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Harvesting life stories for you to cherish |
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IshbealIf you go to the village of Kenmore at the tip of Loch Tay and if, like me, you park your car in the car park beside the loch and walk up to the square which has the back gate of Taymouth Castle at one end and the local church at the other, you will pass on your left a derelict cottage. It stands out among the other reasonably well looked after houses owned by the estate because it’s only the honeysuckle which holds up the roof and weeds have long since choked the roses and other plants which once thrived there. Ishbeal Burns. When she died in 1989 at the age of 93 she wasn’t far off being a legend in the area. She retired to the cottage at 60 and brought with her a vigour and dynamism which lit up the village; she was a leading light in the Women’s Guild, organised gatherings and contributed her jams, scones and craftwork to many a fete and over the years she arranged it that her great friends, the Earls In her 92nd year local folk still looked forward to her batch of scones arriving for village functions. Remarkable though these things are they are not what made Ishbeal different, not what made people young and old come to her with their troubles; it was because her life had been a long romance and those who are blessed to have given and received true love have a light of understanding She was born in 1896 the second daughter of Donald and Isabella Burns of a prosperous and well connected family of Glasgow lawyers who, together with the jute, tobacco and sugar barons and the landed gentry ran the Scottish economy. The men worked closely together and their families mixed socially and intermarried to keep the wealth and power they’d built in their hands. Ishbeal, then, could easily have been a socialite but she was an intelligent and serious minded girl who didn’t really have much time for partying. She wanted to do something of merit with her life so when war broke out in 1914, in spite of her parents’ protests she joined Dr. Elsie Inglis’ band of intrepid young women doctors, nurses and support staff, The Scottish Women’s Hospitals, who travelled to Serbia in 1915 to tend the wounded allied soldiers and local people who’d been injured in attacks by the German and Austrian armies. There she saw suffering on a scale she hadn’t known existed. The wretchedness endured by the men because of the filthy conditions they lay in and the shortage of medicines and bandages shocked the team and they set about improving the men’s conditions. The Serbians suffered similarly and matters were made worse when during the winter of 1915 the Austrian army invaded the region and an epidemic of typhus hit soldier and civilian alike. The women worked tirelessly to help their patients, despite exhaustion, penetrating cold and Spartan living conditions. Of course they were not immune from typhus either and a few of the team succumbed to disease. This did not, however, deter the women. Later, once the Austrians had conquered they took over the hospital and the women were forced to tend to the injured Austrian soldiers meanwhile secretly treating the allied troops hiding nearby and the local people. It required great reserves of energy and courage to live this dual life but the women of The Scottish Women’s Hospitals were made of stern stuff. Ishbeal and her friends stayed there, surviving bombing attacks, hunger and hardship until they felt their job was done and they could return home. When the war ended , although it would have been understandable if Ishbeal had hung up her nurse’s uniform and lived a life of leisurely lunches and afternoon teas, she once again returned to work with Dr. Inglis, this time in Leith Hospital in Edinburgh. In time she was promoted to the position of Almoner where she had the job of trying to sort out the social problems of the women taking their newborn babies back to homes, husbands and siblings many of whose lives were symphonies of despair and desperation. Her experience of destitution in Serbia served her well in Leith. Men, women and children seemed to know that they could turn to her and no matter how delicate the problem that she would deal with it sympathetically and even though she could sometimes do pathetically little to help them they’d leave her office feeling lighter in spirit. It did drain her though. Sometimes when she got back to her flat in Marchmont she was almost too tired to make her evening meal. She was frequently in bed by about 9 o’clock and restricted her social life to the weekends when she might go to the theatre or the cinema with her co-workers at the hospital. Yet it was a satisfying life because she felt she was contributing positively to society. It wasn’t all work and no play, though. She’d known the Campbells of Breadalbane all her life so had an open invitation to visit them any time she liked. Whenever she had time she drove her little car the long road to Aberfeldy, stopping at Perth for a snack at McEwan’s before continuing her journey. As she drove she shed the responsibilities and worries of her working life and every mile increased her anticipation of relaxation and the company of life long friends. The stunningly beautiful countryside around Loch Tay offered the possibility of long walks, fishing in the clear peaty water of the River Tay, loafing about the house, and the amazing variety of fellow house guests at weekend parties. Here she shared cocktails and secrets with the Mirandas and Sophies who strutted their stuff and batted their eyes at dinner parties and tried not to get too wet and cold during shooting parties – Scottish weather could be such a challenge to the poor little things. On Sunday mornings the entire household would walk to the kirk in Kenmore: family and friends first followed by the servants, led by Stewart the butler. They’d walk in to the beautiful little church and occupy the front seats. The rest of the estate workers would fill the back pews and everyone would participate in the service, singing the hymns and psalms lustily and bowing their heads in dutiful silence during the prayers. Afterwards the family would greet their estate workers and families, catching up on gossip and enquiring after the health of ailing. Then a slow sally back to the castle to lunch and the weekend papers. It never failed to recharge Ishbeal’s batteries. One such Sunday morning in 1923 was to prove a turning point in Ishbeal’s life. Half way through the service she was alerted by the familiar strangulated cries of a shellshock sufferer and the crash as he fell to the floor. Ishbeal squeezed out of her pew and hurried to the back of the church where the man’s wife and a young lad were already soothing the poor man’s fit. Ishbeal signalled to them to lift him outside into the May sunshine and together they brought him round. They gently moved him to the side of the churchyard which would remain quiet when the kirk emptied. He was a dairyman and once he could stand on his feet they walked him slowly and carefully the short journey to his cottage in the square. His wife was accustomed to treating his shellshock and it wasn’t long before Ishbeal and the young man could safely leave the couple. The young man introduced himself as Jamie McIvor, another dairyman. He told her that she didn’t need to introduce herself because everyone in the village knew her. She wasn’t surprised. She’d been coming to Taymouth Castle all her life and in the Highlands everyone knew everyone else. He was young, eighteen or so, and yet he had the dignity and assurance of the highlander. “Would you like me to walk you to the castle, ma’am?” he enquired. As they strolled through the wooded grounds, they discussed books and Ishbeal discovered, not entirely to her surprise because Scottish education placed a heavy emphasis on reading and writing, that he was quite a reader. He expressed his admiration for Stevenson, Shakespeare, Dickens and of course Burns. He laughed and said that, of course, Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters were legendary but modern women writers…? He didn’t know many. “Ah,” Ishbeal replied, “then you have never heard of Violet Jacobs.” He hadn’t. By that time they were approaching the castle entrance and Ishbeal said, “Next time I come I’ll bring you a copy of “Flemington” and you can tell me what you think of it.” He thanked her, tipped his hat and bid her good day. She watched his stocky figure striding off until he’d disappeared round a bend in the road. “Why did I say that?” she asked herself and supposed that it was just a formality which she wouldn’t follow through. He wouldn’t expect her to, anyway. Nevertheless, a fortnight later when she was packing her things for her next trip up north she carefully put her copy of the book in her case. At the kirk on the Sunday she looked for him when the service was over and sought him out. “Hello Jamie. I have the book I promised you.” He thanked her, saying that he’d been looking forward to reading it and that he’d return it to her on her next visit then with a cheery wave and little salute he was off to join a group of young lads standing outside the post office. As she walked back to the castle with the family she replayed the scene in her head over and over. She couldn’t understand why but there was something about this young lad which intrigued her. It wasn’t the attraction of the accent – she’d grown up listening to it. He wasn’t particularly good looking; he had an open, honest face and intelligent eyes but there was nothing remarkable about his appearance. Ishbeal was accustomed to the young men in her set, some flippant, some serious, all of them wealthy or with prospects but she’d heard all their jokes and stories and so she supposed that what she liked about Jamie – yes she liked about him – was that his stories were new to her. Yes, that was it. The next time she was walking to Kenmore Kirk with the Campbells she told Charles that she wouldn’t be walking back afterwards with the family because she wanted to talk to one of his dairymen, Jamie MacIvor to whom she’d leant a book He gave her a long look. At the end of the service there was Jamie, waiting for her, the book under his oxter. He thanked her for introducing him to such an excellent modern woman writer. “I love historical novels,” he said, “although the authoress denies that it’s based on historical events. I think the highest praise I can give it is that it reminds me of Stevenson’s writing. “Kidnapped” is one of the best stories I’ve ever read. Maybe,” he continued, “in today’s world it wouldn’t do her much good to write a book sympathetic to the Jacobites – even though she was born in The House of Dun with all its Jacobite associations.” “You’re very perceptive,” she said. “Oh well I’m a bit of a critic, you might say. At school I won prizes for reading – a bible and a Complete Works of Burns.” “In Kenmore?” “No in Wallacetown School in Dundee.” This time as they dawdled back to the castle Jamie told her that before the war his father had been the gatekeeper at the Castle. When war broke out his father joined the 6th Perthshire Regiment of The Black Watch but was killed at the end of 1916 at the battle of Beaumont-Hamel where, he said proudly, the 6th battalion particularly distinguished themselves. His mother was devastated by his death and against the advice of her friends at the castle, decided to return to her home town, Dundee, with Jamie and his older brother John, to be near her mother. She got a job as a weaver in the Eagle Jute Mill and whereas the boys had been used to the fresh, clean air of Perthshire and the freedom to run and play in the grounds of the castle, in Dundee they only had the streets and back greens to play in. Although their neighbours were warm hearted, generous people and they were taken into the strong, supportive community spirit of the Dundee women, the family’s life was poorer in every way. They lived in a verminous, poky, two room tenement house adjacent to the mill. It was a hard life. His mother worked 10 hour shifts and his granny, who lived nearby gave them all their “denner”, often soup or a piece with dripping and a cup of tea. Sometimes on a hot summer afternoon the boys would stand at the back of the mill where the doors had been opened to allow a little ventilation in to give the women some fresh air. As far as the boys were concerned it was like looking into hell. The gloomy air, thick with jute dust was streaked with shafts of sunlight, the noise of the looms was deafening and as far as their eyes could see rows and rows of huge machines, like iron monsters banged and clanged, served by women moving in between the rows, deftly inserting and removing bobbins. John and Jamie were clever boys and the headmaster of the school didn’t want John to leave at fourteen but to stay on for another year and maybe “get on in life” but John had to refuse because his mother needed his wage at the end of the week. Two years later when it was Jamie’s turn to leave school at 14 the headmaster actually came to see Mrs. MacIvor to plead with her to let Jamie stay on at school for another year. Once again poverty won the day. This, however, was enough for Mrs. MacIvor. She could see that there was no future for her boys in Dundee except unemployment and unhappiness so instead of finding a job for Jamie in Dundee she moved her family back to Kenmore and the castle. They may all have returned to “service” but it was a lot healthier than life in the dreadful tenements of Dundee. “That was four years ago,” Jamie told her “and we’ve been here since. I’ve worked in different positions at the castle but I like it in the dairy. It’s an early start in the mornings, to be sure, but I like the beasts and although I’m kept busy through the day, I still find time to read.” When she got to the dining room she’d all but missed lunch and her meal had to be brought to her on a tray. Charles didn’t say anything but she could see that it was on his mind. Over dinner that evening he broached the subject: “So you’ve lent young MacIvor a book?” “Yes. “Flemington” by Violet Jacob. When he walked me home that Sunday we got talking about books and I discovered he’s an avid reader. I thought I’d introduce him to some modern Scottish literature.” “Yes he’s a bright lad. I’ve got plans for him. I thought some time soon I’d move him into estate management. He’d have good prospects.” “Good. He certainly seems to be wasting his time in the dairy.” “I wouldn’t like you to…. “ “To what?” “To… divert him… put unrealistic ideas in his mind. He and his family have worked in the castle for years and they’re a happy… contented… lot. If you go putting grandiose ideas into his head you could change him into one of those dour, resentful men I see so often in the cities. And I wouldn’t like that.” “Oh Charles, really. I only lent him a book.” “Hmmm still. Be careful. He’s at an impressionable age.” They changed the subject then but there was no doubting that Charles disapproved of her budding friendship with Jamie. She wasn’t too sure about it herself. But there’s an old Scottish saying that “What’s for ye, winna gae past ye”. Shortly after she returned to Edinburgh Charles phoned her. He’d had a visit from the local GP who was worried about one of his patients, a middle aged woman with terminal cancer. She knew she had very little time left and she had a worry that she wouldn’t share with the doctor. She wanted to speak to a woman and although he’d suggested many of the local women, it was obvious they wouldn’t do. No. He thought she wanted someone of some influence to talk to. Whatever the trouble was it was causing her great distress in what he believed would be the last days of her life. Would Ishbeal come up and speak to the woman? When she arrived at the dying woman’s cottage her husband and two sons thanked her for coming and led her into the bedroom. Ishbeal went over to the bed, gently shook Mary Scott awake and took her hand in hers. It took a moment or two for the woman to focus on Ishbeal but when she did a look of relief washed over her face. Then a wan smile. “Oh Miss, thank you for coming. I’ve been so worried.” It took some time for Ishbeal to get to the root of the problem because the pain killers she’d been given made Mary’s head woozy but eventually she heard it all. At the best of times Mary had never shown herself naked to anyone, neither woman nor man – not even her husband. Now her body was disfigured by tumours and she didn’t want the undertaker to see it and, because he was a man who liked to his job well, he would insist on preparing her body for the coffin. She didn’t think any of her friends or family would be able to dissuade him but Miss Burns could. Could she ask her to dress her body when she died? Her request brought tears to Ishbeal’s eyes. Of course she would. She’d met the same kind of anxiety from women in Leith Hospital. It was so easy for her to put the woman’s mind at rest but she did wonder if the day would ever come when women would be able to discuss their problems, without embarrassment, with male Doctors. Elsie Inglis was talking about opening a hospital especially for women, manned by women doctors to avoid patients dying needlessly because they’d been too “affrontit” to talk to their doctors about “women’s problems”. Early the next morning Mary Scott died and Ishbeal was called out from the castle to attend to her body. She couldn’t stay on for the funeral because she had work to do in Edinburgh but Charles called her to say that it had been a good turnout and he appreciated the help she’d given. She received a very touching letter from Mary’s husband saying that words were not enough to thank her for what she’d done for his wife. After her visit Mary had slipped peacefully into sleep and when she died he thought he could see a little smile on her face. He would ever be in Ishbeal’s debt. When she next visited the kirk in Kenmore David Scott and his sons were waiting at the door to shake her hand. She spent some time talking to them and hearing from them what a wonderful wife and mother Mary had been and saying again how grateful they were to her. As a result, once more her party had gone ahead of her and, once more Jamie McIvor fell in step with her “to see her to her door”. “That was a good thing you did for Mary,” he said quietly. “Oh it was a simple request and one not unknown to me,” Ishbeal replied. “My work in Leith Hospital brings me in touch with many different people and many problems. I was glad to be able to help.” “Mary was always so quiet and calm – until the end, of course. When she found out she was dying she was more worried about her husband and the laddies than herself. ‘Who’ll look after my lads?’ she’d ask. And they’d joke that they’d get “kickin up their heels’ without her. Oh but they’re taking it hard. It must be a wonderful thing to have the power in you to know the right things to say and do to make suffering people better. I wish I was like that.” “When we lived in Dundee I learned to respect women. There is no work in Dundee for men – the mills will not employ them – and so women and boys under 16 bring in the wages. Women are the strength of that city not only because they earn the money but because they carry the burden of responsibility for everyone’s state of mind. It cannot be easy for a man to stay at home all day while his wife works, to hold out his hand for money to go for a drink with his friends and still to have respect for himself. And it’s the women who make that possible. Oh they can be coorse, there’s no doubt about that but they can be strong and tender at the same time and that makes them remarkable. Like Mary, really; she held that family together and they’re very lost at the moment without her.” “Well I’ll give you my telephone number in Edinburgh and perhaps you’ll keep in touch with me and let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help them.” And so Jamie got into the habit of phoning Ishbeal every week, at first to update her on the progress of the Scott lads, then just to “have a crack” as they say in the Highlands because she was a very good listener. She got to learn the workings of his mind. It had not been an off the cuff remark when he said he wished he could help people and she started to think about ways in which she could help him to realise his ambitions. She hadn’t forgotten Charles Campbell’s warning nor his intention to move him into estate management but somehow she felt that this life would not fulfil him. The Campbells of Breadalbane had not had their troubles to seek over the recent years. Sir Gavin Campbell, the 7th Earl of Breadalbane had died in 1922 without issue and his nephew, Iain, who succeeded him died in 1923. The present Marquis, Charles, was a far sighted man who liked to make plans for those he loved. He and Ishbeal had more or less grown up together because their families were such good friends, and Charles loved her like a brother. One evening in 1925 he was in a serious mood. “You know Ishbeal, I’ve been thinking - if anything should happen to me I should like to think you’d always have a home in Kenmore, if not here at the castle so I’ve been looking round for somewhere for you. As it happens a cottage off the square has just become available and I thought we’d pop down tomorrow to have a look at it. See if you like it.” It was lovely. Tiny by the standards of her flat in Edinburgh but all that she needed for a weekend home. It had two rooms, “a but an ben” as they say in Scotland, a ribbon of garden in the front, at the time filled with roses and a generous back garden for growing fruit and vegetables. It was perfect and Charles sold her the cottage and the land upon which it was built in perpetuity which was very generous of him. Lairds were usually pretty loath to give away any of their land. Ishbeal had it comfortably furnished and arranged for a local woman to keep it clean and make meals for her when she was up for the weekends and her husband maintained the garden and kept her in fresh fruit and vegetables which she took down to Edinburgh with her when she went home. It was a perfect arrangement. That summer Ishbeal could not visit Kenmore as often as she would have liked to because polio and diphtheria were ravaging the poor parts of Edinburgh and her services were urgently needed. When she did manage a weekend away, regardless of Charles’ reservations, Jamie walked her home from church. He knew that the two were in communication with each other but he’d given up trying to influence the situation. It was no surprise to him, therefore, when Ishbeal announced, “I’ve found Jamie a post as a solicitor’s clerk with one of the companies I work with in Edinburgh. He’s often expressed a wish to help people out of difficulties and I think a career in the law would suit him. If he shows the right aptitude, and I’m sure he will, I intend to pay his fees through the University Law course. He’ll work with Davidson’s when he’s not at lectures. He’ll be handing in his resignation this week and I hope you’ll accept it gracefully.” “Ishbeal, Ishbeal,” Charles sighed. “Do you understand what you’ve started? He’ll be a burden on you for four years at least.” “I’m prepared for that,” she replied firmly, bringing the conversation to an end before it could go down avenues she wasn’t prepared to venture into. Because for the first time in her life, Ishbeal Burns, at 30, had fallen in love with a lad of 22. She had never given the slightest hint of her love to him and as far as she was concerned she never would; she was too old for him, had already seen too much of life and he was only at the beginning of his. It was enough for her that he liked and respected her and that she could help him to develop into caring and compassionate man. She found a room in lodgings in South Clerk Street for him so that he could walk to his office and his lectures and Jamie proved to be a very able, diligent student and a conscientious employee. That Jamie MacIvor’s heart burned with love for her she was absolutely blind to. Jamie didn’t dare show his feelings for her in case he offended her. After all she was a sophisticated, quite wealthy woman of the world, way above him in social status. He was a ghillie, a teuchter, a lad who had worked on the estate of her great friend the Earl of Breadalbane. What had he to offer her? That winter was bitterly cold and the cruel winds which blasted their way through Edinburgh had taken their toll of the destitute men and women who lined up for a bowl of hot soup and a roll in the hostel in the Grassmarket where Ishbeal and Jamie offered their services three nights a week; for this was 1930 and The Great Depression had wrecked the lives of millions of people. As Jamie walked Ishbeal back to her flat in Marchmont after midnight, a particularly strong gust of wind hit them as they struggled through the Meadows. Ishbeal was shivering with cold, despite being well wrapped up and Jamie put his arm round her shoulder and pulled her towards him to share body heat. He had never before tempted fate by coming into such close contact with her. When he did it was as if a bolt of electricity shot through him and before he could stop himself he had turned her round to face him and kissed her lips. She stepped back, startled, then moved forward again and they embraced, oblivious of the icy wind and the laughter of late night revellers passing them by. They didn’t speak. Jamie continued to hug her close to him and they completed their journey up a dark and piercingly cold Marchmont Road until they reached her flat. Inside he removed her hat, scarf and gloves, and she unbuttoned her coat and his. When they made love it was delicious. It felt as if everything they had ever said and done had been leading to this time when, finally, they could show their love to one another. It was liberating. It filled them both with mad, exhilarating happiness. They could have danced on the ceiling. When Jamie got dressed to go back to his lodgings they giggled like children and exchanged long, lingering kisses before he tore himself away into the frozen early morning. And that began their life together. There was no question of “living in sin” in 1930 Edinburgh, of course, so they continued their daily lives as usual and spent their free time together. Every day enriched and nurtured their love for each other. They didn’t indulge in destructive lovers’ games of suspicion, accusation and jealousy. There was no need. They trusted each other absolutely. They visited friends and when Ishbeal entertained, Jamie was always there, with a permanent air about him, so they were gradually accepted as “a couple” and no-one was indiscreet enough to inquire too deeply into the true nature of their relationship. Later that year Jamie graduated LLB with first class honours. At last he was able to fulfil his ambition to help those in trouble. Davidson W.S. were known to take on more than their share of pro bono cases and Jamie soon earned a reputation as an articulate and assiduously well prepared advocate for the poor. He flirted with the idea of joining The Labour Party and entering politics but he never really had the time to attend all the tedious meetings and sit on committees so he stuck to the law. Ishbeal, while not getting involved in politics as such, did sit on many advisory committees to try to alleviate the worst of the suffering many women and children endured while their men left home in search of employment. They led busy lives and it was often the case that they could only meet at weekends. But oh the joy of those weekends! Snuggled together in winter, going to the theatre or concerts at the McEwan Hall. In summer, of course, there was the cottage. They frequently went up to Kenmore where Jamie visited his mother and Ishbeal either stayed in the cottage or paid calls on Charles at the Castle. Although they arrived and departed together they didn’t behave as a couple in Kenmore because it might have made their friends and family uncomfortable; Ishbeal was gentry and Jamie, regardless of how well he’d done for himself in Edinburgh was an estate lad. And of course, the minister wouldn’t have approved at all. Despite all this, despite all the conventions they had to observe while in the village, it was generally accepted that they had a special friendship and as long as they didn’t flaunt themselves no-one ever asked awkward questions. Many times Jamie asked Ishbeal to marry him but she always refused. She hadn’t lost the feeling that, however much Jamie loved her now, she was 8 years older than him and one day he might meet a young girl whom he’d like to marry and have children with. She never wanted to see the light of love in his eyes turn to pity. She never wanted to hear him telling lies, making excuses to cover up a new love. However much pain it would cause when the day came – and she was sure it would come – she wanted him to be free to leave her and start afresh. Nothing he could say would change her mind. Their parting, when it came, was nothing like she’d imagined. When war was declared in September 1939 the world changed. In an instant, things which had seemed important and vital took a back seat to preparations for war. Young men and women went off to battle and the munitions factories. Princes St was awash with uniforms. It was all anyone could talk about. Jamie went up north on his own “to see his mum” and when he returned two days later he had startling news for Ishbeal; he’d joined his father’s old regiment, The Black Watch 6th battalion and he was to be sent to Cove, near Farnborough to start training before being sent to France. Ishbeal was stunned. The government wasn’t calling up men of Jamie’s age so why had he volunteered? Jamie quietly asked her to understand. He took her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. His father had fought bravely with the 6th battalion in the First World War and he felt that he’d something to live up to. This would be a completely different war and he wanted to be part of it. There weren’t going to be any trenches and modern warfare was so much less dangerous. She’d see. He’d come back to her when the world was a better place and maybe then she’d marry him. She didn’t really see. Jamie had never held anything from her before and now he’d gone and done something from which there was absolutely no turning back. She wanted to cry out to him, “What about all the people who rely on you?” But she knew that would be a lie. What she really wanted to say was much more selfish: “What about me? How can I live without you? How will I get through the days knowing you won’t be standing in the kitchen with me before dinner enjoying a much needed G & T? Don’t leave me”. But instead she said, her mouth dry and her head exploding, “I understand”. Two days later she was on platform 1 at Waverley Station waving him off and like every other woman there she was trying to give a big smile while tears ran down her cheeks and a chasm of emptiness opened up before her. He wrote to her almost every day describing his training and saying how much he was enjoying the comradeship of his fellow soldiers, some of whom were little more than boys. Before embarking for France the regiment had been offered 3 days leave but there was an expectation that priority would be given to men with wives and children so Jamie did not get home. He wrote cheerful letters from France which arrived intermittently and although Ishbeal always worried about him things didn’t seem too bad. Yet every night Ishbeal prayed that Jamie would come home safely. “Please God,” she’d plead, “keep him safe. Send him home to me.” Then Dunkirk. Everyone in Britain rushed home at the end of the day and switched on the wireless to hear the latest news or Winston Churchill’s latest inspiring speech. She heard about the chaos in the North of France. The French Army was in disarray, the remnants of the British Army had been told to make their way to the beaches at Dunkirk for evacuation to Britain and safety. The 51st Highland Division had been ordered to hold the line to allow the evacuation and fight a rearguard action against the advancing, seemingly invincible German army led by Field Marshal Rommel himself. The Germans were outflanking the British on every front and the 6th battalion had been ordered to find their way to Dunkirk. With every news bulletin Ishbeal’s heart was in her mouth. The situation was desperate but Jamie’s battalion was not being left behind. Traitorous thoughts filled her mind. Her Jamie would be safe. He’d get home. She could only imagine the anguish being felt by the loved ones of the soldiers of the 51st On the 14th June, as she was preparing her evening meal, the telephone rang and she rushed to answer it. “Jamie?” “No Ishbeal, it’s Maggie. I’ve had a letter from the Records Office. I’ll read it ‘Madam, I regret to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office to the effect that No. 8435082 Capt. James MacIvor was posted as “missing” on 3.6.40. The report that he is missing does not necessarily mean that he has been killed, as he may be a prisoner of war or temporarily separated from his regiment. Should any further official information be received it will be at once communicated to you. Neither woman could speak so they put down the receivers. Ishbeal had to rush to the toilet to be sick then she stumbled around the flat moaning and wailing: her pain and fear were too deep for tears. She couldn’t sleep nor settle to anything. She kept seeing Jamie’s face in her mind – the frank, honest features and slow smile that she loved so much. By morning she had pulled herself together a little. She had to. She’d to go into work and everyone there had family in the war, many had been killed and she knew that she’d joined that band of anguished relatives whose lives had been ripped apart by the conflict. She dressed herself, forced a composed expression on her face and took the bus to the hospital. Over and over she told herself that things could be a lot worse. After all, as far as anyone knew, he hadn’t been killed nor had he been taken prisoner. She thought back to her nursing experience in the 1st World War and sifted through her memories to find a comforting one that would explain what might have happened to Jamie. He could be in a field hospital somewhere and word hadn’t got back to the Records Office. He could have lost his identification tags and be badly injured so that the nurses couldn’t send word home. He could have sustained a head injury or be traumatised and suffering from amnesia. She’d seen enough of that. All of these gave her cause for hope. She’d nursed enough badly injured men to know that, with proper care, even seemingly hopeless cases recovered sufficiently to be returned home – given enough time. Well she had time and she would wait for him and in the meantime she knew that Jamie would want her to use it well. She didn’t want him returning home to see her pinched and drawn or worse still as her friend Charles had once said, “with the resentful look of some city men.” Oh no. She was going to make Jamie proud of her so she threw herself even more into the war effort. Months passed then years but there was no word from Jamie. When war ended in 1945 Ishbeal began to hope that as the concentration camps were emptied Jamie might come home. But no. Instead Maggie received another letter from the Records Office to say that, reluctantly, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, they had to assume that Jamie was one of the thousands of dead soldiers buried in unmarked graves somewhere in Europe. Ishbeal read the letter and with the logical part of her mind accepted that it was probably true but in her innermost heart she utterly rejected that explanation. Jamie wasn’t dead. Couldn’t be. Not her Jamie. Certainly he was lost and confused somewhere but he wasn’t dead and when he regained his memory and returned home she’d be waiting for him with a smile on her face. The post war period was an exciting time to be alive. The introduction of the National Health Service at last brought good health within the reach of everyone, rich and poor. Ishbeal would no longer be called upon to comfort the parents of a dead child whose family hadn’t been able to afford the few shillings needed to pay for a doctor’s visit. Now even the poorest mother could take a sickly bairn to the doctor for treatment. Women could have hysterectomies to stop the advance of cervical cancer, men could have eye tests and free glasses so that they could continue their working lives, the great scourges of TB And so the years went by. The memory of Jamie and the thought that at any time his brain would click and he’d remember his life with her warmed and sustained her. Most of the time she was a loving and understanding friend, optimistic and outgoing. Only occasionally, in her darkest moments did she allow herself to dwell on her loss and at times like these she slipped into a dark void of pain and utter loneliness which, in order to go on living, to face every day, she pushed to the back of her mind. She knew that she was luckier than many. After all, despite everything, class and age differences, the need to keep their love secret, she had been truly loved. Not in a showy, flamboyant way She never sold the cottage because it was where she and Jamie always said they’d return to, so when she retired it was the only place for her. When she died her will puzzled her friends and family. She bestowed the rest of her possessions on relatives and her many charities but the cottage in Kenmore was different. It was to be held in the name of James Lewis MacIvor until the year 2004, one hundred years after his birth, when he might reasonably have died without recovering his memory. Her executors were given until 2010 to try to trace him or any descendents he might have who would inherit the cottage. Who was this mysterious James Lewis MacIvor, they wondered and why was he left the cottage that meant so much to her? Her lawyers have never traced Jamie, of course, and the cottage has fallen into ruin. No-one now tends the garden or prunes the roses; there’s no old lady bustling about inside or sitting on the porch. Yet inside, is it too fanciful to imagine that the spirits of two people, bound together by a deep love, fill the rooms? Copyright Lovina Roe, Contact Lovina@yourstory-biographies.co.uk or telephone 07721777243 |
Stories for Adults
• Zoe and Iris’
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| Contact: Lovina@yourstory-biographies.co.uk |