My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Bertie answered without looking at him, ‘Leave it on the table,’ and waited until the other boy had moved away before taking his position with the others.

  Charlie sat as far away from Bertie as he could, knowing how any proximity angered his half-brother.

  Rowena passed Lyn the end of her chain, ‘Stand over there!’ whilst she herself ran to the other side of the room to see how far it would stretch. ‘Just a few more, I think – oh, Lyn!’ Her sister had tried to stretch the chain and it had snapped.

  ‘Well, you can leave it until tomorrow to repair and clear away now,’ ordered their mother after a consultation of the clock. ‘Biddy, put this hat in the front parlour.’ She accepted the cocoa from Charlie but gave no thanks as she added a dash of milk from the jug, knowing it was just his attempt to ingratiate himself. God, how much longer would he be here?

  Biddy put the pile of mending to one side and went to do as her mistress had asked. When she returned, the children were packing the paper chains into a box, after which they concentrated on their cocoa.

  ‘Just over a week to go!’ Becky hoisted gleeful shoulders, then became ponderous. ‘I wonder what sort of Christmas Father will have?’

  ‘Well, there’s one certainty,’ sniped her mother, ‘he won’t be facing the shortages we are. You can be sure the Army will be well-fed while we at home have to hunt high and low to scrape up a decent meal. We’re living like peasants.’ This wasn’t quite true, but Rachel never missed an opportunity to carp about the Army.

  ‘I wonder if Father’ll send a card for my birthday?’ said Becky. Three of her sisters had celebrated their birthdays recently, Rowena, Lyn and one-year-old Regina, and none of them had received a card. ‘It takes a letter a long time to get from the war, doesn’t it?’

  Rachel didn’t reply. The children were not to know that she had been throwing their father’s mail unopened onto the fire.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be home soon, Mother?’ asked Rowena. Her mother replied that it was no use asking her. ‘Well, people keep saying it’ll all be over by Christmas.’

  ‘People are like budgerigars,’ said Rachel. ‘Just repeating what everyone else is saying.’

  ‘Where exactly is he, Mother?’ Becky rested the points of her elbows on the table and propped up her chin. Her smallest finger found its way up her right nostril. ‘If he isn’t going to be home I’d like to send him a present. It must be very lonely for him.’

  This seemed to anger her mother for some reason. ‘He’s got all those men to keep him company, why should he be lonely – and take that finger out of your nose!’

  Becky removed the finger to her pink cheek. ‘But it’s not the same as being at home with your family. We always have such lovely Christmases.’

  Yes, they did. Rachel was cast back to the previous Christmas when Russ had been elected Sheriff. They had all piled into the car and taken a trip into the country to pick holly and mistletoe. And Christmas morning – as every Christmas morning – the children had tumbled into their parents’ room to brandish the contents of their stockings… The presents, she turned involuntary eyes on Charlie; what was she going to do about him? After consideration, she addressed them en masse, leaving her seat and pretending to be examining the curtains in case a chink of light might be showing to an enemy aircraft. ‘You understand that with your father away there’ll be little money spare for gifts this year?’

  Little Rhona was confused. ‘I thought it was Father Christmas who brought the presents.’

  Rachel, seeing her error, turned and said quickly, ‘Well yes, of course… but with the war on Father Christmas may not be able to get around to making all the toys this year, so I hope you’ll be good and just be content with what he brings you?’ She came back to her seat and stared into the yellow flames of the fire.

  Most of the children said they would. Rachel missed Beany’s look of resentment, which was soon displaced by a nudge from her eldest sister.

  ‘Will Father Christmas be able to get to France?’ asked Becky.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said her mother absently.

  Charlie asked what Becky intended to send to her father and was told she had been saving for a comb. He was pensive. ‘I’d like to send something too.’

  ‘I’m going to bed!’ Bertie downed his mug on the table, kissed his mother and left. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, dear.’ Rachel’s eyes followed him from the room. Guessing that Charlie’s words were responsible for his leaving, she had the urge to sting. ‘I’m sure he won’t want anything from you!’

  Then she saw that Becky had taken herself to be included in the tart remark and said more kindly to her daughter, ‘But I’m sure it was very generous of you, Rebecca. If you really feel you want to spend your money this way then I’ll post the gift off when you’ve bought it.’ Straight away, the others asked if she would also send theirs. She agreed, though not very enthusiastically. Here she was, struggling to continue the ritual of pocket money so that they wouldn’t suffer, and what did they do? They saved it to buy a gift for the one who’d deserted them!

  ‘So can’t I send anything?’ asked Charlie quietly.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me you usually do as you please!’ Rachel snapped, and shortly after this packed them all off to bed.

  Charlie was the last to go out. He stopped at the door, waiting for the others to go up before saying to Rachel, ‘You don’t have to buy me anything.’

  She looked up impatiently, then realized what he meant. ‘Oh… well, I wouldn’t have left you out, but as it’s your own suggestion… I am rather short of money with your father deserting me.’ She looked away to the fire and said nothing more. The boy left silently.

  Alone in the attic, Charlie knelt by his bed and clasped both hands in prayer, a rosary draped between the two thumbs. He knew it was selfish to ask for personal things and for this reason prayed only for his father’s deliverance and that this war would soon be over. Yet once in bed he just could not help the plaintive addition: please, please make them like me.

  * * *

  Rachel was at work in the shop the next morning when the dreadful news came via a customer. ‘Eh, isn’t it atrocious about Scarborough?’ The woman was raking amongst the coins in her purse in order to pay for the length of black ribbon.

  Rachel continued to wind the purchase around two fingers, then tucked it into a small bag. ‘What’s happened?’

  The woman stared. ‘You haven’t heard? Eh, it’s all over town – they’ve bombed Scarborough early this morning, and Whitby and Hartlepool. There’s trainloads of homeless pouring into York station. Dreadful mess the Germans’ve made by all accounts.’

  Rachel’s fingers paused at the corners of the paper bag. ‘How terrible! Was there anybody killed?’

  ‘Quite a few, I believe.’ The woman took the bag and tendered her money. ‘Apparently these big ships bombarded it.’

  The coins trickled into the wooden bowls of the till. ‘Goodness, are they that close?’ Already Rachel could picture hordes of marauding Huns ransacking her home.

  ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s all very well when they’re in Belgium but when it’s your own doorstep…’

  This conversation was repeated with each subsequent patron. By late morning Rachel felt thoroughly unnerved at the closeness of the enemy.

  ‘Only a week to Christmas,’ she twittered to the final customer of the morning. ‘It’ll be all over by Christmas, they keep telling us – they didn’t say which Christmas, did they? Oh, goodness! I’ll never sleep tonight knowing they’re so close. And I suppose this will mean even more shortages. Some Christmas it’s going to be.’

  The customer pocketed her change and moved away from the counter. ‘Well, as long as they keep the brave boys at the front strong and healthy, that’s what matters, doesn’t it?’ Rachel opened the door for her, a gust of cold air lifting the woman’s scarf as she made her parting remark. ‘They’re the ones who are f
ighting the enemy.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ Rachel smiled and closed the door. Her cheerful mien gave way to one of compressed spite. ‘Brave boys indeed!’

  * * *

  In a small village somewhere in France, a young man stood with his back to a wall. Around his eyes was a blindfold, neath which only the tip of his freckled nose protruded. His wrists and ankles were bound with rope. He wore a dirt-stained vest and khaki trousers supported by braces. Facing him, a short distance away, a nervous line of British soldiers made ready their weapons. The young man’s ears became more alert for the order about to be given, heard the click of rifle bolts. He wanted to call out for his mother… but they did not give him time.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘God rest ye merry gentlemen…’ Russ shivered and flexed his fingers several times to try and restore circulation. It had only just dawned on him that in a few days’ time it would be Christmas. Here, the dates ran into one another, the only difference being night and day, hot and cold. A moment ago there had been a distribution of mail and parcels from home and the men were sitting in their waterlogged trenches poring over the contents. Hazelwood watched them enviously for a time then, slipping a piece of paper from the pocket of his greatcoat, cleared his throat and said, ‘I wrote home to my missus last week and told her the major had been killed by a Jack Johnson.’ This was the nickname for an artillery shell. ‘Listen to what she says, “Dear Husband, thank you for your letter. How dreadful to hear about your major being killed by Jack Johnson. What chance do you stand against the Boche if your own men are killing you…”’

  At the ripple of appreciation, he read more purported anecdotes from his wife, then folded the blank sheet into his pocket and reached for his ration tin. In truth Rachel had still not replied to his letters. He had started to invent his own replies when Dobson had become too inquisitive over why the sergeant didn’t get any mail. ‘Oh, I do, lad!’ he had exclaimed and patted his pocket where sat the now crumpled sheet, and from then on had given weekly recitations of the bogus reports from home. Becoming so hungry for a letter, any letter, he had considered writing to his sisters to confess his sins. They would be shocked, but at least their reproachful words would give him some link with home. On second thoughts, he had confined his writing to May, to whom he had always been closer than his other sister. He was still waiting for a reply. Obviously, he had overestimated May’s understanding nature.

  He sought around him and, coming up with a flat stone, laid it on a section of duckboard that was not submerged. Taking a biscuit from his tin he put this on the stone and, picking up a rock, proceeded to batter the biscuit until it cracked. He then placed the fragments into a metal can and poured a scoopful of rainwater over it. This was left to soak whilst he reached for another can which had been through this process a couple of days ago and had currently been heating over a brazier. Drained of water, the resulting sops were transferred to his billy can and covered with condensed milk. As he consumed it he tried to imagine that he was eating one of Rachel’s fruit scones, warm from the oven and thick with butter.

  Dobson squelched down the line to where his sergeant was nestled in a funkhole and took up residence in a vacant neighbouring one. His face was coated in a greasy black layer and was thoroughly miserable. ‘God, my bloody feet’re cold, Sarg.’

  ‘Well, I hope you aren’t expecting me to unbutton my tunic so’s you can warm ’em on my belly – that’s the tenth bloody time you’ve told me that today, Dobson.’ Condensed milk trickled from the corners of Russ’ mouth. His concentration broken, the warm scone became the mush it was. ‘Heard from your mother yet, have you?’ Dobson waved a letter. ‘Well, don’t look too happy about it, your face might drop off. What does she say?’

  ‘She says she’s gonna give me a good hidin’ when I get home,’ answered a worried Dobson.

  At which Russ guffawed and shook his head. ‘What about your dad?’ He had never heard Dobson mention him.

  ‘Haven’t got one… Do you think if I buy her a Christmas present it might help? Trouble is, I don’t know what to get her.’ Deep in thought, Dobson huddled further into his greatcoat, a hand tucked up each arm, chin resting on knees.

  Hazelwood sensed the boy wanted to say something more and guessed what it was: not a word had been uttered about Wheatley. Days had gone by since they had taken him, yet no one had mentioned it. It was as though none of them could believe it. Personally, Russ thought about the boy a lot, considering that Wheatley could quite easily have been his son. How would he have felt had this been so? It was only thanks to the captain that he and the others had not been selected for the firing squad. Russ knew the young officer had been very upset when orders had come from HQ that Wheatley must be shot as an example to the others. Russ himself had spent the days following the execution boiling with hate for the General who had signed the boy’s death warrant.

  Dobson’s breath came as a white puff in the wintry air as he broke into song. ‘Hark the herald angels si-ing! Glory to the newborn King! Peace on earth and mercy mi-ild… Sarg, d’you think we’ll get leave for Christmas? God and sinners reconciled!’

  Russ scraped his fingers into all the corners of the billy, hunting down the last elusive traces of condensed milk. ‘Hang on, I’ll consult these chicken’s entrails.’

  ‘Lah de, dah-dah, dah-dah-dah-dah!’ Dobson broke off again. ‘I just thought, like – join the triumph of the sky-ys!’

  ‘Thinking’s for officers, Dobson, not the rank and file.’

  ‘What with it being the festive season and that, they might let us have a bit o’ time off.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about where you are at Christmas.’ His meal finished, Russ replaced the can in his pack. ‘Fritz’ll send you plenty of presents to put in your stocking.’ He flinched as a shell exploded nearby and a barrowful of mud cascaded over, adding another layer of filth to their faces. ‘I wish they’d start putting some eggs in them shells they keep lobbing at us, I’ve almost forgotten what they taste like.’

  ‘Do you know what I miss most of all?’ said the private, looking upwards. ‘A blue sky. This weather’s really getting me down.’

  ‘Hah! If that’s all you miss, go sit next to Fuffin’ Fforbes – the air round him is always blue.’ Private Fforbes had a very limited vocabulary. Russ began to think of the thing he missed most – felt the haven of his wife’s warm moistness lock around him. He gave an inner groan. Oh, get down, boy!

  ‘Do you believe in heaven, Sarg?’

  ‘Course I do,’ said Russ instantly and pointed at Daw. ‘Isn’t that God down there?’ He could not forgive the man for reporting Wheatley’s lapse. He was not alone. A ranker officer was never popular, but Daw had other things to his disfavour. Though the men admired his fighting ability, they detested his sarcasm and his righteous air.

  ‘Aye… but seriously, Sarg.’

  Russ glanced at him and shrugged as he reached for his rifle, taking the cleaning implements from its butt. It had already been cleaned today but there was little else to ease bored fingers. ‘Seriously? I suppose so.’

  Curiosity etched two lines on the bridge of Dobson’s nose. ‘How d’you see it? I mean, d’you think it’s all cloudy and that or will it be a proper place?’ Not waiting for answer, the boy gave his own opinion of how heaven would appear. ‘I think it’ll be like a lovely big garden – I always wanted a garden, you know. We’ve only got a yard… and there’ll be all the people I used to know – least the ones I liked, anyroad, and it’ll be sunny all the time… I just wonder,’ his frown deepened, ‘…well, as a kid,’ this brought a smile from his sergeant, ‘whenever we were going on an outing or summat, I used to get really excited and couldn’t wait to get there. Then when we did get there… I’d feel sorta let down somehow. I just wonder if it’ll be like that when I get to heaven.’

  Russ turned mocking eyes on him. ‘And where’s the guarantee that you’re off in that direction?’ On one knee he laid
his strip of four-by-two, on the other his gun oil.

  ‘I wonder if Wheatley’s there?’

  Russ had somehow known that Dobson would be the one to break the silence. ‘And why shouldn’t he be?’ he asked gruffly, applying the rag.

  ‘Well… gettin’ shot by his own side, like.’

  ‘It’s not just heroes what go to heaven, Dobson… anyway, it’s a bit morbid talk for a lad o’ your age, isn’t it? You want to be thinking more of what you’re going to do when you get home.’

  Dobson gave a pensive nod. ‘Oh aye, I wasn’t reckoning on going today.’

  There followed a period of silence, then the youth began in his broad Yorkshire voice, ‘Ah say, Sarg…’

  ‘Ass hay – that’s hoss fodder, isn’t it?’

  ‘D’you think there will be any chance o’ this being over by Christmas?’

  Russ dealt him a cryptic smile which was answer in itself. They had said that about the Boer War, ‘Oh, it’ll be over in no time!’ and look where the ensuing three years had got him.

  ‘Then why does everybody keep saying it will?’

  Russ heaved a sigh. ‘What, why, where, when, here’s that pain in the arse again – don’t you ever stop asking questions, Dobson? Why don’t you go for a little stroll round Fritz’s trenches? See if he wants any human cannonballs.’

  The chastened private lowered his feet to the quagmire and skulked away. Russ began to think of his family as his four-by-two slid over the gunmetal. If previous years were any indication, his girls would be making Christmas decorations now and singing carols round the piano. He wondered how they felt about him. Naturally he had known that Rachel wouldn’t write, but had expected more from his girls. Of course, Rachel, feeling the way she did about him, would probably have forbidden it… or had she in his absence succeeded in turning them against him too? How was Bertie faring at his new school? Did he still hold his father in such contempt? What manner of Christmas would they be having? Was Rachel managing to do the books or had she left them to Jimmy – or had she simply closed the store down? Home life should be a little easier for her, with Charlie gone. Russ felt a pang of guilt for the way he had behaved towards the boy. After all, it was his fault that Charlie was in existence; the child hadn’t created himself. He finished polishing the rifle, replaced the implements in the butt then rested the weapon across his knees and drifted off to sleep.