Her Sister's Gift Page 14

“William, stop this please. I am not coming on to the lock. I want to get back.”

  William laughed. “All right. You do know how to spoil the moment. But your wish is my command.” He made a sweeping bow, lost his balance and fell in the canal with a loud splash that sent moonlit ripples from bank to bank.

  Isa raised her hands to her face in horror. This was exactly what she had dreaded. She looked into the water, desperate for his head to appear. What on earth had possessed him? Had he hit his head? How deep was it here? Were there rocks? Weeds to entangle him? What if . . .?

  Then his head emerged above the surface. He gasped for air and shook his head from side to side, his hair thick, brown and slick like an otter’s.

  “Are you all right?” Isa called anxiously from the bank.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” He started to swim towards her. As he touched the embankment he looked up and saw anger and fear written upon her face.

  She offered her hand but he pushed down on his own arms, hauled himself up and got one knee on to the bank before rolling the rest of himself on to dry land. He was on his back looking up at her and he burst out laughing.

  “God, Isa, you would think I was at death’s door from the look on your face. I’m fine. Just wet. My brothers and I were always in the canal. Dinna fash yersel’.”

  Suddenly she was furious. How dare he put her through all this worry and now humiliate her for being concerned.

  “Well,” she said, looking down at him somewhat haughtily. “If you’re sure you’ll be fine I’ll be off then.” She turned her back on him and headed briskly along the path.

  “Wait, Isabella. Let me see you home safely.”

  Isa could not believe his audacity. “Not looking like that you won’t!” she called back in disgust.

  How could he think she would let him come out of the canal covered in stinking weeds, dripping with water, and continue to escort her back to the Sinclairs’? What would it have looked like to have him lead her up the steps in that state? What a pathetic creature. Such a clown.

  “Well, I’ll see you next week, then. Won’t I?”

  She did not even grace his tentative question with a reply. William was over, as far as she was concerned. He was only a foundryman. After all, she didn’t want the life her mother had had: washing those filthy clothes, dealing with the foundryman’s lifestyle of heavy drinking and manly bravado such as she had just witnessed. No – that was not the kind of man for her. She’d seen the genteel lives of the Tolquhouns and the Sinclairs and their guests. She wanted something closer to that. A house with a parlour. Not too many children. No drunkenness and dirt. A man who could provide for her that better lifestyle.

  She realised she longed for a man she could look up to, a man who took life seriously, like Mr Sinclair for example. He knew how to treat his wife. He was always bringing her flowers carefully wrapped in paper and ribbon. He had a beautiful box of chocolates for her when they went to the theatre. He was so much the attentive gentleman. That’s what she wanted in a man: some dignity, someone who dressed well, with a decent job with some prospects. Definitely not someone who would end up in the canal as he escorted her home.

  So Isa decided not to attend the dance the following Saturday and of course Jeannie was demanding to know why when she next saw her in the High Street on her day off. When she heard the story, Jeannie laughed out loud in the tearoom, much to Isa’s dismay.

  “I do not see why you think that is so funny, Jeannie. I was black affronted.” Isa sounded so much the schoolteacher in her carefully correct English that Jeannie was set off again.

  “Oh Isa. I wish I had been there. Mind you, William Morrison was absent hissel’ frae the dance hall on Saiturday. He must hae been sair affrontit an aw’.”

  When Isa heard this, her first thought was to wonder whether he would stay away altogether, in which case she could return. And so when Jeannie again reported him missing the next Saturday she decided she could try going back. Sure enough, William was never back there. Later she heard he had decided to go and live in Glasgow with one of his brothers and he was working in a foundry there. So Isa was able to put the incident behind her.

  13

  On August 6th 1918, Isa was nineteen. She found herself reflecting on her life and being grateful that her father had come out of the war alive and that he continued to keep well. She knew from Margaret and Chrissie that he was trying hard to stay sober. Work helped, and having to look after them. Margaret was now twelve and doing a lot of cooking, although Isa helped on her day off by making big pans of stew and soup and having a baking which could keep them going for a few days. Ten-year-old Chrissie was now a great help too, and with everyone doing their bit, the house in Sunnyside was kept clean and the cupboards full.

  Chrissie was proving to be very bright indeed, scoring high marks in her tests and excelling in mathematics and English. Margaret was a bit of a dreamer but wrote wonderful compositions, which Isa put down to the early letter-writing she had undertaken when Isa was so far from home. She definitely had a way with words and could describe situations and people so clearly you thought you knew them yourself. Isa felt they were a credit to her and her parents, despite all they had been through. They were all made of stern stuff. Life could deal them tough blows, but somehow they just got up and got on with it. It would stand them in good stead for the future.

  By the end of that month, August 27th, Isa was reading in the paper an account of the Battle of Amiens, which had begun shortly after her birthday. In July, Germany had sent 250,000 fresh troops into France to the Western Front. As a result, the Allies had made no advances and had been sore pressed to maintain their ground. But Philip Gibbs, the writer of the report, said, “Now the tide has turned . . . since August eighth the Allies have taken 50,000 prisoners and 500 guns. The Army is buoyed up with hope . . . Soldiers are fighting for a quick victory and a quick peace so they may get back to normal life and wipe this thing clean from the map of Europe and restore the world to sane purposes.” Isa put down the paper and paused to reflect what this might mean. Could it be that victory was now in sight? God, she hoped so.

  *

  In October that year, Isa was busy preparing pheasants for a dinner party which the Sinclairs were to host the next day. Phyllis was working at the sinks, peeling turnip, parsnip and beets. She had complained of a sore throat and feeling achy when she started that morning and was definitely under the weather, sniffling as though she had a cold coming on. Isa had reminded her to be sure and use her handkerchief to cough and sneeze into and to wash her hands before continuing with her work. Phyllis had been working away at the sink behind her when Isa heard a thump. She turned to find Phyllis on the floor. Isa dropped what she was doing, wiped her hands on her apron and bent down to the figure collapsed on the flagstone floor.

  “Phyllis,” she said. “Phyllis, can you hear me?” The girl lay crumpled and unmoving. Isa could hear wheezing. She put her hand on the girl’s forehead and almost recoiled, it was so hot and moist. She took her wrist to feel for a pulse. It was racing. Isa lost no time. She rolled the girl gently on to her side and rolled the hearthrug up behind her to stop her rolling back in case she was sick and choked. Then she ran upstairs to find Mrs Sinclair. She was in the drawing room.

  “Mrs Sinclair. Please forgive the sudden intrusion but Phyllis is very ill, ma’am. She has just collapsed on the floor and has a fever and a racing pulse. It has come on her so sudden. I fear she may need the attention of a doctor.”

  Mrs Sinclair followed Isa downstairs to the kitchen and was shocked to find the state the girl was in. Her clothing was now damp all over, sweat was pouring off her face and her breathing was rasping. Mrs Sinclair left Isa wiping her down with cold cloths and hurried to telephone for the doctor. She called for her husband to help carry Phyllis up to her room. Isa loosened her clothing and got her changed into a cool nightgown after sponging her all over with lukewarm water to cool her down. In lots of ways it looked like influ
enza, except that Phyllis was unconscious and clearly her body was far more stressed. One minute she had been peeling the vegetables and next this. The poor girl was struggling for breath. When Isa rinsed the cloth in the basin she noticed the water in the bowl had turned red. Looking again at Phyllis’ face she saw there was blood coming from her nose. Isa did not like the colour of her face either. This illness was very frightening in its suddenness. Phyllis, after all, was a strong young girl, used to hard physical work. How could she be overcome so quickly like this? She was starting to moan now and thrash around on the bed as though having a nightmare. Isa prayed for the doctor to come quickly.

  The doctor was in his late sixties and had been retired until the war claimed most of the local doctors for service at the front and he was called back on duty. When he examined the patient and heard what Isa had observed, he advised bed rest and lots of fluids. “It appears to be a severe dose of influenza,” he pronounced. “We’re seeing a number of quite extreme cases this year. Spanish influenza: a new, very virulent strain. So let’s keep everyone else well away. Wash clothing and bed linen separately. Carry on with the sponging down and try to get her to drink as much as you can. When the fever passes, some inhalation and nasal washes can help with the congestion. She will need someone to sit with her while this high fever lasts. All being well it should break in a few hours.”

  “Mrs Sinclair, if it is possible I would like to sit with Phyllis,” Isa said firmly. “I have already been with her and I have nursed my sisters through similar bouts.”

  The doctor quickly concurred that was an excellent solution, rather than exposing someone else to the germs. Mrs Sinclair headed off to show him out and finish things for the family’s evening meal. Isa sat quietly in the attic room, gently sponging the overheated body. She found herself almost chanting a prayer for Phyllis to recover.

  “Please, dear God, make her well.” She could not bear to be witness to another death.

  She must have fallen asleep in the chair. When she awoke, an early autumnal sunlight was fingering the bedspread in weak shafts and Phyllis’ eyes were open.

  “Isa, what happened? Why are you in my room?” She tried to sit up but could not move a muscle.

  “Don’t worry. You have influenza. You were taken most unwell yesterday but the fever has broken. You’re going to be fine.”

  What a relief Isa felt course through her body. The doctor was pleased with the patient when he visited later that morning to check on her progress.

  “You had us all worried there, young lady, but thanks to this excellent nurse,” he smiled over to Isa, “you look like you will pull through. Well done.”

  When Isa was next chatting to Jean, she told her that several in the town had been stricken by the virus; many were very ill indeed and had needed to be taken to hospital. Old Mrs McClintock from number thirty-five Sunnyside Road didn’t make it but neither did some folk their own ages. “It’s a gye queer strain o’ influenza that’s ta’en them in their prime an aw’, nae jist the aul’ folks,” was what people were saying.

  The influenza virus hung around all that winter and there was always someone known to be struggling with it. But the news Isa had read about the Battle of Amiens in France had indeed marked the turn of the war. On November 11th, when Phyllis was fully recovered, she and Isa were in the kitchen going about their usual Monday chores. At eleven o’clock the church bells started ringing. They rang and rang without stopping. Isa looked at Phyllis.

  “Is this it, do you think? Is the war over?” Phyllis asked her.

  “Let’s go up and see.”

  They headed upstairs and in the hallway were met by a beaming Mrs Sinclair.

  “It’s all over, girls. The Armistice has been signed. Thank God. Our men will soon be home.”

  There were sighs of relief. Isa’s uncles would all soon be home. Her father would be lifted up by their return. He had felt it, being home alone, knowing they were still at the front. It had not seemed right to him and yet he could not have gone back. It had taken long enough to get back to work. He had contented himself with his contribution to the making of munitions for government contracts at the Carron Works, which he knew were used to defend the freedom of Europe and would have been amongst the equipment his brothers and friends were using.

  Through the windows, they could see people had gone out on to the streets to greet each other in relief. Phyllis, Isa and Mrs Sinclair did the same. They could hear train whistles from the stations and the foundry yards. The children were out from the school too. Workers from the foundry and the railway station and factories were running down the streets, some in tears, others shouting and cheering. “War is over.” “Thank God we’ve made it.”

  By Wednesday afternoon, when Isa took her afternoon off and met Jean in the Toon café, there was a buzz on the streets of Falkirk. Everyone was excited at the thought of the men coming home and relieved at the removal of the stress of being a nation at war. People were moving around more quickly, smiling, with a new lightness in their step.

  A few weeks later, when the first troops began arriving back, the townsfolk were out on the streets in strength to welcome the return of the “Bairns o’ Fa’kirk” who had been serving their country. Among them, Isa recognised school friends whom she had not seen since her father left for the war and she had been sent to Glasgow. Some were taller. Some looked stooped. Many still had disbelief etched on their faces. Isa remembered her search through the hospital wards to find her father and the dreadful sights she had seen. Great Britain’s young men had made huge sacrifices for this victory. Some had paid with their lives, others with dreadful injuries or disabilities. Some would never walk, some never hear, others never see again. Many might never sleep undisturbed by nightmares or pain. The world was now at peace, but at a price.

  Unfortunately there was little peace at the Sinclairs’ for the staff. Mrs Forester the housekeeper seemed determined to undermine everyone. Prone to sneer at Isa, stuck in the kitchen and hardly ever upstairs, she took great pleasure in announcing how well thought-of she herself was by Mr and Mrs Sinclair, and lost no opportunity to lord it over Isa, Phyllis and Bessie. As housemaid, Bessie had a terrible time. The housekeeper was never satisfied with Bessie’s work and the poor girl was hounded from morning till night. Isa hated this. She and Phyllis had become a close team in the kitchen and worked really smoothly together, but she grew to hate the housekeeper’s presence and became tense at her approach. Isa quickly realised she could not stay. She began to keep her ears and eyes open for other opportunities.

  It was not long before she heard that the minister of the Erskine United Free Church, Rev. Hutchison, was looking for a live-in cook/housekeeper. This would be perfect, Isa realised. There would be no other member of staff above her. She would have help in the house and kitchen with daily maids, but she would be in overall charge. She felt a strong surge of longing arise in her. She wanted this post. She still had Lady Tolquhoun’s reference. Within a week she had an interview and was successful. The one hard thing about leaving was parting with Phyllis.

  Isa came down to the kitchen with her bags all packed, ready to go.

  “I am so sorry yer leavin’ Miss Dick. I have loved workin’ wi’ you. Ye’ve learnt me so much and been sae good tae me.” Phyllis started to cry.

  “Now then, Phyllis. Don’t be sorry. We can still keep in touch. I’m happy to help you anyway till they get a replacement. I have something for you.” Isa passed the girl an oblong package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  Phyllis peeled off the wrappings to reveal a hard-backed bound notebook.

  “This will be your book for when you take over a kitchen yourself. The cook at the Tolquhouns’ got me to write down her recipes and hints. You’ve seen my one.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you can start to write in the things you’ve already learned how to do. And if you need a copy of some of my recipes you can add them in. Whoever comes next, you can write in
what you learn from her too. That’s how it works, how we help each other.”

  Phyllis opened it up and gasped, for Isa had already written in several basic recipes she could use to keep things going until the new cook was appointed.

  “Oh Miss Dick, thank you so much.”

  “We’ve been a good team together, Phyllis. You’ll be an asset to the new cook. Now dry your eyes. It’s not as if I’m going to Timbuktu. I’ll probably bump into you in the High Street on Wednesday.”

  Phyllis laughed and helped Isa with her bags to the door. She moved to shake hands, but Isa drew her into a hug. “Take care of yourself, Phyllis.” Then she picked up her bags and headed off to her new post.

  The Hutchisons’ manse stood near the church in leafy, tree-lined Camelon Street alongside lots of other fairly grand three-floored villa houses overlooking the canal. Isa had never been a churchgoer. When they were younger and her mother was alive they had gone to the Band of Hope, which met in the church hall. This organisation was part of the Temperance movement, which worked with Christian churches to encourage people away from the overuse of alcohol. The Band of Hope inspired young people to “sign the pledge” that they would abstain from alcohol, and organised social occasions where no alcohol was available but there was still a party atmosphere. Her mother had been a great advocate of the movement and her father had signed the pledge under her influence. Isa remembered loving the songs with their great swelling tunes, which the adults sang out strongly with various harmonies: songs such as “We Shall Gather at the River” and “Bringing in the Sheaves”. She had been baptised in the church and remembered sometimes going there on a Sunday with her mother, but since her death, the work at home and then in domestic service had meant there was not much time for churchgoing. But she was not anti-church. She believed there was a God and when she was in need she prayed and found comfort. Part of her wondered if working for a minister would be any different from working for her previous employers.