The portly figure of Reverend Reid sailed towards her with outstretched hand.
‘Not at all. Sit down, my dear. Duty comes first.’
His wife’s smile was like a pain.
‘I’ll see about a cup of tea.’
‘No, no, please, I’d rather you didn’t,’ Catriona pleaded.
‘All right, if you insist.’ The ladylike smile again and the polite little tilt to the head that reminded Catriona of Mrs Vincent. ‘I’ll leave you to talk in private.’
‘Thank you,’ Catriona murmured. Then after the older woman left she sat staring down at her hands.
‘Well, my dear?’ the minister prompted gently. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
Catriona wished she had never come. People in this kind of district did not do this kind of thing. The ‘done thing’ here was to keep up a respectable front at all costs. One did not talk about intimate things to strangers or neighbours, even if the strangers and neighbours were people of the Church.
By seeking help she was only making herself more of an outcast. It occurred to her that Melvin, by managing to keep up his front of normality for outsiders, would gain sympathy from these people without even trying.
For the first time she felt class conscious, even though, in a small way. Melvin was still a business man. Like his father before him he could make and hang on to money and this alone gained him respect and acceptance.
Catriona’s background had been the working class, where people borrowed and shared everything including their most intimate troubles.
‘It’s nothing really.’ She struggled to bring some dignity and pride into her voice. ‘Actually I haven’t been feeling too well and everything seems to have been getting on top of me.’
‘Ah, well, yes.’ Reverend Reid leaned back in his chair and began gently tapping the arm of it with his fingertips. ‘It happens to all of us at some time or other. Perhaps a visit to your doctor, my dear. I’m sure he would be able to give you a tonic.’
‘Yes, of course!’ Catriona said brightly. ‘How stupid of me. I should have gone there. Of course!’ She blinked and blinked again but despite her efforts to be brave and discreet, tears were escaping and coursing down her face and her mouth was twisting and quivering out of control.
‘My dear!’ Reverend Reid murmured unhappily.
‘It’s my father-in-law. He’s so much work. I’m up in the middle of the night with him. He does all sorts of stupid and dangerous things. I can’t stand it much longer.’
‘Poor old soul! You must ask God to help you to be patient, Mrs MacNair. Old age is something that comes to all of us. You’ll be old yourself one day, my dear, and you’ll want your children to be loving and patient with you.’
‘It’s my husband, too.’ She knew she was only making things worse but could not help blurting out the truth. ‘I’ve come to hate him. I can’t help it. He nags at me day and night. You’ve no idea what he’s like. Nobody has. I tried to leave him but he came after me acting like a maniac, banging his head on the wall and threatening to kill himself.’
‘Oh, dear, dear.’ The minister tutted. ‘Poor soul. He was a prisoner of war, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘God alone knows what the poor fellow must have suffered.’
She took deep breaths. Then she said:
‘You think I’m neurotic and selfish.’
‘My dear,’ he soothed. ‘Life cannot be easy for you. I’ll pray that God will strengthen you, and help you to find enough love and patience to carry you through this little difficult patch.’ He sighed. ‘Try to feel thankful that you have your husband safely home beside you, my dear. My poor grandson was killed. Think how his wife must feel.’
She rose stiffly and immediately.
‘How dreadful of me. I forgot about your tragedy. I’m so terribly sorry.’
‘Reggie was …’ The old man shook his head, unable to speak for a minute. ‘Reggie was a fine boy.’
‘Yes, he was.’ Pleasure illuminated his face. ‘You knew him?’
‘I met him a couple of times. I thought he was a perfect gentleman and very, very handsome.’
‘Yes, wasn’t he? Yes, wasn’t he, indeed?’
‘I’d better not take up any more of your time when you’re going out. Thank you for being so kind.’
‘Not at all. Not at all.’
He patted her shoulder as he saw her to the door.
‘Your husband’s a fine brave man, too. Just give him time, my dear. These have been difficult years for all of us.’
Immediately she got into the privacy of her own house she leant her head against the door and wept loudly and broken-heartedly.
Her problem was becoming more and more a physical one. She was bleeding so constantly and heavily that every day was an ordeal of exhaustion to be overcome.
She got to the stage when she knew something would have to be done. If she were to survive, the odds against her would have to be cut down.
‘Melvin!’ she burst out eventually. ‘Something will have to be done about Da.’
‘What do you mean, “Something will have to be done about Da”?’
‘He’ll have to go into a home.’
Melvin’s eyes bulged. ‘Toss my father out on to the street?’ he shouted. ‘I’ll see you out on the street first!’
‘I didn’t say toss your father out on to the street. I said - a home - or a hotel.’
‘He’s got a home. I gave him a home.’
She tried to sound reasonable.
‘I can’t help it, Melvin. I’m sorry.’
‘What do you mean, you’re sorry? I’ve a big ten-roomed-house here and you expect me to turf my father out. You’re rotten selfish, that’s your trouble. Nobody matters but yourself.’
‘I just don’t feel able to look after Da any more. I can’t go on like this. I just can’t. He’s too much for me.’
Melvin’s mouth twisted.
‘Aw, shut up, you’re always the same. Whine, whine, whine! What have you ever done for Da?’
‘I’ve done my best. That’s what I’ve done. Now he’ll have to go.’
‘What do you mean, “He’ll have to go”? I promised my father he would never have anything to worry about as long as he had me. And my word’s my bond.’
‘You had no right.’
‘What do you mean - I had no right? He’s my father.’
‘And I’m your wife.’
‘So? I’ve given you a good home here as well, haven’t I? What more do you want? Buckingham Palace and a squad of maids?’
‘I want your father out of here so that I can have a rest. I’ve the children to think of.’
‘The children!’ he scoffed. ‘You don’t care about them any more than you care about my father. You’re always narking on at them. You make their life a bloody misery.’
She stared at him in heartbroken silence for a minute or two. Had it became so bad, so noticeable? Were the children actually suffering, really unhappy?
Melvin grabbed a newspaper, shoved it up between them, shut her out, ended the conversation.
Her lips trembled.
‘Are you or are you not going to do something about your father?’
‘Aw, shut up!’
She left the room and went for her coat. She went out, shutting the front door quietly. Her mind was in a daze.
Walking slowly, painfully down on to Queen Margaret Drive she tried to sort out what she could do. If she left again it could not be to her mother’s. Her mother had never forgiven her for going back to Melvin the last time. And, as if she knew that it was the last time Catriona would stay there, she had turned the full force of her emotions on Rab. They were never apart now. Sometimes Hannah called for him at the bakehouse and they went straight from there to the pictures. They still argued and fought but it was as if they did not know how else to speak. It was a kind of passion that blotted everyone else out, including Catriona.
She would need to fi
nd someplace else to live, somewhere for the children to sleep and eat and have shelter. If she could find a job she could perhaps make enough money to pay for a place. But no, she knew that she would never be able to make enough money to pay rent and buy food and all that the children needed although if she had been able she would have tried. She was not able, that was the problem. She felt ill. Every now and again pain possessed her, then left her weak and nearly collapsing with relief after it faded away. Recently it had been getting worse.
She marvelled at how lucky men were, how much suffering they missed.
Reaching Great Western Road, she hesitated as if lost. Then, remembering that Madge was living in an old RAF camp further along the road, she forced herself to go in a slow plodding pace in that direction.
Madge was standing outside her Nissen hut with her big arms folded across her chest. Charlie was staggering about nearby and some of the other children were shouting and playing and racing back and forth, often knocking Charlie down.
‘Hello, hen,’ Madge greeted her. ‘Come on in. It’s ages since I’ve seen you. That marvellous house of yours - just makes me jealous.’ She gave a big cheery laugh. ‘You’re a lucky wee midden, eh? Sit down, the chair won’t bite you.’
‘I don’t feel very lucky,’ Catriona ventured.
‘Well, you should.’
‘But, Madge. I’m terribly worried.’ She gave a hasty glance around then lowered her voice. ‘It’s my periods. They’re so heavy - they go on all the time. I feel terrible.’
Madge scratched herself then tucked her hair behind her ear.
‘Drink plenty milk stout.’
‘Milk stout?’
Madge laughed.
‘What are you looking so shocked for? It makes blood, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’
‘Och, anybody knows that. They give it to women in hospitals.’
‘Do they?’
‘You get your man to buy some bottles and take it regular.’
Catriona nibbled at her lip. She did not feel as if she were getting to the root of the problem.
‘It’s not just that. My father-in-law seems to be going off his head. Half the time he imagines he’s still in Dessie Street. He gets all mixed up. Especially at night. That’s the funny thing about it. He’s mostly all right during the day when Melvin’s in. But at night it’s awful. I never know what he’s going to be like.’
‘Och, the poor old soul. It’ll be his dotage. It comes to all of us, hen.’ Another big laugh shook Madge’s chest. ‘Any more complaints eh? You’re a scream, hen. There you are along in Botanic Crescent among all the toffs in a lovely big house with a good man. And here I am with damn all. And you come here trying to tell me your troubles!’
Catriona flushed.
‘I suppose it does sound ridiculous. I’m sorry, Madge.’
‘You look a right toff yourself. You suit your hair up like that. My God, some folk have all the luck. You’re even made wee and dainty and, as Julie would say, tairably, tairably refained. Think yourself lucky, hen. That’s my advice. You go back home tonight and think yourself damned lucky!’
Catriona tried to graft a look of cheerfulness across her face.
‘All right, Madge. I will. Talking about Julie - I wonder how she’s getting on? I don’t suppose she wrote to you, did she? I wrote to Mr Gemmell and enclosed a letter for Julie and asked him to post it to her address in England. But I’ve never had any reply. I wrote to her father again and never got any reply from him either. He must have gone with her. I can’t understand it, can you? I hope she’s all right.’
‘Och, she’ll be all right,’ Madge said. ‘She looks as if she can take damned good care of herself, that one!’
Chapter 22
Mrs Vincent had come every day without fail to the hospital. Julie had written to Botanic Crescent right away and told her where to come, and she had headed the letter ‘Dear Mum’ and ended it - ‘Your loving daughter, Julie’. She did not know why she had written like that. She always called her Mrs Vincent to her face and often went to no pains to hide the fact that she did not like her very much.
She was sure Mrs Vincent had no great love for her either, and she always felt that at any minute she would disappear from her life. She kept thinking to hell with her and good riddance. Yet every day Mrs Vincent arrived exactly on time and brought fruit and flowers and chocolates.
Julie kept saying, ‘You shouldn’t have. I don’t need anything. I’m all right. When I want something I’ll buy it for myself.’
But she looked forward to each visit because she trembled with eagerness to show off the baby.
‘Isn’t she a doll? An absolute doll.’ She held the little bundle with great tenderness, savouring every silky flower-petal feel of it against her breast, studying every hair on its downy head, rubbing her cheek gently against the vulnerable softness, closing her eyes with love that was like a pain. ‘She’s so beautiful, isn’t she? So good, too. Look at her. Look how she just lies there without making a sound.’
The fingers of Mrs Vincent’s gloved hand eased back the shawl. Then she smiled and murmured agreement and before sitting down tickled the tiny chin with one finger.
‘Coochie-coochie coo! They are sweet when they’re tiny!’
Julie had bristled at the word ‘they’ as if it somehow detracted from her baby’s uniqueness. No other baby in the universe was as exquisitely wonderful as her daughter.
She would never forget the first time she saw her. It had been as if she had gone in through one door of a torture chamber and eventually struggled out another and found herself changed as a result. From the moment she looked at her baby she knew she would never be the same person again.
A new part of her had been tempered in the fire of pain, was hypersensitive, had subtle nuances, strange penetrations of feeling that had never been dreamt of before.
Looking at her new-born child she saw her own flesh, a completely vulnerable part of herself yet with none of her faults or imperfections. When the child cried she cringed inside and palpitated with the acuteness of her concern.
All the time she kept staring at her baby. With great care and wonderment her eyes studied the tender pink bulge of the cheek, the rosebud mouth, the little creased neck that seemed too thin, the dimpled fists. Any movement, a sucking twitch of the mouth, the slow enchanting opening of the eyes to stare straight at her, touched on ready ripened nerves like an orgasm.
All the time they kept telling her that it would be best if it were adopted and she had agreed before the baby was born. But now seeing it, now being different, she no longer could decide what ought to be done for the best. Just to think of giving the little girl away made her stomach immediately plummet down as if she had stepped into an empty lift shaft.
She kissed the baby and kissed it again and cuddled away underneath the bedclothes with it in her arms so that no one could see her weeping. She wished she could ask the child what it wanted. In the dark tunnel of the bed-clothes, through rainbow tears she kissed the milky mouth and longed to be able to converse with it.
They said it was not fair on the child to have only one parent. A child needs a father as well as a mother, they said.
There was this well-off couple up north just longing for a child, they told her. They had a lovely big house out in the country and if they adopted the little girl she would lack for nothing.
Think of the difference, they said. What had she to offer? An overcrowded nursery during the day or someone looking after the baby while she was out at work. A room and kitchen in the Gorbals at night. Not even a garden. Nowhere for a pram.
Then when the child grew up - what could she say about its father?
Holding and kissing and nursing it, her face soaking the pillow, she thought, ‘If only she knew me now. If only she could remember. If only she could know how much I love her.’
But maybe it was better that her daughter should never, have any memory of her at all.
H
ow could she bear the child to know that her father had been some faceless airman who had picked her drunken Gorbals mother off the street, and afterwards disappeared? She did not even know his name or what he looked like.
She tried to clean her mind of the memory of that night and the terrible shame in case just thinking about it in the presence of her baby might in some way contaminate it.
She knew she could never endure her daughter knowing about her and being ashamed of her.
The adopting parents were such respectable people, they said.
She could almost see them. They had a neat villa in the suburbs of Aberdeen or Inverness or Oban. Probably their parents had helped them to buy it. They had a big garden, of course, and a car and they went regularly to church on Sundays. They were known and respected members of the community. He played golf and she was a member of the Women’s Guild. They had a joint account in the local bank. They fitted securely into all the accepted patterns.
Julie closed her eyes and prayed to them.
‘Please, please, be good and loving and kind and patient and understanding always and always to my little girl.’
She did not allow Mrs Vincent to come for her on the day she left the hospital, but she promised to visit her at Botanic Crescent the day after.
She did not want anyone to be there when she said goodbye to her baby.
In front of Mrs Vincent she had always managed to maintain a brusque, cheerful exterior.
At visiting times they gossiped and laughed as if she had come to hospital for no more than the simple uncomplicated removal of an appendix.
If Mrs Vincent noticed the tragic eyes, and the face puffy and swollen with weeping, she never once mentioned it.
The last day came and panic swooped inside Julie like the big dipper at the fair.
She kept telling herself that this was not, could not be, the last time she would ever see her baby. She would never know her daughter. Never see her in all the stages of growing up, never know her as a woman. And her daughter would never know her! Shaking and weak and bewildered, Julie tried to console herself. Her baby would go to the adopting parents now but at the end of a few weeks she could still change her mind before signing the papers.
The Breadmakers Saga Page 56
