The Good Sister, page 1
The Good Sister
Maggie Christensen
Copyright © 2017 Maggie Christensen
Published by Cala Publishing 2017
Sunshine Coast, Qld, Australia
This publication is written in British English. Spellings and grammatical conventions are conversant with the UK.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover and interior design: J D Smith Design
Editing: John Hudspith Editing Services
Dedication
To a special aunt who was the inspiration for this story
Also by Maggie Christensen
Oregon Coast Series
The Sand Dollar
The Dreamcatcher
Madeline House
Champagne for Breakfast
Sydney books
Band of Gold
Broken Threads
Check out the last page of this book to see how to get a free download of one of my books.
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
From the Author
Preview of Isobel’s Promise
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Maggie Christensen
Prologue
Isobel – 2015
I was always the good sister.
I lean back in my favourite armchair and sigh looking at the words I’ve written. It may not matter anymore, but I want to get everything down, just as it happened. Maybe knowing what I do now, I’d have behaved differently – maybe not.
If Doctor Ramage is right, I don’t have much time left, but maybe long enough to make things right. Not for me, but for my namesake Isobel – Bel as she calls herself these days – my sister Nan’s daughter; the daughter I might have had if…
My name was never shortened. Father wouldn’t permit it. He regarded it as common. But this Isobel is of a different generation and she likes the shortened version.
I twist the garnet ring on my finger, the tears trickling down my cheeks. It’s all I have left, all except the memories.
It began seventy-five years ago when I was only twenty. It would take another forty for me to discover the truth.
‘Are you Isobel MacDonald?’
In the hours when sleep won’t come, I can still hear that shrill voice echoing through my head. It was so long ago I should have forgotten it, relegated it to the past where it belongs. But now that I know my days on this earth are numbered, I need to tell someone my story. My only remaining relative is young Isobel who had the sense to leave this godforsaken land for fresher pastures. Maybe she’ll understand why I behaved as I did and allow me to die in peace, to believe what I did was right – that I was the good sister.
One
Bel – 2015
Bel climbed out of the black taxi and stood looking up at her childhood home while the driver unloaded her case. The house hadn’t changed much. It was still an imposing structure guarded by black railings, its oriel windows gazing down on the River Kelvin with what had always seemed to her a jaundiced expression. The grey stone facade she remembered had gone, replaced by a patina of soft pink sandstone. Bel supposed it had always been there, underneath, hidden by years of smoke and dirt.
She’d read about the transformation of Glasgow, but now it was right in front of her eyes and she was astounded at the metamorphosis. Bel hadn’t been home since her mother’s death more than thirty years earlier. She had to expect to see changes.
‘Your case?’
Bel turned in surprise. She’d been so absorbed by the old house that she’d forgotten the taxi driver.
‘Thanks.’ She fumbled in her bag for the fare, paid the driver, then picked up the case and mounted the steps. They didn’t seem nearly as steep as she remembered.
The faded lettering on the enamel centrepiece of the bellpush brought back memories, its surrounding brass plate showing signs of wear but still as bright as ever. Bel remembered polishing it till she could – to use her granny’s words – see her face in it. She followed the now faint instruction to press. A bell chimed in the distance.
A gust of wind rustled some leaves in the gutter. Bel shivered. She’d all but forgotten how cold it could be in Scotland, even in summer. From the other side of the door came the sound of footsteps and the tap-tap of a cane. The door opened to reveal the tall figure of Bel’s aunt. A loud Scottish voice greeted her.
‘Hello, hello. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Come away in. You’ll be needing a cup of tea.’
Bel dropped her case and stepped into an enveloping hug. She inhaled the remembered violet fragrance of the Evening in Paris cologne that had always been her aunt’s favourite. ‘It’s good to be here at last,’ she said, returning the hug. Then she held the older woman at arm’s length and studied her. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’
But, as she’d expected, there was a frailty about the old woman that hadn’t been there on Bel’s last visit all those years ago.
‘Och, away.’
The familiar Scottish expression took Bel back to her childhood. Almost as tall as Bel, Isobel still held herself erect, albeit with the aid of a walking stick. Her now completely white hair was fashioned exactly as Bel remembered, the long plait coiled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes had lost the piercing blue, which, when Bel was a child, seemed to see everything. Now they were rheumy and partially hidden behind a pair of half-moon glasses, and the skin on the cheek which had touched Bel’s was papery thin.
‘In here.’ The older woman led the way through a door on the left of the wide hallway. As she followed her aunt, Bel glanced up at the imposing staircase she’d slid down as a young child, and descended more elegantly in her teens and early twenties, before she’d made the decision to emigrate.
‘Oh, it’s just as I remember it!’ Bel looked around the large room. The wide oriel window was flanked by two floral-covered armchairs between which sat a low table piled with books and papers. So, her aunt was still an avid reader. Opposite the door, partially hidden by a sofa covered with a multitude of cushions, the old fireplace had been boarded up to house a gas fire with artificial coals, while on the other side of the room sat the old sideboard. The place still smelt the same too – an odd mixture of furniture polish and an elusive aroma Bel couldn’t quite identify, one unique to her childhood home.
‘You still have it!’ Bel walked over to run her hand across the well-worn surface of the sideboard. ‘I remember this so well.’
‘That old chiffonier is part of the family,’ Isobel said fondly. ‘But I don’t know what’ll happen to it when I’ve gone. No-one wants good furniture these days. It’s all that Ikea stuff. And there’s no family but you, and you’re on the other side of the world.’ She laughed hoarsely, the laugh turning into a cough and she leant heavily on her cane as she tried to regain her breath.
‘Are you all right? You’d better sit down.’ Bel led her aunt to one of the armchairs and settled her into it, covering the old lady’s knees with a tartan travelling rug which had been hanging over its back. ‘I should’ve thought.’
In her excitement at seeing her aunt and the changes to the old house, Bel had almost forgotten the reason for her visit. Aunt Isobel had written detailing her illness and asking Bel to visit “before it was too late”. She wanted Bel to help her “sort things out” before the inevitable.
‘I’ll be fine in a wee minute,’ her aunt said, breathing heavily. ‘It just gets me that way sometimes. I’m sorry you had to see me like that so soon after you got here. Some days are better than others, and I’ve been having a good day.’ She wheezed a little, then raised her head. ‘Maybe if you could fetch me a glass of water? Through there.’ She pointed to the door leading to the hallway. ‘The kitchen’s where it always was. I spend all my time down here. I can’t get up the stairs these days. But you’ll find your room up there. I had Betty make it up.’
‘Won’t be a tick.’
But Bel’s progress was interrupted by a wheezy instruction, ‘And if you could just put the kettle on while you’re there.’
Bel smiled. Aunt Isobel had always been a little formidable, even though she’d tried so hard to be friends with Bel and her mates. She hadn’t changed.
Opening the door, Bel found herself in a familiar corridor leading to the old kitchen. She filled both a glass and the kettle wondering what had happened to the rest of the house and where her aunt slept. It was a big house for one person.
*
By the time Bel returned, her Aunt Isobel had regained some colour and was sitting upright in the chair clutching the rug. She allowed her niece to help her guide the glass to her lips, then pushed it away. ‘It’s my lungs,’ she gasped. ‘They’re going to be the death of me,’ she chortled, reminding Bel of an old friend and client back in Australia.
Heather suffered from emphysema and sounded exactly like Aunt Isobel, including the same sense of humour. ‘Too many cigarettes,’ the older woman continued. ‘No one told us they could cause this. But I’ve had a good innings, not like some. They’re all gone now.’
Bel followed her aunt’s eyes to the sideboard, the top of which was covered with family photos: her mother, aunt and grandparents – all now dead.
‘Don’t know how I managed to outlive them all, especially our Nan,’ she said, referring to Bel’s mother. ‘They say the good die young, so what does that say about me?’ she chuckled and coughed violently into a handkerchief.
Bel couldn’t be sure, but thought she saw a trace of blood on the white cotton. Before she could comment her aunt spoke again.
‘Is that tea ready? I could fair be doing with a cup. One sugar and plenty of milk. And you’ll find some ginger snaps in the tin by the stove. I remember you used to like them.’ Her voice was coming clearer now, so Bel felt more confident to leave her while she made the tea.
She smiled as she poured the tea and set out the biscuits on a flower-rimmed plate. The last time she’d eaten a ginger snap had been right here in this house. As a child, she’d cracked them with her elbow to see if they’d break into three pieces so she could make a wish. Bel hadn’t thought of them for years. She was touched her aunt remembered.
‘Now, how are you really?’ Bel asked, when their cups were empty and she’d eaten several of the biscuits to please Isobel. Her aunt had refused to have any herself saying they were too hard for her false teeth to manage.
‘So-so. I’ve defied all the doctors and specialists so far, but I know I can’t do it for much longer. I don’t expect to make a hundred. The Queen can save her stamp,’ she laughed, then her voice took on a more serious tone. ‘I don’t think I’ll see the year out. That’s why I wanted you to come. There are some things I want to set straight before I go, and there’s someone I want you to meet. I need to make sure everything’s done the way I want it. I…’ She began to cough again, but waved away an offer of more water.
Bel half-rose, unsure how she could help. How on earth had her aunt been managing to live on her own – to take care of herself?
‘There’s a bottle of whisky over there in the sideboard,’ the hoarse voice instructed. ‘I’ll have a wee tot and you may care for one yourself.’
Bel hurried across the room and opened the door of the sideboard to discover the bottle of a good malt whisky hidden behind some boxes. It had always been tucked away like this – kept for medicinal purposes only. Some things never changed, except she guessed the “medicinal requirements” were called on more often these days. There were some glasses there too, crystal. Most likely Edinburgh Crystal, Bel thought, recalling how, as a young woman growing up in Glasgow, she’d had it instilled in her that crystal was one of the few good things to come out of Edinburgh. As a child, she’d mentally added Edinburgh Rock to the list too, loving its soft crumbly texture and the way the pink and yellow sticks melted on her tongue.
She poured her aunt a generous measure, hesitated before pouring another smaller one for herself, then joined Isobel by the window. It was close to six o’clock and still bright outside. Bel had always loved the long light summer evenings in Scotland; something she missed in Sydney where the sun set much earlier all year round, even during daylight saving.
‘There’s a steak pie in the fridge. It only needs heating up. And some potatoes and peas… I’d planned…’ Isobel’s voice died away and she took a sip of her drink. ‘Ah, that’s better. Nothing like a wee dram to perk me up.’
‘I can manage dinner,’ Bel said.
Steak pie – always the standby for special occasions in the family. She guessed her arrival counted as that. Since her mother had died, there was only Aunt Isobel left here in Scotland and Bel herself on the other side of the world.
At one time, this house was teeming with life – her mother, two aunts, grandparents and a couple of great aunts who’d lost their fiancés in the First World War. Now it seemed like a ghost house.
‘Not just yet.’ Isobel’s claw-like hand grasped Bel’s. ‘First I want you to tell me about your life down there in Australia. Letters don’t say everything. I want to picture it.’ She closed her eyes while Bel sipped her own drink and began to speak.
‘I live in Sydney. In a place called Cremorne. My house is quite different to this one, smaller, red brick with a veranda all around and separated from the road by a white fence. It’s within walking distance of Sydney Harbour. As you know, I have a dress shop just like you and Mum had – I call it a boutique.’
She saw the old woman smile and continued, ‘It’s in a classy suburb called Mosman not far from where I live. I’ve been lucky that a friend called Jan is minding it for me while I’m here. She’s had a rough time, lost her elder son, but is managing to get through it.’ Bel paused remembering how Jan had arrived in her shop to apply for a temporary position. Now the two were firm friends and she had no qualms in leaving Jan in charge for however long she needed to stay in Scotland.
‘It’s a world away from all this,’ she continued. ‘The weather for a start. We get a lot of sunny days and it can be very hot in summer – and humid, which can be pretty awful, so most homes have air-conditioning and sometimes fans too. I don’t think I could survive the summer without them. We also have big storms, often after a really hot day. Then there are the beaches. Not like those here, or even in Europe. We have long stretches of golden sand and big waves. Lots of surfing and we have to watch out for sharks.’
‘And your little dog?’
‘Toby’s still there, and Jan’s looking after him too. Her younger son, Andy, loves him and begged to be allowed to be in charge of him. So, everything there’s being taken care of and I can stay for as long as you need me.’
At those words, Bel felt her aunt’s grasp loosen.
‘You’ll miss him and your home.’
‘I guess so, but there’s so much here that’s different, very different from what I remember. And I’ll be too busy spending time with you, so I won’t miss it too much.’
‘Mmm.’ Isobel’s voice was fainter. The older woman had dozed off. Bel gently removed the glass which was dangling from her aunt’s hand, stood up and stretched. She was tired after the long flight, but was determined to stay awake until a decent hour. That way, she’d be sure of a good night’s sleep and would hopefully wake up refreshed.
Now that her aunt was asleep, Bel decided to investigate her room. Climbing the stairs, she pushed open the door to what was now clearly the spare bedroom, all set up for her with a single bed, a heavy old wardrobe and chest of drawers. It smelt musty from lack of use, though intermingling was a hint of lavender. Someone, no doubt the mysterious Betty, had placed a vase holding a sprig of lavender on the bedside table. Bel smiled.
She began to unpack, hanging the few items she’d brought with her in the old mahogany wardrobe, storing the smaller items away in the tall chest of drawers and laying her Kindle and iPad on the bedside table. Closing the wardrobe door before she left the room, Bel caught sight of herself in the fly-spotted mirror. Not too bad after such a long flight. She examined her tall figure so like her aunt’s but topped with the smooth helmet of silver hair, instead of the coiled white plait. A closer inspection showed her the havoc the trip had wrought. Her eyes, usually a clear blue like her aunt’s, were red from tiredness and the skin on her cheeks appeared dehydrated. She grimaced. Nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.
When she made her way back to the kitchen Bel found the steak pie on the middle shelf of the fridge. This one was shop-bought, judging by the wrapping. It was unlike those she remembered from her childhood, served in an enamel ashet provided by her grandmother and filled by the local butcher. Bel also managed to unearth potatoes and a tin of peas. She turned on the oven and peeled the potatoes, reflecting how little had really changed in all these years.
