After You've Gone

by Joan Lingard

  Their neighbour below, Mrs Begg, took hers to the steamie, pushing it there in an old battered pram. Ina said the women who went to the steamie tended to be a lower type of person, and she was not excluding Mrs Begg, who was always cadging, popping up the stairs to borrow a cup of sugar or a wee drop of tea, as she’d run out and the shops were shut, and she’d pay you back, no bother. Believe that if you will!

  Monday was Willa’s least favourite day of the week, with Tuesday following close behind, for then the linen had to be starched and the ironing done. They wouldn’t rest until everything was folded and put away. On days like that Willa wished she were back at her desk in the Co-op office. She missed the company, too.

  At least the washing was over for one week. She was going to reward herself with a trip to the library.

  ‘What else has Tommy got to say?’ demanded Ina. ‘Don’t be keeping it all to yourself.’

  Tomorrow we depart for Dar-es-Salaam and Zanzibar. As we set sail the bands will be playing and the steamers tooting their sirens and there will be cheers, which we shall heartily return. Our visit has been a great success. We were told it would never be forgotten. An event of a lifetime, one young lady called it. A bundle of your letters arrived this morning and I was glad to hear that Malkie is doing well and putting on weight.

  Give Mother my love,

  Your very fond husband,

  Tommy xxx

  Malkie was sitting on his granny’s knee sucking his thumb. He loved being picked up and cuddled against a warm body. Willa thought it wasn’t good for him to be lifted every time he cried; it would make him too dependent, so she’d read in The Woman’s Book, which claimed to contain everything a woman needed to know, from how to treat your servants and the care of household silver to keeping poultry. His granny disagreed. What did books know about babies? She said it hadn’t done Tommy any harm, getting cuddled. ‘Look at him, stravaiging about all over the world!’ The book, which Willa consulted in the library every time the baby had a slight cough or felt a little too hot, also said that it was desirable to let the baby sleep out of doors during the day as much as possible. Not much was possible living in Tollcross. She wasn’t going to put Malcolm out in his pram on his own in the back green and the air wasn’t that fresh either. You could smell the rubber works most days and, if not, the brewery.

  She laid the letter aside, took the bucket and mop from the cupboard, ran in some hot water and soap powder, added a dash of ammonia and went out to wash the stair, starting from the top. There was a strong smell of cat on the landing. Animals came in and out as they fancied with the bottom door left standing open most of the time and any amount of notices asking the other tenants to close it behind them got nowhere. She wondered if some of them could read. They might not. And one or two, like Mrs Begg, didn’t do much on the cleaning front either. Willa had seen her standing on the top step chucking the water over the stairs to bounce and splash its way downward as it chose.

  Willa supposed it would be nice to live in one of those new bungalows they were building further out and have your own back yard and garden, especially with a well-watered, sloping green lawn where a small child could play and run about. One of these days…Maybe.

  When she had reached the bottom lobby and thrown the dirty water out into the gutter, she saw the man with the Cumnock Creamery milk cart crossing the road. He came over from Morrison Street. Their milk and butter were always fresh and the milk was sold in sealed bottles. They had two dairies in their own street, but Willa liked to buy from the Cumnock now and then. She felt sorry for the man having to push the cart through the traffic and negotiate the tram tracks. She knew his wife was sick and they had half a dozen children.

  She asked him to wait while she ran up to fetch some money and when she returned she bought two pints of milk and a pat of butter.

  ‘How’s business?’

  He made a face. ‘Money’s tight. Thanks, lass.’ He doffed his cap to her and gripping the cart handles, pushed it off up the hill.

  On her way back, Willa stopped at the MacNabs’ door on the landing and knocked. Inside, one of the children was crying, which was nothing new. After a moment or two Mrs MacNab opened the door two or three inches, enough to reveal that she had a swollen eye, which was beginning to turn a disturbing shade of purple. She covered it with her hand when she saw Willa’s eyes go to it and muttered something about knocking it against the corner of the kitchen door.

  Willa held out one of the milk bottles. ‘I was just getting some milk from the Cumnock. I was wondering if you could do with a pint?’

  ‘I’ve no money for it.’ The door opened a little wider.

  ‘It’s a present.’ Willa thrust the bottle into Mrs MacNab’s hand and left before she could start blurting out her thanks. She felt awkward, in the role of giving out charity, like Lady Muck, though Tommy’s mother couldn’t understand why. ‘You’re doing them a good turn. What have you to be embarrassed about? We’re not that well off ourselves. They should be grateful to you.’

  She was still sitting with the baby, shoogling him on her knee and singing ‘Rock a bye baby on the tree top’.

  ‘I’m going to the library,’ said Willa, ‘so I thought I’d take Malcolm with me. He could do with an airing. The steam in here’s bad for his lungs.’

  ‘I’ll give him a hurl round the links. He’d prefer that. You don’t want to go to a stuffy old library, do you, Malkie? The air on the links’ll do him good. No, you go on, Willa. I don’t mind taking him and you’ll get a better chance to look at the books without him.’

  Tommy’s mother often seemed to have all the arguments on her side.

  ‘I might take him up to Elma’s afterwards so don’t worry if we’re not back for a bit.’ Ina loved showing off her grandson. Willa supposed she could hardly grudge her that.

  She went to fetch her library books.

  As soon as she was heading up Lauriston Place her irritation lessened and by the time she went through the library portals she was in a good mood again. The sour librarian was on, though even that didn’t dampen her spirits. This woman never brought books up from under the counter but Willa was content to trawl along the shelves, taking books out and browsing a little. Her fingers swept over Marie Corelli and Ethel M Dell, whom she’d read when she was younger, but who seemed rather dull compared to those she was reading now. She picked out a book with the title Anna of the Five Towns by a writer called Arnold Bennett whom she did not know, and a voice behind her said,

  ‘I think you might enjoy that.’

  She jumped. Turning she saw the young man she’d walked up the street with and who had caused Pauline’s mother’s tongue to wag, not that she could actually blame him for that.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘It’s set in the Potteries. In England. How did you like Main Street?’

  ‘Shush,’ said a woman beside them, for which Willa was grateful. She was able to turn back to the shelf and the young man moved away. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him go over to a table and sit down.

  He took a sheet of paper out of a folder, a fountain pen from his top pocket, unscrewed the cap and began to write, frowning a little, stopping to ponder from time to time and to push his thick fair hair back from his forehead. She wondered what he could be writing. He was quite young, perhaps a little younger than herself. He looked up and their eyes met. His were a deep, intense blue, so intense that they were startling. At least, she felt startled. He smiled. She blushed and looked away.

  She decided to take Anna of the Five Towns. She liked the title. For her second book, she chose another Edgar Wallace, The Green Archer. She rather enjoyed thrillers, especially in the evening when Malcolm was asleep and it was dark and quiet outside, except for the rumble of the occasional late-night tram.

  The young man was still sitting at the table when she went to the counter to have her books stamped, although he had finished writing and had put the paper back in its folder and the fountain pen in
his top pocket. He was neatly dressed and wore a tie with a gold pin in it.

  For once, it was not raining. It was a sharp, frosty day, but the sun was out and the sky a brilliant blue, perhaps as brilliant as the sky in Durban, Natal. Willa loved this kind of Edinburgh winter day, when the air seemed to sparkle and everything stood out so clearly. She stood on the step for a moment taking it in before setting off homeward.

  As she was nearing the end of George IV Bridge she heard footsteps behind her. She did not turn her head and when he caught up with her and said, ‘Mind if I walk with you?’ she was able to look surprised.

  ‘Did you take Anna?’

  She showed him that she had.

  ‘What else do you read? Robert Louis Stevenson?’

  ‘Oh yes!’

  ‘Scott?’

  ‘Not much. He’s a bit, kind of—’

  ‘Heavy?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘He just takes a bit of getting into.’

  They began to talk about books again and he told her that he admired Stevenson greatly and wished he could write like him.

  ‘Are you a writer then?’

  ‘Well, I write. But I haven’t published anything yet.’

  ‘I saw you writing.’

  ‘Oh, that! It was only a letter. A job application.’ He was subdued now.

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘Clerk.’ He shrugged. ‘At Galloway’s, the tool makers.’

  ‘In Home Street? That’s near me,’ she said involuntarily.

  She suddenly realised that they were almost at Tollcross. Up ahead was the clock, and the windows of their flat, glinting a little, touched by an oblique angle of sunshine.

  ‘You’ve gone past your house,’ she said.

  ‘That’s all right. I was enjoying talking to you.’

  She began to feel anxious. ‘I’ll need to go, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Cheerio then! I’ll see you again?’

  ‘Expect so. At the library.’

  She swiftly crossed the road, dodging a motor car which blared its horn at her and then a bicycle, and went on up Home Street, passing her door, not wanting to let him see exactly where she lived. Her face burnt and she felt foolish. She should have told him she was married, slipped it into the conversation somehow. But how? There hadn’t really been an opportunity. My husband likes Stevenson too. But in a way there had been no need to bring him into it. The young man hadn’t been trying to chat her up. They’d just been having a friendly conversation about books. He was obviously the friendly type. He probably recommended books to half the people that came into the library, men or women, young or old. He might be lonely. He had a whole day to fill in. She was reading more into these casual encounters than was there.

  She didn’t feel like going home and Malcolm would still be out with his granny. She decided to call on Bunty.

  Bunty was making a cup of tea in the back shop. She lived in a room and kitchen at the rear. It was enough space, she said, her being on her own. The only thing she wished she had was a bathroom. She had a privy out in the back yard and came round to Ina’s for a bath. She had been on her own for a long time, since her husband had died, only six months after their marriage. He’d had an accident on his bicycle; he’d collided with a rag and bone cart – he’d been drunk, Ina claimed – and had sustained head injuries that had proved fatal. He’d left Bunty the shop and she’d also got £250 compensation from the council.

  It was the mid-morning lull, after the early rush and the lunchtime custom.

  ‘Business is down, of course,’ said Bunty, as she poured Willa a cup of dark tea. ‘Men can’t afford as many fags as they’d like.’ One smouldered in her ashtray. ‘Never mind, we’ll get through, one way or another. I had a win at Powderhall last night. I picked a couple of good dogs. Wasn’t a fortune but enough for a new pair of shoes. Nigger-brown suede. I’ll show you them after.’

  She’d gone with her man friend, Mr Parkin, who was just a friend, you understand, for she always spoke of him as such. He took her to the pictures or to The Gaities in the Music Hall in George Street. A bit of company, she called him, though she never brought him to family gatherings. Elma would have a blue fit if she did. He was talking of taking Bunty on a winter cruise.

  ‘Tommy might not be the only member of the family to go sailing on the high seas! I might be able to wave to him in passing.’ Bunty folded The Scotsman over to show Willa an advertisement urging its readers to avoid the winter and have sunshine and health.

  ‘Avoid the winter,’ Willa read aloud. ‘Have sunshine and health. Nelson liners to the Canary Islands. Return fare £25. 1st class.’

  ‘I fancy avoiding the winter,’ said Bunty. ‘Even a couple of weeks would do me. You could mind the shop for me.’

  ‘That’d be fifty pounds for the two of you.’ Quite a few weeks’ wages, but Willa thought Mr Parkin probably earned more than that, to judge from what he spent. He seemed to have a senior position in some kind of finance company. Bunty was vague about it when questioned. ‘Do you think he will? Take you?’

  Bunty shrugged. ‘It’d be nice, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would. Very nice. I expect the passengers would be pretty posh. I read somewhere that film stars like going on cruises.’

  ‘What if Rudolph was to be on board! I could ask him up for the ladies’ choice.’

  They had a laugh.

  Willa enjoyed a chat with Bunty. She was relaxing company and seldom down. She laughed a lot and when she did her earrings swung from side to side. Willa lingered, reluctant to go back to the flat – Tommy’s mother’s flat – and got up only when the shop door pinged, announcing the arrival of a customer.

  ‘Better see who it is,’ said Bunty, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘Might be a millionaire wanting to buy the shop. Then we could all go to the Canary Islands.’

  Willa followed Bunty through to the front. Standing on the other side of the counter was her young man. Not her young man. Her acquaintance from the library. She took a step back and bumped into a box of pencils, knocking them off their precarious perch. The shop was small, and storage space scarce. The lid flew off the box and pencils scattered in all directions.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked the young man, making a move to come round the back of the counter.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ muttered Willa, down on her hands and knees, hiding her hot face.

  ‘You canne swing a cat in here.’ said Bunty cheerfully. ‘Dinne fash yersel, hen. I’ll pick the rest up later. No harm done.’

  Willa was forced to surface.

  ‘Hello, there,’ the young man said to Willa. ‘We meet again!’

  ‘Are you no going to introduce us then, Willa?’ asked Bunty, parking a hand on her hip and looking from one to the other. Her earrings were birling madly.

  ‘I’m Richard Fitzwilliam,’ he said, thrusting out his hand. Bunty took it and shook it warmly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. I’m Bunty McGregor, sole proprietor of this establishment! And Willa’s aunt.’

  ‘Bunty’s my husband’s aunt,’ Willa added quickly.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ His eyes dropped to her left hand where she wore a thin gold band on her fourth finger. It had been her mother’s wedding ring.

  ‘Do you live round here, Mr Fitzwilliam?’ enquired Bunty.

  ‘Lauriston Place.’

  ‘I thought you’d not been in before.’

  ‘No, I don’t normally come this way.’ His face was pink now. ‘But I just happened to be passing and thought I’d buy The Scotsman, if you’d happen to have a copy?’

  ‘I do indeed.’ Bunty laid it on the counter. ‘That’ll be two pence if you please.’ He fished in his trouser pocket, produced a sixpence, and she gave him his change.

  The transaction completed, he hovered uncertainly for a moment before saying, ‘Well, I’ll be off. I’ll say goodbye then.’ He had no hat to lift to them though he looked as if he wished he had.

  ‘Cheerio!
’ responded Bunty. ‘Come again, Mr Fitzwilliam.’ Willa said nothing.

  The door jangled again as he went out.

  ‘Well-spoken young man,’ said Bunty. ‘You could tell he would buy The Scotsman and not the Daily Mail. Twice the price for a start. And more class. He must come from a good family?’

  ‘Bunty, I know nothing about his family, or him. We bump into each other in the library and talk about books.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to talk in the library?’

  ‘We talk outside. We walk up the street together, that’s all. We happen to go in the same direction. I didn’t even know his name until he introduced himself.’

  ‘Rather nice looking,’ mused Bunty. ‘In a different way from our Tommy, of course.’

  ~ 4 ~

  Dar-es-Salaam,

  East Africa

  16th January, 1924

  Dear Willa,

  Dar-es-Salaam is the chief seaport of Tanganyika Territory and the terminus of a caravan route which trades in ivory and rubber. Perhaps some of the rubber ends up in Dundee Street, Edinburgh? Who knows! They say it’s a small world.

  To his readers, it appeared enormous. Although they could follow his progress on the globe he seemed a million miles away. He’d gone down one side of Africa, round the bottom, and was now up the other side. And Africa was not small. Scotland, in comparison, looked tiny. When Ina studied the globe she frowned, unable to quite follow it.

  In 1884 the territory was declared a German Protectorate and in the following year a bitter struggle ensued between natives and Germans lasting 18 months, in which 20,000 natives died. Lucky for the people, we captured it in 1916 after a heavy naval bombardment in which a wireless station and a floating dock were destroyed.

  ‘They’ll be a sight better off with us than the Jerries,’ said Bunty, who had dropped in.