by Maggie Craig
‘Behave yourselves, you two. This is Kate Cameron. She’s a friend of mine from Clydebank - works for my father. And she’s a very gifted artist.’
Startled, Kate looked at Marjorie. Acquaintance maybe, a very distant one, but friend was surely stretching the point a bit. And how did she know whether Kate could paint or not? Then she remembered the designs she’d done for the menus and programmes for the last launch, the designs Marjorie had admired so much. The girl was talking, introducing her friends to Kate.
‘These extremely rude people to our left are Suzanne Douglas and Jack Drummond. Say hello to Kate, children.’
‘Hello to Kate, children,’ chorused Suzanne and Jack. Then they looked at each other and dissolved into laughter.
‘Ignore them,’ advised Marjorie. ‘Have you got a smock or something, Kate? You don’t mind if I call you Kate, do you? We’re very informal here. And do call me Marjorie.’
Oh aye, thought Kate, that’ll be right. You’re only my boss’s daughter and my father’s boss’s daughter, but of course I’ll call you Marjorie.
I’m not staying, she thought. I’m not staying here with these horrible people. I’m going to walk back over to the door and down the stairs and out of the front door and down Scott Street to Sauchiehall Street and get on a tram and never come back here again. Never ever. Just then the tutor walked in and closed the door behind him.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Shall we get on?’
Kate turned huge green eyes to Marjorie. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t stay here.’ Her voice came out as a whisper. Behind Marjorie, she saw Jack Drummond’s face. He was looking directly at her.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Marjorie. ‘Of course you can. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself?’
For one frozen moment, Kate swithered, fighting the overwhelming urge to bolt from the room like a frightened rabbit. Then she realized that Marjorie Donaldson was absolutely right. She did owe this to herself - and to Miss Noble and Miss MacGregor too - and to Daddy and Robbie. It had taken her a long time to get this far. Was she going to let these two rude people put her off? No, she was not. She lifted her chin.
‘Of course I can.’ She gave Marjorie’s words back to her and was rewarded by a beaming smile.
‘Now, where’s your smock?’ Taking Kate’s bag from her unresisting hands she pulled out the flowery pinny.
‘Oh!’ Marjorie said, holding it up. There were more giggles from the corner. ‘I don’t think this is really very suitable. Why don’t I lend you a spare shirt?’ She laid the pinny to one side and delved into a large leather bag sitting on the floor beside her. She brought out a blue and white striped shirt, collarless and unstarched.
‘One of my father’s cast-offs,’ Marjorie went on cheerfully. ‘It’s really much more practical and it’ll cover the sleeves of your jumper better. It’s so pretty, it would be a pity to get paint on it. Did you knit it yourself? I do so admire people who can make their own clothes.’
There was still suppressed giggling coming from the corner. The tutor, a short round man with a neat beard and a mane of white hair combed back from his forehead, lifted his eyebrows and his voice.
‘Miss Douglas? Mr Drummond? Is there some problem there at the back?’
The room settled down to work. Kate squared her shoulders and did so too, dwelling only briefly on the extraordinary fact that here she was in the Glasgow School of Art wearing a shirt which had once belonged to one of the biggest shipyard owners in the west of Scotland, a man who had something akin to the power of life and death over the Cameron family. Not only that, she and that man’s daughter were now on first-name terms. Supposedly.
When she turned her attention to the task before her, she forgot everything else. The still life arranged in the middle of the forest of easels consisted of a wooden bowl filled with several red and green apples and one orange, set on top of a vivid dark green satin cloth whose folds, draped over the tall plinth, fell gracefully to the floor.
Sketching the shapes in with charcoal wasn’t a problem. She did a lot of sketching at home. It was the easiest thing to do sat at the kitchen table. Her night classes in Clydebank over the past two years had taught her a lot about shape and form and perspective. She’d also learned how to use water colours. She’d liked that, but was determined to master oil paints too.
The apples weren’t going to be too difficult, she thought, frowning in concentration, but it was going to be hard to get the texture of the orange right. Clutching one brush in her mouth, she absent-mindedly scratched her nose with the hand in which she held the other. Sparing a thought for how she was going to tackle the folds of the green satin cloth and the shadows they cast, she re-applied herself to the orange.
‘Miss Cameron, isn’t it?’ She jumped, let go of the paintbrush clamped between her teeth, scrabbling furiously as it slid down Mr Donaldson’s old shirt, smearing green paint all over the blue and white stripes.
‘Miss Cameron?’ asked the voice again. The tutor was standing beside her, looking at her work. Her work!
‘Y-yes,’ Kate stammered. ‘Yes, s-sir. I’m Kathleen Cameron.’ She managed to get her name out and then waited in an agony of anticipation as he stood, head cocked, studying her infant picture. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he bent forward and peered at it.
‘Your technique needs a great deal of work,’ he pronounced at last. Kate’s heart sank. Was he going to tell her she was no good? That she wasn’t up to the standard of the class? Maybe she should just take the shirt off and pack up now.
The tutor stroked his beard and took a step or two back from the painting. ‘Mmm,’ he said. He turned and smiled at Kate. ‘Technique we can teach you. Talent is God-given. The Good Lord has been generous to you, Miss Cameron. Very promising,’ he murmured. ‘Very promising. We’ll start on your technical education next week. Continue.’ He flicked his fingers in a gesture of dismissal and left an open-mouthed Kate staring after him as he progressed to the next student.
Aware of eyes on her, she turned her head. Jack Drummond was looking at her. He inclined his head to her in a gesture which indicated that he was impressed.
‘Glad you stayed?’ asked a quiet voice.
Kate turned her head and gave Marjorie a lovely smile. ‘Yes, I’m glad I stayed.’
With a shy goodbye to Marjorie, Kate left quickly at the end of the lesson, hurriedly packing up her things and slipping out into the corridor. She could have got to the ground floor without using the stairs. She was walking on air. No, she was floating on a cloud, not a pink one, but a red and green and orange one. She grinned at the extravagant thought. Very promising, with a God-given talent. The words swam deliciously around inside her head. She would probably get on to the green cloth next week. She’d give it some thought beforehand, work out how to approach the folds and the shadows-
‘Miss Cameron! Miss Cameron!’
Startled, she turned. It was Suzanne Douglas, the flowery cotton pinny in her hand. She was standing on the landing in the turn of the stairs.
‘You don’t want to forget it,’ said Suzanne coyly, letting it fall from her outstretched hand, so that it could clearly be seen for what it was. Behind her, Jack Drummond was grinning. Another two or three students, clattering past them, looked amused. Kate felt the smile slide from her face. Running swiftly up the flight of stairs, she snatched the bright fabric out of the girl’s hand. Then, turning without a word, she went back down the stairs so quickly that she slipped just before she reached the bottom, recovering herself only by gripping the banister so tightly she heard her knuckles crack.
‘Hey,’ called Suzanne Douglas after her as she crossed the entrance hall, ‘Miss Cameron! Can’t you take a joke?’
Kate, her breath coming faster because she’d almost fallen inside the building, went down the stone front steps onto Renfrew Street at a slower pace.
‘Miss Cameron!’ This time it was a man’s voice. ‘Miss Cameron! Stop! Please
!’
Her foot poised to go from the last step onto the pavement, Kate had just made it when Jack Drummond caught her by the arm. She wobbled. Strong fingers tightened their grip on her arm.
‘Careful,’ he murmured, his mouth very close to her ear. ‘We don’t want you to fall now, do we?’
‘I’m fine,’ Kate said, but her breath was still coming too quickly. He released her but came immediately to stand in front of her, barring her way, laughing into her face.
‘You’ve got a smudge of paint on your cheek.’ He smiled. ‘Green, to match your eyes.’
Knowing she was blushing - she could feel the heat spreading over her face - Kate lifted a hand to rub at the offending mark. The street was quiet. Where on earth was everyone else? Surely Marjorie Donaldson and that Suzanne girl were still in the building? She hadn’t noticed them come out. At this precise moment, she’d have welcomed the presence even of the latter, with her smartly bobbed hair, her bright red lips and the malicious gleam in her dark eyes.
Kate wet her fingers - now her tongue would be as green as her cheek - and applied herself with renewed vigour to cleaning her face.
‘You’re making it worse, you silly girl.’ He’s got a lovely voice, she thought. Well-spoken, of course, round and mellow and deep. Pity about the rest of him.
‘Come here,’ he said.
He fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of his flannels, wet it with his tongue, and started to rub at the mark on her cheek. Kate jumped as though she’d been stung by a wasp. ‘Stay still,’ he commanded. ‘We could do with some turps really ... no, that’s it. There! That’s you done. Pretty as a picture once more.’ He thrust his handkerchief back into his trouser pocket.
‘Thank you for cleaning my face. Goodbye.’ She made as though to go round him, but he put a hand out to stop her.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. Suzanne and I behaved very badly in there.’ He gave a nod of his head to indicate the college behind him. ‘I’d like to apologize for both of us.’
Kate tossed her head. ‘Did Marjorie Donaldson make you come after me?’ She glanced up the steps to the double doors of the Art School. The two other girls still hadn’t come out. Was Marjorie hanging back to allow this apology to take place?
‘Maybe. Or maybe I retain just enough good breeding to know that I was damn’ rude to you in there. Unforgivable. Only I hope that you will - forgive me, I mean.’
He was very good-looking, his handsome face wreathed in a broad smile. A confident smile, which showed that he fully expected her to forgive him. Kate doubted if he’d ever been refused anything in his whole spoiled life. Well, there was a first time for everything.
‘Excuse me, Mr Drummond.’
‘Hey, come on. I’d like to know that I’m really forgiven. And the name’s Jack.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Drummond,’ Kate said again.
‘My, but you’re fierce,’ he said admiringly.
Kate did what her mother would have referred to as ‘giving him a look’. She knew from experience that it was enough to wither any of the young draughtsmen who might try it on during a works outing, but it seemed only to make Jack Drummond laugh. No doubt he expeaed her to come back at him with some witty rejoinder. Didn’t they call it repartee? Only right now she couldn’t think of one single smart remark.
‘I have to get home. Would you let me past, please?’ There was a tremble in her voice. If she’d heard it, she supposed he had too. She dropped her lashes and put one hand out to rest on the curved wall which bounded the stairs. The stone felt cool and solid beneath her fingers. There was a silence, during which Kate was very aware of those blue eyes resting on her.
‘We really upset you, didn’t we?’ came a quiet voice. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Cameron, I really am.’
Startled, Kate looked up. He did sound sorry. Had she misjudged him? He smiled at her and ran an impatient hand through his fair hair.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘some of us are going on for afternoon tea. A pleasant custom which developed last year. You’d be very welcome to join us.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘We have some great discussions - about art and architecture and all that sort of stuff.’
Kate would have loved to discuss all that sort of stuff. She did a quick mental review of the contents of her purse. Knocked off balance by a yearning to do what he’d suggested, by this whole conversation and, most of all, by Jack Drummond himself, she told him the truth. ‘I have precisely two and threepence in my possession, Mr Drummond, and it has to last me till next Friday.’
He raised elegant eyebrows. ‘I thought you had a job at Marjorie’s father’s place. Don’t tell me the old skinflint doesn’t pay you enough?’
‘Mr Donaldson pays me an adequate wage, thank you, but I give most of it to my mother. My father’s a riveter, one of the Black Squad.’ There was no apology in Kate’s tone - rather the reverse - and she said it with an unconscious lift of her chin. ‘He gets laid off regularly and my family needs my pay.’
‘I’ll treat you, then.’ He grinned. ‘Or Marjorie will. She’s got enough dough to treat us all.’
Kate’s eyes grew cold. ‘I don’t think so.’ Clearly taking him by surprise, she turned and walked off in the opposite direction.
He followed her, falling into step beside her, adjusting his long stride to hers as they turned the corner and went down Dalhousie Street.
Kate stopped dead. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Seeing you to your tram. Are you walking out with someone, Miss Cameron?’
‘No.’ Should she cross her fingers for that one?
‘Strange,’ mused Jack Drummond. ‘All the fellows in Clydebank must be blind, then.’
Suzanne Douglas was waiting for him as he ran back across Sauchiehall Street.
‘Tea? On to cocktails, later?’ he asked. ‘Thanks for keeping Marjorie busy, by the way.’
Ignoring both the comment and the question which had preceded it, she inclined her head towards the retreating tram. ‘Rejected your advances, then? The little mouse?’
‘For the moment,’ agreed Jack equably, extracting a gold cigarette case from his inside pocket, opening it and extending it to her.
‘Thanks.’
He brought out his lighter and lit both their cigarettes. Suzanne put hers to her bright red lips and took a draw. Then she fixed Jack with a hard stare. ‘You won’t get anywhere with her, you know. Working-class girls are incredibly strait-laced.’
He paused, his cigarette halfway to his lips, a faint look of surprise on his face. ‘Give that girl a bit of attention and she’ll open up like a rose.’
Suzanne, her own cigarette held in one elegantly upraised hand, narrowed her eyes at him.
‘Jack ... You’re not really smitten, are you? With a wee girl from Clydebank?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. I just think it might be fun to introduce her to ... things. Expand her horizons a bit.’ He drew deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke out in rings.
A small child, passing by on the pavement in front of them, turned and stared up at him, fascinated. Her mother pulled her round, but not before her own face had registered her disapproval of Jack and Suzanne. Only fast people smoked in the street.
Jack went on in a dreamy tone of voice, ‘She’s got an absolutely luscious figure, as far as one can tell under the shapeless garments you girls wear nowadays. Do you think she’d let me buy her an evening dress?’
‘No, and I don’t think she’d be prepared to pay for it either. Not in the way you have in mind.’
His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Now, there’s a challenge.’
‘Do you have any scruples, Jack?’
He tapped some ash onto the pavement. ‘Not many.’
‘It’ll get you into trouble with Marjorie. She seems to have taken a liking to little Miss Cameron for some reason. Wants to take her under her wing.’
‘Marjorie doesn’t have to know, does she?�
�� Jack Drummond’s voice was very soft. The blue eyes which held Suzanne’s gaze were not. He took another draw on his cigarette, looked up at the buildings across the street and then back at Suzanne.
‘You’re a swine, Jack Drummond.’
‘But you love me all the same?’
‘You’ll never know how much.’ For a second there was naked longing in Suzanne Douglas’s eyes. An expression which held genuine sympathy passed across Jack’s face.
‘I have to marry money, sweetie. You know that.’
The smart, brittle mask was once more in place. ‘So you come over all sympathetic to the little mouse while I continue to play the wicked witch?’
‘You do it so well, darling,’ he murmured.
‘And you don’t want Marjorie to know.’
‘Correct. I’ve no desire to queer my pitch there. Sooner or later I’ll have to bite the bullet and’ – ‘press my suit,’ - he said the last three words in a tone full of irony and with one fair eyebrow raised ‘- but there’s no reason not to have a bit of fun first, is there?’
‘And that’s all it is - a bit of fun?’
‘Of course, my darling. What else?’
They stood for a moment or two in silence. Jack turned to look along Sauchiehall Street in the direction of Charing Cross. After a while he spoke again. ‘She’s rather good-looking, don’t you think - for a wee girl from Clydebank? Not beautiful, exactly, but very attractive. Lovely smile.’
Suzanne frowned. Dropping her cigarette, she ground it out on the pavement with a twist of her crocodile-skin shod foot. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked abruptly.
‘You run along. I’m going to have another cigarette.’
Suzanne turned, once, on her way to the tearoom. Jack Drummond was standing where she had left him, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette and staring along a Sauchiehall Street from which Kate Cameron’s tram had long since disappeared.
