Waters of the Heart Page 25

Embarrassed, his secretary left the room, and Bertram, who had jumped up at his wife’s abrupt entry, came round his desk, looking at her with loathing. ‘You know why I won’t let you have him. You’re not fit to be a mother.’

  ‘I’m a fitter mother than you are a father!’

  His top lip curled. ‘How quaintly you express yourself, but what else could I expect from a woman of the lower classes? As for my fitness as a father, I have never taken a lover into my house.’

  ‘You didn’t need to take one in, you’d one there already, that’s why you wanted rid of me. And Tommy isn’t my lover! I told you, he’s my brother. You must believe me! I can’t bear to be separated from my son!’

  ‘You will get accustomed to it.’

  ‘I’ll never get accustomed to it! I don’t have to!’ Cissie could feel her temper building up. ‘If you won’t let me have Ricky, I’ll tell everybody about the awful things you used to do to me. God knows what got into you at that time, but I’m glad you did, for it’s . . .’

  ‘You think it has given you something to bargain with?’ He looked at her contemptuously.

  ‘I’ll tell all your friends, and about Elma, too, and then they’ll think as little of you as I do.’

  ‘Who do you think is going to believe you? I am a pillar of society nowadays, and when I tell my associates that I picked you out of the gutter . . .’

  Outraged, Cissie shouted, ‘I wasn’t in the gutter! I was working in your father’s office when you first knew me.’

  A cold smile played over his lips. ‘And before that, you were only a spinner. No one will believe your fantasies.’

  ‘I wish now I’d let Dorothy Barclay see all the marks and bruises you left on me. I should have taken Ricky and walked out then, but I loved you in spite of everything.’

  The smile broadened. ‘How unfortunate for you, because I have never loved you.’

  ‘Why did you marry me?’ she gasped.

  ‘I needed a son to prevent my father from leaving all his wealth to our mutual stepmother.’

  ‘But you didn’t know he’d leave half to Ricky until after he was born.’

  ‘I was sure a grandson would do the trick, and Ricky is my insurance for the future . . . the very near future, I hope.’

  Cissie changed her tactics. ‘You’ve plenty of money already, and I need my son. Please, please, Bertram. I’ll do anything you want if you let me take him, anything.’

  His violet eyes glittered with triumph. ‘I never thought I’d hear you grovelling to me.’

  ‘If you want me to grovel, I’ll grovel. I’ll go down on my knees to you, I’ll kiss your feet, I’ll do anything, just let me have my son!’ Stepping forward, she grabbed his hand.

  An evil smile spread across his face, as though he were considering what he would make her do, then, with a snort, he pulled his hand away. ‘I was tired of you long ago, and nothing you can offer appeals to me.’

  Pulling at the lapels of his jacket, she pleaded, ‘Please, Bertram? I beg you, please let me have my baby. Then I’ll go away and I’ll never bother you again.’

  ‘You’ll never bother me again, in any case. I am keeping Ricky, and you are wasting my time as well as your own, so go now, before I have someone throw you out.’ He prised her fingers open and strode to the door.

  ‘Please, Bertram!’ she cried, hysterically, as he held it open. ‘Oh, please, please, please!’

  Gripping her shoulder, he propelled her swiftly through the outer office, then with a last violent shove he sent her staggering out on to the tarred path and slammed the door behind her.

  She stumbled along the wet streets, her last hope gone, not conscious of the people who stared in bemusement at such a well-dressed lady weeping bitterly in public. She was only conscious that Bertram would do everything in his power to keep Ricky from her. For some time, she walked blindly, not caring where she went, until her legs gave way and she was forced to slump against the harled wall of a building she was passing.

  Ten full minutes passed before her body came anywhere near being alive again and she was capable of thought. Levering herself away from the wall, she started to walk, a little steadier now. She had to find a place where she could sit down to gather her senses. Looking around to see where she was, she was astonished to find that she was in Thorston Street, a stone’s throw from the Overgate! Her feet had led her back to her old haunts.

  Sitting at a wobbly table in a tiny cafe, Cissie allowed the hot tea to revive her further before she tried to think what to do next. Should she do as Jen had advised and leave Dundee? It was admitting defeat, but what else could she do in the face of what Bertram had said? And could she bear to stay in the same city as the son she would never see again? Was it possible for her to begin a new life somewhere else? It seemed to be the only thing left for her.

  Where should she go? Her insides gave a sudden jolt. In her distress, she had forgotten about money. When she went to Panache, she had intended taking the ten pounds Richard had given Ricky, and events had put it right out of her head. In hindsight, what she should have done was look for the money she knew Bertram kept in the house, but it hadn’t occurred to her, and, apart from the clothes in the carpet bag, all she had to her name was the fifteen and thruppence three farthings in her purse. There was more likelihood of her getting a job in a city, but she couldn’t afford to go far away. Perth was too near, and Bertram sometimes went to Glasgow on business – it would have to be Edinburgh. Nobody would ever think of looking for her there.

  Getting to her feet, she walked out of the teashop and made her way to the bus station. Travelling by bus should be cheaper than going by rail.

  Cissie looked at her watch and couldn’t believe that it was only ten past six – it seemed like days since she had left Jen’s room. She had been through two hells, and she still hadn’t got her baby. She couldn’t have been sitting in this freezing bus shelter for more than an hour or two, but her feet felt as if they didn’t belong to her. Would she ever feel whole again? Her heart was bleeding with the longing to hold her son in her arms again. She couldn’t possibly leave Dundee without Ricky!

  Lifting the bag by her side, she got up wearily, unsure of what to do but knowing that she must do something. When she went out into the street, she stood uncertainly, wondering which direction to take. She couldn’t burden Jen again, and that left only the Barclays. She hated the idea of upsetting Dorothy, but she had no option, and her friend would be hurt if she didn’t ask for help at this time.

  When she reached the Barclays’ house, she was so tired that her feet were dragging, but that was nothing compared with the agony inside her. Trailing up the short driveway, she rang the bell and waited, her heart palpitating at the thought of what would happen when Roland went to Panache to demand that Bertram give up his child. It probably wouldn’t end in a fight, though, because Bertram would want to keep on the right side of the man who had invested so much in his mill. He would probably hand over the baby.

  When the little maid answered the door, Cissie said, ‘Can I speak to Mrs Barclay, please?’

  She was expecting the maid to come back and take her in, but it was Roland who appeared. ‘I have forbidden my wife to see you again,’ he said, abruptly.

  Her whole body quivered with bitter disappointment. ‘Did Bertram phone you?’ she whispered.

  ‘He didn’t phone. He came to the house late last night, and I’ve never seen anyone in such a state. He was a broken man, and I was glad Dorothy was in bed and didn’t see him. He told me exactly what had happened, and I don’t know how you have the nerve to show your face here.’

  ‘He won’t let me have Ricky! I didn’t do anything, Roland! Tommy isn’t my lover, he’s my brother! Ask Dorothy, I told her about him.’

  ‘Please don’t involve my wife in your affairs. She is in a delicate condition and I’ll do everything I can to prevent her being distressed. I have no more to say to you.’

  The door closing with a bang, Cissie turned aw
ay. If only she had come straight to Dorothy when Bertram took Ricky away from her, she thought, miserably, he wouldn’t have had time to tell Roland. But what could Dorothy have done except sympathise? It was really Roland she had been depending on. She should have gone to his office yesterday afternoon. Her long walk had been all for nothing. She had been sure Roland would be on her side, and he thought the worst of her, too. And Bertram would make sure that no one else believed her, either.

  Plodding down the hill again, she prayed that whoever was looking after Ricky was feeding him properly. He had been seven months old before she weaned him, and even now his little stomach couldn’t cope with anything stronger than milk puddings, mashed boiled eggs and bland foods like that. If he had colic, would they know what to do? And he would be crying for her; he needed his mother. Oh, God! She had to go back to the house and try again!

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks when she arrived at Panache, but she didn’t care who saw them. She banged on the door several times, waited a few seconds and banged again and again. No one answered her urgent summons, so she moved along to the sitting room window and kept knocking on it until her arms were sore. At last, unable to bear it any longer, she shouted, as loudly as she could, ‘I know you’re there, Bertram! Let me in, before I take a stone and break this glass!’

  Her throat was so tight now that she was having difficulty breathing, yet she was determined not to give up, not as long as there was breath left in her body. She scanned the path but could see no stone large enough to do any damage, and it suddenly occurred to her that she could appeal to Mrs Gow. An older woman would surely understand the torture she was going through.

  Waiting for a moment to gather strength, Cissie went round the side of the house and down the basement steps, but in spite of the repeated knocking on the back door, it also remained firmly closed – and locked, she discovered.

  ‘Mrs Gow,’ she called, ‘please let me speak to you. Elma was lying, I did nothing wrong.’

  There was absolute silence, as if there were no one in the house, yet she knew that wasn’t the case. They were all in there, all against her. Elma had spread the poison, and Mrs Gow had never liked her anyway, she had always sensed that, and wee Tildy would be too scared of them to voice her own opinion.

  Utterly drained, emotionally and physically, Cissie leaned back against the wall at the side of the door, then her legs refusing to take her weight any longer, she slid slowly to the ground.

  Inside, Mrs Gow was saying, ‘She must be away, though I didn’t hear her feet going round the side again.’

  ‘Will I go out and have a look?’

  ‘Aye, Tildy, we’d be as well making sure.’

  The girl went into the scullery and unlocked the heavy door, and when she saw no sign of anyone, she crept along and went up the steps to look round the front of the house. There was no one there, either, so, letting out a little breath of relief, she turned and came back. Her mouth fell open when her eyes, accustomed now to the darkness, spied her mistress slumped between the back door and the wall of the garage – she hadn’t thought of looking to that side when she came out – and ran over to see if she was all right.

  Mustering a little energy from somewhere, Cissie put her finger to her lips. Tildy on her own was one thing, Tildy joined by an unfeeling Mrs Gow was another.

  ‘Are you ill, Mrs Dickson?’ the girl whispered, anxiously.

  ‘Just very tired,’ Cissie whispered back. ‘Please, Tildy, will you help me to get Ricky back?’

  Terrified that the cook would come out to see why she was taking so long, Tildy hodged from one foot to the other. ‘I – I’d like to, Mrs Dickson, but . . .’

  ‘Is Elma in the kitchen with Mrs Gow?’

  ‘No, there’s just me and Cook. Elma went with the master, to look after the baby when he took him away.’

  This was something Cissie had never envisaged. ‘He took Ricky away?’ she said, faintly. ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘No, I only heard him saying they’d wouldn’t be back for a while. Cook thinks he’ll stay away till you stop making a nuisance of yourself. That’s what she said,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Cissie moaned. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘I’ll have to go in, or Cook’ll be wondering . . .’

  ‘Yes, I don’t want you to get into trouble because of me.’

  ‘Will I help you up, Mrs Dickson?

  ‘No, I’ll be all right. I’ll just sit here for a while.’

  ‘I don’t believe what they said about you!’ Tildy burst out suddenly. ‘I’m sure Elma’s got her eye on the master and wants to get him for herself, but Cook can’t see it.’

  A tiny ray of warmth came into Cissie’s frozen body. ‘Thank you, Tildy. It’s good to know one person sees through her.’

  ‘Cheerio, Mrs Dickson, and I hope . . .’ The girl hesitated, then said, ‘You must be heartbroken. I’m sorry.’

  Left alone again, Cissie felt that her heart was not just broken, it was smashed to smithereens by what Tildy had told her. How could she ever hope to get her son back when she didn’t know where he was? She kept sitting with her back against the wall for a few more minutes before she rose groggily to her feet. Then, lifting the bag, she made her way silently round to the front of the house and down the drive.

  She was beyond tears as she staggered on, beyond hoping. She was beyond anything except getting as far from Panache as she could. When she reached the Nethergate, she felt an urge to carry on to the pier and jump into the Tay, but Ricky’s darling little face came into her head. Alive, there was always a chance that she would get him back; dead, she would have abandoned him to his father and that awful girl.

  Her senses suddenly reminded her that she wasn’t far from the Overgate and the friend who would stand by her, and with a gulping sigh, she made for Jen’s room. ‘Oh, my God!’ the old woman exclaimed, when she opened the door warily and saw the bedraggled figure. ‘What a state you’re in, Cissie!’

  ‘I haven’t got Ricky back,’ Cissie said, unnecessarily. ‘Bertram’s taken him and Elma away.’

  ‘Have you had anything to eat since I saw you last?’

  ‘I couldn’t eat, I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You’ll no’ be fit for anything if you starve yourself. Look, I bought a tin o’ ham wi’ that money you left, and a loaf and margarine, and a bag o’ coal, and there’s still plenty o’ the tea you took in. Sit down at the fire and heat yourself till I get things ready.’

  ‘What’ll I do, Jen?’ Cissie sobbed, as Jen bustled about.

  ‘What did you try the day?’

  After Cissie told of all her unsuccessful attempts to get her son, Jen sat down to wait until the tea infused. ‘Can you no’ think on anybody else that could stand up to him?’

  ‘Dorothy Barclay was my only real friend, and Roland, that’s her husband, wouldn’t let me speak to her. Bertram had told him the same as he’ll tell all the people we know, and nobody’s going to believe me.’

  ‘Aye, I can see how you’re placed.’ Jen thought for some time, then said, ‘You wouldnae think on going to the bobbies yourself? Your man’s kidnapped the bairn . . .’

  ‘He’ll tell them the same as he’ll tell everybody else, and they’ll believe him. Who’s going to think a businessman like him would get rid of his wife because he was taking up with one of his own maids? Elma admitted that.’

  Jen stood up to move the teapot farther away from the fire in case it came to the boil. ‘It lets you see gentry’s no better than working men. Come and eat something, Cissie. You’ll feel better for it.’

  When they were seated at the small table, the old woman said, ‘I heard your man’s told all the mills not to take you on, so you’d not get a job at any of them.’

  Cissie gave a tearful sigh. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘Maybe you should get away from Dundee, like I said last night. Let things cool down for maybe a year or so . . .’

  ‘A whole year?’ Cis
sie was aghast at this.

  ‘He’d think you was away for good, and you could catch him and that lassie off their guard. He cannae bide away from his businesses, he’s bound to come home sometime. You could just go and take the bairn. Think on it, Cissie.’

  Lying on the old mattress, Cissie gave much consideration to Jen’s solution, and came to the conclusion that it might work. She would go to Edinburgh and take a job, then she’d go back to Panache in a year, and take Ricky when Bertram was at his office. Tildy would help, if she was still there, and it would be two against two, not three against one as it had been before.

  At quarter to six the next morning, Cissie said goodbye to her old friend. ‘Thank God I had you to come to, Jen, and thank you for putting up with me.’

  ‘Ach, Cissie, I’m glad I was able to help you a wee bit, and mind, let me ken when you get your bairn back.’

  ‘I promise.’ Cissie was pleased that Jen had said ‘when’ and not ‘if’. It made what she had seen as the impossible seem possible, after all.

  Part Three

  Leith, Edinburgh

  Chapter Twenty-five

  1925–26

  Still jobless after two whole weeks in Edinburgh, Cissie was at her wits’ end. At each place she tried – offices first, then shops – they had looked at her expensive clothes and told her she wasn’t suitable. When, in desperation, she had gone round the factories, more than one overseer had eyed her up and down and laughed in her face. But maybe it hadn’t been just the way she was dressed. Her experiences over her last two days in Dundee had left their mark. The pain in her heart, still almost unendurable, made her nervous and jumpy, her hands had developed a permanent shake. That would put any employer off, and, besides, she had no references to show, no one to vouch for her. To get money for food, she’d had to sell her engagement ring for three pounds, less than a hundredth of what it was worth, but it was all any jeweller would give.

  Her well-cut clothes had been an advantage in only one respect. When she was looking for a place to live, on the day she arrived, she could have had her pick of a dozen rooms, but she had chosen the cheapest, in a house in Pilrig Street, off Leith Walk. The landlady had been surprised when she said she would take it, and no wonder, Cissie thought, looking round the room. The only items of furniture apart from the bed were a wooden chair and a green-baize-covered card table, pock-marked with cigarette burns, though there was a shallow cupboard with hooks for her clothes, and, fixed to the fireplace wall, a shelf holding one cup and saucer, two plates and a pan. The linoleum was worn down to the jute backing in places, and there were big jagged tears sticking up ready to trip her.