Archive of Our Own

14th December 1882.     

My mother died.     

She’d been laid to rest in-between my late father and her old friend, "Wee Morag” as per her final wishes and I truly hoped she was finally having words with that God she’d always kept going on about.    

My mother - Mrs. Elspeth McConnell, fee McKinnon - has passed away peacefully in her sleep at the age of 72 and I've been brought back to this festering city for her funeral.  In truth, some small part of me missed Edinburgh.   A very small part you must understand.  I moved away to Lancashire 32 years ago to escape the stench and disease of 'Old Town' and to raise my family in relative comfort and safety.  But I would always try to return to visit "Ma and Da" whenever I could.    

Sadly, my Da passed away six years ago and then Ma refused point blank to sell up and move down South to stay with us.  But I'd still try my best to visit her.  Only, after my son was born, it got harder for me to find the time or the energy to travel.  So, over the last few years the visits had grown scarce and far between.  So now it was almost two years since I’d last stepped foot around here.  And even during the church service, I felt this old building that I’d once called home calling out to me to return.  

We decided to have the wake in the pub to try and save some money, not that we needed to.  But I felt it only right to let the locals come and pay their respects to Ma, who they all called "the best barmaid in town".  

As the clock struck two, I left my shy laddie with his father saying that I’d be back soon.  I meant to just use the lavatory, but I suddenly felt my feet moving, as though guided, along the hallway and up the small and creaking winding stairs.  Up into what was once my parents' old bedroom.  I opened the door just a crack to peek inside and smiled as I saw the old familiar corded blanket still turned down ready for bed.  And I sniffed deeply to smell the old familiar scent of lavender, mothballs, and dust.   

It was comforting somehow, that it still smelled like my childhood home.    

I wandered over to the bed and moved my hand lightly along the bedside table.  Its paint chipped from use over time.  My mother kept her old bible sitting atop it, bookmarked on a passage about forgiveness and love.  It pained me a little to see that book, given our old arguments when I was younger about her dedication to God.  But, as I sat on the bed, I suddenly noticed that hidden underneath her bible there sat a small faded, leather-bound notebook that I was positive I’d never seen before. And though I was now a grown-up lady of fifty two years old, I still felt like a naughty child about to be caught and scolded when I gently slid the book over and discovered it to be my mother's journal.     

It seemed rather old, almost as old as me, I was sure.  I flicked through, my eyes scoring quickly over the pages that had writing on them, and I thought to myself I'd earned a little break.  So, I leaned back and, lighting the lamp by her bed, I settled myself up against my mother’s pillows.  And as I did, a sudden wave of her perfume enveloped my nose, making me feel closer to her.  Then I opened the book to the very first page, dated over 50 years ago and began to read...    

 *************************** 

14th January 1830.  

Dear Diary,    

Well, hello there!      

It feels strange having a diary of my very own but, to be honest, for a very long time - I couldn't even write in one!  And for the last few years, I've been too busy to attempt to try.  

First, I was getting an education at the local girl’s school.  I managed to learn to read and write properly as well as do my sums and I’ve also been helping to run a business!  Then sadly losing someone very dear to us all put everyone in a slump.  But afterwards I got married and started a family...  So, journal-keeping wasn't high on my list of things to do!      

Today though I got some strange news that made me decide to finally look back on the night that I met God!  And possibly one of his angels too!  And how they both saved my life.  And I thought it was high time to write down exactly what happened that night and explain what then happened afterwards.  Like a confession if you will, but somewhere very private where no one else can ever read it!  I couldn’t even confess this to His Holiness the Archbishop of Edinburgh himself!  I haven't even told my husband what happened that night and I’ve talked that man’s ear off since the night we met!   

But after we lost his Ma the tragic way we did, I just couldn’t bear to bring myself to tell him the whole truth, and I was so worried that he’d hate me forever if I did.  I still am!  Even though we’re married and I had a bairn four weeks ago!     

So instead, I’m writing it all down here and then I’m going to hide this diary away from him forever!  It’s that long a story though...  And I’ve such few chances to take breaks to write, that maybe it’ll have to be done a little bit at a time.  So, I will definitely need a hiding spot he won't know...  Maybe under the loose floorboard in the attic?  

Anyway!  Let’s begin at the beginning?    

It all started back in November of 1827.  Just over three years ago now.  I was starving and my friend Wee Morag was very sick for a while.  So, I decided to go dig up a fresh body in the local graveyard late at night when it would all be quiet and take it to some supposed surgeon named Dalrymple that I’d heard was in Newington, which is one of the posher ends of Edinburgh.  The rumor was he was after bodies for his studies and willing to pay money if you brought them to him fresh.     

It was in that very graveyard that I first met God, and his angel.  Though, I'm still not sure if he really was an angel to be honest!  Even now, some years later!  For one thing, he was English!  He also CLEARLY lied and said that his name was “Mr. McFell”...  And THEN he kept going on about poverty being a good thing!  Only, something about the way he was dressed made me think, "Aye, like you'd have a clue about poverty English!"     

Then the cheeky bugger only went and called me wicked and said that I’d “more opportunities” than most because I was poor!  I remember thinking to myself, “What a bit of a bastard!”  Overall, not very angelic behavior if you ask me!  But the one I’m sure was God kept calling him 'Angel'...  So, who knows?    

God Himself, for some odd reason, was completely dressed in black, and He seemed very nice to me right from the off.  Absolutely bloody bonkers!   But it turns out that God's Scottish!  So, He can’t be all bad, can He?  He certainly seemed the nicer one of the two anyway, as He offered to help me out with digging right away.  That mean sod in the beige though...  He kept having a go at me and trying to make me feel bad about what I was doing!  But I was just too hungry to care!     

However, by the time I got that body to the surgeon, it somehow – miraculously - turned into a barrel full of man soup!  This is in November mind you! It was bloody freezing cold that night!  I don’t know how, but I know somehow that that bloody McFell had something to do with it.  I can still remember the smell of it!  Ach, it was awful!  Still makes me feel sick to even think about it now!  

But, when both God and his angel returned the next night offering to make amends and help me find another body, I’d no choice but to accept...  I didn't know it was Him for one thing.  And we were starving to death for another!  I knew we’d likely need their help.  Except this time, I’d already begged Wee Morag to help me out because I didn’t know those two would be offering their services.  Then Wee Morag got scared at the sudden sight of a dead body and fell back and tripped off one of the grave robber traps.  

She got shot and was hurt badly.  And she died soon afterwards in a crypt that we'd all hidden in from the watch.  And she died...  Because of ME!    

I still miss her deeply every single day now...  She’d been my only ever female friend.  Apart from Mrs. McConnell before she died too...  

I’m usually surrounded by men in here nowadays.  Cept for those kinds of lasses that sell a pound of flesh down in the bar.  But in VERY different ways than I did!  I don't count them as company.  I don’t want anything to do with that lot!  But I must confess, it would be quite nice to have a female friend again.  We could cook in the kitchen together.  Like Mrs. McConnell and I did when she’d try to teach me how a few times.  Maybe... When my own daughter is older 'ey?  If I can find the time?  

Even at the girl’s school, I never really made friends with anyone.  They'd all look down on me for “talking common” and ignored me anyways.  But I didn’t give two figs!  Far as I was concerned, God ordered me into doing better with my life, and I was going to do just that!  I only stayed there for about two years, but I learned more than enough to get by.   

I'd said to that Mr. McFell angel/bloke...  On the first night we met...  That I couldn’t read very well.  So, if I ever bump into him again one day, I hope that I get to tell him sometime how much I love to read now!  Oh imagine!  Just to see his face!  And even though having a bookshop did sound nice; I have another business to run now anyway which makes me very happy indeed.    

Anyroad, where was I?    

Oh yes!  So, after Wee Morag died sadly, I told those two fellas to help me get her body onto my cart so I could sell her to Dalrymple.  

Well, what else was I meant to do?!   Leave her to rot in some stranger's crypt?  Course not!  But that cheap swine Dalrymple only gave me 5 pounds for her body!  Five quid!  Oh, that made me so angry!  Was that all she was worth to him?  Five measly pounds?!  But then I thought to myself how that money would be enough for some food...  But I realized that food likely wouldn't last me a week.  And after that week I'd be right back where I already was.  Cold, hungry and homeless.  And Wee Morag would still be dead.   

So, what was the point?  To keep stealing corpses until I’m eventually caught and turned into one myself?  Or get shot by a booby trap like Wee Morag?  Except, I’d likely be left to die alone.  Or just end up starving to death like nearly everybody else in this city instead?  No.  Bugger that!   

Instead, I decided to sweep Dalrymple’s laudanum from off his shelf, and I headed back to the cemetery, planning a much easier and cheaper end to it all.  I knew the two strange men were stopping over at the White Hart.  Never been in there myself.  A rough crowd but the food and wine were said to be legendary.  And I got word to them to come and join me for a drink;  “At 8pm at the place Morag fell".   

They got there quickly enough, and I told them both that I planned to poison myself and die to go join Wee Morag.  And I wanted them to sort me out a proper funeral with the money I'd left.  Only then God, whose angel friend kept calling Him "Crow Lee", went and drank the bloody poison before I could stop Him!   And that was when I knew He couldn't possibly be human...  BECAUSE HE DID NOT DIE!  Instead, He started going crazier than He'd already been!  He kept on ranting to me and McFell and singing about a 'flower of Scotland'!  Whatever the heck that is!  A thistle perhaps, I don't know?  Whatever, it doesn’t matter, because what’s important is that God went and shrank super tiny!  Only to then sprout up into a huge giant before my very own eyes!  Burst right out of the stone roof of the crypt He did!  I swear it on my very bible!  

And that was a gift from the archbishop himself!  

And then...  This is when I KNEW He HAD to be God...  Because He told me that I’d been a sinner and that unless I promised to be "properly good" and not to go and kill myself, then my soul was to be damned forever!  I was beyond terrified!  Talk about putting the fear of God into someone!  Well, He did that to me quite literally!   I've never been so scared in all my bloody life!  And I DID promise to do better.  And I meant it too!  

God then commanded that his “angel” give me the 90 guineas that was in his wallet...  NINETY BLOODY GUINEAS!  And he’d been the one going on about how grand it was to be poor too!  That angelic bastard!  I grabbed it and ran as fast as my legs could take me, shoving the money into my jacket pocket as I fled.  God told me to buy a farm with it though!  Me?  A farm!   Could you imagine?!   What a joke!  Just turning up in rags, all covered in mud somewhere.  At some random cottage in the middle of nowhere begging some baffled farmer to let me buy his cows!?

Oh no!  I'd promised to be good...  Not a bloody milkmaid!     

What the Heavens did I know about farming anyway?!  I didn’t even know how to find my way out of Edinburgh for goodness' sake!  Ninety guineas wouldn’t even have got me much of a farm now that I think about it.    I mean it was a lot of money but not that much!  But I knew there was ONE “properly good” thing that I wanted to do with the money first.  And that was to buy Morag's body back from Dalrymple and give her a proper Christian burial like she deserved.  And maybe learn to read properly...  That sounded pretty good too.

I was sure that even God couldn’t argue against that?    

But when I got to his surgery, I soon realized I was too late!  Dalrymple, that evil MONSTER!  He stood there holding a bloody cleaver.  All covered in red like an image of the Devil he was.  He must've got to work as soon as I’d left him because I got back only to find he’d already cut up poor Wee Morag into several pieces!  I felt sick as a dog!  I was furious when I saw all of her organs were already put into separate bowls on display in a circle around her body.  It looked like some kind of demonic ritual more than the “science” he claimed it to be!  I was just SO angry!

All I could hear was God telling his angel, "It's different when it's someone you know, isn't it?"  And all I could think was how Morag had been terrified about being dissected meaning you would never rest in peace or get into Heaven.  How dare Dalrymple ruin poor Wee Morag's chances like this?  I might not have believed in Heaven like Morag did when she’d died, but after what I’d seen later that night in that graveyard...  I was sure I believed in God and his angels and Heaven now!  And that monster destroyed her chances of getting there!

And mine along with it!  

He recognized me as I stood there frozen.  Then he shouted at me for stealing his supplies.  He demanded that he wanted the whole five pounds that he’d given me back to buy more laudanum!  That did it!  I snapped!  I started shrieking like a banshee, turned tail and ran as fast as I could into the night!   I ran so hard I nearly winded myself, but I carried on and I ran straight for the nearest constable I could find.  Then I told them, still screaming with shock...  All about the resurrectionist doctor I’d discovered.   Just up the way.  And all about how he'd a fresh body on his table right at this moment!   

That bastard Dalrymple though!  

He must've known my intent.  Because, when we returned with more officers, he came flying out the side of the building on horseback!  And he rode hard off into the night with pages of research flying out from the satchels he’d strapped all around him.  I never saw him again after that.  

But, today, the constables came by and told me that they’d finally tracked Dalrymple down!  They'd found him swinging, long since dead.  Hanged by the neck in a locked room according to them.  He'd been swinging there for years they reckoned!  

I can’t begin to find the words about how I feel exactly, at this moment.  Mostly I believe it’s a heady mix of guilt and vindication.  I mean, the bastard deserved to be run out of town.  But I had never wanted him to die.  Certainly, not like that.  I just wanted him to see justice!  Sinners like him.  They should all go to court and if God’s courts then decide to send a sinner to Hell, well then so be it!  That's His Judgement, right?    

"Only through repenting and redemption," like Archbishop Ralph told me once, “can one find the road to true salvation...”   Surely, they should all be given that chance to redeem themselves?  I should be given a chance?  

After all, Dalrymple ripped me off.  Sure.  And he couldn’t just have waited a while to cut up poor Wee Morag. But he hadn't been the one who'd killed her!  And I was the one who’d sold her corpse to him in the first place.  And even though I didn't exactly kill her, like some wicked grave robbers did with their morbid wares before now, it'd still been my fault that Wee Morag died.  Not his.  

And now this?  Pushing a man on towards seeking his own death?  That’s not being 'properly good' at all, is it?   So now, it seems I’ve as good as led two people to their deaths and it feels like I’m the one in need of redemption.  Maybe I need another confession?  That might help.  I should speak to the archbishop next time he visits.  We don’t see much of him, of course.  He’s always off on "church business".  But he does like to check up on us whenever he gets the chance.

He always seems more than happy to talk to me if I never mention anything about meeting God or angels.  The topic makes him nervous, bless!  In fact, the last time I saw him he told me that I'd be interested to hear he was visiting Edinburgh to 'work a miracle or two' on some politicians that were against the new proposal for the Anatomy Act that we’d been fighting for.  Ever since Mrs. McConnell died so sadly.  So, no one need ever fear the body snatchers and resurrectionists again.  I don’t know what “miracles” he’d planned but he had a wicked smirk on his face when he mentioned them!

So, God help them politicians!  They'll need Him!  

I’ll have to go now.  The baby just started crying again and I only settled her a moment ago.  She’s such a wee banshee when she gets her pipes blasting!  Guess she takes after me!     

I’ll try to write more later when I can.    

Elspeth McConnell.    

 ***************************     

I stopped to catch the breath that I never realized I'd been holding.  But the sudden gasp of cool air was instantly refreshing.  This was beyond incredible to read!  I could scarcely believe it.  I felt goosebumps all over my body as I sat back against the pillows.  

My hard-working charitable Christian mother was once a BODY SNATCHER?!    

I thought back on all the times she'd preach to me about Heaven and Earth and God being real and yet here she was, claiming to have met him?  And he'd once drunk poison in front of her and survived?  Only to, like Gulliver on his travels, like Alice in her Wonderland, shrink to a miniscule size?  Only to grow suddenly to, what sounded like, gigantic proportions?!  Could this honestly be true?  I remembered my mother’s bible HAD been a gift from the archbishop himself.  So, she’d never swear on that thing for a lie!

Would she?  

But then God told my mother to go off and buy a farm!?  A FARM!?  My Ma?!  Did He not know her at all?  What an odd suggestion!  Even for a God!  The image of my Ma trying to milk a cow did make me chuckle, now I thought about it.  But she’d always been a city girl through and through.  Even I knew that!  She wouldn’t have lasted two weeks living in the countryside!  I should know because I live in the bloody countryside!  And it bores me half to death these days!  The only company around for miles seems twice my age and dull as dirty dishwater!  

But how was this tale connected to the grandmother that I’d sadly never met?  She died years before I was born but I couldn't recall anyone ever telling me how.  Yet, according to this diary, it was tragic and sad.  I didn’t have many memories of my grandfather either.  He’d died just before I turned 5 years old.  I did have a hazy memory of Ma yelling at Da once about how she'd wished she had “bought that bloody farm after all!”...  And suddenly a few more things began to make a little sense from my childhood.     

The Anatomy Bill of 1832!  That must have been what the archbishop spoke about?  

But I was still confused about this journal.  Why was it here now?  I was sure I’d never seen it before.  But then I remembered Da passed away almost six years ago.  And I'd long since moved away before that.  And I supposed that Ma must’ve felt more comfortable not hiding it away now that no one else ever came upstairs.  But this was better than anything by Emily Brontë!  Or even Jane Austen!  Just when you think you know someone!  I simply MUST continue reading!  

The next page looked to be written a few years later.  Which didn’t surprise me.  I always remembered Ma as being rushed off her feet.  So, I put my own feet up on the bed, almost swearing that I could hear a faint echo of Ma's voice telling me off for having my feet on it as a child and I continued to read...  

***************************      

14th December 1834  

Hello again you!    

I did mean to write sooner but I’ve just been so very busy!  Has it really been four years already?  I must've kept you hidden so safely away that I’d clean forgotten where I put you!  It’s been all go with the bairn growing and honestly, I wouldn’t have even found this diary again if I'd not been hunting for blankets in the attic due to her having a touch of fever.  Just what I needed with her birthday party starting in the next hour!

Luckily the archbishop has popped by with a wee dolly for her as a present. He kindly offered to mind her “whilst you put your feet up and rest up a while”, after being stuck on my own during the lunchtime rush!  Because Hamish went off to watch the bloody boxing again.  The useless effin swine!  

I realize now, reading back on my last entry, I never wrote a thing about meeting Hamish or anything about what happened after that evil surgeon left town.  So, I’d best start:  

After Dalrymple ran off from justice and I’d been stuck making a statement to the constables for over a flipping hour; I decided I needed a stiff drink after everything I’d been through.  I still had the 90 guineas that the supposed “Mr McFell” gave me hidden away in my pocket.  I'd been terrified that the police might find it on me and accuse me of stealing it or something but, thank Him, that never happened!  I left the station around 10 at night, and there was absolutely NO way I was going back for the wine I'd left in that crypt, so I decided to head for the nearest pub I could find that was still open.  I soon managed to find one that was not too crowded called “The Scott’s Arms”.   

There was a picture of a blond man holding a cane on the sign.  He reminded me a lot of that McFell, but that weirdly comforted me, and what’s more, it was open.  And there was an inviting little fire burning away in the fireplace.

The landlord behind the bar seemed wary about serving me at first.  Me being such a young lass all on her own.  But soon changed his mind when I handed him a few notes and demanded a bottle of his finest red!  That, it turned out, was Mr. S. McConnell. He kindly informed me I'd be best sitting by the fire to warm myself up, because he could tell I was half-frozen.

He didn't need to tell me twice!   

I was just starting to get some feeling back in my toes when I first saw young Hamish.  He'd been crouched down behind the bar restocking the glasses, so I'd not seen him as I'd ordered my drink.  But the first thing I noticed about him were his dark brown eyes.  Nearly as dark as the eyeglasses that seemed to be favored by God earlier.   Except, whereas God seemed to prefer His hair as red and as slick as blood, Hamish had a mop of untamable coal-black curls I desperately wanted to run my hands through!  

When he smiled at me; I almost melted straight into the fireplace. And I thought I'd burst completely into flames once he came over and sat down beside me!  He asked me if I was okay and why I was all covered in dirt, but I didn't dare tell him what exactly happened.  So, I told him I was simply a poor homeless girl who’d gone to pay her respects by a friend’s graveside.  A friend who’d (very) recently passed away...  Only when I got to her grave, I’d found it empty.  

And then I told him how I'd traced her body back to a butcher doctor who’d cut her body up into pieces. I cried real tears and told him about how I'd just finished speaking to the constables over the road and that the evil doctor skipped town on horseback.  So, I’d come here needing a strong drink for the shock.  I also told a little white lie when I mentioned that a constable gave me a bit of money to get some food and a bed for the night, but he’d surely understand why I needed the drink more.  It hadn't been that far from the truth.  He might have been a constable for all I’d known?

A constable angel!  Now that IS a peculiar thought!   

I didn’t specify exactly how much money “a bit of money” was.  Quite frankly, they didn’t need to know about that.  Bless dear Hamish, though!  He feared for me so much that he went right up to his Da there and then and told him all about how I’d discovered a resurrectionist surgeon and made him leave town!  It turned out that Mr. McConnell was a devout Catholic.  So, I was a great hero to him for religious reasons I didn’t fully understand then.  He and his wife, Mrs. McConnell, (who gave me the biggest hug I’d ever remembered having before) told me I’d be more than welcome to stay the night with them!  And that they were going to make me up the little cot bed up in the attic right away.   

They drew me a bath and Mrs. McConnell (who demanded I call her Ma immediately) got on with making me an actual three-course meal!  There was so much food I thought my stomach would burst!  She even gave me two real helpings of marmalade pudding and said absolutely nothing when seeing them made me cry.  But her cooking was what made this place so popular back in those days!  Even Wee Morag and I would hear about it living on the streets.    

I looked around the sweet little attic room they’d given me for the night, and I couldn’t help shedding more tears.  Everything that'd happened caught up with me and I grieved for Morag so much.  Mrs. McConnell popped her head up through the trapdoor to tell me my bath was ready and caught me weeping.  She stepped up the ladder to give me another huge hug and told me not to worry anymore.  Because I’d be as welcome to stay as long as I liked.  Forever if I wanted to!  She’d always wanted a daughter she confided to me in a whisper.  We sat hugging on the bed.  And as I let her hold me softly, I noticed one of the floorboards seemed looser than the others.  So, after Ma left to find me something to wear after my bath, I managed to pry it open, and I kept my money hidden under there the whole time I used that room.  

Mrs. McConnell...  Ma.  She was such a wonderfully sweet lady!  It breaks my heart to think of her being gone now.  I miss her so very much!  Especially now that I’m a mother myself.  She was so proud when I said I wanted to start school and learn to read and write.  She helped me loads with my studies...  At least, she did, until she died.  She was murdered you see, in 1828.  Only six happy months after taking me in!  Murdered and, in a twisted satirical way, her body was sold to another resurrectionist.  By that evil bastard William Burke.  She’d been out celebrating a friend’s birthday but got too drunk to find her way home.  According to the constable who’d been bringing her back safely, Burke told him he was a family friend and knew where she lived.  So, he’d be more than happy to help her get home safely.  That lying bastard!  

Mr. McConnell wanted to smack that constable after he told us that.  But Hamish managed to calm him down in the end.  They caught Burke and hung him that next year.  But he’d killed loads of poor folk by then.  Him and his evil mate, William Hare.  The resurrectionist who’d bought those bodies though, Robert Knox was his name. He made out he’d never known any of the poor souls he bought from them were murdered.  So, he got off Scot free!  We Scot locals ended up scaring the evil bastard rightly out of town afterwards though!  And Burke's body was sold over to science studies!  How’s that for ironic?  

I know the archbishop told me I should work more on forgiveness.  For my own soul and for others.  But sometimes, I can't help feeling that some people just don’t deserve forgiveness.  And surely, that cheeky Scottish God must agree, or there would be no need for a Hell, would there?  It was a real test of my faith though, let me tell you!  Me!  Someone that swears she's seen God Himself!  But the way Ma died cut me to my very core!  I felt such terrible bitter guilt.  I prayed so hard for her soul, I lost myself to the grief.  It was only when the archbishop paid a visit and gave me my own bible and told me he was sure that Ma’s soul was happy in Heaven, because she’d been a very good person all her life that I felt any sense of a miraculous lift of mood.  

The archbishop also mentioned something about "putting in a good word upstairs for her!”  Bless his soul!  And he was positive “Hell will likely have something special lined up for Burke!  Soon as he arrives!”  That was the same day Hamish told me he had feelings for me too.  

Ach, I need to go now!  

The baby just threw up her last feed and it’s gone all over poor Archbishop Ralph!  I’ve apologized already but His Holiness swears to me, “It’s quite alright - it seems to have miraculously lifted the poor child's fever!"  So, I suppose that’s something!  Sigh, this child is growing into a demonic wee beastie already!  Only kidding.  I love her more than God Himself!  (Or ‘Herself’ as the archbishop likes to joke!)  I’ll write again as soon as I'm able!    

Elspeth.   

***************************    

I felt warm salty tears reach my lips as I read the last few lines over again and again.  I didn’t even notice I'd been crying.  Simply because I'd heard myself chuckling when I'd imagined myself throwing up all over the archbishop as a baby!  

I'd never believed much in what the bible said before, but the more I read of this good book; the more I realized my mother must’ve had her faith thrust upon her all of a sudden!  And, somehow, I found myself praying for her soul in my mind.  She might've been a preaching battle-axe back in her day, but surely even stealing bodies wouldn’t be enough to send her to some sort of everlasting suffering, would it?  If such a place truly existed?  Surely, she must be forgiven if she'd only done it to find money for some food and to help her sick friend?

And as for this nonsense about causing death!  Well, that surgeon chose to leave town and hang himself, right?  Just as her friend chose to follow her into a graveyard and was accidentally shot.  But how long did my poor mother carry the guilt around for their deaths?  Was it all her life?!   

And Archbishop Ralph!  That was a name I'd not heard in a very long time!  He stopped visiting Scotland not long after retiring down South, according to what Ma once said.  A few years before she’d become Head of the Parish Council.  And I still remembered the dolly he gave me!  I kept her for years and called her Mary.  I tried very hard to recall the archbishop’s face but all I could picture was his bright white, curly hair.  But I only saw him once, very briefly, when I was old enough to remember him.

My mother took me out to buy a new dress that I'd begged her to buy for my birthday, and she'd gone to sit on a bench across from the boutique as I was trying it on.  The archbishop was also sitting on the bench.  I could vaguely remember watching him talk to Ma but didn’t hear what about.  I do clearly remember he looked sad though.  I also recalled the day he'd invited Ma to head the church in town.  It must have been when I was around five years old.  She’d been so very happy!  She'd gotten to help so many people after that.  Especially after the parish councils were formed.

I never had to worry about having no playmates growing up.  Not when we knew the names of nearly every little boy and girl in every poorhouse within a 3-mile radius!  Quite the stark comparison to my son, Harold, now.  Who seems to have none.    

I thought back on both cholera outbreaks in Edinburgh.  The first in 1832 when I was only around two.  The other, I did remember sadly, in 1848.  That was around the time I began to hate living in such a crowded and infested place and began mentioning to my new husband about moving to his manor in the countryside!  Ma never once refused to help anyone who came through the door!  No matter how sick they looked.  Da originally tried to kick off about it I was told.  In case they made me ill too.  But when everybody would leave miraculously looking and feeling better, Da soon stopped complaining.    

I sadly never got the chance to meet my “Granny McConnell”, as Ma liked to call her.  But I do recall being told lots of funny and colorful stories about her by the locals.  Like how there’d once been two men who'd wanted to arm wrestle on the bar, and she'd told them whoever could beat her in a match would win a free drink!  Only, neither of them could.  And they’d both ended up washing pots for her that night instead!  

She did sound like she'd been a fun lady.  Both of my parents would always tell me, back when I was growing up, how much I resembled her in looks.  And how much she'd have loved to have met me. I’d seen a small portraiture of her when I was younger.  But the only way I can recall her face now is to look in the mirror.   

Oh, but what a terribly sad way to die!  

Of course, I’d grown up hearing all about the Burke and Hare murders.  Everybody in Edinburgh had!  They talk about them to this day.  But I couldn't remember anyone ever telling me that my grandmother was one of their tragic victims!  I guess no one could bear to tell me what had happened.  I’m sure I must've asked out of childish curiosity at some point, but now I started to understand why the pub had its odd name and it told the history that it did.  So that no one could forget the horrid way its former landlady, my grandmother, met her untimely end.  

I looked down at the date of the next diary entry and realized there was a shorter gap in this than between the last two.  And it was written around the time just after my grandfather passed away.  So, I took a deep breath and continued to read...  

***************************    

14th December 1835.   

Hello again Diary,    

You’ll have to forgive me for another pause this time, but I knew when I started this diary that I’d be terrible at remembering to keep to it.  And I'm not really one for jotting daily events.  Because, you see, to be honest, most of my life has been rather busy and boring!  Meeting God aside, at least!   

But most days; I wake, I work, I mother and then I sleep!  That’s been most of my days lately.  And if I’m really lucky – I get to do it all in that order!  But today has been such a topsy-turvy day!  Because I’ve been ordered by both the archbishop and my husband to sit down and put my feet up!  And there was a sudden urge to write, especially odd since it made me recall EXACTLY where I’d hidden this journal, despite swearing I’d lost it months ago!  And there is this overwhelming desire to carry on with my tale!  So, let us continue?  

After losing Mrs. McConnell, (and her invaluable cooking) our customers started going elsewhere for drinks and meals.  So, the business hit a very rough patch.  If it hadn’t been for the secret money that I’d stashed away poor Mr. McConnell might have lost the place entirely.  I still wish I could have given him and Hamish the full 90 guineas at once.  But they’d never have taken it, and it would have raised too many questions.  Plus, Hamish and I just started courting and I didn’t want to make him upset about anything.  He was all over the place after losing Ma the way we did.  We all were.  

Instead, I managed to convince them I’d been sent money, by sending it to myself!  And, thanks to a “long lost uncle” dying and leaving me a small fortune, I demanded to use the funds to help the business out.  As a long overdue thank you for taking me in.  And as tribute to Ma.  

So, after finishing my learning at school, I began working more in the pub.  Cleaning first and doing the books for Mr. McConnell.  Moving up to serving the customers and pouring them drinks.  I learned a lot more, and a lot faster, being here, let me tell you!  Mr. McConnell allowed me to use some of the money to give the pub a much-needed renovation.  And I decided that, with the bar itself taking up so much room, it’d be easier if we sealed off the huge smoky fireplace, moved the chairs to the sides and have a tall mirrored wood paneling fitted there instead.  

We spruced up the bar with a few extra coats of varnish and put in brand-new matching taps. I decided to add some paintings scattered around the walls.  I figured, even though there were books and newspapers available; some folk couldn’t read.  So, we should at least give them something nice to look at!  I even managed to scrape the “PICKLED HERRING” writing off my old barrel and Mr. McConnell turned it into a table for folk who wanted to have drinks while standing.  It looked quite nice stood beside the panels.  

Obviously, I never told Mr. McConnell what'd been inside of it!  

I began helping out more at the local church in my free time.  To keep me on with the road of being "properly good!"  And I set up a group to aid families of the poor folk who’d been lost to the grave robbers.  So that their loved ones had somewhere to  mourn.  I helped organize a group of local volunteers for the poorer end of the graveyard.  Where no one could afford traps to stop their bodies being stolen.  So, they’d have less chance of being sold.  The Freemasons next door even helped us to set up a fund for the families of Burke’s & Hare’s victims.  And through the church, we managed to send a petition down to Parliament, to try and organize a bill where surgeons could still have access to the dead bodies of anyone who volunteered theirs before they died.  To help the medical field learn.  Which helped to stop the grave robbers digging up dead folk for quick cash.  

It was the same act that the archbishop mentioned years back.  I don’t know what miracles he performed, but the motion eventually passed!  So, it’s now official law.  Archbishop Ralph must be very good at his job!  I wonder if he could work a few miracles around here?  Sadly, dear diary, we lost Hamish’s father, Mr. McConnell, to a heart attack.  Just a few weeks ago.  And since then, Hamish's been taking to drinking himself stupid at night whenever he thinks that I'm sleeping!  Last night he shouted at me he believes we’ve been cursed.  And that he blames me cos I keep letting "so many sick folks through the door!”  

Angry as I was, I tried to remember first his Ma was killed and now he’d just lost his father too.  All within the 8 years since they'd taken me in.  He yelled that he’d thought he’d married a woman and not a nun!  I snapped back, “My mistake for thinking I’d married a man and not an alcoholic arsehole!”  Before I stormed off back to bed and cursed that I'd never bought that farm after all!  But, oh Diary!  It nearly broke my heart to hear him say such things.  I do love him so...  But a small part of me couldn’t help but agree with his words.  What if I am cursed?   

But, as I went to go tuck our sweet little girl into bed, I knew that surely nothing as beautiful as her could have come from something as supposedly cursed as me.  She's my whole reason to keep going and to keep being properly good!  If God Himself has given me this mission to make the world a better place for her to grow up in, then I’ll bloody well do it!  I want her to have a future in a world that will not only stand against any evil; but will fight to keep it away!

And just as I’d been thinking those very words to myself this morning, who should appear but the archbishop himself?!  I mean...  It’s not the first time he’s been here, of course, but I mean he just...  appeared!   I could've sworn I’d locked the doors between the pub and the flat?!  But maybe I was wrong...  Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes!  So, the archbishop arrived about an hour ago, very suddenly, and surprised us all by announcing he’d heard the news about old Mr. McConnell passing away.  Something about having “word from upstairs".  I guess he must be talking about the Cardinal?  Well anyway, he came to bring us his deepest condolences, and he'd also brought a birthday present for our little girl.

Then he asked me if I’d HEAD THE CHURCH!  Me!  A woman!   

He announced he was having to move South to work in some new church district down in London.  Somewhere called “So Hoe".  And he’d like me to manage things up here because I was the only person, he “could possibly trust with the job!”  So, it simply MUST be me!  Hamish looked irate, and it looked like he was going to object for a second, but the archbishop took him aside for a quick word.  A few moments later though, and Hamish seemed dazed and lost in thought!  The archbishop then slid over to me and explained all about his new idea for the pub!

Apparently, there’s this new invention he’d discovered (while visiting a famous cheese monger somewhere in North Sweden) called “matchboxes”.  Customers love carrying matches for their pipes and such.  His new idea was for the pub to give one of these boxes away with each drink.  Except that these matchboxes would have tiny verses from the bible on them!  And they'd be like a little blessing for people along their way.  And he proclaimed that every match struck would be like a prayer being sent up to God!  

Hamish came back around and declared it might help lift whatever curse is on us!  He came striding over to me and gave me a huge hug and kiss! Right in front of His Holiness!  Then went to make dinner!  Which was a miracle in itself!  He’s even heating water for me right now for a bath!  Told me I’d been working much too hard lately, and I deserved a rest.  And I could invite whoever I liked!  Young or old.  Rich or poor.  He said he wanted me to help as many people as I could.  And that the church should give me a sainthood!  I was beyond bewildered, but secretly ecstatic, to hear him say it!  

I don’t know what’s come over him, but I could get fast used to it!  

Like I told Mr. McConnell though, God rest his soul.  This place should be somewhere for every single weary traveler who came inside.  Like the homeless fella I helped not long after I first moved in.  No matter what their story or what their past.  This should be a place of no judgement and provide comfort.  And Mr. McConnell agreed.  He always liked my ideas.  He loved my idea about having paintings all over the walls.  He confessed to me once that his reading wasn't grand, so he needed my help with the books after losing Ma.  And I helped teach him to read the best I could before he died too.  

His favorite idea of mine was for the walls to be painted a bright yellow color.  That was important, I remember telling him.  I think I said something stupid, like the yellow shade should make the room look brighter and allow more light.  But it was just because I didn’t want to sound crazy by confessing that I'd once met God and I'd seen His eyes were the burning yellow of the sun itself, hidden away behind His dark glasses!  And on a bitterly cold November night in a resurrectionist's surgery, I'd clocked them as I'd tried to knock 50% off a barrel full of smelly corpse-stew!   

Besides, the bright yellow walls reminded me that God was always watching me, and they helped keep me on my path of being "properly good".  According to old Mr. McConnell, Ma's favorite color was always yellow.  

The archbishop joined me earlier on, as I made some tea, and asked me how I’d been keeping.  I couldn’t help asking him what he’d done to Hamish to make him so agreeable!  The archbishop laughed and winked and said he’d told him all about “what happens to all the bad men 'Down South' if they don’t know how to treat a lady properly!”  That London sure does sound like a very interesting place!  Then the archbishop said something I thought strange at the time;  "I also reminded him how magical a night it was, when you both danced in the rain!"

But...  How could he have possibly known about that?   

It was on the night of Ma's funeral.  We'd both been silly drunk, but sad.  And even though it was pouring we began dancing together in the rain.  And the stars shone brightly in the sky like diamonds!  And neither of us felt wet when we came back inside.  I suppose it must've been me mentioning it to the archbishop years ago once and he must have remembered.  Funny, I don’t recall ever mentioning it to him though...  Anyway, sorry...  I got lost in thought again!  Where was I? Oh yes!  

His Holiness ordered me to keep a tight hold of this journal.  He gave it a very quick glance through.  Which wasn’t much, but he reads incredibly fast!  I didn’t really want to show him it, but something about his bright eyes always seem to dazzle me into doing anything he asks!  He told me he was very interested in knowing my story, but he didn’t say much after reading it.  Only that it was good to see I was "being good" and that he’ll see me again one day soon.  Then he went to leave, winking to our daughter and joking to “keep winding your Mummy up for me!” as he left.  Like she needs the encouragement!    

I shall miss him though.  His funny ways always made me smile and I’ll miss giggling to myself, watching him stick his wee pinkie finger out to sip a sweet sherry.  

He was kind enough to give me a book before he left called “Oliver Twist” by a Mr. Charles Dickens.  Never heard of him but he told me that I had to promise to look after it as it wasn’t meant to be "technically published" for a couple of years yet.  But he’d managed to compel the author into loaning him an advanced copy.  He thinks I’ll like it very much.  Maybe I can start it after my bath?  Speaking of which, Hamish has just told me that it’s all run for me and to take all the time I needed and to let him know if I need any more hot water!    

As I said - I could get used to this!    

I’ll write again when I remember to!  And hopefully without so long a pause next time!  

Tata    

Elspeth x  

*************************** 

“CUCKOO!”   

I jumped up as my mother’s old clock began to chime loudly from across the bedroom.  Automatically I grabbed one of her small cushions and threw it at the offending noise.  It seemed to do the trick in silencing the dreaded thing.  Somehow, its call echoed through the thoughts now swirling around my head.  Cuckoo!  Completely cuckoo!    

Oliver Twist was always one of my favorite stories as a child.  I still remember Ma reading it to me at bedtime and saying she’d “once been a bit of an Artful Dodger" back in her day!  But how did she manage to get a full copy of the story, a full FOURTEEN MONTHS before it was first PARTLY published?  And how the Dickens did the archbishop know Mr. Dickens?  He would have been living in Camden at the time?  Oh, I wish I could remember the archbishop’s face!  I’ve usually such a good memory.  But as I try to remember his eyes now, all I can see is a kaleidoscope of blues, greys and greens! 

I must've been so young that I'd forgotten that whole time completely.  Because I certainly don’t recall my father ever drinking either!  In fact, he’d been strictly teetotal as long as I'd known him.  Which was somewhat miraculously rare in a pub landlord, especially for one in Scotland!

But reading my mother’s words again about wanting to make the world a safer place for me made me cry.  She'd never seemed a woman for public displays of affection my mother.  (Or private ones for that matter!)  And seeing her words of her deep love for me, even as a five-year-old tearaway, almost broke my heart.  How I wished she could've shown some more signs of that affection as I'd grown older.  Perhaps we mightn't have drifted so far apart?  But she’d always been so busy with her church and her charity work and what she’d always called “God’s orders".  And then just as she was really starting to make a difference and started making things better; I went and left anyway.

And it seems my mother was one of the people who helped to stop resurrectionists too!  And helped poor families to overcome the grief that she must've shared with them!  Wow, this diary was a passage through time!  But I was pretty sure I’d never be standing anywhere near that ghastly barrel-table in the bar again!  I needed to keep reading on though! I was thoroughly hooked!

But I was getting a little itchy to return to my family since the clock announced that I’d already been upstairs for nearly an hour!  I thought it odd that my husband wasn’t wondering where I was by now, but I’d assumed he thought I was grieving privately.  So maybe he decided to let me collect myself.  It wasn’t far from the truth.  But I was just too involved to stop myself from continuing.  I knew I could’ve just taken it home with me, but something was compelling me to stay right here, in this very room, with this very journal.  And to not leave until I’d finished reading it.  

I flipped over the pages to the next entry, which seemed written with a more elegant hand.  I was shocked to see the date was later than the last.  A gap of exactly twelve years!  I continued to read...  

***************************  

14th December 1847.   

Hello again my old friend!    

We do seem to keep losing each other, don’t we?  The last time I wrote inside you; I’d wondered how it'd been two years since I'd last taken up my pen.  And yet here we are a full dozen years since I last wrote anything inside you!  And still, to me, the gap in time feels like no time at all.  I’m aware I’ve said this before, in the few times I’ve jotted in this journal, but this time I truly do mean it when I say that I've been BUSY!

I've been changing the future, my dear friend!  Myself.  My church.  My parish.  And all the others.  We’ve all come together across Scotland!  Five years ago, we helped to create the “Poor Law”.  And I’ve been busy helping to create Parish councils run by churches across the country to find food, blankets and shelter for the poor and homeless!

How’s that for doing “properly good"?!  Hey God?   

As far as I've been told they’re still finalizing all the plans for building new poorhouses.  And unlike those horrid English bastards, we don’t force our poor to work for their upkeep so they’re not workhouses!  They’re just poorhouses.  Houses for the poor!

My daughter has grown up into a stunning 17-year-old who’s been courting a boy in New Town for nearly a year now.  She’s hoping to marry him she reckons.  But she says she's “giving him some time to realize he wants to pop the question!”  That girl!  She's always been one to know exactly what she wants!   Can’t really deny the apple fell too far from the tree though, can I?   She makes me SO very proud!  I wish I could show it more.  

It’s almost halfway past through this century now.  And what an eventful time it’s been. From Pauper to Parishioner in just over two decades!  You may notice that my style of prose has improved over time.  But, I suppose that can only be expected when one must write so many reports and applications for aid these days!

And I did finish Oliver Twist in the end.  I loved reading it to my little girl every bedtime.  And though I loved the tale myself, I’m still amazed that the archbishop managed to get a full copy so early on!  Though, I can safely say now, my favorite of Mr. Charles Dickens’ works MUST be “A Christmas Carol”.  I think even Wee Morag might have agreed with me on that one!

And I did see the archbishop again, just once.  December of 1845.

I took my daughter to some boutique for a dress she craved for her birthday.  And I spied Archbishop Ralph sat alone on a bench outside the store.  He’d looked so sad that I felt it only right to nip outside and sit beside him and ask him whatever the matter was.  He sighed and told me he was dearly missing a very old friend.  I told him I knew what that was like and went on to tell him about a friend from my childhood named Wee Morag.  I confessed how we’d both met in a boarding house that was horrible and how Wee Morag stopped a man from trying to have his way with me by smashing her used chamber pot around his head!  Though most of its contents fell on me!  That made him smile at least!

He told me about how his friend was “somewhat of a cheeky serpent himself!”  One who liked to tempt him into doing all sorts of silly things and, even though he knew he should know better, he just couldn't stop going along with him.  And now, even though he'd not seen him in years and years; he couldn’t help missing all the silly little adventures they'd go on together.  Nor stop himself worrying about him.  I smiled sadly and confessed how I’d once tempted Wee Morag into joining me while I had a bad adventure one fateful night.  And it'd led to her getting killed.  So maybe this friend of the archbishop’s was staying away to keep him from harm?  He didn’t say anything, but I got the strangest feeling that he knew exactly what I was talking about.   

Then he oddly remarked, "I was so very wrong about you, you know!"  And he took hold of my hand and gave it a fond squeeze.  Then smiled through his tears and said, “I do apologize.  But you’re really not wicked at all!”  I didn’t know how to respond to that.  I guessed maybe he’d thought I was one of those lasses who prostituted themselves in the bar when we first met.  I did recall thinking it strange at the time, that his first-ever words on meeting him were “Oh! I didn’t expect to find YOU here!”  Now I think back on it; that was the same night I found this empty journal on the floor after closing and felt compelled to keep it.  I'd thought it strange seeing an archbishop inside a pub, but Hamish told me the archbishop loved to pop by once in a blue moon, because he'd loved Ma’s cooking!

Anyway, I digress again!  

I am very happy to report that marriage to Hamish has been but a dream come true since my last entry.  He’s been forever attentive to my needs, so I’ve ample time to broaden my reading horizons.  And to carry on my charity work which he now fully supports.  He also stopped drinking after the archbishop’s last visit too!  I guess he just lost the taste for it, but it’s been a relief to me as well as the takings behind the bar.  I can tell you!  I’ve been heading the parish council for years now.  And though there was some right-wing knockback against the Poor Law, we’ve helped to build more homes in and around Edinburgh.  As well as a new cemetery in Warriston to help with the overcrowding.  

It never seems ENOUGH though!  It’s been a struggle to keep one's faith lately, to be honest with you.  And that's coming from one who swears they've met God Himself.  I just wish I could see that mad, yellow-eyed fool again...  Just one more time!  I've more than a few questions for the bastard!  Mostly I'd love to ask Him what the Hell He is playing at when there's so much suffering in the world?!  Aren’t we, HIS CHILDREN?!  I don’t know where on Earth He's hiding out.  But if I ever see Him again, I might just wring his scrawny wee neck!  

I do hope His Holiness is coping better down in London nowadays.  He looked a tad overworked when I saw him last, but I suppose the levels of poverty down there must be TERRIBLE!  Especially if Oliver Twist was anything to go by!    

Well, it seems we have cause to celebrate diary!  My darling daughter just came running into the room to tell me that her beau has finally popped the question and I’m to gain a son-in-law!  I'm so happy for her!  I think as a wedding present I’ll give them the last of the money I’ve had saved all these years from what God and his angel once gave me.  After all, I’ve been living comfortably all this time on money I’ve earned, so I’ve not used much of it since the last renovation.  There’s still close to 5,000 pounds worth left.  More than enough for a wedding.

I do wish she’d have a church wedding though.  I’ve tried suggesting it, but her face always falls if I mention anything to do with religion.  If it’s not to do with dresses or balls, she has little interest in listening to me.  But I’m glad she's grown up with more of the comforts that were denied to me as a child.  Because we’re doing so much better financially since the pub reopened.  

But I used a little of the money to retouch the yellow paint before we opened the newly named pub.  After the Scott’s monument was unveiled in Prince’s Street Gardens last year, it seemed silly to keep calling the pub The Scott’s Arms after Sir Walter Scott.  Even though he'd been the man on the old sign, the pub was truly once named for its former owner, Hamish's Da; Mr. Scott McConnell.  

So, when it came to deciding on a brand-new name, I knew there was only one thing I wanted.  I had an artist commissioned and was amazed that even after nearly a quarter of a century, I could still remember the very image of Dalrymple holding that bloody cleaver.  the night I burst in to find Wee Morag chopped into pieces.  And I paid a printer to make small pamphlets teaching about the history of Edinburgh and its body snatchers.  So, no one would ever forget about our darkest days.  Hamish wasn’t too happy with the name and was especially worried about the demonic visage of Dalrymple on the new sign, but I agreed the finished sign would include the Resurrection of Lazarus on the other side, which kept him piously happy.

But he needn’t have worried so much.  Because The Resurrectionist Pub had such a grand opening night that our takings secured our profits for the whole of the next year!

We still hand out matchboxes with every drink.  We even get people wanting them without even buying a drink first!  So, I’ve started a wee collection tin where folk can stick a penny in if they want instead and all the proceeds go back to the church.  Our work is becoming increasingly necessary by the day.  I swear I think of this place as a small Garden of Eden from the horrors of poverty and disease outside.  But I’m beginning to feel the work in my bones more.  It makes me worry about being able to manage in the future.  I know my daughter doesn’t like it around here anymore.  Her beau...  Fiancé, I should say now, has some big manor down in England that she keeps talking about moving to.  But I couldn’t possibly imagine wanting to live anywhere else!  Even God couldn't get me to leave Edinburgh!  

I’ve been here all my life, and this place will likely be my resting place...  In fact, I KNOW it will!  I’ve already told Hamish I planned to be buried next to Wee Morag if I meet my maker (again) before him.  I’ve never mentioned it, but after the constables finished collecting all their evidence from Dalrymple’s surgery, they let me give Wee Morag a proper Christian burial like she’d always wanted, and she has a beautiful headstone above her grave in Old Carlton.  Not far from Ma’s headstone.  

I’ve already paid in advance for the two plots beside her which Hamish thought somewhat morbid, but I thought somewhat sensible.  No denying the inevitable, is there?  Especially with Hamish's heart problems being what they are.  And I’ve already called the middle spot.  So, I’m between them both too!  I’ve always wondered to myself what Wee Morag would have made of Hamish. I think she’d have liked him.  Maybe, if I'm allowed to in Heaven, I can introduce them and find out?  That’d be nice.  That and one more huge hug from Ma!  That’d be Heaven for me.  

For now, I suppose I'd best get up and get busy again!  I’ve got a wedding to help plan and even if my girl doesn’t want a church wedding then I still want her to have the best day of her life.  She deserves the world.  Hamish must have just been told the news because he’s running around the flat cheering!  Best to be off before he notices what I’m writing in and find his heart medication before he does himself a mischief!  

Talk soon, hopefully, Mrs. Elspeth McConnell.   

***************************  

I turn the page, but the next entry is written in a hand I don’t recognize at all.  In fact, unlike the rest of this near-empty notebook, this next entry is written in a different pen altogether.  Instead of the steady blue ink of a quill, this next entry was written in an ink of deep blood-looking red.  And the very first word was my name!  

I slammed the book shut.  Unprepared mentally yet to read on.  I was too deeply troubled by what I'd just read.  My mother put money aside for my wedding?  She wanted to help plan the day for me?!  Oh God, I feel so awful!  Oh, my dear Ma! I’m so very sorry!

When I got engaged my husband's parents refused immediately to even hear anything about anyone paying for the wedding but them.  We did have a wonderful wedding, and I loved it so much.  But now I couldn't stop thinking about my mother's face when I took my very first dance with my brand-new husband.  She'd looked so very sad!  

It'd made me angry for some stupid reason.  Here was everyone celebrating my special day and my own mother could barely crack a smile?  It made me feel embarrassed and burn with shame when I could hear my new in-laws lamenting about their son's new "miserable-looking mother-in-law".  And I'd heard them mention more than once in the years that followed afterwards.  About how my mother was "nothing but a poor barmaid". They’d never said a word about any of the good she did for the people of Old Town.  In fact, reading this, for the people of Scotland!  But, then again, neither did I.  

"Oh, Ma!"  I found myself sighing aloud.  

I tried sending another silent prayer in my grief.  There was a quick tap at the door, and my husband poked his head in and asked me if I'd be long.  He'd been looking for me and I'd been so lost in my sorrow I hadn't heard him creeping upstairs.  I wiped my eyes and nodded and told him I'd be right down, but I just wanted to finish a story my mother left me.  He promised everything was fine and I could take all the time I needed.  He said our boy was out in the street having a whale of a time with some other lads from the poorhouse down the road.  They were happily playing a game of football.  My husband smiled and said he was hearing some very wild stories about my father's days as a pub landlord!  And, as we owned the pub now, and his drinks were free, I could take all the time I needed whilst he had a tipple and mingled with the locals!  

How peculiar!  But I didn't refuse his generosity and told him I wouldn't be too much longer.  He shut the door, and I took a deep breath.  Someone seemed to know that I would read this book.  Perhaps it was the same person who'd left it for me to find.  So, with a still less than steady nerve, I braced myself, reopened the book, and continued to read:  

***************************   

Morgan! 

Hello there Wee Morgan! 

You don't really know me...  But I sure know ALL about you!  Me and your mum have been having the loveliest catch-up!  We haven't seen each other for a very long time but I've been busy with work!  It's God here, by the way!  (Not really!  Little joke!)  No, I'm actually a  demon!  I'm not even kidding this time - Really, I am!  I gave your mum a wee bit of a fright when she was a lot younger and it seems she might have got the wrong idea about me!  Her face was a treat when she realized that I bat for the other team!  Wish you could've seen it! 

Now I don't want you to worry!  I didn't come all the way up here from Hell for your mother's "eternally damned soul" or any of that bloody silly nonsense.  (Though if the Boss had had His way...  Yikes!)  No, luckily, I got here just in time!  And I managed to work a little miracle to make sure none of my lot could find her if they should come a'lookin!  AND, as she's decided she doesn't want to be one of those spirits who "stick around" or whatever, then, well, the only way is UP, as they say!   

Do they say that yet?  Well... They will anyway!  Where was I?  Oh yes!  I've got a few messages from your dear old Ma to pass on, but we'll get to that because I've a couple of requests of my very own that need sorting first.

Very important requests that, if not fulfilled... Well, let's just say I know a Duke of Hell named Dagon that  loves to play football with the heads of rich husbands!  Let's leave it at that, shall we?!  So Allons Y! 

1)DO NOT SELL THIS PUB!  

A friend of mine likes it very much.  So, I like it very much.  That simple really...  Plus, I've also got very fond memories of letting your Granny beat me in an arm-wrestling match here around 1812!  I think we ended up washing up that night?   My friend's idea!  Long story...  Anyway! 

2)THE MATCHBOXES, NAMES, PAMPHLETS ETC CAN STAY  

If you need money for any of that stuff, I can sort that if my friend isn't still paying.  Not that he'd likely have stopped...  He IS an angel after all! 

3)By the way - No God's not a demon.  Though She does have a wicked sense of humor!  Not a request, just wanted to fit that in! 

4)IF and I mean this hoping it to be very unlikely...  But  IF someone ever comes to this place...  (Could be next week, could be a century from now...  So let any and all of your descendants know too).  But IF someone who has the fluffiest blonde curly hair and the most hypnotizing bluest eyes you've ever seen in your life, with a nose that could have been carved by Michelangelo himself...  Where was I...?  Oh yes!  IF anyone fitting that description ever comes into the pub asking questions about me...  Oh, and he WILL very probably be wearing something beige and probably wearing a stupid hat!  

TELL - HIM - NOTHING - ABOUT - HOW - I - AM - DOING!   I AM FINE!  AND I CERTAINLY DON'T NEED HIS HELP!  And  DEFINITELY  nothing about your mum thinking that I was God for Hell's sake!  I'd never hear the end of that!  If he ever speaks to me again that is...  We had a bit of a fallout in '68....  It's not even been two decades yet and I...  GRRR, WHAT AM I DOING?!  This isn't MY diary!

That gives me an idea though!  This diary has loads of blank pages left inside.  So, if you need anything to help run the pub moneywise, (though I did notice you married Mr Moneybags after all, kudos!)  Or if you ever just need a friendly chat with that wee snake on your shoulder, then hold this book tightly and think the word, "CROWLEY!"  After that, whatever you're thinking while holding this book, I will hear.  And I'll reply in the same way.  In your head!  Don't ask me how.  Just think of it like a book made from paper that's psychic! 

I’m glad to see my angel has been keeping an eye on your Ma for me while I've been away with work though.  I always liked her!  "Archbishop Ralph" hey?!   HA!  Don't know who the Heaven Aziraphale was trying to fool with that one!  Far too pure a soul for the clergy that one, trust me!  You'd be amazed how many clergymen I've come across in my line of work! 

Anyway, your mother's spirit is slapping me with a ghostly slipper here!  I promised her a look around the world before she heads off Upstairs, so I better get a groove on!  So, messages from Ma, right! Firstly, she loves you more than she could ever say or put into words and that's why she found it hard to say anything at all!  She wishes she could have said more...  Ironic, she never shut up when I knew her!  OWWWWW!  Do you MIND?!  I am trying to THINK here!  

She also says that yes, everything she did was for you and she's sorry that it kept her so busy that she couldn't always be there with you etc.  Also, she says that the money is still under the floorboard in the attic.  I've added my own little addition to the pile.  So, if you ever see the Ghost of Jane Austen, you know nothing about them!  Mum's the word!  (If it helps there's a pawnbroker near Queen Street who owes me a favor after I hexed a guy, he caught with his wife...  He'll buy them from you if you drop my name!)

Oh, and she says she's very sorry for looking so sad at your wedding.  It's just you looked the very image of your grandmother.  And it made her wish "Ma could've seen".  And she says you're never to change the wall color downstairs, or she will haunt you, and to keep your shoes off the bloody bed!  Right, I'm off to show your Ma the Seychelles!  Grab your swimming cossie, Elspeth!  It's about to get a damned lot hotter!  

No, not THAT damned and hot!  We're definitely not going THERE!  

***************************  

I dropped the book as though it'd burned my fingers.  Crowley?  Crowley...  Where did I know that name from?  Oh my God! The silly SNAKE!  

I didn't recognize the name when my mother's diary spelt it, "Crow Lee,” but now the memory of his name came back to me with a snap!  A sudden montage of memories hit me, wave after wave, and left me holding onto the bedframe in shock...  

An image of myself as a young baby, crying... Because I'd seen a little red snake curled up under a chair winking at me!  As a two-year-old.  Hearing an echo of a hiss on the wind, saying "Goooooo on, be ssssssssick!"  As a young girl, kneeling at the top of the stairs, watching the small red and black snake wind its way around the banister.  Hearing my parents having an argument and worrying about them.  The snake told me they would both be okay and to "Go back to ssssssleep"...  As a teenager in my bedroom, staring at a gorgeous dress in a new catalogue.  And hearing the familiar voice of the snake on my shoulder hissing, "Gooooo on!"  Before getting the sudden urge to beg my mother for it for my birthday! 

And the night that my husband proposed! It'd started raining. But, instead of running for shelter, he'd grabbed my hand and swung me around to dance a waltz in the rain.  And we never once got wet!  My mother told me how she and my Da once danced in the rain and it'd been the most magical and romantic thing my Da ever did.  And now here, without knowing it, my intended was doing the same.  And when he swept down onto one knee and proposed a week later...  I knew I would never have refused him but after that, I couldn't!  I mean, honestly, the manor in the countryside was just a bonus!  

But throughout my life that "wee snake" was on my shoulder!  Tempting me into rebellion throughout my childhood.  And now he'd come back to torment me as an adult!

I dreaded to think what the supposed ghost of Jane Austen might want to come looking for, but now I knew I simply HAD to go and look!  I slipped my shoes back on and tucked the notebook away in my coat pocket before creeping up to the attic ladder.  I'd always hated going up here.  I'd grown tall like my Da.  So, even as a teenager, I'd catch my head on the old oak beams on the attic ceiling.  It took some shaking as the trapdoor was stiff after years of being unused, but I managed to get up into the attic eventually.  Crouching down I looked over all the floorboards.  And just under the window, like Ma mentioned, one was a fraction looser and more out of place than the others.  I knelt on my knees and managed to pry it open using my fingernails.  I peered down into the dark space and found the thick wad of banknotes and pulled out a small black velvet bag.  I counted the money.  There was indeed almost 5000 pounds, like my mother said there would be.  

"Are you there Morgan?"  I heard my husband call up.  

"Aye, I'm up here!"  I called back.  

He comically popped his head up into the attic trapdoor.  The rest of him followed and he knelt beside me, placing a supporting arm around my shoulders.  And he asked me how I was doing.  I told him that my mother left us some money and a late wedding present and handed him the little velvet bag to see.  He told me that he thought that was nice, and he'd been thinking suddenly about how dull it was living in the countryside.  He'd been told downstairs that Edinburgh was trying to take over Glasgow to be named the capital city of Scotland and, as a lawyer, he thought maybe there was a lot of good he could do if we all moved back to the city. I couldn't help but agree.  

He was also amazed to hear about all the charity work Ma accomplished throughout her life.  Especially politically.  He'd never known she'd been so popular with so many locals and downstairs was jam-packed.  But I was not to worry because the staff were handling it.  He did say, though, he thought I should go down and show my face.  Just to be polite and it was the decent thing to do.  I couldn't help but agree with that as well.  I do hate it when he's right, you know!  

I began to crawl back to the trapdoor carefully, so as not to get splinters in my knees.  But stopped when I heard my husband suddenly croaking out my name behind me.  I tried to turn awkwardly, only to see that now he’d gone a deathly pale.  I hurried back over to him worried, but he simply emptied the velvet bag he'd been peering into onto the floorboards.

At first, I thought they might have been stars.  But then I realized that was silly.  But my, how they shone!  They were diamonds!  About a dozen small diamonds.  My husband and I were speechless.  It took either one of us a good minute to even register what it was we were staring at.

"Whose are they?"  My husband asked me, gulping.  

"I think that they're Jane Austen's!"  I replied, oddly calm and I left him staring dumbly at the diamonds and headed off back downstairs.  

Before I popped into the bar, I took the time to go and wash my tear-streaked face.  And I popped my head out of the door to check if my son was still enjoying his football game.  He seemed to be getting on swimmingly with the other boys.  And when he scored a goal for his team, he managed to secure their friendship forever.  It felt wonderful to see!  I'd been worried about him, back at the manor.  Lately, he'd taken to pulling nasty pranks on the staff because he was so bored.  Maybe moving to somewhere where he'd have more friends could be beneficial to him too.  I grinned in pride and waved as the boys lifted him up on their shoulders because he'd scored the final winning goal and I turned to head back towards the bar.

But suddenly, I felt nervous, and I didn't want to sit out the front with the locals.  I'd been away for so long I'd feel like I was amongst strangers.  And I didn't fancy the awkward wave after wave of grief showering down on me.  So, I decided I'd try my hand at pouring myself a drink and maybe take myself off for a little lie down upstairs afterwards.  Except, when I stepped foot behind the bar everyone surprised me by giving me a huge cheer!

Everybody remembered me and they’d worried about me while I'd been gone.  And they wanted to know all about life in the countryside!  The children all asked me to tell them about the animals I'd seen and the food I'd eaten.  The ladies all asked about balls and music and what the fashions were in London these days.  Not that I knew!  I think they'd assumed Lancashire was up tha' road from the capital!  The men wanted to know about the shooting and game to be hunted as well as good walking paths and if any of Lancashire's moors could compare to the wild valleys and lochs of home.  But not one of them judged me for having moved away to England.  And none wanted to be a stranger to me any more than I did to them after talking happily for a while.

In fact, I felt myself starting to feel quite at home.  Especially when I started serving them their drinks!   

The very next morning I woke up all tucked up tightly in my mother's old bed.  The sun was shining outside, and I could hear the birds cheeping merrily away.  My husband was snoring sound asleep next to me.  His funeral attire was folded neatly away with his hat atop a chair and his shoes were tucked together under the bed.  I couldn't believe it.  I couldn't remember the last time my husband even folded his own clothes!  He usually just threw his coats and hats straight at our butler whenever he arrived home in the past.  

I smiled and went to check on Harold.  I found him tucked up soundly in my old childhood bedroom and was pleasantly surprised to find him cuddling Mary the doll tightly.  And saw yesterday's gifted victory football placed neatly under his bed, tucked next to his shoes.  I was sorely tempted to make myself a nice cup of tea and relax in the peace and quiet after the chaos of yesterday.  But, as I crept downstairs, I felt strangely driven to put my coat on over my nightgown along with my mother's slippers!  Then I felt almost pushed straight out of the door.  

Just like when I’d first gone upstairs to find the diary, it felt as though my feet were moving completely out of my control.  But I wasn't afraid, and I felt that was important.  So, I decided to let myself go with it.  Before long I found myself standing back at the church graveyard where my mother's funeral was held, just the day before.  

"You took your time!"  A voice called out behind me.  

I turned to see a luminous looking man sat on a small bench.  He possessed what I can only describe as the friendliest and sweetest-looking face I'd seen, and he had the fluffiest bright blond hair I could recall ever coming across before.  When I approached him, I realized he owned two utterly dazzling eyes.  Each one shined like the diamonds found hidden in the attic yesterday.  They reminded me of stars, reflected in the waves of a stormy sea.  He smiled politely, but so sadly.  And he gazed back at the gravestones opposite the bench.

Something about him seemed achingly familiar.  And, as I sat down beside his kind face, I found it fitted into my memories like a jigsaw piece that'd been lost under a chair for eons.

"Hello Archbishop Ralph," I smiled fondly.

The now-all-too-familiar again man nodded another greeting and was nearly completely dressed in beige.  My gaze couldn't help flicking between him and the freshly filled-in grave that he was looking at sadly.  He looked so lost in his grief that it felt rude to interrupt, but the cold morning was starting to affect me because I was sat in my nightie, a thin coat and old slippers!  And it did appear he'd summoned me here for something, so I decided to look him hard in the face and tried again;

"Aziraphale?"  

That did it!  He looked positively mortified that I'd called him by his real name!  

In reply, I pulled Ma's journal out from my coat pocket, flicked the pages over to the very last entry and handed it over to him.  He smiled as he recognized the book itself, but his face went a strange color when he seemed to immediately notice the part I was showing him wasn't written by my mother.  And something in his eyes seemed to confirm that he knew exactly who did write it.  And as he carried on reading, I watched his whole face turn a splendid shade of bright purple.  He snapped the book shut and looked everywhere but at me.  Clearly embarrassed to have his reaction being so stared at in wonder.   

"So, he's FINE then, is he?!"  He suddenly burst out loud.  I wasn't sure if the angel was talking to me or himself.  But he seemed anything but happy to hear that his friend was alright!  

He coughed nervously as he realized I'd witnessed his little outburst, and he wiped his eyes delicately with a handkerchief that I quickly noted was embroidered with a golden 'A.Z.F'.  He then nodded at the 3 graves lined neatly together opposite us.  My father's, Ma's and the one dated 1827 that was simply engraved "Wee Morag".  My eyes also couldn't help sliding over automatically to the headstones on the other side of where my father lay.  The ones that I'd visited often as a child.  The ones of the grandparents that I couldn't remember much anymore.  

My eyes skimmed automatically over to the name on my grandmother's headstone, and I felt the old haunting chill slide down my spine that always followed me home as a little girl every single time I'd read those haunting words; "Morgan McConnell"  

It’d been my Da's idea to name me after his mother.

No wonder I'd been in such a hurry to marry and change my name as I'd grown older!  I realized now that, even if anyone did ever try to tell me about my grandmother's death as a child, I'd probably never have wanted to hear it.  Not if it would've been so achingly similar to hearing about my own.  Maybe that's why folk stopped saying anything at all?  

"I did like them you know?  Each and every one of them.  I don't know many of you humans.  But they were all such very nice ones!"  Aziraphale blustered.

To anybody else, those words might have sounded insane!  But after falling so deeply into my mother's spiritual past yesterday, everything made perfect sense to me.  So, like I'd done with my feet earlier, I decided to just go with it!  "You should get to know some more!"  I told the angel kindly as I gave him another smile and tucked my coat tightly around me.  He seemed to like that idea.

He also seemed to realize how cold I was and, as he waved his hand, I felt my whole body melt in relief as an invisible bubble of welcoming heat surrounded me.  Aziraphale told me about how he'd watched my parents dancing together in the rain decades ago.  And he confessed how he'd later "miracled" the impulse in my intended some years after, to recreate their past memory.  He said, where he worked, the staff weren't allowed to know about things that helped make human beings happy.  Such as books or food.  Or even dancing!  

I knew my Ma wrote that this man was really an angel, but I could see where her objections might have come from.  He didn't seem that much of a bastard.  But something about the way his temper crackled under the surface.  Like thunder before the first flash of lightning.  As he’d read his friend's writing, that instantly told me I wouldn't want to see him go into a violent rage!  Still, the idea of no dancing sounded rather depressing to me!  What kind of Heaven was it if you couldn't have a good time up there?!  Is that what it was really?!  How dull!  I loved to dance!

I told Aziraphale that dancing is like getting to know people. You just need to learn to practice more!  He seemed to take the thought on board and promised me that he'd do his best to try and learn one day.  Then he surprised me by saying I reminded him very much of my mother!

I mean, he'd obviously known her in the past, but everyone always usually said I favored my grandmother and father much more than her.  In both looks and temperament.  But then Aziraphale told me about the very first time he'd seen my mother after "that night in the cemetery".  He didn't recognize her at first.

Thankfully, he’d soon 'miracled it' that she couldn’t recognize him at all!  He'd gone in the pub for some comfort food.  Because he'd decided to stay in Edinburgh and wait a while for his friend to return from wherever he was summoned to.  He'd had to leave Edinburgh some time after, but that very night a homeless man came hobbling into the bar.  His feet were bleeding after he'd stepped on some broken glass outside, and he was begging for help.  

"I could’ve healed him quite easily without anybody in the room knowing, you know?  The room was so very crowded at the time.  But some horrid men began complaining to try and remove him from the premises!  But, before they could get near him, your mother's voice came belting over the hubbub demanding that if they laid a finger on him, she'd "be having a word with him Upstairs" to strike every single one of them down as they slept!"

Aziraphale laughed at the memory and continued.  "Your mother kindly helped the fellow to a chair by the fire and took off her own shawl to put around his shoulders.  She brought him some food and fetched a bowl of warmed water, carefully kneeling in front of him to remove each piece of glass from his feet.  And she washed his wounds clean.  She was the very image of Mary Magdalene herself!  And I should know - I've met Mary Magdalene!  I'm sure I told you that story once before.  But you were very young at the time so you might have forgotten.  I think it might've been on the same birthday that I gave you that dolly?"   

An hour later, I headed back to the pub feeling determined!  

Whatever warm bubble that angel had managed to miracle up for me stayed with me all the way back there and I began to plan out my future in my head.  A future as the landlady of a pub that was an Eden against any of the horrors outside.  Aziraphale headed off on his way to do whatever it was that ethereal figures do.  But I discreetly slipped him a card for a gentleman's club as we'd shook hands goodbye.  One I knew for a fact our butler Miles liked to frequent in Portland Place whenever he was in town.  And Miles swore they could teach any man to dance within a week!

The poor angel blushed very pink on reading it.  But, as I turned to wave goodbye, I saw him pocket the card before he vanished into thin air!  

*************************** 

EPILOGUE, AKA "THE LAST PAGE".  

27th May 2023. 

(Modern Day Edinburgh)

"CROWLEY!"  

"Are you there, sir?  Sorry to disturb you...  Er, it's Tulloch here, sir.  From the pub in Edinburgh?" 

Ach!  He never comes right away!  I'm always left here waiting.  I feel daft holding onto this bloody notebook and waiting for the voices in my head to start.  Well, just the one voice, singular!  No one has really spoken much to the demon within this book.  Apart from me.  Not since my great grandfather Harry once infamously took it to the toilet with him for a bit of light reading one day.  And he came away with two puncture wounds on his arse that he’d sworn he had no idea getting!  His laughing wife said it must have been something with fangs, but they never found out what. 

"...Sniff.... Lo?"  

Oh, he's here finally!  About time!

"Ello Mr Crowley sir!  So very sorry to disturb you but I wanted to let you know the man in beige has  just  been in!  Asking questions like you said he would one day eventually!"  In fact, his questions had mostly been about the jukebox and not about the demon himself like he'd once worried about.  The jukebox next to the creepy old barrel table across from the bar.  That barrel table always gives me the heebie-jeebies! 

"Riiiiiight, and who's this again?"  

"Tulloch sir, Tulloch McConnell? You charged my family with a quest once?  Nearly 150 years ago.  You told us that if a man in beige and fluffy hair and bright blue eyes and a nice nose ever came in asking questions then we weren't to say a word about you to him.  Well sir, today he DID come in!  You were right, he was wearing a stupid hat!  And he asked questions!" 

"Right, and what did you tell him? "  

"Absolutely nothing at all, sir!  He just asked me if some fella in a drawing had been in and turns out he had and then the beige fellow went on his way." 

"K...  And my car?"  

"Sorry, sir?" 

"MY CAR!!!  The Bentley, the big classic black Bentley!  Was it in one piece and, most importantly, is it still black?"  

I tried to think back hard.  I'd not seen the weird reporter bloke arrive in a car.  But I did remember hearing a sudden big bang of a motor engine starting up.  With One Vision by Queen bursting through the air and a sudden blur of black bodywork streak across the window after he'd left. 

"Ah, that's it!  Good.  It's still behaving then!"  

I'd absolutely no idea if the "it" that the demon was referring to was the beige man or his black car.  But I said nothing, and he continued after an awkward moment; 

"So, is that it?  Don't need any funds or anything up there, do you?"  

"No, no!  We're doing grand moneywise!  Thank you for asking!  But there was one small thing I was wondering if you might be possibly able to help out with?"  I felt embarrassed to ask.  I mean, this fellow (according to this family heirloom of mine) was supposedly one of Satan's very own minions of Hell and here I was asking him for favors! 

"What's that?"  He asked me immediately.  It seemed like such a silly request, but I couldn't deal with this agonizing problem for much longer and I was about to go bloody mad with the torment!  

"Could you PLEASE, for the love of all that's holy just stop the flipping jukebox playing BUDDY FRIGGIN HOLLY FOR ME?!"  There was silence as the demon considered my request.  Then; 

"Oooooh, Holy? Noooo! - But Unholy?  Maybe!  Tell me... Are there any Proclaimers tracks on there?”  

"Sorry?" 

"Proclaimers!  Is there any of their music on your jukebox"?  

"It's bloody SCOTLAND!  That's like asking if the Pope's Catholic!  Of course there's bloody Proclaimers on there!" 

"Well, the jury's out on if the Pope is even human, between you and me pal!  But you've got a deal!"  

***************************