The journey

The story below is my small tribute to the men and women who served in WW1. My own father being one of them. This is not his story except for one small aspect of it. The rest is the fantasy of my imagination. 

The journey

Major James Robertson-Willerby sat back and relaxed.  The train started to get up a head of steam, and soon the guard blew the whistle. Much to his delight, James had the carriage to himself, which was a rare occurrence in these days.  The war had caused far more people to be mobile, and travel was not always a comfortable experience. 

The train had just started to move when the door was flung open and a young lady literally fell into the carriage. James was quite used to young women, both literally and metaphorically, swooning at his feet, but all rather more delicately and purposeful than this clumsy young woman. 

Although feeling rather frustrated that his journey was to be shared, but remembering that he was an officer and a gentleman, James quickly got out of his seat to assist her. In fact he stood just in time to catch her before she fell to the floor, then he almost lifted her into the seat opposite his. Next he retrieved her case which she had flung in ahead of her, he mentally noted that it looked much travelled, then placed it neatly on the luggage rack above her head, hoping that now he could get back to an uninterrupted journey, he returned to his seat. 

As James settled back into his seat, the girl was busy straightening her skirt, and adjusting her hat which had ended up at a very peculiar angle.

Suddenly she looked at him and said in a soft lilting Scottish accent, which for some reason took him by surprise, “I apologise for my inelegant entrance, but I dare not miss this train. Thank you for helping me” 

For the first time James really looked at her, and found himself gazing into the most beautiful deep blue eyes he had ever seen. But it was more than their colour that gave then there beauty, they seemed to sparkle and laugh even though she herself was being extremely serious. 

“Perfectly all right” James hesitated, he had no desire to get into a conversation, this was his thinking time, time adjust to the fact that he was going back to a world that this young woman could not know anything of. A world of which was beyond description to the uninitiated. But politeness made him continue, “I hope you did not hurt yourself”

 The girl laughed, “no, only my dignity”. Her laugh had the same effect on him as her eyes.  It was not the silly giggle of some of the girls his mother was always trying to match make him with, but made him think of a fast flowing stream of clear water. 

Would she laugh like that if she saw the sights and heard the sounds that he had lived with for past two years he wondered?

Even the noises from the train merged with those in his head. The constant noise of the guns, the cries of the wounded men lying in shell holes in no man’s land, cold, and their wounds covered in mud and putrid water, with only dead friends and enemies for company.

He had tried to be light hearted during this brief leave home, joining in games of tennis and even accompanying his sister to a country house dance, but it was like a thin veneer covering what he was sure was a heart that had died alongside the fallen men under his command.  

Thankfully the girl seemed to have no more desire to continue the conversation than he did. But strangely her presence gave him a feeling of peacefulness.

The journey drew to its conclusion and both prepared to leave the carriage.  As one last gesture of gallantry, James lifted down the girl’s case, and could not help noticing that it was engraved with the name E.J. McDonald.

Apart from a brief “Thank you”, she took her case and was gone, and soon was lost to sight in the crowed now thronging the platform. For a moment James had a strange feeling of desolation, and then he remembered the last moment their eye’s met before she hurried off. It was as if they were conveying a message to him; a message of hope, a message that there was still beauty in the world. But then what could she know of the horrors of war. He shrugged his shoulders, then straightened them, and walked forward like an officer and a gentleman, to face whatever this futile war may throw at him. 

The ‘whatever’ came sooner than he expected in the form of a sniper’s bullet. Nothing too serious; the bullet had not lodged in his arm. “Just a glancing blow sir” declared Corporal Bates his batman, as he skilful bandaged up James’s arm. But for once Bates was wrong. Infection set into the wound, and although James tried to ignore it, the pain got worse, his arm felt on fire and he started to shiver.  He had had influence once, but this was ten times worse.  But he had to carry on for the sake of his men 

James had no memory of when he collapsed, or the bumpy journey in the field ambulance; thankfully neither did he hear the remark “don’t look like this one is going to make it” made by one of the stretcher bearers.    

James was confused, where was he?  The noises were different to the trenches. He still heard men give cries of pain, but then there were calm voices that stilled those cries, and stranger still they were female voices.

Someone was speaking, was it to him? He tried to focus his eyes. He managed to make out a tall man who was looking down at him. That was when he realised he was in a bed; a hospital bed. “So your back with us young man, we thought you were not going to make it. The man’s voice was crisp and efficient; he did not waste time on introductions. “Best chance you had was for me to amputate, but by the time you got here you were too ill.” Then his voice softened “well truth to tell I thought you would not make it, but Sister here was convinced we could clear the infection” as he spoke he moved aside and James saw that someone was standing behind the man who he now assumed was a doctor. “Yes Sister has nursed you for the last 48 hours; she must be dead on her feet”.  

The figure still was blurred to James, but he was aware of colour, mainly grey with a short scarlet cape on her shoulders. “Oh no doctor I’m just fine” the soft lilting Scottish accent brought James’s vision into sharp focus. His eyes travelled to her face and he found himself sinking deep into the beautiful blue eyes of Sister Emily Jane McDonald of the Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service.       

T

The Gift

The Gift

I never really knew it was mine, or that it even existed. Like so many things in life it can be in us, around us, or even waiting for us, but until we become aware that it is ours and start to own it,  it has no life of it’s own. It stays dormant like a left over Christmas present under the tree, because the recipient never came to the party. A jumper never worn, a toy never played with, a book never read. Or maybe they did collect the gift, or it was sent to them yet they never opened the wrapping, to explore how it could enhance their lives. How often when someone’s house is cleared out are unused items found? Maybe even gifts bought for oneself remained unused. The dress never worn, the picture never hung, or a bottle of perfume that by the time it was opened no longer had the fragrance it was intended to have. All these are wasted gifts. 

But the gift I speak of is not the kind you physically unwrap.  It’s one that comes with you when you are born. It may get discovered early in life or lay hidden for many years. We can these days, if one is so inclined, see numerous video clips on YouTube of child protégés. Violinists, pianists, gymnasts, all vie with one another to gain the most number of likes and shares, the younger the child the more our enthusiasm for their performance. 

 I

Others who have probably had their gift from just such an early age fail to get any recognition, or at least only a limited amount until they have almost given up believing that it would ever be recognised, unless they are unusually persistent, like one Susan Boyle showed herself to be. Achieving fame and recognition in middle age and without hardly any of the attributes that usually are part of the package that accompany the gift in a modern young singer. But the gift won through, as it should. Not just to achieve fame or fortune but that the gift was not wasted. 

A gift can be a means to an end. A gift can provide an income. A gift can achieve satisfaction and enjoyment. Gifts are as diverse and numerous as their recipients.

My parents were gifted. A cabinet filled with cups and medals showed my father’s excellence is his chosen sport. The lovely clothes I wore as a child despite clothes rationing testified to my mother’s excellence with a needle. She upholstered chairs, decorated rooms as well as having a brain as sharp as the needle she used. I followed in none of these attributes. Neither did I follow my siblings. I neither excelled in art or music.

I feel  guilty about the amount of money  my parents paid out over five years of music lessons and yet still my hands failed  to work together to produce the sounds expected. 

Not that my parents didn’t try to encourage me to pursue what they thought would lead to excellence.

 Music lessons lingered on for five years, trips to athletic meetings and training nights filled many an evening but never enthused or inspired me. 

All the while I was as unaware as they were  that what I enjoyed could be a gift. Nobody took any notice when I organised the children in our road to produce a magazine. It was all about their pets, why I chose that I do not know. I didn’t even have one or want one! But as the other children collected the pictures I wrote the text. I organised them. One mother even came and thanked my mother that I kept the children occupied during the school holidays. Mother never even thought about how somewhere in that activity at 11 yrs old, there could be the seeds of a gift that could be developed for my future life. 

Maybe it was too fluid to be defined even in my mind. Being able to organise, to lead, inspire and encourage did not seem definable next to a beautiful painting produced by one of my brothers, or the exquisite bridesmaids dresses made for war time weddings by my mother. Also a shyness that developed in my teens acted  as a cloak that hid these embryonic gifts.  

Yet they remained, emerging a little more boldly as the years advanced. The thrill of  running a hospital ward with both it’s mundane and drama.  Leading a church with the person who was the most special one in my life, seeing how gifts could compliment one another. Pioneering a women’s ministry. Rejoicing again that my gifts were not ones that  

worked  in isolation but needed the gifts of others to get the full benefit they were meant to have. 

Yet there was another gift that had been in that 11yr old. Or more a desire that did not know that it was a gift. The desire to write. Occasionally that gift would pop it’s head above the parapet, two published articles. The offer from a publisher to write a book. 

And now a collection of short stories. But still a gift that never reached it’s full potential for so many reasons.

But who knows that maybe these octogenarian years will be the ones when the other gifts no longer needed as before will make space for it to thrive and flourish. 

Because a gift should never be wasted. 

National siblings day.

I understand that yesterday was National Siblings day. Seems we have a day for everything now days. But maybe that is not such a bad thing as it makes us stop for a moment and reflect and be thankful, as I am for the brothers and sister I had. Even if we did not have a good experience of siblings maybe it is a moment to forgive or ask forgiveness. A day when a relationship could be restored.
Maybe it is a day to pick up the phone and connect with a sibling who you have just not had time to call lately.
When this photo of my siblings was taken I was not even born and would not be for a few more years. So I did not share a childhood with them.
Then just as I was becoming aware of them they all went to serve 'King and Country' (yes even my sister) and another separation occurred.  But as I grew up I learnt to love and appreciate these special people in my life.
I am grateful that they were spared to grow into old age so that I could get to know them better. Now they are gone but always remembered.
So am I without a sibling?  No.
' Then he(Jesus) looked at those seated in a circle around him and said, " Here are my mother and and my brothers! Whoever does God's will is my brother and sister and mother." Mark 3:34
Not just my Lord and Saviour but my brother as well.

Maybe He is the sibling we need to connect with.

THE RAMBLINGS OF A GREAT-GRANDMOTHER