by Joan Lingard
‘What are you doing in here at this time of day?’
‘Ina didn’t bring Malcolm back yesterday.’
‘Are you wanting a cup of tea?’
‘I’m drowning in tea. I’ve been up since six.’
They went through the back.
‘They were supposed to have come home yesterday. That’s three nights they’ve been gone!’
‘Calm down now, hen. She’ll not have run off with him.’
‘She wouldn’t dare!’
‘Where would they go?’
‘If they’re not back by teatime I’m going out to Grangemouth to get him.’
‘Do you ken where Minnie lives, for I haven’t the faintest? Now listen, I expect they’ll be back sometime the day.’
The shop door jingled and Bunty went to serve her customer. Another came in after that, and another. This was her busy time. Willa left.
When she reached the stair door, she paused, undecided. If she were to go down to the bus station she might cross with them on the tram on their way up. If she strayed far away from home at all she could easily miss them.
She paced up and down the street, going as far as the King’s Theatre up the way and the beginning of Lauriston Place down the way. The street bustled with shoppers and milkmen and bakers delivering from their carts. Some small girls were skipping with a piece of old clothes line. The rope whirled and the girls’ feet stamped and the chanting went on. One, two, three a-leerie, four, five six…She saw wee Mary MacNab watching from behind a lamppost. Her nose was snotty and her dress torn. The kids in the street didn’t play with the MacNabs. Willa went over and slid a penny into her hand.
‘Go and get yourself a sweetie,’ she said.
The girl ran. Willa watching her go hoped the shopkeeper wouldn’t think she’d stolen the penny. She must remember to ask Bunty for some cigarette cards to give to the boys.
She resumed walking.
A few yards up the street, she met Mrs Cant, who gave her a sniff and glanced away.
Further on, she met Richard’s mother, who gave her a look of cool disdain and passed on by.
Then she met Elma, who stopped to speak.
‘What are you doing hanging about in the street?’
‘Waiting for them to come back from Grangemouth.’
‘I thought they were due yesterday?’
‘They were.’
‘Ina will always do what she wants, Willa, you can take my word for that.’
For once they were in sympathy, Willa and Elma. Willa was even quite pleased to stand chatting to Elma for a few minutes since it helped to pass the time. Elma was having trouble with a neighbour who encroached on her washing line in the back green. This had led to a few angry exchanges.
‘She’s got four children and that makes for a lot of washing, she told me. I told her that wasn’t my fault. It was up to her how many children she had.’
Willa sympathised, though whether it was with the woman who had four children and a lot of washing or Elma herself, she didn’t make clear.
Elma was off to the fishmonger’s. ‘You get fed up with too much butcher meat at times. Gerry doesn’t seem to but I do.’
Richard’s mother came back down the street and this time, she, too, stopped.
‘If you’re waiting for Richard, I wouldn’t, if I were you. He has gone to visit his grandfather in Perthshire.’ She moved in closer to Willa and lowered her voice. ‘I would strongly advise you to stay away from my son.’
‘Perhaps you should tell him that,’ said Willa boldly, looking the woman in the eye.
‘Men are easy prey – especially young, inexperienced men – for women with loose morals.’
Willa wanted to slap her and almost did but held herself back. Richard’s mother would be the type to lay charges. She would consider it her duty.
LOCAL WOMAN CHARGED WITH ASSAULT OF LOVER’S MOTHER.
‘He loves me,’ she said.
The woman’s eyes blinked. She knows it, thought Willa, and that is why she is so disturbed.
Richard’s mother drew herself up to attain her full height and carried on up the street, her shelf-like bosom going ahead of her, making her look like a galleon in full sail. Ina might have a similarly large bosom but her overall shape and mode of walking made her look more like a rolling barrel than a stately ship.
Willa decided she would go mad if she hung around any longer. She would go away for half an hour and by the time she came back the travellers might have returned. She went again to see Bunty, who was ensconced in the back-shop smoking with Mrs Mooney. Willa heard their laughter as she came into the shop.
‘No sign of them?’ asked Bunty.
Willa shook her head.
‘You’re having your troubles, aren’t you, love?’ said Mrs Mooney. ‘Bunty was telling me. I don’t know how you put up with a harridan like that. If you’re ever needing a place to stay you can come to me, dear. I’ve a spare room.’
‘Maureen’s got a lovely flat,’ said Bunty.
‘So you’ve told me,’ said Willa. ‘Bunty, I’m wondering if something’s happened to them. I mean, they could have got run over or the bus might have had an accident.’
‘You’d have heard.’
‘But how?’
‘The police would have come. Look, why don’t you sit down? I’m sure they’ll turn up right as rain.’
‘Funny that,’ commented Mrs Mooney. ‘Why do we say rain is right?’
‘Willa will know,’ said Bunty.
Willa did not.
She forced herself to stay for an hour before returning home. Opening the door she knew at once that they were not there; the flat had an empty, silent feel to it.
‘Hello,’ she called out. There was no answer.
The wanderers returned late in the afternoon.
‘Where have you been?’ cried Willa, seizing her child from his grandmother’s arms.
‘What do you mean, where have we been? You ken fine. We were at my friend Minnie’s in Grangemouth.’
‘You were to come back yesterday.’
‘It was only an extra day. What in the name are you making such a fuss for? For crying out loud! You’d think we’d been gone a month. Did you expect me to send you a telegram? Malkie was enjoying himself, weren’t you, Malkie?’
‘I agreed to two nights only.’
Malcolm began to cry.
‘Now look what you’re doing to him!’ His granny tried to take him from Willa’s arms. Willa stepped back.
‘Leave him alone!’ she shouted. ‘He’s my child.’
‘You are in a right stushie! It doesn’t do a bairn any good to see his mother all worked up in a lather like that. You want to come to Granny, don’t you, Malkie?’ He was holding out his arms to her.
‘Stay away from him!’
‘He wants me, you can see he does.’
His cries were turning to sobs and tears were rolling down his face.
‘It’s a crime to put a bairn into a state like that,’ said his granny. ‘Give him to me this minute, Willa! It’s me he wants, not you.’
The women faced each other.
‘I’m leaving,’ said Willa. ‘And I’m taking Malcolm with me.’
‘You can’t!’
‘Oh yes, I can! Watch me!’
Carrying her sobbing child, Willa stormed out of the kitchen and went into her own room, powered by fury such as she had never known before. She closed the door and dragged over a chair to put in front of it. There was no key for the lock. Then she dumped Malcolm in his cot and yanked the bigger of the two suitcases from the top of the wardrobe to add to her barricade. No sooner was it done than Ina was at the back of the door trying to push it open and demanding to be let in. Malcolm cried the louder. Willa ignored him and set to work.
She packed first Malcolm’s clothes, taking her time, making sure that she left out nothing vital. Her possessions went into the space that remained.
Having closed the suitcase, she hoi
sted Malcolm up from his cot, tucked him struggling and wriggling under her arm and opened the door with her free hand. She then swiftly bent down and picked up the case.
Ina was standing in the hall in front of the entrance door. She was trembling.
‘You can’t take him away. Tommy’ll be angry.’
‘Well, he’s not here, is he? He’s dancing his way round the Pacific. Twinkletoes himself. Now, if you will excuse me.’
Ina did not move.
LOCAL WOMAN KNOCKS DOWN MOTHER-IN-LAW.
‘Open the door!’ said Willa, controlling her voice.
Still Ina did not move.
Willa put down the suitcase and nudged – not pushed, not too much, at least – her mother-in-law to the side making her stagger, just a little. While she was regaining her balance Willa opened the door, lifted the suitcase again, and was gone.
‘You just walked out?’ said Bunty. ‘Here, give the bairn a chocolate bar, for God’s sake. Anything to shut him up.’
He was screaming. Bunty unwrapped a bar of white chocolate and stuck it in his hand. He gulped a couple of times then took the bar to his mouth and silence descended.
‘Thank the Lord for that,’ said Bunty, lighting a cigarette from the stub of the old one. ‘He’s got some pair of lungs on him.’
Willa dried his face and neck which were wet with tears, then she hugged him close to her. She would never let him go, no matter what.
‘You can’t stay here, you know, Willa. I haven’t the room.’
‘Mrs Mooney said if I was ever needing a place to come to her.’
‘Aye I ken, but I don’t know if she’d mean with a baby. She’s not used to bairns. Her flat’s as neat as a new pin.’
‘Even for a night or two till I find something? I should have enough money to rent a room.’
‘Maureen will be in soon for her Evening News. You go on through the back with Malcolm and I’ll ask her when she comes in. Save you having to.’
When they went into the back room Malcolm wanted to get down and investigate the various boxes lying about. Willa set him on his feet, which made him chuckle. The sound warmed her heart after all that screaming. He could walk now, holding on to things as he travelled round the room.
Before Mrs Mooney came for her newspaper, Ina turned up. They’d been expecting that. On hearing her voice, Willa closed the connecting door and leant against it, staying there until Bunty tapped and said, ‘It’s all right, hen. She’s gone.’
Willa heard Mrs Mooney arriving too. Her laugh was unmistakable. It faded and then a conversation commenced in quiet voices, too quiet for Willa to make out what was being said, after which Mrs Mooney came breezing into the room to say, ‘I hear you’re homeless. Of course you can come home with me! I wouldn’t see the two of youse out in the street. I love babies, so I do. And he looks a darling boy.’
~ 22 ~
Colloa, Lima, Peru,
S. America
1st August, 1924
Dear Willa,
We arrived here, in Colloa, the chief seaport of Peru, after 14 days at sea, the longest stretch of the cruise, but it passed quickly as we had exercises and sports and concerts, as well as pictures and a band, also a song competition.
‘Has Tommy much of a singing voice?’ asked Mrs Mooney.
‘Not bad at all,’ said Bunty. ‘His mother thinks he could have gone on the stage. He’s especially good at love songs. I’ll be your sweetheart…He knows how to put it over, doesn’t he, Willa?’
Willa made no reply.
They were sitting in Mrs Mooney’s living room with Gerry, who had dropped by with some liver, and Bunty, who had brought the letter round. Willa had waylaid the postman and asked him for any letters addressed to her to be delivered to Bunty’s shop. Sandy was an obliging man. He’d asked no questions. As for Gerry, who was also obliging, he had come to accept that they all knew about his friendship with Mrs Mooney and was no longer embarrassed.
‘Here’s the first verse of the winning song,’ said Willa. ‘To be sung to the tune of “The Mountains of Mourne”.’
‘Sweep down to the sea,’ sang Mrs Mooney in a quavering voice. ‘I know it like the back of my hand.’
Have you heard of Sir Harry, a benevolent old gent
Who followed the Danae wherever she went?
Without him, without him, oh what should we do?
To pay for a tram ride would give us the blues.
So while we’re about it our caps we will doff
To good old Sir Harry, a genuine old toff.
‘Who’s Sir Harry?’ asked Gerry.
‘Tommy says Sir Harry Freeman is a term the sailors use for free entertainments,’ said Willa.
‘They’ve had plenty of those,’ said Bunty.
‘Nothing but,’ said Gerry, ‘from what I’ve heard.’
‘Pity Sir Harry doesne live in Edinburgh,’ said Bunty.
Lima has one of the biggest bullrings in the world. The Fiestas de Toros are said to be more amusing than bloodthirsty these days because the matadors deliver their death thrust with nothing more harmful than sharp sticks.
‘That’s nasty enough,’ said Mrs Mooney with a shudder. ‘I wouldn’t find it much of a laugh.’
‘Folk in those countries see things differently,’ said Gerry.
‘I expect they’re heathens and don’t know any better,’ said Mrs Mooney.
‘They’re mostly Roman Catholic in Peru,’ said Willa. ‘Tommy says there are sixty-seven churches in Lima, all RC.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Mrs Mooney, who wore a cross at her throat and had religious pictures on every wall in her house. To begin with, Willa had found them a bit creepy, especially ones with Jesus on the cross with blood dripping from his hands and feet. Having been brought up in the Church of Scotland she wasn’t used to such scenes. Mrs Mooney went to mass regularly and Willa wondered if she also went to confession. She supposed she might for then each week her sins would be forgiven and then she could start all over again. Willa had been told that when they confessed they were supposed to be giving up the sin for good but she didn’t think that Mrs Mooney would let a detail like that worry her. She was a practical woman.
The squadron was treated to a special performance of a bull fight, attended by the President of the Peruvian Republic. Six bulls were killed and each time the crowd went wild with excitement. We ourselves did not care for the ghastly sight though there were plenty of women present who seemed unconcerned and cheered loudly at the kill. I suppose they grow up with it.
‘Thank God your Tommy didn’t take to it, Willa,’ said Mrs Mooney. ‘I wouldn’t like to think you were married to a man who’d enjoy that sort of thing.’
There was a slight pause while they all wondered, silently, Willa included, if she was going to stay married to him, before Bunty said, ‘I wonder if they eat the bulls afterwards.’
‘It’d be an awful waste of good meat if they didn’t,’ said Gerry.
‘Wouldn’t catch me eating it,’ said Mrs Mooney, breaking off to say, ‘I don’t think you should be in there, son,’ to Malcolm, who had opened a cupboard and was busy hauling out china dishes.
Willa jumped up to take him away from it and then of course he roared. She was trying to teach him that he couldn’t have everything he saw but she wasn’t making too much progress. He was as stubborn as his grandmother! Though she preferred not to connect the two in her mind. They’d managed to avoid seeing Ina in the two weeks they’d been here; Bunty had steadfastly refused to tell her where they were living.
‘Will he not sit in his chair?’ asked Mrs Mooney who, while being good-natured, was sometimes finding her patience tested. Willa was aware of this and knew that if they stayed much longer they might outstay their welcome. Mrs Mooney – or Maureen, as she now called her – liked her place to be neat and tidy and free of finger-marks, especially on her cream and pale-green wallpaper.
‘I could try,’ said Willa.
After a struggle she sque
ezed Malcolm into the high chair which Bunty had borrowed from a customer – her customers were many and varied and obliging too – and he then proceeded to throw out every toy Willa gave him.
‘Come and sit on your Uncle Gerry’s knee,’ said Gerry and he lifted the baby out of the chair. He gave him his watch and chain to play with and that appeased him.
‘I was aye telling Ina she’d have him spoiled rotten,’ said Bunty. ‘Poor soul. She’s as miserable as sin.’
‘It’s funny they should call sin miserable,’ said Mrs Mooney. ‘There’s times when it’s not, eh, Gerry?’
He blushed and bent his head to swing his watch to and fro in front of Malcolm’s eyes.
Willa took up the letter again.
It was a long letter from Peru, much of it about the history of the Incas and other civilisations, which she did not read out as they would be questioning her about every sentence.
The people of Peru today are a mixture of Spanish and Indian, with some Negro blood mixed in. Only 15% are reputed to be white and this class dominates, filling the official and professional ranks.
‘That’s the same everywhere he’s been, isn’t it?’ said Gerry. ‘The whites rule the roost.’
‘Stands to reason,’ said Bunty.
‘Why?’ asked Willa.
‘Well, the darkies wouldn’t be much good at running things, would they? What would they know?’
‘Maybe more than we think,’ said Willa. ‘Anyway, I don’t know that you should be calling them “darkies”.’ Richard had told her that his mother objected strongly to the use of words such as ‘darkie’ and ‘nigger’, that were common curency with some people. She said they robbed people of their dignity, and Willa understood what she meant, in spite of the fact that the woman was her enemy. The way Tommy wrote about some of the natives made her uncomfortable.
