‘What about your writing?’
‘The LDVs will only be part time. I’ll still be able to write.’
‘Oh great,’ she thought, ‘you’ll write every morning and most of the afternoon, as usual. Then for the rest of the day and evening you’ll be playing at soldiers.’ But she managed to control her feelings. She had come to face the fact that she had a deep seated jealousy of his writing—or at least the time and priority he gave to it. She was ashamed of these feelings and, as often as possible, affected an interest in Nicholas’s work. But secretly she wished she had never encouraged him to develop his talent in the first place. It seemed so long ago now that he’d needed her praise and encouragement to boost his self confidence. Now he didn’t need her for anything. As far as she could see he was perfectly content. And why not? He was a fine poet and novelist, respected by critics and admired by his many loyal readers.
She loved him and was proud of him. If only he was not so obsessive about his work. He never seemed to be free of it. If only he would just work in the mornings, and then switch off at lunchtime as soon as he left his desk. According to Nicholas, however, it was impossible for writers to switch off like that. She tried to be fair. After all, she had her nursing duties now. One week she worked mornings and another week she was on late shift. He could complain about how often she was immersed in her work. But he never did.
She suspected he was quite glad of the opportunity to put in extra hours at this writing when she was out of the house. For the first few weekends that Wincey had been staying, he had not worked his usual Saturday and Sunday morning stints. He had devoted all his attention to his daughter.
Last weekend, however, he’d explained to Wincey that he needed continuity at his writing and had to work Saturday and Sunday mornings. But, he assured her, he’d finish in time to have lunch with her, which he did. Nevertheless, Virginia thought it was terrible of him—in the circumstances—to shut himself away even for half an hour while Wincey was in the house.
Wincey assured both her parents that she didn’t mind. ‘After all,’ she said to Virginia, ‘it gives us a chance to do lots of things together and to talk on our own.’
Wincey appeared perfectly content with the arrangement. But Virginia was secretly furious. It was so typical of him. After all, she’d got herself into trouble by refusing to work in the Royal at weekends. Her work was surely every bit as important as Nicholas’s work. After all, she was dealing with real people.
Now Wincey was talking about just coming on Saturdays in time for lunch, instead of on Friday evenings in time for dinner.
‘That gives you the chance to work Friday evenings and Saturday mornings, if need be, Mother,’ Wincey said. ‘We shouldn’t forget there’s a war on. We’ve all got a duty to give our best for the war effort. I often have to work late on Fridays as well.’
It had been Nicholas’s fault that they were going to see less of Wincey. He had started the rot with his selfishness. She hadn’t minded the time he’d spent digging the hole in which he’d built the Anderson shelter in the back garden. She’d even helped him fill the sandbags. She’d carried chairs and cushions and blankets down to try to make the awful damp, fousty smelling place with its ugly corrugated steel roof as comfortable as possible. She hadn’t minded that they’d got sweaty and dirty, and she’d had to pin her long hair up because it had worked loose from her normally tidy chignon. None of this mattered to her—because they were doing something together. And all the time she prayed that they’d never need to use the Anderson shelter.
But she’d enjoyed working with him. It was different when he chose to shut himself away from her—even from Wincey now—to concentrate on his precious writing. Sometimes she longed to burst into his room and tear up every piece of paper in sight. Tear up and destroy whole manuscripts. Yet she managed to remain in control and act in a civilised, even caring manner. She’d put on kindly enquiring looks and ask how his current book was progressing.
He was so pleased when she did that. His face would light up with eagerness and gratitude and he’d launch into a news bulletin of what stage he was at and what problems he was having. She strained every nerve in her body to appear interested and she believed she succeeded, when in actual fact his writing bored her. He was dealing with a make-believe world and make-believe people. She had to live in the real world and nowhere was more real than Glasgow Royal Infirmary. Recently she’d driven an ambulance ferrying servicemen with venereal disease to the military hospital in Cowglen. Most of them had been over in France. As far as she could see, the disease was reaching epidemic proportions over there.
Had the men over there nothing better to do? She was perfectly aware at the same time that the soldiers abroad had been having plenty to do. It was just that her frustration and irritation with Nicholas was spilling over into the other areas of her life. She was having a continuous struggle with herself to be fair and reasonable.
She could hardly contain her anger at him, however, when Wincey began coming half way through Saturdays, instead of on Fridays when they’d enjoyed dinner together and a pleasant evening of talking and relaxing over a glass or two of wine. As for Sunday mornings, surely no one in their right mind would work on Sunday mornings unless they had to. But now he was joining the Local Defence Volunteers. He would work all day Saturday and Sunday if they asked him.
That didn’t happen, but he did work as an LDV weekdays and Saturday afternoons, digging secret bunkers, helping remove all sign posts which might help enemy invaders, manning roadblocks and practising fighting.
James Matheson shook his head when she told him. ‘I’m disappointed in Nicholas. If he’d done something like you, Virginia—medical work, driving ambulances or whatever—I could have understood it. But he has in effect joined the army.’
‘I know, and the other day he had bayonet practice, he told me. Can you imagine it? He insists that it’s a case of defending one’s country. That’s what it comes down to now, he says. He feels he has no choice.’
Matheson sighed. ‘He showed me a pamphlet he was issued with. It’s called Shooting to Kill. Real gung-ho stuff written by an army colonel. I took a copy of it and used it as a subject for discussion in one of my classes. Have you seen it?’
‘No.’
‘Here, read it.’
She took the piece of paper and allowed her eyes to skim over it.
‘In the invasion of Britain, there will be no quarter given. It will be you or the other fellow. The taking of prisoners will probably be out of the question for both sides … Make sure that everyone hides his week’s supply of food. Burying it in the vegetable garden is probably the safest place until the enemy has passed … A service rifle will kill anything from a Nazi to an elephant … The experienced and practised shot should have no difficulty in bagging five Nazis, in a charge as short as fifty yards. Pick out your enemy and shoot him …’
Matheson said, ‘They’re in their element now, these army men. I bet that colonel really enjoyed writing that.’
‘I keep having difficulty in believing all this is happening, James. Despite the blackout, the rationing and these monstrous barrage balloons hanging above us, it all seems like a dream somehow.’
‘Oh, it’s no dream, Virginia. I only wish it was. Although I can’t see it coming to invasion, but that’s just my opinion—or gut feeling, if you like.’
‘Everything seems to be happening so quickly now.’
It was always a comfort to speak to Matheson. She had more in common with him now, it seemed, than with Nicholas, or even with Richard. Richard was so naively enthusiastic about the war and the part the RAF were going to play in it.
‘One minute you’re nipping along the deck,’ he had told her excitedly, ‘and then with just a gentle pull on the stick, you’re soaring up and up. What power you feel at your fingertips. The Spitfire was designed by a genius, Mother. It’s too beautiful to be a fighting machine, yet what better weapon of war could anyone want.’
<
br /> The way he talked and his obvious eagerness for the fight made her tremble with anxiety and fear. It made her hate war all the more. Oh, how desperately she prayed for his safety and how she hated Nicholas for apparently encouraging his son to talk so proudly about his life as a fighter pilot. Nicholas loved to listen to Richard and lit up with pride every time he set eyes on the boy.
It would all be grist to his novelist’s mill. That was all that mattered to him. Him and his stupid, unreal world in which, no doubt, everything would end happily. ‘Oh, wake up,’ she wanted to shout at him. ‘Can’t you see what terrible danger our son is in?’
It was getting more and more difficult to put on a show of sweet reasonableness in the face of everything Nicholas said and did. Emotion kept building up inside her, ticking away remorselessly like an unexploded bomb.
12
They could see by Florence’s flushed face and shining eyes that she was excited. She had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble preparing for the visit. As she showed them around, the pungent smell of Mansion polish was heavy in the air in every room.
‘This is our bedroom,’ she announced, her chin tipped up with pride as she led Teresa and Mrs McGregor into the room. ‘Just put your coats on the bed. I bought that gold satin bedspread in Daly’s.’
‘It’s lovely, dear,’ Teresa said.
‘Aye, just lovely, so it is, hen,’ Mrs McGregor agreed.
‘This other room we use as both sitting room and dining room. See, we’ve made a dining alcove where the set-in bed used to be.’
‘Oh, here, is that no’ a great idea, Teresa?’
‘Yes, it must be really handy, dear.’
‘Do you like the HMV portable gramophone? It’s got a rather unusual leather cover, don’t you think?’
‘It’s lovely, so it is, hen.’
‘We’ve done the same with the set-in bed in the kitchen.’
‘Fancy!’
‘Our kitchen is so big and roomy that we eat there most of the time. That’s where we’ll have our afternoon tea, if you don’t mind.’
‘That’ll do us fine, hen.’ Mrs McGregor looked relieved. She’d heard the story of Granny’s scone. It had been spread liberally with jam and it had stuck to Florence’s carpet. The linoleum in the kitchen was highly polished, the range sparkled. Even the swan-necked tap at the sink under the window glistened with cleanliness. As Mrs McGregor said afterwards, ‘Ah could see ma face in that tap.’
‘We’re going to get the range taken out soon,’ Florence announced. ‘I’ve got my eye on a modern gas cooker.’
‘Fancy!’
The table in what had been a bed recess was a picture with its crisp white table cover and napkins held by chrome napkin rings. A three tier cake stand graced the middle of the table, surrounded by plates of sandwiches without crusts, scones and pancakes. Florence’s finest china tea cups, saucers, plates and little white-handled tea knives completed the meticulous arrangement.
‘Oh here!’ Mrs McGregor was quite overcome. ‘Isn’t that just lovely.’
Florence could hardly contain her joy and delight. ‘The tea service is genuine art deco.’
‘Fancy!’ Then after a pause, ‘Whit’s art deco when it’s at home?’
Florence gave a long suffering sigh. ‘Just sit in at the table, Mrs McGregor. And you too, Mother. Do you recognise this apron, Mother?’ Florence patted the little frilled apron tied in a large bow at her waist.
‘Isn’t that the one I gave you for Christmas, dear?’
‘It is.’
‘I thought you’d like it.’
‘I knew you got it in Copeland’s, Mother. They have such high quality goods. Nothing but the best, I always say.’
‘Yes, I know you always say that, dear.’
Florence perched herself on a chair at the head of the table and with great dignity lifted the tea pot.
‘Where’s yer man, hen? He disnae work on a Sunday, dis he?’ Mrs McGregor scratched one side of her loose, sagging breasts.
‘He does now, Mrs McGregor. The war effort, you know. Everyone must do their bit.’
‘Aye, right enough. Ma man’s away doin’ his bit for the army. The HLI. The same as Joe an’ Pete. Ah’m that worried about him. They aye shove oor boys in first in any fight. Scots soldiers are aye on the front line, so they are. He’ll go an’ get himself killed, so he will.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ Florence said kindly. ‘Have a sandwich, Mrs McGregor. Egg or meat paste?’
‘Thanks, hen. Egg. What a treat.’
‘I made the scones and pancakes myself, by the way.’
‘Did ye, hen? My word, Teresa, ye’ve got a clever wee lassie here, so ye have.’
‘I know, and I’m very proud of her.’
‘Eddie’s a lucky boy, so he is.’
Florence smiled and said modestly, ‘I’m lucky to have such a good husband, Mrs McGregor. Every penny Eddie earns goes into his home. Not like some men who spend all their earnings on gambling and cigarettes and drink.’
Teresa said, ‘Joe and Pete are good boys. I hope they don’t get shoved to the front of any fight. The twins are missing them terribly.’
‘Mind for a time they used to go wi’ brothers,’ Mrs McGregor said, treating herself to another scratch.
‘Yes, that seems ages ago now, doesn’t it?’
‘I invited the twins round today,’ Florence said, ‘but they’d already promised to visit one of the ladies they work with in Pettigrew’s.’
‘Ah’ll see them some other time then,’ Mrs McGregor said, in between enjoying her sandwich. ‘Yer mammy says they’ve got real nice houses as well.’
‘They only have one room and kitchens, but they certainly have made them very nice,’ Florence conceded. ‘They copied my idea of making a dining alcove in their kitchen. They’ve had their range taken out and got a modern gas cooker instead, as I think I mentioned Eddie and I are going to do. By the way, Mother, did you have a word with Wincey? I can’t wait to see her mother’s posh house in Kirklee Terrace. Fancy, a big house in Kirklee Terrace!’
‘Fancy!’ Mrs McGregor echoed.
‘Yes, dear, and she’s promised to arrange something very soon.’
‘Thank you, Mother. I can’t wait. I’m so excited.’
‘Nae wonder, hen,’ Mrs McGregor said, helping herself to another sandwich. ‘Whit did ye dae wi’ all the crusts? Did ye feed them tae the birds?’
‘Oh no, I made breadcrumbs. Breadcrumbs are very handy. Will the twins be included in the invitation, Mother? You know what they’re like. They’ll go into such a huff if it’s just me.’
‘No, the twins as well.’
Florence clapped her hands in excitement. ‘I can’t wait, and of course I’ll return their hospitality. This house won’t be as big as theirs and Clydebank isn’t exactly Glasgow’s West End, but I’m not ashamed of my home. Quite the reverse.’
‘Quite right, hen. It’s lovely. A credit tae you an’ Eddie, so it is.’
After the visit was over and Teresa and Mrs McGregor were on their way to Springburn, Mrs McGregor said, ‘Ah enjoyed masel’, an’ tae be honest wi’ you, Teresa, ah didnae expect tae. Florence isnae a bad wee lassie…’
‘I know, she just gets a bit carried away at times.’
‘Och well, good luck tae her. She might as well enjoy her house the now. Once she has a few weans, she’ll have more tae bother her.’
‘Strictly between you and me, Mrs McGregor, I think Florence is frightened to have any children.’ Teresa lowered her voice and moved her pale face quickly from side to side as if to make sure Florence wasn’t anywhere near. ‘You know, it’s Eddie’s problem. It could be passed on.’
‘Och, the poor wee soul.’
‘And poor Eddie. I’m sure he feels guilty but he tries to make it up to her. He’s done a lot to that house. All the decorating and improvements and everything—he’s done it all himself.’
‘Fancy! It’s no’ the same as havin’ weans
though. Ah don’t know what ah’d do without ma crowd. It disnae bear thinkin’ about.’
‘I know. I miss Wincey when she goes away at weekends. And she’s not even my own flesh and blood. But somehow I’ve always felt she was a Gourlay. Right from the start she fitted in so well with us—I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.’
‘Well, ye’re no’ goin’ tae lose her, are ye, hen?’
‘No, and it’s such a relief, especially now that Florence and the twins have left. It’s only natural. I know that. They’ve their own lives to lead.’
‘Aye, so has Wincey.’
‘It would be different if she’d been getting married. Doctor Houston lives just round the corner from us in Broomfield Road. She wouldn’t have been as far away as Clydebank or even the West End.’
‘They were like two peas in a pod, the doctor an’ her. What’s wrong they’re no’ married yet?’
Teresa fixed her friend with an anxious stare. ‘I don’t know. But strictly between you and me, Mrs McGregor, I’ve a feeling it’s Wincey to blame. She’s funny about men.’ Hastily she added, ‘It’s not her fault she’s like that, you understand. It’s because of what she suffered in the past.’
‘Is that no’ terrible. The poor wee soul.’
‘I just hope and pray that Doctor Houston can help her and everything will work out eventually.’
‘Aye, well, he’s a good doctor. If anybody can sort that lassie out, it’s him.’
They parted in Springburn Road and Teresa plodded on to the Balgray and then up the hill to her house.
Granny was sitting at the front room window. She shouted at Teresa as soon as the front door opened, ‘Hurl me through, hen. Ma tongue’s hangin’ out for a cup o’ tea.’
‘Where’s Erchie? He shouldn’t have left you on your own, Granny.’
Shoulders hunched forward, Teresa pushed the wheelchair through and parked it in its usual place beside the kitchen fire. Then she tucked the crocheted shawl tighter around Granny’s shoulders and up under her chin.
‘Ah wis cravin’ for a wafer,’ Granny said, ‘an’ he said he’d try an’ get one for me. But he hasnae much hope, noo that they’ve taken the Talies away an’ locked them up. What harm did they Talies ever do anybody? All they ever did was sell us ice cream. Nice folk like that, it’s a bloody disgrace.’
Clydesiders at War Page 8