Time Out of Mind

by Ruth Hay

  She turned around in her seat and saw that the other passengers were talking on mobile phones, or reading, or laughing with seatmates.

  She wanted to call out to them, “Don’t you see this in front of you?” but that seemed to be foolish. If you lived here and saw this view every day, she surmised, it probably became invisible.

  Well, I am glad to see it for the first time, she thought, turning back just as the bus arrived at the summit of the motorway and descended into the narrower town road outside of Windermere. This must be what they all mean when they talk about this place. It’s like a little bit of Switzerland here in England, I suppose. But without the snow!

  Now that she was alive to this new landscape, Caroline could not wait to see what the next stage of her journey would reveal. They were travelling along a road that wound its way beside a lake, glimpsed tantalizingly between trees on Caroline’s left. On the right there were estates guarded by gates and walls. Some of these were hotels. The bus zipped past a more open area where people sat on a hotel terrace in the sunshine admiring the view of the lake but Caroline could only guess at that as the bus immediately followed the road around another bend where the trees blocked the view again.

  Fortunately she saw the sign for Waterhead just in time and dashed down the stairs while flashes of water and boats beckoned her. The bus drew to a halt and Caroline jumped off before she could figure out if she should have stayed on until the next stop.

  She caught her breath, and looked around to find she was very close to the water’s edge.

  There was a small parking area, and a marina with anchored boats bobbing in the water, and shops, and a bustle of people strolling along watching the activities as birds and boats flew out into the lake.

  “Well, I guess I’m here!” she concluded. “Let’s see what happens next!”

  * * *

  I felt extremely nervous on the journey to Rothesay.

  The short train trip from Glasgow Central Station had not done anything to allay my fears.

  I was setting off into the unknown, to a new job with a family I had never seen, and a future that I could not even imagine.

  The steamer across the Clyde estuary to Bute only made matters worse. I felt sick with nausea from the motion of the ship and even on the upper deck, where I retreated to quell the nausea in the cold air, I could not still the horrid feeling that I was making a big mistake in following Margie’s advice.

  She had discovered a hand-printed card on a college notice board asking for a student with nursing training to do paid work for the summer, for a family living on the island.

  Margie persuaded me to apply, saying, “There’s talk already in the staff room. Ye’d better go while the going’s good, hen.”

  Reluctantly, I phoned the number and talked to a pleasant-sounding woman who told me she had left the blackouts and bomb threats of Glasgow behind, for a more peaceful environment in which to bring up her family during the war years. I listened and supplied the professional details she requested, all the while fearing that it was a waste of time for both of us because the essential information had not yet been given.

  When she asked outright if I would be interested in the job, I had to make up my mind quickly.

  I had few choices in front of me and perhaps this one would be my best option.

  I hesitantly began by saying, “I am very interested in this opportunity, Mrs. Mitchell, but I must tell you that I am nearly six months pregnant.”

  There was a sudden silence on the line and I could hear the Glasgow traffic roaring past the public phone box. Well, that’s that, I thought.

  “Now, isn’t that a coincidence!” she exclaimed, in a much more eager tone than I could ever have imagined. “I’m expecting my fourth in a couple of months. It seems I fall pregnant every time my hubby is home on leave. If you don’t mind a household of screaming kids I’ll be happy to have your help. We’ll be company for each other. It’s a quiet life here, though. What do you say?”

  What could I say? Mrs. Mitchell must have been desperate to take on a pregnant teenager with no marriage prospects, but, any port in a storm, as they say. I was lucky to have somewhere to go before my secret was a secret no longer.

  I stepped off the gangplank on the dockside in Rothesay saying a prayer of thanks for solid ground at last. I carried one large bag stuffed full of jumpers, underwear and shoes, all I could smuggle out of the flat in Parkhead. There did not seem much point in taking any more, as my changing shape meant most of my clothes would not fit me for much longer.

  I had left a letter explaining my absence on the dresser in the kitchen. I felt no regret as I closed the door behind me and started down the three flights of stairs to the street. My parents’ small flat was already overcrowded with children and ancient relatives. They would hardly notice my departure. ‘One less mouth to feed,’ they would say; or two, in my case.

  I took a deep breath of salty air, hefted the bag and glanced at the paper in my hand with the directions Mrs. Mitchell had supplied. A dozen or so steps took me to the promenade running along the water’s edge and I was facing Castle Street, which I had been assured led straight uphill to actual castle remains and was an easy landmark for the row of workmen’s cottages curving down on the right where Mrs. Mitchell lived.

  I found number three and knocked at the door just as a shower of rain blew down the street from a cloud-covered sky. I hoped that was not a bad omen. I had had enough bad luck for a lifetime.

  A little girl of about four years of age opened the door eventually and stood staring at me with her thumb in her mouth. I ventured a “Hello there,” but the sound of my voice scared her off.

  As no one else was answering my knock, I stepped into the tiny hall and called out again.

  A distant voice from the top of the stairs replied, “I’ll be right down as soon as I get this one changed. Come away in!”

  As I was already in, I closed the front door, dropped my bag and stood there uncertainly.

  To my left was a comfy room with a fireplace surrounded by the same rough stone that formed the outer walls of the cottage. The carpet was a bright floral mix and colourful cushions were scattered over a plush couch and large armchair. A wooden sideboard with a matching unit on top displaying china knicknacks, completed the main furnishings, and the overall impression was of comfort and ease. I concluded that Mrs. Mitchell was ‘not short of a penny’ as my mother would have said.

  Steps on the staircase warned me to pay attention to the arrival of the lady of the house.

  She was shorter and younger than I had imagined, with wavy black hair she wore in a ponytail. She was dressed smartly in a loose top with a white collar near her face and matching brown jersey pants.

  “My goodness, Isobel, you are small for almost six months. Have you been looking after yourself? Never mind, you’ve come to the right place. I am an expert on pregnancy these days and you will get much better food here than they have back in Glasgow. Let me take your bag and I’ll get you a cup of tea and we’ll get to know each other. You’ll have met wee Beth already? She’s a bit shy with strangers but she’ll soon get used to you. Follow me to the back kitchen. It’s not a big cottage but you’ll have a bedroom to yourself up in the attic.”

  As Mrs. Mitchell issued this stream of questions and instructions, I could only smile, nod, and follow along. No answers were required for the moment.

  The kitchen was the width of the cottage and lit by a large window overlooking a garden where a row of nappies blew on a line. Beth was already seated at the table and drawing scribbles on a piece of paper with blue and red crayons. She smiled shyly at me and watched as I shrugged off my coat and sat opposite her, where a cup, saucer and plate had been set out for me.

  Mrs. Mitchell poured tea from a china teapot for both of us and placed a tin mug of milk beside her daughter without pausing in her conversation.

  “ ……. and I suppose you can help Beth with her reading. She’s very fond of books,
but mostly I hope you will take the twins out for walks and perhaps fetch some shopping on the way.

  Don’t worry, I have a special high pram with room for both boys. They love to get outside and will be no trouble as long as there’s something for them to look at.”

  As she sliced a fruit cake, a treat in those days of rationing, she finally reached the end of her

  monologue and said, “I am glad to see you, Isobel. I can certainly use another pair of hands.”

  I occupied myself with tea and cake and mentally composed a story which would satisfy her need to know to whom she would be entrusting her children.

  The truth was not an option, so I fabricated a different tragedy for her, which was not too difficult when stories of bombing and devastation were not uncommon. I described myself as an orphan of the war and felt shame when I saw the compassion in her hazel eyes.

  Barbara Mitchell was too nice a woman to question my story. She accepted me at face value and I was truly grateful for the shelter she provided and the advice she gave me about birth and child care.

  I met the twins, Paul and George, when they woke from their naps. Paul was dark like his mother, and George’s colouring was fair like his sister and, presumably, their father.

  The boys shared a bedroom on the second floor, close to Barbara’s room while little Beth was in a tiny boxroom next to the bathroom. The ladder to access the attic swung down smoothly when a rope was pulled. I noticed at once that the rope was high above the level that Beth or the twins could reach. I soon learned to stretch for it and stand back while it descended toward me.

  The attic room was to be my refuge. Even when I grew large enough to find the steep steps a struggle, I never complained. The peace and solitude in that place where a skylight lit the space with sun by day, and moon or stars by night, was the most peace I ever remember feeling.

  It was sparsely furnished, but I craved nothing more than the single bed with its patchwork quilt and the chest of drawers with the mirror set at an angle because of the slope of the roof. Hooks on the wall served as a wardrobe. I had nothing much to hang there until Barbara gave me some of her largest pregnancy clothes. A painted chair and a bedside rag rug completed the décor.

  * * *

  I fitted into the routine of the house within two days. It was to my advantage to demonstrate my usefulness so I rose early and washed quickly. Beth usually heard me splashing water and was waiting outside the door for her turn. I could see her little figure through the frosted glass pane and soon I was helping her get ready for the day, and we often had breakfast together before her mother was awakened by the twins. We both enjoyed the quiet time before the household erupted.

  The boys were just fifteen months old and what adults termed ‘a pair of wee charmers’.

  They were content to play together and were most settled when within sight of each other.

  Of the two, Paul was the twin who seemed more attached to me, while George preferred his mother’s attention. This allowed Barbara and I to attend to both boys simultaneously so one was not waiting and crying, as had been the case before I arrived on the scene.

  As requested, I took the boys out daily and this is when I explored the pretty Clyde resort on Rothesay Bay. We walked for miles in all weathers with the boys peering out from behind the flap that studded onto the sides of their pram and, with the large hood, kept the rain and wind from their faces.

  They were curious about everything they saw on our walks and I endeavoured to answer all questions about dogs and seagulls and boats out in the bay. When my knowledge was inadequate for their enquiries, I made up stories about gardens and houses and the people who lived there.

  There were many wartime ‘widows’ in Rothesay. The families met once a week to gossip and compare information about how the war was progressing, which they gleaned from the infrequent letters that arrived from the front. I accompanied Barbara to one of these meetings in a local church hall but I was uncomfortable answering questions about my status, so I asked Barbara if I could stay at the cottage and do some housework and prepare a meal for the family on those days. She looked at me rather strangely at this request, but agreed, and set out early so that Beth could walk beside the pram instead of riding piggyback part of the way with me.

  * * *

  Perhaps it was the influence of my new life caring for Barbara’s family that caused me to understand, for the first time, that I was going to be a mother.

  I had been consumed by fear and crazy schemes to recapture Gus in my first six months so that what was happening to my body was largely ignored. In Barbara’s warm home I blossomed in more ways than one. At seven months I put on so much weight that I looked larger than the petite Barbara who was a full month ahead of me in her pregnancy.

  She was delighted, stating firmly that I had been seriously underweight when I arrived and now baby and I were much healthier. She insisted that I attend her local doctor to ensure all was well with us and I submitted to the examination with some trepidation. I had never before had an internal exam.

  When the children were asleep, Barbara and I would sit by the fire and listen to the radio.

  Often I had Paul on my lap as he was restless at night, and it was easier to keep him soothed rather than risk waking the other two. Barbara would fall asleep in the warmth, so I would tiptoe upstairs with Paul and tuck him into his crib. He was such a sweet child as he clung to me with his hot little hands. I would sing him a lullaby in a low voice until his hands relaxed and he drifted off to sleep. When I went back downstairs to make our bedtime cocoa, I would cradle my own belly in my arms and hope my child would be as welcoming to me as Paul was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Caroline found a shop right at the corner where the road met the slope down to the parking lot. It displayed toys for children and animals, and was a better bet for free advice than other shops and restaurants which would expect her to buy the foods they were selling.

  She asked where she could find the Youth Hostel building and was told it was only a few yards back along the road from the bus stop. She passed a garage and a boat repair workshop and several bed and breakfast houses on the way, but was distracted by the traffic speeding past in a steady stream, and almost missed the YHA sign above a large grey stone house perched right on the lakeside.

  “This doesn’t look too bad,” she murmured to herself. Adam turned out to be the only person she knew who had joined the Youth Hostel Association and used their facilities in a number of spots throughout Britain. “They are pretty Spartan,” he had warned her. “But you’ll meet the most interesting people there from all over the world. Just don’t expect five-star accommodations.” As Caroline had never experienced five-star anything, she did not consider this to be a serious disadvantage.

  She entered the open door and found an office nearby. She gave her name to the young girl there and spent some minutes explaining why she had no luggage.

  “Och ye’ll be fine. Worse things have happened to folks’ luggage here, I can tell ye. It’s the ones from Africa, I’m sorry for. When their stuff goes AWOL, the language barriers are fierce.”

  The girl with the Scottish accent hopped out from the office and escorted Caroline up the fine, polished, wooden staircase to the second floor where a large women’s dormitory was situated.

  “You’ll like this room. It’s the only one with a balcony view. There’s only yoursel’ and two other girls so far, so it’ll be like a private room. There’s a shower room next door and a kitchen as well. Since ye’ve no supplies yet, I can suggest you might walk into Ambleside and eat there, or else just get snacks in the shops at Waterhead.”

  Saying “Cheerio, then!” she vanished back to her office, leaving Caroline staring at a selection of single beds with bedding folded neatly at the ends. Two beds in the middle of the row of six had been made up, so Caroline moved to the other side of the room and chose the bed nearest to the French doors. She removed her heavy jacket and placed it on the bed to
claim her spot, then stepped out onto the balcony.

  The view took her breath away. Behind her, the bulk of the stone building blocked the road noise and all she could hear was the sound of birds and the distant thrum of a motorboat zooming out into the centre of the lake. Windermere lived up to its name with a breeze ruffling the surface and sending small waves to the shore directly beneath Caroline. She could actually hear the sound of the waves lapping on the stones of the shoreline.

  To the left and right, as far as she could see, the lake stretched out, reflecting the blue sky.

  On the opposite shore, green, tree-clad hills beckoned, but no buildings could be seen there.

  On Caroline’s right, the lake seemed to end in a meadow then the land soared upward, cresting in rocky outcrops on the summit.

  “What a view there must be from up there,” she guessed, forgetting for a moment her antipathy to any kind of climbing.

  She stood, leaning heavily on the wide stone ledge, and felt the tension draining from her. Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks and she let them drip onto the weathered stone.

  Although the doctor had assured her mother that there was nothing physically wrong with her, Caroline knew she had not been herself lately. Perhaps this change of scene would help to restore her usual positive perspective on life. For now she was content to stand still, drinking in this marvelous view and appreciating the fact that, for this moment, and for the foreseeable future, she had no demands on her time or energies.

  Possibly, this holiday was not such a bad idea after all.

  * * *

  A gentle Scottish voice broke into Caroline’s dreams. “Miss Fenton, yer luggage has arrived. Can you come down and sign for it, if you please?”

  Caroline shook the sleep out of her eyes and came back to the present to find daylight streaming in through the French doors and the back of the Scottish girl disappearing into the hallway. Caroline jumped up and straightened the travel clothes she had slept in. Remembering to snatch up her jacket in case identification should be needed, she hurried downstairs to the office where a delivery driver waited impatiently with a clipboard in his hand.