Roses of Winter (53 page)

Donald was received in the close like a Roman general returning to the city for a triumph. Bessie held a gathering in his honor to which all were invited. She made a comfortable place for him by the fire where he held court. Donald had protested to Bessie in vain. He was never comfortable being the center of attention.

The once retiring Bessie would have none of it. “It’s only natural that they would want to welcome you back.”

Bessie’s kitchen held such a throng of people that it reminded her of the Central Station at the Fair. Betty and Ella helped her make tea and hand around the scones and slices of cake they had created with their pooled sugar and butter rations. All were eager to hear about Donald’s adventures within sight of the French beaches. They had to coax it out of him at first but he found it easier after the first few hesitant tellings.

The Bessie that welcomed her guests bore little relation to the person she had been at the start of the war. She looked around her busy little domain and felt happy -
 
to have her son back home, for the friendship she had found so unexpectedly in the close. Bessie smiled at Ella and filled the kettle for more tea.

Later, when the throng of people had thinned out, a few of the men gathered around Donald, hoping to receive a more detailed account now that the ladies were out of earshot. Murdo settled in his chair by the fire, Willie and Wattie McKay pulled up a couple of the kitchen chairs. Murdo discreetly poured a dram of whisky for his neighbors and himself, keeping a watchful eye on Bessie, who pretended not to notice.
 

“Will ye be going back tae the sea?” Wattie asked.

Donald shook his head. “Naw, they’ve marked in mah book that ah’m unfit for sea service.”
 
He sensed the unasked question. “It was the doctor’s idea, no’ mine. He looked me straight in the eye and telt me he thought ah had done enough for one war and in his opinion ah wisnae up tae going back. Ach, ah suppose ah shouldnae have gone along with it but he widnae take no for an answer. He said tae me that there wis nae need for mah mother tae lose her other son.”
 
Donald glanced over at his father.

“Ah think he was right,” Willie said. The others agreed.

“There’s dodgers who havenae done a fraction o’ whit you have,” Wattie McKay told him.

“So what are your plans now?” Willie asked Donald.

“Ah don’t really have anything definite in mind, tae tell ye the truth,” Donald replied. “When ah was in America, ah thought that ah widnae mind living there after the war. Ah met a man there that said there was a job for me if ah wanted it.”

“It would be very hard on your mother tae see ye go aff tae America after everything she’s been through in the war,” Murdo said.

“Ach, it was only an idea,” Donald said. “Ah just thought that it’s a good life over there and ah could make a new start. Anyway, the war’s no’ over yet, so there’s no’ much point in talking about it.”

“Dae ye want us tae see about getting ye intae Yarrows?” Wattie asked him.

Donald was silent for a moment. In his mind, Yarrows didn’t begin to match up with going to America. But his father’s mildly delivered admonishment about his mother had struck home. And he did need something to do to earn money in the meantime. He decided to keep his options open.

“Aye, if ye think ye can, thank you,” he told Wattie.

“It’s nae bother at aw, son,” Wattie replied. “Willie an’ me will see big McKechnie in the morning."

Donald enjoyed the time at home while his arm healed but he hated the idea of going back to the shipyards. He had served his time at John Brown’s in Clydebank. It was rough work carried on in all weathers. There were many hazards to face and plenty of ways to get hurt. There were social hazards as well. As a youth with a sensitive core, he had not cared much for the rough and tumble culture he found there, as good-natured as much of it was. But then there were those few dangerous personalities best avoided, and the real possibility of violence, that could spring up like a sudden squall on the ocean. He had seen deep festering slights and grudges end in mysterious accidents that were no accident. Donald was not in a hurry to return to that world.

Donald’s wish to go to America was much stronger than he had admitted to the other men. He had visited all of the major east coast ports of North America from Savannah, Georgia to Halifax, Nova Scotia. The excitement of seeing new and interesting places had compensated him a little for the dangers he faced in the crossings. He had liked Canada well enough, but it was the easygoing, friendly Americans that made him dare to imagine the possibility of being one himself.
 

      
There was the food.
 
He had liked the dinners he had sampled at a host of restaurants in New York and Philadelphia but remembered better the home cooked meals he was invited to share by generous host families. He had tried both kinds of clam chowder, New England and Manhattan, and couldn’t decide which he liked better. But it was the many varieties of ice cream that had most captured his palate. Nor could he forget the maple syrup he had tasted in Boston. He could conjure up the flavor of it on a stack of buttered pancakes at will. Donald longed to go back to the country that seemed so much more expansive and larger than the life he was used to. He had particularly been drawn to the lively young women he met who seemed so exotic and interesting.

      
As Donald’s physical health improved, his mood declined. Despite telling himself that Yarrows was a temporary measure, a means to an end, he feared that he would be permanently trapped there. He hid his mental state carefully from his parents and he said no more about America to his father or Wattie and the other men. Donald was well aware that for most of them the notion of leaving Scotland was akin to a departure for Mars. The working families of Glasgow had neither the means to go nor any inclination to give the matter much patient attention.
 
Men like Wattie had for so long become inured to the hard daily routine of securing a living wage that left little leisure time for dreaming of other possibilities. There was little sympathy for anyone who might be vocal about their unhappiness with their lot. Besides, they could not understand why anyone might want to leave Glasgow on a permanent basis. It took a war, Donald thought, to show me what was possible.
 

      
Donald reentered shipyard life with a detailed knowledge of its culture and what was expected of him. If he played the game he would receive a rough-edged welcome from most of the men. If he chose to be different, they would find ways to make his life miserable both small and large. Donald slept poorly the night before his start at Yarrows. The sky was lightening as he walked the short distance down to the yard. He stopped to buy a paper in the shop long since free of May McAllister before joining the crowd of men heading down Burnham Road for the yard gates.
 
They swept him along into the yard leaving him no time to consider his ambivalence.

      
The distractions of Donald’s new job brought some relief from the moodiness that had filled the long days at home. There were new methods to learn, assimilating the different systems of the yard. He was relieved to find that his new foreman, Jimmie Boyd, seemed a decent sort. And Donald’s status as a veteran of the convoys brought respect and circumspect questions about his wartime experiences from his new workmates. It spared him the kidding of the newcomer that had plagued his early apprentice days. If Donald’s experience opened the door to faster acceptance, it was the skills honed to a fine edge by the exigencies of sea service that clinched it.

      
Yarrows had taken him on as a deck fitter. Donald liked the variety in the job. He might be called on to install or repair any equipment on or above the main deck. The deck of a ship provided a great vantage point to see the river and the Clyde was busy with ship traffic. There were times when Donald would look up to see a ship heading down river and be filled with regret that he wasn’t on it. The first time it happened he was surprised at his reaction. Every day on the convoys he had grappled with his fear and apprehension. He had wished to be out of it, knowing he was powerless to accomplish that. Granted, now the Germans were being pummeled and the U-Boat menace had been seriously blunted, but the sea was never a safe place, in war or out of it. Yet he found himself wishing he were away to far off ports, preferably in America.
 

      
One day he glanced over towards Barclay Curle. A ship in for refit caught his eye. Donald could not make out her name but she had the look of a rescue ship and a familiar one at that. At the tea break he looked to see if there were any hats around and slipped across the fence into the other yard. He walked towards the ship. So it
was
the
Izmir
, he thought, thrilled to see his old ship.
 

Her appearance left no doubt about the need for a refit. The hull and superstructure were streaked with rust. More ominous were the gaping holes with blackened edges up forward. Hardly any part of the ship was free of work parties. Donald walked briskly past the
Izmir
, knowing that loitering would draw attention. Just past the bow he turned and headed back, glancing towards the deck hoping to spot someone he knew. As he approached the gangway, a tall thin man in shore going clothes was heading down.

He cast a quick glance at Donald then looked again. “Donald?” he asked.
 

“Aye, it’s me,” Donald said.

Tom Wilkinson took the hand Donald offered and shook it vigorously. “It is good to see you,” Tom told him.

“It looks like you’ve had a rough time o’ it,” Donald said, looking at the
Izmir
.

Tom nodded. “How do you come to be here?” Tom asked.

“Ah have tae get back before the gaffer misses me,” Donald told Tom. “But ah’ll tell ye all about it if we can meet some time.”

“Why don’t we get together after you get off?” Tom suggested.

Donald thought a moment. “Why don’t ye come over tae the hoose,” he suggested. “Ah live just up the road.”
 
Tom made a note of the address.

      
“You weren’t joking about living nearby,” Tom said when he arrived that evening. “We’re practically berthed in your back yard.”

      
Donald laughed. “Aye, there’s only the railway between us,” he told Tom.

      
At first glance, Tom looked much as Donald remembered. It hadn’t been that long after all. But signs of wear and tear were present - the deeper lines around the eyes, a more tensely drawn face, and a reserve beneath the outward cheerfulness. Bessie set out some scones and tea on a small table near the fire and took her embroidery to the kitchen table.
 
Donald explained to Tom the path that had taken him from the
Izmir
to Normandy and back to a quay in Scotstoun.
 

“It looks like the
Izmir
took quite a beating this time,” Donald said.

“Yes, and we lost quite a few good men in the process,” Tom said.

Donald felt the chill of apprehension flush through him. It was a small ship and they had all known each other well. “Who?” Donald asked.

“Davy Jones for one,” Tom replied.

“Ach, no’ Davy,” Donald said. “Ah thought wi’ a name like that he wid have made it through for sure. Who else?”

“Allan Ballantyne, and Peter Bell. Then there were a couple of new people who joined us after you left. The old man was really cut up about it. We all were.”

“Are ye getting on any better wi’ MacAllister?” Donald asked.

“Yes, because he’s no longer with the ship,” Tom replied. “His drinking got to the point where nobody could ignore it anymore. Well, he wasn’t that easy to get along with anyway. They put up with it because, for all his faults, he was a damn fine engineer. My opinion is he had the problem for some time but the strain of the job made it worse.”

      
The
Izmir
had covered a lot of ocean since Donald left her.

      
“They had us attached to convoys off the west coast of Africa for a while then it was back to the North Atlantic,” Tom told him. “The captain’s been keeping his own tally of men we’ve picked up. According to him we’re way in front of anyone else - over six hundred at last count.”

      
“That many?” Donald said. “Ah didnae realize we had rescued as many as that.”

      
“You pulled your fair share of them out of the water, Donald,” Tom told him.

      
“Aye, ah suppose ah did at that,” Donald said. “So did Davey and Peter,” he added a moment later.

      
When Donald found himself out of the war and in an ordinary everyday job, there had not come the feeling of relief and settling back into his old life that his friends and family might reasonably have expected. He followed the news of the Allied advances, wanting the war to be over. Donald knew there was no hope of getting to America while the German Reich survived. He found Scotstoun, even Glasgow, to be too confining. Even more, he felt hemmed in by the attitudes he found embedded in the local culture. Donald nursed his dream in silence, wanting to be away.

      
Lack of money, the constant obstacle to the forward progress of the Glasgow working class, did not apply in Donald’s case. After sending money home to his parents, he had saved most of the rest. A frugal man with abstemious habits, he had avoided the many ways of losing money available to the deep-sea sailor. The half crowns and ten-shilling notes had become pounds over time and amounted to more than enough for a passage. Secretly, he sent off letters to the people he knew in the United States, posting them when he was in the city center or in Partick, to avoid the news getting back to his mother through the Dumbarton Road grapevine.