Monday Girl (2 page)

‘Being on a bike, he’d no protection, they said.’

‘Why did he nae use his car till his work?’ Maggie had often wondered about this.

‘He said he liked the exercise . . . We went past the place it happened, when we were on the workers’ bus, and the bike was still there, in little bits, all mangled up. A man came on at the next stop, and he told somebody he wasn’t surprised that van had been in an accident, for the driver always went too fast. He didn’t know I’d any connection, of course.’

Maggie felt sick at the thought of the torment Anne must have gone through. ‘Ye’ll get compensation, though, when it’s proved the van driver was reckless? Nae that it’ll be ony consolation, of course, but . . .’

‘They couldn’t find any witnesses. It was just after six in the morning, remember.’

Anne was silent for a few seconds, then she turned round.

‘I’m going home now. Mr Fraser’s going to arrange for the funeral, and I’ve told him to make it Thursday, so is it all right if I leave Renee here for the two days?’

‘She can bide for as lang’s ye want, the wee lambie, but would it nae be better to tak’ her hame wi’ ye, for company? The shock’ll likely hit ye later on.’ Maggie looked concerned.

‘I want to leave her here.’ Anne’s set mouth was obstinate. ‘I’m very shocked now, and I can’t see that I could feel worse.’

‘I could come wi’ ye, an’ a’,’ Maggie persisted, just as determined as her daughter.

‘I want time to think, without Renee being there asking questions.’ Anne gulped, then carried on, resolutely, ‘Mr Fraser says his wife’ll help me on Thursday, so if you bring Renee over early, that’s all I ask.’ She opened the door and went back to the kitchen. ‘I’m ready, Mr Fraser.’

Maggie did all she could to take Renee’s mind off the tragedy, even though she suspected that the girl didn’t quite comprehend that she would never see her father again, but she, herself, had been very fond of her son-in-law, and needed to keep fully occupied to avoid letting her sorrow overwhelm her.

That afternoon they went out for a walk, and in the evening, after Maggie’s husband, Peter, had been told the sad news when the girl was out of the room for a moment, they all played tiddlywinks on the chenille-covered table. Peter had wanted to go to his daughter as soon as he knew of her loss, but had eventually been persuaded that she preferred to be on her own.

Renee was allowed to sleep with her granny in the bed in the kitchen recess, and her granda went into the bedroom which had been shared by Anne and her sister, Bella, before they left home to be married. On that first night, only the nine-year-old had a decent sleep.

Much the same pattern was followed on Tuesday and Wednesday, and, although Renee realised that this extended visit to her granny was not another holiday, she quite enjoyed the unforeseen absence from school. Only very occasionally did a vague flicker of disquiet assail her, and her grandmother could always dispel it.

On Thursday morning, Maggie supervised her at the kitchen sink. ‘Ye’ll ha’e to gi’e yersel’ a right wash the day, my pet, for there’ll be a lot o’ folk seein’ ye, and we dinna want them speakin’ aboot ye nae bein’ clean.’

Renee remembered how she’d been caught out on Sunday, so she washed herself carefully, even her neck, then Maggie made her dress in the bedroom to let Peter have a sponge-down.

On the walk to her home, the girl reflected that her grandparents were dressed almost the same as Auntie Teenie and Uncle Jimmy had been when they went to church, even to the bowler hat perched on Granda’s grey head, and that they looked every bit as uncomfortable. Her amusement disappeared as they neared the house, to be replaced by apprehension about what lay in front of her.

When they went inside, she cheered up when she saw her cousin, Peggy, with Auntie Jenny and Uncle George. The two girls, only a few weeks apart in age, were told to sit down and not make a nuisance of themselves, but Renee remembered that there was a pile of
Children’s Newspapers
in the lounge, where she had left them before setting off for Gowanbrae several weeks before. That would give them something to do, seeing they weren’t allowed out.

Taking time to tell Peggy what she was going to do, she ran into the other room and was brought up short by the sight of the coffin. Seeing her father’s porcelain face, eyes closed in unnatural sleep, she forgot her reason for being there, and stood, horrified, gazing down at the waxen hands lying crossed on the white silk until she burst into choking sobs and dashed back to the living room. Maggie caught the full impact of the hurtling figure. ‘Oh, lassie, ye didna go through there, did ye?’ She enveloped the shivering girl in her comforting arms. ‘It’s a’ right! It’s a’ right! Granny’s got ye.’ It was Renee’s first sight of a corpse, and she vowed to herself that she would never, ever, look at another one, come what may. She sat down beside Peggy on the floor, in the corner between the sideboard and the window wall, and huddled closely against her in an effort to shift the icy coldness which seemed to have taken possession of her.

Her terror transmitted itself to her cousin, and they sat in silence, not understanding what had happened, or even what was happening now, but realising that all the people who were arriving had not come on a normal visit.

When the minister came, to conduct a short service over the coffin, the mourners went through to the lounge, but the two girls remained where they were, too scared to move, and no one remembered about them.

The service over, all the men went out – to follow the hearse to the cemetery, Granny told them – and they were allowed to have a glass of milk and something to eat.

The women scurried around, putting sandwiches and biscuits on cakestands and setting out cups, saucers and plates on the table, with both its extensions pulled out. Kettles were placed on the cooker, and teapots were rinsed out with boiling water before tea was spooned into them and they were filled to the brim.

Renee noticed that they were using Granny’s kettle and teapot, as well as her mother’s, and probably the other ones belonged to Mrs Fraser. They were going to need them, if they were going to fill all the cups they’d laid out.

The men returned, and the room was filled with people, sitting, standing, milling about. It was all too much for the girl, as she and Peggy sat not making a nuisance of themselves, and tears welled up in her eyes. She hadn’t really understood when they told her, last Monday, that her father was dead, but finding him lying in his coffin like that had shocked her out of any hopes she’d nursed of ever seeing him again. She knew now what death meant.

The hushed voices of the grown-ups as they went over, one after the other, to speak to her black-clad mother, made her flesh creep, and she prayed that her mother would never die. She could never look at another dead body, no matter whose it was, and the word corpse was the most revolting she’d ever heard.

When she stopped living, she’d be a corpse herself, of course, but she wouldn’t have to look at it. All the relatives would gaze on her, and say how natural she looked, like they’d said today about her father, and she’d know nothing about it. A hysterical giggle rose in her throat at her senseless thoughts, and she clutched Peggy’s hand tightly.

In ones and twos, the people departed at last, until only Granny and Granda, Auntie Jenny and Uncle George, and Peggy were left. The adults sat down to relax and recover over another cup of tea, although Granda and Uncle George took a glass of whisky first, and it was half an hour later before they were all gone, and Renee and her mother were completely alone.

Anne Gordon sank down on the settee beside her daughter, her mousey hair damp with nervous perspiration. ‘I’m sorry, Renee. I haven’t had time to think about you, or notice what you were doing.’

‘I was thinking about last Sunday night, when Daddy switched off the lights, remember?’

A faint smile lifted the corners of Anne’s mouth. ‘You came shooting out of the bathroom like a scared rabbit.’

‘I wasn’t scared,’ Renee protested. ‘But I told Daddy I hated him for doing it, and now he’s dead and I can’t let him know I didn’t mean it.’

After a slight pause, Anne said, in a choked voice, ‘He knows, don’t worry. We all say things we don’t mean at times.’

She studied the girl then – her daughter who would be ten years old in a few days. The shoulder-length fair hair was curling up at the ends, the bright blue eyes were clouded with remorse and doubt, the sturdy legs were encased in knee-high socks and the blouse and gym-tunic were what had been laid out for her on Monday morning to go to school.

Renee was so like her father that Anne’s heart constricted in agony, and she was forced to avert her head, but, after a few minutes, she turned back to the girl. ‘Oh, God, Renee,’ she whispered sadly, ‘I hope you never have to go through anything like this.’

Not knowing how to reply, Renee took her mother’s hand, and they sat in silence for a long time. At last, Anne stood up.

‘Help me to lay past the dishes, Renee. There’s only you and me now, so we’ll have to help each other as much as we can.’ The girl had a few private weeps when she recalled her last angry words to her father, but Anne remained dry-eyed, as she had been since the accident, until after the minister called, the next forenoon. The Reverend Graham was an old man, and had made hundreds of visits to the bereaved, but he could offer no explanation when Anne burst out, ‘Why does God let things like that happen? My Jim was a good man. He didn’t drink, or smoke, or swear, and we went to church every Sunday. Why was he taken from me?’

Looking slightly uncomfortable, the minister laid his hand over hers. ‘It is not given to us to understand, my dear. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, and only the good are called to the Kingdom of Heaven.’

Anne gave up. How could she argue with that? She felt cheated, betrayed, but it was only after the man left that she found blessed relief in tears, while Renee stood by helplessly. She had never seen her mother weeping before, and the experience was not pleasant.

‘It was best for her to let her grief oot, lassie,’ Granny said that afternoon, when the girl told her about it. ‘She needed to ha’e a good greet, an’ she’ll feel the better for it. But ye’ll ha’e to try to keep her spirits up, though ye’ll need to be content wi’ a lot less than ye’ve been gettin’ up to now.’ Maggie put her arm round the girl, to let her know she wasn’t criticising her in any way, and Renee blinked away her tears as they joined her mother in the living room. She vaguely understood from overheard conversations between Granny and Granda, Uncle George and Anne on Sunday afternoon, that her life was going to be different in future. She had no father to provide for her now, and all his savings had gone to pay the deposit on this house in Cattofield, a fairly new suburb of Aberdeen, where they’d moved only eight months ago. And something called a mortgage had to be paid every month, otherwise they wouldn’t even have a roof over their heads.

Renee also gathered that her mother would not receive a widow’s pension, because Jim Gordon, in partnership with his brother George in a small butcher shop, had not paid insurance stamps. Apparently it wasn’t compulsory for a self-employed man to contribute, and he had never considered the possibility that he could die so young.

Uncle George was going to carry on the shop with the help of Frank Leslie, the young man he’d employed after Renee’s father was killed last Monday. He agreed to make Anne a small allowance, but he warned her that it wouldn’t be much, after the wages were paid, and all the other expenses.

Maggie McIntosh pursed her lips when she heard this.

‘I doubt ye’ll ha’e to tak’ a job, Annie.’

‘I’m not trained for anything.’ Anne looked rueful. ‘And a skivvy’s wages wouldn’t pay the mortgage and the rates and everything else.’

Anne McIntosh had been fortunate in marrying a man like Jim Gordon, everyone had said at the time, with her just being in service and him his own boss, but it was hard to be left like this. ‘Oh,’ she groaned, suddenly. ‘Why did it have to be a butcher? If it had been another kind of shop, I could have served behind the counter, but I don’t know anything about cuts of meat, or making sausages and potted head.’

‘My father used to say he was a flesher and poulterer, not a butcher,’ George Gordon remarked. ‘That’s what’s above the door.’

Maggie fixed him with a reprimanding glare as she tutted with disapproval at his facetiousness, and he looked suitably chastened, so she turned her attention on her daughter again.

‘Ye’ve a grand hoose, Annie, so ye could maybe tak’ in lodgers. Ye wouldna mak’ muckle profit aff them, but it would surely see ye an’ yer bairn fed and clad, an’ pay for the electric an’ gas, as weel as yer mortgage an’ rates.’

Anne looked horrified. ‘Jim wouldn’t have wanted his house used for taking in lodgers, Mother.’

‘Maybe no’, m’ dear, but he shoulda looked ahead an’ ta’en oot an insurance on his life, so’s nae to leave ye penniless.’

‘That wasn’t Jim’s fault. He did speak about it, but I thought we’d have a hard enough time paying the building society for the sixteen years without taking on any more commitments.’

Shaking her head until a few long dark strands, and one or two silver, struggled loose from the coil at the back, Maggie said, rather impatiently, ‘An’ jist look far it’s got ye. Lodgers are yer only hope, as far as I can see.’

‘I suppose so.’ Anne’s sigh was prolonged and noisy. ‘But how do I go about getting them?’

‘Tak’ oot an advert in the paper, or answer ane, if ye like. There’s aye men needin’ lodgin’s.’

When her relatives left, Anne felt easier in her mind, and sat down to look through Saturday’s
Evening Express
, where she did find that several men were seeking board and lodgings.

‘I could take two, I suppose,’ she remarked to Renee, ‘but I’d better let them share the downstairs bedroom.’

‘Where will you sleep, then?’

‘I can take your room, and we’ll move you into the loft. Your father lined it with plywood to use as a dark room for his photography, so maybe Granda’ll paper it for you.’