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‘We have singsongs too but no card playing…we don’t hold with gambling,’ she answered, not telling him that they never imbibed alcohol either. ‘Have fun then.’
‘Merry Christmas, Selima,’ Guy replied, raising his cap as he marched off.
She felt a glow of pride that he’d remembered her proper name. Guy was as warm as his brother was cool, sick or not. It was as if he saw her as a friend, an equal. Confusion and excitement fluttered in her chest as if butterflies were let loose from a cage.
Their families lived in separate worlds even within a small village, sectioned off by a high stone wall and beech hedge, but Christmas was a special time, she smiled, a time of goodwill to all men, rich or poor, high or low. Was it possible that their two worlds might meet again? One thing was certain: she wanted to see Guy on horseback in his hunting dress.
Suddenly her reverie was halted by a sharp dig in the back from a passer-by.
‘What were you hobnobbing with those two toffs about?’
Selma spun round to see the pinched face of Marigold Plimmer pursing her lips into a sneer. ‘Never you mind!’ Selma whispered back.
‘Be like that but don’t think you’ll get any favours from that quarter. My mum says one of them’s gone daft in the head. Had a fit in the school yard, or so Tilly Foster said. She works in the canteen and saw it all—well, one of her mates did. Just shows money can’t buy you everything. It’s only fair they should have some bad luck as well as us, isn’t it?’
‘That’s sad,’ murmured Selma. No wonder Angus looked so blank. ‘His mother must be so worried.’
‘Who, that stuck-up cow? Lady Muck of Waterloo? Serves her right. You should see her in church. Comes in through a side door just before the service, all dolled up with a thick veil like curtains round her head so she don’t have to look at us. Then leaves the same way as soon as the organ strikes up at the end. I pity them boys. She’ll not let them far off the leash. My mum got it off her that works in the kitchen that she—’
‘Oh, there’s Mam. I’ve got to go. See you on the bus!’
Selma couldn’t wait to get away from Marie’s gossiping. She didn’t care for all that backbiting. Poor Guy and his brother—no wonder he looked tired and glassy-eyed. Her little brother, Dawson, had fitted badly when his temperature went sky high and never came down, all those years ago. They’d tried to soak him with ice water from the slate tank in the yard and then piled on blankets to sweat it out of him but his heart was too weak, the doctor had said. Why did Marigold have to remind her of such sad memories?
Selma stood looking up to the grey-white hills rising above the town, sparkling with ice, and the trees dusted with air frost. How beautiful it looked at dusk. In two days it would be Christmas morning and they would be singing ‘Joy to the World’ around the village green. So no more sad thoughts when there was so much to look forward to. Mam was waving at her now to get in the queue. Time to go home.
On Christmas morning the wind would carry the sound of bells into every household, thought Essie, waking at dawn with excitement long before the peals filled the air with promise. This was the day for singing and feasting. However humble they were, each family managed some cheer at their fireside and kept good company together.
Essie had packed each stocking with love: a shilling, an orange, a bar of chocolate and some walnuts to crack, knitted socks for the boys, and a new scarf and beret for Selma, with some sweet-smelling lavender sachets for her pocket. How she wished she could do more than just these little tokens, but they were going to have a fine feast with all the trimmings later; plum pudding and a traditional dish of frumenty, fresh creamed wheat in a bowl and mince pies to share with visitors.
Tomorrow Ruth would bring treats from Bradford. She had been in service and married a wool sorter’s apprentice who had done well in the trade and set them up comfortably. Sadly there were no little ones so Essie’s own children were at the receiving end of much kindness. Not that they were short of anything this year.
Only two days ago she had laid out old Mrs Marshall, who had died in her sleep, well prepared with her best nightdress and pennies ready in the top drawer.
There was an art to laying out the dead with dignity and pride, plugging places that might leak, washing and dressing the body, tying the chin with a bandage, combing hair and changing all their linen for the first viewings.
Mrs Marshall was a good sort, plain spoken but kindly, and would be missed at the weekly Women’s Bright Hour. Her son and widower were pleased and had left Essie two florins on the dresser for her willing services, a thank you that had come in useful in buying little extras for the coming days.
It was not that Asa made a poor living, but with the rent and their everyday expenses, the budget was always tight. Growing boys needed good boots and strong breeches and shirts. She was trying to save for Selma to have some fresh skirts and blouses for her new post as a pupil teacher assistant, and it was time she wore a good corset to hold her firm. They were blessed with work and not want.
As she crept down the dark stairs with a lamp she smiled at all the little trimmings Selma had dotted about the cottage, evergreen branches, winter berries, a kissing bough of holly hung from the kitchen. They didn’t go in for decorated trees because Asa said they were pagan and killing perfectly good shelter for winter birds wasn’t on, but he did light one candle at the window on Christmas Eve as a symbol of guidance to those who lived in dark ignorance.
Asa was a good husband and one who didn’t put his religion away with his Sunday suit like so many she could mention. He was strict and fair and honest to the point of being a stickler. Only last week he had refused thirty shillings for a piece of wrought iron work that had taken him hours of reshaping and finishing. ‘Give me twenty-nine shillings, Alf,’ he’d said. ‘Never let it be said that I sold this for thirty pieces of silver. The Lord was betrayed for just that sum.’ How could you not love such a man?
Now the front parlour smelled of elbow grease and beeswax polish, the pine needles added a rich tincture and the fire was laid and ready. They had roasted the joint overnight slowly, wrapped in greaseproof and cloth so it would fall apart and go further cold for Ruth’s visit.
Every surface was cleaned and tidied, the best rag rug down and white linen cloth ready to receive the feast. Their boots were lined up for the Christmas procession they called the waits. Even she was not too old to feel a thrill on such a joyful morning.
Soon the children were stumbling bleary-eyed into the dawn light.
‘Rise and shine! We shall stir the hearts of West Sharland with our songs of praise this merry morning.’ Asa was wide awake, chivvying up his sons to wash and shave while Essie shoved hot porridge from the stove into bowls for them all. No one was going out on an empty stomach in this chill.
‘Do we have to?’ moaned Newt, who liked his lie abed.
‘Faith before feasting, son! How can we honour the day without honouring Him first?’ There was no arguing with Asa when it came to what was right and proper.
By the time they picked their way across the cobbled square there was a small crowd huffing and puffing, stamping their clogs; the faithful brigade of chapel stalwarts wrapped against the cold with caps, shawls and bonnets on their heads. Men in hobnail boots and hats holding baskets of hymn sheets, children, muffled with hoods, skating on icy flags.
The last to arrive was Mr Best from the mill, in his carriage with his son and daughter and a line of servants walking behind, looking pinched underneath their best cloaks. Harold Fothergill flourished his trumpet and the sober remnants of the village silver band gathered in a huddle. The drummer strapped on his instrument ready to lead the proceedings. They were ready for the off but not before a prayer.
‘All present and correct,’ shouted the pastor, raising his hat. Only the old and infirm were exempt from this morning’s witness.
‘Hurry up, I’m freezing!’ yelled Frank, laughing. ‘What’s the first hymn?’
‘As it always is,’ Newt replied. ‘“Christians, awake” followed by “Hail, smiling morn”.’
‘That’ll wake the dead then,’ quipped Selma.
‘If we’re awake and doing, I don’t see why those still in their beds should slumber on,’ said the choirmaster. ‘I want full throttle.’
There was a drum roll, a tuning up of the large euphonium and the procession stood to attention as the bass drum banged out the start of their parade. Everyone tried to stay in tune and on time but they kept parting company and stopping so stragglers could catch up as they stormed round the village green, past the church and through the side streets before back to the square.
‘Christians, awake, salute the happy morn…’ rang out in the frosty air loud enough to wake the dead in the churchyard; ‘O come, all ye faithful’ and ‘Once in royal David’s city’. A few curtains twitched and then a head appeared from behind the shutters of the Hart’s Head. An irate Charlie Plimmer was yelling his protest as he chucked the contents of his chamber pot out the window in their direction.
‘Shut that bloody racket! Can’t a man get a decent night’s sleep without you caterwauling?’
‘And a Merry Christmas to you and yours, Mr Plimmer…’ The minister raised his hat and everyone cheered.
Essie smiled as they carried on singing until they were hoarse, standing under the elm tree that shaded both teetotallers and hard drinkers alike of a sunny evening. ‘Who needs John Barleycorn to lift spirits on such a day?’ whispered Asa, slipping his arm into hers. Essie smiled and patted his hand, her dark eyes flashing mischief.
‘That was a good sing-along. We got in first before the church bells,’said the minister.‘Time for a slice of Christmas pie in the chapel room.’
Essie stood admiring the grey stone building, proud to see her family name, Ackroyd, carved into one of the foundation stones. We’re built to last, she thought, looking at her bonny children growing into fine specimens. One day they would be leading the faithful in this age-old tradition.
The pastor handed small books to the children, full of terrible tales of poor little Eva who waited in the snow for her father to come out of the public house, dying with fever and bringing him to sign the pledge of her dying wish, alongside decorated biscuits. They sipped cups of tea with relish; glad of the warmth on their fingers.
Essie smiled, thinking she had brewed up her Christmas cordial from hedge berries; blackberries and elderberries, rosehips all steeped in sugar for weeks on end; all the goodness of God’s earth in a stone jar. Asa, Ruth and her husband, Sam, would wolf it down and complain of a puzzling funny headache in the morning. Essie was sure it must be the extra sweetness of the juice, but what if the fermentation was too strong? Perhaps it was better not to know. She was sure the Lord, who turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana, would not begrudge a little laxity on His birthday.
‘You don’t really believe there’ll be war, do you, Charles?’ Hester asked her husband, pressing her damask linen napkin to her lips, her grey eyes full of concern.
‘Of course there will,’ Colonel Cantrell snapped. ‘Why do you think I’m setting up a Rifle Association in our bottom field for the local men to sharpen up their musketry and drills? Got to get ’em up to scratch, and the Territorials too. It’s been coming for years. The Kaiser and his henchmen do nothing but boast about their navy. One of these days he’ll want to pit it against us British, Lord Kitchener was reminding us only the other day,’ he replied, wiping his waxed moustache.
‘But what about the twins?’ she countered. Her sons were now past their sixteenth birthday.
‘Just the sort of trustworthy leaders of men the army will want. Officer cadet training is first class for stiffening the backbone.’
‘But you heard what those doctors said about Angus. He’s had two fits in the past few months. That blessed jump from the Foss is to blame, I’m sure.’
‘He looks A1 to me; nothing a bit of drilling won’t cure. Guy keeps an eye on him. They’ll both make excellent officers.’
‘But they’re hardly out of short trousers.’
‘Don’t fuss, woman. Boys grow up fast these days, and when the time comes they’ll want to do their duty for King and Country.’
‘Not at sixteen, they won’t…You mustn’t let them do anything stupid, Charles,’ she pleaded, stabbing the air with her cake fork.
‘Huh! If every woman took your attitude, why bother with an army? We could just invite Kaiser Bill over the Channel to occupy us. Pass the cheeseboard and stop wittering.You’ll make a baby of Angus with all those hospital appointments and rest cures.’
‘Now who’s being unrealistic? Who’ll have rest cures if there’s a war on? I think he should be tutored privately for the meantime, away from all that activity they go in for at Sharland School.’
‘And I think you should go back to your tapestry and get things in proportion. I don’t want my son raised as a spineless sissy. He’s been bred to be tough and a skilled marksman.’ Charles rose, grabbing the port decanter and heading for his library without a backward glance. Hester sighed and rang the bell for Shorrocks to clear away the debris of their supper.
There was no talking to Charles when he was in one of his belligerent moods, his eyes bright with too much Christmas fare and wine. Better to let him doze off his bad temper alone. When the boys came in from their party, he’d be back to his old self. His eyes lit up with pride when he saw them together.
Poor man had journeyed north for a break from war talk and planning; all he wanted was his paper, a good book and plenty to smoke and drink. He’d taken the boys out for long hikes. A house full of men could be lonely for a mother at times, however much they gave her loving presents and praise. Sometimes she sensed he was relieved she was out of his hair in London, glad she was up north so he could keep his own hours in peace.
She had bred him sons, however late in life, ensuring the family name into the next generation. Her duty was done. He slept in the dressing room in the single bed most nights—his snoring would upset her, he apologised—hardly bothering her with any physical affection. She guessed he was getting that elsewhere. He hadn’t meant to hurt her but his indifference and short fuse stung just the same.
They had had the usual Christmas ceremonies: church at midnight, a delightful Christmas tree in the hall, a long walk after an enormous luncheon, lots of visitors bringing gifts and gossip. The house was trimmed discreetly with holly and ivy, berried garlands up the spiral staircase. There was even a dusting of snow like a Christmas card scene on Christmas morning. The vicar had complained over mulled wine about the chapel rowdies waking them at dawn.
‘I can’t bear religious enthusiasts,’ Charles sympathised. ‘But I suppose we ought to be grateful that our local workers are singing from a hymn sheet rather than a striker’s ballot paper.’ They all laughed.
She’d bought the boys new dinner suits and they looked so handsome together, so grown up. They could pass for eighteen, they were so tall and strong. It was alarming.
What if war came? Should she go to London or stay here? Her place was close to her boys and the village where she would be expected to take some leadership in parochial matters. She would see that no son of hers would be allowed to slip underage into the forces, cadet or not! Plenty of time for them to enlist should such a time come.
Oh, why did such thoughts have to sour their festivities? Charles’s warning, like Angus’s recent fits, hung heavy on her heart. Surely the Royal Navy would make enough noise to see off the Kaiser’s affectations? Suddenly she was not looking forward to 1914.
Guy and Angus joined the crowd gathered in Elm Tree Square outside the Hart’s Head for the traditional send-off to the Boxing Day meet. The snow had come to nothing and the ground was sure enough for a full hunt. Hounds were wagging their tails ready for the off, horses snorting breath and dumping manure for the allotment holders already waiting with buckets at the ready. A crowd of spectators and followers were assembled on the pavement, watching the colourful spectacle of masters in their scarlet coats, ladies in veiled black top hats and riding habits, younger riders in tweed hacking jackets and jodhpurs circling round with their ponies; a magnificent turnout. It was going to be a brilliant meet.
Guy’s eyes searched through the crowd to see if Selma Bartley had bothered to see them off but the door of the forge was shut, with no sign of life from the cottage. Perhaps they were visiting or out walking, as was the custom in the village on this holiday.
He’d never been interested in girls before. It wasn’t encouraged even to flirt with the maids in school. There were careful articles in his Boys’ Herald about gentlemanly behaviour towards the weaker sex and such rot. He just thought it was a shame that boys and girls couldn’t be friends, brothers and sisters, and equals. Why couldn’t you talk to a girl without sniggers from chums? Funny, though, when he looked at Selma, all he saw were those huge chocolate-brown eyes and smiling face, and how her wet shirt clung to her body when she had stood out of the beck after the accident. A strange yearning churned him up inside at the memory.
It was not as if he didn’t meet pretty girls at the family gatherings, girls all buttoned up with frills and ruffles, and simpering glances in his direction.
Selma was different, full of life and fun. He’d once watched her leap onto one of the horses grazing in the paddock waiting to be shod. She would make a fearless horsewoman, confident and yet gentle at the same time. That talent was innate; riding skills could be taught but not that sense of oneness with your mount. The Bartley boys too were skilled with the farm horses, leading the huge beasts, checking their forelocks, calming them down. It was a pity that none of them had the use of a horse to exercise.
Perhaps it was that tomboy bit of Selma he was attracted to. How he’d love to lend her Jemima, Mother’s chestnut, which she hardly rode, but he knew it wouldn’t be proper to single her out. The Bartleys and Cantrells didn’t mix socially and it would be taken amiss if they did. Pity, he sighed as he searched the crowd again. Riding high it was so easy to look down on villagers as if you were somehow above them.
Then he saw her watching him from the corner of Prospect Row, almost hidden. She was wearing a bright scarlet beret and scarf over her usual winter coat. He gave a short wave so as not to embarrass her and she smiled back mouthing ‘Good luck’. How he wished he could ask her to come and join them. Now the landlord was carrying a tray full of stirrup cups. Soon the hunting horn would round up the stragglers for the off; the hounds were champing for the chase.
Guy had promised his mother to keep an eye on Angus, but he was already ahead with Father in his scarlet jacket. Angus got very stroppy if he thought they were mollycoddling him and refused to discuss his last fit in the school changing rooms.
Guy took one final look but Selma had disappeared. It was sad that there were two villages in Sharland divided by an invisible bridge. On one side were the House and church, the vicarage, the public school and the gentleman farmers’ estates, on the other side were millworkers’ cottages, the chapel and board school and quarrymen’s houses. Once a year they met on the cricket pitch and sometimes in the Hart’s Head, and that was about it.
As he trotted down towards the river bridge and fields ahead, he thought how it was just like himself and Selma…all they could ever do was smile and wave across the yawning divide.
I smile thinking of those horses clattering off from Elm Tree Square all those years ago. Horses…horses, always horses close to my heart. I’d watched the Boxing Day meets since I was nobbut a child, little knowing this would be the last gathering before war came and things were never the same. Besides, how do you ever forget the day you first fell in love?
I can see him now resplendent in jodhpurs and hard hat on his mount, giving me that precious grin of recognition and, with it, a spark of knowing flashing between us. How innocent were those stolen glances but how I hugged them to myselffor months on end. How I longed to be riding alongside Guy Cantrell as an equal, but knowing this was not how things would ever be in our staid Yorkshire village. The next time we met on horseback, the world was entirely changed…
Come on, old girl, concentrate, back to the ceremony. Will that young version of Guy turn up somewhere on the fringes of my vision if I’m patient?
One of the secrets of old age is the people you see that others do not: those long departed gathering in the corners, waiting to welcome you home. But not just yet.
The ceremony’s hardly begun but I can still hear hoofs on the trot and remember that awful day they took all our horses to war…
4 (#ulink_b55461e3-b8df-5636-92df-59f347dab0ce)
August 1914
‘They can’t take all the horses away! They just can’t!’ cried Selma, watching the men in khaki leading a line of them roped together like prisoners across the square. ‘Dad! Stop them!’
Asa shrugged his shoulders and sucked on his pipe, shaking his head. ‘They’ll be well looked after if they’re doing war work. Don’t take on so. The country needs them.’
‘But there’s Sybil’s pony!’ She pointed out a sturdy grey belonging to her school friend. ‘How can the farmers manage without them? You will have no shoeing…’ Selma turned indoors, unable to watch this terrible procession, hardly believing what was happening.
In just a few weeks since the Bank Holiday war had been declared, everything was topsy-turvy in the village. The Rifle Association had taken over Colonel Cantrell’s bottom field for target practice, there were posters everywhere demanding citizens be on guard for German spies. The railway line was patrolled day and night. The Territorials were making preparations to leave from Sowerthwaite station.
Poor Mr Jerome, the old German photographer, had had his windows smashed and his equipment taken in case he was in league with the enemy. All the talk in school was about the wicked Hun stealing poor little Belgium.
Now the district had to yield up a quota of serviceable animals: hunters, cart horses and drayhorses, ponies. How could the milkman manage without Barney, or Stamper, the coalman’s steady Dales horse? They were taking all the beasts she’d known all her life down the road and across the sea to a foreign land. They would be so bewildered and scared. Selma was sobbing as Essie tried to comfort her.
‘They’re not all gone. Don’t fret. Lady Hester’s hunter is still in the barn out of the way. It was a good job she was being shoed here but I expect she’ll go with Master Guy or Angus before long.’
Selma wept over these dumb beasts that had no say in their fate. Next it would be her brothers and the boys who stood at the notice board regarding Lord Kitchener’s big poster: ‘Your Country Needs You’, his finger pointing accusingly towards her. Well, he wasn’t having any of her family. They were blacksmiths and farriers; important trades that kept the farm machines at work. Men could volunteer but her dad would have more sense and her brothers were too young. They knew nothing about fighting wars.
Suddenly it felt as if the whole world had gone mad. There were flags and bunting in the streets, and cheering processions as if this was something to shout about. Soon the village horses would pull guns and the guns would be let off and people would be getting killed. All because some duke they had never heard of got shot in a country she couldn’t find on the map. Why had they got to get involved? No one had explained it to her satisfaction, not even the Head, Mr Pierce, whom she’d heard was enlisting in the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, the famous ‘Havercake lads’.
‘Now the army’s gone, take Jemima out of the barn and into the paddock, Selma. Keep busy and don’t fret is my motto,’ Asa smiled. ‘Go and take that miserable face into the sunshine. Happen it’s time to stop the bullyboys in their tracks and show them what all our King’s men can do. Go on…wipe yer tears and get a bit of fresh air in your lungs.’
Selma led the tall chestnut mare out into the sunshine. She loved this gentle giant who had carried Guy on her back. The groom would be ages before he came to collect her, and then she remembered that Stanley and the stable boy had enlisted together to go with the horses. There was just the chance that Guy might…No, she mustn’t hope too much.
The late August afternoon sun beat on her forehead as she led the horse into shade and towards the slate trough where cool fresh water bubbled up from a natural spring. Soon the holidays would be over and she would take her post as proper teaching assistant alongside Marigold. Her brother, Jack, was with the Territorials and she kept boasting about him being the first in West Sharland to take the King’s shilling and asking why her brothers weren’t in uniform yet.
‘You have to be eighteen,’ Selma replied.
‘Who says?’ Marie sneered. ‘You don’t have to take your birth certificate. No one in Skipton would guess that Newton was underage if he signed on there.’
‘He has to help Dad.’
‘Frank can do that…Anyroad, when the horses go, he’ll have nowt to do, my dad says.’ There was no arguing with Marie. She was always right, but not this time. It was official. Dad needed an assistant and Frank was only sixteen and not very tall.
The urge to mount Jem was now just too hard to resist. They were old friends and riding bareback was no problem for Selma. ‘We’ll not let you go with those soldiers,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘You can hide in our barn any day. Now you and me can have a little trot round the paddock or I can ride you home, if no one comes for you.’ Guiding the horse to the mounting block by the gate, she slid onto her velvety back and nuzzled into her mane, kicking with her heels to set Jem on her way. But the mare had other ideas and began to gather speed. Then with a whoosh she jumped the stone wall into the next field with Selma clinging on, hair flying, her face flushed with the fun and freedom of chasing the wind. This horse was no sloth and shot off at speed, cantering across the last of the mown hayfields, frisky, disobedient to Selma’s commands. There was nothing to it but to relax and enjoy the bumpy ride, let the horse have her head for a while but what if she got injured and Dad had to get the veterinary out to repair the damage? ‘Stop! Who-ah!’ Selma dug hard and raised her voice. She pulled hard on the reins and mane to no avail. Then Jemima suddenly halted, jerked and threw Selma to the ground, leaving the horse bolting off out of reach towards the river bank.
Selma lay winded but laughing, smelling the clover, meadowsweet and honey of the scratchy stubble. Another horse was flying across in pursuit. The horseman jumped down and came to her aid.
‘Are you all right?’ It was Guy, like a knight in shining armour, lifting her up to let her hobble to the shelter of the stone wall. ‘She can be a monkey if you don’t check her.’
