by Mary Easson
The words made my flesh crawl.
Weeks and months of war take their toll on a man: the shriek of shells exploding into the mud and the booming thud of the big guns; the rattling of the Lewis gun in your hands, vibrating through your body till your nerves are shattered; the sights and the smells of war that haunt you day and night. I saw all of it in Rob’s eyes the next time I met him.
My company had dropped back from the front line for a few days after some heavy pounding. We passed tattered groups of men, what was left of whole companies, taking rest in bombed-out farmsteads and villages that were barely recognisable as such. Officers in vehicles sped up and down, sometimes stopping to take details and give orders, amalgamating remnants of shattered units, bringing order out of chaos, getting ready for the next push at a time when the enemy was in danger of getting the upper hand.
We stopped by the roadside after a long spell on our feet, sat down for some rest and a bite to eat. A group of men and officers from another regiment had settled themselves around the ruin of a farmhouse some way from where we sat. Our sergeant ordered me and one other to find out if there was fresh water available. That was where I came across Rob for a second time in as many years. He was sitting propped up against a pile of rubble, all by himself, shivering like he couldn’t help himself. When he saw me, a glow of recognition swept across his face and he grinned. I offered him some chocolate but he refused. He reached inside his jacket, handed me a half bottle of brandy. I said no – I’d never been one for the drink. Rob took a swig, began asking questions about the pals and about people he’d shown no interest in before – weel-kent faces in the village, or men down the pit. He didn’t ask me about Davy and, though I was tempted to bring up the subject, decided I’d better not. I did mention Andrew Brownlee’s name, said he was in the Black Watch. I saw a cloud pass over Rob’s face and he was quiet for a bit.
He’d had the best part of the bottle and was fair maudlin by the time we got onto the subject of his family. His language was foul. He didn’t have a good word to say about them, not even Sandy. He was soon cursing his mother, proud Peggy Duncan with her airs and graces who lived like a hure, granting favours to a piece of foreign shite who knew a soft bed when he saw one.
I asked what difference it made that Joe was foreign and he said all the difference in the world. I said it was common enough for widows to get married again, especially when they had young children to look out for. I told him he should be happy she had a bit of security. Apart from anything, didn’t it mean he would be able to get on with his own life when the time came.
I let that sink in then said that Joe had moved out. Sandy had said so in a letter. Didn’t Rob know? Hadn’t he heard? Since Archie had been killed at the Somme, Lizzie and her children had moved in with Peggy, Sandy, and Maggie. They were all looking out for each other and were getting on fine.
Rob took a long slug of brandy and drew his hand across the drool that spilled from his mouth. Then he began to laugh, loud and coarse, before it petered out into a fit of coughing that was rough from too much tobacco.
‘I’m no gaun back tae yon shit-hole when this is a’ by,’ he slurred.
‘There’s worse places in this world.’
‘No monie. I’ll never gang back. Naw, I’m better than yon.’
My hackles rose at the cheek of him.
‘They’re guid folk. Buirdly chiels and clever hizzies,’ I said, quoting the bard.
‘Nane as clever as me but. Rob Duncan, tap o’ the class, eh?’
I leaned away from his stale breath.
He thought for a bit before havering on about a girl he’d been sweet on once upon a time, telling me about how it hadn’t taken him long to get his way with her, how he used to meet her in secret and what they did together.
His filthy talk repulsed me. When I realised who he might be talking about, it made me want to throw up.
‘Whiles, ye want somethin’ for lang enough an’ it torments the hell oot ye richt tae the soles o’ yer feet, till ye think ye’ll gae aff yer heid for the wantin’ o’ it… then ye get it oan a plate an’ find oot it’s no worth havin’,’ he said. He put his head back, stared up at the sky, his eyes swimming in his head. Then he began to laugh again. He elbowed my side, slurring his words as he spoke, ‘Ye’ll mind her frae the school... a richt piece…’
I don’t know what came over me as I laid into him with both fists even though he was too drunk to defend himself. I called him a worthless shit, an arrogant pathetic self-centred coof as I rained blows on his head. I would have started in with my feet had Billy Nairn not grabbed me, warning me I was a private hammering into a corporal and that was a no-no. My anger knew no end but I managed to step back and see my handiwork for what it was.
Billy motioned for me to take Rob’s arm whilst he took the other and we half-carried him back to his men. As we rounded the roofless shell of the farmhouse, we could see a group was trying to start a fire to make tea. The wood was refusing to light. We dragged Rob towards them, left him in a slump clutching his empty bottle but nobody said a word. They’d seen it all before, no doubt. A couple of officers appeared on the scene so we began to walk away, quickly, but I couldn’t resist a last look round at my old friend and what he had become. He was on the ground, curled up like a bairn, vomiting brandy and bile into the mud.
Nearby, the fire had begun to take hold to everybody’s delight then all of a sudden, WOOOOSH! A huge explosion sent everybody up into the air. I felt the hair on my face singe and everything became red before I fell backwards and the world went black.
When I came to, I had a bandage round my eyes. I tried to take it off because I couldn’t see a bloody thing but a man came to my side, told me to leave it be for my own good. He asked if I remembered being in an explosion and I said aye, more or less, somebody was trying to make the tea. He told me the fire had been lit over an unexploded shell buried in the ground, just below the surface. It was a common enough danger when land was gained from the enemy. Six men had been killed so I was lucky to have been walking away from it. I had some burns to my face but they were superficial, he assured me. The pain was a sign that the damage hadn’t been too deep. But my eyes had been affected and the doctor couldn’t be sure how bad the damage was. They were going to take me to a hospital as soon as transport was available. I’d be there for a while before they would know. So I lay there in the darkness at the mercy of men that I did not know. They cared for me, helped me wipe my backside, fed me and told me what time of day it was. While I could only see black and red and, in my mind’s eye, a big white explosion sending bodies and limbs and mud flying into the air.
Elizabeth
The Manse
Blackrigg
1st May 1918
Dearest Neil,
I hope you will give me the honour of reading this letter which has taken me so long to write. I can understand if your inclination is to cast it aside and I ask forgiveness for my lack of response to the beautiful letters you wrote to me so long ago. I hope that one day you might find it in your heart to allow me the opportunity of explaining the circumstances that have prevented me from writing back to you. For the moment, I ask you to believe that these circumstances were not of my making and, had they been otherwise, nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to tell you of my profound love and admiration for you. I understand that your feelings towards me might have changed and, if this is the case, I wish you every happiness though my heart will break for my own sake.
I sincerely hope and pray that you are well wherever you might be. I pray that the war will end soon and you may come back to those you love and who love you in return.
God bless and keep you, dearest Neil
All my love
Beth
It is many weeks since I wrote my letter, opening up my heart to someone who might be a stranger to me should we ever meet again in the futu
re. I have written once more since with never a word in return – which is hard to bear – but I understand why Neil’s heart might be turned against me after all this time. Now that the summer is here, I try to face each day with optimism. The better weather is always an antidote to gloomy thoughts, I find, and even when the postman does not bring the news I crave, I find comfort and happiness in my good friends, my garden, and in the people of this village who, in good or bad weather, face life with great fortitude.
Today, I have the Bangour patients to look forward to. Sarah has made some of her scones for the afternoon tea and we spread them with a little butter and a generous layer of raspberry jam, the first of this summer’s batch. Although food rationing limits the amount we may purchase of certain items, I have saved a small amount of sugar every week through the winter and spring months so that we can make our preserves as usual. Sarah declines my invitation to help out in the public hall and I leave her in the knowledge that she will work her fingers to the bone in my absence in order to get home as soon as possible. She dotes on Minn’s child like he was her own. As I expected, the Grahams took Minn and her son into their big brood with open arms and he is much blessed. The father, whoever he may be, is nowhere in sight and I wonder if he will ever face up to his responsibilities. But as they say hereabouts, it is his loss if he does not.
When I go in through the main door to the public hall, I can see that everything is laid out ready for the arrival of the patients but no one seems to be about. The place is deserted, as if a ghost ship has grounded right here amongst the coal pits and cottages of Blackrigg. The ante rooms by the main door are unoccupied and no one is in the kitchen, though three large kettles boil furiously on the stove and plates piled high with the purvey cover a table. Voices draw me into the hall and out of the back door where several women are engaged in a heated discussion.
‘We can haurdly feed oorsels, nivermind the patients, is a’ I’m sayin’,’ says Mary Birse.
Miss Silver looks apoplectic with indignation. ‘Had I not heard it with my own ears, I would not have believed it! Are you suggesting we abandon these men who have given so much?’
‘We’re sayin nuthin o’ the kind,’ counters Ellen Broadley. ‘We’re jist sayin’ the rations we get are gey sma’. Ye cannae feed a workin’ man oan whit we’re allowed b’ the government.’
‘It’s no jist the quantity either,’ continues Mary. ‘The quality is a disgrace. The oatmeal tastes like sawdust.’
‘An’ the tea’s nae better than sweepin’s aff the flair,’ adds Ellen.
‘It’s gantin’!’ says Peggy from behind, having only just arrived.
‘Is a’body gettin’ the same or is it jist us in the minin’ districts that are gettin’ short-changed?’ asks Mary. ‘I cannae see the ladies o’ Morningside or Kelvinside bein’ content tae serve up whit we’re gettin’.’
If looks could kill, Miss Silver would be six feet under.
‘I might have guessed class would come into it sooner or later,’ sighs Miss Silver. ‘I’m sure we are all treated the same by the ministry at the end of the day. The best food must go to the men at the Front who are putting their lives on the line for their country.’
Mary is furious. ‘We dinnae need a lecture fae yersel aboot the sacrifice o’ the men at the Front, yer majesty. We’ve got boys in service.’
Ellen looks as if she might burst into tears. The news that Geordie has enlisted, and left without telling her, has hit her hard. He is but a boy, barely out of short trousers.
I speak up quickly. ‘Let’s keep to the point, Miss Silver, please. The war is being fought at home and abroad. Remember how important coal is to the war effort. The miners must be properly fed if they are to do a hard day’s work. If their wives are saying the food rations are insufficient in both quantity and quality then the ministry must listen.’
Peggy gives a cough. She is holding the plate of pancakes she has brought to the tea. ‘The train was jist comin’ intae the station as I cam alang the road. The patients’ll be here onie time.’
Mary takes the plate from her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Duncan,’ she says. ‘Yer kindness will be much appreciated b’ the men.’ She glares at Miss Silver whose own contributions are known to be frugal. ‘C’mon, hens, we better get the tea made.’
The afternoon seems longer than usual. It is hot in the hall though we have doors at both ends open to get the air moving. Mary and Ellen leave early, rushing off to prepare bath water for their menfolk due in from the early shift. Peggy and I see to the last of the clearing up.
Only women and children live at the Duncans’ these days. It saddened Peggy when the time came to ask the lodgers to leave, she said. She knew that Joe Daniels held a candle for her. When he was leaving for a bed in the lodging house in Main Street, he asked her to keep the new rocking chair he had made for her, said he would be honoured if she would. She had been flattered by his interest in her but had made up her mind, she’d told him. Family had to come first.
When word came through from France that Archie had been killed in action, Peggy pleaded with her daughter to return to the Rows. It had taken a long time before Lizzie was persuaded to leave the home she had made with Archie. Since his body had never been found, there was always the possibility that he was still alive and he would walk through the door one day looking for his dinner, ready to give his children a birl in the middle of the front room. When the letter finally came from a sergeant to say that he had witnessed Archie’s passing, and to offer his sincerest condolences to the widow of a fine and brave soldier, Lizzie relented. She sold their furniture, such as it was, and put everything else she had into a pack made from a blanket, slung it over her back and, heavily pregnant, walked the twelve miles to her mother’s house with a child clinging to each hand. With only Lizzie’s war widows’ pension of 2/11d and Sandy’s wage from his job in the pit office, things would be tight without rent from the lodgers. Peggy had taken employment on the picking tables at the pit and Lizzie took in washing to make ends meet. Between them, they looked after the children and lived as a family, just the Duncans, altogether under one roof, praying for the day when Rob would come back to them. It had been fine and they’d been happy. Until Sandy was called up and had to leave in the spring.
Peggy is studying the view of the pits out of the window as we work together.
‘I wonder what Robert would’ve had to say aboot it a’, Miss Fraser. Tae think o’ a’thing that’s happened since he died in the accident.’
I put my hand on her shoulder.
‘Hoo could it’ve been allowed to happen, Robert?’ she asks him as if somehow, being on the other side, he has the answers, knows the reason and the purpose behind all of the injustice of this earthly life.
She shakes her head and removes her apron, says she has to be getting home. She asks if I’ve heard there’s to be a big meeting up at the brig tonight at seven o’ clock.
‘Folk have got their dander up aboot the food situation,’ she says. ‘But keep it to yourself if ye would, dinnae let the authorities ken in advance.’ She taps the side of her nose.
I agree and decide that I’ll go along to hear what’s being said.
After supper, I manage half an hour in the garden before the meeting is due to take place. There are very few flowers in evidence this summer, the flower beds having been sacrificed two years earlier for the growing of food. The village allotments have become more important than ever as a source of sustenance. Everywhere, land that was used for less intensive forms of agriculture have been put to the plough, where possible, to grow vegetables and cereal crops. The country has never truly recovered from the bad harvest of 1916 and merchant ships face constant danger en route to Britain with supplies from abroad. Women were recruited to the farms in large numbers to replace the men who left for the front, and I see myself in my garden as part of that great land army tasked with feeding the nation. Ric
hard has never been able to thank me for my foresight in developing the garden, though he benefits greatly from its bounty. His plate is always laden.
I see him standing watching me from an upstairs window when I leave by the back gate without telling him where I am going.
A long trail of people is heading east between the Rows. As soon as I reach the Rowanhill Road, I can see a large crowd forming up ahead on the Burnbank Brig. A steady stream coming from Rowanhill is swelling the numbers. The main players are already positioned on the brow of the bridge, ready to take control of proceedings. Mr Doonan, the miners’ agent speaks intently to his counterpart from Lanarkshire. Meanwhile, the Food Controller and the local shopkeepers are in a huddle. The women, and there are many in attendance, stand at the back of the crowd, giving the men their usual place at the front.
Alex Birse is ready to start proceedings in the absence of Steeny Simpson. We were surprised when he was conscripted – him being a skilled face worker – but Alex believes that the British state would have Steeny as a marked man, a man too dangerous because of his union activities and the esteem in which he is held locally. He could not be allowed to escape a spell at the Front. It is a notion that many would find far-fetched but I am not so sure. I am inclined to agree with Mr Birse.
A train pulling a dozen empty wagons, heading for the pit at Allerbank, rumbles under the bridge. As the steam and smoke dissipates, Alex has his hand raised against a blue sky. He introduces both Mr Doonan and the Food Controller from Bathgate who had agreed at the last minute to attend the meeting and address the community’s concerns. Together, they explain the situation regarding food supplies and the discussions that have already taken place locally. A meeting has been arranged with the Scottish representative of the Food Ministry in Glasgow, they say, and two miners are to be tasked with taking the community’s concerns about the quantity and quality of food allocated by the government. When the officials hand over to Alex Birse, the crowd become agitated, having listened intently for, perhaps, half an hour to the officials. It is time, it seems, for the ordinary folk to have their say. It takes a minute or two and much remonstrating on the man’s part to bring the meeting under control.