Mrs Barbour did stock a few boxes of chocolates, but they were only bought by young men out to impress a sweetheart, or by older men trying to sweeten their wives the day after they’d had a night on the booze or upset them in some other way. Cissie was amused by their hang-dog expressions when they pointed to the highest shelf and muttered, ‘A half-pound’ or ‘a pound’ – and very occasionally, ‘two pounds’ – depending on how badly they had misbehaved.
Two more weeks had passed when Mrs Barbour said, ‘It can’t be much fun for you being stuck here day and night with an old woman. You should go out on your half-days.’
‘I’m quite happy,’ Cissie assured her. As happy as she could be, she thought, with her son God alone knew where.
‘There’ll come a time when you’ll wish you’d seen a bit more of life.’
‘I’ve seen more than I want to see already.’
‘It would do you good to take a walk to Princes Street and have a look at the big stores. I used to spend hours there at one time, but I need my rest nowadays.’
Cissie would have been quite glad to have a rest every Wednesday afternoon, too, but she went out after that to please the old lady. She didn’t visit the large stores in Princes Street – going round the different departments didn’t appeal to her when Dorothy wasn’t at her side – but there were many interesting places to see, and she learned more about the history of Scotland by exploring Edinburgh’s Old Town than she had ever done at school. Even the things she remembered were brought vividly to life by seeing the actual places where they had happened.
The Royal Mile – running parallel to Princes Street and separated from it by centuries as well as by the railway line – made her feel as if she were in a different world. At the top of the hill stood the Castle, its dark outline in keeping with the dark deeds which had been enacted within its walls. Before going inside, she stood reverently in the tiny chapel built by Queen Margaret, wife of Malcolm III, where there was room for only a handful of people. In the Castle itself, she wandered from chamber to chamber, coming eventually to the room where Mary, Queen of Scots gave birth to the son who would be the first king to rule over Scotland and England. This visit was enough for one expedition.
On the following week, she started at the other end of the Royal Mile and steeped herself in the atmosphere of the Palace of Holyrood House as she made her way through the corridors. It made her flesh creep to look down at the spot where David Rizzio, the queen’s ill-fated Italian musician, was murdered at the instigation of her jealous husband, Lord Darnley, and she couldn’t help thinking that no matter how turbulent her life had been, it was as nothing compared to the sufferings of this woman of history.
On another day, she passed her free afternoon by looking in the windows of the little shops which lined the famous street, and ended up by going into St Giles’ Cathedral, which was halfway between the two royal residences. After walking round the old building, she sat down in one of the wooden pews, picturing the outraged Jenny Geddes throwing a stool at John Knox – a strong opponent of the young Queen Mary – because he was preaching against her beliefs.
It was on this occasion, not having taken so long as she had done on her other visits, that she went over the Bridges and had a walk along Princes Street Gardens, where she took a seat beside the Scott Monument. Unfortunately, the peace which had seeped right into her in the cathedral was ousted by thoughts of her son, and she wondered if she would ever feel completely serene again. The anguish of the separation was still gnawing at her innards, and it would never go away until she held Ricky in her arms once more. The pain in her heart becoming unbearable, she went up the steps onto the street, crossed over and took a tram back to Duke Street.
That evening, having often wondered how her brother had come to be on such good terms with Mrs Barbour, she said, ‘Have you known Tommy for a long time?’
‘Aye, I’ve known him for a good few years now,’ the old lady smiled. ‘He comes in here at least once every time he’s in port, and him and me have had some great arguments, not quarrelling, just in fun. He’s not like the other seamen that come in, and I’ve aye had a soft spot for him.’
‘He said you were the best woman he’d ever met.’
Mrs Barbour looked pleased at this. ‘You’re a lot like your brother, Cissie, and I’m going to tell you something I haven’t spoken about for years. You see, Tommy reminds me of my son in a lot of ways. He’s got the same nature, for never a thing bothered my Jack, always in a good humour and he could make jokes of anything – just like Tommy. Well, at the beginning of the war, Jack said he wanted to enlist. I wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t have a father to advise him – my man had died just a year before – so he took his own road and joined the Royal Scots.’
Noticing that her employer’s eyes had filled, Cissie said, ‘Was he killed in France or Belgium?’ It was out before she thought how insensitive the question was.
Mrs Barbour shook her head sadly. ‘He never got out of Scotland – well, just across the border. He was stationed at Larbert, but his regiment was ordered to Gallipoli, and they were put on a troop train for Liverpool. It got as far as a wee place called Quintishill, not far from Gretna Junction, when . . .’ She broke off, her voice wavering, then sighed and went on, ‘There was some mix-up with the signals – the men hadn’t been told soon enough it was coming through – and it ran into a local train sitting on the same track.’
‘Oh, Mrs Barbour!’ Cissie exclaimed. ‘That is awful.’
‘That wasn’t the worst. They were still trying to get the bodies and the injured out, when the Glasgow express from London ploughed into the wreckage, for the signals had been forgotten with all the commotion. Over two hundred soldiers were killed, most of them from Leith like my Jack, and near as many seriously injured.’
The two women sat in silence for some time, Mrs Barbour reliving the time of the tragedy, and Cissie trying to imagine it, then the old lady said, ‘There’s a memorial to the disaster in Rosebank Cemetery, that’s where a lot of the dead were buried.’
‘That’s the cemetery beside Pilrig Street, isn’t it? I’ll have to go and look at the memorial some time.’
‘I don’t often go, for I can remember my Jack without it, especially when Tommy comes to see me. Speaking about your Tommy, Cissie, I’m sure it wasn’t chance that stopped you turning to prostitution the night you met him at the docks.’
‘I’d changed my mind about that, I couldn’t do it. I just went to look for Tommy.’
‘If you hadn’t found him, you’d maybe have changed your mind again.’
She was probably right, Cissie thought, but all she said was, ‘I still don’t understand what you meant when you said it wasn’t chance that stopped me.’
‘I’m not a religious woman, but I still believe there’s a greater power than us that shapes our destiny. You weren’t meant to be a prostitute, and He stopped you from making a big mistake.’
‘He didn’t stop all the other bad things that happened to me,’ Cissie burst out.
Mrs Barbour sighed. ‘We’ve all to suffer so much, that’s what makes us the people we are. If we went through life without coming up against an adversity, we’d end up having no thought for anybody but ourselves.’
‘I’ve met people like that,’ Cissie muttered, and added, bitterly, ‘I married one.’ She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Mrs Barbour, can I tell you about it? I’d like you to know what happened.’
‘I’m not forcing you tell me, lass. I’m not one for poking my nose in where it’s not wanted.’
‘I want you to know.’
Cissie began at the point when she had first met Bertram – her life before that had no bearing on her later problems – and when she finally explained why she had been on her own in an awful room with no money, Mrs Barbour murmured, ‘Aye, I can see now what brought you so low. Poor lass, you must miss your son, but have you never thought on divorcing your man and getting custody of the bairn?’
Not having thought of this before, Cissie gave it her full consideration for several minutes, then the hope left her eyes. ‘They’d believe whatever Bertram told them, and he’ll not give Ricky up without a fight.’
‘You’ll never know unless you try.’
‘I can’t afford to pay a solicitor, anyway.’
Mrs Barbour leaned forward. ‘Look, lass, would you let me see to that side of it? I’ve no family now except a sister in Grangemouth, and though I’ve only known you for a wee while, I feel closer to you than I’ve felt with anybody else since my Jack died. I want to help you. Make an appointment with my solicitor for next Wednesday afternoon, and see how it goes from there. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’
Too excited to sleep over the next week, Cissie was in such a state of nerves when she went to consult James Latimer at 2.30 p.m. on Wednesday that she was sure she would not be able to talk to him at all, but when she was shown into his small office, she was soothed by his friendly smile. He asked her to tell him about Bertram, nodding encouragingly when she stumbled over describing the nights of brutality. And when she stopped, he said, ‘Did you tell anyone about this, show the bruises and marks to your friends?’
‘I was too ashamed to tell anybody.’
Mr Latimer’s smile vanished. ‘So it would be your word against his; that makes things more difficult. Let us press on, however. I take it that was when you left him?’
‘Oh, no.’ She told him the rest, aware before she reached the end that he was looking at her suspiciously.
‘I see,’ he muttered, looking down at the notes he had been making. ‘You cannot prove that the man concerned was your brother, and there is an independent witness who swears you slept with him, so it is not just your word against your husband’s this time. I am afraid, Mrs Dickson, that, in view of this – and his position in the world of business – I can hold out no hope of success if you took this to the divorce court. I am sorry, and I wish you good afternoon.’
Dismissed, Cissie stood up and walked out. Why had she let Mrs Barbour talk her into it? she thought dismally. She had known it would be useless.
When she returned to Duke Street, the old lady eyed her sorrowfully. ‘I can see it was no good. I’m sorry I raised your hopes, lass.’
‘You did it for the best,’ Cissie gulped. ‘I thought I’d get Ricky back, and now – oh, I wish . . .’
‘If wishes were horses, we’d all be running stables. But, Cissie, look at it like this. If you’d your son here, you’d be torn between giving attention to him and to the shop, and when all’s said and done, he’s better off where he is. I’m not being cruel, lass, for his father’s a rich man and can give him a lot more than you. Be grateful for that.’
‘It’s the only way I can bear it. Um, Mrs Barbour, do you think I’d be silly to go to Dundee, just to see him for a minute? I’d keep out of sight of the house, and maybe his nanny would come past with the pram. I wouldn’t let him see me, in case he got upset.’
After thinking deeply for a moment, the old lady murmured, ‘Would it not break your heart to be so near him and not be able to touch him?’
‘My heart was broken the day he was taken from me. I know it’ll be difficult for me, but I have to know if he’s all right, if he looks well and happy.’
‘You’ve your mind made up on it, I can see that, and I’ll not try to stop you.’
‘I’ll go next Wednesday.’
Mrs Barbour stood up. ‘It’s time we got some sleep, but mind, lass, any time things get the better of you, when your heart’s sore for your son, come and tell me. Even speaking about your troubles sometimes helps.’
Cissie didn’t like to say that her heart was always sore for Ricky. She had thought it was the end of the world when she lost her first son the way she did, and it had taken her a long time to come to terms with it, but to lose her second when he was still alive seemed even worse. She would never come to terms with that.
Chapter Twenty-six
On the way to Dundee, doubts began to arise in Cissie’s mind. If Bertram had come back to Panache and she was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Ricky, could she remain silent and do nothing? Common sense told her that an attempt to snatch him in the street would ring the death knell on any hope of ever getting him back for good, but would common sense prevail when she saw him?
As she sat on the tram taking her to the outskirts of the city, she reminded herself that she was still in no position to look after him. She couldn’t have him with her in the shop from morning to night, and she couldn’t leave him in her room upstairs on his own. If she could find a job where there would be facilities for a child it would be different, but until such time, it was best to leave him where he was.
On legs that wanted to run, she forced herself to walk from the tram terminus towards Panache, vacillating between hoping that she would see Ricky, and that she wouldn’t, in case it might be too much for her. She took up her position beside some bushes at the corner of the street, at a spot where she could see the front door. She had been there for about forty-five minutes when she happened to look away from the house and spotted someone pushing a pram up the hill. Her heart tightened when she recognised who it was. It was late afternoon, of course, so Elma would be on her way home with Ricky after his outing.
Cissie drew back as the pram came nearer, yet she felt like jumping from behind the bushes to shove the girl aside and run off with the baby. It took all her willpower to keep still, and she had to hold her breath when the pram went past. Only when Elma’s back was towards her did she step out and crane her neck to see her son. Thankfully, he was fast asleep, otherwise he might have seen her and cried out. His chubby face was flushed, his mittened hands were lying over the covers, and he was the picture of health.
Although relieved that he looked so well, she felt as if her heartstrings had been riven asunder, and it was several minutes until she pulled herself together and walked back to catch the tram into town, reluctantly admitting to herself that, whatever else Elma was, she could not be faulted on the way she had looked after Ricky.
The trauma of seeing her son and not being able to touch him had been so great that Cissie went to Dundee only once every four weeks. She was extremely grateful that Mrs Barbour did not expect her to talk about it when she came back, because there were times when she couldn’t bear to describe how she had felt, but sometimes she did tell her how sturdy Ricky was growing, how he was sitting up in his pram and laughing.
Only once did the old woman say, ‘Has it got any easier for you, just seeing him for less than a minute?’
‘Not really,’ she answered, honestly. ‘He seems fond of Elma and she thinks the world of him, it’s just . . .’
‘I know. You must want to hug him, and play with him.’
‘It’s when I think of what I’m missing,’ Cissie gulped. ‘He’d just said “Mama” for the first time when . . . when I lost him, and he must be speaking a lot now.’
One warm afternoon in April, when she was later than usual in arriving at Panache, Cissie was delighted to see Ricky playing in the garden at the back, and took up her stance a little farther along to have a better view. He was crawling crab-like at first, then, to her amazement, he took hold of the wooden bench and pulled himself to his feet. Her heart was in her mouth when he stepped forward, but she gathered that it wasn’t the first time he had walked. He was rather unsteady, but obviously determined, and he was more than halfway across the lawn before he thumped down. Elma ran into sight and picked him up, and although Cissie could hear nothing, she sensed that the girl was murmuring endearments as she hugged him. Laughing, the little boy slid his arms round her neck, but it wasn’t long until he was struggling to be set down again, and the minute he was, he toddled back towards the bench.
It was another half-hour before Elma took him by the hand and led him inside, and Cissie turned away, glad that she had seen how much progress he was making, but sad that she hadn’t shared in it. It occu
rred to her that Richard and Phoebe had been in America for well over a year – they had left when Ricky was only three months old, and he was a year and a half now – and she decided to go to Huntingdon. There was always the chance that they were home. Richard would make short work of Elma’s lies and force Bertram to hand Ricky over, and maybe he would let his daughter-in-law and grandson live with them until she could provide a home.
Filled with hope, she marched up the long drive and rang the doorbell, but it echoed so eerily that she was sure the house was empty. She had thought that one of the servants might have been kept on to look after it – the housekeeper having left when Phoebe moved in, Richard had employed a cook to replace her, and there had already been two maids – but it appeared that no one was there. After trying twice more, she walked away dejectedly.
Her gloom was lightened that night when Tommy came to see her, his second visit since she came to Duke Street. When she told him of her trips to Dundee, he said, ‘I wish you’d let me go and get Ricky back for you. I’m pretty handy with my fists, and I’d knock Bertram’s block off if he gave me any trouble.’
‘Where would that get us?’ Cissie sighed. ‘He’d have you locked up, and he can be so charming when he likes, the police would take everything he says as gospel. We can’t prove we’re brother and sister without birth certificates, and I didn’t even think of taking mine with me when I left Schoolhill.’
‘Me neither, but you can’t go on like this. Couldn’t you sneak into the house some time and grab Ricky when your man wasn’t there?’
‘It’s not as easy as that. Elma’s with him every hour of the day, and she wouldn’t give him up. If there was a row, he’d be upset, and I couldn’t do that to him. I’ll have to wait till Phoebe and Richard come back from America.’
Waters of the Heart Page 27