by Dee Yates
The hills were thick with sheep. In a week, shearing would begin and her presence would be needed on the farm. Today, though, she was making the most of the good weather to take her girls for a picnic. Netta ran along in front, excited by the freedom and in expectations of seeing the train on one of its many journeys to the building site or back to the village. As they neared the excavations, they left the road and chose a grassy field, littered with pansies in shades of yellow and blue.
From this vantage point, Ellen could enjoy the quiet while watching the activity in the base of the valley. Men, like ants, scuttled noiselessly from one spot to another. The embankment was nearing completion now, the erection of which had cost the life of Oliver Tauber. That sad day had also been the first occasion of her elder daughter’s disappearance. Instinctively she glanced towards Netta, but she was harmlessly engaged in picking wild flowers. Below them Ellen could just see the rounded shelter, within which Josef had found her daughter sleeping on that dreadful day.
Refusing to let her mind dwell on the thought of Josef, she turned her gaze to the land soon to be filled with the water of the reservoir. There was Margaret’s cottage, appearing unchanged from this distance, but in reality deserted and boarded up, since Margaret had come to live with her father. It had been at Ellen’s insistence that the wedding had gone ahead. Both her father and Margaret said they would postpone it, considering it unseemly that their happiness should take precedence over mourning. But Ellen had insisted that life was too short to turn away from the chance of happiness.
It hadn’t been easy though, adapting to another woman taking control and usurping her claim to her father’s affections. She and her father had lived so long together that she didn’t stop to think that her position in his heart was because of the death of her own mother, and his wife. Sometimes now she felt as though she were the interloper in her own home.
What had helped was the money that Margaret had brought to the family. For Robert, unlike most of the neighbouring farmers, had owned his farm. Margaret had been compensated by the Water Board and she had generously shared this with Duncan, his daughter and the two little girls. And although compensation never gave full redress, it was more money than any of them had ever seen. It made little difference to Duncan, set in his ways as he was, but Ellen was relieved to know that when his health began to fail, he could allow himself the rest he deserved after a lifetime of hard work.
She watched Netta race across the grass and struggle to climb onto a fallen tree trunk, her face etched with the stubborn determination that had passed down from her father. Tom! After the passage of a few months she was more able to think of him calmly, without the barrage of conflicting emotions that had assailed her in the early weeks after Duncan’s dreadful discovery.
They had carried his body back and laid it in the barn. It had seemed callous and uncaring to leave him there, but the corpse was in no fit state to bring into the house and, in any case, there would have been the risk of Netta seeing her dead father. By the time Ellen and Margaret had been collected from the station and arrived back at the cottage, the doctor had been long gone. Such accidents, while dreadful for all concerned, were not uncommon in the harsh reality of winter in the upland hills. Shepherds grew exhausted and lay down to rest, never to get up again. Or they lost their bearings in the blinding whiteness of the blizzard and fell to their death. This, it was clear, was what had happened to Tom.
But Ellen thought she knew differently. She had long been aware of the confusion in Tom’s mind, the desolation wrought by the years of war, the disappointment of finding Clara married.
And after the shock of finding that he was a deserter, she was even more convinced. They had come one morning, the officers, not long after he had gone missing. She and the babies were alone in the cottage and she had no warning that she must be careful what she said.
‘Mrs Fairclough. Is your husband with you?’
‘No. He isnae.’
‘Will you tell us where we can find him?’
‘I would if I knew. I haven’t seen him for two days.’
‘And you don’t know where he’s gone?’
‘No. I wish I did.’
‘Well, if he returns, please ask him to report to company headquarters immediately. We’ll call back in a few days.’
They came a week later. There had been no sign of Tom. And then their bombshell. He hadn’t reported for duty since his interview the previous May. He was registered as a deserter.
‘But… but I don’t understand.’ Ellen rubbed her brow in confusion. ‘He left here to catch a train. He was to board a boat in Edinburgh.’
‘Precisely, Madam.’
‘But he went. I saw him off. He came back when war ended.’
‘But he didn’t get on the boat. He didn’t return to the front. He’s a deserter. It’s a serious offence. You know the penalty.’
She didn’t, but it didn’t take her long to find out.
‘If he should reappear, Madam,’ the officer concluded, ‘don’t try covering up for him. We will track him down, make no mistake.’
It was her belief that he had thrown himself over the side of the hill to end a life without a promise of happiness or perhaps he had merely lain down in the snow and waited for death to take him.
That was until she had come across Netta’s shoes. She was going through the pockets of his greatcoat to check for possible clues, when she had found them. At first, she was confused. How could they be in Tom’s pocket? Gradually her mind cleared and she concluded that Tom must have come back for Netta. Maybe he was going to run away with her, maybe he intended bringing up Netta himself, planning to spite Ellen by taking away her daughter. Or perhaps, and this was an even more dreadful thought, he intended to do away with them both.
Others tried to persuade her that this could not be so. She would have heard Tom if he had come into the house to collect his daughter. He must have put the shoes into his pocket earlier without thinking. And, anyway, he loved Netta and wouldn’t do anything to harm her.
But Ellen knew better. They weren’t aware of Tom’s state of mind, like she was. And she kept the news of his desertion from everyone, even her father. The certainty of what he had done enraged her. That Tom should choose to end his life was bad enough but to take that of his daughter was too much to bear. The discovery of the little boots changed her guilt and despair to fury and bitterness in an instant.
Now she was no longer certain. It was of little consequence, whatever she thought. She had her daughters, both of them, and for that she was more than thankful. Eva was awake and wanting to be fed. She called to Netta, unstrapped the baby and retrieved the picnic from the base of the pram.
When Ellen and her daughters were recrossing the wooden bridge on their way home, she saw, in the distance, a man waving. Assuming his actions were for the children’s benefit, she pointed him out to Netta. They waved back and walked on. Again he tried to attract her attention. She hesitated, waiting, saw him turn and speak to a colleague who was standing nearby, and begin to cross the intervening space to where she was standing. There was something in the way he walked that jogged her memory. He was tall and had an upright bearing. In an instant she recognised him.
‘Mrs Fairclough! I thought I would see you again sometime. Though I’m of the opinion that you’re not doing as much walking as you were.’
‘Captain! What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, it’s just for a few days, passing on information about the building work. In the clamour at the end of the war and the arrangements to give the prisoners safe passage home, there were a few loose ends remaining. I’m here to tie them up.' He smiled at Ellen. 'And how’s your family?’ He ruffled Netta’s hair. ‘This is the one who used to give you so much trouble, I think.’
‘She still does, given the chance!’
‘And this little one was born after I’d gone.’
‘Aye. She’ll soon be a year old.’
Eva stared at him
with her faraway eyes.
‘Strange how two sisters can be so different from one another. Your other little girl is so like her father.’ He hesitated and lowered his voice. ‘I was saddened to hear about your husband’s conviction, Mrs Fairclough. Don’t worry. If the folk in the valley don’t know about it, they won’t hear about it from me. You may not believe this, but I have more sympathy for deserters than you might think.’
‘You haven’t heard then? He’s dead. He died on the hills last winter. He went out one afternoon, just after Christmas. We didn’t find him till March. He’d been on the hill all that time, covered in snow. You ken how long it lay last winter?’
‘Yes, I do.’ The captain appeared lost for words. ‘I… I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard. You must be…’ His sentence petered out and he looked away embarrassed.
‘I must be very upset? Distraught? I have been all of those things… and a lot more besides, as you can maybe imagine. But there’s no point going over it all again. It won’t bring him back.’
‘But how are you managing?’
‘Same as I always did.’
‘Just you and your father at the cottage?’
‘Not exactly. My father’s married again. His wife’s Margaret Murdie from yon cottage that’s to be flooded.’
‘Oh yes.’ He followed Ellen’s glance. ‘I know her. I talked to them a time or two when the men were building the embankment.’
‘The embankment,’ Ellen echoed. ‘Whenever it is mentioned I think of Oliver and his awful death.’
The captain was silent, staring at the towering wall that had sprung up from the valley base.
‘Such a lot has happened since that day,’ Ellen went on. Still the captain remained silent. She glanced at him and thought she saw the hint of a tear in the corner of his eye.
‘Mummy. Go now,’ Netta said, impatience getting the better of her.
‘Yes, darling, Mummy’s going now.’ Ellen released the brake and smiled at the captain. ‘Can I ask you just one thing, Captain?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Did you give Josef his letter?’
‘Naturally. I said I would, didn’t I?’
Ellen nodded. ‘Good.’ Taking a deep breath, she continued, ‘Only I wanted him to know that he had a daughter.’
The captain stared at her. ‘What do you mean, Mrs Fairclough?’
‘Look at her, Captain. Is she no’ the living image of Josef?’
‘But how? I mean, when?’
‘Och, Captain! You wouldn’t expect me to tell you that, now would you? I know what you thought about fraternising with the enemy.’
Captain Cameron-Dyet shot her a glance and looked away. ‘If I'm honest with you, Mrs Fairclough – and I should be because you have been with me – I did more fraternising with the enemy than you think. Oliver and I… well, we got on well. We shared common interests, we could talk about things. We even held the same beliefs about life, about what we would do after the war. He wasn’t married, you know.’ The captain sighed and appeared at a loss for words. ‘I… we… as I said, we got on well. But this accident happened. There was no time, you see… only a few short months.’ He was still staring at the embankment. An involuntary shiver ran through him, then he drew himself up tall. ‘Well, I better let you get on. The children will be wanting their tea. I’m sorry, Mrs Fairclough, sorry that it all turned out this way.’
‘Me too,’ Ellen answered sadly. ‘But at least I have the children, even if I have lost both my husband and Josef.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps. Well, goodbye, Mrs Fairclough. I’m very glad to have seen you.’
When Ellen glanced back, the captain was still standing on the wooden bridge, looking in the direction of the embankment.
*
Three days after Ellen’s conversation with the captain, a letter arrived in the post. It was written in an elegant flowing script. Enclosed within a single sheet of paper was another letter, its corners dog-eared and her name, the single word on the envelope, in a strange hand. Ellen read the single sheet first. It was from Captain Cameron-Dyet.
Dear Mrs. Fairclough,
Following our conversation, I have pleasure in sending you the enclosed, which is, after all, addressed to you and therefore your property. I have kept it safe since the departure of the prisoners. Josef Kessler asked me to pass it on to you. At the time, given all that had happened, I thought it best not to do so.
What you told me the other day about the sad death of your husband and the parentage of your younger daughter leads me to think that there is nothing to be gained by keeping the letter from you.
In these uncertain times I do trust that you and your family will find peace and happiness in the future.
With my sincere good wishes,
Montague Cameron-Dyet.
(Captain).
With shaking hands, Ellen ripped open the second envelope. The message within was brief.
Wednesday, 13th November, 1918.
Liebe Ellen,
Your news breaks my heart. I too never forget.
If you need me, please to write to this address:
Baumstrasse 7
34076 Freiburg im Breisgau.
Ewige Liebe,
Josef.
*
Margaret was cooking breakfast when Ellen put in an appearance.
‘I’m sorry, Margaret. I should have been up long ago. I was awake in the night and then couldn’t waken when I should have this morning.’
‘No worries, lassie. It’s my job to provide for my husband.’
Duncan was lacing his boots in preparation for a trip to the market. The autumn lamb sales were beginning and he was keen to see the competition and to catch up with the exploits of his fellow farmers.
Duncan and Margaret's happy domesticity was, at times, a source of envy for Ellen, reminding her that any hope of similar happiness between her and Josef was impossible. She was still feeling out-of-sorts when the postman found her later that morning. It was a day of rare warmth for the time of year. The sun had risen in a cloudless sky to burn the mist off the water. In a few hours it would be gone, setting the stage for a sharp frost, if the clear weather continued. Netta was running up and down the grassy slopes with energetic enthusiasm. Her younger sister, attempting to follow her, tumbled frequently but complained little, picking herself up with patient deliberation to carry on their game.
‘Making the most of the good weather, are you, Ellen?’ greeted the postman.
‘Aye. There’ll no’ be many more days like this, I don’t suppose.’
‘Well, there’s a letter for you here.’
He handed her the letter and her pulse quickened when she saw the strange but familiar writing of the address.
Carefully she opened the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper. Her heart beat faster as she made her way haltingly down the page.
Liebe Ellen,
At last I hear that you are safe and well. For this I am very thankful.
You tell me that your husband is dead. What can I say? It is a dreadful thing to finish the war alive and to die like this. I do not like this man and what he do to you, but I do not wish this for him. I am sad for you that this happens to him.
I keep your letters always by me. I think of my little daughter all the time. I am full of thanks that you tell me about her, but now I am sad because I do not see her. I regret always that I cannot help.
Here life is hard. Many people have no money and there is not enough food. People are hungry. I play my music again, but my concerts are not popular. My sister Eva plays also. She is well. She will marry next year to Daniel. They are very happy. For myself, I…
A cry from Eva brought Ellen abruptly back to her surroundings. Her small daughter had fallen onto her face and Netta, struggling to right her, had succeeded only in falling on top of her. The two lay in a heap, arms and legs flailing wildly in a fruitless effort to get up. Stuffing the letter into her pocket she ran to free them.<
br />
*
The letter was burning a hole in her pocket. One thing after another had filled her day. Now though, she had pleaded tiredness and, leaving her father and Margaret in companionable silence at the fireside, she retreated to her room. For several minutes, she sat unmoving on the side of the bed, her hand, in the pocket of her skirt, gripping the letter. Every beat of her heart told her that something of significance was written there. Slowly she withdrew the pages and began to read, her eyes retracing the last words she had read.
For myself, I do not marry. I displease very much my parents. They wish me to marry a nice Jewish girl. How I tell to my parents that the girl I love is Scottish? How I tell them that I have a daughter? If they meet you, I know they will understand. But this thing is not possible.
Please to write to me. Please to send a photograph. I am learning more English, so I send you another letter. Please write. I wish to know if you are happy.
From your loving friend,
Josef.
Ellen folded the letter and replaced it carefully in her pocket. Then she leaned over and blew out the candle flame. Darkness closed in. Only the comforting rhythm of her children’s soft breathing interrupted the silence. How long she sat on the side of the bed, she had no idea. The words of the letter raced through her brain. He was not married. He was sad that he could not see his daughter or help with her. He wanted Ellen to write… to send a photo. Through the jumble of her thoughts one sentence kept flashing: This thing is not possible.
The click of the latch on the kitchen door roused her from her thoughts. She rose from the bed and walked slowly to the window, pulling back the curtain and staring through the glass. The stars were glittering brightly in a frosty, new-moon sky. Across the valley was the field where the prisoners’ tents had stood. She could see them now in her mind’s eye as clearly as when the camp had been struck more than three years earlier. She pictured the weather closing in, the arrival of the captain on the doorstep to ask for her help. She saw Josef as he had looked when the men carried him in… the pale boyish face with its long lashes and curls of soft brown hair… and the sea-washed blue eyes that had fastened on her once he was well enough to take in his surroundings.