"Aye, a wee bit," Maggie admitted. "But go on."
"Well, then, I won't go into the life I had, you'll have an idea what whores do, I'm sure. And in spite of all the ways women try to avoid getting with child, it happens. And once the baby's in there, it's the devil's own job to get him out before he's ready, no matter what you do. I can't tell you the times I've seen a woman delivered of a normal healthy child when she's spent months sitting in hot baths, drinking gin, jumping up and down and even throwing herself downstairs. And I've seen women like you, who've done nothing, and whose child has been born early anyway, or full term like Lucy, and still died. And most times there was something wrong with them, especially the ones that came early. Twisted legs, withered arms, blind … it's as though God, if you believe in a God, has decided this one will be better off with Him instead of here, where life is hard enough even for perfect children. Iain looked perfect, true, but you wouldn't have known until he started to grow up. There was a reason he was taken, and it wasn't because you wouldn't rest, believe me. That had nothing to do with it."
"Did you try to get rid of your baby?" Maggie asked.
"No, I wanted her, like you wanted Iain. But it wasn't meant to be, and I accept that now. I do not believe that God punishes you by hurting innocent children."
"But the Bible says … " Maggie began.
"To hell with the Bible, and all the so-called men of God who twist its words," Sarah spat, with such hatred in her voice that Maggie was silenced. She turned away, picked up a towel and wrapped it round Maggie's shoulders. "I'm sorry," she continued after a moment, her voice calmer. "You're a Catholic, I know."
"D'ye no' believe in God at all, then?" Maggie said, shocked.
"Of course I do," Sarah replied acidly. "I'm the daughter of a minister, after all. I was brought up to believe in all of it, from Genesis and the sin of Eve that tainted all women forever, to St Paul and the fact that women must always be subservient and obey men, who are their superiors. I believed that all people are sinners, and must constantly pray, and fast, and beg for forgiveness on their knees on stone floors for hours at a time. And as I was already tainted with Eve's unforgivable sin, I didn't hold out much hope of going to Heaven, whatever I did. When I was really small, I accepted that father was beating and starving me for my own good, to drive the sin out of me and bring me to Christ's mercy. Now I just think he was a vicious bastard, like lots of men I've met since, who liked causing pain. And to answer your question more seriously, yes, I do believe in God, but not in men, and one day I'm going to learn to read and find out for myself what Christ said, and if it was that what my father did to us was right, then I won't believe in Him, either."
This wasn't how Sarah had meant the conversation to go. She was supposed to be comforting Maggie, and here she was, blurting out things she had never told anyone and had never intended to tell anyone. But at least Maggie had forgotten her own troubles for the moment. She was pondering quite a different problem now.
"Christ didna say that you should beat bairns, I'm sure," she said. "I havena much in the way of the reading myself, but my da used to read the Bible to us when we were wee, and Father MacDonald, who used to come from time to time, used tae tell us all sorts of lovely stories about the Holy Family. The Old Testament's full of fearful stories, but our Lord Jesus was a kind, caring man. He loved children. He wouldna have beaten them, or starved them either."
Sarah looked at her.
"But you believe He killed your son, just to chastise you for not resting when you should have?" she said. "That sounds pretty vicious to me."
Maggie blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it again and thought for a while.
"It sounds awfu' daft when you put it like that," she said eventually.
"That's because it is," Sarah said gently. "Don't you think it more likely that Christ took him because he wasn't formed quite right, out of kindness?"
"Aye," said Maggie. "Maybe you're right."
"I know I am," said Sarah confidently. "And I'm also sure that you're not doing yourself or anyone else any favours by lying here in bed brooding, especially your husband, who must be worried sick about you whether he shows it or not. I'll admit to you, Beth came to see me because she was worried about you and thought I might be able to help, because I'd lost a child of my own. All that rubbish Sir Anthony made up was just a ploy to get you to let me in the room. Although I will finish washing your hair and make you look a bit fresher. I didn't want to come, to be honest."
"Why did ye, then, an ye didna want to?"
"Because I owe Sir Anthony and Beth a lot. And because I didn't like to think of you torturing yourself because you had no one to talk to. I got through it on my own, but it took a long time. A very long time. And now I'm glad I came."
"So am I," said Maggie. "Ye've helped me a lot. I think I might get up today, once my hair's dry."
Sarah smiled, and tipped Maggie's head back into the cooling water.
"You've helped me, too," she said. "I hadn't realised how much I needed to talk, even after all this time. I suppose you never get over it completely. But you come to terms with it and move on. You'll go on to have more children, I'm sure, and they'll be lucky, because they'll have parents who love them." She lifted the jug and started to rinse Maggie's hair.
"What about you?" said Maggie. "Are ye no' hoping to have more bairns?"
"Me? No, it's not for me. I'm a businesswoman now. And I'm not interested in men. I've had enough of them to last me a lifetime."
"They're no' all like your father. There's some awfu' good ones about."
"I know, but I'm not likely to meet one who's willing to accept what I've done. And I wouldn't lie to a man if I was going to marry him. Better just not to bother. I'm really quite happy as I am. I don't have to answer to anyone, and don't want to."
She towelled Maggie's hair dry and started to gently comb out the tangles. Some minutes passed in companionable silence, after which Angus appeared with some tea and slightly oddly-shaped biscuits which Beth had baked. He looked approvingly at Maggie, appreciatively at Sarah, winked at her, and left.
"Can I ask ye a question?" Maggie said when his footsteps had receded down the corridor.
"What?"
"How did ye get wi' child, if your father was so strict? And what did your father say when he found out ye were having a bairn? Or did ye no' tell him? Ye dinna have to tell me unless ye want to," she finished hurriedly.
"No, I don't mind," said Sarah, who as she said it, realised she didn't, really didn't. "No, I didn't tell him. I used to go out and take food and suchlike to the old people of the parish. Charitable works. It was the only time I went out, my father not being one for letting his children enjoy idle amusements. Village fairs, music, singing and dancing were the devil's way of tempting you into sin. I quite enjoyed visiting because it got me out of the house, but my older brother always came with me after I was twelve, just in case I might take it into my head to tempt a man into sin with my evil womanly wiles." She laughed. "I didn't have a clue what a womanly wile was. My brother Philip did, though. He had his eye on a girl from the village, so what we took to doing was setting off together, then he'd disappear and go courting, and I'd do my visits. We'd meet up at the last house and come back together, demure as you please. Philip hated father, and we both got satisfaction out of fooling him.
Anyway, one day I went to visit Mrs Grimes. I didn't look forward to calling on her because she was really old and she'd gone a bit strange. She'd ask you the same thing over and over again, and half the time she didn't remember who I was at all. When I got there this day, though, there was a man with her. I'd never seen him before, but he said he was her son, and he lived over Liverpool way but he was travelling through and had come to see his mother."
"Was he the father of your bairn?" Maggie asked.
Sarah nodded.
"Every week I went to see Mrs Grimes after that he was there, except once or twice. He was handsome, or I thought he was then, and a lot older than me. I was fourteen and he was maybe twenty-five, thirty. And he had a way with words and something of the town about him, which made him seem really special to me, me having never been out of the village. He was just a sweet-talking shit, I know that now, I've met enough of them, but I didn't know anything then except that children were born out of evil, unspeakable acts. But when he kissed me, that was so nice I didn't think it could be evil, and then things went on from there and … well, you know how babies are made."
Both women moved over to the fire, where Maggie dried her hair by fanning it out over her shoulder, while Sarah nibbled on a biscuit.