by Fern Britton
‘Mustn’t complain.’ She looked at me, ‘And you are Miss Hampton’s niece? I had no idea.’
‘No,’ Miss Hampton said quickly. ‘Dear Clara’s mother and I had a silly falling-out years ago, I honestly can’t even remember what it was about now, and sadly it is too late to ask her forgiveness. We lost her in the spring. As soon as I heard, I wrote to Clara and here we are.’
Mrs Channing looked with suspicion at each of us. ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to welcome you to Faversham.’ She tapped her chin. ‘I feel we have met before, Mrs …?’
‘Bolitho.’ I smiled graciously. ‘Unfortunately for me I have never been to Kent before. I grew up in London.’
Miss Hampton noted my easy fib. ‘Yes, Chelsea. By the river. Do you know it, Mrs Channing?’
‘Er, no. I have never been to London.’
‘You must visit,’ I said, enjoying myself. ‘The Royal Academy has many delightful paintings, and after a visit you can just pop across the road to Fortnum and Mason for tea. I do it once a month.’
The door to the surgery opened and revealed a tall, handsome man with even white teeth. I thought he might be a patient leaving the room but he introduced himself as Dr Channing.
‘My son,’ said the old lady. ‘He took over his father’s practice when dear Arthur died.’
‘Thank you, Mother.’ He stood back to let Miss Hampton and me enter his room. ‘I shall look after the ladies now.’
He closed the door on his mother’s pinched face and offered us the two chairs in front of his desk.
I saw him take in my swollen stomach as he took his seat. ‘How may I help you?’
I blushed and my mouth went dry but Miss Hampton, who had insisted on coming with me, said, ‘My niece’s husband is in France, and until he gets home, she has no one to care for her but me.’ She looked at me. ‘Clara, dear, explain your situation to the doctor.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I am expecting a child.’
He nodded, and with kindness said, ‘I did notice.’ He stood up and walked to his leather examination couch. ‘Have you had this confirmed by a doctor?’ He went to the sink next to the couch and began to wash his hands.
‘No.’
‘And how far along would you say you are? When did you have your last monthly?’
‘I’m not sure. August, I think.’
‘Well, let me check you over and we’ll see.’ He indicated for me to get onto the couch. Miss Hampton stationed herself resolutely next to me, and held my hand all the while, as the doctor lifted my skirt.
Dr Channing’s cool hands pressed against my skin, feeling all around where the baby lay. He said nothing as he did this and then he reached for a small wooden trumpet, not unlike the earpiece of the phones we had at the News.
‘Just breathe normally, Mrs Bolitho. I’m going to see if I can hear baby’s heartbeat.’ Dr Channing placed one end on the skin of my stomach and the other to his ear.
Miss Hampton squeezed my hand tighter. ‘It’s all right. Try not to move.’
‘Is the baby OK?’ I whispered.
‘Shhhh.’
‘Sorry.’
The trumpet was moved to another part of my tummy, then another and another.
At last the examination was over. Dr Channing went to the sink to wash his hands again, saying nothing.
Miss Hampton broke the silence. ‘Is the baby all right?’
He picked up a towel and dried his hands. ‘I am glad to tell you that all is well and you and the baby are in good health.’
I smiled and could have cried tears of relief. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all.’ He went to his desk and began to write some notes and let me reassemble my clothing.
‘And when will the baby arrive, Dr Channing?’ asked Miss Hampton.
‘I should say May, the early part.’
‘Oh.’ My knees buckled at the reality of it all. Dr Channing came straight to me and helped me into a chair. ‘A little light-headed? Only to be expected. Let me get you a glass of water.’ He asked me lots of questions and took many notes before pronouncing that I was perfectly fit and well and that there was nothing to be concerned about.
We left his surgery promising to return if I had any worries.
‘Your aunt will keep an eye on you.’
Miss Hampton took my arm and said in all innocence, ‘What else are aunts for?’
My respect for her was growing at an alarming rate, and when we were out of earshot I asked, ‘What do I call you?’
‘From now on I am Aunt Philippa.’
Bertie, Western Front, France
January 1917
I was counting the days until May. I needed to be home looking after Clara and my unborn child. The days and nights here ran into each other like tears on a watercolour painting. The colours that once were bright and pretty had run together and turned into the brown of dog muck. The mud, the khaki, the sun, the blood, the food; all shit.
We had been moved back to the Western Front. The top brass had told us to prepare for one last big push to win the war. ‘The enemy are withdrawing,’ they said. ‘We can advance and break through their new lines of defence.’
Lies. We were nothing but cannon fodder. They had known it and we had known it and we knew that now. Which is why I had to get home. Before I became part of the mud and shit. Stamped into this earthy swamp, never to be found.
I was ready to die. Expecting to die but not hoping to die. I had to get back to my child. I could not be a father my child didn’t know. My name carved on a village memorial to be glanced at once a year.
The weather had been a bit better. No rain for a few days.
The long routine of trench fighting was over and, so they told us, ‘Morale was high.’
Mine wasn’t. I kept that bit of news a secret. As far as my men were concerned, Second Lieutenant Bolitho was a ‘chap with a smile. Always a comforting word. A brave soldier. The sort of fellow you want by your side.’
Let them think that if it made them feel better. Braver.
In reality I spent my waking hours with my brain screaming in terror as unseen tears poured from me. My soul was breaking. I couldn’t sleep without the nightmares. I couldn’t think for the scream in my head.
I had to get home. How had I been spared a bullet in the head? My father and his parishioners must have been sending the right kind of prayers for me.
Take me home.
I wanted chocolate that was clean.
I wanted beer that wasn’t watered.
I wanted sherry trifle with raspberries and thick cream.
I wanted …
I wanted …
I wanted the screaming in my head to stop and I wanted Clara.
I needed to feel her, smell her, taste her.
I needed to stay alive.
Clara, The Haberdashery, Faversham
February 1917
I was worried about Bertie. I hadn’t heard from him for almost two weeks. I had read that the government thought the war might be nearly won and that morale amongst the troops was high. I imagined Bertie, keeping his men motivated, getting the fighting done, finding no time to sit and write to me.
I had bought several bars of chocolate. He liked Fry’s. I had kissed each bar so that when he bit into it a little bit of me stayed with him. Sounded so silly, but in these awful times, I thought all of us, waiting to hear news that the war was over, would do anything to make the wait bearable.
If he were with me now he would be so proud of our growing baby. I could not fit into any of my old clothes now, but I had made two new loose dresses out of Aunt Philippa’s gifts of remnants. She cared for me so well and noticed when I was sad with longing.
I had even started going to church. Every Sunday I prayed urgently to the God I had never believed in to return my Bertie as soon as possible. The vicar told us last Sunday that when we prayed we shouldn’t just send the prayers upwards. We should send them sideways and forward and backwards so that the whole congregation could
feel our prayers. I must have been very wicked because I only ever prayed up and for Bertie. Nothing and no one else.
Bertie, Agny
March 1917
Clara’s parcel of chocolate arrived two days ago. I shared it with the men. One square each. It cheered us all for almost the entire morning.
The enemy appeared to be retreating further, but I didn’t trust them. It might have been a plan to draw us into a trap.
We were training hard for God knows what.
Billeted in a ruined village and living in a cellar. We made our recces at night, like blind hedgehogs marching in darkness, falling over jungles of barbed wire, falling into bomb holes, to dig fresh trenches. It felt pointless.
During the day, observer planes flew over, strafing anyone foolish enough to emerge from the cellars for a breath of fresh air or a piss.
Clara, The Haberdashery, Faversham
April 1917
I could hardly move for the baby now. I waddled everywhere.
The doctor was pleased and thought the baby would be here in around four weeks. Since God didn’t appear to be listening to me, I sent my prayers now to Bertie’s commanding officer. ‘Let him come home. Please. Our baby is due and I need Second Lieutenant Bertie Bolitho by my side.’
I was definitely going to hell for the blasphemy but it was worth it. Maybe I should make a pact with the devil tomorrow.
I had nothing to do but walk the lanes, full of primroses and daffodils now that spring had truly arrived, and rest and wait. I had heartburn and swollen ankles. I had to have Bertie home. I just had to. I couldn’t do this on my own.
Bertie, Western Front, France
May 1917
Easter had come and gone with deadly fighting at Vimy Ridge. The Canadians captured it but there had been terrible loss of life. Once again not a single piece of shrapnel nor stray bullet got me. I was beginning to feel invincible. I was meant to survive this and be a loving father and husband.
We were now settled into old dugouts to consolidate. A welcome respite which wouldn’t last. Our orders were to be back on the front line in twenty-four hours. This could be the end. The enemy were brave and not afraid to use their weaponry, but they had pushed back so far that we thought they realised we were the better Army.
I would be home soon, never to leave Clara again. I would teach my son how to play football instead of war. Teach him to understand the wonder and fragility of peace and the love and understanding we must give to every human, no matter what nationality or belief.
Chapter Fifteen
Clara, Kent
11 May 1917, 8.00 p.m.
I have had an ache in my back all day. I have come to bed and Philippa is making me a hot drink.
‘Here you are, my dear.’ She puts the cocoa by my bed. ‘Would you like me to rub your back?’
‘I would. Thank you.’ I move onto my left side and immediately feel a great need to go to the lavatory.
She helps me up and takes me to the WC, whereupon, sitting down, a great bloody whoosh of water gushes from me.
‘Ah,’ Philippa responds. ‘This is exactly what the doctor told me might happen. The waters around your baby have broken, which means that the baby is coming soon.’
I begin to cry from fear and call for Bertie.
Bertie, Cavalry Farm, France
11 May 1917, 8.30 p.m.
I am crouched ready with my men to lead a minor operation to capture an advanced enemy trench of about five hundred and fifty yards. We have split into four attacking groups and are ranged equidistant apart in a line facing them. ‘A’ company are far right, ‘B’ company in the centre, ‘C’ company hold back, protecting our line, and I, with ‘D’ company, am on the far left.
The signal is given to move forward and immediately German flares and rockets go up, asking for help from their men.
Clara
8.35 p.m.
Dr Channing is here and I am relieved. He is examining me. ‘You are doing very well, Mrs Bolitho. Nothing to be concerned about.’
He turns to Philippa. ‘Would you go and get the midwife? I think this baby may be in a hurry to get here.’
Philippa gives me a calming nod and disappears.
‘What do you mean the baby’s in a hurry?’ I ask Dr Channing.
He checks his watch and takes my pulse. ‘You may have your baby in your arms by midnight,’ he says.
‘Oh.’ I begin to cry again. ‘I want my husband.’
Bertie, Cavalry Farm, France
8.45 p.m.
As the flares go up and light the ground around us, I see how visible we are. Ahead there is a small wall. Partially demolished but it will give us some shelter. I raise my arm for the men to follow me. All of us arrive safely and we huddle closely as enemy gunners put down a heavy barrage which goes over our heads and into our trenches behind. We can hear the enemy ahead shouting. They are certainly surprised.
Clara
9.00 p.m.
The midwife, Mrs Ellery, is here. She has sent Philippa off for towels and hot water. A pain so strong grips my abdomen and I scream.
‘There there, Mrs Bolitho,’ says Mrs Ellery. ‘Just breathe in and out.’
‘I want to push,’ I shout at her.
‘No, no, we don’t want that at the moment. You are doing very well, dear, just keep breathing.’
Bertie
9.15 p.m.
I am looking at my men. I give them their orders. ‘When I give the signal, we will sprint to the trench and take it. Clear?’
‘Yes sir,’ they replied as one. I had been listening to the enemy trench ahead and they had grown calmer.
‘It sounds as if they were not expecting us to be so close, which is good.’ I smile to reassure the men who would go anywhere, do anything I order them to do.
I have my gun in my hand, poised to strike. I count in my head five, four, three, two one … ‘Go.’
Clara
9.45 p.m.
‘It hurts.’
‘Hold my hand.’ Philippa grips me.
Another wave of agonising pain sweeps through me. ‘Aaaarrrggghhh.’
‘That’s right dear, nice big breaths.’
‘It’s breech.’ Dr Channing is sweating.
Bertie
9.50 p.m.
We are above the trench and running down its walls, firing as we go. The German soldiers at the bottom of the trench are completely surprised. They have no arms or equipment. Two to the left are running away. In front of us, seven put their hands up in surrender.
Clara
10.00 p.m.
‘That’s a good girl. Keep as still as you can.’ Mrs Ellery has her hand inside me.
I scream at her, ‘You are hurting me!’
Bertie
10.12 p.m.
I am looking around for snipers as we take the seven soldiers into our custody.
‘Well done, men.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I hear a rustle to the far left. There are bushes. A blaze of light and the unmistakeable sound of a bullet being released from its chamber. It catches me unawares. I feel a thud in my chest. Another in my leg. I am down in the mud.
Clara
10.35 p.m.
I hear a scream and surprise myself with the noise I can make.
‘Push now dear.’
‘Aarrggh. I am bloody pushing.’ I am pushing my insides out. The pain is enveloping me to the point that I know there is no returning from it.
‘One last push.’
I want to sit up and slap Mrs Ellery’s pious face and now the pain stops. Something has slithered from me. Dr Channing is picking up a small blue body covered in slime. I am sick.
Bertie
10.36 p.m.
My face is in the mud but I can just about breathe. I can see my men organising themselves into two groups. The larger group to escort our prisoners back to our trenches, and the smaller group, just two of them, to come for me. I can see they think I am dead.
‘Get down. Sniper in the bushes,’ I whisper.
I’m not sure he has heard me because he repeats what I have just said. ‘We’d better get down. The sniper must be in those bushes.’
‘Good men,’ I whisper.
‘Right,’ says the other, ‘we’ll carry Lieutenant Bolitho back, once we’ve got the bastard who shot him.’
‘I can wait,’ I whispered. ‘Just do it.’
They lie either side of me on their stomachs and turn their guns on the bushes. I can hear them make their guns ready.
‘Quick,’ I urge them.
They fire four rapid shots.
‘Got him.’
Clara
10.40 p.m.
We have a son. I am staring at him. He is screwing his eyes up and mewing like a kitten. I have done it. The pain is gone. Mrs Ellery is tolerable now.
‘Shall I show you how to put him to your breast?’
Gently she guides us, mother and son, and we begin to get the hang of it.
‘You’re a natural, Mrs Bolitho,’ smiles Dr Channing, rolling down his sleeves and shrugging on his jacket. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Well done.’ Philippa is smiling down at me. ‘Cup of tea?’
There is only one thing I want in the whole world right now. My Bertie. I shall write to him first thing.
‘Tea would be lovely. Thank you.’
Cavalry Farm, France
11 May 1917, 11.00 p.m.
Bertie’s rescuers found his body lying in the mud; they lay down either side of him, searching for the sniper who had killed him.