Now, God be Thanked

by John Masters

  Bells clanged insistently from the south, and with them the brazen blare of klaxons. Two fire engines of the Hedlington Fire Brigade roared up, one drawn by six horses, the other motor driven, bells ringing, brass-helmeted crews hanging on along the sides. They stopped fifty yards up the street and the men jumped to the ground. Stella arrived to hear one of the men say, ‘See if the mains is broke, Jim.’

  The fat man was there, too, and cut in, ‘No, they ain’t. I just tested that one. ’Ook ’er up! An’ don’t waste no time, ’cos this shop ’ere’s got an old couple living upstairs wot we can’t get at, ’cos the stairs ’ave fallen in.’

  ‘’Oo the ’ell are you, mate, to be giving me orders?’

  ‘I’m Bill Fuckin’ ’Oggin, mate, and I ain’t giving you no orders, I’m telling you wot needs to be done. Some of us don’t take twenty minutes to get out of bed and find a fire as big as this fucker.’

  The firemen were running out the hoses, and hooking them to a hydrant. Ladders were extending up to the second floor of the burning shop, where the old couple were said to be trapped. Perhaps they are dead or can’t move, Stella thought, because no one has come to the windows. She looked round, yawning. It was over. There’d be another time – many.

  A man came running up beside her as she walked aimlessly along the street …‘Miss, miss! … My wife’s time has come.’

  Stella looked at him, puzzled. What time? What was his wife to her? Then she realized that she was wearing the VAD hospital helper’s uniform. The newly familiar fears and thrill came together. She shouldn’t do it – what did she know of childbirth, never having seen or helped at one? But the excitement was rising, not as strong as when she ran into the burning house, but… yes, stronger than anything she had yet experienced with Stephen.

  Common sense took over. She said, ‘Have you sent for the doctor?’

  The man cried, ‘Of course I have, miss, but he wasn’t there. They’re all out … the Zeppelin!’

  She thought a moment, then said, ‘All right. Take me to your wife and I’ll do what I can. But you must keep trying to find a doctor.’

  This time the thrill was not as climactic as the one in the burning house; but it was as all-pervasive of her body and spirit, and it lasted longer – two hours. The woman’s labour was far advanced by the time she reached the house in a side street off the Rochester road, and hurried up the two flights of stairs. It was her second child – the other stood in a crib, alternately crying and cooing in the single room. She tried to remember what she had heard and been told … everyone talked about hot water, but there was none, so she sent the husband off to get some, also clean towels even if he had to steal them; and she told him, when he’d brought them, to go to where the fire brigades were, and tell the firemen that a doctor was needed – one might have come by now. ‘And,’ she called after him, ‘if you can’t find a doctor, find a Mr Hoggin.’ She didn’t think Mr Hoggin was a doctor, but he was a man who knew what to do, and got it done.

  Meanwhile, she did her best, which was mainly to watch nature do its work; wipe the woman’s sweating face and fore head; and tie a twisted sheet to the rail at the foot of the bed for her to tug on when the spasms came. Stella thought, watching her, she’s experiencing the same things that I did, with Stephen, and in the fire … she’s trying to reach something great … for her, the baby: for me – I only half understand, so far; perhaps, in time, I’ll know better what it is.

  Finally, just as a doctor bustled in, dishevelled and dusty from working on bomb casualties, the baby slid out on to the bloodied sheet between its mother’s thighs. Stella picked it up and said softly, ‘It’s a girl.’

  Dawn was breaking as she left the house, holding up a hand to silence the husband’s thanks … Where was she? And now that the night was past, and the work done, hadn’t she heard the name Hoggin somewhere? A marriage which she hadn’t been able to go to? … She must find her bag, if someone hadn’t taken it during the night. She’d left it on the pavement opposite that first house she’d run into. She walked faster.

  When she was nearly there, hurrying through a voluble crowd, a woman seized her arm, shouting, ‘This is the lady, inspector.’

  A police inspector pushed through towards them. The woman was gabbling, ‘Run into the house, she did … right off! … rescued my cousin’s little ’un … near suffocated from the smoke she was … another two minutes and she’d ’ave been a goner … flames everywhere!’

  The inspector had a notebook out – ‘I’d like to have your name, miss, so that you can receive the proper commendation.’

  Over the inspector’s shoulder Stella saw a high car moving through the crowd, and recognized her grandfather’s Rowland; and saw him in it, with Aunt Alice. She ducked, turning her head quickly, muttering, ‘Sorry. I have to go.’

  She hurried on, found her bag untouched just where she had left it, and walked quickly away. How could she possibly have explained what she was doing, how she had got there? But grandfather would have believed whatever she told him, except the truth. German bombs falling on Hedlington from the sky at night! Men riding the darkness in throbbing monsters, like giant silver cigars! But no one would believe that Miss Stella Cate, of Walstone Manor, in the county of Kent, had spent the night with Captain Stephen Irwin in a disreputable inn in North Hedlington.

  She would find a telephone – there was one at the station – and tell her father that she had not been hurt in the bombing, and was coming home. They might not have heard of the raid, except that news and gossip always travelled so fast.

  She walked faster towards the station. She didn’t know when the first train for Walstone left Hedlington, but it would be soon, and she could wait in the Ladies’ waiting room. She realized that she might walk down the High Street naked, and no one would notice. No one was seeing or hearing anything except about the Zeppelin and the bombs. The High Street was full, even at that hour. People were talking in clusters. Hundreds were walking north, to see the effects of the bombing for themselves. Every policeman was besieged by questioners. And the shops of Weingarten, gentlemen’s clothier, and Hartmann, musical instruments and sheet music, had had their plate glass shattered, and the contents dragged out into the street and burned, or smashed. The town reeked of burning cloth and paper.

  Stella hurried on, thinking with a mixture of excitement and disappointment, Now I am a woman. But what kind? Am I different from other women? If so, how? Why does the unknown compel me? What is the nature of the secret that has touched me, once, for a moment, with flaming fingers?

  Daily Telegraph, Monday, January 18, 1915

  WAR

  The official communiqué issued in Paris yesterday afternoon says:

  PARIS, Sunday (3 p.m.) We have continued to progress in the region of Nieuport and of Lombaertzyde. Our artillery obliged the Germans to evacuate their trenches for a distance of about 200 metres on the Grande Dune and destroyed the redan to the north of that spot …

  In the region of Ypres and in the region of La Bassée and of Lens there have been artillery combats.

  At Blangy, near Arras, there was a fairly lively action. The Germans had seized the foundry at Blangy, which we took at once with an energetic counter-attack, and we maintained our position there.

  Our artillery continued to demolish the enemy’s trenches near La Boisselle …

  In the Argonne, on the heights of the Meuse, and in Woevre there is nothing new to report.

  In the Bois-le-Prêtre, near Pont-à-Mousson, a German attack was repulsed.

  In the Vosges we won some ground west of Orbey. Snow fell heavily all day.

  Last night’s communiqué said:

  PARIS, Sunday (11.25 p.m) There is nothing to report, except that snow has fallen from the Argonne to the Vosges.

  Elsewhere the Telegraph had devoted a full page to Saturday night’s air raid, including many interviews and eye-witness stories. Bill Hoggin had been prominent in the work of rescue after the raid, apparently; or, at l
east, in grabbing the attention of the journalists … That was unfair: others confirmed that he had been a tower of strength, he and some anonymous nurse who had rescued one, two, or five children from burning buildings – stories varied. Of course the local paper, the Courier, had gone lyrical with excitement, and barely left room to print any other news.

  Cate looked across the table at his son. Stella had already left for Hedlington and the hospital, looking extraordinarily pretty and eager, as though watching the air raid through the hospital windows had somehow filled her with energy, instead, as one might reasonably have expected, with anxiety or fear.

  Laurence said, ‘Daddy, do you have a few minutes?’

  Cate waved expansively, ‘All the time in the world today, Laurence. No tenant problems, no boards, courts, or meetings.’ He looked at his son, realizing that he had spent very little time with him these holidays; and Laurence was due to return to Charterhouse for the Lent term three days hence.

  Laurence said, ‘I was wondering … whether going into the Weald Light Infantry … would be the right thing for me … when the time comes.’

  Cate said, ‘You could go into the Rifle Brigade.’

  ‘Well, er, I was thinking perhaps … that I’m not cut out for the army.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter a bit. There’s always the navy. There isn’t the same demand, and you’re too late for the ordinary cadet entrance, but we could arrange matters, I’m sure. Why don’t we go to visit Chatham some day? I know the rear admiral there quite well … visit a ship, look at the navy, get the feel of it.’

  After a short pause Laurence seemed to give up, and said, ‘All right, Daddy, I’d like that … whenever you want, but …’

  ‘But what? You look worried. Can’t I help?’

  Laurence said, ‘It’s about that hunter … you said you were going to give me for my next birthday.’

  ‘Yes. I have one in mind … a young gelding, got some fire in him, plenty of stomach and wind, and a good lepper. He’s a little young yet, but then it’s ten months to your birthday, isn’t it? … Now I want to spend the day with you. What shall we do?’

  After another pause Laurence said, ‘Could we go to Chatham today?’

  ‘Why not? A great idea. I’ll telephone the …’

  Garrod came in silently. ‘A Mr Ellis on the telephone for you, sir.’

  Cate got up, pushing the paper aside. The telephone was in the front hall. He picked up the receiver and said, ‘Cate here.’

  ‘Ralph Ellis, Cate. I’m speaking from London, but I’m coming down to Hedlington right away to meet the mayor and the CO of the Wealds’ Depot about some of their problems … billeting … camp sites … training areas … soldiers’ dependants … the influx of young girls from the country, who mostly finish up as whores … It suddenly struck me that we ought to have someone from the countryside. After all, the training’s got to be in the country … so have the new camps … and the girls come from there. Could you meet us at eleven, in the Town Hall council room?’

  ‘Very well,’ Cate said, ‘I’ll be there.’

  He hung up, and went back to the dining-room to tell Laurence there would be no day together today. He was sorry, but it couldn’t be helped. There was a war on.

  21 Hedlington Race Course: Saturday, February 20, 1915

  It had rained off and on the last three days, so the course was soggy and the footing for the spectators muddy. The middle class had come armed with umbrellas, but the lower class just turned up their coat collars, for there was no shelter except in the small grandstand on the west side of the course, facing across the oval to the Scarrow and Beighton Down, above the barge wharfs. This was the second and last day of a National Hunt meet which was one of the half-dozen occasions when Hedlington Race Course, situated actually in North Hedlington, was used. It just paid its way to its shareholders, by siphoning off enough money from the betting fraternities of Hedlington, Chatham, Rochester, and the neighbouring countryside.

  Ruth Hoggin sat on a bench in the grandstand, feeling that everyone was staring at her. She had dressed as inconspicuously as possible, in spite of Bill’s demands that she wear something bright, like a scarlet skirt and green blouse and purple hat. It was not by reason of her sex that she would stand out at the course; there were plenty of women here, many of a much higher class than she could claim – why, a little further along were Mr Harry Rowland and Miss Alice. Horse racing was a respectable sport, especially in the winter when the races were over fences, hurdles, and water jumps. No, what made her feel that every eye turned towards her, estimating, was that her baby was now due in three weeks. Her mother had told her that she herself had been fifty-five inches round the waist just before the birth of Ethel; but Ethel had been her fourth child, and this was to be her own first. She was not so large as that, by a long chalk … but, because it was her first, it felt like it. Every time the baby kicked she blushed, feeling that people must see the heave of her dress. Every time someone passed, she looked away, anxious to meet no one’s eye.

  She wished Bill had not insisted on bringing her. To her protests he had answered that it would be good for her, and for the baby. But she wasn’t really worrying about the baby: it was herself. Such as the Rowlands might approve of horse racing, but she had never been on a course before she married Bill. Her family did not approve of racing or betting. She was afraid of the crowds, the shouting bookies, the boys running to and fro with messages, the smell of beer and gin from the stalls behind the grandstand. One of those stalls was boarded up, its windows broken and door smashed – a casualty of last month’s Zeppelin raid. Even thinking of it made her thank the good Lord once more that it had happened on a weekend, so Bill was home from London. The warmth of his place in bed had comforted her that night long after he himself had gone, jumped up and out at the first bomb crash, and not returned till broad daylight, covered with dirt, his clothes charred and bloodied.

  The crowd breathed out together – ‘They’re off!’ The horses dashed away from the starter’s flag, mud clots flew, men roared names, Come on! Come on! … over the hurdles, flying easily, landing, one horse down, twisted sideways over a hurdle, its jockey flying one way, the horse’s legs the other … the jockey was up, running to catch its reins but the horse evaded him and galloped on behind the others, jumping without a rider. A black horse with a jockey in crimson and green striped silk was in front by a long way, four lengths ahead of any other. He came on, the jockey rising to stand in his stirrups as he passed the finishing post.

  ‘Blast and damn and bugger!’ Bill came storming up the aisle towards her, his face like thunder. ‘Blast and damn and bugger!’ he growled again, sitting down beside her. ‘Lost again!’ Bill’s friend sat down beyond him, and Bill said, ‘Milner here, too. Ten quid each, eh?’

  Milner was a cadaverous man of about forty with a waxed moustache and small blue eyes in a long pale face. He wore a blue suit and a bowler hat. Now he nodded, the corners of his mouth turned down, and said, ‘Thought Flying Corps was a sure thing … had it from the horse’s mouth … the jockey.’

  ‘Well, no use crying over spilt milk,’ Bill said. ‘What ’ave we got in the next?’

  They bent over their separate copies of the London paper, folded back at the racing page, and began to mutter names and odds. The bookies chalked figures and names on their blackboards and rubbed out others. The tictac men waved arms and raised fingers with blinding speed. The crowd along the rails was liberally sprinkled with khaki and navy blue, for Hedlington was barely three miles away, and Chatham seven. Half a dozen soldiers were trying to get into the grandstand by a nearby gate, and the attendant was turning them away, for they had not bought grandstand tickets. They had been drinking and started shouting obstreperously at the attendant. Bill Hoggin looked up from his paper and shouted, ‘Fuck off! I can’t think for your bloody row!’

  ‘Fuck off yourself,’ one of the soldiers yelled, reeling, ‘wot the ’ell right do you ’ave to sit there ’igh
and mighty? Too bloody dangerous to be in khaki, eh? And not enough money in it for you, eh?’

  Bill took no notice, again bent over the paper. A policeman strode majestically up – ‘Now move along there! Move along! And mind your language, you.’

  ‘I wasn’t swearing!’E was! That fat sod in the brown suit!’

  ‘Now now, there …’

  Bill turned to Milner. ‘I like Rose Crown in this going.’

  ‘A fifty?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s big and she’s a mudder. Look at what Insider says.’

  ‘How much are you going to put on?’

  Bill said, ‘This is a good ’un … 45 to 1, because she’s a filly. I’ll lay twenty Bradbury’s each way.’

  ‘Forty quid! Pheeew!’

  ‘You can’t get fairy queens for fourpence, mate,’ Bill said.

  After a long hesitation Milner said, ‘All right – same for me.’

  Bill pulled out a thick wallet and extracted eight Bank of England five-pound notes. He gave them to Milner, saying, ‘Put it on for me, there’s a pal.’

  Milner took the money and walked off down the aisle, saying, ‘All right. And I’ll have a Bass or two before I come back. My nerves aren’t what they used to be, with this sort of money on a nag’s back.’

  ‘No hurry, mate.’

  When Milner was out of earshot, Ruth said anxiously, ‘Bill, are you sure that horse is going to win? Mr Milner looks very worried.’

  He said, ‘I’d be surprised out of my bloody life if it did.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I’m laying off. Hedging. I did the last race, too. I’m not making any money, but I’m not losing any either. An’ I know Rose Crown’s not going to win or place, because she’s going to be pulled.’

  ‘But why …?’

  ‘Ruthie, just keep your mouth shut, see? … I wonder what Harry Rowland’s betting on. He knows a thing or two about the jumpers. Maybe I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Oh, don’t do that, Bill.’