A Pinch of Salt

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘And I’m supposed to take out the bin but I never do because I’m always reading or sitting on my wall and he did it because I’m so lazy and that’s why he got ill.’

  ‘Lassie, lassie,’ soothed Mrs Patterson. ‘Yer daddy’s not been a well man for a long while. It’s nowt to do with you.’

  ‘Put her to her bed, Betty. She’ll never listen to ye the state she’s in and get Grace out to play. Away ye go, Gracie. Holly’s needing a wee nap. You’ll see her at tea-time.’

  ‘I’ll phone Mrs Inglis when I come back,’ mouthed Mrs Patterson but Holly had heard.

  ‘No, please!’ she screamed. ‘She hates me for getting born and when she hears that it’s all my fault . . .’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Holly,’ said Mr Patterson. ‘Now, away to your bed like a good lassie and we’ll attend to it. Come on now, you’re upsetting Grace.’

  That was enought to calm Holly and she contented herself with pleading quietly with Mrs Patterson while she undressed. She lay for hours in the snug bed but finally cried herself to sleep.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ Mrs Patterson told her husband. ‘I’ll away up to the phone box and tell her grannie she can bide here the now.’ She looked at her husband speculatively. ‘I suppose I cannae suggest keeping the bairn while her father’s poorly.’

  ‘Suggest what ye like, hen, but her place is with her grannie.’

  When the telephone rang, Kate was standing in the huge bakery, just standing looking out of the window. Her face showed clearly that the view she was seeing was not pleasant. She listened to Mrs Patterson’s story attentively, thinking, Dear God in Heaven. I hadn’t even remembered Holly.

  ‘I’m on the way to the hospital now, Mrs Patterson,’ she explained when the woman had stopped talking. ‘The garage is sending up a car. I would be grateful if you would keep Holly today and I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

  She put the receiver back and stood again, looking out of the window, her reliable iron control ready to crumple like tissue paper. Only her will, the will that had kept her working from morning until late into the night for years, kept her from screaming, screaming, screaming, against this latest hurt. Where was that damned car? If it didn’t arrive she would walk the thirty miles to the hospital to get to him. Oh, Patrick, my dearest boy, this was for you, everything for you. Life was supposed to be easy for you; no hunger, no fatigue, a lovely home and education; you were supposed to have an education. Holly, Holly. It’s all my fault, you poor wee lassie. I should have accepted you, but all I thought of was myself. I was ashamed of your illegitimacy, embarrassed by the sniggers of my customers because my so-protected son, the boy who had been brought up to become a man of God, had fallen into what I saw as sin. As it had done day and night over the years, the full force of Kate’s regret assailed her. I should have offered, all those years ago, to take Holly. It’s no wonder the lassie wants nothing to do with me or my peace offerings.

  At last the door bell rang. Kate picked up her coat and bag and went to open it. It was not the garage man but Ian and, quite naturally, she stepped into his arms, not caring if the whole world was passing by her door.

  ‘Does everybody spend their life with regrets, Ian?’ she asked when they were on their way.

  ‘Only stupid people, Kate. The sensible ones decide they have made mistakes and go on from there. Now, try not to think about anything until you hear from his doctors.’

  ‘But your own patients? What are you doing . . . driving me?’

  ‘There you go, in a panic over nothing. We have several patients in the infirmary and I’ll see them today while Jim looks after the surgery.’ He changed the subject. ‘How long can Holly stay with her friends?’

  ‘I don’t know but I want her with me. I want to assure Patrick that she’s all right and that I’m taking care of her.’

  ‘Leave her where she is for a few days . . . at least until you see what’s happening. Thank goodness school is over for the summer.’

  Kate stayed quiet for the rest of the long drive. She could have been so happy sitting there in the car seeing his amazingly beautiful hands on the wheel, being faintly aware of his smell, part shaving cream part clean, healthy male. Theirs had been a strange relationship since the night he had kissed her at the door. The next time he had come to the bakery he had behaved as if nothing had happened. Kate was unaware that what she was going through with Ian was what he well knew most healthy young women experienced in their teens; he loves me, he loves me not, I want him, no I don’t, I don’t care if he never comes back, dear God what will I do if he never comes back? Kate was subtly being led to working out her relationship with the first man who had ever really interested her. There was also the question of working out a solution to the problem of her antagonistic grand-daughter and as if that wasn’t enough. . . . Her fingers tightened on her handbag and Ian’s strong left hand reached over and held them comfortingly.

  ‘Everything will be fine, Kate. I promise.’

  25

  HE WOULD NOT get well. He knew it. The doctors made encouraging sounds and talked about will to live and advances in medicine and Kate thanked them and murmured all the right things. She knew, however, that Patrick’s never-robust constitution had been worn down by too many damp winters in dilapidated cottages, and whatever regime he had put himself through during the war when he had seen his life as an atonement for sin.

  Oh, Mam, she confessed, Can I ever forgive myself if it was trying to make up to me that’s brought him to this? I could have taken them in; I should have. Charlie would have, but – and desperately she tried to excuse herself – they were gone out of my life before I had a chance to think, to recover.

  She sat beside Patrick’s bed and watched his face, almost as young and unlined in illness as it had been in childhood. ‘I’ll take care of your little girl, Patrick,’ she would whisper to the sleeping form. ‘You get well soon. Fight, Patrick, the doctors say you’re to fight, and then Mammy will take you home. It’ll be just you and me and wee Holly. I’ll teach her to bake bread . . . if she wants to bake. I’ll never force her to do anything.’

  ‘Kate.’ It was Ian. ‘You ought to have a rest.’ He had been back to Auchenbeath and she had been unaware of his absence. ‘I’ve seen the Pattersons and they’ll keep Holly for a few days. She’s fine, a bit weepy, Mrs Patterson says, but keeping her chin up. Now, please come and lie down for a while; the nurses will alert you if there’s any change.’

  She looked up at him. Dear God, why was life always so complicated? ‘I can’t sleep. There were so many years of not seeing him, Ian. I have to stay here, to be here in case he needs me.’

  ‘Then you must eat.’

  He went off and came back with some sandwiches and coffee in strange plastic cups. It tasted like nothing Kate had ever experienced before. ‘So this is progress,’ she said and tried to smile.

  ‘It’s hot and wet. Drink it up; doctor’s orders.’

  Doctors really said ‘Doctor’s orders’. She looked at the fact critically and stored it away.

  ‘Kate, there won’t be any change for some time. Please rest.’

  ‘I must stay with my son.’ She hardly noticed when he left or heard what he said. Later, much later, she would have time to think about Ian and Holly and the bakery. Now there was Patrick. She lifted his hand, the hand that should have been used for consecrating the host and blessing the sick. Oh, Mam, how much was my fault? Did he ever want to be a priest? Did he ever really want to go to the university? When did I sit down with him and ask what he wanted to do with his life? I don’t remember. I remember the purple berry trees in the garden and his wee face as he sat up in the cart with Charlie. Dear sweet Jesus, isn’t ‘if only’ the most painful phrase in the English language. Let me never have to use it with Holly. I’m not too old to change. She cried then, hot tears that ran down her face and across his white limp hand.

  Was there a tightening of the hand in hers? The eyelids fluttered.
>
  ‘Patrick.’

  ‘Mam. Don’t cry. I am so at peace . . . Holly.’

  The eyelids fluttered and closed again.

  *

  Holly decided that the only way to handle the situation she was in was to invent a story. She couldn’t really see her friend the queen in Mrs Patterson’s wee front room, which was very strange because she usually had no bother at all seeing her in the shabby front room at home. She would be an American heiress, in hiding with some poor but honest folk.

  ‘This is so good of you all,’ she whispered in a throaty voice which somewhat startled her host, but Grace and her mother had lived through Holly fantasies before and went on happily eating. This particular day-dream sustained her until Sunday, four whole days in hiding from the gang of ruthless kidnappers.

  She hurried off to Mass while Mrs Patterson muttered under her breath about how ridiculous, not to mention unhealthy, it was to send a wee lassie out without breakfast. The small congregation stared or did not stare – depending on their state of prayer – at ‘that poor wee lassie whose father’s had the stroke.’

  Holly felt the eyes and was no longer an heiress in hiding. Scrubbed and pink from the exertion of hurrying up the road, her red hair, thanks to Mrs Patterson’s relentless brushing, curling smoothly around her little head and shining like spun gold as the sun’s rays hit it through the stained glass window, she was the sacrificial virgin knelt in prayer. She knew what the light was doing to her hair but she pretended not to notice while making quite sure that she found a seat directly in the sunlight. She bowed her head, Joan of Arc waiting for death, so humble, so beautiful, so young, and then she remembered Patrick lying in the mud and the tears were real as she prayed desperately for his recovery.

  The Pattersons, all buttoned up in their Sunday best, were on their way to the kirk when she got back to the house.

  ‘I cannae bide, lassie, or we’ll be late, but a decent breakfast will do you good,’ said Mrs Patterson.

  Food, and Daddy in the hospital; she couldn’t. She ate eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread and potato scones, all washed down with hot sweet tea and felt better.

  It’s well worth fasting, she decided, her tummy distended. Protestants can’t possibly enjoy their food as much as we do.

  Sunday with the Pattersons was one meal after another. While eating her breakfast, Holly could smell the scotch broth simmering at the back of the stove and the roast pork spitting away in the oven. What could she do to show her appreciation? At least she could have everything ready for their return. What a pleasure it was to wash the dishes and to set the table. Mrs Patterson, who believed in Sunday as a day of rest, had the potatoes and vegetables peeled and waiting in basins of cold water. Holly rinsed them and had them ready to cook when she heard Grace at the door.

  ‘C’mon, Holly, Mammy says we’re to have a wee walk while she puts on the tatties and cabbage. Daddy’s coming. It’s great he’s not working the day. I don’t know when we last had him home on a Sunday.’

  They walked through the village and down to the river, joining the parade of other good citizens out in their Sunday finery. Patrick would have been sending stones to fly across the water, jump, jump, jump, like frogs; ten bounces, he could achieve with the right throw. Mr Patterson looked shocked at the very idea.

  ‘Ye cannot ask me to ping a stone on the Sabbath, Holly.’

  ‘Dad would do it; he’s the champion skimmer of all time.’

  The river lay broad, flat, enticing. Here and there a few stones ruffled the surface, pushing the water up further for the sun to play with. And Holly knew, for suddenly he was there with her. She could feel him, even experience the dear smell of him.

  ‘Ach, Daddy,’ she whispered. She picked up a stone, a nice smooth flat stone and stood carefully balancing herself. Absolutely the angle of the pitch was important.

  ‘. . . seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.’ Was it only the wind in the trees that chuckled?

  ‘We’d best be getting back, Mr Patterson, before you’re drummed out of the kirk for harbouring the infidel.’

  ‘Ach, it’s all right, Holly,’ said Grace loyally. ‘Nobody expects you to behave better.’

  Holly smiled, a very grown-up smile. Yesterday, she thought to herself as she tried to deal with the dreadful tight pain across her chest, yesterday I would have said, ‘I’ll spit on them all, so I will.’

  Grace felt the difference in her friend. She took Holly’s hand as they walked home behind Mr Patterson, unfamiliar in his Sunday suit.

  ‘Is something the matter, Holly? Mammy’ll cheer you up. She’s got a rhubarb crumble, your favourite, ready just to pop in the oven. Daddy, if the tallie comes, can we have ice cream with our crumble?’

  ‘Aye, what’s a crumble without some kinda cream? Listen for his bell from the front room while we’re waiting for our soup.’

  The house smelled wonderful, better than school dinners, better fare than the smells at the Toll House. She would stay with the Pattersons for ever. She could be the maid. She would go to school behind Grace, carrying her books, and she would never, ever beat her in an exam again.

  The policeman came in the middle of the roast pork which Holly had been unable to eat. She had forced down a few spoons of soup that had threatened to come spilling back up again and the effort to keep it down had helped her cope with the incredible pain. Now she played with crackling as Grace’s voice said, ‘There’s Jimmy Black’s dad at the door. There’s not been an accident at the pit, surely?’

  Her father, a fireman at the local pit, looked at her while the noise of the doorbell rang around the room, and, suddenly frightened, at Holly who kept her eyes down as she pushed peas around the plate. They absolutely must not wander off that fine gold line or the prince would never ever ever find the princess.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s maybe the pit, Holly,’ said Mrs Patterson.

  ‘This is the best dinner I have ever eaten, Mrs Patterson,’ said Holly, who never ate pork again.

  They sat, forks down, trying to talk, waiting for the door to close again behind the policeman.

  Grace’s father entered the room. ‘Holly, lass,’ he stopped and looked at his wife who almost sprang to Holly’s side. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  Mrs Patterson pressed the silent Holly to her generous bosom.

  ‘Don’t cry.’ It was Holly who spoke as Grace started to howl. ‘I knew at the river and he’s very happy now. He wasn’t a very happy man, my daddy.’

  She eased herself from Mrs Patterson’s arms and stood up. ‘Could I just go out for a wee while, by myself? I’ll be fine, but I have just got to get out.’

  Kate found her, hours later, sitting on the wall at the bottom of Patrick’s wee garden. There had to be a wall.

  ‘He said Holly,’ whispered Kate and her old, old grand-daughter looked at her.

  ‘I know,’ said Holly.

  ‘I want you to come home with me, Holly. I promised your daddy.’

  Holly climbed off the wall. ‘I’ll never swear again, Granny Kate.’

  26

  SHE WOULD TAKE the girl; she would send her to a good Catholic boarding school, the one where she would have sent Margaret. New clothes and a haircut; music lessons; dancing lessons; elocution; . . . and in the holidays . . . she could live here and Patrick would come home too and it would be as it should have been. She would make Patrick well; this time it would be all right; she would make it all right.

  These had been the thoughts going through Kate’s head in the hospital and, of course, as with so many of her plans throughout the years, it had gone wrong. Patrick had died as she had really always known he would and she was left not with the girl, but Holly. Her grand-daughter.

  Holly had been delighted to stay with Grace; to live out one of her daydreams, the dreams that stopped reality from rearing its sometimes ugly head. Every now and again, the seriousness of the situation would dawn upon her; the thought that
if . . . if the awful happened, she might be forced to live with her formidable grandmother in the Toll House – a house that somehow she could not like – that made her stomach churn with a fear that she had desperately tried to hide. At eleven though, it never occurred to her that Kate was as afraid of rejection as she was herself.

  Holly’s warm heart reached out to embrace all three Pattersons and she would never love lightly. What she loved, she would love for ever. ‘I’d rather be here with you, Mrs Patterson,’ she said sincerely, and then added very politely, ‘Thank you for having me.’

  It was not Granny Kate or Dr Robertson who finally came to take Holly to live with her grandmother. With Grace beside her she had stared transfixed from Grace’s bedroom window as a bottle-green Jaguar car purred to a halt outside the Pattersons’ council house. Out of it stepped the most beautiful creature Holly or Grace had ever seen. Painted hussy was how Mrs Patterson later described her.

  The girls came downstairs to find the vision sitting rather disdainfully on the very edge of Mrs Patterson’s spotless settee, sipping tea from the Sunday china. She rose and stretched out her beautifully manicured hands to Holly.

  ‘Hello, Holly. I’m your Auntie Margaret.’

  For one horrible moment Holly thought she was about to be hugged and all her good intentions would have gone right down the drain, but Margaret contented herself with holding Holly’s fingers tightly in a hand wearing enough diamond rings to buy Patrick’s council house several times over.

  ‘Your grandmother asked me to fetch you home, dear. So say goodbye to your nice friends. I’m sure you’ll see everyone very soon.’

  Mrs Patterson seemed unable to speak. ‘Aye, soon enough,’ said her husband, ‘we’ll be at Patrick’s funeral.’

  Margaret reached for her alligator handbag, ‘My mother and I don’t want you to be out of pocket.’

  Mrs Patterson found her voice; she was very dignified. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘The lassie hardly eats a thing. Quite one of our wee family, and always will be, Holly hen.’