Red Alert (9 page)

Simon Price remained serious. ‘I’m only interested in genuine talent. In one lot I go to, there’s this guy, Tommy Pratt. Now he has real talent but he’s needing toughened up. As you can imagine, he’s going to get a lot of stick with a name like that, for a start. And, like all of us had at the beginning, he’s going to get rejections and God knows what else to put him down.’

One of the others rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘Don’t remind me. One guy said about me that I’d never get anywhere and he could paint better than me. He was a bloody journalist, for God’s sake.’

A director said, ‘You think this Pratt boy has got something special then, Simon?’

‘Yes, definitely. But he’s such a soft mark. He’s got no guts. No stand up and fight. He’s likely to pack everything in at the first bad review.’

‘Well,’ the director laughed, ‘if anyone’s able to toughen him up and make him hang on in there, it’ll be you.’

‘Writers are the same,’ somebody else said. ‘J. K. Rowling’s
Harry Potter
was turned down by nineteen publishers before she got accepted. That’s guts for you.’

‘Yeah,’ Simon agreed. ‘Pratt would have given up after the first rejection. But I’m determined to make a man of him, if only because I don’t want the brilliant paintings he could do never to materialise.’

‘It must have been from the group he’s in that a girl came to me and complained that you were picking on him.’

‘Oh aye, that would be Sandra Matheson, a red-haired girl. She’s got him shacking up with her in her flat in Charing Cross Mansions. It would be better if she concentrated on her own work instead of distracting Tommy from his.’ Price got up. ‘It’s my round, I think. The same again for everybody?’

He went over to the bar counter and had a tray filled with pints of beer and a glass of soda and lime for Joe Brownlie, who had a stomach ulcer and, for the time being at least, was forbidden any alcohol.

Returning to the table, Price passed the glasses around. ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff, Joe.’

‘It’s what the bloody job has done to me and could do to you as well. The doctor said it was stress-related.’

‘Oh well, we’re all in danger of that. So we’d better enjoy our beer while we can.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘It doesn’t help not being able to have a smoke,’ Joe said. ‘I’m in bloody agony here.’

‘Did the doctor not ban that as well?’

‘Oh aye, but I had to draw the line at that. I’ve been a smoker since I was a teenager and it’s impossible to give up. I tried but I’m telling you, the withdrawal symptoms are worse than when you give up drugs.’

One of the other tutors said, ‘There’s more than a few of the students on drugs. Some on cannabis, some on ecstasy, I think, and I suspect a few idiots have reached the heroin stage. But what can you do? Except to hope they grow out of it.’

‘Well, we did, right enough. Most of us dabbled in something when we were young, didn’t we? I know I did a bit of experimenting.’

‘It’s different now. There’s more stuff around and much stronger stuff. It’s too often not a case of just dabbling or experimenting. Some of them are in danger of getting seriously addicted.’

‘That’s true, and they could ruin their lives and their talent. But as you say, what can we do? If we start preaching about that, they won’t listen. It might even make them worse.’

Price took a big swig of his beer, then wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Well, I’ve one consolation with the Pratt boy. As far as I can tell, he’s not on drugs. He’s too serious about his work for any of that. I don’t think he’d risk anything that would spoil his concentration.’

One of the others laughed. ‘What about that red-haired girl? She’s the one who’s liable to be a stronger distraction than drugs. She might even persuade the lad to start on them.’

‘Over my dead body,’ Simon Price growled.

Kirsty could never resist looking at the glass case outside the entrance of the fire station. It contained the embalmed body of a dog called Bruce. He had lived at the fire station from 1894 until his death. His first appearance was thought to have been at some sort of procession, where he had attached himself to one of the city’s fire engines and followed it back to the station. Soon his owner found out where he was and took him home. But a few hours later, Bruce had returned to the fire station and stayed there as a full-time, unpaid member of the Brigade. His licence was actually paid for by Glasgow Corporation for the rest of his life. He would always lie quietly in the watch room, then the moment the alarm bell rang, he would be up and away to the fire, running some twenty or thirty yards in front of the horses that were drawing the appliances. Most people were puzzled at how he always seemed to know the way to an outbreak and thought he must have an amazing instinct. What actually happened was that the driver of the leading appliance would indicate the direction to follow by nodding or signalling with his whip and the dog, glancing back, was quick to see which way to turn.

Apparently when one old lady was visiting the station, she noticed that Bruce had a sore paw. As a result, she ordered a set of four small rubber boots to be delivered to the station. But Bruce had not been very keen on them and preferred his naked paws. He continued to run to fires until his death in 1902 and now there he was, still in the fire station, and with his rubber boots by his side.

Sometimes Kirsty came in by another door but she preferred this entrance because her heart was always touched by seeing Bruce and being reminded of his story. It was obvious that, despite the firemen being just as tough as today’s firefighters, they had been fond of Bruce and good to him, and couldn’t bear to part with him, even in death. That’s why they had him embalmed so that they could continue to keep him near to them in the station.

When she reached the watch room, and the adjoining kitchen area, there were men in the gym area. Some were heaving at the weights machines. There were machines to develop and harden the upper-arm muscles and shoulders, others for the back of the legs, others for the chest. An hour was allocated at the end of each shift for exercise. Of course, if the alarm bell went, they rushed off to whatever emergency it was. But they needed to try and get whatever part of the hour they could before going off duty. It was vitally important to be strong because so much of the gear they had to lift and carry about and use was excessively heavy.

Kirsty had seen Greg the night before and she was looking forward to seeing him again when he came in for the day shift. The exercise machines had certainly worked for him. Every muscle in his body was bulky and hard and perfectly shaped. No wonder all the students in the Art School enjoyed drawing and painting him.

Sandra had told her, ‘Even your father, Kirsty, said Greg had a perfectly formed body. Have you seen Tommy’s painting of him?’

She hadn’t. She kept well clear of the Glasgow School of Art. She had enough of her father at home without seeing him at the Art School.

But she’d seen examples of Tommy’s other work when she and Greg had visited Sandra and Tommy at the flat at Charing Cross Mansions. It was obvious that Sandra and Tommy were in love but Kirsty always detected the sadness in Tommy’s eyes. Sandra confided in her that Tommy was suffering from fits of depression. Sandra blamed Kirsty’s father’s continuous criticism and ridicule of Tommy and his work.

‘I’m sorry to speak about your father like this, Kirsty, but I absolutely hate and despise the man for the way he treats Tommy.’

‘You don’t need to apologise to me,’ Kirsty said. ‘I know only too well what my father’s like. I just wish there was something I could do to help Tommy. I’m no artist but even I can see Tommy has talent. There can’t be any doubt about that. It seems to me he’s got something extra. I don’t know what it is but his work seems to glow from the canvas, seems to come to life as you look at it.’

‘I know. I know. That’s exactly it,’ Sandra cried out. ‘I keep telling him that but he thinks I’m biased because of how I feel about him.’

‘I’ll tell him as well.’

‘Thanks Kirsty. It’s worth a try but I bet he’ll just think I put you up to it. I mean, he’ll smile and thank you but he won’t really believe you. Your father has got him too brainwashed into thinking differently. I’m getting really worried. He gets so depressed. He just kind of sinks into himself and goes quiet and I feel he’s not close to me any more. Not close to anybody.’

‘I could try and speak to my father if you want. But I’m sure that wouldn’t do any good. It would just give him an excuse to have a go at me. I could put up with that. I’m used to him having a go at me, but the thing is that it wouldn’t do Tommy any good. The danger is in fact that he’d be even worse to him.’

‘Oh God, no. We don’t want to risk that.’

‘Why does he do it, I wonder? I mean, keep putting people down?’

‘Let’s face it, Kirsty. He’s a bully and it makes bullies feel big. They don’t do it so much, if at all, to stronger characters. He’s charming to all the directors, for instance, because they’re in a stronger position than him, for a start.’

‘You’re right. He never tries anything with Greg. He knows he wouldn’t get away with anything with him. He’s even as charming as can be to me and Mum when Greg’s around. He waits until Greg’s safely away before being his nasty, sneery self again. You should hear how he is with my brother, Johnny. He doesn’t get the chance so much now because Johnny works every evening, but for years he was unspeakably cruel to poor Johnny. I keep trying to make up for it by being as supportive as I can.’ She worriedly bit her lip. ‘But it’s not easy, and Greg doesn’t understand.’

‘Greg’ll just be putting you first.’

‘I know.’

‘He’s obviously crazy about you, Kirsty.’

‘I’m not complaining and I know I should put him first too. I do try but …’ She hesitated unhappily. ‘But Johnny’s my brother. We’ve grown up together, and he’s suffered so much. Not only from our father, but with terrible ill health.’

Once more she tried to convince herself that she must put Greg first as she prepared the breakfasts for the men. Soon they were lining up at the hatch and she was dishing up the cooked meals, hoping at the same time that they would have peace to eat it. So often, there was a turn out and they all had to immediately race off and fly down the poles and out to the yard, where their boots waited inside the legs of their protective trousers, so that they could just quickly step into the boots and hoist up the trousers.

The gaffer or crew manager would have collected the job details from a computer at one of the entrances. This told him exactly where the fire or road accident or other emergency was and all the other details they needed. They would grab on the rest of their uniform, including their helmets and the heavy breathing apparatus that the two firefighters sitting on the outside had to wear. They’d go in and fight the fire, and rescue people.

Every time there was a turn out, Kirsty had a tension headache with anxiety. She told him this, and how it was made worse by her belief that he was too impatient and reckless, and as a result could cause more danger to himself.

‘No, no, darling, you’ve got it wrong. When I’m on duty, I respond in a professional manner because I’ve had the training. You must go in and do the job you’re trained for and as I say, you do it in a professional manner. We all do.’

He had come on duty now and when she smiled lovingly at him, he winked at her before joining a noisy group of men at one of the tables.

Betty thankfully escaped from the gloom of her mother’s house and made her way eagerly towards the Glasgow School of Art. Another day of intimacy with Greg McFarlane to look forward to. ‘I’m sure he’s beginning to notice me,’ she thought, and her creative imagination ran ahead of her.

I feel it’s like he noticed me

for the first time that day.

As his eyes settle on mine with recognition,

he offers me a small smile.

He sits, once again wearing Adam’s suit,

leaning back against the cushion of the chair.

His legs stretched out in front of him, crossed

at the ankles, his penis resting on his thigh.

In my head, at least, Mother’s voice is dead.

The grey stone of my mother’s will rolling

across the floor of my mind,

coming to rest in the darkest corner.

I feel the string that binds me loosen.

My heart is thrumming. My mind

alive with the possibilities of him.

at the ankles, his penis resting on his thigh.

Out walking. Late. With streetlamps

our only company. My head

leaning into his shoulder.

My mind tasting the charge of sweetness.

Walking blindly. My leg bumping against his.

His, ‘Sorry’. My laugh.

A sound he inhales when he kisses me.

Two figures under an electric light.

Bright with desire.

She pushed through the doors of the Art School. Happy. Happy.

She was the first arrival and wasted no time in setting up her easel. The others came trickling in one at a time, chatting and laughing. Except blond-haired Tommy Pratt and red-haired Sandra Matheson. They looked very serious.

Then, what a disappointment! The model who appeared was not Greg. It was one of the other firefighters. It took Betty all her effort not to burst into tears. She felt devastated, gutted. After her earlier euphoria, the day stretched before her, long and lonely. And all she had left to look forward to after the Art School was her tight-lipped mother waiting with her soul-destroying routine that never changed. She wanted to go to the fire station and watch for Greg. Or go to the Botanic Gardens and stand near the side entrance and watch for him coming back to his house. Her mother, however, was getting annoyed about her going out in the evening or coming home late for tea.

She had tried to tell her mother that she had to go looking for special threads or material for her embroidery class, or that the tutor had asked everyone to stay late for a special part of the embroidery lesson. It was beginning to make her mother resentful of the Art School and she was even beginning to threaten to go to the embroidery tutor and complain.