Thrashburn was about twenty minutes north of Castle Haivers, away up the lane and over a railway bridge. Missus had already sent Hector over with a note, warning Flemyng to expect me. I walked fast out by the time I got there I was drookit, the water running down my back. This I must say, Thrashburn was a right shambles. One gatepost was near falling down and everything about the place was overgrown with blackened weeds and grass. The farm building was only a single storey cottage with a small barn beside. A few sorry looking hens scattered as I walked across the yard.
Flemyng himself opened the door to my knock and without a word he turned and showed me into the room. A fire burned in the grate and a lamp was already lit against the gloom. I glanced around, it seemed to me that every surface was hid by sheets of manuscript, crumpled parchment and stacks of books, which also stood in piles upon the floor. All the papers were covered in lines of writing and most of them had many scorings out. Flemyng looked different somehow and it took me a moment to realise that he was not wearing his spectacles. He paced about in the gaps between the book towers, scratching his head, while I took off my coat and shawl. At the time, I thought he was searching for something but on reflection I believe he was avoiding my eye out of shyness.
As for me, an unfamiliar gentleman held few fears. “I never met a poet before,” I says. “Tell a lie, I did meet a peddler fellow once, he had the most godawful pockmarks all over his face and he showed me a ballad he had wrote on a filthy old piece of paper. Would that be the kind of thing?”
Flemyng stopped pacing and for just a second a scowl crossed his face. I don’t think he much liked my talk of peddlers and filthy paper.
He says, “I have been known to
collect
peddler ballads, yes. But as I’m sure you are aware, my own poetry is something quite separate from that. A different order of verse, concerned with meter, rhythm, rhyme, scansion and—of course—meaning.”
“Oh, of course,” I says. I hadn’t a baldy
what he
was on about.
“Not cheap and tawdry sentiment,” he says. “Not that.”
I don’t know why, but I felt vaguely insulted—but only in a very
nice
way.
He gestured at a bottle on the sideboard. “Can I offer you a glass? he says.
His hand was trembling and I noticed that the wine bottle was 1/2 empty. I wondered had he had a few knocks already to fortify himself.
“No thank you, sir,” I says, though in truth I could have murdered a drink, I had a bad head after all the claret and ale of the night before.
Flemyng lifted some papers off an armchair and placed them on the table. “Please do sit,” he says, indicating the chair. Once I was seated, he crouched down beside me and spoke in a coaxing voice like as if he was talking to a baby.
“Now then, Bessy,” he says. “These songs of yours. Am I to believe that you have made them up all by yourself?”
“Yes sir.”
“Excellent. That’s wonderful. So they are not something that you have picked up, for example, from the likes of this peddler chappie you were speaking about?”
“No sir. I do
know
songs like that, ones I’ve heard about the place, ”Anything for a Crust“, ”Jessie O“ the Dell”, all them ones, sure everybody does. But I don’t confuse them with my own songs.“
“Well that’s good,” he says. “I am most grateful to your dear mistress for sending you to me. What a wonderful lady she is. Terribly clever, I think, and kind. And of course her beauty goes without saying.”
Yes yes you fartcatcher, I thought to myself. It was on the tip of my tongue to say something. If only you knew what nasty things she writes in her book. Something like that. But I kept “stumm‘, as my Mr. Levy would say.
Flemyng smiled at me, then stood up and threw more coals on the fire after which he turned to face into the room. He had his hands clasped behind his back and what with the sparks and smoke flying up behind him and the Holy look on his face he was the very glass and image of a Martyr burning at the stake. It made me want to giggle. To distract myself, I asked a question.
What will you do with my songs, sir?“
He frowned. I’m not quite sure, Bessy,“ he says. ”If they are of any quality then the important thing is to have them committed to the page. Then they will not disappear. I may send them to my publisher, see what he makes of them. But alas! He is most importantly waiting for more of my own poems and I must finish the one I am writing.“
“What’s it about, sir? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“About? Oh! All manner of things, Bessy. All manner of things. At its simplest level, it is about the ghosts that are said to haunt parts of Edinburgh. The story goes that a few hundred years ago when plague was rife the City fathers walled off certain closes and left the residents and livestock to perish of the disease. And later, they hacked up the rotting bodies and carted them away. And ever since then, folk have seen and heard strange things. Shuffling noises. Creaking ceilings. Severed limbs. Disembodied heads with terrible eyes. Ghostly children with weeping sores on their faces. And deformed horrifying phantom beasts creeping about.”
“Oh dear,” I says. I had thought he’d be writing a poem about a wee flower. Or a summers day. But here he was making my flesh creep and it was getting dark outside.
“Do you—do you think there really are such ghosts, sir?”
“What?” he says. “No, no. It’s all just superstition. But of course, I am only using it as a metaphor.” He glanced at his watch. “In any case,
tempus fugit,
we must get on.”
He struck a listening pose, hand on hip, head tilted forward, staring at the floor. “When you are ready, please begin. Perhaps
not
the song you sang last night.”
I cleared my throat, trying not to think about deformed ghosts and weeping sores. “This is a song,” I says, “about the time when we was coming over to Scotland on the—”
Without even lifting his head, Flemyng held up his hand to interrupt me. “Please,” he says. “No lengthy explanations. A good song speaks for itself.”
“Oh,” I says. “Right you are. Well—d’you want to know the title, sir?”
“Very well,” he says. “What is it called?”
“Ailsa Craig”,“ I told him. ”It is called “Ailsa Craig”.“
I was proud of this song, for it contained something of my own past, though in disguise. Here it is.
All you who mean to tramping go, and cross the foaming sea A while draw near and you shall hear what happened late to me
Mary Cleary is my name, I’m twelve years old and pretty
And when my father passed away we had to leave our country
My mother took me in her arms, said do not cry my darling
In Scotland we will try our luck, we’re leaving in the morning
(Chorus)
She said Scotland she is rare and sweet Scotland she is pretty All Scottish towns are green and neat And none beats Glasgow city
We sailed that morning right enough, that truth I’m not denying
But when I spotted land draw near, I thought my mother lying
For Scotland she was just a rock, a-sticking out the sea
An old worn tooth or caved-in skull, with stone of dirty grey
No pretty towns nor parks of green, just cliffs and seabirds shrieking
A lonelier place I’d never seen, the sight soon had me weeping
(Repeat Chorus)
What ails you dear my mother said, why look so broken hearted?
I told her why I shed a tear and this she then imparted
Fear not my love that island stump is not our destination
That’s Ailsa Craig, the Fairy Rock, a landmark for our nation
For that old Milestone marks the spot 1/2 way between our lands
We’ll soon be docked at Broomielaw and shaking Scottish hands
(Repeat Chorus)
Now here we are in Gallowgate where the closes they are spacious The tenements in good repair, the landlords not rapacious There is no dirt upon the streets, no factory smoke is choking
Our fortune’s made, we’re filthy rich. Perhaps you’ve guessed I’m
joking. My mother lied in what she said, for Glasgow is no haven Now Ailsa Craig looks not so bad, to one who can’t be leaving
(Repeat Final Chorus)
When the last note was sung, I made him a curtsey and waited for his response. He showed his appreciation by patting the tips of his fingers together, several times, it was a bit like clapping, but without making a sound.
“Not bad,” he says. “Of course, I might change a phrase or two, here and there. But on the whole, it is a fair example of its kind.”
Uncertain whether this was a compliment or not, I decided to take it as one. “Thank you, sir,” I says. “Would you be wanting to write it down then?”
“Yes, why not,” he says. “Let me just…”
He turned to the table behind him and lifted piles of paper until he had unearthed a pen and some ink and—finally—his eyeglasses, the last of which he fastened onto his face.
“Now then,” he says. “Fire away, Bessy”
In all I sang four songs for him that day. He wrote them down and put symbols by the words and when I asked him what they meant he told me that they showed the tune, at least they did to those that knew how to read symbols, to me they were gibberish and I still cannot tell a semi-quaver from a crotch.
When it came time to leave I went skyting up the road with the 7 league boots on, for it was dark by this time and Flemyng had fair give me the wild squirts with all his talk of Phantoms. It was a great relief to be back in the kitchen at Castle Haivers. And once I was safe I began to feel a bit pleased with myself, that a poet might send my songs to his publisher. I couldn’t wait to see the look on missus face, knowing how much she longed to make a book of her
Observations.
But I decided to wait and see what happened before I tellt her, just in case he didn’t send them after all and I was left looking like a great ninny.
As for Janets blethers the night before, I knew fine well there were no pots of gold about the place. But I did begin to wonder what she might have meant to imply about missus and Nora. As far as I could tell missus practically worshipped the girl. But I had no idea what Nora might have thought of missus. Perhaps she hated her. It occurred to me that I didn’t know much at all about MY RIVAL. And then I remembered what it said in
The Observations
about missus putting Noras things away in her trunk in the attic. What would there be in that trunk, I wondered? Surely, if missus made me keep a journal, Nora would have kept one too? There was no telling what she might have wrote in there about missus. Even if she did disguise her true feelings it might be possible to read between the lines. And I was curious to know more about her, this perfect flipping maid.
I wasted no time in finding out. That very night I waited until missus and master James had went to bed and then sneaked out my room and down to the landing on tippy-toe. Behind a small door at the end of the passage was a set of wooden stairs that led up to the main attic. I’d never went up there before, never had reason to and besides I once had a quick skelly through the crack of the door and Jesus Murphy it would give you the creeps it was that dark and drafry.
Now I opened the little door and crept up the stairs. Five steps and then a balustrade and above that a great dark space opening up like a cavern. As I emerged into the attic the icy air hit my face, it was a damp musty chill that bit into your lungs. I cannot say that I was not anxious. But I kept telling myself not to be hen-hearted and get on with it.
Life at Castle Haivers did not create much that was surplus to requirements and a quick hoist of my candle showed that there was not a lot stored up there. Some old dining chairs piled in a corner, a few empty portmanteaus, a broken fire screen, a music case with a cracked glass door, that was about the size of it. And then I seen what I was looking for. It was set apart from the rest of the things against the wall and near the stairs. A servant trunk, canvas-covered. Although none of the luggage was expensive you could tell that this box was cheap and shoddy in comparison to the rest.
I lifted the lid and peered inside. It was hard to see clearly in the shadows and candlelight. The first items that rose to my view were a pair of lace-up boots, well-polished and hardly worn, no doubt Noras Sunday best. I lifted one boot and held the sole against my own. Not much difference there, though I admit that perhaps her foot was a
little
smaller. Next the boots was a Bible and a whole pile of religious tracts. For dear sake could you not have guessed that she would be Holy? Next, an old-fashioned workbox, the lid painted with a picture of a girl in white playing with a hoop. Next a cloth doll in cap and apron. What a big fat baby she must have been, to have a doll! Beside that was a metal hair clasp painted with 3 flowers, like blue daisies, and a bottle of scent, which proved on opening to be Honeysuckle. Digging deeper, I found a folding knife with a horn handle, and right at the bottom a small bundle of linen, mostly undergarments and stockings, worn and darned but clean. The knife was a good one and might come in useful so I slipped it in my pocket. Under the linen I found a comb with a clump of dark hairs still clinging to the teeth. Dead girls hairs. That fair made my skin crawl.
What with all those tracts and the dolly, I could just imagine her, so I could. Little Miss Perfect. One of those articles that’s happy as Larry all the time, no matter what. If you tellt her, Away and chop down an acre of trees and carry the logs to Coatbridge on your back, she’d jump for joy. If you said, “Nora, we believe you have the typhoid,” she’d just tell you it was her hearts desire to go to heaven and meet her Lord. If you said, “Nora, the leg has to come off and what’s worse you have the leprosy,” no doubt she’d have some flipping cheerful answer for you.
But no sign of any journal whatsoever. So I was none the wiser as to what she thought of missus.
Could I sleep that night. Could I chook. I lay there plotting how I’d take revenge on missus for ill-using me. Her boots might mysteriously develop holes in the sole. The hem of her frock could come down unexpectedly. Some of her linen could find its way back into the drawer unwashed. The sugar bowl might accidentally get filled with salt. A mouse might crawl under her bed to die. Little things that I couldn’t be blamed for. But everything I thought of seemed too trifling and silly.