At long last, Richard began to get some leave. On his first leave since God knows when, he set off with Davina to visit his family. He made a point of going to his mother and father’s first and they stayed at Kirklee Terrace for the first few days. For the next few days, they went to his grandmother’s villa in Great Western Road. He was shocked to find that the villa had been damaged during one of the recent bombing raids on Glasgow. The top storey had been sliced off and workmen were repairing and reroofing the place. The rooms downstairs had been made habitable but the building now looked very odd and out of proportion. He was glad, although not surprised, that the old lady seemed untroubled by the whole thing. She had always been a strong character.
Apparently his father had wanted her to go and stay at Kirklee Terrace but she had refused. She wasn’t at all pleased when Richard went to Kirklee Terrace to stay there for part of his leave, but for some time now he had been feeling guilty that in the past he had spent far too much time with his grandmother, and not nearly enough time with his parents.
It had been a pleasant and happy time as Davina got on so well with his parents and they obviously liked her. On the other hand, it was pretty awful to learn how badly Glasgow and Clydebank had suffered during the bombing raids. Wincey said that two of the Gourlay girls had been killed. Their homes in Dumbarton Road had suffered a direct hit. Another had survived but had lost her home and her husband.
He could see that Wincey had been deeply affected by the loss of the twins. She obviously thought of them as her sisters. But that was war. He had lost more than a few fellow pilots and friends. He had nearly had it himself when, after running out of ammunition, he had tried to ram a German bomber. It had been a mad thing to do but he would never forget that wild, reckless moment. It was the thrill of a lifetime.
A few months after that leave, he’d managed to get another break during which he’d gone with Davina to visit her parents. He was delighted and very impressed when he caught his first glimpse of her parents’ house. It was called Castle Hill and he could see why. It wasn’t so much a house as a castle—with towers and turrets, set high above a many tiered garden lined with birch and silver birch. There was a dignified silence about both the house and the garden. The green hills beyond were turning purple in the dying light, giving the whole area a ghostly glow. The interior of the house was equally impressive, as he said to Davina, ‘Crikey, you could get lost in here. So many corridors, stairways and rooms.’
‘Oh, half the place is now taken over by the military. They’re using it as a hospital. If you look out of the back windows, you’ll see some of the men who are convalescing, sitting on the garden seats or walking about the grounds.’ She laughed. ‘You could easily get lost in the part we still have though. Or in the grounds, for that matter.’
Richard found the visit fascinating. It was like stepping back into a far distant past. Despite the fire crackling and sparking in the enormous stone fireplace in the hall, the place had a gloomy chill about it. Richard wasn’t surprised that the heat didn’t reach every corner when he saw the size of the hall and the wide dark stairway that led to innumerable corridors and other smaller stairways.
Davina enjoyed showing him around. ‘The hospital part is completely cut off,’ she explained, ‘so feel free to just wander about.’ He had no intentions of wandering about after the tour that Davina gave him. She obviously loved the house despite the shadowy gloom and the icy cold. It was beginning to send shivers creeping up his back. She’d been used to it all her life, he supposed, and she no longer noticed. But then she was used to working outside in all sorts of weather. He was proud of her and loved her, from her cheerful tanned face down to her sensible laced up shoes. Running around like a child again, she pulled him by the hand up many turreted stairs into tiny secret rooms where she’d hidden from her nanny if she’d been naughty. There she could peek out at what was going on in the garden below and on the private winding road beyond. Sometimes she’d watched the gardeners at work, or watched her mother sunning herself and enjoying tea brought out by one of the maids. Sometimes no one would be there and she would just sit with her chin resting on the window sill and admire the beautiful scenery.
‘It is a wonderful place, isn’t it, Richard? You love it too, don’t you, darling?’
He assured her he did. It was certainly true to say that he was fascinated and impressed. What he refrained from saying was that he didn’t much care for the dead animals’ heads cluttering the walls in the hall. Nor did he greatly admire all the solemn paintings of ancestors in their heavy gilt frames crowding together and glowering down onto all the rooms in what he felt was a horribly intimidating and depressing manner. There was even one whole room devoted to stuffed animals, mostly birds, all covered in glass domes. He knew what he’d do if he ever got the run of the place—as no doubt he would one day. Davina was an only child and would eventually inherit everything. He would get rid of all the stuffed birds.
They had dinner by candlelight in the huge dining room at a long, heavily carved table. Three candelabra cast flickering light over the table. Another two sat on the sideboard. Even with all those candles, the room still seemed gloomy and oppressive. The meal was served very slowly by an ancient butler, who shuffled about as if he was half asleep.
The food turned out to be excellent. They either had a wizard of a cook, or somebody was taking advantage of the black market. The meals at his parents’ house had been much more frugal. His mother had apologised for them, and spoken at length about rationing and how she was working such long hours, she hadn’t time to stand in many queues. He assured her it was fine and so it was really, although he and Davina had fared better at his grandmother’s. His grandmother had been saving up her sugar and tea ration and standing in queues all over the place so that she could do her best for him and Davina.
‘Fancy the old girl standing in queues at her age,’ he’d said to Davina. He’d felt guilty about it, but touched as well. He was fond of his grandmother; she’d always been good to him, although when he’d been younger and more selfish, he hadn’t really appreciated how good she’d been.
That Glasgow visit had been a great success, and now the visit to Castle Hill was proving to be equally successful.
‘Mother says you’re extremely handsome, darling,’ Davina told him. ‘Tall, dark and handsome, that’s you. I’m so glad they like you. And of course they’re so full of admiration for how you won the Battle of Britain.’
Richard laughed at this. ‘Me and quite a few others, Davina.’
After dinner, over port and cigars, he and Lord Clayton-Smythe discussed the state of the war. The Pearl Harbour attack had brought America in. It meant that both Britain and America had now declared war on Japan. Japan had invaded Siam, Malaya and Singapore. Germany and Italy had declared war on America. Then the Americans declared war on them. Now Japan had attacked Burma. Total war had engulfed the world and there seemed no end in sight.
Lady Clayton-Smythe, in conversation with her daughter, bemoaned the acute shortage of staff and the rationing of clothes. ‘Silk stockings, as you know, are a thing of the past,’ Lady Clayton-Smythe told Davina. ‘But what I feel the greatest blow to so many women—including myself—is the rationing of corsets and bras. They are essential to every woman, but especially as one gets older.’ She sighed. ‘Gravity sets in, my dear. One needs a little support.’
Davina wholeheartedly agreed. Her figure was far from sylph-like and she worried about not being able to replace the underclothes she had. She wouldn’t have cared so much had it not been so important to remain attractive to Richard. A handsome RAF pilot could get any woman he wanted.
‘Don’t you know any place we could get any foundation garments,’ she asked her mother hopefully.
Lady Clayton-Smythe looked sadly apologetic. ‘Darling, if I did, I’d be only too glad to tell you. But in any case, we probably don’t have enough coupons. Oh, isn’t this war such a nuisance at times!’
R
ichard said, ‘What are you ladies looking so serious about?’
‘Nothing, darling.’ Davina managed a smile. ‘Isn’t it time for the news?’
Her father leaned over and switched on the wireless. ‘Although,’ he said, ‘that’s not likely to cheer us up.’
‘Oh, come now, sir,’ Richard said. ‘The Allies are doing very well, surely. All right, we lost Tobruk and Dieppe was an absolute shambles—I lost one or two very good friends there, and I had a few close calls myself. But we certainly gave the Jerries a hell of a beating at El Alamein.’
His father in law chuckled. ‘Yes, good old Monty. I’ll never forget what he said about Lord Mountbatten—a very gallant sailor, had three ships sunk under him …’ Then he paused. ‘Three ships! Doesn’t know how to fight a battle.’ Lord Clayton-Smythe gave a hearty laugh. ‘Obviously Montgomery does.’
‘Yes indeed.’
Davina and her mother both smiled, but their thoughts were still on corsets and bras, and the difficulties caused by the lack of them.
But later that night when Davina and Richard were lying together in the four poster bed, Davina said, ‘I hope you won’t be involved in any more battles, darling. You’ve done more than your bit.’
‘None of us are out of danger yet. There’s still a lot to be done, Davina.’
His wife sighed and rolled over to entwine her arms around him. ‘I wish I could keep you here for ever. This is where you belong—here with me in Castle Hill.’
He kissed her and held her close in a loving embrace, but he was thinking of friends who at this very moment would be soaring up into the clouds, far above the world, in a wonderful, lonely euphoria. That’s where he belonged—with the lords of the sky.
27
‘She was a fine woman,’ Donald Hamilton said. ‘Since the war started, she began doing a great deal of charity work—too much, I used to tell her. She was in the WVS, you know.’ His gaze dimmed, remembering. ‘She looked very smart in her uniform. I was so proud of her.’
Virginia tried to look interested and sympathetic, but she felt cut off and isolated. Donald’s heart and mind were obviously still with his late wife. He frequently talked about her. Her name was Mary and they’d known each other since childhood. Virginia had heard so much about Mary that she felt she knew her. Mary had been very house-proud and had spent a great deal of time before the war lovingly polishing the furniture and all the valuable ornaments. She’d had a cleaning woman who came in two or three times a week, but Mary would never allow the woman to touch either the furniture or the ornaments.
Virginia secretly thought that nearly everything in the house was old fashioned and ugly. She visited Donald regularly now and the place had begun to depress her. Donald’s talk of his dead wife was beginning to have much the same effect. He hadn’t been like this at the beginning of their relationship. He had been very thoughtful, and loving, and gentle. He still was loving and gentle, and she appreciated that. At the same time, however, she hungered for the passion she had revelled in so often with Nicholas in the past. Thoughtfulness and gentleness were all right in a friend, but not enough in a lover. At least not for her.
She was also beginning to feel that he was becoming thoughtless in imposing so many memories of Mary on her. In a way, she could understand how it had happened. He now felt comfortable with her, and he trusted her. It was no doubt a relief to open his heart and to talk about his life with Mary and the happiness they had shared. Mary had been his friend, his dear and sympathetic lifelong companion.
His grief at his loss was now being released. Virginia could see all this and she tried to be a silent and patient listener, but she was feeling sad and isolated. She began to wonder if it was her fate to feel like this. Was it something in herself? Did she create situations in which she always ended up with this sense of isolation? Yet still the hunger was there, burning forever inside her.
It occurred to her that the isolation is what Wincey might have felt when she was a child and living at Kirklee Terrace. The crowded Gourlay house and the close knit Gourlay family and their total acceptance of her must have been a welcome—indeed wonderful—change for the child.
Virginia suddenly felt truly grateful to the Gourlays. The seeds of jealousy that had begun to take root were firmly dug out and destroyed. Now, she asked herself, was she beginning to feel jealous of the dead Mary? She didn’t think so. She felt sorry for Donald. It was terrible to have lost such a loving companion, and such a wonderful relationship. She felt sorry for the poor woman, having her life suddenly cut off in such dreadful circumstances. But things like that happened all too often nowadays. And as the war dragged on, each new tragedy somehow seemed less shocking than the last, just part of the routine of everyday life.
The war was to blame for breaking apart so many things, and so many people’s lives. She had such a longing for peace—perhaps that was part of the attraction Donald had for her at the beginning. She had felt some sort of peace with him. Even now, when he spoke about his wife, she would relax and her mind would lazily wander. She resolved to see more of the Gourlays and try to be more supportive to them, especially as they had suffered such a grievous loss. She was so lucky, when she thought of it. She was alive and well, thank God, and so were her husband, her son and her daughter.
There was hardly a family in the land that hadn’t been affected by the war. Wincey had lost Robert Houston. It struck Virginia how strange it was that both she and Wincey had taken a doctor as a lover. Being a passionate woman herself, she took it for granted that Wincey and Robert must have been lovers.
She had always hated war, and now her hatred hardened to bitterness inside her. Recently a WVS woman had come to the door at Kirklee Terrace wanting her to agree to donate the iron railings at the end of the back garden to the war effort. Angrily she’d told the woman, ‘I won’t give as much as one nail to help kill another human being. There’s been enough killing already.’
She felt sick of it all, so helpless and hopeless. She longed for the time before the war but it was like another world now. She wondered if that world would ever come again. Often now, her mind would wander far back to the days of her youth when she lived with her mother and father in their cramped tenement house. No hot water, no inside toilet (far less bathroom), no washing facilities except the communal wash house down in the back yard, where everybody had to wait for their turn to do their washing. Teresa Gourlay probably still had to do that even now.
Sometimes her mother had to take her turn at night, and she didn’t like to do her washing at night. There was no chance then of hanging it outside to be dried in the sun and wind. Virginia vividly remembered those nights in the wash house—guttering candles stuck in the neck of bottles along the window ledge casting mysterious shadows that flickered eerily in corners. Her mother would lift the lid of the brick boiler to check how the whites were doing, and steam would immediately fill the wash house. She remembered her mother’s brightly flushed face shining with the sweat of heat and work. Her beautiful mother.
‘I’m sorry,’ Donald said, ‘if I’m making you feel sad talking about Mary.’
‘Oh no,’ she assured him. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Donald said. ‘We’re so short staffed these days, it’s not just ridiculous, it’s downright dangerous.’
‘I know.’ Virginia shrugged. ‘But what can we do, with everybody away at the war? And the air raids.’ One way or another, it was always the war, the war, the bloody war.
‘Another year gone, and it still doesn’t look as if there’s an end in sight,’ Donald said.
She gazed at his familiar face. He looked exhausted. She realised with some shock that he was old. He was a tired old man. Unexpectedly, she experienced a flutter of panic. She felt guilty too. For some time now, she had realised that she did not love Donald. At least, not in the same way as she had loved Nicholas—and, she realised, still loved him. There was a passion and an intensity about Nicholas
that was different from anyone else she had ever known. They still made love, although not nearly as often, and his passion never failed to awaken her. Thinking about it, she realised that the times in between making love with Nicholas had lengthened. It had now been a very long time since he had turned to her in bed and taken her in his arms.
Again she felt panic. This time it was more acute. She should have tried harder to talk to him, to confess how she felt. She should have made more of an effort to work out the problems between them.
‘It’s time I went home,’ she suddenly announced to Donald. ‘I’ve so much to do before tomorrow’s shift.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll go and get the car out.’
‘No, please, Donald. You look so tired. Just phone a taxi for me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
He went out to the hall and she could hear him speaking to the taxi company. He returned to the room with her coat and hat. She pulled on her Red Cross cap and he helped her on with her navy uniform coat. Supposedly being at work was a useful cover for these clandestine meetings. So much deceit. They kissed goodnight and she thankfully left the gloomy old house and returned to Kirklee Terrace with its wide bright hall, cream speckled marble floor and the polished woodwork of the stairway. The kitchen was at the back of the hall and she was surprised when she entered it that Nicholas was lounging on one of the chairs by the kitchen table, nursing a glass of whisky. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. His dark eyes when he glanced up at her were slightly quizzical, slightly sarcastic. He didn’t say anything and she felt frightened. He knows, she thought.
Clydesiders at War Page 16