David's Sisters

by Forsyth, Moira;

  Marion kicked him to shut him up, but he moved too quickly. Bored, he rolled off the bed and played on the floor with the dolls’ house. Aunt Mamie got to the part about Uncle Tom’s terrible death (he had been a policeman who was killed in a motor accident), and recalled in detail the funeral, her black coat and skirt, and the hat with the veil. This had happened when Marion was three. It was difficult for any of them to imagine a time before Mamie moved back to Scotland to live with her Cousin Alice, so it did seem, to both girls, quite like a made-up story.

  ‘Now then,’ Mamie continued, ‘Alice had a very nice flat, but there was no room for all my bits and pieces, was there? So what did we do?’

  ‘Bought your house beside the park,’ Marion and Eleanor chorused.

  ‘That’s right, so that two lassies I know, and a wee loon, can come and feed the ducks when they visit their aunties.’

  As she spoke, Eleanor turned to see David rocking the dolls’ house violently to and fro. ‘Stop that!’ she screamed, hurling herself off the bed.

  David paused, bewildered. ‘What for?’ he asked. ‘It’s an earthquake. All the furniture’s going to get broke, and the people’s being killed.’

  ‘No, they’re not!’

  In the struggle, the house fell over between them, crashing to the floor on its side: a chimney snapped off, the front clattered open and the dolls and their possessions tumbled onto the floor. No one heard Aunt Alice come in, but in a moment, she had made everything straight again, and quiet. Mamie had set off downstairs in search of glue to fix the chimney, and the house was upright, the furniture at least indoors again, if not all in the proper places. David said he was sorry, though not with any appearance of knowing why he should be.

  Tell me a story, then,’ he whined. ‘I was fed up, I never got a story.’ But Alice took him off to his own room.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she promised. ‘Tomorrow you can have three stories – one each.’

  ‘Made-up ones,’ he warned.

  ‘Made up,’ she agreed, tucking him in, drawing the cur­tains.

  Alice knew how to tell stories. She looked ordinary, but her stories were not.

  ‘We’ll have the first story in David’s room,’ she said, ‘and then he canna cause a rumpus and break a’body else’s toys.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘No, it was the bad ghost’s fault,’ she agreed. David stopped in the act of climbing into bed.

  ‘What bad ghost?’

  ‘Get under the covers,’ Alice ordered. ‘That’s right. Are you settled, girls?’ Eleanor and Marion were tucked in the armchair together. It was a squash now they were so big, but they lay with their arms round each other, Eleanor’s long hair tickling Marion’s chin, and Marion’s rabbit slippers falling with soft thuds from her feet to the floor. They waited for the stories to begin.

  ‘You said there was a ghost,’ David persisted. ‘Is it in this house?’

  ‘Everywhere,’ Aunt Alice said, ‘that there’s naughty children. Then, when there’s mischief, some other body can get the blame.’

  David looked confused, but he wanted his story, so he leaned back on the pillow, hugging the blue cloth dog, whose ears he had almost chewed off.

  David’s was the story of the Tinder Box. This took a long time, and at the end of it, he was almost asleep. Eleanor had her thumb in her mouth, though once or twice, Marion had tried pulling it out with a ‘pop’. Aunt Alice stood up and tucked David’s covers round him. Then she signalled to the girls and put her finger to her lips to warn them to be quiet. They slid off the chair and tiptoed back to their own room.

  Aunt Alice did not have a smell, like Aunt Mamie, and she was bony, not soft and yielding. She stood by the window in their room, thin as a pencil in her navy skirt and jumper, while they said their prayers and got into bed.

  ‘Now then,’ she said, and drew the curtains across. ‘It’s getting late – what about one story tonight, and another one before Mummy and Daddy come back tomorrow?’ But they wanted both of them now. Alice sighed, and began.

  Eleanor’s story was about the Little Mermaid. Both girls cried when they heard how her feet were cut to ribbons by the sharp stones, how she had sacrificed herself for love. Later, hearing of this, Faith said, ‘For goodness sake, that horror story! Whatever possessed her?’ Faith liked What Katy Did and Little Women; she thought stories should be about good behaviour, and have a moral. She had no time for fairy tales, and seemed annoyed with Alice. She often seemed a bit annoyed with Alice. This was strange, because in the children’s opinion, it was Aunt Mamie who could be really irritating.

  By the time Marion’s story was properly begun, Eleanor too was asleep. Marion sat straight up in bed, feeling special, and determined to stay awake.

  ‘If you tell me,’ she offered, ‘I’ll tell it to Eleanor and Davy.’ She was afraid Alice would not think it worthwhile to tell a story to just one child.

  There was still light outside, and the birds sang on, not knowing it was bed-time. Night-scented stocks and sweet alyssum, filling the borders next to the house wall, floated their fragrance through the open window. Aunt Alice sat in the basket chair and folded her ringless hands in her lap. Her voice was low and seemed to come from far away, from the land where the fairy tales began.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ she said, ‘there was a princess who liked to get her own way. She was a very hardy wee girl, so that when her mother the Queen said, “Keep your shoes on; wear a coat or you’ll catch cold,” she disobeyed. She went out on the coldest days in her party frock and silver sandals. She was never ill, so she thought she must be right, and her mother wrong.’ Already, Marion could feel retribution must be on the way, and she was not sure if her sympathy was with the naughty Princess or the long-suffering Queen.

  ‘She used to sit by the river,’ Alice went on, ‘and put her bare feet in the water. Her mother said, “Don’t do that, you’ll catch your death of cold.” But she never did. What happened was, the fishes came and kissed her toes, and nibbled at them, very very gently, and it was tickly, so she liked that.’ Aunt Alice leaned forward suddenly, and lifting Marion’s blankets, touched her toes with icy fingers. Marion drew her feet back with a squeal.

  ‘Wheesht!’ Aunt Alice nodded at the sleeping Eleanor, and smiling, sat down again.

  Then, one dreadful day, a great big fish came along, gliding through the black water, and when he saw the other fish kissing the princess’s toes, he thought she must be something good to eat.’ Marion felt the bad thing coming, and wanted Alice to stop. But she knew the end of the story had to be told. ‘So along came this big fish, swoosh, through the water, and the wee fish swam off, scared, when they heard him. So, do you know what happened next? Do you know what he did, that great big muckle fish?’

  ‘No,’ whispered Marion. ‘Don’t tell me.’ But Alice did.

  ‘He nibbled and nibbled at first, gently, then he liked her so much, she was such a sweet-tasting wee lassie, that he opened his great mouth, with all its sharp teeth, and he bit off her toes, one by one, all of them, all the way along her feet. She had none left, not one.’

  Marion put her hands over her ears. ‘I told you not to say!’

  ‘Wheesht, it a comes right in the end.’

  Then there was the rest of the story: a search for a wise woman, a Prince appearing suddenly who could carry out the tasks that followed, an adventure, and eventually, a spell to make the princess’s toes grow again. But Marion, trying later to tell all this to Eleanor and David, got confused at that part, and gave it up. Perhaps she had fallen asleep before the end. She was not sure.

  ‘Anyway,’ she finished, ‘I know they grew back.’

  ‘Poor Princess,’ Eleanor sighed.

  ‘She was naughty, though.’

  ‘I’m a shark,’ David growled, diving at Eleanor’s feet, ‘and I’m going to eat your big toe first!’

  ‘Well,’ Faith said, coming in, ‘I wish I’d stayed away longer, if this is how you’re all g
oing to behave.’

  Marion flung her arms round her mother’s waist. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘We never want you to go away again!’

  Faith held Marion tightly in the circle of her arms. She had her own reasons for being uneasy all the weekend away from home. ‘We won’t. Not till you’re much older.’

  That night, checking her children before she went to bed, Faith was relieved to see them all asleep and peaceful.

  ‘What stories that pair have been filling their heads with,’ she said to John as they got into bed.

  ‘Well, what can you expect? They’ve no experience of bairns.’ For a moment, they looked at each other in silence. Then John said, ‘Ach, put out the light.’ So she did, and they lay down to sleep.

  2

  Saturday afternoon: the High Street full of families. Eleanor leaned forward in her seat and tapped on the window of the cafe.

  ‘There are the girls – look. On the other side of the street.’ She tapped again.

  ‘They’ve seen us.’ Marion waved; their daughters weaved between shoppers, the bell of the cafe door pinged and they came up to the table.

  ‘We’re going to Woolworth’s to get smelly stuff for Emma’s birthday present.’

  ‘Gimme a taste of your cake, Mum.’ Claire bent her fair head, mouth open, and Eleanor fed her a spoonful of chocolate sponge. A quick pink tongue whisked away a smear of icing from her upper lip. ‘Yum. It’s nice.’

  ‘Go away,’ Eleanor said. ‘We’re trying to have a quiet cup of tea here.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Can I have a bit more money?’ Eilidh tugged Marion’s arm. ‘I bought a magazine, and the wrapping paper cost—’

  ‘How much? Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘See ya.’

  Marion and Eleanor watched the girls stride off up the High Street, leaning together and giggling.

  ‘What long legs they have,’ Marion said, ‘or is it just the trousers they wear?’

  So here we are, Eleanor thought, as the dark head and the fair one disappeared into Woolworth’s. Here we are, eating cake in the afternoon, while our daughters plan parties, discos, presents; our daughters are fillies cantering over grass, tossing soft new manes, testing out the boundaries of the field.

  ‘You’ve got a funny look on your face,’ Marion said. ‘Is that cake all right?’

  ‘Fine.’ Irritated, Eleanor pushed the plate away, and poured herself another cup of tea. ‘I was thinking about … time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you remember,’ Eleanor went on, adding a splash of milk, ‘David and his friend Stanley Robertson having a den at the bottom of the garden at Pitcairn? They wouldn’t let anyone else in. But when we did go in there was nothing there but a pile of sticks and some sweetie wrappers.’

  ‘What on earth made you think of that?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just came into my head.’ Eleanor pushed her finger along the tablecloth, making a track through some spilt sugar. ‘I wonder where he is?’

  ‘Och, let’s not think about that again. We only go round in circles. He’ll turn up, he always does. And Dad’s all right.’

  ‘I know. He seems to accept it now – the way Davy disappears.’

  ‘Used to it,’ Marion said. ‘I think, you know, as long as he has Pitcairn, and the garden, he’s happy.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  They turned to look out of the window again, as if expecting to see Claire and Eilidh reappear, but both of them were still picturing the long garden at Pitcairn, and their father going steadily down the path with his wheelbarrow, more slowly, and with a less heavy load now that he had angina. They watched him, in the clear space imagination makes for a real place, a real person.

  Then Marion began to gather her things together and Eleanor turned to pick up her bag.

  ‘Whose turn is it to pay?’

  ‘Mine, I think.’ Marion opened her purse and poked among the coins. I’m sure it is. I’ve got change for once.’

  Eleanor waited by the door while Marion talked to Joan at the till about the weather, and Joan’s mother’s operation. Then they were out in the High Street, and a keen wind flapped open Eleanor’s mac.

  ‘I’m teaching all week,’ Marion said, ‘so I’ll ring you on Friday.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be going up to town – but I’ll do it early.’

  ‘Right. I think it’s turning colder, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Freezing.’

  Do I feel the cold more than Marion? Eleanor wondered as she walked up the High Street towards the car park. We should be hardy, we both grew up in that cold house, no central heating. We wore liberty bodices and thick grey socks and navy nap coats in winter, with a wide scarf tied round like a shawl, and pinned at the back. What little barrels we must have looked, wrapped up against the East wind, the snow, the long winters.

  Outside the newsagent, Claire and Eilidh were in a huddle of girls. Around the fringes, two or three boys showed off, balancing on the back wheels of their bikes, shoving each other, calling out. The girls said, ‘Hi,’ as Eleanor passed; the boys stared, embarrassed.

  ‘Tea at six, remember,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’m going out tonight. How are you getting home – you want to come with me now?’

  Claire hesitated. ‘No, it’s OK. Sarah’s mum’s picking her up. She’ll let me off at the farm road.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  When Eleanor bought the cottage, Claire was nine, and had until then been taken everywhere by car: school, Brownie night, swimming club, ballet lessons … Eleanor was scarcely able to remember that different life. Even the names of the other women, and the little girls Claire played with, eluded her. Apart from Barbara, who had been her own close friend, and her daughter Hannah, who was Claire’s, they merged, undifferentiated in memory. Now Claire was almost fifteen, and they were living in a very different world. When she chose her country cottage, Eleanor had been imagining quiet mornings and silent nights, the wind in the trees, and having room to breathe. She had not foreseen Claire’s impatience with its remoteness, or that she herself might one day no longer want to be separate and alone.

  She and Claire lived at the far end of a row of three farm cottages. The farm had changed hands before she moved back North, and the cottages were sold off separately. The middle one was bought by Jim and Edie, who had always lived there. Jim had worked on the farm until he retired. The other house had been bought by someone who rented it out as a summer let, then put it up for sale. It had lain empty all the previous winter. In the summer, a couple had bought it, moving in at the end of August, but Eleanor had not seen much of them. Sometimes there were two cars by the door at night, sometimes one, but during the day there was no one at home.

  Eleanor had the biggest piece of garden. She spent a lot of time there, but her efforts did not seem to have made much difference to the ragged grass or overgrown borders. Next door, Jim and Edie had flowers and vegetables in neat rows, and a patch of lawn smooth as green felt.

  Indoors the cottage felt cold. Eleanor hung up her coat and hurried to the kitchen, which the Rayburn kept warm. She stood with her back to the stove, letting the heat flow up to her neck, resting her hands on the metal bar where the tea-towels were hung. After a moment, she turned and got her apron from the hook behind the back door. Then she began to prepare the meal.

  Just before six, Claire came in, banging the door and kicking off her trainers in the narrow hall.

  ‘Hi, what’s for tea? Sarah’s coming for me at quarter past seven, I’ve to be at the end of the road. Can I have a shower?’

  They had just begun to eat when the telephone rang. Claire scraped back her chair. ‘I’ll get it – it might be Eilidh.’

  Tell her you’ll ring back.’ But Claire reappeared in a moment.

  ‘It’s Grandpa John.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Eleanor put her plate in the bottom oven to keep warm.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Marion’s engaged
, and she’s an awful bletherer, so I thought I’d try you now.’

  ‘Dad, can I ring you back, we’re having our tea.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve not phoned to take up your time. I thought you’d want to know David’s home.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Arrived this afternoon, out of the blue. As well it wasn’t my golf day.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So – how is he? Where’s he been all this time?’

  ‘You’d better come and ask him yourself.’

  ‘How long’s he staying?’

  ‘Och, you know him, never says. A wee while.’

  ‘I suppose Claire could go to Marion’s. Marion is teaching this week, so she wouldn’t be able to come.’

  ‘You away to your tea then, don’t let it get cold.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, lass, I’m just the same.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll ring you. See you Wednesday, maybe.’

  Claire was reading a magazine while she ate. She looked up as her mother sat down again. ‘Is Grandpa all right?’

  ‘Yes, your Uncle David’s turned up.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for ages – not since I was wee. He came and stayed with us when Dad was alive, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, often. He worked in London then.’

  ‘Where’s he live now?’

  ‘Oh, I think – maybe Edinburgh.’

  ‘Mum! He’s your brother, you must know that.’

  Eleanor laughed. ‘He moves around a lot.’

  ‘Is he coming to see us this time?’

  ‘I don’t know. Grandpa wants me to go down to Aberdeen and see him.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘You’ll be at school.’

  ‘I could easy miss it, it’s boring just now. We don’t learn anything anyway.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Claire.’

  ‘I liked him – Uncle David. He used to bring presents every time, those play people, remember? I’ve still got them, in the loft.’