Her Sister's Gift

by Isabel Jackson

  “Wait for me, Isa,” she heard her sister call.

  Isa could see the train now just twenty yards away. Eliza should not try to cross now. It was too risky.

  “Stay there, Eliza,” she yelled. “The train’s comin’. Stay there! Stay there!”

  But the roar of the engine was drowning Isa’s voice. Eliza, a nervous, frightened six-year-old, anxious to cross the line and catch up with her sisters, had started to run down the slope so fast that her feet caught up in each other and she tumbled over, rolling down the slope towards the line.

  Isa, on the opposite side, saw her sister trip, then the coal wagons passed by, obscuring her view. It took only seconds for the train to pass but for Isa time had stopped while her heart thumped in her chest the loudest she’d ever known, wagon after wagon clunking over the tracks. Finally the last one passed and she could see the line.

  The air was shattered by a primeval scream, so loud it immediately drew some of the men from the yard at the works hurrying along the line, the hairs on the back of their necks standing on end at the sound.

  Alongside the tracks was an auburn-haired girl staring at the ground. What on earth was she doing? One of the men ran down the line towards her. As he got nearer he looked on the line at the spot where the youngster was so fixedly staring and there he saw what appeared to be some clothing.

  He focused on the girl and waved to get her attention. “Get awaw frae the line lass. It’s no safe. I’ll fetch whit yer needin’ awf the line.”

  She didn’t move, didn’t turn her head, just stared at the track. Now that he was nearer he saw an arm, twisted, a leg at a terrible angle from the small body and blood on the tracks.

  *

  “Yer nearly there Mary. I can see the heid. Come on noo, lass. A couple more pushes should do it.” Jessie herself was exhausted. It had been two hours now since Isa had fetched her to the house but the labour was going well and it would soon be over. Mary had done a grand job working with the contractions but she was getting near the end of her energy reserves and Jessie hoped the baby would be here soon. She wiped the glistening brow again and took hold of Mary’s hand. The labouring woman gripped it tightly almost to the point of pain. But Jessie didn’t mind. She’d done it herself when Mary had helped birth her youngest.

  She saw the rippling belly again and realised another contraction had gripped the woman. “Go wi’ it Mary. Push as hard as you can.”

  Mary let out a long roar of sustained effort.

  And there it was: the eel-like red slipperiness out of the labouring body and lying limp and wet on the sheets and towels. Mary lay back on the pillows in utter exhaustion. It was done. Jessie cut the cord. The baby was a strange, dark red. Why was there no wriggling? No arm movement? Why was the face so still? She checked inside his mouth to see if the airway was blocked. Nothing. She held the baby upside down and gave it a slight skelp. Nothing. Again . . . Nothing.

  In the bed behind the half-drawn curtain, Mary asked in a whisper, “Is it a boy, Jessie?”

  “Aye it is, lass.”

  “John’ll be pleased.”

  “Aye, he will.”

  “And is he aw’right?” The voice so faint, so sleepy.

  Jessie made a quiet reassuring noise and concentrated on trying to rouse the child but to no avail. The questions stopped from behind the curtain. Mary had slipped into an exhausted sleep. Jessie tried mouth to mouth. She pressed on the tiny abdomen to try to get the wee one to take a first breath.

  She wrapped the child in the towels and ran to the door. She should send Isa for help but she was out of sight. She spotted Belva from down the road and called her over.

  “Belva!” Her voice was hoarse, her breath coming in gasps. She could feel her heart pumping in loud beats throughout her chest as she crossed the street towards the other woman. “It’s Mary’s new bairn. He’s no breathin’. We need the doctor. I dinna ken whit else tae dae.”

  Belva peered into the towels and saw the dark tinge in the skin, something she’d seen before on other unfortunate infants who never drew breath. “Jessie . . . he’s long gone, dear. He surely was deid afore she went into labour, puir thing. There’s naethin’ tae be daen. We need to concentrate on her noo. Ah’ll send Andrew tae fetch the doctor. You go in tae her. Watch for the efterbirth. Keep her calm. I’ll be o’er shortly.”

  Jessie looked down at the lifeless face in the towels.

  “Oh my God, Belva. Whit’ll I tell her?” But the other woman was already headed back to her own house to send her son on his errand.

  *

  The yardsman led Isa away from the track. He blew his whistle sharp and loud. Three long blasts. One of the signalmen and some other men from the yards came along the track. He waved them over and walked up the line to meet them.

  “Somethin’ awful’s happened. There’s a child on the line. She’s badly injured. That lassie’s wee sister. I think they’re John Dick’s bairns. We need to get the ambulance. Although I dinnae think there’s ony hope, the state o’ her.” It was taking all his strength not to weep.

  Thomas Macleod looked at the dazed, bewildered child and saw James was right. It was the Dick girl, his neighbour’s oldest. “I’ll tak’ her, James. I ken whaur they stey.” Isa was shaking now, sobbing, incoherently moaning and clutching herself. He led her away from the gruesome sight of the child who still lay twisted and broken on the line.

  “Isa we hiv tae get ye hame. We’re phonin’ for the ambulance for Eliza. Whaur are Maggie and Chrissie? Are they at hame?”

  Isa managed a nod in the direction of the path. “Right then, come ye on wi’ me, lass,” and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and led the way back up the embankment.

  Eliza’s crushed body was still on the line, her dark hair shining in the sun, woven through with daisies, her face untouched, no sign of pain, as if her life had been snatched out of her body before the train struck. One of the men felt for a pulse, but they all knew from the twisted angles in the limbs, the mangled body and the almost severed leg there was no chance. They were glad her younger sisters had been out of sight. The older one was in a right state. The men were silent. There were no words for this. They took off their jackets and reverently covered the child, keeping vigil over her until the ambulance came. The signalman went back to his box and made sure the line would be left clear.

  James, the yardsman who had recognised the girls, made his way towards the foundry to find their father. The heavy burden of the dreadful news he had to carry to this man gripped itself around his heart and he ached with the weight of it.

  2

  At the house in Sunnyside a shocked and silent lament shrouded the family and left them wordless and isolated. Only Chrissie and Margaret spoke. Chrissie knew little of what had taken place and in a subdued voice kept asking, piteously like a kitten mewling in the rain, “Where Eliza?”

  Margaret had heard the words “she died” and repeated them in a whisper to her sister, but with no real understanding of what they meant she added, “She’ll be back soon.” Neither knew anything of the baby brother who never made it into the world.

  Their mother lay in bed staring at the ceiling, and clutching the bedding. Jessie Macleod moved around quietly getting food ready for them, coaxing Mary to eat or drink a little. She picked up Chrissie when she cried and tried to keep Margaret busy with little jobs, drying pots and mixing things with wooden spoons. She did not know how to share her friend’s pain, which went beyond her ken. She did what she could to keep everything else going and trusted time would work on Mary and bring her back to them.

  John tried to comfort his wife but she was in a dark, lonely, painful place beyond his reach. He threw himself into his work and found some release in physical labour, emptying his body of the anguish he felt but could find no words to express. Yet each time his shift ended, his body and mind were filled with grief and pain as much as before.

  Isa had gone mute. She avoided eye contact and moved like an automaton
. Inside the pain grew like a weighty cancer: it clung to her limbs and made them heavy and clumsy; it wrapped its tentacles around her chest and made breathing an effort; it took over her mind and replayed the scene on an endless loop – Eliza coming down the slope, tripping, sliding, disappearing from sight as the train passed. Isa felt her fear again, heard herself screaming, “Stay there!” The long, long wait for the train to pass, and then the terrible sight of Eliza lying twisted on the track and her own piercing scream. Even in sleep there was no reprieve. Vivid nightmares took her back to the trackside every night. She would wake sweating, shaking, panting, terrified, reliving every ghastly moment. She was locked in to the event and there was no way to stop it.

  It was something others could not understand. When she’d gone back to school, her teacher had greeted the class as usual and then on seeing Isa’s wan face she’d voiced aloud the fact, “Of course, you lost your sister on Friday. I’m so sorry.” Suddenly Isa could not breathe. She had scrambled clumsily out of her seat, tripping over the metal spar that held the three-seated bench to the desk, and had run out of the door. Like someone drowning, desperate for air, she had burst into the schoolyard, stumbling over the steps and running frantically for home. Until now shock had blocked her personal loss but today her teacher’s words had allowed pain to ambush her from another direction. She no longer had Eliza. Her lovely shiny black hair, her deep-brown eyes ringed with dark blue, her freckles, her smile, all gone. Her singing and humming that had been the background to all their exploits silenced. Isa had no companion on the walk to school, no one to accompany her on errands, no one with whom to share her knowledge. Now there was this huge gap between Isa and her much younger sisters. She felt dreadfully alone with her pain. Her parents were stricken by their own grief and Margaret and Chrissie didn’t understand. Suddenly she didn’t want to go home. There was no comfort there, yet her feet had brought her automatically to Sunnyside Road.

  She saw their neighbour, Mrs Macleod, heading back to her own house. Jessie had been in attending to Mary, persuading her to take a sup of porridge and a few sips of tea. The wee ones were down having a nap and Mary was dozing herself, so Jessie was checking her own home briefly. She turned on to her path, looked up and smiled quietly to Isa. When she saw the state the girl was in, she put out her arms. Isa ran to her and flung herself on Jessie’s shoulder. Jessie wrapped her arms around the girl’s shaking body and held her tight. She stroked the auburn head and gently spoke reassurance over her like an incantation. “There there, lass. Let it oot. There’s nothin’ to be ashamed o’. It’s aw’right. I’m here. Come in wi’ me for a bit.” Still holding her close, she brought her into the living room and led her to the beaten brown sofa. They sat together, Isa with her head on Jessie’s lap, her arms tightly around her waist, Jessie calmly stroking her hair. When her sobs had quieted, Jessie offered her handkerchief and Isa wiped her eyes and nose.

  “Noo, lass,” she said. “You’ve been dealt a hard blow. You’re the only young one wha realises the twa losses tae your faimly. It hurts. But that’s life. Eliza is no’ the first to die on the line and yer mither’s no’ the first tae lose a bairn afore it’s born. She’ll be relyin’ on ye even mair noo. It’ll be tough for her the next while. And yer faither’ll hae to be at his work. I’ll be in bye to help as much as I can but I hiv my ain yins to see tae. But you can be a great help to yer faimly. You can dae a bit cookin’ and cleanin’ till yer mither’s on her feet again and it’ll help you tae. Work helps. It taks oor minds awf the pain, gies us some’at tae dae. Margaret and Chrissie will help you aw’ as weel. They need tae be lovit and caret fir. Ye cannae just gie in to yer grief and forget aboot them.”

  Jessie was heartbroken for the girl in her arms but she knew what she was proposing was the best remedy. When her mother had died suddenly, her grieving was put into perspective by the needs of her own young family. They still needed fed and walked to the school. Her husband still needed a meal on the table when he came home. She knew from experience how sorrow makes us selfish but the living call us back to the daily tasks that in the end can save us and show us a way out of the fog of grief.

  “Noo here’s whit we’ll dae. We’ll awaw back tae the hoose an’ mak’ some broth fir the denner. I wis fetchin’ a leek tae mak’ tattie soup. That was aye yer mither’s favourite. I’m relyin’ on you tae help me.”

  Isa raised her eyes to Mrs Macleod’s face. For the first time the grip on her chest seemed quieter. Some of the tension had found release. She was so grateful to this warm maternal woman who had understood her need to be comforted and had generously met it. She stood up on wobbly legs, took a deep breath and set off home with Jessie’s arm on her shoulder, determined to be of use.

  *

  The day of Eliza’s funeral was bright and warm, but inside the house, behind the drawn blinds, Isa felt shrouded in a dark, cold mist. She shivered in her black dress and stockings as she slipped on the black armband. Eliza’s body had lain in the coffin in the bedroom she, Margaret and Isa had shared and so all the girls had been sleeping in the kitchen with their parents. It bothered Isa that her lovely sister lay in that awful wooden box. She could not bear to think about the terrible crushed body hidden from view under the shroud but forever engrained in Isa’s memory. It was the first thing she saw when she woke and the last thing she remembered before sleep. Her sister’s pale face looked at rest above the white sheet, her glorious wavy black hair framing her face, but she no longer looked like her real self. It was as if she were a shell, empty of its living being.

  Her mother was distraught, pale and fragile. Despite trying to drag herself back into her life and its many duties, Mary often struggled to stand upright, and there were wet patches across her chest as she continued to lactate. Her body did not register the death of the baby, rendering this function useless, and it was painful both physically and emotionally to the poor woman. She bound herself with strips of cotton under her clothing to prevent the dampness reaching her outer garments.

  Although there had been two deaths in the family there was no coffin or funeral for the stillborn baby. The undertaker had taken the tiny body away for burial. The place would have no grave marker. The Macleods and John’s brothers had helped make all the arrangements for Eliza’s funeral, and they were gathered with their wives and families in the crowded cottage, with the children spilling over into the backyard. The minister was coming to the house and then four of the uncles would carry the coffin, and family and friends would walk behind them up Sunnyside Road to the graveyard on Dorrator Road. They would return to the house for the funeral refreshment. Jessie was going to mind Margaret and Chrissie but Isa was determined to attend the ceremony and would walk with her parents behind the minister. Most of the women relatives would stay at the house, leaving their men-folk to stand at the graveside.

  Isa, Jessie and Belva had helped Mary’s mother, Ina, sweep and polish the house, and Isa discovered Jessie was right: physical work helped. Keeping her hands busy stilled the turmoil in her thoughts and she was grateful for the normally monotonous tasks. They had got her through these last difficult days. Jessie had supervised the food and all was laid out ready for their return. Now she helped ease Mary into her black mourning dress, which was too tight for her so soon after her pregnancy so Jessie had let out the back seam and inserted another panel of black woollen worsted to the dress bodice and waist. When Mary wore her shawl over her shoulders you would never know. The beautiful square black lace panel at the neck of the dress was what drew your attention and took your eye to the noble beauty of Mary’s face with its cameo-like whiteness and still features. Even today, in all this sorrow and pain, there was nobility in her bearing.

  The sound of a knock at the door meant the minister had arrived. The family all stood to welcome him. He shook each member of the family by the hand and expressed his condolences. Then the minister suggested they share a short prayer. In a gentle clear voice he began: “Father of mercies and God of all
comfort, look down upon thy bereaved servants. Fill their desolate hearts with Thy love that they may cleave more closely to Thee, who bringest life out of death, and who canst turn their grief into eternal joy.”

  The mourners responded, “Amen.”

  The coffin, white and smaller and lighter than usual, was held aloft on the shoulders of Eliza’s uncles, for whom this was a nightmarish task. The door was opened.

  The minister proceeded to lead the mourners out of the house to their place immediately behind the coffin. In the street the neighbours had gathered, dressed in black, or wearing black crêpe tied around their arms, men, women and children alike. Solemn and tearful, they lined both sides of the street, heads bowed as the coffin passed them. Eliza’s death had touched the whole community. Parents felt for John and Mary. How could they not feel the horror of losing a child in such a way? Mothers who, like Mary, had lost stillborn babies, also felt a reminder of their own grief over the loss of these unnamed, unburied, unremembered children. Theirs was a secret grieving unacknowledged by others. Older folk recalled the pain of losses experienced over and over again in their families. Every funeral was a reminder of the fragility of human life and this death was felt sharply by all, the brutal tragedy of it written on every face.

  John stayed by his wife’s side. Mary had her veil down over her face and leaned heavily on her husband’s arm. Isa walked at her father’s other side, holding on to his hand, comforted by its strength and warmth, which was in such contrast to the shivering which still coursed through her body. With the minister leading the way, they began the short walk to the cemetery at Camelon Parish Church in Dorrator Road.