Clydesiders at War

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  ‘I’m not sure what to make of it,’ Virginia said, ‘but it does sound interesting, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, especially that bit about the emotional as well as the physical aspects of the person being used as a basis for diagnosis,’ Wincey said. ‘That’s what Florence needs, I think. She’s been emotionally shattered.’

  Wincey watched her mother as she poured out a cup of tea and handed it to her. She looked tired and worried, instead of excited and happy as Wincey had expected her to be after getting the news of Richard’s DFC.

  ‘Are you all right, Mother?’

  ‘Yes, of course, darling. A bit tired, that’s all.’

  ‘I thought you’d still be over the moon about Richard’s DFC.’

  ‘I’m so proud of him, of course. I told you, it’s just that I can’t stop worrying about him.’

  Wincey smiled and tried to sound reassuring. ‘Mother, he’s got a special angel looking after him. Either that or he’s got the luck of the devil. Look at all he’s come through with hardly a scratch. He’ll be all right. I’m sure of it.’ And she was.

  Her mother smiled in return. ‘All right, I’ll try not to worry.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Where’s Father?’

  ‘He’s staying with Mrs Cartwright for a while. She’s not been well. All that trouble with the house. She could have come here, but you know what she’s like. Your father wants to make sure that she’s being properly looked after. He’s gone to keep an eye on her.’

  Was it her imagination, Wincey thought, or had her mother’s eyes become evasive. She was reminded about her mother’s secret affair with the silver haired doctor and was for a moment tempted to confront her with the knowledge. She decided against it. What good would it do if she interfered?

  ‘How is Teresa?’ her mother asked. ‘She doesn’t look a physically strong woman but I do admire her spirit, after all she’s been through. And Granny’s.’

  ‘Granny’s looking awfully frail, don’t you think? But as Erchie says, she’s a tough old bird.’

  ‘I must try to visit them more often, and they’re always welcome to come here.’

  Suddenly Virginia had an idea. ‘Wincey, do you think it would help Florence to come and stay with me for a time? I could easily take a few weeks off. I’ve never had any proper leave since I started at the Royal.’

  ‘Oh Mother!’ Wincey was both astonished and touched. ‘How good of you to even think of such a thing!’

  ‘I mean it, darling. I think she’d enjoy it here. I could take her out to the Botanic Gardens and she could rest in the Kibble Palace. It’s so lovely in there, and so warm.’

  ‘Oh Mother!’ Wincey repeated, this time in delight. ‘She’d love it, I’m sure. I bet it would be just what she needs to perk her up. And I’ll see about getting her some homeopathic treatment while she’s here.’

  ‘Well, if you’re really serious about that, there was a hospital listed in that pamphlet I showed you. It’s a big villa along Great Western Road. You could enquire about doctors there.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Wincey felt really hopeful and excited now. ‘I wonder if I should phone right away and tell Florence.’ She forced herself to think calmly. ‘No,’ she said out loud to herself. ‘Better to wait and tell her to her face. Anyway, you’ll need time to arrange things at the Royal.’

  ‘Of course, she might not want to come, Wincey. We shouldn’t take anything for granted.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll want to come, Mother. Trust me. I just know we’ll be able to help her this way.’

  ‘Well, I’ll certainly do my best, darling, for your sake as much as for anyone else’s.’

  Wincey went over to her mother and hugged her. She wanted to say the words ‘I love you’ but no words would come.

  But her mother seemed to understand. She nodded and smiled and said, ‘Drink up your tea, darling. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  1944–45

  30

  Malcy was disappointed that he’d never had a minute with Wincey on her own. In the house there was always Florence or Teresa or Granny or Erchie, and all the neighbours coming in to say good luck. Then Wincey took Florence over to her mother’s and stayed overnight with her to help get her settled in.

  He’d called in to the factory, but even there in the short time he’d had, he’d been surrounded by people wanting to talk to him and wish him well. Even in Wincey’s office he had no luck. She was with some man, talking business.

  He gave up in the end. Anyway, he didn’t just want a few minutes alone with her. He needed time to explain his feelings for her, and to try to find out exactly what she felt for him. He knew now without a doubt that he loved her.

  Not in the same way that he had loved Charlotte. That would not have been possible. Wincey and Charlotte were two completely different people.

  As the end of his leave drew near, he experienced a feeling of urgency that was almost panic. God knows when he’d see her again. He might never see her again. There were all sorts of rumours flying about amongst the men. It looked as if the final preparations were being made for an invasion. Not a German invasion this time, but an Allied one. He doubted if his luck would hold out through that.

  On the last night of his leave, there was a crowd of well-wishers in the house and the next morning, the family all came to see him off at Central Station. They even managed to pack Granny into the taxi.

  He shook Erchie’s hand, he hugged and kissed Granny and Teresa. Then when he took Wincey into his arms, he just had time for an urgent, desperate, ‘Oh Wincey, I’d so much I wanted to say to you.’

  ‘Write to me,’ she said.

  The guard blew his whistle and they hustled him onto the train. He didn’t want to go. If he’d been a child, he would have wept. He was weeping inside as he leaned from the window of the train and watched Wincey and the Gourlays gradually disappear.

  He sank back into his seat and struggled to put them out of his mind. It was too painful to think of them. Instead he visualised what might lie ahead in the next few days and weeks.

  * * *

  All sorts of preparations were being made. Concrete blocks of various sizes had been transported to Selsey in Sussex, where they were fitted together. Nobody knew for certain what they were for. The rumour was that they were going to be towed across the Channel, where they would be used as piers, causeways and breakwaters. Other mysterious new devices were constantly appearing—like Flail tanks, fitted with rotating chains to destroy landmines. A vast armada of warships, aircraft, landing craft and transport ships was being assembled. There was going to be an invasion all right.

  Finally, at 4am on the fifth of June, American and British soldiers, sailors and airmen got the command to go.

  Malcy only just managed to appear calm on the outside. Inside, fear was rampaging through him. He remembered only too well the terrifying journey back from Dunkirk when he had waded up to his neck in the same water. Now here he was listening to the order, ‘Lower the boats’. With a heavy splash, the door went down and seconds later he was in the water again.

  Another soldier began to cry, and plead and cling to the deck. He was screaming that he couldn’t move. Malcy and the others left him behind, the whine of bullets speeding them on. Suddenly there was a terrible explosion and Malcy felt himself losing consciousness. ‘This is it,’ he thought. But the next thing he knew, he had come to in the water. He could feel another soldier kicking and clutching at his legs, trying to make it to the surface but only succeeding in dragging Malcy down. Frantically Malcy kicked and struggled until he was free of the man. He shot to the surface and soon the body of the soldier who had been clutching at him floated by, its limbs still twitching.

  Malcy sobbed at the horror unfolding all around him, but he had no choice—he had to move on if he was going to survive. Somehow, he struggled out of the water and joined the thousands of other men landing on the beaches. Now he could he
ar the incessant rattle of enemy machine guns, and his blood froze at the ghastly sight of countless bullets cutting a swathe through the men in front of him.

  Mortar rounds were landing close by, exploding in a cacophony of ear-splitting noise. Landing craft were being sunk yards from the shore, and tanks were being hit by incoming shells almost as soon as they trundled onto the sand. Malcy could hear their crews screaming, trapped inside the burning vehicles. Men were being killed all around him, while in the water and on the beach the wounded were shouting for help. Malcy turned back to try and pull a soldier out of the shallows, but an officer bawled at him to leave the man and push on. They had no time. And so, without a backward glance, Malcy turned once more to face the storm of steel.

  * * *

  Wincey knew the sort of thing that Malcy had been wanting to say. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to cope with that sort of intimacy, but she couldn’t help herself from softening inside and thinking, ‘Poor Malcy’. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, of that she was certain. She wanted him to come back to Glasgow, safe and sound. In bed at night, she would think about him before drifting off to sleep. ‘Poor Malcy,’ she thought.

  She kept seeing his gaunt, scarred face and close-cropped skull. His eyes now had a strangely haunted look. He had always had such a sturdy muscular body, but now it was painful to see the amount of weight he’d lost. ‘Poor Malcy’. Thoughts of him and how he had suffered just wouldn’t go away—no matter how hard she tried to banish them from her mind. Fortunately, her work helped to occupy her and tire her out, so that each night she could escape quickly and mercifully into sleep. She dreaded being vulnerable. She couldn’t bear to suffer loss again, and be hurt again.

  Wincey also occupied herself at weekends, helping her mother to attend to Florence. Whether it was the homeopathic medicine, or living at Kirklee Terrace, or perhaps a combination of both, Wincey didn’t know. The happy fact was that Florence was getting better. There could be no doubt about that. They were at the stage now of taking her to the theatre or the cinema on Saturday nights. Her mother insisted that she could stay on at Kirklee Terrace as long as she liked. She was only too glad of the company, as Nicholas was still with Grandmother Cartwright in the house in Great Western Road. Wincey knew now that there was something seriously wrong between her mother and father. After all, Grandmother Cartwright’s house wasn’t all that far away. He could have seen the old woman every day but still slept at Kirklee Terrace.

  Wincey guessed he must have found out about the affair. Once, he had popped into Kirklee Terrace to see her and to say hello to Florence. He hadn’t stayed long, however, and he had been noticeably cool to her mother. It was so sad, and she longed to say or do something that would bring them together again. But in this day and age, when so many dreadful things were happening, did an illicit love affair really matter all that much? Especially now, in the aftermath of D-Day, as Britain faced the new terror of Hitler’s ‘revenge weapons’.

  These were the dreaded flying bombs—the V1 or ‘Doodlebug’, and the even more deadly rocket powered V2. The V1s could be heard coming, but then their engines cut out and there was fifteen seconds of ominous silence while they fell to the earth, where they exploded. They were very difficult to intercept—although a few brave fighter pilots did manage to shoot one or two down before they reached their targets. The V2s were much worse. These giant rockets flew much faster than the V1s. Travelling at supersonic speed they arrived without warning, causing so many casualties that people feared them more than anything.

  Wincey hadn’t heard from Malcy for months, which wasn’t surprising. No doubt he’d taken part in the D-Day landings and would be fighting his way through France by now. Newspapers reported that the Allies had secured the beaches and were pushing ahead. Granny, Erchie, Teresa, Florence, Wincey and even her mother were all worried about Malcy.

  Her mother said on one of her visits to Springburn, ‘He didn’t look fit enough to be going through all that again.’

  ‘I know,’ Teresa said. ‘I’m really worried about him.’

  ‘See war,’ Granny muttered. ‘It’s bloody wicked. Ah’d put all them generals an’ politicians in a field an’ tell them to fight it out between themsel’s an’ leave ordinary lads like Malcy in peace.’

  ‘If only,’ Wincey said.

  ‘Well, dear,’ Teresa said, ‘all we can do at the moment is to pray for all the lads to come home soon.’

  ‘A Protestant or a Catholic prayer?’ Granny asked sarcastically. Fond as she was of Teresa, she had never quite got over the fact that her Protestant son had married a ‘Pape’. The house was full of ‘Papish’ ornaments and trinkets, and a picture of a mournful-looking Jesus hung above the kitchen bed.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ Teresa said. ‘Every and any kind of prayer you like, as long as it helps.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Granny grudgingly conceded.

  By now Florence looked well enough to return to Springburn for good but she made it clear that she preferred to remain where she was.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mother,’ she said to Teresa. ‘There’s too many memories of Eddie here. It’s been so good for me being in the West End. Virginia takes me to all sorts of interesting places, including the Art Galleries. And we had lunch in Copeland’s. It takes my mind off everything. I can’t bear to think about the past. I’d go mad if I was on my own, just thinking about it.’

  ‘You’d never be on your own, dear,’ Teresa said. ‘There’s always Granny and me here.’

  ‘Please don’t be angry with me, Mother. Please try to understand.’

  Granny cast a sarcastic glance in Florence’s direction. ‘It’s well seen ye’re on the mend. Ye’re gettin’ more like yersel’ every day. Whit happens, ah’d like tae know, when Virginia’s oot workin’.’

  ‘I have quite a lot of leave due to me,’ Virginia explained before Florence could reply. ‘In all the time I’ve been at the Royal, I’ve never taken one holiday. I’ve just taken it all at once now.’

  ‘My word, ye must be well in.’

  ‘Well, VAD is a voluntary service.’

  ‘Whit dis yer man say about you keepin’ a lodger?’

  ‘Granny,’ Teresa cried out. ‘Mind your own business and don’t be so cheeky. Have a piece of sponge cake. It’ll be nice and soft for your gums.’

  ‘Whit’s in it?’ Granny eyed the sponge suspiciously. ‘No’ any eggs, ah bet.’

  ‘Dried eggs, Granny.’

  ‘Dried eggs,’ Granny howled in disbelief. ‘What’s up wi’ the bloody hens now?’

  ‘Nothing. They’re from America.’

  ‘America? They’re no’ bloody fresh then.’

  ‘Do you mind if we say goodnight now, Virginia?’ Florence suddenly announced. ‘I get so quickly fatigued.’

  ‘I should have noticed.’ Virginia rose. ‘Wincey, darling, could you drive us home?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Aye,’ Granny said, ‘oor Florence is on the mend, right enough.’

  31

  At first Virginia didn’t mind Florence staying with her. She was glad her invitation had helped the girl. Florence’s energy had returned and she was now trying to make herself useful, keeping busy, washing not just the breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner dishes every day, but dusting every ornament she could lay her hands on. She polished everything in sight as well, ignoring Virginia’s pleas that she didn’t need to do so much. She even polished the marble floor in the hall. Eventually, Virginia just let her get on with it, accepting that Florence was at her happiest being house-proud. There she was every day, glossy brown hair held firmly back in a bandeau, a crisp apron tied round her waist, searching out every speck of dirt or dust.

  It was a bit pathetic in a way. It was also becoming very irritating. Virginia had never put much value on material things, nor did she like showing off. Florence was quite the opposite. On one occasion—admittedly with Virginia’s permission—she had invited some of
her former colleagues from Copeland’s to afternoon tea. What a carry on that had been. It had taken every ounce of Virginia’s patience to refrain from telling Florence not to be so ridiculous. How Florence had revelled in showing the girls around the house!

  ‘This is the drawing room. Look at these pelmets and the way the curtains are draped. Satin, I think, or maybe heavy silk. The drawing room is where we always entertain guests. The sitting room downstairs is more for private family use. Isn’t this a gorgeous bathroom? These bedrooms are so bright and modern, yet so cosy and comfy too. Feel the deep pile of that carpet. This staircase is so elegant, isn’t it. And here’s the sitting room I mentioned. Look at all the bookshelves. Of course, Nicholas is a writer, don’t you know? These are some of his books. The kitchen is so well equipped too. One could eat here all the time if one wanted to, but there’s also that elegant dining room. And here is Nicholas’s writing room.’

  Virginia had just caught her in time. ‘No, we never go in there. That’s Nicholas’s private place.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, I forgot,’ Florence said, leading her little group away across the hall again. ‘Look at that marble floor. Isn’t it so elegant?’

  Virginia was embarrassed beyond words.

  And Florence’s company in no way made up for the lack of Nicholas’s presence. On the contrary, once Florence no longer needed to be looked after, time hung heavy on Virginia’s hands. She was glad to get back to work.