The Carpenter's Children

by Maggie Bennett

  ‘I’m very sorry, Munday, and I wish there was better news. It had started in the pancreas and spread to the liver by the time we opened her. There was nothing useful to be done except to close the incision and let her spend what time she has left in resting and seeing her loved ones around her.’

  ‘How long d’you think it’ll be, sir?’ Tom had asked, his voice thin and unfamiliar to his own ears.

  ‘Not too long, Munday. Once a patient has been opened up, it seems to send the cancer cells spreading quickly throughout the system, and shortens the time. You’ve got a son and two daughters, haven’t you? I suppose your son’s away at the war, but send for the daughters as soon as you can.’

  ‘And our little grandson, eight months old,’ added Tom.

  Violet Munday, a shadow of her former self, came home in an ambulance and was carried upstairs to the bed she shared with Tom. Grace tended her, washing her and changing the bedlinen, helping her on and off the commode and trying to tempt her appetite with Benger’s Food and calf ’s foot jelly sent up from Yeomans’ farm.

  ‘What’ve they done to my stomach, Tom?’ Violet asked pathetically. ‘What have they done to my poor stomach? Where’s Ernest? Why isn’t my son here?’

  Tom sent a letter to the War Office, requesting that Lieutenant Munday be granted leave to visit his mother, but the message never got through to the front, from where the news was confusing and contradictory as fresh casualties arrived at Charing Cross Station and fresh drafts were sent out to take their place, marching in grim silence: no ‘Tipperary’ or ‘Pack up Your Troubles’ was to be heard now.

  Isabel came to visit, bringing Paul with her, and leaving baby Becky in the charge of Sally Tanner. Grace begged for news of her, and was told that she was doing well, taking her bottle feeds and putting on weight.

  ‘But we mustn’t talk about her, Grace, or our parents will find out, and that’s the last thing we want,’ warned Isabel, who was determined that Becky was to be adopted by Mark and herself, and to grow up as their daughter, regarding Grace as her aunt. All this had to be kept from the Mundays, and Grace’s sorrowful looks were put down to her mother’s illness.

  Annie Cooper came to visit the invalid with Freddie, and Mary Cooper with little Dora, as also did Mrs Bird, Mrs Saville and Lady Neville, though her ladyship had her own worries: her daughter Miss Letitia had lost so much weight that it was said she looked like a skeleton, though she still refused to eat and was too weak to leave her room. In vain did her mother and Dr Stringer threaten and harangue her, and tell her that she would die if she did not pull herself together, and that it would be nobody’s fault but her own; she turned her face to the wall of her room, and there she was found by a housemaid on a chill February morning, a gaunt, open-eyed corpse. Lady Neville was thrown into an agony of remorse at seeing her own impatient words fulfilled so exactly, and she refused to speak to Dr Stringer when he came to visit the wounded in Hassett Manor. The news was given out that Miss Neville had died of a form of consumption, and her funeral was a sad, black-clad affair on a wet afternoon.

  When word came from St Barnabas’ vicarage that Mark Storey had arrived in England and was in Charing Cross Hospital, Isabel was almost beside herself with joy. She bid her parents an affectionate farewell, promised to write to them and, taking baby Paul, caught the next train to London.

  It was old Mr Storey who suggested that he and she should visit Mark together, leaving the two babies in the care of Sally Tanner.

  Mark was in a long ward with a row of twelve beds on either side. When Isabel saw him she almost ran to his side, where he sat propped up on three pillows.

  ‘Mark! Oh, dearest Mark, God be thanked for bringing you home again!’ She eagerly embraced him, putting her warm face against his cool cheek, while his father looked on, smiling. Mark seemed unmoved.

  ‘Isabel,’ he said in a dull, flat tone. ‘Poor Isabel.’

  ‘What d’you mean, Mark? I’m not poor! I’m the happiest of wives,’ she said joyfully. ‘I can’t wait to have you home with us – to show you our beautiful son – oh, he really is the dearest baby boy – isn’t he, Pa?’

  ‘He is indeed, my dear. I can see a resemblance to his daddy in his eyes.’

  ‘So, I gave you a child on that last night, Isabel – the night I raped you.’

  ‘Mark! How can you say such a thing? You were upset that night, that’s all.’

  He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘And you didn’t like it, did you? Something I’d promised I’d never do.’ He turned to his father. ‘But I broke my promise, and got on top of her, and raped her – are you listening, father?’

  Heads were turning in their direction, both patients and visitors.

  ‘Be quiet, Mark!’ said his father sharply. ‘Show some respect for your wife, she’s one in a million, and has never spoken ill of you, not once. Stop using that word, and be thankful for her – and your son.’

  ‘The child of a rape,’ persisted Mark in a surly tone.

  ‘Then all I can say is thank God you did, because you’ve got a fine son by it!’ retorted his father with uncharacteristic vehemence.

  ‘And an only child, eh, father? Because there won’t be any more, will there? Have they told you I’m a eunuch, Isabel?’

  Isabel answered calmly. ‘I know about your injury, Mark, and I’m sorry, but not for myself, because we can still love each other in the way we did. And Paul won’t be our only child, because it so happens that we have a little adopted girl. My sister Grace bore her, and I’ve said that we’ll have her as our own, a sister for Paul, and of my own blood.’

  ‘Your sister Grace? That little trollop? You never could see through that girl. Who’s the father?’

  ‘Somebody who has since gone back to the war and been killed,’ she answered seriously. ‘Don’t be so quick to condemn people, Mark. Little Rebecca – we call her Becky – is now two and a half months old, and a dear little thing. You’ll be won over when you see her, I know you will. We’ll be her legal guardians, to bring her up in a happy, loving home. And you’ll be vicar of St Barnabas’ Church again!’

  ‘No, Isabel, I bloody well won’t – sorry, father, but there’s no God, or if there is, he’s an uncaring sod.’ Seeing his father’s horrified look, he went on, ‘D’you remember how we used to talk about Matthew Arnold, Dad, and how he described his loss of Christian faith in Dover Beach? Not only that, he foresaw all this – don’t you see? And we are here as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night – couldn’t have put it better myself, and this from a man who died thirty years ago. I bet he upset his father, too.’

  The words he spoke and the tone of voice that uttered them sent a shiver down Isabel’s spine. She looked helplessly at her father-in-law, who rose from his chair.

  ‘I think it’s time for us to be going, Isabel. Paul will be needing you.’ He spoke regretfully, but patted Isabel on her shoulder. ‘Say goodbye to her, Mark.’

  He turned away so that he did not see their parting, the chaste peck on the cheek that Mark gave his wife; she was thoughtful as they made their way out of the busy hospital where ambulances were arriving and departing. He hardly dared to ask her how she felt, but she anticipated him.

  ‘It’s going to be a challenge, Pa, but I’ve got every hope of success,’ she said with quiet conviction, for she was resolved to lead this stony-faced atheist back to the man he had been – the idealistic young clergyman who had courted and won her.

  March, 1918

  When Isabel left North Camp with her baby, Grace Munday faced the biggest challenge of her life: to be strong for her father and to care for her mother by day and night, hiding her own deep sadness under a hopeful front, always encouraging, never flagging. Her throat might ache with silent sobs, and her eyes brim with unshed tears, and her only reward was her father’s appreciation.

  ‘You go and get your tea, Grace, and I’ll sit with her for a bit. I’ve left today’s pa
per for you to look at.’

  ‘Is that you, Tom? What time is it?’ asked Violet in bewilderment, waking up from a dream about Ernest. ‘He was here, Tom, I saw him and spoke to him – I know he was here.’ When the cobwebs of sleep vanished and she returned to full consciousness, she sighed and repeated her conviction that she would never see her son again. Tom grew weary with reassuring her that their son was alive and well, something he was beginning to doubt seriously. There had been no word of Ernest or Aaron since before Christmas, and Tom secretly feared that if one of them was killed, the other would lose the will to survive, and grow careless of his life. There were certain questions that Tom could not share with Eddie Cooper, who would probably not know what he was talking about. The close emotional friendship between the two young men was understandable in a time of war and danger, but if it persisted in civilian life to the exclusion of women, would it be considered normal? Consulting the dictionary, Tom looked up Sodom, ‘a city destroyed by God for its depravity’, and a Biblical reference was given. Sodomy was ‘unnatural and unlawful intercourse, especially between male persons, a criminal offence’.

  Tom closed the dictionary, remembering how Ernest had told him about the goings-on among some boys at Everham Council School, and how he, Ernest, had always avoided it. He was sure that Ernest would never practise sodomy – but might others suspect the relationship to be unnatural? After the war, if it ever ended, Tom felt fairly sure that Aaron would marry a girl of his own religion, but of Ernest he was less sure. But oh, for a sight of his son now, home to gladden their hearts and in time to say goodbye to his mother!

  When a letter arrived from Isabel, Tom tore it open at once, eager for news of his son-in-law. It seemed that Mark had been very ill following a serious injury in the genital area, but was hoping to be discharged from hospital soon.

  ‘He’ll need feeding up and cheering up, Dad,’ wrote Isabel. ‘He’s been suffering from what’s called shell shock, but I have no doubt that with God’s help I shall be able to cure him.’

  Dear Isabel, what a treasure she was, Tom thought, and what courage she showed, when other women might have given way to self-pity.

  But there was a second page to the letter. ‘Unfortunately, because of the injury Mark has sustained, there can be no more children for us. However, we have the chance to adopt a dear little girl, now three months old, and quite surprisingly like Mum! We are so happy about this, and so grateful to Providence for such a precious gift at just the right time. I look forward to showing you Paul’s little sister Rebecca as soon as is convenient.’

  Now this was news to tell Violet, and Tom went straight upstairs with the letter. Grace was clearing away the breakfast tray, and straightening Violet’s pillows.

  ‘Listen to this, Violet – and you too, Grace – it’s a letter from Isabel, and she’s got wonderful news!’ He read aloud the first part of the letter, concerning Mark’s serious injury that had made him unable to father any more children.

  Violet listened and sighed. ‘I don’t call that wonderful news, Tom. Poor Mark! What a tragedy to happen to a man.’

  ‘But wait a minute, Violet, and listen to this: our Isabel isn’t one to let the grass grow under her feet, and she’s adopting a baby, a little girl who happened to be available through a Christian adoption agency. Her mother’s one of these poor single girls who’s had to give her up. Her name’s Rebecca, or Becky, and Isabel says she looks like you, Violet! We must arrange for them all to come down and see us – Isabel and Mark, Paul and Becky!’

  His wife gave a tired smile. ‘Isabel’s always been a good girl, and now she’s proving to be a good wife and mother, a daughter to be proud of—’

  Grace abruptly left the room. They heard her footsteps going downstairs, and a door slamming somewhere in the house.

  ‘It’s too bad of Grace,’ said Mrs Munday with a frown. ‘Always so selfish, and now can’t even be glad for her sister’s sake. How different they’ve always been.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with her later,’ said Tom, who was not entirely convinced that it was just jealousy that had caused Grace’s odd behaviour. He had seen the stricken look on her face as she fled the room. ‘Come on, Violet my girl, let’s have another smile from you!’ he said as he pulled her up the bed.

  ‘Yes, Tom, we must ask them all to come and see us again soon, as soon as Mark leaves hospital,’ she said. ‘But oh, for a sight of Ernest!’

  April, 1918

  A slow procession of vehicles crawled along what had been a well-worn track for farm carts from time immemorial: new guns going up to their positions, ammunition wagons full of shells, overloaded ambulances on their way to the clearing station, ration carts for the troops in the line. Now and then a cart would have to pull round a heap of wreckage that had once been men, horses and wagons, and all along the route stood the skeletons of shattered trees. Over and around them the guns boomed ceaselessly, a series of livid flashes. The procession had to pause when a shell dropped in front of them, and to speed up when one hurled down almost on top of them. Shell hole merged with shell hole, death traps for the walking wounded, of which Lieutenant Munday was one, tramping along with the others, his left elbow bleeding through a grubby bandage. He ignored the excruciating pain from it and from his blistered feet, he resisted the deathly fatigue and the pangs of hunger, and pressed forward towards the clearing station set up in a medieval church, for he had learnt that Lieutenant Pascoe was there among the badly wounded, awaiting transport to the base hospital at Cherbourg and the Channel ferry. Home!

  After what seemed an interminable march, keeping pace with the slow-moving traffic, Ernest arrived at the church with a Red Cross flag flying from its tower. He took his place in a queue of men waiting for medical attention, and once inside the church he saw a sight he would never forget. All along the nave lay improvised stretchers leading right up to the choir and chancel, where half a dozen tired-looking surgeons in bloodstained overalls performed operations, many of them amputations, and orderlies carried away limbs in baskets. Men died before aid could get to them, and these were carried through to the sacristy; the all-pervading smell of chloroform and ether failed to mask the stench of bodies and blood.

  An orderly beckoned Ernest out of the queue. ‘Just yer arm, is it? ’Ere, take these dressin’s and a clean bandage, and see to it yerself. There’s no time ’ere for minor stuff – see that chap over there with the bad leg? Get ’im to do yer arm for yer, and you can do ’is leg for ’im. There’ll be another ambulance soon, to take as many as they can to the ’ospital train, so get a move on!’

  As soon as the two reciprocal dressings were done, Ernest began to search the rows of wounded men groaning in mortal agony, calling on their mothers, begging for water and relief of pain. Lieutenant Pascoe was not among them.

  ‘If ’e’s a goner, ’e’ll be through there in the sacristy,’ said the orderly. ‘Yer can ’ave a look if yer want.’

  Ernest duly went through into the dimly lit, relatively quiet room, where sheeted figures lay closely packed on the stone floor. It was a mortuary, and Ernest began the task of lifting the sheets from the faces of the dead and replacing them when he did not find the face he sought. As he worked his way along the silent rows, the orderly called to him from the door.

  ‘Hey, Lieutenant, there’s another ambulance ready to go, and ye’d better get on it! Reckon yer pal’s already gone on ahead, and ye’ll find ’im waitin’ for yer at the base ’ospital, I dare say!’

  Ernest straightened himself up. It made sense, he ought to take the chance to get out of this hell and home to his mother who was seriously ill, according to the last letter from his father, and might not live to see him again. But there was one more row of corpses, and he had to know whether Aaron was among them or not. He shook his head, and the orderly shrugged and disappeared.

  And as Ernest folded back the sheet of the last body but one, he gasped and gave a wordless cry; for it was Aaron’s beloved face he saw, and Aaron
’s eyes looking at him, recognising him! Ernest realised that Aaron must have been deeply unconscious when he was mistaken for dead, but there was a spark of life left in him, his heart still beat weakly and his lungs took in shallow breaths of air. He could not speak, but his eyes said all Ernest needed to know.

  ‘Aaron, my love.’ That was all Ernest said as he gently raised his friend’s head and shoulders to cradle in his arms. It seemed to him that Aaron had waited for him to come before taking his leave of the world.

  It did not take long before the eyes dimmed and the last breath left the body. Aaron was dead, and Ernest laid him back on the floor and covered his face, giving thanks to whatever God looked down upon them, both Jew and Gentile, and for granting them this last farewell.

  Ernest never got on the ambulance and did not board the hospital train. He left the church in the company of the sergeant whose leg wound he had dressed. Three others joined them as they began to walk back along the way they had come, hoping to join their platoon or any British military in the area. Here and there dead and dying horses and mules lay at the side of the road, a sight which never failed to move Ernest, outraged at the suffering of these innocent creatures; suddenly he was overcome by nausea, and fell to his knees.

  ‘Go on, chaps, go on and good luck,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t wait for me, my number’s up.’

  The other men hesitated, unwilling to leave him at the side of the road with the fallen horses, but not wanting to lose the chance of getting back to their battalions.

  ‘There’s a farmhouse further along,’ said one of them. ‘Let’s take him there and let him rest till he’s better.’

  Two of them put Ernest’s arms around their necks and made for the house, a ruin that had become a hiding place for enemy soldiers, as they realised too late when a tin-hatted German came running to meet them, followed by another. Both were carrying rifles, and challenged the group to stop and raise their arms above their heads. Ernest was forced to get up and march between his comrades to a section of railway line where open trucks awaited them. By now it was evening, and the prisoners faced a pitch-black night’s journey into the heart of Germany.