Her Sister's Gift

by Isabel Jackson

  “Well, thankfully one of the men had travelled up to the front with me before, when he’d been in another unit, and he told the officer that I had a reputation as one of the best runners. Others had lost their lives in attacks, but I always seemed to know the safe routes. I was known as Lucky . . . So the officer backed down and said to me to lead the way. And as we headed north we saw the shelling landing heavily in the easterly direction he had wanted to take.”

  “So you were proved right both by the man’s testimony and by events. That must have made you feel so proud.”

  “It did. But it also showed me that we ordinary working-class folk are just as able as the toffs. For all their posh accents and fancy schooling, money and inherited land, it all boils down to what can you do. In a war, your name or title or grand estate won’t make you a hero. You need skills and practical courage and an ability to cope with the rough life. That’s when we ordinary men could knock spots off the officers.”

  He looked into Isa’s face and saw there her open admiration. He knew then that he loved her looking at him like that: looking up to him as a man who was brave and strong. She was strong herself after all she had come through. To have her admiration made him feel worthy of her. He found himself wanting to look after her and to keep that light of admiration in her eyes. Even if he was not nearly as brave as he had made out.

  One afternoon they had taken tea in town before going on to the dance hall. Isa was not very satisfied with their meal of chicken and mushroom pie.

  “This pastry is soggy and not well enough fired. That’s been cooked in too low an oven for puff pastry. I’m not going to eat mine.” She put down her fork, frowning, and looked as though she was about to complain.

  “I’d like to sample your cooking some day,” Peter said brightly, to deflect the situation, not wanting her to make a fuss in the restaurant.

  Isa smiled. “Well, that might be arranged. We could meet at my father’s next time for our tea before the dance. What do you think?”

  “That would be grand, Isa. I’d love to meet your father.”

  John Dick was keen to meet this man who had been escorting his eldest daughter to the dances for the past six months. She had told him he worked in the railway, and John thought that was a good reliable job. The brothers all had their own successful shops and the parents were respectable. Mind you, he knew his own reputation in the town would no doubt be an issue.

  It had not put Peter off. He wondered what kind of man John Dick would be and arrived punctually with a bunch of irises for Isa, looking very smart and dapper, dressed for the dance in his suit, shirt and cravat with a white silk scarf. John looked down at his shoes and they were army shiny. He indicated a seat by the fire for Peter, while Isa went to fetch glasses.

  “You’ll have a wee dram with me, Peter.”

  “Indeed, thank you, sir.”

  When Isa returned, the glasses were filled and a short toast to their health proposed. Isa stuck to ginger beer. She felt rather nervous. Her mind was racing with questions. Would they like each other? Would meeting her father put Peter off her? Would either of them say something to embarrass her or annoy the other? She so wanted them to get on well enough. She was realising just how much she liked Peter Swan. Had she been foolish to let him meet her father so soon? Should she have warned him more about him? And what about the meal? She hoped the pie would turn out well so Peter could see her skills as a cook.

  Once the men started chatting about the war, she went over to the stove to see to the meal, all the while keeping her ears alert to the conversation. It seemed to be going well. Peter was interested in her father’s experiences at the Dardanelles. They seemed to be comparing notes about the conditions and supplies.

  She reached into the oven for the pie and gently lifted it on to the wooden board. The pastry was beautifully risen, puffed and golden. She tested the temperature of the meat with a skewer and it came out roasting hot. She laid it on the table, along with a bowl of mashed potato and buttered carrots. She called them to the table. Her father cut the pastry crust and served the pie and they helped themselves to the vegetables.

  “Mm, Isa – this is so good. You’re right. This beats the one they served at Robertson’s hands down.”

  “Aye she’s a grand cook, Peter. Ye’d hae a job tae find a better.” How good it felt to hear her father and her young man praise her cooking. She glowed under their appreciation.

  Peter found he felt completely at ease with this big man with the huge reputation as a fighter, foundryman and soldier. In physical stature he himself with his neat, slight build felt a lightweight in comparison, but John Dick heard about his war experiences and respected him as a grown man. He did not feel he had to mind his Ps and Qs or stand on ceremony. He felt welcomed and respected.

  A few weeks later, Peter invited Isa to meet his parents.

  The Swans lived in a much smarter part of town but not so grand that they had servants or help in the house. Isa dressed in her best, including a new hat, and was escorted on Peter’s arm to the house.

  “Mother, I’d like to present to you Miss Isa Dick.” Peter looked from Isa to his mother, hoping all would go well.

  Mrs Swan peered at Isa through the round rims of spectacles, perched on her sharp hooked nose, which magnified a pair of beady eyes. Isa felt as if she was prey at the mercy of a hawk, so intense was the woman’s stare. No hand was proffered so Isa kept hers on the handle of her handbag and slightly inclined her head as she quietly said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs Swan.”

  “Wish I could say the same, Miss Dick,” came the sharp reply. Isa’s hackles were up. Peter had warned her a little about his mother’s feistiness and set ways, but she had not quite prepared herself for this reception.

  “Would your father be one of the Fighting Dicks?” The voice was laced with disapproval.

  Ah, so that’s what was worrying his mother: her wretched relatives and their reputation and what her son might be getting himself into. Why could she not have had a normal family? But Isa was proud of them too and knew there was more to them than their reputation as fighters.

  “Mrs Swan, my father is a brother to the men known as the Fighting Dicks, but those days are long since past. He is a family man who works hard and who served his country, although he was not required to do so.”

  “Oh, I know all about men serving their country who were not required to do so,” was the sharp, haughty reply. “All my sons were in the war and Peter will no doubt have told you that he signed up underage to go off with his brothers to France. Thank God they all came home. I’d never have forgiven him if he hadn’t.” She looked across to her son and smiled, the smile of a besotted mother to her favourite son, which quickly melted away on returning to his lady friend. Isa shivered.

  “Well, I suppose you had better take a seat. Mind the antimacassar.”

  Isa looked around the crowded Victorian room, stuffed to the brim with furniture laden with ornaments and pot plants. There was hardly a glimpse of skirting board, so heavily populated was the room with occasional tables draped in long-fringed chenille cloths. This was a house that said, “We are respectable and of good standing.” Isa had developed an educated eye from her time serving in grand houses, especially those of the Tolquhouns, and as she scanned the room she saw no fine porcelain pieces, just a considerable amount of inferior china littering the surfaces.

  Mrs Swan herself was bedecked in a stiffly starched white pinstriped blouse, with a ruffle at the neck and cuffs, a long, dark-green tweed skirt and a small knitted shawl, needed to counteract the effect of the draft coming in under the living room door. Her husband was severe and imposing, despite his short stature, and he sported a waistcoat with the gold chain of his pocket watch on view.

  Conversation in that oppressive room under the beady scrutiny of Peter’s mother was not free-flowing and jovial. But Isa felt she acquitted herself well. Peter’s parents seemed impressed that she had worked for the Tolquhouns
in London and rather surprised that she had given all that up to work in Falkirk.

  His mother questioned her. “Why ever did you come back to Falkirk, Miss Swan, after such a good position?”

  It felt like an interrogation in a courtroom but Isa felt pride rise within her at what she had done with her life, not shame or failure, as seemed to be implied in the imperious tone of the question.

  “I missed my family too much, Mrs Swan. I brought up my sisters when my mother died and to be so far away from them was too hard. And of course, when I served at the Tolquhouns’ I was just working in the kitchen alongside the cook, whereas here with the Sinclairs and the Hutchisons I am the cook.”

  Peter, sitting next to her on the couch, squeezed her hand. He had always had difficulty standing up to his mother, but here was his sweetheart defending herself. He felt so proud of her.

  When tea was served it was on a gleaming brass tray with a large china teapot and a meagre plate of finger cucumber sandwiches. Mrs Swan filled the cups one by one, holding the tea strainer over each, then resting it on the drip bowl. She asked if they required lemon, milk or sugar and added their choice to the cup before handing it on its saucer to each person in turn, her husband first, then Peter, and lastly Isa. This amused her. The pouring of the tea was pure upper class, as Isa had seen in the Tolquhouns’ drawing room, right down to the sugar tongs and the slop bowl for the milk jug. But their etiquette was working class: men first. In the grand houses it would have been female guests first, then females in the family, then male guests and finally male family. What was more, the tea was stirred vigorously in circles, the teaspoon clinking against the cup. Isa knew that the true upper classes stirred the tea in a folding motion, moving the spoon to and fro without touching the cup at all. There was little sign of generosity of spirit in the whole affair and when Mr Swan had finished his tea, he tapped his teaspoon on the side of his cup and his wife obligingly refilled it, not a word passing between them.

  Thank goodness Peter never behaved in such a manner with her. His charm helped her see past his surly mother and arrogant father, who was distant and made no effort to engage with her throughout the visit, as if that was all that befitted her as a domestic servant: to recognise her existence then ignore her as of no consequence. She would have liked Peter to stand up for her a bit more, though. He could have told his mother off for being so belligerent at the start, for instance. Still, she knew how difficult it could be to stand up to a parent. Her own father required careful handling at times, even when she did not agree with him or condone his dreadful drunken behaviour.

  Over the next weeks and months, they spent as much time as they could together, although meetings were always so far apart, and they wrote letters. Isa’s were full of the little things going on in the Hutchison household or exploits of Chrissie’s or Margaret’s. Peter took an interest in all their lives and often gave good advice on how to handle situations. Sometimes his letters would say how much he missed her. She gave him a photo of herself, which he carried in his wallet, and he told her he would gaze at it last thing at night and wish her goodnight with a kiss. She read that over and over to herself and fell asleep with a smile on her lips at the thought. There was a romantic streak in him after all, she thought.

  After the dances, as they walked along the canal before he took her back to the manse, they would hold hands and kiss, stopping under the trees, or sitting on a bench. Isa found her body longing for this closeness, which the night of dancing had anticipated. She loved being held and kissed, seeing the hunger in his eyes which she felt rising in herself. She realised she was in love with this man.

  “Isa, beautiful Isa,” Peter whispered. “I want to take down all this glorious hair and feel it fall all around me.” He began to kiss her ear and her neck. He heard her breathing change and he slid his hand down her throat towards the dipping neckline of her dress. Reaching her breast, he stroked her over the satin material and heard her breath catching again. He kissed her more deeply and drew her closer to him.

  They held each other for what seemed hours. Then Isa looked at his watch and saw it was past midnight. “Peter, I must be getting back.”

  “Isa I wish you didn’t have to go. I wish we could be together all night. I miss you so much.”

  “I do too, Peter. But what else can we do?”

  “We could get married. I want to. Do you? I mean, Isa, would you marry me?”

  Filled with their lovemaking as she was, Isa found hurried thoughts flickering through her head. Peter had a steady, clean job with prospects. There would be no dirty overalls or heavy drinking at the beer shop with the foundrymen. But if she married, what would happen to her sisters? Yet she wasn’t living at home, anyway, to be available to them any more. In the pause, Peter added, “I have £100 saved to set up house, Isa, and we could get a railway flat.”

  That sealed it for her. Married to Peter, she would have somewhere for her sisters to come and visit. They could all be more secure. She would be her own woman with a home and her man at her side. A man whose income would not be sweated for among rough men. A man who would look after her, and perhaps be there for her sisters too. A man to stand up to her father. A man who made her feel fully a woman.

  “Yes,” she said. And he held her tighter than ever.

  Now when they met they began planning the wedding and where they would stay. Peter applied for a railway house in Coatbridge. It was a few months before he heard their application had been successful. After checking it out himself, he took Isa there on their next outing. It was small but warm in a tenement on Jackson Street, in an area where most folk were Catholic. Isa could picture bright curtains at the windows, cosy chairs at either side of the fireplace and shiny pans above the range, and some of her little needlepoint sayings framed for the walls. She could make this into a good home for them. There was a scullery, a living room, two bedrooms, and a shared toilet on the landing – better than the outhouse at home.

  The wedding was to be in her father’s house. Rev. Hutchison would conduct the ceremony and they would share a lunch at the house with close family. Isa was increasingly excited as the little pile of sewn garments she made for her trousseau got higher and higher. There were camisoles, slips and knickers from satin remnants she had got in the market, all edged neatly with lace from her mother’s sewing basket and from neighbours who had gifted her any little piece they could spare. She had some of her mother’s tablecloths and embroidered one herself with daisies round the corners. Her grandmother sent hand towels of soft cotton, which she had hand-stitched and decorated with broderie anglaise trims. Two sets of sheets were given to her by her Aunt Teenie and Uncle Tommy, and Isa embroidered the pillowslips with white cotton garlands of bluebells, her favourite flower. Chrissie was busy on some secret sewing project that she kept hidden from the others, and when she finally presented the exquisitely embroidered table runner, Isa was delighted and promised it would have pride of place on the dresser.

  One sunny morning, a fortnight before the wedding, Mrs Hutchison called her into the drawing room.

  “Isa, I would like you to have this as our wedding gift to you.” She handed Isa a beautifully tissue-wrapped soft parcel. “Would you do me the honour of opening it now, my dear? It is something personal for yourself.”

  Isa sat down with the parcel on her knee. She undid the bright yellow ribbons and unfurled the pale blue tissue paper. Deep inside the many layers nestled some fine crocheted knitwear in gold and cream. Isa lifted up the garment and shook off the paper. The threads caught the sunlight and almost sparkled. It was a gorgeous crocheted chemise with a beautiful silk camisole to wear underneath.

  “Oh, Mrs Hutchison. This is so beautiful.”

  “I am glad you like it. Would you like to try it on?”

  Isa took it to her room and peeled off her work dress. She took out the straight-cut mid-calf-length cream skirt she had thought might be suitable for the wedding and then slipped on the camisole and the chemise.
She turned to the full-length mirror on her wardrobe door. Stray fronds of her bright auburn hair, which had been pinned up for work then disturbed by her undressing, lay curled around her neck and shoulders. The edge of the scooped neck was scalloped and lay smooth against her skin, drawing attention to her oval face that now seemed to have a look of her mother about it, the stillness, the dignity of the inner person beneath the façade of the good looks and clear eyes. Isa saw how the gold and cream colours complemented her complexion, warming it, giving it a glow. The three-quarter sleeves allowed her forearms to be on view and she looked down from them admiringly at Peter’s diamond ring sparkling on the third finger of her left hand. At the waist there was a ribbon of pale cream threaded through the eyelet work in the chemise, emphasising her shapeliness. Isa twirled and turned to view herself from as many angles as possible. She could not believe how flattering the outfit was. She knew then this would be what she would wear on the day she became Mrs Peter Swan.

  She walked back downstairs brimful of confidence and full of thankfulness for her employer’s kindness and thoughtfulness. Isa could never have afforded such a fine piece of clothing nor could her best efforts as a needlewoman have created such a lovely garment. Neither her father nor Peter’s parents had thought of her need for a wedding outfit. It was something her mother would have done for her had she still been here.

  Isa opened the drawing room door and glided in.

  “Oh my dear, you look wonderful. You’re stunning.” Mrs Hutchison brought her hands to her face in a gasp.

  “Mrs Hutchison,” Isa began, “I would like to wear this on my wedding day if I may.”

  “Dear girl, that’s what I hoped for! It’s more perfect for you than I dreamed.”

  On July 28th 1922, Isabella Mary Dick and Peter White Swan were married in the kitchen of her father’s house at 72 Sunnyside Road, Falkirk. The bride looked radiant in gold and cream and the groom dashing in a new bespoke suit, made for him by his father, tailor at Sandilands. The wedding breakfast was steak pie from the local butcher’s, served by the bride and her childhood friend and neighbour, Jeannie Macleod. The ceremony was conducted by the Rev. Hutchison of Erskine United Free Church. Afterwards he said to Isa he had never before been served by the bride at her own wedding. Such was the low-key affair celebrating her wedding day, the day she left her father’s house, left her sisters and left her work at the manse to start her new life with Peter as his wife.