Daughters of Cornwall

by Fern Britton

  Your letters mean so much to me. Please don’t stop writing.

  Your

  Bertie x

  Chapter Nine

  Clara, London

  October 1915

  Bertie is in France.

  He left Southampton on 9 October.

  What had I been doing when he stepped aboard that ship? Had I been darning my stockings or laughing at Elsie’s nonsense? How had the sea crossing been? Had he thought of me? I had felt nothing out of the ordinary that day, yet I had been so sure I would have known, deep down, the moment he was torn from the safety of home.

  I only got the news two weeks later.

  Western Front, France

  October 1915

  Dearest Clara,

  Well, here I am. I am not allowed to tell you exactly where, but I can tell you it is raining. I expect like the rest of us you’ll be glad when the weather improves, for there is no doubt about it, it has been rough lately.

  Two days ago the king crossed the Channel. Can you imagine the ballyhoo that created? We were up before dawn and on parade by 06.30, then marched eight and a half miles to our position where we would meet him. When he arrived, he rode his handsome black horse along the line and was heartily cheered by us all. We later heard the same horse had spooked and reared, throwing His Majesty to the ground. No bones broken, but the top brass had him evacuated back home immediately. Lucky him.

  Since then we have been in forward reserve, occupying old British trenches. Hardly The Ritz, but it is surprising how resilient we all are. I must say from where I am sitting and writing this to you (a reasonably comfy dugout), I can see the most lovely line of trees dressed in their autumn finery. I am so very sorry that I didn’t get to see you before we came out here, but do keep writing your silly letters. I do enjoy them.

  My return address is on the envelope. Please send me a photograph, it would cheer me up no end.

  With great fondness,

  Bertie x

  I read that letter twice through. Picturing the line of trees and the French sun falling on Bertie’s dear face. Back in its envelope, I held it to my bosom and surprised myself by praying.

  Oh God, in whom I don’t believe, look after my Bertie. Amen.

  I had never had my photo taken before, and didn’t know how to go about it, but once I had confided in Elsie, I discovered that she was friendly with one of our staff photographers and that he would take one of me.

  I did feel a fool as he had me perched on a bench by the river feeding the reluctant ducks. He told me that he usually photographed young society brides. I told him that that was very far from who I was and he said that yes, he could tell that on account of the clothes I was wearing. That did nothing for my confidence. But Elsie was there to help and she made sure I had extra rouge and lipstick.

  When I saw the photograph, I must admit I was rather pleased and you couldn’t tell that my skirt was too big for me on account of the rationing or that I had no stockings to wear.

  I posted it to Bertie with a note explaining how awful the ducks had been.

  November 1915

  Dear Bertie,

  Here is a picture as promised. I am not sure it will cheer you up. I am not smiling, too nervous. The ducks were most unprofessional, nipping at my fingers or shoes and then relieving themselves wherever they pleased. Elsie thought we should kidnap at least two and have them for Sunday dinner!

  Good news, I have passed my typing and shorthand tests and have been promoted. I am now working for the subeditors, and I’m in charge of three other young typists. I get to read all the news as it comes in from France and I must say I try to work out exactly where you are. I wonder if you have any dry clothes, enough food to eat, somewhere warm to sleep?

  The autumn weather here is very wet and cold. It seems such a long time since I wore my blue summer dress.

  This’ll make you laugh: last night I went to bed wearing two cardigans as well as socks. I couldn’t get to sleep because I was so cold and then I thought of you shivering in a trench. I shall knit you some socks and a muffler. Elsie is going to teach me.

  I am going to make up a little parcel for you with some chocolate and Bovril. Please tell me what else you would like me to send.

  Keep safe and know that I am here thinking of you always,

  Clara x

  I waited almost three weeks before his next letter.

  Western Front, France

  December 1915

  Dearest Clara,

  After twenty-four days in the trenches, we have returned for a week’s rest away from the front line. Your parcel was waiting for me and was received with joy. The picture of you is awfully good. Your hair has grown, I think, and, even though you say you don’t smile, I can imagine your smile is brighter than Piccadilly Circus at midnight! I keep you in the breast pocket of my tunic, next to my lighter, so that whenever I have a cigarette, I can see you.

  The chocolate I shared with my unit and the coffee I eke out. Just one mug a day. I have your socks on now and you will never know how much I appreciate them. The muffler too is very dashing; the boys say the green matches my eyes – or at least the bags under them, sleep being on ration as well as sugar!

  The weather has been a little unkind too. Rain, sleet, cold night fogs that make everything sodden, even under cover. The mud in the trenches is now deep and thick. This morning I accidentally stepped into a very unpleasant patch and almost lost my boots to the suction. Everything is wet and it’s impossible to get dry or keep dry. The other night a snap frost froze all the water to ice, turning our sandbags into solid bricks which then tumbled down into the trench. Woke up one of the new young lads, Smiffy, who had gone to sleep sheltering under them. Poor chap has a bruise the size of a hen’s egg on his head. How glad we are to be back in reserve ground now. I’m not ashamed to say we are completely exhausted.

  Congratulations on your promotion. I am so very proud of you. When I get back I shall take you to The Ritz to celebrate! Let that thought keep you warm.

  Fondly,

  Bertie xx

  Bertie, France

  December 1915

  The rain hadn’t stopped in twenty days. Rain, mud, bullets and death. Clara’s letters were so warm and amusing and I thanked God for every moment that she didn’t know the truth of this sickening war. I longed to tell her how much I loved her. How much I wanted to be at home and in her arms. But how could I?

  Her life must not be dirtied by the truth. I pictured her with Elsie, walking arm in arm, the pair of them chatting and laughing, talking about the theatre and knitting wool and what to have for tea.

  The socks and scarf she’d made for me were already muddied and sodden.

  Mud. It was everywhere. In my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my ears.

  Men were going mad. Screaming in their short fits of sleep. The dying calling for their mothers as they took their final breath.

  If hell exists, surely it is here.

  Our progress in this war was slow and torturous. Twenty days spent fighting in the rain and the filth and it had got neither us nor the enemy a single step further.

  We fight, we carry the dead, we fight, we carry the dead.

  I’m so tired I sleep standing some days, and the cold is set in my bones. It snowed overnight and is snowing now. Thick flakes I would have loved as a child, but which now freeze the hair in my nostrils.

  The heat of Penang feels so far away. I sometimes hear the tap, tap of the silver tool, cutting into the bark, letting the latex flow. Tap. Tap. Tap. I dream of the heat of the sun on my back, the cool beer … and then realise the tap, tap is the sound of bullets. The men lie where they die. We can’t keep on top of the dead. But we do all we can for our men. The guns have been quiet for an hour now. The enemy need to sleep too. I will get a mug of tea, write to Clara and try to sleep.

  Clara, London

  Through the long winter of 1915–16 we wrote to each other many times. I tried to keep upbeat and not let him know how s
ick I felt as each casualty list came into the newsroom. Christmas came and went. There was no reason to celebrate as far as I was concerned. During that period I heard nothing from Bertie. I was getting very anxious, but I kept my letters up, just in case, until finally, this arrived.

  Western Front, France

  26 February 1916

  Dearest Clara,

  Forgive my lack of letters. You must be furious with me. We have been entrenched for almost two months. Snow and mud, up to our knees. The snow at least brightened the place up a bit, but a few of the men, laying communication wires, got trapped and had to lie in no man’s land for two days. We threw some bread rolls over the top to them, knowing they’d be hungry, but the enemy merely shot at them like clay pigeons. Unfortunately, a couple of the men didn’t get back.

  In the middle of all this I was surprised to be invited for an officer’s commission. Believe me, it’s not because of any particular heroics, but because we have lost so many of our officers.

  A brigadier turned up, looking very smart. No mud on his uniform. God knows what he thought of us. Unshaven and filthy as we are. Anyway, he called seven of us into the officers’ dugout and interviewed us ‘in the field’, as it is known. We were each given our orders and signed the agreement to become officers. The upshot is that I am coming home. Leaving France soon to take my place at cadet school. I feel awful leaving my pals here. They have become family to me. But, as an officer, I can hopefully do a lot for them when I return. At least I fully understand what they are up against, having been one of them.

  Clara, my dearest wish is to see you again as soon as we can. The thought of you has made my days here bearable.

  I’ll buy you tea?

  Bertie xx

  Chapter Ten

  Clara, Waterloo

  27 July 1916

  Bertie finally returned to Waterloo Station on 26 July and I was there to greet him. I was one of maybe a thousand women all in their finest hats and coats, waiting stoically for the train to arrive, and when it did I almost got trampled by the push of so many surging bodies pressing towards the platform. The men coming off the train looked thin and strained but the joy on seeing their loved ones was palpable. Not being very tall I decided to stand on one of the benches near to the platform gate. I can tell you that the fear I had of not seeing him, or of him not seeing me, was great. My stomach was in a twist and my heart hammering as I desperately searched the crowd. I was sure I had missed him and was about to leave until I heard him shout my name and there he was. His loss of weight made him look even taller. His face thin, his nose red from the French sun. I jumped off the bench and ran, slipping through the endless elbows and shoulders around me until he was in front of me.

  ‘You came,’ he said.

  ‘I thought I’d missed you.’ I was shaking.

  We stared at each other and then he bent and kissed my lips. I, who had never been kissed by a man, kissed him back.

  When we broke apart he laced his arms around my back and pushed his face into my neck. I could tell he was crying. I held him and stroked his hair.

  ‘I’m here. It’s all right. I’m here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice so dear. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ We stayed as we were, clinging onto each other as if our lives depended on it.

  Eventually the crowd thinned around us and a porter asked us to move as another train was due.

  I gently took Bertie’s hand and, not knowing what else to do, I walked him to the station buffet.

  I spotted a table and ordered him to keep it while I joined the longish queue to order tea and teacakes. It was the most suitable thing I could think of.

  By the time I got to the table he had blown his nose and looked almost recovered.

  I poured the tea and set it in front of him with his teacake.

  He put his hand out to mine and I held it tightly. Words were unimportant.

  Later we walked to my lodging house. I had often imagined him being in my room. Bending his head to get through my little door. Sitting on my one armchair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. And now here he was.

  ‘What can I get you?’ I asked as I hung his greatcoat on the hook behind the door, next to mine.

  He looked so tired I don’t think he had the energy to make words.

  ‘How was your journey?’ I asked. ‘You must be hungry?’

  He smiled at me, creases around his eyes that I didn’t remember.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t not.’ I went to the kettle and filled it from my one tap then lit the gas on the ring. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

  Warming the pot and adding the tea leaves, I chattered inconsequentially, and when it came to adding the sugar to his cup I asked, ‘With or without?’ I turned to him, spoon poised. He was asleep.

  I sat and watched him sleep for a long time. Not daring to make a noise to disturb him. I heard Elsie come in from work and knew that she would soon come to check on me. I had told her nothing of Bertie. I cannot tell you why. Or maybe I can. It was to keep him special. My secret. I could not have borne the endless questions about him from the girls in the office. I was not like them. They enjoyed relating every piece of their lives outside the office, and if, as happened several times, one of them had heard that their brother, cousin, or sweetheart had lost their lives serving their country, it seemed to me that all the other girls took the pain as their own, almost enjoying their public outpourings of grief and the attentions it garnered.

  I had to get to Elsie before she came knocking.

  Opening my door softly, I crept over the landing. Elsie’s door flew open before I had time to knock.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, rather too loudly. I didn’t want her to wake Bertie. ‘I was just going to check that you are feeling better.’

  I had made up a bad headache that morning in order to have the day off and get to Waterloo.

  ‘A little better, thank you,’ I lied. ‘But it has left me very tired. I was just coming to tell you not to come over tonight. I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘But you’re dressed?’ she observed.

  ‘Oh yes. I did try to get up, you know, but really even that wore me out.’

  ‘Oh darling.’ She looked at me so sympathetically. ‘Have you eaten? Can I bring you a sandwich or soup?’

  ‘I am still feeling rather sick.’ I leant on the door frame, as though even standing there talking was too much. ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow, I’m sure,’ I managed, sounding, I hoped, rather wan.

  ‘Understood. But call me if you need anything.’

  ‘I shall.’

  We embraced gently and she watched as I walked the four steps to my door.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

  I gave her a grateful smile and shut my door behind me.

  My armchair was empty.

  Bertie was now on my bed. Asleep. He had taken off his jacket and was lying in his shirt and trousers, with his braces hanging loosely.

  I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t very well get into bed with him, so I sat and read for a while until it got dark. I was getting rather tired but I was not going to wake Bertie up. In all honesty, I did not want him to go. I was enjoying watching him. He was in a deep sleep, mumbling occasionally but never waking. I put my book down and began to pad about my room, discreetly getting undressed and washed before hurriedly putting on my nightdress and dressing gown. He was on top of my blankets and pillows so that, even if I had wanted to, I would not have been able to get under them.

  I curled myself into my chair, using my coat as a pillow, and slept.

  I have no idea how long I slept, but it was still very dark when he woke me. He was shouting. It sounded like ‘Get down’, repeated each time with more urgency. I could see the sheen of sweat on his face. I went to him and touched his arm gently.

  ‘Herbert? Bertie? It’s OK. You are safe.’

  He sat up quickly and looked
at me with terror. ‘Get fucking down!’ he shouted.

  I stepped back and said coaxingly, ‘Darling. It’s me, Clara. You are safe in London. In my room.’

  His eyes darted from me to the room to the bed he was lying on.

  He ran his hand through his short hair. ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

  ‘In London.’

  ‘Not in France?’

  ‘No.’ I tried to soothe him with my voice and smile.

  ‘Oh, thank God.’ He took a deep breath in and out then lay back on my bed. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He held his right arm up to me. ‘Please sit with me?’

  I did so. He was so warm and smelt strongly of exhaustion and sweat. ‘Is this your bed?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are we alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He tried to swing his legs from the bed. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Where would you go? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘But it’s wrong for me to be here.’ He looked at my nightclothes. ‘I am compromising you.’

  ‘I am glad.’ I reached out and stroked his head in the same way I had at the station. ‘Stay.’

  He stopped my stroking hand and pulled it to his lips. ‘I want to stay.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But only if you lie down next to me and we stay here together.’ He was like a frightened child.

  ‘OK.’

  I lay down next to him and I had never felt closer to another human being in my life.

  In the morning he must have woken first because I heard the gas pop as it took the match’s flame.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Very.’ I saw that my dressing gown had come loose and that he could see the top of my nightgown. I didn’t bother to tie it back up.