Crystal's Song (10 page)

* * *

The birth of baby Joe, although an acute embarrassment for Dinah when he was first taken out in his pram, had brought out a fierce protective instinct that she had never shown with any of her other children – not even Phyllis. There was no doubt she loved all of her children but their needs had seemed to come second to her own unfailing desire to socialise. When it came to Joe, however, she made all the supreme sacrifices – never once going out at night to a dance hall or pub – so when the telegram arrived at her mother-in-law’s house, saying that her son Dod had been killed in action, Dinah had raced over to Mary’s house to comfort her.

“Mary,” she said, as she entered the house and found her sitting at the table staring into space. “I’m so sorry, darling. What a price you’ve paid for this bloody war.”

Mary sat shaking her head. “He was a rogue,” she mumbled. “I know that – but he was
my
rogue – my lovable wee devil.” Tears were now cascading down Mary’s cheeks and all she could do was sniffle through them. “Always wondered where I went wrong with him. I mean, how could I have steered him better? Losing him, my lovely wee boy, is the price I have to pay for being a bad mother.”

Dinah looked around, hoping to see her father-in-law Jack, but he was nowhere to be seen. No doubt, she thought, he’ll be consoling himself in the nearest hostelry instead of being here, comforting his distraught wife.

“Look, Mary,” she coaxed, “why don’t you come over to my house and let me look after you?”

Mary spat through her tears, “You think, you actually
think
, I’ll feel better looking at your wee black bastard who’ll break my Tam’s heart when he comes home?” She roughly shoved Dinah’s hand away before pushing her chair back, standing up and with a shaking finger signalled to Dinah to get out of the house.

Two days later Dinah was surprised when her mother, red-faced and breathless, rushed into her house, grabbed Joe, swung him around her waist and headed for the outside door. “Quick, Dinah, you’ve got to come over to Mary’s place and give me a hand.” Patsy hesitated before adding, as her eyes looked upwards: “Oh, Holy Mary Mother of God, help us in our hour of need!”

“Me go over to that old witch’s house after what she called my bairn? Said he was a wee black bastard!” screeched Dinah as she struggled to wrestle Joe from her mother.

Before answering, Patsy firmly kicked the door shut. “Look,” she hoarsely whispered through gritted teeth, “Mary’s been a damn fine mother-in-law to you and the poor soul’s at the end of her tether.” Patsy looked surreptitiously about before lowering her voice and muttering, “Look, walls in these bleeding stairs have ears so you just take my word for it that Mary’s in deep trouble. She needs help and you’re coming with me to give her it!”

“And do you think, now that we know that her accepting my wee Joe was all a kid-on …”

“She put a brave face on it because she wanted to support me and now she’s needing our help. So we’re going.”

Without another word, Patsy opened the door once again and, despite her age and excess weight, raced all the way over from Restalrig Circus to Mary’s house in Restalrig Road and then took the stairs to Mary’s second-floor flat two at a time.

Entering the house, Patsy was pleased to see Tess wiping her grandmother’s face with a wet cloth and gently patting her cheeks, while pleading, “Oh, Granny Mary, please don’t go to sleep again. Please don’t – because Granny Patsy says if I let you fall asleep you’ll die. Oh, Granny Mary, I don’t want you to die!”

By now Dinah had joined her mother and daughter in the room where all the windows, even in the December chill and ruthless wind, had been flung open wide. Yet there was still a cloying smell hanging about.

“What’s happened?” asked Dinah, as the choking gas fumes assailed her nostrils and almost choked her.

Patsy had now taken over from Tess to whom she handed Joe. “Couldn’t take any more. No, she just couldn’t. So she tried to …” Patsy hesitated, unable to say the word “kill” and eventually whispered, “So she tried to harm herself.”

“Lucky she only had tuppence for the meter,” sniffed Tess. “And wi’ gas that dear just now, you need at least fourpence to end it all.”

Dinah was about to say she could have lent her a couple of pennies but the look on her mother’s face deterred her.

“Right,” said Patsy, who was now in control. “Tess, you’ve been a great help and thank goodness you came in to see your Granny on your way home and then you ran for me, but now you’ll help us best if you take Joe home and look after him. Don’t want him being made sick with they fumes. And don’t worry. Your Mammy and I will look after Granny Mary.”

“We will. Oh, I see what you mean – you want me to go over to the phone box at Glen’s Post Office and phone for a doctor or an ambulance.”

There was no mistaking the look of horror on Patsy’s face but before answering Dinah she said firmly, “Off you go, Tess, and remember to tell nobody about what has gone on in here today. Stay loyal to your Granny Mary and keep your mouth shut.”

Once Tess had left with Joe, Patsy immediately began to haul Mary to her feet and as soon as she had her standing upright, wheeled her head around to face Dinah – and Dinah was left in no doubt, by the utter contempt on her mother’s face, that she was in for a right ear-bashing. “Dinah,” Patsy spat, while stroking Mary’s drooping head, “don’t you realise that if you get a doctor or anyone, poor Mary here will end up in prison? Is that what you really want? You callous bitch!”

Dinah laughed derisively. “Prison?”

“Yes! Surely you know it’s a criminal offence to try and commit suicide. You end up in jail – no to mention coming out with a criminal record.”

“And what do they do to them that manage to end it all?”

“You know fine what happens to them, Dinah. They can’t be buried on hallowed ground! And their soul is condemned to purgatory for ever!”

Mary started to sway while her head and eyes rolled. “Just let me sleep. Please just let me, let me … sle-ee-p,” she mumbled as her legs began to buckle beneath her.

“Look,” argued Dinah forcefully, “if her life’s so blooming awful – and she’s not Catholic, so committing suicide isn’t a mortal sin and her soul won’t be forever in purgatory – then why don’t you just let her …”

Patsy nearly let Mary go as she lashed out at Dinah. “You unfeeling pig,” she shrieked. “Mary here is a poor soul whose patience has been tried beyond endurance and she’s my friend.” She inhaled deeply before adding contemptuously, “Forbye she’s your guid-mother. And don’t you forget, my girl, that your wanton behaviour’s partly responsible for pushing her over the edge the day.” Patsy paused and crossed herself before going on. “And because of that I feel responsible for never having properly got to grips with you!”

Knowing that she would be unable to score any points over her mother, Dinah simply stood like a statue and sighed while her mother went on vehemently. “So I’ll have no more back-chat from you. And come over here, right now, and help me get Mary down the stairs and round to Hawkhill playing fields.”

They’d only just opened the door and were about to step out into the common stair when they heard footsteps.

“Quick,” urged Patsy, slamming the door shut again. “We’ll wait till the coast’s clear.”

“Why?” asked Dinah.

“Because it’s enough to know your own sorrows without broadcasting them,” Patsy replied. “Besides, I know how Mary feels about losing her son.” Patsy’s thoughts then drifted back to the heartbreak she’d suffered when all the children she’d carried for nine months had, with the exception of Dinah, never breathed a breath.

Both women stayed silent until no more sounds could be heard from outside. When they judged it to be safe, Patsy reached out to open the door but stopped abruptly when Dinah asked, “Why are we going round to Hawkhill playing fields? Surely it would be better to keep her here where no one will see her.”

Patsy sighed again. “What? Can you no smell the gas in here? The windows have been opened ever since I came in and the place is still stinking and claustrophobic.” Dinah cast her eyes upwards once again as her mother continued, “No one will be there at this time of day playing football or hockey – so that means we’ll be able to walk her round the pitches in the fresh air until she’s fully recovered!”

“And how long will that take?” demanded Dinah, as she opened the door.

“As long as it takes,” hissed her mother, pushing Mary forward. “Probably … two or three hours … at least!”

The relentless wind tore at the clothes that five years in captivity had rendered ragged and useless to protect the emaciated forms of those who had survived the hospitality of the German prisoner of war camps – the infamous Stalags where the norm for prisoners was either to be worked to death or killed by starvation. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the resilient men of the British Army, who had been taken prisoners in June 1940, just after Dunkirk, had now been trudging for a whole month – from 16 February to 19 March 1945 – either in bare feet just swaddled in cloth or in well-worn clogs they had manufactured for themselves, their army boots having long ago disintegrated with the long forced march into captivity.

This new trek had been a consequence of the German guards realising that if they did not move the prisoners (whom they hoped to use as a bargaining tool) towards the advancing American army they would have to surrender to the Russians, who were relentlessly advancing from the east.

Fred could fully understand why the Germans didn’t wish to hand themselves over to the Russians, whose mother-country they’d invaded and who were guilty of the most inhumane treatment, not only of Soviet soldiers but also of civilians.

What he couldn’t understand was why they should have embarked on a march they knew would take over a month when they were aware they couldn’t even supply their prisoners with enough drinking water, never mind food or shelter. There was also the continual air bombardment from the Allied forces, which had the men diving for any cover they could find.

Irate shouts of, “Well, that’s it then,” emanating from Tam Glass and Eddie Gibson put an end to Fred’s marching forward and he wheeled about to face his men.

“What’s the problem?” he asked. “Surely Billy Morrison hasn’t gone AWOL again.” Fred was referring to Billy’s bold escapades to find any food or indeed anything that could be used to make life easier. Escapades that were growing ever bolder as the German guards became lax, due to their realisation that it would soon be themselves who would be marching along with rifles at their backs.

“Naw,” replied Tam. “Look!”

Fred’s eyes were focused on the small horse that had willingly carried the cooking pots and bedding. She was now lying prostrate on the ground, quite obviously dead. “Poor sod,” he thought. “Like ourselves, over-worked and starved beyond endurance!”

“What’ll we do now?” asked Eddie as he began to unload pots and blankets from the animal.

“Well, as we’ve not had a decent meal for months, how about we find Billy who was an apprentice butcher before the war and get him to carve up the beast and then we’ll have a real good feed tonight!” suggested Fred. To his surprise there was not a single word of dissent. Funny, he thought, how five years of deprivation can sort out your qualms!

Two days later they arrived at Rawtow POW camp, just a few miles from the front line where American troops were pushing back the remnants of the German army, most of whom were now little more than schoolboys.

Fred and his men were surprised the next morning when they awoke to find that their guards had deserted them, having decided to make a run for the American line and surrender. Taking time to consider what it would be best to do, Fred suggested to his men that it would be safest to stay where they were. “Here,” he said, looking about the camp, “we’ve got shelter and since we haven’t any arms we can’t take on the German army. Food,” he continued, looking at the emaciated men before him, “is going to be scarce but maybe the good feed we had from the horse will keep us going …” Most of the men shook their heads in disbelief and rubbed their hands over their swollen bellies, while Fred continued, “Okay, a feed which also gave most of us a good dose of the skitters!” He now looked directly at Billy. “But a feed we’ve had nevertheless and so – along with whatever can be foraged outside the camp by our expert here – we’ll keep going. We’re nearly there, lads,” he pleaded. “Just a few more days – maybe only hours!” Billy bowed his head in acknowledgement. “That’s settled then – we’ve decided to survive
here
until the Americans arrive!”

There was no spoken response from the men. They’d survived thus far by following Fred’s orders to the letter and they would continue to do so until they finally arrived home in Scotland.

The men all took refuge in their own thoughts. Eddie thought of Betty and his dad. What would be their reaction to his return? Had their feelings towards him changed in the space of five years? Had Betty found someone else? It had been months since there had been any letters from home. Stretching out his hands in front of himself, he gazed sadly at them, feeling they were the hands of a much older man. With their hacks, ingrained dirt and broken nails, they were almost skeletal and it would take years perhaps for them to recover. His eyes then turned to look down at his shoeless feet. Black and twisted nails stared back at him. He smiled to himself, wondering who would believe that he and young Billy were the only ones left with their black toenails – all the others had lost theirs in the last two weeks.

Tam Glass’s thoughts were now miles away in Restalrig Circus. Dinah, his own Dinah, was first in his thoughts. He inhaled deeply, as if taking in the scent of her perfume. Right at that moment he just couldn’t remember if it had been Mischief or Evening in Paris that she favoured – it didn’t matter though: he was so intoxicated by the thought of being with her again that the heady bouquet of the scent invaded his nostrils. His dreamlike trance had him remember how she looked when they’d danced together. He shifted his back and squirmed with pleasure, wondering what it might feel like to have her massage all the weariness from his body. He smiled as he reckoned that five years of weariness and abuse would certainly take more than one treatment to ease. His thoughts then went to his children. They would all be five years older now. Would the youngest of them remember anything at all about him? “No matter,” he reasoned to himself. “I’ll soon make up for lost time and spend every minute I can with them. And with Phyllis, my poor paralysed Phyllis, who’s suffered far more than I ever have!” Tears welled up in his eyes and he brushed the drips from his nose with the back of his hand before going on with his daydreams. “Never mind, I can just see myself pushing her bed-chair out into the fresh air and up to Lochend Park.” He chuckled and licked his dry, cracked lips. “We’ll have so much extra bread we’ll be able to throw a few crumbs to the ducks in the pond.”