A Pinch of Salt

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘Hasn’t he been so grand with me worrying about Charlie? Helping the both of you out with Deirdre will be my way of paying back. Or when the time comes I could help out here wi’ feeding your father and the weans, Kate, if you’d sooner be wi’ Deirdre?’

  Wouldn’t she love that chance? Oh, to be able to be in two places at once.

  ‘I’ll try to get Deirdre to come home when her time comes, but if she wants to stay in her own place, I’ll be obliged if you’ll help out.’ There, she had said it. Not wholeheartedly, but she had said it.

  Mrs Murphy smiled. ‘The war’ll soon be over and it’ll be your turn.’

  ‘I assure you that I will never have to get married,’ said Kate stiffly.

  ‘Goodness, Kate, what a thing to say? But you’ll want to, when this bloody war is over, and the sooner the better.’

  The war showed no signs of being over but on the very day that Deirdre gave birth to her first son, Charlie came home. Not to Auchenbeath. He had been injured at a place called Passchendaele and was to be in a hospital in England for several months.

  Kate was relieved to know that he was alive. Perhaps now Mrs Murphy would transfer her interest to her nephew. She wrote to Charlie telling him how delighted they all were that he was safe. Perhaps she should not have said that they were all very anxious to see him home safely.

  There was a revolution in Russia. Kate liked the aristocracy – they seemed to her to give stability to a wobbly world, even Russian ones who, after all, were related to the king – and was horrified that they had been murdered. King George decided to call himself Windsor and America entered the war. Colm was fascinated and learned more geography and history in a few weeks than Kate had learned in all her time at the village school.

  ‘You wait and see, our Kate. The war’ll be over in no time with the Yanks in. They’re all millionaires and drive cars and they all own their hooses, even miners like Daddy.’

  ‘And where did you hear this?’

  ‘At the school and the miners’ library. Did you ken that you could drop Scotland in one lake in America, it’s that big, and if you had a motor car it would take weeks to drive from one side to the other. I’m going when I leave the school.’

  ‘Good for you, Colm,’ said Liam, ‘and when you’re a millionaire send for your daddy. I’d like fine to pick an orange right off a tree and eat it.’

  ‘You shouldnae encourage him in his nonsense, Da,’ said Kate but secretly she was delighted to have the loving Liam back, ‘visiting America and picking oranges off trees, indeed.’

  He was still not loving enough to invite Deirdre home and had not even seen his grandson, David Liam Spence. Kate found this very difficult to understand. After all, had he not actively encouraged Mrs Murphy to stay with Deirdre? Deirdre herself was amazingly philosophical about the situation.

  ‘He’s still that Catholic and old fashioned, Kate. We’ll have a christening when my Davey comes home and Da’ll come round then, you’ll see.’

  Kate and Bridie were doting aunties and could only agree. How could anyone reject this most beautiful and intelligent of babies. Mrs Murphy agreed too but she had more on her mind than David or his grandfather for she was going down to visit Charlie. She was going to travel by train, in itself a terrifying new ordeal and she was to stay in a boarding house.

  ‘Imagine me in a hotel. I’ll be frightened I eat with the wrong knife.’

  ‘Who is going to notice, Mrs Murphy, or care? You go and enjoy yourself. Pity it took poor Charlie near getting himself killed for you to have a holiday but pretend that’s all it is, a nice wee holiday at the seaside.’

  ‘At the seaside,’ echoed Colm in a voice full of awe. ‘Be sure and have a kipper then, Mrs Murphy, and tell us what they taste like.’

  She did better than that. She brought kippers back with her and told Kate how to heat them up. It was not a success.

  ‘Well, I’m sure they’re very nice for the gentry, Da,’ said Kate, ‘but I’d rather have a nice bit of fish.’

  ‘Do we have to eat them, Da?’ asked Colm. ‘I’m choking on all the wee bones. Our Deirdre cannae really like them, can she?’

  Kate put their supper on the back of the fire and cut bread for them instead. ‘Dinnae tell Mrs Murphy if she asks you. Just say, very nice.’

  ‘That’s telling lies, our Kate,’ said Colm grandly.

  ‘Better a wee fib than getting your backside walloped for hurting somebody’s feelings,’ answered his father and the kippers were never mentioned or joked about again.

  There were more important things to think about. Charlie was well enough to travel and was coming home. Liam went with Mrs Murphy to the station while Kate cooked a meal for him. The fatted calf, Liam had called it, although there was nothing of the prodigal about Charlie, unless the prodigal son had been emaciated and grey after his experiences. Kate could have wept when she saw Charlie. Nothing had prepared her. He was another man. Nothing of the cocky wee bantam was left. He was but skin and bones. Time, she knew, would help that, but his black curly hair was straight and quite grey and his once-sparkling eyes had lost their glitter. There was no bounce in his step; in fact he dragged himself around on crutches. His strength was all in his hands, or so it seemed to Kate as she examined the bruises left by his iron grip on her.

  ‘I won’t leave you, Charlie love. Sure, I’m only away into the back kitchen to get your tea.’

  ‘There, pet,’ said Mrs Murphy, ‘didn’t I tell you Kate waited for you. She’s a good girl, our Kate, isn’t she, Liam?’

  Kate saw the smile of understanding that passed between them. ‘I’m not your Kate,’ she wanted to scream but there was Charlie, what was left of him, gazing at her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Charlie,’ she said. ‘We’re going to get you well, you’ll see.’

  6

  IT COULD NOT be happening; it had happened. My God, she was Mrs Charles Inglis. There was no way out. For a second a wave of panic swept over her and she fought down the impulse to run screaming from the little church.

  I never wanted this; how did it happen? Dear God, what will I do?

  For months Mrs Murphy had devotedly nursed Charlie back to all the health he was going to regain. Then she and Liam had taken to spending the occasional evening together at the miners’ club and so Kate had begun to sit with Charlie, to read to him. She enjoyed that, time to sit and read without feeling guilty that there was perhaps something else she should be doing.

  The dismantling of the machinery of war began on 11th November 1918 and the signing of an official peace took place seven months later. Deirdre’s Davey returned and Deirdre made her peace with Liam who enjoyed the luxury of spoiling his first grandchild. And on the Sunday afternoon that Kate heard Mrs Murphy say to wee David, ‘Come tae yer grannie, sweetheart,’ she realized that her days as the mother of her father’s family were numbered.

  ‘We want to spend the last days of our lives together, Kate,’ said Mrs Murphy when Liam officially broke the news to his children, ‘but we will have to sacrifice our happiness for my Charlie. How can I leave him on his own the way he is after all he’s suffered? He’ll not live with me and Liam but he cannae live on his own.’

  Liam explained his actions to Kate late that night as she sat darning socks by the fire.

  ‘I’m not being disloyal to your mam. Can you understand that? This between me and Mollie isn’t the same but I’ve been alone a long time.’

  ‘You had us, Da. How can you say you were alone? Haven’t I taken care of everything? I love looking after you and Bridie and Colm . . . and the others, God rest them.’

  ‘It’s not right, Katie. Molly and me need each other and you need a life of your own, a home of your own . . .’

  She had not been able to find the words to make him understand, and so here she was surrounded by people, kissing her, hugging her. How dare they, how dare they?

  At last a voice she recognized, a beloved voice. Bridie, my wee Bridie, my baby sis
ter. The little sister whom she had promised to care for and whom she was now abandoning. How had it happened? When had she allowed herself to say I’ll marry you, Charlie? Had she ever – or had it all been taken for granted and she had never had the courage or strength to say ‘no’.

  Dear God, I’m married because I didn’t want tae hurt his feelings and him injured.

  ‘Kate, there’s a man tae take yer photo. Can I be in it?’

  ‘Photographs!’ Make the best of it, Kate, make the best of it; you’re married, so get on with it. ‘Charlie, we cannae afford such new-fangled ideas.’

  He hugged her to him in full view of everyone, sending a flush of embarrassment over her. ‘On yer wedding day, Kate Kennedy – naw,’ he laughed proudly, ‘Kate Inglis, ye can afford anything. Come on, darlin’, and you too Bridie, Auntie Molly, Liam, we’re getting our photo took for posterity.’

  He bundled them out of the church and the photographer did his best to marshal them into line at the front door.

  ‘Smile, please,’ and Kate tried to smile. She smiled so grimly that the photographer tried to jolly her along.

  ‘It won’t hurt a bit, my dear,’ he said and of course Charlie and his friends read a double meaning into the remark that set them off laughing uproariously, and so Kate’s smile became even more wooden and, as such, was frozen for ever.

  Mrs Murphy had hurried off as soon as Kate and Charlie had signed the register and the delicious smell of Kate’s own pies greeted them as they returned to the miners’ row. For once, Kate was not allowed to serve but sat in the big chair in the kitchen and tried to enjoy the party. Would it never end? Whisky was flowing freely and when Kate cut the wedding cake that she herself had baked, Charlie produced a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Only the best on your wedding day, my darlin’. Come on now, drink up. Isn’t that delicious?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Kate although the warm liquid tasted nothing like she had expected it to taste. Was it not supposed to be ambrosia, whatever that was? Deirdre took a glass and downed it at one gulp.

  ‘Was there ever anything so delicious,’ she cried in a voice that sounded quite intoxicated already. ‘That’s the drink for me. Champagne, Kate. We had bottles of it at our wedding, really good stuff from the duke.’

  ‘Deirdre,’ said David quietly.

  What a difference he would make to her sister, thought Kate as Deirdre calmed down immediately she heard his quiet voice.

  ‘Sure, you and the gentry are welcome to it,’ said Kate and could not quite manage to take the sting from her voice. She wanted to quarrel with Deirdre, with anyone, just so that somehow, perhaps, this awful thing would go away.

  She looked around the laughing red-faced group and prayed that the day would soon be over and then, as she realized that it was almost time for her to leave her father’s house she prayed that it would never end. But of course it did, and Kate and Charlie, followed by shouts of drunken revelry – for those at the wedding party had almost one and all forgotten about the reason for the free drinks – set off to walk to their new house. Charlie, in common with almost every other man – and more than a few of the female guests – had had far too much to drink, but the chill evening air soon sobered him up.

  ‘A grand wedding, Kate,’ he said in tones chosen to mollify his bride. He knew well how much she abhorred over-indulgence.

  Kate looked at him and remembered the photographer and the ghastly champagne and a wave of tenderness swept over her. He had a good heart, her Charlie, and although deep down inside she was sure that in marrying him she had made a grievous mistake, arm-in-arm with him on their wedding day she vowed that he would never know and that he would never have cause to regret it. Charlie misread the message, put his arm around her waist and almost carried her the rest of the way to the cottage.

  Whatever Kate had expected, it was not this, and to give him credit, it was not what Charlie had intended either. He swept her up into his arms at the door, kicked it shut, and stumbled with her into the bedroom. No time even to take off the cover Kate had so patiently embroidered; no time either to undress and put on the new nightgown with the delicate lace around the neck. He pulled up her skirts and pulled down her drawers and then he was on top of her and her back was breaking and, dear God, what was he doing?

  It was over; he was lying quiet on top of her. Strange how heavy he was and him still a slip of a man after the war.

  ‘My hat,’ she whimpered, ‘you’re crushing my hat.’

  Hats, what did he care for hats? Was he asleep, collapsed on top of her; she lay, terrified to move.

  ‘Jesus, that was rare,’ at last he mumbled into her neck and then, oh dear God no, he was moving again, his breath sounding harsh in her ears, his spittle drooling down the side of her face.

  ‘My hat,’ she cried, but he was oblivious of everything but his need. Faster and faster he moved, deeper and deeper into her until she was sure that she must suffer some terrible harm, and then, with a cry of achievement, he collapsed once more upon her and then rolled off and lay there. She stumbled to her feet averting her eyes but not before she had seen IT lying there so limp, and wet, and . . . the smell! She was going to be sick. She stumbled outside and vomited into the weedy patch that was her front garden. Even in her misery she was alert enough to decide that there would be flowers, not vomit, there in the spring.

  She returned to the front room of the cottage and filled the hip bath with water; then she pulled off her clothes and, clenching her teeth, lowered herself into the cold water. With a nail brush she began to scrub and scrub until her skin was raw and sore. Would she ever be clean; she could still smell IT. At last, too tired to scrub any more, she climbed stiffly from the bath and dried herself with a rough but spotlessly clean towel. Her new nightgown was in the bedroom but nothing would make her go back in there. She slipped her wedding dress back on and, after emptying the bath and drying it out, she curled up in the chair by the range and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  She woke early and was making porridge when Charlie woke and somewhat shamefacedly crept into the room.

  ‘I didnae mean it to be like that,’ he muttered. ‘It was just the waiting, all the weeks. It’ll be different from now on.’

  She said nothing. How stupid; she had actually thought that that was it. It was over; she was married and she had done it – or at least it had been done to her, but it was not finished. It was going to happen again and again. Oh, God, she would die. She shrank away as he tried to put his arms around her but then, with a tremendous effort of will, she pulled herself together and managed a wavery smile.

  ‘It’s fine, Charlie. I didnae know what to expect, that’s all . . . and you ruined my hat.’

  Relieved, he grabbed her and twirled her around in a hug. ‘Your hat. I’ll buy you a dozen hats.’ He sat down at the scrubbed wooden table. ‘Come on, Katie lass. Have some porridge. It’s braw porridge. Then I’ll have a look at that garden and see if I can dig a bit for a cabbage. Auntie Molly says we should get some more sprouts and all afore the year’s out.’

  Kate sat down and forced down some of the porridge. A dozen hats and him with no job and precious little chance of one. Well, she had coped with little money during the miners’ strike of 1912, she could cope now with the pittance that was his disability benefit. Thoughts like that made her sorry for him again. Poor Charlie; sure, it wasn’t his fault. Hadn’t he ruined his health in the service of his country. So marriage was going to be far from perfect, but surely that would be a small part; she could handle it and, as for money, somehow they would manage. Charlie would never work but at the back of her mind there was that half-formed idea about the pies but for now . . . one day – and one night – at a time.

  For several days they were left quite alone but then Kate had to walk into the village for some supplies, and if she was to be in the village, it would be silly not to stop in and see the family. Wee Bridie ran to meet her, closely followed by Colm who remembered too late
that he was thirteen years old and too old to be running to meet a lassie even if she was his big sister.

  ‘You’re no to worry, Kate,’ said Bridie earnestly as she proudly poured her sister a mug of tea. ‘We’re managing fine. Mrs Murphy’s here that often they might as well be wed already and tae give her her due, Kate, she makes grand soup, and our Colm’s a great help to me, he really is, much more than the laddies were to you.’

  Colm blushed with pleasure and embarrassment but, as usual, said nothing. Kate looked at them, so young, so earnest, so self-important. It was almost as if it was happening all over again, as if Bridie was to become the mother of the family. What have I done? Left Bridie alone and for that. No, there was going to be the wedding, wasn’t there?

  ‘And me dad, Bridie. How’s he gettin’ on with no hot breakfast?’

  ‘Colm gets it, don’t you, Colm? He says you were his age when you were doing it all.’

  ‘Aye, maybe, but I’m a woman; it’s no job for a laddie,’ said Kate and was annoyed when both Bridie and Colm laughed at her. Poor wee lad, she thought. What kind of life is he having; cooking and cleaning and, next year, down the pit. Oh, Mam, haven’t I made a terrible job of minding yer weans?

  She stood up and looked around the tiny room that already looked so unfamiliar. The damp little farm cottage on the road to the Kirkland Wood was now home.

  ‘I’ll no wait for me dad, Bridie. Come away up to the shop with me. I need a wee pat of butter.’

  ‘This is great,’ Bridie chortled with glee as she skipped up the road, her hand tight in Kate’s. ‘Imagine you a married woman. Is it nice, Kate, being married? Only two people to cook for and to wash for. What do ye find to do?’

  Kate smiled at her innocence. ‘Aye, well, there hasnae been much to cook and clean since the war. Dad’s all right, is he, Bridie?’

  Bridie was quiet for too long. ‘He misses you but he’s the same as he always was, since the boys I mean. It’ll be grand when they get married.’