Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  ‘I’m disturbing no one.’ Maggie bent down to kiss the top of Tom’s head . . .

  ‘You mothers are not expected to — ’

  . . . and stroke his feathery hair. ‘How’s my wee boy. How’s my wee boy, how’s Tom? Have you missed me?’

  For several seconds Mrs Saunders looked on and said nothing. Finally she let her hands drop to her sides. ‘We don’t want any trouble, remember. Just make sure you don’t get in the way.’ She turned on her heel and walked out the door.

  Maggie shifted Tom to her other breast.

  By the end of the first week Maggie had a routine:

  Up at 6.30 for two hours’ typing, then the tram into town. She’d get off at the Waverley end of Princes Street, walk up North Bridge to the Scotsman offices, to scan through the Situations Vacant columns as early as possible. Late morning, she’d return to get the first edition of the Evening News. Her days were an endless round of employment agencies, receptionists, application forms, waiting rooms, interviews. Queuing to use public phones, walking to offices in the New Town, taking trams to offices in Newington, in Leith, in Gorgie, Stockbridge. Come late afternoon she’d usually had enough rejections for the day and would take the next tram she saw going in the direction of Carluke Avenue, to be in time to give Tom his early evening feed. She’d wanted to breastfeed him, but after only a few days she’d had to ask to use one of the Woodstock House baby feeding bottles – her milk was already starting to dry up. She’d been given it, grudgingly.

  Her nights were spent at the bakery table, answering advertisements in her own best handwriting, and doing more typing practice. Last thing, and when she had the energy, she’d add a few sentences to her current letter to Michael. Trams, telephone calls, letters, newspapers. Being unemployed was a full-time job. And exhausting. And expensive.

  The closer it came to Christmas, the fewer were the employers looking to take on new staff. But Maggie kept trying. Kept phoning and being put on hold, kept being told the vacancy was already filled, being told they were looking for someone younger, or someone older. Or else they wanted a man. A bloody man – the answer to everyone’s problems, according to Jean. Doggedly, rain or shine, she tramped around the city centre – George St, Hanover St, Frederick St, Castle St, the West End, the New Town . . . She went in and out of wood-panelled offices, some with fresh cut flowers in their reception rooms and views over Queen St Gardens; elsewhere she laboured up and down narrow and uncarpeted stairs, found herself shown into forlorn offices with grubby skylights, plasterboard partitions and audible plumbing.

  Christmas brought a card and a small cake from Jean, and a card came from Michael – My Xmas wish is that we were together had been inscribed below the festive greetings in Lachlan’s neat handwriting. She put his card next to the photograph he’d sent her in an earlier letter – a snap of himself as a soldier, standing next to an army lorry covered in mud except for where the sweep of its single wiper had kept the windscreen clear enough to see through. Beside him there was a road sign: BERLIN 867 Kms. The photograph always confused her, it wasn’t the man she knew – his blindness, his dependence. Not even the handwriting on the card was his. Years ago, when the photograph was taken, she’d still have been living in her parents’ house doing her best to get through the war. Re-reading Michael’s letters, which she did, they often seemed written to another Maggie altogether, one who lived a completely different life. Briefly, as she read, she’d let herself become this other woman, allowing herself to feel loved and cherished and to believe that everything would end happily. This happy-ever-after Maggie didn’t have to struggle through every day, there seemed to be no loneliness in her life, no exhaustion. Clearly she never wept.

  For Hogmanay she was invited to Jean’s home. At first she said no, thank you, she’d prefer to see the New Year in by herself. But Jean kept on insisting.

  It was getting on for midnight when she left the bakery to make her way to her sister-in-law’s flat in the nearby colonies, just off Haymarket. After the bells rang out the New Year the small flat began filling up with neighbours come to first foot. Then the dancing began. An hour after she’d arrived her brother Billy still hadn’t acknowledged her, let alone spoken to her. She’d caught him glancing over a couple of times, only to see him immediately turn away. Finally he came across:

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘Happy New Year to you, too,’ said Maggie.

  ‘I’m asking,’ her brother continued, ‘what do you think you’re doing? Mother’s heart-broken. Father’ll not have your name mentioned in the house. A fair disgrace, he says.’

  ‘So? I can’t help how they — ’

  ‘You can marry the man, can’t you? Tell us where he lives and we’ll pay him a visit. Once you’re married, nothing of this’ll matter any more.’

  ‘Like it never happened?’

  ‘That’s the ticket, and everyone’ll be happy.’

  ‘That’ll be nice for them.’

  She left shortly after.

  Twice on her way home she was grabbed and given a New Year’s kiss. Then, just as she was turning into her own side street, a group of first-footers called to her from the opposite pavement: ‘Happy New Year! Happy New Year!’

  ‘Happy New Year to you, too!’ She called back to them, and meant it. Forget the past. Forget brother Billy and her parents, forget the Callanders and Mrs Stewart. She had the New Year to look forward to. She had Tom . . . and she had Michael.

  SUNDAY

  TO MAKE THE best of seeing her, the best for both of you, you have to make the effort to block out the TV’s over-cranked volume, block out the empty stare of the Murray twins, block out the whole depressing end-of-the-line feel of things, and cut straight to what concerns you – your mother. You can only manage a few hours every week so you want to make the most of it. No expense spared and coming as often as you can to spend time with her. The good days, and the not-so-good days . . .

  Today she’s been dressed in a pink jersey and M&S slacks. Best to catch her eye before crossing over to take the empty seat next to her. Try to catch it, at least.

  ‘Hello, Mum!’

  Nothing. Like she’s morphed into Murray number three. Has she even noticed you’ve come into the room?

  ‘Hello, Mum. How are you today?’

  Still nothing.

  Not a good day. Sit down next to her, touching her lightly on the arm. ‘Really good to see you again, Mum.’

  ‘When there’s bubbles of soap, it needs another rinse. Another rinse and another good mangle.’

  Definitely not a good day. Give her hand a squeeze, try to catch what she’s saying so you’ll both be on the same page, the two of you sharing a Sunday afternoon together in the nursing home. Making up for lost time, it feels like, all the caring and loving you want to give her before it’s too –

  ‘Can’t abide that chemical smell of soap in clothes.’

  ‘Remember that big block of green soap and the washboard, Mum? We’d sing, “Scrub-a-dub-dub, Three men in a tub” . . .’

  No response.

  Fine.

  TV’s even louder than usual, battering the dayroom and everyone in it. Better to take her through to her own room. Where’s her zimmer?

  ‘You’re not leaving already, are you? Stay with me. They’ll be bringing round a cup of tea any minute.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Managing a hopeful-looking smile. ‘Then we can — ’

  ‘I’ll need to iron it. And a chicken. You’re a man, you can do that, eh?’

  ‘Do what, Mum? What do you want me to –?’

  ‘One of the hens, of course. Kill it.’

  A really bad day. A few seats along, the sexy Polish girl is trying to get one of the Murray twins to drink out of an orange plastic cup with a spout. A safety lid and Bart Simpson on the side.

  ‘Need drink, Joan. Need meds.’

>   The Murray doesn’t seem to notice her, the old woman’s mouth remains closed and her hands have collapsed to a slackness on her lap.

  ‘Drink, Joan. Help meds work. Drink. Drink.’ The girl takes the trembling hands and wraps them round Bart, raising the spout into position. ‘Good, Joan, good. Drink.’

  But the Murray’s having none of it. Her gaze is fixed far in the distance like she’s really somewhere else, like on another planet. Her eyes are wide, wide open – is it possible she doesn’t even see the girl crouching down beside her? Doesn’t even feel the plastic spout pressed against her own mouth?

  ‘One med for finish. Drink. One med for finish, Joan, then I go.’

  Probably the girl feels like ramming the spout full-force between the old woman’s lips and yanking the Murray head back – and who could blame her? Whatever. She’s a real stunner, and would make the perfect assistant. Even in these politically correct days a magician needs a pretty assistant to display the inside of the shiny magic box and show that it’s empty, to let herself be lasered in half, or else to help you disappear in a puff of smoke.

  It’s far too hot in here, the sun’s melted and is pouring out pure heat, the windows are sealed tight shut as always. What a place. Some of the Dorothys and Murrays are facing the TV screen and some aren’t. Rosehaven social life.

  Your mother’s turned to stare at the TV.

  ‘That letter’s made her cry. The poor woman. Making her cry and cry.’

  You look across at the screen. Not that again. It’s a rerun of what had been on the first day you’d come to visit, the same US soap that had made your mother so upset you’d gone over and changed it to horse racing. Nobody said anything, or noticed even – but Kylie spoke to you afterwards, telling you to please not do it again. The residents might not say anything, she explained, but it would still upset them. If your mother gets upset again, she’d added, best to take her through to her own room.

  ‘can’t someone do something? does no one care?’

  ‘We’ve seen this episode before, Mum, let’s go to your room. It’ll be quieter there and we can have a good chat together.’ Taking her arm, ready to help her stand up. ‘I’ll make some tea, if you like. I brought us some hobnobs.’

  Out of the corner of your eye you can see the woman’s now finished reading her letter and is about to let it slip from her hand. This was the moment in the scene when you switched channels last time, but you can guess what’s going to happen anyway – there’ll likely have been some cheesy direction telling the actress to give the sheet of paper a very slight flick of the wrist as she lets it drop, that way it’ll flip over a couple of times on the way down to the floor.

  And sure enough, the camera follows its descent in slow-motion to show everyone that the woman’s heart being turned over. Spelling out her grief / disappointment / regret / sense of loss. Whatever. A cheap trick. But effective.

  No problem this time round – your mother’s face has gone quite blank, as if she’s been put into a trance. If only. Then you could keep her safe and suggest to her only the sort of things that’ll make her happy. You want her so much to be happy.

  Perfectly on cue, she gives you a smile. ‘Hello! Are you here for the cake?’

  ‘Cake?’ You sit down again. ‘Of course, I’d love some. Then we can go through to your room and — ’

  ‘Because if you are, you’ll need a name tag. Security.’

  ‘Security? I gave my name and walked in today same as usual. No problem, like every Sunday. I’ve been coming here for weeks now, Mum. Never seen a name tag. No one’s wearing any.’

  ‘Only the ones that need to. The staff, Mrs Saunders, Donna — ’

  ‘You’ve not got one.’

  ‘Mine’s getting changed. Seems there was some kind of mix-up. They were going to give me Mrs Stewart’s till I put them right. It’s getting made up now, it’s all on their computer. maggie davies it’ll say. Mrs Saunders is organising it.’

  ‘That’s nice of her.’

  ‘Otherwise poor Mrs Stewart’ll be walking about with no name – might as well not exist, eh?’

  ‘Mmm, I suppose not. By the way, I meant to bring you some flowers same as usual, I’m really sorry. Bring you a bunch next time, picked from the cottage. Happy memories, eh. My childhood home, after all.’

  ‘My cottage your childhood home? What on earth are you talking about? I don’t know who you are, I don’t know where you came from, I don’t know anything about you. You just keep talking talking talking. More sense in what they’re showing on the TV.’

  Next moment she’s turned back to the screen and probably won’t even notice when you get up to say goodbye. Might as well take out your iPad.

  5

  JANUARY CAME AND went. Then February, March . . .

  She owed Jean money for food, for laundry, for tram fare, for the telephone, for everything. She needed new shoes.

  Down to only one letter a week to Michael now, and not just because of the cost of the stamp. She didn’t want his pity by return. Tramping the ice-hard, wind-hammered winter streets of Edinburgh day after day, looking for jobs that she’d no hope of getting, left her with no energy for evenings of writing bright, cheerful, hope-filled letters. Sometimes she felt like grabbing an office-warm, brittle-voiced, white-blouse-and-lipsticked Snooty Junior by the ankles and dangling the girl out the window to give her a taste of her day.

  Tom had begun his stay in Woodstock House on the seventeenth of November, which meant the six months would be up on the seventeenth of May. After that she would probably lose him. She had to find a job. Then find a place to stay where they accepted children. She’d tell the landlord that her husband had died, or left her, or was stationed in Germany, or Malta, or somewhere far away. The details could be sorted out when the time came.

  By the beginning of April Maggie was no nearer to finding a job, or somewhere to stay. Only about six weeks remained. It was a bitter afternoon – no spring showers these, no gentle breeze. Feeling she couldn’t manage another step, she made for the poshest agency on Queen Street, overlooking the private gardens. Not that she expected to suddenly hear about a job, but she knew the place had a carpeted waiting room with soft seats and usually a glowing coal fire. She needed a rest, even if only for a few minutes.

  No one at Reception. Perfect.

  She collapsed into the armchair nearest the fire, undid her coat and gradually began to thaw out. Quarter of an hour later she was leafing through a copy of People’s Friend when she heard a quiet cough.

  Snooty Junior had returned to her post.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  ‘Hello, Miss Davies. And how are you today?’

  That I’ve-got-a-job brightness. Maggie glanced longingly over at the window. Then steeled herself to reply: ‘Fine, thank you. I was just looking in for a moment to see if anything had . . .’ Her usual query.

  To her surprise, Snooty Junior smiled at her. ‘Right time, right place.’ By any chance, she added, did Miss Davies know Blair & Blair, the well-respected solicitors across in Abercrombie Place?

  Maggie nodded vaguely.

  Well then, continued Snooty Junior, she might just be in luck.

  A moment later the girl had looked out Maggie’s application form, then shown her through to her boss’s office to be assessed for suitability.

  Maggie’s assessment took less than five minutes. Blair & Blair, she was told, had been on the phone less than quarter of an hour previously. They’d been badly let down by someone who was supposed to start that morning and simply hadn’t turned up. They were desperate. Miss Davies’ typing speed? Her references? Availability?

  Could she go straight round?

  Blair Jnr looked in his early forties going on fourteen. His three-piece suit struggled to contain the overspill of a cheerful schoolboy chubbiness that was topped by freckled skin and ging
er hair. No mistaking the public school sheen of self-confidence, however. Also, there was no mistaking the no-wedding ring – which Maggie certainly wouldn’t be reporting back to Jean, or she’d never hear the end of it.

  After all that time spent filling in forms and answering advertisements, she had her story word perfect. Her reference from Cavendish & Son (Realtors) in Vancouver, was excellent – Maggie, of course, had checked in the library to make sure that no such company existed.

  ‘First-rate, Miss Davies,’ Mr Blair remarked as he glanced through the painstakingly crafted catalogue of her professional attainments supported by a list of her outstanding personal qualities. ‘I congratulate you.’

  Was the cheerful schoolboy being sarcastic? She risked meeting his eye, and he smiled straight back at her. His public-school confidence seemed to shed its own glow upon the typewritten sheets, turning their inaccuracies into truths and their blatant deceptions into recovered innocence. Blessing them, almost.

  Maggie went on to explain that, sadly, Cavendish & Son had gone out of business when the Son turned sixty and decided to retire. It had been a small firm and her position as Mr Cavendish’s PA had been most rewarding as well as prestigious. There had been no shortage of other job opportunities on offer, of course, but her parents were coming to that age when they needed . . . Well, she was sure Mr Blair understood what she meant?

  The schoolboy solicitor certainly did. ‘My own parents . . .’ he began before trailing off to finish his sentence with a regretful shake of the head. He was now looking genuinely concerned.

  So it had seemed best to return to Scotland, she continued. Having spent the first few weeks helping her mother and father settle into their new routine, she was ready and eager to return to work.

  As rehearsed several times with Jean, Maggie now moved into full interview role.

  ‘It’s . . . life, I suppose.’ She looked away to cover a show of awkwardness, a hint of momentary embarrassment. After a well-timed pause, she managed to gain control of herself, swallowed discreetly, and proceeded: ‘They’ve done their best for me, so now it’s my turn to do my best for them.’ She and Jean had debated whether there should be a hint of tears at this point, and decided she’d best play it by ear. She dabbed her nose, struggling bravely to carry on: ‘It’s only right that Mum and Dad should keep their independence for as long as possible. We’ll see how things work out – when I’ve secured employment, I plan to move into accommodation that’s close by.’