The Letter Page 4

  The intimidating manager was summoned who pompously informed Ben that there were no vacancies. A porter escorted them to the door, unceremoniously depositing the lovingly packed luggage on the busy street.

  “In India I could buy and sell him and hundreds like him” Ben said through clenched teeth, “snap my fingers and he would be no more.” He snatched up the leather bag. They didn’t go to Patrick Thompson’s.

  * * * * *

  Ben had qualified and Margaret spent her days keeping the room in their lodgings neat and tidy, counting the hours until he returned from the Infirmary. They read together, went to concerts, shared their dreams and talked for hours while they wandered through the parks and streets of the enchanting city. She wished she’d taken her final exams but didn’t miss the intellectual stimulation of the University. Ben was a dedicated doctor and with Margaret’s help, aimed to rise to the top of his profession.

  The baby’s first movements fluttered lightly like butterfly wings. Ben was convinced it was a boy, heir to the Atrey estates accrued over hundreds of years. He sought out more suitable accommodation for the birth of his son.

  The night before the move the temperature plummeted. In the morning the sky was heavy with the threat of snow. A steaming carthorse stood patiently on the cobbled street, which overnight had become a slippery death trap for man and beast. Margaret traipsed up and down the tenement’s twisting stone steps assisting Ben and the carter to load their books into the wooden cart. They made steady progress but it was too slow for Margaret who rushed ahead to light a fire in their new home. Christmas was coming, their first as man and wife. Next year they would be a family.

  The frosty ringed moon cast shadows through the curtain-less window. They crawled into a hastily made bed and gently made love. Margaret fell asleep in Ben’s arms. She was woken by snow light and a wave of pain rippling through her stomach. She gasped automatically drawing her knees up; then it was gone. Untangling from Ben’s long arms Margaret gingerly stretched out her legs, only to be forced to draw them back as the spasm returned.

  Somehow she got out of bed, found the matches and lit the gas mantle on the nearby wall. It fizzed and hissed into life. She pulled the bucket from beneath the bed and squatted over it. Margaret hated doing this when Ben was in the room but the shared toilet was in the yard below and the cramping pains were unrelenting. She gripped the iron bedstead crouching over the bucket, calling out for her mother and waking Ben. Her frightened eyes searched his, “The baby’s coming…” he said carefully lifting her onto the bed.

  Margaret moaned… “It can’t be… it’s too early… Do something…” but there was nothing to be done. Ben left her with the hastily summoned midwife who restored order chiding, “Dinne take on so lassie. There’s plenty of time to have lots more bairns.”

  But it was this baby Margaret ached for, cruelly gone before she had chance to hold it. Locked in disappointment Ben didn’t speak of it and she couldn’t bear to. Alone, months later, she broke down crying for her own mother who she missed so much.

  Chapter 7

  At weekends, as frequently as his work at the Infirmary allowed, Ben went to Waverly station to try to catch sight of Jean returning home to Gorebridge. He hoped to persuade her to visit them, for nothing he tried restored the lively girl he’d married. A familiar slender figure was in the crowd ahead of him; leaping down the station steps, taking two or three in one stride, he shouted, “Jean! Jean!” Heads turned but Jean carried on walking, acting as if she hadn’t heard. Ben put on a sprint and caught her by the shoulder.

  “Leave off laddie! She’s not for the likes of you!” a man said protecting what he assumed to be a young woman pestered by the unwanted attentions of a foreigner.

  “I’m her brother-in-law,” Ben panted, squaring up to him. Jean confirmed it was true. The man muttered something which she didn’t catch, and spat deliberately on the ground by Ben’s feet. Mortified by the insult they took refuge in the station buffet. Ben sorrowfully told Jean of Margaret’s miscarriage, begging her to visit. She refused to commit to anything and caught the train leaving him in the smoke filled room with his head in his hands.

  Safe inside the railway carriage Jean tugged the wide leather strap slamming the widow shut. It wasn’t fair. No sooner had she gained the university place than the bursary was withdrawn on the tenuous grounds of her sister’s behaviour. Unable to deceive her parents, or trust herself where Margaret was concerned, Jean told her mother of the meeting with Ben. She was doubly annoyed by the reaction. A few parcels were got together ‘to tide poor Maggie over’. Jean knew she would be expected to take them but counted on her father to put a stop to the nonsense. He chose not to; for a moment she hated all three of them.

  * * * * *

  Jean knocked on the door of Margaret and Ben’s flat, waiting reluctantly on the doorstep wishing she was somewhere else. At the sight of her sister she burst into tears dropping the cumbersome basket, strewing home made cakes, bread, butter and jam down the stone steps. Dark rings of unhappiness highlighted Margaret’s eyes, clothes hung from her boney frame, “Now Jean, don’t take on so. I’m fine, just a little tired.”

  Trying to stop crying, Jean began to repack the basket. Margaret bent to help but every movement confirmed the weak state of her health.

  Margaret asked about everyone, especially her father. Jean told her that he was much the same, reminding her sister of their father’s habit of filling his pipe and relaxing in his chair by the fire before bed. On this occasion he placed two identical kitchen chairs opposite his and asked their brothers Johnny and Con to join him. The brothers did as they were told. Their father slowly filled his pipe, reached up to the rack above the mantelpiece, chose two others, filled them with tobacco and gave them to his sons. The riveted duo watched their father light a newspaper spill from the fire to ignite his pipe, drawing in, making the tobacco smolder, sending fire flakes over the bowl.

  Then he lit their pipes in turn and sat back in his chair. He smoked. They smoked. The room filled with the aromatic smell of tobacco and a blue haze hung in the air. Deftly knocking his pipe on the hearth, he replaced it on the rack and retired for the night. His green-faced sons singed their fingers stubbing out theirs.

  The boys tried to work out how their father knew of their tobacco experiments while carrying out their nightly boot cleaning task but Johnny was violently sick. Con gypping and holding his nose gathered rags to mop up the mess, supervised by their unsympathetic mother. Finally with the footwear polished and lined in a row, the would-be-smokers escaped. Not a word passed between father and sons but Jean saw him wink at her mother when he pulled on his boots in the morning.

  Margaret gleefully asked this and that. Jean obliged with more anecdotes lulling her sister into believing there was a chance that the marriage would be accepted. However she refrained from saying there was no singing at home. The lid of the treasured piano hadn’t been opened since Margaret left. Mary and their father didn’t play any more.

  * * * * *

  Winter gave way to a gentle spring and on to summer with Edinburgh’s floral parks in full bloom. Occasionally, dressed in their finest, Margaret and Ben explored the affluent streets of Morningside selecting a house for the future. It was one of their favourite games and, they daydreamed of living in one of the imposing square houses with a brass name plate on the front entrance.

  Ben was becoming highly regarded in his profession, enjoying his work, continuing to read and research. Margaret was always at his elbow learning as much about medicine as her husband. It didn’t cross her mind that she might have become a doctor. She had wasted the opportunity to become anything much but she had Ben. She was sorry her actions had cheated Jean and Mary of the same opportunity. Margaret didn’t dwell on it. She was expecting another baby and was preoccupied with delaying telling Ben until the early months had passed.

  * * * *
*

  A telegram arrived informing Ben that his father was very ill, requesting him to return to India without delay. He didn’t hesitate, organised his work, booked a passage and left without his wife.

  Chapter 8

  Edinburgh, Newhaven and Gorebridge

  Ben had been gone two months. Every day Margaret penned a few lines talking as if he were beside her, for she missed his friendship as well as their lovemaking. She posted the scribbles weekly without getting any reply. Thinking long and hard she wrote,

  My Dearest Ben,

  I hope my letters have reached you. I cannot understand why you have not replied. I trust nothing disastrous has happened. I am miserable without you but the good news is that we are to have another child towards the end of May. Please, dearest try to get home for the birth. I am well and trying not to worry.

  The money you left is dwindling fast and will not last much longer and your banker’s drafts have not arrived. I am sorry to trouble you with such mundane things when you have pressing business where you are.

  I saw Doctor Sinclair from the Infirmary the other day. He was asking when you would be returning. He sends his regards. You are certain to be able to return there when this emergency is over.

  My days are lonely without you so do write soon.

  Your loving wife

  It was imperative Margaret found a job while she could disguise her pregnancy but prospective employers were suspicious. Why would a young married, well-spoken girl be looking for work of any kind? The claim that her husband was abroad led to more questions. The truthful explanation ended any possibility of employment. Margaret became used to being almost thrown out, but that was nothing compared to the lewd suggestions. The situation was getting her down and if anything happened to this baby she didn’t know what she would do. With enough money to last barely a few more weeks she was prepared to do anything, provided it was respectable.

  * * * * *

  High up in the accounts department of the big store Margaret’s sister, Jean, surveyed the shop floor. Customers chose anything from clothes to furniture. Dockets confirming purchases whizzed beneath the ceiling in containers suspended on wire which Jean emptied. She added the totals quicker than they could be written down. Some of the young male clerks tried to confuse her by mixing up the carbon copied slips of paper, but it was good humoured and Jean entered into the spirit of it, testing them in return. It was not long before she was promoted. Her maroon rainbow-edged ledgers with precise figures in red, blue, black and green ink, double and triple entries, ruled and balanced totals were works of art. Jean tried to make Margaret a small allowance until things looked up but by the time she’d paid her train fare to the town there wasn’t much left.

  The accounts manager was putting the world to rights complaining that an acquaintance of his couldn’t find anyone willing to manage a fish shop. It was out of the town, in a coastal village north of Edinburgh. The hours were long; the wages small but there was a flat above the shop. Jean seized this solution to her sister’s problems.

  * * * * *

  Margaret breathed, ate and slept surrounded by the all-pervading smell of fish. She hated the towing of heavy wicker baskets and the draughty fish sheds where the fish wives gutted and cleaned the catch. She was willing to turn her hand to anything but follow the navy and white uniformed fish wives with a basket on her back to peddle the catch in Edinburgh. No one heard her grumble but they didn’t hear her prayers. Her quick wit endeared her to the shop’s customers who joined in the friendly banter. The takings rose and business flourished.

  Margaret forwarded her address to Ben but little else. There seemed no point until he replied to the host of letters she’d already sent. The inquisitive village postmistress, skilled at wheedling out information, soon discovered that Margaret was expecting news from her husband who, she said, was in India. In next to no time the local women were waiting as impatiently as Margaret for a letter to arrive. Some couldn’t have read it, but they didn’t care who her so-called husband was. It was high time he wrote. If he didn’t she wouldn’t be short of friends.

  * * * * *

  Perhaps Ben was ill? God forbid that anything should happen to him. Lack of sleep and the subconscious fear that he might not return was eating away at Margaret. She touched her swollen stomach, the unborn child the sole tangible link with her husband.

  Working in the fish shop grew more difficult and there were lots of good-natured jokes about how much longer she would be able to squeeze her bulk behind the counter. Margaret joined in but if she could not work she would be homeless. Jean’s Sunday visits kept her sane.

  They strolled, arms linked, past rows of fishing nets drying by the harbour.

  Jean asked, “I wonder whether you’ll have a wee girl or boy.”

  “Ben would like a son but I think if I could choose it would be a girl.”

  “I hope it’s a girl with your curly hair but with my patience!”

  “What cheek! I can be patient.”

  Jean scoffed, “Not so I’d notice.”

  “Well I’m trying.”

  “You certainly are!”

  “Wait until I’ve had this baby. You’ll not escape so easily. Anyway I’ve had enough of walking. It’s easy for you. You’ve not got this weight to lug around.”

  “You said it,” Jean joked ducking out of the way of her sister’s playful swipe. Margaret wished her sister could stay forever but work called for both of them and there was always next Sunday.

  * * * * *

  Margaret’s mother knew from experience the difficulties of this late stage of pregnancy. Her husband viewed their daughter’s conduct as shameful. Marriage, anywhere but the Catholic Church, put Margaret’s immortal soul in danger. He didn’t know how to deal with the dictates of religion and the love of his child. His solution was to give his wife a few extra pounds ‘just in case’ and ask no questions.

  * * * * *

  Margaret displayed the best of the catch on a fishmonger’s slab in the shop window. Shining silver scaled herrings, white cod, and delicious oak-brown kippers lay alongside orange-crumbed dressed fish and bright yellow smoked haddock. There were few customers at this time of the morning. Her face flushed and a clean white apron concealing her shape, Margaret sat on a stool with her back to the door sorting money in orderly piles for the busy day ahead.

  “Maggie.”

  The women filleting the fish stopped, their quicksilver knives idle.

  “Ma… Oh Ma, I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  “Away you go lassie! We’ll mind the shop,” said a gruff voiced woman, speaking for all of them.

  The bare room Margaret called home was devoid of any comfort except for the clutter of well thumbed books by the bed. Jean witnessed her mother’s tears. Margaret was ashamed to be the cause.

  The decent woman blamed herself for not preparing her daughters for the ways of the world, but she had married young and had little experience of life outside the home. Her husband was a good man but his refusal to have anything to do with their daughter distressed and exasperated her. She used the extra money and prudent savings from the boys’ wages to rent a small room above a friend’s shop. Her sons attended to the rest.

  Margaret gave in her notice at the fish shop and went to the little room in Gorebridge. A bed with the cover crotched by her mother, a wooden cupboard, chair, open fire, sink and a jar of delicate snowdrops picked by Jean completed the cheerfully curtained room. The boys, now men, joshed with each other, and were duly told off by their mother. The work finished they sat squashed together on the bed eating broth, pressing Margaret into refilling her bowl more than once to feed the giant child she must be having. It was like old times and the following morning Margaret would have slept on, but Jean woke her with a letter from India.

  “Well Maggie…” Jean sai
d troubled by her sister’s obvious distress, “What does he have to say?”

  Margaret dropped the letter on the bed, “He’s not coming back.”

  “What do you mean not coming back?”

  “Read for yourself…”

  My Dear Margaret,

  I have received so little news of you. Your letter saying that you were contemplating leaving Edinburgh surprised me. I assumed that you had abandoned your foolish plans and returned home to your father.

  My father is no more and all duties and responsibilities pass to me. I cannot leave India. My future is here. You must remain with your parents until our child is born. I will send for you both to join me, meanwhile I have instructed the bank to pay your allowance.

  The brief business like letter with its audacious instructions riled Jean but her concern was for her sister, “What ever will you do?”

  “I don’t know… I thought this was home.”

  “It is. Maggie, stay with us. You’ve managed so far without him.”

  “But it wasn’t meant to be forever. At least he’s sent instructions to the bank so I won’t be penniless and can repay mother.”

  “The money doesn’t matter. It will break mother’s heart if you leave.”

  But Jean sensed that Margaret had already made up her mind.

  Chapter 9

  “You’re almost there hen… one last push.” The new born cry with its rush of love put an end to Margaret’s long labour. Laughing and crying she kissed the delicate face with its button nose and counted every tiny finger and toe. “Dinne worry lassie she’s all there” said the midwife, putting the baby to Margaret’s breast to quicken the milk.