The tangling of the web, p.1
The Tangling of the Web, page 1
Also available by Millie Gray
CRYSTAL’S SONG
IN A CLASS OF THEIR OWN
IN A LEAGUE OF THEIR OWN
EIGHTEEN COUPER STREET
In memory of my dear sister and friend, Rena McKinnon,
who in her lifetime achieved the impossible.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks go to:
Celia Baird and my sister, Mary Gillon, for their continuing encouragement and support.
Gordon Booth, who set me on the path of novel-writing and continues to advise me.
Ian Grant for sharing his memories of being a young and raw police constable who pounded the Shore beat in Leith forty years ago.
The team at my publishers Black & White and in particular Karyn Millar for her meticulous editing and publicist Paul Eckersley for his ever-willing assistance.
CONTENT
Title
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Sneak Peek
Author’s Note
Copyright
1
1955
Her stiletto heels echoed shrilly on the stone stairway, causing her to realise that the noise may irritate her mother, and that was the last thing she wished to do. Bending down to remove the offending footwear, she breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. Leaning on the wall for support, she reluctantly recalled that as a child she had often dreamt of and longed for this day. Relief seeped in when she also remembered that as she had matured the respectability that she was sure would come when she was able to say truthfully that her mother was dead had lost its importance.
In contrast, today the worry for Sally was just how she and Paddy Doyle, her mother’s husband, were going to resist her mother’s insistent pleas for them to put an end to her intolerable suffering. Sally sighed as she acknowledged that the agony of the pancreatic cancer had turned her formidable mother into a pitiful, grovelling wraith.
Tiptoeing towards the door of her mother’s tenement home in Iona Street, Sally was convinced that she would always stand fast in her belief that to end someone’s life, no matter the circumstances, was murder. Nonetheless she knew Paddy Doyle would have no such qualms. Descended from a deported Irish criminal, he had been born and brought up in the Australian bush. This harsh upbringing had resulted in him being one of life’s survivors who would crush anybody or anything that got in his way. Sally snorted as she was forced to grudgingly acknowledge that when he had married her mother he had also bestowed on her the respectability that she had long yearned for. But the price had been high – much too high, in Sally’s opinion.
Forgetting that she was trying to make sure she did not disturb her mother with any undue noise, she sniffed loudly as she asked herself, What kind of mother would treat her children the way Peggy had done? Her neglect and cruelty had been especially meted out to Josie, Peter and me. Sally shrugged and sighed before going on. Surely a cuckoo was more caring of her young? Her thoughts were now fully consumed with memories of Peter, her beloved brother, and all he had endured. Always when she reminisced about the days of their childhood, anger bubbled up inside her and silent tears cascaded down.
PETER’S STORY
LEITH 1932
The sheriff looked from the slight, terrified, fair-haired fourteen-year-old Peter over to his mother. Whereas the boy was cowed, the mother was indomitable. He already knew from personal experience that she was a very handsome woman, but he had also perceived today that she lacked any maternal instincts or warmth towards her son.
Shuffling the papers in front of him, he sighed before saying, ‘Peter Mack, you have been honest enough to confess to the stealing of two Scotch pies from the bakery in Dickson Street, and I accept that you did this because you were hungry so I am going to sentence you to be detained …’
Before the sheriff could continue, Peggy jumped to her feet. ‘No, sir, I don’t wish him jailed – give him several strokes of the birch!’
Around the court there were several loud intakes of breath. No feeling mother could wish her child to be treated in such a barbaric manner. It was true that up to the 1920s birching was regularly carried out in the police station in Leith, but a more enlightened view was now being taken on this practice and very seldom was any young person subjected to such cruelty unless the parents specifically requested it.
Sucking in his ample wobbling cheeks, the justice hesitated. It was true that most parents who pleaded for the birch instead of a custodial sentence did so because they were living on or beneath the breadline. This meant that if the boy was earning, the loss of his wages would further impoverish the family. In Peter Mack’s case his mother was a well-known accommodating Leith lady who plied her trade in Edinburgh. The lady was therefore supported by her many male admirers, which, he grudgingly admitted, included himself and several of his colleagues who served on the bench. This truth meant she would not starve even if her son was jailed.
Peter shifted nervously from one foot to the other as he waited for his fate to be announced. He was resigned to a good birching, where he would be stripped to the waist, tied by his hands and feet to a wooden bench and whipped by a six-foot-tall police officer with a five-sectioned birch whip. He gave an involuntary shudder when he realised this would mean that the skin on his back would be beaten black and blue and even torn from his bones. Shaking, he remembered that Jimmy Young, his pal, had told him to scream from the first lash. Peter knew he must do that because Jimmy had been lashed the year before and had decided not let out a whimper until he realised that his resistance to crying out only meant the constable would lay it on heavier when he struck the next lash. Peter now swallowed loudly as terror engulfed him, and all he could do was to pray that the sheriff would be lenient and not say ten or even twenty lashes.
The clock ticked slowly by until the sheriff cleared his throat and said, ‘Peter Mack, I accept that your mother left you and your sister for six days last week knowing full well that neither of you had any means of support.’ He now stared directly at Peggy, who raised her finger and wagged it surreptitiously against her bosom to indicate that the judge, no matter how much he was prepared to pay, would never, ever enjoy her favours again. ‘But a petty crime you have admitted to,’ the sheriff continued, ‘and as stealing cannot be tolerated, no matter the circumstances, I therefore sentence you …’ He hesitated. All in the court could now see he was reluctant to finish his judgement. Nonetheless, after a few seconds he continued, ‘… to five lashes of the birch.’ Peter gasped and buckled at the knees when he heard the leniency of the sentence and was further surprised to hear the judge wasn’t quite finished with his deliberations. No, like Pontius Pilate he wished to wash his hands of the disgraceful judgement. So, staring directly at Peggy, he added, ‘As requested by your loving mother!’
Immediately Peter was released into Peggy’s custody. But as was normal with her she wished not to be inconvenienced any further by this matter. So before going home she took him round to the police station for the punishment to be summarily carried out by the duty constable.
Peter never spoke to anyone, even Sally, about the thrashing he received at his mother’s behest, but it was etched forever into his memory.
The tall, burly policeman who carried out the sentence did not appear to be a cruel man. In fact, when he tied
Peter’s wrists and ankles to the table contraption he asked in a concerned voice, ‘Not too tight I hope, son?’ Peter, who was choking with terror, could only nod his head to indicate that the tethers weren’t cutting into his skin. The officer then went ahead preparing Peter for the assault. However, before the beating began the policeman lifted the birch from another table and whacked the air with it three times. The whipping sounds petrified Peter and the constable asked again if he was feeling well enough for him to proceed. What, he wondered, would be the point of saying, no, I’m shit scared, but Mister if I don’t let you go ahead today then the beating I’ll get from my mammy will be even worse than anything you do to me.
Peter would always remember his screams as the birch tore at his flesh. The sounds were so high-pitched he couldn’t believe they had been uttered by himself. Eventually relief overwhelmed him when the officer, with disgust, he thought, inflicted his last stroke. The constable then forcibly threw the birch as far away from himself as he could. The man then bent down and untied the inconsolable Peter’s hands and feet, but before giving him some water to drink, the man gently sponged the blood from Peter’s back. ‘Your mammy didn’t wait for you, son,’ he then confided with a compassion that was beyond Peter’s understanding. ‘Said, she did, that you’ve to make your own way home to Ferrier Street.’
Peter staggered to his feet and inhaled deeply. He couldn’t believe that breathing in could cause him so much agony. Picking up his shirt, he tried to put it on but could only drape it over his shoulders. Unsteadily, he then made his way out of the police station.
Once on the street, scalding tears cascaded down his face, but he made no attempt to wipe them away as every step he took was torturous, and he was sure that it was just a matter of time until he was on his knees.
After reeling and swaying his way over to Leith Links, he was glad when at last he was able to grip a rusty garden railing to support himself. Raising his head, he was pleased to see an unoccupied small bench nearby. Sinking onto the
Four years later, Peggy further betrayed Peter and Sally when Paddy Doyle insisted she abandon her elder bastard children before he would marry her. She didn’t even think twice before agreeing to the unnatural ultimatum.
When Sally and Peter arrived home from work that day they were shocked when they were told to gather up their belongings and leave. All that their mother added was that their eviction from their family home was with immediate effect. They tried to argue, but they knew it was useless. How could their welfare be important to their mother, Peggy Mack, when she wished, yet again, to share her bed with another man? This time her lover had said he would marry her but had laid down conditions. So all Peter and Sally could do was pack up and leave Iona Street, where they had recently been rehoused, without even being offered any sustenance.
Sally, who never forgot that Peter had been birched because he had stolen the pies to feed her, deeply regretted that they both were now homeless.
Staggering down the stairs with their worldly possession in some paper carrier bags, she felt an overwhelming desire to protect Peter. However, it seemed Peter felt he should be looking after her and she choked back her tears when he said, ‘Never mind. And don’t you get upset, Sally. I promise I’ll find us something.’
That was what he thought would happen, but sixteen-year-old Sally knew she had a quicker solution to their plight. ‘Peter,’ she said, as she laid her two carrier bags at her feet, ‘it’s just a wee five-minute walk from here down to Halmyre Street. How about we go there?’
‘Halmyre Street?’ exclaimed Peter. ‘Look, Sally, we have to stay realistic. How could we persuade the railway people that we are entitled to one of their hooses?’
‘No. What I mean is until we get something else how about I ask Harry Stuart or his widowed mother if we could bunk in with them for a night or two? Then at the weekend we can look for digs.’
‘But why would the Stuarts help us?’
Sally blushed before stammering, ‘Because … Oh Peter, Harry fancies me and wants to marry me.’
‘Marry you? But you’re just a bairn – only sixteen. Oh God, you’re no in the family way?’
‘Of course not. I’m not like Mammy. I’m respectable. Probably take after my father.’ Sally halted before drawling longingly, ‘Whoever he was.’
Peter’s bags were now lying beside Sally’s on the pavement. On looking up to the heavens for an answer, he was rewarded with a shower of hailstones that tore into his skin, reminding him of a birch cutting into his back. Sighing, he picked up the bags and uttered, ‘Come on then. Let’s see if Harry’s mother has any Christian charity in her.’
Flora Stuart was one of those women who could be held up as the epitome of a mother. Like Sally, she wasn’t much more than five feet in height; however, she did differ from slim Sally in that she resembled a warm, round dumpling. One of her other assets was her ever-smiling face, which beamed a welcome to Sally and Peter when she opened the door to them.
‘Come away in then,’ Flora chuckled as she stood aside to let them enter. ‘And my, look at you – you’re fair drookit,’ she continued, picking up a towel from the back of a chair and offering it to Sally.
Murmuring a ‘thank you’, Sally firstly rubbed her hair and face with the towel before handing it to Peter. ‘Mrs Stuart,’ Sally continued, whilst wringing her hands together and indicating with a nod of her head, ‘this here is my brother Peter and … and … and …’
‘Sure, Sally, why are you so … how can I put it … oh aye, grovelling? Am I a monster or something that you’re scared of?’
Sinking down onto a chair, Sally shook her head and wept. ‘It’s just … Oh Peter, can you say?’
Handing the towel back to Flora, Peter began, ‘It’s just that we need shelter for the night. I promise you that tomorrow I’ll try and find us some digs.’
‘Shelter? But your mother’s house in Iona Street is bigger than mine here.’
Peter hung his head. His mother’s promiscuity had always been a sore embarrassment to him and he just couldn’t form the words that would explain why Sally and he were in such a predicament.
Sensing Peter’s dilemma, Sally swallowed hard before saying, ‘Our mammy’s getting hitched to Paddy Doyle … whom I wouldn’t spit on if he was on fire,’ she hissed before going on. ‘And part of the marriage settlement – so it would seem …’ Sally stopped to sniff in deeply and purse her lips, ‘… is that Peter and I are no longer welcome in our family home.’
Shaking her head from side to side, Flora looked about her home. Sure, she had three rooms and each had a bed in it. Flora herself slept in the bed recess in the living room; Harry, her only son, had the box room that was really just a large walk-in cupboard; and the other room was occupied by her nephew, Sweet William. ‘Look,’ she began, ‘there’s no a problem with me putting you up, Sally. After all, there’s not much of you so you could bunk in with me.’ She stopped to have a hearty chuckle. ‘And would that not be suiting my Harry,’ she continued, slapping her hands on her stomach, which sent a cloud of flour rising from her apron. ‘But as to your brother here … Well, my Harry is a big boy, a very big boy, and with there not really being enough room for him in his single bed there is no way I could offer to let you share with him.’
Peter and Sally looked about the room and their eyes stopped when they looked past the open door and into the full-sized bedroom of the house.
Running her right hand over her hair before patting the chignon at the back of her head, Flora sighed before uttering, ‘Sweet William, my sister’s lad, sleeps in there. And okay, he has a double bed to himself, but Peter I couldn’t let you sleep …’ Flora gulped before hurriedly going on. ‘Surely you know why he’s called Sweet William?’
An uneasy silence fell in the room and was only broken when Flora said, ‘Look. That’s the bread fully raised again so I can get it in the oven.’ Once the bread was safely in the oven cooking, Flora flopped down onto a chair. It then quickly became evident to Sally and Peter that she was thinking, and they were surprised when she jumped up and ran into the bedroom. ‘But that’s the answer,’ she called back. ‘William does nights at the train station, so Peter, if you could be up and out of the bed by half past six then it would work.’
‘Just for tonight?’ Peter tentatively asked.
‘No. Until you get better accommodation than I can offer. Mind you, you will both have to pay digs and I will give William a wee reduction, a very wee reduction, to his dues.’
A satisfied smile came to Flora’s face. Sally too was laughing because Flora would always help anyone in distress, but somehow her generosity had a habit of paying Flora well – very well. Was that not what Harry was continually saying about his mum: that always she was looking forward to a brighter future, which she was convinced her ingenious schemes would provide?
Without really speaking to anyone other than herself, Flora whispered, ‘Saving up I am for one of those grand main-door houses in Easter Road.’ She now stopped to do a jig around the table while adding, ‘You know the rooms are that big you could hold a ceilidh in any one of them and not have to turn any of your generous kin folk away!’
The only consolation Sally had about Peter’s life was her knowledge that the three years before he had gone off to war he had spent at Flora Stuart’s house. Flora’s was a home in the true sense of the word. A place where Peter was always welcomed and well fed.
By the time Sally had stopped reminiscing, she had been standing at the door of her mother’s house for ten minutes. She knew she had to enter, but she really wanted to flee. All she required to do was turn the key that was always in the lock and she would be in, but still that small action was beyond her. A small voice from deep inside her asked, Are you going to stand here all night? What are you waiting for – some courage? Before she could answer herself she became aware of someone approaching. Quickly Sally turned and found herself face to face with Luke, her stepbrother.
