The House on Rosebank Lane

by Millie Gray

  The clerk did not reply, but he lifted up the telephone and spoke to someone. After a few agonising minutes, Kirsten heard him say, ‘So, you are saying he did apply and was taken on, but he then contacted you and withdrew his application? Thank you.’

  Kirsten couldn’t bear to hear the man repeat the heartbreaking message. Duncan had deserted her and the children. She stood still, rooted to the spot. Then as the grim realisation sank in, she began to react.

  Without so much as a thank you to the clerk she bolted from the office. Her feet raced along the pavements, the go-chair bouncing in front of her. Why had Duncan left? Her mind raced, and she thought who, if anybody, would know where he was. She drew up abruptly.

  His mother, that’s who.

  While she was deliberating what she should do next, she became aware of Mairi Brown next to her.

  ‘See by your face you have just found out your Duncan has done a runner,’ Mairi announced, almost licking her lips. ‘And with a bimbo. Right slap in the face for you, Kirsten, is that no’?’

  Kirsten didn’t reply. She glowered at Mairi before turning Dixie’s chair and starting to gallop towards Newhaven.

  That was not her final destination, however; rather it was halfway between Leith and Granton – Granton, now the sprawling Corporation housing area where her mother-in-law had been allocated a garden flat.

  Kirsten was making a beeline straight for Jessie’s flat.

  *

  It was a dishevelled and breathless Kirsten who bolted into the passageway of Jessie’s home. To add to her discomfort, she felt overwhelmingly warm. At first this heat had come from her anger at discovering that her supposedly faithful, loving husband had deserted her. Realisation of her desperate plight had then turned her anger into an engulfing, seething rage.

  At the door of Jessie’s ground-floor home, she made a grab for the outside door handle. When the handle did not budge, she realised the door was locked. Why, she wondered. In Admiralty Street no one locked their door, and most, when rehoused out of the slums, had carried on that tradition.

  Taking some deep breaths gave Kirsten time to think. It really was beyond her comprehension how anyone could become a money lender and charge their ‘friends’ five per cent on the loan of a pound to see them through to pay day. But she knew that was what Jessie was doing. Perhaps that explained the locked door.

  Slowly, Kirsten remembered how scheming Jessie had expanded her little earner when Duncan moved from the family home. It was now such a big mucky business that every Friday and Saturday she employed fierce Babs Copeland to assist her when her clients came with their repayments. Problem was, if it ever came to it, Babs, who by her looks could frighten the Free French, wouldn’t actually be able to fight her way out of a wet paper bag. And so Jessie had decided she should get herself a guard dog. But Jessie didn’t like big dogs, so she’d settled for a bad-tempered Jack Russell that she’d christened Brutus. Now, no way was Brutus any good at barking and lunging to terrify the punters, but he was an expert at yapping and snapping, and his jaws had to be prised open if he was ever swinging from anyone’s coat-tails.

  Thumping the door again brought Brutus charging up the hallway. His yelping sounded so fierce that Dixie began to scream and kick out.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ Jessie’s unmistakable gruff voice hollered down the hall. She grabbed hold of Brutus and lifted him up into her arms before yanking the door open.

  ‘Well, would you look what the wind has blown in?’ Jessie sneered when she realised who her visitors were. Letting go of Brutus, she bent down and stroked Dixie’s face.

  ‘No need to be frightened, my wee man. It’s just Brutus and he really is a pussycat. Anyone could buy him with a biscuit. Mind you, don’t you be telling my customers that.’

  Pushing past Jessie, Kirsten spat, ‘Look, I’m not here to idle away the day. I am here to find out where your son, my deserting husband, is and who he did a runner with!’

  By now they were all in the living room. Jessie shrugged as she plumped herself down in her favourite armchair. ‘You being so smart I thought you would have been here before now.’

  ‘Didn’t have a clue until I went to the Ben Line to get paid out and all they could say was . . . sorry.’

  ‘Well, Kirsten.’ Jessie stopped to look down at Dixie, who was sobbing. ‘Look, my wee darling,’ she said as she fished a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away Dixie’s tears. ‘Let’s get you calmed first. Now would you like a biscuit? Just wait and Granny will get them.’

  Jessie being so fond of Dixie had come as a surprise to everyone. However, it was true that Dixie captivated everyone. Indeed, when Kirsten first took him out in his pram, everyone she met smiled when they looked at him. She’d lost count of the times the folk of Leith had dropped loose change into his hands.

  While Jessie went into the kitchen to fetch the biscuit, Kirsten lifted Dixie out of the pushchair and sat him on her knee.

  ‘Right, give the bairn here to me,’ Jessie said when she returned. Before Kirsten could protest Jessie had taken Dixie into her hefty arms and sat herself down again.

  ‘Now, I know, Kirsten, what my Duncan has done is wrong, very wrong. The blame, however, is not all his.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just pure logic, it is.’ Jessie drew in a good sniff. ‘A man has to be made to think that he is the only one that matters in the home. And Kirsten, since this wee chap arrived,’ she now tickled Dixie’s chest, making him chuckle, ‘Duncan not only took a back seat but his bum was clean oot the proverbial windae. So, when Nessie Souter flashes her boobs in his face he naturally . . .’

  ‘Oh no, please tell me he didn’t leave me for Nessie Souter. I mean she’s . . . she’s . . .’

  ‘Afraid he did. Everybody kens she’s the bottom of the barrel. And I ken fine how you must be feeling. Getting dumped for an Audrey Hepburn lookalike you can hold your heid up.’ She paused. ‘But an older, uglier version of Margaret Rutherford . . . well, that really is a kick in the teeth.’

  Kirsten sniffed long and hard, daring her tears not to fall. Her thoughts then quickly turned from the insult of being dumped for Nessie Souter to how she was going to pay the rent and feed her children.

  First, she reluctantly conceded, she would need to go to the Department of Social Security, but it would only provide funding at subsistence level. That would not be good enough for her bairns. So she’d have no alternative but to find employment . . .

  While Kirsten was pondering, Jessie was rattling on about how the runaways were now on their way to Canada. But for all Kirsten cared they could be away on a one-way ticket to the moon.

  ‘Jessie, never mind those two,’ she heard herself say. ‘I need to get the rent paid and money to feed the kids.’ Her prime concern was her children, particularly Dixie.

  Before answering, Jessie pursed her lips – a gesture that showed she was in danger of parting with money. She then huffed and puffed before spluttering, ‘Well, I suppose I could lend you enough to get by. And seeing you are family I would only expect half the usual interest . . .’

  ‘My three children, your precious grandchildren, are about to go out on to the street and you want interest?’

  Kirsten raising her voice caused Dixie to whimper. Jessie began to pat him.

  ‘There, there, my darling boy,’ she crooned. Kirsten couldn’t believe it, but as Jessie looked down at Dixie’s face she appeared to mellow and become entranced. Quietly and melodically Kirsten heard Jessie say, ‘There, there. Cry nae mair, my precious bairnie. Seeing it’s you that needs I’ll gie your mammy the money she needs.’ Jessie sniffed. ‘Mind you, a gift this month, but like me when I got kicked in the teeth your mammy will have to go out and find a job or do whatever it takes to get next month’s rent paid.’ Jessie looked up at Kirsten now. ‘Oh aye, when needs must, we all have to swallow our pride.’

  Kirsten huffed.

  ‘You can huff all you like, but I can assure you
that when your family are in dire straits you and everybody else will do whatever, and I mean whatever, you have to do just as long as you keep them afloat.’

  TEN

  After Kirsten left Jessie’s home she felt cheap and useless. Jessie’s words of warning – that if ever she came to borrow money again, she wouldn’t see her stuck, but not to bring Dixie with her – had been a humiliation. The final straw, however, was when Jessie told her, ‘I am running a money lending business, no’ a charity!’

  Needing time to calm down – and think about her precarious situation – Kirsten decided to walk home from Granton. As she meandered, instead of calm she felt rising anxiety and dismay. What kind of a future did she and the children have to look forward to? Indeed, did they have a future at all? Her feelings of unease seemed to unsettle Dixie too.

  Kirsten had just turned off Bonnington Road and was making her way towards Pilrig Park when Dixie started to throw a tantrum. By the time she got into the park his screams were unearthly and Dixie was arching his back and kicking out his legs in all directions.

  As soon as she could, Kirsten stopped at a park bench. She then tried to soothe Dixie, but her efforts only upset him further. Slumped down on the bench, unable to stop herself, she started to weep uncontrollably.

  ‘That bad, is it?’ she heard a refined voice ask.

  Kirsten sniffed. ‘Yes, it is,’ she sputtered through her gulps.

  A diminutive woman was now seated down beside her. Without another word, she leaned over towards Dixie. Her hands began to slowly massage his face. This action caused Dixie to calm. From his face, she moved her hands up to his forehead and two fingers from each hand started working on each side of his temple. Within a minute her actions had stilled and soothed not only Dixie but also Kirsten herself.

  The woman then took Dixie’s hands in hers and tenderly and expertly worked her magic on them too.

  This action afforded Kirsten time to look at her Good Samaritan. She noted that she was a lady of breeding. Her dress – long flowing skirt and apricot-coloured silk stole – appeared to be from a past era. Kirsten also noted her subtle make-up, which instead of detracting from her quaintness only added to it. The woman completely captivated Kirsten and she now had Dixie so relaxed that he had fallen asleep.

  Turning from the slumbering child, the lady focused her attention on his mother.

  She moved closer to Kirsten. ‘Now, my dear,’ she began, taking Kirsten’s hand in hers, ‘what has upset you so terribly today? Is it just that your little boy was being a bit fractious?’

  Before she realised it, Kirsten started to cry again and between each heart-rending sob she confided to the woman, a complete stranger, the whole sorry tale of Duncan’s desertion.

  ‘I see,’ the woman replied as she massaged Kirsten’s palm in an effort to calm her. ‘Now, dear, my name is Stella Wise. I have been in the same situation that you now find yourself. But I made up my mind I was going to survive and provide for my two boys and myself.’ She drew in a deep breath to indicate her satisfaction. ‘And not only have we pulled through, but so very well at that.’ She paused again. ‘Men, well, we do require them because we are all just here for a short time. Just like all living things we are born, procreate and then die. What we do and manage between our birth and death is entirely up to us. You won’t believe me but you will survive and flourish – provided you leave your scruples behind. Look, my house is just on the other side of Pilrig Street . . . Well, not exactly Pilrig Street itself. You see my house is on Rosebank Lane – tucked in at the top of the lane beside the boundary of the Rosebank Cemetery wall.’ She shrugged and gave a polite giggle. ‘All on its own, my house is. And the neighbours never say a word. They just arrive and get dug in.’

  Kirsten almost smiled: Stella’s neighbours were all in their grave, so how could they say anything?

  ‘Now, how about you and I go over to my place and have a cup of tea? Have you eaten since breakfast?’

  Kirsten shook her head.

  ‘Right, let’s go.’

  They arrived at the secluded lane just as it dawned on Kirsten that Stella was guiding her towards what people in the district said was a brothel! An upmarket one, but a brothel all the same. Instinctively she drew up. ‘But, but, is this not . . . I mean . . . are you saying this is your home?’

  ‘Yes. It is my lovely home. The upkeep of such a large dwelling is hefty. That is why I have to sacrifice and rent out some of my rooms. Mark you, on an evening-only basis. But come on. Let me get some sustenance inside you.’

  When she entered the downstairs drawing room Kirsten could do nothing other than admire the furnishings and curtains. To say they were luxurious would be an understatement. Her eyes then strayed to the corner, where a drinks cabinet stood. As she stared at the gantry she thought it was so well stocked it would not have been out of place in the first-class lounge of an ocean-going liner. Really, the house was like its owner; it too seemed to belong to a different time. When Stella became aware that Kirsten appeared fascinated by the gantry, she asked, ‘What’s your tipple?’

  ‘Eh. Eh. To be truthful I only have a sherry on Hogmanay. Other than that I don’t . . .’

  Stella seated Kirsten in a lug chair before asking, ‘Tea or coffee, then?’

  ‘Either suits. However, I think I should be going. My girls will be home from school soon and I have to get a meal ready for them.’

  ‘Of course, but before you rush off I was going to suggest that, as you will have difficulty finding employment that fits around your little boy . . .’ Stella stopped, as if to ponder. ‘Look, I could teach you how to massage. That would not only help you earn a bob or two but would also be so useful, beneficial in fact, for your little boy . . . Does he have many of those wee tantrums?’

  ‘He wasn’t three pounds at birth, so it’s just that he needs lots of attention.’

  Stella smiled. She recognised that Kirsten, like herself, was an overprotective mum.

  Kirsten was now considering what Stella had said. Getting herself a job made sense. But caution made her wonder if this offer of assistance was Stella’s way of enticing her into her business. No, she thought; no matter what, I could never stoop that low.

  While she was deliberating, a woman, attired in overalls and a turban, came into the room. ‘That’s me got it all shipshape again, Mrs Wise. Mind you, the attic room again was a mess. Think it is time for you to tell the lassie that rents it that this is a first-class establishment and no’ a hovel.’

  Kirsten had to smother her giggles. Were these women real? The house was a brothel. It was beyond dispute that it was an upmarket dwelling; but, however posh the curtains might be, the house was one of ill-repute.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Baxter, for reminding me that lately you have been so busy putting things back as I like them you have not had time to do the shopping,’ Stella said, then paused. Time ticked slowly by. She pursed her lips. Slowly a smile came to her face. ‘I have just realised what I require is a housekeeper – a type of lady butler. You know, someone who will relieve me of doing the food provisions and the tedious paperwork. I find those two activities so dreary and time consuming. Now that I have decided on this, I think it would be a perfect job for you, Kirsten.’

  ‘Grab it with baith hands, hen,’ Mrs Baxter urged Kirsten with a wink and a nod. ‘Mrs Wise pays good rates and you get wee perks thrown in.’

  ‘Wee perks!’ a bewildered Kirsten reiterated.

  ‘Aye, like when my man was off for the Trades’ Holidays she treated us to a week in Blackpool.’ Dreamily she added, ‘Food was good and the high jinks . . . Great holiday, that was.’

  An uneasy feeling of being sucked in began to overwhelm Kirsten again. ‘Erm, I am so pleased for you, Mrs Baxter.’ She now turned to address Stella. ‘You will need to excuse me. Time is marching on. As I said, I have to get home for my girls.’

  Escape was now Kirsten’s priority. Grabbing the handle of Dixie’s pushchair, she headed towards the do
or.

  ‘Oh, so you are leaving,’ Stella said. ‘Now, don’t rush to give me an answer about my job offer. Take your time. Shall we agree I should let a week pass by before I advertise the post?’

  *

  On her way home Kirsten bumped into Molly. She knew this was providence; she was in urgent need of an ear – someone like Molly, who would listen, hear her out, before commenting or giving any advice. However, when she glanced up at the Pilrig church clock she could see that time – time that was needed to tell Molly all about her day – had run out. This being so, she suggested to Molly that she should come and visit her after nine that evening, when the children were abed.

  Molly could see that Kirsten was upset, so she naturally became intrigued. Even so, she did manage to agree to wait until later that evening in order to have her curiosity relieved.

  *

  Unable to keep her wandering imagination in check, it was no surprise that Molly arrived at Kirsten’s just before eight o’clock. ‘Seeing you looked so stressed I thought I would come early and help you get the children settled for the night.’

  Kirsten, her mind in turmoil, nodded. To be truthful she was pleased to see Molly, as she so longed to unburden herself to someone: she would have accepted even one of her less discreet friends right now.

  Eventually the children were bedded, night-time stories read. Lights switched out.

  Now it was time for Kirsten and Molly to sit opposite each other at the kitchen table, drinking a mandatory cup of tea.

  ‘Right then, Kirsten, tell me what happened today.’

  Kirsten bit on her lip. Tears surfaced, but she sniffed hard in an effort not to appear a crybaby. ‘The day started fine but once I arrived at the Ben Line offices . . .’ She stopped. Betrayal tears ran down her face.