Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  With mumbled words that fortunately neither could catch, George Cooper walked off, no doubt thinking of other things that, in his mind, had changed for the worse. Arthur smiled at Abraham’s father and thanked him for coming to the rescue. ‘I just saw Abraham briefly, you must be very proud of your son’s running feats.’

  ‘Thank you, Vicar,’ replied Frederick. ‘Yes, his mother and I are, indeed, proud of him. He’s set his heart on running better and faster, but I also think he’s doing well on Mr Mansfield’s farm.’

  Arthur appreciated Frederick Richards’ intervention and hoped that this kindly and thoughtful man reflected the dominant mood in the village towards the morning service. As all too often, his mind turned to George Cooper for whom nothing that Arthur attempted seemed right.

  Sunday lunch passed well. Eliza had prepared vegetables the day before when getting things ready for the Saturday evening. The roast lamb exuded a mouth-watering aroma from the kitchen and by half past one, all were enjoying the meal. The colonel complimented Eleanor on the repast, adding that he would be taking a rest in the afternoon. Charlotte Windle casually announced that from where she had been sitting in St Mary’s, she had noticed some wall inscriptions which she would like to look at more closely.

  She graciously declined either Arthur’s or Eleanor’s offer to accompany her. ‘Wrap up well. The sun will soon lose all its warmth and the church is a cold place,’ suggested Eleanor. Having donned a warm coat, Charlotte walked across to the church, stopping to look at some of the spring flowers which were emerging. As two figures came from the village-green side of the churchyard, Charlotte stopped.

  ‘How nice to see you, Mrs Windle,’ said Olivia Atkins with a broad smile.

  Jack, who was with his mother, added his own greetings. ‘Are you staying for several days?’ he asked, polite and charming as Charlotte remembered him from previous visits to Rusfield. The three of them chatted for a while, Charlotte being delighted to hear about the progress of the reading room with Jack speaking enthusiastically of how much it offered him, and briefly of his work in the Steepleton bakery.

  When Jack excused himself for a few minutes, Olivia knew that the subject for his attention would be her husband’s grave. She knew of Jack’s unspoken, but obviously strong feelings towards the man he had never known. Charlotte Windle and Olivia chatted on until he reappeared.

  ‘It’s always nice to catch up with village news,’ said Charlotte Windle as mother and son finally prepared to move off. ‘It’s nearly a year since I was here last and the village seems to move on well. It’s been lovely talking with you both and I wish you every continuing success with the reading room. And Jack, I’m glad to hear your work is going well.’

  As Olivia and Jack moved on, Charlotte lifted the latch and pushed opened the heavy seventeenth-century door. She entered and in spite of its dimness, spent many minutes looking at various wall plaques before returning to the churchyard and reading some of the headstones. The recurring names borne on these weather-worn stones revealed how some families had lived in Rusfield for centuries, many still having descendants in this small, proud if poor village.

  SIXTEEN

  Afternoon, Monday, 8 April

  Robert Berry took off his cap and resting one foot on his fork, delved into his pocket and withdrew a well-worn grey handkerchief. As he mopped his brow, he knew this must be one of the warmest Easter Mondays in his memory, apart from those when he had been in India and South Africa with the Tigers. He had enjoyed his time abroad, especially the comradeship in the Leicestershire Regiment, but the futile waste of life he had seen in what became known as the Boer War had sickened him and he had been glad to return to civilian life. It was really chance that he had settled in Rusfield, as an old comrade had once lived in the village and mentioned it to Robert.

  He thought back to Wednesday night when he had, perhaps foolishly, been persuaded by Fred Jackson to perform at the farm party although, surprisingly, he had rather enjoyed it. Still, back to the digging; he remembered his grandfather saying that any vegetable patch should be dug over before Easter Monday had passed. There was hardly a breath of wind to disturb the Union Jack flying high in the garden, which he flew as a tribute to comrades who had fallen in fighting for their country. He looked towards Bramrose Hill, rising half a mile away, where he could see four figures in pairs, separated by a good distance, walking towards each other along one of the lower paths to the hills.

  Whilst Robert could not make out faces, Arthur and his mother were one of these pairs, enjoying a leisurely stroll. The colonel was having his normal afternoon nap whilst Eleanor was taking the opportunity to call on Violet Rushton and then, if there was time, to see the poor, overworked Liz Smith who would almost certainly be laundering. Easter Monday provided no holiday for her nor, indeed, many others in the village; the loss of a day’s pay could not be afforded.

  In any case, Eleanor knew well that Arthur’s mother looked forward to some time just with her son, as she was always concerned how he was faring. ‘Eleanor is as lovely and sweet as ever,’ she was saying as they stopped to look around at the fields which were becoming greener by the day. ‘I really see her as the daughter I never had. Sadly, I do realise that your father is less than gracious to her, which is so wrong because she makes us both so very welcome.’

  ‘I am very fortunate, Mother, and I don’t understand why father never unbends to dear Eleanor. I realise his upbringing and army experience have helped create a certain aloofness, but I know she becomes worried about the lack of warmth between them; it’s just something neither of us understands.’

  His mother put an arm round her son of whom she thought so highly. ‘It’s a complicated and long story, Arthur, and I’m not too sure myself. But, perhaps, I should say something, if only to explain that in no way is it her fault. It really began when Florence died.’

  ‘But that was hardly Eleanor’s fault,’ Arthur burst in.

  ‘I know dear, but your father was so pleased when you married Florence. Her father being a brigadier made it a perfect match as far as your father was concerned. Truth to tell, at the time I was uncertain. I knew that the relationship between you and Florence had been largely engineered. I hope unkindness isn’t my natural way, but I realised that she, too, had had a very narrow upbringing, probably more so than you, dear. Florence was by no means an unkind girl, but I always saw her as rather cold and unyielding. Of course, I hoped and prayed you would both be happy; your father was over the moon with delight. Then came the appalling accident and it was certain that in your father’s mind no one, but no one could fill Florence’s shoes.’

  Arthur had always realised part of what his mother had just tried to explain. Yes, he thought, his marriage to the dark-haired, slim and not physically unattractive Florence, only nineteen when they married, could be seen as one of convenience. He had always blamed himself for the lack of warmth in their relationship, but she had often resisted what he thought was a moment of love. But then had come the great tragedy. He remembered how excited Florence had been with the suggestion by friends from her Aldershot days of going to Paris, visiting the Louvre and other great art galleries. In fact, it was the 18 October, the day after their first wedding anniversary, that she had been collected from the vicarage, taken to Steepleton station and on to London to meet with the others. She was very excited and he could still hardly believe the terrible chance that had caused her death.

  Having stayed in the French city for three nights, on their last morning Florence did some shopping on her own and arranged to meet her friends near to the Gare Montparnasse, to leave Paris for the return. At that moment an express running between Granville and Paris had overrun its stopping buffer, ripped across a large section of the station concourse, through a thick wall and plummeted over thirty-feet below at exactly the time Florence and her friends were walking by. Her friends were greatly shocked, but only slightly injured. No one in the train was killed; Florence alone died, instantly.

>   Many tried to give him comfort, but he felt that he had failed her by not bringing enough love to their union and was in a state of terrible despair for a long time. For several months, Charlotte had come to live with him in the vicarage, fearful that he might commit injury to himself. Community roles had been reversed and it was caring parishioners who brought comfort to their priest; the bond between Arthur and the people of Rusfield became ever stronger.

  He came to, finding that he and his mother had walked on without him realising it. Approaching them along this grassy track was another couple. Arthur smiled; it was Abraham who spoke the first words, ‘Good afternoon Mrs Windle, good afternoon Vicar. Mrs Windle, you probably don’t know my friend, please allow me to introduce Miss Grace Reynolds.’

  Grace smiled and said how nice it was to meet. ‘It’s such a beautiful day that Abraham suggested a walk. We are on our way to see if we can spot a buzzard’s nest that a friend has told us about. I hope you are having a pleasant walk.’

  They chatted together for a few minutes, Charlotte thinking what a fine couple the two made. As they parted, she turned to her son and smiled: ‘What a beautiful couple, so handsome and so much in love.’

  ‘But Mother, I don’t think they are more than friends.’

  ‘Arthur, are you blind? They may have talked very politely with us, but they only had eyes for each other.’ Her eyes twinkled even more as she added: ‘It rather reminds me of you and Eleanor when you first met and, I’m delighted to say, things don’t seem to have changed!’ Arthur could think of nothing to say, but blushed and turning to look back he saw that the young people were now hand in hand and very close to each other as they walked on.

  Words were unnecessary, but Arthur knew her thoughts followed on from their previous conversation. After a while she spoke: ‘Arthur, I may have said more than I should have done about Florence, but I just want you to know how much I rejoice in you and Eleanor having found each other. I thank God for that and would that the feeling was shared by your father.’ It suddenly struck Arthur that whilst he remembered his mother occasionally using a pet name, often Hec, when addressing his father, he could not remember this happening either on this visit or the previous one; indeed, they hardly talked directly to one another at all.

  He would often wonder later whether what he addressed next encroached too much on his mother’s privacy: ‘Mother, is everything all right between you and father? He looks well, but is there anything I should know?’

  ‘Arthur, things are just as they have been between us for some time. Have no fears, but there is one thing I would say to you: all your life, you have heard people talk about the bravery of your father when he was in the Gold Coast, how he and a small number from his battalion were ordered to settle a tribal dispute that looked as if it might develop into open warfare. We know things did not turn out well and all, bar your father, were killed; that he showed great fortitude in escaping as he was badly injured and literally crawled to safety. It was purely good fortune that another group of men had put down on the nearby coast and gone inland to look for water and found your father. But, Arthur, that was nearly forty years ago and life has moved on. You must not allow that incident to so affect you that, at times, you seem to stand in great awe of him. Like the rest of us, he has weaknesses as well.’

  Arthur reached for his mother’s hand, took it and they walked on together. ‘And Arthur, it was remarkable that Grace mentioned that she and Abraham hoped to see a buzzard today.’

  ‘Indeed, it would be grand to see buzzards settling in this area.’

  ‘No, Arthur, I didn’t mean that. You see, it was said by one of the soldiers who rescued your father that it was the movement of a bird towards him that caught their attention, otherwise they might never have spotted your father and saved him. It was said that bird was a buzzard, albeit different to this one. Perhaps a buzzard is a sign of good fortune.’

  They completed their walk as the sun became lower over Rusfield; never had mother and son felt so close to one another.

  SEVENTEEN

  Morning & Afternoon, Tuesday, 9 April

  ‘We are being collected just before three o’clock this afternoon,’ Charlotte Windle quietly reminded Eleanor as she was pouring coffee at the breakfast table. Eleanor had set up breakfast in the conservatory and whilst the garden had not moved on too far from its winter clothing, primroses, daffodils and early tulips were in full colour.

  The colonel was busy looking at birds feeding on the nuts that Arthur had put outside earlier. ‘I see greenfinches, chaffinches and goldfinches; do you get any bullfinches? A favourite of mine.’

  ‘Very rarely,’ replied Arthur. ‘I keep a list of birds I’ve seen in the garden and bullfinches are on it, but I’ve only seen them on a few occasions.’ He turned to his mother: ‘You know you and father are very welcome to stay on.’

  His mother smiled sweetly: ‘Thank you all the same, but we must leave this afternoon. There is one thing I would ask.’

  ‘And what is that?’ offered Eleanor in encouraging tone.

  ‘Well, yesterday when I happened to meet Olivia Atkins and her son, Jack, I was hearing about your new reading room. It sounded extremely interesting and I wondered whether I might be able to have a look. Would that be possible?’

  ‘Of course it would,’ Eleanor quickly replied. ‘It may not be open, but I have a key. Why don’t you and I go along later this morning leaving Arthur and his father a chance for a good chat?’

  ‘That would be lovely, dear,’ replied Charlotte.

  Arthur realised that he had hardly been on his own with his father since he had arrived on Saturday. ‘We can sit in here Father. I’d like to hear more about the work you are doing with the Territorials. It sounds really interesting.’

  The sun was still shining, although a little more breeze had come up, when Eleanor and Charlotte left the vicarage just before eleven o’clock. The two men chatted on current affairs for a time before Arthur asked how the Territorial Force had started. His father drew himself up in his chair and explained. ‘Just a few politicians realise that whilst we still need imperial forces to maintain the Empire, there is always a possible threat from Europe. So four years ago, the Force was set up to give men a chance to join the army on a part-time basis. The men train at weekends and evenings. In Dorset it all seems to have gone very well.’

  ‘So what is your role in all this, Father?’

  ‘Well, some of the men have no idea of what they are taking on when they join us; most don’t even have the ability to march properly. Arrangements have to be made to get them fitter, enable them to drill properly and know about weapons and my work is to seek out the right people to train the men and make sure the training is going well. Then there are weekend camps which I’ve organised in some of the wilder parts of Salisbury Plain much of which is owned by the army.’

  Arthur could see his father’s growing enthusiasm when he asked, ‘And you get plenty of men volunteering for this?’

  ‘Certainly,’ came the immediate reply. ‘Of course, it’s not the same as being a professional soldier, but plenty of young men want to serve their country and do something worthwhile. Our country and the Empire are facing real dangers which seem to escape the prime minister and all his cronies, but we must be ready.’

  ‘Well done, Father. Incidentally I see you are wearing your old regimental tie and I noticed Major de Maine from the village with a matching one at church on Sunday. Did you ever come across him? He would be about your age, I imagine.’

  ‘De Maine, no, the name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ responded his father, ‘but as he was only a major it would hardly be surprising if I don’t remember him, even if our paths did cross. But changing subjects, I wondered whether you still see anything of Eleanor’s parents. Not a man I particularly want to know, although I found his wife pleasant enough.’

  Arthur knew that his father could never really accept that his son had married the daughter of a butcher; that had
been made clear when they met at the wedding. On the contrary, Arthur had always liked Eleanor’s parents for their modesty and charm and greatly admired his father-in-law for his depth of learning which, Arthur knew, was all self-taught. It was a quality that he had passed on to his daughter.

  ‘Oh, yes. We often walk over to Wensfield to join them for lunch,’ replied Arthur. ‘But Mr Brown has been saddened by the departure of his good friend, Peter Meadows, who has just left our school. They shared many interests, particularly in the night sky and would often walk the four miles to each other’s house on clear nights when there was plenty to see.’

  His father came out with a whiplash response, ‘Can’t see much interest in that. Only time I wanted to know about the night sky was when we were in remote parts of India and Afghanistan and relied on the stars for night-time guidance.’

  Tactfully, Arthur was just about to suggest a walk round the garden, when Eleanor and Charlotte came into the conservatory. ‘It was absolutely wonderful, Arthur. Eleanor and the other volunteers have done a marvellous job. You must all be very pleased with it. I must tell people about it in our village, but now I must finish the packing.’

  After a buffet lunch of cold meats and salad, final preparations for departure were made. Sparky was as ever on time and cases soon loaded. Farewells were said and Charlotte Windle gave profuse thanks to their hosts, the colonel a rather briefer, ‘Thank you.’ All had passed well Arthur was thinking, when his father’s final comment came as unexpectedly, as unintentionally close to their stay ending in disaster.

  ‘I hope the train from Steepleton proves reliable as we need plenty of time for the change-over to Waterloo station. When we were on our way up there was a large number of women across the front of that station waving banners and shouting about that bloody suffragette movement. They all need their arses slapped.’