by Leah Fleming
‘But…’ Netta lurched forward and Peg held her breath. This time it was Angus who came to the rescue, grabbing her arm and holding her back.
‘Whisht! Not now, Netta, now’s not the time.’
‘What do you mean, not now? Do they think that Peg had my baby?’ As Peg hustled her visitors quickly through the door, Angus took Netta to one side.
‘They don’t know about your troubles, it’s not the sort of thing you speak about in company. They think we adopted Gus… during the war. Don’t make a fuss and spoil the visit. Wait until they’ve gone and we’ll have it out then. Let Peg have her day. She’s been a good mother, you know.’
‘I’m sure she has but I’m home now and he’s my responsibility. Pretending he’s yours isn’t going to help anybody in the long run.’ Netta was so angry she could hardly get the words out of her mouth. Peg watched anxiously from the hallway as he tried to calm her down.
‘Not now, Netta,’ he pleaded and for the first time she saw real torment in his grey eyes, fear that his daughter would take the baby away from them. Speechless, Netta plonked herself down by the fireside to listen to the prattle of baby talk, the comparisons of who had how many teeth, what injections they had endured, who was sleeping through the night. All that sacred mother knowledge she knew nothing about, all the babyhood she had missed.
They ignored her silent presence until she rose up and left the room, to hide in the kitchen, away from the lies and the boasting.
Peg sat on the edge of her seat… uncomfortable in case Netta made an exhibition of herself, screaming and cursing, and they might have to send for Dr Begg and an ambulance to take her back to Park Royal. To her own horror Peg was feeling a certain grim satisfaction in that scenario, but then all sorts of skeletons would have to come out of the cupboard and she did not want the Hustons to know there was weakness in the family.
Say nothing, keep calm, go along with the pretence, it’s only for a few days… But Netta’s obvious sulking soured the celebrations. She refused to attend the Social in the Memorial Hall. Said she was under the weather and did not want to be a damp squib but offered to babysit. Peg was suspicious at first but went to get dressed and made light of the threats hanging in the air. Alone in the kitchen with the wall clock chiming in midnight hour, sipping a burning dram of whisky and eating some cake, with two babies asleep upstairs blissfully unaware of the dramas below, Netta would come to her senses once she realised they held all the trump cards.
*
‘How dare you pass off my bairn as your own!’ she yelled as they sat supping porridge, stony-faced and hung over. The Hustons had departed early for there was talk of snow on the hills, the sky was leaden grey. But Netta was in no mood to be fobbed off any longer.
‘We did what we thought best, Netta. We did it to protect you from talk.’
‘Ach, away! How can ye kid yerselves that Ray is your adopted son?’
‘But he is… leastways we’ve got the care of him. I saw the doctor, he said we were his guardians. He’s better off with us. What have you to offer him?’
‘Ma hand tae God, I’m his mother!’
‘Don’t blaspheme, Netta, not in this house,’ said Father sternly. ‘You’re in no position to argue the toss. We’ve put a roof over your head and his, and many a father would have turned you out the door for all those lies.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do I have to spell it out, Mrs Hunter – or rather Miss Nichol? It’s about time you told us the truth. Are you married or not?’
‘Yes, I was married.’
‘That’s not what the Register Office would have us believe. There was no marriage there to their knowledge.’
Netta froze like a rat holed in a corner. ‘We were married over the anvil and then we had the banns read.’
‘By a Minister of God or some anvil priest?’ shouted Peg.
Does it matter?’ Netta screamed back. ‘It was a wedding of the heart. Fate intervened to prevent us…’ Tears were rolling down her face.
‘You have shamed us before the Stewartry! Those anvil marriages are worth nothing in the eyes of the law, and you know it. They stopped them years ago… stopped young hussies making fools o’ themselves. Well, Mrs Hunter you’ve made yourself so Mrs Hunter you’ll remain, but in the eyes of the Almighty you’re nothing but a common-law wife. What’s done cannae be undone, can it, Angus?’
Angus Nichol sucked on his pipe and stared hard at his daughter.
‘What fools you’ve made of us. I even went to the army to demand your pension. How do think I felt when I was told Corporal Hunter had never registered a wife? But no grandson of mine is going to be a bastard. He’s been registered in my name and be done with it. We have the care of him. You’re not fit to be his mother!’
‘Oh, but I am. All I’ve worked for in hospital is to get home to look after him. I can stay here and get a job to support us both. I won’t ask another penny from you but Raeburn is mine, not yours!’
‘That’s not what’s best. How can yous look after him after all that carry on in the hospital? I saw you dribbling like an imbecile, your tongue hanging out, not knowing if you were Donald or Agnes… There must be a weakness somewhere, there must be, and we don’t want wee Gus exposed to any of that carry on again.’ Peg was enjoying her moment of triumph for she had indeed seen Netta at her weakest and Netta had known nothing about it.
‘Dr Begg’ll tell you, it was a one in a thousand chance. I was unlucky,’ Netta pleaded.
‘Unlucky or no, it happened and I’m not letting wee Gus go oot of this house until I’ve a certificate in my hand to prove you’ll no go doolally again!’ Peg’s mouth was a mean thin line. She banged her fist on the table, dark brows knitted together.
‘I don’t need a certificate to make me his mother, I have the scars to prove it. The birth certificate is all I need.’
‘Well, you’re no getting it frae us… It was your father who had to register him as you were away with the fairies!’
Netta turned to Angus, bent over his bowl saying nothing. Surely he could see her pain?
‘I’m sorry for all the trouble. Don’t do this to me, please… I love Ray, he’s all I’ve got left of his father.’
‘We never did think much of yon soldier. It makes no odds now, he’s gone and can’t provide for you both. Get yourself a proper job, prove to us you are a fit mother by doing something with your life and we’ll think again on the matter. Until then he stays with us, here by this hearth, the only place he knows.’
‘Where his future will be all mapped out for him. He’s not just from farming stock. How do you know he’ll want to be tied to Stratharvar?’
‘Because he is of Nichol stock as well as Kirkpatrick. We’ve been here as long as the oaks. He’ll grow up knowing no different, I’ll see to that. He’s the son I need to keep this farm on the map. Don’t deny him his chance or you’re no a daughter of mine.’
Netta was sobbing now, great gulps coming out with each words.
‘Please, don’t make me leave him behind… I’ve lost so much of his babyhood already.’ She turned to the playpen and the baby looked up, beaming a smile. ‘See, he’s beginning to know his own mother now. How could you be so heartless as to separate us?’
‘Netta, you must understand that it’s the best for Gus and his future. Don’t make it harder on yourself. If only you’d told us the truth from the start…’
She was no longer listening. She leaped from the table, slammed the door and strode down the braeside track to the Strathavar. She must tell Dr Begg what they were doing to her.
‘Be strong,’ said a voice in the wind. ‘This is a test of your strength, hold fast, child,’ whispered Rae’s voice in her inner ear. ‘You are his mother, you will always have a claim on him. Watch over him at all times, keep close to him whatever it costs you… one day… one day.’ ‘One day what?’ Netta cried out. ‘How can I exist if he’s not by my side?’
*
Net
ta ran all the way to Dr Begg’s house at Stratharvar, once the gracious grey-stone Rectory of the old Episcopalian Church, with high gabled roof and Georgian windows. The coach house was converted into a waiting room and surgery. She rang the bell at the side entrance where an elderly maid in starched apron and cap opened the door.
‘Oh, it’s you, Netta. Home from the wars at last, are we? They said you were away doing war work, and you with a bairn. Still Peg’s doing a grand job for you. He’ll make a fine farmer’s son for Angus. You’ll be wanting the doctor, I suppose? Go and wait across the yard. He’ll be in shortly.’
Dismissed to the waiting room and its collection of ancient magazines with curling pages that Netta could swear had been there since her childhood, she thumbed through a few dog-eared Picture Posts, seeing the smiling faces of tired soldiers embarking on battleships, film stars supporting the war effort and Victory parades. She flipped over the pages anxiously. Nothing had changed but Mima Garvie’s opinions rankled. How dare the maid assume she’d dumped the baby on her parents? It appeared no one locally knew the truth about her absence: both a blessing and a worry. By now her heart was thumping with fear as it always did around a white coat or a ward.
‘Well now, who’s this coming to cheer my day?’ Dr James Begg breezed in as if she was a regular at his door. He took her hand in his as he ushered her into his consulting room full of cluttered instruments, files and a huge desk which he sat behind. This was the man who had put her in that place. She was in no mood for his jovial banter.
‘Well then, Jeanette, good to see you abroad at last. I was giving you a few days to settle in but you’ve beaten me to it. Haven’t they done a grand job?’ His beady grey eyes peered at her over half-moon spectacles. ‘Let’s have a look at you – thin as a lath but that’s to be expected. Peg and Angus will soon put some flesh on your bones – then you can look to the future. Nice to have you back in the land of the living. Park Royal may be a palace but it’s a bit of a barn. The best in south Scotland for your sort of thing, though. Did the trick. Got you sorted as I knew it would. How’s your memory, still a bit fuddled I expect. Early days… early days.’
‘Why? Dr Begg, why did you let them take my baby? Why has this happened to me?’ His dismissive small talk was pushed aside by her pleas.
‘If I knew that, my dear, I’d be a rich man. Just one of those things, a one in a thousand chance and you were the unlucky one. Not your fault, my girl. Have to put it behind you now. No more worries, no crying over spilt milk, Jeanette.’
No worries indeed! she was sick to the stomach with all the developments going on behind her back. Surely he would understand that?’
‘They won’t let me have my baby! Dr Begg, please help me. I find my baby is called Gus not Ray, and I’m not allowed to go near him without Peg watching over me in case I drop him. Father accuses and doesn’t look me in the eye. What’s going on?’ she pleaded.
‘Steady the Buffs, old girl, don’t get all het up. It’s early days, your release was unexpected. I suppose they wanted to clear the decks for Hogmanay. I’ve had a letter to say you’ve passed muster but you must go slowly. Surely you didn’t expect to walk in and take over as if none of this had happened? Your father paid for the best care and under the circumstances I think he’s been a Trojan. I’m sure he’ll support you for as long as is necessary but the bairn doesn’t know you from Adam, does he? Peg stepped into the breach like a real trooper, beyond the call of duty if you ask my opinion, especially as she can’t have a bairn of her own. They are the “kent” faces baby Nichol turns to and they love him like their own. Why should they let you walk away with him, with no home, no income, no place to call your own?’
‘That’s no my fault, you’ve just said so!’
‘Aye, but a real mother wants what’s best for her bairn and won’t just upsticks and dump him in a day nursery while she earns her living, will she?’
‘Thousands of women had to do that in the war,’ Netta argued.
‘But the war’s over, Jeanette, and you weren’t there to see them flocking back to their hearth and home to be housewives and mothers again. Think about it. A good mother never sacrifices her child’s welfare and chance of education. She wants the best for her child. Do you catch my drift, young lady?’
‘Are you saying I should leave him at Stratharvar, walk away from my baby as if he’d never been born?’
The Doctor leaned back on his chair, fingers pressed together, and said nothing.
‘Are you telling me to give him over to his grandparents?’
‘You did that once already, Jeanette, when you were ill. They stood by you then and saw you got the best treatment. You’ve already made the sacrifice. They’ll make good parents and give him a fine education, a secure home in beautiful surroundings. Many girls in your situation would gladly yield up their babies to a home such as theirs.’ Netta was shaking at his meaning, trembling with indignation. He was not listening to her pleas at all.
‘But it doesn’t have to be like that, Doctor. I can get a job nearby, rent a cottage. If I’m careful we’ll get by. We can all share him. He can spend as much time as he wants to on the farm,’ she argued. Dr Begg shook his head. ‘No, dear, you misunderstand. He’ll only be confused. It’s either one or the other. With you a life of uncertainty, with them an assured future. It’s not going to be so easy for you to get a job now with all the soldiers returning home. They want their jobs back, of course. And you’ll have to keep quiet about where you spent the last eight months. People have closed minds about mental institutions, palaces or not. References might be asked of me about your suitability… I can’t guarantee there’ll be no lapses in the future. If you were married, perhaps, but you’ve told lies, Jeanette. Your mother would be very disappointed in your behaviour.
‘Think carefully. A single woman with a child and no one to back her up will give a son no father to model himself on. At Stratharvar wee Gus’ll have the best of fathers who’ll set him fair for the future. Doesn’t it make sense?’
‘But my father can still take on this role.’ All the sense was leaking out of her head. It was difficult to form her arguments logically. He was battering down her opposition. ‘I didn’t come here to be told I must give up my baby, I can’t do it, surely you can see that?’
‘Then just bide a while, leave him settled and sort yourself out. Get some work, get to know him, visit when you can, leave him here until you can make a proper home, prove you are a stable person, find a nice young laddie to help bring him up… over time perhaps it’ll all pan out. Just wait and see.’
‘I want my baby now!’
‘We cannae always have what we want in this life, Jeanette, we get what we need. Look at your father when he lost his wife, left with a lassie to bring up on his own. He married for your sake and it’s no been a bad union. They’ve supported you when many another would have thrown you out. Don’t ask for the moon. You’re not in a fit state to rear a kiddie yet with nothing behind you.’ His voice was cold and his manner haughty now and Netta felt like a small child in front of the headmaster: foolish and frightened. Yet she was not going to give in easily to his arguments.
‘Thousands of war widows like me are doing just that on a meagre pension. No one is telling them they’ve not got the right to bring up their children, are they?’
‘That’s not the point. I see I shall have to spell it out to you. You never married and so forfeited the right to compassion. We just can’t have that sort of behaviour in our midst, shoved in our faces. It’s no example to the children of this parish, is it? Bairns out of wedlock! I think you’re still in a fragile state of mind, easily upset, volatile, and I should check your sedation. We don’t want to have to readmit you, do we?’
Netta’s mind was racing. She could hear the veiled threat in his patrician pan-loaf accent. Shut up, let him think you’re being obedient, be a good little girl, she told herself. The warning had been given. Nothing must make her return to Park Royal. She mu
st take no chances. Dr Begg was wrong, all her instincts were screaming, he’s wrong! Her baby should be at her side now, not at Peg’s… But Netta bowed her head in submission, swallowing her thoughts. It was time to stay silent.
A Secret Outing
Netta wrapped the baby tightly against the chill wind, packed the base of the bucket pram with his best outfit and a bottle of juice to pacify him and told Peg that they were going for a walk. ‘Don’t go far,’ she yelled as usual. ‘No, not far,’ Netta replied, racing down the track for the coast road, hoping for a lift. She had telephoned ahead for an appointment and waited by the bus halt for the morning coach, leaving the pram at the bottom of the ditch, hood up and canopy hidden from view.
In the bus she sat with Ray on her lap looking outwards, pointing to the rugged cattle in the fields, jiggling him until Kirkcudbright harbour came into view with its castle ruins and fishing fleet. They alighted near the square and made for the photographer’s studio off the High Street. He was set up and ready for they were late.
Ushered into the back, she changed Ray into his smocked romper and put on the jacket of her two-piece wedding suit in lavender crepe with its embossed lapels and collar. It had been waiting in the wardrobe all those months she’d been away, perfumed with mothballs but almost as new as the day it was first put on. It hung on her shrunken frame and when she fixed her hair into a smart Victory roll Netta felt suddenly older and greyer, drained of colour. Once dressed she placed over Ray’s neck Mother’s rainbow necklace which she had found at the back of Peg’s knicker drawer, still in its battered blue cardboard box from Laing’s of Glasgow.
There had been a frantic search for Ray’s birth certificate but it must be locked in Father’s deed box. The necklace hung like a charm over his chest and he played with the stones, chewing on the chain.
Archie Lambert fussed over their poses, placing them this way and that on his brocade settee. He had a black umbrella and waved at Ray from behind the camera. The baby was mesmerised by the lights, blue eyes sparkling like sapphires.
