Roses of Winter (2 page)

They found Ida Gow coming in the other way with the Sunday Post and a bag of rolls. “Ah see ye’ve heard the news,” she said, looking at their faces. “Ah lost a brother in 1917 an’ here we go again wi’ thae damn Germans.”

 
Back in their kitchen, Charlie slumped in his seat by the fire while Mary put the kettle on the range. Alistair and Elspeth sat on the floor, watching their parents closely, made uneasy by their depressed mood. Ellen sat down at the kitchen table. “It’s ridiculous them talking aboot closing down the pictures and the dancing!” she stated emphatically.
 

Mary turned to her. “Is that aw ye can think about at a time like this? Dae ye no’ understand that we’re at war?” Ellen pouted. At seventeen she felt she should be treated like a grownup and resented any interference in her life.

“Whit’s war got tae dae wi’ me gaun tae the pictures?”
 

      
Charlie looked up from the fire. “It’s no’ gaun tae matter whit you think about it lassie, we’re in it whither we like it or no’.” Ellen tossed her head and went off to sulk in the other room.
 

Mary started on Charlie. “Ye see, that’s whit ah’ve been trying tae tell ye. There’s nothing in her heid but boys an’ gaun tae the dancin’. An’ now you’re going away again an’ ah’ll be here on ma lane.” She burst into tears.

“But Mary, ye know ah’ve got nae choice in the matter. Mah ship sails on Tuesday and ah have tae be on her.” He went over to his wife and patted her on the shoulder. “Now, Mary, dinna let the weans see ye in a state like that.” Alistair and Elspeth began to cry. Mary wiped her face and went over to get the kettle that was whistling on the range. She poured some boiling water into the pot, sluiced it in the sink and put four generous spoons of tea in the pot before adding the water. Leaving the tea to brew she sat down by the fire.

“It’s no’ jist the war, Charlie. Ah’m that worried aboot Ellen. She disnae mind a word ah say tae her. She stays oot late wi’ those pals o’ hers and there’s a new lad ower here every night lookin’ for her.”

Charlie nodded in agreement, not wanting to say anything that would inflame his wife’s temper. He had his own worries about his daughter. Charlie didn’t think there was any real harm in her, but she could be thrawn when she didn’t get her own way. Mary had very set ideas about how people, especially young women, should behave. She was frequently at odds with her daughter.
Mary was too hard on Ellen
, Charlie thought. The stricter she was, the more Ellen found ways to annoy her.

Mary poured the tea. “Ah wish Betty wis here tae help me.” Betty was her oldest daughter. She was down in Campbelltown looking after Mary’s elderly and ailing mother.
 

      
“Could ye no’ bring her back for a while?” Charlie suggested.

      
“Charlie, ye know how bad mah mother is. Without Betty ah don’t know whit she wid dae.”
 

      
Mary felt a tugging at her apron and looked down to see Elspeth, her face wet with tears. “We’ll help ye Mammy.”
 

      
Mary swept her up and kissed her on the cheek. “Ah know ye will pet and so will you,” she said, gathering Alistair to her.

It was a hard leave taking for Charlie. The family watched him step onto the tram from the close mouth. He lingered on the platform to wave until the conductress chased him upstairs. Charlie found a seat and lit a cigarette. The brave face had been for his family’s benefit. The arrival of the war had caused a rent in his inner peace. In the last war, apart from a few forays by German zeppelins, the cities had emerged without serious damage. He was certain that it would be very different this time.
 

As they came back into the close, Ida was sweeping out the back. “So that’s him away then,” she said.
 

“Aye, Mary said. It’s no’ that ah’m no’ used tae him gaun away, mind. But now wi’ the war ah don’t know whit tae think.”
 

“Ah know whit ye mean,” Ida agreed. “Are ye gaun tae keep the bairns wi’ ye?”
 

“Ida, ah just cannae bring masel’ tae send them away. Mah man thinks ah’m wrang in the heid, but ah think if we’re gaun tae die we should aw go the gither. What wid be the sense o’ them growing up without a mither and a faither? Whit dae ye think yersel?”
 

Ida looked doubtful. “Ah couldnae tell ye Mary. Ah’m jist glad ah don’t have tae decide that for masel’." Ida Gow’s two sons were grown and working. The last thing she wanted was for them to be swallowed up in a war.
 

The next morning was the beginning of many trying and stressful days for Mary. To the daily burden of taking care of the children and minding the house was added the task of being the sole authority. Ellen, who could often be persuaded by her father’s quiet admonitions, would push Mary as far as she could. Mary’s exasperation only inflamed the situation and each day brought some new upset or disagreement.
 

After the early anxiety surrounding the declaration of war, the ensuing weeks seemed like an anticlimax. The German bombers failed to materialize. The only excitement had come early on when a barrage balloon had been struck by lightning and fallen in flames into Ruchill Park. And the only real danger had come with the rigorously enforced blackout. The darkened streets were causing many accidents. Mary’s brother Ian became a casualty, earning a broken nose when he rushed to catch a late tram. “Ah forgot the bloody thing wis there,” he complained later, referring to the baffle wall that workmen had placed in front of the close mouth that afternoon.

But then Death, thwarted by a slow start to the war, found a different path to Mary. On a cold morning in October came an insistent knock at the door. She opened it and stared in horror at her visitor.

He, doubtless used to this reaction, said politely, “I have a telegram for a Mrs. Charles Burns.” Her hand flew to her mouth and she reeled back against the doorjamb. The messenger held it out to her. “Are you OK missis?” he asked. Mary recovered herself and took the telegram. She brought it inside to the kitchen table where she landed heavily in a chair. All she could think was,
Charlie’s dead
. She ripped open the envelope.
 

The Post Office Telegram form held three strips of tape.

CAMPBELLTOWN

BURNS
   
783 MARYHILL ROAD
      
GLASGOW W2

GRAN DIED NEED YOU HERE
   
=
   
BETTY
 

Mary’s relief that Charlie was all right was quickly overtaken by grief for her mother. Then she thought,
poor Betty, what a shock for the young girl
. Mary felt overwhelmed.
What was she going to do? Who would mind the children? How was she to settle her mother’s affairs?
With Charlie at sea she was left to draw upon whatever resources she could muster by herself. For a moment she felt drained with the worry of it. Then she heard her mother’s voice say, “Don’t you fail me now. Is this the way I brought you up?” Mary sat up straight and looked around, fully expecting to see her mother in the room. The words, the voice, had seemed so real that she shivered involuntarily.
 

A plan formed in her mind. Ellen was old enough to look after Elspeth and Alistair, and she would ask Ida to keep an eye on them. Ellen should be able to keep the house going.
She wants to be treated like a grown up, now’s her chance
, Mary thought.

Ida was more than willing to help when Mary stopped at her door. “Ah’m awfy sorry to hear that,” she said. “Wid ye like tae come in for a cup o’ tea?” Mary declined, explaining she had to go down to the Post Office to send a telegram to Betty.
 

“Ah’ll get Ellen to mind the weans, but ah just wanted tae ask ye if ye could keep an eye on them for me?”
 

“Mary, you don’t need tae ask, ye know that.
 
It’ll be nae bother at aw.”
 

“Ah do know that, Ida,” Mary said, her gratitude plain. “Ah’m going tae see if mah brother can come doon tae Campbelltown wi’ me. Tae get her decently buried and help me sort everything oot. Ah well, it’s an ill wind that blaws naebody any good. At least now ah’ll have Betty back wi’ me again.”

When she returned from the Post Office she put some things in a suitcase and went to find her brother. She met him on his way home from McLellan’s rubber works. He walked down the road carefree and whistling until he spotted her. The fact of her waiting for him and the look on her face changed his casual expression to one of alarm.

“Whit’s happened Mary? Who’s deid?”
 

“It’s Maw, Ian. Ah got a wire from Betty. Ah wis hoping ye could come wi’ me tae Campbelltown.”
 

“Ah well that’s her away then,” he said sadly. Then, reacting to her question, “Aye, ah’ll get word tae the foreman. Are ye planning tae leave in the morning?”
 

“Aye we need tae be down at McBrayne’s early. And make sure ye bring some decent claes,” she said.
 

At home she broke the news to the family. She had expected the younger ones to be upset but was surprised and touched to see Ellen burst into tears. “Ach well, she was auld and sick,” Mary said in an effort to comfort them. “It’s maybe aw for the best.” When their sobs had subsided she explained to them about having to leave. “Ah need you tae mind the hoose when ah’m away, Ellen. And ah have tae know ah can count on you. Ida’ll look in on ye tae make sure everything is OK and ye can go tae her if ye need anything.”
 

Expecting Ellen to make a fuss, she was surprised when her daughter appeared to be pleased that she was being left in charge. “There’s nae need for you tae worry, Maw. Ah’ll look after the weans and mind the place for ye. Ah ah’m seventeen ye know.”
 

Mary went over to Ellen and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks pet, ah feel a lot better now.”

The next morning Mary and Ian boarded the MacBrayne’s bus for the long trip to Campbelltown. For a while they looked out the window in silence as the bus worked its way out of the city along Great Western Road to Anniesland and then through Scotstoun and Clydebank. It was only later, when they were making their way up the winding and narrow road along Loch Lomond that Ian broke the silence. “Ah climbed that once when ah wis a lad,” he said, referring to Ben Lomond across the loch. “It’s that clear the day.
 
It’s often in the clouds and ye cannae see the top.” Then, abruptly changing the subject, he asked, “Is there enough tae bury her?”
 

Mary, who hated to discuss family matters in public, made a hushing sound. Then she said quietly, “Aye there’s enough and ah’m no surprised ye widnae know that. Ye’re aye going aboot as happy as Larry, as if ye have nothin’ tae worry about.” Seeing the hurt in his eyes, she said more gently, “There’s a policy through the Pearl that’ll give her a decent send off. Allow her, she had it aw arranged wi’ the undertaker.”
 

“But whit are we gaun tae dae until the insurance shows up,” Ian persisted. “Will the undertaker no’ want tae be paid right away?”
 

“Ah telt ye, she had it aw arranged. McClarty the undertaker is willing tae wait until the money comes through. An’ it’s a good thing tae that she had that policy an’ aw.”

They sat in silence after that, looking out the windows at the mountains. Snow had fallen on the tops of the bens. The cold, clear light glinting off it etched the dark rocks against the sky, in a crystalline brightness that hurt their eyes. The raw beauty of the scene brought forth a great wave of longing in Mary’s heart
 
-
 
for the days gone by, for
 
her grief of the moment, and the overwhelming sense of the mystery of being alive to see and feel it.

The bus climbed slowly up the Rest and be Thankful, dwarfed by the surrounding crags. Reaching the top, they headed past the dark waters of Loch Restil, brooding and still, and then on to Loch Fyne. They stopped in Inveraray, where Mary took out the sandwiches and biscuits she had brought rather than have to pay good money to buy food at the hotel. They walked up and down the front by the pier to work the stiffness out of their legs. The persistent, chill wind blowing up the loch soon drove them back into the bus. And then there was the long final stretch down the Mull of Kintyre to Campbelltown.
 

The bus rolled to a stop. Betty spotted them and waved. She waited impatiently by the door until Mary got off. Betty threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Aw Maw!” she cried. Mary hugged her daughter.
 

“It’s all right,” she reassured Betty. She led the girl out of the throng around the bus.
 
They walked up Long Row to the house that had been Mary’s childhood home.
 

“Ah brought her in a cup o’ tea Maw, just like usual,” Betty explained. “She wis just lying there wi’ her eyes wide open. Ah shook her an’ shook her but she just lay there. Ah went next door tae Mrs. Gourlay and she came over. She took me tae her hoose and sent for McKay the polisman. Then they came an’ took gran’ away.”
 

Mary soothed her daughter. “There wis nothing ye could dae Betty.” Mary put her arm around her daughter. “Ah know ye loved yer gran’, Betty. Ah know it hurts, but she wis auld and no’ well.”