I had planned to come straight to the point, to tell her I was leaving and ask if I could have a few minutes alone with missus. But just as I was about to speak, missus herself appeared, strolling into view behind Muriel. Even now I remember that she seemed remarkably in control of her faculties. Her hair was dressed neat as ninepence and she wore a dark blue frock. She had a glance to see who was at the door then stepped out of sight once again, making no sound and giving no sign that she’d recognised me.
Of a sudden I could not bear to tell Muriel that I was leaving, just as a cod to get into the room. No doubt, missus would hear me and it felt wrong to be giving C. Features that information first. Although missus may have lost her senses somewhat, she still deserved to be treated with respect. I decided that
she
should be the first one to hear of my plans.
As you can see, what I have outlined above—Muriel at the door, missus floating in and out of view, me changing my mind—requires some little while to describe on paper, whereas in reality it all happened within a matter of moments. And what took place next was also fast. So flipping fast that it was over practically before I knew it had begun.
“Well?” says Muriel, her lips slobbery with apple juice. “Whit dae ye want now?”
“Do you need any coal?” I says, which was me stalling for time (having abandoned my first strategy, I had yet to come up with another).
In the event, I didn’t have to think of one because—with no warning whatsoever—missus dashed out the room, turning to shove me a she went, so that I went arse over tip. I knocked Muriel down like skittle and landed on top of her, my forehead cracking her on the chin. She yelped, as a gust of air (caused by the door slamming behind us) blew up my skirts. The apple rolled away across the floor. There was the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock and then footsteps hurrying away down the stairs.
A second passed during which Muriel and I stared, dumfounded— and at rather close quarters—into each others eyes. Then I rolled off her, we scrambled to our feet and tried to open the door. But it was too late. We were locked in. And there we were to remain for the rest of the afternoon—whilst down in Snatter and unbeknown to us, mayhem unfolded.
Events in the village, I will return to ere long. But for the time being, it was just myself and C. Features locked in the bedroom. Muriel booted the door a few times then gave me such a look I feared she might inflict the same punishment upon my person.
“This is aw your fault,” she says. “I better no get the blame.”
Were this another kind of story, being trapped together might prove to be a transforming experience, at the end of which we would forget our differences and emerge from the chamber arm in arm, chuckling away about all those times in the past that we had took objection to each other, when all along we were meant to be the best of chums. But this is not
The Bathgate Monthly Visitor
and not that kind of story, although perhaps it is just that neither Muriel nor I were that kind of person. At any rate, after she had growled at me, she went to the window, threw up the sash and screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Help!! Help!”
Everything was muffled by the fog. Her cries echoed back into the room as though she had been shouting at a brick wall rather than out into open country.
“Help! Over here! He-elp!”
Cold mist began to seep in through the open window. The fog was that thick you couldn’t even see to the far side of the yard. After a few more shouts Muriel fell silent and we listened for a reply. But there was nothing, only a stupid dog barking in the distance. Muriel resumed shouting and I went over to tend the fire, which gave me a moment for reflection.
Had missus planned this escape for a while or had she just seen an opportunity and took it? She must have waited until C. Features was talking to me and then crept up behind the door and slipped the key out the lock. It was a risk, for Muriel might have heard her, or either one of us could have grabbed her as she passed. But she had two things on her side, one was the element of surprise and the other was sheer desperation. That shove she gave me sent me flying, she was strong as 6 men, so she was. Which was remarkable, given her frail appearance.
I did feel rather slighted that she’d deemed it necessary to make
me
a prisoner for it aligned me with Muriel, this clodhopper, in a way I didn’t appreciate. Missus ought to know by now that I was on
her
side. Just for a moment, I felt thrilled at the thought of her, free and at large. 3 cheers for missus! She had broke out!
But in no time at all, I began to worry. Where would she go in this weather? And in her state of mind? How could she expect to live, with no money and no husband? She would perish of the cold, or come to harm. Somebody might find her wandering and take advantage of her. The very thought made me shudder. It was then that I realised she was smarter than I thought because—much as I was on her side—I would never have let her run away, for her own safety. So she’d been wise to make me a prisoner after all.
C. Features had turned away from the window and was staring at me. “Ye might well look worried,” she says. “But naebody can blame
me
she goat oot.”
The fire was burning brightly now, so I got to my feet and sat in the armchair. Muriel turned back to the window and shouted a few more times but clearly there was nobody within earshot. She lowered the sash and came to warm her hands at the grate.
“I just hope missus’ll be all right,” I says.
Muriel didn’t seem very interested in missus or her welfare. “Naebody can blame me,” she says again. “It wasnae ma fault.”
“D’you think she’ll try to get back to Wimbledon?”
“Where?”
“Wimbledon. Where she’s from. It’s a village, down in England.”
“Oh is it now?” says Muriel, rolling her eyes, to show how much she cared for Wimbledon, England and all
that.
“She can go up the Clyde oan a clootie dumpling, if she wants.”
At this mention of the river, I suddenly thought of my mother. It seemed unlikely now that I would get to the Railway Tavern by 3 o’clock. If I didn’t put in an appearance Bridget might walk to Castle Haivers to see what had become of me. But no. Most likely she would just sit there drinking into the evening, into her altitudes. She’d forget all about me, until she woke up somewhere with a sore head in the morning. Perhaps only then she’d come and find me. But by that time, I thought, master James would have returned and we’d be set free. And then I remembered the letter on his desk. I had planned to get away without any fuss, without having to face him. But that was also beginning to look extremely unlikely.
“This is a right old curfuffle, eh?” says Muriel. “Telling you, I better not get intae trouble with Mr. Reid.”
I was sick fed up to the back teeth of her harping on the one subject. “What are you?” I says. “Scared of him?”
She looked scornful. Am not,“ she says. ”I can tell ye whit I think of that man in one word.“
“Go on then,” I says.
“He’s a miser.”
That was 3 words. I could have pointed it out but I didn’t. Instead I says, “What do you think of missus then?”
Muriel scoffed. “One word? She’s a gowk.”
Gob strike me blind, it was an effort not to leap on her and give her a basting. But it would not do to get into a fight, what with the door locked and dear only knows how long to wait before we got out. Instead, I decided to pursue this little game to pass the time. And also it occurred to me that this might be a way to find out more about Nora. For all I knew, C. Features might have been there the night she died. Nonetheless, I did not want her to know that I was curious about Nora in particular, so I asked about a few other people first.
“What about me?” I says. “Describe me in one word.”
Muriel glanced away. “Irish,” she says. She might as well have said “gowk‘, it was as much of an insult from her lips. But I didn’t care a lousebag for what she thought of me.
“What about Hector?” I says.
“W H. T.,” says Muriel and when I didn’t understand, she elaborated. “Wandering Hand Trouble.” She gave me a meaning look and my face grew hot. For one awful moment, I thought she knew about the other night and was teasing me, perhaps he’d blabbed it all around the farm. And then I realised that, of course, she was talking about her own experience of Hector. He probably tried his luck with everybody, even an old fussock like her. Still, I wished I hadn’t asked about him. I passed on quickly.
“What about Janet, down The Gushet?”
Muriel thought for a second. Then she says, “Nosy. Always wants tae know if a person got their wages or their day aff, when it’s nane of her business.”
Just a few more, and I would ask about Nora. “McGregor-Robertson?”
“Snob,” goes Muriel, without hesitation.
“Reverend Pollock?”
She rolled her eyes again. “W H. T.”
Interesting, because I’d have said “busybody‘
but
I wasn’t about to quibble.
“Nora Hughes?”
Muriel shrugged and looked gloomy. “Irish,” she says.
I shook my head. “You said that about me. Say something else.”
There was a pause and then she says, “Gone to Kingdom Come.” I was about to ask her more but of a sudden she stood up and crossed the room. “What would you no give for a bed like this,” she says, and without any further hesitation she climbed between the covers and pulled them over her head.
“Muriel,” I says. “Were you here the night Nora died?”
But there was no answer. She only grunted and within moments she was breathing deeply, leaving me to sit by the fire, alone with my thoughts.
Well that had been a grand waste of time. She had tellt me little more than nothing. And yet,
something
in what she had said was troubling me, but I couldn’t work out what. Perhaps I’d ask her more when she woke up. Whenever that might be. How long were we to be stuck in this room? And where was missus gone?
Dear Arabella. For some reason, I imagined her seated on a train, whizzing along, headed for some different and better place. In my vision she was alone in the carriage and gazing out the window at the passing landscape of green fields and trees. And then, to my great surprise, I found myself sliding open the door and sitting opposite her. For dear sake, I was only dreaming! Missus smiled at me and took my hand. We both gazed out the window and I seen that this must be some train, for it had left the fields and was now passing across the sea! Sunlight dappled the green waves. Ailsa Craig floated by like a rotten tooth.
“We’re going back home,” I tellt missus. “We’re going across the water.”
She frowned as she peered out the window. “Not to my home, Bessy,” she says, smoothing down her hair. A handful of it came out as she stroked and I seen that it was not hair exactly, but seaweed in flat green ribbons. She pulled out another hank and another, leaving bloody patches on her scalp, the skin hanging off, she was making herself bald and I could not stop her, so help me God…
Of a sudden I jolted awake, sweating, and gazed about me. Muriel was still dozing in the bed and the house was silent. I went over and tried the door but it was still locked. There was nothing to do except wait. I returned to my seat. There I laid down my head and closed my eyes and this time I slept without dreaming.
A while later, I awoke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I glanced at my watch and was flabbergasted to see that almost two hours had passed. Muriel was still fast asleep. I ran over and gave her a shoogle.
“Somebody’s coming.”
She grunted and peered at me groggily. The footsteps came thudding to a halt outside the chamber and the door rattled as somebody tried to open it. Muriel stretched and yawned. “Hurry up!” I says and went to stand next the fire. I knew it couldn’t be missus returning alone. The footsteps was too heavy. And the voices I could hear muttering outside the door was male. Perhaps they had found her and fetched her back. There was a cry, as though someone had made a discovery and then a moment later, a key slid into the lock.
That was it for Muriel, she scrambled out the bed like a tic with a scorched arse. And not a moment too soon. The door flew open and in strode master James looking angry and upset. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavy, as though he had been running. Behind him, on the landing, I caught a glimpse of Hector peering in, all agog.
Muriel and I kept our traps shut, we just hung our heads and waited. The sight of us stood there, shame-faced, seemed to fill master James with further anguish.
He motioned abruptly for Hector to move back. “Wait there!” he commanded. At the top of the stairs. Let no-one pass!“
As Hector shrank out of sight, master James began to pace the room, keeping one eye on me and Muriel all the while. He tugged back the curtains and glanced behind them, as though he expected somebody to be hiding there. Then he knelt down and peered under the bed. Finally he got to his feet and addressed us coldly.
“Where is my wife?”
Muriel made a curtsey. She could not have known, but the pillow had left red crumpled marks on her cheek.
“Sir,” she says. “I am awfy sorry, sir. But she ran past us, sir. There was nae stopping her. And she locked us in. There was nothing we could dae, sir. She pushed Bessy in and locked the door on us, sir!
This news appeared to distress master James even more. His eyes glazed over like he was staring at eternity, and it wasn’t a good one.
“When was this?” he says.
Muriel glanced at me in a panic, I expect she was confused by sleep and had not noticed the time. I stepped forward.
About 1/2 past 12, sir,“ I says. ”Perhaps two hours ago.“
His shoulders slumped and he stood there, bereft. Presently, gaze fell upon the bed. Muriel had left the covers in disarray. Master James frowned and reached out, plunging his hand between the sheets. His face cleared as he raised his head to look at us.
“Still warm,” he says. “So she cannot have been gone that long.”
He glanced around, suddenly hopeful, as if we might be concealing her somewhere. Muriel stared at the floor, chewing her lip, her face burning a deep red.