by Anne Bennett
Eventually, he could stand the atmosphere no longer. When Joe saw him cross the floor and lift his jacket from the hook behind the door, he said, ‘Where you off to?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Nowhere in particular. I just want to try and walk some of the sadness out of me.’
‘Do you want company?’
‘Aye, come along with me if you want to.’
For a while the two brothers walked in silence, and then Joe said, ‘It’s unbelievable really, isn’t it? Finn seemed so alive, had more about him than either you or me.’ He gave a sad little smile. ‘D’you know what the little fool said to me when I told him to be careful?’ And without waiting for a reply he continued, ‘He said not to worry about him. That he would catch the bullets in his teeth and spit them back.’
‘Aye,’ commented Tom wryly. ‘Maybe he found that more difficult to do than he anticipated.’
‘Obviously.’
‘I mean, when a person joins the army, especially if the country is at war at the time, you take on board the risks, or you think you do. It was the first thing that crossed my mind that day in Buncrana when he stepped forward to answer the recruiting officer’s call. Inside, though, you hope and pray that your loved ones will come home safe and sound.’
‘Aye,’ Joe said. ‘And now we know that that is not going to happen I think Nuala should be told. Course, in the normal way of things she would have been at home on Sundays with the rest of us, if her employers hadn’t asked her to go in as a favour.’
‘She’ll know something is amiss with none of us at Mass today,’ Tom said.
‘She is sure to,’ Joe agreed. ‘And I want to tell her about Finn before the news leaks out and someone else tells her.’
‘You’re right,’ Tom said. ‘Shall we go up to the house now, d’you think?’
‘Aye,’ Joe said. ‘Daddy won’t want to go today and leave Mammy on her own. She is powerful upset, all right.’
‘Come on then, what are we waiting for?’
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ said Joe. ‘I just dread doing this. Nuala will be heartbroken, for the two were very close.’
Nuala was in the window of the nursery, rocking the fractious baby and wondering why none of her family was at Mass that morning. She should have gone up after Mass and seen that everything was all right, but she had promised Nanny Pritchard that she would be straight back. The point was, the master and mistress were out for the day and it meant that Nanny Pritchard had charge of all the children on her own, and there were four of them now. This was more than enough for anyone, especially with the new baby, wee Sophie, teething and letting everyone know about it.
Suddenly, she saw her two brothers turn into the gravel drive from the road. They had never called at the house before, and at the look on their faces and the determined strides of them, she felt her spine suddenly tingling with alarm.
‘My brothers are here, Nanny,’ she said, turning from the window. ‘Will you have the baby? I must see what they want.’
‘Aye, give the child to me and get yourself away,’ Nanny Pritchard said. ‘I know you have been fretting that something was wrong at home.’
She watched Nuala leave the room, biting her bottom lip in consternation, and hoped that she wasn’t going to hear bad news.
Nuala flew through the house and arrived in the kitchen where the preparations for dinner were in progress and the various aromas of it wafted in the air. Nuala wasn’t a usual visitor in the kitchen and the cook had just turned from the stove to ask her if she wanted something when there was a knock at the door. That too was unusual, and grumbling slightly, she went to open it.
Tom had just asked if he could have a word with Nuala and she was there before him, her eyes full of foreboding as she asked in a voice that trembled slightly, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Tom’s heart felt like lead and he said gently, ‘It’s Finn, Nuala. We had the telegram this morning.’
‘Dead?’ Nuala’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Are you telling me he is dead?’
‘Aye.’
She looked at Tom and Joe with eyes so full of pain that Tom had to glance away.
‘Finn assured me that he would be all right,’ she said in a small voice, brittle with anguish. ‘That any bullets would bounce off him.’ She suddenly covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh God, I can’t bear the thought that he is dead,’ she cried. ‘I really can’t bear it.’
She staggered then and would have fallen but the cook steadied her and then, feeling so sorry for the girl, she put her plump and motherly arms around her while she wept.
‘Take her home,’ she said to Tom, when Nuala was calmer at last. She turned Nuala to face her and said gently, ‘You need to be with your own at a time like this, and be some level of support to your poor mother.’
‘But Nanny Pritchard—’
‘Amelia here will go up and give a hand,’ the cook said. ‘And we will cope. You go on home, for the loss of that poor boy will be a grievous one for you all.’
Nuala knew the cook was right and she stopped only to fetch her coat from the nursery and tell Nanny Pritchard the news.
‘You poor child,’ Nanny Pritchard said, laying the baby back in the crib and putting her arms around Nuala.
‘Don’t,’ Nuala warned. ‘You will have me wailing again and my brothers are waiting. Cook says I am to go home.’
‘You must,’ Nanny Pritchard said. ‘Your poor, poor mother…’
Nuala walked home, a brother either side of her, numbed by the tragedy of it all and no one could think of a word to say. Nuala had never experienced directly the death of anyone before, and she didn’t know how to cope with the loss of her very dear brother. She remembered the time when they had been playmates when they were children, the only one of her brothers her mother had allowed her to play with, and they stayed close as they grew up. Nuala had known Finn better than any of them and she knew she would always miss him sorely.
Biddy found it hard that there was no funeral and no grave, and that evening she went with Thomas John to arrange a commemorative Mass for Finn the following Sunday. The priest was so very sad to hear of his death. He had known Finn well, for he had been an altar boy for years. The sincere sympathy he expressed at their loss was nearly Biddy’s undoing and she was barely able to hold on to her tears until she and Thomas John reached home again.
The news of Finn’s death began to spread. Many neighbours called at the cottage to offer their sympathy and their help if they needed anything. Others had a Mass said for the repose of Finn’s soul and Biddy displayed the Mass cards on the mantelpiece.
But life had to go on. Nuala returned to the Big House two days after she left it, though the mistress said she could take all the time she wanted to get over the tragedy.
‘I am better at work,’ Nuala said. ‘When I heard first I really thought I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing Finn again. I even said as much, but you have to bear it because you can do nothing to change the situation. Finn was my very dear brother, who I will never forget, but I must get on with my life, as he would expect me to.’
‘You are very brave, my dear,’ Lady Carrington said. ‘And you have been missed. The children have asked constantly when you were going to come back. They will be delighted to see you.’
They were, and Nuala tried to be as natural with them as possible, but there was an air of melancholy that she carried around with her that had not been there before. She never cried in front of them, though. Any tears that she still shed for Finn were wept when she was in her bed at night.
For Joe and Tom, in one way nothing had changed, and yet in another everything had. Finn’s absence had been temporary before. Thomas John often said things like, ‘When this war is over and Finn back where he belongs, I might get a few more cows.’ Or, ‘When the lad’s back home, I’ve a mind to till that top field that’s lying fallow just now.’
Now that wouldn’t happen, and while it was hard for Tom and Jo
e, it was devastating for Thomas John. He seemed to age twenty years.
‘There is a pain in my heart every time I think of Finn,’ Thomas John said to Biddy, as they sat together one evening. ‘It’s like I’ve strained it in some way.’
It was so odd for Thomas John to speak of his feelings this way that Biddy just stared at him. ‘I loved him, you see, better than the other two, and I was so afraid of showing that favouritism that I was even harder on him. Dear Christ, if I’m honest, I barely threw him a kind word all the years he was growing up.’ He passed a gnarled hand over his wet face and said, ‘I think of every bad thing I have said to him – and over the years there has been a fine collection of them – and now they come back to haunt me. Mind the time I clouted him across the head for spilling a drop of milk? For God’s sake! As if it bloody mattered.’
‘Don’t do this, Thomas John,’ Biddy said. ‘You are a grand father, none better. You have barely laid a hand on any of the children. You were vexed with Finn that day, that’s all. And he was a happy child growing up. Didn’t he always go around the place with a smile on his face?’
‘He did that,’ Thomas John said, a sad little smile playing around his mouth at the memory. ‘And his laughter used to echo across the yard. He was forever after Tom, d’you mind that? He had more patience with him than either Joe or me, for the child wanted to know the whys and wherefores of every damn thing. Tom never seemed to mind and he answered his questions every one, or he would toss him up on his shoulders, or have him on his back and gallop him around the yard.’
‘Tom,’ snapped Biddy, ‘is as soft as clarts. Always was and always will be.’
‘A man can be worse things than that,’ Thomas John said. ‘Don’t you think you’re a mite hard on Tom at times, Biddy?’
‘Well, he’s not a proper man,’ Biddy said. ‘He never sticks up for himself like Joe does, or Finn did. He is afraid of me. I can see it in his eyes and I find it hard to respect a man like that.’
‘Tom is a grand worker,’ Thomas John declared stoutly. ‘He is my true right-hand man, with more of a feel for the land and the animals than Joe. He is also honest and reliable. Can you not respect him for those qualities?’
‘If you say so,’ Biddy said impatiently. She wouldn’t change her opinion of her eldest son. He had almost been born to be bullied, but she would keep that to herself. ‘But we didn’t start this conversation talking of Tom,’ she went on, ‘but of Finn, and I hope I have made you feel better about that and remember he died doing something he had chosen to do.’
Thomas John sighed. ‘Aye, I have to accept that now, though I doubt any of the boys really knew what they were going into. According to the papers, in Britain anyway, conscription is now extended to married men if the unmarried recruits fall below fifty thousand a month. Think on that. Fifty thousand a month to be sent overseas, to be mutilated, maimed and murdered. At the end of it all, if more Germans die than British, it’s counted as a victory. It is almost obscene!’
Aggie and Lily presented themselves to Miss Morris at Kynoch’s factory in Witton at a quarter-past seven on Monday morning.
She was waiting for them in the office with straightforward forms for them to fill in and then, when the first rush of girls had gone, she took them over to the time clock. ‘Every morning when you arrive and every evening when you leave, you have to take your card from this rack here,’ Miss Morris said, handing Aggie and Lily the cards she had made out for them. ‘Then put them in the slot in the side of the clock and pull the handle and it records the time for you.’
She watched while Lily and Aggie followed her instructions, then nodded in approval. ‘It will become second nature for you after a while,’ she said. ‘And the next thing we must do is sort out overalls for you.’
They were voluminous, dark green and quite hideous. The only consolation was that everyone else had to wear them too, Aggie thought as she struggled into hers. All jewellery had to be removed, including rings and watches, and even kirby grips had to taken out of the hair – anything metal that might cause a spark that could possibly lead to an explosion. Then every vestige of hair had to be tucked under the oversize hats.
Seeing them struggle with these, Miss Morris said, with a slight smile, ‘I know that it isn’t the height of fashion, ladies, and the hats are the worst, I think, but you will be glad of those hats when I take you into the factory, for the dust gets everywhere.’
Aggie knew exactly what Miss Morris meant when she had been in the factory just seconds, for the swirling dust that danced in front of her made her eyes itchy and sore, while the stink hit the back of her throat and she started to cough and splutter. Lily was in no better shape.
‘Most people are like that to start with,’ Miss Morris told the two women. ‘I was myself, but you soon get used to it.’
Aggie hoped she would, because whatever happened she had to stay there as long as she could. Through her bleary eyes she saw that the long room was dimly lit generally, though above the tables round which the girls were grouped, a naked bulb sent a pool of light over everything. Miss Morris put Aggie with a woman she called Miss Potter, while Lily was taken further down the factory.
As soon as Miss Morris was out of earshot, Miss Potter leaned towards Aggie and said, ‘I can’t be doing with this Miss Potter lark. My name is Chris – Christine, if you want to be posh – but never Miss Potter.’
‘I feel the same—’ Aggie began, but the other woman interrupted her. ‘I know who you are. You are Aggie Sullivan.’
‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ Chris said with a laugh. ‘I am Jane’s sister.’
‘Jane Potter, of course,’ Aggie said. ‘I always called her Jane, see; barely knew her last name.’ She scrutinised Chris and said, ‘Now that you have told me who you are I can see the resemblance to Jane.’
‘Yeah, we have got the same ordinary brown hair,’ Chris said.
‘Ah, yes,’ Aggie said, ‘but it’s naturally curly. You should be grateful – mine’s as straight as a die – and you have both got lovely dark brown eyes and about the longest eyelashes I have ever seen.’
‘I know we are alike,’ Chris said with a grin. ‘People used to think we were twins, when we were younger. Course, there is only a year between us.’ And then, with a glance at her companions to see they were absorbed in their work, she whispered to Aggie, ‘Our Jane thinks a lot about you. She has told me all about you and you needn’t think it will get any further ’cos it won’t. I think you have had enough bad things happen in your life and this lot don’t need to know anything about it.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Aggie said in relief. ‘It will be lovely to start with a clean slate with everyone.’
‘No reason why you shouldn’t either,’ Chris said. ‘Oh God! Old Morris is on her way back up. I’d better start teaching you what I am supposed to be, or she will have me by the short and curlies.
‘These here detonators come to us semifinished,’ she explained, ‘and we have to fit three things on them in a special order. They are in the numbered trays in front of you and I will show you how to fit them on. Then you clip them into the metal canisters in the basket to your right and put the finished article into the crates on your left. That’s all there is to it. I think you will pick it up in no time.’
Aggie did, though she was all fingers and thumbs to start with.
Jane told her to go slower. ‘Speed is essential, but that comes with practice. Accuracy is even more important. No good sending detonators out at a rate of knots if, when they get where they’re going to, they don’t flipping work, is it?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I know not,’ Chris said. ‘So you concentrate on getting it right for the moment. The more you do, the quicker you will get at it.’
Aggie saw the sense of that and got on well with Chris, for all she was a good few years younger than Aggie herself, and she began to relax and not worry so much.
O
ne thing intrigued Aggie, though, and that was how yellow the girls’ faces were. When they removed the regulation hats at home time she noticed most of them had a coppery tinge to their hair. She didn’t want to ask them, fearing they might be offended, so she asked Lily if she knew anything about it on their way home.
‘It’s the sulphur, bab,’ Lily said. ‘It’s what makes the dust and all, and the bloody stink.’
‘That dust gets everywhere,’ Aggie said. ‘It speckles all our clothes and I have seen it on girls’ eyelashes. And with older women with lined faces, it settles into the creases by the end of the day.’
‘Yeah, well, the sulphur works its way into the skin and the hair,’ Lily said. ‘People call them that work in munitions canary girls. Does that bother you?’
Aggie thought for a minute. ‘Not in the slightest. I’ve been called far worse things.’
As summer slipped into autumn, each day got a little easier for Aggie and Lily. Despite the depressing war news and the growing casualty lists, Aggie was enjoying her new life better than she ever thought she would. Though she didn’t particularly like the job, she knew it was a million times better than the alternative. It was nice also to feel you were doing your bit. The girls were a friendly bunch and they could have a good laugh together.
Each evening when Aggie and Lily arrived home, the Palmer children gave them a riotous welcome. Polly said it was doing them good to have other people in the house. Aggie had no problem playing with them and could even inveigle Lily to join in sometimes. Aggie liked nothing better than tucking them up in bed. She would tell them the stories from Ireland that she used to enthral her brothers with, or read the books Polly had got them from the library, and thought there was nothing like the feel of a little one’s arms about her neck, or their lips on her cheek as she bid them good night.
Polly was glad of Aggie’s willing help with the children, and was more than glad that, with the children in bed, she wasn’t alone night after night. In no time the three women had become good friends, but Aggie and Lily knew there were certain things they could never tell Polly.