Her Sister's Gift

by Isabel Jackson

  “And Mrs Swan, I think you should call me Cathy from now on. We twaw are gettin’ to ken each other weel enough for first names I think. Don’t you?”

  “Thank you so much for your help. I’m Isa. It’s reassuring knowing you are just across the landing. I’m sorry I’m turning out to be such a nuisance.”

  “Not at all, lass. We aw look efter yin anither here. Tell ye what. When yer feelin’ a bit stronger ye’ll come for a cuppae in my hoose and meet the wumen in the block. We all get along fine. They’ll be gled tae meet ye.”

  “I’d like that, Mrs Quinn . . . I mean Cathy.”

  When Peter got home that evening Isa had recovered, tidied up and made a meal. She was nervous about telling him. How had her mother done this? She had never been there at the announcements to her father. When her mother had told her about her pregnancies it was later on, when she was showing, and she would just say to her, “There will soon be another brother or sister in the house, Isa. Won’t that be nice?”

  When she had cleared the plates off the table, she sat down across from him. He was reading the paper.

  “Peter,” she began. “Do you remember this morning I didn’t feel so good?”

  “Aye,” he said, still reading.

  “Well, I didn’t tell ye at the time but it wasn’t the first time.”

  “What do you mean? Have ye no’ been well?” He was surprised and looked up at her face. She seemed well enough now. Why was she bothering to give him details of an illness she had recovered from? “Ye look fine enough now.”

  “I know. It seems to affect me worse in the mornings.” She paused, wondering if he would realise the significance of that. He made no reaction. “Mrs Quinn – she told me to call her Cathy – saw me no’ weel and helped me into the house. I was very sick, Peter, after you left.”

  “I’m sorry, Isa. Maybe that got it oot o’ yer system.”

  “I don’t think so, Peter. I think I may be in for a few weeks of it . . . just in the mornings . . .” He still had not twigged. She would have to come out with it. She took a breath, shut her eyes and blurted out. “Mrs Quinn said I must be pregnant.”

  There was a silence. She could hear the clock ticking and the sounds of the family downstairs. She willed him to be pleased.

  He was stunned. Pregnant? Already? They had only been married two months. And then it sank in. There would be a wean, another mouth to feed. But this was what he had wanted: to start his own family. He got up and came round to her, took her hands and pulled her to her feet. He could see she was still waiting for his response.

  “That’s grand, Isa. It’s just so quick. I never thought it would happen so soon.”

  “I know. It fair surprised me too. But you’re glad?”

  He smiled. “Of course. We’ve time to get organised. But we had better get you to the doctor’s to see what’s what.”

  Isa’s visit to the doctor confirmed she was indeed two months pregnant, making it a honeymoon conception. She had definitely landed in at the deep end. The flat was still partially furnished and she, a new housewife, was also in a few short months going to become a mother. Part of her was nervous, especially about giving birth. Peter insisted they would pay to book the doctor’s presence at the birth in the hospital: nothing but the best for his new wife and child. Isa knew that when the birth was behind her she had the experience of amusing and caring for her baby sisters to help her in the caring for her own child. Yet she knew to be a mother was different from being an older sister.

  On the Wednesday of the following week, she was due to take tea at Cathy’s flat. She had not yet met her husband, Joseph, as he worked shifts at the Gartsherrie Ironworks. Their two boys were at school and Isa heard their feet clattering on the stairs as they ran out to school or to play in the street. She had rested in the morning while the nausea passed. She was a little anxious being presented to several new people at once, but the women all proved to be friendly and welcoming. There was Theresa Findlay, who lived under Isa and Peter, with her husband Paul and their twin boys Freddie and James who had just started school. Isa found her very lively and voluble and was drawn to her warmth. She had dark wavy hair, which reminded her of Margaret’s. Theresa looked to be ages with Cathy, in her late twenties.

  Living opposite Theresa were Robert and Myrtle Mackenzie. She was tall and imposing with intense blue eyes, but the impression of severity was softened by a wonderful smile, which lit her eyes with such a sparkle, Isa imagined she could in fact be full of fun. She had two children at school and a new baby who was in a Moses basket in the living room with them. She looked to be in her early thirties and gave off such an air of capability and calm that Isa immediately took to her.

  In the flat above Isa and Peter, Audrey and Michael McGillivray tried to keep control of their three youngsters: Andrew, Clare and Christopher. And opposite their family were the O’Donoghues, Matthew and Becky, who were just expecting their first like Isa and Peter.

  Isa took in the simple room, just like her own but furnished properly with a dresser, armchairs, a table and chairs and a rather worn carpet square in deep reds. The windows were draped with red curtains faded at the edges by the sun. Isa saw Cathy was doing her best on a limited income. A collection of china plates was displayed on the narrow shelves of the dresser and the table was laid with a white cloth on which sat pretty, gold-rimmed pink cups and saucers and a plate of egg sandwiches dwarfed by a huge sponge cake dusted with icing sugar. The tea things were all set on a tray, ready for Cathy to pour to their liking.

  When the women heard of Isa’s pregnancy they were delighted. She was regaled with all kinds of advice regarding cots and bedding and where to buy a good but cheap pram. Cathy asked her, “And have you organised the midwife? Important to get that booked in advance. We all keep them very busy around here.”

  The other women laughed.

  “Well, we booked the doctor for a birth at the hospital, actually,” Isa said.

  There was a hush. “Which one?” asked Theresa.

  All faces were upon Isa as she told them. “Doctor Patterson. We saw him last week to confirm I was pregnant and Peter booked his services for the birth.”

  Myrtle was the first to speak. She put down her teacup and turned to Isa solemnly. “Isa, that man is a butcher. He doesn’t believe in leaving nature to take its course. He has no patience. If he is in a hurry and your bairn is no’ arriving quick enough to suit his plans he’ll take the knife to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cathy took up the reins. “Isa, it’s an operation. The doctor cuts open your abdomen and pulls the bairn out through your stomach.” She wondered if she had been too blunt, as the colour drained from Isa’s face.

  “But why? Don’t the weans just come naturally?”

  “Exactly. Ye hardly ever need ony interference. We women hae been giein’ birth tae wer weans for millennia wi’oot ony interference frae doctors. That’s whit we’ve aye done, isn’t it girls?” Theresa looked at the others in turn and they all nodded and “Aye”-ed in agreement. “The maist I ever had is a bit guidance and help frae the midwife and she’s perfectly capable of goin’ for the doctor if it’s necessary. But I’ll tell ye, Mary O’Reilly doon the road booked Doctor Patterson. She had only been on the labour ward for twaw, three hoors at maist when he scrubs up and says, ‘I think we’ll just give this baby a hurry on now. We’ve waited long enough.’ Then he’s covered her face wi’ chloroform and cut her afore she has a chance tae sae yay or nay. Took her double the time tae recover frae the birth and she aye says it was the worst thing that happened tae her. She very near bled tae death.”

  The women had all resumed their tea drinking and were waiting for Isa’s reaction.

  Myrtle laid her hand on Isa’s arm. “We’ve maybe hit ye wi’ a bit much all at once, Isa, but it’s only for yer ain good. We aye look efter yin anither. We jist wanted tae let ye ken. But you and your husband will nae doot think it over. We’ve said oor piece. Noo, ladi
es. Whose place is it next week?”

  Isa was stunned then terrified as she sat in the flat waiting for Peter to finish his shift. When he came through the door he knew something was wrong.

  “Isa? You no been sae good again? Maybe ye should be goin’ back tae the doctor. See if he can—”

  Before he could finish, Isa raised her hands and said firmly, “No. I don’t want to go to the doctor. In fact after what I’ve heard today I do not want that man near me.”

  Peter sat down and Isa reported to him what the women had told her that afternoon. Soon he was as terrified as she was. “My God, Isa. I thought we were doing the best for you and the baby. I dinnae ken this doctor right enough. Ma mither aye had the doctor, I think, but she never had operations for ony o’ us.”

  “Neither did mine. And I don’t want it either.”

  “I’ll cancel the booking and we’ll get the midwife instead. As long as you’re sure.”

  “Aye Peter. We’ll be fine with the midwife.”

  They held each other close that night, both fearful of what might lie ahead. They knew the ordinary complications of births: stillborn babies, miscarriages, even mothers losing their lives, but this butchery was new and horrible to their young minds.

  Their dreams were disturbed. Isa remembered her mother giving birth to the stillborn brother, whose death did not even merit a funeral but was simply hushed up and forgotten. Peter was back in the trenches amidst all the gory deaths he had witnessed: bodies ripped apart by shellfire, bloody and visceral. Then he was in their kitchen, Isa laid out on the table and the doctor cutting into her with a huge knife as though she were a side of beef on a butcher’s slab.

  He woke with a start. “Peter, are you all right?” Isa’s voice. He turned and clasped her to him.

  “Sorry. Was I talking in my sleep?” What had he been saying?

  “You were moaning, trying to say something, but I couldn’t make it out.” There was no way he could tell her about his dream. It had to be pushed to the back of his mind, along with all the horrors he had seen while at the front.

  “Must have been dreaming. Let’s go back to sleep.” They closed their eyes and held each other close, but sleep eluded them both for a long time.

  16

  By early December the nausea had begun to lessen considerably. Isa had discovered if she drank some tea with a piece of bread, which Peter brought to her while still in bed, it seemed to settle her stomach. Other women had spoken of strange cravings that had taken their fancy when pregnant. Theresa had yearned for a particular kind of marmalade that her mother had made, or for weird combinations like scrambled egg with herring. Myrtle told of how some women even crave coal and suck it for the minerals in it. What Isa found herself making more of was steamed rice pudding, which she nearly always had in a double boiler on the stove, whose bottom pan she kept topped up with water while it cooked slowly. Sometimes she flavoured it with nutmeg or a handful of raisins. She would eat it for breakfast, dinner and supper. The good thing was that the milk would be protein and calcium for both her and the baby, and the rice seemed to settle her stomach too. Thank goodness she did not want to eat coal.

  She began to prepare for their first Christmas in the house. She persuaded Peter to invite her father and sisters on Christmas Day, after he and her father had finished work. He had at first favoured the old way of waiting till New Year’s Day for celebrating, but Isa, having joined the church and seen the ways of the Tolquhouns, was desperate for a family Christmas, so he agreed. Isa had always been working that day and she had had to wait till Boxing Day to see them. So this was going to be a very special Christmas in her own home with her family around her. She busied herself mixing ingredients for cake and puddings and preparing her own mincemeat. She ordered a large chicken from the butcher. Chrissie and Margaret were delighted they would all be together for Christmas.

  They met together in Falkirk to do their Christmas shopping. Margaret had now left school and was working in a large house for the owner of a smaller foundry, Mr Cottleson and his family. She still lived at home but went each day as a housemaid to the grand house on the canal. She was sixteen, athletic, lithe and pretty, and with her glossy, wavy hair and winsome smile she was already turning heads. Chrissie, coming up for fourteen, was shy and young compared to her older sisters and depended on them for guidance. Together the three girls made a fine spectacle walking down the High Street together, chatting and laughing, sometimes arm in arm.

  “So what will we be buying for your husband then, Isa?” teased Margaret. She turned to Chrissie and, winking, suggested, “Cologne? A silk tie, or perhaps a cravat? He does like to look smart. Quite the dandy. Did I tell you the other day he pulled up his trouser leg and asked if I liked his socks?”

  Chrissie giggled behind her woollen mitten. Margaret was such a tease. She was right though; they had both noticed Peter was always sprucing himself up everywhere he went. There was no doubt he was a handsome fellow but he definitely knew it.

  “He never did!” Isa said, shocked. When her sisters confirmed the news with nodded heads and smiles, Isa threw back her head and laughed as well.

  “What a preening Swan he is at times,” she said. That set them all off.

  “But those are good ideas, Maggie. He’d definitely like that kind of thing. What had you thought of for Father?”

  “Well, Chrissie and I thought we could all club together for a new pipe and some tobacco. It fairly keeps him quiet of an evening if he has a good smoke. Mellows him, I think.”

  “That is a great idea. If we have enough we could get him a new pouch to keep the tobacco in. Let’s head to Johnson’s tobacconist first and check the prices.”

  By Christmas Day the little flat in Jackson Street had a roaring log fire in the grate, paper decorations hung from the ceiling, and the cupboards and cold safe were filled to bursting with puddings, cakes, pies, sauces and chutneys. Isa was excited as she finished preparing the vegetables for the Christmas Day evening meal, when she would be the hostess in her own home for the first time. They would gather when her father finished work at five. Peter was on an early shift and so would be back by two, when he might take a rest before the family arrived. She had everything prepared ready to cook and she had it all organised as to what order things would go on the stove, be put in the oven and brought to the table. The experience she had gained from watching Mrs Roberts organising grand meals for the Tolquhouns had stood her in good stead over the years, and in her other posts when she had been in charge of the kitchen on Christmas Day, and made this smaller affair very easy. She wanted to have time to go to church. She checked the clock. She should stop now and get on her coat. A brisk walk lay ahead of her.

  As she set off along the road she was glad she had put on her boots, for falling softly from the sky were feathery flakes of snow, the first of the winter. How lovely that it was falling now for her first Christmas as a married woman. A ripple of joy ran through her and she drew her scarf closer around her to stop the icy snow falling down her neck. The church was well filled. The carols were rousing and Isa felt aglow with the wonder of the story of Christ’s birth. She found herself this year focused on Mary, her reactions to the news she was pregnant, her difficult birth in the stable. As she struggled with her own pregnancy she heard the story afresh and felt a rush of sympathy for this ordinary woman thrust into an extraordinary story. At least Isa could look forward to the comfort of a clean home, a midwife in attendance and good neighbours to support her. What had Mary had? Then she realised. She had had her faith. And Joseph. And that made Isa realise that she too had the support of faith and prayer, belonging to a community of compassionate people, and also of her proud husband looking forward to being a parent as much as she herself was.

  As they headed outside everything had been dusted with light, powdery snow and Isa’s boots crunched on the ground as she made her way home.

  The meal was a great success. Afterwards, as they sat replete around the table, th
ey opened their simple gifts to each other. Isa had chosen a tie for Peter: not silk, as it was beyond their means, but a lovely green tweed which emphasised the green flecks in his eyes and met with his approval.

  Her father was in raptures over the new pipe with its amber stem carefully presented in its wooden case.

  “Aye, ye must’ve kent there was a crack in the ither een, Chrissie, when ye were tamping the baccie in the bowl. Weel done, lassies. My it’s a meerschaum. Ye couldnae hae chosen a better gift.”

  Margaret and Chrissie had found a lovely cream woollen shawl for Isa in a lacy stitch. It was light and warm and finer than any scarf she had. She was delighted.

  Chrissie was beaming with joy that their gift was so well received.

  “Now,” said Isa. “This one is for you, Margaret, from all of us.” She handed Margaret a prettily wrapped package. Inside there was a box from Peterkins and then tissue paper and finally Margaret found a pair of leather gloves.

  She held them in her hands then lifted them to her nose to smell the lovely leather smell. She began to put them on, ensuring each finger was fitted properly. She gazed at her gloved hands in disbelief.

  “I hope you like them,” Peter said. “I thought of them. I know you always moan about your woollen ones. We reckoned you were old enough now for a pair of proper lady’s gloves.”

  Margaret looked up at him then got out of her chair and came round to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Peter. They’re just what I wanted. Thank you all,” and she proceeded round the room, kissing each member of her family and thanking them for this lovely, grown-up gift. It was as if they had recognised she was now nearly a woman.

  “That just leaves you, Chrissie,” announced Isa as she handed over the last gift.

  Chrissie blushed as she unwrapped the parcel. It was again a box and something inside rattled as she relieved it of its wrappings. “Oh,” she gasped as she looked inside. Two beautiful tortoiseshell hair combs nestled in the tissue paper. “Oh, they are lovely, Isa. Thank you, all of you. Is it all right to try them?”