'Lest we should forget' (continued)
by William Emslie'I was making tea,' said Ma Harbin abruptly. 'Will you join me?' It seemed
impolite to refuse; I flashed Sam an apologetic glance with my affirmation. He,
too, accepted the offer and we stood, a little sheepishly, as Ma Harbin placed
the kettle on the range and waited until it boiled to a shrill whistle. At length, she sat at he table, poured the tea, and then glared at me,
continuing our conversation as though it had been unbroken. 'I don't want your
money. What did those eggs cost me? Chicken feed, literally.' 'Even so, Mrs Harbin,' I contended contritely, 'those were eggs you could have
sold. Please take it.' 'Why?' she cackled. 'So that you can feel better about what you have done? Paid
the price for your misdemeanour? This is not about money; one can not put a
price on trust.' I felt my head wilt. She was right, which made her words all the harder to
swallow. 'We know, Miss,' piped up Sam's voice, 'and we are truly sorry.' 'So you keep saying, boy, but sorry about what?' 'About the eggs,' returned Sam dutifully, 'and for betraying your trust.' Ma Harbin's cup clinked in its saucer. 'Really? Or are you just sorry about the
thrashing you got from your father?' Sam lifted his gaze, a vague frown on his forehead. 'How did you know about
that?' he asked. A smile crossed the old woman's lips. 'An inspired guess, from the hurt and
anger in your eyes, the resentment in the corners of your mouth. One can tell a
lot from the way someone looks.' Sam shook his head in astonishment. 'So,' she
continued, 'are you going to answer my question? What is it you're sorry about:
the deed or the drubbing?' Sam lowered his head again. 'A bit of both, I s'pose,' he admitted. Ma Harbin nodded thoughtfully, turning her gaze on me. 'And you, young Robert;
why are you here: because you're sorry, or because your mother sent you?' I flinched. This woman was good, there was no denying it, but her candour made
me uncomfortable. 'I just want to put things right,' I asserted. 'Yes, my mum
did tell me to come, but that doesn't mean I'm not sorry.' I could feel tears
welling in my eyes now. 'Would you have bothered if she hadn't told you to?' That wasit: you can milk half a dozen eggs a bit too much. I fought to contain my temper
as I spoke. 'No, I wouldn't, but that's because this isn't easy. I am sorry,
really. And ashamed.' Ma Harbin caught my eye with an unremitting stare: 'I should think so too, when
you act like a hooligan!' 'I'mnota hooligan,' I cried, tipping the money from my fist onto the table. 'There,
please use this to buy some chicken feed. I'm sorry I had to be told to come
here, and I'm sorry you can't accept our apologies. Thank you for the tea and
goodbye.' Without a further glance at Ma Harbin, I made for the door, ushering
Sam before me. 'Wait!' she insisted. We stopped but did not turn. 'Please, let me finish.' Making to face her, I was seized by a profound penitence and at once regretted
my hasty words, which in retrospect sounded dismissive, arrogant,
disrespectful. The old woman gave a deep sigh, took solace in a sip of tea
before continuing. 'I am the one who is sorry.' My eyes met Sam's in mutual confusion. 'What do you mean?' I asked. 'You are decent boys
' She added a snide twist of the nose. '
Most of the time.
Today, I have learned that you are honest too.' She put her head in her hands,
shaking it slowly, wistfully. 'I am sorry I came after you like that. I am
sorry I went running to your parents.' She looked up at Sam, who stood mouth
ajar, astounded. 'And I am deeply sorry about your father's reaction, Sam; you
didn't deserve that.' We approached her. 'It doesn't matter about that. Really, Miss,' Sam said. Her face had softened, the eyes no longer mocking, but imploring.
Metamorphosized before us was a sad shell of a woman, hurt, deeply hurt, by the
heedless act of two young boys she had thought she could trust. She gave a low, cackling chuckle. 'I lied to your father, Sam. And to your
mother, Robert. I said those eggs were my livelihood. Bah! I have enough hens
to lay more of the things than I could hope even to give away. 'I was angry. Anger makes one foolish. I should have spoken toyou. An admonition was all that was needed. Please forgive me; I just can't stand
waste.' Without consultation, Ma Harbin topped up our teacups. I saw Sam make to
protest; only to resign himself to the offering and join me, seated at the
refectory table. 'You wouldn't understand that, would you?' she went on. 'Yours is the throwaway
generation: you don't darn socks any more, you just buy new ones. Did you know,
they've even started making disposable razors? In a few years' time, people
won't buy blades any more: they'll just throw the whole thing away and start a
new one.' I averted my gaze and struggled to contain my amusement: she could have done
with a shave. 'During the wars, fresh eggs were as rare as cuckoo nests. Ask your father,
Sam; he was only a child, but he'll remember. Nothing went to waste; we learned
to use and reuse everything. We had no choice; everything was in short supply.' I slipped a glance at Sam. He, too, was finding it hard not to giggle. 'I know what you're thinking,' she went on: 'batty, boring old woman with her
irrelevant recollections.' Then she smiled, and our laughter broke in a
full-blooded burst. She nodded solemnly: 'Yes, well, I'll show you waste,' and
rose from the table, took two photographs from the dresser. Wordlessly, she
placed them before us. The first was of a dignified, mature man handsome, with rugged features, kind
yet courageous eyes. The second, no more than a youth, was fresh-faced, nervous
looking but optimistic of expression: a young man with everything to look
forward to. Ma Harbin let us study them for a minute before turning the first
to face her. 'That's Mr Harbin, my husband. Killed in action in 1944.' The second she
cradled, as though nursing a new-born. Her voice cracked as she spoke: 'My son,
Peter
Went missing the following year, two months before the Nazis
surrendered.' She looked up, affection in her gaze blending with the sorrow in
her eyes. 'He was barely five years older than you when I last saw him.' She
sniffed, paused to compose herself, and then gently placed the faded image back
on the table. 'Now that's waste.' An eerie silence descended upon us, lingered like a Quaker meeting. For a few
moments, Sam and I felt profoundly close to this old woman, with her empty
life, her tragic tale. At length, I spoke, softly: 'I'm sorry.' 'Don't be,' said Ma Harbin sharply. 'It was over thirty years ago, before you
two were even gleams in the eye of the Lord. Besides, they were just two of
millions of fine young men slaughtered for the sake of one insane dictator.
Your generation must not feel sorrow, but determination. Determination to
ensure that it never happens again.' With which she rose once more, moving
towards a panelled door, which I took to be a larder. Sam threw me an anxious glance, pointing at his watch. 'Don't worry about the
time,' said the old woman (though, uncannily, her back was turned), and she
emerged some seconds later with a wooden punnet of plums: such perfect plump
red plums as to make my mouth water at the very sight. It was tied with a
ribbon, to which she had pinned a leaflet from the previous week's Remembrance
parade. 'Here,' she said, passing the punnet to Sam, 'give this to your father. Tell
him it's a peace offering.' Sam looked confused. 'He'll understand.' Ma Harbin
gave an arcane grin as he regarded the plums in bewilderment, and then turned
his eyes back to her with an inquisitive countenance. Eventually, she pointed to the French window behind us, which gave out onto the
back garden. 'You see that plum tree on the far side? During the last war, I
saw your father he was, I think, a little younger than you are now picking
from it, the cheeky young scamp. I watched as he loaded up his pockets, then
stood, munching away at one.
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