On the evening of 4 August 1914 as she drove home from her mill, Lizzie saw huge black headlines on news vendors’ billboards screaming out: WAR DECLARED. She had not thought about the war much recently because she was far too busy coping with the increased volume of orders that warmongering caused. It was almost an anticlimax to discover that the Cassandras had been right after all – war was no longer a rumour but a reality.
‘You’d better make the best of it. It’s going to be over by Christmas,’ counselled old Mr Bateson next morning. He was really retired but still came into Green Tree almost every day because he could not stay away. She trusted his judgement but for once he was wrong. It was not over by Christmas.
When New Year dawned Lizzie came home from her bustling mill with her clothes smelling of jute dust and was handed a letter at the door by Maggy. It was from Canada, only the second she had received from her son. The first had jauntily announced that he’d reached Vancouver and intended to stay there for a while.
This one was as bright and cheerful:
Dear Mother, Maggy and Lexie-for-short,
Just to let you know that I’m well. Another Scot from Aberdeen called William Pennie and I have trekked across from Vancouver to Toronto and joined the 16th Battalion of the Canadian Scottish. They’re a great bunch of lads. Our Colonel is called Peck and we’re shipping out for Flanders next week. I told a lie about my age so don’t let me down. I can hardly wait to get at those Boche! They won’t have a chance against the Scots laddies, will they?
Love from Charlie.
Lizzie felt her heart hammering like a mad thing when she read it. Already the news from the front was bad enough to cause her concern at the thought of Charlie going there.
‘He should have stayed in Canada. He didn’t need to join up,’ she told Maggy, handing her the note.
Maggy read it with a frightened face. Then she said, ‘You ken fine the Boss couldn’t stay out of a scrap. We’ll just have to pray for him, Lizzie.’
It was not Lizzie’s way to take trouble quietly. She sent a cable to the War Office in London telling them that her son had falsified his age in order to join the army but if her cable was received, it was ignored. Men were needed and no one was being too fussy about who they accepted. Charlie was on his way to the war and nothing could be done to stop him. When she realized the futility of protest her rage against George grew even more bitter.
‘If he hadn’t left Charlie in Canada this would never have happened,’ she raged to Maggy, who dropped her eyes and said nothing.
It was a terrible winter. The winds blew sleet down from the north and it seemed that there was only light for a few hours in the middle of the day. Lamp lighters stalked the streets by half past three in the afternoon and in the morning when Lizzie left for the mill she travelled in pitch darkness. Her first call, no matter how early, was at the newsagent’s where she bought a newspaper and tried to scan the lists of killed and wounded in the feeble light of dawn.
On the way home, no matter how late, she again stopped the carriage and bought an evening paper, but whenever Maggy saw her turning to the back page where the names of the dead were listed, she snatched the sheet from Lizzie’s hand and snapped, ‘He cannae be there. He’ll no’ be across the Atlantic yet.’
There were no parties in Tay Lodge that winter and Lexie kept out of Lizzie’s way, slipping along the corridors like a wraith. When Lizzie did meet the girl, it seemed as if there was something on Lexie’s mind, but no encouragement to confidences was offered by the older half sister. She was too preoccupied to worry about a schoolgirl’s concerns. If Lexie tried to talk to her, she usually said, ‘If you want something, ask Maggy, dear. I’m very busy.’
Late one night, while freezing rain was lashing the house, someone came knocking loudly at the front door of Tay Lodge. From her bedroom Lizzie heard a grumbling maid crossing the hall to open the door and inquire what the trouble was. A girl’s voice answered and when the bedroom door was opened, Bertha Davidson stood there, in a mill worker’s black shawl and heavy boots.
‘It’s my da. He’s dying and he wants to see you,’ she said without preamble to the woman sitting up among lace-trimmed pillows in the firelight glow.
Lexie was asleep and they did not waken her, but Lizzie and Maggy went back with Bertha to the Vaults. They travelled by cab because it was quicker than to wait for the carriage to be hauled from its shed and the horses to be harnessed. As they drove through the deserted streets, Lizzie remembered the night her mother was killed. There was sleet in the cutting wind then, and little Georgie had huddled close beside her in their window watching the storm. Her rage seemed to seep away and terrible guilt about the way she had treated him filled her heart. Her lips moved in silent prayer: Oh God, don’t take him away. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t let Georgie die.
Rosie was grim-faced and silent when she opened the door.
‘How is he?’ asked Lizzie.
‘He’s dying.’
‘No, no, he’s not. He’s been bad before and recovered.’ His sister was grasping at straws.
‘Not as bad as this,’ said Rosie.
George was propped up gasping against piled pillows and a bloodstained cloth lay on the floor beside his bed.
Lizzie ran across to the bed recess and took his hand, ‘You’re going to be all right. I’m going to fetch a doctor for you.’
‘The doctor’s been,’ snapped Rosie.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he’ll come back tomorrow if George’s still alive.’
Lizzie turned on the woman. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that in front of him. He can hear you.’
‘He’s not daft. He knows what’s happening. That’s why he asked to see you, though I wonder why he bothered. He wants to speak to you and he’s not much strength. Get on with it. Help him.’ Rosie sounded abrupt and rude but her face was twitching with emotion as she walked towards the fireplace where a kettle was boiling on the red coals.
Lizzie knelt beside her brother. His face was drawn and white and his eyes seemed to burn as he fixed them on her face.
‘Dear Lizzie,’ he whispered.
‘You must get better,’ she told him. The thought of him dying terrified her.
He shook his head slowly and his voice was very faint. ‘I’m sorry about Charlie. I tried but he wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry…’ His voice trailed off in coughing. Bloodstains spread on the cloth he held to his mouth.
Lizzie clutched at his other hand, trying to share some of her own vitality with him. ‘I’m the one that’s sorry. I was wrong. I was so stupid. I should’ve understood – I did really but I didn’t want to admit it. Oh, George, I never really meant to send you away. Why did you go? You should have stood up to me…’
The tears were running down her cheeks and she was oblivious to the three women standing behind her.
George did not speak but only patted her hand and she went on talking as if words would turn aside the death that waited for him. ‘I’m sorry. You’re my dear brother and I love you so much. I know how difficult it must have been for you to deal with Charlie. Oh, Georgie, I wish this had never happened. When I think of all the time that we’ve wasted…’
George’s eyes were closed and she was not sure if he heard her. Casting a look over her shoulder at Rosie she asked, ‘Do you think he’s hearing me? I want him to know what I feel… I want him to know.’
Rosie stared back hard eyed and said nothing. George, without opening his eyes, tried to put a hand on her head to soothe her but did not have the strength. His arm flopped on the coverlet.
‘It’s all right, Lizzie. It’s all right. He understands,’ said Maggy in a strangled voice.
The woman sat with him all night and when the first light of dawn was streaking the sky, he died.
When she saw that he was gone Rosie Davidson lost her steely composure and threw herself across his body keening and wailing like a madwoman, ‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’
It took the combined strength of Maggy, Lizzie and Bertha to drag her away from him, sit her down in the wooden armchair and thrust a mug of tea into her hands.
Through her tears she stared at Lizzie with hatred. ‘Why were you so damned stiff? Why didn’t you come? Lexie tried to tell you but she was scared to talk to you and so was Maggy. He was so sad. He didn’t need anything but he wanted to see you. He wouldn’t let me send for you and you just sat there in your bloody great mill acting the lady. Why didn’t you come?’
Lizzie did not argue but sank her head on her arms and wept. It was her first open and real outpouring of grief since Sam’s death. The tears seemed to come from deep, deep inside her and when they were all shed she felt clean, emptied, hollow.
She rose from her chair and left the room without speaking. For the next two hours she walked the streets of Dundee, her head bent against the wind as she went up one street and down the other, thinking, remembering her brother and trying to make sense of her life. It was the first time she had paused to take stock of herself since the day she took over Green Tree Mill.
Davie and Robert attended their half brother’s funeral and, mindful of the rift between herself and George which had been so belatedly mended, Lizzie made a point of approaching both of them with the hand of friendship extended.
Davie, she discovered, was married. Robert, whose reddened face and shaking hands betrayed a problem with drink, was on the verge of leaving Dundee for Flanders because he intended to join the army as soon as George’s funeral was over.
‘And I’m going too as soon as I can sell the Castle Bar,’ Davie told her.
‘But you don’t have to – you’re a married man,’ she protested, suddenly afraid for him, her little brother. It seemed as if her entire family was being swept away.
Davie grinned. ‘I want to go. All the men I know are joining up. It’s my duty. I’m no’ wanting a white feather.’
On walls all over the city, posters were stuck up showing the bearded face of Kitchener pointing a finger at passers-by and saying, ‘Join Your Country’s Army! God Save the King.’ The war machine’s appetite for men was even greater than it was for jute and she knew that was great enough to satisfy even the most hungry jute-baron.
On the day her brother Davie left for France, a letter arrived for Lexie from him. He wrote to say that he’d succeeded in selling the bar for a good price and since he knew she’d been left nothing by either of her parents, he thought she should have something to bank ‘for a rainy day’. Enclosed was a cheque for one hundred pounds.
Charlie Kinge’s euphoric dream of patriotism and bravery began to fade almost as soon as he landed in France and saw trains of wounded men being ferried back across the Channel. At Calais station the walking wounded staggered past the new arrivals without as much as a sidelong glance. Many of them wore bloodstained bandages and all had a peculiarly glazed stare as if they were drugged.
Nothing however prepared him for the hell of the trenches. The Germans were only twenty-two miles from Dunkirk and the Ypres offensive had been launched earlier in the month with a terrible casualty toll. He was in Flanders for six months and every morning when he opened his eyes, he was certain it was to be his last day.
It was Pennie who organized it so that he and Charlie became bicycle dispatch riders.
When Charlie was told about his new job, he was appalled.
‘But it’s the most dangerous job in the army. That’s why they always make Red Indians dispatch riders,’ he protested.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Pennie with a finger laid along the side of his nose. ‘It’s safer than fighting. You get on your bike with a note for the general and you head for the nearest shelter till the firing’s over. We’ll not have to go over the top with the others and we’ll usually have to head out of trouble because the staff officers are all behind the lines. Those redskins aren’t so daft. Take it from me. This is our insurance policy.’
Charlie’s letters to his mother were nearly all postcards with printed messages that had to be ticked off – ‘I am well,’ or ‘I am wounded’. At least there wasn’t a line that said ‘I am dead’.
Twice during rest breaks behind the lines, he sent longer letters which she read over and over again, trying to work out if there were any hidden meanings in what he said but, mindful of her anxieties, he always wrote cheerfully.
He told her about Pennie, his friend, and about riding a bicycle between posts. He didn’t tell about the carnage that was around him all the time, about the mud that sucked boots off the feet or the lice that infested his body and had to be deterred – never routed, nothing did that – with paraffin. He didn’t tell her about the men who broke down in raving madness or refused to go into battle and were shot in front of their friends by the sergeants.
He didn’t tell her that war was a cruel farce, a horrible game played by idiot generals. Instead he told her that the men said it would be all over by next spring and that he was well. He also wrote to his mother about an old peasant woman who had blessed him and presented him with a rosary which he carried everywhere like a talisman. ‘It’s my good luck mascot. It’s keeping me safe,’ he wrote.
She clutched at the thought of the rosary and prayed with increased fervour when she paid her visit to the Steeple Church every Sunday. She paid for a permanent pew and had a brass plate engraved with her name nailed on its end. There she knelt praying for Charlie. Don’t take my son too, she begged with her head in one of her many beautiful hats bent over in supplication beneath the huge stained-glass window that poured a fountain of colour over the black-clad congregation.
The newspaper lists of wounded grew longer by the day and many people could be seen in the streets wearing black armbands for lost relatives. Lizzie herself wore an armband for a little while when the news arrived that Robert had been killed.
Just don’t take Charlie, don’t take Charlie, she pleaded again with God. Every Sunday she made generous offerings to the plate, she entertained the minister to tea and in her prayers she assured the deity that she had repented of her anger against him for taking away her mother and Sam. Her calmness and control at George’s funeral had been remarked on, but everyone knew that if Charlie was to be killed, there was no predicting how she would behave.
The battle of the Somme began on 3 July 1916. In the early dawn, wave after wave of men went over the trench tops to be met by a wall of machine-gun fire from the waiting Germans lined up against them. Many of the advancing soldiers were shot dead within seconds of emerging from the redoubts.
Charlie and Pennie stood waiting with their bicycles and when they saw the field of death spreading before their eyes, they turned and shook hands. Even Pennie looked solemn. With them was a tall, beak-nosed Indian whose name translated as Roaring Wind. They shook hands with him too and then the three of them shared the last of the rum in Charlie’s hip flask – a silver one sent to him by his mother as a Christmas present.
Later that morning Pennie was killed as he pedalled frantically along a lane pitted with huge craters.
The next day Roaring Wind too died, shot through the head by a German sniper.
On the third day, Charlie Kinge received a shot through the back. As he felt it ripping its way through his ribs into his lungs, his first emotion was one of relief. The end he dreaded had come at last.
He threw down his bike and crawled to a shell hole where he lay alongside a stinking corpse and watched the rats scavenging about among the bodies until he became unconscious.
Two days later Lizzie picked up her evening newspaper on the corner of the Hilltown as usual but did not open it because, on her way home, she was taking Mr Bateson to his house on Magdalen Green.
They talked as usual of business till, beaming at her, he said, ‘The mill’s never been so busy. Mr Adams would be proud of you. You’ve made a great business out of Green Tree. It’s got a new lease of life.’
‘You helped,’ she told him, for he had stood by her during the hard early years when others drifted away.
‘I remember the first day we saw you. The managers couldn’t believe a woman was taking over. They thought you’d sell out in six months. Some of them even took wagers on it.’
‘Well, they lost their money. I hope you didn’t bet against me,’ said Lizzie grimly.
‘Not me,’ said old Bateson, ‘I bet on you. I liked the look in your eye.’
When she reached home she was relaxed and smiling, cheered by Mr Bateson’s approbation. There were few people left who could boost her confidence any longer and it was good to realize that her achievements had not gone unremarked. Lexie was sitting beside the drawing room fire and Lizzie joined her. Almost immediately the tea tray was carried in, and she opened the paper, turning automatically to the back page. The first name her eye fell on was that of William Pennie. He was listed among the dead.
A cold hand gripped her heart as she read down the list again. William Pennie of the 16th Battalion, Canadian Scottish. Slowly she turned over to the front page and there was a report of a terrible battle. Near the end came two lines that seemed to be printed in heavier ink: ‘It is reported that the Canadian Army has sustained terrible losses. Some battalions have been completely wiped out.’
Controlling her voice with an effort, she folded the paper and told Lexie, ‘I’m not going to read those awful lists any more. I want you to look at them first and – and – if there’s anything I should know then you can tell me.’
The girl stared back at her, horrified. She knew what Lizzie meant. ‘I couldn’t!’ she protested.
‘Then get Maggy to tell me. But please read the lists first. I feel sick with fear every time I open the newspaper now.’
A week later, on a Friday morning, a telegram was delivered at Tay Lodge. Maggy carried it unopened to Green Tree Mill, half walking and half running, her heart in her mouth all the way. She would entrust no one else with the task of handing it to Lizzie.
Charlie’s mother said nothing when the envelope was passed over her desk. Like someone in a dream she read it, then laid the sheet down on the desk top before she said in a gasping way, ‘He’s been wounded. He’s being invalided back to England.’
The two women stared at each other for a few moments and then Lizzie left her chair to rush at Maggy, who held her arms open to receive her. They clung together weeping and saying in unison, ‘Thank God! Thank God he’s not dead.’
The next problem was to find news of her son. It seemed impossible to contact anyone with up-to-date information and as the days passed without further word, she became frantic. She had no idea how ill he was or even if he had survived the journey out of France.
‘Where are the military hospitals in England?’ she asked at every recruiting office in the town, but no one knew.
She approached all her friends and the friends of friends, pleading for contacts. Eventually she asked Goldie if he had any idea of how she could find out about Charlie and he telegraphed an old friend at the War Office. Next day came a reply saying that Charlie Kinge was a patient in a hospital at Hastings. He was in a serious condition but had improved since he arrived. Visits from relatives were not encouraged but instructions had been sent to the Chief Medical Officer of the hospital to keep the soldier’s mother informed about his progress.
This was a rare privilege and though Lizzie was preparing to travel south to visit her son, Goldie managed to restrain her with counsels of common sense.
‘There’s nothing you can do just now. They don’t want people visiting. They’re working flat out down there with all the casualties from the Somme. The best thing is to stay here till Charlie is convalescing. Then he’ll be given leave and you can bring him home.’
She wrote to her son; she sent him flowers and fruit; she went to church and prayed, and her anxiety lifted a lot. Charlie was in England. He wasn’t in the trenches. He’d received his ticket to Blighty.
The news that came back about him was cautious. His wound was healing slowly, he was still very ill. It was not thought advisable for his mother to visit him.
The night she received that news, she was visited by the wife of her half brother Davie. They had never met before and she was surprised when she discovered the identity of her caller, a pale, thin girl who looked like one of the hundreds of pale, thin girls who crowded into Dundee’s mills every day. It was obvious that this girl was distressed, however, and it was hard for her to speak because her voice was quavering with tears.
‘It’s about my Davie. I got the telegram today. He was killed at a place called Arras. I thought you ought to know and he’d want his wee sister to know as well.’
The bleakness of this message devastated Lizzie and she took the girl’s cold hand. ‘Oh, you poor lassie. You shouldn’t have bothered to come and tell me. If I’d known I’d have come to you.’
‘I wanted to talk to somebody about it. I’ve no family here. I’m from Glasgow, you see. You’re his sisters… I’ve nobody else. I’ve not even a bairn.’
Lexie came in as Lizzie was pouring the girl a brandy and when she heard the terrible news she gasped out, ‘Oh, no, not Davie. I loved Davie. He was just like my dad.’
Soon Lexie and Davie’s widow were clinging together and sharing their grief. Lizzie felt shut out as she watched them. For the past few years there had been little contact between her and Jessie’s sons but it was Davie who had brought her Sam – her most vivid memory of Davie was of the day he fell into the dock. Her soul was burdened by the thought that the war which was making her rich was robbing her in another way. It was taking away her family. ‘But not Charlie, not Charlie,’ she implored silently.