Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  He keeps saying he doesn’t understand and you keep insisting. Finally he gives you a nod. ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want,’ and he slips Tom’s photo into his jacket pocket. ‘It’ll be safe now.’

  You smile at each other. For once, something feels right.

  With your visitor gone, the sun’ll be on the move again. And so . . .

  Zimmering full-speed out of your bedroom door, down the corridor, round the corner, across the hall and into the dayroom. Your usual seat in its usual place in the line against the wall. You sit down just in time. Closing your eyes, you feel the sun edging its way onto your cheek. Its warmth flowing across your face, your eyelids, your cheeks, touching your lips, your neck . . . soaking into you.

  More. More. You want more. You want to feel that warmth flooding into you, drenching your whole body.

  Take care – if you open your eyes too soon, you’ll find yourself back in the dayroom.

  The sun is all that matters now, holding you safe and secure before it moves on. Till then, you can give yourself completely to its touch, its warm and loving touch. Like Michael’s. These sighs of contentment are the thanks you offer in return.

  7

  STANDING MOTIONLESS BESIDE Tom’s empty cot, her face buried in his patchwork quilt, breathing in his baby-smell. Drawing in its sweetness, breathing it deep inside her . . .

  Then she felt the touch of someone’s hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right, Miss Davies. Tom’s fine. Your wee boy’s fine.’ Boss Beryl had switched to professional calm – pitched low, her voice set at sympathy-and-concern tone. The reassuring smile seemed genuine: ‘Don’t worry, Miss Davies. Really. Everything’s been taken care of and couldn’t be better. Tom’s fine and in good hands. No need to distress yourself.’ Boss Beryl crossed to the nearest cot and picked up a swaddled bundle that was clearly on the point of turning into a swollen-faced, full-volume, red scream and began rocking the baby in her arms. ‘There, there, sweetie. Nothing to worry about. Everyone’s going sleepy-byes . . .’

  Maggie clutched the patchwork blanket to her chest. ‘Where is he? Where’s Tom?’

  ‘Arthur’s Seat, I think they said.’

  ‘Arthur’s Seat?’ Maggie glanced towards the window. ‘I don’t understand. What’s he doing there? Who’s they, and why — ?’

  ‘It’s okay, Miss Davies, really. Calm down. Lucky boy’s been having himself a day out.’

  ‘He’s coming back?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Or maybe it was Princes Street Gardens they said? A chance for him to hear the band. A day out, like I said. He’ll have had a whale of a time, you can count on it.’ She reached to take the blanket. ‘This his? I’ll put it in the wash. Thanks.’

  Maggie’s grip on the patchwork tightened. ‘When’s he coming back?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Miss Davies.’

  ‘No one told me anything. Not a word.’

  ‘Maybe they should’ve. Bit of a shock, I suppose. But . . . well, it had to happen one day. Children don’t stay here for ever.’

  ‘He is coming back?’

  ‘Yes. But Mrs Saunders says that seeing you’ve not managed to — ’

  ‘I told her that this weekend I was — ’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Davies, and I wish I could help you.’ Boss Beryl shook her head and again reached for the blanket. ‘I really do.’

  Maggie’s fingers kept firm hold of the patchwork. ‘Mrs Saunders can’t just give him away.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do. I’ve done everything I can. Everything. And now he’s being stolen from —’

  The petrol pump took a step back. ‘No one’s stealing him. He’ll be coming back, I tell you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Mrs Saunders says — ’

  ‘I couldn’t care less about Mrs Saunders.’ She advanced on Boss Beryl. ‘When? I asked you when will my son be brought back?’

  ‘No idea. I don’t know. No one tells me. I don’t do the office stuff.’

  No idea? Without meaning to, Maggie ripped the small patchwork quilt in two and then, the torn pieces still in her hands, she all but collapsed against the empty cot. She was suddenly exhausted.

  ‘I’ll wait for him.’

  ‘Suit yourself – but you’ll not be waiting in here. Everything’s okay, little one. Close your sleepy eyes and . . . Mrs Saunders is at a Governors’ dinner this evening. Your best plan’s to give her a phone first thing Monday morning.’

  ‘But what am I to do? That letter says that I’m not allowed to — ’

  ‘Look, Miss Davies, I’ve got my hands full here. If it was up to me . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Drop her a line’s my advice.’ She laid the now sleeping child down on its mattress. ‘Back to bed, sweetie. Sleepy heads, sleepy beds, sleepy, sleepy sleep . . .’

  Arthur’s Seat? Princes St Gardens? A chance to hear the band . . . ? Was the whole city of Edinburgh betraying her? Maggie turned and stumbled out of the room.

  Spending the day with strangers, and the evening too. Having a whale of a time with strangers. Strangers holding him in their arms. Strangers making him smile and laugh . . .

  The wooden banister . . . then down the staircase, tread after wearying tread . . . the empty hall.

  She sat down in the carved wooden chair, the torn pieces of Tom’s patchwork blanket on her lap. Not even strength enough to cross her legs.

  Quarter-of-an-hour later Boss Beryl came down carrying a bundle of dirty sheets.

  ‘You still here?’

  ‘I’m waiting for Tom.’

  Boss Beryl snorted, and continued down the basement stairs. When she returned a short time later she crossed the hall to Mrs Saunders’ office, closing the door behind her. Maggie heard her speaking on the phone but couldn’t make out the words. A few moments later she was back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Davies, but you’ll have to wait outside. You’re a disturbance.’

  ‘What? I’m not disturbing anybody. I’m not leaving till I see — ’

  ‘And now you’ve received Mrs Saunders’ letter, you’re trespassing. That’s the law. Do I have to call the police?’

  Up and down the short stretch of pavement outside the home, up and down in the gathering darkness. Eventually letting herself back into the garden to sit on the bench next to the sandpit with its tumbled remains of a bucket-and-spade castle, its trampled-down battlements. She was careful to keep watch on the street, but no cars stopped. No one came to the house, no one left. From time to time a tram rumbled past. At ten o’clock she saw the upstairs lights being switched on and off as the staff made their final rounds.

  At ten-thirty the last light went out – everyone had gone to bed.

  Next day was Saturday. Come lunchtime, Maggie hurried out of Blair & Blair’s and up the street to the Hanover Street PO phone box.

  No reply – Jean probably wasn’t at the bakery this weekend. She pressed button B and her pennies clattered back to her.

  Which left her parents.

  Her parents. Their ignoring her, cutting her dead as she’d stood there in front them – the knitting needles’ relentless click-clicking, the stripped-out bedroom upstairs. Like she’d never even existed.

  Mrs Melville would have talked, though. Her mother would have listened. Tom was her own grandson, after all.

  It was worth a try. She was going to need all the help she could get.

  She dropped in the coins once more and dialled ­Newhaven.

  As it rang, she pictured the telephone receiver on the hall table with the oval mirror above, and the silenced grandfather clock standing nearby.

  Her father answered. She hung up.

  Maggie made two trips to Woodstock House that afternoon
and three on Sunday, each time finding the front door firmly locked. The bell hadn’t been re-connected and the only response to her frantic knocking was to see either Boss Beryl or Donna appear at one of the windows. Boss Beryl would jerk her arm from side to side, gesturing at her to go away; Donna would give her a friendly wave and remain standing at the window until she left.

  First thing Monday morning before work, Maggie phoned Jean from the Hanover Street call box.

  ‘Lucky to catch me in, Maggie. I was picking up a cake I’ve made for the folks we’ll be staying with. We’re just off.’

  ‘Jean, they’ve stopped me seeing Tom. Mrs Saunders’ letter says that — ’

  Jean was really, really sorry but she had to dash. She and Billy were going away for a few days. Been arranged ages ago. She’d be back late on Friday. After Maggie had finished work on Saturday they could go together to Woodstock House and –

  ‘But they won’t let us in. Saunders’ letter says that I can’t — ’

  Jean was so, so sorry. How could they? That was awful. Really terrible. But she had to go. She just had to. Billy was waiting for her on the platform and she was already late. If they missed that train . . . Maggie mustn’t lose heart, mustn’t give up. She would be in her thoughts all week. And Tom, too.

  They said goodbye.

  Maggie checked her appearance in the mirror of her compact. She waited, dabbing her eyes. She now had to go to work. Nothing of the distress tearing her apart must show, nothing must betray her.

  For the next few days Maggie hardly ate or slept. Before work, during her lunch break, and after work she’d ring the children’s home. When Old Woodbine was out of the office, she sometimes even risked using the phone on the older woman’s desk. The instant she heard her returning along the corridor, she hung up and hurried back to her own seat.

  She was told that Mrs Saunders wasn’t in.

  She was told to please wait, Mrs Saunders would come to the phone shortly.

  She was told that Mrs Saunders would return later in the morning / later in the afternoon / first thing next day.

  She was told that Mrs Saunders knew she’d been trying to get hold of her and would be sure to be in touch.

  She was always asked to leave her number.

  Leave her number? Forget it. For even if Mrs Saunders did phone her back – which Maggie was certain she never would – then Old Woodbine would take the call . . . and that would be that. Mr Blair was a kindly man – he might be the boss, but he wasn’t in charge. Old Woodbine sharing an office with an unmarried mother? Blair & Blair letters typed on a Blair & Blair typewriter by an unmarried mother? Blair & Blair clients being exposed to the risk of having contact with an unmarried mother? No chance, not in a million years. The first hint of her having an illegitimate child hidden away somewhere, and Old Woodbine would have her sacked on the spot. She’d be shown the street door so fast her feet wouldn’t even touch the stairs on the way down.

  She wrote three letters to the superintendent, each more desperate than the last.

  Her first received an immediate response – a copy of the letter she’d already been given.

  Her second – no reply.

  Her third – no reply.

  She wrote to Michael. She told him everything, said her life was falling apart, said she couldn’t sleep for worrying she might lose Tom, might never see him again . . . They’d stopped her. Everything was locked. And he wasn’t there. They were giving him to strangers. She was his mother. If that happened . . . she couldn’t go on living . . . couldn’t bear it. Page after page, it was a frantic outpouring of frustration and rage, of despair. She received Michael’s reply by return, on the Saturday morning.

  Was Old Woodbine never going to move, was she going to remain glued to her chair all morning? Not until nearly 11.00 did the older woman get up and leave the room.

  The instant she was alone Maggie crossed to the other desk and phoned Jean. Her sister-in-law was in.

  ‘Thank God, I’ve caught you, Jean. It’s Michael. I’m at my wits’ end. I don’t know what I’m going to . . . Can I come round and — ?’

  ‘I’ll be here all day, Maggie. Take it easy. You can tell me when you get — ’

  Hearing Old Woodbine coming back along the corridor, Maggie hung up.

  From then on, the hands of the office clock slowed down to quarter speed.

  At last she was on the tram. Standing room only, all the way to Dalry Road. She leapt off well before it stopped, ran across the street, straight up to Jean’s, and in her front door. Not even pausing to say hello –

  ‘He’s coming to Edinburgh.’

  Only when she’d said the words out loud did she herself really take them in: Michael. In Edinburgh.

  ‘He’s whit?’

  ‘Arriving late tonight.’

  ‘Tae rescue ye, like a knight on a white horse? A white stick mair like — ’

  ‘Wants us to get married.’

  Jean picked up the phone: ‘Ring him. Tell him tae — ’

  ‘Too late. He’s already on his way. Morning ferry, then the train. Lachlan’s bringing him here.’

  ‘Tae the bakery?’

  ‘He said he knew he couldn’t just turn up at Mrs McCann’s, so I’m to meet him here tonight at 11.’ She trailed off in embarrassment: ‘He wasn’t sure how the trains would work out . . .’

  ‘He can stay a few days, Maggie, but that’s aa. I canna dae mair, it’s just no — ’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jean. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry . . .’ She collapsed onto the chair with her head in her hands. Then she told her sister-in-law about trying to phone Mrs Saunders and writing letters. ‘I’m going to lose Tom. I’m going to lose him, Jean. What’ll I do?’

  ‘Dinna tak on, lass. Dinna greet.’

  Maggie felt the older woman’s arms round her, and her hand stroking her hair.

  ‘I’m sorry tae,’ Jean whispered. ‘Oh, Maggie – it’s twae bairns ye’ll hae nou.’

  ‘But I love him. I love them both.’

  ‘Richt enough, but Tom’s the yin as needs ye maist. Tom needs ye. Forget Mrs Saunders, forget writing her letters and phoning and leaving messages. Forget playing by their rules, Maggie. Ye’ll only lose – that’s whit rules are fer.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Play tae yer strengths. We’ll play tae oor strengths. Mrs Saunders will be away fer a lang weekend, ye said? Okay – it’s nou or never.’ Her sister-in-law stood up. ‘Come on, we’ve work tae dae.’

  It was evening when the two women climbed out of the taxi. Side by side they marched up the front steps of Woodstock House.

  Once it was explained that they’d come to hand over a present for the staff, a token of Maggie’s appreciation for all their good work when looking after Tom, they were let in.

  The shiny pink box, tied with the showy gold ribbon that Jean had curled at the ends, was placed on the kitchen table. It looked a very special gift indeed. When it was unwrapped, there were genuine gasps as the lid was raised to reveal a triple-layered, mouth-watering masterpiece of chocolate, cream and marzipan that had been showered in multi-coloured hundreds-and-thousands. Quite clearly the ration book had been thrown out the window. thank you was spelled out in red icing. Thick slices were cut and handed round.

  Everything was going to plan, and so Maggie asked if she might go upstairs for one last look at her wee boy?

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  ‘I won’t wake him or pick him up.’

  More silence.

  Boss Beryl finished swallowing down a mouthful of cake: ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mrs Saunders has made it quite clear that — ’

  ‘Mrs Saunders isn’t here.’

  ‘I am her representative. Myself, I’d like to let you see him, Miss Davies, really I would, but — ’

  ‘Com
e on,’ interrupted Jean. ‘Yin last look at her bairn, for God’s sake. Just because yer boss is a wee Hitler disnae mak you yin. Maggie winna even touch him – aa richt? Ye can gang up wi her. I’ll stay here – guard yer next slice for ye.’

  Seeing Tom lying there asleep in his crib, Maggie broke down and cried as if her heart would burst. While Boss Beryl looked on, she sobbed and sobbed. She couldn’t help it. No pretence needed, these were real tears. Maggie knew that if things didn’t work out this might very well be the last time she would see Tom. She was so upset she nearly had Boss Beryl in tears as well. Finally, though, she mastered herself and begged to be allowed to kiss him a final goodbye.

  Afterwards, wiping her eyes clear, she turned and stumbled out of the room.

  Down in the hall, Boss Beryl laid a hand on her arm, adding that she was so very sorry that everything had ended like this. Maggie should rest assured Tom would be well looked after, he’d be brought up in a good home with a loving family who could provide the best for him. Mrs Saunders was a really kind woman and always had the children’s best interests at heart. Maggie nodded, then asked if she could use the toilet before they left. Boss Beryl remained waiting outside until Maggie had finished, and then escorted her back to the kitchen.

  Five minutes later Maggie and Jean said their goodbyes and left.

  Now they had to go their separate ways – Jean to the ­bakery to wait for Michael’s arrival, Maggie to Glengyle Terrace to make the necessary preparations. By ten-thirty she had everything ready. It was too early to return to Woodstock House, but there wasn’t enough time to go all the way to the bakery and be there to greet Michael.

  Michael. How she longed to see him. Nearly a whole year’s longing. And in less than a couple of hours . . .

  Things would work out, they had to. She’d done ­everything she could. Now she needed to wait. That was all.

  So she put on her coat and outdoor shoes, and sat on the edge of her bed. Waiting. A few minutes later she was up again, pacing the room. Then back on the bed, only to get up and start pacing all over again . . .

  ‘It was nearly 11 when Maggie pulled the front door shut behind her, went down the steps and across to the park. Late April perhaps, but it looked and felt like the darkest night of the year. Not a star in the sky and a dampness and heaviness in the air that threatened rain, and lots of it. Good. It would keep people off the street.