by Maggie Craig
His eyes, terribly, filled with tears. ‘Och, Lily ...’
Kate, stunned with the horror of it all, stood frozen. She should do something, but what? She had no idea. She only knew she wanted it to end.
Agnes Baxter took control. She gestured to Pearl and Jessie to climb down from the bed and ushered them towards the door. ‘Girls, away ben to the front room and get your wee brother and go down to our house. Jessie, fetch Barbara from the back court and tell her to give everyone a scone. They’re new baked.’
Jessie and Pearl looked anxiously to Kate for reassurance as they left the room. She couldn’t seem to find any words of comfort to offer them. She couldn’t even manage a reassuring smile.
‘Neil, sit down here and I’ll make you and Lily a cup of tea.’ Agnes pulled Neil back to his chair. Once she had him settled in it, she straightened up, turned round and took in Kate’s rigid form and white face. She exchanged a glance with her son. ‘Robbie, why don’t you take Kate out for a wee while?’
Robbie shot Kate a glance, then gestured to Neil. ‘Are you sure you can manage him, Ma?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Aye, son. The worst’s over.’ She was right. Both Neil and Lily were slumped in their respective chairs. Agnes lifted a hand to pat her son on the shoulder.
‘There’s some money in the silver tea caddy on the sideboard. Why don’t you take Kate to the pictures? Take her mind off it, like.’
‘Aye, Ma. We’ll do that. All right, Kate?’
They took a tram along to Clydebank and saw a cowboy picture. Of that much Kate was aware. She couldn’t have told anybody what the story was, or even who the stars were. When they came out of the cinema, Robbie said one word. ‘Home?’
Kate shook the chestnut-brown waves of her hair. ‘No. Not yet. Can we - can we walk a bit?’
‘Of course we can. There’s no rush.’
Kate managed a small smile. ‘You’re looking after me well. You and your mother both.’
Robbie shrugged.
‘You know,’ Kate went on. ‘Where I was this afternoon - at the Art School and the tearoom I mean-‘ She paused, lifted her hand to indicate Dumbarton Road. ‘Well, it’s only up in Glasgow, no more than a few miles away, but in another way it might as well be on the moon. I’m never going to get there. It’s not for the likes of us, that’s the trouble, only you keep hoping and hoping that it might be.’
Robbie had fallen silent by her side, his eyes downcast, listening to what she was saying.
‘Not for the likes of us,’ she repeated softly.
He looked up then, his expression fierce. ‘You’re not to say that, Kate. I won’t have you saying that. There’s got to be a way we can get you there, some way you can stay on at school.’
‘Oh, Robbie,’ said Kate, angry with him, herself and the whole world. ‘You know I can’t stay on at school after what happened this afternoon. I’ve got to get a job. You heard her. She’s always on about it. Thinks I’ve stayed on far too long already. And she’s right, I suppose. With my father laid off again, someone’ll have to start bringing some money into the house. There’s only me as can do it.’ To her horror, her eyes filled with tears. She turned her head away quickly, but not quickly enough.
‘Och, Kate,’ Robbie said, running an angry hand through his already tousled locks. ‘Och, Kate,’ he repeated. He was frowning. ‘Come on, let’s get the tram along a couple of stops and go for a walk by the river.’
The river. Her refuge. Unchanging and yet always changing. Today it was dark as ink, gliding peacefully in the evening sun to the open sea. The sky was impossibly blue, the clouds white and fluffy.
‘You wouldn’t think it was near nine o’clock, would you?’
Apart from that one comment, Robbie walked tall and silent beside her. She was grateful for that. He didn’t try to offer empty words of comfort. She said as much to him. He stopped dead beside her, twisting his flat cap in his hands and stared at her, his eyes very clear beneath angry black brows. She took an involuntary step backwards.
‘Christ!’ he said explosively. ‘Not offer you comfort! And you’re grateful to me for that! Jesus Christ, Kathleen Cameron!’
She stared at him. This was a new Robbie, one whose eyes flashed with anger and frustration; one who squared his shoulders and tossed his head back, glaring at her; not a boy any more, but a man. It gave her a funny feeling inside, one she couldn’t explain. One she didn’t want to explain.
He quietened. ‘I’m sorry for taking the Lord’s name in vain,’ he said stiffly.
‘Robbie?’ She reached out a hand to him.
‘Come on,’ he said, moving away from her. ‘I think I can just about afford to buy you an ice cream at Pelosi’s. Are you coming?’
‘Robbie?’ she said again. She caught him up and laid a hand on his arm, her fingers curving round his elbow. He stopped but didn’t look at her. The wind off the river lifted his dark hair.
‘Promise me something.’
‘What?’ His voice had a raw edge to it.
‘That you’ll get out of here. That you’ll go to sea. Make something of yourself.’ She grimaced, remembering when she had last heard that phrase used.
He turned to look at her, his expression softening.
‘Och, Kate, maybe it’s just a dream. A wee boy’s dream. Wanting to have an adventure.’ His mouth curved in a self-deprecating smile. ‘Wanting to set sail for Treasure Island with Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver - you know?’
Her fingers tightened on the rough cloth of his jacket. ‘But you can do it. It’s within your grasp, once you’ve served your time. Promise me that you’ll do it.’
‘I don’t know, Kate.’ His eyes were downcast again, the lashes as dark as his hair long and feathery against his cheekbones.
‘Och, Robbie, what is there to keep you here? A lifetime of looking for work and then being laid off again. What is there to keep you here?’
He looked her full in the face.
‘You, of all people, should know what would keep me here. Who would keep me here.’
Kate let her hand drop from his arm. She took a step backwards. He held her gaze, challenging, daring her to drop her eyes too.
‘Och, Robbie, don’t! You and me... No ... that’s not meant to be. I’ve told you how I feel. I thought that was all sorted out. I don’t want you hanging on waiting for me...’
She put out a hand, warding him off, reading quite clearly his intention of taking her in his arms. ‘Robbie, don’t! I don’t want it!’ Her voice was high and breathless.
He hesitated, his face full of warring emotions. Then he smiled, a wry twist of the lips.
‘Pick my moments, don’t I, Kate? And always the wrong ones. Mr Bad Timing, that’s me. Come on, let’s go for that ice cream.’
Kate tried one last time. ‘Robbie, do you ever listen to me? Did you hear what I just said?’
He took a decisive step towards her, gripped her by the shoulders and planted a swift kiss on her forehead.
‘I heard you,’he said.
Chapter 5
‘So what exactly does a tracer do?’
‘Traces things.’
Arthur Crawford smiled at the clear-eyed girl in front of him. Good. That had raised a wee smile. He sighed inwardly. The lassie didn’t have her troubles to seek, he knew that. Her teacher, Frances Noble, was his wife’s sister, and he’d heard the story more than once. Clever enough to stay on at school, good enough to go to art college, but no money to allow her to do it. Well, she wasn’t the only one, not by a long chalk. He couldn’t give them all a start, but Frances had put in a good word for this girl.
He surveyed Kate where she sat on the opposite side of the desk from him. Her clothes were threadbare, but her skirt was pressed and the creamy-coloured blouse with the big collar which she wore had been freshly washed and starched. And the lassie was clever. She’d got top marks in the exam she’d sat, along with fifty other girls, last week. So far, so good. A good tracer didn’t nec
essarily need to be artistic, but she did have to be neat and lively minded.
Like John Brown’s, the next yard along the river, Donaldson’s set an entrance examination every year for girls hoping to be taken on for a tracing apprenticeship. Only ten new apprentices were taken on each year, so there was a great deal of competition for each position.
Kate’s exam paper had been the best of all. Arthur Crawford told her so.
‘Och,’ she said, giving him a shy smile and trying not to dip her head in embarrassment at the compliment. ‘Well, I enjoyed doing it, really.’
She had been surprised at how wide-ranging the questions had been: English and arithmetic; history; knowledge of the yards and the shipbuilding trade; general knowledge. She’d known that her answers had been good. I’d give me a job, she’d thought to herself, and then wondered if she’d tempted fate by being too cocky during the agonizing week’s wait for the results.
‘It was fine realizing that I knew those things - that all that information was in my head.’
Arthur Crawford smiled. ‘I believe there would be a position for you here, Miss Cameron - if you’re interested in the work, that is.’
Kate crossed her fingers, hidden out of sight at her side by the folds in her dark brown skirt. Interested in the work? No, not really, but what choice did she have?
Tm very interested,’ she said firmly, ‘but do Donaldson’s need tracers at the moment? I thought there were no orders on the books. I’m not looking for any favours, Mr Crawford.’
As proud as her father, he thought. Until the drink gets to him. There were some who would think him daft to put in a good word for Neil Cameron’s daughter, but Neil had been a good man - still was, when he was sober. And, according to his sister-in-law, the lassie’s mother was hard on her. She needed a hand up. There was something about this girl - something that needed encouragement, something that made him want to help her for her own sake. Spreading his hands out on either side of the pad of blotting paper in the centre of the desk, he smiled at Kate.
‘There’s one just come in. The designers are busy on it right now.’ He saw the hope leap into Kate’s eyes and knew that it was for her father, not for herself. He put a hand up in admonition. ‘There’ll be no work for the Black Squad for six months, but the plans need to be drawn up - and then copied.’
He explained further. That when a ship was built there were plans for everything, not just the hull and the superstructure, but for internal decks and bulkheads, cabins, storerooms, pipework, all sorts of internal fittings. There might be as many as fifty drawings for one ship, he told her, for a really big vessel even more.
‘So the engineers and everyone else involved need copies of the design drawings. That’s where the tracers come in. They get the drawings from the draughtsmen, who do them in pencil. The tracers then trace off a copy in ink, very clearly, very accurately-‘ He broke off, smiling. ‘Some of the lassies would say a lot more neatly than the draughtsmen do them. They’re always moaning about having to tidy up messy drawings. After that the drawings go to photography so that everyone who needs a copy can have one. Even the interior designers need plans.’
‘The interior designers?’
‘Aye, the folk who make the insides beautiful.’ Arthur Crawford grinned again. ‘Those who decide which colour the internal bulkheads should be and what paintings go up on the walls - even what the cups and saucers in the restaurant should be like. There’s a lot of folk work on a ship, you know. It’s a joint effort. You could be part of it, lass.’
For the first time, Kate felt the stirrings of real interest. It was the way Mr Crawford had put it - that she, Kathleen Cameron, could be part of building a ship. That would be something to be proud of. Struck by the thought, she had a vision of herself at the next launch, watching a beautiful vessel slipping into the Clyde. What had her father said? Like a seal sliding off a rock into the ocean. It was a beautiful sight -made you want to laugh and cry at the same time, your heart bursting with pride.
If she got a job here, she wouldn’t be proud only for Daddy, or for Robbie, or his father. She would be proud on her own account, because she would have helped the ship on her first journey - that most difficult voyage from an idea in someone’s head to blueprints and plans which enabled other skilled heads and hands make that vision real. She could see it now - her family looking at her with admiration. Her mother might even be impressed! She could boast about it to the neighbours: ‘My daughter’s a tracer, you know.’
Kate jumped when Arthur Crawford stood up, his chair scraping the stone floor. She leapt to her feet, looking at him expectantly. He walked round the desk and ushered her towards the door.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you where the tracers work.’
They worked in a. building tucked in at one side of the yard, a hundred yards from the main gate. It had three storeys. On the top floor, Kate learned, the design team was based. Below them were the draughtsmen and below them, the tracers.
The tracers worked in a large airy room, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall and rows of long tables and stools. Electric lamps were bolted onto the tables at regular intervals.
‘For the winter,’ said Arthur Crawford, seeing her glance at them. ‘Good light’s crucial for close work. You’ll find that out for yourself.’
Kate had been impressed to learn that the plans were photographed. The knowledge that the tracers had electric light to work by when natural light wasn’t good enough impressed her even more. At home they had gas-mantles and still sometimes used the old brass paraffin lamp which had been one of Granny’s wedding presents.
‘Donaldson’s employ a lot of tracers then?’ Kate did a quick estimate of the stools. There had to be around sixty. The big room was quiet and echoing today, the tracers too having been paid off when the orders had dried up.
A tall angular woman dressed in a black overall came forward and was introduced as Miss Nugent, the Chief Tracer. She was the only member of the department to have kept her job during the shut-down. She shook hands with Arthur Crawford, listened unsmiling to what he said, peered over pince-nez spectacles at Kate and fired questions at her. Did she have her Third Year Leaving Certificate? Which subjects was she good at? What were her interests and hobbies? What was her father to trade? Where did she live? Was she punctual? Kate saw the infinitesimal lift of the eyebrows when Miss Nugent learned that her father was an unemployed member of the Black Squad, but she seemed at last to be satisfied, and began rattling out information in her turn.
‘It’s a five-year apprenticeship. We’ll pay you five shillings a week to begin with. You’ll be taught on the job and you’ll be expected to work hard. We also encourage our girls to attend evening classes - in any subject. If you do so, you receive an extra sixpence per week in your pay packet. You look neat,’ she went on, scarcely pausing to draw breath, ‘and your showing in the examination was excellent. That’s what’s needed in this job - neatness and intelligence. I understand you have artistic tendencies.’ Miss Nugent’s tone of voice made it crystal clear that this was not a compliment.
‘Y-yes...’stammered Kate, taken aback that the woman had finally stopped and seemed to be anticipating some kind of response from her. Five years! That was forever. Especially when it wasn’t what you wanted to do with your life. The beautiful vision of herself at the launch vanished, burst like one of the soap bubbles wee Davie loved to be allowed to blow on wash day. She wanted to learn how to draw and paint, not be under this dragon’s thumb for the next five years.
The dragon was looking at her over the little gold specs perched on the end of her bony nose. Kate wondered if she really needed them or if they were a prop to help her look at you as though you’d crawled out from under some stone. A father in the Black Squad and artistic tendencies? Dear me. Miss Nugent made them both sound like hanging offences.
Her next words confirmed Kate’s worst fears.
‘Your artistic talent is not necessarily an
advantage,’ Miss Nugent was saying sternly. ‘The artistic temperament is certainly not required here.’ She allowed herself a little smile, directing it at Arthur Crawford. Her eyes came back to Kate and the smile faded.
Any minute now, thought Kate, she’s going to wag her finger at me. This is like being back at school. Worse - Miss Noble would never speak to me like this. Artistic temperament, indeed! What does she think I’m going to do? Dance naked around the room with a rose between my teeth? Her rebellious mouth curved at the thought. Miss Nugent’s eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed.
‘All my girls must pull together and it’s hard work, mind! There’s no place here for slackers. Bearing that in mind, are you still interested in being considered for a position at Donaldson’s, Miss.Cameron?’
Stung, Kate drew herself up to her full height. At five feet four, this wasn’t particularly impressive, but bullies like this one needed standing up to.
‘I’m used to hard work, Miss Nugent.’ Oh, Mammy, Daddy, what was she saying? Did she really want to spend five years with this tyrant? Did she have a choice? No - she didn’t. There was, however, one last question to be answered before she committed herself.
‘What about the girls who were laid off? Won’t they all expect their jobs back?’
Miss Nugent looked shocked. ‘The decision on who gets a position here is taken by Mr Donaldson, his management -and trusted members of staff.’ A conspiratorial smile to Arthur Crawford left no doubt that Miss Nugent considered herself and him to belong to the latter group.
‘Half of them’ll have gone to Singer’s anyway,’ he put in.
Kate knew that to be true. The Singer sewing-machine factory up on Kilbowie Hill was doing well - had even increased its workforce. Miss Nugent was speaking again.
‘With a new order on the books we at Donaldson’s have vacancies, especially for beginners like yourself whom we can train up.’
