Silver Linings
Page 9
Witnessing the emotional scene between Johnny and Rosebud was just too much for Kitty and she stole away into the kitchen. Without being aware of actually doing it, she began to run some hot water into the washtub. She wasn’t going to start washing clothes right now. No, she was going to do the only thing that she could for Rosebud – sponge her clean.
Connie, who had followed the family into the house, gently began to rub Johnny’s back. ‘Come on, my bonnie lad,’ she purred. ‘Pull yourself together, and to help you do that I think I just might have a wee dram left in that bottle under the sink.’
Johnny didn’t wish to hurt anyone else tonight and he had an urgent desire to reply to Connie and say, No thanks, not just now. Not for a while yet. But do keep it because as life goes on … well you never know. But instead he stayed mute and then got up and joined his sons at the fireside.
By this time Kitty had taken Rosebud away from her father and had laid her gently in the warm suds she had prepared. She wanted to say to Rosebud as she washed her clean that she did care for her. Unlike her father, however, Kitty could not completely let go of the price that had had to be paid for Rosebud to be born. Right now she ‘cared’ for Rosebud because it was a promise she’d made to her mother. Kitty sighed, wondering, Will I ever truly and freely love Rosebud for herself? Reluctantly she accepted that only time knew the answer to that conundrum.
Once Rosebud was in fresh nightclothes Jack lifted her up to sit on his knees while Davy went to spread some jam on a piece of bread for her. Emotionally drained and physically exhausted, Kitty looked at the happy trio sitting in the firelight glow. Grudgingly she admitted to herself her brothers were better people than she was. Rosebud had from the day she was born been ‘one of us’ to them, whereas to Kitty, poor little Rosebud was a burden she resented, yes, even now.
The sound of the outside door clicking shut caused Kitty to turn and find that Connie had left without saying goodnight. What Kitty was unaware of was that Connie just so yearned to be one of them. Ever since they had arrived she had somehow longed to be accepted as the mother figure they had lost. She had fooled herself into thinking that this family would give her the proper and decent purpose in life that she prayed for every night.
CONNIE’S STORY
Connie had been born and bred in the coal mining town of Whitburn in West Lothian. Being the third daughter of a miner was not an easy life. Poverty and deprivation stalked all miners and their families.
Often Connie would reminisce about life in what were called the miners’ rows. These were rows and rows of small terraced dwelling places that were owned by the limited coal mining company. The pit was called The Lady, but in reality she was in no way a lady – she was nothing more than an unfeeling bitch. Men, some so young you could have called them children, slaved in her deep underground. Day in and day out they banged away continually to drag out the black gold, the good-quality coal. And what was their reward? Wages that were hardly above subsistence level and, for some, their further recompense would be the black lung disease, pneumoconiosis, when their lungs became filled with choking coal dust. If the afflicted miner was lucky he would be able to stay in his ‘rows’ house, but most workers who became disabled, gasping for breath, would find their houses removed from them, and they had to rely on charity or the council to house them and their families.
Connie gave a derisive chuckle when she recalled how her mother always proclaimed that she was pleased that she never had a son – a son whose sole purpose in life would have been to spend his life like a mole in the dark bowels of the earth. Her mother, a firebrand if ever there was one, also hated to be beholden to the pit owners, and after years of badgering the council, she was awarded a two-bedroomed house in Whitburn’s Armadale Road. The house even had a bathroom – so no longer did her dad have to endure the indignity of being scrubbed clean in a tin bath in front of the living-room fire while family life went on round about him.
The miners’ resilience was something Connie tried to emulate. Fondly she remembered the gala days. So vivid was her recall that she always started to tap her feet when she remembered how the annual parade was led up Main Street by the colliery pipe band, followed by the award-winning brass band. Her dad had been a trumpeter and so it was only natural that when a young lad called Mark Sharp, not a miner but a trainee painter and decorator, joined the brass band, that she was drawn to him.
The first thing that Connie noticed about Mark Sharp was his fingers. They were long and elegant, like a surgeon’s fingers. There was also an air about him that marked him as different and she admitted that it was true that she was the one who had pursued him.
Gentleman that he was, he did try at first to discourage her. Unfortunately this only added to her desire to pursue him. The result was that when he finished his apprenticeship the two of them were married. Connie had dreamt about how wonderful her wedding night would be, but Mark preferred to spend the night drinking with his lifelong friend, a blond, blue-eyed chap called Jamie Oman. Mark’s friendship with Jamie was so close that when he decided to move through to Glasgow, it was a trio that set up house there.
Connie had led a sheltered life as far as sex and adult relationships were concerned and it came as a shock to her that the sexual encounters that took place in her home were between Mark and Jamie, not between husband and wife. She recalled with shame just how naive she had been until she came home early one day from work to find the two men in bed. Humiliation and disgust overwhelmed her and it was then she moved into Jamie’s room and he moved into Mark’s. That was not the only thing she did. No, from that day on she dyed her hair blonde and flirted indiscriminately. She really became quite coquettish and ended up being the talk of the town. This wanton image that Connie had thought would provoke people into asking what was amiss with Mark only served to have people pity him for having such a fast piece for a wife.
After ten years in Glasgow, Mark announced that he was arranging an exchange with a family in Edinburgh who needed to move to Glasgow. This was a bolt from the blue to Connie but she went along with it and then, surprise, surprise, the day before the move Mark arrived home to announce he would not be moving to Edinburgh with Connie and Jamie because he had started up a relationship with a lad ten years younger than Jamie.
Connie had spent the night consoling Jamie, who continually kept asking, ‘How can he do this to me? I love him. I trusted him. What will people think of me?’ Connie felt for Jamie, but hadn’t she been treated even worse by Mark?
The removal truck had just left and Connie and Jamie were boarding a train for Edinburgh when Jamie grabbed her hand and kissed it. ‘Sorry, love,’ he blubbed, ‘but I can’t live without him so I’m going back to put up a fight for him.’
Whether Mark and Jamie did get back together Connie didn’t know or care. What she did know was that when she arrived in Restalrig Road she found that she had a three-bedroomed house all to herself. And indeed it was to her a silver lining, because she was happy living there with no one knowing about her past.
That past did not come back to haunt her until Johnny Anderson fell down drunk and incapable on to her bed. He looked so comfortable there that she undressed him down to his long johns and climbed in beside him. Snuggling into him she felt an overwhelming sadness engulf her as she accepted that even if Johnny did recover from losing Sandra, he could never be anything to her – she was a married woman and he was strict Church of Scotland and that meant he would consider it sinful to sleep with another man’s wife!
*
Ever since Jenny had sunk down into her depression she had refused to go out into the air-raid shelters when the alarm sounded. On the night that all the commotion was going on around the Restalrig area she grabbed hold of Kate’s hand and dragged her under the solid oak table.
Kate was of the opinion that hiding under the table was a bad idea because, should the house be hit and the table collapse, they would be killed by the sheer weight that would descend on them.
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br /> When a bomb – meant no doubt for the docks – landed close by the house it shook the building so violently that ornaments and clocks crashed to the floor. Once the all-clear sounded, Kate emerged from under the table and began to clear up the debris.
She wasn’t in the least sorry that the Whistling Boy that had stood all its life looking out from the front-room window would whistle no more. Nor could she shed a tear for the smashed Royal Doulton china cups that no one had been allowed to drink from. But when she looked at her father’s granddaughter clock lying smashed beyond repair, all the pent-up emotion that she had refused to release since he had died now erupted from her. Lying across the wooden frame she wept for all she had lost, not only in this war but also in the previous one.
Jenny knelt down to console Kate. It was then she realised that she had been so wrapped up in her own grief that she hadn’t been aware of the needs of others. Why hadn’t she realised that Kate and Johnny would also lament the passing of her Donald, their beloved father? Instinctively she attempted to lift Kate up into her arms, and drawing in a deep breath, she vowed there and then that from this day onwards she must become the matriarch again.
The morning after the air raid that had terrified the districts of Restalrig and Craigentinny, Kitty was busy washing Rosebud’s soiled clothing when Jenny walked in.
‘Oh no, Granny, please don’t tell me that something awful happened to you or Aunty Kate last night.’
‘Not quite awful. You see, the things that were smashed are replaceable, with the exception of your granddad’s clock.’
‘The clock he wound up every week with the key we were never allowed to touch?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Anyway, last night I decided to stop licking my wounds so I’m here to see if there is anything I could be doing for you.’
Kitty lifted her hands out of the washing tub and as she dried them on her apron she gave a little giggle. ‘Well, Granny, last night’s raid, which was not one of the worst to happen here, sure shook our family up. Look’ – Kitty pulled out a chair so that Jenny could sit down at the table – ‘just sit down and I’ll tell you all about …’
Rosebud had now come into the kitchen and when she saw her grandmother she squealed, ‘Granny, Granny, have you come to smack bad Kitty for what she did to me last night?’
Jenny turned her head towards Kitty. Her fingers then began to tap, tap, tap on the table. Kitty took this strumming as an indication that her grandmother was waiting for an explanation.
Since she was a child Kitty had known that it was not a good idea to get into her grandmother’s bad books. This being so, she swallowed hard before she submissively said, ‘It was just that I was so busy delivering Mrs Ferguson’s baby that I forgot to check that Dad had taken Rosebud to the shelter, so … Oh, Granny, we never meant to leave her here all alone.’
Normally Jenny would have read the riot act to Kitty about being so careless but she looked long and hard at her granddaughter. What she saw was an overburdened eighteen-year-old who had gallantly dealt with the responsibility of the household here while she herself had wallowed in her grief.
An extremely anxious Kitty waited expectantly for the verbal storm that she knew her grandmother would unleash on her. However, she was somewhat surprised when Jenny quietly said, ‘Kitty, how about I keep Rosebud overnight on Friday night so that you and your pal Laura can go out to the pictures or the dancing?’
Laura and some of her workmates had been to the Palais dance hall since the Americans had arrived, but it was Kitty’s first time. To say she was filled with excited anticipation was an understatement. When they arrived, to Kitty’s annoyance, Laura dragged her firstly into the ladies’ powder room. Never had Kitty seen so many mirrors and she was just so thankful that she was not the poor cleaner whose job it was to keep them crystal clear.
Nose properly powdered, lipstick refreshed and not a hair out of place, they eagerly emerged into the ballroom itself. A feeling of elation overtook Kitty as Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ rang out and reverberated around the hall. Instinctively her feet, and even her hands, started jiving in time to the beat.
All of the dancers were, like herself, intoxicated by the rhythm, which resulted in them throwing decorum to the wind. Indeed she had never seen such a display of indecent dancing as was being performed on the floor just then. Young men smartly dressed in the uniform of American soldiers were literally throwing young women through their legs and over their shoulders with breathtaking ease.
Kitty was just about to turn to Laura to ask if all American soldiers were contortionists when she was grabbed by the arm and propelled on to the dance floor. Her first words of protest to the brash young man had just left her mouth when she found herself winging her way between his legs. The twisting and curling movements resulted in Kitty’s skirt landing up over her head, and her knickers and suspenders could then be viewed by those standing on the fringes.
The indecent experience should have had Kitty running out of the hall but Laura was amazed to see Kitty jive, whoop and whirl herself off the sprung floor. Obviously she had thrown caution to the wind and no longer cared one whit who was able to see her underwear. Just as the bouncers started to speak to the dancers and warn them that that sort of jiving was not allowed, the tempo of the music changed to that of a foxtrot. The young man, however, instead of releasing Kitty hung on to her and they elegantly circled the floor.
The music finished when the bandstand’s revolving stage started to turn and all that could be heard was the signature tune of the orchestra that was now taking over. When the music changed to ‘We’ll Meet Again’, Kitty was keen to stay on the floor with the pleasant young man, who told her his name was Hank Rogers, but she felt a bit put out when he then bowed to her and thanked her for the dances.
Back on the fringe, where the women waited to be asked the all-important question – ‘Are you dancing?’ – Kitty was surprised when a young black, very handsome American soldier cocked his head towards her and said, ‘May I have the pleasure?’ Now the etiquette in the dance hall was that if you refused to dance with someone then that meant you could not partner anyone else for that particular dance. If you did the man whom you had rejected could ask the bouncers to evict you from the hall. Knowing this, Kitty smiled sweetly to the young man and they took to the floor. To say that her new dance partner was charming and polite would have been an understatement. As soon as the music stopped he tucked his hand under her elbow and escorted her back to the selection area. It was then that she was accosted by Hank Rogers, the first young man she had danced with.
‘You’ve made a fool of me,’ he hissed. ‘Where I come from no decent young white woman would suffer the advances of a black man.’
Kitty was incensed. ‘Well, you see, I come from Leith,’ she replied, ‘and we accept all people and we do not judge them by their religion, nationality or colour of their skin. Believe me, we are only concerned as to whether they are decent human beings and indeed if they have good manners.’ Kitty gave an exaggerated sigh before adding, ‘Unfortunately, sir, because of your attitude you would certainly not be welcome where I come from.’ She then pointed to the young black soldier and added, ‘But he would!’
The response from Hank was not what Kitty expected and it certainly was not the gift of nylons or chocolate: it was a rather hard slap across her face. As she reeled backwards she became aware that someone had come to her rescue and that he had landed a hard punch on Hank’s face. At first she thought it was the young black man who had decided to defend her but she was astonished to find her champion was none other than her brother Jack.
Before anyone could do or say anything else the bouncers summoned the American Military Police, who were on duty at the Palais dance hall, and they soon had both the young white man and young black man in custody and very quickly they were whisked out of the hall.
‘What in the name of heaven are you doing here? And why did you interfere?’ Kitty demanded of Jack.
‘But I’m enjoying myself.’
‘That right? Well until you are more streetwise could I suggest you just keep going to the YMCA dances in Fire Brigade Street.’
‘Fire Brigade Street?’
‘Aye you know, Junction Place, where there are no GIs and certainly no fights. Take a look about you, Kitty. Look at all the bottle blondes who are hoping to marry a GI and get a better life over in America. You don’t need to go after that; you have a good life here – a very good life.’
Kitty was about to challenge Jack and his views when a bouncer came up. ‘I trust, sir,’ he said, emphasising the ‘sir’ to let Jack know that in no way was he suggesting that he considered Jack to be a gentleman, ‘that you will be escorting the young lady out of the hall.’
‘Too true I will,’ was Jack’s explosive reply before propelling Kitty towards the exit. Then before leaving he decided to shout back to the bouncer, ‘Believe me, she’s far too good for this den of iniquity.’
Kitty could only sigh. It had been some week. Firstly she was held responsible for Rosebud being abandoned, then she thought she’d done a first-class job delivering Mrs Ferguson’s baby only to be told by the midwife, Joan Fowler, when she arrived the next day, that the umbilical cord had not been tied off properly. And now she was being dragged home because it would appear she was going to be blamed for a further deterioration in America’s race relations.
Two hours later a fuming Kitty was sitting in an easy chair. The night that she thought was going to be just so magical had turned into a nightmare, ending as it did with her being shoved on to a bus and told by an officious Jack to go straight home. He, of course, was not going to have his Friday night capers curtailed. The last Kitty saw of Jack was him, accompanied by three mates, heading towards the Royal Mile. No doubt they would be going down Niddry Street to St Cecelia’s Halls, better known as the Excelsior Ballroom. This little backwater off the Royal Mile wasn’t as well known as the main dance hall in Edinburgh – the Palais – and therefore fewer American servicemen strayed there. So, to the delight of the locals, no chocolate-waving GI would be waltzing all the best-looking ladies around the dance floor.