The Road to Rowanbrae (33 page)

Ewan passed over the rather dilapidated brown leather bag, and she took out an envelope, discoloured and crumpled from years of handling. ‘Read it out to me,' she instructed.

‘Dear Mother,' he read, ‘I am writing this to tell you that I bitterly regret quarrelling with you. You were not mistaken in what you thought about Libby, she was everything you said she was and I joined the Air Force to get away from her. It was only later that I realised how much she had changed from the time I met her, and if I come through the war, I might try to patch things up with her.'

Glancing up briefly, Ewan saw that his great-grand-mother's lips were forming the words along with him, showing that she knew the letter off by heart, and he had to swallow before he carried on reading. ‘But now that I've made a start, I want to unburden my soul completely before I meet my Maker, though I doubt if He will accept me into heaven after the awful things I've done, because the fire wasn't the worst. I should have told you at the time, but I was very young, and very scared. Brace yourself, Mother, this is going to be a terrible shock. It was I who killed my father.'

Gasping, Ewan looked up again, but Mysie said, ‘Aye, that's a surprise to you, but go on.'

‘I heard him fighting with you and I went to the door of the kitchen and saw he had a knife in his hand. I thought he was going to kill you, so I crept over and picked another knife off the floor, but he jabbed at you before I was close enough to stop him. He didn't know I was there, and I thought you were dead, so I lifted my arm to stick the knife in him. Being so young, I didn't have any great strength, so if he hadn't heard me just at that minute, he would likely only have had a small cut, but he did hear. He whipped round as my hand came down, and it was the force of his own body that made the knife go in right up to the hilt. I was only seven, remember, but I knew that I had killed him. Not knowing what else to do, I went back to bed, and when I heard you moving about again, and coughing, I knew you were still alive, so I fell asleep with an easier mind, although I was too frightened to say anything the next day. I tried to tell you on the night you learned that Doddie had been killed, but you wouldn't let me.'

‘Aye,' Mysie murmured. ‘That was when he said it was him filling the oil lamp that caused the fire and I was too upset to listen to him when he wanted to tell me something else.'

Bending his head again, Ewan read the rest of the letter. ‘I have often wondered where you hid the body, and you must have wondered who killed him. I did not really mean to, but I am not sorry I did, because he didn't deserve to live after the way he used to treat you. As I grew older, that night often came back to haunt me, and I suppose that's really why I began drinking so much, which is another thing I have to apologise for. Be that as it may, I trust you will forgive me for not telling you all this before. I pray that you never have to read this letter, but if you do, please remember that what I did that night was out of love for you, and that I still love you as much as ever. I will always be – your loving son, Sandy.'

As Ewan replaced the faded pages in the envelope, the lump in his throat almost choking him, Mysie looked quizzically at him. ‘I suppose you'll be so shocked now, you'll be wishing you had never tried to find out your family history?'

He couldn't speak just yet, and pretended to consider. ‘I am shocked,' he admitted, after a moment. ‘I'm shocked that you had such a terrible life, but I'm very glad you have told me exactly what happened, and I don't condemn you nor your son. God Almighty, Great-grandmother, I don't know how you didn't go off your head after some of the things that happened to you.'

‘I don't know myself, laddie, but would you mind not calling me Great-grandmother? It makes me feel really ancient.' She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I'm not a hundred yet … though it'll not be long. Gregor used to call me Maisie, but you could call me Mysie, if you like. Nobody's called me that for a long time – not since Jess Findlater died – and I quite like it.'

‘Okay, Mysie it is. May I come back to see you? I promise never to bring any of this up again.'

‘I'd love to see you again, but before you go, will you … will you have to tell the police about what you found?'

‘No, it would only cause a furore, and I won't tell anyone else, either. I'll dig the thing well down, and cover it with fresh cement. Nobody will ever find it again, Mysie, I swear.'

‘Oh, that's a weight off my mind. Bless you, Ewan.'

When he left, Mysie leaned back and closed her eyes. Fancy it being Sandy's grandson that found Jeems. She had known he was bound to be unearthed some day, but she had begun to think that she was safe enough – that it wouldn't be in her lifetime. She had been proved right about one thing, though – the head hadn't been limed. Thank goodness her great-grandson would be the only one to know the truth about that traumatic night in 1914. Gregor had known, of course, he'd had to read Sandy's letter to her, but she had trusted Gregor. He had seen her through a lot, brought her back to life after Sandy was killed, for his letter had had an even worse effect on her than his death. She'd been horrified to think that her young son had been a witness to his father's insane rage; sick at picturing the child thrusting a knife into the man.

She had almost gone out of her mind then, and it had taken her much longer to get over than any of the other things that had happened to her. The other things. Being sold to Jeems for thirty pounds; losing her dear Jamie down the old quarry; discovering that she was expecting a packman's child; finding Jeems and burying him; aborting that same night; the fire; Doddie being killed; Sandy and Gina leaving her; poor little Alexander. But Gregor had also seen her through that last two. Dear Gregor. She was grateful that she had been able to repay his devotion by nursing him in his last years, and it shouldn't be long now before they were together again – for ever.

At five o'clock, the young nurse went to help Mrs Wallace to the dining room, and was quite surprised to find her sleeping. Some of the old folk slept nearly all day and wandered about all night, but Mrs Wallace wasn't like that. She was always alert, but her visitor had stayed quite a long time, and she must have been tired out, poor soul.

‘Wakey, wakey!' the girl sang out, and it wasn't until she had shaken the old lady several times that she turned and ran to the office. ‘I think Mrs Wallace has died in her chair,' she burst out when she opened the door.

Knowing how quick some of the young girls were in jumping to the wrong conclusion, Mrs Warrender went with her to check it out, but it was true. ‘I'll have to get the doctor to write out a death certificate.'

‘She was a dear old thing,' the girl remarked sadly. ‘I'm glad she died peacefully with a smile on her face.'

Mrs Warrender gave a long sigh. ‘Yes, it's not so bad when they go like that, some of them have a terrible struggle. And Mrs Wallace has had a good innings, remember, she'd have been ninety-six on her birthday. Of course, she was very well off, and I suppose she'd had things easy all her life.'

The girl nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Some people have all the luck, haven't they?'

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