‘Gosh!’ she’d say. ‘Fancy that, son. Oh, my goodness. Yes … fancy … oh, dear … What a shame … You don’t say … Gosh!’
She felt it must be good for him to be able to express his emotions and if he was angry she did not discourage him from showing it and she tried to explain that if he was upset there was nothing wrong in finding release in tears.
No matter what he did to upset her she never remained angry for long. She forgave quickly and always made a point of tucking him in last thing at night with a goodnight smile and kiss.
She had been rewarded every now and again by unexpected bursts of affection, bear hugs that nearly strangled her and from which she was forced to seek escape. Or if she happened to have a cold or something wrong with her he would insist with demonic determination on looking after her.
‘Don’t get up, Mum. Don’t get up. Just lie there. Lie there. I’ll look after you.’
‘But I must get up, Fergus,’ she’d protest. ‘I’ve a hundred and one things to do.’
He kept knocking her roughly back and holding her down.
‘No. No! Don’t get up, Mum. Don’t get up. Just lie there. Lie there. I’ll look after you.’
She always lay for as long as she could, her eyes and ears closed against chaos in an effort to ignore dishes being broken and milk and sugar being spilled in Fergus’s excitement in making her a cup of tea.
She considered her efforts well worth while but effort took energy and since Melvin had returned her energies were being stretched far beyond their normal limits.
There was so much to think about and do in connection with the shop. The old man had regained some enthusiasm and pride in acquiring a business again but he was too old to be of much practical help and just shuffled about the place getting in everyone’s way.
Sometimes he did not bother going into the shop at all, and Melvin told him:
‘Da, you might as well give up. Go on, retire and enjoy yourself!’
The only thing for which old Duncan never lost any talent was hanging on to money. It was like squeezing a lemon to get him to lay out capital.
Melvin wanted the bakehouse at the back of the shop to be the best and most modernly equipped in Glasgow.
But the old man kept repeating in his high-pitched nasal whine, ‘What was good enough for me is good enough for you. You’ve always had too many big ideas. That’s always been your trouble!’
Melvin blustered on at his father in hearty good-natured attempts to keep things moving. He seldom allowed himself to become angry with the old man. This was a luxury he kept for Catriona. He nagged at her continuously, only stopping if someone else was there. He became a Jekyll and Hyde character with, for the most part, a surprisingly mild, amiable front to outsiders that only changed to a perverse whittling edge when he was alone with her.
It did not seem to matter what she did or how hard she worked, it was impossible to please him. He found something to criticise in everything she accomplished and yet he continued to pile on tasks big and small.
‘You phone about that order, Catriona,’ he would say. ‘Tell them we’ve waited long enough for it. Tell them the war’s over now. Tell them we don’t need to put up with this and we’re not going to!’
Then while she was phoning Melvin would keep whispering instructions, and afterwards he would grumble bitterly.
‘You should have spoken up, been firmer. You sounded like a nervous schoolkid. What good do you think that’s going to do? You’re no use. You’re weak, that’s your trouble.’
She tried to be firm and capable, to acquire a more forceful voice and brisker, more efficient manner, but it never seemed to do any good. Things got worse instead of better. Blame continued to be heaped on her head. His criticism lashed her already deeply rooted sense of guilt until to do something right became a masochist challenge. Her determination became desperation. She would do something right if it killed her.
Since they had moved into the house in Botanic Crescent exhaustion seemed to be already nibbling her life away. Half the time she wandered about in a daze. The mess the children made with their dirty feet or their untidiness, and her father-in-law with his tobacco all over the chairs and carpets and his whisky and beer splashes, often reduced her to helpless weeping, not so much because she cared about these things, it was the measure of nagging she would have to suffer from Melvin if he saw the mess that tormented her.
Her mother came over to help wash the windows and scrub what seemed miles of floors and stairs, yet she only made things worse and tightened the screw of her secret anxieties.
‘May the Good Lord have mercy on you, Catriona. That man’s trying to kill you like he killed his first wife!’
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she assured her mother, but cries echoed louder and louder inside her from a deep well of fear.
‘May God forgive you, Catriona. You know perfectly well that’s a downright lie. I don’t know what he did to his first wife but I’ve seen some of the things that man has done to you. Remember how he forced you to go to the Empire Exhibition and you nearly gave birth in the middle of all these thousands of folk? It was disgusting as well as dangerous. Then there was that horrible miscarriage you had …’
She kept on scrubbing the floors and her mother kept on talking.
‘He’s trying to work you to death, that’s what he’s trying to do, sacrifice you to his own conceit. I told you no good would come of you marrying that man. I told you you would be punished. You should leave now before it’s too late. Think of the children. Do you want them to be left alone in this big house with that man?’
Catriona wanted to leave. But it was all very well to talk blithely about leaving. It reminded her of Melvin’s big talk and how she was always left to face and work out the small humdrum practicalities of the matter.
It was all very well too for a decision like this to be made and put into practice by someone happily free from the exhausting effects of the situation; someone whose health was not affected, someone who was fresh in mind and body; someone who was not debilitated by neurotic pressures from childhood. Someone with a different character.
Directly she moved out of Melvin’s house her mother would leap on her like a man-eating tiger. If she escaped from Melvin how could she escape from her mother? What could she do without money? Where could she go? Accommodation of any kind was at a premium. Squatters were moving into flats, houses, even offices, shops and Nissen huts. What could she take with her? Melvin would certainly allow her nothing, not one teaspoon, not one face towel, not even a suitcase. He had always made it very clear that his money had supplied everything and everything was his.
She would have to leave without telling him and when he was out so that she could scramble a few necessities together and dart furtively away clutching the children and cases and cardboard boxes. But Melvin worked nights and was in the house most of every day. He slept badly if he slept at all and the slightest movement wakened him. How could she leave without him knowing, when at all odd unexpected times he was liable to appear at her elbow with blood-orange eyes and moustache spiking over sour mouth?
Over and over again she tried to plan how she could organise the practical details of escape and how she could overcome all the difficulties. Threads of action kept spinning across her mind, weaving this way and that in a web which strangled her with its complexity.
And all the time her mother nagged at her about Melvin and Melvin nagged at her about her mother.
‘She’s an absolute menace, that woman. You keep her out of my house, do you hear?’
But he no longer said anything to her mother’s face and this apparent sign of weakness gave more persistence to her mother’s voice. She felt like a bone between two dogs, a thing to be used or misused.
Then Da began to worry her by doing dangerous things like dropping burning paper or matches on the floor of his room. Singed, smoking, smelling patches and holes multiplied on the carpet and she began to notice burns on
his sheets and blankets too. She realised his hands were getting shaky with age but the knowledge only increased her fears that one night he would set the house on fire and burn the children in their beds.
She worried constantly about the children yet her irritation with them seemed to increase with her concern. Their bickering if she asked for their help became unbearable. It was one thing Fergus ministering to her. It was quite another matter if she asked him to tidy up his room or weed the back garden. She always told Andrew to do his share but in a few minutes the bickering would start.
‘You left these there!’ Fergus accused.
‘I did not!’ Andrew protested.
‘Come on, Fatso, put them away.’
‘No! I hate you. Big Skinnymalink!’
‘What did you say? What did you say?’
Then there would be a yelp or howl or scream of pain from Andrew and she would rush through to slap wildly at Fergus or at Fergus and Andrew and cry out near to tears.
‘Oh, get out, get out of my sight, both of you. I’ll do it myself.’
Yet there was an affection between the boys too. If someone else attacked Andrew and the opponent was too big for Andrew to tackle successfully by himself, he would shout:
‘I’ll get my big brother to you.’
Fergus always battled to his aid.
More and more each day she seemed to split in two. One part of her knew the right thing to do, the other tormented her by doing the opposite. Her mind pointed out with painful clarity that she should not have snapped at Andrew:
‘Oh, shut up and get out of my way. Why can’t you just leave me alone? It’s Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, all the time. I never get a minute’s peace.’
He had been telling her something of importance that had happened at school.
She should not have shouted at Fergus:
‘No, you cannot go out to play. You should be working, not playing. Why should a big useless article like you do nothing but play while I’m being worked into the ground!’
There was no reason for him to stay in and nothing he could do at that particular moment.
It was Melvin and the old man she really felt like shouting at. But she was afraid of Melvin because he seemed to be waiting for any excuse to start nagging at her. His voice had become like rat’s teeth gnawing the very flesh from her bones. She found it safest to say as little as possible to Melvin. No use being angry with Da either. He was getting more and more fuddled.
Often she started quite sensible conversations with him and then for no apparent reason he would become ‘thrawn’ and contradict something about which they had previously been agreeing. Then the conversation would rapidly deteriorate into a maze of contradictions and foolishness.
She knew she was taking it out on the children and was tortured with regret yet she continued to surprise them with sudden vicious outbursts that sometimes reduced them both to tears. Sometimes she wept helplessly along with them. Then in an effort to console them and to soothe the pain of her conscience she gave them money and coupons with which to buy sweets or to pay for a visit to the local cinema.
If Melvin happened to be there, however, she did not get the chance to console the children. He immediately pounced on her in front of them and verbally tore her to shreds.
‘You’re weak,’ he kept saying. ‘You’re no use.’
Every despicable fault imaginable was attributed to her. It was like stripping her naked before the children’s eyes and she hated him for it. She found herself retreating in an ever-shrinking pattern of behaviour and speech in order to avoid any confrontation with Melvin. Fergus soon realised this and became completely undisciplined behind his father’s back knowing that she dare not say anything to him or call on Melvin’s help. A kind of blackmail situation arose. If Fergus did not get what he wanted or was not allowed to do as he liked, he would either complain to Melvin, or make Andrew suffer, and Andrew never dared tell what happened to him no matter how much she questioned him about why he was crying in bed at night, or why he was terrified to go upstairs alone. Occasionally she would find out through Madge’s children that Fergus had said there were ghosts under Andrew’s bed and a witch hiding behind the door in the bathroom.
Or something precious to someone in the house would disappear or be mysteriously broken.
Melvin always blamed her and displayed his anger by haranguing her with words and upsetting her in whatever way came into his mind. Once he had grabbed her best dress from the wardrobe and torn it to shreds literally under her nose. Often he turned Andrew’s photograph face to the wall or he would make a fool of the child, until Andrew complained that it was obviously better to be a bad boy. He shouted at her angrily, his freckles like brown chocolate drops against a white milky skin.
‘Fergus does what he likes and nobody says a word to him. But everybody gets on to me. It’s not fair. I’m just getting fed up with it!’
He stamped away, desperate to hide from her his tears of rage and frustration.
She heard afterwards, again from one of Madge’s children, that Andrew had made an attempt at running away from home but after a few hours he returned because he felt hungry.
Visions of Andrew wandering about lost in the dark tormented her. Catriona tried to protect him, cushion him from further upsets. She always kept alert, keyed up, listening, watching, trying to keep track of where everybody was all the time and if Andrew was alone in a room with either Fergus or Melvin she kept making excuses to be there too. Even if she were in the middle of making a meal and Andrew was in the sitting-room she would keep coming through to make casual conversation with Melvin or to pretend she was looking for something.
Sometimes she told herself that if she could just hang on long enough things would get better. Fergus was a good boy at heart and he would surely grow out of this difficult stage. Melvin was worried because he had used up all his money paying for the house and furnishing it and it was a terrible strain on him to be continuously fighting to prise money out of the old man in order to get the business properly organised. What he had suffered during the war, of course, could account for much of his irrational behaviour. Often she would look at Melvin’s ravaged face and know she could not leave him. Yet she felt just as certain she could not go on the way she was doing.
Chapter 18
Catriona began to suffer from headaches, and coughs, and pains in her chest, and legs, and back, and stomach, and throat. Often she vomited. In attempts to relieve her perplexing symptoms she experimented with different tablets and powders and pills. She had become so convinced that there was no solution to her problems and that no one could help her, it even seemed hopeless to go to a doctor. She suspected that anxiety and unhappiness lay at the root of her symptoms and she could not see how a bottle of medicine would be able to cure that.
‘Snap out of it!’ Melvin kept saying. ‘Pull yourself together!’
It was no good. She did not know how to pull herself together and eventually she decided to try going to the local doctor.
He was an elderly man with a grey woolly moustache like Melvin’s, a stooping posture, a non-existent neck and a continuous little grin as if many years ago his mouth had cramped in that position. He shook hands when she shyly entered the room in his house that he used as a surgery. He shook hands most politely when he ushered her out again a few minutes later. He had not even bothered to examine her.
He had scribbled a prescription, grinned and assured her that everything was ‘just nerves’.
The tablets made her feel dopey and depressed and when Melvin found out she had been to a doctor he behaved like a madman.
‘You disgust me,’ he spat. ‘I could never feel anything for you any more.’
She felt as if she were going mad herself. Somehow she could not accustom herself to Melvin’s illogical behaviour.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What have I done now?’
‘Don’t act innocent with me. I know your sly filthy mind.’
&
nbsp; ‘Are you talking about my visit to the doctor?’
‘It didn’t matter to you that you were my wife.’
‘What has being your wife got to do with it?’
‘That’s typical! It doesn’t matter that you’re my wife. You’d let any Tom, Dick or Harry muck about with you.’
‘I only went to the doctor because I felt ill.’
‘What do you mean - ill? Don’t give me that. What’s wrong with you, then? Tell me! Come on. Tell me. Is there anything wrong with your lungs? Or your stomach? Or your heart? Come on! Come on! Tell me!’
The bulbous eyes staring out wildly from dark sunken rings frightened her. His voice stirred up fear too. It was a vulture’s claw intent on destroying her.
He is mad, she thought. And for some reason or for no reason he is trying to make me the same; it sounds melodramatic and no one will ever believe me, but it’s true. The terrible isolation of her predicament and her inability to cope with it terrified her.
She tried to push him aside and go into another room - but he followed close behind.
‘What’s wrong, then? Tell me! Is there something wrong with your heart?’
She wondered what anyone would say if they saw him now, the crazy red eyes, the wildly quivering cheeks.
‘No.’
‘He massaged it for you, did he?’
‘Get away from me! Leave me alone!’
She ran into the hall and he darted after her. She hurried up the stairs sucking in little gasping, panicky breaths but all the time silently pleading with herself to keep calm. Keep calm and you’ll be all right. He’s trying to break you, make you scream with hysteria. Just ignore him. Keep calm and you’ll be all right!
She fought her way from one room to another, pushing, punching, clawing at him, struggling desperately to close each door between them. But he always proved stronger and heaved it in and his voice, although he never raised it, became more and more obscene. The only way she could escape from him was to run outside. There she walked the streets worrying about the children and trying to gather enough courage to return.
The Breadmakers Saga Page 52