The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  You and Beth are often in my thoughts. I imagine what you might be doing but I am hesitant about wishing I was there at this moment. I have to remember how much has changed since that beautiful summer of 1914. Not just the people who are gone and the effect this has had on those they left behind, but how much we have all been changed by the knowledge of what has passed in the last three years. We are none of us the people we were but one day we must pick up where we left off and move on. I am not so sure it will be easy, though it is what we long for.

  In answer to your query, the majority of the patients here are French. We have Canadians from time to time. On occasion, when things are quiet, I am ordered to transport soldiers to one of the camps nearby. I have made enquiries at the large Canadian camp about a Scotsman called Tennant but the response is always negative. The men are very understanding but they cannot hide the pity in their eyes, assuming, as they probably do, that I am a deluded lover who is desperate for news. As you will appreciate there are many Canadian soldiers in France and I do not hold out much hope for a successful encounter. The old saying about needles and haystacks comes to mind.

  I must go now, Rose. The lovers have wandered off hand in hand along the river bank, and I am left alone in the sunshine with my thoughts. I hope you are well. Please give my best wishes to Beth and your father,

  Much love,

  Your dear friend,

  Phee

  Rose must have seen my colour rise. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Good news,’ I said.

  ‘And the bit at the end?’

  ‘It’s kind of you to think of me though I am a little embarrassed... the deluded lover... is that me? It’s like Phee says, a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘Everybody in this village knows you still hold a candle for Neil Tennant – except his mother. Who knows what someone, somewhere, might turn up?’

  ‘Dear God! Does everyone know? Anyway, I’m sure he’ll have given up hope, a long, long time ago.’ I did feel deluded and quite stupid.

  ‘Well, don’t you give up,’ she said. ‘Not unless you want to.’

  Rose was always the pragmatist.

  Summer soon merged into autumn and the days became shorter as another year of war drew to a close with no end to the hostilities in sight. One morning I left the house to make a few visits that were nothing out of the ordinary. A mother was poorly and needed some help with a child down with measles. A consignment of wool had arrived for distribution to the knitters – I would put word around for people to collect it. We had to get a move on if each of the Red Cross Christmas boxes for the troops were to contain a pair of socks. And I wanted to visit Miss Shanks at the Post Office, to find out if her throat would recover in time for the next afternoon recital for the Bangour patients. As I walked down the church steps, Mrs Gow and the Widow MacAuley were nowhere to be seen so I lingered, pretending to look at something on the ground. I wanted to give the women time to come out of their homes, to engage me in conversation, should they have any news to convey that might include something about Neil. I hadn’t given up and still lived in hope. A curtain twitched at a window across the road but the doors remained firmly shut.

  My heart skipped a beat when a dark clad figure in the distance caught my eye. A man was coming towards me, from the direction of the station. He walked at a snail’s pace. I stared for the longest time.

  ‘Ernest,’ I greeted him at last. ‘I hardly recognised you.’ He looked smaller than before, huddled up inside a thick woollen coat, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he replied. ‘Forgive me if I do not remove my hat.’

  ‘Of course.’ He looked drawn, his eyes sunken, his clothes a little dishevelled, not his usual dapper self. I asked how the tribunal had gone.

  ‘Not well, I’m afraid. I believe I gave a good account of myself but there was no one to speak on my behalf.’

  I wanted to sink at his feet and apologise, though not for myself. As Chairman of the School Board, Richard had refused to support Ernest’s appeal against conscription.

  ‘Did they give their verdict?’

  ‘They did,’ he said. ‘It would seem that men of conscience are to be removed from the society they serve. Their presence might influence the minds of others, especially in my case, in my role as schoolmaster.’

  My heart went out to him. He had already endured months of taunting from his pupils and several of the villagers had shunned him. Miss Foulkes had plenty to say about his refusal to join up when conscripted. She was prime suspect as the perpetrator of the white feathers pinned regularly to the door of his study for all to see.

  ‘I am to join a work camp,’ Ernest explained. ‘That is my sentence: to cut down trees in the absence of the forestry workers away at the front. Timber is much needed.’

  I could not imagine Ernest wielding an axe. How ever would he cope?

  ‘I am not inclined to decline such work, even though it contributes to the war. But I understand why others refuse and why they are prepared to go to prison for their ideals.’

  ‘I’ve heard the camps are just as harsh.’

  ‘Punishment is not meant to be taken lightly, dear Elizabeth.’

  I studied his face seeing his gentleness but also a great strength that others failed to see.

  ‘I will have the companionship of other like-minded fellows,’ he assured me. ‘Perhaps our shared beliefs will see us through. A local man from the Church of Christ was similarly refused his appeal at the tribunal today: in his case, on the grounds that he is too young to have developed the intellect necessary to come to a conclusion about weighty matters of conscience. Yet they could not see the irony of their assumption that the same man is not too young to fire a gun in order to kill another human being. Such is the madness of war.’

  ‘I am sorry, Ernest.’ I put my arms around him.

  ‘Why thank you, Miss Fraser,’ he said when I released him. He seemed quite overcome as he readjusted his hat. ‘Please be careful. Think carefully of your reputation.’ He looked back and forth as if every window in Main Street might have eyes trained on us. ‘You mustn’t be seen cavorting with a coward.’

  I looked at him with profound admiration. ‘You are no coward, dear Ernest. You are the bravest of men. Perhaps if there were more like you, this terrible war would never have come to pass.’

  ‘I will remember those words in the months ahead.’ He gave a short bow. ‘I mustn’t keep you out in the cold, Elizabeth. And I must pack some things as I am to report for duty tomorrow. I have a journey ahead of me.’

  I watched him, a dejected figure, make the long walk across the school playground. I waited until he had disappeared from sight around the side of the building as he headed for the schoolhouse. It saddened me to see a proud and principled man so mistreated and misunderstood. Even if he survived the rigours and privations of a forest camp, Ernest Black might return a broken man, unable to take up his position as schoolmaster again with his authority so undermined.

  I wrote to him weekly; long rambling letters about the wintery weather and whatever thoughts I had about the books I was reading. He rarely wrote back and when he did his prose was short and stilted, his thoughts poorly articulated with very little detail about his life at the camp. I was shocked but, in the end, not surprised when his good friend Mr Muir appeared at the door one day in the spring of 1918.

  Mr Muir sat in the parlour clutching a box to his knees like a gaoler guards a prisoner. Richard sat opposite holding the man in the strong grip of a treatise about sacrifice and suffering, practising for the following Sunday’s sermon. His parishioners were restive for the war to be over, he explained to the visitor. They needed constant reminding of the need to endure, for the sake of the country. They were sinners who were weary of conflict but they had given their savings to buy war bonds and given their sons to the slaughter, worked hard to bring
food and fuel to the nation. They had even raised money to buy weaponry for the front: a howitzer, as it turned out, not as great a contribution as the towns had been able to make but little acorns from great oaks grow, it had to be remembered. Richard was delighted – he could barely contain himself – to impress on the man his ability to inspire. He stressed the importance of a sermon in giving the flock sustenance, enough to keep them going from one week till the next. Fire, passion, and the Holy Spirit were a formidable foe in the fight against the devil and immorality which came in many forms. I am sure the visitor could see that Richard would not recognise either when they were staring back at him whenever he looked in a mirror.

  Mr Muir was sitting like a coiled up spring, rigid and tense, his teeth on edge, and a grimace fixed to his face when he noticed me standing in the doorway.

  I extended my hand. He fumbled to retain his grip on the box which I could not help but stare at. It seemed to be important to him.

  ‘Do sit down, Mr Muir,’ I said. ‘I have heard of you from Mr Black.’

  Our gaze fell on Richard who backed out of the room, finally, calling for Sarah to hurry with the tea.

  When the door was closed, I sat down. My eyes went from the visitor’s face to the box.

  ‘I am sorry that I could not come sooner, Miss Fraser,’ he began, taking care over his diction. ‘I have not been well.’

  ‘I hope you are much recovered.’

  He nodded. His collar seemed stiff. ‘It was Ernest’s dearest wish that you should have these.’ He tapped the sides of the box.

  ‘You are most kind to bring them.’ I could not hide my sadness.

  ‘My brother... he brought me here today, in his automobile from Glasgow. It would have been impossible otherwise. We have cleared the schoolhouse of Ernest’s things and will take them to his mother.’ He pushed his spectacles up against the bridge of his nose with a long finger.

  ‘May I?’ I reached out. He stood up to give me the box.

  ‘They are mostly poetry. He specified certain ones... those he knew you would like.’

  I examined the first two or three volumes and agreed that I would like them very much.

  ‘There are also one or two texts on the subject of botany. I believe you are well read on the subject.’ He smiled, hesitant, not wishing me to think I had been discussed, not wishing to allude to the private conversations he had had about me with his good friend.

  ‘I will cherish them,’ I promised, now close to tears.

  Mr Muir nodded quickly.

  ‘I had not heard from Ernest for some time. I did not realise... I knew nothing of his illness.’

  ‘No.’ He stared at the floor, remembering. ‘He did not look for pity.’

  ‘Pity? Not pity... concern for a dear friend... and... most definitely not pity.’

  ‘He was a proud man and knew he was gravely ill, Miss Fraser. Believe me, your friendship meant a great deal to him. He often spoke of you.’ He looked into my eyes, let his gaze drop down to the books on my lap. Then he stood up all of a sudden, straightening his jacket at the hem as if his life depended on it.

  ‘It is best if I leave you now. But please permit me to write with any details that you may wish to know. Perhaps I might visit in a few months when we have both come to terms with Ernest’s passing.’

  I did not trust myself to speak, just followed him out of the parlour into the hall where Sarah was standing with the tea tray. He apologised profusely for any trouble he might have caused but he could not stay.

  Hesitating at the door, Mr Muir fumbled in his pocket. ‘I almost forgot the most important thing!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please forgive me for the delay in bringing this to you.’

  I took the envelope he proffered, recognising the handwriting straight away, though it looked a little faltering, much less confident than in the past.

  ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Fraser. I am glad you were his friend.’

  I stared at the letter, remembering its author. Against the onslaught of public opinion fuelled by government propaganda and the need to justify so much death and violence, Ernest had fought his own battle for Good over Evil but would be condemned by history as a coward. So many men had shed their blood on the field of battle for freedom and honour and peace. Had Ernest Black not stood tall for the very same things, in his own quiet, measured way? Was the wholesale slaughter of a generation of its young men, the only answer the nation had to the Kaiser?

  I remembered Ernest’s mild manner and his timidity in my presence. I smiled at memories of him tripping over the rug in the hall and slipping on the front step as he nervously took his leave. He had a gentle sense of humour borne of intellect, extensive reading, and a deep understanding of the human condition. I remembered his friendship with Murdo Maclean, imagined the discussions they might have had about Greece and Rome, about education in its broadest sense, and the pace of social and political change. Unlike Murdo, Ernest would not fulfil the potential of his early life. He would never come back to the school or to any school to pass on his considerable knowledge of many things: his love of Latin and literature, of geography and science; to encourage excellence in his pupils, or frighten the living daylights out of the timid ones and give much-needed guidance to the bold. What sort of nation would squander such a life as Ernest Black’s?

  It occurred to me that he had been spared a life made difficult, perhaps intolerable, by his objection to the war on the grounds of conscience. As the troops returned home, triumphalism would inevitably grow if the war was won. Duty and sacrifice had already been exalted above all else by people like Richard who justified the carnage and bloodshed in adulatory terms for King, Empire, and God – together, the embodiment of all Truth and Reason. I feared it would only get worse. Whilst the men came back home to what? A struggle for a fairer share of the wealth of the country they had fought for? To overcrowded homes, to poverty, and to the possibility and iniquity of unemployment?

  I opened the letter. There was a single page and a flower, delicate, fragile – its delivery much delayed by Mr Muir’s illness. I extracted it carefully and laid it on my lap. A message without words. Blue flowers in a cluster, sepals blunt, small three-veined leaves. Linum usitatissimum – Common flax.

  Your kindness reaches me.

  My heart was fit to break.

  I saw that the single page had been folded over concealing another flower, this time much more robust, encased in large broad leaves, a spike of tiny, creamy-white, bell-shaped flowers. Convallaria majalis – Lily of the valley.

  Return of happiness.

  How strange, I thought.

  With trepidation I opened the piece of paper and in Ernest’s faltering hand was written:

  2nd Lt Neil Tennant 03462, 1RC, 4th Canadian Division, British Expeditionary Force, France

  Chapter 24

  John

  Eventually, the Germans moved their positions east to make a shorter line that was easier to defend, leaving us with miles of abandoned trenches full of sewage and booby-traps, in a sea of stinking mud and bomb holes. There was hardly a blade of grass anywhere and the trees were barely recognisable, broken shadows of what had been. The battalions of the Scottish Division were together and there were Canadians too. Many were Scotsmen by birth and we got on pretty well together when we had time off for rest and recreation. We talked about the old country as if it was a land of milk and honey. That made it worth fighting for – that and the folk we held in our hearts. Our comrades were like a family to us, without the baggage of years spent under the same roof. Even though friends we’d joined up with were not in the same company, we had folk to look out for, folk you put your life on the line for, and you knew were doing the same for you in return. I was glad Jim was in the same company as me. It was comforting to wake up in the morning and know that he was there beside me. One time he took a bullet in the leg. They sent him t
o one of the field hospitals and he didn’t come back for three weeks. It felt like a burden had been lifted from my shoulders when he was away and I didn’t have to worry about him but I missed him just the same.

  After weeks when I felt like I’d had a shovel in my hand more often than a gun, we were given some respite, sent well behind the lines for a rest. Even the army recognises that the human body has its limits. The long march out was begun in twilight and my company soon had to take refuge in an old farmstead. It was stripped of any comforts but the barn offered shelter from the freezing rain outside. That’s where I came across Rob for the first time in over a year. He’d been made up to corporal and was sitting against the back wall with his small group of men. He was smoking quietly, staring at nothing, as if faraway in another place. I was overjoyed to see him and bounced him into a conversation of sorts. They’d had a rough time of it, by all accounts, so I put his reticence to speak down to that. Looking forward to picking up where we’d left off the following day, I settled down for the night feeling comforted that I’d found my old friend. When we woke, though it was barely light, Rob and his men had gone. He’d left without a word.

  As I marched along the road north, Rob’s demeanour the previous night weighed heavily on my mind. He’d become distant long before he’d enlisted but the bonds of friendship, forged in the formative years of youth, ran deep as far as I was concerned so I felt hurt by his indifference. During my company’s week in the camp, I looked for him everywhere but he was nowhere to be seen. I asked men from the same regiment if they’d seen him. Most shrugged their shoulders. They didn’t know him. The few who did were suspicious and only one had something to say.

  ‘Whau kens whaur thon yin is? I’d leave well alane if I was you.’