The Shipbuilder’s Daughter

by Emma Fraser

  ‘Don’t you care about your patients?’

  ‘In as much as they afford me a living.’

  He really was an obnoxious individual. She wanted nothing more than to have him out of her house, but she had one more question for him.

  ‘I’m assuming Caroline’s parents still live at the same address?’

  He nodded and passed her the note he’d been holding. ‘As far as I know. It’s on there.’ To her relief he got to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my friends are waiting for me at the bar.’ He straightened his tie. ‘Unless, of course, you’d care to join us?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He was the last man on earth she would share a drink with. She opened the door for him.

  He studied her for a moment as if something were niggling him. ‘You know I have the strangest feeling you and I have met before.’

  Her stomach lurched. ‘I don’t believe so.’ She’d never even seen him before today, of that she was sure.

  ‘Where did you study?’

  Her mind raced. Should she stick to the truth or make something up? If only she’d asked him where he’d trained. But when she’d come here under someone else’s name she’d decided to keep as close as possible to the truth in every other way.

  ‘Glasgow.’

  He was still staring speculatively at her. ‘So did I! When did you graduate?’

  ‘1928.’

  ‘I was 1924. Oh well, I suppose we might have met at some medical meeting, although I would have remembered you, I’m sure.’

  She handed him his hat, wishing he would hurry up and go. But it appeared he wasn’t quite finished yet.

  ‘I have to say, Dr Murdoch, you intrigue me. I am certain I’ve seen you somewhere before – I have a good memory for faces. Perhaps our paths crossed at university? There’s not that many women doctors and pretty ones stick out most of all.’ He jammed his hat on. ‘Never mind. I’m sure it will come to me.’

  When the door closed behind him, Margaret leaned against it as if by doing so she could keep him from ever coming back. Could they have met before? It was entirely possible they hadn’t actually been introduced but if they’d been at the university around the same time, he might have noticed her then. And he was right – the few women students did tend to stick out. In which case, she told herself, he would have known straight away she wasn’t who she said she was.

  Where else might he have seen her? It didn’t even have to be at university. In Glasgow she’d been a well-known figure. But then, similarly, he would have known who she was.

  But he had recognised her, if not yet by name. There was every chance it would come to him, a bit like a word one searches for pops up in one’s head as soon as one has stopped searching for it. What would he do then? Confront her?

  She rubbed her aching temples.

  Should she go now? Take the children and run? There was still Lillian’s offer of the Gatehouse in Perthshire. It would be the sensible – the safe – thing to do.

  If she did, how would she survive? The little she had left of the money she’d brought with her would barely feed them all for a week once bills had been settled and fares paid. She could of course appeal to Lillian for another loan, but everything inside her shrank from that. Moreover, the thought of uprooting the children when they were only just beginning to settle appalled her. Neither did she want to leave. Until now, she’d felt safe here. The work was fascinating, the people warm, she had a friend in Flora. And this was where Toni and Mairi, and through them, Alasdair, knew where to reach her.

  Hopefully, Dr Sinclair would forget about her. Perhaps he already had. He might have forgotten about her the minute she’d closed the door.

  It was a chance she was going to have to take.

  Chapter 31

  The following week Margaret put Caroline on her list of visits. Effie had reported that while the sore on the young woman’s leg wasn’t healing, it wasn’t getting any worse.

  After surgery that afternoon, Margaret asked for Dobbin to be brought round. Although she was still a little wary of using the Clydesdale as a form of transport, so far he’d looked after her.

  It was a perfect autumnal day. There was no wind and the lochs were still enough to reflect mirror images of the hills, clouds and even the flying birds. The island in the sunshine was one of the most beautiful places Margaret had ever visited. It never looked the same two days running. Depending on the weather the light would change, painting the landscape in different colours, illuminating the powder-white beaches stretching for miles, lapped by a sea that was forever changing colour, sometimes turquoise, at other times an indigo blue.

  Caroline’s home was one of the smaller traditional, single-storey croft houses on the north end of the island. Like many of the other houses outwith the village it was set apart, the nearest house to it only just visible on the horizon. Caroline came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. She paled when she saw Margaret.

  ‘It’s not bad news about my Donald, is it?’ she asked. ‘He’s not been drowned and you’ve come to tell me because no one else will.’

  ‘No. Oh, no. It’s you I’ve come to see.’

  The worry disappeared from Caroline’s face and she smiled.

  ‘Silly me. Fretting for nothing. It’s just that I’ve had a bad feeling all day. Let me tie your horse up for you.’

  Although Caroline’s house was small and dark, it was clean, tidy and homely. There were a few shells on the mantelpiece as well as a bunch of heather stuck in a small drinking glass. In one corner, a crucifix hung over a picture of the Madonna and Child.

  Caroline saw Margaret looking at it. ‘My husband and I both worship in our own way, he sticks to his and me to mine. He converted so we could get married in the chapel, but he prefers to speak to God the way he’s always done. They won’t let him cross the door of his church any more anyway and I don’t get to the chapel very often so we have to make do with what we have.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t think the Lord minds too much where we pray as long as we do.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier on you both to have stayed in South Uist?’

  ‘No, not really. There’s many in the south side who won’t forgive me for marrying out of my faith. Anyway this is the place Donald knows best. He’s fished the shores alongside his father since he was a small lad. His dad won’t go out with him any more but that hasn’t stopped Donald from going by himself. My husband can be stubborn. I’d rather he didn’t have to fish on his own, especially not when the weather’s bad, but what choice do we have? For better or for worse, this is where we’ll stay. Oh, excuse my manners. I haven’t asked you to sit. I’ll put the kettle on, if you’ll stay for a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be kind.’ Margaret noticed she hadn’t asked why she was there after confirming it wasn’t to do with her husband. She sensed that despite being reassured about Donald, Caroline instinctively still knew that she wouldn’t want to hear what Margaret had to tell her.

  Caroline set a cup and saucer in front of Margaret along with a sugar bowl and a side plate. ‘Nothing to eat for me,’ Margaret said quickly.

  ‘Och, you’ll take a wee scone and home-made jam. Freshly made this morning.’

  Margaret knew there was no point in arguing. The islanders always insisted she take something along with her tea – a strupak, they called it. But if things carried on this way, if she were to be given something to eat at each house she called at, soon she’d be too big to fit into any of the clothes she’d brought with her. Nevertheless, she accepted the scone and jam with a smile. ‘This is lovely,’ she said after taking a bite.

  ‘I’ll give you some to take home with you,’ Caroline replied, looking pleased.

  Margaret noticed a tiny half-knitted yellow cardigan lying on top of a basket. Caroline followed her gaze.

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me whether I’m pregnant or not. I just know I am. Since I don’t know whether I’m having a boy or girl yet I thought I would use yellow. Ther
e’s some who say it’s bad luck to make clothes for the baby before it’s born, but I couldn’t help myself. I think I might hedge my bets though, and not finish them until later.’

  Margaret’s heart tightened. It was unlikely that Caroline would ever hold her child. They sat in silence for a while, drinking their tea, but when she’d been offered and refused another cup, she knew there was no putting off the conversation.

  ‘Now, Caroline, I’d like to look at your leg. I understand the nurse has been coming in and dressing it for you, but that it’s not showing much sign of improvement. Perhaps you could fill a small basin with hot water so I can wash my hands? And I’d like to confirm your pregnancy if I may?’

  ‘Surely. There’s plenty water left in the kettle.’ Caroline took a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with steaming water, adding a little cold from the pail beside the stove. Like many of the houses Margaret had been in, this one had no running water.

  ‘Is the well far from you?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘About a mile.’

  ‘That’s some distance to walk with a sore leg.’

  ‘I’m used to it. Donald does it for me when he’s at home.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘He doesn’t think it’s women’s work and beneath him.’

  Margaret rather liked the sound of Caroline’s husband.

  ‘Shall we go into the bedroom?’ she suggested.

  When she’d finished washing her hands, Margaret followed her patient into the small bedroom. There was only room for a bed and a chest for clothes, but like the other room it was spotless, with small touches to cheer it up.

  She examined the sore on Caroline’s leg first. It wasn’t better, but at least it wasn’t worse. One of the problems for people with diabetes was that often sores didn’t heal. In time they’d turn gangrenous, eventually resulting in amputation. That Caroline had managed so far without insulin was surprising. The mortality rate before the drug had come along was high enough – pregnancy made it worse. Even though Margaret knew Caroline would be bitterly disappointed if she wasn’t pregnant, it was better than the alternative.

  ‘You get up on the bed and I’ll feel your abdomen.’ After washing her hands again, she palpated Caroline’s stomach. ‘No bleeding? Discomfort?’

  ‘No. I feel a little sick in the morning, but that passes soon enough.’

  This time there was no mistaking the hard ridge of the uterus under Margaret’s fingers. Just to be certain, she did a quick internal examination. The uterus was soft enough for the fingers of her hands to meet. There was no longer even the slightest doubt. Caroline was pregnant.

  Margaret eased Caroline’s dress over her tummy. ‘You can get up now. Why don’t we go into the kitchen and have a chat.’

  Caroline joined her a few moments later. ‘I can tell there’s something up. You’d better tell me,’ she said.

  Margaret would have to get better at hiding her feelings.

  ‘You were quite right, you are pregnant.’ Margaret held up her hand as Caroline beamed. ‘Please, let me finish,’ she said gently. ‘The problem is, Caroline, that because you are allergic to insulin, we have no way of controlling your diabetes. That’s why the sore on your leg won’t heal.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  Normally a patient just accepted what the doctor said, but it was clear Caroline wanted to know more. Perhaps if Dr Sinclair had taken the time to explain her condition better, she might have taken steps not to fall pregnant. However, as a Catholic there were few reliable options open to her. Not having sex at all would have been the only certain way.

  ‘It’s very difficult to look after diabetes without insulin, even keeping to a strict diet. And the appetite and eating patterns change when a woman gets pregnant. Vomiting in pregnancy makes everything worse and it’s possible you could go into a coma. Furthermore, as the mother’s condition gets worse, so does the baby’s health.’

  ‘So what are you telling me, Doctor? I’m afraid you are going to have to spell it out.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Caroline, but this baby is unlikely to go to term. That means it’s unlikely to survive long enough to be born alive.’

  Caroline ran a tongue around her lips. ‘But it might?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m so sorry.’

  Caroline clutched the crucifix around her neck and murmured something in Gaelic. ‘I still don’t understand what you are trying to tell me. I am pregnant. God gave me this baby. He wouldn’t do that just to let it die before it could be born.’

  Margaret wished she could find the words to comfort her.

  ‘I’m all right now. Apart from my leg and feeling a bit tired, but that’s normal,’ Caroline continued, with a defiant look at Margaret.

  ‘You may feel all right now. But that could change. No, let me be clear, it will change. It’s not just that the baby is likely to die, Caroline. As I said, your being pregnant is making your diabetes worse. That sore on your leg might never heal. And if it doesn’t, there is a possibility we will have to remove your leg. And that’s the least of it. As I explained, continuing with this pregnancy could be fatal for you as well as the baby.’

  ‘You are saying I might die?’

  Margaret hesitated. She shouldn’t be giving news like this to a woman on her own. Her mother, or her husband, should be with her. ‘There’s a chance. A very good chance. Then your husband will be left without a wife or a child.’

  ‘Don’t you see, I have to trust in God. He gave me this baby for a reason. I’ll put my faith in him.’

  ‘There is one thing we could do.’ Margaret’s mouth had dried. What she was about to suggest was illegal and by doing so, Margaret was risking everything. Caroline could report her to the police or to the General Medical Council, in which case everything could come crashing down around Margaret’s ears. But, if it could save her patient’s life, Caroline had a right to know that she had the option no matter the consequences for Margaret. She ran her tongue around her lips. ‘We could terminate your pregnancy.’

  ‘What! Kill my baby! No!’

  ‘It’s the only way, Caroline. If we do it soon, it won’t hurt the child. At the moment it’s only a cluster of cells. It doesn’t have lungs. It couldn’t survive outside your body.’

  ‘My baby is alive! My baby has a soul already.’

  She stood up and looked at Margaret in disgust. ‘How can you – a doctor – who has sworn to protect life, not take it – even suggest such a thing? May God have mercy on your soul for even thinking it.’

  ‘Naturally you’ll need time to think about it. At least discuss it with your husband.’

  Caroline looked at Margaret with cold, distant eyes. ‘I’ll do no such thing and neither will you. Now if you’ll excuse me, Doctor, I have things I need to be getting on with. Oh, and one last thing, please don’t come and see me again. From now on it’ll be Dr Alan.’

  But Margaret’s horrible day wasn’t quite over. When she returned home that evening it was to find a letter from Simon Firth, inside which was one from Alasdair. Thinking to savour Alasdair’s, she opened Firth’s letter first. He had disappointing news about Mrs Murphy. He had accompanied her to the police so she could make a statement but the police had been less than impressed. Indeed, they had gone as far as to say that they found it suspicious that she hadn’t come forward before – and was she sure that money or other influences hadn’t been brought to bear? The long and the short of it was that her statement alone was not enough to convince the Crown to drop the charges. Simon assured Margaret that he still intended to have Mrs Murphy called as a witness, and that her statement would at the very least put some doubt in the jury’s mind. In the meantime he was still making enquiries. Along with Toni and his friends they were trying to find McCulloch, the man Mrs Murphy claimed to have recognised. Unfortunately, it seemed as if he had gone to ground and they would have to consider the possibility that he and his accomplice had left Glasgow – possibly even the country. However, they would continue to
search for him until the last possible minute.

  Margaret scrunched the letter up and threw it on the fire in disgust. Time was running out. Firth had to find this man. And soon.

  She opened the letter from Alasdair, hoping for better news.

  My darling,

  I hope this finds you well. The days pass slowly without you and the children.

  I know Firth would have told you that matters look bleak at the moment, but it is only a temporary setback so we mustn’t lose faith. I know it is easy to lose – I lost mine for a while after Fergus was shot.

  I know I have been guilty of caring more about my pride than I should have – I sometimes think I should have swallowed it and gone back to work for your father. Together we might have been able to achieve so much.

  At night I lie in bed and conjure you up. I see each individual freckle on your face – your blue eyes that sparkle when you smile, I hear the sound of your laughter, like a stream running over the rocks. I see the way your eyes flash when you are angry – I remember the softness of your skin under my fingertips. Most of all I remember how it feels to have you in my life. That with you I am stronger and a better man. Forgive these clumsy sentiments. You know I find it easier to address a thousand men than to express my love for you.