Wincey had been brought up on stories about socialist politicians like Maclean, Maxton and Wheatley, but these stories had seldom, if ever, been told directly to her. She had heard them discussed between her parents and their friends. Her parents had seldom even noticed that she had been there. How Granny Gourlay would have loved to hear some of those stories about her socialist heroes—but Wincey couldn’t risk breathing a word of any of this.
Instead she said, ‘I’ve read all about them. The socialists, I mean. And seen pictures of them.’
‘Where did you get the books and pictures?’ Teresa wanted to know.
‘The library,’ Wincey said hastily, wishing that she had just kept her mouth shut as she usually did about anything outside of the house and the immediate concerns in it.
‘I’m surprised you had the time, dear. But I’m glad you did. I know how happy I am if I can find a few minutes to get to the library and pick up a nice romance. But as you can imagine, it’s not so easy getting the time to read it. Now with Christmas and the New Year coming near, all our clients will want party dresses made.’
‘Aye, they’ll aw be lookin’ forward tae toastin’ anither happy Hogmanay,’ Granny growled, ‘while aw we huv is the clankin’ away o’ these sewin’ machines.’
‘That reminds me,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s time I was getting back to the room and getting on with it.’
‘Och, have another wee cup of tea. You’ve been at it since the break of dawn, Charlotte,’ her mother said worriedly.
‘It’s just we’re doing so well now,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s word of mouth, you see. One satisfied customer tells another. We’re even getting a pound or two in the bank. Come on, Wincey, it’s time you relieved Florence. She’s been through there on her own for long enough.’
‘If you’re hinting at me,’ Teresa said, ‘I had to see to Granny as well as make a bit to eat for everybody.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that we’re really beginning to get somewhere, so it’s important to keep going.’
‘I know, dear, but what’s the use of having money in the bank when we’re still having to scavenge for food.’
‘Capital, Mammy. We need capital for a successful business.’
Erchie arrived in the kitchen then, rubbing his hands and going over to try and heat them at the fire. ‘Whit’s this, hen?’ He peered up at Charlotte from underneath the skip of his bonnet. ‘Are ye turning intae a capitalist or somethin’?’
‘I’m only trying to make a decent living for us all, Daddy. Have you seen any more machines yet?’
‘What on earth do you need any more machines for,’ Teresa said. ‘Where would we put them. The room’s packed as it is, and all that cloth lying about—we’ve hardly an inch to put our feet.’
‘I know!’ Wincey suddenly exclaimed. ‘How about asking around to see if anyone else has a machine and asking them if they would do some work for us, but in their own houses.’
Teresa was silent for a moment, and then Charlotte said, ‘You might have something there, Wincey.’
‘Aye, she’s a clever wee lassie, right enough,’ Erchie said in admiration. ‘How aboot Mrs MacIntyre? She used tae huv a machine, didn’t she. Ah wonder if she’s still got it.’
‘She used to make lovely wee things for her children when they were small,’ Teresa said. ‘But that was when her man was alive and making some money. I don’t know how the poor soul survives nowadays, since wee Betty and Andy died of the cholera. And then losing her man in that pit accident. I often wonder why God gives some folk such a heavy burden. I thought she looked thinner the last time I saw her. Her shawl was awfy frayed and worn.’
‘I’ll speak to her,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’ll go right now.’
‘Och, it’s pouring doon and pitch dark outside, Charlotte. It’s terrible the way they don’t mend these lamps. Wait until tomorrow, dear.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Wincey said eagerly. She hardly ever set foot out of the house but was beginning to feel hemmed in. In a way, it was as if she was in prison, albeit a self—imposed imprisonment.
‘You are a funny child,’ Teresa repeated. ‘You can’t face visiting posh houses but you’re perfectly happy to go out on a dark, wintry night to visit Mrs MacIntyre in her wee single-end.’
‘All right,’ said Charlotte. ‘Come on, Wincey. Can she borrow your shawl, Mammy?’
‘Yes of course, dear.’ Teresa fetched the faded tartan shawl, draped it over Wincey’s head and tucked it around her shoulders.
7
For Richard’s sake, they felt they had to do something about Christmas and the New Year. Nicholas was not all that enthusiastic about Christmas. But then he never had been.
‘It’s a holiday in England, not here,’ he always insisted. Which was true, but she knew that Nicholas just grudged taking time off from his writing on Christmas Day. He hated holidays at the best of times.
‘Everyone else works on Christmas Day,’ he said in self defence when Virginia accused him of this. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Not everybody,’ Virginia insisted. ‘And anyway, you’re different. You don’t need to work.’
Nicholas raised a sarcastic brow. ‘Really?’
Virginia felt irritated. He knew perfectly well what she meant. His books had already made enough money to keep them in comfort for years. There was no excuse for him not taking a whole week off over Christmas and New Year, never mind one day. Eventually he agreed. Virginia could see, however, that he was restless and resentful. Nowadays, out of his writing room, he was like a lost soul. It made her so angry—it was all very well for him to escape into his fictional world, but what about her? Didn’t she deserve something more from him, some support in the real world that she was having such a struggle to survive in? He might as well have deserted her, walked completely out of her life. She knew that even outside of his room, he was not really with her. His mind was still far away.
‘Why don’t you switch off when you come out of that room? Is that too much to ask?’
‘You don’t understand,’ he protested. ‘It’s not as easy as that. Not when I’m in the middle of a book. The characters are still speaking and living their lives in my head. It’s not like being a shopkeeper and just shutting up shop and walking away from it. Creating a book isn’t like that.’
The conversation ended abruptly as they had to go out, but the bad feeling between them remained in the room, like an enemy lying in wait until they returned. They had booked seats for the Alhambra theatre for Mrs Cartwright, Richard and themselves. Mrs Cartwright was still in mourning for her husband and wore a heavy, ankle-length black dress and a silver fox stole. Her black hat was festooned with a veil shaped to fit under her chin. Virginia wore one of the new style three—quarter length astrakhan coats, with leg of mutton sleeves and a perky little hat balanced on one side of her head. But she didn’t feel perky, although she did manage to smile at Will Fyfe’s antics on the stage. Nicholas laughed uproariously, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
They had Mrs Cartwright to Christmas lunch with turkey and all the trimmings, followed by the traditional exchange of expensive gifts. Virginia couldn’t help remembering her childhood Christmases. There were no turkeys then, and they were lucky if their mother could find scraps with which to make a pie. She remembered the excitement of hanging up her stocking on Christmas Eve and praying for a doll. On Christmas Day she’d find her stocking three quarters filled with ashes, with just an orange or an apple on top, and, if she was lucky, there would be a bar of Fry’s Cream chocolate. Her brothers usually got the same and, if they were lucky, a torch or even a mouth organ. The Co-op always had a Santa and if her mother and father could scrape up a few extra pennies, they’d take her to the Co-operative Hall where Santa sat at the bottom of a big chute. After you paid your sixpence, Santa pulled a lever and your present came down the chute.
Richard had been brought up in the lap of luxury by the Cartwrights for his first five
years or so, and had never known poverty—or any deprivation whatsoever. Nor had Wincey. Virginia kept telling herself that she had done her very best in every way for Wincey. She kept going over everything that had happened with Wincey since the year of her birth. She had loved the child from the first moment she had seen her little red wrinkled face, and the downy crop of ginger hair. Nicholas had laughed at the first sight of her.
‘Where on earth did she get that ginger mop?’
The bright ginger mop had darkened as Wincey got older until it was a rich auburn. She was a lovely girl—despite her freckles. Nicholas and Virginia had given her everything—there had never been any stockings filled with ashes for her. Each Christmas, she had been given whatever she asked for, although she never asked for very much. She was a quiet, introverted child, but nobody could be blamed for that. She just had a different nature, a different personality, from Richard. They hadn’t sent her to a boarding school like Richard, but that was for her own good, and anyway, she didn’t want to go. Nicholas didn’t want to send Richard either, as he had unhappy memories of his own time at boarding school. Eventually he had been persuaded by Mr and Mrs Cartwright, who had insisted Richard should have the best education in the country. And after all, Edinburgh wasn’t far away and he could come home for weekends and holidays.
Nicholas had agreed on condition that, if Richard was not happy there, he had only to say and they’d immediately take him out of the school. As it turned out, Richard was always perfectly happy, but then Richard had never been a problem.
Wincey, however, had always been shy and awkward. They had many clever and talented friends. They had lots of lovely parties but the child had always hung back when anyone tried to include her in the company. Both Richard and Wincey had been given piano lessons, and even when he was quite small Richard would often entertain everyone with a tune. He was naturally talented and everyone went into raptures of praise. Then when Wincey was also asked to perform, it was a terrible carry-on to persuade her. Once or twice, she did play and made a quite unnecessary and stumbling mess of the piece which she could play perfectly well when she wanted to. She only seemed to want to play when she was alone.
Eventually they gave up asking her to do anything. She was such a difficult child. Immediately the thought made Virginia feel guilty. No, she was not difficult. She was just a very shy wee girl. No two children were the same in any family. Why should they be? No doubt Wincey was relieved when everyone stopped asking her to do things she didn’t want to and just left her alone.
Mrs Cartwright thought Wincey was like Virginia, but Virginia believed that was quite wrong. Wincey had not her mother’s light golden hair, for a start, and as far as her nature was concerned she was more like Nicholas if she was like anyone. Not in looks, but in some aspects of her nature. Nicholas could be quite a loner, and was not afraid to disagree with everyone else. Virginia could go out and speak at political meetings to support the socialist cause, especially to support Mathieson in his arguments for Home Rule for Scotland. Nicholas would not entertain any ideas about Home Rule, despite the fact that it had been seriously debated in the House of Commons.
‘It’ll come eventually,’ Mathieson insisted.
‘That may be so,’ Nicholas said, ‘but I believe we should be trying to get on better with each other, not splitting up. I’m surprised at you, James, for advocating such an aggressive policy.’
‘It’s not an aggressive policy,’ Mathieson insisted, and so the argument went on—but they never fell out over politics, or anything else. They just agreed to differ. Nicholas would never agree to speak about politics in public, although he was a socialist—much to his parents’ fury and disgust. They had always been true-blue Conservatives, and they blamed Nicholas’s political conversion on Virginia, just as they blamed her for everything else. They had certainly always held her responsible for encouraging Nicholas to take up writing, and they were not at all proud of his success.
As well as being a loner, Nicholas used people. He did what he called ‘research’. He went to Salvation Army hostels and mission halls and spoke not only to the inmates, but to the people who were in charge. He gathered and used everyone’s experiences, including his own. Virginia did not know what he was writing at the moment—since Wincey’s disappearance he had stopped talking to her about his work—but she was sure he would be using Wincey’s disappearance as the basis of a plot, and exploring how such an occurrence could affect everyone. He had probably even used his father’s death in a dramatic scene. He was quite ruthless when it came to his work.
Virginia could see that now. It had never occurred to her before—she had always believed he was a very sensitive man. But now, looking back, she could see that he’d always been using people and experiences, especially emotional experiences, for his own purposes. Even—come to think of it—in his poetry. Once, her favourite had been ‘Shy Love’. She had read it so often in the past, she had the words off by heart. Now she realised that, even so many years ago, he’d been using their private sexual experience.
Passion eased
Wearing the same skin
Your breath flows
Like slowing winds in my ear
Afloat on a pontoon of tenderness
Fleetingly, we forget
The flinty landscape
That encircles us.
Ardent for expression
I want to honour your kisses
Sing of your soothing skin
Celebrate your languid smile.
Instead I stutter raw whispers
Into the pliant flesh of your neck
Pray you unravel
The braille from my lips
And read those three little words.
It had just been another opportunity for him to put words together. She had begun to feel cynical about everything, even about the favourite songs that everyone else loved. ‘Love is the Sweetest Thing’ and ‘Love’s Last Word is Spoken’ and ‘Night and Day’ were continuously on the wireless. More and more now, she could not bear to hear them and switched off. When Nicholas did take the occasional hour or two away from his work, it was to take his mother out to lunch. The old woman didn’t want to come to visit them at Kirklee Terrace for lunch or anything else, if she could avoid it, unless Richard was there. Mrs Cartwright had always disliked and disapproved of Virginia, and that animosity had grown over the years.
‘She’s lonely without Father,’ Nicholas explained. ‘She misses him more than she will admit.’
‘She has Richard often enough,’ Virginia said. ‘And you.’
‘Do you really begrudge an old woman the occasional company of her son and grandson, Virginia?’
She hated Nicholas for making her feel guilty and ashamed. ‘No, of course not,’ she protested. ‘It’s just that you never seem able to take any time off to be with me.’
‘What nonsense! We have every evening together.’
‘Most evenings I have to share you with friends, and even when there’s no-one else here, you’re not really with me. Your mind’s on your writing.’
‘When I’m with you now, you seem to do nothing but nag. It’s enough to drive me back to my room, mentally and physically.’
Virginia didn’t think she nagged. He was only using that as an excuse. She could complain a lot more about his mother but didn’t. The visit to the theatre and the Christmas lunch had been more of an ordeal than a pleasure, thanks to Mrs Cartwright and the way she had of looking down her long nose at Virginia, especially when she used her lorgnette. Hopefully New Year would be better. At least Mrs Cartwright would not be at Kirklee Terrace on Hogmanay. James Mathieson and their other friends would be coming to bring in 1933 with them.
The company would perhaps help her to keep her mind off Wincey, at least for an hour or two. She doubted if Nicholas gave the child much serious thought now. Poor Wincey would now be little more to him than a character in his book. She had asked Nicholas what the name of his main female character
was in his current book and he’d reluctantly muttered, ‘Cathy.’
‘Young?’ she’d queried.
‘Yes, but I don’t like having to put up with pointless questions about my work while I’m in the middle of it, Virginia. So just leave it, will you.’
Oh yes, Cathy was Wincey all right. And he was feeling furtive and guilty about it. Virginia was sure of it. She didn’t say any more. She just walked away from him thinking,
‘How could you? How could you?’
8
The Gourlays had been very busy with all the extra work that was now coming in. Mrs MacIntyre proved a fast, willing and efficient machinist. Wincey usually collected work from her which was not only beautifully sewn but carefully pressed and folded. On one occasion, Wincey asked her if she knew of anyone else who owned a machine.
‘It doesn’t matter how old or broken down it is. Erchie’s great at fixing anything.’
Mrs MacIntyre looked worried.
‘If you get someone else, would it mean I’d get less work?’
‘No, no,’ Wincey assured her. ‘The more people we have working for us, the more customers we can take on.’
‘Well, there’s Mrs Friel up the stairs. She has one. And maybe Mrs Andrews in the next close. I know she used to have one, but that was years ago.’
‘Great!’ Wincey said. ‘I’ll go and check on them right now. And don’t you worry, Mrs MacIntyre. This way things can only get better.’
Both machines were in a pretty bad state, but Erchie lost no time in repairing them and getting them into good working order. He was a happy man now, revelling in his new job—especially as he was being paid a wage, albeit a small one. Charlotte had suggested to Wincey that she could take charge of organising the wages for each member of the family who helped in what was known now as ‘the business’. It was recognised that Wincey was old for her years, and more serious than other girls of her age. She was more intelligent too.
The Gourlay Girls Page 5