The River Flows On

by Maggie Craig

  Mrs Robertson, kind and inquisitive and sympathetic to the young widow and her teacher sister, declared that it had given her a new lease of life having the young people in the house. She invited her friends to meet the Cameron girls and took them with her when she went visiting.

  People wanted to be kind, but they didn’t always know what to say to Kate, so she made it easy for them, forcing herself to make conversation about things which didn’t seem to matter very much any more. Gradually that got easier.

  Only with Jessie, once Grace and the other children were in bed and Mrs Robertson had retired for the night, did she really feel she could be herself.

  ‘I torture myself,’ she confessed one night, choking back the tears, ‘wondering exactly how it happened. Did he know he wasn’t going to get out? I wonder what he was doing, what he was thinking about.’

  Jessie smiled. ‘If I know Robert Baxter, he was probably trying to help someone else get out. That’s the way Robbie was made. As for what he was thinking about... He was thinking about you, Kate. I’m sure of that.’

  Kate took her handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose, staring into the flames of the fire at which she and Jessie sat. It was autumn again and they were beginning to need the heat at night. She looked up, about to say something, but was stopped by the wistful look on Jessie’s face.

  ‘Have you ever thought, Kate, that... Well, I don’t know if this is any consolation to you or not, but at least you’ve known what it is to be loved. Some people never do.’

  Kate was instantly contrite. Jessie, she knew, had received three letters from Andrew Baxter during the past year. She knew because Jessie had let her read them all. There had been no reason not to. They were friendly and chatty - and contained not one single word of love. Kate leaned forward.

  ‘Lots of people love you, Jessie. Me, for a start, and Grace - and the children you teach.’

  Jessie smiled. ‘That wasn’t quite what I meant.’

  ‘Oh, Jessie, I’m sorry. I really am.’

  Jessie leaned back in the chair and stretched her toes out to the fire. ‘Och, I’ve got used to it, I suppose. Where there’s life there’s hope, eh?’ She stopped, looking dismayed. ‘Kate, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Kate Baxter was suddenly ashamed. For too long she had thought only of her loss whilst Jessie, with her own problems, had seemed to have a bottomless reservoir of support and comfort for Kate and Grace. Now here she was again - upset herself, but being so careful of Kate’s feelings. I need you to be strong. Perhaps it was time to start fulfilling the promise she’d made to Robbie.

  The next day she borrowed Grace’s drawing block and some pencils and went off for the day, taking a flask and some sandwiches, heading for a spot down by the River Tummel which she and Jessie and Grace had discovered during the summer.

  Although the previous night had been frosty the sun was beating down today - typical autumn weather in the Highlands, so Mrs Robertson had said. Kate spread her raincoat on the ground, sat down and put her back against the trunk of a big old tree overlooking the river and spent some time surveying what lay in front of her.

  A light breeze caressed the surface of the river. The sun was catching the ripples. That would be hard to paint, but worth the challenge. In the distance were the mountains, dotted with patches of purple heather. Could that be fresh snow on their peaks?

  Closer to her were green rolling hills and cultivated fields and all around her were lots of wonderful old trees. Their leaves had turned to a glorious array of autumn colours - brown, yellow, red, purple and a hundred other shades besides.

  ‘The world is beautiful,’ she said out loud, and lifted the drawing pad.

  By the end of the day, Kate had made several sketches and several decisions. Tomorrow she was going to buy a small set of water colours, a couple of brushes and some proper paper. She was quite pleased with her drawings, but she needed to capture the colours - and to feel a paintbrush in her hand again.

  She would give herself a month, till the weather got really cold. In that month she was going to walk and look and sketch and paint. She was going to eat properly too, build up her energy and strength. Then she was going back to Clydebank.

  This war was going to go on for a while. She should be doing her bit. She would miss Grace dreadfully, but she would come back here as often as she could. It wasn’t that far. She could probably manage it twice a month. Grace was eleven now and would be able to understand, and she would have Jessie and Mrs Robertson to look after her.

  Nothing could change what had happened. Nothing could bring Robbie back, but he had died because he had wanted to do his bit, make his contribution. She owed it to his memory to make hers.

  Chapter 35

  Kate put in the last drawing pin and straightened up. Good. That was her all set up for tomorrow. Pinned out over the drawing, the tracing paper, which was actually very fine linen, would get the chance to stretch out properly overnight. As long as it doesn’t get wet, she thought with a smile, saying good night and heading for the door. A month or so ago someone had tripped and spilled a glass of water over a batch of tracing paper. As soon as the water had hit it the paper turned back into cloth. It had been useless for tracing plans, but they’d saved it to be used for bandages. You didn’t waste anything in wartime.

  On the point of leaving the building, Kate jumped back as the door out to the yard swung open with some force.

  ‘Where’s the fire, Peter?’

  Peter Watt came into the building and grinned at her.

  ‘No fire, but they want us to work till midnight tonight. Another rush job. I just popped home for my tea, and to let Mary know.’ The Watts lived close to Mary’s mother in the Holy City, off Kilbowie Road. ‘You know what she’s like. Has me under the wheels o’ a tram if I’m five minutes late home.’

  Kate smiled. Mary was a worrier. She’d worried about young Adam staying in Clydebank, had agreed to him being evacuated and then, unable to bear the separation any longer, she’d gone and fetched him home again. Kate was beginning to wonder if she should do the same with Grace.

  ‘I’ll see you on Sunday, then,’ Kate said to Peter as he headed for the stairs to the drawing office. ‘You’re all coming to me for your dinner. Did Mary tell you?’

  ‘She did,’ he said. ‘Are you off home now?’

  ‘No, I’m going to Yoker for the evening.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself then, Kate. See you on Sunday.’ With a wave of his hand he was off, taking the stairs two at a time. The yards had never been so busy. They were turning out ship after ship. To his own disgust, and his parents’ relief, Davie Cameron was one of the many young men who had been turned down for military service on the grounds that they were needed for the war effort at home - building new ships and replacing the ones which were being lost.

  Kate left the yard, crossed Dumbarton Road and made her way to the tram stop. She glanced back at the window of her own house, just along from the yard. She’d been lucky to get it back. Another couple had moved into it when she’d gone to Perthshire, but then the husband had been posted down south and his wife had gone with him. It had simply been a matter of collecting her own furniture and bits and pieces - dismantled and dispersed to the neighbours - and the flat was exactly as it had been before.

  Well, maybe not exactly. Kate’s lips twisted in a wry smile. There was someone missing from it. There had been many nights when she had lain in a bed which was too big, longing for Robbie’s kiss, aching for the touch of his hand...

  She unbuttoned her coat. It was unseasonably warm for March - a bonus for the farmers throughout the country and for the many allotment owners in Clydebank. The clocks had just gone over to double summer time to allow those producing food as many daylight hours as possible to dig for victory.

  Kate took a deep breath. It was good to be out in the fresh air, instead of bent over a table tracing or lettering, although she enjoyed her job. She’d been welcomed back with
open arms. As expected, many of the young girls had gone off to join the services. An experienced tracer was worth her weight in gold and nobody cared whether you were married or had children. There was a war on, and it was all hands to the pumps.

  On balance, despite the lonely nights, she was glad she had re-established her home. It was good to have familiar things around her. There was the easel Robbie had made for her, and so many other things which reminded her of him, helped her feel his presence. Jessie had, however, insisted that some of Kate’s paintings be sent on the train to Pitlochry - for safekeeping, she said.

  ‘So,’ Kate had asked, arms folded and toe tapping, ‘you want to make sure my paintings are safe from any air raids but I can take my chances?’

  Jessie winked at Grace. ‘Of course, sister dear. That way Grace and I will be set up for life. People will realize what a brilliant artist you were.’ She struck a dramatic pose. ‘What a loss to Scottish art! Then the two of us - as your heirs and successors - will be able to sell them for a fortune.’ She grinned.

  Kate turned to Grace and spread out her arms, palms uppermost, in a gesture of hopelessness.

  ‘With friends like this, who needs enemies?’

  Grace got the joke, but the smile she gave her mother was a little uncertain. Kate knew that she worried about her, especially after the raids which had taken place throughout the winter.

  Clydebank and Glasgow had experienced some raids, but nothing like those London was suffering. Her heart went out to the folk down there. And last November Coventry had been almost obliterated. A new word had entered the language: the blitz. And a new expression: a bomber’s moon. She glanced up before she climbed aboard the tram. There would be a bomber’s moon tonight. The sky was clear, not a cloud to be seen.

  Kate wondered how people could do it: drop death and destruction out of the night sky, killing and maiming men, women and children, mothers and fathers and wives not so very different from their own. She shivered.

  The air-raid siren went off a little after nine o’clock, as Kate was putting her coat on to go home.

  ‘Here we go again,’ muttered Davie Cameron. ‘I bet it’s another false alarm.’ Twenty minutes later, when they heard the first explosion, they knew that it wasn’t. Neil took command, insisting they all go down to the close to sit out the raid. Like many tenement dwellers in Clydebank, they had no Anderson shelter in the back court. Instead, their close had been strutted - reinforced with steel bars along the roof. To counteract the effects of a nearby blast blowing in debris, protective screens known as baffle walls had also been built at front and back.

  ‘Blankets,’ Neil said to Lily. ‘It’ll be gey cold down there. Kathleen, will you make a big pot of tea? Davie, you can bring the milk and sugar. I’ll take the cups and something to eat. This might be a long one. We’ll need the hurricane lamp too, for afterwards. My God, would you listen to that?’ Another one had fallen.

  On the way downstairs, he persuaded the Baxters and the other residents of the close to join them.

  ‘Aye, Neil,’ said Jim Baxter, nodding and throwing a shout over his shoulder to Agnes. ‘I think you’re right.’ He jumped as they heard the impact of another bomb. ‘That one was bloody close. They’ll be trying to get Rothesay Dock, eh?’

  Agnes came out of the flat, dressed in what looked like her entire wardrobe, her coat buttons straining over the extra garments, and clutching her tins.

  ‘Plenty in here for us all,’ she said. ‘I did a big baking yesterday.’

  ‘You’re a wee smasher, Agnes,’ called Mrs MacLean. ‘They’ll not starve us out, anyway.’

  Jim Baxter made as though to go back into his house.

  ‘Where are you going, man?’ asked Neil Cameron. ‘Come on!’ The bombardment was fast becoming intense.

  ‘I’m just away to put my teeth in,’ said Jim.

  Davie Cameron leaned out from behind his father and grabbed Jim by the sleeve. ‘Mr Baxter, you’ll not need your teeth for your wife’s cakes. They melt in the mouth. And that lot,’ he gestured heavenwards, ‘are no’ dropping fish suppers. So come on!’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Buggeration!’

  There was no need to apologize for the swearing. That one had definitely been too close for comfort. The building shook and they were showered in dust from the walls. Kate squeezed her eyes tight shut and tried not to think about the weight on top of them: the building itself, constructed out of heavy sandstone, the timbers of the floors, the lathe and plaster of the walls, the heavy cast-iron ranges, the furniture.

  She shifted her weight. The floor was still hard and cold, even with layers of blankets down. She was sitting between her mother and Mrs MacLean. The comfortable bulk of the latter was absurdly reassuring. Not at the moment, though. At this precise moment all Kate was feeling was blind terror.

  Funny that. When Robbie had died she had thought she wanted to go too. Now that somebody was trying to kill her, she rather thought she wanted to live. Life had suddenly become very precious. She was struck by the thought. Was this how he had felt in his last minutes?

  ‘I’m scared, Kate.’

  Startled by the quiet voice in her ear, she turned to her mother. She couldn’t see her in the blackness, but she could feel her trembling. She fumbled for her hand. It felt old: thin and papery.

  ‘I’m scared too, Mammy,’ said Kate firmly. ‘Shall we hold hands?’

  ‘Something’s on fire out there.’

  ‘Well, of course something’s on fire, you eejit. They’re dropping incendiaries.’

  Kate wasn’t sure who the first speaker had been, but the second was her brother Davie. He went on, between blasts, to tell them what was happening. The first wave, he explained, were pathfinders, whose job it was to start fires to guide the next wave of aircraft to their targets.

  ‘Oh, so that means that this end o’ Yoker’s really well lit up for them, then?’

  Davie, full of his mission to explain, didn’t catch the sarcasm.

  ‘Aye, whatever that is burning out there, it’s going to be a great marker for them.’

  ‘Davie, lad,’ came Neil’s voice.

  ‘Aye, Da?’

  ‘Shut up, son, would you? Now, who knows some songs?’

  They had survived. Kate thought that was all that mattered until, after the All Clear was sounded early the following morning, they staggered out of the close into the spring morning and saw the devastation the bombers had wrought. She and her father and Davie walked along Dumbarton Road - or what was left of it. A smoky haze hung in the air, and a very distinctive smell.

  ‘My God!’ said Neil. ‘They hit Yoker distillery. All that good whisky gone up in smoke!’

  The look of horror on his face was the only thing that made Kate laugh that morning. Nothing else did, especially not the knowledge that the bombers would be back tonight. Everybody knew that. It had been their pattern in raids on other cities. That’s when the discussions started. Were they going or were they staying?

  ‘I’m no’ leaving my own house for that lot,’ Agnes had said, folding her arms across her chest and gesturing towards the sky. ‘I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction!’

  They’d got word that buses were to be laid on for those wanting to leave Clydebank but, despite the devastation, some folk still felt safer staying in their own homes. Lily, Kate could see, was terrified of going and terrified of staying. Neil Cameron slipped an arm about his wife’s trembling shoulders.

  ‘We’ll stay too, lass. Take our chances together, eh?’

  Lily, her eyes brimming with tears, had looked up at him and nodded. That’s when Davie had said, ‘Oh, Da . . .’ and the argument had started up again.

  Kate slipped out. She was undecided herself as to what to do, but she did know that she had to get in touch with Jessie and Grace. Raids weren’t always reported straight away - news like this was bad for morale - but she couldn’t take the risk. They’d both be worried sick if they’d heard anything abo
ut it on the wireless.

  From the looks of it there weren’t going to be any phone boxes working in Clydebank so she walked back along to Scotstoun. Her luck was in: the damage wasn’t nearly so bad in that direction and Miss Noble and Esmé MacGregor, hugely relieved to see Kate safe and sound, were still at home, with a working telephone, although like everyone else they were considering whether or not to move out.

  ‘Come to Pitlochry,’ Jessie urged Kate, her voice crackling over the phone line. ‘Mrs Robertson says she can squeeze everybody in. Grace is up to high doh about you - and everyone else.’

  Which might, thought Kate as she walked back to Yoker, be the only thing that would influence Grace’s grandparents to make a move. She walked up the stairs and pushed open the door. It was on the latch.

  ‘Daddy...’ she began, walking into the kitchen. Then she stopped dead. Peter Watt was sitting in her father’s chair staring into space. He was filthy, his face covered in dirt and smears of blood. Neil took her to one side.

  ‘The Holy City’s flattened, lass. Nothing but a pile of rubble.’

  Kate searched her father’s face. ‘Mary and Adam?’

  His face etched with lines of sadness, Neil nodded and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Kathleen. Seemingly they brought their bodies out about an hour ago.’ He gestured towards the young man sitting so silently in his own chair. ‘They asked him if there was anyone he could go to and all he could say was “Kate Baxter at Yoker.” So they brought him here.’