by Gray, Millie
Kitty felt completely humiliated at being treated like a naughty child by her brother. After all, Jack was only a year older than herself, and in her opinion less mature. As her vexation grew she inhaled deeply to calm her chagrin but when the outside door opened she shouted, ‘I hope that is you, Davy?’
Light footsteps sounded in the hall before a female voice called, ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Kitty, but I’m not Davy. And I’m surprised to find you here. I thought you were going to be out on the tiles until the wee small hours.’
‘Well, Connie, it would appear that Jack was told to watch out for me. And being overzealous in carrying out his duties, he ended up with me being evicted – evicted, mind you – from the Palais.’
Connie’s bawdy laughter echoed around the room. ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ she spluttered.
‘Unfortunately no!’ Kitty spat. ‘And I would like to know who it was that put that rabid guard dog on to me.’
‘Are you talking about Jack?’
‘Yes. Brother Jack.’
‘It was your dad. I heard him telling Jack to follow you to wherever you went and to make sure you got on a bus back home by ten thirty.’
The cushion that had been behind Kitty’s back was suddenly hurtling through the air. ‘Just because my dad has decided to live a monastic life doesn’t mean that I should become a nun.’
‘Och, get real, Kitty. Your dad is only trying to protect you.’
‘Protect me? Surely you mean that he wants to make sure I will continue to be his unpaid housekeeper.’
Shaking her head, Connie responded, ‘Kitty, you are lucky, very lucky, to be loved and wanted.’
No response was forthcoming from Kitty but her attention was now fully on Connie. Funny, she thought, in all the time I’ve known her I’ve never heard her talk about her past life. Kitty knew, because Connie wore an engagement and wedding ring, that at one time she must have had a husband. But where was he now? Had he died or perhaps deserted her because of her continual flirting with other men? Kitty wanted to ask Connie what had happened to her marriage but she felt in doing so she might damage her relationship with Connie – a relationship that had become so important to her.
Sensing Kitty’s curiosity, Connie slowly said, ‘Kitty, my dear, life can be shit. But when it is you can do one of two things – wallow in its stench or brush it off your feet and get on with your life as best as you can.’
Kitty look perplexed. ‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘I’m just trying to say to you that the only person who can make you happy is yourself. Believe me, Kitty, no one can make your life worth living other than yourself.’
‘Did something awful happen to you?’
Connie nodded. ‘It did, and when I accepted there was only me who could put it right, I did – and I’ve never regretted having moved in to this place with no hang-ups.’
4
OCTOBER 1943
Kitty was sitting at the table writing her weekly letter to Bobby and, as she dipped her pen into the ink bottle, she began to think about how the war had dramatically changed the lives of all those related to her and in particular the womenfolk, who were especially anxious and afraid for the men doing the actual battling.
She knew it was true that Scotland, because of her vital industries – factories, engineering, coal mines and shipbuilding – was always a target for German bombers. She grimaced as she conceded that Edinburgh, however, was not, with the exception of the dock and shipbuilding areas where her menfolk worked, as badly affected as Glasgow, Clydebank, Coventry and London. With a wry smile she also conceded that the recent air raids were now being concentrated on the cities of Glasgow, Coventry, Liverpool, Manchester and London in the vain hope that the people would be bombed into submission. This meant that Edinburgh, although still a major target in her beloved Leith area, could enjoy some nights without a bombardment.
Her musing, however, was brought to an end when Rosebud impatiently wailed, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just writing a note to Bobby to say that we are all missing him and that we all hope that he will get some home leave soon.’
‘Does he write back to you?’
Reluctantly, Kitty laid the pen down. She was about to say to Rosebud that it didn’t matter that Bobby very rarely wrote back to her, or anyone for that matter, but what was important was that he got letters from home, to keep his spirits up. But just then the doorbell rang.
On opening the door Kitty was alarmed when she was confronted by a telegraph boy. Thrusting the yellow envelope into Kitty’s outstretched hand the young lad quickly about-turned and fled. Gazing down at the ominous telegram, Kitty experienced her thoughts tumbling into free fall. Her first instinct was to rip open the envelope to read the message. But as it was addressed to her father she could not – and dared not – open it. She was sure that the message was to say that Bobby …
‘Oh no!’ Kitty howled out aloud.
‘What’s wrong, Kitty? Are we in trouble?’ Rosebud asked as she tugged at Kitty’s skirt.
Tucking the envelope into her pocket Kitty then grabbed Rosebud’s hand, before opening the door and fleeing downstairs.
Banging on the Fergusons’ bottom-flat door Kitty shouted, ‘Dora, Dora, I need you to look after Rosebud.’
Kitty was somewhat taken aback when the Fergusons’ door opened and, instead of being confronted with her understanding friend Dora, there stood Dora’s husband, Fred. ‘Calm yourself, lassie,’ he began. ‘What a state you’re in. And what is wrong exactly?’
‘That’s the trouble, I don’t blooming know!’ Fishing in her pocket Kitty dragged out the envelope. ‘This came for my dad and I’m sure it’s bad news about my brother Bobby. He’s in the Merchant Navy on the Atlantic convoys. So you see, Mr Ferguson,’ she babbled on, ‘I just have to get down to Dad, so he can tell me … I wish I could open the blooming thing but I just can’t open anything that’s addressed to my father.’
Fred nodded, and by this time Dora too had come to the door. ‘Off you go, Kitty, and I’ve told you before to bring Rosebud down here to me at any time. Sure she should be mixing and playing with other children.’ Dora paused. ‘Honestly, Kitty, I think her being constantly with adults is the reason that she’s so lippy.’
‘I am not lippy, Mummy Ferguson,’ Rosebud snorted before pushing past Dora. ‘And I am here to play with Ina and Dolly and not with you.’
Kitty didn’t realise how fit she was until she raced from Restalrig Road to the shipyards without once having to stop to ease her laboured breathing.
On arrival at the dock gates she ignored Hamish, the duty constable, who had stuck out his arms to prevent her from entering the dock area. ‘Whoa. Whoa!’ he shouted. ‘Where do you think you’re going? And where’s the fire?’
Kitty did not respond. She was completely unaware of anything going on around her, even Hamish’s extended arms, which resulted in her colliding into him. She then lost her balance and crashed down on to the ground. ‘Good grief, man, why did you knock me over?’ she whimpered pulling herself up into a sitting position. ‘Look, I just have to get to my dad, Johnny Anderson.’ Slipping her hand into her pocket she brought out the envelope that was terrifying her every thought.
Hamish, who knew Kitty through Connie, bent down and picked her up. ‘There, there now,’ he soothed. ‘Come into my office and I’ll …’ It was just then Hamish saw that one of the young apprentice lads was about to go out to the shops and he called out to him, ‘Over here, son. I want you to go back into the platers’ shop and get Johnny Anderson to come here to me – and tout de suite at that.’ The boy nodded.
When Johnny took hold of the telegram, his first inclination was to throw it away. That way he wouldn’t need to read what he knew would break his heart. It was Kitty’s distraught pleading – ‘Dad, Dad, please, please, I just have to know’ – that made him realise he had no other option than to tear open the envelope.
Pulse racing, eyes brimming,
Johnny swallowed hard before ripping the telegram apart. However, before he could unfold the note, Kitty tore it from his grasp. ‘Dad,’ she exclaimed through laboured breathing, ‘it just says his ship was torpedoed in the Atlantic last week and he’s missing. But we have hope because it doesn’t say that he is …’
Collapsing down on to a chair, Johnny knew that he should say to Kitty that shipwrecked sailors could face worse fates than being killed instantly. But had he the right to terrify her so? Could he really say to her that being flung into the wild freezing waters of the Atlantic Ocean, or finding yourself adrift in a lifeboat in the open, where death stole up on you slowly, were destinies far worse? Johnny’s thoughts then went to the many, too many, repaired and refitted ships that the yard had dealt with during this bloody awful war. In particular, he thought of the recent repairs they had carried out on HMS Fame. She had sustained unspeakable near-miss bomb damage to her side and, regrettably, a number of her young officers, who were unfortunate enough to be in the wardroom at the time, lost their lives. Young men like Bobby, with so much to live for, so much promise. Why, he asked himself, are the ordinary people not able to say, ‘No, our sons are no longer cannon fodder?’ Why is someone in Germany not pulling the rug from under Hitler? Surely, he continued to argue with himself, the hearts of the mothers in Germany are as sore wrung as ours when the telegrams arrive?
A long, long week passed ever so slowly for the family. All were in mourning for the loss of Bobby, except Kitty, who was adamant that she knew he had survived. Somehow, she convinced herself. I just know that he and I are so close that if ever he was to pass from this world he would get a message to me.
The following Monday morning found Kate in the staff-room for her tea break. However, she was not drinking her tea; she just sat staring into space whilst continually turning and twisting a key in her hand. Gently yet firmly a hand covered hers and this action brought her back to reality.
‘Sorry, Mr Busek,’ she managed to stammer through her tears. ‘Was there something you wished to ask me?’
‘Yes,’ Hans replied, whilst he expertly plucked the key from her hand. ‘What is this key and why do you keep rolling it through your fingers?’
‘It’s the key for a granddaughter clock.’
‘I already know that. And I have also noted that you have never let go of it since the—’
‘Air raid, when my father’s clock, his pride and joy that he wound up and dusted every Sunday, was smashed to pieces when a bomb exploded on the Links.’ Kate paused to compose herself. ‘You see, Mr Busek, the reverberation of the blast shook our house so violently that the clock … crashed to the floor.’
Gushing tears were now running down Kate’s face, and Hans, handkerchief in hand, bent forward and tenderly wiped some of them away. ‘Now, now,’ he crooned, ‘why didn’t you have the clock repaired?’
‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ Kate blurted.
Embarrassed by Kate’s strident rebuke, Hans stepped back from her.
Ignorant of the distress that she had caused Hans she went on, ‘I would have had it restored but it was irreparable – do you hear – irreparable! Oh, why can’t you understand that all I could do was to pick up the bits and pieces and roll them all together in a bed sheet?’
‘That bad, was it?’ Hans replied pensively, before quickly adding, ‘but somehow I think that you kept all of the parts?’
Kate nodded. ‘Couldn’t part with them – no – I just couldn’t. So I stored them in a large suitcase under my bed.’
‘Good,’ Hans enthused. ‘Now if you will permit me I will come over to your house and look at the clock. It just might be that I will be able to do something with it.’
‘You?’ Kate rudely exclaimed. ‘And what would you know about repairing clocks?’
‘Everything,’ was Hans’s emphatic reply. ‘You see, Miss Anderson, back in Poland I was a master watch- and clockmaker. Then …’ Hans drew himself further away from Kate before he continued: ‘The war came, and in an air raid, I lost everything dear to me.’ Hans was now the one who was lost in a world of his own as he admitted to himself that, yes, it was all gone – smashed to smithereens – never to be put back together again …
Ghostly silence filled the room and a few minutes ticked slowly by whilst Hans was lost in his memories. Memories that were so painful to him that he wished he could suppress them forever.
Without warning Hans eventually clapped his hands and said, ‘Right, we have had enough of the sadness today. The past is past and we must work and prepare for a better future. Never give up hope about that, Miss Anderson. No. You see I know that no matter how black and thick the clouds are the sun always manages to struggle back through again – it has for me and I pray that it will do so for you too.’
Kate sniffed before she allowed a smile to lighten her face. ‘Hans,’ she whispered as she hoped that the smile signalled to him that she now valued him as a friend, ‘you are so like my niece, Kitty. She is the one who is so sure that my nephew, Bobby, will somehow have survived.’
Hans grinned before nodding a salute to her, then very quickly he lifted up his mug of steaming tea and slunk off to his cupboard under the stairs.
The news about Bobby’s ship had cast a gloom over Johnny Anderson’s household. Even Kitty, who refused to be anything but hopeful, was affected by the report and she had fallen behind with her household chores.
Looking out from the kitchen window, Kitty could see that the sun was shining brightly and a light breeze was blowing. It was, as her grandmother Jenny would say, ‘A fine drying day.’ Kitty noted that Mrs Dickson had seen the advantages of the weather. Already the old woman had washing hung up and dancing on the ropes in the back green. This sight spurred Kitty into action and an hour later she had a basket full of freshly laundered clothes ready for the outside clothes line.
Balancing the full wash basket on her right hip, and keeping hold of a truculent Rosebud with the other hand, she had just struggled down the stair and was turning to go out of the back door when the front door opened. Sensing the draught, Kitty turned to see who had come in. Immediately she let go of Rosebud’s hand and, without realising it, she allowed the wash basket to tumble from her grip.
The horror that had unnerved her was the sight of a telegraph boy who was squinting at the nameplate on the Fergusons’ door.
‘Oh no!’ Kitty screamed as she rushed forward to speak to the boy. ‘Please tell me that you haven’t brought a telegram for Dora Ferguson?’
‘I haven’t,’ was the lad’s quick retort.
‘Then for who?’
‘A Mr John Anderson!’
Before the lad could do anything Kitty had wrenched the telegram from his hand. And as her father was in Glasgow for the day, Kitty felt she was therefore entitled to open his mail and quickly ripped the envelope apart.
‘Look, look,’ she screamed, waving the telegram in the boy’s face, ‘he’s been found. He’s in a hospital but he’s alive!’ Kitty was now slumped at the boy’s feet and through her hysterics he could hear her say, ‘He’s alive, alive. Oh, Bobby, darling, Bobby, somehow I knew Mum would be looking out for you and she would send you back to us.’ Her voice stilled. Calm entered her soul as she accepted that to have lost him forever – never to be able to look on his face again, speak to him again – was beyond her contemplation.
Kitty’s cries had alerted Dora Ferguson, who emerged from her house and immediately asked, ‘What’s wrong? What’s going on?’
‘Dora,’ Kitty began, ‘my brother is alive. Alive, do you hear? And I must go to him.’
‘But where is he?’
Brandishing the telegram, Kitty sobbed, ‘In a small cottage hospital close to Liverpool.’
‘Will your dad be going with you?’
‘Dad …’ Kitty hesitated. ‘Isn’t it just like the blooming thing for him to be through in Glasgow helping with the signing up of the thousands of workers who are now joining the union?’
‘When will he be back, Kitty?’
‘Not till late, Dora.’
It was past ten o’clock in the evening when Johnny finally arrived home. From the pavement he could see that the house, and indeed the whole tenement, was correctly shrouded in darkness. But from the street he felt he could feel a sense of desertion emanating from his flat.
Ominous silence seemed to be echoing all around him. He shuddered as a feeling of pending gloom unnerved him. He tried to argue with himself that all was well within his home but the image of the bombed-out, now deserted buildings, and the misery that had been inflicted on the hard-working people of Glasgow, was still affecting him. Somehow as he lifted the latch and walked into the stairway he sensed that there was no welcoming life within his home.
Bounding up the stairs he was further overcome by a feeling of dread. The times they were living through were so violent, challenging and changeable that your own survival, or that of your loved ones, was not assured. Hadn’t the loss of Bobby brought him face to face with the fact that no one was promised tomorrow? And now with sheer panic swamping him he conceded that if there had been a raid tonight and he had lost any more of his children, he knew he would have been unable to face tomorrow.