The New Breadmakers

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Every night as she left the shop, she felt a recklessness start to build up inside her. One part of her was terrified by the strength of her feelings and fought to control them. She’d stand well back from the edge of the platform. She’d stand behind someone. Nothing helped. She could easily push anyone aside. There were only a few feet from the edge of the platform, no matter where she stood. One sudden rush. That was all it would take. The impulse was so real, so strong, she knew beyond all doubt that one day it would be too strong. It would suddenly push her over.

  And one day it did.

  * * * *

  ‘Well,’ Melvin said, ‘at least it’s been good for business. The shop’s been going like a fair with nosy customers and reporters. Great publicity. The name of McNair’s bakery has been in all the papers.’

  Catriona was shocked.

  ‘How can you speak like that about such a tragedy? I really thought that even you would be able to feel at least some pity. But all it means to you is more money. You really are …,’ she was lost for words, ‘… dreadful,’ she managed at last.

  ‘Aw, shut up.’

  ‘The poor girl had no life at all and now, to end it like that! I knew she was depressed but I never dreamt …’ Catriona shook her head. She couldn’t get over it. ‘So horribly violent.’

  ‘Will you shut up about it? You’ll be making me bloody depressed.’

  No chance of him throwing himself under a train though, she thought bitterly. His insensitivity never ceased to amaze her. His first reaction to the tragedy was that he’d been made short-staffed on one of his busiest days. He’d put on a suitable act for the customers and the reporters, of course. To the reporters especially he was the good, caring, indeed grief-stricken, employer. He was shocked, devastated. She had been ‘such a nice wee girl. She was like a daughter to me.’

  It sickened Catriona, and she hated him more than she’d ever hated him before. To think he’d never had a good word to say about Sandra. He’d once called her ‘a right ugly wee cow’. Poor Sandra, with her straight, greasy hair and pale face, and National Health spectacles. She had been a gentle soul and a good worker, but what a wretched home life she must have had in such a fanatically religious family. The McKechnies were enough to put anyone off religion for life. Any kind of religion. The funeral had certainly put her off – all that talk of hell and damnation. It made her feel so angry. Poor, weak, unhappy Sandra. How dare they speak about her like that! Miserable and unhappy though she was herself, Catriona couldn’t imagine resorting to suicide. She’d rather commit bloody murder.

  For the hundredth time, she recalled Baldy Fowler’s wife and how she’d silenced her mother-in-law forever with a kitchen knife. Oh, she understood exactly how and why Sarah had committed the violent act. Sometimes she believed that one day her own feelings would get the better of her and she’d silence Melvin with equal violence. If she could think of a way to get away with it, that is, without the law catching up with her, she believed that she would do it.

  At other times, she felt shocked and horrified at herself. She’d tell herself that she must not allow Melvin to degrade her by causing her to harbour such thoughts and she’d banish them from her mind. But the hatred remained as strong as ever.

  13

  Sammy could not believe his eyes when he saw his mother. It wasn’t her shopping day. The shops would be long shut anyway. She didn’t have her handbag with her. She wasn’t even wearing a coat.

  ‘Mother, come in.’ He put one arm around her shoulders and led her into the house. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve been to the police.’

  ‘Wait, I’ll pour you a wee sherry.’ He kept a bottle especially for her. She always said it strengthened her.

  She sipped at the golden liquid but Sammy had to hold the glass to steady it, her hands were shaking so much.

  ‘Better?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Now, just relax, Mother. You’re perfectly safe here.’

  ‘I went to the police. They brought me to the close but I didn’t let them come up the stairs, in case they gave you a fright.’

  ‘Mother, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  He knew it must have something to do with his father. He didn’t need to ask. But she’d never gone to the police before, nor had she come to him for shelter or help like this.

  ‘Patch.’ Her lips trembled and tears splashed down over her cheeks. ‘Patch had never done him a moment’s harm. It was to upset me, you see. It was to get the better of me.’ She gulped the remains of her sherry. ‘He’d threatened me with his open razor, dangled it in front of me. Patch barked at him. He kicked poor wee Patch aside. Patch was trying to protect me, you see. I suddenly felt so angry, Sammy. I was so angry I spoke up to him. I said …’ She gazed wide-eyed up at Sammy. ‘I said to him, “What would all your important friends say if they saw you now? What would your lawyer friend do if he saw you threaten me with a razor? Maybe it’s time I told him.”’

  ‘Good for you, Mother,’ Sammy said with genuine pride and enthusiasm. ‘Good for you!’

  ‘He was furious then. I’ve never seen him so angry. I’d never spoken up to him before, you see. And then Patch rushed at him again, barking as loud as he could. And then … Oh, Sammy …’

  He put the sherry glass aside and gathered her into his arms.

  ‘Just calm down. You’re going to be all right. You’ll stay safe here with me from now on. And Patch will stay too. I’ll go and fetch him as soon as you calm down.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ his mother sobbed. ‘That’s what I should have done long ago. Brought Patch here. Stayed here where we both would have been safe. But I didn’t want to be a burden to you, son. And he would have come after me, you know. He would never have let either of us have a minute’s peace.’

  ‘Well, never mind, you’ve come now and don’t ever think you’ll be a burden to me. I know you mean well but it was just foolish to think that. I’ll enjoy having you here with me. I really will, Mother. That’s the honest truth. And you know how fond I am of Patch.’

  ‘I ran out of the garden and along the path until I got to Broomknowes Road. I thought I’d have to run all the way to the police station and it would be too late. But then I saw Constable Campbell,’ she said, ignoring Sammy. ‘I thought how lucky I was. He’s been walking that beat along by the park for years. I called out to him and he ran back with me. We saw your father flattening the earth with his spade, then stamping on it.’

  Sammy closed his eyes. ‘Mother, he didn’t?’

  But he knew the reply already.

  ‘Constable Campbell grabbed the spade and dug as fast as he could, and I helped. I scrabbled at the earth with my bare hands, Sammy. We got Patch up eventually and he was unconscious but still breathing. Constable Campbell lifted him and said to me, “It’s all right. We’ll get him to the vet” and he pushed your father aside and said, “I’ll deal with you later.”’

  ‘What a bastard,’ Sammy managed. ‘I hope they lock him up and throw away the key.’

  ‘But by the time we got to the vet, it was too late. Patch was dead. And he was only trying to protect me, Sammy.’

  ‘Oh, Mother …’

  ‘He did that to Patch to intimidate me as he always has done. I’d never spoken up like that, you see – actually threatened him. He knew that hurting Patch, giving Patch that horrible death, was the worst punishment he could give me. If I hadn’t threatened your father, Sammy, Patch would still be all right.’

  ‘He would have found some other excuse, some other time, Mother. He hated the dog. Don’t for pity’s sake blame yourself. Patch wouldn’t blame you. You did the right thing. Now you’re free of that evil bastard for good. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Different emotions careered about inside him as he brought the brown crock teapot down from the shelf and the tin tea caddy with the Japanese scene painted on it.

  ‘After we have a cup of tea, I’ll go up to the back
road and collect your things. You’ll be comfortable in the front room here. You know I never use it. I sleep here in the kitchen bed. Unless you’d prefer here, Mother,’ he added hastily. ‘Yes, come to think of it, you’d be much cosier in here. You know how you feel the cold. Here, you could make a cup of tea to heat you up whenever you fancied it, even if it was in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to put you out, son.’

  ‘I’d prefer the front room and it’s time it was used more. No, that’s what we’ll do. You’ll have the kitchen and I’ll have the room.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, son. You’ve always been a good lad to me.’

  ‘It’ll be great having a bit of company, Mother. I’ll enjoy having you here, believe me.’

  ‘Poor Patch.’ Tears suddenly glistened in her eyes again. ‘When I think of what he must have suffered.’

  ‘You mustn’t think about it, Mother. You’ll only keep upsetting yourself. If you do, that evil old bastard will win. He’ll keep on making you miserable. For Patch’s sake, as well as your own, you’ve got to be happy. You show him, Mother. Be brave and be happy, for my sake as well.’

  He poured them both a cup of tea and they soon felt better for the comforting brew. But he wasn’t looking forward to going up the back road to face his father in the isolated cottage opposite the hospital mortuary. The place held so many terrifying memories for him. But he was going to be all right. There was so much gladness and relief in his heart that at last his mother would be safe and he would now have a real opportunity to make her remaining years happy and contented. Maybe he could take her with him to a meeting. That might help give her peace of mind. Of course, he could buy her another dog, but no doubt she would need a little time to recover from the shock of losing one pet before being able to give any love to another.

  He could do all sorts of things for her. He would spoil her because she deserved to be spoiled. He thanked God or Good or whatever or whoever in the spirit world, if there was such a place, for helping his mother. They’d taken an awful long time to do it, but still …

  ‘Do you think you should, son?’ his mother was saying now.

  ‘Go up for your things, you mean? Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘He might be there and you know what he’s always been like with you.’

  Oh, didn’t he just!

  ‘I’ll be fine, Mother. Don’t worry. He doesn’t bother me.’

  So much for his Quaker honesty. He took his coat from the hook behind the door, keeping his back to his mother. Just before he left the room, he turned towards her.

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  She gazed back at him.

  ‘Oh, son!’

  The two words expressed volumes. He hurried away but was forced to slow down the moment he reached the close. A dense fog lay heavy and yellow tinged over the whole city. He’d already felt it filling his nostrils as he’d been coming down the stairs. Now he saw that it had reduced the street lamps to ghostly quivers, hardly visible at all. There were no lights at all up the back road.

  His gut churned with fear. Round on to Wellfield Street. Past the cinema without seeing it. Up the Wellfield hill. On to Broomknowes Road. He was ashamed of his fear. He had thought he had conquered it but it was still there. It would never go away. Determination quickened his stride. He was not a child any more. His father could not intimidate or frighten him.

  The houses with their foggy blotches of windows shrank into nothing. He could hear the rustling of the trees in the park. Along the back road now. How deathly quiet it always was here. The garden gate creaked. His feet groped along the path. His hands felt for the cottage door.

  ‘Father,’ he called out. No reply. Was he sitting on his big chair in the dark, hands gripping his heavy walking stick, waiting?

  The evil old bastard.

  So much for the Quaker belief that God was in everyone. Maybe that was the true reason he had never fully committed himself to them. He couldn’t accept all of their beliefs. Where was the good in his father?

  He wasn’t crouched in his big chair waiting in the dark.

  ‘Father!’

  The house was empty. Except for the ghosts of a thousand terrible memories.

  After lighting a lamp, he began packing two large suitcases with clothes and toiletries and everything he could lay his hands on that his mother might need or want.

  His father, no doubt, would still be at the police station. He was halfway back to his own place in Springburn when he saw the old man or rather heard him – feet stomping, stick thumping. Then his big hunched-shouldered form loomed up through the billowing fog.

  Sammy stopped in front of him. ‘Mother is with me and she’s staying with me from now on. I’ve collected all her things. Don’t you ever dare come near her again, do you hear? If you put a foot near my house or if you make any attempt to contact her in any way, I’ll make sure you’ll regret it. I’ll tell the newspapers. I’ll tell everybody. I’ll shout from the rooftops, if necessary, everything you’ve ever done. I’ll ruin you. Do you hear me, Father?’

  Then, before his father could say or do anything, Sammy pushed roughly past him and was swallowed up by the fog.

  14

  The Springburn library was a darkly weathered sandstone building which had been built with money provided by Andrew Carnegie, the millionaire philanthropist. As a regular reader in the library, Chrissie already knew that it contained a large stock of engineering books and shelves full of left-wing novels. The American writer, Upton Sinclair, was one of the most popular authors.

  The children had a separate department and Miss Cruikshanks, the head librarian there, was a stickler for silence and clean hands. Children would have their hands examined on arrival and, if they did not pass inspection, they would be sent out. Chrissie had often seen children hunkered around puddles outside trying to wash their hands before trooping back in.

  If speaking was absolutely necessary, it had to be done in hoarse whispers, even in the adult department. In the staff room at the back, conversation over a cup of tea and a biscuit or lunchtime sandwiches had also to be conducted in hushed tones. Miss Cruikshanks, tiny and hunchbacked, was severe in her reprimands if she heard any voice raised. Although, due to her strange eating habits, she could make a surprising amount of noise over her tea break or her lunch. A pear could make quite a riot as her teeth eagerly squelched and chomped at it. She could even make a baked potato sound as if it had a life of its own. No one had the nerve to comment on any of this. At least not to her face. Miss Cruikshanks, despite her small stature, ruled the place with a conscientiousness that gave no quarter.

  As Betty Paterson said, ‘She could throw you out on your ear without a blink of the eye.’

  Behind her back and at a safe distance, the young library assistants often enjoyed a giggle at her expense. Betty Paterson was a bit of a mimic and could do an impersonation of Miss Cruikshanks that was a little bit too cruel for Chrissie’s liking. The poor woman couldn’t help being a hunchback and maybe she suffered from deformed teeth as well. One thing was certain, she knew about books and Chrissie admired Miss Cruikshanks’s knowledge. What Miss Cruikshanks didn’t know about books and authors wasn’t worth knowing.

  The worst of it was that Chrissie, as a library assistant, had hardly any time to spend on the bookshelves. She and the other assistants had to spend most of their time on what was called ‘ruling the books’. Everything was recorded in these large notebooks. Everything. And there were particular record books, or rule books as they were more usually called, for each thing. Each of them had to be ruled in a certain way. Columns had to be carefully drawn up with a ruler and pen and ink. Coloured ink. If you didn’t rule it properly, you had to start all over again. Even the amount of toilet rolls had to be recorded. Old newspapers had to be kept and folded neatly and added to monstrous piles in the storeroom with equally important bits of string. Nothing was thrown away. Each light bulb had to have a date sc
ratched on it and had to be entered into a book. When the bulb was finished, the brass part was broken off and stored. There were thousands of these bits of numbered brass in the store.

  Books had to be ruled to record meter readings. One book had to be ruled for pencils and pens, another for dusting – the whole place had to be dusted every morning and the dusting carefully recorded. Every receipt from firms, for instance who supplied soap for the toilet, had to be recorded, as did every penny that was charged for the public toilet. There were also statistics to be noted of the number of readers who came in and the number of books borrowed and which particular book each reader had borrowed.

  Chrissie had begun to rule books in her dreams. Once she had quite a frightening nightmare about being lost among the piles of yellowed newspapers and oceans of string in the basement storeroom and being unable to make her escape back upstairs.

  Chrissie had never imagined being a librarian would be like this. All right, the Corporation paid for everything and had to know where every penny of their money was going. ‘But come on,’ Betty Paterson said, ‘who’s to know how many toilet rolls and elastic bands we use? Nobody comes to check, do they? Have you ever seen a councillor come here to check how we rule the books or anything else?’

  The main thing should be, everyone agreed, that libraries and librarians, and councillors for that matter, should concentrate more on seeing that the public bookshelves were always well supplied with good books to read.

  Fair enough, there was already a pretty good stock on the shelves. But it was Miss Cruikshanks’s obsession with storing everything and never throwing anything away that ruled the roost. Once old and much-borrowed books had begun to fall to bits or had to be removed from the public domain, they were entered in the record book and stored.