Betty was dead. Her last illness was a short one but, unlike her previous attacks, it was an illness she would not recover from. Everyone was devastated by the tragedy of a life so young being so cruelly snuffed out. Mum and I sat in the neat living room of our neighbours and we cried along with her parents.
‘This is something we’ve aye had at the back of our minds, ever since she was born, isn’t it Dad?’ said Mrs Miller quietly, her eyes red with tears.
Mr Miller, who was usually so easygoing and quiet, looked absolutely shattered and, to be quite honest, Mum and I felt the same. There was nothing we could say to help their grief. I couldn’t understand why Betty hadn’t got over this bout of illness.
‘It was her heart,’ explained Mrs Miller. ‘It was damaged at birth and every time she caught a cold or an infection her lungs and heart just got that wee bit more damaged.’ She stopped to wipe her eyes, taking deep gulps of breath as the emotion threatened to erupt in a surge of despair.
Mum, who was usually so good with other people’s problems, didn’t know what to say. ‘Eh suppose there are words that folk say at a time like this, Mrs Miller, but there’s no words that Maureen, George or myself can say that tell you how we all feel.’
I sat silent and miserable. A huge painful lump in my throat throbbed and made me think I was going to choke if I opened my mouth. I couldn’t believe it. I had seen her just a couple of days before and she had chatted on about her work course and the possibility of getting back out into a social life.
The two aunties from the Hilltown arrived and we left, although Mrs Miller said there was no need to go. We didn’t want to intrude on the family’s grief.
Back in our own house, I told Mum about all the fun we had, growing up through our teenage years together, especially that wonderful night when we went to Robbie’s Dance Hall for the first time. I suddenly saw her in my mind’s eye, standing in her awful baggy trousers and ugly, knitted pink jumper that had made her look so tiny and fragile.
Mum laughed when I mentioned the home-made bra that I had been so envious of. Then there were the laughs we had while prancing up and down the close to the strains from Mrs Ferrie’s radiogram. And there was that Saturday night when we had gone to the Regent picture house and two boys, who had got chatting to us in the queue, had followed us home. How important we felt when they chatted to us, only to have our hopes dashed when Betty’s dad opened the door and chased them away. ‘Honestly, Eh’m never going to get married at this rate,’ Betty had complained, ‘if my dad keeps chasing them away!’
‘You know something, Mum,’ I said, ‘every Sunday night when you went to visit Nellie in Ogilvies Road, Betty and me would get dressed up and put on yon silly net gloves that we both loved so much, the ones that her mum found in a drawer. We would sit at the window and talk and talk about what we would be when we grew up. Betty had such grand plans. She was going to travel all over the world and see different countries. She knew it would never happen but it didn’t stop her dreaming about it.’
Mum nodded sympathetically. ‘Aye, life’s certainly cruel to some folk. The poor wee lassie!’
‘Then there was the times when we went to the carnival in Gussie Park,’ I went on. ‘Betty’s mum would tell her, “Now you’re no to go on the fast rides, Betty!” She aye got annoyed at this – said if her mum had her way she would only go on the kiddies’ hobby horses and we would burst out laughing every time we passed them and saw the wee tots in their red buses. Betty said she would get into one but that Eh would get stuck! She really loved the Chair-o-planes and on one visit we spent all our money on them. The man must have thought we were daft.’
The next night Mrs Miller came to the door and asked me to go and say a last cheerio to Betty before the funeral. Never having seen a dead person before, I was reluctant but Mum said I should go and not hurt the woman’s feelings. Betty looked so peaceful that my apprehension disappeared. She could just have been asleep. Her face was a waxy white, but then it always was, and her fragile features were as finely formed in death as they had been in life.
‘You know something, Maureen? If her dad and Eh had our way, Betty would have been kept in the house and no allowed out to do the normal things bairns do. But we thought it was better for her to enjoy life, even if it meant this happening. Eh think the pair of you had a lot of fun together and Eh only hope she got some enjoyment in her short life.’
‘Oh we did, Mrs Miller. We had such a lot of laughs and some of the things we got up to, well they were so funny.’
We loved the dancing and the ‘Monkey Parade’ every Sunday night. We walked up and down the Overgate along with hundreds of people, just looking and speaking to folk. It was stupid really but we loved it.
I took one last look at my pal and she looked like the very first time I ever saw her. The only thing missing was the twin red patches on her cheeks.
After the sad funeral, Mum and I would regularly pop in to see the Millers. To start with, I didn’t like mentioning her name because her mum looked so grief-stricken, often sitting quietly in her chair but giving a deep sigh every few minutes as if trying to overcome her overwhelming sense of loss. But, encouraged by Mum who felt Mrs Miller wanted to hear the stories, I would sit and tell them all about our exploits. Mrs Miller laughed out loud when I mentioned the home-made bra.
‘The wee devil! Eh often wondered what had happened to those hankies. She could have used a couple of old ones instead of the two best ones!’ she said before suddenly bursting into tears.
One evening, she asked me to help with Betty’s bedroom. All the old memories came flooding back as I helped to fold the fluffy eiderdown and put the nighties and pyjamas away into a box. I thought of the many hours I had sat with Betty in this bedroom during one illness or another and how we had planned our outings so carefully. At that moment, I hoped with all my heart that, in her all-too-brief life, Betty had known some enjoyment. I hoped she had managed to get her see-through chiffon blouse, the one she so longed for that first night at Robbie’s. But most of all, I really hoped that she had managed her trip to the City Square to see in the New Year.
My late Grandad said we should always cherish the good years and somehow store them in our memory, to tide us over the bad years and the bad times. This was good advice because, in my memory, I can only recall Betty when she was laughing.