by Mary Easson
‘Aye, aye, dinnae shoot the messenger! We ken whit’s wrang. That’s why we’re here.’ Alex raises his hand, appealing for calm. His voice subsides into a bout of coughing and he can only shake his head as the crowd continues in full voice. I pray he isn’t coming down with the dreadful illness that is laying people low in villages across the county.
His son, David, comes to the rescue, his voice loud. ‘Hoi! We’ve had this discussion afore, have we no? We’re a’ in agreement an’ we’ve found a wey furrit. If ye’d a’ jist haud yer wheesht we’ll get oan wi’ it,’ he bellows.
Silence.
I am impressed.
He turns back to his father.
Alex asks for two volunteers to attend the Food Ministry in Glasgow at the weekend.
‘Nominate Davy Birse,’ says a youngish voice, immediately.
‘Seconded,’ pipes up another.
A low groan can be heard. David Birse, it seems, is not universally liked though he certainly has a presence about him.
‘Nominate John Doyle,’ says an older man.
‘Seconded.’
‘Grand,’ says Alex before any more names can be put forward.
‘Can I ask a question?’ says a lone female voice.
The crowd seems bemused.
‘I’d like tae mak a point,’ she insists.
The men erupt into mirthful laughter.
To his credit, Alex holds up his hand. ‘Come oan noo! We’ll hear her oot. This is as much a woman’s affair as a man’s. It’s the women that have tae eek oot the rations an’ see their men fed.’
‘It would be wise tae let twa women gang tae the Food Ministry,’ the woman suggests. ‘They could gang wi’ the men an’ explain the difficulties fae their point o’ view.’
Several heads nod their approval whilst others aren’t so sure. A sizeable number find the notion to be ridiculous.
‘Fair enough,’ concurs Alex. ‘Onie dissenters?’
No one seems prepared to openly condemn the idea.
Alex casts his eye across the women congregated at the back of the crowd, their appointed place since time immemorial.
‘Ye cannae feed the menfolk oan whit we’re allowed,’ shouts one.
‘As if we didnae ken,’ says Alex, his colour rising.
‘Last bit ham I bocht had mair baird than ma man,’ says a different female voice.
The men begin to snigger.
Alex acts quickly to close things down. ‘So, we’re agreed?’ he shouts. ‘John Doyle and Davy Birse will meet wi’ the Food Controller on Saturday next at the ministry in Glasgow, accompanied by twa weemen. Volunteers, ladies?’
Most keep their heads down; several draw shawls over their hair in an attempt to disappear from view; but one or two look sideways at those they think might be capable of the task. However, this is a new avenue opening up before them, and no woman present, including myself, has considered themselves fit for such a role before.
‘Grand. There’ll be a meetin’ for the weemen the morn’s nicht,’ says Alex. ‘That’ll gie them time tae consider their position. Can we have a volunteer tae supervise the election o’ the twa weemen delegates?’ He looks towards the men.
It does not seem to occur to him that the women might be capable of managing their own meeting.
‘That’ll be up tae me then,’ he says, when no one appears keen to take on the role. ‘An we’ll reconvene here, same time, Monday next, when the delegation will report back oan the Ministry’s response. At the same time, we will turn oor attention to the housin’ question, in view o’ the recommendations made in the report afore parliament concernin’ conditions in the industrial areas. We hae tae ensure improvements are made forthwith, that the landlords are held tae accoont, an’ the cooncils stert buildin’ as directed in the report. Steeny would expect nuthin less.’
‘Hear, hear!’ they shout, and the crowd slowly drifts away on a wave of optimism
The following evening, I am cycling with Rose along Main Street. For her benefit, I summarise the discussion that had taken place on the bridge and express my delight at the determination of local people to be involved in housing matters. I tell her about the approach made to the county Food Controller with the backing of the miners’ union; about the election of two male representatives for the visit to the ministry in Glasgow and the participation of women in the process.
Rose points out a group of women in the distance. The crowd is growing bigger as more arrive at the steading. They are clearly animated and interested women, already shouting out opinions and listening to each other’s views.
‘Hurry, Beth,’ urges Rose as she forges ahead. ‘You’ll put your name forward to join the deputation, won’t you?’
I bring my bicycle to a halt.
Rose looks back and stops too. ‘Aren’t you interested in what’s going on? Come on, you’re well suited to speak up for the local women.’
‘No...’ I say forcefully, shaking my head. ‘They are well able to speak up for themselves and will choose two of their own.’
‘But you’re perfect for the job.’ She is surprised. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. They don’t need me to speak for them. And now that they’ve found their voice, there will be no stopping them.’
‘Will you attend the next meeting at the bridge, on Monday? Your knowledge of housing conditions is extensive and combined with your understanding of health...’
‘No... I won’t. Who better to decide what improvements should be made than the people who endure the very conditions castigated in the parliamentary report? They won’t let the landlords and the local authorities put off what should have been done long ago. They’ve had enough.’
Rose can see my point.
‘When the nurse returns from France, I won’t be required in that role either.’ I have the air of someone who knows that her life is about to change dramatically and is perfectly at ease with the prospect.
‘I can’t wait to see your father’s garden,’ I call out brightly as I begin pedalling again. ‘It is always such a joy!’
We cycle towards Rowanhill, admiring the countryside, lush and verdant in the evening sun.
‘What will you do when the war is over?’ I ask when we arrive at our destination.
Rose comes to a halt, her brakes squeaking. ‘I’ll return to the women’s hospital in Edinburgh.’
‘But won’t you miss...’
‘No, I won’t. Remember, I came here for the sake of my father. There’s nothing here for me in Blackrigg in the longer term – the patients will be well-served by Dr Lindsay when he returns. I do hope the war will end soon, please God.’ She manoeuvres her bicycle in through the gate. The spring is rusty and old, making it difficult for her.
‘Besides,’ she says, after a struggle, ‘I cannot stay and deliver another of Catherine Melville’s children.’
My heart goes out to her. I know the hurt and the pain she has endured. There are times when I sense something like regret in her eyes, in the quiet moments we share in front of the fire in the parlour, in occasional careless comments made when she is tired.
‘I’ve been thinking too...’ I begin. ‘I’ve no wish to live under Richard’s roof for the rest of my life. It’s intolerable as you well know. In fact, an independent life is what I crave most of all. I’ve decided I must make my own way.’
Rose sees it in my face. I could have been married by now; made a comfortable life for myself; a happy life keeping house and bearing children for a respectable man. Instead, I have rejected what many women would have settled for long ago, determined to have exactly what I wanted, or not at all. We are alike in that respect, me and Rose. In private moments, I have often wondered where my need for independence might take me.
‘Perhaps I could seek employment in the city... as a lady’s companion... or a
housekeeper.’
‘Or a plantswoman?’ suggests Rose.
I laugh at the idea. ‘Do you think...?’
‘Or a nurse? You are already competent in the basic procedures, learned through experience, and have a wide knowledge of medical matters. But you must be certificated to continue. You could apply for training at the infirmary.’
‘There are so many women with experience from their war work. Many will be seeking recognition for their skills.’
‘But you have a practising doctor who will be delighted to write references on your behalf. And that doctor might need a companion to share her rooms in the city, until said companion gets on her feet.’
I am delighted at the idea and follow Rose up to the open door of her father’s home.
‘I do hope the war is over soon,’ I say.
Chapter 25
December 1918
Elizabeth
It was one of those dull autumn days when the cloud is almost at ground level, shortening the view, closing the world in till it felt like there was nothing out there beyond the straggle of cottages cluttering Main Street. A few trees and shrubs held onto a smattering of yellowed foliage so the scene was not entirely devoid of colour. Mrs Gow and the Widow Macauley were gawping from behind half-closed curtains when I returned from the Store that morning of 11th November. They were in the street in an instant. Each one carried a broom, a perfect disguise that justified their presence and allowed them a full view of proceedings. They tackled a pile of dead leaves littering the pavement by a doorstep. When one had their back turned, the other kept her informed about activity on the opposite side of the street, which for some considerable time had been negligible until I happened by. I felt obliged to cross the road and enquire after their chilblains and other ailments. They were soon distracted when an unknown man carrying a large box returned to a vehicle further up the street and the driver took off: slim pickings in terms of detail but enough to catapult the vivid imaginations of the two women into the great beyond. Better still, soon after, the postman returned to the post office. He had barely gone inside when he reappeared and sprinted back in the direction he had just come from, towards the Rows. Who was about to get bad news we wondered? Next to erupt from the building was the stationmaster’s wife who toddled off in the direction of Station Road as fast as her considerable bulk would allow her, followed by Miss Silver. She galloped westwards at such a speed that she missed the church steps by several yards and had to backtrack quickly, almost coming to grief thanks to her big, flat feet skidding on the wet ground.
Mrs Gow and the Widow Macauley barely had time to exchange quizzical glances with me before all was revealed. Miss Shanks was out in the street shouting that the war was over. Hostilities had come to an end at eleven o’ clock. The news had come in on the telegraph. Right on cue, the church bell sounded out loudly, over and over and over again, a most joyful and urgent sound, leaving no one in any doubt of the message it conveyed through the still air.
The old women said, Thanks be, the Lord is Good! and flashed their toothless grins at me saying, The men’ll be hame soon, Miss Fraser, leaving me in a quandary about whether to laugh with relief or cry with the sadness of it all.
I remember how angry I became later because it had taken so long for it to end; angry that the war had taken millions of young lives before the armies could lay down their weapons. Women and children were starving on the streets of Berlin but the role of that particular tragedy would feature less than the determination and bravery of our troops in the celebrations to come. Which was understandable, perhaps, after all that the country had been through.
As I wound my way home up the lane, the sound of the church bells was joined by whistles at the pithead and on the railway line, a collective expression of joy. I imagined the news being carried down below, relayed along the underground roads to the men at the coalface who would down tools and make for the cages, taking the rest of the day off without waiting for permission from the gaffers and the masters. Sarah met me at the back door and I let her go home to celebrate with her family.
There was dancing in the street as well as the public hall that night, to make up for lost time, to celebrate the lifting of the brooding pall of care that had weighed heavily on our lives for so long. Richard opened up the church for those who needed to come and give thanks to God for their deliverance. He told them that the people who sat in darkness had seen a great Light, that the fallen were now enjoying celestial glory having surrendered their souls to the Lord. He asked, what greater love hath a man than that he lay down his life for another? And the faithful nodded their heads, blinking away their tears because the minister was telling them, as he always did, that it would all be alright in the end if they waited long enough. The Lord would see to it, as long as you had faith in Him. Those waiting quietly at home for menfolk to return were thankful and allowed themselves the luxury of a small smile but they could not get above themselves, not just yet.
One after the other, ships docked at Leith to the cheers of excited onlookers; families and sweethearts waving flags in hopeful expectation that the one they waited for was somewhere amongst the hundreds of men about to disembark. Sarah had tears in her eyes when she told me the news that her brother-in-law, Will Morton, had survived the war and was on his way back to Meg in Canada. She kept me abreast of local developments in the weeks following the signing of the armistice, as the troops began to arrive home.
Dan Potts and Sandy Duncan travelled on the same train, the latter entertaining everyone in their carriage with some jokes he had learned from comrades in his battalion. Bert Broadley arrived a few days later with a permanent limp from a wound in his leg, grateful he had gotten off so lightly, still able for most jobs in the pit. Peggy found out that Rob would never be coming home in a letter from the army, delivered the same day the armistice had been signed. Nervously, Ellen and Jimmy looked forward to when their youngest son would return. One day in December, they finally received word that Geordie was back in the country. He was in Craigleith Hospital and they were to visit him as soon as they were able.
When the news spread through the village that Wee Geordie Broadley had died within minutes of his parents arriving by his bedside, people were drawn up short. This was the boy who had defied all the odds as a youngster and survived into adulthood, more or less, thanks to a mother’s love. The passing of Geordie was like the passing of everyone’s son.
By all accounts, an old man at the steading had remarked, ‘There’s a nation has a lot tae answer for.’
‘Whit nation is that then?’ asked Davy Birse. ‘The German nation?’
His eyes blazed.
‘Or the British nation?’ he asked. ‘Eh? The British nation that niver gave a damn aboot the lad when he was alive. That thocht it fine he should be brocht up in a miners’ raw wi’ an ootside cludgie and damp risin’ up the wa’s? That thinks his faither disnae deserve a decent wage for the work he does doon the pit? That maks him gang cap in haun tae plead for a rise when the maisters live it up oan the profits?’
Trust a Birse to put it all into context.
‘But they were quick enough tae put a gun in the boy’s haun when it suited them, eh? Is thon the nation yer meanin’?’
‘Things will change, Davy,’ said Steeny, newly returned from France. ‘They’ll get better. They have tae.’
Minn
I gave a knock before walking into the cold gloom of the scullery at Redburn Farm.
‘Mrs Gowans? Are ye there?’ My employer was busy through-by in the kitchen, at the range. ‘Mrs Gowans? It’s me.’
‘Oh, whit a fricht! Come in, lass,’ she beckoned then spied the boy clinging to my skirts in the shadows. ‘An’ ye’ve brocht the wee lad tae see me at last. Come in, son. Dinnae be feart.’
The boy moved in tandem with me, his big hazel eyes fixed on Mrs Gowans.
‘This is Robbie,’ I
said. ‘He’s pleased tae meet ye. Aren’t ye, Robbie?’
He set his gaze on the strange woman in the flour-covered apron.
Mrs Gowans signalled towards the table where freshly baked scones were set out. ‘Tak aff yer coat, Minn, whilst I pour the tea.’ She disappeared into the pantry and returned with a cup of milk. ‘Here ye are, Robbie. Drink up.’
The fire in the range glowed brightly. I slipped off my coat then removed the child’s blue knitted jacket and matching tammie as he took in his surroundings. I offered him a piece of scone spread with butter which he took in a small chubby hand before settling his gaze once more on Mrs Gowans, following her with big eyes as she moved around the kitchen.
‘Yer takin it a’ in, aren’t ye, laddie?’ The woman ruffled his dark hair. ‘Naethin’ll pass you by, eh?’
Robbie glanced up at me for reassurance then, quick as a wink, looked back in her direction.
‘It was guid o’ ye tae bring the lad tae see me.’ Mrs Gowans blushed. She seemed to have something to say, and was finding it hard to get the words.
I told Robbie to sit up straight at the table and I put my arm around him to stop him falling off the big cushion that propped him up in the chair.
‘The trouble is, Minn. See, noo oor dairyman’s back fae France, there’s less need o’ ye in the byre. Ma eldest, Ruby, an’ her man are movin’ intae the ferm cottage – they’ll tak ower the worst o’ the work inside and oot. Mr Gowans is getting’ oan a bit an’ the truth o’ the matter is the ground isnae whit it was since they taen awa’ Paddy’s Wood at the stert o’ the war. Weel... whit I’m tryin’ tae tell ye is there jist isnae the work tae keep ye oan. I’m sorry, lass.’
‘I see,’ was all I said, turning back to the boy, steadying the cup in his hands as he raised it to his lips. He smiled broadly after the first mouthful. It was full cream milk, straight from the cow.