by Emma Fraser
Mairi, who was sitting next to Margaret, jumped to her feet to give Lillian her seat but Margaret grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. ‘Stay where you are,’ she whispered, ‘Lily can sit next to you.’ An embarrassed Mairi sat back down, forcing Lily to take the chair next to her. ‘It’s good to see you, Lily,’ Margaret said. ‘May I introduce my dear friend Mairi?’
Moments later they were joined by a plumper, equally beloved figure. ‘Said we’d hold true,’ Martha said, sinking into the seat on Margaret’s right and taking her hand.
‘When did you get back?’ Margaret asked, tears pricking behind her eyes.
‘Lily wrote to me a month ago.’ Martha leaned across Margaret and glared at Lillian. ‘She should have written to me the moment Alasdair was arrested. I would have come then. Jumped on the first ship I could.’
‘I have something I need to tell you,’ Margaret whispered. Her friend might not be so affectionate, or supportive, when she learned how Margaret had appropriated her name.
‘It can wait. Hush now, they’re coming in.’
Alasdair, wearing the suit Margaret had bought and left for him at the prison, was ushered into the dock. The only evidence of how he’d suffered was the new silver strands in his dark hair. He searched the room for her and when their eyes met, he smiled. The world disappeared until it was only the two of them. The years slipped away until it was as if they were back in the bar where they’d first met. The arrival of the judge in court broke their gaze. Dr Marshall, the doctor who believed that Alasdair was correct not to remove the knife, was first in the witness box to give his evidence, followed by Mrs Murphy. She repeated what she’d seen in a calm, no-nonsense voice, reiterating that yes, she was certain she hadn’t been mistaken, that of course she would have come forward sooner had she known there was any possibility that they had imprisoned the wrong man, she would have been able to say the accused wasn’t one of the men she’d seen running away, and really, did anyone think that she, a lifetime churchgoer, would ever lie on the stand? Then it was Christopher Boyd’s turn. He admitted he had been there with Hugh McCulloch when an argument had broken out between him and the murdered man. Once again he said he had no idea that McCulloch was going to stab the victim until Tommy Barr had fallen to the ground. He would have stayed to help but he was certain nothing could be done for the lad, and besides, he had been scared he’d be charged along with McCulloch. There was a deathly silence in the court when he finished by saying that after thinking matters over, he had gone to Alasdair’s lawyer to confess, had been told Johnston would be in touch, but had heard nothing more. When asked why he hadn’t gone straight to the police to give himself up, he admitted that he had hoped that Johnston would agree to defend him in return for his confession.
Next was Mr Johnston, who denied that Boyd had ever approached him. He was allowed to stand down while Miss Donaldson was called to the witness box.
She, albeit reluctantly, told the court that Boyd had indeed come to see Mr Johnston and that she remembered him well. They didn’t get too many of his sort seeking assistance from someone of Mr Johnston’s calibre and standing. She had tried to turn him away but when he’d said that he had information that would help Johnston free his client, Alasdair Morrison, she had ushered him in straight away. As she spoke, she kept her eyes averted from her former employer.
A sorry-looking Johnston was recalled to the stand. He admitted that Boyd had come to see him but claimed that he hadn’t believed his story. When asked by Alasdair’s advocate why he hadn’t gone to the police, Johnston had blustered but had no convincing reply. Mr Williams told the jury that the solicitor was facing an inquiry and that he had reason to believe that the father-in-law of the accused had made several large payments to Johnston’s account.
At this there was a roar from the public gallery. Cries of ‘shame’ and ‘Bannatyne the Bully’ could be heard clearly. Margaret wanted to bury her flaming face in her hands, but remained straight-backed.
When Johnston left the witness box, an irritated-looking judge told the jury that there was no case to answer, that the prosecution should have known that, and that Alasdair should be found not guilty and released immediately with no stain on his character. It happened so quickly, Margaret could hardly believe it was all over.
A cheer went up and everyone stood. Margaret tried to reach Alasdair but she was pushed by the crowd towards the door. Men stepped forward and lifted Alasdair aloft and carried him outside. Margaret stood back and smiled. A part of him would always belong to the people – just as a part of her did. The rest was hers and the children’s. But the essence of her and him – the important, secret, part – belonged to each other.
The crowd followed Alasdair outside, dragging her along in their wake and separating her from her friends. Outside, hundreds, if not thousands, lined the streets, in some places several yards deep. And not just from Govan. They’d come from as far as Dumbarton, all having downed tools for a couple of hours so that they could welcome the man to whom they owed so much.
A hush descended and the crowds parted silently until there was a path straight from where she stood to Alasdair. Somehow he had persuaded the men to put him down. Her breath caught in her throat as they walked towards each other. As Alasdair passed them, the men, almost as one, doffed their caps. The looks they gave her weren’t quite as friendly.
Then he was standing in front of her, his blue eyes boring into hers. ‘My love,’ he said simply, his voice hoarse.
‘I need to ask,’ she said raising her voice until it carried across the crowds. ‘Can you still love a Bannatyne?’
‘I love you.’ Suddenly he grinned. ‘I will love you until the day the breath leaves my body and probably long after.’
He picked her up and whirled her around. A ripple of applause spread through the crowd and Margaret blushed.
‘My love. My love. I wasn’t sure I would ever hold you again,’ he murmured into her hair when he put her down.
He smelled of him. His mouth tasted of him. His hard body was exactly the way she remembered. God, how she longed to be alone with him, their arms wrapped around each other.
She stood on tiptoes and whispered what she’d been thinking – what she wanted – in his ear. He laughed and picked her up as if she were as light as a feather. ‘I think we’ve wasted enough time, don’t you?’
‘More than enough. But first there are two small people who are longing to see you.’
Acknowledgements
This book owes thanks to many people, some of whom have passed away. My grandfather, Peter Morrison, worked at the Glasgow shipyards between the wars, making his home in Govan. It was he who told me that the returning WWI soldiers were promised a land for heroes. When this promise failed to materialise and with the Glasgow smog affecting his children’s health, he took his family back to his childhood home on North Uist where he worked as a crofter and fisherman. He was also a visionary – a keen writer of letters to the Stornoway Gazette – and at one time attempted to resettle the abandoned Monach Islands with his family. After four years, with no other families to provide support, he was forced to admit defeat and returned to Grimsay. Sandbank, the house of Peter and Flora, is the house I remember visiting as a child, where I lived in as a teenager and of which I still have many happy memories. It is still largely as I describe it.
My mother was a midwife in the fifties, (a ‘Green Lady’, as they were fondly known because of their green uniforms) and she spent several years working in the most poverty-stricken parts of Glasgow. Although the National Health Service had come into being by then (based on the model that was originally implemented on the islands) conditions had changed very little for the poor. Sadly she passed away many years ago, and I only have a few recollections of the stories she told me. She remains however, my inspiration. Fortunately I was able to quiz some of the women who worked with her – in particular my aunt Liz, now a very grand age and living in Australia, and my mother’s great friend, Catr
iona MacKinnon, who still lives on South Uist.
A GP in North Uist for many years, the late Dr John MacLeod, or Dr John as he was better known to the islanders, did much to further the health of the islanders as did his father, Dr Alex, before him. My Dr Alan, of course is fictional but I hope I have shown in him some of the qualities required of an island doctor! My thanks also go to Lorna MacLeod, a nurse herself and Dr John’s widow, with whom I spent a lovely afternoon drinking tea and listening to her stories of both Dr Alex and Dr John and their experiences on the island – a book in itself!
Govan has changed since my grandfather worked and lived there – the shipyards that once stretched along the length of the Clyde have vanished. But there is a fabulous little-known museum in the building that once housed the management of Fairfield’s shipyard, if you’re tempted to find out more. Although in my book, I say there wasn’t a hospital in Govan, many people will of course know that there was, as well as one in nearby Linthouse. I hope I will be forgiven for denying their existence.
My thanks to the Govan Reminiscence Group who kindly invited me to attend one of their meetings. What is clear from their memories, is that while many people in Govan were desperately poor, there was a much valued sense of community – and laughter.
Thanks also to my agent Judith Murdoch and to the wonderful team at Little, Brown, in particular my editor Manpreet Grewal and the copy-editing team headed up by the ever-patient Thalia Proctor.
Finally, I’d like to acknowledge the help of friends and family, who unstintingly gave their time to help me with edits. Flora, Mairi, Isabel, Stewart – I owe you big time.