by Jess Smith
A strong wind whipped up sprays of salt sea as Dublin merged back into the land of many shades of green. She had found a new life there, albeit short-lived, she had loved and almost died there and would be forever grateful to Ireland. It taught her how to live a different life and love a different way. She’d buried someone’s tiny child, apart from young Nicholas the only newborn infant she’d ever held. She’d met O’Connor again from the old days, who was treading a lighter path than that of previous times. She had laughed with the humorous stable boys who had hidden another side; they were soldiers of an army ready to kill when ordered to for the sake of their cause. An artist could have searched the whole of his life and never found another wrinkled face and childlike smile like that of Mrs Sullivan, dear lady of the rosaries. And what could be said about evil Bull Buckley? He who flipped life’s coin once too often, and lost. Finally, Michael. What lengths he had gone to, to secure her heart, yet let it slip away because of lies. If he’d stuck to their original plan and found Bruar, then maybe they could have shared a future.
The cold, silver-dark waves whipped freezing winds around her, that blew up her skirt and breathed life into its hemline. She laughed loudly as the posy pink hat lifted from her head and became another item to add to Davie Jones’ locker.
One heaving roll of the sea sent passengers to the warmer lower decks. Megan found a quiet corner to sit out the rest of her journey across the Irish Sea and to think of no one but her husband. Aching for him, she promised, ‘My love, you’re no ghost, nor a brain-lost soldier, because in my entire being I feel you breathing. It is love that will carry me to you.’ Reaching into her handbag for a handkerchief she felt the envelope: Michael’s apology. Fumbling to open it, she felt a surge of shame mixed with relief: it contained the sum of one hundred pounds, more money than she’d ever seen, let alone handled, in her life. She’d planned to find work, for how else would Bruar be found without funds? Yet with this welcome gift he was within her grasp.
FOURTEEN
Several trains and horse-taxis later, an exhausted Megan found herself sleeping on a comfortable bed in one of London’s better hotels. She had the means to afford such luxury now and after breakfast began her final search in earnest. ‘Well, my laddie,’ she whispered to herself, stepping out onto the capital’s busy pavements that were filled with a constant tide of humanity, ‘where are you?’
Street names meant nothing to her, and she cursed her handicap of being unable to read. But Mrs Sullivan had printed out in large letters for her, HORTON HOME; if she saw those words, then for certain he’d be there, or at the worst there would be information about him. All day she searched, until the capital turned grey-red with fog and people dwindled home, leaving the night-prowlers and down-and-outs the freedom to rummage through bins for morsels of food to see them through another night. It wasn’t so much the fog or the undesirables that ended her search but her legs; they ached so much that she abandoned her efforts to lie in tears on the comfortable but cold hotel bed.
Two tortured weeks later she was as no nearer to finding him than she was at first. Policemen and taxi-drivers, beggars, old ladies, young boys and a constant stream of faces all said the same thing, ‘Never heard of the place.’
Horton Home was proving harder and harder to find.
It was a Sunday when she found a quiet spot by the River Thames and sat down to think. London, with all its thousands of faces, was as lonely as a graveyard. She’d stopped many people who gave her an evil look then rushed away. She found herself shouting out, ‘Have I Fourteen the mange or something?’ It was the worst place she’d ever walked and breathed in. ‘How can sane people live here?’ she asked herself, then thought if it held her man then surely he must be sick or worse. This idea only sent her into a depression, and to add to that, her funds were running low.
Somehow, going to London for Bruar was nothing like she imagined. Every day she pushed her weary feet through more new districts. ‘This city is as big as the sun,’ she thought. ‘How will I ever find him?’
After a while, as she gazed thoughtfully into the rippling water of the river, she turned as someone called to her. ‘Hello!’ A man sitting with a fishing rod dangling over the water had been watching her. ‘I hope you don’t mind me talking, but I couldn’t help notice how unhappy you look.’
Megan didn’t wish to speak to strangers unless they wore a uniform, yet it was a fairly busy riverbank. Little children fed ducks, while couples sauntered along under parasols. Surely if this stranger meant any harm to her, he’d picked the wrong place to do so.
‘Some place in this mass of mortar and stone is my long lost man, and I can’t find him,’ she told him.
‘My wife will swap places with you,’ he laughed, and instantly she lowered her guard. They chatted and shared stories for ages. It seemed this middle-aged man knew London like the back of his hand, but like others he’d never heard of the place which she searched for daily.
‘Horton Home, you say, are you sure it’s called that?’
‘Yes, look—I’ve got it written down.’ She gladly put the piece of paper that Mrs Sullivan had given her into the stranger’s hand. He read it, then said, ‘I think whoever copied this read it wrongly. There is a place I know of that is run jointly by the Army and the Church. Now, if my memory serves me right, I’m sure it’s called Morton Home. The H and the M have got mixed up. It’s in Kingston-upon-Thames, not that far from where we sit.’
Her mouth fell open, prompting him to say something about flies, but she didn’t hear him. Flashing like bright stars in her mind were the last words of the Seer from Durness to her: ‘Find him in the town of the King.’
‘Whoever you are, my friend, there is no amount of money can pay for what you tell me this day. I feel it in my heart and soul, my man’s there.’
‘Now, don’t you go getting your hopes up, there’s a lot of places filled with broken soldiers. Many have now been closed down and this might be one of them. If I were you, I’d be prepared for this.’
She threw her arms round this man who held all her hopes and said, ‘It might close tomorrow, but not today. He waits there for me. See, feel my heart.’
Before he could stop her, she’d put his hand against her breast. ‘Yes,’ was all he could mutter, withdrawing his hand in case a passer-by thought he was molesting her, and added, ‘Best of luck, and Godspeed.’
The horse-drawn taxi stopped outside the tall grey building. She stepped down and made her way towards two iron gates. All kinds of emotions swept through her as she surveyed the ominous building with its shutters closed and barred.
‘One could imagine Bull Buckley locked in a place like that, not poor broken laddies who gave everything for their so-called country,’ she thought. Nerves trembled down her arm and tingled at the fingertips. Holding her bag nervously to her chest, she went through the gate and knocked on a double-sided door. Ages went by, or at least it seemed that way, then eventually the door was opened. A middle-aged gentleman asked what she wanted.
Her voice low, yet barely containing her eagerness to get inside, she said, ‘Where’s my man?’ Not waiting for an answer, she pushed past the closing door and the man. Inside she found a seat in a large waiting-room and sat nervously down. Sniffing the air like a bloodhound for her husband, she blurted out, ‘Come on then, take me to my Bruar!’
The man at the door seemed a decent sort and sat next to her with a notepad in his hand. He held a pen dripping with fresh ink and asked what her maiden name was.
‘It’s my man’s name I’ve given you. Now, do you have a soldier here by the name of Bruar Stewart—he’s from Scotland? If so, get him so I can take him home. London stinks like a sow’s arse.’
Her dry throat hurt, three times she repeated her question, swearing and cursing in her anxiety. There was whispering and shaking of heads from others who were in the waiting area. If they only knew how much pain and time her quest had taken then they might have been more understanding. The man s
till persisted asking her questions until she could take no more. She left him abruptly and ran up the main staircase. Through an archway she saw a long corridor lined with narrow doors. In each was a small opening through which she peered. There was a man in each room. Her eyes widened as each sad, gaunt face looked at her, then lowered its head to stare at a cold stone floor. Banging on every door, she called his name over and over. ‘Bruar, it’s me—Megan! We must go home, Bruar, where the hell are you?’
All she heard was an echo of her own voice and footsteps behind. With her heartbeat quickening she began running again, came to a winding staircase and started climbing. ‘Wait there, young woman, you’ve gone too far, no one is allowed up there!’ The man who had questioned her, who by now had been joined by another, got past and physically halted her.
Convinced they were hiding him from her, she screamed out, ‘Bruar Stewart, you get down here now! It’s me, Megan.’
Both men, gently yet firmly, led her back to the waiting-room, where, overcome with emotion, she fell into a chair and sobbed.
After a time the man who had been questioning her again sat next to her and asked if she felt more composed. He assured her it wasn’t uncommon for young wives seeking news of their husbands to react as she did. He told her that they wanted to help but needed information, and could she fill in a form?
‘What’s a form?’ she asked, drying her eyes.
‘Before allowing visits it’s very important we establish who comes here. All that is required is name, address, and relationship with inmate, and so forth.’ He laid the form in front of her on a small desk where an inkpot sat neatly beside a nib pen and piece of blotting paper.
Ignoring the writing materials, she said, ‘Look, mister, I can’t read nor write, so don’t waste time. Just show me my man, or at least tell me if he’s here.’
This man was obviously a stickler for the regulations and said, ‘This information is not in my power to divulge. You must understand that some of our inmates are extremely violent, and only close relatives are given permission to visit. If you cannot provide the necessary details, I am within my rights to escort you off the premises.’
‘I have no proof of who I am! All I want to know is, have you got my man?’
A sledgehammer would not have broken this man’s resolve; she had no identity therefore had to be put out of the building. It took three sturdy male nurses, all wearing white coats, to remove Megan as she continued to scream and shout for Bruar.
Out on the street, feelings of the deepest despondency spread over her like a shroud. ‘Some kind of demon is fighting me all the way, but I won’t let you win,’ she screamed up into the noise of London. No one seemed remotely interested as she kicked carriage wheels and spat at dogs. Street after lonely street presented a heaving mass of bodies heading everywhere yet nowhere. London reminded her of a weather-beaten oak tree. From a distance it looked like any other tree, but as one got nearer its bark showed all the creatures living off it. Maggots, flies, mould, moss, worms, the list was endless, and the nearer you got the more could be seen, eating into its bark, a never-ending army of devourers. Until one day the old oak could feed them no more and began to crumble and die. London, the old oak tree, would live on forever in her mind as the guard who kept her away from Bruar.
Exhausted she continued to walk along the bank of the Thames. She did not want to go back to her hotel, and thought another walk might clear her head. If a fisherman on the riverbank could lead her to the door of Morton Home, then someone else might help her find a way into it. ‘I mustn’t give in,’ she forced the thought to the fore, ‘not when I’ve come so far.’
Down by the water were countless ducks and geese, and she wondered how they stayed alive. Standing by the water’s edge she saw a man with a bag of stale bread surrounded by birds feeding excitedly who answered her question. He looked shabby, as if every penny in his pocket was counted, and she thought it odd he could afford to feed wild birds. Suddenly he began shouting at several teenagers who had started to throw stones at the birds. In time the boys tired of their play and ran off. She watched the man pick up an injured bird. He stroked its feathers, speaking words of a gentle nature. Megan moved closer to hear what he was saying, but before she could do so, the bird had recovered and was flying high above her. Watching it she hardly noticed the man approach. He went to her side and said, ‘Excuse me.’
But with only a few pounds left in her pocket, she remembered the Newcastle thief running away with all she owned and the tramps who chased her. ‘Sorry,’ she told him abruptly, ‘but I’ve nothing to spare.’ Wrapping her coat tightly round her, she turned to hurry away.
‘No, wait a minute, I’m not going to harm you, please.’ There was a slight pause as he fumbled inside his jacket. He took something from a wallet and held it up. ‘Yes, I knew it was you.’ His words frightened and puzzled her. But this was a big city and lots of tricks were played in the cities. Convinced this was another ploy to rid her of what little money she had, she ran off as fast as she could, but he wasn’t giving up and gave chase. It took a long time to shake him off. With heart near to bursting and breath almost leaving her body, at last, with great relief, she saw her hotel. When on its steps, she dared to look back to see if he was following her, but she’d lost him. Panting up the steps, she told herself that in the morning Morton Home would see her back again. Until they told her where Bruar was, she swore every single day she’d do a Bull Buckley on them.
This determination gave her renewed strength which quickened her step to the hotel door. Just as she put a foot inside, a voice called out, ‘Megan!’
Turning slowly, she saw the shabby man who’d chased her. He held up a photograph for her to see. ‘Oh my God, you have our wedding photo!’ She had found Sandy, Bruar’s wartime friend!
Inside her hotel room, he told the story of how, after the war, he found Bruar in a hospital and kept in touch with him while he convalesced in Sussex, and also visited him here in the place named Morton Home. He was near there because he had been to see Bruar that day.
‘Do you have any idea what it means to meet someone like you?’ she asked him. ‘My man has been a long time in finding, but now, to see you and talk about him! Oh, Sandy, I could kiss the face off you.’
‘Steady on, lassie. I promised, you see.’ He went on, ‘Before he was hit he begged me to find you; gave me the photo so that I’d recognise you. I had meant to come north and seek you out, but getting a few pennies to live on was as far as I got. I’m heart-sorry, lass.’
‘Och, never mind that. I’ve been searching for him myself, and only this day did I find Morton Home. But can you tell me why, when I went to the home, they refused to even tell me if he was there?’
‘They have to be extra careful since a lad went mad, escaped and murdered a postman. Since then it’s locked rooms and round-the-clock guards. Don’t worry, though, tomorrow I’ll take you there myself.’
‘Sandy,’ her eyes were pitiful as she asked, ‘Is he sick? What I mean is, does he have memories?’ She searched his face; it was easy to read. But inwardly her picture was not to be smudged. ‘Don’t say a word, because when he sees me things will come back, you’ll see, and he will know me.’
The night fog had come down and all the night people were to be heard out on the street below when Sandy finished his story.
‘And he lay there on that beach among the dead? My poor laddie, what must have gone through his mind foreseeing his end? He must have witnessed it, otherwise he’d never have parted with our wedding photo. She went into her bag and took the burnt half of her photo showing his face and laid it over the one brought by Sandy. How uncanny that they fitted together like pieces of a jigsaw. ‘We are meant to be, Sandy, nothing will stop us.’
Her visitor was tired and had to go home; this was a dingy shelter for homeless people, but now that he’d found her and kept his promise it wouldn’t be quite such a bad place.
After he left, it took all her willpo
wer not to climb to the hotel roof and sing from its chimney tops. Soon, at long last, they’d be together.
The man who had forcibly removed her from the Asylum the day before was a nurse who knew Sandy. With her new male companion she felt stronger facing him.
‘She can neither read nor write,’ he told the man who, on seeing Megan, at first totally refused entry. ‘That’s why she got so flustered yesterday.’
‘My sincere apologies to you, dear, but surely Sandy has told you about the serious situations that can arise within these walls?’
Megan nodded, desperately trying not to scream. The closed doors, mumbling voices and high ceilings made her ache. She wanted them to know that as soon as she and Bruar returned to Scotland the freedom of moor and glen would be his domain. The tiny piece of affection she felt for this grim place was that it held her man in safety, but now at last she would take him home. ‘Can I see my husband?’ she asked quietly.
‘As soon as Doctor Cunningham has finished his rounds he’ll speak with you,’ said the nurse. ‘Meanwhile I’ll fetch you both a cup of tea.’ He walked off, leaving Sandy and Megan to wait. ‘Lassie,’ Sandy laid a hand on hers and continued, ‘far be it from me to pour cold water on this day’s meeting, but I think the doctor will try to put you off.’
‘If he does then I’ll slit his throat. Surely he’ll let me see my man?’
‘He’ll tell you that within these walls your man will be safe, whereas outside he may react differently.’
‘Sandy, no doctor breathing will separate us. I promise you this, if I can’t take Bruar home then I’ll set fire to this place, if that’s what it takes to free him. Do you have any idea what a place like this does to tinkers? My flesh is crawling as we speak, man.’
In due time a small man sporting a tartan bow tie, metal-rimmed glasses and wearing a white coat far too big for him came in and sat by her side, took her hand and shook it warmly. ‘My dear girl, I’m so glad you’ve found him at last. Now what do you think of his condition? Fine, isn’t he? Oh yes, we look after our lads in here. They want for nothing, not a thing. Wholesome food and a warm bed, that can’t be bad, now?’
