During the summer after her father’s marriage, Lizzie divided her time between Mr Adams with whom she had resumed her pleasant days writing letters and reading newspapers, and her new mother-in-law Chrissy.
Lizzie had grown very fond of the girl and in the afternoon when she was not at Tay Lodge she went to visit Chrissy.
The month of June was unusually warm and sultry and, though Lizzie was fond of walking, she was surprised to find it an effort to cover the distance between her home and Tay Lodge or the Castle Bar, so she rode on the open top decks of rattling tramcars, watching the fascinating city life swarming around on the pavements beneath her.
One hot afternoon she arrived at Mr Adams’ house with her face ghastly white.
The parlourmaid who admitted her gasped, ‘Oh, ma’am, are you all right? Come and sit down.’
The servants, who knew her well because they had all been in the Adams’ service for years, hovered over her, gave her brandy and chafed her hands until she recovered. As she was preparing to return home in a cab called by the anxious Mr Adams, Mary-Ann the housekeeper patted Lizzie’s arm.
‘You’ll have to start taking things easier. When’s it due?’
That night Lizzie visited Dr McLaren and to her delight learned that the suspicions she had not allowed herself to consider were correct, she was nearly five months pregnant. It was like being given an opulent and totally unexpected gift, her heart’s desire.
As the child grew within her, she changed and softened.
When Maggy told her that Rosie was marrying a man called Big Jock Rattray who drove a brewer’s dray and delivered casks of ale to the Castle Bar, she sent a gift of a set of china to the room in the stone tower. A short note of thanks from Rosie arrived in return.
‘Rosie’ll be able to settle down now. Is she stopping work?’ Lizzie asked.
Maggy shook her head in surprise. ‘Oh no, she’s staying at Brunton’s. She doesn’t want to bide at home all day. She’d miss the company.’
Lizzie felt that Rosie had made a sensible decision to maintain her independence because Big Jock, though a handsome and convivial fellow, was fond of his beer, with a reputation for getting drunk on Saturday nights – but, she reflected, he was not alone in that.
‘Is Big Jock the father of wee Bertha?’ she asked next.
Maggy said, ‘I don’t know,’ in a tone that implied there would be no discussion of that subject.
Lizzie was surprised at how the news of Rosie’s marriage affected George. He was even more depressed than he had been when Johnny went away but that had not surprised her because the two had been friends all their lives.
Far more than Lizzie, George had been close to the Davidson household and now he felt that the family door would be closed against him. It was obvious that he did not like Big Jock.
Instead of disappearing in the evenings with his own friends, he took to visiting Lizzie at Lochee Road and sat for hours in her parlour, talking about books in a rambling sort of way. He was never entirely sober, not even during the day, and there were many nights when he drank himself into insensibility.
Her concern made her tackle him about his drinking. ‘Whisky’s not good for someone with your trouble.’
‘What trouble is that?’
‘Your chest, your weak chest,’ she said, exasperated.
‘Oh, I thought you meant my heart,’ said George with a little laugh.
‘There’s nothing wrong with your heart. The doctor Mrs Adams called in for you said you’ve a strong heart. It’s your chest that’s the problem, and weak-chested folk shouldn’t drink too much,’ scolded Lizzie.
‘Oh, don’t fuss, Lizzie,’ said George, reaching for the decanter before she could whisk it out of his reach.
Dr McLaren was growing old and about to retire from practice but he agreed to deliver Lizzie’s child because she was afraid of entrusting herself to other hands. With any luck Sam would be back from the sea when the baby was due but Lizzie and her father worked themselves into a state of panic about the birth. It took all Dr McLaren’s diplomacy and common sense to calm them.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he told Lizzie. ‘You’re as strong as a horse. I’ve known you since you were born – I delivered you, for goodness’ sake. If ever there was a woman able to bear children without trouble it’s you. I’ll look after you, Lizzie.’
Charlie, son to Sam and Lizzie, was born on an autumn morning when swallows were lining up for their migration on the branches of the apple trees of Lizzie’s little garden. His father had arrived home the day before so Charlie timed his arrival well.
As the doctor had predicted, it was an easy birth. Lizzie’s father and his young wife were keeping company with Sam in the sitting room and when it was all over, Lizzie sat up in bed like a queen holding court with her family around her. Her face radiant, she cradled the baby in delight, exclaiming over and over again at its perfection. Suddenly, as if tired by all the fuss, it burst into loud howling.
‘My word, he’s got a good strong voice. He’ll even out-yell you, Lizzie,’ said her father with a laugh.
Maggy lifted up the crying child and cuddled it to her. ‘Hush, hush,’ she soothed. ‘What is it you want? We’ll get it for you.’
Then she turned to the gathering and said, ‘He’s going to be boss, is this laddie.’
That was how Charlie got his nickname. For ever after that he was referred to as ‘the Boss’.
Lizzie enjoyed wheeling her baby in his carriage along the road to Tay Lodge where the maids enthused over Charlie while she sat with Mr Adams, or down the hill to visit Chrissy. One day she asked her young stepmother the question that always bothered her:
‘Why did you marry my father?’
She and the shy and reticent Chrissy had grown to be friends, and there was enough understanding between them for her to broach the subject. The stick-thin girl wakened the same maternal and protective feelings in her as her own baby.
Chrissy lifted her head from the Berlin work that seemed to occupy all her time. She was stitching bead eyes on to the faces of two little girls in a garden and Lizzie noticed that one of the children had a pronounced squint. Her poor young mother-in-law was not much good as an embroiderer, though Berlin work was not hard. All you had to do was follow the pattern.
‘My brothers said I ought to,’ she sighed.
Lizzie knew and disliked Chrissy’s two brothers – coarse, loud-mouthed men with mean little eyes who drank more than was good for them.
‘But you didn’t have to do what they told you.’
Another sigh. ‘They brought me up. My mother and father died when I was just a bairn. I always did what they told me. Besides, your father’s a good, kind man. He’s not a bad husband.’
Lizzie nodded, pleased. David was a kind man, but living with him could not be easy because Chrissy hardly ever saw him. Marriage had not made him give up his bachelor pursuits and he and his wife lived together as polite strangers. She languished in the sitting room above the bar like a wilting lily. At the end of the first year of marriage she became pregnant but lost the child at three months. Robust Lizzie, full of maternal pride at her own thriving child, pitied the poor lassie who had no idea what it felt like to share life with someone of her own age, a man who could be a demanding lover as well as an amusing companion. Lizzie’s Sam was her talisman against all evil, she relied on him to see her through whatever storms life threw at her. As if she was aware of Lizzie’s unspoken thoughts, Chrissy bent her head over the Berlin panel again. She did not seem to notice the disfiguring squint.
‘My brothers thought your dad had money and they knew he’d be kind to me,’ she whispered.
How ironic! Lizzie knew that David’s motive for marrying was to repair his own fortunes, but that had not happened. Her father had confided in her that the canny brothers farmed Chrissy’s lands to their own advantage, twice a year handing over a sheet of accounts that read like fiction, detailing the ravages of bad harvests, blight, dishonest workers and poor springs that rotted the crops in seed. The farm income of which he’d had high hopes turned out to be little more than Lizzie paid Maggy.
‘But surely you weren’t in need of money. You’ve your share of the farm. It’s yours, isn’t it? You could sell it if you wanted?’ she asked Chrissy.
The girl glanced up under her brows at David’s imposing daughter, so confident in herself, so smartly dressed, so secure in the love of her handsome husband, so unaware of what it was like to be the pawn of others.
‘When I married your father I hadn’t come of age to inherit. My father’s will said that I wasn’t to have my share till I was thirty. By that time my brothers’ll have made sure there’s not much left.’ Her voice was hopeless.
Lizzie felt exasperation when she heard this recital. Chrissy lacked backbone. She’s one of life’s victims, she thought with despair.
As she was gathering her things together and dressing the baby in preparation for returning home, her father arrived in a great flurry, smelling of cigars and pomade – and something else. Lizzie sniffed suspiciously. Yes, she was right – brandy!
He had aged a great deal recently. For a long time he looked younger than his years but almost overnight his hair and neat beard had gone white. He was still tall and straight but his complexion had reddened and there was a frailty about him that had not been there before. Advancing age had not slowed him down however and he went racketing around town as usual, though the expeditions to the country were not so frequent. He had been badly shaken when one of the Keillers, his particular friend and a man younger than himself, died suddenly; but later that death seemed to make him more determined to live his own life to the full and enjoy every moment.
His cigars were still the best Havanas, his suiting exquisite, his cob always perfectly groomed and his gig glossy. He owed bills left, right and centre but his creditors were so impressed by his appearance that they never worried about their money.
All this ran through his daughter’s mind as she watched him stepping gaily over the carpet to kiss his wife’s cheek and then pay the same respect to her. Under his arm he was holding a large, flat circular package carelessly wrapped in tattered brown paper. Seeing her eyes on it, he laid it reverently on the table.
‘I’ve got a real treasure here, girls, just wait till you see this!’
Like a child at Christmas, he tore off the paper to reveal a beautiful silver platter, larger than a big dinner plate and embossed with a raised design round the rim and in the centre.
Lizzie, who was always eager to inspect her father’s finds, ran over to look at the platter more closely. The raised design showed a woman’s head in profile with long, loose hair streaming down her back. A bouquet of large trumpet lilies flourished in her hand. The workmanship was superb and the romantic, flowing design was very unusual.
‘How lovely,’ she sighed, tracing the woman’s face with one finger.
David was smiling as he watched her. ‘You’ve got taste, my Lizzie. You can tell a fine thing when you see it. This is the very latest thing from Paris and it’s solid silver. The design’s by an artist called Alphonse Mucha. He’ll make a name for himself that fellow, mark my words. My brother found it in an auction and I just had to buy it.’
But Lizzie was frowning as she inspected the rim of the platter. Her finger had picked out a dent.
‘Oh, what a pity. It’s dented!’ she said.
David hurriedly put his hand over the offending mark, muttering, ‘That doesn’t matter. It can be hammered out by a silversmith. Look at that design.’
But Lizzie, annoying as ever, would keep on about the dent. It was almost as if she guessed he’d dropped the treasured dish out of the gig as he was driving home. If his damned pony hadn’t shied at the tramcar on Union Street, it would never have happened.
You couldn’t hide things from Lizzie, though. She looked up at him and asked accusingly, ‘Did you make that dent?’
He nodded like a shamefaced little boy.
‘You shouldn’t drink brandy during the day. You’re as bad as George!’ she said disapprovingly.
Since 1860 the fortunes of the city of Dundee had been steadily rising. With each year more mills were built, more new buildings appeared, the docks and the railway system were enlarged and trade of every kind boomed. So it was a sore shock, in the last decade of the century, when a depression hit the jute trade. As if the fates were not content to leave it at that, whaling also suffered a series of bad years. A city that had grown accustomed to prosperity shuddered, and it was the poor who felt the cold wind first.
Sam had been sailing with Captain Jacobs for nine years. As mate of the Pegasus his share of the profits was larger than the other crewmen’s, but although the ship was one of the most successful of the Dundee fleet, in 1898 and 1899 it was a struggle for his family to survive six months on what he brought home. He and Lizzie lived in the hope that next season would be a better one and she, money wise because of her lessons from Mr Adams, eked out their spending with care.
Sam always handed over his earnings to her and she deposited them in a savings bank at the corner of Dens Road. It gave her real pleasure when the manager came beaming out of his office to speak to her and one day he even offered her a glass of sherry, signifying that Mrs Kinge was a customer of consequence. She relished security and while other women read magazines or novels in their leisure hours, she added up her bank book, reckoning the interest due on it. Her afternoons were spent conferring over the financial columns with her old friend in Tay Lodge.
Mr Adams was overtaken by frailty and rarely went out of the house. Lizzie was concerned when George’s conversation showed her how lax was the management of Green Tree Mill.
‘The men in the office don’t bother looking for work. They’re all growing old and don’t want to be bothered, like Mr Adams himself. Most of the young fellows in the office spend their days reading the newspapers or throwing paper darts at each other,’ he told her.
She debated bringing the matter up with Mr Adams but decided against it when she saw how weary he looked as he half sat, half lay in his easy chair in the bow window overlooking the river. Enough money was coming in to keep him in comfort for his remaining years. It was not her concern what happened after that.
‘Don’t you wish you were doing something else?’ she asked her brother when he talked about his idle days at work.
He shrugged. ‘Not really. Look what happened to Johnny Davidson.’
She was interested. ‘What happened to him?’
‘I had a letter last week. He had a hard time when he got to New York. He said he was homesick for Dundee. Then he went to Chicago to find his Uncle Tommy. That was terrible. His uncle was living in a worse slum than the Vaults and working in the meat market – all noise and blood and killing. It nearly drove Johnny daft.’
‘Is he coming home then?’ she asked.
George shook his head. ‘Not him. He’s off to San Francisco. He says it’s sunny there and you can pick oranges in the street.’
‘Oh, poor Johnny,’ sighed Lizzie, remembering the boy with such high hopes of making his fortune. She was holding her son Charlie on her knee as she listened to George and hugged him to her, hoping in her heart that he would never be driven away from his native land by hunger.
He had grown into a bonny boy with fair curly hair and ingenuous blue eyes that gave no hint of the mischief inside his head. He looked very like Lizzie’s father and according to his mother and her maid he was without doubt the finest child ever born.
Day and daily they leaned over his cot in adoration, remarking on his handsomeness. When he squawled, they said it was a sign of spirit; when he smiled they took it that he was bestowing his personal benison on them.
When the little boy threw a tantrum, Lizzie’s father always said, ‘My word, that’s just like his mother! You went on the same way when you were wee, Lizzie. Remember the time you broke my Meissen figurine? You’ll have some fights with that one when he’s bigger.’
Sometimes Lizzie felt guilty when she took Charlie down to visit Chrissy at the Castle Bar where the girl was still stitching away at her embroidery like the Lady of Shalott in Tennyson’s poem. She longed for a child and when Lizzie watched her playing with Charlie she remembered the hunger to hold a baby that had once consumed her too. Poor Chrissy suffered a series of miscarriages. She could carry babies three months but no longer, it seemed, and each disappointment left her more bloodless and transparent than before.
Like Lizzie, George had become fond of Chrissy and often when she and Charlie visited, she found her brother keeping his stepmother company. He was still drinking, still low in spirits, but Chrissy seemed to be able to soothe him. Lizzie often wondered what they talked about when they were alone.
One evening when she was with Chrissy, George came rushing in, pounding one fist against the other as he said fiercely, ‘Chrissy, he’s done it again! He’s a brute. Her face is black and blue and the marks on her arms are terrible. It’s a miracle he didn’t kill her.’
Chrissy put down her embroidery frame and made soothing noises while Lizzie gazed from one to the other in amazement. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Rosie – your Maggy’s sister. She’s been having a lot of trouble with that man she married. George found her bleeding in the courtyard last week and took her to the doctor. Surely he’s not done it again, George?’
‘He’s run off but if I could get my hands on him, I’d kill him.’
Lizzie, remembering the size of Jock Rattray, counselled, ‘You’d best leave things alone. Don’t get involved. Rosie’s a big strong woman, well able to look after herself.’
‘Not against Big Jock,’ said George angrily.
Later, as she slowly walked home holding her son’s hand, Lizzie thought about George’s outrage. How upset he’d been: But he’s always been close to the Davidsons. They’re like brother and sisters to him and Rosie’s the only one left at home in the Vaults… Rosie and wee Bertha.
Bertha was such a bonny child, who looked too fine and well bred to be a bairn of the Vaults. I wonder who fathered Bertha, said Lizzie to herself, not for the first time.
Bad times and good go in cycles, and in 1900 trade began to take an upturn and the whaling catches improved. The jute mills were working overtime because of the war with the Boers and it looked as if a golden future stretched ahead for everybody. Even Chrissy seemed stronger and more vigorous when she announced that she was pregnant. By the time she told Lizzie, she had managed to go for four months without mishap. Delighted by this news and affected by the enthusiasm that comes to women when their friends are pregnant, Lizzie began to plan a second baby herself.
‘It’s time Charlie had a brother or a sister. He’s going to be far too spoiled if he’s an only child,’ she told Sam.
A month later, however, Chrissy aborted again.
Lizzie was disappointed not to become pregnant herself by the time Sam set off for the 1902 whaling season but she consoled herself: There’s plenty of time. I’m still young.
In Sam’s absence she spent even more time with Mr Adams than before but the old man was too tired now to be subjected to the noise and energy of Charlie and, in the afternoons when his mother went to Tay Lodge he was given into the care of Maggy.
‘You’ve not to take him into the Vaults,’ Lizzie always warned when Maggy was sent out to walk the boy in his sailor suit and straw hat.
The demure pleasures of public parks however were too tame for Charlie. He preferred the Vaults where a crowd of young hooligans kicked tin cans to and fro on the cobbles. It was not difficult for him to persuade Maggy to ignore his mother’s ban and while she visited her sister and their friends in the rabbit warren of houses, he played with the boys till his face was filthy, his knees bleeding and his white suit stained and dirty.
It was then that panic set in with both of them. Maggy had to stand her charge in a bucket of water in Rosie’s home and wash him, wailing all the time, ‘What’ll your ma say?’
‘I don’t know what the fuss is all about,’ Rosie said when she came home from the mills, ‘he’s just normal. He’s a wild little devil.’
‘His ma thinks it’s dangerous for him here,’ said Maggy, frantically brushing at the stains on the sailor suit.
‘Dangerous for him? If you ask me the Vaults should be protected from Charlie and not the other way about,’ laughed Rosie.
When his games were over Charlie liked falling asleep on Maggy’s lap while she and Rosie sat gossiping and sipping tea. Sometimes, though his eyes were closed, his ears were pricked and he was taking in everything that was said, and occasionally chipping in with his own comments.
He exerted his will over the malleable Maggy by a mixture of affection and threats, winding his arms round her neck and kissing her apple cheek. If that did not work, he threatened her.
‘You mustn’t tell Ma I’ve been playing with the boys. If you do I’ll tell her about your beau.’
Maggy flushed scarlet at this. ‘Don’t be daft. I haven’t got a beau.’
Charlie rolled his blue eyes at Rosie. ‘Yes you have. I saw you talking to that man in the apron next door. That’s your beau, Maggy.’
Maggy was incapable of prevarication. ‘That’s only a man doing carpentry work for our neighbour,’ she protested, but young as he was Charlie knew he had her in his power.
Rosie’s interest was caught by their exchange. ‘What’s all this?’
Maggy was flustered. ‘It’s just a fellow doing some carpentry work for our neighbour. His name’s Willie Brewster. Anyway, you can’t speak! Not with what you’re doing.’
Something told Charlie that if he was to pretend to go to sleep there would be an interesting exchange between the sisters so he closed his eyes, lolled his golden head – and listened. In fact he did fall asleep eventually and in time he was wakened by Maggy.
‘It’s time we went home. Your dad’s ship’s coming in soon. You have to go to bed early so’s you’re not tired when he comes back.’
They walked home up the steep Hawkhill, pausing at the windows of Charlie’s favourite shops. He liked walking with Maggy because she never hauled him past the best stopping places – the confectioners with jars of multicoloured Keillers’ boiled sweets; the corner toy shop where painted tops, china-headed dolls and a huge wooden Noah’s Ark filled the many-paned window. He loved that Noah’s Ark and stopped to gaze at it with his face pressed to the glass. The tiny animals were so lifelike, striped zebras, a grey elephant and his mate, a pair of growling tigers… ‘Oh my, I’d like that,’ sighed Charlie.
‘Maybe your ma’ll buy it when your da’s ship gets in,’ said Maggy, because Lizzie was given to wild gestures of generosity when Sam came home. She gently tugged at the boy’s arm to prise him away from the window. ‘Come on now, we’re awful late, your ma’ll be worried.’
That night when Charlie was being bathed, he said to his mother, ‘I think Uncle George’s awful lucky to live in the Vaults. I’d like to live there.’
Lizzie was soaping his back and she laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Charlie. Your uncle George doesn’t live in the Vaults.’
‘He does,’ said Charlie, sticking out his lip.
‘He doesn’t.’
‘He does. He lives with Rosie and Bertha. Rosie told Maggy today.’
His mother tried to assure herself that he was talking nonsense. He’d misunderstood something he’d heard. But then, Charlie was so definite and he was not often wrong… She resolved to question George on the matter the next day.
She was sitting with Chrissy, who was pregnant again, on the following evening when George came home from work. She heard him rummaging about in his bedroom, then he came through with a carpet bag. When he spotted his sister he looked put out.
‘Are you going away somewhere?’ she asked, staring at the bulging bag.
‘I’ve my own life to live, Lizzie,’ he said defensively.
‘I never said you hadn’t. Where are you going?’
‘I’m moving out and I’m not going far, just to the other side of the road.’
She furrowed her brows as if trying to visualize the layout of Castle Street. ‘Let’s see,’ she said. ‘There’s the savings bank opposite and then that line of shops. Are you going to lodge with someone?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then where are you going?’ she demanded.
George shrugged, looking at Chrissy who had her head bent over her sewing as if trying to make herself invisible. Lizzie felt sure Chrissy knew all about George’s plans, and was angry that she had not been let into their secret.
‘You might as well know but you’ll not like it. I’m going to live in the Vaults,’ he said.
So Charlie was right. How awful to be told such news by her four-year-old son! She clutched her throat as if George had dealt her a blow.
‘The Vaults! The slums. You can’t. What about your chest?’
George snorted. ‘I’m tired hearing about my chest. My chest’s all right. I wish you’d stop treating me like an invalid. I’ve got another life and I like it better.’
Lizzie would not leave well alone. ‘Where about in the Vaults are you going?’
‘You might as well know that too. It’ll be out soon anyway. I’m moving in with Rosie Davidson. I’ve wanted to do that for years.’
She stared at her brother. It was almost impossible to imagine him with Rosie. He was so thin and quiet, Rosie so large and noisy. Then she remembered the fine blondeness of Bertha.
‘Rosie’s bairn isn’t yours, is she?’ she asked in disbelief.
He nodded. ‘She is.’ He seemed proud to be able to claim Bertha.
‘But… but you must have been a bairn yourself when…’
‘When I fathered her, you mean? I was seventeen.’
‘Did you deny the bairn was yours?’ asked an astonished Lizzie.
‘Of course not. I’m proud she’s mine. She’s a grand wee lassie. It’s Rosie that wouldn’t let on. She didn’t take me seriously. It was just a bit of a lark for her – she didn’t expect to get pregnant. I asked her over and over to marry me but she went off and married that brute who beat her up instead.’
It seemed impossible to Lizzie that Rosie Davidson from the slums would refuse to marry her brother.
‘Why?’
‘You may well ask,’ said George. ‘Maybe she didn’t want the Mudies looking down on her.’
‘You don’t mean me, do you?’ asked Lizzie. She and Rosie had never hidden their dislike for each other and Maggy’s sister was always keenly aware of the gulf that Lizzie felt divided her family from the Davidsons. ‘She didn’t want me looking down on her?’ she asked again.
‘That was part of it,’ he agreed, ‘but there was more than that. She educated me in sex like she’d give a bairn a sweetie but I fell in love with her – I think I’ve always been in love with her. She’s awful independent is Rosie. Then she went and married that carter. I took to the drink then, I was so miserable.’
‘Is she going to marry you now?’
George shook his head. ‘No. She says one wedding’s enough for her. Rattray’s gone off with another woman, though, and I’m going to live with Rosie. She’s fond of me – and I love her.’
Lizzie’s thoughts were jumbled and angry. First of them was that Rosie Davidson had some cheek treating her brother like a toy dog. Then she was angry that Rosie was dragging George down to her level. Maybe if Rosie and Bertha could be persuaded to leave the Vaults and dressed up a bit, they’d pass as respectable… She considered suggesting this but a look at George’s face warned her against it.
‘Oh my God, I don’t know what to think,’ she sighed.
‘It doesn’t really matter what anybody thinks,’ said George, ‘I’m going to live with Rosie.’