Dragon Land (22 page)

After a while at this ploy, I picked him up and walked down to the sea. He was fascinated by the water and tried to prise himself loose from my arms. ‘No, Bertie,’ I said. ‘The water is too cold.’

Just then, a ship passed on its way to the North Sea and he pointed a chubby finger at it.

‘Do you see the boat, Bertie? It’s sailing away to a far-off land.’

He turned to look at me, then gazed once more at the ship. He wasn’t the only one watching it, as I gazed at it as well, wondering where it was heading for.

I recalled watching the ships in the harbour at Dundee when I was a child, wishing I could stow away on one towards a life of adventure and new countries. Granny always said to be careful what you wished for, in case it ever came true.

‘Right then, young man, let’s get you back to your mother in case she’s worried about you.’

He carried the bucket and spade and I felt them dig into my ribs, but we didn’t have far to walk.

As I approached the house I decided to let him play in the garden for a while, which meant I came back into the house through the back door. I stopped when I heard Mum’s voice.

‘I’ve been so stupid, Milly. I should have done what you’ve done and let go of my memories of Peter and made a life for Lizzie and me. It’s just that I always thought that one day he would walk through the door, even though I was told that he had died.’

Milly sounded sad. ‘No, Beth, there’s nothing wrong in always having hope. You had a wonderful marriage and it must have been hard for you to think Peter wouldn’t come back.’

‘That’s the worst thing about war,’ said Mum. ‘It doesn’t only affect the soldiers on the battlefields but all their loved ones waiting at home. If I had my way, there wouldn’t be any more wars, but that will never happen.’

‘I know,’ said Milly. ‘It killed my mother. She never got over the death of my brother or my fiancé, and there are hundreds of mothers and sweethearts all over the country who feel their lives are over.’

I hated eavesdropping, so I coughed before going through the door, while Bertie banged his bucket and spade together. When she saw her son, Milly stood up.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but he’s got sand in his hair, Milly.’

‘That’s all right, we’ll soon comb that out.’

Bertie stretched out his arms and his mother carried him back to her seat.

Then it was time for them to leave. ‘I’ll be back soon to see you, Beth,’ Milly promised. ‘So just concentrate on getting well.’ Mum said she would, and once again I walked with them to the train.

‘What is wrong with your mother, Lizzie? I didn’t like to ask her.’

I decided to tell her the truth. ‘She has only a few months left, Milly. In fact, the doctor is amazed she has lived as long as she has, but it’s all down to Margaret and all the care she gets here.’ I was quite dry-eyed when I said this, but I had to choke back a sob.

Milly was sympathetic. ‘Poor Beth. She is my best friend, yet there’s nothing I can do to help her.’ She began to cry, making Bertie whimper, and she held him closer. ‘It’s all right, Bertie. Mummy has got some sand in her eyes.’

‘I didn’t tell her what the doctor said, Milly, and I feel so guilty about that, but I just wanted her last few months to be happy, and thankfully I think Margaret and I have managed that.’

They gave me a wave from the carriage window, with Bertie smiling and raising his chubby little arm. Once again the tears weren’t far away as I walked back home.

Years later I was to remember that summer as a magical time. We sat on the veranda with the sun warm on our faces, smelling the salty tang of the sea, and our lives seemed to be in slow motion. The days were lazy and we didn’t have any timetable for things. We ate when we were hungry, and the only ritual was just before our evening meal, when Margaret liked to sit and look at the view with her glass of gin and tonic with lime juice.

‘No matter where we lived,’ she said, ‘Gerald and I would have our drink before our evening meal.’ She turned to Mum, who was propped up on her reclining chair. ‘Would like to try one, Beth?’

To start with Mum said no, but as that summer wore on she began to have a weak gin and tonic and said she felt better after it.

‘It’s called “mother’s ruin”, Beth, but as I’ve never been a mother I can’t say if it’s true. What do you think?’

Mum smiled and said a little of what you fancy couldn’t possibly ruin anyone, and we all laughed.

It was late August when Maisie visited us for the last time. She would sometimes arrive out of the blue and stay for a couple of hours, but on this final visit (although we didn’t know it would be then) she stayed for a meal. As she was leaving, she suddenly turned back and embraced Mum. ‘Goodbye, Beth,’ she said simply as she walked away from the house.

After Maisie’s departure, we stayed on the veranda. The day had been sunny and warm, but now dark clouds had gathered over the sea. Now and then a shaft of sunlight would break through the clouds, and I said, ‘Do you remember telling me that these shafts of sunlight were the angels peeping through the sky with their torches?’

Mum laughed. ‘Imagine you remembering that. You were just a tiny child when I said that, but yes, I still think it’s angels with torches.’

Margaret came and sat beside us. ‘Yes, I always thought the same thing.’

That night Mum awoke in pain and cried out. Margaret called the doctor early that morning and he gave Mum an injection. ‘This will take away the pain,’ he said to me. ‘I’ll call in every day to see Mrs Flint.’

I overheard him talking to Margaret as he walked down the path. ‘I’m afraid this is almost the end, Mrs Cook, but she won’t be in pain, as I’ve given her some morphine.’

I was devastated. I knew there wasn’t going to be a happy ending, but now that Mum’s life was ebbing away I didn’t know how I would cope without her. I stayed up every night with her, dozing on the chair by the side of her bed. Her small carriage clock would chime the hours throughout the night, and in the morning the sun would shine on her bed and her face, but she slept soundly.

Margaret would tiptoe into the room with a breakfast tray, and we both sat with cups of tea until she woke up. She was always groggy and didn’t want anything to eat. I tried giving her sips of water, but most of it would dribble down her chin. Then one morning she awoke and we were amazed when she sat up and gave us a clear-eyed look, although her voice was feeble.

Margaret took her hand. ‘How are you feeling today, Beth?’

Ignoring the question, Mum grasped Margaret’s hand.

‘Margaret, I want a private funeral with just Lizzie and you there.’

I almost fell off my chair. Margaret said to her not to talk nonsense, but she lifted her head slightly. ‘It’s not nonsense, Margaret. I’ve known for ages that I’ll never get better. Now promise me about the funeral.’

We both said we would abide by her wishes, and she slumped down on her pillow and fell asleep. The doctor arrived later and gave her another injection.

I didn’t want her to hear me crying, so I ran out into the garden and sat on the bench beside the roses. Margaret came out and we both sat quietly, then I said, ‘I never thought she knew how ill she was, but she’s known for ages.’

Margaret nodded. ‘Beth was always a smart woman. She was trying to protect you, Lizzie, and you were doing the same for her.’

That night I sat beside Mum and was alarmed when her breathing became ragged and she started to cough. I went to give her a sip of water, when she suddenly sat up with a wondrous look on her face.

‘Peter, I knew you would come back.’

Taken aback, I turned my head quickly to the door, but there was no one there. Moonlight filtered in through the window, casting shadows over the floor, but there was no one else in the room except us.

I went to get Margaret, and she hurried in and sat by the bed. ‘Beth, it’s Margaret and Lizzie here.’

Mum opened her eyes and she looked so happy.

‘I’ve met Peter again.’

There was a strange noise from her throat. Margaret leaned over the bed and placed her fingers on Mum’s neck. I suddenly thought she looked old and tired as she said, ‘I’m afraid Beth’s dead, Lizzie.’

I didn’t believe it. ‘She spoke just a minute ago and she seemed so happy; she can’t be dead.’

I remember Margaret helping me out and making me go to bed, and for the next few days everything passed in a tearful blur. I knew this day had to come, but I’d still harboured hope that somehow Mum would get better. But she hadn’t.

As usual, Margaret was her efficient self and she made all the arrangements. Although we had promised Mum a private funeral, Margaret thought Maisie and Milly should come if they could.

Quite honestly I was incapable of thinking, so I said yes, they should come.

It was decided that a small service would be held in the EJ Watson’s funeral parlour in Ann Street and the funeral director arranged for a minister to conduct it. Maisie and Milly were already seated when we entered, and although we were a small party the service was short but very moving. We then went off to the Eastern Cemetery in Arbroath Road, where Mum was to be buried beside her mother and father. Before we left the house I had gathered a huge bunch of roses from the garden, which we placed on the grave. They were white and yellow roses, and I laid them beside the granite headstone that was inscribed ‘To Eliza, dear wife of William Ferrier, died 1891, and later to the said William Ferrier who died 1912.’

We stood gazing at Mum’s last resting place. For ages afterwards, the scent of roses reminded me of that sad day.

We thanked the minister, who declined our invitation to come back for refreshments, as he had another funeral to conduct, so the four of us went back to Victoria Road for a cup of tea, which Maisie had arranged. I was so grateful to her for her thoughtfulness.

Later, Laura and Pat arrived, and the three of us burst into tears. Mum would have been forty-two on her birthday, and later it struck me that I was now an orphan at the tender age of twenty-one.

Margaret said she would arrange for the stonemason to inscribe Mum’s name on the headstone at a later date, and as the sun was setting we set off for Carnoustie with sad hearts.

I was dreading going into the house after the funeral, but Margaret said although Mum was no longer there, all our memories of her were, and of course as usual she was right. Mum loved lily of the valley perfume, and before going to bed that night I sprayed some over my bedclothes and it was as if she was with me in the room Also her little carriage clock chimed the hours and I heard every hour until five o’clock, when I finally fell asleep.

Margaret took over the cooking the next day, and I felt guilty for being so lethargic, but she said it was a recognised part of coping with grief, so that made me feel slightly better. Later that night after our evening meal, Margaret went into one of her travel cases and brought out a thick photo album. It was not unlike the one Granny had had, which I now kept in my dressing-table drawer, but it was much bigger.

We both sat on the sofa while Margaret turned the pages. The first ten pages were filled with people I didn’t know: people in Edwardian clothes, the ladies with enormous hats that made me think of Mum’s job in DM Brown’s ‘Hat Shop’.

There was one photo of a lovely young woman with an innocent-looking face that had an ethereal quality about it. Underneath it simply said ‘Eliza’. Margaret said this was my grandmother, who had died when Mum was one year old, leaving my grandfather, who was in his late forties, with a baby to look after.

‘Your grandfather was a teacher at the high school, but he managed to employ a woman to look after Beth. After a year, your mum was two, she had to leave. My father was also a teacher at the high school, but he died of pneumonia when I was thirteen. Your grandfather offered my mother the job as a housekeeper and she accepted. I was fourteen when we went to live with Beth and her father. Later on they got married and I was so pleased to be part of the family.’

Margaret stopped and placed a finger on the photo of a tiny child smiling at the camera. ‘This is Beth, and I loved her immediately. I would take her out in her pram to the park, and I adored her even although I was twelve years older than her. She loved me as well and would cling to my skirts all the time.’

Then I saw what looked like the wedding photo of Mum and Dad, with Margaret as the bridesmaid. I didn’t recognise the best man. I said I had never seen it before, which I thought was strange, and Margaret nodded.

‘Beth never liked this photo, that’s why you’ve never seen it.’

I couldn’t understand this. ‘Why didn’t she like it? I know she looks a bit plump in it, but surely she wasn’t that vain.’

‘No, it wasn’t vanity, Lizzie. Beth met your dad when she was eighteen. He was in his early twenties and had recently started work in his late father’s office, which, incidentally, he hated because he wanted to join the navy. When Beth told her father she was getting married, he objected to it, but they got married when she was twenty. Your grandfather, William Ferrier, was convinced she was expecting a baby, so when she got married he told Peter’s mother, Mary. They were both very angry, but Beth told them it was all nonsense. Then you were born eight months after the wedding and the anger erupted again. Mary said she couldn’t mention the birth to her church friends and your grandfather said the same about his school colleagues.’

I was angry when I heard this. ‘What a lot of fuss over nothing, Margaret.’

Margaret said no, it wasn’t over nothing. ‘You’ve got to imagine what life was like then. It was a huge stigma, but Beth said she and Peter were in love and that’s all that mattered. Of course I was on their side, but I was already teaching at a school in Edinburgh, so I wasn’t around very much.

‘Then a year later your grandfather died and my mother joined me in Edinburgh. Sadly, she died before my marriage to Gerald. Mary started to come round to the house when you were a bit older, but I don’t think Beth ever really forgave her or her father. With your grandfather dead, Peter and Beth stayed in the family house in Garland Place, and they were so happy until the war started.’