by Leah Fleming
They were all there on the bank across the silver ripples. She could see them playing cricket: Asa bowling overarm, Newton keeping wicket as usual, and Frank with his bat, arguing the toss in the stubby field. She wanted to wave and shout, ‘I’m coming…wait for me, I’ll field.’
They looked up and smiled, beckoning her over. She was never one for water but a bit more thrashing and paddling would see her safe to the other side…
The funeral was a quiet affair, just a burial in the churchyard. Essie had wanted no religious service. So there was just Ruth and Sam Broadbent, Selma and Hester, Maggie and Mr Hulbert, the coachman, but the vicar hovered in attendance down the path. It seemed a meagre turnout for such a stout-hearted woman, but her sufferings were over, and Hester envied her being at peace.
She invited them all back to Waterloo for a funeral tea. Ruth and Sam wanted to take Selma back to Bradford straight away but she wanted to stay on and sort out her mother’s effects.
‘I’ll come on the train in a few days,’ she promised them.
The more Hester saw of Selma, the more she realised what a great mistake she’d made all those years ago. Life in America had given her confidence, and her love for her daughter was obvious. She was curious about the girl’s name.
‘You called her after this village—how generous after all that happened,’ she commented when the visitors had gone. ‘Under the circumstances.’
‘What do you mean?’ Selma replied. ‘I have only happy memories of my childhood growing up here. The war changed our lives but the place is still beautiful, and it gives Shari a sense of where she comes from.’
It was then, with a flash of alarm, that Hester realised Selma had no idea what had happened to her brother. Her parents had shielded her from the knowledge as she had tried to shield Guy. Perhaps it was for the best. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt—or could it? But how could she fight for the Bartley name on the memorial without some family support? How could this wrong ever be righted? It wasn’t her place to open up the terrible secret. Should she interfere and break the news to her. How would Selma take this shock, on top of everything else?
There were the letters, of course, especially the one that Essie had shown her all those years ago. Had she written more to her daughter? Should she warn the girl that there were secrets hidden in those drawers, soften the blow by dropping hints?
Whatever I do will be wrong, she thought. Better to say nothing and let things unfold in the fullness of time. Perhaps Essie had destroyed all the evidence. It would be just like her to take this secret to her grave. Her own wishes must be respected so no more interference. It had cost her both her sons’ love and that was a bitter lesson to endure. Leave well alone, you’re not family she told herself firmly. You must hang back and trust in Providence to know what is best.
Martha Holbeck’s warnings still haunted her but she’d found some peace in befriending Essie. In many ways Essie had given her far more than she deserved in service and loyalty. She sat by the hearth searching the flames for comfort.
I never had a true friend before, one who spoke as she found, took no notice of rank, made me laugh at my own haughty ways. How I’ll miss you, Essie. What would you want me to do now? I wish I knew.
21
How could a life come down to this room full of bits and pieces, thought Selma; a wardrobe of shabby tweeds and threadbare clothes, straw hats, warm shirts on hangers, the smell of camphor balls, a drawer of underclothes, well darned, with lavender sachets wrapped carefully around them, vests and corsets, a gold wedding ring, a silver bangle and a rope of cheap beads. There was nothing of value and yet everything held a precious memory for Selma. There was a photograph album in which each postcard from her brothers was neatly labelled with the date, and every letter she’d sent from America wrapped up with satin ribbon. How could she destroy these things or give them away?
What should she take back to Shari? Photographs, the trinket box that belonged to Granny Ackroyd, a little china plate that was a wedding present and the china dogs with cheery faces, which always sat on the mantelpiece, the wooden casket full of letters and Mam’s little book of handwritten recipes. The rest, such as it was, could be sent to the poor and needy. Some of the clothes could be used for rag rugs, they were that worn out. Why had she denied herself all these years? In that tin there were pounds that should have been spent on herself.
As she sat among the things around her, Selma felt so alone. I’m an orphan…now there’s only Ruth and Sam who knew my family as it once was. The war robbed me of brothers and future sisters-in-law and children and cousins for Shari.
The war had robbed so many of the future. She packed away everything carefully, wrapping each item as if it were a precious piece of china, checking the shelves and cupboards under the bed until she was certain nothing was left.
The room still had the smell of death in it, even with windows open. Mam had gone and she must leave too. She checked over everything one last time, and it was then that at the back of the drawer she found Mam’s old black leather Bible stuffed with cards and letters. It had been gathering dust for years since Mam had gone off chapel in a big way. But it was hers, it must be taken, and now wasn’t the time to open it or any of the papers inside. It was too painful and too personal. She didn’t want to read her mother’s thoughts. It felt like prying into her soul.
Selma looked around the room one last time, then went and put her case on the landing.
This was where Guy had once lived but she couldn’t imagine it now. This was where she had struggled as a nervous child while her ladyship gave her the half-guinea. What had happened to those gold coins?
It was all a long time ago, so much had shifted since the war. How different she felt now, knowing that the Bartleys were as good as anyone of rank. It was who you were inside, not what you had, how you lived your life, not how titled you were that mattered. That’s why she loved living in America. You could be anything you wanted to be if you tried hard enough.
‘I’ve tidied everything away and taken some souvenirs,’ she said at the top of the stairs. ‘I hope that’s all right.’
‘Anything of interest?’ said Lady Hester, hovering over her.
‘Just letters and bits of memories from the cottage,’ Selma replied, holding out her hand in friendship. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me, any questions?’
‘Funny, Mam said that to me too. “If you’ve got any questions Lady Hester will answer them.” Is there anything I should be knowing, any dark secrets?’ She laughed nervously.
Hester didn’t smile back. ‘I’m here if you need me.’
‘I know, and it’s such a relief to know too how much you meant to my mother at the end. How can I ever repay you?’
‘By thinking kindly of me, whatever happens. We all make mistakes. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. A safe journey and keep in touch. Let me know what happens to you both. Take care of Sharland. Enjoy her while she’s yours. Childhood is so short and there comes a time when they’re gone and you can’t change things back. Hulbert will drive you to the station.’
As Selma went to the waiting car she saw the old woman in black standing by the large door, her hand half raised in a wave. What was all that about? It was as if she was trying to warn her: funny old stick! She used to be so tall and daunting and now so frail and uncertain.
Selma made the driver stop by the graveyard for one final farewell to the freshly dug mound. ‘I’m off now, Mam, back home. I’ll make you proud of us so don’t you fret. Cheery-bye!’
She felt village eyes watching from their net curtains but she didn’t care. Where were they when the family needed them? She hadn’t bothered to go and seek any of them out herself. Marigold Plimmer was still teaching school and looking shrivelled up and mean-faced. She could do without that sort of pal in her life.
Everything was settled, at peace and she could go back with an easy mind.
Perhaps one day she’d bring Shari over, but not for an age. There was nothing for them here now but memories.
Miss Heckler stood on the porch as the children lined up to gape at their school teacher coming to their door: Charleson, Lorrie, Kitty, Dorothy and little Joan wondered what they had done wrong.
‘Come in,’ said Guy, knowing what this was about. Rose brought another cup to the table.
‘I can’t stop,’ Miss Heckler said. ‘I just wanted to know if you would like me to move Charlie…Charleson up another grade. He is doing so well and I don’t want to hold him back in his math…if you are agreeable, Brother West and Sister Rose?’
‘Sure, that’s great, if you think he’ll hold his own,’ Guy replied. ‘He loves his schooling.’
‘He’s the sort of boy who’ll benefit from higher education but I know that’s a personal decision for a family and not without sacrifice. Boys are needed on farms, especially in these hard times,’ said Miss Heckler.
Guy waved his hand. ‘We’ll manage, face that when it comes, won’t we, Rose? The girls can help him out after school with chores. Thank you for giving us warning.’
The teacher rose. ‘I’m so glad you’re enthusiastic. In my experience there’s a reluctance to let our brightest pupils go on to higher grades. It means a change of school, of course…’
‘Of course.’ Guy turned to his wife, who had a face like thunder.
‘We will discuss this with the family first,’ she said.
Miss Heckler backed out, sensing tension. ‘I hope I’ve not brought dissention,’ she said. ‘Having a brainy child in class sure leavens the dough,’ she joked, but Rose did not respond as she shut the door behind her.
‘Rose! That was so rude of you. What do you mean?’ Guy snapped.
‘The boy stays where he is. It doesn’t do to favour one over the other. It’s not our way. Pa will not hold with sending our boy into a worldly school to better himself.’
‘You forget, I’m Charlie’s pa. Education is a way for him to find his true path in the world.’
‘Education is the way out of the community. They leave for college and never come back, or if they do, it’s to demand changes and freedoms, unsettling everyone.’
‘You can’t hold him back,’ he argued.
‘How can we pay for books and clothes and transport in this depression? There’s hardly a cent to spare. You can be so worldly sometimes. He must learn to work within his own kind,’ she sighed, not looking at him.
‘Doesn’t he do that now, ploughing a team of horses since he was nine…digging out wells? When I think of my pampered childhood with servants to wait on us. I want my child to be able to do more than read and write. I want him to understand how things are made and how science helps man conquer disease…’
‘There you go again, forgetting you joined a chosen people, a separate tribe. It is our duty to bring up our children in obedience to the rules, not encourage worldly pursuits.’
‘But it is his future not ours here. We have made our choices—shouldn’t he be free to experience other things before he makes his?’
‘You were happy enough to leave your old life behind and join us, or have you changed your mind now?’
‘That was different. There was a war on. I had a good education. It did me no harm,’ he argued. This was a side of Rose he’d not seen before.
‘It made you into a soldier and brought you low. You were happy to eat dog scraps when I first knew you,’ she cornered him.
‘This is not like you to throw stuff back at me. What’s bugging you?’
‘Can’t you see I’m afraid? Don’t go giving Charlie big ideas, it’ll end in tears. Don’t forget we’ve been here before. Look no further than my brother Zack. He was lost to us when he went to war.’
‘That won’t happen again. I just want Charlie to fulfil the gifts inside him. He’s got a mind that is always asking questions and wants answers. I’m not sure he wants to be a farmer.’
‘The Lord will decide his path. He must obey the Ordnung; obedience to parents’ wishes is high in the Ten Commandments. Obedience is the only way to humility and is the path to peace.’
‘I don’t understand. How can a mother not take pride in having a clever son? Don’t you want him to be of use in the world?’
‘Growing food, giving to the poor from our surplus is good enough for me.’
When Rose of Sharon got that ornery look on her face there was no shifting her, but he was head of the household and it was his desire to see Charlie educated to a higher standard than the village schoolroom. The Lord had endowed the boy with brains for a purpose. He was his only son. The line of little girls who followed were his joy too but they lived in their mother’s domain, kitchen maids and dairy hands. She ruled there.
Izaak would no doubt take him aside in the fields and point out the error of his ways; that he was an offcomer, an Englisher and must learn obedience.
Guy sat alone, knowing that he wasn’t giving in on this one. Charlie would go to college no matter what it took. For one fleeting second he contemplated writing to his mother and demanding she send the boy to his own Alma Mater, but then he laughed aloud at such a notion.
Where was the harm in giving his child a chance to open his mind to the joys of learning? It was the least he could do and he would find some way to persuade the Yoders that they must move with the times.
It was a smooth Atlantic crossing. This time Selma felt such a sense of freedom and longing to be going back to the warmth of the Californian sun, to see her daughter’s face again and share her grief with Lisa. It was strange that since her mother’s death she felt she was her own person, free to take up her life again. Those three precious weeks in Yorkshire convinced her that her own life was no longer there. The past was the past and over with. She had been so lucky to get back in time to say goodbye and to honour her passing. All the little family mementoes were safely packed away and she had time now to stroll on deck and prepare for her return.
She delved into the battered suitcase and pulled out a book, but instead chanced upon her mother’s black Bible. Out of it spilled a wodge of letters with army postmarks. Frank and Newton’s letters? She didn’t want to look at them, but then she saw they weren’t in their handwriting. She was curious.
Mam had said she received comforting notes from Frank’s pals. It would be nice to read their comments about him, a comfort even. She still felt sad about that last visit home and the silence that followed when she was sent away.
Opening the thickest letter, she decided to go on deck into the sunshine to read them. She found a sheltered deck chair and settled down to the task. What was on those pages made no sense at first. It was all about some court case, but then, as she read her hands turned to ice.
Dear Mr and Mrs Bartley,
I think you ought to know what really happened to your son. It weren’t right at all. We had been out with the horses all day, and they were done in and so were we. It was time to put them back in the stable and rub them down and get their tea.
Then our regimental sergeant major came storming in, all guns blazing, saying where the hell have you been and get them horses back out, they’re needed!
Frank turned round and said politely, ‘But they need to rest up and feed, and we do too.’ Which were a mistake.
‘Don’t you give me cheek, lad. I know your sort, skulking off behind the stalls for a fag, idling…get on your way.’
‘These horses aren’t fit,’ Frank said, standing his ground, and I could see him flaring up.
‘Shush, Frank,’ I said. ‘Let him be,’ but he were tired and riled and not to be reasoned with. He’d had some bad dos of late.
‘Let him take the bloody horses, drive them senseless into the mud but I won’t do it. It’s not humane what they have to put up with here. They’re all God’s creatures and can’t tell us owt if they suffer,’ he said.
‘You’ll bloody well do what you are told!’ came the order.
&
nbsp; ‘Go to hell!’ he cursed, and the RSM pulled the cigarette out of his mouth roughly, and that’s when Frank punched him hard in the face and swore. We tried to pull him off but he went berserk. Suddenly they were on him and he was marched off on a charge, but he kept lashing out. ‘Don’t let the buggers get you down!’ That was Frank all over, all for his horses, but there weren’t anything we could do but obey.
We heard later that he knocked down the second lieutenant and beat him hard. He was a doomed man from that moment on. Perhaps something had snapped, a string cut, a cog in his mind slipped for a second.
By the time he was stood on the mat before the Field Court Martial, he’d regained his composure but the seriousness of the charge washed all the colour from his face, and his past record was against him. You don’t strike officers and superiors. It’s as bad as mutiny in their eyes. So he was sentenced to death and had to wait for confirmation from the bigwigs.
We tried to speak up for him, but that RSM hated his guts and took delight in goading him. He was hoping some captain from his village would speak up for him too but Captain Cantrell, I think his name was, never came or sent the proper papers, I’m told, which was a shame. It might have been different if he had.
It was ordered that some of us would make up the firing squad but no one volunteered. Frank was well liked.
We hung about where he was held and the officer let us talk to him through the window. ‘Au revoir, chum,’ I said. It was all I could think of I were that choked.
Terrible things happen in war, but nothing as bad as this. I will never forget it as long as I live. None of us will. It was a despicable act on a good man.
He was blindfolded at first, his hands tied together to a post but he stood steady as a rock. ‘Take off the blindfold,’ he asked. ‘I’m not afraid.’ We were made to watch. ‘Goodbye, you lot,’ he shouted as if he were going off on leave. The subaltern was trembling and the firing squad looked dreadful.