by Maggie Craig
Keeping a close eye on Eric Mitchell on Monday afternoon, Liz saw him go across to the young girl and lay a hand on her shoulder. He was doing the kindly bit, telling her how the outgoing mail should be dealt with. Liz could see that the new recruit was trying desperately not to shrink away from him.
Liz wondered if the female of the species was born knowing the difference between a genuinely friendly touch - like the way Adam Buchanan had put his arm around her on Sunday afternoon - and the other sort. If not, it was certainly a skill you learned early on in life.
Eric Mitchell’s pestering over the last two years had affected her own response even to a friendly touch, not to mention the kind which went - willingly - a bit beyond friendship. An image of Mario Rossi flitted across her mind’s eye.
Liz took a deep breath. She couldn’t let the new girl suffer as she had. Adam Buchanan thought she had guts. Maybe this was the time to prove it.
It was late on Wednesday afternoon before she managed to get Eric Mitchell on his own. Everyone else was out of the office on various duties and errands.
Getting up from her desk took an enormous effort of will, as did crossing the room towards him. He glanced up as she approached, and Liz could see that he was surprised. First point to her. She stood in front of his desk and spoke without preamble.
‘What happened on Friday afternoon - there won’t be any repeat of it. And you’ll leave the new lassie alone as well. She’s not to be bothered.’
He pushed his chair away from the desk, tilting it so that only the two back legs were on the floor. ‘Really, Lizzie? Might I ask how you propose to stop me?’
How she hated him! He sprawled back in his chair, his cold eyes roaming over her body, lingering quite deliberately on the swell of her breasts.
‘I’ll speak to Mr Murray.’
I mustn’t sound angry, she thought resisting the impulse to fold her arms protectively over her chest. She had to appear cool and relaxed, even a little amused.
‘After all,’ she said, trying to emulate Adam’s elegant drawl, his sister did have tea with my parents last weekend.’
That surprised him. She could see it in his horrible pasty face. Liz pressed her advantage.
‘And I’ve got friendly with his nephew too. We’re on first-name terms now. You heard him on Friday - we keep bumping into each other all over the place.’
‘He giving you one, is he?’
She managed not to shudder in distaste. Don’t react to it, that’s what he wants you to do. Keep cool and keep the heid.
‘I rather think that he and the Honourable Miss Maclntyre are walking out together. Not that it’s anyone’s business but their own.’
Eric Mitchell tilted his head back. ‘Ah, but you know what toffs are like, Lizzie. They’ve got the morals of alley cats.’
‘You’re one to talk.’
He slammed forward on the chair, startling her. As the two front legs hit the floor he got up and came to stand in front of her. Right in front of her.
‘Perhaps he fancies the both of you,’ he said softly. His face was only inches from her own. ‘At the same time, even. Pretty perverted, the upper classes. Or maybe he wants to watch the two of you together first.’
Innocent as she was, it took a minute or two for the penny to drop on that one. When it did, she took an involuntary step back from him.
‘You’re disgusting!’
He smiled his horrible smile. ‘I’ve got some very interesting literature at home I could let you see. More in the way of photographs, actually. Hidden from the little woman, naturally. My wife doesn’t like that sort of thing, but you might, Lizzie. I’d be more than happy to show them to you.’
His cold, hateful eyes reminded her of a dead fish on a marble slab. ‘I certainly wouldn’t blame young Mr Buchanan if he couldn’t control himself around you. Any man might have the same problem.’ His eyes dropped to her mouth. ‘Little prick-tease,’ he murmured.
That was it, that was it.
‘Your mind’s really in the gutter, isn’t it?’
Trembling with fury, she took another step back, putting some space between them. To hell with not getting angry with him.
‘I won’t listen to any more of this. I’m not prepared for you to speak to me in that way. Ever again. Or the new lassie either.’
‘Going to run to Mr Murray, are you? Or his relatives that you’re so palsy-walsy with all of a sudden? That’s very clever, little Lizzie, ingratiating yourself with the boss and his family. Going to become a part-time nurse, I hear. Should be right up your street. Angels of mercy? Tarts, more like.’
If it hadn’t been so pathetic it would have been laughable. He had no idea - no idea about anything.
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘If you try anything else either with me or with the new girl, I’ll go to Mr Murray. Without asking Miss Gilchrist first. And if that fails, I’ve got a friend who has three extremely large brothers. All good men in a fight, I understand.’
That was pure invention, the idea popping into her head from nowhere. She wouldn’t dream of inciting someone to commit violence. Fear of possible fisticuffs had, after all, been the reason why she hadn’t told her own brother about Eric Mitchell long before now.
‘You accommodating all three of them too?’
He was still sneering, but she had rattled him. She could see it in his face. She felt a sudden odd little spurt of energy. She wasn’t sure if Adam was right about her having guts, but she did know she was experiencing a new-found confidence, a sense that she could do anything she set her mind to. She was going to become a VAD, and she was going to stop Eric Mitchell in his tracks. Right now.
It was the threat of physical violence which had tipped the scales in her favour. In which case she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
‘How long do you think you’d last here if I let it be known how you’ve molested me over the past two years? Or if you came in to work with a black eye after having been in a brawl? How would you explain that away? Especially as I daresay I could arrange for that sort of thing to happen quite frequently.’
Bloody hell, where had that come from? She sounded like some sort of gangster’s moll out of an American cops and robbers film. Lizzie MacMillan, tough-talking broad. Just as long as he didn’t notice how nervous she still was, even at this stage in the game.
It was a wee touch melodramatic. Interfere with me again and I’ll summon my henchmen. Oh, come on. Could he really be that stupid? She looked into his eyes and realized that he could. It was hard not to let the elation show on her face.
The door of the inner office opened. Miss Gilchrist peered at them both. ‘Is there a problem?’
Liz turned towards her, her head high, graceful as a queen.
‘No, Miss Gilchrist, there’s not a problem. Mr Mitchell and I have just succeeded in resolving one. Haven’t we, Mr Mitchell?’
‘So not only have I sorted Eric Mitchell out - he really backed down when I threatened him with your lot - I’m also going to get to become a VAD. Isn’t it wonderful?’
‘Wonderful,’ agreed Helen. ‘I’m so pleased for you, Liz.’ She had been aghast when Liz had given her the details of her conversation with the chief clerk.
‘The slimy creep! Imagine him having the sheer brass neck’ - she paused, searching for the right word - ‘the... the effrontery to say disgusting things like that to a respectable girl like you. I’m proud of you for standing up to him, Liz. I really am. The boys would be perfectly willing to teach him a lesson.’ Helen’s pretty mouth settled into a determined line. ‘I know they would. You’d only have to ask. They all like you, you know.’
‘I wouldn’t ask them,’ said Liz. ‘Not really.’ She stretched out an impulsive hand to touch Helen’s arm. ‘But it’s great to know I’ve got such good friends.’
‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ said Helen, mimicking the Cockney charlady who’d been one of the characters in the last picture the two girls had seen. Her indignation vanis
hing, she put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands.
I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Eddie does fancy her, thought Liz. Not only is she pretty, she’s so sweet-natured too - honest and fierce and loyal and funny.
‘So,’ Helen asked, ‘when do you start your training, will you and Janet do it together and - much more importantly - what’s the uniform like?’
Liz laughed. ‘Quite flattering, actually. ‘Apart from the length of the dress.’
‘Several inches too long?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘Well, they couldn’t run the risk of any of the nice young doctors catching a glimpse of your knees. Or the patients. It might drive them wild with desire.’
Liz laughed again. ‘But it is a very nice shade of blue. The coat and hat are darker, navy blue really. Very smart and neat, both of them.’
‘And you’ll wear a nurse’s apron over the dress? And a cap?’ asked Helen.
Liz nodded. ‘Aye. The apron has a big red cross on the bib and the cap has a smaller one. And we wear an armband as well, to tell the world that we’re VADs and belong to the Red Cross. And both Janet and I should start our training sometime in the new year. Probably the end of January, Mrs Buchanan says. It seems like ages away.’
‘It’ll pass soon enough,’ Helen said. ‘Will you need to ask off work for it?’
Liz shook her head. ‘No. It’ll be done over several weekends at one of the hospitals. That’s why there’s a delay. They can only take so many of us at a time. I hope we both get sent to the Western.’
‘Won’t that be automatic? Seeing as how you’re from Clydebank?’
Liz shook her head. ‘Apparently not. It might be the Victoria, or the Royal.’
‘I suppose they’re good hospitals too, Liz.’
‘I’m sure they’re great hospitals,’ she said warmly. ‘But I’d feel more at home at the Western.’
While Clydebank was well served by several highly respected small local hospitals, it was to the Western you always went for serious emergencies and more major ailments. Like the other big teaching hospitals, it was dependent for its income on freely given donations. The people who lived in the areas served by them raised money for those by holding regular dances and sales of work.
Donations also came from businesses, trade guilds, professional associations and charitable institutions, hence Cordelia Maclntyre’s reference to the begging bowl the day she and Adam had come to Murray’s. As Liz had subsequently discovered, Alasdair Murray was a generous contributor to hospital funds. Miss Maclntyre herself was one of the Infirmary’s volunteer fund-raisers.
‘Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed,’ said Helen. ‘Do you know what the training will be like?’
‘Lectures and some practical stuff and then I’m inclined to think we’re going to be thrown in at the deep end.’
‘On the wards?’ Helen asked. ‘With real, living, breathing patients?’
Liz grinned at her affectionate sarcasm, opening her eyes wide in mock alarm.
‘Apparently. I only hope the patients are still living and breathing after they’ve had me looking after them.’
‘Och, you! You’ll be good at it. I know you will.’
‘I hope so. I certainly intend to do my best - even if I am in with a crowd of bourgeois young ladies playing at nursing!’
Helen shook her head. ‘Elizabeth MacMillan, sometimes you sound exactly like your brother.’
‘Oh?’Liz asked innocently. ‘And is that such a bad thing?’
There was a pause. Then Helen resolutely changed the subject. Liz let it drop. It wasn’t fair to tease her about it. Helen and Eddie might well be attracted to each other but encouraging the relationship wasn’t doing them any favours. Liz couldn’t imagine that either set of parents would be exactly over the moon if a romance did develop.
September arrived, and with it the end of the brief dry spell they had enjoyed during August. The rain which had characterized the whole of the summer of 1938 was back with a vengeance. The wet weather made one of the year’s hit songs - September in the Rain - all too appropriate.
Everybody was singing it - while they slipped and slid on the real leaves of brown which came tumbling down and turned into a sludgy mass on the wet pavements quicker than they could be swept up. The party going to the Paul Robeson concert sang it on the hired bus on the way over to Bellahouston. Adam Buchanan and Mario Rossi, carried away by an attack of high spirits, sat next to each other and belted it out crooner-style, stroking imaginary moustaches and giving all the girls ludicrous come-hither looks. Peter MacMillan, in his element among the young people, laughed uproariously at them.
As they filed into the concert hall, Liz noticed the lengths to which Eddie and Helen went in order to avoid sitting next to each other. She also noticed the way the two of them looked at each other when they thought they were unobserved. Oh, dear. Ought she to help them out after all?
Without quite knowing how she had managed it, Liz herself ended up between Adam and Mario. She felt more than a little awkward about that, especially as Cordelia Maclntyre was sitting next to Mario rather than Adam.
When the great singer took to the stage, she forgot it all in the sheer pleasure of listening to his magnificent voice. He sang all the numbers for which he was best known: Ol’ Man River, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Curly-Headed Baby. He further delighted his audience by singing a couple of Scottish songs, even managing one in Gaelic. Entranced, impressed and complimented, his listeners almost clapped their hands off at the end of that one.
One song was new to Liz: the ballad of Joe Hill. Listening attentively to the words, she decided that it was terrific. It told the story of an American trade union leader who’d been framed for murder because he was causing the bosses too much trouble.
Although he’d been executed for the crime he did not commit, the message of the song was that they hadn’t been able to kill his fighting spirit: Where working men defend their rights, that’s where you’ll find Joe Hill...
Glancing along the row of seats when the song was finished, joining in the rapturous applause, she caught Eddie’s eye.
‘Wasn’t that great?’ she mouthed over the noise of hundreds of hands clapping. Her brother gave her the thumbs-up. He’d loved the defiant song too.
At the interval, Adam asked Liz if she would like an ice-cream. Leaning forward, he looked along the row and extended the invitation to Cordelia and Mario as well.
‘I’ll come and help you carry them, shall I?’ asked Liz, hurriedly rising to her feet. Most people had already shuffled out and were heading for the foyer. Except Mario Rossi. Leaning back comfortably in his seat, he clearly had no intention of moving during the interval.
‘No need for that,’ said Cordelia with a smile. ‘I’ll go. You stay here and chat to Mario.’
She meant to be friendly, Liz supposed. The only trouble was that the last thing in the world she wanted to do was stay here and chat to Mario Rossi. And he knew it. She could see the amusement in his eyes, along with something else she couldn’t quite interpret. Whatever it was, it was making her very uncomfortable. Liz tried desperately to think of something to say, but her mind seemed to have gone a complete blank.
‘Are you enjoying the concert?’
‘It’s marvellous,’ she said, momentarily forgetting her awkwardness in her enthusiasm. ‘He has a wonderful voice. Thank you very much for asking me.’
‘I asked you something else, too,’ he said quietly. ‘Any chance that you’ve changed your mind about saying no?’
Liz dropped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’
‘Pity,’ he said. His voice was light, but when Liz darted a glance up at him she saw that all trace of amusement had vanished from his eyes. They looked almost bleak. Without taking them off her face, he gestured with his head towards the stage.
‘He does have a wonderful voice, doesn’t he?’
She nodded. There was no doubt about
that.
‘One of the greatest singers in the world today, in fact,’ Mario went on. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
Liz nodded again.
‘Yet they had difficulty finding a hotel prepared to take him.’ He paused briefly. ‘Because he’s a negro.’
‘That’s terrible,’ cried Liz, genuinely shocked. ‘What does it matter what colour he is?’
She had walked right into it. The smile which curved Mario’s mouth was a bitter one, and it didn’t reach his eyes.
‘Prejudice is a terrible thing, isn’t it?’ He held her gaze for a few unforgiving seconds, then glanced over his shoulder. ‘Ah. Here come Cordelia and Adam with our ice-creams.’
The following Sunday afternoon, Liz popped her head round the door of Eddie’s bedroom. She found him bent over the table under the window where he did his studying. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘No,’ he said, turning and greeting her with a smile. ‘Come in. I’m needing a break. I thought you’d gone up to the Holy City.’
‘I’m about to go now,’ she answered, perching on the end of his bed. ‘I wondered if you might like to come with me. Have a break from your swotting.’
‘Och, well, Liz, I’m not sure. I’ve an essay to finish for Tuesday...’ His voice trailed off, and he blushed.
Liz stood up. ‘Oh well, then. It’s only that one of Helen’s brothers is really interested in politics. Conor,’ she went on briskly. ‘He was at the concert and the Red Cross exercise. The one with the big dog?’
Eddie nodded. Liz moved towards the door of the bedroom. ‘He’s an anarchist, he says. What with you being a communist, I thought you might enjoy a discussion with each other.’
Why was she encouraging this? The answer came winging back to her. Because she had seen the way her brother and her friend had looked at each other, because she loved them both, because they were so obviously made for each other. What did it matter what religion they were? Mario Rossi would never know how much she agreed with him.
