‘Yeah, feel a bit weird, but I’m okay. You want tea?’ I hold up a spare mug.
‘Aye, thanks. Mum was just telling me what happened, fuck sake, eh?’
‘Language,’ Shirley smacks him on the back of the head.
He sits at the table, smoothes his hair down. He’s in his school uniform, tie hangs loose, fraying, the top button of his shirt undone.
The old woman’s hands, grasping for the top button of her blouse.
I grip the counter, unsteady.
‘I was heading to Bayne’s when I noticed you were shut,’ Calum says. ‘I got a real fright when I looked in and saw the mess.’
‘Oh, you just reminded me,’ Shirley goes back out into the shop and returns with the Bayne’s bag. It seems like ages ago since she asked me what I wanted from the bakers. I can’t believe she’s still hungry.
I finish making the tea, carry the mugs one at a time over to the table.
Even that’s a struggle.
I sit opposite Shirley and Calum.
‘Not sure I can face that anymore,’ I nod at the custard slice. You want it, Calum?’
‘Aye, cheers,’ he leans across the table.
Shirley smacks his hand away.
‘Wait a minute. Hannah, you sure? You could do with some sugar in you.’
‘I’m fine with the roll, you have it, Calum.’
Calum reaches for the cake again. He puts it upside down in front of him, peels the bottom layer of pastry off.
‘I eat it from the bottom up, like leaving the icing till last,’ he says, noticing my stare, ‘it’s the best bit.’
‘Disgusting, he doesn’t get that from me,’ Shirley says.
I smile, keep my lips firmly closed. Calum’s cake habits are doing nothing to help my churning tummy.
‘Who was it anyway?’ Calum asks, mouth full of custard.
I look down at the table, pick a slice of tomato out of my filled roll. I don’t think I’ll manage the bread, let alone something squashy and wet inside it.
Something red.
‘Who was who?’ Shirley replies, taking a bite of her roll and wiping her floured hands onto her trousers.
How can she stay so calm after what just happened?
I play with a bit of grated cheese, squash it between my fingers.
‘The wifie who collapsed.’
‘Hells bells, Calum,’ Shirley hits him on the back of the head again, ‘have a bit of respect. I didn’t know her, did you, Hannah?’
I shake my head, pick up the roll; grated cheese falls out onto the table. I take a bite. It fills my whole mouth, takes an age to chew. The greasy butter, the wet cucumber, the soggy bread.
I keep seeing her face, the expression on it right before she fell. One minute you’re buying Revels, the next…
Snap of the fingers. That’s it.
(the difference between winning and losing a race)
‘Had you better not get back to school?’ Shirley looks at her watch.
‘Nah, I’ve got a free period.’
‘A free period?’
‘Yes, Mum, remember I’m in sixth year now.’
‘Well, should you not be using that so-called free period to do some studying or something?’
Calum rolls his eyes.
‘Either that or you can help me and Hannah tidy up.’
‘I’ll see you guys later then, thanks for the cake, Hannah.’
‘No problem.’
‘You sure you guys are okay?’
‘Yes, we’ll survive.’
Calum waves as he leaves the shop, shirt un-tucked, hanging over his trousers.
‘He’s a bloody mess, that boy,’ Shirley says, ‘right, shall we get this place sorted out?’
‘Yeah.’
Maybe I’ll feel better if I’m doing something. Besides, I want to get the shop back to normal. Get rid of that body-shaped hole.
‘Hells bells, I didn’t notice that,’ Shirley runs a finger along the break in the glass counter. I hear the crack in my head again, her chin splitting, teeth falling out.
‘That’s why she was bleeding.’
‘She gave herself a right clout, didn’t she?’
‘Her teeth…’ I look around.
‘It’s okay, I found them and put them in her handbag. The paramedics took it. Just in case.’
‘Do you think she’ll be okay?’
Shirley’s still looking at the break in the counter.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll give the hospital a phone later.’
‘Yeah.’
I’m not sure if I really want to know either way. I just want to get this day off me.
I could do with pounding the pool. But it’s always so busy in the evening. Swimming lessons and aqua aerobics classes.
(swim club training sessions)
I kneel, pick up packets of chewing gum, slot them back into the cardboard container they’ve fallen from. Congealed blood puddles on the vinyl floor. I should get a cloth, wipe it up before it dries and crusts, but I can’t face it. I’ve just washed my hands.
Shirley clears everything from the top of the counter, piles it up on the floor.
‘I’ll need to phone someone about this glass.’
The woman’s purse sits on top of the stuff Shirley’s cleared.
The lottery ticket and the bag of Revels are there too.
I lift the bag of Revels. Tears sting at my eyes.
She should be at home now, eating her sweeties; grimacing over the coffee one, dislodging her false teeth with the toffee one, biting the chocolate off the orange one, melting the minstrel one in her mouth with a gulp of tea.
Her change, she dropped all her change.
I crawl around on the floor looking for coins, get the brush, sweep out underneath the counter, drag out old penny sweets and dust, a few coins which have probably been there for a while. I drop them in her purse anyway, walk the length of the shop to make sure I find every rogue coin. It’s the least I can do, fill her purse back up after what’s happened to her.
I slide out a bank card, run a finger over the embossed lettering.
MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE
MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE
MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE
The old woman who collapsed becomes Marièle.
Ms Marièle Downie.
She has a name. She’s real. And what a weird name, how do you even say that?
I flick through the other cards in her purse: Nectar card, library card, driving licence.
There’s a photo of her. Younger, she has colour in her face, life.
Her address is there too.
I pass by her house every day on my way home. She’s been so close to me this whole time, but I’ve never seen her before today. In a small town like this, how is that possible?
(wrapped up in my own concerns, my own wee world)
I slip the cards back into her purse, fold the lottery ticket in half, slide it in behind. I can take the purse with me when I leave, put that and the Revels through her letterbox.
Just in case.
4
YOU DREADED THE telegram boy stopping at your house. If you saw one cycling up your street, you’d pray for them to cycle right on past, to stop at another door. Even if that made you feel guilty later on, guilty that you’d passed the pain onto someone else, another mother, wife, sister.
‘Les anges de la mort’, Mama called the telegram boys.
Marièle dreaded them even more since they’d sat round the wireless and heard Churchill order the evacuation. The fear in her stomach never left her, it was there all the time.
George was out in France. One of the boys trying to get home. If only he would get in touch, let them know he was okay.
One of the lucky ones.
Marièle and Cath came out of the Palais to find everything white.
‘That chap told us the truth,’ Marièle said, ‘it really is snowing.’
‘Oh Marie, and you were so rude to him.’
�
��I thought he was just being fresh. How are we supposed to get home now?’
‘We’re not exactly dressed for the weather, are we?’
Marièle and Cath stood huddled in the doorway alongside the other dancers, nobody had come dressed for the elements.
‘Maybe we should just start walking - it’s too cold to stand here,’ Marièle said, pulling her Camel coat tighter, belting it at the waist.
‘Yes, you’re right.’
They locked arms, began to walk in the direction of home.
‘This is going to take forever, these shoes are useless,’ Cath said, tightening her grip on Marièle’s arm as she slid on the snow.
‘Cath, Marie!’
As the days passed, the dread collected in her stomach, cloying and insistent until…
A knock at the door in the middle of the afternoon.
Somehow she knew without looking that the telegram boy would be standing there.
She felt almost sorry for him. He was so young, so smartly turned out in his Post Office uniform. It wasn’t his fault he was so unwelcome. He was just the messenger.
The bearer of bad news.
But she didn’t know for sure that it was bad news. It might be a telegram from George, telling them he’d made it home. Not to worry, he was fine. Or maybe he’d been hurt, but not seriously, and the telegram was just to let them know he would be in hospital for a few days.
Nothing serious.
‘Telegram for Downie,’ the boy said, and held out the slip of paper.
Someone chased after them through the snow.
A soldier, he was in uniform.
The snow was so thick, it was only when he came closer that Marièle recognised who it was.
‘George, what are you doing here?’ She asked.
‘I sensed a damsel or two in distress and rushed home right away,’ George replied. ‘Your carriage, m’ladies.’ He turned and she saw he dragged a wooden sledge behind him.
Marièle reached for the telegram, realised her hands were shaking as she slid the blue envelope open with a fingernail.
‘Can I help you with that ?’ The boy asked.
She shook her head, the lump in her throat made it hard to speak. She focused on his black tie, tried to bring herself back under control.
She unfolded the telegram, had to read it three times before the words filtered through, made sense.
POST OFFICE
TELEGRAM
Date : 08/06/1940
PRIORITY – DOWNIE, 24 BLACKNESS ROAD, ABERDEEN DEEPLY REGRET TO REPORT YOUR SON CORPORAL GEORGE DOWNIE S/10326973 HAS BEEN REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION PRESUMED KILLED ON WAR SERVICE LETTER FOLLOWS
‘No reply,’ Marièle said to the boy.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he bowed his head, pushed his bike along the garden path. Marièle sat down on the front step, the wheel of the boy’s bike squeaked as he cycled away. She looked up, saw thick blackout curtains twitching from the houses on the opposite side of the street.
‘You’re crazy! Do you think you’re going to pull us both home on that thing?’
‘Oh, ye of little faith, Marie. You’ll never get home in those shoes.’
Marièle’s teeth chattered, her toes had gone numb.
‘Okay, front or back, Cath?’
‘I don’t mind, what would you prefer?’
‘Come on, you two, get a move on. We could be halfway home by now.’
‘Alright, alright,’ Marièle climbed onto the back of the sledge.
‘Here, take this,’ George slipped off his overcoat, wrapped it round Cath’s shoulders.
He took Cath’s hand, helped her onto the front of the sledge. Marièle lent forward, put her arms around Cath’s middle and pulled her backwards until she sat between Marièle’s legs.
‘Onwards, driver.’
George pulled on the rope attached to the front of the sledge. It jerked forward slightly, knocked Marièle and Cath off balance.
‘You girls weigh more than you look,’ George said.
He took the loop of rope, stepped inside it and lent forward, used all his weight to shift the sledge, and began to drag Marièle and Cath through the snow.
CORPORAL GEORGE DOWNIE
For a moment the formality of the telegram made her question who that was.
CORPORAL GEORGE DOWNIE
CORPORAL
CORPORAL
George. Big brother George.
MISSING IN ACTION
MISSING
PRESUMED KILLED
PRESUMED
What did that mean? Was he dead or wasn’t he?
He might, even now, be trying to get a boat home. Had they just given up on him? George had better odds than most. They’d holidayed in France, Mama had taught them both to speak French. He’d be able to look after himself over there.
What sort of organisation just guessed what had happened to one of their employees? Just assumed the worst?
She listened to the news reports every day on the wireless. There must be boys scattered all over the place. All unaccounted for. Did they send a telegram to all of their families?
MISSING IN ACTION PRESUMED KILLED
‘Who was it, Marie?’ Mama shouted from inside the house.
‘No grips on these blasted boots,’ George said as he tried to get a footing.
Marièle looked behind, saw the tracks they left behind breaking up the clear snow. George’s footprints, smudged and sliding, the parallel lines left by the runners of the sledge.
The snow was bright, lit their way in the blackout. It hurt her eyes to look at it for too long. She turned to the front again, felt Cath warm and heavy against her chest. Cath pressed her hands over Marièle’s feet, rubbed her numb toes.
‘How long are you home for?’ Cath asked George.
‘Just a few days, I’m afraid,’ he replied.
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’
Marièle felt an ache clutch at her belly. It was a strange feeling, joy and melancholy combined. At the love she felt for George and Cath, at the beauty of the situation they were in, at the loss that this moment was fleeting. That she was losing George to the war, losing both of them to each other.
She inhaled, Cath’s lavender perfume mixed in with the smoky chalk of winter, then breathed out. She could see her breath visible in front of her. Heard the crumble of snow as George pressed down with his boots, struggling under the weight of her and Cath on the sledge.
She didn’t want this to end. Even though it was cold, even though it was late and she was tired, even though she could hear George’s heavy breathing, knew he was exhausted.
It was just the three of them, the only three people alive in the whole world. While they trekked through the snow, there was no war, no rationing, no threat of imminent death. It was just the three of them.
‘Marie, what are you doing out here?’ Marièle stood as Mama opened the front door.
She watched Mama’s gaze as it fell upon the blue envelope.
‘Is it from George?’
Marièle handed Mama the telegram, watched as she fumbled with the piece of paper.
‘What does this mean? Je ne comprends pas,’ Mama asked, looking up at Marièle.
Marièle shook her head, ushered Mama back into the house.
‘Mon fils, mon petit garçon, oh Marièle, our George!’ Mama said, squeezing the telegram in her hand. ‘Should we get Father from work?’
‘I can’t face going out there,’ Marièle replied.
If someone stopped her, spoke to her, she would break down.
Oh God, Cath.
What would she say to Cath?
They sat down where they were, on the floor, facing each other across the hallway.
Mama reached towards Marièle and she took her mother’s hands, the telegram lay on the floor between them.
‘I believe this is you, mademoiselle,’ George said as he stopped pulling the sledge, let the rope fall towards the snow covered pavement.
‘Why thank y
ou sir, that was quick,’ Cath replied.
‘Are you teasing me?’
‘No, of course not, I didn’t mean it like that.’
Marièle felt the heat from Cath’s cheeks, warm enough to melt the snow.
‘Don’t worry, Cath, I’m just having you on,’ George replied, holding out a hand to help her up from the sledge.
‘See you later, dear,’ Cath bent over and kissed Marièle on the cheek. Her lips were wet from the snow, which had started to fall again, and Marièle felt it burn against her cold skin.
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ George said. Cath took his arm and they shuffled up the garden path until they were out of view behind the hedge.
Marièle stretched out her legs, lay back on the sledge. She could hear the murmur of voices as they said goodnight on the doorstep.
Snowflakes fell fast towards her. Every so often a flake would catch her off guard and she’d recoil, close her eyes. It was like the stars were tumbling down to earth. They melted against her cheeks, her eyelashes, her nose, her tongue.
Marièle jumped as someone knocked on the front door. She still held Mama’s hand, felt it flinch in her own.
‘Maybe it’s the telegram boy come back, he made a mistake.’
Mama stood to open the door.
PRIORITY
CORPORAL GEORGE DOWNIE
MISSING IN ACTION PRESUMED KILLED
It wasn’t a mistake.
‘Claudine, I couldn’t help noticing the telegram boy. Is everything okay?’
Mrs Walker from across the street. God, she didn’t waste any time, did she?
‘He’s just missing,’ Mama replied, ‘they’ve lost him.’ She started to laugh.
Marièle stood in behind the door so Mrs Walker wouldn’t see her. Nosy old bisum.
‘Well, there’s hope then. I’ll pray he comes back, he’s a brave boy. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, thank you, he’s only missing. Mon fils, mon fils.’
‘Pardon?’
Marièle knew what the old bat was thinking.
Poor delusional French woman, she doesn’t understand.
Marièle was used to the way people treated Mama, as if she was slow, stupid, just because she spoke with an accent, lapsed into French.
Mrs Walker had accused Mama of being a spy and a coward just because of her accent, and now she had the cheek to pretend to be concerned.
Don’t listen to those girls, Marie, they’re jealous of you. They’ve never been further than Stonehaven.
Swim Until You Can't See Land Page 3