My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  He turned it over and over in his fingers, face lifeless. ‘Lots o’ men got one,’ he said gruffly. ‘It means nowt… nothing at all.’ And to her even greater surprise, he tossed it onto the fire.

  * * *

  It took a good many weeks for him to regain the state he had achieved before the upset, and even by early summer there were incidents when his fear made a laughing stock of him. One Saturday in June, he took the girls to watch the school hockey championships, while Rachel very kindly took his place at the shop. At first everything was fine; he enjoyed a cheer with his daughters when Beany’s school earned a goal. But in a trice, the players on the green field became soldiers and the loud chants of ‘Scar-croft! Scar-croft!’ became battle cries…

  ‘Have you got earache, Father?’ Beany stopped jumping up and down and stared at him. One by one his other daughters stopped too. Their father had his hands pressed tightly over his ears, eyes screwed shut. The crowd was still cheering. Russ ground his palms into the sides of his head, trying to repel the screams of the wounded, the boom of the guns…

  Rowena grasped his arm, then drew her fingers back quickly as if burnt. He was trembling.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ whispered Becky fearfully.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Rowena felt that they were all looking to her to take action. She was unsure what to do. Oh please, she begged, don’t let Father have one of his screaming turns here.

  He was shivering visibly now. The people nearby had noticed and were observing him strangely. Lyn, who was uttering the same silent prayer as her sister, kneaded her hands and watched in horror as a tear emerged from his squeezed-up eye. Oh don’t, please don’t, Father. There’s people I know…

  ‘Eh, look at Nutty’s dad – he’s crying!’ The boy who had voiced the amazed remark to his friends received a black glower from Lyn, both for the observation and the nickname.

  ‘Shut your mouth, Smelly.’

  But the boy and his gang of friends came to have a closer look. ‘What’s up wi’ him?’

  ‘It’s because of the war,’ said Rowena, trying to steer her father away from prying eyes. ‘He doesn’t like noise.’

  The boys hovered. Their leader nudged a friend, then shouted, ‘Bang!’

  Russ jumped and pressed his hands more tightly over his ears. The culprit roared with laughter.

  ‘Smelly Shelley! Smelly Shelley!’ retorted a furious Lyn. ‘Go on, get back to your pig ’oile!’

  ‘Bang! Bang!’ The boys laughed with glee and danced around Russ – until Lyn flew at them, hands bunched, mouth biting, feet kicking, and they ran to a safer distance where they continued to sing, ‘Nutty’s dad’s a coward! Nutty’s dad’s a coward!’ as the Hazelwood girls hurried their father away, leading him home like an infant. Unluckily for the tormentors, the half-time whistle had just blown and the teacher, witnessing their prank, came over to bang all their heads together, and informed them that Sergeant Hazelwood had risked his life for the likes of them – they should be deeply ashamed of themselves. It was sad that the Hazelwoods were no longer around to see this retribution.

  Away from the din of the sports field, Russ began to recover, seeing now his daughters’ miserable faces. He filled his lungs and let the breath out heavily several times, then murmured, ‘I’m sorry… it was the noise.’

  ‘Did it give you earache?’ asked Beany, slipping her hand into his. He gripped it and nodded. ‘Oh, it’s terrible, earache, isn’t it? You’ll have to take something for it.’

  Russ gave a pained smile, then looked at his eldest girl. Rowena knew that he was not suffering from earache, but didn’t know what to say. Her face showed this. Russ put his arm round her shoulder and touched his greying head to hers briefly before encompassing the rest in his gaze. ‘We’re one short, aren’t we?’

  Becky jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, and Russ turned to see Lyn dawdling ten yards behind. The sight of that skinny young figure – shoulders sagging in disgrace, eyes to the pavement – bit into his heart and conscience. He tore his eyes from her and looked up at the sky. Oh God, how he must have shamed them back there. Are you just going to let it go on and on? he asked himself. Prove to the doctors that they were right about you being no bloody good to anybody? Or are you going to fight?

  I’m sick of bloody fighting, came a weary inner voice.

  For God’s sake, man! These are your children – see the way they pity you. A father should be somebody they can look up to – fight it! Somewhere deep inside his brain a tiny light was kindled.

  Russ cupped imaginary hands around it, refusing to let it be extinguished by the breath from that other voice which said, it’s no use, why bother?

  Gradually, the flame took a hold, grew stronger. Yes, there were times of relapse when he quaked and sobbed like a lunatic, but the flame remained bright, was fanned by the love of his children, and slowly the upsets became fewer.

  As July came upon them, Russ found that he was actually looking forward to the rounds of garden parties and fêtes that the school holiday month would bring. His biggest hope, however, was that Charlie would once again be spending his break with his friend and not coming here to disrupt things.

  This selfish thought made him sit back and look at the contrasts between home and the Western Front: over there, the men were as one against a mutual enemy; at home, the war seemed to have made little impression on people’s natural selfishness. Oh, they formed their committees to roll bandages and dug up their lawns to provide vegetables, but behind the camaraderie there remained that age-old attitude of fuck you, Jack, I’m all right – you only had to look at the example of the munitions workers whose current strike was depriving their Army of the means to win this war. People pushed and shoved and moaned in grocery queues, argy-bargying because the woman in front had got an eighth of an ounce more sugar than they had. There was none of the tenderness of war… the tenderness of war. Russ pondered on the phrase. The conchies would laugh their little cobblers off at that, but it was very true – oh yes, he would not deny that there were moans and grumbles in the trenches, the odd selfish bastard who’d snaffle another man’s rations and those who robbed corpses; but a dead man would not miss a silver watch, and most soldiers of his acquaintance would share what little they had, would sit and nurse a wounded pal – or even a complete stranger – for hours under continuous fire… But all that was lost to him. Now he had slipped back into his old selfish ways. And he prayed that Charlie would not come home.

  But Charlie did come home in the summer – although he informed them straight away that the last fortnight of his holiday would be spent at Adrian’s home.

  Rachel sniffed and looked him up and down. ‘You seem to be quite well-in with this Adrian.’ They were alone at the moment.

  He sensed the bitterness. ‘I’m sorry… I didn’t think you’d mind if I wasn’t here. I thought it might make things better for you and Mr Hazelwood.’

  ‘I notice you don’t call him “Father” now.’

  Charlie picked at a cuticle. ‘He doesn’t like it.’

  Rachel felt sorry for him and her expression lost its hardness. ‘Ah well, you must go where you feel most comfortable.’ She started to busy herself. ‘Is Adrian’s father in the Army?’

  ‘No he was wounded like my… Mr Hazelwood. He’s got a hook on his arm.’ Charlie grinned. ‘I was really frightened of him at first, but he makes us laugh with the things he does with it.’ He went on to tell her all that had happened at Christmas. She watched his face closely. It was obvious he was a lot happier.

  She picked up the kettle and went to the scullery. ‘What was your mother like?’

  He assumed he had misheard and said, ‘Ade’s mother? Well, she’s…’

  ‘No… your mother.’ At his silence Rachel turned from the sink and looked at him. ‘I’ve often wondered.’

  Charlie’s look of startlement faded into one of reverie. He propped his chin with both hands, elbows on table. ‘She was…’ he screwed his face up, i
n search of a description. ‘Just my mother.’

  ‘Was she pretty?’ Rachel’s face had turned back to the sink. The kettle filled, she brought it back to the range.

  ‘No… not really.’ He shuffled his feet under the table.

  ‘You don’t have to feel embarrassed at saying yes,’ said Rachel quietly. ‘She must have had something about her, otherwise he wouldn’t have… I just keep trying to understand.’

  Charlie did not want to regurgitate old hatred. Luckily, he was saved from further discomfort with the arrival of the girls, with whom he spent the remainder of the time before tea.

  His father, of course, was not very pleased to see him here when he came in that evening, but managed to treat him civilly for once. Charlie asked how Mr Daw was. Russ said he didn’t see much of him now they were both at work.

  ‘It looks as if he’s going to be re-elected for the Council,’ Rachel told Charlie. ‘I don’t know – there are others who can’t even get a job. He always falls on his feet, does that one.’

  ‘Foot.’

  She looked at Russ.

  ‘Foot – you mean foot, don’t you?’

  Rachel gave a soft laugh of understanding. The children smiled too. After tea, Charlie asked if he could read the newspaper. ‘We’re not allowed to see them at college.’ Russ tossed him today’s copy and he caught it. On reading several lines he said brightly. ‘The war’s going well, isn’t it? Our tanks have punched a hole in the Hindenberg Line. Looks like it might be over soon.’

  Russ dismissed this observation. ‘I shouldn’t get too optimistic. According to the paper, the Hindenberg Line gets breached every week – and these tanks aren’t all they’re cracked up to be either.’ He envisioned the broken-down tanks on the Somme, tangled up in barbed wire, running into each other, one climbing up the other’s back… like copulating dinosaurs.

  Charlie said no more. In fact, during the rest of the holiday his conversation with his father was extremely sketchy – not that he was made to feel left out, for he was included in all the family’s activities from the attendance of a garden fête at Middlethorpe Lodge to a trip to see Mary Pickford on film at the Victoria Hall. Oh no, he was included in everything… everything except his father’s affection. However, by the time he was ready to go to Adrian’s there was one spark of light; for all his father’s opinions that the newspapers were full of propaganda, it looked as if they were correct when they spoke of great victories and an imminent end to the war.

  * * *

  Two months later, Charlie and the rest of the British public knew that their suffering was finally coming to an end.

  Russ was at the shop when Armistice came. He was sipping a late morning cup of tea when, hearing church bells for the first time in years, he wandered out into the street.

  ‘It’s over!’ A passer-by grabbed his hand, shook it vigorously and ran on to tell the next person. Joyful voices echoed up and down Micklegate. ‘It’s over! The war’s over!’

  Russ had often wondered, whilst sitting up to his hips in mud, what his feelings would be at this announcement. Nothing. He felt absolutely nothing… for the war was still going on inside him. Not just this war, but the one he had created for himself at home. Slouching back inside, he sat down and resumed his cup of tea, his mind turning anticlockwise, returning him to conversations with the boys who would not be coming back.

  Rachel was no more enthusiastic. Neither she nor Ella were among the crowd that gathered in St Helen’s Square, kissing and hugging perfect strangers, congratulating each other on their war effort. What was there to celebrate? One had lost a son, the other had a maimed husband.

  The children heard the news at their respective schools and were granted the rest of the day off, filling the streets with the sound of their innocent patriotism. Two old ladies smiled fondly as the Hazelwood brood marched past and turned the corner. ‘Aren’t they enjoying themselves, the poor little mites.’ And a hearty voice filtered round the corner, ‘Oh, we don’t give a fuck for old Von Cluck…’

  The rest chortled as Rowena gagged Lyn. ‘Mother’s going to be mad enough having us under her feet without hearing that!’

  Mother wasn’t mad – she was crying. She tried to wipe the evidence from her eyes at their unexpected entry, but they saw at once. They also saw the sack of clothes in the corner. ‘Have you been given the day off? That’s nice. I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you, I’m just going out.’ She blew her nose, making herself look busy. ‘I won’t be long, I’m just going into town to take these clothes for the orphans. Don’t touch anything in the pantry.’ She left.

  ‘Did you see what was in that bag?’ a sulky Lyn asked the others. ‘Those were Bertie’s things – she might have let me have the trousers.’

  * * *

  Rachel stood opposite the building that served as a collection point for the charity. She stood for a long time, unable to hand over the sack, feeling that once the clothes were gone, Robert was gone too… but Robert was gone already. Squaring her shoulders, she set off across the road and walked straight into the building. ‘I’ve brought these.’ She held out the sack to a woman. ‘I thought they might be useful for the orphans.’

  ‘Oh right, put them over there, will you?’

  Just that. No ‘thank you’, no ‘that’s very kind of you’. These are my son’s clothes, she wanted to say. My dead son – can’t you imagine what I’ve been through before I could bear to part with them? But the woman had gone back to issuing orders to her underlings. Rachel looked down at the sack in her hand… then went to put it on the pile of other sacks.

  She came out of the building and looked up and down the street. It was packed with revellers – probably most of them drunk, thought Rachel. In the sky above, aeroplanes performed stunts over the jubilant city. From every window hung a Union Jack. As Rachel lowered her eyes, they fell upon a young woman whose face was uplifted to the sky. It took a moment before she identified Biddy, who looked dreadful, her face a sickly yellow. This wasn’t helped by the unfortunate combination of a green hat. Rachel watched her for a couple of seconds. The girl seemed to be alone and not particularly enjoying the celebrations. Poor Biddy… Rachel went up to her then and asked how she was.

  The yellow face stopped watching the aeroplanes. ‘Oh hello, Mrs Hazelwood! I’m fine – how are you?’

  Rachel said she was better now that this war was over, to which Biddy heartily agreed. ‘I wondered,’ went on Rachel, ‘now that it is over, there won’t be much need for all these munitions factories, will there? Would you like to come back and work for me?’

  ‘Ye must be joking!’ laughed Biddy. Then more politely, ‘Ah no, they’ll be needin’ munitions for a good while yet. Anyway, I couldn’t afford the drop in wages.’

  ‘I would’ve thought your health is more important than money,’ said Rachel, though not angrily. ‘The munitions has bought you a fur coat but have you seen what it’s done to your skin?’

  Biddy said that there was nothing wrong with her skin, thank ye very much. ‘An’ ye’ll never get anyone to work for three bob a week nowadays.’

  ‘I could go to five,’ offered Rachel. She didn’t really need a maid any more, but felt so sorry for Biddy.

  Biddy just laughed again. ‘The days of slavery are over, Mrs Hazelwood – but I wish ye good luck in findin’ somebody. Bye now!’ She lumbered off.

  ‘Good luck,’ murmured Rachel, then made her way home.

  Her route took her up Micklegate and on a whim she decided to call in on her husband. How might he be celebrating Armistice? She hesitated outside the shop and peered through the window, between the articles on display. Russ was serving a woman. His mouth worked smilingly as he measured out the red, white and blue ribbons, but the moment the woman was served and turned her back the smile faded. Even after the customer emerged, Rachel continued to watch him.

  Russ sighed and leaned back against a display cabinet, closing his eyes. When he opened them again he was looking at Rachel.


  ‘I wondered if you’d be closing up for the day, everybody else is.’

  ‘Er…’ He shook his head to remove the confusion, then smiled. ‘Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting to see you here.’

  She approached the counter. ‘I’ve been to take Robert’s clothes to the charity place.’

  ‘Oh.’ He dipped his eyes and began to wind a tape measure round his fingers.

  ‘You’d think they’d be grateful, wouldn’t you?’ she asked softly. ‘I mean, I didn’t expect them to salaam all over the place but I might’ve found a thank you rather nice, considering they were our son’s clothes.’

  Our son. She normally said my son. ‘Oh well… I suppose there’s been that many killed… people forget, don’t they?’

  She nodded, mouth turned down at the corners. ‘They must do.’

  They looked at each other for a long time – then a car backfired and suddenly Russ had vanished. Rachel leaned over the counter and stared down at him. He was lying prone, hands over his head, trembling. Swiftly, she moved around the counter and squatted by him. ‘Russ? Are you all right?’ She placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremors.

  He remained as he was for some seconds. Then, slowly, he ascended to a kneeling position. ‘The guns…’

  ‘It was only a car.’ She scrutinized the white face. ‘Making that silly noise that they do – they should be banned!’ She helped him to his feet and brushed the dust from his waistcoat. ‘This floor wants sweeping.’

  He looked into her face. ‘I am sorry, you know.’

  Her expression tightened, not with anger but with pain. After a tortured spell, she said, ‘I know…’ then gave him a final brush and moved briskly to the door. ‘Come on! I’m sure there’s no call for us to stand here this afternoon, there won’t be much custom with everyone drunk.’

  He reached for his overcoat. ‘A lot of folk are wanting ribbons.’