Read Online Rose McQuinn 7 - Deadly Legacy by Alanna Knight - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alanna Knight
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ornate gates, heading in the direction of the cottage, where a wisp of smoke from the chimney brought a sigh of relief.
A tap on the door, the sound of footsteps.
They were at home. The patter of feet increased and shrill voices declared children.
At any moment now I was to see Jack's little daughter for the very first time. I took a deep breath and arranged my face.
The woman who opened the door was somewhat slatternly in appearance, very harassed, thirtyish with thin lips, brows knitted in annoyance allied with shouts and threats that boded ill for the still-invisible children.
My heart sank a little. I had imagined Pam, who I had never met, as a homely, smiling, motherly soul and this woman's demeanour failed on all accounts. But I told myself sternly that I must not make hasty judgements on first impressions, especially when it was obvious that her scant patience related to the fact she was in the later stages of pregnancy.
The door behind her opened and a noisy group of children poured into the passage, led by one screaming lad of about five, yelling about what Ned had been doing. This she quelled by telling him to be quiet, adding a sharp slap across his head which merely turned his yells into roars.
As the others huddled behind him, trying to evade the same punishment, I looked for Meg.
To my dismay I saw that all were boys. Four of them, in varying ages from eighteen months to eight in what are commonly called 'steps of stairs'. But no small girl.
Where was Meg?
'Well, what's your business?' demanded the woman.
She had shoved the boys unceremoniously back into what was apparently the kitchen, closing the door with terrible threats as to what would happen if they dared to come out again and interrupt her when she was busy. The subsequent silence suggested trembling in terror, out of sight.
I said, 'You are Mrs Pringless?'
'That's my name.'
'You are the adoptive mother of Meg Macmerry?'
'What is this about?' she demanded suspiciously. 'Who are you anyway?'
'I am a friend of Meg's father. As I was to be in the area, he wished me to call and deliver his fondest greetings to his daughter with her birthday present.'
That sounded an impossibly bad way to put it, but it was too late to withdraw the words. I saw the Pringless woman stiffen, regarding me through narrowed eyes. I added, 'Her father is naturally keen to have information regarding her welfare--'
'Then he is not up to date with what's going on here,' she interrupted impatiently. 'I am Joe Pringless's new wife, as from two months past. His first wife, who was the lass's aunt, died earlier this year.'
That Pam had died and her husband remarried was something of a shock. I said, 'We had not heard--'
She put up a hand. 'These are my four lads - I was a widow. I couldn't take on any more bairns - especially a lass with this lot; you've seen for yourself how rough and rowdy they behave, a terrible handful - even their poor father could make nothing of them.' She sighed for a moment and patted her stomach. 'And now this, another one.'
I hadn't time to wish her joy of it when a man's voice shouted, 'Who is it?'
She sighed. 'That's Joe. You'd better talk to him.' She called, 'A visitor here for you,' and ushered me hurriedly into some sort of living-room-cum-bedroom with untidy pallets on the floor - a slatternly evil-smelling place, with children's battered toys, soiled linen and a strong odour of urine.
Joe was slumped over a table, reading a newspaper, a bottle in one hand, with all the signs of overindulgence already having overtaken the man who had left Glasgow dockland to upgrade himself with a better life as clerk to a laird.
'A visitor, ye say.' Curiosity led him to turn round and try unsuccessfully to rise to his feet. He gave up and stumbled back into his chair as his wife said, 'She's here about yon lass.' With that she went out, and firmly closing the door behind her, left him to an explanation in much demand.
He indicated the chair
A tap on the door, the sound of footsteps.
They were at home. The patter of feet increased and shrill voices declared children.
At any moment now I was to see Jack's little daughter for the very first time. I took a deep breath and arranged my face.
The woman who opened the door was somewhat slatternly in appearance, very harassed, thirtyish with thin lips, brows knitted in annoyance allied with shouts and threats that boded ill for the still-invisible children.
My heart sank a little. I had imagined Pam, who I had never met, as a homely, smiling, motherly soul and this woman's demeanour failed on all accounts. But I told myself sternly that I must not make hasty judgements on first impressions, especially when it was obvious that her scant patience related to the fact she was in the later stages of pregnancy.
The door behind her opened and a noisy group of children poured into the passage, led by one screaming lad of about five, yelling about what Ned had been doing. This she quelled by telling him to be quiet, adding a sharp slap across his head which merely turned his yells into roars.
As the others huddled behind him, trying to evade the same punishment, I looked for Meg.
To my dismay I saw that all were boys. Four of them, in varying ages from eighteen months to eight in what are commonly called 'steps of stairs'. But no small girl.
Where was Meg?
'Well, what's your business?' demanded the woman.
She had shoved the boys unceremoniously back into what was apparently the kitchen, closing the door with terrible threats as to what would happen if they dared to come out again and interrupt her when she was busy. The subsequent silence suggested trembling in terror, out of sight.
I said, 'You are Mrs Pringless?'
'That's my name.'
'You are the adoptive mother of Meg Macmerry?'
'What is this about?' she demanded suspiciously. 'Who are you anyway?'
'I am a friend of Meg's father. As I was to be in the area, he wished me to call and deliver his fondest greetings to his daughter with her birthday present.'
That sounded an impossibly bad way to put it, but it was too late to withdraw the words. I saw the Pringless woman stiffen, regarding me through narrowed eyes. I added, 'Her father is naturally keen to have information regarding her welfare--'
'Then he is not up to date with what's going on here,' she interrupted impatiently. 'I am Joe Pringless's new wife, as from two months past. His first wife, who was the lass's aunt, died earlier this year.'
That Pam had died and her husband remarried was something of a shock. I said, 'We had not heard--'
She put up a hand. 'These are my four lads - I was a widow. I couldn't take on any more bairns - especially a lass with this lot; you've seen for yourself how rough and rowdy they behave, a terrible handful - even their poor father could make nothing of them.' She sighed for a moment and patted her stomach. 'And now this, another one.'
I hadn't time to wish her joy of it when a man's voice shouted, 'Who is it?'
She sighed. 'That's Joe. You'd better talk to him.' She called, 'A visitor here for you,' and ushered me hurriedly into some sort of living-room-cum-bedroom with untidy pallets on the floor - a slatternly evil-smelling place, with children's battered toys, soiled linen and a strong odour of urine.
Joe was slumped over a table, reading a newspaper, a bottle in one hand, with all the signs of overindulgence already having overtaken the man who had left Glasgow dockland to upgrade himself with a better life as clerk to a laird.
'A visitor, ye say.' Curiosity led him to turn round and try unsuccessfully to rise to his feet. He gave up and stumbled back into his chair as his wife said, 'She's here about yon lass.' With that she went out, and firmly closing the door behind her, left him to an explanation in much demand.
He indicated the chair
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