Remembrance Day

by Leah Fleming

  Essie, Asa and Selma were standing on the windy platform at Sowerthwaite, the chill breeze whipping their heavy skirts and coats, tearing at their hats. Frank was standing shivering, waiting for the down train to Leeds to carry him back to barracks and back on to France. None of them felt like speaking. His leave had been so short and over so soon.

  Parting was not for cowards, but Essie insisted they all come to wave him off.‘You’ve got some brass in your pocket, son,’ said Asa, palming some coins into his hand with a wink.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘You will write to us, keep us in touch?’ said Essie , holding him in a vicelike grip of loving concern and trying not to cry.

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Her son’s grey eyes were blank and unreadable. So much left unsaid between them. Now he looked so young and yet old at the same time, her heart trembled that this might be the last time ever. But she pushed away the thought. ‘Oh, Frank, you will be careful? No more trouble, promise? Just do your job.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mam, I’ll be a good wheelbarrow and go wherever I’m pushed, I promise,’ he laughed, and gave Selma a brotherly bear hug. ‘Next time I come home, I expect you to be a Lady Muck in your finery, a captain’s girl, no less. Who would have thought it?’

  ‘Don’t be daft…’

  ‘I hear he’s still not very well and confined to bed. So Mrs Beck says, who does for them. He’s got a right bad chest from the gas and he won’t be going back for a while. So plenty of time convalescing,’ Essie winked, and they all laughed.

  ‘That’s officers for you. They live by different rules, but Cantrell is a good one, as I said. He stood up for me when I was in a spot of bother.’

  ‘You never said!’ Selma snapped.

  ‘You never asked…Here’s the train coming. Cheerybye…no tears. So don’t hang about,’ Frank shouted, picking up his rifle and his kitbag. ‘I’ll not be looking back.’ And he walked away from them.

  ‘Oh, son…’ Essie’s tears began to flow.

  ‘Come on, owd lass.’ Asa guided her through the gate but Selma stood defiant.

  ‘What did he mean, Guy helping him out of bother?’

  ‘Come on, do what you’re told for once. The fire will need banking up, so it’s back to work,’ her father ordered.

  When they got back to the forge Essie saw the familiar outline of Jemima and the uniformed figure of Guy Cantrell waiting outside the closed forge door, pacing up and down.

  ‘I’ve been waiting ages…Where have you been?’ he barked to Asa, ignoring the women by his side.

  ‘Seeing off our son to war at the station,’ Essie replied, puzzled by the coolness of his attitude, surprised he was out of bed.

  ‘Jemima has lost a shoe again. I don’t think you put the last one on properly, Mr Bartley. Lady Hester is not best pleased.’

  Asa hurried to set up his stall and Selma hung back to talk to Guy.

  He raised his cap. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Bartley.’

  ‘Are you feeling better? We heard you were confined to bed.’

  ‘As you see, I’m fine. This village makes gossip where there is none,’ he replied. ‘You had a pleasant Christmas, I gather? So your brother has gone. I shan’t be far behind.’

  There was an awkward pause as the two youngsters stared at each other, Selma hesitant and Guy looking decidedly uneasy.‘I’ll leave Jemima in your capable hands, Miss Bartley. Beaven will call back later for her. Must dash, things to do…’ Then he turned on his heel, striding back towards Waterloo House without a backward glance.

  Her daughter had been publicly put down and ignored as if she were a stranger and Essie didn’t know what to make of this sudden coolness. ‘Well, that was a turn-up,’ she said, looking to Asa and trying not to see Selma’s distress.

  ‘That’s gentry folk for you: pick you up and drop you like a hot coals.’

  Both of them watched Selma backing out of the forge into the cottage to change. Essie made to go after her but Asa held her back.

  ‘Let her be a few moments. She’ll need to deal with this by herself, but I’ve seen another side to that young man, Essie. Officer or no, that were a right poor show of manners and no mistake.’

  Stunned by the sight of Guy on his high horse, peering down at her as if she was a nobody, Selma couldn’t believe what had just happened. She’d never seen him so cold and imperious so cruel. He knew what it was like to say farewell to a soldier on leave. He knew Dad’s shoeing was the best in the district. He had looked down his nose at them as if they were dirt. It didn’t make sense.

  They hadn’t quarrelled, yet he hadn’t made an effort to visit them and he looked pretty fit to her as he’d marched up that hill at a fair lick, not like the invalid they had been led to believe he was.

  Was it all a pack of lies? Was he just avoiding her? No mention of their letter writing. She so wanted to know how he had helped Frank. He’d only mentioned he’d seen him in passing.

  She sat on her bed trying to make sense of this puzzle; all those little dreams of courtship, country rides and walking out in public, crumpled and crushed by this one encounter. He had snubbed her in front of her parents. You couldn’t get a better message than that, she sighed, and felt sick.

  What had happened to change his attitude? Was it something she’d said? Was it something she had done or not done? Was it because of Frank, being a lowly private? Was it because Lady Hester had made her views plain or was he just being cruel to be kind, knowing there was no future in this romance?

  In one fell blow he’d dashed all her hopes, cutting off their friendship as if it were of no importance. But one thing was certain: Captain Cantrell had had a change of heart.

  Her virtue was safe. Obviously he had found romance elsewhere with one of his own kind over Christmas. She was now surplus to requirements, yesterday’s girl, and it hurt. Oh, how it hurt to be dumped from the warmth of their friendship and intimacy into this wintry chill of rejection.

  11

  Guy looked out of the window across the park up to the hills. The chill wind in his face was bracing. Storm clouds were darkening the sky and snow feathers floated down. He had slept for days and sensed his pleurisy was lifting. He could breathe deeper and there was a surge of energy in his limbs. Today he would get up and ride down to the forge to see Selma at long last. He had been confined to bed for so much of his leave, fit for nothing. But all the rest was at last having an effect.

  He slid out of bed and put on his thick dressing gown and tweed slippers. The fire was crackling and soon Angus would be bringing in breakfast, but Guy wanted to be up and doing. Being an invalid was tedious and he must make an effort to strengthen his muscles. It worried him that he was forgetting the war, getting too used to civilian life, to a soft bed and hot meals. It wasn’t right to be lounging about when others were soldiering on.

  Angus and his mother were in the hallway chatting, but their conversation stopped when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Guy, what are you doing out of bed?’ Hester demanded.

  ‘Time to be stretching my legs. I’m getting cabin fever up there.’

  ‘But it’s too soon. You need to rest up today.’

  ‘I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Look outside…it’s snowing hard. The sky is full of lead. No point in undoing all my good work by catching a chill.’

  ‘Stop fussing, you two. Anyone would think you wanted me to stay sick.’ Guy realised it wasn’t in fact too far from the truth; they liked to have him where they could see him. ‘I have to go back to my company soon.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that in due course.’ Mother dismissed his arguments.

  ‘But I’ve got another medical in a week. They’ll only put me on light duties so I’ll still be somewhere in this country. You’ll be sick of the sight of me. I’m starving—is that bacon and eggs I can smell?’

  ‘Light gruel and egg flip for you,’ Angus laughed. ‘You know what the doctor said.’

  ‘Bugger D
r Mac! I need bacon and eggs, toast and jam. How can I build up my strength on slops?’

  ‘He’s definitely better,Mother.’Angus was grinning.‘He’ll make that medical board yet.’

  ‘Any letters?’

  Guy could see Mother hesitating. ‘Just bills and postcards, nothing for you to worry about…Oh, and Daphne said Caroline Pointer was much taken with you at the Boxing Day dinner.’

  ‘Don’t start that again. I’m going to see Selma today. Beaven can drive me there.’

  ‘Not in this weather he won’t, and you’re not fit to walk there and back. Plenty of time for that later.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ Guy said suspiciously. ‘Shall I ask her for tea then?’

  ‘Just let’s enjoy being together before the house fills up with invalids again. Another day or two won’t do any harm, will it? I thought we could try that new card game Captain Fielding taught us after supper.’

  What could he do but give in? They were right. It was foul outside and going to get worse. No sense in getting a chill. And he didn’t want Selma trekking in these conditions. Better to wait a few more days and build up his strength. He wanted Selma to see him strong, not as an invalid. Bless his mother, for all her fussing she did have his best interests at heart.

  Hester was woken by a terrible dream. She was on a station platform waiting for a train, a train that took aeons to arrive and when it did it steamed past, leaving her stranded. She could see Charles, Angus and Guy hanging out of the window, frantically waving. But she couldn’t get on the train as it flashed past and when she ran out of the station to find Beaven and the car, he was driving away down the road without her. So she went to the omnibus park. But she had no handbag and so no taxi fare. She woke in a sweat.

  How had she ever considered going along with Angus’s crazy scheme? It was ridiculous to hold on to Guy and prevent him doing his duty. Besides, Angus would be a hindrance and a liability to fighting men. He had neither the stamina nor the experience. He might put them all in danger. It was a silly childish dream, well meant but unworthy of her ever having discussed it. And as for the other business with the Bartley girl…It was for Guy’s own good. Angus had done what Guy would never do without a murmur. Guy was too soft-hearted to let her down. His brother had done it at a stroke, so at least the uniform had come in useful there.

  It was good to see Guy on the mend. The Yorkshire Dales air was working its magic and filling his lungs with goodness. She must not be selfish. In the morning she would make Angus know the score and insist he forget his silly notion. He would still be useful when they opened the home again. He must learn to be content doing his service here, learning the ropes of running Waterloo House. There would be plenty to keep him occupied.

  She tried to get back to sleep but her mind was racing. She rose early in the winter light. The sky after the heavy snow was pigeon grey, the beautiful scene outside her window delightful, the boughs arched over with frozen snow making her pause. She peered through the frost to admire the view and saw a line of footsteps making their way out of the long drive.

  It was too early for any deliveries and the footprints were going in the direction of the gate. Curious. Smiling, she opened Guy’s door and heard him snoring; his window was wide open with flakes of snow on the windowsill. She peered in at Angus—her precious boys all under one roof—but his bed was empty . Her heart jumped a beat.

  The dressing table was emptied of its silver jars, combs and brushes. The room looked quite bare. Then she rushed into Guy’s old bedroom at the back. His uniform was gone, his shoes, his new trench coat. Everything he had arrived with had gone. Angus had taken his uniform: a quiet but public exit. Unbeknown to her, making no farewells, he’d switched his life for Guy’s and now it was too late to follow him. She knew he’d gone for the milk train at six o’clock.

  While she was dreaming that awful dream he’d sneaked off.

  Hester fell on his bed in a faint. What am I going to tell Guy? God in heaven, what have we done?

  The snow fell over the village for days on end until the lanes were blocked with drifts swirling into sculptures like ice-cream cones, decorating the roofs with icicle daggers, stonewalls hidden under drifts and sheep trapped on the moors. Everyone was slithering over the cobbles until Asa Bartley threw out cinders and ash, helping Prospect Row to cut itself out of the drifts. There would be no farm work, so Selma had even more time to brood over Guy’s desertion as she helped her father mend kettle spouts, fire irons, bucket handles and fenders; all the small jobs saved for bad weather. At least she stayed warm in the forge. Mam popped in with mugs full of hot broth.

  ‘What a blow-in. This will last for days, will this,’ commented Asa.

  ‘I wish it would thaw,’ Selma sighed, feeling trapped.

  ‘Don’t you go wishing your life away. The nights are pulling out now so be glad of that.’

  Selma felt a restlessness she’d never known before. For as far back as she could recall Guy’s letters were a fixed point in her week. She’d loved taking herself off to a quiet corner to read them over and over before replying. Now he had gone without a by-your-leave. He had been seen by one of the farmers’ wives before the big snow at Sowerthwaite station, getting into a first-class carriage. No one missed anything in West Sharland. What had gone wrong? It must be her fault. She was obviously too common and looked a mess.

  Don’t keep going over it again, she chided herself, trying to concentrate on the job in hand. But her mind was spinning and she dropped the mould and it banged and caught her on the shin. Asa yelled at her and she burst into tears. It was not the sting or the shock of the bruise, it was pure misery overcoming her. Misery bound up tight inside so no one could see.

  ‘Go home and get yourself sorted. I can’t have you here as useless as a treacle glove! Pull yourself together and stop moping over that boy. It wasn’t meant to be. Better to find out now than later. There’s plenty of chapel boys who would give you their last pear drop if you put on a dress and smiled in their direction. Go on. Tell your mam to make use of you…you’re no use to me here!’

  She limped back, looking up at the purple sky, full of flakes, sick of the stuff, too old for sledging. If only she’d stayed on at school. Marigold Plimmer was taking classes now.

  Then she noticed the feathery flakes getting bigger. Fat flakes were wet flakes, and that meant a thaw was on its way. About time, she sighed. Then she might get on with life without constantly looking across from the forge door in case Guy was riding past. Perhaps he’d only gone for some training. He might come home again.

  ‘Where’s Angus?’ said Guy.

  ‘He’s gone to London on business for me. He has to earn his keep,’ said Hester, bustling around him. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of getting up in this chill.’

  ‘He never said he was going away. He could have posted some letters for me. It’s been nearly a week.’

  ‘Angus does have his own life to lead,’ Hester snapped back.

  ‘I’m not criticising, just surprised. It was very sudden, and in this weather…when’s he coming back?’

  ‘Just concentrate on getting yourself better. I’m not your brother’s keeper. He left you his Buchans to read. You enjoy them in peace and quiet, because it won’t last. I expect we will have some more young men to contend with soon.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting them,’ Guy replied.

  ‘Well, then, just rest and relax. Everything is under control,’ Hester answered, knowing everything was far from it. She’d not slept in a week, wondering where Angus was, praying he would write to put her mind at rest. But not a word from him. She was frantic with worry.

  What a foolhardy scheme this was, and now having to keep Guy out of the picture was so important. He must know nothing of this or he would be implicated. As the days went on, she felt more and more this was all her doing. She should have whipped the uniform away when she saw how Angus’s fevered brain was working, instead of colluding with him i
n that little charade at the forge.

  If Guy took himself down to the village and called on the Bartleys the game would be up and the girl would know that it couldn’t possibly have been him on the horse. You went too far there, Hester, a big mistake…Guy would never forgive you if he knew. Time enough to put matters right when Gus returns, and this whole silly prank will be behind us. Guy will understand, perhaps even see the funny side of it all.

  Not many men had a willing double to stand in for them. But she still felt uneasy that Angus had been away so long with not a word. He was going too far keeping her in the dark, and them both having to deceive his brother.

  Guy was getting stronger by the day and she couldn’t keep him confined to bed for much longer. If he was up and about he’d start looking for his uniform, asking awkward questions, and she would be put in the most appalling position.

  Oh, where are you, Angus? Why don’t you write? What can I do to hold time still?

  Then, she had the most devilish of ideas. Desperate times called for desperate measures. There was one way she could keep them all safe for the time being Had she got the courage to do it?

  You are your father’s daughter, she thought, drawing herself up to her full height. We were bred to take control. What you are about to do will be done for the good of everyone. Surely a mother has to do what she can to save her sons when they are in danger?

  Guy was enjoying The Thirty-Nine Steps. He’d missed reading at the front. The novel rattled along at a good pace, but his eyes were heavy and blurred from reading too long. He rose to go to the bathroom and the room spun round as if he were going to faint. So he aimed at the commode and crawled back into bed. Mother was right. It was too soon. There had been a few turns lately and he seemed to be sleeping more than his fair share.

  It felt as if the whole world was drifting away from him into a warm haze of contentment, where nothing mattered much. The fact that Angus hadn’t returned, the fact that Mother was looking strained and had cancelled having more of the wounded officers to convalesce, the fact that he had missed his medical board didn’t seem to matter much. No doubt Dr Mac had confirmed his relapse, as he couldn’t be absent without leave. It was all drifting away and he was relieved not to have to think about anything much. His appetite had faded, and he existed on malted milky drinks that Mother sent up at regular intervals to keep up his strength, such as it was.