Brow of the Gallowgate

by Doris Davidson

  For a man who didn’t believe in young folk getting things too easily, Albert thought, the grocer was being more than generous. ‘Thank you, Mr Duthie, that’ll be a big help.’

  He discovered, later, that it was more than a help, it was practically all he’d need, for the old man pressed him to take so many items that it seemed to Albert that all he would have to buy was a bed.

  Bathie had demanded to see the house as soon as he was given the keys, but he said she’d have to wait until he made it ready for her. He spent his evenings washing down the walls and scrubbing and polishing the oilcloth which the previous tenant had left on the floors.

  When that was finished, he asked his friend John to help him carry Mr Duthie’s contributions up from the first floor, also to move the chest of drawers his mother had said he could take with him. During the time that he was setting everything up, he went to see Bathie only on his half days.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll love it,’ he told her, on the Wednesday before the wedding, ‘but if you don’t like the way I’ve done it, we can shift things about once we’re in.’

  ‘We’ve been very lucky to receive so many lovely gifts.’

  Nell and Wattie had given them two pairs of sheets and a pair of pillows, and although Bathie’s parents’ main gift was a bone-china tea set, silver tea service and cutlery, Henrietta was always handing over little items she thought they might need.

  Albert was very touched by the small wedding gifts his customers brought in – pillow cases, dish towels, butter and jam dishes, even a hand-embroidered tablecloth – but the women all said that they were only showing their gratitude for the friendly way he had served them over the years.

  On Friday, the eve of the wedding, Bathie called at the shop just before seven, to be taken up to see Mr Duthie, as he had requested. The old man was astonished to discover how dainty and well-spoken she was, and felt rather embarrassed at having to tell her the washing rota and rules of his tenement, but she nodded and absorbed everything gravely, then thanked him for all he had done for them. By the time the young couple left his house, Joseph Duthie was as much her slave as Albert was.

  She begged to be taken up to see their own two rooms, but Albert steadfastly refused. ‘I want to carry you over the threshold as a bride, my love.’

  That made her giggle delightedly. ‘You’re quite romantic, Albert, though nobody would think it to look at you. That’s part of why I love you, you know, because you keep springing surprises on me.’

  ‘Surprises?’

  ‘Asking me to marry you so suddenly, standing up to my father, and now this.’ She looked up at him as he opened the street door. ‘In less than seventeen hours I’ll be your wife, Albert.’

  ‘I can hardly wait.’ They said it together and laughed hilariously, then he said, seriously, ‘I’ll make you happy, Bathie. You’ll never regret being my wife, I swear.’

  ‘I know I won’t, Albert, dear, never as long as I live.’

  Chapter Four

  On the morning of the wedding, Albert rose much earlier than usual. He’d been too excited to sleep very well, but he didn’t feel in the least bit tired, and his blood pounded in his veins each time he thought that in six hours . . . five hours . . . four hours, he and Bathie would be united in holy matrimony.

  He took Belle out for a walk to let his parents have privacy to bathe in front of the kitchen range, but returned in plenty of time to make himself ready. After filling the zinc bath from the pail which had been left heating on the fire, he stepped in gingerly.

  It was very hot, so he hopped from one foot to the other for a few moments, then eased himself down, gasping as first his backside, then his genitals, came in contact with the near-scalding liquid. Lathering himself with the carbolic soap, it crossed his mind that the next time he took a bath, it would be in his own home. Quickly rinsing off the soap, he stood on the hearthrug to dry himself with the large towel his mother had laid out for him.

  In just over an hour, he reflected as he rubbed himself vigorously, Bathie and he would be making their vows in the sight of God, and she would belong to him for ever, just as he would belong to her.

  Arthur Johnstone watched his daughter standing before the altar. She looked so beautiful, so happy, so vulnerable, that his love for her almost overwhelmed him, and he ran his finger round the inside of his stiff, high collar to ease his Adam’s apple. It seemed only yesterday that she had been a tiny infant, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and grasping his finger when he held it out to her.

  Henrietta had been a good mother and had suckled their daughter for almost nine months, but during that time she had never allowed him to touch her at all. Afterwards, she had succumbed grudgingly to him only about once a month, as if she were bestowing a great favour on him.

  Bathia had been about a year and a half, he recalled, when he had first been tempted to stray. Their maid at that time had been a buxom fifteen-year-old, whose well-developed body had made her appear much older, and who had an equally well-developed appetite for men. His wife had retired early one night, saying that she felt slightly unwell, as she so often did, and he had been sitting in the drawing room going over some of the bank’s papers when the girl – he couldn’t even remember her name now – had come in with a cup of hot milk for him.

  ‘If the mistress isna able,’ she had said, softly, ‘I’m quite willin’.’

  It had taken him a minute to realise what she meant, but it had took less than a minute for his body to respond to her offer once he did understand. He had gone up to her room in the attics where she had undressed slowly, nearly driving him mad with desire. That had been the first time he had ever experienced the thrill of a woman climaxing at exactly the same time as he did, for Henrietta had never, as far as he was aware, let herself reach that point at all.

  Henrietta. His mind jumped back to the present, and he glanced round at his wife guiltily, but she was dabbing her eyes with a dainty lace handkerchief, caring about nothing except that her lamb was leaving the fold.

  At that moment, the Reverend Mitchell looked up. ‘Who giveth this woman to this man?’ he intoned.

  Stepping forward, Arthur took the bride’s hand and placed it in Albert’s, his eyes filling with tears for the baby, the toddler, the schoolgirl, the young woman, who was leaving his jurisdiction for ever. His only daughter. His Bathia. No, he thought mournfully, she was Albert Ogilvie’s now.

  His duty over, Arthur went to sit beside his wife, who grasped his hand and squeezed it sympathetically. He did love her, he realized now, and she had shown more affection for him lately than she had ever done before. Perhaps the improvement in their own relationship would help to make up for the loss of their daughter.

  As the bride and groom, followed by the two attendants, made their way through to the vestry to sign the marriage register, Arthur recognized the conclusion of the ceremony. Bathia and Albert had finally been pronounced husband and wife, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, until death did them part.

  A weight seemed to lift from him and he leaned back against the wooden pew. It was not the wedding he had ever envisaged for his only child, but when she reappeared, looking so radiant on her new husband’s arm, he had no regrets, and he found himself – unexpectedly, for he was not a man given to such a thing – praying that she would have no regrets, either.

  Nell Ogilvie was so happy that she couldn’t help weeping. Albert looked very handsome in his new suit, his face shining and wearing an expression of pure rapture she had never seen in him before, and Bathie . . . Oh, words couldn’t describe how lovely Bathie was. Her wedding gown – her mother’s, Albert had said – was a perfect creation of lace and tulle, and the headdress, low on her forehead, with a beaded band round it, covered all her hair except for a few curly tendrils.

  This young lady would make Albert a good wife, for there was that tilt to her chin which told of a determination to overcome all obstacles. The only thing was – would she be strong enough to bear chil
dren? She looked so fragile, as if a puff of wind would blow her away.

  When her new daughter-in-law came over and kissed her warmly, Nell’s already full heart was in danger of bursting.

  ‘Thank you for giving me Albert,’ the bride whispered, then turned to Wattie and kissed his cheek, before going across to her own parents.

  Bathie was a very thoughtful lassie, Nell decided, and it was God’s blessing that Albert had won her, for it must have taken some doing for him to persuade her father.

  Back at the Johnstones’ house, the mood was one of gaiety and a slight relief. Nell felt more at ease this time in her new bombazine dress, which wasn’t outshone by the blue taffeta Bathie’s mother was wearing, and Wattie looked every bit as smart as Mr Johnstone.

  Bathie’s father seemed to be more free in his manner than he’d been the first time they’d met, and her mother set herself out to include them in every bit of the conversation. Albert’s friend John was a bit overcome by all the grandeur, but the bridesmaid was a little chatterbox, so the meal passed very well, and after they moved to the drawing room it seemed no time at all before Albert said they should be leaving.

  Nell sensed that Wattie was going to make some kind of ribald remark at this, so she poked his leg with her knee, hoping that no one would notice. He had opened his mouth, and now looked at his wife in hurt surprise, mouth still gaping.

  ‘I’ll go up and change out of my wedding gown,’ Bathie said, ‘and if you’re ready to go when I come down, Mr and Mrs Ogilvie, we can walk together as far as Market Street.’

  ‘Two Mr and Mrs Ogilvies.’ Nell laughed, loving the girl more and more by the minute.

  Before she could stop him, Wattie remarked, ‘I’ll change wives wi’ you ony time, Albert, lad. A young Mrs Ogilvie would suit me fine, for a change would kittle me up an’ put a bit o’ lead in my pencil.’

  He winked to show everyone that he was joking, but Nell shook her head reprovingly. ‘He’s a great tease,’ she told Henrietta, who looked shocked at the man’s coarseness, but now smiled a trifle uncomfortably. ‘Folk that dinna ken him must think he’s terrible,’ Nell went on, ‘but it’s just the way he aye is, an’ he doesna mean ony thin’ by it.’

  She did not seem at all put out, her eyes turned affectionately on her husband, and Henrietta wished that she and Arthur had that kind of easy relationship, although theirs had improved a great deal lately. It was funny how adversity often brought a husband and wife closer together, and she had better make sure never to refuse Arthur again.

  Chapter Five

  The white damask cloth set off the delicately patterned china, the silver cutlery gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through the tall narrow window, the crystal condiment set glittered as if it were encrusted with diamonds, and Bathie Ogilvie nodded with satisfaction.

  This was their first breakfast together, and she was still tingling, outside and inside, from Albert’s love-making, which had more than fulfilled her rather vague dreams. She had laughed when her mother tried to tell her what she should expect, and had said that she knew all about it, but she had discovered last night that she’d been wrong.

  The book she’d read had said that, at first, the female partner would experience much pain and bleeding, but would have to endure it as her wifely duty. Whoever had written that couldn’t have enjoyed it, Bathie thought, but she had. She’d been slightly apprehensive when Albert came into the bedroom last night, but when he kissed her, more ardently than he’d ever done before, she’d found herself wanting more.

  Then, when his hands had slid down from her neck to her bosom, and he’d started to caress her nipples, great shafts of delight had shot downwards, making her aware of the stirring in her private parts.

  There had been pain at first, but it had been quite bearable, and Albert had been so gentle that the discomfort had soon been forgotten. She’d been conscious only of the thrill of it, growing stronger and stronger until she was practically desperate with the need for release.

  She couldn’t describe, even in her thoughts, how she’d felt when that release finally exploded inside her like a blinding flash, but she knew that it had happened at exactly the same time for Albert.

  She must stop thinking about it. It was most unseemly, and Albert would think her very unladylike if he ever found out how much she had enjoyed it. He was so considerate that he’d even tried to stop her from rising first this morning.

  ‘I’ll get up today,’ he’d said. ‘I can’t have you lighting the fire and making porridge for me on the morning after our wedding night, even if it is Sunday.’

  She’d planted a kiss on his brow. ‘No, thank you anyway, but I want to be a real wife to you from the very start, Albert, dear.’

  Washing himself in the bowl of hot water she’d brought through to the bedroom, Albert was musing over how perfectly everything had worked out for them; Mrs Duncan deciding to move out of her house, and Mr Duthie offering it to him. And if that wasn’t enough, giving him the furniture and all the other odds and ends he needed to make a decent home. It was providential, that’s what it was.

  Being officially made manager, with quite a substantial increase in wages, had also been a godsend, for now he’d a wife to keep, as well as himself. He groped for the towel, his eyes full of soap, and dried himself quickly before he pulled his shirt over his head.

  He struggled with his collar stud for a moment, then sat down on the bed – there was no room for a chair here, even if they’d had one – to put on his boots. The sight of Bathie’s nightgown, flung carelessly over the rumpled bedclothes, made him flush with the memory of his passion, of the night before. Thankfully, it had been nothing like his awful, sordid first experience with the girl from Glasgow. It had confirmed to both of them the full extent of their love for each other.

  He’d let her come through to the bedroom first, to save her the embarrassment of undressing in front of him, and had put on his new nightshirt in the kitchen. He’d been accustomed to sleeping in his woollen linder and long drawers before, but had felt he should show some respect for his bride. She’d looked so beautiful when he joined her, so young and innocent, that he’d hesitated to get into bed beside her. She was only a child, and what he was about to do would change her for ever.

  ‘Are you scared, Albert?’ she’d whispered. ‘Because I am, just a little bit, but I’m very happy.’ Then she’d turned the covers back, inviting him in, and he’d lain down at her side, trembling like an aspen leaf in a breeze.

  ‘I’m the happiest man in the world,’ he’d breathed, as he slid his arm round her, and the feel of her softness through the thin cotton gown had set him on fire . . .

  Oh, God. The memory of last night had set his sap rising again, and he couldn’t go through to Bathie and ask her to go back to bed. She’d think he was an animal, with animal lusts he couldn’t control . . . and maybe he was. But he had controlled them last night to a large extent, and had been gentle and tender with her, guiding her through her initiation until he could feel that she was ready for the final thrust which would let them reach the heights together. She hadn’t said she enjoyed it, but he was sure that she had.

  He stood up hastily, and looked through the window at the small square of grass three floors below. This was where Bathie would have to hang the clothes she washed on Thursday, which was their turn for the wash-house and the drying-green. Poor Bathie. She’d likely never had to wash any clothes in her life before, but she hadn’t appeared too upset when Mr Duthie explained the situation to her.

  When he felt calmer, Albert went into the kitchen, where Bathie dished up his porridge, waiting for his opinion before she filled a plate for herself. Lumpy and over-salted though it was, he assured her that it was the best he’d ever tasted, and she chuckled with pleasure. It wasn’t until she tasted her own that she realized he’d been gallantly untruthful.

  ‘Ugh!’ She screwed up her face in disgust, and spat the porridge back into her plate. It’s awful. I’m sorry, Albe
rt, I can’t cook. I’ve never been told how, and I’ve never seen anyone . . .’ A tear spilled on to her cheek, so he rose and took her in his arms. ‘Bathie, my love. You’ll learn as you go along. Stop crying, for it breaks my heart to see you. It doesn’t matter. We can throw the porridge out and toast some bread instead.’

  Drying her eyes with her new apron, she looked up at him with such a pitiful expression that he just had to kiss her.

  In the forenoon, they took the two dogs out for a long walk, after Bathie made sure that the fire was burning well enough to cook the small piece of mutton and potatoes that were huddled together as if for warmth in the centre of a huge roasting tin, another gift from Henrietta.

  The aroma of cooking welcomed them when they returned, and Bathie ran to open the oven door. ‘I thought I could smell something burning, but it looks just right.’

  The meat was delicious, and the fresh air having given them an appetite, they did full justice to their first course. The second course, however, was another disaster.

  ‘It’s my fault this time,’ Albert said, ruefully. ‘I told you to put in two handfuls of rice, for that’s what my mother did, but maybe she used more milk, or didn’t bake it so long.’

  Instead of dissolving into tears, as she’d done in the morning, and as he half expected her to, Bathie surprised him by eyeing the solid black mass in the pie dish and bursting into peals of laughter. It was so infectious that he couldn’t help joining in, and soon they were holding on to each other, almost hysterical about this second culinary catastrophe.

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ she gasped, after a few minutes. ‘It’s going to be great fun being married, if we don’t die of hunger.’

  He sat down on one of the armchairs and pulled her on to his knee. The seat was anything but comfortable, but he wouldn’t have noticed if he’d been sitting on a bed of nails.