Roses of Winter (46 page)

“Ma, ah would never dae anything like that,” Betty protested.

“Ah don’t think you would either,” Mary agreed. “And when your sister comes to her senses, she’ll see that for herself.”
 

When Charlie came home he looked at Mary and asked, “Whit happened tae make yer face look like that?” As she told him, his face tightened into an expression of dark brooding anger. “Get those two in here right now,” he said in a tone that frightened her.

“Now Charlie, it’ll no’ help matters tae lose your temper with them.”

“Ah’m trying very hard no’ to lose it,” Charlie replied. “But they have tae understand that they cannae behave like that in this hoose. Ah’ll no’ stand for it. Ah know you think ah’m too easy going wi them but ah always thought they knew what was expected o’ them. Ah’m gaun tae remind them o’ that!”

Mary went to fetch her daughters. When she went into their room they were sitting facing away from each other reading magazines. Mary felt chilled by the barely controlled air of hostility that enveloped them.

“Your father wants tae talk tae the both o’ ye,” she said, her tone making clear the nature of the conversation he intended. For once Mary saw fear on Ellen’s face. Her usual shell of studied indifference had been pierced. Mary noted her discomfort with a great degree of satisfaction. It was unseemly to think it, she knew, but the emotion had entered her mind before she could edit and control it. The next moment she felt guilty at taking any pleasure in her daughter’s fall from grace with her father. But she could not help the trace of it that remained as the girls trooped reluctantly into the kitchen to face Charlie.

“Sit down the both o’ you,” Charlie ordered.

They obeyed meekly, pulling out chairs from the kitchen table and perching on them as if wishing to flee.

“Your mother’s been telling me about the way you’ve been carrying on. Ah warned you, Ellen, that it would all end in trouble if ye didnae dae anything. It’s bad enough the way you’ve played wi the feelings o’ Robbie and Jim. But ah’ll no’ have you hurting yer sister. Ah want no more o’ that. And ah’ll no’ have you sulking and mistreating her behind ma back either.”

Charlie turned to Betty. “Ah want the truth, Betty. Did you write that letter?”

“No, Da’, ah didnae,” Betty said. “Ah didnae approve o’ what she was doing and ah telt her that, but ah didnae have anything to do with the letter.”

Charlie turned back to Ellen. “Ah’ll tell ye the truth, Ellen, ah cannae believe she wrote that letter either. It’s no’ like her.
 
If yer sister saw ye oot wi’ Robbie other people could have too. It’s no’ hard tae believe that word could have got back there.”

“Ah want you tae listen tae me,” Charlie continued. “Ah’ll not put up with this behavior from you, Ellen. You need tae think more about whit you’re doing and how it hurts people. Ah know you’re mother thinks ah’ve been too soft on you. Ah’ve tried tae let ye learn tae run you’re ain lives and no’ be like mah ain faither who wouldnae let me budge an inch. But there’s a limit tae what ah’ll allow and ah don’t want tae see any mair o’ this. Dae ye understand whit ah’m saying to you?”

Ellen nodded and placed her face in her hands to hide her tears.
 

Later, when they were alone by the fire, Charlie looked at Mary, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Dae you have any idea who wrote that letter?” he asked.

“Ah’m sure ah have nae idea, Charlie,” she replied, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“Aye, well,” Charlie said,
 
“it solves the problem, though not in the way I would have liked. Ah suppose we’ll just never know.”

Mary said nothing and thought it best that she would never know or hear his real thoughts on the matter. They watched the waning fire in silence for a while and went to bed.

Chapter 14

Waiting for the End

Maryhill, 1944 to 1945

Mary sat close by the fire trying to soak up every scrap of warmth. She relished these quiet moments in the morning when she could sit alone and enjoy her cup of tea in peace.
Another January
, she thought,
another New Year’s Eve just past
. She hoped to God they had seen their last New Year under war. She remembered that first one in 1939 when she had been so fearful for her family’s future. Now five of them had come and gone. At least her family were still alive, and that was more than many poor souls could say.
 

What Mary feared most now was for her family to have come this far through the war only to meet some calamity close to the end. Like many, she hoped that the end was in sight for Germany. Looking for news that might signal the end of the terrible conflict was near, Mary had taken to reading the newspaper carefully in a way she had never done before the war.
 

There had been the successes in Africa last year and the surrender of the Italians in September.
 
Hard resistance from the Germans had followed, but at least the Allies were tying up troops the enemy badly needed elsewhere. The Russians were in Poland and would be coming at Germany from the east. Many wondered when the inevitable invasion of Europe would begin. She read about a succession of massive air raids in Germany by the RAF and the Americans. It was necessary to bring the war to an end, Mary knew. But, having seen the carnage in Clydebank and Maryhill, she could not help feeling pity for the women and children in Berlin and all the other German cities that were becoming smoking ruins.

Mary had watched her children grow up in the war. Betty and Ellen had been practically women when it started. She had seen greater changes in Elspeth and Alastair. They had grown so quickly. There were too many days now when Mary felt old and tired. The war had aged her, she felt, beyond just the span of its years. She had confided this recently to Ida who had surprised her by admitting to similar feelings.

“It’s bound tae wear ye doon. An’ ah’m nae spring chicken masel’,” she conceded. “Ah’m just peching ma way up the stairs wi’ a few messages these days. But this war makes ye tired tae yer very bones, and it’s hard tae bear on top o’ the thought of growing old.”

Ida had never been quite the same since Andy’s death. Although she put on a stoic front for the world’s benefit, Mary had seen Ida in those moments when she grew thoughtful and distant. She knew that her friend held a wound in her heart that would never heal.

There had been changes in Charlie too. She had watched him grow grayer at the temples and more lined around the eyes.
And he was quieter and more serious these days
, she thought. He talked little about the war and shared only generalities about his ship and fellow crewmembers.
 

Despite the fire there was a chill in the room that dissuaded her from lingering. She sighed and got up to start her daily tasks. Five long years of war and most had passed a day at a time in the same old routine that in some ways made them possible to endure, and in others added weight on Mary’s back.
 

Ellen came into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and subdued. Mary looked at her daughter, and thought,
I would almost like to have the old Ellen back than see her so reduced.
Since Robbie’s angry departure and her fight with her sister, Ellen had been quiet and withdrawn. At first Mary had thought her daughter’s dark mood would pass. While the open resentment had moderated, it had left an Ellen that only faintly resembled her old self.

“Sit ye doon and ah’ll make you some tea,” Mary told her. At first Mary had felt little sympathy for Ellen, thinking she more than deserved what had come to her. But her daughter’s moodiness had dragged on so long and seemed so much to reflect an inner darkness, that Mary was now very worried about her.

Yesterday, another letter card had arrived from Jim. They were less frequent now. Ellen had taken it away unread. Mary wondered what they could possibly say after so many years of separation. She failed to see how they could ever recover the love that had blossomed for so short a time.
Too much had happened
, Mary thought,
for them to start again
.
 

Although Ellen had heeded Charlie’s words and maintained a civil attitude to Betty, their relationship remained strained. Not close in the best of times, they had little to do with each other.
Well
, Mary thought,
Betty has her own life with Harry
.
Besides, Ellen’s mood did not invite conversation
. It was no different now. Mary set Ellen’s tea gently on the table beside her. She poured more for herself, and decided to sit back by the fire, where she joined in the silence and brooded about what might become of her daughter and her family.

The years of war had conditioned Mary not to think too far ahead. The conflict had gone on so long that it had become the whole of reality for her. But there were times, on those occasions when she could steal a few moments for herself, that she wondered what it would be like to wake up on a morning when there was only peace. She dreamed of it sometimes. It was always Spring. She would waken, rested and content, to the sounds of birds singing. The blind brightened with the promise of a fine day, one of those perfect days that come only a few times in a lifetime. She would let the sun in and make tea, bringing a cup to Charlie. Mary would rejoin the world, disoriented and confused from these dreams. They were so real that it would take a few moments to establish where she was. Then, she would bury her face in the bed covers and try to stifle the tears of frustration that brimmed in her eyes. So persistent were the dreams that Mary had come to dread them.
 

On one of those bright days that come before the real Spring but taunt you with its promise, like the near perfect days that haunted Mary’s nights, Ida found her morose and unsettled. Ida had been worried about her friend for quite some time. She had always thought of Mary as a strong, capable woman and still did.
But she was showing the strain
, Ida thought. The same could be said of her, she knew. Time had blunted the pain of losing Andy but not erased it. Mary had helped her a great deal in coming to terms with his death.
 

“How are ye daeing the day?” Ida asked.

“About the same as usual,” Mary responded.

“And how is that?” Ida persisted. Mary looked at Ida for a long moment before answering.

“Tae tell ye the truth, no’ that great.”

Ida picked up the kettle with the easy informality gained from years spent in Mary’s kitchen. “Ah’ll just make us a cup o’ tea and ye can tell me whit’s bothering ye,” she said.

“Ach, nothing oot o’ the ordinary,” Mary protested.

“There’s no’ much that’s ordinary any more,” Ida told her. “This war put a stop tae ordinary in our lives.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Mary agreed. “We’ve been in this thing so long that ah cannae think o’ what will come after it. Oh aye, everybody says they’ll be glad when it’s all over, and so will I,” Mary went on. "But whit kind o’ world will it be? We cannae get these years back and it’ll be years before the country gets over it, if we ever dae.”

“Ah’m sure you’re right aboot that, Mary,” Ida agreed. “But what choice is there? We thought that after the last war, and after the Depression, but we managed somehow. It will be the same again this time.”

“Aye, but we were young in the first war, Ida. We didnae bear the brunt o’ it like our parents did.
 
And then no’ ten years after the war we’re in the Great Depression. Charlie and me were no’ long married then and Ellen and Betty were just weans. We struggled through that and then, before ye know it, we’re back intae another war. Ah’m feeling old and done, Ida. Ah don’t think ah can face the future, wondering how long it will be until we’re intae something else again.”

Ida wondered what she could say in response. When Andy died she had quickly become fed up with the well intended but tired old sentiments of most people. Mary had been a notable exception, not saying what was expected or adopting a sanctimonious tone that only managed to sound false. Ida had no wish to fall into the mistake of subjecting her friend to what had annoyed her.
 

Seeing the somber expression on her friend’s face, Mary felt ashamed. “Ida, ah’m sorry. Ah shouldnae be gaun on about mah worries tae you. No’ after what you’ve been through.”

“Losing Andy was a hard blow and ah thought ah wid never get over it,” Ida said. "It took me a while tae see it, but ah realized ah couldnae just give up. It wisnae just me you see. There was Hughie, who took it so hard himsel’, although he widnae let anyone see what he felt about it. And then there was Jimmie and Pearl. Ah just felt ah had tae hold onto what was good about mah life and no’ lose that as well. There’s no life that doesnae have some sorrow come intae it. There’s nothing you can do but make the best of it.”
 

“Aye, when ye put it that way, ah see what ye mean,” Mary agreed. Ida’s honesty about her own feelings had helped. “Ah’ll try tae remember that when ah’m here by masel’.”

“And there’s one more thing ah should have said,” Ida added, “and that was tae thank you for the help you've given me.”

“And now you’ve helped me,” Mary said, feeling her eyes moisten. In all the years they had known each other, it was the closest they had come to expressing their affection.

On the following afternoon, Mary had just sat down by the fire to glance through the paper when she thought she heard a knock at the front door. She kept the paper still and listened. A gentle rapping on the door echoed down the lobby. Anxiety rose in Mary’s vitals. The war had made a simple matter like an unfamiliar knock a thing to be feared. When she opened the door her anxiety was replaced by concern. Before her was a women whose pale face and careworn appearance at once made Mary think she had taken ill and was looking for assistance.