‘It’ll be an economic war with them,’ James said. ‘You should have heard John explain how he believes it will happen. I wish you’d been there, Virginia. It always comes down to money, you know—the ruthless pursuit of profit regardless of human suffering.’

  Virginia had also been looking for a place of their own, and went with James to see a ‘single end’, a one apartment house in the Calton district. The district was on the opposite side of the river from the Gorbals. It was bounded by the Salt-market on the west and the River Clyde between Albert and Rutherglen bridges in the south. Main Street, Bridgeton was part of the eastern boundary, and Gallowgate the northern. Of the five streets which converged on Glasgow Cross, three were associated with the Calton ward—Gallowgate, Salt-market and London Road.

  On their way to view the single end in Bankier Street, James and Virginia walked through Glasgow Green.

  ‘There used to be fairs here in the last century,’ James said. Opposite the court house. But there was so much trouble it was decreed that boothkeepers must keep beside them a halbert, jack and steel bonnet. They must have been turbulent times.’

  Virginia couldn’t resist remarking with a touch of sarcasm, ‘Not like now.’

  James didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm and continued with his lecture. ‘Calton used to be famous for its weaving industry. All the weavers lived here in Bankier Street.’

  ‘I’ve heard of the Calton weavers, right enough, but I didn’t realise they came from Bankier Street.’

  ‘Yes, it was called Thomson’s Lane then. They were paid such a wretched pittance that they went on strike for a decent wage. The employers refused to give them a penny. They demonstrated and the military were called out, the Riot Act was read and then the guns were turned on the weavers. There’s a tombstone in the local graveyard. It says on it, “They were martyred by the military”.’

  They had reached the close of one of the gloomy four storey tenements. Mathieson looked around.

  ‘What a dump!’

  Before coming to live in the Gorbals, James had lived in his mother’s more respectable room and kitchen in Shawlands. His digs had also been in a comparatively comfortable and respectable area.

  ‘There’s nothing else. At least at a rent we can afford,’ Virginia told him. ‘There’s no use in turning up your nose at it.’

  ‘I wasn’t turning up my nose at it. Not in the way you mean. I was just thinking what a disgrace it is that landlords expect human beings to live in overcrowded conditions in places like this.’

  ‘Right enough. But it won’t do any harm to have a look anyway.’ Virginia linked arms with him. ‘It’s upstairs. One up.’

  They passed the lavatory on the first landing. The usual smell followed them as James put the key in the door and pushed it open. A dingy shoe box of a lobby led directly into the kitchen which was also to act as living room, dining room and bedroom. There was the usual hole-in-the-wall bed with space underneath to store belongings, including the zinc bath. A black range and a press took up most of the wall. Opposite was the built-in bunker and dresser, high above which were two long shelves. Lastly, over at the window, was the black sink and swan tap.

  They surveyed it all in silence. Then Virginia said, ‘At least it faces the front.’ From the window the only view was of the equally gloomy tenements across the narrow road.

  Then Virginia rallied. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll soon have it cleaned up and cosy looking. There’s our wedding presents, and I’ll get a few things cheap from my friends at the Clyde Street barrows.’

  James said, ‘I know an unemployed cabinet-maker. He’ll make me a table and chairs.’

  ‘Great. That’s all we need really. Mammy’s knitted a blanket with all the odd bits of wool she’s collected.’

  ‘Like Joseph’s coat of many colours.’ James smiled.

  ‘She knitted squares and then sewed them all together. She crocheted the squares for the blanket on her own bed. It’s nicer than any ordinary blanket you could buy in the shops.’

  ‘I’m sure. It’s very kind of your mother to go to all that trouble.’

  ‘And there’s the teapot from Mrs McKechnie, and a big iron soup pot from Mrs Friel, and a kettle from Mrs MacDougal—’

  ‘All right, all right. You don’t have to go through the lot, I suppose we’ve no choice but to take it.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go to the factor’s office,’ Virginia said, ‘We can get the rent book. Then I can start getting this place cleaned up.’

  They couldn’t afford linoleum to begin with, so after Virginia scrubbed the floorboards, she polished them. She scrubbed the space under the bed very thoroughly before packing it with as many of their belongings as possible, including James’ books and her own. The shelves above the coal bunker and dresser had to hold dishes and a couple of ‘wally’ or china dogs they’d been given by one of Virginia’s barrow friends. Another friend who sold odd dishes and pieces of cutlery from her barrow had given her five big dinner plates and a tureen. Virginia had also bought a piece of red and cream checked oilcloth to cover the table. She was pleased with that as it made the tiny room look more cheerful and homely. A glass cover for the gas mantle was decorated with red poppies and the bright, multi-coloured blanket brightened the bed recess area. Although she hadn’t been able to afford bed curtains or a valance to hide all the articles stuffed under the bed, she looked forward to getting some nice cream-coloured material eventually and making her own curtains. Once that was done, the place would look very nice, she told herself proudly. With the range sparkling and the fire glowing and everything spotlessly clean, it would be a cosy little place with all anyone could need for their comfort. James, however, simply reminded her of the lack of hot water and the lavatory out on the downstairs landing.

  ‘But all the same,’ he conceded, ‘you’ve done a grand job.’

  She was sweating and exhausted with all her hard work and would have loved a luxurious hot bath. But by this time she hadn’t enough energy left to pull out the zinc bath and start filling kettles of water. She just fell into bed. Mathieson immediately got on top of her.

  ‘No, James. Not tonight.’

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day. It’s all that’s kept me going. Coming home to you.’

  She was barely able to whisper, ‘All right.’

  She felt sore now as a result of his desperate passion. And he was a heavy man. At times unable to lift her chest to breathe, she thought she was going to die. Then it was over, his passion spent, and he rolled off her and within minutes he was sound asleep. She felt exhausted but lay wide awake and feeling sad. She told herself that she was lucky to have a good man who would work for her and give her housekeeping money and never abuse her. Yet the sadness remained. She reminded herself how many women she knew were beaten by their men. Others never received a penny from theirs. Most of the men were unemployed but often they gambled or drank what little money there was. James neither drank nor smoked. He was totally devoted to the betterment of his fellow beings. She admired and respected him for that. But still the sadness weighed heavy on her soul.

  Next day she was up early seeing to her husband’s breakfast. Then after he left for one of his classes, she washed the dishes and tidied up and went out for something for his dinner. Bankier Street had shops underneath all of its bleak tenements and she first went to the grocer’s and bought bread and potatoes. She could make a lot of economical dishes with potatoes. She was just passing the paper shop clutching her messages in one hand and her purse in the other when her eyes caught sight of something in bold, black type on one of the billboards outside the shop.

  It was the name ‘Cartwright.’

  She stopped and read, hardly daring to believe her own eyes—’Nicholas Cartwright found alive.’

  Her legs gave way. She dropped on to her knees. Her purse and her message bag tumbled on to the ground. She crumpled forward. The last thing she remembered was seeing potatoes rolling away down the street.

  18

  When she came to, she was being propped up on a chair inside the paper shop.

  ‘Are ye aw right, hen?’ A small woman with bandy legs and a frizz of uncombed hair was bending close to her face. She reeked of whisky. ‘Ye gi’ed us a hell o’ a fright. Here’s yer purse and yer message bag. Ah gathered up aw yer tatties.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ Virginia took a determined grip of the purse and the bag. ‘I’m fine now. I’ll just buy a paper and then I’ll get off home.’

  ‘Wid ye like me tae come wi’ ye, hen?’ The woman looked none too steady on her feet.

  ‘No, no,’ Virginia hastily assured her. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right. But thanks all the same.’

  ‘Ta, ta, then.’

  ‘Cheerio and thanks again.’

  As soon as the woman had disappeared outside and the shop assistant had finished serving a customer, Virginia struggled up and with shaking hands took a copper from her purse and asked for a newspaper. As soon as she got back to the single end, she collapsed into a chair and started reading the article about the Cartwrights. Mr and Mrs Cartwright had been contacted by the War Office and told that their son, Lieutenant Nicholas Cartwright, had been found in a military hospital in the South of England. He had been suffering from shell-shock and loss of memory as a result of a head wound. The confusion over Lieutenant Cartwright’s fate had arisen because his watch and other personal effects had been found near another, otherwise unrecognisable corpse in the same area of the front-line where he had been posted as ‘missing in action’. Naturally enough, this corpse had been presumed to be that of Cartwright and his family had been duly informed of their son’s tragic death. Lieutenant Cartwright was not yet fit enough to travel but in a few weeks time, his parents would be allowed to take him home for a further period of convalescence. Needless to say, the article concluded, Mr and Mrs Cartwright were overjoyed at the wonderful news.

  Virginia felt absolutely shattered. For a few minutes she became hysterical, laughing and weeping at the same time. After she managed to control the mad sounds she was making, she still went on trembling. She hadn’t the strength to get up from her chair. She didn’t know what to think, or what to do. A loud knocking forced her to try and control herself, and like a drunk woman she staggered towards the door.

  ‘Hello therr, hen.’ Standing on the doorstep was a long leek of a woman in a fusty black dress. She had a red nose on a face like a sad bloodhound. Her grey hair was pinned severely back. ‘Ah’m Mrs Finniston, wan o’ yer neighbours.’ With a sniff, she jerked her head to indicate across the landing. ‘Ah wis speakin’ tae Mrs McGann and she telt me ye wisnae well.’

  ‘Come in.’ Virginia stood back to allow Mrs Finniston to sail into the kitchen. ‘How did she know where . . .’

  ‘Och, she saw ye goin’ up the close and knew ye must be the wan that’s jist moved in tae this hoose. Ah meant tae come and see ye anyroads. Here’s a wee mindin’ for ye.’ She handed Virginia a glass butter dish with ‘Welcome to Scarborough’ emblazoned on it.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Virginia said. ‘I haven’t got a butter dish.’

  ‘There ye go then.’

  ‘A cup of tea?’

  ‘Aye, ah might as weel.’ Mrs Finniston sniffed again. She obviously had a problem with her nose. She sniffed quite a lot. ‘Ye’ve done a lot o’ work on this place. Ye’ll no’ get any thanks fur it.’

  ‘From the landlord, you mean?’

  ‘The rents keep goin’ up. Ma Jeannie’s gettin’ merrit on Saturday an’ the other day she an’ Danny got a single end across the road. The very same as oors but that crook o’ a landlord’s askin’ mair rent fur it. The exact same as oors.’

  ‘Fancy!’ Virginia tried to sound sympathetic but her mind and her emotions were still bound up with what she’d just read in the newspaper. The kettle had been simmering on the hob and she made a pot of tea while Mrs Finniston went into some detail about her daughter’s forthcoming wedding. It was to be in the registry office, and then a sit-down tea of steak pie, peas and potatoes, followed by Scotch trifle, was to be served in The Coffin.

  ‘The Coffin,’ Virginia echoed in horror.

  ‘It’s shaped like wan. The hall.’

  Afterwards there was to be dancing to Jocky Scott’s band which consisted of a piano accordion and a set of drums. The whole thing, according to Mrs Finniston, was costing her ‘a fortune’.

  ‘You an’ yer man huv tae come alang.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think . . . I mean, I don’t know your daughter. I don’t know anybody yet.’

  ‘A good chance tae get tae know everybody at wance. Aye, you an’ yer man come alang tae The Coffin. Ah might as well be killed fur a sheep as a lamb. It’s the Co-op caterin’.’

  ‘Oh, very nice.’

  ‘That’s settled, then.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘If ye huvnae any biscuits, ah’ll bring some in frae next door.’

  ‘Oh, no. I mean, yes.’

  Virginia hurried over to the press and brought out a packet of tea biscuits.

  ‘Nae biscuit barrel, hen?’ Mrs Finniston helped herself to a biscuit. ‘Ma Jeannie’s got three fur presents. Ah’ll ask her tae gie ye wan.’

  ‘Oh no, please. My mother’s got one for me,’ Virginia lied.

  ‘She goat two fireside sets.’ She glanced at the range. ‘Ah see ye’ve got a set. It’s no’ as nice as the wans Jeannie’s got though. So whit’s up wi’ ye? Are ye gonnae huv a wean? There’s twenty up this close.’

  ‘Oh no. No. I just felt a bit faint. I had forgotten to eat anything. I’ve been so busy with the house.’

  ‘Ye’ll no’ get any thanks fur it. Mrs Taylor in the close killed hersel’ trying to keep the place clean. Fightin’ wi’ the rats when wan o’ them killed her.’

  ‘A rat killed her?’ Virginia was momentarily distracted from her thoughts of the Cartwrights.

  ‘The bite went septic. She died in agony.’

  ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘Dinnae think ye’ll be safe wan up. They can climb like naebuddy’s business. Up the stairs, up the walls. In the doors, in the windies—’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Virginia interrupted in desperation. ‘It’s time I was getting on with my husband’s dinner.’

  Mrs Finniston heaved a deep sigh. ‘Aye, right.’ She rose. ‘Ah ken when Ah’m no’ wanted.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean . . . You’re very welcome. But I’ve not been married very long and I worry about cooking. I’m not used to it yet. It takes me ages.’ She followed Mrs Finniston’s tall straight figure to the door. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ Mrs Finniston sniffed. On ye go, then. Ah’ll see ye an’ yer man at The Coffin the back o’ six.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Virginia managed a grateful smile. ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Finniston. I’ll look forward to it.’

  She shut the door and leaned against it for a minute before returning to the kitchen. There, she picked up the paper again. She couldn’t believe it. Her mind couldn’t take it in. She forced herself to begin peeling potatoes at the sink. Down in the back yard a man in the usual shabby uniform of the unemployed was singing a Catholic song. Most of the Calton area was populated by Catholics, a fact which livened up the annual Orange walk. They made a point of marching down every Catholic road and banging their drums as loudly and provocatively as possible, especially when they passed a chapel. James was very much against this. It was another thing they had in common. He was always going on about how the working class would never make any worthwhile progress if they fostered differences and fought among themselves. She put sausages into the frying pan and watched them sizzle. She added chopped onion, and the pungent smell quickly filled the small room.

  The paper was lying open on the chair and she kept glancing over at it as if she might have dreamed the whole incident. But it was always there.

  James didn’t notice it at first when he came in. He went straight over to the sink, washed his hands, then stood drying them on the towel hanging inside the press door.

  ‘You’ll have to remember to buy candles for when we go to the lavatory. Even during the day, once you shut the door, it’s pitch black in there.’

  ‘I’ll get some this afternoon.’ She dished his meal. ‘Sit in at the table and take this while it’s hot.’

  He sat at the table with his back to the chair and the paper. Virginia wondered if she could surreptitiously remove it, hide it under the pillow in the bed perhaps. Anything to do with the Cartwrights—even the mere mention of their name—could ignite one of James’ dreadful rages.

  ‘Aren’t you having anything?’ he asked as he cut up the sausages.

  ‘Yes, I’m just dishing it.’

  She put her plate on to the table but hesitated about sitting down.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Mathieson asked. How could she hide it from him? If he didn’t see it on the billboards, somebody was bound to tell him.

  ‘It’s just something in the paper.’

  ‘What was it? Have you got it there?’

  He turned and saw the paper. He stretched out and picked it up.

  ‘Good God,’ he shouted. ‘Could you beat that? So much for his patriotic sacrifice speeches to the workers. Thousands of ordinary men are dying in the trenches and this rich bastard, this bastard who’s always enjoyed a privileged life, he survives. Can you beat it?’ he repeated. ‘How lucky can you get?’

  Virginia didn’t say anything.

  ‘I hope he dies before the Cartwrights see him.’

  ‘James!’ Virginia cried out. ‘What a thing to say. You don’t even know him.’

  ‘He’s had more than his fair share of the good life. Why should I care about him?’

  ‘He’s a human being who must have suffered in the trenches. He’s been seriously injured.’

  ‘He’ll get the best of attention. Once he’s home he’ll be spoiled and cossetted and have everything that money can buy. While thousands of other men will face nothing but misery, unemployment and homelessness when they get home. I don’t understand why you keep sympathising with the Cartwrights.’

 

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