by Emma Fraser
‘The voluntary hospitals won’t turn away a sick child whether the parents can pay or not,’ Margaret protested.
‘Aye, so some people say. They also say as many die in hospital as out of it. I thought it best to keep my child with me. Perhaps if she’d got worse…’
‘Did any of the other children get it?’
‘Sent them away to their gran in the country. As soon as I saw Meg was unwell.’
‘That was a good decision,’ Margaret said.
Mairi shrugged. ‘I’m no expert. What little I do know I picked up from my Mam. She used to be a nurse.’
‘Here?’
‘No, on the Outer Hebrides.’ Mairi smiled. ‘That’s where I’m from. Came to Glasgow to do my nurse training but then I met Toni and well… that was that.’
‘Next time one of them gets ill, let Alasdair know and I’ll come out to see them,’ Margaret said.
This time it was Alasdair’s turn to look surprised.
‘That’s very good of you, er – Margaret – er – Doctor, but my wee ones are all fine at the moment,’ Mairi replied. ‘Same can’t be said for Audrey’s. A more sickly bunch you never saw. Mind you, if she kept her place clean they might not be so sickly. Not that there’s much she can do with no money and that wastrel of a husband spending what little they do get.’
Margaret glanced around. Apart from being too small this little flat was spotless.
Catching Margaret’s look, Mairi squared her shoulders, her eyes defiant and proud. ‘Aye, we may be all squashed in together but I keep this place ship-shape. As best I can. It would help if there was running water. I can’t tell you how many trips I have to make to the back close to fetch it. Keeps me fit though.’ She smoothed her dress over her hips. ‘Toni says I’m as trim as the day we married.’ The two men had given up on the women’s conversation and were conversing quietly, their heads bent close to each other. ‘Mind you, my stomach will never be the same after all these children.’ She winked at Margaret. ‘Doesn’t seem to put him off, though, if you get my meaning?’
Margaret laughed. She did indeed.
A short while later, the children, complaining that it was raining cats and dogs ‘ootside’, filed in bringing with them the scent of wet wool and, if Margaret wasn’t mistaken, a baby’s full nappy. With them inside it was impossible to think let alone carry on a conversation so she and Alasdair had taken their leave.
Despite the weather there were several children still playing on the streets, but as the rain began to fall in earnest, several windows opened and women leaned out shouting for their offspring to ‘get upstairs’, or ‘get inside or they’d feel the back of a hand’.
They stepped back into the close as they waited for the rain to ease.
‘It’s not as bad here as you led me to believe, is it?’ she said. ‘I mean, everyone is poor – I can see that – but they have roofs over their heads and enough to eat.’
Alasdair stared at her in disbelief. ‘Toni and Mairi manage well enough, but every day’s still a struggle to feed themselves and their family, to buy clothes to put on their backs, even to buy coal for their stoves. But their family is one of the lucky few. I thought you’d realise that. If you really want to see how most people live, then come with me.’
Holding his jacket above her head to shelter her from the rain, he led her through a nearby back close and into the yard behind. Instead of a space for washing, or a small yard for children to play in, crammed in was another tenement block.
‘This is the council’s solution to lack of space. Over a hundred people live here. No wonder they call it the bad lands.’
Speechless, Margaret followed him into the narrow passage. The smell was indescribable: a nauseating mix of faeces, grease, decaying food, a combination she quickly came to associate with poverty and that would never leave her. There were no lights and the narrow walls seemed to close in around her.
‘This way.’ Alasdair took her hand and led her down a narrow staircase, the darkness deepening as they descended. He halted in front of a door and rapped.
A few moments later it was opened by a woman of about fifty. It was hard to tell. She was missing all her teeth except one at the front, and both her apron and her headscarf were filthy. It took every ounce of Margaret’s willpower not to recoil.
‘It’s you, Alasdair,’ the woman said, her expression shadowed in the semi-light. ‘Have you brought something for me?’
‘I’ll be back with something later, Angela, I promise. Can we come in?’
‘Aye. Well. If you want.’
The smell in the almost completely dark cellar – for that’s what it was – was almost worse than the stench in the close entry. Margaret wished she could take her handkerchief and press it over her nose to block it out, but she couldn’t – not without offending Angela.
The cellar wasn’t more than eight foot by eight foot, and light filtered through the one small, narrow window set high above the straw-covered floor. There was no furniture apart from a single chair and no fire, nothing to take the chill from the air. This wasn’t a home – it was a living hell.
As her eyes slowly became accustomed to the gloom, she saw there was a tiny figure lying on a bed of straw, covered only by a thin blanket.
‘Hello, Lisa,’ Alasdair said softly, crouching in front of the small bundle. ‘How are you today?’
‘I’m all right,’ a small voice whispered back. The child’s cough shook her tiny frame and ended on a wheeze.
‘Is Lisa your daughter?’ Margaret whispered to Angela.
‘Not mine. My dead sister’s – God rest her soul.’ Angela crossed herself. ‘But I love her as if she were my own, poor mite.’
Alasdair rose to let Margaret take his place. She dropped to her knees in front of the child and, pulling off her gloves, felt her forehead. It was burning. Next, she felt for a pulse. It was difficult to find at first and when she did locate it, it was rapid and weak.
‘Has Lisa seen a doctor?’ Margaret asked.
‘Aye. We’ve no money but Dr Strong comes to see her when he can.’
‘And what does Dr Strong think is wrong?’
‘Pneumonia. In both lungs.’ Angela lowered her voice. ‘Nowt to be done, he says.’
It was as Margaret thought. Dr Strong was right – there was no cure for pneumonia – but this little girl shouldn’t be left to die on nothing but a bed of straw.
A shaft of sunlight lit the room for a few moments and, as it did, Lisa reached out for Margaret’s hand, touching her engagement ring with her narrow fingers. ‘Pretty,’ she murmured. She looked up at Margaret and gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘Like you. Are you an angel come to take me to heaven?’
Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat and tugged the ring from her finger. ‘No, sweetheart,’ she murmured back. She placed the ring in the child’s palm and wrapped the small hand around it. ‘You can keep it for me if you like.’ It was a useless, pathetic gesture but all she could do. As fury and despair threatened to overwhelm her, she stumbled to her feet.
Alasdair left Angela’s side and reached out a hand to steady her. ‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked softly.
Unable to trust her voice, she nodded.
He turned back to Lisa’s aunt and touched her on the shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in a while with some food for you and the bairn.’
Outside, Margaret breathed in deep lungfuls of air. Compared to the fetid atmosphere in the cellar, even the smog that shrouded Govan was a relief.
‘Why, you’re crying…’ Alasdair said. He gently drew the pad of his thumb across her cheeks.
Margaret pulled away as if she’d been stung. ‘I’m not! It’s this dashed soot-filled air.’
‘I shouldn’t have taken you there,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Why not? I said I wanted to see how people lived and you showed me. Dear God, it’s worse than anything I’ve read in a Dickens novel. That child should be spending her last days in a clean, warm
bed,’ she took a shuddering breath, ‘not like that. We have to get her out of there.’
‘And take her where?’ he continued, his voice as gentle as his touch had been. ‘The hospitals won’t admit hopeless cases, you know that. Besides, there are hundreds like her.’
Margaret dashed the tears from her eyes with a trembling hand. ‘Something has to be done.’
‘Aye. But what?’
‘I don’t know. A hospital – right here – for hopeless cases. A fund to help those who can’t help themselves. Anything!’
He looked down at her, his eyes still warm, and something shifted inside her chest. ‘You have a soft heart, Margaret Bannatyne.’
‘That child needs more than a woman with a soft heart.’
‘I know.’ He took her arm. ‘I think you’ve seen enough for one day. Let me take you home.’
Margaret blew her nose and squared her shoulders. ‘Didn’t I hear you tell Angela you were going back there?’
‘It can wait.’
‘No, it can’t.’ She forced a smile. ‘I know you think I’m a spoilt rich girl who can barely manage to dress myself in the morning, but I am perfectly capable of finding my own way home. I can’t say I care too much for the Subway, but isn’t there a passenger ferry I can take across the Clyde?’
‘Aye. It’s how most of the workers cross the river. I’ll walk you to where it picks folk up.’
As they approached the river where a boat was just pulling in from the other side, she turned to him and held out her hand. ‘Good day, Mr Morrison.’
‘I think you can call me Alasdair, don’t you?’ He held her hand for a moment longer than was necessary. ‘I didn’t think you’d last a minute here – I thought you’d turn tail and run. I was wrong. I was too quick to judge you and for that I’m sorry.’
She decided not to tell him that she’d had several moments when that was exactly what she wanted to do.
He looked as if he was about to say something more but, as the ferryman indicated he was ready to take on passengers, Alasdair gave a small shake of his head and released her hand.
Chapter 3
Arriving back at her parents’ townhouse in the West End, Margaret couldn’t help but see it with new eyes. It was part of a row of grand townhouses as far away from the smoke and noise of the city as her father could manage while remaining within easy reach of the shipyard.
Although smaller than Bannatyne Lodge – their home in Helensburgh – it still had several bedrooms, a drawing room and a morning room, each one furnished with the best money could buy, including handmade silk curtains from India and carpets imported from Turkey.
She’d never really considered her wealth before – she’d never had to. It was true that she’d treated many poor patients during her training, but they’d usually been cleaned up by the nursing staff before she was asked to see them. She had never, ever seen anyone who lived like Lisa and her aunt and, until today, had anyone told her, she wouldn’t have believed them.
She looked at her watch. It was well after six. If she wasn’t quick she’d keep Robert waiting. They’d arranged to go to the opera followed by a late supper. As she soaped herself in the bath her thoughts kept drifting back to Lisa. There had to be more she could do for the child and others like her. But what? There was nothing she could do about the pneumonia but the child might never have contracted the disease if she’d lived somewhere warm and dry. At the very least she shouldn’t be left to die in a hovel. As she’d told Alasdair, there should be a hospital for people like Lisa. A place where, even if they couldn’t be cured, they could die in comfort and peace.
Her father couldn’t know what it was like in Govan. Although Lisa and her aunt weren’t employees of the shipyard, as the largest employer in the area, as a man even, he had an obligation to the community to ensure their most basic needs were met. He should be badgering the council leaders, many of whom he knew personally, to take some action. She had to talk to him about what she’d learned. If he knew, he would surely do something.
Her thoughts drifted to Alasdair. Despite his disapproval of her and her father, she’d enjoyed sparring with him. In many ways he reminded her of her brothers. He had the same restless energy Sebastian had had, and the same gentle way of talking – at least to those he approved of – as Fletcher. She shook her head and stepped out of the bath. She should be thinking about Robert, not her father’s difficult, disapproving employee.
She dried off and changed into the drop-waisted, beaded evening dress the maid had left on the end of her bed, finishing off her outfit with a pair of pearl earrings that matched her dress. She touched her lips with lipstick and dabbed perfume behind her ears. Finally she pulled on evening gloves and was ready.
‘You look beautiful, as always, darling,’ Robert said, rising to his feet when she entered the drawing room. Tall and slim, elegant in his tails and crisp white shirt, her fiancé looked as handsome as ever.
He crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I shall be the envy of all the men tonight.’ He took up his usual position in front of the fireplace and grinned down at her.
‘You are still coming to Bannatyne Lodge this weekend?’ she asked, passing him a drink.
‘Sorry, old thing. Meant to say. Father wants me in London for a week or two – possibly longer. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course not.’ She suppressed a flash of irritation. Wasn’t he going to ask how her day had gone? Did he even remember that today was the last day of her exams? ‘If we don’t want to miss the overture, we’d best be off.’
Robert sketched a bow. ‘In that case, your carriage awaits.’
The carriage was a silver Rolls-Royce, an older model than her father’s, but grand enough. Robert didn’t drive himself, preferring to leave it to the chauffeur. As Margaret settled into the plush leather seat alongside Robert she couldn’t stop thinking about the children she’d seen that afternoon. How many people would the purchase price of this car feed? How many, the tickets to the opera? Yet she didn’t even know how much they cost. She had no idea what anything cost – not a loaf of bread or a pint of milk. Not even this dress she was wearing, or her shoes. The outfit had been ordered by her from London and paid for by her father. She was given an allowance but she rarely had to spend it – whenever she shopped, she signed chits which were sent to her father to be paid.
All through the performance of Madame Butterfly and at dinner afterwards at Rogano’s, she couldn’t get the images of the people in Govan, and Lisa in particular, out of her head. More disconcertingly, she couldn’t get Alasdair out of her mind either.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Robert said, after the waiter cleared away their dessert plates. ‘I thought you’d be in better form. Wasn’t today the last day of your exams?’
‘Yes, it was.’ So he had remembered, he just hadn’t thought it sufficiently important to mention before now.
‘Didn’t it go well?’
‘It was fine.’ She leaned forward. ‘Robert, do you think we do enough for others – I mean people less fortunate than ourselves?’
‘What’s brought this on?’ He steepled his fingers and studied her across the top of them. ‘I think we do. Both our families employ hundreds – in your father’s case thousands – of people. I would say that’s good enough.’
‘What do you do about the servants who are no longer able to work?’
‘I have no idea. Pension them off, I suspect.’
‘How can’t you know? Aren’t they your responsibility?’
‘My father’s responsibility. Darling, you know as well as I do that we are born into the place we are meant to be. We can’t help it. You do your bit – more than your bit – and I do mine.’
‘But what exactly do you do?’
He frowned. ‘I’m not sure I care for this line of questioning. You make it sound as if you disapprove of me.’
‘No, I don’t. Of course not. But it shouldn’t be a difficult question to answer. You’r
e almost thirty and, as you say, your father takes most of the responsibility for your estates. As far as I can see you don’t do anything except enjoy life.’ Now she thought about it, she realised Robert was interested in very little except shooting and polo. Why had that never mattered before? She couldn’t help but contrast his languid, couldn’t-care-less attitude with Alasdair’s pent-up restless energy, and, to her dismay, Robert didn’t come out of the comparison too well.
‘Is that so bad? When my father does pass away, I’ll have more than enough to do. That’s why I need to go to London – to see to his business interests.’ He smiled. ‘I shall miss you. I trust you’ll miss me too.’
