Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  The well-rehearsed Rita Small struck up the tune, and the first verse to Arthur Sullivan’s great music was followed by the even more boisterous singing of the national anthem. A burst of spontaneous applause then burst forth for Sir Humphrey, just a few quietly lacking enthusiasm.

  After all the excitement of the evening, Eleanor and Arthur were weary when they got back to the vicarage. The villagers had been slow to depart, not least as the number of men gathering round Lieutenant Smart was many; enough for Sir Humphrey to look pleased.

  ‘So how many signed up?’ Eleanor asked her husband as they collapsed into armchairs back at the vicarage.

  ‘I heard it was fifteen with quite a few more enquiries. Anyway, Sir Humphrey seemed well pleased.’

  ‘I saw that Richard Gadsell and Peter Frisby were there. Did they join up? They must be well approaching forty.’

  ‘I think so, dear. So did the Rowe brothers: I saw both Ruby and Florence Rowe in tears at the thought of their husbands going away. What desperate times they are. I felt Sir Humphrey did very well, didn’t you dear?’ he asked.

  Eleanor paused for a moment before replying. ‘Bearing in mind that his job was to get volunteers he did well. For me he was too jingoistic, but I suppose that was necessary. However, I was very wrong in one important way; he was much more approachable than I had expected. Anyway, my dear, I’m going upstairs and straight to bed, otherwise I think I will fall asleep in this chair.’

  Arthur stood up, kissed his wife and, as she turned to go out of the lounge, he moved towards putting out the downstairs’ lamps and making sure all was safely locked up. A few minutes later he, too, went upstairs, going in to his small dressing room. He reflected on the evening’s meeting, trying to measure its success; it was so important that the numbers of volunteers increased. He was too old to volunteer, but was there anything more he could be doing for the war effort? He felt all too powerless as he tried to visualise what the young men at the Front were going through.

  He quietly stood, went over to his cross, crossed himself and hung his head in thought. ‘Dear God, may I hear your voice clearly so that I know what I should do. Forgive me for my sins, especially those I have wronged. May the results of this evening’s meeting be right in your sight; be with those young men from the village who are fighting at the Front. May they know of your presence.’ He kept his head bowed in silence waiting to hear God speak to him.

  Autumn moved on in the village, the streets and gardens became covered in falling leaves, the days shorter and the mornings cooler. News from the Rusfield men at the Front was quickly spread and the list in St Mary’s porch of Rusfield men grew to thirty-one. Village pride grew with this increase, but some wondered why other able men had not volunteered. News from the daily newspaper lodged at the reading room became eagerly digested with the unpronounceable name of Ypres replacing those of Marne, Antwerp, Aisne and Flanders and the British casualties covered more and more pages. On a visit to Steepleton, Arthur and Eleanor called in at the library and read The Steepleton Times. Within were listed the names of eight men from surrounding villages who had, as the paper stated, made the final sacrifice. Their thoughts turned to the many young men from Rusfield who were somewhere in Flanders or France.

  As they both read the local news-sheet, Arthur’s eye alerted on a small paragraph which he immediately pointed out to Eleanor. As she finished reading, she turned and said: ‘Well I’m pleased to see that Payne-Croft woman has officially announced that all the actions discussed by the local suffrage movement have been suspended. After all, it’s important that the whole movement maintains as much support as it can and it certainly won’t get much sympathy now, if it doesn’t lie low.’

  ‘But doesn’t that rather disappoint you, Eleanor? I know how strongly you feel about obtaining votes for women.’

  ‘There will come a time when this awful war is over and we can return to our rightful claims. My view of women’s equality rights won’t have changed.’ Arthur nodded; he knew of his wife’s determined thinking and did not mistake Eleanor’s quietness on the subject for a change of thinking.

  The first Friday morning in November was a most pleasant one. Whilst Eleanor and Arthur had gratefully accepted the lift in to Steepleton with Sparky Carey, they had opted to walk the return. Their shopping was light and the hour-long walk on such a fine morning had great appeal. The trees were enjoying the last of their autumn colours and the beeches and elms were particularly fine after the wet summer days. They were suddenly aware of someone approaching from behind and turning round saw that it was Peter Woods who drew up alongside them.

  ‘Have you much post for the village this morning, Peter?’ Eleanor asked the young man as he rested on his bicycle.

  ‘Not too much, Mrs Windle. It shouldn’t take me very long.’

  ‘And how is the stamp collecting going? Have you managed to get any new or interesting ones recently?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Well, there have been some fairly recently. There was a new one for me on one of the letters from Canada. Mrs Gilbert kindly let me have that. Then there are the new ones from the soldiers in France. They don’t have stamps, but army envelopes. However, I decided they should be part of my collection. After all they are instead of stamps, aren’t they?’ he added with a broad smile. ‘But I must be on my way. Goodbye for now.’ He pedalled off towards Rusfield.

  Eleanor and Arthur continued on their way, but as they passed the small road leading to the manor and came in view of Rusfield, they saw much activity. Now they could see a number of khaki uniforms, horses, with children and adults on the green next to the pond. The stride of Arthur and Eleanor became more determined as there was obviously something unusual taking place to cause such a crowd on a normally quiet Friday morning.

  THIRTY

  November 1914

  ‘So what is going on?’ Eleanor asked the excited Eliza Carey as she and Arthur reached Lower Green opposite to the pond.

  ‘Well, isn’t it lovely to see all these brave soldiers? They’ve come to water their horses.’ There were a dozen soldiers, who were now surrounded by twice that number of villagers; children were much in evidence as this Friday was part of a four-day holiday in the school term. The children were having a wonderful time. Florrie Edwards and Robert Groves had already persuaded two of the men to lift them up on to the horses which were standing very contentedly at the water’s edge. Villagers were crowding round, plying the men with questions; more were arriving each moment.

  Gwendolyn Edwards came out of her cottage with her neighbour, Lillian Reynolds, who had joined forces to find enough mugs of steaming tea. Rachel Fielding walked from The Queens Head with another tray, this one of freshly baked scones. The men seemed very pleased to chat even as they were enjoying their unexpected refreshment, breaking off only to give another child a turn on the back of his horse.

  Robert Berry who had seen many cavalry groups in his time, was thrilled that he had been taking a stroll round the village when, to his delight, he had seen the soldiers. ‘So,’ he knowledgeably said, ‘I can see you’re all from the 1st King Edward Horses Regiment, but what are you doing here?’ he asked a fine-featured soldier, one of the youngest in the group.

  ‘Well sir,’ he responded with much charm, ‘our captain is anxious that both we and the horses keep fit. We’ve been training over the other side of that hill,’ he added, pointing towards Bramrose Hill. ‘So we just came out this morning and coming across your village we guessed there must be somewhere we could water the horses.’ He nodded towards the half-eaten scone and added, ‘We clearly chose well. Everyone is so kind.’

  Arthur had found himself by the captain, an older man with a neat moustache and sideburns whom Arthur judged to be in his mid-thirties. ‘Let me say how much we welcome you to the village.’

  The captain continued to stroke the mane of his fine dappled mare as he replied to Arthur: ‘Your people have been so kind and I would ask you to pass on our thanks to everyone. We’ll lo
ok back on our stop here with much pleasure.’ He then spoke quietly to his men and the last of the children were helped down from their horses. ‘Now,’ called out the captain, ‘we want to thank all of you for your kindness. You’re wonderful people. Now men, ready.’ Everyone joined in saying farewell, with many a thank you and best wishes as the men quickly got on to order. As they were ready to ride off the sergeant led three hearty cheers which rang round the green; tears were in some of the villagers’ eyes. For many this was their first real contact with the war. The villagers waved, the men replaced their hats and rode off towards Steepleton.

  Some stayed chatting, there was plenty to talk about. Peter Woods had seen the soldiers coming towards the village and made a slight adjustment to his delivery round, ending with the few houses at the far end of Sandy Lane. Now bicycling back up the hill, he slowed down outside the village butchers. ‘This I must not forget!’ he thought to himself. How much smarter the shop looked since Susannah and Sidney Jones had taken over. Everyone hoped that things were going well for the couple after the anxieties of Sidney’s unemployment for several years. As Peter went in, accompanied by the satisfying jingle of the fixed bell, he was pleased to see one of his village favourites in the shop: Olivia Atkins, looking as pretty as ever, Peter thought.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Atkins, good morning, Mr Jones,’ Peter said as he came into the shop. Shopkeeper and customer replies were equally cordial.

  ‘Susannah is just cutting up some bacon on the smaller slicer in the rear room, Peter. So what can I get for you?’

  Peter looked along the display. ‘Mum asked me to get four lamb chops and a few pork sausages, please.’ After paying, and wishing both a good day, he was just about to leave the shop when Olivia spoke to him.

  ‘Oh Peter, I don’t suppose there was any post for me this morning was there?’

  ‘There was a letter, Mrs Atkins. I don’t think it was from Jack as it looked too official for that. I hope that was all right,’ he added encouragingly. ‘I must be off now. Thank you.’

  Why Olivia felt a spasm of anxiety she did not know. Perhaps it was from Jack for sometimes letters were put in different envelopes after the censors had looked at them. She only had to wait a few moments before Susannah appeared with the wrapped bacon and she was on her way. She found herself hurrying and was glad she did not meet anyone who might hold her up. She pushed open the front door and immediately saw the letter: a buff-coloured envelope which certainly looked official. Now, with trembling fingers she ran her nail along the envelope seam and pulled out the single sheet.

  From the War Office notifying the injury of:

  (No) 204483 (Rank) Private

  (Name) John Atkins

  (Regiment) 2nd Battalion Suffolk Regiment

  Which occurred place not stated

  On the 30th October 1914

  The report is to the effect that he is in a field hospital You will be kept further informed

  Olivia’s world moved, the walls tilted and moved again. She half stumbled, then grasped the back of the nearby chair. She sank into it, read and reread again and again the brief communication. Notifying the injury… in a field hospital. But what injury? Was he still alive? And the letter... dated 30 October. A whole week ago; so what had happened since? She sat slumped, a shell of her normal self. ‘Oh God, I don’t want anyone to be hurt, no one to be killed… but not Jack. Please God, not Jack.’ Her mind was numbed, her thoughts twisting the same few words round and round. The tears flowed, she wiped them away; she must do something, but what? Liz Smith. What was it she had said to Liz? ‘Whenever you feel down you must always feel able to call on me – and I’ll do the same.’ She must find Liz; she must share this awful news with her. Clutching the letter, she stumbled to the open door, pulled herself upright and set out. There was no need to take the road to Liz’s cottage as that way she might meet someone; she could not bear that thought, so she cut across the green. The bonfire from the previous evening’s rather muted Guy Fawkes celebration still smouldered. Some had wanted to cancel the event, but Olivia had agreed with those who believed that the children should be given the few enjoyable things that were still possible. No one seemed to be around as she reached the row of cottages... thank goodness the heavily scratched green door of Liz’s cottage was open. She knocked, but went straight in. Passing in to the back room there was Liz, her right hand guiding the mangle round, piles of dried washing on the nearest table top, a basket of unwashed linen by the door.

  Liz was suddenly aware of the movement; she saw Olivia and immediately stopped her activity. ‘Olivia, what is it?’ Before Olivia could speak her friend knew there was bad news; the tear-stained face, the grey pallor said it all. ‘Oh Olivia,’ she said as she threw her arms round her friend, embracing her for she knew not what; just love.

  ‘Oh Liz. Jack’s been hurt. It may be worse. I got this letter,’ still grasping it even in the embrace.

  It was Liz who now proved the strength in this friendship. ‘Let me see, love. You sit down,’ but Olivia stayed standing, rooted to the spot in the anguish of the moment. Liz wiped her damp sleeve across her sweating face, and stumbled through the meaning of the few words. ‘I’m so sorry, but Olivia, it may not be too bad. Surely, if it was really bad news you would have heard by now. It may not be too serious.’

  But Olivia, always a realist, would never have said words of such comfort when they were not certain, but she was grateful for them now. They were silent for a few moments; they held each other’s hand. They talked lovingly of their sons for they shared the awful ache beyond which Olivia could see no hopeful sign. Yet, thirty minutes later when Olivia hugged Liz again and left the cottage, she knew that although anxious times lay immediately ahead, she must wait for further news.

  Jack had always been one of the most well-liked young men in the village and the news of his injury and, worse still, how serious it might be, rapidly spread round Rusfield. Arthur, who was particularly anxious, was the first to call on Olivia; Eleanor and many other friends visited her in the next few days. The village waited with her.

  To Olivia the following days were endless. Each morning found her waiting for Peter. He, like all in the village, knew that she waited for a further letter: to announce grief or relief. He willed that he might have such an encouraging letter in his postbag, but the weekend passed and the early days of the following week: still nothing. The belief that company was a solace became accepted and realised by Olivia as she waited. Eleanor, who was busy with autumn pruning in the vicarage garden on the Monday, was aware of more people calling in at the church than was normal; she knew why.

  By the Wednesday Olivia was despairing of hearing any news, ever. It was the following day that Peter arrived in the village earlier than normal. He had been pedalling hard, changing the order of his round so that he started at the far end of the village. He carried not one letter for Olivia, but two: both in formal buff-coloured envelopes. He was no believer, but came closer to God on that bicycle ride than he had ever felt before, praying for the right content of the letters. Past the vicarage, the school, the schoolhouse and, as he slowed down, he was not surprised that Olivia was again cleaning her front-room windows. She turned as she heard the bicycle brakes applied and the slight sound of the tyres coming to a stop on the road.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Atkins. I have two letters for you. I hope they have good news for you.’ He wanted to stay, he wanted to know what was in the letters, but he respected his role - just to deliver. He cycled off to undertake the rest of his round.

  With shaking hands Olivia took the two letters, both in their formal covers. She pushed open the door, into the front room and sat down. She placed the one on her lap and then slit open the other which was written in a hand she did not recognise.

  The document, in different writing to the envelope, was in a scribbled hand: Dear Mrs Atkins, I spect you are woryd about Jack. He is all rite. I was with him wen the shell exploded and bits came everywere. One peece go
t stuck in Jacks sholder and anuther in his leg. He was unconshus and went to the hospital. I went to see him yesterday and he is all rite. He says he is going to rite to you soon. I am all rite to. Love from Fred.

  It was the most wonderful letter that Olivia had ever received. She knew Fred had recently written to Liz, but that was probably his first letter ever. His writing portrayed the effort, but it conveyed the most marvellous news of all: Jack was injured, but was all right.

  She turned quickly to the second letter. It was a pre-printed form which allowed the writer to cross out some statements and write in others. But wonder of wonders it was signed by Jack. Dated four days ago it must have caught up with Fred’s letter written a day or two previously. Olivia read: I have been admitted into hospital and I am going on well. Proper letter to follow at first opportunity. Then followed Jack’s signature. Olivia felt light-headed with relief. She realised she was smiling: the first time for days. She found herself kissing both letters. She must go to tell Liz and then Arthur. Soon, the whole village rejoiced for mother and son, but the loved ones of thirty-eight other Rusfield men quietly trembled a little more, hoped and prayed.

  THIRTY-ONE

  January 1915

  The driving snow was as daggers, piercing and ever reducing the temperature of their bodies. The whiteness covered everything and, as Abraham looked out, the war-torn landscape looked momentarily peaceful. The land near this village of Givenchy-lès-la-Bassée was flat. The few trees threw their arms into the air as if in desperation; the snow-filled dips in the landscape caused by the endless bombardment of shells barely showed.

  In the trench it was mercilessly cold and though a welcome change from the incessant rain of late December, the cold numbed the mind. Whatever top was spread over the trench, the wind-driven snow found its way through and the boards along the bottom of the trenches had long since disappeared into the filthy mess created by the stomping feet of the freezing men.