The Road to Rowanbrae Page 28

  ‘Jean aye egged her on, of course, but we’re aulder noo an’ I think I could get on fine wi’ her.’

  ‘Oh, weel, Jess, it’s up to you.’ Mysie realised sadly that they were coming to a parting of the ways. She wouldn’t feel comfortable coming to Wellbrae, and Jess would likely feel more uncomfortable at Ashley Road.

  Apparently, Jess had caught her mood of dejection. ‘I was mindin’, last nicht, aboot the days lang syne, when you come to Rowanbrae first. What laughs we used to ha’e, me an’ you, but it’s a’ past noo. We canna turn back the clock nae matter how muckle we want to, an’, ony road, there’s some things that’s best forgot.’

  They fell silent, remembering those events that were better left in the past, but after a few minutes, Jess said, ‘I didna like to ask you on your weddin’ day, but … did you ever tell Gregor what happened to Jeems?’

  ‘Aye, I did. I near went oot o’ my mind the nicht Sandy an’ Gina walked oot, so I tell’t him every blessed thing, an’ he still wanted to wed me.’

  ‘He’s a fine, upstandin’ man, an’ you deserve your happiness, for you had little enough afore. Nae doot you’ll worry whiles, but … but he’ll never be found noo.’

  ‘You’re aye so sure, Jess, but what if the Cattanachs want to use the byre for something else …?’

  ‘Oh, did I nae tell you? They’ve turned their shed into a garage for their car, an’ they poured a great thick layer o’ cement on the floor. Mary took me roon’ to see it one day, an’ they couldna ha’e made a better job o’ coverin’ it up if they’d tried. So dinna worry nae mair aboot that.’

  ‘Oh, Jess, I can hardly believe it. It’s the best news I’ve had for a lang time.’

  When Gregor returned from Burnlea House, he was surprised to see his wife smiling radiantly. He had expected her to be very distressed for her old friend, but Jess, too, seemed happier than before, although their final parting was somewhat tearful. He would never understand women, he thought, as he started the car’s engine. Even his sister had surprised him that afternoon when he invited her to come to visit them at Ashley Road.

  ‘I can’t face … Maisie again,’ Margaret had said. ‘I was so stupid, so jealous, and I’m bitterly ashamed of what I said.’

  ‘You could tell her that,’ he had suggested, hopefully. ‘I would really like to see you two being friends.’

  ‘We would both be awkward – she was my servant at one time – but you can tell her that I wish you both every happiness.’

  Realising suddenly that his wife hadn’t spoken since she’d got into the car, Gregor said, ‘You’re very quiet, Maisie. Did someone say something to upset you?’

  ‘No, I’m feeling sad because Jess will be living at Wellbrae with the Duffs, and I won’t see very much of her in future.’

  ‘You haven’t seen much of her over the past few years, but I could run you out to visit her any time you wanted.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to visit her at Wellbrae with Belle Duff listening to every word we say, and I’m sure Jess won’t want to come to our house. She’d feel out of place.’

  ‘You think it’s the end of a friendship, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve practically lost the best friend I ever had.’

  ‘You’ll always have me, Maisie.’

  ‘But you’re my husband, not my friend.’

  Her indignation made him smile. ‘I’m your friend, too.’

  ‘That’s not the same.’ Mysie brightened. ‘Jess gave me some good news, though. The new people at Rowanbrae have made the shed – my old byre – into a garage, and they’ve cemented the floor, so I can stop worrying about … you know.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d still been worried about that. Well, that is good news, so how about going out for a meal tonight to celebrate?’

  ‘Oh, no, Gregor. I couldn’t go celebrating anything on the day of Jake Findlater’s funeral.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. It was very thoughtless of me.’

  ‘No, no. You’re the most thoughtful man I ever met.’

  So thoughtful, she thought, sadly, that he’d actually turned a blind eye on a murder to prevent her being suspected of it. Not many men would do that for a woman, especially if they were solicitors.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  In the belief that all newly-weds, whatever their ages, would resent anyone intruding on their lives, Gregor’s friends had not invited him to their homes since he had been married, not that it bothered him. ‘I always knew that I was only welcomed at the dinner parties as an unattached male,’ he joked to Mysie one Saturday.

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, and they’ll have found another bachelor by this time to even their numbers.’ He stood up purposefully. ‘I’ll dry, if you wash, then I’m going to take you shopping.’

  ‘Again? You’ve bought me so many clothes I won’t need to get any more for years.’

  His smile vanished. ‘I want to make up to you for all the years you had nothing. You deserve the best, my dearest, and I’d give you the moon if I could.’

  Mysie chuckled as she gathered the breakfast dishes on to a tray. ‘I don’t want the moon. I’ve got you.’

  ‘It’s your birthday next week and I’d like to buy a gift for you, a bit of jewellery, perhaps?’

  Never having had any jewellery other than her two wedding rings – one a thin, cheap circlet, and the other an expensive broad band – Mysie agreed to this, but made one stipulation. ‘Nothing too dear, though.’

  Because it was a beautiful August morning, they walked all the way to Union Street. Gregor made straight for the most expensive jeweller he knew, but bowed to his wife’s wish when she turned down a beautiful diamond necklace and chose a much cheaper string of pearls. ‘I wouldn’t know where to put myself if I was wearing diamonds,’ she whispered, causing the rather haughty male assistant to stifle a smile.

  The padded box wrapped and secreted in Mysie’s handbag, they turned to leave and almost bumped into an immaculately-dressed woman who squealed, ‘Gregor! I haven’t seen you for ages.’ She glanced at Mysie, who squirmed in embarrassment. ‘This will be your wife? Ben and I are having a do next Friday, so you must take her along so that all the gang can meet her.’

  Gregor smiled. ‘Thanks, Amy. We’ll be delighted.’

  Outside out of earshot, he said, ‘That’s all right with you, isn’t it, Maisie? Ben Parker is one of my partners and I used to go there quite a lot.’

  She pulled a face. ‘I’ll feel like I’m on show, but I suppose we’d better go.’ She had often wondered where he spent his week-nights before she agreed to marry him, and was relieved that he hadn’t been alone with another woman, although she had never really thought he had been.

  Tucking her arm through his as they walked on, Gregor said, ‘That’s something else we’ll have to look for now – an evening dress to knock them all cold.’

  ‘An evening dress?’ Her heart sank. Not only was she to be on show for herself, she was to be judged on what she wore. ‘What kind of dresses do your friends’ wives usually …?’

  ‘Oh, I never paid much attention – long, frilly – you know.’

  ‘No, Gregor, I don’t know. The only time I’ve seen ladies dressed up for the evening was at the ball your sister gave in 1916, and fashions have changed a lot in twenty years.’

  As they turned into an exclusive gown shop, he said, ‘Let the saleslady advise you, she’ll know the kind of thing you need.’

  The dress she was persuaded to buy was fitted at the waist with a full skirt billowing out under a sash. For some years, she had been accustomed to a shorter length, but when she said that it seemed strange to feel the taffeta round her ankles, she was assured that ‘Madam will soon get used to it.’

  She tried it on again when they went home, studying herself in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. The tiny pink roses embroidered in sprays all over the skirt seemed to stand out more than they had done in the shop
, and she turned to her husband doubtfully. ‘Do you think it’s a bit too dressy?’

  ‘It’s perfect. You’ll stun them.’

  On Friday, when she surveyed her reflection again, she said, ‘I’m sure I look like mutton dressed as lamb.’

  Gregor kissed the tip of her nose. ‘You look good enough to eat, I know that, and a little powder and that sort of thing would put the icing on the cake.’

  She had never worn any make-up before, but Gregor had given her a set of Max Factor as an extra birthday gift. She was pleasantly surprised by the result. Her powdered skin was a velvety peach, and the lipstick and the slight touch of rouge gave more colour to her face. ‘I wouldn’t have believed the difference it’s made,’ she smiled. ‘I feel like a film star.’

  ‘You’re the star of my life, my dearest. Now I think it’s time we were leaving.’

  ‘Let me check you first.’ She walked round him slowly to make sure that there were no threads or hairs on his dinner-jacket, then picked up the beaded bag he had also bought her. ‘You’re very distinguished-looking in that suit, Gregor. It makes me proud to be your wife.’

  ‘I have been proud to have you as my wife since the day we were married,’ he said, earnestly. ‘I can’t wait to see their reactions when they discover how beautiful you are.’

  Mysie’s bolstered confidence deserted her the minute they were shown into the Parkers’ elegant sitting room in Royfold Crescent, and her stomach knotted at each introduction. The men pumped her hand and said things like, ‘Where did Gregor find you?’ and, ‘You must have been an answer to his prayers,’ to which she just smiled nervously, but the women disconcerted her completely. They were all taller than she was, thickly made up, and most of them looked as if they had been poured into their gowns, although a few seemed to have overflowed.

  She stood, tongue-tied, until Amy Parker came to her aid by drawing her away from the group. ‘Now, what would you like to drink, Mrs Wallace?’

  ‘Whatever you have. Tea or coffee, I don’t mind.’

  A titter from behind her made her realise her gaffe, but Amy didn’t blink an eyelid. ‘Would you care for a little sherry?’

  Mysie nodded miserably. All the men, including Gregor, took whisky, but most of the ladies asked for drinks she had never heard of, and, as she sipped from her glass, she wished that she hadn’t come. The manicured hands around her, nails painted brightly, made her acutely conscious of her own hands, red and rough from housework, and she felt like a fish out of water.

  As the evening wore on, and perhaps as a consequence of the three sherries she drank, her awkwardness vanished. She was as good as any of them, working class or not, and what was to stop her enjoying her evening out? Maybe she’d given a bad impression before, in her fear that she would do or say something wrong, but they were talking easily to her now and she to them.

  The dinner the maid served up was uninspiring, little more than just palatable, and Mysie’s spirits lifted even farther. At least she was a far better cook than Amy Parker. When they reached the coffee stage, Barbara – Mysie couldn’t remember her surname – invited everyone present to her house the following month. The Wallaces had been accepted into the coterie.

  In the car going home, Gregor patted her knee. ‘You came as a shock to them, Maisie. I think they believed I’d been caught by some brassy gold-digger, and you put every one of the wives in the shade.’

  ‘I made a fool of myself over the drinks,’ she confessed. ‘I said I didn’t mind whether I had tea or coffee.’ His guffaw made her indignant. ‘It wasn’t funny. I felt awful, and I don’t know what Mrs Parker must have thought.’

  ‘Amy’s a good sort – nothing bothers her. But I think you enjoyed yourself, didn’t you, in spite of your faux pas?’

  ‘Yes, after a while.’

  ‘That soup was only lukewarm,’ Mysie grumbled, as they walked home from a New Year party at Great Western Road – not far enough away to necessitate taking the car. ‘The meat wasn’t properly cooked and the dessert was far too sweet.’

  ‘No one could be such a good cook as you,’ he laughed, ‘but I must agree with you. It wasn’t very appetising.’

  ‘Did you notice Amy saying it was her turn again after Bet? We’ve been at all their houses and we haven’t had them here.’

  ‘But they all have cooks and maids to do all the work for them. You can’t keep jumping up and down when you have guests. Wouldn’t you be embarrassed?’

  ‘Not a bit. If they’ve got cooks, they’re not very good, and I’d love to do some real catering again. Oh, please, Gregor?’

  ‘All right. On your own head be it.’

  Mysie was in her element over the next few weeks, planning and preparing, and turned on Gregor angrily when he suggested hiring a waitress for the evening. ‘I’m quite capable of seeing to everything myself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want them to see you in your apron and cap,’ he teased. ‘Buy a new dress for the occasion.’

  ‘You always said you fell in love with me when you saw me in my apron and cap at Burnlea House,’ she retorted, smiling.

  ‘I did, and I don’t want to run the risk of any of the other men falling in love with you.’

  Although she had three evening dresses now, Mysie did as she was told – she knew that Gregor was trying to prove to all his friends that it wasn’t because he couldn’t afford it that they didn’t have a cook. Waiting for the salesgirl to wrap up the dark green dress she had chosen, she remembered a time when she’d had only one presentable blouse and skirt to her name. She had come a long way since then.

  When she showed Gregor the gown, he told her to model it for him, and when she put it on, he drew in breath sharply. ‘You look lovely, Maisie. Like a princess.’

  It was as if he had kicked her in the ribs, and it was all she could do to restrain herself from lashing out at him with her fists. ‘What in the world possessed you to say that?’ she shouted, bursting into tears.

  Bewildered, he put his arms round her, but she pushed him away. ‘Please, my dearest, what did I say wrong?’

  She couldn’t answer, but when she pulled herself together, she looked at him apologetically. ‘I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, Gregor, but it wasn’t the first time I’d been told I looked like a princess, and you brought it all back.’

  ‘Was it Doddie?’ he asked, gently, a pain in his eyes that she had never seen before.

  ‘No, no. It was … that young packman I told you about.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I could cut my tongue out. I wish I had known.’

  On the night of the dinner, she forced herself to put on the green dress as a penance for reminding her husband of things she was sure he would rather forget, and several of the women commented on how well it suited her. At five minutes to eight, she stood up. ‘Dinner will be at eight o’clock. Gregor, pour out the wine while I dish up.’

  As she went out, she was savouring the astonished faces of her guests. She supposed that none of the visiting wives had ever had to dish up anything, but she would show them. This was going to be one dinner no one could criticise.

  She did show them, and every single one was loud in praise of the meal, Amy Parker even remarking, ‘And you did it all by yourself, Maisie? I find it hard to believe that it wasn’t the work of a professional cook.’

  ‘My wife was a professional cook, Amy.’ Gregor announced it with pride, although Mysie had not meant to let them know, in case it shamed him in front of his friends.

  Some pencilled eyebrows rose, but Amy Parker said, ‘Well I’ll be damned. Girls, I think we should do the washing up.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Mysie gasped, but she was pushed aside, and soon her kitchen was full of women, laughing and chattering as they tackled a mound of dishes for the first time in their lives.

  When their guests left, all assuring Mysie that they’d had great fun besides having the best meal they’d ever had, Gregor said, ‘That was an eye opener for them. I was very proud of you,
but I’m sure you must be utterly exhausted.’

  ‘A bit,’ she murmured, blissfully, ‘but it feels good.’

  The newspapers had concentrated on the Coronation for days before the 12th May 1937, giving details about the visiting foreign dignitaries. Libby Duncan read the reports avidly, her interest in the British royal family aroused when it leaked out that the King was involved with Mrs Simpson. The ex-King, she corrected her thoughts, because he had abdicated in favour of his brother. It was a shame that Edward couldn’t marry the woman he loved without having to do that, but Libby realised that it would have been most degrading for Britain to have an American divorcee as queen, and the Duke of York would be a good king, in spite of his stutter.

  Hearing a key grating in the outside door, two-year-old Sam went scampering to greet his father, but Libby laid down the newspaper and stood up hastily to set the table. Sandy always got annoyed if his tea wasn’t ready.

  With their son astride his shoulders, her husband came in singing. ‘Girls and Boys Come Out to Play’ to the accompaniment of Sam’s delighted squeals. He didn’t come across to kiss her – that had stopped some time ago – but he did say, ‘What have you been doing today?’ as he swung the boy to the floor.

  ‘We went to the Stewart Park to feed the ducks, didn’t we, Sam? And he pushed his go-car round by himself for a while.’

  Sandy ruffled the tight brown curls. ‘Clever boy.’

  ‘Da-da boy,’ the toddler volunteered.

  Sandy beamed. ‘That’s right. You’re Daddy’s boy.’

  He hardly said a word to his wife during their meal, taking up his time by coaxing Sam to eat, but Libby had grown used to this. Sandy had changed. At first, she had thought he was afraid he would make her pregnant again, but she didn’t think that now. It was as if his need for her had diminished after Sam was born, but he wasn’t quite thirty and should have been at the peak of his manhood. He never invited his colleagues to the house, and she couldn’t understand that, either. She had improved her ways and kept the place spotless, so he shouldn’t be ashamed of it, and he surely couldn’t be ashamed of her, for she hadn’t let herself go, as so many young mothers did. She never let him see her without make-up, and she was very careful about her manners.