Finding Happiness

by Emma Blair

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Sandy McLean is training to be a doctor to follow in his father's footsteps - indeed, to surpass his father who is just a general practitioner: Sandy is to become a top surgeon. Or so his father insists. Sandy feels he has no choice, though knows he is not a natural and life is becoming miserable as he struggles through the exams. What he really wants to be is an artist. Every spare moment he paints and is especially good at people. He even gets a commission when a loyal pub bartender is retiring. And then a French girl, Sophie, offers to pose for him - which leads to his first love affair and the beginning of his rebellion against his father...He has a row with his father and runs off to Montmartre. Meanwhile, left behind is his sister Laura. Her father believes she should wait about idly for a potential husband to turn up. But she wants to earn a living. She tells her parents she's working voluntarily for an orphan centre, but really she has a job working at the Marie Stopes Clinic - and learns a lot about life! When she gets raped on the way home one night, she is understandably seriously traumatised. And decides to follow her brother to Montmartre...

Release date: November 1, 2003

Publisher: Time Warner Books Uk

Print pages: 496

Sample

Sandy McLean glanced up from the book he was studying when there was a soft, tentative, tap on his bedroom door. He frowned at the interruption. ‘Come in!’

It was his younger sister Laura who entered, her expression one of uncertainty. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

Sandy sighed. Of course she bloody well was. ‘That’s all right,’ he declared magnanimously. ‘I was about to take a break anyway.’ That was a lie. He waved in the direction of the bed. ‘Take a pew.’

A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him it was just after nine-thirty p.m. He’d had his head down for over two hours now, and it felt like it. The beginnings of a headache were starting to pulse inside his skull.

After she’d sat Laura gazed curiously around her. It had been a long time since she’d been in her brother’s room, several years in fact. It was as messy as ever, she noted, tidyness certainly wasn’t one of his finer points. In one corner an artist’s easel had been set up, displaying a half-finished landscape in oils.

It suddenly struck Sandy how much his sister had grown of late. Why, she’d become quite the young lady, with a nice figure too, even if it was still in the budding stage. As he saw her nearly every day he wondered why he hadn’t noticed that before. ‘So, to what do I owe the honour?’ he asked.

Laura shrugged. ‘I don’t know really. I just thought I’d come and talk to you, that’s all. We so rarely get a chance.’ When she saw his puzzled look, she added, ‘Talk properly that is. Not just good morning, goodbye and that sort of thing.’

‘I see,’ he murmured, amused by this.

A silence followed during which she twined and intertwined her fingers in her lap.

‘There must be something in particular?’ he prompted.

‘Not really. It’s just … well, although we’re brother and sister we seem such strangers at times. I mean … I mean …’ She trailed off, frowning. ‘I’ve no idea what you actually get up to. Who your friends are. You know?’

For some reason that rather touched him. And she was right, they weren’t exactly close. Not apart, but not close either. The usual brother and sister relationship, he supposed. ‘I’m flattered,’ he confessed.

Laura’s face lit up, the tension between them suddenly broken. ‘How are your studies coming along?’

How indeed, he thought bitterly, for he was in that sort of mood. How indeed! ‘All right I suppose,’ he replied non-committally.

‘Just all right?’

Sandy bit back a waspish retort. Leaning sideways in his chair he pretended to yawn. ‘Sometimes you can’t see the wood for the trees.’

Laura slowly nodded. ‘I understand. I find it the same with Latin. There are occasions in class when my head feels it’s so crammed full nothing makes sense any more and that at any moment it might just explode.’

He regarded her with new interest, having forgotten she was even taking Latin at school. It dawned on him then how right she was about knowing so little about one another. ‘Same with me,’ he laughed.

Laura relaxed even further on hearing that, believing a bond, if only a tenuous one, had been established between them. ‘Amo amas amat, amamus amatus amant,’ she recited and giggled. ‘Round and round like a dog chasing a cat.’

How old was she now? Sandy wondered, desperately trying to work it out. Fifteen, yes that was it. Or was she fourteen? No, fifteen some months previously. ‘Do you enjoy school? Overall that is?’

Laura considered that. ‘Parts of it.’

‘Like what?’

‘English for example. The books we have to read. They can be fun.’

‘And what else?’

‘Art.’

A warm glow filled him. ‘Are you any good?’

Laura shook her head. ‘I’m rotten. No flair at all, at least that’s what Mr McCormack my teacher says. And he’s right. I can’t draw or paint to save my life.’

Her eyes strayed over to the half-finished canvas on the easel. ‘Unlike you. Now you have real talent. Everyone thinks so.’

Sandy couldn’t resist it. ‘Except Pa of course. And even if he did think I had something he’d never admit it in case it distracted me from what he wants me to do. Has decided I shall do.’

Laura could hear the bitterness in his voice. ‘Is medicine so awfully bad?’

‘Oh come on,’ he chided softly. ‘You’ve heard Pa often enough. He doesn’t just want me to be a doctor but an eminent surgeon into the bargain. The goal he was never able to achieve himself.’

‘You hate the idea, don’t you?’

‘Damn right I do,’ he spat. ‘But what choice have I? I can’t go against Pa. That would be unthinkable. People like us don’t go against their parents’ wishes.’

‘Poor Sandy,’ she sympathised.

‘The fact is, I totally loathe medicine. As for being a surgeon, eminent or otherwise, how ghastly having a job like that. A human butcher and plumber in other words.’ He shuddered at the thought. ‘No, whatever happens I’ll be a family doctor the same as Pa, which is bad enough. Imagine having ill people around you every working day, especially horrible, smelly ones. Showing you their tongue, varicose veins, lumpy bits.’

‘You’re hardly being fair,’ she countered. ‘Medicine is about curing folk, making them better. Relieving pain and anxiety. I can’t think of anything more rewarding than that.’

‘Then you become a bloody doctor,’ he snapped viciously. ‘That might let me off the hook.’

Laura lowered her gaze, the cold fury of his eyes having frightened her. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I was only trying to help.’

Sandy’s anger subsided at the sight of her contriteness. ‘I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.’

Laura reflected that Sandy had no idea he’d always been her idol, something of a God in her book. Her handsome big brother who, at least so it seemed to her, had always had something of an aura about him. She’d always wished she was as pretty as he was handsome. But, sadly, that would never be. Though she was certainly not unattractive, and hopefully would improve as she got older, she’d never be as good looking as Sandy whom over the years she’d worshipped from afar.

‘Can you keep a secret?’ Sandy queried earnestly.

The abrupt change in conversation took her aback. ‘Of course.’

‘No, I mean it, really. Cross your heart and hope to die. All that sort of muck?’

Laura nodded, wondering what on earth he was about to confide to her.

Sandy got up from his desk and crossed over to where his painting things were, delving amongst the mess and clutter that was there. He grunted when he produced a nearly full half-bottle of whisky. ‘If Ma or Pa knew I kept alcohol in the house they’d have a seizure,’ he grinned.

Laura watched, a little in admiration she had to confess, as he poured himself a large one which he topped up from a bottle of lemonade standing on his desk.

‘Bottoms up!’ he toasted.

Sandy took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. ‘That’s better. First of the day.’

He sat down again and smiled at her. ‘Shocked?’

Was she? ‘More surprised.’ She gestured towards the bottle. ‘That stuff is expensive. Where do you get the money from? I thought the allowance Pa gives you was only a small one.’

‘It is,’ Sandy confirmed. ‘But I have ways and means. Other irons in the fire, so to speak.’

This side of him was a revelation to Laura. ‘What sort of other irons?’

He winked conspiratorially. ‘Ones that make me a fair old income on the side.’ And with that he had another swallow.

‘Can I try it?’

He stared at her in amazement. ‘Don’t be daft! Women don’t drink whisky. At least, respectable ones don’t.’

‘Maybe not. But I’d still like to try it. I’ve only ever had sherry and that was nice.’

‘Whisky is very different, Laura. Extremely intoxicating.’

‘I appreciate that,’ she replied patiently. ‘I’m not asking for a glassful of the stuff, just a sip to find out how it tastes.’

Well, well, Sandy thought. There was more to his sister than he’d given her credit for. He’d always considered her something of a mouse. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

Laura’s eyes were twinkling as she slid from the bed and made her way over to him. ‘Absolutely. So what about it?’

With a shrug, he handed her the drink. ‘Not too much mind. A sip, that’s all.’

The fiery liquid, thankfully diluted by lemonade, almost made her choke. ‘Not altogether unpleasant,’ she pronounced eventually. ‘In fact, I rather like it.’ And with that she took a second, larger, sip.

‘Here, hold on!’ Sandy admonished, coming to his feet and taking the glass from her. ‘I don’t want you getting drunk.’

She giggled, already a little light-headed. ‘It certainly beats sherry. By a mile.’

Sandy saw off what remained in the glass and promptly poured himself another. He suddenly realised he was enjoying her company.

‘So, tell me about these irons in the fire you have,’ Laura prompted.

In for a penny in for a pound, he thought. He’d already let her into his secret about keeping booze, why not the rest of it? Staring into her face he reckoned she’d keep shtum. ‘I run a book amongst the other students,’ he informed her.

Laura frowned, not comprehending. ‘What kind of book?’

‘A racing book. I take bets on horses and dogs. It’s extremely lucrative. Most of the time anyway.’

She was dumbfounded. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’

He shrugged. ‘There’s a need and I provide for it. Look at it that way. It doesn’t harm anyone except the poor mugs who lose money and that’s their fault for betting in the first place. Some of those chaps have pots of boodle coming from very well-off families. They can afford to lose.’

‘But they don’t lose all the time, surely?’

‘Of course not. But overall they do. When it comes to betting there’s only one person makes a profit at the end of the day, the bookie. Me, in other words.’

Laura, her mind whirling, returned to the bed. This was fascinating, exciting too. ‘So how much do you make a week?’

Sandy pulled a face. ‘Depends. It varies. And occasionally I’ll be out of pocket. But on average, evening it out, I’d say roughly six quid a week, give or take a bob or two.’

Laura gasped. That was the weekly take-home pay of a working man. More actually. Considerably more in some cases. ‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘About a year now. Good idea, eh?’

She had to admit it was. ‘As long as you know what you’re doing.’

‘Don’t worry on that score. I do.’

She regarded him with now undisguised admiration. ‘What do you spend it on?’

‘This and that. And what I don’t need I put in the bank. I’ve already put by a tidy sum, thank you very much. It just grows and grows.’

‘Well done you,’ she acknowledged. ‘And what else?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You said irons, plural.’

Sandy shook his head. ‘Then it should have been singular. That’s the one and only thing I have going on the side.’

‘You’re incredible, truly you are,’ she stated wonderingly. ‘And terribly clever.’

The compliment pleased him, enormously. He reflected on how liberating it was to have his own income and not have to rely totally on handouts from his father, who could be parsimonious to say the least. The very epitome of a tight-fisted Scotsman if ever there was.

‘You won’t breathe a word, will you?’ he queried. ‘You promised.’

‘Not to a single soul,’ she assured him.

‘Good.’

Laura dropped her gaze, suddenly shy and hesitant again. ‘I’m glad I came in to visit.’

‘I’m glad you came in too. I was bored witless poring over these musty old books.’

‘Can I come another time?’

Why not? he thought. Particularly if it gave him an excuse to stop studying for a while. ‘If you like.’

‘Then I will.’

Sandy glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and decided he’d had enough ‘work’ for one night. He’d have another dram after Laura had gone and then take himself to bed.

As though reading his thoughts Laura pushed herself off the bed. ‘I’d better go downstairs and say goodnight to Ma and Pa.’

‘Just don’t let them smell that whisky on your breath,’ he warned. ‘There’ll be hell to pay if they do.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she acknowledged. ‘I’ll make sure they don’t.’

Laura headed for the door, then paused. ‘Sandy?’

‘What?’

Crossing quickly to him she kissed her brother on the cheek. ‘Thanks.’

He didn’t reply to that, merely smiled.

Moments later Laura had left, the door snicking quietly shut behind her.

Sweet, Sandy thought. He hadn’t realised how sweet his sister could be. And how grown up she’d become. Well … almost. For some reason he felt extremely happy, certainly better than he had before she’d appeared.

*  *  *

He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, his mind churning. Instead of tiredness all he felt was a restless energy.

He idly toyed with the idea of getting up and painting. He hadn’t touched his present canvas for five days now, thanks to all the damned studying he had to do for the forthcoming exams, which his father would be expecting him to do well in.

Sandy groaned in the darkness. There was about as much likelihood of that as there was of him sprouting wings. The trouble was he had no interest in Medicine, none whatsoever. And without interest how could he possibly learn and excel, the sense of application simply wasn’t there. Duty, yes. But not application.

Christ, if only things were different, if only his father wasn’t so insistent on his career, if only his father didn’t expect so much of him, was more approachable – which he wasn’t in the least – about a different profession.

If the choice had been up to him there wouldn’t have been any contest. None at all. He’d have become a professional artist or at least had a damn good try at it.

All right, he knew what the odds were against success in that field, especially living in Glasgow where the arts weren’t exactly given prominence. Token gestures were made, the art gallery for one, the theatres for another. Although in the case of the latter it was mainly shows of a variety and musical nature that were put on with the accent, literally, very heavy on the Scottishness of them. Harry Lauder would pack a theatre every time, he and other acts of the same, and similar, nature.

Ballet? That was a laugh. Not that he was very keen on it himself, but then how could he be as he’d never seen any. Despite this omission he was certain he would have hated it.

The most amazing thing as far as he was concerned was that Glasgow had a first-class art school housed in a beautiful building designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

Given the choice that’s where he would be, learning about and practising a subject he adored, instead of reading Medicine, being taught how to be a human butcher and plumber as he always described it, though never in the hearing of his father who would have been outraged and probably had apoplexy on the spot.

Of course, Father apart, the burning question to which he didn’t have an answer, was if he was good enough ever to be a professional painter. There were times when he thought he might have enough talent, others when he considered it a ridiculous idea. An absurd presumption on his part.

One thing was certain, he’d have to work very hard at it, and learn a great deal, before he could ever possibly achieve such a lofty ambition.

A professional painter, living off the proceeds of his work! He sighed at the prospect. Following in the steps of Constable, Turner, Degas, Monet, Titian, and so many others. His skin felt prickly all over at the thought.

If only he could have gone to Art School then the question of his talent, or possible talent, might have been resolved one way or the other. But that wasn’t to be; for the rest of his life it would merely remain a dream, the question of his potential forever a mystery.

No, his lot would be to be an amateur, painting for fun in his spare time, never as a livelihood.

Despair filled him; deep, black despair. That and anger that he couldn’t have what he wanted above all else.

Sandy turned over onto his side to stare into the darkness, a darkness that seemed to reach deep inside him to the very depths of his being.

A Glasgow doctor with some pretty little mouse of a wife in time, and then no doubt children, all chaining him to the pillar of respectability that he so shied away from. He wasn’t cut out for that, never in a million years. His soul was the rebellious sort, not destined to be confined by the restrictions of cosy hearth and home. His soul wanted to soar free, to wing its way wherever it wanted.

He groaned, knowing he was about as near sleep as he’d been earlier, in other words miles away. What torture it was lying there thinking about things, so desperately desiring something other than had been given him in life. He knew he should be thankful; his parents loved him, if in that peculiarly cold Calvinistic way; his father was well-to-do – money, within reason, was never a problem, there was always good food on the table and a roof over his head. Far removed from the life of many in Glasgow where there was so much grinding poverty and where the men, even when lucky enough to be in work, toiled in backbreaking graft in heavy industry such as the shipyards, steelworks, foundries and factories. Their only relief in life was to get roaring drunk on a Friday night, as they spent most of what they’d earned during the previous week, while at home the anxious wives fretted about how much of the pay packet would be left when their man finally came stumbling, usually incoherent, through the door.

And yet such men and women had a majesty about them, an incredible dignity etched indelibly on their faces. Pain, passion, sorrow, bewilderment, hope and anguish, anger and even, on occasion, the sheer joy of being alive. The indomitable human spirit showing through despite the crushing burden that was their day-to-day existence.

Like a bolt out of the blue it came to Sandy that that was what he should be painting, the working-class folk of Glasgow in all their grim reality.

‘Oh!’ he breathed aloud, excited at the thought. More than excited, exhilarated. He would sketch them, then come home and execute what he’d sketched in oils. Dull colours, greys and blacks and weak yellow, the colours that were Glasgow. No reds and blues here, or if so only sparingly, just the colours of dirt, grime, soot and flame.

He’d start sketching soon, he promised himself. That very weekend! Every available minute he could find.

And then his heart sank again, remembering the forthcoming exams he had to study for.

He swore long and vehemently.

‘I’m worried about Alexander,’ Harriet McLean declared to her husband Mathew across the breakfast table. Sandy and Laura had already excused themselves to go to university and school respectively.

Mathew, a tall thin man with a bony face and pencil-thin moustache, glanced at her in surprise. ‘Why’s that?’

Harriet considered her words carefully. ‘He’s so … well, restless of late. Forever fidgety. And he doesn’t look well, he’s decidedly peaky.’

Mathew snorted. ‘Speaking as a doctor, and his father, let me assure you there’s nothing wrong with him. No doubt he’s simply distracted about his exams. Perfectly natural, my dear. Perfectly. And even if it isn’t his exams, boys of that age are quite often odd, it’s part of the growing-up process.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘I’m certain of it. I seem to recall behaving somewhat similarly when I was twenty or thereabouts. It’s just a stage, no more.’

Harriet remained unconvinced, though she didn’t say so. Mathew hated being contradicted in any way. An iron tonic, she thought. Perhaps that might help. She had an appointment for a corset fitting later that morning. She made a mental note to drop into the pharmacist’s directly afterwards.

It had been a good day for Sandy from the betting point of view. His net profit, after all bets had been settled, was seven pounds two and six for the week. Terrific.

He stopped outside The Clachan, a pub he often came to on a Saturday night as it was frequented by art students whom he enjoyed mingling with. Other medical students invariably went to the Union, the university bar where drinks were cheaper than elsewhere, but he much preferred The Clachan despite it being more expensive. He plunged into the heady atmosphere of cigarette smoke and loud conversation.

He went downstairs where the younger people gathered; upstairs was for the locals and older generation.

Right away he spotted Grant Bell, an acquaintance of his who lived out on the southside where he worked as an apprentice engineer. The pair of them had got talking in the pub one night, about philosophy of all things, and since then kept one another company when there.

‘You all right? You’re late,’ Grant said, eyeing the large and ornate clock behind the bar.

‘I’m fine. Got held up, that’s all.’ He’d been delayed waiting for one of his punters he had to settle up with.

The barmaid, an ancient crone who must have been in her seventies, had dyed orange hair and a face like a prune. Her name was Myrtle. Sandy waved to catch her attention. ‘A pint and a hauf,’ he ordered when she bustled over. The hauf meant whisky.

Grant glanced about him. ‘There’s no decent talent in yet, but it’s early. Something might turn up.’

Sandy grinned. Grant, not exactly the best-looking of men, was always trying to chat up the women who came down there and, to Sandy’s knowledge, had never succeeded in getting off with one. ‘Aye, you never know your luck.’

Grant’s eyes flicked back to Sandy. ‘Do I detect a hint of sarcasm in your voice, you cheeky sod?’

Sandy assumed an expression of innocence, knowing this was only good-natured banter. ‘Not at all. As if I’d be sarcastic.’

Grant grunted, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘There’s a table free. Do you fancy sitting down?’

It was unusual to get a table so late. ‘You grab it and I’ll be over in a mo’.’ He drained the whisky as Grant moved away and instantly beckoned to Myrtle for a refill.

‘This is Martin Benson, a pal of my brother’s. They went to school together,’ Grant said, introducing Sandy to a chap who appeared to have joined them.

Sandy placed his drinks on the table and extended a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Martin. I’m Sandy McLean.’

‘Aye, Grant just mentioned.’

Sandy took an instant liking to the man who had dark auburn hair and pale blue Celtic eyes. ‘I see from your scarf you’re at the Art School,’ Sandy said as he sat down.

‘That’s right. Second year.’

‘Enjoying yourself?’

Martin shrugged. ‘I don’t know about enjoying, but it’s good. Aye, definitely that.’

Sandy was filled with envy and jealousy which he did his best not to show. How he wished he was there.

‘And yourself?’

‘Medical School.’

Martin nodded, but didn’t make any comment.

‘Holy fuck, will you look at what just walked in,’ Grant swore softly.

Sandy followed Grant’s gaze to fasten his own on the most stunning of women who was with a chap slightly older than herself. Sandy guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. She was absolutely gorgeous. A real knockout.

‘Lucky bastard, whoever he is,’ Grant said, meaning the chap with the woman.

‘You should see her stripped, she’s really something then,’ Martin declared in an offhand manner.

Both Sandy and Grant turned to stare incredulously at him. ‘You’ve seen her naked?’ Grant croaked.

‘Quite a few times.’ Martin grinned. ‘The last being this afternoon.’

Sandy was dumbfounded, not knowing what to say to that.

Martin was enjoying his little tease, all the more because it was true. ‘She’s French, all the way from Gay Paree. And her name’s Sophie.’

French, Sandy mused. Now that he thought about it she did have a foreign look about her.

‘How … how …?’ Grant sort of spluttered.

Martin laughed, deciding to put them out of their agony. ‘She models for us in life classes.’

‘Oh my God,’ Grant whispered.

Sandy went back to staring at the French woman, trying to envision her nude. The picture he conjured up made his throat constrict.

‘If I get a chance I’ll introduce you later,’ Martin declared. ‘She’s very nice. You’ll like her.’

‘Like her? I’m already in love,’ Grant sighed, causing the other two to laugh.

As it transpired that chance never came. Minutes later, Sophie and her male companion left.

Sandy’s gaze followed her up every inch of the stairs until she disappeared from view.

‘Can I ask you something?’

Laura turned to look at her friend, Madeleine Abercrombie. The pair of them were out for a Sunday stroll in Kelvingrove Park, something they often did when the weather was good. ‘Of course, Madeleine.’

Madeleine cleared her throat, horribly aware that she was blushing. She and Laura had been best pals since their first-ever day at Laurel Bank School, and they were now as close as sisters. ‘It isn’t easy,’ she mumbled. ‘I mean, I’m embarrassed.’

Laura frowned. She indicated a nearby bench. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

‘Please.’

Once seated Madeleine fiddled with the fancy umbrella she was holding, which was similar to Laura’s. As it was a beautiful day the umbrellas were for purely decorative purposes, part of a well-brought-up young lady’s ensemble on such an occasion.

‘So?’ Laura prompted.

Madeleine glanced sideways at Laura, her cheeks now flaming scarlet. ‘I wouldn’t ask another single soul this. Honest.’

When her friend didn’t go on Laura nodded, urging her to do so.

‘I mean, I just couldn’t,’ Madeleine added in a tremulous voice.

‘I’m flattered.’

Madeleine took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. ‘It’s about men. I know absolutely nothing about them. What …’ she gulped. ‘What goes on between them and women to make babies?’ She turned away, breaking eye contact. ‘I thought, well, you coming from a medical family, your father being a doctor and Sandy studying to be one, you were bound to know.’

‘I see,’ Laura replied quietly.

‘I have tried to … well I did broach it with Ma once, in a sort of roundabout way, but she wasn’t forthcoming at all. In fact she couldn’t have been more evasive.’

Laura could well believe that. Her own mother would have been just the same.

‘Is it something to do with kissing and tummy buttons?’ Madeleine queried.

Laura shook her head, her own knowledge on the subject extremely scant. ‘No, it isn’t. First of all, do you know the difference between men and women?’

‘Sort of. Don’t they have some kind of “thing” between their legs?’

‘That’s right. At least, so I understand.’

Both girls pondered this mystery.

‘How big is it and what does it look like?’ Madeleine queried eventually.

‘I don’t exactly know,’ Laura confessed. ‘Although my father’s a doctor he’s about as tight-lipped on those matters as your mother. My mother too come to that. It’s a sort of forbidden subject, as far as I’m concerned.’

Madeleine was momentarily distracted as a seagull flew overhead. At times there could be quite a few seagulls in the skies over Glasgow, it being built on a river and not far from the sea. She brought her attention back to Laura. ‘What does he do with it, when making babies that is?’

Laura shook her head. ‘I haven’t the foggiest, but I’m certain it’s nothing to do with your tummy button. And it can’t be kissing, I’ve seen lots of people kiss.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, not many kiss in that way. Husband and wife so to speak. Kissing just wouldn’t make any sense at all. Not if you think about it.’

‘I suppose so,’ Madeleine sighed.

‘It’s my belief, and I’m not sure where the idea came from, that a man’s “thing” as you call it, is something like a spigot.’

Madeleine’s eyes opened wide. ‘A spigot?’

‘Like you get on a barrel.’

Madeleine tried to imagine that between a man’s legs, and couldn’t. It was too ludicrous for words.

‘A spigot,’ Madeleine repeated, fighting back the urge to laugh.

This was a subject Laura had thought about herself from time to time, but how to find out details? ‘Why are you asking anyway?’ she queried.

Madeleine shrugged. ‘Just curious, that’s all.’

‘What made you think about it now, today?’

Madeleine shrugged again and didn’t reply.

They sat in silence for a little while, each lost in thought and conjecture. The silence was finally broken when Laura proposed they resume their walk.

‘If I do find out I’ll tell you,’ Madeleine suddenly declared.

‘And I you.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Madeleine shivered slightly. ‘I just hope it isn’t too horrible, that’s all.’

Laura hoped so too. Somehow she didn’t think it could be. Or could it?

While Laura and Madeleine were taking their stroll, Sandy was down at the Broomielaw, right on the River Clyde, where the ships were loaded and unloaded. A hive of activity during the working week, now it was quiet with an air of serenity about it. Dotted around the quayside were tall, motionless cranes, like skeletal beasts having a well-earned rest.

Groups of men stood on the street corners chatting