The Good Provider (10 page)

‘I thought we were going to stay there until you found—’

‘Not now,’ he said.

Kirsty noticed that he did not attempt to meet her eye. She was not tempted to touch him either and leaned into the arm of the bench which, she noticed with indifference, was pocked with rust and had already deposited a dusty smear upon the material of her bolero.

Craig shivered. He watched the wind swirl trash up the lane and lag it against the barred gate of a coal yard. Perhaps, Kirsty thought, he was remembering the field at Dalnavert; he would have put in a long, useful day on it and now, with the sun lowering westward, he would be preparing to head for the farm, for a hot supper and a warm fire and crack with his sister and brother. Hawkhead, Bankhead, the rolling hills of Carrick seemed so far, far, far away. She too felt pangs of homesickness, though, God knows, she had never been happy there. But at least it had been her place and she had known what was expected of her and what pattern each day would bring.

She reached out and put an arm about Craig. Startled out of his reverie, he glanced at her and then caught her head and brought it to him, her lips to his mouth, their hats tilting awkwardly. He kissed and cuddled her, rubbed his chest against her breasts but it was done without real desire and the moment of forced passion ended with a sudden deafening shriek as, somewhere behind the brickwork, a steam klaxon sounded.

Craig leapt as if it had been a police whistle and Kirsty flinched too.

Seconds later, from a gateway hidden some hundred yards down the lane, a crowd of women and girls emerged, twenty or more, shawled and aproned, all in a hurry to quit the work place. They swamped the lane, four, five, seven abreast, some with arms linked, some walking with elbows clenched to their chests, indrawn, scowling.

Craig and Kirsty gaped.

The girls were followed by men, young and old, and a handful of boys no older than Gordon. They sped past energetically. The men were dusted with a strange white coating which, in the March breeze, whirled from them like ectoplasm as if their spirits were being released as well as their bodies.

There was a threatening sense of purpose in the workers as they crammed the lane, heading fast away from the factory, but some, the younger girls and men, had time enough to notice the odd-looking couple on the bench, to laugh, wink and point them out. Chirping noises were addressed in their direction, catcalls, cutting sarcasm: ‘Hey, Jenny, see the gingerbread man. Aye, him in the strippit coat there. Thinks it’s the Groveries, so he does, him an’ his wee budgerigar.
Cheep, cheep, cheep
.’

Craig shot to his feet, bristling at the insults; then sat down again.

Taking a clay pipe from his mouth, spitting, a man shouted, ‘Lost yer yacht, sonnie, eh?’

This comment was taken up, swelled into a snatch of song: ‘
Sailin’, sailin’, over the boundin’ main
.’

Nobody stopped for conversation, polite or otherwise, and Craig and Kirsty were obliged to remain where they were, rigid with embarrassment like a couple clamped into village stocks. In three or four minutes the bulk of the crowd had departed.

‘What – what do they do?’ Kirsty whispered.

‘Search me,’ Craig answered.

Still Craig and Kirsty did not move to escape. They stared down the lane, craned forward, watching as an old man with a club-foot came limping out of the gate. Hands in pockets, pipe in mouth, he clumped towards them, paying them no attention at all.

‘Sir?’ Craig got to his feet, took off the daft boater and left it on the bench. ‘Sir, what do they make in there?’

The eyes were not inquisitive, the expression was neither friendly nor hostile.

‘Pots,’ he answered tersely.

‘Pots?’

‘Crocks, pots, china-like.’

He glanced at Kirsty. There might have been a softening of the bunches of tight muscle under his powdered moustache; Kirsty could not be sure.

‘Sir, would there be work goin’ there?’ Craig called out.

‘Aye, for skilled hands.’ The old man with the club-foot went on at his clumping pace. ‘No’ for a bloody farm labourer – or his pretty lassie.’

Taken aback, Craig sat down again.

‘How did he know? How the hell did he know?’ Craig asked, bemused.

‘Your voice, perhaps,’ said Kirsty.

‘He knew I was a bloody hick, just by lookin’ at me.’

‘Craig, it was only a guess.’

Craig got to his feet again.

Men in bowler hats were coming out of the gate now, a handful of them and one or two neatly dressed chaps upon clean, green-painted bicycles, trousers shaped to their calves by wire clips.

‘No work for a farm labourer, eh?’ Craig muttered and, snatching up the wicker dressing-case, left Kirsty to collect their parcels and follow him back to Walbrook Street and the shelter of Number 19.

It appeared that the Reverend Vass was a frequent guest at Mrs Frew’s establishment. He was treated more like a first-born son than a man of the cloth and was attended throughout the meal not by Cissie, the maid, but by Mrs Frew in person.

If Kirsty and Craig were somewhat in awe of the religious gentleman from Edinburgh the same could not be said for the fourth dinner guest, Hugh Affleck, Mrs Frew’s brother. He was a tall, red-cheeked man of about fifty, clean-shaven and dry, with merriment, as well as a trace of slyness, in his bright blue eyes.

Kirsty was fascinated by the ebb and flow of conversation between the gentlemen but, at first, took no part in it. By certain remarks made by Mr Affleck she gathered that Mr Vass was a scholar and orator who had travelled from Edinburgh to address the Society of Biblical Research in one of the University buildings that very evening.

‘Will old Stewart be there?’ Mr Affleck asked the minister.

‘Professor Stewart will be in the chair.’

‘Oh, so there’s to be a debate afterwards, is there?’

‘The meeting is not open to the public,’ said Mr Vass quickly, evidently to forestall any mischief that Mr Affleck may have had in mind.

‘I see,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘It’ll not be much of a debate in that case since all of you there will be of one mind.’

To Craig Mrs Frew said, ‘Did you enjoy that, young man?’

‘Aye, I did.’

‘Custard?’ said Mrs Frew.

‘Aye,’ said Craig. ‘I like custard, thanks.’

Kirsty watched the ladle dip into the glass bowl. She wondered how such a thickness had been achieved. She could never get custard to stand like that and even Mr Clegg, no epicure, had complained that it was more like lentil soup than a decent pudding. But out it came, standing firm on the ladle, and held shape when it was put into the plate, like a mountain floating in a lake of apple juice.

‘Here,’ said Mrs Frew, dumping a pudding-plate before her brother. ‘See if that’ll shut you up.’

‘Full cream, I see,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘My, my! You should be honoured, Mr Vass. Only very special guests get the full-cream treatment.’

The Reverend Vass did not deign to acknowledge the remark and made no comment concerning the richness of the pudding which he put away with great efficiency in two or three mouthfuls. Like Hugh Affleck, Kirsty allowed the custard to melt in her mouth, savouring its blend of sweetness and sharpness. Glancing at her, Hugh Affleck held her gaze and winked.

‘Positively sinful, ain’t it?’ he murmured.

Kirsty chuckled and nodded while Mr Vass and Mrs Frew regarded her with a hint of condescension.

Without preliminary Hugh Affleck said, ‘Now, it’s a pity you hadn’t been orating on the benefits of Christian marriage, Mr Vass. You could have taken an eager pair for your audience, unless I’m much mistaken.’

Craig flushed, pretended that he had not heard. Kirsty, however, was flattered to learn that she had acquired a ‘bridal look’. The new powder-blue costume had obviously given Mr Affleck his clue.

‘I’m not married yet, Mr Affleck,’ she said.

‘’Deed you’re not,’ Hugh Affleck said. ‘My sister does not take “doubles”. She’s no more keen on havin’ married couples under her roof than she is on Lascars or travellin’ salesmen.’

‘Hughie,’ Mrs Frew warned, ‘I’ll not stand for that talk.’

‘What talk? By God, Nessie, there are times when you carry decorum too far. I mean, we’re all married here, or have been. I didn’t notice that you barred the door against randy old Andy when he was alive and kicking.’

For a moment Kirsty thought that Mrs Frew was about to pitch the custard-dish at her outspoken brother’s head.

Mr Vass prudently intervened. ‘May I have a drop of tea, Mrs Frew, if you will be so kind? I see that the enemy has caught up with me and I must leave very soon for the university.’

‘I’ll have a word with you later, Hughie,’ Mrs Frew said, and went out of the dining-room to obey the minister’s request.

Mr Vass turned in his chair and peeped out of the window. ‘It remains dry, if blustery. I shall walk to the edifice on the hill, I believe.’

‘You’ll be late returning, I expect.’

‘Your sister has kindly agreed to leave the door unbolted and to put the key on a string behind the letter-box.’

‘Aye, that should do it,’ said Hugh Affleck, ‘so long as you’re sober.’

The tea-pot was a huge knobbly affair of silver, and Cissie trotted out all the paraphernalia of jugs and bowls and tongs. Mr Vass attended with alacrity, downed a swift cup and, dabbing his lips with his napkin, made his excuses and left.

Good manners might dictate that Craig and she quit the dining-room too now, but Kirsty lingered, not knowing where they would go or how they would while away the evening.

It was far too early to retire to their – separate – rooms and she did not feel like strolling Glasgow’s hard pavements for another couple of hours. It did not occur to her that the city had theatres and musical concerts, lectures and peepshows that Craig and she might attend at the cost of a shilling or two. She sipped her tea, brooding a little.

Mr Hugh Affleck, however, did not seem to be in a hurry to be off. From his vest pocket he took a silver case, clicked it open and offered it to Craig. Sanctioned by a nod from Kirsty, Craig helped himself to a cigarette, a strange oval-shaped one, and accepted a light from the match that Mr Affleck held up. Next, Mr Affleck stole from the table, stooped by a sideboard, opened a door and came back to his chair carrying a bottle of Teacher’s Old Highland whisky and two glasses.

‘You’ll have a taste, Mr Nicholson?’

Craig hesitated. ‘Aye, why not? To be sociable.’

‘Just a wee drop, Craig,’ Kirsty said.

‘Not used to it?’ said Hugh Affleck, as he dispensed the whisky into the glasses. ‘Aye, it took me many a year, and much secret practice, to acquire a head for the stuff. Still, it sits down quiet and obedient after a buster. I’ll say that for Nessie, she can cook a man a dinner fit for a king.’ He lifted the glass. ‘I’ll drink a health to the pair of you, then.’

‘Many thanks.’ Craig sipped the amber liquid in his glass cautiously. He had downed pints of beer in the pub at Dunnet often enough but he had a fear of spirits and the hold they could put on a man, a lesson learned from his father’s example. ‘The truth is, Mr Affleck, I’m more concerned wi’ findin’ work than findin’ a minister to marry us – at least for a week or two.’

‘So you’re prospecting for employment, are you?’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘Tell me, what possessed you to come to the city without a job to fall into?’

‘My father felt it was time I struck out on my own,’ Craig answered. ‘The farm where I was brought up would not support two families.’

Kirsty was surprised at Craig’s glibness.

Hugh Affleck puffed on his cigarette. ‘You’ve no craft, no trade?’

‘None, outside farm labour.’

‘There’s plenty of stock in Glasgow, you know. More mutton, beef and pork in this fair city than you’ll find grazing in all of Ayrshire. Pigs from Ireland, sheep from Australia, cattle from the Argentine.’

‘I’m not sure I want—’

‘Slaughterhouses at Hill Street, Scott Street and over at Victoria Street too,’ Hugh Affleck went on. ‘There’s a Dead-Meat market in Moore Street. Home-fed and foreign carcasses galore. In addition there’s the cattle mart itself. Thousands of hoofs and horns sold every month. And that makes no mention of the Plantation quay or Shieldhall where imported animals are unloaded into lairages.’

Craig sipped his whisky thoughtfully. The air over the table was thick with tobacco smoke and sharp with the smell of the whisky. It seemed to Kirsty that Craig had already acquired a degree of urbanity that would cause him to resist work in musty straw and cow-splatter.

‘Since you seem well acquainted wi’ the employment situation, Mr Affleck, perhaps you can tell me how well these sort o’ jobs pay.’

‘Ah, there’s the rub, son,’ Hugh Affleck replied. ‘They pay only what they are worth, which isn’t much. There are more country lads in Glasgow than there are jobs for them. Supply outstrips demand; therefore, low wages.’

‘I’m after somethin’ better,’ said Craig.

Mr Affleck said, ‘What are your priorities?’

‘A job, a place to stay, marriage,’ said Craig.