In Loving Memory (2 page)

Chapter 2

Maggie Bell, head bent to her task, sat darning a pile of socks by the light of a guttering candle. The bairns were fast asleep in the recess-bed, while in the far corner of the damp cottage, the weaver’s loom sat silent and still, casting fearsome shadows the length of the stone floor. The only sound to be heard was that of the ticking of the wag-at-the-wa’ as it counted off the minutes and hours of her existence.

The fire, such as it had been, had long since dulled, and with no kindling or logs to hand with which to revive its dying embers, Maggie suddenly shivered. She half-rose from her seat, meaning to go out to the kailyard at the back of the cottage to collect some small pieces of wood. However, one quick glance at the fine drizzling rain soon changed her mind for her.

Laying down her darning on the deal table she drew her tattered shawl closer around her thin shoulders. A sigh born of the frustration, misery, poverty and utter deprivation of her life in Govan escaped her lips. Next, she raised her work-worn hands to her face, as if in this way she could somehow blot out the reality and at least in some measure, escape the hell of her life. But it was not to be! All that happened was that she retreated even further into the dark labyrinth of her thoughts. Removing her hands from her face, again she sighed and, as if an involuntary movement, made a mess of her hair. Then with a startled look of guilt on her young-old face, she stole a hurried glance across at her sleeping children.

’Twould never do to let the bairns see me like this, she thought. Then coming to her senses, she smoothed back her wayward hair into its steel-pinned prison of a tight bun.

On the point of tackling again her most hated chore of darning, Maggie suddenly heard a tapping noise at the front door of the cottage. This sound caused her to frown and mumble to herself.

“Hmph! Only one person that can be! Everybody else here-abouts just lifts the latch, yoo-hoos, ‘It’s only me’, and walks straight in.”

When Maggie opened the door, as she had mentally predicted, she found herself staring into the eyes of her next-door neighbour. Jess Johnson was a young woman of medium height and build with jet-black hair and sad grey eyes. She was roughly the same age as Maggie. But whereas Maggie, wed the same length of time as her neighbour, had produced to date a child for every year of her fruitful marriage, poor Jess remained barren.

Strangely enough, although the subject was never discussed in so many words, the contrast in this important aspect of their lifestyles caused jealousy on the one hand, while on the other, there was the occasional shaft of longing for an uncluttered home, free of wailing, hungry and demanding children.

With the unspoken yet almost tangible barrier between them, nevertheless the two women kept up the appearance of a friendship which fooled nobody, least of all themselves.

With being such close neighbours it would have been well-nigh impossible to avoid each other anyway. Not only that, but Jess almost as if to punish herself for her infertility, kept coming back again and again on the slightest pretext, but really to gaze in adoration on Maggie’s lovely brood.

Maggie’s lips pressed into a thin line as the thought crossed her mind, Yes! She thinks they’re all little angels. And here comes Madam Johnson for another session of worshipping my lot. Angels! If only she knew! Anyway, I’ll have to take care or the stupid woman will be spoiling them rotten with all her nonsense.

Almost as an admittance ticket, Jess held out a wooden platter of scones.

“These are just off the griddle. They’ll be nice for eatin’ the morro-morn at breakfast-time. Ah know that yer weans love ma treacle-scones.”

Thanking her, Maggie waved her neighbour to the one and only easy chair, normally reserved for Fergus, the lord and master of the house. To break the uneasy silence which settled between them, Maggie hastened to say:

“If you were hoping to see the bairns, Jess, I’m afraid you’re much too late – they’re all fast asleep.”

The other woman waved aside her words.

“Uch, fine weel ye ken Ah love tae hae a bit keek at the wee darlins when they’re in the land o’ nod. They look jist like God’s heavenly angels then.”

For some reason just then Maggie found that she could not stomach the other woman’s cloying sentimentality.

“For heaven’s sake, Jess, believe me, they’re far short of being angels. More like little devils, if truth were told.”

One look at her neighbour’s face and at once Maggie knew that she had offended her. So as soon as she decently could, Jess departed in a rare old huff and with her mumper-face firmly set.

Again alone with only her sleeping children for company, Maggie once more set-to with as much enthusiasm as she could  muster to tackle the Ben Nevis of holed socks still awaiting her attention. No sooner had she lifted the bodkin than she heard the sound of the door-sneck being raised.

But it was not after all her Fergus who entered the room.

With a ‘Yoo-hoo, it’s only me’ there came into the cottage Mistress Weir, the middle-aged wife of a neighbouring weaver.

Maggie’s face changed colour at the sight of the known tale-carrier and inveterate bearer of bad tidings.

With an inward groan, Maggie laid down her bodkin and rose to greet this latest visitor with the words of welcome normal in their social circle.

“Oh! And it’s yourself, Mistress Weir”

A sour expression which normally passed for a smile from the old gossip appeared on the visitor’s life-lined map of a face. “Aye, aye, ye’re richt, lassie. It is indeed masell and nane ither.”

When the woman volunteered no further word nor explanation for her arrival in Maggie’s cottage, Maggie was forced to ask:

“And what brings you to my door at this time of night, Mistress Weir?”

The woman stopped in her tracks. Then, hands on ample hips, she glowered at her young neighbour.

“Hmph! And it’s no’ much o a welcome that, when a body trauchles oot frae the ither end o Harmony Row on sich a nicht.”

Harmony Row, indeed! thought Maggie, I often wonder how much real harmony there is behind the shuttered windows, especially when husbands come reeling back drunk from the Ferry Inn of a Friday night.

Maggie’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud, significant clearing of the throat by her neighbour, followed by the words.

“If Ah’m tae be a bother tae ye. Mistress Bell Ah’ll jist take masell back hame an no trouble ye further.”

No sooner were the huffily-offended words out than Maggie was at once all housewifely concern. Without further ado Maggie ushered her uninvited, unloved and unwanted guest to the chair so recently vacated by Jess. As she sat down, Mrs Weir first of all gave a disparaging look at the spent fire, the untidy hearth and the platter of scones still lying on the arm of the chair.

Maggie cleared her throat a couple of times before saying, “Mistress Weir do please forgive me for not answering you a moment ago. Believe me, it’s not that I meant to be rude... it’s just... well, to tell you the truth, I’m just that worried about Fergus. He should have been home these three hours ago and I’m afraid that...”

The crone put a gnarled hand on Maggie’s arm, thus cutting off the flow of words.

“Aye, lassie, aye! Fine weel Ah ken ye’re a dab hand at the high-falutin’ manners, far better than onybody else roonaboot here. So Ah ken ye werenae meanin for tae be rude. But therr’s wan thing Ah wull say...”

Here the wicked old gossip leant nearer to Maggie, who all but gagged at the foul breath wafting over her. It was all she could do not to back away as she waited to hear what the woman was about to tell her. In the event, she did not have long to wait.

“Ye said ye were worried aboot yer man? Weel, Ah’m here for tae tell ye... if ye ur anxious aboot Fergus this nicht ... weel then God help ye, lassie.’Ye’ve guid cause!”

Having delivered herself of this startling statement, Mrs Weir folded her arms across her massive bosom and awaited the reaction to her words.

Collapsing into her seat, Maggie, in a rush of words, demanded to know what was meant by the older woman’s cryptic comment.

There was almost a smacking of the lips as Mrs Weir, clearly relishing her task, started to her tale.

In another blast of foul air the woman said, “Weel, it’s like this! Ma son, Davie, against ma wishes, Ah micht say, he went tae that same meetin’ the nicht in Paisley. Aye! The verra same yin that your Fergus wus supposed tae be a leadin’ speaker. And this is...”

Unable to contain her impatience a moment longer, Maggie, all ladylike manners forgotten, shouted, “Oh! For heavens’ sake! If you’ve something to say, Mistress Weir, then in the name of God, spit it out!”

Too taken aback by this uncharacteristic outburst to argue, the woman went on meekly.

“Ma Davie went tae hear yer guid man speak. Ah don’t mind tellin’ ye, Ah hud a wheen o anxious moments ... he was ower late in gettin’ back ... that wus a Radical meeting, efter aw and ...”

Mrs Weir paused, not only for breath, but hoping that Maggie would add some nugget of information with which to embellish the tale. When this ruse did not succeed, the wily old crone pushed her face nearer to Maggie and said, “Ah dare say, ye had words yersel wi’ yer guid man? Afore he went oot, like? For therr’s no a woman in the wynd, in Harmony Row, nor in the hale o’ Govan that wud be wantin her man for tae attend a Rebels’ Meeting, noo, is therr?”

Maggie made a non-committal reply, at the same time as remembering the harsh words she and Fergus had indeed exchanged before he had flung out into the night, with an almighty crashing of the cottage door behind him. The memory of his avowed and unshakable determination to speak for the weavers fired her temper anew, at the same time as awakening a feeling of dread for his safety. Maggie could contain herself no longer.

“For God’s sake, Mistress Weir, would you stop this nonsense of telling me half-truths and dire hints of trouble. If you’ve something definite to tell me, like I said already, for the love of God Almighty, spit it out and have done with it!”

There was a swift intake of breath at this further outburst from her normally ladylike neighbour and for an instant the older woman did seem at a loss for words. but when the words did come, they came in a rush.

“That Rebels’ meeting... ma Davie got back safely efter a wee bit o’ a stramash. Seems therr wus even talk o Government spies in their midst. Seems the authorities have captured some o the puir souls. Flung them in gaol. Aye, a black day for them their wives and their bairns. Them prisoners ... it’ll be transportation tae the colonies at best for them. If no that, it’ll be the hangin’. God help them, they’ll die facin the monument.”

“Dear God in heaven, what are you saying? That my Fergus has been captured? Is that it?”

Mrs Weir chewed at her lower lip. “Weel noo, as tae that. Ah couldnae say for certain. But Ah thocht ye should at least be telt whit happened.”

As if somewhat belatedly remembering her manners, Maggie said, “That was good of you, Mistress Weir, and I do appreciate your coming along to tell me. But you did say that your son got back safely eventually. Didn’t you say that yourself? He’s back at your own fireside. So where, where is my Fergus?”

A look of compassion appeared on the older woman’s face and she laid a gnarled hand on Maggie’s sleeve.

“Wheesht, lassie, wheesht! Dinnae fash yersel. Ye’ll waken yer bairns. Richt enough, Davie got back. He hid up some o thon stinkin back wynds and closes in Paisley. Waited till the coast wus clear, like. Then he belted hell for leather back here tae the safety o Govan and his auld Mammy! Didnae seem sich a big brave Radical then, Ah can tell ye!”

Maggie opened her lips to speak but the words would not come.

The older woman continued, “Dinnae get yersel intae a stooshie, hen. Like as no, yer man’ll be cooryin doon in some vennel or some sich place, jist bidin his time. Aye, Ah’m sure that’s whit it’ll be. Onywey, we’ll jist hae tae wait and see. Things wull look brighter in the morning. Tak ma word for it, hen, yer man wull probably creep back into yer bed in the wee sma’ oors.”

As she said goodbye to the harbinger of bad news, Maggie shuddered at the thought of the long night ahead.

She already knew the dark reaches of the night would be filled with worry, fitful sleep and long sojourns down memory lane to the days when before marrying in haste, she was upstairs maid in a different element, living and working in a fine house in Glasgow’s fashionable Blythswood Square – the place of her shame.

Chapter 3

As Maggie blearily opened her eyes to the dawn of a new day and the still empty space on the pillow beside her, she gave a long heartfelt sigh as she thought. So much for lying awake half the night, jumping at every sound and hoping it meant Fergus had got safely back home.

A muffled sound from one of the children alerted her to the fact that with a houseful of bairns to feed, wash and clothe, life still had to go on. Taking care not to disturb her family any more than was strictly necessary, she slipped out from under the patchwork quilt, dressed quickly and pinned up her long plaits of brown hair into her usual serviceable bun. Bending down to the hearth, she cleared the dead ashes from the grate, swept them up and finally scattered them out in the kailyard at the back of the cottage. By the time she had the fire going and the porridge pot simmering on the hob, to all intents and purposes, life in the Bell household appeared normal.

Maggie pursed her lips. Normal? Hmph. In the days before Fergus got so heavily involved in all this Radical movement business, by this hour of the day he’d already have been hard at work and the clack, clack, clacking of his loom would already be filling the cottage, filling our lives and eventually from the money earned, filling our bellies with nourishing food.

As she gave another stir at the pot of rather watery porridge, she could not hold back the thought. And even when he is here, who is now going to give work too readily to a known Radical? The silence of the loom is almost as if we’ve had a death in the house... it’s the silence of the grave.

At this sombre thought, she shivered and wrapped her arms around her, as if in some way to protect herself from all that life was then throwing at her. A harsh, urgent rattling at the door-sneck interrupted her gloomy thoughts.

“He’s home. He’s safe. Oh thank God, Fergus is safe back with us.”

But when the door did not open, as expected to admit her husband, but instead stayed firmly shut and the sound of a clenched fist hammering against the wooden frame followed, Maggie could feel herself tense. For a moment she felt on the point of collapse from sheer terror.

“Oh my God, it’s the Police, they’re hunting Fergus.” With trembling hand, she lifted the sneck and, as she opened the door fully, rather than the police or any other figure of authority, instead it was a ragged urchin who stood framed in the doorway.

By now all but bereft of speech with her twanging nerves, Maggie could only stare in open-mouthed amazement at this stranger who had been pounding on her cottage door. Without prior introduction of any kind, the young lad at once said, “If ye’re Mistress Bell, Ah’ve got a wee message for ye, it’s frae yer man Fergus. He says tae tell ye that ye’ve no tae worry, but jist keep the heid. He’s no been hurted or nothin. And he’ll get back hame tae ye soon as the coast’s clear.” With the message delivered, the stranger gave her what she took to be a rather sorrowful look, and without another word, turned tail and ran.

Maggie, all ladylike pretensions forgotten, sleeping bairns, simmering porridge pot, all abandoned in the instant, hiked up her skirts and long sackcloth apron and raced into the wynd after him. But the fleet-footed ragged urchin, doubtless feeling he had duly earned whatever pittance he’d been paid to deliver the message, had now disappeared, as if he had never been, without trace from God’s earth.

Head bent with sorrow at thus losing even such a tenuous link with her man, and her ill shod feet stumbling on the uneven cobbles, Maggie all but collided with another person as she rounded the street corner. Looking up through her tears, she was surprised to find that it was Mistress Weir’s youngest son, the lad Davie, of whom the old crone had spoken the previous evening. As Maggie took in his appearance and what appeared to be the meagre stock of his worldly goods tied up in a bundle, she opened her mouth to speak. But Davie was too quick for her.

Putting a cautionary forefinger to his lips, he bent forward and whispered in her ear, “Aye, as ye can see, Ah’m on the move, but no a word noo, Mistress Bell. These are dangerous times and the less ye ken the better. Therr’s government spies in oor midst. In fact, Ah might as weel tell ye, therr’s folk no a thousand miles frae here that think ye yersel, wi yer fancy ways , yer swanky way of talkin, no tae mention yer book learnin... they used tae think ye might be a Government spy.”

He leant back from her as though to study her face for the effect his words had had on her.

Feeling the colour drain from her face, knowing her hair to be awry and her mind a tangle of jumbled thoughts, Maggie was sure he would not be disappointed with her reaction, even before she answered.

As in a nightmare she said in a hoarse whisper, “Davie, for the love of God. What are you saying? Me? A spy? Have you lost your wits? God save us all, would I be living in this hell-hole, scrimping and  saving every farthing to bring up my three bairns decently ... not to mention half out my mind with worry about a rabble-rouser of a husband now on the run ... would all that be my life if I was in the pay of the Government as a spy? Use your brains, Davie, that is, if you have any.”

From the look on his face, clearly deeply affronted by this verbal attack from a mere woman, Davie, at once all male hurt pride, gathered up his precious bundle and made to depart without further ado. But Maggie’s outstretched hand detained him and he was forced to reply, “Listen, Mistress Bell, if it’s of any comfort to ye, like Ah think Ah already mentioned, all that was in the past. But see the noo ... with yer guid man takin up the cause of the weavers and what with his being such a rerr speaker, things is different noo. But for all that, these are dangerous times, so jist ye look oot for yersel, that’s all Ah’m sayin.”

Feeling by now on the point of hysteria, Maggie burst out with, “Davie, that is not all. For God’s sake, what news of my husband? You were at the meeting last night, you got safely back home. But where is my Fergus?”