The Observations (38 page)

Unfortunately, when they arrived in Glasgow town, there was no sign of Joe. Bridget began to search for him and meanwhile she and Daisy made their money as before, with Bridget doing as little as possible and Daisy doing as she was told. As for Daisy, she knew no better. She was only a child. She knew no other way of life and thought that all families were the same. And, strange as it may seem, she loved this Woman, her mother, and wanted nothing more than for Bridget to love her back. (Poor fool, she could not yet see that this would never happen.)

One evening, when Daisy was about 12 years old, Bridget brought a gentleman back to their lodgings. She sat him by the fire, gave him a drink and fussed over him a while. And then she took Daisy next door for a quiet word. Bridget paced about, dabbing scent of
Gardenias
at her throat. This gentleman, she said, did not want what was usually requested. Rather, he wanted something different and was willing to pay more than double for it. Indeed, if she and Daisy did what he asked, they would not have to work for the rest of the week.

Daisy was puzzled. What was this different thing? Bridget gave her a meaning look—a slow, exaggerated one, for she was in her cups. “He doesn’t know we are sisters,” she said, swaying about. (So pervasive was the deception of sisterhood that sometimes it seemed even Bridget herself believed it.) Daisy still did not understand. So Bridget winked and said, “He thinks we
are friends.”

But still Daisy did not follow her meaning. Exasperated, Bridget pulled out a chair. “He will sit here and watch,” she says.

“But watch what?” said Daisy.

Bridget lost patience. “Just you lie down on the bed,” she says. “And do what I do and look as if you are enjoying it.”

And when Daisy began to protest—for she had suddenly realised what her mother meant—Bridget threatened to cut her in two.

I draw a veil over the rest of that evening.

Having just read over the last few pages, I realise that I have described what happened like a fairy story, one that happened to somebody else.

However, I have not quite finished. Suffice to say that word spread fast. Manys a discerning Glaswegian gentleman was prepared to pay extremely well for such a novelty. The little double-act that Daisy and Bridget performed that first night was oft repeated in subsequent weeks. The smidgeon of guilt that Bridget had felt (upon awakening on the morning after that first time) disappeared as soon as she took her first drink. And after a few weeks, she was even considering placing a notice in the catalogue to advertise the new service. Just as she was about to do so, an even better offer came along in the form of a Jewish gentleman Mr. Levy who offered to pay a weekly sum for Daisy to live with him.

Excuse my mentioning all this if it seems to fall outwith the bounds of my narrative. It does have a place, as I hope will become clear.

To this day, scent of
Gardenias
makes me feel sick.

But enough. I did not like to dwell upon it in those days and have barely thought of it since. That is, not until I began to write this account.

Where was I? In my room at Castle Haivers, trying to disentangle the frock. Well, in the end I left it where it was and put away the other items I had gathered. Then I read the notice again, desperate for reassurance. I decided that a few things were in my favour. For starters anyone thereabouts knew me as “Bessy‘ not Daisy, Rosebud or Pod. The yellow frock as mentioned I had not wore since I arrived. Also, there must have been hundreds of Irish girls like myself in the Snatter ”vicinity’ with brown hair pale complexions and blue or green or grey eyes, all of us in service or in turnip fields or traipsing the country looking for work. My mothers description was just vague enough that nobody would make the connection. Her poor memory and lack of interest in anything except herself might work in my favour for once.

The newspaper was already a few days old. Thus far, I had not been found. It was quite possible (I tellt myself) that Bridgets plea would go entirely unobserved. And so on and so forth, in this way I convinced myself. Having done so, I stashed the paper under my bed. Then I returned to the kitchen to wash the dishes. If my mother was going to track me down then there was little I could do to stop her. For the time being I dealt with the problem in the only way I could, by putting it out my mind.

In the days that were to follow I had enough to deal with, forbye fretting about my mother.

18

A Startling Revelation

By Jove, McGregor-Robertson must have been bored to death with country life so he must, so fiercely did he attack the case of missus. He was a regular Zealot for her health and it seemed like almost every day he came up with a new remedy. It was her diet was at fault, he says. Meat must be eliminated. Then it was grain was the problem. Then potatoes. Then tea! In the end, after a week of footering about he settled on a regime of nuts, seeds and milk and wouldn’t
hear
of her being give anything else. As for vittles I don’t think missus could have cared less. But no cups of tea! You should have seen the face on her, it was long as a big hares back leg.

The doctors interest in what she ate was exceeded only by his fascination with what came out the other end. Since missus was confined to her room she no longer went outside to “pluck a rose‘. Thus her poe became something of a crystal ball for McGregor-Robertson, I often encountered him gazing into that vessel like a Prophet and then scribbling his conclusions in a notebook.

The doctors books decreed that confinement, quiet and rest were the best possible treatment for a patient such as missus. She was made to lie down for two hours after every meal. He increased the strength of her sleeping draughts. And henceforth anything that might engage her mind was banished from the chamber. Firstly her sewing was taken then after a few days her pen and ink and finally her novels and other books (although not, of course,
The Observations
which was hid in her desk as usual).

Shock almighty despite the removal of these distractions her condition continued to deteriorate! She had got most upset when she couldn’t find her pen and ink (which had been whipped away while she slept) and she wept as though her heart might break when a few days later they carried away her novels.

She and I were not permitted to be alone together and I was also forbid from hanging around outside her door just in case we had an unfortunate repeat of what had happened last time. I was let into the chamber only to carry out necessary domestic tasks or to assist the doctor or master James. Whenever I went in, one or other or both of them were present. I tried to send missus reassuring smiles and glances behind their backs, but I wasn’t sure these made any impression on her. Once or twice as I entered the room she glanced up with a look of anticipation on her face. I believe it was Nora she sought and perhaps just for a moment because I was wearing the girls old clothes it was Nora she saw. But soon as she realised it was only me her face would fall.

By the third week missus had grown listless and pale. At this point McGregor-Robertson—the bruise on his eye now faded—decided that clysters (what are sometimes called enemas) were necessary. For days on end he had me mixing up various combinations of milk, flour, whey, paragoric, green tea and linseed all of which he administered into her bowel with a syringe. And all to no avail. If anything she got worse. But the doctor would not be defeated. It transpired he planned to write a paper on his findings (I believe he was keen to prove some point to his cousin, who was Superintendent of an asylum). He continued to purge missus, telling master James that he was edging closer to a cure. She was suffering a form of Melancholia, he told master James. Or it was a Mania—he wasn’t exactly sure.

Small wonder she was Melancholy, Jesus Murphy, locked up in her chamber with nought to do and no visitors and the only event of the day a jet of cold liquid up your fundament. I worried that if she was forced to inhabit the realm of her thoughts she could only dwell
more
on the guilt she felt about Nora and I had a suspicion that this would make her condition worse. In any case, if this regime continued much longer I feart it would be the end of her. I was desperate to talk to her alone, to make sure she was all right. If only I had the courage to tell her I had read Noras journal and
The Observations,
I might somehow persuade her to see that she was not responsible for the girls death.

Gaining access to the room would be easy as pissing the bed for a key was usually left on the ledge above the door. All I lacked was opportunity. During this time master James came and went from the house as usual, he had the estate to run moreover they were laying pipes in Snatter in readiness for the arrival of the fountain and he liked to keep an eye on things. Ordinarily I might have been able to get in to see missus while he was absent. However McGregor-Robertson had practically took up residence and though he slept at his own house he was always lurking about the place whenever master James was not at home. I did consider sneaking in to see missus in dead of night but her husbands room was just across the hall and in the end I decided it wasn’t worth the risk. If he were to wake up and hear me I’d be out on my ear. The only solution was to bide my time and wait until both gentlemen were absent.

As luck would have it an opportunity arose sooner than I imagined. One afternoon I happened to be fetching water when I noticed Hector dashing in at the gate. Master James and his foreman Alasdair were over by the stables. Hector ran up to them and spoke a few words, I couldn’t hear what he said but whatever it was caused master James to yelp with excitement. He talked to his men for a moment then came striding across the yard.

“It’s here, Bessy!” he goes. “My fountain!”

He disappeared into the house then moments later re-emerged. McGregor-Robertson stumbled out after him, pulling on his coat. The doctor strode across the yard towards the stables while master James paused to address me in passing.

“We’re away to inspect the fountain. I presume you can take care or things here.”

“Yes sir,” I says.

He gave me a narrow look. “Be sure not to upset or disturb your mistress.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“And
don’t
go near her room.”

I didn’t answer that, only curtseyed so it wasn’t really a lie. But master James did not seem to notice, he was already charging off in McGregor-Robertsons wake.

I lugged my buckets into the kitchen and as soon as I heard the horses ride away I hurried upstairs and put my ear to the door of the missus chamber. Inside, all was silent. Perhaps she was taking a nap. She dozed overmuch of late for the draughts the doctor gave her made her very sleepy.

I took the key from the ledge, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Missus was sat in a wingback chair by the window, looking out. At the sound of the door opening she turned towards me. Would you look at her! Her skin was sallow and her eyes had a yolky bloodshot glow, she was worn out, poor dear. Nonetheless her demeanour was calm and she didn’t seem surprised to see me.

“I thought it might be you,” she says. “I heard horses. Where have they gone?”

“Snatter, marm. The fountain is arrived. They’re away to see it.”

She gave a ghost of a smile. “Dear James,” she says. “He thinks this will win him votes. Well—perhaps it will.”

I noticed that her lips were dry and flaking. Of a sudden I wished I had brung her a cup of tea. But there was no time. I wasn’t sure how long it would be before the gentlemen returned. They might be donkeys years. Or they might just take a quick skelly at the fountain and then ride back.

Missus made a sign that I should take the seat opposite her and I done as I was told.

“Marm,” I says. “I need to talk to you. It’s about Nora.”

She looked weary. “I know,” she says. “But we don’t have much time. I think it would be better if you let me speak first. There are several things I must tell you.”

This response had me so stunned, I just sat there like a scone. Missus began to speak, gazing out at the sky as she did so as though the events she described were unfolding against the clouds.

“You already know that Nora worked here for several months, and that I was very pleased with her service. Well, when at first she disappeared some people said she had run away. I could not believe it, Bessy. I knew that she would never do such a thing. She was a good and loyal girl, like you are. Then they found the body on the railway line and a new story started to spread. They said that she had drunk too much at a celebration in one of the bothies and then, in the dark, missed her way and wandered onto the line in front of a train. Indeed she was noticed leaving the bothy by several people on the night she disappeared, and apparently that was the last anyone saw of her. That’s what everyone
says.
”

At this point, I could not help but break in.

“But that must be what happened!” I says. “She was drunk and it was dark! It was her own fault. You see—
your
walk had nothing to do with it. That’s what I was trying to tell you the other day”

She turned and frowned at me. “What
are
you talking about?”

“The walk, marm! The one that you sent Nora on! You see, I have to tell you something. I have read your
Observations.
I know I shouldn’t have and I am sorry I did. But it doesn’t matter now because it’s not your fault! It was just like everybody says, she was drunk and it was night. So you mustn’t feel bad about the stupid walk at all.”

Missus screwed up her eyes and rubbed her forehead.

“Bessy,” she says. “I don’t know what you are talking about. You read my what? And what stupid walk?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but she held up her hand and interrupted me.

“Wait,” she says. “I haven’t finished. You see, all these theories about Nora are wrong in any case because as I was about to tell you—” Here she glanced at the door then turned and gazed at me very matter-of-fact. “Nora isn’t dead at all.”