The Breadmakers Saga

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  ‘Know something?’ He suddenly broke the silence.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re just like what you were when we got married, remember?’

  ‘Aye, fine.’ Her voice saddened. ‘Ah haven’t been much of a wife to you, lad.’

  ‘I told you not to talk like that so shut your mouth.’

  The smile tried to flicker back but her eyes had gone wistful. She hesitated, the words on her tongue longing to come out but afraid of the embarrassment and the hurt they might cause.

  ‘Ah’ve always loved you though, Baldy,’ she managed at last. ‘Have you been fond of me, eh? I mean before … Ah mean, ah don’t expect … Ah don’t deserve anything now … And ah’m that sorry, Baldy … ah’m that ashamed.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, you dope!’

  ‘Ah’ve caused you nothing but trouble, ah know.’

  ‘You’re my wife!’ he insisted stubbornly as if that was enough, as if that settled everything.

  Melvin had let Lizzie in and then gone down to the bakehouse to check with Jimmy about how much jam and fondant and fruit and other items needed to be ordered.

  Catriona, nerves ragged with lack of sleep, was left feeling very ill-at-ease with her next-door neighbour. Already Lizzie had made several complaints and accusations against her.

  Only the other day after she had put out crumbs in the back court for the birds, Lizzie had limped after her with a brush and shovel, swept up the crumbs and angrily complained to her: ‘I know what you’re doing, you sly little minx, but you won’t get away with it.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she protested when she recovered from her initial surprise, ‘what on earth you’re going on about!’

  ‘Oh, you know, all right! Don’t tell any of your lies! That baby-face of yours maybe fools the men but it doesn’t fool me.’

  ‘Know what, for goodness’ sake?’ Irritation at being bothered by trivialities at such a tragic time gave her voice unusual emphasis.

  ‘You know that I’ve just hung up that washing, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but what’s that got to do with me putting out crumbs for the birds?’

  ‘You know those birds are going to fly over my washing to reach your crumbs. You know they’re going to do their filthy business on their way over. All over my clean washing. You know, all right!’

  ‘Oh! I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous!’

  At any other time she might have giggled, but laughter, when Sarah was lying in the condemned cell at Duke Street prison, was something obscene. Everyone in the narrow cobbled street was talking in low-pitched whispers of voices, gathering in serious-faced crowds at corners and at close-mouths and in each other’s houses.

  She pushed impatiently past Lizzie and left her without uttering another word.

  Now here she was again and at Melvin’s invitation, to stop her thinking about Sarah no doubt.

  ‘You’re thinking and talking far too much about Sarah Fowler,’ he’d exploded. ‘And what you’re wasting your time and mine on her for beats me. After all, whether you like it or not, the woman’s a killer and she’ll have to pay the penalty. She should have thought about the consequences before she carved up Mrs Fowler. She’s nobody but herself to blame.’ And eventually he had crushed the words of protest that came rushing to her mouth by his ‘Aw shut up! Nothing you think or say or do is going to make one bit of difference. You’re not the Secretary for Scotland!’

  His contempt for her added flames of anger to her distress and she had tried to relieve her feelings by throwing herself into a frenzy of housework, working so feverishly at cleaning and polishing the place with such thoroughness that she felt certain he would never again be able to find any excuse to criticize her.

  Yet he had been more furious with her than ever and had glowered at her and poked and peered about until, just before stamping out of the house, he’d shoved the chip pan under her nose.

  ‘Look at that. It’s a disgrace. Do you not even know how to clean a chip pan? The outside’s thick with filthy grease.’

  Then she had heard him muttering to Lizzie on the landing and Lizzie had limped in with a gleam in her eyes, looking very pleased with herself.

  ‘Hello, my precious wee son.’ She leaned over Fergus who was on his way out to play in the back green. ‘Here’s a sixpence to buy yourself lots and lots of sweeties.’

  ‘Lizzie, you simply must stop doing that,’ Catriona gasped with annoyance. ‘It just makes him sick and spoils him from eating a proper meal.’

  ‘Huh!’ Lizzie swung round and jerked up on her painful hip. You’ll not tell me what to do, or what not to do with my own wee baby, you impertinent upstart. What do you know about my wee Fergie?’

  ‘I know he’s not your wee Fergie!’

  Catriona immediately regretted her hasty words because she saw the wound they made before it was covered by hatred.

  ‘How dare you talk to me like that,’ Lizzie said harshly. ‘You sly, wicked …’

  ‘Oh, be quiet!’ Irritation overcame her again. ‘I’m sick of listening to your stupid talk. I’m not sly. I’m telling you straight to your face. I don’t want you to keep interfering and spoiling Fergus.’

  ‘Wait till Melvin hears about this! “Keep an eye on her, and Fergus,” he says. “As soon as my back’s turned she’ll be wandering about there like the ghost of Lady Macbeth,” he says. He’ll hear about this, all right. You’re not fit to look after a child. What children have you ever looked after before? What do you know about children?’

  ‘There’s the door, Lizzie!’

  After it slammed shut with a violence that rocked the house, Catriona covered her face with her hands.

  She waited. After the noise came the silence, and after the silence, her thoughts.

  Suddenly she tore off her apron, grabbed the key from its hook, flew from the empty house and pelted upstairs.

  Amy Gordon, like a woman caught unawares by old age, shuffled across the hall in answer to her knock and peeked round the door, her motherly face bewildered.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, dear.’ She sighed with relief. ‘Come in, come in, I’m so pleased to see you. It’s awful to be alone at a time like this, isn’t it?’

  She led Catriona through to her front room. ‘I was just sitting here having a wee rest and looking out the window. Usually I’ve got Baldy in but he’s next door just now with half the street in beside him and I’m glad. Poor man, he’s trying so hard and with so much noise to make out he’s not in the least bothered, but everybody knows he’s nearly demented and he’s awful hard to thole. I’m exhausted with him and glad some of the others are taking a turn. You’ll drink a wee cup of tea, dear?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Och, just a wee cup. It’ll be no bother to make and you’re welcome.’

  ‘I couldn’t drink it, honestly. I just wanted the company. I knew you’d understand.’

  ‘Yes, of course, dear. Sit down and make yourself comfy.’ Mrs Gordon sighed and shook her head. ‘I’m worried about Jimmy, too. He gets so worked up about everything. He gets all excited about far less important things than this, so you can imagine what he’s like just now.’

  ‘I’ve been speaking to him. He looks awfully pale and dark under the eyes. Has he been keeping all right? He says it’s lack of sleep but nobody’s getting much sleep and I suppose we all appear a bit wan. It looks more than that with him somehow … he seems … I don’t know …’ Suddenly hot-cheeked she floundered in embarrassment but words - ‘His face haunts me!’ - escaped before she could stop them.

  Jimmy’s mother was too preoccupied with her own worries, however, to notice anything out of the ordinary about her guest’s tone of voice.

  ‘The lad was so ill.’ Plump hands clasped and unclasped on aproned lap. ‘Before your time, dear. A few years back. Rheumatic fever it was and it left its mark on his heart. The doctor said he’d be all right as long as he took good care of himself and kept himself calm, as if my Jimmy could
ever do any such thing.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Catriona’s heart pounded louder and louder stronger and stronger, like the beat of some fearful tribal drum, until it was shaking the very roots of her existence.

  ‘He’s got plenty of spirit,’ Mrs Gordon went on. ‘I agreed with the doctor about that. He said Jimmy had youth on his side too and he’d be all right but, oh, lassie, lassie, I’m awful worried about my boy. He’s that fond of Sarah Fowler. She used to come in here every day and take a turn looking after him when he was ill and let me lie down for a wee sleep.

  ‘She was that gentle with him, too, the way she used to sponge his hands and face, and he remembers, you see. She’s always been such a kindly wee soul, Sarah, and aye ready with a smile or a joke. She used to have Jimmy grinning from ear to ear even while he was not able to move a muscle for the rheumatic pains.’ Suddenly she stopped, her expression anxiously alerting. ‘I think that’s him now. Aye, he’s coming through. He always makes straight for the piano every time he comes in.’

  Her face acquired a forced brightness as soon as her son appeared in the room. ‘Hello, son. This wee lassie’s come upstairs to keep me company. Wasn’t that kind? I’ll go and make a cup of tea now.’

  Rising she turned to smile at Catriona. ‘He loves his cup of tea when he comes in.’ Her smile returned to Jimmy who was standing very still, gazing across the room at Catriona. ‘Don’t you, son?’

  He winked round at her.

  ‘You’re the best old tea-maker in Glasgow!’

  ‘Less of the “old” I keep telling you, you rascal,’ she scolded as she passed. ‘Sit down at that piano and give the wee lassie a song and a tune. I won’t be a minute and we’ll all have a cup. It’ll put some pith into us and make us feel better. There’s nothing like a good strong cup of tea.’

  The room was silent after she went out. Jimmy kept standing near the piano, massaging his fingers, his eyes never leaving Catriona until her cheeks flushed rose-pink.

  ‘Please play something,’ she said at last, wanting to keep the dark eyes holding hers, but terrified of the welter of emotion his penetrating stare was firing into life.

  He sat down at the piano and allowed his fingers to flow over the keys before he began to speak to the music.

  ‘I have heard the mavis singing

  His love song to the morn;

  I have seen the dew-drop clinging

  To the rose just newly born;

  But a sweeter song has cheered me

  At the evening’s gentle close;

  And I’ve seen an eye still brighter

  Than the dew drop on the rose.

  ’Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary,

  And thine artless winning smile,

  That made this world an Eden,

  Bonnie Mary of Argyll …’

  Chapter 21

  ‘Sex and aggression,’ Jimmy expostulated in between gulps of tea. ‘Sex and aggression, beside tribal loyalty, are the most powerful biological drives.’

  Hannah Munro tried not to look shocked. She had come upstairs in search of her daughter and also to wait while Rab next door took his daily (as well as nightly) turn with the rest at listening to Baldy and struggling to calm him down.

  Hannah had never uttered the word ‘sex’ herself nor ever heard it spoken out loud - let alone in mixed company; and if Jimmy had not been such an obviously well-meaning young man she would have gathered all the dignity at her disposal and swept from the house. As it was, she remained straight-backed on the edge of her seat, sipping tea and bracing herself because she sensed, and rightly, that worse was still to come.

  ‘And you see,’ Jimmy’s eyes flashed around, ‘it’s a question of keeping the savage inside all of us under control. Strictly controlled, you see. The sexual appetites usually find a reasonable amount of acceptable outlets but aggression has almost none. Here’s where our danger lies. Lies waiting to rear up and destroy the civilized part of us. The murder trial appeals to the cruel savage hiding inside us; like a gladiator in an arena, a human being is fighting for his life and the thrill is the same as in the arena - will the thumbs go up, or down!’

  ‘How true!’ Hannah murmured, impressed despite herself. ‘There’s a beast in every man, right enough.’

  ‘Now, now, son,’ his mother pleaded. ‘I wish you wouldn’t get all worked up like that.’

  ‘Oh, Mother, I wish everybody would get worked up.’

  ‘Perhaps people are losing sight of the real meaning of charity.’ Catriona gazed tentatively across at Jimmy, hoping she had said something that would please him, and seeing his nod of agreement, was encouraged to go on. ‘Charity has come to mean just putting a few pennies in a collection box, hasn’t it? But the Bible says it’s much, much more than that. It says …’

  ‘Yes, indeed, child,’ Hannah’s strong voice interrupted. ‘The Good Book says: “Though I have all faith so I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.”’

  ‘Yes,’ Catriona whispered and lowered her eyes. But she could still feel Jimmy’s gaze on her face, warm with understanding.

  Her mother and Mrs Gordon continued the conversation but their voices were like meaningless droning far away in the background.

  There was something far more powerful in the room, something silent, invisible, yet reaching out, touching, caressing the sensitive nerve ends of every secret corner of her soul.

  ‘Bonnie wee thing,’ Jimmy said very quietly. ‘Cannie wee thing.’

  His words, though almost a whisper, affected her like delicious electric shocks.

  ‘Did you say something, son?’ Mrs Gordon turned to him.

  He smiled.

  ‘I was asking Catriona if she knew any of the poems or songs of Robert Burns.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Catriona looked up, wide-eyed now, and breathless. ‘I think he’s wonderful.’

  ‘Well, by jovie,’ Mrs Gordon laughed. ‘You and Jimmy should get on fine. He knows his Burns off by heart.’ Then, as if suddenly remembering Sarah, and feeling ashamed at having laughed, she gave a big sigh. ‘Aye, he was a great man. My husband was fond of him, too. Many a Burns supper he attended. Was that the door, Jimmy? Yes, go and open it, son.’

  ‘It’ll be my husband,’ Hannah said, rising. ‘It’s time we were away, Mrs Gordon. We’ll be over again, though. It’s an awful business, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ll remember poor Sarah in your prayers, Mrs Munro?’

  ‘Yes, I will indeed. May the good Lord help and protect her. Come on, Catriona. It’s time you were going too, child.’

  Jimmy was talking to Rab when they reached the hall.

  ‘Is there still somebody with him?’

  Rab nodded. ‘Tam and Sandy are still there and two or three from down the street. They’ll stay with him until it’s time for work again.’

  ‘You’re dead beat,’ Hannah accused him in a comparatively friendly, almost proud tone. ‘Look at the colour of your face!’

  Rab’s shaggy brows pushed down. The matter of the headshrinker had been relegated, swamped by the more urgent and tragic turn of events, but he had not forgotten or forgiven Hannah. ‘How can I look at the colour of my face, woman? I don’t go around with a mirror hanging on the end of my nose!’

  Hannah rolled her eyes towards Mrs Gordon.

  ‘Men!’

  Jimmy smiled down at Catriona when the others were making their goodbyes.

  ‘I’ll play for you,’ he said. ‘Will you listen?’

  She smiled up at him, her glowing eyes giving him his answer.

  Later, not long after she returned downstairs, the house began to echo, vibrate fill gloriously to the rafters with Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov until Melvin flung down his newspaper and bawled through his moustache at the pitch of his voice, ‘Jumpin’ Jesus! If it’s not one damned thing it’s another! Has Jimmy Gordon gone berserk now
? I can’t hear myself think for that bloody racket!’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Catriona burst out before she realized what she was saying. ‘How can you talk like that about such wonderful music, such perfect artistry?’

  ‘I’ll talk any way I like in my own house - and since when have you been a music-lover?’

  Suddenly she felt frightened, not only for herself, but for Jimmy. Her eyes avoided the angry stare now bulging with suspicion. She shrugged.

  ‘Anything to keep my mind off the murder and that poor woman lying in Duke Street prison.’

  She said the words to protect Jimmy, yet she could not bear how disloyal to his talent they sounded. She sought and found for his sake a new well of courage.

  ‘But why shouldn’t I enjoy good music if I want to? That is good music, you know, and Jimmy Gordon is an unusually talented pianist.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Melvin got up, his voice incredulous. ‘Is there something between you two?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Catriona stood her ground, her eyes refusing to be beaten down. ‘Am I not even to be allowed to listen to music?’

  ‘You’re not going to be allowed to speak to me like that!’ Suddenly he flung back his head and gave an ear-splitting roar that reverberated painfully through her head.

  ‘Jimmy, you bastard! If you don’t give that bloody piano a rest, I’ll come up there and kick it from here to Kingdom Come!’

  The piano did not stop. It finished the piece it had been playing. Then it began another - the different, brighter, cockier rhythm of ‘Gin a body meet a body coming through the rye’.

  Melvin gritted his teeth.

  ‘Hear that! He’s a determined, impertinent young bastard! I don’t know why my father puts up with him. If it was left to me he would have had his cards long ago!’

  Catriona kept silent though she longed to flay him with bitterness.

  What a fool she had been to marry him. She realized that now. She had been far too young and her world had been smaller, more confined, more naive than any nunnery. He had taken unfair advantage.

  There were times when she tried not to blame him, when she fully accepted the responsibility herself, but this was not one of those occasions.