The River Flows On (44 page)

She told the story exactly as she remembered it, putting on a silly pan-loaf voice for Miss Frilly Blouse.

‘“You don’t seem to have made any claim on your husband’s pay, heretofore.”
Heretofore
,’ scoffed Kate. ‘Can you believe it?’

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ came a voice from behind Jessie’s chair, ‘that there’s money lying up in Glasgow that could have been coming into this house?’

Jessie jumped, and Kate looked up into her mother’s face. She swallowed, coughing as a few of the cake crumbs went down the wrong way.

‘It’s Robbie’s money,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sure he’s working hard for it. I’d like him to be able to collect it all when he pays off after his trip.’

‘You’re his wife,’ said Lily. ‘You’re entitled to a share of it.’

‘No, I’m not.’

Lily’s blue eyes flickered. She half-turned, indicating Grace sitting on Neil’s knee. ‘Grace is entitled to it, then. She’s his daughter.’

Kate opened her mouth and then, remembering that Jessie and Neil - and Grace herself- were listening in, shut it again without saying anything.

‘I’ll not make a claim on his pay,’ she said finally, ‘not unless I’m forced to. I’m sorry, Ma. I just won’t.’

‘Leave the lassie alone, Lily,’ came a deep voice from behind them. ‘She should not be badgered in her condition.’

Lily, her face contorted with anger, whirled round. ‘You! You always take her part, Neil Cameron.’

She raised her arm as though to lunge forward and strike him. Neil hurriedly set Grace off his knee. Jessie darted up out of her chair and across the room, grabbing Grace and pulling her out of range. Kate raised herself up in the armchair.

‘Ma! Don’t! Please, Ma!’ She pushed down on the arms of the chair, trying to get enough leverage to stand up. She’d done it awkwardly. She was all to one side like Gourock.

‘Kate!’ shouted Jessie. ‘Don’t! Wait a wee minute and I’ll help you.’

It was too late. Kate had made it to her feet. After a fashion. She was swaying. Then she fell, hard and heavy onto the cold oil-cloth. The last thing she heard was her sister screaming her name.

Chapter 29

Pain. Waves and waves of it. like lying on a stony beach with the tide coming in and being unable to move - feeling it recede, taking a few quick deep breaths - but knowing that it would soon come sweeping back in again with renewed force.

She was in her parents’ bed. It had been pulled out from the wall so there was space on both sides of it. Jessie, holding her hand, was on her left, the midwife on the right. From somewhere in the room came the sound of someone crying.

Well, it wouldn’t be the midwife. Kate turned her head - it seemed like an enormous effort to do it - and looked at Jessie.

‘Are you remembering your breathing, Kate? Shallow when the pain’s at its worst. That’s what the midwife says.’

‘I’ll remember.’ She got the words out with difficulty. Not Jessie, then. ‘Grace?’ She could only manage the name, but Jessie understood, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

‘Downstairs with the Baxters. Flora and Alice said they would take her out to the park for the afternoon.’

Kate nodded, then wrinkled her brow in perplexity. ‘Who’s crying, Jessie?’

Then she heard her father’s voice. It was low-pitched, but Kate could just make out the coaxing, encouraging words.

‘Come on, Lily, you’re not helping the lassie by being here. Come on ben to the kitchen with me and we’ll have ourselves a cup of tea.’

Kate, her head as heavy as a cannonball on the feather pillow, tilted her face so she could look up. With her husband’s arm about her shoulders, Lily was crossing slowly from the window. Her hair, escaping from its pins, was falling about her tear-stained face. Kate hadn’t noticed before, but her mother had acquired quite a few white hairs. Funny how you sometimes knew people so well, and yet you never really looked at them properly, never noticed anything different about them. Lily paused on her way to the door.

‘Kate ...’ She laid a hand on her daughter’s bare forearm, Kate’s hand still being entwined with Jessie’s. It was the lightest of touches, Lily’s fingers thin and cold. Then she was gone, ushered out of the room by her husband.

‘Push, hen. Push now!’

‘What do you think I am doing?’ Kate grunted irritably.

‘Save your breath, Kate!’ Jessie was behind her, supporting her shoulders so she could exert all her fading strength on pushing.

‘One more big push,’ the midwife commanded. ‘Come on now, there’s a good lassie!’

She gave one more big push and the baby was out. Then something else.

‘The afterbirth, hen,’ murmured the midwife. ‘Now, let me get the cord tied and cut...’ but the woman was talking to herself. With a cry of relief Kate fell back onto the pillow, Jessie’s arms easing her down.

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ she whispered, the words coming out on short, panting breaths. But it was over at last. The baby was born. She smiled up at Jessie. She’d stayed with her the whole time. Could any girl ever have had a better sister? If this baby was a girl, she definitely had to call her Jessie - or Jessica- aye, that would be nice. But maybe she’d had a wee boy. Jessie would soon tell her.

Why had her sister gone so pale? She had dropped Kate’s hand and was staring at the little bundle the midwife was wrapping up in the cloth which had been warming on the clothes horse in front of the fire in readiness.

The room had gone very quiet. Kate followed her sister’s gaze. The midwife looked up. Her face told Kate everything she needed to know.

‘Kate, lass, I’m sorry. I think he’s just come too early, the wee soul. I’ll send for Dr MacMillan, but I doubt he’ll be able to do anything.’

Hustle and bustle then. Noise. Talk. The occupants of the room shifting and changing. The next thing Kate was aware of was a voice she couldn’t quite make out. She had to strain to hear it. Something was wrong with the words. Then she realized it was her father, intoning something softly in Gaelic. The words flowed one into the other in a rhythmic chant.

Kate opened her eyes.

‘Daddy?’ she murmured through parched lips. He was beside her, holding something in his arms. No, not something - someone. Her baby - Robbie’s baby. He was tiny, the merest scrap of humanity. Her father spoke again.

‘I am saying a blessing over your son Kathleen. I’m going to baptize him now.’

That could mean only one thing. She watched her father lean forward and make the sign of the cross over the cup of water by her bedside, remembering some long-ago Catholic past. He dipped his fingers in the cup and said the blessing now in English, stumbling over the translation of words which he’d only ever heard in the old language - and half a lifetime away.

‘The little drop of the Father, on thy little forehead, beloved one. The little drop of the Son, on thy little forehead, beloved one. The little drop of the Spirit, on thy little forehead, beloved one. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I baptize thee-’ He broke off suddenly and lifted his eyes to Kate.

‘Neil James,’ she whispered, ‘after his two grandfathers.’ Her voice tailed off. Saying those few words had exhausted her. In a voice which shook, her father repeated the two names and made the sign of the cross once more, with his thumb, on the baby’s forehead. Then he put the tiny bundle into Kate’s arms.

I cannot weep. Not yet. I cannot weep because if I do I won’t see you, won’t be able to fix your face in my memory. We shall not have long together, my son. Shall I tell you about your father?
But that was altogether too painful. She clutched the baby more tightly to her. He was very cold. So she had to tell him - before it was too late.
Your father is Robert - Robert Baxter - and he is a good man. I am your mother, Kate. You have a sister called Grace.

She bent her head and pressed her lips to Neil James’s forehead. It was smooth and cool, like an alabaster statue. She lifted her head and looked down into his face. Her son looked back at her.

Someone, somewhere in the room, was sobbing as though their heart was breaking. I thought mine already had, thought Kate, until this moment. The baby was looking up at her. He looked as though he was frowning, drawing his tiny eyebrows together in puzzlement. What did he see? Could he focus? See her face - her eyes, her mouth? Just in case, she smiled.

‘I love you, Neil James Baxter,’ she whispered.

Did she imagine the reaction in the tiny body she held, so light she was scarcely aware of any weight in her arms? Did a look of recognition pass over the perfect little face? She bent her head and kissed him again, breathing in the scent of him. My son, my son. Our son.

She listened to his breathing, soft and delicate, like the lightest of summer breezes moving among flowers. She heard it stop - quite suddenly, but quite peacefully. Still holding him close, she felt her father rise in his chair and stand over them. His hands gently separated mother and son, his fingers fluttering down to close the baby’s eyes.

‘Has he gone?’ a voice whispered.

‘Aye, he’s gone.’ Then, in the gentlest of voices, Neil spoke. ‘Shall I take him from you, Kathleen lass?’

She could not tear her eyes away from her son.

‘No, Daddy. Not yet. Let me hold him a bit longer.’

Her father’s hand was warm on her shoulder.

‘Aye, lass. Aye.’

Four days later she insisted on getting out of bed, much against her father’s and Jessie’s advice. They had absolutely refused to let her attend the baby’s funeral the day before. The Baxter girls had sat with her while the other members of the two families had attended. Bitterly, knowing how weak she was, she had given in to that, but she wasn’t prepared to have her wishes overridden a second time. Neil and Jessie, with Lily hovering in the background like a pale ghost, anxiously installed her in the armchair, with the foot-stool at her feet.

‘I’m fine,’ she kept saying. ‘I’m fine.’

She was still telling everybody she felt fine at four o’clock that afternoon when she started to haemorrhage.

Her arms were empty. Not even Grace could fill them. She stood at the kitchen window watching her daughter playing with the other children down in the back court. She should have been standing here with a baby in her arms - tired and smelling of milk, but happy.

There were to be no more children. She had guessed as much when she had woken in the unfamiliar surroundings of the hospital and the doctor there had pulled out a chair, sat beside her and reached for her hand. It was that gesture which had done it, and the way he had addressed her by her first name, even although he didn’t know her from Adam. She had known by those two things that he had bad news to deliver.

He had been very kind, had tried to break it to her gently, but there was no way of being gentle about the news he had to impart. She heard the words he spoke, understood what he meant about having to perform an emergency operation on her, knew what had been taken away from her. There was, he told her gravely, no reason why she shouldn’t lead a normal married life in every other respect.

No reason except that her husband was on the other side of the world. No reason except that he no longer wanted her. What had he said that dreadful day?
At this precise moment I don’t know whether I ever want to see you again.

‘You mark my words, lass,’ said her father with cheerful bluster, ‘your man’ll be back as soon as he can. Jessie’s written to him to let him know what’s happened. I’m sure he’ll manage to find himself another ship to come home on as soon as he finds out.’ Her father too had reached for her hand, lying listlessly on the spotless white hospital coverlet.

As the weeks rolled by, and her body began to recover from what she had been through, the fear that Robbie might never come back grew and grew. There had been no reply to Jessie’s letter, although the cheerful postcards kept coming for Grace. That was hard to understand - real hard. Had he changed so much? Did he not care at all?