Clydesiders at War Read online

  ‘Wincey!’ He came towards her with outstretched arms. ‘You little devil. Why on earth did you disappear like that? Where have you been all this time and what have you been up to?’

  Nicholas cut in before she could say anything. ‘We’ve agreed to put the past behind us, Richard. We don’t want any third degrees. We’re just glad she’s back and it’s a happy future together now that matters.’

  Wincey returned Richard’s hug. ‘I’ve been living in Springburn and running a small factory. I was in partnership with one of the Gourlay sisters that I lived with—Charlotte, her name was. Then when she was killed in an accident, I took over the factory. We probably made that shirt you’re wearing.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Richard said.

  All the time Wincey had been trying to suppress feelings of panic at seeing her grandmother Cartwright again. Not that she was afraid of her. But somehow the old woman catapulted her back into her grandfather’s presence. She felt afraid of him again, and guilty again, and dirty.

  Mrs Cartwright sat on a silk covered chair, shoulders back, spine stiff and straight. ‘I fail to see,’ she said coldly, ‘what is good about disappearing without one word of warning or explanation. Apart from anything else, you cost the tax payer a great deal of money. The police search was very extensive, I remember. There were even divers.’

  ‘Yes, we know all that, Mother, but as I said, it’s in the past. Wincey has explained everything to her mother and myself and we understand, and totally accept the reason for her action. We just think it’s best if we don’t say any more about it. What happened, happened. There’s nothing anybody can do now except look to the future and build a new life together.’

  He poured champagne into glasses and passed them around. ‘Let’s drink to that.’

  They all raised their glasses high, except Mrs Cartwright, who only raised hers as far as her thin lips. The champagne helped Wincey to suppress her panic, or at least to hide it. She concentrated on talking to Richard and listening to his stories about his ‘Spit’, as he called his Spitfire, and how he loved flying.

  ‘It’s the feeling of power and exaltation it gives you,’ he said, his eyes glowing. ‘It’s being up there above the world, alone, and entirely responsible for one’s own return to earth. Marvellously exciting. We haven’t seen much real action yet, but it’ll come and we’ll be ready.’

  Wincey spoke about Charlotte and what a marvellous person she’d been and how she’d been killed in a road accident. She’d dashed across a road in an effort to save someone she saw being attacked and hadn’t seen the car speeding towards her. What Wincey didn’t say was that the person being attacked was Charlotte’s husband, big Malcy McArthur. He was a reckless gambler who owed a huge amount of cash to a local money lender. It had been the money lender’s hard men who had been attacking Malcy. Charlotte’s tragic death seemed at least to have cured Malcy of his gambling, or so he said. Shortly after the funeral he had joined the Army. The last she’d heard he was somewhere in France.

  She still missed Charlotte. Charlotte had always been closer to her and felt more like a sister than Florence or the twins ever had. Charlotte had been kind and loving, but clever too, with a really good business head on her shoulders. Right from the beginning, she’d recognised Wincey’s business capabilities, despite her youth. She’d coached her and encouraged her. The only thing that ever come between them or caused any friction was Charlotte’s love for Malcy.

  Everybody except Charlotte, it seemed, knew exactly what Malcy was like. He had been well on his way to ruining the business, in Wincey’s opinion. Not content with wheedling money out of Charlotte, he’d even resorted to stealing the petty cash from the office. Charlotte’s death, however, had shaken him badly. Even Wincey had to come to the conclusion that his tears of grief were genuine.

  Richard announced that he would be spending the night at his grandmother’s house. ‘I’m walking Grandmother home so I might as well stay. I’ll see you again tomorrow, Wincey, and we can talk some more. We could have a walk through the Botanic Gardens and then go for a coffee down Byres Road.’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Wincey agreed.

  ‘Well, you see that she’s back in time for lunch,’ Virginia said. ‘You mustn’t keep her all to yourself all weekend, Richard.’

  Wincey kissed her brother goodnight, then she forced herself to kiss Grandmother Cartwright, but only when she was free of the old woman’s presence could she completely relax. Indeed it surprised her how peaceful she felt as she stood at the tall windows of the sitting room and looked out towards the quiet terrace and the elegant Great Western Road beyond, faintly lit by the moon. She watched her brother and grandmother leave arm in arm from the front door. Their torches casting faint grey fingers of light.

  ‘Would you like another glass of champagne?’ Nicholas asked behind her.

  ‘Or a milky drink?’ Virginia suggested.

  ‘Champagne’ll be lovely, thanks,’ Wincey said, despite knowing she’d already drunk too much.

  ‘You’d better come away from the window, dear, and shut the curtains,’ Virginia said, ‘or we’ll be having an ARP man shouting, “Put that light out!”.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I was forgetting.’ Wincey tidied the heavy curtains shut. ‘I bet the ARP men would turn the moon off if they could, but I’m always glad of it. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but even so, I never drive now. Except during daylight hours.’ Virginia passed Wincey a glass of champagne. ‘Nicholas manages somehow though.’

  Nicholas shrugged. ‘Not that either of us venture out much at night. There’s nowhere to go, now that they’ve closed all the cinemas and theatres.’

  ‘That won’t last, surely. People are already getting far too bored and depressed.’

  The three of them settled round the fire and Nicholas added another piece of coal and used the poker to bring the flames warming out.

  ‘I’ve put a hot water bottle in your bed,’ Virginia said. ‘It’s such a cold night. Perhaps we should have lit a fire in the bedroom, Nicholas.’

  ‘I could do it now. I could take a shovelful from here …’

  ‘No, no,’ Wincey protested. ‘Please, I’ll be fine. I’ve never had a fire at home—I mean, in Springburn. You mustn’t spoil me.’ Although in fact it felt very nice to be spoiled.

  ‘Why not?’ Nicholas said. ‘We ought to have paid so much more attention to you when you lived here before.’

  ‘The past has gone. Remember what we agreed—the future is all that matters now.’

  ‘I must remember that myself,’ Wincey thought. ‘The past has gone,’ she told herself. ‘I’m all right now. Everything’s all right.’

  Nicholas nodded, then said, ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your Dr Houston. When can we see him? How about bringing him for dinner next Friday?’

  ‘He usually has a surgery on a Friday evening but he’s got a partner now. I’m sure he’ll be able to arrange something.’

  ‘Good.’

  Virginia said, ‘I would suggest this Sunday but we just want to keep you to ourselves this weekend. We can still hardly believe it, you see. That you’re actually here, beside us. It’s so wonderful.’

  The champagne was swimming around in Wincey’s head, making her feel warm and relaxed. Later she lay in her old bedroom, with its blue and silver wallpaper and its looped blue curtains and silver blinds. How beautiful it was. She could hardly believe that nothing had changed. Even her old teddy was still there. She took it into bed with her and cuddled it close, just as she used to. She became aware of her mother tip-toeing in and heard her whispered ‘Goodnight, darling’.

  She heard her father’s whisper too. She knew now that they loved her. Now she realised they always had, and felt hugely grateful and relieved. Snuggling down under the crisp sheets, warm blankets and satin quilt, she drifted happily into peaceful sleep.

  1940

  7

  At the end of January 1940, Malcy McArthur was stationed in France
in a village called Bondue. On pay day, which was usually on a Friday, he and some of his mates would take a bus into Lille where they had a few drinks and a meal. In a street there they called ABC Street, every house was a brothel and at each one, there were long queues of soldiers waiting their turn. Malcy stood in one of the queues. Sex had become almost as strong an addiction as gambling had once been. He’d conquered the latter urge, even though he now had money in the bank. He resisted the temptation because his weakness had led to Charlotte’s death and he’d never forgiven himself for that.

  The best he could do now was to avoid any form of gambling. It could be said though that the sex with prostitutes was taking a chance. He was well aware of the risk of venereal disease, but like everyone else he took precautions and hoped that he would be all right. He missed Charlotte for sex as well as for everything else. Not that they had had a very active sex life. For most of the time she was too exhausted with working so hard in factory. But she did love him. She was always telling him she loved everything about him.

  ‘I especially love your laughing eyes and your dimpled chin,’ she said. Sex wasn’t the only way to be close to someone and to show them that you cared about them. Tired or not, he bet her fiery haired partner wouldn’t say no to sex. Even before he’d started going out with Charlotte, he’d had his eye on Wincey. She’d been a bit young then, nevertheless he’d seen that quiet, smouldering quality about her that spelled sex to him. Unfortunately she’d also been greedy and suspicious. Making money and the factory had been everything to her.

  Charlotte would have given it all up for him if he’d let her. But not Wincey. She’d hang on in there come what may. He was sure of it. The factory and making money was her life. He’d one thing to thank Wincey for though—or two, to be exact. She’d paid off his last debt to the money lender. It was what Charlotte would have wanted, she’d told him.

  Then she’d said, ‘Rest assured, for all your faults, Malcy, and no matter what you did, Charlotte always loved you.’

  He would be forever grateful to Wincey for that. He had been feeling so grief stricken after Charlotte’s death, and so guilty. Wincey’s words had comforted and reassured him, although at the same time they had made him weep. One thing he could say in his favour—he had never been unfaithful to his wife. Despite often feeling sexually frustrated, he never turned to anyone else for sex.

  It was different now. He had no one to consider but himself. No one to be faithful to.

  As he was shuffling forward in the brothel queue, his mind strayed back to Wincey. He wondered if she’d made any time yet for a man in her life. He doubted it. Unless just for sex. She wouldn’t want any serious distraction from her journey to the top. She’d get another, bigger factory, or she’d extend the one she had. She’d buy up half Springburn if necessary, if she decided on the latter course. You had to admire her in a way. She was a right little devil. Looked it too, with her red hair and eyes like grey-green glass. He’d had a few spats with her, and even though he had never done her a moment’s harm she obviously hated his guts. He’d come to the conclusion eventually that money was behind it—her fear of losing it. She had found out about Charlotte keeping him going with cash handouts.

  Now, without poor, generous hearted, loving Charlotte and without him, Wincey would be coining it. The factory was already going full blast making clothes for the forces before he’d left to join the army. Probably the shirt on his back at this very moment had been made at Wincey’s factory.

  His part of the queue moved into the first brothel. Down the stairs came a young girl wearing only a pair of knickers. She looked no more than sixteen and her face was completely blank. It made him feel sad. A huge wave of depression engulfed him. What was he doing here in this god-forsaken country? He could see no point in the whole business. He had been perfectly willing to fight the Germans in order to defend Britain but since joining up, the worst thing they’d had to fight was boredom. The ‘Bore War’, they called it. Sex with prostitutes depressed him even further, yet the next week he was back, hopefully trying a more expensive, supposedly higher class brothel.

  He spent some time in a room lined all round with red plush seats. On one side of the room, on some of the seats, sat five girls in underwear. They were quite attractive and he tried to believe that they wanted him and enjoyed having intimacy with him. But all the time he knew he was conning himself.

  He had acquired what could only be described as an ache to be back in Glasgow. He’d been born and brought up in the city but he’d never bothered or thought much about it while he lived there. Now he thought about little else. He remembered with real longing the ornate Victorian buildings. It was always said that to appreciate Glasgow, you had to go about looking up all the time and that was certainly true if it was architecture you were interested in. And what other city had so many parks? The dear green place was supposed to be what the word Glasgow meant. And it certainly could boast many green places. Even the East End had its Glasgow Green and the People’s Palace. Many a time he and Charlotte had enjoyed walking arm in arm on the Green and then exploring the history of the city in the People’s Palace.

  Glasgow was a hilly place. Streets reared up everywhere until, within half an hour’s journey from the centre of the city, you were among the green hills of the Campsies. Or you were away in the glorious scenery of Loch Lomond.

  But it was the heart of the city that he loved and longed for most. The tenements, warm and welcoming—especially at night—with the street lamps and the close lights beckoning. And busy family life lighting up every window.

  He had never had a family. Often he made one up. Sometimes he almost believed his stories to be true. The truth was he’d been an orphan and the only home he’d known was a children’s home. He seldom allowed himself to think about his life there. He had certainly never experienced any love as a child. Plenty of punishments, though. He had been branded a liar because of the stories he used to tell about imaginary parents. He had a card hung round his neck with LIAR written on it in big capital letters. On other occasions he’d been forced into cold baths.

  He’d wanted so much to prove himself worthy of Charlotte. He told himself that’s why he gambled. He had this dream of winning a fortune and spending it all on her. Impressing her with expensive presents. Showing her what a big man he was.

  Sometimes his horse, or dog, or whatever he’d bet on, did win. Then he would give Charlotte a great time. He’d take her to the best restaurant in Glasgow and order champagne. They had lots of laughs, despite her protests. He’d enjoyed being good to her, although he could see now he had been showing off as well, acting the big man, showing her—and Wincey—that he could be just as clever as them, or even more so, at making money.

  Then of course he began losing and in trying to rectify the situation, he’d made it worse by getting into the money lender’s crooked hands. He kept believing that he’d win again. Next time he’d win and he’d be able to pay everything back. But the interest the money lender heaped on made paying back impossible.

  What a bloody fool he’d been! He realised that now. He’d no Charlotte to go back to but still he longed for their native city. The bustle and noise of the Barras and Paddy’s Market, the discussions and arguments in pubs about everything from football to politics and the state of the world. He thought about Springburn with its proud history of engineering. He remembered seeing steam locomotives being towed through the streets en route to the River Clyde. There they were hauled aboard a ship destined for India or some other far off land.

  He remembered the concerts in Springburn public park. All the works had their own band and took turns playing in the bandstand in the park. The best known and loved, by all the children at least, was the Salvation Army Silver Band. They marched from Flemington Street to the Citadel in Wellfield Street every Sunday with a whole ragged army of children dancing after them. He remembered the noisy shuffling of hobnail boots of the workmen on their way to clock on at the various w
orkshops. Then the housewives trailing zinc baths, or pushing prams laden with clothes to catch their turn at the steamie.

  After five o’clock, the place would be black with workers dashing home for their tea. Later, young folk would be turning out for entertainment at the pictures, or the theatres, or the dancing.

  Oh, how he longed for it all. Even just to hear a Glasgow voice on the street. He hated the yattering sound of the French. He couldn’t understand a word of it and felt completely alienated. Again and again he asked himself, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’

  He remembered the Gourlays. Good old Erchie. And Granny—what a character! And Teresa who reminded him so much of gentle Charlotte. Snobby Florence and the fat twins, who thought they were a cut above everybody else. The last he’d heard, they’d all got their own houses. Florence was as proud as punch of her place in Clydebank in the area known as the Holy City because, from a distance, the flat roofed houses looked so much like Jerusalem. The twins were living just a few closes apart from each other in Dumbarton Road and were equally carried away with themselves—even though they had only one room and kitchens. He could imagine Florence believing she had really made it to the big time with her two room and kitchen and bathroom flat.

  He had once been as proud as punch himself of the house he shared with Charlotte in Broomfield Road, facing the park. Now that had been a house to be proud of. But it was gone now and meant nothing. Nothing was of any value, or had any meaning, without Charlotte. Still, he would dearly love to be back in Glasgow and in Springburn and walk again where they had once walked together.