The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  Conscription was brought in at the beginning of 1916 just after Rob left. Men were called up by age group, single men first, married men after and, although the pals were age to go, the authorities didn’t come for us straight away because we worked in starred occupations. But after the scale of the losses out in France, we were soon called up to serve our country.

  Geordie was left bereft by the news of our leaving. Who would help him patrol the village looking out for German spies? Sandy, being younger, had to stay behind and the sight of him looking glum with his hands in his pockets, unable to make a joke out of the situation, was a sorry sight. It suddenly struck us what we were leaving behind, and that what awaited us might not be the great adventure we’d been longing for.

  When it came Dan’s turn to leave, his father shook him by the hand. Davy Potts looked his son straight in the eye and handed over a small bible, telling Dan he would pray for God to keep him safe. When Bert was ready to go, Jimmy Broadley put his arms around him and told him to keep his head down, he wasn’t to worry about the family but he was to write to his mother as often as he could to let her know he was well. Jimmy walked with him to the railway station, waiting till Bert had boarded the train. He stood on the bridge till long after the train had snaked its way between the pitheads and spoil heaps and disappeared over the horizon. The whole village said what a sad sight he was. As me and Jim got ready, Alex sat at the table chewing crusts of bread that were proving hard work for his few remaining teeth. He looked out of the window and spoke about the situation in the mines with so many men away. Me and John stood in our Sunday best, waiting for him to notice us. When he did, he nodded towards neither in particular and said, ‘Aye, aye.’ We picked up our bags then said a final farewell to our mother. As I closed the door and Jim went ahead of me, I heard Alex take a long sook of tea. ‘That’ll be that then,’ was all he had to say.

  Chapter 22

  Elizabeth

  On a wild night in February of 1916, loud banging at the door had me hurrying to see who it was. Billy Dodds’ grandfather stood ankle-deep in snow asking for the lady doctor. She was needed along at Parkgate by the mistress and she was to hurry. There had been such a palaver trying to dig the motor out of the garage, and now it was stuck in a hedge. They couldn’t move it. But the doctor was needed urgently at the Big House, and a lot of time had already been wasted. I began dressing for the outdoors, insisting I should go with Rose, whilst she collected her doctor’s bag.

  We struggled through the drifting snow that had fallen all that day and the previous night. Snowflakes propelled on the gale stung our faces and stuck to our eyelashes, deep snow caught our skirts dragging us down as we struggled out of the village, helped along on the old man’s arm. I was glad to see the avenue of beech trees marking the way to the front door where Jameson stood waiting under the portico holding a lantern aloft, a beacon of hope in the night. Inside, Rose was greeted by Isabelle who looked uncharacteristically shaken. She led the way upstairs, glad to hand over responsibility for a situation she knew nothing about before rushing off, promising to send dry clothes and a hot drink. A servant was on hand, in the absence of a nurse.

  I made for the fireplace, stoking up the fire to make the room warm enough for the new arrival. The wind blew relentlessly, whistling down the chimney with an eerie moan that put me on edge. Even when I am warm and safe inside, that sound reminds me of the netherworld that lurks outside in the dark with all its temptations and dangers.

  Catherine clutched at Rose’s hand, thanked her for coming over and over again. She groaned with every contraction, lost in each long spasm of pain, recovering her composure for a few short seconds before it started up again. Rose said the baby wasn’t far away.

  Breathe, nice steady breathing, she ordered. When did the contractions start exactly? She said it would be over soon, the baby was in a rush to get into the world and wasn’t going to be stopped. It was a good sign. There didn’t seem to be any danger.

  Catherine was determined to say that the baby was early – too early – before letting out a long scream. It wasn’t due until March, late March, she stuttered when the contraction subsided.

  ‘Conceived in June, late June,’ she cried out. ‘Just before my son’s birthday. You’ll understand what that means, doctor.’

  Rose remained calm.

  Catherine became quite delirious, rambling on about David and how much she missed him. He was far away on the edge of Europe; it would be cold there too, perishingly cold. She prayed that he was warm, in a cosy billet out of danger; imagined him stern and strong, dressed in his great-coat and high leather boots, patrolling a border on a faithful horse. Then the contractions came with a vengeance. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead, mingling with tears that ran through her hair and down her neck, saturating the fine cotton sheets.

  ‘Where are you?!’ she yelled. ‘Why are you never here when I need you? Why?!’

  Rose did not expect a complicated birth but it took much longer than she anticipated and both mother and baby were becoming tired. She reached for the forceps when she felt there was no other choice, though the procedure wasn’t without risk for both mother and child. But first, she felt for the umbilical cord again, pushed and prodded as far as she could at the baby’s shoulders, helping it into a better position for delivery. Whatever she did made all the difference and the baby emerged into the world. She was a good colour, breathing well, and not noticeably smaller than might be expected. Catherine looked down on her child as she suckled at her breast.

  ‘Hello,’ she said softly, caressing a finger across the delicate pulsing down on the baby’s head. She looked at Rose directly. ‘Her name is Davina, after her father, my husband,’ she said. ‘Davina Catherine Melville. Such a perfect name, doctor. Don’t you agree? David will be delighted when I write to him.’

  ‘A beautiful name,’ replied Rose. ‘Her father will be proud.’

  ‘Yes, a fine name,’ I agreed, marvelling as always when a new life comes into being.

  The dawn was still an hour or two away when we took our leave. It was dark, no moon or stars to light up the way, the sky heavy with more snow. Jameson accompanied us with a lantern. We followed the tree-lined way to the road. The brown-shrivelled leaves on the beeches rustled loudly on swaying branches that creaked in the biting wind. Jameson hobbled slowly, making heavy weather of the drifting snow. When we reached the gates out to the road, he faltered.

  ‘Don’t worry about us, Jameson,’ Rose called over the sough of the wind. She refused his offer of the lantern – he would need it to get back to the house.

  ‘Mind how ye go, doctor,’ he cautioned. ‘It’s a grand thing ye’ve done this nicht, bringin’ a bairn safe intae this world. I’m sure the mistress is gratefu’.’

  Rose grimaced.

  ‘The Melvilles an’ the Imries wield a wheen o’ influence in these pairts, as I’m sure yer aware,’ he warned. ‘Tak tent, Doctor Matheson,’ he warned. ‘Safe hame, Miss Fraser.’

  I watched the small light disappear between the trees, the lantern waving wildly in Jameson’s trembling hand. His words left me chilled to the bone, even more than the deep snow seeping cold into my boots and freezing my toes; even more than the biting wind that lifted swirls of powdery whiteness up into the air ahead of us. A bright moon was visible for a brief moment as broken cloud raced across the heavens, coalescing back into inky darkness, building for the next snowstorm. One hand on her hat, the other clutching her bag and her skirt, Rose slogged into the storm ahead of me. It was coming straight out of the east, from Russia where thousands were perishing from hunger and cold; from a fractured Europe, where the bodies of dead men lay frozen in the soil, unclaimed by the families who loved them and had lost them forever.

  When the next blizzard came, snowflakes stung our eyes, almost blinding us as we fought through the storm to the safety of the manse barely a mile away. Everything was wh
ite: the hedgerows, the fields, the air, the road beneath our feet; muffling all sounds except the faraway wind in the trees and the creak of our footsteps in the snow. I wondered, was this what it was like to die? To lose the senses one by one: the feeling in fingers and toes; the softening of sound; trading bright colours for mere black and white; to trudge on with every breath through a blue-whiteness, seeking comfort and release in a calm place away from the difficulties and complexities of life, leaving behind sorrow and pain for everlasting peace.

  I thought of the new life Rose had brought into the world, a little girl warm in her mother’s arms. She would bring joy to her father when he had news of her, should he be spared long enough to read the hastily-dispatched letter announcing her birth. I prayed for him, for his children and his wife, for Donald, for Phee, and even for Richard somewhere on the French coast where he read the scriptures to lost and weary boys who wanted home to their mothers and fathers. But mostly I prayed for Neil, dearest Neil, who had opened his heart to me, writing me beautiful letters that were never acknowledged.

  Sarah was surprised to see that the range was already lit and the kitchen warm and snug when she appeared at six o’ clock. I had a cup of tea waiting for her, and the oatmeal was already bubbling away in the pot. Sarah loved her work, especially now that the minister was away at the mission. The house must have seemed much brighter, the atmosphere still purposeful but much more relaxed with just me and Dr Matheson around; and the morning surgeries, held in the minister’s study, added a new dimension to life in the manse. When patients arrived for a consultation, they were asked to wait in the parlour until the doctor was ready to see them. If I wasn’t able to deal with them then Sarah would step in. There was only one patient that day, possibly because of the snow. Sarah was collecting the post from the doormat just as Rose was making ready to leave for her morning rounds. The hand-writing on one of them had me excited, though I was perplexed by the postmark. I tore the envelope open.

  ‘Someone I know?’ Rose asked as she picked up her bag.

  I began scanning the first page. ‘It’s from Phee.’

  ‘At last,’ said Rose, relieved. ‘It’s been ages since she got in touch. Perhaps she’s on the mend...’ She studied my face as I read through the letter at great speed.

  ‘Is everything alright? Please tell me.’

  I took a few more moments, enough to finish the final page then handed it to Rose.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ was all I could say.

  Rose read quickly, soon realising why I had looked so taken aback.

  The letter hadn’t been sent from Hawick but from London. Phee was apologising for not keeping in touch but it had taken her some time to come to terms with her situation, she wrote. She expressed regret for her last two letters which had been written in haste and in anger. She was particularly sorry for things she had written to Rose. Did I think it was a good idea for Phee to write to her again? Would Rose accept her apologies? She hadn’t meant what she had said and she hoped to be forgiven by both of us. We were her dearest friends and she hoped we understood. She had been out of sorts, hadn’t been thinking straight, had been full of anger and spite and she was thoroughly ashamed. But having had time to come to terms with the loss of Eric, she was now beginning to see things more clearly and put it all into some kind of perspective.

  I studied Rose, waiting for her reaction. She began to read out loud, as if the sound of the words might help her to understand them better, and make sure she wasn’t mistaken.

  ‘So that is why I decided to contact the Scottish Women’s Hospitals myself, to offer my services in support of the wonderful work they are doing. Rose turned to the final page. They took some persuading of my motives. I cannot pretend that I did not lie a little here and there in order to be taken seriously and not dismissed as some mad woman who has been recently bereaved. With persistence on my part, they have agreed to give me a posting, not in the Balkans as I requested, but in France at the Abbaye Royaumont, north-east of Paris. I am to be employed as a driver, transporting wounded soldiers from the clearing stations near the Front to the hospital for treatment. Although it is not exactly what I set out to achieve, I suddenly feel alive again, knowing that I will be doing good. By the time you receive this letter, I will be on my way south. I will write as soon as I can with an address, Beth. I hope you will write soon. Please understand why I could not write till now. Let Rose know my news – her friendship means much to me.

  With love and fondest regards,

  Your dear friend, Phee’

  In the parlour later that evening, we settled down in front of the fire. The wind had abated but a soft light penetrated the room from the snow outside, hard with frost brought on by the cloudless sky. Shadows danced around the walls as the flames licked upwards from the coals in the grate. I looked up from my book to see that Rose had forsaken her medical text and was staring into the fire.

  ‘Penny for them.’ I stood up, lit the candles on the mantelpiece.

  Rose leaned over to prod at the coals with the poker. ‘I was just thinking that women are prisoners of their biology, more or less.’

  I raised my eyebrows though I shouldn’t have been surprised, Rose was a deep thinker.

  ‘I cannot imagine going through childbirth myself,’ I admitted. ‘I was truly horrified the first time I attended a delivery with Mrs Birse. It still seems a daunting process though I’ve helped on several occasions since. To be honest, that first time made me realise the whole truth about... you know... intercourse... I hadn’t fully thought through what was involved. I was naive, had no one to tell me all about it, to describe the mechanics of it.’ I must have blushed a bright pink. ‘What a silly girl I’ve been about all of it – love, marriage, children. Blind to the realities of life... as a woman.’

  ‘Childbirth is a difficult and dangerous process,’ said Rose. ‘So many risks, even in the best of homes where the mother is well-nourished and the possibility of infection is much reduced. Yet some women go through it time after time.’

  ‘Did it ever worry you that...’ I was having difficulty expressing myself. ‘You would... might become... you know...’

  ‘When I was with David? No, it didn’t.’ She stared into the coals. ‘In the heat of it, nothing of the sort crosses one’s mind. Well perhaps it does but only for an instant. It’s all-consuming, believe me.’

  ‘But what if there had been a child? Think what it would have meant...’

  ‘There was little risk of a child. There are ways of avoiding such. Not foolproof, granted, but good enough if one is careful.’

  ‘I’m not sure what to think of such actions... it sounds... so... so premeditated, so devious.’ I regretted the words immediately, not wanting to appear critical or take the moral high ground when I knew so little of such matters.

  ‘What you actually mean is that it sounds immoral.’ Rose had already encountered the same reaction in others.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that,’ I replied, though that was exactly what was in my mind.

  ‘Why shouldn’t women find pleasure like men do, without the dire consequences?’

  I gasped. ‘Pleasure?! Goodness, gracious! Perhaps immoral is the right word!’

  ‘But why? Is only the man to have pleasure?’ she challenged. ‘Is that what the sister thinks or the brother?’ Rose had a fire in her eye I had rarely seen before. ‘Why should the church, and the conventions it perpetuates, be allowed to condemn women to pregnancy and childbirth, almost as a punishment for her sins.’

  ‘Hardly a punishment! A child is a wonderful gift!’

  ‘Yes, I agree. One or two children, at the time of a woman’s choosing, is a blessing. But not otherwise. Certainly not one every year until she drops with exhaustion or a medical complication.’

  It was my turn to stare into the coals. I could see her point. ‘Do you advise patients of such?’ I ve
ntured. ‘Do you pass on your knowledge of ... of avoidance?’

  ‘No, not exactly, not unless the woman’s life is in danger should another pregnancy occur. I have to be careful. Wider society is not quite ready for such knowledge, and certainly not here in Blackrigg. But the time will come.’

  I thought of some of the women in the Rows and in the farms who were Rose’s patients, tired before their time.

  ‘The very same women who would be most helped by such knowledge would be the ones to condemn me for it, not to mention the Miss Silvers of this world. Besides, what would Richard say if he knew I was advocating such behaviour whilst living under his roof?’ Rose raised her eyebrow at me.

  ‘He’d probably say we were well suited, you and I. One encouraging immorality in the female population – that’s you – and another encouraging immorality in the male population – that’s me!’

  ‘We’d better mind our Ps and Qs, in that case, Miss Fraser. We don’t want the manse to get a reputation as a house of ill-repute in his absence, do we?’

  Our laughter masked the sound of the parlour door opening. When we eventually noticed her, Sarah was standing in the doorway looking as if she had just seen a ghost.

  ‘Please come,’ she pleaded. ‘She needs help, please.’

  ‘Who needs help, Sarah? What’s wrong?’ I asked, immediately brought back down to earth.

  ‘Ma sister.’ She beckoned towards the kitchen. ‘It’s ma sister. Please, she’s through by.’

  It was a long dark night, as cold as anyone could recall. The temperature had dropped severely as night had fallen and a raw, angry blast blew across the snow fields, tainted Nature concealed under a cloak of unadulterated white. Trees swayed back and forth in the gale and windows rattled in their casements. Slates lifted in waves, then clattered down onto the roof timbers. Fearful, I stood in the half-light watching at Richard’s bedroom window which gave a lofty view of the churchyard and the village. Ferny patterns of ice had spread across the glass so I melted a circle with the heel of my hand, a woollen blanket around my shoulders – the warmth from the fire did not reach far into the room. The clock in the hall sounded out six discordant notes as hunched figures began to make their way along Main Street, each one glimpsed only for an instant in the gas light at the end of the lane below the church. The early shift was heading off to Back o’ Moss Pit. The world was coming to life in spite of the weather. The Grahams would be up and about in the Rows, thankful Sarah was safe and warm along in the manse, glad she had not tried to venture home on such a wicked night.