by Leah Fleming
She looked up at him with scorn. ‘What’s happened to you? You’ve lost your bite.’ She stared again with contempt, and then with fear. He looked so tired, so done in. ‘I’m sorry. That was unkind. You do as you think best. We have to eat.’
‘I keep my thoughts for my prayers, much of it best left unsaid, but bitterness is like an acid, it burns away old metal, given time. Don’t give in to bitterness. We can’t change what has happened to Newton or Frank. They won’t come home like a fair few other village boys, but we will always remember their sacrifice.’ He started to cough.
The singing and dancing, the celebration services and pageants went on all through those cold November weeks. But then a few wounded soldiers trickled home and letters came that one or two had fallen for a bad dose of influenza in hospital and they’d not be coming home again.
The sickness started in dribs and drabs at first. Asa was preaching in chapels once full, but now half empty. Soon, it seemed half the village were coughing and spluttering. The church bell was tolling as young and old succumbed to this terrible affliction.
When her husband took to his bed Essie knew real fear as she watched him burning up and shaking, his body limp and his breathing so bad she sent for Dr Mac, who didn’t look too good himself.
‘Keep him warm and lots of drinks down him. The fever will take its course, one way or another.’ That was when she sent for Selma, only to receive a telegram from Ruth to say Selma and Sam were both down with the flu and she was feeling badly herself.
There was no time to dwell on this cruel twist of fate. Asa was delirious with fever, his handsome face now sunken and grey. She sat with him night and day, willing him to fight, but his body was too weak. She read him whole passages of the Psalms at his request, begged him to sip on the cup with the spout, gave him brandy disguised as cocoa, which he enjoyed. But then his breathing became so laboured that she knew his heart was giving out.
‘You can’t do this to me!’ she screamed. ‘Take my sons and then my husband. You can’t do this to me, cruel God.’ She had never felt such hatred and anger in all her life. But it was all to no avail.
Asa slipped from her quietly one evening while she was dozing. She woke and his hand was as cold as the chill and the frost on the panes of window glass. She was utterly broken and wishing that she too would be stricken with the same. Why was she still fit and strong? Why did she have only snuffling cold? Why was the better half of them taken?
She laid him out as only she knew how. With tenderness she washed him, combing his tousled hair, shaving him so he looked dignified in death. She closed the curtains and sat waiting for the carpenter to call.
It was two days before he came to measure up, two days with no visitors but the pastor, who made arrangements for the funeral.
Ruth wrote to say that Selma and Sam were on the mend but Professor Greenwood had died in the night and poor Lisa was distraught. Selma would be too weak to attend her own father’s funeral but Ruth would try to come herself.
What will happen to me now? Essie cried into her pillow. How can I live? How can I pay the rent with only a widow’s pension to fall back on? Black thoughts swirled in her mind like smoke. The utter desolation of this cruel fate overwhelmed her tough spirit. She hadn’t strength left even to think.
There was a modest turn out for Asa’s funeral but few of the other villagers who spoke to them dared to risk attending for fear of infection. Her husband was lowered into the hard ground in the corner of St Wilfred’s that was the enclave of the chapel attenders: ‘Hellfire Corner’—they’d once joked about its nickname.
It was hard to mouth his favourite hymns, to listen to his friends making pious praises over him. ‘You know nowt!’ she wanted to scream.‘You have no idea how his sons’deaths had broken his spirit, weakened his body. He bore it all uncomplaining, carried his sorrows on his back like a cross until he cracked.’
When God sent this plague to punish this wicked world, it struck at random, good and evil alike, soldiers, civilians, doctors and nurses, innocent children, rich and poor.
How could she believe in such a creator ever again?
This is the last time I’ll darken these doors with my shadow, she mused. Pulpit words would hold no sway over her again. She stood as the rain beat down on her coat, watching Asa sliding into the earth for ever. Her only comfort was the knowledge that he wasn’t there. That was just the shell of him. She’d laid out enough folk to know that when the breath left the body, the soul flew out too. That was why she always opened the window to set it free.
What shall I do now? she cried. Where do I go from here?’
The answer came slowly as week after week people knocked on her door to ask her to lay out their dead. Since she had survived this ‘Spanish Flu’, as they were calling it now, she was a good omen. Her services were in demand and the coins slipped to her were never refused. This was how she would survive until Selma came home again. Together they would make their way forward.
15
‘What shall I do, Aunty Ruth? I don’t want to go back to West Sharland. Lisa needs me now more than ever. I can’t let her down.’ Selma had woken from her sick bed to find the whole world changed. Her father was dead and buried, and now Ruth was recovering from the same ailment. Selma was running the household and that of Professor Greenwood. Poor Lisa was distraught. Selma was nursing her back to strength as if she were her little sister at the same time as grieving for her dead dad.
‘You owe it to your mother, but you must do what you think fit by Miss Lisa, poor lamb without a soul in the world. Your mother can manage a while longer, I’m sure, but she will expect you to return,’ Ruth replied.
‘But I want to stay here. I like Bradford now. I didn’t at first. I wish Mam could come and share my room,’ Selma said.
‘That’s not a good idea and you know it. Much as I love my sister, it wouldn’t work. Chalk and cheese we allus have been. You must go and pay your respects. I’ll have Lisa here for Christmas…The first Christmas of peace and everyone too ill to enjoy it, I reckon.’
Ruth was right. Selma was being selfish as usual, but she couldn’t leave Lisa for long, knowing she was an orphan. Professor Greenwood had begged her to stay with her and see that she was taken care of. There was money and instructions with his lawyer if anything happened. He’d made plans but didn’t say what they were. But she owed Mam her services too. This flu had ravaged town and country alike: shops, banks, trams, schools closed with staff stricken, and the poor soldiers limping home to face yet more sickness and danger.
As she packed her bag full of spare tins of food, she sighed knowing she’d be missing the Christmas pierrot show. She’d auditioned for a part in a sketch and did a funny song dressing up as a blacksmith with a sooty face.
Everyone had laughed and clapped and asked her to join the concert party. It comprised mostly women, of course, but they made her welcome and soon she was attending rehearsals, making friends. The influenza had ruined everything. It was weeks since those trips out to Ilkley Moor and Shipley Glen, teas in cafés and the tram home. It had helped her forget all the past troubles in the village—and Guy. Now returning home would bring everything back.
Duty called and she felt ashamed that she resented having to interrupt her own plans to help out in Mam’s hour of need. She was going back with a bad grace and she prayed it wouldn’t show.
‘We are going to have to do something about that shrine growing on Elm Tree Square. It’s getting so gaudy and unsightly,’said Hester at the parish meeting. ‘It’s just getting out of hand.’
‘Our people,’ said the chairman, Ebenezer Best, ‘just want to remember their loved ones. It’s only natural they want a focal point. We were thinking of making up a roll of honour for our Sunday school scholars, listing all those who served,’ he added.
‘St Wilfred’s will want to do the same—something suitable for the church wall—but we need legal permission, a faculty from the Dioceses in due course,’ said the vicar, not wa
nting to be outdone. ‘We want something tasteful, not sentimental messages. I agree with Lady Hester that it does look a mess,’ he continued.
‘Perhaps then, it is time to think of something suitable for the whole village: a public war memorial. There have been suggestions, since the Cenotaph is being built in London, that other towns may want to do the same.’
‘There’ll have to be a central committee then,’ said Hester, foreseeing all sorts of complications. ‘But I’m sure it’s too early to be thinking of such commemorations.’
‘It’s never too early to honour our fallen heroes,’ remarked Mr Plimmer.
‘So it’s just the dead or will it be a muster list of all who served?’ someone suggested.
‘That’s not necessary. Think of all those names to fit on,’ said another.
‘You’re not going to put names on the memorial, surely?’ said Hester. ‘That’s never been done before.’
‘I think you’ll find it has in some towns.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Hester argued.
‘Can you both address the chair?’ shouted Mr Best. ‘You see what I mean…it’s going to take a lot of thinking out.’
‘Will we have to pay or will the government pay for it?’ asked Mr Plimmer. ‘I’m not forking out for some plaque on a church wall I’ll never see.’
‘At this early stage we will have to take advice. We must make our memorial appropriate to the size of our community, take everyone’s wishes into account,’ said the chairman.
‘If their idea of a memorial is anything like that muddle in the square, I’m not sure it’s in the right place,’ Hester added, not wishing to be thwarted.
‘I think we will have to form a subcommittee. Views must be minuted and done properly and if we are going to have to shell out from the parish, then others must be co-opted onto it.’
‘Is that necessary?’ Hester protested. She’d hoped they’d all agreed to demolish the wooden shrine, put up some stone obelisk and leave it at that.
‘Lady Hester, this is far too important a monument to be rushed into. Future generations will look at it and learn.’
‘Perhaps we ought to have a fund-raising event and put up railings to replace them as have been taken for salvage. Railings round the elm tree and a bench would do the trick,’ a man from the back row suggested.
‘We could open a bit of a field as the kiddies play park,’ said someone else
‘What’s that got to do with our fallen heroes?’ yelled Mr Plimmer.
‘If you’re going down that route, we need some lavatories in the reading room,’ said Miss Barnes, the new schoolmistress.
‘Gentlemen, ladies, please order! A committee will need to look into all these suggestions. Shall we vote on this matter and get on with the rest of business or shall we be still here in the morning?’ Ebenezer Best as usual had the last word.
The motion to form a committee was seconded and voted through. Hester was determined that she would sit on this committee and ensure that it was to her liking. She was, after all, a patron of St Wilfred’s, which would give her a say in what went on there, but the thought of names going on a plaque troubled her. How could she make sure both of her sons were honoured for their sacrifice? And what about the Bartley boy?
The forge had closed since Asa’s death. Somehow Essie Bartley had managed to pay her rent on the due day but it was only a matter of time before she too would struggle. Hester felt a wave of pity for that isolated woman. She had never returned to the Women’s Institute meetings, nor now went to chapel, it was rumoured.
If only there was something she could do to make amends to help her through this bad patch. But one look at those fierce dark eyes and she knew this proud woman would suffer shame and want before she’d ask for help.
Hester wasn’t going to let her end up in the workhouse. Where was the daughter when she needed her? It really wasn’t her responsibility. The two women were strangers in many ways. But something must be done and she was going to have to make the first move.
If Guy had had his way, by now they might have been related by marriage. If only Hester knew where he was. She had hoped now the war was over he would have made contact by postcard. But each day the post brought no news.
Oh, what do you expect, postcards from the dead? That was what hit her hard. His name on the memorial would be a lie and Angus, who had died in his place, would never get what was due to him either. It was all such a terrible mess. What on earth was she going to do?
Essie hardly recognised her own daughter. She looked that smart in her short skirt and posh little hat, her hair bobbed and sleek as she marched across the station bridge, waving and smiling. Her heart sank when she noticed Selma had brought only a small leather case. Not big enough to mean she was coming home for good.
‘Well, what a picture you make! Ruth must have kitted you out,’ she said, forcing a smile to her lips.
‘No, I bought them myself. Do like my new coat?’
‘Very swish,’ Essie said, knowing her older shabby grey tweed was threadbare.
‘Shall we wait for a bus?’ Selma asked.
‘What’s wrong with Shanks’s pony?’
‘My new shoes won’t stand it,’ she laughed, pointing to neat little court shoes.
‘I forgot you’re a town girl now,’ Essie quipped, half joking.
‘Just you wait. I’ve got such news. Can I treat you to tea at Bowskills bakery?’ Selma offered.
‘Why do you want to pay those prices for summat as I can make for nothing, Selma Bartley? You’d need a magnifying glass to find a currant in their fruit scones!’
‘This is a treat for you, Mam…afternoon tea in a café.’
‘Wasted on me, lass. Let’s get home and put the kettle on the hob and have a good chinwag. I want to know all about things and you could do with fattening up. Plus I thought you’d want to go and see your father’s grave,’ she added.
‘All in good time, Mam. It’s on my agenda.’
‘Agenda? What’s one of those when it’s at home? Where do you get such words?’
‘From Lisa—she’s a walking dictionary. I’ve been reading her schoolbooks too. Do you know, she knows Latin and French and she’s only twelve, and there’s German, of course.’
‘Why does she want to speak that language?’
‘Didn’t I tell you she was German? Her father came from Munich long before the war.’
Essie was not impressed. ‘What was he doing here, a spy?’
‘Don’t be so small-minded, not all Germans are spies. He’s been here for years.’
Essie couldn’t understand Selma’s breathless enthusiasm over Miss Lisa’s world of art and music; a world away from the village school and the forge. But she held her tongue and let the girl rattle on. It was lovely just to see her bright face in front of her.
They arrived back home and Selma looked around the room. ‘I never realised how small our cottage is,’ she said.
‘Big enough to raise a family and big enough to rattle around on my own,’ Essie replied. ‘It may not be Ruth’s palace but it kept you warm and dry on many a stormy night, or have you forgotten already?’
‘I didn’t mean…Don’t take on. I’m just observing, that’s all. Lisa says observation is important if you want to look and learn.’
‘This Lisa seems full of herself.’
‘That’s not fair. She’s just lost her father and been ill.’
‘Sit down, yer tea’s mashed. We need to put some flesh on those bones. You look half starved.’
‘No, I’m not, it’s the look—the streamlined look, Lisa calls it.’
Essie had had enough. ‘Lisa, Lisa—haven’t you got a thought in your own head?’ Selma had changed into a dizzy, flighty young woman and Essie didn’t like what she was seeing. ‘You’ve not asked once how things are here for me,’ she chided.
‘West Sharland is pickled in aspic, Aunty Ruth says. It’ll never change: pretty, hard-working, everything as it alwa
ys was,’ she replied, looking around her.
‘Do you really think so? You have been away a long time. After four years of war nothing is the same. Half of the men never came home. The forge is closed, and now some man from Sowerthwaite wants to fettle up motor cars in there. It’s full of wheels and banging all hours…He’s dug a pit into the floor. I don’t know what’s come over folk.’
‘You’ve got to go with the times, Mam, or they will leave you behind. What else is fresh?’
‘They want to put up some memorial statue for the soldiers, but no one can agree on what. There’ll be names round the bottom of it.’
‘That’ll be nice for you to see our Newt and Frank’s on it.’
‘Will it now? I’d rather have them here. I’d rather be washing their shirts than walking past their names every day,’ Essie snapped. It was quite plain that no one would be putting Frank’s name on any plaque after what had happened, but Selma didn’t know the details and never would from Essie’s lips.
‘The war’s over now. Time to get on with things. Which brings me to the most exciting news. I’m going to America,’ Selma announced as coolly as if she was going for the bus.
Essie thought she’d heard wrong. ‘Who’s going to America?’
‘When Professor Greenwood was sick, he wrote to his brother who lives across on the west coast in Los Angeles. Isn’t that a beautiful name? Lisa says it means the angels.’
‘Get on with it,’ Essie snapped, feeling sick.
‘We had a visit from the lawyer in Bradford, who said her father had written a will leaving money for Lisa and her companion—that’s me—to go on a ship to New York and then across by train to deliver Lisa to her uncle Cornelius Grunwald…’
‘When is all this going to happen?’
‘As soon as it can be arranged. Can you believe it, I’m going on a ship to the New World?’
‘How long are you going to stay and who will bring you back? You can’t come back alone.’
‘We’ve not got that far. I might find work out there. It’s where they make moving pictures for the cinema. Fancy me bumping into Mary Pickford or John Barrymore!’