Authors: Sylvia Atkinson
No one came to see out this dreadful year. At midnight Margaret and Jean drank a glass of sherry to 1956, in front of the television. Elizabeth had fallen asleep on the sofa. Jean said that often people didn’t know what to do when someone died but it made Margaret feel abandoned.
* * * * *
Margaret had negotiated with the hospital to start work mid January. She would work five weekdays, from half past eight in the morning, to three in the afternoon. Who would take care of Elizabeth? The sisters discussed the possibilities. Jean couldn’t help. She was teaching and would have to return to Scotland for the start of the term. Florrie was ill. Albert had gone to Alice. The obvious solution was to move to Scotland.
Giving up the house would be like giving up Tommy, and his grave was in Denaby. Margaret couldn’t bear to go so far away from him. Conisbrough was her home. She belonged here, not in Scotland. A letter from the Postmaster added weight to her decision to stay:
Dear
Mrs
Waters,
We
were
all
deeply
grieved
at
the
death
of
your
husband
in
such
tragic
circumstances.
Christmas
must
have
been
a
painful
reminder.
Words
are
difficult
on
occasions
like
this,
but
it
may
afford
you
some
comfort
to
remind
you
that
your
husband
was
very
popular
and
well
thought
of,
not
only
by
us
but
by
the
public
generally.
Keep
faith
in
God,
with
his
help
you
will
no
doubt
find
the
necessary
fortitude
to
bear
your
sorrow.
Should
you
need
any
help,
acquaint
us
of
the
facts
and
we
shall
be
ready
to
do
anything
within
our
power.
The
staff
join
with
me
in
a
further
expression
of
sympathy.
Yours
sincerely
Harold
Wormsley
Postmaster
Margaret didn’t feel so confident when Jean returned to Scotland. There was no alternative; Elizabeth would have to come home alone, into an empty house, for the rest of the winter.
Margaret bought a two-bar electric fire to use in the morning and laid the coal fire. Elizabeth put a match to it when she came in from school.
* * * * *
The electric iron broke. Margaret used the two flat irons she’d kept as ornaments, heating them on the gas rings of the cooker, spitting on the iron’s flat plate to test for readiness. Permanently tired and melancholic she subsisted from pay day to pay day.
The morning the shovel scraped along the concrete floor of the coal shed without stopping; Margaret closed the door and cried in the dark. There was nothing left, except dusty slack. You couldn’t light a fire with that. She sent Elizabeth to school telling her to switch on the electric heater as soon as she came home.
Margaret rushed back from work to find a note on the kitchen table:
Margaret,
Collected
Elizabeth.
Given
her
tea.
Will
fetch
her
home.
Matt
has
got
you
a
half
ton
of
coal.
It
will
be
delivered
tomorrow.
Florrie
That night Elizabeth slept with her mother to keep warm.
* * * * *
The coal was dumped on the road. Matt would lose his job at the pit if it was known the load belonged to him. He certainly couldn’t be seen helping to get it into the coal shed.
The streetlamp cast enough light on the garden path for Margaret to see her way. She found Albert’s wheelbarrow in the outhouse and some bits of wood to make a ramp. Then she put on the immersion heater for hot water, filled a bucket with coal and made a fire in the little room she used daily.
“Mum, what are you doing?” Elizabeth asked seeing her mother getting into Tommy’s gardening trousers.
“Getting ready to get the coal in…”
“Can I help?”
“Get changed first…”
Margaret filled the barrow too full and couldn’t get it up the ramp from the road to the pavement. She worked out that a lot of lighter runs would be easier. Elizabeth picked up the fallen coal and swept the dust into a pile. In two hours they’d done it.
Bathed and warm, Margaret brushed Elizabeth’s hair by the fire, told magical stories from pictures in the coals and toasted bread for their supper. It was good news that Florrie was better. Soon it would be the Easter holiday and Margaret reminded Elizabeth they were both going to Nan’s. She could do without spending the money but wasn’t ready to be without her daughter.
“Do you think Aunt Jean will take me to the ballet?”
“I’m sure she will if you’ve asked her. We can all go” Margaret said, looking forward to seeing her sisters. She talked about Elizabeth’s love of Nan’s homemade ‘tattie’ soup. They could have buns at Crawford’s; go to the zoo, to Aunt Mary’s, and to Our Lady of Carfin’s grotto.
“Not Carfin again” Elizabeth groaned. “Last time my knees ached with praying.”
“They’d have ached more if the priest hadn’t blessed them.”
“Oh mum… You are funny.”
“Not as funny as you, young lady” Margaret said, trying to stifle her laughter. “Now off to bed.”
“I want to finish my library book. It’s due back tomorrow.”
“Leave it out. I’ll hand it in on my way from work. You can get another at the weekend. Night-night… I’ll switch off your light when I come up.”
YORKSHIRE
1985-1986
Yorkshire
1985
The clock struck six… Elizabeth… the library… Margaret sensed it was dark. She must have been dreaming? She didn’t want to open her eyes, didn’t want to face the reality of today, of Elizabeth grown, of the years gone without Tommy. She’d lie for a few minutes to get her bearings. The empty space beside her in the iron framed bed had grown bigger. It wasn’t the original mattress. There’d been several replacements, each put on top of the one shared with Tommy. It reminded her of the story of the princess and the pea which had been one of Elizabeth’s favourites. Margaret had read to her every night and she grew up to love books, they both did, often reading side by side in the evening.
Elizabeth was interested in everything. There were copies of
The
World
of
Wonder
and
Mee’s
Children’s
Encyclopaedia
in the bookcase in the front room. Margaret had bought them from door to door salesmen, spreading the payment. Now the books were out of date, including an expensive Atlas. Countries had merged, become independent and had different names. You couldn’t stop change.
She was shrinking, or so Elizabeth said, getting shorter
and more stooped, but to Margaret it was the opposite. There was so much happening, nine grandchildren and two great grandchildren when she didn’t expect to have any. She wondered if they resembled her. Would she ever meet them? Elizabeth, Pavia, and the boys exchanged letters. Their regard for each other poured out from every page.
Margaret counted the blessings that had arrived so late in her life. Materially she didn’t have much, a few sentimental keepsakes. The council owned the house. There’d be a couple of thousand pounds from the insurance, enough to bury her. She had always saved. Most of it went on educating Elizabeth but she had some put by for a ‘rainy day’. She toyed with changing her will to include some of this money for her Indian children. She’d talk to Elizabeth about it. She’d also have a clear-out, get rid of some of the rubbish Elizabeth said she hoarded
* * * * *
Margaret turned out the suitcases, drawers and cupboards. There were photographs of Tommy in India, and one of him outside his quarters in Burma playing with puppies. There were university photographs of Elizabeth and some of her in a ballet dress, taken the year after Tommy died. She must have been ten.
Margaret didn’t know why she’d kept the comic seaside postcards, except they still made her smile. They could go but she’d keep Elizabeth’s certificates for playing the piano and Tommy’s First Aid certificate from the Home Guard.
She came across a papier-mâché box, delicately painted with kingfishers. The lacquer coating had preserved the colours so it seemed like yesterday when she had bought it in Kashmir. It rattled as she moved it. She took off the tight fitting lid. Inside was the heart-shaped box containing the blue sapphire ring, the gift of love from Ben to celebrate Saurabh’s birth. Tommy hadn’t minded her keeping it, but she buried it out of sight to be forgotten. One day she would give it to Pavia. It didn’t belong to Elizabeth.
There was also a glittering sari pin attached to a scrap of turquoise silk, and a brass engraved letter opener from her desk at Aakesh, gifts for Saurabh and Rajeev. Margaret had thought she had nothing tangible from the past to give them. These treasures were mementoes of some of the happiest years they spent as a family. When the pain and bitterness overtook her it was easy to forget how much she had loved their father.
Margaret filled the dustbin with rubbish and put plastic bags in the outhouse ready for the bin men to collect. There were more plastic bags with clothes, handbags, knick knacks; extra table cloths and bedding stored under the stairs. An assortment of paper carrier bags emblazoned with shop logos contained knitting wool for her favourite charity, Mother Teresa. The Albanian nun didn’t pass by the destitute and untouchables who Margaret had seen dying on the streets of India’s cities. Raising money was the least she could do.
It had taken a week, but past midnight on Saturday the work was completed.
“Scottie where are you! It’s James! “
James, what was
he
doing here? Margaret called down stairs, “I’m up here. I’ll be down in a tick… just let me put a few clothes on.”
“It’s Sunday” he said, as she joined him at the foot of the stairs.
“So it is. I must have slept in.”
James had waited to collect her outside the church until everybody had gone, including the priest. Seriously concerned, he’d broken every speed limit driving to Conisbrough.
Unperturbed, Margaret continued, “I’ve been packing a few things for Elizabeth. This bag’s rather heavy… will you lift it down for me?”
“Good God, Scottie! Don’t tell me you’re coming to stay for good?”
“You should be so lucky. I’ve been having a clear out.”
“I can see that!”
“It’s not
all
for Elizabeth! The things under the stairs are for Mother Teresa. They’re coming for it on Monday.”
“I hope this India business isn’t too much for you? You can stop it at any time. Just say the word.”
Margaret told him that she hadn’t been sleeping properly and had been to see the doctor who had prescribed sleeping tablets. They hadn’t worked so she stopped taking them.
The whole situation was worrying James. He’d tell Lizzie but there didn’t seem much they could do. He said innocuously, “It’ll all come good in the end.”
“I expect so, but meantime there are things I have to do.”