Barbara Erskine - The Ghost Tree

She moved over to the table by the door. There was a cardboard box she hadn’t even bothered to unpack; odds and ends Timothy had taken from the cupboards upstairs in Donald Dunbar’s house. Reaching in, she pulled out a small painted wooden box. She shook it experimentally then wrenched off the lid. There was a bundle of old sticks and rags inside. She stared down at it, puzzled, not making any sense of what she saw. Was it some kind of a primitive doll? Whatever it was, it was a dusty mess which smelled revolting and gave off an icy breath as though it was alive. She slammed the lid back on and rammed the box into the cardboard container. Why in God’s name had the idiot brought that here? She shuddered and reached towards the box with the intention of taking the object, whatever it was, downstairs and binning it, but she couldn’t bring herself to put her hand anywhere near it again. It emanated evil. She backed away from the table, aware that her whole body was trembling. Reaching the door, she groped for the handle, not taking her eyes off the box, dragged the door open and dived through it before slamming it shut behind her.

Standing on the landing she could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She grasped the newel post and hung on desperately, afraid she was going to pass out; her mouth flooded with bitter saliva and she realised suddenly she was going to vomit. She just made it to the bathroom, throwing herself down in front of the toilet, drenched with sweat as she retched again and again.

It was a long time before she managed to drag herself downstairs to the kitchen. She put the kettle on with shaking hands. It must have been the takeaway she and Timothy had had the night before, she decided vaguely. Prawn curry. Always a mistake. Perhaps that was why Timothy hadn’t come home. He had been smitten too. She glanced at the clock on the wall above the bread bin.

Carrying her mug of tea, she went through into the lounge, turned on the light, sat down at the table and reached for her mobile. ‘Tim? Where the hell are you?’ It was a moment before she realised it had gone to voicemail. The bozo had turned it off. She slammed it down on the table and swore again under her breath.

Upstairs, in the back bedroom, a frosty rime was slowly spreading across the floor.

‘If I’d known helping you with research was going to be as much fun as this, I would have cleared my schedule the moment I met you!’

It was a sunny morning and Finlay had volunteered to drive Ruth over the Queensferry Bridge across the Forth and on to St Andrews to have lunch, naturally, and to look for Lady Buchan’s Cave.

They were standing at the top of the cliff, looking down at the rocks below, between the cathedral and the castle, the stark stone of the ruins warmed by a sun already low in the west. This was a dramatic coastline, scarred by history and the unrelenting onslaught of the sea, the rocky ribs and sandy coves washed constantly by the force of the waves. They had toured the cathedral and castle and been met with puzzled shakes of the head when they asked about the cave. No one had heard of it. Then at last they had been directed to a local historian. ‘I’m afraid the sea took it,’ he said mournfully. No one had ever asked him this question before, he said, and he obviously felt he had failed them by having to tell them it had gone. The cave had succumbed to the constant erosion of the cliffs sometime in the nineteenth century.

‘But it must have been down there somewhere,’ Ruth said sadly, ‘and on those beaches below it, Thomas played with the drowned boy.’

Finlay shuddered. ‘I’m not sure I’m so keen on that idea. Or chasing up your ghost monks at Inchmahome. Can we leave those as read? What about a quick trip to the Caribbean instead?’ and his booming laugh echoed off the walls of the castle tower.

By the time the Tartar sighted Barbados on 13 May, Tom had settled into the routine of shipboard life as if he had been aboard one of His Majesty’s ships for years. He was a good pupil and full of energy. He learned fast and made friends easily amongst the men and the officers; the gunner’s wife who was charged with overseeing the welfare of the boys on the ship kept a quiet eye on him, as always trying to avoid favourites and knowing that any signs of preference for one boy over another would lead to jealousies and petty cruelties out of sight down on the orlop deck. One boy had already been badly hurt when the fixings of his hammock had been loosened and he had fallen awkwardly onto the boards beneath.

Jamie and Tom had whispered together that night; they knew who had done it and why. At eight years old, Robbie was the youngest and smallest boy aboard the ship. He still cried at the end of his watches, thinking his tears were inaudible, and when the gunner’s wife went to comfort him he clung to her and begged to get off the ship, seemingly unable to comprehend that they were at sea, far from any port. She did her best to reassure him whilst drying his tears and robustly trying to instil what she called backbone. It was of little help. The boy was fading before their eyes, his misery compounded by the vicious bullying of the lad who hung his hammock beside him.

‘No, Tom, don’t get involved!’ Jamie caught his arm and pulled him away as Tom clenched his fists that evening, watching as the little boy’s mess tin was grabbed and ostentatiously emptied onto his neighbour’s already over-full portion.

‘Finished so soon, youngster?’ the cocky voice crowed as Robbie stared down, bewildered, into his empty bowl.

‘Give it back!’ Tom shouted across the table. He was unaware of the sudden authority in his voice. Jamie cowed back out of sight beside him. ‘You great bully! What has this poor lad ever done to you?’

‘He annoys me, that’s what!’ Andrew Farquhar stood up, ducking his head away from the lantern swinging from the low beam above their heads. ‘With his snivelling and his whining. So?’ The face, now turned in Tom’s direction, was set with dislike. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

Tom flinched back, but he forced himself to stand up. He was a good head shorter than his opponent. ‘I’m not going to do anything. You are going to give him back his food,’ he said as firmly as he could. He narrowed his eyes as he saw Andrew grab his tin and, anticipating the next move, shouted, ‘And you are not going to throw it on the floor. You are going to put it back on his plate.’

‘Oh, his plate!’ Farquhar’s voice had risen into a singsong mockery of Tom’s Scots accent. ‘We ordinary folk, we eat out of tins. But your lordship has a plate. Where is it then? In your box, is it? All painted with gold and silver, is it?’ He launched a kick at Tom’s sea chest. Jamie had been sitting on it beside Tom and as he ducked sideways to avoid the vicious attack he slipped awkwardly to the floor.

‘I am not a lord,’ Tom said through gritted teeth. In spite of his blind fury he was surprised to feel himself becoming calmer as his opponent blustered more and more loudly. ‘I am a fair man who hates to see a great blooter like you bully someone small and helpless, and I’m sure our friends feel the same.’ He did not dare look at the others round the crowded mess table. The silence after the chatter and laughter was intense.

‘I’m sure they do not,’ Andrew said, so softly his voice was all but inaudible above the creak of the timbers round them.

Tom became aware that Jamie was scrambling to his feet beside him. He reached over for Jamie’s shoulder and pushed him, trying to stop him standing up, but Jamie shrugged him off. ‘They do,’ he announced staunchly.