The Carpenter's Children

by Maggie Bennett

  Little Dora Goddard had arrived, born to a Cooper and fathered by a Yeomans.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  March–May, 1917

  ‘That baby’s brought happiness all round, Tom,’ said Eddie Cooper with satisfaction. ‘The Goddards were a bit stand-offish at first, though Betty always stayed friends with Mary – but now that little Dora’s born, the parents’ve come over to see her, though she’s not their granddaughter in the same way as she’s mine – but as soon as they set eyes on the pretty little thing layin’ there in her cot, they was won over. And Mr Goddard’s gastric ulcer’s much better, they say, so I reckon that was all due to worry about Sidney bein’ treated like a coward by half o’ North Camp, and then marryin’ my Mary when she was – well, you know how it was, Tom. But little Dora’s changed everythin’.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, Eddie. Violet’s going round there tomorrow afternoon with a little jacket she’s knitted. Er, how about the Yeomanses?’

  ‘Not so easy there, though o’ course old Yeomans always was a misery. I reckon they’ll have to come over sooner or later, seein’ as Dora’s their granddaughter, and Mary’s been like a daughter to them for years, ever since she left school. And what pleases me most is to see Annie and Mary gettin’ on so well these days, just like a proper mother and daughter. I tell you, Tom, that baby’s touched a lot o’ hearts.’

  Tom smiled, pleased for his friend, though his own thoughts were sombre. The deaths of Dick Yeomans and the Bird brothers had cast a deep shadow over the village, and who could say whether Ernest too would be massacred? Or Aaron Pascoe and his newly recruited brother Jonathan? Or Cedric Neville and Philip Saville? Such daily anxieties had set aside less important considerations, for families could not afford to bear ill will at such a time. There had been a postcard from Ernest since Christmas, and the Pascoes had received one from Aaron. Their messages were shared between the families, and Tom noted that both men had put ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ on the cards – ‘Jerry’s been throwing a lot of hardware across No Man’s Land, but so far we’ve managed to dodge it,’ and the brief messages had ended with ‘Love from us both.’ Isabel kept in regular touch with her parents by letter, and told them that she now had a resident housekeeper to help with the work, which was good news, except that her name was Sally Tanner.

  ‘Sally Tanner? The woman who drinks?’ exclaimed Violet in dismay. ‘What can Isabel be thinking of? What she should do is come home to us, and be properly looked after. We are her parents, after all!’

  Tom gave a non-committal grunt. He too worried about Isabel, but understood her loyalty to old Mr Storey – and Mrs Tanner sounded like a reformed character, thanks to Isabel’s care and concern for her.

  ‘Well, if she doesn’t come home for her confinement, I shall have to go to her,’ said Violet. ‘I’m not leaving her to the tender mercies of Sally Tanner and some East End midwife!’

  Tom’s thoughts turned to his other daughter; there had been a postcard from Grace at Christmas, in which she had sent her love but nothing else; Isabel too had not heard from her sister.

  All in all, 1917 had come in with no good news other than the safe arrival of baby Dora Goddard; and when a few days later a jubilant Eddie told Tom that Mr and Mrs Yeomans had visited with little Billy, and how Mrs Yeomans had wept over the baby that was her son’s daughter, Tom rejoiced with his friend and said nothing of his own worries.

  From Hassett Manor came the news that Cedric had completed his course on the new heavily armoured vehicles, now ready to be tried out at secret locations in the front line. Lady Neville put a brave face on her son’s departure, but Miss Letitia was said to be heartbroken, and had taken to her bed.

  ‘No, Madge, absolutely not. I can’t do it, so don’t ask me. Tell Mrs Moore that I’ve changed my mind, and I’ll never do it again.’

  ‘But Grace, ye’re throwin’ good money away, an’ ye’ve been doin’ so well at cheerin’ ’em up, the poor lads. It’s just plain daft to let one bad ’un put yer off, though I must say I was surprised about that captain. ’E was so tall an’ ’andsome, just like a film star, the sort who’d give yer a little extra tip for yer trouble!’

  Grace shivered at the memory of the captain’s contempt. ‘Not from him, Madge, not unless you call bad names and slaps across your face an extra. Never again – no, don’t bother asking me, my mind’s made up. Dancing on the stage is all right, and so is going out to supper, as long as it’s a foursome, but… but the other I’ll never do again.’

  Madge was nonplussed. ‘I mean it ain’t like streetwalkin’, ’angin’ around on corners, waitin’ for a pickup who could be anybody. All our clients are ’and-picked for us by Sybil Moore, an’ we don’t even ’ave to take money off ’em, it’s all been booked and paid for! Hey, where are yer off to?’

  For Grace Munday had walked away, unable to listen any longer. Out of a sort of politeness to Madge, she did not add that the shameful episode with Captain X had opened her eyes to the truth of what she and Madge had been doing. It was called prostitution, and the captain had shown her what disgrace it brought to women who practised it. She now thought back on Sergeant Stanley and poor Derek, men looking for a woman to embrace before going to face death at the front. They might feel a brief affection for her – gratitude, even – but not respect. They might mention ‘a jolly girl I met’ to their comrades-in-arms, but never to their parents or – perhaps in the case of Stanley – a wife. Just suppose that her own parents…but Grace dared not even imagine the terrible scandal that would erupt if her recent lifestyle became known in North Camp. The very thought made her break out in a cold sweat.

  The depleted C Company was in retreat from the ridge they had thought to take; the Germans had held on and had not run out of ammunition as the Allies had. They were being led by a competent, stony-faced sergeant, the officer in charge having been shot dead, and were heading for billets in one of the villages, where there was also an emergency clearing station. Clouds hung low and it was getting dark as they plodded over sodden ground, trying to avoid collapsed trenches filling up with water, covering the corpses of men who had lately stood there with their rifles, facing the enemy.

  Ernest Munday stumbled on, longing to close his eyes and sleep; the distant rumble of artillery was muffled in his ears; he had not seen Aaron since the order to retreat had been given. Suddenly there was a shout ahead: ‘Gas!’ – and somehow or other the men struggled to put on their gas masks, and resume their crazy game of follow-my-leader, getting mixed up with another battalion, also in retreat.

  Passing over a shell hole, Ernest felt a stinging pain in his left calf, from a flesh wound sustained earlier in the day. He staggered, held up his arms and dropped into the hole, calling out to the man behind him to go on, as he thought he could manage to crawl out unaided.

  It was only when he tried to liberate himself that he understood what a deadly trap he was in; the hole had appeared to be fairly shallow, but in fact it had become a deep quagmire of mud and slime. Ernest’s feet sank into it and were quickly covered; weighted by his kitbag, he sank lower, and the stinking mud was up to his knees, and then to his thighs. He had heard of men who had drowned in mud and rotting bodies, and his cries for help went unheeded, as the company had gone ahead, and every man had as much as he could do to look after himself in the fading light and on such treacherous ground. Ernest gave himself up for lost, and thought of Aaron.

  And miraculously, like messengers from heaven, out of the dusk and drizzling rain came Aaron and a young cockney private they called Sparrer. Aaron had been frantically searching for Ernest, fearing him to be among the wounded and dying after the failed attempt to storm the ridge. Now he stood on the edge of the shell hole. ‘Ernest! Is that you?’ he shouted to the feebly waving arms beneath him.

  ‘Go on, Aaron, I’m done for,’ came the faint reply. ‘For God’s sake don’t you fall in as well. Goodbye, my—’

  ‘No! Not yet, Ernest – here, take hold of my rifle,’ cri
ed Aaron, extending the barrel to him, but it was too short for the purpose. Aaron whipped off his kitbag and took out a length of strong rope which he always carried. Holding the two ends, he threw the loop to Ernest who grasped it with both hands, but as Aaron started to pull on it, his own feet began to slither forward over the rim of the hole, and Ernest let go his hold on the rope, rather than be the cause of his friend’s death.

  ‘’Ere, mate, let’s get this bloody plank down, so’s yer can stand on it,’ said Sparrer, heaving up a half-submerged duckboard, one of the many used for laying over mud when walking on wet ground. ‘Stand on this.’

  Aaron did so, and threw the rope back to Ernest. ‘Hang on, hang on, I shan’t move away till you’re out!’ he shouted.

  Sparrer also got on the board and took one of the ends of rope. ‘Pull for all ye’re bloody worf, mate! We’re two against one!’

  The mud seethed and sucked around Ernest’s body, a hell-broth of stench and slime, seemingly unwilling to yield up its victim. It had reached his waist.

  ‘Pull, Ernest, pull for the love of God!’ pleaded Aaron, adding under his breath, Give me Samson’s strength, O Lord, for I will save him or sink with him.

  ‘Yeah, for the love o’ Gawd – or the devil!’ panted Sparrer, and they saw that Ernest had ceased to sink, but could not raise himself. His thoughts blurred into a muddle of confused sensations, suspended between life and death.

  ‘We ain’t gettin’ nowhere,’ muttered Sparrer, and Aaron grabbed the rope from his hands. ‘Get behind me, put your arms round my waist and pull on me. If I sink down into this damned hole, just let go.’

  ‘Not arf I will, mate! Blimey, what a way to go!’

  For what seemed a timeless interval of wavering between hope and defeat, Ernest pulled on the loop of rope, Aaron tugged at the two ends, one in each hand, and Sparrer pulled on Aaron, bent over with the effort.

  ‘Talk abaht a bleedin’ tug o’ war!’ gasped Sparrer, ‘but ’e’s startin’ to move!’

  ‘Keep going, keep it up, we’re getting there,’ urged Aaron as slowly, slowly, Ernest began to rise up out of the mire; inch by inch his body was dragged above the surface. When Aaron could lean forward from the duckboard and grasp his hands, the progress accelerated, and when his thighs were free, the rope was dropped and his arms were gripped by his rescuers.

  ‘Nearly there, Ernest, nearly there…’ puffed Aaron, his heartbeat singing in his ears, his lungs hardly able to draw breath.

  When Ernest could raise his right knee and place it on the rim of the listing duckboard, he knew he was safe; he pulled his injured left leg up, and sat, a grotesque mud-covered creature wearing a hideous mask.

  ‘Yer can get rid o’ that bloody thing,’ said Sparrer, pulling the gas mask over his head. ‘There weren’t no gas, it was just smoke an’ mist from the firin’. Ye’ve been saved, mate, an’ we’ll get yer to the clearin’ station to clean yer up.’

  Ernest laid his head on Aaron’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. Sparrer’s reference to being ‘saved’ took him back to those Sunday afternoon Bible study groups at the Woodmans’, and words from Psalm 40 came to his mind.

  He brought me up out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock.

  Well, upon the relative safety of a duckboard.

  Grace felt awkward, to say the least, when she next encountered Mrs Moore at a morning rehearsal, but she need not have worried, for the lady’s manner towards her was quite unchanged; she had never spoken directly to Grace about arranging hand-picked clients for 17 Lamp Street, because all messages passed via Madge Fraser, who was paid a commission for selecting and supervising suitable girls for the purpose of ‘comforting’ men due to return to the trenches. Grace now realised that if any girl complained, Mrs Moore would deny all knowledge of the matter, and the blame would fall on Madge. After Grace’s refusal to take on any more clients, Madge distinctly cooled towards her, and threatened that if she ever breathed a word, Madge would tell everybody that Grace had entertained men in her room on three separate occasions. Their friendship was over.

  Mr Dean, however, still called upon Grace to join foursomes, for which the only payment was an evening in congenial company and a free supper. Madge seldom took part in these, having a far more lucrative sideline to her stage work at Dolly’s, so Grace found herself in the company of other girls in foursomes, and it was tacitly agreed that she would instruct them in how they should behave: whether to smile and listen sympathetically to their male companions if required, or to indulge in light-hearted flirtation and look inviting – in short, to promise much and to yield nothing – except for a goodnight kiss and cuddle in the taxi at the end of the evening.

  ‘Grace, my dear, I’ve got a couple of officers looking for two nice girls to take out to supper tonight,’ said Mr Dean. ‘Can you take young Trixie with you, and show her the ropes? She’s a bit cheeky, and will need guidance, but she speaks well enough. Make sure she returns to Lamp Street and doesn’t get persuaded to go off with one of ’em, there’s a good girl!’

  Grace knew what he meant about Trixie, and could foresee the girl being destined for room Number Four before long. She stifled a sigh, for she felt tired and her head ached; she would have preferred to go straight to bed after the show.

  The curtain had come down, and the girls were chattering in their communal dressing room. Grace changed into a silk dress in a deep turquoise colour, and reapplied face powder and lipstick. Trixie was dressed and waiting impatiently for her. At the stage door Mr Dean nodded his approval, and gestured towards two uniformed army officers. Grace put on a winsome smile for Captain Garth and Captain – oh, God, what a calamity! – Captain Neville!

  Captain Garth returned Trixie’s saucy ‘How d’you do, sir?’ with a grin, and she smiled, anticipating a delightful, perhaps daring evening of exchanging banter with this handsome admirer. Garth took her arm, beckoning the other couple to follow them to a waiting taxi. Cedric’s eyes were on Grace, in total amazement.

  ‘Nurse Munday,’ he said, remembering those evening entertainments at Hassett Manor. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here.’

  Grace could foresee a tricky evening, to say the least. ‘G-good evening, Captain Neville,’ she said with a half-smile to cover her dismay. ‘Yes, this is an unexpected pleasure, isn’t it?’

  Blushing, she took his arm; Captain Garth was helping Trixie into the back seat of the cab. ‘We’ve got a table booked at Rotters in the Strand,’ he said. ‘Hurry up!’

  Grace got in, her thoughts whirling. Was this an unfortunate accident, or had Neville come here deliberately to spy on her? No, that was impossible; nobody in North Camp, her parents included, knew where she was in London. Trixie and Garth chatted happily, while Grace and Cedric sat in a strained silence, neither of them knowing what to say.

  Rotters was below ground level, which meant that there need be no dimming of the lights, even if enemy planes were overhead. The two officers carefully escorted the girls down the steps, to be met by a smartly dressed commissionaire; he nodded in recognition to Captain Garth, and showed them to the cloakrooms. When they emerged they were led to a table in the crowded dining area, and a waiter hovered ready to take their orders.

  ‘This is a bit of all right, isn’t it, Gracie?’ murmured Trixie. ‘You can order mine, Captain Garth, and I’ll have the same as what you’re havin’!’

  ‘Ah, but I’ll be having the same as he’s having,’ teased Garth. ‘What about your friend – Grace, isn’t it? Would you like a mutton chop?’

  Mutton chops with French fried potatoes were ordered for them all, and while the men drank keg beer, Trixie asked for port and lemon, and Grace chose soda water, knowing she would need a clear head if this evening was to be saved from disaster. Trixie and Garth were already indulging in cheerful repartee, and Grace braced herself to converse naturally with Cedric Neville who looked puzzled and unsmiling.

  ‘I had no idea that I’d find you here, Miss Mund
ay. Rotters was John Garth’s choice, as was the visit to Dolly’s, and I suspect he may have wished to meet your friend. The show was very good, and you were splendid on the stage. Have you been at Dolly’s for long?’

  ‘Quite a while now, Captain Neville,’ she answered lightly, forcing a smile. ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’

  ‘Yes, I well remember how you used to entertain us at Hassett Manor, but I never expected to see you performing on a London stage. My mother will be interested – she always thought you were talented. What do Mr and Mrs Munday think about it?’

  This was the question she had dreaded.

  ‘Oh, I really don’t know, Captain Neville, it seems such a long time since I was at North Camp,’ she said with a little shrug.

  ‘I gathered as much when I saw them at Christmas,’ he answered seriously. ‘Anyway, Mrs Storey must be glad to have you near at hand, especially with her husband away, and the, er, the happy event due to take place.’

  Grace had been blushing as she spoke, but on hearing this, she felt the colour drain from her face. ‘You mean…is Isabel expecting a b-baby?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes. Don’t say that you have no knowledge of it! Surely you go to see her when you have some time off?’ When Grace stared down at the table, he added quite sternly, ‘When was the last time you visited Bethnal Green?’

  She could not answer, and Trixie, sensing the fraught silence, turned to her in mock reproof. ‘What’s up, Gracie, you look like a week o’ wet Sundays! Has the captain been makin’ improper suggestions?’ She giggled, and said to both men, ‘You mustn’t think she’s always as glum as this! On the contrary, she’s a proper little firecracker, our Gracie. You should hear how the fellows go on about how she entertains the troops!’