DAVIE MENMUIR’S STARCHED COLLAR THREATENED to rub a line on his neck. He stuck his calloused fingers inside it to try to ease the stiffness. That was better. It was the Sunday tie; how he wished he could take it off. He had his Sunday suit on, too, and he was carrying a parcel and, quite frankly, he felt a bit of a fool.
There was a surprising number of men visiting the Dundee Hospital for Women, but only a few were there to see new babies, as most babies were born at home. Davie moved across the antiseptic waiting room to position himself beside another man. That way, he thought, he could blend in better. He hated the antiseptic smell. It made him remember the trenches and the military hospital. It made him remember pain and, more importantly, fear, and he did not want to be reminded of the fear. It was strange to think that the selfsame smell could be associated with birth.
The other man held up his parcel to Davie. ‘Wallace’s pie for the missus,’ he said. ‘She hates the food here. She’s dying for a beer too, but I was scared to risk it.’
The door opened before Davie had an opportunity to explain the contents of his own brown-paper parcel, and the nurse appeared. She was as starched from head to toe as Davie was around his neck and he stood awkwardly, his bonnet in his hand. How clean she looked, how efficient. Perhaps she wouldn’t let him in.
The nurse did not smile. She looked them over one by one, and each expectant visitor was left feeling inadequate in some way.
‘Dae ye think she’s starched underneath as well?’ whispered the man next to Davie. ‘If this is the nurse, God helps us all when the matron sees us dirtying up her nice clean hospital.’
‘This is a hospital,’ said the nurse, glaring at them both, ‘not a variety hall.’ Suddenly she stopped as a loud ‘atchoo’ split the frozen air. ‘Who sneezed? No one with a cold may come in. How old are you, miss?’ She swooped on a girl who stood with her mother.
‘Thirteen, miss.’
‘Too young. Come, the rest of you. No more than two to a bed and do not, I repeat, do not touch the beds at all. When the bell rings, do not dawdle. Leave at once.’
‘Righto, sergeant,’ said the happy-go-lucky man beside Davie. Davie admired his bravery. The nurse did not.
‘Mr Menmuir?’
Davie clutched his parcel. She was looking out for him. Why?
‘Yes, nurse,’ he said.
She smiled graciously. ‘Mrs Cameron has been moved out of the general ward to the room that Dr Currie reserves for her private and special patients. If you will follow me.’
Thankful that he had asked his mother to put a crease in his trousers, Davie followed the starched back down a long corridor, through some swinging doors and into yet another corridor.
‘Mrs Cameron is in room B. She may have her young man with her . . .’
Davie held out his hands for inspection, as he had done all those years ago at school, and the nurse smiled gently. ‘It never occurred to me that your hands would be dirty, Mr Menmuir. I was just going to ask you if you were the one who sneezed. We don’t want our young man catching a bad cold, do we? No? Then in you go. I think Miss Cameron is there too.’
Victoria was indeed in the room but Davie had eyes for no one but Catriona. She was lying back against the pillows and, to him, she looked like the young girl who had come to Priory Farm twenty years before. He felt awkward. He had never seen her with her hair down, and he had certainly never seen her in a nightgown. He blushed and she smiled at him and held out her hand.
‘Well, Davie, have you come to see the bairn?’
‘Aye, and your good self.’ Somewhat nervously he handed her the parcel. ‘The lady at Draffens said it was quite respectable and fitting to buy this.’
Catriona had undone the string and opened the parcel. In her hands she held a fine knitted shawl. It had cost Davie a princely 14s 11d and he had swithered between the shawl and a lovely bedjacket at the same price, but had decided, in the end, that the jacket was too intimate a gift.
Catriona held the soft wool between her fingers and did not look up.
He panicked. ‘It’s to put round yer shoulders, but if ye don’t like it . . .’
She looked up and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. ‘It’s the finest shawl I’ve ever had, Davie, and I’m proud to put it round my shoulders.’
Victoria smiled as she thought of the drawer full of Catriona’s own exquisite hand-knitted creations.
‘And what about this young man?’ she asked Davie, who was still gazing in a tongue-tied way at Catriona. ‘Have you no time for him?’
For the first time Davie noticed the little crib near the window.
‘Isn’t Dr Currie wonderful?’ Victoria went on. ‘Mother gets to have Baby . . .’ She stopped and laughed with delight. ‘We can’t keep calling him Baby. We will have to choose a name for him. Think, Mother. Will you call him after one of the royal princes?’
Catriona shook her head. She had had plenty of time to think of a name for her baby. ‘Andrew, I thought,’ she said. ‘A good, strong Scottish name and all his own, no one else’s.’
Victoria leaned over the crib. ‘Hello, Andrew,’ she said softly and picked up the tiny shawl-wrapped bundle. ‘Here, Davie, do you want a shot? He won’t break, you know,’ she added, as she saw the look of mingled hope and dismay on Davie’s face.
‘Pretend he’s a lamb, Davie,’ said Catriona.
‘What, and throw the pair wee soul over my shoulder? No, I’m no frightened tae touch him, just amazed at the wholeness if him. Would ye look at the fingernails.’
‘Mrs Cameron. I’m sorry to disturb at visiting hours but there are forms to be filled in.’ It was the nurse again. She read off Catriona’s name, address and date of birth. ‘The father’s details aren’t down here, Mrs Cameron. I take it our gallant soldier is still at the Front.’
Catriona and Victoria looked at one another.
‘No, he’s not at the Front, nurse, he’s . . .’
‘My wee brother and I have no father, nurse,’ said Victoria firmly. ‘You may just leave that bit blank.’
Catriona looked at Davie, and she saw the love and tenderness in his eyes as he held the infant in his arms and gently soothed him. He looked up and smiled at her, and Victoria saw the look that passed between them.
‘Mother?’ she questioned.
‘Maybe you’re wrong, Victoria,’ said Catriona, although she still gazed at Davie. ‘Maybe wee Andrew is going to have a daddy, after all.’
The nurse was becoming impatient. She could sense the atmosphere in the room, but she had too much work to do to wait while these people ironed out their lives.
‘That’s all very nice,’ she said, ‘but there’s still a space on my form.’
‘Menmuir,’ said Davie, but the beaming smile on his face was directed at Catriona. ‘David Menmuir, Esquire.’