“Now go to your room. No more playing today.”
Margaret came out from her hiding place and followed her little sister up to their room. Once there she held her in her arms and they cried together.
“Why did you leave the garden? You can take the trike any time, you know. I don’t mind sharing.”
“But it was wonderful outside, Margaret. I went so fast. And then the doctor brought me home in his car.”
Margaret held her little sister. Tears from her own eyes spilled on to Netta’s hair. “I hate it when Mummy hits you. I wish you wouldn’t be naughty.”
Netta snuggled in closer. “I always try to be good. But the bike was so wonderful. I don’t mind the smack.”
Margaret couldn’t believe her ears. She had been terrified imagining the pain, frightened of her mother’s anger and longing for it all to end.
Margaret held Netta close till they both fell asleep on the candlewick cover, finding peace and security in each other’s arms.
Downstairs, Isa was exhausted and burst into tears. What kind of a person was she, who could let her little sister be killed on the railway line and then let her own daughter nearly lose her life on the road? How could she be forgiven for such irresponsibility? She had to make Netta see she must do as she was told. She had to try harder to keep her child safe. She must be a better mother.
*
That summer they went on the train to Scarborough and took rooms in the town. It was sunny if sometimes breezy and the girls had wonderful days on the beach, building sandcastles with elaborate walls and towers, helped by their father to fill pail after pail of sand to make fine turrets. Then they fetched water to fill the moats. On a particularly hot, bright afternoon they had a ride on donkeys along the sands, their father proudly holding the reins of both animals as he posed for Isa to take a photo of them: he in his tweed plus fours, waistcoat and jacket, the girls with their cute short bobs and summer shirts and shorts. For Isa this was the epitome of happiness: to see her husband as the proud father of his two daughters.
On the last evening they went to Peasholme Park to see the fireworks in the gardens. They had been walking around before it got dark and Margaret had loved all the bright colours and fabulous scents of the flowers. When they took their seats for the fireworks, however, she was terrified by the noise and the way the sky filled with red and blue light and sparks and by the smell of burning that surrounded her. Fear overwhelmed her and she shook and cried.
“Peter, I think you’ll have to take Margaret back to the lodgings.”
“What? I want to see the display. It’s spectacular, they said. I’m not missing that.” He turned to Margaret. “Come on, lass, there’s nothing to be scared about. Stop yer greeting. Come on. Be a big girl.” But Margaret was terror-struck and was hyperventilating.
“Peter,” Isa hissed, “she’s too frightened. Her heart, remember. You’ll have to take her back.”
He knew he could not afford a shouting match with Isa to get her to change her mind. Not in front of all these people. There was nothing else for it. With great reluctance he got up, took Margaret by the hand and led her out sobbing along the row of seats and away from the fireworks display, which he had so longed to see. Then he walked her quickly away from all the noise, shushing her. Once out of earshot he gave vent to his anger.
“What a baby you are. I thought you were more sensible than to be scared of fireworks, for goodness’ sake. And you’ve spoiled the night for me too. Did you think on that when you started yer greetin’?” He was furious and it was a long walk back to the lodgings for Margaret, struggling to keep up with him, berated all the way, but at least this was something she knew how to cope with.
*
On Peter’s weekends off the family made a trip to Falkirk on the train and visited the two sets of grandparents. In the morning it was John Dick’s in Camelon, where the girls were given a sixpence each to spend on sweets. Margaret could take her little sister by the hand and walk round the corner to the shop, where they stood for ages eying the garishly coloured sweets in the tall glass jars. There were bright fluorescent pink sticks of rock, black and white striped humbugs and dusty white bonbons. There were long, sticky black strips of liquorice and jellies in strong reds, blues, greens and yellows like the colours in their paint-box at home. Often they liked to choose something different, but sometimes they just wanted their favourites: Margaret loved caramels and Netta preferred liquorice.
Back at Grandfather Dick’s house there would be steak pie for lunch and great stories, sometimes even singing. They loved it when he sang and played the accordion. They would all join in the ones they knew. “Ally bally ally bally bee, sittin’ on yer mither’s knee, greetin’ for a wee bawbee tae buy some Coulter’s candy.” That was a great one to sing when their mouths still remembered the aniseed or caramel tastes of the candy their grandfather’s sixpence had bought for them.
Netta particularly loved the freedom to rummage through her grandfather’s things. One Saturday she had been through a drawer in the bedroom chest and came through holding something metal and shiny.
“Look, Mummy, what I found. See?” She came closer and held up her hand. “It’s rings that fit on all my fingers.”
Her mother was shocked. What her innocent child had in her hand was a knuckleduster.
“Ah now, lassie, that’s no’really for playing wi’. Gie it tae your granddad.”
Obediently Netta returned the knuckleduster to her grandfather, who slipped the contraption into his pocket as he would have done with a coin. Isa and Peter were struck dumb. In her mind, Isa saw her father’s hand made a weapon mashing into the face, head and stomach of an opponent. She had had no idea he had been involved in such dirty tactics. Peter had not quite realised the harsh significance implied in the title the “Fighting Dicks”. His father-in-law clearly had been involved in some rough stuff. He was unsure whether this raised or lowered his estimation of him.
In the afternoon it was over to the other side of town to visit the Swans on Major’s Loan, a posh area near the Royal Infirmary. This was a very different experience and not one the girls relished much, for they had to be on their best behaviour and sit primly in aprons their stiffly formal grandmother had laid out for them as soon as they were in the door. Sitting on the edge of uncomfortable chairs, they had not to speak unless spoken to, while they listened to the boring adult talk all around them. If it was a Sunday they were given books to read about saints or Bible stories. At first they liked the pictures, but compared with the books they had at home many of these were too sad and filled with children suffering. They were supposed to make them grateful for what they had and sympathetic to those who were suffering, but they just made Margaret want to cry and made Netta feel sick when she was old enough to read them. One amusement they did have here was listening to the conversations as the hospital visitors passed the house and waited at the nearby bus stop. They heard about operations and tests and reports on patients’ recoveries, all delivered in knowledgeable tones, as though the visitors were the doctors.
When the clock chimed five in the afternoon it was time for tea. Grandmother Swan would bring in the tea things and pour each cup laboriously, using the tea strainer, topping up with milk, dropping in delicately the sugar cubes lifted individually with tongs and even stirring it for each person. By the time it finally reached them it was often cool. Then there were the plates of bread and butter to be eaten first before the cakes. Isa had them under strict instructions to take only one cake no matter how many were left on the plate. To take more would be seen to be rude.
It was always a relief to leave in time for the evening train home and to be able to relax with their parents. Even their father seemed glad to get out of his former home.
*
By October, Maggie was getting ready to leave for the big trip to Canada, as she was now twenty-one and had her savings ready. She had her ticket at a reduced rate because she was travelling by assisted passage t
o meet the needs of the Canadian cities for domestic servants. Isa and Chrissie had been helping her sew a suit with a skirt and fitted jacket in a chestnut-brown tweed flecked with green, which complemented her skin and hair so well. She bought a thick wool coat, the best she could afford, and two pairs of strong shoes. Isa and Peter made her a gift of a trunk. She was all set. It was with a heavy heart that Isa travelled with her by train to Glasgow and then on to Clydebank, where the ship stood ready. The gleaming white SS Montcalm, built at the local John Brown’s shipyard, towered high above the quayside, its two black elliptical funnels spaced widely apart, giving it a pleasingly balanced silhouette.
“I can hardly believe you’re doing this, Maggie. Off to Canada. It’s so far away.” Isa was determined not to cry. Her sister was so excited. She must not dampen it with tears.
“I’ll write to you every week, Isa, with all my adventures.” Maggie was amazed to have got to this point. She had longed for this since she was sixteen but now that she was beginning her trip to a new life, she was glad she was older, wiser and more experienced. She had worked as a maid and housekeeper and had looked after her family when they had needed her. She felt ready for anything.
“You make sure and wrap up warm when winter comes. It’s bitterly cold then, you know.” Isa’s voice faltered as the emotions rose within her. For it felt that she was not just saying goodbye to her sister but was witnessing her first fledgling leaving the nest completely and sailing far away without her, to the other side of the Atlantic. Her sense of loss was compounded by her years of mothering her dear sister. Would they ever see each other again? Her heart ached, her throat tightened and she felt hot tears in her eyes.
“I’ll be fine, Isa. I have to do this: try myself out in new pastures. I can only do it because of you, because of all that you showed me. Because of watching you cope with everything when Mother died. You made me strong, you encouraged me. But I need away: from Falkirk, from Father. I need to prove myself.”
They were near the gangway now and a porter had approached to help with the trunk. Maggie turned to face Isa and they moved nearer into a long, close embrace. “I’ll make you proud of me, Isa,” Margaret whispered. “Take care of Chrissie.”
Isa did not want to let go, but she dropped her arms to her sides slowly and smiled through the tears as Maggie stepped on to the gangway. The porter walked ahead with the heavy luggage and Maggie walked steadily behind him. At the top she turned round and gave Isa such a cheery wave with her gloved hand. Then she set off along the deck towards the Salvation Army officer, who was waiting to welcome his passengers aboard. Isa then watched as Maggie followed her trunk and disappeared out of sight.
Isa felt as though a part of her body had been wrenched away. She felt suddenly empty and lost as she stood disorientated on the quayside. What on earth lay ahead for Maggie? What if there were storms? Would she be all right? And when she arrived would she find a job? Would all the guarantees of shelter and work materialise? How would her dear sister manage over there on her own, so far from family and friends? Tears were streaming down her face. Suddenly she shivered. She took her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. She should not start worrying so far ahead. She had important things to get on with herself. This was Maggie’s journey and she had to let her go and trust God to look after her. She had to return home to her girls.
The winter of Margaret’s seventh year was very damp and the smog over Inverkeithing was thick. She had several chest infections that hung around for weeks, taking ages to clear. Isa knew to dose her with ipecacuanha wine and glycerine, which soothed the cough and allowed her to sleep at night. Isa set up a bed in the kitchen in the warmer air from the stove to make it easier for her to breathe. Netta missed her sister not being beside her in their shared room. She worried for her and listened out for her coughing, but Isa made an excellent nurse for them when they were sick. She was attentive and drew on all the knowledge she had gleaned over her years of mothering her sisters and watching the nannies in the nursery at the Tolquhouns’. She carefully planned health-giving meals, laid cool cloths on their brows, tempted them with refreshing drinks and their favourite foods, and thought nothing of sitting at their bedside telling stories, singing or just quietly keeping them company. Both girls loved her most at those times and she felt so needed and glad to be their mother. Under this wise and watchful care, Margaret made a good recovery.
*
Isa was dusting the top of the cupboard in the hallway when she heard the post drop behind the door. She went to the mat to pick up the pile of mail. Leafing through the envelopes, she found one with the longed-for Canadian postmark. She rushed through to the sitting room and sat on her favourite chair by the window. At last, news from Margaret! It had been six weeks. She savoured the moment, holding the letter and looking at the writing. Carefully, she ran the edge of a knife along the top of the envelope, gently opened it up and pulled out the sheaf of thin blue paper.
Dear Isa (and Peter, Chrissie, Margaret and Netta),
All is well! I am settled in a job and have good lodgings nearby. But there is so much to tell. First the journey. The Montcalm was very comfortable and all the staff were wonderful, no matter what we passengers requested or fancied wrong, they could never do enough for us. My room had two berths and I shared it with a lovely girl, Miss Theresa O’Sullivan from County Clare in Ireland. She too was travelling with the Salvation Army, as were about another fifty or so. I do like Theresa very much and still see her, for we both are lodged in the same women’s hostel for the present. We discovered a love of reading and writing in common and spent many happy hours on deck walking and talking about what we had read and of our plans when we arrived.
Our berths were comfortable and spacious. I had thought we might be very cramped, like the sleeper compartments on the trains to London, but we had a bit more floor space than that. We had our own sink and there were washrooms along the corridor where we could book a bath if wished. I had two while aboard and luxuriated in the warm water, imagining the Canadian adventures ahead of me.
There was also a small library and writing room, which I spent time in and where I began my diary, which is helping me write this letter! The first-class passengers had access to a much bigger one, which we were not allowed to enter. It may well have been larger and more lavish, but I had no desire to sit amongst books and passengers when I could be on deck with the wind in my hair, filled with the joy of sailing. I wanted to remind myself that I was on board a ship travelling across the Atlantic to Canada. After all, one can sit in far greater grandeur in the Carnegie Library in Dunfermline!
On the morning of October 15th, seven days after we had left Glasgow, while out on deck I noticed flocks of gulls following the ship’s wake; and then on the horizon, still faint and far off, the blue smudges of land ahead. After that it was a matter of hours before we were sailing south of Anticosti Island and entering the mouth of the St Lawrence Gulf. In every direction there was land: a mixture of promontories and peninsulas of the mainland of Canada, and the islands in the gulf. I walked round and round the decks, craning past lifeboats and funnels to get the best views of my new home. I was thrilled to bursting point, my heart hammering inside me in a most lovely way. But I had to tear myself away to get ready to disembark as we approached Quebec City.
Female Salvation Army officers, in their distinctive navy uniforms, with the red ribbons round their bonnets, awaited us on the quayside and Theresa and I made our way over. Our names were ticked off their list and once the others who had travelled with us were disembarked we were taken in a fleet of cars and buses to the Citadel in the town centre. There we were shown round, and registered with their agency for finding employment as domestic servants. That first night in the hostel I shared with five others, including Theresa. We were all tired but excited.
In the morning we began looking at possible jobs from the requests received by the agency and from adverts in the papers. I spotted one for the manageress of a laundry and
thought that might be different. I took the details, checked the maps and set off, dressed in my suit, my new shoes, coat and hat since it is chilly here. It was only a forty-minute walk along streets laid out straight as rulers in easy grids. At every crossroads there was a signpost clearly naming each street and so it was not long before I found the establishment. It was down a flight of steps and was marked by a bright-blue sign with “Dawson’s Laundry” on it in white letters. I rang the bell, was warmly greeted and escorted into the interview room. A very smart, efficient, middle-aged woman introduced herself as Mrs Graham. She asked if I had done laundry work before and of course I said yes, for I have: I’ve washed for Father and Chrissie for years. I know how to boil water, grate soap and iron. She obviously liked the look of me and there were no other applicants – that’s why we are here after all: unemployment at home and not enough workers here – so she told me I had got the job and then showed me round the premises.
The first area was kitted out with washtubs, boilers and scrubbing boards, and was hot and steamy. But there were also electric washing machines which rocked to and fro, agitating the clothes without the use of a dolly. The next room, slightly cooler, had more sinks for rinsing and huge pairs of rollers that looked capable of mangling carpets. Next came the drying room, which was like entering a desert or an oven, it was so hot and dry. It was filled with racks and clothes on rails of hangers but it also had electric drying machines the like of which I’ve never seen. The next section was filled with ironing tables and pressing machines. Finally we came to an area where the clothes and linens were wrapped, ready for pick-up by customers or delivery by the vans. It was a big operation and I could see there were all kinds of machines I had no idea how to work. What had I got myself into? She was keen that I start as soon as possible so I said I could start the next day.
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