The Gourlay Girls Read online

  ‘Embroidery?’ The others laughed uproariously, and Wincey suddenly realised that, to them, embroidery was a luxury, a pastime for those who didn’t have to spend every waking moment trying to earn a living.

  ‘Just at school,’ Wincey hastily explained. ‘The sewing teacher was only showing us what it was.’

  She felt shaken. The realisation suddenly came to her that she could never go home. No-one must find out what she’d done. No-one must know who she was. She was isolated in this awful place for ever. But then, she’d always been isolated. And at least here, people seemed to care about her.

  3

  Nicholas was at a crucial stage in the creation of his new novel. He had never found novel-writing easy. People often said that poetry must be easier to write because it was so much shorter, but as far as he was concerned, all writing was hard work. Not that he was complaining. He loved his work and felt very fortunate that he was now able to make a living from his novels. There might be praise for poetry, but, he had long since discovered, little financial benefit.

  Some verses written in a few snatched moments of privacy while he’d been at school and then in the army had been all he could manage at first. For a long time, they had to be kept secret. He knew only too well how disapproving his mother and father would be if they found out. Only Virginia knew and understood. And she was encouraging—he could never thank her enough for that.

  He had thanked her many times, through his poetry. In his first novel, too, he’d managed to express his love for her. Now, it pained him to see her so unhappy. He was equally distressed at the disappearance of their daughter, but he was also secretly ashamed of the recurring feeling he had that his father’s sudden death and Wincey’s inexplicable disappearance were having an adverse effect on his novel. Even at normal times he resented anything that disturbed his writing.

  Virginia had long since learned not to enter his writing room while he was working, and the children had quickly realised that the good-natured, smiling father they knew outside the writing room was very different from the impatient, angry character inside that room, if they interrupted him.

  Very few things made him lose his temper, but having his work interrupted was certainly one of them. He had been suppressing these feelings since Wincey’s disappearance. At first, he had gone out to look for her. He had co-operated with the police search, his mind aching with trying to think of where she might have gone and what could have happened to her. He and Virginia had talked endlessly about every possibility. Friends kept dropping in or telephoning to ask for news or to offer any help they could. In the end, everyone feared that when she had found her grandfather dead, she had run from the house in a blind panic and fallen into the river.

  But the River Kelvin had been dragged and nothing was found. Even his mother, who had never shown all that much interest in or concern for Wincey before, was now looking pale and withdrawn. Naturally, she had been shocked and distressed at the death of her husband, although even then she had succeeded in hiding her emotions. That was her way. She became stiff and dignified, her face closed, her eyes hardened. But she had asked about Wincey.

  As the days and weeks dragged past without any news of Wincey, they all tried to carry on as normal. But even when Richard came home at weekends, the underlying tension and strain was always there. Nothing was quite the same. Nicholas went out drinking with his literary friends—which was something of temporary help—and at least they understood about his novel. People like Mathieson and their more politically active friends, good and sympathetic though they were, had not the same understanding. His life was in chaos. He felt everything was slipping away from him, never to return.

  Eventually, sitting listlessly with Virginia over a cup of coffee in the kitchen, he suddenly burst out,

  ‘We can’t go on like this, Virginia. We have to get our lives back to normal. I’m going to start writing again.’

  ‘Normal?’ She gazed at him with sad eyes and a bitter twist to her mouth. ‘What can be normal now?’

  ‘We can’t go on like this,’ he repeated.

  ‘How can you even think of writing at a time like this?’

  ‘I’m not doing any good sitting here like this, am I? Nor are you. We’ve done all we can. We’ll just have to leave it to the police now.’

  ‘They haven’t done any good either.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ve done their best and will continue to do their best, Virginia. It’s not helping the situation allowing ourselves to be overcome by depression. Look at you. You don’t look well. I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Worried about me,’ she scoffed. ‘Don’t give me that, Nicholas. I know you. All you’re worried about is your precious writing.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of not caring about my own daughter?’ he suddenly shouted at her, as he half rose, sending his chair crashing back. He knew he was overreacting because of guilt. He was angry at himself more than her. All the same, he did care about Wincey.

  Virginia had no right to imply that he didn’t. She was nursing her head in her hands now.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Nicholas. Run away to your damned writing room, for pity’s sake, and give me some peace.’

  ‘I’ve done everything I possibly could. No-one could have done more,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve walked the streets for days. I’ve—’

  ‘Yes, all right, all right. I wasn’t accusing you of anything.’

  ‘And after all, I’ve a living to earn, and Richard’s school fees and God knows what else to keep paying.’

  ‘I said all right, Nicholas. Just leave me alone.’

  He left the kitchen and once in his room, he still felt angry. Yet there was relief too. He did care about his daughter. He cared about her acutely, painfully, but here—in his sanctuary—he could escape the pain. He could enter another, different world. Here he could change things, create problems and then solve them. He could make people sad, and then happy. Danger could turn to safety. Here he was all powerful. Here he could do more.

  * * *

  Virginia’s emotions were in turmoil. She felt absolute anguish every time she thought of Wincey. It was everyone’s unspoken opinion that she must be dead. She had drowned and been washed away, either in the River Kelvin or the River Clyde. There could be no other reason why she had not been found alive and well. Her disappearance had been reported in the Glasgow Herald. There had been pictures of her. Her auburn hair, her face, with its dusting of freckles, were unusual in a way, but she had a sultry beauty despite the fact that she was obviously just a child in school uniform.

  A reward had been offered for any information. The size of that reward, the police assured Virginia, would encourage someone to come forward. But no-one had. A thousand times in her imagination Virginia had suffered the agonies of drowning with Wincey. It was unbearable to think of the child suffering alone. Yet, at the same time, she clung to the hope that somehow, somewhere, Wincey might still be alive. It was true what Nicholas had said—they had done everything they could.

  Yet the many unanswered questions about the dreadful day Wincey disappeared continued to haunt Virginia. Mrs Cartwright had been worried about the state of old Mr Cartwright’s health before she had left for her bridge afternoon. As a result she had returned much earlier than usual, only to find that her husband was dead and Wincey had vanished into thin air. The child had no money. She wasn’t wearing her coat or hat or gloves. They had all been lying in the Cartwright hall where she had left them when she arrived. It had been a wild afternoon with wind gusting furiously along Great Western Road. Rain had been streaking down, hardening into hailstones to drum against windows and doors. What could have made Wincey rush out unprotected on a day like that?

  Virginia wept. Then she dried her eyes, overcome with bitterness. It was all right for Nicholas. He could escape into his fictional world. That was where he really belonged—where he was truly happy. He could shut Wincey out. He could shut everybody and everything out. That’s what he always did
. It had never bothered her before, she had simply accepted it, but now she almost hated him for it. She wondered if he cared at all about Wincey.

  She tried to tell herself that she was being unfair. Of course he cared about his daughter. His love for the child had been expressed in his poetry. She remembered a poem he had written about Wincey:

  Minutes rush

  A tiny yawn holds parents

  Captive in a cocoon of wonder.

  What dreams visit her

  As perfect hands stretch

  To grab at the hope charged air.

  Minutes rush

  While lashes, long and dark,

  Lie pillowed by cheeks

  Of impossible softness.

  Milk sated lips pout

  With contented sighs.

  Minutes rush

  As varied and fleeting emotions

  Vie for attention.

  But mother and father dare not blink

  As they attend the next murmur,

  The next tiny movement,

  The next breath,

  And still, the minutes rush.

  She remembered him gazing in wonder at the baby, tenderly nursing Wincey in his arms. Of course he loved the child. Of course he’d done his best for her. But still the irritation, the resentment against him, lingered, refusing to be completely banished.

  Unable to sit alone with her thoughts for a minute longer, she rose and went for her coat and hat. She decided to go and see Mathieson. At least he would be able to take her mind off all her troubles, even just for a short while. He was not long back from London where he had been supporting the Hunger Marchers. The marches had been flash points for violent anti-government protests across Britain in the past two weeks. The last time she had seen him was when he came for lunch and he had given her and Nicholas a vivid description of the fifteen-thousand-strong rally in Trafalgar Square and the scene when two thousand marchers from the provinces joined thousands of supporters in Hyde Park. Nearly five thousand police fought with them for two hours. Fifty people were injured and fourteen arrested. During an East End visit, Prince George had been met with shouts of ‘Down with the means test, we want bread’. Mathieson had hardly changed since she first knew him as a zealous young socialist during the war. Despite the disabilities he’d suffered since his stroke, he was still able to give lectures on politics and economics at the Scottish Labour College. One side of his face still bore the unmistakable signs of his stroke, and he had to walk with the help of a stick, but despite all this it seemed as though nothing could slow him down or deflect him from his devotion to the ‘Cause’.

  Mathieson now lived in a one-bedroomed flat above the shops in Byers Road, within easy walking distance of Kirklee Terrace. Virginia was glad of her long coat with its high fur collar and her tight fitting cloche hat as she braved the bitter November wind outside. It had been a cold day like this when Wincey disappeared, and her thoughts returned once more to her lost daughter as she hurried along Great Western Road, then turned down into Byers Road.

  She felt as if she was going mad. It was the not knowing, not understanding what had happened. The growing possibility that she would never know. At the same time she couldn’t imagine herself ever giving up hope. One day, she would uncover the truth.

  4

  ‘How about this, Daddy?’ Charlotte said. ‘When I was delivering Mrs Tompkinson’s latest outfit, I saw a broken down sewing machine left out at the back of the house for the bin men to collect. How about if you collect it instead, bring it back here and see if you can mend it? If you could fix it up, I could teach Wincey and Florence to use it. They could work shifts on that machine. Then with Mammy and me on the one we’ve already got, we’d be able to take on more work.’

  Erchie’s face brightened. ‘Here, that’s a great idea, hen. It’ll give me somethin’ tae dae an’ ah’ll no’ be much o’ an engineer if ah cannae manage tae fix a wee sewin’ machine.’

  ‘It’d be a real help, Daddy. We’d be able to make more money.’

  ‘Right, hen. You give me the exact address an ah’ll be off. Ah’d better look nippy or the bin men might get there before me.’

  Charlotte scribbled the address on to a piece of paper and Erchie hurried to snatch his jacket from the peg in the lobby. Within seconds the outside door banged shut and he was away. He could be heard whistling as he clattered down the stairs.

  Teresa’s tired eyes glowed with enthusiasm and gratitude towards Charlotte. ‘You’re a clever girl, Charlotte. That’ll give your dad a job—just what he needed.’

  ‘Huh, some job,’ Granny grunted. ‘What good’s a job wi’ nae wages?’

  ‘Once the four of us really get going, we could earn enough to give Dad something,’ Charlotte said. Wincey, now settled in and feeling like one of the family—indeed more so than she’d ever done in her own family, spoke up with enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes, and maybe we could even find more machines and have more people work on them. That’s how big businesses are built up.’

  Granny scoffed. ‘What would the likes o’ you know about big businesses, or any kin’ o’ business, ye cheeky wee tramp!’

  ‘Now Granny,’ Teresa said, ‘there’s no need to talk like that. Wincey’s a good girl and she’s been a great help to us.’

  It had always been Bridget and Euphemia’s job to go on errands to the shops. They had become quite expert at tracking down bones for soup, or stale cookies or bread that a baker in town was going to throw in the bin at the end of the day. Local bakers were more likely to ask for a penny or two for their stale bread and scones. While her mother was taking her turn at the sewing machine, Florence helped with the cooking—at least Florence would peel the potatoes and scrape the vegetables for the soup. She boasted she once made scones, but mostly she was out wandering about, asking for trouble as Granny said. Wincey opted for the scrubbing and cleaning of the house. Teresa said she didn’t need to do that because the three girls, Florence, Euphemia and Bridget, usually took turns doing the cleaning. Instead, Charlotte said Wincey could accompany her on her rounds, collecting or delivering clothes for different customers. ‘That way,’ Charlotte said kindly, ‘you’d be able to get away from here for a wee while and see all the lovely houses the gentry live in.’

  But Wincey insisted she’d rather stay in and clean and scrub. It wasn’t just her fear of being seen and recognised in one of the more prosperous areas that made her want to stay indoors. She had discovered she preferred to do things on her own. Not only that, there was an obsessive streak about her at times. Concentrating completely, silently, going to extremes, scrubbing the floors, the sink, the outside of the coal bunker, the fire, polishing the black grate, washing the windows—it somehow made her feel safe in herself. It also gave her a deep sense of achievement. This total obsessiveness even overcame her revulsion at cleaning the outside toilet.

  ‘Never,’ Teresa told her, ‘since this building was built, has that toilet been kept so spotless.’

  It was a tiny cubicle situated downstairs on the half landing and shared by two other families, next door neighbours of the Gourlays on the top floor. It had a cracked wooden seat and a cistern mounted over six feet up the wall, and it was flushed by pulling a hanging chain. It had been a dark, putrid smelling place before Wincey attacked it. She had even scrubbed the walls and the cistern, climbing on to the toilet seat to reach it.

  ‘Ye must be mad,’ Florence said. ‘It’s no’ as if we’re the only wans makin’ a mess o’ it. It’s that McGregor bunch. There’s sixteen o’ them. Filthy wee middens o’ weans!’

  Teresa tutted. ‘Och, poor Mrs McGregor has her hands full trying to cope with so many, and her always pregnant with the next. I am sorry for her, right enough.’

  ‘I don’t mind keeping the toilet clean,’ Wincey assured everybody. ‘Honestly, I enjoy working away by myself.’

  Florence laughed. ‘Enjoy, did ye say? Enjoy cleaning filthy toilets. You definitely are mad!’

  ‘You can cu
t up Erchie’s old Daily Workers for toilet paper, if you like,’ Teresa suggested helpfully. The Daily Worker was Erchie’s only luxury in life, except the odd Woodbine cigarette, but that was only an occasional treat.

  ‘Oh, thanks Teresa,’ Wincey said. ‘I could put holes in each bit and thread string through them and hang them all onto a nail on the wall.’

  ‘Och, we aye take a bit o’ our Daddy’s old paper down wi’ us anyway,’ Florence reminded her.

  ‘I know, but this is more efficient. I mean it’s tidier, and it helps everyone.’

  Eventually Teresa said, ‘That toilet’s like a wee palace.’

  And everyone—including the McGregors and the other family on the landing, the Donaldsons—wholeheartedly agreed. Both families began boxing their children’s ears or slapping their legs if it was discovered they had made a mess in the toilet, or the lavvy as it was more commonly known. Teresa and family were more polite and proper than most of their neighbours. Granny was a trial, however. She couldn’t get down to the toilet since her arthritis was so bad and she’d gained so much weight.

  ‘Ma hips are murder,’ she kept informing everyone, ‘an’ it’s even gone intae ma gums. That’s why ah cannae wear ma teeth.’

  ‘Och well,’ Teresa said with a look of wide eyed innocence, ‘it hasn’t affected your jaws, Granny. You’re still able to talk, dear. Your jaws never stop moving.’

  ‘What dae ye mean by that?’ Granny demanded angrily.

  ‘Now, now, Granny, you know fine we’re all concerned about you and do our best for you.’

  They certainly did do their best for Granny, as Wincey soon discovered. When Granny needed ‘to go’, as she called it, it was a real challenge of strength and endurance for everyone who happened to be in the house. The challenge arose again now. Erchie was out collecting the sewing machine. Euphemia and Bridget were out looking for any vegetables that had been thrown out by the fruit shops in town. Their bins at the back of the shops could prove a treasure trove of food. Other grocery stores in the centre of the city could delight the sisters with tasty morsels, often in packets or tins, which had just been burst or bashed and didn’t have the perfect appearance that fussy people with too much money always insisted on.