Clydesiders at War Read online

  ‘Not on my own, Erchie. I couldn’t do it without you, and such a good team of managers, and a marvellous workforce.’

  ‘What line of business is it?’ Nicholas asked, not taking his eyes off Wincey’s face.

  Erchie said, ‘We started in the dressmakin’ but now we’ve a great contract for shirts for the forces.’

  ‘Whit?’ Granny suddenly roared. ‘Ah never knew that. Ye sly, traitorous devils.’

  Erchie laughed. ‘Granny wis a disciple o’ John Maclean an’ she’s against aw wars, includin’ this one.’ He turned to the outraged old woman. ‘It’s no’ as if we’re makin’ guns an’ bullets, Ma. Just shirts for the boys.’

  ‘It’s helpin’ the bloody war effort.’

  ‘Have a biscuit, do.’ Florence leapt up from the table which was, as a concession to the momentous significance of the day, covered with a pristine cream lace table cloth. She offered the plate of biscuits first to Virginia and then to Nicholas.

  Teresa passed around the teacups. ‘You’ll have to forgive Granny. She’s …’

  ‘Ah’m no’ wantin’ or needin’ anybody’s forgiveness. It’s them two faced, lying warmongering villains that need forgiveness—an’ that’s somethin’ they’ll no’ be getting’ frae me.’

  ‘We never lied to you, Granny,’ Wincey protested. ‘When did I ever lie to you?’

  ‘You let me think ye were still sewin’ clothes.’

  ‘Well, so we are.’

  ‘Ye’ve jumped on the bandwagon tae make yer fortune durin’ this war.’

  ‘No, no, we were making the shirts before the war.’

  ‘See her,’ Granny addressed Nicholas, ‘she’s a Cartwright, right enough. A bloody capitalist. But,’ she added with a grudging mutter, ‘no’ a bad wee lassie for aw that. Ah huv tae admit she’s been a good wee lassie tae me. But ah want none o’ yer stupid carry on,’ she suddenly bawled at Wincey, stopping her en route to deliver a kiss. ‘Ah’ve telt you before, ah cannae dae wi’ folk droolin’ ower me.’ She turned to Nicholas and Virginia. ‘Are you two dumb or whit? Dinnae think we’re gonnae let that lassie go away wi’ you until we know somethin’ about ye. So ye’d better tell us what the pair o’ you huv been up tae.’

  5

  It was agreed eventually that Wincey would continue to live with the Gourlays in Springburn during the week. At weekends she would stay with Nicholas and Virginia in the West End.

  ‘It’s so handy for the factory here, you see,’ Wincey explained. ‘I can walk to work and all my friends are here.’

  Erchie laughed. ‘She means her fella, Dr Houston. He’s got a local practice. Ye’ll like him. He’s been a good friend tae all o’ us, especially tae Granny. Isn’t that right, Ma?’

  ‘Aye, well, at least he’s a bit better than his auld man wis. Aw he ever did was stick a thermometer in yer mooth an’ ask if ye were constipated.’

  ‘He was the one who persuaded you to write to us, wasn’t he?’ Nicholas said to Wincey.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, God bless the man. I can’t wait to meet him and thank him.’

  ‘You’ll stay for a bite to eat?’ Teresa said. ‘It’s just stovies but there’s plenty. I always make a big potful.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Virginia sighed, ‘that brings back memories. My mother used to make stovies. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted them since she died.’

  ‘Where did your folks live, dear? Were they from the West End too?’

  ‘Oh no, I was brought up in Cumberland Street in the Gorbals.’

  Florence gasped. ‘Cumberland Street? The Gorbals? Then how did you …? I mean …’

  ‘I originally worked as a scullery maid for Nicholas’s mother.’

  ‘A scullery maid?’ Florence echoed, making Granny bawl, ‘Dae you think ye’re a bloody budgie? Stop repeatin’ everythin’ the woman says.’

  ‘Then Nicholas and I fell in love and eventually got married and moved to Kirklee Terrace.’

  Teresa sighed with pleasure. ‘That’s so romantic. Just like in a book.’

  ‘That’s what I do,’ Nicholas said, ‘write books.’

  ‘Aye, ah know, son,’ Erchie said. ‘Ah’ve read a few o’ them. Good stuff. Ah like yer style an’ the way ye work yer poems in.’

  ‘That’s how I began—by writing poetry. Virginia was the only one who encouraged me in my writing. I didn’t dare confess to my parents that I wanted to be writer.’

  ‘De ye no’ make a livin’ at it, son? Is that why yer wife has tae go out tae work?’

  Nicholas laughed. ‘Oh, I make a living at it all right.’

  ‘I joined the Red Cross because … well, because I was bored at home,’ Virginia said. ‘I suppose. I’m glad I did now because I believe nursing is a worthwhile job.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Granny nodded her agreement, ‘ah suppose ah cannae say anythin’ against the Red Cross. They help everybody an’ anybody. It disnae matter whit side ye’re on.’

  Florence and the twins had set the table with all the best rose-patterned china from the display cabinet in the front room. Teresa began dishing the stovies.

  ‘Come on now, pull in your chairs. Make yourselves at home. It’s a wee bit of a crush but never mind. I’ll sit over beside Granny and help her. Usually she feeds herself but her hands are swollen today so she needs a wee bit help, don’t you, Granny.’

  ‘Aw, get on wi’ it. They’re no’ wantin’ tae hear about ma problems.’

  As they were enjoying their steaming plates of stovies, Virginia said to Wincey, ‘Are you sure you can’t come home with us today, darling?’ It was Thursday, and Friday evening seemed a lifetime away.

  Wincey shook her head. ‘I’ve already taken today off work. I must go in tomorrow to make up for it and get a few things organised. I’ve also an important meeting tomorrow afternoon but I’ll come over on Friday straight from work and stay until I leave for work on Monday morning. I’ll do that every weekend, I promise.’

  Virginia tried to feel content with this arrangement but she hoped that soon, she’d be able to persuade Wincey to come back home to Kirklee Terrace for good, to live there all the time—weekdays and weekends. She felt sure that this is what would happen sooner or later. Hopefully it would be sooner.

  Eventually Teresa said, ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, Mrs Cartwright.’

  ‘Virginia.’

  ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, Virginia. But you look so tired, dear. I think you should go home and have a rest.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Wincey said. ‘You’ll be collapsing if you don’t. I’ll see you tomorrow night.’

  ‘You’ll come home in time to have dinner with us?’

  ‘Yes, I promise.’

  Reluctantly Virginia and Nicholas rose and took their leave of the cosy crowded kitchen, but not before they’d shaken hands with everyone again and thanked them again and warmly embraced Wincey.

  ‘Oh Wincey,’ Virginia said, ‘we’re so glad we found you.’

  Nicholas kissed Wincey and said, ‘Let’s make this day a new start in all of our lives. Let’s put the past behind us and make the most of our second chance. All right?’

  Wincey smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, all right.’

  In the car on the way home, Nicholas was almost bouncing with happiness and delight. Virginia could hardly keep her eyes open. She managed to say though, ‘We must get word to Richard. He’ll be so pleased.’

  ‘I’ll send a telegram the moment I get home. I’ll try to phone as well. In the circumstances, I’m sure his C.O. will give him compassionate leave, even if it’s only for this weekend.’

  ‘He’s already been off quite a few weekends visiting your mother. I shouldn’t think there’ll be much difficulty.’

  Richard and Mrs Cartwright were very close. The old woman adored her grandson and, Virginia suspected, she was far too generous with financial gifts to the boy. She’d even arranged for a regular allowance to be paid to his bank account. Nicholas had to
ld his mother, ‘You’re spoiling him, Mother. He gets paid by the RAF. He doesn’t need all that extra money.’ But Mrs Cartwright had always been a strong minded woman and would not be diverted from ‘helping the dear boy’.

  At that moment, her ‘dear boy’ was in a local pub not far from the airfield. He needed to talk. So did the others. There had been a scramble earlier in the day. He remembered first of all the feeling of relief. The suspense of waiting for something to happen had ended at last, and he was on his way, running, with his parachute bumping awkwardly against his legs. He felt keyed up, trigger happy, ready for anything, as he jumped on to the wing of his Spitfire and clambered in. The engine started up and the whole airframe seemed to come to life, roaring and shaking. Never before had he felt so fully alive. He was strapped in. The trolley accumulator was pulled away, he was given the thumbs up, the chocks were pulled away. Then it was tail up, ease back the stick, and he was off.

  The ground dropped away beneath him, until it was just a vague patchwork of greens and greys. Breaking through the clouds and emerging into the searing brilliance of the sunlight above, he suddenly found himself directly above a formation of Heinkel bombers. Without hesitation, Richard threw the Spitfire into a shallow dive, switched on his gunsight and opened fire on the leading bomber. A moment later the Heinkel burst into flame and spiralled out of sight. Now his own aircraft was rattling, shaking, and screaming as his dive took him back down through the clouds. Just as he levelled out, he checked his rear view mirror. His heart raced as he saw a German fighter—probably an Me 109, he thought—appear right on his tail. Throwing the Spit into a violent climbing turn, he prayed that the German pilot’s reactions weren’t as swift as his own. As he scanned the sky all around, he breathed a sigh of relief. The 109 was nowhere to be seen. He decided to get out while the going was good.

  ‘All our chaps OK?’ He asked the airframe mechanic as soon as he landed.

  ‘Yes, they’re all back.’

  It was a relief. He felt good as he sauntered away from his Spitfire, dangling his flying helmet in one hand. The next stop, as ever, was the local pub. Somebody said they’d downed a few ‘kites’. The squadron had been lucky today. Nobody had been killed—although the word ‘killed’ was never used. ‘Bought it’ was a much better phrase. The RAF had a slang language all of its own. It was known for its understatement, its throwaway lines. Pilots flew a ‘kite’, and put it away in a ‘shed’. They often slept in an ‘iron lung’ (a Nissen hut), bombing was referred to as ‘leaving visiting cards’ or ‘laying eggs’. When they talked about going on operations ‘over the ditch’, they hoped they would not ‘go for a burton’, ‘write themselves off or ‘have had it’.

  That night, he’d had something to eat and was relaxed and laughing at one of Knocker White’s jokes when a WAAF rushed in in great excitement. They all knew this girl. She was always getting into a flap about something. They couldn’t see her lasting long in the service. Most of the WAAFs were pretty cool and capable types.

  ‘A telegram.’ She was almost shouting at him. ‘And a phone call. She’s been found alive.’

  ‘Silly bitch,’ he thought.

  ‘Who’s been found alive?’

  ‘Here, read it.’ She pushed the buff coloured piece of paper at him.

  ‘Well, what do you know?’ he said eventually. ‘That’s a turn up for the book. What the hell has she been up to all these years?’

  The others were intrigued and wanted to know what it was all about.

  ‘My young sister, Wincey. She disappeared donkey’s years ago. We all thought she was dead. Now, apparently, she’s turned up out of the blue. I’d better have a word with the C.O.’

  And so he found himself next day on a train bound for Glasgow. First he called on his grandmother at her great hulking villa crammed with Victoriana. He loved his grandmother, but could not honestly say he even liked her house. He said that he wanted to accompany her over to Kirklee Terrace. He knew it would please the old girl.

  ‘Can’t have my favourite person wandering about on her own?’ he joked with her. She was so happy and proud, as he knew she would be, to hang on to his arm as they walked along Great Western Road. She had been invited to join the family for a special celebratory dinner to welcome Wincey back into the fold. He knew of course that Wincey had never counted for much with his grandmother and so he wasn’t surprised at the lack of enthusiasm the old woman had for the event.

  ‘Wicked, selfish girl,’ she said. ‘Disappearing for so long, and then just turning up as if nothing was amiss. Nicholas is delighted. She’s his daughter after all, and so I suppose it’s understandable. But nothing that girl could do would surprise me. She takes after her mother, you see.’

  Richard felt amused. It was as if he had had a different mother from Wincey. He knew he could do no wrong in his grandmother’s eyes. He had come to the conclusion that she saw him as a reincarnation of her son as a young man, and somehow she’d completely shut her mind to any blood connection he had to his mother. True, he had never felt he had much in common with his mother—or his father for that matter. They could be such bores, his father with his constant talk of books and writers and his mother with all her Commy friends. Her first husband, for instance, was the absolute dregs, and a pacifist to boot. He hoped to God Matheson hadn’t been invited to the dinner. He found himself saying the words out loud to his grandmother as they made their way along Kirklee Terrace.

  ‘Oh, I do hope not, Richard. What a dreadful man he is, and it’s just not decent that he should keep visiting Nicholas’s house. Apart from being a Communist, he is her ex-husband.’ She gave shocked emphasis to the words ‘ex-husband’.

  ‘I know,’ Richard agreed. ‘I can’t imagine what Mother’s thinking of, allowing him to hang around, I think he’s mad. He certainly looks mad.’

  ‘If he’s there, I’m just going to ignore him. You should do the same, Richard. Oh, I couldn’t have faced this ghastly dinner party on my own.’

  He patted her hand. ‘I hope I’ll always be here when you need me, Grandmother.’ He smiled down at her and she thought what a handsome boy he was and how good to her he’d always been. She was glad she had made a new will, cutting everyone out—even Nicholas. Everything, everything down to the last halfpenny and the last teaspoon, was to go to Richard. Her ‘dear boy’.

  6

  Wincey went home for lunch, and also to collect an overnight bag. She could have had a sandwich and coffee in the factory, as she often did. She could have taken an overnight bag with her when she left the house in the morning, but she had developed a sudden need to spend as much time as possible with Granny and Teresa and Erchie. Erchie worked in the factory, but he was usually so busy that they seldom saw each other during the day, and he never went home for lunch. Every day, regular as clockwork, he and a couple of the other men went to a local pub and had a pint or two. She at least could sit down with Granny and Teresa, enjoy a bowl of Teresa’s home made soup and just appreciate being with them.

  The reunion of the day before with her mother and father had been heart warming, and such a relief, that she was glad she had written the letter. The burden of worry and guilt had been lifted from her shoulders. At the same time, she felt a need to cling to the Gourlays. No way could she risk losing them.

  ‘I’ll feed Granny,’ she told Teresa.

  ‘You’ve your work to get back to, dear. I’ve plenty of time to see to Granny.’

  ‘I’ve plenty of time as well. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Will the pair o’ ye stop talkin’ about me as if ah’m no’ here,’ Granny said irritably. ‘Whit’s got intae you?’ she asked Wincey. ‘Away ye go out the road an’ no’ annoy us.’

  ‘Granny. Wincey’s just trying to be kind.’

  ‘I’m not looking forward to this dinner tonight. Mrs Cartwright’s going to be there. I wish I could keep out of her road. She never liked me.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be so relieved to know you’re all right,
dear, she’ll welcome you with open arms.’

  ‘I can’t imagine it. I will be glad to see my brother, though. I always secretly admired him. He was so handsome and clever and daring. I’m not surprised he’s a fighter pilot now. I can just imagine him being wonderfully brave in the face of danger.’

  ‘A fighter pilot?’ Granny said in disgust. ‘Whit next? Whit a family! Ah’m no’ surprised ye’re no’ lookin’ forward tae goin’ there the night.’

  ‘I’ll wash up the dishes,’ Wincey said in desperation, but Granny raised her voice,

  ‘Will you get away tae yer work. We’re no’ wantin’ ye here.’

  ‘Granny,’ Teresa gasped, shocked.

  ‘Ah just mean the now,’ Granny muttered. ‘We want ye tae come back on Monday. Ye ken fine whit ah mean.’

  Wincey nodded and reached for her camelhair coat, belted it, then pulled on her fawn beret. ‘Yes, I know. It’s all right, Granny. I’ll see you on Monday. I’m meeting Robert for lunch but I’ll be home at tea time. OK?’

  The evening meal was still known to the Gourlays as tea.

  ‘Aye, OK.’

  ‘I’m going to kiss you now whether you like it or not.’ She kissed the old woman’s hollow cheek. ‘You behave yourself while I’m away, do you hear me, Granny.’

  ‘There’s nothin’ wrong wi’ ma ears.’

  Wincey kissed Teresa before picking up her overnight bag and leaving the house. All afternoon she struggled to concentrate on business but at the back of her mind, the return to Kirklee Terrace hovered like a sword of Damocles. She tried to tell herself that she was being foolish. After all, meeting her mother and father had been a happy occasion. She should be looking forward to her visit to her old home, seeing her grandmother Cartwright again, and her brother Richard. She should be remembering with pleasure sitting in the elegant dining room, sleeping in her old bed. Yet all she felt about the visit was apprehension.

  The first person she saw after her mother embraced her and ushered her across the hall and into the sitting room was Richard. He looked taller and even more handsome than she remembered. He suited his moustache. He suited his RAF officer’s uniform too. Its tailored lines accentuated his broad shoulders and the way his body tapered to a slim waist and hips. The grey blue colour of the uniform matched his eyes.