The Collier’s Wife

by Chrissie Walsh

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you,’ Jude said, a warm smile on his face and a huge kitbag at his feet. Amy flew into his arms, words tumbling from her lips and Jude doing his best to still them with kisses as, in between, he told her he had seven days’ leave.

  Seven days! Amy was overjoyed. However, when he told her his battalion’s next move would take him to France, she was gripped by an ugly sinking feeling that turned her insides to water. Valiantly, she hid her fears from him. She wasn’t going to let anything spoil the pleasure of having him home again.

  ‘We’ve finished training,’ Jude said, as he sat down to eat, Amy glad that she had made a meat and potato pie that morning. ‘I’ve learned how to fire a Lewis gun and what to do with a Mills bomb, but I spend most of my time digging.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘I can’t get away from it. They’re using us colliers to show the other lads how to work below ground. That’s what I’ll be doing in France: digging trenches.’

  ‘What’s a Mills bomb?’ Amy asked anxiously. To her mind any kind of bomb was highly dangerous.

  ‘Do you remember the picture of a pineapple in one of Kezia’s books? These things look like them only they’re smaller and made of metal. You pull out a pin, count to seven then throw it as far as you can before it explodes. Hold it too long and it’ll blow you to bits. That happened to a chap in our battalion last month.’

  Amy shuddered, and decided to ask no more questions about weapons and warfare.

  *

  Those next few autumn days were spent roaming the woods on fine days, collecting conkers for Jude to polish then thread on long strings for Kezia to play with. Amy gathered leaves to press and mount, making a collage to hang on the parlour wall as a reminder of what, she secretly and painfully thought, might be the last autumn they spent together. When it rained, they hugged the parlour fire, playing with Kezia or reading and exchanging ideas, a thing they both missed dreadfully in their time apart.

  On the day they visited Intake Farm, Freda was helping Bessie pluck hens for market. Although Amy had known Freda was keeping company with Samuel, she was surprised to see her performing such a menial task.

  ‘I usually help Mother Elliot on my day off from the library,’ Freda said smugly.

  Amy gave Bessie an enquiring look, wondering why her mother had chosen not to mention it. Bessie gave Amy a sly wink then told Freda to call Samuel in for tea.

  ‘She’s only helped me once before,’ Bessie said, as soon as Freda was out of earshot. She sounded exasperated and her face clouded as she added, ‘She has her heart set on our Samuel and he doesn’t seem to mind, but it’s her that does all the running.’

  ‘She always had a fancy for him, and it ’ud do our Sammy good to get married.’

  Bessie pursed her lips and folded her arms across her bosom. ‘Just as long as she remembers whose kitchen this is. I’m still mistress of Intake.’ Her matriarchal stance and no-nonsense tone made Amy smile.

  Samuel and Freda came in and they all sat down at the table. As they ate, Amy took stock of her family, Jude and Raffy talking about the rabbits that had overrun Jude’s last camp in Rugely, and Bessie and Freda vying for Samuel’s attention. Amy gazed at her elder brother thoughtfully. It was hard to believe that this rather morose, but almost pleasant, man was the same arrogant bully who had once made her life a misery. Thomas’s death hit him hard, she thought, but Freda seems good for him. She watched Bessie plying him with another piece of cake. Mother’s afraid of losing him to another woman, and Freda will have her work cut out if she hopes to untie the apron strings.

  On their way home, Amy and Jude called with Bert and Beattie. Bert was sitting by the fire staring disconsolately into the flames, a bottle of beer in his hand and Henry on his knee. He glanced up when Jude said, ‘I see you’re enjoying your last night of freedom?’

  Bert’s expression conveyed anything but. He gestured with his thumb towards the kitchen. ‘Call this freedom. She’s making my life a misery.’

  ‘Don’t be sad, Dad.’ Maggie stroked Bert’s sparse hair. She was hanging over the back of his chair and Mary, Albert and Fred were lolling against his legs, all of them conscious their dad was about to leave them again.

  Amy walked into the kitchen, Beattie catching her by the elbow and pulling her into a corner away from the door. ‘Don’t you be saying owt about Larry Hamby to him,’ she hissed.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Amy hissed back, ‘although he’s most likely heard about it in the pub.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Poor Bert, he’s going to France and goodness knows when he’ll be back. Try being kind to him for once.’

  Amy marched back into the living room to sit with Jude and Bert. Beattie stayed in the kitchen. Chatting about nothing in particular, both Amy and Jude attempted to lighten the mood, without success.

  ‘I’ll call for you tomorrow, mate,’ Jude said to Bert as they were leaving.

  Bert nodded wearily.

  Jude put Kezia into her pushchair. On the way back to Wentworth Street, he said, ‘You do realise that with me in France it could be ages before I get the chance to come home again.’

  Amy nodded sadly and squeezed the arm through which her own was linked that little bit tighter. Blinking back tears, she gazed up to where a few stars had begun to speckle the violet sky, and afraid to speak she wished on every one of them: let him come back safe.

  Almost as though he had read her thoughts, Jude said, ‘If by chance I don’t survive, promise me you’ll not stay lonely. Look after Kezia and find yourself a decent chap to be a dad to her and a husband to you.’ His tone matter-of-fact, he tried to lighten the mood, chuckling wryly as he added, ‘You’re a beautiful young woman, Amy, and you’ll not have any bother finding someone, so don’t spend the rest of your life grieving.’

  Knowing how much it must have pained him to say these words, Amy stopped walking. The arm linked through his holding him back, Jude brought the pushchair to a halt. They turned to face one another, sad blue eyes meeting eyes darker than the night as Amy said, ‘I could never make such a promise, Jude.’

  *

  That night, Jude made love to Amy with all the passion and tenderness he could muster, and Amy responded as eagerly as when they were first wed. Afterwards, their bodies still entwined and Jude sleeping, she thought how strange it was that parting should bring out the best in each of them. She gazed at the handsome face on the pillow next to hers, long, dark lashes hiding eyes as black as coal and firm lips inviting a kiss. She brushed them with her own as Jude woke to make love to Amy for what, he thought, might be the last time ever.

  In the morning, after breakfast, Amy bundled Kezia into her pushchair whilst Jude packed his bag: clothing, soap and razor, the Bible he’d been given when he was sworn in and a photograph taken in a studio on the day they’d christened Kezia. Packing done, Jude lifted Kezia, hugging her to his chest. It beggared belief to think that there had been a time when he had resented this little girl, he thought, fondling the tiny skull so fragile beneath Kezia’s silky hair it almost made no impression on his fingertips. An unfamiliar sweetness clogged his throat. He’d make sure he came back in one piece, for her sake, he vowed as he set her down.

  Amy watched with tears in her eyes then flung herself against Jude’s chest, feeling his heart beat in tandem with her own. Jude’s lips met Amy’s, and joined as one they fondled as if to stamp the memory of taste and touch on their minds. When they drew apart, Amy smiled brightly, her face set for the street. There would be no outward display of emotions that might embarrass him, she told herself. She would see him off proudly as he would want her to do.

  A few neighbours came out to bid Jude farewell. No doubt they had been watching behind curtains until the door to number 2 opened. Jude accepted their good wishes with courtesy, Amy grateful for the respect they showed. As they approached the Stitts’ house Bert stumbled out through the door, closely followed by his kitbag. Beattie stood in the doorway yelling, ‘Go on, bugger off and don’t bother to come back.
’ She folded her arms, sneering as Bert stooped to retrieve his kitbag.

  Maggie pushed past her mother’s hip, trailing Mary by the hand. Albert and Fred tumbled out behind, all of them aware that their last defence against Beattie’s flailing hands was going off again and leaving them to their fate. ‘Don’t go, Dad, don’t go,’ they howled in chorus. Maggie let go of Mary and flung her arms round Bert’s neck. The boys yanked at his trouser legs almost pulling him to the ground. Mary stuck her thumb in her mouth and wet her knickers.

  Bert hunkered down, arms stretched to embrace his children. Amy blinked back tears. Lackadaisical he might be, she thought, but there was no denying Bert loved his children and they loved him. He would miss them, she knew, but they would miss him all the more. Snotty kisses accepted and delivered, Bert struggled upright, children hanging off him like windblown rags on a bush.

  Jude and Amy stepped forward in tandem to stand either side of Bert. ‘I’m not sure I can go through wi’ this,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘What’s going to become of these bairns whilst she’s playing away?’ Bert’s head drooped.

  Amy felt his pain. ‘I’ll be here, Bert. I promise you they’ll come to no harm.’ She laid a comforting hand on the back of his neck, stroking gently. Jude patted Bert’s back, assuring him that Amy would be true to her word. Beattie slouched in the doorway, a sullen expression coarsening her features.

  ‘It’s too late to back out now,’ Jude said softly. Bert shuddered, guttural sobs leaping from his throat.

  ‘Dry your eyes, Bert.’ Amy handed him a handkerchief. ‘Don’t let the kids remember you like this. Give them a smile before you go.’

  Bert rubbed his face, shoved the hanky into his pocket and squared his shoulders. Stretching his lips in a travesty of a smile then widening his eyes, he danced a little jig. The children laughed. So did Bert.

  ‘Hey up,’ he cried, ‘we can’t have this. Me cryin’ like a bairn an’ you upset. I’ll be back afore you know it an’ when I am, you’ll think I’m Father Christmas. I’ll bring French dolls wi’ velvet dresses an’ lace knickers for you lasses an’ two big guns for you lads.’ He bent down. ‘Now, t’sooner I get off, sooner I’ll be back so give us a kiss an’ I’ll be on me way.’

  The children hurled themselves into his arms. More snotty kisses exchanged, and Bert stood tall and straight. ‘I’ll be off then, Beattie,’ he said, stepping towards her, but before he reached the doorway Beattie went inside, slamming the door in his face. Bert covered his embarrassment with a foolish grin, but Amy saw the hurt in his eyes. She ran and linked Bert’s arm, squeezing it encouragingly.

  ‘Come on, kids,’ she cried cheerily, ‘let’s give your dad and Uncle Jude a rousing send-off.’

  At the station they met Raffy. ‘You’ve come to see us off then,’ said Jude, his tone indicating surprise.

  Raffy tossed his head. ‘You didn’t think I’d be letting you go without saying goodbye did you, boyo,’ his tone suggesting he was hurt by Jude’s lack of faith.

  Jude slapped him on the shoulder, and leaving his hand there, he walked along the platform with his father. Although Amy felt as though her heart was breaking, she smiled fondly as she followed behind with Kezia.

  The station was crowded with mums and dads, sweethearts and wives and jostling children waiting to say goodbye to a loved one. When the train arrived, it was already filled with enlisted men from further down the line. They gazed forlornly out of the windows. They had made their goodbyes.

  Jude took Raffy’s hand. ‘Watch over Amy and Kezia, old man. I’m leaving them in your care.’ He paused and grinned. ‘And keep a close eye on our Beattie. I’ll hold you responsible if anything goes wrong.’

  Raffy’s eyes flashed at the challenge. ‘You can rely on me, boyo, never you fear.’

  Bert was down on his knees kissing dirty little faces and patting heads.

  Jude lifted Kezia then pulled Amy close. First he kissed Kezia then Amy. ‘Look after each other. I love you,’ he said.

  ‘Be safe,’ Amy whispered back against his cheek, the words sticking in her throat. She gulped unshed tears and said, ‘We’ll think about you every minute of the day. We love you.’

  The train belched steam. The whistle blew. Jude and Bert boarded, hanging out of a window and waving wildly as the train snaked out of sight.

  21

  Jude stood in line on the quay at Devonport docks warily eyeing the ship that would take him to France. Like his companions, many of whom had never seen a ship of this size let alone boarded one, he had never even sailed a rowing boat across the pond in Barnborough Park. At a signal the line shuffled forward, the men grumbling and cursing and not a few of them afraid for their lives as they boarded the vessel for the first time.

  For the next three days, Jude found himself tramping up and down gangplanks, descending ladders into the hold or scurrying for and aft as crates and cartons were loaded and military equipment was dragged aboard. On the morning of the fourth day they set sail and as the coastline slipped away, even the toughest of men had tears in their eyes. Waving their helmets aloft to a small crowd assembled on the harbour they gazed on – what for some would be the last time – the shores of England. Exhilarated by the newness of his surroundings, yet fearful of what lay ahead, Jude scanned the coastline with misted eyes and when a voice started to sing ‘Homeland’ he joined in lustily. As the voices rang out across the water the feeling of companionship that swelled his heart was to stay with him and spur him on in the darkest hours.

  From the moment the Megantic steamed out into the English Channel Jude realised he was a landlubber. As the vessel rolled and pitched in heavy seas the pit of his stomach came up into his throat and he was violently seasick. However, he discovered that if he lay prone on the deck the nausea eased and as they approached the coast of France, Jude lay gazing up at the racing clouds.

  ‘Come on, mate, gerrup on thi feet,’ Bert urged, ‘we’re bahn to land.’ Surprisingly, he had endured the journey without a qualm and had passed the time below decks playing cards, and losing. Groggily, Jude got to his feet and made his way to the side of the ship. So this was France. Beyond the harbour a domed building dominated the view and beyond that a high hill, on top of which stood a church with a tall spire.

  The port of Marseilles bustled with confusion as the accumulated possessions of the entire 13th Battalion, Yorkshire and Lancashire Regiment, along with those of companies from the 14th Battalion, were discharged onto the quayside by a horde of French dockhands. Crowds of French men, women and children thronged in and out of the mountains of crates, boxes and military equipment, cheering every now and then in their excitement.

  About an hour later, the troops disembarked, Jude glad to feel solid ground beneath his feet. They formed marching lines, Bert and Jude waiting patiently for the order to move on. Lost in thought, Jude was taken by surprise when an elderly woman rushed up to him and clasped his hand. She delivered a toothless smile and a torrent of words before hurrying further down the line to repeat her actions. ‘Well, Bert, somebody seems pleased to see us,’ Jude chuckled.

  Bert laughed. ‘Pity she’s ninety if she’s a day,’ he said. ‘I think I’d rather be welcomed by the likes of that one over there.’ He pointed to a young woman with long, red hair and voluptuous figure. She turned and swayed away in the opposite direction, hips jiggling under a tight, blue satin skirt.

  ‘Aye, right enough, I see what you mean but it looks as though you’re out of luck.’

  ‘I could murder a pint,’ Bert said.

  Jude’s stomach flipped. ‘I don’t think I could keep one down.’

  As they bemoaned their lot, the call to move out rang down the line and the troops reluctantly shuffled to attention. Whilst they were glad to feel dry land beneath their feet after the constant pitching and tossing at sea, they were less enthusiastic about the march that lay ahead.

  A short while later they arrived at the railway station and were bundled into a row of covered
wagons built of wooden slats. As Jude waited his turn to board, he wondered what the words and numbers painted on the side of each wagon meant, and regretted not knowing one word of French. He read out loud: ‘Hommes, 32/40, Chevaux, (en long) 8’.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I haven’t a bloody clue, Bert, but they look like cattle trucks to me – there’s no seats in ’em.’ Jude surmised correctly, the mixture of straw and horse droppings on the floor of the wagon leaving them in no doubt.

  The wagons got underway, the soldiers settling down on the straw with their backs against the wagon sides or against one another. Some played cards whilst others intermittently dozed. Jude gazed out over the patchwork fields, and wishing he was walking them. ‘Stop wriggling about,’ he said to Bert, who was propped against his right shoulder.

  ‘I can’t stop scratching.’ Bert simultaneously delved one hand under his armpit and the other down the back of his neck.

  ‘Me neither, it’s this bloody straw; it’s crawling wi’ insects.’ Billy Cooper turned over a handful. Small, black lice scurried in all directions.

  ‘I’m being eaten alive,’ moaned a big, fat sweaty lad, scratching furiously. ‘The buggers have gotten inside me trousers.’

  Before long Jude, along with every man on board was itching, scratching and cursing as, for the next fifty hours, the wagons lurched and swayed along the track. Stopping and starting, speeding up and then slowing down, the train trundled its way through Provence and from there it clanked and rattled its way up the Rhone Valley. At Orange it came to a halt, the thirsty men cheering as Red Cross nurses filled their tin mugs with tea before they continued their journey through the French countryside to Lyon, Dijon and Paris. Finally, it pulled into the station at Pont Remy, a few miles southeast of Abbeville.

  Utterly weary, bones cramped, skin bitten and scratched raw, the battalion climbed down from the wagons and once again began the tedious task of unloading their equipment. Then under the weight of large field packs, shouldered high up on their backs they marched the six miles to Doudelainville. The pretty, rustic countryside and the warm welcome they received in the billets in Doudelainville did much to brighten their spirits, as did the return to soldierly duties: rifle drill, route marching and the cleaning of kit. But each passing day was taking them a little nearer to the ultimate goal: the front line.