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Hester sat bolt upright on the horsehair sofa, one eye on the grandfather clock in the corner of the farmhouse parlour. It had a brass face of some distinction, as did the dark oak furniture with fine pewter plates in racks. In her hand a piece of porcelain of antiquity that unfortunately smelled and tasted of musty damp from the china cabinet. The rounds of the sick and elderly were done and she always finished off at the Pateleys’ farm at the top end of the village out on the old high road to Sowerthwaite. It was set back among the trees with a fine view across the valley. Whoever had chosen this site knew his arse from his elbow, as Charles would say.
She smiled, knowing her dutiful day was done and Beaven would be waiting to return her to Waterloo House for tea and hot pikelets dripping with this season’s raspberry jam. The fire would be roaring in the morning room; they were setting an example of austerity by having only one fire lit during the week to save fuel.
‘How’s them young ’uns?’ said Emma Pateley, the farmer’s maiden sister, who kept home for him now he was widowed.
‘Ah, growing up too fast,’ Hester offered. ‘Still at school, of course…too young yet for any war work.’
‘Is that so? But not too young to go a-courtin’,’ Emma chuckled. ‘I seed one of yourn the other day up the far field walking a horse with a girl on its back. A proper knight in shining armour he looked.’
‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ Hester protested. ‘The boys are busy at school.’
‘It were a Sunday afternoon, as I recall; he were on that chestnut mare, fine beast. You were lucky the army didn’t get her on a rope. Tall as a spear, fair lad. The girl were dark-haired like that one of Bartleys’ as teaches school. You know, the one with the funny name. I’d watch it there. Them chapelgoers can be trouble when crossed. They like to match with their own.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be one of my boys, Miss Pateley.’ Hester felt herself flushing. Emma could be a gossipy old crone but her eyes didn’t miss much. The boys, it was true did have free periods on Sunday afternoons but surely one of her children wouldn’t make a fool of himself in the village?
‘When men and maids meet, there’s allus mischief, my lady,’ Emma continued, unaware of Hester’s discomfort. ‘Lads will be lads, and lasses aye let them…’
‘Thank you for the tea, Miss Pateley, but I must take my leave of you. Things to do in these trying times.’
‘I ’eard as how old Jones the plumber’s boy copped it last week and him a regular in the army. He’s been out there since it began…He’ll not be the last. My cups are telling me we’ll all be wearing black afore the next year’s out.’
‘Yes, yes, perhaps…Now you’ve got some more wool for the socks. I hear you’re one of the best heel turners in the district. We want to send socks, scarves and comforts by the end of next month, parcels for our local boys. I can rely on you?’ Hester wagged her finger, desperate for Emma to stop talking.
‘I’ll do my best. Thank you for calling on a poor old soul as is cut off from the world up here.’
Not so cut off that you can’t find gossip, mused Hester as she stepped briskly into the waiting carriage. There was something about the woman’s ramblings that unsettled her. Could one of her boys really be making a fool of himself with a village girl? How ridiculous, how stupid, to foul on your own doorstep! How dare he shame the family? No doubt it would be one of Angus’s pranks. He was always up for silliness. Had he no respect for his station in life? Just wait until their next exeat: she’d lay down the law. A liaison with a villager was simply unthinkable.
Guy saw the thunderous look on his mother’s face after church and wondered what was up. She’d been acting strange all morning, silent and severe. Had another under gardener left them in the lurch? She plonked down her Prayer Book and her gloves, and pointed the twins into the cold drawing room.
‘Inside…both of you,’ she ordered, out of earshot from Shorrocks, who was hovering by the hall stairs with their coats and hats.
‘Now which one of you has been silly enough to pay attention to the Bartley girl?’
Neither of them spoke but stood together to attention while she choked them off.
‘Don’t look at me, Mother,’ said Angus. ‘I’ve not been near the village for ages.’ He turned to Guy. ‘And Guy’s head has been stuck in a poetry book, hasn’t it?’
Bless Angus for covering for him, but Guy was not ashamed of his friendship with Selma.
‘Don’t blame Angus. Selma and I have been walking out, riding Jemima. She’s awfully clever, you know, training to be a teacher. You’ll like her when you meet her.’
‘I have no intention of doing any such thing. At your age, walking out with a blacksmith’s daughter and a nonconformist—have you no sense? You should be in school, not gadding about with a girl, giving her false expectations. You are far too young for such matters and there’s a war on. Why didn’t you tell me this was going on, Angus?’ Hester accused.
Angus shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s all news to me,’ he grinned.
‘Have you nothing to say, Guy? Stop grinning at each other like simpletons.’
‘Sorry, Mother, but we’re not kids any more. We’re old enough to volunteer and take up commissions—’
‘That’s as may be, in good time,’ Hester interrupted.
‘No time like the present.’ Angus threw in his verbal grenade,standing to attention to salute. ‘We’re soldiers now, all signed on the dotted line.’
‘You have done what!’ she exploded. ‘Behind my back? I forbid it!’
‘You can’t, Mother. It’s done. We’ll be off to training camps in the next week or so.’
Guy felt sorry for his mother as he saw her bravado crumple. She sat down, pale-faced, deflated for once, speechless at this news. ‘Does your father know about this madness?’
‘We’ll write to him. It’s only what he expects of us.’
‘But, Angus, you can’t go, not with your recent affliction. You won’t pass a medical, not with your history.’
‘Don’t fuss. I’m fine now. It’s going to be such a wheeze. Oh, don’t cry, Mother. We’ll be fine and they might let us join the same regiment.’
‘I see you have got it all worked out behind my back. Does this Miss Bartley know your plans too? I dare say she’s behind all this show of gallantry,’ Hester said, her lips composed, her arms crossed tightly against her bodice.
‘That’s not fair. Her brother’s going too. Everyone’s going. You both worked hard enough to make sure half the village boys answered the call to arms.’
‘But not my sons, not yet, not my two boys at once. Why can’t you wait? There’s no hurry,’ she pleaded.
‘The sooner we leave, the sooner our training begins and the sooner we’ll be in action before it all fizzles out. I’d hate to miss it,’ Angus added, his eyes bright with fervour. ‘Guy will keep an eye on me, won’t you?’
‘I can’t take this in, all this secrecy and I’m the last to know. Why?’
‘Because we knew you’d take on so…You must let us be like all the others and give us your blessing.’ Guy sat down beside her, trying to jolt her out of her maudlin mood. It was not like his mother at all.
‘I have a bad feeling about this. It’s too soon. What will I do without you?’
‘What you’ve always done: put a brave face to the world and get on with your charity work and church duties, keep the home fires burning, as the song says, and make sure we get clean socks, hankies, some of Cook’s marmalade, pipe tobacco and up-to-date newspapers. Don’t be sad, be glad that we’re old enough to be useful to our country in its hour of need.’
‘Oh, Guy, do you realise what you’re doing?’ She was shaking her head, not looking at them both.
‘I’m not rightly sure but all I know is that it must be done now…Come on, chop chop, no more moping about. There’s the luncheon gong. I hope it’s roast lamb. Dry your eyes. We’ll get plenty of leave while we’re training. Might even get as close as Catterick camp. Buck up, old girl. It’s not the end of the world.’
But it is the end of my world, sobbed Hester as she paced the bedroom floor later that night, the gentle tick of the marble clock lagging far behind her own heartbeat. How can I live if anything happens to my sons? No sooner out of the nursery than into school and now into the army, and Guy on the arm of some trollop. She’s behind it somewhere. Prim school miss she might appear but there’s fire in those dark eyes and she’s not getting her claws into my boy.
Hester sat on the window seat, drawing back the brocade curtains to reveal a night sky lit with a thousand stars.
There’s one good thing about all this, though, she thought, drying her eyes. Once Guy disappears from the scene, all this mooning about will soon fizzle out. I’ll put him in the way of some decent county girls from good families; girls of our own class, not upstarts no better than servants. At least he’ll be too busy to satisfy that girl’s craving for influence. And as for Angus…Hester smiled a knowing smile. There must be ways to make sure he got no further than the medical board. Perhaps she could let Guy go now, but not two, oh dear me, no…Angus must stay close by, whatever it took.
First the horses, then the men, and the village fell silent as it went about the daily grind. I sigh, looking around the crowds. Everyone thought it was ‘all a bit of a bluff and wouldn’t come to owt, as old Dickie Beddows had pronounced. I’ve not thought of him for years, sitting under the elm on the bench with string tied round the knees of his corduroy breeches, sucking an empty pipe, dispensing his wisdom to those who had the time to listen. But as the months wore on and curtains were closed in respect for some mother’s son who was lost in places they couldn’t pronounce, even he fell silent.
Then there was the shelling of Hartlepool and the Zeppelin raids that bombed Scarborough and the east coast. Yorkshire was under attack; a terror none of us could understand; little kiddies crushed under bricks, mothers cooking breakfast blasted to eternity. This was no bluff.
How strange that I can recall every detail of that time yet forget what day of the week it is so easily, or what I’ve had for supper.
Being here brings everything to the fore. Nothing’s been lost in the house of my memory. I can walk round its rooms and recall those far-off tumultuous days at will.
The elm tree may have been replaced by a sycamore, the guard railings removed with most of the cobbles, the chapel is now a spacious house, but I can see it all as it once was.
The school is still functioning, with its fine playing field. It was my refuge from all the worries of war and home. Things were never the same when Newt left. Frank took his desertion to heart and wouldn’t settle. Oh, Frankland…
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, couldn’t put you together again.
2 DARK DAYS (#ulink_adcc079b-2a35-54f5-8b63-6e9bd9e2353c)
1915-17
When this lousy war is over, no more soldiering for me,
When I get my civvy clothes on, oh how happy I will be.
No more church parades on Sunday, no more begging for a pass.
You can tell the sergeant-major to stick his passes up his arse!
Attrib. Joseph Scriven
5 (#ulink_961147a5-5bd2-5202-9c4e-bc8a39aa956f)
‘What’s up now, son?’ Essie asked, seeing Frank storming out of the forge, flinging off his leather apron in disgust.
‘Everything’s got to be done his way and I can’t stomach no more of it. I never wanted to be his skivvy. It was more to Newt’s liking than mine. Nothing I do is ever right.’
‘It’s just his way, love. He likes things to be right,’ Essie tried to explain.
‘Right enough will do for me…Just ’cos I put the sheep horns on the wrong hook, you’d think the world’d come to an end. He’s like a bee stuck down my neck buzzing in my ear. I’m off!’
‘Calm down, son. Go and get a brew and I’ll have a word with your father.’
‘Don’t bother. It’s not fair, me having to take Newt’s place,’ Frank muttered, disappearing round the corner just as Asa strode out of the forge.
‘Where’s he gone now, Mam? Never at hand when he’s needed. Pateley’s unbroken beast is due any moment and he’s a right beggar to shoe. It’ll take two of us hold that stag down. I never had to tell our Newt what to do. This one’s got his head in the clouds.’
‘Don’t fuss him, Asa. He’s only doing his best but his heart’s not in the job. It never was. He’s allus hankered after working with horses,’ Essie said, trying to smooth over yet another bust-up. Poor Asa was looking greyer round the gills these days with twice as much work, despite fewer horses. Everyone was trying to save their tools, repairing their irons and pots, kettles waiting to be fettled up and wheel rims sorted. Making do and mending was the order of the day; no one wanted to waste precious metals.
In the evening they all had to lend a hand with the allotment patch cut out of their paddock and fenced off from nibbling horses. Potatoes, vegetables, anything to fill the pot had to be weeded, hens in the back yard fed and swill taken to fatten up the shared pig in the stable at the back of the Hart’s Head.
How Essie missed her eldest son, with his quiet ways and steadying influence over his brother. Frank was missing him too, them being so close in age, and her heart went out to him. But what could she do? Her free time, such as it was, was taken up with the Chapel Ladies Comfort Guild, who met most afternoons to gather up parcels, knitting and treats.
Selma, though busy with the fundraising concert party as well as the school, drifted round like love’s lost dream. She was at that funny stage, betwixt and between girl and woman, mooning over letters from one of the Cantrell boys. What could they make of that friendship? All innocent enough, but they were both far too young to be serious, especially when Lady Hester’s disapproval was plain to see.
Last week she’d stopped her pony and trap and almost poked Essie in the ribs with her parasol.
‘Is my son still sending billets-doux to your daughter?’ she demanded.
Essie smiled. ‘They both have a keen interest in poetry, I believe,’ she replied, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Rather sweet at their tender age.’ She was not going to be browbeaten by her imperious tone of voice. ‘How are your sons faring with their training?’
‘As one would expect of a Cantrell,’ came the curt reply. ‘But I don’t want my son distracted by unsuitable entanglements.’
‘Of course not…but young people today seem to have minds of their own on such matters,’ Essie offered, watching Hester Cantrell puffing herself up with disagreement.
‘It is a ridiculous situation. I absolutely forbid it!’
‘Really? Forbiddance is usually a great encourager, don’t you think?’ Essie argued back. ‘In my experience it adds a whiff of danger to the whole enterprise.’
Hester stared back at her in disbelief at such a bold riposte. ‘I hardly think so. In such times as these there’s no room for romantic escapades. This war must be won, and soon.’
‘You are so right, Lady Hester, but the world has to keep turning and soldiers will take comfort out of battle…Better with their friends than with strangers?’ Essie continued
‘You chapel folk are mighty sure of your opinions, Mrs Bartley.’
‘Thank you.’ Essie nodded sweetly. ‘I find it best to trust to the good common sense of the young, these days. They are bearing the brunt of our mistakes with their blood. I think we can allow them the freedom to choose how they spend what little leisure they have, don’t you?’
Lady Hester sat back in shock, trying to think up some caustic put-down, her lips opening and closing. But nothing came out but, ‘Good day.’
Oh heck! I’ve put the fox in the chicken run, and no mistake, thought Essie but still she’d take nothing back. If young men were risking their lives then they must be given such freedoms as compensation. It was only fair, and that went for Newton as well as the Cantrell twins. This war was turning customs upside down.
What a diabolical cheek! Hester couldn’t get over Essie Bartley’s impudence. Freedoms indeed! In her day children did what parents commanded and with no argument. The whole world was going mad and all civilities were disappearing fast. Even dressing for dinner in the evening was being slackened in favour of lounge suits in some households. Servants were giving notice to go into factories, making it difficult to find replacements. In fact, on several occasions she’d had to go into the kitchen herself to prepare a cold collation when Cook had her day off. Arkie had upsticked to run some convalescent hospital for wounded soldiers. Shorrocks was marrying her soldier boy in a rush and Hester feared she was already in the family way. Mrs Beck came in each day from the village now to clean and tidy and lay the fires, instead of having a live-in maid. That it should come to this at her age. Where would it all end?
She’d not seen Charles for months, just a fleeting visit when she’d begged him to get Angus a safe job out of the line of fire. Of course he’d laughed away her fears and told her to stop meddling. So far there had been no repetition of Angus’s seizures but she worried that it was only a matter of time before another one struck.
All too often now, when she came through the front door into the marble-floored hall, there was only silence to greet her or the chimes of the hour from the drawing-room clock. The silence was deafening, the echo of her shoes on the tiles, the barking of a stable dog somewhere. In the silence of the evening she had time to churn over all the day’s incidents, her worries, but no one with whom to share these thoughts.
Occasionally this gloom was lifted by one of Guy’s letters that she devoured, trying to hear his voice in her mind.
That was what hurt the most: the fact that the Bartley girl was getting his thoughts, his affection. She received a dutiful page or two but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more from him, and as for Angus, he was even worse. How could they be so thoughtless? There was such an empty space where once they’d filled her days.
Was this the pattern for her future: afternoon visits, committees, the occasional fundraising concert breaking up the monotony of her days? To rattle around in this uncomfortable silence, waiting for one of her men to return for a night or two was a daunting prospect.
At least her boys were safe in England. They all planned to meet in London on their next leave. She would go down on the train and they could take in a show. Why did she feel so old and unwanted, though?
‘Buck up, Hester,’ she said to herself. ‘Pour yourself a drink and get your sewing out.’
Damn the bloody sewing, she thought. I want them all back…I want my boys back here…
Selma caught up with Frank on the High Road out of Sowerthwaite, the winding lane that was a short cut to West Sharland. He was swaying in the breeze and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was ‘market fresh’. But Bartley men were abstainers—or were they? As she drew near she smelled the booze on his breath.
‘You can’t go home in that state!’
‘Leave me alone…I’ve had enough of being bossed about…I’m going.’
‘Going where?’ Selma snapped, and then realised what was coming next. ‘You haven’t…’
‘I have. I’ve joined up this morning and no one can stop me. I’m sick of being the only lad left in our street. I’m sick of being stared at. I can work with horses in the army. They need drivers and good riders.’
‘You can’t go! Dad needs your help. Don’t let him down. Mam’ll go spare when she finds out. Honestly, Frank, you can be so selfish!’
