Page 46 of A Secret at the Cottage by the Loch

He still doesn’t want a baby, she thought, desperately wanting the peace and closure Ben had wished for her as they’d watched the starling murmuration a couple of days ago.And he hasn’t changed. He still wants you to be something you’re not.

But, the pull towards the comfort of Paul’s arms was still there. Liz couldn’t deny that it had still felt good when he’d taken her into his bear-like clasp.

Maybe it could be different. Maybe I should consider it,she thought, craving being held by someone again. But was she craving Paul’s safe arms, or anyone’s? She didn’t know.

Liz cleared her throat. She couldn’t think about Paul now, and Ben was watching her expectantly.

‘Four local women buried at Loch Cameron chapel. Here are their gravestones.’ Liz pressed the clicker in her hand, and photos of the four stones appeared on the screen. ‘As you can see, we can’t really tell much about these women just from their stones. Apart from the fact that the village, as it was then, thought OLD MAID was a just and fitting epitaph.’

She gave the room a smile, and was relieved to see smiles in return.

‘So, I went up to the castle and did some research. I thought that there were probably some really interesting life stories behind these names, and I was right. Here’s what I found out about the women.’ She clicked onto a new slide.

‘Muriel Peabody. Muriel was the schoolteacher at Loch Cameron School from 1794, when she was eighteen, to 1833, when she retired from ill health. She died in 1834. That means that she taught at the local school for 39 years.’ Liz flicked to a black and white image she had found of Muriel in Hal Cameron’s archive. ‘This is Muriel. She never married or had children, but she taught generations of local children in this village. I actually found a record that she wrote into the Parish records, also up at the castle. This is it.’

Liz flicked to another slide, showing faded copperplate handwriting and dated 1822.

‘This is Muriel writing about the children in 1822. She records which children were given a prize for their exemplary school work throughout the year: a certain Jock McKenzie and Mary Spencer received a jar of jam each. And she’s also written the names of all the children in her class that year. There were twelve of them.’ Liz pointed to the list of names.

‘I researched the school system in Scotland at that time. It was before there was national free education for all, but many small communities like this one would have something called a “Dame School” which was what Muriel ran. It was called a “Dame” school as it was usually run by a local woman, or “school dame” who the locals paid a small fee to educate their children. I don’t know what Muriel taught the children, but it would probably have been sewing and knitting with some maths and reading.’

‘I had no idea.’ Ben was leaning forward on his elbows. ‘Fascinating.’

‘I think so.’ Liz smiled at him, grateful for his enthusiasm. ‘Okay. Elspeth Anderson.’ She moved to the next slide. ‘Elspeth, like all four of these women, was recorded as an “old maid”. But I found out that she too had a much more interesting life.’ She flicked to the next slide.

‘Elspeth was a midwife. In fact, she may have been the only midwife for the village, and indeed many villages around here. We know that she was, because she signed various birth certificates Hal has on his records, and her occupation is listed in the Parish record of 1860. I couldn’t find a picture of her, sadly.’

‘Another skilled job,’ Ben mused.

‘Difficult job in those days, I bet,’ Simon agreed. ‘When were painkillers invented?’

‘Ether was used in surgery from about the mid-1800s.’ Liz was prepared for the question, having looked it up herself out of curiosity. ‘But I have no idea if Elspeth would have used it in childbirth. More likely, she would have used the old methods learnt from a local wise woman or herbalist. It would be fascinating to know.’

There was general nodding and murmurs of assent from around the table. Liz was enjoying giving the presentation. She loved thinking on her feet, being the focus of the discussion and making everyone smile. She felt her old spark again: this was who she was, and she loved it. This was what she wanted, not to be stuck in a house somewhere, baking cakes for Paul.

‘My dad always told me that women were the best distillers. All that old knowledge was handed down, mother to daughter,’ Simon said. ‘That’s that old wise woman knowledge, too.’

‘Yes. Ben told me all about that too. That’s kind of where I’m going with this.’ Liz grinned, glad that Simon seemed to get what she was thinking. She hoped the rest of them would, too.

‘Felicity Black.’ Liz moved to a new slide which showed a picture of a young woman sitting at a weaving loom. ‘This isn’t her, I’m afraid, but it’s a picture of another female weaver taken at approximately the same time. Felicity worked as a weaver. Now, there isn’t much detail about where she worked or what she made, but textiles were important in Scotland in the nineteenth and early twentieth century. Felicity was born in 1880, so a bit later than Muriel. She was hard to find in the records at all, but, again, she was a skilled worker. She might have made all sorts of fabrics. The Industrial Revolution was happening around then, so she may have worked by hand at more traditional methods, or used a mechanised loom. We don’t know.’

‘And what about the fourth one?’ Carol, the receptionist took a shortbread biscuit from a packet and offered it around the table. ‘I have tae say, this is all very interestin’ but I’m wonderin’ what it has tae do with whisky.’

‘Evelyn McCallister. Yes, I’m getting to that.’ Liz gave Carol a purposefully twinkly smile. ‘Evelyn is probably the one I’m most excited about. Because Evelyn, as well as being an old maid, was also for a brief time a Master Distiller, right here at Loch Cameron Distillery.’

This was Liz’s big moment, and she let the information settle with her audience for a few moments before starting to explain.

‘A woman Master Distiller?’ Ben asked. ‘That’s unusual; I’m not sure I’ve heard of that before. Not in those days, anyway.’

‘Well, Simon almost beat me to it just then, by reminding us that, traditionally, distilling was regarded as women’s secret wisdom. But, yes. Evelyn McCallister was trained as a distiller here in the village in the early 1900s. This is actually something I found out by looking in the records up at the castle, but also in those records in my office, Ben,’ Liz noted. ‘She was the daughter of the Master Distiller at that time, Tommy McCallister. You might remember that name.’

‘Agh. Maybe. My dad was the one with the encyclopaedic memory.’ Ben screwed up his face, trying to think.

‘Well, Tommy was the Distiller from the late 1890s until the start of World War One, which is when he joined up in the Black Watch,’ Liz said, showing a picture of a fit-looking man in a kilt and smart uniform on the screen. ‘You know, in World War One, the Germans called the kilt-wearing Scottish soldiers theLadies from Hell.’

There was a rumble of laughter from around the table.

‘Aye, an’ I bet the Germanswereterrified,’ Carol said, proudly. ‘Nae more of a man than the one that goes intae war in a kilt. I wouldnae want tae face them on the battlefield either.’

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