Waters of the Heart

by Doris Davidson

  ‘How long will that be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Richard said they’d be away for a year or more, and it’s fifteen months now.’ A sudden horrible thought struck her – what if Richard had been taken seriously ill?

  Mrs Barbour, who had gone down to tidy her store to allow them to talk, came in at that point, and no more was said on the subject, but when Cissie saw Tommy off at the shop door, he said, ‘We’re off to Valparaiso in the morning, and we’ll likely pick up a cargo there, so I’ll not be back for a good few months. Maybe you’ll have the bairn back by the time I see you again.’

  ‘Oh, Tommy, I hope so!’

  When she next went to Dundee, Cissie made for Huntingdon first, with the same result as before. Phoebe had surely written to say where they were, but the letters would have gone to Panache and Bertram would undoubtedly have destroyed them.

  Cissie had noticed that Mrs Barbour was easily tired and was leaving most of the serving to her, yet it came as a shock when the old lady announced that she was going to retire. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while,’ Mrs Barbour went on, ‘for I’ll be seventy-five this year. My brain’s not up to keeping track of what I need to order, and I’m forever worrying if I’ve paid all the bills.’

  ‘I could do the ordering for you,’ Cissie suggested.

  ‘I know you could, you’re as smart a lass as I’ve ever come across, and that’s why I’ve made my mind up. My sister in Grangemouth’s been at me for years to sell up and go and live with her, and that’s what I’m going to do. Well, I’m not selling up, I’m leaving you in charge, for I know I can trust you not to lose any of my customers.’

  It was a minute before Cissie could find her voice, then she gasped, ‘Are you sure? If you sold up, you’d have money to keep you in your retirement.’

  ‘Do you not want to take on the shop?’

  ‘Of course I want to, but I was thinking of you.’

  ‘I’ve looked at it from every angle, Cissie, and it’s best I go to my sister’s, for if I retire and stop on here, you’d think I was criticising, though that’s something I’d never do. Besides, Bessie needs me – she’s three years older and doesn’t keep well – and her house is all on one floor, so I wouldn’t have any stairs to climb. I’ll not leave for at least a month, to give you time to get used to the ordering, and you can ask me anything you’re not sure of, though I think you know the business as well as I do now.’ She half turned away, then added, ‘Oh, I near forgot. You’ll have the run of the house, and all, once I go.’

  Cissie felt she had to protest about this. ‘You could let it, and I could get a room somewhere close. I can afford it, for you’ve never let me pay a penny in rent since I came.’

  Shaking her head, the old lady said, ‘I’m not needing any extra money. I’ll still have the profit from the shop, not that it’s a fortune, but I’ve always got by on it. Anyway, I’d rather have you in my house than strangers, and before you say it, I’m still not taking rent from you. The use of the house’ll be part of your wages, the same as the room’s been, and you’ll get a bit extra for being manageress.’

  ‘Oh, but Mrs Barbour . . .’

  ‘You’ll take out what I’ve been giving you plus another ten shillings, before you bank the takings every week. I’ll arrange with them to let you sign all the cheques, and I’ll show you how I do the books, but you’ll manage that, seeing you used to work in an office. As long as you don’t run me into debt, it’ll work out dandy.’

  Over the next four weeks, Cissie kept her mind resolutely off her son so that she could concentrate on absorbing what she needed to know about running the little shop, and she felt quite confident when the day came for her employer to leave. Her only regret was that she was losing a friend, a woman who had become very dear to her, and when the taxi arrived to take the old lady to the bus station, she had to fight back her tears.

  ‘Goodbye, lass,’ Mrs Barbour gulped. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  This was too much for Cissie, who could only clasp the hand held out to her, and she was left snivelling into her handkerchief as she watched the taxi moving away with the old lady in the back seat also wiping her eyes.

  Cissie was so upset that she couldn’t eat that Sunday, and spent the night worrying about the responsibility she had taken on. Would she be up to it? Would the trade go down through blunders she made? Would she remember to pay the bills on time and notice when the stock of some particular item was wearing down? She fell asleep from sheer weariness, and dreamt that, because she had forgotten to order in time, she was fending off irate customers who were demanding to know why they couldn’t get their usual brand of cigarettes and their favourite sweets.

  In the morning, she laughed at her fears. She had a good memory and wouldn’t forget anything, but just to make sure, she had better keep a notebook handy to write down all the things she needed to remember. The paying of the bills should be easy enough, because the wholesalers sent in accounts at the start of every month, listing the invoices for every delivery, and they gave a discount if the accounts were settled within seven days, so all she had to do was to write the cheques out as soon as they came in. The books for the shop were much the same as those she had kept before – Richard had called it the double-entry system – and she had to make sure that the money she paid into the bank and the cheques she wrote were recorded in the cash book.

  At the end of her first week, Cissie was pleased when she totted up her takings. She had drawn in a little more than Mrs Barbour usually did, but she had also had to order more, so it might not look so good at the end of the month. She was also getting to know the customers better than ever before. Instead of unloading their troubles on Mrs Barbour as they had been wont to do before, the women were telling her about their husbands’ faults, children’s illnesses, cats being sick on the hearth rug, dogs peeing on a newly washed floor. There was the other side of the coin, too. They told her when a husband got promotion, when a child did well at school, when a baby was on the way. She was genuinely glad or sorry for them, and could soon put names to husbands and children, even pets.

  She laughed at the jokes cracked by the men who came in for cigarettes, asked after their wives or girlfriends, listened without arguing while they ranted on about the government or their boss, and dealt with them carefully if they came in after a few drinks and were too familiar.

  She was even experimenting every night making different flavours of tablet, candy and fudge; her coconut ice took an instant trick with the women, her rum-and-raisin fudge with the men, the puff candy with the children. She relished the challenge of managing the shop, and the only time she felt sad was when she saw a boy who would be about the same age as Ricky would be. That was when her heart turned over and she had to discipline her thoughts so as not to wonder how he was, and if he would still remember her.

  With the books to write up and delivery notes to check with invoices, all her time was fully occupied, even Wednesday afternoons and Sundays, but she had managed to scribble a short note to Phoebe at Huntingdon. As yet, there had been no reply, but surely it wouldn’t be long, she thought as she tumbled, heavy with fatigue, into bed one night. She had also written to Dorothy Barclay, but that letter, too, had gone unanswered.

  She was dusting the last of the jars on the middle shelf one day when a young man came in. He was a stranger to her, but there was something about him that reminded her of Hugh Phimister, and her heart contracted. She had tried not to think of Hugh, of the might-have-been she would never know now, but she had never forgotten him. ‘Yes?’ she asked, in her usual bright way. ‘Have you made up your mind, or would you like time to have a look?’

  His eyes had the same earnestness as Hugh’s, crinkling in the same way when he smiled. ‘A quarter of pandrops, please. It’s for my mother; she’s ill and I wanted to cheer her up a wee bit.’

  ‘I hope it’s nothing serious,’ Cissie said, as she lifted the big jar down and unscrewed the lid.

  His timid sm
ile vanished. ‘The doctor says it’s cancer.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Cissie held the jar over the scales and shook out enough sweets to weigh almost double the four ounces he had asked for. ‘Maybe he’s wrong. They’re not infallible.’ She put the jar back on the shelf and opened a paper bag, wondering why the man had told her. Cancer was something people didn’t normally talk about, for they considered it a taint, something to be ashamed of – some even thought it was infectious – but maybe he felt he had to tell somebody. She gave the top of the bag the usual twist and held it out.

  ‘There’s a lot more than a quarter in there,’ he observed, digging into his trouser pocket.

  ‘A wee bit,’ she smiled. ‘From me to your mother.’

  He held out a half-crown, and when she had counted out his change into his hand, she said, ‘I hope her doctor’s wrong.’

  ‘Thanks, so do I.’

  His eyes were so mournful when he turned to go out that Cissie couldn’t get him out of her mind all day, and she hoped he would come back to let her know how his mother was.

  He did not appear again, however, and after a few weeks, Cissie came to the sad conclusion that the woman had died. She was disappointed that he had not come to tell her, but he was maybe too shy to make friends with her, and perhaps it was all for the best. Did she really want his friendship? Friendship between a man and woman could turn all too easily into something deeper, and she had no desire to tread the stony path of love again. Never!

  Besides, she had only felt drawn to him because he had reminded her of Hugh Phimister.

  She had been so busy one Friday evening – the day most of her customers were paid their week’s wages – that she went upstairs thankful to sit down and have some peace. Not that she had any worries about the shop, for it was doing even better than when Mrs Barbour was there. Her employer was happy living with her sister, sent weekly letters of praise to Cissie and had even given her a five shillings’ pay rise in appreciation for all her hard work, yet there were times, like tonight, when she couldn’t help thinking of Ricky, of Hugh, of Phoebe. Why hadn’t her stepmother answered her letter? She must be home by this time. Had Bertram actually turned Richard and Phoebe against her?

  When she felt her eyelids drooping, she fought against it for a few minutes, then smiled to herself. She should be in bed, not sitting in a chair remembering people from her past, people she would never see again. She levered herself to her feet, staggering a little as she went across to the sink, on legs that were already half asleep, to fill the kettle for a last cup of tea. Waiting for it to come to the boil, she picked up the evening paper she hadn’t had time to read. There was hardly ever anything interesting in it, and she turned the pages half-heartedly. She was folding it up when her eye caught a familiar name in the Stop Press column.

  The police have issued the following bulletin: A prisoner from Peterhead has not reported in since he was released on parole three weeks ago. Thomas McGregor, from Aberdeen, was arrested for murder in 1917, but the charge was changed to manslaughter. McGregor, fifty-eight years of age, has greying reddish hair and is over six feet tall. He is not considered dangerous. Anyone with any information is asked to contact their nearest police station.

  With no thought now of tea or sleep, Cissie sat staring into space, her heart pounding with fear. Her father was out! Already! And he wasn’t considered dangerous! What did the police know? He would be searching for her, and when he found her . . . She had known he would be released when he had served his sentence, but she had always believed that he would be out in 1933, maybe 1932, not 1927. Oh, God, what was she to do? He had been free for three weeks already and she would never feel safe now.

  Gradually, her panic abated. How on earth could he find her here? Even if he traced her to Dundee, to Panache, he would come to a dead end. Bertram didn’t know where she was – nobody knew. She had nothing to fear. Nothing!

  Standing up to turn off the gas under the kettle – on the verge of boiling dry – she remembered the letter she had written some time ago to Dorothy Barclay and her blood ran cold again. Roland would have told Bertram where she was, and if her father did trace her to Panache, Bertram would give him her address. Thinking of that letter reminded Cissie that she had also written to Phoebe, and it dawned on her that her stepmother was now in as much danger as she was herself. Tam McGregor would be after her, too, for having the nerve to divorce him. It didn’t matter that she must have believed the lies Bertram told, she must be warned about this.

  Not wanting to alarm Phoebe too much, Cissie tried to keep her own fear out of the note she wrote, merely stating that Tam was out of prison earlier than expected. Although she was still hurt that her previous letter had been ignored, she did not refer to it. Ending with just plain ‘Cissie’, she addressed an envelope and went out to the postbox.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Unable to eat or sleep, Cissie was looking wan and haggard, her eyes dark-ringed and sunk far into their sockets. Every time the shop bell tinkled, she sagged with relief when she recognised a friendly, familiar face, or even a complete stranger. Tommy had appeared three days after she read the awful news, but although she craved reassurance more than anything, she couldn’t tell him. Remembering their father’s temper, he would know that she was right to be afraid, and he would have gone back to sea as worried as she was. Worse, he might have thrown up his job so that he could stay with her, to protect her. She couldn’t let him jeopardise his future. He, too, was quick to be roused to anger, and if the two men ever did meet again, it could result in another murder – whose would depend on which of them struck first.

  Tommy had known something was bothering her, of course, and had done his best to winkle it out of her, but she had managed to take his mind off it by telling him that his old friend had retired, and he had left believing that it was the responsibility of managing the shop that had got her down.

  She went to bed every night thankful that another day had passed safely, and that Ricky was in no danger. Even if her father did turn up at Panache, Bertram – and Elma – would make sure he did nothing to harm his grandson.

  The weeks crawled past for Cissie, stretching into months, and still nothing had happened. The razor-sharp edge of her terror gradually blunted, until, at last, there came a day when she woke one morning feeling as if she had come out of a long, dark tunnel, and she laughed at herself for having been in such a state of mindless terror.

  As Tommy made his way to the sweetshop, he hoped that Cissie would be happier than the last time he saw her, for she had been in a dashed strange mood, as if she was scared stiff. When he tried to find out what was wrong, she had hinted that she was having a struggle to keep the shop on her own, but he hadn’t been fooled. Still, whatever it had been, surely she would have got over it by this time.

  On reaching the shop, Tommy knocked three times on the locked door and followed this by the warbling whistle he always gave to let Cissie know who it was. In a minute, she was letting him in, and he was glad that she looked better. ‘How’s things?’ he asked, following her up the back stairs.

  ‘Fine. I’m sorry about last time you were here. I was off balance a bit.’

  ‘Aye, I could see that.’

  While she filled the kettle in the kitchen, she remarked, ‘I thought you might have come back before you sailed.’

  ‘We’d a few problems, as always, and I couldn’t get away.’

  ‘Tell me where you were this time,’ she urged. ‘I love hearing about all the exotic places you go.’

  ‘Not so exotic this trip.’ He told her a little about the busy port of Hamburg first, and went on, ‘We’d another load to discharge at Bremerhaven and a whole cargo to pick up at Rotterdam. You know, it’s funny, but I never feel easy with the Germans; I suppose it’s a hangover from the war. I get along great with the Dutch. They’re much friendlier.’

  Cissie smiled. ‘You’d get along fine with anybody, but I don’t think I’d like to go abroad among forei
gners. How do you manage to speak to them?’

  ‘Most of them speak English, and if they don’t, I get by with signs. You know me, I’m never stuck. Now, what about you, Cissie? Have you heard from old Mrs Barbour lately?’

  ‘I’d a letter last week. Her sister’s housebound now and needs constant attention. I think she likes being needed, though, for it’s given her a purpose in life again. She asked about you.’

  ‘Give her my best wishes when you write. She was a nice old body. We always got on like a house on fire, though I don’t know what made her take to me in the first place.’

  ‘She told me you reminded her of her son.’ Cissie related the tragedy of the troop train, then went on, ‘But she liked you for yourself, as well. You’re a really nice man, Tommy, and I’m not saying that just because you’re my brother.’

  Turning pink, her brother gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘Ach, Cissie, you’re not so bad yourself.’

  ‘Have you to go on watch tonight, or can you stay?’

  ‘I’ve not to be on board till tomorrow, but are you not scared for your reputation?’ His grin vanished. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’ He hadn’t meant to remind her of the only other time he had spent a night in her home.

  She raised her shoulders briefly. ‘It doesn’t bother me now, Tommy. It was better for me to find out what Bertram was like, but I wish I could see Ricky again, or even just find out how he is.’

  ‘You should write to – Phoebe, wasn’t it? She’d tell you. Or your friend.’

  ‘I’ve written to both of them, and they’ve just ignored my letters. Bertram’s likely turned them against me, and I’m glad he doesn’t know where I am.’

  ‘He can’t do anything to you.’

  ‘I’d feel safer if he didn’t know where to find me.’

  ‘Have you given up the idea of getting your boy back?’