Roses of Winter (15 page)

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Donald emerged from the close to a beautiful summer morning. The trees on the hill across the street rustled gently in a light breeze. It came and went with just the right amount of spirit to be refreshing but not blow up the stoory debris from the street. There was a gentle warmth to the air that he slipped comfortably through as he walked down the hill.

Being home had allowed him to push tension and fear to a more distant place in his mind. He enjoyed the gentle air of the day, filled as it was with familiar sounds and scents that made him rejoice in the ordinary. A tram creaked and whistled up the hill towards him. Out of habit he looked to see if the motorman might be his father, who sometimes worked this route.
 

He turned into the newsagent’s to buy a paper. Waiting in the queue, he saw old Mrs. McRae from the next close.

She smiled and nodded when she saw him. “Ah’m that glad tae see ye safe and sound, son. Yer mither and faither’ll be happy to have you hame for a wee while, ah’m quite sure. How long are ye here for?”

Donald told her he’d been lucky to get a week this time. When it was Mrs. McRae turn at the counter, Donald glanced around the store. His gaze landed on the young woman serving his neighbor. He drew in his breath. Donald blushed and looked away when the girl sent him an appraising look.
 

When she turned back to Mrs. McRae, Donald took the opportunity to look at her again. Her beauty was of that classic type that is built on fine bone structure, sure to age gracefully, and stunning in its present effect. Donald looked her over, surveying the jet-black hair that framed an almond shaped face from which bold eyes of a hazel hue looked out unflinchingly on the world. He looked away, not wanting to have her find him staring at her. The girl’s combination of looks and confident manner were unnerving Donald, who had quite forgotten why he had come in.

As Mrs. McRae bid him goodbye, he was surprised to see the old woman give him a roguish wink. He turned back from her to see the girl looking at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Donald looked around in confusion and, by luck, spotted a pile of newspapers. “A Daily Express, please.”

She placed it on the counter. “Will that be all?”

He nodded.

She held out her hand. “They’re no’ free, ye know.” He started and reached in his pocket. Grabbing a handful of change, he dropped it on the counter. The girl smiled, picked up what she needed, and handed the remainder to him. He turned to leave but stopped when she spoke again.
 

“So, whit do you dae in the war?”

He told her he was in the merchant navy. Behind him he heard the next customer shuffle his feet and make an exasperated noise.

The girl ignored him. "So whit are ye planning to do wi’ yer week aff?” So she had been listening.

Donald shrugged. “Ah’ve no’ got anything particular in mind.”

She looked at him for a moment, calculating what she might be able to get away with. “Whit in particular are you daeing the night?”

Donald looked at her. “Whit dae ye mean?”

“Ah mean dae ye ever go tae the pictures or tae the dancing. Anything like that?”

“Aye, sometimes,” he replied.
 

Donald’s innate shyness and lack of confidence with women made him puzzle over the meaning in the girl’s words in a way that exasperated the people waiting behind him for whom her intentions were obvious. In Donald, his backwardness caused a discomfort that was treading on the heels of irritation. He looked back into the gaze of eyes that made him feel transparent and put any thought of flight from his mind. “If it comes tae that, whit are you daeing the night?” he asked.

She smiled ironically. “Well,” she said, looking straight at him, “ah wis thinking ye could meet me here at six and we could talk aboot that.”

The man behind Donald could no longer contain himself. “See you two. Wid you dae ye’re winching on yer ain time and let me get mah bloody paper an’ get oot o’ here.”

Donald blushed but the girl immediately turned on the man. “You’ll get yer paper. Jist you haud yer horses ‘til ah hear whit he has to say.” She turned back to Donald. “Well, ye heard the man, whit’s it gaun tae be?”
 

A few moments later, outside the store, Donald’s mind caught up with recent events. He had heard himself say, “Ah’ll see ye at six then,” and observed himself go out into the sunshine. Donald walked a few paces towards home and stopped, his mind filled with second thoughts. She had been so forward in her manner, had taken him completely off guard. Mesmerized as he was by her good looks, and feeling self-conscious, he had spoken on impulse.
 

He had half a mind to go back in and tell her he had changed his mind. He doubted that he could summon up the nerve to tell her that face to face or endure the look of scorn that she would certainly send his way.
On the other hand
, he thought,
whit harm was there in going out with her and having some fun?
 
It was just a night out. And she is such a bloody good looker. Ach, whit the hell
, he thought, and headed up the road.
 

When he walked into the kitchen, he found his mother down on her knees, sweeping up around the fireplace. “I didn’t think I would see you back so soon on a nice day like this. Ye should get out and enjoy the fresh air.”

“Ah’ll be going oot later on. Ah jist wanted to have a quiet read o’ the paper for a wee while.” He unfolded the paper and looked at the front page. Bessie got up heavily, put the dustpan and brush aside. She sat at the table rubbing her knee.

“Well I am glad to see you listened to what I said the other night.”

Donald looked up from the paper. “Whit wis that?”

“I said you didn’t need to stay home every night with your father and I. That it would be good for you to get out while you are here.”

Donald nodded and went back to the paper.

Frustration welled up in Bessie. It seemed that to her that she had spent enough of her life attempting to carry on one-sided conversations through newspapers. But she liked the recently refurbished relationship with her son and let no hint of her irritation enter her voice.

“Are you going to meet some friends?”

Donald put the paper down and looked at her. “Well, tae tell ye the truth ah’m gaun somewhere wi’ the girl at the paper shop.”

“Do you mean the tall one with the dark hair?” Bessie asked.

“That sounds like her right enough,” he agreed. “Whit’s the matter?” He had noticed the tightening of Bessie’s lips.
 

“She just seems to be a bit forward, if you know what I mean.” Bessie expected him to disagree but was surprised to see him nodding his head.

“Ah do know whit ye mean. Wan minute ah’m goin’ in tae buy the Express and the next ah’m telling her ah’ll meet her when she gets aff work. Ah still don’t know exactly how she managed that.” He saw the expression on his mother’s face. “Ach dinnae worry yersel’ aboot it, Maw, it’s jist a night oot an’ a bit o’ fun. Naethin’ll come o’ it. Ah’ll probably no’ hear another word from her after the night.”

Hearing the expected rejection behind his words she immediately leaped to his defense. “Don’t you run yourself down Donald McIntyre. She’s the lucky one to be going out with a fine young man like you. It’s she that should be worried that you’ll not be interested in her.” Bessie wanted to add, when you find out what she is really like, but held her tongue.

When Murdo arrived home from work, he found Bessie stirring a pot of soup on the stove. Years of practice had honed his instincts. Something about her manner put his mind immediately on guard. He placed his Corporation Transport uniform jacket over the back of a chair and sat by the fire to take off his boots and replace them with slippers. “That smells grand,” he said to Bessie’s back.

Bessie had long since mastered the art of cooking food that Murdo liked, although it had taken a lot of trial and error in their early days together. She put down the spoon. “I was able to get a nice soup bone at the butcher’s so I made a pot of the Scotch broth you like.” She ladled the soup into a tureen and brought it to the table. Years ago he had teased her about this genteel act that seemed at odds with a working man’s meal, but had learned to hold his peace.

Bessie picked up his jacket and placed it on the bed. She lifted the lid off the tureen and ladled out a generous portion of the broth into his soup plate and a smaller quantity for herself. She watched him take a slice of the plain loaf and break it up. Murdo soaked a piece in the soup and, placing it in his mouth, chewed on the thick crust. She waited for him to finish, trying to decide how best to raise the issue of Willie McLennan. After his second plate of soup she brought him tea and some scones that Ella had given her that afternoon. Her best chance, she thought, was to broach the subject at the table before he settled down by the fire behind his Evening Times.

“Ella’s very worried about her husband.”

Murdo looked at her. “Whit’s wrang wi’ him? Is he sick?”

“Not exactly that, no,” Bessie said.

“Whit does that mean?”

Bessie hesitated before continuing, “He took May’s death very hard. Ella thinks he has been drinking.”

“Well, he’s never been teetotal,” Murdo replied.

“Oh Murdo, I mean drinking to excess,” Bessie said, exasperated at him.

Murdo nodded. “Ah know whit ye mean, but ah don’t see whit we can dae aboot it. Ah mean it’s nane o’ oor business whit he does, is it?”

Bessie felt the flush of emotion on her cheek but held herself in check. She knew that letting Murdo feel the cutting edge of her temper would settle the issue against her. “How can we just stand by and not help him? He’s a good man, Murdo and Ella is a very good friend of mine. Besides I think he might listen to you.”

 
Murdo stared at her in amazement. “Ye mean ye were expecting me to go up there and talk tae him?”

“I was hoping you would, yes,” Bessie said. “Like any sensible person would do when someone is in trouble.”
 

“Bessie, ah ah’m being sensible. Ah cannae go buttin’ intae Willie’s business. He’s no’ going tae listen tae me anyway. Besides, it would just cause trouble. Ah don’t want tae see Willie get intae bother any more than you dae, but there’s nothing ah can dae aboot it. It’s no’ the way we dae things.” Bessie started to speak but he stopped her. “That’s my last word on the matter, Bessie.” He picked up his paper and disappeared behind it, seemingly oblivious to Bessie’s angry bustle as she cleaned up the dinner dishes.

Murdo went to work the next morning wondering how long the storm cloud placed over his head by Bessie would remain. She had stayed in bed and left him to worry about his dinner piece by himself. He endured a miserable day at work until at the whistle, unwilling to go home immediately to face Bessie’s ironclad silence, on an impulse, he decided to fortify himself with a dram. Feeling a little guilty at this unusual break from habit, he entered the unfamiliar territory of the bar hesitantly, looking around for anyone he knew. His gaze landed on Willie who was sitting by himself in a dark corner, his head down. Murdo shook his head and went over to sit beside him.

“Whit are ye daein’ here, man? Ye don’t belong in a place like this.” Willie looked up at him.

“Ah could ask you the same question.”

Murdo looked embarrassed. “Aye well, ye have a point there. But by the look o’ you it’s a damn good thing ah did.”

Willie looked at the floor. “Aye well, that’s nane o’ your business, is it.”

Murdo looked at him, considering his answer. “Aye, that’s what ah wid have said masel’ until ah saw ye sitting there like that. Whit the hell’s happened tae you? You never used tae be the sort o’ man ah wid expect tae see wasting his time in a place like this.”

Willie placed his head in his hands. “Ye know damn well whit happened tae me.”

Murdo hesitated a moment before replying. “Ah know that. But ye need tae get a grip on yersel’. Whit dae ye think May wid say if she could see ye. It would break the lassie’s hert. Ye’re too guid a man tae get wasted like this.”

“Dae ye no think ah havnae telt masel’ the same thing?” Willie replied. He looked around the bar full of men settling in for some hard drinking. The air was filled with the smell of cigarette smoke and the sour stench of stale beer. A man coming out of a nearby door brought with him the unpleasant hint of dirty urinals. Willie wrinkled his nose in disgust and sat up straight as though shrugging off a weight. He got to his feet, where he stood for a moment, swaying a little.

Murdo got up and caught his arm. “C’mon man, let’s get ye oot o’ here.” Willie nodded and, with the help of Murdo’s hand at his elbow, walked unsteadily to the door.

On the way up the hill to their close, Murdo realized that Bessie’s instinct had been the right one. Willie had responded to the influence of a man he respected, who had reinforced his own sense of the wrongness of his behavior. It would be necessary to keep an eye on Willie, he thought, but he felt sure he could manage that. Murdo felt the warm glow of the good deed, and the guilty pleasure of being glad he was bringing home to Bessie something that might thaw her cold mood of the morning.