Saturday City Page 6

  ‘They nearly killed me this time, wife. You know that, don’t you? It’s the second time they’ve had a go at me. You remember that night before I was elected, when they left me for dead in the snow? There’s coal-masters who keep union men out of their pits altogether, and employ children, and pay no attention to safety. I’ve made sure mine is a safe pit, ever since your father died down there, and I don’t victimize men for their views. But they have it in for me.’

  ‘It was an accident this time,’ she answered stonily. ‘Miller never meant to strike you.’

  ‘Miller was too drunk to know what he was doing. They’re scum, Tansy. Duncan can say what he likes.’

  ‘If you give in to the roughnecks and blackguards, I shall not be able to look up to you,’ she said hardly.

  He got up. His legs were like spindles, so thin they could scarcely support him, and yet the sight of him tottering about in his night-shirt was so tragi-comic she gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m giving up the Commons, too.’

  ‘You can’t.’ She was aghast.

  ‘I am indifferent as to what happens to these people. I am going to paint. Isa once said it was what I should stick to, and she was right.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t marry Isa.’

  ‘Maybe it is.’

  She gave a little cry of genuine pain. ‘What’s happening to us, Lachie? I’ve tried to be a good wife to you.’ He had collapsed into his wing armchair, and she folded a thick blanket round his legs and poured him some water to sip.

  ‘This.’ He put both hands to his head, holding it as though it were some frail, inanimate object. ‘I’ve been down some strange pathways in my mind since this. And now it’s as though I’m here on different terms.’

  ‘What about the baby? What about little Donald? You’re talking about throwing away his inheritance.’

  He laughed, as though humouring her. ‘All we inherit is our skin. He’ll have to take his chance with the rest.’

  She was angry then, quietly but deeply angry. She would not talk to him any more. She called his nurse to get him back into bed and stalked off downstairs. In the hall, the baby’s maid was placing him in his baby carriage. She was the first in Dounhead to own such an object, but the fact gave her no pleasure today. The baby smiled and stretched to catch her attention, but she scarcely saw him.

  Even the vases of hothouse flowers in her favourite Lavender Room, where everything — carpets, curtains, walls and furnishings — was in shades of mauve, lavender or purple, failed to distract her. As did Miss Sillars, the pale, spinsterly dressmaker, who called later to discuss her dress for the Glasgow reception.

  She threw aside samples of satin and silk, tarlatan and grosgrain, plaid and muslin. She saw it all slipping away from her and her life which had been so straightforward and indulgent change at a stroke into hideous nightmare.

  The next day she was wheeling the baby in his carriage in the drive of Dounhead House when her brother Duncan came towards her.

  She was cool. ‘I hear you’re going to Clemmie and Jack’s jamboree. I hope you and Josie will have something decent to wear.’

  He ignored this. ‘Is Lachie all right? He’s sent for me.’

  ‘Sent for you?’ She couldn’t be sure she had heard him properly.

  ‘Sent word down with the groom. He wants to see me urgently.’

  She remained where she was, wheeling the baby in the sunlight, while Duncan went up to the invalid’s room.

  ‘Come in.’ Lachie was swaddled in a quilted velvet dressing-gown and a scarlet blanket. Although the day was warm, a banked fire gave out an intense heat.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Duncan.

  ‘Delicate,’ replied Lachie, waving a frail hand. ‘Delicate. But I’ve not asked you here to discuss my health. Sit down.’

  He seemed to savour the impatience in Duncan’s face, but at last he said, ‘I’m giving them up. Pit and Parliament. What have you to say to that?’

  ‘You can’t mean it.’

  ‘I do. I thought you’d be pleased. You can fight the Dounhead seat again, can’t you? This time you might win.’

  ‘It gives me no pleasure to hear you talk like this. You’ll soon be well, man —’

  ‘What would you say if I asked you to run the pit as a cooperative?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

  ‘Are you telling me capital and labour can’t work together?’ Duncan hesitated. ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Lachie.’ Duncan walked to the window, staring at the well-kept grounds. ‘You can’t go making big decisions, decisions that will affect Tansy and the boy, until you’re well and strong again. You know me better than to think I would take advantage of a man when he’s down.’

  Lachie stared into the fire. For several minutes neither man spoke. Then in what was much more like his normal tones, Lachie said, ‘I don’t want the responsibility of running men’s lives. I never have. I’d be prepared to take a smaller share of the profits, in exchange for a nominal position at the pit. Or I might sell out completely.’

  ‘No.’ The word rapped out like a pistol shot from the open door. Tansy stood there, her face pale. She strode towards Lachie, breathless and shaking with a mixture of anger and contempt.

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Or are you doing this to spite me? Yesterday you told me the colliers were scum. Today you’re offering to let them run the pit.’ She turned on Duncan. ‘You’re not listening to him, are you? Carry a word of this to the Rows and I’ll never forgive you. He doesn’t know what he’s saying —’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Duncan calmed her down. ‘All Lachie is doing is trying to re-order his life a little. Nothing’s been decided. I wouldn’t let him make a decision like this till he was stronger, in any case.’

  It was as though Tansy didn’t hear him. She knelt down in front of Lachie and said very carefully, as though talking to a child, ‘If you’re not man enough to run the pit, I’ll do it. I’ll make the decisions in your name. You can give up the House of Commons, but we’re not giving up Dounhead House. I’m not giving up my maids and clothes. Is that clear?’

  Duncan said tentatively, ‘There could be great changes made at the pit, if Lachie were so inclined.’

  She faced him boldly. ‘Forget what he said. We’re hanging on to the pit, and our money. I’ve no wish to end up back in the Rows.’

  Duncan shrugged. ‘It’s you and Lachie for it. I don’t want to get involved in family arguments.’

  Tansy looked as though she were about to launch into another tirade, but something in her husband’s face pulled her up short. She drew a juddering breath instead and said to him, ‘I’m sorry, Lachie. Maybe I’ve said things I shouldn’t. But we’re in this together. I won’t let you give up.’

  He looked past her to Duncan. ‘I don’t care what happens. A little socialist experiment might have been quite amusing. But I just want rest. Leave me.’

  Later, when Tansy tiptoed past his room in case he was sleeping, she saw that he had got his nurse to fetch his paints and easel. He was seated by the window, absorbed and busy. But she could not bring herself to go and talk. He was too much of a stranger.

  *

  The cobbles on the quay at Greenock were slippery with rain and a heavy, rain-soaked mist hung over the Clyde. The piper in full regalia, purple-faced from the whisky drunk to keep out the cold, coaxed a wild tune from his bagpipes as he marched resolutely up and down.

  On the big ship angling its way into the harbour the sound that could scarcely be classed as music but was something more primal and direct was heard by the passengers, astounding even the sophisticated by its power to constrict the throat and draw tears to the eyes.

  Those who had tried America and found it too much for them, and those coming back to close dying eyes, and those who had made a dollar or two and could not wait to impress the folks at home with fancy fashions and even fancier stories, piled down the gangway into the cold and mist as into th
e embrace of a chilly mother.

  Paterson was one of those bewildered by the strength of his feelings for the old country as he and Honoria led the excited children, Finn and Bertram, on to dry land at last. The boys had got a shade out of hand on the crossing, which had at times been pretty rough.

  ‘This is your parents’ native land,’ Honoria was impressing on them now. The children obediently tried to see what they could of Bonnie Scotland through the mist, but mostly it was other passengers clamouring for their luggage, and farther up the quay this strange, hairy figure in a tartan skirt emitting sounds of alarming ferocity.

  Paterson’s eyes met Honoria’s in a look that was both triumphant and relieved. Contrast this arrival, the look said, with our departure as newly/weds all those years ago, rich in nothing but hope.

  ‘Paterson! Honoria!’ There was no mistaking the burly, bearded figure of Jack bearing down on them, with Clemmie puffing just a little behind. Paterson felt his arm being pumped up and down with such enthusiasm that he feared it would come out of its socket, while Honoria was pulled into a fur-filled, violet-scented embrace by Clemmie and the two boys kissed and hugged till they went scarlet with wriggling embarrassment.

  ‘I’ve arranged dinner at the Inveraray Hotel,’ said Jack, shepherding the others through the crush to a hired cab. On the way through the darkling streets, Clemmie was aware of the richness of Honoria’s clothes, the fine, deep furs, gold jewellery and entrancingly fashionable hat with its bold, shaded feathers. Paterson, too, wore a checked greatcoat that spoke wealth and position and the ebony stick that aided his limp had an impressive top of beaten gold.

  But she felt, in all conscience, that she and Jack matched their relatives in sober, well-chosen elegance. She warmed, with a thrill of pleasure, to the excitement and cosmopolitan tone that their transatlantic visitors were bringing into their lives.

  Rich plates of mutton broth followed by salmon and meat soon dispelled the marrow-chilling cold of the afternoon, and after the meal in the hotel the ladies took up position before a roaring fire in the guests’ parlour, while the boys read or played and the two men got down to discussion with a glass of whisky before them.

  ‘Well, young ’un,’ said Jack easily, ‘you haven’t changed all that much.’ The narrow, blond head still had that sharp, distinctive tilt, though Paterson had grown a luxuriant moustache to counteract a slight thinning at the temples.

  ‘I’ve changed in here.’ Paterson thumped his chest. ‘I’ve hardened, Jack. I’ve had no option. I learned my credo on the railways, and you don’t survive there unless you’ve a stone for a heart.’

  Jack smiled to show he didn’t believe him, but Paterson persisted. ‘They don’t call America the melting-pot for nothing. There’s no kid-glove treatment for anyone, worker or boss. It’s all get on, get on — “the survival of the fittest”. That’s how Carnegie got to be where he is.’

  ‘It seems to agree with you.’

  Paterson hesitated. For a moment, his face looked tired and defenceless, but he was soon off again, speaking in a low, persuasive voice, as though trying to convince Jack of something.

  ‘I’ve got where I am by my own efforts and that’s what I believe in. Laissez-faire, that’s what they call it, isn’t it? Let the Government keep law and order and look after defence, but for the rest, let every man look out for himself.’

  ‘No compulsory education?’

  ‘Positively no. No labour regulations. Let people rise from the bottom of the heap, as Honny and I had to do. You’ll never know what we went through at the beginning, Jack.’

  Jack smiled mischievously.

  ‘I can’t wait for you and Duncan to meet.’

  Paterson’s face clouded. ‘Is he still one of those rogue unionists?’

  ‘He’s getting to be a big labour man now. He’s just helped organize a strike in the Lanarkshire pits.’

  ‘By God!’ cried Paterson, getting excited, ‘we know how to deal with the likes of those in the States. We’ve had the state forces out to them, and the company police.’

  ‘There’s doubtless times when they have justice on their side,’ said Jack judiciously.

  ‘You’ve heard of the Molly Maguires?’ Paterson demanded. ‘A secret miners’ union which went after the employers and the managers? They were still spreading murder and mayhem through the anthracite pits in Pennsylvania when I first went there in the ’sixties. I saw a man die from the cleaving they gave him. They finished me with union men, for good.’

  ‘The unions are becoming more respectable here. Duncan’s a man of conviction, not of impulse. I hope for Mother’s sake you two will keep away from each other’s throats.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Paterson moodily. ‘We never did see eye to eye. He fancied Honoria, you know. I had to fight him for her.’

  Jack’s recollection was that, if anything, it was Honoria who had taken a girlish fancy to Duncan, but surely it didn’t greatly matter now. He saw that Paterson’s struggle to the top had been paid for in a certain amount of nervous strain. His fingers drummed a constant tattoo on the arm of his chair. ‘This friend of yours, Joe O’Rourke.’ Paterson briskly changed the subject. ‘I’ve had him checked out by my agents in New York.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘If I thought he was in any way involved with Tammany Hall in New York, the deal would not go through.’

  ‘But Joe’s straight,’ Jack protested. He looked alarmed.

  ‘Relax.’ Paterson permitted himself a smile. ‘Joe’s straight, all right. Some of his connections have been involved in bribes from contractors, protection money from criminals, that sort of thing. That’s how the powerful buy the votes of the poor, these days.’

  ‘But Joe has no political ambitions.’

  ‘No, but some of his friends have. A little judicious weeding out of the New York end of the trust may well be necessary.’

  Jack felt a stab of unease. The trouble with business was the endless permutation of risks. Still, the mood today should be light and celebratory. They would postpone any further talk of business. Paterson caught his eye and gave a half-ashamed grin.

  ‘We should be talking family, not business.’

  The ladies were bearing down on them with the children in tow.

  ‘It is time to catch the Glasgow train,’ said Clemmie. ‘These two dear wee boys want to meet their cousins.’

  *

  Sandia tripped along the road towards the Mackenzies’ apartments near the university with a mixture of emotions. It was good to be out in the sharp frosty air, wearing her new fur-trimmed jacket with its caped sleeves and peplum and the dear little hat to match.

  On the other hand, not having seen her friend Kirsten for some time, she had a secret to impart. And part of her wanted to hug it close for just a little longer. You couldn’t, however, keep secrets from such an observant friend as Kirsten. She was bound to notice something different about Sandia’s demeanour.

  Sandia inhaled the sharp cold air gratefully. No denying, it was a relief to be away from the constant clacking between her mother and her Aunt Honoria about the coming reception and dance, each one trying to put the other down with recollections of great occasions attended. And then there were Finn and Bertram asserting that everything in America was bigger and better, and Uncle Paterson and Papa niggling over the guest list with their interminable qualifications.

  It was Uncle Paterson who was responsible for her present mission. The guests, mainly the big business names of the city with whom her father was increasingly involved, should be augmented, according to Paterson, by a few more academic and kirk luminaries. ‘Town and gown, Jack,’ he cried. ‘You want the balance of town and gown.’ Her father was always gentle and amenable as far as Uncle Paterson was concerned, as though he were still the lame little half-brother who needed looking after. Sandia liked this in her father: she thought it showed a magnanimous nature.

  The Mackenzies were late names on the list, which was why
Sandia was now bearing the invitation towards her friends personally. Kirsten was invited, too, and with a spurt of pride that was less than commendable, she conceded, Sandia looked forward to besting her friend when it came to ball gowns, for her own was exceedingly pretty, pink silk and muslin with rosebuds and lovers’ knots caught up in the bustle.

  As it happened, she did not have to walk all the way to the university. Approaching the herbalist’s, where her mother had asked her to stop, she met Kirsten, who had just been buying some fennel for her father’s indigestion.

  They hugged each other, cold cheek to cold cheek, and Kirsten cried delightedly, ‘Why, Sandia, I have been meaning to call. It has been far too long since I saw you —’

  ‘I was coming to visit you.’ Sandia held up the invitation. ‘This is to ask you and your parents to a reception my parents are giving. Do say you’ll come! It’s going to be very grand — music, dancing, carriages at midnight.’

  ‘Oh, I hope it may be possible!’ Kirsten said warmly. ‘But, look, we have so much to talk about. Let’s walk in the West End Park for a little first.’

  Sandia hesitated momentarily. Her face reddened. Then she agreed. ‘Why not? First let me pick up some skullcap from the herbalist for Mama’s headaches, and oil of cloves in case the children have the toothache.’ She was quickly in and out of the herbalist’s store, for despite the imposing red, green and amber bottles in the tiny windows, the shop was full of strange odours and the herbalist, old Mrs Hunter, disconcertingly witch-like in her dusty black, with her ragged-tooth smile and warty, filthy hands.

  Sandia took her right hand from its cosy muff and pushed it through Kirsten’s arm as they strolled companionably towards the park.

  ‘You know I’ve been helping your uncle in the Tattie Strike?’ demanded Kirsten. ‘Oh, Sandia, he is such a splendid man. I admire him more than anyone I know.’

  Something in her tone made Sandia look at her sharply. She thought the reference to the Tattie Strike a little vulgar, but she let it pass.

  ‘He has such fire and enthusiasm,’ Kirsten bubbled. ‘You don’t know how bad things were during the strike, Sandia. But he never loses faith. He really cares about helping his fellow men —’