Roses of Winter (54 page)

      
Donald was pleased at the welcoming responses that came back, sent at his request to a poste restante address at the main post office in Glasgow. There were two firm offers of employment and the assurances of several families willing to sponsor him. Satisfied that the important elements of his plan were assured, Donald eagerly awaited the end of the war.
 

      
On the day that Hitler’s death was announced, Bessie arranged matters to be alone with her son. “The war will be over soon,” she said.

      
“It looks that way,” Donald answered cautiously, alert as ever to his mother’s apparently innocuous overtures.

      
Bessie came straight to the point. “When it’s finally over,” she said, “you’ll be able to go to America.”

      
Donald stared at his mother. “I know you want to go,” she told him. “And I know what your father said about it. I want you to know that I think he’s wrong to try to stop you.”
 

      
“It’s true,” Donald said. “Ah do want tae go. It’s not that mah life here is terrible. Ah just like the way they do things. There’s a better future for me there.”

      
“There’s no need to feel guilty about thinking that,” Bessie said.

      
“Ah do feel guilty about it,” Donald said. He told her about the letters he had hidden from them. “Ah didnae want tae do things behind your back,” he told her.

      
“Donald, I know what it feels like to want something so strongly that you feel compelled to pursue it,” his mother said. “I once had dreams of my own. It wasn’t possible to follow them, and for years I was bitter and disagreeable. I have never told you the reason but it is important that I do so now. You must understand that it is all right to strive for what you want.”
 

      
Donald finally found explanations for many aspects of his mother’s character that had burdened his early years.

      
“I know what it feels like to have choices made for you,” Bessie said at the conclusion of her story. “I have finally found peace instead of bitterness but it took a long time to arrive at it. Your father’s good nature helped. I have no idea why he put up with me for so long. Ella, my very dear friend, was another great help. But no less important, is the pride I have in you for the brave, decent man you have become. You have more than earned the right to follow the life you want.”

      
Bessie’s approval of his plans made Donald’s time in the yard easier to bear. Emotionally he had tried to convince himself that it was only a transition to his goal. That goal now seemed so much more real and realizable. He was glad to have his secret revealed to his mother but he kept it close to him at work. Donald was not a social man, at least not in the usual ways of the sailors in port, or his fellow workers when work was done for the day. His avoidance of alcohol and prudish attitudes to sex had kept him to himself. True, his attitude had helped him save money, but it had left him solitary with few real friends.
 

      
It had been different for him in the States. Perhaps it was because everything had seemed new and exotic; maybe it was the outgoing friendliness of the people. Whatever the reason, his time there had drawn Donald out of himself, made him more adventurous and open to new ideas.
 
He had glimpsed the possibility of reinventing himself, and that notion had taken on the nagging intensity of a craving. He fed it with the one part of America that he had been able to bring back with him, its music. His one true vice had been the music, preserved on the fragile discs he had carefully transported home. In every city he had sought out the stores that sold the latest, hottest, music. The records were the only things that could tempt money from his pockets.

      
The music brought him a new friend. For Peter McFarlane, it was not the stories of the convoys that interested him. Instead, he pestered Donald with questions about what he had seen and heard in America.

      
“Whit aboot Benny Goodman? Did ye ever see him?”

      
“Well, no’ in person but ye cannae avoid hearing his music,” Donald told him.

      
“Glenn Miller, did ye see him?”

      
“No,” Donald said. “Ah wish ah had seen him. Ah did see Artie Shaw, though,” he said sensing Peter’s disappointment.”

      
“Ye didnae,” Peter gasped. “Ah wish ah could have been there. Did ye bring back any records?” Peter asked.

      
“Ah did,” Donald told him. “Ah bought as much as ah could afford.” Donald answered the question Peter was dying to ask. “Come round tae the hoose some night and ah’ll play them for you.”

      
The large albums that contained Donald’s precious collection of fragile 78s did not fail to impress Peter. He turned the pages carefully, exclaiming with pleasure at each new title. Donald had put together some of the best swing and big band music of the last decade. He had gone about it systematically, playing each in the store and soliciting advice from his American friends.

      
“Sit yourself down and ah’ll pick out some records tae get us started,” Donald told him. He carefully slipped a disc out of its sleeve and centered it on the platen.
 
He put a new needle in the head and wound the spring. Then, smiling at Peter’s look of eager anticipation, he slid the lever to start the record turning and placed the needle on the groove.

      
With no preamble, the orchestra ripped right into a swinging tempo that continued relentlessly. Peter closed his eyes; his face took on a rapturous look. In the last few measures, the tune started to slow down in a humorous deflating path to one final climax. Donald lifted the needle.

      
“That was Benny Goodman,” Donald told him.
 
“A tune called King Porter Stomp. It’s one o’ mah favorites.”

      
“Mine too, now,” Peter said. “Ah wish ah wis playing music like that.”

      
“Ah didnae know you could play an instrument,” Donald said.

      
“Ach, ah jist play the drums in a wee band. Scottish country dance music.”

      
“Ah like Scottish Country dance music,” Donald said. “Let me know the next time you’re playing.”

      
There were others in the yard besides Peter who carried unspoken dreams of self-development. Denied the possibility of education beyond school, forced into work by the exigencies of poverty, they sought self-fulfillment for their talents. Taking his lunch by the river one day, Donald came upon one such in the form of Donnie Morrison. He was sitting on a bollard, hunched over, pencil in hand. Donald caught a glimpse of the pad Donnie was trying to shield. Donnie looked up, revealing more of the drawing.

      
“That’s really good, what you’ve done,” Donald said.

      
Donnie’s face assumed a look that was half-annoyed, half-suspicious. “Dae ye think so?” he said, in a tone that was more demand than question.

      
“Ah do,” Donald said. “Can ah take a look?”

      
Donnie thought a moment. “Be careful ye don’t smudge it,” he said before handing over the pad.
 

Donald held the pad in front of him and looked at the drawing. It was a detailed rendering of the shipyard and river that caught the very essence of the place.
 
“Where did ye learn tae draw like this?” he asked.

“Naebody taught me,” Donnie said. “Ah’m just able tae do it. So, ye really think it’s good?”

“Ah do,” Donald said. “It’s good enough tae be in the art galleries at Kelvingrove.”

Donnie looked pleased. He took back the pad and flipped through the pages, holding some up for Donald to see. One page caught Donald’s eye. It was a study of a riveter in the act of hammering. Donnie had caught the character of the man and his work. “Have ye shown these tae anyone else?” Donald asked.

“Ach, who would be interested in mah scribbling,” Donnie said.

“Ah would, for one,” Donald told him.

Donnie detached the drawing from the pad and held it out to Donald.

“Ah canny take yer drawing,” Donald protested.

“It’s mine tae give and ah’d like ye tae have it,” Donnie told him. “You’re the first tae show any interest.” He carefully rolled up the page and handed it to Donald.
 

The end of the war in Europe brought with it a frisson of expectation. Donald felt that much closer to his goal. Every extra penny was going into the bank, a nest egg for starting off well in the States. He realized that he had to be realistic. The war with Japan that still raged in the Pacific worried him. Who knew how long it might drag on? Even when that was finally over, he doubted that he would be able to leave right away. America would be flooded with returning servicemen. The disruption might last for a few years. Would the offers he had received still be there? He must try to be patient, he told himself, but he fretted and worried all the same.

The sudden and surprising end to the war with Japan in August increased Donald’s desire to be away. Briefly elated by this necessary step in his forward progress towards America, Donald soon felt his impatience increase. His new friends were a welcome distraction. Peter introduced him to the other members of his band. He was pleasantly surprised to find that they were very good; to his ear they were the equal of anything he heard on the wireless. Donald went with them to the halls in Clydebank and Partick where they played for dances. Unsure of his skills as a dancer and too shy to approach any of the women, he would sit near the band. Donald remained oblivious to the many admiring females trying to attract his attention, his remoteness a puzzle they could not unravel.

Donald’s life fell into a routine that provided little emotional satisfaction. He knew that routine was the enemy that stalked his dreams. It would be so easy to get drawn in, to settle for less than he wanted. There were many around him who had no choice but to do just that. His friends encouraged him to be happy with his lot. Donald did not view this as help, no matter how well intentioned.

Peter alone understood.
 
“You’re not interested in anything that will keep ye here, are ye?” he said to Donald one night when the band was taking a break. “There’s umpteen lasses wanting tae make yer acquaintance. Mah ain sister asked me tae introduce her tae you. Ah said ah wid but that she wid just be wasting her time.”

“What are ye talking aboot?” Donald asked. “Why wid she want tae meet me?”

“Ah know it’s escaped yer attention,” Peter told him, “but yer face doesnae exactly crack mirrors does it. If ah had your looks ah wid be taking full advantage of them.”

Donald sent him a disbelieving look.

“Ah say, what’s the harm in a wee bit o’ fun while you’re waiting tae go back tae your true love. Ah mean America,” Peter added.

Donald saw his point but he knew that it was not in his nature to go out with women he wasn’t serious about. Besides, his disastrous relationship with May still haunted him. He couldn’t treat women in the casual way that she had used him. There were times, though, when an aching sense of loneliness nagged at him. There was no lack of desire in him; he just could not disassociate sex from love. Donald hoped more than anything to find a love that would sustain him for a lifetime.
 

He kept these feelings to himself, knowing that if they were expressed he would be subjected to ridicule from the tea break Casanovas and sexual boasters. They teased him anyway, and some of it went beyond good-natured humor. Donald withdrew further into himself and found reasons to avoid his workmates.
 

He found others of like mind that sought to avoid the rough ways of the yard. Peter and Donnie he already knew, but he soon found more. They had all been cast as misfits but readily adopted the role if it meant they could remain apart and be left alone. Donald was glad of their company and marveled at the range of their talents.
It was amazing how such men found ways to survive in the yard
, he thought. Each in different ways introduced him to other worlds of experience, while he, in turn, encouraged them in their pursuits. Donald’s quietly stated interest and genuine curiosity were the keys for him to gain admittance.
 

It was Donnie who introduced him to the previously ignored paintings in the Art Galleries at Kelvingrove.
 
Donald had been in the building often but never ventured beyond the models. A new friend, Robert McKenzie, brought him to the newly opened Citizen’s Theatre to see Priestley’s play
Johnson Over Jordan
. It was, perhaps, as Robert conceded, not the easiest introduction to serious theater for a neophyte.

“Never mind,” he told Donald, “We’ll try you out on some Shakespeare next.”

Donald approached these new experiences with the curiosity of a traveler in faraway places. He traversed the landscape of his friends’ world as a curious visitor rather than active participant. It was the novelty of entering new territories that appealed more than any developing interest in art or plays. But Donald had no reliable map to guide him through such alien terrain. He felt keenly the foreshortened education that might have provided a context for these excursions. Donald had no means to evaluate these new experiences. When some of his forays into the arts resulted in bafflement or boredom, he kept the feeling to himself.