Time Out of Mind

by Ruth Hay

  He was waving a newspaper and it occurred to Caroline that he was referring to the incident at Waterhead Pier. The picture of Jay carrying her out of the water had been on the front page.

  “Oh, that is so embarrassing, Uncle Philip!” she whispered urgently. “Please don’t draw attention to me. I look like a drowned rat in that picture and I was hoping to forget about the whole thing.”

  “Nonsense, Caroline! You are a heroine! That child would not be alive if you hadn’t jumped in to save him.”

  “I doubt that!” She looked furtively behind them to see if anyone in the lounge was listening to their conversation but, fortunately, the residents were busy with drinks and chat.

  “Who told you it was me in that picture? No one knew my name.”

  “I wasn’t told. I recognized you when you came from the pool earlier with your hair dripping over your face and as soon as I picked up the local paper, I put two and two together.”

  “Joseph, please get one of your specials for my niece. She’s a genuine lifesaver.”

  Her uncle pushed the paper across the bar so the bartender could see the awful picture on the cover. Caroline cringed inside and wanted to run back to the pool where she wished she could attempt to stay underwater until this whole mess vanished.

  Can this evening go anywhere other than downhill from here, she groaned inside, as her uncle summoned the hotel manager to meet “My niece Caroline. This is her picture and I have met the brave young man who assisted her in the rescue.”

  It was obvious that Uncle Philip was a valued customer at the Gold Rill. In only moments the staff and residents were crowding around the bar congratulating Philip on his family connection to “such a wonderful young woman.”

  Caroline was trapped on her bar stool and could do nothing other than grin mindlessly and accept the praise that was heaped on her. The worst part was when the dining room doors were opened and the residents who were seated first, applauded her as her uncle escorted her to his table at the far side, right against the picture windows.

  “Oh, Lordy!” she murmured under her breath. “Wait till Janine and Ashley hear about this! They are going to crow over this forever! I’ll never live it down!”

  * * *

  It was a full half hour before Caroline’s stomach had settled enough to enjoy the delicious food that was placed before her. Uncle Philip did not seem to notice. He was too busy basking in the admiring glances of those diners at nearby tables. Caroline was pleased that she had her back to the dining room and could calm herself by looking at the spectacular, mountain and lake view, revealed by the floor to ceiling windows.

  She concluded that her uncle must be a very lonely man if the reflected glory of her accidental bravery could please him so much. She wondered how she could turn the conversation away from her exploits and onto his family life.

  Finally, she chose to introduce the topic when the main course had been removed and her uncle was sampling his second, large, glass of red wine.

  “Uncle Philip, what did you think of Jay’s information that Anna Mason’s parents have something to do with your father?”

  There was a tense silence during which the sounds of dishes and chatter from other tables seemed to grow much louder. Caroline swallowed some water and waited for the explosion signifying a breach of her uncle’s privacy. Instead, she heard a deep sigh and her uncle began to speak quietly and quickly, as if in a confessional.

  “I owe you, and my sister, some explanation, I suppose. I can’t be sure, of course, but it is possible that the groom in the wedding photograph has some connection to my mother.

  I can guess this, only because of an incident that happened many years ago at our home in the Midlands.

  My mother and father were arguing as usual. Lynn would always hold her hands over her ears to shut out the ugly sounds and I wish I had done the same, because that night I heard something that has haunted me ever since.

  My mother was incensed at some decision or other of my father’s, and she blurted out the words, ‘The boy is not yours, remember!’ The words echoed in my head and bounced off the walls reverberating through the house in a dreadful cascade that never ended for me.

  Nothing more was said that night. It was as if the words had opened up a chasm between them and armed silence was the only weapon my parents could summon.

  I look back now and believe that incident was the beginning of my mother’s depression and illness, and it certainly was a part of the post-traumatic shock effects that brought my father to an early death.”

  Caroline sat transfixed as she saw a glimpse into the heart of this man who had carried a sorrow for so long. She did not know how to respond to this adult confidence but felt that something was required from her.

  “How sad!” she said eventually. “I am really sorry to have brought these memories to mind after so long.”

  “My dear, they are never far from me, unfortunately. I did once send away for my birth certificate but it was of no help. It listed my mother and father as my parents. The only jarring note was that my birth preceded their marriage by eighteen months. By the time I discovered this discrepancy, I had removed myself from the family altogether, and could not imagine asking for an explanation.”

  Caroline shuddered inside at the picture she was forming of an isolated, lonely man who carried inside secrets and mysteries for years upon years. She could not imagine such a thing happening in her own, close, family circle, but then she realized that Philip’s mother, Caroline’s great-grandmother, was still struggling with a similar painful situation that was causing her enormous distress.

  With a sudden upswelling of hope, Caroline prayed silently that somehow these two members of her family could find peace by solving the puzzles that tortured them, and that she and Jay might be a part of the solution.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My stay in Victoria Hospital gave me some time to contemplate my future.

  I no longer harboured any illusions about what kind of future that might be.

  I had choices to make, although neither of them was satisfactory to me.

  I could give the baby up for adoption immediately after the birth and never again see him or her.

  This choice would allow me to return to college and complete my nursing qualification although I would have to beg for accommodation at the college residences and work part-time to support myself.

  I could keep the child.

  At the very thought of this option, my heart began to beat faster and I swear the baby inside me kicked out fiercely. The problems were insurmountable, however. I would have nowhere to live and no college course to rely on for a reasonable future income. And yet……….. deep inside I fostered a tiny glow of hope that, if I kept his child, Gus might find his way back to me.

  I imagined the scene. I would be sitting in a park in summer with the baby gurgling on my knee and Gus would be irresistibly drawn to us and take us in his arms and promise……..

  I shook my head to dispel this fantasy. It would never happen. Gus was lost to me. He would probably never even know, or care, about his child. It was my responsibility. I should give it up.

  But I did not want to give up my last tiny link to the first man I had loved.

  This dilemma raged back and forth in my mind.

  The doctors wondered why their medicines had little effect on my soaring blood pressure but I knew that my body was reacting to the struggle within me.

  Keep the child and suffer deprivation for years and years, or give up the child and lose all possible contact with the one who I suspected was the love of my life?

  Keep or give up. Keep or give up.

  * * *

  When my waters broke, I was no closer to a decision.

  All thoughts of the future were driven from my consciousness by the urgency of the pain that was forcing my child into the world. I thrashed around in the hospital bed and bit down on my tongue to stop my screams from emerging. I had lain in this ward listen
ing to those screams from other mothers for weeks now, and I was determined not to break down in front of the nurses who held me in little enough regard as it was. They were suspicious of me, since no relatives ever appeared to see me.

  The hours passed and still I laboured on. Sweat darkened my hair and my nails left crescent marks on my hands but no birth was forthcoming. It was as if the child was unwilling to be born until I had decided its fate.

  The nurses summoned the doctor. My blood pressure was elevated to a dangerous degree.

  They gave me a whiff of gas to relieve the pain but I was so lost in the grip of this all-consuming struggle for life, I scarcely noticed.

  In desperation I cried out, “Mine! You are mine!” I pushed, with all my remaining strength, and fainted as the unbearable pressure in my bones released at last.

  When I awoke, Kyle Purdy was seated by my bedside. I thought I must be dreaming.

  Kyle wore the khaki uniform of a soldier. His hair was shaved short at the sides and back and his army cap was folded in a buttoned tab on his shoulder.

  “They sent for me from training camp when the baby was born,” he said without preamble. “I understand I am the father? Too bad I missed the initial event! What’s going on Isobel?” I tried to move my head to see whether his expression showed anger or humour, but the tiny movement sent waves of nausea through my body and I closed my eyes until it passed.

  A hundred thoughts crowded my mind, but one jumped to the fore.

  “The baby! Is the baby all right? What is it, boy or girl?”

  “Well, the nurse told me I have a son. Quite a shock I must say, Izzy. What are you trying to do here girl? Whose baby is this, or can I guess already?”

  Even with the brain fog I found myself in, I knew I owed Kyle an explanation. I tried to focus on the need to get him on my side, although how to do that had not occurred to me in all the hours I had spent considering my plight.

  “Kyle, I am desperate. You must help me. It’s Gus’ baby of course. He must have told you what happened and that he wants nothing to do with me. He doesn’t even know I have had the baby and it makes no difference to him anyway.”

  Kyle looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Perhaps he was right to think so. He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Are you crazy, Izzy? You can’t be thinking you will keep this bas…..” He caught himself just in time. “………this baby that no one wants?”

  It was his automatic assumption that I would give the child up for adoption that gave me the clarity of mind and the determination that I needed so badly.

  “Look, Kyle, I am keeping this baby. I just don’t know how yet. Maybe one day Gus will change his mind and come looking for him. I will look after us until then.”

  Kyle stood up quickly and jammed his cap on his head. Anger was all over his face.

  “Isobel, you fool! That will never happen. Gus and Marion were married a month ago, just before I enlisted. They are leaving for a new life in Canada very soon. It’s over, believe me. It’s over. You’ve ruined your life for nothing.”

  He turned on his heel and marched out of the ward leaving me stricken.

  * * *

  The doctor put my collapse down to blood loss during the lengthy birth process, but the truth was that I was overcome with despair at the news Kyle had delivered.

  I did not see my baby for two days. The nurses decided I was too weak to sit up and hold him.

  I heard them discussing my condition when they thought I was asleep. The kindest one of the bunch spoke up for me when the others called me a trollop, and worse.

  “Ach, she’s mebbe worrit aboot thon sojer boy who came by. He could be off to war and her left behind with naebody tae help her. Try to be a wee bitty sympathetic, you lot.”

  It was this nurse who brought the baby to me and stayed with me while I tried to get him to ‘latch on’ as they called it. I was determined to feed him myself, so I listened to her advice and worked to relax enough to let the milk come down. Breast feeding was an inexpensive way to nourish a baby, or so Barbara Mitchell had told me.

  * * *

  A week after the birth, I could delay no longer. My son had to be registered and a birth certificate issued. I named him Philip Thomas Rutherford Purdy. It was not possible for me to name him after his father and call him Angus, but I stole Gus’ middle names and tacked on Kyle’s surname so as to allay suspicion since that name was on my hospital registration form.

  A nosy woman from social services had already been to see me. She asked a lot of questions about my circumstances and I lied about everything to put her off the scent. I knew the moment she suspected I was unable to provide for my baby, she would put on the pressure to take him from me and put him in a home for foundlings.

  I had watched the entire tearful process happen with a young girl in the third bed from me in the ward, and it was relentless and horrible to behold. I had to get away from the hospital before they found out my true circumstances.

  Perhaps, God, or some generous deity up in heaven, looks out for the helpless. Two unexpected blessings came to me then and they changed my future completely.

  First, an envelope arrived from Rothesay with a kind letter congratulating me on the birth and telling me how the new little Mitchell was doing. This, in itself, made me feel more human than I had in weeks, but tucked between the pages was a cheque for a sum of money that Barbara insisted was back wages. I cried when I clutched it to my chest and the tears fell on Philip’s downy head. We were saved for the immediate future.

  Second, the hospital registrar handed me a sealed, official-looking document as she signed me out of the hospital one cold morning in October. Her officious tone of voice when dealing with me had not softened in the weeks I had ‘lingered on’ in one of their beds.

  “This just arrived for you, with a covering letter for the hospital. We have been informed that the baby’s father has provided sufficient funds to pay for a layette for your boy. You can take this chit to the shop on the ground level and choose the nappies and clothes you need.”

  I thanked the snooty bitch as politely as I could, took the official document without opening it, and blessed Kyle’s name all the way downstairs to the little shop. I chose some inexpensive items and bought a leather satchel to store them in.

  I spent the rest of that day looking at flats for rent in the city centre. Barbara’s cheque would pay for a few weeks rent only, but I had learned to think of one day at a time. Looking further ahead was far too frightening.

  It did not take me long to discover that a young woman with a new baby wrapped in a blanket in her arms was not considered to be a suitable tenant. As the day wore on and the cold increased, I realized I had to find a place to shelter the two of us. I could feel my legs getting shaky and I had been warned that overexertion could halt my milk flow.

  Ducking into a fancy dress shop on Argyle Street, I found the ladies’ toilets and went into a stall where I could sit and feed Philip for a few minutes. Despite the fact that I had had no food since early that morning, I managed to supply him with enough milk to put him to sleep. As I sat there in the warmth, I had an idea.

  Arranging the new baby clothes in my satchel into a soft bed, I gently lowered Philip into the nest and folded the flap of the satchel over him. Swinging the thick straps over my shoulder left one hand free to support his weight from beneath. My other shoulder supported a knapsack with the few clothes and personal items I had brought from Rothesay. I looked in the mirror above the sinks and confirmed that no one could tell there was a tiny baby resting by my side.

  Near the river Clyde, there was a street of old tenement buildings. One had a sign hanging out of an upper window advertising a flat for rent. I climbed the stairs to number four and rang the bell once, hoping the baby would not stir, and the flat would be cheap.

  I was right on both counts. The older woman never suspected there was a new baby as part of the deal and I spun a story for her about a husband in the forces
fighting overseas and a family in Ireland who could not afford to help me out.

  She gave me a bargain rent on condition that I kept the flat neat and clean and washed the stairs for her and the other tenants. I agreed without even seeing the place.

  It was a small attic flat. For a moment it reminded me of the room in Rothesay, but this one lacked the simple bright furnishings of that peaceful sanctuary. There was a wash basin in one corner and a hotplate on a chest of drawers for cooking. A narrow bed occupied the rest of the rear wall, facing two sash windows. The height of the building meant that I could see sky through these windows and that relieved the oppressive feel of the place.

  I paid the first month’s rent in exchange for the room key and watched the woman exit quickly before I could change my mind.

  With no cot for Philip, I pulled out the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers and placed it near the bed. There were dishes and a kettle in one of the other drawers and a threadbare set of sheets for the bed.

  I could see that everything needed cleaning, but all that was supplied was a cake of hard soap on the washbasin where a tap dripped incessantly. Beggars can’t be choosers, I said to myself, and unpacked my meager belongings. With my remaining strength I had to find some food before Philip woke and demanded a feeding.

  I slipped quietly down the stairs again without alerting my landlady. Out in the street I found a small shop on the corner where a weary Pakistani woman filled a paper bag with bread, a bottle of milk, a twist of loose tea and a packet of porridge oats.

  Climbing the three flights of stairs for the second time, took the last of my energy.

  I closed the door behind me and prayed that the other attic flat on this level would remain empty. I could hope to conceal a small baby’s cries from the flats below me, but anyone in an adjacent flat would soon learn my secret.