Primrose Square (19 page)

And they did have some wonderful times together, she and Barry, on her evenings off, or her free Saturday afternoons. Sometimes going to the cinema to see the silent films where they watched Charlie Chaplin or Mary Pickford, and listened to the piano keeping up with the action, while they sat at the back, holding hands and looking forward to exchanging kisses on the way home.

Or, maybe going for walks in the beautiful weather, in the Meadows or by the Water of Leith, hiding themselves under trees if possible, where they might even lie together, though Elinor was cautious at first about that. Barry had laughed and drawn her down to him, saying it was an old Scottish custom for a couples to lie together still in their clothes, now hadn't she heard of it? No, she hadn't, she'd laughed, she was sure he was making it up, but she'd lain beside him all the same, and had given herself up to delight in being so close.

Sometimes, though, it was all much more tranquil, just having tea in a little cafe, Elinor handling the teapot, Barry watching, then walking slowly back to the Primrose, maybe looking over the railings at the gardens, before saying goodbye on their best behaviour, conscious that some eyes somewhere would be upon them.

How Elinor wished days like these would never end, but in late June Barry suggested something new. A visit to his home with Bettina and Georgie on her next free Saturday afternoon.

‘It's time we had a get together,' he told Elinor. ‘And you can hear me tinkle the ivories and all.'

‘Barry, that'd be perfect! I'd love to talk to Bettina and Georgie and hear you play the piano. It's very kind of Bettina to ask me.'

‘Oh, she didn't ask you,' he said carelessly. ‘It was my own idea. She'll be glad to see you, though. Georgie, too.'

‘You're sure?' Elinor asked doubtfully.

‘Sure I'm sure. It's all arranged. You be thinking of what tunes you'd like to hear and I'll play 'em for you.'

‘June twenty-seventh is the next Saturday I can take. Shall we make it then?'

‘That'll be fine. I'll tell Bettina.'

‘She mightn't be free.'

‘She will be,' Barry said airily. ‘I'll call for you same as usual.'

Thirty-Six

The Howats' flat was in a side street off the South Bridge, not part of a tenement but the ground floor of a small terraced house. From the look of the exterior, no maintenance had been done for some time, but the flat itself was beautifully clean and tidy, something that Barry commented on with a grin.

‘Aye, Bettina here keeps the inside as neat as a pin, but seeing as I'm a painter, the outside gets neglected. But then, why should I do the landlord's work for him?'

‘Why not, if it makes the place look better?' Bettina cried, after she'd shaken Elinor's hand and thanked her for the little posy she'd brought. ‘But getting Barry to do something for me is just impossible!'

‘It's the same at home,' Elinor said quickly. ‘Our shoes are always last to be mended, though my dad's a cobbler.'

‘That right? Well, please take a seat, while I get the tea. Georgie'll be back in a minute, he's just away to the dairy.'

Though she seemed pleasant enough, Elinor felt there was still a certain reserve in Bettina's manner. She had Barry's looks, but as with Georgie, Barry's natural charm was missing, perhaps in Bettina's case to be replaced by strength of character. In other words, she liked her own way, was Elinor's verdict, whose fascinated eyes were now moving round the flat, taking in the shining range and well-brushed matting, the framed country scenes and photographs on the walls, the sofa and chairs with protective covers, the table set for tea with currant loaf already cut and a large ginger cake.

So this was Barry's home? It seemed to be more Bettina's. There was no feel of Barry about it, somehow, except for the old, yellow-keyed piano in the corner, at which he was already seating himself and waving to her to come and sit close by.

‘Here goes!' he called. ‘The great concert begins. What d'you fancy, then?'

‘Oh, Barry, I don't know. I never hear much music.'

‘Ah, that's a shame. Our folks used to sing a lot, at the kirk and local concerts, and Bettina sings, too, and plays the piano.' Barry was already running his fingers up and down the keys. ‘Georgie and me, we're no singers, but I earn a few bob at the pubs with the piano, and Georgie plays the organ.' Barry laughed. ‘At the kirk, of course; we've no organ here. How about if I play you an old favourite – “Shine on Harvest Moon”?'

‘That sounds lovely,' Elinor cried, already enraptured. Not since she was at school had she really heard anyone play the piano; certainly no one played anything in Friar's Wynd.

While Bettina moved around in the background and Georgie arrived with a can of milk, Barry played his own selection of popular tunes – some Scottish, some from theatre shows, some from the ragtime music he said were his favourites.

‘Ah, listen to this!' he cried. ‘This is Scott Joplin's “Maple Leaf”! Hear that rhythm? And here's his “Solace” – you'll like this, Elinor – so romantic, so sad.'

‘Almost brings the tears to my eyes,' she told him, at which he switched to ‘Pine Apple Rag', quick and snappy, to make her smile, and seemed ready to play for ever, until Bettina cried, ‘Tea's ready!'

‘One last one,' he told them and finished with Harry Lauder's ‘Roamin' in the Gloamin'', a song even Elinor knew, and they all went humming to the table.

‘I thought you played really well, Barry,' Elinor told him earnestly. ‘You could play anything, I'm sure.'

‘Not from music,' Bettina said smartly. ‘The trouble with Barry is that he'll never bother to learn anything properly. I mean, Ma offered him piano lessons same as me and Georgie—'

‘Aye, a shilling a time with old Mrs Hossack,' Barry put in serenely. ‘I told her to save her money.'

‘So you just vamp out tunes you've heard and if anyone shows you a piece of music, you canna play it. I don't call that clever!'

Did Bettina really not like Barry? Elinor was wondering, observing her cold expression as she filled up cups and passed the currant bread. If so, she'd be the first person Elinor had met not to respond to his charm. He and Georgie seemed to get on well, though, so perhaps Bettina was just somehow resentful of Barry's sliding through life without doing any of the work she had to do. Must have been hard for her, having to take on her mother's role.

‘Can I help you clear away, Bettina?' Elinor asked quickly at the end of the meal when the two brothers moved to sit down and light cigarettes. Must show willing, she thought; must get on the right side of Barry's sister.

‘Thanks,' Bettina replied, stacking the tea things on a tray. ‘If you come this way, I've a wee scullery out here where I do the dishes and the washing.'

Handing Elinor a tea towel, Bettina gave her a quick glance.

‘At least you're one to help,' she murmured. ‘No' like some.'

‘You mean the laddies?' Elinor smiled. ‘They're never keen to do the washing-up.'

‘As a matter o' fact, I was thinking of the lassies.'

‘What lassies?' Elinor had paused in her drying of a plate, but Bettina was now working fast, setting dishes to drain.

‘The ones we've had here,' she replied. ‘Barry's lady friends. Never offered to do a thing.'

A cold little feeling trickled down Elinor's spine.

‘He's brought other girls here?'

‘One or two. Two, to be honest.' Bettina's colour suddenly rose and she put her hand on Elinor's arm. ‘Look, I shouldn't have said anything. I said to myself before you came, I'll say nothing, but then I suppose it's all right, eh? I mean, you'd expect somebody like Barry to have had a few lady friends?'

‘I suppose so.' Elinor began slowly to continue drying dishes. ‘They're in the past, anyway.'

‘Sure they are!' Bettina, smiling warmly on Elinor, seemed now to be trying to make amends for her earlier coldness. ‘And I think he's more interested in you than the others. You'd probably be good for him, too. Just don't butter him up too much, eh? He thinks enough of himself as it is.'

On the way back to the club, Elinor was subdued, undecided whether or not to mention what Bettina had told her. It had been a blow to hear that Barry had taken other girls home, but then it was true what his sister had said. No one would expect him not to have had other girls before herself. Still, to take them home, as though they were special, as she'd thought herself special, that was what hurt.

‘Hey, what's up?' Barry asked as they left the tram and approached the lane where they usually paused to exchange kisses. ‘You've been as silent as the grave all the way back. What have I done, then?'

‘Nothing.' Elinor's fine eyes rested on him with a considering look. ‘It's just that I didn't know you'd taken other girls home.'

‘Oh, hell, Bettina's been blabbing, eh?' Barry heaved a long sigh. ‘I knew I shouldn't have left you alone with her. Thing is, what's it matter? I've been out with other girls, nothing unusual in that. I've no' been living in a monastery.'

‘But taking them home, as though they meant something to you – that's what surprised me.'

‘They didn't mean anything to me, that's the point.'

‘And I don't either?'

‘No, you're different.'

They had reached the lane and left the bright sunshine for its shadows. Barry, taking Elinor into his arms, kissed her swiftly. ‘And remember this, sweetheart. Didn't you go out with your tutor fellow before you met me? And have I ever got upset over him?'

‘No,' she admitted reluctantly.

‘Because he's in the past, like the girls I took home. Let us live for today, eh?'

They made their passionate goodbyes, which gradually soothed Elinor's pain, until they had to make their way to the area gate of the club, where they were, as always, very decorous in saying goodnight.

‘See you Thursday?' Barry whispered. ‘Just as usual?'

‘Just as usual,' she murmured happily.

But the headlines in the Monday morning papers gave the news that was to prevent anything being usual in their lives ever again, even if they didn't know it.

‘Archduke Franz Ferdinand and wife Sophie assassinated in Sarajevo!' screamed the banners. ‘Heir to the Austro–Hungary throne shot by a Serb!'

What would happen now? asked the editorials. How would France retaliate? Where would Germany stand? And Russia? And Great Britain?

‘Why, whatever has it got to do with us?' the maids asked at the Primrose, for nobody seemed to have mentioned Belgium, which Miss Ainslie had said might be important.

On the fourth of August, they were to find out what it had to do with them. On that day, their country was at war.

Thirty-Seven

Seemingly, it all came back to Belgium, after all.

For there it was, in the club's newspapers that the maids rushed up to read before the members arrived – the whole awful list of events that had involved Belgium and their own country in war.

Like a fall of dominos, one event had triggered another, with the Serb's assassination of the Archduke being the start, causing Austria to declare war on Serbia, Russia to declare support for Serbia, Germany to declare war on Russia, then France, and – because they needed to get through it and weren't given permission – Belgium. What could Great Britain do? They had to keep their promises. As the last domino to fall, after a failed ultimatum, they declared war on Germany.

‘Oh, Lord,' groaned Gerda, ‘it's just like Miss Ainslie told us. We promised to defend Belgium, so there we are.'

‘She didn't think there'd be a war, though,' sighed Ada.

‘Got it wrong, then. Quick, we'd better get downstairs before anyone catches us reading the members' papers.'

‘Aye, what'll Mrs Petrie say if she finds out we've read 'em before her?' asked Mattie, but they all knew that for once they had more to worry about than Mrs Petrie's temper.

Four days had to pass before Elinor could see Barry on Thursday evening. Four days during which war fever seemed to grip the country, a sort of euphoric relief that the talk was over and action lay ahead, and away went hordes of young men to enlist, while flags were waved and people were proud.

Not Elinor and Ada, however, who wondered why anyone should want to go to war and hoped that their young men would not be called up by the government, to go whether they wanted to or not. They'd never be fool enough to volunteer, they were sure of that, and with so many men already enlisting, plus the regular army, perhaps there'd be enough to fight without conscripting any others. Besides, the papers were saying everything would be over by Christmas, which meant they wouldn't be needed anyway.

Thank God Corrie was not rushing off to join up either, Hessie told Elinor. He'd thought about it, but Walt had told him not to be so daft. It was only that some lads at the factory had got together to join up as a ‘Pals' unit – friends going together – and Corrie had thought he should go, too. But he'd seen sense in the end and it was to be hoped Barry would feel the same.

‘Barry?' Elinor cried. ‘Why, he'd never volunteer. He wouldn't want to leave his football!'

‘Or you,' Hessie said fondly.

They were to meet at the Scott Monument in Princes Street, walk up to the Old Town to a café for high tea, then maybe go to one of the cinemas. The evening, still full of sunshine, was warm, the air relaxing; maybe they shouldn't go and shut themselves in the darkness, but light was their enemy and the cinema a welcome place to be together and not be seen. First, though, Elinor wanted to hear Barry's ideas on the war.

‘What d'you think of it?' she asked, when he came strolling up, a cigarette at his lip. ‘This awful war?'