A Pinch of Salt

by Eileen Ramsay

  It was Margaret who returned to reality first. Her temperature cooled and so did her thoughts. She pushed him off and, too late, tried to cover the nakedness she had glorified in a moment before.

  ‘I’m going to Hell,’ she wailed and burst into tears, and it was years before she could laugh at the unbelievable astonishment on George’s face.

  ‘Quiet,’ he managed eventually. ‘If your mam’s back she’ll hear you.’

  Mam. Hear her. She would kill her.

  ‘Quick, get dressed, get out.’

  ‘Oh God, oh God,’ she muttered as shamefacedly they hurried to dress, turned away from one another, embarrassed by the glimpses of what had appeared so beautiful only a few minutes before.

  ‘Will I see you the morn?’ whispered George as she pushed him from the bakery. ‘Up the Baker’s Burn?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, please go.’

  She locked the door behind him, picked up her coat and switched on the light to see that no evidence remained. Then she crept up to her room and fell on her knees beside the bed and begged the Virgin Mary not to let her go to Hell. Had it not been dinned into her and every other Catholic child in the village that sex without the sacrament of matrimony was a mortal sin and punishable by banishment from God’s presence? She could not go to confession to the new parish priest either. He would recognize her voice and know her for a wicked harlot and he would condemn her, she knew it. Dear Blessed Virgin, why could something so wonderful one minute be dust and ashes the next? I never meant to be bad; how did it happen? Oh, Mam will kill me and I’ll go to Hell.

  She heard her parents return in the early hours with a tired and tearful Liam and was surprised and frightened when Kate cautiously opened her door. Could it be that her mother cared for her as she cared for Patrick and was peeping in to see that she was safe in her own bed? Perhaps it was because she lay so quiet and still pretending to be asleep that sleep finally came but it did not revive her.

  *

  Kate roused her early the next morning to go to Mass but was too full of her own awareness that Patrick was no longer there to notice her daughter’s unusual quietness and sudden devotion. If she had thought about the girl’s bent head and closed eyes at all, she would probably have said high time too.

  Margaret was still heavy-eyed when they sat down to breakfast later.

  Charlie knew she was not herself. ‘What’s wrang, lassie? Did you no sleep well? Did we disturb you when we came in this morning?’

  It was a yawning and irritable Liam who answered for her. ‘I bet she was out canoodling with her click.’ Did anything get past the eyes of an observant little boy?

  ‘Shut up, you little squirt.’

  Kate was not thinking of her precious Patrick now. ‘I’ve told you about your language before, madame.’

  ‘And what about his language and his spying and creeping . . .?’

  ‘Enough, Margaret, don’t talk back to yer mam.’ It was Charlie who spoke. ‘Sup up your porridge, Liam.’ He leaned over to his daughter and touched her hand. ‘Have ye got a laddie, Margaret? Somebody at the academy or, wait a minute, who in this wee place could possibly take the place of Clark Gable?’ To his amazement, Margaret burst into tears and rushed from the room.

  ‘Girls.’ Liam almost spat out the word. ‘I’ll tell ye, Daddy. Mammy, do you not want to know about our Margaret?’

  Charlie grabbed him and something in his face made Liam quiet. ‘Away and feed the hens afore I leather your backside.’

  Bursting with the awareness of the unfairness of adults, Liam stomped from the room and Charlie turned to his wife who was standing looking out of the window.

  ‘Could our lassie have a boyfriend, Kate?’

  ‘A boyfriend?’ The thought had never occurred to Kate. ‘She’s at the school, far too young to be interested in any of that nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t know; she’s near seventeen. What are you watching for the postie for? The laddie’s hadnae had his breakfast yet, never mind wrote ye a letter. Forbye, it’s Sunday.’

  Shamefaced, Kate laughed and sat down. ‘Daft, isn’t it? It’s just that . . . he’s gone, Charlie. It’ll never be the same again. When he comes back for the half term he’ll be different, no our laddie at all.’

  ‘Well, that’s what ye want, woman. He’ll not become a priest if he stays your bairn. Now, let’s have a cup of tea and some toast in peace. I’m glad it’s Sunday and we can have a rest after that drive.’

  15

  MARGARET SAT UP in her room looking up at the hills. Usually on Sundays she would gaze out of the window thinking that soon she could go up and up that little road to be with George and she would tremble with anticipated delight. But not today. She had had little sleep and her outpouring of repentance and beseeching at Mass had not brought the balm she wanted. She had woken up praying that it had been a bad dream but it had been real. It had happened and she was doomed to everlasting fire. What could she do? She threw herself on the bed. Was it her own fault or was it George’s fault, the lustfulness of men? She coloured again at the memory of her wantonness. She had disported herself naked in front of him. It was the beer; it had to have been the beer. She would never have done such a thing in her right mind. And then the memory of how sweet it had been, of the closeness she had achieved, of the rightness of being with George surfaced and she moaned again with remembered ecstasy. It could not be wrong.

  She was fast asleep when Liam came rushing up to tell her that ‘if you’re no down in two minutes to help with the dinner, Mammy’s going to skin you alive.’

  She felt better after her sleep. How silly she had been. It wasn’t too terrible or serious. She loved George and he loved her and everything would be fine. It would never happen again, well – and she giggled to herself – not until they were married. That would be glorious.

  George was waiting at the railway bridge on the way to the Baker’s Burn. The September sun was shining on his fair head; he looked so beautiful and so dejected that Margaret ached with love for him. They did not touch but turned together and walked up into the country. When they came to the fairy ring where Kate and Charlie had stood not so many years before, they stopped and turned to one another.

  ‘No, no kissing, George, we have to talk first. I mean I don’t want any kissing . . .’ She stopped and looked at him, his lock of hair falling over his eyes, such sad eyes, like Liam when Charlie could bring himself to punish him.

  ‘I never meant to hurt you, Margaret. I couldn’t control myself.’

  Margaret smiled. So it had been his fault. Relieved of part of her burden, she took his hand. ‘You didn’t hurt me, only just at first a wee bit. It was wonderful.’ She looked up into his eyes, ‘It’s just that it’s against my religion and you can’t do it again.’

  He reached for her and she allowed him to pull her into his arms. Very gently and sweetly he kissed her. ‘We’ll get married as soon as we can.’ He kissed her again, more deeply this time and at once she pulled away.

  ‘I meant it, George. No nonsense. Do you realize that if I die right this minute I’ll go to Hell for all eternity?’

  ‘What a load of rubbish. We love each other. That’s just a way of showing love, real love. Would you do it with anyone else?’

  ‘No, of course not. What do you think I am?’

  ‘Well then, don’t be daft. It’s only wrong if you do it with different people. We’re in love and we’re getting married but we’ll not do it again in case . . . well, you know.’ He looked at her in confusion.

  Again the burning pit opened before Margaret’s feet. She had never thought of that. ‘Oh God, my mother’ll kill me.’ She threw herself into his arms. ‘What am I going to do, George?’

  ‘We’ll get married as soon as we can. We’ll need to save. I haven’t a penny to my name – what with the money I give my mam and the pictures and the dance – but if we just see one another up here I can put by a bit. I’ll take care of you, I’ll alw
ays take care of you.’

  She leaned against him. ‘But what if . . . you know?’

  ‘We’ll away to Gretna Green. Don’t worry, I’ll not let nothing hurt you, Margaret, ever. I’m no planning to be a vanman all my life or even to stay in Auchenbeath. I want a nice house and a decent life for my wife.’

  ‘Your wife, George.’ Margaret kissed him tenderly and did not demur when the kissing grew more and more passionate. His wife, his wife, those beautiful words.

  Regretfully she pulled away from him while she could. ‘We’ll have to stop, George darling. I’ll need to tell Daddy . . . that we’re going out together, and he’ll help me tell my mam, and then, if, well if everything’s fine, we could maybe tell them at Christmas that we want to get married. Don’t you think Christmas would be a nice time to get engaged, and then we could get married after my birthday?’

  But they did not tell Charlie or Kate that Sunday for when Margaret got back to the bakery that evening she found out what most of Britain already knew. At six o’clock, while many of his subjects were enjoying their tea, the king had broadcast to the Empire. Britain was once more at war.

  Kate’s sole concern was for her son. She remembered 1914 and her brothers and Charlie and how they could hardly wait to throw themselves into the hands of the ravenous war machine. Charlie was too old and too frail, but Patrick? He must not be infected by the patriotism that would no doubt be fuelled by skilful politicians who did not have to fight themselves. She telephoned and then sat down to write Patrick her first letter in which she reinforced everything she had said on the telephone. He would be more useful to the world as a priest, a man of God, and so he must, absolutely must, resist all desires to fight for king and country. He was to stay at the university.

  ‘I pray to God he gets the chance to stay at the university, Kate. If there’s a war like the last one, he’ll have no option,’ said Charlie.

  ‘He’s a baby.’

  ‘He’s older than Kevin was when he was killed.’

  Kate stared at her husband, aghast at his brutality, and to their mutual surprise, like their daughter a few hours before, Kate burst into tears.

  It was her daughter who comforted her. ‘Don’t cry, Mammy. Here, sit down and I’ll get you another cup of tea. They’ll no call up university laddies; it’ll be the working men that goes first, the ones without privileges.’

  Kate looked up at her daughter. There was something in the girl’s voice, some bitterness. ‘I believed Mr Chamberlain. Did he not tell us he’d sat down with Hitler and they said no war? Peace in our time, he said, and I believed him.’

  ‘He believed it himself, Mam. But it’ll no last long this time, no with all the airplanes and things. It cannae last long.’

  16

  EDINBURGH AND THE university completely overwhelmed Patrick for his first few weeks. He was constantly exhausted, by work, by the long walks back and forward from his digs in Morningside and from the heady excitement of being away from home and actually at the university. He panicked at lectures because he could not write quickly enough to put down, word for word, everything the professors said. Eventually he worked out a shorthand that he could understand, and spent his evenings rewriting his notes so that they became more comprehensible. At last he was able to hold his head above the water and look around. The first thing he saw was a girl, Fiona Rutherford.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

  He looked up from the book he was reading and there she stood, as small and dainty as his sister Margaret, but not nearly so pretty. She had shocking red hair, freckles, and the merriest green eyes. He couldn’t help smiling back.

  ‘Please,’ he stammered, getting to his feet.

  ‘I’m Fiona Rutherford,’ she said as she put down her tray. ‘I’m in one of your classes.’

  How easy she was to talk to. Patrick was basically very shy and, because of his shyness, had grown up knowing only two women really well. Fiona was not like either Kate or Margaret. She bubbled over with life and interest. By the time they had finished their lunch, not their dinner, Patrick knew that her father had been a Church of Scotland Minister in Perthshire and that he had died of tuberculosis when Fiona was a baby. She had wanted to be a painter but since her mother had pointed out that art did not pay she had decided to teach English instead. Fiona knew everything about Patrick except that he wanted to be a priest.

  I wasn’t being dishonest, he told himself later as he went over his self examination of the day’s events. It’s too precious and too doubtful yet; I don’t want anything to intrude on it in case it gets spoiled.

  He had also promised to join a Great Books Club. Fiona had joined almost every society she could find time for.

  ‘You owe it to yourself and your parents to get as much out of university as possible, Patrick,’ Fiona said. ‘Join everything and drop the ones you don’t like.’

  ‘I couldn’t spare the time for more than one, Fiona; I’m not really very clever. But my mam wants me to join things; I may even be able to go on hill walks some Saturdays.’

  ‘Good,’ smiled Fiona. ‘I’ll see you on the Pentlands then.’

  Patrick blossomed. Where before he had lived for Sundays when he could go to Mass and pour out his love and fears and doubts, he now found that Wednesdays became more important because Wednesday was Great Books day and it was the day that he could sit in class and watch Fiona Rutherford’s animated little face as she listened to the lecturer. She never made notes.

  ‘He’s so wonderful, Patrick; it’s easy to remember. I write it up in the dorm.’

  And so she did, for when Patrick found that he’d missed something important because of watching her, Fiona was able to tell him what Dr Fenn-Smith had said.

  He looked out for her during the rest of the week and sometimes saw her and the day brightened. She drew people to her like moths to a light and was always surrounded by other students, laughing, talking, even – to his horror – smoking. If she saw him she smiled and waved and gestured to him to join them but he was always too shy. It was enough to see her. In another age he would have practised self-flagellation and often, on his knees at night, wondered whether he should punish his body for the thoughts he could not banish from his mind. For a few days he would avoid the Students’ Union altogether and then he would find himself turning up for a Pentland walk.

  ‘I need fresh air; I need fresh air. It’s got nothing to do with Fiona,’ and he knew he lied. And so the first term ended.

  Patrick went home for Christmas, his first term’s exams successfully, if not triumphantly, completed. Kate decided to put all the worries about war, together with the niggling little doubts she had about Margaret’s well-being, behind her for the holidays. The girl had been acting uncharacteristically, one moment singing the latest love song until Kate thought she would scream with the boredom of its repetitions, the next creeping around the house in the blackest of moods and refusing to answer any questions with anything but ‘leave me alone, I’m fine.’

  Patrick was himself; more than four months away from her and not a bit changed. She was overjoyed. The family sat eagerly around the fire and listened to him talk, for had he not seen and done so much that they had never experienced. To Kate’s great joy he had taken her advice and had joined a literary society for recreation. He told Kate and Charlie all about the meetings and the group of enthusiastic young students who formed the group. Kate was so preoccupied remembering her own aborted schooldays that she failed to notice that one name came up more than any other and it was not that of a writer; unless, perhaps, there was a writer called ‘Fiona Says’. As usual Kate heard only what she wanted to hear and she soaked up all Patrick could tell her about the world of books.

  ‘I’ve a whole lot back with me, Mam. You should read them, Dickens and Dostoevesky, Jane Austen and F. Scott Fitzgerald but you probably wouldn’t like him so much, and lots of others.’

  His soft lowland speech had refined itself, the speech of an educat
ed man.

  ‘Does he not sound like a man of the world, Charlie?’ Kate asked in the big bed on Patrick’s first night home. ‘Nothing put on, or trying to sound like Doctor Hyslop, but just nice grammar.’

  ‘That’s what you’ve always wanted, Katie,’ agreed Charlie, ‘just as long as he doesn’t ever get above himself and look down on his illiterate old father. Mind you,’ he added with a laugh, ‘seems to me it would depend on what Fiona says.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Charlie? To get too big for his boots is not in his nature,’ protested Kate. ‘That’s more like our Margaret. I was glad she behaved herself the night and enjoyed being in listening to her brother. She’s done some gallivanting this year; I don’t know how she passed her exams.’

  ‘She’s clever, Katie, like her mammy.’

  Modestly Kate denied this but she revelled in the unusual compliment and vowed to start reading Patrick’s books. Hadn’t she promised herself for years to read A Tale of Two Cities? Surely now she could find the time? She would even try the Irish fellow – he had to be Irish with a name like Fitzgerald. He wasn’t, of course, and Patrick was right. She did not like him.