Peter Woods smiled, got on his bicycle and pedalled along to the pillar box at the junction of Bury Way and West Lane to collect letters, many to carry news to men away fighting.
Hoping not to meet anyone on the way, Arthur walked along Sandy Lane and passing Robert Berry’s cottage admired the four large tubs outside his cottage, two with tomatoes and two with lettuces. Robert had told him that the “grow more vegetables” scheme was going well now that nearly seventy villagers were taking part. Arthur continued past The Ark after which the road began its slight descent to where cottages became less frequent near the edge of the village.
His mind turned to Harriet and Joseph Bruce whom he knew, although not well. They were regular worshippers at the Methodist chapel and Harriet had been an enthusiastic member of Eleanor’s choir. Joseph was a hurdle maker with a large barn at the rear of his cottage where he made the low fences mainly used to retain sheep. He coppiced the ash from Dell Wood and made the bar hurdles using poles trimmed from the ash, splitting them with his billhook and then nailing them together in the form of a five-bar gate. He also made lighter-weight hurdles using coppiced hazel, but Arthur had heard that times were hard for the family as sheep were giving way to arable farming.
His eye took in the pretty thatched cottage, although he noticed the roof needed attention, and saw two young children in the street playing marbles. Arthur knew little about marble games; it was clear that they were thoroughly enjoying themselves although their main joy appeared to be in getting covered in dirt. He approached the one whom he judged to be about five years of age. ‘What is your name?’ he asked in his kindly manner.
‘I’m Ruth and that’s Daisy.’
Arthur smiled at these two girls, judging Ruth to be the oldest, and recognised the similar features of the two with their dark hair falling over their grubby, but happy faces. As they returned to their marbles, he knocked on the door, but their attention had not been fully diverted from the visitor. ‘They won’t hear you, mister; they’re in the back garden. You can go through there.’ Ruth rushed to the side gate and swung it open, then returned to the game.
Arthur walked along the side path and sure enough Harriet and Joseph Bruce were sitting on the back doorstep. They looked up at the sound of footsteps, Joseph hurriedly standing. Arthur saw the tear-stained and pained face of his wife and noticed that Joseph’s left hand was heavily swathed in a bandage.
‘Vicar, please forgive the state we’re in.’ He reached out with his right hand in a warm welcome by which time Harriet Bruce had struggled to her feet. Arthur noticed two more children at the bottom of the narrow, well-maintained garden with the older one pushing the other on a swing fixed to an overhanging branch.
‘Will you come inside, Vicar? I can make a cup of tea for you.’
‘That’s most kind, but no thank you. And with this weather it would seem a shame to go indoors. I can easily sit on this,’ Arthur replied, pointing to a low brick wall that edged the small patio. He was pleased that the two grieving parents returned to their earlier seats on the well-scrubbed step and as he sat, said: ‘I am so, so sorry to hear about Tommy. Please accept my deepest sympathy. If there is anything I can do in any way to help, you must let me know.’
‘Thank you, Vicar. That’s most kind of you and we especially appreciate you coming round at this unhappy time for you, too. Mrs Windle was a kind, thoughtful lady and the village will be a much poorer place without her.’
Immediately his wife had finished speaking, Joseph Bruce continued, opening out the sheet of paper which was beside them on the step. ‘Yes, it is terrible news, but we will always be very proud of Tommy. Indoors we have some photographs of him when he was home on leave and we’d love to show you these before you go.’
Arthur smiled and nodded his acceptance of this offer. ‘We shall miss him terribly, but in this letter his sergeant said Tommy was very brave in attacking an enemy machine-gun post. He also said that Tommy had died instantly and we thank God for that.’
Arthur glanced at Harriet Bruce, head sunk, and saw her shoulders gently moving as she silently sobbed. He made the quick decision to change the course of conversation. ‘I’m sorry to see you have injured your hand. Is it serious?’
Joseph Bruce looked down at the bandaged hand. ‘Well, I was stupid enough to cut it when I was splitting some wood. I don’t know how many hundreds of poles I’ve split, but my billhook must have hit a tough knot. Nurse Hazlett has been very caring and she came quickly when Harriet went round to her cottage, stitched it and keeps checking all is well. I’m all right really, but she tells me I must take things carefully for a few days and rest. She thinks I will get attacks of giddiness if I’m not careful and I want to do everything I can to help it heal as quickly as possible. I can’t afford to be away from work for long.’
‘But you were good enough to come to Eleanor’s funeral yesterday.’
Harriet Bruce looked up. ‘Well, that was different. We both wanted to be there to pay our respects. We were not going to miss that, whatever happened.’
‘That was very kind of you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and I know Eleanor would be saying the same. Thank you.’
Their conversation was brought to a sudden halt as Ruth, followed immediately by the younger Daisy, came running round the corner towards the grieving adults. ‘Daddy, will you tell Daisy that she isn’t allowed to have an extra go with her marble just because she’s younger than me. I don’t think that’s fair.’
The parents’ features turned to embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry, Vicar. Please excuse the children.’ Joseph’s face took on an attempted stern look: ‘Ruth, I’ve told you before that you mustn’t just burst in and interrupt people when they are talking. Now, say you’re sorry.’
Ruth immediately looked humbled, gently took hold of her younger sister’s hand in a protective gesture, turned to the adult visitor and said: ‘I’m sorry, sir. It was rude of me.’ By this time the other two girls had hurried from the bottom of the garden and joined the group on the patio, curious to know what was happening.
‘What a lovely family you have,’ Arthur offered. ‘I’ve already met Ruth and Daisy, but not your other two daughters.’
‘This is Ruby,’ Harriet Bruce said, introducing the older girl whom Arthur had seen pushing the swing. The eight-year-old gave a slight curtsey. ‘And this is Maud, she’s just four.’
‘Well, I know you two like playing marbles and I saw you enjoying pushing Maud on the swing,’ said Arthur, trying to involve all of the children. ‘What other things do you like doing?’
It was Ruby, perhaps feeling her role as the eldest of the four, who answered: ‘Well sir, we like going for walks and paddling in the stream. I like reading and I’m helping Daisy and Maud to read.’
‘So you all like school, do you?’ They all nodded with much enthusiasm.
‘And we were hoping to go on the treasure hunt on Saturday, but mummy says she’s not sure we can,’ chipped in Ruth. ‘Father won’t be able to go and mummy says she may need to stay with him.’
Arthur vaguely recalled that Grace Reynolds and Reggie Gregg with help from others at the Methodist chapel were organising a family treasure hunt across Bramrose Hill with a succession of clues eventually leading to the manor where Isabella and Sebastian de Maine would provide a drink and an apple.
‘But you could go with someone else, couldn’t you?’ asked Arthur of the disappointed children. It was the next, rather unexpected comment, or rather a question, that would long remain in Arthur’s mind.
‘Could we go with you, Mr Vicar?’ asked Maud, the youngest of the four.
There was a brief pause before Harriet Bruce, with another embarrassed look, answered: ‘Maud, you shouldn’t ask like that. I’m sorry, Vicar. And I’m sorry that Maud addressed you in that way.’
Arthur smiled. ‘I don’t mind. I’ve never been addressed as Mr Vicar before, I rather like it.’ In a moment his mother’s advice about keeping busy came to him, inter
mingled with a memory of Eleanor enjoying a village treasure hunt a year or so previously.
‘Maud, it was kind of you to ask me. I’m not sure if your parents would agree, but if your mother isn’t able to join in on Saturday, I would love to take you. I’m sure we could help each other with the clues.’
The children all broke in to smiles, Maud clapping her hands in sheer joy. ‘Vicar, are you sure? That would be very kind,’ said Joseph Bruce. ‘The children would love that.’
The treasure hunt on the following Saturday, blessed with continuing sunshine, was another happy village day easing, albeit briefly, the sadness and anguish that hovered over Rusfield. So it was that Ruby, Ruth, Daisy and Maud, accompanied by Arthur and his mother, was one of the forty family groups that assembled on the green before setting out for Bramrose Hill. Maud carried the piece of paper bearing the first clue, proudly read to her by Daisy. It was a happy day, long remembered by the villagers, not least by Arthur.
Arthur read one of the lessons at the memorial service for Private Tommy Bruce at the Methodist chapel and, as with every service for a man who died in the war, virtually everyone from the village was present. Over a year earlier, Jack Mansfield of Spinney Farm had been the first of the local employers to grant time off for attending these services; others had followed.
Charlotte Windle divided her time between helping Arthur in the garden and joining in village activities. She took her turn at the reading room when Isabella de Maine was unwell, helped in organising a batch of parcels for the troops and joined Olivia Atkins in preparing sketches for a new children’s book. A close bond had grown between the two of them and they increasingly enjoyed each other’s company with Charlotte sharing in Olivia’s worries about her son Jack and rejoicing in a letter arriving from him. However, in Charlotte Windle’s mind it became clear that she must not outstay her time in the village; Arthur must learn to manage on his own. Her return home was arranged for the first Friday in October; it would be almost four months since she had come to Rusfield. Arthur would accompany her back to Dorset, stay overnight and return to take the Sunday service at St Mary’s.
Although Charlotte Windle had misgivings about leaving Rusfield, she was delighted to see her own home. She needed to have no worries about the state of the house, for friends had kept a watchful eye on it; Margaret Brentford had arranged flowers in both the small hallway and the lounge. Mother and son separately reflected on how their relationship had become ever closer during the past months. Tears remained in Charlotte’s eyes long after Arthur left, caused through his parting gift to her: a ring given to Eleanor by Arthur for her thirtieth birthday. ‘Mother, please accept this as a thank you. It was Eleanor’s wish that I give it to you.’
The Waterloo-bound train left Sherborne on time and apart from a group of soldiers, there were few passengers. Arthur found himself alone in the carriage with the rain splattering against the window, part concealing the autumn countryside. His mind leapt between loving thoughts of Eleanor and moments of profound depression; she was either with him or totally absent. He, too, had begun to see some of the church’s teaching as no more than “mumbo-jumbo”, that it concerned itself too little with the fundamental tenets of Christianity. He agreed more and more with Eleanor’s seemingly simple but clear view of God as shown through Christ’s teaching and example. He continued to be puzzled by prayer, unable to believe that it would cause God to intervene in people’s lives and events; to him this was at conflict with free will. His anger at God for taking Eleanor from him had assuaged, for anger had never been the way for Eleanor. He had commenced a letter to the bishop saying that he no longer saw himself fit to continue as a priest, but decided this might be something best discussed with the dean, if he did come to see Arthur.
To Arthur’s slight surprise a Buddhist monk entered the carriage at Salisbury, smiling and making a polite comment that he hoped Arthur did not mind him joining him. Arthur judged the middle-aged passenger to be from the Indian continent and whilst he knew little of the Buddhist religion, his saffron robes announced his calling.
After a while the newcomer introduced himself with the comment: ‘These are difficult times my friend, are they not?’ Arthur agreed that the war was a great test of men’s courage and that the suffering at home and abroad seemed never ending.
‘Indeed, I think many find it a challenge to our very being; I know I do.’
‘But,’ replied Arthur, ‘perhaps our beliefs, and I know little of your religion, should give us some solace.’ Encouraged by the other’s gentle smile and nod, Arthur went on; ‘I hope you won’t mind me asking a question.’
‘Of course not, although I cannot promise a helpful answer.’
Arthur struggled for a moment to frame what he found himself wanting to know. ‘I’m sure your belief gives you the comfort we have just mentioned, but I find myself very ignorant. Can you tell me something of Buddhism? Please forgive me for being curious.’
‘I understand. To explore another’s faith is good, for in doing so I am sure one can learn much. I have been fortunate enough to study some aspects of the Christian faith and I think there are some teachings that are common to both of us.’
‘I’m sure that is so,’ responded Arthur. ‘Please go on.’
‘One of our most important beliefs is that when one’s body dies, that person’s mind does not come to an end. Even though our conscious mind ceases, it moves into a deeper level of consciousness. I don’t know whether I’m explaining this very well.’
‘Indeed, you are. Please tell me more.’
‘Everything we do leaves an impression on our mind so one can think of it as a garden with our actions and behaviour rather like sowing seeds in that field. Those seeds or actions can bring further happiness or future suffering. We know this as the law of karma; it’s fundamental to our Buddhist morality.’ How much like Eleanor, Arthur thought. He could have been describing part of her faith.
They continued to discuss each other’s faith and both smiled when they agreed that a religious discussion was an unlikely occurrence on a Saturday morning train. The Buddhist monk, whose name Arthur found embarrassingly difficult to remember, explained that four years previously he had travelled from Ceylon and was now involved in the monastic order in London. It was to Arthur’s disappointment when his travelling companion told him that he was leaving the train at Woking.
They said their farewells with much warmth and agreed that life was a journey for truth. ‘Perhaps,’ said the monk, ‘truth or, as you would say God, is so great that no single religion can fully encompass it. I thank you for sharing our search together.’
As the carriage door was closed, Arthur realised what an unexpected fellow traveller had been with him. He smiled to himself when he realised that some would view this as divine intervention; he knew his own unsteady faith could not go that far.
CHAPTER FIFTY
May - August 1918
He was haggard, listless and his six-foot frame had changed from his days as Boney, the fearless goalkeeper and the well-muscled young man who humped bags of grain at the brewery. He was a frightened soldier who trembled at every explosion. Private Albert Jones had lost all heart and cared little whether he survived the war or not. His final link with sanity had been shattered by the letter received two weeks earlier: Doris had ended their relationship.
Having built up huge forces the Germans had launched a massive attack to end the stalemate by punching their way through the Allies’ defences before the American troops became established. Albert had been in a British division previously in Flanders which had been moved from the front line to recuperate after a lengthy duty. However, Duchêne, the French commander had overruled the British command and the fatigued troops, now firmly under his charge, became part of his plan of defence in depth. Albert was now one of thousands massed in front line trenches, targeted by great numbers of German guns. The first bombardment had been followed by a poison gas drop affecting many of the men; Albert had
at least escaped this additional horror.
It seemed a lifetime ago that he and his friends had gathered in Rusfield, enjoyed a drink together and looked forward to the future; later, his time with the glorious Doris. Had that been before or after he was wounded for the first time? Surely afterwards, those moments had promised so much for the future once the bloody war was over. The leave back home and the discovery that his mate Jammy had been killed in the same explosion had begun his recurring nightmares which he had never previously known. He recalled a second period of leave, taking the younger family members to gather blackberries on Bramrose Hill. A faint smile came to his worn face when he remembered his own brown paper bag splitting open and all the berries spilling; George immediately boasted that he had now got more blackberries than his big brother. But when he had asked Doris to go for a walk over the same hill two days later, she had said she needed to do an extra day’s work at Spinney Farm, but he felt it was an excuse. She had seemed reluctant even to hold his hand and their previous passionate embraces were not to be repeated. Albert found that when his parents asked him what France was like, he had to pretend it was not too bad; they just did not understand. He had been pleased to return to France, finding comfort alongside other men who shared this war although he hated every minute of the shelling and the trenches of dead bodies.
It was the companionship, the stories they swapped and the assumed common inevitability of being killed to which he warmed. They joked together and, in moments away from the front, they joined in choruses, often crude ones. There had been the time when writing a letter home Podgy and Heave-ho were nearby writing letters, too. When they had all finished Albert said he would pass them on for the first stage of the journey back to England. As he put them together he noticed that on the back of Podgy’s letter was written: Remember NORWICH. ‘Podgy, you don’t come from Norwich,’ he said, looking across at the older man.
Podgy let out a great guffaw. ‘Of course not, I’m from Newcastle, that’s not why I’ve written NORWICH on the back of the envelope. Don’t you know?’ He saw Albert’s puzzled expression. ‘Well, it’s what a lot of us write. Annie will know what it means: “Nickers Off Ready When I Come Home”.’ He laughed again and Albert and Heave-ho joined in.
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