The Sunday Girls (4 page)

‘No, Dad, no,’ I cried. Tears were streaming down my face and neck, soaking the collar of my frock. ‘No, Dad, it’s not true. It’s not true.’

Dad rocked back and forth, holding me tightly. ‘Shush, Ann,’ he crooned. ‘Shush.’

I felt his tears on my hair as we stood together in our grief.

Granny came over and put her arms around both our shoulders. ‘Come on, Johnny and Ann. Let’s get back to the house. We’ve all had a terrible shock but standing here won’t help. Don’t worry about the baby, she can stay here.’ She turned towards Rita and Nellie and the two women nodded wordlessly, misery written all over their faces. ‘Well, that’s settled then – we’ll come back later and pick her up.’

As usual, she was a tower of strength. Although sorely distressed herself, she was still able to see ahead and deal with the nitty-gritty of life – life that still had to go on in spite of grief or disaster. At that moment, however, Granny would have been the last person to admit her strength.

We allowed ourselves to be gently ushered out but, when we reached the lobby, Dad made a beeline for our house.

Granny stopped him. ‘No, son, let it be for now – wait till later.’ She turned to me. ‘The same goes for you, Ann.’

Like two zombies, we let her help us out into the street where pale sunshine was already casting golden patches on the pavement. Tears still streaked down my cheeks and I suddenly became aware of their salty taste – something I had never noticed before. The strange thing was that, for many years after Mum’s sudden and untimely death, anytime I recalled that dreadful morning, it was this trivial fact I remembered – also the memory of Lily sleeping through that dramatic night, unaware of the tragedy. We were all grateful for that small mercy.

When I told Granny later on about remembering the tears and their saltiness, she said that this was common. Soldiers who had experienced the most traumatic times in the trenches often said that the sight of mud on their shoes brought back the horrors. I knew this was true. Although Dad’s own trench warfare horrors were now mostly buried in his subconscious, sometimes, if his jacket got soaked, his eyes glazed over as if he was remembering the trenches.

I can’t recall the few days that passed between Mum’s death and the burial. No doubt like Dad, I’ve buried them deep in my soul and maybe someday they will erupt like Vesuvius, spilling all the grief and despair of that terrible week into the open – but not now.

The funeral was held on Thursday. After a week of hot sunshine and blue cloudless skies, the weather finally broke. Rain streamed down from a black ominous-looking sky that held the threat of thunder in its darkness. The desolate grey streets matched our desolate emotions, especially Dad’s. He had aged visibly and become thinner since Mum’s death. Before, he could have passed for a handsome thirty-year-old but now he looked nearer sixty.

Mum was being buried at Balgay cemetery. It was a simple service in view of the fact that we didn’t belong to a church. After the carnage of the war, Dad had refused to believe in any God. Because of this, Rosie had arranged for one of her fellow Salvation Army friends to conduct the small graveside service. Major Borland was a tall gangly-looking man in his early thirties. His eager boyish face was topped by a thick thatch of straw-coloured hair.

His eloquence was without fault. ‘Dust to dust in the sure and certain …’

I heard the words but they didn’t penetrate my brain. I was too painfully aware that, less than a week ago, Mum was alive. If not exactly full of beans, she at least hadn’t seemed ill. I couldn’t help thinking that, in giving life to Lily, she had forfeited her own life.

I stood beside Danny and Hattie and Rosie, just a few steps behind Dad, Granny and Grandad. It was strange to see Grandad Neill out in the fresh air as he never went any further than the small tobacconist’s shop a few steps from his close, the shop where he called once a week for his usual supply of thick black Bogey Roll and a box of matches. Due to the fact he suffered from chronic bronchitis, this pipe smoking was a bad habit that Granny had tried for years to break but she had failed.

His breathing sounded laboured and, every now and then, his hoarse cough almost drowned out the Major’s words. Even although the rain had lessened, the cemetery, in spite of its green foliage, still had a forlorn air that lingered like a miasma above the heads of the mourners.

Danny’s aunts and uncles from Tipperary in Lochee stood beside a group of Dad’s friends from the Hilltown. Rita and her husband were amongst a smattering of neighbours. Nellie, who was acting as a surrogate mother to Lily and had done so since the night of Mum’s death, hadn’t managed to come.

Standing slightly to Hattie’s left was a stranger. A small middle-aged man, he was dapper looking in a smart dark suit which contrasted sharply with the attire of the other men. He was almost bald except for a fringe of grey hair and he carried a soft hat in his pigskin-leather gloved hands.

In the distance, a deep roar of thunder growled and the sky became black again. Large fat raindrops splashed at our feet but no one moved. Dad hunched his thin shoulders, trying to wrap his misery inside his threadbare overcoat, a thin coat he had owned for as long as I could remember. He looked so pathetic and ill that a surge of emotion rose up in my throat, like a bolt tightening my muscles. This emotion gurgled upwards as if threatening to erupt and I tried so hard not to cry. Dad was upset enough without the added worry of me so I stared resolutely ahead, planting my vision squarely on a grotesquely sculpted angel that guarded, with outstretched wings, an equally ugly tombstone.

Behind this angel were rows of moss-crusted, weather-beaten gravestones. Some had glass vases filled with wilted and decaying flowers while others had dried-up wreaths, placed there at some time in the recent past in mute remembrance for loved ones. Chipped stone urns stood beside the headstones, some of which were standing while others lay resting on their backs, knocked over by wind or neglect or maybe that old enemy – Time.

Perhaps, I thought, if I gazed long enough at the final resting places of long-dead citizens it would somehow lessen my grief and anguish – that maybe this terrible day would soon be over. But then, what about afterwards? What about all the terrible days that lay ahead? I had no idea what lay in store for us – especially Lily, that poor innocent and motherless infant.

Then, with a few emotional words, the service was over and the Major offered his sympathy to Dad. He then headed over in my direction. ‘Hello, Ann,’ he said. His handshake had a nice firm quality to it and his voice was soft and cultured but much later, in the quiet of the night, I couldn’t recall a word he had said.

Danny, I noticed, had been crying, his blue eyes looking more vivid and bright because of their wetness. My whole body felt numb, even my brain. He took my hand and we stumbled along the uneven path towards the entrance of the cemetery.

The sound of thunder was much nearer now and a sudden thunderous clap roared almost over our heads. It seemed as if even the elements matched our mood.

Another ordeal lay ahead in the shape of offering some hospitality and refreshments to our friends. It had been decided a few days earlier that these refreshments would be given in Granny’s house – not that it was any grander than our own home but it did have the advantage of being slightly larger.

When we reached the Overgate, I was surprised to see the narrow street full of people, noise and bustle. Because our world had come to an end, I somehow thought that this terrible isolation was universal.

I said as much to Danny. ‘We’re all shattered about Mum but everybody here looks so cheery.’ As if to emphasise my words, a loud shriek arose from a small group of children huddled around something that was causing immense amusement.

‘Life has to go on, Ann,’ he replied sympathetically. ‘For all we know, there’s maybe a lot of miserable folk here who are just as heartbroken as us.’

He guided me gently past shops almost devoid of customers. In a hard-up life, the middle of the week was the worst time for money and the poverty that lay amongst these streets showed in the scarcity of customers.

I averted my head as we passed the fish shop as I hated the smell. It held an odour of death which seemed to linger even long after the shop was closed. I also disliked the sight of dead fish lying on the marble slab with their mouths gaping wide open and their large glassy and staring eyes. It was hard to believe that, until a few days ago, these fish had been alive in the wild waters of some vast ocean – just as Mum had been alive.

If the tumult of life went on as usual on the street then at least the neighbours in the close were quiet. The men doffed their cloth caps as we passed while the women offered a few words of sympathy. Even the children were subdued – no doubt they’d been warned that a smacking would ensue if they broke the respectful silence.

Granny had provided a small tea of meat paste sandwiches and a couple of plates of biscuits. She was ably assisted by Alice and her daughter Rosie.

Not everyone who had been at the cemetery was here but I was surprised to see the dapper man in the smart suit. However, it now seemed as if his presence was to remain a mystery no more because Hattie approached with him in tow. She had a sad expression – a look that Granny often referred to as her ‘coffin face’.

This soon changed to a brittle smile. ‘Ann, I want you to meet Mr Pringle. He’s a solicitor.’

I looked blankly at her, my mind racing ahead at the mention of a solicitor. I wondered what he wanted with me.

‘Mr Pringle,’ repeated Hattie brightly before leaning forward and almost hissing in my ear. ‘He’s the husband of the woman I work for.’ She spoke through gritted teeth which couldn’t have been easy since she was also trying to keep her introductory smile on her face.

The penny dropped. ‘Oh, Mr Pringle, thank you for coming to Mum’s funeral.’ I was trying to remember my manners. Something that Mum was always strong on. The snag was that I hadn’t experienced such a sad and traumatic time before so I was at a loss to know what was expected of me. I quickly remembered his wife and their new daughter. What was she called? Oh, yes, Joy. ‘I hope your wife and baby are well, Mr Pringle.’

‘Yes they are both fine, Ann. We were all devastated by your mother’s death and, if we can help the family in any way, please don’t hesitate to ask. Now we mean that,’ he said in a solemn, gracious manner.

Meanwhile, Hattie hovered at his elbow, desperate, no doubt, to show him off like a prize specimen.

Granny appeared and whispered angrily to her, ‘This is not some social occasion you know, Hattie.’

Hattie’s face went red, a mixture of emotions flitting over her refined features, the main one being embarrassment at the thought that Mr Pringle may have heard the rebuke.

Fortunately he had already moved over to speak to Dad and the two men retired to a couple of chairs by the window, with a cup of tea and a sorry-looking, dehydrated meat paste sandwich.

Danny stood beside Kit, Lizzie and Belle, his aunts from Lochee. Their husbands had long since departed back to Lochee for a pint of beer at the Nine Bells bar. With none of the men in work, this pub offered drink on the credit slate, the bill being settled at the end of the week when the dole money was picked up.

I moved over to speak to Danny and, as I approached the group, I was surprised to see Granny’s sister Bella. She was sitting in the comfiest chair. I knew she hadn’t been to the cemetery and I also knew that she hadn’t entered after us.

She saw my puzzlement. ‘I’ve been sitting here for hours and I just wondered when you were coming over to see me.’ She sounded cross. Granny was plump but Bella, on the other hand, was simply fat. She sat like an ill-natured Buddha with her fat little hands folded across her bosom.

‘I didn’t know you were here, Bella,’ I said truthfully. ‘Thank you for coming.’

Danny gave me a sympathetic look while his aunts made a comical face at me. Luckily, because they stood behind her, these grimaces went unnoticed by Bella.

‘Well, it’s my duty, Ann, although I have to say that your father hasn’t come over either,’ she remarked peevishly.

I turned around to see dad still talking to Mr Pringle – much to Hattie’s annoyance.

‘Silly old bat, that Bella,’ said Kit softly to me. ‘Does she not know that she should be coming to you and not the other way around?’

Once again I was thankful that this remark had gone unheard. Bella wasn’t deaf but she had what Granny called ‘selective hearing’. Her ears seemed to register what she wanted to hear but discarded everything else.

‘I didn’t see you come in, Bella,’ I said, raising my voice against Kit’s mumbles.

‘Oh, I sat here while Alice and Rosie helped Nan make the sandwiches. I can’t make sandwiches with my condition and that’s why I didn’t go along to Balgay in this awful weather. I’m no’ daft.’

I heard Kit mumble again, sotto voce, but Bella continued her spiel. ‘I mean, look at your granddad – ending up in his bed.’ She sounded so superior. As if we had all been daft enough to stand at Mum’s grave in a thunderstorm for the sake of pleasure.

‘Dear God,’ I thought, ‘please let this awful, terrible day be over soon.’

Bella was still talking. ‘He’s been coughing since he came back.’

This was true and, in fact, I was really worried about him. Granny had sent him straight to my little bed in the cupboard with a hot-water bottle. Even now, his hoarse coughing could be heard. Hattie even glanced in that direction a few times. From her expression, I thought she was wishing she could spirit Mr Pringle away from us lower classes.

‘No, no,’ said Bella, ‘I’ve to watch myself because I don’t keep well. I’ve got lots of things wrong with me.’ As if to emphasise her statement, she pointed to various parts of her body while Danny and his aunts almost exploded with laughter, which no doubt they would have done if the occasion hadn’t been such a sad one. I heard Kit snort like a pig for a few seconds before she recovered her decorum.

We all knew about Bella’s ailments and the fact that she had more than any doctor had heard of. The thing was, like all true hypochondriacs, she possessed a perfect constitution. Still that didn’t stop her enjoying her ill health. I felt a bit sorry for her and I often thought her ailments were a result of her loneliness. She had never married and had lived in her childhood house, a one-roomed flat in Cochrane Street, in the over-populated Crescent area.