Coming Home

by Roy E. Stolworthy

  “Aye, it may be something to think on,” James Elkin said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Means more work though, and with Mrs Elkin poorly it might be difficult.”

  “Bring someone in from the village to do the chores until your wife is back on her feet. I’ll cover the cost, Mr Elkin, and you can pay me back later. What you have here is just the setup I’m looking for. Think on it, and I’ll come round same time tomorrow. Good day to you both,” Thomas said, striding from the house.

  It seemed impossible that the farm had become run down in such a short time, and he prayed his father would accept his offer.

  He spent the evening in the inn and ate a meal of cold ham with cheese and brown bread washed down with fresh sparkling water. Sleep came fitfully without comfort. Three times he rose from the warm bed and swilled his face with cold water. Finally, at five minutes past four in the morning he gave up the idea of sleep, dressed and walked out into the silence and solitude of the dark moonless night. Opposite a butcher’s shop two dogs fought noisily over a worn shoe until a window rattled open and a pot of urine splattered down, they ran whimpering in different directions. Dejected, he sat on a wooden bench and stared across the empty street, wishing he had the means to clear his troubled mind. At last, dawn came and lights flittered from shops, bakers prepared fresh bread and full milk churns on hand-pulled carts rumbled from the dairy.

  The wizened old man with a shock of white hair blinked his watery eyes and glanced up at him. Since the war began he’d seen a steady trickle of customers enter his pawnshop. With the magnifying glass in his wrinkled eye socket, he continued to study a pearl necklace. Thomas waited patiently, listening to him mouthing complaints about people trying to cheat him out of his cash with fake jewellery.

  “What can I do for you, lad? Have you any German helmets or bayonets? Fetch a good price they do,” he said.

  Thomas pulled out the pocket watch and handed it to the man.

  “Full Hunter, eh, nice watch. Couldn’t give you any more than three pounds, lad. Got a shop full of them I have, take it or leave it,” the man said, handing the watch back. “I tell you what though, lad, I’ll give you twenty pounds for that medal you’re wearing on your chest – Military Medal, fetch a few bob that would. I’ll give you an extra five pounds if you write down the story of how you won it, and sign it. Don’t suppose you’d be willing to sell it though?”

  For a moment Thomas considered what it might be like not to have the ribbon on his chest. In the company of officers and senior NCOs it had served to bring him an element of respect he learned to enjoy. The men of his battalion made no secret of the fact they wrote to their wives and parents extolling his bravery, and revelled in the knowledge that he was one of them. With heads held high they stood shoulder to shoulder in the same rat-infested trenches as he did, and drank tea reeking of petrol like he did. If it was fit for a hero, it was fit for them.

  “Forty pounds and it’s yours,” he said.

  “Bah, forty pounds, more than a year’s wages, lad. Where’s the profit in that?”

  Thomas leaned forward with his hand cupped over his mouth. “Ever heard of a man called General Haig? Saved his life, I did. Fell off his bloody horse and landed in the German trenches he did. I went straight in after him. On me own I was, killed forty Germans and took twice as many prisoners. Gave me the bloody medal himself, he did, pinned it on me chest and shook me by the hand. First one ever made it was, it’s all on film, and when the war’s over everybody will be able to see it, but you’ll be the one with the medal.”

  “You bloody liar,” the elderly man chuckled. “Put it on paper and I’ll let you cheat me out of the forty pounds.”

  Thomas took the pencil and concocted a fictitious tale of heroics and false names, then signed it, John Smith.

  He decided against the suit and wore his uniform. It was going to be a fine day. Under a blue sky he guided the trap into the farmyard. A thrush trilled its song from a nearby bush and he tried hard to memorise each note. A tractor coughing and spluttering in an adjoining field brought back happy memories of better days. His heart leapt, she was there sitting outside the front door of the farmhouse wearing a straw hat on her head and a shawl over her shoulders to keep in the warmth.

  “Morning, Mrs Elkin,” he called, with his tongue clamped in his cheek.

  “Good morning, Mr Smith, or should I say corporal, my you look fine in your uniform. Archie’s a corporal you know, aye that he is,” she said in a wistful voice.

  “Thank you;. Yes, you told me yesterday. Is Mr Elkin about?”

  “He’s with the pigs, over there next to the barn. You can’t miss them, not with the noise they make,” she nodded.

  Wet clammy sweat formed on the palms of his hands and heat burned into his neck. His legs felt like they were clamped in a vice. Move, Thomas, move, he cursed, wiping his sweating palms down the side of his leg. Why am I doing this, why didn’t I mail the money and make out it was from Archie? Hesitantly he made his way towards the barn. Noticing the door swinging to-and-fro on freshly-oiled hinges, the broken slat, still unrepaired allowed a shaft of sunlight to pierce the gloomy interior. James Elkin tipped a bucket of potato peelings and leftover scraps of food into the sty and watched the pigs surge forward greedily, chomping and squealing. Thomas shivered. There were only three, before there were five.

  “Morning, lad,” Mr Elkin said, looking him up and down and taking in the stripes on his arm. “Come into the house and we’ll have a brew.”

  All of a sudden he felt the hackles on his neck stiffen. Her shrill whinny echoed across the moors and he heard the pounding hooves growing ever closer. She stood in all her magnificence, pawing the ground and hurling her head from side-to-side, snorting and blowing. She knew who he was. She lowered her head and charged at him like a bull would a matador, the way they used to play before he went away without her. When he stepped to one side, she whinnied with pleasure and shook her mane. Gently she buried her nose into his chest and licked at the bandages concealing his identity. He may have fooled his parents with his cruel deception, but the horse was cleverer. He was home and she was glad. The tears crammed into his eyes until he could hardly see, he wanted to stroke her wet nose and murmur familiar words to her, but he did not dare and remained silent.

  “Whoa, Ruby, whoa there, good girl, go on, off you go,” his father said. “I’ve never seen her do that for nigh on a year or more. She must have taken a fancy to you, lad. Reminded her of someone she once knew, I reckon.”

  Thomas tried to blink his eyes clear and watched as she raced around the meadow. Her coat glistened domino-black, her knees stepped high and the thick hairs of her fetlocks bounced and bobbed. She held her proud head aloof and her muscles rippled in the morning sunlight; she looked every inch a pedigree Percheron, and he loved her.

  “I told you, didn’t I? Daft as brush she is. Bloody fine plough horse though, best I’ve had by a long chalk,” his father said, lifting his flat cap and scratching his head.

  Inside the house James Elkin raked the embers, tossed another log on the fire and placed the copper kettle on the griddle. Of Mrs Elkin there was no sign. He pulled the curtains to one side and glanced out, a smile creasing his weather-beaten face.

  “Been to gravel pit, she has, goes the first Friday of every month since we lost our youngest lad. Reckon he drowned in pit, we do, aye. She throws a small bunch of flowers on the water to let him know we haven’t forgotten him. Grand lad, he was, they didn’t come any better,” his father said in a low voice.

  Thomas breathed in a lungful of air and held his breath for a moment, afraid to breathe normally for fear he would sob aloud. That had been the first time they had made any reference to him. He wondered how much longer he could keep up the pretence. His saliva tasted sour like vinegar and his guts were twisted into tight knots. He felt his father’s quizzical eyes boring through the bandages, as if he knew what lay below, and he cleared his mind.

  When his mother entered t
he room she gave him a wan smile accompanied by a brief nod. Her hair was neatly combed and tied in a bun with a short length of white lace, and she wore her best dress, the blue one that she always saved for church on Sundays. On the table she placed a shallow straw basket holding a single daisy, and he remembered how he would always pick one for her on his return from school. In a white enamel mug standing on the windowsill she placed the small flower facing the sun, as he had always done. Tears glistened in her eyes, and for a moment he thought his chest would burst, and in his mind he paddled around in water wishing he could feel the warmth of her embrace, just once.

  James Elkin interrupted his misery. “We’ve given much consideration to your offer, Mr Smith, and we reckon we might make a go of it. What you said makes good sense. How many sheep did you have in mind?” he said.

  “I’ll leave that up to you. I reckon thirty pounds should make a decent enough start, and ten pounds for expenses. Buy what you see fit to manage. I have one stipulation though – get someone in until Mrs Elkin is well enough to manage for herself. No farm can run single-handedly, no matter what the intentions. I’m not in the habit of tossing good money around,” Thomas said, feigning strictness.

  “Aye, done as soon as said, lad. You’ll get a good flock for that kind of money. I’ll get old Fred Needles in to repair the hedges, best be safe than sorry. Young Clare Moore can have the spare room and look after Mrs Elkin until she’s up and about. There’ll be a few bits and pieces we’ll need, nothing too expensive though.”

  “Fine, then we have a deal, Mr Elkin?”

  “Aye, Mr Smith, I reckon we do,” his father answered, spitting in his palm and holding out his hand.

  For the first time in his life Thomas shook the hand of his father. His grip felt warm and firm. A glowing sense of security enveloped his body and he responded. He didn’t want to let go.

  “Well, there’s nothing to keep me here any longer,” Thomas said, counting out the money. “I’ll forward my address when I’ve settled. Just one more thing, best keep all the profits due to me and plough the money back into the farm, get the place up and running. We don’t want to fall short for the sake of a few shillings. Let’s hope we can all look forward to a comfortable future.”

  Without another word, he strode briskly from the farmhouse and almost collided with Ruby. She stood between him and the pony and trap, barring his way, with her head lowered and her eyes rolling. Her hot, wet tongue travelled slowly across the bandages as though begging him to reveal himself. He tried to smile and grimace at the same time, and this time nothing in this world could prevent the gasping sob erupting from inside his shaking body. With legs as stiff as telegraph poles he made his way to the trap and swung himself into the seat, and cracking the whip he sent the pony into a fast canter. He heard Ruby’s shrill whinny and pounding hooves as she made her way to the top meadow and stood watching him leave her once again, her mind confused and distraught. Standing up in the trap he laid the whip across the pony’s back, sending it into a headlong gallop and tried to block the sound of Ruby’s plaintiff cries from his mind.

  “Shut up, Ruby, for God’s sake, shut up,” he sobbed aloud, as the tears blurred his vision and soaked the bandages.

  “Did you see the gait on him, Lizzie, the way he threw his left leg when he walked? It were the same as Thomas did after he fell from Ruby when she were just a pony, strange that,” James Elkin said thoughtfully. “And the way Ruby was with him, charging at him the way she did, she did that with Thomas too. If I didn’t know better I’d say it were him, aye, I believe I would.”

  Lizzie Elkin, about to open her mouth to speak, glanced across to the small white enamel mug on the windowsill. The small daisy was missing. A small choking noise came from her mouth, the room swirled and her legs crumbled.

  The monotonous sound of the train rolling and clattering over the railway lines towards London fell on deaf ears. Never before in his life had he felt so lonely and miserable, the last few days had tapped a well of torment inside him that he thought might gush forever. Unloosening the top button of his tunic, he pulled himself to his feet and slipped open the window.

  “Close the damn window, you stupid idiot, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?” a man wearing a black jacket and pinstripe trousers snapped angrily.

  Thomas turned, his eyes blazed red.

  “And who the bloody hell do you think you’re talking to, you cock-strangling bastard? I’ll put you through the bloody window in a minute!” Thomas spat back.

  “I say, I’ll not take that talk from…” In a brief moment, the man felt himself lifted off his feet and carried towards the open window.

  “Maybe you’d rather walk to London, you useless piece of shit!” Thomas roared.

  “Just a moment, Corporal, let’s not do something you might later regret,” a gentle voice said at the same time as a strong hand gripped his shoulder.

  “Aye, happen you’re right,” Thomas said, releasing his hold on the man. “Sit down, you bastard, I’ve seen better men than you’ll ever turn out to be blown to pieces in the trenches, just so useless bastards like you can fall asleep on a bloody train.”

  The man cowered and sat back in his seat, straightened his tie and stared out of the window in silence. Thomas turned his attention to the man who’d intervened and prevented him from hurling the man out of the window. Immediately he noticed the two stars on the epaulettes. The young lieutenant looked up and offered him the hint of a smile and without a word continued to read his newspaper. In the corner an elderly lady sat with a pair of knitting needles and a ball of blue wool on her lap leaned across and patted him gently on his knee.

  “Try not to let it get to you, lad,” she said softly. “It’ll all be over one day, and we’ll be back to normal, you’ll see.”

  He stared at her through narrowed eyes. No, lady, it will never be normal again, not for me, he thought.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In London blackness gripped him and still he viewed the city as a dirty concrete jungle, crowded and claustrophobic, full of smirking men in suits and bowler hats trying to relieve him of his money by offering to sell him items of which he had no need. People shouted and begged from the gullible soldiers staggering around half drunk.

  “Spare us a couple of bob, guv. Got a starving family at home,” they lied through the corner of their mouths.

  The greater majority of the soldiers had never been in a city in their lives, and here they were in the capital of the British Empire where money buys anything and everything has a price. Further on he looked in disgust at two ANZAC soldiers urinating in the gutter in broad daylight. The bloody battlefields of Europe were no different from the squalid streets of the capital, except in the trenches there was honour and reason. Pausing outside The King’s Head he listened to the sound of singing and raucous laughter coming from inside. A few pints of their best piss might help him escape his devouring guilt and place him in a different frame of mind – and bollocks to the consequences.

  “Pint of your best piss,” he shouted at the barman.

  “We don’t serve bloody soldiers in here, they cause too much bloody trouble, sling your hook,” the fat barman said.

  “You heard, arsehole, pint of your best piss.”

  “Sod off, you ignorant cunt,” shouted a heavy man with a barman’s smock tied around his waist. “Nothing but bloody trouble you lot. Couple of pints and you want to wreck the place. Best bleeding place for you is back down the trenches where you belong. Go on, get back with the rest of the rats.”

  Thomas felt strong hands pinning his arms behind his back and he struggled for the strength to release himself.

  “Go on, out of here,” someone grunted.

  Outside, he staggered to his feet and leaned against the wall beside the door with his feet wide apart. He arched his back satisfied he’d sustained no serious damage. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he felt in a better frame of mind. Rid of the frustrations that brooded inside h
im, and pulling his cloak of adolescent isolation around him he resumed his journey to Victoria Station. The smell of the trains and the sweet, sickly aroma of oil and steam fired his senses. Together with the piercing sound of the steam whistle, the late evening air gave him a surge of excitement of faraway places and unknown destinations.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was the last week of May 1917. They told him it hadn’t stopped raining for days and Flanders lay buried beneath a sea of liquid mud, making progress almost impossible.

  “Might call the fighting off until the sun comes out,” a fusilier with his head swathed in bandages said, incurring the wrathful stares of those around him. “Well I think that’s what I heard, can’t hear much with them bloody great guns booming in your ears day and night. If they ever actually hit anything, the bloody war might have been over bloody months ago.”

  Thomas found a laconic amusement at the remark and smiled, feeling pleasure to be back amongst the only thing he understood. He had learned that the people in England showed a scant regard for fighting soldiers and treated the war with a cynicism he found difficult to comprehend, almost as if it wasn’t their war. On the journey back to his lines he no longer noticed the dead or heard the screams and moans of the wounded. Now he’d grown hardened and indifferent, his short life tempered against the needs of others, and he no longer thought of tomorrow. It was during times like this that his insensitive feelings disgusted him and often he tried unsuccessfully to smother them. Further on he stopped to listen to a Highlander arguing with a group of German prisoners-of-war.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked the soldier.

  The man turned, his glance darted to Thomas’s stripes and he looked desperately for reassurance. “The wee bastards want cigarettes and I’ve been told they can’t smoke until they’re billeted, but they won’t have it.”