The Gourlay Girls

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  A settee covered in cheap leather substitute and two matching easy chairs were crowded into the room. The back of the settee had a row of tiny wooden pillars topped with a padded rail. The floor was covered with linoleum which was referred to as wax cloth. On the walls, a dark brown varnished dado was topped with heavily patterned wallpaper.

  ‘Where does everybody sleep?’ Wincey asked.

  ‘Mammy an’ Daddy are through in the kitchen bed. Granny sleeps on a hurly bed in front o’ the fire. She couldnae climb up to the bed.’

  ‘What’s a hurly?’

  ‘Ye don’t even know what a hurly bed is!’ Florence shook her head in disbelief. ‘It’s a wee bed that hurls out from under a big bed. You an’ me’ll have a hurly bed from under this room bed. Charlotte sleeps in the big bed—she’s sixteen. The twins—they’re just twelve—and they sleep wi’ her.’

  ‘Goodness!’

  ‘What’s wrong wi’ that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Wincey assured Florence hastily. ‘Nothing at all.’ But she’d never heard the like of it in all her thirteen years. At home she’d always had a room of her own and a much bigger room than this.

  ‘Right,’ Florence said, struggling out of her thin dress, ‘get yer clothes aff an’ we’ll go through an’ get somethin’ tae eat.’

  Wincey was both shocked and frightened.

  ‘I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why no’. They’re soaked.’

  ‘But … but … Your father’s through there.’

  ‘What’s wrong wi’ that?’

  Florence looked perplexed and annoyed, as if Wincey was implying some sort of criticism of her father.

  ‘It’s just … I’m a bit shy, I suppose.’

  Florence laughed. ‘Don’t be daft. We keep our knickers an’ simmets on. So there’s no need. It’s not as if we’re grown up, like Charlotte.’

  Wincey was afraid not to go along with Florence, in case she caused offence and was ordered to leave. But she was more than afraid. She was feeling so vulnerable, she was almost in a state of collapse, as she eventually—dressed only in her knickers and vest—followed Florence through to the stuffy, gas-lit kitchen.

  2

  Teresa manoeuvred the steel poker through the ribs of the knee-high fire and made the flames spark brighter. The fire was part of a black, cast iron range that had a high, overhanging mantle shelf. Along the mantle shelf, Wincey could see by the light of the softly hissing gas mantle a tin tea caddy, a box of matches, candles, a spare mantle for the gas, a pile of pennies for the gas meter, a pair of china wally dugs, a pair of brass candlesticks, a green packet of Woodbine cigarettes and a brass ashtray. Hanging on one side of the mantle shelf was a triangular box of stiff card holding spills.

  From the other side hung a ladle and partly along the front, a potato masher, a toasting fork, a cheese grater, and a frying pan. Also along the front was fastened an expanding rod. Draped over it were a tea towel and several pairs of socks. A stone hearth was bordered by a brass fender with a padded box on either side.

  Euphemia and Bridget were each sitting on one of the boxes. They had stripped off their dresses and steam was rising from their vests as they crouched as near as possible to the fire.

  Teresa went to a hook that was on the wall beside the curtained bed and undid the rope that was twined around it. A four barred pulley came trundling and squeaking down from the ceiling and hung over the table.

  ‘Give me all your wet things,’ she said. ‘They’ll soon dry on the pulley.’

  Wincey’s hands trembled as she handed over her skirt, cardigan, blouse and stockings. She felt naked and painfully vulnerable without her clothes. The strange place and so many strange people confused her. She wondered hopefully if it was just a dream, one of the too-frequent nightmares she’d been having recently. She tensed her body, willing herself to wake up, willing everything and everybody to disappear. But they didn’t.

  Teresa said, ‘Sit down at the table, Wincey, and drink your tea. It’ll heat you up. Wincey? That’s an unusual name. How did you get that, dear?’

  Before Wincey could reply, Florence announced breathlessly, ‘The minute she was born, a spider dropped from the ceiling on tae her, so it did. That’s why they called her Wincey—because there’s a rhyme, Incey Wincey Spider. They called her after the spider, so they did.’

  ‘Ooh!’ All the females in the room made a face.

  ‘That’s horrible,’ Bridget said.

  Erchie laid down the Daily Worker newspaper he’d been reading and gave Bridget a warning look. ‘Watch your tongue. You’ll upset the wee lassie.’

  He was sitting next to Wincey and he put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Never you mind them, hen. I think Wincey’s a lovely name, and you’re a lovely wee lassie.’

  The sleeves of his striped shirt were rolled up and Wincey could feel the heat of his skin and the hairs on his arm. She shrank back trembling with agitation, but he didn’t seem to notice. Nobody did. They were now all enjoying their tea, especially old Granny. She was making noisy slurping sounds and stuffing chips and bits of fish in between her gums. Her rocking chair squeaked backwards and forwards.

  ‘Wire in, hen,’ Erchie said. ‘There’s no standin’ on ceremony here, it’s every man for himsel’.’

  The keenness of Wincey’s hunger stoked by the hot smell filling the small room overcame every other feeling. She picked up a chip and began to eat. The fish supper was delicious—hot, salty and vinegary. She’d never tasted such delicious fish and chips. Nor had she ever eaten fish and chips with her fingers - especially out of a newspaper. Teresa was right, the hot tea and the food did make her feel better. Only she wished Erchie wasn’t sitting so close to her. She kept trying to shrink further away. She kept giving him sidelong, apprehensive glances. He seemed harmless enough.

  But then, so had her grandfather.

  Teresa said to Bridget, ‘Away through and tell Charlotte to come and get her supper.’

  Wincey became aware of the rattle and whirr of the sewing machine. It didn’t stop and when Bridget came back into the kitchen, she said, ‘She’s no’ hungry and she has tae get that dress finished for Mrs Tompkinson.’

  Teresa shook her head. ‘No wonder she’s so thin. I’m really worried about her.’

  Granny’s gums stopped their munching. ‘It wid fit you better tae be through there workin’ instead o’ sittin’ here talkin’. That girl’s aye gettin’ the heaviest end o’ the load.’

  ‘Now, Granny,’ Teresa said calmly, ‘you know fine I do my share. But I have to see to the cooking and cleaning and other things as well.’

  ‘Cookin’?’ Granny scoffed. ‘When did ye cook this?’

  ‘I’m going to make a nice pot of broth for tomorrow.’ She turned her smiling attention on Wincey. ‘Eat up, dear. Mr Nardini always gives us extra pieces of fish so there’s plenty. He’s a good soul, and nobody can make a fish supper like the Italians.’

  ‘Same wi’ the ice cream,’ Erchie said, smacking his lips. ‘An ice cream wafer,’ he added wistfully. ‘Oh, ah could murder wan o’ them right now.’

  ‘I hadn’t enough left for that,’ Teresa said apologetically. ‘But never mind, Erchie, you’ll be able to get a job soon and we’ll be all right.’

  Erchie sighed. ‘Ah wish ah could believe that, hen.’

  Teresa turned to Wincey and said proudly, ‘Erchie was in the navy. Everything was fine until they cut his money. A right disgrace it was, wasn’t it, Erchie?’

  ‘Aye, ten per cent. An’ it wisnae as if we were well paid in the first place. It wisnae sae bad for the officers. It wis just a drop in the bucket tae them. But tae us matelots, it wis terrible. A real disaster, especially for men like mysel’ wi’ a wife an’ family tae support. We were at Inver G when we heard about it.’

  ‘That’s Invergordon,’ Florence interrupted for Wincey’s benefit. Florence had obviously heard the story many times before.

  ‘Aye,’ her father sighed, ‘ah must admit t
here wis a right panic at first. Before anyone wis briefed right, the newspapers got hold o’ the story, ye see, an’ got it aw wrong. They were sayin’ it wis twenty-five per cent so ye can imagine how we aw felt.’

  Florence cut in again. ‘Ye mutinied, didn’t ye, Dad? There wis a big mutiny an’ aw the men stopped the ship frae sailin’. An’ aw the captains were furious an’ threatened aw the men—’

  ‘Hang on,’ Erchie laughed. ‘Ye’re an awful wee lassie for gettin’ carried away. We had meetin’s in the canteen an’ on the fo’c’sle an’ there wis a lot o’ speech makin’ and cheerin’ and singin’, an’ some o’ the ships couldnae sail, right enough.’ He became serious again. ‘Ah wis lucky, ah suppose. Ah wisnae wan o’ the men who were jailed. Ah wis just wan o’ the crowd o’ matelots who were discharged from service.’

  ‘An’ now,’ Florence said, ‘he cannae get a job anywhere. Poor Daddy has tae sit here aw day long just twirlin’ his thumbs, so he has.’

  ‘Will you be quiet, Florence,’ Teresa scolded. ‘Your daddy does not sit here all the time. He keeps trying his best to get a job. It’s not his fault there’s no jobs going.’

  ‘Ah never said it was.’

  ‘Just be quiet, I said.’

  ‘Aye,’ Granny agreed. ‘She blethers on far too much, that yin. If ah’ve said it once, ah’ve said it a hundred times—that girl’ll get us aw intae trouble yet.’

  Teresa was gathering up a few chips and a bit of fish onto a plate. She placed a fork beside it. ‘Nobody touch this. I’ll go through and take over the machine and make Charlotte come for a bite. She’s very finnicky,’ Teresa explained the plate and fork to Wincey. ‘I’m usually the same myself but a fish supper out of a newspaper has a special taste, don’t you think?’

  Wincey nodded her agreement.

  ‘And you pair,’ Teresa addressed Euphemia and Bridget, ‘get rid of all the paper and give the table a wipe over. I’ll put this plate in the oven for a minute to heat it up again.’

  The oven was part of the range and situated on the left side of the fire. Teresa had to squeeze sideways from her side of the table to go over to the oven. Everybody had to squeeze sideways to go anywhere in the kitchen—it was so small and packed—although it only contained a table, four wooden chairs, four stools, a rocking chair and a basket chair. The bed recessed into the wall opposite the sink was draped with fawn curtains and valance, and was a permanent fitment. Now it was in deep shadow. The gas light was not strong enough to brighten any corner of the room. The coal bunker was opposite the fireplace and had a long shelf above it. The kitchen was not even as big as the pantry at Wincey’s Grandmother Cartwright’s house. That kitchen was like a ballroom in comparison with this one.

  In a minute or two, Charlotte entered and sat down at the table.

  Erchie said, ‘Is it nearly done, hen?’

  ‘Mammy’s just finishing it off. I’ll be able to deliver it first thing in the morning. It’ll just need a wee press.’

  ‘Great! That’s great, hen. Come on, eat up. Ye deserve it.’

  The younger girls cleared away the debris the others had left, and gave the table a wipe before taking the plate out of the oven. Charlotte smiled her thanks at them and began daintily forking bits of food into her mouth. She was poorly but cleanly dressed and with her straight brown hair held back behind each ear with a kirby-grip.

  ‘I hope she likes it,’ she said, ‘and gives me another order.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ Granny shook her head, ‘that we’ve tae be dependent on rubbish like that.’

  Charlotte flushed. ‘It is not rubbish. I do a good job. It’s a beautiful dress.’

  ‘Och, ah dinnae mean the dress, ye silly bissom. Ah mean that woman ye’ve got tae slave for, an’ aw the rest o’ the toffee nosed bitches over in that West End.’

  ‘Mrs Tompkinson is not rubbish. She’s a nice woman in her own way. She just doesn’t know—doesn’t understand—anything about how other people have to live. People in places like the West End and Bearsden and Giffnock and Newton Mearns live in a different world from us.’

  Wincey wanted to say a heartfelt ‘How right you are!’ but didn’t want to risk giving anything away about herself.

  Erchie said, ‘Her in the West End—Tompkinson, did ye say her name was, Charlotte?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That wis the name o’ our rear admiral. He wis senior officer o’ the Atlantic fleet. Ah wonder if she’s any relation.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so, Daddy.’

  ‘Ask her when ye deliver the dress tomorrow.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘I’ll just be checking on the fitting and collecting my money. I’m not likely to be chatting to her. People like that don’t chat to servants, Daddy.’

  ‘Bad bitches,’ Granny growled. ‘Aw tarred wi’ the same brush. Think they’re better than us but they’re no’.’

  Erchie laughed and said to Wincey, ‘Ma’s a bit of a commie. She used tae march behind Maclean. An’ she’d be out there supportin’ Jimmy Maxton if she wis able.’

  Wincey wondered what everyone’s reaction would be if she told them that her mother and father had known Maclean and now knew the equally charismatic but more eccentric looking Maxton. She had been brought up on stories about Maclean, and even had a vague recollection of being carried on her father’s shoulders at his funeral nine years ago in 1923 and feeling frightened at the size of the vast crowd. Maclean had been a hero—a pacifist who had been sent to prison on several occasions for upholding his beliefs. He had also formed what was called the Tramps Trust Unlimited and campaigned for a miner’s wage and a six-hour day, and full wages for the unemployed. He also established the Scottish Workers’ Republican party. Oh, she knew all about politics and politicians, all right.

  Her mother was always out with them, or working on their behalf, or entertaining them in the house. Her father would join them if they came in the evening. There was always much serious talk and discussion then. During the day, he’d stay shut away in his writing room.

  Grandmother Cartwright disapproved of all of this, particularly their involvement with James Mathieson. ‘What’s going on, that’s what I would like to know?’ she never tired of asking her husband, her son and anybody else in her circle. ‘A ménage à trois?’

  Grandfather usually shook his head at this. ‘Shouldn’t think so. It’s just they’ve got all that socialist nonsense in common.’

  ‘And who’s fault is that?’

  Few things made Grandmother more furious than the mention of socialism. ‘Our Nicholas had no interest whatsoever in anything like that. To think we sent him to the best boarding school in the land! Then Sandhurst! To think he got his commission in the army—he was a good loyal subject of the king. It’s been that girl who’s corrupted him.’

  ‘I know,’ Grandfather would agree. ‘But unfortunately there’s nothing we can do about that now. The damage has been done.’

  ‘That’s what happens when somebody moves out of their class.’ Grandmother liked to think she resembled a thin version of the old Queen Victoria, and judging by some of the late queen’s photographs, Mrs Cartwright did have the similar beady eyes and small tight mouth. ‘Virginia is—and always will be—nothing more than a common scullery maid. I don’t know what my son ever saw in her. Or rather,’ she paused and sniffed her distaste, ‘I do know but it’s something too disgraceful to talk about.’

  Everybody knew, including Wincey. While Virginia had worked as a scullery maid for Mrs Cartwright, she’d had a love affair with the only son of the house, and while he’d been away in the War, Virginia had his child. That was Richard.

  After Nicholas had been reported killed in action, Mrs Cartwright had taken the child from Virginia. Some time later, Virginia had married Mathieson. Then Nicholas had turned up in a hospital in England. Nicholas had been badly injured and suffered loss of memory, and the trauma of shell shock. He had lain in the military hospital for a considerable time before his iden
tity was discovered. It had been this hospital experience that had given him sympathy for and understanding of Mathieson—who had later suffered a stroke and had also spent a traumatic time in hospital. As a result the two men had become firm friends.

  But Mrs Cartwright could never understand their relationship. The whole set-up of her son’s house in Kirklee Terrace—indeed his whole life—was beyond her. He had become a writer and she had no time for any of his literary and artistic friends. Every one of them horrified her with their loose, bohemian ways. As she often said, it was that awful girl who encouraged him with this writing business in the first place. She still referred to Virginia as a girl, although Virginia was now thirty-three. She still thought of Nicholas as a boy although he was now thirty-seven.

  ‘That’s why,’ she told her husband, ‘we must encourage Richard to spend as much time as possible with us when he’s on holiday from boarding school. We don’t want him corrupted by that awful girl as well.’

  As usual, her husband agreed wholeheartedly. He shared her horror of all things socialist. ‘Communist revolutionaries and trouble makers, the lot of them,’ he said bitterly. As well as owning munitions factories before he retired, he had also owned tenement property in Glasgow and still remembered the trouble the rent strikes had caused him. Wincey had heard the other side of the same story from her mother, from Mathieson and even from her father. For a long time she’d been confused by the conflicting versions she’d heard in her mother’s house and her grandparents’ house, but now seeing for herself the conditions people had to live in, she could well understand why people went on strike and refused to pay increased rents. Especially when, during the war, most of the men were away fighting for king and country. It was a disgrace, her mother had said, and now Wincey agreed with her.

  She became aware of Charlotte speaking to her.

  ‘Can you sew, Wincey?’

  ‘I’ve done a little embroidery but I’ve never used a sewing machine.’