Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  ‘But I thought,’ interjected Arthur, ‘this illness only happened in crowded cities.’

  ‘It’s certainly most common in London and other crowded cities, but there are many local cases. I’m sure there have been others suffering with the same disease in your village.’

  By the time Christmas and the New Year had passed, other symptoms that the consultant had foreseen showed their ugly features: Eleanor’s breathlessness became more apparent and Arthur had increasing difficulty in persuading her to eat properly. Her tiredness dragged on for days until total exhaustion overtook her body, making movement up and down the vicarage stairs a laboured task. Arthur marvelled that for all her increasing ill-health, Eleanor’s spirit never declined; she smiled and showed gratitude for the simplest offering. When the memorial service was held at the end of March for Willy Johnson, Eleanor quietly sat in a side pew and whilst her beautiful voice was silent, she gently mouthed the words.

  Arthur made enquiries of Doctor Christopher and gently relayed his thoughts before Eleanor. He was surprised to see Eleanor smile. ‘What is it my love?’

  ‘Well, I remember reading that some of these new convalescent establishments had been built in Germany, but the war makes that hard for me to attend. Now we know some of our coastal towns have convalescent homes that have been bombed. It seems the Germans have it in for me.’

  But with the coming of early June and east-coast bombing raids something of the past, Eleanor was persuaded to go to a convalescent cottage hospital near Clacton. The Seaspray was close enough to the coast for the rich sea aroma to be present, but after three weeks Eleanor asked Arthur that she be allowed to return home. ‘I don’t really feel any better and I miss home. I miss friends calling, I miss hearing all that’s going on in the village and I miss seeing you all the time. I suppose I’m selfish, but I want to go home.’ How much they loved each other. Two days later, the beginning of July, she returned to Rusfield.

  As Eleanor’s eyes opened now, she smiled at Arthur. ‘My love, what news have you for me?’ He knew how much she loved to hear all that was going on; she could still be part of Rusfield.

  ‘Well, Violet Rushton tells me that there are over 150 parcels ready to go off, each with a packet of cigarettes, some sweets and a knitted item. Oh, and all the children have made a card, each one with the name of the man to whom the parcel is going. Some of the parcels have been added to by families putting in a few extras to their loved ones; a good idea, rather than sending separate parcels.’

  ‘That’s all wonderful news,’ gasped Eleanor, her pale face breaking into a radiant smile. ‘Is there news of any of the men away?’

  ‘Susannah told me that Olivia received a letter from Jack yesterday and was hugely relieved to learn he is well. After all the tragedies that Olivia has gone through, to lose Jack would be devastating; he’s such a splendid young man. It’s hard to remember that he has been away for three years.’ He went on to tell Eleanor about the flower arrangement Olivia Atkins had arranged in the pedestal by the altar which he was then asked to describe. This caused Eleanor to smile again when he added at the end of his description: ‘I hope I’ve got the colours right.’

  ‘Don’t worry Arthur, while I may not be able to go and check, I can ask mother to look.’

  They both looked towards the door as Charlotte Windle came in carrying a small tray, covered with a pretty Chinese-designed cloth, which she placed on the table next to Arthur. ‘Ruth brought round a dozen tomatoes yesterday which make a most nutritious soup.’ She stooped down and gently kissed Eleanor on the forehead. ‘I hope you enjoy it. I’ve also made some small egg custards. Rachel Fielding was telling me when she brought half a dozen eggs round earlier this morning that her chickens are really doing well. Anyway, if you fancy one, Arthur can go down and get it from the cool box, but they will keep until tomorrow, if not.’

  At the beginning of August, Arthur had carried Eleanor downstairs and now she lay on the chaise longue which village choir members, supported by other benefactors, had presented with much love. This followed Eliza Carey, who now came in to help every day, mentioning to Isabella de Maine that the spare bed brought downstairs had not looked very elegant in the conservatory. Only Isabella knew what a generous contribution her brother, Sir Lancelot Prestwish, had made; she knew how highly he regarded Eleanor, since first meeting her some years previously.

  Now permanently in the conservatory, Eleanor slept for increasingly long spells during the day, which partly made up for broken nights when fits of coughing disturbed her sleep. Arthur had been as thrilled as Eleanor with the gift, not only as a most generous sign of people’s affection, but to help raise her head in a more upright position; lying flat promoted even more coughing.

  As August moved on, the weather dramatically changed. It had been the sunny weather that had given Arthur the idea of moving Eleanor into the conservatory overlooking their lovely garden which several parishioners now helped Arthur to maintain. However, Eleanor insisted on staying there even as the rain fell. With prolonged pauses, she said: ‘It’s all part of God’s world. I don’t agree with everything the church says, but I do believe God created the world and that sunshine and rain are both part of that creation.’ Lying on the chaise longue, she saw some things more sharply than ever before. ‘I love the patterns the rain makes as it runs down the glass, and just now when the rain stopped, two beautiful butterflies came out to celebrate and danced on and around that red dahlia by the patio. Arthur, please look out the butterfly book and show me, I think they were gatekeepers, but I do get them muddled up.’

  Arthur made sure that he kept the birdseed container well filled, for although he knew that birds were now finding plenty of seeds in the fields, many did not reject the opportunity of easier feeds in the garden.

  ‘I think butterflies and birds are two of God’s most glorious creations, they are so beautiful.’ She watched the birds in between her fitful periods of sleep and the visits of friends, who all understood they were rationed to short periods by the caring Arthur. Eleanor was delighted to find that Betty Hazlett who called in almost every day, both as a nurse and a dear friend, shared her love of birds. Eleanor would relate the ones she had seen and together they would watch out for the tits, sparrows and different finches that went to the hanging feeder and the starlings, chaffinches and thrushes that fed mainly on what the other birds dropped. One day she could hardly wait to tell Betty, and later Arthur, that she had seen nine long-tailed tits.

  Eleanor knew she was dying. She told Arthur how he must look after himself when she was no longer with him; remarkably she sometimes made a joke of it. ‘Don’t forget to take your sermon with you when you go on a Sunday and remember to keep feeding the birds.’ On another day, she said how they should both remember the life they had had together. ‘Even though it’s been for fewer years than many share, it’s been richer and more wonderful than anyone else could imagine. Arthur, you are a marvellous husband and I do believe in God and I know that we shall never be far apart.’ She turned and smiled at him; he leant forward and kissed her. He could hardly bare to hear her speak of dying, but had the sense not to deny something which he knew was near. His mother would stay as long as Arthur wished and she and Arthur took it in turns to sit, sometimes sleep in the armchair in the conservatory; Eleanor often needed a drink or to have her brow mopped. The rains continued with unseasonal flooding in parts of the garden as the days shortened.

  It was on 28 August, the night of the great storm, that Eleanor died. Arthur was alongside her when he realised the change in her breathing pattern; an increase even to the usual gasping. He went to her, carrying the gentle light from the all-night burning candle, and held her hand. Suddenly, her breathing stopped; she had passed away. Arthur placed each hand on one of hers, leant forward and kissed her brow. He gazed at her and the tears fell. He whispered words to his wonderful wife, words that thanked her, words that spoke of his all-consuming love, words that would have broken any listener’s
heart – but there were no listeners. He was alone, yet he knew that Eleanor’s presence, in whatever form, would be with him forever. He sat, he held her ever colder hands, he wept. No prayer came to mind; how could he love a God who had taken away the only thing that really mattered? How could such a life be cut so short and end in such pain? When his mother entered the room an hour later for her turn with Eleanor, she found Arthur bent low over his beloved, still clasping her hands, still weeping.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  September 1917

  Arthur knew his misery was shared by all in Rusfield, but this gave him no solace. Everything he touched or saw reminded him of her; these were the things she had touched, that she had seen. He missed everything about her, but most of all he missed her voice: her conversation, her wisdom and her humour. He had visited many who had lost loved ones in the terrible war years, but surely none had ever felt all that he was now experiencing. He had talked to them of God and his love, but where was that now? No comforting verse, no words he had spoken to others gave him a moment’s relief. How useless had been all his prayers and those of so many in the village. God had not listened or, worse still, had spurned all intercessions. He had sat in the stillness of Eleanor’s garden, and listened; but he heard no voice and he realised his own foolishness when he recalled saying to one who had lost her son: ‘Time is a great healer.’ How wrong; each day that passed brought greater, not less pain.

  His mother was fearful of how Arthur would approach the coming Tuesday, yet hoped he would then be able to put the funeral behind him and move on. She was relieved Hugo Sheridan was taking the service, for as vicar at Wensfield he had married Eleanor and Arthur and was a great friend of Charles and Georgina Brown, Eleanor’s grieving parents.

  As the day grew nearer, Arthur’s distress dipped into depression; he trembled with grief at the thought of Eleanor being laid to rest in the cold ground. The thought even went through his mind that he would not be able to attend, yet in his heart he knew this was an occasion when he and Eleanor needed their spirits to touch.

  While the unusually violent storm attending Eleanor’s final hours had passed, the rain continued, and late on the first Monday in September, the eve of the funeral, it continued to lash against the conservatory windows. Charlotte Windle had wondered why Arthur sat in this room where the wretchedness of the weather was exaggerated, but he had told her that it was there he felt closest to Eleanor. Charlotte felt desperately tired, but knew she should wait until her son retired for the night. The time moved on slowly, but she now saw that it was already Tuesday. A few minutes later she realised the rain had stopped and the new moon with its weak light was forcing its way through the night clouds.

  Arthur stared up at the silvery light, forced a smile and spoke quietly: ‘Perhaps the weather is turning. I often used to think that Eleanor could change anything.’ He stood and moved towards his mother. She, too, stood and they embraced, not a word was spoken, but love flowed between them: love and great pity.

  Arthur followed his mother upstairs; they embraced again on the moonlit landing, neither speaking of the event to follow later that day. Alone in his room he gazed at the empty bed. He had no inclination to go to bed, for sleep was not possible and still fully clothed he sat in the upright Victorian chair. This was Eleanor’s favourite chair and he recalled how Aunt Elsie, his mother’s sister, had given it to them as a wedding present; but his mind soon returned to Eleanor. ‘I always wanted to get married on a snowy day,’ he remembered Eleanor saying as they had come out of Wensfield church on that February day to see large snowflakes falling. There had been a little covering of snow as they had been driven to the station to catch the train to Southwold. Their welcome at the Old Ship Hotel had been warm; so many happy days there. Wonderful memories for them and they had returned to the hotel for two more holidays before the war. How much they had enjoyed just wandering along the empty, sandy beach, Eleanor determined to paddle, shrieking with joy when stepping into the icy water. They had walked for miles in the seven days, coming back to the small hotel exhausted, but not too tired to love in a way that Arthur had never thought possible. Only eight years, but amazing years that Arthur realised few others could ever know.

  He sat, he may have dozed; it was a little after half past five that he was conscious of a brief bird song from the garden. He wondered why any bird would sing an hour before dawn; Eleanor would have gone to one of many natural history books they had accumulated and sought an answer. Perhaps, it was a sound of joy, simply heralding another day. He stood and realised how stiff his limbs had become. It was hours before the funeral and a splash of his face was all that he felt inclined after pouring the cold water from the blue and white jug bought by Eleanor at Steepleton market.

  Carrying the light and treading carefully so as not to wake his mother, he descended to the conservatory. There was a slight lightening of the eastern sky as the hall clock struck. How many dawns had there been; yet no other one like this? He had uttered no prayer that night, hardly any since Eleanor had died, but words spoken by him at the many funerals came unexpectedly to mind. Perhaps it was watching dawn breaking which called to mind the words: “In Christ shall all be made alive”, but they meant nothing.

  He was uncertain why, but a few minutes later he collected his heavy coat, scribbled a brief note for his mother, unlocked the side door and walked the short distance to the church. The sky, now fully aglow as he approached the ancient wooden door to the porch, promised a fairer day than of late. He knew St Mary’s would be open, since with the tragic news of the first Rusfield casualties it had been decided that the church must always be left open; solace might be sought at any time. One objector had warned of church silver being stolen, but Fred Abrahams had retorted that he would rather see something stolen than deny anyone access to God’s house. The Methodist chapel also kept its doors permanently open, a decision determined by Arthur’s increasingly close friend, the Reverend Reggie Gregg. Eleanor had once said to Arthur that it struck her as strange that it had taken a war for some churches to reverse an age-old habit of locking its doors.

  Arthur could hear her gentle voice saying this with just her touch of light mockery. It was a tone she used when she questioned, or indeed criticised the church for what she called its mumbo jumbo: there’s so much meaningless tradition that gets in the way of Christianity. Oh, why are there so many things that men have made up; not truths that Christ ever talked about? Arthur knew how she had never said such things with bitterness, but a sadness because much of church tradition conflicted with her simple, but strong faith. What would she want Arthur to do now, what would she gently tell him? He reflected for a moment that her belief, her ideas had touched him; in preparing services he found himself more wary of some of the Old Testament readings, casting aside, or at least seriously questioning, biblical readings that he thought Eleanor would question. But even when critical of the church’s teaching, she softened her words by adding: ‘Well, anything that helps any one of us to follow Christ’s teaching and get nearer to God must be all right. We’re all different.’

  He stepped round a puddle on the well-trodden path a few yards from the massive oak door. Above the door, the semicircular tympanum, washed and worn by eight centuries of wind and rain so that its once highly-decorated design of the world’s creation had deteriorated to a fragile and unadorned outline. Arthur pushed hard and the door eased open with its well-rehearsed scraping sound that no one had resolved. He was glad visitors were welcomed by a light church; the early English windows had been well designed seven centuries previously. The colours on the altar cloth and modest silverware sparkled, the increasingly brilliant arrows of the early morning sun cutting through the window at the east end. Arthur was surprised to find himself in this place he knew so well; what had prompted him to come amid his self-searching grief? Out of habit, as much as meaning, he crossed himself and sat at the end of one of the front dark-stained pews.

  One debt he owed his father
had been an introduction to some of the classic religious buildings of the land. He remembered the cathedrals at Gloucester, Salisbury and Wells, but most of all the magnificence of King’s College where he had been overwhelmed on a visit to Cambridge in his youth. Yet, as he sat quietly in this modest and simple church he felt closer to those who had built it than ever he felt in one of those great edifices. How little it had changed in all the centuries; here people had come in times of disaster and, for some moments, he imagined the poorly-clad villagers coming in and praying during the times of the Black Death, the Great Plague, the threat from Napoleon and moments of personal tragedy. He could hear Eleanor, accompanied by her gentle smile, saying: ‘Arthur, just think of all those people who have been in here before you; somehow they found the strength to go on.’ At that moment the increasing sunlight caught a flower pedestal bearing white and red chrysanthemums. The pulpit with its intricate workmanship, not a work of significance as Grinling Gibbons might have carved at one of the cathedrals, but which someone had taken much time and skill to achieve. Maybe, he would make time to find out more about St Mary’s and write a proper history.

  But then his mind stopped wandering and his eye fell on where he knew Eleanor’s coffin would rest at midday, and the pain returned. He dipped his head on to his arms resting on the pew in front and slithered forward on to his knees, as much in angst as prayer. Tremors overtook his whole frame, tears his eyes and he gently sobbed. ‘Why hast though forsaken me?’ were not words he spoke, nor even thought, but was his whole view of God and the world.

  He had heard no sound of anyone coming down the aisle, but then a gentle voice: ‘Come now, Vicar. Let me pray with you.’ He brushed his eyes, blinked, turned and saw dear Liz Smith standing there. Liz, of all people, one whom he never associated with St Mary’s, another person whose life had known, indeed still knew deep tragedy.