The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  “Wilfred, I know that you hate me and you have every reason to do so.” She waited for a response but none came as he kept on writing.

  “But we must talk. I cannot spend the rest of our days being punished in this way. If you beat me then I would deserve it and perhaps that would be a way of getting the anger out. I have behaved abominably, I know that. I have been foolish beyond words and nothing in our marriage could possibly justify my actions. It is unforgiveable.”

  Wilfred remained impassive, turning over a page of marking, sipping the one glass of whisky he allowed himself each evening.

  “There is also something else we must speak about. Something we need to deal with.”

  Her tone now was less conciliatory, more business-like. There was a long pause to see if there was any reaction. There was none.

  “I am pregnant.”

  She thought she saw him flinch. His jaw set, he gripped his glass with brutal strength and it shattered, cutting his hand.

  Ever the subservient wife she asked, “Shall I get you something to staunch the blood?”

  Wilfred stood up without looking at her and then, carefully avoiding any physical contact, he left the room without a word.

  Later as she lay in bed she mulled on her mistakes. Yes, he had been a husband who had expressed no physical interest in her and was not given even to friendliness or the simplest of endearments. But he was a good man, a provider. He did not get angry with her or hit her. She had had an illicit liaison, not with just anybody, but a schoolboy. One of his pupils. That was as low as you could get. It would have been a dagger to his heart. She blamed herself. She thought of Henry. How could it have been love with such a youth? She would make it up to Wilfred, even if it took a lifetime. She would prostrate herself. In time, he would forgive her, wretch that she was. She fell asleep fitfully.

  The following morning, she woke with the heavy feeling that nagged at the awakening brain that something horrible and unmentionable had happened. And then she remembered. She would never recover from this, and all because of her own base desires. And what was to be done with a child of such a perverse and misguided liaison? What would she tell her parents? Would Wilfred come eventually to accept the child? Or even acknowledge it? So many questions, so many regrets.

  She set about her bath and dressed herself. Wilfred had not stirred. She prepared breakfast dutifully as always, even though she knew he would either ignore it or take it in a different room. She sighed heavily as she drank her tea. It was strange that he had not appeared as he was such a creature of habit and the first school bell had rung. If she did not remind him that he was due at the school, there might be further repercussions. She called him. She looked into his bedroom but the bed had not been slept in. She frowned, wondering where he was.

  She looked briefly around the library door.

  A body dangled from a rope slung over a central beam.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Henry Sheriff heard the shocking news whilst readying himself to go up to Cambridge to read Classics. He wrote guardedly to Florence but only received a formal reply thanking him for his kind words and condolences for her husband. He understood from the phrasing and formality of the reply that the correspondence should close there.

  At the College, there was unalloyed sympathy for Florence.

  “Such a good man.”

  “A tragedy. Wholly inexplicable and totally out of character.”

  “No fathomable reason.”

  There was particular compassion for a woman now carrying the child of a dead man who never knew that they were to receive such a blessing. The Hammersley-Pope family rallied round the pregnant widow. Under the circumstances, and those were quite exceptional, she was allowed to stay in the cottage at the school and was assured that all her needs would be catered for.

  *

  Henry resolved to get on with his life, the memory of that summer of 1910 with Florence now fading like a dream at daybreak. Three years at Cambridge passed in a riot of rugby, drinking, balls, a little study, and golden days of picnics, bathing, cricket, girls and dreams of the future.

  At the college he joined the Office Training Corps. The Boer War and the breathless tales he had read in the Boy’s Own Paper had inspired a sense of glamour and duty. In the early days of the century much had been made of the perilous state of the world, and the public schools and universities were readying a cadre of natural officers who would do their duty should they be called. Captains of cricket, head boys, victor ludorums were picked out in gold leaf on mahogany boards and these were the boys who were born to lead. Henry Sheriff was such a boy, now a young man with a sense of duty and service and, in truth, excited by the challenge of war. After graduating in early 1914, he felt he heard the call of duty from his country. He wrote to his parents.

  Dear Ma and Pa,

  All well down here in London kicking my heels and wandering hither and thither now. No doubt I could go into the bank, although 40 years in a dark office moving paper around does not appeal greatly. So I should advise you that my intention is to join up and become an army officer. I am fit and strong and my experience of leadership at school and university are the sort of qualities that, apparently, they are looking for. I have joined the University and Public Schools Battalion and hope to be commissioned soon. Nobody wants war but it is looking increasingly likely, and so be it – I am ready to serve. We know how to play the game and set our field. And if I get a chance with the bat I hope that I will be stroking fours to the long-on boundary. Of course there is always a chance that I will be bowled middle peg if I get an unplayable one but at least you will know I have batted well!

  Having enlisted, an early duty for Henry, as with so many public schoolboys, was to return to his Alma Mater and drum up interest Pro Patria! in the boys about to leave. He was given a platform at the ceremony on the last day of school. Standing four-square and proud in his officer’s uniform he gave an impassioned speech on public service, defence of the realm, equating playing fields with Europe’s battlefields.

  Afterwards he was mobbed by sixth-formers eager to know how to join up and his recommendations for which battalions. There was a reception of tea, cake and sandwiches afterwards in the Senior Common Room for the masters, their wives, the head, the head boy and himself.

  He saw Florence across the room in discussion with a group including her father. Their eyes met briefly. He smiled formally and bowed slightly, no longer the schoolboy but now a young officer in uniform. He engineered himself into a position where he could speak to her apart.

  “How are you? I was devastated to hear of your loss a few years ago. Mr Farquharson was a fine man and a good schoolmaster.”

  “Thank you. Time moves on and he is still missed but we must all get on with life I suppose.”

  “It may sound indelicate,” he asked hesitatingly, “but how are your… circumstances now…?”

  “If you are asking if there is another man then the answer is no. As a widow with a small child I hardly represent the most attractive proposition. And in my day to day comings and goings, I have much to keep me occupied. If I am in need of help then I can turn to my father and you will remember Mr Greygoose who has been very kind and considerate when called upon. Other than that I perform whatever duties I can and keep myself to myself.”

  “I see,” he said thoughtfully. Their eyes locked for some seconds before they both realised that they should resume normal social interaction so that they would not attract undue attention.

  “Well,” said Florence brightly, “before you leave perhaps you will care to drop by. I am still in the cottage. I do believe that I still have a book that was somehow left. It is your sixth form Latin prize and I have always meant to return it. I have no recollection of how it came to be in my possession but it would be right to return it to its rightful owner.”

  *

  Later,
Henry walked up the path to the cottage, wreathed in wisteria and sunshine. He caught his breath as he knocked at the door, so many memories playing in his head. Florence opened the door and formally invited him in with a succession of conversational non sequiturs.

  “Do come in. You must stay for a cup of tea before you leave. I know I found your book but I’m not sure now where I put it. Goodness you are so much taller and broader and that uniform does…”

  He seized her wrists and pulled her to him and the world stopped. The tears fell from her eyes even though they were closed. The moment was broken by a small voice.

  “Who is he, Mummy?”

  Henry looked down at a small boy in a buttoned-up shirt and blue pantaloons. He had a shock of dark unruly hair and grey eyes. He looked questioningly at Florence. She nodded and smiled a secret smile that answered all his questions.

  “Darling, this is an old friend of mine called Henry who used to be at the school. I was giving him a hug as we have not seen each other for such a long time. Look, he’s a soldier now.”

  “And, sir, whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” asked Henry mock-formally.

  “I’m Harry and I’m nearly five and when I’m big, I’m going to be a soldier as well, so there!”

  They laughed and Harry beat the legs of the officer with his fists, thinking he was the cause of the merriment.

  Henry looked fondly at Florence.

  “Harry, eh?”

  “So now you know. But of course it wouldn’t do to… to …”

  “I understand totally,” he confirmed, gripping her arms. “But allow me just a moment’s pride as it’s not every day that you meet your son for the first time.”

  She smiled but made a motion with her hand indicating that he must be cautious.

  “Remembers everything, repeats everything.”

  They laughed. She made tea. They made polite talk. He mentioned that he needed to get back for his transport. She fussed around and found his book.

  “So you really did have it? I thought that was just a clever ruse to get me over here,” he laughed.

  “I’ve no idea how it came to be here. But then,” she continued more ruminatively, “I’ve no idea what it was that happened between us. It seems so long ago and far away.”

  “Well,” said Henry seriously, holding her hand in his, “let us wait a conscionable time. In any case there is the small matter of my army commission and possible hostilities to be attended to. Perhaps, it would not be unreasonable for a widow to kindle an acquaintance with a young returning army officer?”

  She smiled. “We’ll see. But I am so glad to see you and, look, young Harry has really taken to you.” She pointed to the child on his knee who was preoccupied with the buttons on his army tunic.

  “And before you go, as well as the book, there are a couple of things I would like to give you. Well, one to give you and one to loan to you so that you are sure to come back.”

  “I don’t need any obligation to make me come back. Just say the word when the time is right and I will be here. Of course I have to do my duty but if the politicians are right then, if it is to be war, they should be blowing the final whistle by Christmas.”

  She left the room but returned after a short time. She pressed a photograph into his hands.

  “This is a picture of me and Harry. Silly I know, but I thought you might like it,” she said diffidently.

  He looked at the photograph for what seemed a long time. A young woman stood in a long coat and cloche hat holding the hand of a small, frowning boy. He turned it over. On the back in her careful handwriting, it said, ‘Florence and Harry. July 1914’.

  “I shall treasure it and keep it next to my heart always.”

  She then picked up a violin case that she had placed on a chair.

  “I know that you were a passionate player so I would like you to take this on loan. Wherever you play it think of me. It was Wilfred’s but it seems such a shame that it just moulders in a cupboard. Give it life again. Then perhaps, when you return, you can teach young Harry here a few tunes.”

  “I will look after it and, if you listen carefully some summer evening, you will hear me playing wistfully as I think of you. Now I must take my leave of you… for now,” he added meaningfully. They embraced. Their bodies touched. They both felt a stirring. Her breathing became heavier. The spell was broken by Harry calling from the kitchen for a drink, so they parted and laughed.

  “It never goes away, does it?” she smiled, the question needing no answer.

  “Thank you for my little cache of gifts and be sure that I will write regularly. You must let me know when it will be correct to call on you again. Until then you will be close to my heart.”

  He tapped the photograph in his breast pocket of his uniform.

  *

  Lieutenant Sheriff reported for duty with the Army Service Corps, initially stationed in Aldershot. As a new recruit, rather than an experienced Tommy, he underwent basic training, rifle practice, drills and lessons in military strategy and tactics. A fit young man, his medical record noted that he was A1 physically, five feet and eleven inches, and twelve-and-a-half stone, chest forty inches. Fit, young, strong and patriotic, he was itching to see service now that the Great War was finally underway with Britain, inevitably, as a world power, an important protagonist.

  Finally, after an impatient wait, the orders came to prepare for overseas duty and his battalion joined the Expeditionary Force in Gallipoli in early 1915. There had been heavy losses and Henry’s unit saw little action. The incompetent War Room in Whitehall had finally realised that the mindless slaughter was not making any significant yardage and Henry was part of an orderly evacuation to Egypt. He found himself at Kantara near Cairo as part of a massive logistics centre supplying the front line with tanks, armaments, guns, food and medical supplies. Although he realised the vital nature of the role, he longed to be ‘part of the scrummage instead of waiting for the ball to be kicked to me.’

  So in early 1916, he applied for a transfer to the Flying Corps. Shuttling between Cairo and Suez for training, he qualified as a pilot within three months. He had joined, he considered, at exactly the right time as the Germans had been deploying their Zeppelins over England, dropping bombs indiscriminately and fomenting a national panic. The press called for a response from the politicians against this seemingly invincible development.

  Henry applied for passage back to the Home Front aboard HMS Saxon and returned in June 1916. Plunging national morale meant that men, guns and planes were being diverted from the Western Front. The Royal Flying Corps, of which Henry was now a proud member, assumed responsibility for air defence from the Navy’s Aeronautical group. However, the aircrafts they were given to operate were mainly obsolete cast-offs that were not wanted for reconnaissance duties at the front. The only available aircrafts were slow, could not manoeuvre rapidly and were quite incapable of reaching the 20,000 feet that the German height climbers could achieve. Henry flew regular sorties but, frustratingly, was unable to sight or engage with enemy Zeppelins.

  The war machine reacted slowly, but by September 1916, the old planes were replaced by the Flying Experimentals with a more powerful 160hp Beardmore engine. Although still not a robust plane, at last Henry felt that he was in the war. He flew solo sorties from the airport in Lindsey searching for targets. He flew alone. The flimsiness of the aircraft would not sustain an additional navigator or gunner.

  On the moonless night of 17th November, Henry flew a defensive sortie, searching out the Zeppelins which only weeks before had dropped a 660lb blockbuster on Piccadilly Circus. Henry was a young man, determined to do his bit in seeing off the evil menace. His bravery and skill never faltered. It was his aircraft that let him down. With his engine failing at 3,000 feet, he nevertheless managed to salvage enough control, gliding almost to make it back to base but crashed in a plough
ed field, skidding into a copse of trees.

  *

  It was almost three months later that Florence got to know of it. Naturally Henry’s family had been informed but in the fog of war and with bad news slow to percolate through, it was some time before Dr Hammersley-Pope got to hear of it.

  He mentioned it at dinner one evening to an unsuspecting Florence.

  “Do you remember young Henry Sheriff? Rugger captain, head of School House? Didn’t you minister to him that autumn he broke his ankle?”

  Florence froze, but confirmed her recollection. She had had occasional letters from Henry but the postal service was unreliable so she was left earnestly hoping that he was still safe.

  The headmaster continued.

  “Went into the Flying Corps apparently. Had a bad prang. Plane let him down, it seems. Got him out alive but only just. All broken up, they say. Invalided out after weeks in hospital. Got the news from young Marshall who was in his unit and wanted to let the school know. Bad news indeed, this war! Those politicians! Those idiots in the War Office! Fine young man struck down in his prime.”

  Florence just managed to keep her composure.

  “Of course I remember him. All very tragic. And where is he now? Did young Marshall say?”

  “Convalescence in Great Yarmouth, apparently. That’s his war over. Pretty much his life over too, poor chap. I know we have to fight but it is all such a terrible waste.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY