Clydesiders at War

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  She forced herself to act calmly. She went over to the Aga and set a pot of potatoes to boil. ‘Dinner won’t be long. I’ve everything more or less prepared. What kind of day have you had? Did you get any writing done?’

  ‘Not much. Richard phoned. He’s been awarded a DFC.’

  Her eyes brightened with astonishment and pride. ‘A Distinguished Flying Cross! How wonderful! That’ll make him so happy.’

  ‘He deserves it too. He’s a very brave young man.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so happy for him, Nicholas.’

  ‘I tried to reach you at the hospital.’

  ‘Oh, when?’

  ‘Hours ago. They said you’d left.’

  ‘Oh, oh yes. I was going round the shops to see if there was anything. I stood in a couple of queues but no luck. Nothing left when it came to my turn. Have you told your mother about Richard yet?’

  ‘Yes, she’s immensely proud of him, but then of course she always has been.’

  Maybe the whisky was just by way of celebration and that look in his eyes had simply been irritation at not having been able to share his news with her right away.

  ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t in when he phoned. Was he speaking from Castle Hill? Can I reach him there if I phone just now?’

  ‘No, it was just a quick call from his airfield, I think. He’s off on some hush-hush operation. Something big is in the offing, I suspect. You’ll just have to wait.’

  She felt frightened again. This time it was about Richard. He had always been such a daring, adventurous boy, even at school. It was one thing, however, being reckless or daring on the rugby field or on a rock climbing expedition. She had worried about him then but he wasn’t playing games any more. Now she felt ill with apprehension.

  ‘I hope he’ll be all right,’ she managed. ‘Oh, I wish I had been in when he phoned.’ She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to Richard and she had missed the chance to speak to him one last time. And especially because she had been with a lover. It was too awful to think about.

  ‘Well,’ Nicholas said, ‘you weren’t.’

  Again the suspicion that he knew returned. Oh God, she silently prayed as she blindly fussed about with more pots and pans, please keep my son safe. Please, oh please. She felt Nicholas’s dark eyes boring into her back. She felt distracted. Forgive me, forgive me, she kept thinking.

  28

  Nicholas had been watching her, or having her watched. She knew, because he had caught her out again. This time, as it happened, she had gone to Donald’s home to tell him as gently as she could that their affair was over. He had pleaded with her to think about it, not to make any hasty decisions.

  ‘Take some time on your own,’ he advised. ‘Give yourself time away from me to think about it. Make sure it’s the right decision, that it’s what you really want, Virginia.’

  Feeling sorry for him and not wanting to hurt him, she’d allowed him to hold her in his arms and tenderly kiss her. She really was very fond of him, but more as a kind of father figure. She had promised that she would at least give herself more time to think things through.

  She’d arrived home to find Nicholas sitting waiting for her. She was struck more forcibly than ever by the difference in appearance between the two men. Donald’s skin was paler, and his hair, eyebrows and moustache were silver. His muscles had begun to sag. Nicholas, on the other hand, still had a full head of black hair. His skin was tanned and his body was lean and fit.

  This time she recognised the look in his eyes. She’d seen it directed at other people. It wasn’t the same quizzical, sarcastic look as the last time. It was the concentrated, unblinking stare of the writer—darkly, deeply probing into a person’s character and motivation. She resented such a look being directed at her.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked defensively. ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Virginia.’

  ‘Yes, there is, and I’ve known it for a while now. You’ve changed out of all recognition.’ She felt angry and reckless. What had happened was as much his fault as hers. ‘You’re not the same person I used to know at all.’ She struggled to calm down and be more reasonable. ‘It’s the war, I suppose,’ she continued, echoing something that Donald had once said. ‘It’s changed everything and everybody.’

  ‘I’m the same person that I always was, Virginia. There’s never been anyone in my life but you. I have never been unfaithful to you.’

  She felt sick with regret. Miserably she searched for words of explanation, justification, excuse or even denial, but before she could think of any words, he rose and said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, far less cared, but my mother has been far from well. She’s never been right since the bombing. I’m going to stay with her for a while so that I can keep an eye on her and try to arrange for some professional care. We’ll talk later.’

  She watched him go and, determined to retain some dignity and self respect, as well as show proper concern, she said, ‘I hope your mother’s health will improve and if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.’

  He didn’t answer and left her feeling angry again. He knew perfectly well that she’d tried long ago to get on better terms with his mother. Originally she’d even tried to get close to her. It was his mother who had created the distance between them. All she’d ever had from his mother was hatred. Yet despite that, she’d continued to be pleasant and civilised to the old woman. She’d continued to welcome her at Kirklee Terrace. She was made far from welcome, however, at the ugly villa on Great Western Road. What did Nicholas imagine she could do in the circumstances? He must know perfectly well that his mother would never allow her to do anything.

  At the same time she knew that she was dodging the real issue. She continued however to clutch at any straws of justification. Nicholas had been neglecting her and their marriage for years. Not in any material sense. He had always been a good and conscientious provider. It was his time and personal attention he had always been mean with. Well, not quite always. When she’d first known him, he’d been only too glad of her company and he’d treasured every moment of it. That’s what he’d told her.

  It was perfectly true what she’d said. He had changed. All right, it could be argued that everyone changes as they get older and have to cope with life’s problems. Surely though they should have spent more time coping with them together. She’d been more than willing to do that but he had shut himself away in his writing room at every opportunity. Now it was the Home Guard and God knows what else.

  The house acquired an oppressive silence after he’d gone. She roamed restlessly about, unable to settle. Eventually she forced herself to prepare some food for the next day’s meals. Normally she was very well organised and planned most things in advance. Suddenly she thought, what was the point now? It seemed such a waste of time and effort to prepare meals just for herself.

  Damn him, she thought, and wept with anger as much as grief. She’d never allowed any man—or woman for that matter—to get the better of her. Her father, she remembered, always said that she had a lot of spunk. He was right. She wasn’t going to sit around feeling sorry for herself. She dried her eyes, put on her hat and coat and went out. Immediately, she was engulfed in the blackout and it was with some difficulty that she made her way to Springburn and the Gourlays’ house on the Balgrayhill.

  Teresa and Erchie and Granny were delighted to see her. Wincey said, ‘Is there something wrong, Mother?’

  ‘No, no, darling. I’m off duty tonight and I just thought I’d pay you all a visit.’

  ‘Sit down, Virginia,’ Teresa said. ‘Make yourself at home. The kettle’s already on the boil.’

  It was then that Virginia noticed the soldier sitting opposite. He was a big, tough looking man with cropped hair and a scar down one side of his scalp and face. Wincey introduced him as Malcy McArthur, Charlotte’s husband. Charlotte, Virginia remembered, was the Gourlay girl who’d died—not in the B
litz but long before that. Poor Teresa, losing three children. Granny was frail looking and bent and her fingers twitched constantly on her knees.

  ‘He’s on leave frae doon in England somewhere. That right, son?’

  ‘Yes, Granny. I wish I didn’t need to go back down there, I can tell you.’

  Teresa said, ‘Never mind, Malcy, the war won’t last forever and then you’ll be able to come back for good.’

  ‘Aye,’ Granny said, ‘if he’s still aw in one piece.’

  ‘Ma!’ ‘Granny!’ Erchie and Teresa cried out in unison.

  The old woman paid not the slightest attention to either of them.

  ‘He’s had a few close shaves already, haven’t ye, son?’

  Malcy laughed. ‘You could say that, Granny.’

  Malcy had brought Erchie some Woodbines and Erchie gratefully lit one up and enjoyed a few puffs. ‘By God, it’s a wee while since ah’ve had a decent smoke. Ah’m fair enjoyin’ these, son.’

  Teresa made the tea. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t a biscuit or a bit cake left in the house.’

  ‘My fault,’ Malcy said. ‘There was a bit of a welcome do for me here last night and all the rations were used up. It’s a wonder there’s any tea left.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ Virginia delved into her handbag and brought out a packet of digestives. She handed them over to Teresa. ‘I get most of my food at the hospital so I’ve always something extra.’

  ‘Oh thank you, dear.’

  ‘Ma favourites.’ Granny’s face brightened with pleasure and anticipation. ‘Ah love a digestive tae dip into ma tea.’

  ‘How long are you here for, Malcy?’ Virginia asked, as Teresa opened the packet of biscuits and put them onto a plate.

  ‘They gave me a couple of weeks and it’s been great to be back in Glasgow. I’d hoped to have been here before but I was in hospital for a while and what with one thing and another, I don’t know what I would have done without Wincey’s letters. They kept me going.’

  He smiled so warmly over at Wincey that Virginia wondered if there was more than just letter writing going on between them. Wincey hadn’t said anything and it was difficult to tell by looking at her. Virginia made a mental note to ask her the first chance she got.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive Florence for not coming through.’ Teresa lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘She’s been staying here since … you know …’

  ‘Yes.’ Virginia’s face screwed up with sympathy. ‘Wincey told me. Poor Florence. It’s just terrible.’

  Teresa said. ‘She goes to her bed awful early. She’s not been well for a while. The doctor can’t find anything wrong but she’s got no energy. We don’t know what to do for the best.’

  ‘Poor Florence,’ Virginia repeated helplessly. ‘Tell her I am asking for her, won’t you.’

  ‘I will, dear. How’s your husband? Could he not come with you tonight?’

  ‘No. Busy as usual with all his war efforts.’

  ‘Bloody war,’ the old woman growled.

  ‘Granny!’ Teresa cast an harassed, apologetic look in Virginia’s direction. ‘Sorry about Granny.’

  ‘Don’t you dare apologise for me, Teresa Gourlay. Ah’ll curse this bloody war as much as ah like. It costs us dear enough.’

  ‘Quite right, Granny,’ Virginia agreed. ‘I’m so sick of the whole business. I just hate it.’

  ‘Are ye still workin’ hard at the hospital, hen?’ Erchie asked.

  They chatted for a while and Virginia felt relaxed and was glad of their company. If it had been possible, she would have stayed all night. She dreaded going back to her empty house. However, the time came when she had to make a move and on finding that she hadn’t brought her car, Wincey said, ‘I’ll drive you back, Mother. We can’t have you hanging about waiting for trams at this time of night.’

  In the car, Virginia said, ‘Malcy seems a nice man.’

  Wincey was concentrating on her driving and didn’t respond. Virginia tried again.

  ‘Are you … I mean, are you and Malcy …’

  ‘We’re just friends, Mother,’ Wincey said.

  ‘I’ll see you at the weekend, as usual, I hope?’ Virginia asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Wincey didn’t come in with her but just waited and watched from the car until she got safely inside. Virginia stood motionless, her back to the door, listening to the car drive away, dreading moving further into loneliness. Eventually, her heels clicked across the hall as she went into the sitting room. There she drew the blackout curtain shut and switched on the light. She did the same in all the rooms, upstairs and downstairs, except the writing room. She didn’t dare go in there. How still and silent the house was. Even when Nicholas had been shut away in his writing room, the house had never felt like this.

  She was devastated to realise how much she missed him—and he’d only been away for a few hours. They’d occasionally been apart before, but this was very different. This time he might not come back.

  29

  Teresa was keeping going for Florence’s sake. They all were. Even Granny, who was up at Springburn Park at the moment. Erchie had volunteered to take her to hear the Sally Band, her favourite. Florence sat at the room window most of every day, gazing out with blank eyes. Or she lay in bed all day. She couldn’t work, couldn’t do anything. Hardly ever even spoke.

  ‘It would be so much better if she could get out to work,’ Teresa whispered to Wincey in the kitchen. ‘Being with all the other sales ladies in Copeland’s would bring her out of herself, take her mind off things.’

  ‘I would be perfectly willing to give her a job in the factory if necessary, Teresa, but …’

  ‘I know. Poor Florence, you know what she’s like. Yes, the factory would probably just make her feel worse. She was always so proud of being in Copeland’s. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with working in the factory, dear,’ Teresa said hastily. ‘And it’s not that Florence ever meant any harm.’

  ‘I know. I was only saying I’d do anything I could to help her. But it’s so difficult, isn’t it?’

  ‘I keep asking the doctor but all he seems to give her is pills and potions that make her more lethargic and sleepy than ever. She seems to have lost all hope, as well as energy.’

  ‘I really do wish there was something I could do to help her. And you too, Teresa. You’ve had a worse loss than Florence. You’ve lost three children. Florence should try to think of you instead of thinking of herself so much. That would probably do her more good than anything.’

  ‘If she would just get better, I’d be all right.’

  ‘Time is supposed to heal but it’s been over two years now, Teresa. There have been so many people who have suffered much worse than her. Look at that family who lost fourteen—or was it fifteen—from a baby of five months to a boy of nineteen years of age. Compared with them, Florence should think herself lucky.’

  They hadn’t noticed Florence come shuffling into the kitchen like an old woman. Her once glossy, well dressed hair was now straggling down over her face. Her eyes were dull and dark shadowed.

  ‘I try to,’ she said tearfully. ‘I really do. It’s just that I feel so tired all the time.’

  ‘I know, dear.’ Teresa ran to put an arm around her. ‘We all understand that you’re ill and we just wish we could help you get better. Isn’t that right, Wincey?’

  ‘Of course it is, Florence. I’m sorry if I sounded unsympathetic or unkind. I didn’t mean to.’

  Florence nodded. ‘If I could just get back my energy, Wincey. I want to get back to work. I long to get back to work. But I’m so tired all the time. What’s wrong with me, Mammy? Why can’t the doctor help me?’

  Teresa bit at her lip. ‘Maybe if we tried to get another doctor. Asked for a second opinion, or something.’

  ‘I could pay for private treatment,’ Wincey said. ‘And how about if you and Florence have a wee holiday somewhere, Teresa. Some sea air might help. How about somewhere u
p north? Money’s no problem.’

  ‘Well, it’s very kind of you, dear, but there’s so many other problems just now about travelling. There’s these posters all over the place—Is your journey really necessary?—and all that.’

  ‘Even if it meant going by taxi, Teresa, that would be all right by me. I could arrange it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Such an expense, dear,’ Teresa said worriedly.

  Florence widened her eyes. ‘Maybe a holiday, right enough. Maybe that would make me better. If I could just get enough energy.’

  Wincey said, ‘Erchie and I could carry you out into the taxi if necessary, Florence. Or if I could arrange some time off, I’d drive you there myself. You don’t need to worry about anything. All you need to do is leave everything to me.’

  Tears blurred Florence’s eyes. ‘Thanks, Wincey. I’m so sorry for being such a nuisance.’

  Wincey rushed over to give her a hug and a kiss. ‘Don’t be daft. You’re not a nuisance. You’re my dear sister.’

  Florence clung to her. ‘Am I?’ she asked tremulously.

  ‘Of course. Always have been. Now you sit over there beside the fire and have a nice cup of tea with me and your Mammy and we’ll talk about where you’ll go on your holiday. I’ve another idea as well. I’ve heard about a thing called homeopathic treatment. I think that’d be worth trying, if I can find a suitable doctor.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of that, dear,’ Teresa said, as she helped Florence over to a chair, then put the kettle on to boil. ‘What kind of thing is it?’

  ‘It was my mother that mentioned something about it. She’d read an article somewhere. I’ll ask her if she knows any more when I see her this weekend.’

  True to her word, that weekend Wincey asked her mother about homeopathy, and her mother showed her the article, and a pamphlet she’d found on the subject.

  One of the principles of homeopathy, it said, was that because people varied in their response to an illness, the homeopath does not automatically present a specific remedy for a specific illness. He tries instead to determine the patient’s temperament and so prescribe on an individual basis. Homeopathy provides remedies to assist the body’s natural healing process, it said. It treats the patient, rather than the disease, and it treats like with like—the law of similars. It also acted on the belief that there were ‘emotional diseases originating in the mind’ which could be ‘transferred in health of both mind and body by physical means’.