by Anne Douglas
‘Yes, Ma,’ sighed Isla.
‘Who’s looking for fish?’ asked Will, and even Boyd managed to laugh.
Fifty-Two
As the year progressed into spring, worries began to grip the country that it would soon be heading for industrial unrest. A general strike, no less, if the unions had their way and workers came out in support of the miners. Whatever would ordinary folk do? The newspapers were saying that all railway workers would be called out, and the tram drivers, dockers, iron and steel workers – anybody who could cause a shutdown of services. How on earth would people manage?
And what was it all about, anyway? Seemed you could blame the Germans for the start of it, some said, seeing as they’d been able to sell their coal again after the war, which had brought down the price of British coal. The mine owners, of course, still wanted profits and, when government subsidies ran out, made the miners work longer hours and cut their wages. No wonder the men wanted to strike.
Backed by the Trades Union Congress, out they would come, together with all those workers who were in sympathy with them, and then, for the first time anyone could remember, the country would grind to a halt. When would this be? On a knife edge, everyone waited for a date. So far, it had not been announced.
While so many were apprehensive of what might come – and their number included the patients at the hydro – the nurses at Lorne’s felt a certain odd excitement at the thought of such a change to the nation’s life and their own. No trains to and from Edinburgh, for instance. No trams. No goods coming into shops as the docks would be closed. What would Mr Paul do if he had no food to prepare for the dining room? Heavens, he’d be raising the roof! At least, it seemed the staff wouldn’t be asked to go on strike themselves, but if they’d have drawn the line there anyway, most felt sympathetic towards the miners’ cause, with only Staff Miller declaring that to withdraw one’s labour was disgraceful, whatever the reason.
‘Trust her,’ commented Sheana. ‘All I can say is I feel sorry for folk having to do so such terrible work underground and getting paid so little. I wouldn’t do it for a fortune.’
‘Nor me,’ said Ellie, ‘but they haven’t got much choice. Where are the jobs for them if they don’t go down the pit?’
‘If only there was something we could do to help,’ said Isla, who was feeling very despondent over the plight of the strikers’ families. How would they get on with only strike pay to keep body and soul together?
‘I suppose I agree with Staff in a way,’ she added slowly. ‘It does seem wrong for people to withdraw their labour, but if they’re desperate, what else can they do?’
‘Thing is, will striking work?’ asked Sheana. ‘I bet it doesn’t and everyone will end up worse than before.’
‘Don’t be so depressing,’ Ellie retorted. ‘Let’s wait and see if they call this general strike anyway.’
They – the TUC – did indeed call the strike, to begin on the first of May, and by the fourth of May, nearly two million men were out, which seemed to the strikers a successful start. Of course, volunteers were doing what they could to man essential services, but these appeared no threat, and as all proposals to end the strike were turned down, it looked as though a long debilitating dispute lay ahead.
‘So what can we do?’ Isla asked her father, who, as a staunch Labour man, was himself fretting that he could do nothing to support the strikers, as the woollen mill workers were not considered essential to the cause and were not being called out.
‘I was going to tell you about something you might like to do,’ Will now told Isla. ‘Not that it’d be any real help, except to show sympathy for the miners. Maybe you could join a wee march some of us are laying on in Edinburgh tomorrow? I can’t get time off and neither can Boyd. How about you?
‘I could go; I’ve some time due to me. But how will I get into Edinburgh when there’s no transport?’
‘Is anybody going in from the hydro with a car?’
Isla thought for a moment. ‘I think Doctor Morgan might be driving in to stock up on supplies from the pharmacy. I could ask him for a lift.’
‘Well, if you can get in, meet at Shandwick Place in the West End at two o’clock and march down Princes Street to the Mound – we’ve got some good speakers there. It’s grand you’re joining in this, Isla – I appreciate it.’
‘I never thought I’d be involved in anything political, Dad, not being interested usually, but maybe this is different.’
‘Of course it’s different! This isn’t political; it’s humanitarian.’
To which, Isla agreed.
Dr Morgan having said he’d gladly give her a lift, Isla, wearing her navy suit, drove in with him to Edinburgh, telling him where she was going and hoping it was all right with Dr Lorne that she should go marching for the miners. Not that she would have given it up even if the director had not approved, but Dr Morgan said there’d be no problem, for Dr Lorne had some sympathy with the strikers.
‘I have myself,’ Dr Morgan added, ‘until I think about essential driving, but now I’m wondering how long my petrol’s going to last. My garage told me there’d be no more petrol coming in until the strike’s settled, and when will that be?’
‘If they’d give the miners what’s right, it could be settled tomorrow,’ Isla declared, but Dr Morgan smiled.
‘If the mine owners had been willing to do that, there’d never have been a strike in the first place.’
‘“Not a penny off the pay, not a minute on the day” is what the chaps are asking for – seems reasonable to me.’
‘You’re not a mine owner,’ said Dr Morgan. ‘Now, this looks like Shandwick Place ahead – where can I drop you? And how will you get home? I’ll be going back in an hour or so but I expect you’ll be much longer than that.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get home somehow,’ she answered, realizing that both she and her father had forgotten about the return trip. ‘But thank you very much for the lift in, anyway. I’m really grateful.’
‘Telephone Lorne’s if you’re stranded,’ he told her, looking worried. ‘Don’t want that.’
‘Honestly, Doctor Morgan, I’ll be all right. And if you let me out here, this’ll be fine. I can see people gathering ahead.’
Waving and smiling as he drove away, she tried not to think of just how she’d get home and walked forward to join the crowd of people of all description, who were holding banners of support for the miners and jostling together as they began to march away.
‘Wanting to join us, hen?’ a woman asked, smiling. ‘Come away, then. We’re just starting.’
‘Oh, yes, I’m joining you,’ Isla told her, forgetting any worries about getting home as she fell into step with those around her on a Princes Street emptied of traffic. Am I really marching? she asked herself. That was a first for her. If only it would do some good.
She knew that wasn’t likely, but as she strode along, she still felt cheered that she was doing something to show sympathy, even if it was only a token. In fact, she was feeling so much involved with those around her that she didn’t at first notice a tall, dark-haired man marching a little ahead of her, but when she did, she couldn’t quite believe it. Was it him? Probably not. Why would he be marching for the miners? Most Edinburgh lawyers, she felt sure, would agree with Staff Miller and think they shouldn’t be on strike. All the same …
Suddenly, she was sure. It was him. It was!
‘Mark!’ she called. ‘Mark, wait! Wait for me!’
And ran to catch Mark Kinnaird, marching ahead.
Fifty-Three
At the sound of his name, he had swung round, and when she reached him, he seemed unable at first to believe that it should be Isla from the hydro facing him.
‘Why, Isla, is it really you?’ he asked, after recognition had swum into his large brown eyes. ‘I thought at first you were a mirage.’
‘I felt the same about you,’ she told him, laughing, and thinking, as they moved aside to the pavement, how well he lo
oked. She had never seen him so casually dressed as he was then, in sports jacket and checked shirt, nor with such colour in his face and brightness in his eyes. But even as she thought that, he gave a harsh dry cough, and his face changed, his colour fading, his eyes losing their lustre.
‘Damn,’ he murmured. ‘Take no notice of that. It’s just because I’ve been hurrying—’
‘I was thinking how well you’re looking,’ she told him quickly. ‘Better than I’ve ever seen you.’
‘Yes, well, it’s true. I am better, on the whole. I do cough, I suppose – but why are we talking about me?’ He caught at her hand. ‘It’s so splendid to see you, Isla, I can’t tell you. And to find you on this march – never in the world did I expect that!’
‘You think I’m permanently trapped in the hydro?’ Her own eyes were shining as she looked up into his face. ‘I’m sure supporting the miners is not so surprising for me, but you – you’re the surprise. Surely lawyers aren’t in sympathy with the strikers?’
‘Now, why would you say that? Lawyers have feelings, the same as anyone else, and I certainly have sympathy with those poor fellows on strike.’
Mark’s gaze held Isla’s.
‘When I think of their work and how they’ve to bring up a family for a week on what I might pay for a bottle or two of wine, I have to admit I feel guilty as hell. I knew I had to come on this march when I read about it in the paper; it was the least I could do.’
‘Snap!’ Isla dropped his hand but took his arm. ‘I’m sorry I was wrong about you, Mark; it was thoughtless of me.’ She glanced at the people surging past them. ‘Shall we go back to the march?’
‘Together,’ said Mark.
As they slipped back into the crowd, both so obviously pleased at meeting up again, there was, for Isla, something else on her mind, which was a small feeling of worry. Yes, only a small one – she didn’t think it need be more than that – but what was the truth behind that harsh cough Mark had given just after they’d met? Perhaps it was just a one-off, brought on by the exertion of marching?
Was he better or not? Would he mind if she asked him about it if she got the chance? She’d just have to wait and see how things worked out. First, they had to get to the Mound.
Purposely holding back a little so as not to have him moving too quickly, she glanced across at his profile as he strode beside her, his fine nose and strong chin, and was surprised to realize just how handsome he appeared and how she hadn’t always realized that when he was her patient. Of course, when he’d first been admitted, his looks had been coloured by his illness and the fact that his spirits had been so low. Even when she had come to know him better, she still hadn’t defined his looks as handsome, only thinking that his face was truly kind and sympathetic. A nice face, in fact; one that pleased, but not perhaps to be compared with Boyd’s classical looks or Grant Revie’s obvious appeal. Now, seeing Mark again after an absence, she decided she wasn’t so sure. He was a good-looking man and should be admired as such, as indeed he was admired now – by her.
Sensing her study of him, he turned to smile, at which she blushed and looked away.
‘Mound coming up,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘And what a scrum is here already!’
The famous Mound that rises from Princes Street to give access to George IV Bridge and the Old Town, was originally formed from the earth thrown up when the New Town was created, but in more recent years it had come to be known as a meeting place. People would gather in summer to lie on the grass and look up at the jagged silhouette of the Assembly Hall, a meeting place itself for churches, while for speakers the Mound was a favourite spot for their public oratory.
On that day in May, when the marchers arrived, there was already a speaker on the Mound waiting to begin, while crowds milled around, some standing, some finding places to sit.
Mark looked at Isla. ‘Want to sit down? I can spread my coat.’
‘Oh, no, the grass will be dry enough. All we have to do is find a space. There’s a chap getting ready to speak.’
He spoke well, whoever he was, not really saying anything new but putting the miners’ case in a concise, easy-to-understand manner, which drew passionate applause. The second speaker, echoing the first, also asked for funds to help the families, and after tins were passed round, and Mark and Isla contributed, it seemed to them that they might be on their way.
‘You’re going back now to the hydro?’ Mark asked, as they made their way from the Mound back down to Princes Street.
‘To Edgemuir, but not the hydro. I’ve a day or two off and I’m at home just now.’
‘And you have transport?’
She hesitated. ‘Good question. I got a lift in with Doctor Morgan, but – well, I haven’t organized anything back yet.’
A look of concern sharpened Mark’s brown eyes. ‘You mean you’ve no one taking you back? What were you thinking of? There are no trains, no buses—’
‘I know, I was stupid. Doctor Morgan was a bit upset but he couldn’t wait for me. He did say I could ring the hydro for a lift if all else failed, but I don’t want to put them to such trouble. And petrol’s so short.’
A smile lit Mark’s face. ‘No need to worry. Look, we’re standing right outside Logie’s. We can go and have something to eat and then I’ll run you home.’
‘You have a car?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Sure. Got my own now; I’m not sharing with my father. If you don’t mind walking back to Gloucester Place later, we can collect the car then.’
‘Mind? I should say I don’t mind!’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Mark, are you wearing shining armour? I think you must be a knight at least.’
‘And you’re a damsel in distress? No, come on! I’m starving. Aren’t you?’
She didn’t know. In fact, as she followed him into Logie’s, the largest and grandest of Edinburgh’s department stores, she wasn’t altogether sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Fifty-Four
At first glance, Logie’s well-appointed, top-floor café seemed so crowded that Mark and Isla thought they might not get a table, until, as they were about to turn away, a stout Edinburgh matron left her corner table and a smiling waitress fitted them in.
‘What a bit of luck!’ Mark exclaimed. ‘I was just about to give up hope of recommending the mushroom omelette.’
‘You often come here?’ asked Isla, studying the menu.
‘Sometimes for lunch. They do excellent light lunches and suppers, but I usually have dinner with my father – we share a house and have a housekeeper.’
Isla was interested, wondering what had happened to Mark’s mother, for it occurred to her that only his father had visited him in Lorne’s.
‘You’ll have gathered that my mother’s dead,’ Mark said quietly, perhaps recognizing a question in the grey eyes turned towards him. ‘I hardly remember her – she died when I was very young. There was supposed to be a brother for me, but I’m afraid Dad lost them both, and so did I.’
‘Oh, Mark, that’s so sad!’ Isla cried. ‘I’d no idea.’
‘No, well, it all happened a long time ago.’ Mark laid down his menu. ‘Thought what you’d like to eat?’
‘The mushroom omelette sounds lovely.’
‘Right, two mushroom omelettes it is, then. And afterwards, shall we make it a real high tea and have some of their beautiful cakes?’
‘I can’t say no,’ said Isla, smiling.
When Mark had given their order to a waitress, he turned back to Isla and asked her to tell him about her family.
‘I know your parents are nice, anyway,’ he added.
‘How can you say that without seeing them?’ she asked, laughing.
‘Because I know you and I know Boyd.’
‘Oh, Boyd …’
As she said her brother’s name, Isla’s slight change of expression was not lost on Mark, who looked at her enquiringly.
‘Everything all right with him?’
‘Not really. Well, in a way,
he’s better than he was, but he’s left the hydro and is working as an assistant to a school sports master here in Edinburgh.’ Isla sighed heavily. ‘I’m afraid Damon Duthie came back to Edgemuir, and Trina left Boyd to be with him. In fact, they are married.’
‘Oh, Lord, no!’ Mark’s eyes were outraged. ‘I thought everything was settled between her and Boyd. How could she do that to him?’
‘I think now she never really cared for him. She’s a bit of a wild one, you know, and he was always too quiet. When Damon reappeared, she said he was the one for her and they went off to London together.’
‘Two mushroom omelettes,’ announced their waitress, at which both Isla and Mark fell silent, Mark looking so stricken, thinking of Boyd, that Isla eventually changed the subject by talking of her easy-going father and her more excitable mother, and of how she believed her family was a happy one.
‘We’ve always been pretty steady, you know,’ she remarked, after the waitress had cleared their plates and brought tea and their choice of delicious almond cake iced with chocolate. ‘Even if Ma does get worked up from time to time. There’s never been much money, but Dad’s a foreman now at the woollen mill, and life’s a bit easier all round.’
‘To be happy at home, you’ve been fortunate, Isla. I suppose I could say the same.’ Mark finished his tea. ‘I’ve always got on well with my father. So, no complaints’ – his face darkened – ‘except for my damned chest, I suppose.’
Isla hesitated. ‘How has it been, Mark? Since you left us?’
‘Oh, I’m much better,’ he said readily, though his eyes didn’t meet hers. ‘Still got a cough, but it’s not bad.’
‘Really? You do feel better? Be honest, now. I’d like to know if we really succeeded with the treatments.’
‘You did, you did. I am better, honestly.’
‘Better, but not cured?’
‘Well, I suppose I’d have to say no, not altogether, but look, let’s not talk about me. I’m OK. I can manage. So, I’ll get the bill and then we’ll go for my car.’ With obvious effort, Mark gave a smile and rose to find a waitress. ‘You must be feeling pretty tired, eh?’