The Good Provider (33 page)

‘Cissie’s left me.’

‘So I heard.’

‘I don’t want
her
lookin’ after me.’ Mrs Frew jerked her head towards the door.

‘Perhaps you could employ a nurse.’

‘You could come an’ look after me.’

‘I have my work to go to, Mrs Frew.’

‘It’s so difficult to find somebody you can trust.’

‘I’d like to, but—’

‘For a week or two. With your husband. Free room and board.’

For all that her job at Oswalds’ contributed Kirsty knew that they would be better off here with a roof over their heads and a guarantee of two square meals a day. She saw at once that it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement and wondered if Hugh or Beatrice Affleck had put the idea into Mrs Frew’s mind; wondered too what Craig would have to say about it.

Kirsty said, ‘My husband’s hopin’ to join the police.’

‘What?’ said Mrs Frew. ‘Is this more of Hughie’s nonsense?’

‘No, but Craig would like Mr Affleck to sponsor him, give him a letter of recommendation.’

‘Kirsty, come and look after me.’

‘We’d need a place to store our possessions, such as they are.’

‘I thought you had a house?’

‘We’re bein’ thrown out,’ said Kirsty. ‘The landlord was a pal of the man who biffed you.’

Mrs Frew nodded as if the connections that bound them into their present situation had been destined from the beginning. ‘Every man’s hand is raised against the righteous.’

She raised herself upright in the bed and the lace cap slipped over her brow, giving her a tipsy appearance. She could not disguise her desire to have Kirsty come back to Walbrook Street.

Kirsty said, ‘If we do come, Mrs Frew, it would only be until you’re better. If Craig is accepted as a constable we would hope to be allocated a police house in the not-too-distant future.’

‘
Did
our Hughie put you up to all this?’

‘No, Mrs Frew, I swear he didn’t.’

‘I don’t blame your husband.’

‘Well, I’m glad of that.’

Mrs Frew leaned forward, eagerly. ‘Did Craig punch that rascal on the snout?’

Kirsty, surprised, answered, ‘Aye, he did, as a matter of fact.’

‘David and Goliath; the Lord was on Craig’s side.’

‘Perhaps He was at that,’ said Kirsty.

‘He’ll make a good policeman, your husband.’

‘I hope Mr Affleck shares your opinion.’

‘When can you come, Kirsty?’

‘Tonight, I suppose.’

‘Good. In that case, I’ll make sure that Hughie calls tomorrow.’

‘Do you think you can persuade him to help us, Mrs Frew?’

The widow adjusted the lace cap and reclined upon the pillows, assuming once more a pose of pale martyrdom, spoiled by a wink.

‘Just watch me, dear,’ she said.

She had not forgotten and would not forget his hurtful words but she knew that she could not enjoy, as rich women did, the luxury of sustaining anger. It, like so many things, had to be subsumed into the business of ‘getting on with it’, of settling and resettling, of finding shelter and food, earning a wage, taking another step on the road towards a better life. She entered the house fearful that Craig would have allowed his anger at her to smoke and smoulder but he, like her, had put their horrid quarrel behind him and did not refer to it at all. He had ‘something to do’, something to be at, and he seemed delighted at her proposal that, for a time, they move back into Walbrook Street. He was not contrite but appeared willing to sweep her along with him, to make enthusiastic bustle stand in lieu of apology.

‘Will she chin her brother about writin’ the letter?’ Craig asked.

‘She seems sure she’ll manage to persuade him.’

‘Is it a condition? That we go to stay there for a while?’

‘I think it is,’ said Kirsty.

‘Right. It’s fair enough.’

By half past six o’clock Craig had them packed and ready to quit Canada Road. It was too whirlwind for Kirsty and she voiced her doubts and reservations. ‘But what about my job? What about Oswalds’?’

‘Bugger that,’ said Craig. ‘We’ll be fed and housed until such times as I’m signed on to the force. We don’t need much money, at all, so the pittance you earned at the Cakery isn’t going to matter.’

‘What about the McCoigs?’

‘Told to get out, weren’t we?’

‘The inventory?’ Kirsty protested. ‘The broken window?’

‘McCoig won’t be round until Friday. I’ll have the window sorted by then. I’ll be here when he comes.’

‘What if you don’t get into the police?’

‘Kirsty!’ Craig exclaimed. ‘They wouldn’t have the brass neck to refuse me.’

Craig ‘borrowed’ a broken-wheeled barrow from a sweep’s yard, carried their meagre possessions down to it and loaded them on board. With the homely items gone the single-end looked bare and dismal and Kirsty felt no tug of regret at leaving it.

Neighbours, of course, quickly became aware that something unusual was afoot and Daddy Mills was curious enough to pad out on to the landing.

‘Are you doin’ a flit?’ the old man asked.

‘Nah,’ Craig answered.

He locked the door, pocketed the key, lifted the canvas grip and tucked it under his uninjured arm.

‘Looks to me like ye are,’ said Mr Mills.

‘Holiday,’ said Craig.

‘Does Mr McCoig know you’re goin’?’

‘None o’ his business.’

‘But it is, it is.’

From the turn on the stairs Kirsty watched. By comparison with the slow-witted, sententious old man Craig seemed as bright as quicksilver.

‘Be back on Friday,’ Craig said.

‘Where are ye goin’?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘You
have
to tell me.’

‘Why?’

‘In case – in case the place goes on fire.’

Craig laughed. ‘On fire, for God’s sake!’

‘What’ll we do if your house burns?’

‘Blow on it,’ Craig said and, wasting no more time on old man Mills, hurried down the stairs and escorted Kirsty into the street.

Neighbours peered, scowling, from front windows and half-open doors as Craig dumped the grip on to the long barrow, shafted it on to its limping wheels and, with Kirsty at his side, fairly raced away from Number 11 Canada Road with its ghosts and dreams and stillborn memories; and its lingering threat of revenge.

Rather to Kirsty’s surprise everything that Craig had planned came to pass, though not quite at the fast lick that her husband had predicted. Weeks accumulated into months. Autumn gave way to the fogs and bristling frosts of winter and the boarding-house in Walbrook Street came to seem less gloomy and oppressive and more cosy with each passing day.

Kirsty polished banisters and scrubbed steps, washed the glass-paintings with a chamois cloth, blackleaded the elegant fireplaces and kept the appointments of the dining-room agleam. She would not have minded living here for always, raising her children in the kitchen, being half-friend, half-servant to the lonely widow. Mrs Frew, however, had been true to her word. She had browbeaten her brother into writing a brilliant letter of recommendation to the Chief Constable of Greenfield Police. Mr Organ was nobody’s fool. He knew fine well what rôle the lad had played in the capture of Skirving and Malone but he could not ignore a glowing testimonial from such a senior officer as Hughie Affleck and had no hesitation in interviewing Craig Nicholson and, finding him smart, in accepting him as a probationary constable.

Craig’s progress into the Greenfield Police meant that their days in Walbrook Street would surely be numbered; burgh policemen were committed by regulations to reside within the parish to which they were appointed and to be part of the community they served. If Craig had been a bachelor he would have been obliged to stay in barracks with other recruits and unmarried constables but, as a married man, he was permitted to dwell with his wife until such time as the burgh found a house for them. Craig did not talk much about his training. He was not lax, however, was punctual on all parades and insistent that his uniform, helmet and boots be kept in immaculate condition. He even showed Kirsty how to iron the heavy knee-length shorts and half-sleeved vest that he wore for gymnastic exercises and, in the evening, no matter how tired he was, he would apply himself to study the
Police Constable’s Handbook
upon which he would be tested and examined.

In due course, Craig Nicholson was inducted as a fully-fledged constable, was marched around the parade-ground behind the Percy Street drill-hall and had his hand shaken by the Chief Constable, the Lieutenant and several councillors. The following morning he made his first muster in Canada Road police station and was shown, by no less a person than Sergeant Hector Drummond, the extent of his beat and how to patrol it. Craig’s confidence was undiluted by modesty and doubt.

Kirsty could not deny that he looked every inch a policeman, standing tall and dark and poised in uniform and helmet. She was pleased enough to have him settled and to regard herself as a policeman’s wife.

If Craig and Kirsty had been forgiven by Nessie Frew for their part in the robbery, Hugh Affleck had not. He no longer came for supper on Thursday nights and turned up only once in that season to reassure his sister that she would not be summoned to appear as a witness in the Crown’s case against Skirving, McVoy and Malone. Written testimony would be enough, particularly as poor Cissie had been put through the mill at Glasgow Headquarters and had even been subjected to the hair-raising experience of having to identify Skirving and Malone through a grid in the cast-iron doors of the holding-cells.

Those members of the public, in and out of Greenfield, who waited with bated breath for scandalous revelations of graft and corruption were in the end doomed to disappointment. Danny Malone and Billy Skirving, even the beleaguered McVoy, spiked the authorities’ guns by electing to keep their secrets to themselves. They pleaded guilty to all charges and thus carried the can for the toffs and sporting gents who had profited from their labours over the years.

A day was fixed for the hearing before sheriff and jury but the panel, all three, signed minutes and the Crown moved, therefore, for immediate sentencing. No mitigations were offered, no witnesses called. McVoy was given four years of penal correction. Skirving and Malone were sentenced each to twelve years’ hard labour.

This sudden great weight of days was enough to cause even the indomitable Danny Malone to gasp and turn white as a sheet. He was taken down struggling, roaring, ‘Bastards, bastards. You’ll never hold me,’ which gave press reporters one hard fact to salt their columns of priggish moralising.

Sergeant Drummond was the first person in Greenfield to receive the news from court. He did not wait for Constable Nicholson to tramp in from his relief point at the corner of Halifax Street and Wharf Road but put on his helmet and gloves and walked through the gathering dusk to meet the young man coming in.

‘Twelve years, the pair of them,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘How long did McVoy land?’

‘Four.’

‘Did Malone say anythin’, make any statements?’

‘He said not a word, except to curse.’

‘Is Superintendent Affleck pleased with the result?’

‘Pleased enough, no doubt,’ said the sergeant. ‘But I expect he would have liked more.’

‘To net Maitland Moss?’

‘To see Danny hanged.’

Constable Nicholson nodded.

‘Next time,’ he said, without the trace of a smile, ‘next time, Sergeant, eh?’

For Kirsty the days rolled pleasantly by. Leaves drifted from the trees that flanked the bowling-green, the long window of the pavilion was shuttered against winter storms and the flagpole dismantled. Autumn harvests brought shop prices down. In spite of the wet summer greengrocers’ tables spilled over with an abundance of fruit and vegetables. On Sundays Kirsty and Mrs Frew, now fully recovered from her ordeal, walked to St Anne’s to sing praise to the Lord and receive spiritual balm from Mr Graham’s sermons. Business at the boarding-house picked up. Every post brought letters from ministers and elders requesting rooms for such-and-such a night. Mrs Frew would record the names in her Guest Book and Kirsty would make sure that the rooms were spotless, the sheets fresh, that there was water in the jugs, oil in the lamps and kindling and coal in the scuttles.

To Kirsty, Craig also seemed contented with his lot, though he remained uncommunicative about his work. He said nothing at all about his first arrest, for instance, or his first appearance as a witness in police court.

It was Mrs Frew, a furtive reader of the
Partick Star
, who discovered Craig’s secret. She let out a shriek that brought Kirsty running from the kitchen to the parlour where she found the widow on her feet and waving the newspaper above her head.

‘Craig, it’s our Craig. He’s got his name in the paper.’

‘Where? Let me see.’