The River Flows On

by Maggie Craig

  Humble was the word. How must her home look to the well-off young Mr and Mrs Drummond? Well, like her father before her, she would have to rise to the occasion.

  She whipped her old coat off the two chairs, crossing the room to hang it from one of the hooks on the back of the front door. His eyes were on her when she turned back. Was he remembering the times he had helped her on with it? The first time, perhaps - that day in the tearoom when he had slipped the box of chocolates into her bag? She should just have sent him a thank you letter, Kate thought wryly. It would have saved a lot of heartache.

  ‘Won’t you sit down? I’ll put the kettle on.’ It was funny how you could come out with the polite phrases while your brain was thinking entirely different thoughts.

  Marjorie hadn’t stopped smiling. ‘It’s great to see you, Kate. It really is. How’s life?’

  ‘Och, fine.’

  All too aware that her surroundings and her clothes gave the lie to that particular polite answer, she took her time about filling the kettle and setting it on the range. She wanted to allow them time to rearrange their faces, although it probably wasn’t necessary. They were both adept at hiding their real opinions and feelings: People like them always were. Any minute now Marjorie would tell her what a charming flat she had.

  Her visitor was holding out a small paper bag. Kate took it and opened it. It was a packet of chocolate biscuits, not too fancy, nothing to which her fierce pride could take exception - just a little gift between friends. She should have remembered how thoughtful Marjorie always was.

  Suddenly Kate was ashamed of herself, remembering how the other girl had tried to keep in contact and how Kate had firmly rebuffed every approach. She wasn’t to know why.

  Kate knew. So did Jack Drummond - part of the reason, at least. Marjorie, however, knew nothing. She must have been hurt by the way Kate had so completely cut her off.

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Marjorie,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  Marjorie’s smile, which had grown tentative, came back in full force. ‘We called at your parents’ house - that’s how we got your address. You have a little girl, I hear. Grace, is it? Where is she?’ She looked eagerly around.

  ‘She’s at Yoker. You must have just missed her.’ Yes, it was funny how you could come out with the polite phrases. Funny too, how your voice could sound perfectly calm when you said them.

  Thank God you just missed her! Now that she saw him again, Kate realized that an anxiety which had been building up in her for some time was well-founded. Not only did Grace have those same blue eyes, there was another resemblance. The little girl had a particular way of extending her hand to you. It was a very graceful gesture - and she had inherited it from Jack Drummond. Change the subject. She had to change the subject.

  ‘Do you have children, Marjorie?’

  ‘No... no, we don’t.’ The light died out of Marjorie’s face and Kate cursed her tactlessness. It was obviously a delicate subject. Change the subject again, then.

  ‘How are you, Jack?’ There, she had said his name - and she was sure she hadn’t stuttered this time. The gracious hostess - even though she was living in a shabby one-apartment house and was dressed in threadbare clothes, with her chestnut locks hanging in rats’ tails around her face. She couldn’t have fixed a worse reunion with Jack Drummond if she’d tried.

  Something of the grim amusement she felt at the thought must have shown in her face, for once more he was smiling warmly at her. As handsome as ever, she thought again - and was surprised how unmoved she was by that fact.

  He shrugged. ‘Oh well, you know how it is, Kate. Times are hard. I’m afraid I lost my position when Donaldson’s went quiet.’

  Judging by his clothes, Jack Drummond’s definition of hard times was a bit different from her own.

  Jack turned to Marjorie, laying a proprietorial hand on her shoulder. ‘By great good fortune, however, I married a clever wife.’

  Marjorie clipped her head in pleased embarrassment. She still loves him then, thought Kate. Poor Marjorie.

  ‘The pottery’s doing well?’

  Marjorie lifted her sleek head. Confident again now that she was on familiar territory, she answered Kate’s question.

  ‘Surprisingly enough, the answer’s yes.’ She launched into a speech about how they were managing to weather the Depression. There were still people and organizations with money to spend. It was simply a case of researching the markets - there were always going to be discerning buyers for tableware and crockery of high quality and innovative design. You had, of course, to offer it at the right price to the right market.

  ‘You see?’ Jack said when Marjorie paused for breath. ‘Isn’t she the complete businesswoman?’ Sitting at ease in one of Kate’s rickety dining chairs, an arm slung casually over the back of it, he was ostensibly lost in admiration of his wife. Kate, however, was aware of an unpleasant undercurrent. She turned to him.

  ‘Do you help Marjorie in the business, Jack?’

  ‘Of course he does,’ chipped in his wife before he could answer. ‘He’s particularly good at dealing with some of the male clients. They don’t like to talk to a woman, you see. Jack takes them out for lunch or has a round of golf with them.’

  ‘Darling!’ said Jack, lifting Marjorie’s hand to his mouth and kissing it. ‘You’re too kind. I do nothing compared with how hard you work. She’s at that place from dawn till dusk, Kate, would you believe it? I hardly see her these days.’ He dropped his wife’s hand.

  ‘Oh?’ asked Kate politely. ‘Don’t you spend much time there then?’

  He gave her a charming smile. ‘I’d only be in the way, my dear. And you know me - I’m a stranger to hard work.’

  He meant the comment to be amusing, Kate saw that. That was what had attracted her to him in the first place. He thought everything was amusing. Life was one big joke. Only she knew now that it wasn’t.

  Studying him as he sat there in front of her, so relaxed, so elegant, so happy to let Marjorie do the hard work, she saw something else too. Felt it, like a physical sensation, as though a steel buckle had snapped open inside her chest. It gave her a pang - bitter-sweet memories, a twinge of regret - but no pain. No pain at all.

  Kate barely realized that Marjorie had started to speak about the pottery again, giving her more details about the business.

  Tm glad to hear of someone doing well, Marjorie.’ Kate meant every word of it, but try as she might she couldn’t keep the wistful note out of her voice.

  Marjorie took a deep breath.

  ‘Kate, I’m telling you all this for a reason. I’m doing so well that I really need help - particularly new ideas. I’m getting stale, Kate. I need someone like you.’

  ‘Me?’

  Swiftly, Marjorie outlined her proposals. Kate would work for her two days a week, developing new designs.

  Kate’s heart was thumping with excitement, but she put up every argument against it that she could think of.

  ‘I have a child, Marjorie. What would I do with her when I was working?’

  ‘Leave her with your mother, or Mr Baxter’s mother, of course. It’s only two days a week. Or you could work at home if you prefer.’

  No, that wasn’t an option. Marjorie might see Grace one day. That had to be avoided at all costs. In any case, getting Grace looked after wasn’t really a problem at all. She thought up another one.

  ‘I’m out of practice.’

  ‘But you’re still painting,’ Marjorie put in swiftly. ‘One of my friends bought a picture of yours a few months ago - one of the Bluebell Woods. It was exquisite. I recognized where it was and then I looked at the signature, and I saw that you had painted it.’ She beamed again at Kate. ‘That’s what made me think of coming to see you.’

  ‘I don’t have the practical knowledge,’ Kate objected, secretly basking in the praise. ‘I didn’t do pottery for long enough at the Art School.’

  ‘I want your design skills. You would get
the practical experience quickly enough. I’ve got people working for me who could teach you. Learn while you earn.’ Long and leggy, Marjorie clasped her hands around one silk-clad knee and leaned back in the chair, smiling at Kate.

  ‘You would pay me?’

  Marjorie laughed. ‘Of course I would pay you, Kate. I’m offering you a job.’ She mentioned a figure. It was a generous one. Kate took a deep breath, then let it out again. There was light at the end of the tunnel. A job, doing what she loved and paying good money. It was the answer to her prayers.

  A sound broke into the silence which had fallen as Marjorie waited for Kate’s answer. It was the scrape of a key in the lock.

  Chapter 23

  A dark, brooding raincloud came into the room. Its name was Robert Baxter. Three heads swivelled round to look at him. Kate could see that he wasn’t in the best of tempers. He’d been in Bearsden today, tramping around the big houses up there looking for homers. By the look on his face he hadn’t had a successful day.

  Finding Marjorie and Jack Drummond sitting in his kitchen clearly did not improve his mood. Marjorie, sensitive to the abrupt change in atmosphere, had a nervous smile on her face. Kate, knowing how close Robbie was to the end of his tether, felt a wave of anxiety sweep through her. Only Jack Drummond, looking cool, calm and collected, seemed to be choosing not to respond to the sudden lowering of the temperature.

  Robert Baxter did, however, remember his manners. Just.

  ‘Mrs Drummond.’ He unbent sufficiently to give her a tiny inclination of his dark head. Then he became ramrod stiff again. His eyes flickered over Jack. ‘Drummond.’

  ‘Good to see you, Robbie,’ said Jack easily, relaxing back into his seat and stretching his long legs out in front of him. His ease in another man’s house served only to pinpoint Robbie’s lack of it.

  Kate, who had temporarily lost her voice on her young husband’s entrance, leapt to her feet. ‘We’re just having some tea. Marjorie brought us some lovely biscuits. I’ll pour you a cup-‘

  ‘I’ll get it myself.’ He hadn’t raised his voice. His tone was perfectly neutral. So why was Kate’s hand shaking as she lifted her own cup to her lips?

  Unable to stand the tension any longer, Marjorie rushed in where angels fear to tread.

  ‘Are you having any luck in finding a position, Mr Baxter?’

  Robbie got down a cup and saucer from the shelf, poured in milk and tea, carried it over and placed it on the high mantelpiece above the range before he answered.

  ‘There’s no work, Mrs Drummond. You of all people should know that.’ Donaldson’s had closed its gates for good some time before Brown’s had suspended work on the 534.

  Robbie took a sip of tea, replaced his cup carefully in the saucer and then stood there, looking down his nose at all three of them - like a prince of the blood royal reviewing his palace guard and finding it wanting. Robert Baxter, thought Kate grimly, you and I are going to have words later.

  He lifted his cup and took another mouthful of tea. Marjorie, frowning a little, also drank some tea. Poor Marjorie, thought Kate, she’s trying desperately to work out what to say to calm these troubled waters. Jack allowed a little smile to play about his handsome mouth. He was doing what he always had done, taking a malicious enjoyment in the scene unfolding before his eyes - making no effort to smooth things out.

  Kate sneaked a look at Robbie, standing as still as a guardsman by the mantelpiece. He was thin and pale and his jacket was threadbare. It was still buttoned up, although he’d loosened the yellow muffler he wore around his neck in the winter. He was badly in need of a haircut. He looked tired and restless and his mouth was tight and unsmiling. There were fine lines on his forehead which hadn’t been there six months ago.

  In contrast, Marjorie and Jack looked well-off, well-fed and well-dressed. Jack also looked completely relaxed, a man with no worries. Yet, when she compared the two men, Kate saw something else. For all his shabbiness and fatigue, there was strength in Robert Baxter - and courage, too. Life had flung everything it could at him, and he was still standing, facing up to it all with pride and dignity. If he was going down, he was going down fighting.

  Struck by all this - and by another thought so unexpected it took her breath away - Kate was caught unawares when Marjorie, after a brief sideways glance at her, addressed herself to Robbie.

  ‘Actually, Mr Baxter, I’ve been putting a proposition to Kate which might help you out a bit.’

  Kate wanted to groan. Didn’t Marjorie know anything about masculine pride, what a fragile flower it was? No, of course she didn’t. She was married to a man who didn’t have one iota of it. He never had done. Content to live off his mother’s money, then his wife’s, Jack was always ready to blame ill-fortune on anything but his own lack of effort and direction. Always ready to let someone else do the dirty work. Like Suzanne Douglas that night at the Art School. That had been no accident, as Jack had pretended. Funny how she had refused to admit that to herself until now.

  Marjorie was in full flood. Kate picked out a few words.

  ‘A wonderful opportunity for Kate ... allow her to use her artistic skills - earn some money for the family...’

  Robbie stood as still as a statue, apparently listening politely to Marjorie. Kate knew better. His tea, lying ignored on the mantelpiece, must be stone cold by now.

  Kate could hear the subdued sound of Mr Asquith’s purring, coming from the box bed. Jack Drummond looked up and caught her eye. She had a sudden memory, crystal clear in its intensity; Jack, sitting in the kitchen at Yoker, stroking Mr Asquith with those long, elegant fingers ... She flushed and dropped her eyes. She never knew what gave her the courage to look up again. He had been smiling at her bowed head. She turned to gaze at Robbie.

  I wish I could do portraits, she thought. I’d like to capture him like this. So handsome - so fierce. She loved him for it - loved his stubborn, infuriating pride. Aware, somehow, that Jack Drummond’s eyes were still on her, she turned her head again. He wasn’t smiling now.

  Kate had always thought Marjorie had a rather pleasant voice - deep for a woman and with the merest hint of a well-bred accent - but it was grating on her now. Shut up, Marjorie, she pleaded silently. Then a tiny thought, but intense. Oh God, please make Robbie agree to this. I want to do this so badly, and it would help so much. The money Marjorie was offering would make all the difference.

  There was complete silence in the room when she finally stopped talking. It was Jack Drummond who broke the silence.

  ‘Well, Robbie, what do you say? It would be a great opportunity for Kate. Give you some extra cash. Make things a trifle easier.’

  Kate waited for Robbie to explode. He did it quietly, and without noticeable fuss, but he did it nevertheless. Politely to Marjorie and much less politely to Jack Drummond, he told them to go away, that the Baxter family was quite capable of looking after itself, thank you very much, that his wife wasn’t going out to work. He didn’t actually say, not while he had breath left in his body, but that was clearly what he meant.

  ‘But Mr Baxter-’ Marjorie began, dismayed.

  Robbie’s face darkened. ‘I believe I’ve made the position clear, Mrs Drummond.’

  ‘But Mr Baxter-’ Marjorie said again.

  Jack Drummond rose to his feet. ‘Don’t waste your breath, darling. I think we should probably leave now.’ He raised those fair eyebrows, in the gesture Kate had once found so endearing.

  Robbie looked steadily at them both. ‘I think that would be best, yes.’ Then he said, with magnificent condescension, ‘My wife will see you out.’ As though, thought Kate, I was showing them out of a palace instead of a single end at the bottom of Kilbowie Road.

  Chapter 24

  The big door swung heavily shut behind Marjorie and Jack Drummond. Coming back into the room, Kate saw that her husband was standing where he had remained throughout the visit, motionless by the range. He was staring into space, but turned immediately at her step.

&
nbsp; ‘Kate...’

  She made a dismissive gesture with her hand, cutting him off. ‘Don’t speak to me! Just don’t speak to me!’

  He let out a long sigh. The stiffness went out of his body and he threw himself into the chair so recently vacated by Jack Drummond. Taking her at her word, he said nothing, adding fuel to Kate’s smouldering anger.

  ‘How could you?’ she raged.

  He smiled blandly up at her. ‘How could I what? Tell that cocky bugger - excuse me - where to go?’

  Infuriated by that smile, she yelled at him: ‘You’ve just told some money where to go! Money we could be doing with!’

  The smile slid from his face as though someone had wiped it off with a cloth. ‘You’d take money from them?’

  ‘No! I’d earn money! Doing what I’m good at. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘I can understand that you want to show me up in front of everybody. My wife going out to work while I can’t get any?’ He shook his dark head. ‘I don’t think so, Kathleen.’

  For some unaccountable reason, his use of her full name riled Kate even further.

  ‘So it’s your pride that’s hurt, Robert Baxter? You’re not man enough to admit that I might be able to earn good money when you can’t?’

  She stomped across the room and stood over him, hands on hips. A strand of her shoulder-length hair strayed across her mouth. Angrily, she blew it away. ‘Is that what this is about? Your pride?’

  His head bowed, his voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear the words. ‘Maybe my pride’s all I’ve got left.’

  She was too angry to hear the plea in his voice.

  ‘Don’t you speak to me about pride, Robert Baxter!’ She was shouting at him now. ‘Do you think I don’t know anything about pride? What about having to tramp for miles to buy second day bread? What about having to ask for a bone for the dog, when the butcher knows damn’ well we don’t have one - that I’m using it to make soup for ourselves? What about trying to sell my paintings and having people looking down their noses at them? What about having to sell my lovely coat and wear that horrible old thing?’ She gestured wildly to the back of the door where the tweed coat hung. ‘How many times do you think I’ve had to put my pride in my pocket? Answer me that, Robert Baxter!’