A dutiful daughter, p.24
A Dutiful Daughter, page 24
‘What time is it?’
‘Early yet. I wanted tae see tae Joe before I went out.’
She raised herself on one elbow. ‘How is he?’
‘Sore. He’ll not manage tae get tae work today.’
‘You go into the front room and let me get dressed then I’ll make the breakfast.’
She made enough for three, and ate hers alone while Robbie took his in the front room with Joe. When he returned she was almost ready to leave for the mill. Ignoring his protests she pulled Robbie over to the window to examine his bruised face in the watery light from the window.
‘It’s not bad at all, going yellow already.’
‘I got off lightly because it wasnae me they’d come tae the meetin’ for.’
‘What’ll you tell them at work?’
‘The truth. That Joe was set on and beaten. He says he’ll be all right for tomorrow. I’ll come back at midday tae see tae him.’
‘You’ll not manage to get here and back in the time.’ Robbie and Joe worked down at the harbour, on the opposite side of the town. ‘I’ll come home. It’s easier for me.’
‘Ye’re sure? Thanks, Mirren,’ he said when she nodded.
‘Ye’ll have tae put a stop to that,’ Ella said when she heard about Bert’s overtures the night before. ‘Never let a man take advantage of ye!’
‘He wasn’t taking advantage,’ Mirren protested as they went into the mill building. ‘He just…’
‘Ye think not? Let him go too far and he’ll stop respectin’ ye. And a man won’t marry a lassie if he doesnae respect her.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you that I’ve no intention of marrying anyone?’ The ground-floor hoist was full, which meant that they would have to walk up a half-dozen or so flights of stairs to get to the twisting department. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you these days, Ella Caldwell,’ Mirren fumed as they climbed. ‘One minute you’re worrying about us going out with them, and the next you’re bragging about them all over the place and putting poor Ruby’s nose out of joint. And one minute you’re talking about Bert as if he’s some sort of monster, then the next you’re telling me I should want to marry the man. What’s got into you?’
‘Listen, Mirren, they’ve both got good jobs and they dress well and talk nice. Look at Greta, tyin’ herself tae a lad who’ll give her nothin’ but bairns and hard work. She’ll grow old before her time worryin’ about money while he spends every night at the pub. That’s no life for a lassie.’
‘Greta’s happy with her choice.’
‘But she’s not made any choice, d’ye not see that? She’s marryin’ because she’s havin’ a bairn and because if her father finds out the truth before she’s got a weddin’ ring on her finger, he’ll give her the leatherin’ of her life, then half kill her lad.’
‘I’ve no intention of letting that happen to me.’
‘Even if it doesn’t, what’s ahead of you and me? We’ll probably marry lads like Gregor Lewis and spend the rest of our lives lookin’ after poky wee houses and birthin’ bairns, and frettin’ about makin’ the money stretch tae the end of the week. I don’t want that sort of life, Mirren, and I don’t want the other sort either – stayin’ on with my aunts and lookin’ after them, then findin’ when the last one dies that I’ve become old myself, with nob’dy tae care for me the way I’ll have cared for them.’
‘You’re havering! Your aunts are hale enough yet and there’s a long way to go before you’re an old woman.’
Ella’s eyes were haunted. ‘Time has a way of passin’, Mirren. That’s why I’m sayin’ that Bert and Martin…’
‘Are nice laddies, and it’ll be a long time before I begin to think of them as anything else,’ Mirren said, and sped up the rest of the stairs so quickly that there was no breath left for further conversation.
Joe was up and dressed and moving stiffly about the kitchen when she arrived home in the middle of the day. He had made tea, sliced a loaf, and set out a slab of cheese from the small larder.
‘I didn’t know what ye’d w-want,’ he said awkwardly, not quite looking at her.
‘This is fine.’
As he poured tea for them both, she saw that the knuckles of his hands were bruised and skinned.
‘I’m s-sorry.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve said that to me in this kitchen.’ She felt just as awkward as he did. Now that he was sitting down and in her line of vision she found herself tending to speak to his ear, rather than look him in the eye. ‘D’you have a book to lend me this time as well?’ she asked flippantly.
‘Not with me, but I’ve s-some in the house that I’m sure ye’d l-like.’
‘No doubt you have,’ she said drily.
‘Look… I shouldnae have let Robbie b-bring me here last night and I shouldnae have stayed.’
‘You weren’t in a fit state to go home on your lone.’ For the first time since coming in she ventured a look at his face. The bruises and cuts reminded her of the coloured map of the world on the classroom wall at school. ‘It’ll take a while for your looks to get back the way they were.’
‘Aye.’ They sat in an uncomfortable silence, both trying to eat. Finally Mirren said, ‘Robbie told me about George Armitage. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s a terrible waste of a good m-man. His mother’s in a r-right state. I saw her after they… after they found him. George was all she had in the w-world.’
‘Was it… Did he…?’
‘He died of war wounds but unfortunately for him, the man who d-did the job bungled it so George had tae finish it himself. That takes more courage than I’ll ever have.’ Joe stood up abruptly and reached for the teapot, then stopped and clutched at his chest.
‘You should see a doctor. You might have broken ribs.’
‘I’ll b-be fine.’
‘Will you not go to the infirmary? I’m worried about you.’
He gave a short, surprised laugh, then explained sheepishly when she looked across the table at him, ‘It’s been long enough since someone said a thing like that tae me. I think myself that it’s just b-bruisin’ and mebbe a pulled muscle. I’ll mend. I’ve survived worse and no doubt there’ll be worse tae c-come.’
‘For you, mebbe, but I don’t want this sort of thing to happen to my brother.’ Mirren got up and carried her cup and saucer and her plate to the sink. ‘And it will happen, if he goes on keeping company with you. I’ve asked you before to leave him alone.’
‘And I’ve told you before that Robbie’s old enough and wise enough tae make his own decisions. Mebbe ye should bear in mind that he’s a man now, not a wee bairn for ye tae mother.’
‘I do not mother him!’
‘No? Leave that,’ he added as she turned the tap on. ‘I’ll see tae the dishes.’
‘I can manage,’ Mirren snapped, then looked round as she heard the ring of coins landing on the table. ‘What’s that?’
‘That’s the money for my keep last night, and my food.’
‘Don’t be daft!’
‘I don’t take charity,’ he said levelly. ‘If I cannae show my appreciation by clearin’ up after myself then I must pay ye.’
‘Put that money away!’ She turned to confront him.
‘Step aside from the sink,’ he invited calmly, a gleam in his eye. That, and the fact that his stammer had disappeared, made her realise that he was enjoying the confrontation and would no doubt be prepared to stand there arguing with her for the rest of the afternoon. He had the time, but she didn’t. A swift glance at the clock showed that it was almost time for the fifteen-minute mill bell to ring.
He nodded, reading her mind. ‘Ye’ll be late if ye don’t go now,’ he said.
Mirren had just gained Broomlands Street when the bell began to toll. She took to her heels and got into the twisting department just in time. When she got home at the end of the afternoon the flat was empty, the dishes washed and dried, the table set for herself and Robbie, the fireplace cleaned out and blackleaded, and the bedding Joe Hepburn had used had been neatly folded and left on the mattress.
She was pleased to see that there was no money lying on the table.
Because she had always had to hurry home to see to her mother as soon as the sirens signalled the end of the day’s work, Mirren had never been able to take part in a ‘bottlin’ – the traditional send-off given to a female millworker when she left to get married. She looked forward to the occasion as much as Greta herself, and was happy to devote her free evenings to working on the necessary decorations, which couldn’t all be made during brief, snatched visits to the privy.
When the day arrived she and Ella and some of the other girls spirited Greta’s coat away during the short afternoon break in order to decorate it with streamers and bows. Between them they had gathered together the traditional accessories – a baby’s feeding bottle, a cheap toy doll, a chamber pot and plenty of salt to fill it with. When the mistress, in a lenient mood for once, allowed them to stop their machines half an hour earlier than usual they pounced on Greta, who blushed and squealed and put up a half-hearted show of protest.
‘My, ye’re bonny,’ Ella said when they had pushed her into her coat and pinned a colourful paper bonnet on her wiry hair. ‘Now, here’s yer bairn…’ the doll was pushed into Greta’s arms ‘…and don’t forget yer chanty in case ye’re caught short.’
The chamber pot, filled with salt and with the feeding bottle sticking out of the top, was shoved into Greta’s free hand before she was whisked to the stairs to be paraded in and out of the other departments.
‘Lord love the lassie,’ Libby muttered as they watched the men in the stores lining up for the privilege of kissing the bride. ‘This is probably the best day of her life. It’ll all be old clothes and porridge from now on.’
‘Marriage isn’t that bad, surely,’ Mirren protested.
‘It depends on who ye marry, and from what I’ve heard of that fellow wee Greta’s fallen tae, she’ll no’ have her sorrows tae seek,’ Libby said, then as the bride fled back towards them, shrieking with excitement and pleasure, her mood changed like magic. ‘Come on, lass, we’ll walk ye home and show the town the bonnie mill bride,’ she shouted, and they whisked Greta out of the mill gates and along the streets.
20
Joe Hepburn and Robbie were sitting at the big table with such tragedy in their faces that Mirren’s heart chilled when she and Ella, who had fallen into the habit of going back to Broomlands Street for half an hour after an evening’s work at the fried-fish shop, went into the house.
‘What’s amiss? It’s not Agnes, is it? Or wee Thomas?’
‘It’s John M-Maclean.’ Joe had become a regular visitor and even though he and Mirren had their differences, he had grown comfortable enough in her presence to lose his nervous stammer. On this occasion, however, sheer agitation tripped his tongue. ‘He’s b-been thrown in the jail ag-gain.’
‘Is that all?’
‘All?’ both men said in unison.
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I know it’s bad news, but I thought…’
‘Who’s John Maclean?’ Ella asked in a sympathetic whisper. ‘Joe’s uncle?’
Mirren put on the kettle. Normally Robbie had it simmering on the stove, but tonight he had seemingly been too downcast to think of it. ‘An important man in the Independent Labour Party.’
‘Oh.’ Ella fetched four plates and began to divide two lots of fish and chips between them. ‘What happened tae him?’
‘He and Sandy Ross have been charged with sedition and inciting revolution.’
Ella’s eyes widened while Mirren merely asked, ‘And were they?’
‘In this country any workin’ man that doesnae keep his mouth shut, apart from thankin’ the employers for lettin’ him kiss their boots, is out tae cause trouble.’ Joe’s voice was bitter and his eyes blazed blue fire. ‘It’s a trumped-up charge – that’s what it is – brought because he’s less of a threat tae them inside the jail than outside it.’
‘From what I saw of him he’s not well enough to be in a prison cell.’
‘That makes no difference tae them,’ Robbie scoffed, while Joe, the glitter in his eyes intensifying, said, ‘There’ll be demonstrations about this.’
‘You’re not going to do anything daft, are you?’ Mirren appealed to her brother when Ella and Joe Hepburn had gone.
‘For any favour, Mirren. D’ye think John Maclean worries about whether folk like you think the things he has tae do are daft?’
‘I know he doesn’t. That’s why he’s a sick man in jail at this minute. But I’m sure that if he’s got a sister, she must be fretting about him getting into trouble just the way I fret about you!’
He flicked an impatient glance at her then remembered: ‘There’s a letter for ye, from Grace. I put it on the mantel.’
‘You’re trying to take my mind off what you and Joe Hepburn might be getting up to!’
‘Mebbe I am,’ Robbie said, and went to bed.
As Mirren took the close-written pages from the envelope and smoothed them flat, she could tell by the way Grace’s writing sprawled that her friend had special news to impart. A Boston lady, wife of a prominent surgeon, had been rushed into the hospital where Anne and Grace worked after going into premature labour while accompanying her husband to a medical conference in Quebec. As it happened, her room was one of several under Anne’s care, and while the young Bostonian recovered from the birth of her daughter, she had developed such a liking for the cheerful, capable Scottish nursing assistant that when she was well enough to leave she and her husband offered Anne the post of nursemaid in their home, caring for the new baby and their older child.
‘Imagine,’ Grace wrote, ‘America!’ As Mirren read the word, the pages seemed to jump in her fingers. Even though she knew that America was vast and held millions of people, she thought of Donald every time she came across the word.
Grace wrote:
Anne was so alarmed at the thought of leaving me behind in Quebec that she refused the offer at once. And thank goodness she did, for friendly though everyone is here, I would be desolate without her. Mrs Fitz asked the reason for her refusal and when she heard that Anne had a sister working in the same hospital she asked to see me. I went with Anne on our afternoon off, and I was very taken with Mrs Fitz, a pretty and charming lady with the sweetest little baby.
She must have liked me too, for since recovering and travelling home with her husband she has written to say that a dear friend and neighbour with a little baby of her own would like to offer a similar post to me. She says that Anne and I will be able to see each other often, since they live so near to each other and both their husbands are doctors in the same hospital. As you will understand, we get very little sleep these nights, for we spend all our free time wondering whether we should stay here in Canada as we had intended, or make the move to Boston and become independent of the authorities who brought us over from Scotland.
Mirren read the letter through again before putting it back into its envelope. As far as Grace was concerned, the move to Canada had been a good decision. She seemed to have got George Armitage out of her system, and her family had agreed, when Mirren told them of George’s death, that Grace must not be told about it.
The Proctors had had a letter from Anne by the same post and when Mirren called the next day she found the entire family in a turmoil about it. Almost before she had time to take her coat off, Anne’s letter had been thrust into her hand and she was ordered to read it and give her own views on the matter.
The letter was similar in content to Grace’s but with neater writing, for no matter what might be happening around her, Anne always took time to make her handwriting both precise and clear – one of the talents that had stood her in such good stead in the co-operative.
While Mirren scanned the pages, the arguments flew back and forth over her bent head. For once they were all at home; even Kate and Bill had been summoned from their own marital homes to discuss this latest family crisis. James Proctor was adamant in his belief that his daughters should stay where they were, since they had contracted to work in the Canadian hospital and had had their steamship fares paid in order to do just that. But John and his brother Bill both thought that if the new careers on offer were attractive to their sisters then they should accept.
‘The authorities will easily find other Scots lassies eager to take their places,’ John argued. ‘And it gives them both the chance to see something of America. Working independently will give them new opportunities.’
Catherine was concerned at the prospect of her girls having to face more travelling in another unknown country, ‘just when they had settled down and begun to enjoy their work’, while Kate, Maggie and May were united in envy at the new opportunities their sisters were being offered.
‘Mirren, what do you think?’ Catherine wanted to know, and suddenly Mirren was the centre of attention. She folded Anne’s letter and handed it back, desperately wondering what she could say that would satisfy them all without agreeing with one against another. At that moment the grandmother clock in the hall chimed the hour and, even as the final note echoed into silence, inspiration struck.
‘It doesn’t really matter what any of us think, for both the letters have taken some three weeks to come from Canada. This Mrs Fitz will want a swift decision, and by the time you send your views back to them Anne and Grace will have acted on their own initiative.’
‘Sometimes,’ Catherine said when the rest of the family had scattered to take up the threads of their own busy lives again, ‘it takes an outsider to cut through the tangles and see the sense. Not that you’re not one of the family, pet; I just mean that you came in from outside and put a fresh mind to the matter.’ She sat back and heaved a sigh, clearly relieved to be free of further decisions. ‘Take another cup of tea and tell me what you’ve been busy with. It’s been a while since I last saw you.’
