The most outstanding feature of the square, however, was the noise. Julie’s ears had never been subjected to such a continuous racket. It had reached such a peak of loudness it was impossible to distinguish separate sounds. Impossible to hear the sounds of singing and cheering, the sounds of bagpipes, whistles, kettledrums, mouth organs, rattles, squibs and rockets. At a range of no more than thirty yards it was even impossible to hear the rumbustious music of the Glasgow Police Pipe Band. The air stretched with just one high-pitched yell like a locomotive’s whistle that never died away.
The square dragged Julie in. Noise engulfed her, confused her. Someone whirled her into a dance but there was no room to dance and she stumbled and bumped about and laughed until she was breathless. Someone else gave her a swig out of a whisky bottle and tipped the bottle high so that she gulped too much and choked and spluttered. She danced arm in arm with a long line of service-men and women. Then she found herself in another dance, arms hugging the waist of a man in front while someone behind clutched at her.
The dancing swung drunkenly backwards and forwards, round and round. Again and again bottles of whisky and beer were passed about and shared.
There were civilians and there were servicemen of all kinds but Julie could only see air-force blue uniforms. She clung to one eventually, refused to let go, closed her eyes, rubbed and pressed her face against the muscly arm.
Lips close to her ear sent words wandering through her alcoholic haze.
‘I’d better take you home, beautiful. Tell me where you live?’
‘Gorbals Cross,’ she slurred without opening her eyes. ‘And don’t you dare say anything about the Gorbals, do you hear? There’s plenty of good, honest, kindly, clean-living, decent …’
‘Sure … Sure!’
She felt as if he were using her as a battering ram to force a way through the crowds but she clung on tightly and every now and again she opened her eyes and saw the blue material close to her face and was comforted.
She moaned with pleasure. Soon they would be out of the square, over the bridge across the Clyde, into dear old Gorbals, home, and bed.
Chapter 16
Catriona was in town spending some of her clothing coupons on much needed socks for the children when she felt tired and went into a café in Argyle Street for a reviving cup of tea. It was while she was sipping tea at the back of the cafe that she saw Sammy Hunter come in and sit down at a table near the door.
The sight of his fiery hair and his pugnacious broken-nosed face, with its jutting brows and cleft chin, catapulted her back to the night of the air-raid more vividly and immediately than anything else could. Sammy had come to Dessie Street to sort out his wife’s things after she had been killed in a previous raid. His wife Ruth had left their home in Springburn to work in the bakery and stay with Catriona while Sammy was imprisoned in Maryhill Barracks for being a conscientious objector. One night, unknown to anyone, Ruth had gone to the Ritzy cinema with Alec Jackson and the place had got a direct hit. Ruth had been buried under the debris.
Sammy had been released from detention shortly afterwards. Then while he was at Dessie Street there had been the other raid.
Sammy had dandled wee Robert on his knee. Sammy had carried the baby downstairs to the bakehouse lobby, the crowded, floury, heat-hazy place of mouth-watering smells where everybody thought they were safe.
She could see them now, she could hear their voices shouting to make themselves heard above the other sounds; the hysterical wailing of sirens, the low menacing thrum of planes, the crack-crack of guns so near that they made windows rattle, the distant crump-crump of bombs.
‘Hallo, Nellie … Aye, Tam … Come on, Lexy … Isn’t this damnable, Angus … There you are, Sandy … Hallo, Baldy, lad … Here we are again, Catriona … How are you, Sammy …’
All her good friends and neighbours.
They had been singing, she remembered, when Dessie Street collapsed. She and Sammy had been two of the very few survivors.
She kept seeing him with her baby in his arms. Then suddenly Sammy’s eyes flashed up as if he had sensed her anguished stare. The sight of her brought him immediately striding towards her.
‘Catriona! I never noticed you come in.’
‘I was here a while before you. I’ve finished my tea. I was just about to leave when I noticed you.’
‘Have another cup. Stay and tell me how you’re getting on.’
She smiled and nodded and he settled opposite her.
‘Is your husband back yet?’
‘Yes. We’re in a room and kitchen in Byres Road but we’re about to move into a bigger place in Botanic Crescent.’
‘He’s managed to get another business then?’
‘Yes, on a very good site. Do you know Byres Road at all?’
‘I know it’s a busy shopping centre. He should do well there.’
‘Yes, I believe he will. And of course it’s a much bigger shop and bakehouse than the one in Dessie Street.’
‘So life is treating you well.’
Her lips tried to stretch into a smile of agreement but trembled and failed. She shrugged instead.
‘And you? Have you married again, Sammy?’
‘No, still a widower and still in the house in Springburn. I think you knew I was with The Friends’ Ambulance Service?’
‘Yes. The Society of Friends - they were the ones who helped you,-weren’t they?’
‘I’ve been around a bit with them, I can tell you. You know, it’s amazing what they do. They’re a hardy crowd. Even the old ladies I’ve met seem spunky. There’s one I know, well over seventy and believe it or not she still goes hill-climbing with her husband. They’re great ones for enjoying nature. People have the wrong idea about them, Catriona. So did I at one time. Like everyone else I thought they were some narrow, strait-laced sect who wore white collars and high black hats. Not a bit of it. They believe in living their religion, not preaching it. They really care about people without wanting any recognition or glory for what they do. But just you read some books about the history of the Society and about some of the Quakers of the past. For such a small number of people it’s amazing the amount of reform they’ve achieved and influence they’ve had.’
He suddenly grinned. ‘Of course don’t get me wrong. They’re not all angels. I’m a pretty lousy one for a start.’
‘You’re a Quaker?’
‘Is it such an incredible idea?’
‘I can’t imagine you joining anything.’
Sammy’s muscular face tightened when he laughed.
‘It’s a lot different from the Army, you know. The exact opposite in fact. There’s a wonderful sense of individual freedom and equality. Of course, this can lead to difficulties and disorganisation at times. And, as I say, they’re not all angels. There’s good and bad among them just the same as anywhere else, and sometimes individuality can stretch into eccentricity. Sometimes some of them nearly drive me mad. Yet I love their eccentricities and their mix-ups. It doesn’t matter to me what they do. It’s what they’re trying to do, what they’re struggling to achieve that’s important. I don’t know why but I feel I belong with them and feel at home. But you’re quite right, I haven’t joined. That’s another thing I like about them. Nobody tries to convert you or put the slightest pressure on you to become a member.’
‘Are you still doing ambulance work for them?’
‘Now that the war’s over I’m having to think of going back to my old job. Although, to be honest, I don’t feel the same about working in an office any more.’
‘Isn’t it marvellous that it’s all over?’
‘Yes, of course. But at the same time, I can’t help feeling depressed, Catriona.’
After a minute or two, in which he ordered more tea for both of them, she said:
‘Because of all the people killed and injured, you mean?’
‘Haven’t you read anything about Hiroshima and Nagasaki?’
Her face twisted in distres
s.
‘Poor things! I was just saying that to Melvin the other day, but he maintains they had to drop the atomic bombs to stop the war.’
‘And create a better world. A world fit for heroes to live in. That’s what they always say. Now they’re trying to justify the dropping of atomic bombs.’
‘Melvin was reading a report the pilot made and it sounded so business-like and ordinary. It said things like, “The trip out to the target was uneventful.” Apparently he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Medal immediately he got back.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sammy said bitterly. ‘He would! And they needn’t kid us the raid was a last-minute emergency they were forced into. One of their precious brigadier-generals has let it out that the exact date for the dropping of the first atomic bomb was set well over a year ago. Anyway Japan was beaten before the bombs. Her navy was finished. Her air force wasn’t able to defend the country. The new US bases had made invasion possible and the Japanese armies on the mainland couldn’t stand up against Slim’s men.’
Catriona said, ‘I keep thinking of the children.’
He shook his head.
‘I saw some of the pictures. Children with the patterns of their clothes burned into their skins. Imagine - the bomb was dropped at 9.15 a.m. Japanese time. Typists were taking the covers off their typewriters ready to start work. Shops assistants were behind their counters and customers were wandering in. Housewives were drinking cups of tea and children in school were just beginning to chant their lessons. Then suddenly there was this blinding flash and the whole city and everything and everyone in it, including emergency facilities, were crushed and burned by the terrific pressure and heat. And for miles outside there was and still is horror and suffering. And not only that, future generations are going to suffer.’
‘I don’t want to imagine it. I get too upset.’
He sighed.
‘I don’t enjoy thinking about these things either. But surely someone’s got to. If we don’t end war now - and I mean for good this time - war’s going to end us.’
‘I don’t see what we can do. We’re just two individuals.’
‘The world’s made up of individuals. Although I must admit I haven’t a great deal of faith in our generation. There hasn’t been much protest about the bomb or anything else, has there? But maybe the next generation, maybe your children will be different. Maybe they’ll think for themselves and have more of a social conscience.’
Catriona could not help laughing.
‘All they’re doing at the moment is playing football, getting dirty, tearing their good clothes, and, I’m afraid …’ she eyed him mischievously, ‘… fighting!’
Sammy smiled and looked down at his cup in the shy, awkward way he had sometimes.
‘Oh, I did plenty of that kind of fighting when I was young. What age are the boys now?’
‘Fergus is nearly thirteen and Andrew will be eight in October.’
‘I probably wouldn’t recognise them.’
They drank their tea in silence for a while, both thinking of the changes that passing time had wrought in their lives. Then Sammy said:
‘Do you ever see Alec Jackson these days?’ Catriona’s gaze betrayed momentary panic. She wondered if he knew about Alec and herself and the one shameful lapse that had resulted in baby Robert. Not that she was ashamed of Robert. Her thoughts scurried to blot out the word shame - as if somehow Robert might be hurt by it. In case somehow, somewhere he still existed and might feel that she did not want him or love him. She had always wanted him and loved him. And she always would.
‘Catriona?’ Sammy’s deep-set eyes were studying her curiously.
‘Oh, sorry. I was dreaming. What were you saying, Sammy?’
‘Remember that insurance man we used to have in Springburn?’
‘Oh yes - Alec.’
‘His mother lived in one of the MacNair houses, didn’t she? Ruth used to speak about him in her letters.’
‘Oh!’ She felt even more uncertain of her ground.
‘I never see him in Springburn now,’ Sammy went on. ‘I used to bump into him quite often.’
‘Look, Sammy. I’m awful sorry but I really will have to rush. The children are still on holiday from school and they get into so much mischief when I’m away like this. It’s time I was getting home and making their tea.’
He rose too, his craggy face wistful.
‘It was nice seeing you again, Catriona.’
Smiling and edging away from him towards the door she said:
‘You must come and visit us after we’re properly settled in the new house.’
‘I would like to very much.’
‘I’ll drop you a note.’
‘Don’t forget.’
She waved goodbye and escaped from the café. It had been good to see him again but she felt confused and disturbed.
So many things had been happening recently one on top of the other that she did not know how to cope any more: the negotiations about the house in Botanic Crescent and the cleaning of it in preparation for moving in and the new business. The form-filling for that had been incredible, not to mention problems about staffing.
Melvin had persuaded her father to give up the good day-shift job he had in Farmbank and come over to Byres Road to help out. But, as she kept telling Melvin:
‘Daddy doesn’t keep well. You can’t expect him to travel back and forward from Farmbank indefinitely.’
‘He can do a day shift here,’ Melvin said. ‘I’ll do nights.’
Melvin had never been afraid of hard work and Catriona had always regarded him as a practical down-to-earth person. Now, she was having to rethink even these basic attitudes. Melvin was very full of grand ideas but seemed so often to lack the initiative to organise them or put them into practice.
He needed her to help make his dreams of grandeur come true. Although he would rather have died than admit it. He had to have all the glory and the more she did the more credit he took.
He was the one who raved on to everyone about how his shop was going to be the poshest, best-looking business in Glasgow. She was the one who planned the colour scheme, went to search for paint and carried it back to Byres Road. She was the one who struggled up and down ladders, painting the place every spare minute she had.
He boasted that one day everyone in Glasgow would seek out MacNair’s Bakery to buy their specialities. But it was she who thought up new ideas for recipes. The whisky liqueur cake had been her idea. At first Melvin had scoffed and sneered and said it would never work out. But together they had experimented with ingredients until a delicious sweet moist whisky-tasting confection had been produced. Already people were coming from all over Glasgow to buy it. The only drawback was that the ingredients were scarce. Even Melvin’s friend who owned the pub nearby could not supply him with enough to meet the demand.
‘But wait! Just wait!’ Melvin said excitedly. ‘Rationing and shortages won’t last for ever and then this will go like a bomb!’
The word bomb reminded her of what Sammy had been talking about.
She was reminded too of the family album old Mr MacNair kept in his room. Faded brown prints of mothers and fathers, and grandmothers and grandfathers, in their babyhood, their youth, their prime, then old age.
The pages flicked them past as hastily as life itself. And in that flicker of time it seemed so senseless for people to inflict suffering on each other.
‘Oh, God, for the sake of the children,’ she thought. ‘Please don’t let there be any more wars.’
Chapter 17
‘Now behave yourself,’ Catriona hissed at the children. ‘Remember there’s a minister living in the next house!’ She eased open the back door as if there might be crocodiles outside waiting to snap at her.
‘So what?’ Fergus said.
‘So you behave yourself, that’s what.’
Irritably she punched his shoulder and immediately became more tense and anxious at the sight of the cold fury in his eye
s. He did not say anything else and both boys left the house quietly. She knew however that there would be reprisals. Fergus would torment Andrew, perhaps by some constantly repeated act like knocking down Andrew’s carefully set-up soldiers or perhaps just by following Andrew around peering closely at him all the time like a hypnotist.
Andrew would lose his temper and erupt in violence. Then Fergus would either hold the freckly-faced, wildly punching, struggling child at arm’s length and taunt him with laughter, or he would twist his arms or hurt him in some other way.
She wondered if tormenting or bullying by older children happened in other families.
She realised that Fergus’s tragic early years - losing his real mother and then being looked after by Lizzie next door in Dessie Street - must have something to do with his character. Lizzie had been a quiet, twisted person who had tormented Fergus.
‘I used to tell him I’d wait behind the door and pour petrol over his daddy and set fire to him and burn him all up. I loved to see the expression on wee Fergie’s face! What laughs I used to have!’ Lizzie had told her.
It was not surprising that Fergus seemed twisted inside at times. Yet Catriona blamed Melvin too. He had constantly repressed the child’s emotions in the mistaken belief that he was training him to be ‘the best-behaved boy in Glasgow.’
In front of Melvin, Fergus made sure he was immaculately well behaved, was seen but not heard, never complained, never argued, never asked for anything, never cried, was never caught doing anything at all.
It took quick reflexes to catch even the change from the blue-eyed stare to the shifty gleam that meant a lie successfully told or something brewing that he thought he was going to get away with.
While Melvin had been in the Army the problem of Fergus had simmered down. She had tried to pay him a lot of attention, to listen patiently to his exaggerated tales about school and football and fights and his frightening gory war stories of air-raid victims or battle casualties he had heard or read about. Her own repressed, yet excitable nature, was irritated and distressed by his but she had all the time struggled with herself and tried to keep her voice floating along in pleasant normality.
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