Katy's Men

by Irene Carr

  Angus Duff, the gaffer, gave Etta a sour look as she panted in, just in time to avoid having her already meagre wage docked as punishment for late arrival.

  “If it was up tae me,” Duff said, as Etta hurried to join the other girls already working furiously, “It’s no the Radical Leaders Ah’d be flingin intae Greenock Jail this day. No, mair like a wheen o lazy good for naethin, daft wee lassies that cannae even get oot o their scratchers in time for an honest days work.”

  Who or what were the Radical leaders? Etta wondered. Why would anyone want to throw them in the Greenock Jail?

  The morning passed surprisingly quickly and Etta sped home for her midday scrap of bread-and-dripping only to be greeted by: “God help us! Is that ye looking for tae be fed again?”

  Since Etta was the family’s sole breadwinner there was no answer to this surly comment from her bone-idle, often drunken father. At least not one which would not instantly reward her with a kick from his booted foot.

  Despite Etta’s stoical silence Tam Gorton went on: “Listen tae whit Ah’m tellin ye ... when ye come hame the nicht for once in yer stupid life use yer heid.” Completely in the dark as to what her father was talking about, Etta took the coward’s way out and simply nodded her head, hoping his next words might enlighten her.

  “Jist get hame by ony roonaboot way ye like, but make damn sure ye keep well clear o ony streets near tae the toon centre. And for the love o God dinnae get within spittin distance o the Bloody Bridewell. Noo, ye got that, huv ye?” Again Etta simply nodded. “Mark ma words, sure as hell roasts the souls o the damned, there’s gonnae be trouble in the streets o Greenock this nicht. Trouble the likes o which we’ve never seen afore. The workers and decent guid-livin folks hereabouts willnae staun for the militia bringing yon political prisoners intae our midst and trying tae lodge them in the Bridewell.”

  At Etta’s blank look, Tam Gorton shook his head. “Uch, see ye ... ye’re that dizzy at times ye widnae recognise ony Radical Marchers even if they bashed ye ower the heid wi one o thon banners – Scotland Free or a Desert – whatever the hell that means. Just for once in yer life, bloody well dae what Ah’m tellin ye.”

  Although somewhat alarmed by her father’s warnings Etta thought: Rough and ready he might be but he must indeed love me if he’s all that worried about ma safety.

  These warm comforting thoughts were immediately squelched as Tam continued: “Let’s face it – if onythin was tae happen tae ye, God alone kens where our next crust would come frae. Wi ma bad back and it bein a wheen o years afore ony o the rest o ma weans is earnin, without yer Ropework wage we’d be bloody paupers.”

  TWO

  Still smarting from the latest hammer blow to her already fragile self-esteem Etta worked through the afternoon in a blur of misery.

  As she and her friend Aggie were leaving the ropeworks, Aggie said: “What’s up wi ye the day, Etta? Ye look like someone’s stole yer scone.”

  Etta laughed. “If ever Ah was lucky enough tae hae a scone Ah’d guzzle it doon that fast that Auld Nick or all his witches frae hell widae be quick enough to snatch it frae me.”

  Taking hold of Etta’s arm Aggie said: “They’re sayin the Port Glasgow’s Militia is tae be in the toon the nicht. With any luck, we’ll mibbe get oorsells a sojer. That would soon enough cheer ye up – a braw sojer laddie?”

  “After what happened tae Tillie Edgar when she got hersel a sojer – if it’s all the same tae ye Ah think Ah’d rather hae the scone.”

  Aggie pulled a face of mock horror and disgust. “Oh aye, poor Tillie. No a ring on her finger, no a man tae call her ain and no decent-livin body in the toon tae look the road she’s on and –”

  “And her saddled wi twins no less.”

  Aggie grimaced. “Trust ye tae look on the bright side, Etta. Niver mind if all else fails we can at least get a good laugh and mibbe hae a bit o a march behind the drummers.”

  Grabbing hold of Etta’s arms Aggie frogmarched her down the street.

  “Think aboot it, Etta. If we’re marchin alang, surely we’ll be safe enough at that? Efter all, they cannae dae the business while they’re bangin awa – no at us – but at their bloody great drums. Need tae be damned contortionists so they would.”

  Mildly scandalised at the turn the conversation had taken both girls took a fit of the giggles. So, helpless with laughter Etta allowed herself to be propelled down the street. When she found them on a street corner furthest from where she had intended to be, Etta jerked free from Aggie’s hawser-like grip.

  “Sorry, Aggie, but this is as far as Ah go. Fine well Ah’d like tae gae wi ye tae hear the drums but Ah cannae. Ye see, Ah’m takin the lang way hame the nicht.”

  Aggie pursed her lips. “Oh! Is ma company no guid enough for ye? Is that it?”

  At once Etta protested: “Uch, Aggie, nae need tae be sae huffy. Ye’re ma best friend. Ma very best friend. Ye ken that. No, the thing is Ah promised ma father ... ye see he was worried aboot me and telt me tae stay clear o the toon centre ...’ Etta paused, recalling just how little her father valued her for herself and seeing the hope in Aggie’s eyes decided if she was worth so little then she had nothing to lose. “Uch, tae hell wi it. Let’s go and look for the drummers. We can dance alang the street wi the best o them. But that’s all Ah’m agreeing tae. Mind ye, naethin else ... and o a certainty nae dirty business. Ah’m no Tillie Edgar!”

  THREE

  Despite dark mutterings from older people on all sides about ‘the daft cantrips of young folk’, there was still something of a carnival air in the crowded Greenock streets as barefoot, snotty-nosed wee lads, and daft-wi-freedom, newly-released-from-work mill-girls marched towards the sound of drums. However, them aside, the main crowds were of sullenly hostile people and Etta noticed that every small shop she passed was firmly closed, shuttered and in some cases even boarded up.

  Perhaps ma father was right after all. Mibbe Ah should hae taken the longer way hame and kept clear o the town centre streets. At this thought and about to change her mind and dart down a side street to head towards the seafront Etta found herself caught up in a crowd which swept her almost to the gates of Bridewell Prison itself.

  Marching away from the Bridewell was the eighty-strong company of militia having delivered their five political prisoners into the bowels of Greenock prison. As they attempted to move through the now heaving streets of Greenock, verbal abuse increased in volume and stones, sticks, and even iron bars were thrown at them.

  Now thoroughly frightened, Etta and Aggie were borne along like so much flotsam and jetsam by the crowd which was now trying to block the street in front of the militia.

  A command was shouted over the hubbub: “Fire! Fire over the heads of the crowd.”

  In horror Etta saw rifles pointed not into the air but level with the ground and saw the muzzle flash and heard the sound of the volley.

  All round Etta men and women dropped like stones. A boy of about eight fell wounded onto the already blood-stained cobbles.

  Etta grabbed hold of Aggie and in a blind panic they sought some means of escape. But hemmed in as they were there was no immediate path open to them. At a second volley of rifle fire Aggie lurched free of Etta’s grasp and fell.

  “Oh, Etta! It’s ma legs, Ah cannae move them!”

  Aggie screamed and Etta looking round for someone, anyone, to help her was aware that the crowd which only minutes before had been a dense, closely-packed mass of humanity had thinned dramatically as those still physically able had fled the scene after the second round of gunfire.

  Feebly trying to drag Aggie along the street, Etta felt a tug at her elbow.

  “Listen, if Ah carry yer friend can ye manage to get yerself safely round to the next street and away from this bloody scene?”

  Etta nodded at the young workman. In shock, she almost giggled at the thought that the swear word bloody was for the first time ever in her hearing being used in exactly the correct way. Aggie’s legs were covered in
blood and she had touched the wounds then trailed her fingers over her face so that this too was smeared with blood.

  “Come on, woman! The mob’s going to try to storm the gaol. They might get the political prisoners out, but God only kens what other rogues and rapists might get free in the stramash. Let’s not waste any more time. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

  He lifted Aggie and over the top of her tousled hair said: “Ma name’s Hector – God knows why ma mother called me that – but ma friends call me Torrie.”

  Etta stumbled her way along the cobbled street after their saviour to a carter’s yard. There Torrie placed Aggie on a handcart.

  “This is ma place,” Torrie said. “We can wheel yer friend home once the streets round here quieten down.”

  FOUR

  On her way to work on the following Monday morning Etta reflected that she was one of the lucky ones. She was alive, while others lay in the mortuary after the massacre; she still had legs that obeyed her bidding unlike poor Aggie whose lifeless limbs would confine her to a wheelchair or a bed for the rest of her days.

  Etta choked back a sob as she sidled past ‘Plum Duff’ and mentally braced for his usual snide comments about her appearance, her timekeeping and even the disputed quality of her work. For the first time ever ‘Plum Duff’ after a quick glance at Etta’s tear-stained face contented himself with a regal wave in the direction of her work station.

  Despite her relief at escaping the normal verbal onslaught, Etta could not resist muttering under her breath: “A body would think Ah’m some kind o eejit that still disnae ken her way aboot this damned place.”

  But accursed place or not, it still provided the pittance of her wages and Etta knew there was nothing else to do – her heart breaking or not – but to roll up her sleeves and get on with her work. While she worked skilfully enough with her hands she could not control the turmoil of her thoughts as she relived the hideous scene of Saturday’s massacre.

  In her mind’s eye she could still see the boy as he lay dying in the gutter, his head covered in blood; the woman, herself wounded, cradling him and saying over and over: “Jamie, lad, hang on. Yer mother’ll be here soon. Hang on, Jamie.”

  But above everything else it was the piteous cries of Aggie until she lost consciousness when Torrie finally laid her in his handcart. Etta could feel the hot colour rising to her cheeks at the memory of the reception she and Torrie got from Aggie’s mother.

  “Ah blame ye, Etta Gorton. Oh aye, it’s all doon tae ye. If ma Aggie hadnae been cavortin aboot the toon wi ye she’d hae been hame hours ago. Walkin on her ain twa guid legs, no gettin dumped on ma doorstep like a bundle o auld rags.”

  Etta was still reliving the bitter hurt of this unjustified accusation when she became aware someone was talking to her. Jean Jackson, a waif-like woman of indeterminate age, having a miserable life of her own seemed to thrive on hearing about the miseries of others.

  “Ah was just saying, that was an awful thing tae happen tae yer pal, Poor Aggie ... and was it just the one leg that got hurted? Or, God forbid, was it baith o them?”

  Etta glared and refusing to discuss details said: “Aggie’s lucky tae be alive – in fact, we both are and for yer information Aggie’s safe at home.”

  Jean nodded but never one to be put off persisted: “Aye, but ye havenae telt me naethin. Was it the one leg or the pair o them?”

  Struggling to keep her composure Etta gave a grim smile and through gritted teeth said: “What Ah am tellin ye is this: any finer details ye might wish tae ken, ye’ll just need tae ask poor Aggie hersel.”

  Jeans’ face brightened. “Here noo. That’s a helluva guid idea. Thanks very much. Ah’ll just come wi ye the nicht when ye gae roon tae visit Aggie.”

  Etta opened her mouth to protest but Jean was already walking away, stopping only to call over her shoulder: “Richt, well, Ah’ll see ye at the corner o Sugarhouse Lane at aboot seven o’clock.”

  On the point of cancelling such an arrangement, the thought occurred to Etta that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  Safety in numbers and all that sort of thing. Mrs Ross will hardly bawl me out again, especially in front of Jean.

  As Etta approached the corner of Sugarhouse Lane in good time for her appointment with Jean Jackson she was not surprised although somewhat annoyed to find that the bird-like waif of a woman was already there and impatiently tapping her booted foot on the cobblestones.

  By way of greeting Jean called out in an aggrieved tone: “Ah was beginnin tae think ye wisnae comin.”

  Refusing this early in the evening to be drawn into a pointless argument Etta let the town clock speak for her. With the last peal of the hour of seven she gave Jean a meaningful look.

  “Seven o’clock, we said and so now that it is seven, mibbe we can get on our way.”

  Jean gave Etta a sour look and tightened her grip on the cloth-covered package she held before her. She caught Etta’s glance at the parcel and said: “It’s just a wee mindin o pancakes ma mother tossed thegether for poor Aggie.”

  She let this sink in before adding with a satisfied smirk: “Ah see ye’re goin empty-handed.”

  “No only dae Ah no hae a mother standin bye at the ready tae bake a batch o pancakes, the only thing Ah could offer would be a couple of crusts o bread-n-drippin. Ill or no, somehow Ah don’t think ‘poor wee Aggie’, as ye’re determined tae call her, would be overjoyed at such a Gorton delicacy. Now can we get tae the Ross’s the nicht or no?”

  Etta set off at high speed with Jean trotting to keep up with her.

  Serve the fussy nit-picker right. Invitin herself along like this.

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