Roses of Winter (19 page)

      
Elspeth and Alastair were more open about their feelings. She would find them working on their homework, tears dripping onto their jotters, smudging the blue lines. This came near to breaking Mary’s heart. She tried to divert the children from sad thoughts by giving them what few pennies she had and using up her sweety ration.

Since the war began, Ida had come more often during the day. Sometimes in the evening she would join them when they sat by the fire. Now Mary was glad that Charlie had insisted on buying a wireless. They could listen to the news and distract themselves for a while with programs from the BBC.
It was even worth the time and trouble involved in hauling the heavy accumulators up the stairs
, she thought.

Rare were the times when Ellen would sit with them, But Betty liked to join them and listen to them talk while she knitted. She had learned to knit from her Gran’ and enjoyed doing it. Besides, it was a practical skill now that clothing was harder to get. She unraveled old pullovers to reuse the wool. Mary or Ida held out their arms so Betty could wind it into skeins.
 

These evenings, bathed in the gentle light from the gas mantles and the cheery glow of the fire, resembled those of happier times enough to let them forget for a precious while the prospect of loss that might change their lives forever. Later, with the fire banked for the night and the house quiet, the sight of Charlie’s empty chair turned Mary again to weeping.
 

Despite a deep faith in God, in those sleepless moments of the night, Mary did not pray in any formal sense of that word. She was not one to think of prayer as a constant asking God to do things for her. For Mary, it was more a quiet conversation that always began, “If it is your will, Lord.” It was Divine Providence that sustained her and gave a deeper meaning to her life, not the hope of rewards. Perhaps this was what pained her about Charlie’s outright rejection of all of it. Despite his lack of faith in God or a hereafter he seemed to thrive as happily as any weed on vacant ground. He had such a natural kindness in him, was so thoughtful of others, that she was not in any doubt that he was a good man. Many hungry men, found on the street and brought home at his insistence, had sat at their table. Just about anyone was likely to show up at the door looking for him, so well liked was he.

Despite her misgivings about Charlie’s irreverence, Mary never mistook the declaration of faith or its show for virtue. Her grandparent’s behavior had seared that lesson into her soul. She shared Charlie’s love of Burns and like him had a great appreciation for the humorous portrayal of hypocrisy in Holy Wullie’s Prayer. She just wanted Charlie to experience the same lasting comfort that her strong conviction brought her, even though he never gave the slightest appearance of needing it. If he survived to return to her, though, she hoped he might change his mind.
 

Mary awoke to another day of routine. She turned on the wireless to hear the news but found nothing new about the situation in France. That evening, Ida came over with a little container in her apron pocket. She kept it hidden until just before it was time to say goodnight and go to bed. Ida put the kettle on the hob. The hour was late. Noticing Mary’s questioning look, she said, “It’s no’ fer tea, Mary. Ah brought ye a wee drap o’ something tae help ye sleep.” She waved aside Mary’s protests. “Ah know ye don’t like having the stuff in the house. This is for medicinal purposes, so jist haud yer wheesht.” She poured the whiskey into a cup, added some sugar and then the hot water. Giving the mixture a good stir she handed it to Mary. “Jist sit there an take that, it’ll dae ye good.”

Mary sniffed the cup doubtfully. The aroma of the sweetened liquor did seem inviting and she could use a good night’s sleep. She took a small sip and paused before imbibing a much longer one. Ida looked on with satisfaction.

“Whit wid Charlie think if he could see me sitting here wi’ a dram?” Mary asked.

“He would agree wi’ me,” said Ida sharply, then added, “if he knew whit was good for him.”

Mary laughed at the idea of anybody managing to give Charlie a right telling off. “Will your man no’ miss his whiskey?”

“Ach whit he disnae know willnae hurt him. Besides he thinks ah don’t know he makes a mark on the label wi’ a pencil, so ah pit in some watter tae top it up. Ah don’t know why the silly auld fuiter bothers. Ah’m sure he should know ah wouldnae touch the stuff.”

Mary laughed. She was enjoying her contraband whisky. “Thanks Ida, ye’re a guid friend so ye are.”

“Ach away wi’ ye,” Ida said, heading for the door. “Ah’ll see ye in the morning.”

Ida was true to her word. She showed up at the door as Mary was seeing Alastair and Elspeth off to school. “Did ye hear the news?” Seeing Mary’s puzzled look, Ida said, “On the wireless, aboot Dunkirk.”

Mary shook her head. She hadn’t bothered to turn it on, wanting to save the battery for the evening.

“They’re sayin’ they’ve managed tae wheech oot a whole lot o’ the ermy from right under the noses o’ the Germans. Ah’ll go doon an’ get us a paper.” She started off down the stairs. Stopping at the landing she turned back to look at Mary. “Maybe Charlie got oot wi’ them.”
 

When Ida returned, Mary had a pot of tea brewing on the table. Ida spread out the Daily Express and looked over the front page. “Here we are.” Reading slowly with the precision of one who is unsure of her abilities, Ida read the first part of the article. “Under the guns of the Allied navies, under the wings of the Royal Air Force, a large proportion of the BEF who for three days had been fighting their way back to the Flanders coast have now been brought safely back to England.” She looked at Mary and nodded as if to say,
see, ah told ye
, before going back to the paper. “Eyes hollow from lack of sleep, days’ growth of beard on their chins, some without food for forty-eight hours, they were utterly weary as they stumbled into train after train.”

Not realizing what had been left out of the positive sounding article, the two women took heart in the news. After days of silence here was something at last. Cast as a miracle and not a disastrous defeat, Dunkirk was enshrined in myth from the very beginning. The larger realities implicit in the evacuation were lost on Mary. Between the lines of the newspaper was written the possibility that she might see Charlie again.

Late in the afternoon, when Mary was wondering what to make for dinner, there was a sharp knock on the door. She felt her heart skip a beat and rose, standing for a moment with one hand on the table, the other at her breast. There came another insistent rapping on the door. She went over to it quickly and flung it open. Ida stood on the doorstep her eyes wide. The minute Ida saw Mary a stream of words emerged so rapidly that Mary had trouble following her. She caught her breath at the words telegram boy but sighed with relief when she understood that he had gone upstairs.

“He went up tae the top floor,” Ida said to Mary in a hushed voice.
 
They waited on the landing until the young lad came back down, a miserable look on his face.

“Ah canny stand this job any more,” he said to them. “Ah’m tired o’ bringing bad news tae people. It’s really getting’ on ma nerves, so it is.”

“Were ye up at Mrs. Macfarlane’s hose?” Ida asked him.

“Aye an’ the poor soul is up there greeting her hert oot. It’s a right scunner so it is.” He went down the stairs. The two women looked at each other, stricken by the news of the tragedy that had visited their neighbor.
 

Ida started off up the stairs with Mary on her heels. Bound to the little community of the close, their first impulse was to go to the aid of one of their own. They found Mrs. Macfarlane’s door ajar and went in. She was slumped on the floor by the door of the kitchen, her head on her arms.

“Nessie, Nessie,” Ida murmured, kneeling down and putting her arm around the women’s shoulder. She drew her up and held her, rubbing her back. “C’moan noo, Nessie, let’s get ye up on tae a chair.” They brought Nessie over to a seat by the fire. Ida pulled over a chair and sat down facing her. She fished in her apron pocket for a hankie. Nessie took it and wiped her eyes.

They waited, knowing the answer to the unasked question. The fire crackled in the grate, its cheery appearance dressing the quiet room with false promises of normality. Ida watched Nessie intently while Mary tiptoed about making tea with slow careful movements that turned the process into a solemn ceremony of respect. She brought a cup of tea back to Nessie and gently placed it in her hand. Mary brought another chair over and sat close in to the other women.
 

The act of drinking the tea appeared to calm Nessie. “Ma Robbie’s deid,” she said flatly. “On active duty in France, was all it said.”

Mary and Ida looked at each other. Robbie had been Nessie’s only child. He had just turned nineteen when he left for the army at the end of last year. What comfort could they possibly provide for this new tragedy in the woman’s life? Nessie’s husband Alec had died before he was fifty, killed in a terrible accident at the foundry that made Mary and Ida shudder even to think of it. The widow had struggled to bring the boy up by herself.
 

“Ah don’t know whit tae say, Nessie,” Ida said.

“There’s nothing tae be said,” Nessie replied. “They’ve taken it aw, there’s nothing left. Ah might as well be deid.”

Mary’s mind was in a muddle of confusing thoughts. She was trying to think of something she could say to help but an insistent idea kept butting in.
Was this was what lay in her own future?
She thought of how little comfort the well-meaning words had brought at her mother’s funeral. Mary knew that many people retreated to the same old formulas not because they were unfeeling. They found safety in the commonplace sentiments they were used to hearing. Her sensibility refused to inflict this on Nessie. She sat wordlessly as the turmoil in her brain grew to the point of being unbearable.

Ida sat twisting her apron, uncertain how to proceed. Ida turned to her friend. Mary was slumped forward, her face buried in her hands. Nessie gently pried Mary’s hands away from her face and embraced her. Ida placed her hands on their shoulders. At last, in this coming together, the women grieved for the lives and familiar world that were being so irretrievably lost.

Ida stayed with Nessie that night in the face of her objections. Mary and Ida had agreed to take turns, having no need to voice the fear they both felt that Nessie would harm herself.

The next morning was a Saturday. Mary woke up Ellen early with news that did not please her. “Ellen, ah need ye tae get oot o’ your bed. Ah’m away up tae see Nessie Macfarlane so Ida can get doon tae her ain hoose,”

“Ach, Ma, ah wanted tae sleep in. Whit for dae ye need tae go up there at this time o’ the morning?”
 

Mary erupted in a furious temper. “Ah’ve had enough o’ your nonsense, girl. Get oot o’ your bed, ye damned lazy bitch, before ah gie ye a belt on your ear.”
 

Ellen lay frozen, shocked to hear such language from her mother. “Whit’s wrang Ma?” she asked.

“Robbie’s deid. He was killed in France.” Ellen turned pale and moaned as though in physical pain. She buried her face in the bed covers. Mary sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her shoulder. Ellen and Robbie had known each other since childhood.
It must be a terrible shock for her
, Mary thought.

“Ah’m sorry, Ellen, ah shouldnae have telt ye so sudden like that.”

Ellen emerged from beneath the coverlet and wiped her face with a corner of it. “It’s all right, Ma, ah didnae know. You go on up tae Mrs. Macfarlane. Ah’ll mind things here.“
 

Mary rapped gently on Nessie’s door. There was no sound from within. She rapped again, louder this time. So silent was the landing that she heard a tramcar slow to a stop then start up again. Worried, she reached for the knocker. The door opened to reveal Ida’s bleary-eyed face.

“Ah’m sorry Mary, ah jist nodded aff fer a minute.”

Mary followed her into the kitchen and asked in a low voice, “How is she daein’?”

Ida shook her head. “No good at aw. She’s jist lying in bed wi’ her heid tae the wall. When ah try tae talk tae her she says she wishes she was deid and wants tae be left alane. Ah don’t know whit tae dae.”

They sat by the fire. “Does she no’ have any family that could mind her, Ida?”

“Nane that ah know aboot. She’s never spoken o’ any.”
 

“Well, we can dae this for a while but whit if she disnae get better?”

 
“Ah don’t know Mary. We cannae leave her alane like this.”

“Ah know that Ida, ah know that.”

Mary took her turn staying with Nessie during the rest of the day, going now and again to check on her. Nessie did not stir. Mary wondered what to do.
Should she let the woman sleep or try to get her up? It couldn’t be good for her to lie there like that
. Lulled by the warmth of the fire, Mary dozed off.

She was awakened by the sounds of movement in the kitchen. Nessie was pouring hot water into the teapot. “Wid ye like a wee cup o’ tea, Mrs. Burns?”

Mary looked at her for a moment, sizing her up. “Aye Nessie, ah wid that. An’ surely you can call me Mary after aw these years.” Mary sipped the hot tea glancing nervously at Nessie. Nessie poured herself a cup and sat down opposite Mary.