Page 34 of The Show Woman

33

Trinkets

Rosie pulls her hat down over her ears as she walks home in the flickering gloom. It is cold today, a brisk wind blowing off the Clyde, and ahead of her as she turns on to the Gallowgate street sweepers are clearing out the last of the fallen autumn leaves, emptying them into huge sacks to be taken away and turned into mulch for the grand gardens up west.

Her fingers ache from the rough carpet material, the spindles on the thrumming machine she must operate each day, and her head is pounding from the relentless clackity clack . What she would give for a ride out into the fields with Tommy Pony, just the two of them. Or one of her mother’s honey cakes, still warm from the range, home-churned butter pooling into the sponge. Sometimes she even aches for the old iron bed she shared with Jennifer, its softness so different from the hard little racks in the wagons, although the price for that comfort, the temporary warmth, was always too high.

She loves Violet. It is a fact, plain and shining, and Rosie has never once thought to question it. She loved Violet from the moment she came to her that night in the stable, when Tommy Pony was so ill, when she feared she might lose him forever. Violet made her feel safe. Protected. Violet had cupped her heart gently in her hands, and never let go.

Now, it is her turn. She does not resent her work at the factory, long, painful and numbing as the hours may be. It is a small price to pay for Violet to shrug off her agony, the terrible pains that sometimes keep her up at night, sobbing, biting her pillow. She cannot always afford the medicine, and sometimes the relief lasts only a few hours. But she will not stop. She will do her best to provide for them until Violet is up and about again. It is as simple as that.

Rosie feels in her pocket for the gift she has made for her love, a little project during her tea breaks at the factory, when she has no desire to join in the yakkering gossip that fills the frozen weaving shed. It is a tiny ring, fashioned from strains of carpet wool, each one a different colour. She has been saving them for weeks, winding them round each other, tightening the threads until they form a small, continuous loop. Blue wrapped with green, orange with red, gold with silver, and through the middle a skein of rose-pink, woven round a thread of deepest violet.

She turns into the showground and heads for the stables to visit Tommy Pony. He does not like it at Vinegarhill, in this dark, smoky landscape, and stamps his foot impatiently each time he sees her. She feeds him a sugar lump, saved from her tea break that morning, and strokes his long muzzle.

‘I’ll take you a good ride on Sunday,’ she says into the white star on his forehead. ‘We’ll go for a long run and you can stretch those little legs of yours.’

The pony whickers softly.

‘He’s not happy, is he?’

The voice is young, girlish. Rosie turns around to see Belle, still in her school uniform, rake-thin and with two tight plaits in her hair, one trailing down each side of her sullen face.

‘No, I don’t think he is,’ says Rosie. She has barely spoken to Belle since their return to Vinegarhill, finds Violet’s younger sister awkward and unfriendly.

Belle takes a step towards her and there is a flash of movement at her feet, a flurry of oil-black feathers.

‘Is that a crow?’ Rosie asks. The bird has stopped directly in front of Belle, its beady eyes looking straight at her, and Belle leans down and strokes its long feathers.

‘Oh, this is Morag,’ she says. ‘Of course, I don’t actually know if Morag is a girl, but she’s so pretty that I decided she must be.’

Belle holds out an arm and the crow hops up, turning round to regard Rosie with interest.

‘Would you like to see what Morag brought me today?’

Rosie nods hesitantly. She has always thought of crows as mangy, unpleasant birds, best avoided if possible. Her father regarded them as a menace on the farm, had erected several scarecrows over the years which, to his eternal fury, never seemed to make a blind bit of difference.

Belle fumbles in her pocket and produces a tiny sliver of something smooth. She hands it to Rosie. It is green and cloudy, its edges soft and rounded.

‘My brother says it’s sea glass,’ says Belle. ‘Morag must have been down by the river and decided to bring me a present.’

Belle’s talk of presents makes Rosie think of Violet, lying in the wagon, bored and alone. She must get back to her.

‘You need to get back to Violet,’ says Belle, as though reading her thoughts, and Rosie, giving Tommy Pony a last pat, stops in her tracks.

‘I knew it was going to happen,’ says Belle.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I knew Violet was going to fall.’

Rosie is suddenly furious. ‘What? Why didn’t you tell someone? What do you know? Who told you?’

Belle remains implacable, sturdy, the crow still rooted to her arm.

‘Morag told me.’

She finds Violet propped up in the bed, looking peevish.

‘You’re late,’ she says. ‘Where have you been?’

Rosie takes her hat off. The wagon is chilly, has none of the cosiness that Lena’s did in the summer. No brightly coloured silk panels or homely camaraderie, created, it now dawns on her, by the four of them simply being together.

‘I went to the stables to visit Tommy Pony. And then I saw Belle.’

‘I see,’ says Violet. Her eyes are cold. ‘So it was more important to see a horse and my irritating sister than to come and see me?’

Rosie says nothing. She has learnt to be wary of Violet when she is in this sort of mood. She counts back. It is two days since the doctor has been, and he will not be back again until the morning. Violet is in pain. Violet doesn’t mean it. The words dance through her head like a mantra.

‘I asked you a question,’ says Violet. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

Rosie sits down on the bed, takes her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I won’t do it again. From now on I’ll come straight home.’

How will she be able to take Tommy out on Sunday now? Could Violet come in her chair? No. She’d be freezing and, what’s more, she’d hate it.

She looks up at Violet and is surprised to see there are tears in her eyes.

‘I’m sorry. I’m being an awful bitch. I’m just so . . .’ She casts around for the right word. ‘I’m just so miserable. And angry. And rotten. And sore. I’m no good any more, to anyone.’

Rosie catches her hand. ‘You’re good to me,’ she says. ‘And I love you.’

She fishes in her pocket for the little ring, wrapped in her favourite handkerchief, a gift from her ma for her tenth birthday.

‘Here,’ she says. ‘This is for you.’

Violet unwraps the delicate cotton, frees the burst of colours. Rosie picks it out and gently slides it on to her ring finger. And for a brief, blistering moment, a soft smile flares across Violet’s careworn face.