by Mary Easson
‘Such a wicked state of affairs,’ she declared. ‘How ever has it come to this?’
Rose must have been worried too but, as always, she kept her feelings hidden whilst she comforted our friend.
I could think only of Neil Tennant far away in the mud and the cold of a wet winter’s night, somewhere along the Front with the Canadians. ‘Sometimes life is really... awful,’ I slurred.
Phee was disappointed that her flask was empty. No amount of shaking could produce a single drop
‘We’ve barely had a sip,’ I said. ‘But I feel quite… mellow…’
‘Yes, what we need is... more,’ declared Phee. ‘But I guess we’re in the wrong place for that!’ She rolled her eyes around, making me snigger.
‘You may laugh,’ I said holding up my hand. ‘But I know where there might be a bottle.’
‘Here? Really?!’ said Phee and Rose together.
I toddled over to the door – I did feel a little strange – then put a finger up to my mouth.
‘SSSHHHH! Richard’s wardrobe!’
We peeped into the hallway, listening for noises that would tell us where Richard might be. Surely he hadn’t gone to bed this early? The sounds of paper rustling and a chair creaking in the study told us we were in luck. Egged on by my friends, I tip-toed across the hall and gingerly climbed the stairs. Phee waved me upwards, telling me to get on with it. When I disappeared from sight along the top landing, they kept watch on the study door. I had no idea how much the manse floorboards creaked and the doors squeaked until then. But very soon, I reappeared, carefully treading downwards from the top step. They dashed back inside, trying hard to stifle their giggles.
‘This is ridiculous,’ whispered Phee, before another bout of laughter started up.
I carefully closed the door behind me, a bottle of malt whisky in my hand and a shoebox under my arm. Phee took the bottle, which was already opened and only half full. She poured three drams.
Rose saw the look on my face. ‘What is it, Beth? What’s wrong?’
I placed the box on my lap and opened it, took out a letter, then another, and another. There were about a dozen, maybe more. None of them had been opened and they were all addressed to me.
‘What is it? Beth darling, what is it?’ asked Phee.
‘I know this writing,’ I said.
‘Who sent them?’
I looked at the postmarks, the dates and the places from where they’d been sent.
‘They’re all from Neil.’
‘But how?’ asked Rose though it was obvious. ‘Who....?’
‘They were in the back of Richard’s wardrobe… they must’ve been there all this time.’
Chapter 19
John
Though voluntary recruitment encouraged many to enlist in the army – including one fifth of Scottish mineworkers – it was soon clear that the numbers fell short of what was needed as opposing sides dug in, preparing for a long battle of attrition on all fronts. When the government passed the National Registration Act in July of 1915, every male between the ages of 15 and 65 had to register giving details of their trade. It was done to provide information for military planning but it also concentrated minds on the subject of enlistment and the importance of doing your duty. The spectre of conscription loomed, except for those in skilled and essential employment.
By mid-October, the Derby Scheme was rolled out by a peer of the realm of the same name. Men aged 18-40 were told that they could enlist on a voluntary basis as before or attest under the Group Scheme, to be called up in the future, if and when the country required it. Should they fail to attest by the cut-off date, they faced the possibility of conscription which had never before been deemed necessary in the long history of the British Army.
On a raw December day, we stood in line with hundreds of others, a line that stretched down Linlithgow’s High Street from the recruiting office in the army drill hall. We could see Andrew Brownlee further up the queue, standing with his father. Bert called to him and he waved back. We stamped our feet to keep the blood moving and huddled together against the cold blast. We had already tried to attest in Bathgate the previous week but had been turned away after several hours in the cold, such was the length of the queue, swollen like a river in spate by men desperate to have their names recorded before the deadline. We waited with the lave, dressed in our best, in recognition of an occasion that ranked alongside weddings and funerals in terms of importance.
‘If they dinnae hurry up, they’ll have brocht in conscription afore we get tae the front o’ the queue!’ somebody shouted.
‘Dae they no ken there’s a war oan? Some o’ us would like tae get there afore it’s by!’ said another.
I suppose there were many who would have been happy not to reach the front of the line before the end of hostilities but they kept quiet. Nobody wanted to be branded a coward. To wait and be sent to the army as a conscript was a sign of cowardice, bringing everybody out to attest in large numbers. You might never be called up when it came to it but under the scheme you’d get an armband to wear, proof that you were willing and ready to go.
Alex had been in two minds about the scheme. One day he would say he didn’t want folk thinking the Birses were fearties, the next he would rage about capitalists benefitting from the war – the only winners at the end of the day – and he made us swear on the Bible not to go, no matter what. So, me and Jim went along to attest with our friends, without asking permission from our father. We stood in line, watching men leaving the Recruiting Office, excitement and pride on our faces, keen to find out about the process going on inside. The wind cut us in two and the rain soaked through to our skin but we never once thought to translate that discomfort into a state of war when a warm seat in front of the fire and a plate of our mother’s broth would be so far away. In fact, we couldn’t think past the medical examination that was part of the process.
Was it true what the rumour mill said about you having to show the doctor everything you had?
Aye, that was the worst thing about it.
And the horror of it swept up and down the line.
Geordie was glad of his knitted balaclava and thick gloves that were permanently attached to a long string, wound round the back of his neck so that he wouldn’t lose them. He ran after us older lads as we walked briskly back to Blackrigg. It didn’t matter how fast he ran and how often he caught up, he always seemed to fall behind right away then face another exhausting gallop to regain lost ground. It was all the more upsetting that we seemed oblivious to his plight, caught up as we were in the possibilities of adventure opening up before us. The long wait in the freezing cold had borne fruit. Every one of us – except Geordie who was still too young – had been accepted for service. We were chilled to the bone but nothing could dampen our spirits or cool our enthusiasm. We would be sent an armband, proof of our manhood, in due course. We would wear it with pride for all to see. By the time Stoneyrigg was in sight, we were full of bravado, feats of heroism playing out in our heads. The sight of Jenny Campbell and her sister on the road up ahead had us daring each other to prove our manhood in other ways too. Rob told us all to grow up.
I followed the Duncan boys home to their door for a look at a library book that Sandy had been recommending.
‘Cheerio!’ shouted Bert from further along the Row. He disappeared inside number 24, hauling Geordie in with him, knowing full-well that their mother would have something to say about the weather and the long walk home.
‘Cheers, Bert!’ we called back.
Then the mood suddenly changed. ‘Whit’s this?’ asked Sandy, as he bent down by the entrance to their cottage. He held up a short piece of wood which had several nails hammered through from the other side like a giant comb.
‘Could dae somebody an injury,’ Rob said, pressing the sharp ends of the nails into his palm.
It loo
ked like an instrument of torture and made me uneasy.
‘And these,’ added Sandy. He struggled to his feet.
We examined what was in his hand – an assortment of tacks and six-inch nails bent over in the middle to an angle of ninety degrees.
Sandy looked upwards. ‘Has Imrie finally sent somebody to work on the roof? No afore time if he has.’
‘Beats me,’ said Rob.
‘C’mon, let’s see if Ma’s got the kettle oan. I’ve some drouth oan me,’ said Sandy, his mind turning to more pressing issues. He took the piece of wood from Rob and propped it up against the wall by the door.
I thanked Sandy for the library book and left them to their tea and a game of cards with their foreign lodger who’d been released by the authorities after the start of the war once they’d verified his nationality as Lithuanian, and not German after all. When I’d reached the end of the row, loud rapping at the Duncans’ door stopped me in my tracks. It was a loud, insistent, threatening thump rather than the gentle knock of a friend. Not Mags Cherrie out to borrow a cup of sugar, I guessed. I turned in the dusky gloom to see Constable Mackay, his uniformed bulk filling the doorway, the nail-studded wood in his hand.
‘I’m lookin’ for the owner o’ this,’ I heard him say as he went inside.
Sandy told me later how he’d explained they knew nothing about it. Mackay was suspicious, apparently. He’d stared at Rob in particular, waiting for him to answer. It didn’t help make their story any more believable when the lodger stated that it hadn’t been there when he’d come in barely an hour earlier. It helped even less when Rob took the handful of tacks and nails from his pocket and described how they had been on the step with the piece of wood.
‘Richt. Get yer jaiket oan, Mr Duncan,’ said Mackay. ‘Yer comin’ tae the station for questionin’.’
Sandy spoke up, explained how they’d come upon it together with me, John Birse, after our visit to the recruiting office where dozens of folk could testify to our presence. Mackay decided to take Sandy for questioning along with Rob even though Peggy was protesting that he surely didn’t have the right to cart folk away on a whim.
Mackay leaned right into her face, letting her know that he could do whatever he liked, cart away whoever he saw fit, and that it wasn’t her place to question his actions. He said there had been bother up at Stoneyrigg Pit the previous night. The road had been littered with such-like, causing damage to vehicles going about their lawful business. He said it was peculiar how they had landed on the doorstep of Rob Duncan of all people. They’d had words before, he reminded her.
‘An’ you keep yer trap shut or ye’ll be in yin o’ they workcamps afore ye can blink,’ he shouted at Joe, the foreigner, when he tried to protest for Peggy’s sake.
Rob stood up without argument and Sandy was ordered to do the same. They left their mother and sister to be comforted by the lodger.
I was at home, sitting at the table by the window after supper, only half an eye on the library book – though it was proving to be a great adventure story – wondering what had transpired along at the Duncans’ and my imagination was getting the better of me. I chastised myself for thinking the worst of Rob. Surely he knew nothing of the material on the doorstep – I had seen his reaction for myself. He was often with the pals in those days, though sometimes he was nowhere to be seen, and even Sandy couldn’t say where he was on occasion. I studied Davy across the room. For once he wasn’t out and about which was unusual for him on a Saturday night. He sat hunched, staring into the fire, blowing smoke from his cigarette into the flames because my mother hated the smell of it.
I don’t know how long Sandy had been outside, lurking in the shadows, flailing his arms like a tattiebogle on a windy day, and mightily relieved when I finally looked up. He beckoned me urgent-like before stepping behind Middle Row out of sight.
As it turned out, Sandy had been released after questioning, told to go home. There was little point in waiting for his brother, they’d said. He could be a while yet. We wandered into the village as we talked, stood in the cold street, staring at the light coming from the police station windows, hearing the ladies’ choir at the fundraiser in the church hall singing In the bleak mid-winter. Aye, that was about right. Things weren’t looking good for Rob, Sandy explained. I offered to go in straight away and speak to Mackay, to back up what my friends had said but we agreed it would look like I had been put up to it. The police would come for me if they thought I had anything worthwhile to say. We talked about Rob’s reactions when we’d arrived home earlier in the day. Had he something to do with sabotage at Stoneyrigg Pit where his father had worked many years before? Some of the older men had condemned the reopening of that pit because of what it represented. They refused to be employed there but hadn’t tried to stop others working the coal. Everybody knew the importance of coal to the war effort, including Rob. There were times when Sandy couldn’t make him out, he said, and Rob had been out somewhere the previous night though he didn’t say where. But vandalism didn’t fit with the brother he knew. Besides, Rob was too smart to leave evidence on his own doorstep. He wasn’t stupid. It had to be down to somebody else and we both knew who that might be.
Sandy shivered in his jacket without a scarf or a cap, his nose like a bright red poppy. He had an idea, and a plan of sorts. It might not help Rob in the short term but it was something that had to be done, he said.
We went for Bert, told him to bring a piece of paper and a pencil and as many balaclavas as he could lay his hands on, then to meet us at the wash house in five minutes flat. He was to make something up about where he was going, for his mother’s sake, but under no circumstances was Geordie to come along. Jim came out of the house on his way to the closet, spotted us crossing the washing green so he had to be involved as well. That grieved me but I figured he could stand in the background without actually taking part, help make it look as if there was a gang of us, enough to intimidate. In the end, he was the one who slipped the note under the door of our cottage.
The night wound on, bitter and interminable whilst we waited. Then we saw Davy skulking his way up Manse Lane, out of the puttering light of the street and into the shadows. He came to the gate into the park, taking stock, glancing back and forth, his eyes getting used to the darkness. He rarely went anywhere after nightfall without a sidekick, preferably two. But the note had said he was to be alone, or else. I could see how he gripped the top of the gate till his knuckles went white as he peered through the pitch black.
Hello! Hello? Nervous-like.
No reply.
I could almost hear the loud noise in his ears, his thumping heartbeat above the sounds of the night. Nobody there. Just the black outlines of walls and trees disappearing into blackness. But we were there.
Suddenly, there were footsteps in the lane, a figure approaching, quickly, head bowed. As Davy turned for a better look, a hand grabbed him from the other side of the gate, pulled him into the park. He was on the ground before he knew it and a kick was delivered between his legs.
Bastard! His hands went down to shield himself leaving his face unprotected. Two swift punches connected perfectly with his jaw.
‘Malky?’ he gasped. ‘Whit ye daein’, Malky? Is it you?’ Davy curled up on his side, holding his hands over the top of his head. His attacker did not reply in words but delivered another punch.
A second figure was grabbing him by the collar, yanking him onto his back, leaving him exposed to the feet of the first assailant once again.
‘Huey? Fur the love o’ God. Is it you, Huey? I didnae mean ye tae tak the blame. Whit could I dae?’ Davy whimpered after another fist connected with his face. ‘It wasnae ma fault ye were caught.’
I despised him for that sound in his voice, that pleading whine of a bully who’d suddenly found himself alone, without protection from his followers.
He lay there on the freezing ground wai
ting for more but no more came. He rolled over against a wall and cowered, his hands up in front of him, in surrender. He was feeling his jaw, spat out blood and saliva. He got onto all fours like a dog, holding his side as he got to his feet. He watched his assailants walking away, hurrying down the lane, and disappearing out of sight. Bastards, was all he could say.
It was long past midnight when Rob was released from the police station without charge. Sandy was standing with Bert, me and Jim, waiting for him.
‘Thanks, boys,’ he said. ‘I’d nuthin adae wi’ thon business the ither nicht.’
‘We ken,’ said Sandy, though we still didn’t know where he’d been.
‘It was guid o’ ye tae speak up for me, tae gie me an alibi.’
‘Nae bother,’ we said together.
‘Let’s get ye hame,’ said his brother.
Minn
I can count on the fingers of one hand how often I visited Stoneyrigg that first year of the war, so I didn’t set eyes on Rob in all that time but I thought of him night and day. I lived in a world where we were together, a future world full of children and laughter and tenderness. I didn’t mind where my life would be as long as I was with Rob though, in truth, I hardly knew him. I thought I did, after all those years of seeing him in the schoolroom every day, the years of knowing his family who lived in the next row, and watching him across the distance between us. I suppose it was his kiss on the night of the dance that did it because I couldn’t forget how he’d made me feel. So, with scant evidence to go by, I created an imaginary world, a Garden of Eden, with him – handsome and loving and mine – at the centre. Sometimes that world was in Stoneyrigg and sometimes it was in Canada, near to Meg and Will.