Capital Union, A

by Hendry, Victoria

  My hands were shaking. I had only been in Jeff’s study once. It smelt of old books and dust motes danced against the window. The wastepaper basket was full and I thought I could run a duster round the place once I had dealt with Jeff’s letters. The bundles of envelopes rustled as I pulled them out. Some came loose and fell on the floor, so I stuffed what I could into my pinny and went through to the kitchen. The fire was almost out when I opened the range door, and the grit left in the coal scuttle seemed to smother the flames when I put it on. Smoke bit at the back of my nose and made my eyes water, but I poked the letters in and went out to the garden to find some twigs to get the blaze going. I couldn’t ask Mrs MacDougall for any coal as she was on her own, and not nearly as well off as she made out. I climbed over the mansion wall to pick kindling from under the trees. The grass was long and damp, and white moths flew up from the plants as I walked through them. The wild garlic smelt bitter as it crushed under my feet, and I had to watch for the nettles. I had forgotten what good soup they make, so I picked a few of the young tips. They don’t sting if you grip them just right, and then I added some dandelions. I was sitting astride the wall, trying to work out how to get down without dropping all my sticks and field greens, when a voice said, ‘Mrs McCaffrey?’

  I looked up to see the English man from the rally yesterday. Before I could answer, the policeman with him said to watch I didn’t kiss him, in case I was a fairy in my green dress. My hair was full of leaves and bits of sticky willow, but the man in the suit didn’t laugh. He didn’t know he would disappear for seven years if I was one of the Gentle Folk. He was looking at my legs and just said, ‘Help her down off the wall, officer.’

  Mrs MacDougall’s curtains twitched. I expect she heard him say that they were here on Crown business and had a warrant to search the flat. I told them Jeff wasn’t in and they said they knew that as they had been upstairs already.

  ‘I am not sure it is wise to leave your door open when you are out, Mrs McCaffrey,’ the man said, so I told him I always left it open when I was out at the back green because maist folk were honest.

  He held my arm very tightly on the way up the stairs, and when I said, ‘Get your hauns aff me,’ he laughed and said, ‘You’ll need to translate for me on this one, officer.’

  Then I remembered I was an Edinburgh lady now. I stood up straight and said a real gentleman would introduce himself. He bowed and said he was Mr Grenville Ford, Assistant Director of Intelligence for His Majesty’s Government. I told him I didn’t care if he was King George himself, he had no right to enter my house uninvited and he showed me his warrant and declared I was mistaken on that point, he had every right.

  There was a smell of smouldering paper as we went into the hall. I knew then that none of the letters had burnt. I wondered why Jeff wanted rid of them. Mr Ford guided me into the drawing room and asked me to take a seat. I didn’t want to because I was all maukit from climbing over the wall, but he said, ‘Sit down, Mrs McCaffrey,’ in a very stern voice, as if I was back in school and about to get the belt.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘That remains to be seen. I need to ask you some questions about your husband. Can you look at me when I am speaking to you?’

  I was pulling the leaves out of my hair and when I looked at him, he sighed and opened his notebook. ‘Let’s start at the beginning to keep the record straight. What is your full name?’

  ‘Mrs Jeff McCaffrey,’ I said.

  He stopped me with his hand. ‘Your first name,’ he said.

  ‘Agnes Margaret. My maiden name was Thorne and my husband sometimes calls me Pip. He makes a joke about…’

  ‘Address?’ he said, and it was then I felt like I was waking up in Jeff’s world and that I had been lost in a dream before, and nothing had been real. I didn’t like Mr Ford with his grey moustache and the lines on his forehead that pulled the skin onto his eyebrows, or his eyes that were as sharp and black as a craw’s.

  ‘How long have you been married, Mrs McCaffrey?’ he asked. I told him it would soon be a year, and he glanced at my belly like Mrs MacDougall, and I put my hand across it. ‘Children?’ he asked, and I said, ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Seems our man is neglecting more than one of his duties, eh, Mrs McCaffrey?’ And he looked at me as if he expected me to laugh.

  ‘Why are you asking me all these questions?’

  ‘I think you know,’ he answered.

  I told him I had no idea and he said, ‘So why are you burning letters in your kitchen and not making bread, or whatever it is that a good Edinburgh housewife usually does?’

  ‘Because my husband asked me to.’

  The wrinkled skin above his eyebrows shot up, but he just nodded and made a note in his book. The officer came into the drawing room and asked him where he wanted the papers to go. He had a box full of Jeff’s things. I jumped up and shouted, ‘You can’t take those,’ but Mr Ford told me to sit down in a sharp voice, as if I was a dog. I insisted I wouldn’t unless he told me what was going on.

  ‘There is a war going on, Mrs McCaffrey,’ and he added that Jeff had declared in a letter to The Scotsman that he would not accept conscription. ‘Your husband has set himself against the government at a time of national emergency, Mrs McCaffrey.’ It put him beyond the usual niceties and what did I know about that?

  ‘It’s not my fault if people take me to rallies, or use funny German words.’

  He leant forward. ‘What kind of German words?’ But the only one I could remember was ‘der Tag’.

  ‘Can you remember who said that?’

  ‘I think Douglas said, “Komm der Tag”.’

  ‘So was that Douglas Grant, Mrs McCaffrey?’

  ‘Mr Grant, but you needn’t think anything bad about him.’

  ‘I am not thinking anything yet, Mrs McCaffrey, but can you remember what he meant when he said, “der Tag”? It means, “Come the day”. You will be helping your husband if you cooperate with us. I wouldn’t like to have to ask him the same question down at the station.’

  I said I thought maybe they were talking about Douglas’ appeal, or Hitler in Norway, or something. He nodded and wrote some more in his book, then lifted his head as if he was listening and I recognised Jeff’s feet on the stair, taking them two at a time. When he rushed in, I was so glad to see him I began to greet. He looked as if he wanted to hit Mr Ford. ‘How dare you come into my house and distress my wife!’ he shouted.

  I was proud of him. He looked so brave. Mr Ford held out his hand and said he was sorry to spring this visit on him but in the present circumstances he was sure he would understand the reason for his call. He passed him the search warrant. The wind went right out of Jeff’s sails and he sat down and glared at Mr Ford, who seemed to be enjoying himself. His eyes sparkled. He was sure Jeff would understand that since a certain German had dropped in outside Glasgow so unexpectedly last year, His Majesty’s Government had been understandably alarmed at the prospect that certain, and he paused before he said the word – Nationalists – might have been tempted to accord him a warm welcome.

  Jeff went bright red and said no Scotsman would have anything to do with a Nazi like Hess, but Mr Ford only replied that some Scotsmen were finding it a problem having anything to do with Churchill, either.

  ‘Scottish Nationalism is not National Socialism, Mr Ford,’ Jeff said, as if he was talking to a tumshee-heid. It went very quiet. They glared at each other and I asked if I could go to the bathroom but Mr Ford snapped, ‘Just a minute, Mrs McCaffrey,’ and they kept staring at each other, although I was bursting.

  ‘The day your lot added a capital letter to the word “nationalism” it became my business, Mr McCaffrey – it threatened the body politic,’ said Mr Ford. ‘Politics is semantics writ large.’ He paused. ‘Your wife tells me you are a close associate of Douglas Grant?’

  Jeff looked at me and then nodded. Mr Ford straightened his cuffs. ‘I believe I noticed you, and your lovely wife, at the Bann
ockburn rally yesterday.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Can I assume then that you are of the same mind as Mr Grant?’

  ‘Don’t pigeonhole me, Mr Ford. I have my own opinion on these matters and I certainly don’t like to be told what to do by Westminster. They aren’t forcing conscription on Northern Ireland.’

  ‘I am sorry you see it like that. It is a matter of some urgency that we garner sufficient forces to fight the Nazi menace and at the same time preclude an attack on another front. As you know, the Germans are in Norway on a northern offensive.’

  ‘No one will let them in here.’

  ‘Stable doors, Mr McCaffrey, stable doors. Who will hold them back if not you, or Mr Grant, or others like you?’

  ‘The SNP are forming a new resolution to clarify the situation,’ said Jeff.

  ‘I fear the time for resolutions, however worthy, is past, Mr McCaffrey. It is the time for action.’

  ‘If you would just let me finish? We are considering a resolution that would allow us to raise a Scots army under the auspices of the United Nations.’

  ‘And how will your pigeon-post resolution find its way past von Braun’s rockets? Scratch for feed in bombed-out cities? Wake up, Mr McCaffrey.’

  Jeff looked like my father’s dog when he had a rat in his jaws. I asked to go to the toilet again because I couldn’t wait any longer. Mr Ford called the officer, who came with me along the corridor and waited outside the door. I was so embarrassed that I almost didn’t need to go any more. After I pulled the chain, I took a moment in front of the mirror to tie back my hair. It was getting very long but Jeff didn’t like me to cut it. I was tired of all the men’s talk and worried that Mr Ford might be right about the Nazis. If Jeff didn’t want to fight, maybe he could go to work on the farm with my brothers, but he seemed set on being like Douglas. For a moment I wished he was Douglas, and not just running after him. I rubbed some carmine on my lips because they looked a bit pale and wondered what it would feel like if Douglas touched them.

  The policeman gave me a smile when I came out of the toilet, as if he thought I looked nice, and he whispered, ‘Dinnae fash yersel’, hen, it will all pass,’ but I ignored him and walked straight into the drawing room.

  ‘I’d like to go out to the garden, Mr Ford,’ I said. ‘My vegetables won’t grow themselves and I need to water them.’

  He nodded, and turned a page in his book. ‘Dig for victory, Mrs McCaffrey. That’s the spirit.’ He looked at Jeff, who stared straight ahead. A muscle was twitching in his cheek.

  I wondered if I could sneak Jeff’s letters out and dig them into the earth, but the boxes had already been taken away. They were probably in Mr Ford’s car. The officer winked at me as I passed, as if he guessed my plan.

  The garden was in shadow, and the birds were picking insects from the earth I’d hoed over, when Jeff came down to the back green. He put his arms round my waist and I leant against him, my hand still on the hoe. ‘You are a child of nature, Agnes,’ he said.

  When I turned to face him, he was greetin’. I wiped away his tears, and he said, ‘Pip, Pip,’ and gave a watery smile. We stood there a long time, leaning together. He said Mr Ford was away now and the house would be quiet if I wanted to come up, but I knew the door to his study would be standing open, his papers gone and nothing would ever be the same again.

  It was midnight before he came to bed that night. His typewriter rattled and the bell on the carriage rang again and again as it reached the end of the line. I could hear sheet after sheet being torn up. I worried about where he could get more paper if he ran out. The moon had almost moved out of the top pane of glass in the bedroom when he came through. I hadn’t wanted to look at the blackout blinds, so I had left them up and a cool breeze was coming in at the top of the window. He was wearing the silk pyjamas Prof Schramml had left him when he went abroad, and he wiggled his eyebrows and said, ‘How do I look?’ But I wasn’t in the mood and turned over in bed. He said I wasn’t to be a soor ploom and that everything would be fine, but I didn’t see how it could be. ‘Don’t trouble yourself over it, Agnes. The Party will support me,’ but I told him I was tired of only getting half the story and that most women didn’t spend the evening sweeping up the ash from their husband’s half-burned letters. ‘I don’t want men I don’t know stamping round my house,’ I said, but he replied that the police were only doing their duty.

  ‘Well, why don’t you do yours?’ I shouted, although I didn’t mean to.

  I wished I could call the words back but I couldn’t. Then I heard Mrs MacDougall’s light switch go on, although it was late, and I bet she had her glass to the wall.

  ‘You only ever give me half the story,’ I said. He brought through the letter with the black crown on it. He was to go to the Conscientious Objectors’ Tribunal in Glasgow next week.

  ‘They can’t make me fight,’ he said, ‘as long as I can prove that the Act of Union didn’t give English jurisdiction precedence in Scottish courts. I have been looking into it for Douglas’ appeal.’

  ‘Not that again. I am tired of that man and the way you follow him like a dog. Why can’t you think for yourself?’

  He swallowed and said he was sorry I felt like that, pulled up his pillows and the quilt and went to sleep on the divan in his study. The bed felt cold without him and I wondered if this was how it would be if he went to prison. I looked at the stars of the Plough through the window and heard Mother’s voice telling me that the last one always pointed north to the Pole Star, the only fixed point in the sky.

  10

  By morning my head ached, but I decided to go to the early Mass anyway. I knew Jeff was a half-baked Piskie when I married him, so I just let that flee stick to the wa’ and went alone as usual without waking him.

  The church was full of flowers and candles and it made me feel as if there wasn’t a war on after all, as if I could come out the door afterwards and find my house was clean and sparkling and Jeff still had a kiss for me on his bonny lips. I prayed for the war to be over during the intercessions. So many of my neighbours’ menfolk were mentioned, and some were even named in the list of those whose anniversaries we keep. As I stood in the queue to receive communion, two little boys started fighting in the line next to me. One raised his wee hands, clasped in prayer, and used them to hit his brother, and the younger one swung his praying hands back in his brother’s belly like a club. They laughed and their mother stared straight ahead at Jesus hanging on his cross, and bit her lip.

  ‘Body of Christ,’ said Father Michael, holding the wafer up in front of me. I put it on my tongue and crossed myself. I prayed for Jeff and Douglas as I knelt in the pew. On the way out, I put my last sixpence in the box to buy a candle for Mrs Black’s son at the Shrine of the Venerable Margaret Sinclair. The light looked very small on the sanctuary. I thought of the nun sleeping with folded hands under the stone, and the people she nursed while she lived, even though she was poorly. I prayed she might send us a miracle.

  A blue wind from the south was shaking the trees as I walked home across the Meadows. My mother said each wind had a different colour, as any fisherman could tell you. I envied her not needing to lose any of the men on the farm to war, and she always prayed to Mary, Star of the Sea, when the boys took the boat out. I wished the farm had a phone so I could have heard her voice. No one around me was making any sense, but Father Michael had said The Lord is my shepherd in his homily and I felt less lost. I was humming the psalm to cheer myself up when I reached the flat and had just got my key out when Mrs Black came up to me. ‘Mrs McCaffrey,’ she said, ‘I have something for your husband.’

  I thought she meant something nice, but she snapped open her bag and took out a white feather. I put my hands behind my back so she couldn’t give it to me, but she pushed it towards me, right in my face. It looked like a feather from an angel’s wing, curling over at the edges and fluffy at the quill. I couldn’t think where she had got it, which birds were white in the garden,
and then I realised that she must have pulled it from her pillow in the night, or plucked it from a chicken at the shop. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

  ‘I am not taking that,’ I said, and pushed past her. She said we all had to face up to things, that Jeff was a coward and the worst kind, hiding behind his politics, as if Herr Hitler would give two figs for nationalism when he was sitting at Holyrood with a whisky in his hand. I took the feather from her and tried to throw it on the ground, but it was so light that it floated down between us, and blew in to the stair as I opened the door.

  ‘Your husband is a skiving coward, scrievin’ nonsense while laddies get blown to pieces.’ She looked like she was going to swing her bag at me.

  I ran upstairs and banged the door, but Jeff shouted, ‘Don’t bang the door, Agnes.’

  I thought my head would explode, pop like a puffball, and all the dust inside would float away on the breeze, growing fainter and fainter until it disappeared.

  ‘Don’t you shout at me when Mrs Black is out there saying you are too feart to fight.’

  Jeff went quiet. ‘I’ll go down and have a word.’

  ‘You’re too late. She has gone to bend the ears of her friends about you. I will never be able to go to the butcher’s again.’

  The feather was still at the foot of the stair the next day, although I tried not to look at it lying in the corner, and then two days later it was gone. I don’t know who picked it up or brushed it away. Maybe the wind took it.

  11

  The week passed slowly and on the first dry day after a spell of rain I got up early and walked out onto the Blackford Hill. There were only a few days left until the tribunal and the words buzzed in my mind as I walked; ‘C’ for conscientious, ‘O’ for Objector. It was as if the pages of a dictionary were flashing before me and Jeff was pressed like a trapped insect as the book snapped shut. There was no Scots word for such a thing. He was in a foreign land. As I climbed the hill above the battleships shoaling on the Forth, I saw that the world was pressing into Edinburgh, making the familiar view unfamiliar. My legs ached as I walked along the ridge to my snare. I suppose it was lack of food. A neighbour next door had said there was fruit at McColl’s, but last time I queued for oranges there was only one left by the time I got served. Mr McColl had thought he might have some more by the end of the week, but I didn’t go back. There were wild strawberries and rhubarb growing over the wall.