The Day She Cradled Me Page 11

  ‘She can stay here with me.’ Mother leans across her swelling belly and puts her hand on my knee. ‘She’s good around the house.’

  Father picks up a chunk of bread and plunges it into the hot broth. Liquid splashes from his bowl across the table. ‘You’ve got Elizabeth here most of the day, woman. You’re getting soft. Soft and lazy.’

  ‘She’s fine company is all.’

  ‘I said the girl needs some schooling, and that’s what she’s getting. If she doesn’t cause trouble, that is.’ He turns to me with a scathing look. ‘Else you’ll be up at that mill quicker than my belt across your backside. Do I make myself clear?’

  Mr Murray of Mr Murray’s School looks like a spider. His back is hunched at the shoulders and he has long crooked limbs. Over his head is a curly white wig; small round spectacles perch on the end of his nose. I am waiting for them to be cleaned to his liking — surely he will wear a hole in the glass if he continues much longer, and that will be my fault too.

  ‘You would like to what?’ he says again.

  ‘I would like you to teach me to write.’

  ‘I see,’ he says. He nods. He pinches his lips together. ‘You have been here a total of twelve minutes, and already you are telling me what I am to do and the way in which I am to do it. I see. Well, since this is your first day with us, I shall overlook your outburst and your insolent manner. Hmm. So I am to teach you to write. And what good will that do you, exactly?’

  I shuffle uncomfortably. There are giggles behind me.

  ‘Quiet!’ Mr Murray’s face is red; he lowers it down so it’s close to mine. He has tobacco breath. ‘Girls don’t need to write.’ He taps my nose with his finger. ‘They need to sew and knit and cook so as to improve their chances of finding some useful form of employment. Do you know what that means, Miss Isabella McCulloch?’

  I cringe and shake my head.

  Mr Murray puts his hand to his temple and rubs his brow. ‘It means,’ he says, ‘that I will not be teaching you to write. It is not something required of you. While you are here, you will listen to what I say and do the lessons I prescribe. Do I make myself clear?’

  I nod.

  ‘I repeat, Isabella, do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, if you will kindly return to your bench we can begin today’s lesson.’

  Mr Murray walks past the rows of benches and stands at the front beside his chalkboard. He selects a long piece of chalk and raises his hand, pausing mid-air. ‘Whatever is it now, child?’ he says over his shoulder. ‘Have I not made myself perfectly clear? What can be so undeniably important that you must interrupt a second time?’

  I lower my arm. ‘My name, sir.’

  ‘Your name? You don’t like it? It is too long? Or too short? Perhaps you would like to tell me to change it for you?’

  ‘No. I just wanted to say that you got it incorrect, sir.’

  ‘I got it incorrect?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My name is not Isabella.’

  He lowers his hand. The chalk clatters to the floor.

  ‘That was the name of my sister, sir.’ I wait several moments. ‘Sir?’

  Mr Murray turns. His face is a strange colour, a mix of purple and blue.

  ‘My name, sir, is Williamina.’ I wait a moment for some sort of response, but none is forthcoming so I add, ‘Of course, you can call me Minnie, if you like.’

  Mr Murray’s School is a dim open space separated into four sections: three for boys and one — the smallest and at the very back — for girls. I run my hand over the red cover of my Bible, which is smeared with finger marks, not clean and bright like the ones in church. Mr Murray speaks on the Virtues of Respecting One’s Elders; he reads from his Bible, stops to look in my direction, asks a boy a question and then continues.

  ‘Why does he only question the boys?’ I ask a girl with long plaited hair who is sitting beside me. She doesn’t reply, so I raise my voice a little, only to be hushed by the woman standing at the end of our row. That must be Miss McKillop, who Janet used to talk about. She raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t look especially kind and generous to me.

  We put away our Bibles and Miss McKillop hands each girl her piece of sewing. ‘Are you familiar with the use of a needle?’

  I shake my head and look to the front of the class. ‘I want to learn same as them.’ Each boy has a slate and is practising the correct way to form the letter h. ‘I can already write my name. And other letters. If you’ll let me sit behind —’ I start to rise from my seat.

  ‘I’m sorry, Williamina. You heard Mr Murray. Girls are here to learn other skills. I have some cloth ready for you to try. It’s simple — look, I’ll show you.’ She pushes her needle in and out of the fabric. ‘See?’ She passes the sewing to me. ‘If you need assistance, then Lara will help you. She’s quite an accomplished sewer.’ The girl with long hair smiles and I smile back. ‘I will return soon to see how you have managed.’

  Lara turns to me and scowls. ‘Keep out of my way,’ she says. ‘Don’t like any of you McCullochs. Think you’re better than us just ’cause your Da drives that smelly train. Well, you ain’t.’ She turns away and leaves me to my sewing.

  The boys chant numbers; their mouths open and close, open and close. I try to follow the words so I might learn them, even though I’m not supposed to. Six threes are eighteen, six fours are twenty-four, six fives are thirty … I don’t notice Mr Murray beside me until he slams his ruler on my desk and the room falls silent.

  ‘Miss McCulloch. Are you deliberately trying my patience? Staring off around the room, you must have completed your lesson already. Rise and show us the extent of your cleverness.’

  My legs refuse to move.

  ‘I said rise.’

  Quickly I stand.

  ‘Let us witness this fine example of feminine skill, seeing as she has no need for it and wants instead to be treated as a boy.’ The children laugh and my cheeks grow hot. ‘Hold it up, girl. Hold up the cloth.’

  Slowly I raise my hand the cloth scrunched between my fingers.

  ‘So we can see it.’

  I take hold of the corners and let the fabric unfold. It is blank, except for Miss McKillop’s row.

  Once again there is laughter. Mr Murray shakes his head. ‘Please explain why your father has sent you? Why he pays his hard-earned wage for you to attend my school?’

  ‘I want to read and write.’ My eyes sting.

  ‘So you have said. Well, I shall take you up on that and give you your first lesson in the art of literature. Everyone else, you may leave.’

  Did I hear him correctly? Am I really to be taught same as the boys?

  The children file into the courtyard. I can barely keep from jumping. Mr Murray is a good man despite looking like a spider.

  A boy with dark hair beckons me. ‘Watch closely.’ He pours thick black ink from a jug into a hole at the top of the first desk. ‘You need to fill them all, until you get back to where the girls sit. And mind you don’t spill any.’

  ‘But I can’t. Mr Murray is coming to teach me my lessons.’

  He shakes his head. ‘He is teaching you a lesson. Now fill them and hurry. The break will soon be over and you’ll be truly punished if the wells aren’t ready.’

  ‘What about the back desks? Why not fill those?’

  The boy stops by the door. ‘I already told you. The back desks are for girls. And you don’t need no ink to knit.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I’m doing.’

  ‘Talking to dead people?’

  ‘Christina, I’m warning you.’

  ‘They can’t hear you, you know. They’re dead. That’s just a grave.’

  I reach across and grab my sister’s arm. ‘You just shut up. Bella can hear me, and if you know what’s good for you, then you’d better hear me too.’

  ‘Ouch, Minnie, you’re pinching my arm.’

  ‘Just watch it or I’ll belt y
ou, Christina.’

  ‘You’re just like Father,’ she says, pulling her arm from my grip and running off.

  At school I have one friend. He feels sorry for me and keeps me company before lessons.

  This morning as we sit talking, three girls walk past us, giggling as they take their places at the end of the row.

  ‘Get lost, Lara. Find a privy to sit under.’

  ‘You, Freddie McPhee, should find better company,’ Lara says, then: ‘Just like her sister.’

  I stand up. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Isabella, she’s a smell’a, even her daddy cannot sell’a.’

  ‘You bitch!’ I cross the desk and clutch Lara round the throat. ‘Take it back! Take it back!’

  Freddie pulls at my shoulders. ‘Minnie, stop!’

  ‘Take it back!’ My grasp is weakening. I release my hands and strike Lara hard across the face. With my other hand I pull her hair towards me until my mouth is up by her ear. ‘Don’t you dare say anything about my sister again, do you hear? Don’t even whisper her name. Understand?’

  Lara’s face is white; her eyes bulge, but she manages to nod.

  Freddie pushes me towards the door. ‘Quick Minnie, Murray’s coming. You’d better get out of here.’

  I take a deep breath. And I run.

  ‘I told you we’d find her here.’ The gate squeaks open. ‘She always visits the graves when she’s upset. She talks to dead people.’ Christina drops my books in a pile on the dirt. ‘They can’t hear, you know. That’s what happens when you’re dead.’

  Freddie sits down beside me. His mouth twists as he tries to find the right words to say. ‘At least she won’t bother you no more.’

  I nod.

  ‘Been here all day?’

  I nod again. I’ve been back and forth between them, my three sisters, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting and thinking.

  Christina kicks a loose stone. ‘You are going to get it tomorrow, Min. Mr Murray spent two and a half hours reciting the Bible after you left. His face was so purple it looked like a beetroot.’

  ‘How do you know what a beetroot looks like?’

  ‘I know what one looks like,’ she says. ‘Well, I know what it’s supposed to look like. Anyway, you’d better be ready.’

  ‘It might not be so bad.’ Freddie raises his eyebrows and looks away. ‘Maybe he’ll have forgotten about it by tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s unlikely.’

  ‘Christina, you’re not helping.’ Freddie nods in my direction.

  ‘Can you say you were sick or something?’

  I smile and look at Bella’s grave. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters any more. And besides … I close my eyes and think of Bella, her smile, the warmth of her hand, the touch of her feet interlocked with mine.

  It was worth it.

  Thwack

  Thwack

  ‘We shall not give up until we have seen you repent, Williamina McCulloch.’

  Thwack

  Thwack

  I will not repent. I will never grant that satisfaction.

  Thwack

  ‘Miss McKillop.’ I drop a quick curtsey.

  She tilts her head to one side, her eyes following Lara as she walks past us and out onto the street to go home. ‘How do you like school?’

  I try to smile. ‘I like it fine.’

  ‘Enjoying the lessons a little more? Your hand-stitch has improved since you began. I’m very pleased.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I look at the ground. I am tired. Baby Janet was born last night.

  ‘I know it’s not always an easy thing, coming to school.’ She pauses. ‘And it’s not as if you have started off on the best foot.’

  I sigh. I don’t need reminding. If Father should find out, I will spend the rest of my days at the mill.

  ‘I can see you are a bright child. And you want someone to teach you to write. Am I correct?’

  I nod.

  ‘May I ask why?’

  I bite at my lip. ‘How else can I become a gentlewoman?’ I bring my hand to my face; my cheeks burn beneath my fingers.

  ‘I see. Perhaps I may help. After school on Thursday, if you like, I can meet you here and perhaps we can have some extra lessons. I used to tutor your sisters before … before they …’ Her voice trails off. ‘At any rate, if you agree then I should like it very much to teach you the joys of the written word.’

  ‘But Mr Murray says —’

  ‘This would be solely between you and me. Besides, what I do in my own time is no business of anyone else.’ She smiles. ‘Shall we begin now? Why don’t you show me what you can do already and we can take it from there.’

  For the following months I live solely for Thursdays. Sometimes other girls join us, ones who don’t go to school but rely on Miss McKillop. Each of us learns at our own pace — and I am quick. In no time I have mastered the basics. I learn how to make words, and then sentences. Barely a year after our lessons start, I write my first poem. It is for my newborn sister, baby Isabella.

  ‘Your father drives the train?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ Freddie lies beside me on the grass under the tree, his head propped up on his elbow.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve never been on a train.’

  I look down the hill and across the Firth of Clyde to Helensburgh and the Highlands. From here I can see where the river curves back around towards Port Glasgow. The train line runs along it; I feel guilty, as though Father can see us.

  ‘What about yours?’ I ask.

  ‘Dead. Died of the cholera.’

  A cloud shaped like a bell, then a cow, floats past. ‘And your mother?’ I say.

  ‘The mill. Like my sisters.’

  ‘Elizabeth’s work is at the draper’s. With Mrs Todd.’ I put my face up to the sun. ‘She’s looking after Mother while she’s ill, but when she gets better Elizabeth will go back.’

  ‘And you?’

  I roll onto my side. ‘I don’t know.’ A ship nears the dock. ‘I’d like to sail one day. Perhaps to New Zealand.’

  ‘New Zealand?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No reason,’ he says. ‘It just sounds so … far away.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to see it? Travel somewhere new? We don’t have to stay here forever.’

  ‘I might travel to Glasgow.’

  ‘Glasgow? But that’s just up the line.’

  His hand brushes mine. ‘Is here really so bad?’

  I look back towards the town. A fog hangs over it like a dirty woollen shawl. ‘No, it’s not so bad.’ I stare at the ship, sails lowered as it glides towards its berth, and try to imagine what it would be like to be one of those passengers on Aunt Christina’s ship, the little mouse-faced people peering out of the portholes. From the corner of my eye I make out Mrs Todd’s boy Archie running towards us. ‘Quickly,’ I say. ‘Come on. He’s going to catch us.’

  We run down the hill and climb the farm gate that leads into the town. If we can make the rear of the barn, we should be safe.

  ‘He’s persistent,’ Freddie says, looking behind. ‘He’s getting closer.’

  ‘Must be those long stick legs.’

  ‘Come on, I know a way. Take my hand.’ We dodge through a small alley and along a narrow lane, and slip between two tenements near the door to my close. Freddie grips my hand. ‘Shh,’ he says. ‘Here he comes.’

  Archie stops right beside us. ‘Minnie! Minnie!’ He turns and runs further down.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Freddie says, his mouth turned up in a crooked grin.

  I take hold of his collar and pull it to me, pressing his lips to mine.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ he asks. His eyes glisten.

  ‘I wanted to.’

  ‘I see Archie found you.’ Mrs Todd greets me at the door and pulls me gently towards her. ‘It’s all right, dear.’

  It’s obviously not all right; she is cry
ing.

  And so is Christina. ‘Minnie!’ she calls, running to bury her face in my skirt.

  Doctor MacBride stands by Mother’s bed. He holds Mother upright, while Elizabeth pours from a bottle and holds the spoon to her lips.

  ‘Remarkable,’ he says and eases her back. ‘So much pain, yet she doesn’t utter a sound.’

  Elizabeth strokes the hair away from Mother’s forehead.

  ‘Mother?’ I say. Her eyes are closed; her face is clammy with perspiration. ‘Why are the curtains drawn so?’ I rush to the window to pull them across.

  ‘Stop that, child. Keep them closed.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I turn to the doctor. ‘Mother likes them open. She likes to see outside. Mrs Todd will tell you.’

  ‘Keep them closed.’ He takes hold of the fabric and pulls it over the window, but I won’t give in and hold firmly.

  ‘Don’t you want her to get better? She likes them open, doesn’t she, Mrs Todd?’ The woman nods. ‘Do you see? How will Mother get better if we keep her in darkness?’

  The doctor pries my fingers from the cloth.

  ‘Please, Mrs Todd, tell him. How will she get better? Mother hates darkness.’

  Mrs Todd holds my gaze a moment, then she looks to the floor and turns away.

  ‘Mrs Todd?’

  A door slams. Heavy boots pound up the stairs.

  ‘Thank God, Mr McCulloch. Thank God you’re here.’

  I have barely seen my father these past weeks and the sight of him shocks me.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he says, bending down over Mother. ‘Elizabeth.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Doctor MacBride says. ‘She is strong but the cancer is stronger. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

  ‘We have given her laudanum for the pain, but there is nothing else.’

  Christina buries her head into my chest.