The Good Provider by Jessica Stirling

diagonally back across Walbrook Street, heading for the boarding-house.
    Immediately Kirsty withdrew. She closed the window. She knelt in the alcove, forehead pressed against the cold glass until she heard the street-door open and close.
    Craig must have borrowed paper, envelope and ink from Mrs Frew, had even purchased a stamp from her, perhaps. He had written a letter in the privacy of his room and had slipped out to put it in the mail. Kirsty knew at once that the letter would not be addressed to Craig’s father but to his mother. In it, perhaps, he begged for understanding and forgiveness, inviting Madge Nicholson to come hotfoot from Carrick to drag him home again.
    For hours Kirsty lay awake, fretting, fearful that Madge Nicholson would divulge her whereabouts to Mr Clegg and that he would come for her or, more probably, would report her to the authorities. It had been too good to last, her escape with Craig, like a dream come true. She should have known better than expect it to last.
    When, over breakfast, Craig told her his plan she was too relieved, and too confused, to put up an argument, and meekly let him take her into town to be fitted for a wedding band.
     
    The ring, Craig said, would make all the difference. It would make it very much easier to obtain a room to rent if they presented themselves as man and wife. Nobody would ask impertinent questions, would doubt that they were legally married. Look, Craig said, how it cost them twice as much money at Mrs Frew’s. If, he said, they had had a wedding ring Mrs Frew would not have asked if they were man and wife but would have thought they were on their honeymoon, or something, and they might have saved the best part of four shillings. God knows, he said, they would soon whack through the rest of the stake unless they behaved sensibly; that meant saving every penny from now on, and that meant finding a place of their own at a reasonable sort of rent. The wedding ring would be an investment, part of the saving. Nobody would ever guess that they weren’t married since no landlord would ask to see the marriage certificate. Wasn’t it just common sense, Craig said, to put the cart before the horse for a while so, once they were settled and had saved a bob or two, they might have a stylish wedding, all legal and proper, and a proper honeymoon too?
    He made no mention of the letter. Kirsty did not have the temerity to ask him about it. She was too taken aback, too confused by his long harangue, hunched over the breakfast cups, to put up arguments against his plan. She wanted to be his wife and if it was not possible to be so under law then she must accept the next best thing. Craig was right. Who would know the difference?
    The ring was bought from a small shop in Argyle Street. The jeweller was all attention, even although the plain golden band was not by any means expensive and the bridegroom indicated that he wanted one off the shelf, one that fitted, and that it would not be necessary to leave it to have it engraved.
    ‘An’ when’s the happy day, sir?’
    ‘Next Wednesday,’ Craig said.
    ‘Ah, wedding bells, wedding bells. Be a big event, will it?’
    ‘Big enough,’ said Craig.
    ‘All the relatives?’
    ‘Put it in a box, please,’ Craig said.
    ‘Of course, sir, of course.’
    The jeweller, a man in middle life, small and pale and shabby, took Kirsty’s hand and held it while he eased the gold band from her finger.
    Craig paid in cash, of course, and Kirsty turned away as he laid two pound-notes upon the worn wooden counter. The jeweller snapped the ring into a tiny box upholstered in purple velvet.
    ‘Do this way, sir?’
    ‘Aye, that’ll be fine.’
    Craig put the box into his pocket, collected nine shillings in change and they were out in the dusty street again and heading rapidly away from the shop.
    Kirsty had not imagined that her ‘wedding day’ would be at all like this. She had not dwelt on the meaning of it, only on its trappings,