‘Oh, Will.’ Esther looked up from the newspaper she held in her hands, having laboured over the printed words, needing to read for herself before she could believe it true. ‘Oh, Will, I must go to Ma. Does she know?’
He nodded sadly. ‘It were me that telled her, lass. Eeeh, but I thought they’d have been told – that they’d have had one of them awful telegrams.’ He took off his cap, ran his hand through his greying hair. ‘But they hadn’t. Oh Esther, lass, they didn’t know till I showed ’em the paper.’ His eyes were troubled, almost tearful. ‘I never thought.’
Esther put her arms around Will and for a moment they clung together. ‘Don’t, Will, don’t. It ain’t your fault. It’s the – the authorities. They should have told them.’
She felt him shake his head against her and his words were muffled against her shoulder. ‘Aye, but there’s that many, Esther. That many.’
He pulled away from her gently and patted her shoulder, a little embarrassed at his emotional display.
‘What do you mean?’ Esther whispered, her eyes wide.
‘The main newspapers give lists of casualties every day. I ’eard as how lots of families learn of the death of their relatives that way. Then a telegram arrives a few days later. It ain’t really anyone’s fault, they’re just snowed under with the number that they’ve to deal with.’
Esther gasped. ‘You mean, there’s that many getting killed every day?’
Will nodded but could not bring himself to meet her eyes.
Esther sighed. ‘Poor Ernie and poor young Rodney Marshall, too,’ she added as a dutiful afterthought. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece behind which there were now three postcards from her husband. They came about every five or six weeks, always with just the same brief message and whilst Esther had toiled painstakingly over her letters in reply, asking questions, telling him news from home, he had never once answered any of her direct comments.
I wonder, Esther thought to herself, if Matthew is still alive or whether somewhere, sitting on someone’s desk, is a telegram waiting to be sent to me?
Ma Harris accepted the news of her son’s death in the stoic manner with which she met all life’s tragedies.
‘I knew when he went, lass,’ she told Esther sadly, ‘that I might never set eyes on him again. I love all my bairns, lass, all seven of ’em – an’ even the two babes in the churchyard that died before they scarcely drew breath . . .’
Esther hadn’t known before of that particular heartbreak in Ma Harris’s life. But now was not the time to be asking.
‘But Ernie was me eldest. The man of the family – after his dad. I’ll miss him.’
‘We all will, Ma, truly we all will.’
There was a memorial service held in the church for the squire’s son, Rodney, and where the newspaper had given only two lines to Ernie Harris’s death, Mr Marshall, even amidst his own grief, was more generous. He gave explicit instructions to the vicar that the service should give equal recognition to both young men and he sent his own carriage to take Mr and Mrs Harris and all their family to the church.
For the first time in her life, Esther warmed to a member of the gentry, whom she had always believed cared little or nothing for her and her kind. Squire Marshall, his wife and one remaining son sat in their family pew, the empty place beside them a poignant reminder.
Mrs Marshall’s sobs could be heard throughout the service. She left the church clinging to her husband’s arm, her face, covered by a black veil, buried against his shoulder. By contrast, Ma Harris, though there was deep sadness in her eyes, seemed to be the mainstay of her family, shushing the weeping little girls, Enid amongst them. Taking her husband’s arm, she walked down the aisle and out of the church with dignified pride. Her indomitable spirit was battered but certainly not broken.
Now that a soldier’s death had touched Esther in the loss of her young friend, her anxiety for Matthew’s safety grew. Although cards still arrived from him, they were spasmodic and Matthew never thought to write the date on his cards, so Esther had no way of knowing how long they had taken to reach her. She had no idea where he was, except that he was definitely in France now. Every day she feared the arrival of a telegram, became more afraid for him if the time between his postcards seemed too long. Every week she had to compel herself to read the growing list of casualties in the local paper.
So 1915 passed and soon the war was a whole year old and there was another Christmas to face – this time knowing that Ernie would never come home.
Although her anxiety for Matthew’s safety was never far from her thoughts, the farm took up all Esther’s strength and time. Another harvest was safely over but there was the ploughing and the threshing through the winter. Without Tom Willoughby’s help, Esther doubted she could have coped. He sent men and machinery to help her whenever he could, so that all her ploughing was done to time in readiness for the spring sowing. The squire rarely visited now, but it was understandable, Esther thought. If the gossips were to be believed, it seemed his wife had taken to her sick-bed since the loss of their son and the poor squire had virtually lost his wife too.
Esther was always tired and had no time for anything now except her work and caring for Kate. Yet there was after all a strange security in the changing seasons and the demands of the farm which must be met no matter how she felt. She could not just give up. The war had robbed her of her young friend, Ernie, and had enticed her husband away; she would not allow it to take away her home and her livelihood too. She must keep everything going until Matthew came back . . .
Enid Harris, and now one of the younger boys, Luke, coming up to thirteen, helped her. Willing though the girl was, Enid was not Ernie and certainly she could not do the work Matthew had done. Esther suggested that Enid should take over the dairy work and looking after Kate. The child adored the older girl and began to run after her towards the Point as Enid went home.
The first time it happened, Esther rushed out of the stable where she had been putting the harness on Punch and Prince, and called after them. ‘Come back, Katie, you’re not to go with Enid just now. She’s going home.’
The child pouted and shook her curls, which glinted in the sunlight. ‘I want to go an’ play.’
‘No, stay here.’
‘It’s all right, missus. She can come and play with our young ‘uns. Me ma won’t mind.’
Esther bit her lip. She had no objection whatsoever to her daughter playing with Ma’s children, but she knew that Danny Eland often played with the Harris brood.
Esther sighed deep within herself. How could she hope to keep Kate and Danny apart for ever when they lived only a few hundred yards from each other and in such a small, self-sufficient community? She bit her lip and wondered what Beth too felt about the matter.
‘All right then, but only half an hour, mind.’
‘I’ll bring her back for her tea, missus,’ Enid promised and held out her hand to the child who trustingly put her own small hand into it.
Esther watched them go, then turned away and went back to lead the two horses out into the early spring sunshine. She groomed them, brushing away the last shreds of the winter coats they were shedding until they gleamed.
‘My, you pair have got fat through the winter,’ she said and was rewarded by Punch tossing his head and butting her gently. She laid her head against the horse’s neck, drawing comfort from its warmth. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you two now Matthew’s gone,’ she murmured. Silently, she acknowledged that her husband had indeed done her a favour when he had bought the pair. She drew back and patted their necks in turn.
‘But, me lads, it’s work for you tomorrow.’ Tom Willoughby had promised to lend Esther his seed drill and another of his horses for sowing the fields at Top End.
She screwed her mouth up thoughtfully. ‘I hope he remembers I need at least another feller to help me. That’s one thing I can’t manage on me own,’ she told the two horses as she led them out of the farm gate and a
long the lane into the first grass field.
It was as she was closing the gate to the meadow and about to turn back towards the farm gate that she saw a distant figure striding purposefully along the lane towards the Point. She stared, straining her eyes to see if she could recognize him. She saw that the man was carrying a pack on his back and that he was in uniform.
‘Matthew?’ she whispered and involuntarily took a step towards the approaching figure.
It was not Matthew. As the figure came nearer she saw that the man was a stranger to her. He was taller than her husband and his fair hair fell forward in a gentle flick over his forehead. His skin was a smooth light brown, but his face was thin, his cheeks hollowed. As he walked along he seemed to be deep in thought, for he was frowning slightly. As he drew level with her, he looked up and saw her standing there. A smile crinkled his face and lit up his blue eyes.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’ His voice was deep and soft, with a well-spoken gentleness in it. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’
Esther ran her tongue over her lips and smoothed her palms down her skirt. She felt suddenly hot and dirty – and ridiculously shy.
‘I – I’ll try.’ Her mouth was dry and her voice came out in a croak.
His face sobered as he said quietly, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Harris. I understand the family live at the end of this road?’
Esther nodded. ‘The – the end cottage at the Point itself. There’s a row of four.’
He smiled again, but there was a sadness that did not leave his eyes this time. ‘I’ve – er – come to see her about Ernie?’
There was a moment’s silence between them as they stared at each other. ‘Did – did you know him, then?’ she asked.
The man nodded. ‘I was with him . . .’
Esther drew breath sharply. ‘Not – you mean – when he – he was killed?’
The man nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve – er – brought her a letter from him. At least – I wrote down what he asked me to tell her. I’ve not been able to get here before now, and I particularly wanted to bring it to her myself. I didn’t want to just send it. Perhaps I can reassure her’ – there was pain in his eyes as he remembered – ‘that he didn’t suffer – not too much.’ His glance flickered away and Esther wondered if he were being quite truthful. But his good intentions could not be doubted.
There was a lump in Esther’s throat as she said, ‘It’s kind of you to come and see Ma . . . I mean, Ernie’s mother.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s no more than we do for each other all the time – out there.’ There was a trace of bitterness in the final two words.
Esther did not argue, although she could not imagine Matthew sitting beside a dying boy, listening to his last message home, and then travelling to a remote part of the country to deliver that message in person to his mother.
Esther continued to gaze at the stranger and he returned her trance-like stare. He seemed to be searching for something to say, anything to say, that would keep him here, talking to her.
At last he said reluctantly, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be getting on. Maybe I’ll see you when I come back?’
Esther nodded. She was conscious of her ruffled hair, her face shiny with sweat and the smell of horses still on her hands and clothes.
‘Thank you for your directions.’ He smiled again and began to walk away, glancing back once to give her a cheery wave, to which her hand fluttered nervously in response.
Close by her, just beyond the gate, Punch stamped his feet, lifted his head and whinnied loudly. Esther jumped, startled from her reverie by the sudden noise. She moved slowly down the lane towards her own farm gate, watching the striding figure as he reached the Hump and climbed to the top of the bank. She saw him pause, turn and look back once more towards her. Then he disappeared down the other side and was gone.
Esther hurried into the back scullery and sluiced cold water over her face. She ran lightly up the stairs and brushed frantically at her tangled curls until her hair gleamed. She bit her lip as she glanced down at her working clothes. Pulling open the top drawer of the chest she took out a clean white blouse and a starched pinafore.
He’ll be there now, she thought, meeting Ma Harris and being asked into her kitchen. She’ll sit him down and bustle about making tea and bringing out scones and cakes, wanting to hear his news, wanting to talk of Ernie and yet putting off the moment, postponing the renewal of the pain the visitors news must bring.
She’ll be sitting down too now, Esther imagined as she went downstairs and stood in the scullery looking out into the back yard, and beyond, into the lane. Ma would sit down at the scrubbed table and face the stranger across it and listen to what he had to tell her about Ernie.
How long would they talk? How long would it take for him to impart his message? And how long afterwards would he stay?
Esther rubbed her palms down her clean apron, turned away from the window and went back into, her kitchen, but a moment later she was back at the window. She went outside and stood in the centre of the yard, biting the edge of her thumb uncertainly. She didn’t want to intrude, yet she wanted to go down to Ma’s cottage.
She wanted to meet the stranger again.
‘What on earths the matter with you?’ she said aloud. ‘You’re a married woman!’
Still her feet would not take her back indoors to start getting Kate’s tea ready – which was what she should have been doing. A strange fluttering somewhere under her ribs would not let her dismiss the smile of the stranger quite so easily.
Then she realized she had a ready-made excuse to go to Ma’s cottage. Kate was not home. She was still down at the Point with Enid. Eagerly Esther almost ran towards the gate and out into the lane. She must fetch Kate, she told herself, trying to justify her action. It’s way past her tea-time.
There were no children playing outside the cottages; no sign of Danny Eland or – thank goodness – of his parents.
Outside Ma Harris’s cottage Esther hesitated, feeling diffident about being here. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, impatient with herself. She was still trying to decide what she ought to do, when she heard a tapping at the window and she turned to see Kate’s beaming face pressed against the pane, jam smeared around her mouth. The door opened and Enid beckoned her in. ‘Kate’s all right, missus. I’m sorry I didn’t bring her back, but this feller’s come to see me ma . . .’ Her eyes were shining, and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Ooh, he’s a lovely feller, missus, real handsome. Come in an’ meet him. He knew our Ernie.’
Shyness swept through Esther – an unaccustomed feeling for her. ‘Well, I don’t want to intrude, I just came to fetch Kate home . . .’
‘She’s had her tea.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Oh, do come in, missus, please,’ Enid urged her, and Esther needed no more persuasion.
Twenty-three
AS she had imagined, they were sitting around the kitchen table, the stranger in the place of honour in Mr Harris’s Windsor chair at the head, whilst Ma sat at the opposite end. Mr Harris had come in from work and in deference to his honoured guest had sat down at one side of the table. The children stood together, wide-eyed and curiously silent, just staring at the visitor.
As Esther came in, the man glanced towards her and rose politely. Their eyes met and the wonderful smile spread across his face.
‘Hello – we meet again,’ he said in his rich, deep voice.
Esther smiled self-consciously. She felt Ma Harris looking from one to the other in puzzlement, but Esther’s own gaze was fixed upon the stranger’s face.
‘You know Esther – Mrs Hilton?’ she asked him.
Did she imagine it or did the faintest trace of disappointment flicker across his face?
‘Not exactly,’ he was saying evenly. ‘We met in the lane and – er – Mrs Hilton directed me to your house.’
Esther found her voice. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to butt in. I came looking for Kate.’
‘Nay, lass, you ain’t butting in. How could ya? Sit down a minute and have a cup of tea.’
‘Well . . .’ she murmured, but the stranger, still standing whilst she remained so, was already pulling out a chair near him and inviting her to join them around the table. ‘If you’re sure.’
For a few moments there was an embarrassed silence, covered by Ma busily rattling cups and saucers and filling the teapot.
‘Are – are you on leave?’ Esther asked him, remembering that he had said in the lane that he had not been able to come to see Ernie’s mother before now. In a few more weeks it would be a year since they had heard the news of Ernie’s death and it seemed strange that it should have taken quite so long for him to make his visit. His reply soon answered her question.
The smile twisted a little wryly. ‘Sort of. A few days after Ernie was hit, I was injured and eventually sent back home to hospital.’
Before she could stop herself, her gaze roamed over his body. A lean, lithe body, now he was divested of the uniform’s shapeless greatcoat.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, ‘Don’t say it – I don’t look injured.’
She looked up to meet those brilliant blue eyes watching her with amusement. She drew breath sharply and laughed, ‘How did you know what I was thinking?’
‘It was written on your face.’
Ma pushed a cup of tea in front of her and Esther gave a little start. She had forgotten that there was anyone else in the room. The kitchen was crowded with people – Mr Harris and Ma, six of their children and her Kate, yet for a few moments she had felt herself completely alone with the stranger.
‘Mr Godfrey—’ Ma began, but was interrupted by the soldier saying, ‘Please – call me Jonathan.’
Ma rewarded him with her toothless smile and nodded. ‘Jonathan,’ she corrected herself, ‘is going to stay with us a few days, Esther, at least he’s going to stay at the pub . . .’ Ma grinned. ‘Ah dun’t reckon he fancies sleeping with all my brood!’ The family all laughed together and two of the younger boys started a rough-and-tumble on the hearth-rug which earned them a quick cuff from their mother. Suddenly the kitchen was full of noise, for although the soldier had come on a sombre errand, he had somehow lifted their spirits and helped to ease their loss.
The Fleethaven Trilogy Page 20