A dutiful daughter, p.15
A Dutiful Daughter, page 15
‘Did I not tell ye that time and again, woman, when ye were fretting about them?’ her husband asked mildly. ‘They’ve got good Scots heads on their shoulders and good Scots tongues in their mouths. Of course they’d be all right.’
‘I know, I know, but even so… There’s times when being a mother’s a right heartache,’ Catherine said, and then, as Mirren got up to go: ‘I’ll walk down to the close with you and empty that sheet in the back court.’
‘What’s amiss?’ Catherine asked her niece as soon as they were out of the house.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re not very good at telling lies. Honest folk never are.’ Catherine paused on the landing. ‘Out with it, now.’
Mirren bit her lip. She had been brought up to keep her own counsel and never discuss family matters with others.
It was as though Catherine could read her thoughts. ‘When all’s said and done, lassie,’ the woman urged gently, ‘I’m your own blood kin.’
‘It’s just… it’s my mother…’
Once started, she couldn’t stop. Catherine listened intently while Mirren poured out her worries, then she announced, ‘I’ll come and see Helen tomorrow afternoon.’
‘But you and Mother don’t get on.’ Mirren followed as her aunt began to descend the final flight of stairs.
‘I need to see her for myself, and if there’s one of us not getting on, it’s Helen. I’ve no quarrel with her and it’s high time we spoke to each other again.’
‘But she doesn’t know that I visit you. She mustn’t know!’
‘Don’t fret yourself, lassie, I’ll tell her that I heard about her health from a neighbour. It’s surely my Christian duty to call on my own cousin in her hour of need, and it’s all right to lie a little bit, as long as the lie does no harm to anyone.’
‘I don’t know, Aunt Catherine…’
‘I’ll not stand by and watch you fretting yourself to death like this. Let me see Helen for myself, then we can decide together what should be done for her – since your brother and his wife don’t seem to be bothered,’ Catherine added with a steely edge to her normally placid voice.
‘Aunt Catherine, what happened to make you and my mother fall out?’
‘As I said, the quarrel was all on her side, not mine, so that’s for her to tell you, if ever she has a mind to. Off you go home now, and don’t fret yourself any more.’
Daylight had begun to ebb and Mirren stepped out of the close into the softness of late afternoon on a mild mid-October day. It was a time of the year that she normally enjoyed, when the leaves on the trees fringing the town were turning soft shades of brown and red and yellow, and the night air had a hushed feel to it, as though gently mourning the passing of summer while at the same time waiting, with bated breath, for winter to stride confidently over the horizon. But today Mirren had more on her mind than the weather. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried. It was grand to know that someone was finally listening to her, and willing to help her with advice. On the other hand, she felt apprehensive about being in the vicinity when her mother met the cousin she had not spoken to since they were girls.
True to her word, Catherine Proctor called the next day. ‘You must be Mirren, dear.’ Her clear voice echoed round the small landing. ‘How d’ye do? I’m your mother’s cousin, Catherine Proctor. I’ve come to call on her.’
Now that the moment had arrived, Mirren’s courage all but deserted her. ‘I don’t know… She’s not so well this evening…’
‘All the more reason for me to see her.’ Catherine swept the objections aside and marched into the small hall, a basket filled with packages on one arm. ‘Where is she?’
Instinctively Mirren glanced at the front-room door. ‘I’ll just ask if…’ she began, but her aunt was already pushing the door open and advancing into the room, where Helen struggled to sit upright, her face tight with anger.
‘What are you doing in my house?’
‘I’m doing what I should have done years ago – visiting my cousin.’
‘I don’t want you here!’
‘Don’t be daft, Helen,’ Catherine Proctor said calmly. ‘I’ve brought you some calves’ foot jelly.’
‘We don’t need your charity!’
‘Mother!’
‘It’s not charity, woman. I’m sure that if I was unwell you’d do the same for me.’
‘I would not. You tried to steal my man away from me!’
‘Tut, Helen, I did nothing of the sort. I’m sure we could both do with a nice cup of tea, if you’ve the time to make one, Mirren.’
‘I don’t want any tea.’ Helen was behaving like a sulky child. She threw herself back against her pillows, fingers plucking at the tumbled, twisted blankets over her thin body.
‘As I mind it, you were always a right tea jenny, Helen,’ her cousin chided her with a smile. ‘Remember when you used to drain my mother’s big teapot dry all on your lone?’ She dipped into her basket and took out a paper bag, which she handed to Mirren. ‘I brought us some nice tea biscuits from the co-op in Broomlands Street. My daughter Anne used to be the manageress there, but she’s gone off to Canada. I’ll tell you all about that while Mirren makes the tea.’
When Mirren returned with a tray her mother, bright spots of angry colour on each cheekbone, was lying back against pillows that had been punched into shape and skilfully arranged to make a comfortable backrest. The bedclothes had been tidied and Catherine Proctor had shed her fur-collared coat and was sitting by the bed, talking. She got up and took the tray, settling it on the table by the window and pouring tea as calmly as if she was in her own home, while Helen watched, her eyes bright with dislike.
‘Why don’t you take your tea into the kitchen, Mirren? I don’t want to interrupt your work, and your mother and I have a lot of memories to catch up on.’
The tea cooled unnoticed in Mirren’s cup as she tried in vain to concentrate on the business of polishing the big kitchen dresser that had always been her mother’s pride and joy. She collected the hand-painted plates from the top shelf first and carefully washed them, before fetching the cloth and tin of beeswax, her ears straining all the time to make sense of the soft murmur of voices from the front room.
Twenty minutes dragged by before Catherine brought the tray out, calling cheery goodbyes over her shoulder to her cousin. Once the kitchen door was firmly closed behind her, the smile disappeared.
‘The woman’s not well at all, Mirren.’ She looked closely at her niece. ‘Have you the money for the doctor? I’d be happy to help. If there’s anything I can do for poor Helen…’
‘No, we can manage.’
‘If you’re sure, but remember that you only have to ask,’ Catherine said, then gave a little gasp of pleased surprise as her eyes fell on the dresser. She reached out and touched it, a fond smile temporarily smoothing out the worried frown between her eyes. ‘I mind this piece well. Aunt Sarah – your grandmother – kept it gleaming, and she had lovely plates set out on the top shelf.’
‘We’ve still got some of them.’ Mirren indicated the plates she had carefully washed and stacked to dry.
‘Oh yes, there they are. She was a lovely woman, your gran. And Helen was such a bonny lassie.’ Catherine’s voice trembled and she scrubbed the back of one hand across her eyes. ‘I cannae believe she’s come to this. I wish I’d made up with her years ago when she was well.’
‘There’s still time.’
‘Not for us, my dear. Your mother’s turned against me completely, and the way she is, it would only upset her if I tried to call on her again.’ Catherine shook her depression off with a determined effort and started to unload the basket she carried. ‘But it’s not too late for me to help in other ways. Here’s the calves’ foot jelly I mentioned, and I bought a nice bowl of potted hough in the co-op. Helen might fancy some for her tea. Now I’d better go; she’ll be wondering what we’re talking about.’
At the door she kissed Mirren on the cheek. ‘Remember that James and I think of you as one of our own, and we’re just down the road if you ever need anything.’
‘What took you so long?’ Helen wanted to know when her daughter went into the front room. ‘What were you and Mrs High-and-Mighty Proctor mutterin’ about in the kitchen?’
‘We weren’t muttering, she was just asking me about the mills and about how Robbie was.’
‘That’s none of her business… and I’ll not have her here again, Mirren, d’you hear me?’
‘She was just trying to help, Mother.’
‘We don’t need her help!’
‘She’s your blood kin. I thought you’d be pleased to see her again.’
‘If I’d wanted to see her again I’d have seen tae it long before this. Now mind me, Mirren, she’s not welcome,’ Helen stormed, then, all the fire suddenly draining out of her: ‘I have to use the commode.’
Mrs White had been quite right when she said that it was difficult to notice changes in someone close. It was only now that Mirren had seen her mother and her aunt together that she could assess Helen’s deterioration. Despite her advancing years and a lifetime of hard work, Catherine Proctor was still sturdy and erect and the lines about her wide strong mouth and around her eyes were those of a compassionate woman easily moved to laughter. She was still in her prime, while Helen Jarvis looked old. Her colouring was bad and the lines on her face were hard and deeply grooved, her mouth pulled down by bitterness and pain. Helping her from the commode and settling her back into her bed, Mirren was suddenly aware of her mother’s frailty and the way her bones were barely covered by skin, let alone fat or muscle. Remembering how easily Helen had carried her up the stairs from the closemouth when she was a small child, Mirren was frightened. Aunt Catherine was right: it was time to summon medical help.
She was making soup when Robbie came in, his shoulders hunched against the cold outside, his face bleak. She knew with one glance that he had not had any luck with his job-seeking.
‘Aunt Catherine Proctor called to see Mother today.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mother was furious and she says she doesn’t want to see her here again. She even said that Aunt Catherine had tried to take Father away from her.’
A spark of interest lit Robbie’s eyes. ‘D’ye think it’s true?’
‘I can’t see it. Aunt Catherine and Uncle James seem so fond of each other.’ Mirren chopped busily. ‘Their first meeting was very romantic. Anne told me about it once. It seems that Aunt Catherine had a friend from a well-to-do family – someone she’d met through her dancing – and this lassie had a sweetheart in the army. Because her parents didn’t think him good enough for her they wouldn’t agree to an engagement, then the young man was posted off to India and while he was away the girl engaged herself to a Glasgow businessman – someone her parents liked. The church wedding was all set and the wedding breakfast was to be held in the town hall, and Aunt Catherine was one of the bridesmaids. But on the day…’ Mirren stopped chopping carrots and turned to face her brother. ‘The bride was just about to walk down the aisle when her army sweetheart burst into the church and shot her dead. Her beautiful white wedding gown was crimson with blood, Anne said.’
Her voice shook slightly, for the story never failed to move her. ‘Uncle James was in the congregation that day and when he saw poor Aunt Catherine almost fainting with all the commotion and the fuss over the bride, and folk trying to take hold of the man and subdue him, he took Aunt Catherine by the arm and led her outside and sat her down on a gravestone in her pretty dress. Then he talked to her and calmed her… and a year later they were wed.’
‘What happened tae the soldier?’
‘He was locked up in an asylum for mad people, poor man.’
Robbie looked sceptical. ‘I cannae see a thing like that happenin’ in Paisley.’
‘Anne said it did, and she’d never lie to me. Anyway—’ Mirren turned back to her work ‘—folk are folk, no matter what town they live in. You should come with me to visit the Proctors sometime, Robbie. They’re nice people; they’d make you very welcome.’
‘Aye, mebbe.’ Robbie liked to choose his own friends and had never shown any interest in meeting his relations.
‘Robbie, Aunt Catherine thinks we should get the doctor.’
‘Ye mean Mother might be really ill this time?’
‘I hope not, but it’s best to get the doctor in.’ Mirren scooped the last of the vegetables into the soup, gave it a good stir, checked the flame beneath the pot, then took her coat from its hook on the back of the kitchen door and fetched her Paisley Provident Co-operative Society share book from its drawer. ‘I need to go out for a wee while. Will you remember to stir the soup now and again to stop it getting too thick?’
‘What’s for the dinner?’
‘Potted hough,’ she said, and for the first time in weeks his face lit up. He loved the dish, which had been a family favourite in the days when their father and Crawford had been alive. It consisted of a shinbone and some meat simmered with onions, carrots and a bay leaf to add a spicy flavour to the stock, then poured into bowls and covered with equal amounts of stock. The stock turned to jelly as it cooled and the dish was sliced and eaten cold.
‘Potted hough? We must be doin’ all right if you can afford tae buy that. Have ye been made up tae the post of mistress at work?’
‘No, I’m just good with money.’
‘I’ll peel the potatoes while ye’re gone,’ he offered.
Despite all her efforts to leave the co-operative dividends alone to multiply into a reasonable amount, Mirren had been forced since Robbie lost his job to use some of the money. In the Paisley Provident Co-operative Society office, an impressive building in Causeyside Street, she withdrew all that was left; it came to one shilling and threepence, not enough to pay for a doctor’s house call. Slowly she walked back up St Mirren Brae to the High Street, where she turned in at the door of the Paisley Savings Bank. It had been such an effort to build up the American account, almost penny by penny, and now it was dwindling. The last withdrawal had been for a nice necktie to send to Donald as his Ne’erday gift. Her mother’s deteriorating health meant that she’d had, after all, no time to knit a warm jersey to protect him against the American winters. It hurt to see her precious savings melting away, but she had no choice other than humiliating herself by begging from Logan, who would only refuse her in any case.
‘There’s little I can do for her,’ the doctor followed Mirren into the kitchen, where Robbie paced the floor nervously. ‘Your mother’s heart – her entire body, come to that – has simply worn out.’
‘Is there no medication we can try?’ Robbie was stunned. He was used to his mother being an invalid, but clearly he had never considered her condition to be life-threatening.
‘Only good nourishing food and mebbe a wee glass of tonic wine every day. And try to keep her spirits up,’ the doctor said as he picked up his bag and held a hand out for his fee.
As Mirren followed him onto the landing he said, ‘There’s one blessing, my dear. At least you’re saving money because your mother has no need of medication.’
Mirren flinched as though he had struck her in the face, then recovered herself and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’d have been very happy to find whatever price the medication might cost if I could only restore my mother to health,’ she said clearly, and the man had the grace to flush with embarrassment before hurrying down the stairs.
13
Mirren didn’t know what she would have done without Aunt Catherine to turn to. Ella was a sympathetic listener and Agnes still one of the family, but neither of them had Catherine Proctor’s maturity and wisdom, nor her serenity. Just talking to her helped to ease Mirren’s anxiety.
She listened without comment to the story of the doctor’s visit, then asked a few questions about Helen’s past health. ‘She was never all that strong after Robbie’s birth, but it was Father’s death, then Crawford’s, that brought her to her bed,’ Mirren explained miserably, glad that she had found her aunt at home alone for once. ‘And I suppose she’s right when she says she has little to live for now.’
‘There’s always something to live for! There’s her wee grandson, and mebbe others to follow when you and Robbie marry.’
‘I’ll be away in America, and now that Agnes has married again and given wee Thomas a stepfather… That’s not going to take him away from Mother, but she keeps fretting herself that it will.’
‘Oh, my poor Helen. I always mind her as being so brave. I was a tomboy in my youth and she wasn’t, but whatever I did she’d follow no matter what. She’d face anything rather than be left behind. It near broke my heart to see her lying there last week, so frail and helpless and…’ Catherine paused, then said huskily, ‘…so old-looking. It made me realise that I’m not getting any younger myself. Look, Mirren.’ She opened a drawer and brought out a small faded photograph. ‘I found this just the other day. It’s me and your mother when we were just going into our teens.’
The likeness showed two young girls, their arms about each other’s waists, standing beside a pillar bearing a large leafy plant in an urn. Mirren recognised Catherine at once; she was the taller of the two, and her strong jawbone and erect posture were unmistakable. So, too, were the clear direct eyes and the wide, well-shaped mouth that looked as though it was trembling on the verge of a peal of laughter.
Helen, nestling against her cousin, was the smaller and slighter of the two. Her delicate little face was solemn and the smile that hovered about her lips was more nervous than amused, yet Mirren could see the determination Catherine had described in the way that Helen’s pointed chin jutted out and in the set of her mouth. Catherine’s dark hair hung down over her shoulders beneath a straw boater with a bow at the front, and a draped knee-length skirt could be seen below her fitted hip-length jacket, while her cousin’s long fair curls were held back from her face with a velvet band and she wore a high-necked smocked dress of broad light and dark stripes, with sleeves puffed from shoulder to elbow and tight-fitting from elbow to wrist.
