Fortunes of the Heart Read online

  He had already turned away from them and was heading back towards his mates on the corner, when the old lady’s voice halted him and caused him to turn his head to catch her words.

  “I said, thanks again. Is there’s anything I could do?”

  The man raised his bunnet and, groping under the rim with his fingers, gave his head a good scratch, as if this somewhat aided his mental thought-process. Then, as if someone had turned on a switch, his lantern-jawed face lit up.

  “Aye, hen. There is something you could do. Maybe you’d be kind enough to light a wee candle and say a Novena for my wife and bairns? Would you do that?”

  “I’ll see you home, Mistress ...?” Kate said.

  “Mrs Scott,” the old lady said. “I’d really appreciate that. It’s not far but I do feel a bit shaky.”

  Mrs Scott lived on the ground floor of one of the wally closes that Kate so envied. She invited Kate in and insisted on making them a nice cup of tea. Kate looked round in admiration.

  Seated in the front room, Mrs Scott glanced sideways at Kate.

  “Mrs Kinnon, that young man asked me to light a candle and say a Novena for his wife and children. I must confess I wouldn’t know how to do that. I’m not Catholic. Could you ...?”

  Kate laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m not Catholic either, I’m Baptist. – at least my father was a lay preacher.”

  Mrs Scott clapped her hands. “What a coincidence. I’m Baptist too. I daresay the Lord will take the intention for the deed.”

  As they talked, Mrs Scott learned that Kate had been on her way to seek employment washing stairs.

  “Would you consider a different kind of work, Mrs Kinnon? I’m bad with arthritis and find it difficult to get about. I was out today for a bit of shopping because the woman who usually ‘does’ for me has left Glasgow – her husband has managed to get a place with some relative on a farm near Ayr.”

  “What would you need me for?”

  “Well, she used to come in on Monday, Wednesday and Friday to clean and shop for me – and to give me a bit of company. Sometimes she’d make a stew or a casserole for me that would see me through the weekend ...”

  “Yes, I could certainly do that.”

  Kate left Mrs Scott feeling very satisfied with her morning. She now had a job that paid more than she could have expected for washing stairs all week without the tiring, back-breaking work that would have entailed.

  She soon settled into a routine. On the mornings she went to Mrs Scott she could still have breakfast for Pearce, and for Danny and Jenny before they left for school, leave something for a mid-day meal and be home in the afternoon to prepare an evening meal. Tuesdays and Thursdays she could leave home later in the day to wash the limited number of closes and stairs she had decided to take on after all.

  Pearce gave up any pretence at seeking work. His moods alternated between the depths of gloom when he ignored everything and everyone, and violent rages.

  Kate and Mrs Scott began to form a relationship that was much closer to friendship than to that expected between employer and employee.

  Chapter 4

  Some months after taking up employment with Mrs Scott, Kate was increasingly worried about Pearce, who showed no sign of interest in anything or anyone.

  She waited till Pearce had gone out of the kitchen to use the toilet before she took three sixpenny pieces from the old tea caddy at the back of the top shelf above the sink.

  With the money clutched in her hand, she felt happier walking down the street than she had done for months. Although in her heart she knew it to be an extravagance, she knew exactly where a shilling of her money was going to be spent. With the other sixpence, she determined to buy the ingredients necessary for Pearce’s favourite tea–a plateful of Irish stovies. Surely he won’t chuck that back at her?

  She headed at high speed for the consulting room of Doctor Desmond Aloysius Clancey. By the time she entered the converted shop, it was already packed to capacity. The women, most of whom had crying bairns happed up inside their shawls, were pale-faced with the burden of poverty and excessive child-bearing. The men, in the main, were thin, lantern-jawed spectres. Like a uniform, the men wore suits of the cheapest materials, long off-white, fringed scarves and flat bunnets. The air was thick with tobacco-smoke and those who were not smoking the cheapest of cigarettes were instead puffing away at clay-pipes.

  This crowd of would-be patients with their variety of ailments were ranged round the tiny room, seated on a hard wooden bench and an ill-assorted collection of rickety chairs

  In stark contrast to the normal Glasgow camaraderie and social chit-chat, there in that Holy of Holies, Doctor Clancey’s consulting-room, not one person spoke. The only sounds were the screaming of the babies, the frantic tamping and puffing of a smoker as he struggled to rekindle his pipe, the coughs, the sneezes without benefit of handkerchiefs, and the occasional shuffling of bottoms and creaking of chairs each time the distant ping of the doctor’s bell announced it was now the turn of the next claimant on his time, knowledge and medical expertise.

  At last the bell pinged for Kate, who went with all possible speed into the inner sanctum.

  After having first deposited her two sixpences into the saucer kept for the purpose on Doctor Clancey’s roll-top desk, Kate sat down.

  The doctor, in his rich Irish brogue which a lifetime of medical practice in the Second City of the Empire had done nothing to tame, smiled kindly.

  “’Tis yourself, Mistress Kinnon.”

  Kate nodded.

  “And what seems to be the trouble, my dear?”

  “’Tis my husband, Pearce, Doctor, sir. I’m worried about him. Never a patient man, even when he was well, he has recently become violent And truth is, I just don’t know how to cope with him.”

  “Mrs Kinnon, I cannot diagnose someone I haven’t seen, let alone examined. Can you tell me what his symptoms are, or better yet send him in to see me himself’?”

  “Since our youngest daughter drowned almost two years ago, he has been moody, surly even, and not able to concentrate on anything. It’s been bad enough that he’s lost his job in the Fruit Market– he couldn’t set his mind to the figures in the office.”

  “What age is your husband, Mrs Kinnon?”

  “Fifty-four. Why?”

  “Some men do go into deep despair and black moods over the loss of work at an age when other work is unlikely; some take to the drink ...”

  “No, it’s not the drink. Not this time.”

  “It sounds like a melancholia brought on by the tragic death of your daughter and made worse by the loss of his job. Time and patience may be the only cure.”

  Kate sighed.

  “In marrying me, he married out of his class. Had to give up family, friends, country estates, a privileged way of life. No matter what I do, say, or even suggest, it is like a red rag to a bull.”

  Dr Clancey leaned forward.

  “It may be small comfort, my dear, but his present attitude possibly has nothing whatever to do with you and your early days of married life. Quite the reverse in fact, the melancholiac frequently turns against those nearest and dearest. So, that would rather prove not only have you been greatly loved in the past, but that his present behaviour has everything to do with his melancholia and nothing personally to do with you, my dear.”

  Kate gasped.

  “I didn’t know that, Doctor, sir. Oh, what a relief.” Doctor Clancey nodded.

  “If it’s any help, just you hold on to that fact.”

  “Your words are indeed a great help, Doctor. You see, all along, I’ve been blaming myself for poor Pearce’s condition.”

  The doctor smiled and eased his chair back slightly, indicating in this subtle way that the interview was now, or at least should be, drawing to a close. Then, almost on second thoughts before rising to his feet, he frowned.

  “But surely you are not alone. Aren’t your children now of an age to help you in dealing with your husband?”r />
  Kate shook her head.

  “Three of my children are dead. Poor Hannah is severely handicapped, both mentally and physically. My daughter, Jenny, reminds Pearce of what he has lost, and he blames Danny for Isabella’s drowning.”

  Dr Clancey threw his arms wide in a gesture of despair as he let them fall and slap against his trousered thighs.

  “My dear woman. Life has treated you ill, hasn’t it? But life goes on. And we must each get on with it as best we can.”

  Kate made no reply beyond a despairing nod of her head, as her tears trickled down her cheek. Dr Clancy patted her gently on the shoulder.

  “There, there, my dear, don’t take on so. What you really must do is get yourself a hobby of some kind; knitting, sewing, crochet, or reading. Get something –anything – that’s for you and you alone. Then whenever your husband is asleep or even in one of his quieter spells, you’ll have something else to occupy your mind.”

  As she turned to leave, already mentally bracing herself for the irate stares and angry mutterings of the other patients, who would no doubt consider that she had outstayed her welcome, she was stopped by the doctor’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Hold on. I’ll give you a bottle of my special red tonic. On the house, my dear.”

  Kate gasped.

  “Oh, Doctor, that’s real kind of you, sir. And will this mixture make my man well again?”

  Doctor Clancey looked serious.

  “No, my dear. I couldn’t prescribe for a patient I’ve never seen. Anyway, I know of no medicine to cure melancholia. The bottle is an iron tonic for you. Between that and your hobby, the world should look brighter.”

  Before Kate could launch into an ecstasy of thanks, he walked her to the door.

  “Best be off with you now, before I have a revolution on my hands with that bunch of folk next door. Good-bye, Mistress Kinnon. Remember: the tonic, a hobby and for once in your life, put yourself first.”

  Chapter 5

  By the spring of 1892 Daniel had was fourteen and unlike other local boys was still at school. Pearce insisted if Daniel wasn’t working, he should take every advantage of education. Instead of the handsome lad for whom his mother had so fervently hoped, he had turned out so far to be a miserable looking, lang drink o’ watter, as her Glasgow neighbours would say. Not only that, but his thin, pasty face was pitted and marked with pimples, while an angry looking boil on his neck seemed on the point of eruption. Kate sighed as she looked at her first-born and his latest harvest of pimples. For a moment, she could almost have sympathised with Pearce in his constant and everlasting grief over the loss of their other lovely children. Almost, but not quite, for the fact remained that Pearce was always so much against poor Daniel that with her maternal instincts roused, it was only natural that her sympathies lay with the introverted youth.

  Whatever the boy did, did not do, said, or even suggested was wrong in the eyes of his hypercritical father. Even worse, his constantly irate father made no bones about telling the lad he was useless on every possible occasion. Earlier that very morning over the breakfast table, the pair of them, father and son, had almost come to blows. Had it not been for Kate’s urgent and insistent intervention, she still shuddered to think how the matter might have been resolved. As it was, Pearce had gone off to sulk in splendid isolation in the good front room, while it was left to Kate to restore what little she could of Daniel’s fragile self-confidence.

  She glanced again at the morose youth sitting slouched over the table, then with greater animation in her voice than she felt, she asked: “Right, Daniel. How about you and me having a nice wee cuppa? And a wee blether now that the coast’s clear. If we’re lucky, I think there’s a crumb or two left of that clootie dumpling I made yesterday. Do you fancy a wee slice fried in dripping, son?”

  “Fried dumpling did you say, Mammy? That would be great. For fine well you know it’s my absolute favourite. But listen, I thought you said I was to keep off fries, and chips and all that kind of stuff, leastways till all my spots and boils had cleared up a wee bit. Is that not right?”

  By way of reply, Kate stepped over to the table, and gently ruffled her son’s hair.

  “Och, listen, son. One wee slice of my good clootie dumplin’ll not do you one wee bit of harm this morning. Who knows? It might even cheer you up a wee bit. Even if it does give you another plonk on your face. Right, son?”

  Daniel smiled his assent and, while he waited for his mother to get busy with the frying-pan, he chuckled. Hearing this, Kate turned round from the kitchen range, a look of surprise on her face, delighted that her son had so quickly recovered his good spirits. Of course, she had to admit whenever he was away from Pearce and, better still when on such rare occasions as this, had his Mother all to himself, then he was happy.

  As she set the generous slice of dumpling into the frying-pan, Kate, anxious to bolster even further his raised spirits, asked over her shoulder: “Aye, and jist what is it that’s amusing you so much, my fine laddie?”

  Again Daniel laughed, this time even more heartily. “You’ve just done it again, Mammy.”

  With a puzzled frown, Kate asked: “Done what, for heaven’s sake?”

  Daniel got up from the table and after first looking round the door to make sure that his father was nowhere near, he settled himself into the one and only armchair. There, lolling at his ease, his eyes twinkled at his Mother.

  “It’s your voice, Mammy. Nowadays, for some reason best known to yourself, you seem to speak in a mixture of Irish accent and straight Glesga patter. I mean, here you are talking about plooks like any Glaswegian.”

  Kate threw back her head and laughed.

  “And since when did you become an expert on accents? Cheeky wee midden that you are.”

  Daniel joined in her laughter. Then as it died away, he looked at his mother for a long moment, as if wondering how much he could venture to say without in anyway hurting her feelings.

  Finally he spoke: “Well, I’ve noticed when you’re speaking to Hannah, Jenny, or me you speak as near like a native Glaswegian as makes no difference – except of course for that wee bit Irish brogue. We all speak the same as our pals from the school, so we understand you, Mammy. But when you’re talking to him, if you get my meaning, then you aye use your posh pan-loaf voice. Am I not right?”

  Kate placed the fried dumpling on to the two plates and grinned at her son.

  “Well, I’ll say this, Danny Boy, and in any accent ye care to mention, for somebody who normally doesn’t say much, you miss nothing, do you? Seems to me, nothing going on in this house escapes you, now does it?”

  Daniel merely grinned.

  “Better eat that while it’s hot, son. Later on, when you’ve demolished it, we’ll have a talk about this morning’s contretemps with Dadda. Aye, and if it pleases you son, I’ll be happy for to talk as posh as you like just to get to the bottom of this morning’s carry on; whatever that was all about.”

  The slices of fried dumpling safely disposed of, mother and son then got down to a blether about the morning’s events. It was all exactly as Kate had feared. Yet again Pearce had been attempting to impose his own strict ideas on an unwilling young man who was gradually evolving his own theories about life in general and his own outlook in particular.

  Kate placed a gentle hand on her son’s arm.

  “Now then, Danny Boy, exactly what did Dadda say to upset you this way? Honest, son, I could see you were nearly in tears – greetin’ – before he’d finished with you. Tell your Mammy, son, what was it?”

  Daniel took a deep breath, then after only a second’s hesitation, he plunged straight into his tale of woe.

  “Well, Mammy, you see it was like this: Dadda says that now he’s out of work ...”

  Daniel paused, his eyes filled with tears, and he angrily knuckled his eyes.

  “Dadda blames me for his ill-health. The shock of Isabella’s tragic death brought it on, he says. He was fair harping on about it, it was all
my fault. ... It was and it wasn’t, Mammy ... I was going to go out on the row boat by myself. Isabella screamed at me that she’d tell Dadda if I didn’t take her with me. She said she’d say I’d gone out even if I didn’t and I knew I’d get a thrashing ... so I let her get into the boat. She wouldn’t sit still ... I shouted at her to sit down ... she just laughed and said she was going to dance ... I shouted at her and she said she was going to tell Dadda anyway since I shouted at her ... the boat was rocking so I let go the oars to try and make her sit down ... then a big wave hit us. I don’t know where it came from. The boat turned over and I grabbed hold of a rope that was hanging from it. I couldn’t swim ... and there was no sign of Isabella ...

  Kate, tears streaming down her face, gazed across the table at Daniel.

  “Oh, Daniel, why have you never told anyone this before?”

  “Do you think it would make any difference to him? He’s had his mind made up all my life I could do nothing right.”

  “It was God’s will that poor Wee Isabella died,” Kate said. “Did you tell Dadda this, this morning? Is that what the fight was about?”

  Daniel’s voice broke with emotion and it took some gentle persuasion from Kate before the upset youth could continue speaking.

  “No, even if I’d wanted to, Dadda wouldn’t listen to me. He said, now that he can no longer work, I’ll have to become the breadwinner and look after the family. Honestly, Mammy, I have looked for a job, but there’s nothin’ to be had and it’s Dadda himself that makes me keep on at school. The thing is, he wants for me to try to get a job of some kind in the shipyards of all places.

  Mammy, sorry. I’m not lazy nor nothin’ like that, but to work in the shipyards. It’s the very last thing I’d want to do. Honestly. I’d just fair hate it. All the noise with the hammerin’, rivetin’, and bangin’, the freezin’ cold and all that. I just couldn’t stick It Mammy. Anythin’ else, but not the shipyards”

  Kate leant across the table.

  “Listen, Danny. I’m real sorry your father has been having another go at you about Wee Isabella’s death. That wasn’t fair of him, son, and if it were not for fear of starting another argument, I would be the first to tell him so.”