Red Alert (6 page)

I hide behind my thumb

under the guise of the first

lesson in perspective. I stretch

my arm out like a thin, pale promontory

my thumb as beacon,

rigid at the far end

warning of the rocks beyond.

My first life model, on the first day

of Life classes is naked. And male.

Wearing nothing

but an everyday expression.

The statues that line the hall didn’t prepare me.

Smooth and cold and lifelike no comparison

for smooth and warm and life. With hair.

I didn’t know there would be so much hair.

Dark against the celtic pale of his skin,

it marked him with a t-shape. The crossbar

waved and curled across the tight muscle of his chest

meeting in the middle

where it warmed his heart.

My eye traces the line as it narrows

on its own path to the navel, before

swelling into a dark tattoo at the groin.

The man must have read my line of sight.

His cheeks bunch with a suppressed smile.

Mine burn as bright as a lighthouse.

I withdraw from his scrutiny

And find sanctuary behind my thumb.

When she arrived home later that day, her mother had high tea ready for her as usual, and was fussing about, putting home-made scones on the top of a three-tiered cake stand. Scones on the top plate, a Victoria sponge in the middle, and on the bottom plate, some digestive and rich tea biscuits. It was always the same, stuck in a post-war time warp. Sometimes there was a patterned lace table cover but today, the tea cloth had flowers at each corner, all embroidered by her mother. Her mother liked to sit of an evening doing a bit of embroidery while listening to her radio. She refused to have a television set in the house.

‘There’s far too much disgusting behaviour on television. I don’t know how it’s allowed.’ She read about it every week in her
Radio Times
, and heard about it from her next-door neighbour. She was also continuously shocked and disgusted by what she regularly saw from her front-room window. Couples walked along with arms around each other’s waists and often stopped to kiss one another passionately. There was a café across the road that had metal tables and chairs outside, and more than once she’d seen a youth put his hand up a girl’s very short skirt as they sat together, supposedly drinking coffee. Her mother didn’t know what the world was coming to.

The radio was in the front room, along with a dark brown, low-backed, leather, buttoned chesterfield and a davenport. The davenport was a particular type of ladies’ writing desk. Betty had found out that its name stemmed from a Captain Davenport, who commissioned the first desk of its type from Gillows of Lancaster. Her mother was very proud of this writing desk and Betty didn’t dare tell her about its connection with one of the hated male species.

The fireplace was fronted by a brass table on which was displayed her mother’s collection of paperweights. The paperweights were made by hand and so no two were alike. A good piece was unexpectedly heavy and the images within the glass were delicately coloured and beautiful.

‘How was your day, Betty?’ her mother asked.

‘We were all working away as usual. I told you about the long tables we sit at. We often chat while we sew and show each other what we’re working on.’

‘Very nice. I’m looking forward to seeing your work at the end of your course.’

This didn’t bother Betty. She’d already bought a beautiful embroidered wall-hanging she had found in a charity shop in the West End. It had unusual motifs based on Glasgow’s history. She had secreted it away in her locker at the Art School, ready to be shown to her mother when the time came.

Her mother poured the tea from an ornate silver teapot. Her father had left them very well provided for, but of course he never even got any credit for that.

‘It’s a comfort to me to know,’ her mother said, ‘that you are safely among girls like yourself and there are lady tutors.’

‘Yes, it’s really very nice, very respectable.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’

The room lapsed into silence as they sipped their tea and delicately cut little portions of lemon sole. Betty was thinking of another poem.

I scratched at the paper with my charcoal

thumbed the black dust into a softer line

ignoring the thump of my heart

and the voice of my mother intoning

like a Bible class in my head.

Are all men casual in nudity like him,

I wondered as he scratched his right buttock

before he settled into the pose?

I allowed my eyes to roam.

Seeing a rhythm of skin and muscle

and hair and contained energy.

A harmony of nature and future.

How to evidence all that

with nothing but dark and light?

An area of white where the light

shone on the sheen of his thigh.

Then a spectrum of grey to highlight

the curve of muscle, the promise of strength.

I forced my hand to move

as I filled in the last space on the page

… his maleness bunched at the junction

of his thighs, like an advert for rude health.

I was sure everyone could hear my heart

thicken the pulse to my ears.

And was certain everyone could sense

the forbidden heat and tingle

that shortened my breath.

Afterwards as I stooped at the sink

about to plunge my hands into warm water,

I examined the coal deep

in the whorls of my fingers and thought

if mother was here she would say

the stains on my soul

would not erase so easily.

They got together as often as they could. They saw each other in the fire station if Greg was on duty in the morning, but their meetings there were always brief, in among a crowd of other firefighters. Or they were interrupted by his duties. If he wasn’t called away to deal with a fire or a road accident or any emergencies, he was working with the others in the yard outside the station.

There was the maintenance of the vehicles and equipment to attend to. Then they often had training sessions with other stations so that they could work efficiently together when necessary. Among other things, they had to do fire safety visits, advising people how to protect their premises from fire.

Often there were parties of schoolchildren and others visiting the station and being shown around and advised about how to keep themselves safe. Children especially loved these visits, trying on the helmets and getting a shot at the hose reel.

When Greg was off duty, they met regularly – almost every day. They had grown really close. The only little bits of friction that arose between them were caused by Greg’s attitude to Johnny. He didn’t have the patience for him that Kirsty had. Of course, he hadn’t known Johnny as he was growing up. He hadn’t known the lovable child, or the teenager who had suffered agonies with rheumatic fever and never complained, but was always so grateful for anything anybody did to help him.

However, Greg was getting so annoyed at what he thought was Kirsty’s totally unnecessary anxiety about Johnny that she eventually told him about the gun.

Greg’s annoyance immediately turned to fury.

‘The bloody idiot! I bet that pair don’t even have a licence for it. I’ll talk to him. I’ll talk to Paul and Renee as well. If necessary, I’ll have word with Jack Campbell.’

‘No! No! Please, Greg,’ Kirsty pleaded, ‘I don’t want to spoil everything for him. He’s never been able to hold a job for very long with his health problems. This is the first one that really suits him and he’s so happy. No, leave it with me. I’ll speak to him about the gun.’

She persuaded Greg to simmer down eventually, but she resolved to try to be more careful in future and either not mention Johnny to Greg, or at least appear to be calmer and less anxious.

If it had not been for all the worry about Johnny (and perhaps her worries were needless, she kept trying to tell herself), she would have been blissfully happy. Then Greg proposed, and she couldn’t help laughing.

‘Darling, we’ve only been going out together for a few weeks.’

‘We’ve known each other longer than that. Anyway, what does time matter? We love each other and I want you to move in with me as soon as possible.’

‘But Tommy shares your flat.’

‘I know, but Sandra’s really keen for him to move in with her. She’s got a flat in Charing Cross Mansions.’

Kirsty still hesitated.

‘But …’

‘Don’t you dare make Johnny an excuse for not leaving home.’

‘No, I wasn’t, but …’

‘Kirklee Terrace is only a few minutes away from Botanic Crescent,’ Greg reminded her, ‘and as far as your mother’s concerned, she’ll be happy for you, I’m sure.’

Kirsty knew this to be true and she secretly suspected that, as usual, Johnny was at the root of her anxiety. That could be the only reason for her hesitation, because she was sure nothing would make her happier than marrying Greg and moving to his lovely converted flat in Kirklee Terrace. It was situated just next to the side entrance to the Botanic Gardens and so had a beautiful view into the gardens from the kitchen window. The front sitting-room window looked down over a grassy slope on to the busy Great Western Road.

She said ‘Yes’ to Greg’s proposal, and just as he predicted, her mother was delighted and immediately launched into plans for the wedding. Her mother had once been a dressmaker and now she enthusiastically announced, ‘And of course, I’ll make your wedding dress, Kirsty, and don’t worry, it’ll be the most beautiful dress you’ll ever see.’

Kirsty had to laugh at the older woman’s excitement.

‘Anybody would think it was you that was getting married, Mum.’

‘It’s just that I’m so happy for you, dear. Greg’s a wonderful man. Kind, handsome, brave – what more could any girl want? You’re very, very lucky. I hope you realise that, Kirsty.’

She realised it all right. But the next time she saw Greg it was in the fire station, and over a cup of coffee he proved yet again what an impatient man he was.

‘Why don’t we get married right away? Why wait until the summer? Summer seems a hell of a long time away.’

‘Well, for one thing, Mum’s making me a beautiful wedding dress and she’s sewing it mostly by hand. It’ll take her months. And it takes two years or more to book a wedding in any good hotel.’

‘Why do you need a fancy dress? Why do we need a big wedding? I’d far rather drive to the local registrar’s office now, just the two of us. No fuss, no crowds.’

‘There isn’t going to be a crowd. Unless you invite a crowd of firefighters. As far as I know, there’s only going to be my mother, my father and my brother, Sandra and Tommy from the Art School, my Aunt Jess and a couple of your friends from the station.’

‘By the way, did you speak to your brother about the gun?’

‘Yes, don’t worry. It’s sorted.’

‘It’s you who does the worrying. You’re constantly afraid he’ll get himself into trouble. You’re also continually worried in case he upsets your mother and gives her another heart attack.’

‘Nonsense. Johnny adores Mum. And I’m fine, honestly. Everything’s perfectly all right.’

She looked away and busied herself pouring coffee in order to avoid his eyes, in case he realised that she was lying.

Some of the other firefighters came noisily in then, and Kirsty retreated to the kitchen area to fetch more cups and another pot of coffee.

Coffee cups suddenly clattered across the table as there was a ‘turn out’, and once more the men raced into action. This time, it was a road traffic accident. A Honda Civic with a young man and woman inside had flipped when the driver tried to overtake on a corner. The car had rolled but was upright again. Broken glass was strewn across the road, sparkling in the sun. The roof of the Civic had collapsed in a crumpled concertina of metal. An ominous stain of blood smeared the driver’s door. It was immediately obvious that the firefighters would need cutting gear. They’d had to be extra careful because there had been airbags – curtain airbags and headrest airbags – and if they cut through them, they could hit a cylinder and it could blow up.

Kirsty usually gathered what had happened from the talk between the firefighters as they swallowed a cup of coffee or some lunch on their return.

Greg talked about her constantly worrying about Johnny, but in fact she was becoming just as worried, if not more so, about him. Greg had been awarded several medals for bravery, but she guessed that at the root of his bravery could be the recklessness and impatience in his character. He would dash into any danger without a thought for himself. He was far too impatient to stand back and take his time considering and weighing up every aspect of any situation.

He had not just saved the lives of civilians in fires and accidents, but he had saved the lives of colleagues as well. They had a thing called a bodyguard, which, if a firefighter got injured and was not moving, went off automatically – and very loudly. This meant that the other firefighters stopped what they were doing and went straight to help their colleague.

Greg was often the first to reach the heart of the fire and drag the unconscious firefighter back to safety. They were all incredibly brave men who faced all sorts of dangers every day but who continued to devote their lives to helping people and keeping them safe.

Kirsty admired each and every one of them, but Greg was the most precious to her. She fervently prayed every night that he would be kept safe.

Sandra shook her auburn head at Tommy.

‘I don’t want any rent from you. We just need to share the living expenses, that’s all. I was left this flat by my parents and so I haven’t any rent to worry about. It’s just bills like telephone and heating, that sort of thing. We can each pay our share and you’ve enough for that. You must have, because Greg charges you for rent and everything, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, it’s just I don’t want to take advantage …’

‘Don’t be daft. We love each other. You want to be with me, don’t you?’