He had been older and far more experienced than she. He had rushed her into a loveless marriage of convenience. All he wanted was a housekeeper and someone to look after his son. He wanted sex too, of course - oh, plenty of sex and at the oddest, most inconvenient and nerve-racking times, as if he did it purposely to degrade and torment her.
There never had been any mention of love. They seldom kissed and when they did he had the peculiarly insulting habit of wiping his mouth and his moustache with the back of his hand immediately afterwards as if to remove the slightest taste of her.
‘Now he’s got Lexy mooning after him, the old man tells me.’ Melvin relaxed back in his chair again, forgetting his suspicions. ‘Nuts about him she is, and making no secret of it. What’s got into her all of a sudden I haven’t a clue. She’s been working down there since not long after she left school and never a bit of bother and now all of a sudden she goes all cow’s eyes and weak-kneed over him. It’s bound to affect her work. I told the old man - something’ll have to be done about that guy. But all I get for my troubles is told to shut up. “I can manage Jimmy. You shut up and mind your own business,” he squeaks at me. At me! The old sod’s soft in the head. It’s time he retired altogether.’
‘Is that the girl that lives up in one of the attic flats?’
‘That’s her. Sexy Lexy they call her. She’s a buxom piece.’
‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’ Her voice struggled to sound casual and smother the misery underneath it. ‘Is Jimmy in love with her?’
‘Don’t be a fool! She’s as common as dirt. He’s had her out though. I’ll give you three guesses what for!’
She felt sick.
‘Jimmy Gordon’s not like you.’
‘What?’ Melvin suddenly guffawed with laughter. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure. He’s only a boy compared with me, of course. I know what women like, eh?’
She froze, terrified to move or say anything that might incite him to demonstrate his sexual prowess right there and then.
‘Well?’ His voice loudened. ‘Don’t I?’
She managed to smile.
‘Betty wrote some lovely letters, I remember. She must have been very fond of you. What age was Fergus when she died?’
Hearing herself, she felt amazed. It was like someone making polite conversation with a stranger. Then suddenly she realized he was a stranger and, to her, he would never be anything else.
Bitterness drowned in sadness. She didn’t hate him. He didn’t mean any harm. There wasn’t necessarily a thing wrong with him as a husband - if he had the right wife, a wife like Betty for instance. On one point she was quite certain. She was not the right wife for him. Yet she had agreed to his proposal of marriage of her own free will and had stood up in the Hall and agreed to love, honour and obey him until ‘death us do part’.
Even now, she could hardly credit it.
I must have been mad, she thought.
‘Oh, he was only a baby.’
‘What?’ Legs shaking, she groped for a chair.
‘Fergus. He was only a baby when Betty died. I told you before.’
‘Did you?’
‘I don’t think I told you about the christening, though.’ He lounged back, a glaze of pride lifting his face. ‘It was the best do folks round about here had been to in years. There wasn’t a dry eye in this house.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was just the day before Betty died. I knew she couldn’t last much longer and I wanted to do everything I could for her before the end. That was the day I sent for her girlfriend - Jenny something-or-other. I never could remember that girl’s name. And I got a preacher to come and baptize Fergus and I propped Betty up on the settee in the front room and put Fergus in her arms. I invited all the neighbours to the christening. That room was packed and of course I had it looking lovely, all polished to perfection and clean curtains up and the carpet shampooed. I had given Betty a bath and bought her a new nightie and a bedjacket and brushed her hair - she had long hair the very same as you - but she was just skin and bone and she looked so pathetic and obviously not strong enough to hold the baby, so I knelt beside the settee and supported him for her while the minister conducted the service. I’m telling you there wasn’t a dry eye in this house.’
Catriona sat transfixed on the chair opposite from him.
Eventually becoming aware of her silence, he eyed her curiously.
‘What’s wrong with you? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’
Her face crumpled.
‘Come here, stupid!’ He leaned forward, caught hold of her arm and dragged her across to him until she was sitting on his knee. ‘There’s no use crying for Betty now. I cried right enough and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I cried like a baby in front of everyone at her funeral and I’ve cried to myself many a time since. But crying doesn’t bring anyone back. I had to face facts eventually.’ He held her head down on his shoulder and stroked her hair. ‘So don’t cry, darlin’,’ he told her in the gentlest tone he’d ever used to her. ‘You’re my wife now. I’ve got you to look after now, eh?’
‘Oh, Melvin!’ She squeezed her fists against her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to contain her sobbing. ‘I’m frightened!’
Chapter 22
Early in the afternoon, telegrams from the Home Secretary, intimating that no reprieve had been granted, were received by the Lord Provost of Glasgow, Sir Andrew Finlay, and the town clerk, Sir Meikle Tate.
The telegram to the Lord Provost said: ‘The Secretary for Scotland is unable to discover sufficient grounds to justify him in advising interference with the due course of law in the case of Sarah Fowler, now lying under sentence of death.’
No doubt Sarah’s pleasant, well-balanced and co-operative behaviour before, during and after the trial had weighed heavily against her agent’s plea of insanity.
Shortly after receiving the telegram, as was the custom, the Lord Provost and the town clerk proceeded to Duke Street Prison to inform the prisoner of her fate.
They were received by the governor, and Dr Stewart, and the Reverend McNeill who accompanied them in solemn, dignified procession to a room in the section reserved for women.
A female warder went to the condemned cell to fetch the prisoner.
Sarah welcomed her with a smile.
‘Hallo, hen. Is it ma man come tae see me?’
‘No, Mrs Fowler,’ the woman said. ‘It’s the Lord Provost and the town clerk. Come on, I’ll take you to them.’
‘The Lord Provost and the town clerk?’ Sarah was deeply impressed, deeply grateful. ‘Would you believe it. Ah told ma man that all the high-heed yins were bein’ that kind to me but ah never dreamt that anybody as high-up as the Lord Provost would come tae pay me a visit. And the town clerk, too!’
She tidied back her hair and tugged down her green prison dress and fumbled with the buttons of the pink cardigan as she accompanied the wardress along the corridor.
Entering the room she was more impressed and awestruck than ever when she discovered not only the imposing figures of Sir Andrew Finlay and Sir Meikle Tate, but the governor, the doctor and the holy yin as well.
She cleared her throat.
‘It’s awfi kind o’ ye all …’
‘Sh … sh … !’ the wardress reprimanded.
Sarah sucked in her lips in a gesture of embarrassed apology. Then, as if to make up for her lapse, she crinkled her face into an expression of rapt concentration on what the Lord Provost was obviously preparing to say.
‘Mrs Fowler,’ he began at last. ‘It is with profound regret that I am obliged to be the bearer of a sad message. I am deeply sorry to inform you that the Secretary for Scotland has not seen his way to grant you a reprieve.’
Sarah’s features relaxed. She looked bewildered.
She allowed the wardress to take her arm and lead her towards the door.
Then her legs buckled under her. The prison doctor rushed to the wardress’s assistance and between them
they supported and half-carried her from the room.
‘Baldy!’ The corridors began to echo with whimpers. ‘Baldy!’ The whimpers quavered louder. ‘Baldy!’
And louder.
Until the pitiful cries for her husband were muffled by the clang of the cell door.
Jimmy paced back and forward.
‘It’s barbaric!’ He stopped to twist out his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘Barbaric!’
‘Jimmy, son, please! Try to keep calm!’ His mother pleated and unpleated her apron between her fingers, her anxious eyes never leaving his face.
Catriona was hovering near. Lexy was there, too.
‘Calm? Calm?’ He gesticulated wildly. ‘How can I keep calm? They’re going to strangle Sarah Fowler in the morning!’
‘Ohi! Ohi! Jimmy!’ Lexy’s face twisted grotesquely as she burst into tears. ‘Don’t say that. She was always so nice to me!’
‘But it’s true, Lexy,’ he said brokenly, and lit another cigarette.
Lexy began to wail and Mrs Gordon put an arm round her and persuaded her from the room.
‘Jimmy, stop it!’ Catriona blocked his way as he made to start pacing again. ‘Nothing can be done now. You’ll only make yourself ill.’ She put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘You’ve tried your best. You’ve written to the press. You’ve gathered petitions. You’ve organized pickets outside the prison. No human being could possibly have done more than you and Baldy and all Sarah’s neighbours and friends.’
‘Oh, Catriona, Catriona!’
‘Sh … sh!’
Her hand tightened on him. She felt the warmth of his body and gazing up she longed to touch the thick unruly hair, the dear emotional face; to hold him close to her, caress him, soothe him with soft secret whispers, move closer and closer, melt into him, to be one with him, never to break apart.
‘Catriona!’
‘Sh … sh … Jimmy, love, please.’
She turned away as Mrs Gordon, accompanied this time by a red-nosed, red-eyed Sandy, came back into the room.
‘Is Melvin still there?’ she asked Sandy.
He nodded and his lips puttered in and out but he was, for a moment, incapable of speech.
‘Sit down, Sandy.’ Mrs Gordon took his arm and led him like a stiff-legged child over to a seat. ‘There’s tea in the pot. The wee lassie’ll pour you a cup.’
‘My father-in-law locked the bakery. The shop will be shut tomorrow, too.’ Sandy nodded again and accepted the cup Catriona offered.
‘He’s still the same, is he?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Still the same?’
Sandy cleared his throat.
‘Aye. Rab and the rest have been pumping whisky down his throat for hours and he’s still stone-cold sober. Talk-talk-talking, though, as if he still doesn’t believe what’s going to happen. How he can keep talking at all, just keep on like that, has us all baffled. He’s got us fair exhausted, that fella, and he’s still going strong. He’s never shut an eye once. I’m dreading the morning for more reasons than one. No fella can soak up all that whisky, not even Baldy, without repercussions. I’m telling you, that fella’s going to go berserk.’
‘Will I go back in again?’
‘Oh, no!’ Mrs Gordon and Catriona cried out in unison.
‘Jimmy, son, you’ve done more than your share with Baldy.’
‘Yes,’ Catriona agreed. ‘There’s plenty of people in there and they’re all staying until after … until - until morning.’
‘Melvin says you’ve to go downstairs in case the wee fella wakes up,’ said Sandy.
‘I’ll go doon with you, hen,’ Lexy offered from the doorway where she was wiping her nose on one of Jimmy’s big white hankies supplied by Mrs Gordon for the purpose. ‘I’ll stay the rest of the night with you till Melvin comes.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
Where was the dream and where the reality?
Surely she belonged with the man who was now walking with her in silence to the door? Surely she had known him all her life? He was the fulfilment of her need, he was the braver, better part of her.
Yet she was married to another man - a stranger.
At first, going down the dark stairs with Lexy sniffling at her side, she felt dazed. Then came the bitterness to kick and struggle angrily against fate.
She opened the door of her house and stepped into the hall - and hated it; hated the hard gleaming polish of the floor that both she and Fergus had been warned so often not to tread on. Little remnants of rugs lay like stepping stones between the front door and all the other doors.
She hated the bedrooms where the bed-ends, the top of the wardrobe and the skirting board had to be rubbed and rubbed and polished and polished. She hated the bathroom where Melvin was now insisting the high-painted walls ought to be waxed to preserve them against steam.
Most of all she hated the sitting-room, Melvin’s pride and joy, with its pastel coloured Indian carpet that was an agony to keep clean and the pale gold standard-lamp on which she dared not allow dust to settle and the ornate brass front and fender on the fireplace over which, on Melvin’s instructions, she had spent many back-breaking, sweating and wasteful hours.
Life was so short. Surely, there were better ways to spend it?
She led Lexy into the kitchen and flicked on the light. Every surface glittered and gleamed, not a speck of dust, not a crumb, could be seen. Not one hair on the fireside rug was out of place, not one cushion dented.
Lexy’s sniffles stopped. Uneasily she sat down on the edge of a seat, uncomfortably she stared around.
She’s longing to light up a cigarette, Catriona thought, but she’s afraid to dirty the place or desecrate that brassoed ashtray.
Then it occurred to her that she was afraid, too; the realization made her hate herself with such intensity that she felt physically sick.
‘Ohi, I hope Jimmy doesn’t go in to Baldy again.’ Lexy worriedly nibbled at her lip. ‘He’s terrible, isn’t he? I mean he’s a lovely fella.’ She gave a big sigh. ‘But, ohi, he’s terrible too. I mean to say - isn’t he?’
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Catriona managed.
‘Oh, in the name of the wee man! I’ve never stopped drinking tea all day and half the night. I couldn’t drink another drop, even if you paid me. If I drink any more I’d be wetting my pants!’
‘Well, come on through to the sitting-room. There isn’t a fire lit there either but at least there’s the electric fire. It’ll heat us up.’
Through in the sitting-room she switched on all the lights and the fire and drew a couple of chairs in nearer. They sat for a long time, staring at the fire and at the slow relentlessly moving hand of the clock.
Catriona had begun to shiver, whether with cold or fear or with hatred or with all three she no longer knew nor cared.
‘I’ve never been up this late before except at Hogmanay, have you, eh?’ Lexy said eventually.
Catriona shook her head.
‘Ohi - I’m gaspin’ for a fag!’
‘Go ahead then, have one.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind, hen?’
‘No, not me. Make yourself at home. You’re welcome.’
‘Oh, ta! You’re a pal!’ Lexy dived into one of her pockets and brought out cigarettes and matches. ‘Here, try one yourself, hen. It’ll steady your nerves. I mean to say - what with one thing and another!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m nearly off my head, so I am!’
Catriona hesitated only a moment before taking a cigarette and accepting the light Lexy gave her.
She coughed and spluttered after the first couple of puffs but soon settled down to find the cigarette strangely comforting. She liked the feel of it between her fingers. It gave her something to cling on to. She enjoyed the sucking sensation, and the breathing in, and the breathing out, like huge shuddering sighs of relief.
They smoked in silence, and when one cigarette was finished they each lit another, and another. They tried not to listen
to the clock ticking Sarah’s life away.
‘Here!’ Lexy cried out, for the first time noticing the shivering and the white angry face. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
Catriona was saved from answering by the sound of Melvin’s key in the door.
They both got up and pushed back their chairs.
‘Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea, Lexy?’
‘No! Thanks all the same, hen, but I’d rather run back upstairs to my Jimmy!’
Catriona’s heart wept hard stones.
‘What the hell!’ After Lexy had gone Melvin saw Catriona smoking. ‘Put that thing in the bucket. You’re not going to start that filthy habit in my house. You’re not going to go around dropping ash on my good carpets or my good linoleum; and that’s that!’
‘No, that’s not that! You smoke! Why shouldn’t I smoke?’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Catriona shot the words at him then hurled the still-lighted cigarette into the spotless hearth with such force it bounced out again and landed on the Indian carpet.
With a howl of rage and fear for the damage it might cause, Melvin pounced on the cigarette and with garbled oaths and burning fingers he at last managed to extinguish it in the nearest receptacle which happened to be a fancy and much-prized fruit-bowl, one of the wedding presents he and Betty had received.
‘Now look what you’ve done, you stupid fool!’ he bawled. ‘Look at my good fruit-bowl.’
‘What I’ve done? I never touched your horrible fruit-bowl. You put it there, not me.’
You put it on my good carpet. What did you expect me to do? Leave it lying there to burn a hole - a hole in my good carpet?’
‘Oh, shut up, shut up, shut up! Talk about jumping from the frying-pan into the fire. My mother’s one extreme, you’re the other, and the irony of it is - you’re worse! I’m so sick of hearing about your furniture and your linoleum and your carpets. I don’t care if this whole place burns to a cinder and all your precious possessions in it!’
Melvin surveyed her, his stocky legs wide, his broad hands digging into his waist. ‘Now I know exactly what kind of horror I’ve the misfortune to marry.’
The Breadmakers Saga Page 17