by Maggie Ford
What met him was devastation, bodies, parts of bodies, strewn in what was left of this section of trench, half-buried by collapsed walls and sandbags, the wounded crying out in pain, others lying inert, unaware of a leg or an arm gone or dead. He felt his stomach heave.
‘Don’t just stand there, Lance-Corporal!’ bellowed a voice behind him. ‘Get that body out the way so the wounded can be got out, before someone bloody well falls over it! And look lively!’
Controlling his heaving stomach, Bert glanced to where the sergeant had indicated to see the young lieutenant with the nice accent.
He looked exactly as if he was asleep, one arm lying casually across his stomach, the other arm across his chest, eyes gently closed. He was stone dead. Blood oozed from where a piece of shrapnel had penetrated his right temple, no doubt lodged deep in his brain. He couldn’t ever have known what had hit him. Bert found tears had begun to cloud his eyes and run down his cheeks. He continued to regard the graceful recline of the dead man, a man that just a few minutes ago had been—
‘Stop gawpin’ like some silly bugger!’ The sergeant’s voice boomed in his ear. ‘Make yourself bleedin’ useful. You and that soldier there, get that poor sod out the way—’
‘That soldier’s my brother,’ Albert cut in idiotically as the sergeant pointed to Ronnie, who stood transfixed, eyes wide, face frozen by shock.
‘I don’t care if he’s bleeding Beelzebub himself!’ the sergeant grated. ‘Both of you, drag the poor sod out of the way so’s we’ve got room to get the wounded somewhere. And you two …’
He turned on a couple trying to help others clear the wounded. The men were half-dazed, like Albert and Ronnie, having only fifteen minutes ago arrived with the new intake.
‘Get that soldier there into the dugout. Leg’s gone so take it easy with ’im – if he ain’t bled to death by the time you get ’im to first aid. And you other two …’ He turned abruptly to his original quarries. ‘Stop playing silly buggers and get on with your job!’
As Albert obediently took the dead lieutenant’s shoulders, Ronnie the feet, and they lifted the body tenderly as if the man might still feel discomfort. He had a strange thought that suddenly made him want to laugh, if it hadn’t been so very sad. ‘Here endeth the first lesson.’
But he didn’t laugh. Instead, the tears streamed down his face. They weren’t for himself. They were for the well-spoken young man whose life had been swept away. Had he lived, what would he have been? A lawyer, a doctor, a teacher, a professor? Who knows? Yes, indeed, here had ended Bertie’s first lesson, his first day at the front.
But this was not the time for thinking. Thinking could send a man crackers. It was a lesson he was going to have to learn pretty sharp.
Yet the thoughts ran like ghosts through his head: how many more months would this death and destruction last before the war ended? And in any one of those months he or Ronnie could be injured, crippled for life, even killed. It didn’t bear thinking about. And it was not something he or Ronnie could ever put into their letters home.
Chapter Nine
That evening, the letter had lain unopened on her pillow.
‘Ain’t you going to read it, then, love?’ her mother had asked as Connie put it to one side to get on with her dinner before going out for the evening with some friends.
‘Later,’ she said offhandedly. ‘I know who it’s from. It don’t matter.’
‘But it looks official, love. It says the London Herald.’
‘I know.’ Connie had shrugged. ‘A job I went after ages ago but they said I wasn’t suitable. It’s just a letter confirming it, that’s all.’
With a drawn-out ‘Oh’ her mother had gone off into the kitchen to make another cuppa, leaving Connie to slip the unopened letter under the pillow on her bed.
When George came in from wherever he’d been, he would go directly up to his room, having it all to himself since his brothers left home. It seemed rather unfair that she still had to put up with the parlour alcove with only a curtain for privacy. A girl needed privacy. A man didn’t, not all that much anyway. But if – when – her brothers came back on leave, they’d need a place to stay.
But each time Connie thought about George having this space of his own, coupled with the fact that he was still not in uniform, it filled her with contempt.
This evening, wearing a new skirt she had made – one that followed this year’s new fashion influenced by the war, being much wider round the hem now and shorter by several inches, giving more freedom to walk normally – she had met Cissie and Doris for a jaunt up the West End. Hating to spoil their enjoyment, she’d forced herself to be bright and cheerful. Besides, had they noticed her low spirits, she would have had to explain why she was feeling down, and she didn’t want to go into detail on the failed interviews. But now she was home.
Alone in the parlour, having washed her face clean of face powder at the kitchen sink and cleaned her teeth, she undressed slowly, got into her nightie, turned down the gas lamp and clambered into bed. Mum would be first up in the morning, waking her with a cup of tea. She’d be obliged to dress quickly, concealed by the curtain, before Dad came down. All so easily avoidable and again she felt a twinge of annoyance towards her eldest brother.
Lying there, she held the unopened envelope between her fingers. It was hard not to resist a temptation to tear it in half and drop it on the floor, its contents unread. But she needed to read it, and braced herself to its bad news. Sitting up suddenly, the bedclothes slipping down to her tummy, she leaned forward and ripped open the envelope to pull out a single sheet of headed notepaper.
It was too dark to make out what it said. But relighting the gas lamp might alert Dad, always a light sleeper, noticing the glow under the door on one of his frequent trips in the night to the privy in the backyard. He’d be especially hard on her given they’d all been warned to be very careful about too much lighting since January when German Zeppelins had dropped bombs on Yarmouth and King’s Lynn, the towns fully lit at the time but now, of course, like London, swathed in darkness. Three cottages utterly destroyed in one raid; several people killed including a small boy and his little sister; pictures of cottages flattened, utterly unrecognisable as once having been people’s homes, had sent shivers down her spine. This was what devastation truly was, those same towns, and others, shelled by German warships.
So with relative darkness outside, being a dirty night, any glow would have had Dad opening the parlour door to find why she’d relit the gas lamp, and she wanted no intrusion. Drawing the window curtains was dangerous too. Dad always pulled them back before going to bed – to let out the smell of cooking, he said, and get a bit of fresh air into the place, for all the windows stayed closed in cold weather. Trying to pull them together would inevitably cause that rustle and squeak they always made when being dragged along the rusty metal rail, loud enough to catch the alert ears of a sleepless man.
But with the letter now open, she needed to see what it said. Creeping out of bed she found a small stub of a candle in a holder in the small table drawer, lit it with one of Dad’s matches and took it back to bed with her. By its fitful light she began to read, knowing that she’d tear the letter to bits in frustration and fury after having read it.
It wasn’t the terse response she’d expected – more or less saying thank-you-but-no-thank-you – but a longish, hand-written one, the writing small and neat.
Dear Miss Lovell,
First I apologise for the time it’s taken to let you know the outcome of my approach to the management with my idea. But at last I’ve had a response. They’ve decided to give it a shot. A long shot, maybe, but it could work out well. If it doesn’t, I promise to give you a really glowing reference so you’ll be able to get a job anywhere. After all, during the time you do spend on the paper, even if it doesn’t work out a success, you’ll have learned a lot and will be able to make use of it. Would you reply telling me what you think? My reputation’s on the line too over t
his idea so I need to make this a success. I’m willing to give it a try if you are?
Please tell me what you think. Don’t leave it too long.
Mr Stephen Clayton,
Editor
P.S. Moving heaven and earth to get them to take you on, I’ve a strong feeling about this. Really looking forward to seeing you if all goes well.
Stephen
In the light of the spluttering candle, she stared at the single name. Stephen! He’d signed the postscript Stephen!
As if … had he felt a small tinge of attraction? Her heart had gone pit-a-pat but what if he had felt something too? No, she was just being silly. Better to forget it.
Tomorrow she’d promised Sybil she’d go with her to the labour exchange to see about volunteering for war work. Here there’d be no question of laying her off. It would be a steady, long-term job, at least until the war was over. By that time she would have become a skilled worker, hopefully a still needed skilled worker. Was she ready to sacrifice that solid chance for this slim one? And what would the job entail? Mr Clayton must think that he had told her what she was engaged to do, but she still didn’t know. She wasn’t so sure about the job now. And what would Sybil think? Talk about burning one’s bridges. But Stephen …
There was no sleep for her tonight. She was still awake watching a rainy dawn come up when Mum brought her a cup of tea.
‘Your dad will be up soon so best hurry and get dressed, love.’
She was dressed, her face washed, her teeth cleaned, and eating her breakfast of porridge as he came downstairs.
‘What was goin’ on last night?’ he muttered to her across the kitchen table. ‘I could ’ear you movin’ about for ages.’
Yes, the walls, floors and ceiling were thin in terraces. One could hear everything the people next door said when they raised their voices just a fraction. There’d be bumps and bangs every second of the day, and a child crying was like a siren piercing the ears.
At eight o’clock Connie was on the corner of Ellsworth Street where Sybil lived and Bethnal Green Road. What was Sybil going to say when she told her of her news?
‘I can’t come with you today,’ she began as they met. ‘I think I’ve got that job in Fleet Street – there was a letter waiting for me when I got home last night.’
‘That one you told me about all that time ago? That was a couple of months ago.’ As Connie nodded, Sybil said, ‘That’s really marvellous!’ Her round face creased into a huge smile. ‘And you thought they’d forgotten you. You lucky cow! But why did they take so long?’
No disparagement, no offhanded shrug, but a huge smile of genuine joy for her. Connie felt a twinge of regret; Sybil was such a nice person, a good friend at work and out, and now hearing her news she was just happy for her.
‘My interviewer, Mr Clayton, Mr Stephen Clayton,’ Connie went on with a need to state his full name, at the same time with a stab of excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. ‘He had a job persuading them.’
‘We will see each other still, when we can, won’t we?’ Sybil asked, her smile faltering.
‘Of course,’ Connie replied warmly. Yes, she wanted that more than anything. No not quite anything. She wanted this job. She wanted to prove to Stephen Clayton that she was capable. She wanted to see him again, feel her heart thump like it had that first time, something she’d never experienced before – a strange and wonderful feeling. But she kept her face straight as Sybil said with some disappointment in her tone that she had to be off.
‘Perhaps we can see each other this Saturday,’ Connie said quickly by way of compensation. ‘If you’re not doing anything?’
‘I’d like that,’ Sybil said, bucking up to grin. ‘Still, must be off. Good luck, Con. Can’t wait to hear how you get on and I’ll tell you how I did.’
And she was off, running for the bus that had drawn up several yards down the road, a crowd of workers already waiting to get on.
As the bus drew away, Connie, her somewhat tatty umbrella shielding her face from the spattering of rain, made her way to the bus stop opposite to wait for the one that would take her to Fleet Street, and, she hoped, her future.
Hurrying through the main foyer, up the stairs to the second floor, folded umbrella dripping water, she found the London Herald with no trouble. The young woman who opened the frosted glass door was the same who’d opened the door to her that first time, but this morning as she entered the outer office, no line of hopeful applicants met her, for which she was grateful.
‘This way, Miss Lovell,’ the lady said, her tone far more courteous than that first time. ‘My name is Miss Cranwell. I’ll take your hat, coat, and your umbrella. I expect you would care to freshen up.’
Leading the way to the cloakroom, she waited outside while Connie hurried in to relieve herself and hopefully soothe away some of her nervous tension. Afterwards she washed her hands and touched her lips with just the faintest trace of lipstick her father had no idea she owned. Running a hasty comb through her wavy hair that her hat had left flattened, she stood back from the narrow mirror to stare at herself.
What would Stephen Clayton see? A mature-looking young woman, she hoped. After all she was seventeen now, but her height meant that she could pass for much older and she only hoped Stephen Clayton would see a mature, composed young woman, not a childish bag of nerves.
The secretary was waiting for her as she came out, refreshed and hopefully calm. The woman’s smile seemed to confirm it as she led the way to the office Connie had entered the last time she was here. As the secretary tapped lightly on the frosted glass, Connie suddenly felt her nerves begin to flutter.
The secretary looked to be in her early twenties: tall, very sure of herself, trim and beautiful. How could she, at seventeen, for all she already had all the feelings of a woman, dare to think of herself as being competent enough to take on the job being offered, whatever it was? She was a fraud. She would finally betray herself, come out with something stupid and have to admit she wasn’t up to this job, that Stephen Clayton had been misled. He could blame her, not himself, for being so gullible in that new idea he’d excitedly but misguidedly conjured up.
She wanted to turn and run but was already being ushered into his office, the secretary smoothly withdrawing as he hurried round from his side of the desk to greet her with a hearty handshake. His flesh felt warm.
‘I’m so very glad you’ve decided to go along with this venture. Seeing your talent for drawing, I knew immediately that we would have to put you to work in some capacity. I am still thinking exactly what that capacity might entail.’ He paused, regarding her, and then taking a deep breath, said, ‘I need to be honest with you, Miss Lovell. I never mentioned this in my letter but you will have to undergo a trial period.’
‘A trial period?’ she burst out. There was a catch to all this good news? A few weeks and it would be ‘Sorry, we don’t think you’re up to this.’
She saw him draw in a deep breath. ‘I’ve had the devil’s own job to convince my superiors that this idea could really lift off. That’s why it’s taken so long. I needed to be certain.’
‘But you’re still not certain,’ she cut in, disappointment making her bold, anger making her forthright. She’d given up a secure job to take up this position, turned down the chance of war work too. And he’d still not asked her to sit down. He seemed on edge. ‘And perhaps I am wasting my time coming here.’
He turned sharply to look at her.
‘No, of course not! This will be a trial period of a few months, see how it works out, but if it doesn’t, if they feel it’s not working and cut it short, I will make sure you have a job here – in a few months you’ll have learned something of how a newspaper works and I will help you all I can towards a career in the print. Are you willing to give it a go, Miss Lovell – Constance? May I call you Constance, by the way?’
Hearing him address her by her Christian name sent an excited tingle up her spine. As she calmed herself and nodd
ed, he brightened, his next words tumbling from his mouth.
‘That’s great! We’re going to make things happen, Constance, you and me.’
Impulsively she heard herself blurt out, ‘Connie.’
‘Connie,’ he repeated, as if savouring her name. He indicated for her to sit while he returned to his side of the desk.
She made her way home full of the wonderful news on how her day had gone. Starting Monday week, she’d be gradually integrated into the world of newspapers, though still some way off being sent on small assignments with a photographer and a junior reporter.
She arrived home around four o’clock, having accepted Mr Clayton’s offer to take her to lunch so as to discuss his plans with her. He’d asked if she had any questions but then chimed in energetically the moment she tried to oblige.
There was one question she did manage to ask, though she now wished she hadn’t, one that had been niggling away at her ever since she’d met him. Her two brothers and brothers-in-law had been among thousands who’d so far volunteered for military service. While Stephen Clayton spoke of the job, her mind had wandered, playing with the feeling that he, like George who was hanging back, evading the call, had also suffered qualms about putting himself in danger. Maybe he saw his job as more essential; maybe he was scared; or maybe he fostered more or less the same principles as her brother? Was he, as she suspected of George, hiding behind his beliefs? Suddenly it had seemed of vital importance that she know.
She’d come out with it before she could stop herself. ‘You’re still a civilian, Mr Clayton?’ Seconds later she could have died.
He’d broken off from what he’d been saying and for a while regarded her, his expression bleak. Finally he said, very slowly, ‘I did try, several times. But, you see, I’m partially deaf in my right ear – scarlet fever as a child nearly finished me off, but left me, as I said, deaf, and I am afraid the military rejected me because of it.’
‘I’m sorry, I should never have asked,’ she said, still mortified. ‘It just came out. I’m so sorry, Mr Clayton.’