Remembrance Day

by Leah Fleming

  ‘That’s not fair. Her brother’s going too. Everyone’s going. You both worked hard enough to make sure half the village boys answered the call to arms.’

  ‘But not my sons, not yet, not my two boys at once. Why can’t you wait? There’s no hurry,’ she pleaded.

  ‘The sooner we leave, the sooner our training begins and the sooner we’ll be in action before it all fizzles out. I’d hate to miss it,’ Angus added, his eyes bright with fervour. ‘Guy will keep an eye on me, won’t you?’

  ‘I can’t take this in, all this secrecy and I’m the last to know. Why?’

  ‘Because we knew you’d take on so…You must let us be like all the others and give us your blessing.’ Guy sat down beside her, trying to jolt her out of her maudlin mood. It was not like his mother at all.

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this. It’s too soon. What will I do without you?’

  ‘What you’ve always done: put a brave face to the world and get on with your charity work and church duties, keep the home fires burning, as the song says, and make sure we get clean socks, hankies, some of Cook’s marmalade, pipe tobacco and up-to-date newspapers. Don’t be sad, be glad that we’re old enough to be useful to our country in its hour of need.’

  ‘Oh, Guy, do you realise what you’re doing?’ She was shaking her head, not looking at them both.

  ‘I’m not rightly sure but all I know is that it must be done now…Come on, chop chop, no more moping about. There’s the luncheon gong. I hope it’s roast lamb. Dry your eyes. We’ll get plenty of leave while we’re training. Might even get as close as Catterick camp. Buck up, old girl. It’s not the end of the world.’

  But it is the end of my world, sobbed Hester as she paced the bedroom floor later that night, the gentle tick of the marble clock lagging far behind her own heartbeat. How can I live if anything happens to my sons? No sooner out of the nursery than into school and now into the army, and Guy on the arm of some trollop. She’s behind it somewhere. Prim school miss she might appear but there’s fire in those dark eyes and she’s not getting her claws into my boy.

  Hester sat on the window seat, drawing back the brocade curtains to reveal a night sky lit with a thousand stars.

  There’s one good thing about all this, though, she thought, drying her eyes. Once Guy disappears from the scene, all this mooning about will soon fizzle out. I’ll put him in the way of some decent county girls from good families; girls of our own class, not upstarts no better than servants. At least he’ll be too busy to satisfy that girl’s craving for influence. And as for Angus…Hester smiled a knowing smile. There must be ways to make sure he got no further than the medical board. Perhaps she could let Guy go now, but not two, oh dear me, no…Angus must stay close by, whatever it took.

  First the horses, then the men, and the village fell silent as it went about the daily grind. I sigh, looking around the crowds. Everyone thought it was ‘all a bit of a bluff and wouldn’t come to owt, as old Dickie Beddows had pronounced. I’ve not thought of him for years, sitting under the elm on the bench with string tied round the knees of his corduroy breeches, sucking an empty pipe, dispensing his wisdom to those who had the time to listen. But as the months wore on and curtains were closed in respect for some mother’s son who was lost in places they couldn’t pronounce, even he fell silent.

  Then there was the shelling of Hartlepool and the Zeppelin raids that bombed Scarborough and the east coast. Yorkshire was under attack; a terror none of us could understand; little kiddies crushed under bricks, mothers cooking breakfast blasted to eternity. This was no bluff.

  How strange that I can recall every detail of that time yet forget what day of the week it is so easily, or what I’ve had for supper.

  Being here brings everything to the fore. Nothing’s been lost in the house of my memory. I can walk round its rooms and recall those far-off tumultuous days at will.

  The elm tree may have been replaced by a sycamore, the guard railings removed with most of the cobbles, the chapel is now a spacious house, but I can see it all as it once was.

  The school is still functioning, with its fine playing field. It was my refuge from all the worries of war and home. Things were never the same when Newt left. Frank took his desertion to heart and wouldn’t settle. Oh, Frankland…

  All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, couldn’t put you together again.

  2

  DARK DAYS

  1915-17

  When this lousy war is over, no more soldiering for me,

  When I get my civvy clothes on, oh how happy I will be.

  No more church parades on Sunday, no more begging for a pass.

  You can tell the sergeant-major to stick his passes up his arse!

  Attrib. Joseph Scriven

  5

  ‘What’s up now, son?’ Essie asked, seeing Frank storming out of the forge, flinging off his leather apron in disgust.

  ‘Everything’s got to be done his way and I can’t stomach no more of it. I never wanted to be his skivvy. It was more to Newt’s liking than mine. Nothing I do is ever right.’

  ‘It’s just his way, love. He likes things to be right,’ Essie tried to explain.

  ‘Right enough will do for me…Just ’cos I put the sheep horns on the wrong hook, you’d think the world’d come to an end. He’s like a bee stuck down my neck buzzing in my ear. I’m off!’

  ‘Calm down, son. Go and get a brew and I’ll have a word with your father.’

  ‘Don’t bother. It’s not fair, me having to take Newt’s place,’ Frank muttered, disappearing round the corner just as Asa strode out of the forge.

  ‘Where’s he gone now, Mam? Never at hand when he’s needed. Pateley’s unbroken beast is due any moment and he’s a right beggar to shoe. It’ll take two of us hold that stag down. I never had to tell our Newt what to do. This one’s got his head in the clouds.’

  ‘Don’t fuss him, Asa. He’s only doing his best but his heart’s not in the job. It never was. He’s allus hankered after working with horses,’ Essie said, trying to smooth over yet another bust-up. Poor Asa was looking greyer round the gills these days with twice as much work, despite fewer horses. Everyone was trying to save their tools, repairing their irons and pots, kettles waiting to be fettled up and wheel rims sorted. Making do and mending was the order of the day; no one wanted to waste precious metals.

  In the evening they all had to lend a hand with the allotment patch cut out of their paddock and fenced off from nibbling horses. Potatoes, vegetables, anything to fill the pot had to be weeded, hens in the back yard fed and swill taken to fatten up the shared pig in the stable at the back of the Hart’s Head.

  How Essie missed her eldest son, with his quiet ways and steadying influence over his brother. Frank was missing him too, them being so close in age, and her heart went out to him. But what could she do? Her free time, such as it was, was taken up with the Chapel Ladies Comfort Guild, who met most afternoons to gather up parcels, knitting and treats.

  Selma, though busy with the fundraising concert party as well as the school, drifted round like love’s lost dream. She was at that funny stage, betwixt and between girl and woman, mooning over letters from one of the Cantrell boys. What could they make of that friendship? All innocent enough, but they were both far too young to be serious, especially when Lady Hester’s disapproval was plain to see.

  Last week she’d stopped her pony and trap and almost poked Essie in the ribs with her parasol.

  ‘Is my son still sending billets-doux to your daughter?’ she demanded.

  Essie smiled. ‘They both have a keen interest in poetry, I believe,’ she replied, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Rather sweet at their tender age.’ She was not going to be browbeaten by her imperious tone of voice. ‘How are your sons faring with their training?’

  ‘As one would expect of a Cantrell,’ came the curt reply. ‘But I don’t want my son distracted by unsuitable entanglements.’

  ‘Of course not…but
young people today seem to have minds of their own on such matters,’ Essie offered, watching Hester Cantrell puffing herself up with disagreement.

  ‘It is a ridiculous situation. I absolutely forbid it!’

  ‘Really? Forbiddance is usually a great encourager, don’t you think?’ Essie argued back. ‘In my experience it adds a whiff of danger to the whole enterprise.’

  Hester stared back at her in disbelief at such a bold riposte. ‘I hardly think so. In such times as these there’s no room for romantic escapades. This war must be won, and soon.’

  ‘You are so right, Lady Hester, but the world has to keep turning and soldiers will take comfort out of battle…Better with their friends than with strangers?’ Essie continued

  ‘You chapel folk are mighty sure of your opinions, Mrs Bartley.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Essie nodded sweetly. ‘I find it best to trust to the good common sense of the young, these days. They are bearing the brunt of our mistakes with their blood. I think we can allow them the freedom to choose how they spend what little leisure they have, don’t you?’

  Lady Hester sat back in shock, trying to think up some caustic put-down, her lips opening and closing. But nothing came out but, ‘Good day.’

  Oh heck! I’ve put the fox in the chicken run, and no mistake, thought Essie but still she’d take nothing back. If young men were risking their lives then they must be given such freedoms as compensation. It was only fair, and that went for Newton as well as the Cantrell twins. This war was turning customs upside down.

  What a diabolical cheek! Hester couldn’t get over Essie Bartley’s impudence. Freedoms indeed! In her day children did what parents commanded and with no argument. The whole world was going mad and all civilities were disappearing fast. Even dressing for dinner in the evening was being slackened in favour of lounge suits in some households. Servants were giving notice to go into factories, making it difficult to find replacements. In fact, on several occasions she’d had to go into the kitchen herself to prepare a cold collation when Cook had her day off. Arkie had upsticked to run some convalescent hospital for wounded soldiers. Shorrocks was marrying her soldier boy in a rush and Hester feared she was already in the family way. Mrs Beck came in each day from the village now to clean and tidy and lay the fires, instead of having a live-in maid. That it should come to this at her age. Where would it all end?

  She’d not seen Charles for months, just a fleeting visit when she’d begged him to get Angus a safe job out of the line of fire. Of course he’d laughed away her fears and told her to stop meddling. So far there had been no repetition of Angus’s seizures but she worried that it was only a matter of time before another one struck.

  All too often now, when she came through the front door into the marble-floored hall, there was only silence to greet her or the chimes of the hour from the drawing-room clock. The silence was deafening, the echo of her shoes on the tiles, the barking of a stable dog somewhere. In the silence of the evening she had time to churn over all the day’s incidents, her worries, but no one with whom to share these thoughts.

  Occasionally this gloom was lifted by one of Guy’s letters that she devoured, trying to hear his voice in her mind.

  That was what hurt the most: the fact that the Bartley girl was getting his thoughts, his affection. She received a dutiful page or two but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more from him, and as for Angus, he was even worse. How could they be so thoughtless? There was such an empty space where once they’d filled her days.

  Was this the pattern for her future: afternoon visits, committees, the occasional fundraising concert breaking up the monotony of her days? To rattle around in this uncomfortable silence, waiting for one of her men to return for a night or two was a daunting prospect.

  At least her boys were safe in England. They all planned to meet in London on their next leave. She would go down on the train and they could take in a show. Why did she feel so old and unwanted, though?

  ‘Buck up, Hester,’ she said to herself. ‘Pour yourself a drink and get your sewing out.’

  Damn the bloody sewing, she thought. I want them all back…I want my boys back here…

  Selma caught up with Frank on the High Road out of Sowerthwaite, the winding lane that was a short cut to West Sharland. He was swaying in the breeze and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was ‘market fresh’. But Bartley men were abstainers—or were they? As she drew near she smelled the booze on his breath.

  ‘You can’t go home in that state!’

  ‘Leave me alone…I’ve had enough of being bossed about…I’m going.’

  ‘Going where?’ Selma snapped, and then realised what was coming next. ‘You haven’t…’

  ‘I have. I’ve joined up this morning and no one can stop me. I’m sick of being the only lad left in our street. I’m sick of being stared at. I can work with horses in the army. They need drivers and good riders.’

  ‘You can’t go! Dad needs your help. Don’t let him down. Mam’ll go spare when she finds out. Honestly, Frank, you can be so selfish!’

  ‘That’s right, Selma, be a hedgehog; roll in a ball and get your prickles out. It’s all right for you, still in school. Girls have got it made but I’m not staying round here while there’s a war on.’

  ‘We’re doing our bit too. Look at all the women doing men’s jobs—driving horse buses, making shells. There’s even a postwoman in Sowerthwaite, and volunteer nurses joining up.’ Selma strode on, leaving him behind.

  ‘All right, you’ve made your point.’ Frank sat down by a rock on the verge, his eyes glassy. The drink had got to his legs and he was sobering up in the fresh air.

  ‘I hate the forge, pumping bellows, lighting fires, dunking hot metal, and he’s allus preaching at me. When do you ever see him laugh?’

  ‘There’s not much to laugh about right now. Even less if you walk out on him. Poor Mam will be frantic with two of you out there.’

  ‘I’ll be one less mouth to feed, one less shirt to scrub.’

  ‘That’s not the point. You’re letting them down. Going for a soldier isn’t the answer.’

  ‘It is for me. It gets me out of this godforsaken hole!’

  ‘Don’t get funny with me, it doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘And don’t you go telling me what I can or can’t do. We all know you’ve got big ideas ever since you palled up with Cantrell. He’ll drop you like hot coals before long,’ Frank snapped back.

  ‘It’s not like that. We’re just friends,’ she replied, blushing.

  ‘Pull the other leg. I’ve seen you put those letters in your bride box.’

  ‘What bride box?’ she retorted.

  ‘The little carved chest that belonged to Granny Ackroyd. You keep all your treasures in there.’

  ‘Have you been rooting around in my things?’ Her cheeks flamed.

  ‘You’ve got your prickles out again,’ he laughed, and despite herself she joined in

  He’d be in a heap of trouble when he got home. One by one they were leaving her. The family would shrink to just three. But he was right to go and do his duty. The women would manage; they had to in school when the male teachers had volunteered. Now they were practising for a big fundraising concert where her infant class would be the star turn. They were making outfits for the infants dressed as bantam soldiers to march across the stage and sing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence and Selma kept wondering if Frank was having second thoughts about his rash decision. Trouble was, he’d be too proud to admit his mistake. The Bartleys were all stubborn mules. It was bred in the bone but she’d be sure to be out of the house when he broke this news.

  Guy sat on the train going south from training camp, staring out of the blackened windows, hoping this family weekend would be a success. In some ways his new life was just the same as boarding school: long route marches, drill, rifle shooting, studying the manual like a textbook, learning to bivouac and do cross-
country treks in the dark. There was so much theory to learn on how to train up men to obedience and to give orders and earn respect. Some of his training was obvious and some of it bizarre, but he trusted it was all to get him up to scratch for the purpose. He must lead men into battle, make sure they held the line, encourage and discipline men far older than himself and many more experienced.

  Angus was in another battalion, romping away like a pig in muck, according to his scribbled letters. Mother’s threatened interference hadn’t happened, but Guy was uneasy that his brother had lied about his fitness. They’d had their portraits done in uniform, singly and then together, left and right profiles, head to head as if they were one face looking out. They’d both grown moustaches to make them look older, fair tickly little tufts covering their full lips.

  He’d sent a photo to Selma for her opinion and she’d not sent it back. It was good to have a girl to write to. He could let rip and describe all the funny incidents in training, his boredom and impatience to get into action. Her last letter had been full of Frank’s defection into the Horse Artillery and how her father was struggling to keep up with his work.

  He pulled out his pipe, pondering how he’d cope when the time came and the barrage exploded over his head. Would he make a tit of himself and funk the whole show, be dismissed to the rear or get cashiered out as a coward? He hoped he’d make a good account of himself and serve his men well.

  With all the exercise and good food, he’d filled out, grown an inch or two and found new muscle strength. His mother would see a difference and his father would be proud of them both. They were meeting up for lunch at the Trocadero restaurant and then on to a West End show. Angus was joining them from his base near Aldershot. He’d caught up with Father more than once.

  The news from the front was mixed. It didn’t take a genius to work out the attrition rate among officers was much higher than in the ranks. The casualty lists in The Times made sombre reading but Guy was all the more determined that he would be one of the exceptions to the rule.