by Maggie Craig
‘Kate! Kate!’ Lily’s voice was filled with panic. Roused from dreams of ships gliding into the river, Kate sat bolt upright and threw the blankets off. There was a low growl of objection from Mr Asquith, curled up at the foot of the bed. Beside Kate, Jessie gave a small grunt of protest.
‘Kate! Your father’s having one o’ his nightmares!’
Pausing only to hurriedly replace the blankets over her sleeping sister, Kate padded through to the front room, the oil-cloth on the floor cold and sticky beneath her bare feet.
Wee Davie, woken by the noise, was screaming in his drawer-cot, his mother making frantic efforts to calm him down.
Neil was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand clinging onto the brass bedstead. He was wild-eyed, his hair dishevelled. Lily, lifting Davie to calm him, cast a worried glance over her shoulder.
‘It’s all right, Mammy,’ said Kate, quelling her own rising panic. She crouched in front of Neil. He was muttering to himself, a low-voiced stream of words in the Gaelic none of his family could understand. Kate took a deep breath. She had seen him like this before. Many times. She had calmed him before. She could do it now.
‘Daddy,’ she said softly. ‘Daddy. It’s all right.’
He lifted his head at the sound of her voice and focused painfully on her face. His hands shot out and gripped her shoulders. Kate winced. She was going to have bruises there tomorrow.
‘He’s coming for me! The Devil! He’s coming for me!’
‘Kate! Tell him not to say these things!’ Her mother was sobbing. Wee Davie, held in an iron grip to his mother’s breast, was bawling at the top of his lungs. Jess and Pearl would be awake by now, Kate thought grimly. If they’ve any sense they’ll stay where they are.
With her mother screeching in one ear and the whole household roused, she spoke quietly but firmly to her father.
‘You’re fine, Daddy. You’re safe. At home with us in the Yoker.’ She had to repeat it over and over again until the glazed eyes focused properly on her and the iron grip on her shoulders relaxed. The tension went out of him and the rigid body slumped. He spoke her name.
‘Kate?’
A shaky hand came out to stroke her hair. Her sigh of relief was cut off by her mother thrusting the baby into her arms. ‘Settle Davie down while I attend to your father.’
She bundled Neil back into the bed before fetching a stone piggy to put at his feet, refilled with hot water from the big black kettle which stood hissing on the range day and night.
Kate’s own feet were like lumps of ice by the time she got back into the box bed. Wee Davie had taken a while to settle.
‘Is Daddy all right, Kate?’ came a small voice from the darkness.
Kate patted Jessie’s neat little hand. ‘Aye, he’s fine now. Away back to sleep, you.’
‘Why does he have the bad dreams, Kate?’
‘I think,’ said Kate, pausing to think how to phrase her answer, ‘because of the things he saw in the war. It was terrible for the soldiers in the trenches, you know?’
She wondered if Jessie would ask more questions, but in a few moments she heard her sister’s breathing change and knew that she was asleep. Oblivion for Kate took longer to come.
The first glimmers of dawn were creeping through the gap in the curtains before she dozed off. The light allowed her to see the little carved robin, the red splash of paint on its breast growing clearer and clearer in the early morning light.
Red for danger. Red for life. Red for blood. Neil Cameron must have seen terrible things in the war - must have done terrible things too, been forced to do them. How awful that must have been for a man as gentle as her father; how awful to have memories that tormented you for the rest of your life, so terrible that you thought the Devil would claim you as one of his own.
Chapter 4
Kate was so happy she thought she might faint with the sheer joy of it. Oh, Mammy, Daddy, wouldn’t that be terrible! She straightened herself up in the high-backed chair and concentrated hard on her surroundings. She’d been in tearooms once or twice before but never in one as grand as this.
The Clydebank ones she knew were nice enough, with flowery curtains and comfortable cushions on the chairs, but the design here was entirely different. It was all stained glass and mirrors - simpler somehow, and cleaner in its lines. She could see that the stained glass was designed to look like a stylized willow and there was also, she saw, a rose pattern all over the place, but nothing like the roses you saw on flowery chintzes. This rose was purple, or sometimes a dusky pink like the flowers on her dress.
The chair in which she sat was tall and painted silver, with a design of small glass squares set into its high back, three squares across and three squares down forming a larger square. The glass was purple too. It made a beautiful contrast with the silver-painted wood.
‘Kathleen?’ came Miss Noble’s voice. ‘More tea, my dear?’
‘Th-thank you, Miss Noble.’
Her teacher smiled at her and waited expectantly. ‘Put your milk in first, dear. I find it tastes better that way, don’t you?’
‘Perhaps Kathleen is not a pre-lactarian, Frances.’
Frances Noble smiled at the other woman at the table. ‘Miss MacGregor is always ready for a debate, Kathleen. On the most insignificant of subjects.’
Kate smiled a little uncertainly at the two women. Her teacher, Miss Noble, had arranged a Saturday afternoon visit to the Art School on Garnethill. Not only that, she had then announced that they would go on to afternoon tea at Miss Cranston’s, to the Willow Tearooms in Sauchiehall Street. Although, as she’d said with a sigh, Miss Cranston had sold all her tearooms a few years previously, when her husband had died.
Her teacher didn’t wait for an answer on the milk question, picking up the jug herself and pouring it into the cup. Kate’s father drank his tea out of a saucer. A dish of tay, he called it, and there was never any discussion as to whether or not the milk should go in first. They did have china cups and saucers at home. They were kept in her mother’s pride and joy, the display cabinet in the front room, but they were hardly ever used; only when the minister came round. The children were never allowed to drink out of them. They had to make do with ugly green Delft cups and saucers.
There was nothing ugly on this table. The china cups had gold edging, there were dainty little plates with even daintier little knives on them. In the middle of the table was a three-tiered silver cake-stand. China plates slotted into it. On the bottom, there were sandwiches, in the middle biscuits and on the top iced cakes. The table itself was covered with a lace tablecloth. Kate thought the whole place was beautiful, and plucked up the courage to say so.
I’m glad you like it, dear,’ said Miss Noble, beaming at her protegée. ‘Although I’m not sure that Kate Cranston - or Toshie - would have approved of the lace tablecloths. Plain white damask would have been more in their line, I fear.’
‘Toshie?’ asked Kate.
‘Charles Rennie Mackintosh, my dear,’ said Miss MacGregor. ‘A man ahead of his time, and unappreciated in Glasgow.’ She sighed. ‘Ah well, they do say that a prophet is always without honour in his own country, don’t they? He and his wife Margaret - a gifted artist in her own right - went off to live in France. What, about five years ago, Frances?’
‘About that, I believe,’ murmured Miss Noble.
‘He’s the man who designed the Art School?’ asked Kate.
‘Yes, it’s easy to spot the similarities, isn’t it?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Kate enthusiastically, waving one hand towards the rest of the tearoom in illustration. ‘The stained glass, the purples and pinks, the rose design-’
She broke off, suddenly embarrassed. Both women were smiling at her.
‘Miss Noble says that you have a good eye,’ went on Miss MacGregor.
Kate blushed. ‘Well, I do like nice things, I suppose.’
‘And you like drawing them too, I hear,’ probed Esmé MacGregor gently.
‘Aye, I do.’
Frances Noble lifted Kate’s plate to the cake-stand and deposited two sandwiches on it. ‘Not aye, dear, say yes.’
The light of battle shone in Esmé MacGregor’s eyes. ‘Now, Frances, I don’t know that we should be trying to completely eradicate Scotticisms from the children’s speech. Lallans has a robust and honourable history, you know.’
‘Not now, Esmé,’ said Miss Noble firmly. Her companion gave her a surprisingly engaging grin and turned her attention once more to Kate, who was nibbling on one of her sandwiches and hoping that her table manners were up to scratch.
They thought, they told her, that she should stay on at school, try to get into the Art School next year, when she turned seventeen. If she passed her Higher Leaving Certificate, and Miss Noble was sure that she would, Miss MacGregor could arrange an interview with the Principal for her nearer the time. There were scholarships available for gifted students whose families were in straitened circumstances. Kate’s tea grew cold as they talked.
‘See you at school on Monday, my dear!’ shouted Miss Noble as they waved her off on the tram. Kate smiled and waved back. Sinking onto the hard wooden seats, she stared out at the street and buildings and people hurrying by. She saw none of it.
Words and images were swirling around her head. They had called her a ‘gifted student.’ They had shown her the Art School, where she had seen light-filled studios and young men and women working at canvases set on large easels. There had been loads of space for them to work in. Everywhere she’d looked there had been canvases, sketch pads, oil paints and water colours, crayons and charcoal. She had never imagined that such a place existed; a place where she could learn to become an artist.
Scowling at the outside world through the window of the tram, Kate tried to work out how she could be part of it. A scholarship was all very well, even if it did include a small allowance, but it wouldn’t be the same as her bringing in a wage. And she had to get through another year at school before she could apply for the scholarship. If only Donaldson’s could get another order, or Brown’s, or any of the other yards. It didn’t matter. The Black Squad would go where the work was.
Only there wasn’t any at the moment. Maybe something would come in. She could get a Saturday job - at Woolworth’s along in Clydebank maybe. Her frown lifted. Yes, that might do. If she got the scholarship and did a Saturday job - and if Da got work soon. Oh please God, let an order come into the yard!
She closed her eyes tight shut and sent up a heartfelt prayer. She wanted to go to the Art School, to be part of it. Oh, how much she wanted to be part of it! Just one more year at school, that was all she needed. Just one more year!
Robbie was waiting for her when she came off the tram. His face lit up when he saw her and she could tell by the stiff way he pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning on that he’d been there for ages.
‘Been waiting long?’
‘Och, no. Only about ten minutes.’
‘And the rest,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘I never could get away with anything with you, Kate Cameron, could I?’
‘Nope,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Well?’he demanded.
It came out in a rush. “They think I should stay on at school. Then go to the Art School, up in Glasgow. They think I’m good enough. They think I could try for a scholarship. That would pay the fees and give me money for materials, and a small allowance, a living allowance. They really think I’m good enough.’ Try as she might, she couldn’t keep the bubbling excitement and pride out of her voice. She smiled up at him.
‘Of course you’re good enough,’ said loyal Robbie. ‘Have I not always told you that? You’re great at drawing and painting and all that sort of stuff.’ He smiled back at her, a long slow smile. It brought a deep curve to his mouth and a sparkle to his grey eyes.
‘What?’ asked Kate.
‘Nothing,’ he said, still smiling broadly at her. ‘Nothing. Come on, let’s go and tell everybody.’
Robbie’s wee sisters were playing at skipping in the back court. Barbara and Flora were holding a length of rope and Alice and some other girls were taking their turn at jumping. Barbara and Flora swung the rope gently backwards and forwards and Alice began jumping over it as they all chanted the song.
‘Christopher Columbus was a very brave man, he sailed through the ocean in an old tin can. The waves grew higher and higher and OVER!’
The last word was the signal for the two rope wielders to change from rocky to coy, swinging the rope in an arc over the head and under the feet of the skipper. Sometimes a girl was caught out straight away, tangled in the rope, but Alice was good at skipping. All the girls joined in the number count. ‘Five-ten-fifteen-twenty...’ The winner was the one who reached the highest number without the rope catching her ankles. Towser the dog was watching them with great interest, his eyes and his head following the movement of the rope.
On the way past, Robbie reached out and ruffled Barbara’s hair. She scowled at him, but refused to allow the disturbance to break her concentration. Alice was still jumping. ‘Eighty-five-ninety. Ninety-five-a hundred...’
The young voices followed them as they plunged out of the sunlight of the April afternoon into the darkness of the close.
‘Your mother’ll give you a doing, Robert Baxter,’ Kate laughed. ‘You’ve just ruined what was left of Barbara’s waves.’
Robbie laughed too, his smile a flash of white in the gloom of the close. ‘No, she’ll not. I’m too big for her now, anyway.’ He stopped and laid a tentative hand on Kate’s shoulder. ‘I’m that pleased for you, Kate-’ He broke off. ‘What was that?’
It was a voice, echoing down the stairwell - Lily’s voice, high-pitched and angry. She was letting rip with a stream of invective. Whoever she was shouting at didn’t seem to be answering back. Kate looked anxiously at Robbie. Front doors were opening all around them.
‘In the name o’ God ...’
‘Neil’s for it this time - and that’s a fact.’
Agnes Baxter appeared at her door on the first landing. ‘Ma!’ said Robbie. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Agnes’s glance slid past her son to Kate. ‘Och, Kate, hen, I’m sorry. Your Da’s been paid off. The whole o’ the Black Squad. And your own father’s not home yet, Robbie... MrMacLean told me that a crowd of them went along to Connolly’s and they were there most of the afternoon.’
Robbie took the stairs two at a time, Kate and Agnes following him as fast as they could. Neil Cameron sat slumped in his chair in front of the range. His wife was standing over him, her hands on her hips. Her golden hair, escaping from its pins, was falling in wisps about her face. She was calling him - or rather miscalling him - for everything under the sun.
Jessie and Pearl, sitting as still as china statues on the edge of the box bed, had eyes as big as saucers. Granny, smiling gently in the corner, was oblivious to the drama being played out in the kitchen. From beneath the curtain which covered the space under the jaw-box sink, Kate saw the tips of two paws and a white nose peeking out. Mr Asquith had obviously decided that discretion was the better part of valour. If the scene hadn’t been so tragic, it might have been comic.
Neil Cameron smiled stupidly up at his wife. She lifted an arm, ready to strike him. He made no move to defend himself. He seemed rather to be inviting it, something like a challenge gleaming in his eyes.
‘Go on, then,’ he said softly to her. ‘Do it.’
Fleetingly, Kate had another image of them before her eyes; the memory of her mother on her knees in front of the range, combing out her hair, her father stooping to lift her into his embrace...
The expression on Lily’s face was unreadable. She drew her arm further back, ready to deliver the blow. Jessie gasped when she saw her mother’s hand go up.
Robbie took two rapid strides across the room. ‘Now, now Mrs Cameron. You’ll not be doing that. You might regret it later.’
Lily turned on Robbi
e then, eyes flashing. ‘Do you know what he’s done? Do you know?’
‘I think I can guess,’ murmured Robbie, ‘but hitting him won’t help anybody, now will it?’ He put his hand on her elbow. She drew in a breath, staring at him. Then, suddenly, her whole body seemed to relax and she allowed Robbie to lead her to the rocking chair on the other side of the range and push her into it, gesturing to his mother to come and stand by her.
‘Has he drunk all his pay, Lily?’ asked Agnes, her good-natured face lined with anxious enquiry.
‘Aye, he’s drunk his pay, the rotten, no-good bloody bugger! There’s only half a crown left.’ She dug into the pocket of her apron and threw the coin onto the floor. ‘And there’s no work anywhere along the river. None o’ them has got any orders.’ She sank her face into her hands. Just as suddenly her head snapped back up and her eyes fixed on Kate..
‘There’ll be no more school for you,’ she said. ‘That’s you finished wi’ that. Come Monday, you’re out knocking on doors, looking for work.’
‘The lassie’s staying on at school!’ They had all been focused on Lily and hadn’t noticed Neil getting to his feet. He stood there, swaying, dwarfing the kitchen with his height. He repeated it, bellowing the words out. ‘The lassie’s staying on! To make something of herself!’
Pushing Agnes Baxter’s restraining hand aside, Lily rose to her feet and squared up to her husband.
‘Like you’ve made something of yourself, Neil Cameron?’ she demanded. ‘You’re a waster, that’s what you are.’ She poked him in the chest with one finger to emphasize her point. ‘Och, you were handsome enough. Still are, when you’re not guttered, but you’ll never amount to anything.’
Like a balloon pricked by a silver pin, the fight went out of Neil Cameron. ‘Don’t be like that, Lily. It was the war, Lily, that’s what did for me ...’
His voice tailed off in the face of his wife’s contempt. ‘Other men came back from the war and made a go of it. What happened to you? Nae backbone, that’s your trouble.’
