Roses of Winter (52 page)

Mary woke in the night. It took her a moment to grasp the cause. Far off in the house a bell was ringing. The noise was not one from Mary’s world. No one she knew owned a telephone except perhaps the minister or the doctor. She stirred, felt a chill run through her. A telephone in the night could mean only one thing. She got up quickly, threw on her dressing gown and went out to the landing. Mary listened a moment then went down the stairs as quickly as the dim light from below allowed.

Mary found Mrs. Dennis sitting in a chair by a small table, isolated in the pool of light cast off by the lamp. The receiver lay in her lap. Elizabeth Dennis made no sound as she cried. Her cheeks glistened brightly.

 
“Oh Elizabeth,” Mary said, using the older woman’s name for the first time. She placed her arm around Mrs. Dennis’s shoulder.
 

A creak on the stair made Mary look up. Ellen was standing there. Strange, fierce eyes stared back at Mary. Ellen’s face, framed in disheveled black hair, was a pale beacon in the gloom. A long wail erupted from her that brought to Mary’s mind the banshees of her mother’s tales.
 

Mary went to her daughter and guided her down the remaining steps. A chair sat near the foot of the stairs. Mary grabbed it in passing and brought it along with Ellen to where Mrs. Dennis sat.

She had stopped crying and was staring at Ellen. “Oh, you poor dear child,” she said. Ellen sank into the chair and placed her face in her hands. The older women looked at each other. “Maybe it’s best to let her cry it out of herself,” Mrs. Dennis said.

“Aye maybe you’re right,” Mary replied. They kept vigil with Ellen until exhaustion blunted her grief then led her gently back to her bed.

On the following morning, with George’s assistance, Mary got away a telegram to Charlie. By early afternoon, back came the response that he was taking the night train and would be there in the morning. George reassured Mary that he would make sure she was at Euston in plenty of time. They arrived at the platform gate a full quarter hour before the long locomotive brought the carriages to a steamy halt.
 

Mary peered restlessly through and around the flood of people that streamed from the carriages. She caught a glimpse of Charlie’s unmistakable gait through a momentary gap. He threw her a quick wave before disappearing once more into the throng. She waited expectantly until he appeared again, closer this time, using his old sea bag as a wedge and laughing off the exasperated reaction of one impressive mountain of a lady who threatened him with her umbrella.
 

Then he was through the gate and Mary’s arms were around his neck. “Ah’m that glad tae see you,” she told him. “But how did ye get the word so fast?”

Charlie smiled. “Ye can thank Ida for that. She saw the telegram boy leaving oor door efter ah had gone tae mah work. He never stood a chance.”

“But they’re no’ supposed tae give the wire tae anybody else,” Mary said.

“Aye, he told her that,” Charlie said. “It didnae work. She went doon tae mah work and they managed tae catch me afore ah went oot on the tug.”

Charlie waved away the hand George extended for his bag in a manner that gave no offence. Mary could not overhear the quiet comment he made to George that started him laughing. When they reached the car, Mary saw an appraising look flicker on Charlie’s face before he climbed in the front.
 

Ellen had remained with Elizabeth. She greeted her father with the most subdued of hugs.

“Ah’m awfy sorry aboot Jim, Ellen,” he told her. Charlie was shaken by the depth of grief he saw in his daughter. They stood in silence for a moment, not knowing how to continue.
 

Mary introduced Charlie to Elizabeth. She was surprised by the woman’s appraisal of her husband. Mary looked at him for the first time with an eye unclouded by familiarity. Despite the hard years of the war he had retained a youthful charm that she saw appealed to the older woman.
It was more though
, Mary thought.
It was his disregard for class or rank, his manner of speaking easily with anyone regardless of their station that slipped him past the usual social defenses
.
 
It was so now with Elizabeth Dennis.
 

“It was very good of you to come, Mr. Burns. Mary has told me a great deal about you,” Mrs. Dennis told him. “I am very sure we could use the assistance of a capable man such as yourself.”

Mary saw Charlie’s eyebrow rise a little at Elizabeth’s flattering remark. She left them to discuss the arrangements for the funeral and went in search of her daughter who had slipped quietly upstairs.

This was a very different Ellen from the one who had confronted them after Robbie’s departure, Mary thought. There was no anger now, only a genuine grief that showed itself in silence rather than rage. Mary found herself surprised at the depth of feeling in Ellen. It was an emotional state she had not suspected possible in her daughter. The thought occurred to Mary that, in the long run, the experience might help Ellen towards a better, less selfish personality.
 

Mary had worried greatly for her daughter’s sanity after Robbie left. She realized now, that she would have no such concern for an Ellen grieving for Jim. With Robbie, it was the thwarting of her will, the terrible rage it had called up, that had eaten away at Ellen’s peace of mind as surely as any item spotted with acid.
 
Mary was sure that Ellen would recover from Jim’s death with time and care.
 

The funeral was a simple affair. The Dennis family was small and the few who attended were elderly. Added to these were a few Army friends. Alice and George attended more in the manner of old family friends than servants. Mary suspected that Alice’s discreet grief hid more feeling for the man than perhaps she cared to reveal. She was surprised to see the young nurse they had met on one of their visits to Jim. It was clear that women had felt drawn to him.

Charlie’s manner was more subdued than Mary had ever seen. He had helped Mrs. Dennis out of the car, offering her his arm, which she acknowledged with a slight bow of her head. She was attired in a black dress and coat in a style that reminded Mary of her mother’s wardrobe from many years before. She wore a simple black hat from which draped a veil that threw a curtain over her emotions.

During the short service, Charlie and Mary stood on either side of Ellen, offering emotional and physical support. Ellen held a single red rose that Charlie had managed to find. He had offered it to her that morning without saying a word. She had taken it gratefully and managed a small smile. Mary nodded her thanks to him.

At the end of the service, Ellen gently disengaged herself from her mother’s arm and approached the grave. She looked down at the coffin for a moment before kneeling. The rose fell from her hand. Mary heard the soft thud of its impact on the coffin lid. She came forward to spend a few silent moments with her daughter.
 

The others were already drifting away. Two workers waited a short distance away. When the two women turned away they came forward to shovel the piled soil back into the grave. The heavy thump of the first load made Ellen start. She began to cry.

Mary turned to the men. “Could ye no’ have waited ‘til we were oot o’ here?” she said sharply.

One of the men touched his cap. “Sorry lady.” He propped his shovel in the pile and pulled out a pack of Woodbines, offering one to the other man.

Mary brought Ellen away to the car.

They returned to an elegant but somber reception. Mary helped Alice distribute the plates of sandwiches and petite but very rich pastries. Sitting down at last with her own cup of tea she noticed Mrs. Dennis standing with Charlie across the room. Elizabeth was claiming Charlie’s full attention. Mary put down her tea and went to them.

“Ah, Mary,” Mrs. Dennis said, seeing her approach. “I was just saying to Charlie that, despite your kind offer to stay with me for a few days, I think it would be better for Ellen to get back to her own life as soon as possible. Here she would be immersed in sadness and unhappy memories. Charlie has to go back right away for his work. I am sure that he would be very gracious and insist that you stay, but I think it would only prolong Ellen’s unhappiness. I don’t want you to feel that I am hurrying you away. I have been very grateful for your support and kindness. Jim’s death has been very hard for me to accept, but accept it I must, Besides, I have the great benefit of having Alice and George to help me.”
 

She excused herself from Charlie and led Mary to a love seat in a quiet corner. “Mary,” she began but stopped to dab her eyes. Regaining her composure, she continued. “I do hope that you will stay in touch with me when you return home. You have been a good friend to me in a very dark time. And your daughter,” she added. “I have been very touched by how deeply she cared for my son.”

"Thank you, Elizabeth,” Mary said. “Are you sure that you will be all right?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dennis replied. “It is important that you go back to be with your family. It would be wrong for me to ask more of you.”

As the train left the confines of London, they settled back in their seats for the long trip. Alice had provided them with a hamper of sandwiches and a large Thermos filled with tea. Ellen sat in the corner looking out the window.

“Ellen, lass,” Charlie said quietly. She turned to face her father. “It’s no’ going tae be easy, ah know that. And ah’m no’ saying you should forget Jim. Naw, you should keep his memory in your heart for the rest o’ your life. But you have tae try tae get over it. It won’t happen right away, but you have tae try.”

“Ah know, Dad," she told him. “Ah will try.”

“God knows,” Charlie said, “it’ll take us aw a long time tae get ower this war.”
   

Chapter 15

Waiting for a Ship

Scotstoun, 1944 to 1945

Ella was on her way to the shops when she saw the telegram boy turn into the close. She blocked his path. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

“Whit’s it tae you? Missis,” he asked, with more impudence than was prudent. The glower on Ella’s face made him relent. He looked at the telegram. “It’s for a Mrs. McIntyre,” he said.

“Well, you can just gie that tae me,” Ella told him.

“Are you her?” he asked.

“Naw, ah’m no’ her,” she replied in a tone that made the young lad go back on his heels.

“It’s mair than mah job’s worth, Missis,” he pleaded.

“Gie me that telegram this minute, or it’ll be mair than your heid’s worth,” Ella told him.

Recognizing defeat, he handed it over.

“Listen, son,” Ella explained, softening her tone, “that wumman’s lost one son in this war already. If this is mair bad news then ah want tae be the one tae tell her.”

Ella went into the back of the close and opened the telegram. She scanned it quickly then slipped the telegram in her pocket and headed for Bessie’s door.

Bessie looked at Ella’s coat and shopping bag. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until later,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

Ella shook her head. “Ah want ye tae understand, ah wisnae trying tae butt intae your business.” She pulled the telegram from her pocket and gave it to Bessie. “Naw, it’s good news,” she said quickly. “Ah hope ye don’t mind but ah’ve opened it.”

Bessie read the telegram and started to cry. “Oh, thank God, thank God,” she said.
 

“Oh that was a very kind thought,” Bessie said when she heard about Ella intercepting the telegram. “I think that might have been too much for me.” She looked again at the telegram. “It just says he is all right. But it’s serious enough to keep him in hospital. I must go to see him.”
 

Despite her anxiety over her son, the trip to Poole was a welcome adventure for Bessie. Her life had seemed increasingly claustrophobic despite the friends she had made in the close. She missed the old days of possibilities, the trips, the social occasions. Ella had offered to accompany her but she chose to travel alone, in part to spare her friend the expense, in the main to relish the temporary separation from the usual.

Bessie found Donald sitting up in bed being fussed over by a pair of nurses. He looked up as she approached. She felt blessed by the look of pleasure that appeared on his face. Bessie sat down by the bed and inspected her son. Apart from the cast on his arm and a bruise on his cheek he appeared to be as usual. “I am relieved to see you so much like yourself,” Bessie told him. “I made plans to leave as soon as I received the telegram. Your father sends you his best wishes,” Bessie added.

“Ah’m glad tae see ye,” Donald said. “It’s a long way tae come. Ah wisnae expecting ye tae get aw the way doon here. Ah havnae even had a chance tae get a letter oot tae ye yet.”
 

Bessie inquired about the extent of Donald’s injuries.

“Ach it could have been a lot worse,” he said. “Ah broke mah arm and cracked a couple o’ ribs. They taped them up. If ah move the wrong way they hurt like the blazes. They were worried that ah had internal injuries but the heid yin told me ah’m going tae be fine. Ah can probably get oot o’ here in a day or two.”

“Oh that is good news,” Bessie said. “I will stay in Poole for a few days and bring you home with me.”