The youth himself was not enamoured of these ideas when they were presented to him. ‘I’ve got hours of home lessons, Mam.’ Recognising the displeasure on both his parents’ faces, he added, ‘I’ll do what I can, then, and full time in the school holidays. Will that be enough?’
Sighing, Jake laid down his empty teacup. ‘We’ll see how it goes, but me an’ your Mam’s nae gettin’ ony younger, you ken, an’ I need to be fit enough to work for McIntyre or I’ll get the sack. I aye hoped you’d tak’ ower the keeping o’ this place, that’s why I wasna keen on you startin’ the Academy. You dinna need to ken the geography o’ the world for that; nor workin’ oot great lang sums. An’ what good’s Latin gan to be to you? Now, if they was learnin’ you how to plough a straight furrow that would be …’
‘No, Jake,’ his wife broke in, gathering up the dirty dishes. ‘Learning’s never a waste. It’s surprising the kind of things that could come in handy.’
Feeling a rush of shame at the memory of his old school chums, who’d all had to help their fathers since they were fairly young, Willie said, ‘I’ll do as much as I can, I promise. I’d have left the school if I could, but seeing I’ve got the bursary, we’d have to pay back what we’ve already got.’
Thus it was that Willie found little time to dream from then on, and was forced by his conscience to go straight home every afternoon. ‘I hardly get a proper chance to speak to you,’ Millie complained one day as they said goodbye at her gate. ‘I miss our wee chats, you know.’ Hesitating, she looked at him in a way that made his heart speed up. ‘I miss you, Willie.’
‘And I miss you, Millie.’
Despite their sadness, they both smiled at the Willie/ Millie rhyming, then the girl whispered, ‘We’re meant for each other, Willie, so don’t go looking for anyone else.’ With a quick movement, she kissed him on the cheek, turned and ran into the house. Thunderstruck, Willie kept standing, wishing that he could return the kiss; wishing that he would never have to wash his face again; wishing that he didn’t have to go home. But he had made a promise.
It was difficult fitting in everything that he was expected to do, and his teachers began to take notice of the difference in his homework. ‘Did you do this exercise before rushing out with your friends?’ the Latin master asked one forenoon.
‘No, sir, I never have time to go out with any friends.’
Because every teacher dished out work for their pupils to carry out at home, it often meant Willie sitting well into the night, but he did not want to admit that he had his chores for both parents to do first. And so the time flew past.
Although Connie had persuaded Gordon Brodie to marry her because she was expecting, she was still terrified about it, even now. She’d been disgusted at the way Gordie had treated her since the very day they were wed. All the old wives’ tales about men being like beasts in the bed hadn’t been strong enough. Her husband had practically torn her apart on their wedding night, making her bleed copiously although they had done the deed many times before it was legal.
‘That’s what happens,’ he had snarled. ‘What did you expect?’ Then he’d just fallen asleep, one leg still lying heavily over both of hers.
It had taken her some time to extricate herself from the shackle and creep to the kitchen to clean herself. She had wished that she didn’t have to go back to bed, but where else was she to go? In any case, she had married the man and she’d have to put up with him.
She couldn’t put it out of her head, though, and had been lying on her back for only about ten minutes when he hoisted himself on top of her again. The act didn’t take so long this time, but the result was exactly the same – groom instantly dead to the world, bride pinned down. She had got used to this pattern, of course, although it had been a hundred times worse in the two weeks they lived with her in-laws until their little house was ready, sleeping in the bedroom next door to them.
‘Gordie,’ she’d whispered as the bedsprings started to creak noisily, ‘what if your Mam and Dad hear us? What’ll they say?’
He had rammed into her as hard as he could. ‘What can they say? It’s what every man and wife do. They did the same theirselves – still do, for I’ve heard them at it.’
Looking back on it now, she knew she had been ignorant of life. Her parents must have done it, they had three children as evidence, but surely Dad hadn’t been as rough as Gordie. He couldn’t have been; he was a different type.
When they had been offered the tiny cottage, isolated from any of the other houses and left vacant when an old woman died, she had hoped that she would feel better, since Gordie would be free to make as much noise as he wanted. He had been getting more and more vicious, however, until she felt, sometimes even wished, that he would accidentally kill her.
Over the last few months, it had got even worse. He started going out every night, with his mates, he said, but she had her doubts. He didn’t have the money to go drinking every night, and not come home until after midnight, so drunk he could hardly stand, sometimes. Besides, the Tufted Duck closed at half past nine, so where did he go after that? She was so upset and confused about this, she was forced to confide her fears to her mother on one of her visits.
Emily had given her the opening by remarking anxiously, ‘Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Connie? You’re looking real pale. Is Gordie treating you right? I know you’re carrying, and I know he hits you for I’ve seen the bruises. I’m not blind you know. You can’t go on like this, Con.’
Sighing, the young woman had told her everything, from the agonies of the wedding night, the repeated onslaughts, the abrupt cooling off followed by the nightly absences. ‘I think he’s seeing somebody else, Mam,’ she ended, her voice unsteady.
‘Oh, Connie, my lovie, I was some feared for this. I could tell Gordon Brodie was a man that needed a woman whatever happened. There’s a lot of men like that. They go at their wife till they’ve bairned her, then when the poor lass gets bigger an’ bigger, they look for somebody else to pleasure them. I’ve seen it happen over and over again, and if I’d my way, I’d castrate the lot of them.’
Her brows down, Connie said, perplexed by the unfamiliar word, ‘What does castrate mean?’
Emily shrugged but answered as honestly as she could. ‘It means they should have their … balls cut off.’
Her daughter’s eyes had shot open in amazement. ‘Mam! I’ve never heard you saying that word afore.’
‘No, and you’ll likely never hear me saying it again.’
Becky Burns had made up her mind at last. She had been considering it for some time, and was finding life with Jackie more and more tiresome. She knew that her mother would tell her she was lucky to have such a good man, so fond of his home, so loving towards her, but she didn’t want a namby-pamby man, she wanted a real he-man, a man like Clark Gable, a man that would rough her up a bit; not too much, though. Not like Gordie Brodie was doing to her sister.
She had been fully aware for some time that her in-laws weren’t happy about the kind of woman their son had married. She knew they had been looking forward to having grandchildren but they’d had that! There must be a way out!
She approached Jackie’s father first. He was a fair man, and might be only too glad to agree with what she suggested. To her astonishment, her assumption had been spot on, and within two months, she was on her way to America, with a cheque for one thousand pounds in her purse to see her through until she was able to look after herself – on condition that she did not contact Jackie in any way.
‘I know this will break his heart,’ Tom Burns had said, ‘but he’ll get over it, and I’m sure he’ll find a better mother for the children he wants.’
Her own parents, of course, thought she was mad, exchanging a good, loving husband for the unknown man she was hoping to find in a far-off country, and taking what amounted to a bribe for doing it.
As her father said, ‘You’ll be back within a year, begging poor Jackie to forgive you.’
‘No, Dad. I need excitement. I need the love of a proper man. I need my freedom.’
Emily frowned to let her husband know not to say any more. Becky had always been headstrong, and she would have to learn for herself that you can’t always get what you want in life, that you should learn to want what you do get. ‘So when are you leaving?’ This wasn’t just one of her chicks flying the nest, both her daughters had done that already, but this one, this flighty younger one, was taking herself to the other side of the world, and they might never see her again.
‘Tom Burns has booked my passage, and I sail from Greenock tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Emily’s hand flew to her heart, but Jake held out his arms to his daughter and she ran to him with a cry. ‘Oh, Dad, I’m sorry, but I need to prove myself. You must see that.’
He kissed her cheek and she moved towards her mother. ‘Mam?’
The pleading on her face made Emily gasp with emotion, but she hugged the young woman for several moments. ‘Look after yourself, Becky,’ she managed to say, ‘and be sure to write and let us know how you get on.’
‘I will, Mam, I promise.’ The noise of a vehicle drawing up at the door made her glance out of the window. ‘Here’s the car Jackie’s father said he would send. He’s been ever so good.’ She ran out, and waved airily to them as the Sunbeam Talbot glided away, making very little sound even on the rough stony track.
‘It must be nice to have money,’ Emily commented bitterly, ‘dishing out a thousand pounds when you feel like it. If we could have done that, d’you think she’d have come back here to live?’ Her voice breaking altogether, she slumped down into her chair at the fireside, and Jake’s heart was breaking into so many small fragments that he could give her no comfort. All he could think of was that if his daughter hadn’t kept the news of the mess she had made of her life until the very last moment, he might have managed to talk her out of this final step.
Connie Brodie rose early. Her husband had come home in the early hours of the morning, as drunk as she had ever seen him, and had looked at her as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her, a look he had perfected to a T over the few months he’d been a husband.
‘Jeez, Con,’ he’d mumbled, ‘you’re as fat as a bloody pig. It’s nae wonder I’ve had to get a nice bit o’ stuff to …’ He leered at her conspiratorially.
She knew he was waiting for her to row with him which would give him an excuse to hit her, so she kept as calm as she could.
‘She was the bees’ knees,’ he persisted, baiting her. ‘Lovely slim body, but paps as soft as a quilt.’ He kept eyeing her, waiting for the explosion, but she had learned a lesson from his previous assaults. ‘You’re nae jealous? Damn fine wife you are.’ Stumbling towards her, he let fly with his fist, almost overbalancing with the effort.
Even knowing that her silence was riling him, she was determined not to give in. Another punch with the same force would have him off his feet altogether, and she would just leave him lying on the floor. Unfortunately, it was a series of punches that he inflicted on her – her face, her chest, her stomach – before he keeled over and she left him lying. Weeping softly, she poured some warm water into the basin and dabbed her battered face and breasts, wishing that she’d had the presence of mind to protect her unborn child with her hands.
When she heard movement behind her, she waited for the next attack, but her lout of a husband didn’t even look her way as he staggered outside. Her legs were shaking now with relief. She needed a cup of tea, and then she would go back to bed for a while. Gordie wouldn’t likely be back until midnight or later. It took ten agonising minutes before she was able to sit down in her armchair, and before she had drunk half her tea, she had fallen fast asleep; a sleep so deep it was almost unconsciousness.
Gordon Brodie had a morning of ups and downs. It hadn’t started well, with his bitch of a wife looking at him like he was shit and never saying a word, but he had soon sorted her out. A few wallops now and then did her good, and that great belly of hers made him want to spew. He didn’t want to touch her nowadays, so he had to look for satisfaction elsewhere. He hadn’t gone to work; how could he with this passion eating at his vitals? By a stroke of luck, he’d suddenly recalled a woman he’d dallied with off and on, who was always ready to open her legs for him. But not today. ‘I heard you was a married man,’ she’d barked at him, ‘an’ I’m nae wantin’ blamed for splitting up a man and wife.’
‘She’s expectin’,’ he’d explained, hoping that would change her mind.
‘You canna get her an’ you come rinnin’ to me? Well, nothing doin’, you randy swine, so aff you go an’ dinna come back. I can get plenty ither men, better nor you.’
He had very nearly hit her, but had thought better of it. She was a hefty piece and could likely knock him flat with one finger. He had wandered about for a while, round and round in circles trying to think, and then gone into the hotel bar. It was just after eleven and the Tufted Duck didn’t close till half two. Nursing a pint, he looked around him. As usual during the day, the customers were mostly old men, but three women were sitting at a table in the corner. None of them looked any great shakes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he sauntered over with what he believed was a smile to charm the birds off the trees. ‘Hello, ladies, my luck must be in the day.’
‘Bugger aff,’ retorted the female in the middle, not bothering to remove the cigarette dangling from her thickly painted lips.
His face flushed with fury. ‘Well, that’s nice, I must say. I was just makin’ conversation, but if that’s how you feel, you can shove your heid up your backside.’
‘An’ you can tak’ a runnin’ jump at yoursel’. You think you’re something, but you’re jist a big round O.’
This came from the youngest-looking of the three, still not very young, but just that little bit more attractive than the other two. Her hair, although the same peroxide blonde as theirs, curled neatly round her face, her skin was less mottled, her neck less craggy, but she had spoiled her chances with him.
He turned to the last one. ‘Would you care for a drink?’