Fortunes of the Heart

by Jenny Telfer Chaplin

  He beamed his approval at her and although Kate could well have taken umbrage at his comments with regard to Hannah – for she alone knew how very hard she worked with the poor soul – she decided instead to bask in the glory of the moment. That being so she pushed back an overhanging lock of hair, smoothed down her sack-cloth apron, and smiled back at her husband.

  “Yes, Katie, my girl, you’re bringing them up just fine, to be decent citizens. Not like some of the riff-raff we see around here. They’re polite and well-spoken, albeit with lapses into that terrible, guttural Glasgow patter. I swear to God, they’re bi-lingual. And well-read too.”

  His eyes blazing with excitement, he leant forward and grasped her hands between his own.

  “Katie, as you know, I really do detest either you or any of the children adopting this vile Glasgow accent. Even so, the locals have a very apt turn of phrase for what it is I’m planning.”

  He paused to let his words sink in. At this, Kate leapt from her chair, as if shot from a cannon. Her green eyes aglow, she stared at him in disbelief.

  “Pearce. You don’t mean ... you can’t mean ... it would be just too wonderful for words.”

  Pearce too rose to his feet and, with a beaming grin, he held wide his arms to her, as at that exact moment, and like a couple of excited school children, they shouted in unison: “A wee trip doon the waiter.”

  He hugged her to him then, as they drew apart, with a delighted grin still on his face, he laughed.

  “And apart from the pleasure it will afford the whole family, there’s something else. We can look on it as a special birthday treat for wee Isabella. How would that be? Good idea, don’t you think? After all, we’ll never forget the day of her birth, will we? With that awful launching tragedy on the Clyde. Still, we’re lucky, we’re together. And the mighty River Clyde will be our friend, our means to take us doon the wafter to the lovely Island of Bute.”

  Kate was overcome with joy, as her eyes took in and tried to comprehend the rare sight of her husband’s face, happy and carefree at last.

  She began to hope in her heart perhaps at long last he was getting over the death of his beloved and sorely-missed, dearly departed Andrew and Angela.

  As she waved her husband off to work, and then cleared away his breakfast things, before getting the children up, the phrase kept going round and round in her head.

  “Just a wee trip doon the wafter.”

  Unable to restrain her exuberance, she hiked up her skirts and did a spirited Irish dance right there and then by the side of the kitchen sink.

  The thought came to her: Honestly. I can hardly wait to tell the. children. But, perhaps I’d better wait until things are definitely arranged. It would never do to disappoint the wee darlings.

  She started re-laying the table in readiness for the children, then, with hand poised over the table with some spoons, she paused. Her face lit up with her sudden, bright idea.

  That’s it. That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll go round and have a word with Big Betty Donavan. Seems to me she went doon the wetter last year. I’ll find out all about it from her. Then once everything’s settled, all cut and dried, like, that’s when I’ll tell the children the good news. But not before.

  That point happily settled in her own mind, she bustled about the kitchen getting both herself and the children ready to face another day. She smiled and hummed to herself, secure in the knowledge that right at that moment life was good and even seemed, amazingly, to be getting better all the time.

  Chapter 22

  Glasgow Fair Saturday dawned at long, long last. Although by tradition this great day always fell on a day in mid-July for all the sunshine, so little light that penetrated Kate’s back kitchen, it might just as well have been a day in the gloom of November. Small wonder then that Isabella had asked her about the fiftieth time in as many moments: “Mammy, is it really true? Are we really going away to the seaside for a holiday?”

  Kate nodded happily, already busy in trying to slick down Hannah’s coarse dark hair in order to make the poor child as presentable as possible for the great adventure. Despite the gloom of the weather, inside the overcrowded kitchen even at that early hour, there was already an air of carnival. In one corner, Daniel was crouched low over a sheet of newspaper as he blackened and brushed his best Sunday boots. Young Jenny was already wearing, at a rakish angle, her straw sun bonnet, which although new to her, had already weathered a lifetime of summers, before finally coming to rest in Paddy’s Market, from which a bargain-hunting Kate had rescued it in exchange for handing over to the stall-holder one silver threepenny bit. Kate smiled as she recalled how Jenny had carefully climbed on a chair to place her precious hat on a high shelf well out of the grasping reach of her younger sister.

  Isabella, who had packed and repacked her leather school bag at least a dozen times, with increasingly disastrous results, was at that very moment doing her best to stuff back inside the bag an overhanging length of cotton petticoat and one draw-string navy knicker leg. When the latter item, which seemed to have a life of its own, again cascaded over the edge, she gave a tut of annoyance and threw the bag angrily into the corner where it just missed the open tin of greasy black shoe polish. More to divert her Mother’s attention from the near disaster in the corner than for any other reason, Isabella turned and again asked: “Mammy, is it really today we’re going on that big boat? Honest and true?”

  Kate gave a final pat to Hannah’s hair, secured with a Kirby grip the child’s favourite tartan ribbon which she had already tied into a chocolate-box bow, and then turned to face her youngest daughter.

  Then, holding her arms wide, she gathered Isabella to her bosom and gave her a reassuring kiss.

  “Yes, my darling. It is indeed true. We are going this very day. And no mistake. Even if I have to drive the boat myself.”

  Just at that moment, Pearce came in from the hallway, and, catching the last of Kate’s words, he gave a hearty laugh.

  “You drive the boat, did you say, Kate? Humph. And a grand job you would make of it too. Like as not, we’d all end up in the nearest tenement close, and not a very salubrious one at that, I’ll be bound, probably round the corner from Govan Wharf.

  The children all laughed uproariously at this. Then as their laughter died away, Pearce, as if again back to his usual strict manner, frowned.

  “Well now, children, it’s high time we were all ready. If we fritter away the morning like this, I’m sorry to tell you that there’s only one thing we’ll catch. And it won’t be the Marquis of Bute at that.”

  Daniel looked up from where he was engaged in clearing away the boot cleaning materials.

  “But Dadda, if we don’t catch the big boat, what will we catch?”

  Pearce gave them all a wicked grin, with the nearest thing to a twinkle in his eye.

  “The only thing we’re likely to catch, son, is a head cold.”

  With the exception of Daniel, who blushed scarlet and felt that he had been made a fool of, the rest of the family roared with laughter.

  Half an hour later, amid a welter of bags, cane-baskets, hampers, children, buckets and spades, and the ever present go-chair for Hannah, the Kinnon clan finally emerged from their close and headed in procession along Argyle Street towards their first port of call at the Broomielaw.

  As they marched along, the first thing that Kate noticed was that the normally busy streets were, much to her surprise, strangely deserted. In fact, instead of the usual noises of the City, the pounding of horses’ hooves, the screech of tramcars, the cries of the street traders and all the other ever-present sounds now so familiar to her, today there was nothing. Whatever distant sounds there were, the barking of a dog, the screaming of a child, all seemed strangely muted.

  Never the less despite the somewhat eerie atmosphere, their family procession kept steadfastly on its way with, as usual, Pearce striding on at its head, walking-stick in one hand, holiday hamper in the other, the children, also encumbered wi
th various items of luggage, following in Indian file, with Kate bringing up the rear with Hannah in her ancient go-chair packed with parcels, sun-hats, stretched woollen cardigans, and even an umbrella and a brightly-painted parasol with which to cover all eventualities. It was when they were walking under the Highlanders’ Umbrella further along Argyle Street that Kate realised what a difference the absence of its usual traffic, people, noise, and bustle made. In this covered space under the railway bridge, the screech of Hannah’s rickety go-chair echoed all around them, as did the clank of the older children’s tin buckets and spades as they from time to time clattered against the enamel mugs which each child wore on a neck-string, almost as a badge of office.

  Kate had a quiet smile to herself when she thought of the name, Highlanders’ Umbrella. Many people thought it had gained its name on account of the many immigrants from the Highlands of Scotland being mean with what little money they had and sheltering from the rain under the covered area, rather than go to the expense of buying an umbrella.

  But thanks to the knowledgeable Granny Gorbals, Kate knew different. The reason for the name had nothing whatever to do with the supposed thriftiness of the Highlanders. No, it was quite a different reason. Over time it had become a meeting place for the hundreds of young men and women, homesick for their beloved glens, braes, and Highland crofts left far behind them, who had, of necessity, come to the City of Glasgow to seek work. On their one free day, the Sabbath, they would congregate under the Highlanders’ Umbrella, there to meet with other homesick exiles and speak their own beloved, lilting Gaelic language.

  Kate had never seen the Sabbath meetings, but again according to Granny Gorbals any Sunday afternoon or evening, in front of every closed shop, there would be little groups of people from Mull, Mallaig, Inverary, or any other part of the Scottish Highlands one cared to mention.

  Kate was shaken out of her reverie when there was an explosive sneeze from Hannah. At once, Kate ground the go-chair to a halt, withdrew a rag from under the sleeve of her best navy serge dress, and prepared for battle.

  If there was one thing which Hannah, normally fairly biddable, really hated, it was having her nose wiped. She would squirm her body away, toss her head from side to side, and then retch loudly when her Mammy’s rag finally made contact with the dribbling green slime. Pearce had also stopped and with his walking-stick was indicating that they should hurry along. Then, in case his wife had still not got the message, he cupped a hand to his moustached and bearded mouth and yelled.

  “Kate. For heaven’s sake, do get a move on. The Marquis of Bute won’t wait for ever, you know, and certainly not on our convenience. Hurry up.”

  Kate took a wild swipe at Hannah’s face, and much to the latter’s displeasure, scored a bull’s eye. That done, she went hurrying on to meet up with her husband before he could get a chance to berate her further for her tardiness.

  “I was just thinking back there,” she said, “how lucky the Highlanders are with their own meeting-place. Must be grand that, when you’re feeling homesick. ’Tis a pity we don’t have an Irishman’s Umbrella. Now wouldn’t that be something?”

  Pearce, intent on making sure that he got his brood to the Broomielaw dockside with all possible speed, without even slackening his pace, turned his head and looked at his wife as if she had taken leave of her senses.

  “What? What’s that? Oh yes, I see what you’re on about now. But you’re forgetting surely. The Irish in Glasgow do have a meeting place. Of course they do.”

  It was Kate’s turn to look puzzled. Then her face cleared and she smiled.

  “You’re right, Pearce. How could I have forgotten Paddy’s Market especially since every stitch the children and ourselves wear comes from its stalls. Paddy’s Market, yes, you’re right.”

  Pearce’s only reply was a dismissive shake of his head, as if in this way, he could wave aside her words. He frowned at her.

  “No. That’s not the meeting place I meant. I was referring, of course, to the Ship Bank Tavern, a pub which has long been the unofficial headquarters of the Irish in Glasgow.”

  Kate frowned.

  “Oh, can’t say I ever heard of it.”

  Pearce allowed himself the luxury of a superior smile. Looking down at her from his great height, he replied:

  “Well, naturally, my dear. After all, a public house is no place for a respectable matron like yourself. But of course, I personally have always been aware of its existence. They do say that if you come from Donegal, Cork, Ballygally, or any place in Ireland for that matter, all you have to do is go along to the Ship Bank Tavern in the Briggait, and within minutes, you’ll be given the address of, and I daresay a helping hand from, another immigrant from your own area. No problem at all.”

  Kate stopped so abruptly that with the judder of the go-chair, Hannah’s uncoordinated fingers loosed their hold on her rag doll, which jerked out of her hands and fell down on to the pavement, just missing a puddle by inches. As she stooped to retrieve poor Raggie-Aggie, Kate fought hard to keep the anger she felt out of her face and her voice. Her common sense told her to let the matter rest there, but even so, she could not resist one short barb.

  “Pearce, do you mean to say you knew about that pub when we arrived, poor, lost souls, that awful day at the Broomielaw? You knew there was help readily available? You mean we need never have gone through that demeaning scene with the high and mighty lady whatsit? Oh, Pearce, Pearce.”

  His lips twisted in a sneer of scorn.

  “Look, the past is over and done with. But if you must know, yes, I was fully aware of the existence and of the actual location of that Irish pub in the Briggait.”

  Kate opened her mouth but so great was her white-faced shock that no sound issued from her lips.

  “Yes, Kate, of course I knew. A rough fellow on the boat across from Ireland gave me full directions as to how to find the place, and also a contact name to ask for. But let’s face it, my dear, I also knew, without ever seeing the Tavern, that it would not have been my sort of place. And you could hardly have expected me to mix with a rabble: common Irish peasants straight from the bogs, all penniless and looking for a hand-out, now could you?”

  Kate’s answer was lost, for at that moment, they rounded the corner and found themselves at the Broomielaw Wharf. What first struck them was the appalling noise.

  Pearce, blissfully unaware of the seething emotions still boiling in Kate at his recent revelations, turned to his wife.

  “Aha, so now we know why Argyle Street was so quiet. It seems that everyone else in the whole of Glasgow got here before us.”

  Kate gazed about her, a look of disbelief on her face, her eyes still on the seething mass of noisy, excited, and voluble would-be passengers.

  “But Pearce, surely one boat is never going to take all these people? We’ll be killed in the rush. That we will.”

  Pearce did not deign to answer what his superior look obviously classed as an ignorant, ridiculous question. Instead, with a jerk of his thumb, he indicated the many boats tied up to the quayside, boats with names like Benmore, Columba, Sultana, Viceroy, Undine, Guinevere, and half a dozen more and each one with its own wooden destination board with such names as Rothesay, Kim, Innellan, amoon, Lamlash, Brodick, Whiting Bay, and many others.

  Kate made a long whistling sound of relief and turned back to her husband with a smile on her face.

  “Well, thank goodness for that. I was worried for a minute there. But listen, I’ve never heard of half these places.”

  It was her husband’s turn to grin, pleased as ever to air his superior knowledge.

  “Well, just concentrate on Rothesay. You’ve heard of that and that’s where we’re bound. Some of the others, likes of Brodick, Lamlash, and Whiting Bay, they’re on the Island of Arran. At one point, I did think we might have gone there. I believe you get a better class of person there. But then the fare decided it for me. As far as I recall, it costs roughly two shillings per head more to travel to
the Island of Arran than it does to that of Bute. Anyway, Royal Rothesay is known as the Madeira of Scotland, so at least the sun should be shining there.”

  Kate nodded, all the while with her eyes on the ant-hill of men, women and children, all at a rare pitch of excitement and all desperate to get on to their respective boats and on their way far from the city streets for fourteen glorious days.

  She reflected that ever since young Andrew’s tragic death from diphtheria, Pearce, at first lost in the depths of depression, had finally emerged from the black cloud to choose yet another favourite from his, by now, somewhat depleted family. Kate smiled grimly to herself as the thought rose unbidden to her mind.

  His latest favourite. Humph. An easy choice that, I must say. He detests Hannah, can’t even bear to look at the road Daniel is on, and wee Jenny, young as she is, is far too much like himself in temperament – aye, and I must say it though God forgive me – she’s too much like his old father in appearance for his lairdship’s liking. She reminds him too much of people, places and past events in Ireland which he’d much rather forget.

  She nodded sagely.

  Aye. Not much of a choice. That left only the fair Isabella, didn’t it? No wonder that she’s now his bright shining star.

  Kate was interrupted in her musings. Some sort of bitter altercation was going on between a man standing nearby and some tongue-waggling children. His face puce, the man was bawling at the world in general, and at any child in particular who would stop their wild games and studied insolence long enough to listen. Up till then, apart from the gangway-bashers who were annoying nobody but those unfortunate, more timid children still meekly awaiting their shot, the gangs of screaming children chasing each other had been proving a real menace to everyone. Given the press of humanity, it meant that every time a child raced past, then at least one bystander received a hefty blow from an enamel mug, which swung from the neck of every child.