Authors: Sylvia Atkinson
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.
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 No sooner had she gained the university place than the bursary was withdrawn on the tenuous grounds of her sister’s behaviour.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.
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.”