‘What were you expecting?’
‘Well, I don’t know – something a little more, well, commanding, perhaps. You’d think – wouldn’t you? you’d almost think, looking at it, that we’d lost the War. I’m afraid –’ she was beginning to make up her mind – ‘I’m afraid the committee will feel that Mr Broadbent has not fully carried out our commission. It’s – it’s –’ she struggled for the word – ‘it’s a little defeatist. Don’t you think?’
Norah was silent. The statue was hardly about the War at all, she thought, but about mourning; he represented loss, but also expressed his own. He looked as if he was thinking about his lost friends. He was Post-War.
But she must not say anything like that to Mamma.
‘I’m sorry you don’t like it,’ she said.
Mrs Thornby was indignant. ‘Did I say I didn’t like it? I like it very much, as it happens. Don’t forget I was one of the ones who insisted on Mr Broadbent in the first place.’
By the time they reached Paddington she had convinced herself that she had suffered not a moment’s doubt, and in the intervening weeks talked of almost nothing else. The arrangements, the carriage-costs and insurance, the wording on the plinth, the scaffolding, the trustworthiness of the workmen employed in the final placing, and then, over and over again, about the unveiling ceremony, which was to be a triumph of discreet organization, of civic dignity, and of a sorrow publicly expressed yet fully mindful (said Mrs Thornby) of the true nobility of patriotic death in battle.
Sometimes Norah still tried to feel that nobility herself. All those stories and poems, could they all be lies, all through? Or was it just that this War had been different? When she was a child at the Bishop’s Road Council School, the Senior Boys had put on scenes from Henry V for the school’s summer fete; Norah had never forgotten the awe-inspiring moment when Teddy Hall, until then merely another scruffy footballing wrestling playground-hogging round-faced oafish boy with big front teeth, had suddenly and without any prior warning appeared in full kingly battle-gear of cloak and crown and shining cardboard sword, high above everyone’s heads on the bicycle shed roof, where to Norah’s own knowledge and belief no child had ever set foot before; and while the crowd still gaped Teddy had begun declaiming something she had not then recognized, but which had thrilled her almost as much as his initial appearance there on the forbidden heights.
Follow your spirit, cried Teddy Hall, still waving his sword in Norah’s memory; not somehow in the piping treble he would surely then have had no choice about but in a young man’s voice, authoritative, compelling, noble. Follow your spirit; and upon this charge Cry ‘God for Harry! England and St George!’
But the shreds of thinking like this just fell apart, thinnest of soiled rags, when she tried to connect them to Guy. If Guy had really followed his spirit, it would have led him into nightclubs, where his cheerful jazz piano would soon have had everyone dancing. It would have set him organizing more summer picnics by the river, and reminded him to take his banjo. It would surely have indicated further extremes of dandyism, more two-toned shoes, more ethereal boaters. Though of course there was no telling. He hadn’t quite turned twenty-one; perhaps he would have become someone else entirely, had he lived.
Most painful to Norah was the knowledge that they had not been real friends for long. All through their childhood they had been enemies, always on the lookout for advantage in their ceaseless nursery warfare, fought, hard to remember now, over the affections, or merely the attention, of their mother. Barely a full year the elder, Norah had stridently insisted on the privileges of seniority, all those she had heard of and many she could imagine; but time and again had been forced against her will to notice evidence that, despite her occasional avowals to the contrary, Mamma consistently favoured Guy. Once when he had jaundice, which Norah against all predictions did not catch herself, she overheard their mother tending to him in his sickbed, using such a special tender voice that Norah’s heart yearned inside her with longing and grief. It seemed to her then that Mamma would never have spoken so to her, no matter how yellow and sickly she might be.
The rivalry lost much of its force as they grew older and Guy was sent away to school; but the real change had come when Guy was fourteen. Just before Christmas of that year Norah had tripped on the last turn of the stairs, fallen awkwardly, and smashed the special painted jug that stood on the window sill there.
‘Oh no – oh, look what I’ve done!’
Guy, who had been passing in the hall, joined her on the landing. ‘Crumbs,’ he said at the mess. ‘You alright?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Norah, shaking flecks of china from her skirt, ‘but I’m for it now.’
‘Mm, ’fraid you are.’ He pushed some of the larger pieces about with one foot. ‘Look, old girl.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Why don’t we just say it was me?’
‘What? Why – what do you mean?’
‘Be less fuss,’ he said. He had his hands still in his pockets. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’
‘Well – I would! I can’t blame someone else.’
‘Why not? I’m volunteering.’
‘It wouldn’t be right. It’s lying, for one thing.’
‘So it is. But – go on. Let’s just lie. Or you know what she’ll do, don’t you – she’ll stop you going to the Caterhams’.’ This was a lavish local party, much anticipated. Refusing Norah permission to attend it was exactly the sort of punishment Mrs Thornby would go in for.
‘Well – she’ll stop you then,’ said Norah, but even as she spoke knew that she was wrong. Mamma would never consider such a punishment for Guy.
He had not answered straight away: a thoughtful pause. Then he said, ‘She’s never going to be fair, is she?’ He spoke lightly, as if they had both always acknowledged this. His careful lack of triumph implied too that the unfairness need no longer matter, to either of them; not now, when as far as he was concerned they might so clearly, so usefully, so delightfully, be on the same side. ‘Oh, hello, Bella,’ he went on in his normal voice to the elderly parlourmaid, who had finally come puffing up the backstairs to see what the crash had been. ‘I’m afraid I’ve gone and fallen all over Mum’s poor Ming, or whatever it was. Did she adore it, d’you know?’
Three or four years, then, of deepening friendship, and towards the end a few months of the dearest most painful intimacy; the letters he wrote home bore little resemblance to the things he told her on leave. They had twice met in London, where she was then a VAD, and swopped stories of those matching particular armies, soldiery and nursing – grotesque tales of hierarchical intransigence, demented officialdom, runs of bad luck, incredible escapes, heroism, cowardice and mocking songs. They had talked and talked and laughed so much, even though Guy had looked so ill the second time. Messines awaited him, June 1917, and the noble death his mother clung to.
‘I thought I’d get ready really early,’ said Mrs Thornby, putting her head round the door. ‘So I’m all set. How about you?’
The traffic to all the neighbouring streets was stopped at ten. Norah had forgotten this was to be one of the arrangements. She was standing in the semi-basement kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, when she had become aware of the strange heavy silence that seemed to be slowly gathering itself all around her. It felt so like a dizzy spell that for a moment she looked about her for the nearest chair; then remembered. She stood still, listening to the quiet. It didn’t feel like an absence, she thought. No, indeed, it was a presence, an invited guest. Guest of honour, perhaps. For already she had noticed how quiet the gathering crowd was, outside in the square. People had begun arriving hours before; now the cars and buses were stopped she could hear the low rumble of many voices. But they were all respectfully lowered, she thought. It was as if the square had for now become the church. It was not so much a crowd outside as a congregation, waiting for the service, in this new religion of death; waiting to garland the idol. No golden calf, of course, but the lost boy himself.
Her mot
her was having another little lie-down. They were to leave, she said, at ten to; then they wouldn’t have to talk to too many people. There were of course places reserved for them in any case, right beside the plinth. They must arrive just before Lady Redwood came out of the private sitting room at the George and Dragon, so that the vicar and all the rest of the Memorial Committee would be lined up to greet her.
From today, thought Norah, the stone soldier would be standing outside in the square for always. He would be out there all night, in sun and rain and snow, for ever and ever amen, and you won’t be able to glance out or cross the street or buy so much as a single peach at the market without knowing he is there. She remembered her relief in the Pimlico studio; wondered, now, at her own naivety. It was true that the statue was no portrait, but since the scaffolding had come down she had realized that this was of no account. Once it was uncovered out there in the square it would always say Guy to her. It would in some way be him.
From the drawing-room window, hidden behind the curtain, she looked down at the dense crowd gathered there in such quiet around the swathed figure on the plinth. She knew nearly every face; could put a name to most.
There were her Pyncheon cousins, dear Alice, poor darling Freddie, arm in arm, quite close to the platform, so she would be able to speak to them afterwards, she thought. There was Mr Vowles, the headmaster, and Mrs Vowles. Mr Godolphin climbing up already, taking off his hat to Mrs Grant-Fellowes. The doctor, the new one, whose name she kept forgetting. Oh there was Mr Gilder; Norah always kept an eye out for him. Grace’s husband. He had the little boy with him, carrying him curled in his arms; she could just see the top of a tartan hat with a tassel. Mrs Dimond next to him, well, probably Mrs Dimond; and the Bullivants, and Mrs Ticknell, and that must be her sister, the Killigrews, and the Barneses, and Sergeant Warburton with most of the other policemen, all in uniform. Heyward, she thought suddenly, going back to where the doctor’s handsome head rose high above most of his neighbours. And Sister Wainwright beside him.
Once, not long before, Norah had overheard her telling some story, at the sewing group, about some problematic case, but her tone, at once plaintive and indignant, had made Norah prick up her ears. And who else could she have meant, but Grace Gilder?
‘And all I said was, “Good job your husband’s so fair.” I only meant – well, you know, the baby’ll blend in more. Won’t stand out so much. Because it’s probably going to look, you know, Spanish or something. Honestly, what was so terrible about that? I was only trying to be kind.’
But not trying hard enough, thought Norah now, looking down at her in the square. All you said was, ‘Good job your baby might not look like you.’ Say that kindly, you silly goose. See if you can.
Who was that other woman with her? Ah yes; the new midwife, the one who had replaced Sister Goodrich. Who had so unexpectedly married, and moved away; had caught the eye (it was said) of a recently widowed elderly colonel, and ruthlessly snapped him up before he had a chance to change his mind. Very cheering too – if marriage was possible for Sister Goodrich, thought Norah, moving away from the window, it was clearly possible for anyone, even herself. Though I hope I wouldn’t leave it quite that late, she thought, and then realized what she was doing, thinking only about herself again, and today of all days.
Well, it was time to go down now, to get through it. Get it over with.
After the speeches and the prayers Lady Redwood, poor old thing, tottered forward right on time to carry out her trembling duty: with a jerky movement of her black-gloved hand she pulled on the cord that released the statue’s shroud. The flimsy coverings fell away, slipped and rippled noiselessly to the ground, and the crowd at once made the strangest saddest sound, thought Norah afterwards, that she had ever heard or ever would: a long soft sighing murmur that spread and rippled all about the square. It was the sound of recognition, she thought, and of decent people holding back tears. There he stood above them all, his bowed head, his slender shoulders, unreachable, unchanging, the one who wouldn’t ever come home again, turned to stone.
Then the church clock began to chime the hour, and the two-minute silence began.
After it Mr Godolphin stepped forward, and said the verses from Binyon, and then moved on to prayer. Norah bowed her head, but kept her eyes open. Beside her on the plinth, listed beneath OUR GLORIOUS DEAD, were the graven names now also revealed for the first time, and she saw that while she had known about all the officers, there were men whose deaths she had missed.
Though she could see only the nearest side, she read several familiar names: young men she had hardly known, never in adulthood met socially, boys who had bidden her a polite good day from behind the counters of various shops, or nodded at her from carts as they passed her in the lanes, or straightened up unsmiling in fields where they were picking strawberries; local young men whose names and faces had still been known to her all her life. Barnes T J, Boscowan T, Coachman A, Crowhurst G, Dando T, not S: the engraver had been a local man.
Some were names she remembered from the Council School: Flowerdew A must be Albert. Little Bert Flowerdew, fits in your pocket! So they had called after him sometimes in the playground. No nicknames for the glorious dead, Bert.
Another name she had known about already. Hall E had never been an Edward, despite his crown; Teddy Hall, waving his cardboard sword above them all on the splendid heights of the bicycle shed a Pre-War world ago.
The statue of the soldier was like a fossil, thought Norah: a fine-structured elegance of stone. One day – hard to imagine, of course, but coming all the same – one day no one would be left to miss Guy, or to know that Tommy Dando had had such bright blue eyes. One day, everyone who knew the Glorious Dead would be dead themselves, and no one would ever again look at the statue and think of a real boy they had known. Then he would truly be what he was meant to be, thought Norah, general not personal, all of them and none, the perfect fossil of imperfect grief.
Presently the ‘Last Post’ sounded. It was Ernie Skewes, cornet player of the old Silkhampton Colliery Band, from the portico of the George and Dragon, playing into more of that terrible stifled silence, playing the ‘Last Post’, thought Norah, for Guy and for Timmy Boscowan, standoffish, always seemed to think himself a cut above his dad’s greengrocery, for Art Coachman who’d scored a century once at school, for beautiful Tommy Dando, for the Ticknell twins, Gerry, Jim, who’d hired a tandem together one day and famously ridden it all the way to Bude, for little Bert Flowerdew, fits in your pocket, and for Teddy Hall, forever eleven years old, crying God for Harry! England and St George!
The music fitted the statue, Norah thought. It was very hard to bear. One day, she reminded herself, a whole new Post-War generation will be in charge, a whole generation like me, and we will never again send boys like Guy out to die in foolish wars; and that is the only useful thing this whole mad disaster has achieved.
She looked out over the crowd, saw a small bright face lifted there, chubby, smiling: Barty Gilder, waving a fat little hand at someone he recognized in the crowd. Strange that the silly Wainwright woman had been right all the time; Grace and her husband between them had produced rather a Mediterranean child, yes, quite Spanish-looking, or Greek, something like that, certainly very dark, of course, but nothing like as dark as Grace had been. And that was sad, thought Norah, sad to remember, on this saddest day of remembrance. Grace Dimond had vanished, and for most already it was as if she had never been. For others, death in childbirth had given her memory a certain romance, almost a glamour. Very like the notion of death in battle for men, thought Norah. A sentimental romance. A spurious glamour.
The stone soldier is about loss, Norah told herself. Does he stand for Grace as he stands for all the young men? They say Mankind means women too; but somehow it never quite feels that way.
The ‘Last Post’ ended, and Ernie was joined by several other band members, shuffling into place beside him, their feet sounding in the quiet; then they played ‘God Save
the King’. And then it was all over.
‘Oh, Norah, tell me truly – do you think it went well?’
‘Of course it did, really really well. Just right.’
‘It was beautiful, wasn’t it? I so wanted it to be worthy, d’you see, of – of him.’
Ah, of Thornby G W. Such a cruel joke, my dearest Guy, that I am at last what I once longed with all my heart to be, God forgive me: her only child. Well. I’m stuck with her now. And she with me.
‘It was perfect, honestly. Well done, Mother. Well done, darling,’ said Norah.
Acknowledgements
I drew details for this book from many different sources, among them the memoirs of Dr Sara Dunbar Cross, held at the Guildhall Record Office in Bath, the records of the Edinburgh Maternity Hospital at the University of Bristol Medical Library and the transcript of a Wellcome Trust History of Twentieth-Century Medicine Witness Seminar on Maternal Care held in June 2000, edited by D. A. Christie and E. M. Tansey. Useful books included Distorted Images by Kenton Bamford (I. B. Tauris, 1999), George Muller and His Orphans by Nancy Garton (Churchman Publishing, 1987), The People in the Playground by Iona Opie (Oxford University Press, 1993), Staying Power by Peter Fryer (Pluto Classics, 1984) and, most importantly, The Midwife’s Tale (Scarlett Press, 1993), a brilliant piece of oral history by Nicky Leap and Billie Hunter.
He just wanted a decent book to read ...
Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks – the same choice faced every day by the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane’s disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led him to found a company – and change the world.
The Midwife's Daughter Page 32