Dragon Land Read online

  ‘She said you thought you saw someone you knew walking up the street.’

  Suddenly she turned and glared at me. ‘Well, I didn’t mention it because I know it annoys you. I saw your father, but he passed the close and didn’t come in.’ She sounded vexed and tearful and I was annoyed with myself for bringing up this painful subject, but before I could go on, she said, ‘I know you and Granny always thought I was mad whenever I mentioned that your dad hadn’t died in the war so now I don’t tell you any more.’

  She lay back on the pillows and turned her head away from me. I couldn’t bear seeing her so distressed. Although I didn’t believe it, I said, ‘If Dad’s still alive, then he will come back to us.’

  Her eyes were bright as she turned to face me. ‘Yes, he will, and one day he’ll walk back through the door. I think he has amnesia and one day his mind will clear and he’ll remember us and come home.’

  I stroked her hand. ‘Yes, of course he will.’

  I hated lying to her, but I couldn’t bear to make her face up to the truth about my father. Before she died, my granny had tried to make her accept his death but hadn’t succeeded and I knew I couldn’t make her see sense.

  Later, I lay awake with the glow from the fire making patterns on the wall and I recalled the sadness from the past.

  3

  THE TELEGRAPH BOY

  The telegram arrived on my sixth birthday, in August 1917. I was almost bursting with excitement because Mum had arranged a small party for some of my school friends, so much so that I had received several warnings from her about the noise I was making.

  ‘If you don’t behave, Lizzie, I will cancel your party.’

  Prophetic words, although we didn’t know it then.

  I was wearing my new dress, a present from my granny Flint, and a new pair of shoes. I ran to Mum’s bedroom to admire myself in the triple mirror of her oak dressing table, looking at myself from three angles before brushing my dark curly hair with her hairbrush. I had my own brush, but I knew she wouldn’t mind me using hers because it was my special day.

  We lived one stair up at 10 Garland Place, almost next door to Barrack Park, where Mum had promised to take me after my party. I was so happy I felt I would combust with joy.

  The doorbell rang. Mum looked a bit annoyed as she looked at the clock. ‘I hope it’s not one of your small pals arriving early. I haven’t finished putting the candles on your cake.’

  She went to the door and I followed, eager to see who had arrived, fully expecting to see my friend Emily, who still couldn’t tell the time, even though Miss Price, our teacher at Rosebank School, was always trying to drum numbers into our lethargic brains.

  But it wasn’t Emily. A young telegram boy stood on the doorstep. He looked unhappy as he handed over the telegram. Mum took one look at it and she slumped to the ground with a sound I had never heard before, a cross between a howl of rage and a scream.

  Paralysed with fright, I could only stand and stare. The telegram boy ran to help her, while Mrs Murphy from next door came out to investigate the noise.

  ‘Oh dear Mary, Mother of God,’ she said as she tried to help my mother into the room that held all the party food on the gateleg table. ‘Please sit down, Mrs Flint, please.’

  Mum held up the telegram, while the young lad looked sad. ‘It’s Peter, Mrs Murphy. He’s been injured, I know it.’

  Although Mrs Murphy tried to placate her, both women knew there were hundreds of households in the city that had received telegrams with bad news from the Western Front. Mum tried to open the flimsy letter, but her hands were shaking so badly that she handed it over to Mrs Murphy. ‘Please read it for me.’

  Mrs Murphy was uncertain, but she was saved from this awful task by the arrival of my granny Flint, with Emily and her mother, Mrs Whyte, following behind her. My friend was clutching a small box in her hands. Emily’s mother quickly took in the situation and came over to my side, as Emily’s small voice piped up, ‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’

  Meanwhile, I hadn’t moved an inch. I could feel the sharp corner of the hallstand dig painfully into my back

  ‘Come with us, Lizzie,’ Mrs Whyte said. ‘You can play with Emily in our house.’ She glanced at the women and Granny nodded to her.

  I was putting my coat on when I heard Mum crying again, huge deep sobs that made me want to run to her and cuddle her, but Mrs Whyte ushered us out through the front door, with Emily still asking what was wrong.

  ‘Is Lizzie not having a birthday party, Mummy?’

  Mrs Whyte said no, not today, but maybe it would take place some other time.

  Because Emily was hanging back and asking questions, I heard Granny Flint say, ‘… Regret to tell you Private Peter Flint is missing in action.’

  I rushed back into the room, almost colliding with the telegram boy, who was making his way out.

  Mrs Murphy was crying and Granny Flint was holding a glass of water. My mother had fainted and lay motionless on the floor. I tried to run to her side, but Mrs Whyte quickly took my hand. ‘Come with us, Lizzie.’

  I let myself be guided down the stairs and out through the close, into the sunshine. The park was busy with people out for a stroll on such a lovely day and I remember thinking that we wouldn’t be going to the swings after the party.

  Emily lived around the corner from us, on Constitution Road, and normally I loved going to her house, which I often did after school. I liked the cosy, untidy kitchen and Emily’s bedroom with her doll’s house and the pram with the two dolls, but not today. I felt bewildered and frightened by this unexpected turn of events.

  I knew my father had enlisted in the army earlier that year, but I knew little about war or what was being fought for in France and Belgium. When I had asked Mum about it, she said he would be home soon and that we weren’t to worry. I had believed her with that childish faith that children have in their parents knowing what is right and wrong.

  Mrs Whyte ushered us both into Emily’s room. ‘Now, go and play with the toys while I make the tea.’

  Emily began to arrange the furniture in the doll’s house, but I stood beside the door, feeling, for the first time, like a stranger. Suddenly Emily turned.

  ‘Is your daddy dead, Lizzie?’

  I burst into tears, loud sobs that soaked my face and the neck of my new frock. Mrs Whyte came in and took her daughter out into the lobby.

  ‘I want you to behave, Emily, and not upset Lizzie. Do you hear me?’ She looked angry and Emily nodded. ‘If you don’t do as I say, you will go to bed without your tea.’

  Emily appeared back in the room and, without looking at me, went over to the pram, where she began to sing to the two dolls: ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. This was one of our favourite hymns, which we sang in the school. Meanwhile, I silently wondered what had happened to my golden day, which had begun with such joy and promise.

  Later, we had beans on toast, sitting at the large kitchen table with its bright checked oilskin cover, which Mrs Whyte cheerfully wiped over with a soapy cloth. It was so unlike our white starched cover at home. Still, Mum always placed a large mat in front of me, which meant it didn’t matter if I spilled some gravy from my mince or custard from my pudding.

  After tea, we sat on the squashy settee and read Emily’s books until her father appeared from his work. A tall, well-built man with short hair and a ruddy face, he was the foreman at a boilermaker’s factory in Dock Street.

  Emily jumped up. ‘Daddy, Lizzie …’

  Mrs Whyte ushered us back into the bedroom. Although still bewildered, I knew I had to find out what had happened. I went back and stood outside the kitchen door.

  ‘Oh, it’s terrible news, Albert. Peter Flint is missing in action. Beth got the telegram this afternoon and she’s in a terrible state. Lizzie’s granny is there, along with Bridget Murphy, and they’ve sent for the doctor.’

  Albert’s voice was angry. ‘This bloody war, Jean, has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘Do
n’t swear, Albert, the girls will hear you.’

  ‘Well, it is carnage. Look at the hundreds of people in this city alone who have received telegrams about their husbands, sons and brothers. We had eight young lads who worked with me who all joined up at the start of this war and they’ve all been killed. Then there were a dozen others from the foundry who all perished at Loos.’

  Emily’s mum began to cry. ‘I’m so thankful you were too old to enlist, Albert, but the telegram said missing in action.’

  Albert snorted. ‘Army lies. No, he’ll be dead all right.’

  I noticed Emily standing beside me. She took my hand and we both began to cry.

  The door opened and her parents both appeared, looking shocked. Mr Whyte took a coin from his overalls. His hands were so large and rough that I couldn’t see the coin in his palm until he held out a sixpence.

  ‘Emily, Mum will take you and Lizzie down to the ice-cream shop and buy you both a cone.’

  Mrs Whyte hurried forward. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’ She took our hands and we had almost reached the front door when Bridget Murphy arrived.

  ‘I have to take Lizzie home. Her granny will be staying in the house to look after Beth, but she wants to thank you for all your help.’

  So I walked out of this unreal world, back to our house with Mrs Murphy. I felt relieved that we hadn’t gone for an ice cream because I just knew that if I’d eaten it I would have been sick, and Mum had enough to deal with without that.

  4

  MOVING ON

  The first thing I noticed when we reached the street were the families emerging from the park. The sun was still bright in the western sky and the children looked dusty and tired, as if playing on the swings and running about on the grass had worn them all out.

  Mrs Murphy remarked as she surveyed the noisy exodus, ‘They’ll all be sleeping like logs tonight, bless their wee hearts.’ She gazed at the sky. ‘And it’s going to be a lovely sunset, I reckon.’

  I looked at her as we walked ever so slowly towards our close. Mum had said that Mrs Murphy had come over from Ireland but had been a widow for years and had brought up six children on her own. Most of them had moved away, but she still had two daughters who regularly came to visit her, which, Mum said, was a blessing because she was getting old. I had no idea of Mrs Murphy’s age, but she certainly looked old, with her grey hair pulled back in an untidy bun that seemed to be too heavy for her thin face and wrinkled neck.

  I liked meeting her on the stair, especially on a Sunday morning when she was setting off for the chapel. She wore her best dress and hat on those occasions and I knew this because she would tell me. I would also smell the mothball aroma from her black coat as she passed me by.

  ‘I’ve got on my Sunday best clothes, Lizzie. Do you think I look good enough to go and speak to the Lord?’

  I always said she looked wonderful, which seemed to please her.

  She gave my hand a squeeze as we reached the close and the second thing I saw was that all the curtains were closed, even the ones in the basement. I didn’t want to ask her why this was, so we walked up the stairs. I could hear voices as we approached our door and was surprised to see Mr and Mrs Collins from downstairs and old Mr Willison from the top landing.

  Mr Willison was leaning heavily on his stick as he said goodbye to Granny. ‘Aye, it’s a bad business, Mrs Flint. A bad business.’

  When the neighbours saw me, they patted me on the head, but Mrs Collins dropped down on one knee and gave me a tight hug. I could hardly breathe but, minding my manners, I stayed still until she released me. Wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, she hurried away with her husband, back down to her own house.

  Granny moved ahead of me and went into the kitchen. To my astonishment and outrage, I saw the table had been cleared of the sandwiches and jelly and my birthday cake. My outrage turned to tears and I cried loudly.

  Mrs Murphy said, ‘That’s right, wee lass, get all your tears out now and you’ll feel better in the morning.’

  Granny sat down wearily on the chair by the fireside. The grate held a colourful paper fan, which Mum always placed there during the summer months when the fire was unlit. I looked around, but there was no sign of my mother.

  Before I could speak, Granny said, ‘Now, Lizzie, you must promise to be a very brave girl and let your mother sleep. Will you do that?’

  I nodded so hard that I was sure my head would fall from my neck. ‘Yes, Granny.’

  ‘I want you to go and get washed and put your nightdress on and I’ll make cocoa.’

  I moved slowly, as I wasn’t sure my legs would hold me up, but I did as I was told. Granny got up from her chair and went to the door with Mrs Murphy.

  She spoke quietly and I had to move nearer to hear what she said. ‘The doctor has given Beth something to make her sleep. Thank you for all your help.’

  Mrs Murphy said she hoped we would all be well, adding, ‘I’m off to the chapel to light a candle and say a prayer for poor Mr Flint.’

  For some reason, this kindly act of praying to Jesus and the angels comforted me and I fervently hoped that Jesus would answer Mrs Murphy’s prayer and send my father home safe and well.

  By the time Granny re-entered the room, I was in my nightdress. She quickly made the two cups of cocoa and then, to my delight, she produced a large slice of my birthday cake with one small candle sitting on top of the icing.

  ‘You didn’t think I would forget your birthday, Lizzie, did you? Now, blow out your candle and make a wish.’

  I screwed up my eyes and wished and wished that my father would be all right and come walking through the door.

  I lay in bed and knew I wouldn’t sleep, but to my astonishment I awoke next morning with the sun trying to penetrate the closed curtains. I heard someone moving around and hoped it was Mum, but it was Granny. She was stirring a pot of porridge on the stove and the table was set for two.

  When she saw me looking at it, she said, ‘I’ll take some tea and toast to your mother when she wakes up.’

  The curtains were still closed and the room looked dim, like it was underwater. I asked if I could go and play with Emily, but Granny shook her head. ‘I want you to stay here while I quickly go back to my house. I’ll only be an hour.’

  Then the door opened and Mum appeared. She looked tired and ill. I made to jump up, but Granny gave me a stern look as she stood up.

  ‘Beth, come and sit here.’

  Mum looked around in confusion, almost as if she had found herself in the wrong house with the wrong people, but she let Granny guide her to the chair next to me. Then Mum put her hand over mine and held it tightly. I was on the verge of tears, but I knew Granny would be annoyed if I upset her.

  ‘I’ll make you some breakfast’, said Granny, bustling over to the stove, but Mum said she didn’t want anything.

  ‘Just a cup of tea will be fine, Mary.’

  Granny brought it to the table. ‘I’ve told Lizzie I must go back to my house, but I’ll just be an hour. Is that all right, Beth?’

  Mum nodded listlessly and stirred her tea with the spoon. Granny gathered up her handbag and coat. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ She looked at me. ‘Take care of your mum, Lizzie, until I get back.’

  I was still nodding my head when she disappeared out through the door.

  Mum was still stirring her tea. ‘I’m sorry about your birthday party, Lizzie.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Mum,’ I replied, feeling guilty that a few hours earlier I had been outraged and tearful. But now the grim news had penetrated my brain and I knew things would never be the same again – not unless by some miracle my father wasn’t missing but on his way home. I screwed my eyes up tight, as I didn’t want to burst into a fresh bout of tears.

  ‘I know what we’ll do, Lizzie,’ she said, standing up and making her way to the display cabinet. This was one of her favourite pieces of furniture and I loved it as well. I had been told that it had belonged to her own mother: a mother who h
ad died when she was a small child, leaving her distraught father to bring her up on his own until in later life he married a widow with a daughter. The bottom two shelves of this cabinet held all the cups and medals my father had won when he was young. Mum gathered them in her arms and carried them to the table.

  ‘Put yesterday’s newspaper down, Lizzie, and we’ll clean all Dad’s trophies.’

  She brought out the small tin of silver-cleaning fluid and the cloths. ‘I’ll put the Silvo on and you can polish it off.’ She picked the first trophy up and turned it in her hands. ‘You know your dad is a champion swimmer, don’t you?’

  I nodded. My dad’s sporting achievements were well known in our house.

  ‘This was the first cup he ever won, when he was 14. He joined the swimming club at the local baths and he was the champion that year.’

  For a few minutes we busied ourselves with our task. Suddenly, Mum said, ‘You look so much like him, it’s uncanny. You have the same hair and eyes, and you’re going to be as tall as he is, and I also think you have the same nature. He loved adventure and doing things with his life. He loved his swimming and tennis, and he spent a year sailing around the British Isles with the Naval Cadets. Of course, that was before I met him.’ She picked up an ornate trophy, which had his name engraved on it. ‘1908, the year he won this tennis cup, was the year I met him. I had gone with a friend to see the championship match.’ She stopped. ‘I didn’t like tennis very much, but my friend loved it. Well, Dad and I met afterwards and both fell in love and that was it. We were married two years later. I never understood what he saw in me, because I don’t like sport and I always thought you had to share the same tastes when you got married.’

  I knew I resembled my dad very much and Mum would often tease me by telling me I didn’t have one single feature inherited from her. She was right, of course. I gazed at her over the table. Her head was bent as she concentrated on cleaning this special cup. Her hair was a soft, glossy brown and her eyes were hazel. She was slim and tiny and had delicate white hands. In fact, she was beautiful, and no wonder my dad had fallen in love with her.