Free The Good Provider by Jessica Stirling

was tucked under the eaves. Wisps of grass and weed had found root in the gutter, hung down like hair over the glass and fluttered in the breeze off the river. Beyond the privet hedge Kirsty saw a park of some sort, very flat and precisely bordered. There was a pavilion with a Chinese tower into which was set a huge round clock. She could make out the face perfectly and read the time; twenty minutes to ten o’clock.
    If she had been at home in Hawkhead she would have been in bed by now, lonely as well as alone. Here in Glasgow she did not feel that sort of loneliness. Suddenly her heart was beating hard in her chest. She spread her fingers over her breast. She had never been so happy. In Carrick she had been nothing but the girl from the Baird Home, Clegg’s lass. Here in Glasgow she could become what she wished, a new person, wife to Mr Craig Nicholson.
    The whoop of a steam whistle disturbed her thoughts.
    Into sight came an engine spouting sparks. It passed along the plain between park and quays and drew behind it, clinking and chuckling, a caravan of coal wagons which rolled on monotonously until Kirsty grew bored with waiting for it to end.
    Below on the pavement a middle-aged man and woman walked a pet dog, a terrier, strolled arm-in-arm along Walbrook Street. Perhaps Craig and she would walk like that, taking a breath of air before bed. Four dark-skinned men, heads wrapped in white scarves, scurried past the house, muttering to themselves. A two-wheeled cab, drawn by a lean, high-stepping horse, whisked under the lamp-standard and Kirsty glimpsed a taffeta skirt and a pair of jet black boots on the board.
    It was all too much for her. She stepped back into the clean, well-furnished room. She could not believe that it was her room, at least for a time, that she might sleep in the bed, wash in the basin, sit before the mirror. The pleasure of it had to be expressed somehow.
    She pirouetted, arms above her head, her patched old skirt swirling, her auburn hair shaking loose a little form its braids.
    Glasgow, she felt, was a warm and welcoming place where a young wife might settle and be happy.
    Tomorrow, she would learn the truth.

TWO
    The Narrow Place
    Kirsty had no idea where they were going when they left Number 19 or what particular plans Craig had made for the day.
    She had slept well, undisturbed by the strange noises that floated over the shunting-yards and the dockside. She had not wakened until seven o’clock, a half-hour after her usual time of rising. On the ground floor the dining-room contained eight chairs, a sideboard and a long dark-oak table. There appeared to be no other guests in residence but the breakfast, served by a girl of about Kirsty’s age, was substantial. Mrs Frew, who made only one appearance ‘upstairs’, was not quite so wispy and pink as she had seemed by gaslight. Politely she enquired if they had slept well, was gratified to hear that they had, asked what they would care for for breakfast and whether they would ‘care to partake of an evening meal’. There was no development of that confidential rapport which had shown itself for a second or two in the bedroom and Kirsty was puzzled by the woman.
    Craig, however, was much less sensitive to the subtleties of Mrs Frew’s character and, as soon as they had turned from the path and had taken a few steps along Walbrook Street, he said, ‘Old bitch. We’ll have to get out of there quick as we can.’
    ‘She seems quite nice to me,’ said Kirsty.
    ‘ Nice! Not her. I know her sort. Nobody else there, did you notice? Not bloody surprised. Like a damned mausoleum, yon place.’
    ‘Craig, where are we going?’
    ‘To look for things.’
    ‘What things?’
    ‘Well, since you told her you had a “basket” on the way, we’ll have to buy you clothes, won’t we?’ Craig said. ‘You can’t go on wearin’ what you stand in.’
    Kirsty was confused. The prospect of having money to purchase clothing was enormously pleasing but