Roses of Winter (41 page)

Stung by her friend’s bluntness, May began to avoid Linda. As if to justify her actions to herself, May’s perverse defiance surged in the face of growing disapproval.
Ah don’t care whit those auld biddies think
, she told herself, well aware of the subdued muttering she provoked in the street and in the shop. In truth, she was used to it. But her betrayal of Donald had honed a sharper edge on the animosity of the neighborhood women.
 

She had made things worse, she knew, by agreeing to the engagement.
 
May had given in to Donald’s persistence, undone by a new and unexpected ambivalence that roiled her feelings and made her mind churn with confusion. Her unwillingness to cause hurt to him, her brief dalliance with the notion of a conventional relationship, had lasted just long enough to trap her. But May’s spirit, rebellious and insistent, led her inevitably towards the flame of discovery and destruction.
 
It gripped her with an almost deliberate and careless regard that, before very long, found her release.

The blast of a steam whistle roused Donald. A large cargo ship, guided by tugs, was heading towards the ferry. The rumble of the ferry’s diesels rose and fell as the sound skipped through the chill wind that rustled the discarded sweetie wrappers and papers at his feet. Donald sighed, wiping away tears that found assistance from the frigid stoorie breeze and let him pretend it was their only cause. He rose and stamped the numbness from his feet.
 

There was no point in putting off his confrontation with May. That he could never forgive her betrayal he already knew with certainty. The innocence and naiveté that had beguiled May for a time concealed a stern rectitude that severely restricted what was possible in Donald’s world. His strict teetotalism had made him the butt of jokes in the shipyards and on board ship. In port he avoided the usual fleshpots, preferring to read or write letters home. But his good qualities often ran to excess and it was this rigidity of mind upon which May was to founder.

      
When Donald entered the store, May’s apprehensive smile was not fast enough to conceal the anxious look she had sent him. The smile faded as she registered his cold hostility.

      
“Whit’s the matter wi’ you? Ah thought ye wid be pleased tae see me.”

      
“Don’t you try tae brazen it oot wi’ me,” Donald told her. “You know damn well whit’s the matter.”

      
The sound of the bell on the door stopped him. He stood aside to let Mrs. Gilmour approach the counter. She stopped and looked up at Donald.

      
“Aye, so ye’re back are ye?” she said, unable to avoid letting a note of satisfaction enter her voice.

      
“Yer mother will be pleased tae see ye no doubt.” She turned to May who sent her an ugly scowl. “And ye must be glad tae see your lassie again,” the old lady continued. “Ah’m sure she must have missed ye when ye were away.”

“Whit can ah dae for you, Mrs. Gilmour?” May asked, making no attempt at civility.

Mrs. Gilmour turned to her with the air of a cat that knows it has its prey where it wants it. “Oh ah hope you two lovebirds haven’t had a little tiff,” she said sweetly.

May glared at her. “Listen tae me ye damned auld bitch,” she shouted. “Dae ye think ah don’t know that you’ve been spreading lies aboot me and ye have the cheek tae come in here an’ act innocent.
 
Whit dae ye take me for?”

Mrs. Gilmour drew herself up and raised her finger at May. “Ah take ye for whit you’ve just shown me ye are, a damned trollop wi’ a dirty mouth.”

May raced around the counter. “See you, you wait till ah get mah hands on you, you bitch,” she yelled. She came at Mrs. Gilmour who backed off, frightened by May’s determination to hurt her.

“You keep your hands aff me or it’s the polis ah’ll have on ye. An’ ye’ll have nae job here when ah tell Mr. Gillespie the way you’ve treated me the day.”

May raised her hand to strike the old woman but was wrenched around when Donald caught her arm. “That’s enough o’ that,” he told May. He pulled her away from a white-faced Mrs. Gilmour. May turned on him and hit his face with her free hand.
 
Donald grabbed her other wrist. “Ah said, that’s enough o’ that,” he shouted and pushed her away from him.

He went to Mrs. Gilmour, who was tottering and looked ready to fall. “Let me help you, Mrs. Gilmour,” he said, grabbing her arm.

“Oh, you're such a nice young man,” she said in a quavering voice.

“You’re no’ going tae take that auld bitch’s side against me, are you?” May spat out.

“You were gaun tae hit an auld wumman,” Donald said. “Ah couldnae stand by an’ let ye dae that.”

“She’s been spreading lies aboot me,” May protested. “But they’re no’ lies, are they?” Donald replied.

May was silent and looked away. Donald took the ring from his pocket and held it out to her. When May didn’t respond he threw it on the counter. He turned away to find Mrs. Gilmour staring at him.

“Are ye happy now?” he asked her.

Mrs. Gilmour said nothing. She followed Donald out the door with a smile of triumph on her lips.

When Donald walked into the kitchen his mother was sitting by the fire, her embroidery spread out on her lap. He took off his coat and sat down opposite her. She looked at him then back at her stitching.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that ah’m done wi’ May McAllister,” he said.

“I’m glad of no such thing, Donald,” she said, putting down the tablecloth she was working on. “I will grant you that I did not think she was the right one for you, but it was out of concern for you, and I can take no pleasure in it.”

“Ah know, Ma,” he said. And then he told her of the events in the newsagent’s shop.
 

Bessie was shocked. “Do you mean to tell me she was prepared to strike an old woman like Mrs. Gilmour?”

“Aye, she was.”

“It’s a good thing you stopped her or who knows what might have happened,” Bessie said.

Donald nodded. “You know, Ma, until then ah really didnae know exactly what like she was. Ah went in there tae end it wi’ her, but ah think ah still thought there might be a chance. But no' after that.
 
She could have killed the auld wumman.”

Bessie shook her head. “It is a terrible business. Granted Mrs. Gilmour is a busybody and she should have minded her own business. But there was no need for that. May could have found herself in very serious trouble if you hadn’t stopped her.”

“Aye, well, it’s all over now,” Donald said.
 

They sat in quiet companionship for a while until Bessie put aside her work and made tea. She handed Donald a cup and sat down to have her own.

“You haven’t said a word about your trip to Russia,” Bessie said. She was curious about a part of the world that was distant and exotic to her.

Donald shifted uneasily in his chair. He wondered how much to relate to his mother of the hell that had enveloped the convoy. The weeks of extreme strain had been followed by frustrating months of waiting to join a convoy returning to Britain. The stranding in the chilling wilderness of northern Russia, made harder by the deprivations Donald had suffered in Archangel, had been almost worse for him than the intense action of the convoy battle.
 

Bessie had suspected that there was something different about her son’s latest trip. They were all difficult and dangerous she knew. There had been clues in the one letter she had received from Russia. The writing had been uneven, the lines jumpy, with places where words had been crossed out. Sentences ran into each other with no punctuation. The hand of a man who had experienced disturbing events she had thought. And there were the words themselves, made more frightening by what Donald had left out. She ached for details but the unpleasant business of May McAllister left her uncertain how to raise the matter. She waited to see what Donald would say.

“Ah suppose it’s only natural that you would be curious,” Donald began. He had intended to provide only an edited version of the story for his mother. But perhaps because of the lingering shock of his break with May, or to relieve the tension that had festered throughout those comfortless months in Russia, he found himself recreating the events of his harrowing trip so vividly for Bessie that he painted the gray, frigid waters of the Arctic on the interior walls of her imagination. She listened, mesmerized, her sewing forgotten. At times she gasped in shock or placed her hand over her mouth. But it was Donald’s recounting of the suffering of the young lad Andy that brought tears that Bessie discreetly dabbed away.

“It’s a terrible thing this war,” Bessie said. “And you are sure the young man will be all right?”

“Oh, he’ll live,” Donald replied. “But whether he will ever be the same again ah very much doubt.”

When Bessie said nothing, Donald told her of the Izmir’s near destruction by German bombs and how they had drifted for hours while they struggled to repair the engine. Bessie wondered what that experience had done to her son. She knew he would reveal nothing of his internal life to her. But he must have lived with fear and deprivation, not to mention what he had seen.
Would he ever be the same again?
she asked herself and was uncertain and afraid of the answer.

      
Bessie now had two withdrawn and grieving men on her hands. “It’s infuriating,” she told Ella on the following day. Bessie shared with Ella an edited version of Donald’s surprising revelations about his voyage to Russia. “But the minute I tried to talk about Alec and his father, that was the last word I could get out of him.”

      
They sat in silence for a few moments. “Ella, I am so wrapped up in my own troubles, I have forgotten to ask after your Willie. How is he?”
 

      
“He’s no’ bad, Bessie. Ever since Murdo talked tae him he’s been a lot better. Mind you, he’ll still no’ talk about his feelings. But at least he’s stopped the drinking.”

      
“I’m glad, Ella, for both of you.”

      
She smiled tenderly at Ella, who was struck by how much this woman had changed since her early days in the close.

      
Feeling the need to respond, she said, “Ah widnae worry about those two. It’s the way men are.”

      
And at that Bessie sighed and nodded her silent agreement.

❅❅❅❅❅

      
Another year passed. Yet another wartime Hogmanay came and went. Bessie began to despair of the war ending. Four long, hard years, and here is a fifth, she thought. But there were comforts too. At Ella’s prompting the other women in the close made friendly, if cautious, overtures to Bessie and were warmly received. Now, even Betty, who had been one of Bessie’s most vocal detractors, was to be seen in her kitchen. She had been dragged there the first time by Ella, who wanted Betty to see the side of Bessie that charmed her. Bessie had risen to the occasion, mesmerizing Betty with her trick of spinning the mundane act of taking tea into social gold. At last, accepted into the community of the close, Bessie began to feel at home in Scotstoun.

      
The many letters from Donald, each signed ‘Your Loving Son’, took on a new significance for Bessie. Donald was surprised to receive letters from his mother that, for the first time, appeared to show great affection.
 
Bessie feared the loss of her remaining son. This thought haunted her waking moments and intruded into her dreams. She scanned the newspapers daily, looking for any scraps of hope that the war was being won, thereby increasing Donald’s chances for survival. Bessie had watched as the Allies invaded Sicily the previous summer and followed the bitter struggle to take Italy.
 

      
As the Allied armies closed on Rome, there were rumors that an invasion into France could only be a matter of time. Bessie heard stories of tanks and men gathering in southern England. It would make sense, she thought, to catch the Germans in the jaws of two great armies. But she was heartsick at the suffering to be endured. Most of all Bessie grieved for the many mothers who must inevitably lose sons.
 

      
As May turned to June, the letters from Donald stopped coming. So frequently had he written to her throughout the war that their termination was like a slap in the face.
 
She spent several anxious days before confronting the postman.

      
“Naw Mrs. McIntyre, there’s been nae problem wi’ the mail that ah’ve heard aboot,” he told her. “Ah wid gie it a few mair days,” he said kindly. “There’s aw kinds o’ reasons why he might no’ be able to get a letter tae ye.” He stopped, realizing that one of the options was exactly what she feared. “Ach, ye’ll probably hear from him the morra,” he told her, heading upstairs.

      
An hour later, Ella found Bessie morose and preoccupied. “Ye still havnae heard from Donald, then?” she asked, surmising immediately the cause.

      
Bessie shook her head. Ella thought for a moment of trying to console her, but unable to think of anything that would help, sat with her in companionable silence.

Bessie was to suffer many days of needless unhappiness. Donald was not only very much alive but closer to her than she could have imagined. He had responded to a call for volunteers. No information had been provided but his thought was that it would be hard to imagine anything worse than his trip to Russia.