by Mary Easson
I found Donald alone in the parlour waiting for me. He sat staring into the fire, his work-shirt stretched across his broad back, a strong hand supporting his head of sandy-blond hair. He offered me tea which I accepted. I didn’t really want it. The day was wearing on and I would have to meet Sarah for the long walk back over the muir. But he deserved my time. I owed him as much, and an explanation. I asked him to listen to what I had to say. It was better that I was frank with him, after all this time. It was unforgivable to lead him on and not be perfectly clear about how I felt. Then I told him there was someone else, someone I had loved for a number of years. When I had first met Donald, I had decided that us – me and this other man – could never be together. But more recently, I had come to realise that this was still uncertain. And as long as the possibility of a reunion with this man remained, I could not pretend that I loved Donald in the way he might wish, though I admired him greatly.
‘I am sorry, Donald,’ I said. ‘Please forgive me.’
As we stood up, he said, ‘It is for the best. Do not worry about me. I am unsure of my own feelings, in any case.’
I was grateful to him. He was trying to make it easier for me, so that I would not feel his sadness though his face could not hide it. I felt a profound respect for him and a deep affection that could easily have turned to love, in other circumstances.
‘Please feel free to visit my aunt at any time, Elizabeth. She enjoys your company very much.’ He half reached out to me but he stopped himself. ‘Can I see you safely home? The weather is taking a turn for the worse.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He stood at the window and watched me go away from him, up the long track to the road where Sarah was waiting for me. I knew he would wait until I disappeared into the distance, and would long perhaps for my next visit, in spite of what I had just told him. I felt sick with the torment of it, his and mine, for weeks afterwards.
Turning in the direction of the hill road, I linked arms with Sarah. We bent into the wind blowing hard against us as she related her conversation with her sister. Snow was beginning to fall, small icy flakes borne on a cold, relentless blast.
Chapter 21
Elizabeth
Within months of the outbreak of hostilities, the War Office acquired the Village Hospital at Bangour, creating the Edinburgh War Hospital out of an asylum for the feeble-minded. Built to a German model on a sprawling site in the heart of the Linlithgowshire countryside, wards were housed in large detached villas scattered around communal buildings such as the recreation hall, the shop, the laundry, and the power station. To all intents and purposes, a village community had been created where patients worked their way to wellness or an equilibrium of sorts, on the farm, in the gardens, and in the workshops. The first ambulance train arrived in June of 1915 on a new spur from the national rail network that allowed wounded soldiers to be transported from the hospital ships arriving at Southampton. Plucked from the killing fields of Europe, the men woke up surrounded by green fields and woodlands where the peace was undisturbed except by the birdsong in the grounds, the memories of what they’d seen, and the hospital siren intermittently signalling the departure of another train load of wounded men from the main station in the city, twenty miles away. The small towns and villages of Linlithgowshire took the soldiers to their hearts. Those who lived nearby volunteered for nursing duties, or as medical orderlies and ambulance drivers. Every community hosted groups of convalescents in the afternoons for tea and entertainment or, in the evenings, for concerts arranged to raise funds that provided small comforts sent off to the men who were still far from home, at the Front. On Wednesday afternoons, Brogan’s Vehicle Hire transported Bangour patients the short distance from the railway station to the public hall where the women of Blackrigg awaited their arrival.
The day we heard the news from the Balkans, late in 1915, I remember how Miss Silver breezed into the hall with all the charm of the north wind, cold and biting. It annoyed her severely that the rest of the Church Tea Committee had arrived before her. It annoyed her even more that several members of the Co-operative Society Women’s Guild were in attendance. According to her, they were too ill-bred to understand the notion of a rota that stated which organisation was in charge of arrangements on which week. And that particular week was most definitely the Church Tea Committee’s week. She, on the other hand, could not acknowledge the compassion that drove women from their busy lives to reach out a hand of friendship to damaged men who could so easily have been their brothers, husbands, and sons.
Miss Silver hung up her wet coat and surveyed arrangements in the small kitchen off the main hall. Every kettle was full and on the boil, tea pots were charged, and plates of pancakes and scones waited to be served. She added her own contribution of half a dozen pale specimens. In the hall, no one acknowledged her presence. A large knot of women, each with their allocation of wool from the communal supply, had formed around Mrs Gow and the Widow MacAuley who were demonstrating the art of knitting fingerless gloves – for inclusion in Red Cross parcels. The creation of the cuff was straightforward enough, everyone agreed. The first problem lay in making the opening for the thumb then developing the hand sufficiently for the fingers, without losing stitches or creating extra holes where they weren’t required. The Widow MacAuley stressed the importance of sticking to the pattern and counting the number of stitches. Miss Silver told everyone it was simply a matter of common sense and basic logic but she peered over my shoulder with great intent nevertheless.
Movement around the room soon distracted her attention from the knitting lesson. The women of the Co-op Guild were busy at the tables, already set for afternoon tea. She watched carefully, shielded by Mrs Gowans who stood next to her. In Miss Silver’s eyes, the Co-op Guild was the haunt of lowly Stoneyrigg women, the wives of mineworkers who inhabited slums and bred large families of unwashed children. Their husbands were pushing for a further increase in wages, after all of the concessions made by the government earlier in the year. She often complained about unpatriotic workers taking advantage of a national emergency and pressing for pay increases. Everyone had to contribute to the war effort, she would fume. It was shameful that miners were capitalising on the situation for their own ends when so many brave men were fighting in dreadful conditions, laying down their lives at the front, for King and Country.
‘What are you doing with that sugar bowl?!’ she suddenly demanded of Highland Mary, her nemesis from the District Nursing Committee, an upstart who called herself a nurse and midwife but was trained for neither profession. ‘Put it down!’
Mary turned round, momentarily startled, then continued with her task.
‘Put it down, I say!’ Miss Silver advanced across the hall.
‘Whit’s yer problem?’ asked Peggy, busy at another table.
Miss Silver took in the enormity of Peggy’s new coat – a fur coat acquired from the pack woman for a shilling. The coat had seen better days but Peggy seemed to revel in it. Miss Silver could not hide her contempt.
‘You’re stealing sugar! How dare you!’
A collective gasp came from us knitters, and newly arrived members of the ladies’ choir.
‘They most certainly are not stealing sugar.’ I called out, coming to their aid.
‘I saw them with my own eyes,’ said Miss Silver who was always right.
Mary and Peggy stood, hands on hips, glaring back at her, bags of sugar on the tables in front of them for all to see. Mary picked hers up and held it aloft.
‘This bag was fu’ when I brocht it here,’ she stated. ‘If I’m stealin’ it, whaurs it gaun?’ The bag was less than half full.
‘I can vouch for that fact,’ I said.
‘We’re putting sugar intae the bowls, no takin’ it oot,’ declared Peggy.
‘If ma man kent why there was nae sugar in the hoose b’ Wednesday maist weeks, there’d be hell ta
e pey!’ said Mary.
A snigger went around the company like a ripple on a pond. Miss Silver stood stock still, her mouth open like a big fish out of water, suddenly looking very green at the gills.
‘Ye were mistaken, ma’am,’ said Ellen Broadley. ‘Sugar is gey dear, an’ we can ill-afford it but we’ve brocht it for a guid cause. Mebbe ye should open yer e’en in future, raither than seein’ whit ye want tae see.’
Miss Silver turned on her heels, made for the kitchen to spare her blushes and to avoid having to eat humble pie. In her opinion, the Stoneyrigg women had too many other faults to merit an apology for such a small mistake on her part.
A contingent of Bangour patients arrived at the hall, not a moment too soon. We bustled around them, with plates and teapots, refilling milk jugs and lighting cigarettes. The fracas of moments ago was laid aside in a flurry of activity for men who had sacrificed so much. They smelled of tobacco and disinfectant. Between them, they carried a variety of wounds, had different parts of their bodies wrapped up in bandages or were missing limbs altogether but all smiled broadly, grateful to be out of the confines of the hospital, and grateful for our hospitality. They settled down to conversation that was animated for some and quiet for others. They were happy to have female company, to talk with women who reminded them of their mothers, their sweethearts and their sisters who lived in other parts of the country or in the colonies. I have to confess I paid particular attention to the Canadians for my own sake. They described where they came from – country villages and busy towns, cities thick with grime and smog, or landscapes of mountains and sea where people were waiting for them. They talked about letters they had been sent with news of their children, taking dog-eared photographs from inside their jackets, pictures kept warm in pockets close to their hearts. It meant a lot to them that we listened to their stories, studying the images of people who meant so much to them: brothers and fathers, mothers and wives, new born babies they had never held, fiancées and sweethearts they hoped to marry, one day, when it was all over.
The ladies choir soon struck up a medley of songs that ranged from the cheerful to the melancholic, with me picking out the tunes as best I could in the absence of a more experienced pianist. If anyone was subdued by the entertainment, they did not show it, smiling throughout and generous in their applause. There would be plenty of time for sadness when the songs had been sung and they were back in their hospital beds. When Richard arrived to say a prayer on their behalf, the men were accepting and polite in their response, taking the opportunity to give grateful thanks to the Lord for His Mercy and to the ladies of Blackrigg for their kindness.
Richard stayed long enough to let everyone in the room know that he would be leaving the following day for France, having responded to the call for chaplains to administer to the spiritual needs of the troops. He quoted Byron, having learned the words from Ernest of course, the part about man’s conscience being the oracle of God. He explained that he was leaving the village with a heavy heart but he had to heed the call of duty. He looked pointedly at me when he reminded everyone that he would be back in six months’ time, and that he expected to take up the reins exactly where he left off. Then he left as quickly as he had appeared, mindful of the soiree being held later that evening on his behalf.
By the time the last of the men had said their goodbyes, clearing up was well under way. The Stoneyrigg women took over duties at the kitchen sink, revelling in the joys of indoor plumbing and a spacious kitchen with yards of shelving where everything had its place. Peggy washed, still clad in her fur coat, stacking clean dishes on the draining board for Mary and Ellen to dry. Miss Silver was thankful for the opportunity to stay out of their way in the hall. Time for reflection over her earlier gaff had her dander up and she needed to restore her reputation. She was looking for a victim. When she spotted her arrival, Miss Silver’s eyes narrowed. She watched Rose intently as she entered the hall, seeking me out by the piano. We had begun finalising arrangements for her move to the manse the following day when the viper struck.
‘Good day, Dr Rose,’ said Miss Silver in clipped tones.
‘Dr Matheson, if you please,’ I corrected her.
‘I’m not sure that I can call her that.’ She turned to Rose, ‘There’s only one Dr Matheson in my book, a man of impeccable character and great learning, a pillar of the community.’
Rose smiled in gratitude for the compliment being paid to her father. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind if you call me by the same name.’
‘It’s not as if we would get the two mixed up, Miss Silver,’ I said lightly.
‘’Oh, we wouldn’t. Would we, Dr Rose?’ she continued. ‘You’re quite a different creature from your father, altogether very different.’
Rose cast her eyes down over the curve of her dress and held out her hands. ‘You’ve noticed.’
She turned back towards me, clearly disliking the older woman’s tone, sensing a challenge based on her gender. She had learned how to deal with such attitudes over the years though it irked even more when expressed by a woman.
‘You see, I think impeccable morals are essential in a practising doctor.’ Miss Silver gave one of her superior smiles.
Rose met my eyes before turning her gaze on her assailant.
‘How is Captain Melville, Dr Rose?’ The question struck like a knife.
‘I am unsure of your meaning? Captain Melville is with his regiment, in the Balkans, I believe.’
‘And you haven’t heard from him?’
‘No. Should I?’ Rose was trying hard to look calm. Eyes and ears were trained on her from around the hall.
‘Aren’t you acquainted with the captain, Dr Rose?’
Rose knew she had to crush the woman’s mischief. But she wasn’t allowed much time to give rebuke. ‘Of course...’
‘Didn’t I see you with Captain Melville in the summer?’
‘Really, Miss Silver,’ I interjected. Several other women agreed, tutting their disapproval loudly.
‘In Edinburgh, Dr Rose. Don’t you remember? Late June as I recall.’ Miss Silver turned to her audience then lunged back at Rose. ‘One Saturday afternoon. You were walking together.’
‘I do remember bumping into Captain Melville in June,’ said Rose. ‘In fact, I helped him choose some birthday gifts for his son on that occasion.’ She turned to me again, tried to continue our conversation, hoping that the woman would back down.
Miss Silver pulled herself up to her full inelegant height. ‘Really? You were not carrying any gifts when I saw you emerge from the North British Hotel late in the afternoon and proceed up the North Bridge together. I had a very clear view from the top of my trolley bus.’
The audience of women gasped but not only because of Miss Silver’s revelations.
‘That’s quite enough.’ Catherine had entered the hall and was standing by the door; a beacon of respectability in her blue velvet coat with its large sable collar. She placed a gloved hand on top of her abdomen, emphasising her latest pregnancy which was fully six months in the making by then.
‘What are you insinuating about my husband? My dear, dear husband who is fighting for his country, at this very moment.’
She glared at the insufferable Miss Silver before sweeping her stare around the hall at everyone present.
‘Dr Matheson is a very good friend of the family,’ Catherine continued. ‘As she has already explained, she gave assistance to my husband when he went looking for birthday gifts for our son. He is a wonderful husband and father but hasn’t the slightest idea when it comes to buying gifts. In point of fact, knowing she was in town at that time, I asked Dr Matheson to give him some help.’
Miss Silver looked horrified, clearly wishing the ground would open up beneath her. It would have appalled her to have been caught spreading malicious gossip about the local gentry by one of their own and, worst still, here was the betrayed
wife herself hearing the awful truth for the first time. Regardless of Mrs Melville’s protestations, the truth was out. Doubtless Miss Silver was already dreading her next encounter with the family after the Sunday morning church service. She bowed her way out of range and fled to the kitchen to help the Stoneyrigg women with the washing up. The rest of the audience drifted away on a tide of embarrassment, their memories imprinted forever with Miss Silver’s insinuations about the new lady doctor and the laird.
Catherine smiled a sickly-sweet smile, kissing Rose and myself each on the cheek but her mask soon crumbled.
‘Thank you, Catherine. Thank you for your timely intervention,’ said Rose in a quiet voice.
‘I did not do it for your sake but for myself and my husband.’ Catherine’s lips hardly moved, a mixture of emotions in her voice. She was having difficulty comprehending the enormity of what had been revealed by Miss Silver’s mischief-making but she was making a valiant effort to hide it.