by Dee Yates
*
When Ellen turned to the sink to peel potatoes for dinner, her face was grim. She could not help but feel that Tom was playing games with her.
But as the days progressed, he proved her wrong. He set about helping his father-in-law with enthusiasm. Lambing began in earnest and their time – and that of an extra shepherd who had been hired by Kenneth Douglas in anticipation of Tom’s absence – was full. They took it in turns to do the evening rounds of the ewes on the in-bye land. The rest, scattered over several square miles, were visited twice a day, each shepherd taking his turn to do the longest of the walks.
The days were lengthening now and the hours of darkness receding. As night followed night, Ellen lay unmoving by Tom’s side, her eyes fixed on the rectangle of window. She watched dawn’s steady progress and heard the ewes answer the high-pitched cries of their youngsters with sonorous bleats. Within her the baby stirred and kicked, oblivious to the turmoil of emotions that prevented Ellen from sleeping.
She had tried her hardest to be a good wife to Tom and look after their little daughter. She had loved him, or at least she thought she had. But now she was not so sure. The sensation that had blossomed over the time of her friendship with Josef was threatening to overwhelm her. She could neither eat nor rest. And the worst of it was that, in her eyes, Tom was largely to blame. If it had not been for his treatment of her, his distrust of her every action, the occasions when he meted out his heavy-handed punishment for supposed wrongs, she would never have looked to another for comfort and friendship. And now, when the die was cast, he was treating her as he had in the first months of their marriage. Only now it was too late.
She must have dozed. Abruptly she was jerked into wakefulness by Tom’s shouts. Recognising a return of his nightmares, she groped for the bedside table and, with trembling fingers, struck a match and held it to the candle. She turned to her husband and shook him gently but firmly.
‘Tom! Wake up. You’re having one of your bad dreams again. It’s all right… I’m here.’
Tom sat up suddenly and stared ahead. She put her arms round him and rocked him to and fro. He quietened and stroked her hair, running his hand down its soft silkiness.
‘Clara, don’t leave me. Stay with me. I need you.’
Ellen pulled away from him appalled and he stared at her blankly for a few seconds. Then his chin fell forward onto his chest and he gave a great sob.
‘Ellen, I’m sorry. It must have been a dream. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t want to go away again. I want to stay here on the farm… with Netta… and with you.’
Tom held out his arms and she let him hold her and kiss her cheeks and her hair and her lips. But her own lips were unresponsive and her eyes sought the window.
When he lay back and drew her over him, she obeyed. But the kisses she tasted were not his and it was another’s body that she imagined beneath her own.
34
All Change
News of the progress of the war filtered into the prison camp, giving rise to a variety of opinions. Some reacted with patriotic fervour to the information that their aggressors were gaining the upper hand. Others, weary with hard labour and homesick to the core, were secretly relieved that hostilities might soon be at an end, whatever the outcome might be. These kept their opinions to themselves.
To Josef Kessler, the reports served to heighten the emotions that assailed him daily. He too longed to see his homeland again and longed even more to be reunited with his parents and his sister. But, above all, he craved news of Ellen. Since the morning her husband had attacked him, he had not seen her. He had been called before the captain, who, though severe and reprimanding, had at least had compassion enough to tell him that he had visited Ellen. She too had been beaten by her husband, he said, but was thankfully none the worse for her ordeal. He implied that both of them had got no more than they deserved. Josef did not try to argue with him. Their visits to the graveyard would stop. They were not to meet again. The captain's words were like a death sentence.
How was Ellen being treated now at the hands of her husband? His heart turned cold when he thought of what might be going on in the farm cottage and he raged at his impotence to protect her. How he longed to see her again.
The watch on Josef and his fellow prisoners was increased. ‘Look what you’ve done now, Music Boy,’ Vogel snarled at him. ‘You and your amorous adventures!’ Josef said nothing. There was nothing he could say that would not inflame an already hopeless situation.
Ellen never took her walks in the direction the men were working and, because they were still engaged on building up the embankment, there was no opportunity for Josef to see, even from a distance, the farmstead where Ellen and her family lived. Often, he glimpsed the farmer’s wife and it comforted him to know that she was visiting Ellen and no doubt looking after her. Ellen must be near her time now and fearful of the outcome after what she had previously had to endure.
How he wished the baby was his.
But he must stop thinking like this or he would go mad.
*
Tom stared unseeing out of the carriage window, as the train grumbled towards Glasgow. At Motherwell a throng of workers boarded, but his eyes remained fixed on the grimy glass. The guard slammed the door of the carriage and gave a shrill blast on the whistle.
Tom’s face contorted in horror. He felt his mouth go dry and he lifted trembling hands to wipe the sweat from his brow. A voice was screaming inside his head: ‘Faster up that ladder. We haven’t got all day! Keep in line, you untidy bunch of no-good layabouts. Now, over the top. Forward, men! Let them know what we’re made of. Forward! Forward!’
‘You all right, pal? Calm down. It’s only the Glasgow train you’re on, not the German front.’
Tom stared at the man who had addressed him and then looked round with a dazed expression. The compartment was full. Sympathetic faces stared in his direction. He turned away in embarrassment as he awoke to his predicament. The train was out of the station now, picking up speed, the clanking of couplings and reluctant grind of wheels on iron relinquished in favour of the rhythmic sing-song of the rails.
‘Here, pal, have one of these.’
Tom raised a shaking hand and took the proffered cigarette, dropping it immediately into his lap. He fumbled to retrieve it, anchored it with concentration in his mouth, as his benefactor struck a match and held it close. He drew deeply on the cigarette, sank back on the headrest and blew out a slow spiral of smoke.
‘Thanks, pal.’ He gave a shame-faced look at the man opposite, trying to blot out the curious looks of the remaining occupants of the carriage. ‘Sorry about that. Must have been dreaming.’
‘Aye. Och, there’s no need for apologies. I’m Jimmy Beattie, by the way.’ He held out his hand and Tom shook it. He was an elderly man, ready for retirement, a thin, wrinkled face, blue-grey lachrymose eyes. He nodded toward Tom’s uniform. ‘You on your way back to the battlefield, pal?’
‘Aye. Rejoining my regiment. The name’s Tom… Tom Fairclough.’
‘You been on leave then?’
‘Compulsory leave, more like. War wound.’
‘Good luck then, pal. They say the war may soon be over.’
‘Aye, that’s what they say. I’ll believe it when I’m back looking after my sheep.’
Jimmy Beattie drew deeply on his own cigarette and gazed out of the window. The train stopped and started, picking up more workers, bearing them on its relentless progress towards the city.
Too soon, they arrived. Amid a bustle of people, anxious not to be late for work, Tom rose slowly and retrieved his kitbag from the rack. When he turned, Jimmy Beattie was waiting for him. He held out his hand again.
‘Well, goodbye, pal. And good luck.’ His voice cracked and Tom looked up anxiously. Tears were tracking unevenly down the ageing face. ‘My turn to apologise now,’ he said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘I had two lads myself. Joined up almost as soon as war started, they
did. They were tram drivers in Glasgow. Do ye ken how they enlisted in large numbers, the tram workers?’
‘Aye.’
‘The wife and I, we were so proud of them… not knowing what it would be like. They died within days of one another, just weeks after the start of hostilities. I wasnae going to tell you. But it’s gey hard without them… and it doesnae get any easier.’
A porter put his head round the carriage door. ‘All change here, pals. Hurry along now.’
Jimmy stepped onto the platform. ‘That’s me away then, Tom. Here's hoping it will soon be over.’ He forced a smile and made off towards the exit.
Tom walked slowly along the platform, handed in his ticket and emerged into the damp streets of Glasgow, setting off in the direction of Brigade Headquarters, where he was to report for duty before going on to Queen Street Station and picking up the Edinburgh train. The meeting was brief, no more than a few minutes. Leaving the building, he stuffed his papers into the inside pocket of his greatcoat and set off along the pathway.
It had started to rain. Tom turned up the collar of his greatcoat as the downpour got heavier, but it was futile… as futile as when he had done so in the trenches. If it was raining like this at the front, he could well imagine the mud that would greet his arrival. It would soon cake his legs and make its way into his boots. Then his body would be invaded with lice. And so it would remain, until war came to an end… or he did.
His steps slowed. It struck him again, as it had done before in the heat of battle, that his time would surely come. He could not go on being so lucky. How would it end? Would he finish up in one of those flooded craters that he had dreaded so much, drowning in the stinking mud among the decomposing bodies?
At the station, he bought a cup of tea and a bun and sat down in a corner, well away from the other travellers. But he had no appetite for food, and after one bite, pushed the cake away. The tea was scalding hot and good. He took several gulps and replaced the cup unsteadily in its saucer. He thought of his family. Ellen had wept at his going, but he wondered, not for the first time, if his earlier behaviour had been such as to make their future together uncertain. In just over three months, she was to bear his baby and him not there to support her when she most needed it. Pulling out a postcard, ready stamped, that he had intended to send once embarkation was arranged, he wrote hastily,
My dearest Ellen,
I am here at the station waiting for my train to Edinburgh. I shall be thinking of you over the next few difficult months. I wish I could be there to see our new baby.
Assuring you of my fondest love,
Your husband, Tom.
‘Another cup, sir? The waitress was at his elbow but he was so engrossed he hadn’t seen her.
‘Oh, aye. I don’t mind if I do.’
The woman took his cup to the counter and returned with a second steaming cup of tea.
‘On the house, sir. You’re away to the front, I guess?’
Tom smiled. ‘Aye, lass, I am.’
‘Just writing to your sweetheart, are you, before you leave?’
‘To my wife, actually. I’ve a wife and child back home.’
‘I guessed you might be.’
‘My daughter’s two now. I’ve a photo of her somewhere.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket, found his packet of photos and, with trembling hands, began to withdraw the picture of Netta seated on Ellen’s knee. His hand continued to shake as he handed the photo to the waitress.
She took it from him, giving him a sympathetic glance as she did so.
‘That there’s my wife, Ellen,’ he indicated, trying desperately to bring the shaking under control. ‘My little girl’s called Netta. I… I’m sorry. I’m not so good at the moment.’ He took the photo back and, in attempting to replace it in the packet, sent the remaining pictures skidding in all directions across the floor of the cafe. With a curse, he leant down to gather them up.
‘Och, man, let me give you a hand.’ The waitress scooped up the last two photos and, straightening up, handed them to him. ‘Well, good luck to you.’ She paused. ‘Come home safe. They say the end is in sight now.’
Tom looked at the waitress’s departing figure. Everyone was wishing him well today, almost as if they knew his number was up. He picked up the cup and took a gulp. Some of the tea spilled onto his greatcoat. Replacing the cup on its saucer, he wiped the stain with his handkerchief. He must take more care or he would have to answer to his C.O. for being badly turned-out.
In the station he made his way slowly to the platform. His train was not yet in, but on the other side of his platform the line was occupied. A crackling voice overhead informed him that the train now standing at platform four was the eleven forty for Craigendoran Junction. He had never heard of the place but, wherever it was, there were very few people interested in travelling there. The engine let out a sudden hiss of steam, making him jump, and the carriages clanked and creaked as the train prepared to leave. Tom’s pulse rose. From boyhood the sound had always evoked a sense of excitement. All around him the air began to reverberate with the clamour, as the engine slowly drew out of the station. And in a second the platform and its sole occupant were eclipsed in the billows of smoke that accompanied the train’s slow departure to its destination.
35
A Modicum of Comfort
On the twenty-fourth of August 1918 Ellen gave birth to a baby girl. She was surprised at the comparative ease with which the labour progressed. Time and again over the past weeks she had found her mind going back to the nightmare of Netta’s birth when she had been sure she was going to die. But this time Margaret had held her hand and told her how well she was doing and she had found, to her surprise, that she was in fact doing well.
When it was over and she was cradling the baby in the crook of her arm, Duncan and Netta were allowed in. Netta gave the baby a disinterested look and slithered off the bed to find her toys, but Duncan stayed to admire his new granddaughter.
‘She’s not a bit like Netta. Perhaps she’s going to take after you, hen. Her hair is certainly the same colour as yours.’
‘It would be unusual to have another baby looking as much like her daddy as Netta does,’ Ellen replied. ‘This one will have a look all of her own.’
‘Have you and Tom decided what you will call her?’
Ellen shook her head. ‘I asked Tom before he left but he didnae give me any ideas for a girl, so I suppose I must decide for myself.’
‘But you will write and tell him?’
‘Of course.’
Margaret Murdie, who had been busy in the kitchen, put her head round the door. ‘There’s a gentleman downstairs, wishing to talk to the lady of the house. I told him she was indisposed, so he said could he have a word with you, Duncan. Hurry back though. I’ve made us all a nice cup of tea.’
Margaret placed the tray carefully on the bedside table and took the baby from Ellen. She stood a minute, cradling the tiny bundle in her arms. The baby had woken and was staring at the older woman with unblinking blue eyes.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Margaret. I don’t know how we’d have managed without you,’ Ellen said softly.
Margaret smiled at Ellen and, turning away, placed the baby gently in her crib, tucking the sheet in firmly around her. As she straightened up, she dabbed both eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘I’m sorry. I’m gey happy for you all, I really am. It’s just that it puts me in mind of Iain and when I gave birth to him. I suppose we’re all the same, remembering our own labour. I miss him so much… and his dad, of course.’ She sniffed. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m just a silly old fool.’
‘You’re no’ silly… and you’re certainly no’ old.’
Duncan had come quietly into the room and, stepping up to her, put a comforting arm round her shoulders. ‘But as for being a fool…’ He hesitated and Margaret looked at him sternly.
‘You take care who you’re calling a fool, Duncan Simpson, or you could find yourself getting your own t
ea in future.’
‘Who was it at the door, Father?’
‘Och, it was someone from Brigade Headquarters, wanting to speak to Tom. I told him Tom had been gone three months or more, as he would have known if he kept his records in order.’
‘I hope you didn’t say that to him!’ Margaret laughed.
‘Well, it’s no more than the truth,’ Duncan replied with a smile.
Netta climbed untidily onto the bed and snuggled down beside her mother, while the baby surveyed the scene with her pale blue eyes and a slight frown, as if deciding whether this was a suitable family for her. And Ellen, looking at the tiny miracle, felt her heart give a lurch of thankfulness and longing.
Ellen wrote to Tom the following day. It was the last of several letters she had written since his departure. She had received none in return, apart from the postcard sent from Glasgow while he was waiting for the train. The postcard that had assured her of his fondest love. She sighed. Here she was in the same position as before… not knowing whether Tom was dead or alive. Beneath the joy of her daughter’s arrival, she was angry… angry that she had to go through this without the support of even a letter, and angry that all possibility of contact with Josef had been taken away. I have called her Eva, she wrote bluntly.
If he was not upset before, this letter might well make him so. She could imagine his comment. ‘What kind of a name is that? It’s not Scottish. It’s not even English.’
If, of course, he received this letter.
*
Anxious not to miss the heather purpling the hillsides around the farm, Ellen set off walking with her two daughters, as soon as she felt strong enough to do so. It was hard work, the baby wrapped securely in one end of the perambulator and Netta bouncing up and down in the other. September was nearing its end but the weather was warm and she had not gone far before she had removed her coat and hung it over the handle of the pram.
Although Margaret was a frequent visitor, it was a long time since Ellen had walked the road to the older woman's farm. Everywhere there was talk of an imminent end to the war, and, if this were so, the prisoners were not likely to be in the valley for much longer. Ellen was anxious to see Josef one more time and knowing that she may get no chance to speak to him, she had written him a letter.