DECEMBER 1945
By the time the
Glasgow train pulls into the insignificant station, still forty miles short of
its destination, darkness has already claimed the village and its surrounding
countryside. In a few houses there is the wavering light of a candle, in others
the flare of an oil lamp. The scant illumination gives to the cottages and
bigger houses along the road a forlorn, uncared for appearance, even though
Christmas is only a few days away.
A woman alights from one of the
carriages. She is still young, no more than thirty, but her headscarf and
sombre coat make her look older than her years. Turning, she heaves down a
heavy suitcase, then offers her hand to another woman, just old enough to be
her mother, who takes one leaden step and then a second onto the platform,
before looking joylessly about her. With a sharp hiss, a cloud of steam
envelops them as the train eases its way out of the station to continue its
northward journey.
The exit, to which they make their
way, is lit by a swinging overhead lamp, the undulations of which lend a
ghostly appearance to the platform and waiting room.
‘Wait here, Mother. I will ask the
stationmaster to look after our luggage while we walk to the farm. If it is as
far as you say, we cannot carry it all the way.’
The older woman gazes into the
distance, as though trying to see a farm, a hill or even a field. She shakes
her head slowly, seeing nothing but blackness. By the light of the lamp it is
possible to make out her slim build, a face upon which lines of sorrow are
etched but which fail to mask its lingering beauty, and a generous head of pale
gold hair streaked with grey, curled into a low bun at the back of her neck.
She turns at the sound of her daughter’s footsteps.
‘He says we can leave our case. He
is on duty until ten o’clock. That will give enough time.’ She delivers this
information with an unusual accent, strange to the area in which they now find
themselves. ‘Come along, Mother. We will feel better when we can stretch our
legs. And look, it is a full moon. See it beginning to climb above the hills?
It will soon light our way for us.’
‘I know the way blindfolded,’ says
her mother in a monotone. They begin to mount the steps out of the railway
cutting in which the station is situated. ‘But I wonder how much of that time you will remember.
You were only four years old when we left.’
‘Some things I remember – the sheep,
Grandfather’s games when work was finished,’ the younger woman replies with a
giggle. She takes her mother’s arm as they join the narrow road that winds down
into the valley. ‘You will be pleased to see Grandfather again, will you not?’
Her mother gives a smile.
‘Grandfather? Aye, it will be very good to see him. He at least will be the same.
Everything else is changed. Everyone is gone.’
‘I’m still here.’
‘Aye, thank God, you’re still here.’
The mother squeezes the arm that is linked through hers and plants a kiss on
her daughter’s cold cheek.
The moon is slowly climbing through
the sky and the hills loom dark. They walk steadily and her daughter is right:
the rhythm of their walking helps to dissipate the tiredness of the journey.
They can hear the tinkling of a small river that runs through the valley to
join its parent at the village. The weather is good for the time of year and
there appears to be no snow on the hills. Not yet, at least.
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