The Gourlay Girls

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

Afterwards, Wincey blamed the drink and vowed to avoid alcohol in future. She had been reminded of what Granny had once said when talking of how she’d felt when she’d lost her other children with the fever. ‘Ma hairt wis sair.’ Wincey’s heart had felt sore too.

  1938

  23

  Wincey was about to enter the office when she heard something most unusual. It was Charlotte’s voice raised in—perhaps not anger exactly—but certainly acute exasperation. She was saying, ‘I couldn’t give you a week’s wages in advance, even if I wanted to. Wincey keeps the books and sees to the wages. Anyway, Malcy, what have you done with all your money? You get paid enough, and it’s not as if you put any of it into the housekeeping. I’m paying for everything now. No, I’m not going to be soft-soaped any more, Malcy. We’re already taking more money than we should out of the business. No, Malcy, please …’

  Wincey felt self-conscious standing outside the office door. Everybody at the machines behind her could see her. It might look odd if she suddenly walked away. She turned the door handle and went in. Malcy had his arms around Charlotte and was trying to kiss her.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Wincey said and made to leave again, but Charlotte called out, ‘No, it’s all right, Wincey. Come in. Malcy was just leaving. I’ll see you when I get home, Malcy.’

  His pale eyes were cold with annoyance as they met Wincey’s for a brief second, but he smiled back at Charlotte before leaving.

  ‘See you later then.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Wincey asked after he’d gone.

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Charlotte said with some bitterness. ‘You’ve always had it in for Malcy.’

  ‘No!’ Wincey protested. ‘I’ve never wanted trouble for you, Charlotte. I swear it. Or for Malcy. But it’s his gambling, Charlotte. That’s what’s always worried me. And it’s got worse, we both know it has.’

  Charlotte avoided Wincey’s eyes and her voice was barely audible. ‘I’ll speak to him.’

  For all the good that’ll do, Wincey thought, but decided it would be wiser to let the subject drop—for the moment, at least.

  Later, Charlotte said she was going out to the shops for something for Malcy’s dinner. Wincey always went home in the middle of the day for a bite to eat. She had been out in Springburn Road when she remembered the pair of shoes to be mended that she’d left in the office. She wanted to hand them in to the cobbler on the way to the Balgray. She hurried back into the factory.

  The girls were all huddled at one corner of the machine hall—chatting, drinking tea and eating sandwiches. They didn’t notice her reappearance. She went through to the office and, on opening the door, nearly bumped into Malcy who was coming out. Before she could say anything, he said, ‘Just looking for Charlotte.’ And he was off.

  Wincey picked up the shopping bag that contained her shoes and then hesitated. A thought had struck her. At first she dismissed it with the unsaid words, ‘Surely not.’ But then she opened her desk drawer and saw right away that the petty cash box was empty. There had been quite a few pounds in it that morning. Wincey stood looking at the empty box, inwardly groaning and wondering what she should do now. It was one thing Malcy trying to wheedle extra money out of Charlotte. But this was different. This was thieving. She thought of confronting Malcy—privately and discreetly perhaps. She suspected though that Malcy would immediately act the injured victim and go straight to Charlotte. He would complain that Wincey was always trying to get at him.

  He was a master at appearing the hurt innocent. Wincey often thought he should have been in the acting profession—he even had the looks for it, with his curly blond hair and even features. She tried to imagine ways she could frighten him, warn him, but couldn’t think of anything that would work. In the end she decided that, for now at least, she’d just have to depend on Charlotte’s business sense. Surely Charlotte would call a halt if things began to get too serious. Hadn’t she been trying to do that when she had been interrupted in the office? Wincey felt less anxious when she remembered what Charlotte had been saying to Malcy. She had used such an unusually strong tone of voice. Yes, Wincey assured herself, Charlotte was too good a business woman to allow anyone—even Malcy—to ruin what she’d worked so hard to build up.

  So Wincey said nothing to Malcy about the stolen money. But she couldn’t resist giving him some cold and knowing looks. Even when he and Charlotte came visiting, she never addressed a word to him if she could avoid it. When Charlotte invited the family to Sunday lunch in the villa, it was as much as Wincey could do to be civil to Malcy. She hated him for what he was doing to Charlotte, as well as what he might do to the business.

  Charlotte’s normally sweet, open face had developed a strained and worried look. Even Erchie had begun to notice it.

  ‘Are ye aw right, hen?’ he asked on one occasion. ‘Ye’re no’ lookin’ so well.’

  ‘I’m fine, Daddy. I just get a headache now and again. Maybe I need my eyes tested.’

  ‘Maybe ye should get Doctor Houston tae gie ye a wee check over, hen. Jist in case yer sair heid’s caused by somethin’ else.’

  ‘Yes, all right, Daddy. Maybe I’ll do that.’

  Wincey kept quiet, but not without some difficulty. She was thinking—what use was a doctor? It was a good divorce lawyer that Charlotte needed.

  Then for a time, all seemed well. Charlotte looked more relaxed and happy. On catching Wincey staring at her one day, she laughed and said, ‘No need to look so perplexed, Wincey. I told you I’d speak to Malcy, and it worked, bless him. He’s been as good as gold. I’m so happy, Wincey. I’m as much in love with him now as I’ve always been, and he with me. Aren’t we lucky?’

  Wincey smiled and nodded, and Charlotte went on, ‘So many couples get into a bad patch in their marriage and instead of discussing the problem with each other and trying to sort it out, they just allow things to go from bad to worse. I always think it’s so sad when that happens. Love’s such a precious thing. I only hope one day you’ll find the same happiness as I have, Wincey.’

  God forbid, Wincey thought, but she tried to feel glad for Charlotte. She tried to believe that Malcy had changed. But somehow she couldn’t convince herself of his sudden conversion.

  Then one day, after Teresa had hurled Granny down to the Co-op to do some shopping, Granny burst out, ‘Here, Wincey. Ye’ll never guess whit we saw the day!’

  ‘Now, now, Granny.’ Teresa appeared very anxious to stop Granny in mid flow. ‘We could have been mistaken. Drink up your tea, dear.’

  Granny was not so easily put off her stroke, however. ‘Malcy, comin’ oot o’ Mrs O’Donnell’s place.’

  ‘Who’s Mrs O’Donnell?’ Wincey asked.

  ‘Och, it’s well seen ye hide yersel’ away in that factory too much. Everybody knows Mrs O’Donnell.’

  ‘Granny, dear. I’ve got nice chocolate digestives. Would you like one to dip in your tea?’

  Granny cocked her head in Teresa’s direction. ‘She’s black affronted, an’ nae wonder. Naebody in oor family his ever gone tae a moneylender before. Never in oor lives! We’d rather starve first. Right capitalist rascals. Ah remember an auld neighbour o’ mine was ruined by the wicked interest they charged her. She ended up committin’ suicide ower the heid o’ it.’

  Wincey looked over at Teresa and Teresa said, ‘It might have been somebody else.’

  ‘It was Malcy!’ Granny insisted. ‘Ye know fine it was Malcy.’

  ‘I mean, he could have been seeing somebody else. He could have been visiting a friend up that close.’

  ‘Pull the other wan,’ Granny said. ‘Ah’m no’ as daft as ah look!’

  Teresa gazed worriedly over at Wincey. ‘Is the business in any difficulty, dear?’

  ‘No, the business is fine.’

  ‘Well, I don’t understand.’

  ‘I do,’ Wincey said. ‘He’s a gambler. He always has been.’

  ‘Oh, but … Erchie likes a wee flutter as well, but I don’t think he would ever �
�� I mean, I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s a big difference, Teresa, between the odd wee flutter, or even a regular wee flutter, and a compulsive gambler.’

  ‘Aye,’ Granny said, ‘Wincey’s right. It’s like an alkie. An’ an alkie never can jist take wan wee drink. He’s aye tae scoff the bottle.’

  ‘Oh dear. Do you think Charlotte knows?’

  ‘She knows he’s that kind of gambler but she thinks he’s cured. I don’t think she knows about the moneylender.’

  ‘Oh dear. And Malcy’s such a nice man. And I’m sure he loves Charlotte. She certainly loves him. I hope this isn’t going to cause any trouble between them.’

  She turned to Granny. ‘Now you listen to me, Granny. Don’t you dare upset Charlotte by letting on about this. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Granny said. ‘There’ll be nae need for any o’ us tae put oor oar in. She’ll find out soon enough for hersel’.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll have a big win soon,’ Teresa said without much conviction, ‘and be able to sort himself out.’

  ‘Huh!’ Granny gave Teresa a sarcastic look. ‘Mair like some o’ Mrs O’Donnell’s hard men’ll sort him out, if ye ask me.’

  ‘We’re not asking you, Granny,’ Teresa said with unusual sharpness, ‘so just keep quiet.’

  Granny lapsed into a huff. ‘Ye’ll be auld yersel’ some day.’

  Again Wincey was in a quandary. She asked Teresa for advice.

  ‘No, dear,’ Teresa said firmly. ‘I don’t think any of us should interfere. It’s between Malcy and Charlotte. They should be left to sort it out themselves and in their own way.’

  All very well, thought Wincey, but it could involve the business. It was already doing so. However, she took Teresa’s advice and just hoped that Malcy and Charlotte would be able to sort themselves out.

  Anyway, just shortly after that, she had something more to worry her—even closer to home. Doctor Houston turned up again. Teresa and Erchie had gone to the Princes Cinema and she had been in the middle of reading to Granny from Granny’s favourite paper, The People’s Friend. Although Granny always insisted it was a lot of sentimental rubbish, and it was really Teresa who liked it.

  After Doctor Houston’s usual chat with Granny, Wincey saw him to the door. There he said, ‘Could you come to the surgery tomorrow on your way home from work, Wincey?’

  ‘Why?’ Wincey said abruptly.

  He smiled. ‘There’s no need to look so scared. I just want a little chat about Granny and the family. There’s just one or two problems needing to be discussed.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Wincey said. She thought it might be about Charlotte and Malcy. Maybe Charlotte had been seeking the doctor’s advice.

  The next evening, when she arrived at the surgery, she was the last patient to be seen. Even the receptionist had left by the time Doctor Houston ushered her into his consulting room. Wincey suddenly felt nervous. More than that. As she passed close to the doctor in the doorway, she felt sick with apprehension. Especially when he took her by the arm and led her across to a mirror hanging on one of the walls.

  ‘Look into that, Wincey. What do you see?’

  She saw, standing behind her, a tall, broad shouldered frame, a handsome face, straight black hair and very dark eyes.

  ‘I don’t need to look in a mirror to see you,’ she said. ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘The idea wasn’t to look at me, but at yourself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see for yourself your white, frightened face. And I can feel you trembling. As a doctor, I have to ask myself why.’

  She shrugged. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about myself.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s time you did?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Wincey, part of my training was to observe people, and I’ve been observing you. I wanted to help you, and so I’ve been trying to think, first of all, of why you are like this. I have, as a result, been making a few discreet enquiries.’

  Wincey felt faint. ‘My God,’ she thought, ‘my God.’ She had to sit down. The nearest chair was one in front of Doctor Houston’s desk. He went round and sat behind the desk. She felt trapped, like a wild animal … too afraid to move. She looked over the desk at the man sitting there … he was wearing a white coat and he had a stethoscope hanging around his neck … she fixed her eyes on the stethoscope, trying desperately not to faint.

  24

  Virginia sat in silence, staring dully at Nicholas and Mathieson. They were talking about Sigmund Freud, the founder of psycho-analysis. The Nazis had been persecuting Freud for some time.

  ‘It’s a disgrace,’ Mathieson said. ‘A frail old man like that being hounded from pillar to post. A man of ideas. The Nazis couldn’t put up with that, of course. Not in a Jew anyway.’

  ‘But at least he’s had permission to come to Britain to live,’ Nicholas said. ‘And his family and some of his students as well. He’ll be all right here. Thank God for Roosevelt’s intervention, he’d never have got an exit visa otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, but what about all the other Jews who haven’t been able to get special permission, Nicholas? America and Britain have known all about them for years, but what have we done about it? Even the Pope hasn’t raised his voice in protest or tried to defend the Jews or anyone else in Nazi Germany. On the contrary, the only people who ever raise their voices against fascists are the ordinary working folk. Look how they saw Mosley off—and not only in London. They chased him off Glasgow Green.’

  Nicholas grinned, remembering. ‘Yes, good old Glaswegians. That was a sight worth seeing.’

  Virginia thought, ‘I might as well not be here.’ They were two of a kind, Nicholas and Mathieson. Oh, they looked very different but they were both men of words, and both were equally obsessive. How ironic that she had chosen to marry each of them. Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire! At least Nicholas had been a better lover than Mathieson—much more romantic. Her eyes glazed, remembering how they’d danced naked in the woods and made passionate love on the mossy, fragrant ground. She remembered the beautiful love poetry he’d written and read to her. Tears began to well up in her eyes and she hastily blinked them away. They hardly ever made love now. The romance had gone. How often did they even speak to one another? Nicholas spoke far more to Mathieson. She and Nicholas had drifted far, far apart. Yet he seemed perfectly happy, sitting there relaxed and enjoying his glass of malt whisky and his conversation with Mathieson.

  She was beginning to come round to Mrs Cartwright’s way of thinking, or at least some way towards it. Mrs Cartwright claimed that it wasn’t decent for her ex-husband to be so friendly with her husband. Certainly Virginia had begun to resent the friendship. Although she suspected that even if Mathieson never came near Kirklee Terrace again, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference to her relationship with Nicholas. More than likely it would only make matters worse. Nicholas would sink into one of his silent moods, or he’d emerge from his writing room less and less.

  She took a deep shuddering breath. Maybe it would be best if she just disappeared into thin air, like Wincey, never to be seen or heard of again. The thought settled like a stone in her mind, weighing her down, draining away her energy.

  Nicholas was saying, ‘I fancy a bite of supper, James. How about you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Right. Virginia … Virginia,’ he repeated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Supper?’

  She rose automatically and without saying anything, walked from the sitting room. While she did so, she had the distinct feeling that Nicholas was shaking his head. She had caught him doing it before, after she’d said or done something. He’d shake his head at Mathieson as if to say, ‘See what I’ve to put up with?’ Or ‘See what I mean?’ Or ‘What can I do with her?’

  She banged shut the sitting room door—anger and resentment had brought energy rushing back. Who did he think he was? What did th
ey both think they bloody were? How dare they treat her like this? Let them make their own bloody supper. From the hall, she shouted back towards the sitting room, ‘Make your own bloody supper.’

  She went through to the spare bedroom and locked herself in. It seemed safest to be alone. Rage was building inside her, and she could not face the idea of sleeping in the same bed as Nicholas tonight. She punched the door, then leaned against it and wept. She didn’t know what was happening to her life.

  Next morning, Mathieson arrived on the doorstep. Nicholas was shut away in his room. Virginia turned away from the door and went through to the kitchen. Mathieson hirpled after her, his stick thumping on the hall floor. She put the kettle on and placed a couple of cups and saucers on the table.

  ‘I hope you haven’t come to give me one of your lectures, James. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘I have, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Well, you might as well leave right now. I’m sorry but—’

  ‘You’re not sorry at all,’ Mathieson interrupted. ‘You’re wallowing in self pity. You’ve often used the word obsession about me and now Nicholas, but at least we’re obsessed with something outside of ourselves. You’re just self-obsessed. You can’t see past yourself and your problem.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, it’s time you did something for others less fortunate than yourself. All right, you lost a daughter. But here you are in a comfortable—no, luxurious—home with a talented husband, a handsome son and a wealthy mother-in-law. Has it ever occurred to you that there are people out there who have lost children, but have no comfort and are struggling with a thousand other worries? Or drunken husbands who abuse them, and no money for food. Need I go on?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about other people.’

  ‘Yes, you can. There are innumerable societies and charitable organisations who work to help the poor, the ill and the desolate. They’re all desperate for volunteers. Seek them out. Offer your help. Do something really practical for a change. And do it now, Virginia. For your own sake, as much as anyone else’s.’