Authors: Sylvia Atkinson
The Letter (5 page)
“I won’t because I know he loves me. What would he want from anyone else?”
“He’s different, not like our brothers or the other boys we know.”
“That’s part of why I love him.”
“What if you fail your exams?”
“I won’t.”
“But you don’t care if I fail mine!”
“That’s not so. I do care!”
“Not enough to give up an hour with this Ben!”
Margaret slammed the door on her way out.
The exams came and went. Jean won the gold medal for mathematics with high scores in all the other subjects. Margaret scraped through slightly miffed. It was the first time she hadn’t been top.
* * * * *
Margaret pretended to be asleep but she needn’t have bothered. Jean was up and away organising the last requirements for admission to university before they went home for the summer.
She dragged herself out of bed but as soon as her feet touched the floor she was sick. It was the same every day. Their landlady asked if she was unwell. Ben tetchily asked why she was meeting him later and later in the morning. She described the symptoms. He said smugly “You’re not ill. It sounds as if you’re having a baby.”
She couldn’t be! Babies were something that happened after you were married and nothing to do with their lovemaking. What would she do if he was right?
Margaret and Jean arrived in Gorebridge late on Friday night. The tiny bedroom shared with Mary, generally became alive with talk and merriment. Throughout their growing up Margaret and Jean had told each other everything but that was before Ben. Jean was convinced he was stealing her sister away and said so. Margaret said it was none of
her
business, accusing Jean of spying. Perhaps she was spying? She hadn’t meant to but Margaret had changed and there was something terribly wrong. Jean tried to resolve the uneasy quiet between them.
“Maggie… you know I promised not to tell…”
“Have you?”
“No but don’t think I haven’t wanted to.”
“I didn’t mean to make it awkward for you.”
“Awkward … says you, who never thinks of anyone except herself!”
“Jean, that’s not true!”
Jean made to go downstairs. Margaret grabbed her arm.
“Maggie!”
“Sit down a minute… please!” Jean didn’t want to create a fuss so sat on the bed. “I’m going to have a baby.”
It took a minute for Margaret’s words to sink in; unable to conceal her dismay Jean asked, “Are you certain?”
“Of course I am. Ben’s a doctor. He should know.”
Jean expected her sister to cry, to do something; anything but stand there as if such a thing was an everyday event like having tea.
“Maggie, surely you’re sorry?”
“What have I got to be sorry for?”
“You can’t bring a baby into this world without a father?”
“It’s got a father, Ben.”
“Oh and he’ll put everything right?”
“Yes, he’s coming tomorrow to ask father’s permission for us to marry.”
Jean’s eyes grew wider and wider, “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of father!”
“Yes, of hurting him and mother.”
“I don’t mean to… once they meet Ben and get over the shock…”
“Over the shock… I can’t believe you could be so selfish! . . . I’ll never be able to look father and mother in the face. How could you?”
Peacemaker Jean challenging her was the last thing Margaret expected but her sister rounded on her again, “Surely you’re going to tell them tonight before he comes?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see how it goes. Ben will sort it out.”
Jean mockingly retorted, “Ben will sort it out… Huh! You’ll be a long time waiting for that!” She flounced downstairs and listened with disbelief to Margaret’s account of the young man, who was to call on them the following morning, without hinting at the reason for his visit.
Their father was not certain about having a stranger thrust into their midst, “Maggie I hope you’re not neglecting your studies.”
“I passed my exams.”
“So you did… So you did.” Then looking keenly at her he asked, “Are you going to Mass?”
“Yes father” Jean replied.
“Not you Jean, you Maggie. Are you receiving the sacrament when you’re not at home?”
Margaret squirmed, “Well… I…”
“What’s all this faither?” interjected her mother, “The girls havni been here two minutes and you’re at them already.”
“Mother, I have a duty to God to make sure there’s no slacking where He’s concerned.”
Steering her husband away from the sensitive area of religion she continued, “Maggie, did you say the young man was called Ben?”
“Yes, he’s to qualify as a doctor and work at The Infirmary.”
“A doctor…” repeated her father. “Grand friends you’re keeping, Maggie.”
Who would believe it? His Maggie and a doctor! He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of words he’d exchanged with a doctor. But having one as a visitor in the house… Well his daughter was worth ten doctors. He nodded to his wife who commented, “Maggie, you’ve not mentioned this young man before…” Margaret said that there was no need. “But there is now?” her mother said, raising her eyebrows. “And you Jean… what do you make of him?”
Jean was almost choking with shame. Faithful to her promise she muttered something about being at school and not meeting all of her sister’s friends. Why didn’t Margaret come out with it? Didn’t she care that she was making a fool and a liar out of her… and what of their parents? Her father put on his coat. He’d chew this over with his pals over a dram or two. Jean flashed Margaret a look hoping to put an end to the charade. Her sister carried on sorting out the welcome with their mother; reassuring her that soup would be fine and the guest wouldn’t stay long.
* * * * *
Jean lay at the edge of the bed. Neither girl slept, divided by the hostile space between them. They were up at daylight scrubbing and polishing until not a speck of dust remained, or appeared likely to land on anything in sight. Changed from their working clothes there was nothing left for them to do except wait. Jean restlessly flicked through the pages of a book while her younger sister Mary, practised scales on the piano. Their father looked at his pocket watch, lit his pipe and settling back in his chair by the fire said, “Maggie, come away from the window. I don’t want the young man to think you’ve nothing better to do than watch out for him.”
The wall clock with its whirring weights and chains struck eleven. Ben’s train would be in the station. Jean buried her head further in the book. The atmosphere stifled Margaret. He must come, and soon, she couldn’t keep up this light-hearted pretence much longer.
Inviting smells of broth and fresh baked bread drifted in from the kitchen making everyone hungry. Her mother, pinafore tied tightly protecting her Sunday dress, stirred, seasoned and left off tasting to call, “Are you a deef Maggie? Away you go and answer the door.”
The watery winter sunshine filtering through the twigs of leafless trees melted the hoar frost’s bridal coating on spiders’ webs. Ben stood framed against the silver light. His breath rose into the air intermingling with Margaret’s, banishing her fears. She led him into the house.
“I am delighted to meet you, Sir” Ben said, holding out his hand, “I’m sure Margaret has told you all about me. I have come to ask if you will do me the honour of giving me her hand in marriage.”
Margaret’s mother, her best apron hanging loosely in her hand, was transfixed by this young man and his unbelievable request. “Maggie, he’s col…”
“Indian! . . . Ma… Ben’s Indian…”
Her husband was the first to move, pushing past the outstretched hand. The silence in the room magnified the dull click of a key in the lobby cupboard. The door crashed against the wall rocking the foundations of the row of houses. In an explosion of rage Margaret’s father took out his shotgun, expertly loaded and cocked it and, pointing the barrel at Ben mercilessly backed him down the hall roaring, “You heathen bastard! Out… out of my sight!”
A few inquisitive neighbours who had seen Ben arrive remained gossiping by the gate. The gun was swung in their direction and fired in the air. Closed windows and doors flew open. Heads poked out witnessing the family’s shame. Gripped by a boundless fury Margaret’s father bellowed, “There’ll be no wedding from this hoose.”
Her eyes blazing Margaret recklessly shouted, “Then I’ll marry without!”
“Maggie, think what you’re saying… You canny mean it,” entreated her mother.
Margaret stonily replied, “But I do.”
In a voice that matched the winter’s day her father declared, “Then go, but if you do, you’ll not enter this hoose again.”
Oblivious to everyone’s distress except her own, Margaret left with Ben for the station.
Edinburgh
1932
Estranged from her family, and denied the privileges and protection, which, in the same circumstances, had long been the prerogative of the rich, Margaret quickly married Ben in an Edinburgh register office. He gave his occupation as landowner and two passing strangers acted as witnesses.
The tram rattled down Princes Street. Margaret twiddled with the narrow gold band on her finger. Maybe one day her father would realise that Ben’s intentions were honourable but instead of celebrating with those dearest they were on their way to Patrick Thompson’s department store. She knew they would have a lovely tea while listening to the string quartet, and watching glamorous models demonstrate the latest fashions to the store’s discerning customers. Confident in her expensive clothes Margaret was looking forward to showing off the outfit and her husband. It was taking an age to get there, “Ben this must be the wrong direction?”
“Don’t worry… we get off at the next stop. I have a surprise for you.”
They strolled casually into the reception area of the exclusive hotel overlooking Princes Street gardens and the towering castle. Ben spoke to the tight lipped desk clerk, “I have a reservation, Mr and Mrs Atrey.”
The clerk said, “You must be mistaken. The hotel is full.
“But our overnight bag was delivered yesterday,” Ben protested.
The intimidating manager was summoned who pompously informed Ben that there were no vacancies. A porter escorted them to the door, unceremoniously depositing the lovingly packed luggage on the busy street.
“In India I could buy and sell him and hundreds like him” Ben said through clenched teeth, “snap my fingers and he would be no more.” He snatched up the leather bag. They didn’t go to Patrick Thompson’s.
* * * * *
Ben had qualified and Margaret spent her days keeping the room in their lodgings neat and tidy, counting the hours until he returned from the Infirmary. They read together, went to concerts, shared their dreams and talked for hours while they wandered through the parks and streets of the enchanting city. She wished she’d taken her final exams but didn’t miss the intellectual stimulation of the University. Ben was a dedicated doctor and with Margaret’s help, aimed to rise to the top of his profession.
The baby’s first movements fluttered lightly like butterfly wings. Ben was convinced it was a boy, heir to the Atrey estates accrued over hundreds of years. He sought out more suitable accommodation for the birth of his son.
The night before the move the temperature plummeted. In the morning the sky was heavy with the threat of snow. A steaming carthorse stood patiently on the cobbled street, which overnight had become a slippery death trap for man and beast. Margaret traipsed up and down the tenement’s twisting stone steps assisting Ben and the carter to load their books into the wooden cart. They made steady progress but it was too slow for Margaret who rushed ahead to light a fire in their new home. Christmas was coming, their first as man and wife. Next year they would be a family.
The frosty ringed moon cast shadows through the curtain-less window. They crawled into a hastily made bed and gently made love. Margaret fell asleep in Ben’s arms. She was woken by snow light and a wave of pain rippling through her stomach. She gasped automatically drawing her knees up; then it was gone. Untangling from Ben’s long arms Margaret gingerly stretched out her legs, only to be forced to draw them back as the spasm returned.
Somehow she got out of bed, found the matches and lit the gas mantle on the nearby wall. It fizzed and hissed into life. She pulled the bucket from beneath the bed and squatted over it. Margaret hated doing this when Ben was in the room but the shared toilet was in the yard below and the cramping pains were unrelenting. She gripped the iron bedstead crouching over the bucket, calling out for her mother and waking Ben. Her frightened eyes searched his, “The baby’s coming…” he said carefully lifting her onto the bed.
Margaret moaned… “It can’t be… it’s too early… Do something…” but there was nothing to be done. Ben left her with the hastily summoned midwife who restored order chiding, “Dinne take on so lassie. There’s plenty of time to have lots more bairns.”
