In Loving Memory

by Telfer Chaplin, Jenny

  “Pardon me for interrupting your daydream, my lady, but might I make so bold as to inquire if your ladyship has as yet finally decided? Am I to escort you safely to Glasgow Green or not?”

  Lara studied the fresh, unlined face and the mischievous brown eyes twinkling at her and she thought, for some reason best known to herself, Mammy was forever warning me about inebriated gentlemen houseguests, but never did she say a single word about young, ordinary, half-starved looking Irish immigrants with teasing manners and winning smiles.

  Once arrived at the Green and surrounded on all sides by a surging, seething mass of angry, vocal and loudly protesting Bread Rioters, Lara could feel an uprising in her heart and spirit as she empathised with their feelings, their anger and their utter frustration at the high price of bread.

  As she joined the chanting, her escort looked at her in surprise.

  “Are you sure you’ve only just arrived from the Highlands? Seems to me, the way ye’re goin on, ye are as much a part of this protest rally as someone born to it.”

  Lara could feel herself blush. “Let’s just say, being Scottish as I am, the blood and fire of Scottish freedom fighters is in my bones. And sorry if I misled you earlier, I was not just off the latest boat from Sutherland. You simply assumed that. But one thing you did work out correctly ... as of the minute and hour that you met me I was indeed homeless, helpless and with not a friend in the world to my name.”

  Mike gave her a quizzical look. “Whoever and whatever you are my girl, if you’re a fighter for the rights of the common man then you are one special person in my book and that’s a fact.”

  Lara smiled. “Thank you for that vote of confidence. Just one thing I would correct, I am not your girl, I’m not anybody’s girl, for that matter but I am my own person. That I must make clear to you before you get too carried away.”

  He gave a great shout of laughter. “Well, now that we’ve got that all sorted out, perhaps we should ...”

  His words drifted away on the rising tide of noise in which they were then engulfed. And even as he had been speaking, the mood of the crowds piled into the Green was becoming, angrier and more violent by the minute. When one iron-bar-bearing group of protesters suddenly appeared from Monteith Row, from where they had uprooted the iron bars, things began to look increasingly ugly. Wielding their makeshift weapons, these protesters were charging full-tilt at the mounted soldiers.

  Seeing this and without a word of apology or explanation, Mike grabbed her by the arm. He swiftly and unceremoniously pulled her away from the imminent danger towards a quieter area and ultimately to safety. Having done that he bent down and whispered in her ear, “I think we have shown enough solidarity and support for today’s rally.”

  As they quickly put more distance between them and the rioters, Lara could not help but wonder where they might be going, or even at what point she could thank her protector for his kind services and then decently take her leave of him.

  Almost as if he had read her innermost thoughts, he stopped, grabbed her arm and wheeled her around to face him.

  “Now then, my girl ... er sorry, you’ve already told me you’re not ‘my girl’, but it’s just a figure of speech. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is this ... if you’re as friendless and homeless as you’ve made out, best thing to do is to get you back to Mammy, my sainted mother. She’s going to take a poor orphan girl like you to her heart. A heart of gold, my Mammy has.”

  Lara raised her eyebrows. “I’m sure what you say is true, that your mother is kind-hearted and generous to a fault. Just one thing bothers me. Taking an Irish girl and a good Catholic into her home is one thing. Not only am I neither of those things, but I’m a Glaswegian. So how exactly do ye suggest we get round that pitfall?”

  “Isn’t it about high time ye told me your name?”

  Lara told him. “Not that my name has much to do with anything, it still will not change me from being a Kirk-attending Presbyterian, about as far removed from Roman Catholicism as you could get.”

  He cocked his head on one side. “Well, far from being a stern Presbyterian, my dear Mammy is a staunch Irish Catholic. Yes, there’s bad blood between us and the Glaswegians; it’s not of our making. In fact we didn’t need actual printed notices to tell us that we Irish are not welcome in this City, but who could blame us if we react to such treatment? Anyway, religious beliefs aside, Mother Bradie is not in the business of tossing out into the street any young, friendless, homeless, defenceless girl. Time enough for her to do that when she realises ye do not attend Mass every day.” He gave her a gentle smile.

  Lara to hide her embarrassment at the way her thoughts were running drew herself to her full height.

  “Oho so you think I’m defenceless, do you? Let me tell you Mister Mike Bradie, I’m no mean fighter with a heavy enamel bucket in my hands, I can swing a mean punch.”

  He laughed. “I just hope to God I’m never at the receiving end. But listen, for tonight at least, ye’ll have shelter, something to eat. Although our home is not much more than a shanty, the shack where we live is home to us, the Bradie family. No matter how overcrowded, there’s always space and a warm welcome to other poor travellers on life’s rocky road.”

  Lara laughed. “Sure you’re not also a poet, Mike, that all sounded very poetical.”

  By clinging tightly to Mike’s jacket, the two of them made it safely away from Glasgow Green, through the other city pends and wynds until finally they arrived at the Bradie shack in Martha Street.

  Once there and duly welcomed into the bosom of the family by ‘Mammy’, Lara then realised something else; the reference to overcrowding had not been in jest.

  The shack was indeed filled to capacity by not just the one family, but also another large family called Reilly. Even so, not since the days before she’d entered service as the lowliest of kitchen skivvies, not once had she. Lara, felt so welcome, so wanted, and so secure as being the right person in the right place and at the right time in the overall scheme of things.

  So far so good, thought Lara, keeping in mind Mike’s injunction to say as little as possible, but just keep on looking sad, pathetic and like a homeless orphan of the storm. So far in the excitement of her unexpected arrival, not one single person in the shack had questioned her, her nationality, or even her religious persuasion.

  So far so good, but just wait till I’m the only absentee from the Church parade to early-morning Mass ... what then?

  As she savoured a mug of hot sweet tea and devoured a morsel of soda bread, Lara looked up at Mammy Bradie and with tears in her eyes, mouthed a silent, ‘thank you’.

  So much for playing the part of the sad, pathetic homeless, friendless orphan of the storm. Who’s acting, thought Lara, taking another man-sized bite from the mouth-watering soda bread.

  Chapter 3

  As Lara sat there quietly on the makeshift seat of her bundles, she was luxuriating in the peace and calm of the shack, after the mayhem, noise and blood in the streets beyond. But while she was thus being left to her own thoughts and devices bearing in mind Mike’s admonition that she should say as little as possible, there was no such respite for Mike.

  He on the other hand was being plied with questions on all sides.

  Mr Reilly, the father of the other family who shared living quarters in the shack, asked, “And the speakers at the rally ... they were actually telling people to grab food for themselves whenever and wherever they could get it?”

  Mike nodded. “That they were, Mr Reilly, sir. Take food by the strong arm. The rich have food but you have none. Those were the very words. Take food by the strong hand.”

  Mike looked across at Lara and she gave a silent nod of agreement.

  Thus encouraged, Mike went on, “And ye’d never believe what a time we had getting through the streets. By then shops had been broken into, iron railings had been torn up from the gardens of big houses, mounted cavalry thundered past. Terrible so it was, we were in the middle of a battlegroun
d. Mind you, it was even worse when we got into Buchanan Street, I think it was there the mob had stopped a meal-cart, overturned it and then started ripping open the sacks of meal with knives. That was when the mob really went wild ...” Mike stopped speaking, as though mentally reliving the scene. “People fell to the ground, and in the frenzy to get food, it was every man or woman for themselves. People were trampled underfoot, lay where they’d fallen , were climbed over as if they were stepping stones, then finally, a sight I’ll never forget ...” Again he paused and with everyone in the shack by now hanging on his every word, he quickly continued, “Aye, ye’d never believe it, Ma, but women, the stronger and I suppose the more desperate for food for their families, these women finally emerged from the seething mass of bodies with their aprons bulging with meal. Some even had a whole cheese clamped under each arm, then they sped off at high speed before anyone else could steal their loot.”

  Mrs Bradie looked at her son. “Those poor mothers must have been real desperate for food for their children. Mind you, although we’ve been lucky to get enough flour for the odd batch of soda bread, it still goes without saying, while we ourselves could indeed have used an extra handful of meal or a cheese, as much as the next family, I thank God you didn’t risk your life for that Mike.”

  Mike chewed at his lower lip. “Not that I didn’t think about it, Ma, but by the time we arrived in Buchanan Street, the battle for food was in full swing and I could see what a hopeless task it would have been by then.”

  Again Lara nodded her silent agreement of his assessment of the dire situation.

  Then gazing fondly at his mother, Mike said, “Something I have to tell ye in all honesty, Ma, far from being brave or too careful of my own safety, once we turned into Queen Street, the overflow of the mob, they had smashed the window of a pastry-cook. And at one time, for one glorious moment I did manage to grab a couple of pastries, a treat for you, Mammy, when did ye last, or ever for that matter, eat a pastry?”

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, Mrs Bradie, patted his arm and Mike said, “So there was I standing with my spoils of war, one in each hand, and what happened? A man nearby, half-crazed, kept nudging me in the ribs and chanting, ‘Vive la Republic, we’ll hae Vive la Republic and naethin but the bloody Republic.’ Then catching sight of my pastries, he snatched them out of my hands, crammed them both into his mouth at the one time, and ate them noisily and greedily. All the while staring at me and daring me to tackle him. It was thanks to Lara there that I didn’t engage with him. She grabbed me by my jacket and pulled me away to safety.”

  Silence greeted this account, as everyone in the shack mentally pictured the scene, no doubt also imagining what it would be like to devour two whole pastries ... whatever they were but obviously a delicious sweet-bite of some kind.

  Ryan Bradie got to his feet. “Well, son, I think we’ve now heard all we want of sogers, guns, iron bars, mounted cavalry and corpses on boards being carried shoulder-high through the streets. That’s enough, more than enough for now, otherwise not the one of us will sleep easy this night.”

  At these words, young Declan Reilly immediately set up a howl of protest.

  “But I want to hear more about the sogers and their bayonets, the Carabineer on his horse leaping over a barricade and ...”

  His father fixed him with a look which silenced the boy.

  “You heard what Mister Bradie said, enough is enough. Anyway, daft idiot that ye are, can ye not see, ye’re scaring the living daylights out of your sisters. Just look at Nola there, the wee soul fair breaking her innocent wee heart with such warlike talk.”

  Seeing this, Lara rose to her feet and bending down beside the child, she mopped away her tears, patted her curly head and then coaxed her with the last mouthful of soda bread she still held in her hand.

  “There now, dear, it’s all over now, so no more tears.”

  On the point of saying more Lara suddenly remembered the injunction to keep as quiet as possible, say little or nothing lest her Scottish accent upset the two Irish families. Lara gave a discreet cough and a meaningful look of apology for her mistake across to Mike. He shrugged his shoulders. If this gesture was seen by anyone, they chose to ignore it. Given that it was Lara who had pulled Mike to safety from the angry mob, she was the heroine of the hour and at least for the time being, and in the eyes of his mother, Lara Bell could do no wrong.

  Chapter 4

  Two days later as Mike returned one day to the shack after yet another morning’s fruitless attempt to find work, Lara took one look at him and said, “Tomorrow is another day.”

  He sat down on one of the upturned crates, looked at her with eyes as bleak as his despondent mood and said, “So what would ye tell me is going to be different or in any way better the morrow? God Almighty, girl, has it still not dawned on ye ... by the time I get to the front of the queue, either all of the available jobs are already taken or with great glee, there’s a crudely written notice shoved in my face, ‘NO IRISH NEED APPLY.”

  Lara put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell you what, Mike, a bowl of steaming hot soup would put new life into you. So jacket on again. We’ll go along into the town for that.”

  He peered up and frowned. “Lost your senses now, have ye. Lara? Go into town for a bowl of soup? Sure ’tis rubbish ye’re talking woman.”

  She gave a tut of annoyance. “But surely you remember, you told me a couple of Sundays ago, you were lucky enough to get free tickets for Peter Mackenzie’s Sunday Soup Kitchen? Remember?”

  Mike nodded. “Aye, fine well I mind, that was thanks to Father McGrath, now that all the Churches have given the Soup Kitchen their blessing, even though it is on a Sunday, Father McGrath gave me a ticket for two after Mass. But anyway, today’s only Wednesday, a long enough time till Sunday ... and come to that, ye’ve no ticket as yet for Sunday. So, I still think ye’re talking nonsense, Lara.”

  Breaking into a smile Lara said, “You’re forgetting one thing, with the spread of typhus, Her Majesty has decreed a Proclamation for a Fast today, her reasoning being that ... now how exactly did Queen Victoria put it ...?”

  Mike’s mother chimed in, “It was something along the lines of that if we turn to God in due contrition and penitence of heart, then the Good Lord would withdraw his afflicting Hand.” Mrs Bradie pursed her lips in an attitude of disgust. “She might be the Queen sitting up yonder on her throne, but a fat lot she knows about anyone of us in this day and age ... sure as God’s in His Heaven, we don’t need a special day for fasting, sure it is God’s Will, we’re already starving of hunger and fasting every mortal day that he sends us.”

  Lara by now could hardly contain her excitement. “Yes, Mistress Bradie, you’ve stated the words of Her Majesty’s Proclamation to perfection. But what you mibbe still don’t know is this ... Peter Mackenzie has since made a Declaration of his own. Even though today is a Wednesday, his Soup Kitchen will be open. Fast Day or not. And from what I’ve heard, no tickets needed on this occasion … no tickets just an appetite and a willingness to go against the wishes of Queen Victoria.”

  Mike looked up, a slightly hesitant smile on his face.

  “Lara, I’d love a good bowl of soup. But I do think we should steer clear of the Soup Kitchen, this day there could well be trouble and trouble even worse than we met up with on the Bread Riots. No, Lara, it just isn’t worth taking such a risk merely for the sake of a bowl of soup.”

  As if unable to believe what she had just heard, Lara stared at him, and went on staring. When Mike made no move to rise to his feet, she tossed her head in a gesture of defiance, drew her shawl closer and in a voice which brooked no argument said, “You, Mike Bradie, can do as you like, take the coward’s way out, rather than stand up for yourself. I, on the other hand, I am the daughter of a Glaswegian Radical weaver.”

  Mike gave her a puzzled look. “I’ve never heard you say dab about any illustrious father, Glaswegian Radical or whatever. To think I thought you were a poor little orphan
Annie straight off the boat from the Highlands, the day and hour I first met you.”

  Lara gave an angry toss of her head. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mike Bradie. Now then for the last time of asking ... are you or are you not coming to join me supping a bowl of soup. So what’s your answer, yes, or no?”

  As Mike opened his mouth on the point of announcing his decision, suddenly his mother who had been listening to their argument, butted in. “Right then, Lara Bell, that’s more than enough from you for today, thanks all the same. Honestly, once you got over your initial timidity and the vow of silence you appeared to have taken, there’s been no stopping you, voicing your opinions, trying to lay down the law to my son, a good-living Catholic boy. This hovel may not be much but it’s the only home I have, and I’ll not have my family spoken to in this way. You’re the daughter of a Radical leader, is what ye’re now after tellin us? Enough is enough, so you can pack up your traps and get out of here this very minute.”

  Chapter 5

  Although the anger which Mrs Bradie had shown her in giving Lara her marching orders, had come as something of a surprise to Lara, not so the actual ordering of her going. She had known instinctively that once the novelty of having a Scottish heretic in their midst had worn off, so also had their pity for her plight of being alone against a cruel world. In addition to the very real religious divide, she was doubly unwelcome in that she was yet another drain on the family’s already meagre stock of food. She knew without being told that the precious morsel of soda bread given to her on her arrival had indeed been a rare treat. So, even before this final outburst and confrontation with Mrs Bradie, Lara had known that ‘something must be done’.