Authors: Sylvia Atkinson
The Letter (30 page)
Elizabeth raced down the garden path. “Daddy I’m
home…” but the door was locked. She rattled the handle;
“Granddad it’s me! Let me in! Let me in,” but no one came. “Mum where are they?”
Margaret was fearful of the answer. She put the suitcases in the outside toilet and, fending off more questions from Elizabeth, went to find out. Florrie caught up with her before she reached Peggy’s gate.
“Margaret, it’s Tommy… He’s in hospital but they’re moving him to Sheffield.”
“Whatever for…”
“There’s been an accident. Dad’s with him.” Florrie’s tense anxious face said it all.
Margaret hesitated, she’d have to go. She’d ask Peggy if she could phone for a taxi but Peggy came out to meet her.
“Margaret I’m so sorry. When you’re ready we’ll run you to the hospital in the car.”
“Go Margaret,” Florrie said urgently, “Leave Elizabeth with me. She’ll be alright with Aunt Florrie til ’er dad comes home.”
* * * * *
Tommy was cocooned in intensive care. How peaceful
he looked. Margaret lightly swept his lips with hers; wanting to feel him, let him know she was there. She talked to him, on and on, meaningless words to bring him back to her. She mimicked Elizabeth’s reaction to having her hair trimmed in Edinburgh, “Wait ’til my daddy sees this. He said my hair was to grow and grow until I could sit on it like an Indian girl.”
Dearest Tommy, he thought they should tell Elizabeth about Pavia and the boys but Margaret wouldn’t. Life was complicated enough without adding more problems.
She was grateful that the hospital staff allowed her to nurse him; smooth his bed, nestle his helpless hands against her face, hands that had taken lives, but were equally capable of wiping away tears and gently brushing his daughter’s waist-length hair.
Visiting was strictly observed. Dad didn’t come but Jean and Florrie brought clean clothes for Margaret who hadn’t changed for three days. The women weren’t allowed onto the ward. She met them outside. Tommy’s father had taken it badly, not sleeping or eating, staring out of the widow. Calvary must have been like this.
Tommy’s eyelids flickered. Margaret heard again his cheerful whistling, felt a bristly kiss on her cheek. How many times had she told him he needed a shave? His answer had been to tease her by gently rubbing his whiskery face against hers.
“I love you Tommy. Don’t leave me… please… I’m not ready.”
Margaret tried to bargain with God but the doctors said that the accident had dislodged the metal plates in Tommy’s head. If he lived, he would be paralysed and they doubted he’d recognise anyone. Tommy, who wasn’t afraid of anything, had always been afraid of this.
“Your husband is dying,” the nurse said softly.
“I know nurse. I know…” Margaret said, “It’s just…”
But as if choosing the moment, Tommy sighed long and deep and was gone. The swiftness of his death stole their tomorrows.
Matt took Margaret’s phone call. He broke down as she spoke. Florrie wept loudly. Her children wailed. Elizabeth shrank into silence.
The coroner gave a measured account of the accident. It was lunch time. Tommy had finished work but volunteered to deliver some urgent letters on his way home. Margaret pictured him crossing Doncaster Road near the XL crisp factory. The turbaned girls sitting on the wall, taking a break, watching the world go by. They’d cheekily call out to him. He’d reply, making them laugh. They’d call out some more. The lorry speeding down the hill, the careless young driver, distracted by the waving girls, Tommy pushing his bike into the road, burning rubber, mangled metal, sickening screams.
The coroner said he was sorry. The accident took place on Tommy’s blind side. It would have helped if the driver had shown some remorse but he took his instructions from his solicitor. Margaret’s anger burned.
* * * * *
Florrie brought Elizabeth home the night before the funeral. Margaret was barely functioning. She mechanically made cocoa and took her daughter upstairs. It had been over two months since Elizabeth’s bed was slept in. She slid between the chilly sheets and burst into tears when her feet touched the cold hot water bottle. “Daddy…”
Tommy’s last act of love had been to air the bed for his daughter’s return from Scotland.
Elizabeth sobbed, “Why… ?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret answered.
“It’s not fair” Elizabeth said, reaching for her mother’s hand. “Make it go away.”
“Oh Elizabeth if only I could…” She let her daughter cry on until there were no tears left.
“Sing to me like you did when I was little and frightened of the dark.”
The song came slowly, Margaret’s voice trembling,
“Golden
slumbers
kiss
your
eyes.
Smiles
awake
you
when
you
rise.
Sleep
pretty
baby
do
not
cry
and
I
will
sing
. . .” What would she sing now?
* * * * *
Summer was on the turn and autumn tiptoed in with a crisp bright morning, but there was no fire in the grate. Wreaths rested on the piano. Wall hanging photographs were draped in black. In place of parties, Tommy’s open coffin filled the front room. The slumberous scent of white lilies and deep purple violets made it difficult for Margaret to breathe. She had taken part in an all night vigil by the coffin. Nan and Jean repetitively chanted the rosary, emptying her mind of everything but the prayerful drone.
The kitchen was filled with women in pressed aprons brewing a constant supply of funeral tea; so many sad eyed figures with not enough chairs to sit down.
A never-ending queue filed past the marbled body that once housed Tommy. Inconsolable, his sisters kissed the corpse wishing their brother goodnight and sweet dreams. They expected Margaret to copy them but she recoiled, her voice breaking, “I can’t…”
The undertaker screwed down the coffin lid twisting every nerve in Margaret’s body. Albert pinned Tommy’s medals on the front of Elizabeth’s navy blue jacket. They hung like monstrous pendants across her flat chest. Margaret gathered her close and felt the strip of black ribbon someone had sewn on the sleeve.
Tommy’s Union flag draped coffin was carried to the flower-laden hearse on the stout shoulders of his brothers-in-law and friends. Their campaign medals flashed in the rays of sunshine. Hunched women leaned on each other, handkerchiefs fluttering like doves. Men self-consciously stamped and blew their nose. No one knew what to do or say.
A tattoo of soldiers’ boots and the voice of a sergeant cut through the mourning, “Squad ‘shun!” The clasping rasping of rifles dragged Margaret out of her stupor.
Houses with tightly closed curtains marked the processional route. Cars glided behind the parade-polished soldiers, slow marching down the main road, round the castle, past the pit into Denaby. Coal-dusted miners, fresh from the day shift, stood to attention, blinking in the daylight. Old and young in Sunday suits lined the pavements. Trilbies were raised, cloth caps tucked into pockets, bareheaded men saluted. British Legion, regimental flags, and mine union banners dipped in respect as the hearse passed by.
The vicar waited outside All Saints Church to lead the coffin in. Mourners crowded around him. Margaret couldn’t make out the faces. There were so many saying their own goodbye. The church bell tolled as the soldiers carried the coffin, taking over the duty from the family. People touched it as it passed. Inside the church eulogies spoke of the decorated soldier and a much loved man who lived courageously with the consequences of war.
The slow-marching soldiers led the hearse past the Miner’s Welfare, bowling green and tennis courts, towards the cemetery on the fringes of the Crags. Mother and daughter, straight backed, heads held high walked behind, flanked by the family. A hushed crowd parted sympathetically at the cemetery gate to let them through.
Margaret saw the Catholic priest by the grave, his lips moving in silent prayer. The flag was ceremoniously removed from the coffin. Matt and Albert restrained Florrie from throwing herself on top of it as it was lowered into the gaping earth. Others were on the verge of collapse. Incense and holy water, prayers and pleas, it was as though Margaret was watching some horrific slow motion film.
A crack of rifles tore through the air — a lull — the smell of cordite and the poignant heart rending bugle notes of
The
Last
Post,
drifted over the gravestones and onto the open Crags.
Handfuls of earth and roses scattered into the grave battered the bereaved. Margaret’s heart threatened to burst. If only she could crawl away like some poor wounded animal. If only she could cry.
* * * * *
A month after the funeral Albert said it wasn’t proper for him to continue staying with Margaret. He didn’t want to be in the way of her remarrying. He left carrying two oversized suitcases. She guessed he was going to Florrie’s. It was hard to accept that Tommy’s father couldn’t be there when she most needed him. Margaret thought he cared, but did anyone?
* * * * *
A tribunal decided Tommy’s death was solely due to an industrial accident. Margaret was denied a war widow’s pension and the accompanying benefits. The British Legion and Limbless Ex Service Men’s Association decided to fight the decision on her behalf, but advised that it could take years.
Jean came to Conisbrough for Christmas. They tried to make something of it for Elizabeth and somehow it passed.
New Year had been party time when Tommy was alive. After tea, Florrie and Matt came with their children. The men went to the Ivanhoe, a working men’s club. If you didn’t get there at opening time you’d have to stand all night. They saved a seat for Florrie who would join them after she’d put her youngest two children to bed. Elizabeth and the older ones were allowed to stay up.
Every time Margaret turned her back there were high jinks between Florrie’s children. “You’ll go upstairs,” generally calmed things down but she soon had them busy polishing glasses, folding damask table napkins into triangles and setting out knives and forks in a wheel pattern. Then they practised their party pieces, singing and dancing with more gusto than talent.
Tommy, Albert, Matt, Florrie, friends and neighbours streamed into the kitchen, after the club closed. Later, in the front room Matt played the piano, his elbows bent and workman fingers stretched across the keys, moving rhythmically, while his feet pressed the soft and loud pedals. He couldn’t read a word of music but, like Margaret’s father, heard a song and was able to play it.
Tommy’s dad put on a flat cap and sang,
“Pack
up
your
troubles
in
your
old
kit
bag
. . .” dancing a march across the front room, saluting and winking. He taught Elizabeth to sing,
“My
old
man
said
follow
the
van
and
don’t
dilly
dally
on
the
way
. . .” Margaret pictured her, holding a small wire bird cage, dancing the music hall routines.
She could still hear Tommy’s voice reciting,
“There’s
a
one
eyed
yellow
idol
to
the
north
of
Kathmandu
. . .” the tale of Carew, a soldier in the East, who for love, steals the eye of the idol and goes mad. By the time Tommy reached the climax, when a knife is buried in the heart of mad Carew, the children were suitably terrified.
Last year, Tommy had locked the doors to keep everyone inside, counting down the seconds to midnight, and then they sang
Auld
Lang
Syne
. Albert unlocked the doors. In came first foot of the New Year, Michael McCabe, blackened-faced, carrying a lump of coal, shortbread and whiskey, for good luck. The party started again.
At dawn the room went quiet while Margaret sang, “
My
love
is
like
a
red,
red
rose
. . .” to Tommy, and he replied by singing
,
“If
you
were
the
only
girl
in
the
world
and
I
was
the
only
boy
. . .” They kissed under the mistletoe. It was time to go. Matt’s touching rendering of
Danny
Boy
brought an end to the celebrations. The pains in Tommy’s head had been dormant for one night.