The Shipbuilder's Daughter

by Emma Fraser

Genres: Sagas; Scottish & Highlander; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Set in 1920s Scotland, this beautifully written and satisfying saga follows the fate of a shipyard owner's daughter as she is faced with an impossible decision . . . Perfect for fans of Diney Costeloe, Rita Bradshaw and Nadine Dorries.

Glasgow, 1928. Margaret Bannatyne lost both of her brothers in the Great War and is now the last remaining child of wealthy and powerful shipyard owner William Bannatyne. Without a male heir to carry on the family business, William expects his daughter to do her duty, marry well and provide him with a grandson to inherit his business.

Margaret cares deeply for her father but she has ambitions of her own: after witnessing a horrific accident when she was sixteen, she's determined to become a doctor. Her father, convinced she will never practise medicine, permits Margaret to complete her training. But he doesn't count on her falling in love with Alasdair Morrison.

Alasdair, a union man at the shipyard, has been a thorn in William's side for years, and he didn't become one of the richest men in Glasgow only for Alasdair to take it all away - even if it means destroying his only daughter's happiness by forcing her to make a heartbreaking and impossible choice . . .

Release date: April 4, 2017

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 432

Sample

The scream was like nothing Margaret had ever heard before and seemed to go on forever. She dropped her book and clapped her hands over her ears. Almost worse was the awful silence that descended a few moments later.

Her heart hammering, she ran to the window and looked outside. Although her father’s office was on the third floor, only a fraction of the shipyard was visible; the rest, sprawling alongside the Clyde, was hidden from view. Beneath her a crowd was gathering, converging on something she couldn’t quite see through the grimy window.

She used the sleeve of her dress in an attempt to clear a patch, but all she managed to do was smudge it more. As urgent shouts filled the silence of moments before, she sped downstairs, emerging into the soot-filled air, her breath coming in painful gasps. She hesitated, suddenly reluctant to discover what horror had precipitated the blood-curdling screams.

‘Where are you going, Miss Bannatyne?’ a man asked, grabbing her by the elbow.

‘What’s happened? Is it my father?’

His lip curled. ‘No, it’s not your father. What would he be doing down here? It’s an accident. Nothing unusual, but not summat a young lass like you should see. Better go back indoors.’

She shook his arm away. ‘Let me go!’ She couldn’t just go back inside – she had to see for herself.

Eyes fixed on the huddle of men obscuring her view, she threaded her way through the grime-stained figures, their stale sweat mingling with the smell of burning coal, welded steel and other odours too foreign to identify, until she was standing inside the circle of onlookers. One of the workers, his face deathly pale, lay on the ground, pinned down by several steel girders. Blood seeped from beneath him, staining the dust red and, just visible through his torn trousers, white bone glistened through a ragged gash in his lower leg. Margaret clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out. Part of her wanted to turn away, to slip back through the mass of bodies and return to the safety of her father’s office, but another, stronger part couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of her.

The injured man groaned, sweat trickling down his face and pooling in the hollow of his neck. He looked up at his colleagues with frightened, pain-filled eyes. ‘Help me. For God’s sake.’

His pleas galvanised the group into action. Several men jostled past her, almost pushing her to the ground. One of them crouched by his side and grabbed the end of the girder. He turned back to the watching men. ‘We need to get the weight off him. Come on, men, put your backs into it.’

‘Stop!’

The shout, loud enough to be heard over the clanging metal, stopped the men in their tracks. Way above her head, so high up she had to crane her neck to see, a shipyard worker was standing on the scaffolding surrounding the ship currently under construction.

Ignoring the ladders connecting the different levels, he ran across a narrow plank, grabbed hold of a steel pole and swung down to the levels below. As he descended at breakneck speed, Margaret held her breath. If he wasn’t careful, he could easily plunge to his death.

But within moments he was on the ground and the crowd parted to let him through.

‘Jimmy,’ he said, addressing the man who had ordered the others to move the girders, ‘we’ll not be able to lift those off him without a crane. Get one over here. Toni, fetch the stretcher. And a cart too.’

The new arrival couldn’t be much older than her, yet to her surprise the men did his bidding without argument. He shoved dark hair out of his eyes and knelt by the injured man’s side. ‘How are you holding up, Hamish?’

‘I’ve been better, Alasdair. I’ve a feeling I’ll no’ be home for my tea.’

A brief smile crossed the younger man’s face as he ran his hands across Hamish’s body. ‘Aye, well. I’ll get someone to let the wife know. In the meantime, let me have a look see.’

Why didn’t they lift the girders off Hamish? He needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible. Why were the workers listening to this man? Where was her father? He should be here, telling them what to do.

‘Alasdair, lad, we have to get him out from under that weight,’ one of the men said. It appeared she wasn’t the only one wondering about the delay.

The dark-haired man shook his head. ‘He’s punctured an artery at the top of his leg. The pressure of the girders is stopping him from bleeding like a pig. If we take them off without putting on a tourniquet first, he’ll not last more than a few minutes.’ He yanked off his belt and wrapped it around the top of the injured man’s thigh. ‘Hold on, Hamish. We’re going to move you in a bit. I just need to do something first.’

He glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of her. ‘You. Do you have anything I can use as a bandage?’

Margaret stiffened. He’d spoken to her as if she were a nobody. Anyway, she didn’t have a handkerchief and her dress was stained with soot from the yard. ‘No. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re wearing a petticoat, aren’t you? Tear a strip off and pass it to me.’

As several pairs of eyes swivelled in her direction, she blushed. ‘I can’t do that. Not in front of everyone.’

‘You’re going to have to. There’s nothing else. I need something to staunch the bleeding that’s not covered in muck.’

‘That’s Bannatyne’s lass,’ one of the men said. ‘Best leave her out of it.’

‘I don’t care if she’s the Queen of Sheba. She shouldn’t be here, but since she is, she can help.’

Her face burning, Margaret lifted the hem of her dress. She tried to rip a piece off her petticoat but couldn’t make even the tiniest tear. ‘I can’t.’

Alasdair gave an exasperated shake of his head. ‘Someone help her.’ When no one made a move, he rose to his feet. ‘Is the crane here?’

‘Aye, son. And the stretcher.’

‘Right then, secure the poles.’ While the men started tying ropes around the girders, Alasdair stepped towards her. Before she could stop him, he lifted her dress and tore a strip from her petticoat with his teeth.

He looked up at her and a smile flitted across his face. ‘Sorry, Miss Bannatyne.’ He was so close she could see the freckles scattered across his face. Thick, long lashes framed eyes the colour of the sky in winter.

As soon as the ropes were tied, Alasdair knelt once more on the ground beside the injured man. ‘Hamish, I know it hurts like buggery now, but it’s going to hurt even more when we lift the girders. You can yell as loud as you like. No one here will mind.’ He squeezed Hamish’s shoulder. ‘Right, lads. As slowly and as carefully as you can.’

The ropes tightened, then inch by inch, the lengths of steel began to lift. Hamish screamed, his arms thrashing about in agony. Margaret watched in horror as blood spurted over Alasdair’s hands.

‘Hold still, Hamish. For the love of God, just hold still.’

If Hamish could hear Alasdair he was in too much pain to pay heed. He continued to flail his arms, trying to push Alasdair away.

‘Someone hold him down, for God’s sake!’ Alasdair shouted, his bloodied fingers slipping on the straps of his makeshift tourniquet.

One of the men pressed down on Hamish’s shoulders and Alasdair tightened the belt until the blood slowed to a trickle. Satisfied, he moved on to the gash in Hamish’s lower leg, wrapping the strips of Margaret’s torn petticoat tightly over the wound. Within moments his temporary bandage had turned red.

‘Pass me some planks,’ he ordered.

Eager hands thrust several at him. He discarded a few before selecting four of equal length. He placed one on either side of each of Hamish’s legs and tied them quickly with more belts.

‘Let’s get him onto the stretcher, lads,’ he said. ‘Go carefully. His legs are likely broken. The planks will help – but only a little.’

As they moved him, Hamish screamed again, then mercifully fell silent. They laid his unconscious body on the stretcher and set it on the back of the cart.

‘Take him to the Infirmary. As quickly as you can. Avoid the potholes. I’ll let the boss know what’s happened, once I find out what went wrong.’

‘Is he going to be all right?’ Margaret asked, grabbing Alasdair’s arm.

‘You need to leave, Miss,’ he replied curtly. His expression softened. ‘There’s no more any of us can do here. It’s up to the doctors at the hospital now.’ He turned back towards the men. ‘Right. Those who have nothing to say about what happened, back to work.’

As the cart rolled away she looked up. Her father was standing at his office window, staring down. Doing nothing. Just looking.

 

‘What in God’s name were you doing down there?’ her father barked when she returned to the office. Mr Ferguson, her father’s manager, was standing next to him. Why had neither of them come to help?

‘There was an accident. Didn’t you see?’ Her heart was still beating so fast she felt light-headed.

‘It’s a shipyard, Margaret. There’s always accidents. You had no business to be down there getting in the way. I asked you to stay in my office until I returned. Why can you never do as you’re told?’

Tears stung the back of her lids. The day had started with so much promise. When her father had suggested she come with him to the shipyard she’d been thrilled. It was the first time he’d ever invited her to go anywhere with him.

‘I brought you here, Margaret,’ her father continued, ‘so you can see what your sons will inherit one day, not to be showing your undergarments to the men. Look at the state of you!’

She shook her head impatiently. ‘I wasn’t in the way. I helped. They needed a bit of my petticoat to use as a bandage. They had nothing else.’ What did the state of her clothing matter when a man had been badly hurt? ‘What do you think will happen to him? Can we go to the hospital to find out?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Margaret. I don’t have time to go checking up on the men every time one of them gets injured.’

‘But he’s really hurt! Don’t you want to make sure he’s all right?’

‘Ferguson will let me know in the morning. Now let’s get you home before the men have anything more to talk about,’ her father said. ‘Really, Margaret. I only left you for a short while. All you had to do was wait for me.’

It hadn’t been a short while. It had been over two hours.

He picked up his hat, but before they could leave there was a sharp knock on the door and without waiting for an invitation to enter, Alasdair strode into the office. His arms and hands were still covered with Hamish’s blood, the front of his shirt splashed with crimson. Taller than her father by a few inches, and muscular without being stocky, his dark hair was longer than most men wore it and tousled as if he’d just climbed out of bed. Despite Alasdair’s dishevelled appearance and workman’s clothes that contrasted sharply with her father’s hand-made suit and crisp white shirt, the men shared the same undeniable air of authority. And, while Alasdair’s manner with Hamish had been gentle and kind, his eyes were now slate-grey cold, and his full mouth set in a grim line.

‘What are you doing in here, Morrison?’ Mr Ferguson said, with an anxious glance at Margaret’s father. ‘I’m sorry, sir. The men know they aren’t permitted to come up to the office.’

‘I wouldn’t have had to if you’d come down. The front scaffolding collapsed. I’ve had to send Hamish McKillop to hospital.’

‘Anything you want to tell me can wait,’ Mr Ferguson said.

‘No it can’t. That scaffolding wouldn’t have collapsed if it had been erected properly and not in a rush. We’ve told you before. There’s too much cutting corners going on. Mr Bannatyne needs to be aware of that.’

‘Mr Ferguson runs the yard,’ Margaret’s father snapped.

Alasdair turned his wintry eyes to her father. ‘He might run the yard but he does it under your orders. That’s the third accident this month. The workers have the right to a safe workplace.’

Margaret had never heard anyone speak to her father like that before.

Her father’s face suffused with colour. ‘And who are you to tell me how to operate my yard? Get the blazes out of my office and back to work.’

Mr Ferguson stepped forward and took Alasdair by the elbow. ‘On you go, Morrison.’

Alasdair stared at the hand on his arm until Mr Ferguson released his grip. ‘I’ll go,’ he said quietly. ‘But the men won’t be working on that ship until the scaffolding has been checked.’ With a scathing look at Mr Ferguson, he turned on his heel and left.

‘Who is that whippersnapper? What makes him think he has the right to speak to me like that?’ her father demanded, his voice shaking with fury.

Mr Ferguson twisted the cap in his hand. ‘His name is Alasdair Morrison, sir – one of the time-served riveters and their foreman.’

‘Ian Morrison’s son?’

‘The same.’

‘Damn that man. And his son. How the hell did Morrison’s lad come to be working in my yard?’

‘He’s been here since he was fourteen – apart from the time he served in the war. He’s a good worker. The men look up to him – as they did his father.’

‘Fire him!’

‘You can’t fire him, Father! He helped. He’s only telling you something he thinks you need to know.’ Margaret had been listening to the exchange with growing dismay. She didn’t know what shocked her more: the way Alasdair had spoken to her father, or the way her father had responded. ‘You should have seen what he did! Hamish might have died if he hadn’t been there.’

‘Stay out of this, Margaret.’

‘Your daughter is right, Mr Bannatyne. We can’t fire him. The unions will strike if we do. And that ship needs to be finished on time.’

Her father knotted his hands behind his back, returned to the window and looked outside. ‘Is Morrison right about the scaffolding?’

Mr Ferguson shifted uneasily. ‘It was put up in a bit of a rush, sir. If you recall we’re on a tight schedule with the ships. But I told them to make sure it was robust.’

‘I pay you, Ferguson, to ensure the yard is run properly. These issues should not be my concern. If you can’t do the job I pay you for, I’ll find someone else. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And as for Morrison. He’s a trouble-maker just like his father. I don’t care how you do it but get rid of him the first chance you can.’

 

Margaret stared out of the window as their chauffeur drove them home. So much for her father spending time with her. She’d imagined telling him about her lessons – how her tutor, Miss Fourier, made her practise her Latin and Italian until she could read a little Virgil and Dante in the original, or even what she’d found on her latest walk down at the seashore in Helensburgh. She hadn’t really been interested in seeing the shipyard – what girl would be? – and to begin with she’d found it every bit as grey, dirty and as unappealing as she’d anticipated. Stepping out of the car on arrival, the incredible noise of shouting, hammering, the screech of metal on metal, the rumble of horse-pulled carts on the cobbles, had pounded through her head, making it difficult to think, let alone speak. Nearly as bad was the smell of grease and oil, burnt steel, smouldering coal and hot tar. Lined with cranes and warehouses, virtually every inch of space on the quayside had been filled with workers – some no more than boys – almost identical in their flat caps and waistcoats, some loading and unloading carts, while even more swarmed over the steel girders supporting the half-built ships. But she’d soon become aware of a sense of purpose behind the apparent chaos. Her father had told her that the ship, rising high above her, was destined to be part of the Cunard line. It would be beautiful when it was finished and these men had made it from nothing and she’d been curious to see more.

However, to her dismay, her father had taken her straight to his office and instructed her to stay there until he returned.

She shuddered. Well, she had seen more of the shipyard, just not in the way she’d expected.

‘You don’t really mean to have Alasdair dismissed, do you?’ she asked her father now. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the office, concentrating instead on the sheaf of papers on his lap.

He looked at her and frowned. ‘There’s no room for sentimentality in business, Margaret. Especially not these days. We have to stay competitive and that means producing ships as quickly and as cheaply as we can while maintaining quality. Clyde-built ships have the reputation for being the best in the world and I mean to keep it that way.’

‘But those workers. They’re the ones who build the ships. Don’t they matter?’

‘It’s up to them to take more care so that they don’t have accidents and can continue to work.’

‘Isn’t it also up to you – I mean Mr Ferguson – to make sure they don’t get hurt?’

‘In that accidents cost the yard time and money. Yes.’

‘But —’

‘Enough, Margaret! It’s bad enough having one of the labourers question me, without my own daughter doing it too.’ His expression softened. ‘There’s a lot to a business, my dear. I can’t expect a young girl to understand that.’

If he was right then she was glad she wasn’t expected to take over from her father. She wanted to press him further, but the day had already been spoiled.

‘When you have a son I’ll teach him all he needs to know,’ her father continued.

The thought of marrying – let alone having sons – seemed so far in the future she could hardly imagine it.

‘You will ask Mr Ferguson to let us know about Hamish, won’t you?’

‘Who?’

‘Hamish. The man who was injured.’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘And you’ll tell me?’

Her father patted her knee absent-mindedly. ‘I said I would. Now, Margaret, could you be quiet for a while? I need peace to think.’

 

Back at the house Margaret’s father dropped her off, telling her he had business in town. Disappointed they wouldn’t be spending the day together after all and shaken by what had happened, she felt a sudden longing for her mother. If only she were here and not in Helensburgh.

As her steps echoed in the large tiled hallway of their Glasgow home, images of the accident at the shipyard spilled through her head: Hamish on the ground; the pain and fear in his eyes; all that blood and no one sure of what to do. Until Alasdair had arrived, that is. Despite his being so much younger than the other men, there had been an almost palpable sense of relief amongst them when he’d taken control. He seemed to know exactly what to do, assuming he’d done the right thing. If Sebastian had been at the shipyard that morning, as a doctor, would he have done anything different than Alasdair had? Would Sebastian have removed Hamish immediately or also waited to tie a belt round Hamish’s leg to stop the bleeding? Or had Alasdair just been guessing it was the right thing to do? Perhaps the injured man wouldn’t survive because of the delay in getting him to hospital – or perhaps it was the only reason he was still alive.

She ran upstairs and along the corridor to her brother’s room. It still smelt of him; the tangy scent of tobacco mixed with the spiced soap he had used. Like Fletcher’s room, Sebastian’s had been left untouched. Their books, the shoes they once wore, their tailored suits, polo sticks and cricket bats were all where they’d left them, as if one day they would return and life would carry on as before.

She crouched in front of Sebastian’s bookshelf. They were still packed with his medical journals, volumes of chemistry, botany and materia medica along with medical tomes depicting gruesome illustrations of disease and injury. She’d often sat reading quietly in the chair by the window on the rare occasions Sebastian studied for his surgical exams.

She trailed her fingers along the spines until she found what she was looking for – Gray’s Anatomy – and heaved the tome of over a thousand pages over to Sebastian’s desk. She pulled out the chair and sat down. She couldn’t ask her brother’s advice, but she could find out for herself. She wanted to know what Alasdair had done and why.

Most of all, she wanted to know if he’d been right.

Spilling out of the lecture theatre along with the other students, Margaret felt giddy with relief and exhilaration. Although she had no doubt that she would pass her final exams – she had worked too hard over the years not to – it still felt unreal that very soon she would be working as a doctor. Until then she had almost two whole glorious weeks with no studying, no specialist breathing down her neck, no patients to be examined and drilled on, just days and days of sleeping in and catching up on all the unread books she’d had to put aside these last few months.

She hooked arms with Martha and Lillian as they stood on the steps of Glasgow University.

‘That wasn’t too bad,’ Martha said, the glasses perched on the end of her nose glinting in the sunshine.

‘Perhaps not for you,’ Lillian retorted, ‘but I’m sure I got my duodenum mixed up with my ileum.’

Margaret smiled. Typical Lillian – always teasing. It was unlikely that the three of them would even have met if they hadn’t been the only female medical students in their year. Small, plump, serious Martha with her long red hair pulled tightly off her face and twisted in a plait was the epitome of a Minister’s daughter and the complete opposite of headstrong, aristocratic, beautiful dark-haired Lillian who, with her sleek bob and daring knee-skimming skirts, turned heads everywhere she went – even those of their resentful male counterparts.

Yet, despite their differences in outlook and personality, they had become immediate and fast friends, and Margaret would miss them terribly. Martha was leaving for India in less than a week to work as a missionary, while Lillian was going to London to set up a practice with her fiancé, Charles.

‘Right,’ Lillian said. ‘What shall we do now? A little shopping perhaps?’

‘I’m saving,’ Martha said.

‘Of course you are,’ Lillian replied with an exasperated sideways glance at Margaret, ‘but window shopping costs nothing and surely you must need a mosquito net or another Bible to take to India?’

‘I have already bought everything I need,’ Martha said stiffly. ‘It’s all packed.’

‘We can’t possibly just go home,’ Lillian insisted. ‘We have to celebrate. Let’s have a drink at least.’

‘A cup of tea, you mean,’ Martha said, looking pointedly at her watch. ‘It’s only just past two.’

‘A walk then?’ Margaret suggested, stepping into her familiar role as peacemaker. ‘It’s such a beautiful day. We should make the most of it.’

Glasgow, which even in the summer was usually so smoggy it was difficult to see to put one foot in front of the other, was uncharacteristically clear. Today the sky was blue, the sun hot enough for them to remove their suit jackets and drape them over their shoulders, and there was just enough of a breeze to keep the smog away.

As they headed towards Dumbarton Road, they stopped in respectful silence as a horse-drawn carriage adorned with black feathers passed by. A small, white coffin lay in the back. The carriage was followed by several distraught relatives, their muffled sobs all too audible. A knot of frustration formed in the pit of Margaret’s stomach. It was too common a sight in Glasgow. Hardly a day went by without the funeral cortege of a child taken by diphtheria or scarlet fever or any of the several infectious diseases that killed one child in five. During their years as medical students they all had pronounced children dead and mourned along with the parents. No matter how advanced medicine was becoming there was still no cure for many of the illnesses they’d seen during their training.

‘Now I definitely need a drink,’ Lillian muttered, and before Margaret or Martha could object, she marched across the street ignoring the honk from an oncoming tram and disappeared into the Highlander Public House.

‘In there?’ Martha shook her head. ‘She has to be joking.’

Although women did go into bars it was frowned upon, especially for women of their class and most definitely not in the afternoon.

Margaret gripped Martha by the arm. ‘Come on, let’s live dangerously for once. We’ll just have a sherry or something. No one will even notice us.’

She knew that was unlikely. Three unaccompanied women dressed as they were in neat suits and crisp white blouses would stick out like sore thumbs. But today was a day for doing something daring and different. Martha seemed to realise this too, allowing herself to be pulled inside the low, grimy building.

The few couples in the ladies’ bar looked up as they entered, their eyes swivelling towards them before quickly looking away. Lillian had already secured a small table at the rear. ‘I’ve ordered us sherries, Margaret,’ she said, taking out her silver cigarette case. ‘And a lemonade for you, Martha. I know there is only so far I can go.’

Margaret glanced over at Martha, who looked like she’d swallowed a lemon, and bit down on her lip to stop herself from laughing out loud.

When their drinks arrived, Lillian raised her glass. ‘I propose a toast. Here’s to your missionary work in India, Martha – may you convert many and heal even more.’ She turned towards Margaret. ‘And Mags, here’s to your success as House Officer Extraordinaire at Redlands – and may the post you so covet soon become available at Rotten Row.’

Margaret laughed. ‘That’s unlikely to happen – at least not until the powers-that-be stop giving the jobs to men only.’ She held up her glass. ‘But I’ll drink to the hope of it. And let’s not forget about your upcoming wedding, Lily.’

‘I imagine you and Robert will be setting a date for yours soon, Margaret,’ Lillian said, after they’d chinked glasses. ‘I have to say, he’s a patient man.’

‘No more patient than your Charles. He also agreed to wait until you finished your studies.’

Lillian fitted a cigarette into its holder before lighting it. ‘That’s because we’ll be working together. At least until the sprogs come along.’ She hesitated. ‘Your Robert has more cause for urgency.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Margaret said sharply.

Lillian placed her cigarette lighter carefully on the table. ‘All I meant, my dear, is that the landed gentry are always in need of money. Fortunately for me, Charles has plenty of the stuff.’

‘Come off it, Lillian, don’t pretend that’s why you’re marrying Charles,’ Margaret protested.

Lillian blew a perfect smoke ring – a skill she was especially proud of – and smiled dreamily. ‘I am rather fond of him, I admit. But money always helps. Father needs an injection of cash if he’s going to stop the family pile from falling down about his ears. Unfortunately, Charles’s family aren’t as hideously wealthy as yours, Margaret, but then again few families are.’ She was quiet for a moment, fiddling with her cigarette while staring pensively at Margaret. ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you this but I’ve heard the Locksleys have got into a spot of bother. Something about investing in America. I gather they might have to sell off part of their estate if they can’t come up with some funds. Lucky for them they are about to be united with the Bannatynes. I can’t imagine your father will let his in-laws starve.’

Margaret frowned at her friend. What Lillian was saying couldn’t be true, otherwise Robert would have said something. Unless, of course, it was a temporary state of affairs and he didn’t want to trouble her. And as for Lillian’s insinuation that Robert was marrying her because of her wealth – that was nonsense. Nevertheless, she felt a ripple of unease. She’d often thought that there should be more passion between an engaged couple; Robert rarely tried to kiss her, although until now it had never bothered her. They got on, and that’s what mattered most. Robert understood how important medicine was to her. He’d even agreed that they should wait until she had completed her first year as a doctor before they married. If he was so desperate to get his hands on the Bannatyne money surely he would have pressed her to set a date before now? But Lillian and Robert’s fathers were friends and Lillian would never have mentioned the Locksleys’ financial troubles – not if she wasn’t sure of her facts.

‘You’re not suggesting Robert is marrying me because his family needs money?’ Margaret asked Lillian.

‘No, of course not,’ Lillian replied, studying the end of her cigarette. ‘Don’t mind me! You know how I open my mouth sometimes and all sorts of nonsense just comes spilling out.’ She held up her glass and made a show of studying the amber liquid inside. ‘It doesn’t help that this sherry’s gone straight to my head.’

‘Ignore Lillian, Margaret,’ Martha interjected. ‘She just likes to tease. Robert loves you dearly. Why wouldn’t he? You are clever, beautiful and kind.’ She took a sip of her lemonade and wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know why you ladies are getting married anyway. Not everyone needs a husband to be happy. Our work is what’s important.’

Lillian gave a sly smile. ‘Are you certain you’re not one of those women, Martha? It wouldn’t bother me if you were, you know. Might even try it myself one day.’

‘Leave her alone, Lily,’ Margaret said. She suspected that Lillian often said these outrageous things simply to annoy Martha.

Martha rolled her eyes. ‘I can stick up for myself, Margaret. And no, for the record, I’m not one of those sort of women. Just because I haven’t had a suitor doesn’t mean I’m not interested in the opposite sex. Unfortunately, decent God-fearing men are few and far between.’

They stopped talking as a couple edged past their table, the man’s arm resting lightly on the woman’s waist.

‘Hardly any young men left at all,’ Martha continued, eyeing the departing sweethearts.

Lillian and Margaret followed her gaze. ‘I daresay there is going to be a generation of single women living together as they grow old, sewing and tending their gardens. What a fate. The war has a lot to answer for,’ Lillian said.

‘If I hadn’t met Robert, I don’t think I’d have minded staying single,’ Margaret said. ‘But I would like to have children one day. What about you girls?’

‘I suppose I could manage a couple as long as I have a nanny or two.’ Lillian removed her cigarette from its holder and ground it out in the ashtray.

‘The children in India will be my children,’ Martha said.

Lillian leant over and gave her a shove. ‘Oh, get off your high horse, Martha. You can’t tell me you want to live your whole life without sex.’

‘I never said I did! And keep your voice down, we don’t want the whole bar to hear.’ She leant forward and whispered, ‘What do you think it would be like?’

When Lillian lifted an eyebrow, Martha gasped. ‘You haven’t!’

Margaret shook her head. Really, Lillian took it too far sometimes. ‘Of course she hasn’t, Martha. She’s just teasing you.’

‘Are you certain about that? For all you both know I’m a regular at those petting parties when I go to London.’

‘Because we know you’re not stupid. Naughty perhaps and provocative, but not stupid. You’d never do anything to ruin your reputation,’ Margaret replied.

Lillian laughed. ‘How well you both know me.’ She drained her glass. ‘Right, whose round is it?’

Martha shook her head. ‘I can’t stay. I promised my father I’d help him write Sunday’s sermon. Perhaps we could go for tea after church?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘You’ll both be at church on Sunday, won’t you?’

‘Not this Sunday, I’m afraid,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m going to Helensburgh to see Mother.’

‘How is she?’ Martha asked.

‘Much the same.’

Lillian leant across the table and squeezed Margaret’s hand.

‘I’ll see you before you leave for India,’ Margaret told Martha as her friend picked up her handbag.

‘You must! I couldn’t go without a proper goodbye.’

They were silent, knowing that this might be the last time the three of them were together.

Martha stood and hugged Lillian, then Margaret. ‘I’ll always be here for the two of you, you do know that, don’t you?’

‘Of course we do,’ Margaret replied, swallowing the lump in her throat. ‘And us for you.’

Lillian gave Martha a gentle nudge. ‘Off you go before you have us all in tears!’

‘Oh help, I hope no one we know sees me leaving this place,’ Martha muttered before scurrying out the door.

Margaret handed Lillian a handkerchief. ‘I take it you want another sherry, Lily?’

Lillian nodded, surreptitiously dabbing her eyes. ‘You take it right.’

While Margaret stood at the counter waiting to be served, she noticed it was possible to see into the public bar next door through a connecting archway. The air in there was thick with cigarette and pipe smoke and she caught a glimpse of men seated round scarred wooden tables, their pints of beer clutched in their work-soiled hands. Amidst the rumble of voices and laughter, she heard the strains of a fiddle being tuned up.

Putting the change in her purse, she carried the drinks back to their table.

‘I think there’s music starting. Won’t be able to hear ourselves think in a minute with the noise,’ she said to Lillian, ‘Shall we go somewhere else?’

Except, when a fiddle burst into life accompanied by a cacophony of cheering and clapping, she found herself tapping her foot in time to the music.

Lillian leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Let’s go through to the bar.’

Margaret hesitated. ‘It’s the public bar.’

‘So what! Aren’t we the public too? Come on, it could be the last chance we have to let our hair down for a while.’

Lillian was right. Once they started work there would be little opportunity for relaxing. Apart from that they would have their professional reputations to uphold. Here, no one knew them. She smiled at her friend. ‘Very well. Why not?’

Clutching their drinks and giggling like scho. . .