The Scottish Heart

Chapter 2-2

“He"s a very good welder,” Dorothy said. “Nathan works on the submarines for the Royal Navy.”

“I"ve heard that many of the welders are Catholic,” Zoë said. “Are Catholics suited to the trade?”

“Never thought about it; maybe it"s the Sacraments or the Holy Ghost. He"s the Man; that"s what makes us good welders. I can weld anything.”

“Do you follow Glasgow Celtic, that Catholic football team?”

“I"ve never been to a Celtic game.”

Nathan tried to lighten the mood, anxious that Dorothy would not get caught in the middle of the fight that Zoë seemed intent on having with him. “The welding, well it"s OK, it"s what I do for wages. It doesn"t compare to playing with the band, but Jazz is a poor living in Westburn.”

Zoë held on to an icy silence. She disliked Catholics, looked down on them; and she wasn"t interested in Nathan"s welding skills, or the band. “So, Nathan, do you read music?”

“Nathan takes a class on music theory at The Athenaeum on a Saturday morning,” Dorothy said. “In the afternoon he studies with Thomas Youngman, Principal Trumpet of the SNO.”

Zoë gave her niece a dry look and turned to Nathan.

“Of course, I read music,” Nathan said. “I"m a musician. I could read from when I was about eleven. The Silver Band insisted everyone learn to read, and the Army was a good training too.”

“Nathan was in the Korean War,” Dorothy said.

“Really,” Zoë said.

“I didn"t pick it. The Army sent me.”

“Nathan can wear the Butcher"s Apron,” Dorothy said. “That"s what the Jocks called the UN Medal. The ribbon has blue and white stripes.”

“Hmm,” Zoë said. “So what exactly do you play; is Jazz really music; isn"t it simply a lot of noise?”

“You read music, Zoë?”

“I understand the basics.”

Nathan jerked his head in the direction of the piano standing on the back wall of the room. “Do you play?”

“I can pass myself.”

“So, if I played something right now, you"d know the key, and the time signature; and you"d know when I improvised?”

Zoë flushed, and said nothing. Nathan let her stew. “I"ll play and show you. I could teach you.”

“Why don"t we go in and have tea,” Dorothy said. Nathan exchanged a look with Dorothy, keeping his arms resting on his legs, looking straight ahead. He hated veiled rows, but refused to be humbled in front of Dorothy. And he would not allow Dorothy to be humiliated through him.

“Yes, why don"t we do that,” Zoë said.

“Come Nathan,” Dorothy said, leading him to the dining room.

Zoë removed the stopper from the crystal Sherry decanter. “Dorothy, Nathan, care for a glass of Sherry?”

“No thank you,” Dorothy said.

“Thanks, but I don"t drink,” Nathan said.

Zoë poured a good measure into a crystal glass and drank off two thirds of the wine in one swallow. She felt a stab of embarrassment at Nathan"s look.

It was the kind of tea Nathan had read about. He let his eyes wander over the table. Dorothy and Zoë had gone to some trouble: a generous plate of tiny, homemade hot sausage rolls resting on doilies, plates of neat sandwiches on brown bread, the crusts trimmed; sardines on toast. He enjoyed the egg and cress sandwiches. The savouries and the excellent tea relieved the earlier tension.

“Thanks, Zoë,” Nathan said. “This is wonderful.”

Zoë inclined her head, “Dorothy prepared most of it; now and then she let me help.”

Dorothy blushed and smiled. Nathan hoped the mood would improve.

“That"s nice,” Nathan said, nodding to the picture hanging over the fireplace.

“Really,” Zoë said, “It"s Delacroix"s Algerian Women In Their Apartments. What do you like about it?”

“I like the women. They"re very attractive. It"s relaxed; intimate. The hookah, their bare feet, and slippers lying about. The colours are warm.”

“Hmm; and what about the Daumier?”

Nathan looked to his left, to the wall facing the bay windows. He knew nothing of Daumier"s The Third Class Carriage. He saw a drab portrait of shabby working people travelling by train. “It"s OK.”

“Daumier,” Zoë said. “He has so much compassion for the poor and the working class. I thought it might appeal to you.”

“Ye like that? Ye can huv the real thing any day o" the week. Take a workers" bus, Monday tae Friday. Come doon the yerd. Eat the slop they serve in the canteen an" watch oot fur the pigeons shittin" in yer soup.”

He saw the flashes of black rage, her eyes boring into him. “Is that so?” Zoë said.

“Yes, that"s so.”

Silence. Pancakes and crumpets curled at the edges, rich currant cake grew hard; crumbs fell. The jams and marmalades congealed in their crystal dishes; and the fresh pot of Earl Grey stewed under its tea cosy.

“Nathan,” Dorothy said. “I"d like to go for a walk.”

“Why; whatever"s wrong?” Zoë said.

Nathan rose and pulled Dorothy"s chair back from the table, and she moved back. “You know perfectly well what"s wrong. You"ve treated Nathan abominably and I"m ashamed of you.”

“Oh, please, Dorothy. No tears. You"re being silly.”

“You"re incredibly rude,” Dorothy said. “You must apologize to Nathan.

“In my own house? I"ll do no such thing.”

They walked in silence for half an hour. Nathan wondered where Dorothy"s sweet nature came from. She"d been happy at having him to tea; now she wept salty tears.

“It"s a nice sunset over the river,” Nathan said. Dorothy nodded, too vexed to speak.

Zoë was some socialist. Nathan imagined her sounding off in front of a class of naive girls. Obviously, she"d never met a bastard and the only contacts she"d had with his people were tradesmen and char ladies. She was a hypocrite.

Nathan saw through Zoë"s polite facade to the venomous remarks and contemptuous smile. Down the yard, he"d seen men treated this way, like s**t, by arrogant managers. Zoë had intended cutting him to pieces in front of Dorothy. It hadn"t worked.

They lingered at the gate. Nathan saw Zoë"s silhouette through the curtain and wondered if her hands shook with fury. Zoë watched them from behind a curtain enraged that events had not gone her way.

“I"m sorry that we fell out.” Nathan said.

“I"m glad you put Zoë in her place. Nathan, please do something for me.”

“Sure; anything.”

“Please don"t swear again.”

“I was sore at Zoë. I wanted to annoy her. But I"m sorry. I promise I won"t speak like that again. Will she make trouble with your mother and father?”

“No. That would make her look foolish. Zoë couldn"t stand that.”

They kissed goodnight. Nathan saw a curtain move. “Will you be all right?”

“I"ll be fine. I"ll see you on Tuesday evening.”

Nathan had expected tolerance from an educated woman, but Zoë"s good looks hid a poisoned character. “She"s a scrubber,” Nathan said.

Nathan left the deserted streets of Valentia behind, re-crossing the frontier of Lord Nelson Street back into his side of Westburn. He met few people walking down Walker"s Brae. The hum of machinery from the sugar refinery irritated him. Nathan crossed Kip Street listening for the sound of the West Burn flowing beneath the cobbles.

The encounter with Zoë brought worries about an attractive mature woman he"d known. Nathan stopped and listened for the soothing gurgle of running water, but the burn was routed too deep. He walked on and passed the Infirmary on his right and then Shaw Street Infants" School on his left; the jarring memory of Sister Mary Elizabeth, a cruel woman straight from Hell: one of Satan"s Concubines. Warm thoughts of the motherly Sister Anna who loved infants.

Nathan walked up Ann Street and lingered at the end of Galt Place, resting his arms on the coping stone of the steep retaining wall above the railway. The lights of the house were out, but Ma would lie awake until she heard him come in.

It was a moonless night and a clear sky. He looked at the North Star, and The Plough; Venus was visible. Nathan knew little of stars or planets, but the pale distant light cheered him. He stayed by the wall, gazing over chimneys, and across the river to the darkened hills, and thought about June Connor.

When he met June Connor he was twenty-two, lonely and unsettled two years out of the Army. Nathan was ashamed of his serial screwing and heavy drinking. He"d finished with June almost three years ago. Since he met Dorothy, Nathan regretted the entire episode.

June Connor sang. Her real name was Philomena O"Donnell. She was about thirty-five. One evening Philomena approached as he walked home from the yard. She was small, and the edges of hairpins and rollers made jagged contours on the scarf covering her head; the knot in the scarf jutting above her nose. An untidy smear of bright red lipstick brightened her pasty complexion. The blue work overall hung below her shabby coat and on her feet, scuffed shoes with the stockings rolled down on the tops of woollen ankle socks. Her jaws worked steadily on a wad of chewing gum that she sucked into bubbles; and every few minutes, popped loudly against her front teeth.

“You"re Nathan Forrest,” she said. “Ye play the trumpet?”

“Ah"m Nathan, an" yes, I play the trumpet.”

“Ah"m Philomena O"Donnell, but Ah sing as June Connor.” She extended her hand.

Nathan pressed her hand and felt the stump of her second finger; two joints missing. Philomena was an operator in the tin box factory and had caught her hand in a guillotine or double seaming machine.

Philomena liked Jazz and had picked June from June Christie and Connor from Chris Connor. “Bail me oot, will ye? Ah need a trumpet fur a wee gig in a couple of weeks. A Friday night; money"s good.”

The gig, a Christmas dance for a local engineering firm. It wouldn"t stretch Nathan; he"d worked with the bassist and drummer. The dance would end with a selection of standards. “Can ye dae that?”

“Sure. But, Ah want tae rehearse it wi" ye,” Nathan said.”Ah want to understand how ye work.”

“Ach, let"s jist busk it.”

“Afraid not. We rehearse, or Ah won"t take the job.”

She grinned lopsidedly, prettily. Some dental butcher had pulled the two teeth behind her right incisor. “Aye, OK. I heard ye were pernickety.”

Nathan enjoyed the last part of the gig. The first set was dire, blasting through songs popular with the audience. Philomena sang well, sometimes loudly, but the audience liked a "belter" who encouraged them to join in: Love Letters In The Sand, Love is a Many Splendoured Thing, Singing The Blues and Volare.

And Philomena was lovely. Bobbed hair framing her face, perfect make up, the little black dress hugging her excellent figure, as she pranced in her heels in front of the band, showing off her shapely legs. Philomena waved the audience on, an out of tune and noisy chorus. The songs bored Nathan, but he played well.

Philomena sang the standards beautifully: Day in Day Out, A Foggy Day, an innocent waif, eyes closed, hands clutching the mike, moving with the quiet rhythm of the bass and drums, swaying provocatively for a swinging Just One Of Those Things. The audience shifted from unruly participation to silent attention.