Fields of Blue Flax (28 page)

‘Thank God Gerry never told the kids about the dope in her blood. He said the conclusion from the final report was that it was all just a tragic accident caused by a serious miscalculation of the road. He thinks it was all a mistake, she’d never consider smoking dope.’

‘But the whole cannabis thing was out of the equation ages ago, wasn’t it?’ Mags bit her lip.

‘Yes, they said her recklessness was exacerbated by taking extra Prozac that morning.’

‘I know, but I still don’t really get how they didn’t charge you for the cannabis thing?’

‘Because in the end it was such a small amount in her system. And overdosing on a prescription drug like Prozac would have had a much bigger impact on her concentration. Besides, supplying someone with such a small amount of pot isn’t enough to prove manslaughter. Not unless you forced them to take it and then drive or something.’

He stroked his wife’s hair. ‘It’s all over, Mags. Gerry and the kids are doing well; they’re trying to make the best of things. And you and I are getting back on track.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, downing her wine. ‘We’ll be fine.’

He lifted the bottle and topped up their glasses. ‘What were you showing Lotts earlier, by the way, before she left for her lesson?’

‘It was a Victorian journal I got from Uncle Charlie ages ago. I’ve been going through it slowly it for months now but wanted Lotts to read it too, since it was written by her great-great-great grandmother Charlotte Whyte, Elizabeth Barrie’s mother. It’s such a coincidence they have the same name as they were – are – both brilliant pianists.’

Mags snuggled down beside Doug. ‘Now, there was someone else who had the love of a good man. And he was also willing to take the blame for something he never did.’ She sighed. ‘Didn’t work out happily for him though.

She put down her glass and turned to Doug. ‘Mum and Uncle Charlie said that Elizabeth Barrie never smiled. She was the one Uncle Charlie reckoned was cursed. He told us we should never have started researching her.’ She paused and frowned.

‘I don’t think I would have smiled either if I’d had her life. So tragic. She must have guessed who her mother was, but it was only when she was given her mother’s journal after her father, the Minister, died that it was confirmed. Elizabeth’s first child, my Great-Auntie Annie, was just a baby at the time. Anyway, it was only then that Elizabeth Barrie found out her real story. It’s hardly surprising she never smiled much after that.’

Lottie pushed the door of her flat shut behind her and dumped her coat on the chair. She went into the tiny kitchen and flicked on the kettle then went to the piano, opened the lid, then shut it again. No, she didn’t need to practise tonight; she was going to be lazy and just read instead.

She took out the box with the old journal in it, untied the ribbons and had a quick look inside. What beautiful
calligraphy; why was her own handwriting not more stylish? She flipped through a few pages then closed it and folded the faded ribbons on top. She was keen to read it, if only for her mum’s sake, but not before she had finished the book she was reading; she was so near the end.

Lottie made herself a mug of green tea and settled into the armchair, propping her feet up on the coffee table.

Half an hour later, she shut the book and put it on the table. What an amazing story, she thought, everything seemed so perfect on the outside, a glittering veneer of respectability. Yet gradually the decay and poison from the past, hidden secrets, came to the surface, ending in death and murder.

Secrets are dangerous, she thought. She was so relieved that Jack knew nothing about who his real father was, and would never have to know anything; why should he? And her parents’ relationship was on the mend, thank God. They were slowly getting back to where they’d been before.

The past was the past and should be forgotten. And as she mulled this over, she remembered some words she had just been reading and picked up the book. She opened it at its final page.

‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’

Lottie placed
The Great Gatsby
on the table, picked up her great-great-great-grandmother’s journal and began to read.

Chapter Fifty-one

The Journal of Charlotte Whyte Addendum, written on the 26
^th
of March 1871

Dearest Elizabeth
,

I write this letter to you while ill with the influenza. I do not think I shall recover as there are others in the village who have succumbed and I have a strong sense I shall be next. So I have asked Cookie to give this to you on the death of my father, Charles Whyte. The reason I do not wish you to read it while he is still alive will be evident to you as you read my journal. I have written this diary every day since I was a girl, about the same age you are now – eleven years old
.

Some of the early entries will be amusing, or perhaps even a little tedious, for you to read. When I helped Grieve pick the peas in the garden for example, as you used to love doing. And you also loved to pod them – indeed, I can still picture you sitting there on the high stool in the kitchen, your beautiful dark eyes intent upon each pod as you split them open. I remember your chubby little feet all grubby from the soil and Cookie swinging you up to sit on the draining board at the big stone sink as she scrubbed them clean
.

And then there was the time when Mother made me an Easter bonnet herself, and the fresh flowers she had picked from the garden still had insects in them and they crawled down my neck during the sermon. Easter reminded me also of that first time in the church I set eyes on you again, the first time since you were
a baby. You were four years old. I will never forget your deep brown eyes, little rosebud lips and mass of tight, lustrous curls
.

But it is the entries from the age of fourteen that will perhaps shock you when you read what I had to endure, at the hands of my father. It is something that has made me so ashamed all these years. But what could I do? Mother was an invalid, and often abed, frail and sickly, and he knew I could not speak to her about it. And even if she had enjoyed good health, I am not convinced I would have wanted to trouble her with such horrors
.

Whenever his wrath was provoked, and this was not infrequent, he would take it out on me. For the first few years it was only physical. Sometimes I was so bruised that I had to refuse my bath, for fear that Cookie saw me when she came to bring me my towel. She knew nothing, but I would entrust her with my life, which is why I know she will somehow ensure this journal will be placed in your hands some day
.

Then, as you will read, one late afternoon in May 1859, it became more than the hits and slaps. And that was simply so awful, I cannot begin to describe to you and I shall not. I have merely alluded to it in the journal, it is impossible for me to express on paper. But throughout that terrible time, when I discovered I was expecting you, there was one constant in my life. As well as Cookie, the companionship of David Barrie was a blessing. I used to teach him in the little cottage in the woods I took you to once. Do you remember, you climbed up into the tree house that afternoon we had gone to hunt for fairy mushrooms? Well, it was he who made that little tree house up in the branches of the oak tree, with such skill and attention to detail
.

I used to try to help him with his reading and writing at lessons every month. And we revelled in each other’s company, enjoying Sir Walter Scott and Shakespeare’s comedies. We
laughed a lot and this was something that was always lacking when Father was in the manse. I realise now that not only was David Barrie a good man, he was the only man I have ever loved
.

When you were born, my life was filled with joy and, since I was living at Corrie with David’s mother at the time, away from my father, I was blissfully content not only with you, but with life. What a beautiful baby you were. Rising every morning to tend to you was the best of times, brief though they were. You were only in your fourth month when I had to give you up
.

When Mother died I was brought back to the manse and you had to live with David’s wife, Margaret, who brought you up. I am forever grateful to her for that, for I simply could not have done that at the manse. I wish I had been kinder to Margaret but I found it so difficult to watch her bringing up my own child. And as you know, Elizabeth, we were very different people, both in character and in circumstance
.

As you will read, there was a paternity suit, instigated by my father, whereby David was named as your father. He was such a compassionate man and so he took the blame for something for which he was not responsible. He took all the shame upon his shoulders. I perhaps ought to add that in all our time together, just the two of us, there was never any suggestion of impropriety. Just a mutual respect, friendship and understanding of each other
.

It was so sad when, soon after you went to live at the Barries’ cottage, he died a horrible death from eating poisonous mushrooms. I was distraught, but could not reveal my true emotions to anyone, not even to my dear Cookie, since she was on friendly terms with his wife. Father of course considered his death a welcome end to the whole dreadful affair since, to everyone else, David was the father of my baby. My precious
baby – you, dear Elizabeth
.

Father would not permit me to attend the funeral but I used to lay flowers on his grave every week. I like to think you have some of David’s kind and gentle character, certainly none of my father’s overweening and haughty air. He was nothing more than a hypocrite, one whose entire life was a lie. There, I have said it. May God forgive me
.

It is becoming dark and I must stop writing now. I can hear the clattering of dishes down in the hall which means that Cookie will soon be coming upstairs with some of her soup which I must try to eat, though I have no appetite for anything. I only feel I want to have a long, deep sleep, now I have written this letter to you
.

Elizabeth, when you read this, remember me. I do hope you find love and joy in your life and it is also my sincere hope that your life will be filled only with good and with happiness, never sadness. I also harbour a secret longing that perhaps you might become a pianist like your mother
.

And I like to dream that one of your children or grandchildren might perhaps take the name Charlotte so that, although you will never bear the name Whyte, there may be still something of me, your loving mother, in your own family
.

I am convinced that in heaven I shall meet David once more and I will be able to thank him for what he did for me, and for you, my dearest child
.

With all my love to you always
,

Your mother
,

Charlotte Whyte

Acknowledgements

Thanks for giving advice and time: Bill Boyle, Mary-An Charnley, Anne Dow, Mary Duckworth, John Evans, Faith Lawrence, Jess Lawrence, Elisabeth Hadden, Stuart Hadden, Sue Hadden, Isabel Johnson, Lauren Mackie, Ann Naismith, Sue Peebles, Isabelle Plews, Anna Reynolds, David Yates.

Thanks for their professionalism and patience to Jenny Brown and Julie Fergusson.