The Breadmakers Saga

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  ‘My house!’

  ‘Oh, be quiet. I know who lives up there and it’s an absolute disgrace, a young girl like that living in a house by herself. It’s just asking for trouble and as long as there’s wicked men like you going around, she’ll get it!’

  Unexpectedly Rab won the battle with his collar and sighing with relief he reached for his tie.

  ‘If it’s Lexy Brown you’re referring to, she was downstairs working in the bakehouse all day.’

  Depression swelled up like a pain in his chest and he sighed again. It would have been all the same if he had been at Francis’s. She still wouldn’t have believed him.

  ‘I’ll find out what’s going on.’ His wife’s voice pushed close to him. ‘I had enough to contend with that day with that girl and the MacNairs, but after this business is over with that girl today, I’ll be down there at Dessie Street again and with the good Lord’s help I’ll find out exactly what’s going on!’

  His tie fixed, Rab wondered why he was all dressed up. Then suddenly he noticed Catriona sitting waiting and remembered what ‘the business’ was with ‘that girl’ today.

  ‘Is that her ready?’ he queried incredulously.

  ‘So you’ve taken an interest at last, have you?’ Hannah plumped hands on hips and surveyed both husband and daughter. ‘You’re a bit late, are you not?’

  ‘Whose granny dug that up? For pity’s sake, Hannah, could you not have done better than that?’

  ‘Could I not have done better? Oh, that’s just like you, that’s you all over. From the moment I found out about this awful business I’ve been trying in my own humble way to do my best for that girl. And I’ve been trying to get you to help, but would you, would you? Oh, no, not you! You were too tired. All you wanted to do was to shut me up and whenever my back was turned sneak out of this house and away to Dessie Street. And don’t tell me you went trailing back there after doing ten hours’ night-shift just to get a pot of paint from Francis MacMahon!’

  ‘But look at her!’ Rab said helplessly.

  ‘If you’d taken the slightest interest in your own wife and family, if you’d given me extra money, I might with the good Lord’s help have been able to buy her a new dress. But oh, no, not you. All you’re interested in is that demon drink. And, of course, you know what!’

  ‘I feel like a drink now,’ he said, still staring at Catriona. ‘By God, I do!’

  ‘May the good Lord forgive you, Robert, for taking His name in vain. It’s wicked, especially in front of a child.’

  ‘A child?’ Rab’s voice gained in strength again until it worked up to a howl. ‘If anyone’s mad in this house it’s you, you fool. She’s not a child any more. She’s getting married!’

  ‘And whose fault is that? Who’s to blame for that child getting married?’

  ‘It’s no use talking to you.’ He lunged away in disgust. ‘I’m away out.’

  ‘What?’ Hannah gasped in genuine astonishment. ‘You’re supposed to take her to the Hall.’

  Already he was in the lobby and grabbing his jacket.

  ‘I’ll take her when I get back. She’s not due to leave for another hour yet.’

  Out before Hannah could run to stop him. Across the road like a bird. Along the street, swooping, swerving, crashing among people.

  In at last, dry-mouthed, pop-eyed, to a pub called The Wee Doch and Doris.

  It was the twelfth of July and all over Glasgow, from Govan to Springburn, from Gallowgate to Partick, from Cowcaddens to Gorbals, Orangemen and their families were gathering for the Orange Walk.

  Sitting alone in the living-room at the back of the house, because her mother had left for the Hall and her father had not yet returned from the pub, Catriona thought she heard a band. Hitching up her dress she ran through to peer out the front-room window.

  Farmbank Lodge was swinging noisily along Fyffe Street on the first lap of their march from Farmbank through Clydend on to the centre of Glasgow to mass together with all the other lodges from the various parts of the city and then onwards in a huge drum-beating, flute-tootling, accordion-twisting, bagpipe-screaming, high-stepping, swaggering parade to one of the public parks where they ate like horses, played boisterous games, cheered speeches and listened to the bands.

  The fiery-haired, fiery-faced leader of the Farmbank Lodge was well out in front and thoroughly enjoying himself - elbows out - four prancing steps forward, four prancing steps back as if he were doing a barn-dance. Big white gauntlet gloves swallowed up the sleeves of his jacket, and the long pole of the standard he carried was secured in a white leather holster strapped round his waist. Other people were carrying flags and banners, one orange silk one stretching the whole width of the parade and held aloft by a man at either end.

  The leader’s standard was of royal blue velvet fringed with gold and he sported a fancy purple and orange sash over his Sunday suit. In the middle of the standard an orange-cheeked picture of King William curled and furled and flapped about in the breeze.

  The flute band at his back was giving a high-pitched excited ‘Marching Through Georgia’, and the leader, like the followers of the band, was singing with great bravado and panache:

  ‘Hullo! Hullo! We are the Billy Boys.

  Hullo! Hullo! We are the Billy Boys.

  Up tae the knees in Fenian blood, surrender or ye’ll die,

  For we are the Farmbank Billy Boys!’

  Catriona had forgotten about the Orange Walk. Now she realized what a problem it would be for a car to reach Dundas Street until the Walk was over. She would never arrive at the Hall in time even if her father managed to come back in a fit state to take her.

  It never occurred to her to feel angry, only guilty at keeping Melvin waiting. The noise, the movement, the excitement of the procession was infectious and, lifting her veil, she pressed her face close to the glass in case she might miss anything.

  The men and the boys followed the band; then came the women, the girls and the smaller children, all wearing their best newly washed and ironed clothes, some with fancy blue sashes looped over their shoulders, some with sparkling white, others with vivid orange.

  Quite a few of the men and some of the women too were fast becoming completely carried away, jigging about wildly, hands high in the air, heughing at the pitch of their voices, dancing their own riotous version of the Highland Fling.

  The drummers, sweat glistening over their faces, used every ounce of strength and energy, especially as they passed the Chapel of Saint Teresa. The drums got big licks then, and teeth gritted with the effort, and muscles ached and sweat poured faster. Tum - tari - um - tari - um - tum- tum, louder and louder until heads reeled and swelled with the noise. Tum - tari - tum - tari - tuma - tuma tum!

  At last, the end of the procession - the skipping, giggling, strutting children - turned the corner into Farmbank Road, leaving Fyffe Street comparatively silent and deserted. Only Rab Munro was left taking the whole width of the pavement. His big gaunt figure had not enough flesh on it to fill his suit, his shoulders were bunched forward, his hands delved down into his pockets, his eyes were earnestly struggling to see the pavement but he was stumbling then suddenly spurting and lurching forward at such a lick he hadn’t a chance to focus on anything.

  Catriona was waiting at the door.

  ‘Daddy, come on quick! Splash your face with cold water. The car will be here in a minute.’

  ‘Aye, all right, hen.’ He leaned a heavy arm round her shoulders. ‘You’re Daddy’s bonny wee lassie, eh?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Daddy.’ She had to turn her head away from the hot sickly blast of whisky and beer.

  ‘Anthing I can do for you, hen, you’ve only to ask. You know that, eh?’

  ‘I know. I know, but please hurry up.’

  ‘It’s an honorrarr … Marriage is an honrr . . honourable estate. Did you know that, eh? Did you know that, hen? I’m telling you marriage is an honourar … honour- rarr. Mummy’s a bonny lassie. Always was. Always was.’ He sigh
ed. ‘I’d never allow anyone to say a word against her. She’s a wunnerful woman, wunnerful, wunnerful woman.’

  ‘Daddy, please.’ With a struggle, because she wasn’t much more than half his size, she aimed him for the kitchenette and lurched along with him at an uneven rapid pace towards the sink.

  Without a murmur of protest he allowed her to bend him over and wash and dry his face. The cold water did nothing to warm the grey lantern jaws and the blue-tinged eye sockets. It only dampened his enthusiasm down to a tearful moan.

  ‘A wunnerful, wunnerful woman and it’s true, perfectly true, what she says. I’m a heavy cross for her to bear, so I am. I have faults, so I have. Your daddy has faults, hen.’

  ‘You’re all right.’ Suddenly Catriona felt weepy herself.

  She thought she heard the screech of a car drawing up at the close. Sure enough there followed the clatter of a man’s boots, then a loud rat-tat-tat-tat-tat on the front door.

  ‘Daddy, that’s the car. What’ll I do?’

  He straightened back his big bony shoulders.

  ‘You’ll take Daddy’s arm and Daddy will lead you to Melvin.’

  Peering down at her, he swayed forward again.

  ‘You’re happy, aren’t you, hen? Tell me everything’s all right, eh?’

  She nodded and looked away.

  ‘Have you the pennies for the scramble?’

  All the children who were left in the district had gathered round the big black Co-operative car. They raised a hearty good-natured cheer when Catriona and Rab appeared, and milled around, jumping up and down and shouting, ‘Hard up! Hard up!’ and, ‘Mind the Scramble, mister!’

  Somehow, they managed to get safely into the car, bang the door, wind down the windows and spray out clinking, sparkling pennies which were immediately pounced upon by the screaming children. And the children were left a writhing knot of arms and legs on the pavement as the car moved away.

  By the time it joined the Orange Walk the Farmbank Lodge had met up with Makeever Lodge, the Clydend Lodge and the Govan Lodge and the procession was four bands and a good two thousand strong. Every other person was wielding, waving, swishing banners, the sky was crowded with jostling, jumping colour.

  Govan boasted a pipe band with a tiger-skinned drum-major. Makeever had accordions, Clydend a mixture of raucous brass instruments being played with swollen cheeks and enormous gusto, and all the bands including Farmbank Flute were concentrating on different tunes and even the echoes of the tunes overlapped and clashed with each other. From somewhere in the far distance the joyous bouncy strains of ‘Scotland The Brave’ joined the cacophony of sound.

  The car slowed almost to a standstill.

  ‘Would you look at the crazy devils!’ Rab raised his shaggy brows and flung a look out of the window without moving his head or the big bony body that had sunk wearily into his suit. ‘It was the Irish that started all this. They came over here looking for food and jobs and brought with them their ignorant bigotry. The Irish Lodges come over now to keep it going, pouring off the boats at the Broomilaw like mad dogs rarin’ for a fight. Listen to them!’

  Catriona nervously eyed the scene outside.

  ‘I’m a Loyal Ulster Orange Man just come across the sea

  For dancing sure I know I will please thee.

  I can sing and dance like any man

  As I did in days of yore

  And it’s on the Twelfth I love to wear

  The sash my father wore.

  For it’s old but it’s beautiful

  And its colours the are fine,

  It was worn at Derry Okrim,

  Enniskillen and the Boyne.

  My father wore it as a youth

  And the bygone days of yore

  For it’s on the Twelfth I love to wear

  The sash my father wore!

  ‘Why do we let them in?’ Catriona asked, alarm heightening her voice.

  Rab let out a roar of laughter.

  ‘Why do we let them in!’ He shook his head, making a lock of prematurely grey-streaked hair spread untidily across his brow. ‘That’s a good one!’ His square hand thumped over her knee. ‘Glasgow welcomes everybody, hen. Did you know that Glasgow was called the friendly city?’

  Outside someone roared:

  ‘King Billy slew the Fenian crew,

  At the Battle o’ Byne Watter,

  A pail o’ tripe came over the dyke

  An’ hut the Pope on the napper.’

  ‘Will they be all right?’

  ‘Who, hen?’

  ‘The Catholics.’

  ‘Of course!’ her father scoffed, jerking his head towards the crowd outside. ‘They’re just out for a good time like at Hogmanay or a sail doon the watter.’

  ‘But there’s fighting in town, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Och, there’s fighting every Saturday night and oftener. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to go barging into houses and dragging out Catholics, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Once they get a drink tonight they’ll fight anyone who wants to fight. It won’t matter a damn whether they’re Catholics or Hottentots. Most of the time they’ll be sparring with themselves.’

  ‘The Twelfth of July,’ someone bawled in broad Glasgow vowels, ‘the Papes’ll die!’

  ‘Silly fool!’ Rab mouthed dourly as he sank further back into the depths of the car seat. ‘The Raffertys upstairs are Catholics.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Sure! And the best of luck to them! Who cares!’

  Chapter 9

  A grey and white haze had settled over everything in the Fowler kitchen. Ashes were heaped in an old enamel basin on the rug in front of the fire, and the dust from the ashes hadn’t been swept or washed from the tiled surround, and Baldy’s floury footprints had hardened on the rug and all over the linoleum. The previous night’s newspapers spilled off the chair where Baldy had left them and dog-ends crowded unemptied ashtrays. A greasy frying-pan, a kettle, dirty dishes, egg-yellowed cutlery balanced precariously on the draining-board beside the sink. The table in the centre of the floor was littered with the remains of breakfast: marmalade, rolls, a milk bottle, lumpy sugar in a bowl, a brown pot of tea gone cold.

  Sarah’s chair was pulled as close to the fire as she could get it and still she hadn’t properly thawed out. The fire blazed. Sunshine poked yellow fingers into the dingy room. She wore a woolly vest, two pairs of knickers, two woollen sweaters, ankle socks over her stockings and a scarlet scarf that covered her ears and tied under her chin but was small enough to leave most of her platinum hair sticking out.

  Her blood crawled cold in her veins.

  Huddled back, she closed her eyes and listened to the ticking of the clock.

  If only time would stop, as she had stopped, and wait until she felt better. If only she could stay sitting here in peace and quiet, absolutely motionless the heat of the fire mottling her legs, exhaustion suspended, senses lulled, awake, yet completely overcome as if under heavy sedation. She knew she was in her own kitchen by her own fireside and soon Baldy would come bursting through from the bedroom like a prize Aberdeen Angus bull and ravenous for his dinner. Yet she was separate, staring at the scene through black-closed lids from a place she’d floated to outside on the fringe of things. It suddenly occurred to her that this might be like dying. Immediately she opened her eyes and felt for a cigarette in her apron pocket.

  She liked a smoke. Everything about the familiar habit brought comfort. The look and feel of the packet and the neat white lines of cigarettes, the promise of one rolling round between her fingers, then between her lips and sucking it before savouring the big soothing breath, then the smoke blanketing around her.

  Soon she would have to heave herself up from the chair and drag herself about doing things. There was so much to be done, so many things she ought to be tackling. If she could just get organized. She strove to get sorted out in her mind, to plan her day bit by bit.

  First she would set the table nice for dinner, really ni
ce, with a nice clean table cloth. Only she hadn’t got a clean cloth. All the cloths were in the lobby press with the rest of the dirty wash. The thought of mustering up enough energy to do the washing nearly swamped her.

  She skipped the table.

  If she washed the dishes first and put them away in the cupboard. No - put them back on the table for dinner. But there wasn’t any dinner made.

  If she emptied her shopping-basket first and put the things away in the cupboard, except the tin of corned beef. Baldy liked corned beef and cabbage.

  The cabbage wasn’t washed or chopped or cooked.

  There was too much to do. She didn’t know where to start. She didn’t know how to start. She couldn’t get things organized like other women - even the simplest things. She was no use. She was no use at anything.

  Dragging at her cigarette, she fought to get the upper hand of her weakness.

  ‘Aw, come on now, Sarah,’ she said out loud to herself. ‘Plenty folks have more tae worry them than you, hen.’

  The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard the familiar thump-thump of Lender Lil at the outside door.

  ‘But no much more!’ she added wryly as she pulled herself out of the chair to go and answer it.

  ‘About time!’ her mother-in-law complained before pushing into the house.

  Mrs Fowler was a big woman with a man’s broad shoulders and a bosom rearing up over the top of her corsets like the Campsie Hills.

  Sarah followed her back to the kitchen wondering if she would ever give up. Did Mrs Fowler really believe that she could break up their marriage and march Baldy back round to Starky Street to live forever under her thumb? Baldy wasn’t daft; smiling at her mother-in-law, Sarah thought, And neither am I, you old bag!

  ‘Like a cup of tea, hen?’ she asked.

  Mrs Fowler heaved her chest further up and sniffed.

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fussy!’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I was just going to put the kettle on and yer welcome to a drink. Sit down and take the weight aff yer legs.’