When Day is Done

  He threw himself into work on the farm, increasing the yield in every department and working every available hour for seven days a week, helped by his wife, and felt that he had justified the officer’s decision.

  Charles had been nearly five when he left Liverpool with his mother and his maternal grandmother after the death of his father and a little later of his father’s mother. He never knew why his mother and his grandmother Tate decided to settle in Shrewsbury. His mother took a teaching post and Charles was looked after by his grandmother, a cold, unloving woman who had never shown him any affection. He missed his father and was sad when his grandmother told him he would never see him again, but his mother told him that his father had died the death of a hero and he must be proud and not grieve, so he was obedient, as he was expected to be, and hid his feelings.

  There had been no consolation for him in the death of his grandma Barnes, whom he had loved dearly and who had loved him and frequently told him so. He wept in bed at night and wished that she had lived and his other grandmother had died, but soon he started school and had other things to think about. He was happy at his preparatory school and enjoyed the sport, although he was not as good academically.

  He was unable to pretend any grief when his grandmother Tate died when he was nine years old. His mother seemed unaffected too. She was now a headmistress, with a cool, withdrawn manner, and she simply installed a housekeeper in her mother’s place. Charles was astounded when she told him in 1925 that she intended to remarry, but that it would not affect him as he had been entered for his future stepfather’s public school in the Lake District. The man’s name was Paul Vetch and he was a solicitor, and Charles would meet him on Sunday when he came to tea.

  Paul Vetch was a quiet, colourless character, and Charles had no strong feelings about him at all. At this time he was far more interested in a discovery he had made in the attic of a tin trunk containing his father’s books and papers.

  It was a wet, grey day and he had been mooching about, bored and miserable, until he decided to root about in the attics. He had moved a bag of curtains off the trunk and opened it, and immediately his boredom vanished. He thought the trunk must have been packed by his grandmother Tate, as papers had been thrust in haphazardly and no care had been taken with books his father must have valued.

  He stacked the books carefully and started to arrange the papers in order. Among them he found his father’s diary. It had been discontinued when he married, except for an entry on the day that Charles was born, with an ecstatic account of his feelings when he first saw the baby, and minute details about his son. ‘He has very long fingers. I wonder if he will be a musician,’ he had written. ‘Whatever he becomes he’ll be the most loved child ever. I can’t wait to show him to Kate.’

  There was another short entry in different ink, noting that the day of Charles’s birth was the day the Archduke Francis Ferdinand was assassinated, thus precipitating the war. Then, commenting on naming his son, Henry had written, ‘I wish he could have been called David but Agnes wanted Charles Jonathon. I suppose I should be thankful she didn’t want Ferdinand!’ Charles was only eleven years old, but he decided there and then that if he ever had a son he would name him David.

  It was growing dark, so he hid the diary and returned to it next morning, curious to read more about Kate. He turned over the pages until he came to the first reference to the name.

  Henry had related how she had been trying to carry the heavy coal scuttle. ‘It must be a sad and unsettling day for her,’ he had written. ‘Her mother’s funeral then being whisked off to live here with the Dragon Lady, yet she only seems concerned about her sister, who seems to have come off much better. Anything would be better than the Dragon, but perhaps I misjudge her because she objects to my whistling. Perhaps she will be kind to the child. I hope so. She’s such a brave little scrap.’

  Most of the diary was concerned with Henry’s work, his friends, and visits to music halls or boxing matches, and also with a boys’ club where he helped, but running through it like a thread were references to Kate. He had also written about Agnes, but even when he was linked with her there were still comments about Kate. Charles was too young to analyse it, but he felt vaguely that the references to Kate were warmer than those to his mother, although his father obviously admired her.

  He stacked the books and papers tidily in the trunk, but the diary he removed and concealed. He took it to school with him and often read a little of it when he was alone, and he determined that some day he would go to Liverpool and find Kate. Obviously his mother must know nothing about it, though.

  Chapter Twenty

  Charles settled happily in the school in the Lake District and made many friends there. His mother had resigned her post as headmistress when she married, and as Paul Vetch was semi-retired they spent much of their time travelling abroad. They always arranged to be at home for Charles’s holidays from school, combining it with Paul spending some time in his office.

  Charles quickly became bored at home in Shrewsbury, and when invited to visit his school friend Ben Tyland he set off eagerly. Ben’s father farmed in Shropshire, and Charles enjoyed helping on the farm. ‘You’ve got a real feel for the land, lad,’ Mr Tyland told him.

  This quickly became the pattern of Charles’s life. A week at home during the school holidays, then the rest of the holiday spent on the Tylands’ farm, where he helped out or cycled for miles with Ben and his younger sister Margaret. They took packed lunches and explored the county, singing as they rode along sweet-smelling country lanes, or making would-be knowledgeable remarks about the fields they passed.

  Margaret and Ben rarely quarrelled, and as an only child Charles envied Ben and enjoyed Margaret’s company. Charles kept a photograph of his father in uniform beside his bed at school, and Ben often asked about him.

  One day, as they lay on a sunny hillside, Charles told Ben and Margaret about his father’s diary. Ben questioned him eagerly until he realised that the diary was pre-war. ‘Pity it wasn’t from when he was fighting,’ he said, but Margaret disagreed. ‘I think it would be more interesting to know how he felt when he was a young man, living a normal life,’ she said, and Charles felt that she understood.

  At fourteen years of age he now looked very much like his father, with the same fair curly hair and blue eyes, and the same happy disposition with which Henry had been blessed. Ben and Margaret were both slim and dark, with grey eyes and quieter dispositions than Charles, but all three were united in their love of the land.

  As time passed it became clear that Charles would not pass university entrance, as his mother had hoped, so she and Paul decided that he would be articled to Paul’s law firm, although Charles himself wanted to become a farmer.

  A tragedy during his last term at school decided the matter. Ben Tyland was taken to hospital with appendicitis which developed into peritonitis, and he died two days later. Charles was bereft, and the headmaster allowed him to travel back with Ben’s distraught parents for the funeral.

  Agnes and Paul attended the funeral too, and afterwards it was decided that Charles would stay on and live at the farm. Agnes would have preferred him to go to agricultural college if he was set on farming, but in the face of Charles’s and the Tylands’ grief and the comfort they gave each other, she did not insist. Although not demonstrative, Agnes truly loved Charles and wanted to do what was best for him, and Charles appreciated this and promised to visit her whenever she was in England.

  As Agnes and Paul drove home, he said quietly, ‘You know what will happen, don’t you, my dear? Charles will marry the daughter and take over there eventually,’ and he proved to be right.

  Charles never attempted to take Ben’s place, but his presence at the farm brought great comfort to the Tyland family, especially as he too had loved Ben. Gradually the friendship with Margaret deepened into love, and they were married in February 1934. Charles had shown the diary to Margaret and told her of his wish to call his son David
, though both of them preferred to name their first son after Ben. Margaret also suggested that if they had a daughter they might call her Katherine.

  Their daughter was born just before Christmas of that year and christened Katherine Margaret. Margaret worried that Charles’s mother might be hurt at the choice of names, as Margaret’s own mother was also Margaret, or that she might have suspected Henry’s undeclared love for Kate, but Agnes said only that she had always disliked her own name. She had evidently completely forgotten Kate and was unaware that Charles knew anything about her.

  Two boys followed, Ben and David, but although they were a close and loving family, Kit, as she was known, had a special place in her father’s heart. He sometimes wondered about Henry’s Kate, and whether she was like his quiet, clever daughter.

  At the outbreak of war Kit was five years old, Benjamin three and David six months. Kit was slim, dark-haired and grey-eyed like her mother, and was like her in temperament too. She read when she was three years old and was never happier than when she was lost to the world in a book.

  Ben was like his father, tall with blue eyes and fair curly hair, and like him a natural farmer who loved the land. He was a sturdy little boy and more and more helpful on the farm as he grew. David loved all animals, and his parents hoped that someday he would become a vet. The three generations lived happily together in the roomy old farmhouse.

  Margaret helped her mother to nurse her father when he had a stroke, and took over the kitchen work, the dairy and the hens, as well as looking after her young family, although her mother helped when she could. It was a relief to everyone when Mr Tyland appeared to recover, although he never regained his old vigour.

  The mass of forms and regulations at the start of the war worried him, although Charles dealt with most of them, and in 1940 he told Charles and Margaret that he intended to retire and turn the farm over to them.

  ‘Mother and I have talked it over and we think it’s best,’ he said. ‘It would come to you anyway, so you might as well have it now.’ He smiled. ‘This way all the forms and that’ll come to you, Charlie, God help you.’

  ‘You’re doing all the work anyway, both of you,’ Mrs Tyland added. ‘What with my rheumatism and Father’s stroke.’

  Margaret and Charles looked at each other, unable to speak. They were stunned by the suddenness of the proposal, and Charles was struggling with a familiar feeling of guilt that he was taking Ben’s place. He cleared his throat and gripped Margaret’s hand. ‘There’s something I’ve wanted to say for years,’ he said gruffly. ‘That I’m not trying to push into Ben’s place. I appreciate all you’ve done for me but, well – this is Ben’s and I’m not—’

  He looked helplessly at Margaret, unable to express how he felt, but it was Mr Tyland who said, ‘Nay, lad. I respect you for feeling like that but there’s no need. We grieve for Ben and always will, but God was good to us. From the start you were like another son to us, Charlie, and when you married our Margaret, well – you’re family, Charlie, and Ben would be glad this day.’

  ‘I loved him too,’ Charles muttered, feeling choked with memories of his dead friend.

  ‘We know you did,’ Mrs Tyland said gently. ‘And Dad’s right. It was a happy day for us when you and Margaret wed.’

  ‘Yes, I wouldn’t be rushing to hand over my farm if she’d married anyone else,’ said Mr Tyland. ‘But I know it’s in good hands, and so is she. And I think we’ve got another farmer in the family in young Ben.’

  ‘Yes, and with Tyland blood in his veins,’ said Charles. His feelings of guilt left him and he felt free to enjoy the ownership of the farm, but it was several days before he and Margaret could believe their good fortune.

  Throughout the war Charlie, as he was now known to everyone except his mother and stepfather, did the work of two men, always conscious of the recruiting officer’s words that he could save seamen’s lives by increasing production. His young family did all they could to help, especially little Ben, who was strong and deft at all farming tasks.

  Margaret worked as hard as her husband, looking after the hens and the dairy as well as her family and the succession of Land Girls who came, married, became pregnant and left. ‘I didn’t think there were so many eligible men in the district,’ she said ruefully to her mother, who often helped her.

  Mr Tyland also helped Charlie, with good advice and by keeping a critical eye on the Land Girls and the three elderly men who worked on the farm. When the war ended all the family were tired but satisfied that they had played their part in the victory.

  After many false alarms and dashed hopes, the end of the war seemed to Kate to arrive quite suddenly. She joined in all the rejoicing, thankful that Richard and John had survived, and hoping that Henry’s son was safe too. Her memories of Henry were still a comfort to her, a happy land to which she could always escape.

  Soon after the war ended, Kate’s factory unit was closed down and the staff dispersed. They all promised to keep in touch, but Marie told Kate that it was unlikely. ‘People think it’ll be a classless society after the war, but George thinks everyone will go back to their own way of life,’ she said.

  George was a foreman at the factory with whom Marie had become friendly, and now she told Kate shyly that they planned to become engaged. Kate had met George, and she felt that Marie would be safe and happy with this kind, gentle man.

  George’s house had been destroyed and his wife and young son killed in the May Blitz while he was on Civil Defence duty, and Marie had tried to comfort him. He knew about her son and understood her grief in having to part with him, and Kate was delighted that the future seemed set fair for Marie.

  Rose and Robert urged Kate to stay with them for a while before she thought of another job. Kate stayed for a month, enjoying being pampered, but it was clear to both sisters that though they loved each other they could never live together. Their lifestyles were too different.

  Kate had saved from her very good wages, and she decided to have another month’s holiday, this time with Josie in Ireland, before starting a fresh job. There she was warmly welcomed by everyone, and urged to stay permanently, but she told them that she could never leave Liverpool, although she had thoroughly enjoyed her stay and gained several pounds in weight.

  Josie and Michael told her that there was always a home for her with them if she needed it, and she replied that she was grateful and happy to know it.

  ‘Rose and Robert have offered me a home too,’ she said. ‘I’m more at home here than in their house. You know I love them and the boys, but it’s such a different life. I’m very lucky, though, to twice have the offer of a home if I need one. Everybody’s very good to me.’

  Marie told Kate that there was no reason for her and George to wait to marry, as George had been rehoused after the Blitz, so in November they were married quietly in Brougham Terrace Register Office. A quiet elderly couple occupied the top flat in Lilley Road so Kate was not alone in the house.

  She told Robert that she intended to look for a job in a shop as she enjoyed meeting people. He suggested Blacklers or Lewis’s, large department stores which had been rebuilt after being bombed, but Kate decided she preferred a small local shop where the customers would become friends.

  She found a job in a small grocer’s shop in Kensington, within walking distance of the flat, and settled happily into this fresh phase in her life. She decided not to look for another flatmate, and her second bedroom was often in use for guests. Her old friend Nell, now a matron in a London hospital, came for a visit, and members of the Malloy family often came to Liverpool and stayed for a night or a month, as it suited them. They could never outstay their welcome with Kate.

  She often went to see Essy, who applauded her decision to keep her independence. ‘Don’t ever let them talk you into living with your sister,’ she said. ‘It would never work.’

  Essy and Miss Clarke had experienced no shortages during the war, thanks to their hoard, and they had also had plenty of
fresh vegetables and eggs. Essy’s cleaner had gone to work on munitions and Essy employed a young orphan named Magdalen, who lived in and shared their food. The gardener had also left, and Magdalen tidied up the garden and discovered that she had green fingers.

  Essy gave her a free hand and she grew a variety of vegetables and flowers. She also suggested keeping hens and looked after them too. She kept the house supplied with vegetables, eggs and cut flowers, and the surplus was always in demand for a market stall in Ormskirk. This continued after the war ended.

  Miss Clarke developed pneumonia in 1949 and she was given the new wonder drug M&B. She seemed to be recovering, but complications set in and she died. Kate wondered if Essy could live alone, but she declared that there was no problem. ‘The house is my own and I enjoy pottering round,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got plenty of friends in the church and in the Women’s Guild. Magdalen is a treasure too.’

  ‘I hope she’ll stay with you,’ Kate said doubtfully. ‘How old is she now? About twenty?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s not likely to get married,’ Essy said forthrightly. ‘There are never many spare men after a war, and she’s no oil painting, is she? Even without that squint.’

  ‘But even so, she does so much. Could you manage if she left?’ asked Kate.

  ‘She won’t,’ Essy said positively. ‘She knows which side her bread’s buttered. She’s got it soft here and she knows it. As long as the house is clean I don’t stand over her while she does it. She can please herself and boss the woman who comes for the rough work. And then there’s the garden. As long as she brings in enough potatoes and veg for the house, and the eggs and a chicken or two, she can please herself out there too.’