After You've Gone

by Joan Lingard

  ‘Must be wonderful to live in a wonderful country with wonderful people!’ said Bunty, the edge of sarcasm in her voice missed by Ina, who demanded to know what was wrong with Scotland?

  ‘Nothing. Not a thing. Maybe you and Tommy should think of setting yourselves up out in Australia, Willa. Nice climate, good opportunities. Picnics galore. They wouldn’t want Ina and me, we’re too old.’

  ‘Tommy wouldn’t want to live there,’ said his mother.

  ‘I’ve told you before he doesn’t want to live anywhere,’ said Willa. ‘He likes the life on the ocean wave.’

  ‘Oh well.’ Bunty sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better get back to the grind.’ She’d closed the shop for an hour and put up a sign saying ‘Back in ten minutes.’ She got up and stretched herself, yawning. It was hot in the room. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘Well, it’s you that’s said it,’ said Ina.

  ‘He sends his love and all that,’ said Willa and put the letter back in its envelope. She looked forward to Tommy’s letters and was excited when the postie handed them in, but by the time she’d finished reading she felt low and irritable. She was going to go to the library.

  She hadn’t been for a while; she’d been avoiding the place. She’d been rereading all her old childhood favourites that her mother had bought her for birthdays and Christmas. She had them on the shelf in her bedroom. Little Women. Good Wives. She’d pondered on what being a good wife meant and come to the conclusion that it depended on your circumstances, whether your husband was away most of the time sending you letters about the pleasures to be found in foreign lands or coming home nightly at half-past five for his tea. She’d also reread the LM Montgomery books, Anne of Green Gables, Emily of Lantern Hill, Rilla of Ingleside. She loved the titles. They set her dreaming. She had a dozen or so of the Canadian woman’s novels. If she were to have the chance of going anywhere abroad she would choose Prince Edward Island with its pretty apple orchards and wooden-framed houses.

  But now she was desperate for something new to read.

  ‘Can you look after Malcolm for an hour?’ she asked her mother-in-law.

  ‘I’ll take him up to Elma’s. I haven’t seen her for a bit.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Bunty, stifling another yawn. ‘I’ll chum you down the road a wee way, Willa.’

  Willa put on her lighter coat, a pale grey, and knotted the green scarf she’d bought for Elma’s birthday at her throat. She was glad to have thrown off her shabby winter serge. It was a bright, slightly windy day, with puffy white clouds scudding across the sky.

  ‘Spring’s here,’ she said as she and Bunty stepped out into the street.

  ‘At last!’ said Bunty. ‘By the way, your friend Richard was in the shop the other day.’

  ‘I’ve told you—’

  ‘Oh, I know! He’s quite love-sick about you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’

  ‘Hey, watch!’ Bunty pulled Willa back. ‘Do you want to get run over by a motor? It’d be awful messy.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’

  ‘That’s why he was in seeing me. I took him through the back and gave him a cup of tea.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’

  ‘He was worried about you. Real down-in-the-dumps he was. Thought you might not be well. Said it wasn’t like you not to go to the library.’

  ‘I had other things to read.’

  ‘Any road, I told him you were in love with your husband. You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘I thought it was better he didn’t hold out any hope. I’ll leave you here then, Willa. See and pick some nice books!’

  Bunty turned off and Willa strode on up the hill. She couldn’t stay away from the library for ever, could she? She would give Richard a friendly wave if he were there but if he suggested a cup of tea she would tell him she had to get home for the baby.

  He was there, writing at his usual table. Willa wondered why he chose to write in the library and not at home but perhaps he wouldn’t want his mother peering over his shoulder and asking what he was writing. Having seen her, Willa thought that possible. She looked like the kind of woman who would want to know everything. And, in an odd way, which Willa understood, the library was more private, in spite of all the other people around.

  As soon as she came in the door he lifted his head. It always amazed her how he seemed to sense her entrance. His eyes lit up and his face broke into a wide smile, making him look very boyish. He waved and she raised her hand a few inches in return. Then, she too, smiled, although she had not intended to.

  ‘Your friend’s in,’ said the librarian, the pleasant one. ‘He was asking me just yesterday if you’d been in recently and I said no, I hadn’t seen you. Have you been keeping all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks.’

  Willa moved away from the counter into a bay where two other women were already browsing, thinking that there might be safety in numbers.

  Almost immediately, he was beside her.

  ‘I’ve been wondering where you were.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘I’m pleased to see you, though.’

  She concentrated on the book spines, or tried to, but she couldn’t seem to focus.

  ‘What do you feel like reading?’ he asked.

  ‘Jane Austen.’

  Her world was neat and ordered; in the end, people were happy, or happy enough.

  ‘Let’s go and look,’ he said.

  She followed him round the shelves.

  Northanger Abbey, which she had not read, was sitting on the shelf. He lifted it down and placed it in her hand like a gift.

  ‘Now what?’ He hummed softly while he pondered.

  ‘Katherine Mansfield?’ she suggested.

  They went in search and found The Dove’s Nest.

  ‘Published only last year,’ said Richard. ‘After her death. My mother was reading it last week.’

  Willa wished he had not told her that though why it should bother her so much she did not know. She had taken against his mother from what he had told her and after seeing the woman only once, and from the opposite side of the street! How stupid she was being. She went to the counter with her chosen books. Richard came too.

  Without any discussion, they walked to the café in the High Street, their café, and found their usual table in the corner. Richard ordered a pot of tea for two and scones with butter and jam.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

  She said, ‘I got a letter from Tommy this morning,’ and took it out of her bag. ‘He’s in Sydney, Australia. It seems to be a wonderful city, with lovely parks and a zoo and cathedrals, two cathedrals. Shall I read it to you?’

  ‘If you like.’

  She felt his eyes watching her all the time she was reading. When she’d finished he said, ‘You’ve got a lovely soft voice. I could listen to it for hours.’

  She blushed.

  The tea came and he said, smiling and turning the handle of the teapot in her direction, ‘You can be mother!’

  They drank their tea and he ate his scone but she could eat only half of hers. ‘I’m not very hungry,’ she said apologetically and he said that he would finish it if she didn’t mind. His hand brushed hers as he took it from the plate.

  The scone eaten and the bill paid, they left the café. He suggested a walk since it was such a nice day.

  ‘Seems a shame to be inside when the sun’s shining.’

  They walked down the High Street and crossed North Bridge into the Canongate.

  ‘Have you ever seen the secret garden in Dunbar’s Close?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve read The Secret Garden.’ It had been another favourite childhood book.

  As it had been for him. They agreed that the idea of secret gardens was very appealing.

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you this one! Not many people know it’s there.’

  They turned into Dunbar’s Close and there, behi
nd it, lay the hidden-away garden, set out in formal beds, bordered with low hedges. It was very quiet, away from the hum of traffic and the call of voices. There was no one else in the garden but themselves.

  ‘Willa,’ he said and she felt her limbs begin to tremble. He took her into his arms and very gently kissed her. She did not draw away but after a moment she turned her head and rested the side of her face against his shoulder. He held her tightly.

  ‘This is madness,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘I know but I love you.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘But I do.’

  They stayed, holding each other, not speaking, not moving, until Willa, with a sigh, lifted her head and took a step back. He released her.

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They retraced their steps, back up the Royal Mile, towards George IV Bridge. To begin with, Willa struggled to make conversation about Sense and Sensibility, but after a while they both fell silent.

  As they were approaching the library, Willa saw Pauline on the opposite side of the street.

  ‘There’s a friend of mine!’

  Richard quickly said that he would go back into the library. ‘I’ll see you soon?’

  Willa did not answer for Pauline had her in her sights and was waving frantically. Richard disappeared under the library portal and Willa crossed the road, without registering that a motor car was approaching. The driver sounded his horn and glared at her through the windscreen but she did not notice that either. She was out of breath when she reached Pauline.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, anxious to get the first word in. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  Pauline had been at the dentist and had had a tooth out so was taking the rest of the day off. She was damned if she was going to sit on a high stool totting up numbers in a ledger with a swollen jaw. She had a Black Watch scarf wound round her face that a soldier had given her one winter. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘I was at the library.’

  ‘You and your library! It’s a wonder you’re not cross-eyed with all that reading. Are you on your way home?’

  The girls set off to walk back together. As well as suffering from a visit to the dentist, Pauline had another problem. A man. She’d met him six weeks ago at the Palais.

  ‘He’s a wonderful dancer. Almost as good as your Tommy at the tango. You know, real South American-like. He’s got all the moves.’

  ‘What’s wrong this time?’ asked Willa. There was always something wrong with the men Pauline met. She attracted a certain type. Wolfish, Bunty called them. Pauline didn’t seem to see it herself. They tended to have sideburns, heavily Brylcreemed hair, small moustaches that they kept touching with nicotine-stained forefingers, small, watchful eyes.

  ‘He’s married.’

  ‘Oh,’ sighed Willa. ‘That is a problem.’

  ‘Thing is I’m in love with him and he’s in love with me.’

  ‘What age is he?’

  ‘Getting on for forty. But young-looking. You’d never guess. He didn’t try to lie to me about his age.’

  Willa thought that probably meant he was pushing fifty.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘My mother had six.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, is it?’ said Pauline gloomily.

  ‘He’s not going to leave a wife and four children.’

  ‘He says he would, if it weren’t for the children. He’s not in love with her any more. He’s a really nice man, honestly he is, and genuine. You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘You’d like him, I know you would.’

  Willa remembered another man Pauline had fallen in love with and had discovered he was married only after she had been going out with him for six months. He’d also spoken of marriage. Then Pauline had bumped into him in Princes Street Gardens walking beside a woman pushing a baby in a pram, with a slightly older child sitting balanced on the end.

  ‘I’ve never felt like this about anyone before,’ said Pauline. ‘He says it’s the same for him. I haven’t, I tell you! Don’t look at me like that. This is different. I knew it from the minute he took me up on the floor. You fell for Tommy that first night at the Palace, didn’t you? You said he made you feel weak at the knees.’

  ‘At least he wasn’t married with four children.’

  ‘I didn’t know Ernest was when I met him. But by the time he told me I was head-over-heels. There was nothing I could do about it.’

  ‘What was he doing out dancing if he was married?’

  ‘You said Tommy was dancing his way round the world. He’s a married man, isn’t he?’

  That silenced Willa.

  ‘I wasn’t meaning to rub it in or anything,’ said Pauline. ‘I’m sorry, Willa.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  They stopped on the corner at Tollcross. Pauline wasn’t ready yet to finish the conversation; she’d been bottled up too long.

  ‘I can’t stop seeing him, Willa, I just can’t. I decide to, and then he comes and meets me out of work and that’s it again! He wants me to go to Pitlochry with him for the night next Friday.’

  ‘How can he manage to get away?’

  It transpired that Ernest was a commercial traveller in ladies’ hosiery and so was able to control his own time. His wife was in no position to question him. As for Pauline, she was prepared to risk taking Saturday morning off work and claiming sickness. If she were to be found out, she’d be sacked.

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘I could tell her I’ve got Saturday off and I’m going to visit my cousin Madge in Aberdeen.’

  ‘But she might find out you never got there.’

  ‘We don’t see Madge from one year’s end to the next.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Willa. She looked over at the clock. It was later than she’d thought. It always was. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Hey!’ Pauline called after her. ‘Who was that fella you were with outside the library? Is that the one Mum keeps seeing you with?’

  ‘He’s nobody in particular.’ Willa turned back to look at Pauline. ‘Are you going to go to Pitlochry?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind.’

  But she would go, Willa knew. She wouldn’t be able to resist it.

  ~ 12 ~

  Brisbane, Queensland,

  Australia

  20th April, 1924

  Dear Willa,

  Our stay here is proving very enjoyable, as usual, with various entertainments arranged for our benefit. Picnics, boating on the river et cetera. The people are extremely sociable and hospitable. In return we held an open day and the quays were thronged with people who couldn’t wait to come aboard. We had 20,000 visitors on the Danae. It got a bit crowded at times but it was good fun!

  ‘I’ll bet,’ said Bunty.

  ‘It was nice of them, inviting them,’ said Ina, her tone defensive.

  ‘Least they could do in return for all those picnics,’ said Bunty. ‘Never mind the et ceteras!’

  Ina gave her a look.

  We have spent many happy afternoons on the beach in Sandgate, a seaside resort about twelve miles from Brisbane by train. We are finding the climate pretty warm. You won’t recognise me when I get back, I’m burnt so brown!

  ‘Well, I’m glad he’s having happy afternoons,’ said Bunty, passing round the jammy doughnuts she’d bought at the baker’s on the way over.

  ‘Let’s hope we will know him!’ said Ina. ‘We don’t want a black man for a daddy, do we, Malkie?’ She bounced the baby on her knee and he chortled and tried to hit her on the nose with his rattle. She pulled back her head and laughed. ‘You’re getting to be a right wee Tuareg, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re going to turn that boy into a right wee Jessie if you’re not careful,’ said Bunty, licking the jam from
her finger.

  We can only swim close to shore as sharks regularly come up river attracted by the meat factories near the entrance. A man from the Dauntless fell overboard and drowned and his body was recovered early the next morning, which was surprising. We thought the sharks would have eaten him.

  ‘Another one,’ said Ina. ‘God save us! You’d think the men would take more care.’

  ‘Too much rum,’ said Bunty. ‘Well, I mean, how else would the man fall over? They must have a decent rail along the side. Otherwise they’d all be in the drink, inside and outside!’ She laughed but Ina did not.

  The doorbell jangled.

  ‘Who can that be?’ said Ina. ‘I hope it’s not Mrs Begg. The second post’s been. And the coal came the morn.’

  The coalman had brought up five bags and Willa, as instructed, had stood in the lobby and checked the bags as he’d heaved them over his shoulder into the coal-hole. Ina didn’t trust them. She said they were up to all sorts of tricks, like not emptying the bag fully or putting four sacks in instead of five and charging you for the latter. She maintained they had their heads screwed on.

  ‘She’s a bit of a dragon, your ma-in-law,’ the coalman had said to Willa, as he shifted his cap to the back of his head revealing a line of white skin between his hairline and his sooty face. ‘She’ll no let you off wi’ nothing.’

  The bell jangled again, and again. Somebody was giving it a hard pull.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Willa.

  The bell went again before she reached the door. ‘I’m coming,’ she shouted, as she tugged it open.

  On the mat stood Elma, her face stained an angry red.

  ‘Are you all deaf in there?’

  She pushed past Willa and preceded her into the kitchen.

  ‘You’re here,’ she said to Bunty. ‘I thought you would be when I saw your note on the door.’

  ‘Aye, I’m here,’ said Bunty, who had her mouth full of doughnut. She swallowed it. ‘At least I think I am. I’m no a ghost. Pinch me and see!’