The Shipbuilder’s Daughter

by Emma Fraser

  Margaret told Elizabeth to stay close to her while she carried the suitcases. Not that they were very heavy, or full. She’d been able to take very little with her. A few books, a couple of favourite toys and enough clothes to last them over the coming winter, supposing Dr MacLean kept her on.

  He must. If he didn’t she had no idea what they would do or where they would go. She had almost no money left, barely enough to last until her first pay and certainly not enough to travel anywhere else. The flat she’d shared with Alasdair in Glasgow had been rented, the furniture second hand and past its best, and she couldn’t risk selling what little remained of their possessions that might have fetched a few more pounds in case she attracted attention. Instead she’d left them for Peggy to do with as she wanted. Apart from their two children, all she had left of her life with Alasdair was her wedding ring, their wedding photograph and the fob watch that she’d been unable to bring herself to sell.

  One of the crew waiting on the pier hurried up the gangway, pushed back his cap and reached for their suitcases. ‘I’ll take those,’ he said. At the sound of his voice, his accent so similar to Mairi’s, she felt her throat tighten. She would give anything to be back in the small flat in Garnethill, their two friends singing along as Alasdair played his fiddle, the children sleeping soundly and their biggest worry being how to make ends meet.

  ‘Thank you.’ She tightened her grip on a wriggling James, took Elizabeth by the hand and picked her way down the gangway, noting the fishing boats tied up alongside the pier and the neat piles of creels that lay close by. Mairi had told her that most of the islanders depended on the unpredictable and seasonal occupations of fishing and crofting to eke out a meagre existence.

  A car, precariously balanced in a large net, was being unloaded by a crane while a group of men who had disembarked in front of her watched with folded arms. They looked as out of place as she felt. They weren’t crofters or lobster fishermen, that was clear from their expensive tweed jackets and plus-fours and even more so from their sense of entitlement, the same sense of entitlement her father possessed. Another wave of anxiety washed over her. These were the sort of people most likely to recognise her. She hadn’t noticed them on the ship – no doubt they’d spent the crossing in the saloon or in the first-class lounge. She ducked her head to avoid catching their eyes.

  The crew member placed their bags on the ground. She tried to pass him a penny, but he shook his head and backed away. ‘No need, Miss,’ he said.

  Realising she’d offended him, she quickly slipped the coin back inside her purse and looked around. ‘I’m expecting Dr MacLean to meet me. Is he here?’

  ‘So you’re the new doctor? Well, well – they did say it was a woman. Didn’t believe it myself at first, but everyone told me it was true.’

  Margaret forced a smile. ‘I’m Dr Murdoch.’ It was the first time she’d called herself by her assumed name and when she tripped over it, she hoped the man wouldn’t notice. ‘This is my daughter, Libby and my son James.’ If he’d noticed her small hesitation he gave no indication of it. Instead he held out a large hand and shook Libby’s gravely. ‘Failte. That means welcome in Gaelic.’

  Margaret became aware that everyone – except for the men in the plus-fours who had marched off in the direction of a nearby hotel – had stopped whatever they were doing and were watching them with unabashed curiosity.

  ‘Now then, you’ll be looking for your hire car. That’ll be Johnny Ban. He’s over there.’ He pointed to a man standing by the only vehicle in sight. He was holding a shepherd’s crook in one hand and a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string in the other. ‘Johnny only has the Gaelic, but he knows where to take you.’

  She’d expected Dr MacLean to meet her. A hired car was an expense she could ill afford.

  ‘Isn’t Dr MacLean here?’

  ‘No. Johnny Ban was just now after telling me that the doctor’s out on a call, otherwise I’m sure he’d have come himself.’

  As she walked towards the vehicle the crowd parted to make way for her, the men removing their hats and the women nodding, she heard the word doctor being whispered.

  She nodded self-consciously in return. She’d hoped to avoid drawing attention to herself, but it appeared that the arrival of the new doctor – and a woman at that – was considered something of an occasion.

  Johnny unpeeled himself from the car and tipped a finger to his cap. He held out his hand and she went to shake it before realising that he was reaching for their suitcases. He placed their bags inside the boot along with the parcels and shepherd’s crook. Aware that all eyes were still on her, Margaret ushered her wide-eyed children into the car and took a seat beside them. As Johnny closed the door behind them she breathed a sigh of relief.

  The car crept along at a snail’s pace along the untarred road and when she glanced behind her she saw that most of the children waiting on the pier were now scampering behind, laughing and pointing. A few of the older locals appeared to be following too. Were they planning to accompany them all the way?

  As they made their majestic progress, the car blowing its horn to move people from the road, they passed several houses, a couple of general merchant stores, a post office, another hotel and a large, imposing court house. A few minutes later, Johnny drew up outside a house that was far more substantial than any of the others they had passed. It was a two-storey building set back from the road and shielded by the only trees Margaret had seen so far. Johnny jumped out and opened the door for them with a flourish.

  It seemed they’d arrived. They could have easily walked and saved a few pennies.

  Conscious of several pairs of eyes still on her, Margaret raised her hand to knock on the front door. But before she could, the door was flung open by a tall woman with grey hair scraped back into a bun, accentuating her thin, angular face and protuberant front teeth. She glowered at Margaret.

  ‘You’re here then.’

  Clearly. Given they were standing on the doorstep. Margaret held out her hand. ‘I’m Dr Murdoch and this is my daughter Libby and my son James.’

  ‘I know who you are.’ The woman swivelled her eyes towards the children. James simply stared back but Elizabeth, who had crept round behind Margaret, was peering at the stranger with large, bewildered eyes. The woman’s expression softened and a glimmer of a smile stretched her thin lips. ‘My, aren’t you bonnie?’ She lifted her eyes back to Margaret and the smile, small as it had been, vanished. ‘I’m Miss Dolina MacGregor, Dr Alan’s housekeeper. He’s out on a call and I have no idea when he’ll return but he’s instructed me to see to you until he gets in. Leave your suitcases in the hall. I’ll take them up later.’

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I haven’t paid Mr Ban,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Mr Ban?’ Miss MacGregor frowned. She shook her head and muttered something in Gaelic under her breath. ‘There’s no need for you to pay Mr Ban anything – he’ll send the practice a bill. Now, come through to the sitting room.’ She led the way down a wood-panelled corridor, still talking as they followed her ramrod back.

  ‘Dr Alan insisted I light a fire and the summer not done yet. Waste of good peats if you ask me, but what do I know?’ She picked up a cushion from the chair next to the fire, patted it and indicated with her head that Margaret should sit.

  Elizabeth, who hadn’t let go of Margaret’s hand, pressed herself against her mother’s legs, her eyes fixated on Miss MacGregor. James reached up small hands to be lifted and Margaret took him onto her lap. He buried his head in her shoulder.

  The housekeeper bent down in front of Elizabeth, placing her red hands on her knees. ‘Now child, would you like some supper? Of course you would. A boiled egg with a scone – and some nice milk straight from the cow to go with it – how does that sound?’

  Elizabeth pressed herself more firmly into Margaret’s legs.

  ‘I don’t wish to put you to any trouble,’ Margaret protested politely.

  The woman straightened up, pla
ced her hands on her skinny hips and glared at Margaret. ‘The wee ones must be hungry. They need something to eat before bed. I expect you would like something too,’ she added, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ Margaret realised she was starving. Now they were here and no one had challenged them, the tension that had kept her stomach in knots over the last few days had eased a little.

  ‘Right, then. The kettle’s on. I’ve set places for you at the table so sit yourselves up. This is where Dr Alan has his meals – no fancy city ways here – the dining room is used as a waiting room for the surgery.’

  She bustled out of the room and Libby and Margaret, still holding James, each took a seat at the one of the places that had been laid for them at a gate-leg table in front of the window.

  ‘You all right, sweetheart?’ Margaret asked Elizabeth.

  ‘That lady scares me, Mummy,’ she whispered. ‘She looks like a witch – a mean and nasty witch.’

  Although Margaret was inclined to agree with her daughter, she held her finger up to her lips and glanced nervously at the door. ‘Ssshhh! That’s not kind! I’m sure she’s very nice once we get to know her.’ However, she was bemused by the housekeeper’s reaction. She’d expected a warm welcome, not this frosty reception.

  Miss MacGregor reappeared and plonked down a large teapot and a plate of scones on the table. ‘We don’t get bread here so this is what we make instead. They’re like ordinary scones but not as sweet. There’s butter too. Home-made, of course – and jam. Wait now and I’ll get the eggs.’

  She hurried out again and Margaret poured Elizabeth and James a glass of milk from the jug. James took his between his two small hands and drank thirstily. Elizabeth just sat with her hands in her lap, looking pale and unhappy.

  ‘Drink up, Libby.’

  ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘Try a little. We don’t want to offend Miss MacGregor.’ Somehow, however, it seemed that they had already.

  Elizabeth took a small sip of milk. ‘Yuck. It’s warm. And tastes funny.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  The housekeeper returned with a tray of boiled eggs and added them to the table. ‘I think that’s everything. I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Oh, Miss MacGregor, before you go could you tell me how to contact Mr Ban again? I want to make sure he’s able to take us to Carinish tomorrow. Mr MacDonald, whose wife is going to look after the children, is going to pick us up there tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Aye, I’d heard that your children were going to stay with —’ she pursed her lips, ‘folk in Grimsay.’ Her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Well, you needn’t worry, all the arrangements have already been made.’

  ‘I want to stay with you, Mummy,’ Elizabeth mumbled.

  ‘I know, Libby.’

  ‘Small children living apart from their mothers. Would never have happened in my day. Not if it could be helped.’

  Margaret stared at the housekeeper. For Miss MacGregor to make such a remark in front of the children almost beggared belief. If she only knew how it was tearing Margaret up inside knowing that all too soon she was to be separated from them for the first time ever, surely the housekeeper would never have thought such a thing, let alone said it. And Margaret’s domestic arrangements were none of her business anyway. She bit back the response that rose to her lips. Now was not the time to take her to task.

  ‘The children know how much I wish they could stay with me and how much I’m going to miss them,’ she said calmly. She smiled at Elizabeth and smoothed a lock of James’s hair from his eyes, before dropping a kiss on his forehead.

  Thankfully the sound of dogs barking and the front door banging prevented any further discussion. A draught rattled through the sitting room and a shiver of unease rippled up her spine. She was about to face her first real hurdle. What if Dr MacLean somehow guessed she wasn’t who she said she was?

  ‘That’ll be Dr Alan now,’ Miss MacGregor said.

  Heavy footsteps clumped past the door and there was the sound of thumps and crashes coming from somewhere within the house. A moment later, the sitting-room door was flung open.

  Margaret had imagined an older man but Dr MacLean, she guessed, was in his mid-forties, a little thick around the waist, but with a lovely smile. His hair was sticking up from where he’d removed his hat.

  Margaret laid down her napkin, set James on his feet and stood up. She smoothed down her skirt and tucked her hair behind her ears.

  ‘Apologies, Dr Murdoch! But may I call you Martha? Yes, of course I may!’ His voice boomed around the sitting room as he shook her hand.

  ‘Would you mind calling me Margaret? It’s my middle name and the one I have always preferred.’

  ‘Martha – Margaret – makes no difference to me. Would have liked to have been here to meet you, but had a delivery in Sollas. Nurse called me to help. Breech. You done much maternity?’ He waved his hand in the direction of the chair Margaret had just vacated. ‘Sit, girl. Sit.’

  ‘Some, during my training and —’ She caught herself just in time, about to add that she’d seen many cases when she worked in Redlands, but the less said about where she worked the better, ‘and some in the district. But that was a while ago, Dr MacLean.’ She sat back down, realising for the first time just how difficult pretending to be someone else was going to be.

  ‘None of this Dr MacLean falderal – everyone calls me Dr Alan and you’ll be Dr Margaret.’

  She felt a tinge of relief. To be referred to by her first name would make life a little easier.

  ‘Now where were we?’ her employer continued, ‘Oh yes. Maternity. You’ll soon pick it up again. The nurses know what to do. Done it plenty of times. They’ll keep an eye on you. I’d be surprised if you couldn’t do it in your sleep when you’ve been here for a while. If you stay, that is. Last assistant didn’t.’ He glared at Margaret as if it were her fault.

  ‘I have no intention of leaving,’ Margaret said firmly. At least not until either Alasdair was released or, God forbid, in order to attend his trial. ‘As long as I suit,’ she added, fervently hoping she would.

  ‘Teeth!’

  Margaret was stunned. She ran her tongue around her mouth.

  ‘My teeth are fine,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Not your teeth. I can see that there’s nothing wrong with them. I meant how are you at pulling teeth?’

  ‘Dr Alan,’ Miss MacGregor interrupted, ‘Why don’t I show the children where they’ll be sleeping tonight and leave you to talk to Dr Margaret?’

  ‘There’s a lobster in the sink,’ Dr Alan said. ‘Perhaps the children would like to see it?’

  ‘You didn’t put it in the sink, did you? How many times have I told you to put them in the pail by the door?’

  ‘What pail?’

  The housekeeper folded her arms and tutted. ‘The same one that’s always there.’

  Once again, Margaret was taken aback. The way Miss MacGregor chastised Dr Alan seemed far too familiar. Who was the housekeeper to the doctor? A relative? A maiden aunt perhaps? That would explain the casual, almost scolding, attitude she took with her employer, if not her disapproval of Margaret.

  Miss MacGregor picked James up from the floor where he’d been tapping a spoon against a bucket and held out her hand to Elizabeth. ‘Come on, child, let’s go see your room. You can help me make up a hot water bottle if you like and there’s some kittens in the barn we can go and see.’

  Surprisingly James accepted being lifted by a stranger and, albeit reluctantly, Elizabeth took the proffered hand. Margaret blew a kiss to her daughter and waited until the door closed behind them, before turning back to Dr Alan. ‘I’ve never pulled teeth before. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because you’ll have to pull them here. No dentist.’ He looked at her sceptically. ‘You don’t look very strong.’

  Margaret decided to let that pass. ‘Miss MacGregor mentioned you use the dining room as a waiting room
. Is the surgery also in the house?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll show you. If you’ve finished your supper?’

  ‘I’m quite finished, thank you.’

  He took her down a dim passageway, past a collie and a Labrador lying in the hall, who wagged their tails hopefully, and opened a door at the end. ‘This is the waiting room.’

  Margaret glanced inside, taking in the jumble of mismatched chairs. A well-worn rug covered the wooden floor and a few still-life pictures adorned the walls. It smelt strongly of beeswax and the bevelled mirror above the unlit fireplace gleamed. It might be sparsely furnished but it was spotless. Whatever Miss MacGregor’s other faults there was nothing wrong with her housekeeping skills.