The River Flows On

by Maggie Craig

  ‘That was all?’

  ‘Did you worry about that? You’re a daft bisom, Kate Baxter, d’ye know that?’ His smile slipped. ‘Och, but lassie, I’m sorry you had to go through so much on your own.’

  He had listened gravely as she had recounted the story of her haemorrhage, and how she had woken up in hospital afterwards to be told of the operation. When she finished speaking, he pulled her into his arms for a few moments, trying to imbue her with some of his own strength.

  She was so thin. Maybe he would take her to Millport for a few days once the weather got a bit better. Shovel food and fresh air into her.

  When he released her from his embrace his smile was wry. ‘No wonder Neil wants to punch me in the mouth.’

  Kate’s father, in fact, had thawed a little. Watching like a hawk when they came back into the house on New Year’s morning, he had relaxed visibly when he had seen that they were holding hands. He had unbent further the next day when Kate had shown the womenfolk of the two families the beautiful pearls Robbie had brought her back from America.

  ‘I got them in Boston,’ he told her when he gave them to her, ‘and wondered if I would ever be able to give them to you. I felt so unworthy of you by then,’ he went on, his voice husky and his eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘You made one mistake. I’d... Well, I’d deliberately gone and done what I did.’

  ‘Don’t torture yourself about it,’ she said softly.

  ‘If you promise me the same,’ he said earnestly. ‘Shall we agree to forgive each other, Kate?’

  ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘we’ll agree to forgive each other.’

  Chapter 31

  ‘Robert Baxter, why are you grinning like an eejit?’

  He had just come through the door of their new home in Dumbarton Road, not far from their first house at the foot of Kilbowie Road but with a bit more space this time. The two-apartment room and kitchen had been funded by Robbie’s accumulated pay from his months on the Border Reiver.

  His eyes were sparkling. He had swung the door shut and was leaning against it, his arms behind his back.

  ‘Guess,’ he told Kate who, a mixing bowl in the crook of her left arm, was creaming sugar and margarine together for the start of the sponge cake she was making.

  ‘Och, I’ve no idea.’ She glanced at the Be-Ro recipe book open on the table, propped the wooden spoon carefully against the side of the bowl and ran her index finger down the list of ingredients, more concerned with doing a mental check of her cupboards than in answering him.

  ‘Shall I tell you then?’

  ‘Aye, go on. Grace! A wee bit less raspberry, pet.’ Grace was ‘helping’ her mother by finishing off the Eiffel Towers. Since this involved dipping the cooled baked cakes in a glaze made from raspberry jam and water and then rolling them in dessicated coconut, the potential for disaster was quite considerable. She should have known better. Kate set the mixing bowl down on the table and looked around for a damp cloth. There had been one here a minute ago.

  ‘Kate, for Pete’s sake. Pay attention!’

  He was beside her, grabbing her by the waist and whirling her around the room. Grace clapped her sticky hands together in delight. Her rather winked at her and kissed her mother soundly on the cheek. Grace chortled.

  ‘Robbie! Put me down! I’m covered in flour!’

  He laughed. ‘Who cares? Now, are you going to ask me again why I’m grinning like an eejit?’

  Kate raised her hands in surrender. His enthusiasm was infectious.

  ‘All right! All right! Tell us what you’ve got to smile about.’

  He released her and started ticking them off on his fingers.

  ‘One. I’m married to the most beautiful girl in the world.’ He kissed her again before waltzing across the room to lift Grace into his arms. ‘Two. I’ve got the bonniest wee daughter in the world.’ He planted a kiss on her cheek too.

  ‘You’re daft, Daddy.’ Grace laughed and took his chin between her small hands.

  ‘As a brush,’ he agreed. He paused for effect. Kate, also for effect, folded her arms over her flowery wrap-around pinny and tapped her foot. They grinned at each other.

  ‘All right. I’ll ask you. What’s number three?’

  ‘Number three, my dear girls,’ - he was going to burst if he didn’t get it out soon, - ‘is that work is restarting on the 534! Next week! The day after Easter Monday!’

  And then they were all three dancing round the room, and Robbie, tasting of raspberry jam, was kissing both of them and Kate was crying and laughing at the same time.

  Clydebank was a town transformed. The Cunarder was to be launched that September and there was no time to be lost. Men streamed joyfully back to work. That first day back, at the beginning of April 1934, they were led through the gates of Brown’s by two kilted pipers, and the streets of the town were decorated with bunting.

  Some were worried how they would cope with the hard work after so long being idle, but they set to work with a will. One man was told sternly by a foreman that his tools were a bit rusted.

  ‘You should see my frying pan,’ came the reply.

  But the pots and pans were full again. The men were working and there was food on the table - and Clydebank was noisy once more. Living so close to the yard, Kate could hear it constantly: the clang of hammers and machinery and the constant hum of talk. It was more than that. In the yard and out in the town itself, people were light-hearted again, chatting and telling jokes. Men no longer stood aimlessly at street corners all day. The pall of despair had lifted. Maybe, folk said, work starting again on the 534 was the turning point for the whole country to get back on its feet. Maybe the Great Depression itself would soon be over.

  Kate Baxter was happy too. It wasn’t only that she’d caught the general mood of optimism, powerful though that was. It was more that she started each day with a joyous thankfulness that she and Robbie had been given a second chance - that they had given each other that second chance.

  They made good use of their fresh start. They took pleasure in each other’s company by day and delighted in their nights together, private in the front room while Grace slept snugly in the box bed in the kitchen. They had bought a brass bedstead second-hand. They’d got it cheap - a real bargain. People were beginning to find them old-fashioned, but Kate had always wanted one of her own. She made the bedspread herself out of heavy white cotton which was on special offer at Clydebank Co-op, and used what was left to make pillowcases which she decorated with cutwork.

  ‘Mmm,’ murmured her young husband. ‘What more does a man need than you with your hair spread all over a white pillow, your arms flung up beside your head and your fingers tightening around the rails of the bedhead? Och, Kate, my bonnie lassie, my nut-brown maiden ...’

  They made time for their family and friends, seeing a lot of Mary and Peter Watt and their young son Adam, whom five-year-old Grace treated with great condescension. The two families went on trips together: up the West Highland line on the train on days out; doon the watter on the pleasure steamers which plied the Firth of Clyde.

  They worked hard and they played hard. Kate went back to the art club, experienced enough now that she could take on some tutoring of the newer members. Encouraged by Mary and Peter, she and Robbie got involved with a local drama group, Kate quickly becoming the set designer, painter and general stage manager. Robbie did the carpentry work for her and found time to write a play about the Cunarder which the group performed. It was sharp and witty and full of topical jokes and the plucky young lovers he put into it bore a remarkable resemblance to Kate and Robert Baxter.

  He had re-written the poems he had burned, shyly offering them to her one Sunday evening before having to leave the house while she read them because he was so embarrassed. He apologized profusely for them on his return a quarter of an hour later, telling her how bad they were.

  ‘They’re very derivative,’ he started. He’d been attending an evening class in English literature, and was beginn
ing to acquire the vocabulary. ‘There’s a lot of the other Robbie in there - Burns, I mean.’ He smiled sheepishly. She stopped him with a hand over his mouth.

  ‘They’re beautiful. They’re from the heart. Your heart.’

  They were derivative. She could see what he meant. But he had underrated himself. There was an originality in the poems and a way of using words that was all his own. She told him so, and he blushed and kissed her and told her he’d write better ones for her one day.

  ‘But not until after we put the 534 onto the river,’ he added with a rueful grin.

  She was launched less than six months after work had resumed. The whole town went Cunarder-daft for that, with special concerts and events of all sorts to celebrate the launch, including Robbie’s play. The name of the liner had been a big secret up till the moment the Queen herself stepped forward on the platform. Forgetting that the ceremony was being broadcast to the nation on the wireless, she whispered anxiously to her husband the King, ‘Which buttons do I press?’

  Then she gave the 534 her own name. The Cunarder was to be called the Queen Mary.

  Typically, it rained cats and dogs on the day of the launch. Everyone got soaked to the skin, but nobody minded. It was a great day all the same, even if Grace Baxter was disappointed.

  ‘Why’s the ship got no funnels?’ she wailed. ‘And why is she such a horrible colour?’ The hull was painted a dull grey.

  Her Uncle Davie, a Brown’s apprentice now himself, crouched down to her and gave her the benefit of his knowledge.

  ‘There’s a lot of work to be done yet, wee yin. The engines and the boilers - aye, and the funnels, too - have all still to go in. Then they’ll paint her in bonnie colours. And then there’s all the fancy bits that the cabinet-makers like your Daddy do - the decks, and the bulkheads and the cabins and a’ that.’

  Robbie smiled at his brother-in-law.

  ‘It’s not the likes of me that does the really fancy bits. That’s the interior designers and the artists and all those kind of folk. Just wait till you see how fancy the Mary’s going to be. There’s never been a ship like this one.’

  After the launch the frantic activity resumed. They were all working towards the sailing date. She was the greatest liner ever seen, the world’s largest. She was also to become the fastest, twice winning the coveted Blue Riband for the swiftest crossing of the Atlantic. Because of her great size she needed to leave the fitting-out basin on a high tide in order to get safely out - and safely down the river to the Tail of the Bank and the open sea. That high tide, occurring as it did only twice a year, made the date of completion of her interior of crucial importance.

  Robbie often came home tired and worn out, but it was a happy tiredness. He was proud of what he was doing. All the men were. This ship was special.

  He managed to get Kate on board for an organized tour of the ship shortly before she was due to sail. His wife was entranced. She’d been able to see for herself, from the outside, that the ship was huge. She hadn’t realized that the vessel was like a floating town, supplied with everything the inhabitants of that town might need. Not only was the Mary fitted out with suites and cabins and restaurants and saloons - all as luxurious as you would expect - she also had a chapel, a hospital, a cinema and theatre, libraries, gymnasia and even tennis courts. There were playrooms for children, writing rooms for adults, a hairdresser’s and a beauty parlour.

  The grand salon, right in the centre of the vessel and going through three decks, was truly breathtaking. Like the other public rooms it was not only fitted out in the best of modern style - it was also decorated with paintings by some of the finest artists of the day.

  There were maritime scenes, like the exquisite Madonna of the Atlantic, which showed Mary and Jesus in front of a group of old high-masted sailing ships. Kate thought that was one of her favourites. There were bustling harbour scenes and pastoral views of the peaceful British countryside.

  ‘Probably to help a’ the rich folk forget where they are when they’re feeling seasick,’ one man said out of the corner of his mouth to Kate.

  She flashed him an automatic smile, but barely heard him, stunned by the beauty and elegance of her surroundings. They were guided to one of the smaller lounges, where they were told of the attention paid to the details - down to the design of the ashtrays which also had to fit in with the overall theme: cutlery and crockery too, of course. Their guide opened a cupboard in illustration, showing them the cups and saucers from which the passengers in this particular lounge would be drinking their morning coffee.

  Kate looked. Then she looked again. The crockery was her own Rowan Tree Ware.

  She mentioned it that night, as the three of them sat at the table with their Friday treat: fish suppers bought from the chip shop along the road. Robbie was enthusiastic.

  ‘Really? Och, that’s great, Kate. I’ll need to go and have a look. Which lounge did you say?’

  She told him, and changed the subject.

  Later, when he was helping her with the dishes, he brought it up again.

  ‘With your pottery and my carpentry I reckon that makes the Mary a joint effort - a Baxter family production!’

  ‘I suppose.’ She laid another plate on the draining board.

  He put down the plate he was drying and placed his hand on top of her wet and soapy one.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Kate, one hand still in the sink, was staring out of the window at the back green. ‘It’s lovely to think that when she sails away she’ll have something of both of us on board,’ she said softly.

  ‘But?’

  She took her hand back and washed the third plate, wiping her hands on her apron before she answered. ‘I loved designing things and then seeing them become real. It’s like a ship, I suppose. Only not on such a grand scale.’

  He was drying the remaining plates, letting her talk, his eyes on her face as she struggled to put her thoughts into words.

  ‘A ship starts as a drawing on a piece of paper, but if enough people work hard it becomes something real... and special. I worked hard at the designs for Rowan Tree Ware and I worked hard at learning the technical side. I used to dream of doing so much ...’ She gave him a sheepish smile. ‘Even used to daydream about having my own pottery studio. And I love the art club, I really do, but I wanted to make a lot more pottery and maybe I never will.’

  ‘Come here,’ he said, putting the last plate down and tossing the damp cloth to one side. ‘You,’ he said, his hands on her waist, ‘are most definitely going to do a lot more pottery. Would you not consider going back to the Art School extra-mural classes? I know they’re expensive, but we could manage if we were careful. I’d look after Grace.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘No. We don’t know if there’s going to be any work once the Mary goes. And anyway, I’m a different person now - your wife and Grace’s mother. The Kate who dreamed of being a great potter belongs in the past.’

  Robbie made a rude noise. ‘Just because you’re a wife and mother doesn’t mean you haven’t still got your talent. You’ve proved that by becoming a tutor at the art club - and with your set designs for the drama club. Everyone’s said how good they are.’

  ‘Och, that,’ Kate said dismissively. ‘Well, it’s fun, but it’s not exactly difficult. Not quite the same challenge as throwing a pot or making a lovely plate/

  He smiled and dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. ‘Kate Baxter, you need some sorting out!’

  What he meant by that she didn’t find out till Sunday. He took Grace out for a walk in the morning and the little girl came back clutching a fistful of dandelions which she presented to her mother.

  ‘Bonnie, aren’t they?’ asked Robbie, as Kate fetched an empty jam jar to put them in, the best green vase being far too big. ‘Grace is like you. She finds beauty in the most unlikely things. I bet those dandelions would make a real nice picture. Unusual, like.’ He walked over to the box bed in the kitchen where Grace slept and went
down onto his knees.

  ‘Robbie, what are you up to?’

  He was pulling something out from the cupboard underneath the bed.

  ‘It’s taken me weeks to make this,’ he grumbled. ‘I could only work on it when I was sure you were going to be out for a couple of hours at the art club. I’ll set it up through in the front room. You’ll get more light there. Here Grace, take these bits.’

  It was an easel. She could see that immediately. He went on talking as he pulled everything out.

  ‘It’ll sit on that table through there, and it’s adjustable, so you’ll be able to sit or stand, depending on what you’re doing ... and you can adjust the rake too, so that it can be completely perpendicular or like a sloping desk. You maybe wouldn’t want it too sloped for water colours, would you? Although I was really thinking you might want to practise your oils if you had a bit more space to do it in, and not just once a week at the class.’

  He stood up. There was a dirty mark on his cheek. She’d have to remember to clean under the bed next time she was doing the floor. Grace marched off to her parents’ bedroom carrying the parts of the easel which her father had given her.

  ‘I’ve made the base a box where you can keep your paints. I didn’t know what to do about canvases but we can maybe go up to Glasgow next weekend and get you some supplies?’ He shot Kate a look of enquiry and then, in mock dismay, surveyed the base box and the other pieces of wood he held.

  ‘With a bit of luck I’ll manage to get everything put together in the right place. In about a fortnight.’ He grinned at Kate. ‘Are you coming ben the hoose to see how it works?’

  ‘Robbie,’ she whispered. ‘You made this for me?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t manage a potter’s wheel or a kiln, but I thought maybe you could work on your painting until you can get back to that. It’ll surely all help. Give you a proper studio, like.’ He grinned again. ‘Now you’re an art tutor and no’ just a mere art student. Aye?’