The Good Provider (20 page)

‘Catholic or no’,’ said Mrs McNeil, ‘she placed her soul in jeopardy an’ must pay the price.’

Kirsty slapped two biscuits together, dabbed them with the heel of her hand and, changing the brushes, pumped the bristles into the bowl of sugar and water. Gossip and argument had dulled the first edge of shock and sorrow. She had a wedding ring on her finger and a good man at home. She felt righteous and protected. She had avoided the trap of illicit love and felt entitled to listen to stories about the silly girl, as if suicide were no more than mischief.

Kirsty said, ‘I thought it might’ve been Tommy.’

‘Tommy! Tommy Dykes!’ Letty shrieked. ‘God, there’s a chuckle for ye. Tommy hasn’t got the spunk for makin’ babies.’

‘How d’you know?’ said Mrs McNeil.

‘Take my word for it; I know.’

‘Have you been out wi’ Tommy Dykes?’ said Kirsty, and grief drifted obliquely from her mind to be replaced by something alive and intriguing.

‘Aye, I have – kind of,’ Letty confessed. ‘I met him one night at the Temple.’

‘Is that a church?’

‘Naw, naw, naw,’ said Letty. ‘The Temple o’ Fame.’

‘A hall of Varieties,’ Mrs McNeil explained. ‘It’s down in Black Street near the Cross.’

‘Anyway, I was down there wi’ my cousin Jeannie. They were doin’ plays at the Temple that week;
Still Waters Run Deep
an’
The Hunchback
. I fair liked
The Hunchback
. It was about this mannie who—’

‘Get on wi’ it, Letty,’ said Mrs McNeil.

‘Anyway, we were in the top gallery – so was Tommy.’

‘The Temple’s no’ a place where decent girls should go alone,’ said Mrs McNeil. ‘It’s just beggin’ for trouble.’

‘’Course it is,’ Letty admitted. ‘Why do ye think we go there? Anyway, there was Tommy. He’d had a drop too much an’ he was beezin’. Our Jeannie had got hersel’ a click; a brass-founder, no less, from Beardmore’s. Very well-spoken.’

‘What about you and Tommy?’ said Kirsty.

‘He said he’d walk me home. No sooner are we out o’ Black Street than he was haulin’ me up a close.’

‘How could you?’ said Mrs McNeil. ‘Anythin’ might have happened.’

‘I told you, Tommy was beezin’ wi’ drink. I knew I was safe enough. Anyway, he tried t’ get his hand – you know.’

‘I’ve heard enough o’ this,’ said Mrs McNeil, but did not draw away from the conversation. ‘It’s disgustin’, that’s what it is.’

‘Aye, disgustin’s the word,’ said Letty, ‘since the daft beggar couldn’t.’

‘Couldn’t what?’ said Kirsty.

‘Couldn’t – you know.’

Kirsty laughed. She could imagine Tommy Dykes, red, gawky, fumbling, and how Letty would put him through the hoop for his failure to be a man. She laughed again. The girls at other tables all seemed to be laughing. Kirsty looked up, heard them, saw them, felt laughter choke in her throat.

How callous she had become, how coarse.

She felt her eyes grow misty with sentimental self-pity.

She wiped her nose with her wrist, stickily.

‘What’s wrong wi’ you, for God’s sake?’ said Letty.

‘Got a cold comin’ on,’ said Kirsty.

‘Then kindly keep it to yoursel’,’ said Mrs McNeil. ‘I can’t afford t’ be off sick.’

‘Who can?’ said Letty and then, uninvited, rattled on with her tale of the seduction that never was.

Bob chose to return by a different route. He drove through the town and down to the riverside where the Renfrew ferry crossed to Yoker. While they waited for the boat to come over the far shore Bob fished in his pocket and brought out two half-crowns. Without show or formality he handed them to Craig.

‘What’s this?’ Craig said.

‘Gratuity.’

‘Is this the rake?’

‘Naw, we chalk up the rake in the usual manner; that’s a bonus.’

It had been a very fishy deal and Craig was no longer in doubt that the boxes hidden under the timber contained stolen goods which had been sold off to the sporting gentleman. The fact that he had been a party to something illegal did not bother him much. Bob McAndrew would not be behind the deal; it would be Mr Malone, and Craig, though wary of the man, took a certain pride in the fact that he had been ‘trusted’, if that was the word, by the boss.

‘Look,’ Bob said, ‘if anybody asks you where we were this mornin’ just tell them we went to Bellshill.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Lanarkshire.’

Craig said, ‘Who’s liable to ask me?’

‘Och, you never know,’ said Bob. ‘Best no’ to talk of it at all; not even t’ your wife. You know how women chatter.’

‘Aye,’ said Craig.

Bob said, ‘Once we’re over the river I’ll let you drive, if you like.’

‘I’d like that fine.’

He was given the reins as soon as the cart had cleared the ferry ramp on the Yoker side of the river. He had driven carts on Dalnavert and at Bankhead and knew what to do.

Day shift had begun in the yards and graving docks but the long stretch of the Dumbarton Road was for the most part bounded by fields and light on traffic. In less than an hour they were back in Greenfield.

Bob let him navigate into Kingdom Road and right into the gates of the yard so that Mr Malone, leaning on the rail at the top of the stairs to the office, could see how proficient he was. Though pleased with himself Craig did not put the morning’s events out of mind and did not miss the enquiring glance that passed between wily old Bob McAndrew and Mr Daniel Malone or Bob’s discreet signal that all had gone smoothly, exactly according to plan and that the Maitland Moss gang had found a new recruit.

Unlike many of her fellow citizens, Kirsty did not regard religion as a springboard for bigotry or as something which disbarred you from all pleasure and condemned you to glum sobriety. Going to church was an act of free will as far as Kirsty was concerned; she had never been allowed to leave Hawkhead on Sunday to make the long walk to Bankhead kirk and had thus been excluded from its socials, picnics and soirées, as well as its services. Now that she was her own woman she felt entitled to take three hours of a Sunday morning to herself and, while she’d never have squandered them by lying idly in bed, she felt justified in attending Christian worship while Craig was at work at the stables.

Kirsty had no firm opinion of the advantages of one denomination over another but had it in mind that it might be nice to bump into an acquaintance. Thus she headed for Walbrook Street and the sedate little church on its corner which seemed, from the outside, more hospitable than the smoke-stained kirks that were crammed into side-streets in Greenfield or the huge and daunting edifices that towered over sinners along Dumbarton Road. She liked the gentle name of the Walbrook Street church – St Anne’s – and the feeling that the lead-paned windows gave her and the fact that the building was not composed of soaring verticals but of warm corners and gaslit vestibules, all tinted, of course, by memories of Number 19, where she had first tasted independence.

She had gone but half the distance to Walbrook Street when the first bells rang out. Soreheads found the bells infuriating as they turned over, groaning, in bed or hunched over a late breakfast. To Kirsty, though, they seemed cheerful and encouraging. Her blue mood lifted for the first time in days and she squared her shoulders and lifted her head as she walked along and thoughts of the flour store and poor Lizzie Weekes fell from her.

It was almost as if Mrs Frew had known that she was coming. As Kirsty approached Number 19, the door opened and the woman emerged, dressed all in black, save for a blood-red bow upon her hat. She fumbled with a purse, an umbrella and an enormous Bible as she turned to lock the house door with her latchkey; Sunday, of course, was Cissie’s day off.

Kirsty hesitated, embarrassed by her temerity. Perhaps Mrs Frew would have no time for her now that she was not a guest in the boarding-house. Perhaps Mrs Frew might not care to be seen in the company of a young woman who was not her social equal. However, she had come this far and must risk a snub.

‘Mrs Frew, Mrs Frew.’

The woman had just stepped on the pavement. She turned, without a smile.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’

‘Aye, I was just passing, so I thought I’d—’

‘Passing?’

‘On my way to church,’ said Kirsty.

‘Are there no churches in Greenfield?’

‘Well, I’ve always liked the look o’ St Anne’s.’

‘One church is as good as another,’ said Mrs Frew. ‘Does the Lord not tell us that where one or two are gathered in His name there will He be?’

Nonetheless Mrs Frew did not object when Kirsty fell into step with her and together they made their way towards the corner.

‘Why are you wearin’ that?’ said Mrs Frew.

The powder-blue costume was not the most suitable outfit for the Sabbath but it was the only decent, matching garment that she possessed.

Kirsty said, ‘Is it too gaudy?’

‘You’re young enough to get away with it, I suppose,’ said Mrs Frew. ‘And you’re married now, I see.’

Kirsty had not had the ring off her finger since leaving Walbrook Street.

She nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, Craig an’ I are married.’

She held her breath, sure that she would be interrogated, found out in the lie and that her tenuous friendship with the widow would end before it had properly begun. But Agnes Frew was shrewd enough to hold her tongue; what she did not know would not harm her moral sensibilities. She put no questions about the ceremony and appeared to accept Kirsty’s white lie at its face value.

‘Are you settled in Greenfield, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you a house?’

‘A single-end – until we can afford better.’

‘Does he have work?’

‘We both work. I do a half-shift at Oswalds’ Cakery an’ Craig’s with a firm of carriers.’

Mrs Frew did not seem to be listening. She held her head high, nose pointed at the church.

Suddenly she said, ‘Take my arm.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Take my arm, Kirsty. It’ll not look so bad if you’re with me.’

Obediently Kirsty slipped her arm through Mrs Frew’s and so arrived at the door of St Anne’s where the ushers, Mr Brown and Mr McKay, stood rubbing their hands, smiling, bowing, nodding to all the gentlemen and ladies who climbed the four steps to the stone archway.

From within came the soft persuasive sound of an organ and the old dry fragrance of teak and cedar, leather and plush velvet. Involuntarily Kirsty hugged Mrs Frew’s arm as they climbed the steps.

Mr Brown, or was it Mr McKay, beamed at her ruddily and said, ‘I see you’ve found a helper, Mrs Frew. Aye, there are times when I feel I could be doin’ wi’ a hand up these steps myself.’

‘I am not infirm, Mr Brown,’ said Mrs Frew.

‘ ’Course not,’ said Mr Brown, who knew the widow’s foibles only too well. ‘Welcome to St Anne’s, lass. Hymnary?’

‘Thank you,’ said Kirsty and self-consciously followed the widow through the inner door.

It was not in the least like Bankhead kirk, not narrow and austere.

Mrs Frew took seats in a middle row left of the aisle and Kirsty seated herself on the padded leather bench which, though firm, was more communal than Bankhead’s upright pews. She looked about her at carved and graceful pillars and woodwork and stained-glass windows which depicted Jesus the Good Shepherd and Jesus the Fisher of Men and, as the organ played, she felt calm and serene.

It would have been lovely if she could have been married here, coming down the aisle on Mr Sanderson’s arm in a dress of ivory white while Craig and his brother Gordon, in black frock coats, waited by the steps. But she could not marry in St Anne’s, or anywhere, for, in the eyes of the world, she was already a wife.

Mr Graham entered, his black robes floating behind him. He was followed by a small, barrel-shaped man in a tight three-piece suit of absolute black, the senior elder and clerk. Mr Graham was contrastingly tall and lean, with a hawk nose and two sprigs of hair on his cheeks. He wasted no time and, after a murmured prayer, announced the first hymn.

Kirsty rose with the rest of the congregation and gave a tiny start of surprise when the first massive chords rolled from the organ which had previously been so quiet and was now rousing. She filled her lungs with the sound of it and, glancing down at the words in her hymnary, sang with the rest:
Hosanna, loud hosanna
. She had a strong clear voice and could hold the tune without effort and, uninhibited, felt herself buoyed up by the chorus, loosed, for a time, from concern about Craig and Oswalds’, racks of Easter cakes and poor Lizzie Weekes. She was glad, very glad, that she had come to St Anne’s and hoped that nothing would prevent her from coming again.

Kirsty was home long before Craig who did not arrive until after two o’clock. She had, however, taken pains to prepare a cold roast beef dinner for him and had bought a jar of the big brown pickled onions that he loved. He came cheerfully into the kitchen and gave her a peck on the cheek by way of greeting. Today he smelled of horses as well as beer.