by Maggie Craig
Kate, her head as heavy as a cannonball on the feather pillow, tilted her face so she could look up. With her husband’s arm about her shoulders, Lily was crossing slowly from the window. Her hair, escaping from its pins, was falling about her tear-stained face. Kate hadn’t noticed before, but her mother had acquired quite a few white hairs. Funny how you sometimes knew people so well, and yet you never really looked at them properly, never noticed anything different about them. Lily paused on her way to the door.
‘Kate ...’ She laid a hand on her daughter’s bare forearm, Kate’s hand still being entwined with Jessie’s. It was the lightest of touches, Lily’s fingers thin and cold. Then she was gone, ushered out of the room by her husband.
‘Push, hen. Push now!’
‘What do you think I am doing?’ Kate grunted irritably.
‘Save your breath, Kate!’ Jessie was behind her, supporting her shoulders so she could exert all her fading strength on pushing.
‘One more big push,’ the midwife commanded. ‘Come on now, there’s a good lassie!’
She gave one more big push and the baby was out. Then something else.
‘The afterbirth, hen,’ murmured the midwife. ‘Now, let me get the cord tied and cut...’ but the woman was talking to herself. With a cry of relief Kate fell back onto the pillow, Jessie’s arms easing her down.
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ she whispered, the words coming out on short, panting breaths. But it was over at last. The baby was born. She smiled up at Jessie. She’d stayed with her the whole time. Could any girl ever have had a better sister? If this baby was a girl, she definitely had to call her Jessie - or Jessica- aye, that would be nice. But maybe she’d had a wee boy. Jessie would soon tell her.
Why had her sister gone so pale? She had dropped Kate’s hand and was staring at the little bundle the midwife was wrapping up in the cloth which had been warming on the clothes horse in front of the fire in readiness.
The room had gone very quiet. Kate followed her sister’s gaze. The midwife looked up. Her face told Kate everything she needed to know.
‘Kate, lass, I’m sorry. I think he’s just come too early, the wee soul. I’ll send for Dr MacMillan, but I doubt he’ll be able to do anything.’
Hustle and bustle then. Noise. Talk. The occupants of the room shifting and changing. The next thing Kate was aware of was a voice she couldn’t quite make out. She had to strain to hear it. Something was wrong with the words. Then she realized it was her father, intoning something softly in Gaelic. The words flowed one into the other in a rhythmic chant.
Kate opened her eyes.
‘Daddy?’ she murmured through parched lips. He was beside her, holding something in his arms. No, not something - someone. Her baby - Robbie’s baby. He was tiny, the merest scrap of humanity. Her father spoke again.
‘I am saying a blessing over your son Kathleen. I’m going to baptize him now.’
That could mean only one thing. She watched her father lean forward and make the sign of the cross over the cup of water by her bedside, remembering some long-ago Catholic past. He dipped his fingers in the cup and said the blessing now in English, stumbling over the translation of words which he’d only ever heard in the old language - and half a lifetime away.
‘The little drop of the Father, on thy little forehead, beloved one. The little drop of the Son, on thy little forehead, beloved one. The little drop of the Spirit, on thy little forehead, beloved one. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I baptize thee-’ He broke off suddenly and lifted his eyes to Kate.
‘Neil James,’ she whispered, ‘after his two grandfathers.’ Her voice tailed off. Saying those few words had exhausted her. In a voice which shook, her father repeated the two names and made the sign of the cross once more, with his thumb, on the baby’s forehead. Then he put the tiny bundle into Kate’s arms.
I cannot weep. Not yet. I cannot weep because if I do I won’t see you, won’t be able to fix your face in my memory. We shall not have long together, my son. Shall I tell you about your father? But that was altogether too painful. She clutched the baby more tightly to her. He was very cold. So she had to tell him - before it was too late. Your father is Robert - Robert Baxter - and he is a good man. I am your mother, Kate. You have a sister called Grace.
She bent her head and pressed her lips to Neil James’s forehead. It was smooth and cool, like an alabaster statue. She lifted her head and looked down into his face. Her son looked back at her.
Someone, somewhere in the room, was sobbing as though their heart was breaking. I thought mine already had, thought Kate, until this moment. The baby was looking up at her. He looked as though he was frowning, drawing his tiny eyebrows together in puzzlement. What did he see? Could he focus? See her face - her eyes, her mouth? Just in case, she smiled.
‘I love you, Neil James Baxter,’ she whispered.
Did she imagine the reaction in the tiny body she held, so light she was scarcely aware of any weight in her arms? Did a look of recognition pass over the perfect little face? She bent her head and kissed him again, breathing in the scent of him. My son, my son. Our son.
She listened to his breathing, soft and delicate, like the lightest of summer breezes moving among flowers. She heard it stop - quite suddenly, but quite peacefully. Still holding him close, she felt her father rise in his chair and stand over them. His hands gently separated mother and son, his fingers fluttering down to close the baby’s eyes.
‘Has he gone?’ a voice whispered.
‘Aye, he’s gone.’ Then, in the gentlest of voices, Neil spoke. ‘Shall I take him from you, Kathleen lass?’
She could not tear her eyes away from her son.
‘No, Daddy. Not yet. Let me hold him a bit longer.’
Her father’s hand was warm on her shoulder.
‘Aye, lass. Aye.’
Four days later she insisted on getting out of bed, much against her father’s and Jessie’s advice. They had absolutely refused to let her attend the baby’s funeral the day before. The Baxter girls had sat with her while the other members of the two families had attended. Bitterly, knowing how weak she was, she had given in to that, but she wasn’t prepared to have her wishes overridden a second time. Neil and Jessie, with Lily hovering in the background like a pale ghost, anxiously installed her in the armchair, with the foot-stool at her feet.
‘I’m fine,’ she kept saying. ‘I’m fine.’
She was still telling everybody she felt fine at four o’clock that afternoon when she started to haemorrhage.
Her arms were empty. Not even Grace could fill them. She stood at the kitchen window watching her daughter playing with the other children down in the back court. She should have been standing here with a baby in her arms - tired and smelling of milk, but happy.
There were to be no more children. She had guessed as much when she had woken in the unfamiliar surroundings of the hospital and the doctor there had pulled out a chair, sat beside her and reached for her hand. It was that gesture which had done it, and the way he had addressed her by her first name, even although he didn’t know her from Adam. She had known by those two things that he had bad news to deliver.
He had been very kind, had tried to break it to her gently, but there was no way of being gentle about the news he had to impart. She heard the words he spoke, understood what he meant about having to perform an emergency operation on her, knew what had been taken away from her. There was, he told her gravely, no reason why she shouldn’t lead a normal married life in every other respect.
No reason except that her husband was on the other side of the world. No reason except that he no longer wanted her. What had he said that dreadful day? At this precise moment I don’t know whether I ever want to see you again.
‘You mark my words, lass,’ said her father with cheerful bluster, ‘your man’ll be back as soon as he can. Jessie’s written to him to let him know what’s happened. I’m sure he’ll manage to find himself another ship
to come home on as soon as he finds out.’ Her father too had reached for her hand, lying listlessly on the spotless white hospital coverlet.
As the weeks rolled by, and her body began to recover from what she had been through, the fear that Robbie might never come back grew and grew. There had been no reply to Jessie’s letter, although the cheerful postcards kept coming for Grace. That was hard to understand - real hard. Had he changed so much? Did he not care at all?
She wondered if she was being punished for what she had done to Robbie, wondered if God were really so vengeful. She didn’t know. She only knew that He didn’t listen. She heard Grace’s prayers every night, but said none herself.
‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child, pity my simplicity, suffer me to come to Thee.’ Then Grace would go off into her own personal litany, asking: ‘God bless Mammy and Daddy, Granny and Grandad Cameron, Granny and Grandad Baxter ...’ It went on, through her young aunts and uncles, until she came to the end. ‘And look after my wee brother, God. Amen.’
Neil James, Grace had declared firmly, reducing all the adults present to helpless tears, was in heaven now, playing with Mr Asquith.
Kate wished her own faith were still that simple. Please God, bring Robbie home. Let him find it in his heart to forgive me so that we can start again. It didn’t work that way. She knew it didn’t. She had tried.
Chapter 30
Kate felt manky. There was no other word to describe it. She was sweaty all over, and her hair, scraped back into a pony tail, was coming loose in wee wispy bits which were sticking themselves to the side of her head and neck. Well, there was nothing else for it. It was Hogmanay and the work had to be done. She had snapped Jessie’s head off when her younger sister had anxiously asked if she really thought she was up to helping with the chores.
Of course she was. She’d been back to the hospital for a check-up at the end of November and everything was fine. Back to normal. Jessie, frowning, had finally agreed that Kate could help, but she wasn’t to do anything heavy. When Kate had announced that she was going to wash the stairs, Jessie had briskly ordered wee Davie, now at secondary school and taller than both of his sisters, to fill the heavy galvanized steel bucket with soapy water and carry it out onto the landing for Kate.
‘Och, Jessie,’ he’d complained. ‘That’s women’s work!’
She’d given him a swift clout on the back of the head and told him to get on with it.
‘Psychology, eh?’ Andrew Baxter had commented, grinning when Jessie had given him a rueful smile in return.
Kate, squeezing the mop out over the grille set into one half of the bucket, smiled at the memory. That pair needed a bomb underneath them - particularly Andrew. She was beginning to hope that, having sown his wild oats, he might eventually be coming to realize just what he had in Jessie, but he was taking his time. She’d encouraged Jessie to take more interest in her appearance, persuaded her to cut her hair and wear it in a more flattering style, not scraped back into that old pony tail. She was one to talk - considering the way she herself looked at this moment.
Well, she would sort that out once she had done the stairs; she would have a bath and wash her hair to get ready for the New Year. She had made some resolutions, too. Facts had to be faced. It made her feel sick to contemplate it, but Robbie might never be going to come back - and she and Grace couldn’t stay with her parents for ever. If they were going to get a wee place of their own, Kate had to find a way of making a living. She had a talent. It was time she started using it. Life wasn’t going to get any belter unless she did.
Painting was a bit difficult in the confined quarters of the Cameron household, but she had started drawing again, using the illustrations of plants and flowers in Jessie’s old Botany textbook for inspiration. Lifting the dirt from the floor with long regular strokes of the mop, Kate sighed. She could never stop herself working out how things would look, transferred to pottery. She had to get back to it somehow - but that might take a wee while. In the meantime, she needed to make some money. That meant she had to do some paintings - pictures that would sell.
She had an idea for a set of four paintings of different wild flowers - small enough for her to be able to do at the kitchen table but attractive grouped together on a wall for display. She would go up to Glasgow next week and ask the gallery owner who had bought her Bluebell Woods pictures what he thought of the idea - and if he didn’t like it, she would think of something else. She would smarten herself up, do her hair nicely and borrow Jessie’s new coat. There’d be no stopping her once she was suitably titivated.
Lifting the mop and swabbing it over the floor, a memory came back to her. Agnes Baxter had once encouraged her to do just that. Laddies like to see a bit of sparkle. Especially a certain laddie we both know. Kate stopped for a moment, leaning on the mop. She would write to him. Try one more time. However hard it was to compose the letter.
She heard footsteps coming into the close from the street two floors below, and dipped the mop once more in the soapy water. It was getting a bit grey now. She’d have to get Davie to change it for her. That would please him. Women’s work, indeed!
The footsteps were getting closer. It couldn’t be Pearl, could it, coming home to wish everybody a Happy New Year?
Gripping the dark wood of the banister, she leaned over to see. No, it was a man. ‘Be careful if you’re coming up,’ she called. The floor’s wet.’
The man ascended to the half-landing on the floor below and turned his face up to look at her.
‘I’ll be careful,’ he said quietly.
Transfixed by that voice, Kate stared down at him.
‘Hello,’ said Robert Baxter, and started up the stairs towards her.
He was wearing an off-white sailor’s polo-neck jersey with a navy jacket on top. His dark hair was unruly as usual, and a bit too long, but he looked fit and strong and tall, his pale skin tanned by months of exposure to the sun and the sea. He wasn’t smiling. Somewhere nearby a door opened.
‘Daddy!’ There was a piercing shriek. Then all hell broke loose. In a flurry of curls and petticoats, Grace came hurtling out of the flat. She was hotly pursued by Towser, the Baxters’ old dog, although you’d never have guessed his age from the speed with which he was running after Grace. Woken from her trance, Kate yelled at her that the floor was slippy. Grace checked her speed not one jot. She did skid, in fact, but just before she reached Robbie. He laughed easily, caught her up and enfolded her in a great bear hug.
‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’ Grace was delirious with joy. ‘Oh Daddy, you’re home!’
‘Aye, sweetheart. I’m home.’ He was hugging the little girl tightly, pulling her into his chest. He lifted his head and looked Kate in the eye. ‘I’m home.’
What he might have meant by that, Kate had no chance of finding out. Grace’s excited shouting had alerted everyone in the close. Doors were opened, faces broke into smiles, Towser tried to lick Robbie to death, and family and friends came out to shake him by the hand and clap him on the shoulders. He shot one final impenetrable look at Kate before they were both engulfed.
There were presents for everybody: ornaments for the parents; lengths of material for his sisters and Jessie; a simple camera each for Andrew and Davie; a Red Indian doll for Grace, complete with feathered head-dress.
‘She’s called Pocahontas,’ he told the little girl, his arm loosely about her as she sat on his knee. ‘Can you say that?’
Grace turned her face up towards him and repeated the difficult name.
He gave her a hug and dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘Well done, sweetheart.’
Kate had to look away. The little tableau of father and daughter was too much to bear. Up at the window Alice, Flora and Jessie were holding the lengths of fabric against one other, trying to decide who should have what. At the table Andrew and Davie were excitedly examining their cameras. Only one person had been left out. Kate wondered dully if anyone else had noticed. Neil Cameron had. His wor
ds fell heavily into the happy chatter in the room.
‘Haven’t you forgotten your wife, Robert?’
Robbie, who’d been watching Grace making friends with her new doll, looked up.
‘No, I haven’t forgotten my wife.’
He locked eyes with his father-in-law. It was a look which said as clearly as though the words had been spoken, and what business is it of yours, anyway? From the expression on Neil’s face as the two men stared each other out, it was obvious that Kate’s father thought otherwise. Agnes Baxter, with a lifetime’s experience of defusing male aggression, rushed into the breach.
‘Och, Kate, pet,’ she said, ‘I’m that pleased for you. To have Robbie back, I mean. After the baby and all that.’
Robbie’s voice cut like a knife through all the other conversations going on in the room.
‘And all that?’ He was looking questioningly at Kate. ‘Where is the baby, by the way? Through in the front room?’
She rose to her feet in one jerky movement. Jessie was beside her immediately.
‘I’m going upstairs to have a bath and wash my hair, Jessie.’ She smiled brightly at her younger sister. ‘I can’t go dirty into the New Year, now can I? Will you come up with me?’
‘Aye, Kate. I will.’ She slipped her arm through Kate’s.
As the Cameron sisters left the room, Agnes Baxter began in a low voice to talk to her eldest son.
The two families were waiting together for the bells, as they had done so many times in the past. Money was tighter than ever but there was shortbread and black bun as usual and enough whisky for the men to toast the New Year, with lemonade for the women and children. The houses, stairs and close were as clean as many willing hands could make them. Every scrap of clothing had been washed. Everybody had washed themselves and their hair. The usual jokes were being told.
This Hogmanay, however, was like no other. Nothing had actually been said, although for a moment it had looked as though - astonishingly - Neil Cameron and Robert Baxter were about to exchange angry words. There were plenty of undercurrents, though: anxious looks and sudden silences.