Roses of Winter (28 page)

 
Jimmie fought back panic. He dismissed the notion of trying to find his way to the shelter. He could see nothing. Nor did he know what he would find outside, assuming he could get outside. The shop would be strewn with sharp metal and glass making it impossible to safely negotiate a path through it. The forced immobility saved him from harm. More sheets of glass dislodged from the roof, descending unseen like enormous guillotine blades.
 

At intervals he could hear aircraft overhead. He waited for the whistle of more bombs but none came. The deafening noise of the attack was replaced by a calm that worked on his sleep-deprived brain. In just a few moments, under the wreckage of the engine shop, Jimmie fell into a deep sleep.

A couple of men from one of the rescue crews found him early the next morning stretched prone under the battered lathe.
 

“Here’s wan here, the poor bloody sod. And there’s no’ a mark on him either,” said the other man. “It must have been the blast.”

The first man bent down to look closely at Jimmie at exactly the moment he woke up. “Jesus Christ,” the man screamed falling backwards onto his arse. Jimmie started to get up. “Christ ah thought ye wis deid.”

“Naw, naw, ah must have jist dozed off.”

“How the bloody hell can ye sleep in the middle o’ this?” the second man asked.
 

Jimmie just shook his head.

“Well, let’s get ye oot o’ there.”

The first man got up. “Ah thought ah wis gaun tae take a shite in ma pants. Ye scared the hell oot o’ me. Still ah’m glad yer all right. It’s mair than we can say aboot a few other people we’ve seen,” he said grimly.

“Whit dae ye mean?” Jimmie shouted. He tried to get up.

“Haud yer horses son, this is no’ a safe place tae go chargin’ aboot in,” the first man said, placing his hand on Jimmie’s chest.”

“Ah’ve got tae find mah brother. He was working in the plumbing shop.”

The two men looked at each other. Jimmie demanded to know what they knew. The first man sighed. “If he was in the plumbing shop then he likely went intae the shelter ower there.”

“Well, he’d be safe in the shelter wouldn’t he?” Jimmie said.

The second man shook his head.

“Leave me alane, let me get up,” Jimmie yelled. “We have tae get them oot o’ there.” He struggled with them but they were too strong for him.

“Jist calm yersel doon, son. There’s mair tae it than that.”

“Whit dae ye mean?”

They looked at each other again. “Well ye see son, it’s like this. A Gerry bomb hit the pickling tank. The acid went into whit wis left o’ the shelter. Dae ye see whit ah mean? There’s nae point in looking in there.”

 
Jimmie sagged back onto the floor.

“C’mon son, we have tae get ye oot o’ here. The rest o’ that roof might come doon at any minute. We only came in here ‘cause some man was yelling at us ye were in here.”

They eased him out from under the wrecked lathe. Jimmie looked up at the roof and then around the shop. In the direction the men were leading him the shed stood more or less intact. He looked over his shoulder. The other end was filled with debris that had been the roof. The blast had sent shards of glass flying in every direction. They crunched their way through them to the door and outside to the yard.
 

“Maybe yer brother wisnae in that shelter,” the second man said.

But Jimmie shook his head. “Ah don’t know where else he wid be. Ah wid hae been in there masel’ if ah didnae have tae watch the lathe.” He stopped in his tracks and turned to face the first man. “Whit ah’m ah gaun tae tell mah Maw?" His eyes began to well up with tears. He rubbed them vigorously. He was damned if he was going to let them see him cry. The man looked stricken and bit his lip but said nothing.

“Whit’s yer name son?” the second man asked.

“Jimmie, Jimmie Dow.”

“Well Jimmie, ah’m Andy Turner and that’s Jock McGurk. An’ ah’m sorry tae be meeting ye under these circumstances.”

Jimmie remembered his manners. “Thank ye both fer coming in tae get me oot o’ there.”

“Ach, it wis nae bother at aw,” Willie said. “Ah’m jist gled ye’re OK.”
 

They brought him towards an ambulance. “Ah’m all right,” her protested.
 
“There’s nothing wrang wi’ me.” They brought him anyway. “Ah want tae hear the ambulance man say yer all right,” said the first man. But as they came up to the ambulance, Jimmie shook off the arms of his helpers. Andy started to come after him but Jock pulled on his sleeve to stop him. They went off to resume their search.

Jimmie ran over to where a man sat on a box, his dungarees splattered with blood. An attendant was bandaging his head. “Mr. Miller! Ah thought you went tae the shelter.”

“Ah wis on mah way but a stopped an’ thought, bugger the finish cut, ah canny leave the lad in there. So ah wis headed back tae get ye oot o’ there when something gave me a big dunt on the heid and knocked ma lights oot. Ah’m glad tae see ye’re all right, son.”

Jimmie sat down beside him. They remained silent for a few moments looking around the yard. To Jimmie’s eyes the damage looked severe. The roof of the main office was gone and the galvanizing shop looked demolished. There was broken glass everywhere.

He turned to Mr. Miller. “Are ye going tae be OK, Mr. Miller?”

“Och aye, dinnae you worry aboot me son. Ah’ve had worse afore now.”

“It disnae look good for the yard, Mr. Miller.”

“Naw, it does not,” the older man agreed.

“Mr. Miller, dae ye mind if ah leave ye? Ah think mah brother Andy was in that shelter. Ah need tae find oot if he’s really deid.” Hugh Miller turned to look at him.

“Aye ah heard a couple o’ men frae the Home Guard talking aboot that.” He started to say something else but stopped, shaking his head. “Away ye go son and good luck tae ye.”

Jimmie patted him on the shoulder and headed for the shelter.

His progress towards the shelter was blocked by an older man in the uniform of the Home Guard.

“Ye cannae go through there son.”

“Ah have tae find oot if mah brother wis in there.” The man’s abrupt manner changed instantly. “Ye see that man ower there?” He indicated another Home Guard man who was writing in a notebook. “He’s trying tae find oot who the deid and injured are. He might have heard something aboot yer brother.”

Jimmie thanked him and hurried over to the other man.
 

“Where did he work, son?”

“In the plumbing shop.”

The man’s eyes flickered for a moment. “As far as we know, every man in the plumbing shop was in that shelter.” He paused, thinking over his next words carefully. “Dae ye know the circumstances?”

“If ye mean aboot the pickling tank, aye ah dae,” Jimmie replied.

“Aye well, then ye’ll understand why we havenae been able tae get in there yet tae look around. Maybe ye should try asking at the ambulance stations.”
 

But although he asked every aid worker he could find, no one had word of Andy. Finally, realizing there was no more to be learned, Jimmie went back to look for Hugh Miller. He found him drinking a cup of tea at an emergency canteen that had been set up.

“So whit dae we dae noo, Mr. Miller?”

“Ah jist got the word that they are picking oot a few men tae assess the damage and the rest are to go hame until we figure oot whit’s gaun on. Did ye find oot anything aboot yer brother?”

Jimmie shook his head. “Naw, but ah don’t think there’s any hope. If he wis alive he wid have come looking for me. Ah went tae aw the ambulance stations and naebody’s seen hide nor hair o’ him.”

“Ah think ye should go away hame tae yer mither,” Mr. Miller said quietly.

“Aye, thank ye, Mr. Miller, but ah have nae idea whit ah’m gaun tae tell her when ah dae.”

He made the long trip home as an automaton, some deeper part of his mind taking care of him, finding the right tramcar, paying the fare, the outer world remaining unseen.
 
He dreaded his arrival, wishing there was a way to put it off. He could not believe that Andy was gone and so suddenly. How could he tell his mother this? His thoughts spun in a whirlwind of misery and anxiety crawled through his guts making his head swim with nausea and stress.

“Are you aw right son?” the clippie had asked kindly, but he had shaken his head and looked out the window, leaving her to shrug and walk away.
 

He got down from the tram at the stop near his house and walked reluctantly up to the close. He stopped inside where he leaned heavily against the wall, immobilized by the realization that he was about to make his mother walk through a door to a future of pain and sorrow. He turned to face the wall, his head leaning on his arm, summoning up the nerve to go up the stairs.

From upstairs he heard the sound of a brush, the scratching of the bristles punctuated by the gentle knocking of its wood against the tile in the corners. He turned and looked up to see Mary’s back appear at the head of the stairs. She worked her way backwards across the landing and started down the stairs. Flanked by stores at street level there were no residents on the bottom floor of the close. Mary and her neighbors took turns sweeping it out. No German raid the night before was going to prevent her from keeping her commitment. She would be glad for many a day after that her stubbornness had placed her in Jimmie’s path that day.

Hearing a sound behind her Mary turned. She was about to greet Jimmie when she saw the look on his face. Mary leaned her broom against the wall and hurried down the stairs to him.

“Jimmie whit is it? Ye look like something awful has happened.”

Jimmie nodded unable to speak and placed his face in his hands.

Mary immediately took charge. “You come wi’ me this minute.” Feeling Jimmie resist she took his arm. “Nane o’ that Jimmie Dow. You come up tae mah hoose an’ tell me the whole story.”

He followed her then, like a small boy scolded for hanging about in the close. He responded to her authority as meekly as he had a decade before.
 

She brought him into the kitchen and sat him down. She drew up a chair to sit facing him. “Noo, tell me whit’s wrang.”

“Andy’s deid.”

Mary stared at him, shocked so profoundly that her mind struggled to comprehend.

“Aye, ah know, ah canny believe it masel’,” Andy told her.

Mary seemed to compress in her chair, losing in that moment the air of competence and self-confidence that defined her to others. He told her about the attack on the yard while she sat listened, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.
 

When he was done, Mary said, “Aye, we were up most o’ the night oorsel’s wondering if we wid be next. When Mr. McCallum came in he said Clydebank wis getting a pastin’ and ye could see a big red glow in the sky. And yer mother sat up wi’ me waiting for Ellen tae get back from the toon. She’ll be the daith o’ me that girl so she will.”

“Ah jist don’t know how tae tell ma maw,” Jimmie said cutting short her protests about Ellen.

“Aye, it’ll be a hard blow tae her.” Mary thought a minute. “Wid ye like me tae come with you?”

“Aye, ah would,” Jimmie exclaimed. Neither moved for a moment, reluctant to set in motion the wheels of Ida’s misery. There was a sharp knock on the front door. Jimmie’s eyes found Mary’s. The knock came again. Mary went to the door and opened it.

Ida started talking the minute she saw Mary. “Ah know we were here most o’ the night but ah didnae see why we shouldnae have our usual cup of tea.” She stopped when her mind finally registered the look on Mary’s face.
 

“Ye better come in Ida,” Mary said, moving back to make way for her.

“Whit is it, whit’s happened?”

“No’ oot here, come in an’ sit doon an’ we’ll tell ye.”

Ida followed her into the kitchen where Jimmie sat awkwardly on the edge of his chair. She stared at him for a moment. Without any word passing between them, she understood. Ida sagged and Mary rushed to support her. But her body stiffened and came erect again. Ida walked steadily, purposefully to the empty chair facing Jimmie and sat down. Mary pulled in her chair to form a close triangle with them and looked apprehensively at her friend.

“Tell me whit happened tae Andy,” Ida said quietly.

Mary marveled at the self-control of the woman. She knew from long years of friendship with Ida that it came from an innate dignity and reserve not lack of feeling. Mary felt a great wave of sympathy and sorrow for Ida. Jimmie looked at the floor uneasily trying to decide what to tell and what to leave out.

“I want tae hear all of it, Jimmie,” Ida said in a cool level tone that further unnerved her son.

“Aye, all right Ma.” He told her everything he knew except for the one terrible detail of the pickling tank.

“So, ye don’t actually know he’s dead do you?”

Jimmie, thinking he heard a hint of blame in Ida’ question, shook his head, not in answer, but in confirmation that he did. “Whit make’s ye so sure?”
 
Knowing she would be relentless, he added the one piece of information he had withheld from them both.