by Joan Lingard
‘Better tell me what.’
Between sobs Pauline related the course of events that had led up to her dismissal from work and eviction from home. She’d gone to Pitlochry with Ernest on Friday.
‘I thought you would.’
‘Willa, I’m in love with him! And we had a wonderful time. He’s ever such a gentleman, he squired me round the town, had me on his arm, like he was proud of me. We stayed in a lovely hotel.’
‘And then?’
‘On Saturday morning I telephoned in to the office and told them I was sick.’
‘What excuse did you give?’
‘Diarrhoea.’
Willa wanted to laugh but did not.
All appeared to have been going well in Pitlochry. Ernest had done his orders around the shops and had bought Pauline a thistle brooch which she was wearing now on her lapel (a bit tinny looking, Willa thought) and then they’d gone strolling along the river and had lunch. And after that they had come home.
‘Trouble was, Saturday morning, my mum ran into my boss, old Frosty – he’d gone out to the chemist for his digestive tablets – and she said to him that it was nice he’d given me the morning off to go and visit my cousin Madge in Aberdeen.’
‘And he said no, he hadn’t?’
‘So when I went to work yesterday morning he gave me my books.’
‘But your mother didn’t throw you out then?’
‘No, she still thought I’d been to Aberdeen. And then, would you believe it – talk about my rotten luck! – we got a letter by the late afternoon post—’
‘Don’t tell me it was from cousin Madge!’
Pauline nodded. ‘She’d written it Saturday morning and said she hadn’t seen or heard from us for ages and could she come down for a visit?’
Willa agreed that that was bad luck. ‘So your mother would want to know where you had been?’
‘She dragged it out of me. Then she started screaming, calling me all sorts of names. Old Mrs Blaney came in from next door to see what was up and my mum told her I was a hoor!’ Pauline was crying again. Willa moved over on the bed and put an arm round her. ‘She told me I’d let her down and I was to get out of her house. She said I could stay till morning but that was it.’
‘And she didn’t change her mind after she’d slept on it?’
Pauline shook her head.
‘And your dad?’
‘You know him! He sat behind his racing paper pretending it wasn’t happening.’
‘What about Ernest? Have you told him?’
‘I haven’t seen him. I don’t know where he lives.’
‘Pauline, I don’t know how you can stay here. We haven’t the room. You can hardly swing a cat in here as it is.’ Nor did they have any spare money to feed an extra mouth and Pauline, Willa presumed, would have none. She gave her pay packet to her mother every week and her mother doled out pocket money.
‘Just for a night or two, Willa, till I find something. You’ve got a double bed.’
‘I’ll go and talk to Tommy’s mother. It’s her house.’
‘Don’t tell her about Ernest!’
‘What am I to tell her?’
‘Anything!’
That was all very well, thought Willa, as she returned to the kitchen where her mother-in-law was cuddling her grandchild, but what was she to actually say? Fortunately Ina liked Pauline and didn’t like Mrs Cant. Who did?
‘Pauline wants to stay for a couple of nights. Would that be all right? She’s had a row with her mother.’
‘That woman.’ Ina sniffed. ‘She’s a troublemaker if ever there was one.’
‘Well, what do you think? She could sleep with me.’
‘I suppose she’ll be out all day at her work, for I couldn’t abide her hanging about in my kitchen. Why is she not there now?’
‘She wasn’t very well this morning.’
‘Oh, all right, if you’re willing to give up half your bed. But only for a couple of nights, mind.’
Willa returned to Pauline and gave her the news.
‘You’ll have to go out in the morning, though, as if you were going to work. I didn’t tell her you’d been sacked.’
‘I will, I’ll be out at half-eight every morning. Don’t worry about that! Thanks a million, Willa, I knew you’d come up trumps. You’re my best pal after all.’
Pauline then revealed that she had left another suitcase outside the door, a larger one. She dragged it in and unpacked its contents, cramming the wardrobe so full that each garment, her own and Willa’s, had to be squeezed into the smallest space possible. Everything would be bound to come out crushed when it emerged. Pauline’s shoes overflowed on the shoe rack underneath and some had to be placed on the floor alongside.
‘If you want to borrow any of my shoes feel free!’ she said. Her feet were a full size bigger than Willa’s.
Amongst her clothing were six pairs of brand-new, flesh-coloured, rayon stockings, two of which she gave to Willa. ‘For having me. Presents from Ernest. He also gave me a suspender belt.’ She held the black lacy belt against herself before tossing it onto the bed.
She then proceeded to lay out on the walnut-veneered dressing table numerous cosmetics in the shape of jars, bottles and tins, until there was not an inch left uncovered.
‘It’s only for a couple of nights. I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Willa.’
When the cases were empty she heaved them up on top of the wardrobe.
‘You couldn’t lend us five bob, could you? Or half a crown? I’ve nothing on me. Well, maybe sixpence.’
Willa gave her two shillings, which was all she could afford.
‘I’ll pay you back, Willa, I promise. When I see Ernest he’ll give me something, I know he will.’
‘How are you going to find him?’
‘He usually waits for me outside work. I’ll go along and hang around at coming-out time.’
‘Better start looking for a job,’ said Willa.
She set off up the hill at ten minutes to two, having finally made up her mind to go only at half-past one. She’d kept thinking she should, she shouldn’t, she would, she wouldn’t, and back round again. But now, as she was hurrying up Lauriston Place, she admitted to herself that, deep down, she had intended to go all along. Thinking about Pauline’s predicament was making her feel a little queasy. She had no intention, however, of going off for the night anywhere with Richard. She just wanted to see him and talk.
She slowed when she saw Richard’s mother emerging from a stair doorway. She wore a different hat today, a black one that looked rather like a large plate, with a pink rose on one side that bobbed as she walked. Willa followed in her wake, studying her dignified back.
Moving at a measured pace, Richard’s mother turned along Forrest Road and Willa became anxious in case she might continue along George IV Bridge, but she turned off down Chambers Street.
She arrived at the café at quarter-past two. Richard was there with a teapot in front of him.
‘Sorry I’m a little late,’ she said, unable to tell him that she had been walking in the footsteps of his mother and that this had delayed her.
‘That’s all right. I’m just relieved to see you. The tea’s probably a bit cold. I had to order.’
‘I don’t mind.’
He poured her a cup. He was right; the tea was barely tepid. He must have been there a while.
‘I must go to the library afterwards,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my books with me. I finished Northanger Abbey. It’s amazing how all those people at that time didn’t seem to have to do any work.’
‘Only certain people.’
She nodded.
‘I’ve got a new author for you. Another American lady. Edith Wharton. My mother loves her books.’
Willa resolved not to let that put her off.
‘If you can’t find any of her books in the library I’ll borrow a couple of my mother’s for you. She’s a great book-buyer. She’s never away from Thin’s bookshop.�
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Willa drank her cold tea and Richard paid.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ he said.
They headed down the hill. He took her hand.
‘Better not,’ she said, disengaging it.
They crossed North Bridge and entering the Canongate made their way to Dunbar’s Close. Someone had been sick halfway down the entry, a drunk, probably. They stepped over it. There were many pubs in the Royal Mile and, consequently, at night, drunkards frequented the closes, relieving themselves, one way and another, making it an area to be avoided. So Tommy had told Willa. She had never been here after dark herself.
They had the garden to themselves again. When Richard took her into his arms she realised she had been longing for this moment since morning. Their kiss lasted longer and was not as gentle as before, nor was her response.
‘I love you, Willa,’ he said into her hair.
‘You just can’t,’ she said.
‘But I just do.’
He kissed her again, running his hands down her back and letting them rest on her hips. He pulled her in even closer to him. ‘I love you, love you, love you!’ he whispered. ‘Believe me! Do you love me?’
She nodded. A refrain was running through her head. You made me love you, I didn’t wanna do it…Tommy had sung it to her. I didn’t wanna do it…
They were interrupted by a long wolf whistle from overhead. Looking up they saw two children hanging out of the upstairs’ window of one of the tenements that overlooked the garden. Nothing, it seemed, could ever be completely secret.
They retraced their steps back up the close and the street.
‘When can I see you again?’ he asked.
‘Depends on when I can manage to get away.’
‘I’ll go to our café every day at two in case you can come. Otherwise I’ll be in the library until half-past three every afternoon.’
‘Don’t come in with me today.’
‘I’ll go into the art department.’
She walked in ahead of him through the main door, conscious of his eyes on her back.
The librarian, the nice one, said, ‘Your friend’s not in today.’
Willa said, ‘Do you know a writer called Edith Wharton?’
‘I’ve never read her but I think I’ve seen some of her books on the shelf.’
Willa found The Age of Innocence straightaway and went to see if there was anything of Willa Cather’s in. There was. A Lost Lady. She took it down at once.
After she’d had the books stamped she went down to the ladies’ toilet to tidy her hair which she feared might be all over the place, which it proved to be. And the skin round her mouth and chin was bright red, as if someone had been kissing her passionately. She’d thought the librarian had been giving her a funny look. She splashed her face with cool water until the colour started to fade, then she set off homeward where, awaiting her return were her child, her mother-in-law, and her best friend.
~ 14 ~
Auckland,
New Zealand
16th May, 1924
Dear Willa,
We spent a week on the South Island before coming up here. While there we were invited to afternoon tea in a house outside Christchurch which was decorated with sayings from Dickens. It was amazing, everywhere you looked, even in the bathroom. Things like ‘Barkis is willin’ (to do what?) and ‘Umps,’ said Mr Grewgious.’ (Hope I’ve spelled that right). All that would have appealed to you! I told the lady of the house you were a fan of Mr Dickens.
‘Are you?’ asked Bunty.
‘We had to read David Copperfield at school,’ said Pauline before Willa could answer. ‘Do you remember, Willa? I was bored stiff.’
‘I enjoyed it,’ said Willa. ‘But there are other writers I prefer.’
None of them would be interested to hear about Jane Austen, Katherine Mansfield, Edith Wharton or Willa Cather. She seemed to be hung up on women writers at present. Pauline was reading The Sheik by Ethel M Dell and kept reading out bits in bed when Willa was trying to concentrate on A Lost Lady. She was enjoying it, in spite of the fact that Richard’s mother was a fan of Willa Cather, and felt for Marian Forrester living in the little backwoods town of Sweet Water (though that was a nice name, a bit like the ones in LM Montgomery’s books), married to a much older man, and tempted by another.
She’d also been deeply involved in The Age of Innocence. Phrases from it had stuck in her mind, as when Newland Archer, contemplating his young innocent bride-to-be, felt thrilled that he was going to possess this girl as well as ‘a tender reverence for her abysmal purity’. Was that how Tommy had looked at her? He’d known she was a virgin; that had pleased him. But abysmal purity? Later, Newland Archer found marriage not to be ‘the safe anchorage’ he had expected but rather ‘a voyage on uncharted seas’. She could identify with that. At times she felt she was being tossed around on the high seas, a long way from dry land.
‘They wouldn’t all go to tea at that house, would they?’ said Ina.
Willa glanced up. She’d been miles away, often seemed to be these days.
‘Hardly,’ said Bunty. ‘How many men are there on Tommy’s ship, Willa?’
‘Four hundred and seventy.’ She had told them more than once but they loved to go over things.
‘Must be kind of cosy on board.’ Bunty laughed but Ina did not.
There was also a fine picture of the Bull Inn, Rochester, on the wall. Made my mate Bill (he comes from down there) feel homesick. Said he was dying for a pint of bitter in a good old English pub. But as the rest of us pointed out, there was no lack of liquid refreshment here. Beer was flowing like water.
‘Where on earth is Rochester?’ asked Ina.
‘Somewhere in England,’ said Willa. ‘Yorkshire, maybe.’ Or was she thinking about Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester? So many things she had in her head had come out of books.
‘The folk must have come from there originally,’ said Bunty. ‘Homesick themselves, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Who wouldn’t be, living down there near the South Pole?’ demanded Ina.
A Navy team played the New Zealanders at rugby, their national game, and were soundly beaten. It was only to be expected so were we downhearted? No, we were not! Some of my mates and me had a good game of footie in the park, cheered on by the local lasses. I managed to score a goal!
‘Bravo, our Tommy!’ said Bunty. ‘Expect he got an extra cheer from the lasses for that.’
‘He was good at football when he was at the school,’ said his mother.
‘Seems he was good at everything,’ said Pauline.
Willa wondered if Richard had played football at school. Rugby, more likely, in that kind of school. She wondered if it would be his kind of game.
‘What’s that Malcolm’s got in his mouth?’ asked Bunty.
Willa started and came back to reality. She must stop letting her mind wander. Her child was crawling round the floor between their chair legs with something in his mouth that he could potentially choke on and kill himself. She reached down and took a tube of lipstick out of his mouth. He immediately began to roar. Willa picked him up and comforted him, and herself, saying, ‘There, there, it’s all right, love.’
Pauline claimed the lipstick.
‘You should be more careful about leaving things lying around,’ said Ina. ‘The wee one’s at the stage of wanting to eat everything he can get his hands on. He might have choked.’
‘Sorry,’ said Pauline meekly, slipping the lipstick into her pocket.
They had ceased to keep up the pretence that she was going to work every day at the Co-op. It had proved to be too big a strain for her, putting in the days, hanging around. Ina had had a few things to say about St Cuthbert’s Co-operative Society when she’d been told that Pauline had been paid off; they had not disclosed the reason. Pauline was looking for other work but so far without success. The problem was that she had no references. She’d only ever worked at the Co-op and she couldn’t very well ask the
m for one there. Her father was slipping her a few shillings now and then, usually when he’d had a win on the horses. She saw him down at the betting shop. Her mother was showing no signs of relenting and Pauline said that even if she did now she wouldn’t want to go back. She couldn’t stick her mother. Willa had told her that she couldn’t stay here when Tommy came home and Pauline had said she’d find something else long before that. Tommy wasn’t due back till October, was he? It was only June.
As for Ernest, she hadn’t seen him again, although she had gone along to the Co-op several afternoons when the workers were coming out. One of her former colleagues thought she’d seen him hanging around looking as if he was waiting for somebody so Pauline was convinced that it must have been him. She was still looking for him. The trouble was that he was away a lot, travelling all over the country selling ladies’ hosiery, so it wasn’t as if he was in Edinburgh every day. Sometimes she cried about him before she went to sleep at night.
‘Read a bit more, Willa,’ urged Ina.
The Maoris gave us a right royal time, executing various dances in their native costumes. They are a fine race of hardy sea men, hospitable, brave and chivalrous, and the most intelligent natives in the world, so we were told. They are also very patriotic and took their place in the last war, proving their worth. Queen Victoria is held in very high esteem by them.
‘Fancy,’ said Pauline.
‘Why shouldn’t she be held in high esteem by them?’ demanded Ina.
‘That old dumpling,’ said Pauline.
‘Pauline!’
The modern Maori lives now in peace in his tribal village with his wife and picaninnies, for the most part in primitive style, a simple-hearted child of nature, possessing a humour and shrewdness entirely his own.
‘No jigs?’ asked Bunty.
‘There’s bound to be some,’ said Willa, letting her eye travel on down the page over a description of Auckland. Fine parks, fine buildings, a hospital with pretty grounds, more about the Maoris and their customs – a lot about them; he seemed to have been very impressed by them – hot springs, mud volcanoes, yachting, sugar refining. He wrote that this was a wonderful country with wonderful people but they wouldn’t want to hear that yet again. Nearly everywhere he’d been, maybe with Sierra Leone as an exception, left Scotland in the shade.
