Читать книгу Barra’s Angel - Eileen Campbell - Страница 10

The afternoon proved uneventful. Rose had hung about the cosmetics department for a good ten minutes before going upstairs to the lending library, but wherever Sheena Mearns had disappeared to, she wasn’t on her usual counter. Rose tried to broach the subject of her rival’s whereabouts as Sandra Ledingham stamped her books, but was unable to find a suitably casual opening.

‘It’s Frank Yerby’s latest.’ Sandra smiled. ‘We canna’ keep them on the shelves. Course, he’s a bit near the bone at times, but nothing compared to thon awful Harold Robbins.’

She winked, fully aware that Rose had borrowed The Carpetbaggers twice already, and was eagerly awaiting the release of the Oscar-winning film in Craigourie. Rose would have flushed had it been Miss Falconer behind the counter, but Sandra had been the one to suggest the book in the first place.

‘I know what you mean,’ Rose answered, and they giggled.

Sandra handed the books over to Rose, and stretched across the counter. ‘He’s usually at the Natural History,’ she remarked. ‘He looks fed up.’

‘He didn’t want to come with me. You know how they are at that age.’ Rose looked over to where Barra was inspecting the middle shelf of the Religion section. ‘C’mon, son, we’re ready,’ she called. She’d be mortified if he brought up any of this latest nonsense in front of Sandra.

Barra started towards them, a look of enquiry on his face, and Rose locked eyes with him, silently forbidding him to even mention the word ‘angel’.

‘Were you looking for something partic’lar, Barra?’ Sandra asked.

Barra broke his mother’s gaze. ‘I’m no’ allowed to talk about it,’ he answered.

‘Never mind him,’ Rose rushed on as Sandra opened her mouth to enquire exactly what it was Barra wasn’t allowed to talk about. ‘He just doesn’t like being in the town on a Saturday afternoon.’

‘Who does?’ Sandra shrugged. ‘If I hadn’t taken so much from the club-book, I’d be taking a Saturday afternoon off myself once in a while. It’ll be bloody August before it’s all paid off. Just hope I’m no paid off before it.’

‘Why?’ Rose asked, shocked at the notion.

‘Och, there’s word they’re going to be closing the lending libraries, Rose. No doubt we’ll be one o’ the first to get the chop.’

‘Never!’

‘Aye, well, Hazel’s man’s in for a job at Dounreay. If he gets it, I’m hoping they’ll give me her counter downstairs. Fingers crossed,’ she sighed.

‘God, that’s awful,’ Rose said. ‘What’re they thinking about? Closing libraries like that!’

Sandra shrugged again. ‘What can you do?’ she asked. ‘There’s worse things than losing yir job.’

‘Aye, there’s much worse,’ Rose agreed in sympathy, aware that Sandra was referring to Jim Pascoe’s illness. Jim’s wife, Jennifer, was Sandra’s older sister, and the girls – though several years apart – had always seemed very close.

‘I’m ashamed to say I haven’t looked in on them at all this week,’ Rose continued. ‘It just gets to where you don’t know what to say any more.’

‘I know,’ Sandra replied. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do now but wait.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s hard, though.’

‘I can imagine,’ Rose agreed. ‘They’re so brave, both of them. I don’t have any family of my own, but at least Jennifer has you ’n’ your folks nearby. She’ll need yis more than ever after …’ It was impossible to say the words.

‘The thing of it is,’ Sandra said, a troubled frown creasing her youthful forehead, ‘you’d think we’d be closer than ever just now. I mean, she is my sister. But … it’s as though she doesn’t want us near them, like we’re not welcome. It’s putting an awful strain on Mam.’

‘It’s probably just that she wants Jim to herself – while she has him,’ Rose said gently. ‘It’s understandable.’

‘I suppose so.’ Sandra drew a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. ‘Enough o’ that. Are yis off home now?’

‘We’re going to Bremner’s first.’ Rose smiled, nodding in Barra’s direction. ‘Cream hornets.’

Barra was leaning against the counter, a faraway look in his eyes.

‘We’re boring him to death.’ Sandra laughed.

As Rose said her cheerios Barra made for the staircase, turning at the last minute to cast a cheery wave in Sandra’s direction.

‘Yis’re all wrong,’ he called back to her. ‘I know someone who’ll make him better. Jim’ll be up ’n’ running … aaaah!’ he screamed, as Rose gave him a push that sent him flying. He missed the top two steps and scrambled to land upright on the third.

‘Are you all right?’ Rose asked, immediately horrified at the result of her action.

Barra blinked back at her, his expression a cross between surprise and terror.

‘What did you do that for?’ he asked in dismay.

Chalmers laid his paper on the floor by his chair, the pages in disarray. ‘I’m off down for a pint,’ he said.

‘Can I come?’ Barra asked.

‘Are you into the drink now?’ his father enquired, peering across the tops of his glasses.

‘Och, Dad, I’d just like a bit o’ fresh air.’

Chalmers glanced across at Rose, but she had another of her damn books in her hand, and refused to lift her head to look at him.

‘I’m no’ surprised,’ Chalmers remarked. ‘A fine day like this, and you haven’t had a minute to yirsel to enjoy it. You’d’ve been better off coming wi’ me to Dunfearn.’

‘I would,’ Barra agreed. ‘You’re right there, Da. I definitely would.’ He was sitting on the orange carpet in front of the television, clapping the damn cat who’d stretched himself out to such an extent that Chalmers had had to cramp up his legs to avoid touching it.

As hard as he’d tried, Chalmers had found it impossible to concentrate on his paper, and trying to watch the telly and the cat at the same time was getting on his nerves.

What was Rose thinking about, keeping the boy cooped up like this? Barra was at his happiest out in the woods, enjoying the long spring evenings. Still, he had been relieved to learn that Barra had accompanied Rose into Craigourie. If his wife had intended any kind of confrontation with Sheena (Chalmers shivered at the thought), Barra’s presence would have prevented her from making a scene. Not that Rose was the type for ‘scenes’, Chalmers consoled himself.

So what was going on? Rose was making a poor pretence of reading her book; she hadn’t turned a page for ages. And what was all that at supper? Barra saying his mother had pushed him down the stairs in Boots, and Rose denying it, till the two of them got into an argument. That really was puzzling.

Half the time, Rose and Barra didn’t even have to talk to each other, they were so attuned to what the other was thinking. Wasn’t it himself that felt the outsider when those two got together? He could never remember them arguing like that. Never.

‘Everything’s going t’hell around here,’ he said, thinking aloud.

‘No argument from me,’ Rose quipped.

Barra turned to look at them both.

‘Are you going for a pint or not?’ he asked.

‘Aye,’ Chalmers answered. ‘Are you coming, Rose?’

‘Nope.’

Chalmers glared at her. ‘It’s Saturday night. It’ll do you good.’

‘It certainly won’t.’ She finally looked up. ‘Why would I want to sit wi’ your cronies, listening to the lot o’ yis rambling on about nothing, and getting crosswise with each other in no time flat?’

‘Right then. Forget I asked!’

‘Right then,’ Rose repeated. ‘And yir no’ taking Barra with you. It’s against the law.’

‘I bloody well am!’ Chalmers said, almost shouting. ‘No-one bothers about that out here.’ Socks stirred, fixing him with a malevolent golden stare.

‘I’ll get my shoes,’ he said to Barra, his voice quieter.

As Chalmers headed for the stairs, Rose leaned forward in her chair. ‘You’re not to go through the woods, Barra. And sit with Maisie when you get there. I don’t want you getting involved wi’ that lot.’

Barra screwed up his face. ‘Come with us, then, Mam. If we all went, and we walked through the woods together, you might get to meet Jamie. He’ll be wondering where I am by now.’

‘This is the worst day of my life,’ Rose stated, slowly, and with conviction.

‘It is not, Mam,’ Barra reminded her. ‘What about when yir grandad died?’

Rose gasped. ‘I didn’t mean … God, you’re getting a quick tongue on you.’

Barra stared back at her. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘Aye, you are!’ Rose insisted. She picked up her book, hoping to hide the hurt in her eyes.

Immediately Barra was beside her on the couch, his hand reaching to clutch her own. ‘I’m sorry, Mam.’

‘It’s all right, Barra.’ Rose nodded, squeezing his hand. She could barely trust herself to speak. Why on earth had he brought that up? She didn’t need any more punishment right now, and she certainly didn’t need reminding …

The evening darkened from the shadow of Rose’s nightmare – a nightmare which had haunted her all of her life.

Martha Sinclair, a child herself, had given birth to Rose in a home for unmarried mothers, a home two hundred miles distant from Craigourie, a home where Rose should have been left, given up for the adoption that had been so carefully, so heart-breakingly planned.

It hadn’t happened.

Martha, two months past her sixteenth birthday, had wrapped her baby daughter in a blanket and left the Salvation Army home in the dead of night, tramping the long road and the miles from Dundee back to Craigourie. A day and a half later, in the lambing snows of 1925, she’d knocked on her parents’ door.

‘I couldna’ give her to strangers,’ she’d said, pushing Rose into the arms of Bartholomew Sinclair, while his wife Joan stood weeping soundlessly by his side. And with that, Martha turned, disappearing from all of their lives for ever.

Four years later Joan had passed on, leaving Rose in the only arms which had held her fast – ‘Pops’ Sinclair, otherwise known to the folks of Craigourie as Barra.

She remembered the day she had begun school, running home to pluck Joan’s brown-edged image from the mantelpiece.

‘Is this my ma?’

‘No, Rose,’ Barra had answered. ‘She’s yir gran. She died, slowly and with great pain.’

‘Why, Grandad?’

‘Because yir ma turned at the door, and was lost to us for ever.’

Rose hadn’t understood. Throwing herself into her grandfather’s lap, she’d cried. ‘You’ll no’ turn at the door, Pops? You’ll no’ leave me?’

Barra had held her for as long as he could, but he too had had to leave. Months after the wedding, when he so proudly walked her down the aisle, Barra had slipped away.

And the first morning Rose had rushed to vomit into the cracked toilet-bowl, she knew she would have a son. And she knew he’d take his great-grandfather’s name. Her heart had filled to overflowing when she told Chalmers her news, and he kissed her, and held her close in these new arms, the arms she had come to love so much.

‘Barra it is,’ he’d laughed, covering her with kisses. ‘Barra it is.’

‘Right, Barra. We’re off.’ Chalmers strode back into the living room.

Rose pulled herself from her reverie and glanced towards her husband.

‘Sure you won’t come, Mam?’ Barra asked gently.

With a last squeeze of his hand, Rose released her son. She shook her head slowly. ‘No. No, thanks.’

Chalmers had broken his stride only slightly. ‘Yir welcome, y’know.’

‘Am I?’ Rose asked, her head back in her book.

Barra looked at his father. ‘She should come.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t you start,’ he grumbled. ‘C’mon, or the night’ll be over before we get there.’

With a final look behind him, Barra ran to catch up with his father.

Chalmers was already around the path and on to the road before he became aware of his son’s presence at his side. There was no reason to go by the road. It would have been quicker and far more pleasant to cut through the woods. Chalmers was annoyed at himself for having given in.

‘We said we’d take the road,’ he told Barra, shoving his hands deep in his cardigan pockets. ‘We’re no’ wise.’

‘We’re not,’ Barra agreed solemnly. ‘But we promised.’

‘Well, we’ll no’ stay too long. There was no word about not coming back by the woods.’

Barra kicked at a stone. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said, worried at the possibility of breaking a promise.

‘I’d’ve taken note,’ Chalmers assured him.

Barra caught up with the stone, and kicked it again with delight. ‘Great.’

Chalmers smiled to himself. They were needing more time together, the two of them. Away from the womenfolk and all the problems they brought. God, wasn’t it a fine thing to go for a pint on a Saturday night with yir boy at yir side.

‘Aye, we’ll be going back by the woods then,’ he stated. Then he began whistling, a very tuneful rendition of ‘Dark Lochnagar’. He clapped Barra on the back. ‘Join in, son.’

Moments passed before he realised that Barra was silent still.

‘I thought y’knew this one,’ he said.

‘I canna’ whistle,’ Barra answered cheerfully.

Chalmers came to a halt. ‘Since when?’

‘Since always.’ Barra was unconcerned, skipping along ahead of him now.

Chalmers face darkened. ‘It’s time you learned.’

‘I canna’ learn, Da. I’ve tried.’

‘Then yir no’ trying hard enough!’

Barra turned, frowning. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. I just canna’ whistle.’

Chalmers glared at him. ‘You’ll have a pint the night,’ he commanded.

Barra grimaced. ‘I don’t want a pint.’

‘You’ll have one just the same.’

‘I won’t, Da. I don’t like it.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve tried that, too. God, d’you no’ remember? Last Hogmanay? I was sick as a dog.’

It was Chalmers’ turn to grimace. How could he forget? It had been months before Rose stopped bringing it up, how he’d forced the brew on Barra and she’d nearly had to call the doctor as a result.

‘I’ll teach you to whistle, then.’

‘You can’t, Da,’ Barra insisted, exasperated now. ‘I’m good at spitting, though,’ he added as an afterthought.

Chalmers raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you now?’

‘Aye,’ Barra answered. ‘Watch.’

Chalmers was impressed. ‘No’ bad. No’ bad at all, son.’

Barra grinned. ‘Doubt if you’ll beat it,’ he challenged.

‘Huh, make way for the maestro,’ Chalmers said, pushing Barra aside, and making his point with great effect.

‘I bet I could beat you,’ Barra said, ‘if I was taller.’

‘Height’s got nothing to do with it.’

‘Aye, Da, it has. It’s scientifically …’

The two argued and spat all the way to the Whig.

‘Where’s yir mam?’ Maisie enquired, setting a knickerbocker glory in front of Barra, and having to squeeze her girth between his table and the wall to do so. The bar was full, but then it didn’t take more than a dozen faces to give that impression. She was wearing another of her flowing kaftans, this one adorned with waves of cerise on a sea of inky blue.

‘She didn’t want to come,’ Barra replied. ‘Sorry, Maisie, but I don’t know if Da would be wanting to pay for this,’ he added, staring at the tall glass with longing.

‘It’s on me,’ Maisie said. ‘It’s over from the afternoon teas, all two o’ them. Imagine asking for scones when you could have the likes o’ that? Besides, you’ll be the only one here worth blethering to in another hour or so. Bon appetit!’

What should have been a delicate wave of her hand developed into a tortuous effort to extricate herself from behind Barra’s chair.

‘Where y’buying yir frocks?’ enquired Eddie Bain, seated at the opposite table. His head lolled in circles as he tried to make sense of Maisie’s kaftan. Already three sheets to the wind, he appeared mesmerised by the pattern and was close to becoming violently ill.

Pulling herself free, Maisie sailed towards the bar.

‘Abdul’s,’ she called over her shoulder.

Eddie scratched his head, trying to focus. ‘The Paki in Craigourie? I thought his name was … something else.’

‘No, darling,’ Maisie trilled, pushing a glass up to the optics. ‘Abdul, the tentmaker – in Jellalabad.’ With that she guffawed with laughter, and the men at the bar, most of whom had no idea what she was talking about, joined in. Maisie’s laughter was like that.

‘A double Grouse, sir,’ she said, placing the glass in front of Chalmers. ‘Chaser?’

‘Ta, Maisie,’ Chalmers answered. ‘McEwan’s.’

‘Mais naturellement,’ she answered, pulling the pint as she spoke. ‘Douglas?’

‘In a minute,’ he said, motioning to the tumbler in front of him. As happened most evenings, Doug Findlay had relinquished his duties to sit on the other side of the bar, drinking quietly and enjoying the craic with the customers. Though nine years younger than Maisie, the balding pate and thinning body deceived the most astute of their clientele, and it was a widely held belief that he was at least as old as, if not older than, his doting partner.

Maisie, aware that Doug was drinking himself into an early grave, did nothing to encourage his abstinence. He had come to her drunk, and she intended to keep him drunk. For Maisie was certain, beyond the most reasonable of doubts, that the harsh light of sobriety would illuminate each and every one of her failings. Only then would Doug realise that she was so much less then he deserved.