Shamefaced, he pushed himself up and stood; she right next to him, sorrow inscribed in her haggard features. ‘I’m sorry Liz; I didn’t know anyone was here.’
She gently spoke, ‘Lovely Eleanor: we all weep for her. She was the most kindly woman this village has ever known. On this day of all days, no one will be thinking of anything but her,’ and here she paused for a moment before adding, ‘and you, Vicar. Come, let us sit down together.’
After a few moments, Arthur realised her hand was resting on his. There were tears in her eyes as well. ‘Liz, I’m sorry, but why are you here?’
‘In part to pray for dear Eleanor, but there is another reason: you see today is my Fred’s birthday. If he hadn’t died in this terrible war he would be twenty-one today. Fourth of September, his birthday; the only difference is that today’s a Tuesday and he was born on a Friday. They say that Friday’s child is loving and giving; that was Fred. No one ever had a better son. Oh yes, he’d never found learning easy, but he was so kind. When Willy Johnson came home on leave after Fred died, he came to see me. Do you know what he said, Vicar?’ Arthur gave a slight smile of encouragement, but kept silent. ‘He said that Fred was the most loyal friend he ever had. Willy had lots of friends and to say that was wonderful.’
It was now Arthur’s turn to place his hand on that of Liz’s, ‘Bless you Liz. I had no idea it was Fred’s birthday. He was a splendid young man. So we really share our sadness today.’
‘Indeed we do, but let’s also think how we can share the best of memories: mine of Fred and yours of Eleanor. Think of the good things you have enjoyed together: be thankful for those. Vicar, do you remember when you came to see mother in her final moments and then we sat downstairs together with Nurse Hazlett?’
‘I do. Your mother was a fine lady.’
‘And do you remember when you and Eleanor, oh so kind, came to see me at the munitions factory when Fred died?’ Again, Arthur nodded at his clear memory of that day. ‘Well, both those times we said the Lord’s Prayer together, do you remember that, too?’ Another gentle nod and smile.
‘Let’s join in saying it together now, shall we? Remembering dear Eleanor.’
‘And Fred,’ he added.
‘Yes. Let’s think of them being here with us now, at least in spirit. I’m not a church person, but I think there is a God, perhaps he’s here right now; five of us together.’
Whilst other villagers were rising from their beds, eating a hurried breakfast, Liz and Arthur said the prayer in a way that he had never known the words before. For a moment he imagined Eleanor’s smile displaying approval. They sat quietly for a moment and then, without any prompting rose together. Liz leant forward and gently kissed Arthur’s cheek. ‘I don’t think anyone really dies whilst there is still someone who remembers them with love. I’ll be with you when we gather in here in a little while; just remember, so will Eleanor in spirit.’
‘And Fred,’ he added. Liz turned and left the church. Arthur followed a few minutes later.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
September 1917
Arthur had been grateful to the bishop for offering Dr Gresham Matthews, the cathedral’s principal organist, to play for Eleanor’s funeral. However, he courteously declined, for Rita Small was not only a capable musician, but a close friend; she and Eleanor had performed at village concerts and formed the village choir. Arthur knew Rita had listened carefully to Eleanor’s wishes and anyone passing St Mary’s on the previous Saturday or Sunday afternoon would have heard the organ as she determined to make the chosen music as perfect as she could. Her main worry was that tears would make playing difficult.
By midday on the Tuesday the church was full, although the service not due to start for half an hour. Led by Fred Abrahams and the Reverend Reggie Gregg, pew rows had been closed up and with all the chairs from the Methodist chapel, the normal seating had been doubled. By quarter past twelve there were over three dozen people assembled in and just outside the church porch; a number growing by the minute.
Rita Small had started playing forty minutes before the service; Handel, Bach, Telemann and Purcell all featured prominently, known favourites of Eleanor. Some members of the congregation were more mystified by the organist’s improvisation of two tunes: “Dry Those Fair, Those Crystal Eyes” and “I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls”. As she played, Rita Small’s mind turned back to the village party five years earlier when her dear friend had delighted all by her rendering of both songs. ‘They will remind me, and I hope some other people, of a wonderful village evening in peaceful times,’ Eleanor had smiled, adding, ‘you remember we started that evening with everyone singing “Daisy, Daisy”, but I don’t think I can expect you to play that.’ Led by Eliza Carey, Rebecca Fielding and Olivia Atkins, arrangements of beautiful flowers adorned the church.
Arthur sat with his mother on one side, Eleanor’s parents on his right. There were mourners from Steepleton; John Francis had rearranged the bus times to enable many to reach Rusfield. A number of dignitaries from Canchester Cathedral were there and many from Wensfield where Eleanor had grown up. Several had been ready to offer eulogies at the service and Arthur had chosen two friends he knew Eleanor would especially appreciate. They both spoke lovingly of her contribution to the village: Robert Berry of the way Eleanor had inspired the village spirit “in these terrible times of war” and Peter Meadows, having driven from Devon with his wife, who praised the work of Eleanor in setting up the reading room and supporting the school. The readings had been chosen by Eleanor. Charles Brown read his daughter’s favourite words from the Sermon on the Mount and Charlotte Windle another passage from St Matthew’s Gospel. She had to fight back tears when she reached Christ’s words which had been so well heeded by Eleanor: ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’ More than once Charlotte Windle cast a sideways glance at her son, worried how he was coping with the service; she prayed that Arthur’s earlier words to her were proving true: ‘I’m sure that Eleanor will be with me.’ So it seemed.
The late summer sun shone as the assembly walked the short distance to the vicarage garden; those closest to Eleanor having been invited to go inside to be with Arthur. He, with his mother nearby, moved a while later from house to garden, acknowledging the kind words spoken to him. He was surprised at some he saw: Dr Christopher and Eleanor’s consultant Mr Wraith, Sir Humphrey Watkinson who had driven down from Westminster and Sir Lancelot Prestwish with his sister Isabella de Maine. They spoke, as if with one voice, of the privilege of having known Eleanor and extending their condolences to Arthur. The imposing figure of Peter who did not seem to have changed in the five years since retiring as master of the village school, warmly shook Arthur’s hand: ‘No words can properly reflect my high regard for Eleanor; she achieved so many good things.’
But when Arthur went towards the colourful herbaceous flower beds that Eleanor had created, he was surprised that approaching him was the Very Reverend Edgar Hartley Williamson, Dean of Canchester Cathedral. Perhaps he recognised a surprised look on Arthur’s face for when he reached to shake hands, he said: ‘You may be surprised to see me; I fully understand that. I just wish you to know that the prayers of everyone at the cathedral, especially my own, are with you. May I just briefly say something now?’
In his surprise, Arthur could not immediately call to mind how to address his visitor. After a momentary pause he said, ‘Dean, how kind of you to come. You are most welcome to Rusfield.’
The dean smiled, an expression Arthur had never seen on his face before. ‘Thank you for saying that; I do realise that we have met on very few occasions. I particularly remember the time some five years ago, an occasion that I think back on with some embarrassment and much regret, for which I apologise.’
Arthur mouthed a dismissive sound of this unexpected, but sincere sounding apology. The dean continued: ‘I just want you to know that I hold your late wife in very high regard; she was
truly a surprising, nay, an amazing lady.’ Hard though he tried to conceal it, Arthur’s surprise returned to his face. ‘You see, she and I exchanged letters, about which I think you may be unaware. She wrote to me twice, both times with exceeding clarity of meaning and some passion; I remember them well.’ Whilst Arthur knew nothing of the correspondence, he appreciated only too well how clearly and passionately Eleanor had been able to express herself.
‘The first time she wrote was after I published a paper criticising the suffragette movement; she gave me many reasons why women should have the vote. I didn’t agree, but I admired her arguments. But it was the second occasion that really, excuse me for using the phrase, took the wind out of my sails.’ A slight smile overcame his saturnine features as he explained: ‘You may remember that just over a year ago I sent out a document stating reasons why, based on the populations of the allies and the enemy, the war would end in victory for us. The much larger total of allies being given by me as the reason for ultimate victory was dismissed by Mrs Windle as nonsense and anti-Christian. She indicated that I was saying that if the war went on for much longer and the rate of killing was equal on both sides that eventually no peoples from Germany or their supporting nations would be left, whilst the allies would have many millions remaining.’
‘I had no idea she had written to you, Dean. But listening to what you have just said sounds very much like her.’
‘Well, I thought deeply about what she said and I came to the conclusion that my reasons for giving a victory were foolish and could be conceived as advocating an endless slaughter.’ He paused for a moment. ‘But I have taken up enough of your time on this very sad day. She was, indeed, an extraordinary woman and I wish I had shown the goodness to apologise to her a while ago.’ He reached out to shake hands and slightly turning, added: ‘Perhaps, you will allow me to come back to Rusfield, if you are willing to receive me. May God bless you.’ He turned and moved away.
Arthur really wanted to go away quietly and ponder what the dean had said. So Eleanor did have a secret from him; what a surprise. He could not believe how many villagers came to give words, necessarily brief, of comfort: all spoke of the kindness of Eleanor. His feeling of her presence became stronger.
Arthur’s brief reverie was halted by an immaculately dressed lady in her mid-thirties striding towards him. He could not recall ever seeing her before, but she approached with grave assurance. ‘Your Reverence, may I offer you my deepest sympathy. You don’t know who I am, but let me introduce myself.’ She spoke in what Arthur felt was a slightly affected voice, but with sincerity. ‘I am Amelia Payne-Croft and I travelled from Steepleton to pay my respects.’
‘Thank you for coming. I’m sorry that I didn’t immediately recognise you,’ Arthur replied.
‘No, we have never met, but I did meet your wife.’ Even as she spoke, her name took on a meaning to Arthur. The suffragettes, he realised; she was the leader of the group in Steepleton. ‘Well, I was one who advocated determined action to further our cause. Your wife agreed with the cause, but spoke out strongly about any action which might risk harming anyone. I remember well how she addressed our meeting and subsequently wrote, expressing her view most strongly. I didn’t agree with her, but I did admire the way she spoke and wrote. I just wanted to pay my respects today and to acknowledge a most principled person. Please accept my deepest sympathy.’
With similar speed and directness to her approach, she took Arthur’s hand and moved away. Arthur was as surprised as he had been with the dean’s appearance and words. So Eleanor had written to Amelia Payne-Croft as well, a letter that also had a profound effect.
With all the people present, Arthur did not see Harriet and Joseph Bruce leave; it had been surprising they had come. That morning Peter Woods had arrived early, bearing them an official letter. Their son, Tommy Bruce, had been killed at a place of which they had never heard, Passchendaele. His parents, reeling from the terrible news had, nonetheless, wanted to pay their respects to a woman they so admired. Their tragic secret was known only to Peter who was unrecognised by some, not being in his postman’s attire. That morning he had carried his dark suit along with the tragic letter for the Bruce family and daily post and changed at the Johnson’s cottage. He had been so pleased to see Ruby there and they had parted with a kiss. He felt desperately sad for Tommy’s parents, but his grief was overwhelmingly for Eleanor Windle; a lady for whom he could never think highly enough.
The crowd began to disperse, the admiration for Eleanor and the sympathy for Arthur remaining. As Ruby Johnson left, she wondered who else had seen the buzzard high in the elm tree by St Mary’s throughout the wake. Willy would have been pleased she had spotted it.
One of the last to leave was Pauline Richards, Abraham’s mother. ‘I felt I should just mention it, Vicar; Frederick will come with me to the hospital on Friday. He’s sure he can get away from work, so you don’t need to worry.’ Arthur had to think for a moment before he fully understood what she was talking about; of course, the rota for visiting Richford House.
‘Please thank Frederick for the kind thought, but no, I will come with you still. Things have to carry on.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
September 1917
Later that evening, Arthur explained to his mother how the day had appeared to him through a haze, as if he had been looking in from a distance. ‘I can only hope that everyone who came didn’t find me too distant, for that’s how I felt. People were so kind and the things they said about Eleanor were so well deserved. Fancy the dean coming!’
‘You were wonderful, Arthur. I’m sure everyone knows how hard today has been for you and all the tributes to Eleanor are, of course, so well deserved. I was looking at all the beautiful wreaths and flowers that people brought and there were so many attractive posies made by the children: I’m sure Eleanor would be thrilled.’
‘Mother, it may sound strange, but I knew that Eleanor was with me today. As people spoke about her, I could almost see her smile and hear her gentle laugh.’
That night Arthur’s sleep was punctuated by spells of despair realising he would never hear or see Eleanor again, and periods of relative peace when he felt Eleanor with him. After breakfast Arthur and his mother sat in the conservatory, drinking a second cup of coffee.
‘Arthur, it’s not always a good idea for mothers to give advice, as it can easily become gross interference. However, I will risk all,’ she smiled, ‘by suggesting you try to keep busy. You will find times when you just want to sit quietly on your own. That’s fine, but just try to set your mind on all the good things you and Eleanor did together. Oh, and one other thing, Arthur. You’ll find that some people will be reluctant to even mention Eleanor’s name; that’s either because they think you don’t want her name spoken or, in some strange way, to protect themselves. Well, if that happens, you may well think it a good idea to bring Eleanor’s name into your conversation. It’s difficult to understand, but sometimes those who come to support need reassurance themselves. Now that’s enough advice. Would you like another cup of coffee?’
Half an hour later, Arthur was trimming a rogue yellow rose branch arching over the front-room window. He realised he would have to devote more time to the garden, previously Eleanor’s great joy, when his reverie was broken by the sound of a bicycle pulling up: Peter Woods.
‘Good morning Peter, have you nearly finished your morning round?’
‘Good morning sir. Yes, I just need to empty the pillar box. Sir, I wasn’t sure whether to call on you.’ The youthful-looking Peter, left hand holding his bicycle upright, paused. He continued as the vicar’s smile sourced encouragement: ‘There were an amazing number of people here yesterday and I didn’t want to get in the way, but I want to add my sincere sympathy and say how everyone will miss Mrs Windle. She was a very special lady, sir.’
‘Thank you Peter, thank you.’ He realised Peter had rehearsed his words and how heartfelt they were. ‘I feel that just recently I have been o
ut of touch with village matters; is there much news of late?’
Peter did not want to worry the vicar unnecessarily, but knew that he would want to be aware of important matters. ‘Well, sir, you may not have heard that Mr and Mrs Bruce’s son has been killed.’ He saw by the vicar’s expression that the news was unknown to him.
‘When did this happen, Peter?’
‘I’m afraid I had to deliver the letter yesterday morning.’
‘I’m so sorry, but thank you for telling me. I must get round to see them this afternoon. Peter, you must find it hard sometimes delivering these dreadful letters and telegrams?’
‘Yes sir, I do. A few weeks ago I actually asked about a job at the flour mill, but at the last moment decided not to go ahead. Sometimes it is awful, as I can imagine how dreadful it must be for people when I deliver these letters and telegrams.’
‘Yes, it must be wretched for you,’ Arthur hesitated, realising the young postman had more he wanted to say.
‘Yes, but I shouldn’t be thinking about myself, should I?’
‘Peter, it would be surprising if you didn’t feel the pain sometimes, only a very insensitive person wouldn’t feel as you do.’ Arthur placed a hand gently on that of Peter’s holding the bicycle, ‘Everyone in the village respects you and, believe me you do an important job because someone has to deliver these letters and you know the people. I hope you will continue, but I would understand if you decided it was all too much. Nobody would blame you.’
‘Thank you, sir, for those kind words. That’s really why I have kept going. I wish I could be out fighting with all the lads, but I know that can’t be with me being blind in one eye.’
‘Peter, it’s been good to see you. If it had not been for you, I wouldn’t have known to go round to see Mr and Mrs Bruce this afternoon.’
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