What men were made of was spread all over the battlefields, from Belgium in the north to Alsace and Lorraine in the south. In under a month the Germans had swept over most of Belgium, crossing the Sambre and Meuse and forcing a French retreat to the Somme, the last barrier before Paris. At the end of August the Russian army suffered a terrible defeat on the Eastern Front in a battle at Tannenberg, which raged for days in heavily wooded country along the borders of East Prussia.
Angry and shocked northerners read in their newspapers that General Samsonov’s Second Army had been cut to pieces in a hail of German shellfire. Something like 300,000 men were believed to have taken part in the titanic struggle, it was reported. Cavalry swept through the villages under a blazing sun whilst white-bloused Russian infantrymen recklessly charged emplacements to use the bayonet against the grey-clad German machine-gunners.
It made the British with their sense of fair play mad – fighting mad – and by the beginning of September almost as many men were joining the army in a day as were normally recruited in a year, and still Herbert Asquith, the Prime Minister, was asking for some 500,000 more. Lord Kitchener had ordered the number of training centres to be rapidly expanded, and those recruits without rooms in barracks would receive two shillings a day board and lodging in addition to their one shilling pay. And who could say fairer than that? And so the youth of Britain – and some not so young – continued to enlist. And the slaughter went on.
It was in the second week of September that Kitty McLeary paid an impromptu visit to her Aunty Ida in the East End. She was upset, she was very upset, and she needed the warmth and comfort of family and her Aunty Ida in particular. So when Vera, one of the daughters-in-law, met her at the door saying, ‘Eee, Kitty, it’s not your usual day, is it, lass? Anythin’ wrong?’ before continuing, ‘Mam’s bad in bed, she’s got the Father with her,’ she felt somewhat deflated.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Had a fall comin’ out of church last night of all places, I reckon that’s why the Father’s here this mornin’, likely feels a bit responsible,’ Vera whispered back, before adding, ‘Go on in, lass.’
‘Oh no, I won’t bother her now, Vera.’ She hadn’t been inside a church in years and the guilt weighed heavy on her at the best of times; the last thing she needed was to have to sit and make small talk with one of Ida’s priests!
But then the decision was taken out of Kitty’s hands as her aunty’s voice, as full-bodied as ever, called from inside the front room, ‘Vera? Who is it, lass?’ And at Vera’s reply of ‘Kitty, Mam,’ – ‘Tell her to come in then, we don’t stand on ceremony here.’
When Kitty pushed open the door she saw the priest was Father Hedley; she remembered him from her first days in Sunderland when she had stayed with her aunty and accompanied her to church. He was sitting in an armchair by the bed, drinking a cup of tea with a plate of well-buttered hot girdle scones resting on his lap, and his opening words were meant to put Kitty at her ease as he said, ‘Ah now, just what was needed. You’ll help me eat a couple of these scones, won’t you now?’
Kitty forced a weak smile as she said, ‘I’ve not long had me breakfast, Father.’ She had liked this priest, he’d been kind, had had the human touch – not like the other one who had constantly preached of the dire consequences of going against God’s holy will and of the tribulations and horrors that would fall on them all when they ignored His holy mass.
‘Aye, I said the same, and look where it got me.’
And then Father Hedley’s attempt at tactfulness was brought to nothing when Ida, ensconced in a knitted bed-jacket in an alarming shade of pink, said cheerily, ‘You remember me niece, Father? Me sister’s child from over the water? Good little Catholic she was afore she went to work for the Stewarts in Ryhope Road.’
Oh, her aunty!
‘Yes, I remember Kitty.’ Father Hedley’s voice was quiet as he stood and offered Kitty his chair despite her embarrassed protests, bringing another for himself from across the crowded, smelly room and putting it a foot or so away as he continued, a note of amusement in his voice, ‘I could hardly do anything else when you talk of her so often, could I, Ida? You’ve been very good to your aunty over the years, Kitty,’ he added softly.
He was nice, this priest. Kitty stared back into the gentle face watching her and this time her smile was more natural as she said, ‘She’s been very good to me an’ all.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
They continued to talk for some time, and Kitty was just on the verge of taking her leave when, in reply to her aunt’s lamentations about the bairns all over the world who would find themselves orphans due to the madness of one man – the Kaiser – Father Hedley said something that stayed her hand. ‘Aye, it’s a wicked thing, a wicked thing right enough,’ the priest said sadly, shaking his greying head. ‘There’s enough heartache in the normal way of things for any soul to carry. Mind, it’s the tragedies that bring out the greatness in folk, we mustn’t forget that. It’s done me heart good just this last week to hear of such a case.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Aye. A young lass, one of the flock, Ida. You might know her. Connie? Connie Bell? She’s taken in a wee one when the mother died in childbirth, tragic, tragic. And the father gone all to pieces, so I understand.’
‘Connie Bell?’ It was Kitty who spoke and her voice was sharp. ‘You did say Connie Bell, Father? Her mother wasn’t called Sadie, was she?’
‘Aye, aye that’s the one. You know her maybe?’ It was Father Hedley’s turn to feel uncomfortable. He had just remembered Sadie’s connection with the family this woman worked for.
‘Not exactly.’ Kitty hesitated a moment before saying, ‘This girl is a little young to be looking after a child, isn’t she?’
‘Young?’ Father Hedley considered the word. ‘No, I don’t think so. She must be over twenty now and there’s plenty had one or two of their own by that age, besides which Connie was born with an old head on her shoulders, some bairns are like that.’ Father Hedley could feel a slight flush creeping over his face but he still said what he wanted to say. ‘The child had a rough start in life but she’s a survivor, is Connie, and a good girl too. Saved up for years and started a little business of her own and that takes some doing. No, I’d say she’s more than able to take care of a bairn.’
Kitty stared at the elderly priest for some moments, then bit on her lip. Dan was tearing himself apart over this lass; he had been for months and nothing would convince her that this latest – him joining up this morning – was because of Connie Bell. She’d been privy to the ins and outs of what had occurred; she’d had the story from all sides, Dan, Art and Gladys, even John, and she had felt all along that this report by the private detective Edith had hired was mostly conjecture. She had said as much to Dan after he had been to see the lass and he had agreed with her, whilst stating that it was too late now. He had acted like a jealous fool; he had accused her of all manner of things and Connie had made it plain she didn’t want to see him again. She hated him now and he didn’t blame her.
The look on Kitty’s face told Father Hedley something was afoot but he surmised Kitty didn’t want to talk in front of her aunty, so now he rose from the chair, dusting his black coat free of crumbs as he said, ‘I shall have to be making tracks, Ida, but I’ll look in again in a few days if you’re not up and about.’
‘Oh I shall be, Father, I shall be. You know me, tough as old boots.’
‘I’ve got to be going too.’ Kitty got to her feet, tidying her hair and adjusting her straw hat more securely on the top of her head. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll see the Father out, Aunty Ida.’
‘Aye, all right, lass, an’ thanks for callin’ in.’
Once outside in the street they both unconsciously lifted their noses to the summer air and breathed it in; the dank unwashed smell of humanity had been strong in the house, and it was Father Hedley who broke the silence as he said, ‘You seem troubled, Kitty, or am I wrong?’
They were standing looking at each other on the hot pavement, and now Kitty’s eyes dropped as she said, ‘No, you’re not wrong, Father.’
‘Can I be of help in any way?’
‘Oh, Father.’
It was an answer in itself, and Father Hedley said briskly, ‘Let’s walk a way. I always find walking helps me think, clears the mind. So, you talk and I’ll listen and think, eh?’ And he smiled.
She hadn’t meant to tell him all of it, of the lads’ part in the attack on Jacob, but Kitty found she had to start at the beginning and work through, and when she was finished Father Hedley was silent for some ten seconds before he said, ‘So the lad is going away and neither of them knows how the other feels, not really. That’s it at bottom? Well, for my part I can tell you that Connie saved every penny of the deposit she put down for the business, Kitty, and that this man, this Colonel Fairley, was someone she loathed and detested.’ He, could feel Father McGuigan turning in his grave. Here he was, encouraging the liaison between a heathen and one of the flock, and blatantly. Dear God, dear God. . .
Kitty nodded, but her voice was very quiet and tentative as she said, after a quick darting glance at the black-clothed figure at the side of her, ‘The thing is, Father, I know how Mrs Stewart feels about Connie Bell. She –’ Kitty stopped abruptly. She had been going to say, ‘She is unbalanced about the lass’, but that was the wrong word to use. It suggested an unstableness, someone who was irrational or deranged, and Edith’s obsession with Connie Bell was frighteningly cognitive in spite of the dark emotion at the root of it. There was nothing rash or impulsive about Edith, her hatred of the girl would be channelled into carefully considered and premeditated attacks if she thought there was a chance Dan might resume his pursuit of her.
‘Yes?’ Father Hedley had stopped walking and now he turned Kitty to face him with a light hand on her elbow. ‘How does Mrs Stewart feel about the girl?’
‘She hates her, Father.’ Father Hedley watched Kitty swallow and her eyes blinked before she said, ‘Dan is her favourite you see, always has been, and I really don’t think she’d stop at anything if she thought there was a chance they might get together. She’s very cold, Dan’s mother, and calculating. Aye, calculating and clever.’
They looked at each other for a moment and something clicked in the priest’s brain. ‘Calculating you say?’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘And clever. Are you aware that this Colonel Fairley attacked Connie and that she feels his assault was precipitated by an anonymous letter the hotel manager received?’
Kitty McLeary’s round handsome face had a blank expression for a moment, then her eyes stretched wide and her mouth opened slightly before she shut it with a little snap, only to open it again to say, ‘I’ve known she’s been up to something, her and John, but I thought it was just the private detective.’
‘You think your employer is capable of doing something like that?’
‘Oh aye, Father.’ It was bitter. ‘And much worse.’ And now Dan was going away to fight and she knew it was to put as much distance between himself and everything that reminded him of Connie as he could. The last few months it had been as if he didn’t care whether he lived or died. Something froze in Kitty at the thought, a chill going down her spine. He had to be made to care. A man going into battle with nothing to lose and nothing to hope for had little chance of seeing another day.
‘Are you all right, Kitty?’
She came back to herself to see Father Hedley staring at her, and the look on the priest’s face told Kitty her own face was reflecting the sick panic she was feeling. ‘Aye, aye I’m all right, Father,’ she said dully. Oh, Dan, Dan, what have you done? Why couldn’t you have waited one more day before enlisting? She could have told him about the letter then, encouraged him to go and see the lass and try to sort things out. But then if Dan hadn’t told her last night he was going to join up this morning, she wouldn’t have come to see her Aunty Ida and met Father Hedley.
But perhaps it wasn’t too late? Dan might have changed his mind or delayed things maybe? There were always panics at the works; something might have cropped up to prevent him following through? She had to go and see him, and right now. ‘I have to go, Father.’ Her voice was urgent and she was already backing away as she spoke. ‘I’ve. . . I’ve an appointment, I’m sorry.’
‘Aye, you run along, Kitty, and don’t you worry. Bring everything to God in prayer now.’
‘I will, Father. Goodbye.’
Father Hedley stood watching the plump, well-dressed figure of the Stewarts’ housekeeper hurrying down the street but he wasn’t really seeing her; his mind was grappling with a memory – a feeling – from the past, which the expression on Kitty’s face had brought to his remembrance. But it wasn’t possible. As he turned away he put his hand to his head, the scones suddenly becoming lead weights in his stomach. Not that. A letter was one thing, but to torch a place knowing there were folk inside. No, no it wasn’t possible. And yet. . . He recalled his unease at the time, which he had been unable to explain, even to himself. But a woman couldn’t have done that surely? Although Kitty had spoken of the son, John, in the same breath as the mother.
It was all too complicated he told himself in the next instant, and he only had his own gut feeling to go on anyway. The past was the past. But what was evident – here, now, in the present – was that someone, be it Edith Stewart or persons unknown, had meant to do Connie harm with that letter. And he had the notion, and strongly, that the Stewarts were at the bottom of it.
He would pay Connie a visit in a few days’ time. He nodded at the thought. He had been intending to call anyway, to remind her that the church door was always open and she would be needing more help and guidance from the Almighty than ever with the heavy responsibilities she had taken on. And while he was there he would mention that two women living alone, above a little business – small as it may be – needed to be careful about such matters as security and good strong bolts on the doors and windows. Aye, he’d do that.
He passed a group of small children playing with a skipping rope one of them had tied to the jutting arm of a lamppost, their faces merry beneath the dirt despite the fact that the two little girls were in filthy rags and the boys had no backsides in their trousers. They were all barefoot and crawling with lice, but at least they looked well fed; they were the lucky ones. One of the little mites smiled shyly at the old priest as he glanced down at them and he returned the smile, fishing in his cavernous black pocket for one of the bags of bullets he always carried around with him. He left the children sitting in a huddle sharing out the sweets, and as he walked away, the sun beating down on his face and causing a shimmer in the road ahead, the little girl’s smile stayed with him.
There was no need for consternation, none at all, but he wouldn’t wait a few days. He would go and see Connie tomorrow and just tell her to watch out for herself.
Chapter Twenty
It was exactly half past six when Dan walked through the door of Bell’s Bakery & Tea-rooms, and when he came face to face with Mary he steeled himself for a fight, only to have the wind well and truly taken out of his sails when she said, after looking him up and down, ‘Well, it’s taken you long enough an’ all.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’ And then she further surprised him when she said, ‘I’m just closin’ up. She’s upstairs feedin’ the bairn. You know about the baim?’
‘Yes, yes I do.’
‘She’ll be down in a minute, we’ve another two hours’ or so work to do down here, but if I was you I’d go up.’
‘Go up?’ He stared at her a trifle vacantly, and then pulled himself together enough to say, ‘Yes, I’ll do that, Mary, and . . . thank you.’
‘It’s the door off the tea-rooms, an’ Dan’ – she caught hold of his arm as he made to pass her – ‘you have come to tell her you were a bloody fool, haven’t you?’
They stared at each other, both of them perfectly still as the last of the
customers sidled past them and out of the front door of the shop, and as the little bell above the door tinkled and then became quiet, Dan looked down into Connie’s friend’s plain little face, and what he read there made his voice subdued and even humble as he said, ‘Yes, Mary. I’ve come to tell her I was a bloody fool.’
‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’ And then she grinned at him – the first time he could remember her doing so – and said, ‘Go on then, what are you waitin’ for?’
Yes, what was he waiting for? Why had he waited all these long weeks? Mary was right, he was a fool, a blind, ignorant, faithless fool. He should have come to see Connie weeks ago, the day after their quarrel when he had woken up in Art’s little study and had known – without a shadow of a doubt – that she could never have done the things that foul report had suggested. She might have sent him packing – she might send him packing today – but at least he would have told her how he felt. Hell, he’d been a fool all right. But pray God Kitty’s feeling was right and Connie felt enough for him to forgive him. He’d do anything: beg, plead, grovel. . .
He didn’t have to grovel.
Connie was sitting in a rocking chair, rosy-red cushions behind her back and wisps of golden hair about her face as she nursed the sleeping baby in her arms, a half full bottle held limply in one hand. She didn’t look up as she said, ‘She won’t have any more so ten to one she’ll be playing us up in another hour. Is that the last one gone?’
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