Fortunes of the Heart (24 page)

Even so, just once or twice of late, Kate had begun to
wonder, when late each Saturday night the girl came back from the soiree with
stars in her eyes, a lilt in her voice, and a spring in her step.

Meeting him on the quiet? Kate thought. Perhaps that
loud-mouthed Lizzie is really just a front, a cover-up? Oh, no. I can’t believe
that of Jenny. She may have her faults–who doesn’t – but I can’t accept that
she would ever be so devious. Not Jenny.

Thus reassured, for the moment at least, Kate accepted the
situation at face value, and plodded along reasonably happily each day, all the
while working on her long-held tenet, the blissful assumption that no news is
good news.

Matters continued fairly smoothly until one morning when,
unusually for her, Jenny had difficulty in rising for work in her usual bright
and breezy manner. After much cajoling, prompting, and finally an ultimatum
from her mother, she eventually did surface. With her pale face and red-rimmed
eyes, she was indeed a sorry sight across the breakfast table. As if that alone
were not enough, so unlike her usual cheery manner, not only did she seem
disinclined for idle chatter, but also she was as irritable as a cage of bears
with outsized headaches.

Finally, when Kate could stand her rudeness not a minute
longer, she fixed her daughter with a steady gaze and said: “All right, let’s
have it. What in God’s name is wrong with your torn face this morning? That’s
what I’d like to know.”

Asked a direct question in this way, it was impossible for
the sullen young woman to ignore it. However, she did the next best thing, by
averting her gaze from her mother, and then staring down into her bowl of
porridge.

“What’s wrong did you say, Mammy? Nothing, at least nothing
more than usual. You know I hate that damned mill, always have, and always
will. But for your sake, I do try to make the best of it. After all, I know it
wasn’t your fault that you had to break the promise to me about staying on at
school and going for Teacher Training.”

The girl cast a bitter look over at the sleeping hulk of her
father in the wall-bed.

“But apart from anything else, you know that I hate to have
a rush in the morning. I like to take my time and get into the day gradually
before I’ve to face another day in that stinking mill.”

Kate, who had been spreading a dollop of dripping on to a
piece of toast, laid down the knife with an air of finality.

“Well, Jenny, let’s put it this way: if you’re late this
morning, then it’s nobody’s fault but your own. I certainly called you in
plenty of time. If you were stuck to your mattress like glue to a hairy
blanket, then that’s your fault, not mine. So think on that, my fine lady, if
you’re apportioning blame.”

The only answer to this was a tut of annoyance from Jenny as,
at the same time, she clattered her spoon on to the porridge bowl, thus causing
some of the milk to spurt up and over the wax cloth. Seeing this, Kate pushed
back her chair with an angry movement and went over to the sink to get a damp
cloth with which she wiped the mess on the table. That done, and with the wet
cloth, to which adhered blobs of porridge, still clutched in her hand she
pointed a warning finger at the unhappy young woman before her. Then, with each
word she spoke, she emphasised her message by shaking an admonitory forefinger,
so that Jenny would be left in no doubt as to her meaning.

“Yes, my fine lady. You can chuck the cutlery about as much
as you please. And you can sit there
tutting
with
that
mumper
face on you that would turn milk sour.
But while you’re at it, there’s one more thing. You can sup up the rest of your
porridge. For I’m telling you this. You are not leaving this house on a cold
morning like this with an empty belly.”

Fully aware of the warning look still in her mother’s eyes,
she again, and with a great show of reluctance, lifted the spoon and
half-heartedly chased the now-congealed porridge around the bowl. That done,
she lifted a tiny spoonful to her mouth, but as the cold porridge touched her
lips, she retched and had to replace the spoon hurriedly, albeit more carefully
than before. There was a silence between them during which Jenny sat with her
head in her hands and Kate mulled over what she had just witnessed. The noise
of a spent coal clunking into the ash-can had the effect of rousing them both.
It was Jenny who was the first to speak.

“Mammy, honestly. I’m just not hungry this morning.”

But Kate, by now the incensed housewife, the very one who
had been up at five-thirty that morning to clean the fire, set it and make the
porridge in good time for Jenny’s early start at the mill, finally saw red. She
banged the flat of her hand on the table with such force that even more milk
and porridge splashed over on to the table. However, this time there was no
rush to mop up the mess, even though the wet cloth was still in her hand.
Intent on teaching Jenny a lesson, she lifted the spoon and, shoving it close
to Jenny’s face, in a voice quiet with menace she said: “Jenny Kinnon. You are
not – I repeat NOT going out of this house this day until and unless you have
eaten at least a few spoonfuls of that porridge. It might not seem much to you,
but apart from anything else, having your welfare at heart, the fact remains
that not only have I spent good hard-earned money to buy the oats in the first
place, but I’m the one that’s been slaving away since break of day ... in fact
even earlier, for it was still dark when I got up at half-past five. And for
what? So that your ladyship can sit there, turning up her nose at the wholesome
food. And not even put both to the damned stuff. Oh no you don’t, my fine lady.
Now, not another word, moan, or retch. Get it down you into that belly of
yours.”

In amazement, Jenny looked at her mother, for Kate in a
temper was indeed a rare occurrence in the Kinnon household. Jenny frowned,
suddenly aware that what they were talking about here was more than just a few
spoonfuls of the hated porridge. However, to try to defuse the situation, she
lifted the spoon to her lips. She managed, with a supreme effort of will, to
get the first three spoonfuls down. It was when she attempted to swallow down
the last of the slithery mess that she again started retching and just could
not stop. Lifting a handkerchief to her lips, with porridge already spilling
from her mouth, she rose quickly from the table and raced from the kitchen.
Kate watched the departing girl and then heard her bolt the door of the
water-closet. The sound of retching could be heard in the kitchen even over the
noise of the running tap which Kate had hurriedly turned on in an attempt to
keep the noise of her daughter being violently sick away from Pearce, who was
already stirring restlessly. It was at this point that Pearce woke up and from
the cosy warmth of the wall-bed at once demanded to know what all the racket
was about.

“Is my mug of tea ready yet, woman? And I’ll have some hot
toast and dripping, if you please, and quick about it too.”

Kate immediately skewered a slice of bread on to the
toasting fork, and without so much as an answering word to her husband, was
bending down to the bars of the grate when she beard a sound at her back.
Swivelling round, she was in time to see a white-faced Jenny re-enter the
kitchen. That the girl was distressed was plain to any but the most casual
observer. However, before Kate could comment or even question her further,
Jenny quickly snatched up her coat, scarf, and Tam
O’Shanter
beret with its knitted, bobbled top-knot. With her eyes fastened to the floor,
Jenny mumbled the words, ‘Right. That’s me. I’m off to work’, and without so
much as a farewell ‘cheerio’ or even a wave of the hand, she sped out of the
door.

Kate, with a sigh and a sorrowful shake of her head, turned
back to the task in hand. She had just finished scraping some dripping on to
the freshly-toasted slice of bread when she happened to raise her eyes in
response to an impatient call from the still-waiting and hungry Pearce. She
frowned at what she saw. Draped over the chair in front of her was the long,
grey cardigan which Jenny always referred to as her mill
cardie
.
As a rule, and no matter what the season of the year, she took it with her
every day, since in the chill of early morning, it was always cold and damp in
the mill. Seeing this essential item of clothing thus left carelessly behind,
Kate shook her head and gave a tut of annoyance. She laid down the plate of
toast on the table then, after having first wiped her hands down the front of
the sack-cloth apron, she lifted the cardigan, intending to run down the stairs
with it, in the hope of catching up with Jenny. But as she lifted it, Pearce
called from the bed, demanding to have his toast while it was still hot. In a
spurt of irritation, Kate threw the cardigan back down on to the chair and
turned to attend to her husband. It was when she was returning to the table
that she happened to glance down and saw a scrap of paper lying on the floor.
She frowned, then, realising it must have fallen from the pocket of Jenny’s
mill
cardie
, she bent to retrieve it. On the point of
tossing the torn-off piece of paper into the fire, since it offended her
housewifely eye, she noticed what appeared to be a message of some sort printed
on it. This at once stayed her hand, but fearing to attempt to read it in front
of Pearce, she grabbed up her glasses, and without further ado, retreated at
high speed for the seclusion of the water-closet.

Once safely installed there, with the door
snib
firmly in place, she smoothed out the paper and
struggled to read it in the dim borrowed light from the transept window overlooking
the hallway. The letters appeared, as if of their own volition, to jump off the
page and hit Kate between the eyes. She gasped in horror, unable, or perhaps
unwilling, to believe the evidence of her eyes. She scanned the words yet
again, as if in this way trying to re-form the letters into a different and
more acceptable meaning. But no matter what her hopes and wishes, and try as
she would, the message remained the same.

I’LL WAIT AT THE TOLLGATE TILL NINE ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT.
WE’LL RUN AWAY TOGETHER. IF YOU DON’T COME, JENNY, THIS IS GOODBYE. YOUR
LOVING, ROSS.

As the full implication of the words sank into her brain,
Kate gasped and she thought, ‘No. It can’t be true. Not my Jenny and that
no-good womaniser, Ross Cuthbert.’

Then, realising that she could not stay in the water-closet
for ever, she got slowly to her feet from where she had been perched on the
edge of the toilet-pan. With her now-trembling fingers, it was all she could do
to
unsnib
the metal fastener on the door. Then she
trailed one foot wearily after the other, back into the kitchen.

Every minute, every hour of that endless day she went about
doing her chores at Mr McGregor’s in a wooden, mechanical fashion, not her
usual cheery self with her customers. The words, as if branded on to her brain,
kept hammering away, Wednesday night. We’ll run away: Wednesday night. Run
away. Your loving, Ross. We’ll run away. How she got through that day without
betraying by either word or look the inner turmoil she felt, she would never
afterwards know. But survive it she did, as indeed she had already survived so
much in her life. Later, on her way back with a laden shopping basket, she
suddenly stopped as she turned the corner into Garth Street. By the time she
had reached her own close entrance, she had it clear in her own mind as to
exactly what she would do.

The thoughts raced. Right. My so-called intelligent Jenny,
you that was the pride and joy of the family with your brains and your
aspirations to be a school-teacher. Now all set to run away with a married man.
And him with a child, and all. Well, I’ll soon see about that.’

In a more determined, if not exactly happier, frame of mind,
Kate climbed the stairs to her top flight flat. As she pushed open the outer
door with her right shoulder, she had a final thought: `No, Jenny. We’re having
no truck with that daft carry-on. Not only would the disgrace of that go with
me to my grave, even worse – the scandal of it all would drive away my good
paying lodger. And that would never do.’

When Jenny returned from work that same evening, she found a
lovely hot meal awaiting her, her mother happily bustling around the kitchen,
and her mill
cardie
still hanging over the chair
exactly where she had left it. Casting a surreptitious glance at her daughter’s
anxious face as she hunted through first one pocket, then the other, Kate had
the satisfaction of knowing her suspicions had been proved right, especially at
the look of intense relief on Jenny’s face when she withdrew the scrap of paper
safely from its supposed hiding place. Kate quickly averted her eyes as Jenny
advanced to the fireplace and tossed the paper into the fire, where the flames
soon devoured it. However, the words of the message were engraved not only on
Jenny’s heart, but also on that of her anxious, disappointed, but nonetheless
determined mother.

Chapter 15

When the next evening, Jenny arrived home, tired-out as
usual from her day’s work at the mill, the tea table was already set. And much
to Jenny’s surprise, her Mammy had obviously made a special effort in that the
meal consisted of all Jenny’s favourite foodstuffs. There was a steaming plate
of delicious, savoury-smelling Irish stovies, rich with the flavour of onions,
carrots and mutton stew, which had obviously been simmering on the hob for the
entire day. Despite it being her favourite, it was clear to Kate’s experienced,
motherly eye that her daughter was having some difficulty in finishing her
portion. Seeing this, Kate made neither sign nor comment, but kept her
innermost thoughts to herself. The stew was followed by a helping of
clootie
dumpling apiece, which Pearce tucked into with
great energy and aplomb. As she watched in fascinated horror her father’s
determined attack on the mound of moist, fruit-laden pudding, Jenny, by now
looking somewhat pale around the gills, was forced to replace her spoon on the
table with pudding still untouched.