In Loving Memory (14 page)

Lara’s Story

Chapter 1

1839

Lara Bell dried off her hands and gave a sigh of relief that for the moment at least she and Lizzie, the skivvy, had cleared away the last of the breakfast dishes from her upstairs employers and their house-guests. She looked down at her hands and then recalling in vivid detail the events of the previous evening, suddenly she felt dirty, soiled and in desperate need to wash her hands again and again. She was completing this ritual for about the seventh time when the voice of the housekeeper caused Lara to raise her head.

“Oh sorry, Mistress Adams, what did you say?”

The tight-lipped housekeeper tutted.

“I said and I will say it again ... it looks as if Cook is not giving you enough work to keep you busy. The duties of an assistant cook are many and varied, but they do not include time and energy devoted exclusively to your own toilette. Do I make myself clear?”

Lara mumbled an apology.

Mrs Adams gave her a long hard look, then swept her officious way out of the kitchen. No sooner had she gone than Cook beckoned Lara across.

“Right, my girl and just what was all that about?”

Lara could feel her lower lip tremble and tears sprang to her eyes.

Seeing this, Mrs Frame, whose vast experience of life and a soft heart was well hidden in her buxom body at once said, “A cup of tea that’s what we both need. Lara, fill the kettle, then tell me what ails you this morning, for goodness sake, for I know there’s more to it than just another ticking off from our high-n-mighty housekeeper. And don’t deny it, for I know I’m right.”

Lara nodded even as she wondered how much or how little of her problem she should reveal. Then once started on her story she found that somehow the words tumbled out, almost of their own volition. When she finished speaking, a silence fell between them, the only sounds being the bubbling of the soup pot on the hob and the clink of a spent coal as it hit the ashcan.

Finally Mrs Frame leant forward, looked first to the left, then to the right of her shoulder and having ascertained that no-one else was in the kitchen, she said, “Now let me get this straight ... you’re saying that one of the houseguests ... not to put too fine a point on it ... tried to force himself on you?”

Lara could feel the hot colour flood her cheeks, even at the very mention of the event, the vile event, which had caused her a sleepless night of tossing and turning.

She nodded and Cook went on, “But listen, Lara, I don’t understand, you’re downstairs here in the kitchen, you have no contact with them upstairs, not even as if you were a parlour maid.”

“That’s true enough. But young Lizzie was still up to the elbows in dirty pots last night so I went out to the middens. One of the guests was standing nearby in the yard, taking the night air, it was moonlight, he saw me ... and for all I know mibbe he thought with me being at the middens that I was rubbish as well, fair game, ye might say. Anyway, he walked over to me and ...”

Another silence in which both women had their own mental image of what had happened, then Lara said, “But ye see my Mammy, she aye warned me well, why I don’t know – it aye seemed tae me she had a real bee in her bonnet aboot it – but before I ever came into service, even those years ago as a kitchen skivvy she was forever giving me a real old lecture about it, told me again and again ... never, never, ever let house guests, drunk or otherwise, have their way with you.”

Mrs Frame frowned. “So what exactly happened tae you last night, what really is it that ye’re saying Lara?”

Lara took a deep breath “I fought back. I still had the rubbish container in my hand, I had yon big enamel bucket in my hand and the very minute he came anywhere near me, I whacked him with it, hard as I could.”

Mrs Frame sighed. “So if ye defended yersel tae that extent, it would seem tae me that, except in yer ain vivid imagination, nothing bad really happened tae you. That being the case it seems tae me ye’re still pure as the driven snow. Pity ye hadnae telt me that at the beginning of yer long story, ye could have saved us both a bit of time and worry. Anyway, my best advice tae you noo, is put the whole sorry business oota yer heid and if anythin like that should ever happen tae ye again, one thing’s sure ... at least ye know ye’re a dab hand wi a big enamel bucket for a weapon. Noo, can we get back tae work?”

Chapter 2

With her heart lightened by having shared her shameful secret and worries, Lara spent the rest of that morning in going about her kitchen duties with a vigour and enthusiasm she knew full well she had previously lacked. She was up to the arms in potato-peelings when the parlour maid stuck her head in the doorway and called out, “Lara, the Mistress wants to see you upstairs in the drawing-room and she said now ... so best be quick.”

Lara and Mrs Frame cast meaningful looks at each other. Having dried her hands, smoothed back her flyaway hair tidily into the mobcap and patted down her apron front, Lara left the kitchen at high speed.

What now? she wondered.

With Lara standing head-bowed before her employer, the latter lost no time in addressing the matter in hand.

“Right, Bell, Mrs Adams tells me she has been dissatisfied with your work of recent weeks.”

Not knowing whether she was supposed, expected even, to say ‘yes or ‘no’ to this barbed comment, Lara took the coward’s way out and mumbled a non-committal, “Sorry, Madam, sorry.”

Mrs Knight frowned. “Sorry is all very well, easily said but I’m afraid that simply will not do. Had it been the quality of your work alone under discussion and given that my excellent cook is still training you, I would, of course, have been prepared to give you another chance.”

Lara looked up hopefully and was totally unprepared for what her employer said next.

“It is this other matter, this very serious accusation against you that means I must dismiss you from my employ and even more importantly and with even greater urgency from the sanctity of my home.”

Lara could feel her eyes widen in surprise.

“Sorry Madam ... but I do not understand ... an accusation you say, a serious accusation ... but see me, I havenae did nothin bad against nobody ...” Lara let her words trail off as she thought, nothin bad against nobody? Haud on a minute ... what aboot that randy bastard I took a swipe at last night with the rubbish bucket? Oh no, dear God, she couldnae really be referrin tae that, could she?

Mrs Knight stood up from behind the desk, the move indicating beyond all doubt that the interview or whatever it had been was over.

By now feeling that her kitchen apron was on a decidedly shaky nail and again on the verge of tears, Lara said, “But please Mistress Knight, you have to tell me ...”

The older woman drew herself to her full height. “As your now former employer, I have to tell you nothing. However, out of the goodness of my heart, there is one thing I will say before you pack your bags and leave my home ...” Lara waited in an agony of suspense until the woman said, “Perhaps next time a gentleman offers to help you with a burden, you will not immediately mistrust his motives. Nor will you whack him across the face with a heavy enamel bucket to the detriment to his health and to the provision of ... of all things and so utterly common ... a black eye such as one might see on any member of the lower, unwashed orders of society.”

With that final admonition and bit of advice still ringing in her ears, with the speed of lightning, Lara then found herself out in the wynd, her bundles at her feet and with not a single idea in her head as to where she could go.

Chapter 3

As Lara stood there in the wynd, she chewed at her lower lip in an even greater agony of indecision than that she had previously endured when standing before Mrs Knight. But now the matter was of even greater urgency. Still unclear in her mind as to where she was heading, like someone in a nightmare, she walked blindly to the end of the street.

As she made to turn the corner into the Saltmarket, an Irish-sounding voice stopped her progress with the words, “Ye’ll not be getting down that street this day, my girl. The Bread Rioters have already barricaded it with planks of wood and even with a coal-cart.”

Lara turned to face the young man who had just spoken to her and said, “Have they indeed, so they’ve barricaded it? But tell me this, are all the streets roundabout here closed off? And if they are, what possible business is it of the Bread Rioters, whoever they might be?”

The young man laughed.

As Lara made to turn away from him, he took a long reflective look at her and her bundles.

“Uch God love ye, lass,” he said. “I should have realised. From the look of you I’d say ye’re just newly off the boat from the Highlands so how could you know anything at all about the Bread Riots here in Glasgow. I suppose too that ye’ll be looking for work?”

Lara gave a faint nod of her head and he went on, “Well, sorry to disappoint ye, lass, but ’tis common knowledge hereabouts that Glasgow is already bursting at the seams. What with all the Highland Clearance folk and hundreds and hundreds of my own people escaping from the Potato Famine ... and all of us, starvin o hunger, damn well homeless and all desperate for work.”

Lara saw no reason to correct this stranger’s assumption that she was just recently arrived in the City, so she mumbled something about, “Aye, I believe I overheard another passenger mention about ... let’s see, the Chartists, that’s them. They’ve been recently organising meetings at the Glasgow Green. So, dae you tell me, is that what’s happenin the day, with streets so weel barricaded off that decent folk cannae get about their lawful business?”

He nodded, “’Tis that, and if you’re not otherwise engaged, and if ye’ve a mind to join the mass meeting, it’s me, Mike Bradie, that would be happy to escort your own self, you not knowing your way about the city streets and all that.”

As Lara digested this proposal, she was of a mind to refuse his offer of help. But then she thought, my father was a Radical leader and it would be at such gatherings he spoke up for Scotland’s workers and their rights. No sooner had this thought gone through her head, than Lara remembered something else. Aye, my dear-departed Mammy was forever going on at me, each time I was naughty or even downright bad and bloody-minded, then she would start up her usual chant, ‘Keep going on against authority, my girl, keep on like that and one thing’s for sure ... you’ll end up like your father.’ ... and so on and on it had gone over the years of her upbringing.

By now lost in a dwam of past memories, Lara emerged from the mists of time and there and then made up her mind.

Well, from all accounts, my father, a good man, forever acted against authority; so, why should I not join the Bread Rioters? Maybe being against the high heid yins in society, mibbe it does run in my blood. So if I have ended up like my father, there’s no better person. So why not join the Bread Rioters it isn’t as if I’m doing anything else anyway.

“Pardon me for interrupting your daydream, my lady, but might I make so bold as to inquire if your ladyship has as yet finally decided? Am I to escort you safely to Glasgow Green or not?”

Lara studied the fresh, unlined face and the mischievous brown eyes twinkling at her and she thought, for some reason best known to herself, Mammy was forever warning me about inebriated gentlemen houseguests, but never did she say a single word about young, ordinary, half-starved looking Irish immigrants with teasing manners and winning smiles.

Once arrived at the Green and surrounded on all sides by a surging, seething mass of angry, vocal and loudly protesting Bread Rioters, Lara could feel an uprising in her heart and spirit as she empathised with their feelings, their anger and their utter frustration at the high price of bread.

As she joined the chanting, her escort looked at her in surprise.

“Are you sure you’ve only just arrived from the Highlands? Seems to me, the way ye’re goin on, ye are as much a part of this protest rally as someone born to it.”

Lara could feel herself blush. “Let’s just say, being Scottish as I am, the blood and fire of Scottish freedom fighters is in my bones. And sorry if I misled you earlier, I was not just off the latest boat from Sutherland. You simply assumed that. But one thing you did work out correctly ... as of the minute and hour that you met me I was indeed homeless, helpless and with not a friend in the world to my name.”

Mike gave her a quizzical look. “Whoever and whatever you are my girl, if you’re a fighter for the rights of the common man then you are one special person in my book and that’s a fact.”

Lara smiled. “Thank you for that vote of confidence. Just one thing I would correct, I am not your girl, I’m not anybody’s girl, for that matter but I am my own person. That I must make clear to you before you get too carried away.”

He gave a great shout of laughter. “Well, now that we’ve got that all sorted out, perhaps we should ...”

His words drifted away on the rising tide of noise in which they were then engulfed. And even as he had been speaking, the mood of the crowds piled into the Green was becoming, angrier and more violent by the minute. When one iron-bar-bearing group of protesters suddenly appeared from Monteith Row, from where they had uprooted the iron bars, things began to look increasingly ugly. Wielding their makeshift weapons, these protesters were charging full-tilt at the mounted soldiers.

Seeing this and without a word of apology or explanation, Mike grabbed her by the arm. He swiftly and unceremoniously pulled her away from the imminent danger towards a quieter area and ultimately to safety. Having done that he bent down and whispered in her ear, “I think we have shown enough solidarity and support for today’s rally.”

As they quickly put more distance between them and the rioters, Lara could not help but wonder where they might be going, or even at what point she could thank her protector for his kind services and then decently take her leave of him.

Almost as if he had read her innermost thoughts, he stopped, grabbed her arm and wheeled her around to face him.

“Now then, my girl ... er sorry, you’ve already told me you’re not ‘my girl’, but it’s just a figure of speech. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is this ... if you’re as friendless and homeless as you’ve made out, best thing to do is to get you back to Mammy, my sainted mother. She’s going to take a poor orphan girl like you to her heart. A heart of gold, my Mammy has.”

Lara raised her eyebrows. “I’m sure what you say is true, that your mother is kind-hearted and generous to a fault. Just one thing bothers me. Taking an Irish girl and a good Catholic into her home is one thing. Not only am I neither of those things, but I’m a Glaswegian. So how exactly do ye suggest we get round that pitfall?”

“Isn’t it about high time ye told me your name?”

Lara told him. “Not that my name has much to do with anything, it still will not change me from being a Kirk-attending Presbyterian, about as far removed from Roman Catholicism as you could get.”

He cocked his head on one side. “Well, far from being a stern Presbyterian, my dear Mammy is a staunch Irish Catholic. Yes, there’s bad blood between us and the Glaswegians; it’s not of our making. In fact we didn’t need actual printed notices to tell us that we Irish are not welcome in this City, but who could blame us if we react to such treatment? Anyway, religious beliefs aside, Mother Bradie is not in the business of tossing out into the street any young, friendless, homeless, defenceless girl. Time enough for her to do that when she realises ye do not attend Mass every day.” He gave her a gentle smile.

Lara to hide her embarrassment at the way her thoughts were running drew herself to her full height.

“Oho so you think I’m defenceless, do you? Let me tell you Mister Mike Bradie, I’m no mean fighter with a heavy enamel bucket in my hands, I can swing a mean punch.”

He laughed. “I just hope to God I’m never at the receiving end. But listen, for tonight at least, ye’ll have shelter, something to eat. Although our home is not much more than a shanty, the shack where we live is home to us, the Bradie family. No matter how overcrowded, there’s always space and a warm welcome to other poor travellers on life’s rocky road.”

Lara laughed. “Sure you’re not also a poet, Mike, that all sounded very poetical.”

By clinging tightly to Mike’s jacket, the two of them made it safely away from Glasgow Green, through the other city pends and wynds until finally they arrived at the Bradie shack in Martha Street.

Once there and duly welcomed into the bosom of the family by ‘Mammy’, Lara then realised something else; the reference to overcrowding had not been in jest.

The shack was indeed filled to capacity by not just the one family, but also another large family called Reilly. Even so, not since the days before she’d entered service as the lowliest of kitchen skivvies, not once had she. Lara, felt so welcome, so wanted, and so secure as being the right person in the right place and at the right time in the overall scheme of things.

So far so good, thought Lara, keeping in mind Mike’s injunction to say as little as possible, but just keep on looking sad, pathetic and like a homeless orphan of the storm. So far in the excitement of her unexpected arrival, not one single person in the shack had questioned her, her nationality, or even her religious persuasion.

So far so good, but just wait till I’m the only absentee from the Church parade to early-morning Mass ... what then?

As she savoured a mug of hot sweet tea and devoured a morsel of soda bread, Lara looked up at Mammy Bradie and with tears in her eyes, mouthed a silent, ‘thank you’.

So much for playing the part of the sad, pathetic homeless, friendless orphan of the storm. Who’s acting, thought Lara, taking another man-sized bite from the mouth-watering soda bread.