by Ron Butlin
Mr Blair nodded sympathetically. Maggie was then sent through to the room next door to demonstrate her typing skills to Mrs Woodward, who was in charge of Blair & Blair’s two-desk typing pool. While she showed off her by now reliable thirty words a minute, her prospective superior looked on, and smoked. A page and a half later, she was invited to hand over the sheets for Mrs Woodward’s inspection.
‘Hmmm . . .’ A pencil mark, a large puff of the cigarette. ‘Hmmm . . .’ Several more pencil marks and several more large puffs. ‘Hmmm . . .’ A final pencil mark. The cigarette stubbed out.
Mrs Woodward laid the typed sheets on her desk. ‘Mr Blair prefers a one-line gap between paragraphs, and so do I. But good enough, I suppose.’
Maggie was sent back to Mr Blair’s office. The schoolboy beamed at her.
‘Now, Miss Davies, as I told the agency, we are very pressed at present. Could you possibly start first thing tomorrow?’
For the first time in months she couldn’t wait to get home and write to Michael.
It was a busy week. As well as working full-time, learning to cope with Mrs Woodward – whom she soon took to thinking of as ‘Old Woodbine’ – and visiting Tom in the evenings, Maggie had to check the Accommodation Vacant columns in the Scotsman, the Evening News and Evening Dispatch. She went to see five possible rooms – but either they were too small, too dirty, too inconvenient or too expensive. One landlord was too friendly. On Friday she phoned about a place near the Meadows, at the edge of Tollcross. It sounded ideal. The rent was manageable and the location, midway on the direct tramline between Blair & Blair’s and Woodstock House, would be perfect. The landlady was a Mrs McCann – could Mrs Stewart come round on Saturday?
Mrs Stewart. That was the name she gave. As she was planning to bring Tom to live with her as soon as possible, she had to be a Mrs. She was already called Miss Davies at work, but so long as she kept her stories straight, and separate, there would be no problem. And what about her husband, Mr Stewart? Well, she’d got till lunchtime next day to fit him in, somehow.
That night in her letter to Michael she told him about the possible room and asked him to keep his fingers crossed – for Mrs Stewart!
Late morning on Saturday, the final hour of her first week at Blair & Blair’s was being ticked off one slow-motion minute at a time. Maggie watched the hand of the large office clock on the wall opposite strain to make the next tick. Then strain ever harder, and take even longer, to gather its strength for the one after . . .
Only 11.30. She tap-tap-tapped through to the end of another near-incomprehensible letter. Original went into the red folder marked awaiting signature, copy into the blue folder marked carbon copies.
‘You still live with your parents, I believe?’ Mrs Woodward lit a cigarette and blew a lungful of smoke towards the yellow-stained ceiling. ‘They must be . . .’ – with her fingertip she tapped the dead ash into the metal ashtray next to her own typewriter – ‘. . . getting on in years?’
Clatter-clatter, clatter-clatter, clatter-clatter . . . Ding!
Maggie’s notepad lay beside her, line after line bristling with constipated gobbets of legalise: ‘heretofore’, ‘without prejudice’, ‘available to be relied upon’ and ‘our rights and pleas’ and the like. It was soothing to let her fingers go tap-tap-tap, picking out unintelligible gibberish that required neither her interest nor her understanding.
‘You’re having to take care of them, I suppose.’
Maggie hammered out the next paragraph in one continuous burst:
Following our letter of the fifth inst., you are hereby called upon to advise by return . . .
‘Can’t be easy for you. A woman of your age, you naturally want a life of your own, a family perhaps and . . .’
. . . your failure to comply with this will be founded upon . . .
‘I was spared all that, you might say. Father was killed at Ypres, Mother followed him a year later with the Spanish Flu.’
. . . without prejudice to any rights and any pleas and any costs and recovery of said moneys.
‘I was nine.’
Maggie stopped typing. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Woodward – so terribly young too.’
‘Brought up by my granny. Ancient history. I was married at twenty and I’ve never looked back. Douglas came along at just the right time. When war broke out, he volunteered for the RAF and ended up a rear gunner. Came through the whole war without a scratch. He . . .’ She paused.
Maggie leant forward, waiting for the older woman to continue.
‘All those bombing raids, Jerry’s Mescherschmitt fighters, barrage balloons, anti-arcraft fire – he survived the lot of them. Hamburg, Dresden, the Ruhr, Berlin and not even a scratch.’ Mrs Woodward was no longer looking at her, but staring into space. ‘Lucky, don’t you think? Really lucky?’
‘Yes, he certainly was. You both were.’
With unexpected viciousness, Mrs Woodward stubbed out her cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray. ‘That’s what we thought too, at first. I go to visit him out at Gogarburn every Saturday afternoon – not that he notices.’
‘I’m so – so sorry.’
Mrs Woodward inserted a fresh sheet of foolscap into her machine and resumed work.
Maggie’s typing was up to date – her morning’s carbon copies in the blue carbon copies folder and her morning’s originals in the red awaiting signature folder. The appropriate envelopes were typed, stamped and stacked, all ready to be filled and sealed. Time had come to a complete standstill at eleven forty-seven. The clock hands just would not budge, and the final thirteen minutes seemed to have locked solid.
Her filing too was up to date, her typewriter fitted with a brand-new spool of ribbon in readiness for the brand-new week starting on Monday. Her stationery drawers – foolscap, octavo and quarto – all brimmed in readiness.
Tick —
‘Your first week at Blair & Blair is drawing to its close, Miss Davies.’
‘Yes, Mrs Woodward.’
‘I am pleased to note that you perform your tasks adequately and . . .’
‘Thank you, Mrs Woodward.’
The older woman looked directly at her. There was a pause as she drew on her cigarette, holding the smoke for several seconds before exhaling. ‘. . . and you know your place.’
Tick —
Without meaning to, Maggie glanced over at the clock in time to catch the minute hand jerk forward to eleven forty-nine.
‘In a rush to go somewhere this afternoon, Miss Davies? Blair & Blair pays for your attendance up to midday today. Eleven full minutes still remain and it seems only fair that . . .’
In a rush? She certainly was. A number 10, 11, 15, 16 or 23 straight to Tollcross. She had to see Mrs McCann and her room. She had still to sort out the details of her Mrs Stewart story, and get them straight. Was there a Mr Stewart? If so, where was he? Same with baby Tom – if he existed, why wasn’t he with her? She had to think and think hard. She didn’t want to lose the room – it really did sound exactly what she was looking for.
Meanwhile, Tom would be waiting for her.
The weather looked fine and if she wrapped him up warm . . . He loved going out in that Victorian-looking pram that stood in the hall . . . She’d bought him a new rattle yesterday and —
‘. . . if you don’t mind my asking?’ Old Woodward had clearly continued talking and was now waiting for her reply to something.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your parents. You were telling Mr Blair about them. How are they accustoming themselves to your new routine, if you don’t mind my asking?’
Her parents? Another story.
‘They’re fine. It’s working out very well. I’m usually home in time to prepare their evening meal . . .’
‘They must be very proud.’
‘Proud? I . . . I don’t under
stand.’
‘Of you, of course. Proud of their daughter. It’s not everyone can secure a position with Blair & Blair.’
Tick —
Eleven fifty-three.
‘Yes, I suppose they are.’
‘Well, Miss Davies, I’ll be going out to Gogarburn this afternoon, same as always. He’s still my husband, after all – and wears the name tag round his neck to prove it. They give us tea and biscuits. I read the Scotsman aloud to him. News, letters page, fashion. It’s all one to him.’ She took a long draw of her cigarette. ‘Then we just sit.
‘When I get up to leave there’s a kind of flicker in his eyes sometimes, like he knows I’m going away. I have to go, though. I have to. But let me tell you, Miss Davies, I occasionally wonder if he’d be better off without me visiting him at all – at least that way he’d not have the distress of me leaving him over and over every Saturday evening. Four years it’s been now.’
Tick —
Tick —
Eleven fifty-five.
After one final puff, Old Woodbine stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Well, that’s our weekends staring us in the face.’ She almost smiled. ‘I’m sure Mr Blair won’t quibble over the last couple of minutes. We’ll see you on Monday morning at your desk, Miss Davies. Nine o’clock sharp, remember. Goodbye.’
Coat, hat, handbag, and Maggie was already halfway out of the door.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Woodward. See you on Monday.’
Rushing down to Princes Street, across to the Gardens side and wait for a tram.
Right – now to go over her story. Her Mrs Stewart story.
Her husband had died? Definitely. That was best and simplest. He’d died just before Christmas, leaving her all alone, a poor widow having to care for their wee baby. No calling him Alfred this time, and giving him a beard!
But what if everything worked out between her and Michael? She’d not be moving to Lewis so he might come to Edinburgh one day and –
A number 16. Take her straight to Tollcross.
It was packed, downstairs and up. Standing room only. Saturday shoppers, their shopping bags, their children. A dog. Two dogs.
How’s she supposed to think?
Turning into Lothian Road already. She needs to think – but how can she get her story straight with all this noise and people shoving her, wanting past to get off, and the clippie asking if she’s not got change —
One of the children’s started crying, setting off one of the dogs. Yell-yell, bark-bark —
Which sets off the other one. Passing the Usher Hall. think! She needs to think! Mr Stewart should still be alive. He has to be alive. Right. But they can’t be divorced. Definitely not. Would cause even more problems. And so . . . ? She’s all on her own, and she’s – she’s what? But if her husband is still alive why aren’t they — ?
Going past the Tollcross clock already. She’ll be arriving there any minute.
Then it came to her in a flash.
Thank you, Mrs Woodward!
She got off at the stop just past the King’s Theatre, walked about twenty yards and turned first left into Glengyle Terrace. A posh-looking street facing Bruntsfield Links, with railings and steps up from the pavement to posh-looking front doors. Not only that, but it was a main door flat.
Mrs McCann was in her late twenties. Cheerful. Welcoming. The room she was shown more than lived up to Maggie’s expectations and would be large enough for when she brought Tom home. There was even a wash hand basin and mirror – and she’d share the McCann’s bathroom and separate toilet. It turned out that Mrs McCann had a small boy called Douglas. Three years old, he played with some wooden bricks at his mother’s feet while the various details were discussed over a cup of tea.
Then came the questions. Friendly enough though. Concerned even.
Mrs Stewart’s husband?
He’d come back from the war blinded, and badly wounded. Hospitalised at first, then discharged far too soon, like so many of them. Then, just before last Christmas, he’d had to be re-admitted to Gogarburn. The doctors had no idea how long he had to live. Sometimes he seemed to be on the road to recovery, but at other times . . .
Maggie let the sadness in her voice finish the sentence.
Mrs McCann said it must be so very hard for her.
Yes, it was. And . . . For a moment Maggie seemed unable to go on, then she forced herself:
. . . And they’d had a wee boy just the month before.
‘Poor, poor you,’ said the landlady, ‘having to cope with everything all on your own.’ She shook her head. She’d no time for these women who got themselves in the family way without a family, if Maggie understood what she meant. ‘But poor, poor you,’ she said again.
He’s called Tom. He’s lovely.
Mrs McCann supposed that Tom must be a real consolation. But where was the wee lad?
Staying with his granny for the time being.
The landlady looked puzzled.
Because, explained Maggie, things being as they were, she’d needed to take a job and couldn’t look after Tom during the day.
Couldn’t Mrs Stewart move in with her mother?
No, it wasn’t possible. Because . . .
Maggie glanced out the window at Bruntsfield Links. To have the park so close would be perfect for when Tom came to live. Those grassy slopes, the walks, picnics in the shade of the trees . . .
Her mother? Think. Think. Why couldn’t she move in with her mother?
Her mind had gone blank. Completely blank.
A car hooted out on the main street. She caught sight of a green Eastern Scottish bus labouring up the hill to Bruntsfield on its way out of town . . .
Because . . . ? Because? She couldn’t move in with her mother because . . . ?
Then she had it. Because her mother lived out of the city, near Flotterstone . . . and it was too far for her to travel into work. So she went to see Tom there at weekends. Her husband – he was called Michael – she visited as often as she could during the week after work. Once she was settled, of course, she planned to bring Tom to live with her. Wherever she was. Would that be all right? She’d be able to find a minder in Tollcross surely? That way she’d be able to keep working. No idea when Michael would be able to join them. Her tone of voice hinting, sadly, that he might never come.
Mrs McCann said she was very sorry to hear of her troubles. War was a terrible thing. Then she went on. ‘We’ll give it a week or so to see how we get on, you and I. Maybe you can babysit Douglas one night, and if everything works out . . . ?’
They agreed that Maggie would move in the following afternoon, to be ready for the week ahead. As they stood up, she only just stopped herself in time from giving Mrs McCann a big, big hug.
When Mrs McCann’s front door closed behind her, Maggie lingered for a couple of moments before going down to the street. Heaven stretched out before her. She had a job. She had a room. Tom would be welcome. From now on, life would be one long walk in the park.
Of course, she’d need to remember her story and keep it straight. On the tram to the children’s home, she recapped: during the week when she visited Tom at Woodstock House she’d say she was out at Gogarburn visiting her invalid husband; at the weekends she’d say she was going to Flotterstone to see Tom. A bit complicated, but couldn’t be helped. Depending on how things developed between her and Michael, she would say her husband was completely cured, or that he’d died.
That night’s letter to Michael would be signed Mrs Stewart!
It was after three when she rushed up the front steps of Woodstock House. Donna was waiting for her, pushing Tom up and down the hall in the Tractor.
‘Afternoon, Miss Davies. Tom’s all dressed and ready. I was putting in some pram practice for when I have a wee boy of my own. I told him you’d probably be taking him out. You are, aren’t you
?’
‘Well, yes. I’ve been looking forward to — ’
Donna parked the pram at the bottom of the staircase and rushed over to her. ‘Mrs Saunder’s camera’s got one photo left and she said I could have it of me and Tom if you’d take it. Please. Please. Please.’ She held out the Kodak Brownie. ‘We’ll do it outside and I’ll just hold him. Maybe us standing next to the Tractor?’
Ten minutes later Maggie was manhandling the Victorian monstrosity down the steps and out through the garden gate into the street. At every bump Tom laughed and shook his new rattle.
‘Sunny day – Holiday!’ she shouted. The sunlight was cold, but bright, bright, bright. A clear, crisp early spring day.
‘Left or right, Tom – which d’you fancy? Left’ll take us to the shops and right to the canal.’
He shook his rattle loud enough to show approval of every possible option.
‘Or we could go to the moon?’
For there, above them, no more than a faint and almost transparent smudge against the ice-blue sky, was the moon. He rattled again and added a gurgle.
‘It’s come out early – just for us, Tom. Doesn’t show itself often, only on special days and only to special people. So let’s give it a special name. A ghost moon, we’ll call it. Come on, Tom, let’s go to the ghost moon!’
The Tractor was a solid piece of engineering, all bulk and weight. She gave it an extra-hard shove and let go, ‘whee . . . !’ sending it and Tom trundling a few yards forward by themselves.
She caught up with them: ‘Sunny Day . . . Holiday! Sunny Day . . . Holiday! We’re going to the moon!’
Four brisk steps . . . and another firm shove. ‘whee!’ Like she was already pushing him on the swings, a swing that reached all the way up into the sky.