‘No, I’ll do it.’ Wincey started gathering up the dishes and putting them onto the tea trolley.
Florence sprang to her feet. ‘No, please. The twins and I will do it. We insist, don’t we girls?’
‘Oh yes, please. Let us do the dishes.’ The twins bounced up like two rubber balls.
It was obvious to Virginia that they just wanted to see her kitchen and probably have a sneaky look into the other rooms of the house, but what did that matter? Thoughts of Richard had brought more important concerns to her mind. She nodded. ‘Yes, if you want.’ And she told them where to find the kitchen.
Off they hurried with the loaded trolley, their faces alert with excitement and expectancy. Wincey sat down, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
Teresa shook her head at the three retreating backs. ‘They’re not bad girls, you know. They just get a wee bit carried away at times.’
‘That’s all right. How’s Granny?’
‘Her arthritis comes and goes, and she’s got one of her flare ups just now. When that happens, she suffers awful pain, poor soul. We’re very grateful to Wincey for getting these two nurses. I don’t know what Granny would do without them. Or me. I was beginning to get awful puffed trying to move her. The nurses are big strong girls, they get her up every morning, give her a bath and dress her, then every night they settle her down.’
‘I could afford to have got Granny into a private nursing home, but she doesn’t want to leave the family. I can understand how she feels.’
Virginia’s heart missed a beat. Was that a hint that Wincey didn’t want, and would never leave the Gourlays? If only Wincey would settle properly in Kirklee Terrace, where she belonged. Not that Virginia felt any ill will towards the Gourlays. Far from it. She liked them, but her daughter belonged with her. She would have to have another talk with her, be firm with her.
Just then, Nicholas appeared, slim and tanned in rolled up shirt sleeves, his black hair rumpled. He was carrying a basket in which nestled a cabbage, some carrots, potatoes and a leek.
‘I thought you might like these,’ he said, handing the basket over to Teresa. ‘They’re jolly good, though I say it myself.’
‘Oh, thank you, Nicholas. I’ll be able to make a lovely pot of soup. What a treat!’
‘You’re welcome. I’d better go and have a wash. I’ve a meeting of the LDVs tonight.’ He grinned. ‘It’s all go these days.’
Virginia immediately felt depressed. Another long night on her own. Wincey had an urgent order to fulfil, which meant she had to spend this Sunday evening in her factory office. Virginia tried to convince herself that Wincey couldn’t help that. Both Wincey and Nicholas were doing their best in every way for the war effort.
‘Don’t forget there’s a war on’ had become the most used phrase in the country and after all, there were lots of things she could do. There were potatoes to peel for the next day’s dinner. She also had to make a pot of soup. Although she tried to organise her time as efficiently as possible, being on day shift tomorrow meant she wouldn’t have enough time to do the cooking. It would have to be done tonight. She could even set the table in readiness for the next day.
‘Are you feeling all right, Mother?’ Wincey asked.
‘What, darling?’
‘You look a bit pale and tired.’
‘Oh, I’m fine. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m sorry I have to go to the factory tonight, but it is so important. There’s so much paperwork to do these days.’
‘Yes, yes, darling. I understand. Of course you must go.’
And it meant Wincey would go ‘home’ afterwards. She still referred to the Gourlays’ place as home, which hurt Virginia more than she ever cared to admit. ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated.
When Florence and the twins returned, Florence immediately burst out, ‘Gosh, what a lovely big kitchen. I love your Aga. And I hope you don’t mind, but we popped into your bathroom. It was lovely too. Your whole house is lovely.’
‘Just lovely,’ the twins echoed.
Virginia felt like saying, ‘Oh shut up, you silly, empty headed girls.’ But instead she gave them a smile and said, ‘Thank you.’
As if sensing her irritation, Teresa struggled to her feet and said firmly, ‘Come on, girls. It’s time we were away. Virginia has had us long enough.’
‘Oh no,’ Virginia said, feeling guilty now. ‘You’re all very welcome to stay as long as you like.’
‘I know, Mother,’ Wincey said, ‘but I must get back to my office as soon as possible. And I’m giving everyone a lift home.’
The word ‘home’ wounded Virginia again.
And later, sitting at her dressing table gazing bleakly at herself as she undid her loop of long hair, she allowed tears to spill from her eyes and trickle helplessly down her face.
15
Richard was proud of the luxuriousness of his moustache. He combed it regularly, put on a discreet spot of wax and tweaked it up at each end. The local girls certainly seemed to like it. The uniform too. RAF pilots were very popular with the ladies. They weren’t so popular with the local men. In the pub, after a few pints, angry words were often exchanged, along the lines of ‘Why are you lads loafing down here drinking, instead of up there shooting the bastards down?’
The last time somebody said that to Richard, he’d been with a buxom upper class girl called Davina. She’d had to hold him back and hustle him out of the place. He was so angry and humiliated that he’d wanted to punch the ignorant fellow. Once outside with Davina, he’d gazed up at the searchlights criss-crossing in the dark sky and said, ‘I would be up there now if it had been left to me. Even though our Spits aren’t really any good as night fighters.’
‘They were only teasing you,’ Davina soothed. ‘I expect they’re jealous. They’re just old men who aren’t able to do anything to help with the war effort.’
Davina, he discovered, was a member of the Women’s Land Army. A land girl, of all things. She explained that she had been used to horses and was familiar with everything that went on in ‘Daddy’s estate’. As a result, she thought working on the land would be her most suitable contribution to the war effort. Davina, just like most of Richard’s fellow officers, had a very upper class English accent. But this didn’t worry Richard. He hadn’t gone to a private school for nothing, and no one could guess from his own accent that he came from Scotland, far less Glasgow. Glasgow had a very bad image down south. It was enough to put anyone off. Edinburgh, being the capital and known as a beautiful, historic city, was different.
Nowadays, if asked, he just said he had been brought up first of all in the country and then in Edinburgh. To an extent, this was true. He had lived with his grandmother and grandfather in their country house for the first few years of his life. Then he’d been sent to a boarding school in Edinburgh. That had been paid for by his grandparents. No doubt the idea had been to prevent him living under the same roof as his mother. His grandmother hated his mother. He didn’t. Not at all. He got on well with her, and with his father. All the same, both his parents were a bit Bolshie.
His father had begun to see sense now that there was a war on, but his mother was still influenced by her first husband, the ghastly James Matheson. The man was not patriotic. But he’d always been the same, apparently. He’d been a damned conscientious objector in the last war. Richard could never understand his mother having anything to do with a chap like that. At least she was doing her bit as a VAD. He’d told Davina about that and she had been impressed.
‘They work jolly hard. Good luck to her.’
‘And my father’s doing his bit in the LDVs. He served with distinction as an officer in the last war.’
‘You must be very proud of them both.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’d like to meet them some day.’
He smiled down at her tanned, unmade-up face. ‘Remind me to arrange that. There doesn’t seem to be much possibility of leave at the moment, though.’
&n
bsp; ‘No, things don’t look good, do they?’
‘Don’t worry, the Jerries won’t set foot on British soil. Not once we get a real crack at them.’
Davina linked arms with him. She had a good firm grip. ‘When I see any Spitfires going up now, I wonder if it’s you and I hold my breath and keep my fingers crossed that you’ll be all right.’
He felt touched. She really cared about him. Gently he turned her towards him and kissed her on the mouth. She responded warmly and he tightened his grip. They both opened their mouths, their tongues exploring. Eventually they were startled by the sound of a crowd of men approaching through the darkness, bawling and singing. The pub had shut and the drinkers were making for home. He and Davina drew apart and began walking along side by side. Too soon, they reached Davina’s billet and she bade him a quick goodnight.
‘Wait,’ he called after her retreating back. ‘When can I see you again?’
‘Next Tuesday. Same time, same place.’
‘Jolly good.’
He turned away quite happily then. It was something to look forward to, something to dream about. Life was suddenly even better than it had been before. He loved his Spitfire. He loved flying. He loved his life in the RAF. Now, this was a different kind of love. He savoured the experience. Yes, he was in love with the girl. All right, he hadn’t known her for very long, but she was the girl for him. He was sure of it. He swaggered whistling cheerily all the way to the camp.
The only thing that would have increased his happiness at the moment was if he could be sure of being involved in more action. Almost every other fighter squadron had done a stint covering Dunkirk, but the evacuation had ended just before he’d got a turn. He had acted as ‘Arse-End Charlie’ a few times recently, weaving backwards and forwards above and behind the squadron, to protect them from attack from the rear. On the last occasion, he’d had reason to remember the truth of the warning, ‘Beware of the Hun in the sun’. He had been peering into his mirror when out of the sun, and dead astern, he saw bullets peppering his port wing. It was a miracle he got home that day—but then, he’d always been lucky.
Once up in the air, they all believed they were immortal. No one accepted that they could be killed. And Richard was a born optimist. Even this business in France didn’t depress him. He knew they’d sort it all out eventually. The only thing that really got to him these days was the growing chorus of undeserved criticism that the RAF was subjected to.
One evening, in the local pub, the regulars were treating a group of Dunkirk evacuees to round after round of free drinks. Before long, Richard and his RAF companions were involved in heated arguments with some of the soldiers.
‘Where were the RAF when they were needed? They certainly weren’t over Dunkirk,’ someone said.
Richard found it very hard to keep his temper. He had known several pilots who had been killed over France, even before Dunkirk. Lysanders, for instance, had been flying across the Channel two or three times a day in an effort to drop supplies to the besieged garrison in Calais. Sometimes they had only a solitary fighter for support. And there had been British planes over Dunkirk.
Fortunately, a Frenchman spoke up to remind the others that there had been times when there was a heavy fog over the beaches and the planes were high above it. He also told of one fight he had seen between a lone Spitfire and four Junkers. He had watched it shoot down two Germans and cripple a third. The fourth made off.
Now the invasion scare was on. No one was allowed more than half an hour’s call from the airfield. All leave had been cancelled, and all officers had been ordered to carry side arms. Richard was issued with an antiquated, short nosed .45 and six soft lead bullets. But he’d managed to get himself another twelve bullets. Now every newspaper had as its front page an appeal to every citizen to stay put. And people had come to believe that it could actually happen—that England’s peaceful, pleasant land could at any moment be filled with the thundering noise of German tanks. At any moment, an army could drop from the skies.
But they were reckoning without the RAF, Richard told himself. He and his fellow pilots were ready for anything the Luftwaffe could throw at them. Far from being apprehensive or afraid, Richard was keyed up, and raring to go. They had learned a lot about the Germans, and their aircraft. The Germans had a mass psychology that they applied even to their planes, which were so constructed that their crews were always bunched together. This gave them confidence and a false sense of security. And the RAF had soon learned how to shatter that. The crews of the Heinkel bombers soon came to feel intensely vulnerable, hunched inside their greenhouse-like, perspex cockpits, with precious little protection against the white-hot tracer from the Spitfires eight machine guns.
Richard and the other fighter pilots could almost sense the bomber crews wincing as the Spits dived in for the kill. But some of the German gunners stuck to their task to the bitter end, and there were always one or two of Richard’s squadron who didn’t get back. But that was how it was. Kill or be killed. And he was always lucky.
16
‘It’s called the Home Guard now,’ Erchie told Wincey. ‘The LDVs that yer father’s in.’
Granny glared suspiciously over at her son. ‘Whit are ye suddenly so interested in them for? Ye’re no’ thinkin’ o’ joinin’ them, ah hope.’
‘Och, don’t worry, Ma. Ah’m quite happy doin’ ma bit keepin’ a shirt on their backs. That’s essential enough work for me. Anyway, wi’ ma flat feet, they wouldnae huv me, especially now ah’ve caught yer ruddy arthritis.’
‘It’s no’ infectious, so don’t you go blamin’ me. Anyway, aw ye’ve got is a few twinges in yer knees. Think yersel’ lucky ye’ve no’ got ma arthritis. Ye’d know aw about it if ye had.’
‘Aye, OK, OK, Ma.’ He turned his thin face towards Wincey. ‘How’s yer father doin’, hen? Does he still get enough time tae write his books? Ah suppose he’ll have tae make the time. It’s his livin’, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I don’t think he gets paid for being in the Home Guard and I shouldn’t think Mother’ll make much in the VADs. I offered to pay for my keep at weekends but they wouldn’t hear of it.’
Teresa was busy at the kitchen table, her hands and arms floury with making a batch of scones. ‘I’m sure they appreciated the offer though, dear. You’re a very generous girl.’
‘I can well afford to be generous, Teresa. The factory’s making a lot of money.’
Erchie laughed. ‘She’s made me take another raise, wid ye believe.’
Teresa stopped kneading the scones for a few seconds. ‘Oh, now Erchie, do you think you should?’
‘He works for everything he gets, Teresa. I don’t know what I’d do without Erchie. He’s worth his weight in gold to me.’
‘Oh well, dear, if you’re sure … Have you heard any more from Doctor Houston, by the way?’
Wincey tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘No, not since that last letter and a quick phone call to the office. To be honest with you, Teresa, I’m very worried about him. There were so many ships lost at Dunkirk.’
‘They would have let you know, dear. No, I’m sure he’ll be all right. He’ll turn up unexpectedly at that door any day now.’
‘If we’d been married, they would have let me know as next of kin, but he has nobody.’ Much to her own embarrassment, and to everyone else’s surprise and distress, she suddenly burst in to tears. It wasn’t like Wincey to indulge in any outward displays of emotion.
Teresa rushed over and despite her floury hands, pulled Wincey close to her. ‘Och now, now, don’t be upsetting yourself. We’ll hear these wedding bells yet. He’ll be back safe and sound—just you wait and see.’
Desperately, Wincey took deep calming breaths and rubbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I held him at arm’s length, Teresa. He said he understood but oh, I wish I could have been different.’
Erchie said, ‘Of course he understood, hen. Anybody would, once they knew what ye’d been through as a wea
n. It’s no’ so easy to get over things like that, but ye will. Just give yersel’ time.’
She gazed at him with tragic eyes. ‘Oh but Erchie, have I got time? I’m so worried about Robert.’
‘He’ll be back, hen, an’ ye’ll be all right.’
Granny said, ‘There’s surely ways tae find things out. Just sittin’ bubbling’ isnae any use. Write or phone to the Navy. Somebody’s bound to be able to tell ye whit’s happened.’
‘I never thought of that.’ Wincey fished for her hankie and rubbed it over her face. ‘I know the name of his ship. He couldn’t tell me in his letters because they were censored, but that last time he phoned, he let it slip.’
‘Well then …’
‘Thanks, Granny.’
Wincey lost no time in taking Granny’s advice. As soon as she was back in her office, she wrote to the Admiralty. Several days passed before she received a reply. It was to inform her that Robert’s ship had gone down during the evacuation of Dunkirk. There were no survivors.
The letter had arrived by the second post and Wincey had been sitting at lunch in the Gourlays’ kitchen when she opened it. It was strange, she thought, that now no tears would come. She just sat, staring at the letter.
‘Whit’s up?’ Granny hunched forward, pushing her spectacles closer to her eyes.
‘The ship was bombed. There were no survivors.’
‘See bloody war!’ Granny bawled. ‘What a bloody waste! Rabbie Burns was right aw these years ago, an’ he’s still right—Man’s inhumanity to man makes thousands mourn.’
‘Oh dear,’ Teresa said, not knowing what to do or say for the best.
‘A decent fella like that,’ Granny raged on. ‘Aw he ever did—or wanted to do—was tae help folk. See these bloody high heid yins an’ politicians, ah know whit ah wid do wi’ them. Ah’d …’
All right, all right,’ Teresa interrupted. ‘Oh Wincey, I’m so sorry. If there’s anything we can do to help, you know you’ve only to ask.’
Clydesiders at War Page 10
