Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Catriona’s father narrates a thirty-year-old tale of forbidden love.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Catriona’s father narrates a thirty-year-old tale of forbidden love.
Chapter Twenty-One: Malcolm
1
From the start her parents made it clear they didn't approve of me. We came from very different backgrounds: she was the daughter of a successful stockbroker and a pupil at a top girls school; I was the son of a Glaswegian shipyard worker and the grandson of a Highland couple who had migrated to the city when grandda lost his job as a shepherd.
Under normal circumstances we would have been unlikely to have met, but May 1945 was far from normal. The government had declared Victory in Europe, the war was almost over and people in Glasgow, like the rest of the country, took to the streets to celebrate. Looking back I recall it was a warm, sunny spring day, but don't we always remember the sun shining on significant dates even if in reality it was cold and damp? What I do know is that George Square was more crowded than I had ever known, before or since, and everyone was celebrating.
I was fifteen at the time and all I had known during my teenage years were war, air raid shelters and rationing. Because of his job, da was never conscripted, something of a mixed blessing. It meant he stayed at home during the war, but it also led to some malicious gossips calling him a coward and a conchie, when he was nothing of the sort.
All such thoughts were forgotten on that day in May when people from Glasgow and elsewhere in Scotland, from all backgrounds and classes, joined together to celebrate victory and to look forward to a peaceful and prosperous future.
That was how I came to be standing next to the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Tall and slim, with her red hair in a bun and the cutest freckles sparkling in the sun, I couldn't take my eyes off her. When she noticed me staring at her, she smiled, her emerald green eyes flashing. I blushed and looked away. The next moment I felt a slim hand take hold of mine and heard her whisper in my ear: “Hello. My name's Morag. What's yours?”
Still blushing, I looked at her beautiful face and stammered out my name. “Oh, what a wonderful name,” she said. She gripped my hand harder. “Why don't we go get an ice cream?”
Embarrassed, I mumbled that I had no money. “Oh, what a shame. But never mind, I'll get one and we can share it, if you like.” She began to drag me in the direction of one of the ice cream vans.
“I'm not supposed to wander too far,” I said. Still, I allowed myself to be led. The queue was long and by the time we reached the front they'd sold out. “Never mind,” she said, leading me away. Leaning against a wall, we talked. Or, rather, she talked. I just didn't know what to say to her, but I could listen and nod and shake my head as appropriate. She told me all about herself, about how her da was rich and her ma did charity work, how much she hated the posh school she'd been sent to and how she couldn't wait to leave. She said she was fourteen so would have to go to school for a while yet, particularly as her parents wanted her to go to university. The only time she stopped talking was to kiss me.
After 30 years I can still feel that kiss. When she gave me that quick peck on the lips I could smell her sweet breath, and now as I recall that kiss I savour her breath again.
“You don't say much, do you?” she said. When my face went red again, she started giggling. Bit by bit she dragged details of my life out of me. In truth, I was ashamed. Here was this beautiful girl dressed in nice clothes, and there was I in an old patched jacket and scuffed shoes. I was shy at the best of times, but at that first meeting with Morag words got stuck in my throat.
I saw an older woman approach us with a number of girls wearing the same uniform as Morag, but none as pretty as her. “Morag,” the woman yelled. “What do you think you're doing running away like that? Weren't you told we should all stay together? We've been searching for you for a long while.”
Morag lowered her eyes. “Sorry Miss Brown,” she said.
“It's about time you learned to behave yourself, young lady. Now come along.”
I felt the briefest of touches, before she followed the teacher and the rest of the children. For much of the rest of the day I was angry with myself, annoyed I hadn't been able to talk to her more than I had. I kept mumbling: “Malcolm, you're a stupid idiot, a stupid idiot.” I thought I'd never see her again, and it was my own fault.
My parents couldn't understand the change in my mood. “Leave him be,” ma said. “Let him be moody, if he wants to. Don't let him spoil our day.”
I began kicking stones until I was told to stop, so I put my hands in my pockets where I felt a sheet of paper. I pulled it out, unfolded it and found a note in tiny but well-formed writing. Morag had written down her address. Even better, she had said to meet her on Saturday outside Woolworth's.
That was how our lifelong love affair began.
Overnight I lost interest in being centre forward for Rangers, instead spending as many Saturdays as possible with Morag, always meeting her outside Woolworth's before wandering around the town. It didn't matter what the weather was doing or where we went just as long as we were together. The hand holding developed into hugs and the lip smacking soon turned into French kissing. I began to take more of an interest in my appearance.
When da asked me why I no longer went to the football, I blushed, and when ma saw this she grinned. “I think he's got himself a girlfriend,” she said.
Shuffling my feet, I wouldn't answer their questions, but eventually they dragged out of me that I was seeing Morag. A look passed between ma and da, followed by him saying: “I think we should meet this Morag, don't you?”
So the following Saturday I asked Morag if she'd like to come home with me. I was nervous, very nervous. She'd told me all about the big house with a big garden her family lived in and I knew she went to a posh school, so I was worried what she would make of our home. We lived in a small terraced house near the docks with a tiny postage stamp sized garden at the back. The cobbled street was always full of bedraggled snotty nosed kids, all the houses were stained black from the smoke of nearby factory chimneys and there was no escape from the smell and the noise.
When we got to our home, I found ma had put out the best china which she only did on special occasions and da had put on his Sunday best suit. Still, I felt ashamed of the street and house I lived in and I was scared in case Morag thought such places were beneath her.
I needn't have worried. She said she loved the sandwiches ma had made, she admired the vegetables da was growing in the tiny back garden and she was as chatty as ever. Da was tongue tied (I must get it from him), but ma and Morag got on very well. They seemed to have so much to talk about, yet as far as I could make out they weren't really talking about anything.
When it was time for her to go, I walked her to the bus stop. “I really like your parents,” she said, “they're lovely.”
“Do you really?” I asked. “You don't find them a bit – well, they're not posh like yours.”
“And all the better for that,” she said, before kissing me.
When I met her outside Woolworth's the following Saturday, tears were streaming down her face. I'd never seen her cry before. I put my arms around her and asked her what was up.
“It's my parents. They're just snobs, that's all. They've told me I can't see you anymore. And it's all my fault. I thought it would be nice for you to come round and see them, but they don't want to meet you. They told me you're not right for me, that you're not from the right sort of family, that you're too poor. They said you're probably only after our money.” She looked straight in my eyes and asked: “You aren't, are you? I mean, after our money?”
I shook my head. “Of course not. How could you think such a thing? I don't give a damn about money, all I want is to spend the rest of my life with you. That's all.” I kissed the tears on her cheek.
She held me tightly. “The same here. I'd live in a cave as long as you were there.” She was silent for a few moments. “What are we going to do? They're threatening to send me away to boarding school. I'd kill myself if they did that. I really would.”
“Darling, Morag, please don't speak like that. Please. We'll just have to meet without them knowing. As long as that's okay with you.”
“Oh, love, of course it is.”
And that's what we did. We continued to meet outside Woolworth's, and if Morag wasn't there I knew it was because she hadn't been able to get away, hadn't been able to find an excuse. Ma and da couldn't afford a telephone, but even if they'd had one I would never have risked ringing Morag in case her parents answered.
Then one day we were walking along Sauchiehall Street when Morag held her hand to her face before dragging me into the nearest shop and pretending to look at the shelves.
“What's up?” I asked.
“Don't look, but I just saw my aunt Beth. She's also my godmother. Oh God, if she sees us she'll tell my parents and then they'll send me away.”
It was too late. This plump, matronly woman walked into the same shop and said to Morag: “Fancy meeting you here. I didn't expect to see you in a shop like this. You haven't started smoking have you?” It was only then I realised Morag had dragged me into a tobacconist, and the shelf she was pretending to peruse contained a range of different pipes. Her aunt smiled. “Only joking. I saw you dash into here. Were you trying to avoid me?”
Morag burst into tears and I gently led her out of the shop and back into the street, followed by her aunt Beth who suggested we go for a cup of tea and a slice of cake.
“Now, dear, why were you running away from your favourite auntie?” she asked, once we'd placed our order.
For the first time since I'd known her, Morag was at a loss for words. She looked down at the floor and I thought she was going to start crying again, so I took her hand. “Best tell your aunt,” I said to her. She looked at me, her eyes full of tears, the almost imperceptible smile on her lips so sad it almost broke my heart.
Then out it all came, in a breathless, hurried, confused and jumbled mass of words that was only interrupted by the waitress bringing the tea and cakes to our table, all of which was left untouched until Morag's words came to a sudden halt, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
Her aunt Beth smiled and said: “Shall I be mother?” before pouring tea into our cups and passing us each a slice of cake which, thanks to rationing, was quite dry and not as sweet as we would have liked. Nonetheless, Morag shovelled it down as if it was the last piece of cake she would ever have.
Her aunt Beth looked at me and said: “Well, young man, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“What do you mean?” I stammered.
“What are your feelings towards my god-daughter?”
“I love her.”
“Anything else?”
I shook my head. “What else is there? I love her. And I'm not going to let anyone or anything come between us. I don't care what you or her parents or anyone else thinks. All that matters to me is her.” I think I surprised myself: it was rare for me to string so many words together, let alone speak so forcefully and boldly to anyone, particularly to a grown up.
“And what if her parents stop Morag from seeing you?”
“They won't be able to do that. They won't.” I realised my voice was getting louder and people at other tables were beginning to look at us. I took a deep breath, lowered my voice and continued: “They can't stop us seeing each other, no matter what they do. The only way they can stop us would be to put Morag in prison, and even then either she'd find a way of escaping or I'd break the door down.” I took Morag's hand again as the tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. Her auntie gave her a handkerchief, but she just held it in her free hand. I took the handkerchief off her and gently wiped the tears from her face.
Her aunt Beth smiled at us. “I've heard enough,” she said. “I've heard enough to know what you two have for each other is special. I shouldn't say this, but my sister – your mother – has always been a bit of a snob. I'm sure she thinks what she's doing is for the best, but I think she's wrong. I know I shouldn't be saying this, but...”
Morag looked up and asked: “What are we going to do, auntie?”
“That's up to the two of you, dear. I'm not going to do anything.”
“Oh,” said Morag, looking crestfallen.
Her aunt smiled and said: “Chin up, dear, chin up. When I said I'm not going to do anything, I meant I'm not going to tell your parents and I'm not going to interfere in any way. But if you ever need me, you know where I am. Now, give me a kiss, dear, then run along.”
There was a spring in Morag's step as she walked, almost skipped, along Sauchiehall Street. She told me how much she'd always liked aunt Beth, but what a sad life she'd had. “She got married in 1915, and a few months later her husband was killed in the trenches in the first world war. She was expecting at the time, but she miscarried. She's never really got over the loss of her husband and baby. Shortly before the first war, her husband, who was a tailor, opened his own shop, and after his death she put all her efforts into making a success of it, extending into woman's clothing. She even sold dresses she'd made herself. According to da she has a good business sense and the shop became more and more successful. But none of that has ever made her happy.”
“She looked quite cheerful.” I said.
Morag elbowed me in the ribs and said: “You boys are so easy to fool, aren't you? She might look cheerful, but I've seen her when she thought no-one was looking.”
2
When I left school, I got a job in the same shipyard da worked in. I hated it: it was dirty, heavy and often involved working outdoors in the worst the Glasgow weather could throw at us. I was an apprentice, supposed to be learning a trade, but in reality I was nothing more than a gofer, and was often given the worst jobs. I regularly got cuts from the steel rafters I had to carry and my shoulders were permanently sore. When the bell rang for our break, my piece always tasted the same, regardless of the filling: a mixture of iron filings, oil and grease. Da said I should be grateful I had a job, and that if he hadn't put a word in for me I might be out of work. He told me if I stuck at it, I could have a job for life. Yeah, I thought, and where would that get me? A tiny house like my da's, with black smoke infiltrating everything, and an outside toilet? No thanks. But I kept my thoughts to myself.
I dreamed of living in the country and working on a farm, just like granddad.
When I told Morag, she said she liked the idea of being a farmer's wife. She was still at school and her parents wanted her to pass her exams so she could go to university, but she told me she didn't want to, unless she could study in Glasgow, because it would mean being apart from me. I told her she ought to listen to her parents, otherwise she'd end up in a dead end job like mine. She kicked me and told me to stop being so sensible. She asked me if I really wanted her to go away.
“Of course not,” I replied. “But we can still see each other during holidays.”
“It won't be the same,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because you might meet someone else and forget about me. That's why.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” I told her. “It's much more likely you'll meet some clever bloke at university and forget about me.”
We rowed about it. She accused me of wanting to get rid of her, I told her she was being silly, she responded by telling me if I thought she was silly why didn't I just leave her alone. For the first time since we'd met, we parted without kissing, angry with each other.
It wasn't many minutes before I regretted everything I'd said. Later, distraught, I went to the nearby public telephone box and rang her number, but her da answered so I put the phone down without saying anything. That Sunday was the worst day of my life and on the Monday I threw myself into my job in an attempt to bury my feelings. It didn't work.
At the end of my shift, Morag was waiting for me outside the shipyard gates. It was a filthy day, with the north westerly wind bringing driving horizontal rain. Yet she was standing there wearing a thin coat, exposed to the elements. She was soaking from top to toe, shivering in the cold, but as soon as we saw each other we ran and embraced, kissing each other, saying how sorry we were and promising never to have an argument again. I took her home where ma made her a hot bath and dried her clothes as well as she could in front of the fire.
When we next met, she told me she'd got into trouble for being out too late. “But I don't mind,” she said. “All that matters is that we made up.”
Then came the day we'd both been dreading: the day I got the letter calling me up for national service. Like every healthy male of my age I was conscripted to the army for eighteen months. A year and a half of being ordered about and, much worse, eighteen months away from Morag. By the time my service would have been completed, she'd have taken her exams and would already be at a university somewhere, but probably a long way from Glasgow. When we next met I showed her the letter; her face dropped. We comforted each other, one thing led to another and before we knew what was happening we were making love, out there in the open in some brushland near Kelvingrove park.
We were both virgins and we were clumsy and fumbling; it was over all too soon, but afterwards was the best time as we lay in each other's arms. The lovemaking didn't take the pain away, but it made it more bearable.
A week later I was on my way to do my compulsory national service. We kept in touch, writing to each other as often as we could. I knew there was no point in writing to her at home as her parents would intercept the letters and probably destroy them, so aunt Beth allowed us to use her address. Having worked at the shipyard I was used to discipline and obeying orders, but nothing could have prepared me for the tedium of the pointless square bashing. The army attempted to beat every ounce of individuality out of us hoping to turn us into robots. Even worse was sharing a dormitory with a dozen and more young men, making any privacy impossible. The barracks were set in some beautiful East Anglian countryside, but there was no time to enjoy it. In any case, being several miles from the nearest town made the rural location almost like a jail.
I decided to treat the eighteen months like a prison sentence: be a good boy and do the time, and then be reunited with Morag. I intended to ask her to marry me, but I knew her parents would never consent to that, so any such thoughts would have to wait until she was 21.
Three months into my national service I received the letter that would change everything. It was from her aunt Beth, and she didn't pull any punches. In it she wrote the following:
“Morag is too upset to write to you and she is scared of what your reaction may be, so I am writing on her behalf. She has discovered she is pregnant and she knows you must be the father. I am finding it difficult to control my anger at your behaviour, at your lack of self-control, at you taking advantage of her in this way. I had thought you were different from other boys. Clearly I was wrong.
As you can imagine, her parents are furious and they are insisting the baby is given up for adoption once it's born. She has also been expelled from her school, will no longer be able to take her exams and therefore will not be able to go to university. Your irresponsibility and lack of maturity has destroyed her future.
What's done is done. What happens now is up to you.”
For a while I was unable to think clearly, think at all, I just sat there staring into space. My mind was in turmoil, my body was in shock. I wanted to be with Morag, I wanted to reassure aunt Beth, but I was hundreds of miles away. In the end I went to see the chaplain, I didn't know who else to go to, and showed him the letter.
He looked at me with a frown on his face. “What do you intend to do?” he asked me.
“I want to marry her, but I've got another fifteen months here. I want to be with her.”
“So you intend to accept your responsibilities?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Yes. We only did it once and I don't think we meant to at the start. But yes, sir, there's no question but I love her.”
He smiled and nodded his head. “I see. Well, her aunt is right when she says what's done is done. At least you want to do the right thing.” He thought for a moment. “Here's what I suggest we do. I'll take this letter to the commanding officer here and propose you get a few days leave so you can return to Glasgow. What you do when you're back there is down to you.”
It was agreed I could have four days leave which, with the travelling time, would leave me with less than 48 hours in Glasgow. The first thing I did was to make two phone calls. The first one was to my parents who had already heard the news about Morag, and weren't pleased about it, but were reassured when I said I would stand by her. The second was to aunt Beth. I told her when I'd be back in Glasgow and said I wanted to see Morag, if she could arrange that. I also made it clear I loved her and wouldn't be deserting her.
I was nervous, more nervous than I'd ever been, when I knocked on aunt Beth's door in an upmarket part of Glasgow. Tight lipped, she let me in and took me through to the front room where Morag was sat in an armchair, unable to look me in the face. I immediately knelt before her, took her in my arms and told her I loved her. She burst into tears, held me close and kept saying: “Thank God. Thank God.” After a few moments she said: “I was so afraid you'd not want to see me. I was so scared.” I held her, not knowing what to say, having no idea where we went from here.
When aunt Beth returned with tea and saw us embracing each other, she put the tray down and said: “You'll have plenty of time for that later, and there's probably been too much of it already. We have some decisions to make.” She told me to get up off my knees and after I was sitting on a chair next to Morag, holding her hand, she said: “Okay, young man. Are you serious about accepting your responsibilities or is it just talk? And look at me when I'm talking to you: I want to see your eyes.”
After convincing her, she looked at Morag and asked: “Are you going to tell him what your parents are threatening or do you want me to do it?”
Speaking in a whisper so quiet it was hard to hear her, Morag said: “I don't think I can.” She bit her bottom lip, before adding: “I want to keep the baby, no matter what anyone says. I don't care. I'm going to keep the baby.”
Aunt Beth took her hand, patted it and smiled. “Okay. But don't worry dear, I won't let them.”
I looked at her. “Won't let them do what?”
“Okay. No point in beating about the bush. They've told her either she agrees to the baby being adopted or they'll have her committed to an asylum.” Despite her efforts, tears were beginning to form in aunt Beth's eyes. She waved her hand in front of her face as if swatting them away.
“They can't do that!” I yelled. “They've got no right.”
Aunt Beth shrugged her shoulders. “That's a moot point. I'm not a lawyer, so I can't say for certain. But I will tell you both this: it will only happen over my dead body.” She was silent for a few moments, then asked: “Do you trust me?”
We both nodded.
“Okay. I never thought I'd say this about my sister and her husband, but they seem more concerned with their reputations and what the neighbours think than they do about the welfare of their only daughter. I don't like being so brutal, but only by facing up to things can we sort this bloody mess out.”
Mumbling almost under her breath, Morag repeated: “I'm going to keep the baby. I'm keeping the baby.”
I nodded, saying: “And as the baby's father, I want to keep him or her. No question. So how?”
Aunt Beth was fiddling with a handkerchief, unconsciously twisting it into different shapes before unfolding it and starting again. Looking at me, she said: “Once I got your phone call I spoke to Morag's parents again. I hope neither of you mind me doing that.”
We both shook her heads. “Of course not,” I said.
“Okay. They're both clear that if she demands she keeps the baby, they will disown her, and if she refuses to go away somewhere while pregnant they will have her committed. There's no budging them on that.”
I swore. Aunt Beth responded by telling me such language wasn't helpful. She continued: “As I say, there's no budging them, so we have to work round that.”
I couldn't sit still any longer. I jumped up, began pacing the room and said: “I don't care about them. I don't care if they 'disown' her, in my view they never owned her in the first place. She's a human being, not a slave or a pet. So let them disown her, we're keeping the baby. And they won't be putting her in an asylum. I'll go AWOL from the army, and run away somewhere with her before I allow that to happen.”
“Sit down,” aunt Beth said. “Going AWOL won't help anyone, it'll just make things even worse. However, you are right: Morag can't stay at home when she begins showing. I know my sister, and she'll carry out the threat to have you committed. So we have to get you away.”
“Where to?” I asked. “We've got no money.”
“Okay. If this isn't to your liking, I've got nothing else to suggest. It so happens I have this small cottage in the west Highlands.”
“Yes, da told me about that,” Morag said. “He wasn't very nice about it.” She was beginning to regain her composure and her voice.
“Of course he wasn't. It's only small: two bedrooms upstairs and two small rooms downstairs, but I've had an indoor loo and bath put in. I couldn't really afford to buy it, but I wanted somewhere to go when things got too much, somewhere nobody knew me. You can stop there if you want to until you can find something better.”
Morag and I looked at each other, then she asked: “But what will people say when I begin to show? Surely an unmarried mother won't be welcome there. Won't they call me names or not even speak to me or even worse call the baby a bastard?”
“Not if they think you're married and your husband's on National Service”. She rummaged in her handbag, producing a ring which she gave to Morag, telling her to try it on for size. “I've got one for you as well,” she said to me, “and if they don't fit, we can get them altered. No-one in Strathdubh need know you aren't married.”
“It's a long way from the shipyard,” I said, and immediately regretted it, knowing I sounded ungrateful. Morag had a way of looking at me when she disapproved of something I had done or said, and I received that look then: flared nostrils, tight lips and eyes like slits. I stammered an apology.
“Don't worry,” Aunt Beth said, “It's a sensible concern. But Morag's told me you hate the job there.”
“Yes, but I'm learning a trade.”
“Oh come on,” Morag said, a note of irritation in her voice, “you're always moaning about the work and how you don't want to spend the rest of your life living in a city slum. Don't you remember when you were telling me how your grandda used to be a shepherd in the Highlands, and how you'd love to work in the country? Don't you realise, thanks to aunt Beth, we have a chance to make something of our lives, and not just for us but for our baby? A chance to live where my parents can't force me to give up the baby, a place where no-one knows us and where we can have a fresh start. Doesn't our baby deserve that? Don't we deserve that? Don't we?”
Despite outward appearances, Morag had steel in her soul: when she knew what she wanted, she generally got it and when she came to a decision, there was no changing her mind.
Aunt Beth backed her up. “She's right, you know, though I wouldn't have put as strongly as her. Right now, with food shortages and rationing you shouldn't have a problem finding work in the area. Why not write to local farms telling them when your national service ends and see if any of them can offer you a job?”
I knew they were both right, but my parents had taught me to value my independence, and I hated having to rely on others: it felt like I was losing my manhood. Oh, I know how silly that sounds, but no-one had ever given my family a helping hand, what little we had we'd got through hard work. But if I wanted to be able to stay with Morag and provide for my family, I knew I had little choice. Besides, I really did hate working at the shipyard, and I certainly didn't want to spend the rest of my life working and living there.
When I got back to the barracks wearing that gold band on my ring finger, I told them we'd got a special license and were now married. A white lie, I know, but one we could put right when I was free of the army. I felt a bit guilty about the congratulations and all the drinks I was bought, but not guilty enough to come clean. And a few months later I was given leave so I could be with Morag, though in those days fathers weren't welcome during the actual birth. The midwife at the hospital made that clear, telling me in no uncertain terms to stay in the waiting room.
It was a difficult birth. Even now I can't talk about it much. Hearing the screams and seeing staff calling for a doctor, I felt powerless, I felt useless. I only found out later that Morag almost lost her life and that she wouldn't be able to have more children. After what seemed an eternity a nurse came into the waiting room and smiling told me I could see my wife and daughter.
As soon as I saw the two most important women in my life, my heart felt like it would burst. Morag was clearly exhausted, but looked blissful. She passed our daughter to me, telling me to support her head, and I looked at this bundle of joy with more love than I thought I was capable of. I'm sure she smiled at me, but that may have just been my imagination. I couldn't speak, I was just grinning from ear to ear, looking at the miracle I was holding, this new life created out of pure love. We called her Catriona.
The remaining months of my National Service went so slowly I thought they would never end. Then the day came when I found myself beginning my new life in Strathdubh with Morag and Catriona, and my new job working on a local farm. We were able to move out of aunt Beth's cottage into a house provided by the farm owner.
Our one regret was that Morag's parents refused to have anything to do with us. We tried, but they made it clear they no longer considered Morag their daughter and refused to acknowledge Catriona, who they referred to as “the bastard”, was their granddaughter. We had no choice but to reconcile ourselves to this, but we were luckier than many others, thanks to aunt Beth, whose help was rewarded by her sister never speaking to her again.
When Morag's da and then a year later her ma died, she felt like she'd been orphaned twice over. We didn't go to their funerals at the Free Kirk they had attended all their lives: it had been made clear we wouldn't be welcome, and that just increased Morag's misery. She was inconsolable for a time and no matter what I and aunt Beth said, she blamed herself, saying she should have tried harder to get her parents to accept me and Catriona. Eventually, the sharp edge of the grief became a dull ache, but it never truly left her. She was determined we would never do to Catriona what her parents had done to her.
I loved working on the farm, particularly with livestock. I found I had a way with animals: both the cattle and the sheep seemed to trust me and I was generally the one who was sent to deal with particularly difficult ones. Perhaps it was because I treated them with respect. Animals are more intelligent than we sometimes give them credit for, and perhaps they just sensed I didn't wish them any harm. I would happily spend time out in the fields with them in all weathers, ensuring they were safe from any predators, repairing fences where necessary, helping with births, whatever was needed. The only part of the job I hated was taking animals for slaughter, but even then I knew it had to be done, it was part of the economy of the farm and most people, including me, ate meat. I took no pleasure in the slaughter, but I took pride in ensuring both the transportation and the killing were done as humanely as possible.
The farm owner, a widower, was looking for someone to be a partner: since the death of his wife he had found it ever more difficult to run the farm on his own, and he was so impressed with my work he asked me. I wanted to, I really did, but every penny we had went into looking after my family. Once again, aunt Beth offered us a lifeline. At first, I had been angry with Morag for telling her about the offer: I didn't want to have to ask for help, it made me feel bad about myself. But I never could stay angry with Morag for long, and anyway aunt Beth didn't give us the money, she loaned it to us and we signed a legally binding agreement regarding repayment schedules. That pleased me: it meant I could tell myself we were paying our way, we weren't getting charity. If we had fallen behind with repayments, I doubt she would have ever said anything, but we never did. Once Catriona began school, Morag too began to help out on the farm. When the farm owner died, we took over the running of the farm.
We never did get married: there seemed no need. Everyone we knew in Strathdubh thought we were anyway, and the only people from Glasgow we kept in touch with, aunt Beth and my ma and da, were just happy we'd made a life for ourselves. In any case, if we had got married, no matter how secretly, someone would have found out: it's not possible to keep that sort of thing secret in a small place like Strathdubh. That would have just provided all the gossips with fuel, and people might have looked at us differently. As the saying goes: if it ain't broke, don't fix it.
From that first moment in the hospital when I held her in my arms, Catriona has always been able to tie me round her little finger. Whatever she wanted I would give her and almost before she could speak she knew to ask me and not her ma. I was an easy touch. She used to follow me around the farm, asking questions, helping feed the animals, learning how to milk the cows, getting far too friendly with the sheep dogs. But then she discovered she had a talent for music, and gradually she lost interest in helping me, concentrating on learning to play the piano and organ, taking singing lessons and beginning to read music.
3
I could never refuse Catriona anything, so when on that day in 1975 she said she knew we'd had problems in the past, and wanted to know more about them, I knew I would end up telling her. I'd never been a great speaker, but I spoke uninterrupted for a long time, and throughout Morag held my hand.
After I'd finished, there was silence for a while. Then Catriona, with tears rolling down her face, hugged me and said: “I love you, da.” When she pulled away, she asked: “Is that why great aunt Beth left me her cottage?”
I nodded. “As she got older, she spent less time there. Her health made it increasingly difficult for her to cope on her own. We told her she was welcome to stop with us or, if she wanted, to live in the cottage, we'd look after her. But she wouldn't hear of it. Even after she sold her business and retired, she stayed in Glasgow, where she was near to shops, buses, the doctor and the hospital. That's why we visited her in Glasgow when we could. She was insistent she could look after herself, but every time we visited her it was clear she wasn't managing. She was too independent for her own good, like all the women in my life.” I got an elbow in my ribs from Morag and giggles from Catriona.
“It was us found her body,” Morag said. “We hadn't heard from her for a while and she never answered her phone, so we drove down to make sure she was okay. When no-one answered the door, we used the spare key she'd given us. The hospital said it was a heart attack, so hopefully it was quick. We all owe her so much.”
Catriona bit her bottom lip. “If I'd known all about her, I'd have made sure I was at her funeral.”
I took her hands in mine and said: “She was really proud of you, and the last time we talked to her she told us she didn't want you making a fuss and taking time off from your work for her. If she was still with us, she'd be even more proud of you. As your ma and I are.”
1
From the start her parents made it clear they didn't approve of me. We came from very different backgrounds: she was the daughter of a successful stockbroker and a pupil at a top girls school; I was the son of a Glaswegian shipyard worker and the grandson of a Highland couple who had migrated to the city when grandda lost his job as a shepherd.
Under normal circumstances we would have been unlikely to have met, but May 1945 was far from normal. The government had declared Victory in Europe, the war was almost over and people in Glasgow, like the rest of the country, took to the streets to celebrate. Looking back I recall it was a warm, sunny spring day, but don't we always remember the sun shining on significant dates even if in reality it was cold and damp? What I do know is that George Square was more crowded than I had ever known, before or since, and everyone was celebrating.
I was fifteen at the time and all I had known during my teenage years were war, air raid shelters and rationing. Because of his job, da was never conscripted, something of a mixed blessing. It meant he stayed at home during the war, but it also led to some malicious gossips calling him a coward and a conchie, when he was nothing of the sort.
All such thoughts were forgotten on that day in May when people from Glasgow and elsewhere in Scotland, from all backgrounds and classes, joined together to celebrate victory and to look forward to a peaceful and prosperous future.
That was how I came to be standing next to the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Tall and slim, with her red hair in a bun and the cutest freckles sparkling in the sun, I couldn't take my eyes off her. When she noticed me staring at her, she smiled, her emerald green eyes flashing. I blushed and looked away. The next moment I felt a slim hand take hold of mine and heard her whisper in my ear: “Hello. My name's Morag. What's yours?”
Still blushing, I looked at her beautiful face and stammered out my name. “Oh, what a wonderful name,” she said. She gripped my hand harder. “Why don't we go get an ice cream?”
Embarrassed, I mumbled that I had no money. “Oh, what a shame. But never mind, I'll get one and we can share it, if you like.” She began to drag me in the direction of one of the ice cream vans.
“I'm not supposed to wander too far,” I said. Still, I allowed myself to be led. The queue was long and by the time we reached the front they'd sold out. “Never mind,” she said, leading me away. Leaning against a wall, we talked. Or, rather, she talked. I just didn't know what to say to her, but I could listen and nod and shake my head as appropriate. She told me all about herself, about how her da was rich and her ma did charity work, how much she hated the posh school she'd been sent to and how she couldn't wait to leave. She said she was fourteen so would have to go to school for a while yet, particularly as her parents wanted her to go to university. The only time she stopped talking was to kiss me.
After 30 years I can still feel that kiss. When she gave me that quick peck on the lips I could smell her sweet breath, and now as I recall that kiss I savour her breath again.
“You don't say much, do you?” she said. When my face went red again, she started giggling. Bit by bit she dragged details of my life out of me. In truth, I was ashamed. Here was this beautiful girl dressed in nice clothes, and there was I in an old patched jacket and scuffed shoes. I was shy at the best of times, but at that first meeting with Morag words got stuck in my throat.
I saw an older woman approach us with a number of girls wearing the same uniform as Morag, but none as pretty as her. “Morag,” the woman yelled. “What do you think you're doing running away like that? Weren't you told we should all stay together? We've been searching for you for a long while.”
Morag lowered her eyes. “Sorry Miss Brown,” she said.
“It's about time you learned to behave yourself, young lady. Now come along.”
I felt the briefest of touches, before she followed the teacher and the rest of the children. For much of the rest of the day I was angry with myself, annoyed I hadn't been able to talk to her more than I had. I kept mumbling: “Malcolm, you're a stupid idiot, a stupid idiot.” I thought I'd never see her again, and it was my own fault.
My parents couldn't understand the change in my mood. “Leave him be,” ma said. “Let him be moody, if he wants to. Don't let him spoil our day.”
I began kicking stones until I was told to stop, so I put my hands in my pockets where I felt a sheet of paper. I pulled it out, unfolded it and found a note in tiny but well-formed writing. Morag had written down her address. Even better, she had said to meet her on Saturday outside Woolworth's.
That was how our lifelong love affair began.
Overnight I lost interest in being centre forward for Rangers, instead spending as many Saturdays as possible with Morag, always meeting her outside Woolworth's before wandering around the town. It didn't matter what the weather was doing or where we went just as long as we were together. The hand holding developed into hugs and the lip smacking soon turned into French kissing. I began to take more of an interest in my appearance.
When da asked me why I no longer went to the football, I blushed, and when ma saw this she grinned. “I think he's got himself a girlfriend,” she said.
Shuffling my feet, I wouldn't answer their questions, but eventually they dragged out of me that I was seeing Morag. A look passed between ma and da, followed by him saying: “I think we should meet this Morag, don't you?”
So the following Saturday I asked Morag if she'd like to come home with me. I was nervous, very nervous. She'd told me all about the big house with a big garden her family lived in and I knew she went to a posh school, so I was worried what she would make of our home. We lived in a small terraced house near the docks with a tiny postage stamp sized garden at the back. The cobbled street was always full of bedraggled snotty nosed kids, all the houses were stained black from the smoke of nearby factory chimneys and there was no escape from the smell and the noise.
When we got to our home, I found ma had put out the best china which she only did on special occasions and da had put on his Sunday best suit. Still, I felt ashamed of the street and house I lived in and I was scared in case Morag thought such places were beneath her.
I needn't have worried. She said she loved the sandwiches ma had made, she admired the vegetables da was growing in the tiny back garden and she was as chatty as ever. Da was tongue tied (I must get it from him), but ma and Morag got on very well. They seemed to have so much to talk about, yet as far as I could make out they weren't really talking about anything.
When it was time for her to go, I walked her to the bus stop. “I really like your parents,” she said, “they're lovely.”
“Do you really?” I asked. “You don't find them a bit – well, they're not posh like yours.”
“And all the better for that,” she said, before kissing me.
When I met her outside Woolworth's the following Saturday, tears were streaming down her face. I'd never seen her cry before. I put my arms around her and asked her what was up.
“It's my parents. They're just snobs, that's all. They've told me I can't see you anymore. And it's all my fault. I thought it would be nice for you to come round and see them, but they don't want to meet you. They told me you're not right for me, that you're not from the right sort of family, that you're too poor. They said you're probably only after our money.” She looked straight in my eyes and asked: “You aren't, are you? I mean, after our money?”
I shook my head. “Of course not. How could you think such a thing? I don't give a damn about money, all I want is to spend the rest of my life with you. That's all.” I kissed the tears on her cheek.
She held me tightly. “The same here. I'd live in a cave as long as you were there.” She was silent for a few moments. “What are we going to do? They're threatening to send me away to boarding school. I'd kill myself if they did that. I really would.”
“Darling, Morag, please don't speak like that. Please. We'll just have to meet without them knowing. As long as that's okay with you.”
“Oh, love, of course it is.”
And that's what we did. We continued to meet outside Woolworth's, and if Morag wasn't there I knew it was because she hadn't been able to get away, hadn't been able to find an excuse. Ma and da couldn't afford a telephone, but even if they'd had one I would never have risked ringing Morag in case her parents answered.
Then one day we were walking along Sauchiehall Street when Morag held her hand to her face before dragging me into the nearest shop and pretending to look at the shelves.
“What's up?” I asked.
“Don't look, but I just saw my aunt Beth. She's also my godmother. Oh God, if she sees us she'll tell my parents and then they'll send me away.”
It was too late. This plump, matronly woman walked into the same shop and said to Morag: “Fancy meeting you here. I didn't expect to see you in a shop like this. You haven't started smoking have you?” It was only then I realised Morag had dragged me into a tobacconist, and the shelf she was pretending to peruse contained a range of different pipes. Her aunt smiled. “Only joking. I saw you dash into here. Were you trying to avoid me?”
Morag burst into tears and I gently led her out of the shop and back into the street, followed by her aunt Beth who suggested we go for a cup of tea and a slice of cake.
“Now, dear, why were you running away from your favourite auntie?” she asked, once we'd placed our order.
For the first time since I'd known her, Morag was at a loss for words. She looked down at the floor and I thought she was going to start crying again, so I took her hand. “Best tell your aunt,” I said to her. She looked at me, her eyes full of tears, the almost imperceptible smile on her lips so sad it almost broke my heart.
Then out it all came, in a breathless, hurried, confused and jumbled mass of words that was only interrupted by the waitress bringing the tea and cakes to our table, all of which was left untouched until Morag's words came to a sudden halt, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
Her aunt Beth smiled and said: “Shall I be mother?” before pouring tea into our cups and passing us each a slice of cake which, thanks to rationing, was quite dry and not as sweet as we would have liked. Nonetheless, Morag shovelled it down as if it was the last piece of cake she would ever have.
Her aunt Beth looked at me and said: “Well, young man, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“What do you mean?” I stammered.
“What are your feelings towards my god-daughter?”
“I love her.”
“Anything else?”
I shook my head. “What else is there? I love her. And I'm not going to let anyone or anything come between us. I don't care what you or her parents or anyone else thinks. All that matters to me is her.” I think I surprised myself: it was rare for me to string so many words together, let alone speak so forcefully and boldly to anyone, particularly to a grown up.
“And what if her parents stop Morag from seeing you?”
“They won't be able to do that. They won't.” I realised my voice was getting louder and people at other tables were beginning to look at us. I took a deep breath, lowered my voice and continued: “They can't stop us seeing each other, no matter what they do. The only way they can stop us would be to put Morag in prison, and even then either she'd find a way of escaping or I'd break the door down.” I took Morag's hand again as the tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. Her auntie gave her a handkerchief, but she just held it in her free hand. I took the handkerchief off her and gently wiped the tears from her face.
Her aunt Beth smiled at us. “I've heard enough,” she said. “I've heard enough to know what you two have for each other is special. I shouldn't say this, but my sister – your mother – has always been a bit of a snob. I'm sure she thinks what she's doing is for the best, but I think she's wrong. I know I shouldn't be saying this, but...”
Morag looked up and asked: “What are we going to do, auntie?”
“That's up to the two of you, dear. I'm not going to do anything.”
“Oh,” said Morag, looking crestfallen.
Her aunt smiled and said: “Chin up, dear, chin up. When I said I'm not going to do anything, I meant I'm not going to tell your parents and I'm not going to interfere in any way. But if you ever need me, you know where I am. Now, give me a kiss, dear, then run along.”
There was a spring in Morag's step as she walked, almost skipped, along Sauchiehall Street. She told me how much she'd always liked aunt Beth, but what a sad life she'd had. “She got married in 1915, and a few months later her husband was killed in the trenches in the first world war. She was expecting at the time, but she miscarried. She's never really got over the loss of her husband and baby. Shortly before the first war, her husband, who was a tailor, opened his own shop, and after his death she put all her efforts into making a success of it, extending into woman's clothing. She even sold dresses she'd made herself. According to da she has a good business sense and the shop became more and more successful. But none of that has ever made her happy.”
“She looked quite cheerful.” I said.
Morag elbowed me in the ribs and said: “You boys are so easy to fool, aren't you? She might look cheerful, but I've seen her when she thought no-one was looking.”
2
When I left school, I got a job in the same shipyard da worked in. I hated it: it was dirty, heavy and often involved working outdoors in the worst the Glasgow weather could throw at us. I was an apprentice, supposed to be learning a trade, but in reality I was nothing more than a gofer, and was often given the worst jobs. I regularly got cuts from the steel rafters I had to carry and my shoulders were permanently sore. When the bell rang for our break, my piece always tasted the same, regardless of the filling: a mixture of iron filings, oil and grease. Da said I should be grateful I had a job, and that if he hadn't put a word in for me I might be out of work. He told me if I stuck at it, I could have a job for life. Yeah, I thought, and where would that get me? A tiny house like my da's, with black smoke infiltrating everything, and an outside toilet? No thanks. But I kept my thoughts to myself.
I dreamed of living in the country and working on a farm, just like granddad.
When I told Morag, she said she liked the idea of being a farmer's wife. She was still at school and her parents wanted her to pass her exams so she could go to university, but she told me she didn't want to, unless she could study in Glasgow, because it would mean being apart from me. I told her she ought to listen to her parents, otherwise she'd end up in a dead end job like mine. She kicked me and told me to stop being so sensible. She asked me if I really wanted her to go away.
“Of course not,” I replied. “But we can still see each other during holidays.”
“It won't be the same,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because you might meet someone else and forget about me. That's why.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” I told her. “It's much more likely you'll meet some clever bloke at university and forget about me.”
We rowed about it. She accused me of wanting to get rid of her, I told her she was being silly, she responded by telling me if I thought she was silly why didn't I just leave her alone. For the first time since we'd met, we parted without kissing, angry with each other.
It wasn't many minutes before I regretted everything I'd said. Later, distraught, I went to the nearby public telephone box and rang her number, but her da answered so I put the phone down without saying anything. That Sunday was the worst day of my life and on the Monday I threw myself into my job in an attempt to bury my feelings. It didn't work.
At the end of my shift, Morag was waiting for me outside the shipyard gates. It was a filthy day, with the north westerly wind bringing driving horizontal rain. Yet she was standing there wearing a thin coat, exposed to the elements. She was soaking from top to toe, shivering in the cold, but as soon as we saw each other we ran and embraced, kissing each other, saying how sorry we were and promising never to have an argument again. I took her home where ma made her a hot bath and dried her clothes as well as she could in front of the fire.
When we next met, she told me she'd got into trouble for being out too late. “But I don't mind,” she said. “All that matters is that we made up.”
Then came the day we'd both been dreading: the day I got the letter calling me up for national service. Like every healthy male of my age I was conscripted to the army for eighteen months. A year and a half of being ordered about and, much worse, eighteen months away from Morag. By the time my service would have been completed, she'd have taken her exams and would already be at a university somewhere, but probably a long way from Glasgow. When we next met I showed her the letter; her face dropped. We comforted each other, one thing led to another and before we knew what was happening we were making love, out there in the open in some brushland near Kelvingrove park.
We were both virgins and we were clumsy and fumbling; it was over all too soon, but afterwards was the best time as we lay in each other's arms. The lovemaking didn't take the pain away, but it made it more bearable.
A week later I was on my way to do my compulsory national service. We kept in touch, writing to each other as often as we could. I knew there was no point in writing to her at home as her parents would intercept the letters and probably destroy them, so aunt Beth allowed us to use her address. Having worked at the shipyard I was used to discipline and obeying orders, but nothing could have prepared me for the tedium of the pointless square bashing. The army attempted to beat every ounce of individuality out of us hoping to turn us into robots. Even worse was sharing a dormitory with a dozen and more young men, making any privacy impossible. The barracks were set in some beautiful East Anglian countryside, but there was no time to enjoy it. In any case, being several miles from the nearest town made the rural location almost like a jail.
I decided to treat the eighteen months like a prison sentence: be a good boy and do the time, and then be reunited with Morag. I intended to ask her to marry me, but I knew her parents would never consent to that, so any such thoughts would have to wait until she was 21.
Three months into my national service I received the letter that would change everything. It was from her aunt Beth, and she didn't pull any punches. In it she wrote the following:
“Morag is too upset to write to you and she is scared of what your reaction may be, so I am writing on her behalf. She has discovered she is pregnant and she knows you must be the father. I am finding it difficult to control my anger at your behaviour, at your lack of self-control, at you taking advantage of her in this way. I had thought you were different from other boys. Clearly I was wrong.
As you can imagine, her parents are furious and they are insisting the baby is given up for adoption once it's born. She has also been expelled from her school, will no longer be able to take her exams and therefore will not be able to go to university. Your irresponsibility and lack of maturity has destroyed her future.
What's done is done. What happens now is up to you.”
For a while I was unable to think clearly, think at all, I just sat there staring into space. My mind was in turmoil, my body was in shock. I wanted to be with Morag, I wanted to reassure aunt Beth, but I was hundreds of miles away. In the end I went to see the chaplain, I didn't know who else to go to, and showed him the letter.
He looked at me with a frown on his face. “What do you intend to do?” he asked me.
“I want to marry her, but I've got another fifteen months here. I want to be with her.”
“So you intend to accept your responsibilities?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Yes. We only did it once and I don't think we meant to at the start. But yes, sir, there's no question but I love her.”
He smiled and nodded his head. “I see. Well, her aunt is right when she says what's done is done. At least you want to do the right thing.” He thought for a moment. “Here's what I suggest we do. I'll take this letter to the commanding officer here and propose you get a few days leave so you can return to Glasgow. What you do when you're back there is down to you.”
It was agreed I could have four days leave which, with the travelling time, would leave me with less than 48 hours in Glasgow. The first thing I did was to make two phone calls. The first one was to my parents who had already heard the news about Morag, and weren't pleased about it, but were reassured when I said I would stand by her. The second was to aunt Beth. I told her when I'd be back in Glasgow and said I wanted to see Morag, if she could arrange that. I also made it clear I loved her and wouldn't be deserting her.
I was nervous, more nervous than I'd ever been, when I knocked on aunt Beth's door in an upmarket part of Glasgow. Tight lipped, she let me in and took me through to the front room where Morag was sat in an armchair, unable to look me in the face. I immediately knelt before her, took her in my arms and told her I loved her. She burst into tears, held me close and kept saying: “Thank God. Thank God.” After a few moments she said: “I was so afraid you'd not want to see me. I was so scared.” I held her, not knowing what to say, having no idea where we went from here.
When aunt Beth returned with tea and saw us embracing each other, she put the tray down and said: “You'll have plenty of time for that later, and there's probably been too much of it already. We have some decisions to make.” She told me to get up off my knees and after I was sitting on a chair next to Morag, holding her hand, she said: “Okay, young man. Are you serious about accepting your responsibilities or is it just talk? And look at me when I'm talking to you: I want to see your eyes.”
After convincing her, she looked at Morag and asked: “Are you going to tell him what your parents are threatening or do you want me to do it?”
Speaking in a whisper so quiet it was hard to hear her, Morag said: “I don't think I can.” She bit her bottom lip, before adding: “I want to keep the baby, no matter what anyone says. I don't care. I'm going to keep the baby.”
Aunt Beth took her hand, patted it and smiled. “Okay. But don't worry dear, I won't let them.”
I looked at her. “Won't let them do what?”
“Okay. No point in beating about the bush. They've told her either she agrees to the baby being adopted or they'll have her committed to an asylum.” Despite her efforts, tears were beginning to form in aunt Beth's eyes. She waved her hand in front of her face as if swatting them away.
“They can't do that!” I yelled. “They've got no right.”
Aunt Beth shrugged her shoulders. “That's a moot point. I'm not a lawyer, so I can't say for certain. But I will tell you both this: it will only happen over my dead body.” She was silent for a few moments, then asked: “Do you trust me?”
We both nodded.
“Okay. I never thought I'd say this about my sister and her husband, but they seem more concerned with their reputations and what the neighbours think than they do about the welfare of their only daughter. I don't like being so brutal, but only by facing up to things can we sort this bloody mess out.”
Mumbling almost under her breath, Morag repeated: “I'm going to keep the baby. I'm keeping the baby.”
I nodded, saying: “And as the baby's father, I want to keep him or her. No question. So how?”
Aunt Beth was fiddling with a handkerchief, unconsciously twisting it into different shapes before unfolding it and starting again. Looking at me, she said: “Once I got your phone call I spoke to Morag's parents again. I hope neither of you mind me doing that.”
We both shook her heads. “Of course not,” I said.
“Okay. They're both clear that if she demands she keeps the baby, they will disown her, and if she refuses to go away somewhere while pregnant they will have her committed. There's no budging them on that.”
I swore. Aunt Beth responded by telling me such language wasn't helpful. She continued: “As I say, there's no budging them, so we have to work round that.”
I couldn't sit still any longer. I jumped up, began pacing the room and said: “I don't care about them. I don't care if they 'disown' her, in my view they never owned her in the first place. She's a human being, not a slave or a pet. So let them disown her, we're keeping the baby. And they won't be putting her in an asylum. I'll go AWOL from the army, and run away somewhere with her before I allow that to happen.”
“Sit down,” aunt Beth said. “Going AWOL won't help anyone, it'll just make things even worse. However, you are right: Morag can't stay at home when she begins showing. I know my sister, and she'll carry out the threat to have you committed. So we have to get you away.”
“Where to?” I asked. “We've got no money.”
“Okay. If this isn't to your liking, I've got nothing else to suggest. It so happens I have this small cottage in the west Highlands.”
“Yes, da told me about that,” Morag said. “He wasn't very nice about it.” She was beginning to regain her composure and her voice.
“Of course he wasn't. It's only small: two bedrooms upstairs and two small rooms downstairs, but I've had an indoor loo and bath put in. I couldn't really afford to buy it, but I wanted somewhere to go when things got too much, somewhere nobody knew me. You can stop there if you want to until you can find something better.”
Morag and I looked at each other, then she asked: “But what will people say when I begin to show? Surely an unmarried mother won't be welcome there. Won't they call me names or not even speak to me or even worse call the baby a bastard?”
“Not if they think you're married and your husband's on National Service”. She rummaged in her handbag, producing a ring which she gave to Morag, telling her to try it on for size. “I've got one for you as well,” she said to me, “and if they don't fit, we can get them altered. No-one in Strathdubh need know you aren't married.”
“It's a long way from the shipyard,” I said, and immediately regretted it, knowing I sounded ungrateful. Morag had a way of looking at me when she disapproved of something I had done or said, and I received that look then: flared nostrils, tight lips and eyes like slits. I stammered an apology.
“Don't worry,” Aunt Beth said, “It's a sensible concern. But Morag's told me you hate the job there.”
“Yes, but I'm learning a trade.”
“Oh come on,” Morag said, a note of irritation in her voice, “you're always moaning about the work and how you don't want to spend the rest of your life living in a city slum. Don't you remember when you were telling me how your grandda used to be a shepherd in the Highlands, and how you'd love to work in the country? Don't you realise, thanks to aunt Beth, we have a chance to make something of our lives, and not just for us but for our baby? A chance to live where my parents can't force me to give up the baby, a place where no-one knows us and where we can have a fresh start. Doesn't our baby deserve that? Don't we deserve that? Don't we?”
Despite outward appearances, Morag had steel in her soul: when she knew what she wanted, she generally got it and when she came to a decision, there was no changing her mind.
Aunt Beth backed her up. “She's right, you know, though I wouldn't have put as strongly as her. Right now, with food shortages and rationing you shouldn't have a problem finding work in the area. Why not write to local farms telling them when your national service ends and see if any of them can offer you a job?”
I knew they were both right, but my parents had taught me to value my independence, and I hated having to rely on others: it felt like I was losing my manhood. Oh, I know how silly that sounds, but no-one had ever given my family a helping hand, what little we had we'd got through hard work. But if I wanted to be able to stay with Morag and provide for my family, I knew I had little choice. Besides, I really did hate working at the shipyard, and I certainly didn't want to spend the rest of my life working and living there.
When I got back to the barracks wearing that gold band on my ring finger, I told them we'd got a special license and were now married. A white lie, I know, but one we could put right when I was free of the army. I felt a bit guilty about the congratulations and all the drinks I was bought, but not guilty enough to come clean. And a few months later I was given leave so I could be with Morag, though in those days fathers weren't welcome during the actual birth. The midwife at the hospital made that clear, telling me in no uncertain terms to stay in the waiting room.
It was a difficult birth. Even now I can't talk about it much. Hearing the screams and seeing staff calling for a doctor, I felt powerless, I felt useless. I only found out later that Morag almost lost her life and that she wouldn't be able to have more children. After what seemed an eternity a nurse came into the waiting room and smiling told me I could see my wife and daughter.
As soon as I saw the two most important women in my life, my heart felt like it would burst. Morag was clearly exhausted, but looked blissful. She passed our daughter to me, telling me to support her head, and I looked at this bundle of joy with more love than I thought I was capable of. I'm sure she smiled at me, but that may have just been my imagination. I couldn't speak, I was just grinning from ear to ear, looking at the miracle I was holding, this new life created out of pure love. We called her Catriona.
The remaining months of my National Service went so slowly I thought they would never end. Then the day came when I found myself beginning my new life in Strathdubh with Morag and Catriona, and my new job working on a local farm. We were able to move out of aunt Beth's cottage into a house provided by the farm owner.
Our one regret was that Morag's parents refused to have anything to do with us. We tried, but they made it clear they no longer considered Morag their daughter and refused to acknowledge Catriona, who they referred to as “the bastard”, was their granddaughter. We had no choice but to reconcile ourselves to this, but we were luckier than many others, thanks to aunt Beth, whose help was rewarded by her sister never speaking to her again.
When Morag's da and then a year later her ma died, she felt like she'd been orphaned twice over. We didn't go to their funerals at the Free Kirk they had attended all their lives: it had been made clear we wouldn't be welcome, and that just increased Morag's misery. She was inconsolable for a time and no matter what I and aunt Beth said, she blamed herself, saying she should have tried harder to get her parents to accept me and Catriona. Eventually, the sharp edge of the grief became a dull ache, but it never truly left her. She was determined we would never do to Catriona what her parents had done to her.
I loved working on the farm, particularly with livestock. I found I had a way with animals: both the cattle and the sheep seemed to trust me and I was generally the one who was sent to deal with particularly difficult ones. Perhaps it was because I treated them with respect. Animals are more intelligent than we sometimes give them credit for, and perhaps they just sensed I didn't wish them any harm. I would happily spend time out in the fields with them in all weathers, ensuring they were safe from any predators, repairing fences where necessary, helping with births, whatever was needed. The only part of the job I hated was taking animals for slaughter, but even then I knew it had to be done, it was part of the economy of the farm and most people, including me, ate meat. I took no pleasure in the slaughter, but I took pride in ensuring both the transportation and the killing were done as humanely as possible.
The farm owner, a widower, was looking for someone to be a partner: since the death of his wife he had found it ever more difficult to run the farm on his own, and he was so impressed with my work he asked me. I wanted to, I really did, but every penny we had went into looking after my family. Once again, aunt Beth offered us a lifeline. At first, I had been angry with Morag for telling her about the offer: I didn't want to have to ask for help, it made me feel bad about myself. But I never could stay angry with Morag for long, and anyway aunt Beth didn't give us the money, she loaned it to us and we signed a legally binding agreement regarding repayment schedules. That pleased me: it meant I could tell myself we were paying our way, we weren't getting charity. If we had fallen behind with repayments, I doubt she would have ever said anything, but we never did. Once Catriona began school, Morag too began to help out on the farm. When the farm owner died, we took over the running of the farm.
We never did get married: there seemed no need. Everyone we knew in Strathdubh thought we were anyway, and the only people from Glasgow we kept in touch with, aunt Beth and my ma and da, were just happy we'd made a life for ourselves. In any case, if we had got married, no matter how secretly, someone would have found out: it's not possible to keep that sort of thing secret in a small place like Strathdubh. That would have just provided all the gossips with fuel, and people might have looked at us differently. As the saying goes: if it ain't broke, don't fix it.
From that first moment in the hospital when I held her in my arms, Catriona has always been able to tie me round her little finger. Whatever she wanted I would give her and almost before she could speak she knew to ask me and not her ma. I was an easy touch. She used to follow me around the farm, asking questions, helping feed the animals, learning how to milk the cows, getting far too friendly with the sheep dogs. But then she discovered she had a talent for music, and gradually she lost interest in helping me, concentrating on learning to play the piano and organ, taking singing lessons and beginning to read music.
3
I could never refuse Catriona anything, so when on that day in 1975 she said she knew we'd had problems in the past, and wanted to know more about them, I knew I would end up telling her. I'd never been a great speaker, but I spoke uninterrupted for a long time, and throughout Morag held my hand.
After I'd finished, there was silence for a while. Then Catriona, with tears rolling down her face, hugged me and said: “I love you, da.” When she pulled away, she asked: “Is that why great aunt Beth left me her cottage?”
I nodded. “As she got older, she spent less time there. Her health made it increasingly difficult for her to cope on her own. We told her she was welcome to stop with us or, if she wanted, to live in the cottage, we'd look after her. But she wouldn't hear of it. Even after she sold her business and retired, she stayed in Glasgow, where she was near to shops, buses, the doctor and the hospital. That's why we visited her in Glasgow when we could. She was insistent she could look after herself, but every time we visited her it was clear she wasn't managing. She was too independent for her own good, like all the women in my life.” I got an elbow in my ribs from Morag and giggles from Catriona.
“It was us found her body,” Morag said. “We hadn't heard from her for a while and she never answered her phone, so we drove down to make sure she was okay. When no-one answered the door, we used the spare key she'd given us. The hospital said it was a heart attack, so hopefully it was quick. We all owe her so much.”
Catriona bit her bottom lip. “If I'd known all about her, I'd have made sure I was at her funeral.”
I took her hands in mine and said: “She was really proud of you, and the last time we talked to her she told us she didn't want you making a fuss and taking time off from your work for her. If she was still with us, she'd be even more proud of you. As your ma and I are.”
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.