The New Breadmakers

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Everything was too big, too dark and too heavy – including her father. She was afraid of him but recently she had plucked up the courage to talk to her mother about what had been going on. At first her mother had been horrified and hadn’t believed her.

  ‘Your father’s a Jehovah’s witness and an elder in Kingdom Hall. How can you say such terrible things about him, Sandra? Your own father, who has done so much good work for Jehovah?’

  That was what made it so confusing. They had all tried so conscientiously to do God’s work and to spread the Good News. Sandra’s brother, Peter, had been very clever at school and had been told by his teachers and the headmaster that he should go on to university. Peter had refused, replying that for the work he was going to do for Jehovah, he didn’t need to go to university.

  He had been courting a girl called Rose Evans for a time, but he had given her up when he’d fallen in love with Jessie Connors, who was not a Jehovah’s Witness. Rose had reported him to the elders and poor Peter had been partly excommunicated. He had been forced to give up Jessie and was not allowed to speak in Kingdom Hall for more than a year. He was broken-hearted during that time, Sandra thought, not because of losing Jessie but because he was unable to put up his hand and answer the questions from the Watchtower study paragraphs during the services as usual. He was always first at every service to answer with an accurate quotation from the Bible. She always enjoyed the study part of the service and was intensely proud of Peter. He was so clever that she was convinced he knew the whole Bible off by heart.

  Her mother said, ‘Don’t you ever repeat to Peter what you’ve just said to me. He’d be so shocked and horrified at you that he’d never get over it. Fancy you saying such things about your good Christian father,’ she kept repeating in disbelief, ‘who’s always been so conscientious in your teaching!’

  Yes, he had been conscientious in that, Sandra had to admit. Even during the usual training, from the ages of five to seven, she had not been as quick and as clever as Peter. Sometimes, she had not even been a very willing pupil. She had always been shy and anxious, shrinking away from having to accompany her father around all the doors in Balornock and Springburn and everywhere else in Glasgow, it seemed, to spread the Good News and sell the Watchtower magazine. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had always stood beside her at each door for support and protection. Once she’d reached the age of eight or nine, however, he would give her the magazines and tell her what to say. Then he’d knock at the door and quickly disappear out of sight, leaving her standing in acute embarrassment and fear to face whoever opened the door. She feared saying the wrong thing and letting her father and Jehovah down more than any physical danger that might befall her. She knew that they were God’s chosen people. They accepted every word in the Bible and, not only that, they lived it too. Because Jesus had said, ‘I am no part in the world, so you follow me’, they made themselves separate from everyone else. They were witnesses to the word of Jehovah, and that was why they went round knocking at every door – they were witnessing. Sandra had never been very good at it. She was too nervous and shy. These were terrible faults – she ought to have courage in spreading the Good News of the Kingdom.

  Her father, like Peter, was a wonderful witness. He knew his Bible and was totally committed in spreading the word. He was also dedicated in teaching her everything she needed to know, even about the structure of the organisation. They were part of a congregation of Christians who all believed exactly the same thing, all over the earth, completely uniform in everything except language.

  Would they be able to help her? she wondered. Even the thought paralysed her. There were elders, like her father, but their duty was to serve the brothers and help them with spiritual difficulties and questions. Her problem was not a spiritual one. Her mind dodged fearfully, shamefully about, trying to avoid thinking about it. She would never know how, in the end, she had managed to blurt out the words to her mother.

  ‘Daddy has started touching me – down there.’ The mention of genitals or anything to do with sex was strictly taboo. ‘And the last time, he actually … went all the way.’

  Her mother had been so shocked she had collapsed down on to a chair. She hadn’t been able to utter a sound for a long minute. Then she’d gasped out, ‘You wicked, wicked girl!’

  After that, she had avoided Sandra whenever possible, even refusing to look at her. It was terrible. Sandra began to wonder if she had imagined what had happened to her or even if, despite her instincts to the contrary, it was all right. But it was not all right. Her father came to her room at night and penetrated her again and it was painful and shameful and made her feel sick. Then she began to physically be sick, vomiting every morning. She would just manage to get to work and the privacy of the shop lavatory before the other assistants arrived. There she retched miserably until she was drained and exhausted.

  It was obvious, even to her, that she was pregnant – to her own father. It was too terrible. It was the wicked result of the sin of incest. Only one course of action seemed possible. She had to get rid of it on her own. There was no use speaking to her mother again. She wondered how she could do it, how she could cleanse herself of the wickedness. She searched her memory for anything she might have read in books or magazines belonging to girls at school. The girls had even picked out bits from the Bible to whisper and giggle about. She remembered something that had been said about drinking gin and swallowing laxative tablets and having boiling hot baths. She decided to try all three and bought a half-bottle of gin and some laxatives. The gin had to be bought from another district, in case she was seen going into a local licensed grocer’s.

  It worked the miracle she needed. She thought she was going to die from the pain but death held far fewer fears than going on living the life she was now condemned to. She crouched on the shop toilet, groaning in agony as blood gushed from her. She began to feel faint. Then she heard voices in the front shop. One of them sounded like Catriona McNair. In a desperate panic, she managed to stagger up so that she could pull the plug and get rid of the clots of blood filling the lavatory pan. No one must know that it was anything more than her usual troublesome periods. Gratefully she saw the clots flush away and only a pale froth of pink remain. She struggled to clean herself and flush away the paper but, despite her struggles, she felt herself sink to her knees. The lavatory pan and the cramped, windowless confines of the lavatory shimmered before her eyes, then faded away.

  When she awoke she was on a stretcher in an ambulance and Catriona McNair was sitting beside her. Sandra could see her lips moving, but her words sounded faint and far away. ‘Sandra, you know you don’t have to come into work when it’s your time of the month. Even Melvin understands and doesn’t mind. You shouldn’t have struggled out.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Sandra tried to sit up.

  ‘No, no, just you lie still and relax. You’ll be all right. I panicked when I found you and phoned for an ambulance. One of the customers kindly offered to go and tell your mother. She’ll take a taxi to the hospital and see you there.’

  ‘I’m all right now. I don’t need to go to the hospital.’

  ‘Well, it won’t do any harm to have a check-over. It’s surely not right that you’ve to suffer like this every month. Maybe the hospital doctor will find some way to help you.’

  Sandra’s heart was beating fast and she was praying that the doctors would not be able to find out the truth of what had happened. It occurred to her then, for the first time, that what she had done might even have been illegal. She could hardly breath for the thumping of her heart.

  They carried her into the hospital. Doctors examined her and before she could grasp what was happening, she was in an operating theatre and being anaesthetised. When she regained consciousness she was in bed in a ward and her mother was sitting, white-faced and wide-eyed, beside her.

  They gazed at each other in silence until her mother blurted out in a tragic voice, ‘They said you’d had a misca
rriage.’

  Tears blurred Sandra’s vision and all she could say was, ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’

  ‘It’s not … No, it can’t be. Have you had a boyfriend we didn’t know about? Is that it?’ A pleading note crept into her voice. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Tell me, Sandra. I won’t be angry with you, I promise. Just tell me who it is.’

  Sandra could think of no one, even to lie about. She didn’t know any boys. Never had done.

  ‘Sandra,’ her mother repeated. ‘Please.’

  Sandra just gazed helplessly back at her.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ her mother said at last. ‘What’ll we do?’

  ‘It’s all right now. The doctors have cleaned it all away.’

  ‘Oh, dear God.’

  ‘Please forgive me … I didn’t know what else to do.’

  Her mother took her hand and held it tightly. ‘Don’t worry, Sandra. It wasn’t your fault. I should have listened to you. But it was so hard for me. I mean, how could he?’

  ‘It’s all right now, Mummy.’

  ‘No, it’s not all right. This can’t be allowed to go on. You need help – we need help. This isn’t only a sin, it’s a crime. As soon as you’re able, we’ll go to the brothers. We’ll report him to Kingdom Hall and ask for their help and support.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy.’ Sandra was saddened beyond measure at the hard and bitter expression on her mother’s normally gentle, pious face. It was all her doing. Guilt heaped upon guilt, shame upon shame. How could she face not only her father but all the brothers in the Kingdom Hall?

  With all her heart, she wished she had died on the operating table.

  * * * *

  ‘You what?’ big Aggie Stoddart gasped. ‘Left your good job in the Co-op?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Don’t you be cheeky to me, madam.’

  ‘You asked me.’

  ‘Are you mad or what?’

  ‘What’s wrong with being a librarian?’

  ‘Fancy flinging up a good job in the Co-op!’

  ‘I never wanted to go into the Co-op in the first place.’

  ‘I always knew hanging about that Springburn library so much wouldn’t do you any good.’

  ‘Being a librarian is a good job.’

  ‘Fancy flinging up a good job in the Co-op!’

  Chrissie cast her eyes heavenwards, at the same time giving a sigh of hopelessness. There was never any use trying to explain anything to her mother.

  ‘Wait till your daddy hears about this, my lady!’

  In response to her mother’s warning, Chrissie nearly said, ‘What can he do about it?’ But she stopped herself just in time. Her mother could be violent and many a blow across the head had been delivered in the past. Even now that she was seventeen, there was still the danger that she could be the recipient of her mother’s fist.

  ‘It’s a good job, Mammy,’ she repeated. ‘Honestly. And it’s not just a job, it’s a career. I’m so lucky to get a start in Springburn. One day I might even make it to the Mitchell. That’s my ambition.’

  The Mitchell Library in North Street, off Charing Cross, had come into being originally on a different site, by the good offices and money donated by a tobacco manufacturer called Stephen Mitchell. It had to move several times as its numbers of books rapidly increased, until now its stock exceeded one million items and it was claimed to be the largest public reference library in Europe.

  ‘You could have had a good career in the Co-op.’

  ‘Mammy, I’m telling you, I’ll have a good career in the library service.’

  ‘It’ll no’ pay you any dividend. It’s the Co-op divvie that’s kept clothes on your back and shoes on your feet all these years.’

  ‘I never said anything against the Co-op.’

  ‘Well, then …’

  ‘I just didn’t want to work there all my life.’

  ‘You’re a lassie. You won’t need to work at any job all your life. You’ll get married.’

  Chrissie wanted to say that she didn’t want that option either. At least, not if she had to conform to the generally accepted idea that once a woman got married, she had to give up everything to concentrate on being a housewife and mother. Monday the washday, Tuesday the ironing. Each day had a specific job, every week the same, ad nauseam. Although things were beginning to change a little. At least for folk who could afford the new luxury inventions like washing machines and refrigerators and Hoovers. Her mother still took her rugs out to the back green, hung them over the clothes rope and beat the hell out of them. There was a wash boiler in the scullery of this house though and washing didn’t need to be carted down to a wash house in the back green. It had been like Shangri-La coming to this Corporation house. For the first time, they had a bathroom – they were actually able to have a proper bath! They had to endure sub-zero temperatures in the narrow strip of a room but it was still the height of luxury and much appreciated.

  Wee Jimmy Stoddart arrived home from work then. It wasn’t that he was small. Everybody knew him as that only because he was a good head shorter than Big Aggie. He did shifts on the buses.

  ‘Jimmy, you’ll never guess what this silly ass has done.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chrissie, of course. Who else?’ So far, Maimie, the younger Stoddart girl, had never caused them any worry or trouble.

  Jimmy stripped off his uniform jacket and loosened his tie. ‘What’s she done now?’

  ‘Just given up her good job in the Co-op.’

  ‘Have you gone mad or something?’ He addressed his daughter. ‘You’ve given up your good job in the Co-op?’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Chrissie almost laughed. What a pantomime! ‘I’ve got a better job, Daddy, and one that I’m really excited about. You know how I’ve always loved books.’

  ‘You haven’t gone and got a job in that Springburn library!’

  ‘What’s wrong with the Springburn library?’

  ‘If it had been the Mitchell …’ Jimmy thought for a moment. ‘The Mitchell’s a grand big place.’

  ‘Jimmy!’ Aggie protested.

  ‘It used to belong to a tobacco lord. That’s his big statue high up in front. They don’t build places like that nowadays.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll get to the Mitchell eventually …’ Chrissie began.

  She was interrupted by her mother. ‘Be quiet, you. What’s a building got to do with anything? She had a good job in the Co-op. See in that big Springburn Co-op, she could have worked her way up from the grocery to the millinery if she’d have put her mind to it.’

  Big deal, Chrissie thought, sarcastically, but wisely kept the thought to herself. It wasn’t that she had anything against the Co-op. She just wanted to work among books.

  ‘I’m going out,’ she announced.

  ‘Where are you off to now?’ Her mother eyed her with suspicion.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mammy. I’m just going down to the Wellfield.’

  ‘With a boy?’

  ‘No, a girlfriend.’

  ‘What girlfriend?’

  ‘Just a girl from work. You don’t know her.’

  In actual fact, she was meeting Ailish O’Donnel from upstairs. Her mother would not have approved of that. Her mother was worse than her father about Catholics. She passed the time of day pleasantly enough with Mrs O’Donnel or old Mrs Gogarty if she met them on the stairs or in the Co-op but she always said in private, ‘No good comes of socialising with Fenians.’

  As a result, the O’Donnels or the Gogartys were never invited to any of the Stoddarts’ parties. Even at Hogmanay, the Stoddarts never first-footed the O’Donnels or the Gogartys, and vice versa. Although, if any of the Stoddarts happened to see any of the Catholic families after Hogmanay, they’d call out, ‘Happy New Year!’ They even shook hands.

  They were always friendly and civil, in fact. They had to be, all living up the same close. It was only on special occasions like football matches or Orange Walks that hatreds erupted and
spilled over. The day after the Walk, Jimmy and Aggie would be all shamefaced and apologetic for their ‘Fuck the Pope’ shouts and other abuse.

  ‘Och, it wisnae me talkin’, hen,’ Aggie would say to Teresa O’Donnel or old Kate Gogarty. ‘It was the whisky.’

  Chrissie and Ailish were the same age and shared a love of books. Ailish worked in Copeland & Lye’s, a job she enjoyed. It was a lovely shop with a balcony tearoom, where an orchestra gently tinkled while you sipped your tea and ate dainty wee sandwiches and cakes and scones from a three-tiered silver cake-stand. Nevertheless, Ailish was excited about Chrissie landing a job in the library.

  ‘Gosh, what a bit of luck!’

  ‘Yes,’ Chrissie nodded. ‘As Mark Twain said – “the harder I work, the luckier I get”.’

  Ailish giggled. ‘Right enough.’

  They met round the corner at the Balornock Co-op before linking arms and making their way down the Wellfield hill. They weren’t going to ‘the Wellie’, as Chrissie’s mother thought, but to the much classier Princes Cinema in Gourlay Street, off Springburn Road. Chrissie remembered one time, when she was still at school, she had secretly met Sean O’Donnel and they’d gone to the Princes. It was her first date with a boy and, although he was two years older than her, she suspected it was his first date too. He had bought a bar of Fry’s Chocolate Cream and carefully halved it between them in the pictures. They had sat in rigid silence all through the film, both shy and nervous and not knowing what to say or do. She remembered their mutual relief when they parted. Her mother had found out afterwards and boxed her ears for stooping so low as to go out with a ‘Pape’.

  She could imagine poor Sean getting much the same treatment. Nowadays she sometimes asked Ailish, ‘How’s Sean getting on?’

  ‘Fine. He’s still working in McHendry’s. He’s in the office and doing really well. I wish I could say the same about Dermot.’

  ‘What makes Dermot so aggressive, do you think? He always seems to be in fights. But maybe they’re not his fault,’ she added, without much conviction.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ Ailish said. ‘Sean and I are always trying to talk some sense into him but it’s no use. Blokes sometimes even come to the door asking for a fight with him!’