Her Sister's Gift Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  First published 2015

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2015

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 026 4 in EPub format

  Copyright © Isabel Jackson 2015

  The right of Isabel Jackson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore

  For my grandparents, Isa and Peter

  my mother, Margaret

  and my aunt, Netta

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgements

  1

  She had not felt too good when she got up this morning. There was a tugging ache in her lower back. Waves of pain washed over her and now the contractions had started to come in earnest: every ten minutes, she reckoned. Mary clutched her sides as her breath caught. A low, prolonged moan escaped through her parted lips. It was hard to stand and she could no longer concentrate on preparing the vegetables on the chopping board in front of her. It was a bit early but it was time. She put down the knife and went to the window. The tiny, grassed-over yard was pooled in sunshine and her children’s voices stirred her deeply. She leaned out, glad of the cooling caress of air across her face. She waited until she had enough breath.

  “Isa,” she called, her urgency conveyed in the sharp and commanding tone.

  The sweat gathered on her brow with the effort. She moved back into the room and held onto the table edge as she concentrated on regular short breaths. Her eldest daughter came into the kitchen from the garden, something serious in her demeanour and the way she carried herself, belying her eleven years.

  “What is it, Mither?” She was a little breathless from her play with her young sisters.

  Her mother gritted her teeth and bent a little over her bulging belly, wrapped in the floral work apron. When the pain had subsided she whispered, “Go and get Mrs Macleod frae next door. The bairn’s comin’. She kens I’m near ma time. Tell Eliza to keep the ithers ootside.” She made towards the kitchen bed and tugged the woollen curtains aside desperate to lie down to ease the strong pains clawing deep in her lower back that were preventing her from keeping upright.

  Isa took her mother’s elbow and helped her to her parents’ box bed in the kitchen recess. She undid her mother’s boots and helped her loosen her grey serge dress at the back. She covered her with the feather quilt. “I’ll away and get Mrs Macleod now. It’ll be aw’right.” She patted her mother’s shoulder tentatively, not quite sure of herself in this new role of caring for her mother, but anxious to be of use and of comfort. “Dinna wurry, Mither.”

  She quietly closed the door behind her and ran down the short path and along the street to fetch the neighbour as asked. Her mind was buzzing. Would the baby be born soon? A boy or girl? Her mother must be in pain when she groaned like that. She hoped she would be all right.

  Jessie Macleod, like all the women in the street, was always ready to aid her neighbours. The women were extended family to each other, but Jessie had a special attachment to Mary Dick since they had both moved in to the row of works cottages in the Camelon district of Falkirk on the same bright August morning in 1898. Back then she and Mary had been young brides setting up their first homes together. Everything was new: looking after their husbands, cooking and cleaning, saving up gradually to furnish other rooms, adjusting to living away from home and coping with disagreements with their spouses. When their babies arrived they had delighted in their first steps and words and supported each other when times were tough. The important moments in their lives had often been shared.

  She knew Mary and John Dick were a real love match. Everyone could see that: the way they held each other’s gaze, the way she took his arm as they walked through the streets, the way his voice softened when he spoke of her. Such a love changed them for the better. John learned to read and write under Mary’s patient tutoring and he took the pledge to stay off the drinking. Her family had thought she was marrying beneath her when she took up with a foundryman but John turned out to be a good provider and a great father.

  Jessie knew right away what Isa wanted when the girl appeared on her doorstep panting, wide-eyed and anxious. “It’s yer mither, lass? The bairn on its way already is it? I’m ready as I am.” She grabbed a shawl from the chair and followed Isa out. “Has yer mither awthin’ laid by?”

  “There’s towels and a clean basin in the kitchen press and we’ve been keepin’ water hot in the sway kettle on the kitchen range.”

  “Hoo is she, lass?”

  “She was grippin’ her side, Mrs Macleod, and breathin’ quick, like she did when oor Chrissie was born.”

  “Aye of course. You’d mind her birth. Let’s hope your mither has an easy time again.”

  At the door to the house, Isa could hear her mother. It disturbed her to hear the whimpering moans. But Mrs Macleod was determined to be cheery.

  “I’m here, Mary. Dinna you fret lass,” she called as she went through the front door into the kitchen.

  From the bed Mary reached out and gripped her neighbour’s hand. Jessie clasped it. She willed calm on her friend.

  “How many births have we been through thegither noo, Mary? Your fower, my ain three and Belva’s twa an aw’. We’re becomin’ dab hands at this.” And she smiled reassurance to her friend.

  She looked over her shoulder to Isa, still hovering nervously in the kitchen. “Noo dear. The water ready? And the too’els and basin?” Isa nodded. “Great. Now you take the wee yins awaw for a bit and I’ll see tae yer mither. By the time you’re back there’ll be anither sister or brother for the Dick clan.”

  With that she turned her attention back to the figure in the bed. “Noo Mary, let’s get ye mair comfy,” and she eased the woman down on the pillows and arranged more under her knees, loosening the bedcovers.

  Isa watched her mother in the bed and saw the pain sweep over her again, a pain which made her mother grip the bedding. Jessie had taken a cloth and wrung it out in cold water and was now carefully wiping away the sweat from Mary’s brow. Isa could not get her feet to move to follow Jessie’s instruction.

  In a lull between the contractions Mary turned towards her daughter, her pale face framed with wet wisps of auburn hair, and smiled encouragingly. “Isa. I’ll be fine now. You look efter the wee yins.”

  Enabled by her mother’s smile, she lifted the latch and headed outside.

  It was warm for the time of year. Just beyond the rickety wooden fence marking the end of the tiny yard, a breeze played the leaves in a rowan into a gentle flutter. The dappling sunlight caused each layer of leaves t
o cast their shadows on the ones below. Isa loved this awakening of spring.

  “Isa! Whaur hae ye been?” Her sister’s voice seemed too loud and Isa’s first thought was of her mother’s need.

  “Shh, Eliza. It’s Mither. She’s about to hae the baby. She wants peace and quiet, so we’ve tae tak’ Chrissie and Margaret oot for a bit.”

  “Oh. Is Mither aw’right?” Isa put her arm around her younger sister’s shoulders and drew her close.

  “Mrs Macleod is wi’ her. She said they would be fine. We’ve just to stey oot o’ the way for a bit.” Part of her longed to be included, to be with her mother, but childbirth was not a public affair. Children rarely stayed in the house while it was happening. She’d always been sent away. Maybe it had something to do with the pain and groaning. It might be a bit scary.

  Isa looked down at her sister’s worried frown. “It’ll be aw’right, Eliza. Mother’s already gi’en birth tae aw’ us and Mrs Macleod kens whit wey to help. They dinnae need us in their wey. Let’s tak’ the wee yins tae the parks.”

  “That’s guid thinkin’.”

  They walked to the fence and found their two younger sisters digging in the earth with their bare hands. Four-year-old Margaret sat in the earth, her face wreathed in smiles. Chrissie, a toddler of some twenty-odd months, showed them her muddy hands, her own shock at their state registered in her surprised brows.

  “What have you twaw been up tae?” Isa demanded in her big-sister-in-charge voice.

  “We was diggin’ fir worms, Isa,” Margaret chirped.

  “For goodness’ sake. Whit a mess.” She pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket in her pinafore dress and briskly wiped their faces and hands.

  “Right. Eliza and I are takin’ ye awf tae the parks noo. Tak’ a haund each. Haud on tight.” And she set them on their feet again either side of her.

  Eliza felt briefly the loss of her place at Isa’s side. Before Chrissie was born she and Margaret had held their big sister’s hands but now she was six and had to concede her place to Chrissie. Nonetheless there was the compensation of Isa including her as her second in command. She held on to Chrissie’s other hand, completing their chain. The quickest way to the field was out the back gate, along the passage behind the row of cottages, through the gate at the end, and then down the embankment and across the railway line that ran into the Carron Works.

  The Carron Iron Works was the biggest employer in Falkirk. Here in the sweltering heat of the foundry, hundreds of men sweated their days by the furnaces, making all kinds of goods from the cast iron: pipes, drain and man-hole covers; fencing, lamp standards and pillar-boxes; even humble kettles, cooking pots and baths; goods that they saw as they walked the streets of the town and that they used daily in their homes, all a constant reminder of their debt to the company.

  The girls’ father, John, worked there as an iron moulder. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of immense strength and stature, one of the best moulders the iron works had on their books. The moulder was tasked with following the pattern maker’s measurements on paper and turning these into a three-dimensional sand mould into which the molten iron would be poured to cast all the various pieces produced at the foundry. Each moulder had a daily quota of sand box moulds to be made by the end of each shift. It was piece-work and they were limited to a maximum number to control the wage bill. John Dick regularly had his quota finished well before the end of his shift and with the energy he still had to spare, he would help younger moulders get nearer to their full quota too thus helping them earn the fullest possible wage. This strong man took some feeding and at meal times the girls were used to seeing their mother set a steaming ceramic baking bowl in front of their father. It would be filled to the brim with meat stew for breakfast and thick barley broth for supper.

  The families who lived like the Dicks in the Camelon district, in the works’ houses flanking the yards and grounds, saw the train loads of coke and coal and iron ore coming from the mines around Falkirk and further afield, in Fife: the necessary raw materials for the foundry. It was a dirty business and the men-folk arrived home at the end of their shifts soot-smeared and exhausted from the heat and their exertions, but it paid better than some other, cleaner jobs. At times the women bemoaned the dirt and grime on their men’s work-clothes and the charcoal-black dust that the east winds blew onto the washing line from the coal wagons. Still, the steady wage meant there was always food on the table and a roof over their heads and the rent ready for the landlord at the end of the month.

  Isa unsnecked the latch on the gate at the end of the path running along the back of the houses in Sunnyside Road and they filed through. Then it was a careful sidestepping operation down the embankment slope, Chrissie held by Isa and Margaret holding Eliza’s hand. They were used to crossing the line, checking beforehand by looking and listening that no train was coming and then making the steep scramble up the other side. There was talk of how there should be a proper crossing for the tenants of Sunnyside Road but as yet nothing had been done and so everyone just came through the gate and crossed the line.

  When the girls reached the field Isa let go of her sisters’ hands and let them run free for a bit as she sat down to watch them. It was warm and the grass under their feet was springy, its fresh scent, sharp and green, filling her nostrils, heralding summer. Isa was aware of a constant tremor of excitement running through her body. The thought that right now, in the box bed in the kitchen, her mother’s body was labouring to release a new child into the world: it was thrilling and terrifying, an awesome mystery to her, and yet Mrs Macleod had managed to make it sound almost mundane. Isa could remember Margaret’s and Chrissie’s births but not Eliza’s. She had only been five then and had stayed at her grandparents’ house for a few days. She remembered, on her excited return, desperate to meet the new baby, being shown Eliza, tiny, pink and wrinkled, peacefully asleep in her cot, much to her annoyance, as she had expected to be playing with this new sister immediately.

  She had been seven when Margaret was born and she had made pom-poms from yellow wool to hang in between the cot bars. Someone had shown her how to make these. She remembered winding the bright thick wool round and round the two cardboard rings, then carefully snipping in between the rings to create the fluffy wool tufts. Before the rings were removed she had to pass the wool round and round the centre to hold the tufts together. Then the rings were eased off and the wool tufts ruffled by hand to complete the little balls. She had been thrilled with her handiwork.

  She could remember holding Margaret, not long after she was born, while she sat on a chair. Sometimes Mother had wrapped Margaret in her carrying shawl and tied her to Isa, the shawl slung across her chest over her shoulder and tied around her back. She’d been surprised at how heavy the baby was but had loved being able to look down into her tiny face and see the little fists waving at her. Mother could get on with her work while she carried Margaret this way and she didn’t even need to stop to feed her. It was a simple matter to open her dress and allow Margaret’s hungry mouth to latch on to her breast. Isa remembered calling the rope for Eliza and the others in the street to skip while she had Margaret strapped to her in the shawl. Once Margaret was weaned, Isa was allowed to feed her sometimes with a spoon.

  Chrissie’s birth was only twenty-six months ago and fresh in her memory. Eliza had helped occupy Margaret and Isa had gone for Mrs Macleod then too. That was when Isa realised just how much older than Eliza she was, because she had been through the excitement and the thrill of caring for a baby sister before. She had the experience to keep Eliza right about how to support Chrissie’s head in the early days and how to test the water in the bath. She knew how to tie the carrying shawl. And now here was Mother going through it all again for a fifth time.

  Eliza came up to her and flung herself down on the grass at her side, oblivious of the green stains smeared on her pinafore by her slide to the ground. “Dae ye think this time she’ll have a boy, Isa? I hope she does. It would
be graund to have a wee brither.”

  “Faither would like that, I think: a son to carry on the Dick name.’’

  Every time a new baby was expected she remembered neighbours saying to her mother, “Aye ye’ll be hopin’ for a laddie this time, lass.” She hadn’t really understood the comment before, but now she knew that the son carries on the family name while daughters take the name of their husbands. With this fifth child expected any minute she was sure that Mother and Father would be hoping it was a boy.

  “Look, Isa, Margaret’s picking daisies. Let’s mak’ daisy chains.” And without waiting for a reply Eliza was on her feet, mercurial as always, and humming a song she’d been learning at school. Isa sighed, tucked her knees under her long navy skirt and eased herself to her feet using her hands. She headed over to where the others knelt on the grass.

  In the large spread of the meadow sprinkled with the white daisies and sunny yellow buttercups, there were now four heads bent over the task of nicking slots in the sappy daisy stems and threading the flowers through them to form necklaces, tiaras and bracelets. The afternoon sun caught the blue-black in Margaret’s dark curls and Eliza’s shiny locks, burnished the red and copper tones in Chrissie’s hair, and set Isa’s rich auburn aglow, highlighting the fine strands of honey, red and gold. The warmth went some way to easing her tension and she unclenched the muscles in her neck and back. She stood up and stretched, leaning back from her waist with her arms up over her head, face up to the sunshine and blue sky. Maybe it was time to head back home.

  All bedecked in their patiently made finery, they now linked hands in a row to re-form their chain, and singing “Step we gaily on we go”, they headed up the slight slope to the top of the field and the gate. Beyond it were the embankment and the railway siding.

  Isa looked down at the line before she opened the gate. Nothing coming. She held Margaret and Chrissie by the hand and they scrambled safely down the slope. Eliza was just behind them. Isa led the little ones across to the other side, stepping carefully over the rails. They were at the top of the opposite embankment when she heard the rumble of a train approaching. Quickly she shepherded Margaret and Chrissie into the safety of the passage and closed the gate. She turned expecting Eliza to be right behind her but was exasperated to see her on the other side of the embankment.