“… When?” I says, eventually.
“When I go away with Joe,” she says. “You’ll be all right here on your own for a few years until you grow up, will you not?”
I jumped out my seat in a panic. “YOU WOULDN’T!!” I cried.
My mother grinned, showing the space between her front teeth, a gap so wide you could have slotted a shilling through it. Clearly she was glad to see the fear evoked by her suggestion of abandonment, I could have kicked myself. I sat down again quick.
“You’re lying,” I tellt her. “Joe’s gone. He’s left.”
She was still smiling, with one eyebrow raised. She seemed very confident. What did she know that I didn’t?
“Well that’s funny,” she says. “Very flipping funny.”
I said nothing, didn’t even bother to look at her, only out the corner of my eye. “Oh yes, very amusing,” she says, but I didn’t rise to the bait. “That amuses me greatly,” she says and when I still made no response she pointed her finger at me and continued, And I’ll tell you for why. Because who did I see down at the dock.“
I gasped and whipped round to face her. “You did not.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. I seen Joe and we made up. He was very nice to me, very apologetic. All over me, so he was.”
My heart sank. It was just possible that this was true. My mother and Joe was forever having fights and then making up.
“The long and short of it is,” says my mother. “He wants me to go away with him.”
And seeing as how I wasn’t included in this plan she took the opportunity to gaze at me with great pity.
“Where—where to?” I says.
Across the water, to Scratchland. But the passage costs a flipping fortune and Joe says we can’t afford to take you. But sure you’ll be all right if we leave you here on your own, won’t you?“
I just stared at her.
She shifted her pipe from one side of her mouth to the other and gazed into the hearth. “You’ll probably have to beg for food,” she says, “but if you ask very nicely you might get the odd scrap off the pieman.”
I am sorry to say that at this point I began to cry.
My mother laughed. “Och,” she says. “Don’t be such a big baby. You can look after yourself for a change. And sure if you get thrown out of here you could always sleep on McSweens doorstep.”
At this prospect, I fell wailing at her feet. She let me weep many hot and bitter tears into her lap, while she stroked my hair and told me to “Shhh‘.
“Don’t—leave—me—mammy!” I sobbed. “Please—don’t—go— away!”
“Well now,” she says. “I wonder.” She tutted and sighed and shifted in her seat and when, a moment later, I looked up into her face she was scratching her head and looking thoughtful. “There might just be one way that you could come with us.”
I grabbed her hand in both of mine. “Oh mammy, please. Please let me.”
“Och, I don’t know,” she says. “You would have to do everything I tell you.”
“I will, I will, I’ll be good.”
She pointed a finger at me. “You’ll only get one chance,” she says. And if you muck it up, that’s it. We’ll have to leave you.“
“I won’t muck it up, I promise, mammy, please?”
Well, we’ll just have to see.“
And then she sat me by the light of a candle and proceeded to paint my face. Oh it was a great game at first. I was very excited to have all her attention for a change, I wished she would always sit with me and stroke my hair and tell me I was a good girl and pretty as a picture. However. As much as I liked the thought that I was old enough now to wear paint, I soon began to dislike like the feel of it on my skin. But when I tried to rub it off my mother smacked my hand.
“Stop that!” she says.
“I want to take it off,” says I.
She snorted. “You will not!” she says. “What’s the use of a shop without a sign?”
At the time I don’t think I understood her comment. I believe I confused the shop she mentioned with the umbrella shop—for she herself always put paint on her face before she went out to work there. And so I arrived at the conclusion that—finally!—I was going to get to see where she worked, and I was even to be allowed to help her. That was how we were going to make the money for my ticket, I was to become a fabricator of umbrellas!
Of course I don’t have to even tell you, that was not at all what my mother had in mind.
But perhaps that is enough of my past for now. Much of what went on in those days is a source of great shame for me. It is difficult to write about and I am sure not a very pleasant read! Indeed it makes me feel queasy to remember some of the terrible things that followed and I dread writing about it. For the moment, I have said all I can but I will return to this subject later since I have been told to leave nothing out and I want to be helpful. The incidents I lay down here are not Creations of the Brain, but the Truth. As events occurred so they will be given. I am confident that should my words remain in private hands they will not be lightly read since those distinguished gentlemen that have encouraged me in my efforts at authorship are gentlemen every inch of them, gentlemen to their backbones, to their very TOE NAILS.
But now to return to Castle Haivers, where I was still laid up with the bokes.
For three days in all, I didn’t budge from my little attic room. Then on the 4th day I woke to find that I was well enough to return to work. I did consider shamming illness and remaining in bed but curiosity got the better of me and so I roused myself and dressed in one of dear darling Noras blasted frocks. In fact, I had not
yet
dismissed the possibility of vacating the premises, the notion of stalking out in high dudgeon if missus put one foot wrong held some appeal and so I left my bundle in the cupboard, ready to grab at a moments notice. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave just yet. For I couldn’t believe, in my heart of hearts, that she would truly disengage from me.
I spent some time making sure my hair was tidy then presented myself downstairs. There in the kitchen was missus, her back to me, transferring eggs from a basket to a bowl. She didn’t hear me come in. I could have went up behind her and done anything, put the heart across in her by shouting “Boo!” or I could have bashed her on the head with the rolling pin or I could have slipped my arms round her and kissed her throat or any scutting thing I wanted. But as a matter of fact I hadn’t a baldy notion what I wanted, so I just stood in the doorway and watched her put the last egg in the bowl and then turn around.
“Oh!” she goes, startled when she seen me. The bowl near dropped out her hand but she caught it. Which at the time I thought a powerful shame.
“Bessy!” she goes. “You gave me a fright!”
“Crumbs and Christopher!” says I. “Did you think I was somebody else?”
“Hmm?” she says and then she frowned. “No, I just didn’t hear you come in. You look much better. Are you feeling better?”
“Indeed so,” says I.
“Oh well, that is good news,” says she and set down the bowl of eggs. “In that case I shall let you get on with it. When Hector appears be so good as to tell him to tell Jessie I won’t be needing her today”
And with those words she left the kitchen. I stood there a moment, blinking, and then followed her. She was heading upstairs no doubt to write something in her flipping book. The back of her skirts were clean, no hint of jelly there.
D’you not want a breakfast, missus?“ I calls up after her. ”What about the master? Will he be wanting some?“
She turned, 1/2 way up the stairs. “Now think, Bessy dear,” she says. Do you want a breakfast…?“ And here, she paused and looked at me With her eyebrows raised.
“I’ll have some in a minute,” I says, deliberately misunderstanding her.
She sighed. “Ma’am,” she says. “Do you want a breakfast, ma’am? Now are you sure you’re well enough to work, Bessy? I don’t want you exhausting yourself.”
“Yes, marm,” I says.
What a fake! Her I’m talking about, not me.
And yet when she turned again and made her way up the stairs I stood rooted to the spot, watching her as she retreated, the lovely sway of her back.
The master was up and away already, looking over his policies with his foreman. He was absent all morning and the missus might as well have been for all I seen of her. For some reason the kitchen seemed a gloomier place than I remembered. I kept noticing dirt everywhere, in the cracks in the table and down the sides of things and in all the little corners it was hard to reach. Had it got so filthy in the space of just 3 days? Or had it always been like that? And if so why had nobody noticed?
Nothing seemed to go right that morning. I stood in the saucer and spilled the cats milk. The broom handle broke in two as soon as I looked at it and so I had to work bent over like a
1/2
shut knife. Then the crumbs and dirt just didn’t want to be swep up, they kept escaping from the bristles. And when I finally did manage to fill the dustpan, what did I do but step on it so that all the muck went skiting across the floor again. Making broth was no better. The carrots was wormy and the turnip was like an old sponge, slicing them up seemed to take forever. I used to like looking out the window whilst I prepared the food but on that day the view gave me no relief, so foul and foreboding was the weather. A rainstorm was brewing in the distance and the sky was that dark and menacing the gulls appeared bright white against it, soaring across the black clouds like slips of ghosts.
I had only been awake a few hours and already I was flipping banjaxed. Of course, the real problem was that there was too much work for one person. This had never really bothered me before. But now it struck me as a great injustice. And now I felt betrayed by the missus, everything was laid bare before me and I saw the place for what it really was, more like I’d thought of it when I first arrived—a crumbling, drafty old wreck in a dismal landscape scarred by pits and with the stink of cows trapped under a leaden sky.
Oh how I longed for Crown House! To be tucked up under a rug by the fire, eating hot buttered crumpets and playing Cassino with my Mr. Levy!
Much as missus was not in my favour, I found myself longing for her to put in an appearance as the day went on. But she seemed inclined to avoid me, as stated in her book. I only caught a few glimpses of her, once as she hurried out to speak to Muriel and once as she swep past me on the stairs, on her way to sort through the linen chest. She greeted me both times with a smile, but I could tell she was really giving me the bony shoulder.
That afternoon the master returned to the house about 4 o’clock and 1/2 an hour later called me to his study with a ring of the bell. When I went in he was stood at the window, watching the rain drip down the glass.
“Excellent,” he says when he seen me, although in my current mood I did not feel that I excelled in any way shape or form whatsoever. I give him a curtsey and he indicated an old nursing chair upon which lay the folded newspaper.
“Sit yourself down,” he says, “and please read me the notices in the left hand column on the first page.”
“Just the left hand column, sir?” I says and he replied that the left hand column would suffice for the present.
I sat down, unfolded the newspaper and began to read aloud. Normally, I might have been soiling myself about this whole procedure, hut I was so sunk in my gloom that nothing seemed to matter. It was a Glasgow newspaper, I don’t remember the exact wordings but the gist or the first notice was as follows.
“The Gentleman who took the Wrong HAT from the U.P Church, North Portland Street, last Sabbath afternoon, will greatly oblige the Owner by returning the same to him at Mrs. Grahams, 57 South Portland Street.”
Master James appeared to find this very amusing. “Heh-heh-heh!” he goes with great glee. “Fellow lost his hat! But before we go on, I suspect there is something the matter with you, girl. Your face is that long you may trip on your chin. I fear you are still unwell.”
“No sir. I am quite recovered thank you.”
“I see,” he says. “Well—try to sound less like a funeral orator. Next one. Speak out.”
It was a great effort but I raised my voice.
“STOLEN or STRAYED, on Wednesday or Thursday, an English TUP belonging to Robert Kerr, Milngavie. A Suitable Reward will be given to any person giving such information as will lead to recovery.”
Master James chuckled. “Wonderful,” he says. “Imagine what kind of mentality could lose a tup. No doubt the animal was sharper than its master. It did not care for Milngavie or Robert Kerr. Aye, it has moved to Dumbarton and become a procurator fiscal. But you do not seem to find it amusing, girl.”
“Oh I do sir,” I says, very mournful.
“Well then,” he says. “Continue please, with greater levity.”
I did try to render the next notice more cheerful but the content of it was so sad that I grew increasingly depressed as I read and by the end of it I was near enough in tears.
“LEFT HER HOME on last Saturday and has not been seen or heard of since, MRS. AGNES FAULDS or CRAWFORD. She is about the ordinary height, thin, pale complexion, brown hair. Had on grey shawl, wincey polka, dark petticoat. She is about 27 years of age and is a little wrong in the mind. Any information will be thankfully received by her Husband, T. Crawford, 42 King Street, Calton.”
“Och dearie me!” says master James, pacing up and down. “This time at least you are right to look sad. Aye, a real tragedy. But mark you,” he raised a finger and addressed me like as if I were a member of a jury, “no compensation is offered. You see that one man will give a reward for the recovery of his tup, while another will give only thanks for the rescue of his wife. I suggest to you that one need not read the articles in the newspaper at all, for here—in the humble notices—all humanity is laid bare. Aye indeed. Next one.”
And so it went. I read the notices, he commented on them. All the while, I strained to hear every sound from the rest of the house, worrying that missus might, in my absence, go into the kitchen. The longer I stayed in the study, the more likely I was to miss her. So it was with great relief, as I turned the page of the newspaper, that I heard master James clear his throat and begin to shuffle papers. He had picked up a catalogue from his desk. There was a drawing on the front of an ornate metal structure.