by Millie Gray
Stevie began to dance about the living room. ‘Freda’s preggers and Robin’s to blame! Oh, oh, that’s my boy! Oh aye, Joey, that’s my boy!’ he chanted. ‘How could I ever hae thought that a laddie I sired would be . . . Wait until the morning, when I tell all my mates at the coal yard that my boy – yes, my laddie – has got a lassie into trouble, and he’s going to be a dad. What a boyo, what a boyo. A right chip off the old block, is he no’?’
In the past, Moira had never been tempted to tell Stevie the truth about Robin – and indeed Autumn – but today, as Stevie pranced about the room, she knew for certain that she had done the right thing in keeping him ignorant about his infertility. How could she ever burst his balloon, especially today? He had worked so hard to give her and the children a nice home; he did all that he could for them so that ‘his’ children would never want as he had done. Moira looked at Joey and, as she ran her fingers over his cage, she smiled, because she knew that a father was not just someone who slept with your mother. No, no, a father was a man who worked every hour he could, to bring home a decent wage. He was also a man who stood by his children through thick and thin. Moira chuckled as she recalled how Robin and Autumn just had to ask, and Stevie would put his hand into his pocket and willingly finance their dreams.
*
If Freda had not promised – and felt it was her duty to keep her promise – to go with Hannah to the Plaza dance hall on Friday night, she would have stayed at home. At home, in the peace and quiet, she would have thought about what she was going to do next week. She was never free from wondering what kind of marriage she and Robin would have and, to be truthful, she was having second thoughts . . .
They had just arrived at the dance hall when Hannah gasped. ‘Freda, I thought we wouldn’t know a soul here, yet look over there!’ She pointed at two well-dressed, attractive young women, who were leaning on the wall at the far side of the hall. ‘Those two lassies work in pay control at the Corporation, where I work.’ Hannah started to chuckle. ‘Here, Freda, look! They are waving at me to join them – do you mind?’
Even if Freda had minded it would not have mattered, because Hannah had already skipped over to be with the two girls. Freda smiled as she watched the trio grinning and gossiping. Their smiles then changed to giggles when three young men asked them if they would like to dance.
Freda didn’t really wish to dance with anyone so she took herself off the floor, where you waited to be asked to dance, and got herself seated out in the foyer. She was pleased that Hannah had met up with two work colleagues because it meant that her plan had been successful. Yes, Freda knew that Hannah needed to make some more friends of her own age, who she could go out and have fun with. Hannah definitely didn’t need Freda as her only pal, because Freda would soon be, as she saw it, a downtrodden wife and mother. Freda allowed her thoughts to drift back to her dilemma: should she go for an abortion – an abortion that would allow her to be carefree and enjoy the rest of her youth – or should she go ahead and marry Robin, who she knew would always take care of her? She thought about the future. She didn’t think she would be able to go through with an abortion, but what if she was unable to love a baby that was conceived in such degradation? Furthermore, would Robin be able to love the baby that wasn’t his own? She was still contemplating, lost in thought, when she became aware that a handsome young man was standing in front of her. When she realised who it was, she felt the desire to cry out in protest. It was none other than Ewan. Her breath was now coming in short pants and she could only nod to him. The very sight of him had made her throat contract, leaving her speechless. To be confronted by him at this difficult time was a cruelty beyond endurance.
‘Now,’ Ewan tersely began, ‘with what Robin told me today, you are the last person I would expect to meet here tonight.’
Swallowing hard, Freda stammered, ‘I only came to keep Hannah company.’ She gestured towards Hannah, who was on the dance floor having an animated conversation with a rather dishy young gentleman. ‘She is still very shy and unsure of herself, so I am her moral support.’
An uneasy silence fell between Freda and Ewan, but he did sit down on the bench beside her. Bending over and rubbing his hands together, he seemed lost and forlorn.
When Freda could stand the silence no longer, she quietly asked, ‘Is there something worrying you, Ewan? I mean, I know how hard your course is – qualifying as a doctor takes such a long time.’
Slowly, Ewan raised his head. ‘Yes, it takes years to train as a doctor, but somehow I thought that you understood that . . . I thought that you were waiting for me, but obviously not!’
‘Waiting for you? But Ewan, I met Angela recently and she was full of how you two will be marrying once you are qualified to practice. She has tea with your mother every week; they even go out to the pictures together!’ Freda was now crying profusely.
‘Believe me, Freda, I have never ever given Angela, or my mother, any reason to think that I would consider marrying her. You . . .’ He trailed off, his voice cracking. ‘You were always the girl of my dreams, Freda. See, today, when Robin asked me to be his best man and told me that he is going to marry you, because you are . . . pregnant . . .’ He was bent over again, and the floor was getting his full attention. ‘Good heavens, Freda, how could you allow yourself to be made pregnant by Robin? Were you that desperate?’ He faltered, shocked by his own anger. Beginning again, he tried to speak more calmly. ‘Robin is homosexual – or so I thought! He will always be my friend but I accept that he is different to me, in that he prefers to be romantically involved with men. Surely you know that too? Can you be sure he will be a faithful husband?’
Freda wished to scream out, ‘Ewan, do you know how dirty and completely humiliated I have felt since my stepfather, the beast that he is, violated me? I probably should have had an abortion and cleansed myself of his filth but I can’t do it!’ There was so much Freda wished to tell Ewan, but the words wouldn’t come out. Inwardly, she was crying because even if she’d known that her darling Ewan felt the same way about her as she did about him, she knew she could never have faced him. Where would she have found the courage to tell him about her shame at being raped by a monster? Knowing him so well, Freda knew that Ewan would have insisted on calling the police and making sure that Drew was charged for his crime. Freda knew that involving the police was the right thing to do, but there was something about the way that her family had handled everything that night that made her think there was something they were not telling her. She wasn’t sure that she fully believed Drew had been exiled to Amsterdam and she feared that if she went to the police, someone in her family – someone that she loved, and who loved her – might end up in big trouble . . . Freda shook her head and gave Ewan a sideways glance. No, she thought, a price has to be paid to keep my family safe and I have to pay it. Without uttering another word or even glancing at Ewan, she got up and left, leaving not only the dance hall behind but also her shattered dreams.
*
Robin asked the taxi driver to stop the cab at the end of Montgomery Street and after he paid the fare, he and Freda headed towards their shop. As he struggled to get the key into the lock, Freda started to laugh uncontrollably.
‘Glad you’re amused,’ Robin, who was still having difficulty finding the keyhole, muttered.
‘Sorry, it’s just that I have never seen you the worse for drink before. Here, give me the key and I will open up.’
‘No, I will manage.’
‘Look, Robin, see those lights twinkling over on Gayfield Square? That is the police station. Now, if you don’t get the door open soon, someone from there will come over here because they will think we are trying to break in, and we could end up spending our wedding night in a cell.’
Tossing the keys towards Freda with a grunt, Robin said, ‘It’s all thanks to my dad that I am—’ he hiccupped.
‘Drunk and incapable?’ interjected Freda, as she opened the door and switched on the light. ‘But, know somethin
g, my dear,’ she mused, ‘what a wedding we had! It was all so unreal and not what I expected at all.’
Robin filled the kettle and spooned Nescafé into two cups. ‘They say strong coffee helps you sober up.’
‘Maybe so, but don’t bother with any for me. I haven’t had a single drink, unless you count umpteen cups of tea.’
‘Right enough, you were lucky that my dad didn’t keep slapping you on the back and saying “Well done, son, I never doubted you”, before setting another dram down in front of you.’
‘It was some do, right enough. And Billy did just great as your best man.’
‘Aye, he did. Mind you, if Ewan had got more warning he would have done it, but he is away south for a couple of days . . .’ Robin stopped to ponder. ‘Thought, I did, that he would have taken the luscious Angela away with him, but she evidently preferred to come to our wedding. I wonder when they will tie the knot.’
‘Never,’ Freda mused. ‘She’s not his type. And our reception in the YWCA didn’t suit her tonight.’
‘It didn’t?’
‘No, just a bit too working class for her – even though your dad had those upmarket caterers, Crawford’s, supply the buffet!’
Now it was Robin’s turn to giggle. ‘See, when I saw that old guy come tottering into the hall—’
‘Which old guy?’ Freda looked puzzled. ‘There were just so many of your dad’s old pals there, and they all seemed to have trouble staying upright!’
‘Come on, Freda. You know who I mean! The one who staggered in, carrying an accordion.’
‘You mean the old guy that supplied the music for the evening?’ Freda was laughing again. ‘But, give credit where it’s due, when he eventually got started on the box, he gave Jimmy Shand a run for his money!’
‘Yeah, it was just a pity that during the Scottish country dances, he stopped if anyone wasn’t doing them properly.’
Sniffing back happy tears, Freda looked lovingly at Robin before saying, ‘Thank you for all you are doing for me and for giving me such a lovely day today.’ She stopped to giggle. ‘It was so different from what we planned, but when your dad got involved all sanity and reason took a back seat!’ She paused again and nodded. ‘Know something, despite it all going everybody else’s way but ours, I will always have such fond memories of our wedding day. Now, let’s go through to the back and get the bed settee down and ourselves off to sleep.’
Robin pulled down her bed for her and then removed a folding camp bed from the cupboard.
‘Who’s going to sleep on that?’
‘Me. Remember, Freda, I did promise you that there would be no strings attached. In order to keep to that, separate beds are a must.’
By now, Freda was out of her evening dress. It was the gown she had worn on the night of the Lorimer Cup, and today it had served her again as a wedding dress. She could have said more to Robin but exhaustion was overtaking her, so she slipped between the crisp new sheets on her bed and was asleep before Robin had even switched off the light.
*
After Robin and Freda left their wedding reception, the guests began to dwindle away. Soon, only Ellen, Moira and a very drunk Stevie were left. Both women sat down at a table and laughed as Stevie, who had valiantly tried to hold out, began to slip down the wall, before landing in a drunken heap on the floor.
‘Will I go out and see if there is a taxi passing for you?’ Ellen asked.
‘Aye, Ellen, in a minute,’ Moira replied. ‘You know, my Stevie did so enjoy this day. I thought it was a pity though, that when he asked everybody to rise and toast the bride and groom, he also felt the need to say “and my grandchild, who is on his way”!’
Ellen tittered. ‘Well, I suppose there is no use in hiding the fact that Freda is pregnant. She’s not the first to find herself in that position and she most certainly won’t be the last!’
Strumming her fingers on the table, Moira had something to say but was hesitant to say it. Eventually, leaning over the table and covering Ellen’s hand with hers, Moira looked her straight in the eye and whispered, ‘Ellen, I just want you to know that when the baby arrives, it will be, as far as the world is concerned, our grandchild. What I am saying to you is this: I do not know who the father of Freda’s baby is, but I do know that it is not my Robin. And furthermore, that knowledge is safe with me.’
Ellen had always liked Moira and admired how she coped with Stevie’s eccentricities and indeed her own. Curling her free hand into a ball, she decided that she owed it to Freda to tell Moira the truth – not the whole truth, but enough to make sure that Moira knew Freda was no tart.
After haltingly telling Moira about Freda’s shameful, brutal rape, she stopped. As much as she trusted Moira, she did not dare tell her about the happenings after the attack. No one was to be privy to the knowledge of those happenings, except for those that were there that night.
‘Ellen,’ Moira began, but before continuing, she looked over to make sure that Stevie was still comatose. ‘Ellen, say no more. Let me just say to you, it is a wise child who knows his own father.’
When she was home and safely tucked up in her bed, Ellen went over and over the cryptic words that Moira had spoken to her. She was sure that Moira had been trying to tell her something – but what exactly?
Six
April 1967
The number 16 bus, which Stevie had boarded at the foot of Leith Walk, had just arrived at Elm Row when Stevie said to himself, ‘Nothing else for it then, but to get myself off the bus and . . .’ He sighed as he alighted at Elm Row. He just had to walk three steps down, pass through a hole in the hedge and cross over the road, and then he would be at the door of his son’s shop.
He had never visited the shop before, but he soon spotted it – the balloons and streamers hanging from the door and window caught his eye. To be truthful, he and his son had never really soldiered together in the past, but ever since the laddie had got married, Stevie had tried to build bridges. He knew that today was a big day for Robin and his wife Freda; indeed, every day for a week now, Joey, the font of all wisdom, had told him that if he did not turn up to this event, then he would probably never see his grandchild, who was due late September or early October.
This grandchild had changed the way that Stevie’s mates viewed his son. He knew that, behind his back, they had often sniggered and hinted that Robin was a nancy who would never father any offspring . . . but that was then. Now, Freda being three months pregnant stopped that subject of gossip dead in its tracks.
Stevie had just entered the shop when someone handed him a Pimm’s – a cocktail sort of thing with bits of fruit floating in it. He wasn’t quite sure whether to eat it or drink it! As he gazed down at it, he thought that it certainly didn’t have the same appeal as a pint of McEwan’s Export beer. Nursing the glass, he looked about the hairdressing salon. His heart sank. It was, to his eyes, like something out of a French brothel. Everywhere there were mirrors, lights and people talking loudly and bawdily, smoking cigarettes through long, pretentious holders. Then he espied Robin. Robin was now a fully-trained hairdresser – okay, ladies’ hairdresser – but his own locks had obviously not seen a pair of scissors in a month and had been expertly brushed into a Beatles–style bob. A wicked wee smile came to Stevie’s face, as he remembered how he had remarked to Joey that he wouldn’t be surprised if Robin ended up in a yellow submarine! Joey had replied that Robin was only following – and enhancing – the Liverpool look, which all the trendy young men had adopted. Shaking his head, Stevie thought that the Beatles, a band of four lads from Liverpool who had taken the world by storm, had a lot to answer for. In Robin’s case, it was not just the mod hairstyle (a heavy fringe that drooped over his eyebrows, and side lappers that Dracula would have been at home with) it was also his apparel. Today he was sporting a long, tunic-like coat with stand-up lapels. However, as ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ blared out from the record player, Stevie conceded that, on the plus side, Robin was also wearing a royal
-blue bow tie. This, in Stevie’s opinion, was a more acceptable accessory than the swinging medallion Robin had worn last week to compliment the bohemian style of his open-neck shirt.
When Robin disappeared into the back shop, Stevie’s attention was taken over by the young women. He just wasn’t prepared for the amount of bare flesh that they put on display! The ‘in thing’ for fashionable women was to ape the model Twiggy. This meant that they all wanted to look as though they were in need of a good feed, and all dressed in the shortest, brightest and gaudiest skirts they could find. Stevie shook his head, observing that the only thing of decent size that the girls were wearing was their tall ‘go-go’ boots . . .
‘Hello, Dad!’ A voice broke into Stevie’s thoughts and put an end to his ogling.
‘Hello to you too, Freda,’ he managed to stammer, before guiding her over to a hairdryer. Pushing the hood up, he indicated that Freda should sit down on the seat. Looking down at her, he noted that she was wearing a bright crimson shift dress, multi-coloured tights and a pair of flat Mary Janes. He grimaced. He had thought that, by now, she would be covering herself up in a smock – a smock that would indicate to the world at large that she was pregnant.
‘Nice that you could make it today,’ Freda observed. ‘It will mean so much to Robin.’
Just then, a young lassie with a tray of small cakes appeared and asked if they would like one.
Stevie’s mouth gaped as Freda put her hands on to her stomach and started to shake it, spluttering, ‘No, thank you. Just look at the way I am putting on the beef!’ She giggled. ‘Think it’s a heifer I’m having, not a baby. What do you think, Dad?’
Stevie was now staring at Freda’s bump, transfixed. He was awash with delight to see that it had ballooned, even since he saw her last week.
Moira sidled over to him and said, ‘You’re learning. And, as my mum used to say, it is never too late to do that.’
