A dutiful daughter, p.14
A Dutiful Daughter, page 14
Handing over precious pennies in return for small but essential bundles of firewood, she envied those millworkers with access to the small wooden bobbins used for sewing thread. Nothing was supposed to be removed from the mills, but even so the faulty bobbins were smuggled out – in the case of women, often tied round their waists beneath their skirts – to use as firewood.
Things had become so difficult that she was not only unable to add to the little savings account she had started for herself and Donald when he left for America, but was forced once or twice to break her firm pledge to herself never to dip into it.
Robbie grumbled about the poor food, but then Robbie grumbled about almost everything these days. Mirren, knowing that he was sick with humiliation and worry, had to bite her tongue at times against the temptation to snap back at him, but she wasn’t a saint and there were days when she was so tired and so worried herself that she couldn’t remain silent in the face of his complaints.
‘But you like stovies,’ she tried to reason with him one evening when he complained about his dinner. Helen had often relied on stovies – potatoes and chopped onions simmered slowly in a little water, then mixed with oatmeal – to fill her children’s bellies when times were hard. It made for a tasty and nourishing meal and, if the family was fortunate enough, there might be a few spoonfuls of mince to give added flavour.
‘I know I like them, but not every day.’ Robbie pushed his plate away and added peevishly, ‘I cannae stomach this!’
Her patience suddenly ran out. ‘Then you look after the house for a change,’ she raged at him. ‘You do the shopping and make the meals, for I’m tired of it all!’ Then, as he snatched up his jacket and made for the door, ‘Robbie, where are you going?’
‘Out tae a meetin’.’
‘With Joe Hepburn?’
‘What business is that of yours?’
‘At least he’s bringing some money into his house,’ Mirren said bitterly, then at the sight of her young brother’s stricken face: ‘I didn’t mean… I wasn’t accusing you, Robbie.’
‘I’m off.’
‘But I’ve to go to the fried-fish shop to…’ Her voice trailed away as the door closed behind his back. She stared down at his rejected dinner then sank into the chair he had shoved back so angrily, pushed his plate aside, rested her head on her arms and burst into tears.
‘Are ye sickenin’ for somethin’?’ Ella whispered as the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, ladling chips onto sheets of paper.
‘No.’
‘Is it yer monthlies, then?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Ye’re looking right peely-wally – there’s somethin’ wrong with ye. That’ll be ninepence,’ Ella told her customer, then as Maria took the money and doled out change, she moved swiftly on to the next person in the line snaking from the counter to the door. She was serving three or four people to each one Mirren dealt with tonight, working fast and keeping up a constant flow of chat and banter with the customers. When a lull came she almost bullied Maria into allowing them to have a cup of tea.
Mirren was sent into the cramped back shop to make it. ‘And be sure to add plenty of sugar to yours,’ Ella whispered as Mirren passed. ‘Ye need the energy.’
The tea helped to revive Mirren’s drooping spirits a little and keep her on her feet until closing time. Ella was a good listener and as they walked home arm in arm, Mirren, driven by despair beyond the family rule that squabbles should be kept secret, told her friend about her row with Robbie.
‘I can understand how he feels – a young married lad in our close is in the same boat and he’s just fading away with the worry of tryin’ tae find work,’ Ella said. ‘But your Robbie should think about how it is for you as well as him.’
‘He does, usually. He’s a good lad, but…’
‘But he’s a man, and men arenae good at dealin’ with disappointment and worry. They tend tae leave that tae the womenfolk,’ Ella said sagely. ‘I’ve heard all that time and again from my aunties. Why d’ye think they never married? They saw my gran havin’ a terrible time of it with my grandfather, and when they were younger than you and me they made up their minds never tae marry.’
‘Will you get married, Ella?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Who to? You won’t even let a lad take you home from the dancing.’
‘I’m looking for the right man,’ Ella said positively. ‘And I’ll know him when I see him. So far I’ve only met the wrong ones.’
When Mirren arrived back in Maxwellton Street she found Mrs White, who had again agreed to look after her mother, approaching the close from the opposite direction, her old dog toddling along by her side.
‘We’ve just been out for our bedtime walk, haven’t we, Scrap?’ Mrs White asked the dog, who peered up at Mirren from beneath a fringe of brown hair, eyes bright and nose alert to the aroma from the parcel she carried.
‘My mother…’
‘Don’t fret, hen, I’d never leave her alone. Your Robbie’s home. Oh my,’ Mrs White said as they reached the end of the close. ‘These stairs’ll be the death of me. Can I take yer arm, hen?’
With Scrap huffing and shuffling ahead of them they climbed the stairs slowly, and if Mrs White noticed that Mirren leaned on her rather than supporting her she said nothing about it. When they reached the landing the woman lowered her voice, turning her back to the Jarvis’s door as though fearing that Helen might be crouched on the other side, listening.
‘I’m a wee thing concerned about yer mammy, Mirren.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘She’s no’ lookin’ as able as she was. Sometimes a difference can be so slight that those closest never notice it,’ Mrs White hurried to explain. ‘It’s just a…’ she fumbled for the right words ‘…a sense of somethin’. Ye might want tae ask the doctor tae look in on her sometime.’ She peered up into Mirren’s face. ‘Ach, don’t worry, lass, it’s probably nothin’. I’ll let ye get in tae yer bed; ye’ll be ready for it.’ She opened her own door for Scrap, then turned back to say, ‘Ye’re a good daughter, Mirren. Helen’s fortunate tae have the likes of you.’
Robbie, surprisingly, was down on his hands and knees, polishing the fender and the tiles round the fireplace. ‘Just tae save ye in the mornin’,’ he explained awkwardly, scrambling to his feet as his sister came into the kitchen.
‘You didn’t need…’ she started, then amended it to: ‘Thank you, Robbie – that’ll be a good help to me.’
In the front room Helen was sound asleep. Mirren, with Mrs White’s words ringing in her head, longed to put the light on so that she could study her mother more closely, but instead she had to tiptoe out again, leaving Helen to the deep sleep so badly needed and so rarely granted.
Back in the kitchen she fetched two plates from the cupboard and was unwrapping the fish supper when Robbie said abruptly, ‘I don’t want any.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I’m not hungry. You eat it… you earned it,’ he said gruffly.
‘Robbie, you’re having your share, same as always.’
‘I don’t deserve it!’
‘Neither of us deserves what’s happening to us just now. So we’ve got the right to enjoy what comes to us. And thanks to Vanni that includes the occasional fish supper.’
A grin flickered round his mouth before it gave way to the bitterness that was ageing him these days. ‘Ne’erday’s comin’ and I’d such plans for this year… I was plannin’ tae buy decent gifts for you and Mother because I thought I’d be earning a man’s wage at last. And now look at us!’
‘There’s a whole week before September ends; you’ll have found work long before Ne’erday. Even if you don’t, we’ve never made much of the season anyway.’
‘Mirren, I’m sorry about… the way I was earlier.’
‘It was my fault – I shouldn’t have snapped at you.’
‘You do the best ye can tae keep us all goin’ – ye always have. I don’t appreciate it enough.’
She pushed a plate of food at him and collapsed thankfully into a fireside chair with her own share. ‘Just appreciate your chips for now, then we can both get to our beds,’ she told him, and knew by his laugh that all was well between them again.
‘D’you think Mother’s looking worse?’ she asked as they were finishing the food.
‘She looks the same tae me. Why?’
‘Just something Mrs White said when I met her on my way in.’
Robbie reached for her empty plate. ‘I’ll wash them. If Mother was ill I’m sure Logan and Belle would have said something. You know how Logan always behaves as if you were a housekeeper he’d hired tae look after Mother.’
‘You’d noticed that as well?’
‘It’s hard not tae notice,’ Robbie said.
Mrs White’s concern for Helen haunted Mirren. She knew well enough that women who had raised families and cared for ageing parents and, in some cases, had been looking after small brothers and sisters when they were little more than babies themselves tended to have a sixth sense about other folk. Her own mother was among those who could glance at a slender, carefree young girl and know that she was ‘expecting’ long before the girl herself was aware of it. Such women could accurately foretell the sex of an unborn child or even, again with uncanny accuracy, determine whether a complete stranger was Catholic or Protestant. And they could see death approaching from a distance – how, she didn’t know and nor did they. But they could.
For that reason she took Mrs White’s words seriously enough to confer with Logan and Belle on their next visit. They looked blankly at each other, then Logan said, ‘Has she been complainin’ of ill health?’
‘No, but Mother never complains.’ That wasn’t true. Helen complained all the time, about everything, but Mirren had a suspicion that if her mother felt really ill she would never admit to it.
‘Well then.’
‘It’s just, mebbe I should fetch the doctor, just in case.’
‘If ye want.’
‘The thing is,’ Mirren said awkwardly, ‘the doctor costs money.’
‘I hope ye’re not goin’ tae ask me for it,’ her brother said at once. ‘You know I’m scarcely paid any wages tae speak of.’
‘Robbie’s not found work yet.’
‘What about Mother’s pension?’
‘I can’t ask her for money to pay for a doctor’s visit. She’d only say that she didn’t need one and anyway, I don’t want to alarm her.’
‘Then use yer own money,’ Logan suggested. ‘Mother told me when Donald Nesbitt went off tae America that ye were puttin’ somethin’ aside from yer wages every week towards yer own journey. Is that not why ye took the job in the fried-fish shop?’
‘Yes, but it’s meant for a new life for me and Donald when the time comes. I’ve already had to use some of it, and I do everything else for Mother,’ she made herself point out.
‘That’s a daughter’s duty,’ Belle told her, while Logan added self-righteously, ‘Surely ye’d not deny a doctor for yer own mother when ye’ve got money sittin’ in the bank doing nothing?’
12
‘What d’ye think, Mirren!’ Catherine planted herself in the middle of the pavement, halting Mirren when she would have trudged past without looking up. ‘A letter’s arrived from our Anne! D’ye have a minute to come to the house and hear what she says?’
Mirren hesitated, glancing up Maxwellton Street. She dearly wanted to know how Grace and Anne were faring and at the moment Robbie was at home with his mother. The two of them could surely do without her for another five minutes or so.
‘Just for a minute or two,’ she agreed, then as she and her aunt walked the few steps to the Proctors’ closemouth she hesitated again. ‘Mebbe I should go home first and tidy myself…’
‘Nonsense, lassie, it’s not that long since our Grace used to come home every day lookin’ as though she’d walked through a snowstorm.’ Catherine urged her into the close. Spotlessly clean, with the walls tiled to halfway between floor and ceiling, it was more modern and much more attractive than the close leading into the building where Mirren lived. ‘I’ve still got her old sheet; you can use that.’
The Proctors’ lobby was large and square, with room for a cupboard as well as a coat rack. Calling out, ‘Mirren’s here, Maggie. Put the kettle on and fetch Anne’s letter,’ Catherine whisked the sheet from a cupboard shelf and spread it on the floor. ‘Step on that and I’ll give your coat a good brushing,’ she ordered. ‘And no arguments. I used to do this every day for our Grace, and to tell you the truth it’s a pleasure to be doing it again.’ Then as the cotton, dislodged by her vigorous brushing, drifted from Mirren’s shoulders: ‘It makes me feel closer to her when I’m doing this.’ Sudden tears sparkled in her fine dark eyes and she brushed them away impatiently with her free hand. ‘A bit of oose must have got intae my eye. Turn round, lassie, and I’ll brush your back.’
Catherine wasn’t the only one to be moved by the little ritual. As she stood submissively beneath her aunt’s deft hands, Mirren was reminded sharply of her early days in the mill, when her mother had been strong enough to perform the same service for her every day. Now she always had to see to herself.
When all the caddis had been brushed away Mirren stepped off the sheet and helped her aunt to gather the corners together neatly without allowing one speck of cotton to escape. ‘We’ll just put it in this corner and I’ll take it down to the midden later. Now come on…’ Catherine swept her into the kitchen, where James and May were finishing off their evening meal and Maggie waited to pour fresh tea for their visitor.
‘They’ve reached the hospital safely,’ she said as soon as Mirren appeared, ‘and a lot of the folk speak French…’
‘Now don’t go putting the cart in front of the horse, Maggie,’ her mother admonished. ‘May, hand round the cake while I read the letter out.’
Anne had a good way with words, and Catherine had a flair for drama. She read the letter so well that Mirren could easily sense the claustrophobia of the tiny cabin that Anne and Grace had shared with two other Scottish girls. She saw in her mind’s eye the four bunks, two bolted to each wall, and the tiny hand basin opposite the door, and she felt the lift, tilt and plunge of the steamship as it fought its way through the North Atlantic.
‘It was a relief,’ Catherine read, ‘when we entered the shelter of the St Lawrence River and went on deck for our first proper sight of our new home. The day was sunny and the air invigorating, though cold. After docking at Quebec on the following day we had to disembark and find our luggage in the great mass of items brought from the ship’s hold. That was a worrying time, for we couldn’t think how we would ever find our own pieces among such a lot. But we did, finally, then we had to spend hours and hours with the customs inspectors, who required us to open every bag and suitcase. Grace and I were very glad that we had packed so neatly and made certain that everything was in good order.’
That ordeal over, the Proctor sisters, together with the fifteen or so other girls who had sailed with them in search of a new life, were directed to a huge arrival hall, where there was great relief when one of them spotted a tall man holding aloft a placard with ‘Board of Trade’ written on it.
‘It took us quite a few minutes to fight our way through the crowds towards him,’ Catherine turned a page and read on, ‘but when we got there we found that there were three nurses with him, wearing their uniforms under warm coats. We were welcomed in a very strange accent, which took some getting used to, but has turned out to be the Canadian form of English with a strong French accent. Many of the people in this part of Canada are of French extraction and speak the language whenever possible.
‘Once we were all safely gathered in, like the sheaves in the hymn, we were taken to omnibuses waiting outside and driven to the nurses’ home, where Miss Gentles, the lady in charge of our group, saw to it that Grace and I were given a double room so that we would not be separated. She told us that they had a great need in the hospital for more workers, and that was made evident by the haste in which they got us started to work the next morning.’
The Scottish girls had been wakened at six o’clock on the following morning and by eight o’clock they were equipped in their new grey uniforms – ‘Not stylish by any manner of means, but practical and easy to care for’ – had had breakfast and been given a lecture by the head nurse as to the sort of work they would be required to do. ‘We were then taken to the various wards and put into the charge of the ward sisters. Our days are filled with work and learning how things are done here, and at night we are too tired to do anything but sleep. Being busy keeps us from moping too much with homesickness, and the people are pleasant. We are both in good spirits and, although we miss you all very much, we are both firmly agreed that we did the right thing in coming to Canada.’
The letter finished with a promise that they would both write often and that nobody needed to worry about them. And there was love to everyone from Grace, Anne and Dolores, who, May was assured, was enjoying her new life and spent her days on the windowsill of the room the sisters shared and her nights tucked into Grace’s bed.
‘There!’ Catherine’s face glowed as she folded the pages and tucked them carefully into their envelope. ‘So now we know that they’re safe and doing well.’
