The Nickum (29 page)

She couldn’t get over how worried she had become for Willie. All his life she had doted on her two daughters and resented having a boy-child, especially a boy-child who did everything in his power to upset her. Now, both her daughters were lost to her, and he was all she had left.

He hadn’t improved as he got older, though. She’d thought he had, when he was at the University. She had occasionally pictured him settling down with Millie Meldrum and giving her grandchildren. Instead of sticking to the normal way, the natural way, of things, he had upped and volunteered for the Gordons, left his lady-friend pregnant and then, it seemed, dumped her, for the girl hadn’t had any letters from him, either. There were times when, as his mother, she wondered if she could possibly have done anything to change him, but she knew there was nothing she could have done, and the way she felt now, she was quite glad he was exactly the way he was. Whatever he did or had done in the past had been done without taking time to consider whether or not it was the right thing to do. She had always thought that she didn’t love him, had always felt quite guilty about it, and yet, she could see now, there must have been a spark of love for him deep down in her heart. How else could the agony she could feel rising for him now have got there?

But she shouldn’t still be in bed. It was nearly eight o’clock and the postie would soon be here. You never knew, there just might be a letter from Willie.

There was consternation in the Tillyburnie Post Office. Four telegrams had come through one after the other, and Petey Lornie, knowing each of the addressees personally, was reduced to tears. ‘Look at this,’ he muttered to Louie Riddle, the postman. ‘Two laddies that bide next door to each other, and two brothers. They’ve all been killed, round about the same time, though none of them in the same place. It’s a damn disgrace, that’s what it is. Think on that three mothers. What’ll they be feeling?’

‘Richt enough,’ the other man nodded. ‘An’ I’ll tell you this. If I’d onything to dae wi’ it, I’d shove a bomb up Hitler’s backside and blast him to smithereens. If he was oot o’ the road, the world could settle doon again.’

‘I doubt that, Louie. There’s an awful lot of Nazis nowadays, so you’d need to get rid of the lot of them, not just Hitler. Now, your first call’s usually at Wester Burnton, isn’t it? Well, if you take this two wires, that’ll let Tommy deliver the other two to Whinnybrae, so they’ll all get them about the same time.’

‘Aye, that’s only fair.’ Louie lifted the sack of ordinary mail to put inside his little red van, and took the two yellow envelopes into the front with him. Delivering telegrams wasn’t really his job – he didn’t fancy having to break sad news like that – but he could see Petey’s point of view. Young Tommy would take quite a while on his bike to get from Wester Burnton to the address in Whinnybrae where two brothers had lived.

His first call was always to the McIntyres at the farmhouse, so he told the farmer that two of his workers’ sons had been killed. Johnny was all for going straight away to tender his condolences, but his wife advised him to wait. ‘Let them come to terms with it first.’ He agreed that they should wait until the afternoon, or even the evening.

Louie’s next stop was just before he reached the Fowlies’ cottage, where he found Jake in the potato field and handed over the envelope with a murmured, ‘I’m awful sorry.’

The other man had ripped the top off and was staring down at the strips of typed words as if he couldn’t believe what they said. At last he lifted his head. ‘You ken, of course.’

‘Aye, Petey thought this two telegrams would be quicker if I took them, for Tommy has another two to deliver in Whinnybrae. The two laddies there were brothers, but they’d been killed in different places at different times.’ His grip on the English language suddenly deserted him. ‘It’s a bloody shame, twa oot’n the same faimily.’

‘You said you’d two. Who’s the ither ane for? Somebody else aboot here?’

Louie nodded his head sadly. ‘Dod Middleton.’

‘Oh, no! Nae Malcie, as weel?’

‘Malcolm, that would be right. Now, d’you want me to come in wi’ you to tell Emily?’

‘No, no. Aff you go an’ deliver the rest o’ your bad news.’

‘It’s nae me that made the bad news, Jake.’ The postman looked accusingly at him.

‘No, I ken that. I’m sorry. It’s just …’ He dragged the cuff of his sleeve across his eyes. ‘I dinna ken what this is gan to dae till her, but she’ll nae want onybody else there.’

Emily had just washed and dressed when she heard Jake coming in. ‘It’s not near dinnertime yet,’ she called, wondering if the clock had stopped before remembering that Jake had wound it up the night before. One look at her husband’s face told her that something was wrong, and before she could even ask, he held out the small sheet of paper.

‘Oh, Jake! It’s a mistake. He can’t have been killed. They mean missing, not killed. Tell me it’s not true, Jake. It says in the Battle for El Alamein, and there’s a letter to follow. They wouldn’t need to send a letter if they’re sure he’s been killed. Oh, please God.’

Tears streaming down his face, his own heart feeling as if it had been ripped to shreds, Jake put his arms round his wife, and patted her back gently while they tried to face their loss.

Meanwhile, Louie, unable to find Dod Middleton, had delivered the news to Beenie, waiting with her until she opened it and scanned the contents. ‘I’m he’rt sorry, Beenie,’ he said as she folded up the communication and slid it back inside the envelope.

‘I ken’t it would come,’ she observed, quite calmly. ‘I ken’t fae the beginnin’ it would end like this for him. Folk aye thocht he was just a waster, hardly ever workin’ at a proper job, but noo he’s gi’en his life for his country, maybe they’ll think different.’

‘Aye, I’m sure they will. Look, Beenie, I’ll need to get on wi’ my round. Do you want me to get some o’ the bairns to look for your man? You need somebody here wi’ you for company.’

‘A lot o’ use Dod would be, but I wouldna mind if you went next door and asked Emily. She’s aye been a real good freen’ to me.’

Louie’s face blanched. ‘I’m sorry to ha’e to tell you, but their Willie’s been killed, an’ all. I left Jake to tell her. Is there nae somebody else?’

‘I wouldna ask ony o’ they young wives in the next three hooses. A’ they think on’s their lipstick an’ their fags. Gan aboot in skirts up to their bums – an’ they never bide lang enough in one place to get to ken folk.’

‘What aboot Tibby Grant? She lost her laddie a while ago, so she’ll understand.’

‘Aye, Tibby’s a’ right, but I dinna want to upset her. It’d mak’ her think on her Poopie.’

‘I think she’d be pleased to be asked.’

Only minutes later, the two elderly women, both with undependable husbands and both having lost a son who was very dear to them, were consoling each other in such a manner as to remove most of the lingering heartache in one and ease the renewed heartache and resentment in the other.

Eventually, drained and ashen-faced, Tibby said, ‘You say Emily’s lost her Willie, as weel. Maybe we should go ben an’ …’

‘Jake’ll likely be there for her.’

‘Aye, her man’s nae like oor twa, the useless pigs, but she’ll be pleased to think us two’s thinkin’ aboot her. I ken some fowk say she pits on airs, thinks hersel’ better than us, but she doesna, really. I couldna’ve wished for a better neighbour than her when my Poopie was ta’en. An’ her Willie – some fowk said he was leadin’ my laddie astray, but, I tell you this, Beenie, I aye had a real soft spot for him, an’ the minute your Malcie tell’t him aboot Poopie, he went an’ volunteered. That showed how close he was to my loon.’

‘He did tell he felt real bad for nae bein’ there to help Poopie.’

‘Aye, that’s fit I mean. Nae mony laddies would’ve gi’en up their fine education like that.’

Beenie considered this statement for a second, and then said, ‘Aye. You’re richt, Tibby. We should gan an’ let Emily ken we care.’

After covering the large almost circular area that included Wester Burnton Farm and its workers, the Mains and all its workers, Louie now made for the Tillyburnie schoolhouse before ending his round at the Easter Burnton Farm spread. It was wearing on for twelve o’clock, over half an hour later than usual, so, being an extremely conscientious man, and aware that most of the women he had not yet called on were waiting for a letter from a son, a sweetheart, a husband, he did not make his normal stop on the way to eat his ‘dinner piece’. Mrs Meldrum, the dominie’s wife, opened the door to his energetic use of the large brass knocker and accepted the slim bundle of mail he handed over.

‘Nothing for Millie, I see,’ she commented, sadly.

Louie had wondered if he should mention the reason for him being so late, and she had given him an ideal opening. ‘I ken I’m nae supposed to tell onybody this, but it’s well kent your Millie was seein’ Willie Fowlie, an’—’

Margaret Meldrum burst in before he could finish. ‘Please don’t tell me something’s happened to him. Her baby’s due in another few days, and—’

‘Willie’s the father? Oh, God, Mrs Meldrum, I’m awful sorry. I’d two telegrams to deliver this mornin’, that’s why I’m late. Willie Fowlie an’ Malcolm Middleton – baith killed.’

‘Oh, dear Lord! This’ll finish Millie. He promised to wed her after the war, and now, what’ll she do?’

It crossed the postman’s mind that Millie Meldrum was in the fortunate position of having a reasonably well-to-do father to provide for her, not like dozens of other girls who had nobody to provide for the infants they would have to bring up alone. Bastards, that what folk would call the poor mites, but he couldn’t say anything like that to this lady, a pillar of the church.

The lady in question regarded him now with eyes filled with tears. ‘I won’t ask you in for your usual cup of tea, postie. You’ll understand?’

‘Aye, Mrs Meldrum, I understand perfectly, but mind and tell your Millie I’m he’rt sorry for her.’

‘Thank you. She’ll be grateful to know that.’

Watching the man walk down the garden path to his van, Margaret took out her handkerchief and dabbed her unshed tears. What she had to say to her daughter would be the worst news she could ever deliver, and she, herself, would have to be in full control of her emotions.

Being a Saturday, Herbert was still at home, and lifted his head from the morning paper as she went in. ‘Isn’t Louie coming in for his tea, today?’

‘He was late and was trying to make up time.’ She hated herself for procrastinating. It had to be told, and the sooner the better. ‘He said he’d to deliver two telegrams. Tell two mothers their sons have been killed.’

‘Which mothers?’ Millie asked in alarm. ‘Do we know the sons?’

Margaret braced herself. ‘Malcolm Middleton … and William Fowlie,’ she ended in a rush.

‘Mum! No! No! Not Willie? Not my Willie?’ She shot to her feet and rushed into her mother’s open arms, as if she could not see and was groping for someone to give her comfort.

It was a few seconds before the headmaster himself stood up, his utter helplessness showing clearly in his face. All he could do was to put an arm round both his women, and let his tears – for his daughter’s sake as much as for the young man who had become as dear to him as a son – stream down unchecked.

It was Millie who broke away first. The pains had returned now, far worse than before, and she was absolutely certain that her labour had begun in earnest. In spite of this, she was determined to go to Emily Fowlie, to join with her in what must be a sorrow as great as, if not greater than, she herself was feeling. It had also occurred to her that, if she kept quiet about the pains until she was in the Fowlies’ house, Willie’s mother might, by some miracle, know some way of making the birth easier, and ensure that the baby was safely delivered.

When she expressed her wish, her father, of course, was against it. ‘I don’t think you should be away from home for any length of time. Your labour could start without warning and I wouldn’t have time to take you from the Fowlies’ house to the hospital.’

‘It would only take about ten minutes longer than from here.’

‘And that ten minutes could be crucial.’

His wife laid her hand on his arm, as if to calm him. ‘I think you should let Millie make up her own mind about this, Herbert. We won’t be staying long; just long enough to show Mrs Fowlie that we care; that we all loved her son, not only Millie.’

Giving in to this, Herbert still insisted on taking the little case that was sitting ready. ‘It’ll save us having to come back to the house for it,’ he explained.

Not one of the three had taken into account the way a farm community can rally round a member who is in trouble, and they were surprised, and a little disappointed, to be introduced to Mrs Middleton and Mrs Grant.

‘Malcie’s Mam and Poopie’s Mam,’ Emily observed, taking it for granted that the new visitors knew about their sons, too.

With seven people there now, Beenie told Jake to get a chair from her house, but Tibby said, ‘You’ll nae need it. I’ll ha’e to get hame or that twa grandsons o’ mine’ll ha’e the place like a midden.’

‘I’ll walk up with you,’ Millie said, lumbering out of her chair. ‘I could be doing with a wee breath of fresh air.’

Seeing Mrs Meldrum’s anxious look as her daughter went out, Emily said, ‘It’s not far; just the other end of the six houses.’

Tibby took the girl’s arm as they walked. ‘You’re a brave lass. When Poopie said Willie had got a girlfriend, I was pleased for him, but when I ken’t you was the dominie’s lassie, I thocht you wouldna be richt for him. I thocht you’d be la-di-da, spikkin’ wi’ a plum in your moo, but you’re naethin’ like that. I think you wis the right ane for him, an’ it braks my he’rt that he’s been ta’en an’ you winna get the happiness you deserve. You never get ower lossin’ the laddie you love. I’ll never get ower Poopie an’ it’s near twa year noo.’

‘I was sorry to hear aboot your son, Mrs Grant. I never met him but Willie spoke about him a lot. He thought the world of him.’

‘They were like brithers, an’ Willie was like anither son to me.’ Tibby hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m gan to say something, an’ mebbe you’ll think it’s nane o’ my business, but I ken you’re near your time, an’ I could see you grippin’ your teeth every noo an’ then in there, so I’d say your labour had started. Am I right?’