The River Flows On (9 page)

He turned to look at her, his expression softening.

‘Och, Kate, maybe it’s just a dream. A wee boy’s dream. Wanting to have an adventure.’ His mouth curved in a self-deprecating smile. ‘Wanting to set sail for Treasure Island with Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver - you know?’

Her fingers tightened on the rough cloth of his jacket. ‘But you can do it. It’s within your grasp, once you’ve served your time. Promise me that you’ll do it.’

‘I don’t know, Kate.’ His eyes were downcast again, the lashes as dark as his hair long and feathery against his cheekbones.

‘Och, Robbie, what is there to keep you here? A lifetime of looking for work and then being laid off again. What is there to keep you here?’

He looked her full in the face.

‘You, of all people, should know what would keep me here. Who would keep me here.’

Kate let her hand drop from his arm. She took a step backwards. He held her gaze, challenging, daring her to drop her eyes too.

‘Och, Robbie, don’t! You and me... No ... that’s not meant to be. I’ve told you how I feel. I thought that was all sorted out. I don’t want you hanging on waiting for me...’

She put out a hand, warding him off, reading quite clearly his intention of taking her in his arms. ‘Robbie, don’t! I don’t want it!’ Her voice was high and breathless.

He hesitated, his face full of warring emotions. Then he smiled, a wry twist of the lips.

‘Pick my moments, don’t I, Kate? And always the wrong ones. Mr Bad Timing, that’s me. Come on, let’s go for that ice cream.’

Kate tried one last time. ‘Robbie, do you ever listen to me? Did you hear what I just said?’

He took a decisive step towards her, gripped her by the shoulders and planted a swift kiss on her forehead.

‘I heard you,’he said.

Chapter 5

‘So what exactly does a tracer do?’

‘Traces things.’

Arthur Crawford smiled at the clear-eyed girl in front of him. Good. That had raised a wee smile. He sighed inwardly. The lassie didn’t have her troubles to seek, he knew that. Her teacher, Frances Noble, was his wife’s sister, and he’d heard the story more than once. Clever enough to stay on at school, good enough to go to art college, but no money to allow her to do it. Well, she wasn’t the only one, not by a long chalk. He couldn’t give them all a start, but Frances had put in a good word for this girl.

He surveyed Kate where she sat on the opposite side of the desk from him. Her clothes were threadbare, but her skirt was pressed and the creamy-coloured blouse with the big collar which she wore had been freshly washed and starched. And the lassie was clever. She’d got top marks in the exam she’d sat, along with fifty other girls, last week. So far, so good. A good tracer didn’t necessarily need to be artistic, but she did have to be neat and lively minded.

Like John Brown’s, the next yard along the river, Donaldson’s set an entrance examination every year for girls hoping to be taken on for a tracing apprenticeship. Only ten new apprentices were taken on each year, so there was a great deal of competition for each position.

Kate’s exam paper had been the best of all. Arthur Crawford told her so.

‘Och,’ she said, giving him a shy smile and trying not to dip her head in embarrassment at the compliment. ‘Well, I enjoyed doing it, really.’

She had been surprised at how wide-ranging the questions had been: English and arithmetic; history; knowledge of the yards and the shipbuilding trade; general knowledge. She’d known that her answers had been good. I’d give me a job, she’d thought to herself, and then wondered if she’d tempted fate by being too cocky during the agonizing week’s wait for the results.

‘It was fine realizing that I knew those things - that all that information was in my head.’

Arthur Crawford smiled. ‘I believe there would be a position for you here, Miss Cameron - if you’re interested in the work, that is.’

Kate crossed her fingers, hidden out of sight at her side by the folds in her dark brown skirt. Interested in the work? No, not really, but what choice did she have?

Tm very interested,’ she said firmly, ‘but do Donaldson’s need tracers at the moment? I thought there were no orders on the books. I’m not looking for any favours, Mr Crawford.’

As proud as her father, he thought. Until the drink gets to him. There were some who would think him daft to put in a good word for Neil Cameron’s daughter, but Neil had been a good man - still was, when he was sober. And, according to his sister-in-law, the lassie’s mother was hard on her. She needed a hand up. There was something about this girl - something that needed encouragement, something that made him want to help her for her own sake. Spreading his hands out on either side of the pad of blotting paper in the centre of the desk, he smiled at Kate.

‘There’s one just come in. The designers are busy on it right now.’ He saw the hope leap into Kate’s eyes and knew that it was for her father, not for herself. He put a hand up in admonition. ‘There’ll be no work for the Black Squad for six months, but the plans need to be drawn up - and then copied.’

He explained further. That when a ship was built there were plans for everything, not just the hull and the superstructure, but for internal decks and bulkheads, cabins, storerooms, pipework, all sorts of internal fittings. There might be as many as fifty drawings for one ship, he told her, for a really big vessel even more.

‘So the engineers and everyone else involved need copies of the design drawings. That’s where the tracers come in. They get the drawings from the draughtsmen, who do them in pencil. The tracers then trace off a copy in ink, very clearly, very accurately-‘ He broke off, smiling. ‘Some of the lassies would say a lot more neatly than the draughtsmen do them. They’re always moaning about having to tidy up messy drawings. After that the drawings go to photography so that everyone who needs a copy can have one. Even the interior designers need plans.’

‘The interior designers?’

‘Aye, the folk who make the insides beautiful.’ Arthur Crawford grinned again. ‘Those who decide which colour the internal bulkheads should be and what paintings go up on the walls - even what the cups and saucers in the restaurant should be like. There’s a lot of folk work on a ship, you know. It’s a joint effort. You could be part of it, lass.’

For the first time, Kate felt the stirrings of real interest. It was the way Mr Crawford had put it - that she, Kathleen Cameron, could be part of building a ship. That would be something to be proud of. Struck by the thought, she had a vision of herself at the next launch, watching a beautiful vessel slipping into the Clyde. What had her father said? Like a seal sliding off a rock into the ocean. It was a beautiful sight -made you want to laugh and cry at the same time, your heart bursting with pride.

If she got a job here, she wouldn’t be proud only for Daddy, or for Robbie, or his father. She would be proud on her own account, because she would have helped the ship on her first journey - that most difficult voyage from an idea in someone’s head to blueprints and plans which enabled other skilled heads and hands make that vision real. She could see it now - her family looking at her with admiration. Her mother might even be impressed! She could boast about it to the neighbours: ‘My daughter’s a tracer, you know.’

Kate jumped when Arthur Crawford stood up, his chair scraping the stone floor. She leapt to her feet, looking at him expectantly. He walked round the desk and ushered her towards the door.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you where the tracers work.’

They worked in a. building tucked in at one side of the yard, a hundred yards from the main gate. It had three storeys. On the top floor, Kate learned, the design team was based. Below them were the draughtsmen and below them, the tracers.

The tracers worked in a large airy room, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall and rows of long tables and stools. Electric lamps were bolted onto the tables at regular intervals.

‘For the winter,’ said Arthur Crawford, seeing her glance at them. ‘Good light’s crucial for close work. You’ll find that out for yourself.’

Kate had been impressed to learn that the plans were photographed. The knowledge that the tracers had electric light to work by when natural light wasn’t good enough impressed her even more. At home they had gas-mantles and still sometimes used the old brass paraffin lamp which had been one of Granny’s wedding presents.

‘Donaldson’s employ a lot of tracers then?’ Kate did a quick estimate of the stools. There had to be around sixty. The big room was quiet and echoing today, the tracers too having been paid off when the orders had dried up.

A tall angular woman dressed in a black overall came forward and was introduced as Miss Nugent, the Chief Tracer. She was the only member of the department to have kept her job during the shut-down. She shook hands with Arthur Crawford, listened unsmiling to what he said, peered over pince-nez spectacles at Kate and fired questions at her. Did she have her Third Year Leaving Certificate? Which subjects was she good at? What were her interests and hobbies? What was her father to trade? Where did she live? Was she punctual? Kate saw the infinitesimal lift of the eyebrows when Miss Nugent learned that her father was an unemployed member of the Black Squad, but she seemed at last to be satisfied, and began rattling out information in her turn.

‘It’s a five-year apprenticeship. We’ll pay you five shillings a week to begin with. You’ll be taught on the job and you’ll be expected to work hard. We also encourage our girls to attend evening classes - in any subject. If you do so, you receive an extra sixpence per week in your pay packet. You look neat,’ she went on, scarcely pausing to draw breath, ‘and your showing in the examination was excellent. That’s what’s needed in this job - neatness and intelligence. I understand you have artistic tendencies.’ Miss Nugent’s tone of voice made it crystal clear that this was not a compliment.

‘Y-yes...’stammered Kate, taken aback that the woman had finally stopped and seemed to be anticipating some kind of response from her. Five years! That was forever. Especially when it wasn’t what you wanted to do with your life. The beautiful vision of herself at the launch vanished, burst like one of the soap bubbles wee Davie loved to be allowed to blow on wash day. She wanted to learn how to draw and paint, not be under this dragon’s thumb for the next five years.

The dragon was looking at her over the little gold specs perched on the end of her bony nose. Kate wondered if she really needed them or if they were a prop to help her look at you as though you’d crawled out from under some stone. A father in the Black Squad and artistic tendencies? Dear me. Miss Nugent made them both sound like hanging offences.

Her next words confirmed Kate’s worst fears.

‘Your artistic talent is not necessarily an advantage,’ Miss Nugent was saying sternly. ‘The artistic temperament is certainly not required here.’ She allowed herself a little smile, directing it at Arthur Crawford. Her eyes came back to Kate and the smile faded.

Any minute now, thought Kate, she’s going to wag her finger at me. This is like being back at school. Worse - Miss Noble would never speak to me like this. Artistic temperament, indeed! What does she think I’m going to do? Dance naked around the room with a rose between my teeth? Her rebellious mouth curved at the thought. Miss Nugent’s eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed.

‘All my girls must pull together and it’s hard work, mind! There’s no place here for slackers. Bearing that in mind, are you still interested in being considered for a position at Donaldson’s, Miss.Cameron?’

Stung, Kate drew herself up to her full height. At five feet four, this wasn’t particularly impressive, but bullies like this one needed standing up to.

‘I’m used to hard work, Miss Nugent.’ Oh, Mammy, Daddy, what was she saying? Did she really want to spend five years with this tyrant? Did she have a choice? No - she didn’t. There was, however, one last question to be answered before she committed herself.

‘What about the girls who were laid off? Won’t they all expect their jobs back?’

Miss Nugent looked shocked. ‘The decision on who gets a position here is taken by Mr Donaldson, his management -and trusted members of staff.’ A conspiratorial smile to Arthur Crawford left no doubt that Miss Nugent considered herself and him to belong to the latter group.