Praise for Moira Forsyth
Waiting for Lindsay
‘Forsyth writes with warmth and sensitivity, exploring the ways in which an ordinary family is changed by tragedy.’
The Times
‘An enthralling read.’
Family Circle
‘Haunting and evocative.’
The Yorkshire Post
‘Haunting.’
Inverness Courier
‘Washes out the dark nooks and crannies of loss and love.’
Highland News
‘An evocative, atmospheric read.’
The Press and Journal
David’s Sisters
‘Also a poet, Forsyth’s clear sense of how a strong image can jangle the imagination, is once again in play, her economy of language drawing you to places and people that are flesh and blood and all human inconsistency.’
Open Book
‘This is a work of near poetic accomplishment.’
Caledonia
‘A writer who evokes in plain, elegant prose and resonant dialogue the lives of ordinary, decent people.’
The Scotsman
Tell Me Where You Are
‘Sensitively written, it contains keen characterisation and a strong awareness of the problems facing women today.’
Scottish Review of Books
Moira Forsyth is an author and editor. She has two grown-up children and lives in the Highlands of Scotland.
Also by Moira Forsyth
Waiting for Lindsay
David’s Sisters
Tell Me Where You Are
THE TREACLE WELL
Moira Forsyth
First published in Great Britain
And the United States of America by
Sandstone Press Ltd
Dochcarty Road
Dingwall
Ross-shire
IV15 9UG
Scotland.
www.sandstonepress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © Moira Forsyth 2015
The moral right of Moira Forsyth to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.
The publisher acknowledges support from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.
ISBN: 978-1-910124-27-7
ISBNe: 978-1-910124-28-4
Jacket design by Antigone Konstantinidou, London
Ebook by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore.
For Linda
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to Dorothy Christie and Sheila Barclay, my thoughtful readers, and to Candia McWilliam for perceptive comments and support. Thanks as always to RLD for editing, encouragement and having faith.
Contents
Going Backwards
I The Treacle Well
II Into the Forest
III The Crack in the World
IV Good Wives
V The Golden Key
Into the Future
Going Backwards
2012
Esther dreamed she was going backwards, time was going backwards. Back and back, faster the further she went, through her own unfurling life.
Leaves leap from the ground, reattach themselves to trees, soften and colour, blaze briefly, turn green, then begin to curl up, tighter and tighter, into bud. The sun falls and rises, comes and goes behind scudding clouds. Buildings vanish and older, more complicated structures, then simpler ones, take their place. The sea recedes, the snow softly, softly floats up into a leaden sky.
Once, she was a person who always moved forward, anticipating the future. She did it on the back of the comfortable dolphin sleep, eight hours a night, and only less when she had to get up early to catch a train or deliver husband or child to the station or airport, or a waiting bus for a school expedition.
That was in the days when she had trains to catch, the days when she had a husband and the children were still at home. Of course you move forward when you are always looking ahead, when the only things you care about are burning now, or lie in wait.
She had grown up in a family of five with grandparents, parents, uncles and aunts. Then there was Jack, and they made their own family, with children, cats and dogs, and people coming and going all the time. She was always at the centre of something. Now she was alone, walled by quiet. The remaining animal was a cat so elderly she rarely moved from her chair in the kitchen.
Pressing the button that lit up the face of the alarm clock, she saw it was ten to four, a bad time: too early to get up, too late for any worthwhile rest to be had.
It was cold in the bedroom; the temperature had dropped in the night. Her arm, moving from the clock to the radio lying on the other side of the bed, Jack’s side, was chilled, and when she had righted the radio, still hissing faintly, and turned up the sound a little, the arm brought back under the covers seemed to spread its coldness to the rest of her.
The voice coming from the radio more intelligibly now was telling her about a project for women in Afghanistan, something about education. There was comfort in this remote, calm voice, relaying information which could make no difference to her life or cause her grief, conjuring mild interest only. She closed her eyes, the cold arm thawing by her side. Her feet were very cold too, but if she got up to fill a hot water bottle, she would be wide awake with no more hope of sleep. She wouldn’t sleep anyway if she went on being cold. She lay still, the dilemma floating in her head. Despite the cold, she began to doze.
The shrilling of the telephone jerked her awake and she started up, heart hammering. In her blind haste she knocked the telephone off the bedside table, her groping hand unable to trace the noise, still calling her in the dark. By the time she had put on the lamp and fumbled under the bed where the phone had slid over polished floorboards, the ringing had stopped and the answerphone cut in, her own detached voice giving way to a beep as the caller hung up without leaving a message.
She was shaking with shock and cold. Tracing the call, she found it was a number she did not know. A mistake, that was all. The clock told her it was still only half past four. Rising with a sigh, she pulled on her dressing gown. At least she could get warm, even if there was no point in trying for sleep.
Even in the kitchen the chill of an icy February night had penetrated. She put water in the kettle and set it on the hot plate of the Rayburn, holding her hands over it for a moment to heat them. The cat looked up, blinked, then tucked her head down again, curling her tail over her eyes.
February.
Margaret had given her a calendar with a seasonal recipe for each month. It was still at January with Scotch Broth, a soup for winter days. As she waited for the kettle, she turned it over to the next month. Lamb hotpot with dumplings and curly kale. This was not a calendar for people on a diet. She was tempted to look at July, but suspected summer pudding or strawberry trifle.
February.
She hung the calendar on its hook again. ‘It’s over a year,’ she told the cat. She had got through a whole year, the first year that everyone told her would be the worst. Everyone except Margaret who said the second year after being divorced was terrible, it all became real and permanent then, and she assumed widowhood would be like that too.
‘Well, thanks,’ Esther had said, ‘You’re not cheering me up.’
‘No.’ Margaret was frank. ‘I know. But it’s better to be warned, don’t you think?’
All through the past year, she had done everything for the first time without Jack. Would doing it for the second time be worse?
She sat on the chair next to the cat’s.
Much worse, she realised, with a yank of despair. Now it’s real, it’s forever and the whole world will expect me not to mind so much. They will expect me to get on with it, I’ve had my year of mourning, the sympathy, the flowers, the invitations, help with the garden and the house. I need to get out of deepest black and change to grey or purple or whatever it was they used to do in Victorian times. The year is up.
I’ve survived it, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?
The familiarity of the kitchen had begun to soothe her. My house, she thought, surprised all over again that this was how it was. My kitchen, my home. Here I am, the inheritor, with everything that means. It took an effort these days not to concentrate only on the year of grieving, the year she had just survived, but for once, her mind was travelling farther back.
When she made herself get into bed again for an hour or so, since daylight would be a long time coming (rain was spattering against the windows, a dreary day beginning), armed with a hot water bottle, she did drift towards sleep, and in that half dreaming state, encountered shadows, since she would not call them ghosts.
I
The Treacle Well
1958–1961
‘Once upon a time there were three little sisters,’ the Dormouse began in a great hurry; ‘and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well – ’
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
The New House
1958
i
One thing Janet knew. There would be no birthday party for the little one if it was left to her parents. Gordon would never think of such a thing and if Diana had thought of it, it would have been too much trouble. She did supply a bottle of whisky for the adults, seeing it no doubt as a celebration for them, rather than her baby. She still called Margaret ‘the baby’. Another black mark: Margaret at twelve months was an individual, however timid and quiet.
There had been raised voices downstairs, a rare thing in this house. Janet was ashamed when she saw Esther’s anxious face peering through the banisters. They were still living at Braeside, and although her parents had gone to bed long ago, she was aware of their presence. The house in Aberdeen was almost ready; she and Harry would be moving in three weeks.
‘Why is Daddy shouting?’
‘He’s not, it’s all right. Go back to bed.’
‘He is, Mummy!’ Esther looked disapproving. ‘You was as well.’
‘Were,’ said Janet. ‘You were.’
Esther looked confused, as well she might.
‘Never mind, come on, I’ll tuck you in.’
Louise was sitting up in bed drawing on a toy blackboard on her lap with pink chalk. The chalk had also transferred itself to the sheet and Louise’s hands and face. Patiently, Janet cleaned her up, removed the tempting toys to her own bedroom, and tucked both children in again.
‘Are we having the party?’ Esther asked.
‘Yes, tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Good.’
‘Jelly?’ Louise asked.
‘And ice cream. And cake.’
‘Hurray!’ they cried.
‘Hush. Go to sleep.’ She kissed them and stood up.
‘I need a drink of water.’
Louise always pushed her mother a step too far; Esther could have told her not to bother. Janet was in any case distracted by a cry from the next bedroom, where Margaret was in a cot beside her parents’ bed.
‘Goodnight,’ she said, and left the room.
‘Leave the door open!’ Louise shouted. Janet left a crack.
‘More!’
‘Goodnight.’ She was on her way to Margaret, since there was little chance Diana would come bounding up the stairs.
Living at Braeside had of course saved rent while they bought and renovated their own house in Aberdeen, but the addition of her brother Gordon and his wife with their baby had made even this house seem crowded. Gordon had said, ‘If Mum and Dad can put us up for a night or two, Margaret will get to know her cousins. And you know the folks will go to bed at sunset – they always do. We can spend a bit of time together, have a drink – you know what Mum’s like.’
Now she knew why he had been so keen. He and Diana. She pushed the bedroom door open but it was jammed against one of several cases. The room was full of Diana, her clothes sprawled on the bed, the little dressing table crowded with jars of cream, lipsticks and a gold compact, a hairbrush fluffy with blonde hair, pink powder spilled on the polished wood – a mess. Janet manoeuvred herself round to the cot where Margaret stood clutching the wooden rail with one hand, a limp cloth rabbit hugged in the other. She was coughing, mouth wide open. As soon as she saw Janet she went quiet and her face, red with crying, became solemn and wary, as she waited to see what would happen next.
Janet picked her up. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’re soaking. Let’s get you changed. That’ll help, eh?’
Margaret was used to being looked after by different people. She lay passively on the towel Janet spread on the bathroom floor while she was cleaned up, dried, and pinned into a fresh nappy. Janet talked softly all the time, but the child’s steady gaze was unnerving. She was very hot; the red face, Janet thought, was not just because she’d been crying.
In the little-used farmhouse sitting-room, the rest of the adults had calmed down and were drinking Diana’s whisky. When Janet joined them she said, ‘Margaret was crying.’
Diana looked up but did not move from the big sofa where she leaned next to Gordon, shoes kicked off and legs in sheer nylons tucked up beneath her. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She is now. I changed her.’
‘Oh God, another nappy.’
Janet wondered what difference this made to Diana. Since she and Gordon had arrived, she had not washed one. They were left in a bucket of water in the back porch until Janet or her mother dealt with them. Janet was going to have a washing machine in their new house; she could hardly wait.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Harry asked. She would not touch the whisky. ‘I’ll get you a sherry.’
‘Just a wee one. Somebody needs to keep their wits about them, with three of them upstairs.’
Diana made a face. ‘Oh, don’t. I feel awful landing on you like this. I tell you what – let’s go out somewhere on Sunday – maybe a nice hotel for lunch? Our treat.’
‘What nice hotel?’ Gordon asked. ‘This isn’t London, Di.’
‘With the girls?’ Janet could not imagine it.
‘Or let me do the cooking? How about that?’
Gordon laughed. ‘They haven’t tried your cooking, or you wouldn’t dare suggest it.’
Diana laughed too. She was never insulted, whatever anyone said. There had been some hard words earlier tonight, but Diana remained placid throughout; if she offended anyone, she had no idea of it till she was told.
‘A picnic,’ Diana said. ‘What about that? Then there’s no actual cooking and you’ll get a rest, Janet.’
‘In April?’
Diana laughed. ‘Oh well, maybe not!’
Janet caught her husband’s eye. He wouldn’t say anything: it’s not my business, he had told her last night in bed, as they talked about Gordon and Diana and the problem of Margaret. He’s your brother. Yet he had almost lost his temper with Gordon today.
Margaret was delicate, an old-fashioned infant, pale and fragile, not at all like their own robust little girls with their polished rosy skin and dimples in their knees.
Harry brought her sherry, chestnut brown in its tiny glass. Its sweet warmth cheered her and she leaned back in the leather chair while he perched on its arm with his usual appearance of being about to fly off and do something more energetic. He was thinking about work, even in the midst of all this family drama, as well as the delays and difficulties with the new house. Could they really afford it, even with the change in his status in the firm?
‘Look,’ Gordon said, ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick.’ He moved away from Diana and
leaned forward to address his sister and Harry. ‘We’ll take Margaret back to Ghana with us, of course we will. But she was never well in the heat and Diana’s been fretting about her all the time. Until this contract’s finished I can’t look for a job in the UK. It pays well, it’ll set us up when we come back.’
That, Harry thought, is what’s really on his mind. He liked his brother-in-law but had no illusions. On the golf course, as someone to have a drink with or talk business, he was fine. But he loved his job and he was more interested in money than any of the rest of his family.
Gordon’s explanation – or justification – was met with silence. There had been little sign of Diana even caring for her child, let alone fretting.
Diana, finding silence uncomfortable, said hurriedly,
‘Heavens, it was just an idea. We’ll have plenty of people to take care of her, you don’t have to worry. I’ve had a lovely girl as our nanny since Margaret was three months. Pity we couldn’t have taken her with us to the new job, but Gordon’s going to be working a hundred miles away and we thought we should move house up country. She would have come with us, she adores Margaret, but she didn’t want to leave her parents. I think she’s keeping them, I think it’s her wages they live on. Terrible, the poverty there,’ she added, refilling her glass.
Before Janet or Harry could say anything, or refrain from saying anything, before Gordon could manage to step in, the crying began again from upstairs.
‘Oh dear, Gordy, will you go? I’m dead on my feet, honestly.’
‘Tiddly, you mean,’ Gordon said. He got up. The wailing was louder, more than the cry of a child in a strange bed, wanting her mother. If she knew enough to want her mother, Janet thought crossly.
The Treacle Well Page 1
