The Gourlay Girls

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  1932

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  1936

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  1937

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  1938

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  1932

  1

  Wincey stood very still and watched her grandfather. He was choking, gasping for breath. She had seen him taking seizures before. He had a heart condition and on the few occasions when she had been present, her grandmother had ordered her to run upstairs and fetch the old man’s tablets from the bathroom cabinet. Upstairs and downstairs she’d flown, so that Grandmother could take a tablet from the bottle and press it into Grandfather’s mouth. It only took a few seconds after that for the seizure to calm and for Grandfather to seem perfectly all right. A bit tired looking perhaps. Otherwise he was to all appearances her big, good natured, kindly, smiling, loving Grandfather Cartwright. George, to his wife Penelope.

  Wincey wasn’t sure now which one she hated more - so-called loving and devoted Grandfather or unloving, uncaring Grandmother.

  Grandmother was different with her brother Richard. Richard, five years older than Wincey, was the clever one and the favourite of the family. How Grandmother’s beady-eyed, long-nosed face would soften at the sight of ‘her handsome boy’, as she called him.

  Wincey didn’t mind. That was something she could understand. Richard was easy to love and admire—he was tall and slim, dark-eyed and dark-haired like her daddy, and just as handsome. Quite unlike Wincey with her fringed red hair and freckles, or their mother who had fair, golden hair.

  Sometimes her mother and father would laugh and say, ‘I don’t know where Wincey came from.’

  She came from them, the same as Richard. But her mother and father seemed to think that she was different. Most of the time they completely ignored her, lavishing all their attention on the literary and political friends who were so often in the house.

  Her mother and her first husband, James Mathieson, had never had any children. Mathieson was one of her mother’s set. He had divorced her for adultery not long after the Great War. Her mother had no shame. She and her father had been lovers for years. Wincey had overheard her grandmother and grandfather talking about it. Grandmother never tired of saying that it wasn’t decent the way the two men had become friends, and ‘that dreadful communist revolutionary’, as she called Mathieson, visited Nicholas’s house.

  Richard was at boarding school in Edinburgh, but he returned home to Glasgow most weekends and saw a lot of their grandparents. They both loved Richard, especially Grandmother. When she came to visit them, Wincey was usually sent to keep her grandfather company. His heart condition often prevented him from getting out and about. She saw this as yet another example of her parents trying to get rid of her one way or another.

  She was supposed to be her grandfather’s favourite. Grandfather was supposed to love her best.

  For most of her twelve years, she had believed this. Now she knew better. Yet the truth was so terrible, so painful, so confusing, she couldn’t cope with it. Her mind, as well as her heart, ached with it. It paralysed her.

  Earlier, when she’d cringed away from him, he’d pushed money into her pocket. ‘A wee present,’ he’d said, ‘for being Grandfather’s good girl. You buy yourself something nice, eh?’

  Now all she could feel as she stood staring at the old man was bitterness and hatred. He was trying to mouth the word ‘tablets’. His eyes bulged with pleading. He clawed the air. She didn’t move. The expression in his eyes changed to disbelief, then to terror. Eventually his gasping stopped. His body slumped. His mouth sagged.

  The room weighed heavy with stillness, then gradually—in the far distance, as if coming from another world—she heard the faint rumble and clang of tram cars. The sound frightened her. It brought an air of reality back into the room. Her grandfather was still slumped in his chair, his head twisted to one side, his mouth hanging open. His eyes were open too. It was his eyes that brought the full realisation of what had happened crashing in on her. She began to tremble and moan with the acuteness of her distress.

  The emotional confusion that had been plaguing her became stronger. To it was now added terror, and the need to escape became overwhelming.

  She raced from the room and out of the house onto Great Western Road. She was oblivious of the rain gusting along the wide street, with its large stone villas set well back on either side and partly hidden by trees. She was panic-stricken, especially when she realised that she’d reached the part of the road that reared up to form Kirklee Terrace, where she lived with her mother and father. One of them could be looking out over the grassy bank, down onto Great Western Road.

  At the end of the terrace was the private entrance to the park known as the Botanic Gardens. Further on, level with the street, was the main entrance. Wincey ran through it and along the nearest path, knowing that now she’d be well hidden by trees. Even if anyone in the family looked out of one of the windows that faced onto the park, it would be impossible to see her.

  Yet she felt no satisfaction at this thought. She desperately longed to be able to run to her parents and be comforted by them, to be told that everything would be all right. She ached to be made to feel loved and secure. But they’d never made her feel that. She didn’t dare think how they would be towards her now. Yet she wept with her need of them.

  Tears mixed with the rain, blurring her vision and she began to shiver as she became aware of her white blouse, navy cardigan and pleated skirt clinging wetly against her. The path had disappeared under angry puddles that were being whipped by rain and wind. Everywhere was fast becoming a quagmire. Her stockings were spattered with mud, her shoes sodden and squelchy with water.

  She tried to get onto the grass to escape from the puddles but slipped and fell. Now everything was covered with mud. Her fringe stuck wetly to her forehead; her white blouse, her cardigan, her skirt, her shoes—everything was ruined.

  Trying to scramble to her feet, her skirt caught on a bush and, desperately tugging at it to free it, she caused a ragged tear. Almost mad with panic now, she ran, stumbled, fell, ran again.

  Eventually she reached another gate, ran through it, and found herself on an empty, windswept street. She kept running this way and that until she was exhausted. Then she remembered the money her grandfather had pushed into her pocket. She boarded a tram car and sat shivering on the nearest seat. The conductor looked at her suspiciously. ‘Where are ye goin’?’

  Wincey just held out some coppers without saying anything.

  The man shrugged and handed her a ticket. Her mind was in such a turmoil, she just wanted to be safely home in bed, with the events of the last hour never having happened.

  But they had happened, and she shivered all the more at the thought of her parents’ coldness. Now they’d have very good reason to hate her. She couldn’t bear the thought of their cold, sh
ocked faces, so she blanked them out of her mind.

  It was early evening but it was already getting dark and the rain was beating relentlessly against the tram windows. The tram was lurching to a halt now as the conductor approached her and said, ‘Ye’ll huv tae get aff noo, hen. Either that or buy another ticket.’

  Dazed and without a word, she left the tram and started wandering about the dark, mean looking streets between the high tenements. She had no idea where she was. After what seemed like hours, she could walk no further and sank down on to the pavement. With her back propped against a tenement wall, she wept broken-heartedly.

  ‘What’s up, hen?’

  Wincey wiped at her eyes and saw a young girl crouching down in front of her.

  ‘I don’t know where to go,’ Wincey managed.

  ‘How? Huv ye no’ got a mammy an’ a daddy an’ a home tae go tae?’

  Wincey shook her head. The girl, Wincey later discovered, was fourteen-year-old Florence Gourlay, two years older than herself. Florence had a highly dramatic turn of mind and thrived on crises, real or imaginary.

  ‘So ye’re an orphan?’

  Wincey nodded.

  ‘So ye’ve run away so they won’t put you into an orphanage—or into the workhouse?’

  Forgetting her tears, Wincey stared curiously at the girl. She managed to nod again.

  ‘Och, never mind,’ Florence said. ‘Ma mammy’ll take ye in. She’s always takin’ folk in.’

  ‘Is she?’ Wincey said in surprise.

  ‘Och aye, our place is like a doss house sometimes. Girls come down from the Highlands an’ stay for a few days at our place until they get fixed up wi’ a nurse’s job at wan o’ the hospitals. Ma mammy used tae come from the Highlands. Come on.’ Florence got to her feet. ‘I’m soaked an’ freezin’ tae death. An’ starvin’ intae the bargain.’

  Wincey struggled to her feet. The streets glistened darkly with rain. Greenish pools of light wavered under gas lamps. The high black tenements dwarfed the two bedraggled figures as they began trudging along.

  ‘Whit’s yer name, by the way? I’m Florence.’

  ‘Wincey.’

  ‘Wincey! Where did a funny name like that come from?’

  ‘I was christened Winsome.’

  ‘That’s even worse,’ Florence laughed.

  ‘Then when I went to school we learned that rhyme about Incey Wincey Spider and everybody started calling me Wincey—even at home.’

  ‘Ah hardly ever went tae school so ah dinnae know any rhymes. Is that like a poem?’

  ‘Sort of, I suppose.’

  ‘Didn’t ye mind?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bein’ called after a spider?’

  ‘I never thought of it like that. It just sounded better than Winsome. More friendly, somehow.’

  ‘Aye, right enough.’

  Wincey managed to find out from Florence as they went along that she lived in Springburn, in one of the tenements in Springburn Road. Wincey had heard about Springburn at school. Most people in the area had worked in the building and maintenance of the railways, in the workshops and repair yards of the North British Railway Company at Cowlairs, of the Caledonian Railway Company at St Rollox, and the North British Locomotive Company, the largest of its kind in Europe.

  She remembered her teacher saying that no-one knew for certain how Springburn had originally got its name, but that among the nearby hills there were many springs and bums and wells. With the coming of the railways and new housing, however, there was certainly nothing rural about the place now. The teacher had shown the class pictures of the streets black with workers pouring out of all the railway works, but now there was a depression and many men were unemployed, hanging about aimlessly on street corners.

  ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No brothers, but ah’ve an older sister, Charlotte, an’ two younger ones. They’re twins—Euphemia and Bridget. We tried tae call Euphemia Phemie but ma mammy wouldnae let us. She likes tae be proper.’

  ‘Are they all living at home?’

  ‘Aye, ma granny as well. Here we are.’

  They stopped at a dark close-mouth, one of the many tunnel-like entrances to the tenements. Wincey groped her way nervously along.

  ‘Isn’t there a light?’

  ‘Naw, the leerie’s supposed tae come but he hisnae done anythin’ wi’ this close for ages. Maybe it’s run out o’ gas. I don’t know. Just hang on tae me goin’ up the stairs, ye’ll be all right.’

  Three flights of stairs up, Florence thumped loudly on one of the top flat doors. It was opened by a tall, delicate looking girl with a pale face and fair hair pinned back with kirby-grips. As they all walked through the small box of a lobby, and then into a gas-lit kitchen, Florence nodded towards the tall girl.

  ‘That’s Charlotte.’ Then, once in the kitchen, she announced, ‘This is Wincey. Her mammy an’ daddy died o’ the flu an’ she wis gain’ tae be locked away in an orphanage an’ she didnae want tae go. So ah brought her home wi’ me. She can stay here, can’t she, Mammy?’

  ‘Would ye listen tae the cheek o’ that?’ This came from an elderly woman of ample proportions, who filled to overflowing a rocking chair by the fire. She had floppy cheeks and no teeth. ‘As if we huvnae enough tae contend wi’ here!’ Red rimmed eyes glared at Wincey. ‘Away ye go back where ye belong—ah dinnae care if it’s the orphanage or the workhouse, ye cannae stay here.’

  Tears of disappointment and fatigue overflowed and spilled down Wincey’s cheeks. A thin, bent woman with wispy salt and pepper hair knotted back into a bun was standing over at the sink. She said in a soft Highland voice,

  ‘Now, now, Granny. We can’t turn a poor bairn out on a night like this.’

  She smiled at Wincey. ‘It’s all right, dear. Come over here and wash your face and hands. I’ll make a cup of tea and you’ll soon feel better.’

  ‘Florence Gourlay,’ the old woman raged, ‘will get us aw intae serious trouble yet wi’ that imagination o’ hers, an’ aw the downright lies she tells. You mark ma words!’

  She turned to the man wearing a cap—or bunnet—with the skip pulled well down over his eyes who was sitting on one of the chairs jammed close together around the cluttered table.

  ‘Are ye a man or a mouse, Erchie Gourlay? Are ye just gonnae sit there an’ allow this? We’ll aw end up in the workhouse at this rate. How many mair mouths can we feed? We cannae feed oursels.’ She cocked a thumb towards her daughter-in-law. ‘Thanks tae her extravagance.’

  Erchie appealed to his wife. ‘We’ll manage, sure we will, hen.’

  Teresa smiled and Wincey wasn’t sure then what age she might be. Her smile made her look younger than the scant faded hair suggested. She was a patient, good natured woman but there was a thrawn bit—even a slyness—about her at times. She secretly enjoyed getting any small victory over her mother-in-law.

  ‘Yes, of course we’ll manage,’ Teresa said calmly. ‘With God’s help.’

  Florence led Wincey over to the black sink. She winked at her and whispered, ‘Ah told ye.’

  ‘You give your feet a wipe,’ Teresa instructed Florence. ‘You’re getting mud all over the floor.’

  ‘What God’ll help you?’ Granny asked.

  ‘We all worship the same god, Granny,’ Teresa said gently as she settled the kettle on top of the glowing embers of the fire.

  ‘You’re a Pape,’ Granny accused. ‘You worship that picture.’ She pointed to the painting of Jesus that hung on the far wall of the recessed bed. ‘Wearin’ a gownie! Ye worship beads an’ idols an’ graven images. Ah’ll never know what possessed ma Erchie tae marry a Pape. An’ us a respectable Orange family an aw.’

  ‘Ma,’ Erchie protested, ‘ye’re no’ tae upset Teresa.’

  ‘Upset her?’ Granny scoffed. ‘Upset her! Nothing ruffles that one’s feathers. It’s well seen who that lyin’ wee trouble-maker takes efter.’

  She glanced over at Florence who was going into co
ntortions in her efforts to wipe the mud off her bare feet. Charlotte spoke then.

  ‘Mammy, I’d better away through and finish that dress.’

  ‘Charlotte is a lovely sewer and dress maker,’ Teresa told Wincey. ‘Between us we make a decent living.’

  ‘Decent? Decent?’ Granny bawled out. ‘Whit’s decent aboot livin’ here?’

  Wincey couldn’t help thinking the same thing. The gas mantle over the mantelpiece barely lit the kitchen. Even with the bright flames of the small, barred fire, most of the room was shadowy. Wincey couldn’t imagine where everybody slept—there was only one recessed bed and hardly an inch of floor space.

  As if reading her mind, Florence said, ‘Come on through and ah’ll show ye where we’ll sleep.’

  Teresa called after them, ‘Take your wet clothes off and I’ll get them dried.’

  As they were crossing the lobby, there was knock at the front door and Florence opened it to reveal two small girls, both with mops of curly brown hair.

  ‘This is Wincey. She’s an orphan an’ ah found her lying half dead in the street an’ Mammy said she could stay here. Wincey, they’re ma twin sisters - Euphemia an’ Bridget.’

  ‘Hello,’ the two girls murmured. They looked tired and cold and their clothes clung wetly to their bodies. Each was carrying a shopping bag from which issued the tantalising aroma of fish and chips. Suddenly Wincey realised how hungry she was. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten.

  ‘You couldn’t have timed it better,’ she heard Teresa tell the girls. ‘I’ve just this minute masked the tea. Och, poor wee things, you’re soaked. Never mind, you’ll soon dry out and once we’ve had a nice cup of tea and a fish supper, we’ll all feel fine and happy.’

  Wincey couldn’t believe she’d ever feel happy again. At the same time, she was grateful to have found shelter. The front room, as Florence called it, was not much bigger than the kitchen. It too had a curtained recessed bed with a high mattress. Opposite there was a fireplace, in front of which sat an ancient looking sewing machine and a stool. The fireplace had a surround of dark maroon tiles but the grate was empty and the room gripped with an icy chill.