Wheels of Grace

by Crosse, Tania

  ‘There, there, Mummy,’ Grace soothed. ‘See what it says. Peaceful. No wounds or pain. Just slipped away. He always wanted to travel, and he did. And India, well, you couldn’t get more exotic than that. He … he went happy, like.’

  She could croak no more, her throat closing painfully. And she knew no words could help. It was like a lie, trying to find ways to ease her mother’s misery – and her own. Stephen was dead, and nothing she could think or do or say could ever bring him back.

  Grace sat, immobile as the granite rock on which she perched, watching the August sun float down and paint the wispy ribbons of cloud a flushed apricot. Less than a year it was since she and Stephen had stood on this very spot on the crest of Peek Hill, admiring the familiar, spectacular view before Stephen had revealed his decision to go to India. It seemed a lifetime ago and yet it might have been yesterday. She could still see his anxious, pleading face, hear his voice. And now he was lost for ever.

  It felt so strange. Her poor mother had been so steeped in misery that Grace’s concern had been for her suffering alone, and her own grief had needed to be locked away. Now, though, Ernest had persuaded his wife to take the sleeping draught the doctor had prescribed and the younger children were staying with Martha, so that Grace was free to deal with her own black sorrow. And yet she was dry-eyed. There was just a terrible, hollow emptiness inside her that refused to allow anything to enter it, not even sadness or tears.

  And so she sat as the great, flaming disc slid majestically below the horizon, robbing the surface of the reservoir of its brilliance and cloaking the moor in shadow. But nothing would ever change. It had been the same for thousands, millions of years, and would go on being the same until eternity. Sunrise, sunset. Whether Stephen was alive or not. Long after Grace herself, her family and everyone she knew had gone. So should it matter that one person, her dear brother, no longer walked the earth? But it did matter. To her. Although exactly how it mattered to her, her grieving soul was as yet unable to fathom.

  The shiver that suddenly quivered through her body brought Grace to her senses, and she pulled her cardigan across her chest. The air was turning chilly, and though she felt she could stay there all night, saturating herself in calming peace, she knew that she should go home. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going and someone might be worried. And so, with reluctant heart, she began walking down off the moor, one foot placing itself mechanically in front of the other, her mind faded and sterile of thought. Even when she came to the railway line and clambered through the post-and-wire fencing, her limbs moved of their own accord since it was something she had done a thousand times.

  ‘Grace, look out!’

  The familiar voice brought her back to reality as she stepped onto the track. There, chugging towards her, was the evening train, clattering its way down to Yelverton. She stared at it, fascinated somehow as it rattled forward. And then the voice, yelling at her now, made her consider that she should get out of the train’s path, and she leisurely finished crossing the line, climbing through the fence on the far side and turning to watch the engine and its two carriages trundle past.

  ‘Grace, for God’s sake, what were you thinking of?’ Larry limped up behind her in as close to a run as his leg allowed. ‘Didn’t you see the train? Didn’t you look?’

  His face was creased in desperation, anger, horror even as he shook her by the shoulders. Grace glared back at him, hot with defensive disdain.

  ‘Of course I did! There were plenty of time.’

  ‘No there bloody well wasn’t! You were that close—’

  ‘No I weren’t. And don’t swear. And kindly take your hands off me.’

  Larry blinked at her, and as soon as he let his hands fall to his sides, Grace stomped off past him downhill so that he had to struggle to catch up with her. She sniffed in irritation and her eyes flashed at him accusingly.

  ‘So what were you doing following me?’ she demanded.

  ‘I wasn’t following you. Not exactly. We all know what’s happened and we’re all really sorry, but then we realized you’d disappeared. It’s getting late and your poor father’s worried. I guessed where you’d gone. It was always a favourite spot for … the four of us. And so I said I’d come up here to look for you.’

  ‘Well, as you can see, there were no need. I were coming home—’

  ‘But if I hadn’t called out to you…. And, although we all do it, we’re not supposed to cross the line anyway. Oh, Grace, look at me!’ Larry grasped her by the arm and turned her towards him, his eyes deepening to mahogany as he fixed her reluctant gaze. ‘Stephen is dead. He was my friend, but he was your brother. You are allowed to grieve for him, you know. Don’t bottle it up.’

  ‘But you don’t understand!’ Grace rounded on him as her anguish suddenly exploded. ‘It were my fault!’

  ‘What?’ Larry was incredulous. ‘How could it be your fault?’

  ‘I should’ve persuaded him not to join up. I were going to. At least, I were going to tell Martin not to encourage him. But I were so wrapped up in stupid ideas about the Suffragettes and … and … other things that I never did.’

  Larry’s face stilled. And then his eyebrows arched in pity. ‘Oh, Grace, you’re not to blame. Don’t you ever think that. Steve was the sort … He’d have volunteered sooner or later. At least he died being cared for in a hospital bed and not in agony on the battlefield. And he’d seen a corner of the world that none of us ever has. So don’t you dare go blaming yourself.’

  Grace screwed her lips rebelliously. It was her fault. But much as she wanted to drag her gaze away from Larry’s face, she somehow couldn’t. He was too familiar, his presence too strong a reminder of the happy foursome she had been part of all her life. All her tamped down emotions suddenly rushed at her and her face crumpled. Something inside her snapped and, as a brutal sob broke from her lungs, she found herself wrapped in Larry’s embrace, weeping against his chest.

  How long they stood there, alone on the moor as dusk closed in, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that Larry held her in silence, pouring his own strength into her and taking away the burden of her guilt. Her tears finally ran dry, though her heart still ached. Would ache for ever. But reality had crept into her soul, and now she could face the truth, that Stephen was dead and somehow she must cope with the future.

  Grace made her halting way across the yard. Everything looked the same. Nothing changed. And it hadn’t, had it? Stephen hadn’t been at the workshop for over a year. When she walked through the doors, the same people would be there as always. Yet it was the knowing that was breaking her. The knowing that she would never see her brother at the lathe or the workbench again.

  They had received the official letter now, praising Private Dannings for being such a willing and dedicated soldier. It was Joe’s barely legible scribble that had brought the family a trace of comfort. He had been at Stephen’s bedside, holding his hand, at the end. He had been delirious for some while, but had spoken to Joe quite lucidly before lapsing into the peace in which he had drifted away. Grace’s bottom lip had quivered as she read it. Her mother had started howling again and Grace had cajoled her into taking another draught.

  Grace set her jaw and walked boldly into the workshop. Every head turned towards her and she felt a crimson flush warm her cheeks. She didn’t want any attention. She just wanted to get on quietly with her work. But she couldn’t be cross as Larry, dear Larry who had been so kind to her, came towards her.

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready to come back? You don’t have to.’

  ‘No, I want to,’ she told him firmly. ‘But I’m not working for Farmer and Mrs Snell any more. They’ve let me keep my room there, bless them, but they’m going to find someone else from the village to take my place. Mummy can’t be left alone, you see. She’m still crying all the time, and she can’t do ort in the house. Just sits there. George and Faith are back at school, of course, so Daddy’s taking Mummy and Maggie next door to Martha afore he goes to wo
rk. And then I’ll be there in the afternoon to take care of them and do the cooking and cleaning and washing and everything. So I’m afeared I can only be here until dinnertime in future, if that’s all right.’

  Larry’s eyes closed for a second in his sombre face as he nodded. ‘Of course. It’ll be good to have you back if only for half the day. And do let us know if there’s anything we can do.’

  ‘That goes for all of us, maid,’ Geoffrey echoed.

  ‘Thank you. Now what would you like me to do?’ Grace enquired as she glanced about her. ‘Oh, isn’t Bob in today?’

  ‘Oh.’ Larry’s voice dropped and Grace saw his prominent Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed hard. ‘No. He … er … he’s not coming in today. He … Grace, there’s only one way to tell you this. He and his wife, they got a telegram this morning. Their son …’

  Grace felt her heart clench in horror. Oh, no. Not someone else from the village?

  ‘B-but he’m in the same company as Martin, isn’t he?’ she managed to croak, watching Larry’s face blanch.

  ‘Was. There’s been heavy fighting at a place called Loos.’

  ‘And … and Martin?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Geoffrey broke in. ‘But until we hear otherwise, he’s still alive. But hanging about gossiping won’t help. Work to do.’

  Grace met Larry’s gaze and a bitter stone settled in her chest. This war, that should have been over by Christmas. This was just the beginning, wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘LET’S HAVE A pot of tea ready for when Faith gets home from school,’ Grace said purposefully as she folded the last of the ironing. ‘George is going straight to the yard. So, will you set the mugs out, Mummy?’

  She raised a desperate eyebrow at the gaunt figure that sat inert in the rocking-chair beside the range. It was the first comfortable piece of furniture in the Danningses’ home, made as a present by Mr Vencombe and Larry to help ease Temperance’s sorrow – but also as a sort of thanksgiving that Martin had survived the terrible battle at Loos almost unscathed while others in his company had perished. The whole parish was in mourning, having lost three young men in France, besides a much loved son who had succumbed to illness in far-away India. Temperance had shrivelled to a wizened old woman, or so she appeared to her eldest daughter who observed her with reckless hope across the small room.

  But the movement Temperance made was merely to set herself rocking back and forth as she did for hours on end, staring sightlessly at the range. A disappointed sigh escaped from Grace’s lungs. Oh, well. She had tried. For the umpteenth time. It seemed nothing could shake her mother from the bottomless torpor she had toppled into since Stephen’s death.

  ‘I’ll do it, Grace,’ little Maggie piped up, and Grace nodded at the child who seemed to have blossomed since their mother had slid over the brink into some silent world of her own. Maggie fussed over her constantly, as if their roles in life had been reversed – even though Maggie was somewhat confused as to why her mother was so sad just because Stephen had gone to help baby Jesus look after his little brothers who had already gone to heaven.

  Grace made the tea, knowing how much painstaking encouragement it would take to persuade Temperance to drink it. Eating was even more of a challenge, and the flesh had fallen from her bones. Grace tried to tempt her with whatever tasty morsels she could lay her hands on. But they weren’t exactly rich and it wasn’t always easy to obtain something out of the ordinary, especially with the war on.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. Nan Simpson had another little boy last night,’ she announced, forcing some brightness into her voice. ‘Healthy little chap. John’s as proud as punch.’

  Much as she disliked John, Grace had congratulated him, and had even experienced some part in his evident joy. Now she hoped the news might rouse Temperance from her inertia. Her heart leapt as she detected a flicker of recognition in her mother’s eyes, but almost at once, it was extinguished. Grace gave up. For now. It was … just so draining, having to prop Temperance up like this and keep her own grief under control. She was almost angry with her mother for doing this to her, and yet guilt ripped her apart for allowing herself to feel like that. And her poor father was out of his mind with worry when he was deep in his own misery, too. At least Grace had released some of her agony when she had wept in Larry’s arms, and the memory of those snatched moments sometimes brought her a little comfort.

  ‘Shall I pour you some tea, Mummy?’ she suggested lamely, returning her attention to the present. And her heart sank for she knew it would be the devil’s own job to persuade Temperance to drink even half a cup.

  Grace held her hands towards the heat that emitted from the small forge. The first heavy frost of winter had turned the muddy puddles in the rough road through the village into icy patches between ruts that were frozen solid. Inside the workshop though, the forge kept the place relatively warm and it was only Grace’s hands that tingled with cold as she worked at the machine-copier. John was hauling in some lengths of wood and Bob was busy cutting them into the required lengths. Geoffrey and Larry, however, and Edward – the other wheelwright they employed – were poring over some plans. They had been sub-contracted to make a number of wagon-wheels for the military. Heavy metal hubs, each consisting of a pair of flanges and a pipe-box, together with special triangular-shaped bolts had all been supplied, but the wooden parts had to be fashioned to an exact specification.

  Grace understood that the wheels would be for supply wagons, and in some strange way, that knowledge brought her some relief. Hopefully they would be used for carrying some sort of comfort to the troops, food and blankets, perhaps even medical supplies for the field hospitals. She closed her mind to the fact that the wagons could well be transporting munitions, and forced herself to consider that at least these were not gun-carriage wheels, helping to deliver death to the young men fighting for the other side.

  It was odd that, she mused pensively as she set up the machine-copier to turn twenty-eight tenons into their basic spoke shape for a pair of rear wheels. She wanted the war to end, of course she did, so the quicker the Allies killed off so many of the enemy or that they surrendered, the better. But Larry had made her consider the fate of the Germans and Turks and everyone else on the other side, too. They were the aggressors, of course, but they had probably been brought up to believe that they were in the right. It was hard to consider the enemy’s feelings when Grace’s family had been shattered by a loss caused, when all was said and done, by the outbreak of war, and when so many other families in the parish were also suffering the same wrenching emptiness.

  Grace was suddenly aware that she had been staring at the machine in front of her. It was ready to go, following the pattern she had set for the lathe. She glanced round to see if anyone had noticed her lapse of concentration, but apparently not. Only John was stacking wood behind her.

  ‘How’s Nan coping with the new baby?’ she asked, as much to cover up her moment of daydreaming.

  ‘She’m doing very well,’ John smirked after the initial surprise had slid from his face. Since the long-ago but not forgotten incident in the stables, he was aware that Grace ignored him as much as possible, although not his wife. Now he could see a chance to satisfy his need for retaliation. ‘She’m made for having babbies, despite what some folk thinks. And as for not having no more, well, whoever’s been talking to her should be shot for interfering. And I has a sneaking suspicion I knows who it be.’

  He glared meaningfully at Grace, eyes gleaming maliciously, before turning back to his work. Grace snatched in her breath. Poor Nan. She had obviously tried, without success, to broach the delicate subject they had discussed, and John had guessed the source of his wife’s argument. Oh, well, Grace sighed. She had tried for her friend, but now she had greater worries to occupy her mind. Her mother still hadn’t rallied from the dreadful chasm she had fallen into since Stephen’s death. The future looked bleak for the entire family, for how could any of them return
to any semblance of normality when Temperance could not be left alone, and her state of mind was drowning them all in sorrow and depression?

  Grace lifted her chin. She wasn’t going to let John’s remarks upset her. But she was saved by a commotion out in the yard which drew Geoffrey and Larry to the workshop doors. A moment earlier, Grace had caught the gentle clip-clop of horses’ hoofs. She presumed that Derek had returned from collecting a large consignment of timber that was being delivered to Dousland Station. Some of it was due to be unloaded directly at the workshop, while the rest would be stored up at the timber-yard. But now the distinctly distressed neighing of the horses and Derek’s agitated shouts drew them all outside.

  The sight that met her eyes drew a shocked gasp from Grace’s throat. She wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but it looked as if one of the carthorses had slipped on a pocket of ice and had gone down on its knees, falling sideways between the shafts and pulling its companion in the same direction. Their combined massive weight had tipped the wagon sufficiently for its heavy load to be dislodged, and the top timbers were sliding off the far side. Slipping sideways in the driving-seat, Derek was trying to correct the situation by urging the horses forward and hoping they could thus manage to right themselves and the wagon. But the thunderous boom as the lengths of wood landed on the ground was frightening them further, their hoofs scrabbling on the ground and their eyes rolling in terror. The two normally docile giants had suddenly become dangerous beasts, one kicking out as it tried to keep its footing, and the one down on its knees throwing its head about in panic as it pawed frantically at the slippery patch it still failed to get a grip on.

  Grace looked on, rooted to the spot, as Larry darted forward between the dangerously swaying shafts. Pulling off his jacket, he threw it over the head of the first horse which at once began to calm down. Then, with apparently no thought for his own safety, Larry grasped the other animal’s bridle. He managed to steady the flailing head by brute force and began encouraging the creature with a smooth and steady voice to get back on its legs.