All that Jeannie McIver could see through the grimy pane of glass was a high brick wall. No ships, no river, not even a pair of passing feet, glimpsed from the worm’s eye view of the semi-basement room. Jumping down off the chair, she glared with exasperation at the ray of sunshine that had found its way through the small window and printed a bright square of light on the wooden floorboards. How typical that she should be cooped up in this dingy building on a day of summer sunshine! Tomorrow, her day off, it would probably be raining again.
The Annals of the Clydebank Shipyards 1900–1930 did nothing to improve her mood. Running her finger along the faded orange spines, she looked for the requested code, checking against the number on the card she had been handed. She slid out the bulky tome from between its companions and, taking a deep breath, blew a thick cloud of dust off it. The dust motes danced wildly in the shaft of sunlight and for a moment she watched, fascinated. Then, with a sigh, she tucked the book under her arm and walked slowly upstairs, leaving the frowsy atmosphere of the stack behind.
‘Thank you, Jean.’ Catherine Stewart held out her hands for the book and placed it on the counter. She looked at the girl over her spectacles. ‘You may go for lunch now.’
Jeannie’s spirits rose abruptly. ‘Thank you, Miss Stewart.’
‘Don’t be late back,’ the chief librarian added in a low voice.
‘I won’t.’ Jeannie grinned at her, made her way quickly through the door marked PRIVATE and retrieved from the cloakroom the packet of sandwiches that she had left there on her arrival at work that morning. Glancing at the clock in the entrance hall, she burst through the swing doors into the sunshine and gratefully inhaled the warm air. She ran down the stone steps to the pavement and made her way, half skipping, half walking to the river.
There was no doubting the fact that Jean McIver had done well to get her job in the Clydebank Library. As jobs went, it was interesting and she at least had the chance to meet the general public… even if her attempts at conversation were curtailed by Catherine Stewart’s insistence on silence at all times, except for the unavoidable negotiation of lending and return of books. Jeannie had been there for almost two years and worked her way up from tea-maker and general dogsbody to her current position of library assistant. There was every possibility that, with good behaviour, she would continue to progress, although she was unsure whether she enjoyed the job that much. Not on a day like today, at any rate, when there was nowhere to be except outside, making the most of this spell of good weather. For who knew how long it would last?
The Clyde slid westward wide and grey. Here there was no scenic view of sparkling water reflecting the summer greenery of trees, no wooden benches on which to sit and enjoy a sandwich, however rushed. It was the cranes and sheds of the shipyard that could be seen reflected in the murky river and the hammering and shouts of the men at work that blotted out any birdsong. The excitement of life in the city eclipsed, at least for the moment, memories of her childhood in the countryside.
Jeannie placed her lunch on the top of a wall and, finding a foothold, swung herself up to sit as comfortably as was possible. With a quick flick of her head, she encouraged several unruly curls of hair off her face, which she turned upwards to the sun. She closed her eyes and felt the delicious warmth on her skin. Her mother would be askance at this behaviour, which would, without doubt, result in even more freckles than were already apparent across her nose and cheeks, while her father, could he see her, would be shocked at his daughter’s displaying herself so brazenly in public. Jeannie, however, was unperturbed as she sat soaking up the sun.
The meagre filling of potted meat that held together the thick slices of bread in her packed lunch looked unappetising, but Jeannie was hungry after the long morning’s work. She took a disinterested bite, reflecting that if she was still with her parents, there would at least be a greater variety and an improved quality in her lunchtime fare, her father’s parishioners taking care to make up in kind for their imagined neglect of the Almighty. But this small advantage would be nothing compared with the drawbacks of living at home. Jeannie drew her skirt up just above her knees and chuckled, imagining her father’s look of horror. She shrugged. That was how God had made her… so her father, with his unshakable belief in God’s predetermined plan, should have no reason to complain.
Swivelling her body so she could see along the waterway, she watched the cargo ships edge slowly past. Jeannie had only once been on the river, the previous August. She had been lodging with her aunt and uncle for a year and on the bank holiday her uncle had taken them on a pleasure boat. She remembered how crowded the river had been, with everyone out to have a good time, and a thrill of excitement ran through her again at the memory. There were no pleasure boats out today – and if all this talk of war were to be believed, there might not be for a while. With a sigh, she eased herself off the wall and, with less enthusiasm than at the start of her lunch break, made her way back with reluctant steps to the library
The afternoon passed even more slowly. Outside, the sun continued to shine, but inside, the heat was oppressive and the atmosphere airless. Customers were few. Unsurprisingly it appeared people preferred the glory of the summer day to being cloistered in the musty-smelling corridors of aging books.
While Catherine Stewart was having her tea break, Jeannie sat at the desk, feeling important. She fiddled with the date stamp, printing patterns onto the blotter beneath, until she realised that Miss Stewart would be sure to upbraid her for wasting ink. She tidied the long rows of library tickets in their wooden drawers. She sorted into piles the government pamphlets on the counter. The pile had gone down quickly at first as customers, anxious to help should war arrive on their doorstep, took a leaflet home with their pile of books. Now, though, those that remained were dusty and dog-eared. She picked one up. It listed the variety of jobs a woman could do, should the worst happen. A woman could join the armed forces, she could nurse, work in a factory or on the land. All the jobs sounded more exciting than being a librarian.
*
‘Letter for you, Jeannie.’ Her aunt came out of the kitchen when she heard the front door slam. ‘It’s from your father.’ She held out the white envelope to her niece and Jeannie recognised her father’s neat sloping handwriting. ‘I’ve got one as well.’
‘From my father?’
‘Aye. But I’ll let you read yours to find out what he has to say. Tea in fifteen minutes.’
‘Thanks, Auntie Christine. I’ll just go and change into some shorts. I’m too hot.’
Jeannie threw the letter onto her bed and stripped off her skirt and high-necked blouse. In the bathroom, she ran a basin of cold water and splashed her face over and over again to cool it and rid her skin of some of the dust of the city. She returned to her room and opened a drawer, fishing in its depths for her shorts. They were an item of clothing she had had little use for until now, the weather being almost invariably wet and cool. Lastly, she unclipped her hair and shook out the fiery curls. Sitting down at the dressing table, she looked critically at her reflection and gave a slow smile.
Tomorrow she was going to a dance with Moira. Before that they were catching the train to Edinburgh to buy a new frock each. There was a dance most Saturdays… but this time she was looking forward to seeing a boy on whom she had first set eyes at the end of the previous Saturday evening. She had gone to get her coat and had nearly collided with him as she left the cloakroom.
‘Good to meet you too, hen!’ he had joked. ‘How about the same time next week… or maybe a bit earlier, else there’ll be no time to dance?’ And with a wink, he was out of the door.
Taking a brush from the dressing table, Jeannie set about her hair with vigour, causing it to stand out like a cloud around her pale face, the cheekbones littered with freckles. Tomorrow she would wear it like this for the dance, even if it wasn’t fashionable. It was, after all, her crowning glory. Now, though, it was much too hot. Catching it behind, she tied a ribbon around it and, suddenly hungry, jumped up to go and join her aunt and uncle for tea. As she passed the bed, she saw her father’s letter still unopened on the eiderdown.
She was about to leave it till later when she remembered that her aunt had also received one. At the very least she would want to compare news, and perhaps there was something of importance that they both needed to know about. With an impatient sigh, she flopped down on the bed and tore open the envelope.
The Manse,
Dalvane.
Wednesday, 19th July
My dear Jean,
I trust this letter finds you well. Your mother and I are both in good health, thank the Lord, though somewhat alarmed at the likelihood, indeed the inevitability, of war.
It is for this reason that I have written to you particularly today. After due prayer and consideration, we think it is in your best interests to return home. It is likely that when war is declared, one of the first targets of the enemy will be the ports of Great Britain and, in particular, our own port of Glasgow, where so many fine ships are made. Your life would then be in unnecessary danger.
I have written also to your aunt, to advise her of this decision. I have also extended the hand of brotherly love to her and offered a welcome to her and Uncle Cameron, should they wish at any time to come and stay.
I realise that this will mean you giving up a job you enjoy, though hopefully it will not be for long. I am sure that a word spoken in the right circles will secure you a place here in the village library.
I would therefore be glad if you would speak to Miss Stewart, advising her of our decision and terminating your employment as soon as the permitted period of notice has expired.
Assuring you of my fatherly love at all times,
Duncan McIver.
Screwing up the sheet of paper, Jeannie threw it into the far corner of the room. She was trembling with anger.
‘How dare he?’ she spat. ‘How dare he tell me what to do? I’m old enough to make up my own mind. He never changes. Well, I’m not going and that’s that!’ Sticking out her chin in defiance, she flounced down the stairs, trying to blink back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
Her aunt glanced at her niece as she entered the dining room and pressed her lips together in resignation. Christine was, in appearance, much like Jeannie’s father, sharing the high forehead and prominent cheekbones that had been a hallmark of the McIvers for generations. But there the similarity ended, for Duncan McIver was dogmatic and autocratic. Christine, four years his junior, had often been at the sharp end of his overbearing nature, as they were growing up. It was possibly because of this that she was sympathetic to those who suffered in a similar way.
‘You’ve read your letter then?’ she said quietly, setting down a plate of soup in front of her distressed niece.
‘I’m not going back. He’s no right to tell me what to do.’ Her eyes flashed defiantly. ‘I like it here and I’m staying… that’s if you’ll let me.’ She looked up hopefully at her aunt.
‘Of course I’ll let you stay. But your father does have a point. He’s got your best interests at heart and this is his way of showing it.’
‘But you don’t think it right that he should make me leave my job, do you, Auntie? I love working at the library,’ she said with more conviction than she felt.
‘Well, Jeannie, what he says is true.’
Her uncle, who had stayed silent till now, intervened. ‘If war comes, then the docks are likely to be the first to be attacked. If you can go somewhere where there is less danger, it makes good sense to do so.’
‘But you’ve got to stay here, haven’t you?’
‘Aye, my work is here, so I’ve no choice. But your father has been kind enough to invite us to stay, should the worst happen.’ He gave a slight cough and glanced at his wife. ‘Your aunt can, of course, go and stay with him any time she wishes.’
‘Well, I don’t wish,’ Christine replied emphatically. ‘My place is here with you. Anyway, how do you think you’d manage without me? And as for staying with my brother…’ She shook her head and sighed, looking across at her niece. ‘Look, Jeannie, why don’t you go home and talk to them. Explain person to person how you feel. It’s always better than a letter. You’ve got the weekend off. Go tomorrow, why don’t you?’
Jeannie looked doubtful. ‘I’ll go if you think it would help. But I know what my father’s like.’
‘So do I, Jeannie, believe me. Now have your tea before it goes cold, and then I’ll help you to pack a bag.’
Jeannie took a couple of spoonfuls of soup and pushed the plate away from her. The thought of the coming conflict had replaced all rumblings of hunger with a sick apprehension.
It wasn’t until she was climbing the stairs to her room that she realised she would have to miss the dance the following evening. Now she would never know whether the invitation to dance was real or merely a jest. Trust her father to interfere in her life, even from so far away.
Determined to stand on her own two feet, she slammed the door behind her, dragged her weekend bag off the wardrobe and started to stuff it full of clothes.