Their figures grew smaller and smaller until, rounding a corner, we lost sight of them altogether. Our journey had begun

For a moment I studied the fine features which had first attracted me – the high forehead, the slightly receding chin, less noticeable now because of the moustache he had grown. His face, more weathered than it used to be, was still tanned even after the long cold winter we had had. His face and limbs had been bronzed when we first met.

“Permanent,” he told me laughingly, one day when we were still courting. “All sailors have tans.”

He had been through five years of war before I met him, joining the Royal Navy as soon as he was old enough.

His hair at the front drew back from a widow’s peak. He’d worried about this when he was younger, imagining he was going bald.

Now I stroked it with my finger and he woke, blinked and asked the time in the thick voice of sleep.

I slid my awkward body out of the big bed. My feet touched the soft hotel carpet. 1t was a glorious morning.

The sun, climbing above the hills on the other side of the river, threw brilliant diamonds of light into the water.

Night snow

During the night snow had fallen on Dundee – just enough to dust the roof tops that now, caught by the early rays, glowed in palest crimson.

Spirals of smoke from morning chimneys went straight upwards.

The road running in front of the hotel was busy – buses, cars, bicycles, people on the pavements, all hurrying to work.

Not so long ago trams had rattled and swayed along this way. Things were changing in Scotland but slowly.

Suddenly the bedroom door burst open and our three young sons tumbled into the room. “When do we go, Mum?” “As soon as we’ve dressed, packed our night things and had breakfast,” I replied.

The smell of bacon wafted upstairs. In half an hour we were in the dining room all packed and ready to go.

The two oldest boys had dressed themselves today without the usual fuss or argument and they had helped to dress wee Ronnie. We ate well – our last Scottish breakfast for the foreseeable future: porridge, bacon and egg, toast and marmalade, tea.

My mother and father were at the station to see us off. My vivacious mother, dressed brightly as always in a red coat and white scarf, looked cheerful this morning, no trace of tears.

Tears were for yesterday. How old was she, I momentarily wondered. She never would tell us. Her black hair refused to go grey, only strands here and there which, from time to time, she painted in the privacy of her room.

Her cheeks were pink with rouge and her lips bright with lipstick which she hadn’t applied quite carefully enough.

Dad stood beside her, tall, more serious and dressed as always in sober browns.

Until last night we had lived with them for three months following the sale of our sheep farm. They had been most helpful to us but I knew they must be tired.

This bright morning, even Dundee’s large, draughty, smoke-grimed station looked fresh. There was a general air of energy about people coming and going all the time.

Excited

The sun penetrated the high panes of glass held in place by Victorian fretwork. Waiting engines threw up clouds of steam.

The boys were excited at the sight of long trains, black stokers and red fire and by the noise – the clatter and clank of wheels.

We had to watch they didn’t go too near the edge and the big drop down on to the track.

Ronald soon had all our overnight luggage aboard. The rest had gone on ahead to Liverpool all marked in large red letters: GILLIES, EDMONTON STATION, ALBERTA, CANADA.

Richard and Michael, the oldest boys, four and three, climbed into the train unaided. I followed and Ronald, with wee red-haired Ronnie, 18 months old, held in his arms, brought up the rear.

The seats of the carriage were straight-backed. Black and white pictures of idyllic holiday spots in Britain looked down at us from the walls while steam blew up from underneath the train and the carriage smelt faintly of tar.

Ronald’s father hadn’t come to see us off. He didn’t like station farewells and he hadn’t wanted us to go to Canada anyway.

“Remember to write as soon as you can and be careful.” I registered the note of anxiety in mother’s voice.

“When you get settled go and see a doctor and make sure that everything’s all right.”

I assured her I would. The train began to move. The children and I blew our last kisses. Ronald waved.

Their figures grew smaller and smaller until, rounding a corner, we lost sight of them altogether. Our journey had begun.

We were fortunate to have a carriage to ourselves. “When will we see them again?” asked Richard, his blue eyes larger than usual.

His words broke into my thoughts – a paradox – the sadness of parting yet how good it was to get away at last to our chosen but unknown destination.

“When we get settled and have been at our new home for a while they will fly over to see us,” I assured him.

“It’s not like the old days when grown-up kids went from home to far away places.

Simple villa

“For them it might be many years before they saw their mums and dads again – if ever.”

“What sort of house will we be living in?” Ronald answered this time.

“We don’t know yet,” he said. “We’ll just have to wait and see but it won’t be like our old stone built farmhouse.

“It might be made of wood. lt might be a log cabin like you see in some of your picture books but more likely it will look like this one.”

With that, Ronald took out from the inner pocket of his warm camel hair coat an envelope and pen and drew a simple villa.

“Remember that day quite a while ago that mum and I went to Glasgow to see the man about going to Canada?

“Well, he showed us a book about different farms in Saskatchewan and this is how most of the pictures of houses on the farms looked.”

“But I thought we were going to Alberta.” (More tomorrow.)