Daughters of Cornwall

by Fern Britton

  I looked at Herbert. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’

  ‘Sorry?’ he asked.

  ‘You finding me this morning. Were you watching for me?’

  ‘Oh.’ He smiled, and rubbed the end of his nose, a sign – I discovered – that meant he felt uncomfortable. ‘I checked out of my hotel after breakfast and found myself walking towards your building – quite by chance, you understand.’

  ‘Uh-ha.’ I nodded, not believing a word of it. ‘Go on.’

  ‘And I … er, spotted you coming out of your front door and noticed that you were heading for the Evening News building.’

  ‘Uh-ha,’ I repeated, so that he was obliged to continue.

  ‘And so, I thought I’d wait for you to come out for lunch. I mean, you had to be hungry at some point in the day.’

  ‘You waited four hours?’ I was, I admit, flattered.

  ‘Well, I walked up and down a bit, you know, enjoying the sun, but yes, I waited four hours to see you again.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘This is the sort of thing you often do, is it?’

  Maria brought the food, all plates balanced on her slender forearms. ‘Here you are. Drinks coming. Buon appetito.’

  In the brief disturbance, Herbert had had some thinking time. He looked at me with a depth of feeling I had never been subject to before. It made me nervous. ‘Well?’ I asked sharply. ‘Do you follow women often? And join them for lunch?’

  ‘No. But I did wake up this morning feeling an idiot because last night I told you so much about myself and learnt very little about you. And I’d like to know more.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What you do at the newspaper.’

  And I told him. No lies this time. I (really) was a trainee typist and almost at the end of my probationary period. I had been led to believe that I had good speeds in typing and shorthand and that, there being so many vacancies coming up, what with the war taking all our young men from the office, I was looking at a good steady job in the newsroom. He listened until my lunch hour was nearly over and, as I waved to Maria for the bill, Herbert put his hand on mine and stopped me. ‘Let me.’

  ‘Ah, he is a gentleman, this one,’ smiled Maria. ‘Don’t let the good ones go, eh?’

  Outside, I apologised for Maria’s words and thanked him very much for his generosity in paying for my lunch.

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ he answered. We walked on, my head just reaching his shoulder, towards the News building.

  As we stood at the entrance, he said, ‘Thank you for your company, both last night and today. If I have been a nuisance, I apologise.’

  I began to say something but he stopped me. ‘Clara, would you allow me to write to you, as a friend? When I am in France?’

  I hadn’t expected that. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘As a sort of pen friend?’

  ‘Do you have lots of pen friends?’ I asked; not that it was any of my business if he had a sweetheart – or sweethearts – to write to, or they to him.

  ‘No. None.’ He took my hand and held it. ‘Apart from my family, of course.’ He smiled at me but did not let go of my hand.

  ‘What would you like me to write about?’ I asked.

  ‘Day-to-day life. Ordinary things. I want to hear about your summer and London, and your work and what you had for breakfast and … normal life.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He let go of my hand. ‘You don’t have to. Perhaps you have a special someone who wouldn’t like you writing to me?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ I said, a little too quickly.

  He smiled. ‘My mother’s letters are sweet, but full of the price of yarn and her bronchitis. I’d like something rather more fun.’

  ‘Well, yes. I should love to. To be honest, I have no one to write to. At all! I see my friends every day in the office. No need,’ I said a little too honestly. ‘But I shall need your address.’

  He thought for a moment, ‘Let’s exchange addresses tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Over dinner.’

  ‘Only if we go Dutch,’ I said seriously. He had saved me a lot of my wage by paying for my lunch, so I could afford to pay for my own dinner.

  He laughed. ‘Very well.’

  We arranged to meet half an hour after I had finished work so that I could tidy myself up.

  ‘Goodbye. See you later.’ He shook my hand.

  ‘Goodbye … Herbert.’ I smiled as I watched him go, his bag bumping his thighs, and as he disappeared amongst the shoppers and office workers, I realised how much I was looking forward to seeing him again later.

  Caroline

  Present day

  The jacket had been folded and packed beautifully, with tissue paper in between each fold and filling out each sleeve. I stood up and held it against me. The wearer must have been very tall because the hem came almost to my knees and the sleeves were at least ten centimetres too long. Was this my grandfather’s? It must be, surely. The initials stitched into the collar fitted and so did the connection with Penang. But who would have sent it to me? And why now?

  I laid the jacket gently on the sofa, then got back on my knees in front of the trunk. It was deep and full and willing me to search further. So, naturally, I did. Wouldn’t you?

  Chapter Eight

  Bertie, Abbotts Langley

  July 1915

  It had not been my intention to ask her to write to me. Lord knows where the words came from and Lord knows what I was feeling for her at the time. She was completely unlike any woman I had been attracted to before. She wasn’t flirtatious and yet I liked her company. She wasn’t a chocolate-box beauty but she had an attractiveness that spoke of humour, intelligence and integrity. She was far too slender for my liking, no bosom to speak of, and yet I found myself thinking of how I would like to undress her and touch her and bury myself in her nakedness. It shamed me that I could think of such carnal things whilst barely knowing her.

  Anyway, the endless training we endured at Abbotts Langley, which was rather like a scout camp, only less luxurious, kept my mind away from Clara.

  It was in the quiet moments that I couldn’t get the damn woman out of my head.

  I had been too forward with her already, so I decided to wait and see if she would write to me first. I waited four days before I cracked and wrote to her.

  Abbotts Langley Camp

  July 1915

  Dear Miss Carter,

  It’s your new friend here, Herbert. All my friends call me Bertie so I do hope you feel you can do the same. My brother always called me Sherbert until I set about him in his bedroom. My parents were not impressed, as you can imagine.

  Well, how is London? Abbotts Langley is very nice. Lots of countryside for us to practise our route marches on. The weather remains good and my companions are pleasant. We are all in the same boat and learning to come together as a regiment. However, after all the physical training and runs at dawn, etc., the men and I are so hungry we will eat anything. The cook house does good, basic food. There’s plenty of it too, so no man goes hungry.

  Please don’t feel under any pressure to write back immediately.

  Kind regards,

  Bertie Bolitho

  Our letters must have crossed, for the very next morning I had two letters, one from my mother, complaining that Cook insisted on making lumpy porridge and that my sister Amy could not find the right fabric to make a new summer dress, and another from Clara.

  Room 6, Victoria Mansions

  July 1915

  Dear Herbert,

  I am sorry it has taken me so long to write to you. The office has been at full throttle gathering the accounts of our returning soldiers from Ypres. It all sounds rather grim. One of our British boys, he came back wounded on the train, told a reporter that he would say nothing other than he had ‘been at Ypres’. I think he would rather not let us know how hard it was. Brave man. However, it seems now the atro
cious French weather has halted fighting. May that continue. I hope you don’t have to go there, and if you do you really must take warm clothes.

  London is cool for summer but my little room in the boarding house is not too bad. Did I tell you about my friend Elsie who lives across the landing from me? She is on the same trainee typist course as me and we didn’t pal up until quite late. She’s a dear. Tonight, we are sharing a feast of the last two ounces of cheese that I have, with a fresh loaf of bread that Elsie made this morning. She has some mustard to mix with the cheese and I have some eggs and apples so it should do us. The shops are getting very low on food. People have selfishly been stocking up their larders since war was declared and there’s little for the rest of us. I shall be hunting out something for the weekend. I’m hoping for sausages. Elsie and I thought a picnic in Hyde Park, to celebrate her birthday, would be fun. I just hope the sun will come out. I have made Elsie a little pin cushion from some fabric remnants I was lucky to find in a haberdasher’s on Holborn. It’s rather jolly. Green velvet on the outside and red linen on the inside.

  I expect you are getting very fit with all the exercise. Is the marching in time very hard?

  I hope you have enjoyed reading my nonsense.

  In friendship,

  Clara Carter

  I read it twice, then carefully folded it into my pocket before heading out to the parade ground and that morning’s drill practice.

  I wrote to her that night.

  Abbotts Langley Camp

  Mid-July 1915

  Dear Clara,

  Your nonsense was gratefully received and enjoyed. How was the feast? And Elsie’s birthday picnic? Did you find sausages? We have plenty of eggs and sausages here. Shall I post them to you? They may arrive as a sausage omelette but I am sure a resourceful girl like you will do something splendid with it.

  Life here is OK. The men I am with are all good chaps. We are all very keen to get going now. Thank God for the Canadians’ victory at Ypres. We have been training with gas masks in case there are any more gas attacks so you needn’t worry about that!

  I will be in touch as soon as I know when we are off.

  Your friend,

  Bertie

  PS (Six hours later) I have just heard that we could be shipping out in the autumn. I might get some leave and would like to catch up with you before I go. If you would like to?

  Clara

  Of course I wanted to see him before he went to France, but ‘autumn’ was a very loose term. It could be the beginning of September or the end of October. August was already around the corner, and so within four weeks he could be in France, facing every danger I read about each day. I felt sick to think about it. In the office I read every war report that came in on the wire and I saw how censored each one was too.

  Our editor was close to the prime minister, as were all editors of the papers at that time. The edict was that nothing should be printed that would alarm or upset the general public. The enemy were suffering, we were winning and morale was high.

  I knew that wasn’t true. I had read of the blood and mud, the brutal murdering of friend and foe alike. The lack of sleep, warmth and humanity.

  How could I tell Bertie that I knew these things? I was as bad as any newspaper editor and wrote him letters full of lies by omission.

  Room 6, Victoria Mansions

  August 1915

  Dear Bertie,

  The summer heat has been pretty awful in the office. We have kept the windows open these last few days but several of the girls have felt terribly faint. I almost wish we had the cold of July back. We all have our lunch under the trees on Embankment. Watching the river flow by is almost like being on holiday. I have saved a little money to buy a cotton dress from an inexpensive shop around the corner. It is blue with little white flowers on it. It was a bit big in the waist so I altered it slightly. When the other girls saw my needlework they immediately wanted me to do their alterations. It gives me something to do in the evenings – and earn a little pin money too. I think you’d laugh at me. I sit on the floor, cross-legged like an old cobbler, in as few clothes as possible to stay cool. Goodness knows how you manage to march in your hot uniform! Elsie bought a chicken yesterday from the butcher’s! A whole chicken! Such luxury. While I sew tonight she is going to roast it for our supper and then make soup and possibly a pie with the leftovers.

  I didn’t imagine you’d be sent to France so soon. I was hoping – well, we were all hoping here – that the war would be ending by now. I would like very much to meet up with you if you can. Even if it’s only on the platform so that I can wave my hanky at you as the train pulls out.

  I will be very proud of my friend the soldier, but I also hope very much that the war will be over quickly and that you won’t have to stay away too long.

  I bought myself a book the other day. Second-hand in one of the Charing Cross Road second-hand bookshops. It’s a volume of poetry. I shall read it tonight but I think it’ll be awfully good at lunchtime by the river too. One’s brain needs to have beauty poured into it while all these horrid things are happening in the world. I’ll let you know how I get on.

  Your friend,

  Clara

  Abbotts Langley

  Late August

  My dear Clara,

  A whole chicken! How wonderful. However did Elsie bag that? Or perhaps I’d better not ask!

  Forgive my delay in replying. Your letter was held up in the post but anyway I couldn’t have replied sooner as I have been laid low with a bout of food poisoning. Something to do with our egg supplier, the medical officer suspects. Several of us went down with it, so the last few days have been pretty quiet. The MO gave us some ghastly mix of a thing called kaolin and morphine. It completely knocked me out for a number of days but now we are back in training. Yesterday we did a ten-mile march in full kit. The chaps were singing songs which certainly lifted our spirits. Some of the tunes you may know, but I won’t sing you any of them as the lyrics are a bit roisterous. All good fun though.

  Word has it that we will be off to France at the end of this month, with no leave before then. Rumours, rumours, but we have to be at the ready at a moment’s notice. The War Office is keen to get as many of us out there as possible to beat the Hun quickly. I would have liked to have you wave me off! Maybe we can still manage it.

  Roll on the autumn.

  Your,

  Bertie

  PS I like the sound of your dress and can picture you very well sewing in the evenings.

  PPS Can you send a couple of chicken recipes for the cook house? Ha-ha.

  PPS One of my favourite poems is by Gerard Manley Hopkins. My father always recites it. ‘Glory be to God for dappled things – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim …’ I can’t for the life of me remember more!

  Clara

  I wept as I read that. Bertie wrote so amusingly and with great sweetness. Was he doing the same as I was doing to him? Omitting his fear? But at least he hadn’t shipped to France, yet.

  Room 6, Victoria Mansions

  September 1915

  Dear Bertie,

  I have just come back from the music hall in Southwark. I have never been before but Elsie is a great fan. We saw Harry Lauder and Marie Lloyd. Her songs were very funny and everyone was laughing. Then at the end we all sang, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. Do you know it? It was very uplifting. Marie Lloyd is very pretty and I think a good actress. Elsie was too busy looking at the chaps in khaki around us. One wanted to walk her home, so I chaperoned them. He wasn’t too pleased, but I think nor was Elsie.

  I am thinking about getting my hairstyle changed to be more like Miss Lloyd’s. Do you have an opinion?

  France at the end of the month? I have trust in all the training you have done. Lord Kitchener wouldn’t allow you to go if you were not ready. But I still pray every night that the war will end tomorrow. And tonight I will pray that I will have the ch
ance to wave you off.

  Fish and chips for supper!

  Thinking of you,

  Clara

  Abbotts Langley

  September 1915

  Dear Clara,

  I have never been to a music hall, but I have heard a lot about them from the chaps. I prefer to go to a lunchtime recital, something by Bach. Do you like classical music? Maybe we could go one day after all this is over.

  I had a letter from Nizam, my foreman in Penang, a couple of days ago. It is rather out of date as it came on the boat, but it did leave me with a longing for some warmth. How I miss walking the rows of my rubber trees. Just as a dairy herdsman knows his cows by name, I know my trees by number. It seems the war is leaving Penang alone. I can only thank God for that. I may only have been there a couple of years, but I know I will go back, one day. Maybe you will come out to see me? As long as you can stand the heat. But I would love to show you everything. You could stay as long as you like.

  Things here are the same. Training day in day out. Very little spare time. Semaphore, knot tying, physical drill, company drill, but at least we are now fully equipped. I have enclosed a photo of some of the chaps and me. Do you like our kilts? I am sorry it’s a bit bent. I had it in my coat pocket and some oaf sat on it. Please keep it. It should make a lasting memento of this adventure.

  Goodnight,

  Bertie

  PS As far as I remember your hair is perfect as it is.

  Clara

  I already knew I wanted to go to Penang to see him. I could think of plenty of women who would put up with the heat just to be with him. Jealousy bit at my heart. Even if she were Princess Mary herself!

  I wrote a short note, quickly scrawled, commenting on his photograph.

  Abbotts Langley Camp

  6 October 1915

  My dear Clara,

  I am glad you like the picture. I thought my knees were not knobbly! Perhaps you could send me a picture of you if you have one? I ask because we are now under orders for overseas service and waiting to proceed. Popping up to town will be out of the question so I shan’t see you until I get back. It’s all a bit top secret. Even we don’t know exact timings of embarkation. But as soon as I get there and am able to write, I shall. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.