The Butcher's Apprentice

By Tracey Gallagher Duguid

‘The Butcher’s Apprentice’ is an intriguing story of one man’s search for his identity and his yearning for a love he thought never existed.



On his death-bed in hospital, Robert Kelly discovers a bundle of letters in a tattered blue chocolate box that his adoptive mother kept hidden for years in a wooden trunk under her bed. While reading them, Robert begins to unravel a series of dramatic events involving his adoptive parents, the local midwife and her daughter, who together aided an unmarried mother in concealing the birth of her baby boy, and further weave an intricate web of deceit in his illegal adoption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781839784200

Book preview

1

Robert – Clydebank 1944

The first time I inadvertently discovered who I was, or more to the point who I wasn’t, my mother, Annie, had taken a cleaning job in Our Holy Redeemer’s Church not long after my father, Rab, or Mr Kelly, as I’d since begun calling him, died.

He was only forty-six, young in hindsight, but not such an unusual life expectancy in those days, and although, we were still in the throes of WWII, it wasn’t this that caused his death, much to my disappointment at the time, having already survived WWI in the Royal Navy.

On this occasion however, he was aiding the war effort in his profession as a platers’ helper in the local shipyard where coincidentally my mother too had worked as a french-polisher, but she had lost her job during the onset of the Great Depression of the 1930s.

It was on one of those very days in my mother’s absence, I was once again lured by the thought of what lay under her big iron bed, my head cocked to one side, cheek cold, flattened against the steel edge as my small hands stretched in, fingers searching until they hit the smooth outline of the heavy wooden trunk.

And latching on, the brass corners digging into my palms, I pulled left then right until it slid out easily to rest in front of me.

Running my fingers over the intricate carving on top, I turned the key, unclipping the lock, propping it open to stand upright with the support of its hinged leather straps.

Sitting back on my hunkers, I rubbed my pale knees, the grooved imprint of the bare floorboards etched into my skin, as I tried to invoke blood circulation back into them, and shifting into a more comfortable position, I browsed inside the trunk, keeping a mental note of where everything sat before even contemplating removing any of its contents for fear my mother would surely know I’d been in there.

My curiosity was sparked immediately by a crumpled brown paper bag that lay to the back beside the odd-shaped green and brown tin box.

Picking it up, unfurling the creases, I peeked inside, a gasp escaping my mouth as I dropped the bag rubbing my hands in distaste as fear crept up my spine only heightening my curiosity more, and daring myself to pick it up again, I slowly peaked inside one more time, not quite sure what to make of it.

As a fifteen-year-old, all sorts of horrors went through my head, my imagination soaring off in all directions, and I wondered why my mother would want to keep such an awful thing? And who did it belong to?

As if daring myself further, dipping my hand in carefully to touch it, wincing as I rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, it felt like hair all right; a bundle of dirty blonde matted hair I seen as I lifted it out to the light, scrutinising it, then immediately dropping it back in the bag, creasing it down to its original stance, and placing it back where it belonged, I shivered wiping my hands along the sides of my trouser legs.

I already knew what lay in the odd-shaped tin box was less gruesome than the paper bag as I creaked it open. Shiny silver medals of all shapes and sizes glinting in the light as they lay strewn across one another. Holding one up, I read aloud. The Royal Scots. It was jagged at the edges like the spikes of a hedgehog as I rolled my fingers around the sides. Then picking up another, The Scottish King’s Borderers Own, I examined it in detail.

Eager to try one on, I pricked my finger on the sharp pin to the back as I grabbed the larger of the three, The Royal Highlanders Black Watch, a drop of my blood dripping, splatting into the tin box amongst the other memorabilia, as I held my breath, wondering how much blood had been lost in battle by those who had earned these medals, and I felt proud to know my own insignificant drop of blood was the same as those who had fought before me for their country.

Rab Kelly had fought in the Great War, and my Uncle Dan too. I remembered the stories they’d relayed, and I’d seen the affect it sometimes had on them, and how afterwards they’d drink a bit too much to forget.

Sucking my finger, I pinned the medal onto my jumper, standing to admire it, swaying over and back between the black specks that donned the dresser mirror to get a decent view.

My mother had cut my hair again, tight into my head at the sides, making my already protruding ears stick out even more. But it wasn’t this that bothered me so much. She’d left a long side fringe that hung slightly over my right eye like I’d asked her to, and from where I stood looking at my reflection, I could hardly see the difference in my eyes that was normally apparent, and that everyone always noticed a second, or two after meeting me, staring as they did, and saying ‘your eyes are different colours you know.’ As if I’d never noticed before, putting me in the spotlight which I didn’t like much, as I was generally quite shy.

And the lassies too were always fascinated with me, staring into my eyes for ages like I was a peculiar species, which made me turn puce with embarrassment, though my friend, Tommy, thought it was a great affliction to have, and swore he’d give anything to swap places with me for that attention.

As we’d grown older, Tommy would almost dangle me in front of the lassies, introducing my eyes first, and me after. And to be honest he made me laugh so much it lessened the humiliation.

Sitting back down on the floor, I unclipped the medal from my jumper, placing it back in the tin box where I’d found it, closing the lid, and putting it to one side, I began sifting through the paperwork, searching for what? I wasn’t sure. I’d never gone as far as the paperwork before, only ever the medals.

Stopping to listen, beginning to feel nervous now, not knowing how much time had passed since I’d begun my escapade, I picked up a brown envelope, looking inside, I found a bundle of folded papers, and pulling one out, opening it carefully along the creases, it appeared to be my mother’s marriage certificate. Nothing I didn’t know there, except the place her family had come from in Ireland. I thought it an odd name, and repeated it over and over, wondering if I was pronouncing it correctly.

Closing it back over the creases, I picked up another. A birth certificate for someone called Ellen, whom I’d never heard of before, and looking at the date she’d only be a year older than me, but thinking no more of it, I replaced it back where I’d found it.

Beginning to feel uneasy as I became more aware of the time, and my mother’s homecoming, I felt compelled to pull out one more as a final gesture to the end of my search, choosing the last one, opening it out, scanning over the page in a matter of urgency, as if to find nothing of consequence, but was stopped in my tracks as the words lept out at me.

Robert Kelly McDonald, born May 1929. Mother: Isabelle McDonald.

Confusion crossed my mind. It was my date of birth all right, and partly my name; always known as Robert, of course, because of my father being Robert, also, or Rab, as he became more fondly known, and easier for my mother when she’d call us for tea, or needed to scowl me if I’d gotten into bother.

But it couldn’t be me, because I didn’t know anything about the ‘McDonald’ name, and this wasn’t my mother, either.

I did find it peculiar though, that my own mother should have it in her possession, and this triggered a deep search of my memory bank, focusing on the little things one would normally trail over as insignificant in the need to find clarity.

As I sat there transfixed, reading over it again and again, afraid I’d missed something that would make sense of it all, I bolted upright then on hearing my mother’s voice echo in the hallway as she conversed with a neighbour on the landing, and my hands began to tremble as I folded the certificate up, memorising all the information I’d seen.

Shuffling the paperwork back into place, I noticed hidden at the bottom underneath the pile, was a royal blue chocolate box, which I doubted held chocolates anymore, and for a split second I faltered, contemplating peeping inside, my heart racing as I glanced over my shoulder, the voices louder now, and the solid clunk of the front door shutting.

There was no time as I gently closed the lid of the heavy wooden box, and sealing it with the clip, I slid it ever so quietly back under the bed where I’d found it. Then getting to my feet, I tiptoed with the lightness of a whisper out of the room, closing the door gently behind me.

2

Robert – Donegal 2012

‘How’re we today, Robert?’ The wee nurse’s thick northern accent cut through my meditative state as she whisked up the chart from the bottom of the bed, moving briskly to my side, repositioning wires that had tangled during the night.

Barely opening my eyes, I tilted my head, and watched as she changed the drip that hung to the left of my bed, lying transfixed as the clear liquid dropped, reminding me of a dripping tap, or the remaining raindrops caught in the crevice above the window ledge after a heavy downpour, slowly beginning to fall in an even rhythm, plonk… plonk… plonk.

‘Restless in the night, were we, Robert?’ she asked, breaking the monotony, checking the monitor as she threw me a look, and wrote something in my chart, replacing it back on the foot of my bed.

Locking eyes with her momentarily, I gave a faint smile, not in the mood for her this morning, having nothing of any consequence to say. After a week of formalities and familiarities, there wasn’t much left to talk about. I found it repetitive and boring.

‘Do you need to use the toilet, Robert?’ she asked then, so matter of fact, and I gave her a look, shaking my head, the idea going against everything I stood for, as it was one of the few things I could still manage to do by myself. My dignity just wouldn’t allow it.

‘You were talking in your sleep again.’ She exclaimed, fussing around the bed, tucking and smoothing out the blanket.

‘Oh aye.’ I managed out of politeness in my broad Scottish accent hoping she’d just move on, and leave me be.

‘Who’s this Daisy then?’

I stared at her, shocked, struggling to push myself up in the bed, prompting her to fix the pillows behind my head as I gave a strained chuckle. ‘Daisy you say?’

‘That’s right, Daisy. Not a name you hear much nowadays; it’ll maybe make a comeback. Be fashionable again, you know, as they do.’

I waited, wondering if that was it. Was it just her name I’d mentioned, or was there more? She stalled then, wheeling the table up towards me from the bottom of the bed, just as the dinner lady rattled in to put the breakfast tray down, and distract me with her culinary delights.

Now, perplexed with a more pressing problem, casually I waited for them both to leave, embarrassed by the tremor I’d developed in my hands over the years, and of which I was determined wouldn’t get the better of me.

Viewing the tray of poached eggs and stewed tea, I poured it precariously into the teacup, adding a splash of milk, making a botched attempt at feeding myself, spilling and staining the front of my pyjamas as I did so.

But as usual, I ate everything, and drained the last of the tea. ‘Never waste the day what you mightn’t have the morra.’ my mother’s Scottish lilt echoed in my head as I lay back content, my full belly rising beneath the blankets like a perfect hill, I dozed off.

And as I dozed, I dreamt of Daisy. Not as I knew her back then, but as I should have known her given the circumstances. I wasn’t surprised that my mother had kept it from me. She was good at keeping secrets I’d learned.

But what I couldn’t understand, was why in all the years that had passed since, never once had she broached the subject, let alone neglected to explain the circumstances, and how canny she was to have kept her side of the bargain no doubt, and greedily taken it with her to the grave.

Knives and forks rattled my thoughts, and I startled to the rumble of the dinner lady’s trolley entering my room again, returning to collect the empty dishes. Except somewhere in that time there must have been a change in shifts because it wasn’t the usual lady, but an older, chirpier version with high dyed hair, and too much makeup.

It was easy to lose track of time I thought, staring blankly at her, bewildered and confused as I tried to gauge if I’d slept right through a whole day. And having just gotten used to the usual lady; a woman of little words which pleased me, this one I could tell was much more inquisitive.

‘You enjoyed that.’ She bellowed out, smiling down at me, viewing my perfect hill.

Blushing, I hurried to explain. ‘The Germans bombed us out during the 2nd World War,’ I searched her face for acknowledgement, then carried on ‘and we had nothing for a good number of years afterwards, you know, when rationing was still rife.’ I rubbed a hand over my protruding belly. ‘It’s hard to shake off.’ I said, eyeing her with a pitiful shrug.

‘And quite right you are.’ She nodded in agreement. ‘You’re a Scotsman then?’

‘Aye, a Glaswegian.’

‘Well, it must have been a good Donegal wuman that brought you over the water then?’

‘Aye.’ I grinned back. ‘But she’s gone now.’ My smile, fading.

‘Awe, the good ones are always the first to go.’ She winked as if knowing first-hand, and began lifting my tray.

‘If a’ could’ve gone with her a would’ve, you know.’ I looked pleadingly at her, as if confessing, wondering why I felt compelled to share with this mere stranger.

Glancing at me now and then, she scraped the crumbs, and used butter foil into a bin under her trolley, stacking the empty plates on top. ‘Sure, you’ve plenty of life in you yet. You’ll be up and about before you know it.’ And with that she rattled off again.

I grunted, and threw a hand in the air to brush her off, shifting to face the window, annoyed at her having unearthed feelings in me that I’d taken so long to bury, and even more annoyed at myself for being so candid.

A flock of birds caught my eye then as they flew by, my gaze following them until they disappeared from view, and I squinted as the sun peeped out between drifting clouds, forcing me to shut my eyes, the imprint still visible, as the heat filtered across my face, my mouth curling upwards, as I remembered the first day I’d met Marnie on my tenement stairs in Clydebank.

The year was 1948, and I’d just been conscripted into the army, hurrying down the stairs two at a time, my mother having delayed me, searching for the damn birth certificate that had thrown me, changed my life as I knew it.

Marnie had arrived early to impress my mother. She was hoping to rent my room out while I was gone, and I had stood mesmerised by her pale blue eyes, dancing, as she laughed giddily while we tried to pass one another, and I, restraining from running my fingers through her hair of silky black waves tumbling over her shoulders.

I stole a glance back as I made my exit from the close, not knowing then that a whole year would pass before we’d meet again.

3

The Army Conscription – Clydebank 1948

My mother had busied herself, pressing and ironing my uniform, going over and over the creases, trying to iron out her anxiousness. I’d never been gone from her before now, not even as a child on an overnight as far back as I could remember. She couldn’t bear to let me go.

‘Is it ready yet, Mum?’ I pushed her on, shamelessly excited as I watched her fuss.

‘Ready as it’ll ever be. Hurry and let me look at you.’ She wrung her hands in anticipation.

I hoped her tough exterior would be enough for her to cope on her own. ‘Don’t forget my birth certificate, or they won’t enlist me.’ I said, watching her face drain, wondering if she’d offer any explanation, but hoping she wouldn’t, not here, now. There wasn’t time.

‘Oh dear, I forgot all about it, son. Just a minute. I’ll need to fetch the box.’ A cold sweat ran over her as she hurried to her bedroom.

‘I could do it if you like.’ I offered, knowing full well she’d never allow it.

‘No!’ her sharp tone cut through the air.

Resting her hand on the bed to support her, she got down on one knee, fumbling under the bed, her fingers trailing over the carvings of the old wooden trunk. She knew exactly where it was, just didn’t want to find it. Hoped someone had removed it. That maybe her beloved Rab had done so before life had cruelly taken him from them.

But then she remembered her old photographs, the few she had of Ellen, and her little bundle of hair she’d kept in a brown paper bag inside the box.

Having since learned to deal with the pangs of pain in her heart for not having Ellen near, I’d given meaning to her life again, filled that awful void, her melancholy waning over time.

I could never have replaced her, but I’d brought more happiness than she could ever have imagined. Given her a second chance.

But now, after all these years, what she feared most was about to be revealed. And why today when I’d be gone out of her life, and she wouldn’t see the grief, or pain I’d