Crystal's Song (7 page)

“Is she? Now fancy that! And when will she be better?” Dinah replied, turning to look out of the window since she didn’t want her mother to see her satisfied smile.

“Late January or early February, so she says.” Patsy waited for a reaction from Dinah but as none was forthcoming, she continued, with a knowing cock of her head. “Seems Harry can’t believe it either but he’s coming home on his days off now. Know something?” Patsy leant forward so she could see if there would now be an obvious response from Dinah before continuing, “I think that day you got me to watch Phyllis so you and Etta could go over to South Queensferry … well I guess that mousy Etta had good reason to go a fair bit further.”

Dinah smiled but made no reply: she knew just how far Etta had gone that day.

“Here. We’re here,” Patsy exclaimed as the bus shuddered to a halt. “And look! The bairns have come to the road-end to meet us.”

Dinah was lovingly stroking one of the precious nylons that she had carefully laid upon her left hand.

“Well,” asked Etta, as she picked up the bottle of leg make-up and shook it vigorously. “Are you going to wear them tonight or am I going to plaster your legs with this?”

“It’s not the make-up I mind. It’s getting the line straight. You know, no matter how hard you try to keep yon eye-brow pencils going in a straight line they just go zigzagging.” Etta nodded. “So the choice is: do I go out with pencilled-on seams that look as if they’ve had one too many – not to mention the cold turning my flesh blue – or should I risk wearing my very first pair of precious nylons, the ones I got from that nice Canadian airman?”

“The choice is yours. But don’t forget the other problem is that you’ll need to jump up on the table for me to do my artistry on your pins because I just can’t …” Etta stopped and patted her swollen belly. “No. There’s no way I could bend down on the floor to help you.”

“Suppose it’s the pencil job then,” sighed Dinah, jumping up on the table, “because I’m no wanton hussy, I simply can’t go out bare-legged.”

Etta had started to smooth the fake tan make-up over Dinah’s legs when there came a sharp knock at the door. Both women looked at each other. Etta shook her head and held up her cream-covered hands. They looked towards Phyllis but since she obviously couldn’t move there was nothing else for it but for Dinah to jump down and answer the summons.

Opening the door, she was confronted by a telegraph boy holding out an envelope.

“No,” she cried. “I don’t want it.”

“But, missus, aren’t you Mrs Thomas Glass?” Dinah nodded. “Then you
have
to take it,” insisted the boy, thrusting the telegram into Dinah’s hand.

“Bad news?” enquired Etta who was just emerging from the kitchen where she had gone to wash her hands.

Dinah grimaced. “Suppose it is. Suppose it’s what we’ve all been dreading.”

Etta went over to Phyllis, lifted her hand and began stroking it. “Well, open it, Dinah, and let’s hear the worst.”

Slowly Dinah pushed her thumb under the flap of the envelope and then withdrew the telegram. As she began to read, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

“So Tam’s dead?” sniffed Etta.

Dinah shook her head. “No. He’s alive. Alive, thank God! But he’s a prisoner of war!”

Christmas Eve at the Craigs had an air of magic about it. A large decorated fir tree took up one corner of the schoolroom and the desks had all been pushed against a wall so that the centre of the room was bare and ready for the party to begin. Johnny was sitting on a chair with a smile on his face that would have melted an iceberg.

“You like Christmas, Johnny?” Mrs Carruthers asked. “But then you probably got some nice Christmas cards in the post today.”

Johnny cackled. “Naw, Miss, we dinnae send cards.”

“So you’re happy because Santa Claus will be coming tonight?”

“Santa Claus? Don’t you ken he’s a Tory, Miss? He only gies to them that has lots and lots – never to us poor folk.”

“So why are you so happy?”

Johnny took a letter addressed to himself that had arrived in the morning post. He thrust it into Mrs Carruthers’ hand and she began to read from it. “Oh, this is truly good news. Your Daddy’s been found in a prisoner of war camp! Oh, Johnny, that is indeed the best Christmas present you and your family could get!”

However, before Johnny could reply, a distraught Senga burst into the room and declared, “I’m no eating any Christmas dinner because I know now why we were asked to feed up Tom, Dick and Harry!”

“You can’t mean they’re our …” protested Johnny.

“They are, and not only that, but once the cook had throttled them and hauled the feathers off them, she threw them in a big witch’s cauldron with some carrots, leeks and barley.” Senga was now sobbing uncontrollably. “And then she said to us: ‘Bet your sweet life you’ll never have tasted such wonderful cock-a-leekie soup like we’re going to make!”’

It fell to Etta to inform Patsy, yet again, that Dinah was away out with fake-tanned legs and possibly celebrating by drinking and dancing the night away.

“Och,” was the disgusted reply from Patsy. “Do you mean to say she’s just been told her man’s still alive and yet she’s gone out on the randan?”

Etta nodded. “But, Patsy, I think Dinah going AWOL again is the least of our worries.”

“You do?”

“Aye, you see Phyllis hasnae been herself all day. Wheezing and gasping. Hasnae eaten a thing. Took me all my time to get her to have a wee drink o’ water.”

Both women went over to the wooden bed and gazed down at what appeared to be a peacefully sleeping child.

“Oh my Gawd,” exclaimed Patsy as she bent over and lifted Phyllis in her arms. “She’s away. My wee angel’s away. And I never got time to say goodbye.” Both women were now weeping uncontrollably.

“It must have just happened,” protested Etta. “I was speaking to her just before you came in.”

Patsy made no reply. She just kept rocking her granddaughter back and forth while she lovingly stroked her face. “Knew I couldn’t keep you forever,” she whispered to the dead child. “But I just hoped you’d stay a wee while longer – specially now your Daddy will be coming home.”

Nothing could distract Patsy from mourning the loss of her granddaughter. Neither the sound of the outside door opening when Tess returned home nor Tess’s subsequent wails when Etta told her that Phyllis was dead had any effect. Only when Tess jumped back suddenly from the bed and screamed, “Oh, Etta, you dirty thing!” did Patsy become aware again of what was happening around her.

“Why are you saying that to Etta? It’s not her fault that Phyllis suddenly …” Patsy was finding it so hard to say the word – dead! “We were warned she’d have to leave us one day and that it would happen quickly, like this,” Patsy said through her sobs.

“But, Granny, I’m not blaming Etta for Phyllis. It’s just that she has stood there and peed hersel’!”

Patsy glanced down at the linoleum floor that was now awash and then raised her eyes to Etta’s, waiting for some explanation, but all Etta could do was mumble, “I’ve no been myself the day either. The pain in my back’s sheer agony now this bairn’s so big.”

“Oh, Etta, don’t you ken you’re in labour?”

“But my baby’s not due till February,” protested Etta, who had so many times told the lie about the time of the expected birth that she now believed it herself.

“Maybe so,” replied Patsy. “But Tess, just you run down Restalrig Road to the big house the midwives bide in.” Tess looked bewildered. “Ye ken, just up from the Leith Provi.” Still unsure, Tess slowly nodded. “And tell them to get to Etta’s as soon as they can.” Patsy now looked at Etta who was visibly wincing as a long contraction gripped her and Patsy called out after Tess, “In fact, tell them sooner than soon!”

“But, Granny, will they not all be in bed?” Tess shouted back.

Sheer exasperation made Patsy yell, “Aye, but when they hear the bell it tells them a baby’s on the way so they get up! So move yourself.”

Turning to Etta, who was now lying on the floor, Patsy dragged her upright. “It’s no that I don’t want to help you but with Phyllis lying here you’d be much more comfortable at home.” With that she hauled Etta to her feet, flung her coat round her shoulders and then together the two women made the slow and painful journey to Learig Close with Etta stopping frequently as yet another pain engulfed her.

They had just turned into Learig Close when Patsy realised that Rachel Campbell, returning as usual from work, was just ahead of them and she called out to her. Immediately Rachel laid down her heavy shopping bags and ran to help Patsy. “But Etta was just saying to me yesterday that she didn’t know what size she would be by February – and here, the wee soul’s on its way now.”

Patsy nodded before going on to explain about Phyllis and was grateful when Rachel replied emphatically, “Look, you get yourself back to the wee lassie. Sure she might be in heaven but she shouldn’t be lying there all by herself. Now, off you go and I’ll look after Etta. I’ll call my neighbour, Peggy, to come and help me until the nurses come.” Rachel stopped as Etta gave out yet another piercing scream.

It was three hours later, in the morning, when Rachel tapped gently at the Glasses’ door in Restalrig Circus. Immediately it was opened by a man that Rachel thought was Patsy’s husband but because of the blackout she wasn’t able to see him clearly – though she could certainly recognise the smell of alcohol on his breath.

“I, er. Well, I’ve come …”

“What?” bellowed the man, swaying to and fro. “This is a hoose o’ mournin’, I tell ye. So if ye’re on the cadge, just sling yer hook.”

Rachel was about to react angrily when Patsy opened the door further. “Oh, it’s yourself, Rachel. Ignore this idiot,” and with that she pushed her husband Danny back. “Come away in.”

“No, no,” replied Rachel, shaking her head. “I just came round to tell you, with you being so friendly with Etta Simpson like, that she’s had a nice wee boy.”

“Oh, but with him being one or two months early, he’ll be very small.”

Rachel looked bewildered. “Well, he is wee, but no wee for his age. Weighed in, he did, at nine-and-a-half pound – and, before you ask, that was without a nappy!”

Patsy pondered before asking, “And who does he take after?”

“Oh, his Granddad. Spitting image of old Mr Simpson, so he is. Even got the long accountant’s fingers for counting the money.”

Patsy just nodded. Evidently even on a night like this she could still put two and two thegither.

Rachel had turned to leave when a giggling woman, Patsy’s daughter, approached the pathway. Patsy immediately sprang in front of Rachel, blocking her view, but she did hear Dinah being given a loud slap by her mother. Rachel then had to jump back sharply, as Patsy roughly bundled her daughter past her while shouting at Dinah’s military escort to “Boo-row off!” She then went on to yell at Dinah, her voice cracking with emotion, “Where in the name of heaven have you been when you were needed here at home?”

“Dancing. Celebrating. ’Cause my Tam’s safe.”

Another loud slap from Patsy found its target as she retorted, “Aye, our Tam’s safe and so is my Phyllis. Safe in the arms of Jesus!”

The constant knocking on the front door roused Patsy from her catnapping but, finding it hard to fully awaken, it took her some time to open the door.

“What do you want?” she shouted after the retreating figure.

“It’s only me,” Mary answered, turning round and walking back to where Patsy was standing. “Just got settled in and was fancying a wee cuppa … but I’ve nae sugar.”

Patsy smiled and with a beckoning gesture invited Mary into her home. The house in Restalrig Road was where she’d moved to a year ago when Danny Kelly, her paralysed husband, was released from hospital in a wheelchair. His paralysis had stemmed from an inebriated backward fall down the well-worn stairs in West Cromwell Street. Of course, according to Danny, the blame lay with the housing factor who should have kept the stairs in a decent state of repair. He’d been vehement that the accident had nothing at all to do with his own drunken stupor. Patsy thought back to Danny and the short time he had lived in the Restalrig Road house before his death. Such a pity it was that the Learig Inn had been so handy. Indeed, most people were amazed to see how well Danny could manoeuvre his wheelchair down to the pub. And it was an even bigger pity that on leaving there one night he’d decided to steer himself into the path of a No.13 bus. But at least his end had been mercifully instantaneous.

The ground floor, left-hand house in a six-in-a-block tenement, which was situated next to the YMCA, really suited Patsy very well. It was small but the accommodation was much better than the room and kitchen in West Cromwell Street. Here, she had a living room, a couple of bedrooms, a small kitchen and a bathroom all to herself. Patsy truly regretted that she hadn’t had this house when Phyllis had been alive, since that would have been so handy being just minutes away from Restalrig Circus, which meant she could have spent much more time with the bairn. And now, with Phyllis’s other Granny, Mary Glass, being re-housed in Restalrig Road, in the superior flats just opposite the shops, life could have been so good for Phyllis.

Patsy went over to the sideboard, took out her sugar bowl and poured half of the contents into a cup before handing it to Mary. “That’s half of what I have.” Mary nodded and from her pocket took out a brown paper bag. She carefully poured the contents of the cup into it and handed the cup back to Patsy.

“Settling in?” Patsy asked, dragging a chair out from the table and sitting down.

Mary silently nodded assent while pulling out a chair to sit down on. “Aye, wasn’t I just jammy bumping into Annie Forbes and her hating being in Restalrig Road and looking for an exchange back to West Cromwell Street. Cannae understand why she wasnae grateful for a lavvy aw to herself. Anyway …”

Patsy knew Mary all too well and realised she wanted to tell Patsy something. “Private and confidential like,” she would whisper to Patsy when she was ready to confide.

“Staying long enough for a cuppa?” asked Patsy. Mary nodded. “Well, I’ll just put the kettle on. Mind you, Mary, if you’re going to ladle in the sugar like you usually do, then you’ll have to take it out of that lot you’ve just put in the brown paper poke. Fair’s fair.”