Silver Linings (13 page)

On arrival at the dock gates she ignored Hamish, the duty constable, who had stuck out his arms to prevent her from entering the dock area. ‘Whoa. Whoa!’ he shouted. ‘Where do you think you’re going? And where’s the fire?’

Kitty did not respond. She was completely unaware of anything going on around her, even Hamish’s extended arms, which resulted in her colliding into him. She then lost her balance and crashed down on to the ground. ‘Good grief, man, why did you knock me over?’ she whimpered pulling herself up into a sitting position. ‘Look, I just have to get to my dad, Johnny Anderson.’ Slipping her hand into her pocket she brought out the envelope that was terrifying her every thought.

Hamish, who knew Kitty through Connie, bent down and picked her up. ‘There, there now,’ he soothed. ‘Come into my office and I’ll …’ It was just then Hamish saw that one of the young apprentice lads was about to go out to the shops and he called out to him, ‘Over here, son. I want you to go back into the platers’ shop and get Johnny Anderson to come here to me – and
tout de suite
at that.’ The boy nodded.

When Johnny took hold of the telegram, his first inclination was to throw it away. That way he wouldn’t need to read what he knew would break his heart. It was Kitty’s distraught pleading – ‘Dad, Dad, please, please, I just have to know’ – that made him realise he had no other option than to tear open the envelope.

Pulse racing, eyes brimming, Johnny swallowed hard before ripping the telegram apart. However, before he could unfold the note, Kitty tore it from his grasp. ‘Dad,’ she exclaimed through laboured breathing, ‘it just says his ship was torpedoed in the Atlantic last week and he’s missing. But we have hope because it doesn’t say that he is …’

Collapsing down on to a chair, Johnny knew that he should say to Kitty that shipwrecked sailors could face worse fates than being killed instantly. But had he the right to terrify her so? Could he really say to her that being flung into the wild freezing waters of the Atlantic Ocean, or finding yourself adrift in a lifeboat in the open, where death stole up on you slowly, were destinies far worse? Johnny’s thoughts then went to the many, too many, repaired and refitted ships that the yard had dealt with during this bloody awful war. In particular, he thought of the recent repairs they had carried out on HMS
Fame
. She had sustained unspeakable near-miss bomb damage to her side and, regrettably, a number of her young officers, who were unfortunate enough to be in the wardroom at the time, lost their lives. Young men like Bobby, with so much to live for, so much promise.
Why,
he asked himself,
are the ordinary people not able to say, ‘No, our sons are no longer cannon fodder?’
Why
is someone in Germany not pulling the rug from under Hitler? Surely,
he continued to argue with himself,
the hearts of the mothers in Germany are as sore wrung as ours when the telegrams arrive?

A long, long week passed ever so slowly for the family. All were in mourning for the loss of Bobby, except Kitty, who was adamant that she knew he had survived.
Somehow
, she convinced herself.
I just know that he and I are so close that if ever he was to pass from this world he would get a message to me.

The following Monday morning found Kate in the staff-room for her tea break. However, she was not drinking her tea; she just sat staring into space whilst continually turning and twisting a key in her hand. Gently yet firmly a hand covered hers and this action brought her back to reality.

‘Sorry, Mr Busek,’ she managed to stammer through her tears. ‘Was there something you wished to ask me?’

‘Yes,’ Hans replied, whilst he expertly plucked the key from her hand. ‘What is this key and why do you keep rolling it through your fingers?’

‘It’s the key for a granddaughter clock.’

‘I already know that. And I have also noted that you have never let go of it since the—’

‘Air raid, when my father’s clock, his pride and joy that he wound up and dusted every Sunday, was smashed to pieces when a bomb exploded on the Links.’ Kate paused to compose herself. ‘You see, Mr Busek, the reverberation of the blast shook our house so violently that the clock … crashed to the floor.’

Gushing tears were now running down Kate’s face, and Hans, handkerchief in hand, bent forward and tenderly wiped some of them away. ‘Now, now,’ he crooned, ‘why didn’t you have the clock repaired?’

‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ Kate blurted.

Embarrassed by Kate’s strident rebuke, Hans stepped back from her.

Ignorant of the distress that she had caused Hans she went on, ‘I would have had it restored but it was irreparable – do you hear – irreparable! Oh, why can’t you understand that all I could do was to pick up the bits and pieces and roll them all together in a bed sheet?’

‘That bad, was it?’ Hans replied pensively, before quickly adding, ‘but somehow I think that you kept all of the parts?’

Kate nodded. ‘Couldn’t part with them – no – I just couldn’t. So I stored them in a large suitcase under my bed.’

‘Good,’ Hans enthused. ‘Now if you will permit me I will come over to your house and look at the clock. It just might be that I will be able to do something with it.’

‘You?’ Kate rudely exclaimed. ‘And what would you know about repairing clocks?’

‘Everything,’ was Hans’s emphatic reply. ‘You see, Miss Anderson, back in Poland I was a master watch- and clockmaker. Then …’ Hans drew himself further away from Kate before he continued: ‘The war came, and in an air raid, I lost everything dear to me.’ Hans was now the one who was lost in a world of his own as he admitted to himself that, yes, it was all gone – smashed to smithereens – never to be put back together again …

Ghostly silence filled the room and a few minutes ticked slowly by whilst Hans was lost in his memories. Memories that were so painful to him that he wished he could suppress them forever.

Without warning Hans eventually clapped his hands and said, ‘Right, we have had enough of the sadness today. The past is past and we must work and prepare for a better future. Never give up hope about that, Miss Anderson. No. You see I know that no matter how black and thick the clouds are the sun always manages to struggle back through again – it has for me and I pray that it will do so for you too.’

Kate sniffed before she allowed a smile to lighten her face. ‘Hans,’ she whispered as she hoped that the smile signalled to him that she now valued him as a friend, ‘you are so like my niece, Kitty. She is the one who is so sure that my nephew, Bobby, will somehow have survived.’

Hans grinned before nodding a salute to her, then very quickly he lifted up his mug of steaming tea and slunk off to his cupboard under the stairs.

The news about Bobby’s ship had cast a gloom over Johnny Anderson’s household. Even Kitty, who refused to be anything but hopeful, was affected by the report and she had fallen behind with her household chores.

Looking out from the kitchen window, Kitty could see that the sun was shining brightly and a light breeze was blowing. It was, as her grandmother Jenny would say, ‘A fine drying day.’ Kitty noted that Mrs Dickson had seen the advantages of the weather. Already the old woman had washing hung up and dancing on the ropes in the back green. This sight spurred Kitty into action and an hour later she had a basket full of freshly laundered clothes ready for the outside clothes line.

Balancing the full wash basket on her right hip, and keeping hold of a truculent Rosebud with the other hand, she had just struggled down the stair and was turning to go out of the back door when the front door opened. Sensing the draught, Kitty turned to see who had come in. Immediately she let go of Rosebud’s hand and, without realising it, she allowed the wash basket to tumble from her grip.

The horror that had unnerved her was the sight of a telegraph boy who was squinting at the nameplate on the Fergusons’ door.

‘Oh no!’ Kitty screamed as she rushed forward to speak to the boy. ‘Please tell me that you haven’t brought a telegram for Dora Ferguson?’

‘I haven’t,’ was the lad’s quick retort.

‘Then for who?’

‘A Mr John Anderson!’

Before the lad could do anything Kitty had wrenched the telegram from his hand. And as her father was in Glasgow for the day, Kitty felt she was therefore entitled to open his mail and quickly ripped the envelope apart.

‘Look, look,’ she screamed, waving the telegram in the boy’s face, ‘he’s been found. He’s in a hospital but he’s alive!’ Kitty was now slumped at the boy’s feet and through her hysterics he could hear her say, ‘He’s alive, alive. Oh, Bobby, darling, Bobby, somehow I knew Mum would be looking out for you and she would send you back to us.’ Her voice stilled. Calm entered her soul as she accepted that to have lost him forever – never to be able to look on his face again, speak to him again – was beyond her contemplation.

Kitty’s cries had alerted Dora Ferguson, who emerged from her house and immediately asked, ‘What’s wrong? What’s going on?’

‘Dora,’ Kitty began, ‘my brother is alive. Alive, do you hear? And I must go to him.’

‘But where is he?’

Brandishing the telegram, Kitty sobbed, ‘In a small cottage hospital close to Liverpool.’

‘Will your dad be going with you?’

‘Dad …’ Kitty hesitated. ‘Isn’t it just like the blooming thing for him to be through in Glasgow helping with the signing up of the thousands of workers who are now joining the union?’

‘When will he be back, Kitty?’

‘Not till late, Dora.’

It was past ten o’clock in the evening when Johnny finally arrived home. From the pavement he could see that the house, and indeed the whole tenement, was correctly shrouded in darkness. But from the street he felt he could feel a sense of desertion emanating from his flat.

Ominous silence seemed to be echoing all around him. He shuddered as a feeling of pending gloom unnerved him. He tried to argue with himself that all was well within his home but the image of the bombed-out, now deserted buildings, and the misery that had been inflicted on the hard-working people of Glasgow, was still affecting him. Somehow as he lifted the latch and walked into the stairway he sensed that there was no welcoming life within his home.

Bounding up the stairs he was further overcome by a feeling of dread. The times they were living through were so violent, challenging and changeable that your own survival, or that of your loved ones, was not assured. Hadn’t the loss of Bobby brought him face to face with the fact that no one was promised tomorrow? And now with sheer panic swamping him he conceded that if there had been a raid tonight and he had lost any more of his children, he knew he would have been unable to face tomorrow.

Forcefully flinging open the door he yelled, ‘Kitty, Kitty, where are you?’ Only a deafening silence responded.

‘Johnny, Johnny,’ a familiar voice from behind him called.

He turned to be faced with Connie. ‘Where are my children?’ he demanded as he grasped her by the shoulders.

‘Rosebud and Davy are with your mother and—’

‘Has something happened to Jack or worse still Kitty?’

‘Jack – well, he might think something has happened to him at the rate Kitty dragged him away to catch a bus.’

‘A bus?’

‘Aye, they needed to catch a Corporation bus so that the two of them could catch the Liverpool express train from Princes Street station.’

‘Are you saying they are away to Liverpool by train?’ When Connie nodded, Johnny went on, ‘Has Kitty gone mad? Liverpool is getting plastered worse than we are!’

‘Aye, that’s true, Johnny, but when Kitty found out that Bobby was in a hospital there, well, wild horses wouldn’t have stopped her from getting to him.’

Johnny grabbed Connie’s head in his hands. ‘Are you saying my Bobby’s been found?’ he spluttered.

‘Aye,’ Connie replied through chattering teeth, ‘but before you think you can get to Liverpool tonight, the last train has gone. So, my bonnie lad, you’ll just have to content yourself until the morning.’

Johnny slumped. Unconsciously his hands then began to massage Connie’s cheeks.

Not wishing to break the magic of the moment she placed her hands over his. ‘But,’ she simpered sensuously, ‘if you’re nice to me I’ll heat you up some rabbit stew.’ Before she could go on Johnny seemed to come to his senses. His hands dropped to his sides and he stood back from her. Confused, she quickly added, ‘I would have offered you a bacon roll, but I know it’s against your principles to let a piece of black-market bacon pass over your lips.’

Johnny shrugged. ‘Rabbit stew’s more than fine.’

‘Right you are, I’ll be back over with it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

Connie had just left when Johnny checked that the blackout curtains were correctly closed before lighting the gaslight. Wearily, he sank down on his favourite big armchair and gave a long sigh. Wasn’t it just like the thing for the word to come about Bobby, for whom he had never stopped praying, when he was caught up in Glasgow! He had been so pleased with the way things were working out for the unions there. And indeed it was a measure of the esteem in which he was held that he had been asked to go through and do a bit of shop-steward training. Johnny really believed that at last the hoi polloi was gaining the courage to speak up in one voice and demand the better standard of living that was justly their due.

He laughed to himself as he acknowledged that trade union membership had grown to close on three million since the start of the war. Johnny believed this was in some measure due to the spread of recognition agreements in the vital industries. Other contributing factors were that the government did not wish the vital war work to be held up, so it openly denied contracts to firms who did not conform to the minimum standards demanded by the various trade unions. It also helped that Bevin was anxious to avoid the labour unrest experienced in the Great War and therefore he sought to promote conciliation rather than conflict – and these were words that anybody with anything to do with industrial relations in Leith knew were the bywords of Johnny and Jock. Strikes did occur but they were mainly in support of wage demands or better working conditions on the factory floors. As those who worked in both management and unions at the shipyards were anxious not to disrupt the crucial war effort, strikes were normally settled within hours. In other areas like coal mining and engineering some strikes became bitter and prolonged and ended up with mass prosecutions.