Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Chapter 3
As Lara sat there quietly on the makeshift seat of her bundles, she was luxuriating in the peace and calm of the shack, after the mayhem, noise and blood in the streets beyond. But while she was thus being left to her own thoughts and devices bearing in mind Mike’s admonition that she should say as little as possible, there was no such respite for Mike.
He on the other hand was being plied with questions on all sides.
Mr Reilly, the father of the other family who shared living quarters in the shack, asked, “And the speakers at the rally ... they were actually telling people to grab food for themselves whenever and wherever they could get it?”
Mike nodded. “That they were, Mr Reilly, sir. Take food by the strong arm. The rich have food but you have none. Those were the very words. Take food by the strong hand.”
Mike looked across at Lara and she gave a silent nod of agreement.
Thus encouraged, Mike went on, “And ye’d never believe what a time we had getting through the streets. By then shops had been broken into, iron railings had been torn up from the gardens of big houses, mounted cavalry thundered past. Terrible so it was, we were in the middle of a battleground. Mind you, it was even worse when we got into Buchanan Street, I think it was there the mob had stopped a meal-cart, overturned it and then started ripping open the sacks of meal with knives. That was when the mob really went wild ...” Mike stopped speaking, as though mentally reliving the scene. “People fell to the ground, and in the frenzy to get food, it was every man or woman for themselves. People were trampled underfoot, lay where they’d fallen , were climbed over as if they were stepping stones, then finally, a sight I’ll never forget ...” Again he paused and with everyone in the shack by now hanging on his every word, he quickly continued, “Aye, ye’d never believe it, Ma, but women, the stronger and I suppose the more desperate for food for their families, these women finally emerged from the seething mass of bodies with their aprons bulging with meal. Some even had a whole cheese clamped under each arm, then they sped off at high speed before anyone else could steal their loot.”
Mrs Bradie looked at her son. “Those poor mothers must have been real desperate for food for their children. Mind you, although we’ve been lucky to get enough flour for the odd batch of soda bread, it still goes without saying, while we ourselves could indeed have used an extra handful of meal or a cheese, as much as the next family, I thank God you didn’t risk your life for that Mike.”
Mike chewed at his lower lip. “Not that I didn’t think about it, Ma, but by the time we arrived in Buchanan Street, the battle for food was in full swing and I could see what a hopeless task it would have been by then.”
Again Lara nodded her silent agreement of his assessment of the dire situation.
Then gazing fondly at his mother, Mike said, “Something I have to tell ye in all honesty, Ma, far from being brave or too careful of my own safety, once we turned into Queen Street, the overflow of the mob, they had smashed the window of a pastry-cook. And at one time, for one glorious moment I did manage to grab a couple of pastries, a treat for you, Mammy, when did ye last, or ever for that matter, eat a pastry?”
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Mrs Bradie, patted his arm and Mike said, “So there was I standing with my spoils of war, one in each hand, and what happened? A man nearby, half-crazed, kept nudging me in the ribs and chanting, ‘Vive la Republic, we’ll hae Vive la Republic and naethin but the bloody Republic.’ Then catching sight of my pastries, he snatched them out of my hands, crammed them both into his mouth at the one time, and ate them noisily and greedily. All the while staring at me and daring me to tackle him. It was thanks to Lara there that I didn’t engage with him. She grabbed me by my jacket and pulled me away to safety.”
Silence greeted this account, as everyone in the shack mentally pictured the scene, no doubt also imagining what it would be like to devour two whole pastries ... whatever they were but obviously a delicious sweet-bite of some kind.
Ryan Bradie got to his feet. “Well, son, I think we’ve now heard all we want of sogers, guns, iron bars, mounted cavalry and corpses on boards being carried shoulder-high through the streets. That’s enough, more than enough for now, otherwise not the one of us will sleep easy this night.”
At these words, young Declan Reilly immediately set up a howl of protest.
“But I want to hear more about the sogers and their bayonets, the Carabineer on his horse leaping over a barricade and ...”
His father fixed him with a look which silenced the boy.
“You heard what Mister Bradie said, enough is enough. Anyway, daft idiot that ye are, can ye not see, ye’re scaring the living daylights out of your sisters. Just look at Nola there, the wee soul fair breaking her innocent wee heart with such warlike talk.”
Seeing this, Lara rose to her feet and bending down beside the child, she mopped away her tears, patted her curly head and then coaxed her with the last mouthful of soda bread she still held in her hand.
“There now, dear, it’s all over now, so no more tears.”
On the point of saying more Lara suddenly remembered the injunction to keep as quiet as possible, say little or nothing lest her Scottish accent upset the two Irish families. Lara gave a discreet cough and a meaningful look of apology for her mistake across to Mike. He shrugged his shoulders. If this gesture was seen by anyone, they chose to ignore it. Given that it was Lara who had pulled Mike to safety from the angry mob, she was the heroine of the hour and at least for the time being, and in the eyes of his mother, Lara Bell could do no wrong.
Chapter 4
Two days later as Mike returned one day to the shack after yet another morning’s fruitless attempt to find work, Lara took one look at him and said, “Tomorrow is another day.”
He sat down on one of the upturned crates, looked at her with eyes as bleak as his despondent mood and said, “So what would ye tell me is going to be different or in any way better the morrow? God Almighty, girl, has it still not dawned on ye ... by the time I get to the front of the queue, either all of the available jobs are already taken or with great glee, there’s a crudely written notice shoved in my face, ‘NO IRISH NEED APPLY.”
Lara put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell you what, Mike, a bowl of steaming hot soup would put new life into you. So jacket on again. We’ll go along into the town for that.”
He peered up and frowned. “Lost your senses now, have ye. Lara? Go into town for a bowl of soup? Sure ’tis rubbish ye’re talking woman.”
She gave a tut of annoyance. “But surely you remember, you told me a couple of Sundays ago, you were lucky enough to get free tickets for Peter Mackenzie’s Sunday Soup Kitchen? Remember?”
Mike nodded. “Aye, fine well I mind, that was thanks to Father McGrath, now that all the Churches have given the Soup Kitchen their blessing, even though it is on a Sunday, Father McGrath gave me a ticket for two after Mass. But anyway, today’s only Wednesday, a long enough time till Sunday ... and come to that, ye’ve no ticket as yet for Sunday. So, I still think ye’re talking nonsense, Lara.”
Breaking into a smile Lara said, “You’re forgetting one thing, with the spread of typhus, Her Majesty has decreed a Proclamation for a Fast today, her reasoning being that ... now how exactly did Queen Victoria put it ...?”
Mike’s mother chimed in, “It was something along the lines of that if we turn to God in due contrition and penitence of heart, then the Good Lord would withdraw his afflicting Hand.” Mrs Bradie pursed her lips in an attitude of disgust. “She might be the Queen sitting up yonder on her throne, but a fat lot she knows about anyone of us in this day and age ... sure as God’s in His Heaven, we don’t need a special day for fasting, sure it is God’s Will, we’re already starving of hunger and fasting every mortal day that he sends us.”
Lara by now could hardly contain her excitement. “Yes, Mistress Bradie, you’ve stated the words of Her Majesty’s Proclamation to perfection. But what you mibbe still don’t know is this ... Peter Mackenzie has since made a Declaration of his own. Even though today is a Wednesday, his Soup Kitchen will be open. Fast Day or not. And from what I’ve heard, no tickets needed on this occasion … no tickets just an appetite and a willingness to go against the wishes of Queen Victoria.”
Mike looked up, a slightly hesitant smile on his face.
“Lara, I’d love a good bowl of soup. But I do think we should steer clear of the Soup Kitchen, this day there could well be trouble and trouble even worse than we met up with on the Bread Riots. No, Lara, it just isn’t worth taking such a risk merely for the sake of a bowl of soup.”
As if unable to believe what she had just heard, Lara stared at him, and went on staring. When Mike made no move to rise to his feet, she tossed her head in a gesture of defiance, drew her shawl closer and in a voice which brooked no argument said, “You, Mike Bradie, can do as you like, take the coward’s way out, rather than stand up for yourself. I, on the other hand, I am the daughter of a Glaswegian Radical weaver.”
Mike gave her a puzzled look. “I’ve never heard you say dab about any illustrious father, Glaswegian Radical or whatever. To think I thought you were a poor little orphan Annie straight off the boat from the Highlands, the day and hour I first met you.”
Lara gave an angry toss of her head. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mike Bradie. Now then for the last time of asking ... are you or are you not coming to join me supping a bowl of soup. So what’s your answer, yes, or no?”
As Mike opened his mouth on the point of announcing his decision, suddenly his mother who had been listening to their argument, butted in. “Right then, Lara Bell, that’s more than enough from you for today, thanks all the same. Honestly, once you got over your initial timidity and the vow of silence you appeared to have taken, there’s been no stopping you, voicing your opinions, trying to lay down the law to my son, a good-living Catholic boy. This hovel may not be much but it’s the only home I have, and I’ll not have my family spoken to in this way. You’re the daughter of a Radical leader, is what ye’re now after tellin us? Enough is enough, so you can pack up your traps and get out of here this very minute.”
Chapter 5
Although the anger which Mrs Bradie had shown her in giving Lara her marching orders, had come as something of a surprise to Lara, not so the actual ordering of her going. She had known instinctively that once the novelty of having a Scottish heretic in their midst had worn off, so also had their pity for her plight of being alone against a cruel world. In addition to the very real religious divide, she was doubly unwelcome in that she was yet another drain on the family’s already meagre stock of food. She knew without being told that the precious morsel of soda bread given to her on her arrival had indeed been a rare treat. So, even before this final outburst and confrontation with Mrs Bradie, Lara had known that ‘something must be done’.
Now today as she went out into the pend with her bundles, Mike said, “Surely there must be someone in Glasgow you could turn to?”
Lara shook her head in a gesture of despair. “My parents are both dead, my sister died in early childhood, there’s nobody...”
Just as she finished speaking, Lara said, “I’ve only just recalled, I do have one relative, mind you he’s by now in a social station way above me. He was adopted by the owner of a Govan coal-mine, the man’s wife childless, very religious and into doing good works, so when my brother Ewan was injured in a mining accident, she took pity on the boy, adopted him. Yes, that’s it. I don’t quite know how I’ll go about it, but if I can contact him, given the good fortune he’s enjoyed in his own altered lifestyle, surely he will help me. I’m not looking for money or free accommodation or nothing like that, but perhaps an introduction to some of his fine friends at their fancy houses. Surely one of their spoiled daughters will need an upstairs maid or even a lady’s maid or a housekeeper, worth a try anyway.”
Mike laid a hand on her shoulder and in a voice charged with emotion, said, “Lara I’ll never forget you, ’tis religion and that alone that is tearing us apart. But you’ll still be in my mind, I’ll still worry about you.”
Lara lifted her bundles. “Nobody needs to worry about me, I am a survivor and first of all, it’s me that’s now heading for a bowl of the good Peter Mackenzie’s Wednesday soup. Goodbye, Mike and thank you, for you helped me when my life was at its lowest. Who knows, mibbe if I could have become a good Catholic girl? Things might have worked out differently – that’s something we’ll never know.”
As Lara made her way through the city streets, she thought, it’s all very well realising that I do have one relative, my brother Ewan, I haven’t thought about him in years, all right so he’s now in a higher social class, but what good can that possibly do me, how could I use that to my advantage? God knows how I’d go about that ... where to start, what to do?
As she passed by the various mills and manufactories, she was keenly aware that a great many of such workplaces were festooned with bold notices declaring that, NO IRISH NEED APPLY. Certainly Mike Bradie had told her of such notices, but even so she’d had no idea that they were in such prevalent use at nearly every work station.
Ah well, she thought, thank God those notices don’t apply to me, I’ll get a job soon enough, but I must admit I do feel sorry for the Irish. Throughout my stay with them, they showed me nothing but kindness ... until, of course, I rather spoiled things for myself.
When Lara came out of her daydream and looked around, she discovered she was in the rather upper class Portland Place, a street with a range of rather grand town houses.
Since fate had led her unbidden into this area of the city, Lara decided to try her luck for a job at the first big house on her left.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, was her encouraging thought as she went down the lane to the service door. Her first enquiry met with an icy response as did her polite inquiry at the next couple of grand houses she tried.
Just as she was becoming, footsore, weary and decidedly dispirited and on the point of abandoning the whole ridiculous idea of thinking she could walk in off the street.
I’ll have one last go, she determined, then that’s it.
Having knocked the door for several minutes and still no one opened the door, she turned away.
The male servant who opened the door to her listened to what she had to say.
“Yes, it just so happens, the Mistress is in need of extra staff for an important dinner party this evening. I’ll call the housekeeper to have a word with you.”
The housekeeper having asked Lara to demonstrate how she would do a place setting at the dinner table was less than impressed with the result.
“No, I’m afraid that just would not do, we have much higher standards in this establishment. However, you do say you were recently a trainee-cook, so perhaps an extra pair of hands in the kitchen might be of some use. Yes. I’m prepared to give you a trial tonight, let’s see how you get on.”
By the end of the evening, Lara had more than proved herself capable in the well-run kitchen. And it was with hope in her heart for future more permanent employment in the grand house that Lara was told the Mistress would employ her for a trial period.