“I take it you have no question you wish to ask me.”
“No sir.”
“Then off you go. Biscuit is waiting patiently for you outside the stables.”
Biscuit was indeed outside the stables but he gave no hint that he might have been waiting for me, patiently or otherwise, he was not the kind of man to dance attendance on the likes of me, Oh no! He caught sight of me as I came around the corner of the house but did not look up or acknowledge me in any way, instead he finished tightening the horses girth and then without a word got up onto the cart. Thereafter he sat looking at the horses ears. When I bid him good afternoon he cast his eyes over me without interest—much as if I were an old log he’d briefly considered taking home for firewood before thinking better of it—and then he turned away and resumed his contemplation of the horse.
Believe you me, I would rather have sat on the cutty stool than share a narrow seat with Biscuit Meek but I had no real choice in the matter if I was to obey master James and so I clambered up beside him. During the course of the journey to Bathgate I did make one or two attempts at conversation but the only thing that emerged from Biscuit’s mouth was fired out in liquid form at regular intervals and lay silently glistening on the road behind us. After a while I gave up trying to engage him and fell to examining the list master James had give me. Camphor, vinegar, senna and paragoric were common enough so they were but some items on the list were new to me such as gum ammoniac, vermifuge powder, ipecac, Rochel salt, flour of sulphur, I did not much like the sound of them. Presumably they were meant for missus. All I could say was they had better not do her any harm.
This vexed me all the way to Bathgate, to the coaching-yard behind the hotel. There Biscuit stopped the cart and descended in a slithering motion. He pointed fiercely at the ground and spoke two words the first of these being “4‘ and the 2nd being ”a’clock’. Thus having indicated the time he expected my return to that very spot he mooched off out the yard. I got down from the cart myself and wandered into the street just in time to see him disappear into a tavern across the way. Whether or not he went there on business for master James, I hadn’t a notion but I cared not a flea turd for the doings of Biscuit Meek.
The apothecary himself was the only person in the shop. Remembering what master James had said and his pleas for discretion I kept conversation to a minimum by simply handing over the list. Thankfully, the man showed no interest in me whatsoever and made up the order with scarce a word or glance in my direction. A dram of this, an ounce of that, he tapped out powders and poured liquids from large bottles into smaller vials. Then, at my request, he wrapped each item separately and finally made them up into one large parcel. All in all it took only about ten minutes to complete the order.
Upon leaving the shop I returned to the hotel but there was no sign of Biscuit and almost an hour to wait until 4 o’clock. There was a few lads hanging about, playing chucky stones and throwing me glances. No doubt if I waited on the cart I would not be left in peace for long and so I decided to go for a walk. I left the yard and began making my way towards the main shopping streets where missus had led me the previous week.
My intention was to look in at shop windows but then I glimpsed the church bell tower above the chimneys and that started me thinking about the graveyard. I was never one for hanging around burial grounds for pleasure. Yet the more I gave it consideration, the more I thought it might be worth visiting Noras grave to have a word with her. Call it superstition. But both me and missus had seen something at Castle Haivers and if it was indeed a ghost (and not a dream or figment of our imaginations), then it might be worth speaking to Miss Perfect. I would lodge a complaint, if you like, at the source. I would raise objections at Headquarters.
Having decided this, it was only a matter of making my way to the church. The bell tower was visible now and then between the rooftops and I found the right street by heading towards it. A few market stalls had been set up outside the church and the place was hoaching with passers-by and carts and gigs. I went in at the church gate and up the steps. Last time I had been there, it was snowing and I’d been intent on following missus so had not paid much heed to the surroundings. Now, the snow was long gone and I was entirely on my own. Without its frosty coating, the graveyard took on a very different aspect. I seen that it was a driech place, the paths foul and mucky, the headstones be-slimed, many of them broken and everything choked with ivy.
I chose a path and began to pick my way through the quagmire towards the far corner where they put the RCs. Away from the road, the place grew silent. There were no visitors that day besides myself. Not a living thing stirred no bird sang and the only creatures you could imagine rustling in the undergrowth was rats.
Before too long I glimpsed Noras headstone, the white marble made it stand out amongst the other graves. As I approached, I was startled and not a little disturbed to see that the crocus missus had left at the foot of the grave had been overturned as if by some angry, violent hand. The pot was smashed and the earth (which was, I noticed, the colour of dried blood) lay scattered. The bulb and petals had been stamped into the ground. There was no telling who or what was responsible. Naughty boys could have knocked it over for no good reason, as they are wont. Or a fox could have done it, I had seen similar damage left by foxes in the vegetable garden. It might—just possibly—have been caused by the wind, or by accident. But the sight of this wanton destruction, in those surroundings, made my flesh creep. I glanced around anxious, but only the gravestones gazed back at me.
The crocus was beyond saving and so I just tidied up a little, picking up the shards of the pot and laying them neatly on the path and then kicking the dark red earth to mingle it with the grass. Afterwards I stood over the grave and tried to direct my thoughts into the ground. It was hard to imagine what lay under there. The coffin had been down there for months and I reckoned that it would probably still be fairly intact but I did not like to speculate what condition Noras body might be in. I tried to picture her whole and fresh, dressed all in white, with her eyes closed and hands clasped.
“Please leave missus alone,” I begged her. “You don’t belong in this world. I am sorry if I disturbed you or disrupted you but you must go now and leave missus. It’s not her fault you’re dead.”
These and other similar entreaties I sent into the grave, repeating them over and over. I tried to picture my words drilling through the earth and flooding into Noras ear like sea into in a shell. My girlish superstition may seem far-fetched or even ½ daft but I was desperate. I would have pulled out my own tonsils if it would have helped missus. And if there was a ghost then I wanted it laid to rest. I stood there for what seemed like donkeys years until twilight began to fall and my feet had went numb with the cold. Then I picked up my parcel and hurried back to the gate.
Horror of horrors, who was standing right at the entrance and handing out his blasted wee pamphlets but the Old Bollix. The market stalls had attracted a crowd and he had took advantage of it. His method was to amble up to people as if to greet them but at the last minute instead of shaking their hand he would slip them a tract and then shuffle off again. With most folk this seemed to work. Some of them thanked him and put the tracts directly in their pockets while others just stared at them, bewildered, before moving on.
I had no desire to be seen or accosted by him and so cast around for an escape route but the railings were too high to climb and the front gate seemed to be the only exit. Either I would have to retreat into the churchyard and wait, in the hope that he would go away, or I would have to try and slip past the old mundungus unnoticed. Since twilight was falling I had no desire to prolong my stay amongst the gravestones. And so I took a deep breath, clutched my parcel to my chest and moved towards the front steps, keeping one eye on Pollock all the while. At this point, he was bearing down on two builders in dusty duds who were stood talking in front of one of the stalls. They looked at the Reverend askance as he approached and when he tried to hand over a pamphlet, one man swore loudly and walked away.
People turned to stare. The 2nd man shouted. “Oh bod! Boo! Away you go with your bloody tracts! We dinna want them! They’ll not tell us anything we want to hear!” He made an exaggerated shooing motion, then stalked off to join his friend.
Pollock attempted to keep his dignity despite the fact that everybody was staring at him in his moment of rejection. He turned away, a fake smile fixed on his bake, and the first thing his eyes lit upon was me as I edged my way out the church gate. Like a drowning man might make for a raft he struck out for me, raising a hand and diving across the street. There was no escape. He came to a halt a few feet away, hauled up his breeks and regarded me with that self-satisfied flipping smile.
“Ah-haah!” he goes. “Biddy, is it not?”
“Bessy, sir,” I says, through my teeth.
“Ah-haah!” His gaze flicked behind me to the churchyard and then he gave me one of his crafty looks. “What can we do for you here in Bathgate?” he says. “And in the churchyard too. I trust you are not come body snatching. Ah-haah!”
“No sir,” I says. “I was on an errand for missus and—well—I thought I might take a short-cut but—you see—there is no way out at the other side and so I—yes—I had to come back out again.”
This awkward little speech annoyed me for I was loath to explain myself to him. But master James had swore me to secrecy not only that but I had heard him expressly ask the doctor
not
to mention anything about missus to the Reverend.
Meanwhile as I was speaking the old goat had been taking a long nosy look at the parcel in my hands, clearly trying to figure out what it might contain.
Ah-haah!“ he says. And how is your dear mistress?”
“Very well, sir, very well indeed.”
“I am glad to hear it. Ah-haah! I thought she looked a little pale last time I saw her. There is nothing the matter with her, I take it?”
“No, sir, she is quite well.”
And your master? He is buying a public fountain from my brother is he not? I wonder do you know how that little project is progressing-
“I am afraid I know nothing about it, sir.”
“Oh? Perhaps they don’t discuss these things with you. Well James is a capable fellow, I am sure it will pass off without a hitch. Your master has done very well for himself, Bessy, with no help from anyone at all-—apart, I understand, from a substantial legacy and various properties left to him by an uncle many years ago. Ah-haah! But you know all about that, I suppose.”
He studied me with his cold little eyes. I didn’t say anything, and so he carried on.
“And of course, the latest good news, James has been asked to stand, I believe? As a member of parliament? What do you make of that, Bessy? Do you think that your master would make a good parliamentarian, hmm?” Again, he gave me a cunning look.
“I know nothing about politics, sir. And if you will excuse me I have to go now. I am being taken back at 4 o’clock.”
Ah yes,“ he says, peering once more at my parcel with his head on one side. He looked like a hen about to peck it. ”You have a lot of purchases there. Ah-haah! I hope your package isn’t too heavy?“
“No, sir.”
“It’s very unwieldy.” Clearly, he hoped that such comments would prompt me to reveal what it contained.
“I can manage, sir.”
He gave a mock frown and wagged a finger at me. “Now I do hope you haven’t been spending all your wages on fripperies,” he says. “Hair clasps and cap ribbons and the like. Or have you been buying something for your mistress perhaps?”
Clearly he was not about to give up and I knew that my story about braid and thread would not fool him, the parcel being much too large.
“It’s nothing, sir,” I says. “Only some material and buttons.”
“Material and buttons, eh?” He shook his head and sighed through his nose. “Silks and satins, no doubt. Well, let me see…” He pulled out his pamphlets and extracted one. “Here we are,” he says, handing it to me. The thing was entitled ‘The Eye Sore“, and was an attack on any person that spent too long contemplating theirselves in the looking glass. Are you prone to vanity, Bessy, I suspect you are. Well, you may find this an enlightening read.”
I tried to give it back to him but would he take it, would he chook.
“No, no,” he says. “Keep it. How did you fare with the last publications I gave you?”
“Oh,” I says. “I haven’t had time to read them yet.” (A lie. I had either thrown them away directly or wrote rude words in the margins and
then
thrown them out.)
He scrutinised me closely. Are you in fact
able
to read?“ he says, as though to himself. ”I am beginning to suspect that perhaps you aren’t.“
“I can read very well, sir,” I says, hot in the face. “Now if you don’t mind…”
But he detained me once again, this time by putting his hand on my arm.
“Wait a moment,” he says. “This may come as a surprise to you, Bessy, but I can see potential in you. Ah-haah! You are quite different from other girls of your age and faith. I tell you what. If you like, I will elucidate these texts for you and then you can ask me any questions. Also, I want to know more about your life before Castle Haivers. I know you were a housekeeper.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he interrupted.
“No, no!” he says, throwing up his hands. “Don’t tell me anything, just yet.”
As if to flip I had been about to!
“It must wait until you come to the manse,” he says. “What day would suit you?”
“I don’t think I can call on you, sir.”
“You had time off to visit Mr. Flemyng, I believe, over at Thrash-burn. Did you not?”
“Yes, sir,” I says, feeling unaccountably embarrassed.
“Well then,” he says. “If you can call on Flemyng then surely you can visit myself, especially when it is for the purpose of tract elucidation.