by Helen Batten
From 1902, children had to go to school until they were fourteen, which meant that, financially, there was much less advantage to having a big family. The fall in the death rate also meant that more children were surviving to adulthood. For Clara herself, she had watched her mother struggle with eight children, and in the end their existence had not stopped Alexander ending up in the workhouse. So, once she had had her son, she had decided to stop having children and concentrate on her other requisite for a contented life: a successful business.
But now that Charlie was crippled, Clara’s world looked very different. As she went about Marlow, she was alarmed to find she was a bag of new, unpredictable and powerful emotions. She hid it well, but ‘unhinged’ was the word that kept coming to mind. One day she saw Mrs Best ruffle the dreadful Johnnie’s hair and she wanted to go over and spit. Little Billy Waites bumped into her chasing his marbles and it was all she could do not to push him into the road into the path of a cart. It was the injustice, the temerity of them being alive and well and healthy when her own precious son was lying in a box all twisted and broken in her front room. She had an even stronger reaction to baby boys. One of their neighbours had just had a baby boy and Clara had to walk past her neighbours admiring him in his perambulator in the street. She had never been particularly fond of babies except her own, but she found herself experiencing such a wave of envy she couldn’t even bring herself to go over and have a look.
Clara could only see one solution – she had to have another son. People would stop gossiping about the missing one and look at the new one; Charlie would stop seeking solace in the pub. And, most importantly, the new baby would snatch the reins of her senses back from the malevolent fairy. She was finding it impossible to live with the physical ache in her heart.
So it was, almost a year to the day after Charlie fell ill, that the next baby Swain arrived in the front bedroom. But when the baby slipped into the capable hands of the local lying-in lady, Mrs Coates, and she said, ‘A girl, Mrs Swain!’ Clara was dumbfounded. Despite the fact that in both the Crisp and Swain families, girls outnumbered boys by a ratio of six to one, everything about her pregnancy had screamed ‘Boy!’ – her hair was glossy, her skin was dry, her bump was low, and she hadn’t felt that sick. Most importantly, when she had lain down on her bed, hung her wedding ring on a piece of thread and dangled it over the bump, the ring had gone round in circles. The ring had never lied before, so why now? Someone was taunting her.
Charlie had walked out in disgust.
It was not the best start for the third Scarlet Sister, baby Dora, but Clara was determined not to be defeated. On her first outing with Dora in the pram, she walked down Marlow High Street and straight into the elegant, gothic All Saints church that sits gracefully by the Thames. Not daring to look around, Clara pushed the pram straight up to a statue of the Virgin Mary in the side chapel. She took a candle, lit it and placed it in front of the Virgin. She didn’t kneel or close her eyes. Clara stared straight at Mary and for the first time felt a real connection. ‘Yes, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? You lost your only son. I understand that. Help me now. Help me to get him back.’
And she found herself bobbing a small curtsey, taking the handle of the pram and marching out with her head held high.
On 27 May 1913 Clara went into labour again. It was exactly thirteen years to the day since her father, Alexander Crisp, had died in the workhouse. It was a sign – Clara felt almost elated.
The birth progressed quickly and within hours a baby appeared, healthy and screaming. The lying-in lady, Mrs Coates, smiled and exclaimed, ‘A girl, Mrs Swain!’
Clara was flabbergasted, but before the despair had time to hit Mrs Coates said, ‘Hang on! What have we here? We have another baby coming, Mrs Swain. Twins! Prepare yourself!’
Under normal circumstances Clara would have been horrified, but today of all days, she felt only a huge wave of relief and excitement – her deal with the heavens was about to be fulfilled and God had answered her prayers after all.
Within minutes another baby was entering the world: ‘Oh my goodness – another girl, Mrs Swain!’
At which point Clara’s usual iron composure broke and she screamed, ‘No! That’s not the bloody deal!’
Mrs Coates was used to all sorts of interesting things being said, or indeed screamed, during childbirth, so she ignored Clara and proceeded to chatter away about how wonderfully healthy both girls were and how they were fortunate to have each other, that they would always have a friend – and other such ‘helpful’ comments.
Clara couldn’t hear her. She felt utterly exhausted and defeated. For the first time the thought entered her head that she had made a massive tactical error: of course, the Virgin Mary’s son had never been replaced. Well, this served her right for being so presumptive.
And that is how my nanna, Bertha Swain, entered the world. Her sister, Katie, was the first twin, and Nanna was the second and indeed last Scarlet Sister to be born.
Clara vowed there and then to give up trying to have a boy.
Later on that morning, after Mrs Coates had left and all was quiet, Clara looked down at the two girls, tightly swaddled, asleep in the box that served as a crib on top of the chest of drawers. Twins, yet completely different: one big, bonny, rosy cheeked; the other tiny, with translucent white skin and bright red hair.
She felt nothing … except guilt for feeling nothing. By an unlucky coincidence a photo was propped up beside them: ‘Charlie, Alice, Grace, 1910’. Clara picked it up and stared at it for a few minutes and then flung it across the room with such force that the frame dented the wall. Nothing stirred. Not even the babies.
Clara sat down on the bed, shocked. A shaft of early morning sunlight shone through the window and hit her face. A story she’d been told came to mind: the man who had made himself wings and flew too close to the sun. He fell down in a ball of flames. Yes. Clara went over and picked up the photo of her perfect family and put it away, underneath all the clothing in her bottom drawer. She’d learnt her lesson.
She would never look at it again, and she would never have any photos taken again.
One hundred years later, this photo is finally out and on display. It is sitting on my desk and, as I look at it, I feel its pathos – although the cheek in Alice’s eyes amuses me too. I can look at the photo of Clara’s family that wasn’t to be, and yes, I feel sad, but it doesn’t mock me as it did her.
I can’t, however, look at my own family that wasn’t to be. I have my own photos at the bottom of a drawer: a photo of a precious baby with unfeasibly long legs and a mop of golden curls in a hospital incubator; a photo of a young girl in a big hat and her new husband in his velvet suit with confetti swirling around their heads; a party in a garden with bunting hanging from the tree and a husband playing his guitar with his three daughters dancing around him.
Will it take a hundred years, three generations and a great-granddaughter before the pain has melted enough to allow these photos out again?
CHAPTER THREE
Fighting on all Fronts
Charlie Senior
Is it normal to feel so at home with a long-lost relative?
I went to see Grace’s son, Dennis. I stood on his doorstep and I wasn’t nervous at all. From what Mum had told me, I knew we were going to get on: he’d published a book on the spirit world – of course we were going to get on!
Dennis opened his front door and we shook hands, and then we both laughed and hugged and kissed, genuinely happy to meet. It was, inexplicably, instantly emotional.
‘Helen, you are the image of your mother. It’s wonderful to see you,’ Dennis said, taking a long look at me.
I was struck by his eyes. It was those blue Swain eyes again – that true periwinkle blue. And Dennis is quite old – in his eighties, although you wouldn’t know it. He looks sixty and is as bright as a shiny pin.
‘We must be second cousins,’ I said.
‘Yes, I think that�
�s what we are. You are your mother. I love it when that happens,’ he said, squeezing my arm.
From my unscientific observations, it seems that when people who have been adopted meet their birth family, it’s either as if they have never been apart, or they feel like strangers to each other. Why? I wonder if there is something about the way the genetic dice land that means that if you share enough DNA, you smell like family. If that’s the case, then I must be quite a Swain. Certainly, sitting in Dennis’s front room was like putting on a familiar old slipper, which resulted in lots of laughing, but also an honest sharing of the sad stories. Dennis’s walls are covered in pictures of poppies too.
I had come to find out more about Charlie Swain Senior. As the second eldest grandchild, Dennis had precious memories of his grandfather: ‘He died young, you know, Helen. Terrible really. Well before his time. Gassed in the First World War. He was underneath a truck, mending it, when a canister rolled underneath and exploded next to him, right next to his face. He was sent home and he was never well again.’ And then he exclaimed, ‘Oh, I know! I’ve got something that might interest you.’
Dennis started rifling through a cupboard. ‘Here, have a look at these.’ He took out a very old British Home Stores bag. ‘Dead German soldiers,’ he said, as he tipped it up.
Before the chill had time to start running down my spine, ten pocket watches and five cigarette cases had spilled out onto his rug. ‘Grandpa gave me these. He got them from the Front during the First World War … he took them off dead German soldiers, apparently.’
‘Oh, I see! I wondered what was going to appear there. You gave me quite a turn!’
We giggled.
I picked one up. It was a thing of beauty: heavy, substantial, with intricately carved vine-like leaves trellising around the case. I opened it. ‘But, Dennis, this was made in London …’ I picked up another one and opened it. ‘London, too!’
Dennis peered over my shoulder. ‘Oh, yes. How strange.’
‘And this one … and this …’
‘Well, I don’t know how to explain that.’
‘Unless it wasn’t dead German soldiers, Dennis – it was English ones.’
Dennis and I looked at each other again, and this time there was no laughing.
I decided Charlie’s war career needed some more investigation.
On a certain lunchtime at the end of April 1915, Charlie Swain was on his usual bench in the Two Brewers pub. Well, I say he was on his usual bench, but rather than sitting on it, he was actually standing on it and conducting a chorus of ‘Colonel Bogey’. He had sworn an oath to volunteer to go to the Front that very afternoon, and he’d commanded the pub to sing along and follow him down the street to enlist. Which, loving Charlie, many of them did.
Charlie had got into this position from the right motives. The First World War was in its eighth month and Ypres was under siege. The British had expected to win the war by Christmas, but the Germans had proved rather intractable and the troops had become embedded in the trenches in Northern France and Belgium. By the end of April 1915 reports had started to come in of a new weapon being unleashed on the Allied troops – chlorine gas. Charlie’s friend, Bill, came into the pub with the latest copy of the Daily Mail under his arm and proceeded to read from the paper: ‘“… the cloud of smoke advanced like a yellow wall, overcoming all those who breathed in the poisonous fumes, resulting in a slow lingering death of unspeakable agony.”’
Bill stopped and shook his head.
‘Blimey, that’s bad. Bastards.’ Charlie said, drinking fast.
In the sombre silence that followed, a fresh round of drinks was bought and consumed. Then Charlie started the debate: ‘You know, if that’s their game I think we’ve got to get the gloves off and start teaching them a lesson.’
‘Bunch of bloody macers,’ someone shouted from the corner.
‘I heard somewhere the boys are having to piss into their hankies and cover their faces to stop the smoke,’ Bill said.
‘What? That’s disgusting!’ Charlie grimaced.
‘No. I read it too. Something in your piss stops the gas,’ Bertie said.
‘Blimey, they can’t let this go on.’
‘Well, it’s all right for you to say, Charlie, sitting there with your beer in your hand,’ Alfie shouted across the public bar.
A hush came over the room as Charlie got up and slowly walked over to where he was sitting. He looked down at Alfie and simply said, ‘Meaning?’
Alfie chose his words carefully. ‘Well, you seem to be implying that you don’t think the Tommies are doing their best.’
Charlie pulled a face and slowly shook his head, scratching his chin slightly melodramatically. ‘No, I’m not saying that. I think the boys are. But I think as a country we’re not. I think the Hun needs a proper kick up the backside.’
Alfie grinned. ‘And we’re not doing that, then?’
‘No, because if we gave it our best we’d beat their bleedin’ backsides so hard they’d fly from France all the way to China.’
There was laughter, but Bill was looking nervously at Charlie, because there was history there.
Alfie had never forgiven Charlie for being brought from London to be the brewery’s chief engineer; in Alfie’s opinion, he would have made a more reliable – and sober – job of it himself. And the most lingering insult was when Charlie had rescued the brewery from going up in flames.
The Swains’ garden backed onto the brewery premises and, early one evening, while having a cigarette in the back garden, Charlie had noticed smoke coming out of one of the brewery’s windows. He promptly threw down his fag, tore off his jacket and vaulted over the back fence, shouting to Alice to alert the men down the street. He had managed to break down a side door, run into the building and, through the smoke, ring the alarm bell. Then he dashed out again and organised a bucket chain as the men came running. The fire was quickly put out with only a minimum amount of damage. In short, Charlie’s quick thinking and bravery had saved the brewery and the men’s jobs.
Even more galling, the brewery bosses had decided to show their thanks by hosting a dinner in Charlie’s honour. It was quite an occasion, with plenty of fine food and excellent wine, to which Charlie helped himself magnificently. At the end, the boss made a speech and presented Charlie with a medal.
Despite the best efforts of his friends, Charlie of course couldn’t resist getting unsteadily to his feet and replying. ‘It is a very great honour to receive this fine medal, sirs, and I just want to say that the next time the brewery burns down, I will do exactly the same.’
To which the boss retorted, ‘There’s not going to be a next time, Swain. Now sit down.’
Faced with a pub full of expectant faces, it was no surprise when Alfie asked, ‘Alright then, Charlie, since you think you’re the bleedin’ prime minister, what would you do about it?’
And Charlie started on a road that could only lead to one place: ‘Well, I’d get all us lot out of this pub and onto the frontline for a start. I mean, look at us. We’re able, fit men.’
There was laughter and shouts along the lines of, ‘Bill’s only good for the knackers!’ but Charlie was on a roll. ‘No, I mean it. If you took every man who’s sitting in a pub right now and put a gun in his hands and pointed them at the Hun, they’d be back in Berlin tomorrow.’
‘Why don’t you do it then, Charlie? Put your money where your mouth is,’ Alfie said.
‘Come on, Alfie. Leave it out. That’s enough,’ Bill said, putting his hand gently on Charlie’s arm.
But Charlie couldn’t help himself. ‘All right then, Alfie, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to join up. In fact, I’m going to do it right now.’
A cheer went up around the pub but Bill was a little more sober than everyone else. ‘You’re doing your bit, Charlie. You’re keeping the morale of the nation up. Brewing is a vital part of the war effort.’
‘Well, you’re never going to hear me say beer’s
not important, obviously.’ Charlie paused and looked around at his audience for effect. ‘But I think Alfie’s got a point. I’m needed somewhere else more. I think we’re all needed and, to prove it, when I’ve finished this pint I’m going down to the recruitment station. I’m going to lead by example.’
There was a huge roar of a cheer. And Charlie didn’t just finish his drink, but a whole host more that were bought for him in a swell of affection and excitement, the end result of which was Charlie standing on the bench and leading the chorus of ‘Colonel Bogey’, before falling off and stumbling away towards the recruitment station.
When Alice came to collect Charlie to bring him home for his lunch (complete with a wheelbarrow – when Charlie was that late, it invariably meant he was going to have to be wheeled home) she peered through the window to find his usual place on the bench deserted. She had to wheel the barrow home empty.
Clara looked at it and sighed. ‘No sign, you say?’
‘No, Mum.’
‘Did you go inside?’
‘No, but I could see it was empty. There was no Bill nor Bertie neither. It was real quiet.’
‘That’s strange.’
After sixteen years of marriage, Clara was used to Charlie’s adventures. If something was happening then she knew her husband was probably right in the middle of it.
Sure enough, as Clara pondered the empty wheelbarrow, Charlie was trying to talk himself into the Army. It was quite difficult. At the age of thirty-six, he was only two years below the cut-off age, and at five foot four and a half inches, he was an inch and a half below the minimum height. However, by this time the government had realised they were going to run out of men unless they relaxed their rules, and Charlie’s skills as an engineer meant he could be useful keeping the trucks rolling. So Charlie found himself attached to the Army Service Corps.