Lucy took Signora Biagi’s two hands in her own and they both skipped off across the room.
Kezzie stood up slowly as Ricardo drew her chair out. A sudden feeling of shyness came over her as he led her out on to the dance floor. The band was playing a slow number, and he put his arm around her waist and began to steer her around the floor. Although she was quite tall, her head scarcely reached his shoulder. She had guessed correctly, Ricardo was an expert dancer, and they were soon twirling about among the rest of the crowd. Kezzie relaxed and began to enjoy the feeling. It was fun to glide along with the music. She couldn’t remember the last time she had danced with a boy.
And then suddenly she did. And the recollection struck her with such force that she stumbled slightly.
‘You all right?’ Ricardo bent his head to look at her anxiously.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
But it wasn’t his face that was in front of Kezzie now. Nor his brown Italian eyes that she saw. She was with the potato pickers at the close of harvest nearly two years ago, on Stonevale farm in the west of Scotland. The noise in the barn, the sweet smell of the charred potato skins, the taste of the scones and the buttered bannocks. And the music … the fiddle, the thudding beat of the bodhrán … and she was being swung around the floor by the young Irishman, Michael Donohoe, and his dark blue eyes were full of mischief as he made up some wild tale, with himself as the bold hero slaying a dozen giants, and rescuing a thousand swooning maidens …
Kezzie stood motionless in the middle of the ballroom.
‘You are tired,’ said Ricardo.
‘A little,’ said Kezzie.
For no reason at all she felt her eyes fill with tears.
‘Then we must stop.’
He took her back to the table. Lucy was sitting on Signora Biagi’s knee. She was almost asleep. Kezzie gathered her up quickly.
‘Thank you for such kind company,’ she said. ‘I must say goodnight.’ She turned to Ricardo. ‘Thank you for dancing with me.’
‘My pleasure.’ He made a small bow.
Kezzie tucked Lucy up in her bunk and then undressed slowly for bed. As she laid her suit across a chair ready for the morning, she fingered the soft woollen material. Dr McMath and his wife Sarah had bought this costume for her, the day before she and Lucy had left Waterfoot, the little village on the far side of the Canadian Rocky Mountains.
‘It’s far too expensive,’ Kezzie had protested.
‘When you wear it, think of us,’ they’d replied.
She had thought about them practically every day over the last fortnight. They had become as parents to her and Lucy during their year in Canada. Taking them into their home, caring for Lucy when she was ill, employing Kezzie in their surgery. And more than that, Kezzie thought, much more. They had given out freely of their love, spontaneously and without hesitation, easing from her own shoulders the terrible strain she’d suffered during the weeks she had searched for her sister, when Lucy had been lost in Scotland and ended up in an orphanage in Canada.
They would have liked her and Lucy to stay on with them, Kezzie knew that. They had in fact offered to help Kezzie go to university and realise her own dream of being a doctor, but Kezzie had decided to take Lucy back to Scotland. Her grandfather was old and had been deeply affected by the death of his son, their father, nearly two years ago. He needed her and Lucy now.
Besides … she herself had a strong urge to come home, felt that it would be good for Lucy to find her childhood again. They might, in time, return to Canada, a country where ambitions could be fulfilled, dreams were born and came to life. But at the moment, Scotland, despite the impending trouble with Germans, was the place they had to be.
As she lay down that night Kezzie hoped she had made the right decision.
Towards midnight Kezzie awoke. Lucy was standing beside her bed. She had her doll clutched in her hands.
‘Kissy’s frightened,’ she said.
Kezzie stretched out her arms. ‘Do you think a cuddle would help?’ she asked.
Lucy nodded. Kezzie took the doll and gave it a long hug. Without letting go she regarded her little sister gravely, then she pulled back the bedclothes.
‘You’d better come in and help me watch over her,’ she said.
They lay together with the doll tucked between them. In a few moments Lucy fell asleep again. Kezzie was awake for a long time. She felt the heavy seas of the Atlantic give way to quieter waters. As the ship edged its way round the Mull of Kintyre it seemed to her that its movement had altered, the heaving dip and roll of the ocean changing to the quiet flow of the Firth of Clyde. And as she closed her eyes she sensed the slow deep current which was pulling her and Lucy back to Scotland.
CHAPTER 3
Arrival in Clydebank
LUCY AND KEZZIE were the first passengers on deck the next morning as their ship made its stately journey up the Clyde to the dock at Glasgow.
‘Will Grandad be there?’ asked Lucy, pulling on Kezzie’s hand as they stood at the deck rail. ‘Will he? Will he?’
‘Hush. Hush,’ said Kezzie irritably. ‘How do I know? Perhaps he will be working at the shipyard. He’s very busy.’ She looked down at her little sister, and felt her annoyance flow away from her as she saw the upturned anxious face. ‘I’ve got his address in Clydebank. Don’t worry, we’ll see him soon.’
He’ll be there, Kezzie thought, as she saw the summer sky lighten from the east. The docks and wharfs and water reflected the glow of the rising sun and she watched the buildings slip past. The long warehouses and offices, shops and factories, and tumble of cottages along the riverbank guarded behind by tall tenements.
He’ll be there, she thought.
She knew that Grandad was busy. He had told her in his letters to Canada. Rearmament work was flooding into the shipyards and factories, revitalising the industrial heartland of Scotland. Firms were receiving government orders as the country prepared itself for war. People were working again. Even the small knitwear factory in Shawcross, where she herself had been employed for some months, had increased production. Miss Dunlop, the secretary, had written to Kezzie in Canada telling her that they were now making hundreds of socks and gloves for soldiers and sailors. The wind whipped up the estuary and Kezzie shivered. She took her shawl from her own shoulders and wound it around Lucy.
‘There,’ she pointed. ‘Now put your hands in your cony muff.’ She pointed to the little tube of soft white rabbit’s fur which Sarah McMath had stitched herself.
Lucy stuck one hand away, but with the other she kept a firm grip of Kezzie’s fingers. Kezzie didn’t say anything, despite the fact that she knew the child must be cold. She only pulled her close to her and tucked the little girl in against her skirt. Lucy had blossomed in the last few months in Canada. The good food, the loving care of the McMaths, living in that clean wide country had all helped restore her health. But she was still insecure, afraid of the dark, the unknown, anything new. And now she clung to Kezzie, and without fuss Kezzie stroked her head and talked to her quietly.
‘Do you see the birds in the water?’ she asked her, pointing to where some ducks bobbed and dived by the edge of the river. ‘Don’t they look funny with their bottoms in the air? Look at that one. He’s stolen a piece of food from his brother. Isn’t he naughty?’
So Kezzie passed the time calling out the names of everything she could see as the boat moved further towards the heart of the city. On either side they saw houses and bowling greens, grey streets, lanes and wynds, with soft hills beyond, rolling green and golden with a ripening harvest. And above them the aching cries of the seagulls welcomed them home.
There were more people on deck now. The rails were becoming crowded with the other passengers, all of them craning to see some part of this great city.
Kezzie herself could feel excitement rising within her; her thoughts, like the river, becoming more congested the further upstream they moved. The memories of her journey out to Canada. How unhappy she
had been! How anxious and sick with worry! She hardly recalled looking at the sights at all. Her head was so filled with impatience at any delay, willing the boat to go faster to catch up with the immigration ship which Lucy was on.
The crew were getting ready to dock, moving around the foredeck, the officers calling out instructions. Kezzie pressed close against the rail, determined to be in the best position to catch the first glimpse of her beloved grandad. There were groups of people on the quayside. Clusters of families, old folk and young children, some businessmen, horse-drawn traps, a few motor cars waiting.
He would be there. She knew he would. She scanned the faces. Looking for a tall man, white haired. A sudden recollection of how he had looked one night arguing politics with his cronies clicked in her head, like a snapshot from a photograph album. His cap to one side, his pipe gripped in his fist as he made his point. Maybe he wouldn’t wear his cap today, just hold it in his hand perhaps? She searched among the waiting friends and relatives. Perhaps he was there and she hadn’t recognised him. Was her memory faulty? It was almost twelve months since she had seen him last. He might have changed. She certainly had. Her face was less peaked, her skin browner, and she was taller and stronger.
He would set himself apart, she suddenly realised, not mingle among the crowd. She looked around the dockside. He would pick somewhere separate, a place where he would stand out, knowing that she would be searching for him, desperate for a sight of his face. She and Lucy both.
Her eyes flicked along the length of the quay, past the officials and welcome groups. There were the luggage trolleys … a loading bay with tackle and hoist … the cargo shed … and … then, a raised platform for a crane-fixing.
A tall broad figure stood there, red kerchief knotted at his neck, bareheaded, arms waving high above his head.
Kezzie gasped and shrieked. ‘He’s there! Look, Lucy, he’s there!’
‘Of course he’s there,’ said Lucy calmly, although she was far too small to see properly. ‘I knew he’d be there.’
‘Your grandpa?’ enquired a voice beside her.
Kezzie turned. It was Ricardo, standing just behind her.
‘I think so.’ Kezzie felt her voice tremble.
‘You follow me, please,’ said Ricardo in his precise English and, picking up her Gladstone bag, he pushed his way through the crowd, making a passage for her and Lucy.
There was a surging mass of people at the exit rail. The crew slung the ropes out, the thick plaits uncoiling across the oily water and onto the quay. The shoremen expertly tied them up.
‘This way,’ said Ricardo and he took her arm, and guided her to the spot where the gangway was being run out from the side of the boat. He manoeuvred her into a position where she would be among the first to go ashore. Then he handed her back her bag. ‘I must go and see to my mother,’ he said. ‘I will say “ciao” but I will call on you some time, if I may?’
Kezzie nodded, and he touched her hair. Then he smiled at her and was gone. She turned back just as the deckhand unhooked the barrier chain.
‘Come on, Kezzie.’ Lucy’s nails dug into her hand. ‘Hurry up. I can see Grandad.’ She pulled on Kezzie’s arm. ‘Come on,’ she said again. ‘We’re going home.’
CHAPTER 4
Homecoming
AND HOME THEY came.
Lucy raced down the gangplank and, worming her way through the mass of people, she ran at once, with no strangeness or hesitation, into the arms of her grandad. He gave a great shout and swung her high up into the air. Then, holding her on his hip, he stretched out his free hand to Kezzie.
And it was she who hung back, feeling more grown up and less able to be so free with her emotions than Lucy, her strangeness making it more awkward for her to come forward. Her grandad was looking at her, his head to one side. She was now almost eye to eye with him.
He smiled at her, the lines of his weathered face creasing up in an expression of absolute happiness.
‘Aye, lass,’ he said.
And he came towards her, and kissed her, and then she was just as wild as Lucy had been, hugging him and holding on, never to let go.
On the tram out to Dalmuir it was the same. Sitting close together, the three of them talking all at the same time. It was only as they walked along the street beside the long line of tenements that Lucy began to slow down. By the time they had climbed the first set of stairs in the close where Grandad lived she was beginning to grow weary.
‘How many more stairs, Grandad?’
Lucy’s voice was tired and breathless.
‘We’ve only come up one flight, hen,’ her grandad laughed. ‘There’s lots more to climb.’
Kezzie, several steps behind them, could imagine how her sister must be feeling. She herself was exhausted. Lucy, younger than she and more frail, must be completely worn out.
‘Can we stop for a minute?’ she called after them, as they reached the second landing.
Her grandfather put the big suitcase down at once. ‘I’m sorry, Kezzie,’ he said as she caught up with him. He let go Lucy’s hand and put both his arms round her. ‘I’m just that keen to let ye see the house. I’ve waited so long for this moment. I’m like a wean, bursting with excitement.’
A door on the landing opened. ‘Mr Munro, is it you who is making all the noise?’ enquired a very tart voice. ‘My husband and son are on nights, and trying to sleep.’
‘Oh no,’ said Kezzie’s grandad quietly. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, ‘This one’s a real nippy sweetie.’
He took his arm from Kezzie’s shoulder. A woman of about fifty stood in the entrance of her house. She had grey hair pulled severely back from her face. A frilled pinny tied at the waist covered her clothes, and she held a duster in her hands.
‘Mrs Sweeney,’ said Grandad. ‘These are my two grandchildren, Kezzie and Lucy.’
The woman glared at them for a moment. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I remember ye saying they were due today.’ She put her hand in her apron pocket. ‘There’s a wee bit tablet for the bairn.’ She held it out to Lucy. ‘I made it myself.’
Lucy hesitated and looked at Kezzie. Kezzie nodded.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s like the candy you ate back home. Say “thank you”.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Sweeney,’ said Kezzie as Lucy gabbled a hurried thank you and started to pull the wrapping from her sweet. What could Grandad mean by describing their neighbour as sharp and waspish? She seemed very pleasant.
‘Don’t mention it, dear,’ said the older woman. Her inquisitive eyes roved over Kezzie and Lucy, their clothes and luggage. ‘The wee one looks as though she needs some fattening up. And,’ her eyes flicked up and down Kezzie disapprovingly, ‘maybe yersel too.’
Kezzie set her mouth but said nothing. She exchanged a look with her grandad. ‘Told you,’ his expression was saying.
‘Now,’ Mrs Sweeney went on, ‘we’ll have to come to some arrangement about your turn at the wash-house and drying green. I might have to come upstairs and explain it all to you. A young thing like you will have no notion of running a home.’
Kezzie’s eyes widened but, with a great effort, she smiled brightly. ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ she replied. ‘Meanwhile, please don’t let us keep you …’ she hesitated, and let her eyes rest on the duster in the other woman’s hand, ‘… from any work that you might have to do.’ Then she picked up her bag and marched up the next flight of the tenement.
To Kezzie’s surprise her grandad was quite gleeful as they continued up the stairs.
‘Months and months I’ve suffered that woman,’ he said. ‘Every time I’d pass her door, out she’d come, chivvying me about this and that. The sound of my boots on the stairs, muddy footprints on her freshly-washed close.’ He laughed. ‘You put her gas at a peep, Kezzie. That’s the first time I’ve seen her short of an answer.’
He stopped at last on the top landing.
‘Here it is,’ he said, and opened the
front door proudly.
Kezzie and Lucy followed him inside.
‘There’s lots of one-room houses in the tenements, they’re called single ends,’ he explained as he led them through the tiny hall. ‘We’re a bit better off. It’s a room and kitchen, and an inside lavatory. Look.’ He opened the first door on the left and proudly displayed the flush toilet with its cistern attached to the wall above, and the long dangling chain. ‘It’ll be very handy in the wintertime, most of the other closes have a shared toilet on each landing. There’s a wee glory hole that I’ll sleep in. It’s really a walk-in cupboard off the kitchen.’ He pointed to the door beside the toilet. ‘You girls will have this room for yourselves.’ He led them inside. There was a bedside cabinet, a wash-stand and a plain single brass bedstead. A little cot stood in the corner. Grandad looked from it to Lucy then back again.
‘Oh dear,’ he said.
‘I’m a big girl now, Grandad,’ said Lucy.
‘I can see that, hen.’ He laughed and scratched his head. ‘I spent weeks making that.’
Kezzie put her arm through his. ‘Don’t worry, Lucy and I will share meantime. It will be more cosy, at any rate.’
They crossed the hall to the main room. The fire was lit in the kitchen grate and the table set for tea. Two easy stairs and a small stool were set around the fire with a big old chest of drawers opposite. Kezzie gazed at it for a moment or two and at the oval mirror above.
‘Grandad,’ she said, and then found that she couldn’t go on. It was seeing the fire more than anything else that brought back the memories of their life in the miners’ rows. The hearth as the heart of the house. Not just for welcome and warmth, but for cooking, and boiling up water to wash and clean. Kezzie felt the tears coming from behind her eyelids. ‘Grandad,’ she said again.
He came over to her and she put her arms around his neck. He sat her down in one of the chairs. ‘You have a wee rest,’ he said, and he patted her hand. Then he took out his hanky and blew his nose loudly.
Kezzie wiped her eyes and looked around.
Kezzie at War Page 14