Fields of Blue Flax (3 page)

She pulled the collar of her dark coat up around her neck and turned to Jane. ‘Thanks for helpin’ get it a’ ready. Try an’ get off early from the big house if you can. There’ll be plenty dumpling leftover for you to hae wi’ a cup of tea.’

‘Aye.’ Jane grinned. ‘Or maybe I’ll tak’ a dram wi’ my new brother-in-law.’

‘Aye, an’ maybe you willnae!’ Her sister shooed her towards the door, laughing. ‘Mind and behave yerself, ye gallus lassie!’

Elizabeth blew out the candle by the bed and lifted the heavy key from the hook on the wall, locked the door and headed down the dingy tenement steps.

Chapter Three

2014

Christine set the table with her usual precision. Each fork and knife was lined up alongside the charger plate, the spoon placed along the top and the glass set at the top right corner. She smiled as she recalled teaching the kids how to set the table when they were younger. Jack had been intrigued with the connotations of the word charger, asking if it had something to do with battles and horses. Anna had looked at her mother, puzzled, when she had told her the glass had to be placed at two o’clock.

‘She means at the two o’clock position of a clock,’ said Jack, ever helpful.

‘What if there’s two glasses?’ Anna continued, always one to question facts.

‘Two o’clock and one o’clock,’ Christine had said, trying not to sound like the teacher she was.

‘That’s silly,’ Anna had muttered before abandoning the lesson and heading for her doll’s house.

Jack had just smiled then followed his younger sister out. He had always hated confrontation and had become a peace-maker at an early age, whereas Anna tended to thrive on conflict.

It was a pity they couldn’t be here tonight for Gerry’s birthday dinner but neither of them could get away midweek, especially now they were in the middle of exams. They were due up soon for Easter, by which time Christine hoped she’d feel less frazzled. Her class of eight-year-olds were a nightmare; why hadn’t she opted for the little ones
this year?

The phone rang and as she crossed the room, she glanced at the table. The tulips looked good, the colour matching the dark burgundy napkins. Burgundy – dammit, she’d forgotten to get out the red wine and Mags always drank red at dinner, whether she was eating meat or fish.

‘Hello?’

It was her cousin, wondering whether she should bring a cake stand. As usual, she was baking the birthday cake.

‘Yes, please,’ said Christine. ‘I still haven’t got around to replacing the one that was smashed at Anna’s eighteenth.’

‘No probs. Half seven okay?’

‘Yes. Oh, and I promised Gerry we’d not go on too much about Register House and the genealogy thing. Think he’s fed up hearing about our family history.’

‘Doug won’t be interested either. We can talk about something else.’

‘Okay,’ said Christine. ‘Definitely not teeth though.’

Christine poured herself a glass of water at the kitchen sink, and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. She was looking more and more like her mother these days and she knew why: it was those lines across her forehead and round her eyes. Her mum had only been seventy when she died but her face had been as wrinkled as a prune for years.

Christine pressed her fingertips to her cheeks and frowned, thinking of Mags and her clear skin. She had hardly any lines, which was so unfair considering what a lush she was.

Before she could forget again, she pulled two bottles of red out of the wine rack. As she rifled around in the cutlery drawer, looking for the corkscrew, she thought back to the
previous week and their second visit to Register House. Mags had been looking for marriage certificates for the parents of both Elizabeth Barrie and George Duncan, while Christine concentrated on the extended Duncan family. She leant in towards the screen and clicked on the magnifying icon.

‘Mags, look at this.’

‘What?’

‘Here’s Elizabeth Barrie’s daughter. You remember Great-auntie Annie, Grandpa Duncan’s sister?’

‘Yes, she was a real sweetheart, lived in that tiny tenement flat with a kitchen no bigger than a cupboard. Is that her birth certificate?’

‘Yes, but look at the date. Anne Duncan, born at 7 Ellen Street, Dundee, on 26
^th
February 1889.’

‘Yeah, Mum thought she was born in 1889.’

‘But don’t you remember when the wedding was? 25th December 1888. Elizabeth Barrie was seven months pregnant when she married.’

Christine pointed her pen at the date and continued. ‘I know it’s no big deal now but surely then it was a bit scandalous. Seems a bit late to leave it, I mean she must have known she was pregnant well before then?’

Mags tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Trish Hay – remember I told you she’s working at The Balmoral now – well, she did her mum’s family tree with her sister and almost everyone they found was either illegitimate, which they have to mark on the birth certificate, or born only a few months after the wedding. There were some illiterates too, as they have to mark a cross.’

Christine leant back on her chair. ‘The thing is though, why did Elizabeth Barrie leave it so long to get married. I
mean, the bump must have shown, surely?’

‘Suppose so. Hey, maybe our family’s far more interesting than we thought.’

After a couple more hours of searching, they had found the marriage certificates of both Elizabeth’s parents, the Barries, and her husband’s, the Duncans. The Duncans all hailed from Dundee, the Barries from Tannadice.

‘Mags, why don’t I carry on looking for births, marriages and deaths for the Barries and you can look at the 1881 census. Might shed some light on what she did before she got married.’

‘Okay, boss.’

After what had seemed an interminable trawl through many Barries, Mags gasped. ‘At last, found her! Well, it must be her. There are no other Elizabeth Barries born in Tannadice but resident in Dundee. She’s a domestic servant in a big house. See, here’s her name at the end of a long list of children… God, six of them! And there’s a governess and a nurse too.’

‘When was that census? 1881? It says she’s twenty-four, which doesn’t tie in with being twenty-eight at her wedding in 1888 though, does it?’

‘True, but maybe she lied about her age to get a job as a maid?’ Mags drew her pen down the screen. ‘The family owning the house is called Donaldson. See, David Donaldson was head of house, a linen manufacturer. They lived in Perth Road. That’s the main one coming into Dundee from Perth.’

Christine turned from the screen to look at Mags. ‘Linen was a big business in the city, as well as jute. I can remember those houses on Perth Road, they’re big Victorian piles.
They must have great views over the Tay.’

Mags peered at the screen. ‘Look at the last name on the list for this household. It’s difficult to read but looks like Jane Barrie? Aged twenty-one. Both girls born in Tannadice it says, so it was probably her sister, she must have worked with her.’

‘It says she was a table maid.’ Christine rubbed her hands together. ‘See, it’s quite exciting, isn’t it. Let’s print out that page.’

Christine opened the oven door. Why was the chicken looking so brown already, when it had only been in for an hour? She pulled out a drawer, ripped off some tinfoil and tucked it loosely around the top of the bird, frowning. Perhaps, on reflection, she shouldn’t have done that French recipe for chicken roasted with forty cloves of garlic. But she’d had it at Sabine’s house and it was delicious.

She was already anticipating both Gerry and Doug moaning that reeking of garlic while peering into someone’s mouth was unprofessional. Dammit, why was she such a rubbish cook. Mags could whip up luscious food without even trying, though you usually had to wait for hours till the meal was actually on the table.

She heard a key in the lock and went to greet Gerry.

‘Hi, Chris,’ he said, shaking his umbrella at the door.

‘You’re soaking the carpet, Gerry!’ Christine scowled. ‘Here, let me take it.’ She grabbed the umbrella and rushed through to the kitchen.

‘Nice to see you too, Chris,’ Gerry said, shrugging as he followed his wife. He entered the kitchen and sniffed the air. ‘Wow, garlic! You trying to put tomorrow’s patients off?’ He chuckled and went towards his wife, pulling her
into a hug.

Christine drew herself away. ‘Sorry, Gerry, there’s too much to do.’ She took out a large wooden salad bowl and started tipping in bags of rocket and watercress.

‘Anything I can help with?’

‘Open the red, please. I couldn’t find the corkscrew.’ Christine turned to see her husband pulling the cutlery drawer out fully and lifting the corkscrew from the back. She bit her lip as she looked at him, his dark beard now flecked with grey. She had hoped he’d shave it off when he stopped being a student, but all these years later, perhaps as an attempt to cling to his youth, the facial hair remained. He looked up and beamed at her and she felt a pang of guilt that she was being so nippy.

‘Sorry, I know it’s your birthday, but my day’s been a nightmare. That new boy kicked off big time, and you know how stressful I find entertaining.’

‘It’s fine, it’s only Mags and Doug. They wouldn’t care if you gave them beans on toast.’ Gerry smiled then went to the fridge. ‘Would a drink help you relax?’

‘No, I’m fine. I’ll wait till we open the champagne, but you help yourself.’

‘Might just do that,’ said Gerry, stretching in for a beer.

At quarter to eight, Christine removed the chicken from the oven with a sigh of martyrdom and shouted through to the living room, ‘If they don’t come soon, it’s going to be ruined.’

‘They’re only a few minutes late. You know what Mags is like about timekeeping.’

Christine stood at the door, scowling.

‘Relax, everything’s done. Come and sit beside me, give
me a kiss.’ He patted the place beside him on the sofa.

Christine headed for the table. ‘I’m just going to light the candles.’

The doorbell rang and Gerry put down his beer and went to open the door. Mags stepped into the hall and tipped her head back to flick down the hood of her raincoat, her glossy hair, loose for the occasion, tumbling over her shoulders. In her hands was a large white box with a flamboyant gold ribbon on top.

‘Here you go, birthday boy!’ She nodded down at the box then smiled at Gerry and reached forward to give him a kiss on both cheeks. ‘I’d better put it somewhere cool, you can see it later.’

Christine leant her head out of the kitchen to see Doug stroll in, swinging a plastic bag, surely the only man who could look cool carrying a Tesco carrier bag. He shut the door behind him, brushed some drops of rain off the shoulders of his leather jacket then shook his friend’s hand and patted him on the back. ‘Happy birthday, mate. How does it feel to be fifty-five?’

‘Old! Come in, I’ll get the drinks.’

The four of them stood in the sitting room and raised their champagne glasses to toast Gerry. He smiled, and looked round at the small group.

Christine took a sip of her drink and fiddled with the gold chain round her neck. She was staring at Mag’s hand as she raised her glass. There was no disguising the fact she was stressed. It was nearly the end of term, when the kids were always hyper and she really hated entertaining. Gerry blew her a kiss which she acknowledged with a forced smile.

Mags took a gulp of champagne, laughing as the bubbles went up her nose. She was dressed in a floaty black skirt and cropped purple cardigan, unbuttoned at the top. Gerry’s gaze was drawn towards her plunging neckline but he quickly looked away lest Christine saw him looking at her cousin’s cleavage. But Christine didn’t notice, distracted as she was by the ring on Mags’s finger.

He turned to Doug who raised his glass. For a man who had been fawned over by all the nurses and fellow students at the dental hospital, Doug had lost some of his good looks. Though his eyes were still striking – dark, like shiny brown currants, Mags had once said – his face was now ruddy and he was starting to develop a belly. That must be down to all those cakes his wife bakes.

Mags picked up a photo from the mantelpiece. ‘Chris, this is a cool pic of the kids. Love it!’

‘Thought I gave you that one. I found it in a box in the attic when I was looking for photos for Anna’s eighteenth. I’ll get you a copy.’ Christine leant over to see it close up. ‘It makes me smile every time I see it. Look at Jack’s little face.’

Mags shook her head and laughed. ‘He’s obviously been told to put his arms round his sister and his cousin and he’s not too happy about it, is he!’

‘I know, it’s a hoot.’

‘He looks like he’s been wading through mud, what’s that on his face?’

‘Well, remember that was the stage he wanted to be a soldier, so Gerry had daubed him in face paint and he was wearing all brown and green, as camouflage.’

‘So was that his seventh birthday?’

‘Eighth, I think. Anna looks like she does in that primary
one photo with her hair in bunches. Remember she insisted on having them even though her hair was so short and curly?’

‘And what about Lottie and those bloody pigtails!’

‘I think that was why Anna was so keen on bunches, she wanted long hair like her big cousin’s.’ Christine laughed. ‘Right, let’s sit down.’

During the starter, Christine kept apologising about the fact she’d had no time to produce anything homemade.

‘Who cares,’ said Mags. ‘It’s really nice. And you’ve been at work all day.’

Christine scuttled off to the kitchen and Mags followed. Soon they emerged with four plates, reeking of garlic.

‘Hopefully it doesn’t taste as strong as it smells,’ Christine sighed.

‘It smells fab,’ said Mags, topping up both her own and Christine’s wine. ‘Bon appétit!’

‘So, what news of the kids?’ asked Doug, poking the skin off a garlic clove.

‘Both good thanks, though typical students, we hardly hear from them,’ Gerry said. ‘Jack’s got some exam today and Anna finishes on Friday, so…’

‘Jack’s exam’s tomorrow, Gerry,’ Christine interrupted.

‘Oh, right. Anyway, they’ll both be up for Easter. Good Friday is it?’