The Good Provider (7 page)

Dunnet railway station, like all the local halts between the waters of the Girvan and the Doon, was no more than a ticket office and a brace of platforms linked by an iron bridge. Kirsty had been on the platform only once before, years ago, when Mrs Ashton-Clarke had brought her from the Baird Home to Hawkhead. She had been so petrified then that the journey seemed like a half-remembered nightmare. Today, however, with Craig’s arm about her, clear at last of the oppression of the rugged hills, Kirsty’s detachment was supplanted by an anxious anticipation of what was to come.

The iron tracks, glinting in the wan sunlight, converged away to the south. She could just see the engine, a spot of colour with a thread of smoke attached to it. A signal clanked and nodded, making her start. The railway clerk – father of Netta Deans with whom she had once shared a desk at Dunnet school – emerged from his cubbyhole and, hands on hips, looked up and down the track, checked his watch, put on his hat and took his stance at the foot of the bridge by the little green gate that led out into the lane.

Craig had set down the canvas grip and had taken his arm from about her waist, had left her alone while he went into the cubicle to buy the tickets. He did not appear to be excited. His expression was grave, a tiny furrow creasing his brow as he watched the train approach. He had not put on his Sunday-best suit but had changed his trousers and had replaced his working-boots with shoes. He might have been travelling no further than the cattle mart at Cawl or the seedsman’s store in Maybole except that she was with him, the lass from Hawkhead, a fact that made it strange and remarkable.

Suddenly Craig said, ‘He asked where we were goin’.’

‘Who did?’ said Kirsty.

‘Mr Deans, when I bought the tickets.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him we were just goin’ to Ayr an’ had met by accident on the road.’

‘But are the tickets not for Glasgow, Craig?’

Confused, Craig took the two billets from his pocket and squinted at them. ‘God, so they are! I asked him for two to Glasgow, no return. At the same time, in the same breath, I told him we were goin’ to Ayr. He must think me a right damned fool.’

‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks, does it?’ said Kirsty. ‘We’re not likely to be seein’ him again.’

‘I suppose we’re not.’ Craig paused. ‘Aye, damn him! Let him spread what tales he likes. We’ll be safe out o’ harm’s way in Glasgow.’

Silent again, Craig watched smoke thicken and plume across the fields. The vibration of the engine’s wheels was audible now and its whistle screamed in the distance.

Craig said, ‘Comes up from Stranraer, this train. I’ve never been to Stranraer, have you?’

‘I’ve never even been in Ayr.’

‘I wonder what Glasgow’s like.’

‘I’ve heard it’s big.’

‘Aye,’ said Craig. ‘It’ll be big all right.’

As it came closer it seemed to Kirsty that the train would not fit between the platforms, that it would grind its way up the ramp and fall upon her. Steam hissed and, even before the train halted, a carriage door slammed like a gunshot. She clung to Craig’s arm, trying not to flinch, clung tightly to him as if she feared that he would vanish in the smoke and steam and she would be left alone there, foolish and abandoned, when the train pulled away again.

Craig propelled her forward. She glimpsed glass and painted wood. She smelled the choking cindery smell of smoke and the hot smell of grease. She saw a brass handle, heard Craig say, ‘Open it, daftie. Open it quick.’ She pushed down the handle. The door swung out towards her. The canvas grip nudged her from the rear. She climbed up and into the carriage, into the odour of stale tobacco smoke and dirty plush stuff. The compartment was empty, no larger, she thought, than a pony stall at Bankhead. Craig heaved the grip on to one of the netted shelves. He peeled off his jacket, unstrapped the window, let it rattle wide open and leaned out.

Seated, breathless, Kirsty stared from the window at Mr Deans who seemed oblivious to the drama that was taking place only yards from him, who would be there when the train pulled out, when they were gone, who would be there again tomorrow and the next day and for ever.

‘Nobody else got on,’ said Craig. ‘Just us.’

The engine jerked. Kirsty was thrown forward as if a hand had shoved her. Couplings clanked and clinked, stiffening. There was a great bellow of steam and, unexpectedly, the train was slipping slowly forwards, Dunnet station sliding neatly away from her, not she from it. Craig continued to lean out of the window.

Kirsty’s anxiety congealed around the fact that she had read of terrible accidents on railway trains. She tugged at his jacket and begged him to come inside before his head got knocked off. He grinned, rattled up the window and threw himself down on the seat by her side, sending up a whirl of stale dust that hung like chaff in the streaky sunlight.

‘God, you’re bonnie,’ Craig said.

Kirsty was both frightened and flattered by his sudden change of mood. She had never been alone with Craig before, not indoors, not in a close and intimate place like this. Now she had committed herself to him. She was his. He could do what he liked with her. But his compliments soothed her. He had never seemed more handsome for spring weather had tanned his face and hands, long brown hands, not squat and gnarled like Mr Clegg’s.

‘Are you blushin’, love?’ he asked.

The carriage rattled and rocked. Green landscapes streamed past the windows. Kirsty had a vague impression of loamy fields, of trees, a steep bank of charred grass that duly obliterated the long view and carried the compartment into shadow.

‘Come here,’ said Craig.

He put both arms about her and lifted her bodily on to his knee. Kirsty uttered a gasp just before his mouth pressed down on hers. Leaning back against the dirty plush, he cradled her. He put his hand upon her breast. He kissed her with more urgency than tenderness and, when he pulled away, left her gasping.

Once more he came down upon her, pushing her along the seat, almost smothering her. He brought up his leg and crooked it about her ankles and stroked and fondled her breasts through her bodice.

She had been kissed by Craig before, had been touched by him in the green lanes about Bankhead but then it had seemed daring and childish. For an instant she felt shut off from him, separate and alone. She put her fist against his shoulder. She did not quite punch him but the gesture was sufficient to tell him that she did not want to be taken roughly.

‘Wait, Craig. Please wait.’

He gave a growling sort of sigh and released her, let her sit up.

Craig was no bully, no brute. He realised that he had hurt her and said, ‘I – I don’t know what came over me.’

‘It’ll be all right between us, dearest,’ Kirsty told him. ‘But later, not now.’

Once more he apologised. He looked so sad and solemn that Kirsty lifted herself against him and kissed him upon the lips, then she laid her head against his shoulder and let him stroke her hair while they stared, together, at the changing vistas that lay between the railway and the sea.

Gloomy old Saint Andrew, leaning over an X-shaped cross, peered grimly down the staircase at Kirsty and Craig.

At first Kirsty had thought that the saint was part of a tall window and had been amazed to find such a thing inside an ordinary house. Soon, though, she realised that it could not be a window for it had grown dark outside and the painting was lit, albeit dimly, from behind.

She remained fascinated by it. He was such an old, old chap, Saint Andrew, and so untidy, with straggling hair, a long unkempt beard and a robe that looked as if it could do with a good scrub. From the ground at his feet nettles sprouted – perhaps they were meant to be thistles – and a lumpy blue-black rain cloud compressed his silvery halo. His eyes were the sharpest part of the portrait. Red and piercing they glared straight at Kirsty so that she could not shake the feeling that it was Saint Andrew who was judging them and not Mrs Agnes Frew.

If she had not been so exhausted Kirsty might have given Craig a sign that this place made her uncomfortable and that she would prefer to find another less genteel lodging for their first night together. She kept still, though, because she was afraid that Craig would take her at her word and continue his search for a boarding-house all night long. Hour upon hour they had tramped Glasgow’s streets, moving away from the proximity of the glass-roofed cathedral of St Enoch’s railway station, across Argyle Street and, left, along Bothwell Street and eventually into St Vincent Street.

Kirsty had only known where she was by observing the name-plates at corners for Craig did not see fit to inform her of their destination, if he had one. Kirsty had been dazed, not enthralled, by the size of the city. She had been deafened, choked and generally jostled and had had no opportunity to pause before the great gaslit stores, the ‘Bonanza’ sales, window displays of incredible richness and variety.

Every conceivable commodity was for sale in Glasgow, weird and wonderful objects as well as food and drink and clothing. Corsets, artificial limbs, anchors, metal chimney cowls were all shown off behind glass, like treasures in a museum. Meat by the ton and beer and spirits by the gallon, gaudy hoardings and posters for theatre shows, craft shops exhibiting violins and bath taps, cabinets and laces; Kirsty could not take in a tenth of it all as she dragged along by Craig’s side on his tour of hotels and boarding-houses.

He would pause on the pavement outside an establishment, study its tariff board and dinner menu, complain about the price and lead Kirsty away before she had a chance to offer an opinion. She did not know what rate was expensive, what was cheap. It was not her money that would pay for their room and board. Craig had eyes only for notices that offered
Rooms
. But he rejected each and every one of the accommodations with a shake of the head, and went on, lugging the canvas grip and holding Kirsty by the arm. It grew dark. Dusk accumulated in the smoke, settled over the long streets and roadways. Pedestrian traffic on the pavements grew heavier. Gas-lamp lighters trooped about with long poles on their shoulders and brought a golden glow to the closes and the lanes. On Craig went, dourly, until St Vincent Street had been left behind and they were tramping along Dumbarton Road.

At length Kirsty put her foot down. She stopped dead in her tracks, like Nero.

‘Craig Nicholson, I’m starved,’ she said.

‘Oh! Aye, I’m hungry myself.’

‘Can we not find somethin’ to eat in this town?’

He frowned. Realising that Craig would be quite incapable of making up his mind which tea-room, restaurant or pie-shop should have their custom, she grabbed him by the arm and whisked him into the first place that advertised
Sit Down Suppers
and from whose doorway wafted a delicious effluvium of pan fat.

It was hardly the Grand Hotel. Four or five wooden tables and a dozen wooden chairs, no customers; the man in a dirty apron who emerged from behind a curtain in the rear of the shop did not exactly brim with welcomes. He told them what there was to eat in a dialect so coarse that it was all Craig and Kirsty could do to make sense of it.

The choice of fare was strictly limited but Kirsty was so hungry that a dish of fried haddock, boiled potatoes and white beans seemed like a royal feast, a cup of black-brewed tea like finest champagne. She concentrated on appeasing her appetite while Craig ate with an air of distraction and gazed out of the window over the wooden half-partition.

‘What are you lookin’ for, Craig?’

‘I think we’ve come west.’

‘West?’

‘Do you not remember Mr Douglas?’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Did you not go to Sunday School at Bankhead kirk?’

‘You know I didn’t. I wasn’t allowed.’

‘Aye, that’s right. Well, Mr Douglas was my Sunday School teacher. He told us all about Glasgow. He used to come up here for prayer meetin’s an’ Bible study. He said the nicest part o’ the city was the west end. Told us about this place he stayed in.’

‘How long ago was this, Craig?’

‘Nine years, ten maybe.’

‘Perhaps it’s changed since then.’

‘Nah. It would be the place for us, if I could find it.’

‘What was the name o’ the street, where Mr Douglas stayed?’

‘Nineteen was the number. Funny me rememberin’ that.’

‘An’ the name o’ the street?’ Kirsty prompted.

‘Walbrook Street. Aye, that’s it.’

‘But where
is
Walbrook Street?’

‘Somewhere near here,’ Craig said. ‘I think.’

It did not occur to Kirsty any more than it did to Craig that they might dare to become passengers upon a municipal horse-tram or even to hire a cab to drive them to the destination that had become so obsessively fixed in Craig’s mind.

Kirsty said, ‘Look, you’d better ask somebody. It’s gettin’ late. We might be miles from Walbrook Street.’

‘Good idea, Kirsty,’ Craig said. ‘But who can I ask?’

‘Ask the man when he comes for the money.’

In spite of his apparent truculence the man from behind the curtain turned out to be amiable and helpful. He led Craig out on to the pavement and, observed by half a dozen small boys who seemed to find the scene entertaining, pointed out directions with a great many zig and zags and rolling motions of his fat hands.