Waters of the Heart

by Doris Davidson

  ‘What about Phoebe? Is there room for her, and all?’

  Cissie couldn’t help smiling as she remembered Jen’s frown. ‘There’s nothing funny going on between you two, is there?’ she had asked, suspiciously.

  ‘She’s my stepmother.’

  ‘I wondered why you were so close, but that’s all right. We’ll make room for her.’

  Jen’s single-end room was in a grim, blackened, tumble-down tenement behind the Overgate, and, as she had said herself, it was no palace. Cissie and Phoebe had been dismayed when they first saw it. A rickety, well-scrubbed table stood in the middle of the floor, a wobbly chair at one side of the fireplace, an equally unsteady three-legged stool at the other. Her dishes, chipped and cracked, and cooking pots were stored in an old orange box, and her complete wardrobe, a change of skirt and blouse, hung on a nail behind the door. Her spare set of underclothes was folded on top of another box, which they found out later held cleaning materials. Next to the fire, a third box held some coal and kindling sticks, with a chipped enamel basin perched on top. The window was screened by only a sheet of newspaper, almost brown from having been there so long; the whitewash on the ceiling was yellowing and the walls were red-ochred with the plaster falling off in places. The only saving grace was that the room was clean.

  ‘There’s no’ a bed,’ Jen observed, after hanging her shawl on the nail behind the door. ‘I’ve just an old mattress on the floor, so we’ll have to squeeze in. We’ll no’ be cold in the winter when there’s three o’ us cuddling up together.’

  Having slept with her two sisters when she was younger, Cissie had thought nothing of this, but the mattress proved to be only three-quarter size, and she had found herself lying on the floorboards most of the time. Still, it was better than sleeping rough, she mused, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. In any case, with three wages coming in over the months they’d been there, they’d been able to buy, second-hand off a market stall, a pair of curtains which kept out the draught better than the old newspaper, and the old seats had been replaced by three chairs from a junk shop. Their next purchase was to be a single bed and some blankets for Jen, to let the other two have the mattress to themselves.

  Cissie had often wondered what ill fortune had brought Jen Millar so low in life, but she asked no questions of them, so they asked none of her. She was even-tempered and good-hearted, never harbouring a grudge, even when John Laidlaw, the overseer, took her to task unfairly. It was hard to put an age to her. Her hair was snow-white, and her pale, thin face, etched with lines, was always cheerful. Her body, too, was painfully thin, and her legs were like matchsticks. From her appearance, she could be in her sixties, but most of the workers looked older than they were; even the girls whom Cissie knew were only about thirteen or fourteen looked as old as she did, and she would be twenty on her birthday. Would she end up, in another year or so, looking as haggard as the rest?

  There were very few men in the mill, just those who were not fit enough, or were too old, to be in the services, and most of them were friendly. Cissie would have been quite happy with her lot if it had not been for the overseer, who had hounded her from the day she started. At first, she had thought nothing of the reprimands – she was new to the job and it would take time to learn how to join the yarns again if she let them break – but nothing she did pleased him. Maybe he was hoping to wear her down into going out with him. If he was, he would be disappointed.

  When the hooter sounded at six o’clock, twelve hours after she had begun work, she tidied her working area and joined the outgoing stream of women, most of them sullen-faced with exhaustion. The weavers were usually out first, classing themselves above the spinners and shifters, who were on a lower wage being unskilled, and not worth looking at. This had irked Cissie to begin with, for she considered herself as good as them, if not better, but she had realised that there was a hierarchy in every walk of life, and that she was on the bottom rung of the ladder here.

  Once outside, she pulled up the collar of her coat to wait for her room-mates. Their coats had made her and Phoebe the butt of many sarcastic jibes, for the other women wore shawls, but the jeering had only made them more determined to keep wearing their coats as long as they held together.

  She saw Phoebe then, looking so different from the rest, her eyes still as bright a blue as ever, her brown hair still with a gloss on it, although it was only ever washed with yellow soap. ‘I went to see Mr Dickson this afternoon,’ she observed, as she linked arms with the girl.

  ‘Mr Dickson?’ Cissie gasped. ‘Did Laidlaw know?’

  ‘I said I was feeling sick and asked him if I could go to the WC, and he patted my bottom and said not to be all day.’

  ‘And you went to Mr Dickson’s office? What did you say?’

  ‘I told him I wanted to learn to be a weaver.’

  ‘You never.’

  ‘He’s very nice. He asked if I’d any experience, and I said I was willing to learn, and he said he would keep me in mind the first time there was a vacancy.’

  Jen, who had joined them and heard most of the story, gave a rude snort. ‘You’ll never hear any more about it.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ Phoebe said, airily, ‘you never get if you don’t ask, and it was worth a try.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Jen, ‘but you’d better not build up your hopes. Some spinners I know have been waiting years.’

  Only a week later, Mr Laidlaw approached Phoebe with an odd expression on his crafty face. ‘What have you been up to, Mrs McGregor? Mr Dickson wants to see you in his office.’

  She gave him a sunny smile. ‘He must have fallen for my girlish charms.’

  When she returned, he was waiting for her. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’ She wanted to keep him in suspense for a moment or two yet, because he would get the shock of his life when she told him. She had nearly fainted herself.

  ‘Why did Mr Dickson want to see you?’

  ‘I told you: he’s fallen for my girlish charms.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody funny. What was it?’

  ‘He said I’d to leave this job at the end of the week.’

  His brows furrowing, the overseer said, ‘You’ve got the sack? If somebody’s complained about you, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I haven’t got the sack. I asked him last week if he’d let me learn to be a weaver.’

  ‘You bitch! That must have been the day I let you go to the lavvy. And you say he’s shifting you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s shifting me – into the office.’

  His shock was very bit as great as she had hoped; his pupils dilated, his mouth sagged. ‘The office? Have you been doing him favours?’

  ‘I’ve done him no favours,’ Phoebe said, angrily. ‘He just said one of the clerkesses was leaving and he wanted someone with a bit of go in them, someone who looked presentable and would be able to talk to people properly.’

  ‘You’ve nerve enough for anything,’ he muttered.

  Phoebe watched him making straight for Cissie, and hoped that he wouldn’t take his anger out on her.

  Noticing him coming, Cissie was so nervous that her hands jerked the yarn and snapped it, and she was rejoining it when he reached her, but he had other things on his mind. ‘Your friend’s a fly one,’ he growled. ‘She’s made up to Mr Dickson and got a job in the office.’

  Unsure of what to say, Cissie wisely said nothing, and he went on, ‘So you’ll have to change your ways or I’ll put a spoke in her wheel.’

  A niggle of alarm running through her, Cissie murmured, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean I can queer her pitch with the boss if you don’t come out with me, and besides that, I can get him to give you both your books, and I could tell other overseers that you’d been sacked for stealing from your workmates, so no other mill would take you on.’

  Knowing that he was quite capable of carrying out both threats, Cissie’s heart sank. They couldn’t afford to lose their jobs, so she would have to g
ive in to this oily snake-in-the-grass, and she couldn’t let Phoebe know.

  ‘Eight o’clock tonight,’ Laidlaw ordered. ‘This end of the Wellgate, and you’d better be there or your friend’ll not be working in any job, never mind an office.’

  He strode away, swaggering a little now, and Cissie gulped back her tears. He was a vile man and she knew why he wanted to meet her that night, but how could she let him paw her with his sweaty hands, and let those horrible wet lips kiss her? She couldn’t bear to think beyond that.

  When the three women were walking home to the Overgate, Cissie professed to be as pleased as Jen about Phoebe’s good fortune, then said, ‘I’m meeting Johnny Keating at eight tonight. He’s been asking me to go out with him for ages, and I kept putting him off.’

  ‘Oh, I’m pleased for you,’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘Johnny’s a real nice laddie.’

  ‘You’ve kept quiet about him,’ Jen said, a little accusingly. ‘There’s many a one would have jumped at the chance of going out wi’ him, he’s so good-looking.’

  Johnny Keating, employed as a cop-winder and about the same age as Cissie, was good-looking. His face was rugged, his hair almost blond, and though his light blue eyes were usually serious, she had noticed them softening when they fell on her. He was fairly tall, straight in the back and quite broad, and she’d often wished he would speak to her, so his was the first name that had come to her mind.

  Jen insisted on cooking the supper – she had bought some herring from a Newhaven fishwife in the street – and Phoebe said she would lay the table to let Cissie fetch water from the tap in the backyard to wash herself, and the poor girl had to put on a show of excited anticipation of the evening in front of her. When she left the house, with cries of ‘See and enjoy yourself’ and ‘Give Johnny our love’ ringing in her ears, she made her way unhappily to the Wellgate, where John Laidlaw was waiting for her.

  His sharp face brightened when he saw her, and he took her arm and walked her to the nearest public house, where he ordered a whisky for himself and a gin for her, but she shook her head when he laid the glass in front of her. ‘I told you I didn’t drink. I’ve seen what it can do to people.’

  Eyes glittering even more, he said, ‘One wee drink’s not going to make you drunk, it’ll just make you loosen up.’

  Cissie realised that she would probably need the gin to help her endure the man’s advances. ‘That’s it,’ he smiled, as she raised the glass to her lips.

  The clear liquid looked as harmless as water yet tasted foul, but her trembling had stopped by the time the glass was empty, so she did not demur when he gave her another and had two more whiskies himself. She felt light-headed when he took her arm and led her out, and she put up no resistance when he said, ‘My lodgings are just round the corner.’

  It was another grimy tenement, the stench of urine in the close revolting her, and the smell of sweat in his bed was even more overpowering. For Phoebe’s sake, she lay passively as the man sucked at her mouth, and let him open her buttons and fondle her breasts. She didn’t even push his hands away when they went down to lift her skirts, she had been through it all before. His attempts at seduction, however, came to nothing, even with three whiskies inside him, and Cissie’s spirits soared. John Laidlaw was just a pathetic creature who wanted to get pleasure from women but couldn’t.

  Shamefaced at first, his eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘You’d better keep your mouth shut about this. If I ever learn you’ve told anybody, especially that high and mighty friend of yours, you’ll be in big trouble.’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul,’ she said, sure that he wouldn’t bother her again after this fiasco.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Why haven’t you been out with Johnny Keating again?’

  Having been sure that Phoebe would ask, Cissie was ready with her answer. ‘We didn’t get on as well as we thought.’

  Her stepmother’s mouth rose at one side. ‘Did he try . . .’

  Cissie could not blacken the boy’s character. ‘No, he didn’t, but I can’t – he wouldn’t want to go with me if he knew about me.’

  Sighing, Phoebe said, ‘Oh, Cissie, nothing that happened was your fault, and you’re a widow now, so you’re free to go with boys again, even get married if you want to.’

  ‘I know that, but I don’t think I’ll ever want to.’

  Jen, who had gone down to the outside standpipe for water, came puffing in then, so nothing more was said, but Phoebe had resolved to help Cissie.

  With this in mind, she sought out Johnny Keating next day. ‘Don’t mind what Cissie said,’ she told him, thinking that no preamble was necessary, ‘she does want to see you again.’

  He seemed a little taken aback, but his answer was only a split second slow. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. She’d trouble once with another man, and she’s shy of making friends, but I do know she likes you.’

  ‘That’s good, for I like her, and all.’

  ‘Ask her again, and don’t take no for an answer.’

  He didn’t need a second telling.

  On the following day, Cissie came home in high spirits. ‘I’m going out with Johnny Keating tonight,’ she announced. Then, remembering that she was supposed to have been out with him before, she added, hastily, ‘Again.’

  Phoebe looked suitably surprised. ‘You changed your mind?’

  ‘He changed it for me.’

  ‘Don’t spoil it this time, then.’

  Knowing that she wouldn’t spoil it herself, and hoping that nothing else would, Cissie went out to meet the young man. She had been astonished when he had come to her that afternoon and said, ‘I’ll be waiting for you at Draffen’s at half past seven tonight, and don’t say you won’t turn up.’

  Swivelling on his heel and leaving her, he hadn’t given her time to say anything, but she couldn’t get over the coincidence of it after the lie she’d told Phoebe and Jen.

  It did not take her long to reach Draffen’s department store in Whitehall Street, but being early, she had to wait a few minutes until he came hurrying towards her. ‘It’s not too cold for you to have a walk to Dudhope Park, is it?’

  ‘No, that would be nice.’

  She was shy with him as they started walking, and guessed that he felt the same, so when they passed the end of the Overgate, she said, ‘That’s where I live.’

  ‘I’ll meet you here next time, then.’

  It was good to know that he meant there to be a next time, Cissie thought, and was pleased when he began to tell her about his family. ‘My Da drives a horse and cart for James Wilson, the contractor. You know, he takes the bales of raw jute from the harbour to the mills, and takes what they’ve made back to the harbour. Mattresses sometimes, carpets, tarpaulins, ropes – and sacks, of course.’

  Cissie laughed. ‘Yes, sacks, of course.’

  ‘Ma goes out cleaning and takes in washing, and I’ve two sisters still at school, so you see we’re just an ordinary working family. Have you any brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I’d three brothers and two sisters, but Rosie died and Joe was lost at sea.’ Not wanting to go into further detail about her family, Cissie said, ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Hilltown, three floors up. You’re from Aberdeen by the way you speak. What took you to Dundee?’

  The dreaded question had come at last, as she had been afraid it must. ‘Looking for a job. My sister, Marie, was getting married, and she said she would look after Pat, he’s still at school. My oldest brother was on a trawler, but he went into the Merchant Navy when the war started.’

  ‘I know your Ma’s dead, for Phoebe told me she was your stepmother, but is your Da dead, and all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry for asking, I can see it’s upset you. You’re not cold, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  He chattered on about his work as a cop-winder. ‘That’s why I’m in with the spinners and shifters, and it’s not good wages, just thirtee
n shillings a week, but it’s steady. I’m deaf in one ear, though it doesn’t bother me, but that’s why I didn’t pass the medical for the army.’

  When they reached Dudhope Park there were several people strolling about, some of them officers of the Black Watch, who, he told her, had occupied the castle since the outbreak of the war. The weather being a little too cold to sit down, Johnny and Cissie kept walking, talking about this and that, and she soon learned that he had quite definite ideas as to how mills should be run.

  ‘With this war on, the owners are making money hand over fist, but the workers should get a share in the profits. After all, if it wasn’t for us, the bosses couldn’t afford to live in their big, swanky houses and have servants to do everything for them. Take Dickson, now. He sent his son to a private school, with a fancy uniform, when his workers could hardly buy enough food.’

  ‘But all bosses have more money than their workers,’ she said, a little surprised because she had never heard anyone saying things like this before.

  ‘That’s my point. Why should they have more money, when it’s not them that do the work?’

  ‘That’s the way it’s always been, and the way it always will be, I suppose.’

  ‘That still doesn’t make it right. Here’s Bertram Dickson, never done a day’s work in his life, yet he’ll come back from the army and his father’ll take him into the mill. He’ll likely look down his nose at the likes of us, though if it wasn’t for the hard graft we put in, there wouldn’t be a mill to run. And when his father dies, Bertram’ll fall heir to the lot, and he’s never set a foot inside the place. He hasn’t a clue what goes on. No, I don’t agree with having one rule for the rich and one for the poor. Russia’s got the right idea. They got rid of their Tsar and all his family.’

  Cissie was shocked by his callousness. ‘But that was in a revolution, and they didn’t deserve to be killed. Does that mean you think our Royal family should be killed, and all?’

  He had the grace to look ashamed. ‘No, that’s not what I mean, but workers get a better deal under the Communists, for the profits are shared out – according to their needs.’