Blue Above the Chimneys

by Fraser, Christine Marion

  That ‘awful wifie’ was of course Miss Trotter, who was looking as innocent as her pink, pig features would allow as she went on calmly eating her stew.

  The nurses were harassed. It was bad enough having to cope with normal ward duties and the two battling ladies were a very trying addition to the usual routine.

  ‘Miss Trotter,’ said one nurse firmly, ‘have you got Miss Jolly’s teeth?’

  ‘Naw, I have nut,’ came the indignant answer. ‘Who would want tae handle her damt wallies! They give me the wullies jist thinkin’ aboot them!’

  A week went by without a sign of Miss Jolly’s teeth. The nurses had hunted high and low but without success.

  Not a word passed between the two spinster ladies and the ward was unusually quiet without their continual nagging. Miss Jolly huddled back in her pillows, the lower half of her face looking like a deflated balloon. She was huffed with the world in general and sat day after day, her hands folded over her stomach, her eyes staring grimly ahead.

  Miss Trotter on the other hand was extremely bright, poking around the ward, prying into everyone else’s business to such an extent that the whole ward began to wish she and Miss Jolly were on speaking terms again, if such a phrase could be applied to a continual verbal battle. At least the two had kept each other thoroughly occupied.

  Even Mrs Brown forgot to rock when Miss Trotter hove into view and one day she said to no one in particular, ‘That wifie’s daft! Keep her away from me!’ Whereupon the ex-postmistress stopped ringing her till for a moment to observe, ‘They’re all mad in here! I want to go home!’ She nodded her head in dismay then said in a loud voice, ‘Yes, dear, two stamps and a postal order … that will be three and sixpence.’

  For my part I was extremely amused by the whole affair till the day Miss Jolly, still with folded hands and staring eyes, said dismally, ‘It’s that wee yin, that wee lassie! It’s likely she that’s hidden my teeth, she shouldny be in here wi’ grown ups.’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I had made an earnest search for the elusive teeth. In front of Miss Jolly’s eyes I had made a great effort and got down on hands and knees to look under beds and lockers. Unable to defend myself against such an unfair accusation I burst into tears and hid my head under the blankets. Granny Walker came to my aid, putting her old arms round me, soothing me with comforting words. ‘There, there, my wee pet,’ she crooned. ‘Take no heed of that spiteful woman. Here now, take a sweetie and dry your tears.’

  Miss Trotter looked decidedly apprehensive after her enemy made the accusations against me and for the first time in days she spoke to Miss Jolly. ‘Leave the wean alone, ye auld bitch,’ she warned. ‘It wasny her that took yer damt wallies!’

  Miss Jolly sat up and stared like a hawk into Miss Trotter’s face, and I realized then that the fly old bloodhound had only used me as a pawn to draw out the truth.

  ‘Oh! – Oh, ho!’ she gritted. ‘And how dae you know that? Ye’re as much as admitting it was you took my teeth!’

  Miss Trotter didn’t deign to reply but later that day her behaviour was rather odd. She wandered about the ward, peeping discreetly under beds and into corners.

  ‘She’s mad,’ said the ex-postmistress. ‘She should be locked up … yes dear, just sign here, please.’

  Two days passed and Miss Trotter appeared to grow more and more anxious. Her peeping became less prudent. It was obvious she was searching desperately for something.

  Mrs Brown became so disturbed by the continual prying that she resorted once more to her old habits and every ten minutes or so her breasts hung resplendently over the blankets and the nurses scurried frantically to cover them up.

  ‘Be strict with her, Christine,’ the staff nurse instructed me. Feeling very important I harangued Mrs Brown over and over. Miss Trotter peeped and searched, the nurses sighed, the ex-postmistress spoke with her invisible customers, Miss Jolly glared, and altogether the whole thing was like a bizarre pantomime.

  The weather outside had been very hot and sultry and the windows had been open day and night for almost a week. Now a cold little breeze flurried inside and the elderly ladies protested vehemently. Nurse McLeod, a well-built young woman, went round banging windows shut with her usual vigour. One window proved difficult. Nurse McLeod pushed down with all her might and there was a distinct crunching sound. The nurse lifted the sash back up and from a corner of the frame pulled out a soiled little bundle.

  ‘That’s my hanky!’ shrieked Miss Jolly. ‘How did it get there, I’d like to know!’

  Nurse McLeod opened the hanky and a number of pink and white particles fell to the floor.

  ‘My teeth!’ yelled Miss Jolly, getting out of bed with amazing agility. She stared at the remains of her teeth lying on the polished floor, then bent to retrieve a piece of denture with one tooth attached, her sunken mouth falling open in horror.

  Miss Trotter hopped hastily out of bed and made tracks for the bathroom. Miss Jolly followed, brandishing the broken denture and screaming, ‘Whit did I tell ye? It was that bitch right enough! Come here, ye auld scunner, till I kill ye!’

  Chaos reigned. Miss Trotter had shut herself into a cubicle and Miss Jolly thumped frenziedly at the door. ‘Come oot o’ there, ye coward! Come oot and let me kill ye!’

  ‘I didn’t mean it,’ cried a petrified Miss Trotter. ‘I only hid them for a joke, then forgot where I put them. I’m sorry, Jessie, really I am!’

  ‘That’s nothing to whit ye’ll be when I get my hands on ye! Come oot this minute or I’ll … I’ll go tae yer locker and flush that brass ring o’ yours doon the toilet tae be mixed wi’ the rest o’ the sewerage!’

  ‘No,’ whimpered Miss Trotter. ‘Please don’t touch my ring.’

  The nurses had mustered forces and thronged into the bathroom. Mrs Brown rocked for a few moments then undressed herself with a flourish, her cry of ‘Mammy! Daddy!’ booming out with gusto. The ex-postmistress shut up shop and leaned back on her pillows, the rest of the ward clicked loud tongues, commiserated with each other, and from the comfort of their beds watched the proceedings with avid enjoyment.

  ‘It’s a shame about Miss Jolly’s teeth,’ I said to Granny Walker.

  ‘Ach, never heed,’ advised the old lady. ‘You might not think so, my wee lamb, but the pair o’ them are enjoying themselves. It’s their way of brightening up their lives. They would be lost without each other, for they’re just two lonely old bodies with nothing much to keep them going.’

  Listening to the noises emitting from the bathroom, it was difficult to believe the wisdom of these words, but Granny Walker was wise in the ways of people. When Miss Trotter went home a week later Miss Jolly seemed to shrink into herself. The ward was so quiet that I selfishly wished the return of Miss Trotter. When she tottered in one day at visiting, going straight to Miss Jolly’s bed, the ward held its breath. Even the visitors, well regaled with all the ploys, looked interested.

  Miss Jolly seldom got visitors. For a moment she pretended not to see the little pink lady drawing up a chair to her bed. She remained hunched into her pillows, her lower lids lying on her cheeks, her long bloodhound face expressionless, but a look of expectant interest had come into her eyes.

  They didn’t say much to each other. Miss Jolly’s hands remained folded on her lap and she stared straight ahead, but when Miss Trotter got up to go she said in a loud clear voice, ‘Right, Aggie, I’ll see ye next week. Bring me a poke o’ mints tae sook. I canny eat much till I get my new teeth in.’

  Eventually Miss Jolly too was allowed home and with her going the ward seemed very dull. But I still had Granny Walker to brighten my days. When she died, part of my childhood went with her. The ward was bright with morning sunshine when I sat up and cried, ‘Good morning, Granny!’

  There was no reply. I raised myself up to look towards the old lady’s bed. There were curtains round it, solemn-faced nurses came and went, and I knew I would never hear Granny’s voice again. The night before she had been t
he same as usual, kindly and bright, nothing to suggest that the angel of death would come to her in the night.

  My young soul shrank from the truth. I couldn’t believe that life could go so silently and swiftly. Granny had been old but she hadn’t appeared ill enough to die.

  When the shroud-draped trolley came to take her dear old body to the hospital morgue my heart beat swiftly with grief.

  ‘Why do people have to die?’ I asked Mam on her next visit. Her green eyes looked straight into mine. ‘Because it’s a part of life, Chris. Without death there would be no life because the world would get too crowded.’ She smiled. ‘There’s more room in heaven.’

  A sob of terror caught in my throat. ‘You won’t die, will you, Mam? Not till you’re really old … at least a hundred … by that time I’ll be old enough to die with you!’

  ‘Chris, my wee lamb, don’t talk like that,’ she said softly. ‘You have your whole life to live yet and I hope I’ll be here to see you growing up.’

  My feelings were very morose at this time and it was fortunate that a young girl of thirteen was admitted and her bed put next to mine. She was a lovely girl with thick auburn hair and a shy smile. Her name was Iona.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked, once we had both overcome our initial shyness.

  ‘I’ve got someting wrong with my blood,’ she volunteered readily.

  ‘Oh! I’ve got something wrong with my bones. I think one day I won’t be able to walk.’

  Her lovely pale face became sad. ‘That’s a shame. Maybe God won’t let it happen.’

  ‘Do you think He’ll let you get better?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I think I’m going to die.’

  I stared. ‘How will you get better if you’re going to die?’

  Her answer was full of childish faith. ‘Because when people die they don’t have any more pain. It must be better … mustn’t it?’

  I grew to love Iona. She never spoke of dying again. We spent our days laughing and getting into mischief. After two weeks of treatment she was sent home and I was alone again. Renewed waves of homesickness swept over me in great tides of misery. I longed to see my brothers and sisters but the ward had strict rules. Children weren’t allowed to visit. Once Mam brought them to a spot in the grounds where I could see them from my window. They stood in a solemn row, Margaret taller than I remembered, her fair hair shining in the sun, Alec, small and thin, his unruly curls tumbled by the lovely wind, Kirsty, quite grown-up-looking, her hair no longer in pigtails but cut in a neat bob with a fringe that I immediately envied. I waved till my arms ached, they waved back, but somehow I felt they were strangers, part of another world that was becoming a misty memory.

  I had been in hospital five months, had watched other patients come and go in such a steady succession that I was beginning to fear that freedom was something I would never know again.

  It was high summer, the trees waved thick green fronds in the breeze, the sky held the blue mists of heat in its entirety. I longed to smell the sweet air, to inhale the cool night winds heavy with the scent of new-mown grass. The summer smells filtered faintly in through the windows but it wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to embrace the sky, to roll on the earth, to feel the whip of the wind tugging my hair. I pined for the bitter-sweet familiarity of family life. Beds were objects to be hated. I thought if I ever got out of hospital I would never want to sleep in a bed again.

  Never having been a child for gazing into mirrors, I wasn’t aware of my changed appearance till one day I got a glimpse of myself in the long mirror of the physiotherapy department, which I attended twice a week for wax baths and exercise. At first I didn’t recognize myself and stood staring solemnly at a thin little sprite with a white face. My hair cascaded in auburn waves down my back to my waist. The nurses were forever admiring it and brushing it but I had never even bothered to look at it. Seeing its beauty I no longer wanted Kirsty’s bobbed locks. I stared at myself, feeling I was looking at a stranger, a cruel shadow who was mocking me because the frail shell of my body had, by a chance in a million, contracted a rare disease for which there was no known cure.

  After spending nine weary months in hospital I was sent home. It was Christmas time and the wards sparkled with trees and tinsel. Now that the long-awaited departure from my cocooned world had arrived, I felt oddly apprehensive. Vaguely I remembered the grey tenements of home. In comparison, the hospital seemed suddenly bright and gay. The trees, sparkling with a thousand lights, were a big attraction to a little girl who had known only home-made decorations strung across a dingy room.

  Secretly I knew I was clinging to straws. I knew that life consisted of so much more than superficial things like Christmas trees and tinsel. I had grown up a lot in hospital. It was difficult to remain a child in a world of life and death, pain and boredom. My quick restless spirit had been stifled in an existence that demanded a great deal of patience.

  So I went home. The doctors could do nothing for me except wait for the next stage of my illness to show itself.

  Gods and Gorgons

  It was strange and frightening coming home to the tenements. Grey chimneys loomed into grey skies. The streets looked dirty after the clean white world of hospital. Suddenly I dreaded meeting my brothers and sisters again. I who had been the leader in mischievous games now felt an intruder into a world that had become foreign to me.

  I arrived at the close in an ambulance and children who had once been my playmates stared at me with the blank, round-eyed detachment of strangers. They were gathered in a tight curious knot near the ambulance, snot-nosed, grimy faced, giggling, whispering, all belonging to each other and shutting me out.

  As I walked slowly out of the ambulance and into the close I realized that my life would never be quite the same again. The thought came swifly into my brain. At ten years and nine months old I felt adult, wise, and very sad.

  I walked into our tiny kitchen. It was warm and steamy because it was Monday and washing was in progress. My throat tightened as I looked around, seeing the big black range gleaming with its Sunday polish, the bed recesses with Mam’s bedspreads glowing with rich colours, the two old chairs shining with a new coat of varnish, and the table in the corner boasting a new table-cloth because Ian was home and working, bringing in some extra money. On the dresser, among the clutter of knick-knacks, sat a tiny tree, its needles a rich green, the light from the window glancing off the home-made silver baubles and paperchains. And there was Mam, her hands damp from scrubbing clothes, but warm and gentle as they reached out for mine to lead me further into the room. It was all so familiar, yet my long separation had warped my memories of it, my longings had bloated it out of all recognition so that when I was faced with the reality I wanted to shut my eyes to the obvious poverty that lurked in every corner.

  ‘C’mon, lamb.’ Mam’s eyes were strangely misty. ‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. I bought a wee cake specially for you. It’s so good to see you home, it’s never been the same hoosie since you went away.’

  The love in her voice swept away all my doubts and my heart began to sing. Da sat in his chair, great clouds of smoke billowing from his pipe and all at once the smell of it was the sweetest smell on earth.

  ‘It’s great to be home, Mam,’ I said, lowering my tired body into the old rocking chair brought from the room specially for me.

  ‘Do you like the tree?’ Mam asked hesitantly. ‘It’s no’ as grand as the ones in the hospital but Kirsty and Ian saved up to buy it for you and Alec and Maggie made the decorations.’

  I looked anew at the tiny green tree. The fresh smell of its needles brought the pine forest into the kitchen, balls of silver paper and squinty stars nestled among the branches. It was a symbol of love, an evergreen offering of welcome from a family who were happy to have me home.

  ‘It’s the nicest tree in the world,’ I said huskily.

  ‘Ach, it’ll jist make a mess,’ said Da gruffly, yet he hastened to replace a star that had fallen fro
m a branch.

  ‘Are the others at school?’ I asked, still feeling like a rather polite guest.

  ‘Ay, but they’ll no’ be long,’ said Da, pouring tea, hot and strong the way he always made it. ‘That Maggie had better be in sharp for I want her tae get me some tabaccy. Auld Carmichael’s gettin’ wandered, she shuts her shop whenever she feels like it now.’

  I choked into my tea with laughter. In a few moments my father had swept away my feelings of unreality. Here was my world, here were my people, speaking a language I understood. There were no pretensions, no false glossy words, no fuss.

  The others tumbled in from school and work. All through tea an unnatural politeness prevailed between them and me. Table accoutrements were pushed respectfully in my direction. It had been so long since I had sat round a family table I felt embarrassed. The others eyed me covertly and I felt shut out. Because of his long spells away from home, Ian was even more a stranger than the rest. He and Da didn’t get on. They never had really, but in the past Da always had the upper hand. Ian at nearly seventeen was asserting his manhood and he and Da niggled at each other in their struggle to maintain what each thought was his place in the home. After tea Ian disappeared smartly on some manly pursuit, and the usual war cries filled the kitchen.

  ‘It’s your turn for the dishes!’ Alec yelled at Margaret.

  ‘I did them last night and I went for Da’s tobacco earlier!’

  Kirsty, her smile sweetly deceptive, turned to me. ‘It’s your turn, Chris. You haven’t done them for months.’

  That did it. Margaret and Alec swung round on me. ‘Yes!’ they cried in unison. ‘It’s your turn, Chris!’ and Margaret added quickly, ‘You’ve missed a lot of turns! You should really do them for a year!’