When the Lights Come on Again (11 page)

‘Well, brothers are like that. Speaking of which, are you coming to the exhibition with Eddie and me next Saturday?’

The Empire Exhibition had opened in Bellahouston Park on the south side of Glasgow in May. Everyone was talking about it. A showcase for the commercial, industrial and cultural achievements of the countries which made up the British Empire, it was also designed to be a splash of colour in a Scotland beginning to pull itself out of the Depression, a symbol of confidence in the future.

It had proved to be a grand way to inaugurate the reign of the new monarch. It had been widely feared that George VI, taking over the throne two years before in the unfortunate circumstances following the abdication of his brother, wasn’t up to the job. For one thing, he was known to be extremely shy. There were reports of a paralyzing stammer.

However, with his Queen at his side, the King had come to Glasgow to perform the opening ceremony of the exhibition. He had made a fine speech, marred by not one hint of a stammer.

It was Helen who had first raised the subject with Liz, telling her that Woolie’s had a whole counter full of exhibition souvenirs, but the summer was wearing on and they still hadn’t been. Liz thought she knew why. Helen’s next question confirmed her suspicions.

‘Do you know how much it costs to get in?’

‘A shilling,’ said Liz, wondering if she dared offer to pay for both of them. Probably not. To her relief, the little frown furrowing Helen’s forehead disappeared.

‘Oh, that’s not too bad. I can manage that. But would you want to go to one of the restaurants while we’re there? I hear they’re gey expensive.’

‘No,’ said Liz decisively, having already anticipated the question and rehearsed her answer to it. She would actually have loved to have tried one of the various eating places at the exhibition. They’d all been written up in the newspapers. The Atlantic Restaurant sounded wonderful, but far too expensive. Her grandfather had laughingly shown her a cartoon entitled ‘The man who asked for a pie and chips at the Atlantic Restaurant’, the joke being that it was far too grand an establishment to serve that kind of fare. Liz wouldn’t have minded splashing out at one of the others, though.

The Treetops Restaurant sounded intriguing, with real trees growing up through the floor, but Liz knew how short of money Helen was. Any of the restaurants would be too expensive for her.

‘Apparently there’s lots of refreshment tents where the prices are very reasonable,’ she told her cheerfully, ‘and some of the pavilions have free samples of their country’s produce: fruit juice and cheese and that kind of thing. We thought we’d do that if we got hungry.’

Surely Helen wouldn’t see anything of charity in that? Apparently she didn’t. ‘That sounds like a great idea,’ she said.

‘I thought I might wear my houndstooth check costume to the exhibition,’ Liz said innocently.

‘The oatmealy one with the nipped-in waist and the peplum?’

‘Yes. With my cream blouse with the big cutwork collar that sits outside the jacket. What do you think?’

Helen nodded consideringly. ‘Yes, that’ll add the right touch of femininity. And your brown hat with the wee red brim?’

‘You think that’s the best one?’

‘Definitely.’

‘What about you, Helen?’

‘Well, I havenae got that much choice, have I? I’ll just wear my best blouse and my old coat and hat.’ Her eyes narrowed as she realized what Liz was up to. ‘No, thank you.’

‘I didn’t say a word,’ protested Liz.

‘No, but you were about to,’ said Helen sternly. ‘And don’t offer me the georgette dress again either. I’ve told you already. I’ll maybe buy it off you, but I’m not taking it for nothing - and I don’t have enough spare cash at the moment. What did it cost you again?’

Swiftly deducting ten shillings, Liz quoted her a price.

‘And the rest,’ said Helen laconically. ‘You really shouldnae tell lies, Elizabeth MacMillan. You’re no good at it.’

Liz looked at her with affectionate exasperation. ‘Och, Helen! You know I don’t really want any money for it at all. All it’s doing is hanging in my wardrobe attracting the moths. You’re so stubborn!’

‘Well,’ said Helen, her expression softening into an equally affectionate smile, ‘if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is.’ She turned to go back into the close. ‘Safe home, now. Oh,’ she added, suddenly remembering. ‘Ma told me to say you’re welcome here any time. You don’t need to wait for an invite.’

‘That’s very kind of her. I love visiting your family.’ Liz hesitated. ‘I’d really like to have you round to my house—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Helen immediately. ‘I know your daddy wouldn’t exactly be keen on the idea. And you know my lot love having visitors. Don’t worry about it,’ she said again.

Liz couldn’t help worrying about it. The Gallaghers had given her such a warm welcome. It would have been fine to have had Helen over for the evening. They could have gone into Liz’s room and gossiped and tried on clothes and generally set the world to rights.

But it was out of the question. She’d told her mother about her new friend, but she had carefully forgotten to mention her last name. She hadn’t spoken about Helen at all in front of her father.

She’d told Eddie, of course, giving him Helen’s full name and watching with grim amusement as the prejudices with which both of them had been brought up warred with his new-found love for all mankind - black, white, Jewish, Mohammedan - even Irish Catholic. His egalitarian principles had won the day.

Naturally, when the visit to the Empire Exhibition had first been discussed, Eddie had lectured Liz on the morally indefensible nature of the British Empire. Visiting the exhibition did not in any way imply that he, Edward MacMillan, approved of the iniquitous system by which Great Britain kept half the countries of the world in subjugation.

Liz told him gravely that she understood this perfectly, and Eddie, equally as grave, told her that he would be delighted to escort her and Miss Gallagher to the Empire Exhibition next Saturday.

Nine

Bustling about making a pot of tea for her returning daughter, Sadie MacMillan listened with interest as Liz told her what had happened at the class that evening. Eddie, sitting at the kitchen table reading a history textbook, was ostentatiously keeping out of the conversation.

‘And we’re going to have this thing soon - they call it an exercise - where we’ll get to practise everything we’ve learned - dressing wounds and bandaging and all that.’ The words came tumbling out in her enthusiasm.

‘It’ll be on a Saturday in August and we’ve to ask all our friends and families if they’ll be volunteer casualties for us. They wouldn’t have to stay for the whole day - even half an hour would be helpful, Mrs Galbraith says, because that would make it like a real emergency, where you don’t know what’s going to be coming at you next.’

Liz paused at last to draw breath. ‘Would you maybe consider being one of our volunteers, Ma? You could ask Mrs Crawford to come with you.’

She looked expectantly up at Sadie, who was setting a cup and saucer in front of her. Liz was doing everything she could to encourage the friendship with the next-door neighbour, although sometimes she feared she was fighting a losing battle against her mother’s shyness and reserve.

Sadie was frowning, not wanting to disappoint her daughter. ‘I’m not sure, Lizzie...’

‘Oh, go on, Ma. Helen’s family are going to come. Well, her brothers, anyway.’

That would raise another problem. If the Gallagher boys came to the exercise she couldn’t expect them to change their surname to something more neutral just for her. Her mother would find out and she would have to ask her to keep that secret as well. Liz knew that was an unfair burden to lay on her. The alternative was a confrontation with her father ... although that was going to have to come sooner or later anyway.

Liz smiled up at her mother. She would cross that bridge when she came to it. It would do Sadie good to get out of the house. That was the important thing.

‘Go on, Ma,’ she said again. ‘You’d enjoy it.’

Eddie coughed and turned another page of his book. He definitely wouldn’t be one of the volunteer casualties. No doubt he would consider that as participating in the capitalist war machine.

‘Well,’ said Sadie, although she still looked very doubtful, ‘if it would help you and your friends, Lizzie...’

‘It really would, Ma.’

Eddie didn’t quite make tut-tut noises, but he wasn’t far off it. Liz was beginning to find his silent disapproval profoundly irritating. She was distracted from it by a sudden brainwave.

‘You could think about joining the Red Cross, Ma. Coming along to the class.’

‘Och,’ Sadie said dismissively, slipping the tea cosy over the pot and setting it on its stand, ‘you wouldn’t want an old wifie like me there.’

‘Ma,’ said Liz in exasperation, ‘you’re hardly an old wifie - and anyway, there’s all ages at this thing. I told you, Helen and I had a real hard job persuading them to take us on - they thought we were too young. They want older people too.’

Sadie’s face lit up.

‘I’d like fine to do something like that - something interesting, and useful, too.’ She shook her head. ‘But no, I’m too old for it’

‘Ma, Mrs Simpson was there tonight. She’s going to join the class.’

That stopped Sadie in her tracks. Even Eddie looked up from his over-studious scrutiny of his book. ‘Nan Simpson?’ he said. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

Liz shook her head. ‘No, it’s the God’s honest truth.’

Sadie laughed. ‘Fancy her having the brass neck to show her face at something like that after the way she curses at Tam.’ Her face was alive with amusement.

The three of them turned at the sound of the front door opening. Even before William MacMillan entered the kitchen, the animation which had shone in his wife’s face only thirty seconds before had faded.

It was like a light going out, as if the leerie had been along on his morning round to extinguish the gas mantles. My God, thought Liz, watching it happen, now she really does look like an old wifie. And yet, less than a minute ago ...

‘Will you have a wee cup of tea, William?’ Sadie asked anxiously.  She always sounded anxious when she spoke to her husband.

‘Aye. I will that.’

Liz blinked. His acceptance had sounded almost friendly. He too normally had a special tone of voice when he spoke to his wife: one of exaggerated exasperation. Tonight, however, there was an air of suppressed excitement about him.

‘Well, Lizzie? What would you say if I told you that I’ve very recently been entrusted with some very good news?’

‘I’d want to know what it was, Father,’ she said politely. That seemed to be the answer that was called for.

‘Well,’ he said again, ‘if your mother will stop fussing and pour us all a cup of tea, I’ll tell you.’

‘Aye, William. Right away, William.’

Liz suppressed the bubble of irritation at the deference in her mother’s voice. Couldn’t she stand up to him? Just once? If Liz herself were married to a man like her father, she’d pour the blasted tea all over his head - leaves and all. That would set his gas at a peep.

‘Something amusing you, Lizzie?’

‘No, Father,’ she said hurriedly.

‘So, what have you been doing this evening?’

‘Oh ... nothing much.’ Nervously, she waited for him to quiz her further, but he didn’t, turning to look across the table at Eddie.

‘How about my son and heir? I hope you haven’t been misspending your youth tonight?’