The Loom

by Sandra van Arend

  She had hated the confines of the convent. In her last year she’d been allowed to venture out of the grounds with some of the other final year students. She’d enjoyed walking around Manchester. Sometimes they had afternoon tea at a café in Collins Street. She loved that, the hustle and bustle, the noise and often confusion of a big city. There were always rallies being held, especially now that the war wasn’t going well.

  She had gone out on her own one afternoon and joined some people who were listening to a young man standing on a soap box; he was speaking in a very loud voice in his very pronounced Lancashire accent. She blushed at the thought. She was going to meet that young man the next time she went to Manchester.

  Jessica Townsend had not had the best of mornings. She pursed her lips in annoyance, flicking through her mail, noting in exasperation that quite a number had been opened. George! She must speak to him again about this bad habit of his. She valued her privacy!

  She read another letter, also opened. The day so far had not gone well. Paul had rung at the unearthly hour of seven o’clock this morning that he’d be arriving today. No word of warning so that she could prepare. So typical of him! George had not been at all pleased. She didn’t blame him. Paul was inconsiderate at times and even she, his most fervent champion, sometimes felt decidedly cross the way he ran roughshod over people’s feelings.

  She’d just finished speaking with Paul when Raymond rang, demanding to come home immediately. He hated his cousins he had yelled at her through the phone. His garbled account was cut short by George’s sister who had put Jessica’s mind at rest by saying, in her usual unruffled way, ‘Don’t worry about Ray, Jess darling, we’ll sort this out, just leave it to us.’ So she had, relieved that she could more or less forget Ray for the time being.

  Marion was her main worry at the moment. Two small lines on her forehead deepened as she thought of her daughter. She’d been such a darling little girl and so amenable.

  At breakfast this morning she’d been anything but that, although she’d appeared on the dot of nine as she said she would, looking demure and pretty in a white muslin dress. It wasn’t long, however, before signs of belligerence began to surface and voices were raised. So tasteless, Jessica thought with a shudder. It was all this new way of thinking. She didn’t agree with it at all. She’s getting more like George every day Jessica thought, although at one time she’d been able manipulate George quite easily: just that small, secretive smile and a slight caress of his hand; that had been enough. Lately, however, he was also showing a stubborn streak, especially where Paul was concerned. Thank goodness they were in agreement about Marion.

  It’s all becoming just too tiresome, Jessica thought. Nothing seems to go right. She sighed again and got up from her desk, an ornate antique affair, and smoothed down the long, blue linen skirt of her stylish dress. She suddenly remembered that Miss Fenton was bringing the new maid to see her this morning. Something else to have to think about! She walked over to the window, which looked out onto the garden. Normally she took pleasure in how lovely Hyndburn was, but not today; today she was in too much turmoil to enjoy anything.

  *********

  Leah was exhausted at the end of her first day at Hyndburn: so many different people, so much to look at, so many things to remember. Her mind was in a complete muddle by the time she went to bed. Her duties were to start at seven o’clock and end at six, although she was expected to help with washing the dishes after each meal.

  After the meeting with Mrs. Townsend (it hadn’t been as bad as she thought), she and Miss Fenton went down to the kitchen and had a cup of tea with Maud and Alf. Gertie and the gardener, she’d forgotten his name, had also been there. Gertie had been subdued and hardly said a word. Leah had been uneasy. Gertie was still hostile towards her, but why?

  The rest of the day she spent helping Maud in the kitchen. Gertie had gone off to polish silver in the dining room so Leah hadn’t seen her until almost tea. She had quite enjoyed working in the kitchen with Maud, watching Maud’s deft hands roll pastry, mix cakes and cook a huge roast of beef for the Townsend’s dinner that night, with mouth watering roast potatoes and vegetables. Maud finished with an apple tart for dessert with thick clotted cream. It smelt heavenly!

  ‘We’ll have the steak pudding left over from yesterday,’ Maud said to Leah. ‘You can peel the potatoes for me for the roast while I do the pie.’

  Leah nodded. She could do that, peel a potato at least. Then Mrs. Walters stopped at three, ‘to put my feet up for an hour’, she said to Leah. ‘You just go and get a bit of fresh air, love,’ she said as she went into the adjoining room, which was a kind of sitting cum dining room for the staff. Maud sat down with a sigh of relief and closed her eyes.

  Leah stood uncertainly for a moment wondering what to do. She opened the back door and looked out. It was a beautiful day. A pity to waste it staying indoors and Mrs. Walters had said she could have a break. She stepped tentatively out onto the path and looked at the vegetable garden again. It was so neat, all the vegetables planted in perfect rows.

  She walked down the path and opened the gate onto the cobbles of a large open space, which separated the kitchen garden from the stables and garages. She heard a horse whinny and voices coming from the stables. Should she go and look? Don’t be a ninny she said to herself, they’re not going to eat you! She wandered over to the stables.

  Ned turned at Leah’s light step. He couldn’t see her for a moment as she stood in the brightness of the doorway.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said. He walked towards her and Leah stepped back. Emerging into the daylight he started in surprise. He’d seen this lass before when she used to come down Waters Street where he lived. At sixteen Ned was just beginning to take an interest in girls. Not that he’d seen many, except Miss Marion, while he’d been at Hyndburn

  ‘I’m Leah Hammond,’ Leah said, as Ned seemed tongue-tied.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, when he’d recovered himself, ‘I know who you are. You’re Harold’s lass.’ He blushed as she stared at him.

  Leah liked his open face at once, although she didn’t like red hair. She patted one of the horses and then left the stables with Ned staring after her and walked around to the front of the house, this time to have a good look, feasting her eyes on it for quite some time. She walked down a path which led to a large rose garden, bent to smell a large red one, then on again to the orchards where the gardener was picking some apples.

  ‘Lovely day,’ she said to him; Bob, that was his name she suddenly remembered. ‘Bob.’

  ‘Aye,’ he looked up with a smile. Emma Hammond’s lass, he thought. Looks like her as well. ‘Treating you all right up there, are they lass?’

  Leah nodded. ‘I like Mrs. Walters,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, she’s a grand woman, Maud.’

  So by the end of the day she’d toppled into bed, her mind ticking over with all the new sensations, the people she’d met, sights she’d seen, her eyes finally closing on the sight of that red rose and the heady perfume as it filled her nostrils.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ostend: a cold wind blowing, men in uniform, shivering and blowing on hands for warmth, noise and confusion. This was Darkie’s introduction to the Flemish coast as he stood waiting with the rest of his regiment.

  ‘Name?’ asked the sergeant at the desk, abruptly

  ‘Arthur Coleman.’

  ‘Rank?’

  ‘Private.’

  ‘Number?’

  ‘Eight, oh, farty, farty,’ Arthur Coleman said, looking more like a little lad than a soldier.

  The sergeant in charge of the new recruits looked up in surprise.

  ‘What’s that? What sort of a bloody number is that?

  ‘That’s me identity number you asked for,’ replied the short thin lad in front of Darkie.

  ‘And I said, soldier, what sort of bloody number is that, farty farty, and don’t try to get funny with me or you’ll bloody well wish you hadn’t,’ barked the Cockn
ey sergeant. His moustache almost bristled as he looked at the weak looking specimen before him. And we’re supposed to win the war with this, he thought!

  ‘He means forty forty,’ Darkie interjected. ‘Where we come from we say farty for forty. It’s the dialect.’ Darkie grinned at the sergeant, who couldn’t help smiling back for an instant.

  ‘Aye,’ Arthur repeated stubbornly. ‘That’s what I said, eight, oh, f…’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right, I know,’ the sergeant interrupted. ‘Eight, oh, f…’

  Before he could finish the long line of avidly listening men behind Darkie shouted, farty, farty at the top of their voices. Shouts of laughter and ribald comments followed until the sergeant managed to quiet them down. Arthur Coleman was called Farty for the rest of his life, which unfortunately ended six months later - he was blown to smithereens by a bomb.

  The queue of men finally joined the hundreds of other soldiers waiting in an enclosed area. Waiting for what, Darkie wondered. They were all cold, bored and hungry. Rations had been meagre on the crossing from England to France, most being regurgitated when a gale force wind blew up, the boat bobbing around like a cork.

  ‘What wouldn’t I give for a nice cup of tea and some fish and chips,’ Arthur said, shivering.

  ‘Aye, that would go down nice. I can’t see us getting anything just yet. Blimmen ‘eck, it looks like a bloody circus.’

  How could anyone win a war like this? No one seemed to know what was going on and that included the officers, also standing around stamping their feet and looking, Darkie thought, like they were waiting for a bus.

  Nothing seemed to be happening: the shouts of men, the jostling and neighing horses in the compound next to them and the creaking horse-drawn carts with huge guns.

  ‘Where are we going from here?’ Arthur said to Darkie. They’d met on the train to London and Darkie had taken to the small, starved looking lad straight away. ‘I’m from Preston,’ Arthur said as the train had chuffed south.

  ‘No idea. I heard someone talking about a place called Wipers.’

  ‘Wipers? that’s a funny sort of name.’

  It started to rain again. Fortunately they got the order to move out. At least we’re moving, Darkie thought as they trudged through thick mud, which he gathered was a road. He grinned down at Arthur who looked like a drowned rat in his greatcoat, which was almost trailing on the ground. ‘Put your bloody hat on you silly happorth it’s bloody thumping down.’

  Darkie trudged on with the rest of his company in the East Lancashire Territorials and thought about how he’d left Harwood. He hadn’t had the nerve to tell his mother. Instead he’d left her a letter. Bloody coward, he thought.

  It had only taken a few minutes to get recruited, no questions asked, just his name and age and bang he was a soldier, kitted out in uniform and all the etceteras in almost as short a time.

  Within two weeks he was on his way to Southampton. He’d not said a word to anyone except, strangely enough, his father. He didn’t know why he’d done that, but when Harold saw him on his doorstep his face lit up. Darkie had been shocked at his father’s appearance. He’d known he hit the bottle regularly. He’d seen him at the Wellington on occasion, but he’d never looked like this.

  ‘Agnes died,’ Harold said, as Darkie sat in the dreary looking sitting room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

  ‘Aye, you might not believe it, but I was fond of Agnes. We were at Blackpool, on the pier when she dropped dead; just like that!’

  Harold was shocked when he heard Darkie was going to join up. ‘It’ll just about kill your mother,’ he said.

  He pressed a five-pound note into Darkie’s hand before he left. ‘A going away present,’ he said. Darkie tried to refuse. ‘Agnes left me some money,’ Harold insisted, ‘And I’d like you to have it.’

  Harold watched Darkie walk up Waters Street. His eyes were bleak. He realized suddenly what he’d missed out on. He lifted his hand as Darkie turned for one last wave. My son! What a fool he’d been. Would he ever see him again? He’d be lucky! He walked back inside the house and closed the door.

  As Darkie plodded on, his boots squelching in the mud and Arthur swearing beside him, he wondered if he’d ever see Harwood again. The seasoned soldiers said that it changed you, over here: funny that, he seemed to have changed in the last few hours. Was it his imagination or had the faces of the men around him changed, too. They were young lads, most of them. Now they looked like men, as though the bleak surroundings and the noise of war had already infiltrated their consciousness. Had they suddenly realized that it might not all be fun and games? Darkie shuddered.

  **********

  Captain Stephen Townsend was miserable and cold. He was not the only one. The mud in the trench almost reached his knees and he thanked God for his gum-boots. The rain was coming down in torrents and his waterproof cape was not all it was cracked up to be. He pulled his cap further down over his forehead, the rain pouring from the brim like a waterfall. It had been like this for the last twenty-four hours. Every now and then he’d duck into the covered part of the trench, but it was so stacked with bodies (Germans), the stench so overpowering he could only stand a few minutes of it. The first time he’d retched for a good hour. Now he was a bit more used to it, but not much. The bodies had lain there for months, slowly rotting away or being eaten by the rats.

  There had been a stalemate for days on end and the men were bored and restless. Yet going over the top was the most terrifying thing of all. He had just had word that they were to be given the signal in half an hour. The men had had their tots of rum. Stephen smiled grimly under the brim of his hat. It took more than rum to get some of the men over. He could see Darkie Hammond at the end of the trench. Leah had told him that her brother was going to join up, so he’d not been too surprised that he was in his Company. He’d made himself known after he’d gone through the list. Darkie had been embarrassed at being singled out so Stephen hadn’t lingered over the introduction.

  He stamped his feet to get the circulation going and risked a peep over the trench. The grim scene made Dantes Inferno look like Paradise. And only a few days ago he’d been at Jessica’s dinner party, all toffed out in tie and tails. Jessica had been livid with him, from all accounts. He’d drunk too much and been belligerent with it. He wasn’t usually aggressive when intoxicated, but that night something had come over him. Some kind of perversity had taken over, anger at the world or some such thing, which had played itself out in irking his mother. He remembered telling an important member of Cabinet he was an old goat and didn’t know what the hell he was talking about: something to do with the war.

  He’d sent a letter of apology the next day at Jessica’s urging. Jessica had also tried to pair him off with Penelope Grentham, a lovely girl but too horsey for his liking.

  He’d woken with the worst hangover he’d ever had!

  There was a piercing whistle. They’d been waiting for it, bayonets on rifles, helmets firmly in place. Like one body the first lot of men heaved themselves from the trenches and met vicious enemy fire.

  Darkie was in the second lot. He managed to get over and ran with his head down for the nearest shell hole; a bomb exploded next to him and he went deaf for a few minutes. The night was darker than the mine, lit briefly by the detonation of shells, by the fire from enemy guns, by the Very lights raking the blackness. Hell couldn’t be worse he thought as he peered over the hole and waited to make his next run. Men were running and screaming, being blown to bits; or wounded and hanging on the treacherous wires, which sprouted like a profusion of spiky cactus.

  Jumping, running, scrambling over fallen trees and shell-holes, always hampered by the sucking mud, Darkie attempted (vainly), with the remainder of the men, to gain the ground they’d lost the previous week. He had lost Arthur somewhere in the mad scramble over the trench. Another bomb landed close and Darkie saw the head sliced of a lad on his right (it hadn’t been Arthur, he was pretty sure) as neatly as if i
t had been done on the guillotine. Men were being mown like blades of grass, the shells turning the ground into a graveyard of mud.

  Darkie crouched in another shell hole. He yelled and dashed out of it as a soldier was cut completely in half as he heaved himself over the top. The momentum carried the lower part still running over the edge, like a chicken without a head. The upper torso toppled back into the hole.

  Darkie forced himself on. Terror was not only a word, now. He was filled with it, saturated. It seeped from him like a poison. And the rain came down. The rain came down, turning the shell holes into death traps.

  Stephen was lying awkwardly, his leg bent painfully under him. The teeming rain almost filled the hole and water was now up to his neck. He could feel it lapping against his chin. He’d been in and out of conscious for what seemed like hours and if he didn’t get help soon it would be the end. The pain in his leg was getting worse, although the freezing water must at least have a bit of a numbing effect, thank God!

  He tried to drag himself out of the hole, but this was suicide. He was a sitting duck. He quickly slithered back in, screaming in pain when he moved his leg. Men were dying all around him. Their screams pounded at him, never ceasing. The bombing was relentless. He peered over the top a few times. The last time he’d seen a rat eating a human leg. He let himself back into the hole with a moan. He hated rats! The gas was a problem, but he’d managed to get his gas mask on. That’s what finished a lot: the gas settling in the holes.

  The order had been given that they were to proceed to a place called Westhoek, wherever that was. It could have been on the moon as far as Darkie was concerned. In fact this whole damned madhouse looked like another planet. And he was tired, so tired and even with the noise of the bombing, the sniper fire, the fear of it all, Darkie felt that he could quite easily have dropped on the ground and fallen asleep. Even with the din, he just had to sleep!