days.’

Mags pointed to the certificate. ‘And it says her father, David Barrie, was a ploughman and her mother was called Margaret Harris.’

Christine pulled the document away. ‘Watch your sticky fingers. This is all we’ve got to go on,’ she muttered.

‘Oh, God. Chill!’ Mags flung her jacket on top of her basket on the floor and sat back in her chair. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘We go backwards to find Granny Duncan’s wedding certificate, birth certificate and so on. Can’t be that difficult, everyone else here seems to be managing by themselves.’ Christine pointed at the people all around them, sitting in front of computer screens.

Christine started to take notes from the information on the certificate. ‘You know Dad’s losing it, so he can’t remember that much now, but Auntie Peggy’s memory is still brilliant, we’ll need to keep asking her things. I mean, all we’ve got is this.’ She pointed at the faded certificate in front of her.

‘Yeah, Mum’s memory’s pretty awesome, considering her age. It’s just her body that’s not so good. Her knees
are giving her such grief but she refuses to do anything about it, says it’s all just part of getting old.’ Mags shook her head. ‘Bless her. Oh, I popped into your dad’s earlier and he mentioned that family secret again. Remember you said he’d insisted there was something but Mum said it was all rubbish?’

‘Yes. Could he remember what it was?’

‘Nope. But he said you know all about it and I need to speak to you.’

Christine looked up from the screen. ‘Why on earth he thinks that, I don’t know. Oh and I’ve got a photo from Auntie Peggy as well. Here, have a look.’

They both studied the black-and-white photo, taken in a park. In the foreground was a large, old-fashioned pram with a baby stretching up at one end.

‘Dad looks like a meerkat straining his neck up to see out better!’ Christine laughed. ‘Must be 1925, he looks about nine months old.’

‘God, how scary does our great-granny look!’ said Mags.

The pram handle was held by a stern woman dressed in a dark suit and hat, with a fox-fur collar at her neck. Her eyes were downcast and her expression was uneasy, perhaps worrying that the baby might topple out of the pram, or simply irritated that her photograph was being taken. By her side and with hand firmly grasped, stood a little girl wearing a dress with a petticoat hanging down at one side. She was the only one looking directly at the camera.

‘Look at Mum, that tatty petticoat makes her look like an urchin from the poorhouse!’ Mags chuckled, then mouthed “sorry” at the man opposite who was scowling at them. ‘Bit like a library in here, isn’t it!’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go for a coffee.’

‘We’ve only got till five and there’s loads to investigate. It’s only half past ten, let’s wait till eleven.’

‘No way, I’m in serious need of caffeine.’ Mags pushed back her chair and looked around for the exit to the café.

Christine sighed and stood up to follow her along the corridor. ‘So what else has Auntie Peggy told you about her? I only got the scary bit.’

‘Well, Mum said she never smiled, ever. That she had amazing brown eyes, really dark, almost black. And that she had been a servant in some big house in Dundee. That’s about it.’ Mags held the door open for Christine. ‘Does Uncle Charlie not remember anything about her?’

‘He said she was the opposite of his other granny who was all warm and cuddly. Cappuccino or Americano?’

‘Don’t suppose they run to double espresso? I’ll go for Americano, but I’ll get these, Chris. You grab a table.’

Christine drew out a chair at a table by the window and looked out at the rain streaming down the pane. She pulled her thick blonde hair back into a ponytail and tied a band round it. Lifting up the menu card, she started to fan herself. ‘Not exactly tropical outside is it, why on earth am I so hot?’

‘Age, Chris.’ Mags sat down. ‘Bloody menopause, yet another inconvenience of being a woman!’ Mags leant in towards her cousin as she took a gulp from her mug. ‘Talking of hot, have you seen that young guy serving?’

Christine put down the menu and glanced up at the servery. ‘He’s about the same age as our kids!’

Mags shrugged then peered over the rim of her mug at her cousin. ‘Have you got new eye make-up on? Your eyes look even bluer today.’

‘Yes, a new eyeliner, navy blue. Anna gave it to me.’

They were first cousins and close friends, yet the two women were night and day. Christine had piercing blue eyes and a mane of thick, straight blonde hair. Though she was two years younger than her cousin, she appeared older, a reflection perhaps of the sensible, staid clothes she always dressed in. Whenever her daughter tried to get her into more trendy clothes, she insisted that standing in front of a class of eight-year-olds every day was not conducive to glamour. Knee-length skirts, thick black tights and sensible shoes were her daily uniform.

Mags, on the other hand, was beautiful in a relaxed, bohemian way. One of Christine’s male friends had told her that men found her cousin sexy, though Mags seemed unaware of it. Her auburn hair invariably tumbled out of a loose bun and her hippy style of dress – boho skirts and bright, embroidered tops – made her appear a throwback to the sixties.

‘Is Gerry going to that dental conference next month, Chris? Doug’s talking about going so it makes sense if they drive down together.’ Mags twiddled with the chunky green beads round her neck.

‘He never mentioned it. Where is it?’

‘Birmingham, just before Easter I think.’

‘I’ll ask Gerry tonight about it. He’s been getting home so late recently. Gone are the days when a dentist only worked nine till five. Is Doug the same?’

Mags nodded. ‘Certainly is. I sometimes wonder if he’s got a mistress. I mean, patients can’t be in the practice till seven, can they?’

Christine took a paper tissue from a packet in her bag and wiped at the coffee Mags had spilt on the tray. ‘No, they can’t, but you know they often go out together for a
quick pint after work.’

‘I know, I’m joking. Doug would never do that. Besides, why would he want a mistress when he gets to go to bed with me every night!’ Mags laughed. ‘Anyway, we don’t eat till after eight. If he’s late, it just gives me more time to get stuck into the wine.’

Christine finished her latte and put it on the tray. ‘Ready to go back in? The next thing we need to do is check out Elizabeth Duncan’s marriage certificate – well, she’d have been Elizabeth Barrie – and that’ll tell us more about her parents, our great-great-grandparents, and where she was born and so on. Did your mum know when she got married?’

‘She said it was probably 1887 or 1888, but she wasn’t sure, though she knew Great Auntie Annie was born in 1889.’

‘Great, that helps.’ Christine stood up and lifted her bag. ‘Coming?’

‘Yeah.’ Mags picked up her basket. ‘Remind me why you’re so fascinated about this great-granny of ours?’

‘Well, I wanted to investigate the family in general, but after Dad mentioned that secret about her it just caught my imagination, I suppose. He said she’d had a really tough life.’

‘Imagine if she’d spent her entire life harbouring some great secret,’ said Mags. ‘Could explain why she always looked so bloody miserable.’

‘Not all secrets are bad,’ Christine mumbled, following her cousin back to the research rooms.

Ten minutes later, Mags whooped and elbowed Christine at the next computer. Christine looked around to check no one had heard the shriek and smiled at an elderly couple
who were both grinning over at them.

Mags was jabbing her finger at the screen. ‘Look, I’ve found Granny Duncan’s wedding certificate.’

Christine put her forefinger to her lips. ‘Don’t speak so loudly!’

Mags spoke in an exaggerated whisper. ‘This is way more interesting than I’d have thought. Fab seeing it right here in front of us.’ She pointed to the name Elizabeth Barrie.

Christine began to read, ‘Marriage of George Duncan, jute mill worker, aged thirty-four, to Elizabeth Barrie, domestic servant, aged twenty-eight, on 25th December 1888.’

Mags chortled. ‘Look at their addresses, they both lived at 7 Ellen Street. God, even in those days, living in sin, amazing!’

‘Surely not.’ Christine frowned.

‘Mum always used to say, “There’s nothing new under the sun, Margaret, nothing new!”’ She pointed to the date. ‘Hang on, was that normal, getting married on Christmas Day?’

‘Probably. Christmas wasn’t such a big deal in those days in Scotland.’ Christine continued to pore over the details of the certificate. ‘Look.’ Christine pointed to the right side of the screen. ‘This’ll give us something to go on, their parents’ names. His are Donald Duncan, farmer, deceased and mother Susan Muir. Her father’s David Barrie, ploughman, deceased and her mother Margaret Barrie, née Harris.’

‘We know both fathers died before 1888, so we can get their death and wedding certificates and go backwards from there.’ Christine grinned. ‘Right then, you go for death, I’ll go for wedding.’

‘Cheers! I get all the fun.’ Mags said, swigging from her water bottle.

‘Can we print out this wedding certificate? It’d be handy to have, don’t you think? I’d like to show Mum anyway. Will I print one for Uncle Charlie as well?’

‘Okay, it might jog his failing memory.’ Christine leant back in her chair. ‘I wonder what weddings were like in Dundee in the 1880s.’

Chapter Two

1888

‘No’ sae tight, Jane!’ Elizabeth scowled at her sister who was tying a bow at the back of her waistband.

‘Are you wantin’ a full bow wi’ big loops or a wee yin wi’ lang tails?’

‘Dinnae mind, just make it looser, will you?’ She placed two hands over her stomach and exhaled slowly. She peered over her shoulder to supervise the bow. ‘That’ll dae fine Jane, though actually it’s maybe a bit skew-whiff. Can you try again?’ She ran her hands lightly over her hair. ‘Why’s my hair sae curly, it willnae settle doon right.’

‘It’s fine, Elizabeth. You’re lucky to hae oor Ma’s curls.’

Elizabeth pursed her lips and raised her chin towards the ceiling until Jane had finished retying the bow. ‘Are you sure Mrs Donaldson disnae mind you takin’ time off tae help me get ready?’

‘No, I’ll only be awa’ an hour or two,’ said Jane, moving round to face her sister and pinching her cheeks between thumbs and forefingers.

‘Ow! What’re you daein’?’

‘Just makin’ your cheeks look rosy, like the country girl you really are.’ Jane smiled then ducked her head away before she got a slap.

Elizabeth laughed then walked to the chair to pick up her coat. She turned round to check everything was tidy. It was gloomy inside, but not as bleak as outside; you’d think it was night-time, not the middle of the day, the December fog was so thick. She glanced at the cooking range, so clean
it sparkled in the candlelight. She’d decided to black lead it last night and now it was gleaming; at least it looked like she had made a bit of an effort. The bed in the recess was covered with a new bedspread and two plaid cushions – gifts from her mistress, Mrs Donaldson – so with a bit of imagination you might think it was a sofa instead of a bed. She fastened the top two buttons of her coat then kicked at the bulge of the chamber pot at the foot of the bedspread to make the material hang down straight. It didn’t exactly look like the drawing room at the big house, but it was a lot more wholesome than most of her neighbours’ flats in Ellen Street.

She frowned at the bare table. If she could buy even a small bunch of flowers for the church, she’d put them in a beaker once they returned, to make the room look nice. It would never be like the big house with tall vases of flowers in every room, but it would help. She shook her head. She couldn’t afford such luxuries and besides, Jane would clype and tell her mother who would rant about it being an unnecessary indulgence, spending precious money on flowers.

But Margaret Barrie had made it very clear she would not be joining them today, so perhaps Elizabeth would just go ahead and buy a tiny posy on her way to the church. She went to the mantelpiece, reached up to shift the tea caddy to one side and lifted down a small blackened tin hidden behind it. She prised off the lid and removed a small coin which she wrapped in the handkerchief she took from her coat pocket.

Jane turned round, a hairgrip between her teeth. Her lank hair was now pulled back into a tight bun. ‘Whit time does it start?’

‘Half past two.’

George had left after his porridge for his job at the jute mill and was due to meet Elizabeth at the church at two. Since it was Christmas Day he could finish early and the minister was booked for half past the hour. His cousin Mary-Anne was coming from Nelson Street after she’d finished work at the mill. After the short service, they would all come back to Ellen Street for the usual Christmas Day broth then cloutie dumpling. It would be a small gathering, but it was all just a formality, a necessary ceremony; she and George had been together in this flat for some time anyway.