‘What a grand life to be a soldier,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Da? Can I no leave the pit?’
‘I see nothing grand in killing, lad. Putting on the king’s uniform and rushing off to shoot German laddies like they was rabbits . . . you have a secure job, Pat, even more secure now.’
‘Sure he’s far too young and all, Da,’ said Kate who always found herself more Irish than Scottish in moments of crisis.
Her mind went back to a similar breakfast just a few years ago, shortly after Patrick had gone down the pit. She always had trouble getting Deirdre and Kevin up in the mornings and it seemed that she was always yelling at them, for she was determined that they were going to get as much education as they could get, not Deirdre so much as Kevin. She had failed for Patrick but there was still Kevin.
‘Get up, Kevin, and get to school. You’re not going down the pit so you can get that idea out of your head right now. You are going to stay at the school and learn something decent like how to be a real artist. You’re good at drawing, you are.’
The boy looked at her in amazement. ‘Something’s gone to your brain, our Kate. You dinnae get learned to be a painter, at least I dinnae think you do, and drawing pretty pictures of flowers and Christmas puddings is not art. Our Pat’s right. There’s nothing here but pits and farms and the pit pays better.’
‘There’s more to life than money. Eat your porridge, Deirdre,’ she snapped as she became aware that the younger girl was only playing with her food.
‘I don’t like porridge, stodgy stuff. When I leave school, I’ll never eat porridge again.’
‘And what are you planning to eat for your breakfast, tell me that?’
‘Kippers.’
Kate looked at her sister in amazement. ‘Fish. Fish for your breakfast. Fish is for your dinner.’
‘You’re wrong. Janet Bell’s sister’s in service and she says the gentry has fish, so there, and they have mushrooms and eggs and real fancy things for their breakfast as well.’
‘We’re no gentry. Folk like us has porridge and we thank God for it.’
‘I’ll no thank God. I’ll eat it because we don’t have kippers . . .’
‘What’s a kipper?’ broke in Colm. ‘I never heard of such a food.’
‘Don’t you know anything?’ Miss Deirdre was becoming quite haughty as befitted a young lady whose best friend had a sister in service to a titled gentleman. ‘It’s a fish.’
‘It’s no a fish, Colm; it’s what a fish gets called when it’s been prepared a special way,’ Kate explained.
She never did get around to asking Deirdre if she ate kippers; she always meant to, for as soon as they left school, just a year after Patrick, Kevin had gone into the pits and Dr Hyslop had got Deirdre a lovely place in service. And now Patrick was talking about joining the army.
‘I don’t know where I’ve gone wrong, Mam,’ she sighed to herself. ‘I want to look after them all so well and to keep your laddies out of that hungry mouth in the earth but they go anyway, and now here’s our Pat getting all excited about being a hero and maybe winning a medal but I think my da’s stopped him. He’ll listen to Da.’
Indeed the boy said no more and perhaps Liam believed that he had settled down. His sister did not. She shared her worries with Mrs Murphy.
‘Our Patrick was talking about going off since so many of his pals have gone.’
‘And here’s you didn’t want him in the pits. Tell him he’s safer there than in the trenches.’
‘What about Charlie?’
Mrs Murphy smiled at the girl coyly. Kate’s question suggested to her an even greater interest in Charlie than Kate had formerly shown and she was delighted.
‘Don’t worry, lass. Charlie has more sense than to listen to daft talk. He’s good at taking care of his skin is our Charlie. Mind you, he doesn’t like the mines; he’d still be out in the fresh air in Glasgow if he hadn’t thought so much of me when my man went. But here, have a cup of tea with me afore wee Bridie comes home. What a lovely child she is, Kate. Fair makes a body want to mother her.’
Kate bridled. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Murphy. I have some baking to do,’ she said almost coldly. She was Bridie’s mother; the child needed no one else. It wasn’t the first time her neighbour had made remarks like that. They had started about the time Kate had begun walking out with Charlie. Not that she was walking out with him exactly. It was amazing how quickly a walk with Charles and at least one of her brothers and sisters had become part of her Sundays.
The family had their midday dinner together and then, once the dishes were washed and put away – a walk with Charlie. He had even asked her to take a walk with him on evenings after work and once he had asked her to a miners’ dance at the club. She hadn’t gone, of course, and he had taken Deirdre who was at home on her weekend off.
‘How could you go, Deirdre?’ Kate had railed at her sister who had slipped into bed beside her after midnight and with her breath smelling ever so slightly of beer.
‘Just because you don’t want to have any fun, you think no one else should have any.’
I don’t want to have fun? thought Kate. Is that what they think of me? An old stick-in-the-mud who made them do their homework and keep their underwear clean? Dear God, I’d love to have some fun.
‘That’s not true,’ she said, ‘but Charlie is . . .’ and here she had to come to a stop because she didn’t know what her relationship with Charlie was or what she wanted it to be. All she knew was that when she did have some free time it was pleasant to spend it walking with Charlie and the bairns.
She tried to explain her feelings to Deirdre whose reply was to turn over in the bed and stick her rump over to Kate’s side.
‘And how long do you think a man’s going to enjoy walking up the Baker’s Burn with you and your bairns? The whole place is laughing at you. Now, if you dinnae mind, some of us workd for a living and need our sleep.’
The war went on. Mons, Marne, Aisne, La Bassée, Messines, Ypres. A few months before no one whom Kate knew had ever heard of any of these places. Now they knew exactly where they were and, more horribly, how many men had died trying to win them.
The world was insane.
‘They do say laddies are lying about their age to get into the army,’ said Charlie one afternoon. ‘It was in the paper about a laddie from one of them fancy schools for rich bairns writing sixteen on the souls of his shoes so’s he wouldnae be telling a lie when he said, “I’m over sixteen, Sir.” ’
‘How wonderful,’ breathed Deirdre. ‘Did ye ever hear anything so noble and brave and . . . noble?’
‘I never heard anything so stupid,’ said Kate angrily. ‘I hope he got a good leathering and sent back to the school.’
‘He got killed,’ said Charlie dryly.
If the sad little story had been written to frighten the youth of Britain, it had, if anything, a seemingly opposite effect. Hundreds of thousands of them rushed to join up.
It was not over by Christmas. Kate looked with pleasure at her brothers as they cheerfully devoured the succulent meat pie she had made for their Christmas dinner. ‘They’re here, Mam, alive and well.’
Patrick met her eyes and smiled his slow, shy smile. ‘Grand pie, Kate; the best yet.’
*
The house was strangely quiet. Kate had made the pieces and her pot of tea and even started the water boiling for the wash and still the men had not appeared for their porridge.
How could they all sleep in? she thought angrily. Liam was usually in right behind her as if he waked with the shout she gave the boys as she passed their bed on her way to the privy. He came out after her and gave her some privacy to dress before coming into the warmth of the kitchen.
Sometimes the boys had to be roused twice – they slept the deep sleep of healthy young males and were always torn protesting from their beds – then they scurried around dressing and making enough noise to wake the dead. It was unlike Patrick, though, not to acknowledg
e that he had heard her shout.
Kate went first to wake Liam. Sudden deviation from the norm unnerved her; surely something had to be wrong for him not to be awake. Be calm, Kate; it’s the lads who wake him. Sure enough, Liam was lying sound asleep curled up like a baby.
‘Da, you’ve slept in. I’m away to get Patrick; hurry, you’ll miss the cages.’
He was up before she had left the room and had pulled on his moleskins and his shirt before she had reached the big box bed where the three boys slept. Only Kevin and Colm lay like puppies in a tangle of blankets.
The bottom dropped out of Kate’s stomach. She had no need to run outside to the privy; she knew she would not find her brother there.
‘Oh, Patrick, dear wee laddie; why did you do it?’
The note was propped up on the wally dug on the mantlepiece – she had been too busy to see it. It was addressed to Liam.
Dear Da,
I have gone to join the army. Please don’t try to stop me. Give my love to Kate and the bairns and make Kevin stay at the pit.
Patrick x x
She could hardly bear it. It was a bairn’s letter with its wee x for kiss.
‘You’ll go after him, Da. He’s too young for the army.’
‘He’s seventeen, Kate, been doing a man’s job for years. I’ve been waiting for this.’
That was all Liam ever said about it. He left the house without his piece tin, a sure sign of his troubled mind, and Kate had to run almost to the pithead before she caught up with him.
Kevin was still in his bed when she returned to the house; she had forgotten all about him.
‘Kevin, you lazy lump. Get up out of there. You’ve missed your shift.’
She hauled eleven-year-old Colm out too. It was much too early for school but Kate was too distraught to care. Only Bridie should be spared her grief and wrath and feeling of abject helplessness.
‘Why didn’t our Pat get me up, Kate? It’s not my fault if he just left me there.’
And then she told the boys what their older brother had done and she railed at them for not hearing him move in the night. Somehow she would have stopped him, somehow. She thumped the unsuspecting Kevin on the side of the head.
‘Were you at the pub last night with all the other louts? Is that why you couldn’t hear your brother?’
Kevin stood up and looked down on her. ‘Don’t you ever hit me again, Kate, or I’ll hit you back even if me dad’s here. I wasn’t at the pub. I was playing football with your precious Patrick . . .’
Kate paid no attention to his threat. Did she even hear it? Patrick had gone to the war and that had to be her fault, hadn’t it?
‘And he said nothing?’ she said.
‘No, but he’s like Da; he’s no a talker. Our whole shift’s near away. There’s been recruiters in the pub and posters everywhere. The government says if enough of us go it’ll all be over soon.’
‘Are you going, Kevin?’ broke in Colm who had been speechless with excitement. He didn’t mind being yanked out of his warm bed. He could hardly wait to rush up to the school and tell all his friends that his big brother had gone to be a soldier. If both of them went he’d be hero of the playground for weeks. If he played his cards right he could get sweeties, money, and he wouldn’t even have to barter the piece Kate gave him.
‘You wicked bairn,’ scolded his sister as if she read his thoughts and she cuffed him.
Colm cowered. Oh, to be a man like Kevin and threaten to hit her back.
‘I’ll maybe go to the recruiting office to hear what they have to say. There’s tae be medals and other “rewards of a grateful nation”.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’ As usual when Kate was in a panic she took refuge in being tough. ‘Since you were too lazy to get up for your work you can help me wring the sheets and you can dig the tatties for your dinner.’
Kevin said no more but fell in with her plans. Kate watched him intently while he went about his chores, her own day busy with calming Bridie and sending her off to school with Colm, and then the daily household tasks. All this while her mind churned.
Where was Patrick? What regiment? Most men from the village were either the Royal Scots Fusiliers or the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Could he possibly have been rejected and be even now on his way home? Was Kevin right? Would it soon be over? It would, of course it would. She would like to have run over to Mrs Murphy to talk, even though she did not really like their neighbour, but she was afraid to leave Kevin. As soon as Da was in she would go over; she needed to talk to another adult.
Charlie was there.
‘Charlie, I need to walk; can you come with me so I can tell you?’
Usually she would have been conscious that Charlie, still damp from his scrubbing at the kitchen sink, could not have had his tea yet, but her mind was taken up wholly with her worry over her brother. She unburdened herself of her concerns to Charlie, Charlie who was always there, Charlie who would listen and commiserate with her.
‘Good for him,’ was Charlie’s unexpected response. ‘What did ye expect the laddie to do when all his friends are away to be heroes, Kate?’
They were walking up the road towards the Baker’s Burn and for once Kate was unappreciative of the soft Scottish spring; she was also unaware that, for once, she and Charlie were completely alone. They walked slowly and he reached for her hand. Her mind was so full of her brother that she barely noticed but let him hold her hand, grateful for the human contact.
Charlie smiled ruefully and they walked on and climbed the dyke into the fields.
She became aware of his gaze and turned shyly to meet his eyes. She blushed hotly and he smiled and bent towards her. His lips touched hers; they were soft and warm and yielding. Heartened by her response Charlie put his arms round her and kissed her again more deeply. Immediately she stiffened and pushed him away.
‘Damn it, Kate; I thought ye wanted that. You’re that bonny and I havenae looked near another lassie since ye were fifteen; ye have to know how I feel. For once ye didn’t bring the bairns and I thought that meant ye wanted to be with me.’
He sounded like Colm when he was feeling hard done by and she softened as she usually did for the children. ‘Sure, I wanted to be with you, Charlie. You’re my friend . . .’
He turned away angrily. ‘I don’t want to be your friend, Kate, dammit. I want to be your . . .’
And this time he stopped himself for he was unsure what he wanted from Kate. Oh, his body knew well enough. He desperately wanted to throw her down on the grass and take her there and then. He ached to lose himself in her, in her glorious blue-black hair, between her thighs but . . . reason prevailed. In any other family a nineteen-year-old girl would have been married or would be, at the very least, wordly wise, but Kate . . . he looked at her troubled face. How lovely she was and how unaware of it.
‘Ach, Kate, you have tae stop being so wrapped up in the bairns. They’re yer brothers and sisters, no yer weans.’
‘But I’m responsible for them, Charlie.’ It was so clear to her. Why could he not see?
‘Liam is responsible for them; they’re his bairns.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s like you coming here to look after yer auntie when her man got killed in the pit.’
‘It’s no the same. I pay the rent and she cooks and cleans. I come and go when I please. You never leave the house without Bridie or Colm. You should be at the dances with the other lassies – like Deirdre. Why cannot that wee besom take a turn in the house?’
Kate looked shocked. ‘Heavens, Charlie, she works six days a week. When she’s home she needs a bit o’ relaxation.’
‘And when do you get your bit o’ relaxation? If you don’t stand up for yourself a bit more you’ll be cooking and cleaning for them a’ when Bridie’s grown up and married. You should encourage Liam to marry again and go and find a man for yoursel’.’
She stared at him in horror, her usually pale skin even paler. For
a moment he thought she might faint and he put out his hands to steady her. She pushed him away.
‘I’ve finally got through to you, Katie. You see what a miserable life you’re going to have cooking and cleaning, everybody’s favourite auntie.’
Her words proved him wrong. She wasn’t thinking of a sacrificial existence as spinster sister and aunt.
‘My father would never look at another woman. He was married to my mother.’
She was trembling with rage and turned away from him. In complete silence they returned to the village.
4
PATRICK WAS A Borderer and very proud of himself. He wrote to Liam within a week.
‘Does he wear a kilt, Dad?’ asked Kevin after they had pored over the rather short and uncommunicative little document until their hungry eyes had almost drawn the ink from the very paper. ‘Our Pat’d be right embarrassed to wear a skirt, I would have thought.’
‘ ’Tis not a kilted regiment, the King’s Own. I would like fine to have a picture of him,’ sighed Liam.
‘I’ll draw him for you, Da,’ offered Kevin, ‘the first time he’s home. I’ll do a grand job, I promise.’
But Kevin did not wait to see his brother in his smart Leslie trews. Every day he went down the pit and his shift mates only wanted to hear the news, if any, of his brother. The football team, sadly depleted, sat around on the waste ground they called their pitch and talked of the war. Everyone had a brother or a father in the trenches. Everyone would go to fix the Huns if only ‘Mam’ or our Jeanie’ would just let them. Everyone knew that the war effort needed only their presence for a successful conclusion. Kevin sat and drew little pictures of soldiers in what he imagined were Leslie tartan trews and eventually could bear the talk no longer.
Before the next letter came he too had joined the army; his farewell note to his father was scribbled on the back of a piece of drawing paper. On the front were two heartbreakingly young boys in uniform carrying rifles. They were smiling at one another and were easily recognizable.
‘It won’t matter that the uniform isn’t right,’ said Liam.
A Pinch of Salt Page 4