Cousins at War

by Doris Davidson

  Cousins at War

  This eBook edition published in 2012 by

  Birlinn Limited

  West Newington House

  Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.birlinn.co.uk

  Copyright © Doris Davidson, 2005

  The moral right of Doris Davidson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-84158-416-4

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-522-2

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Part One

  Chapter One

  January 1940

  As in most cities, the west end of Aberdeen is home to the upper class – the professors, surgeons, solicitors, bankers, et al. – and also to those with less remunerative occupations who have been fortunate to inherit sufficient money to meet the rates demanded annually by the council for the privilege of dwelling there. The Rubislaw Dens – North and South – are two of the most prestigious streets, quietly impressive and lined by magnificent granite houses, where the owners keep themselves to themselves. Neighbours are not in the habit of running in and out to borrow a shilling for the gas meter as they tend to do in the tenements of the east end, and if any fall on hard times, or are beset by misfortune, they do not broadcast it. Appearances must be kept up at all costs.

  The Potters lived in the broad, sweeping arc of Rubislaw Den North. Martin was a solicitor; his wife, Hetty, had been an Ogilvie before their marriage; seventeen-year-old Olive attended Miss Oliver’s Private School for Girls – high fees and an expensive green uniform; Raymond, fifteen come April, was at Robert Gordon’s College for Boys – high fees and an expensive navy and gold uniform. They were a typical family of their district.

  On the afternoon of 1 January, 1940, Olive Potter ran up the wide curving staircase in something of a temper. She had looked forward so much to the dinner her mother was giving for all the family for New Year, and things had not gone as she had planned. She was wearing a brand-new dress, a green crêpe-de-Chine, with short puffed sleeves, which her mother had said in the shop wasn’t suitable for this time of year, but she had got her own way in the end, as she always did. The bodice was moulded round her, with ribbons stitched in a V just below the neck then sweeping down underneath her full breasts and tying in a bow at the back. She had borrowed her mother’s make up, taken extra trouble with her hair and knew that she was looking her best. All of this effort had been for her cousin, Neil, but he had scarcely looked at her, and Raymond had put a match to her fuse by saying, in that sarcastic way he had, that she looked as cold as a fish on a marble slab. She had been cold, but she didn’t want to admit it.

  When she reached the landing, Olive threw open her bedroom door with such force that it banged back against the wall, but she grabbed it and slammed it behind her. They would all hear and she didn’t care. Why couldn’t Neil have been nice to her for once? Their mothers were sisters, and for as long as she could remember she had been sure that he was the boy she would marry some day, but he had never shown one iota of affection for her.

  Flinging herself on the bed, she pummelled the pillow in frustration, her fair hair swinging round her neck, her oval face pink and scowling. Why couldn’t he see that she loved him? He was just ten days older than she was, but he had no time for her. Even when they were quite young, and had been taken on those boring family picnics, Neil had preferred to play football with Raymond rather than play games with her, and she could still remember how annoyed she had been, but as she grew into her teens she had realised that all boys of that age were shy with girls. They were both seventeen now, however, so how much longer would it be until he grew up?

  Turning on to her back, she wondered if she was stupid to love a boy who had no prospects – even when he was finished his apprenticeship, he would just be a mechanic – but once they were married, she would make him find something better. He was good with his hands, and she had brains, so there was no reason why they shouldn’t set up a business of some kind. Yes, they would be married one day, she was quite determined about that, and it would be no use him trying to wriggle out of it. The thing was, she didn’t want to wait too long. If she could just get him on his own, he was bound to succumb to her charms and fall in love with her.

  A soft tap on the door made Olive sit up. She didn’t want to see anyone, but if it was her father, he would haul her downstairs no matter what she said, so she tried to keep her pique out of her voice. ‘Yes? Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Patsy. Can I come in?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ What did Neil’s sister want?

  ‘Dinner’s out,’ the younger girl said, apologetically, as she came in, ‘so I said I’d ask you to go down. Why did you run out like that?’

  Never having had much time for Patsy, who was too much of a goody-goody, Olive didn’t hide her annoyance. ‘It’s none of your business!’

  ‘I know it isn’t, but I can guess. You’ve got a lovely new frock on, and Neil didn’t say anything about it.’

  Mollified by Patsy’s admiration of her dress, Olive gave a sigh. ‘He wouldn’t notice if I’d nothing on at all.’

  Her fifteen-year-old cousin gave a little giggle. ‘I bet he would, but he still wouldn’t say anything. He’s shy with girls, you know.’

  Olive stood up then. ‘I may as well come down with you.’

  Martin glowered at his daughter when the girls went into the dining room but Hetty said, ‘Olive, I’ve put you next to Neil, and Patsy can sit beside Raymond.’

  For the duration of the meal, Olive was much happier. Neil couldn’t avoid answering her when she talked to him, and if he showed more interest in the conversation going on around them at times, it was only because he felt shy with her. At least he felt something.

  ‘I miss Ishbel and Peter and the children,’ Hetty remarked, as she and her sister Gracie cleared away the first course dishes. Ishbel, their youngest sister, had only recently moved to New Zealand to join Flo and her family, who had been there for some time.

  Gracie nodded. ‘Me too, but Peter was set on it, and it’s just as well they went in May, for they couldn’t have gone once the war started. It’s likely they saw the New Year in at Flo’s, so at least Ishbel was with one sister. It’s sad to think we’re the only two Ogilvies left in Aberdeen now . . . but Ellie’s just in Edinburgh and Donnie’s in South
Norwood.’

  When her parents were seeing the visitors off at the door – Auntie Gracie said not to bother going out because it was too cold – Olive went up to her room. Her window overlooked the driveway where Uncle Joe had parked his car and it gave her a chance to have one last glimpse of Neil and hear if he said anything about her to Patsy. She was rather ashamed of her tantrum now, and hoped it hadn’t put him off her. It was Joe Ferris who passed the remark as he jiggled his key in the frozen lock of the car door. ‘Olive’s getting a lot worse as she gets older. She’s a right spoiled brat.’

  Gracie gave a loud ‘Ssh!’ but her husband paid no heed to her warning. ‘It’s Hetty’s fault, though, for always giving in to . . . hah! That’s it, at last.’ Opening the door, he slid into the driver’s seat to let his family in.

  Olive closed her window and walked over to switch on the light. She didn’t care what Uncle Joe thought of her, but it wasn’t nice to be called a spoiled brat, and she should try to curb her temper in future.

  As Joe drove off, Patsy turned to her brother. ‘I know why Olive took the huff, and it wasn’t Raymond’s fault. She’d a new dress on and you didn’t tell her she looked nice.’

  Neil snorted. ‘She’ll have to wait a long time for that. She’s a blinking pain in the neck, always has been.’

  Their mother looked round from the front seat. ‘Olive has a vindictive streak in her, Neil, so you’d better be careful how you treat her. Don’t say anything nasty to her.’

  ‘I can’t help how I feel about her. She’s off her head.’

  The Ferrises’ home in King Street was far removed from the luxury of Rubislaw Den, but it was the only place Joe had been able to find a suitable shop when the council condemned his premises in the Gallowgate, and it was better than some of the other tenement-lined streets. A wide thoroughfare, it ran almost due north from the Castlegate to the bridge over the River Don. Their first-floor flat, above a butcher and a few doors along from Joe’s grocery shop, had originally been meant to have a kitchen, parlour and two bedrooms, but Neil and Patsy were too old to share, so their parents slept in the parlour and the only public room was the kitchen.

  None of them had relished the idea of sharing the lavatory on the half-landing with the other first-floor family, but it wasn’t too bad, after all, and Mrs Mavor never missed her turn in cleaning it. All six tenants used the outside wash house, which was awkward for Gracie after having one to herself for so long, but being able to put up her ropes on the four clothes poles on the patch of grass in the backyard was better than having to zig-zag them across the wash house, as she’d had to do before, and her washing had a lovely fresh smell when she took it in. Unfortunately, her turn came only once a week, so, in between, she had to rinse odds and ends in the kitchen sink and dry them on the pulley that let down from the ceiling. But the neighbours were very friendly and stuck rigidly to the rules about outside cleaning, so that the entrance lobby, the passage out to the back green and coal cellars, even the stairs, were all kept spotless.

  As usual when she went home after visiting Hetty, Gracie started talking about her sister’s lovely house. ‘It’s not that I’m jealous of her,’ she said, when Joe pulled a face, ‘for I wouldn’t be happy living in the West End. I’m a down-the-towner, as Olive sneers about some folk. It’s what I was born and what I’ll be to the day I die, and I’m not ashamed of it. We’re every bit as good as the toffs, and my family has never had to do without. You get three good meals a day, your clothes are washed and ironed, I put your shoes into the shoemaker to be soled or heeled as soon as they need it. I defy any mother in Rubislaw Den to do any better.’

  ‘Nobody’s arguing with you,’ Joe exclaimed. ‘I don’t see what you’re getting so het up about if it’s not jealousy.’

  ‘It’s not! It’s just . . . oh!’ Gracie broke off, then said, a little sheepishly, ‘I suppose I am a bit jealous, but not the way you think. You work a lot harder than Martin and you haven’t got half what he’s got.’

  He patted her hand. ‘I’ve got everything I want, lass – a lot more than Martin. I’ve got a home I can relax in, not a showpiece, contented children and a better wife than any man on this earth.’

  ‘Oh, Joe,’ she sighed happily then remembered that their son and daughter were still in the room. ‘It’s time you two were in bed, and get that grin off your face, Neil.’

  Neil was still grinning as he went out, but when he came up from the lavatory, he heard his father saying, ‘Don’t fly off the handle at me, Gracie, but I couldn’t help noticing the size of Olive’s breasts,’ and was so taken aback that he waited to hear what else might be said. ‘They’re bigger than yours ever were,’ his father went on, ‘even before you had the kids.’

  ‘You’re a dirty old man,’ his mother laughed. ‘I know mine are sagging a bit, but just you keep your eyes off hers.’

  ‘A man can’t keep his eyes off what’s flaunted in front of him, but that’s not what I meant. She’s too conscious of her body, and she’s going to use it to land some man in trouble some day. Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m not roused by her, but Neil . . . ach, I’m speaking a lot of rubbish! It’s all that drink Martin forced on me.’

  ‘You didn’t need much forcing.’

  ‘Maybe no’, maybe no’, but it’s only once a year. Still, I think we should call it a day, what d’you say?’

  Hearing his parents moving, Neil scuttled into his bedroom before they caught him eavesdropping. He, too, had seen how Olive’s new dress had emphasised her breasts and had been a little alarmed by a strange feeling every time his eyes fell on them, but his father didn’t have to worry about him. He had never liked her; she gave the impression of looking down on other people but always gave him a come-hither look which was a complete waste of time, for he couldn’t stand girls of any kind. Boys – well, most boys – could talk about football or something else he was interested in, but girls babbled on about trivialities, and Olive was worse than any of them. He would have to be careful not to let her get him on his own, though, for she was so cunning that she could trap him into saying whatever she wanted him to say, even if it was the last thing on earth he’d meant to.

  A few days later, almost wishing that he hadn’t given them the money to go, Joe listened with half an ear to Gracie and Patsy telling him how well the A.R. Whatmore Players had performed Charley’s Aunt that afternoon, and when they ran out of things to say he observed, ‘Rationing starts on the eighth, and Jim and me are going to be tied in knots worrying about coupons as well as serving.’

  Gracie, more interested in her rare visit to His Majesty’s Theatre, brushed this triviality aside. ‘It’ll maybe not be as bad as you think,’ and Patsy added, ‘You’ve said yourself that the war’s not going to last long.’

  ‘It looks as if it’s going to last longer than I thought,’ he admitted, ‘and you’ll change your tune, Gracie, when you just get the bare rations.’

  This put a different complexion on things. ‘You’ll surely let your wife have more?’

  ‘No, I’ll be in trouble if I give anybody more than their share, and I can see some of my regulars falling out with me for not letting them have as much as they want.’

  His wife came dangerously near to falling out with him the following week when he brought up three pounds of sugar and informed her that it was their allowance for the week. ‘It’s not enough!’ she exclaimed, in disgust. ‘I need five pounds, sometimes six.’

  ‘Three’s all you’ll be getting now.’

  Gracie looked at him accusingly. ‘You take four spoons in every cup of tea and so does Neil. That’s more than a pound each in a week. What about Patsy and me? And puddings?’

  ‘You’ll just have to cut down.’

  The tables were turned next day when Gracie gave Joe his supper. ‘One haddock?’ he gasped. ‘That’s not enough to keep body and soul together.’

  ‘Fish is up in price,’ she told him, triumphant at getting her own back, ‘and I could only
afford four.’

  Both Neil and Patsy hooted with laughter at this, and Joe said no more.

  As the weeks passed, Gracie, like all housewives in Britain, became adept at spinning out the rations. A thin scraping of butter was all she allowed on toast; the deep sugar spoon in the bowl was replaced by a small teaspoon, and Joe and Neil were shamed into taking only three per cup, because she had stopped taking any at all. Milk puddings were never as sweet as her menfolk liked them, but they didn’t dare to pass any comments and soon became so used to the taste that they cut themselves down to two spoons in their tea.

  Neil had done a year and four months of his apprenticeship as a motor mechanic, and Patsy had started as an office girl with an insurance firm when she left school last summer, but their wages were so small that their mother was still on a tight budget. It took all Gracie’s ingenuity to clothe and feed four on what Joe gave her, and she had to wait until he handed it over on Saturday lunchtime before she could buy in Sunday’s dinner, but they certainly never starved.

  His mother sometimes wished that Neil had found some other kind of work, his workmates sounded such a rough bunch, and her feelings were strengthened when he came home one day in high spirits. ‘We’d all a right laugh this morning. You know I told you a new apprentice was starting? Well, he got the usual works from the boys. First of all, old Crookie . . .’

  ‘Crookie?’ Gracie looked puzzled. She thought she knew all the men’s names by this time.

  ‘Dougie Cruickshank, you’ve heard me speaking about him. He’s a grim-faced bugger . . .’

  ‘Neil!’ The reprimand shot out from his shocked mother. ‘I don’t allow swearing in this house, you should know that.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I forgot. As I was telling you, Crookie’s a grim-faced . . . blighter, but he’s an awful joker, and he told Harry, that’s the lad that started today, to go and ask the storeman for a left-handed screwdriver and . . .’

  ‘I didn’t know there were left-handed screwdrivers.’