Spotting something lying in the middle of the road some yards ahead, he slowed down and came to a halt before he reached it. Recalling rumours of booby-traps set for unwary travellers, he approached the thing warily, to be shocked into haste when he realised that it was Pat Michie. How he had got there was a mystery, but he needed help, and who better to give it than his closest friend? He was kneeling down trying to find out the extent of his pal’s injuries, when his ears picked up a faint rustle and his eyes caught a slight movement in the neighbouring bushes. Too late he realised the danger, but at least he’d had time to tell that Pat was still alive. Flopping over his friend to save him from further harm, he thanked God for being given this chance to make up for abandoning Poopie.
Chapter Twenty-one
If this May weather was any indication, Millie thought, it would be a scorching summer. She was so hot, even at 3 a.m., that she had thrown down all her bedcovers and removed her voluminous nightdress. She had been lying for a few minutes like this before she noticed that she could see the movements of the child she was carrying; small ripples in her skin, but along with that there was also a horrible nagging pain in her back. It was still ten days until the birth was due – according to the doctor – but quite possibly it was going to be earlier.
In the lulls between the well-spaced-out pains, her mind turned to the other person who should be – was – involved. Why hadn’t she heard from Willie for so long? Why hadn’t he answered the letter about the baby they’d inadvertently made? He must know she’d be impatient to learn his reaction; had he been pleased, or angry, or just numb? Yet it wasn’t something you could remain numb about. He’d have to decide. If he was angry, he’d likely tell her he was finished with her because he didn’t want to be saddled with a child after the war as well as her, but if he was pleased, he’d be assuring her that he still loved her, that he could hardly wait until he was able to marry her and make the child legitimate.
The agony gripped her again, for only a few seconds, and she resumed her troubled thoughts. What she knew of Willie – and she knew him very intimately – led her to think he’d be delighted, that he’d sit down as soon as possible and write her a letter expressing his undying love. She did, of course, realise that in a war the mail for servicemen was not dependable, but even so he must have received the important letter at least within two months of it being sent. Which would have been around five months ago. It couldn’t be possible that he hadn’t had some spare moments in all that time? Could it?
After another few fraught spells, Millie managed to fall asleep, so exhausted and upset that she didn’t surface again until nearly lunchtime. Her mother could recognise the signs of stress on her daughter’s face, but jumped to the conclusion that her worry about her young man was the root cause.
‘Did you get enough sleep, dear?’ she asked. ‘I had a look in before and you looked out for the count, so I didn’t waken you for breakfast.’
‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m fine now.’ Recalling various tales she had heard about the hours it took for a baby to come into the world, Millie had made up her mind not to let her mother know about the pains she’d had. They might have been false pains anyway, and she hadn’t had one for a while. There was no need for alarm.
‘Do you feel able to have a little walk in the garden after lunch?’ Margaret Meldrum asked now. ‘It’s a lovely day and the fresh air should do you good. And the little fellow you’ve got in there,’ she added, smilingly patting the girl’s hugely swollen belly.
Millie nodded. ‘Just a wee while, then. I get so easily tired. Was there any mail today?’
‘Nothing, but look on the bright side, lovie. No news is good news. Besides, the baby won’t be long in coming now. Only a few more days, I’d say.
‘I hope so.’ Millie had also heard from more than one source that sometimes a child could be as much as three weeks behind schedule, with the poor mother carrying perhaps nine or ten pounds of extra weight around with her. But that wouldn’t happen to her, she was sure of it. The little fellow inside her – as her mother jokingly called it – was in a hurry to get out. He’d been limbering up last night, getting ready for the epic journey.
Jake hadn’t slept much. Apart from being too hot, he was reliving his time in the trenches over twenty-five years ago; the mud, the stink, the rats, the dead bodies, left where they lay sometimes until they rotted. The more he told himself to stop being morbid, to stop being silly, the more his thoughts centred on his son. Not that Willie, or any of today’s infantry, would be fighting in trenches in this war, but he was in action against the enemy, be they German, Italian, Japanese or whatever. He’d had this peculiar feeling since he came to bed, like nothing he’d had before, so insistent that it made him wonder if God was giving him a warning that his son was in danger?
He rose at his usual time in the morning, telling his wife not to get up, because he was well aware that she, too, had lain awake for most of the night. He was to be furring up the tatties today, the field nearest to the house, so he wouldn’t need to carry a ‘dinner piece’. He’d be able to come home for his dinner.
Emily heard her husband closing the outside door. He had told her not to get up yet, but what good would it do to lie in bed on a lovely day like this? She’d be as well up and moving about, and maybe getting a bit of fresh air in the afternoon by tending her small herb garden and pulling up the weeds. Having worried all night about not hearing from Willie for so long, she knew that Jake had also lain awake, but it was something other than letters that was bothering him. The few odd times he had drifted off, he’d been thrashing about and moaning. At one point, he’d even screamed out, ‘Christ, that’s the buggers started already. Do they never sleep?’
She had realised then that he was dreaming about the war, his war, and wished that he could have told her more about what had happened to him then. He’d never said a word about it, and now it was eating at him, making him think that his son was facing the same hardships. But Willie wouldn’t have been in a trench, and he wouldn’t have been fighting hand to hand with whoever he had to fight. The modern army was up-to-date. There would be fewer casualties than last time because there was less danger.
She couldn’t get over how worried she had become for Willie. All his life she had doted on her two daughters and resented having a boy-child, especially a boy-child who did everything in his power to upset her. Now, both her daughters were lost to her, and he was all she had left.
He hadn’t improved as he got older, though. She’d thought he had, when he was at the University. She had occasionally pictured him settling down with Millie Meldrum and giving her grandchildren. Instead of sticking to the normal way, the natural way, of things, he had upped and volunteered for the Gordons, left his lady-friend pregnant and then, it seemed, dumped her, for the girl hadn’t had any letters from him, either. There were times when, as his mother, she wondered if she could possibly have done anything to change him, but she knew there was nothing she could have done, and the way she felt now, she was quite glad he was exactly the way he was. Whatever he did or had done in the past had been done without taking time to consider whether or not it was the right thing to do. She had always thought that she didn’t love him, had always felt quite guilty about it, and yet, she could see now, there must have been a spark of love for him deep down in her heart. How else could the agony she could feel rising for him now have got there?
But she shouldn’t still be in bed. It was nearly eight o’clock and the postie would soon be here. You never knew, there just might be a letter from Willie.
There was consternation in the Tillyburnie Post Office. Four telegrams had come through one after the other, and Petey Lornie, knowing each of the addressees personally, was reduced to tears. ‘Look at this,’ he muttered to Louie Riddle, the postman. ‘Two laddies that bide next door to each other, and two brothers. They’ve all been killed, round about the same time, though none of them in the same place. It’s a damn disgrace, that’s wha
t it is. Think on that three mothers. What’ll they be feeling?’
‘Richt enough,’ the other man nodded. ‘An’ I’ll tell you this. If I’d onything to dae wi’ it, I’d shove a bomb up Hitler’s backside and blast him to smithereens. If he was oot o’ the road, the world could settle doon again.’
‘I doubt that, Louie. There’s an awful lot of Nazis nowadays, so you’d need to get rid of the lot of them, not just Hitler. Now, your first call’s usually at Wester Burnton, isn’t it? Well, if you take this two wires, that’ll let Tommy deliver the other two to Whinnybrae, so they’ll all get them about the same time.’
‘Aye, that’s only fair.’ Louie lifted the sack of ordinary mail to put inside his little red van, and took the two yellow envelopes into the front with him. Delivering telegrams wasn’t really his job – he didn’t fancy having to break sad news like that – but he could see Petey’s point of view. Young Tommy would take quite a while on his bike to get from Wester Burnton to the address in Whinnybrae where two brothers had lived.
His first call was always to the McIntyres at the farmhouse, so he told the farmer that two of his workers’ sons had been killed. Johnny was all for going straight away to tender his condolences, but his wife advised him to wait. ‘Let them come to terms with it first.’ He agreed that they should wait until the afternoon, or even the evening.
Louie’s next stop was just before he reached the Fowlies’ cottage, where he found Jake in the potato field and handed over the envelope with a murmured, ‘I’m awful sorry.’
The other man had ripped the top off and was staring down at the strips of typed words as if he couldn’t believe what they said. At last he lifted his head. ‘You ken, of course.’
‘Aye, Petey thought this two telegrams would be quicker if I took them, for Tommy has another two to deliver in Whinnybrae. The two laddies there were brothers, but they’d been killed in different places at different times.’ His grip on the English language suddenly deserted him. ‘It’s a bloody shame, twa oot’n the same faimily.’
‘You said you’d two. Who’s the ither ane for? Somebody else aboot here?’
Louie nodded his head sadly. ‘Dod Middleton.’
‘Oh, no! Nae Malcie, as weel?’
‘Malcolm, that would be right. Now, d’you want me to come in wi’ you to tell Emily?’
‘No, no. Aff you go an’ deliver the rest o’ your bad news.’
‘It’s nae me that made the bad news, Jake.’ The postman looked accusingly at him.
‘No, I ken that. I’m sorry. It’s just …’ He dragged the cuff of his sleeve across his eyes. ‘I dinna ken what this is gan to dae till her, but she’ll nae want onybody else there.’
Emily had just washed and dressed when she heard Jake coming in. ‘It’s not near dinnertime yet,’ she called, wondering if the clock had stopped before remembering that Jake had wound it up the night before. One look at her husband’s face told her that something was wrong, and before she could even ask, he held out the small sheet of paper.
‘Oh, Jake! It’s a mistake. He can’t have been killed. They mean missing, not killed. Tell me it’s not true, Jake. It says in the Battle for El Alamein, and there’s a letter to follow. They wouldn’t need to send a letter if they’re sure he’s been killed. Oh, please God.’
Tears streaming down his face, his own heart feeling as if it had been ripped to shreds, Jake put his arms round his wife, and patted her back gently while they tried to face their loss.
Meanwhile, Louie, unable to find Dod Middleton, had delivered the news to Beenie, waiting with her until she opened it and scanned the contents. ‘I’m he’rt sorry, Beenie,’ he said as she folded up the communication and slid it back inside the envelope.
‘I ken’t it would come,’ she observed, quite calmly. ‘I ken’t fae the beginnin’ it would end like this for him. Folk aye thocht he was just a waster, hardly ever workin’ at a proper job, but noo he’s gi’en his life for his country, maybe they’ll think different.’
‘Aye, I’m sure they will. Look, Beenie, I’ll need to get on wi’ my round. Do you want me to get some o’ the bairns to look for your man? You need somebody here wi’ you for company.’
‘A lot o’ use Dod would be, but I wouldna mind if you went next door and asked Emily. She’s aye been a real good freen’ to me.’
Louie’s face blanched. ‘I’m sorry to ha’e to tell you, but their Willie’s been killed, an’ all. I left Jake to tell her. Is there nae somebody else?’
‘I wouldna ask ony o’ they young wives in the next three hooses. A’ they think on’s their lipstick an’ their fags. Gan aboot in skirts up to their bums – an’ they never bide lang enough in one place to get to ken folk.’
‘What aboot Tibby Grant? She lost her laddie a while ago, so she’ll understand.’
‘Aye, Tibby’s a’ right, but I dinna want to upset her. It’d mak’ her think on her Poopie.’
‘I think she’d be pleased to be asked.’
Only minutes later, the two elderly women, both with undependable husbands and both having lost a son who was very dear to them, were consoling each other in such a manner as to remove most of the lingering heartache in one and ease the renewed heartache and resentment in the other.
Eventually, drained and ashen-faced, Tibby said, ‘You say Emily’s lost her Willie, as weel. Maybe we should go ben an’ …’
‘Jake’ll likely be there for her.’
‘Aye, her man’s nae like oor twa, the useless pigs, but she’ll be pleased to think us two’s thinkin’ aboot her. I ken some fowk say she pits on airs, thinks hersel’ better than us, but she doesna, really. I couldna’ve wished for a better neighbour than her when my Poopie was ta’en. An’ her Willie – some fowk said he was leadin’ my laddie astray, but, I tell you this, Beenie, I aye had a real soft spot for him, an’ the minute your Malcie tell’t him aboot Poopie, he went an’ volunteered. That showed how close he was to my loon.’
‘He did tell he felt real bad for nae bein’ there to help Poopie.’
‘Aye, that’s fit I mean. Nae mony laddies would’ve gi’en up their fine education like that.’
Beenie considered this statement for a second, and then said, ‘Aye. You’re richt, Tibby. We should gan an’ let Emily ken we care.’
After covering the large almost circular area that included Wester Burnton Farm and its workers, the Mains and all its workers, Louie now made for the Tillyburnie schoolhouse before ending his round at the Easter Burnton Farm spread. It was wearing on for twelve o’clock, over half an hour later than usual, so, being an extremely conscientious man, and aware that most of the women he had not yet called on were waiting for a letter from a son, a sweetheart, a husband, he did not make his normal stop on the way to eat his ‘dinner piece’. Mrs Meldrum, the dominie’s wife, opened the door to his energetic use of the large brass knocker and accepted the slim bundle of mail he handed over.
‘Nothing for Millie, I see,’ she commented, sadly.
Louie had wondered if he should mention the reason for him being so late, and she had given him an ideal opening. ‘I ken I’m nae supposed to tell onybody this, but it’s well kent your Millie was seein’ Willie Fowlie, an’—’
Margaret Meldrum burst in before he could finish. ‘Please don’t tell me something’s happened to him. Her baby’s due in another few days, and—’
‘Willie’s the father? Oh, God, Mrs Meldrum, I’m awful sorry. I’d two telegrams to deliver this mornin’, that’s why I’m late. Willie Fowlie an’ Malcolm Middleton – baith killed.’
‘Oh, dear Lord! This’ll finish Millie. He promised to wed her after the war, and now, what’ll she do?’
It crossed the postman’s mind that Millie Meldrum was in the fortunate position of having a reasonably well-to-do father to provide for her, not like dozens of other girls who had nobody to provide for the infants they would have to bring up alone. Bastards, that what folk would call the poor mites, but he couldn’t say anything lik
e that to this lady, a pillar of the church.
The lady in question regarded him now with eyes filled with tears. ‘I won’t ask you in for your usual cup of tea, postie. You’ll understand?’
‘Aye, Mrs Meldrum, I understand perfectly, but mind and tell your Millie I’m he’rt sorry for her.’
‘Thank you. She’ll be grateful to know that.’
Watching the man walk down the garden path to his van, Margaret took out her handkerchief and dabbed her unshed tears. What she had to say to her daughter would be the worst news she could ever deliver, and she, herself, would have to be in full control of her emotions.
Being a Saturday, Herbert was still at home, and lifted his head from the morning paper as she went in. ‘Isn’t Louie coming in for his tea, today?’
‘He was late and was trying to make up time.’ She hated herself for procrastinating. It had to be told, and the sooner the better. ‘He said he’d to deliver two telegrams. Tell two mothers their sons have been killed.’
‘Which mothers?’ Millie asked in alarm. ‘Do we know the sons?’
Margaret braced herself. ‘Malcolm Middleton … and William Fowlie,’ she ended in a rush.
‘Mum! No! No! Not Willie? Not my Willie?’ She shot to her feet and rushed into her mother’s open arms, as if she could not see and was groping for someone to give her comfort.
It was a few seconds before the headmaster himself stood up, his utter helplessness showing clearly in his face. All he could do was to put an arm round both his women, and let his tears – for his daughter’s sake as much as for the young man who had become as dear to him as a son – stream down unchecked.
It was Millie who broke away first. The pains had returned now, far worse than before, and she was absolutely certain that her labour had begun in earnest. In spite of this, she was determined to go to Emily Fowlie, to join with her in what must be a sorrow as great as, if not greater than, she herself was feeling. It had also occurred to her that, if she kept quiet about the pains until she was in the Fowlies’ house, Willie’s mother might, by some miracle, know some way of making the birth easier, and ensure that the baby was safely delivered.
The Nickum Page 23
