by David Munro
James nodded.
They walked up to the front entrance, then Ann pulled the brass doorbell handle. As it rang, she looked at James, waiting in anticipation. Ann rang it a second time, waited and sighed. “It appears nobody is home.”
“Where can they be?”
“When were you here?
“Three days ago.”
“Three days!” Ann stared at James. “Where have you been for that length of time?”
“Staying with a Mr and Mrs Lawson.”
“In Ardrishaig?”
“Yes.”
Ann was aware that Philip and Charlotte Carsell-Brown lived here, however, given his Edinburgh accent and appearance, James did not belong here. He looked up at Ann.
“How did you become separated from your parents, James?”
James took Ann’s hand, and led her to the coach house. He stopped and pointed to a black painted door. “My great-aunt took me through the door and then upstairs. She left me to answer a telephone call.”
“A telephone call?”
James nodded. “I then looked into a mirror and felt unwell. Went downstairs, and when I opened the door, everything looked different.” He stared at Ann. “Everybody had disappeared.”
Ann turned the door handle. “It’s locked.” She looked at James. “What was different?”
James pointed to the garden. “The trees were much taller, twice as big.” James stared at the villa. “It was a different colour.”
Ann bent down and faced James. “As no one is here, we should return to Ardrishaig. Mr and Mrs Lawson will be worried.”
“What about my mum, dad and great-aunt?”
Ann remained silent.
James started to sob, and Ann brought out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket, then wiped his eyes “I will take you back to Mr and Mrs Lawson.” Ann smiled. “Until your parents and great-aunt return, they will care for you.”
James sniffed and then Ann gave him a warm hug. She took his hand, led him out of the property, and towards Ardrishaig. Feeling disconsolate, James remained silent on the way back.
On the final Friday in June, Alice Lawson and her four friends, Mary, Jessica, Meg and Catherine sailed to Glasgow. They had travelled by paddle steamer from their village port to Govan Wharf, filled with anticipation about their visit to the West End Playhouse Theatre, St George’s Cross. As it lay on several tram routes, transport from Govan was no problem.
Acts scheduled to appear included a comedian, ventriloquist, magician, fire-eater, knife-thrower and singer. Upon reaching the theatre, a long queue had formed. As the five ladies took their place, Mary read a billboard poster, then looked at Alice. “Perhaps the magician could conjure up a new British Government?”
“One that would give us the vote,” said Alice, as she looked at her friends.
Whilst they laughed, directly behind them, a tall gentleman dressed in a black top hat and dark suit frowned at the group.
“Is this a theatre or a music hall?” said Mary. She looked at Alice.
The gentleman leaned forward. “It is a theatre, madam.”
Mary turned around. “Thank you for that, sir.”
He raised his top hat, and smiled. “You are welcome, madam.”
Catherine whispered to Meg, “he’s posh with that accent.”
“The dark moustache and long beard gives it away,” said Meg.
“Similar to King George?” said Jessica.
Meg nodded, then tucked her jet-black hair under a pink hat.
“Alice?” Jessica turned to her.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t we go to George Square tomorrow?”
“There’s attractions in the West End to visit, replied Alice.
“We could demonstrate, and get publicity,” said Jessica with enthusiasm.
“I’ve heard it’s a popular place to congregate,” added Catherine.
Once again, the gentleman behind leaned forward, and stared down at fair-skinned Catherine. “Do you want to end up in prison, madam?”
Catherine turned around and looked up. “If sent to prison, I’ll go on a hunger strike.”
“That is what Ethel Moorhead said, and she was force fed!”
“Huh!” Catherine looked away.
“At last.” Alice sighed. “We are moving.”
“Have your two shillings and three pennies at the ready,” cried Mary.
Each opened their trim bags, and brought out the required coins. They entered a crowded foyer, paid their admission, and went into the arena.
“Five empty seats, over there!” Catherine pointed.
“Ideal,” said Alice, “quick, before they are taken.”
The ladies sat down and within fifteen minutes, no empty seats remained. In front of the wooden stage, sat an orchestra. This comprised an organist, cellist, violinist, trumpeter, clarinet player and drummer, complete with cymbals. The musicians looked presentable in black formal suits, white shirts and black ties. Meg, sitting beside Mary, whispered, “the young woman next to me has had a skinful.”
Mary glanced at the woman, then looked at Meg. “She appears okay.”
Meg whispered, “her breath stinks of gin.”
When the young woman burped, and repeated her action, Mary nodded. Then, to the sound of a drum roll, the Master of Ceremonies walked onto the stage. His attire being a black tailcoat, trousers and red waistcoat over a white shirt and white bow tie. Applause from all parts of the theatre followed, and he gave a polite acknowledgement, then went to a table and chair next to the stage. On the table lay a small well-crafted hammer, which was thumped twice. “For your pleasure, one of the country’s utmost quintessential comedians.”
“There’s enough comedians already in Glasgow,” shouted the young women next to Meg, amidst audience laughter.
The Master of Ceremonies looked at Meg. “Nevertheless, madam, one more won’t do any harm! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Jimmy Bell.” He hit the table once with his hammer.
As the audience cheered, Meg glanced at each of her four friends, then at the Master of Ceremonies. The young woman giggled, and nudged Meg. “He thought it was you.”
The orchestra played an upbeat tune, and the burgundy curtain went up. A short bald man wearing a brown checked suit held a tiny brass bell in his hand. “You won’t forget my name!” He rang it, and chuckles ensued. Putting the bell into his jacket pocket, Jimmy addressed the audience. “I complained to the landlady about my digs – especially the bed. She asked, what’s the problem? I said, there’s a dead flea in the bed. She replied, one dead flea won’t cause you harm. I stated, no, but 40,000 fleas came to its funeral!” Laughter followed from all parts of the hall. Jimmy Bell continued with his repertoire of jokes, then received rapturous applause. As the curtain came down to a short tune, the young woman turned to Meg. “My old man is just as funny.” She burped. “My mammy says he should be on the stage.” The young woman giggled.
Meg looked at Mary, who had a wide grin.
Next, a ventriloquist introduced as Jack Thom and Henry. Both individuals wore a tuxedo with white collared shirt and black bow tie. Jack Thom sat the dummy on his leg, and asked questions on politics, the economy and Glasgow. Henry fired wisecracks at the red-haired ventriloquist, whose finale featured him drinking a glass of water whilst Henry recited a short poem. No water spluttered out of the ventriloquist’s mouth. As they left the stage, a warm round of applause ensued.
“Mystical, magical and sensational!” said the Master of Ceremonies, as he described dark-suited Marvel the Magician.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” He bowed.
“So far,” shouted a man in the front row.
The magician smiled. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“Can you make my second husband disappear?” cried a middle-aged woman in the stalls.
“What happened to your first husband, madam?” said the magician.
“He disappeared on his own accord!”
Laug
hter erupted, and once more, the magician showed his white teeth. He performed a series of tricks, which included a white dove and an empty glass bottle disappearing. A man shouted. “Can you bring back the bottle full of beer?”
“Would a bottle of ale brewed by J&R Tennent suffice, sir? It’s a Glasgow company.”
“Any type of alcohol is fine by me!”
The magician held a silver tray in his left hand, and with his right, held a small white sheet in front of the bottle. With a flick of his wrist, the sheet was taken away, and a full bottle of ale stood. Marvel left the stage, approached the man and gave him the bottle. As the man took it, he gave a ‘thumbs up’ to the magician. Marvel returned to the stage, and gave a farewell bow.
A dramatic short piece of music played, and the next act announced on stage was a man who ate fire. He ignited a fire in his mouth, and transferred the flames to various parts of his body, then extinguished them. The audience gasped in awe of the fire-eater’s feats.
After he left, the Master of Ceremonies praised the fire-eater’s bravery. He thumped his hammer twice, and a man in a black suit with matching cloak appeared. A scantily dressed young woman with long platinum-blonde hair accompanied him. She took position in front of a board, which encompassed her body. As the knife-thrower took his stance, she stood motionless. When four knives struck the board on each side of the assistant’s torso, the audience applauded. A further four landed next to her head. As applause diminished, the knife-thrower approached the board and removed his eight shiny knives. He laid them on a small circular table, then lifted up a large dagger. Accompanied by a drum roll, the knife-thrower steadied himself, and paused. He threw the dagger towards his assistant. When she opened her eyes, it had rested above her head. Following loud applause, the knife-thrower walked forward, and addressed the audience. “Can I have a volunteer from the audience?”
The five Ardrishaig ladies looked at each other in a sheepish manner, however, the young woman next to Meg raised her hand. “I’ll do it!”
Cheers rang out, and she walked down a narrow aisle, then stepped onto the stage. The knife-thrower led her to the board. His assistant removed the dagger, then handed it to the knife-thrower. The young woman stood still, and closed her eyes. The hall remained silent then came a roll on the drums. When it stopped, the dagger left the knife-thrower’s hand, and as it lodged next to the young woman’s ear, she broke wind. The audience laughed, applauded and then cheered. The assistant led her off the stage. When she returned to her seat, Meg received a grin. “Your turn next.”
To Meg’s relief, the knife-thrower continued with his assistant until the act finished. The Master of Ceremonies stood, and announced the evening’s finale. Following moans, he grinned. “You can always return next week.”
Scattered cheers echoed around the hall, and the curtain rose to melodic music. A tall elegant dark-haired man introduced as Danny Lyne stood smiling. His green jacket, black trousers and pale green cravat contrasted well with a crisp white collared shirt. A neat side parting and moustache completed the singer’s presentation. Singing You Made Me Love You and Who Were You With Last Night endeared Danny to the audience. His final song, Danny Boy, ended the evening on a high. The Master of Ceremonies gave way to an encore, then an audience sing-a-long of Meet Me in St Louis.
People poured out of the venue, and into St George’s Cross. Here, they could catch a tram home to various parts of the city. The Ardrishaig ladies walked the short distance to Bath Street, where they could catch a tram to their overnight accommodation in Partick. Whilst they waited, Catherine beamed. “I loved that show, we have to plan another visit.”
“An illusionist is appearing in September,” said Jessica, “I overheard a woman in the foyer.”
“Did you catch his name?” said Meg.
“John Nevil, I think.”
“Harry Houdini would be a star attraction,” said Alice.
“Wouldn’t he just!” said Mary.
Before sailing home on Saturday afternoon, a visit to Kelvingrove Park favoured the majority. Being a short distance from their guest house, made it an ideal choice. When they arrived, joyful mothers and playful children savoured the sunny calm conditions. The Ardrishaig ladies found a vacant wooden bench, sat down and discussed the location. Meg revealed that the park had been opened in 1852, and was known as the West End Park. In 1888, it hosted the International Science Arts and Industry Exhibition, which had five and a half million visitors.
“Did you attend the exhibition, Meg?” asked Catherine.
Meg nodded. “I came with my parents. Dad spent a good hour in the shooting gallery.”
“Then it’s not only about exhibits?” said Jessica.
Meg shook her head. “An assortment of visitor attractions.” She pointed to a grassy area where young women played croquet. “I recall a temporary bandstand with musical performances.” She smiled. “After he had been at the shooting gallery, Dad wanted to attend a football match at a local club’s ground. However, Mum ruled it out of bounds!”
“Most of the proceeds went towards building the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum,” said Alice.
Meg nodded. “It opened in time for the city’s next International Exhibition, in 1901.”
“I visited the Scottish Exhibition held here in 1911,” said Mary, “my husband exhibited his animal ornaments.”
“Did he sell many?” asked Catherine.
“Enough to cover his costs.” Mary raised her grey eyebrows.
Meg stood up. “Let’s go to the Art Gallery and Museum.”
“What about the Botanic Gardens?” said Catherine, “there’s a wide variety of different plants and flowers.”
“The Art Gallery and Museum has more culture,” stated Meg.
“A show of hands for the Botanic Gardens!” said Alice as she observed the group. “Sorry Catherine, perhaps next time.”
On the way to Meg’s choice, they stopped at a stall, which sold ice cream cones. All five bought one from a jovial attendant, who handed over three strawberry cones and two vanillas, then took two pennies from each lady. As they enjoyed their cones, Mary looked at Alice. “How is the boy from Edinburgh?”
“He is fine, a composed boy.” Alice licked her cone. “George’s sister is bringing her nephews over today, therefore, James will have another two playmates.”
“Strange, he was left on his own?” said Meg.
“He must have wandered off,” said Alice.
“But from where?” said Meg.
Alice shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s not as if there are any new families in the area,” said Mary.
“James said his parents had visited a relative at Docharnea.” Alice licked her lips.
“There have been eerie goings-on at that property,” said Mary, “the coachman vanished and reappeared sixteen years later.”
“And he hadn’t aged!” said Jessica, as she licked her lips.
“He vanished again – two years ago!” said Meg.
Catherine adjusted her cream hat. “Docharnea is haunted.”
“Or, it’s a gateway through time,” said Jessica.
“Haunted is more plausible,” said Alice, “time travel is for writers of fiction.”
“I enjoyed HG Wells’ book,” said Jessica. She licked her fingers.
“If a time machine exists,” said Alice, “we could travel into the future and discover when women will be allowed to vote.”
All five ladies laughed, then made their way to the Art Gallery and Museum. The red sandstone exterior in a Spanish Baroque style looked impressive. At the entrance, a woman wearing a long black dress and floppy grey hat handed out leaflets to female passers-by. Mary took one, and read it.
“What does it say?” asked Meg.
“It’s about a rally in George Square this afternoon at four o’clock.”
“A rally?” said Jessica.
Mary smiled. “For women to get the vote.”
As the five ladies wen
t into the building with distinctive black and white floor tiles, Alice looked upwards at a large hanging clock. “We only have one and a half hours until our sail.”
Catherine observed a concert pipe organ located below it. “I hope the clock is secure.”
Jessica looked upwards.
The second floor displayed a variety of distinguished works of art. As the ladies admired them, shouts could be heard from a lower section of the gallery. An attendant rushed towards a woman who held a pot in her hand, about to throw its liquid contents onto a painting. He grabbed the pot, and red paint spilled onto his dark blue uniform. A second attendant arrived, and restrained the woman who was yelling, “give women the vote, give it to us now!”
When led away by stern-faced attendants, the ladies looked at each other and then Catherine stated, “That wouldn’t have happened in the Botanic Gardens.”
“It is not worthwhile to damage a plant,” said Meg, “no drama!”
As onlookers dispersed, Mary glanced at Alice, and gave her a wry smile. “The movement is alive and well in Glasgow.”
“I agree, however, we are not about to ruin any work of art.”
Jessica looked at Mary and tutted. “It may have been a Rembrandt.”
The ladies resumed their tour, and later walked to Partick Cross to catch a tram. Whilst she passed the local subway station, Catherine stopped. “Let’s take the train.”
Jessica stared at the signage.
Inside, they observed a man in a dark blue suit and peaked cap sitting at the ticket desk.
“Has it been a busy Saturday?” said Meg.
“The employee looked up with a broad smile. “Not too bad, miss.”
Each lady purchased a ticket, then walked with caution down steep grey concrete steps to the platform.
“If he had to work on a Sunday, we wouldn’t have been cheery.”
“The only person I know who enjoys working on Sunday is our church minister,” said Mary.
“He will expect us tomorrow morning, 10.30, sharp!” said Meg.
An echo of laughter could be heard from the platform, where the five ladies joined several other passengers.