“Kate, let me get this straight. Right from the word go, I said that this family cultural and – I hope – highly educational, visit would exclude Hannah. Quite apart from the needless extra expense, it would be of no possible interest to one of her mentality.”
Kate sucked in her breath over her teeth then, without a minute’s hesitation, she launched into the attack. “Pearce. You talk about a family outing. I would remind you that Hannah is a member of this family and a much-loved one at that. And let me tell you this; if Hannah is excluded from the outing, then we all stay at home. Of course, you yourself are at perfect freedom to attend alone in all your glory.”
Even as she spoke, Kate was conscious of three pairs of young and somewhat anxious eyes fixed upon her face.
The thought went through her mind: I’ll hate to disappoint the others. But if that’s what I have to do, then so be it. For we are not setting foot beyond this door without Hannah. And I’ll hate worst of all to let Danny down, especially after he spent some of his precious money at the Exhibition on buying me a wee souvenir box of sweets. Still, the decision is Pearce’s, not mine.
Later that same day and after a right Royal battle of wills, the family set out en mass on the great adventure.
Once arrived at the Exhibition, they wandered around the sights, stalls, and exotic smells of the wide Main Avenue, while from the Grand Hall beyond could be heard the strains of the daily organ recital. Daniel was particularly enamoured of the many splendid ship models from such famous shipbuilders as Fairfield Co. Ltd, who built not only cargo ships, but also ironclads, luxury liners, and even millionaires’ pleasure boats.
When it became obvious not only that the rest of the Kinnon clan had had more than their fill of ship models but that Daniel wanted to linger longer at this display, it was Pearce himself who came up with what appeared to be an amicable and universally approved suggestion. Turning to his son, he leant forward and, at his most majestic, said: “Listen, Daniel, this is what we’ll do: you stay on here with Hannah; after all, it doesn’t much matter to her what she sees. I’ll take Mammy and the other two girls over to the Van Houten’s Dutch House. I believe that they serve excellent cocoa there at tuppence a cup. And wee Isabella will enjoy having it served by the girls in their national dress.”
It was arranged that they would all meet up later in the Indian Street where it was felt there would be plenty with which to amuse even Hannah, since many of the stallholders there sold all varieties of rich Indian sweetmeats. Pearce was just turning away when suddenly he put a hand in his pocket and, returning to his son’s side, held out a handful of coppers and two silver threepenny bits.
“Here you are, Daniel. Treat Hannah and yourself to some sweets. But not too many, we don’t want any upset stomachs. Right. We’ll be off for that cocoa. We’ll meet up with you later. Good-bye for now.”
A bemused expression on his face, Daniel looked down in wonder at the sum of money, far more than he had ever before received from his father. He smiled. Oh. Yes. He would do Dadda’s bidding in getting a wee treat for Hannah and himself. But in addition to the already mentioned sweets, he had an additional treat in mind. It was one that he knew Hannah would love – even though, for once, it had nothing whatever to do with eating.
It was an hour or so later when the family finally met up again.
“Well, Daniel, I see from the way your jaws are going that you found the sweet stall all right.”
Here, Pearce cast a fleeting glimpse at Hannah whose jaws also were working overtime.
Pearce, in a rare good humour at the excellent way his two girls and his wife, without the encumbrance of Hannah, had conducted themselves at the Van Houten Dutch House, now detailed their next move.
“We’ll have another half-hour or so in looking at the working models: see how they make comfits; prepare sacks of Scott’s Midlothian Oats; and if we’re lucky, we might even catch a glimpse of the Power Drop Biscuit Machine. After that ... well, I’m going to treat us all to a High Tea. After all, this is a real occasion in our lives.”
When, sometime later, it was time to choose which tea room they would favour, again Pearce took charge. He refused absolutely, and somewhat surprisingly, since he himself was now teetotal, to set foot into Jenkins Temperance Refreshment Rooms.
But the reason became clear, to Kate at least, when on closer examination, she saw that the restaurant was further billed as Working Men’s Dining Rooms. The thought went through her mind: ‘Oh, dear me, no. That would not be sufficiently grand for our high-born Pearce. And tucked in here between the Dynamo Shed and the Machinery Court. ‘Twould never do.’
Some half-hour and footsore miles later, the family, somewhat to their own surprise, found themselves ensconced in the genteel Royal Bungalow, which itself occupied a prime position not only overlooking the river, but also the bandstand and the beautifully illuminated Fairy Fountain. In such an elegant setting, while Pearce seemed perfectly at home, Isabella and Jenny did their best to cope with the stress of it all and when they spoke at all, it was in the hushed tones normally reserved for the rare occasions when Pearce took them to Mass at the High Anglican Church. Kate extended her little finger, or pinky as Glaswegians called it, in what she thought to be the formally correct mode of raising a cup to one’s lip in polite society.
As Pearce looked round his family seated upright at the snowy-white, linen-covered table with its heavy, silver cutlery, from the self-satisfied smirk on his face it was clear to even the most casual observer that he was congratulating himself on his well-behaved brood.
Jenny had been spooning up another helping of food for Hannah. At that moment the unfortunate child moved, gagging on the food already in her mouth. With a loud retching sound, which could be heard, much to the disgust of the elegant ladies and their handsome escorts, all over the opulent restaurant, Hannah vomited the mess far and wide. If ever there was a display of projectile vomiting then this was it. Some of the spewed-forth vomit now dripped from Isabella’s lovely golden ringlets, there were splashes of the foul-smelling mess on Pearce’s best and only silk waistcoat. Even worse, a well-upholstered and richly-dressed matron at the next table had been the recipient of a goodly share of the vomit which had now come to rest on the ledge of her well-endowed bosom. On all sides, there was much confusion and pushing away of well-filled plates, as with expressions of disgust and much wrinkling of patrician noses, the patrons decided that the meal had come to an untimely finish.
Even greater confusion reigned at the Kinnon table, as Kate both tried to mop up Hannah with a convenient table napkin and at the same time round up her brood.
As they left in some disorder, Kate was sure she heard a comment in the tortured vowels of the refined Kelvinside accent from one over-dressed, over-fed, and over-bejewelled matron to the effect that: “Can’t imagine how that lot of scruff got in here. Don’t they know there’s a working men’s dining establishment for the likes of them?”
Daniel, as he trailed out after the rest of his family, was conscious of two facts: the first, he and his family were the centre of all eyes, every stuck-up toff, every la-de-dah snob in the place had studied the Kinnons and found them wanting. Not only were they scum, they were Irish scum at that; the second, once safely home in Garth Street, he was set fair to get the thrashing of his young life from Dadda.
For not only had he been the guilty party, who had stuffed Hannah to capacity with a variety of rich Indian Sweets, there was still that other matter. He knew in his heart it would be bound to come out, one way or another. So he might just as well confess to it ... aye, he had taken Hannah on the switchback railway. And not just once. She’d had two rides on the thrill-a-minute coaster. And if that plus the glut of sweets had made her sick, then yes, of course, he was sorry.
But Hannah had squealed with delight throughout her exciting, never-to-be-repeated journeys. All right, she had been sick afterwards, but if they were apportioning blame, whose choice had it been to make them all suff
er the torment of the damned high tea, no less in that temple to high fashion and false manners, that swanky restaurant in which they had no place, nor indeed any idea of how to conduct themselves?
True, she could equally well have spewed forth her meal in the Working Men’s Dining Room. But somehow Daniel had the feeling, rightly or wrongly, that it would not have caused such a furore there, nor been regarded as a studied affront to the other diners – all of them as lowly born as the Kinnons themselves.
Chapter 20
The day had started like any other in their small, cosy and now fairly-well furnished and equally well-run home. After the upset of the move from their old home and the debacle of the flitting itself, all the children and Kate herself had settled well into their new abode. In the two-and-a-half years that had since passed, the children had made new chums in the neighbouring streets. Kate also had cultivated new, and in at least a couple of cases, better friendships; Pearce plodded along as usual in his job at the Fruit Market. Kate often pondered the truth that beyond the fact her husband worked at the Market, and brought home his wages faithfully every week, she knew very little about either the Fruit Market itself or about Pearce’s place there in the hierarchy
On the few occasions that she had tried to pump him for information, he had replied: “Look, Kate, you know that the Market is just around the corner, for you must pass it every day. You know that I work there and that I bring home a living-wage, sometimes with enough left over for those little ornaments you so delight in. Honestly, I don’t know of any other woman in the Candleriggs who is the proud possessor of three pairs of wally dugs.”
Kate had laughed at that, for it was true enough. While Pearce might deny her much in the way of loving affection, he did, however, humour her in her passion for cheap china knick-knacks, or what she herself chose to call her wee bit dabbities. But when she dared to ask him about his job, his face darkened.
“Kate, you do your job in the home, and I’m bound to admit, you do it well. The place is always gleaming, polished to an inch of its life with your vinegar-soaked cloth, or whatever it is you use. Well-cooked meals are always on the table at exactly the right time. And the children are growing up to be a credit to you. But having said all that, you do your job and I’ll do mine. That’s all you need to know, especially as long as I bring home sufficient money with which to feed, house and clothe us.”
Despite having been overwhelmed at such unexpected praise being bestowed upon her blushing brow, Kate had been forced to leave the matter there.
Such had been the thoughts going through Kate’s head that spring morning when she first awoke, that for once she was loathe to leap out of bed in her usual fashion. However, with a deep-felt sigh, she rubbed her eyes awake with knuckled hands, knowing as she did, if she wanted the range cleaned out, relit with twists of old newspapers and spent coals, then she had better get on and do it. For as Pearce had so rightly said, and that on more than one occasion:
“You do your job, Kate. And I’ll do mine. A woman’s work is in the home.”
And there the strict delineation of work had stayed. In good days and bad, in fine weather and foul, in sickness and in health. Pearce would no more have thought of lifting a nugget of coal with which to replenish a dying fire than he would have dreamt of going to work without his gaffer’s bowler hat. For Pearce, entirely due to his own hard work, had come on in the world. With a number of young clerks working under him, he was the boss of that particular section and as such, entitled to wear that much aspired-to badge of office – the gaffer’s bowler hat. At the way her thoughts were wandering this morning Kate shook her head of rich, nut-brown hair, so vigorously that the two fat plaits danced around her.
Then, speaking quietly to herself, she said: “Come on, Kate, my girl. Never get the porridge on the fire at this rate. Nor the bairns ready for school.”
She sidled her bottom over to the edge of the bed. taking care not to waken a still sleeping Pearce, nor even the three girls lying on the hurlie-bed and over whose still forms she would have to step in order to reach her clothes. Keeping a wary eye on the four recumbent bodies, she dressed quickly and expertly in the curtained dark before reaching up to the gas-mantle. That done, she brushed out the thick pigtail plaits, which, thus released, fell in a cascade of waves to her slim waist. Then, with a couple of deft and long-practised movements, she swept the mass of hair up into a coil which she in turn skewered with steel pins on top of her head. She then went into the front room to waken her son and on the way back through the narrow, dark hallway, paid a quick visit to the water-closet. Back in the kitchen, she washed her hands under the tap at the sink, and started her daily routine. The pot of porridge oats had been steeping overnight, so once she had finally coaxed the fire in the range into active life and added another scoop of coal as added encouragement, she positioned the pot and then set about laying the table. As she bustled about filling the kettle for Pearce’s early-morning cup of tea, she hummed softly to herself, already happier that the well-oiled routine was moving smoothly.
Later, having devoured his tea, porridge, toast and dripping in complete silence, Pearce eased his chair back a bit from the table, patted his stomach as if congratulating it upon the fine job it had just done and, with unaccustomed bonhomie, smiled at Kate.
“My, and that was grand, Katie lass, just grand. Just the thing to set up a working-man for the day’s toil ahead of him.”
Kate somewhat flustered by the unaccustomed praise, Pearce’s good humour, and his surprising use of her pet name, smoothed down her apron and smiled uncertainly, as she waited for him to go on.
His keen, piercing eyes which never missed a thing, be it a speck of dust or an unwashed mug, looked her over from top-knot to toe. Then, as if liking, perhaps even more, approving, what he saw, he leant forward and, taking her work-worn hand in his, said: “Katie, listen, my darling girl. I’ve been thinking.” Here he cast a surreptitious glance over his left shoulder at the three forms still in the hurlie bed. Satisfied they were in fact still asleep, he moved his hand further up her arm and in a grand conspiratorial whisper said: “Yes, thinking, a good deal of late. Now that I’m earning a good steady wage week after week, and thanks largely to your good management, we have no outstanding bills. Well, the point I’m trying to make is this: how would you like a –”
Kate, her green eyes wide with astonishment and perhaps even a measure of fear as to what on earth might be coming, decided, if nothing else, to put an end to the agony of suspense, to make a joke of it, clutching one hand to her bosom and raising the other to her furrowed brow in the classic pose of the abandoned drunkard’s wife about to be thrown out into the snow, she screeched:
“No, Pearce, no. Not another house move. I don’t think I could stand that. Not so soon. Not just after three short and – may I say, happy – years here in Garth Street.”
Pearce laughed appreciatively and not least at the effect his own words had had on his wife. He allowed himself the rare luxury of a tight, self-satisfied little smile. It was still playing about his lips as he said in what was, for him at least, a coquettish tone of voice: “Katie, my own dear girl, you should have been an actress. But listen. Do be serious for a minute. Bear with me. It is not a house move which I have in mind, but –”
Still enjoying to the full their rare moment of intimacy and shared innocent fun, Kate could not resist prolonging the delightful event. Again clutching one hand to her breast, she laid the other hand on Pearce’s arm and with her eyes raised to heaven in mock distress, she moaned: “Oh. Sir, kind sir. Tell me what my fate at your hands must be. Tell me. For I am but a poor unschooled country maid and not wise in the ways of a cruel, wicked world.”
Pearce started to laugh and went on laughing until he had to hold on to the back of a kitchen chair for support. Then at last, he wiped his eyes with the back of his shirtsleeve.
“Katie, Katie. Honestly, we’re both behaving like a pair of naughty, over-exuberant school childre
n. And look, there’s poor Hannah stirring with all the commotion. Well, I can see I had better tell you quickly and have done with it.”
Kate dropped her hand from his arm, lowered her head, and then, looking up between girlishly, shy, half-closed eye-lashes, said: “Tell me, kind sir, for I am totally at your mercy. What now is to be my fate?”
He reached out and clasped her round the waist in such a bear-hug as she had never before known. Then, speaking close to her top-knot, he said: “What I have in mind is this, my dear; a family holiday, no less.”
Chapter 21
Kate was stunned, but she managed to recover herself sufficiently to say in a tone of wonder: “A wee holiday, did you say, Pearce? By all that’s miraculous, that would be truly wonderful. In all the long, weary years we’ve been here in this grim, grey, accursed city, the furthest I’ve ever been from Candleriggs is a wee outing to Glasgow Green and Kelvingrove.”
Kate frowned, then slapping the palm of her hand against her forehead, she exclaimed: “No, I’m sinning my soul by telling a lie. I remember now you once took us to that lovely Rouken Glen for an afternoon. But a wee holiday. Now that indeed would really be something. But, Pearce, do you really mean it? I beg of you, please don’t make sport of me, for that I just could not bear.”
He laughed good-humouredly, and not least at her recently adopted Glasgow accent, which contrasted oddly with her soft and attractive Irish brogue. He leant over and, as if to lend weight to his words, patted her bare arm gently.
“A little holiday, I said, my dear, and that is exactly what I meant. If it pleases you to do so, then look on it as a reward for the job, the grand job, I may say, that you’re doing in rearing our family in this alien environment. With the exception of poor daft Hannah, who’ll never be anything other than she is, they are all turning out much better than I could ever have expected or even hoped for.”
Fortunes of the Heart Page 8