When the Lights Come on Again

by Maggie Craig

  ‘You want the baby baptized a Protestant?’

  Helen nodded, and her eyes swung round to Liz.

  ‘Going to be brought up by damned Proddies, isn’t she? It’ll be for the best. No offence, Father.’ Her words trailed off into a mumble.

  Liz scowled. ‘You’ll be looking after her yourself, Helen. What rubbish you do talk.’

  Helen’s eyes shifted to Adam. ‘For an intelligent woman, she can be awful stupid sometimes, can’t she?’

  ‘A complete numpty,’ he agreed.

  ‘Look after her for me, Liz. You and your mother.’ Helen smiled faintly. ‘Don’t let your father make her hate Catholics.’

  ‘What rubbish you talk,’ Liz said again. ‘You’ll be looking after her yourself.’

  ‘Don’t tell lies, Elizabeth MacMillan. Haven’t I already told you that you’re no good at it?’

  Those were almost the last words she spoke. Only at the end, when Liz could no longer deny what was happening, did she ask, ‘The baby, Helen. What shall we call her?’

  ‘Hope,’ said the dying girl. ‘Hope Elizabeth MacMillan.’ Her voice was as clear as a bell. ‘Give me your hand, my dearest friend... Don’t cry, Liz... Don’t cry. I’m going to see Eddie.’ For the last time in this world, the old mischievous smile lit up her features. ‘He’ll not be an atheist now...’

  Then, her hand in Liz’s, the smile still on her face, she slipped away.

  Thirty-six

  It was strange to be away from the bustling routine of the hospital: odd to find herself governed once more by the quieter rhythms of a home, even if a rather more luxurious one than the house in which she had grown up. Liz and baby Hope were staying with Amelia Buchanan in Milngavie.

  She took Hope to Clydebank every weekend, but despite her mother’s pleading she refused point blank to take her home to live at Queen Victoria Row. Sadie insisted that things had changed. Liz remained to be convinced.

  Certainly some astounding things had happened. For a start, Peter MacMillan was staying with his son and daughter-in-law until he was rehoused or his own building in Radnor Street was rebuilt. As far as Liz could see, the two men existed in a state of armed neutrality, William barely acknowledging his father’s presence in the house. The fact that he was tolerating it at all was quite amazing.

  He did so because his wife had insisted on it: another breathtaking development. Something had happened to her parents’ relationship since the Blitz. To Liz’s surprise, her father had been much more shaken up by the bombing than her mother had. Literally. His nerves were shattered by the experience, and it had been weeks before he’d been able to hold a cup and saucer without them rattling from the tremor in his hands.

  In contrast, her mother seemed to have found a new strength. She delighted in the brief visits of her granddaughter, cheerfully fighting with her father-in-law over who should have the privilege of holding the baby. William MacMillan, on the other hand, barely glanced in Hope’s direction.

  Liz found that hard to forgive and, in private, she reminded her mother what her father had said about not having a Catholic bastard in his house.

  ‘He could be persuaded,’ said Sadie, further astonishing her daughter - although it wasn’t enough to persuade Liz to come home.

  Her situation in Milngavie was far from ideal, but it had been the only thing she could think of at the time. Having practically no money, especially after she stopped work at the Infirmary, Liz had asked Adam’s mother if she could perhaps do some chores around the house in return for her and the baby’s keep.

  Amelia Buchanan, whose war work had introduced her to some colourful turns of phrase, told her to go and boil her head. She would be delighted to have the two of them and she didn’t expect anything in return. Mrs Hunter wouldn’t tolerate any interference in the running of the house anyway. Liz and the baby were welcome to stay for as long as they wanted.

  She fitted up a bedroom at the back of the house as what she called Liz’s boudoir. It had French windows looking out on to the garden, now given over mainly to the growing of vegetables, although the elderly gardener who came in twice a week had left a small square of grass for use as a drying green. Liz and Hope sat out there on a blanket when the weather got warmer. The room itself had a cot for Hope, a comfortable bed for Liz and an upholstered rocking chair.

  Liz spent much of her time there, especially in the evenings. After she had given the baby her bath, she would rock gently backwards and forwards, enjoying the warm and solid feel of the healthy little body lying on her chest.

  Her life had shrunk - sometimes she thought it had come right down to the feel of Hope’s downy head under her lips as she kissed her goodnight before laying her gently in her cot. At times she wept into her soft dark hair, but she tried not to. As Helen’s daughter, Hope deserved better than that. Liz thought often of her friend’s sense of humour and indomitable spirit.

  Liz told the baby all about Helen and Eddie and chatted to her constantly as they went through their day. The housekeeper shook her head and muttered that no good ever came of talking to babies. It only made them go funny. Liz smiled at Amelia Buchanan over Mrs Hunter’s head, and went on her way rejoicing.

  Or not quite. She knew their sojourn in Milngavie could only be a stopgap arrangement. She couldn’t expect Mrs Buchanan to keep them forever. And then there was her nursing training, due to start in the autumn. Liz was in a real quandary about that.

  Her mother desperately wanted to look after Hope. If she did, that would allow Liz to start back at the Infirmary as a student nurse, fulfilling her lifelong ambition. Then she would remember how she’d been brought up experiencing nothing but coldness from her father. She wasn’t prepared to subject Hope to that.

  But if things really had changed at Queen Victoria Row... that might be different. Liz knew very well there was a decision to be made. She kept putting it off.

  She had discovered that looking after a baby could be a tiring business. Not that she grudged one moment of it, especially when Hope looked at her one day and smiled. Adam said it was wind. Both Liz and his mother told him to go and boil his head. They knew a smile when they saw one.

  Liz visited Dominic Gallagher at Killearn Hospital twice a week, taking the bus out from Milngavie. He had cried in front of her once. Now, with the resilience of youth, he played happily with his niece and talked of when he would be old enough to join up. Killearn was a military hospital. He was surrounded by wounded heroes, all of whom relished the opportunity of telling their tallest stories to the admiring lad.

  Liz privately prayed that the war would finish before Dom was old enough to march off. That seemed unlikely. And she had to admit that if he joined the forces it would solve the problem of where he was going to stay when he eventually came out of hospital.

  Under pressure as ever at the Infirmary, Adam did his best to get home to Milngavie two or three times a week, but they were usually flying visits. Perhaps because of that, he didn’t pick his words as carefully as he might have done one Sunday in July.

  Coming through the French windows from the garden, he found Liz sitting in the old rocking chair which had been his father’s, gently crooning Hope into her afternoon nap. Hearing his step, she looked up and put a warning finger to her lips.

  ‘As pretty as a picture,’ he said softly. ‘Both of you, I mean. Shall I put her in her cot?’

  ‘Gently,’ said Liz as he lifted Hope out of her arms without waiting for an answer. He laid the baby down, tucked the covers around her and turned, a slightly pained expression on his face.

  ‘I have handled a baby before, Liz.’ His next words were rather unwise. ‘You’re a bit proprietorial about her, don’t you think?’

  Liz drew her breath in. It was rare for Adam to criticize. Feeling fragile, she answered him back more sharply than she might have. ‘I’m all she’s got. She’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘That’s not true, Liz. You’ve got friends.’

  He walked over to the French
windows and stood looking out over the garden, his back to her. ‘Friends who care about you very much.’ He swung round and looked at her. ‘And you’ve got parents. Hope’s got grandparents. And a great-grandfather. Isn’t it a bit unfair on her and them that they don’t get to see very much of each other?’

  She didn’t answer him. He walked forward, crouching down beside the rocking chair. His last comment had hit a nerve. She did feel guilty about that.

  ‘Liz... I don’t want to see you throwing your life away like this.’

  She bristled immediately. ‘I’m not throwing my life away. I’m looking after my niece. Helen and Eddie’s daughter.’

  ‘And Helen wanted your mother to bring the baby up. With you helping her, of course.’

  She turned her face away from him. ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Liz,’ he said, his voice very gentle, ‘I was there. I heard what Helen said. She of all people wouldn’t have wanted you to sacrifice your own future, give up something you’ve always longed to do. And she knew how much your mother would long to care for Eddie’s child.’

  Liz still facing away from him, squeezed her eyes tight shut for a moment. He’d got that bit right.

  ‘Why do you think Helen asked for Hope to be baptized a Protestant? Did that not strike you as extremely odd?’

  She looked at him then. ‘Yes, it did. She cared so much for her own Church.’

  Adam nodded, his face full of sympathy for Liz and the dilemma with which she was wrestling. ‘And did you come to any conclusion about that?’

  He reached for her hand, but she moved it out of his grasp, stood up and walked a few steps into the garden. He followed her out, standing a pace or two behind her. She had worked out exactly why Helen had made that dying request: because she had known very well that William MacMillan wouldn’t tolerate any child in his house being brought up a Catholic.

  Helen had made an enormous sacrifice so that her daughter could be raised and loved by Eddie’s mother. Perhaps also, thought Liz sadly, for my own very unworthy sake. To allow me to follow my dream.

  She’d given Adam no response. He came round to stand in front of her.

  ‘What about the future, Liz? How are you going to support her?’

  Angry with him for making her confront something she’d been trying to avoid for weeks, her voice was as sharp as broken glass.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

  ‘So you’re quite happy to let my mother keep you and Hope for the moment?’

  No, she wasn’t happy about that, and he knew that perfectly well. Too many of his darts were striking home today.

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  He was watching her intently. ‘Isn’t it?’

  She tossed her head. ‘Your mother says we can stay as long as we want. She likes having us here.’

  Adam looked at her for a long moment. When he spoke his voice was stiff and formal.

  ‘I’m off to wash and change. I’ll see you at lunch.’

  ‘Would you pass the milk, please?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Liz’s voice was frosty.

  Amelia Buchanan finished her cabinet pudding and placed her spoon in the dessert bowl with some force. There was a ringing sound as silver struck porcelain.

  ‘Honestly! What’s wrong with you two today? You’ve barely said a civil word to each other.’

  Liz pushed her own bowl away, her pudding half eaten. She’d get a ticking-off from Mrs Hunter for wasting food. ‘Your son thinks I’m taking advantage of you.’

  Adam let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ wailed Liz, and burst into tears.

  ‘My dear,’ said Amelia, rising immediately from her chair to comfort her. ‘What’s wrong? Why are you so unhappy?’ Frowning, she glanced at her son. ‘Adam, what is this all about?’

  He told her. Then Liz poured out her side of the story. She spoke in short, jerky sentences, the words interspersed with sobs.

  ‘I love looking after Hope,’ she said, ‘but I do want to do my training. I’m not sure what to do for the best. I know my mother would love to have her, but I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do. For Hope, I mean. That’s what matters. And I’m tired,’ she said, ‘I’m so tired. I’m not in any fit state to make a decision. And that’s not fair on Hope either!’

  ‘Of course you’re tired,’ Amelia said. ‘She’s not sleeping through the night yet. That’s exhausting.’ She gestured towards Adam. “This lump was ten months old before he slept right through.’

  She smiled at her son. He didn’t smile back, his hazel gaze fixed on Liz. She had bowed her head and put her hands over her face. She sat like that for a few minutes. When she raised her head at last, she looked directly at him.

  ‘He’s right, of course. The only thing that makes any sense is for Hope to go to my mother. He’s right,’ she said again. ‘Damn him.’

  ‘So infuriating,’ agreed Adam’s mother. ‘When men are right about something. We never hear the end of it, do we?’

  Liz and Adam were still looking at each other. Liz sniffed and swallowed and lifted her chin.

  ‘I can’t manage to take Hope and all her bits and pieces on my own,’ she said quietly. ‘Will you give me a lift?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, his expression as grave as hers. ‘Do you want to go today?’

  Liz shook her head. ‘No. Let me have another week with her on my own. I’ll write to my mother too, let her know we’re coming. She’ll want to get beds and blankets aired. All that sort of thing.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said politely. ‘Next weekend, then.’

  In the old days, Liz had often observed how her mother seemed to grow smaller when she had done something to provoke her husband’s disapproval or anger. Now she was witnessing the opposite. Sadie seemed to be growing taller.

  Liz sat up in her chair, suddenly alert, all her senses perked up and waiting to see what was going to happen. She could still change her mind about this. If her father said one word which made her think that Hope wasn’t welcome in his house, she was fully prepared to.

  Walking over to her daughter, Sadie held out her hands for Hope. Once the two women had carefully transferred the baby, Sadie walked across to her husband, two fingers gently pulling down the blanket from Hope’s chin so that her small face could clearly be seen.

  ‘Look at her, William.’

  Her voice was quiet but determined. Her husband started to bluster, but Sadie stood her ground.

  ‘Look at her, William,’ she repeated. ‘And keep your voice down so that you don’t frighten her. She’s our granddaughter, Eddie’s daughter. All we have left of him. And I want you to hold her.’

  Liz held her breath. This was going too far. He’d never do it. Her mother had locked eyes with her husband. That was another first. As it was when it was William MacMillan who dropped his gaze.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said at last. Incredibly, he dashed a hand across his eyes.

  ‘Yes you can,’ said Sadie softly. ‘Look. She’s reaching out for you.’

  She was right. A little hand was extended towards him. Liz had to surreptitiously wipe her eyes. Nothing moved in the kitchen. For how long? Thirty seconds? A minute? A lifetime of bitterness and misunderstanding? Then her father spoke.

  ‘I’ve forgotten how to hold a baby, Sadie. I’m scared I’ll hurt her.’

  Liz let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and listened to her mother speaking in a firm, confident voice.

  ‘You’ll not hurt her, William. Put your arms out. The way I’ve got mine.’

  Gently, she placed Hope into his arms.

  ‘She’s coming to live with us, William. I’m going to look after her. That way Lizzie can start her nursing training. What she’s always wanted to do.’

  Her husband didn’t reply. He was too busy looking at his granddaughter. Hope Elizabeth MacMillan completed his downfall. She smiled at him.<
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  PART FOUR

  1944-1945

  Thirty-seven

  It was Hope’s third birthday, and there was to be a family tea party. As Liz climbed the steps from the platform of the railway station she saw her grandfather waiting for her at the top of them. Although back now in a house of his own, he remained a regular visitor to his son’s home.

  ‘Sadie sent me out for some lemonade,’ he explained, ‘so I thought I’d hang on and see if you were off that train.’

  ‘Changed days,’ Liz observed as they fell into step together. ‘You and me walking along to Queen Victoria Row together. In broad daylight, too.’

  The glance Peter shot his granddaughter had something in it which might have been reproach.

  ‘D’you not think you should give your father a bit more of a chance, Lizzie?’

  Hurt, she returned his look. ‘Did he ever give me one?’

  ‘He’s changed a lot since Hope came to stay.’

  ‘I can’t say that I’ve noticed,’ she said tightly and looked away, out over the street. That was a lie. There had been a huge change in William MacMillan over the last two and a half years. Outwardly he was as stiff and formal as ever, but anyone who knew him well could see the difference.

  Little Hope was a constant joy - a cheerful and happy child with her mother’s blue eyes and her father’s dark hair. It was a devastating combination, especially when that hair grew into a mass of curls. And as she grew older, the sense of fun Liz knew she’d inherited from her mother was beginning to show itself. That enchanted everybody, including her grandfather. However much he tried to hide it.

  As she had grown and blossomed, there had been a kind of’ blossoming in him too. He could be brusque with her sometimes, but that seemed to be water off a duck’s back to Hope. She just laughed. And there had been many other occasions when Liz had noticed him watching his granddaughter with a little smile on his face.