The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  Then finally, Steeny arrived with good news. The negotiations had ended in our favour. They’d agreed on a rise of 18½%. Not the 20% we wanted – but a very good compromise, from our point of view.

  A mild round of applause started up as the rain began to fall. Men were happy at the prospect of being able to go home with news of a substantial rise, something that could offset recent increases in prices.

  Dan Potts turned to me and Jim. ‘Yer faither’s the yin man no lookin’ pleased at the settlement.’

  Bert and Rob laughed.

  ‘Whit dae ye expect?’ I said, keeping my voice low. ‘He’s no happy bar he’s fechtin.’

  ‘He’ll be riled we didnae get the 20%. Faur as he’s concerned, oniethin’ less is capitulation,’ Jim added.

  Steeny wanted a final word before the men went on their way. He slowly read out the names of fellow workers who had appeared in the lists published in the local paper.

  ‘That brings the Blackrigg number to twa men killed, yin missin’ in action and three wounded. An’ we’re barely six months intae the war.’ He continued with an important message.

  ‘As ye’ll ken the number o’ men enlistin’ fae the mines has been considerable an’ has had an effect on production. The government wants pitmen tae refrain fae joinin’ up for the foreseeable future. Oor job is tae bring up the coal. There’s nae shame in bidin’ at hame, mind. Winnin’ the coal is essential for winnin’ the war, we cannae a’ be expected tae put a gun in oor haun.’

  Sandy caught up with us as the meeting came to a close and driving rain had most scurrying for shelter in any case. He’d come from the library. Books were tucked into the front of his jacket, his collar was up and his cap pulled low over his eyes.

  ‘Whit’s up wi’ you lot?’ he asked. ‘Has somebody died?’

  ‘As a matter o’ fact they have,’ replied Bert who proceeded to tell Sandy about the casualties of war and the government’s concern about too many colliery workers joining up.

  ‘They dinnae want onie mair frae the pits,’ explained Dan.

  We didn’t need to discuss the matter because we were all thinking the same and it left us downhearted. Sandy fell in behind our group as we made our way back to the Rows. He caught the arm of my jacket, pulled me back from the others.

  ‘I’m no the fechtin kind,’ he whispered. ‘But there’s somebody needs tae get whit’s comin’ tae them, an’ no afore time.’

  I looked round to see who he meant, following his gaze along the road. Davy had cornered Rob back at the steading. It was dark but the two figures were recognisable, silhouetted against the faint glow of the gaslights along Main Street. Another two men were hiding in the shadows.

  ‘Are ye comin’, Rob!’ I took a few paces into the middle of the road, making sure they could see it was me. ‘Rob!’

  He pulled away and hurried towards us, a forced smile on his face, pretending all was well. Sandy caught my eye and a hundred questions went between us in that look. The idea that he might be considering a confrontation with Davy sent a shiver up my spine.

  On Saturday afternoon after work, we assembled on the washing green at the end of Middle Row. We jumped up and down to keep warm, anticipating the long walk for a cup tie and a couple of hours on the terracing at Rowanhill which was not for the faint-hearted. Bert was the last to arrive, apologising for keeping us waiting. There had been a family argument about whether Geordie should be allowed to come with us. Everybody in the village knew that Geordie had a weak chest. His mother paid particular attention to any signs that her youngest son might be coming down with something. It wasn’t unknown for her to seek him out from the park, the burn, or the steading as soon as the rain came on, then march him home by the scruff of the neck – which was embarrassing for a fifteen-year-old boy. We’d asked Bert more than once if his mother was ever going to allow poor Geordie to grow up. That day, Geordie had lost the argument about whether he was to accompany us to the game. The wind was getting up and rain threatened, according to Mrs Broadley. It was bad enough that the boy spent part of his working day at the Cooperative out in all weathers, delivering messages to folk that were too lazy to collect their own from the store. At the weekends, he should rest at home in the warm, and take it easy. But Geordie was not to be outdone. He soon appeared, puffed and out of breath, his tear-stained face flushed with both the cold of the easterly wind and the heat of exertion after his escape to freedom.

  The queue for the east terracing stretched along one side of the football ground, down a rutted track and out as far as the road. It was the cheapest end and, therefore, the most popular. We stood in line, 4d at the ready. Recruiting posters decorated the outside of the stand and had us gauping. Geordie pointed at a big cartoon of four kilted soldiers, fine strapping men in step with each other, smiling broad white smiles as they marched off to defeat the enemy. Bert could see what his brother was thinking – the spirit of adventure shining in Geordie’s eyes.

  ‘Dinnae be daft, yer ower young and ower wee an a’. Forget it.’

  ‘They widnae hae ye,’ we agreed, laughing.

  ‘Whit wid yer maw say?’ asked Sandy. ‘She’d hae yer guts for garters.’

  But Geordie wasn’t to be put off so easily. Another poster caught his eye.

  17th Service batt., The Royal Scots (Rosebery Bantam Battalion)

  Wanted, 200 Linlithgowshire Men

  To join in order to make up a county company

  Recruits May Now Enlist at any Recruiting Office

  Height – Minimum 5 feet Maximum 5 feet 3 inches

  Chest Measurement – 38 inches expanded

  Recruits need not give up Employment meantime but will receive Army Pay from Date of Enlistment

  Special Recruiting Meeting for above at the Finish of the Rowanhill Football Match (Saturday)

  2/4 Royal Scots Band (late Broxburn Public Band) will be present

  Geordie stood tall. He could manage 5 feet. But he wasn’t so sure about the chest measurement. He filled his lungs as far as he could to puff out his chest.

  ‘38 inches? Aye that’ll be the day,’ said Rob.

  ‘There’s no a pick oan ye,’ Sandy chipped in. ‘Ye’ll hae tae put oan some beef.’

  ‘See’s yer muscles,’ said Dan.

  Geordie took off his jacket, pushed up the sleeves of his jersey. He held up his arm like a bare-knuckle boxer, fist clenched.

  ‘Jist as we thoucht,’ said Sandy sadly. ‘Knots oan threeds. Ye’ve nae chance.’

  ‘Yer jist a wee smowt,’ pronounced Jim.

  ‘A rickle o’ bones,’ I piped up, me who barely surpassed Lord Rosebery’s stipulations myself.

  Geordie stood despondent. He would have to wait for Nature to take its course. But that would take time and, at fifteen years of age, a single day could feel like an eternity when you wanted something badly enough.

  The football match did not disappoint. It had been a much-anticipated event in the football calendar, two local rivals pitched against each other in the later stages of the Eastern League Cup. The standard of play was high in front of the packed crowd of working men and boys. The roars and sighs of two thousand voices carried far, rising and falling on the biting wind until the final whistle blew, the score 3-2 in favour of the visitors. Post-match discussion conceded that the game could have gone either way, disappointment amongst the local supporters tempered by the knowledge that both teams had given their all. On this occasion, the terraces did not empty immediately as was normal, the crowd lingered to the sound of a band marching in from the road.

  Two dozen men were led by a sergeant with a shining staff and a serious frown, and three officers in attendance. Rob and Sandy pointed proudly. Archie, their sister’s man, was playing in the back row. Everybody knew the story, about how the Broxburn Public Band had joined up en masse and became the military band for the Royal Scots, p
araded far and wide for recruiting purposes. It was surely a fine thing to fight for your country and we watched transfixed as the band formed in front of their bandmaster to deliver notes that were sweet and touched our hearts – the rousing song of the weavers, the stirring tune of the Garb of Old Gaul, the gentle notes of Annie Laurie, and the sadness of the Skye Boat Song. We knew the words and we heard them in the silence of our thoughts. Every man and boy felt the tug and pull of the music. It reached deep inside, pleading for our help in this new hour of need for the sake of our country, our folk, and all of the folk that had gone before us.

  We were too young to enlist and quiet-like we left the ground whilst a queue formed to sign up and take the king’s shilling. That music and the sight of the band in their uniforms, playing perfect notes in the cold wind, stayed with us all the way home and every day thereafter.

  If the war lasted long enough, we would have our chance. And it did.

  Elizabeth

  Phee and Eric were married within a few weeks, as planned. They feared the worst though, as it transpired, Eric was not sent out to the front immediately. However, he spent weeks at a time with his regiment, transforming the yeomanry into a first-rate cavalry unit so Phee often visited Parkgate House in search of solace in a familiar setting. I was glad to be able to spend time with her, walking, talking, or saying nothing at all. It is most comforting to have company when one is troubled and not feel one has to speak or hear platitudes.

  One frosty morning, we took a walk in the garden, just after the news had come in that Arthur Moffat had been killed in France. Lady Moffat was bereft and Phee was taking it hard. War had no respect for class and privilege. No one was safe. After a while, she decided to change the subject and asked me to accompany her to Whinbank. Mrs Maclean was long overdue a visit. She must have noticed how tense I became.

  ‘Did anything come of that matter with Richard? You know, when he confronted Donald, telling him to make his intentions clear or to clear off?’

  I explained that nothing had been said, not in so many words at least. The war intervened and seemed to throw everyone off course momentarily. ‘It’s difficult to know what you think sometimes with all of that going on overseas, and so much to do at home. All the usual activities carry on as before but it’s as if normal life is on hold at the same time. I know Donald spends a lot of time thinking about whether he should be enlisting or not, though common sense tells him he should stay at Whinbank and make his contribution there. Anyway, we’re good friends. Just good friends.’

  ‘Would you come with me in the car sometime soon?’ Phee persisted.

  ‘As long as you’re not match-making.’

  ‘Me?’

  Phee’s feigned innocence was unconvincing.

  I took a while to answer. ‘There’s something I have to tell you before we go anywhere near the Macleans.’

  Phee was intrigued.

  ‘Last summer, just before war was declared, I convinced myself I’d moved on with my life and I finally managed to visit the shieling on my own. It was like breaking a spell.’

  Phee squeezed my hand to let me know how glad she was to hear me say those words.

  ‘By some sort of strange coincidence, that very same day I discovered that Neil Tennant was coming back to Blackrigg from Canada at the end of the summer. I don’t know why he was coming back or for how long. Obviously, the war has interfered with his plans because he didn’t return. The other day, I was in conversation with some of the local women, about men from the area who are fighting in Europe.’ I turned to my friend. ‘Neil has joined the Canadian Army apparently. He’s in France with the Canadian Expeditionary Force.’

  We sought out the ladies’ parlour, looking for warmth and a nice cup of coffee and, hopefully, an escape from the dire consequences of war but, as we discovered, there was no escaping it.

  I was delighted to see Rose with Catherine when we entered the parlour. I had not laid eyes on her, nor heard from her since our last visit to Parkgate when I had been so judgemental about her relationship with David Melville. As I entered the room, her broad smile told me we were still friends.

  ‘It’s always lovely to see you when you’re in the area, Rose,’ said Catherine. ‘You don’t visit often enough and we miss you. Please promise to come more often when you’ve graduated and are in post.’ She rose to pour some coffee for Phee and myself, then offered cream and sugar from a silver tray.

  ‘It depends where I end up,’ explained Rose. ‘I’ve always seen myself in town, working with women and children, but the war has everything up in the air at the moment. Doctors are in high demand with so many serving abroad in the Army Medical Corps. The Scottish Women’s Hospitals have set up abroad, at the request of both France and Serbia. I could apply for war work there.’

  ‘Oh, isn’t that dangerous?’ asked Catherine. She moved a long string of pearls back and forth around her neck with a nervous hand.

  ‘Not any more than it is for the men. Women are doing their bit.’ Rose looked determined.

  ‘Isabelle says that Lady Moffat’s going to turn Blair House into a hospital for the wounded, with the help of the Red Cross,’ said Phee. ‘In memory of Arthur.’

  ‘The Marquis has done the same at Hopetoun,’ remarked Catherine.

  ‘And the Edinburgh War Hospital is set to open its doors very soon, along at Bangour, now that the asylum patients have been decanted elsewhere,’ said Phee.

  ‘They’ll all need doctors.’ Catherine looked at Rose.

  ‘And they’ll need nurses,’ said Rose pointedly. ‘Trained and untrained. You’d make good VADs, all of you.’

  ‘The village needs a doctor and a nurse. We’ve lost both to the Army Medical Corps,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget the people here at home in your rush to help the army.’ I must have blushed severely and could barely look at Phee or Catherine. ‘I didn’t mean to sound heartless... please forgive me.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Rose, coming to my aid. ‘The civilian population can’t do without medical services just because there’s a war on. Their need doesn’t go away overnight.’

  ‘No, but everyone has to make some sort of sacrifice in time of war,’ said Catherine. ‘In our different ways we’re all making do.’

  I surveyed the comfort of the ladies’ parlour where we sat drinking coffee from fine china edged in gold leaf, a fire burning brightly in the hearth, needlework created by generations of pampered women decorating the walls. I liked Catherine but I couldn’t help being annoyed by her remark.

  ‘Some sacrifice more than others,’ I said, rather boldly.

  ‘Beth!’ exclaimed Phee. ‘Remember Catherine is missing David terribly. And baby Clive’s virtually without a father at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, I know it must be difficult. But ordinary people who live and work in places like Stoneyrigg endure as it is, often unable to afford basic services. They’re doing their bit all of the time, and many such families have a father or brother at the front now too.’

  I felt my heart race, picturing the new cottages being built by the Melvilles at Back o’Moss Pit to exactly the same plan as Stoneyrigg: no proper sculleries, no indoor tap to make women’s lives easier, but the same freezing cold wash houses, spigots in the street, and dry closets at the end of each row.

  ‘Things will improve when the war’s over,’ stated Catherine.

  ‘Will they?’ My eyes were wide. ‘Nothing was changing before the war in that regard so why should it suddenly change after? The new Melville Rows are just the same as all of the others.’

  ‘There’s a war on.’ Catherine bristled ‘They’ll just have to wait till the war is over.’

  ‘Why should they? Things should be changing now!’ I looked at my friends for a sign of understanding. Only Rose looked back, nodding.

  I could tell how Catherine viewed me, the interfering do-gooder who did not
understand the least thing about business. How dare I criticise. One day she would hint at how strapped for cash the estate was, and that she had been the one to secure the loan from the bank for the building of Melville Rows, with her father acting as guarantor. But even then, I would have little sympathy for her plight. The Melvilles and the Imries of this world seemed to have more than enough whilst working people had very little to spare.

  Rose suggested a walk to break the impasse and Catherine left the room in high dudgeon, making for the nursery.

  ‘We’re all finding this hard, Beth,’ said Phee. ‘We’ve all got people we’re worried about. Catherine thinks about David all of the time and hardly ever sees him. He doesn’t seem to get away as much as Eric does, and that’s not often. They’re not at the Front yet but we know they will be, sooner or later. It could happen at the drop of a hat.’

  I looked across at Rose who stared back, her face a blank canvas. I wondered if David Melville still haunted her dreams. Did she wonder where he was and pray that he was well? Had they rekindled their affair? Perhaps they met up from time to time – his regiment was stationed in town, after all. How carefully Rose hid her secret.

  Perhaps it was the brightness of the sky, or the keen wind blowing cold on our faces, but we felt instantly cheered as we left the house. We strolled through the rowans at the back of the house, Catherine pushing her infant son in his perambulator whilst we took it in turns to chatter to him, ooing and cooing in that strange language specially reserved for babies.