When the Lights Come on Again

by Maggie Craig

  ‘Cheer up, Helen. It might never happen.’

  Helen grimaced at Janet Brown’s teasing comment, following it with a rueful smile to indicate that she appreciated the impulse which had provoked it.

  ‘We seem to take it in turns to cheer each other up, don’t we?’ observed Liz as the three girls sat waiting at the tea table for the second half of the evening’s programme to commence. The first part had been a rather sombre affair, going into more detail about the consequences of a chemical attack. Helen and Liz had been discussing the gas mask question again, as Liz explained to Janet.

  ‘Helen was wondering if they’re going to make any specifically designed for dogs. Or cats too, I suppose,’ she mused, thinking about it.

  Janet laughed. ‘For dogs and cats? Do you want one for your budgie too, Helen? How about special miniature masks for goldfish?’ she added, warming to her theme.

  ‘No,’ said Helen, shaking her head, ‘I’m perfectly serious, Janet. My brother dotes on his dog. If he couldn’t protect Finn, he’d take to the hills with him. I’m sure of it.’

  Liz saw Janet’s laughter fade as she registered Helen’s real concern. Her own observation had been an accurate one. As anxiety continued to rise, they did all seem to take turns at being strong and bolstering each other up when the seriousness of the situation facing the country suddenly hit one of them really hard.

  Liz was pretty sure it hadn’t yet occurred to Helen that her brothers might be called up to the army if war broke out with Germany. Conor and Finn would have to be separated then. He’d hardly be allowed to take the big dog with him.

  ‘How’s Eddie doing these days, Liz?’ asked Janet. ‘Still wanting to storm the barricades?’

  Helen dropped her head, murmuring something about the buckle on one of her shoes having come undone. About to answer Janet, Liz noticed something which distracted her completely from her gloomy thoughts.

  Her own chair was pushed back from the table. She could see Helen’s feet without moving her head. The buckles on both of her shoes were fastened perfectly neatly. Liz could also see the side of Helen’s face. Miss Gallagher was blushing.

  Because Edward MacMillan’s name had been mentioned? That couldn’t possibly be the case. Could it? Yet why else would Helen have invented that story about her buckle, if not to hide her embarrassment?

  Well, well, well, thought Liz. That was interesting. Very interesting indeed.

  Mrs Galbraith called them to order for the second half of the evening, reminding them about the practice exercise.

  ‘So please get all your family and friends to volunteer to come along as casualties for you to practise your new skills on!’

  Next week, she told them in the same bright tone of voice, they would be learning how to deal with bomb, blast and shrapnel injury - just in case, as she put it, the worst came to the worst.

  ‘And now,’ she said with obvious relief, ‘it’s a great privilege for me to introduce Mrs Buchanan, who’s going to tell us about the Voluntary Aid Detachment of the Red Cross. We know her well, of course. She’s been a good friend to our Clydebank group - so let me ask you to give her a warm welcome. Mrs Buchanan?’

  Adam Buchanan’s mother was a good speaker. She knew what she wanted to say, had her information well organized and was surprisingly witty. It wasn’t so much what she said, as the way that she said it. Several of her comments provoked laughs and chuckles.

  She related the history of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, and told them how the Red Cross, particularly in the current crisis, would be looking for volunteers of both sexes and all ages - at this point she directed a big beaming smile towards Liz and Helen - and for all branches of their work.

  ‘Drivers, cooks and, of course,’ she went on, ‘nursing auxiliaries.’

  Helen gave Liz a discreet elbow in the ribs.

  ‘Now,’ Mrs Buchanan was saying, ‘I can speak about this with some authority, as I was myself a VAD nursing assistant during the Great War. Gentlemen, close your ears for a moment, I’ve got something that’s for the ladies only ...’

  Liz had to admire the technique. All the men present looked instantly as alert as the women.

  ‘Well now. You might find this hard to believe, but I was once a slim and attractive young thing-’

  ‘You still are, hen,’ came a rough but gallant voice from the back of the room. Amelia Buchanan acknowledged the compliment with a graceful inclination of her head. In the midst of the general merriment, her eyes - hazel like her son’s - sparkled. With some surprise, Liz realized that she must be enjoying the banter. Funny, that. She would never have thought that a refined lady like Mrs Buchanan would have got on so well with a crowd of rough and ready Bankies.

  She seemed to thrive on it, responding to her audience, relaxing and telling ever more outrageous stories about her experiences as a field nurse on the Western Front. Digging deep into a capacious handbag, she brought out a bundle of hatpins and passed them around.

  ‘Uniform buttons,’ she explained. ‘Gifts from grateful patients. We VADs used to get them made up into hatpins, as you see here, or sometimes brooches.’

  She gave the assembled company a sheepish look. That reminded Liz of her son too.

  ‘Until the powers-that-be found out about it and clamped down on the practice. The British Army was running out of tunic buttons. Never mind the ammunition. The colonel couldn’t have his men looking sloppy on parade.’

  ‘Not just the British Army either,’ Mrs Buchanan said after the laughter had subsided, ‘you’ll see some French and Belgian ones in my collection.’

  ‘Hang on a wee minute,’ came the same rough male voice which had made the earlier compliment. ‘This one I’ve got here looks German.’

  She gave him a charmingly rueful smile.

  ‘Well, he was very handsome, we had shot him down, and he did speak impeccable English.’

  By the time Mrs Buchanan sat down at the end of her talk, the room was reverberating to great gales of laughter.

  ‘Oh, that was good,’ said Janet Brown, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. ‘Did you not think so, Liz?’

  Liz pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘I think she should have treated it a bit more seriously. The Great War’s hardly a subject for jokes and funny stories.’

  ‘Has it not occurred to you,’ chipped in Helen, sitting on her other side, ‘that she saw we were all looking a bit worried and decided to cheer us up?’

  Liz swung round in the hard wooden chair to face her friend. ‘You know what your biggest fault is, Helen Gallagher?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me!’ Helen, an impish grin on her face, waited patiently for Liz to speak.

  ‘Your biggest fault, Miss Gallagher,’ she told her with mock severity, ‘is that you always see the best in people. Just when I want to get a good dislike of someone going, you manage to find their redeeming features. It’s very aggravating.’

  Helen grinned. ‘Well, Miss MacMillan, all I can say is that I’m sure it’s very good for your soul.’

  ‘You mean Proddies have got souls?’ asked Liz in tones of astonishment. ‘Well, fancy that. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Miss MacMillan? Miss Gallagher?’ Liz spun around. Amelia Buchanan was standing there, a sheaf of papers in her hand.

  ‘I enjoyed your talk, Mrs Buchanan,’ said Helen shyly.

  ‘One does one’s best,’ she murmured, looking pleased, but with a decided twinkle in her eye. This woman knows how to laugh at herself, thought Liz, surprised again.

  ‘So have I convinced any of you young ladies that you should apply to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment?’

  ‘Not me, I’m afraid,’ said Helen, ‘but Liz wants to join. Janet too.’

  ‘Good, excellent. You’ll need these then.’ She handed both girls some sheets of paper. ‘Application form and further information.’

  Liz took them with a murmur of thanks, thrilled at the knowledge that she was getting closer and closer to her
goal.

  ‘And I could really become a VAD, but still keep working - do it in the evenings and at weekends?’

  Mrs Buchanan, now wearing gold half-moon glasses, smiled at Liz over them.

  ‘Yes. You would then be a non-mobile VAD, based at one of the hospitals, where you would probably be asked to do a certain number of hours per week. Oh,’ she said absently, ‘there’s one form I’ve forgotten to give you.’

  Excited, Liz held out her hand for the further sheet. Extracting it from the bundle of papers she held and handing it to Liz, Amelia Buchanan enumerated each one.

  ‘Information sheet, application form - and consent form.’

  Liz’s blood ran cold. ‘Consent form?’

  ‘In view of your age, my dear, we must get your father’s permission. You too, Miss Brown,’ she said, handing Janet a copy of the form. ‘Well then,’ she said brightly, ‘I’ll look forward to receiving your completed forms as soon as possible.’

  She swept off. Neither Helen nor Janet spoke. It was Helen who broke the silence, her voice full of sympathy.

  ‘Och, Liz,’ she said. ‘Och, Liz.’

  Twelve

  He had touched her. His hands were on her body. He had crept up behind her while she was standing sorting out some papers on her desk and she didn’t hear him until it was-too late - when he slid his arms around her from behind, pushing her lacy jumper up over her petticoat.

  Liz jumped and tried to turn around, but he was holding her too tightly, one arm and hand clamped round her waist. His other hand slid upwards, tightening over her breast.

  She tried to say, How dare you? but her mouth had gone dry. She couldn’t get the words out. She struggled, and felt his mouth at her ear.

  ‘Stop pretending you don’t want it,’ said Eric Mitchell. ‘You little temptress.’ The softness of his voice terrified her. She struggled some more. That only made matters worse. His hands squeezed harder, pulling her into his body. He laughed at her futile attempts to resist the contact.

  ‘Can you feel me, little Lizzie?’ he whispered. ‘Is it nice?’

  She moved her head from side to side in frantic denial, feeling the strands of her hair passing over his face.

  ‘Let me go.’ She was so panicky she could hardly get the words out. The blood was whooshing through her ears and her skin was hot and clammy. She felt as if she was going to be sick. The pressure of his body repelled her. Oh, dear God, how was she going to get out of this? A prayer to St Jude? Helen had taught her about that.

  ‘If ever something seems really desperate and you can’t see any way out of it, then send up a wee prayer to St Jude. It always works.’

  She had laughed all over her pretty face when an anxious Liz had asked if a prayer to a Catholic saint would work for a Proddy. Liz didn’t hesitate now. Anything was worth a try.

  The patron saint of lost causes was clearly not at all prejudiced against Protestants. Liz’s body grew limp with relief as she heard footsteps in the corridor outside the door to the outer office. With a muttered obscenity, Eric Mitchell released her, moving swiftly back to his own desk.

  Liz pulled her jumper down just in time. The door opened. She had been expecting to see the sharp features and cheery grin of the office boy. Instead, a young woman was coming into the office - closely followed by Adam Buchanan. What on earth was he doing here?

  His open face lit up with pleasure when he saw her, and he came forward with his hand outstretched.

  ‘Why, Miss MacMillan, what a surprise to see you again! Although a very pleasant one,’ he added gallantly. ‘My mama must be right. She always says that Glasgow’s a village. How delightful it is that we keep bumping into each other!’

  ‘Delightful,’ agreed Liz. Reeling from the shock of what Eric Mitchell had done, it was a miracle she could get any kind of coherent answer out - even one consisting of only one word.

  Adam Buchanan introduced his dark-haired companion. ‘Miss Elizabeth MacMillan - the Honourable Miss Cordelia Maclntyre.’

  The girl turned a laughing face up to him. ‘Cordelia Maclntyre will do fine, Adam. These courtesy titles are a bit ridiculous in this modern age. She looked at Liz, her discreetly made-up mouth grimacing in rueful distaste. ‘Don’t you think so, Miss MacMillan?’

  ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say,’ said Liz, dropping the girl’s hand as soon as she reasonably could. She’d remembered where she knew her from. She was the young lady who’d made the disparaging comments about Clydebank the night of the Red Cross enrolment.

  Eric Mitchell had never done anything as bad as this. Her skin crawled at the memory of his hands on her body, the way he had pulled her against him, the feel of him... What in the name of God was she going to do about it?

  She wasn’t in any fit state to be standing here making small talk with Adam Buchanan and his fashion-plate companion. The Honourable Miss Maclntyre was pencil slim, but shapely with it, her dark hair, long when Liz had first met her, now fashionably waved and cropped close to her head like an elegant cap.

  ‘Oh, come on, Miss MacMillan,’ said Adam Buchanan, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Tm sure you’ve got an opinion on the matter. You don’t strike me as a young lady who’s backward about coming forwards.’

  Cordelia Maclntyre laughed and looked expectantly at Liz, eager to play the game. Something snapped in Liz. She could have sworn she heard it: like the crack of a dry and brittle twig breaking as she put her foot on it.

  Eric Mitchell, her disappointment about the Voluntary Aid Detachment, the country careering towards war. Yet you still got people like this pair - have another cocktail, go to another party, bury your head in the sand and it’ll go away. They found life so frightfully amusing.

  ‘All right then,’ said Liz. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘All titles - and the whole rotten class system - are the ruination of this country. We’re in the modern age. People say that man will even travel to the moon this century.’

  The people who said that were largely Dominic Gallagher, but Liz was sure he knew what he was talking about. She lifted her chin.

  ‘Every day it looks more and more likely that there’s going to be another war - in which we’ll all be expected to participate and do our bit. Yet we’re hidebound by an utterly stupid class system which exercises a complete stranglehold on society - where privilege and birth count for more than intelligence and common sense.’

  It was an impressive speech. She should probably have stopped there. She didn’t, her cool grey-green gaze sweeping contemptuously over the two of them.

  ‘Do you have any idea of the sort of poverty some people are forced to live in? Do you realize what a waste of potential that is?’

  Cordelia Maclntyre looked very earnest. ‘I do so agree with you, Miss MacMillan.’ She turned to her companion. ‘She’s absolutely right, you know, Adam. We need a better system.’

  That was all Liz needed - an upper-class young lady with a conscience.

  ‘Would you excuse me, please?’ she said coldly. ‘Mr Murray pays me to work, not stand around talking.’

  That went beyond rudeness. She knew it did. If Miss Gilchrist had heard her, she’d have been for it. Eric Mitchell, a hateful smile on his lips, was standing aside from the conversation. He knew exactly why she was so rattled.

  Helen would have read her a lecture on manners - and she’d have been right. Liz knew she was taking out her feelings of helpless anger and rage towards Eric Mitchell on the wrong people, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She wasn’t going to be very proud of herself when she thought about this later. Adam Buchanan, however, simply laughed.

  ‘Oh, come on, Miss MacMillan. My Uncle Alasdair’s not a slave driver.’

  Uncle Alasdair? So she’d really put her foot in it. Added to which, Adam Buchanan was perfectly right. Mr Murray was by no means a slave driver. He could be strict sometimes, but he was always fair.

  The door to the inner office opened and Miss Gilchrist came out. She positively simpered when she saw
Adam Buchanan and Cordelia Maclntyre.

  ‘Miss Maclntyre! Mr Buchanan! How delightful to see you! Why, it must be fully two years since we last had the pleasure. I hope Miss MacMillan’s been making you welcome. Elizabeth, why have you not made some tea for our visitors?’

  As she turned to Liz, her expression changed and hardened. Now Liz was for it. She wondered if she could have cared less.

  Adam Buchanan and Cordelia Maclntyre both started speaking at once. They laughed and Adam made a funny little bow to Cordelia, indicating that she should speak first He had lovely manners. Unlike myself, thought Liz.

  ‘Miss MacMillan has been making us very welcome, Miss Gilchrist - and we didn’t want any tea. We’ve been drinking the stuff all day. Swimming in it, in fact. Isn’t that right, Adam? It’s all this going around with the begging bowl.’

  She smiled at Miss Gilchrist and then turned, including everyone in the warmth of the gesture. So she wasn’t a clype. She had chosen not to mention Liz’s rudeness and belligerent attitude. That was one tiny little point in her favour. It didn’t mean Liz was going to smile back. She had no idea what the girl meant by the begging bowl - a little light charity work, probably.

  The two visitors were shown into Mr Murray’s - Uncle Alasdair’s - office. Ten minutes later Cordelia Maclntyre came out alone. Miss Gilchrist leapt to her feet. Cordelia, fastening white kid gloves which buttoned at the wrist, looked round the office and gave another of those all-encompassing smiles.

  ‘Well, I must be off. I only really came along to say hallo to Uncle Alasdair. I hear you’re doing well at the Red Cross classes, Miss MacMillan.’

  Liz, back behind her Underwood, looked up at her stupidly. How did she know that? Adam Buchanan via his mother, she supposed.

  ‘Yes,’ she managed at last. ‘My friend and I are enjoying them.’

  ‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ agreed Cordelia, nodding her head enthusiastically. ‘I’m doing one in the West End. It’s so nice to feel that one is doing something useful. Especially for a social butterfly and generally useless person such as myself.’ She laughed gaily. ‘Maybe it’ll be enough to keep me from the guillotine come the revolution, eh?’