Fortunes of the Heart (19 page)

She headed at high speed for the consulting room of Doctor
Desmond Aloysius
Clancey
. By the time she entered the
converted shop, it was already packed to capacity. The women, most of whom had
crying bairns happed up inside their shawls, were pale-faced with the burden of
poverty and excessive child-bearing. The men, in the main, were thin,
lantern-jawed spectres. Like a uniform, the men wore suits of the cheapest
materials, long off-white, fringed scarves and flat bunnets. The air was thick
with tobacco-smoke and those who were not smoking the cheapest of cigarettes
were instead puffing away at clay-pipes.

This crowd of would-be patients with their variety of
ailments were ranged round the tiny room, seated on a hard wooden bench and an
ill-assorted collection of rickety chairs

In stark contrast to the normal Glasgow camaraderie and
social chit-chat, there in that Holy of Holies, Doctor
Clancey’s
consulting-room, not one person spoke. The only sounds were the screaming of the
babies, the frantic tamping and puffing of a smoker as he struggled to rekindle
his pipe, the coughs, the sneezes without benefit of handkerchiefs, and the
occasional shuffling of bottoms and creaking of chairs each time the distant
ping of the doctor’s bell announced it was now the turn of the next claimant on
his time, knowledge and medical expertise.

At last the bell pinged for Kate, who went with all possible
speed into the inner sanctum.

After having first deposited her two sixpences into the
saucer kept for the purpose on Doctor
Clancey’s
roll-top desk, Kate sat down.

The doctor, in his rich Irish brogue which a lifetime of
medical practice in the Second City of the Empire had done nothing to tame,
smiled kindly.

“’Tis yourself, Mistress Kinnon.”

Kate nodded.

“And what seems to be the trouble, my dear?”

“’Tis my husband, Pearce, Doctor, sir. I’m worried about
him. Never a patient man, even when he was well, he has recently become violent
And truth is, I just don’t know how to cope with him.”

“Mrs Kinnon, I cannot diagnose someone I haven’t seen, let
alone examined. Can you tell me what his symptoms are, or better yet send him
in to see me himself’?”

“Since our youngest daughter drowned almost two years ago,
he has been moody, surly even, and not able to concentrate on anything. It’s
been bad enough that he’s lost his job in the Fruit Market– he couldn’t set his
mind to the figures in the office.”

“What age is your husband, Mrs Kinnon?”

“Fifty-four. Why?”

“Some men do go into deep despair and black moods over the
loss of work at an age when other work is unlikely; some take to the drink ...”

“No, it’s not the drink. Not this time.”

“It sounds like a melancholia brought on by the tragic death
of your daughter and made worse by the loss of his job. Time and patience may
be the only cure.”

Kate sighed.

“In marrying me, he married out of his class. Had to give up
family, friends, country estates, a privileged way of life. No matter what I
do, say, or even suggest, it is like a red rag to a bull.”

Dr
Clancey
leaned forward.

“It may be small comfort, my dear, but his present attitude
possibly has nothing whatever to do with you and your early days of married
life. Quite the reverse in fact, the
melancholiac
frequently turns against those nearest and dearest. So, that would rather prove
not only have you been greatly loved in the past, but that his present
behaviour has everything to do with his melancholia and nothing personally to
do with you, my dear.”

Kate gasped.

“I didn’t know that, Doctor, sir. Oh, what a relief.” Doctor
Clancey
nodded.

“If it’s any help, just you hold on to that fact.”

“Your words are indeed a great help, Doctor. You see, all
along, I’ve been blaming myself for poor Pearce’s condition.”

The doctor smiled and eased his chair back slightly, indicating
in this subtle way that the interview was now, or at least should be, drawing
to a close. Then, almost on second thoughts before rising to his feet, he
frowned.

“But surely you are not alone. Aren’t your children now of
an age to help you in dealing with your husband?”

Kate shook her head.

“Three of my children are dead. Poor Hannah is severely
handicapped, both mentally and physically. My daughter, Jenny, reminds Pearce
of what he has lost, and he blames Danny for Isabella’s drowning.”

Dr
Clancey
threw his arms wide in
a gesture of despair as he let them fall and slap against his
trousered
thighs.

“My dear woman. Life has treated you ill, hasn’t it? But
life goes on. And we must each get on with it as best we can.”

Kate made no reply beyond a despairing nod of her head, as
her tears trickled down her cheek. Dr Clancy patted her gently on the shoulder.

“There, there, my dear, don’t take on so. What you really
must do is get yourself a hobby of some kind; knitting, sewing, crochet, or
reading. Get something –anything – that’s for you and you alone. Then whenever
your husband is asleep or even in one of his quieter spells, you’ll have
something else to occupy your mind.”

As she turned to leave, already mentally bracing herself for
the irate stares and angry mutterings of the other patients, who would no doubt
consider that she had outstayed her welcome, she was stopped by the doctor’s
hand on her shoulder.

“Hold on. I’ll give you a bottle of my special red tonic. On
the house, my dear.”

Kate gasped.

“Oh, Doctor, that’s real kind of you, sir. And will this
mixture make my man well again?”

Doctor
Clancey
looked serious.

“No, my dear. I couldn’t prescribe for a patient I’ve never
seen. Anyway, I know of no medicine to cure melancholia. The bottle is an iron
tonic for you. Between that and your hobby, the world should look brighter.”

Before Kate could launch into an ecstasy of thanks, he
walked her to the door.

“Best be off with you now, before I have a revolution on my
hands with that bunch of folk next door. Good-bye, Mistress Kinnon. Remember:
the tonic, a hobby and for once in your life, put yourself first.”

Chapter 5

By the spring of 1892 Daniel had was fourteen and unlike
other local boys was still at school. Pearce insisted if Daniel wasn’t working,
he should take every advantage of education. Instead of the handsome lad for
whom his mother had so fervently hoped, he had turned out so far to be a
miserable looking, lang drink o’
watter
, as her
Glasgow neighbours would say. Not only that, but his thin, pasty face was
pitted and marked with pimples, while an angry looking boil on his neck seemed
on the point of eruption. Kate sighed as she looked at her first-born and his
latest harvest of pimples. For a moment, she could almost have sympathised with
Pearce in his constant and everlasting grief over the loss of their other
lovely children. Almost, but not quite, for the fact remained that Pearce was
always so much against poor Daniel that with her maternal instincts roused, it was
only natural that her sympathies lay with the introverted youth.

Whatever the boy did, did not do, said, or even suggested
was wrong in the eyes of his hypercritical father. Even worse, his constantly
irate father made no bones about telling the lad he was useless on every
possible occasion. Earlier that very morning over the breakfast table, the pair
of them, father and son, had almost come to blows. Had it not been for Kate’s
urgent and insistent intervention, she still shuddered to think how the matter
might have been resolved. As it was, Pearce had gone off to sulk in splendid
isolation in the good front room, while it was left to Kate to restore what
little she could of Daniel’s fragile self-confidence.

She glanced again at the morose youth sitting slouched over
the table, then with greater animation in her voice than she felt, she asked:
“Right, Daniel. How about you and me having a nice wee cuppa? And a wee blether
now that the coast’s clear. If we’re lucky, I think there’s a crumb or two left
of that
clootie
dumpling I made yesterday. Do you
fancy a wee slice fried in dripping, son?”

“Fried dumpling did you say, Mammy? That would be great. For
fine well you know it’s my absolute favourite. But listen, I thought you said I
was to keep off fries, and chips and all that kind of stuff, leastways till all
my spots and boils had cleared up a wee bit. Is that not right?”

By way of reply, Kate stepped over to the table, and gently
ruffled her son’s hair.

“
Och
, listen, son. One wee slice
of my good
clootie
dumplin’ll
not do you one wee bit of harm this morning. Who knows? It might even cheer you
up a wee bit. Even if it does give you another plonk on your face. Right, son?”

Daniel smiled his assent and, while he waited for his mother
to get busy with the frying-pan, he chuckled. Hearing this, Kate turned round
from the kitchen range, a look of surprise on her face, delighted that her son
had so quickly recovered his good spirits. Of course, she had to admit whenever
he was away from Pearce and, better still when on such rare occasions as this,
had his Mother all to himself, then he was happy.

As she set the generous slice of dumpling into the
frying-pan, Kate, anxious to bolster even further his raised spirits, asked
over her shoulder: “Aye, and jist what is it that’s amusing you so much, my
fine laddie?”

Again Daniel laughed, this time even more heartily. “You’ve
just done it again, Mammy.”

With a puzzled frown, Kate asked: “Done what, for heaven’s
sake?”

Daniel got up from the table and after first looking round
the door to make sure that his father was nowhere near, he settled himself into
the one and only armchair. There, lolling at his ease, his eyes twinkled at his
Mother.

“It’s your voice, Mammy. Nowadays, for some reason best
known to yourself, you seem to speak in a mixture of Irish accent and straight
Glesga
patter. I mean, here you are talking about
plooks
like any Glaswegian.”

Kate threw back her head and laughed.

“And since when did you become an expert on accents? Cheeky
wee
midden
that you are.”

Daniel joined in her laughter. Then as it died away, he
looked at his mother for a long moment, as if wondering how much he could
venture to say without in anyway hurting her feelings.

Finally he spoke: “Well, I’ve noticed when you’re speaking
to Hannah, Jenny, or me you speak as near like a native Glaswegian as makes no
difference – except of course for that wee bit Irish brogue. We all speak the
same as our pals from the school, so we understand you, Mammy. But when you’re
talking to him, if you get my meaning, then you aye use your posh pan-loaf
voice. Am I not right?”

Kate placed the fried dumpling on to the two plates and
grinned at her son.

“Well, I’ll say this, Danny Boy, and in any accent ye care
to mention, for somebody who normally doesn’t say much, you miss nothing, do
you? Seems to me, nothing going on in this house escapes you, now does it?”

Daniel merely grinned.

“Better eat that while it’s hot, son. Later on, when you’ve
demolished it, we’ll have a talk about this morning’s contretemps with Dadda.
Aye, and if it pleases you son, I’ll be happy for to talk as posh as you like
just to get to the bottom of this morning’s carry on; whatever that was all
about.”

The slices of fried dumpling safely disposed of, mother and
son then got down to a blether about the morning’s events. It was all exactly
as Kate had feared. Yet again Pearce had been attempting to impose his own
strict ideas on an unwilling young man who was gradually evolving his own
theories about life in general and his own outlook in particular.

Kate placed a gentle hand on her son’s arm.

“Now then, Danny Boy, exactly what did Dadda say to upset
you this way? Honest, son, I could see you were nearly in tears –
greetin
’ – before he’d finished with you. Tell your Mammy,
son, what was it?”

Daniel took a deep breath, then after only a second’s
hesitation, he plunged straight into his tale of woe.

“Well, Mammy, you see it was like this: Dadda says that now
he’s out of work ...”

Daniel paused, his eyes filled with tears, and he angrily
knuckled his eyes.

“Dadda blames me for his ill-health. The shock of Isabella’s
tragic death brought it on, he says. He was fair harping on about it, it was
all my fault. ... It was and it wasn’t, Mammy ... I was going to go out on the
row boat by myself. Isabella screamed at me that she’d tell Dadda if I didn’t
take her with me. She said she’d say I’d gone out even if I didn’t and I knew
I’d get a thrashing ... so I let her get into the boat. She wouldn’t sit still
... I shouted at her to sit down ... she just laughed and said she was going to
dance ... I shouted at her and she said she was going to tell Dadda anyway
since I shouted at her ... the boat was rocking so I let go the oars to try and
make her sit down ... then a big wave hit us. I don’t know where it came from.
The boat turned over and I grabbed hold of a rope that was hanging from it. I
couldn’t swim ... and there was no sign of Isabella ...

Kate, tears streaming down her face, gazed across the table
at Daniel.

“Oh, Daniel, why have you never told anyone this before?”

“Do you think it would make any difference to him? He’s had
his mind made up all my life I could do nothing right.”

“It was God’s will that poor Wee Isabella died,” Kate said.
“Did you tell Dadda this, this morning? Is that what the fight was about?”