“I’ve no intentions of doing that. I was merely resting my eyes. Elizabeth, pass me my bag, not my handbag, the big one by the door.”
“My God, mother, what have you got in this? It weighs a ton.”
“That’s James’ whiskey.” Margaret pulled out the bottle.
“A full bottle… Scottie you’re a miracle worker!”
“It’s not from my Lourdes trip. It was on offer at the Co-op, their brand. I hope it’s all right.”
“Just say the magic word, ‘whiskey’, mum, and he’s happy.”
“Don’t be horrid Elizabeth. There’s Black Magic chocolates for you.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“My clear out.”
Margaret produced a pile of photographs. Ordinarily these would have been skimmed through politely but the past was increasingly more relevant to Elizabeth’s present. “Look James, there’s one of me balancing on my dad’s bike.”
“Don’t remind me,” said her mother. “My heart was in my mouth every time your father got on that wretched thing.”
“Dad taught me to ride a bike. He put wooden blocks on the pedals so my feet could reach them. Then he ran alongside of me holding the seat. I was fine until I realised he’d let go. I crashed into the kerb.”
“You wouldn’t believe it, James. Elizabeth was always a mass of bruises.”
“Roller skating down the hill was my best trick, slamming into the gas lamp to stop.”
“You looked like a prize fighter with an enormous bump on your head and purple bruised eyes. I gave your dad a hard time when that happened. He was supposed to be looking after you! Not long after they changed the lamp for an electric one.”
“I’d learned to stop by then. Mum you’re not ill or anything?”
“Don’t be silly Elizabeth. The news from India has made me think a great deal and I want to set my life in order.” Margaret explained the things she’d found for the Indian children. Elizabeth agreed that the ring, sari pin and letter opener were rightfully theirs.
“This belongs to you.” Margaret said, fishing in her bag and drawing out a slim cardboard box, the size of a paperback book, on which she’d written
To Elizabeth with love from mum, your father pinned this on your chest before he pinned it on his own. He wanted you to have it and so do I.
Elizabeth opened the box. There was a medal, and a letter. The medal had numbers inscribed round the rim and on the back the words, For Bravery in the Field.
Margaret said the number was Tommy’s army number and the letter was from the King. Elizabeth read the letter.
I greatly regret that I am unable to give you personally the award which you have so well earned.
I now send it to you with my congratulations and my best wishes for your future happiness.
James studied it but couldn’t find the date. “I think the King must have been ill when this was written. He’d been ill for some time with tuberculosis and lung cancer. He died before your father did.”
“Elizabeth, your father named you after his daughter, our present Queen.”
“So we both lost our fathers and they both had T.B. I didn’t realise the king had the same disease. In fact there’s a lot I don’t know, especially about my father.”
“You only need to know how much he loved you. Nothing else matters.” Margaret said, giving Elizabeth a copy of the citation that accompanied Tommy’s military medal.
This medal was awarded to Thomas Waters for conspicuous gallantry, coolness under enemy fire and devotion to duty during airborne operations in the Ranville area on 6/7 June 1944.
On the 6th of June Cpl Waters volunteered to bring in a wounded comrade from an exposed position: in the face of accurate enemy sniping which had already caused casualties he coolly went forward and brought in the wounded man.
He then continued his duty of laying a single line along an exposed route under constant enemy sniping and small arms fire. When this line was cut by enemy fire Corporal Waters again went out voluntarily and repaired communications in full view of the enemy.
By his gallantry and complete disregard of personal dangers Cpl Waters maintained communications between Brigade H. Q. and a Battalion holding a vital position.
James said thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’m a coward but I’ve no idea what I’d do if I had to go to war.”
Margaret said that no one could possibly know how they’d behave. There were brave deeds that went unrecognised. She thought Tommy was braver after the war, dealing with his injuries.
Elizabeth remembered him cleaning his medals and marching in the Armistice Parade. Gradually, while they talked, more memories returned. Her father’s artificial eye was kept on cotton wool, in a red Captain Web match box. Granddad would send her running with it, across the field at the bottom of the garden, to head her father off on the road. He’d stop. Take out the eye. Pop it into its empty socket. Hop on his post bike and ride on. How she wished it could make him see. She began to feel sad, in the way she sometimes had as a child. “I’m sure he’d have got on with you, James.”
James winked at her mother, “He could have helped me keep you two in line.”
“Oh I don’t know about keeping us in line. Tommy and you would have been as bad as one another…”
“We couldn’t have that, mum! James is bad enough on his own!”
“Maybe so Lizzie, but I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to meet him.”
“My dad was quite a character. Once, when we came back from Scotland, mum got a taxi from the station to Conisbrough. We passed dad sitting outside the pub with his leg in plaster. He made the mistake of waving his pint in salute. Mum wouldn’t let the taxi driver stop to pick him up!”
“No wonder!” Margaret said, eager to put the record straight, “Instead of coming to Scotland with us he’d stayed behind to go to the Parachute Regiment reunion dinner. Granddad sent a telegram saying there’d been an accident, worrying me to death. When I saw your father large as life I was so cross. He said it was my fault for moving the bedroom furniture before going away. The bed was in a different position. He’d woken up to go to the toilet. Half asleep and with plenty of beer inside him, he must have been dreaming he was in the aeroplane over France. He climbed on the bedroom window ledge, opened the window and jumped out. He caught his foot in a hole that granddad had dug in the rose bed below. Peggy McCabe found him.”
“Wasn’t his father there?”
Margaret laughed, “He slept through it.”
“Slept through it!”
“Oh James, dad was always doing something.”
It was true. One thing after another, but somehow Margaret got through it. “We were so poor Elizabeth, I wonder if you missed out.”
“Missed out!” Elizabeth said. “I had wonderful holidays with the aunts in Scotland, beach picnics, camping and making concerts with my cousins in the cellars of Aunt Mary’s house in Edinburgh. Bike rides and blackberrying with dad at home, singsongs round the piano with Aunt Florrie’s lot. I loved every minute of it but the scholarship to Notre Dame changed my life.”
Margaret recollected the day the teacher called to inform her that Elizabeth had passed the Eleven Plus. It was a courtesy call. The primary school had assumed Margaret couldn’t afford the school uniform and bus fares to either Mexborough Grammar school, or to Notre Dame. Why had they bothered to take her daughter to Sheffield for the convent school entrance test and interview? They hadn’t said anything when Elizabeth passed it. “If I’d had to take in washing you’d have gone to Notre Dame!”
Elizabeth hadn’t seen her mother look so angry. James thought Margaret was going to cry.
Elizabeth’s childhood memories contained no hint of the poverty her mother fought to compensate, or the times when a feather falling from the pillow was
too much for her father. After his death there were days when her mother’s purse had held only the bus fare to work. They’d made do with second hand clothes and, from autumn to spring, went to bed early to conserve coal and electricity. Yet they were happy. Material things weren’t important and there were people worse off. Not having a father was different, that hurt. She squeezed her mother’s hand. “Mum, you mustn’t think for a minute that I’ve missed out on anything.”
A lump rose in Margaret’s throat, “If you don’t mind, James, I’d like to go home.”
The bright red of Margaret’s winter coat clashed with their sombre mood. Elizabeth tried to persuade her to stay but she said she was happier in her own bed.
Margaret travelled in the back of the car. James tried to make conversation. She didn’t reply. He used to think she couldn’t hear him because of the sound of the engine. He now believed her deafness was selective but today she would have too much to think about to talk.
Chapter 43
Monday morning and James was reading the Guardian at the kitchen table. Elizabeth flicked at the open pages as she passed.
“Steady on Lizzie, I was reading that” he said, turning out of her way.
“The paper boy’s early.”
“No, I walked into the village and got it before he left the shop.”
“Couldn’t you sleep either?”
“I’ve snatched a few hours but it feels as if I haven’t.” James yawned and folded the newspaper.
“It’s Mum, isn’t it? I’ve absolutely no idea what to do…” Elizabeth stuck her porridge in the microwave, switched on the radio, and watered the herbs on the kitchen window ledge.
“Sit down a minute, Lizzie.”
“I haven’t time.”
“Well, make time. This is important!”
She turned the radio off, poured a coffee and sat down to eat her breakfast.
“Scottie’s not my mother but I think we need to help draw a line under the past. I don’t mean to sound unfeeling but Ben and your dad belong there. Your sister and brothers are alive, in India. We should encourage her to enjoy them.” Elizabeth nodded. He buttered his toast. “If your mother met the Indians it might help.”
“I’ve invited them to come here but, when I’ve mentioned it, she’s not keen. They sort of hint it would be easier if we went there.”
“We’ll go then.”
“I’d love to, but Mum won’t have it. She thinks something might happen to us.”
“I can’t see why.”
“I know it’s ludicrous but we can’t go unless she’s happy about it.”
“Precisely, but the odds of her going to India are slim. She isn’t getting any younger. It’s foolish to put things off.”
“I see what you mean. It’s odd that we’ve not had a letter for ages. On the other hand I’ve been so busy I’ve not written to them. I’ll drop a line tonight… suggest dates.” Elizabeth said, finishing her porridge and picking up her car keys.
“Hang on Lizzie. What’s the rush? School will wait this might not.”
“Five more minutes, then it will have to wait ’til tonight.”
“Look there’s no need to get annoyed… I’m not sure your mum knows what she wants.”
“I’m not annoyed. It’s just so worrying.” Lizzie leant on the table. “If mum would make up her mind we could do something. It seems such a shame they can’t be together.” She glanced at the clock. “God look at the time! If she’d had the phone…”
“Don’t rake that up again. We are where we are. I’ll find a way to call in.”
“If you do, be careful what you say…”
* * * * *
Margaret was dressed, her coat, hat and gloves warming on the kitchen storage heater. “Another minute James and you’d have missed me. I’ll stick the kettle on,”
“Going somewhere nice?” he asked, warming himself by the fire in the snug sitting room.
“It’s my week for Tommy’s grave, but there’s no hurry.”
“If you like Scottie, we can skip the tea and I’ll drop you off. I’m on my way to a meeting.”
“In Doncaster… ?”
“Okay you’ve got me. I have got a meeting this morning but it’s in Leeds. We wanted to see if you were all right.”
“I won’t be if you two don’t stop fussing.” She drank the tea that neither of them wanted. “James, you get off. I might as well wait for the post. I’ve not heard from India for weeks.”
“Neither have we. We were talking about it this morning. Lizzie thought she’d write and suggest dates they might like to come, if not, we could go there.”
“Let’s wait and see. There’s no rush. “
James wondered if his mother-in-law was deliberately delaying meeting the Indian children. He’d promised Lizzie he wouldn’t press but Scottie could be so awkward! He drove to Leeds blasting out a tape of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah.
So like James, Margaret thought fondly, ready to dash off to India, at a moments notice. How could he, with his secure childhood in York, envisage Elizabeth’s impoverished growing up, let alone the complexities of Indian families? Margaret had learned to her cost that it was wisest to take things slowly… be certain what you were getting into.
* * * * *
The frank exchange of letters renewed Margaret’s confidence in the children’s affection but not enough to risk Elizabeth visiting them. There could be hundreds of reasons for the present gap in contact, the most logical being the boys’ military duties. She couldn’t get directly in touch with them except by letter; to suddenly acquire a British mother might compromise their careers. Her heart lifted when the late post came.
Bhopal
Dearest Mama,
I am sorry to tell you that my father is no more. He was admitted to the All India Medical institute on the 6th of October with a stoke resulting in paralysis. On the 7th my son sent telegrams to the family to come to Delhi. On the 8th my father entered a state of coma and had no senses. By the 10th of October all reached Delhi and on the 11th at 15.30 he died.
I took his dead body to the Sacred River Ganges and cremated him as per Vedic rites on the 12th. From the 13th to the 24th daily procedural worship was performed and then I left for Bhopal as I am posted here.
I have been to church to pray for you. The time for regrets and anger is over. One day we will sit together in peace and love and you can bestow your blessings on your unworthy son.
Saurabh
It was forbidden to write letters or socialise during the days of mourning and ritual ceremonies. After that the bereaved could take up their lives again. Margaret was sorry for the unhappiness Ben’s death had caused but he’d died peacefully with his children round him. His mother had died a frightening, lonely death from a heart attack while travelling on a train. Hiten too, murdered by acid flung in his face, with no children to avenge him or carry his name. This late settling of scores brought Margaret no satisfaction.
Had Ben ever been truly happy? Maybe in their early days together, they were both so different then, drunk on youth. She didn’t regret falling in love with him, going to India, having the children. The regret was in the ending. The unnecessary cruelty … the sacrifice of the children — but it was finally over. Saurabh was right. The anger had gone, and with Ben’s death everything was in the hands of the next generation.
* * * * *
The cemetery at Denaby was meticulously kept by the relatives of the dead. It was somewhere to stroll through, admire the flowers, read the gravestones or pass the time of day. Margaret kept her gloves on while she emptied the withered chrysanthemums from the vase on Tommy’s grave. These nippy winter days stiffened her fingers but she took out the duster and scissors from her black cemetery bag, polished the headstone and trimmed the ragged grass gr
owing over the base.
She talked to Tommy while she worked, telling him she’d been ready to come when James arrived and, that she almost hadn’t when she read of Ben’s death. The strain of being one person one minute and a half forgotten shadow the next was wearisome. A great burden was lifted. She was indisputably his wife: Mrs Waters: Elizabeth’s mother.
There were few people alive who knew the truth, just her sister Jean and their brother John, Nan’s daughter Sheila, Florrie and Matt. The rest were all dead. Florrie’s eldest son was buried in the plot next to Tommy. At Christmas the grave would be covered with bouquets and holly wreaths. Tommy had been alive when Florrie married Matt. What a party! They had celebrated in the Miner’s Welfare.
Over the years Florrie’s children increased to seven, united by her generous heart. If Margaret achieved that for Elizabeth and the Indians her life would be complete. Reconciliation between Elizabeth and the boys had been easy. At first there was a little distancing between the girls but they became friends through their innumerable letters.
Elizabeth said that having Indian brothers and a sister enriched her life… enriched her life! It was time to get things out in the open. If Tommy were alive he’d say, “Don’t be daft woman. Stop shilly shallying around and get on with it.” He always said she thought too much, and after his first accident it was true, and more so after his death. Tommy considered himself a lucky man, but she was luckier to have been loved by him.
He wouldn’t recognise Denaby now. One of the collieries had closed and the council had replaced the old pit terraces with modern semidetached houses, each with its own garden. However the latest miners’ strike had set family against family, fragmenting the tight community. Margaret believed Thatcher’s plan to smash the miners’ union and close the pits would rebound on the country for years to come.
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