Cat's Cradle (19 page)

‘I'm nothing like that. You shouldn't believe everything you read, Aunt.' The word tasted strange on my tongue – uncomfortable.

‘Dinna call me that!' Her hand made an angry swipe towards me, as if she was wiping my words out of the air. I flinched, feeling as if I'd been slapped. I grappled for my self-control, reminding myself she was sick and weak.

‘All right, Mrs Moir, I give my word. Tell me about your sister, please.'

I could hear the sound of the mill in the distance, spinning, spinning without pause. How I wanted to draw out the threads of my life story from this woman, but unlike those looms she was broken, exhausted, offering only bits and pieces,
not enough to weave a whole cloth. ‘Please.'

Mrs Moir sighed, her breath wheezy. ‘She was a wild lass, Jesse Stirling. In love with the pleasures of the town, theatre, dancing. She couldna settle to a quiet life and a douce home. Ran away wi' an actor when she was sixteen. Our faither disowned her for the shame she brought on the family.' Distressed by the memory, she struggled for breath, her chest heaving. I waited as patiently as I could for her to be well enough to continue. ‘She went to London. Sent me word secretly from time to time.'

‘The actor? What was his name?' I asked eagerly.

‘It doesna matter, lass. He left her. She never said he was yer faither. I dinna ken how Jesse lived – poorly, I've nae doubt – but she had ye and managed for a year or two. Then she met someone else – a countryman from these parts. She got with child again, reckless lass. She had to choose – go with him to have the baby or stay with ye. She said she kenned ye'd be well looked after at the theatre – that it was best for ye. Her man didna like her wee by-start. Wanted to marry her, he did, but nae wi' the evidence o' her bad behaviour hanging on
her skirts. His family wouldna accept her wi' ye in tow.'

Mrs Moir fell silent again, the tale proving too much for her strength. So I'd been just a millstone round my mother's neck that she cut free to take the second chance she'd been offered.

‘But she left me on the theatre steps on a cold winter's night,' I said hoarsely. ‘I could have died.'

‘Nae, she watched ye being picked up and taken inside. She said yer faither's people would look after ye. She regretted the necessity of leaving ye, but she had a new life, a countryman to look after her, and a new baby to think of.'

‘My father's people?'

‘Aye, ye were begotten backstage, lass. A true child of the theatre, Jesse said.'

‘Did she tell you who my father was?'

‘Nae. With Jesse, there was always more than one possibility. She was a wicked lass – nae morals at all.'

So the truth about my father was forever lost to me. Whoever he was, he probably never knew I existed.

‘And then what happened?'

‘The Scotsman – his name was Kenneth Bruce – didna seem to mind her ways. She married the man, came back to Scotland and had a wee lad. She died a few days later – God's judgement nae doubt on her ill deeds. Her husband passed away a year or two after.'

I squeezed my knuckles until they hurt. ‘And the boy – did he live?'

‘Aye. He came to us for a while but couldna settle – just like his mither. Ran off with some o' his faither's kin – cattle thieves the lot o' them. Last I heard they were living in an old tower house in the hills.'

We sat in silence for a long while. I had an aunt who didn't want to know me, a brother who lived with thieves, a mother who had chosen her security over her own child, abandoning me to who knows what fate in London.

I smiled with sour self-knowledge. Pop, pop, pop: that was the sound of my soap-bubble fantasies breaking at the pinprick of truth.

‘What is his name?' I asked softly.

‘Who? Yer brother?'

I nodded.

‘Why, Rabbie o' course.' She gave a throaty chuckle that turned into a pained cough.

‘Why “of course”?'

‘Robert Bruce – wee Rabbie Bruce. My sister always had a hankering for drama so she named him after a Scottish king.'

‘And she named me Maudie. Was I christened?'

‘Nae, I doubt it, lass. That ramstam sister o' mine never went to kirk in London. She likely forgot.'

Of course, my feckless mother would be so careless. I didn't even have a legal name. At least that left me free to choose my own. Maudie Stirling? Who on earth was that? No one anyone wanted.

Mrs Moir rubbed at her throat fretfully. I offered her a sip of water and then she sank back on the bed. ‘I'm tired, Maudie. Leave me be now. I've told ye all I ken. I'm sorry about Jesse – about yer mither. Some people canna be saved.'

Despite my desire to pick over the information and draw out every last thread from her memory,
I knew it would be cruel to push a sick woman any further. I stood up, taking the unfinished soup with me.

‘Thank you for telling me, Mrs Moir. I'll let you sleep now. But I'm not Maudie. I'm Cat Royal.'

Between my nursing duties, I spent the rest of the day pondering Mrs Moir's tale. For the moment my emotions were frozen, my brain struggling to comprehend the facts. The gap that had once held the imaginary mothers of my dreams had been filled by a red-haired Scottish lassie on a collision course with the tough world of the London streets. That particular carriage-crash had produced me. She'd hauled herself out of the wreckage, found a husband, grasped a new life and then promptly died.

But none of my relations had bothered to find me until evidence of my continued existence had been thrust upon them. That hurt, driving home just how unwanted I was.

But at least my cousins were blameless. The news that Jeannie, Katrine and Ian were so closely
related to me made the task of caring for them even more poignant. I wanted to whisper to them who I was as I cooled their faces with a cloth; I longed to ask for their love in return for mine; but my promise to Mrs Moir held me back. And if I had spoken, would they have recoiled in horror as she had done and assumed I was a bad apple in the family basket, just as their mother warned? But they at least knew me for myself, and had become my friends. If I could persuade Mrs Moir to acknowledge me, would they be happy to accept me as their cousin?

And I hadn't promised not to make myself known to my half-brother, had I, Reader? Wee Rabbie Bruce, living with cattle thieves – but still my kin. Was he aware I even existed? I wondered.

Bridgit and Dougie came in from work soon after seven.

‘How are they?' my cousin asked.

‘All quiet. Ian seems much better this evening. I'm most worried about your mother –
she's not roused since this morning.'

I was secretly afraid I'd overstretched her strength; her condition had gone downhill since our conversation.

Dougie clattered up the stairs. Jeannie sat up in her little truckle bed, looking sweetly tousled.

‘Where's my mither?' she asked.

I crouched at her side. ‘Still in bed, sweet pea. How are you feeling?'

‘Much better, thank ye.'

I gave her a hug: at least there was one of the family back from the brink.

Bridgit stroked my shoulder. ‘What's the matter, Cat?'

I stood up and put my back to the little girl. ‘You can tell?' I gave Bridgit a rueful smile.

‘Yes. You look upset.'

I lowered my voice. ‘I feel I've been through the wringer today. Mrs Moir told me what I came to find out.'

Bridgit's eyes widened. ‘And?'

‘She's my aunt – can you believe it? According to her, my mother was a lightskirt who left me in
London to marry a Scotsman. I have no father – or at least no one who knows he's my father – but I do have a brother.'

Bridgit's frown turned into a radiant smile. ‘A brother? How wonderful!'

‘But he's gone bad and joined a band of thieves.'

‘Oh.'

‘So I'm from excellent stock, you see. So good that Mrs Moir has banned me from making any claims on her or my cousins. I'm not even to announce my presence.'

Bridgit looked indignant on my behalf. ‘She's a narrow woman. How can she treat you that way?'

‘Quite easily. She's tried with my brother, you see, but he ran away. She probably thinks I'd bring some similar scandal down on them all.'

Bridgit pulled me into her arms and gave me a much-needed hug.

‘If she persists in thinking that, then she's a foolish woman. So now you know, what now? Home?'

I shook my head. ‘I thought I'd go brother-hunting.'

The quiet of the house was broken by the clatter of boots on the stairs. We both turned as Dougie staggered into the kitchen. One look at his face and I knew something was badly wrong.

‘What is it?' I asked, holding out a hand to him.

He took it blindly. ‘It's Mither. She's dead.'

‘What!' exclaimed Bridgit, dashing from the room.

I couldn't move – I'd killed her with my questions. But no, that was a stupid thought – she'd been ill. It wasn't my fault.

‘I sat with her for a moment,' Dougie continued. ‘She knew I was there because she squeezed my hand. Then her breathing got quieter and quieter – and then it stopped. I tried to wake her but I . . . I couldna.'

‘Oh, Dougie!' I hugged him. I could hear Bridgit's light footsteps overhead as she checked the front bedroom.

‘Mither?' whispered Jeannie.

Dougie burst into stormy, gasping tears. I gathered Jeannie into our hug so the three of us stood together, rocking the pain away.

My aunt's funeral took place three days later in the dreary graveyard of the parish church. Leafless trees edged the plot, a permanent guard of forked-limbed mourners presiding over us mortals doomed to be buried at their roots. The rest of the Moirs had recovered enough to attend but from the look on their faces it was clear that the emotional blow had taken all strength from them. They were sinking like a tent with the centre pole removed. They clung together at the graveside, finding what comfort they could in each other. Katrine had a stoic expression as she watched her mother's coffin being lowered into the damp soil; she seemed to be silently assuming the burden of caring for the family, steeling herself for stepping into Mrs Moir's shoes. Mr Moir, still weak, leaned on Dougie's broad shoulder, his
face grey. Ian cuddled Jeannie in his arms while the little girl sobbed.

As for me, I felt I had no right to stand with them. Held by a promise to a dead woman, I could not now make myself known to my cousins without dishonouring her memory. So I stood outside the family group, just another neighbour come to pay her respects. Awash with confusion, grief and hurt, I tried to feel as I should for my cousins but struggled with selfish regrets.

‘Cat, if we are going to leave the mill, I think we should go soon,' said Bridgit in a low voice at my side. ‘This place is doing you no good. It's written all over your face. And I promised your friends I'd look after you.'

She was right: I was suffering the torment of seeing within my grasp what I'd always wanted but had promised not to seize. It would be so easy just to cross the muddy ground and announce, ‘Hello, I'm your Aunt Jesse's mistake, Cat Royal.' I was secretly hoping that the truth would out without me having to break my word, but thus far none of the Moirs had displayed any leaps of intuition as
to my true identity. My soulful, meaningful stares were doubtless just taken as sympathy; little did they know I was mourning not only my aunt but the biggest missed opportunity of my life.

I turned from the funeral party as the Moirs and their neighbours filed back to the house. With a sigh I took a final glance around the churchyard, at the gravediggers spading the soil on top of the coffin. I felt as if they were burying my past along with my poor aunt.

‘Yes, you're right,' I said. ‘We should go. There's nothing more I can achieve here.'

‘Leaving so soon, Snippie? Just when I've decided ye're no so bad.' Jamie Kelly emerged out of the crowd to hook me by the elbow and offered his free arm to Bridgit.

He wasn't used to seeing me in anything but a combative mood so I snapped into it, despite my depressed spirits. ‘Playing the gentleman now, professor?'

‘Aye. I want to hear about yer daft plans. I thought ye had more gumption than to give up now. Too soft after all, are ye?'

His ploy to goad me into staying was transparent. Sweet really.

‘Yes, Jamie, I'm so weak and feeble I've decided to slink off down south, tail between my legs, awed by the superior staying power of you braw Scots.'

He shook his head. ‘I dinna believe it! I ken you now: ye wouldna run away!'

I gave him a smile. ‘I believe, Mr Kelly, that was a compliment. You'll have all the girls swooning at your feet if you carry on this way.'