The aunt gazed wide-eyed at Kate, her lips clamped shut in a thin line.
“I was good enough for Pearce to bed and get with child and marry two days since.”
“Well.” The aunt glared at Pearce. “What minister did you convince to marry you to this baggage?”
“No priest or minister, lady. We spoke our vows at the Registry Office in Belfast.”
“Pearce, I am grievously disappointed in you. That you should descend to this. Take that heretic hussy out of my house at once. At once, do you hear?” The aunt turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Phew.” Calum sighed. “I knew Mama would not like it. I said so didn’t I?”
“Come, Kate. I’ll not stay where I’m not welcome.” Pearce picked up his bags then hesitated. “I don’t suppose, Calum, you could see your way to float me a small loan? Purely temporary, I assure you. Just till I’m settled here and made my arrangements from Ireland.”
Calum opened his purse and peered into it. “Four guineas, Pearce. Would that help?”
‘Four guineas.’ Kate thought, More money than I’ve ever seen in one sum before; more than half cook’s yearly pay at Laggan House. We’re rich.’
“Thanks, Calum. I’ll get this back to you soon.” Without summoning the maid or the butler, Calum saw them to the door himself.
Standing on the step, again clutching her bundles, Kate heard the final clunk of the door closing behind them.
“Come, Kate. We’ll get a tram and find a rooming house for a day or so.”
Chapter 5
This time it was a relatively short ride to what Pearce told her was the centre of town. There he placed his two bags close to a shop window.
“Kate, set your bundle beside my luggage and sit there with them while I find a policeman.”
“A policeman? What do we need a policeman for?”
“He’ll know where there might be a convenient rooming house.”
Pearce strode off leaving Kate to sit looking glumly around her. To her horror, she hadn’t been waiting long before a policeman appeared.
“What are you doing here, lass? No loitering. Pick up your bundles and move on.”
“I’m waiting for my husband.”
“Oh, Irish are you? Why don’t you people stay where you belong and not come here to beg? Now, move on.”
Kate was about to argue, but Pearce came round the corner striding confidently towards them.
“Is there some problem, officer?”
His cultured accent and appearance obviously impressed the constable who touched the fingers of his right hand to his helmet.
“No, sir, no trouble at all. I’m just telling this person to move along.”
“That person is my wife. She is waiting for me.”
“Oh.” The constable looked from Pearce to Kate and back again. From his expression, his opinion of Pearce fell considerably.
“Now, my man,” Pearce ignored the officer’s frown, “can you direct us to a decent rooming house?”
“None that will welcome Irish such as her. But you might find a place the other side of the Tron in the east end of my beat. A woman there has taken over some single-ends in her tenement by paying the rents of those that couldn’t pay then evicting them.”
He gave Pearce directions and stood watching as they picked up their belongings and started off.
At the address, Pearce asked an urchin playing in the street for Mrs Ross. She answered their knock on the door and seeing Pearce first, she smiled ingratiatingly, wiped her hands on her filthy, sack-cloth apron, and said in a broad Glasgow accent: “Whit kin Ah dae fur ye, sur?”
Kate pushed forward. “We need a place to stay.”
Mrs Ross glared, then the opportunity for profit reasserted itself.
“Ah dae hae a grand wee single-end, fine an cosy, fully furnished an only hauf-a-croon a week. Ye’ll no find awthing better than that. There’s many a homeless body in the streets that would kill for such a place.”
Pearce wrinkled his nose at the woman’s sour body odour and rank breath, but Kate said: “We should at least take a look.”
In their walk, she had seen many tramps wandering aimlessly.
They surveyed the single-end: A cell-like room with a tiny curtained scullery to one side with a dripping goose neck tap on a black iron sink; above the sink a barred, curtain-less, dirty window; on the other side of the room a wall recess held a double bed covered with a filthy looking cover of little crocheted squares, doubtless someone’s pride at one time, but now little more than a moth eaten rag; a damp, dank smell pervaded the air and wallpaper peeled in patches.
Kate glanced at Pearce. His face was a picture of arrogant disgust. Before he could speak, she tugged his sleeve and whispered: “Let’s take it, dear. It’s some place to sleep for now. I’m completely done in.”
Their prospective landlady scowled.
“There’s many in Glasgow won’t let ony Irish within spittin distance o their homes. Turn away from this and ye’ll see naethin but No Irish Need Apply’ signs.”
Pearce grudgingly agreed, paid the landlady her half-crown in advance, and sat in the only chair, staring around.
Kate was only too well aware that Pearce had never lived in such squalor, with a communal lavatory on the stair-head, and surrounded by poverty stricken neighbours.
Kate soon got to know her immediate neighbours, but disclosed nothing of her circumstances beyond the fact that she and Pearce had emigrated from Ireland to Glasgow in search of work.
Naturally the neighbours were consumed by curiosity about the oddly assorted pair: Kate practical and obviously not gentry; Pearce, who even in his oldest clothes stood out like a sore thumb, a gentleman born, with the assurance and arrogance of a man of substance.
The single-end yielded to Kate’s scouring with lye and carbolic. The table, scraped clean and scrubbed, showed a white pine surface; curtains purchased at the Barrows graced the now-clean window; the ragged bedcover thrown out and replaced by sheets and blankets again bargained for by Kate at the Barrows.
Once a week Kate trundled her washing in a borrowed pram to the local steamie.
Chapter 6
Pearce searched for work. Up at dawn, dressed in moleskin trousers, old tweed jacket, long white scarf, and with a flat bunnet jammed on top of his mop of curly, dark hair, he trudged off to scour the East End and the City Centre for work – any sort of work.
Soon, from bitter experience, he learned which firms to avoid – firms where No Irish Need Apply’ was posted and reinforced verbally. At the beginning he did get some jobs in construction, but it was soon all too clear that not only was he unused to such labour, it was quite beyond his capabilities. Also, although he was a ‘Paddy’, he was no Irish navvy. His supercilious manner alienated employers and fellow employees alike.
One morning, deep in despair, he set out yet again from the shelter of the close leaving behind him even at this early hour the sounds, sights, and smells of the tenement ... A baby’s screaming; the clatter of dishes; the yells of a couple already at each other’s throats in the confined cell of their home; the rustle of rats from the odorous back court middens; and over all the gushing of water from the stinking, communal water-closets on each stair-head.
The small hoard of sovereigns had dwindled and all they had left were two of the four Calum had given them. He just had to find work. Kate was due almost any day and there were sure to be added expenses over that.
He stood lost in thought, oblivious of his surroundings, when he heard a voice.
“For the last time, man, are you looking for work or not?”
Pearce shook himself. “That I am indeed.”
The man looked him up and down.
“By the looks of you, you’re no labouring man. Can you read and figure?”
“Certainly, I can.”
“Right, one of my tally men got himself a skinful last night and fell and broke his leg. I need a checker. Let�
�s see how you do.”
The man turned and strode off into the dark interior of the Candlerigg’s Fruit Market with Pearce hastening after him.
Chapter 7
In the three short months in which they’d been staying in the mean street of squalid houses, Kate’s neighbours had already proved their worth. All of them, like herself of Irish extraction, were good to her. Already, she knew all too well it did not do to stray far beyond the confines of her own immediate neighbourhood, for there was much anti-Irish feeling abroad; Irish were not welcome for housing, employment, or even for a place in a lowly soup kitchen. Kate was fully aware in her own street, and indeed, throughout Scotland, there were strictly defined barriers, not only of class, culture, and religion, but also perhaps even more strongly on racial lines.
It had not taken the inquisitive, yet well-meaning, neighbours too long to work out that Kate, although not an attendee at Mass, was still a good living Irish woman. That being so, even despite the mystery of her man who attended the Episcopalian, or Anglican High Church, she was soon surrounded with friendship, kindliness, and endless cups of tea and sympathy. True, there was little enough to spare in the way of food in the other single-end homes, but even so, her new-found friends loved to be able to give Kate what little extra food they could afford.
Each time Mother Murphy did a morning’s baking for her own large brood, of steps and stairs bairns, there was always an extra steaming-hot pancake, or soda-bread scone wrapped up in a dish-cloth and sent over to Kate.
Big Betty Donovan took one sympathetic glance at the peaky-looking, undernourished young mother-to-be and said in her forthright manner, and her broad Glasgow accent: “Weel noo, ma lassie, apart frae that bloody big bulge ye’ve got ther, yer needing for tae be fatted up a bit – wi’ sweet bites, dainty tit-bits and such like. And Ah’m tellin’ ye this, hen, Ah’m the very one that’s goin’ tae tak ye in haun’ and see tae it.”
True to her word, Big Betty would bring in a dish of hot ham and lentil soup or a cup of Scotch broth, or even as on one memorable occasion, a rich creamy egg custard to tempt Kate’s appetite.
As she thought of the many kindnesses she had received Kate hummed softly to herself as she worked about her tiny and already spotless home. Cold as the morning was, she nevertheless refrained from yet lighting the fire after she had set it with twists of newspaper and odd bits of coal. What little coal there was left in the hod, she would keep for tonight when Pearce would return, no doubt yet again, cold, hungry, still jobless and low in mind, body, and spirit.
She had just finished sweeping round the hearth and was on the point of lumbering to her feet when she felt the first stab of pain. Strangely enough, the pain was not in her swollen belly as she might reasonably have expected it to be. No, the debilitating pain was low down on her spine. She cried out involuntarily at the same time placing a hand on the painful spot. Then, after having eased herself gently into their one and only horsehair armchair, she placed a cushion at her aching back for extra comfort. No sooner had she done this and finding no instant relief, she decided in her wisdom what was really needed was the stone jar filled with hot water. It was when she rose, or rather tried to rise from the chair, that the excruciating pain shot right through her entire body. With a gasp, she again sank back against the cushion, at the same time wiping the beads of perspiration from her brow with a now-trembling hand.
She thought: It can’t possibly be the baby. Not yet, another two weeks at least, that’s what they’d said at the Panel Clinic on my last visit wasn’t it? Anyway, surely if the baby had really started then obviously the pains would be in my stomach. Uninformed I might be, but even I know that, it stood to reason, didn’t it?’
Having convinced herself of her own logic she nodded and again determined to stand up, this time to put the kettle on the hob for a much-needed cup of tea as well as to fill the earthenware stone pig water bottle. If anything, the pain was even worse than before and Kate almost fainted as the waves of pain, fear, and nausea washed over her. It was then it finally dawned on her she would have to seek help of some kind – and be pretty damned quick about it too.
Somehow, she managed to crawl from the chair, pick up the long-handled poker, and then by holding on to the side of the table she eventually reached the side of the bed. Once safely there she stretched across and with as much force as she could manage in her present state she beat a tattoo on the thin dividing wall between her own single-end home and that of Hannah Mary Malone. Still poised uncomfortably against the bed, she listened intently, but as yet could hear no answering tattoo. Drawing the last of her strength to her aid, she banged again on the thin partition wall, but this time even louder and more desperately than before. Then instead of stopping to listen, she banged and banged and went on beating a desperate summons for help. Her last vestige of strength gone, she collapsed on top of the bed, a weeping, pitiful bundle of abandoned humanity. She longed to run away and hide, but not only was flight impossible in her present state, the harsh fact remained, and this kept hammering at her exhausted, befuddled brain, she had nowhere else in the wide world to go. There she was and there she would stay until either a passing neighbour – or perhaps even Pearce – heard her cries of distress, or, and here she shuddered at the awful thought, until she died. Just as this thought crossed her mind, she was aware of the sound of the door opening. This at once gave her hope, for in this neighbourhood nobody ever locked their doors and so neighbours, family, and friends were free to come and go exactly as and when they pleased. So the releasing of the doors neck could mean one thing: help in the shape of a kent face and sympathetic neighbour was now at hand.
Chapter 8
By the time Pearce returned home late that evening from his newly-acquired job, his suffering and exhausted young wife had already been in the agonies of labour for close on twelve hours. As yet, nothing much of any importance had happened. She was being attended by a well-meaning woman, Martha Shaw, who was by way of being the local amateur midwife. This worthy was doing her feeble, but totally ineffective, best to help poor Kate in her long hours of travail. She did this by mopping at the young woman’s forehead with a vinegar rag from time to time, while quoting what she in her wisdom thought appropriate: namely long passages from the Guid Book. In addition to being versed in such Bible-thumping, she was also well-versed in such trite sayings as: ‘Oh. Sleep, oh gentle sleep. Nature’s soft nurse,’ and Take Time while Time is, for Time will away.’ As if this were not enough and about as much good to poor Kate as a silken tea-gown, the stupid woman, throughout her ministrations, Bible readings and brow-moppings used as a sort of Greek Chorus, the promise that all would be well, for it was well known, and in fact, promised by the Guid Lord himself that: ‘Joy cometh in the morning. Halleluiah. Joy cometh in the morning.’
In the end, it wasn’t Joy that came. It was further excruciating pain, followed at long last by the entry into the world of not one, but two screaming babies.
The arrival of twins was cause for even greater verse speaking by the now flushed-with-triumph Martha Shaw. As she washed each tiny bundle of humanity, she went into ecstasies of praise and thanksgiving to the Guid Lord, high above in his Heaven.
Throughout this seemingly never-ending night, Kate was not the only one to be suffering. Pearce had also endured the tortures of the damned as he listened to his wife’s screams, knowing not only he was powerless to help her in any way, but it was all his fault in the first place that she should now be suffering. Through that weary night, he not only battled with his conscience, but also sank ever deeper into a dark pit of self-loathing and guilt.
Yet, when at last the ordeal was over and he looked down at the two babies laid side by side in the large wooden drawer, he felt a wonderful, almost holy upsurge of his spirits.
Perhaps it had all been worthwhile after all and not just a dreadful mistake? As he gazed in wonder at the two tiny forms, which the midwife had assured him were perfect in every detail with the requisi
te number of pink fingers and toes, he, there and then, decided in his own mind which child was to be his own particular favourite.
Such a bonnie wee lass she is,’ he thought, ‘already with a cap of fine golden hair like spun sunbeams, a rosebud mouth, and a good lusty pair of lungs.’
Despite the midwife’s assurance, his own impression was the little boy was not nearly as robust as his sister. With his drawn face and mewling cry, he resembled nothing so much as a wizened old man, who was not only not long for this world, but who was already weary of the struggle for life.
Next day, Pearce, already the proud father, was on hand at the Registry Office the moment it opened for business and with great aplomb, swaggered in and registered the births of his son and daughter. Strangely enough, both he and Kate had liked the name, ‘Joy’, and had even thought to name their daughter thus. However, after various stanzas of ‘Joy cometh in the morning’ Kate had voiced the opinion that never again did she wish to hear the word ‘Joy’. So it was that Pearce had decided to call the wee girl Angela, since even from his first sight of her, he had called her, my own little angel. Kate opted to name the boy Daniel, after her own elder brother who had emigrated to America.
When later that same week, the twins had been christened in the Anglican Church, it seemed that the Kinnon family life was set fair to continue and prosper for the years ahead. However, that very same evening, tragedy struck.
Pearce’s beloved Angela, having given not a moment’s trouble or anxiety to anyone in her short life, died from a convulsion.
Chapter 9
In the aftermath of the death of little Angela, poor Kate felt as though the Good Lord who Giveth but also Taketh Away, had indeed taken away not only her precious little baby, but also much more besides. Although Pearce’s physical presence was still with her, somehow in his own grief, her husband also had gone from her. Strong and arrogant as he might appear to outsiders with his great height, piercing dark eyes which seemed to bore into one, and his luxuriant, wavy beard, Kate felt his proud bearing was all too often a shield against a prying and unsympathetic world.
Fortunes of the Heart Page 2
