Far away hills, p.1
Far Away Hills, page 1
Far Away Hills
Jean Debney
This book is dedicated to my mother Margaret.
Born 15.11.1919, Lidgett, Saskatchewan.
This is a work of historical fiction based on anecdotal notes written for me by my mother 32 years ago, and some genealogical research that I have conducted.
My thanks to:
Peter Huska
Tonya Ludwig and Meryle Iwanicki (RIP) for their invaluable help for my historical research in Saskatchewan.
And Milt and Paulette Mastaad for keeping my grandfather’s cabin on their land.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue – The Last Hope
Part I. A Scottish Tale
Chapter 1 – The Beginnings of Things
Chapter 2 – Toil and Trouble
Chapter 3 – Making Time
Chapter 4 – The Planting of the Seeds
Chapter 5 – Hard Cold Realities
Chapter 6 – New Life and New Hope
Chapter 7 – A Time of Calm
Chapter 8 – May All Your Problems Be Wee Ones
Chapter 9 – The Luck of the Irish
Chapter 10 – Clouds Over Comely Park Place
Chapter 11 – Turn and Turn Again
Chapter 12 – No More Valentines
Chapter 13 – Beckoning New Horizons
Chapter 14 – Many Challenges to Come
Chapter 15 – The Pain of Parting
Chapter 16 – Hard Cold Realities
Chapter 17 – The Blackest Night
Chapter 18 – The Greatest Distance of Separation
Chapter 19 – Jeanie’s Story
Chapter 20 – Sal’s War
Part II. A Canadian Life
Chapter 21 – The Longest Journey
Chapter 22 – Journey’s End
Chapter 23 – No Warm Welcome
Chapter 24 – The Comfort of Strangers
Chapter 25 – New Beginnings
Chapter 26 – And Then There Were Five
Chapter 27 – The Long Hot Summer
Chapter 28 – The Changing Life
Chapter 29 – The Winter’s Chill
Chapter 30 – The Pain That Will Not Heal
Chapter 31 – The Last Days of Summer
Chapter 32 – Full Circle
Copyright
Prologue – The Last Hope
She stood rigid to the spot, frozen in shock. Her eyes fixed on the crimson rivulet of blood which now trickled from his nose. He lay still and prone on the couch, his pale complexion in stark contrast to the rich red fluid which dribbled down his chin, the only sign of life the light rise and fall of his chest, hardly distinguishable as breath. All was hushed in the room. A woman crouched on the floor next to the boy, holding his hand and speaking in a low whisper into his ear.
“Come on Eddie, you know Mama needs you, you open your eyes now… open your eyes for Mama… please, my fine bonny boy?”
Her gentle pleas fell on deaf ears, ears too lost into unconsciousness to hear the desperation in his mother’s voice. The little girl watched as her mother became more insistent and frantic with her son’s lack of response, now beginning to stroke his head and his sleeved arms as they lay limp.
“Eddie, hear Mama… Eddie, wake up please?… Mama needs you… you can’t sleep… Edward, you must wake!”
This last statement came as a command, an order; Mama only used big names when she was angry and determined that her charges would obey her at any cost. The little girl made a move to try and comfort her mother; in her little heart she knew that she was in pain, she understood she was hurting, she could understand she had already seen this despite her very young age. As she ventured forth a hand held her shoulder fast, a gentle hand that belonged to the figure which had stood considerately behind her, allowing her the space to see, to witness.
“No Rita, give your Mama a moment, let her talk to your brother.”
The little girl looked up at the matronly smile, which belonged to the red-jolly face, the kind face of the gentle hand of Mrs Purdy, now stooped to give the little girl comfort, arms open. The little girl flung her arms around the large woman’s neck, and felt the warmth of her corpulent frame, burying her face into the folds of bare flesh.
She turned again to view her mother and brother and as she did she surveyed the others in attendance in the room. The tall-suited figure who fumbled in his large black bag which was placed on the kitchen table, searching for some implement or medicament to alleviate suffering and cure the affliction. Doctor Cameron: a fierce and commanding figure, but he had the knowledge, he knew what to do, and all the grown ups respected him and paid him money, even if he did give nasty medicine which made you feel sick before you felt well.
Then there was the group of women gathered behind the table, three of them of all different shapes and descriptions. There was a fine lady with angel hair, not rich, just well kept, she was pretty like a kewpie doll; blue eyes and soft skin. Next to her stood a dark skinned old lady, her steel-grey hair swept back in a plait; she was old, her face had lines and crevasses, each indent like a deep memory carved on her flesh. That lady seemed to stand slightly back from the one either side of her, slightly aloof. The third woman was like Mama, she was old, but her hair was red and her eyes were green, her clothes were old like Mama’s and she had that same weary haggard look about her face; someone who had started working the day that she was born and not stopped a day to rest.
There was another in the room standing in the other corner, a girl near the dresser, a grown girl of 12. She had mousy hair and grey eyes, and she too stood statue-like, frozen to one point unable to move or speak, staring at the couch which was the focus of everyone’s concern. The doctor motioned forward to attend the large adolescent who lay oblivious to everything. The doctor felt for a pulse in his neck and opened an eye to look at the pupil within; he then held his stethoscope to the open-shirted chest which moved ever so slightly.
“I’ve done all I can do, Mrs Flynn,” he declared in his most solemn tone. “It is in God’s hands now, we should all pray that he will pull through.”
The scared woman looked up at him pleadingly.
“Please Doctor Cameron, there must be something that you can do? I know God will look after him, but God sends men like you to help… we need your help… there must be something more that you can do?”
“I am so sorry Mrs Flynn, head injuries like this are not something that we can do much about, he has taken a lot of force in that last blow to his head, there is really little I can do except hope for a miracle.”
Frantically, the woman turned back to her son, and clasped her hands gently but firmly to his cheeks, the nose still trickling life away.
“Eddie, please… please, Eddie, for Mama, you must wake up… you must… what am I going to do without you? You are my strong lad… you are the man of the family… I need you, bonny boy… I can’t do this alone… I can’t do any of this alone… Please remember the promise you made me… please remember you said it would be alright, that you would never leave me, that you would be there for Mama… please, Eddie, please…” With this she broke down into incessant sobs, trying desperately to rouse the life in her son, bringing back the animated figure that he was.
At this point the old dark-skinned woman began to hum and sing in a low melodic voice, of chants and guttural utterances. The angel-face that stood next to her genuflected and clasped her hands in prayer. These low moans and incantations were suddenly split by a high-pitched whine which heralded loud howls from the young girl in the corner, who stood visibly shaking her hands at her sides. The woman with red hair rushed towards her and wrapped her arms around the girl’s shaking frame, in answer to her loud show of uncontrolled emotion.
“There there, Cissie, don’t take on so… your Mama needs you to be strong now… come on, calm yersel’ girl.”
This seemed momentarily to quieten the distressed figure, as she sniffed back the tears and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
The little girl surveyed all of this from her new vantage point, as by now Mrs Purdy had lifted her up and was holding her as toddlers are held. She gazed around the room, confused about all of the differing and conflicting emotions upon display; the stern authoritarianism of the doctor now softened in sympathy. ‘Angel-face’, eyes tightly shut, muttering and fingering her beaded necklace that she clasped in her hands, and the old lady with the craggy face empathically humming and chanting. Then she looked back at her sister; her sister was crying, why was she crying, what was she hurting for? And why was Mama crying? Eddie was just asleep, he would wake up in a minute, wouldn’t he?
The little girl turned back towards her matron questioningly; her little voice squeaked out, “Cissie’s crying? Why is Cissie crying?… Eddie’s asleep?”
“It’s alright Rita, Cissie’s not crying, are you Cissie? And yes, Eddie is just asleep. Mama and the doctor will try and make him well.”
But there was something in that voice, though it was said in a reassuring tone, something that did not feel right, that did not feel truthful, and you never told lies, Papa said you must never tell lies, he would make it alright when he came back wouldn’t he, because that is what Papa did? Again the little girl insistently pressed on her carer.
“Papa will know what to do, won’t he? When he comes home, he will know what to do?”
With that, Cissie burst into high-pitched screams and sobs from the other side of the room, w hich brought the red-haired woman to hug her tightly in a desperate attempt to quieten her rather than cause greater distress to Sal, who was now absolutely desperate to rouse her son.
“Eddie, you must wake… we can’t manage without you… you must wake!”
Her inconsolable tears flowed like a tap down her grubby cheeks, cheeks which had seen far too many tears in her life already.
“Eddie, please… please… I beg you, for Mama.”
The listless lad opened his mouth ever so slightly and a small breath eased out through the pallor of his lips. Sal froze; the doctor rushed forward. All the onlookers crossed themselves as one, Mrs Purdy uttering quietly under her breath, “Holy Mary, take this boy’s soul.”
Doctor Cameron laid Eddie’s arm gently down.
“I am sorry, Mrs Flynn, he has gone.”
A howl the like of which the little girl had never heard came forth from her mother, it was the howl of a dog caught in a gin trap and an animal in pain near death, it came from the very depths of her being and seemed to have no ending. As if to complement this deep pain Cissie screeched into the shoulders of the red-haired woman, unable to compose herself any longer. Mrs Purdy quickly placed the toddler on the floor; ‘Angel-face’ had rushed to the couch to try and console Sal, who heaved great screams from her heart.
Little Rita stood, scared and confused, all this pain, all of this crying, what was wrong? Where was Papa? Why wouldn’t Eddie just wake up? Why wouldn’t Mama stop crying?
“Sal, Sal, there there, God bless you my dear, your wee boy has gone, there there…” Mrs Purdy tried in vain to reach Sal’s spirit to make contact with the deeply distressed soul, who cared nothing except for her lifeless boy so cruelly taken from her.
“No… no… Eddie! Wake up, Eddie! You must wake up!”
By now Sal was desperately shaking the lifeless corpse of her much-loved son in determined disbelief, the cacophony of sobs and screams punctuated by the dark-skinned woman’s incantations, which had changed in melody from prayer to mourning. Mrs Purdy tried again to encourage Sal to let loose her dead boy and leave him to rest, while ‘Angel-face’ reached her two hands around her friend’s grief-stricken shoulders.
“Sal, leave the boy be, let him rest now; there is no more that can be done.”
“No… he will wake up… my lovely boy will wake up…” She tried shaking him again and then dissolved into deep sobbing.
The doctor packed his bag unnoticed, and discreetly headed for the door; wailing and mourning was not for him, he preserved life and brought relief to those who were dying, his job was done. Cissie was almost hysterical and was having to be held tightly to restrain her from hurting herself by ‘Red-hair’. She too was showing the signs of breaking grief in sympathy with her charge.
The little girl stood motionless behind the voluminous Mrs Purdy, half forgotten in the melee of emotion and noise. She tried to stand on her tiptoes to get a look at her Mama over Mrs Purdy’s shoulder, who by now was on her knees trying to comfort her friend’s pain and encourage her to accept Eddie’s passing. As Rita tried to get a better view of her mother, she lost her balance and fell gently into Mrs Purdy’s back, muttering, “Oh,” as she sat on the floor, her bare legs and black feet poking out beneath her stained pinafore dress. Mrs Purdy’s arm came round her back to stimulate her to stand and come round to the front; at the same time she spoke to Sal gently.
“Eddie’s gone, Sal… but little Rita needs you… don’t forget little Rita…”
Rita stood looking pitifully at her mother, entreating her for a motherly hug or acknowledgement. Sal didn’t even turn round, her hand swept round her back dismissively as she continued to wail in her despair.
“No… I don’t want her… I only want my Eddie… just my Eddie… just my beautiful boy… oh God, please give me back my beautiful boy.”
Part I. A Scottish Tale
Chapter 1 –
The Beginnings of Things
Of course the story, my story, had begun long before I was born, long before my mother and father had fallen in love and married. Although I knew of my paternal grandparents and their simple Irish backgrounds, it was the distaff side of my heritage that would have the most influence over my life and care. Good Irish stock, my grandmamma used to say; with a name such as Flynn that was obvious with my father, but my mother’s Scottish name of McBride could be deceptive. Sal, or Sarah, McBride was born to stern Victorian parents: Peter, whose parents were protestant and hailed from county Antrim, and Bridget, whose ancestors had suffered the worst effects of the famine in Armagh. Both of the parents had been born and grown up within fifty yards of one another, Peter having lived on the High Street, and Bridget on the Saltmarket.
As much as my grandfather had come from one religious background, his wife made sure that he crossed the divide very quickly and they were married in St Andrews Cathedral on the 15th October 1875 as practising Roman Catholics; this was always Bridget’s preferred place of worship and wherever they moved in the first half of their marriage, the procession as committed worshipers was always made to the cathedral. In good Catholic tradition they set to producing their family, despite the fact that their home consisted of renting rooms in one end of the Gallowgate or the other, or London Street, or anywhere they could get. All the areas that tolerated the Irish immigrants, who now began to arrive in wave after wave on the back of the famines that had wiped out a nation.
The young McBrides were hardworking and with great aspirations; Bridget had no intention of remaining in the drudgery and poverty in which her family had existed for generations, and Peter would turn his hand to whatever he could get, never an idle man. When they had met, Bridget had been working as a tartan weaver since the age of fourteen. She was bright, and would have loved to have continued her schooling – taking her lump of coal daily to the drunken school master in payment – but she had to earn a living; no one was going to keep her and she did much to support her parents. With a good head for figures and having learned her letters, she was able to retain the complex weaving patterns to memory, and claimed to be able to weave any of the tartans. Peter was illiterate at twenty, but willing to learn, and Bridget, by now eighteen, was determined to teach him. In between his general labouring and her duty to produce children, she set about educating him to read and write; they both knew that literacy was the key to breaking the cycle, to get themselves out of renting rooms in the Gallowgate. Their first child, Annie, born eighteen months after their union, was a sickly wee thing – probably unsurprisingly with their almost itinerant living, but that was the way with all families of that place and time; Darwin’s theory of evolution where only the strongest survive was put into practice in these flea-ridden, rat-infested lodgings. Eighteen months later a boy was born: James, to carry the McBride name on. Sadly little Annie did not survive and passed within a few months of the arrival of James.
Grandmamma used to claim she had thirteen children, although I knew of only eight that had survived, but I often remember listening to her prayers for the souls of those that she had not carried full-term which she had named.
“Holy Mary mother of God, bless my little Annie, Mary, Peter, Susan and Henry-John.”
I used to reflect how sad that must have been to lose like that, but what struck me more is that it happened to most women; it was commonplace, yet grandmamma had named her lost ‘wee bairns’, there was a softer side to her.
Of her eight children that survived birth, my mother Sarah was number three, behind James and John. She was the first daughter, born on the 21st December 1885. It was a month after losing John in a freak accident, he had lost his footing on some stone steps in the ice that had gripped the city that year. He was found by a neighbour lifeless, having broken his neck. Bridget faced this with the same stoicism that every woman of that time did; losing children was commonplace, especially in the impoverished parts of Glasgow. Sarah came in with an icy blast on a Monday just before Christmas, and her childhood would be punctuated by the constant moving and changing, with two more brothers and three more sisters added to the brood as her parents made their progress out of their poverty trap. Sarah was a wilful girl, but always respectful towards her father and mother; she was what could be described as a strong personality, and certainly not the wallflower that her sister Katie would be.
