Fortunes of the Heart (27 page)

“Well, Jenny, and you’ve done it now. Believe me, the awful
tragedy of it all is this; if only you had spoken to me, instead of to that
bitch Lizzie. But even apart from that, dear, I already suspected. No, I knew
in my heart of hearts what had happened. And you can believe it or not, and
you’ve only my word for it but I waited up specially tonight to tell you ...
tell you ...”

Choked with emotion, Kate collapsed back into her chair.

“Mammy, what is it ? What were you going to tell me?”

Kate bit at her lower lip as she pondered the advisability
or otherwise of confiding in her daughter what she had had planned for earlier
that evening, now in experience and sorrow a whole lifetime away. When
eventually she did open her mouth and relate to Jenny what she had had in mind,
the news was the final straw for the unhappy girl. With the cry like that of a
wounded animal, she raced from the room and out into the darkened hallway.

Kate knew better than to follow her daughter, for what more
could be said that had not already been told? With a long sigh, she got to her
feet and automatically started getting undressed. And all the while, her mind
was racing. Unless she was very much mistaken, and although she had no
experience of such matters, there would be no new baby for which to plan ahead.
She knew instinctively her own most immediate job would be to clear away and
wash blood-soaked sheets on the morrow. And then, having done that, to nurse
her shamed daughter back to health, and all in the short space of time
available, that of a single Sabbath day.

That way, the stupid and hopelessly naive girl could at
least get back to her work at the mill on Monday morning, as usual, and with
nobody except the famous Lizzie any one whit the wiser.

Chapter 17

As Kate had predicted, she managed to get Jenny back to the
mill, certainly looking like death warmed up, but no-one except Lizzie knew
what had happened. Jenny no longer went out with Lizzie, indeed she scarcely
went out at all except to the dreaded job at the mill, and would spend long
hours at home sitting in the kitchen, silent and sullen, retiring early to the
sofa bed in the hall.

After nearly two years of depression, Jenny started to
brighten and with a new girl friend again ventured out of a Saturday evening to
the soiree hosted by a local church.

“Don’t worry, Mammy,” she said to Kate, “Lizzie doesn’t seem
to be around
any more
. At least she’s left the mill
and I don’t see her or want to see her. I’ve learnt my lesson.”

Kate still worried, but was pleased to see Jenny regain her
health and energy as the year wore on.

Christmas of 1897 was relatively happy. Kate had her usual
pre-Christmas party with Mrs Scott, and, greatly daring, had bought a half
bottle of good Irish whisky and presented it to Terence the week after he had
given her a leather bound volume of poems. At the Hogmanay party Jenny had
shyly introduced a young man to the family, Brian
McCardle
,
a joiner who had just finished his apprenticeship.

“This time,” Kate said, “keep yourself pure, Jenny lass. Get
that gold band on your finger before you give him any favours of a physical
kind – you certainly know what I mean, Jenny darling. Take my word for it. Keep
Brian dangling on a string till your wedding night. You’re really lucky, dear,
for he doesn’t know anything about that other dirty business. Don’t forget, no
man wants used goods and cast-offs from any other fellow. He’ll find out soon
enough on your honeymoon, but by then it will be too late, for you’ll be safely
married. Do you get my meaning?”

Jenny assured Kate that she had no intention of making the
same mistake twice and that Brian was a nice lad.

He certainly seemed to be quite different from Ross
Cuthbert. Soft spoken and polite, he even impressed Pearce, talking
knowledgeably about his work in the shipyard.

One afternoon, rather than going straight home from Mrs
Scott’s, Kate, thinking of the particularly upsetting row with Pearce that
morning, again sought her usual solace of the book-
barra
and its cheerful, fascinating and – it must be admitted – handsome owner. As
she picked her way carefully through the overcrowded streets with the
ever-present smells, jostling humanity and screeching tramcars, she found
herself thinking: Yes, a wee blether with Terence O’Neil. ’Tis just what the
good doctor ordered.

And now here she was, not only with quickening step but with
a heightened bit of colour in her cheeks and fluttering at her heart at the
very thought of seeing Terence again so soon. Kate smiled.

Ah, yes, my girl. Seems to me that the handsome bookseller
is of more importance these days than the books themselves.

Not that there was anything clandestine about their meetings
– after all, how could there be, with half of the worthy citizens of Glasgow
looking on? But the element of essential secrecy from her husband lent a
certain excitement to the occasion and for a fleeting moment, she felt she
could almost have sympathised with Jenny in her hopeless passion for the
unsuitable and already much-married Ross. Not wishing to dwell too long on that
particular problem, Kate started humming a haunting little Irish air to herself
as she hurried along.

Perhaps things are starting to work out better for me. After
all, I’ve never had a special man friend before. One I could talk to about
books and the like. Imagine it, me, Kate Rafferty talking all
knowledgeable-like about books.

A secret little smile softened her work- and worry-worn face
and she was still humming the tune as she rounded the corner. She just couldn’t
believe her eyes. True, the well-laden book-
barra
was
there in its usual stance, but of Terence there was not a sign. Another man, a
perfect stranger, was selling the occasional book and in a broad Glasgow accent
trying to
chivy
up those browsers who’d obviously
been there long enough without attempting to make a purchase or even to bargain
with him. Kate, feeling as if a rug had been pulled from under her, hesitantly
approached the
barra
and its new attendant. She went
through the motions of lifting and looking at first one book, then another,
then finally, with a sigh of deep frustration, gazed at the
barra
boy, wondering how best to approach him.

Then a thought flashed through her mind: Perhaps Terence is
off just for a few days – with this terrible cold germ? Yes, I’m sure that’s
all it is. After all, if he’d been leaving surely he’d have mentioned it to me
last week? Yes, I’ll bet he’ll be here, large as life, next week again. So,
Kate my girl, say nothing to the
barra
boy, no need
to make a damned fool o’ yersel.

On the point of turning away and back again homewards, she
lifted up an attractively-bound book of poems which was wedged at the back of
the cart and near to the man’s hand. It was a volume which she and Terence had
discussed some weeks previously and he had promised that if he got a fair copy
of it at a bargain price he would keep it for her. She riffled through the book
and then, with a sigh, replaced it exactly where it had been. As she did so,
the
barra
boy laughed. “A good job yer no’
wantin
’ that yin, Missus. It’s reserved. Terry himself,
before he went away like, told me to save that yin for some special friend of
his, and ...”

Kate’s face paled.

“Terence, away? Is he ill? A wee touch o’ the rheumatics,
eh? Something like that?”

The man laughed and shook his head.

“Rheumatics did ye say, Missus? No a bit o’ it. Skipped away
like a Spring lamb, off back tae his benighted Ireland – that’s what he’s done.
Back to his Emerald Isle. All the same, these Paddies, if you ask me.”

Almost unable to believe her ears, Kate clutched on to the
barrow’s shaft for much-needed support. Seeing this, the man peered closely
into her face.

With typical Glaswegian humour and kindliness, he said: “
Heh
,
lissen
, hen. If yer
gaun
to be
faintin
’, away and do
it some where’s else. Right? Bad for business. Folk might think it’s my prices
is
gein
ye the heebie-jeebies.”

Despite herself, Kate laughed out loud and the man patted
her shoulder.

“That’s
mair
like the thing, hen.
Feelin
a wee bit better noo? Or dae ye want to sit doon on
that orange box for a wee while?”

Kate shook her head and hurriedly gathered her wits.

“No, no, I’m fine. But thanks all the same. Anyway, I’ll get
away and not keep you from your good work.”

“Listen, hen, if yer a regular, maybe you could help me.
Happen you might know who that book is reserved for. Terence wrote something on
the fly-leaf. But Ah’m no’ that good at the
readin
’.
Terence did mention something – the name o’ a song. But damned if I can
remember it.”

He frowned in concentration

After a moment Kate murmured: “Kathleen
Mavourneen
?
Would that be it by any chance?”

At once his face lightened and he grinned at her over the
graveyard of his teeth. After first spitting on his hands, rubbing them
together, and finally wiping them on his moleskin trousers, he stretched across
the barrow and delved into the pile of books.

With the gold-tooled, leather-bound volume of poetry safely
in his hands, he opened it at the requisite page with the inscription before
handing it to Kate.

As she gazed at the words, she felt her eyes mist over.

As if unable to believe the witness of her own eyes, she
read the inscription several times over. “Listen, Mister ...
er
... sorry I don’t know your name. Mister?”

He raised his flat tweed bunnet, and with questing fingers,
scratched his head before laughing.

“Mister, nothing. Listen, hen, nobody in
Glesga
ever cries me nothing but
Shuggie
. I wouldn’t know
myself as a Mister.”

Kate laughed, already feeling very much at home with this
kindly man, his beaming grin and his
pawky
, ready
Glasgow wit.

She nodded. “Right then, Mister ...
er
...
Shuggie
. I’ve read this wee message. It does say
to ‘My dear Kathleen
Mavourneen
.’ And also ...”

Shuggie
slapped his thigh in
delight.

“Then it’s definitely meant for you, hen. You yourself said
the name of the right song. And if ever anybody looked and sounded like a
Kathleen
Mavourneen
, then ’tis yourself, Missus, with
that lovely, soft Irish accent.”

Kate felt herself blush, something she hadn’t done in years.
But it wasn’t so much the compliment which caused her confusion so much as
uncertainty as to how to phrase her next words.

“Well,
Shuggie
. ’Tis like this.
The rest of the message in the book ... it’s well ... it’s rather private and
personal, you see and ...”

At this revelation,
Shuggie
grinned like a delighted schoolboy who had just been told a dirty joke.

“You mean, like, it’s a love letter, or what the
Frenchies
call a Billy-dux. Is that it, hen?”

By now Kate’s face was beetroot-red.

“Well, I don’t know that I’d put it quite as strongly as
that.”

Shuggie
waved her words aside.

“Listen, hen, a love letter’s the same in any language, even
if it is written inside a book. But imagine, Terry O’Neil, a real hard-man,
tough as nails. Him writing you a Billy-dux. The auld bugger. Mind you, hen
...”

Here he peered, in a highly confidential manner, into her
face.

“That book must have cost Terry an arm and a leg – ten bob
at the very least, or I’ll be far cheated. So, he must think real highly of
you, hen.”

Kate’s eyes opened wide in amazement and she was about to
speak, but
Shuggie
beat her to it.

“Listen, hen, whatever words the old lothario wrote are for
your eyes alone, and just you remember that. The book is obviously a gift for
ye. So take it and enjoy it, hen.”

If Kate had fallen into the Clyde and come up with a gold
watch, she could not have been anymore delighted. And even though, as
Shuggie
had indicated, Terry had gone back to his native
Ireland, the printed words he had left behind gave her hope for the future.

TO MY DEAR KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN, DUTY CALLS ME TO IRELAND
MEANTIME, BUT WE’LL MEET AGAIN. LOVE FROM TERENCE.

There was love and joy in her heart and a spring in her step
as she headed home to Garth Street and whatever new family crisis awaited her
there.

Chapter 18

Kate was sitting in the kitchen sewing, with Pearce dozing
in his chair beside the fire, on a January afternoon. She was thinking over the
events of the years since Danny had left home and wishing he had been present
at the their last Hogmanay party when everyone had seemed reasonably happy.

She was startled out of her reverie by a series of sharp
knocks at the door.

Now who can that be? It can’t be Granny
Gorbals
,
she would just walk right in, and so would most of the neighbours with maybe
one knock and a shout “hello”.

Sewing laid aside she hurried to the door.

A young man stood out on the landing smiling at her. It was
Pearce as Kate remembered him from their first meeting at Laggan House.

“It’s me, Mammy.”

“Danny.” She threw herself into his arms, hugging and crying.