‘Oh, you mean James?’ Virginia said. ‘He’s my ex-husband. I’m married now to Nicholas Cartwright, the novelist.’
The woman had given her such a strange look and later that day, she’d seen her in a huddle with some other women, talking together in lowered voices. They’d immediately stopped when she appeared. Virginia had no doubt they’d been gossiping about her. At first she’d thought, To hell with them. Why should she care what anyone thought? It wasn’t as if she was being unfaithful to Nicholas. She wondered what the women would say if they knew it had been Mathieson she had been unfaithful to. But that was so long ago.
However, the more she thought about it, the more she realised that perhaps she had been visiting Mathieson too much on her own. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to Mathieson, or to Nicholas. She should try to be more self-reliant. Her efforts to find charity work had so far not been very successful. It would have been easier if she’d been a member of one of the local churches, or the Salvation Army. Recently, however, she’d remembered from her youth the Model lodging house, a kind of poor man’s hotel known simply as the Model. Why the word ‘model’ was applied to such a place, Virginia never knew—the dilapidated building had always looked ready to collapse. It housed weary-looking, unshaven, unemployed men, eyes deadened with hopelessness. They shuflled about in tattered clothing and boots with soles flapping off. She wondered if the place needed a voluntary worker, perhaps to dish out food. One morning she’d gone along to the Drygate, plucked up courage and walked straight into the Model. The first thing that hit her was the stench of frying fat and sweaty feet. A doddery man in a long army greatcoat flopping at his bare ankles shuflled past her. She called to him, ‘Where can I see the manager?’
The man jerked his head towards a door. ‘The kitchen maybe.’
Virginia opened the door and found herself in a large kitchen and dining area which had a broad, flat hotplate stretching the full length of the place. The fumes from greasy frying pans mixed with the stench of dozens of unwashed bodies. It all but overcame Virginia—she felt sick. One man who looked comparatively clean and was dressed in a blue shirt and grey flannels came hurrying towards her.
‘Good morning, madam,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
He indicated that she precede him back out of the door. Then he hastily led her across to another room which was obviously his office. ‘I’m Mr Scott, the manager.’
‘How do you do?’ Virginia suddenly felt foolish. There wasn’t another woman in sight. It looked as if no woman had ever stayed here, or worked here. ‘I think I’ve possibly made a mistake. I was wanting to do some voluntary work and just wondered, in passing, if there was anything I could do here.’
Mr Scott looked shocked. ‘Oh, I couldn’t allow a lady like yourself to have anything to do with a place like this. What would your husband say?’
What indeed? In fact when she got home Nicholas thought it hilarious. ‘Darling, it’s an old doss house. It’ll be moving with fleas for a start. I bet you had to have a bath the moment you came home.’ She had, in fact—after being horrified to see several fleas jumping about her person. She’d also had to wash her underwear and stockings and stuff her outside clothing into a bag ready to take to the cleaner’s.
‘I suppose it was a bit daft to try a place like that,’ she conceded, ‘but I was getting desperate. Surely there’s some kind of voluntary work I could do.’
‘Have you thought of the Red Cross?’
‘Nicholas,’ she cried out in delight, ‘you’re a genius.’
He grinned. ‘I know.’
‘I’ll go to their office first thing tomorrow.’
‘Good idea.’
‘The Red Cross does a lot of good work.’
‘Yes, all over the world. But,’ he came over and gathered her into his arms, ‘don’t you dare go stravaiging all over the world, doing your good works. I want you here with me. I’m totally selfish, like all true geniuses.’
She flung her arms around his neck, a great wave of love for him engulfing her. She kissed him with all the passion that was in her. In a matter of seconds they were on the floor, tearing at one another’s clothing, rubbing, licking, biting each other, making love over and over again. At last, exhausted, they rolled apart.
Virginia managed, ‘Mrs Rogers’ll want to know about dinner in a minute. I’d better go through to the kitchen.’
‘Now that you’ve had your wicked way with me.’
Virginia gave him a quick kiss and scrambled up to fix her clothing back in place and tidy her hair.
‘You’d better get up and make yourself respectable as well. Mrs Rogers could suddenly come in here.’
He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘So what? It would liven up her day. She needs a bit of spice in her life, by the look of her.’
Virginia shook her head. ‘You’re incorrigible. By the way,’ she asked at the doorway, ‘do you fancy going to the Exhibition later on? You promised we’d go and see the illuminations one night.’
‘Yes, fine.’
Happily she went through to the kitchen for her usual talk with Mrs Rogers about menus and also to make out the weekly shopping list. Mrs Rogers had cooked a delicious roast of prime beef, surrounded by roast potatoes. In a separate dish were golden brown, light as a feather Yorkshire puddings. For sweet there was a fruit salad and cream. Because Mrs Rogers always left early, Virginia dished the meal, and afterwards Nicholas helped her to clear the table. In the kitchen, Virginia washed the dishes and Nicholas dried them. Eventually, arm in arm, they left the house, and soon were on their way to the Empire Exhibition in Bellahouston Park.
* * *
Granny’s gums were chomping with excitement as she related to Mr McCluskey what a great show good old Glasgow had put on. Mr McCluskey was sitting in the close having his smoke, his thick straggly moustache wet at the ends with sucking on his pipe. Erchie and Teresa had brought Granny home just after lunch time. Then Erchie had gone off to the factory. Wincey was already at work. Granny had insisted on her chair being parked beside Mr McCluskey’s so that she could tell him all about her adventures. She quite often parked in the close beside Mr McCluskey now.
‘Ah’m the only wan the poor auld soul can enjoy a good blether wi’,’ Granny insisted.
Before she got started, Teresa had run into the house and fetched Granny’s shawl and also a blanket to tuck around her waist and legs.
‘Now, will I get you a scarf to tie round your head?’ she asked the old woman.
‘Stop yer fussin’,’ Granny said. ‘Can ye no’ see ah’ve got ma hat on. Away ye go an’ make Mr McCluskey an’ me a wee cup o’ tea.’
‘Can I fetch you a blanket, Mr McCluskey?’ Teresa said.
‘No thanks, hen. Ma long johns keep the cauld aff ma legs.’
He was also wearing a tweed bonnet with the skip pulled well down over his brow, and a big woolly scarf knotted high under his chin, and hanging down over his chest.
‘A wee cup o’ tea would be very welcome though, hen,’ he said, and settled back in his chair to enjoy another few puffs at his pipe. ‘And,’ as he’d said many times before, ‘a guid crack wi’ Granny.’
Granny described in glowing detail everything from the hurly burly of the amusement park to the British Government pavilion with its steel and glass globe of the world, apparently unsupported in space. She took Mr McCluskey through the Scottish Pavilion South, with its hall of youth, and the Scottish Pavilion North, with its striking twenty-five-foot statue called The Spirit of Modern Scotland. Each Scottish Pavilion was coloured blue and each had a tower.
‘Ma favourite though wis the Peace Pavilion. It wis tellin’ ye about aw the things folk dae tae try to live in peace thegither. Well, no everythin’, mind ye. Ah could huv telt them a thing or two tae put in there if they’d asked me. Still, it wis better than nothin’. Somebody or somethin’s got tae speak up for peace at a time like this. Dae ye no’ think so, Mr McCluskey?’
Mr McCluskey remov
ed the pipe from his mouth. ‘Aye, ye’re quite right, Granny. Aw the generals an’ high heid yins telt us the last war wis tae be the war tae end aw wars, an’ we wis comin’ home tae a land fit for heroes. Bloody lies, if ye’ll excuse the French. Ye’ll no’ get me rushin’ aff like an idiot tae jine up this time.’
Teresa, returning with a tray of tea and digestive biscuits, couldn’t help smiling at the idea of poor Mr McCluskey rushing off anywhere.
‘Here, Mr McCluskey, can you hold the tray on your knees?’ Teresa said.
‘Aye, fine, hen.’
Teresa took one of the cups and placed it between Granny’s hands. ‘Will I dip a biscuit for you, Granny?’
‘Ma hands are fine. Gie me ower a digestive an’ away ye go an’ leave us in peace.’
After a while, Mr McCluskey’s daughter came bustling into the close and started tutting the moment she saw her father’s pipe.
‘That woman jist hates that poor fella’s pipe,’ Granny had said. ‘He’s tae hang on tae it like grim death—even sleeps wi’ it under his pillow, he telt me, in case she takes it aff him an’ throws it in the midden. She’s tried aw sorts o’ tricks tae get her hands on it. He’s that feart he loses it, the poor auld soul. Ah telt him no’ tae worry—if the worst came tae the worst, ah’d get him anither yin.’
‘Come on now, Father,’ Miss McCluskey said, ‘it’s time you came in and washed your hands, ready for your dinner.’
Obediently the old man got up, still clutching at his pipe.
‘Put that disgusting thing out,’ Miss McCluskey yelped as if the pipe was going to leap up at her and bite her. ‘I will not have its dirty fumes contaminating my house. It’s bad enough out here in the close.’
‘Your house?’ Granny said in wide eyed innocence. ‘An’ here wis me thinkin’ that the hoose wis in Mr McCluskey’s name.’
Miss McCluskey flushed and pushed past them to unlock the front door.
‘Ye’re an awfae woman, Granny,’ Mr McCluskey said, but gave her a wink.
After Granny had settled back in the kitchen, Wincey arrived and Granny said, ‘That wis awfae good o’ ye, hen, tae take us tae the Exhibition an’ pay for everythin’ like ye did. Ah really enjoyed masel’. Glasgow’s put on a rare show, eh? Good old Glasgow.’
Wincey gave Granny a kiss. ‘Yes, but there’s nothing old looking about the exhibition, is there? Everything’s ultra modern.’
‘You’re not rushing out again, are you, dear? You must be exhausted.’
‘No, I’m fine, Teresa. I’m just going to get changed.’
‘Sit down and have a bite to eat first.’
‘No thanks. Robert and I are going to have a meal at the Atlantic Restaurant at the exhibition. Remember that one that’s been built exactly like the bow of a ship? And all the waitresses are dressed as stewards. I’m really looking forward to it. So is Robert.’
‘A cup of tea then?’
‘No, honestly, Teresa. I’ll away through to put on my new dress.’
‘The long black velvet one? Oh, wait until Robert sees you in that. You could pass for a film star.’
Wincey laughed, and once she was through in her room, they could hear her singing.
Teresa smiled and shook her head. ‘What a girl! What would we do without her?’
30
It was raining yet again when they left the Atlantic restaurant. Wincey had just tied her headsquare over her hair when suddenly Robert grabbed her, pushed her against the hull, or wall outside, and started passionately kissing her. Wincey was too astonished to struggle. Robert was not a man who believed in indulging in uninhibited public displays of emotion. On the contrary, as a doctor, he always showed a quiet self-confidence and calm authority.
Eventually he let her go and she gasped breathlessly, ‘What on earth was that all about?’
‘Your mother passed within yards of us.’
Wincey paled. She was glad now of the wall at her back to steady her. At last she managed, ‘How did you know? I mean, you’ve never seen her before, have you?’
‘No, but I’ve seen plenty of photographs of Nicholas Cartwright, and she was hanging onto his arm.’
Wincey looked fearfully, wistfully, around. ‘Where are they now?’
‘They were going in the direction of the exit, I think. Anyway, the opposite direction from us, so don’t worry. But you know, Wincey, it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Glasgow’s not all that big a place. One day you’re going to give her a terrible shock. You’ve got to write that letter.’
Wincey nodded. She was still shaken. ‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll do it this weekend.’ Her heart was pounding at the thought, but as they moved away, she couldn’t help being diverted and uplifted by the breathtakingly beautiful scenes all around them. Earlier she’d read Robert’s copy of The Times and could now agree with what its arts critic had said.
‘The best effect of the exhibition is at night, when to the straight lines and delicate colours of the pavilions is added floodlighting and the changing effects of illuminated water in movement. The lake, lit by submarine floodlights of changing colours, presents a magnificent spectacle. High up over all shines the fixed red, yellow and green of the Tower of Empire observation balconies. From the foot of the tower cascades descend, lit from below with changing colours, the water being made semi-opaque by aeration to give value to the colours.’
‘This is like a dream world,’ Wincey said. ‘It’s all so beautiful, isn’t it.’
Robert agreed and, arm in arm, they wandered around speechless now with admiration. Although Wincey couldn’t relax completely. Every now and again she’d gaze uneasily at people in the crowd. Eventually, Robert said, ‘Relax, will you.’
‘I am.’
‘I can feel your tension. I told you, they went away in the opposite direction.’
She clung tightly to his arm, glad of the strong, hard feel of it. ‘It’s just been a bit of a shock, but I’m fine really. I’m glad we came. I am enjoying it. It’s wonderful. Thank you for bringing me, Robert.’
He smiled down at her. ‘Maybe I’ve been going about this in the wrong way.’
‘Going about what?’
‘Courting you. Do you realise that’s the first time you haven’t trembled or shrunk away from me when I’ve kissed you?’
‘Oh Robert, I don’t shrink away from you. I never—’
‘Imperceptibly perhaps, but I’m not a doctor for nothing. You can’t fool me.’
‘Oh Robert, I’m sorry. It’s not you …’
‘Don’t get all agitated. I know what it is. I also know that you’ll never be free of the past, Wincey, and all the negative emotions that are still twisted up inside you, if you go on like this.’
‘Like what? I’ve been trying to free myself of the past for years, Robert. I thought I had.’
Robert stopped walking and turned her towards him. ‘Have you forgiven your grandfather?’
‘What?’ All the hatred she’d felt for the old man came careering back, making her tremble violently. ‘Never!’
Robert said, ‘You see. You haven’t even begun to free yourself, Wincey. And this hatred only harms you, it doesn’t do anything to your grandfather. He’s long gone.’
‘Change the subject, for goodness’ sake,’ she suddenly snapped at him. ‘You’re spoiling the evening.’
He shrugged and they began walking again, but this time not arm in arm. Eventually Wincey couldn’t bear it any more and she said, ‘Robert, I’m sorry. I’m over-tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day. Do you mind if we go home now?’
Later, alone in the silence of her room, she wept. A horrible certainty was creeping over her. She was going to lose him. That night she dreamt she was sinking deep into a quagmire and couldn’t get a foothold, couldn’t struggle up. She woke sweating and exhausted.
It wasn’t a good start to what turned out to be a dreadful day—one of the worst days of her life. A day that banished everything else from her mind.
* * *
She could see right away that Charlotte was tense and upset and eventually she asked her, ‘Charlotte, what’s wrong? Please tell me. Maybe I can help.’
She knew of course it would be something to do with Malcy. Only he could make Charlotte look so desperately worried and unhappy. Charlotte shook her head. ‘I’m trying hard to stick it out and not give Malcy any more money, Wincey, but it’s been terrible these last few days. He’s begged and pleaded and says Mrs O’Donnell’s men have threatened to kill him if he doesn’t pay up by today. Today’s his last chance, he says. But he’s lied to me so often before, Wincey. I don’t believe him now. And I do so much want him cured of his gambling. I feel I really must hold out this time and not give him any more money. He always just goes and gambles it away, you see. But at the same time, I’m so afraid. I mean, what if he is telling the truth this time? I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to Malcy. It’ll be my fault if anything does.’
‘Of course it won’t be your fault,’ Wincey said. ‘This is all Malcy’s doing, not yours.’ Wincey took Charlotte’s arm and held her and Charlotte wept broken-heartedly on Wincey’s shoulder.
After a minute or two, Wincey said, ‘The only thing I can think of is if I go and speak to Mrs O’Donnell. Find out exactly what the true situation is.’
‘Oh, could you, Wincey? Maybe if we went together. I probably should have confronted Mrs O’Donnell before, but to be honest with you, I never thought of it. I’ve just kept trying to talk to Malcy and sort things out between ourselves.’
‘I don’t mind going on my own,’ Wincey said. ‘You’re upset enough.’
‘But could you do it discreetly, Wincey? Without Malcy knowing. He’d never forgive me if he thought I’d allowed you to interfere. I’m sorry, Wincey, but you’re not his favourite person at the best of times.’
The Gourlay Girls Page 19