‘The waste,’ sobbed Fiona, ‘the waste.’ For John had been the clever one, the one who would change the world and, oh, his death had changed the world for Patrick.
They had stayed in the Students’ Union, quiet, frightened. Some of them heartbroken at the loss of a friend. All of them sickened by the waste of just one more priceless and yet so easily disposable life. Were the boys thinking ‘It could have been me – it might be me?’ And the girls. They sat, some motionless with huge staring eyes that saw nothing and others sobbing, tears running down their cheeks and turning their faces into grotesque masks.
‘We’d best get these girls home,’ Patrick had mumbled and they had pulled themselves out of their misery or self-pity and arranged safe journeys through the blacked-out streets.
Fiona still sobbed. He remembered wondering if perhaps she had loved John.
At her door, she had fumbled for a key and he had taken her bag from her and found it.
‘Will you be all right? Are the others here?’
‘Oh, God knows where they are these days. I’ll be fine, Patrick’. And then she should have gone in and closed the door behind her but she had turned almost into his arms as he stood holding the key. ‘Cocoa,’ she whispered. ‘Would you like some cocoa? I have to make it with water but it still makes me think of home.’
Cocoa. Mam and Dad; Margaret and wee Liam; firelight and gaslight and thick slices of good bread.
Fiona still sobbed and her hands shook. He held her hands to steady her and her tears came again.
‘Why, Patrick? Why John? Why is it always the good who die so young?’
He had never held a woman in his arms before but he did it now naturally. They stood holding one another, giving and receiving comfort and then – who kissed first? It didn’t matter. They were on the sofa, still kissing and still discovering. Had he undressed her? Had he undressed himself? Never ever had he felt like this. Feelings were bursting up within him and he could not think, only act with a primeval instinct. Had Fiona led him, or had she followed his lead? He did not know. He did not care. He woke hours later, Fiona snugly in his arms, like two forks fitted into a kitchen drawer. He was frozen and his arm, where her carroty head rested, was asleep. He welcomed the pain and the cold. He had, oh God, what had he done? He had stumbled to his feet and found his clothes and, not daring to look at Fiona who still slept, he had lurched from the flat and run through the darkened streets to his digs. He had spent the rest of the night on his knees, praying, beseeching. ‘Oh, dear God, let it not have happened.’ What a stupid prayer. He was unclean, unworthy. He had prayed for death, even for a bomb to fall out of the skies but then, awareness that such a bomb would kill not only the depraved Patrick Inglis but everyone else in the house, had sobered him. Show me what to do, he prayed. Tomorrow. I’ll join up tomorrow. Mam, oh, dear God, what has my wickedness done to Mam? He had risen to his feet, again cold and cramped, as the dawn light had broken over the beauty of the city. How can such beauty hide such wickedness, he had thought, or am I alone the stinking evil? He had reached the cathedral but had been unable to find the courage to go to confession and the mass had not brought him comfort. There had been months of tortured misery before it had.
Now he knelt and scarcely noticed the cold as he allowed himself to remember. Moaning with anguish and grief, but for himself and not for his brother, he prostrated himself on the floor beside the coffin and, finally, began to pray.
19
CHARLIE WAS TOUGHER than he looked.
‘I didn’t have a heart attack,’ he told Margaret when she continued to fuss over him after the funeral. ‘Just a wee bit shock. I’d like for you to bide a wee while but there’s a bairn waiting you in Glasgow. Away home and bring her down soon to see her grampa.’
Kate looked at her daughter. How out of place the girl looked in Auchenbeath. Such a short time had made so much difference. It was more than the cropped hair and the bright-red finger nails; how could they do any work? It was an attitude of mind perhaps.
As she had grown older, Kate had believed that she had felt the friendly presence more and more; she had even confessed her wonderment and joy at the tenderness and pleasure experienced with Charlie. Maybe I could understand and get close to her if I’d had a chance to know you, Mam.
Patrick was returning to his unit and had decided to spend one night with his sister on the way. ‘I’ll give you a first-hand account of wee Elizabeth, Mam, and next time they come down, they’ll bring her with them.’
At the station, Margaret kissed her mother goodbye. It was not the genuine outpouring of emotion there had been just a few days before but an elegant gesture that meant nothing. She had learned it from Hollywood via Glasgow – powdered cheek to powdered cheek. Her mother’s cheek smelled not of the latest in panstick but of Lifebuoy soap and hard work. For some obscure reason that made her angry again.
‘Why mother never expanded, I simply cannot understand?’ she told Patrick and George as the train pulled out of the station, leaving a small, frail-looking figure waving on the platform. ‘And why she never even got herself some household help; she could have afforded it years ago. It was because she had me to do it.’
Patrick thought carefully before he spoke. ‘I don’t think it was that at all, Margaret. In her, our class, women did their own housework. Being a businesswoman has never altered Mam’s attitude to life. Being as big as she is terrifies her.’
‘That’s stupid. Every Friday, for as long as I can remember, she walked into the bank on the Main Street and put money in; when did she ever take any out? George will soon be making more than Mum ever dreamed of and it won’t sit in the bank because we’re scared Auchenbeath will think we’re too big for our boots. We’ll travel when this bloody war is over; we’re going to build the most marvellous house, we’ll send our kids, girls as well as our precious little boys, to the best schools.’
‘I’m away to the corridor for a cigarette,’ said George, ‘I’ll bring the both of you a stiff drink. You sound like you need it and I certainly do efter a few days with your terrifying mother, if you’ll pardon the expression.’
Margaret smiled at him, an intimate, understanding and yet promising smile that made Patrick vaguely uncomfortable.
‘Thanks, George, a drink will be fine,’ said Patrick and waited until his brother-in-law had left the carriage. ‘Mum isn’t you, Margaret, and she doesn’t need the trappings of wealth to make her happy. She would feel uncomfortable with gold-plated spickets in her bath room.’ He leaned back on the seat and looked out of the window, again seeing, not the Scottish countryside but Auchenbeath. ‘You don’t remember our first house, do you? It was tiny and damp and the only warm room was the kitchen because she baked there, morning, noon and night, just to pay the rent because Dad couldn’t. The house she grew up in, in the miners’ row, Auntie Bridie’s, yes, it’s quite swish now since Uncle Colm took it apart and rebuilt it, but it was worse, and Mam, our wee mam made enough money to buy the Toll House. You grew up used to a house that your family owned. You grew up accustomed to nice clothes and good food and a car, even if it was a delivery van, to travel in. Elizabeth will be used to even more, but never ever forget, Margaret, that you owe it all initially to the hard work of one small woman.’
He sat back, somewhat embarrassed by the vehemence of his long speech, and Margaret found that she could not answer immediately. She wanted to argue that their mother was as tough as old leather and that the lifestyle of her own children would owe nothing whatsoever to their grandmother, but she was honest enough to admit that there was some truth in what her brother had said.
‘Perhaps if their grandmother had allowed their mother an education they would have owed her even more.’
Patrick turned from the window in surprise. ‘Education? You’re not telling me you wanted to go to the university.’
‘Father Pat,’ laughed the old Margaret, ‘you sound as if I had said I wanted to run naked through the streets of Auchenbeat
h.’
‘But why didn’t you say something to her or to Dad? He thought, still does, that the sun rose and set on his wee lassie’s head. Why didn’t you tell him?’
‘What was the use? All our lives we heard that you were going to the university; God had great plans for you. And as for me, me that could do your homework without even taking your classes, I was going to take over her bakery and be the best baker. God alone knows where wee Liam was supposed to fit in. God, where is George with that drink?’
‘Margaret, why didn’t you tell her?’
Margaret laughed. ‘I thought I was, loud and clear, every time I came home top of the class while her blue-eyed boy struggled to even pass.’
Patrick clenched and unclenched his hands. ‘Margaret, if you’d just—’
‘For God’s sake, Father Pat. When was I ever able to talk to her? When did she ever talk to me and not at me? Your frail, struggling little heroine is pretty formidable. Look at poor old dad. “Yes, Kate, no Kate.” You don’t think I would have married George when I did if I’d had your chances?’ She stopped as if she regretted giving so much away and then laughed. ‘Hearing my confession, Father, and you not even in the seminary?’
Patrick could hardly see her through the tears he was struggling to control. ‘I can’t handle this, Margaret, I can’t. I thought you loved George. I was so happy thinking of you in love and with your own precious wee baby.’
‘Of course I love George, but I married him to save my soul from eternal Hell and damnation; something your brother priests had been scaring me about all my sinful life. Things got out of hand and all I could think of was all the horror stories of what happened to women like me, women who . . . shall we say anticipated the joys of holy wedlock, the harlots and trollops. Not that I can expect an innocent like you to begin to understand.’ She looked at her brother who was so green he must be about to be sick. ‘Oh, don’t get upset, Pat. George appreciates my brain; we’re well matched in every way. He’s another one that should have been at the university instead of being hauled away by that slut of a mother of his to work on a farm before he was fourteen years old. We’re doing pretty well without all the so-called advantages, and we’ve hardly begun. She looked out of the window as if she was talking, not to her brother but to herself. ‘I made my bed, Patrick, and believe me, it’s an extremely comfortable one.’
To Patrick’s relief, George returned with the drinks.
‘That went down the hatch quick enough, Patrick. What’s my Margaret been saying to upset you?’
‘He didn’t realize we had had to get married, love,’ Margaret answered for her brother.
‘Well we didn’t as it happened.’ George laughed. ‘What a state our Margaret was in about Hellfire and brimstone. I hope they don’t fill your head wi’ nonsense like that at your priest college, Patrick.’
‘God knows about all our weaknesses, George. He created us after all, and He forgives us if we are truly sorry that we have given in to them.’
‘That’s enough religion for now, Patrick. You’re not a priest yet. Wait till you see your niece – and what about a meal, George? There’s maybe nothing in the house.’
‘We’ll put the bairn to bed and take Pat to The Villa Sorrento. How about that, Patrick? A slap-up meal in one of Glasgow’s finest restaurants afore ye go back to the war.’
Patrick wanted to say he would be happy with bread and cheese and some tea but he was over-ruled. He did not enjoy the meal. He was honest enough to admit that he could have enjoyed the delicious food and wine with other companions. What had happened to George? The George he had known at school had been quiet; the brother-in-law who had crept around his mother’s house was quiet. This George was loud. He shouted at waiters; he talked boisterously about his acumen in business so that not only his own table but every table in the surprisingly crowded restaurant was privy to his conversation. If Margaret was right, George had an excellent brain, but his brother-in-law thought he showed too clearly the want of education. Margaret didn’t seem to mind. In her own way, although she spoke quietly, she was as loud as her husband. It wasn’t the colour of her dress; that seemed to be rather dull, but there was something about the cut that made Patrick avoid looking at her. Every other man in the room could hardly take his eyes off her. She was beautiful. Compared to all the girls he had known at the university, yes, Margaret was beautiful, although there had been a quality about – no, Patrick, don’t think about that – Margaret’s beauty that was disturbing and not at all restful.
And I always said she looked like Mum.
He was glad when the meal was over and he could get back to the flat to fall on his feet beside the bed with the Divine Office and pray for his dead brother and his parents and Margaret, George and wee Elizabeth, and God have mercy on me, a sinner.
Active combat took away the time for thinking. It was only in the space between sorties that dark thoughts came and hopeful ones too. ‘When this is over,’ was the beginning of many a conversation and many a letter.
Bridie, sitting happily knitting for soldiers, got such a letter and brought it to Kate.
‘Bud, what a strange like name,’ said Kate.
‘Has Colm no mentioned him afore to you? He’s aye talking about Bud this and Bud that,’ explained Bridie. ‘I thought you knew all about him. Bud’s from Canada; some wee place in Alberta; he grows apples. Colm says they’re bigger and redder and sweeter than anything we’ve ever tasted here.’
‘And now our Colm wants to go to Canada after the war with Bud and grow red apples,’ said Kate. ‘Oh, Bridie love, and here’s you sitting keeping his home safe and clean for him.’
‘He . . . they want me to go with them, Kate, all the way to Alberta, Canada.’
Kate took the letter and read it through again. Automatically she made more tea from the kettle always steaming away on the stove.
‘You won’t go,’ she said when she had refilled the cups and sat down to stir in her sugar.
‘It sounds nice, Kate, and what is there for me here?’
Kate looked at her sister, her first baby, and saw a woman approaching middle age. ‘I wanted so much for you, my wee Bridie,’ she said softly.
‘You were my mother, Kate, my sister, my friend. You gave me all that, and don’t think I threw my life away looking after Molly and Colm. What else was there to do? That’s been your attitude to the blows life hands out, right, Kate. Get on with what there is to do because nobody else is going to do it for you. If I do go, it leaves you alone with Deirdre . . . and Charlie. Will he ever get over it or is he going to be like his Auntie Molly? She never did get over Dad’s death.’
Kate straightened her back as she always did when confronted by a problem. ‘Charlie’s much better since Margaret was here; he’ll get up a bit this afternoon.’ She smiled a soft secret smile that made her look like the young Kate, the Kate who had run through the meadows, looking for primroses, the Kate who had thought that owning a pair of gloves was the height of ambition. ‘By the spring you’ll see a difference in my Charlie. But right now we have to think about you. Maybe this Bud’ll be rich and handsome and fall madly in love with you, like in our Margaret’s films.’
‘Sounds more like he’s in love with our Colm, if such a daft thing was possible. They’re wantin’ a cheap housekeeper, the pair of them and our Colm has always liked his food.’
‘You have lots of time to think it over. Get some books from the library about Canada and especially this Alberta place. Wonder who it’s called after?’ suggested Kate and when Bridie had gone she sat down and cried a little. She gave into such weakness more often these days and railed helplessly at herself.
I don’t know what’s the matter wi’ you, these days, Kate Kennedy, but you’re as ready to greet as a bairn. It’s your age, your time of life, as Molly used to say. Goodness, the sins of omission that are committed by women havering about ‘the time of life’. You don’t have the time, woman; there’s a business tae kee
p from disappearing out from under you and there’s Charlie. Aw, Charlie love, get well soon for we’ve so much lost time to make up – and there’s Deirdre and her crew needing every bit of work or money you can put her way. Her Dave’ll never learn tae work they new machines the duke’s buying for his farms and then what’ll Deirdre do wi’ a man that knows nothing but horses that naebody wants, and now Bridie, my ain wee Bridie. I never once thought she’d leave me. To get married, maybe; I can say that with feeling now, that’s the right job for a woman, but Canada. She goes to Canada and I’ll never see her again. But what’s right for her? This war has to end soon and then what’ll the country be like having to build itself up again. And if Colm goes, the Council’ll maybe want her house for a miner, a family man, coming back from the war. She could come here; there’s aye Margaret’s room. Aye, face it, Kate. Margaret’s left Auchenbeath; she’ll come back now and again to see Charlie, maybe she’ll even bring her bairn to see us, but that room’ll lie empty, and Colm’s still wi’ its wee ducks.
The ducks gave her spirits a lift. That was what was needed, she would get Colm’s wee room ready for Elizabeth. Rabbits would be nice for a wee lassie and Margaret’s room should be readied for a married woman. She would make Margaret realize that she was welcome and George, of course. What had happened to George? He was nothing like Mr McDonald, the only Glasgow businessman she had ever known. How could a quiet wee man like George, who had crept around the house in Margaret’s wake and almost run every time he had seen his mother-in-law possibly be the enterprising business man Charlie had assured her he was. Mind you, if Margaret’s diamond rings were real, and they were so big as to be almost vulgarly fake, somebody was making some money.
A Pinch of Salt Page 22
