‘Come here,’ said my mum, leaning on the bed. She held me in her arms for a long time until I’d stopped sobbing and I closed my eyes and felt her warmth against me and the breath making her body move in and out, her hand stroking my hair. I think after a bit I was almost asleep, I felt so peaceful and safe in a way I hadn’t felt for ages and ages. Rosie was doing a little jig and Mavis clung onto my hand, squeezing and squeezing it. In the end they both came and leant on us too until I woke out of my dwam and it somehow seemed funny so we all started to laugh.
‘Right, Private Rosie,’ I said. ‘Back to bed. Private Mavis?’
‘No,’ said Mum. ‘Let’s get the fire going again and see if we can’t clean you up. Mrs MacIntosh is already asleep. Listen.’ We listened and sure enough through the wall were the round resonances of a snore.
‘That’s not Mrs MacIntosh,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s Mr Weaver.’
‘It’s Mrs Weaver’s mum,’ said Mavis.
‘It’s coming from the kitchen, silly billies,’ said my mum. ‘It’s Mrs MacIntosh, which means I can’t heat up the soup for you, Lenny. She doesn’t like us cooking on the fire because of the mess it makes of the pot.’
‘I’ll clean it up,’ I said, wiping my nose with my hand. ‘Or I could just have cold soup. I’m starving. I’ll eat anything.’
She looked at me long and hard. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ she said, changing her mind. ‘You’re going to get hot soup and while it’s heating up we’re going to sort all those cuts and bruises and... what on earth happened to you? Did your dad do this?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course not.’
So I sat on a packing case with ‘Singer’ on the side, and ate hot soup. Mavis and Rosie leant against me and my mum redd up the fire and sat in her wheelchair. I told them where I’d been, everything I’ve just told you really. But when I got to the bit about Helensburgh I saw my mum look off into the shadows and had to wait for a nod before going on. Mavis and Rosie took the news about Bobby and Jeannie in the best possible way, that is, they didn’t even as blink, not even Mavis. I suppose they can’t have understood, and it probably didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t like we’d ever have to see them. It didn’t need to be real for Mavis and Rosie.
By the time my story had arrived at the paper mill, Rosie was asleep and Mavis was trying not to be, so Mum and I slipped them easily into bed, turned off the electric light, relit the candle, and went back and huddled by the fire.
I had several important questions I needed to ask, but none more important than the one which came to me on the ferry. She listened in silence as I described meeting my dad at the paper mill, her fingers over her mouth. When I told her about the goods wagon she gasped.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. ‘The idiot. What a stupid thing to do.’ The fire flashed in her eyes.
When I told her about Ella pulling the rope she put her hand on her chest and her lips fell open, dumbstruck.
‘Oh no,’ she breathed.
We both sat back in relief when I told her about the train from Abercorn to the Renfrew ferry in the moonlight. And when I told her about Mrs Buchanan joining in our lies, she laughed.
‘Oh, Lenny, that’s terrible,’ she said, but went on in a whisper. ‘You are so your father’s daughter!’
Previously this would have seemed like a good thing, and of course on this occasion it wasn’t even me, it was Ella. In the past I’d have been pleased to be like my funny old dad, but this time I needed answers.
‘Mum,’ I said in my serious voice.
‘What?’ she said in her small voice.
‘When did you last see Dad? I mean, did he ever visit you? Did he ever come looking for us, that you know of, after the bombing or any time?’
I had decided to keep my eyes on her to make sure she wouldn’t try to fob me off with something that wasn’t true, one of her famous white lies. She’d probably think she was doing it for my own good. I had many arguments to the contrary, like everything I’d said to my dad at the paper mill. I was ready for the truth.
But her gaze didn’t leave mine. Her head began to bob and her eyes crinkled at the edges, and then she gave one emphatic nod, closed her eyes and pursed her lips. I put my hand on her arm. She opened her eyes and a tear slipped out of the corner of both. She wiped them firmly away and sniffed loudly.
‘He came to Carbeth,’ she said.
‘Carbeth?’ I said, and hid my mouth in my hands.
‘Someone round here told him we’d gone to Carbeth so he arrived one Monday when you were at school. He brought a big skein of blue wool as a peace offering, though what lorry that fell off I’ve no idea. That’s what I made all those hats out of.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘So this wasn’t that long ago? Only this summer? A few weeks ago?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought it was best you didn’t know.’
I showed both palms to the ceiling as if asking God to explain to my foolish mother that this was a gross insult. I squared my shoulders and was just about to give her some home truths when my prayers seemed to be answered.
‘I realise now how wrong that was,’ she said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I don’t think I really understood how capable you are, much more than I was at your age. I should have told you. I should have explained instead of just telling you he wasn’t coming back. I’m so sorry.’
I was completely gobsmacked. ‘You let me think he was dead. Why did you let me think that all this time?’
She shifted in the wheelchair. It creaked and sighed.
‘Did you ever think he was dead?’ I said.
She stared at the ceiling a moment and chewed her lip. ‘Yes, sort of,’ she said at last, returning my gaze. ‘I think I just hoped he was. It would have been so much easier. I didn’t know definitely.’
I gasped and covered my mouth.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘He’s my dad!’ I said, trying not to wake Mavis and Rosie. ‘How could you wish him dead?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m doing my best, you know. It’s not easy. You don’t know the full story.’
‘So tell me,’ I snapped. I got up and went to the window. The shutters were over and they were cold on my hand. I laid my forehead against them too and closed my eyes for a second until I realised I was shaking.
‘Lenny,’ she whispered. ‘Let me tell you about when he came. Please. Come and sit with me.’
So I did.
It turns out my dad showed up at our hut. It was the first day Mr Tait had to stay off work because of being ill. Not such a good day. My mum was at the sewing machine by the window and thought she was seeing things.
‘He came up the steps and in the door as if he lived there,’ she said. ‘He put this brown paper parcel on the birch bench. That was the wool. “I thought you were dead,” I said, and I stood up and hugged him.
For all that had happened, I was still, in that moment, glad to see he was alive. He was skin and bone, there was nothing to him. But then Mr Tait had the most almighty coughing fit so I had to go and attend to him.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘What do you mean by “for all that had happened”?’
She put her head down and stayed still for a minute. The coal shifted in the fireplace and she reached out and added three new pieces to the embers and wiped her hands on a cloth. She glanced at me then stared at the flames and the dust sparks rising amongst them.
‘Jeannie wasn’t the first woman he... ,’ she said. ‘Or at least I don’t think so.’ She put her head back, closed her eyes and blew out until she sank like an old balloon. ‘But your gran and Auntie May were convinced. There was a story going around, you see, started by another soldier your dad served with.’
This was the row before Rothesay, in June 1940, more than three years earlier. This was when Mavis and I were sent next door to neighbours and when we left him behind and crossed on the boat to R
othesay without him. My mum and I sat in silence a moment while I, at least, travelled back through time and pictured our house in Clydebank where so much had happened, so much I hadn’t even known about.
‘I never got to the bottom of it,’ she said. ‘It might all have been lies. And then he was arrested and I didn’t know if he was even alive or dead. We heard there was a ship which had sunk with hundreds killed, you see, but no-one knew who was on it. I tried to forget all about him and I thought it was better you did too. Then after the bombing we had Mr Tait to look after us.’
‘What happened when Dad came?’
So she told me. Mr Tait had sat in his chair by the fire, apparently eagle-eyed between coughs.
‘Can you give us a minute, mate?’ said my dad.
‘Certainly, if Peggy would like that,’ said Mr Tait, and he leant forward to get out of his chair.
‘No,’ said my mum, ‘don’t go, Mr Tait. It’s windy out there and you’re not well. Please. Sit.’ My dad tried to object but she was firm. ‘Mr Tait has been looking after us since the bombing, all of us, haven’t you, Mr Tait?’
My dad threw Mr Tait a look that made my mum’s heart beat faster, then he stared back at her.
‘So what’s going on here?’ he said. ‘Are you two, you know, together?’
My mum said ‘No!’ at exactly the same moment Mr Tait said, well, nothing. Mr Tait got to his feet and steadied himself with the chair arm. My dad, tall but haggard, pretty much as I saw him at the paper mill but with a borrowed shirt, a jacket and a bunnet, squared up to face him.
‘I’d like a word with my wife,’ said my dad, ‘a private word.’
‘Peggy, I’ll go outside and sit on the steps,’ said Mr Tait. ‘I won’t be far.’
I watched as my mum paused to put another unnecessary piece of coal in the fire. ‘I was scared,’ she said. ‘Your dad had a wild look about him and there was a smell of drink. I tried to calm him by offering him a seat, a plate of food, but the more he insisted Mr Tait go, the more I had to insist he stay. If I’d known why he’d come I might have let Mr Tait leave us in peace.’
‘And why had he come?’ I said.
Finally, she said, my dad turned red and began to shake, which my mum took to be rage. He sat down on the birch bench then stood up again wringing his bunnet between his hands. ‘I love you Peggy. I always loved you.’ He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘But I need to tell you something before you hear it from anyone else.’
So he told her about Bobby and Jeannie and he promised he’d never see them again, which of course was an easy thing to do because, as I knew, he was normally under arrest in the bothy on the farm and if he got caught leaving he’d wind up in that jail. He told her he’d left Jeannie and Bobby and it had all been a terrible mistake and he’d gone to Greenock to work and wasn’t allowed to come home to us, but that after the war we’d all be together again.
My mum stood there with her mouth hanging open for a full minute, so she said, until, she said, she could take in everything he’d told her and find some sort of sense or reason to it all.
‘My dear Peggy... ,’ Mr Tait began.
‘It’s alright, Mr Tait,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘I’ll handle this. No, Lenny, we won’t be together when the war is over. That would be so easy for you, wouldn’t it?’ she said. ‘But it’s not going to happen. I have a new life now and I’ve worked hard for it. Mr Tait and I both have.’
I don’t know everything she said to him, but I’ve seen my mum when she’s upset and angry and it’s not something you want to be on the end of. And while she was telling him to go away and leave us all in peace, he was roaring that whatever happened he wanted to see his daughters, wee Mavis and me.
I put my head in my hands and pressed hard. It was like I could hear them, knew all the things they had said as if I’d been right there in the hut when it happened. My hands felt sticky on my forehead and my stomach ached. I wanted Mr Tait. I wanted it all not to be true and for them to stop shouting in my head. She fell back into silence and waited for me to come out of my hands.
‘I suppose I was wrong about that too, about you not seeing him. You got yourself there anyway.’
I stared at the fire, which melted in the wash of my tears. She came off her wheelchair and put her arms around me, holding me safe while I sobbed and shook and snottered into a handkerchief until I was all cried out. But I still needed to know.
‘What happened next?’ I said.
‘Mr Duncan came and made him go. He went to the school to find you but no-one was there because it was the afternoon and you’d all gone up to the ropeswing on the way home. You’ll see him again, darling, I promise. We just won’t be together as a family again. I’m sorry.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’ Though I couldn’t really make sense of it.
‘I don’t know how he got to Carbeth,’ she said. ‘He shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere.’
‘I know how he got there,’ I said miserably. ‘The same way I got back today, stowed away on a goods train.’
‘But tomorrow we’re going to Carbeth,’ she said, ‘so we need to go to bed.’
‘Carbeth? Why are we going to Carbeth?’
‘Do we need a reason? But now that you’ve eaten you need to get some sleep.’
‘Don’t you have to go to work?’
‘Yes, but... let’s just go to Carbeth, alright? Sleep first.’
‘What about Mavis and Rosie? Are they coming too? They should be at school.’ It completely slipped my mind that so should I.
‘Sleep, Lenny, first.’
I was toasty from the fire and so incredibly tired, my mind awash with everything she’d told me. She tucked me into bed with Mavis and Rosie then squeezed in beside us herself. I must have fallen straight to asleep, bathed in the glow from the fire and the warm bodies of my lovely family. Complete silence and total dreamless darkness.
It seemed almost no time had passed before Mrs MacIntosh banged on the door.
‘Seven o’clock, Mrs Gillespie!’ she called. ‘Mrs Gillespie? Are you up?’
The floorboards creaked beyond the door.
‘Mrs Gillespie?’
‘Yes,’ groaned my mum. ‘Thank you.’
It was still dark, deliciously so. Mavis wriggled up close to me, and Rosie scrambled over the top of us both so she could be on my other side. My mum rolled over and cradled us with an arm. I wondered whether it was possible to make that moment last forever so I tried to capture it with all my senses, the warmth, the smell of their hair, their little snores, Rosie whispering skipping rhymes, Mavis fiddling with her fingers, my mum’s soft long breaths making my fringe tickle my nose. When I opened my eyes, ages later but still too soon, there was brilliant light pushing its way past the shutters at the window.
‘Mrs Gillespie!’ insisted Mrs MacIntosh, from the hall. ‘You’re late!’ Bang she went on the door again.
‘Right you are,’ my mum called back. ‘I’m not going to work. I’ve got important business to attend to.’
Mrs MacIntosh went away grumbling, the floorboards complaining all the way back to the kitchen. My mum slid from the bed and opened one side of the shutters. Yellow light filled one half of the room. I rolled towards it and saw blue sky spread above the chimney pots of the tenements opposite.
‘Carbeth,’ I whispered, and a blizzard of leaves shot past the window. I sat bolt upright. ‘Carbeth!’ I shouted. ‘Come on!’
We ate hastily boiled porridge and drank extremely weak tea with no milk. Mrs MacIntosh grudgingly let me have a proper wash in her sink and we all dressed as quickly as we could. It was cold, but we were so excited about the day that nothing really mattered. My mum had cut down her old dress that was torn under the sleeves from the crutches and it fitted me perfectly. It was just as well because I’d completely ruined the beautiful yellow and green dress on my travels. The new dress was longer than the last, hanging just below my knee, which meant many of my wounds were hidden. It
was blue with embroidered flowers to cover places where the material had thinned.
We hurried down to Dumbarton Road, as best a onelegged woman can, and got on the tram to Glasgow and from there, the bus to Carbeth. At Craigton we pressed our noses to the window and waved at our friends on their morning break then got off just beyond the Halfway House pub and turned up the road to our hut. The wind sang through the trees and all the colours of autumn flew through the air or danced along the road with us. We passed George’s hut and through the half-stripped trees the old man with his newspaper was outside his hut. I thought I saw Mr Tait standing nearby, but it was an old bush turned autumn brown. He seemed to be ahead of us too, hobbling home with his walking stick, but it was a sapling grown too far into the road. How my mind played these tricks I’ll never know, but they were strangely comforting, as if he really was still with us, leading us home.
We were almost at our hut when my mum stopped in the middle of the road.
‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘We have to make a detour, just to be on the safe side. We have to go to Home Farm.’
‘Why?’ we chorused.
‘It’s where the estate office is.
‘The estate office?’ we said, and laughed at our ridiculous chiming together.
But suddenly all the happiness flew out of me. We couldn’t afford the rent. That’s what she said. She said we couldn’t afford two rents, Clydebank and Carbeth. I hadn’t thought about rent. I mean, why would we pay rent on a hut that Mr Tait and I had built? It seemed illogical. We’d even had to clear the ground. It was ours. Mr Tait’s at least. And didn’t it become ours now that he was gone? But rent was rent and we didn’t have any.
The others crossed the road and headed down the driveway. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t know why we were going there. The last time I was at Home Farm was after Mr Tait died, when the red-faced minister climbed the hill to give a Sunday service and ask everyone to pray for us, and Mavis and Rosie cried so badly I had to take them outside.
Rue End Street Page 33
