Remembrance Day (11 page)

He’d made plans for them both to go out hiking tomorrow. ‘There’s this spiffing pothole over the Ridge with a fantastic open cave. Let’s go and explore,’ Angus said, but Guy was noncommittal. Mother was arranging a farewell soiree with some of the Bellerby clan, which sounded utterly boring—listening to ladies warbling at the piano and having to make polite conversation. Even she was sucking out all his energy, fussing about the state of his uniform. It had been sent to the laundry to be defumigated and steamed back into shape. She was appalled at the state of his back from the bites and scratching, insisting he bathe in Jeyes fluid and burn his underwear. Now he just wanted to be left alone to sleep off this dreadful hangover of guilt that he was living in comfort while his men were out there. Here he was drinking Pouilly-Fuissé with fresh trout and garden vegetables, raspberries and cream, while they were dining on bully beef and hard biscuits.

The house was looking like a boarding school dorm with a line of beds all made up for the poor sods in convalescence. Part of him envied their chance to gaze out over the hills. The other part of him was wondering what had happened to his company. Had they gone back into the reserve line? Would they be dispersed to make up the numbers in other companies? But most of all, he just ached to see Selma again, ached for a woman’s touch, the tenderness of young arms. He was a man with a man’s feelings rising in his body. He didn’t want to leave this earth without even kissing her lips, without making love. He didn’t want to die a virgin.

There were brothels officers could use if they needed to relieve themselves but he was squeamish and didn’t want to catch a disease. Battle fatigue stifled any urge in that direction for him, in any case. He just wanted the real thing: the loving of a genuine girl. He was sure Selma felt the same. He’d seen that look in her eyes when he left the forge. She wanted him as much as he wanted her and there wasn’t much time. He
had
to see her again.

Right now, he felt like knocking on her cottage door and demanding to take her out for the evening but it was late and not proper. But if he wrote her a note? It would be like old times up on the Ridge, riding out together as if this war had never happened. Surely no one could begrudge him some time alone with his friend, his
girlfriend
? It didn’t matter what Mother thought. He was going to follow his heart’s desire.

How time flew when you were in fear of your life in battle, and now on this leave it was also fleeing too quickly. How he wanted time to stretch out endlessly. So he must take control, make it happen, or the chance would drift
away and he’d be on that ship back to Calais, perhaps never to return…

Guy was waiting outside the forge at the end of her afternoon shift. The sun was still high in the sky and he had Jemima saddled up.

‘I’ve told your mother I’m taking you for a picnic,’ he said with a grin. ‘She doesn’t mind.’

‘But I mind, dressed like this,’ Selma croaked, squirming with pleasure at seeing him.‘Give me five minutes to change.’ She dashed to the cottage.

Asa Bartley, meanwhile, glowered at Guy. ‘You might think you can get round her mother but I’m another kettle of fish, young man. So don’t go a-putting silly ideas in her head. You’ll be off tomorrow, she has to live in this village.’

‘Mr Bartley, Selma will be treated as any young lady—with the utmost respect.’ Guy was blushing at the bluntness of his suggestion.

‘That’s all right then. Just have her back before dark. I don’t want tongues wagging.’

Selma had overheard this exchange on her return. She’d swapped her forge garb for her best cotton dress and her new birthday cardigan.

‘Take no notice of him,’ she whispered. ‘Bye, Dad!’

‘We’re just going over the Ridge for old times’ sake, Mr Bartley. And thank you for letting Selma ride with me.’

‘Don’t thank me. If it were up to me…Nay, but she knows what I think. It’s her mother’s doing. You have to thank her. She’s got a soft heart in these matters.’ Asa fobbed them off with a wave of his hand. ‘Be off with you and mind what I said. What’ll I tell her ladyship if she sends out a search party?’

‘Just tell her truth,’ said Guy. ‘She’ll understand,’ he lied. His mother would be livid, jealous, but he didn’t care. It was
his
leave.

They sat on the top of the Ridge munching cucumber and salmon sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Beside Selma sat a bowl of strawberries and slices of the lightest sponge cake. Guy had given her the perfume and the scent was perfect.

But there was no container in the world big enough to bottle up this afternoon: this surprise, the perfect weather, the warmth of the sun in her face, the view down the valley and Guy’s arm round her shoulder. They had shared the ride and strolled and talked and laughed and teased each other.

For as long as she lived, she sensed, this might be one of the best afternoons of her life. It was so romantic, so precious, everything she could have dreamed of, except that this would be the one and only chance for them to be alone. Lady Hester would see to that. This was their moment and Selma was not going to waste a minute of it thinking about the opposition or the war that was keeping them apart. It was far away over the hills in another country.

Guy lay back, smiling, his arms over his head. ‘You can’t beat Yorkshire on a day like this,’ he said. ‘Shall we stop the clock, right here, right now?’

‘I wish…’ Selma sighed, lying back, staring at him, smiling.

‘What do you wish?’ he asked.

‘I wish I could speak more like you and dress like a proper lady so when you looked at me you didn’t see my dirty fingernails and rough hands.’

‘Stop right here!’ Guy put his finger on her lips. ‘You are perfect to me as you are so don’t spoil the moment.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the lips, a gentle kiss filled with promise. Then he held her close, crushing his body onto hers with an urgency and hardness he’d never done before. ‘Selma, I just want to love you and hold you.’

‘I know, I want you too,’ she whispered, giving into his passionate feelings. Then Guy’s hand moved across her breast and down to her thighs. She felt a flicker of fear and uncertainty. She suddenly had a vision of a stallion serving a mare. There was no shame in that but she felt a stab of fear now. Things were moving too fast, and she wasn’t ready yet.

‘No! I’m not sure…’ She turned her head from his embrace, suddenly cold, alert and afraid.

‘But, Selma, you’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment. I just want us to be as close as a man can be to a woman.’ He was groaning, lost in his own passion, but Selma pushed him away.

‘You know, it’s not right. I promised my dad…I’d not bring shame to the family. I’m not ready yet…it’s too soon.’

‘Sorry,’ Guy was fumbling with his clothes. ‘I didn’t think…I thought you wanted the same. You see, there’s so little time.’ His voice was far away as if he was in some dream world of his own.‘I obviously got it all wrong, forgive me.’ He sat up, not looking at her, and Selma felt sick.

‘It’s been so lovely. It’s just…I’m still young, a bit young for all that,’ she tried explaining, hoping he could see her dilemma. She hadn’t washed, her underwear was shabby and no one had ever seen her naked. How could she explain without hurting his feelings?

‘Of course, I understand. Think nothing of it,’ he replied, but he still didn’t look at her.

This was terrible, the worst of misunderstandings. He was expecting her to make love, while she was content with a kiss and a cuddle. Suddenly she felt so silly and naïve, raw and unsophisticated, and all she could think to say was, ‘I’m not that sort of girl. Just because I’m a blacksmith’s daughter doesn’t mean I’m easy like that. You are the only lad I’ve ever kissed. I’m just not ready.’ She knew they weren’t the right words.

‘So you keep saying. Message received and understood,’ he snapped.

‘Now you are cross with me. I’ve spoiled everything.’

‘Don’t be silly, of course not. Just a little misunderstanding, that’s all…Come on, I promised to get you home before dark. Up we get. You were right to be cautious. It’s just I haven’t got much time.’

‘What do you mean?’ she said.

‘Well, once I go back to the front, who knows what will happen to me?’

‘Oh, please don’t say that. You didn’t come up here just to have your way with me in case you never got another chance, did you?’

‘No, of course not. How could you even think that? But when you’re going into battle you take your chances when you can.’

‘I see…So I’m one of your chances then, am I?’ Selma retorted angrily.

‘No. I’m not making myself clear.’ Guy paused to look down at her, a flash of anger in his eyes.

‘No, you’re not.’ Selma returned a hard look.

‘Oh, forget it.’

Guy stormed off with Jemima while Selma followed, sick at heart. They walked down the hill in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

If only you could have waited a few more days so I could get used to the idea but you pounced on me.
She felt the salt of the tears dripping down her cheeks. Tomorrow he’d be gone and probably never speak to her again.

You absolute chump, you’ve ruined everything now, upset her feelings, rushed things too much. Why couldn’t you hold back a second, do a recce, test the waters instead of thinking with your dick?

Guy escorted her back to the cottage, leaving her at the gate. ‘Look here,’ he spluttered. ‘I’ve messed things up between us, haven’t I? Sorry old thing.’

‘I’m sorry for not coming up to scratch,’ Selma stuttered. ‘It’s not that I don’t feel the same but…’

‘Say no more. I don’t want us to part on bad terms. You will keep on writing? I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ The thought of not having her letters to look forward too was unbearable.

‘Of course I will, and thank you for the lovely picnic. It was very thoughtful and just perfect.’ Now she was being polite and that made things even worse. ‘Until I spoiled things.’

No one spoke, each desperately trying to end on a hopeful note. Selma reached up and kissed him. ‘Safe journey and I will pray for your safe return. Nothing has changed…I promise.’ She smiled that wonderful dark-eyed flash of mischief. If only it were so, he sighed.

He walked back uphill to Waterloo with this maelstrom of feelings tumbling in his head. Of course he’d taken his chance selfishly. He didn’t want her prayers, he wanted her body to possess for a few minutes of oblivion, just in case…
This need had overridden his common sense, his gentleman’s reserve, and he felt ashamed. Now he must face the wrath of his mother and brother, who would feel neglected in favour of another.

The sooner he went back to the front the better. He was out of touch with civilian life here. Time to pack up his troubles in the old kitbag and march.

I shiver even now at the thought of that last meeting. There are some moments in life when you wish you could turn back the clock with the wisdom of hindsight and reshape, rework the past into something more beautiful and romantic, into passionate scenes from a famous film: the beach scene in From Here to Eternity, which shocked everyone, or Scarlett’s surrender to Rhett Butler in
Gone With the Wind.

Youngsters would laugh at our coyness today, this inbuilt sense of what was right and wrong instilled early. I was a country girl and knew the score: how pregnant girls were dealt with if no one supported them. It was the workhouse or the asylum.

I made a choice that afternoon and wondered ever after if that decision set in motion the chain of events that followed. So many years ago and still the pain of pulling his body from mine stings me. If only I’d known what was in store for all of us. First love cuts the deepest, they say, and I’ve carried that scar all my life.

The arrival of the wounded officers brought new life to Waterloo House, the corridors full of tobacco smoke, the piano tinkling at all hours. Angus was busy ministering to their every need, listening to their stories, copying their lingo. Angus was useful and content, despite his disability.

At his insistence Hester had framed his discharge certificate to prove he was no malingerer. Perhaps on one of his bad days, they might unfortunately see for themselves what ailed him and that he was in no fit state to take command. But so far his health was excellent.

The arrival of the men had taken Hester’s mind from Guy’s sudden departure. They had exchanged words over the Bartley girl but for some reason he didn’t dismiss her usual objections.

‘I expect you’re right, Mother, as usual. Perhaps we’re not suited. Perhaps she is too young, but just cut it out,’ he’d barked.

He’d never used slang before and he had been downright rude, turning his back on her when she expressed her disappointment that he’d not turned up when Daphne brought over her lovely nieces, Clarice and Marianne, to play tennis.

Now he was back and for once his letters were more cheery, as if he was glad to return to the thick of it.

For the first time I met a village face in the middle of a march on the road to—. In all that mud and chaos, would you believe, there was Frank Bartley, of all people, riding out with an officer of horse. They’d been in the thick of it and he looked exhausted but cheerful. Of course we can’t fraternise but he recognised me and nodded and saluted. He wouldn’t know that I’d just come back from England…funny old world. This is the first time that it’s happened.

What did she want to know that for? What was it to her that he’d met yet another Bartley brat? Guy was changing, growing away from her, hardening. She could see more of Charles in him recently.

Hester looked around her now. It had been a good suggestion of Daphne’s to open the house. Its aspect and its gardens and the surroundings lent themselves to healing.

There was no one too hideously deformed or injured or limbless, but some of them shook for no reason at all, calling out in the middle of the night, walking in their sleep. Some took themselves off on long walks and all of them drank like fish. She got to know their families and their sweethearts, nice girls with gracious manners. Why couldn’t Guy turn his attention to girls like these, from good homes? Even Angus was taking an interest, flirting with sisters and pretty wives. It was quite endearing except when she thought of his condition.

He’ll not make much of a husband, she mused, but we’re
all doing our duty now. The war has come to my door and I have answered the call. The house is warm and provisions good, all is as it should be and yet—why do I feel a constant sense of unease? Have I done enough to keep bad fortune at bay? Surely this war can’t go on for much longer?

She would never relax her guard until Guy came home safe and for good.

Guy couldn’t believe how quickly he had settled back. It was a relief to see his company had not been disbanded. But many of the old faces had vanished and the new raw recruits needed taking in hand and firming up. They needed a constant show of his confidence but at the first stand to, the old familiar twitches and shakes had made him blush with shame. Once over the top, it was strange. There was so much to do just staying alive. Funny how the old panic seemed to evaporate when death was all around. It would be so easy to drift into danger. He couldn’t understand how calm he felt, making sure his men were safe and following orders. If he focused on them he felt no fear, if death came, it came. It was long overdue.

What troubled him most was that strange encounter with Frank Bartley on the road north of Peronne, the last person he expected to see. There had been some shelling and a group of horses had taken the brunt of it. He’d seen a lad kneeling down, watching his dead officer’s horse trapped under debris, torn by shrapnel and dying. The boy was weeping, wanting someone to put it out of its misery and Guy, being first on the scene, took his pistol and shot it.

‘Bloody Hun!’ screamed the boy. He stood motionless, pointing his finger in the direction of the guns like a statue, transfixed. That’s when Guy recognised him.

‘Frank—Frank Bartley?’ he whispered.

But the lad wasn’t moving, unable to answer or do anything but stare ahead with such hatred in his eyes. He was frozen to the spot, uncomprehending.

‘Bartley!’shouted the next officer in charge.‘Move along!’

But still the private didn’t move and Guy sensed trouble. Here was a boy at the end of his rope, ready to wander off in a dazed condition and in danger of a serious charge of disobedience. He was quick to his defence.

‘If everyone cared for their animals like this chap and showed such fury towards the enemy, we’d soon be winning the war,’ Guy offered. ‘Young Bartley here…he’s from my own village and saved my brother’s life once. Good man all round but looks to me as if he needs to stand down and rest up.’ Guy patted Frank on the shoulder.

Taking his cue from these words, the officer nodded. ‘Fall back…go and get a cup of tea then,’ he ordered. ‘Bit of a mouth on him, that one, but you’re right, he cares more for the horses than any of the other men. Melody was one of his favourites. This bloody war! No horse can fight the gun in this mud. Their days are numbered, what?’

‘You may be right there,’ Guy replied. They saluted and rode on as Frank was guided down the line for a rest, still staring back at the horse. How could he tell Selma what he had just witnessed? Frank was in big trouble, of that he was certain.

The chapel harvest supper was in full swing, tables laden with apples, pears, quinces, bowls of blackberries and fresh cream. All the vegetables dug up made a colourful display around the chapel windowsills and the smells were tempting. Sugar had been saved to make jams and chutneys. Bottles of fruit like shining jewels, ruby, gold, amber and
amethyst, lined up for the auction later, along with fresh eggs from ducks and hens. There was even a few bowls of hazelnuts and sweet chestnuts. From the mill owner, Mr Best’s, walled garden and greenhouse came plums and grapes and other exotics, which Selma eyed with longing.

She loved harvest home and a chance for a bit of a shindig with the Sunday school scholars, the last remnant of her former teaching role. There was talk of cancelling the event this year for lack of produce, and no one was in the mood for jollity, but Pastor Rathbone insisted that the Lord be honoured for His bountiful goodness.

‘Seedtime and harvest never faileth and the earth’s riches are for us to garner. We have to be grateful,’ he had said. ‘Trust in His mercy.’

Now, after the service, it was time for the supper and Mam had baked apple pies by the dozen as well as cooking potatoes in the big forge fire until they were golden and crisp. There were jugs of elderberry cordial that would warm the throats for a singsong, and Selma and her Sunday school pupils promised to provide a little entertainment; some sketches that were simple to do but funny.

She had to stay busy so as not to think too much about letting Guy down with her prudishness. How could she have been such a fool as to let him go back to war without showing him how much she loved him?

His letters still came on cue and they tried to pretend she hadn’t rebuffed him with gossip and news. He was relieved his batman, Bostock, was still safe but disappointed that he had been assigned to someone else. Then there was the intriguing note that he may have seen her brother on the road one evening. He sounded glad to be back with his men.

‘Miss…Miss, please is it time for us to do a sketch yet?’ said Polly Askew.

‘In a minute. Wait while the tables are cleared away and the auction of produce begins,’ she replied.

This was when everyone bid against each other for jars and fruit, eggs, hoping to raise a goodly sum towards The Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Comforts Fund.

Pennies, sixpences, shillings and sometimes if it was a special item, the odd ten shilling note, were bid. Even the leftover pies were offered until all that was left were bags of carrots and parsnips, a moth-eaten cauliflower or two and bags of windfall cooking apples.

Every year it was the same familiar routine, war or no war, and that was a comfort somehow.

Selma borrowed a sheet and a lantern and then dimmed the gaslights from the schoolroom to create a shadow picture behind a white screen.

‘Doctor, Doctor, my throat hurts.’ Polly Askew went behind the sheet to be examined and Selma opened up her mouth and pulled out a hairbrush, throwing it over the curtain for the audience to see. Out came Polly: ‘That feels better.’ Off she went and next Jimmy Cowgill stepped up on the platform behind the sheet.

‘Doctor, Doctor, my belly aches.’

‘Lie down on the bench then,’ Selma ordered, bringing out a pair of sheep shears and waving them about so everyone laughed, and then a hammer, banging it down and pulling out a line of mock sausages on a string to more laughter, and then a stick with a string, with which she pretended to sew him.

Jimmy staggered out, rubbing his stomach. ‘Eeh, that’s better!’ he said, and everyone applauded. Selma liked making
them laugh. The old ones were always the best. So they managed six little items and then Elvie Best stood up and everyone groaned. Being the mill owner’s daughter she had to have her hearing. But after a few bars of her rendition of Bless This House everyone was ready for home.

Things were hotting up again. Guy had watched the great tanks rolling forth like giant iron monsters. It was slow progress but capturing the village of Thiepval inch by inch was a start. They were making headway, the infantry had followed behind in hope of a breakthrough, but the rain and the mud swallowed up any advantage. The Germans were in no mood to retreat so it was stalemate again.

How far away home seemed now. Selma’s letters were full of harvest home and frolics. The only harvest he could see was one of torn flesh and bones, chunks of metal and machinery. His new recruits were proving a windy lot and needed chivvying into position in the observation posts.

He had tried to instil the need for foot care and gas mask training, something now routine to the veteran troops, but no one wanted to struggle to cover themselves with those old choking gas masks. He had hated feeling trapped inside such a small place, but now he had the Small Box Respirator, with hose pipes attached, round his chest and a breathing tube and eye mask. This was better, but relatively untested. Worst of all now was the continuous mud and duckboard tracks. It was like wading through thick brown gruel, up to the waist at times, a slow squelching progress and what came rising up out of its bowels was a very hell itself: bodies, helmets, limbs. Sometimes, he felt his spirit just leaching
away into a dull stupor of aching cold, a miserable depression that he knew it would be fatal to show.

Did everybody in war have a personal account of courage…courage that could be quickly spent up in conditions like these? Day by day he felt his account dwindling; soon he’d be overdrawn if he didn’t buck himself up. It was an effort to be the last man seen to duck into a dugout when the shells came over, just to prove to his men he could take it.

Tonight just putting one foot in front of the other was enough as he waded from the forward observation post. He was trying hard to find something to put his weight on, and dusk was approaching. Then he stumbled, losing most of his equipment into this brown soup, fumbling, cursing to high heaven. He ferreted around, trying to retrieve his gas mask bits when he sniffed that old familiar, peppery pineapple smell and saw the green cloud drifting in his direction.

Damn and blast, they’d sent over a gas shell and bits of his SBR were lost in the mire. ‘Gas! Gas!’ someone was shouting as he struggled away from the nauseating cloud, with so little protection. Terror of its effects forced his limbs into action, pushing through the gloop, but with each laboured breath he was feeling more wretched and floundering, knowing now that one careless slip might cost him his life. Without gas protection, he couldn’t last long.

‘Come on, sir.’ He felt himself manhandled into a dugout tunnel, through the thick gas curtain, but his throat and his eyes were burning. ‘Don’t scratch your eyes, sir, and keep coughing it out…’ Someone tied his hands to stop him tearing at his throat.

So was this it, death by stealth in the sodden mud? Not
in some heroic battle but lying in this fetid hole, struggling for breath, gasping at his burning throat, cursing like fury. This was not how it should be.

Someone was bandaging his eyes with a wet cloth to soothe them. He wanted to scream in agony but not a sound could he make as he gasped for air, utterly useless now, a burden to his men. What an example, mud-coated and writhing with not a bloody mark on him!

The journey to the clearing station was like some nightmare. His head felt as if it was going to explode and he cried out, but nothing would come. He had seen enough men die from chlorine gas, a slow lingering death. His chances were slim, even though his exposure was not long enough to kill him outright.

With each stumbling jolt through the trench, coughing and spluttering, he felt the darkness enclosing him. How could he have been so stupid as to lose part of his SBR? What a waste of all his training, to peg out for want of a breathing tube. But as he grew weaker, he sighed in resignation, thinking how death no longer seemed an agony of panic. He had no strength left to fight. It was as if he was in some strange dreamlike journey. So this is it, your time to go. Don’t fight it, give in to the bastard, he’s bigger than you.

Hester was doing her rounds like the Lady of the Lamp. She liked to see the men tucked in, and the house put to bed. Its smells had changed from garden fragrances to carbolic Lysol, a hospital smell. How eight men could make so much work and smoke so much tobacco and make so much noise was beyond her.

They came in quiet enough, subdued, full of their
ailments but day by day got stronger, noisier and more demanding, with loud patrician voices calling for their batmen and orderlies, and Angus scuttling around at their beck and call.