The Good Provider (32 page)

‘But the hours? The shifts are terrible, aren’t they?’

‘No worse than they are for a farm hand in the height o’ the season.’ Craig propped himself up and grinned. ‘I’ll be part of a fine body o’ men, Kirsty. What’s more I’ll soon climb the ladder. You’ll see, I’ll soon get promotion.’

‘You talk as if it’s all cut and dried.’

‘It is, near as damn it.’

Kirsty experienced the lure of the job through him, could understand its attraction for her husband. But she was just glad that he had wrested, somehow, eleven shillings from Maitland Moss. Added to her wage from Oswalds’ it gave them an extra seventeen shillings in the kitty, money that might come in useful in the weeks ahead, especially if Mr Affleck would not agree to propose Craig for the Burgh Force.

‘Come over here.’ Craig held out one arm, beckoningly.

She crossed the kitchen to the bedside. The bruises where he had been struck by Danny Malone were dulled now but still extensive, spreading across his shoulder and upper chest, tan and purple. He did not seem to feel the pain, however.

It was three weeks since last they had made love. She did not know how to explain to him that her need for loving had waxed not waned with the changes in her body. Doctor Godwin had informed her that there was no danger to health in ‘that sort of thing’ until the fifth month. She looked down at Craig, at the bare flesh of his belly, at hard muscle and soft dark hair.

He slipped an arm about her waist, grinning.

‘I want you to go an’ see her,’ Craig said.

‘What?’

‘Your pal, Mrs Frew. Go an’ call on her tomorrow.’

‘Is she not in hospital?’

‘I expect she’s out by now,’ Craig said. ‘Malone didn’t hit her all that hard. Anyway, it’s worth a try.’

‘She may not want to see either of us ever again, after what happened,’ said Kirsty.

‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ said Craig. ‘Butter her up a bit.’

‘But why?’

‘So she’ll persuade her bloody brother to write that letter.’

‘Why don’t you just write to him at the Glasgow Police Office?’

‘Nah, nah; a letter like that could easily get lost, if you see what I mean. I want to be sure I get that recommendation. God, our whole future hangs on it.’

In his present cocksure mood there was no trace of apprehension, yet Kirsty sensed it at the back of his eagerness to be incorporated into the police force, to be protected by the rank and file of the law.

She said, ‘I’d intended to go to St Anne’s tomorrow. I’ll call in at Number 19 on my way home.’

‘Good,’ he said, nodding.

He eased himself down a little on the bed, resting the bruised arm and side. For a moment she thought that he was dropping off to sleep. She did not, however, seek to slip away, to return to her chores at the sink. To her surprise he placed his hand upon her stomach caressingly.

‘I – I thought you didn’t like that,’ she said.

‘Slip your hand down an’ you’ll see whether I like it.’

Kirsty hesitated then did as he requested. She touched the crisp black hair, the stem of his maleness which was both stiff and soft at one and the same time.

She said, ‘Do you want me to take my clothes off?’

‘No.’

‘It’s safe, Craig. The doctor told—’

‘Just – just touch me.’

Again she hesitated, but she could not refuse him, could not resist. She shut off her own need for tenderness and did all that he asked of her, wondering where he had learned these sexual tricks, until he quivered and gasped and expended himself.

‘God!’ he groaned. ‘You did that well, Kirsty. Must be in the blood.’

A sudden sick feeling gripped her in the pit of the stomach. She stiffened, swung round, a moistened towel in her hands. ‘
What
did you say?’

‘Nothin’, dear. I enjoyed it, that’s all.’

‘What did you
mean
?’

‘Nothin’, nothin’.’

‘You meant – you meant my
mother
.’

‘Nah, nah. I wasn’t thinkin’.’

‘You
never
think,’ she shouted. ‘You just open your fat mouth an’—’

‘God, what’s wrong wi’ you now?’

He turned on his side, drew the blanket modestly over his bare backside. Kirsty pitched the towel into the sink. The pot that had contained the dinner-time potatoes was there, half filled with cold water. Before she quite knew what she was doing she had hoisted it up by the handle, had taken four quick angry steps towards the bed and had hurled the contents over him in a great cold wave.

Craig yelled, shot to his knees as if he expected the pot to follow. He clutched the soaking blanket to his loins and shook water from his hair. ‘You bitch!’

‘So you think my mother was a whore, do you?’

‘She bloody was,’ Craig shouted. ‘It’s the bloody truth.’

The pot struck the wall above his head and thudded on to the bedding. Dragging the blanket with him Craig sought shelter in a corner of the recess, crouched, ready to leap away if she attacked him with another utensil.

What wounded Kirsty most of all was the fact that Craig did not realise how much he had hurt her. She did not know him at all; this was not the boy with whom she had left Carrick, with whom she had lain down in love on that sunny spring Sunday.

She stamped into the hallway, yanked open the cupboard.

Craig shouted, ‘What the hell is wrong wi’ you, Kirsty Barnes?’

She stamped in from the hall again, buttoning a clean blouse over her breasts.

‘
Nicholson
,’ she cried. ‘My name is
Nicholson
.’

Relieved, Craig sank back against the wall. The lack of motive behind her attack had disturbed him. Now he thought that he understood.

‘So that’s what all the song an’ dance is about,’ he said.

‘What song an’ dance?’

‘You’re mad because I haven’t married you yet.’

She stepped into the powder-blue skirt, hooked it up, thrust herself into the bolero jacket. She reached for the hat she had put upon the table, a frivolous item, relic of daft April days, days that had been put behind her and would never be redeemed.

‘If that’s all it is,’ said Craig, ‘I’ll marry you next week.’

‘No, you will not,’ Kirsty said, flatly and without heat.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t want to marry you.’

‘But – but you’re expectin’.’

She flung open the kitchen door, almost striking him.

‘You should have thought o’ that before.’

‘I’m thinkin’ of it now, damn it, Kirsty.’

‘Well, you’re too damned late.’ She kicked her shoes out from under the table and hopped into them. ‘An’ change that bed before I get back; it’s soakin’.’

‘Where – where are you goin’?’

‘Out,’ she said. ‘Out for a walk – by myself.’

She went straight from Canada Road to the Kelvin Tea Room, invested a penny in the ladies’ convenience there, seated herself on the pedestal and had a good cry in private; then she dried her tears, washed her face, tidied her hair, bought a cup of tea and a coffee bun, finished them and went out into bustling Dumbarton Road once more.

She knew where she was going, though it was not Craig’s command that turned her towards Walbrook Street but bad conscience.

In response to Kirsty’s tug upon the bell, the door was opened by a stranger, a woman of forty-two or -three, plump, with lustrous dark eyes and a small sensual mouth touched with a cherry rouge. She wore a tight-fitting Chesterfield coat that showed off her full figure and a stiff white shirt with a string bow tie in the collar. In one hand she carried a hat, a tiny ‘French brimless’. It was apparent that she had either just arrived at Mrs Frew’s house or was just about to take her leave.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve called to enquire after Mrs Frew,’ said Kirsty.

‘Oh, she’s not so bad, not so bad.’

The woman spoke with a trace of soft Irish.

‘May I – may I see her?’ said Kirsty.

‘Are you Kirsty Nicholson, by any chance?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Thought you might be,’ said the woman. ‘Do step into the hall. Nessie’s havin’ a lie down.’

‘Is she hurt badly?’

‘Not so bad as all that,’ said the woman. ‘She’s more shocked than injured, I’d say. She has a hard head, has Nessie. It runs in the family. I’m Beatrice Affleck, by the way. I believe you’ve encountered my husband.’

‘Superintendent Affleck?’

‘The one and only.’

‘Oh, yes, I know him.’

The woman smiled warmly. ‘Have you got a touch of conscience about all this?’

‘Yes, I have,’ Kirsty admitted.

‘It wasn’t your fault. It was that daft husband of mine. He should never have got Nessie involved with criminals.’

‘Where’s Cissie?’

‘It was all too much for Cissie, poor soul. She handed in her notice without even collectin’ her wages.’

‘Who’s lookin’ after Mrs Frew?’

‘I am,’ Beatrice Affleck said. ‘Sort of.’

‘Does she not need constant nursin’?’

‘She’ll not have a stranger in the house. You know what she’s like.’

Encouraged by the woman’s friendliness, Kirsty smiled. ‘Only too well.’

‘I suppose you do want to see her?’

‘If it’s convenient.’

‘Wait here. I’ll “announce” you.’

Bea Affleck went into the ground-floor bedroom which lay to the right of the private parlour. Kirsty waited nervously in the hall. From within the room came the frail murmur of voice, a little cough, a little cry.

Mrs Affleck returned. ‘You’re honoured. Follow me.’

Agnes Frew was propped up in bed by a pile of lace-edged pillows. The room was as gloomy as the rest of the house. The monolithic window that overlooked the backcourt was partly curtained by a dark velvet drape and, through its folds, Kirsty glimpsed another glass-painting, not a saint but a sailing-boat. The bed was as narrow as a coffin. It floated on a sea of shadow, for the fire had only just been coaled and gas- and oil-lamps not yet lighted. The room was so funereal that it might have been the setting for a wake and not a convalescence.

‘Go closer,’ whispered Mrs Affleck. ‘She won’t bite.’

The lace-trimmed bed-jacket and the lace cap that covered the widow’s hair had the ivory hue of shroud linen. Her pinched features were bloodless, motionless hands were folded on the sheet that covered her bosom. Her eyes were closed.

‘Mrs Frew,’ said Kirsty. ‘Mrs Frew, it’s me.’

There was no response, not a flutter of lids, not a purl of breath. She might have been dead.

‘I’m real sorry to see you like this.’

Under the bed-cap’s lace edge a bandage was visible.

In a loud voice Beatrice Affleck said, ‘Nessie, say hello to your visitor.’

On the bedside table were a fluted crystal wine glass, a silver pillbox, a jug of water, a Bible, spectacles, a bottle of yellow medicine and a sepia photograph in a scrolled silver frame; Mr Frew, big and solemn, posed against a Grecian urn in a jungle of potted plants.

‘Come along, Nessie,’ said Mrs Affleck. ‘You’re not deaf.’

An eyelid flickered, opened; an eye surveyed the world.

Agnes Frew said, ‘Oh, so you came, did you?’

Beatrice Affleck sighed. ‘I’ll make some tea, Nessie, shall I?’ Without awaiting a reply she left the bedroom.

Kirsty stood her ground, though she was sufficiently intimidated to wish to follow Mrs Affleck out of the room too.

She cleared her throat. ‘Does it – does your head hurt?’

Mrs Frew managed to say, ‘One gets used to sufferin’.’

Now that she had both eyes open, she seemed rather removed from ultimate martyrdom. ‘We are all born into the world to suffer an’ I have had my fair share of it.’

‘Doesn’t the medicine help the pain?’

‘It cannot soothe the pain in my heart, the pain of bein’ deceived by my own flesh and blood.’

‘It wasn’t really Mr Affleck’s fault,’ said Kirsty.

‘Did
she
tell you to say that?’

‘The man who hit you was a savage, Mrs Frew. He might have killed people if your brother hadn’t caught him.’

‘He might have killed me.’

‘Craig – my husband – wouldn’t have let him do that.’

Mrs Frew struggled up on the pillows. ‘Tell me the truth, Kirsty; did Hughie deliberately send your husband in with the villains to protect me?’

Kirsty did not hesitate. ‘Aye, of course he did.’

‘That was brave.’

‘It was fortunate,’ said Kirsty.

‘Did Hughie tell you to come here today?’

‘I came of my own accord,’ said Kirsty, ‘because I was worried about you.’