Her Sister's Gift Page 5

  However an old problem was beginning to rear its head. Since Mary’s death, John had taken to the drink again. At first it was just a quick glass of beer after his shift. But after some months it became an all-out marathon on a Thursday payday. Thankfully he went home first and gave Isa the housekeeping money, so they never went short of food, always had the rent money and were never in debt. But then it was straight to the beer shop to drink the rest away, and he was very well paid. Isa’s uncle Tommy was the wages clerk and told her that her father was the top-paid man on the books at the foundry. Yet vast sums were used to buy rounds for his mates down at the beer shop.

  Sometimes her father would come staggering home with one of his brothers, equally well oiled. If the girls were still up, John would get them each to do a party piece for entertainment. At a family occasion they usually loved to do this, and each had their favourite bit of poetry or song to perform. But when the audience was men you knew to be your father and uncle made rough and uncouth by drink, it was a different affair. Worst of all was when John Dick sat in his chair and bellowed orders at his girls. “Stand up!” They stood up as quickly as they could. “Sit doon!” They sat down and just as they were relaxed, again would come the command, “Stand up!” Then he would turn to his brother: “See how I’ve got them dancin’ tae ma every command.” Then the men would roar with raucous laughter. The girls hated this more than anything. They felt humiliated but there was no way they could refuse. Any disobedience would only anger their father when he was in this kind of mood.

  One Thursday Isa had just finished settling her sisters for the night and was tidying up in the kitchen when she heard her father’s footsteps scrunch the gravel on the path. The door opened and before she knew it he was in the kitchen. His huge bodily presence seeming to fill the room.

  “Isa my lasss,” he slurred. “Yer no sshtill at the sink? Come and sit ye doon wi me fur a bit.”

  Truth be told, Isa was very tired. It had been a long day and she was very keen to get to bed herself. “Father, I’m awfae tired. I wis jist aboot tae go tae ma bed—”

  “Sit ye doon,” her father insisted. “I want tae talk tae ye.”

  She felt she had no option but to join him at the table. All his married life, her father had kept the pledge to be teetotal. She found it very disturbing to be in the presence of this large, strong man who seemed to be quite other than the stable father she had known.

  She sat down on the far side of the kitchen table, her eyes cast down at her hands tightly clasped in her aproned lap.

  “Can ye no’ look at me, lass? It’s yer faither here sittin’ across frae ye, no’ a stranger.”

  Immediately Isa raised her head and looked him in the eye.

  “That’s better.”

  He seemed calmer then. “Noo. We’ll jist hae a bit chat. How are ye getting’ on wi’ awthin’?”

  Isa was taken aback. “I’m fine, Faither.”

  “Chrissie and Maggie are no’ giein’ ye ony problems?”

  “No, Faither.”

  “An Maggie daein’ fine at the skuill?”

  “Aye, Faither.”

  “Mercy lass,” his brawny fist thumped the table, “it’s like gettin’ bluid oot o’ a stane tryin’ tae hae a bit conversation wi’ ye. ‘Aye, Faither, no, Faither.’ Whit’s wi’ ye? Hae ye forgotten hoo tae spik tae yer faither?” He was leaning across the table and Isa was scared. She felt the simmering anger. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Instinctively she sought to pacify him.

  “Maggie is gettin’ on weel. Her teacher says she’ll be ready for a new reader next week and she can coont up tae twenty.”

  As quickly as he had flared he settled down, leaned back in his seat and smiled across at his daughter, who was to all intents and purposes now the substitute mother for her siblings.

  “Aw that’s grand, so it is, Mary. We can be richt prood o’ oor girls.”

  Isa was dumbstruck. Had she heard aright? Her father had just called her by her mother’s name. Surely he had not confused her with her mother?

  “Come ma bonnie lassie and gie me a hug.” He patted his knee as if to signal Isa should come and sit on his lap. She knew he had not done this with her since childhood, except for the night her mother had died. She realised therefore that in his drunken mind he was still confusing her with her mother.

  “Faither,” she said tentatively. “Shall I make ye a cup o’ tea?”

  Her father looked up at her in consternation. He had not expected the term “Faither” nor had he expected Isa’s voice. For a few seconds puzzlement furrowed his brow. Then she saw the realisation of who she was cross his features, but she was quite unprepared for his reaction.

  “Where’s yer mither? She wis here a minute ago.”

  Isa put down the kettle and braced herself.

  “Faither. Mither passed away, months ago. It was her heart, remember?” Isa’s lips were trembling as she spoke the words, and she was filled with the pain of her grief, so much so that for a few moments she did not see her father drop his head to the table over his folded arms, his shoulders heaving as his body was racked with the renewed pain of loss. Isa drew near his side and sat beside him with her arm around his shoulders. It was some time before they were both at peace again. Then she helped her father into his bed in the kitchen and she lay down beside her sisters. At last the house was quiet.

  The experience had shaken her. It left her feeling a little wary of her father. They had been through so much together. This common grief they shared had created complex bonds between them. From then on, she did not relish paydays and sought to avoid being up when her father came home drunk. She did not think there was any real threat or danger but the situation was just too adult for her to predict his mood or where it might go. At times she could hear him singing noisily if he was in a good humour, or swearing loudly if something had irked him. But he never hit any of them, though he could be bad-tempered. Young as she was, the very fact he was not his usual self was enough to scare her. A bad mood could often last over to the next morning and that made her very tentative in her dealings with him.

  The main problem was asking him for any money over and above the usual weekly budget. Chrissie and Margaret were still growing and would at times need new shoes or clothes. Isa did her best to adjust clothes, letting out seams and dropping hems, using hand-me-downs from Margaret for Chrissie. She’d even used some of her mother’s clothes and cut them down to fit herself, working out the techniques with help from Jessie. Chrissie grew out of her shoes every six months. So Isa always had to pick her time right when tackling her father.

  Payday was a Thursday. So on a Wednesday night she’d make sure she had a good meal ready: liver and onions or a piece of frying steak, with a nice steamed pudding to follow. She’d mention how Chrissie was growing out of her shoes and say she’d seen some in the Co-op. Her father would say, “No bother Isa. I’ll gie ye the money the morn when I get my pay. Noo, are there ony mair onions in the pan? Mak’ sure the wains hae enough first.” Isa would breathe a sigh of relief.

  Her days were kept very busy. Margaret had started the school after the summer and so it was just Chrissie she had to occupy during the day. She tried to involve her in the daily chores, giving her a duster to dust the furniture or a cloth to wash the windows. She always had a bowl and spoon on baking days and although it made a mess she was happy and it all got cleaned up afterwards. She kept tricky tasks like ironing until Margaret was home and could amuse Chrissie. Then she’d heat the two irons by the fire, lay down the folded blanket on the kitchen table and set to.

  One day she remembered a song her mother used to sing to her while ironing and she began to sing it.

  ’Twas on a Monday morning, when I beheld my darling

  She looked so neat and charming, in every high degree

  She looked so neat and nimble, O, A-washing o’ her linen, O,

  Dashing away with the smoothing iron, she stole my heart away.

  I
t had a great ironing rhythm for sweeping the hot iron over the sheets and shirts and the kitchen soon filled with a lovely damp warmth, and the fresh smell of the newly washed and ironed clothes and linen was as comforting as anything she knew. Chrissie and Margaret stopped their play to listen to her and she went on to the next verse.

  ’Twas on a Tuesday morning, when I beheld my darling

  She looked so neat and charming in every high degree

  She looked so neat and nimble, O, A-hanging out her linen, O,

  Dashing away with the smoothing iron she stole my heart away.

  She gave the girls some tea towels to smooth with their hands and they joined in the other verses, which took them through all the days of the week and all the processes of washing, hanging out, starching, ironing, folding, airing and finally, on Sunday, the wearing of the linen. Before she knew it, the ironing basket was empty and everything all folded neatly, ready to air on the wooden clothes horse spread in front of the range. It became a weekly ritual for many years.

  One of the hardest things to accept about her new life as “Mither” was giving up school. Isa had always loved learning and relished Miss Watson’s compliments on her essays, which sometimes she was asked to read aloud. And she missed the playground chats with friends. So she was always glad to see Jean, Jessie’s oldest daughter, who was the same age as her, who sometimes called in after school if her mother could spare her.

  One afternoon, eighteen months into her new role, Jean arrived as she was spreading bread with jam for the after-school piece that Margaret and Chrissie always craved, which they needed to keep them going till supper time. She spread one each for herself and Jean, poured out milk for them all and they sat round the table. The wee ones were quickly finished and asked to play in the backyard, which Isa granted, provided they did not get their clothes dirty.

  Elbows on the table, out of sight of her mother, Jean sighed wistfully. “Oh, Isa,” she pined, “I wish I could be like you. You look so grown-up here in charge of the kitchen and the weans; nobody bossing you about, no boring lessons and homework. Me, I’ve either got Miss Watson on my back or ma mither. I canna win—”

  Isa banged down her glass of milk so hard that half was spilled over the rim and pooled on the table. She pushed back her chair roughly, grabbed a cloth from the sink and scrubbed vigorously at the mess as she rounded on her friend. “Don’t you go envyin’ my situation, Jeannie. I’m up early lightin’ the fire, makin’ the porridge and washin’ the weans while you’re still in bed. All day I’m cleanin’ or cookin’ or washin’ or mendin’ and ironin’ while you get the chance to learn about the world and read and do fancy things wi’ numbers.”

  “Oh Isa I—”

  “Ah’m no near finished,” Isa yelled. Her face was red, her fists were clenched and the cloth in her right hand was dripping milk, it was so tightly gripped. “You think this is easy? You envy me? Me wha lost my sister, wha has nae mither to listen tae me?” She broke down in sobs, her chest heaving, then she sat down at the table, her head on her hands and wept, angry bitter tears that stung her cheeks and deafened her to Jean’s attempts to console her. Jean could see nothing else for it but to go and get her mother. And so it was that once again Jessie took into her arms her best friend’s firstborn child whose birth she’d aided, and held her till the sobbing subsided. She spoke no words. Isa’s tears fell on Jessie’s shoulder and Jessie’s ran through Isa’s hair.

  Over the years there would be more outbursts of anger at the situation imposed upon her. She rarely said aloud, “I hate this life,” but it ran through her mind often enough. If she kept busy and saw the fruits of her labours, she could take a pride in what she was achieving. But if her efforts were thwarted, it was hard to keep control of the resentment and grief she felt at her impoverished ambitions. What options did she have now? No leaving certificate. No job as a governess or secretary. Childhood over, and catapulted straight into a married woman’s life, running a household and looking after children – exactly the life she’d have to lead when she was married. All her contemporaries meanwhile could moon over the handsome boy in the row behind them, or talk excitedly about the new fashions in Mrs Weir’s drapery store. They were getting the chance to grow up gradually and to be young and carefree for at least part of the day before they came home and helped their mothers.

  It was things like sending the girls out in clean dresses and pinafores, newly washed and ironed, and their coming home with them spotted with dirt. She’d practically tear the aprons off them, ranting at how stupid they were. Couldn’t they see how much work it made for her? They were confused. Their mother had never made such a fuss. She would take the aprons off gently, sponge them at the sink and dry them at the range. They were trying to keep them clean but it was difficult with long skirts and petticoats plus an apron. Even walking along the road kicked up dust and got the hems dingy.

  Early on, there were times she’d tried to cook a new recipe from a neighbour and had left the meat a bit long in the top oven of the range, instead of putting it in the bottom oven where it was cooler and the meat could cook more slowly and keep its juices. When she took out the casserole and lifted the lid, they could all catch the acrid smell of charred meat and they knew what would happen next. The casserole would be set down noisily on the table in front of her father. He would spoon out portions onto their plates, say grace and they would try to eat it. But if it was undercooked and raw underneath its blackened surface, he would say, “Noo, Isa, I dinna think we can eat this. It’s no richt cookit. We’ll hae a bit bread and drippin’.”

  Isa would stomp off to fetch the bread, lift some cheese from the press, if there was any, and burst into an angry diatribe. “It’s aw’ Margaret’s fault, Faither. She distracted me when I was pittin’ it in the oven and I didnae notice I’d pit it in the top. She’s aye interruptin’ me when I’m busy.” Or Chrissie would be blamed for crying over something, or a neighbour for interfering in how she was doing things. She could never just put it down to a mistake easily made, as her father always did. Somehow he knew she was under huge stress and he grieved for her and so never chided her when things came unstuck. It was to be expected, after all. She was only learning.

  As the months went by, John worried for the girls managing without their mother and was glad of neighbours’ help and that of his mother-in-law. He knew he could go to them and ask their advice on how to look after his girls and how to handle Isa. But most other girls forced into caring for their family through the death of their mother settled into it without too much complaint, realising this was what a woman’s life was about anyway and that the practice they were getting earlier on in their life would help when they were married themselves. Somehow Isa’s resentment was much stronger than any of the others he’d heard about.

  But then there had been three deaths within six months. He knew Mary had cherished ambitions for her daughters to do well at school and to take as much education as they could. She had hoped they would get training as governesses, teachers or secretaries, able to earn their living independently and enter more genteel society. Isa had wanted this for herself and could see it happening when she was doing so well at school. Now she was nearly fourteen and all such hopes were dashed. Yet he could see that in lots of ways she had become a very competent homemaker.

  What he could not know or see was the constant burden of guilt and pain that plagued Isa’s sleep and dreams. Many nights found her again at the side of the track, watching the approach of the train, willing Eliza to stay still and wait for it to pass. But then the train passed and she saw the broken body, torn apart by the train, sprawled across the ground. She carried this stress with her into every day. She was not consciously thinking about it, but the feelings it had re-evoked were the background to most days. It only lifted when she was involved in more demanding tasks, which fully occupied her mind.

  Her father wondered about Margaret and Chrissie. This was no real life for them either. Isa was so unpredicta
ble at times that he feared she was not always coping well with the role as substitute mother. He needed to sort this out, but how? They could not impose on neighbours and family any more than they were already doing. After all, they had their own families and difficulties to face. He needed some advice. Maybe he should talk to his sisters-in-law and see what they thought.

  He was closest to Tommy and Teenie, so he went there first. When he told them what was happening and how he felt he needed to do something their suggestion shocked him.

  “There’s a children’s hame in Stirling has a good reputation, John. It’s run by a woman name o’ Crail. Whinhill it’s cried. They’ve a school there an’ awthin’. Mebbe we should ging an’ hae a look at it, see whit it’s like.”

  “Oh, Tommy, I dinnae want tae pit my girls in a hame.”

  “Well there’s naebody in the faimly has room, John, an yer efter sayin’ Isa’s no managin’. Whit else can ye dae?”

  John’s head fell to his chest in weariness and despair. “Aw’richt then. Will ye come wi’ me next week tae see whit’s whit?”

  “Aye, John. I’ll ging wi’ ye.”

  So the two brothers took the train to Stirling and made their way to Whinhill Home. It was indeed a fine building and well equipped and there would be schooling organised. The matron, Miss Crail, was sympathetic to his plight.

  “Mr Dick, a man cannot hope to look after his daughters by himself without his wife. A mother is essential to their upbringing. Here, they would have a housemother who will treat them kindly and guide them with a firm hand. Your two younger daughters would be well provided for here for a reasonable remuneration. Unfortunately we have no place for your older daughter, since we only cater for girls to the age of twelve and as your daughter is fourteen she won’t be eligible.”

  John was having difficulty taking all this in. “But whit would happen to my older daughter? It’s too late for her tae ging back to the skuill.”

  “Might I suggest the domestic-service training school in Glasgow, Mr Dick? A girl can make a very good career in that line. All the best houses are employing bright girls as cooks and housekeepers and if your daughter has been keeping house for you then she already has useful skills in this area. She could earn a good wage and would of course be living in.”