Mam was told that the operation hadn’t been a success. Until better methods were devised to straighten retracted limbs, my days would have to be spent in a wheelchair. Mam hadn’t the heart to tell me. She looked sad during this time. Later I learned she blamed herself for having encouraged me to go through such major surgery. But I blamed no one. It had been a gamble, one I would have taken anyway. To walk again! It would have been wonderful, but things were to happen to me, lovely things that would never have been had I been an ‘able bod’ like everyone else.
One day, at the end of a six months’ stay in hospital, the doctor whose handsome face had floated before me after my operation sat on the edge of my bed and gave me an apologetic grin. ‘Christine,’ he began hesitantly, ‘we’re going to let you home. Surgery hasn’t done your leg much good, I’m afraid. You’ve been through a lot … no one could blame you if you feel disappointed …’
In a moment of hot, heart-fluttering confusion, I grabbed his hand and said, ‘Don’t worry about it, doctor. I know anyway. You’ve all done your best …’ Briefly I marvelled at myself. Me! Christine Fraser! Talking to a God the way I would talk to an ordinary human. Slowly I went on, ‘I did hope but I’ve done that ever since I was a wee girl. But there’s no use fretting about it. I’ve become used to a wheelchair … I’m quite a lazy person really. It’s quicker to whizz along in a chair, and just think of all the shoes I’ll save.’
Relief relaxed his features. Perhaps he had expected a tearfully dramatic scene, the kind in ancient movies with injured heroines tearfully proclaiming that their place in life was finished. Once, at a very impressionable age, I had watched such a film, had cried my eyes out as I watched the frail young heroine falling about and being fussed over by family, lovers, friends. I had been thoroughly misled into thinking that true-life tragedies must be like that, but now I knew that reality was very different. I had learned very quickly that no one had time for self-pity. It was shunned like a contagious disease and a person who harboured such feelings could never possibly know happiness.
My real regret was the time wasted in hospital. Another half-year of my life had gone with nothing to show for it but an extremely long scar and a ‘funny foot’ that hung down in pallid helplessness. It would be quite some time before it would be half as good as before.
Partings
It was in the early autumn of 1958, a week or two after I came out of hospital, that a God-sent opportunity took Mam and me on a never-to-be-forgotten holiday. It was to a home in Dunoon where disabled people could go for a break. Each of us was allowed to have a helper so Mam came with me. Her eyes sparkled in a way they hadn’t done for many a day as she pushed me around the little coastal resort on the Clyde. The salt air brought a glow of pink to her cheeks. To have someone else cook and serve her meals filled her with child-like delight.
Da couldn’t be on the holiday with us but one day he came on the boat with Margaret, she tall and awkward in adolescence, he old at eighty-one yet still tall and proud, his clothes neatly pressed, his watch chain sparkling brightly.
The four of us went into a tearoom, feeling very extravagant. Mam, Margaret and I made a quick though expensive decision but Da pondered long over the menu card, until in the end he ordered fish and chips to be rounded off with ice-cream. When the latter finally came he sucked at it happily, taking no notice when Mam kicked him under the table and hissed at him to be quieter.
‘Ach, weesht, Evelyn,’ he said placidly, ‘I canny help it. My mooth wasny made for manners and I’m no’ doin’ anybody any harm.’
Margaret, in the throes of growing up, with every emotion extra-sensitive, reddened with humiliation when he let out a loud and satisfied burp, her expression showing that she felt herself responsible for every homely mannerism he displayed in public. He was wonderful for his age, yet we didn’t realize it. Having grown up with an elderly father we couldn’t see that the proud way he carried his years was something to be regarded as precious, a banner of independent strength that we had inherited.
When we left the tearoom he grabbed my chair, steering me in the direction of Dunoon’s high street. Mam browsed happily over the attractive displays in jewellers’ windows, content to windowshop because she never had the money to indulge in frivolities, though she loved jewellery and was never without it when she was out.
‘Wait here,’ Da directed outside one shop. When he came back he handed her a small package. It was a book-shaped brooch which opened out to show views of Argyll. It was inexpensive but she loved it. Her enthusiasm over the simplest gesture was touching. To give Mam a gift was full of personal reward because she made you feel so enriched by her gratitude.
We spent a pleasant day and it was plain to see that Da was loath for it to end. ‘The hoose is funny withoot ye, Evelyn,’ he told Mam. ‘I canny sleep at night.’
She took his big hand briefly. ‘Och, it’s only for a wee while. I’m enjoying myself so much, John.’
‘Ay,’ he said awkwardly, ‘ye deserve it.’
They caught the last boat home, both of them leaning over the rails while the seagulls wheeled and screamed around them. Da looked lonely though Margaret stood tall and strong by his side. She looked like his grand-daughter, too young to have much in common with him. I realized that the reason he missed Mam so much was because she was probably the only one who understood him completely. Without her, there wouldn’t be much companionship to be had at home.
Mam shaded her eyes against the bright gleam of the sea. ‘I wish Pop could have a holiday too … but I’m glad I’m no’ going back with them. It’s grand to know we have another week here. We must make the most of it, Chris.’
Our holiday coincided with the Cowal Highland gathering and we managed to get into the stadium to watch the events. The air reeled with the skirl of the bagpipes and Mam shivered. ‘My, this brings back memories. When I was a lass it was quite common to hear a piper playing in the open air … that was a long time ago and I was beginning to think I’d never smell the heather again … after twenty-five years it’s difficult to imagine what it’s like. I’d love to see Aberdeen again but it’s that bonny here it’s made up for everything.’
I looked at her happy profile, noting the dark fringe of lashes over her incredible green eyes, the fine sensitive mouth, always ready to smile no matter how troubled her inner thoughts, her smooth olive skin, and her cloud of white hair shining like a halo round her head.
A lump came to my throat at her words. Twenty-five years of drudgery without a holiday to break the monotony, yet she had seldom complained. I wondered how she could have borne such a lifetime of self-sacrifice. She was a symbol of patience, a gentle soul who asked little in return for her years of giving to others. Perhaps her reward was the knowledge that she had brought us all through the difficult childhood years despite phenomenal difficulties. She had struggled, fought, protected … and she had won in so many different ways.
Later in the week she counted the money in her purse and decided it would just stretch to a bus run. We decided on the scenic tour that wound round Loch Eck and ‘Ower the hill to Ardentinny’.
The driver was one of those obliging souls that are known as gems. He whipped me up in his arms, sang ‘Here comes the bride’, and dumped me carelessly in a front seat.
‘C’mon now, sweetheart,’ he said to Mam. ‘Sit behind me and you’ll get a rare view of everything.’
The day was calm with mist hanging over the trees. We topped a rise and saw the looking-glass that was the Holy Loch with Kilmun Hill reflected in a patchwork of colour. The road to Loch Eck was a dream of misty blue mountains and thick lush forestry. Purple heather grew in abundance everywhere, fragrant masses that were irresistible to golden-brown honey bees.
Loch Eck came to us suddenly, breaking through the trees, the dark green depths denying the reflection of the blue sky, snatching its unique colouring from the ochre-brown mountain furred with dark evergreens. The unflurried surface of the loch created a perfe
ct mirror which gave the beholder a double bounty of unspoilt perfection that claimed a place in my heart forever.
‘Isn’t it lovely, Mam?’ I said joyfully.
‘I’ll remember this day and this place for the rest of my life,’ she said simply.
The bus cut off at this point and began the climb into the hills. When I looked back the view was like something from a lovely dream with Loch Eck far below, the mountains etched against the heavens, and a little white-washed inn uncurling a banner of smoke that hung in tatters against the hills.
We chugged ever upwards into the heart of the forest till we came to a hairpin bend. Loch Long shimmered in the distance, framed on either side by heather mountains with endless rows of spruce marching ever upward. Then we came into a glen of clean tumbling rivers and tiny whitewashed cottages. Hairy brown cows browsed in the meadows. An eagle soared, a speck in the vastness of space but interesting enough to make the driver stop the bus so that everyone could focus binoculars.
Ardentinny nestled in a bay where the sea lapped to a shore of white pebbles. Brown children paddled in the wavelets, their cries of rude pleasure insulting the incredible peace of the place. Drifting gulls squabbled gently, tangy woodsmoke hung suspended in the still air, mingling agreeably with the piquant scent of pinewoods.
‘If paradise is anything like this then I wouldn’t mind going,’ said Mam softly, her gaze taking in every detail on the journey.
All too soon the holiday was over, the sights and sounds of Argyll only precious memories. In the months that followed I had good reason to keep Mam constantly reminded of the good times that had been hers for a little while. It had been her first holiday in twenty-five years and the cruel twists of fate had already marked it down as her last.
Her illness came to her gradually but its progress would not be stemmed. It was the start of two torturous years for her and two years of unrest for those who loved her most. When we realized that it was not something that would get better with the passing of time, our lives became fraught with anxiety for this gentle soul who was the pivot round which our lives revolved. Like mine, her illness was rare, especially in a woman of her age. It was usually related to old age and Mam at barely fifty-two was still in the prime of her life.
The day she left to go into hospital my heart twisted with pain as I sat at the top of the stairs watching her being helped down by an ambulance attendant. She was very ill but her compassion for others was so strong she found the strength to help a small boy who had tripped on the stairs. Patting his head she said in her lilting voice, ‘There you are, lamb, you’re all right now.’
‘Oh Mam!’ my whole being cried out to her. ‘I love you and you’re going away and somehow I know things will never be the same again.’
Our house was strange and lonely without the presence of the one who made our poor little abode a home. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked with a frightening intensity in the silent kitchen. Her lovely crocheted bedspreads were no longer like gay flags but rather a too constant reminder of the patient hands that had fashioned odd bits of wool into things of beauty.
The smoke from Da’s pipe hung like a black pall over the room, as dark as the clouds that had gathered in our hearts. His head was bent, his shoulders stooped, and he found a release for his tensions in irritable words that stung us to feel unreasoning bitterness. We were all on edge, ready to take umbrage at the least thing so that our emotions could be released in words of anger, anything to hide the awful fears that raged within us.
It was difficult for me to travel to the hospital but desperation goaded me into devising some method that would enable me to see Mam. Margaret, always willing to face a challenge, took me to the nearest bus stop where I hoisted myself on to a bus with the aid of the platform pole and swung myself round it like a monkey, so gaining the seat just inside the door. Margaret then folded up my chair and placed it in the little recess under the stairs. We became adept at this method for travelling on public transport and the bus seldom had more than the normal wait at the stop.
Each Sunday I went to the hospital and though Mam chatted cheerfully I knew she was failing before my eyes. She had undergone rigorous and extremely painful tests and though she was receiving treatment her illness was to get much worse before there was any sign of improvement. Her spirit was wonderful, her faith in God unbroken.
‘I’ll be better in a wee while,’ she assured us frequently. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be home soon.’
Her locker bore an abundance of cards of one sort and another. On Mother’s Day the whole family was gathered round her bed. Mary was a regular visitor and on that Sunday brought a huge bunch of daffodils with orange trumpets. Mam held them against her face, tears of gratitude in her eyes. She never ceased to be grateful that she was held in such high regard by her family. Ian took a picture of her holding the flowers. Later, looking at the resulting photo, we saw that her mouth smiled but her eyes were weary. Yet it is the expression in Mam’s eyes that I remember most. They had always twinkled youthfully, even when encroaching years turned her hair to silver. Now, at the very depths of her illness, they shone with a deeper glow. It was as if her soul was using the medium of her eyes to prove that even though her spirit of endurance was undergoing its greatest test, she was winning through despite phenomenal difficulties.
But there were times when even her brave heart failed her and she sank into the crevasses of despair. One day she remained cheerful all through visiting, but when the time drew near for us to leave, tears sprang to her eyes and the words she spoke made my whole being cry out in fear. ‘I don’t mind dying now,’ she whispered, holding on to our hands tightly in a plea for understanding. ‘It would be lovely to be released from all this. I’d like fine to see my own mother again. It’s been so long …’
‘Don’t talk like that, Mam,’ I begged. ‘You’re going to get better.’
‘No, Chris, my lamb, not in this world.’
We had to leave her like that, sad, lonely. When we turned at the door to wave she barely raised her head to look at us, her hand falling listlessly back to her side.
Da was a poor unhappy soul. He spent hours moping at the fire, his pipe hanging dejectedly from his mouth. The only time he brightened was when he prepared himself for visiting Mam. He began to look his age, his sprightly youthful appearance falling from him like a mantle. Now we saw how much Mam meant to him. His years of bullying reign over the household had become dim in our minds with the passing of time. His harsh words were now like the senseless marks on blotting paper and because we were growing up we were able to be tolerant about many things and saw that his blundering ways covered an inability to show his deeper feelings. In many ways he had shown kindness and consideration to Mam; now illness separated them and he was a lost lonely man.
He did all in his power for her, going out of his way to get the things she requested. She loved flowers, particularly anemones, and he took them to her, looking out of character with the tiny posies clutched in his big calloused fists. She called them ‘annie-moonies’, and gazed at the rich jewel colours with affection before placing the blooms tenderly in water.
While she was in hospital we heard that our name had come up on the Corporation housing list. It meant the chance of a bigger house with an inside toilet. The Govan house had become very unsuitable for me now because Da was no longer able to carry me up and down stairs. With the aid of a crutch I dragged myself up and down somehow, but it was a great effort and I was often a prisoner indoors, so I welcomed the news with delight.
‘It will be great for Mam, too,’ said Kirsty. ‘We’ll have a back and front door and a garden. You’ll be able to grow flowers, Da. You won’t need a window box any more. You can grow masses of Tom Thumbs and marigolds.’
We all felt better. Mam received the news with joy and immediately began to make plans for coming home. She was on a new drug that was proving very successful and when we saw how well she looked our hopes were high for the future. Her doc
tors were pleased at the news of the house, but told her to wait till the move was completed before even thinking of getting home.
We sifted through the collection of a lifetime, old things that we didn’t want to take to our new home. Da refused to part with his pop-eyed, frightening pictures but Kirsty, now with a lash to her own tongue and an ability to speak her mind, told him in no mean terms that he could take the pictures but they were to be hung in his own bedroom.
‘Less o’ yer vinegar, ye cheeky bugger,’ he told her with a return to his old asperity, but he said no more and Kirsty knew she had won the argument.
‘Imagine having a house with five rooms in it,’ I breathed in wonder, ‘and a bathroom with a bath …’
‘And a kitchen you’ll be able to get into to help with the work,’ said Kirsty with sarcasm.
‘I can’t help it if I can’t get into the scullery!’ I flashed back. ‘Anyway, I do help with the work. I always do the spuds in a basin on my knee and you always pass out the dishes for me to dry! In fact I’m treated like a skivvy in this house …’
‘That’s enough, you two!’ yelled Da, with a glare from his one eye. ‘Get oot the trunk till I start packing. Fetch me some papers tae wrap my picters up in, I don’t want them damaged. Alec, take these letters doon tae the midden and put a match tae them. I don’t want any o’ these nosy neighbours findin’ oot my business. There’s quite a stack so make a good bonfire.’
Under Da’s growled instructions we gradually got things in order. Alec made several trips to the midden with old family documents torn into a thousand pieces, just in case anything escaped the flames so that the neighbours could swoop on the family ‘secrets’. The Toilet Paper Lady watched our activities with interest, though she didn’t look as glad as I thought she might be at our going. Perhaps the years had dulled her memories of my pranks, because she actually said to Da she was sorry we were going and he was to remember her to Mam.
Blue Above the Chimneys Page 14