by Joan Lingard
The nurse smiled. ‘I wouldn’t think so. Well, you can always tell, can’t you?’ She lowered her voice ‘There have been a few. Seems he’s quite a ladies’ man. Do you want me to tell him you’re here?’
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Pauline, her voice dulled, then she rallied to ask if they might take a peep round the door in case they knew the person.
‘Don’t see why not. He’s in the sixth bed up the left-hand side.’
They peeped round the door into the long ward. Ernest was propped up against a bank of pillows and his visitor was sitting on the bed as close to him as it was possible to get, which would certainly be frowned upon by the ward sister should she come by. There was no question from what they could see that the person was a lady friend and not a relative. She had her hand on his heart, inside his pyjama jacket. He had his hand on her thigh. The man in the next bed looked in danger of falling out so keen was he to get a good view.
Willa took Pauline’s arm and led her out of the hospital. She came with dragging footsteps. They went to a café and had a cup of tea.
‘The solution for all ills,’ said Willa.
‘What is?’
‘Nothing.’
Pauline stirred her tea madly, round and round, until it threatened to slop over into the saucer. ‘So he was a rotter after all.’
‘I’m afraid so. Best to forget him.’
‘Easier said than done. I really liked him, Willa. I thought for once this could be it! But it wasn’t.’ The saucer was swimming with orangey-brown liquid now.
Pauline needed a break, said Willa, away from Edinburgh. What about going to visit her cousin Madge in Aberdeen for a while?
Pauline wrote a letter that evening and Willa went out to post it, rendezvousing with Richard on the way, and two days later a reply came back from Aberdeen saying that Pauline would be welcome to come any time.
Willa saw her off at the bus station.
‘Thank the Lord for that,’ said Ina. ‘She was beginning to get on my nerves, mooning about the house like a sick cat. That girl needs to pull herself together. Matter of fact, I was thinking of having a wee change myself.’
‘You were?’ cried Willa.
‘Just for a couple of nights. You mind my old friend Minnie?’
‘She was your bridesmaid, wasn’t she?’
‘Aye, we were great pals when we were young.’
‘Didn’t you get a letter from her this morning?’
Minnie, who was a widow and lived in Grangemouth, had written to suggest Ina come for a visit. Willa could scarcely believe it. Two nights free from Ina!
‘It’s not much of a place of course, Grangemouth,’ said Ina.
‘That doesn’t matter. The main thing is to visit your friend.’
Then came the snag. She might have known there would be one. Ina wanted to take Malcolm with her. She said Minnie was dying to see him though Willa doubted that. If she were that keen she could have come through on the bus long before this. It couldn’t be more than twenty miles or so.
‘I don’t know,’ said Willa. ‘He’s never been away from me.’
‘It’s only a couple of nights, for goodness’ sake! You’d think I was taking him away for a fortnight. He’d enjoy a ride on the bus, wouldn’t you, Malkie? Of course you would.’
‘Maybe one night. Not two.’
Ina was in the huff for the rest of the day. She wrote a reply to Minnie and after it had been posted she told Willa that she’d said she was coming for two nights. It wasn’t worth going all that way for one night.
On the morning of her departure she said to Willa, ‘Well, am I taking him or am I not? You can’t keep him tied to your apron strings for ever. After all, he’s weaned so he’s no needin’ your milk now.’
‘He’s not a year old yet.’
‘He’ll not fret. You ken your old granny too well, don’t you, Malkie?’
He laughed and his mother gave in, saying wearily, ‘Oh, all right.’
She accompanied them to the bus station and stood waving them off while Malcolm batted both hands against the window at her in return. She was standing so close she could see the little circles in his plump wrists that looked like bracelets. The very chubbiness of him made her want to snatch him out of Ina’s arms and hug him tight. But there was glass between them. And he was laughing.
As she watched the bus drive off she wanted to howl. Instead she went into a corner and quietly shed a few tears. Telling herself that it was not for ever, only two days, she walked home cutting across Princes Street and up the Mound to George IV Bridge and the library. Richard was not there. This was not going to be her lucky day, that seemed plain. She sat at his usual table and read for an hour, or tried to, but she kept looking up to see who was coming and going. She took Virginia Woolf’s Jacob’s Room back to the shelf and replaced it in its slot. She couldn’t seem to engage with it. She then went to their café. It was empty.
‘He’s not been in,’ said the waitress.
On the way back down to Tollcross Willa had no luck either. Here she was with a totally free day – for once, for the first time since Malcolm was born – and she was alone. The irony of it made her want to choke. She went to see Bunty who took her through to the back for a cup of tea.
‘So she got her way,’ said Bunty. ‘I thought she would. She was determined to take the boy with her.’
‘It’s only for two days,’ said Willa, feeling suddenly alarmed at the prospect that Tommy’s mother might not return Malcolm to her. But she couldn’t stay at Minnie’s for long and she’d have nowhere else to go.
‘Ina was aye good at getting her own way. You have to stand up to her.’
‘I do! As best I can. But I have to live with her and it’s her house. When Tommy comes back I’m going to tell him I can’t go on like this.’
‘Where’s he going to get the money for another place?’ Tommy paid the rent of his mother’s flat.
‘I’m trying to put a wee bit by each week,’ said Willa. A sixpence or a shilling here and there. Once Malcolm went to school she would get a job, maybe in the library, if she was lucky, but that would not be for a while of course. Four years. God save her, four more years with Tommy’s mother! But if she were to go out working now she’d have no choice but to leave him with Ina all day.
‘Ina couldn’t manage on her own, paying the rates and that. Tommy feels he has to look after her, with her having to bring him up on his own and no father. She had to go out scrubbing stairs. She gave him everything he wanted.’ Bunty lit a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. ‘What are you going to do when Tommy comes home?’
‘You mean—?’
‘Richard. Aye, Richard.’
‘It’s impossible.’
Bunty sighed. ‘I can’t see a way out for you, I have to admit. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?’
‘He’s in love with me too.’
‘I ken. He comes in here quite often, nearly ever day, in fact, to talk to me about you.’
‘Bunty, I want to see him. Now! This very minute! I’ve been looking for him all over.’
‘You have got it bad, haven’t you? Why don’t you phone him? They’ll likely have a telephone?’
As Willa was leaving Mrs Mooney arrived with her dog.
‘How are you then, love?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘You must come and visit me one day. You can bring that nice young man with you if you like.’ Mrs Mooney clicked her tongue.
Her attention was diverted by the dog which, small as it was, had jerked its lead out of her slack hand and made off up the street. Mrs Mooney yelled after him. Willa escaped.
She had to stand in a queue outside the telephone box at Tollcross while three men in front of her made lengthy calls. One had been smoking a cigarillo, a cheap one, from the smell of it, and now the cabin was full of acrid smoke. She rifled through the directory and found Fitzwilliam. And there was Edward John, Lauriston Place. That must be his fathe
r. Bracing herself she lifted the receiver and when the operator answered she gave him the number and on being put through she inserted the money in the slot with fumbling fingers.
‘Arabella Fitzwilliam,’ said the smooth voice at the other end. Polished, thought Willa, like a piece of hard, cold stone.
‘Could I speak to Richard please?’
‘I’m sorry, he’s not in. Who would this be speaking?’
‘Willa.’
‘Willa?’
‘Willa Costello,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Costello? I’m sorry…’
‘I met you with Richard.’ Now she was mumbling. ‘You lent me a book. By Willa Cather.’
‘Ah yes, I think I do recall you now. Richard has so many friends one cannot keep up.’
The smoke caught Willa’s throat and she began to cough. She coughed and spluttered and her eyes smarted. When she tried to speak only a hoarse sound emerged.
‘Are you still there? Do you have a message you would like to leave for Richard?’
‘If you’d just tell him I phoned.’
She won’t, thought Willa, as she hung up the receiver.
As she pushed open the door she almost knocked Richard over. She fell on top of him, oblivious of the passers-by, among whom happened to be Pauline’s mother, Mrs Cant. Willa dragged him to one side.
‘I’m on my own in the house,’ she told him. ‘I’ll go on up and you come five minutes later.’
~ 20 ~
SAN FRANCISCO WELCOMES THE WORLD
Conservatory, Golden Gate Park
‘Looks all right,’ said the postie, nodding at the picture postcard. ‘Ever been in the conservatory in the Botanics?’
Willa nodded, whilst clutching the card in one hand and the edges of her dressing gown together with the other. She had nothing on under the gown. The postie had wakened them and when no one had answered he’d pulled on the bell for a second and third time, knowing that there should be somebody in. They were always in.
‘Is he liking it?’
‘Who? Oh, Tommy? San Francisco?’
‘Aye.’
‘Very much. Seems it’s a great place. Thanks, Sandy.’
She closed the door and went back to the bedroom.
‘Was it all right?’ asked Richard, who by now was up and pulling on his shirt. ‘I’d better go.’
‘What will you tell your mother?’
They hadn’t planned on him staying the night but they had fallen asleep and slept soundly for eight hours in each other’s arms. Willa’s left arm was numb from lying under him.
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘She’ll probably have been worrying.’
‘I’m twenty-two!’
‘That won’t make any difference to her. Have you ever stayed out all night before?’
‘No!’
They smiled at each other, like conspirators.
He kissed her goodbye, went as far as the door, came back and kissed her again and said, ‘Love you, love you,’ and left for his mother’s house. They had arranged to meet later in the library.
Willa sat daydreaming over her breakfast and was still at the table in her dressing gown when the doorbell rang again. She went to answer it wondering if he might have come back again.
‘Are you not dressed yet?’ said Elma with her characteristic sniff as she stepped over the threshold. Not to have your clothes on at this time of the morning would be a sin in her eyes.
Willa led the way into the kitchen.
‘Don’t tell me Ina’s not up!’
‘She’s gone to visit her friend Minnie in Grangemouth for a couple of days.’
‘She didn’t tell me she was going.’
‘She just decided on the spur of the moment.’ Willa lifted the teapot. ‘Would you like a cup?’
‘I had my breakfast some time ago, thank you very much.’ Nevertheless, Elma seated herself at the table. ‘It was actually about you that I’ve come, Willa.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was talking to Mrs Cant yesterday.’
‘That old bitch.’ Willa felt reckless this morning.
‘Willa! I never thought I’d hear such foul words coming from your mouth.’
‘Well, she is. Anyone who can put their daughter out in the street must be.’
‘Depends on what she’s done, doesn’t it? She’s a Christian woman, Mrs Cant. She has her standards.’
Willa couldn’t be bothered arguing. She poured herself another cup of tea.
Elma straightened herself up. ‘She told me she’d seen you embracing a young man in the street yesterday!’
Willa drank her tea. It was cold.
‘Did she tell a lie?’ asked Elma.
‘No,’ said Willa.
Elma drew in her breath as if in shock, having expected, it would seem, to have had her allegation denied.
‘I almost knocked him down when I came out of the telephone box.’
‘But that didn’t mean you had to embrace him.’
‘I had to stop him from falling over.’ Willa got up and threw the rest of the tea down the sink.
‘Do you know this young man?’
‘I’ve seen him in the library. If you’ll excuse me, Elma, I must go and get myself dressed.’
She took her time and while she was still in the bedroom she heard the front door closing behind Elma. Poor Elma, she said to herself, though she did not feel in the least bit sorry for her.
They met in the library an hour later and he said, ‘Why don’t we go down the coast since you’re free?’
‘Why don’t we?’ she cried gaily.
They rode on the top of the bus, going as far as Gullane, at Willa’s suggestion. She had no wish to continue on to North Berwick where she had spent her honeymoon, though she did not mention that to Richard.
The day was mild and there was little breeze. They paddled in the edge of the sea, running in and out of the waves like a couple of children and laughed when she got her skirt soaked and he the bottoms of his rolled-up trousers. Afterwards they lay together in the sand dunes, in a private place away from the main paths. She asked him what he had told his mother.
‘I didn’t tell her anything.’
‘She must have asked.’
‘She did. I said it was my own business.’
‘And she accepted that?’
‘Not really. We had a bit of a row.’
Willa suspected they seldom did.
‘Did she mention my name?’
‘She asked if I’d been with you and I refused to answer.’
In that case, his mother would know that he had been. Richard seemed to be like George Washington, unable to tell a lie. Washington had been held up as an example to them at school. Willa knew herself not to be so virtuous; she was capable of telling a lie if the need arose and sometimes she felt that it did, in order to avoid bringing on a disaster. She preferred not to have to resort to untruths but thought it was not the worst sin you could commit. Perhaps it suited her to think this, to appease her conscience; she was not sure.
Richard’s mother seemed unimportant and faraway as they lay in the hollow of the dune listening to the murmur of the waves. Such a pleasing, rhythmic, relaxing sound that eventually they fell contentedly asleep and woke to find that the sun had moved round, as had the hands of Richard’s watch, which stood at ten minutes to eight.
‘This is bliss,’ he said, ‘being like this together.’
He had missed his afternoon tutoring classes but he didn’t care, he said. ‘Why don’t we run away together, Willa?’
‘I can’t,’ she said sadly.
‘If you want to enough, you can.’
‘Sounds easy.’ She sighed.
When they took the bus back into town they got off at Leith on the north side of the town where nobody of their acquaintance lived. Tommy’s family, like Richard’s, were south-siders, having always lived on that side of the Princes Street divide.
They were ravenous by
now. They bought fish and chips and ate them walking along the waterfront as the sun flared and slowly sank behind the cranes and ships’ masts. It was the most perfect day that Willa could ever remember, one that she wished could go on for ever.
They walked all the way home, arms around each other. Coming up Leith Walk, she stopped at some hopscotch marks on the pavement left by children earlier. The yellow chalked lines were just visible in the lamplight.
‘Did you ever play at hopscotch?’ she asked.
Richard shook his head. ‘I didn’t play in the street. Only the back garden behind a big stone wall so that I couldn’t see out and nobody could see in.’
‘Poor you,’ said Willa. She took his hand. ‘Come on!’
They jumped the squares together with Willa leading the way and ended up laughing and collapsing onto each other’s shoulders. A policeman on the beat had stopped to look at them.
‘What’s up with the two of you?’
‘Nothing,’ said Willa. ‘We’re happy, that’s all. That’s enough.’
‘Been drinking, have you?’
‘Not a drop. Only water.’
The constable went on his way and so did they, arriving back at a deserted Tollcross well after midnight.
‘I suppose I should go home tonight,’ said Richard. ‘But I’m not going to!’
~ 21 ~
San Francisco and Bay as seen from Twin Peaks – 550 feet above the city
‘That’s the second card you’ve had from there,’ said the postie, as he handed the postcard to her. It was in wishy-washy colour, like the last one. ‘It seems to have made a big impression on him.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ said Willa, fully dressed this morning. She’d been up for two hours after a restless night of little sleep. She turned the card over.
Remember to keep all postcards and letters safe. I am thinking of making a book out of them for my son to read when he is older.
Tommy xxx
‘Is he going to Hollywood?’ asked the postie.
‘I expect he will, if he can.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘Thanks, Sandy.’ Willa closed the door.
She tossed the card onto the kitchen table, then she went round to Bunty’s. The shop was busy at this hour with men buying cigarettes and newspapers on their way to work. Bunty raised an eyebrow at her from behind the counter. When the queue abated she came round to join her.
