by John Masters
With whomsoever the fault lies the public remains deluded as to the general course of the war and as to the position in which the country finds itself today.
Rose took what little breakfast she ate these days, in bed, so Harry was alone with Alice. He kept his eyes down as he read on, for he did not want his daughter to see the anxiety and doubt which, he thought, must be obvious on his face. Lords Loreburn and Milner, and many others, were openly criticizing the Government’s conduct of the war. Loreburn, indeed, had obliquely suggested that some accommodation ought to be sought with the Germans before civilization destroyed itself. And there was no denying that blunders had been made, and still were.
Would they continue to be made? Would it really help to drag these mistakes up and with them berate men who were surely doing their best? Had the scale of events grown beyond the power of human beings to control?
Quentin would say that the damned rotters ought to be shot: how could a private soldier be expected to do his duty if his leaders were being pilloried all the way up the line? Christopher would worry, and philosophize, standing aloof from all theory. Richard would say … he was saying … that Loreburn and Milner and the rest of them were right: how could a private soldier be expected to do his duty if his leaders were incompetent fools all the way up the line?
He gritted his teeth. Once the election was over, he’d have to face this problem, and settle it, by his own conscience, once and for all. Meanwhile, win the election.
Glancing up, he saw that Alice was eating toast, while immersed in the Morning Post. She was looking younger, and dressing more – somehow sophisticatedly – recently … since her mother had become bedridden? And surely that was a touch of lipstick he detected on her lips? He was about to comment on it, when he thought, she is of age, and it makes her look … almost luscious. Why not?
31 Hedlington: Thursday, November 11, 1915
Harry Rowland stood on the pavement outside Jonas & Johnson’s, the big new four-storeyed department store on High Street, that sold everything from bibs and braces to ladies’ underwear. It was a cold morning, dull and grey, with wind blowing down the street from the north, whirling bits of paper past the big glass windows, and further, past the station and the façade of the South Eastern Hotel. Harry wore an overcoat, and a tweed cap on his head. The wind whistled through his grey spade beard and his hands, ungloved, ached with the cold. He thought, it isn’t really very cold, a few years ago he would hardly have noticed it; it wasn’t the degrees, but the years … He could not put on his gloves, because he was there to shake hands – with people going in and out of the store, although since most of them were women at this hour, that would not produce any direct results – and with the men going up High Street to reach any of the three polling stations stretched along it.
Ralph Ellis stood at his side, flanked with two or three assistants, men and women, all wearing the big yellow rosettes of the Liberal party. Beside Harry a sandwich-board had been set up on the pavement. The hand-painted message in red and black read: FOR OUR BOYS IN FRANCE VOTE FOR HARRY ROWLAND.
A man came up, mumbling something. ‘Thank you,’ Harry said, and shook his hand. ‘Thank you,’ to another, and another – ‘Remember it’s Harry Rowland … Harry’s the name … thank you, thank you … Yes, I intend to ask a question in the House about the Huns’ treatment of our prisoners of war as soon as I am seated … thank you … Harry Rowland, Harry’s the name … I have the utmost confidence in Field-Marshal French, and so do the Government … Thank you … Harry’s the name, Harry Rowland …’
Rose should be nearing the end of the examination by now. He ought to have gone to the hospital with her; but on election day, it couldn’t be done. After Lloyd George had come down in person to help his campaign, nothing on earth must be allowed to stop him appearing in person, and going to vote with the men from the newspapers there, and the magnesium flashing for the photographers, but … Alice could look after her and of course Wright was there to do the driving … he had thought Wright was getting too old for the job, even at the beginning of this year; but it was only his age and a slight rheumatic condition that prevented Wright from joining the navy – if the navy would have him. They were already oversubscribed with volunteers – because, Harry was ashamed to admit it, men thought it safer than the army.
‘Harry Rowland, Harry’s the name … Thank you, thank you … Why, it’s Willum Gorse. How’s Mary, Willum?’
‘Fine, Mr Harry. She cleans pubs in the morning. And takes in washing. And makes clothes, of course.’
‘She’s a fine woman Willum. You’re a lucky man.’
Willum was shuffling from one foot to the other and Harry said, ‘Well, run along and vote, whoever for, or Bob Stratton will be after you for taking too much time off.’
‘Oh, I’ll be voting for you, Mr Harry. Mary told me to.’
Harry laughed. ‘Good! Oh, have you seen your father recently?’
‘Not for a month.’
‘Well, when you do, tell him to be careful about his plan to poach a lot of pheasants from Lord Swanwick. Everyone in Walstone seems to know about it.’
‘That’s what Dad says, everyone’s going to know, he says.’
‘Including Lord Swanwick’s keepers. He’ll get into serious trouble, warn him.’
‘I’ll tell him, Mr Harry, but … he don’t listen to me.’
‘Nor anyone else,’ Harry said as Willum hurried on, tugging at his forelock.
‘Harry Rowland, Harry’s the name … thank you, thank you …’
Ellis said, ‘Your hand must be getting sore.’
‘Numb.’
‘Not much longer. We ought to be going to vote soon. The newspapers were warned for eleven o’clock.’
‘Thank you, thank you … Yes, I think we should make Germany pay for all the damage she has done … yes, the whole cost of the war … thank you, thank you … we should take away all their factories, to replace ours and the French … How would they pay the indemnities if they had no factories? Well, I would leave that to the economists at the time. They must certainly not be allowed to get off scot free after all the suffering they have caused, and the damage they have inflicted … thank you, thank you, Harry’s the name, Harry Rowland …’
The taxi deposited him at the front door of Laburnum Lodge and Harry got out quickly, almost stumbling over his own feet. He turned to the taxi driver. ‘Please come back here in … forty-five minutes, punctually!’
‘Very good. sir,’ the man said, touching his cap, then drove off. Parrish opened the front door before Harry reached it, and moments later, helped him out of his overcoat.
‘Is Mrs Rowland back, Parrish?’
‘Yes, sir. With Miss Alice. They returned about ten minutes ago. They are in the morning-room.’
Harry hurried along the wide passage, Bismarck and Max trotting beside him, tails wagging. The door of the morning-room was open. He half ran in, his breath short, and stopped. Rose was in her usual big chair, head bowed, hands covering her face. Alice was on her knees in front of her, holding her by the elbows, whispering something.
Harry went slowly to the two women, and knelt at his daughter’s side. ‘My dearest,’ he muttered.
His wife lowered her hands. Her face was yellowish grey, the dark hollows under her eyes deeper even than this morning. ‘I have cancer of the uterus, Harry,’ she said. ‘They are going to operate tomorrow, but Mr Frampton cannot say that that will be the end of the matter.’
Harry’s head felt unconscionably heavy, heavier than his neck could support. When it had been thick and strong, a young man’s neck, it might have – but not now, not with the constant silent worry about Tom, and Quentin, and Boy … and Guy ready to go. His head sank and he found a tear rolling down the side of his nose. He searched for his handkerchief in his breast pocket, found it, and blew weakly.
Rose’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘I’m not afraid, Harry.’
‘When … do you go back to the hosp
ital?’
‘This afternoon, four o’clock. They have to see that I don’t eat anything, and then tomorrow morning early, prepare me for the operation.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, my dear, I’ll come with you … After you have had your lunch, and a rest, Alice and I will go to the Town Hall, then straight to the hospital. There’s nothing for you to do there.’
‘I’ll go with Mother,’ Alice said, ‘and stay as long as they’ll let me. The matron said she’d let Stella be with Mother, too, if Lady Blackwell’s Hospital will release her.’
‘I’ll come immediately after the operation,’ Harry said.
‘No one will be allowed to see her before eleven o’clock, Mr Frampton said … Now, Mother, why don’t you put your feet up on the sofa, while Father has his lunch?’
‘I’ll get Parrish to serve it in here,’ Harry said. Painfully he got to his feet, and helped his wife to the sofa by the tall windows, overlooking the grey November garden.
Next day, Friday November 12, the ballot boxes were opened at eleven a.m. in the Council Chamber of the Town Hall. Now the clock on the rear wall showed three-thirty, and the last of the boxes was on the table. The Returning Officer, who was the Town Clerk of Hedlington, supervised the counting, with the tellers and the party scrutineers carefully examining each slip and agreeing on the tally. Two police constables and an inspector stood by the door, checking that all who came in had the proper pass, or other good reason to be present.
The result ought to be declared before four, Harry thought, walking up and down the floor of the Council Chamber, his hands behind his back. Campaign workers standing along the wall muttered to each other in low voices, so that Harry heard snatches of their talk as he went to and fro.
‘… over six feet, he is, the police say, with a club foot …’
Rose had been very pale when Harry saw her at noon, but the yellowish colour seemed to be less, though how that could be in so short a time he did not understand. She was too weak even to raise her hand to his and only her large, open eyes, and the faint pressure of her fingers when he picked her hand up off the bed showed that she was alive.
‘… always a full moon, like the last one, October 23rd, it was … rapes them first, then strangles them, then cuts them open …’
Her chest hardly moved as she breathed. Stella was there and the contrast between the two women was almost more than he had been able to bear – the radiant, flushed beauty of the nineteen-year-old, her skin like a fresh peach, glowing with youth and love, her body curved and ripe – and Rose, pinched, worn, lined, exhausted sick.
‘… no, not their breasts, low down – (the voice lowered still more) – from the cunt to the arsehole, cuts right through there, dreadful, isn’t it?’
He stopped his pacing, feeling a sudden shock. The blind young soldier had come into the room, tap tap tap slowly down the centre long floor, to stand against a wall, silent, the blackened glasses reflecting the artificial lights. How did he get in, Harry asked himself, with fear? Does the mayor know him? The police inspector? Why should he be allowed in? What does he expect to …?
‘Father …’ He turned, and looked up. ‘Hullo John … Louise. It’s nice of you to come.’
‘Alice telephoned, about Mother. We had no idea.’
‘Nor had I. She wouldn’t go to the doctor before though I suggested she ought to. She hasn’t been well for months – years, almost.’
‘I know,’ Louise said, ‘I was worried, too, but when Mother has her mind made up …’ She ended the sentence with a shrug.
‘Do you have any idea how the voting has been going, Father?’
‘We’re leading, though Richard has done much better than was expected. There’s no doubt that many people are seriously concerned about the general conduct of the war ’
Bob and Jane Stratton approached, ‘We’ve just heard about Mrs Rose,’ Jane said. ‘The inspector let us in. I know him.’
‘It’s good of you, Jane. She’s very weak, but the surgeon hopes she’ll be much better in a day or two. It’s a serious operation, you know’
‘Can I go and see her, Mr Harry?’
‘Of course, Jane, but I suggest you wait till tomorrow. She will hardly recognize you if you go today. Miss Stella has been with her since she was admitted, and was still there when I went, at noon.’
‘She’s here now, Father,’ John said. He nodded towards the door, where Stella was coming in, Johnny Merritt behind her. Stella was in her VAD uniform, and looked tired, but somehow happy, though she was not smiling. It was being with the young man, of course Harry thought.
Bob Stratton said, ‘What did the doctor say – about the operation, Mr Harry? Was it successful?’
Harry tried, in vain, to hold back the tears that came so easily these days: he, who, before this year had hardly shed a tear since the cradle. He had hoped no one would ask that question: but Bob was right. The truth must be dragged out, known, and faced. ‘We don’t know’ he said. ‘It was a complete hysterectomy, but cancer is such a vile thing that it may already have spread to other parts or organs or systems. We can only hope for the best, and pray.’
Richard and Susan walked in, the inspector saluting them. Johnny and Stella joined them and the four came on together towards Harry, Richard’s spectacles gleaming in the electric lights. He said, ‘How is Mother, Father?’ His voice was hoarse and rough.
‘As well as can be expected, Richard … very weak. It was cancer. We can only hope for the best now.’
The Returning Officer was on his feet, ringing the handbell beside him on the big polished table. The room fell silent as he read in a high, thin voice: ‘Parliamentary Division of Mid Scarrow. I, the under-signed, being the acting Returning Officer for the above-named constituency, hereby give notice that the total number of votes given for each candidate at the election dated November the eleventh, 1915, was as follows:
Harry Rowland – 9774
Richard Rowland – 7858
and the undermentioned person has been duly elected to serve as Member for the said Division – Harry Rowland. Signed, Philip Howell, Returning Officer.’
He then beckoned to Harry and Richard. Campaign workers opened the french windows leading on to the balcony and there the Returning Officer proclaimed the result once more. Harry to his right and Richard to his left, standing very straight and stiff-backed. Then all three men went back into the Council Chamber, and the french windows were again closed.
Richard slumped into his more characteristic stoop, took his wife’s hand, and said, ‘Congratulations, Father. And thank goodness that’s over.’
Harry put his hands on his son’s shoulders. ‘Thank you, Richard … The victory’s nothing but dust and ashes to me now, though.’
Richard said, ‘Politics is not my job – production is. But, Father, the majority was really very small, considering that I had no backing from any organized political party … only 1916 votes. It shows that people are really unhappy about the slaughter and apparent incompetence on the Western Front. Is there no way of getting away from it? Trying somewhere else? Trying new methods?’
Harry dabbed his eyes and blew his nose, stopping suddenly to watch the blinded soldier tap tap tap across the room, stop, speak to someone, and be guided to the mayor. There, he spoke again, and the mayor bent close to answer. Harry felt a sharp relief that the young man could speak: he had feared that the war had taken his speech and hearing, as well as his sight.
He turned back to Richard: ‘I wish there was. But I’ve talked to people at the War Office … Lord Derby … generals … They all say the same. The Western Front is the decisive one and sending troops elsewhere is just to squander them. We tried in Gallipoli and look what happened. It’s common knowledge that we will be abandoning the whole enterprise soon. We’re only in Palestine to protect the Suez Canal and in Mesopotamia to protect India. I don’t like the idea of more slaughter in France any more than anyone else, but … is there
an alternative?’
Richard said, wearily raising his hands, ‘There must be. And we’ve got to find it.’
Quentin Rowland came slowly into the emptying room. His left arm felt light and strange in its sling. That morning, they had taken the cast off, at Lady Blackwell’s; and, at lunch, Fiona had told him that she did not love him, and would leave him, and the house, as soon as Guy joined the Royal Flying Corps. He had gone on eating, carefully spearing the ready-cut pieces of food on his fork, and carrying them to his mouth. ‘What about Virginia?’ he had asked her.
‘Virginia can spend her holidays at Christopher’s,’ Fiona had answered impatiently. ‘She can learn to run a house. Margaret’s gone and Stella’s never there these days.’
He had known for a long time that she no longer loved him. But why this sudden decision? He had said, ‘Are you in love with someone else?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have been for ten years.’
He ought to ask who it was, he thought, masticating a mouthful of cabbage; but he didn’t want to know. He felt sad, but not angry. It was silly to think of seeking the man out and killing or injuring him. That wouldn’t change Fiona’s mind; only some change in himself might. And how could he change?
She had said, suddenly soft, ‘I’m sorry, Quentin. I can’t help it.’
‘I understand,’ he said. And she, looking a long time at him, ‘You’ve changed, Quentin. I think you really do understand.’
I must go to the Town Hall, he’d said; but his thoughts, as he walked slowly across Hedlington from their flat, were further off: he must get back to France, to his battalion. It had always been his home, now more than ever.
So it was almost with surprise that, when he walked into the Council room, he recognized his father, and brothers and niece. ‘How’s Mother?’ he said. ‘And who won?’
His father told him; and then he stood aside, withdrawn physically and mentally from them, and watched as his father became more and more animated, regaining an intimacy with Richard which Richard’s resignation, the setting-up of the JMC, and now the election campaign, had overlaid with conflicts and tensions.