by Anne Forsyth
Her friend laughed.
‘As long as there’s no hold-ups. I can see everyone in Scotland wanting to cross the new bridge.’
‘There’s a train . . .’ The first woman pointed to the rail bridge. ‘Doesn’t it look small from down here!’
Her friend gazed across the river.
‘I’m fairly looking forward to the opening.’
‘That’ll be a great day. Some time next year, they think.’
If we’re lucky, Walter thought. Weather permitting.
As he watched Joe bring the ferry skilfully into the quay, Walter was unaware of the couple standing in front of him, looking out over the river. But as he turned to disembark, he saw that it was Shona and her boyfriend. No use pretending he hadn’t noticed them.
He raised his hand.
‘Miss McAllister. Hello. A fine day for crossing the Forth.’
Shona looked a little surprised to see him.
‘Oh, hello, Mr Logan.’
Walter paused, waiting for her to introduce her chap, prepared to make some other comment about the bridge. Everyone wanted to know how much it was costing, how long it would take to build, and so on. He could hardly go into the pub for a quiet beer without someone cornering him and asking questions.
But Shona and her boyfriend seemed disinclined to talk.
‘I’d best be getting on, then,’ Walter said at last, a little embarrassed.
As the passengers streamed off the ferry, he could see the man helping Shona into his car.
He wondered where they had been and what sort of income could let him afford a motor like that. Then he shook himself. It was none of his business. Miss McAllister seemed fine pleased with him, anyway.
He turned away to have a word with Joe and to thank him for the trip.
But, later on, Walter felt a little uneasy about Shona’s boyfriend, and he wondered why. He’d never met the man, never spoken to him. He looked respectable enough, although a bit flash.
There was nothing wrong with him, nothing at all. So why, Walter asked himself, did he get this uneasy feeling about him?
* * *
‘Surely they’ll not be working today!’
Nancy paused, dishcloth in hand, to look out of the kitchen window There had been another snowfall overnight, and a glance at the sky showed heavy clouds.
More snow on the way, she thought.
It had been like this for weeks, and now it was the coldest January she could remember. She went through to the living room to bank up the fire.
‘We’ll remember nineteen-sixty-three,’ she said to herself.
At least they had plenty of coal, unlike some. Every day the papers carried stories of hardship—there was no part of the country, it seemed, that had escaped.
But it wasn’t just the weather that made Nancy feel down in spirits. She was constantly fretting about the family. Except Roy, she thought with a smile. He was in his element—sledging, snowball fights, building snowmen. She remembered how cross Joe had been when Roy borrowed his favourite pipe to put in the snowman’s mouth.
And, of course, best of all from Roy’s point of view, school often closed early because of the weather.
No, it was Matt—oh, Joe had told her time and again, and so had Walter—that safety was the prime concern on the bridge. Still . . . she glanced out of the window again. She began peeling and coring apples. Apple pie was Walter’s favourite and it was a pleasure to cook for someone so appreciative.
Not just Matt. But Lorna—what had happened to her bright, affectionate daughter? These days she was often surly—snapping at Nancy, and being short-tempered with Matt. Sometimes she flared up over nothing, and there were constant arguments with her father.
* * *
Nancy sighed, wishing Joe wasn’t so heavy-handed with her. It was no use laying down the law, not with today’s young people!
It wasn’t many months since Lorna had brought friends home—they would spend hours up in her room, looking at teenage magazines, and trying out make-up. But now she rarely brought anyone home.
‘We don’t know who her friends are,’ Joe complained one evening.
Nancy felt a wave of sympathy that evening for her daughter. Of course all young people wanted to be fashionable. It wasn’t Lorna’s ever-changing hairstyles and make-up that worried Nancy. She’d become secretive.
Nancy sighed as she rubbed the fat into the flour, and added water, then brought the mixture together, wishing, not for the first time, that Joe was more patient with Lorna. Not that he wasn’t a good, caring father. He would do anything for his daughter. Look at the trouble he had taken, building a lovely dressing table for her bedroom.
She set the pastry aside and began to chop the apples. They were Bramleys from Grandpa’s garden, and they’d kept well, stored in the shed. That reminded her . . . once she’d finished baking, she would put on her boots and go along to see how he was getting on. Oh, he had good neighbours who would see that he had plenty of food, and his daily paper delivered, but it would be like him to try to go out, even in this weather.
‘Anyone in?’
Nancy whirled round, and saw Walter’s face appear round the kitchen door.
‘Walter!’ Nancy felt a moment of swift panic. ‘Why . . . I mean you’re home early. Is it—is there anything wrong?’
‘Now calm down, Mrs M,’ he said kindly. ‘Nothing’s wrong—and Matt will be home shortly. You wouldn’t expect us to work in this weather, would you?’
‘Of course not.’ Nancy felt foolish, but relief swept through her.
‘You’ve no need to be anxious,’ he reassured her. ‘You know we don’t work when there’s high winds, or danger of icing. We’ve stopped work early today, and I wondered if there was any chance of a cup of tea.’
‘Just sit yourself down and I’ll put the kettle on.’
Walter moved over to the window and stood, gazing out.
‘It’s a long time since we had a winter like this. Nineteen forty-seven was the last bad winter—so one of the lads was saying.’
‘I feel for anyone who’s working outside,’ Nancy shivered. ‘And as for these men on the snow-ploughs—I read in the paper about one crew, stuck in their cab overnight, without food or drink.’
‘Aye, they’re doing a grand job,’ Walter agreed. ‘Working through the night to clear the roads.’
* * *
‘I hope the kettle’s on.’
Matt was at the door, stamping his feet and swinging his arms. He shook the snow from his duffel coat and pulled off his cap.
Nancy noticed that the melting snow was dripping on to the linoleum as he stood there, blowing on his fingers. Even in the warmth of her kitchen Nancy could imagine how raw and bleak it must be for the men working on the bridge.
‘What about Miss McAllister?’ Walter asked, concerned. ‘They’ll surely close the school early.’
‘I expect she’ll be home soon,’ Nancy said as she poured the tea. ‘There’s scones,’ she added, ‘and honey. And it’s your favourite, apple pie for pudding.’
‘We never ate so well before you came here, Walter!’ Matt grinned.
‘Cheek!’ Nancy pretended to be affronted.
‘Speaking of food,’ Matt said, as he stirred his tea. ‘What about Grandpa? Will he be all right? It’s going to snow again.’
‘I’m going to pop along if the bus is running, just to see he’s all right,’ Nancy said. ‘If only he had a phone. It would be useful at times like this.’
‘You don’t need to venture out, Mum. I’ll go.’ Matt was on his feet. ‘Nothing else to do today—no football, everything’s closed. And no work tomorrow—isn’t that right, Walter?’
‘We’ll see. I’ll go down to the bridge later on, see what’s happening. But I doubt it, not with this wind rising.’
‘Oh, thank you, Matt,’ Nancy said. ‘I’ve some groceries put by for Grandpa.’ She smiled at her elder son. What a good lad he was!
‘I’d best go now,
then,’ Matt said, draining his cup. ‘I’ll get a lift if the bus isn’t running. Expect me back for the apple pie. Oh!’ He threw a couple of packets on the table. ‘I promised to get these for Roy.’
‘What are they?’
‘Sweetie cigarettes.’ Matt grinned. ‘Popeye and Laurel and Hardy. He wanted them for his collection.’
‘He’ll be that pleased.’
Nancy smiled affectionately at her son. He was so thoughtful.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Matt closed the door behind him.
‘Would there be another cup in the pot?’ Walter asked, stretching out his hands to the fire. He glanced out of the window.
‘Oh, here’s Miss McAllister now—and your daughter.’
‘School’s closed early. We’ve sent the children home,’ Shona said, as she pulled off her red woollen cap, and shook her dark curls. With her glowing pink cheeks, she looked very attractive, Nancy thought, noticing that Walter was looking at her with interest.
* * *
Shona paid no attention to him, but concentrated on unzipping her fleece-lined boots and placing them carefully on the mat to dry out, and putting on the shoes she had left in the hall. She had on a smart outfit, Nancy noticed—a wool cardigan and slim-line skirt in pewter grey, with a blue polo-neck sweater. She remembered Shona had made the skirt herself from a paper pattern.
‘Come in, dear,’ Nancy said kindly. ‘There’s tea in the pot.’
Shona didn’t sit down but kept glancing out of the window. She seemed a little uneasy, Nancy thought. Was she maybe expecting someone?
Meanwhile, Lorna had vanished upstairs, with only a brief nod to her mother. Shona shook her head. Surely the girl wasn’t in another of her moods? Well, at least she was spending the half-day at home.
‘Any jobs I can be doing for you?’ Walter rose from his seat by the fire. ‘I know Joe won’t be home for a bit. You’re needing more coal, aren’t you?’ He picked up the coal scuttle. ‘I’ll fill this up.’
Nancy smiled her thanks and poured out a cup of tea for Shona. She went to the foot of the stairs.
‘Lorna! There’s a cup of tea and scones.’
There was no reply. Nancy turned back into the kitchen. What could be wrong with her now? She never used to be difficult and surly like this.
Nancy turned to her lodger.
‘I don’t suppose you saw Roy on the way home?’
‘Last seen, he and some other boys were having a snowball fight,’ Shona said.
‘In that case he’ll be soaked through when he gets back,’ Nancy sighed. ‘Oh, well, you sit and get warm, my dear. It looks like snow again. Dear knows when they’ll be able to work on the bridge.’
‘I wish it was summer,’ said Shona, as she sat and toasted her toes in front of the fire. ‘The holidays seem like years away.’
‘Have you any plans for the summer?’ Nancy asked.
‘Not really . . .’
There were footsteps on the stairs, and Lorna appeared in the doorway. She was wearing her new cherry-red two-piece and her hair was swept up in a beehive.
‘I’ll not be in for tea,’ she said.
Nancy whirled round.
‘Lorna, you’re never going out in this?’
Lorna tried to look nonchalant.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s deep snow! You don’t even know if the buses will be running. Where on earth are you going?’
‘That my business,’ she said shortly, then looked sheepish. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be OK, Mum.’
She brushed back a strand of hair that had escaped the lacquer.
‘Lorna, you can’t!’ Nancy’s heart sank. What would Joe say? ‘Your father . . .’ Her voice trailed away.
‘I’ll be back late.’
Nancy, usually so placid and even-tempered, flared up.
‘What on earth are you thinking of? At least take your thick coat,’ she called after her daughter.
But the door had slammed behind her.
Shona and Walter tried to look as if nothing had happened, but Nancy, twisting the dish towel between her hands, was shaken.
‘What will Joe say when he comes home?’
‘Mrs Mackay . . .’ Shona said hesitantly.
‘Yes?’ Nancy turned round. She was upset about that scene with Lorna, upset too, that Walter and Shona had witnessed it.
She gave herself a little shake.
‘What is it, dear?’
‘I wondered,’ Shona said hesitantly, ‘if I might use the phone? I wouldn’t ask but I won’t be able to go out tonight.’ She glanced at the sky.
‘Of course,’ Nancy said kindly.
‘I’ll pay for the call, of course. It’s long-distance,’ Shona added, ‘so I’ll ask the operator to ring back with the cost.’
* * *
She went into the hall, and pulled out a scrap of paper from her purse. Mark had told her the name of one of the firms he worked for.
‘Very good customers,’ he’d told her. ‘I get lots of business for them.’
She’d been looking forward to the evening—dinner somewhere in Edinburgh, then he promised to see her safely on the train home.
But she had no idea where he might be working. Still, his firm would be able to tell her.
She rang Directory Enquiry, and they gave her the number—a Waverley exchange, she noted. Feeling a little nervous, Shona dialled the number.
‘I’d like to speak to Mr Mark Jenkinson,’ she said. ‘He may not be in the office, but perhaps you could tell me how I can get in touch with him?’
There was a pause.
‘Could you say the name again?’
‘Jenkinson,’ Shona repeated. ‘Mark Jenkinson.’
‘He’s not on the staff list,’ the voice said.
‘He does a lot of work for your firm. He’s a freelance sales rep,’ Shona said, feeling a little foolish.
‘Wait a moment, please. I’ll put you through to someone who can help.’
‘Sales department, how can I help you?’ a pleasant voice said.
Shona took a deep breath.
‘I’m trying to contact a Mr Mark Jenkinson who works for you. At least, you are one of the firms he works for. He’s a sales representative,’ she began. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I didn’t know any other way to get in touch.’
‘One moment, please. What was the name again?’
Shona repeated the name.
‘We don’t usually give out addresses of employees,’ the voice said. ‘But I can tell you if he’s one of our reps, and you could leave a message. Would that do?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you.’
There was a pause, and she could hear voices in the background. After a little while, the voice said, ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Mr Jenkinson isn’t on our staff. He’s not one of our reps, I’m afraid. Are you sure you have the name right?’
‘Yes, quite sure,’ Shona said.
‘I’m sorry I can’t help you.’ The man sounded a little impatient. ‘If it’s a business query perhaps someone else . . . ?’
‘No . . . no, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’
Shona put down the phone and stood, gazing blankly at the floral-patterned wallpaper in front of her. A few minutes later the phone rang. She seized the receiver, desperately hoping it might be Mark. But it was only the telephone operator.
‘The cost of your call . . .’
‘Thank you.’
Shona blinked and wrapped her cardigan more closely around her. She went into the living-room and stood looking bleakly out of the window. She didn’t notice Walter, who’d paused, not liking to overhear her conversation. But he’d realised something was wrong.
Nancy had lit a fire in the grate earlier on, and now there was a cheerful blaze. Walter sat down in one of the easy-chairs and stretched out his hands to the warmth of the fire.
‘It’s a lot better in he
re than up on the bridge in this weather,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Shona turned round.
‘I only said it’s better indoors than out.’
‘Yes,’ Shona said tonelessly. What could have happened? Mark had mentioned the name of the firm and the work he did. He was one of their top sales reps, he’d told her. And yet—they’d never heard of him. She must have made a mistake. It was the only explanation.
She didn’t like to think of the other explanation—that Mark had lied to her. But why would he?
‘Were you going out tonight?’ Walter asked, trying to sound casual.
Shona gulped.
‘I thought so. But—the person I was meeting—well, I won’t be able to get to Edinburgh, not in this weather.’
‘It wouldn’t be wise,’ Walter agreed. ‘No-one would expect you to.’ He glanced at her. ‘This weather—everything’s at sixes and sevens. Buses off, trains cancelled, and—’ He paused. ‘People held up all over the place. It’s no joke trying to get around by car.
‘And as for communications—phone lines brought down by the snow, no-one able to get in touch,’ he said kindly, ‘I’m sure the friend you’re meeting will realise you can’t get to Edinburgh today and won’t expect you. Probably they’re in the same boat and can’t get a message to you. I wouldn’t worry too much, if I were you.’
* * *
‘I suppose so,’ Shona said gratefully.
‘Might as well make up our minds there won’t be any going out tonight. Except,’ he added, ‘I’ll need to go down to the bridge later to check there are no problems.’
‘There isn’t anyone up there, is there?’ Shona asked anxiously.
‘No, we got everyone down as soon as the weather started to get worse.’
‘I think,’ Shona said slowly, ‘they must be very brave, you and all the men who work up there.’
‘We don’t see it that way. If you started thinking about whether you were scared, you’d never go up there.’
‘You’ve been working a long time on bridges?’ Shona asked.
‘All my life. I can’t imagine doing anything else.’
‘The children I teach are fascinated,’ Shona said. ‘We’ve been doing a project about the bridge, cutting stuff out of the papers. They’ve made a collage, and there are pictures all round the classroom.’