A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  Dr Laggan had prescribed rest and quiet for Lucy. Mrs Morrison had faithfully carried out his orders, had stayed indoors to play card games and read to her daughter. Visitors had been few and none of them male. Letters of inquiry and sympathy had been dealt with by Mrs Morrison. It was clear from casual conversation that Archie Brunton had not been in touch. Jenny was very relieved.

  Relieved, too, that Lucy spoke more kindly of Ned. Perhaps her mother had given her a talking-to, perhaps absence had made the heart grow fonder. Whatever the reason, she said nothing harsh about her husband in front of Millicent, and seemed to accept that he was ill rather than wicked, Millicent took it for granted that her daughter-in-law longed for Ned’s complete recovery and restoration to the family. Whether that was quite true, Jenny rather doubted ‒ but she had always doubted that her sister-in-law really loved Ned.

  Mrs Morrison left, happy to be conveyed to the station in a private hired carriage and with a handsome present from Jenny for her stint as nurse. The day came for Ned to have a visitor. His mother was eager to go, but took it for granted Lucy would want to be first. Lucy accepted the role, though with a lack of enthusiasm that was noticed even by Millicent, who never thought ill of anyone.

  ‘I expect she’s frightened,’ she accounted for it to Jenny. ‘Hospitals are frightening, and after all this is a kind of private hospital.’

  They had driven past it several times to let Millicent see where her son was staying. It was a large house, a mansion almost, in its own grounds and with access to the shore of the Clyde by a private path. A pleasant enough place until you noticed that there were bars on the windows, that the gate was guarded by a sturdy attendant in uniform.

  Lucy went to make her visit wearing one of her new gowns and looking exceedingly pretty despite the grey foggy day. She returned looking perplexed.

  ‘How was he?’ Millicent asked eagerly. ‘How did he look?’

  ‘He looks different ‒ thicker in body ‒ I think it must be all the physical work he’s been doing. Oh yes, he’s quite well, very well.’

  ‘What did he say? Is there anything I can take him tomorrow? Books?’

  ‘You had better ask him if he wants books,’ Lucy said. ‘Now that you mention it, it’s odd ‒ he’s always surrounded by books as a rule but the only one he had by his bed was the Bible.’

  ‘That’s no bad thing,’ his mother said, nodding sagely. ‘His father always used to read a passage night and morning, you know.’

  ‘He talked a lot about his father,’ said Lucy. ‘About how he wished he’d paid more attention to him when he was a boy …’

  ‘Oh, that’s good. It sounds very good indeed, Lucy. And did you speak to Dr Murdo? What does he think?’

  ‘You can ask him yourself tomorrow.’

  When she got her alone Jenny said to her, ‘What’s wrong? What troubled you so much?’

  To her surprise, Lucy looked almost tearful. ‘He was like a stranger,’ she faltered.

  ‘In what way, Lucy? You don’t mean he didn’t know you?’

  ‘No, no ‒ he was waiting for me when I was shown in, he kissed me fondly; in that way he was as he used to be. But … Jenny, he kept talking all the time about repentance, and his duty to God … It wasn’t like Ned at all!’

  Next day was Millicent’s turn. She had no fault to find in what she saw. Her late husband had talked often of duty and uprightness and God’s will ‒ she found nothing strange in hearing her son speak of these things with fervour. Quite the contrary: she was pleased and reassured. When Dr Murdo restored Ned to his family, she was sure he would be a new man.

  Jenny agreed with that. Her visit to Ned gave her an insight into what Lucy had meant. Her brother was different, buoyed up by a new belief in God that had been instilled by Dr Murdo. It seemed to Jenny that religion had been called in to fill the space in his life left by alcohol. Whether it was a good thing remained to be seen. Certainly Ned was changed.

  He was full of remorse for past behaviour, full of plans for the future. He would really work on his book about the influence of Greece on Scottish life, but Jenny gathered his view was no longer so favourable. ‘Of course, we can’t blame them, since they were born before God sent His Son to save us, but the Greek philosophers had some very wrong views, Jenny. They were full of pride in their own abilities.’

  His sister, who had never read any Greek, couldn’t argue one way or the other.

  Although Dr Murdo felt that the visits from Ned’s family had been beneficial, he let it be known that enough was as good as a feast. From now on they would be restricted to one visit per week until Ned’s treatment ended. Since Jenny had to return to Galashiels she was granted the favour of another visit before leaving.

  St Andrew’s Day was approaching. The sanatorium was preparing a special celebration. Jenny found Ned engaged in making St Andrew’s crosses by fixing white ribbons on blue rectangles, which were to enliven the rather solemn green paint of the clinic’s interior.

  She bit her lip at the sight. It seemed such a belittling occupation for a man who used to discuss the politics of Athens and Sparta. He told her with evident satisfaction that they would have a reading of Scottish poetry and some songs of Robert Burns, ‘although we can hardly be too strong in our approval of a drinker like Burns, poor man …’

  Before she left, Jenny had a private word with Dr Murdo. ‘I don’t want to take up your time, doctor ‒ I’d just like to know how you think my brother is progressing?’

  ‘He’s doing very well indeed. We’ve purged his body of the poison and his mind of the craving for it.’

  ‘When do you feel he could return to his family?’

  ‘Well, generally three months is the shortest time. That would bring us to Hogmanay, and I believe you’ll agree with me,’ Murdo said with a smile, ‘that there’s too much strong drink available in Scotland at such a time for a newly-emerged abstainer.’

  ‘You are saying my brother must not drink at all?’

  ‘Exactly. His system cannot tolerate alcohol in any form.’

  ‘That’s a very severe restriction. Surely he may have a glass of wine ‒’

  ‘Nothing, Miss Corvill. I assure you, Ned understands this perfectly. He has even accepted that he must not take the wine at Communion ‒ the Lord will understand and uphold him in his vow of abstinence when he closes his lips at the rim of the cup.’

  ‘But surely one sip of communion wine ‒’

  ‘Could be fatal. One sip, one chance for the craving to take hold again ‒ he absolutely must not take a mouthful of anything alcoholic.’

  ‘And how long must he go on in this way?’

  ‘For ever, my dear young lady. It is a lifetime prohibition.’

  ‘Dr Murdo, I’d no idea he would have to face such an ordeal!’

  ‘Ned understands, that’s the main thing. You see, he has not only been very ill, he had a very great fright. He thought he was going mad. Now that he knows the cause of those episodes, and with his renewed faith in God, he will do well, have no fear.’

  ‘But doctor, you speak of keeping him with you until Hogmanay is over ‒ there will be a Hogmanay next year.’

  ‘But by then, Miss Corvill, Ned will have another year’s strength and experience. Come, don’t look so anxious. Your brother has not only his own strength, but the strength of his religion.’

  ‘That’s what worries me, sir. My brother was never very … devout. In that respect he was a disappointment to my father. I can’t help wondering if he has turned to religion out of … out of a desire for a prop, rather than a sincere feeling for it.’

  ‘Why should you blame him for using religion as a prop?’ Murdo said, wagging a finger at her. ‘He’s quite right to do so. “Thy rod and thy staff comfort me,” as the Psalmist said. And I am sure his sweet young wife and his family will be a support to him too.’

  Gatesmuir seemed very empty and strangely cold to Jenny when she reached home. Her mother wrote every day, and Ned once a wee
k: she would read the letters with avidity, longing for someone with whom she could discuss them. But there was no one. Not even Baird, with whom she’d often had a cosy chat: Baird had been left in Glasgow to look after her mother. The other domestic staff would have been very embarrassed if Jenny had spoken to them of personal matters, and the workers at the mill were too much in awe of her to be friends.

  Ronald Armstrong had been the exception. Ronald had been a friend as well as a colleague. But Ronald was gone.

  It was inevitable that she should turn to Franz Lennhardt. At first it was simply for talk, for human contact. But there was no one at home for her to hurry back to, and to go to Franz’s little cottage became so much part of her life that she gave up reproaching herself for it.

  Their lovemaking now was different. They were lovers but they were also friends. They would lie side by side and talk for an hour or more, sometimes about inconsequential things but sometimes about deep feelings.

  ‘Oh, if only we could be married,’ Franz groaned as he held her close at parting one night. ‘We are like man and wife ‒ are we not?’

  ‘But it’s not really so,’ she reminded him, putting a finger on his mouth as he was about to kiss her again. ‘My darling, it will soon be the New Year. My brother writes to say he has decided to come home to Gatesmuir. By the end of the first week of January they will be here ‒ and after that it will be difficult for us to go on meeting like this.’

  ‘We must manage somehow, Jenny,’ he insisted. ‘We must find a way.’

  They both knew that it would be well-nigh impossible. And yet Jenny looked forward to the homecoming of her family. Her mother came first with Baird, saying Ned had stayed behind to close up the Glasgow flat. ‘He felt he ought to see to all that himself,’ she confided.

  ‘But is he fit for that kind of thing, Mother?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Jenny, he is very well indeed. You’ll be surprised when you see him.’

  Jenny was indeed surprised. Her brother was the very picture of health. His hair had a deep vital gloss, his eyes were clear and alert, he moved with confidence. His wife, by contrast, seemed to have lost some of her self-assurance. It was as if she didn’t quite know what to make of this man to whom she now found herself married.

  Ned took a week or so to work himself into familiarity with the old round in Galashiels. Then, over a substantial family dinner at which he as always drank plain water, he announced his plan for his new life.

  ‘I talked this over with Dr Murdo before I left the sanatorium and I have his full backing and approval for my campaign.’

  ‘What campaign is that, dear?’ his mother asked innocently.

  ‘I’m going to found a Borders Branch of the Scottish Temperance Society.’

  ‘Ned!’ gasped Lucy in dismay.

  ‘Good gracious,’ said his mother.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘I told you, Dr Murdo says I am. Working and living with him, I became conscious of how lucky I was. There are so many unfortunates who haven’t been brought to the Almighty for the help they need to conquer the Demon Drink. You know it’s the curse of Scotland, Mother ‒ there’s too much strong drink too easily available to people who ought not to have it.’

  ‘Well, I know it’s true that many of the sad cases I deal with in my charity work are brought about by ‒’

  ‘Exactly!’ Ned struck in. ‘And who better to show them the error of their ways than a man who has been through all that and been cured. A rich man, who admits he has been weak and sinful.’

  They listened to him talk. It appeared he planned to go out into the highways and byways of the Scottish Borders displaying himself as an example of how one could sin and yet repent and be saved.

  Jenny watched her mother and her sister-in-law. Millicent Corvill was half-apprehensive and half-approving. Lucy looked as if she wished the ground would open up and swallow her. True enough, it would be hideously embarrassing, thought Jenny.

  It became clear that Ned expected his family to come with him on his mission. To Jenny’s surprise, her mother quietly refused. ‘I’m too old for that kind of thing, dear,’ she said. ‘I honour you for what you mean to do, but I don’t think I can take any part in it.’

  ‘But I had such great hopes ‒’ He broke off. ‘Well, at any rate, you’ll come, Jenny.’

  ‘I think not, brother.’

  ‘But you must! You’ll be such an asset on a public platform!’

  She shook her head. ‘It would sound very odd if I stood up and preached temperance when any business acquaintance would be able to say I offer wine and spirits in my office when I entertain.’

  ‘But you could say you yourself never partake. I allow alcohol here at Gatesmuir for guests, but I can honestly say I never touch it myself.’

  ‘You, of course, can say that, but I must confess I like an occasional glass of wine, Ned. I don’t wish to become a total abstainer.’

  Her brother went on trying to persuade her but she made it clear she didn’t want to be involved in his vocation. Ned sighed. ‘Ah well, it must be just you and I, Lucy dear,’ he said.

  ‘Me?’ cried Lucy.

  ‘As a good wife you’ll accompany me to meetings. There are many women, you know, who fall by the wayside because of drink. And many mothers of families where the breadwinner spends his wages on whisky, so that they need our help and advice.’

  Lucy tried to say she felt she would be no good at that kind of thing. But she had never been any good at standing up to a man. She had played a role all her life, the role of the gentle maiden, the sweet obedient wife. She got her way in general by wheedling and cajoling and, if all else failed, by secret disobedience. But with this new Ned, it was impossible to wheedle and cajole. He was strong in his conviction and expected Lucy to be the same.

  He launched himself into his campaign. Lucy went with him. It was clear to Jenny that her sister-in-law hated it all, yet she hadn’t the courage to stand up and say, ‘No, I don’t want to.’ She attended meetings, she sat on platforms, she shook hands with black-clad men and earnest ladies, she listened while her husband beat his breast in public and every day she looked more and more desperate to escape.

  They had a party at Gatesmuir for Millicent Corvill’s fiftieth birthday. It was the first party since the family’s return from Glasgow, so there were a large number of guests. The usual innocent party games were played, there was dancing to a little trio of fiddle, melodeon and flute, and there was plenty to eat and drink.

  In deference to Ned’s principles, there was alcohol-free fruit cup and selzer water in plenty. But Jenny had insisted there must be spirits for the local businessmen, and there was also a vast bowl of what was known locally as the Captain’s Grog. This was a concoction of juices from expensively-imported tropical fruits liberally laced with white rum, a traditional recipe much in favour with the older generation.

  Jenny was sitting with the young Corvills at a table in a shadowy corner where the candles were beginning to dwindle in their holders and the light from the ceiling gasolier didn’t reach. She was glad of the dimness for she was very tired; it was well past midnight and still the guests didn’t seem to want to go.

  Ned had been teased a good deal by the young men in the course of the evening. He put up with it with good grace, but Lucy blushed with embarrassment when he was called ‘Mr Misery’ and accused of being a spoilsport. He was now enthusing over a grand rally he was organising for the following week, when temperance bands from the local area were to meet in Selkirk and be given newly woven banners, these to be borne in procession to the local Free Church where they would be blessed by the minister.

  ‘And you, I suppose, will preach a sermon,’ laughed Laurie Menteith.

  ‘Certainly not, sermons are for the pulpit. But the minister has kindly agreed to allow me to say a word about my own salvation.’

  Lucy, Jenny knew, was desperately trying to avoid having to go to the event, which promised to
be more than usually mortifying to her. In fact, she came as close as she could to saying she wouldn’t go, only to be gently admonished by Ned for her shyness and too-great humility.

  ‘We’ll be doing the Lord’s work,’ he assured her, looking around for approval at the others round the table.

  Since most of his guests were fond of a drink, this appeal met with scant response. Jenny, half-asleep, let her gaze drop and was just in time to see a hand move Ned’s glass of fruit cup away from his plate. In the guttering candle-flame she thought perhaps she had dreamed it but no ‒ the hand reappeared from behind the central flower-arrangement, nudging a different wine-glass into place.

  Perplexed, Jenny peered at the glass. It had a shred of pineapple floating on its surface. The glass contained the Captain’s Grog.

  She thought: Someone’s trying to play a cruel joke on Ned, someone’s trying to get him drunk.

  Jerking awake, she glanced up. Her eye met Lucy’s. And a flush of guilt ran up under Lucy’s pale skin.

  It was Ned’s wife who had wanted to get him drunk. And it was no joke.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Anyone who wanted to avoid Jenny in the morning could easily do so by breakfasting late. Jenny was always out of the house by eight o’clock, though she returned at midday for lunch. Anyone wishing to avoid her at lunch could do so by being out when she came home.

  Lucy’s tactical information was insufficient, however. When she came down at eleven on the morning after the party, having breakfasted in her room, it was to find her sister-in-law in the drawing-room with the household cat purring on her lap.

  Lucy turned to go out faster than she had come in. ‘Don’t go, Lucy,’ Jenny said, ‘I want to have a chat.’

  ‘Er … I can’t stop ‒ I’m going out on a morning visit.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jenny, rising and putting the indignant cat on the settee.

  ‘Oh, no, I’m visiting Mrs Lyall ‒ you know you don’t like her ‒’

  ‘All the more reason why I should come,’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t play enough part in the family calls.’