Roses of Winter (3 page)

Mary looked around the living room, lit only by the dim light coming through the closed blinds. The air was heavy with the polish her mother had applied lovingly and often to the furniture that had been her mother’s before. It all looked the same, but the still, closed in air of the place was lifeless, bereft of the spirit that had made that fireside so important to Mary. She felt hot tears on her cheeks and hugged Betty to her.
 

Ian shifted on his feet, uneasy and apart, unable to find a role that was appropriate for a man in this scene. Sensing his discomfort, Mary came over to him.
 
“Wid you make sure that the arrangements are all made at McLarty’s, Ian?”
 

“Aye,” he said gratefully. “Ah’ll gae doon there the noo and see them.”
 

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Are ye all right yersel’?”
 

“Aye,” he said sadly. “Ah’m sorry she’s gone but she wis that sick, it wisnae much o’ a life for her. She’s better aff now, isn’t she?”
 

Mary nodded her agreement and Ian slipped out the door.

Later that day, a hearse from McClarty’s brought the body to the house. Mrs. Gourlay and a steady stream of her mother’s friends and neighbors arrived throughout the afternoon. Some brought food, others chairs or extra china. By evening, the work was done. Exhausted, Mary and Betty sat over cups of tea, feeling the presence of the dead woman in the next room as if she were yet a living entity. The coffin had been left open so that close friends and family could pay their last respects.
 

“Dae ye want tae see her, Betty?” Mary asked gently. Betty looked uncertain. “It’s up tae you, but it’s the last chance ye’ll get in this world.”
 

“All right,” Betty decided. “If you’ll come in wi’ me.”

 
Together they went in and stood by the coffin. The room was filled with the scent of flowers underlain by a fainter, more antiseptic smell, reminiscent of hospital corridors.
 

The corpse that lay in the coffin little resembled the warm, loving grandmother of Betty’s memory. The face was not so much lifeless as manufactured, an artifice sculpted in wax. Ever after Betty would be deeply ambivalent about viewing her grandmother’s body. She was glad that she had had the courage to say goodbye, but sorry that her last memory was of a stiff mannequin that bore the evidence of the undertaker’s attempts to make the dead look palatable to the living.
 

Maggie Gourlay had looked shocked when she found out that Mary planned to go to the cemetery the next day. “It’s no’ the usual thing for women tae go tae the burial. It’ll be the talk o’ the place,” she had observed.
 

      
But Mary was adamant. “There will be gie few family there as it is,” she declared. “So ah’ll see her away masel’.”

The next morning brought a raw day with rain showers blowing in from the hills and out to Campbelltown Loch. The blustery winds blew dust and papers into the air and stung the eyes of the mourners as they headed to the cars. Mary looked out at the town of her childhood. They passed Campbelltown Cross and headed away from the town to the cemetery at Kilkerran. The Loch was churning with the wind. Sudden gusts whipped the trees over. A succession of squalls was moving through, driving rain followed almost immediately by bright sunshine, as though a giant hand was turning on and off some hidden switch. As they approached the cemetery the sky turned dark and a cold rain set in, slanting down to shroud Davaar Island in a liquid curtain.

The rain relented as the cars pulled to a halt. The mourners exited slowly, stepping carefully around the puddles, fearful for their good shoes. They approached the graveside, coat collars turned up, umbrellas at the ready and huddled together in the raw air to listen to the minister. He started off badly by getting the dead woman’s name wrong. Mary shook her head but said nothing. “It’s a guid thing yer faither isnae here,” she whispered to Betty who had to stifle a smile. She had once heard her father give a right telling off to a minister when he had disagreed with some inane remark the unfortunate man had uttered.
 

Mary looked at the cold wet earth piled by the side of the grave. She shuddered to think of her dear mother being laid so deeply under it. Mary closed her eyes. She had been startled by the clarity of the moment, her senses honed in an instant. Scent and sound came together to imprint the day upon her memory -
 
the aroma of the wet grass crushed underfoot, the musky perfume of the damp soil, the seagulls crying out over the loch and the distant throbbing sound of a fishing boat working its way homeward that came to her in the still air between gusts.
 

Without warning she received the gift of seeing herself at a nexus between the past and the future. She realized the smallness and grandness of being human, her connection to the land and her ancestors. Mary thought of everyone else who had ever mourned a loved one in this cemetery and the countless others to come. Then came the awful realization that her children, born from her body, must come to this same inexorable fate.
 
She wept too for the many mothers who must lose sons in this awful war that was just beginning.

As the coffin descended into the grave, the rain returned, cold and driving, to slip under their hastily raised umbrellas. Mary watched the water pooling on the varnished lid of her mother’s coffin. She remained for a few moments before following the others hurrying to the cars.
 

Back at the house the men warmed themselves with drams of whiskey.
 
Mary discreetly handed out sherry and port to the women in the delicate glasses engraved with thistles, kept her mother had said, for special occasions. There had been few enough of those across the years. Mary and Betty passed around the ham and the sausage rolls, the cakes and scones while making sure there was plenty of hot tea.
 

There was a chill in the air despite the fire that blazed in the fireplace. Gusts of wind sucked the heat up the chimney in great sighing drafts. The windows rattled and rain beat on the panes. Mary looked out at the storm.
 

“Whit a dreich day,” Ian said, coming up behind her.
 

“Aye Ian, an’ no’ jist frae the weather. Ah wis thinking how a body’s life comes down tae this. A puckle ham and scones an’ a room full of people saying the same auld things. If it wisnae for the food and drink half o’ them widnae be here."

“There’s no’ that many o’ faither’s family here,” Ian observed.
 

“He didnae have a big family tae begin with,” Mary replied.
 
“After he died, most of the auld folk followed him. The young ones went tae Canada or America. It’s probably for the best,” Mary said. “It’ll make it easier to close up her house without the family fighting over who gets what. Ah swear, Ian, ah’ll never dae tae mah family whit her’s did tae her.”

They divided up their mother’s furniture between her close friends and neighbors, except for the china cabinet, which Mrs. Gourlay promised to keep for Mary until they could arrange to get it to Glasgow. Mary put aside a few personal items as keepsakes for her and Ian. Two days after the funeral they made their way back to the city.
 

When she walked into her kitchen Mary was pleasantly surprised to find everything in good order. Ellen, a scarf tied around her hair, was wearing her mother’s apron. She was up on a chair scrubbing the window with newspaper and vinegar. Mary looked around the room in amazement. The range shone and a pleasant aroma arose from the pot bubbling on it. A cheery fire burned in the grate.
   

“My, my Ellen, whit’s aw this?” Mary said with evident pride.
 

“Ye didnae think ah’d let ye come hame tae a midden did ye?” Ellen said.
 

Elspeth and Alistair rushed to their mother and clung to her coat. “Ah’m that proud of ye Ellen. Ah couldnae have done better masel’.”
 

Ellen drew out a chair. “Well, sit ye doon Maw, an’ ye can try oot mah cookin’ for a change.”
 

Charlie managed to get home for the New Year. “It’s a guid thing oor ship has a Scottish captain,” he joked. “Ah don’t fancy mah chances if he wis an Englishman.”
 

Mary was determined they would have a good New Year in spite of her mother’s recent death.
 
As she said to Ida, “Who knows whit the next year will bring? Or when we’ll have the flour and butter again,” she added.
 

“Are ye sure ye want tae dae onything this year?” Charlie asked, quietly acknowledging her recent bereavement. “Ah thought aboot that Charlie, an’ whit ah think is this. Who knows whit the New Year will bring in? This might be the last one any of us will see.”
 

Charlie tut-tutted. “Och now Mary ye shouldnae think like that.”
 

      
“You have tae think like that Charlie. Ah said, ah’ve thought about it and ah want tae have as normal a Hogmanay as we can wi’ oor family and friends around us.”
 

Mary shredded the suet for the dumpling. “Elspeth, pet, will ye gang doon tae Cochrane’s and get me some mixed spice and mair sultanas.” She had put by money, a bit at a time, to make sure they had a good New Year. Charlie had found a bottle of whiskey and there was a drop of port and sherry for her female friends.

When Elspeth came back from the store she begged her mother to be allowed to help. Mary, with many tasks still to do, relented when she saw her daughter’s eager face. “Ah well, it’s about time you learned how tae make a dumpling.” She turned a chair around at the table so Elspeth could climb up and work with her. “Now, just you watch an’ see whit ah’m daein’.”

Mary let Elspeth have a turn at the mixing but the dough was too heavy for her small hands. “Never you mind, pet, ah bet ye next year ye’ll be a dab hand at it. Now here’s the bit where ye have tae be very careful.” She floured the cloth and carefully turned out the mixture on to its middle. A wonderful aroma of mixed spice and cinnamon rose into the air. Mary gathered up the ends of the cloth in her left hand. “Take a haud o’ the other end an’ ah’ll tie it around wi’ the string.” Every year she fretted about leaving too much space in the cloth or not enough. Satisfied, she took the precious bundle over to the stove where a large pot was steaming. Lifting off the cover with a cloth, she carefully laid the dumpling in and replaced the lid. “Well, now we’ll just have tae wait an’ see.”

“Where dae ye think you’re gaun?” Mary asked.
 
      
      

Charlie, who had been trying to slip out quietly, stopped in his tracks. “Ach ah’m away oot tae see a man aboot a dug.”
 

“Dae ye think ah came up the Clyde on a banana boat?” she asked derisively. “Ah know whit ye’re up tae. Jist don’t you come home morokolus. Are ye listening tae me?”
 

Charlie decided to brazen it out. “Ah’m just gaun tae hae a wee dram wi’ Tam an’ the lads. Ah’ll no’ be lang.”
 

Mary hesitated. Seizing the opportunity, Charlie was out the door before she could say anything else.
 

Mary shook her head. She had seen what the drink could do to men and she didn’t want Charlie to become its next victim.
Ah well
, she thought,
Charlie had been a good man to her. If he wanted a dram with his pals she was willing to look the other way now and again, as long as it didn’t get out of hand
. When Charlie came back, she looked him over carefully. “Well ah’m glad ye paid mind tae whit ah said,” she said.

She laid out a great spread with shortbread and Dundee cake and sandwiches. The pride of place on the table was left for the dumpling. “Elspeth, it’s time tae take oot the dumpling,”
 
she called out to her daughter.
 
Only Elspeth was allowed into the kitchen. “The rest o’ ye oot o’ here,” Mary ordered. “Ah don’t want ye under mah feet when ah’m getting it oot o’ the pot.”
 

Charlie signaled to the others to come away, but they lingered by the door, anxious to see how the dumpling would turn out. With hands made impervious to the heat by years of washing and cooking Mary grabbed the ends of the cloth and lifted the great mass of the dumpling out of the pot and onto a large plate. She loosened the string around the top and peeled back the heavy cloth from around the top, revealing the moist doughy surface.
 
They savored the smell that hung so heavily on the air they could already taste the dumpling. Mary placed another plate on top. Balancing the dumpling between the plates she carefully turned it over.
 

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Mary peeled the cloth all the way off, making sure not to disturb the moist surface. She stood back to let the others see. “Well, whit dae ye think?”
 

“Maw, it’s grand,” said Elspeth. There was a chorus of agreement from the others.
 

“Ah well,” said Mary, pleased, “ah’ll just put it in the oven for a wee while tae dry it off.”

The dumpling that had gone into the oven looking gray and wet came out golden brown and magnificent. Mary brought it in and placed it on the table.
 
Charlie beamed with satisfaction. He was more than partial to dumpling.