Her Sister's Gift

by Isabel Jackson

  Isa looked in her sister’s brown eyes, wide and keen and shining from her excitement. “But you are only sixteen, Maggie. Do you not have to be twenty-one?”

  “I know. But if Dad signed the papers they would take me. I asked. They need young people.”

  “But what skills would you say you had? You have only been a housemaid.”

  “It’s domestic staff they want. I’ve taken over here at home since you got married. I can cook and clean and I’d rather cook and clean in Canada than Falkirk.”

  “Right. So have you asked Father yet?”

  “Well, no. I wondered if you could help there. I got the papers and I think I have filled them in correctly, but if you could check them and be there when I ask him . . . That might help . . . if you support me, that is?”

  The room was quiet, as if holding its breath. Isa felt her sister’s desperation to make a life for herself: to get away from the small foundry town with its smoke and dirt, and her need to be free of the responsibility for her father and younger sister. She did not think it would be easy for her in Canada, but she knew how resourceful and strong-minded Maggie was. She had no doubt she would cope whatever was thrown at her. But could they convince their father to sign the papers?

  *

  “So what’s the news, then, that yer so keen to gie us, Maggie?” John Dick was sitting in his armchair puffing on his pipe after a particularly enjoyable meal, made for him by his middle daughter.

  Maggie started to tell him about the advert and her plans and she took out the papers and laid them on the table.

  “I need you to sign these, Father, so that I can go ahead and apply.”

  John’s brow furrowed as he took the pipe from his mouth. “Yer no’ thinkin’ o’ goin’ now, surely?”

  “Aye, Father. They say I can if you sign the papers.”

  “They’ll help her with accommodation when she arrives,” said Isa, thinking now would be a good time for her to join the discussion. “She won’t be left to do everything herself. There’s work over there and—”

  “And jist whit work can you dae?” John continued to grill Margaret.

  “I can cook and clean and—”

  “Aye, that’s right, and ye know whaur ye’ll be cookin’ and cleanin’? Right here is whaur,” and he brought his great fist down on the table so hard that the cutlery jumped. “Ye can forget about gallivantin’ tae Canada and get on wi’ keepin’ hoose for me and yer sister.”

  “But Father . . .” Margaret looked despairingly across at Isa, who shook her head as if to say there was no point in saying any more.

  “Enough. I wunnae hear ony mair.”

  Margaret gathered up the papers and left the room in a fury, slamming the door behind her. Isa tried to chat about the baby’s progress to calm her father and the whole affair was never mentioned again.

  Margaret’s anger and resentment seethed within her until she found another plan, another escape away from her father. This time it involved help from Peter’s family. One of his sisters, Jeannie, was working for a Professor Thomson in Glasgow. When a position became vacant for a young housemaid, Jeannie put in a word for her brother’s sister-in-law and before long the job was Margaret’s. It meant she had her own room in the professor’s three-storey house and she had Peter’s sister to keep an eye on her. Isa and Peter were delighted at having found her a position. But they were still concerned for Chrissie.

  At the end of June, Chrissie came home with a letter for her father concerning her future. She had been offered a scholarship to Falkirk High, one of the very few to be granted. She had won it on merit from her outstanding results in exams. She too was nervous of her father’s reaction.

  When he opened the letter he could not believe it at first. It was good his youngest had done so well, of course, a matter for some pride, but she was only a girl. What did she need further education for at the High? Was it not enough to finish her junior education?

  Isa and Maggie kept telling him what a wonderful opportunity this was for Chrissie. There would be no fees to pay because she had won this scholarship, which was such an honour in itself that he surely could not turn it down.

  “Weel, Chrissie. Do you want tae ging up tae the High?”

  “Yes, Father. It would be great to do Highers. My teachers all say they don’t give out many scholarships and that it is a great opportunity for me.”

  “And there’s no fees.” John did not think he should be spending money on education. “Weel, if you’re set on it that’s fine by me. Doesnae really matter which school yer at as far as I’m concerned.”

  They thought that was all settled and were so pleased for Chrissie to be getting this chance at more advanced study and qualifications. However, they had reckoned without the uniform. Falkirk High had a particular uniform of maroon blazer with school badge, black skirt and jersey, and white blouse. She would also need a PE kit of a divided skirt and Aertex blouse. John would buy none of it. So Chrissie started the new term in August at Falkirk High as a scholarship student, without the proper uniform. It did not make her life easy. There was constant ribbing about her clothing as “the poor bursary girl” and plenty of sniggering behind hands when she came into a room or passed other girls in the corridor.

  Despite this, she continued to do well, studying French and Latin alongside Maths and Science and History. Inside, though, there was this tension. Why should she be in this position? What kind of father would say yes to her getting on, but put her in this hateful no man’s land of being in the school but not belonging? Did he not understand what it did to her? A thought began to take root in her mind that she would be better away from school all together, and from home. Why shouldn’t she follow in the way of her sisters and get live-in work in a big house?

  Whereas Isa had sometimes challenged her father and had learned how to persuade him about things, Chrissie found she could not do this. Margaret would just stomp off and do her own thing as much as she could and she still had her sights set on Canada. As soon as she was twenty-one she would be off. She was carefully saving what she earned so she would not need any money from her father. Somehow, Chrissie just kept her head down and tholed it. Peter and Isa had her over often at weekends and on paydays to help her avoid the worst of her father’s moods.

  Isa had her own troubles. One morning she had been playfully blowing raspberries on Margaret’s tummy as she changed her nappy when she thought she heard something strange. She quietened herself and put her ear next to her daughter’s chest. Was that Margaret’s heart? It was making such a strange sound. The rhythm was irregular. She’d never heard that sound when listening to her sisters’ chests, nor any other baby she had held. Thump thump, then a long pause, thumpety, thumpety, thump. Was something wrong with her dear baby’s heart? Quickly she finished changing Margaret, got her dressed and in the pram and headed straight to the doctor’s surgery.

  The waiting room was busy. She held Margaret in her shawl and could feel the panic rising to a crescendo within her. At last it was her turn. She sat down.

  “Now, Mrs Swan, what seems to be the matter?” the doctor began.

  “It’s Margaret. Her heart. It sounds funny.”

  “Let’s have a listen, then, and see if we can reassure you. Just unwrap her a little so I can get my stethoscope on her chest.” He sounded so jaunty it made Isa feel stupid, as though she were worried over nothing. Normally she would hate to be proven wrong, but today she was desperate for him to say she had worried unnecessarily.

  He warmed the stethoscope in his hands then held it to the baby’s chest. He listened intently. The jaunty look disappeared. Over and over again he placed the stethoscope in slightly different positions and still the frown remained.

  “Right, Mrs Swan, you can wrap her up again. You were right to come. Your baby seems to have what we call a heart murmur. Was there no doctor in attendance at her birth?”

  “No. The midwife came.”

  “I see. Did you notice if she list
ened to the baby’s chest after?”

  “No. I was very tired and sore, doctor. I can’t remember.”

  “No matter. How has your daughter been? She looks to be healthy and thriving.”

  “Yes, doctor, she’s doing well, growing as she should, putting on weight. She’s not shown signs of being unwell.”

  “Good healthy cry if she needs you?”

  “Oh yes. You can hear her in the flat opposite, according to my neighbour.”

  “Good. Well, we may need to watch her progress carefully. I should warn you that she might find things harder when she starts to move. If her heart is not pumping at the full level she may experience breathlessness if involved in physical activity, but no point in worrying before things happen. For now, she’s making good progress and we’ll keep a closer eye on things as she grows. It may well be that her body will get used to the murmur and adjust accordingly, so that she will hardly know there is a problem. Do you have any questions?”

  Isa was not really sure if she had been given good news or bad. He seemed to imply there might be difficulties ahead. What did she want to ask?

  “This won’t shorten her life, will it, doctor?”

  The doctor took a breath in. “It’s too early to tell, Mrs Swan, but I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Is there anything I should do?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t leave her to cry unattended for long, since that could strain the heart. Try to keep her calm. Avoid stress in the household. Watch she doesn’t get too cold or overheated. She certainly seems to be doing really well at the moment, but do feel free to see me again, should you have any concerns.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” She tucked Margaret up in the pram and set off for home, relieved that there was no immediate cause for concern but pondering the possible future. Had she given birth to a child who would spend her life as an invalid?

  When she told Peter that evening, they both sat for a while in silence looking at Margaret asleep in her cot, unaware of the fuss around her.

  Peter was first to speak. “Well, Isa, I don’t think we should worry unless we see any change in her. She looks healthy; the doctor was pleased with her progress when he saw her; he’s told us what to avoid. There’s nothing else we can do but hope and trust she’ll keep strong. She came through a long birth, you know. She must have been strong to do that.”

  Isa felt a relief flood her at her husband’s words. “You’re right, Peter. It was hard on her too. We’ll just be real careful of her. And pray she keeps fighting.” Isa leant into the cot and gently stroked her cheek. “You’ll be fine, wee Margaret. Just fine.”

  Margaret continued to thrive until one bitterly cold winter’s night. Isa awoke in the early hours to the sounds of coughing and wheezing. She dashed to the cot. Margaret was feverish and it seemed she was struggling for breath. Isa picked her up and put her over her shoulder to help drain the fluid building up in her chest and firmly rubbed her back to loosen it. She remembered her mother doing this for Eliza, who had been prone to chest infections. She woke Peter and asked him to pour some whisky into a glass. He brought it to her.

  “Good idea,” he said. “That’ll warm you up.”

  “Not for me, Peter,” Isa said, exasperated. “Now, see if there’s any butter.”

  Peter looked in the cold press and found the dish of butter.

  “Now take a teaspoon and scrape a bit of butter on to it. Then dip it into the whisky.”

  Isa took the spoon and gently slipped a little into Margaret’s mouth.

  “Why are ye giein’ that tae the bairn?”

  “The whisky will open up her tubes and help her breathing and the butter will soothe her throat. My grandmother always gave us that if we had chest colds.”

  “You are amazing, the things you know. Look. She’s settled.”

  “I’ll sit up with her in the chair to help her drain the fluid.”

  “And we’ll get her to the doctor in the morning. I can come with you. I’m no’ on till the afternoon. You come and get me if you need a rest.”

  “I will. Thanks, Peter. You sleep now. I’ll be fine. Looks like she’ll be fine too.”

  It took a few weeks for the infection to clear, but during that time Isa watched over her baby so attentively that every cough had her in her mother’s arms to ensure her heart was not under extra strain. The remedies she had seen used by her grandmother and her mother proved their worth in a new generation and soon the bronchitis was defeated.

  By late summer she had begun to wean Margaret, who was constantly hungry after her milk feed. She made some rice pudding and cornflour, and some milky porridge. The baby loved every spoonful. She tried her on sieved broth and soups, which were supped up too. Isa was so delighted that Margaret continued to thrive and that there was no sign of trouble with her heart. Each time she held her close and could hear the faulty beat it still unnerved her a little.

  Their first Christmas with her was lovely, and friends and family showered her with gifts of clothing, rattles and toys. Peter bought her a beautiful silver-coloured teddy bear that was bigger than her. It was soft and had beautiful eyes. Margaret was fascinated with it when they put it near her and very soon she was crawling across the room to have a closer look.

  The snowdrops in the window box were just coming through when Isa had a few mornings in a row when she felt sick. At first she thought it would just be a slight stomach upset, but soon it was happening every morning and lasting for hours. She had a dreadful feeling of déjà vu. Sure enough, she headed to the doctor, who confirmed her suspicions. Again she could not believe it. She had not long finished breast-feeding Margaret. How could she be pregnant again so soon? She did not feel ready for this. Her memories of giving birth to Margaret came flooding back. She felt she was barely coping with being a mother of one child. Now there would be two come November. What was she going to do?

  Peter, of course, was delighted. For him it was all about showing his virility. He was crowing it from the rooftops. With his brothers and his workmates, he got quite carried away. “Did Isa tell ye she’s expecting again? Aye that’s right. Doesnae take us two long, I can tell ye. Just two weeks merriet and we land the first and now Margaret’s only jist weaned and here we are again. Powerful stuff I’m carrying, right enough.” He did not appear to notice that his wife was exhausted, sick and depressed at the thought.

  This time the sickness was worse and it was difficult for her to keep food down. She tried to eat properly, for the baby’s sake, but she could not face meat. Some days she could drink milk or take a piece of fish but more often only a plate of soup later in the day. As a result she got more and more tired.

  Margaret was approaching her first birthday and continued to grow strong. She was now walking and blethering away in baby sounds as a running commentary to her exploration of the world. Flowers were sniffed in the park, objects lifted and examined to discover what could be done with them. Could she bite this, eat it, throw it? Would it make a sound if she hit it on the floor? Isa wanted to rejoice in her toddler’s development but it was hard when she felt so tired and nauseous. Peter kept on swaggering about how the next one would surely be a boy and how he would soon be out with him in the park kicking a ball. He was all set with a name too. They would call him after his father, Robert Thomson Swan. He thought that had a grand ring.

  Isa had no interest in a name at all. She just longed for each day to be over so she could lie down again and get some rest and peace. The nausea was always better if she were lying down. She was aware that she was not eating enough and that this was making her weak, but there was nothing she could do. When she did force food down she was sick and lost it anyway. When she went to the doctor for help, his advice was completely unexpected.

  After he had examined her, he sat down. He paused for a moment, fiddling with his spectacles in his hands. Eventually he put them down and looked her in the eye.

  “Mrs Swan, you are really unwell. Your pulse is weak and you are anaemic
. The baby is smaller than usual for this stage. You are not eating nearly enough to keep both you and the baby nourished. I am of the opinion that perhaps this pregnancy is too dangerous for you and that it should in fact be terminated, in your best interests.”

  Isa was stunned. She had expected to be told to rest, to be given vitamins or a diet to adhere to, maybe at worst to have to go to hospital for a spell of supervised rest. But terminate the pregnancy, not have the baby?

  “Doctor, I don’t understand.”

  “Mrs Swan, you cannot sink much lower or your own life will be endangered. That is what I am saying. At present you and your child are just coping and no more. But if the sickness continues and you cannot eat or keep up your strength there is a danger you will lose the baby, or indeed that your own health will be in jeopardy.”

  “There must be something else. Tell me what to eat, what to do and I’ll do it. I can’t take my baby’s life, I can’t . . .” Isa’s voice trailed away into quiet sobs.

  The doctor asked his wife to telephone Peter at work to come for Isa. There was no way this woman should be trying to get home herself. His wife took her through to their living room, made her tea and waited with her until Peter arrived. When he saw Isa, paler than ever, slumped in the chair with anguish written on every line of her face, he knew there was terrible news.

  “Isa,” he whispered, getting on his knees beside her and putting his arm around her. “What is it, lass?”

  She could not speak. She held on to him and cried tired tears. The doctor came through to find him and gave him his assessment of the situation.

  “Take a few days to think it through and talk it over with your wife. But I must impress upon you how poorly she is. She is not in any fit condition to go through birth as she is now. She will need help to regain her strength. If you can get someone to stay and look after her and your little girl, cook nourishing food for her and do all the heavy work in the house, she might have a chance. She has a strong spirit. But right now the body is weak. Look after her, Mr Swan.”