Fortunes of the Heart

by Jenny Telfer Chaplin

  The irate passenger, whose cheap cardboard suitcase had already been sent flying, and at one point had been in danger of himself falling into the water as he had rescued it from where it teetered on the edge of the quay, had had more than enough. That last blow on the jaw from a flying enamel mug had been the last straw.

  “See you kids. You wee brats. Just one more belt from those bloody mugs. Just one more, that’s all. And you lot of nitwits are all for the high jump. Dae you hear me? Get the message, eh? Or do I have to shove the message right into your lugholes? Aye, and with a belt on the ear to go with it.”

  At this outburst, most of the children took the warning and sped as far away and as quickly as they could from their tormented victim. It was left to one particularly brave, tousle-haired youngster to make a rude gesture at the kilted holidaymaker, at the same time chanting:

  “Kiltie, Kiltie, cauld bum, big banana feet Cuddles a’ the lassies and farts in his seat Kiltie, Kiltie cauld bum, big –”

  On hearing this, the enraged man roared like a bull and would have pursued the fleeing youngster had it not been for the concerted cheer which just then went up from the crowd, thus announcing without the benefit of any official notification that the gangway had now been placed in position, in readiness for the passengers to get on board the Glen Rosa. At once, a tremor of excitement went round the ranks as those passengers who intended to board this boat, started to gather up bits of luggage, shuffle forward and finally, search frantically for those missing members of their family who, up until then, had been amusing themselves in doing exactly as they wanted, be it playing on the gangways, chasing each other, or annoying other passengers. The air was rent with a cacophony of such panic cries as,

  “Jamesina, come here.”

  “Henrietta, come over here tae your Granny at once. At once, I say. Dae ye hear me, you wee midden.”

  And the threat to end all:

  “Willie McKitterick, if you don’t come over here this minute ... Aye you. You wee toe rag, this very minute, the only bloody boat for you will be the Training Ship. And you can soon see how weel ye like that, my fine laddie.”

  Pearce, oblivious to the chaos around him, was lost in his memories. He and Calum had sailed thus as children down the Clyde, so long ago, buffered from the crowd by two stout footmen, supervised by Calum’s sour faced tutor determined to turn the excursion into an educational event.

  He smiled, remembering their escape from the tutor into the seething mass of passengers and playing hide and seek, unwilling on his part, with the tutor for the better part of the morning till hunger drove them to meet him in the restaurant. There had been other holidays with Calum in Ireland when Calum was as adventurous and mischievous as he had been. Happy days, indeed.

  Kate’s voice broke into his pleasant reverie.

  “Well, Pearce, not be long now, eh? Strange being back again at the Broomielaw, isn’t it? Remember last time?” He turned on her a look of loathing.

  “No need to remind me, Kate. If anyone knows where this charade of family life began in this God forsaken City of Glasgow, then that person is me. I do assure you.”

  Kate stopped rounding up children, pram, Hannah, and luggage. The colour faded instantly from her already pale face, as she rounded on him, and oblivious to the inquiring stares of bystanders, and the perked-up, intently listening ears of her own children, she said in the loudest of stage whispers: “Charade of family life, did you say, Pearce? Well, by God. And if anyone has made it a charade, then it’s you. You yourself, the Laird of Candleriggs. Lording it over all and sundry: Lording it here, there, and yonder. But your own family. Humph. Never, never there for your family. May the Good Lord above forgive me, but for all you either know or care, we might as well not even exist. Do you hear me, Pearce?” At this point, her voice rose almost to a screech. “These precious wee bairns and I might as well not exist. You treat us like scum. Like the very dirt under your feet.”

  All around them, interested bystanders were beginning to nudge each other in the ribs and then either point or nod surreptitiously towards the Kinnon clan and then titter behind cupped hands. Seeing this further development of such unwanted attention being bestowed on them, Kate blushed scarlet with shame and humiliation, especially when she found the other passengers were beginning to shuffle forward, ever nearer to herself and Pearce, the better to hear the rowing couple’s angry words. Pearce, suddenly aware of this public interest in his most private life, drew himself to his full six foot two inches height, stared down coldly at his wife and said in his most haughty manner and cultured voice: “Kate, I rather think we will pursue this ... discussion on arrival at our destination. Meanwhile, let us now board the waiting vessel. See. The gangway is now in position.”

  Amid a welter of leave-takings of those less fortunate mortals being left behind in Glasgow, cries of delight, shouts of anxiety, the passengers all finally boarded the gaily bedecked vessel. Then, as it pulled away from the dockside at the Broomielaw, the ship’s horn sounded a farewell blast, which caused those of a more nervous disposition to cry out in alarm. This was followed by shouts of relief when they realised there was nothing to worry about, it merely signalled the fact that at long last, they were finally underway.

  Despite the earlier gloom of the day, and as if also to cheer the Marquis of Bute, the sun was now breaking through, with the promise of a fine summer’s day to follow. Between that and the prospect of two weeks’ holiday spent doon the wafter and far removed from the grime of the Glasgow city streets, there was an air of festivity aboard. And well to the fore was the usual Glasgow camaraderie and brilliantly warm sense of humour. On all sides, total strangers were laughing and joking and calling each other Jimmy, Jock, or Shuggie, no matter what their proper name might be, and no-one seemed to mind in the slightest.

  In the Kinnon clan, relations were obviously still greatly strained between Pearce and Kate. However, the latter, for the sake of the children at the start of this unique event in their lives – a holiday, no less – was making a colossal effort to appear as carefree and as happy as any of the other travellers. In such a mood, once having settled Hannah, for whom the ship’s siren had sounded a harsh note of total panic, she then pointed out to the other children the many ships spread out along the Clyde. Daniel, Isabella, and Jenny were over at the ship’s rail, jumping up and down in their excitement. It did Kate’s heart a power of good to see how obviously delighted and carefree they all were. Seeing the joy on each little face, she had to fight back tears of happiness.

  The first part of the journey passed all too quickly, so that almost before they knew it, the Marquis of Bute was slowing down for its first scheduled stop at Govan Wharf. As she looked round the already overcrowded boat, its decks seething with a boisterous humanity, Kate wondered where on board the next lot of passengers could possibly get so much as even a spare inch of space. Soon, however, the newcomers and their bairns, baskets, and hampers were safely aboard, and in high good humour, everyone squashed up to make room. and the boat again got under way, once more to three hearty cheers for the Captain and his gallant, if by now somewhat deafened, crew. Every inch of boat-rail was manned by the eager passengers and everyone was waving frantically, regardless as to whether or not they knew the watchers on the shore. They were steaming along at a steady pace, when suddenly the woman standing next to her clutched at Kate’s arm and at the same time let out an ear-splitting yell.

  “Oh, my God. Would ye look at that.”

  Kate’s eyes followed the pointing finger, but apart from a number of people waving from the shore, she saw nothing untoward. However, as the other woman’s fingers tightened their grip, closer examination revealed that one of the waving figures on the shore seemed to be head and shoulders above everyone else.

  “And no wonder,” agreed her new-found friend, “for that’s my bloody holiday hamper she’s standing on.”

  There was a moment’s stunned silence, followed by sympathetic mutterings from t
hose within earshot, and one philosopher made so bold as to say: “Ach weel, hen. That’s life. You’ll just have to do without your precious hamper. Never mind, hen, you never died o’ summer yet.”

  But the young woman was made of sterner stuff and at once it was clear that she, for one, was not prepared to accept the inevitability of the situation. With a determined look in her eye, she asked of the world in general:

  “Right then. Now where do I find the driver of this boat? Tell me that.”

  An older man, more respectably dressed than the other holidaymakers, and with his gaffer’s or boss’s hat prominently in place, at once took charge.

  “If it’s the Captain you mean, Missus, then that’s him, with all that gold braid. Look. Up there on the bridge.”

  At once the woman plonked her baby into Kate’s arms, hiked up her skirts and, keeping a firm grip on her flying shawl, raced with all possible speed for the bridge and its ACCESS FORBIDDEN TO PASSENGERS notice. She bounded up the companionway, two steps at a time, unhooked and threw aside the chain meant to keep the common herd at bay, and then marched up to the driver, a handsome, bearded figure resplendent in gold braid and gold-rimmed peak cap. There was much flailing around of arms, gesticulating, shouting and even at one point, the distraught woman’s forefinger scolding and then finally prodding the shoulder of the august person. At length, the driver nodded his assent, courteously escorted his tormentor and critic of his hard won navigational skills from the sacred precinct of his bridge and next thing they knew, and to the utter amazement of all, the boat started going backwards.

  When she rejoined Kate, the younger woman made a show of dusting off her hands and putting her shawl to rights. Then as if addressing a public meeting, and with a defiant gleam in her eye, said: “Aye. I soon told him. There was no way I was going doon the wafter to Rothesay withoot my holiday hamper. Apart from anything else, he surely couldnae expect my poor wee bairn to suffer the one nappy for two whole weeks.”

  There was a whoop of delight, not only at these words themselves and the fact that this domestic problem had been discussed with the gallant Captain no less, but also at the mental picture of both sight and stench which they conjured up in the minds of her audience.

  Once the ship had reversed all the way back again to Govan Wharf, the woman, with her daintily booted foot, stirred her still somewhat inebriated husband into action. With suitable expletives for the daft scunner, that he most assuredly was for having left the damned hamper on the quayside in the first place, she sent him on his route down the gangway. By the time, obviously still in a drunken haze, he staggered back on board with his burden, to the shouts of encouragement and ribaldry of his fellow passengers, an impromptu choir, faces abeam with delight at this diversion, were already singing with verve, gusto, but little accuracy for the known words:

  Oh, we’re no awa tae bide awa We’re no awa tae leave ye

  For we did come back to see ye.

  The voyage doon the waiter to Rothesay was at last well and truly started. This time, there would be no going back.

  Chapter 23

  The German Band was still playing as the Marquis of Bute sailed majestically on, in calm seas past Toward Lighthouse. With the sun shining down from a cloudless sky, most people were sitting out on the top deck, where every inch of space on the slatted wooden seats was occupied, as indeed was every upturned suitcase and each wicker hamper.

  On all sides, passengers lazed away the trip, all the while tapping their feet in time to the music. Even so, the faces of most of the passengers were turned not towards the musicians, but instead were tilted up to the sun. By now, most of the men had loosened their ties and unfastened collar studs. Some had even freed their ties altogether and these garlands were now waving in the gentle summer breeze. Sunday-best jackets had been discarded and the metal clips of a variety of braces and armbands glistened in the sun and sent off shafts of light which dazzled the eye. Like badges of office, the knotted, squared-off handkerchiefs posed atop each boiled beetroot of a perspiring face. Scraps of conversation batted back and forth, a dog barked, children laughed or screamed, and over and above it all, the band played a medley of light airs.

  Then, at a nod from the violinist, they launched into a different time, the words of which invited all and sundry to

  ‘Come and see the baby, any time they cared to call.’

  At once, people sat up straighter and tapped their feet with greater urgency as they hurried in full-flight of imagination to see ‘the baby who looks sae neat and swanky, like a dumplin in a hanky.’ Even Kate, although not actually joining in the singing, nevertheless relaxed sufficiently to drum her fingers on top of the ship’s handrail in time to the rhythm.

  Had the song been Irish, the words of which had been known to her, then Kate would have been singing as heartily as the rest of the holidaymakers. However, for the moment, she was more than content to enjoy the sun, the balmy sea breezes, and the music. Had Kate been able to make time stand still, then that very moment was the one she would have chosen to preserve for eternity. Immersed in the heady, electric air of carnival and gaiety, with her family around her, the sun shining high above, and the vessel sailing along in tranquil seas. At that exact point in time, life was good, oh, so very good for Kate Kinnon.

  But time, indeed life itself, stands still for no-one and almost as if they realised it, suddenly the children at her side began fidgeting, already bored with gazing out dutifully at the waves, the screeching seagulls, and the mainland hills beyond. Pearce was sitting at some little distance from his wife and family. Although in the middle of a crowd of excited chattering holidaymakers, he alone was no part of it. Engrossed in reading his favourite and well-thumbed anthology of poetry, there he sat, a rock of stolid respectability and calm, in the midst of the seething, shouting, laughing, and lustily-singing mass of humanity on all sides of him.

  Kate sighed at the sight of him in such a situation. At this distance and observing him as she would objectively assess a total stranger, she had to admit: Yes, you’re a handsome devil. With that sprinkling of grey at the temples you’re looking more distinguished than ever. From the look of you, you could be an eminent professor or some such grand person. With your dark good looks and superior air, that way you have of tilting your head and looking down your nose at the common herd, you stand out like a sore, if definitely highborn, thumb.

  Kate sighed again.

  The day I see you sitting out on the deck of a Clyde steamer in your braces, with a knotted handkerchief on your head, that’ll be the day you’ve decided to join the rest of the human race.

  Even the mental picture of her husband thus attired brought a smile to her face and it was with the laugh of a carefree holidaymaker that she bent down to attend to the children.

  “Danny Boy, why don’t you and Jenny go for a wee walk around the top deck? She would like that and as long as you keep an eye on her, she’ll surely behave herself. All right, son?”

  Danny, although not exactly over the moon with anticipation at such a prospect, did however agree.

  Then, astute as ever, with a twinkle in his eye:

  “I know what you really mean, Mammy, You want me to keep her as far away from Dadda as possible. Right?”

  Kate, despite herself, burst out laughing. Then, assuming a mock air of censure with pursed lips and an admonitory finger, she leant forward.

  “Tut, tut, Daniel, my boy. That’s quite enough cheek from you. Any more of that and you’ll be at the receiving end of what your pals back in Glasgow call a skelpit bum.”

  Jenny and Daniel collapsed in gales of laughter. It was not merely their Mammy’s ineffectual attempt at a broad Glasgow accent which had amused them, they were almost hysterical with delight at her use of the word bum, a word normally banned in the polite Kinnon household.

  Still laughing, Kate leant forward and ruffled her son’s curly dark hair, which despite his many plastering-down efforts, always managed to spring back to vibrant
life. She smiled fondly at his freckled, cheeky little face.

  “Right. my lad, be off with you before I put my threat into action. And mind now, keep a good eye on Jenny. For she’s up to more tricks than a basketful of puppies.”

  Kate turned to Isabella who for the past ten minutes or so had been dancing an impromptu and completely unselfconscious Highland Fling in time to the German Band’s lively music. The nearby holidaymakers, with wild cheers and ribald comments, had applauded her exhibition. Now, flushed with triumph and slightly out of breath, Isabella was holding on to Hannah’s go-chair for support.

  Isabella’s lovely hair was as blonde as Daniel’s was raven black. With her recent exertions, the broad tartan ribbon, especially bought for the holiday, had come loose. In the normal way, Hannah was the only one of the girls to sport a ribbon in her hair, but on one of her recent visits to Paddy’s Market, Kate had been lucky enough to buy cheaply an end roll of brightly-coloured tartan ribbon. It was a riot of various shades of red and yellow, which the stallholder, eager to make a sale, assured Kate was the official dress MacMillan tartan.

  Kate now bent forward and retied the length of ribbon, then finished by taking one of Isabella’s fat, sausage ringlets in her hand and twisting the heavy yet silky blonde hair over and around her fingers.

  Isabella looked up and smiled her own special sweet little smile at her Mammy. With the sun on her face, and its rays sending off shafts of pure spun gold from her mass of ringlets, Isabella looked like an angel – almost too pure, too perfect and altogether too ethereal for this cruel world.

  Kate’s cup of happiness was complete as she looked at this lovely child of her heart, so different in every way from poor Hannah, with her coarse dark hair, her sloe-eyes, and her poor deranged mind.

  With her other hand, Kate stretched forward and stroked Hannah’s cheek.

  ’Tis no wonder that Isabella is Pearce’s favourite child. With those delicate looks, that colouring and her inborn air of elegance, she’ll be a beauty by the time she’s in her teens. Even more, she’ll be a real lady.