The River Flows On (54 page)

‘You’re a good man, Peter Watt.’

‘Och, aye,’ he had said in a resigned tone. ‘It’s a pity I’m no’ a Catholic. Otherwise you could have put me forward to the Pope for canonization.’

He did deliveries for her at the weekends and Grace helped out when she could, although her own art studies kept her busy. Kate had no complaints about that. From the looks of it, her daughter was developing into a fine portrait painter.

She moved the bowl back to its original position. Esmé MacGregor had bought a larger version of the same design that morning and had tried to make Kate take the money for it. Frances Noble, looking on with a smile, had advised her friend to give up the fight.

‘Don’t you remember my telling you about a very stubborn pupil of mine? The girl who never gave up?’

Kate had won, of course, insisting that the bowl had to be a gift - a thanks for everything the two women had done for her. She was glad she had vindicated their faith in her, even if it had taken her a long time to do so.

Making a final adjustment to her display, Kate turned - and found herself face to face with Marjorie Drummond.

‘Oh, Kate!’ she said, her thin face lighting up with pleasure. ‘It is you! I saw the poster about the craft fair outside the hall and I wondered if you might be here. Come and have tea with me.’

Dumbfounded, Kate could only stare at her. Marjorie actually sounded pleased to see her.

‘What about Jack?’ she got out at last, peering cautiously over Marjorie’s shoulder. ‘Is he with you?’

‘Nope,’ said Marjorie cheerfully. ‘I left him in South Africa. We sat the war out down there.’ She lifted her shoulders in a self-deprecating gesture. ‘At this moment I should imagine he’s with his new wife in Cape Town - another rich man’s daughter. Now, isn’t that a surprise?’ She smiled wryly. ‘That seems to be Jack’s type. Only she’s not as gullible as I was. I give them five years - maybe not even that long.’

Kate was still having difficulty in speaking.

‘Close your mouth, Kate, you’ll catch flies,’ said Marjorie, an impish grin spreading over her face. ‘I divorced him,’ she added calmly. ‘He was a rat.’

Kate stared at her. Then she began to chuckle.

‘Y-yes, he was, wasn’t he?’ Her laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started, and her voice grew wistful. ‘But don’t you hate me, Marjorie? For what I did to you?’

‘Oh, Kate,’ Marjorie said. ‘You didn’t do anything to me - he did. With a little help from Suzanne Douglas. She’s out there too. I don’t think Jack’s new wife cares very much for the way she hangs around - especially when she’s supposed to be married to someone else.’ Marjorie’s smile was once more rueful. ‘I can’t say I blame the new Mrs Drummond. I didn’t care for that very much either.’

‘Oh, Marjorie,’ said Kate, her face full of sympathy for her old friend.

‘You didn’t do anything to me, Kate,’ Marjorie repeated softly. ‘He did it to both of us.’ She stepped forward, flung her arms around Kate’s neck and gave her a hug.

‘You’re not crying, Kate, are you? Oh, drat, so am I!’ She fished a handkerchief out of her neat little bag. ‘Here, you’d better use it first. Now come on, Mrs Baxter. Get someone else to look after your stand for an hour. You and I have matters to discuss.’

‘We do?’

Marjorie’s smile grew a little tentative. ‘How do you fancy taking me on as a partner, Kate? I’ve a good business head. I used to run a pottery studio, you know,’ she said wryly. ‘And I’ve still got a little capital. I’ve even thought up a name for us - the Phoenix Pottery. To symbolize a new start after the war, and a new start for the two of us.’

A slow smile spread across Kate’s face. ‘I had forgotten how persuasive you can be.’

Marjorie grinned and stuck out her hand. Kate took it - and the Phoenix Pottery was born.

Epilogue 1997

Kate was drifting in and out of consciousness. She had always heard that hearing was the last of the five senses to go. That seemed to be true. Her vision was certainly fading, although she could make out a square of light which must be a window. When they’d brought her in here last week she had asked the nurse if you could see the river through it, the hospital being a tall, modern building and the floor she was on so high up.

‘The whole of the Clyde Valley,’ the girl had confirmed. ‘New York on a clear day. Depending on what you’ve been drinking the night before, of course!’

This town is full of comedians
. That was right enough.

She was still aware of touch, had known it when the doctor had sat on her bed, held her hand and called her by her first name. Always a bad sign, that.

‘Can you hear me, Kathleen?’ the young woman had said.

‘Kate,’ Grace had corrected. ‘She’s never been called Kathleen.’ But Grace was wrong. There had been two people who had called her Kathleen ...

She thought she knew who was in the room with her - Jessie, of course. Davie and his family had visited last week, while she had still been able to talk to them. That had been good. Her Baxter nieces and nephews had been in too. They were a lively bunch.

Pearl had sent a card and a huge bouquet of flowers. She lived in Birmingham now - a respectable widow as far as her neighbours were concerned. That’s all they knew.

Grace was here, with her children and two grown-up granddaughters. Not young Michael, of course. His mother had brought him in last week, but he would be with her and his baby sister today. Better, by far, that he remember his Grandma Kate from that trip they’d had down the coast last summer. That had been a lovely day ...

Michael’s father was sitting by the bed, now and again lifting his hand to gently stroke his grandmother’s forehead and smooth her hair back from her brow. That felt nice.

Kate’s eyes were closed, but she was still aware through her closed lids of the light from the window. They were talking about her, going over her life. Another bad sign.

‘So why did Grandma Kate and Uncle Peter never get married?’

‘I think,’ said Grace slowly, ‘because she wouldn’t. She was devoted to your great-grandfather, you know. That was a real love match. You’ve seen that painting I did of him, haven’t you?’

Ah yes, the portrait of Robbie. Grace had caught him exactly - casual in unbuttoned waistcoat, collarless shirt and rolled-up sleeves, his hair tousled. He was in the act of turning, and he was smiling, a twinkle in his grey eyes.

‘Mmm,’ came the appreciative answer. That was young Barbara, who’d taken over from Kate at the Phoenix Pottery, running it along with one of her Baxter cousins. ‘I’ve always thought Grandad Robert looks dead sexy in that picture!’

They all laughed. Well, Robbie would have laughed at that too.

He was a real person to them all because of that portrait, hung in pride of place in their Grandma Kate’s home. They often talked of him - asked about his writing, asked about his life. They spoke of how half the family had taken after Kate by going in for art or pottery, while the other half had become journalists - taking after Grandad Robert. Kate always smiled when she heard them say that.

‘I was only ten when he died.’ Grace’s voice was very soft.

‘So how did you manage the portrait, then?’

‘Well, I had the old photos ... but it was how I remembered him too. Life was hard back then, but he always had time for me. He used to take me out for walks, pointed things out, told me stories ...’ Grace’s voice had grown softer still, ‘... and whenever he saw your Grandma Kate, his whole face just lit up.’

‘So you don’t think she and Uncle Peter ever ... you know...’

That was Barbara again. Cheeky wee bisom. No, there had never been anything like that between her and Peter, but he’d been a faithful companion to her over the years, and she had missed him after he’d gone.

‘So exactly when did Grandma and Aunt Marjorie start the Phoenix Pottery?’ That was Barbara’s sister. Asking a journalist’s question.

‘A couple of years after the war,’ said Grace.

‘But I thought they had worked together before that. In the 1930s.’ The reporter in action. Always trying to get at the truth. Just like Robbie.

‘Yes,’ said Grace vaguely. ‘Do you remember anything about that, Aunt Jess? I think there was some sort of a falling-out.’

Well, that was one way of putting it. They didn’t know the half of it.

‘Look,’ said Michael’s father. ‘She’s smiling.’

‘Maybe we’d better watch what we say then!’

The voices faded. How strange, that her family should have come to call Marjorie
Aunt
. She had missed her too these past few years. Even after Marjorie had married again - to a straightforward and uncomplicated man who worshipped the ground she walked on - the friendship between her and Kate had strengthened and deepened.

They had made a go of the Phoenix Pottery too, pulling off the difficult trick of being commercially successful and critically acclaimed. It was a good feeling to think that you were leaving something beautiful behind you, that you had done your work well.

The voices came back again, like someone turning the sound up on a radio. They were laughing softly. She had missed the joke. Damn.

She was walking by the river, coming up to the rowan tree. She took a deep breath. That felt good. The air was clean and clear. The river was clean too, much more now than it had ever been in her young day, flowing to the sea, flowing as her life had done, always coming back to the same place.

‘Kathleen,’ he said.

He was standing under the rowan tree.

‘It’s time, is it?’

‘Aye, it’s time, hen. And I think I’ve waited long enough. Don’t you?’

‘Who else is there with you?’ There was a bright light behind his head. It was dazzling her, but she could make out some faces - her father, her mother, her face younger and softer, a child in either hand - the twins, of course - Eliza and Ewen. Was that Neil James she saw beside them?

‘Have you said all your goodbyes?’

Kathleen Cameron Baxter smiled. ‘Just one last one.’ She turned for a final look at the Clyde, flowing on as it always had done. As it always would.

‘Come on then, lass. Time to go.’

Kate turned to Robbie, her face filled with joy. Then she put her hand in his, and together they walked towards the light.

oOo

The River Flows On
by Maggie Craig

Copyright (c) Maggie Craig 2011

This book was first published in print form

by Headline Publishing.

Original version and this new revised digital edition

(c) 1998 & 2011 by Maggie Craig

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events within it,

 other than those clearly in the public domain,

 are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons,

 living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

I should like to thank Mrs Margaret Hamilton and Mrs Grace Peace, both of whom started their working lives as apprentice tracers at John Brown’s in Clydebank shortly before the outbreak of the Second World War. These two ladies gave generously of their time to answer my questions, and supplied me with a great deal of useful information.