The House on Rosebank Lane

by Millie Gray

  A silence fell between mother and son. Eventually Duncan spoke. ‘So, you’re saying all that babysitting for the guy when his wife died last year has paid out for Nancy?’

  ‘Mair than paid out.’

  Duncan looked perplexed.

  Jessie chuckled. ‘Aye, you see, not only has my smart Nancy snaffled him but she also gets a couple of bonuses thrown in.’

  ‘Bonuses?’

  ‘Aye, like a detached house in Trinity along with a manager’s pay packet. Cannae be bad, so that cannae.’ Jessie patted her hair and straightened her jumper before musing, ‘Oh aye, your snooty Kirsten might hae thought she had scuttled us when she ran off with you but she didnae. You see, my Nancy has gone one better than her . . . going to be a real lady, my Nancy is.’

  Duncan bent his head as a wry smile crossed his face. This was his mum. One minute she was concerned for Kirsten and then, in case he thought she was going soft, she had to pretend that she was getting her revenge on Kirsten.

  *

  Richie was just a day old when Kirsten again visited the special baby unit. She wanted to be alone when she spoke to the Sister in charge of her son’s care.

  ‘Sister,’ she began as she advanced towards the incubator, ‘I was wondering about breastfeeding Richie. I can feel my milk coming in.’

  The Sister’s stern face relaxed for a moment. ‘So you would like to breastfeed him? Good, but first you will have to express the milk and it will be fed to him through a nasal tube.’

  ‘But why, when I am willing to be here when he needs fed?’

  ‘Right now, my dear, he is too weak to suck,’ the sister said kindly. ‘But when he is strong enough you can come in and breastfeed him.’

  ‘Do you think he will be at that stage when I have to leave here – in ten days’ time?’

  The Sister shook her head. ‘No. If we are not too busy, they may allow you to stay on for a couple of days more, but after that you will have to come in every day to express your milk. On the bright side once this little one has put on sufficient weight and once he is out of the incubator you’ll be able to breastfeed him yourself.’

  Kirsten knew the Sister was being truthful, but still she felt downcast. What she wanted was to take Richie with her when she left the maternity unit. ‘Sister, what weight does he have to reach before I can take him home?’ she asked.

  The Sister smiled before saying, ‘Just five pounds!’

  Kirsten gulped. Her son was only two pounds fourteen ounces right now. Her tortured mind imagined that it could take him months to reach the target weight. Best thing, she thought, was to check. Taking a deep breath, she quietly asked, ‘And how long do you think it will take for him to reach five pounds?’

  ‘Barring infections or slipbacks . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Ten weeks, give or take. And when the great day comes you can take him home.’

  Hearing the words ‘take him home’ brought tears to Kirsten’s eyes. The Sister was giving her hope. She was being positive. Like Kirsten herself, she knew it was a long, hard road ahead for Richie. But somehow both of them knew he would make it.

  EIGHT

  Two months passed before Kirsten and Duncan found themselves in the nursery of the maternity unit waiting to take baby Richie home. These eight weeks had felt both long and short. During this time the stillborn babies were cremated and Kirsten had spent hours in the grey fog of her private sorrow grieving the loss of those wee, never-glimpsed souls.

  For Duncan, the time had dragged, as he’d witnessed his premonition – of Kirsten becoming besotted by her one remaining son – coming true. Oh yes, he felt quite useless as he watched her sweep everything and everybody aside, including at last her own grief, so she could concentrate on being with Richie as much as possible. Duncan allowed himself a wry smile as he remembered how Kirsten had wangled a stay of fifteen days in the hospital. Even the nurses smiled at that, as all their other patients couldn’t wait to get out in under the mandatory ten days. Then when she had to come home she persuaded her mother to put off going to Shetland until her precious Richie was home. This allowed her to visit the special baby unit first thing in the morning, later in the afternoon and last thing in the evening. In her maternal passion, she expressed so much milk that it was kept in bottles in the baby unit fridge and the surplus was used to nourish other premature babies.

  Gazing down at her sleeping, contented Richie, Kirsten was unaware that the Sister had arrived. ‘So, at last you are off home, Mrs Armstrong.’

  Kirsten nodded. ‘Yes, and I didn’t want to leave without thanking you for all you did to help Richie to thrive. I can’t believe how he’s come to be so bright and healthy.’

  ‘And within a year or so he will have made up all that he lost by being premature,’ the Sister assured a beaming Kirsten. ‘Word of warning, though . . . don’t mollycoddle him. Let him decide when he is ready to take each of his next steps forward. Don’t hold him back by being overprotective. Before you know it, he will be a big bouncing boy.’

  Kirsten smiled and, cradling her son, she left the maternity hospital with Duncan.

  Going home, they all were.

  *

  Two weeks passed before Kirsten felt that she should catch up with the Balfour Street ‘mothers’ meeting. Twice a week the mums with little children would make their way to Pilrig Park and, weather permitting, spend the afternoon knitting, gabbing and putting the world to rights. There were, of course, the mandatory Thermos flasks of tea and homemade scones, which they took turns to provide.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t a stranger coming into our midst,’ Alice Greenhill announced when Kirsten pushed her pram towards the assembled group.

  ‘Leave it be, Alice,’ Molly Clark warned before going over to look in Kirsten’s pram. ‘And so here you are, little man, and pretending to be asleep at that. Let me lift you out and you can survey your kingdom.’

  Before Kirsten could stop Molly she had lifted Richie out of his pram and, as she gazed down on his small crushed features, she crooned, ‘And what a darling you are.’

  Always when there was a new baby to be introduced the women took it in turns to hold the newborn and drool over the wee soul. Even so, Kirsten couldn’t believe it when her friends decided Richie was a parcel to be passed around from one set of outstretched arms to another.

  While her son was being admired, Molly, the group’s unelected leader, spoke quietly to Kirsten. ‘Are you coping, hen?’

  Kirsten bristled, unmistakably.

  Molly continued. ‘All I mean is, three bairns with not much between them is more than a handful.’

  ‘Just, I am. But you see, Richie is so small that I am feeding him on demand.’

  Molly laughed. ‘And he demands every half-hour.’

  ‘Not quite, but he can be greedy.’

  ‘Aye, but then it’s true he hasn’t had the best of starts. But of course he is loved and cherished and even although he looks like a dumpling in a hankie still, he is piling on the pounds, eh, hen?’

  Kirsten nodded. ‘He is my darling. The only one of my three who survived.’ She sighed, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘But I am so tired. You see, he takes so long to feed and Duncan, well . . .’ Kirsten did not wish to be disloyal but she had to tell someone. ‘Well, he’s not the doting daddy he was when the girls were babies. Goes out to the pub every night. He’d do anything rather than help with any of the bairns like he used to. Never picks Richie up or speaks to him, he doesn’t.’

  ‘That’s men for you. Cannae cope with competition . . . even from their own son. But my Ella is no’ back at school yet, so . . . Here, did I tell you she had another asthma attack?’ Kirsten shook her head just as Molly shouted, ‘Ella, come over here, darling, and take wee Richie for a walk in his pram. Just around the park.’

  Kirsten, propelled by feelings of maternal protection, spoke up. ‘Molly, that is kind of you, but Ella is only twelve – perhaps she is too young to take my baby for a walk. He needs to be with me all the time.’<
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  ‘Nonsense! You know that from the age of ten it’s nae bother for wee lassies to take babies for a walk. Just as long as they don’t cross with the pram over busy Leith Walk. And as to Richie being with you all the time . . . balderdash . . . you need a break . . . time to be with your pals. Have a giggle and a fag.’ Molly laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you dinnae smoke.’

  Ella was now holding onto the pram handle, waiting for Richie to be put back in his pram. As soon as he was, he started to holler.

  ‘There, there, wee man,’ Ella crooned as she lifted up a soft toy rabbit and shook it towards Richie’s face. ‘Dixie see, Dixie see, Dixie see,’ she crooned over and over again.

  ‘That’s an unusual name you have given the bairn, Kirsten,’ Jodie Smith said. ‘Is it a Shetland one?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dixie.’

  ‘But his name is . . .’

  Again Molly came to the rescue. ‘No, it’s not a Shetland name, it’s a Balfour Street name. A very special name for one of its own.’

  Kirsten started to protest but Molly ignored her concerns. ‘Look, Kirsten, I think my Ella has got it right. Dixie is a special name for a very special wee lad who has beaten all the odds and held on to his own wee life.’

  Kirsten nodded with a smile.

  Molly now looked earnestly at Kirsten. Colourful September was just about out. She shuddered as she mused that a harsh drag of a winter was in front of everybody. A winter that might seem even longer, colder and harder for Kirsten than for anybody else. Molly could see that Kirsten was all skin and bone, which, as a new mother, she shouldn’t be. All her energy was going into making sure that Dixie thrived. She would barely let him out of her sight, which meant she’d get very little rest over the coming months and even years.

  NINE

  1963

  July saw a happy Dixie celebrate his third birthday with a home-baked cake and, yet more exciting, a little red tricycle from his doting Granny Armstrong. It was to everyone’s surprise that he had come so far. True, he’d taken nearly this long to catch up with his contemporaries, but that was quicker than anyone had expected. Of course, there’d been a high price to pay for this triumph. It was a price that was not only paid by Kirsten, whose whole life now revolved around Dixie, but also by Duncan, Bea and Jane as the neglected outsiders in their family.

  When Kirsten was being honest with herself, which wasn’t often, she knew that there was resentment smouldering in Duncan. This bitterness very rarely boiled over, but Kirsten knew that to keep it in check they would have to find a bigger house. She knew that, like her, Duncan longed to have more living space. He longed to be able to afford one of the modern semi-detached villas with their white-pebbledash fronts that sat so snugly at the end of McDonald Road.

  Often Kirsten and Duncan would take a walk with the children on a Sunday. Always, they ended up gazing at these homes, so different from the brick tenements of Leith, wishing they could afford one. Their main problem was that Dixie was such a demanding child – a state of affairs Kirsten had created herself, with her conviction that for all of his life Dixie must be wrapped up in cotton wool. Kirsten insisted that Dixie share their bed so she could always be near him; indeed the boy just had to sneeze and he was taken to see the doctor. What Kirsten understood, but couldn’t seem to do anything about, was that her obsessive overprotection was creating a rift between her and Duncan.

  What they required was a bigger house where they could have a bedroom to themselves again. Kirsten also wished to be close to her Balfour Street pals – her support, as she saw them. Especially Molly, who, when the rearing of Dixie had been so, so difficult, and Kirsten was at the frayed end of her tether, had always found time to help. She always seemed to be there to calm explosive situations.

  But one explosive situation that Molly couldn’t calm was Duncan’s conviction that his marriage had reached a place of no return. On one of their walks along the Water of Leith to McDonald Road he announced that he was making a supreme sacrifice by signing on for the Merchant Navy again. Naturally, the shipping company he would be sailing with was the Ben Line.

  Even though they were barely speaking, the thought of him not being with the family for at least six months caused Kirsten to panic. She could hardly contain the terror that rose up in her stomach and started to reach her throat and choke her.

  ‘But, but – could you not have signed up with the Gibson Line? Remember, they do short-haul trips to the Continent . . .’

  ‘Aye, but I have a good record with the Ben Line. Besides, I’m chasing the big money now. So I have to go deep sea. And I will either be requested to join the Ben Nevis or Ben Cruachan.’

  ‘But these ships can be sent to the Far East.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. But if I work hard I can do well with the company again.’ Duncan was now rubbing his fingers together: money.

  ‘But,’ she spluttered, ‘how will I manage the children, especially Dixie, without you?’

  Duncan took her hand in his before replying, ‘You will manage. The one thing I am sure of is that no matter what, you will find a way to cope. As to Dixie, he is fine . . . doing so much better than most three year olds, so he is. And just think, Kirsten, when I come home again with my pockets bulging with money . . .’ Kirsten bit her lip then shook her head. ‘Look, love,’ he cajoled, ‘it’s a chance to afford the deposit for the house of our dreams.’ He hesitated but did not lift his eyes to meet hers before adding, ‘Can’t you see, darling, that we need to get out from under each other’s feet. Maybe you can go on living in our nightmare but I can’t.’ She nodded and he wrapped his arms around her as she rested her head softly on his chest.

  ‘Kirsten,’ he said tenderly, ‘I will look after you. I’ll leave you a fortnightly allotment – enough to keep you and the children going until I come back.’

  *

  Kirsten smiled as she watched her children sup up their porridge. Admiring the sturdy little limbs of her eight-year-old daughter Bea, seven-year-old Jane and three-year-old Dixie, she felt she had a lot to be thankful for.

  Yes, she admitted to herself, the last three years had seemed like a relentless winter. But now it was high summer – not only outside but also, she felt, in her life. Yes, she truly believed that the sunshine was heralding a happier time for her precious family.

  She smiled when she thought that today she would pitch up at the Ben Line office in North St David’s Street and collect the allotment that her loyal husband Duncan had signed over to her. She would then use this hard-earned money to pay the rent and the balance to keep her and the children until he came home. Duncan was making this sacrifice, she told herself, because he loved them and wished to provide better for them.

  Yes, they needed space that would help them get back their loving relationship. She smiled coyly as she thought it would be good to be making love again regularly, not once in a blue moon, as it had been before he left on his long-haul trip. If she was being honest she truly regretted the breakdown of her fondly supportive relationship with Duncan. She knew that she had not been fair to him since Dixie’s arrival – she shuddered as she reluctantly accepted the problems between Duncan and her had started when Dixie was born. When Dixie became her priority, everybody in the family had to take a back seat: she saw that now.

  The girls were ready for school by the time she stopped thinking about Duncan’s sacrifice to secure them a better standard of living. She saw them out the door with a smile, but Dixie, who didn’t like his sisters to leave him behind, began to cry.

  ‘There, there love,’ she crooned as she lifted him up to comfort him. ‘You and I are going on a nice meander past the houses, one of which could be ours in a few years. Then we will be off to the shipping office to collect our money. Think of it, Dixie, I haven’t got a bawbee in my purse right now, but thanks to Daddy working so hard we will be able to have mince and tatties for tea tonight . . . Might even treat us all to a sugar doughnut.’

/>   Pushing a go-chair was never a chore to Kirsten. She so loved taking her children for a walk. It was when she was walking that she did her reminiscing. Today, it was no different.

  Thinking back was what she was doing as she wandered along the streets that would take her to posh uptown Edinburgh. She recalled what life had been like when Duncan and she had first fallen in love. She hunched her shoulders and smiled as she thought of how all that magic would be recaptured when he came home and they were living in their dream house, a lovely family together again.

  *

  On arrival at the Ben Line offices Kirsten found that five women were already waiting for their allotments. One of the women, Mairi Brown, looked surprised when she saw Kirsten.

  ‘Didnae expect to see you here,’ she said as she sidled up.

  ‘Didn’t think I would see myself here either, but my Duncan signed on for another long trip.’ She giggled before adding, ‘Likes the exotic, so my Duncan does. So I’m here to collect my share of his wages.’

  Mairi still looked puzzled, but as the clerk called out her name she jumped forward and signed for her money.

  Kirsten then moved towards the next available clerk and told him her name.

  He scanned his list and said, ‘Sorry, Mrs, now you did say Armstrong?’

  Kirsten nodded.

  ‘You are not on my list.’

  ‘But I have to be. My husband signed on a month ago and left on his trip two weeks ago.’

  ‘Look, please take a seat and once I’ve dealt with everyone else I’ll contact upstairs.’

  Every second that Kirsten waited seemed like an hour. At last everyone was paid out and the clerk turned his attention to Kirsten. ‘Now, Mrs Armstrong, what is your husband’s full name?’

  ‘Duncan Armstrong, and as I said he signed on a month ago – left to join either the Ben Nevis or the Ben Cruachan two weeks ago. Look, I know my husband and he did leave me an allowance.’