by Helen Batten
‘What a strange thing to do. Why would he do that?’
‘Yes. Wicked.’
Angela didn’t have an answer for the washing-line sabotage, but she went on to say something even more disturbing.
‘Have you heard how they all got sent in to see the little boy after he died?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t think my mother ever got over it. She suffered from nerves all her life.’
‘Oh, dear!’
‘Yes, well, I’m not surprised really. The sisters were sent in and he was lying there, dead, and there was still a tear wet on his cheek.’
I didn’t know what to say. It seemed strange for the girls to be sent in to see their brother after being kept away, except attitudes towards death and mourning were different in those days. Laying out the dead and paying your respects were an important part of the mourning ritual. But then the whole story of Charlie Junior is really difficult.
Early in 1916, Clara’s nightly sense of doom started to intrude into daylight hours.
Charlie Junior was often very uncomfortable. With limbs strapped taut in metal and leather harnesses in a vain attempt to stretch them into a normal shape, the aches and pains of living in a box were sometimes unbearable. Alice’s nun had told her about the torture of the sixteenth-century Jesuit priest, Edmund Campion, who had been put on the rack until his bones popped. Sometimes she gazed at her little brother and wondered whether his bones were going to pop too. She used to smuggle in her mother’s bottle of ‘Mrs Winslow’s Soothing Syrup’ and give him a swig. It was pretty effective, despite the fact that it was primarily designed for teething babies. This may have had something to do with the large amount of morphine in the syrup. What Alice didn’t realise was that her mum was also giving Charlie doses too. He could be remarkably giggly and at times show signs of an imagination to rival Dora’s. But then even Mrs Winslow stopped working as Charlie started moaning about a new pain between his shoulder blades, which was odd because that was one bit of his body that had been free and straight. Then he stopped eating.
As Charlie shook his head and turned away from the soup she’d made him, Clara remembered the skeleton she nursed in her dreams. And that night she had that dream again, except this time it was Charlie Senior and Charlie Junior who were lying in his box together.
When Clara woke up, she shook herself and crept downstairs. Instead of sleeping peacefully, Charlie was awake and tossing fitfully.
‘Oh, Charlie. Are you all right?’
‘No, Mum – I’m burning.’
She moved swiftly over to him and felt him. He had such a fever he was soaking in sweat. ‘My poor boy! It’s all right. Let me cool you down and dry you off.’ Clara rushed off to find towels to dry him and cloths to put cool water on his forehead.
When she got back, Charlie looked at his mum. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t feel right. My back – it hurts so much.’
‘Show me where, darling.’
It was difficult, but he managed to point between his shoulder blades: ‘Here.’
Clara put her hand up the back of his shirt, and then she felt it – a sort of lump. It wasn’t big, but a kind of mass of hardness filling the usual space between the shoulder blades.
Clara sat back, fighting an urge to be sick.
‘What’s the matter, Mum?’
‘Nothing, son, I’m just thinking.’
She squeezed his hand and walked out of the room into the kitchen, where she leant over the sink for a few minutes. In the end she collected herself, splashed cold water over her face, took a deep breath and went back in.
‘It’s all right, Charlie. You’re all right. There’s nothing there, but I’m going to get the doctor. He hasn’t come to see you for ages, has he? He might have some ideas how we can make you more comfortable. Time we had a visit. Now, let’s see if we can get you to sleep.’
Clara stroked Charlie’s hand and forehead and sang quietly to him, and her exhausted boy was soon asleep. But Clara didn’t go back to bed. She sat next to him, staring as the moonlight came in through the uncovered window and gave Charlie’s fragile face an ethereal air.
The next day, Charlie Junior had a visit from Dr Pincus. The girls watched as the old gentleman with his ominous, black leather bag went into the front room.
Grace turned to her big sister. ‘What do you reckon ’bout Wobbleface, then?’
‘Not sure,’ Alice replied.
‘He’s gonna die.’ Dora was hanging on to Alice’s arm, her eyes as round as the buttons on her shirt.
‘Shut up, Dora.’ Grace gave her a cuff around the head. ‘Wasn’t asking you.’
‘Ow! I’m gonna tell Mum on you.’
‘Yeah, and she’d hit you even harder. Saying that about your brother! What are you like?’
‘I’m not saying nothing that ain’t true. He’s gonna die.’
‘And how’d you work that one out?’
‘I dreamt it.’
The big girls groaned and rolled their eyes. Sharing a bed with a prophetess wasn’t a recipe for a good night’s sleep; but still, this time Dora’s divination made a shiver run down Alice’s spine.
‘Dora, do us a favour – keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to know, and Mum certainly doesn’t. She’s got enough on her plate without you coming over all Cassandra – got it?’
‘Yeah, that goes for me too. I don’t want to know about any of your dreams – not about Wobbleface, nor no one,’ Grace couldn’t resist adding.
Dora looked up at her big sisters, saw that any further protest would just end up with her being hit, so she ran up the stairs and hid in the wardrobe.
When Dr Pincus emerged from the room twenty minutes later, he retired with Clara to the kitchen and the door was closed firmly behind them.
Later on, the girls found their mother busy scrubbing the kitchen floor. Alice looked at her face for a sign, but she just carried on scrubbing hard. That in itself didn’t signify anything – Clara always operated on a ‘need to know’ basis.
In the end, it was Grace who couldn’t resist. ‘What did the doctor say, Mum?’
‘Nothing, nose ointment. Now get those twins ready for their tea.’
And that was that.
But as the days went on, Alice wasn’t convinced. She noticed her mother seemed to have lost the war spirit and when she looked into her eyes, there was a strange, two-dimensional deadness there. Clara’s hair, normally mercilessly pinned back and controlled, had, all of a sudden, got a life of its own: the chestnut brown waves had escaped and were getting into her eyes. Alice was a bit embarrassed in front of the customers. She looked a bit wild. Added to this, the pastry suffered – crisp pastry always suffered when the maker was upset.
Some nights Alice heard Charlie crying out and her mother creep down to him. At mealtimes, Alice noticed that her mother came back from the front room with the bowls of soup still full, bread left on the plate. Then Clara started to pop out on ‘errands’, leaving Alice in charge of Swain’s Kitchen, which Alice loved, but she was puzzled; until one day, Grace came back from taking the twins for a walk and said she had spotted their mother.
‘She was just sitting on a bench, looking at the river.’
‘How strange. On her own?’
‘Yes, like she had all the time in the world.’
‘Well, that’s not like her.’
‘Yeah. Not when there’s customers to be served.’ They grinned at each other.
‘So what did she say?’
‘She didn’t see us. I don’t know why, I felt like she was doing something secret. Like she wouldn’t want to see us. Alice, what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know but I feel all a jumble, like the wind’s about to change.’
That afternoon when her mother went ‘out’ again, Alice slipped in to see Charlie with the bottle of Mrs Winslow’s syrup in the pocket of her pinafore.
He looked awful – unbearably thin, sweating, and he seemed to
be developing a lump on his back like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was all happening so quickly.
‘Ohhhh, Alice, it hurts so much!’
‘The back again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor Charlie. Here, have a bit of this.’
She held up Mrs Winslow and he took a swig. She stroked his head.
There was a little boy down the road, whom they unanimously agreed was spoilt on account of him being an only child. He had been given a guinea pig as a pet. With the war on and food scarce, having a guinea pig was seen as a bit of an indulgence, if not a scandal. Clara muttered that if it wasn’t careful, it would end up in the pot. However, the girls, curious, invited themselves to go and look at Sidney. Dora wouldn’t go near him, but the twins squealed delightedly and poked him until one of them got bitten and they had to leave under a bit of a cloud.
Stroking Charlie in his box now put Alice in mind of Sidney the guinea pig in his cage: not for the first time, she wondered what the difference was, except Sidney seemed to be thriving, whereas Charlie seemed to be wasting away. Alice worried about Charlie’s future. Was he really going to have to spend the rest of his life in this box, and who would look after him if anything happened to their mother?
Then, as if reading her mind, Charlie sprung a terrible question. ‘Alice, am I going to die?’
‘No, Charlie. No, you are not! What a silly thing to say.’
‘But look at me. You know, sometimes I wish I was dead. It hurts too much.’
‘Oh, Charlie! Don’t say that. Please. Look, have another swig.’
She pushed the bottle of Mrs Winslow on him and within minutes he had fallen into a restless sleep. Alice watched her little brother and for the first time wondered whether he was right, whether he was in fact dying. And then, horrified at where her mind was taking her, she rushed out and upstairs to reach under the pillow where she kept her rosary beads, and once again prayed for forgiveness for her wicked thoughts, and then prayed fervently that her brother’s pain might stop and that he would get better.
But for once her prayers didn’t bring her any peace. That night she tossed and turned, until Grace told her to pack it in. She stole downstairs to find her mother sitting in the chair by the range in the kitchen.
‘Alice! What are you doing? Get back to bed.’
‘Mum, please. Can I talk to you?’
Clara didn’t answer so Alice pulled a chair close to her and sat down.
‘I can’t stop thinking about Charlie. He’s dying, isn’t he?’
Clara looked, startled.
‘She’s searching for words,’ Alice thought.
And then Clara came out with it. ‘Yes. Yes, he’s dying.’
‘Oh, Mum!’
‘He’s got Pott’s Disease. TB on his spine.’
‘The hunchback?’
‘Yes.’
Alice started to cry, saying, ‘Poor Charlie,’ over and over.
Clara put her arms around her saying, ‘I know, I know.’ And then she said something that shocked her. ‘It’s for the best.’
And Alice stopped crying, sat up and really shocked herself by saying, ‘I know.’
Suddenly there was a cold calm in the room. Both of them thinking very quickly, and then Alice asked, ‘Are you going to tell him?’
‘No. What would be the point?’
Alice thought about it. There were reasons to know and reasons not to know. Actually, she reckoned Charlie knew anyway. What good would it do? Her mother knew best. Probably. But what if he asked her again?
As if reading her mind, Clara said, ‘I’ve told Charlie that he’s just got a bug. A cold in his back. Nothing to worry about, but he’ll feel a bit poorly for a while.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘So you are not to say nothing to nobody. Dr Pincus says there’s nothing can be done and it’s not going to take long. There’s no point in upsetting everyone. Not when there’s nothing to be done.’
‘But what about Dad?’
‘What about him? He’s fighting Germans. He wouldn’t be any help even if he was here.’
Clara grabbed Alice’s hands and stared deeply into her eyes. ‘It’s taken me a while and a lot of thinking but whichever way I look at it, I come round to the same thing. You and me are going to have to be strong. Really strong. Stronger than we’ve ever had to be. For Charlie. To help him through.’
‘To the other side.’
‘All right, if you want to put it like that. To the other side. There will be time enough to cry afterwards. For now, we’ve just got to get through.’
Alice nodded. It was horrific, but it made sense.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you, but you know, I’m glad you’re with me. I could really do with your help.’ And with that Clara finally started to cry.
Alice got up from her chair and put her arms round her. ‘I love you, Mum.’
And Clara nodded. ‘I love you too.’
It was the first time she’d been embraced by her daughter rather than the other way around, and it felt really good. It wasn’t until that moment that she realised how truly lonely she had been.
From then on Clara and Alice were closer than ever. Bound together by the shadow of their knowledge, the Commander-in-Chief was under no illusions how much she relied upon her general. Because Clara was appalled at what she was about to witness. There was one part of her that knew it was a blessed relief, but a huge guilt came with that thought. And a nagging, evil little devil every so often whispered in her ear that this TB had happened because there had been times when she had wished he had died of polio in 1910; that he wouldn’t have had to suffer for all these years; and perhaps, more importantly, she wouldn’t have had to watch this suffering, which constantly crushed her heart and made it impossible ever to be happy.
Those were the kind of thoughts that had been whirling around her head and had made her seek refuge by the Thames.
Because what sort of a mother wished for her child’s death?
At the Front, Charlie Senior’s thoughts of being a hero had long disappeared.
On 12 June 1916, he found himself stuck behind the wheel of a truck with German artillery shells hurtling down.
He was travelling in a convoy transporting ammunition, and he had been struggling to stay awake. Several times Arthur, in the passenger seat, had to poke him: ‘Wake up, Charlie! For God’s sake, we nearly went in a ditch! What’s wrong with you?’
‘I’ve had no sleep! I reckon I’ve had four hours in the last four days. It’s doing me head in. As soon as I get back from delivering one load it’s, “Oi, Swain, get your arse back in your truck! We need you to take this lot up to wherever.”’
Arthur nodded. He’d had the same treatment. ‘Well, the brass hats are up to something, aren’t they? There’s got to be a reason why we’re taking so much up there. It’s not as if there’s a battle going on.’
‘No, but I reckon there’s one about to start, poor blighters.’
Charlie was spot on. In exactly two weeks, the British Army planned to start the massive artillery bombardment that would be the prelude to the Battle of the Somme.
Charlie, however, was not destined to take part in the offensive, which would turn out to be the bloodiest encounter in human history; just as he was nodding off again, he was brought to his senses by a huge shell hurtling down from the sky and landing on the road in front of them. It narrowly missed the lorry at the front, but it had to swerve and then it skidded and rolled over.
Charlie slammed on his brakes and just missed hitting the truck. The two men shouted expletives and ducked down in their seats as their truck was rocked to and fro by the force of the bombardment. They were trapped, and had no choice except to sit tight and pray, even though Charlie had an aversion to prayer. If God did exist (which he doubted), then he felt he’d sold his soul to the other bloke a long time ago. Instead, he reached inside his rucksack and with shaking hands brought out a bottle of rum he’d nicked from a load destine
d for the officers’ mess. He took large gulps and then passed the bottle over to his companion.
Charlie suffered from major ambivalence when it came to military life. On a good day he felt as if he had been rather lucky: the ASC was known as ‘Ally Slopers’ Cavalry’ – Ally Sloper was a cartoon character famous for his rent-dodging, wheeler-dealer, work-shy nature. ‘Dodgy’ would be the best word to describe him. The soldiers in the Army Service Corps rarely saw frontline action, as they were dedicated to getting supplies from the British mainland to the front. Charlie’s engineering experience meant that he was drafted into the Motor Transport Corps and trained to drive the trucks, which were a vital link in the supply chain. As a result, he didn’t have to fight and he lived in a permanent camp in a pretty town in northern France. He had access to all the best luxuries, including the spirits meant for the officers, and Charlie regularly helped himself. The locals were also a great source of food and liquid refreshment. When Charlie finished a jug of vin rouge, singing in the local bar with his arm around a comely village girl, he regularly consoled himself with the thought that it could be worse.
But then, on a day like today, as another shell landed, blasting his eardrums, showering him in dirt and generally shattering his nerves so that he had to grab the bottle back and take more long gulps, Charlie felt he was trapped in hell. The Germans deliberately targeted the British supply lines. He may not have been at the frontline, but during the long hours he worked without a break, he still saw plenty of action.
At times like these he resented the lack of respect given to the ASC. Only the week before Charlie had been at the depot when the Germans had started shelling it. As the place went up in flames and explosions, a band of British infantry passing through had cheered and sung, to the tune of ‘The Church’s One Foundation’:
‘We are Fred Karno’s Army
We are the ASC
We cannot fight. We cannot shite,
What fucking good are we?’
Charlie’s ginger blood had boiled up to its formidable top temperature and he had run over to them and shouted, ‘Whose bloody side are you on?’