Roses of Winter (13 page)

Alec McIntyre

      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
Dis. A.R. 209974

      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
Commo. Box No. 5

      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
G.P.O.

      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
London E.C.1

                                                                                               
28.5.41

Dear Mother,
 

                      
Just a few lines to let you know I am still O.K. I really have nothing to write about but just wanted to let you know I am all right. Hope everybody is well at home and don’t worry about me.

                                                                            
Alec

She turned the letter back around and read it through. Bessie looked at Ella. “And this is the first letter I have seen in weeks.”

“Ye said ye’d had a letter from Donald,” Ella inquired, hoping to steer the conversation to a happier tone.

“Oh well, that’s of no consequence,” Bessie snapped. “I get several letters a week from him.” Ella considered her options and decided to say nothing.
 

Since the day that Bessie had shown up on her doorstep, Ella had reflected often on the unexpected friendship that had grown between them. There were times like the present, she had to admit, that Bessie’s manner created awkward moments. But then the next moment she could be charming and talk of things that transported Ella far away from the commonplace life of the tenements. It was perhaps this passport to other realities offered by Bessie that had cemented their relationship and allowed it to persist. Ella tried to remind herself of that quality on those days when Bessie’s frustrations with the limitations of her life were uppermost.
 

Bessie put the letter aside and went to pick up a steaming kettle from the stove. Ella watched her make the tea, fascinated yet again by the way that Bessie managed to create an occasion out of the simplest acts. Bessie added the water to the teapot, stirred it briskly and replaced its lid. She put down the teapot on a trivet and covered it with an ornate cozy. Ella looked over the carefully laid table, the fine bone china cups and plates laid on a linen tablecloth.

“Ye shouldnae go tae aw this bother for me, Bessie.”

“If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well,” Bessie said, her tone tart.
 
Seeing the look on Ella’s face she said, “It gives me pleasure to do it. Besides, it’s better than keeping them shut up in a cabinet for years like my mother did.”

Ella smiled. “Aye ma ain mother did the same. Keepin’ it for best she said. But then it wis only brought oot for show once or twice a year and put away again. They got used at her funeral, though,” Ella remembered sadly.

“Exactly my point, Ella. And you are one of the few true friends I have, you know. So why shouldn’t I make it a special occasion when you come to visit?”

Ella didn’t know what to say in response to this unexpected display of intimacy from Bessie. An awkward silence hung between them. Bessie, a little embarrassed at her own openness, fussed with the plates and introduced a new topic. “And how is your husband?” Ella did not respond right away. Surprised at her silence, Bessie looked at her. “Is everything all right, Ella? What is it, what’s the matter?”
 
Seeing Ella swither, she said more gently, “It might be better to talk about it, whatever it is.”
 

Ella considered this for a moment. By nature she found it difficult to confide in anyone about family difficulties. She was well aware that gossip was a currency that bought some of her neighbors entry to many a kitchen. To be honest, she had a taste for it herself. She had been brought up to keep family matters strictly private. But Bessie’s exclusion from the culture of the close and the sincere concern Ella had heard in her question made her decide to speak.

“Ah’m that worried aboot him, Bessie. He took May’s… May’s… passing… very hard.”

“Well, it’s only natural, Ella. It will take time to get over something like that.”

“Aye, but… that’s no’ the whole o’ it.” Ella replied.

“If it will help, Ella, I’ll listen. But I don’t want you to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

 
“Naw, it’s all right, Bessie. Maybe ye’re right about it helping.” She stopped and drew in her breath before continuing. “Ah think Willie’s been drinking.” She saw the disbelieving look on Bessie’s face. “Ah know, ah know. It took me a while to believe it masel’.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

“Ah have but he says ah shouldnae bother ma heid aboot anything. There’s nothing wrong, is all he’ll tell me.”
 

Bessie nodded her head in sympathy. “It’s the way they are. Men. Don’t show your feelings and never, never talk about them. My Murdo’s the same. If you ask him how he is he’ll just say, “I’m fine.”

Ella looked disappointed. “Ah wis hoping that Murdo might have a word wi’ him. Willie likes your man an’ ah think he would listen tae him.”

Bessie looked doubtful. “I can ask him but I wouldn’t hope for too much. He would see it as interfering.” Seeing the look on Ella’s face she changed direction. “But then sometimes you need to interfere. I would hate to see your Willie come to more grief than he is facing already. When Murdo comes home tonight I will speak to him about it.”

Ella dabbed her eyes, and thanked her. But Bessie, seeing what she believed might well turn out to be false hope on Ella’s face, was afraid for her friend. She was certain of one thing, though. Murdo would be talking to Willie whether he wanted to or not.
 

Two days after Bessie’s conversation with Ella, Donald arrived home. He had entered her kitchen in the manner of a seaman sounding his way through dangerous shallows to an unfriendly harbor. He was surprised to find his mother in good spirits. Donald placed his sea bag on a chair and kissed her on the cheek.

“It’s good tae be hame. How have ye been keeping, Maw?”

“I am well and so is your father. Sit down at the table and I will get you something to eat.”

“Ah brought ye a few things from America.” Donald opened the bag and brought out an assortment of tins and packages. He placed several bags of sugar on the table. “Ah wis able tae bring back quite a bit o’ sugar this time. Ah worked it out. It’s only aboot 2d a pound over there. But they make ye pay 1/3d duty for ten pounds. It’s ridiculous.”

Bessie sat down at the table to keep him company while he ate. She liked to hear of his travels, pacifying her own frustrated dreams of seeing the world through his stories. It was ironic, she often thought, that her sons were fulfilling one of her cherished ambitions, even if it was only the consequence of having a job that moved. Donald enjoyed these times when he was first home. His mother’s eagerness to hear about his latest ports of call ensured her attention, at least for a while. On this occasion he had much to tell, having visited Baltimore and Philadelphia before traveling through the Cape Cod Canal to Boston.

“Ah have a wee surprise for ye, Ma. Ah hope you like it.” He picked up a black rectangular box with a handle and placed it carefully on the table. Unlocking the box’s catch he opened the lid to reveal a gramophone. “Ah found this in Camden, New Jersey. And here’s your other surprise.” He reached for a box with ribbed sides that opened like a concertina and brought out a buff colored envelope. “Ah know ye like classical music, Ma, so I asked the man in the shop tae pick oot a few good records for you. Ah hope ye like them. Ah had an awfy job getting them here in one piece.”

Bessie took the record from him, supporting its weight with both hands. He looked over her shoulder and tried to read the label out loud. “It’s Cav…. Caval..” He gave up. “A cannae say that.”

Bessie smiled, thrilled and touched by his gift. “Oh Donald, it’s the Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana by Mascagni. I love this music. What a wonderful present.” Donald was amazed to see tears in his mother’s eyes. She carefully put the record down on the table. “What other treasures are hiding in there?” Donald handed the box to Bessie. She pulled out a number of records, exclaiming with pleasure at each new favorite.

“Would you like to listen to one, Ma?”

“Oh yes. Please,” Bessie said. “Would you put on the Mascagni?”
 

He pushed open a small triangular shaped box built into one corner of the gramophone and pulled out a steel needle. “Let me show ye how it works.” He lifted the metal arm, inserted the needle and turned the screw to lock it in place. Donald slid the record from its envelope and placed it on the turntable. Taking the handle from its clip, he inserted it into the side of the gramophone and gently wound it up.
 
His mother watched expectantly as he started the turntable and placed the needle at the beginning of the record.
 

For a few seconds there was only the scratching of the needle on the groove before the haunting opening measures of the Intermezzo emerged. Neither the hollow sound nor the surface noise of the disc could defeat the pure beauty of the piece.
 
Bessie was transported. She no longer saw the confines of the tenement. Despite himself, Donald, who had been prepared for complete indifference to the music, was entranced.

When it ended, Bessie remained silent for a few moments. “Well,” she sighed, “what did you make of that?”

Catching him off guard, she received his true opinion. “I think it’s one o’ the most beautiful things ah’ve ever heard.”

She looked at him, searching his face for irony and found none. “Yes it is, Donald. I have loved that piece for a very long time.”

“So ye know this music?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said softly. “From a very long time ago.” He waited, hoping she would tell him more about the where and the why, help him understand better her mind and meaning. Bessie stirred. “Would you play another one, Donald? Perhaps the Sibelius?”

He looked through the records uncertainly, the titles and composers unfamiliar to him. She placed her hand on his arm. “Let me help you.” He looked at her, unused to such gentleness from his mother. She sifted through the envelopes until she found what she was looking for and handed it to him. “Let us see what you think of this one.”

Donald would remember that afternoon as a turning point in his relationship with his mother. His gift of music provided for Bessie a way to recoup and assimilate into her present life some of the refinement she craved. It acted to soften the outward expression of the frustration that had so often spoiled her enjoyment of life and her family. For Donald, the projection of Bessie’s dissatisfaction had created in him a sense of unworthiness, of never coming close to meeting her expectations for him. And so each of his little victories, the hard won good marks in school, his successes on the football field, had brought meager rewards from his mother.
 

Donald privately blessed the far away salesman and his uncanny sense of what might appeal to Bessie. They sat listening, quietly content by the fire until the sound of a key in the door made Bessie start. “It’s your father and I have no dinner for him.” Murdo came into the kitchen and smiled to see his son by the fire. Donald arose and came over to shake his hand. Murdo turned to Bessie who was looking agitated. “What’s the matter with ye?”

“Murdo, I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching the time and I have no dinner waiting for you.”
 

A smile appeared on Murdo’s face, unseen by Bessie, who was hurrying about in a great fuss. He was amused to find her caught unawares. “Don’t you bother yersel’ wi’ that, Bessie. We can have sandwiches or something cauld the night for a change.”

Bessie looked relieved. “Yes, I suppose you are right. Look at what Donald brought from America.” She indicated the gramophone.

Murdo looked at the records lying on the table and a mischievous look appeared on his face. “I don’t see anything I can dance tae here.” Bessie opened her mouth to make a sharp reply but refrained, realizing he was egging her on.
 

“Ah brought some ah thought you wid like,” Donald said. He picked up another package and pulled out a few records. Donald handed one to his father who held it carefully in both hands while he read the label.

“The Andrews Sisters?”

“Aye, that’s a song called ‘Ferryboat Serenade’. It was a big hit in America. An’ ah’ve got some Benny Goodman, and Glen Miller as well. Wid ye like tae hear something?”

“Aye ah wouldnae mind. If yer mother doesna mind that is,” he added quickly.

“No, you just sit down and listen to the music while I make us something to eat.”

Murdo looked at Donald who smiled and shook his head. Bessie’s easygoing mood was surprising them both tonight.