by John Masters
‘I have to,’ he said, ‘I need to. That’s why I understand about you and Archie, I suppose. I’m going to fly! Every day, all day! All over the sky, which is one sky, no boundaries or frontiers between land and sea, or between England and France, Germany and America – one great sky! … Listen, isn’t that the waits outside?’
Half a dozen members of the Walstone church choir were singing in the frosty night outside High Staining. John and Louise, Naomi, Rachel Cowan, Carol Adams, Lady Helen Durand-Beaulieu and the two London girls of the Land Army, Frances Enright and Joan Pitman, stood in the doorway, huddled up, listening. After the third carol, John said, ‘Very good! Come inside now for a little something to warm you all up.’
‘Oh, we couldn’t, thank you, John,’ the rector said heartily. ‘Christopher gave us all a glass of sherry just now, and others before that. Miss Hightower here’s quite tipsy, I do declare.’
‘Oh, Mr Kirby!’ Miss Hightower simpered.
They trooped off down the drive, the rector waving and shouting over his shoulder, ‘See you in church, and at the Boxing Day meet, eh?’ He stopped, turning, ‘Oh dear, I keep forgetting that you’ve resigned from the Hunt … but that won’t stop you from going to the meet, will it?’
‘No, but work will,’ John said.
The rector went on down the drive, his old head shaking. The family turned into the house, closing the door behind them. John said, ‘Well, even if they don’t want a glass of sherry, what about us?’
A Christmas tree was set up in the back of the drawing-room, and presents lay arranged under it. to be opened at noon the next day, after the family’s return from church. John passed round sherry to the five women and raised his own glass – ‘Here’s to those who cannot be with us tonight. May they all come back safe and sound one day soon.’
‘Amen,’ Lady Helen said.
John sat down, ‘We’ve been lucky in this family, so far. Let us pray the war ends soon – ’
‘Amen,’ Rachel Cowan said to that.
John added, ‘– in victory.’
Louise sipped her sherry, her eyes on the younger women. The London girls were in their high twenties, plain and friendly of face. Lady Helen was not a beauty, but she had one of the sweetest expressions Louise had ever seen; and the expression did not lie. She was completely open and honest, and also intelligent. She worked hard, never shirked, never gave up. She would make some man a wonderful wife soon … Better soon than late – she was, what, Charles’s age? No, a year older, nearly twenty-four now. Naomi was home for a brief leave from her group of the Women’s Volunteer Motor Drivers, which drove staff cars for senior officers of the War Office; she was living with the rest of the group in a large house in Belgravia, converted into a sort of homey barracks, its mews into their garage and workshop. She had worn uniform all the time she’d been at home, and had insisted she would wear it to church tomorrow; but, at her father’s begging, had agreed to wear a silk dress tonight … She was looking at Rachel now, bending forward, talking to her … probably about women’s rights, socialism, the suffrage. The two young women’s lives had grown apart since they left Girton and, Louise thought, so had they themselves. They were not as close as they used to be. Louise had once thought that Rachel was a bad, even unhealthy, influence on her daughter; but Naomi was now a person of her own, not easily influenced by anyone, certainly not by a girl her own age. It was time she got married, but all the men were away at the war, certainly the best of them: and when it was over, there would be fewer, many fewer.
John said, ‘We ought to wait till New Year’s Eve, I suppose, but let’s drink a toast to 1916 … peace, victory … all our people safe home.’
‘And the best herd of Friesians in England,’ Lady Helen said, smiling.
She was the head cowman now, almost the manager, and among other things she took the cows to the bull, now Leeuwarden Rex, a Friesian, and supervised the mating. Not at all a proper thing for an unmarried young lady to be doing, Louise thought; but what was, these days? It didn’t seem to have made any difference to Lady Helen. She was pleasant and comfortable with men of all ages – but on the surface. What lay below, she had not revealed.
Bill Hoggin sat by the dining-room table in their little house, dandling Launcelot on his knee with one hand and holding a flagon of beer in the other. He felt good, because it had been a good year for him; and, just a few days ago, he had found out who the mysterious VAD of the bombing night was – none other than Miss Stella Cate, of Walstone Manor. No other VADs had been out that night until much later, in daylight, in an organized body, with doctors and nurses, so … what had she been doing in North Hedlington? It was not important to know, but it might be useful … as Fagioletti’s little bits of overheard gossip might be.
‘What a sad Christmas this is, really,’ Ruth said, ‘so many poor men in the trenches.’
‘The best Christmas of my life,’ Bill said energetically, ‘the best so far … ’cos 1916’s going to be better. Much better! This war’s going on for bleeding ever, hand hevery day it goes on I make a thousand pounds … at least! Near half a million this year, and I didn’t really get started till I bought those California plum and apple jam futures cheap, in June.’
‘Half a million!’ Ruth breathed, wide eyed, ‘I can’t believe it!’
‘You’d better, ’cos now that I’m ’obnobbing with the likes of Lord Swanwick – and I am, I am, I got milord ready to eat out of my ’and – we’re moving into a bigger house. Got my eye on one, in Garston Road.’
‘Why, that’s where Mr Harry lives.’
‘This house is next but one to Laburnum Lodge … We’ll have to hire some staff for it … The banks are falling over themselves to lend me money. You can ’ave anything you like, Ruthie, fur coats, Rolls-Royce cars, diamond rings … as long as it doesn’t cost more than a fiver.’ He laughed uproariously at his own joke. ‘ ’Ere, we got the bloody waits houtside. They must think I’m made of money, to come here.’
Ruth said seriously, ‘I don’t want a big house, or a lot of servants. I want you not to use bad language, Bill … and not blow your nose on your fingers. You’re setting Launcelot a bad example. I know how nice you are, but other people don’t. They think you’re a …’
‘Hog,’ he said, ‘Hoggish Hoggin. All the Strattons think that, eh? Well, they know what they can do with it.’
The waits outside were singing or shouting Good King Wenceslas at the tops of their voices.
Ruth raised her own voice to be heard, ‘I don’t want Launcelot to be ashamed of his father when he goes to Eton College.’ Bill was speaking better, but still used dirty words, and didn’t behave himself proper. Still, he was trying, and she’d have to be patient, but firm. For Launcelot’s sake, it would be no trouble.
Bill jumped up, depositing the baby in her lap, took half a dozen sixpences and threepences out of his pocket, put them on the coal shovel and placed the shovel on the burning coals in the grate. The singers began another carol, Bill muttering under his breath, ‘Fucking beggars!’
‘Bill! Launcelot will learn!’
Bill said, ‘Open the window, love.’
She opened the window. Bill put on a glove and dropped the hot coins on to it. Leaning out of the window he shouted, ‘Here y’are! Merry Christmas!’ and threw the coins out on to the pavement. The singing broke off in a ragged wail as the waits dived for the coins, to rise again in shrieks and howls as they burned their fingers. Bill Hoggin slammed the window down, roaring with laughter.
‘That wasn’t very kind,’ Ruth said.
‘ ’Oo said anything about being kind? I said Merry Christmas, and I’m merry, ain’t I? What’s for dinner?’
‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.’
‘Pud?’
‘Mince pies.’
‘I’ll ’ave a dozen … and some more beer, love.’
The front room of Willum Gorse’s little house in the row up the hill towards the gaol was crowded – Willum and Ma
ry, their four younger children, and Willum’s half-brother, Bert. No one was singing carols in this mean street, the houses made of yellow brick, long since blackened with soot from Hedlington’s coal fires and its few factories. The smell of stewing mutton, onion, and vegetables permeated the room from the kitchen behind, where Mary had a large pot on the coal stove. It would be ready in an hour. Meanwhile, the younger kids lay on the floor, playing with hand-made wooden animals, wooden bricks and a tin trumpet Betty had found on a rubbish heap; Violet, the eleven-year-old, was darning one of her own long black cotton stockings. Budding breasts swelled her thin, patched blouse. Mary watched her with troubled eyes – she had been caught stealing, but that was nothing to what would come, when she became a woman … on the edge of it now, ready to fly, out of childhood, out of others’ control, out of this cramped little house and family. She wished she could talk to Willum about it.
The two men each had a glass of beer in hand, as they sat on opposite sides of the table. A crate of Bass stood in the corner, three of its bottles empty.
Willum’s brow was furrowed by worry, ‘I don’t like it, I tell ’ee, Bert. Dad will come to a mischief.’
Bert said with exasperation, ‘I told you ten times if I told you once, that he’s already done it. Three, four days ago. I didn’t go to work that day, I went to Bedford and sent a telegram – but I didn’t tell you about it, because if I’d ’a told you earlier, you’d ’a told everyone else, wouldn’t you? You couldn’t keep a secret if you got paid for it … Don’t worry, Dad’s not going out on Christmas Eve, I tell you.’
‘But you said he promised he would and …’
Mary spoke without looking up from her sewing. ‘Don’t try to explain any more, Bert … You’re staying for supper, aren’t you?’
‘If you asks me, I am. What about me putting a bob into the kitty?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s no need, Bert. We got enough, and when Dad sends up a rabbit, we eat like earls.’
Willum lifted his face out of his beer glass and said, ‘Everyone’ll eat like an earl soon, eh? When the war’s over. That’s what we’re fighting for, eh?’
‘We’re fighting so that the rich can get richer,’ Bert said angrily, ‘I’ve told you a hundred times. We’re not fighting the Germans, we’re fighting our own people – the poor. The soldiers ought to turn round and shoot their own officers, everywhere, then come home and shoot all the politicians … Then we’d be better off, I can tell you.’
‘But you’re a union leader,’ Willum said slowly.
‘I am, and proud of it,’ Bert said, ‘proud enough to throw their dirty money back in their faces.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that Morgan, the Works Manager, offered me a job as shop foreman. Pay would have been double – more. But the union would ’a thrown me out. So I refused … We got near sixty members of the union at JMC now – secret members. When we’re ready, we’ll strike. And we can.’
Willum repeated what he had said a minute earlier. ‘But you’re a union leader.’
‘I just said so, even though it is in secret.’
‘Then you’re sort of an officer, and they’d have to shoot you. I wouldn’t like that.’
‘You don’t understand the war or anything else,’ Bert exclaimed, ’an’ you never will.’
‘I ought to go to the war,’ Willum said, frowning. ‘Lord Kitchener says so, in them posters. An’ if I went, I’d understand it, wouldn’t I? Stands to reason, eh?’
Mary said, ‘You’re not going to the war, Willum Gorse, so don’t think about it. It’s a long way away, and it won’t come for you, and you won’t go to it. It’s not for you … Don’t talk about such things, Bert. He can’t understand it and it upsets him … Are you still going out with that young Miss Cowan?’
Bert said, ‘She talks too much … We can’t have five minutes without her gabbing about women’s rights, the theory of socialism, and heaven knows what else … Wish she were a man, though, and she’d be a great shop steward.’
‘Do you really wish she were a man?’ Mary said. ‘Last time I saw you with her you were looking right into her eyes, sort of soft like. I never seen a man look at another man like that.’
‘Don’t be daft, Mary! Me, soft on that Jew girl? For one thing, she hates men. Only talks to me because she wants to learn about unions.’
Mary said, ‘Why didn’t you bring her here for supper? We’ve plenty.’
‘ ’Cos she’s gone to Walstone, to spend Christmas at High Staining. She was at Cambridge with the daughter.’
‘Miss Naomi,’ Mary said, ’she looks ever so handsome in her uniform. Saw her in High Street yesterday. She’ll be married soon, mark my words.’
No one spoke for a time, until Bert muttered under his breath, ‘Me, soft on Rachel Cowan, for Christ’s sake!’
Guy Rowland bicycled west along the upland road towards Hedlington, the moonlight bright on the pale surface of the road ahead, the hedges thick and dark on each side. It was half-past nine and he had just completed another two hours of testing the gyro direction indicator in the Caudron. That had gone well, and so had his landing. One more night test, planned for the 27th, and then … his next flight would be in uniform, probably in a Bleriot Experimental 2C. A sharp wind blowing past his ears made him wish he was still wearing his flying helmet and goggles. He felt depressed because his mother was leaving his father, and because, in the morning’s newspaper, he had seen the name of Lieutenant Grant-Meikle, Seaforth Highlanders, under the heading ‘Killed in Action’. He could see his face before him now, not in uniform, not dead, but at the moment he’d been tricked out of position, enabling Guy to make that winning drop kick.
The bicycle’s acetylene lamp went out. Guy swore, then stopped, dismounted, and bent over to see what was the matter. There was no acetylene hissing out of the carbide can, but the can was half-full. He shook the lamp: no gurgle of water – empty: there must be a leak somewhere. Well, he could see clearly enough with this moon, and in any case he could have bicycled this road in pitch darkness, he knew it so well. Remounting, he continued westward.
A few minutes later, no sound but the wind in the trees and the purr of the thin tyres on the gravel, he heard a sharp high pitched shriek from a spinney on his right. He jammed on the brakes and the bicycle was skidding to a halt even as he thought – it might be a courting couple, and then I’ll get a black eye … but though he had heard that women uttered all sorts of gasps and groans when making love, this had had a desperate pitch to it. He lowered the bicycle into the ditch at the edge of the road and hurried into the spinney by a low tunnel-like passage through the hedge. The moonlight, barred from the tall interlocked branches above, shone on scattered bushes, the boles of the elms, and a struggle five yards ahead of him – a dark shape above, white legs outspread below, kicking, thrashing, the near back and buttocks thrusting, hands at the other’s neck. A large pointed kitchen knife glinted on the bare earth six feet beyond. Guy ran round, stooped and grabbed it up. As he grabbed, the struggle resolved and the man jumped to his feet, arms outstretched, mouthing something, trousers open at the fly, penis out and erect. Guy crouched, the knife held low and forward, and circled slowly, carefully, to his right. The man crouched and circled, too. He had a heavy club boot on his left foot, but the leg seemed of normal length. His penis was going limp as he moved, heavily stooped, arms out, staring at Guy over the woman. She lay between them, gasping, her hands to her own throat, her skirt thrown up over her breasts. The man had a big pale slab face … over six feet … eyes narrow, small, vacant … fourteen stone or more … heavy panting breathing … clumsy, even without the club foot … and Guy had the knife. He felt cold and his heart beat steady and slow, his eyes fixed now on the man’s. Two more steps, to get him clear of the woman … make sure no roots in the way, then step in and strike. The man turned and crashed away through the bushes towards the hedge and the road. Guy knelt a moment beside the woman. She began to s
hriek – she was young, plump, not pretty, a farm girl, the dense triangle of her pubic hair black in the moonlight at the base of her belly. She was all right. Guy darted after the man. The hunt was up, a horn shrilling silently in his head.
He saw the quarry in the road, on a bicycle, pedalling fast towards Hedlington, and no more than twenty feet away. He picked up his own bicycle, jumped on, and followed. This must be the Hedlington Ripper. Mad, of course. Driven by God knew what to do what he did. Not responsible for his actions. Unarmed, with a club boot. Unfit. The shape of the road ahead ran through his mind … nothing for a mile then, near the edge of the Down, the road took a sweeping curve to the left, then back to the right, to make an easier gradient down towards Hedlington. Where the first curve began, a footpath cut straight down between tall hedges. That was the place.
Guy prayed the man would not know of the path, or not think of it … better press him. He crouched and pedalled harder, the knife in his right hand. Warmth and anticipation flooded through him, and he understood what Rhodes and Grandy had spoken of. He was going to kill.
Twenty yards from the beginning of the curve, his front wheel was barely a foot behind the other’s rear wheel, and a yard to the left. The curve began, the man pedalled furiously on down the road, Guy dived into the footpath.
At the far end he threw down his bicycle and waited, crouched beside the road in the shadow of a tree. The first street lights were two hundred yards on. The man came, pedalling more slowly; he had seen, and heard, that his pursuer had given up.
When he was eight or nine feet away Guy stepped out, his left arm raised to strike at the man’s face. The man jerked up his arm on that side, his right, to ward off the blow. Guy struck in hard under his ribs with the knife point, blade up. It went in easily all the way. He let go of the handle as the moving body and bicycle passed, falling sideways, crashing, the man sliding on the gravel, face down. Guy walked forward, turned him over, and pulled out the knife, its handle now slippery with blood. He wiped the knife blade and the handle, and his own hands, on the man’s coat. He was dead, eyes open and staring at the moon, gravel scrapes down the pale face.