by Emma Fraser
‘He’s been here since he was fourteen – apart from the time he served in the war. He’s a good worker. The men look up to him – as they did his father.’
‘Fire him!’
‘You can’t fire him, Father! He helped. He’s only telling you something he thinks you need to know.’ Margaret had been listening to the exchange with growing dismay. She didn’t know what shocked her more: the way Alasdair had spoken to her father, or the way her father had responded. ‘You should have seen what he did! Hamish might have died if he hadn’t been there.’
‘Stay out of this, Margaret.’
‘Your daughter is right, Mr Bannatyne. We can’t fire him. The unions will strike if we do. And that ship needs to be finished on time.’
Her father knotted his hands behind his back, returned to the window and looked outside. ‘Is Morrison right about the scaffolding?’
Mr Ferguson shifted uneasily. ‘It was put up in a bit of a rush, sir. If you recall we’re on a tight schedule with the ships. But I told them to make sure it was robust.’
‘I pay you, Ferguson, to ensure the yard is run properly. These issues should not be my concern. If you can’t do the job I pay you for, I’ll find someone else. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And as for Morrison. He’s a trouble-maker just like his father. I don’t care how you do it but get rid of him the first chance you can.’
Margaret stared out of the window as their chauffeur drove them home. So much for her father spending time with her. She’d imagined telling him about her lessons – how her tutor, Miss Fourier, made her practise her Latin and Italian until she could read a little Virgil and Dante in the original, or even what she’d found on her latest walk down at the seashore in Helensburgh. She hadn’t really been interested in seeing the shipyard – what girl would be? – and to begin with she’d found it every bit as grey, dirty and as unappealing as she’d anticipated. Stepping out of the car on arrival, the incredible noise of shouting, hammering, the screech of metal on metal, the rumble of horse-pulled carts on the cobbles, had pounded through her head, making it difficult to think, let alone speak. Nearly as bad was the smell of grease and oil, burnt steel, smouldering coal and hot tar. Lined with cranes and warehouses, virtually every inch of space on the quayside had been filled with workers – some no more than boys – almost identical in their flat caps and waistcoats, some loading and unloading carts, while even more swarmed over the steel girders supporting the half-built ships. But she’d soon become aware of a sense of purpose behind the apparent chaos. Her father had told her that the ship, rising high above her, was destined to be part of the Cunard line. It would be beautiful when it was finished and these men had made it from nothing and she’d been curious to see more.
However, to her dismay, her father had taken her straight to his office and instructed her to stay there until he returned.
She shuddered. Well, she had seen more of the shipyard, just not in the way she’d expected.
‘You don’t really mean to have Alasdair dismissed, do you?’ she asked her father now. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the office, concentrating instead on the sheaf of papers on his lap.
He looked at her and frowned. ‘There’s no room for sentimentality in business, Margaret. Especially not these days. We have to stay competitive and that means producing ships as quickly and as cheaply as we can while maintaining quality. Clyde-built ships have the reputation for being the best in the world and I mean to keep it that way.’
‘But those workers. They’re the ones who build the ships. Don’t they matter?’
‘It’s up to them to take more care so that they don’t have accidents and can continue to work.’
‘Isn’t it also up to you – I mean Mr Ferguson – to make sure they don’t get hurt?’
‘In that accidents cost the yard time and money. Yes.’
‘But —’
‘Enough, Margaret! It’s bad enough having one of the labourers question me, without my own daughter doing it too.’ His expression softened. ‘There’s a lot to a business, my dear. I can’t expect a young girl to understand that.’
If he was right then she was glad she wasn’t expected to take over from her father. She wanted to press him further, but the day had already been spoiled.
‘When you have a son I’ll teach him all he needs to know,’ her father continued.
The thought of marrying – let alone having sons – seemed so far in the future she could hardly imagine it.
‘You will ask Mr Ferguson to let us know about Hamish, won’t you?’
‘Who?’
‘Hamish. The man who was injured.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘And you’ll tell me?’
Her father patted her knee absent-mindedly. ‘I said I would. Now, Margaret, could you be quiet for a while? I need peace to think.’
Back at the house Margaret’s father dropped her off, telling her he had business in town. Disappointed they wouldn’t be spending the day together after all and shaken by what had happened, she felt a sudden longing for her mother. If only she were here and not in Helensburgh.
As her steps echoed in the large tiled hallway of their Glasgow home, images of the accident at the shipyard spilled through her head: Hamish on the ground; the pain and fear in his eyes; all that blood and no one sure of what to do. Until Alasdair had arrived, that is. Despite his being so much younger than the other men, there had been an almost palpable sense of relief amongst them when he’d taken control. He seemed to know exactly what to do, assuming he’d done the right thing. If Sebastian had been at the shipyard that morning, as a doctor, would he have done anything different than Alasdair had? Would Sebastian have removed Hamish immediately or also waited to tie a belt round Hamish’s leg to stop the bleeding? Or had Alasdair just been guessing it was the right thing to do? Perhaps the injured man wouldn’t survive because of the delay in getting him to hospital – or perhaps it was the only reason he was still alive.
She ran upstairs and along the corridor to her brother’s room. It still smelt of him; the tangy scent of tobacco mixed with the spiced soap he had used. Like Fletcher’s room, Sebastian’s had been left untouched. Their books, the shoes they once wore, their tailored suits, polo sticks and cricket bats were all where they’d left them, as if one day they would return and life would carry on as before.
She crouched in front of Sebastian’s bookshelf. They were still packed with his medical journals, volumes of chemistry, botany and materia medica along with medical tomes depicting gruesome illustrations of disease and injury. She’d often sat reading quietly in the chair by the window on the rare occasions Sebastian studied for his surgical exams.
She trailed her fingers along the spines until she found what she was looking for – Gray’s Anatomy – and heaved the tome of over a thousand pages over to Sebastian’s desk. She pulled out the chair and sat down. She couldn’t ask her brother’s advice, but she could find out for herself. She wanted to know what Alasdair had done and why.
Most of all, she wanted to know if he’d been right.
Chapter 1
Eight years later
Spilling out of the lecture theatre along with the other students, Margaret felt giddy with relief and exhilaration. Although she had no doubt that she would pass her final exams – she had worked too hard over the years not to – it still felt unreal that very soon she would be working as a doctor. Until then she had almost two whole glorious weeks with no studying, no specialist breathing down her neck, no patients to be examined and drilled on, just days and days of sleeping in and catching up on all the unread books she’d had to put aside these last few months.
She hooked arms with Martha and Lillian as they stood on the steps of Glasgow University.
‘That wasn’t too bad,’ Martha said, the glasses perched on the end of her nose glinting in the sunshine.
‘Perhaps not for you,’ Lillian retorted,
‘but I’m sure I got my duodenum mixed up with my ileum.’
Margaret smiled. Typical Lillian – always teasing. It was unlikely that the three of them would even have met if they hadn’t been the only female medical students in their year. Small, plump, serious Martha with her long red hair pulled tightly off her face and twisted in a plait was the epitome of a Minister’s daughter and the complete opposite of headstrong, aristocratic, beautiful dark-haired Lillian who, with her sleek bob and daring knee-skimming skirts, turned heads everywhere she went – even those of their resentful male counterparts.
Yet, despite their differences in outlook and personality, they had become immediate and fast friends, and Margaret would miss them terribly. Martha was leaving for India in less than a week to work as a missionary, while Lillian was going to London to set up a practice with her fiancé, Charles.
‘Right,’ Lillian said. ‘What shall we do now? A little shopping perhaps?’
‘I’m saving,’ Martha said.
‘Of course you are,’ Lillian replied with an exasperated sideways glance at Margaret, ‘but window shopping costs nothing and surely you must need a mosquito net or another Bible to take to India?’
‘I have already bought everything I need,’ Martha said stiffly. ‘It’s all packed.’
‘We can’t possibly just go home,’ Lillian insisted. ‘We have to celebrate. Let’s have a drink at least.’
‘A cup of tea, you mean,’ Martha said, looking pointedly at her watch. ‘It’s only just past two.’
‘A walk then?’ Margaret suggested, stepping into her familiar role as peacemaker. ‘It’s such a beautiful day. We should make the most of it.’
Glasgow, which even in the summer was usually so smoggy it was difficult to see to put one foot in front of the other, was uncharacteristically clear. Today the sky was blue, the sun hot enough for them to remove their suit jackets and drape them over their shoulders, and there was just enough of a breeze to keep the smog away.
As they headed towards Dumbarton Road, they stopped in respectful silence as a horse-drawn carriage adorned with black feathers passed by. A small, white coffin lay in the back. The carriage was followed by several distraught relatives, their muffled sobs all too audible. A knot of frustration formed in the pit of Margaret’s stomach. It was too common a sight in Glasgow. Hardly a day went by without the funeral cortege of a child taken by diphtheria or scarlet fever or any of the several infectious diseases that killed one child in five. During their years as medical students they all had pronounced children dead and mourned along with the parents. No matter how advanced medicine was becoming there was still no cure for many of the illnesses they’d seen during their training.
‘Now I definitely need a drink,’ Lillian muttered, and before Margaret or Martha could object, she marched across the street ignoring the honk from an oncoming tram and disappeared into the Highlander Public House.
‘In there?’ Martha shook her head. ‘She has to be joking.’
Although women did go into bars it was frowned upon, especially for women of their class and most definitely not in the afternoon.
Margaret gripped Martha by the arm. ‘Come on, let’s live dangerously for once. We’ll just have a sherry or something. No one will even notice us.’
She knew that was unlikely. Three unaccompanied women dressed as they were in neat suits and crisp white blouses would stick out like sore thumbs. But today was a day for doing something daring and different. Martha seemed to realise this too, allowing herself to be pulled inside the low, grimy building.
The few couples in the ladies’ bar looked up as they entered, their eyes swivelling towards them before quickly looking away. Lillian had already secured a small table at the rear. ‘I’ve ordered us sherries, Margaret,’ she said, taking out her silver cigarette case. ‘And a lemonade for you, Martha. I know there is only so far I can go.’
Margaret glanced over at Martha, who looked like she’d swallowed a lemon, and bit down on her lip to stop herself from laughing out loud.
When their drinks arrived, Lillian raised her glass. ‘I propose a toast. Here’s to your missionary work in India, Martha – may you convert many and heal even more.’ She turned towards Margaret. ‘And Mags, here’s to your success as House Officer Extraordinaire at Redlands – and may the post you so covet soon become available at Rotten Row.’
Margaret laughed. ‘That’s unlikely to happen – at least not until the powers-that-be stop giving the jobs to men only.’ She held up her glass. ‘But I’ll drink to the hope of it. And let’s not forget about your upcoming wedding, Lily.’
‘I imagine you and Robert will be setting a date for yours soon, Margaret,’ Lillian said, after they’d chinked glasses. ‘I have to say, he’s a patient man.’
‘No more patient than your Charles. He also agreed to wait until you finished your studies.’
Lillian fitted a cigarette into its holder before lighting it. ‘That’s because we’ll be working together. At least until the sprogs come along.’ She hesitated. ‘Your Robert has more cause for urgency.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Margaret said sharply.
Lillian placed her cigarette lighter carefully on the table. ‘All I meant, my dear, is that the landed gentry are always in need of money. Fortunately for me, Charles has plenty of the stuff.’
‘Come off it, Lillian, don’t pretend that’s why you’re marrying Charles,’ Margaret protested.
Lillian blew a perfect smoke ring – a skill she was especially proud of – and smiled dreamily. ‘I am rather fond of him, I admit. But money always helps. Father needs an injection of cash if he’s going to stop the family pile from falling down about his ears. Unfortunately, Charles’s family aren’t as hideously wealthy as yours, Margaret, but then again few families are.’ She was quiet for a moment, fiddling with her cigarette while staring pensively at Margaret. ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you this but I’ve heard the Locksleys have got into a spot of bother. Something about investing in America. I gather they might have to sell off part of their estate if they can’t come up with some funds. Lucky for them they are about to be united with the Bannatynes. I can’t imagine your father will let his in-laws starve.’
Margaret frowned at her friend. What Lillian was saying couldn’t be true, otherwise Robert would have said something. Unless, of course, it was a temporary state of affairs and he didn’t want to trouble her. And as for Lillian’s insinuation that Robert was marrying her because of her wealth – that was nonsense. Nevertheless, she felt a ripple of unease. She’d often thought that there should be more passion between an engaged couple; Robert rarely tried to kiss her, although until now it had never bothered her. They got on, and that’s what mattered most. Robert understood how important medicine was to her. He’d even agreed that they should wait until she had completed her first year as a doctor before they married. If he was so desperate to get his hands on the Bannatyne money surely he would have pressed her to set a date before now? But Lillian and Robert’s fathers were friends and Lillian would never have mentioned the Locksleys’ financial troubles – not if she wasn’t sure of her facts.
‘You’re not suggesting Robert is marrying me because his family needs money?’ Margaret asked Lillian.
‘No, of course not,’ Lillian replied, studying the end of her cigarette. ‘Don’t mind me! You know how I open my mouth sometimes and all sorts of nonsense just comes spilling out.’ She held up her glass and made a show of studying the amber liquid inside. ‘It doesn’t help that this sherry’s gone straight to my head.’
‘Ignore Lillian, Margaret,’ Martha interjected. ‘She just likes to tease. Robert loves you dearly. Why wouldn’t he? You are clever, beautiful and kind.’ She took a sip of her lemonade and wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know why you ladies are getting married anyway. Not everyone needs a husband to be happy. Our work is what’s important.’
Lillian gave a sly smile. ‘Are you certain you’re not one of thos
e women, Martha? It wouldn’t bother me if you were, you know. Might even try it myself one day.’
‘Leave her alone, Lily,’ Margaret said. She suspected that Lillian often said these outrageous things simply to annoy Martha.
Martha rolled her eyes. ‘I can stick up for myself, Margaret. And no, for the record, I’m not one of those sort of women. Just because I haven’t had a suitor doesn’t mean I’m not interested in the opposite sex. Unfortunately, decent God-fearing men are few and far between.’
They stopped talking as a couple edged past their table, the man’s arm resting lightly on the woman’s waist.
‘Hardly any young men left at all,’ Martha continued, eyeing the departing sweethearts.
Lillian and Margaret followed her gaze. ‘I daresay there is going to be a generation of single women living together as they grow old, sewing and tending their gardens. What a fate. The war has a lot to answer for,’ Lillian said.
‘If I hadn’t met Robert, I don’t think I’d have minded staying single,’ Margaret said. ‘But I would like to have children one day. What about you girls?’
‘I suppose I could manage a couple as long as I have a nanny or two.’ Lillian removed her cigarette from its holder and ground it out in the ashtray.
‘The children in India will be my children,’ Martha said.