Remembrance Day (8 page)

Essie tried to keep herself away from tittle-tattle. If they talked about others, they’d talk about you behind your back, she’d worked that out long ago. Better to keep private stuff in the family, and if it made her seem standoffish then so be it.

She was walking up the street when she saw Coleford approaching Prospect Row. Her heart began to thud as he moved closer to their houses. Who was it this time? Jack Plimmer from the Hart’s Head?

She scurried home, trying not to look where Coleford was going as she overtook him. He parked his bicycle by the stone wall and bent over to tie his shoe lace and smiled. Phew! Another false alarm. Praise the Lord!

She made for the snicket at the side of the cottage to let herself in the back door, leaving the gate open, and then she turned to see the old man hovering behind her holding an official brown envelope in his hand. The look on his face said it all. She cranked up a grimace of a smile as if he might perhaps move on to another door. Perhaps he didn’t have the right address. But she knew, deep in her gut she knew the envelope was for them.

‘Mrs Bartley,’ he whispered.

‘Aye, it’s our turn then,’ was all she could manage as she turned her back on him and made for the safety of her kitchen. Her hands were shaking and wouldn’t open the door properly. The envelope lay burning a hole in the table for hours until Asa came in. She nodded in its direction, unable to speak. He wiped his hands and tore the envelope, read the page, looked up at her shaking his head as if
all the sorrows of the world were contained in those sad eyes.

‘He’s gone missing. Our Newton’s missing, presumed killed.’ He sat down, his head in his hands. ‘I don’t understand. We had a letter only the other day. My son…’

Asa walked back to his workshop, his shoulders bowed. Essie walked down the path to the open gate and out onto the lane and stared up at the green hills. How could her son be lost and her not know it? How could her lovely lad be so far away from her and she not sense he’d gone from her? While she was sitting, chattering away, he was lying somewhere, unseeing. They got things wrong sometimes, she thought. She would not close the front room curtains yet a while…not until the others knew. How on earth was she going to tell Selma?

Selma couldn’t believe she’d never see her brother again. He was only missing in action, Mam said. There was hope, however small. So at first she refused to go into black clothes. Frank was not even allowed home from France on compassionate leave. Perhaps he knew more than he was letting on, but he was in the north somewhere far away from Newt’s regiment. She managed to go to school in a dream, trying not to show her true feelings. Children didn’t want to see suffering faces. Her brother, said the pastor, was in a better place now. Dad nodded but said nothing as neighbours called with their little gifts of kindness: buns, pastries and vegetables. As if any of them wanted to eat at such a time. Everything stuck like pebbles in her throat. Mam just stared at Newton’s portrait and insisted the gate be kept open at the back just in case.‘You never know…he might be trying to find his way home,’ she kept whispering.

But it was Archie Spensley’s letter a week later that shattered all their illusions.

Dear family,

I am sad to have to write to you that your son and my dear friend, Newton, is no more. We chummed up straight away in Halifax and he was highly regarded as a conscientious worker and a good Christian. I shall miss his cheery company. We are greatly troubled by enemy fire in this district, which damaged our guns with shells and fragments. Your son was going forward to do a repair. There was another bombardment and I never saw him again. Be assured he would not have suffered and would want you to know you were ever in his thoughts.

May God bless all of you in your darkest hour, may He show you every mercy.

Yours sincerely,

Private Archibald Spensley

Suddenly, Selma’s parents looked old, weary and bent with sorrow. If only there was something she could do to lighten their load. Without the boys’ help Dad was sinking under a pile of unfinished orders. If only Frank could be made to come home like Angus Cantrell, who was hanging about the Hart’s Head like a knotless thread. She knew Guy was anxious to hear if she’d seen him but she was no tale-teller and said nothing to worry him.

Angus looked able-bodied enough to give a helping hand if he had a mind to it but such an impertinent request was out of the question. Lady Hester would never condone such lowly employment.

They held a simple memorial service and sang Newton’s favourite hymn, ‘Who would true valour see, Let him come hither’. She tried to sing but the words collapsed in her throat. She didn’t hear the pastor’s oration. She was living in a sort of dream. It wasn’t real because they had no body to bury, just a flag draped around the portrait he’d had taken in his uniform when he first volunteered. There were only old men and Angus Cantrell and his mother. He looked so like his brother and her heart ached at the sight of his tall frame and broad shoulders. Those who had already lost sons shielded her parents with loving concern. They had been admitted to a club whose entrance fee was young blood; a club no one wanted to join.

How hard it was for women to sit on the sidelines watching their loved ones fall down like skittles. Then, in the stillness of the chapel, an idea came into Selma’s head—an arrow-sharp idea.

If men were absent then the women must do their work—not just the easy stuff, but the hard stuff too, the heavy jobs, the dangerous skills. It was the least they could do. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

‘Don’t be silly, you can’t be a blacksmith! It’s heavy work,’ said her father on hearing her bright idea the next day.

‘Why not? I can help, hold things steady, I can learn. I’ve watched enough times,’ Selma argued as she and her parents sat hugging the fire.

‘But what about your schooling? We signed for you to be a teaching assistant…’

‘This is wartime. I’m needed at home. Dad needs someone by his side to run errands. We might find a young
boy to train up until Frank comes back, but in the meantime it’s what Newt would want me to do,’ Selma added.

Asa stared into the fire, scratching his head. ‘Who’s put this idea in your head? Not you, Essie?’

‘Nowt to do with me. She’s thought this one up herself. It’s not women’s work but someone has to do it, I suppose.’

‘Neither is ploughing or making shells or driving steam engines, but there are girls out there doing that. I’ll give it a go…I’m strong,’ Selma said, sensing their opposition weakening.

‘I don’t know, love. What’ll folk say of me, letting you hammer out their metalwork?’

‘They’ll not bother as long as their stuff is repaired. You can’t do everything yourself. It’s worth a try. I haven’t settled to sitting in school all day. It’s not right. Not now.’

‘But your hands…there’s splashes and it’s dangerous.’

‘I know you’ll show me the right way to go about things. I can wear leather gloves and an apron.’

‘It’s a big step and a sacrifice,’ Mam sighed.

‘But it’s nothing to the sacrifice Newton’s had to make,’ Selma replied.

They fell silent. There was no answering that.

Guy hung over the side of the troopship watching Southampton fading into the distance Their embarkation procedure had taken ages. The big push was rumoured to be beginning. There were rumours of a sea battle too but he’d taken comfort from seeing the destroyer forging through the waves ahead of them, leading them southwards towards the French coast.

It was hard not to feel excited to be going abroad at long last, though guilty that he was leaving his family behind in the throes of despair. Angus had not written a word to him about his mysterious discharge but he had had a long explanation from Mother about how the doctor in Harley Street had prescribed heavy sedation, and how Angus must be monitored. She was fussing over her son and Angus was no doubt hating every minute of it, but at least he had a part-time job in the school.

Guy could sense, in the lack of letters, his brother’s resentment and fury that he was thwarted by these fits while Guy was now free to pursue his career unhindered. But he promised himself that he would write to Angus as much detail as he could so he could share this experience, even if second-hand, every step of the way.

Selma’s sad letter also disturbed him with news of Newton’s death and her decision to go into the forge—as an apprentice, of all things. In truth, he was a little shocked at such drastic action. How could a slip of a girl do such heavy work? Surely it was no place for a woman, but she seemed determined to settle down and make the best of it. What a wonderful girl she was: brave, determined; admirable in every way.

Nearly two years of war and still no end in sight. If the rumour mill was to be believed, things were going to hot up soon to shake the stalemate in the northern trenches and his troops were going to be part of some great push forward so he couldn’t wait to be in the thick of it. The Yorkshires had trained for just such a battle and he felt proud to be leading his men. The sooner they shunted the Hun eastwards, the sooner he could get back and sort out things with Angus. Selma’s other brother would relieve her and they would all get on with their normal lives.

The funny thing was that life in the regiment now seemed his normal life and it was just like school in so many ways, with its traditions and its rules; a world within another world, running on its own tramlines…

Now all their training was going to be tested in the heat of battle. He only hoped his courage wouldn’t fail when push came to shove.

‘Lieutenant Cantrell, sir.’ His reverie was interrupted by a saluting NCO. ‘Trouble in the hold, sir. Young Bostock’s gone berserk, sir. He’s in a right state…says he’ll never see his kiddies again and that we’re all going to go west.’

The last thing they needed was someone putting the wind up the troops, Guy thought.

‘Bring him up into the fresh air and I’ll have a word.’
Private Bostock was an orderly, a useful chap, not usually a worry guts, and it was not like him to be in a panic.

Minutes later, the private was marched before him, saluting and looking flustered.

‘What’s going on? Didn’t expect you to get the wind up!’ Guy tried to look stern though the man’s distress was obvious.

‘I hate water, sir. I can’t stand the rocking and rolling. I’m a dalesman. The sea puts the fear of God in me, sir…get a bad feeling inside. Makes me legs go funny, dizzy, like, and I see things,’ said the private, trying not to shake.

‘What things?’ Guy demanded.

‘I looked round at my mates, sir. I got a bad feeling…None of us’ll make it back. They were in the ground in pieces…it was like Hell. None of us will make it back home in one piece…’

‘Enough of this! We can’t have you mouthing this sort of funk. It’s bad for morale. Nerves are a funny thing. If you’ve time to get so worked up about nothing then you can do a job for me on deck. I want all this list checked over, every item ticked and when you’ve done it once you can do it again. See to it right away!’

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

‘Dismissed.’ Guy hoped he’d done the right thing. Separating a doom-and-gloom merchant from the others was essential. Morale was everything, and his own job was to instil confidence and trust, even if Bostock’s words had chilled his own blood. Was he right? Would any of them ever see Southampton dock again?

Another market day again, and there was a queue of traps drawn by horses to be shod. It was Selma’s job to make a list and see that they were attended to in turn. The fire had
been lit early and needed watching; she was getting used to the acrid smoke, the heat and the routine now. But there was still so much to learn, stuff she’d never noticed before. And how her shoulders ached at the end of the day. But this morning, she dared to put on a pair of Frank’s old work breeches, thick wool drabs that fell down almost to her ankles. Skirts were too dangerous and cumbersome. But what would her father say?

Girls who wore trousers were considered fast a few years ago. Surely war had put an end to that. ‘I hope Dad’ll not be shocked by my new costume?’ she had whispered to her mother, blushing.

‘To the pure, all things are pure. There’s no shame in sensible clothing as long as you don’t make a habit of it outside,’ Essie had replied

Asa never even noticed her new garb. He was too busy getting ready to receive one of Pateley’s horses; a right sparky stallion.

‘Now don’t get windy of this beast. He’ll sense you’re new to the job and try it on. We’ll put a rope round his neck and bring in Mam to put a rope round the back legs so the fetlocks are drawn in…He’ll soon go down and know who is boss in here, and while we’re at it I want all the tools to hand and then when job’s done you’ll get on with making stamps to mark the sheep horns…Oh, and there’s a horse coming in that’s knock-kneed and needs special shoes. How are we off for Stockton Tar?’

Selma sighed. ‘It’s on the shelf. There’s a tin of salve, half full,’ she said. It was going to be another long day.

After a few weeks the novelty of sacrificing her career had faded into the grim reality of life as a blacksmith’s
apprentice. Even she had to admit she didn’t have the physical strength and, willing as she was, there was so much lifting and dunking and hammering and setting. Her muscles were hardening under the regular strain of this daily grind and she was constantly hungry.

None of them had any appetite for weeks after the news of Newton’s death, but gradually life went on, and other casualties were lost and black clothes became as common as closed curtains at the windows and memorial services in the chapel. There was not a single cottage spared some tragic news. The vicar lost his son and he and his wife went into deep mourning like the rest.

There was shock at first that a young woman would do such a job, important as it was, but there had been women blacksmiths before, usually widows who carried on their husbands’ work with help. Soon enough, when the farmers came into the forge they ignored Selma as if she wasn’t hovering holding reins, massaging nervous horses, her hair piled up high under a makeshift tea cosy of a hat with just a few straggles remaining visible. She looked like any small farmer’s boy.

Marigold had stared at her with pity and horror the other day. ‘You’ve ruined your figure and those hands. You must be mad to give up teaching for this! You’d never catch me…’ Marigold was good at shooting off with her mouth and thinking afterwards. She’d soon forgotten her flirtation with Newt and was now writing to a boy from Sowerthwaite who’d taken her fancy.

Selma didn’t mind what people thought, knowing Newton would be proud of her efforts. Frank wrote scrappy letters about being in charge of some officers’ horses in the cavalry. She’d hoped he’d ask to be returned home but that
wasn’t going to happen now so she’d just better get on with the job and try not to make a hash of it.

The only joy of her week was when Guy’s letters plopped on the doormat. He wrote pages of news about his life. They were exercising by the coast and once he’d sent her a postcard of Rouen Cathedral. He had a way of describing his men and their funny antics that made her laugh out loud. How the little orderly Bostock had become his batman and how he could read teacups like a woman, but still lost all his pay playing cards. She was glad he couldn’t see her looking such a scruff but this was her uniform now.

Then sometimes she’d catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the dressing table and see the state of her dishevelled hair and the iron dust ingrained on her cheeks, and she’d want to cry. How sick she was of this war and what it was doing to people all over the country. A brave face was expected, even if it was getting harder to pin it on each day.

Her father was snappy to work with, silent, lost in his tasks. Sometimes, he barked orders at her as if she should know already what was expected. When she didn’t drill the square hole to the exact measurement, he snatched it off her to do it himself, making it plain she was a poor substitute for his son.

She cursed Frank for shirking his duty even though she knew he was only doing service as he thought fit. It was all so confusing. Everything was upside down, and she was afraid.

They were so cut off in the village. News, when it came, was days late and they only had the local newspaper accounts to rely on. They were filled with noises of far-off sea battles, of gallant local boys fighting on the front. But the sad lists
told another story that didn’t add up to all this talk of victory. No one really knew what was happening out there and even Guy was careful how he phrased things. He’d had his first taste of battle and being under fire, and his pencil-scribbled words were sobering.

We are going through the mincer, a hundred of my men gone west already and not much to show for it, I’m afraid. I have to write these ghastly letters to mothers who will hate me for ever for giving them such terrible news. We spend days on the march, while in the distance great shells are blasting some other poor chaps to smithereens. It is hard to believe it is spring with fields full of blossom to the rear. Then as you get near to the front everything is blasted into a brown soup of mud and sludge, broken-off trees and ruined billets, where we smoke and chat, enjoying the peace and quiet until another great blast from the German guns sends us running for cover like the huge rats we see everywhere.

I am so filthy, with a host of living creatures taking residence in the seams of my jackets and trousers. Bostock is doing his best to keep me half decent, nicking them off with a lighted candle. Mother would disown me if she saw the state of me, but mud is a great leveller and I am no better than the men I serve, a hardy loyal bunch of chaps. I have to inspect their feet each evening and make them change their socks or their toes will get in the most appalling mess. So keep the ladies of West Sharland knitting socks. When it is really wet afoot I wear three or four pairs at a time.

When night falls it gives me pleasure to look up at the stars to relive those rides out over the Ridge in the sunshine together with old Jemima, knowing that nothing can now touch our green and pleasant land if we stand firm. It makes me feel a bit mushy at times to think of such beauty in this awful terrain.

Be brave, little friend, and keep your letters coming. I laughed thinking about how Elvie Best sang a whole solo out of tune at your Brave Belgium Funds Concert and everyone trying not to laugh and clapping to get her off stage and she thinking she was wanted for an encore and you having to suffer it all over again. You and all you stand for are what keeps me sane.

Your dearest friend, Guy

Selma shared his letters with no one. They were a precious link with his terrible world. Every night she looked up at the night sky, trying to imagine Guy in his trench, pacing the duckboards, shepherding his troops, sitting curled up writing to her, thinking about her and looking up at the same stars. His letters gave her the strength to suffer her father’s frustration and bad temper.

‘Pull yourself together, Bartley,’ she said. ‘You’ve got it easy. Go and do your duty and stop moaning. You must fight your war with a hammer and anvil, not a rifle. So go to it.

Hester had to admit having Angus at home wasn’t quite the joy she had hoped for. It wasn’t as if he didn’t get up to do his drilling stint at Sharland School with cool efficiency. He took no prisoners, according to the head’s wife, Maud. He would stand no indiscipline in the ranks or
sloppy marching. But they were boys, not troops, and sometimes he bawled them out in such a rage that he was becoming very unpopular and there were complaints from parents.

Not ever being part of the farmers’ boys or the village lads, he was trying hard to mix and had started to frequent the Hart’s Head, giving them his opinions on how the war was faring and how it should be won. He’d got into a fight one evening when the publican’s son, Jack Plimmer, back on leave, told him to shut up and put his money where his mouth was, that he was sick of armchair soldiers who never even crossed the Channel…There’d been a scrap and Angus had been banned for causing a fracas.

Angus was becoming like a bear with a sore head when Guy’s letters arrived; reading them and then tossing them away. ‘It’s not fair. I’m a useless ornament stuck here!’ The more upset he got the more frequent were his fitting episodes, and Dr Mac was summoned to give him sedation.

‘Yon laddie’s just feeling sorry for himself. Find him some tough work to keep his mind from all this self-pitying. He’ll find a way through. God gives the back for the burden. Just give him time.’

That did not go down well with either of them, but Hester set him to garden tasks. Then she sent him down to Charles, to the flat in London, but the colonel was preparing to go north with Lord Kitchener on some hush-hush task and didn’t give the boy much time. Angus came back even more miserable than before and considerably more restless. He’d even reapplied for another medical, only to be discharged once more.

Hester confided her worries to Violet Hunt, who since Arnold’s death had shrunk into an old woman overnight.
Only her duty at the Women’s Institute meetings and her Sunday school teaching had kept her from total collapse. It was pitiable to see such a strong woman brought so low, making Hester feel how lucky she was to have even one of her sons close but things could not go on. If only there was something they could do.