Time Shall Reap (43 page)

‘I didn’t know at the time, but I received a letter from her a few weeks later asking me to transfer the balance to a bank in Edinburgh.’

‘Have you still got that letter, please? I need to know her address – it’s a matter of ... life and death.’

The old man heaved himself up and walked round his desk, cluttered with overflowing wire trays, and crossed to the tall metal filing cabinet. Sliding out the second drawer, he fingered through it then extracted one folder and leafed over the papers inside. In a minute, he looked up in triumph. ‘Yes, here it is. I’m afraid it’s the address of the shop she was in the process of buying at the time, at twenty-nine Leston Road, but no doubt that will suffice.’

Laura’s brain could scarcely digest this latest piece of information. The money must have gone to her mother’s head. What could have possessed her to buy a shop, and what kind of shop could she possibly run?

Mr Reid handed her the letter. ‘There’s a pad and pencil beside the phone there, if you want to make a note of it.’

‘Yes ... thank you.’ Hastily scribbling down the address, she tore off the sheet of paper and placed it in her pocket. ‘Can you tell me when I’ll get a train to Aberdeen?’ Her spirits were so high that, if she’d had wings, she would have flown all the way to Edinburgh.

Miraculously producing a dog-eared timetable from the confusion of other items on his desk, the solicitor pored over it for a moment, then grunted and glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘You’d come on the ten eight, and there’s not another one until after two, but I know there’s a bus at five past eleven, and you’ll catch that easily. The stop’s along the High Street, to the right as you go out.’

Laura jumped to her feet. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Reid.’

He smiled indulgently. ‘I hope you find your mother.’

‘So do I.’

As she walked along the uneven pavement, Laura’s thoughts jumped ahead to Edinburgh, where she had gone through such a harrowing experience and had imagined her life to be finished. What a coincidence that she was returning to it, full of hope, to find her mother. Coming to a side road, she looked up idly at the signpost. ‘BLAIRTON 2, MOSSMOUNT 5’, it said. Blairton? That name rang a bell ... yes, of course. It was the name of the farm her mother had said belonged to her lover’s parents.

Laura had almost forgotten that this was the village in which her mother had grown up, and took more interest in it now. The street had a charming higgledy-piggledy appeal to it, a mixture of low cottages and larger houses, some having gardens and some where the pavement went right up to the windows, which were discreetly screened by snow-white lace.

She looked inside as she passed a grocer’s shop, and saw an elderly man, the proprietor presumably, in shirt sleeves and a long white apron, cheerfully serving his customers. Farther along, an empty shop had a placard in the window, ‘CLEARANCE SALE. OWNER RETIRING.’ Wondering idly what kind of business had been carried on there, she glanced up at the sign above the door. ‘G. Fraser. Dressmaker.’ So this was where her mother had once worked. How long had it been closed? Seeing a yellowing card lying on the inside window sill, Laura twisted her head to read it. ‘Final Day of Sale Saturday 2 1st’. Very informative, she thought, in some amusement. Twenty-first of which month? Which year?

When she reached the bus stop, she consulted her watch, found that she had ten minutes to wait and a little jingle came into her head. ‘Ten minutes to wait, so mine’s a Minor’, the slogan used on the posters advertising De Reske Minors, which showed a healthy, smiling girl holding a cigarette with the smoke spiralling up. Well, smoking was one vice she didn’t have. She did enjoy a little drink occasionally, but never more than that.

It wouldn’t bother her if all the pubs and hotels were to close their doors tomorrow. Ah, but wait! Hotels were used for other purposes besides drinking. She had hit on her one vice – sex. She could easily become addicted to sex – quite easily. Oh, Fridjof, min kjaereste.

‘It’s a fine day now.’

Not having realized that anyone was near, she looked up in surprise at two young mothers who were passing with their prams. ‘Yes, it is,’ she replied, noticing for the first time that the clouds had disappeared and that the sun was shining. Taking a glance inside the prams, she wondered what her babies would look like when they made their appearance. With her auburn colouring and Fridjof’s blondeness, they certainly wouldn’t be dark, but blonde or auburn, she wouldn’t give a damn as long as they were healthy.

‘The bus shouldna be long.’ A man was standing beside her.

‘Good.’ Laura hoped that she wouldn’t have to wait long for a train when she reached Aberdeen. All this waiting about was putting years on her.

After hurrying all the way from the bus terminus to the Joint Station, she asked a porter when the next London train would be leaving, and had to sprint to catch it, the guard holding a door open for her.

‘That was close.’ The soldier who had risen to help her in made sure that the carriage door was closed properly before he sat down himself.

‘I’ll say,’ she puffed. ‘Too close for comfort.’

She sank back and took a few deep breaths, then shut her eyes. Was this to be the last lap of her search, or would it bring disillusionment and despair? No, no. If her mother had bought a shop, she must have intended to stay in Edinburgh for some time, so she was bound to be there still.

Laura’s body grew stiff with sitting in the same position pretending to be asleep so that no one would talk to her, and her one-track brain was repeating over and over to the train’s rhythm, ‘twenty-nine-Leston-Road, twenty-nine-Leston-Road, twenty-nine-Leston Road’. The journey seemed never-ending.

When, at long last, she reached her destination, she went to the newspaper stall to ask how to get to Leston Road and as she walked along Princes Street, she remembered once thinking that the towering Castle to her left, on a pedestal of volcanic rock, made a magnificent backdrop to the lovely gardens running alongside the railway line at a lower level than the street, in the same mould as the Union Terrace Gardens in Aberdeen, but much larger and more impressive. Passing the Scott Monument, she recalled climbing all two hundred and eighty-seven steps to the top with some other WAAFs, and how tired they had been when they reached the ground again. But finding her mother, her reason for being here now, was far more important than the Castle, the Gardens, the Scott Monument and even the large shops to her right, which she had browsed through when she was stationed at Turnhouse.

At the end of the famous street she turned left, coming eventually to Leston Road and finding that number twenty-nine wasn’t far up, but her hopes faded when she saw the closed shutters. A sign above the window, ‘E. Fullerton, Dressmaker’, showed that it was definitely her mother’s. Of course, what else would it be but a dressmaker’s shop? A card on the door announced, ‘Hours 9 to 6. Saturdays 9 to 1’, and although she knew that it was long past one, Laura looked at her watch – five to four. Her frustration almost made her weep – to be so close, yet no nearer her goal. She would have to make the journey again another day. Turning to walk back down the hill, she kicked viciously at a small stone, her eyes following it until it ricocheted against a wall.

Noticing a chip shop, she was assailed by a sudden pang of hunger and made to go in, but this door was also locked. She had taken a few more steps before it struck her that the owner, or one of the assistants, might know where her mother lived. She turned back to see if the opening hours were displayed, and her heart lifted when she saw the scribbled chalking on the window, ‘Frying tonight – 4.30 to 11’. Only just over half an hour to go, less probably, because the fish and chips would have to be cooked before they opened for business. It had been like a slap in the face when she found her mother’s shop closed, and she hadn’t been able to think, but somebody here would be able to tell her what she was so desperate to know.

All the travelling she had done, and the see-sawing her spirits had suffered, caught up on Laura then, and she leaned wearily against the door to wait. There was no one in sight except two small girls sitting on a doorstep on the opposite pavement swapping paper scraps, and a scruffy mongrel sniffing in the gutter. After a moment, the dog went over to the girls, obviously hoping for a tidbit, but given nothing he moved to a drainpipe and lifted his leg. The children sniggered and Laura gave a little smile as she shifted her feet to ease them.

At that moment, a very fat old lady waddled out of a door farther up, so Laura hurried to meet her. ‘Excuse me, can you tell me where Mrs Fullerton, the dressmaker, lives? I have to find her and her shop’s shut.’

The woman studied her doubtfully, then, probably deciding that Laura was not a German spy in disguise, she said, ‘Just a few doors up. I’m no’ sure of the number, I think it’s maybe fifty-nine, but it’s the only one with a green door.’

‘Oh, thank you. Thank you very much.’

Walking quickly towards number fifty-nine, or the green door whichever number it was, Laura passed more shops, all open. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Still, it didn’t matter now. Here was the green door – it was number fifty-nine – but her mother’s name did not appear on any of the nameplates. By good luck, as she stood wondering what to do, the door opened and a young woman came out holding a small boy by the hand. ‘Excuse me,’ Laura said hopefully, ‘does a Mrs Fullerton live here?’

‘Second floor, right.’

Her blood coursing wildly through her veins, her weariness evaporating like a puff of smoke, Laura raced up the stairs, praying that her mother would be at home.

When Meg went out, Elspeth cleared up the dinner things then settled down in her armchair, glad of some peace and quiet. She’d had a very busy morning – her feet were hot, her head ached, her body felt as if it didn’t belong to her. She sympathized with her customers that they couldn’t buy new clothes with coupons so limited, but some of them expected miracles of her. It was impossible to let a bust thirty-six out to fit a forty, even a thirty-eight, or to add four inches round the hips, no matter how she tried.

Sighing, she picked up her latest
People’s Friend,
but the fortunes of the heroines grew less and less interesting to her, and she came to the conclusion that she was more tired than she had thought. Laying the magazine down on the floor, she pulled the pouffe towards her with her feet and lay back, closing her eyes to ease the strain of sewing so much. Not that she should complain about that – if she had no sewing to do, she would go bankrupt. As it was, her trade was flourishing, and David would be astonished if he knew how good a businesswoman she had turned out to be.

David. Why couldn’t she just forget him? It would make her nights much easier, for she often lay awake thinking about him and wondering what he had been doing during the day. She loved him as much as ever ... more than ever. How was he coping, having to look after himself? Of course, Laura would be going home on her times off duty – she had no quarrel with her father – and she would make sure he was eating properly.

Elspeth had hoped, when she first came to Edinburgh, that she might run into her daughter some day, but it was such a big city, and Turnhouse was so far out, that there was little likelihood of their ever meeting by chance. She had no worries about Laura, in any case. The girl’s head was screwed on firmly, and once she recovered from the initial shock she would have bounced back from the despair and anger that had consumed her that fateful evening.

If only she knew how they were. She longed to see them again, and hear their dear voices, even if it was only Laura’s reprimanding ‘Mum’. She could almost hear it now.

‘Mum, it’s Laura!’ She knew she was imagining it, but it was so real. ‘Wake up, Mum!’ The hand shaking her shoulder made her struggle to open her eyes, but they were still glazed with sleep as she looked up at the WAAF with auburn curls framing an anxious face. ‘Laura? I’m not dreaming?’

‘It’s really me. Oh, Mum!’ Laura sank to her knees and flung her arms round her mother’s legs, sobbing with happiness, and Elspeth, also weeping, touched her daughter’s forehead as if to make certain that she was actually flesh and bone.

After a while, Laura looked up and said, shakily, ‘I rang the bell, then I tried the door and it wasn’t locked, so ... oh, I’m glad I found you. How are you, Mum?’

Elspeth swung her feet to the floor. ‘I’m fine. I’m so happy, I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels.’

‘You’re on your bottom.’

Laughter verging on the hysterical, they clung to each other, cheeks together, tears mingling, until Laura sobered and sat down on the pouffe. ‘I want you to know how sorry I am for the horrible things I said to you that night, and I’m ashamed it’s taken me so long to ...’

‘Don’t say anything else, I’m just glad you’re here. I can still hardly believe it.’

‘But I have to explain, Mum. I was angry at you for three years, and it took Margaret Watson to sort me out.’

‘Donald’s wife? But how did ...?’

‘It’s a long story. On my last leave ...’ She went over it meticulously, leaving nothing out, ‘... and the night Fridjof and I discovered we loved each other, we slept together.’ She glanced up, expecting to see a frown of disapproval, but Elspeth was smiling sadly. ‘I’m not angry or shocked. What right have I to sit in judgement on you after what I did?’

‘When you’re young and in love, it just happens, doesn’t it?’ Laura carried on to tell how she had come to visit the Watsons in Hull.

‘They’d been surprised to see you.’

‘They were, but Margaret made me understand about a lot of things, especially how unfair I’d been to you, and I wrote to Dad when I went back, asking if I could go to see him.’

‘Had you never been home before that?’

‘No, I hadn’t. He told me he was going to walk out too, you see, and I didn’t know he’d ... I didn’t know he was on his own till Margaret told me.’

‘How is your father?’

‘He’s quite well, and dying to see you again.’

‘After what he said, I didn’t think he’d ever want to see me again.’