by Emma Fraser
Lillian leant over and gave her a shove. ‘Oh, get off your high horse, Martha. You can’t tell me you want to live your whole life without sex.’
‘I never said I did! And keep your voice down, we don’t want the whole bar to hear.’ She leant forward and whispered, ‘What do you think it would be like?’
When Lillian lifted an eyebrow, Martha gasped. ‘You haven’t!’
Margaret shook her head. Really, Lillian took it too far sometimes. ‘Of course she hasn’t, Martha. She’s just teasing you.’
‘Are you certain about that? For all you both know I’m a regular at those petting parties when I go to London.’
‘Because we know you’re not stupid. Naughty perhaps and provocative, but not stupid. You’d never do anything to ruin your reputation,’ Margaret replied.
Lillian laughed. ‘How well you both know me.’ She drained her glass. ‘Right, whose round is it?’
Martha shook her head. ‘I can’t stay. I promised my father I’d help him write Sunday’s sermon. Perhaps we could go for tea after church?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘You’ll both be at church on Sunday, won’t you?’
‘Not this Sunday, I’m afraid,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m going to Helensburgh to see Mother.’
‘How is she?’ Martha asked.
‘Much the same.’
Lillian leant across the table and squeezed Margaret’s hand.
‘I’ll see you before you leave for India,’ Margaret told Martha as her friend picked up her handbag.
‘You must! I couldn’t go without a proper goodbye.’
They were silent, knowing that this might be the last time the three of them were together.
Martha stood and hugged Lillian, then Margaret. ‘I’ll always be here for the two of you, you do know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course we do,’ Margaret replied, swallowing the lump in her throat. ‘And us for you.’
Lillian gave Martha a gentle nudge. ‘Off you go before you have us all in tears!’
‘Oh help, I hope no one we know sees me leaving this place,’ Martha muttered before scurrying out the door.
Margaret handed Lillian a handkerchief. ‘I take it you want another sherry, Lily?’
Lillian nodded, surreptitiously dabbing her eyes. ‘You take it right.’
While Margaret stood at the counter waiting to be served, she noticed it was possible to see into the public bar next door through a connecting archway. The air in there was thick with cigarette and pipe smoke and she caught a glimpse of men seated round scarred wooden tables, their pints of beer clutched in their work-soiled hands. Amidst the rumble of voices and laughter, she heard the strains of a fiddle being tuned up.
Putting the change in her purse, she carried the drinks back to their table.
‘I think there’s music starting. Won’t be able to hear ourselves think in a minute with the noise,’ she said to Lillian, ‘Shall we go somewhere else?’
Except, when a fiddle burst into life accompanied by a cacophony of cheering and clapping, she found herself tapping her foot in time to the music.
Lillian leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Let’s go through to the bar.’
Margaret hesitated. ‘It’s the public bar.’
‘So what! Aren’t we the public too? Come on, it could be the last chance we have to let our hair down for a while.’
Lillian was right. Once they started work there would be little opportunity for relaxing. Apart from that they would have their professional reputations to uphold. Here, no one knew them. She smiled at her friend. ‘Very well. Why not?’
Clutching their drinks and giggling like schoolgirls, they sneaked through the adjoining swing door into the public bar. The noise and smoke enveloped them as they pushed their way through the throng of workmen to find a table in the corner at the back. A couple of men elbowed their companions and raised their eyebrows, another made a remark about how women, now more of them had the vote, were all wanting to be men and why didn’t they just put on a pair of troosers while they were at it, but otherwise they left the two women alone.
Margaret couldn’t remember when she last had so much fun. Hidden in the crowd, she and Lillian applauded and whooped along with everyone at the end of each song until suddenly the tempo changed. The bar slowly quietened as soft fiddle chords soared around the room.
The tune wasn’t familiar to her but it spoke of loss and longing. She glanced at Lillian to find that she too was spellbound. Suddenly the crowd parted and Margaret could finally see who was playing the fiddle so beautifully.
The mop of unruly dark hair was shorter, although still long enough for a lock to fall over his face as he played, but she recognised him instantly. Her stomach lurched. It was Alasdair, Alasdair Morrison – the man from the shipyard. She’d thought about him a lot in those first months after the accident, wondering if they’d meet again. In her schoolgirl fantasies, they had and she’d been cool and just a little disdainful and he’d been impressed by her sophistication. Over the years he’d faded from her mind until she’d almost forgotten about him.
His eyes were shut as he caressed the strings of the fiddle with his bow, an expression of such deep sadness etched on his face that it made her breath catch in her throat. When the last notes trailed off, he opened his eyes and, as their gaze locked, everything and everyone around her seemed to disappear. Her heart beat a tattoo against her ribs.
‘What on earth has got into you?’ Lillian asked. ‘You’ve gone bright red.’
Alasdair picked up his jacket, his eyes still on her. Flustered, Margaret stumbled to her feet, almost knocking over her empty glass in her haste. ‘We should go.’
‘Go? Now? Oh, no, I’d say it’s just getting interesting!’ her friend said, staring over Margaret’s shoulder.
Margaret spun around. Alasdair was making his way towards her, shrugging off the congratulations of well-wishers with a distracted smile and an occasional handshake as he kept his eyes fixed on her. A few feet away, his steps slowed and his forehead knotted.
Her heart still thumping wildly, Margaret turned away, draped her jacket over her shoulders and grabbed her handbag. ‘Come on, Lily.’
‘Too late,’ Lillian drawled.
‘Hello.’ A soft voice came from behind her and she whirled around to find him standing in front of her. She’d forgotten how tall he was, but she remembered only too well the unusual grey of his eyes. His face was leaner now, his cheekbones sharper, and small lines feathered the corners of his eyes as if he were used to laughing. ‘Do we know each other?’ he continued with a smile. ‘I’ve a feeling we’ve met before.’
So he hadn’t recognised her. She felt an irrational pang of disappointment.
‘Yes, I mean, no. We met at the shipyard. Years ago. You tore a piece off my petticoat.’
Lillian raised her eyebrows. ‘Margaret Bannatyne! You’re more of a dark horse than I’ve given you credit for.’
The dawning recognition in his eyes was replaced by something Margaret couldn’t quite identify but could have sworn was regret. ‘Ah, Miss Bannatyne. Of course. I didn’t recognise you at first. You’ve changed.’
‘It has been eight years, Mr Morrison. I was just a schoolgirl.’
Blushing furiously, Margaret turned to Lillian. ‘Lillian, may I introduce Mr Morrison? Mr Morrison – Lady Lillian Forsythe.’
‘Lady Lillian.’ Alasdair acknowledged Lillian with the briefest tip of his head.
‘Years ago one of my father’s workers was badly injured and Mr Morrison saved his life,’ Margaret added.
Alasdair’s mouth narrowed into a tight line. ‘Well, maybe. Not that it did him any good.’
‘What do you mean?’ Margaret demanded. ‘My father told me Hamish survived the accident.’
Alasdair had already threaded one arm through the sleeve of the jacket he had carried over his shoulder. For a moment he seemed to waver. Then he finished slipping his jacket on, and tugged the collar stra
ight. ‘I’m afraid you ladies must excuse me.’ He gave Margaret one last long look. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you again, Miss Bannatyne, and to meet you, Lady Lillian, but I have to go.’
‘How intriguing! Lillian murmured, her eyes following him as he pushed his way back through the crowds and towards the door. ‘I could have sworn he was entranced by you. Not that he has the remotest chance, but he looks like a man who doesn’t give up easily. I wonder what made him turn tail?’
Margaret shook her head. She couldn’t let him disappear without finding out what he’d meant about Hamish. ‘I have to go after him.’
Lillian cocked an eyebrow. ‘This day is getting stranger by the minute. I hope you’re planning to tell me all.’
‘Later, Lillian.’ Margaret dropped a kiss on her friend’s cheek and hurried after Alasdair.
Margaret had to weave between the pedestrians thronging the pavement along Dumbarton Road. She’d almost given up when she caught sight of his broad back and dark hair.
‘Mr Morrison! Wait! Please.’
He stopped and turned, barely concealing his look of impatience. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Bannatyne?’
‘What did you mean about Hamish?’ she demanded. ‘What happened to him?’
‘What could it possibly matter to you? Why should a Bannatyne care?’
She felt a surge of anger. His looks hadn’t changed very much but neither had his manner. He was just as rude and arrogant as she remembered.
‘Please don’t presume that you know what matters to me.’
He frowned down at her. ‘If you really wanted to know about Hamish you wouldn’t have waited all these years to find out.’
‘Of course I asked about him. I was told the doctors set his broken bone and discharged him home after a few days.’ It had taken her almost a week of nagging her father to find that out. Not that she was going to tell Alasdair that.
Alasdair frowned at her and carried on walking and she had to almost run to keep up with him. ‘Mr Morrison – Alasdair – just tell me what happened to Hamish and I’ll let you go on your way.’
He stopped and turned to face her. ‘Let me go on my way?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t need your permission, Miss Bannatyne.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘Very well, then. Since you ask, Hamish did survive the accident. It wasn’t the injuries that killed him. Not directly anyway.’
‘Hamish is dead?’ Her throat closed. After everything the poor man had been through that day. ‘How did he die? Did his wound become infected?’ Back then the possibility had never occurred to her. However, after years of studying medicine she now knew that setting broken bones was the easy part. Wounds, especially those that happened in the workplace, often became infected, the infection raging through the blood until it killed the victim. All these years she’d believed Hamish had survived, and it was a bitter blow to find out he hadn’t. Tears burned the back of her lids and she blinked. She wouldn’t give this man the pleasure of seeing her cry. Hamish was dead. That was all that mattered. There was no more to be said.
‘Good day, Mr Morrison. I wish I could say it was a pleasure meeting you again.’ She squared her shoulders and began walking away. She’d only gone a few steps when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
‘We could go on all evening like this, you chasing after me and me chasing after you.’ She couldn’t help noticing how his eyes crinkled up at the corners when he smiled.
‘I don’t wish to take up any more of your time.’
He looked at her keenly and his expression softened. ‘What happened to Hamish really does matter to you, doesn’t it?’
She didn’t know which she resented more: the earlier derision in his eyes or the sympathy she saw there now. Unable to trust herself to speak, she nodded.
He pulled a fob watch out of his pocket and glanced down at it. ‘Look, I’ve got a little time before I have to be somewhere. Let me buy you a cup of tea.’ Before she had the chance to reply he had taken her by the elbow and had steered her inside a tearoom.
Pulling out a chair for her, he squeezed in opposite, his legs brushing against her knees under the small table. She quickly jerked hers away.
‘Tea?’ he asked, appearing not to notice, although the small smile twitching the corners of his mouth suggested otherwise.
Margaret nodded again.
‘Tell me what happened to Hamish,’ she said when the waitress had taken their order and left.
Alasdair leaned back in his chair. ‘As I said, Hamish did survive the accident. However, it left both his legs useless, and a man without the use of his legs can’t work. Without work, Hamish and his family had no way to feed themselves. We all did what we could to help them out but Hamish was a proud man and would only take what he needed to save his family from starving. He died a few years ago. His wife followed a year later and then two of the children. There’s nothing left of that family apart from one lad. He’s working at the shipyard now. Unfortunately too late to help his family.’
‘I’m truly sorry to hear that. I’m certain my father would have had him and his family taken care of, if he’d known. Hamish was one of his workers, after all.’ But even as she said the words she wondered uneasily if they were true. Her father hadn’t appeared too concerned about Hamish’s welfare that day and she doubted whether he would have made enquiries at all had she not badgered him.
‘Miss Bannatyne, I can’t imagine you have the slightest idea how your father’s businesses work.’
She stiffened again. The man wasn’t just rude – he was patronising. ‘I know his yard is successful and that he employs thousands of people – people who’d be out of work if it wasn’t for him.’
‘Bannatyne’s is successful because your father spends as little as he can so he can maximise his profits. Most of the other shipyards have some insurance for the workers – not your father. He says it’s too expensive. Says there’s no reason to pay men who can’t work when there are plenty to fill his place.’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘Aye, well. That’s up to you. You asked, I answered.’
She waited until the waitress had placed their teas in front of them before she spoke again. ‘You have no business spreading lies about my father.’
‘Lies, is it?’ He leaned forward and looked at her keenly. ‘Are you certain about that?’
‘My father is a good and fair man.’
Alasdair laughed harshly. ‘Your father is many things but good and fair aren’t among them.’ He shook his head and gave her a rueful smile. ‘Look, Miss Bannatyne, I’ve said enough. I have no wish to run a father down to his daughter no matter how I feel about that particular man.’ He tilted his head. ‘Come to think of it, I doubt he’d be happy if he discovered you’ve been talking to me. I’m not one of his favourite people.’
She wondered if Alasdair was anyone’s favourite person. He wasn’t exactly the friendliest soul. ‘I can talk to whoever I please. He wouldn’t do anything to you.’
He laughed shortly. ‘I didn’t mean to me. Your father can’t touch me. He’d love to but he can’t. No, it’s you I’m thinking of. I can’t imagine he’d be best pleased with you.’
She stiffened. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a grown woman.’ Everything about this man – especially what he’d said about her father – annoyed her. However, there was still something she wanted to know. ‘How did you know how to help Hamish?’
She’d wondered about that often over the years. Haemorrhage had to be controlled by pressure; if it couldn’t – if an artery had been damaged, as she was certain had been the case with Hamish – then applying a tourniquet above the bleeding vessel was the best way of stopping someone from bleeding to death before getting them to hospital where the artery could be ligated. How had Alasdair, a shipyard worker, known exactly what to do?
He studied her for a moment with his cool, grey eyes. ‘I was in France during the war. The last year of it anyway. I saw enough bleeding and broken bone
s to last me a lifetime. Me knowing what to do when there’s an accident at the yard is the only good thing that came out of the war.’
‘You don’t think we should have fought?’
‘I didn’t say that. But I often wonder what it was all for. It changed nothing for the ordinary man. They told us we were fighting to make this a land fit for heroes when we returned. They lied. This is no land fit for heroes. In fact it’s worse than it was before.’
‘My brothers both lost their lives in defence of their country,’ she said quietly.
His eyes softened. ‘I know. And I’m sorry. My dad told me. Too many good men died in the war and your brother Fletcher was one of the best.’