‘I’ve been thinking, Beth’, she said. ‘Why don’t you both come and live with me in Carnoustie?’
I was taken aback. ‘What about Gerald? He won’t want us cluttering up his house when he comes home.’
‘Well, he’s not coming till the end of the year. In fact, I often wonder if he wants to retire, because he loves his job so much. When he does come home, then you can go back to Victoria Road. If you want to, just look on it as a holiday by the sea.’
Later, when Mum was asleep, Margaret said, ‘Beth can’t go outside because of the stairs, Lizzie, and if we all go to Carnoustie then she’ll get lots of fresh air and she’ll love the sea views.’
So it was settled. Next morning when Margaret suggested the move, Mum said she didn’t mind where she lived as long as Margaret was there. Over the next few days my aunt went to see the house and also made sure everything was in place for us.
‘I’ve turned the dining room into a bedroom for Beth; it has great views over the garden and the sea.’
I was worried about Dr Bennett. ‘He comes in to see Mum three times a week and I don’t think he’ll manage to make the trip to Carnoustie.’
‘Go and speak to him, Lizzie. Ask if he wants to come or if he would prefer another doctor to take over Beth’s medical care.’
So I went that morning and he said a local doctor would be preferable. ‘Your mother’s health will deteriorate, so a local man will be better to have near at hand.’
By the end of that week we were ready for the move. Margaret had seen the local doctor and he said he would take Mum on as his patient. Maisie was upset when we said we were moving, but she understood the need for it. Mum had asked for Dad’s trophies to come with us, so I wrapped them in newspaper and put them in a cardboard box, and then we said goodbye to the flat.
For a brief moment, I was overtaken with a feeling of sadness as I recalled our first day here away back in 1917 and how Granny had made us so welcome.
Margaret put her arm around my shoulder. ‘You’re not giving it up, Lizzie. It will still be here any time you want to come back.’
I also said a tearful goodbye to Maisie, who promised to keep her eye on the house, and we slowly half-carried Mum down to the waiting taxi. Margaret told Maisie to come for a few days’ holiday any time she felt like it and also said to tell her if anything needed done in the house when it was empty.
I gazed out of the window at the busy street and I had a premonition that I wouldn’t be back for a long time, if ever. The sun was shining, but Mum fell asleep by the time we reached the outskirts of Dundee and it was then I realised how time was running out for her.
The taxi driver carried our luggage and boxes into the house, and by that time Mum was gazing at the sea. The garden, which had had a neglected look when I came to see it, was now full of colourful flowers and the lawn was neatly trimmed. The wooden veranda now had a new coat of paint and there were three reclining chairs with fluffy padded cushions.
Inside was also freshly decorated, and sunlight filled the living room and what was to be Mum’s bedroom next door. I couldn’t believe how much work had been done, but to be truthful I wasn’t surprised. Margaret had the knack of tackling anything – maybe not with her own hands, but with her methodical nature and skill at acquiring workmen and furniture suppliers.
We decided on a picnic on the veranda for our midday meal, and Mum looked so comfy lying on her padded chair. Although it was a lovely day, the sea was a bit choppy and gulls wheeled over the beach, which was deserted, mainly because it was too far from the town. We were still sitting on the veranda when the doctor arrived. He was a plump man with a round, cheery face and he wore his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. He was dressed in a pair of navy trousers and a light-grey jacket, and he wore a linen hat on his head.
‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ he said, removing his hat to reveal a shiny bald head with a fringe of white hair. ‘I’m Dr Smith and I’ve had a letter from Dr Bennett.’
Margaret asked him if he wanted some tea, and he sat down at the small table. ‘Thank you, I would love a cup of tea.’ He smiled at us and deep creases formed at the corners of his eyes. He looked around him. ‘I must say, you’ve done wonders with the house, and I’m so glad, as it’s been empty for some time.’
He chatted on about the joys of living in Carnoustie – ‘It’s great for the sea air and the golf, if you like the game’ – but I noticed he kept looking at Mum, especially when she drifted off halfway through his chatter.
After he left, we made our way into the house. Margaret had arranged two single beds downstairs, and I was pleased because I wanted to be near Mum through the night. Another bonus to the room was a shelved alcove, on which I placed Dad’s trophies, where she could see them from her bed.
As the days lengthened and became warmer, Mum’s face took on a rosy glow and she appeared to be in better health, so much so that I began to harbour hopes that she was getting better. Margaret had found an advertisement in the paper for a wheelchair, and when she went to collect it we all laughed. It had a wicker-like seat with wheels, so with Mum tucked up in it and me pushing we all had some marvellous trips into the town.
Margaret had arranged for the grocery order every week, which was delivered in a small van with a cheery young man bringing the boxes to the door. He always spent some time chatting to us and this cheered Mum up. Then the fish van called once a week as well and the milkman every morning, so we weren’t cut off from people.
And during trips into town with the wheelchair, we were able to look into all the small shop windows and to buy fresh bread and cakes from the baker, as well as going into their small café and having a morning coffee. This meant we got to know quite a few people, and their conversations with us made us feel part of this small community.
Dr Smith would also pop in every week and stay for a cup of tea and a blether with Mum and Margaret while I would go and do some work in the garden, which I found to be therapeutic. I especially loved the roses and I would cut a few and bring them into the house, where their scent filled the air. I always placed a small vase by the side of Mum’s bed, which she loved.
Sometimes Laura and Pat would pay a visit on a Sunday, and Margaret would tell them tales from her teaching days, which often left us all howling with laughter. But later when they left and I walked with them to the station, they would express their sympathy for Mum. As we hugged one another before the train came in, Laura would say, ‘I think your Mum looks a lot better, Lizzie,’ while Pat would agree and add, ‘Maybe she’s getting well again, with all this lovely sea air. Mind and tell her my parents are asking after her.’
Laura said that Wullie and Irene were also thinking of us, and for a brief moment as the train pulled up to the platform I wished everything was back as it was before, with Irene at the piano and Wullie arriving home with sawdust and woodchips in his hair. But of course it wasn’t, and I smiled as I waved them away.
At the end of June, Milly arrived with wee Bertie and I saw the shock on her face when she saw Mum, a look that quickly passed before she smiled brightly.
‘Beth, it’s great to see you, and I’ve brought Bertie to say hello.’
Bertie was just under a year old, but he was on his feet, walking slowly over the floor on his two plump, pink legs with a helping hand from his mother.
We all made a fuss of him, but after a wee while he became bored and began to cry. Milly was telling Mum and Margaret about her life in Glasgow and how happy she was, but she picked her son up and tried to stop his wailing. Margaret had brought through the tea tray so I said I would take him down to the beach.
He didn’t want to leave his mother and was clinging to her skirt, but when I picked him up and said we were going to look at the water, his little face beamed and he twisted his head towards the door.
Milly was concerned. ‘You’ll be careful with the water, Lizzie?’
I said I would just let him play on the beach. A few days earlier I had
found a small tin bucket and spade in the shed, so we crossed the road and sat on the sand. Bertie was delighted with the spade and after I showed him how to fill up his small bucket, he began to do the same, with the sand going everywhere.
After a while at this ploy, I picked him up and walked down to the sea. He was fascinated by the water and tried to prise himself loose from my arms. ‘No, Bertie,’ I said. ‘The water is too cold.’
Just then, a ship passed on its way to the North Sea and he pointed a chubby finger at it.
‘Do you see the boat, Bertie? It’s sailing away to a far-off land.’
He turned to look at me, then gazed once more at the ship. He wasn’t the only one watching it, as I gazed at it as well, wondering where it was heading for.
I recalled watching the ships in the harbour at Dundee when I was a child, wishing I could stow away on one towards a life of adventure and new countries. Granny always said to be careful what you wished for, in case it ever came true.
‘Right then, young man, let’s get you back to your mother in case she’s worried about you.’
He carried the bucket and spade and I felt them dig into my ribs, but we didn’t have far to walk.
As I approached the house I decided to let him play in the garden for a while, which meant I came back into the house through the back door. I stopped when I heard Mum’s voice.
‘I’ve been so stupid, Milly. I should have done what you’ve done and let go of my memories of Peter and made a life for Lizzie and me. It’s just that I always thought that one day he would walk through the door, even though I was told that he had died.’
Milly sounded sad. ‘No, Beth, there’s nothing wrong in always having hope. You had a wonderful marriage and it must have been hard for you to think Peter wouldn’t come back.’
‘That’s the worst thing about war,’ said Mum. ‘It doesn’t only affect the soldiers on the battlefields but all their loved ones waiting at home. If I had my way, there wouldn’t be any more wars, but that will never happen.’
‘I know,’ said Milly. ‘It killed my mother. She never got over the death of my brother or my fiancé, and there are hundreds of mothers and sweethearts all over the country who feel their lives are over.’
I hated eavesdropping, so I coughed before going through the door, while Bertie banged his bucket and spade together. When she saw her son, Milly stood up.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but he’s got sand in his hair, Milly.’
‘That’s all right, we’ll soon comb that out.’
Bertie stretched out his arms and his mother carried him back to her seat.
Then it was time for them to leave. ‘I’ll be back soon to see you, Beth,’ Milly promised. ‘So just concentrate on getting well.’ Mum said she would, and once again I walked with them to the train.
‘What is wrong with your mother, Lizzie? I didn’t like to ask her.’
I decided to tell her the truth. ‘She has only a few months left, Milly. In fact, the doctor is amazed she has lived as long as she has, but it’s all down to Margaret and all the care she gets here.’ I was quite dry-eyed when I said this, but I had to choke back a sob.
Milly was sympathetic. ‘Poor Beth. She is my best friend, yet there’s nothing I can do to help her.’ She began to cry, making Bertie whimper, and she held him closer. ‘It’s all right, Bertie. Mummy has got some sand in her eyes.’
‘I didn’t tell her what the doctor said, Milly, and I feel so guilty about that, but I just wanted her last few months to be happy, and thankfully I think Margaret and I have managed that.’
They gave me a wave from the carriage window, with Bertie smiling and raising his chubby little arm. Once again the tears weren’t far away as I walked back home.
Years later I was to remember that summer as a magical time. We sat on the veranda with the sun warm on our faces, smelling the salty tang of the sea, and our lives seemed to be in slow motion. The days were lazy and we didn’t have any timetable for things. We ate when we were hungry, and the only ritual was just before our evening meal, when Margaret liked to sit and look at the view with her glass of gin and tonic with lime juice.
‘No matter where we lived,’ she said, ‘Gerald and I would have our drink before our evening meal.’ She turned to Mum, who was propped up on her reclining chair. ‘Would like to try one, Beth?’
To start with Mum said no, but as that summer wore on she began to have a weak gin and tonic and said she felt better after it.
‘It’s called “mother’s ruin”, Beth, but as I’ve never been a mother I can’t say if it’s true. What do you think?’
Mum smiled and said a little of what you fancy couldn’t possibly ruin anyone, and we all laughed.
It was late August when Maisie visited us for the last time. She would sometimes arrive out of the blue and stay for a couple of hours, but on this final visit (although we didn’t know it would be then) she stayed for a meal. As she was leaving, she suddenly turned back and embraced Mum. ‘Goodbye, Beth,’ she said simply as she walked away from the house.
After Maisie’s departure, we stayed on the veranda. The day had been sunny and warm, but now dark clouds had gathered over the sea. Now and then a shaft of sunlight would break through the clouds, and I said, ‘Do you remember telling me that these shafts of sunlight were the angels peeping through the sky with their torches?’
Mum laughed. ‘Imagine you remembering that. You were just a tiny child when I said that, but yes, I still think it’s angels with torches.’
Margaret came and sat beside us. ‘Yes, I always thought the same thing.’
That night Mum awoke in pain and cried out. Margaret called the doctor early that morning and he gave Mum an injection. ‘This will take away the pain,’ he said to me. ‘I’ll call in every day to see Mrs Flint.’
I overheard him talking to Margaret as he walked down the path. ‘I’m afraid this is almost the end, Mrs Cook, but she won’t be in pain, as I’ve given her some morphine.’
I was devastated. I knew there wasn’t going to be a happy ending, but now that Mum’s life was ebbing away I didn’t know how I would cope without her. I stayed up every night with her, dozing on the chair by the side of her bed. Her small carriage clock would chime the hours throughout the night, and in the morning the sun would shine on her bed and her face, but she slept soundly.
Margaret would tiptoe into the room with a breakfast tray, and we both sat with cups of tea until she woke up. She was always groggy and didn’t want anything to eat. I tried giving her sips of water, but most of it would dribble down her chin. Then one morning she awoke and we were amazed when she sat up and gave us a clear-eyed look, although her voice was feeble.
Margaret took her hand. ‘How are you feeling today, Beth?’
Ignoring the question, Mum grasped Margaret’s hand.
‘Margaret, I want a private funeral with just Lizzie and you there.’
I almost fell off my chair. Margaret said to her not to talk nonsense, but she lifted her head slightly. ‘It’s not nonsense, Margaret. I’ve known for ages that I’ll never get better. Now promise me about the funeral.’
We both said we would abide by her wishes, and she slumped down on her pillow and fell asleep. The doctor arrived later and gave her another injection.
I didn’t want her to hear me crying, so I ran out into the garden and sat on the bench beside the roses. Margaret came out and we both sat quietly, then I said, ‘I never thought she knew how ill she was, but she’s known for ages.’
Margaret nodded. ‘Beth was always a smart woman. She was trying to protect you, Lizzie, and you were doing the same for her.’
That night I sat beside Mum and was alarmed when her breathing became ragged and she started to cough. I went to give her a sip of water, when she suddenly sat up with a wondrous look on her face.
‘Peter, I knew you would come back.’
Taken aback, I turned my head quickly to the door, but there was no one there. Moonli
ght filtered in through the window, casting shadows over the floor, but there was no one else in the room except us.
I went to get Margaret, and she hurried in and sat by the bed. ‘Beth, it’s Margaret and Lizzie here.’
Mum opened her eyes and she looked so happy.
‘I’ve met Peter again.’
There was a strange noise from her throat. Margaret leaned over the bed and placed her fingers on Mum’s neck. I suddenly thought she looked old and tired as she said, ‘I’m afraid Beth’s dead, Lizzie.’
I didn’t believe it. ‘She spoke just a minute ago and she seemed so happy; she can’t be dead.’
I remember Margaret helping me out and making me go to bed, and for the next few days everything passed in a tearful blur. I knew this day had to come, but I’d still harboured hope that somehow Mum would get better. But she hadn’t.
As usual, Margaret was her efficient self and she made all the arrangements. Although we had promised Mum a private funeral, Margaret thought Maisie and Milly should come if they could.
Quite honestly I was incapable of thinking, so I said yes, they should come.
It was decided that a small service would be held in the EJ Watson’s funeral parlour in Ann Street and the funeral director arranged for a minister to conduct it. Maisie and Milly were already seated when we entered, and although we were a small party the service was short but very moving. We then went off to the Eastern Cemetery in Arbroath Road, where Mum was to be buried beside her mother and father. Before we left the house I had gathered a huge bunch of roses from the garden, which we placed on the grave. They were white and yellow roses, and I laid them beside the granite headstone that was inscribed ‘To Eliza, dear wife of William Ferrier, died 1891, and later to the said William Ferrier who died 1912.’
We stood gazing at Mum’s last resting place. For ages afterwards, the scent of roses reminded me of that sad day.
We thanked the minister, who declined our invitation to come back for refreshments, as he had another funeral to conduct, so the four of us went back to Victoria Road for a cup of tea, which Maisie had arranged. I was so grateful to her for her thoughtfulness.
Dragon Land Page 17