And they’re shoutin’ Time Gentlemen, please. ‘
Listening, laughing, Laura murmured to Marje, ‘I feel awful. I don’t know any songs. Except Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner.’
‘Well they won’t like that. You’ll have to think of something else.’
When it was her turn Marje did ‘Oh Mr Porter,’ acting it out like she was on stage at the Glasgow Empire. At the end, she curtseyed with a flourish and all eyes turned to Laura. She couldn’t get up. Her knees wouldn’t do it.
She just sang two songs.
‘Lavender blue, Dilly Dilly,
Lavender green.
When I am king, Dilly Dilly,
You will be queen.’
Everyone clapped, and Laura pressed on with ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean,’ which of course they all knew and swayingly joined in with.
‘That Lavender Blue is really sweet,’ said Lol. ‘I could do something with that. I like doing arrangements.’
‘It was the first song I ever heard,’ Laura said.
‘No! Where?’
‘The maids at home. They used to sing to me when they were cleaning the stair brass.’
Immediately, she wished she hadn’t said it.
The English and the Scots had, it seemed, been feuding and fighting since time immemorial. Moving on from Border raids and stealing cattle, the animosity and distrust had escalated into invading armies and a Scottish king brutally slain. And because the Scots had usually come off worst, they recouped their hurt pride by poking fun at the English.
Already, this afternoon, Jimmy had had a go. ‘Four o’clock, your ladyship. You’ll be wanting your English tea. With muffins.’
‘We don’t eat muffins. We have crumpets. Hot, buttered crumpets. And cucumber sandwiches. With the crusts cut off. Naturally.’
Saturday night, as Adrian took the road to Loch Lomond, the Triumph Herald smelled of black pudding and chips. Frugal but filling. Laura had found their supper utterly delicious. By the loch, they had just settled down to enjoy whatever was possible in the car, when they froze at the sound of urgent tapping on the car window.
Adrian wound down the window, shielding Laura as she struggled to get her knickers back on. She was acutely aware that the car smelled of sex and black pudding.
‘Good evening, officer,’ Adrian said. The policeman’s colleague had stationed himself, flashlight in hand, a slight distance away, as if standing guard over the brooding waters of Loch Lomond.
‘Excuse me, sir, but is this your car?’
‘Yes it is.’
Laura could understand the question. Adrian’s university scarf was lying on the dashboard. Most students, if they had a car at all, possessed old bangers, not gleaming Triumph Heralds.
‘Would you mind confirming the number plate, sir.’
Adrian rattled it off.
‘Thank you. If I were you, sir, I’d be getting along.’
The two policemen watched the red car out of sight. ‘Next time we’ll go to Loch Fyne,’ Adrian said. He laughed. ‘Bloody hell. To think I did all that with my flies undone.’
Every Thursday, the day before payday, everyone (except Fiona) felt the pinch, including Miss May, whose kitchen supplies were not replenished until Friday.
Supper consisted of baked beans on toast, snipped up bits of bacon and some week-old cake smothered in custard. Fiona, observing this repast, announced that she would ‘dine elsewhere.’
Afterwards, since they had all run out of cigarettes, they avoided the steps and Marje said quietly to Laura, ‘Come upstairs. I’ve got something to show you.’
In Room Nine, she produced a Thermos flask and a one shilling packet of oxtail soup. ‘Thursday night treat,’ said Marje. ‘I’ll nip down and make it, you get yourself cosied into pyjamas and light the fire.’
Coming out of the bathroom, Laura encountered Miss May.
‘Hello dear. How are you getting along?’
‘Fine, thankyou, Miss May.’
‘Good, good. Well goodnight.’
As the door to Room Ten closed, Laura thought, what does she do in there every evening? There was no television, of course, and no sound of a radio. The girls were endlessly speculating. She played Patience. Wrote letters. Another jigsaw puzzle. Crossword puzzles…
As it turned out, no one got close.
Laura was looking forward to her soup. It had been a difficult few weeks – not at work particularly, although it was always stressful being the new girl. No, it was the long lunch break that depressed her. After breakfast, she had filled two baps with bacon for her lunch, but the problem was where to eat them.
The office was locked. A pub was out of the question. Apart from the expense, many Glasgow pubs displayed signs warning NO WOMEN OR DOGS. NO BLACKS OR IRISH. Marje had told her about the time she’d wandered into a pub in Linlithgow, hadn’t seen the sign and was greeted with stunned horror. ‘It was like I was contaminated. I was taken to a back room and made to sit by myself.’
So pubs were out. What about the public library? It would be warm and she could read the paper, for free.
In the reading room of the reference library there was the usual notice demanding Silence. It was anything but. Every seat was occupied by a smelly old dosser and they were all shuffling their feet, as if they had chilblains. Overwhelmed by the odour, Laura got out and ended up at Central station having a cup of tea and furtively gulping down her cold bacon butties.
She had reached a frame of mind where she regarded each economy not as a trial but as a triumph. Laura was especially pleased with the thick woollen dressing gown she had found in a sale at a shop near the station.
Laura put their two mugs to warm near the fire, and as Marje returned with the Thermos, she thought, no one, no one is ever going to believe that Marje and I were once so hard up, neither of us could afford a whole shilling for a packet of oxtail soup.
‘Prompt as always, Miss James.’ Miss Speddie took the four one-pound notes and, absurdly to Laura, counted them.
‘Will you be out tonight?’
‘Yes. I’m babysitting.’
‘You’ll not be walking along the Great Western Road by yourself, in the dark?’
‘No, Miss Speddie. Miss King is coming with me. Fiona can’t go. She’s got a big grain ship in.’
The housekeeper handed Laura her receipt. ‘Received from Miss L. James £4 for board and lodging.’ It was signed W. Speddie and dated Friday 22 November, 1963.
‘Come on!’ Marje stamped her icy feet. ‘Why doesn’t he answer the bloody door?’
On the walk to the house, Marje had revealed that Mr MacDonald’s wife had left him. He had hung on to his sons and the house. ‘But he’s strict with the boys. No television and no reading on Sundays unless it’s the Bible. He’s Fiona’s boss. And Friday nights he goes down the pub.’
Laura wondered why it was you always went down the pub and complaining mothers went up the school. It must be so confusing for foreigners that ‘she’s not up yet’ meant the same as ‘she’s not down yet.’ And then there was the whole business of being under the doctor. She must talk to Adrian about it.
Marje was hammering on the door of the red brick villa. She peered through the letterbox and reported, ‘The lights are on. But –‘
The door was yanked open. A lanky, pallid man stood there, stuttering, ‘Sorry. Oh God. It’s terrible. Terrible.’
Marje pushed past him, out of the cold. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Haven’t you heard? It’s President Kennedy. It was on the News. He’s been shot. He’s dead.’
Lying on the rag rug in the back room, in front of the fire, were two small boys. Weakly, the adults sat down.
The shock news had struck Laura like a physical blow. Mr MacDonald had little more information. It happened in Dallas. The FBI had leapt onto the Kennedy car. No one knew how many gunmen there were. Jackie Kennedy was unhurt.
Marje said to the boys, ‘Have you had your tea?’
They shook their heads. ‘Well get the table laid, and I’ll see what I can find.’
‘Lay a place for me, would you, ‘ the boys’ father said.
‘Aren’t you going out?’ asked Laura.
‘No. Pub’ll be like a morgue tonight. Couldn’t stand it.’
The phone was ringing in the hall. Mr MacDonald hurried down the dangerously polished linoleum to answer it.
‘Good. Good work, Fiona. If you’re satisfied, sign it off and tell them they can start unloading at first light…No, I’m staying in tonight. Oh, you’ve heard. I know. Shocking. No, I’ll be all right. You get yourself home and tuck yourself up. See you tomorrow, pussycat.’
Laura felt she couldn’t take any more startling news. Pussy cat. Fiona!
She heard Mr MacDonald rummaging in the under-stairs cupboard. He came back with three bottles of Guinness.
‘You will join me? I think we need something.’
Which was how, whenever anyone asked where she was when Kennedy was shot, Laura could say she was getting drunk on Guinness.
On what, it transpired, was to be the last mild day of the winter, Laura was on the steps, waiting for Adrian to take her out to lunch. The girls had joined her because, Laura was well aware, they were eager to take a dekko at her boyfriend.
Adrian drove up just ahead of two men, on foot, wearing dark overcoats. The elder of the pair came up to the girls.
‘We’d like to talk to you about the Bible.’
The appalled silence of the girls was broken by Miss Speddie, threatening at the door, displaying her renowned ability to sniff out a male two miles away and underwater.
‘The Bible is it?’ she demanded. ‘Tell me, have you read the Bible or have you just been to Sunday school?’
The two men, sheepish, looked for support to Adrian.
‘I have indeed read the Bible,’ Miss Speddie swept imperiously on, ‘But with your no doubt superior knowledge, perhaps you can answer a question. There’s something that’s always puzzled me. We know that God created Adam and Eve. The only man and woman on earth. They had two children, Cain and Abel. Then suddenly, Cain has children of his own! How could this happen?’
The two men scuttled away.
Adrian stepped up to join Miss Speddie before she could slam the door. He was wearing a dark blue blazer, white shirt and his university tie. ‘Excuse me, Miss Speddie. If you will allow me, I think I can throw a glimmer of light on the Cain dilemma.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed?’
‘Well the thinking is that probably Adam and Eve had more than two children. Girls. And you know, life was much more innocent then, so incest wasn’t so taboo…’
Incest! The girls on the steps petrified, waiting for Miss Speddie to explode.
Miss Speddie was regarding Adrian thoughtfully. ‘I see. You are a theology student?’
‘No, Miss Speddie. English. I read the Bible because I want to be a novelist. My tutor says anyone who wants to write should read not just the New Testament but the old as well, to learn how to tell a story.’
Miss Speddie said, ‘I’m sure you will go far young man. I wish you well. Although, of course, there is no money in writing.’ And she surged inside.
Dinkie, Fiona, Marje and Lol were looking at Adrian in awe. Laura’s eyes were flooded with love.
Oh Adrian. Whatever happens, you’re going to pull it off. I can never let you go. Ever.
Miraculously, Adrian had found a restaurant that was open on Sundays. It was out on the Edinburgh road and designed to replicate a hacienda.
‘Bit hackneyed,’ Adrian commented as they walked in.
For Laura, never having been anywhere, the hacienda was a delight. And this was a special occasion. The first time Adrian had taken her out for a meal.
As he studied the menu, Laura was glad he didn’t do what her mother did, reading the entire menu aloud and then always deciding on a prawn cocktail, steak and fruit salad.
Adrian took charge of the wine, asking for a bottle of Rioja.
The waitress, improbably dressed as a flamenco dancer, looked amazed. ‘You mean, you’ll be wanting a full bottle?’
‘Yes,’ said Adrian. ‘I want a full bottle.’
Then they talked, inevitably, about Kennedy.
It was still all over the papers when she got to the office on Monday. Saturation coverage. The Kennedy/Bouvier wedding. The Kennedy clan with their big jaws and big teeth. Dallas. Jackie in the car, cradling her shot husband, her pink suit covered in his blood.
‘They wanted her to change her suit,’ Elspeth said, ‘But she wouldn’t. Let them see, she said. Let them all see.’
Shona arrived at eleven, took one look at the papers and walked out, detailing Laura to finish the Sale copy.
‘Where’s Shona?’ Elspeth demanded when she brought round the tea that afternoon.
‘She had to go home,’ Laura said, patting her stomach, the accepted code for period pains.
Jimmy saw, and immediately crowed, ‘She’s got a bun in the oven! She’s banged up.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ instructed Dougal. ‘Women present. Do something useful. Sharpen my pencils.’
At half past four, Laura was still struggling with the copy that Jimmy would have to run to the Daily Record office in time to make the first edition. He was prowling round the office, his weasley eyes never leaving her. Everyone knew this was the first time she’d been allowed to write copy unsupervised.
She was twenty minutes late the following morning. Shona, surprisingly, was already there, fully made up, smoking.
Jimmy gloated. ‘Her ladyship is for the high jump.’
Laura tore off her coat. ‘I know I’m late. I was running for the bus. Slipped on the ice.’
‘Did anyone help you?’ asked Shona.
‘Yes they were very kind. I’m okay. Just very bruised, I should think.’
Elspeth appeared. ‘Mr Sproat will see you now, Laura.’
Shona stood up. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Heh, heh, heh,’ went Jimmy.
Mungo Sproat had the Daily Record open at the McAllisters advertisement. The copy Laura had written.
‘Laura, triple deck headline for ironing boards. The word ironing takes up one line, boards another line. So all you had to do was find an adjective to entice the housewives of Glasgow go and buy the things. So can you tell me, Laura, because I really don’t understand, what exactly is a CHIC ironing board?’
Laura swallowed. She had just slung it down, slung the copy at Jimmy and rushed out of the office.
‘I – well I…’
‘As a matter of fact, ‘languidly, Shona lit a cigarette, ‘I was very excited when I read that. I really think Laura has her finger on the pulse here.’
Laura stared at her. She was going to lose her job. Pulse? She hadn’t got a pulse. Dead meat didn’t.
‘You see, Mungo, what Laura – as a newcomer, looking at the city with fresh eyes – what she has recognised is that Glasgow is in a state of flux. It’s becoming more cosmopolitan. The university is crammed with foreign students. People are going abroad for holidays. I know this because my sister works in a travel agents. And she says, a lot of people are going to France. So the description of an ironing board as chic is a linguistic triumph. I think Laura was doing McAllister proud. She was demonstrating that she knows McAllister is at the forefront –‘
‘All right,’ Mungo Sproat said tersely. His face was puce. ‘Third item down, left hand column. You’ve room for a double deck, but your headline consists of one word. BELTS. What sort of belts, Laura?’
Well it was obvious, wasn’t it? Belts were things that went round your waist. Not Mungo’s of course. He was too gross.
There flashed through Laura’s mind the time a new girl at school, a cockney girl, had been told by the English mistress to describe an orange.
‘An orange,’ the girl said confidently, ‘an orange is round and wot you eat.’
‘Belts!’ Mungo Spro
at shouted. ‘What sort of belts?’
Shona blew a cloud of smoke. ‘Just thinking aloud here, Mungo. Perhaps they were sanitary belts.’
Mungo Sproat banged the desk. ‘Get back to work. Both of you!’
In the corridor, Laura was shaking with relieved laughter. ‘Sorry about that. I must have had a brainstorm.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. When I first came here I was hauled up for writing about Blazers for Boys with Short Arms. Surprised I didn’t get fired.’
Of course Shona hadn’t got fired, Laura reflected. Shona’s surname was McAllister. Her father owned not only the Sauchihall store but a clutch of others at outposts all round Glasgow, plus the one in London’s Regent Street. Shona lived in East Kilbride, which considered itself even more elite than Milngavie – pronounced Milgaeh. In Milngavie, the joke went, they thought sex was something coal was delivered in.
She said, ‘Is it true about Glaswegians flocking to France?’
‘No. If they go anywhere, they go to Spain.’
Behind them, the predictable roar went up. ‘Elspeth! My Super Plenamins!’
Chapter Three
‘Do you think we really need to wash?’ Marje said, watching a naked Laura shivering at the handbasin.
Glasgow was in the grip of one of the worst winters on record. It didn’t snow, but all day, outside, you could see your breath and at Arundell House the windows were iced up inside and out.
When she looked back on that time, Laura wondered how on earth the women had kept the cold out. The paucity of proper warm clothing was pitiful. Unless you were a bus conductress or Fiona down at the docks, no woman wore trousers to work. They were all in skirts, dresses, suits with thick jumpers, or cable-knit cardigans. Under the skirts, the women were rigged up in stockings held up by suspender belts or corsets. Tights did not exist, except in vulgar mesh for chorus girls. Fashionable boots had yet to reach the high street. Working girls, on their way ‘out to business’ suffered frozen feet in court shoes.
Shona, predictably, had the warmth factor taped with a Chanel-type suit in speckled pink and grey. Laura clung to her radiator. And Jimmy was swaggering around in a secondhand flying jacket teamed with a wristwatch the size of an alarm clock.
Strangers in a Garden Page 5
