Lakeland Lily

by Freda Lightfoot

  Lily visited her parents regularly, devoting every moment she could spare from baby Thomas to her war work and growing far more adept at juggling her two worlds. Edward felt as proud of her as if she were his own daughter. He also considered her a better daughter-in-law than his wife deserved. Selene too seemed happier, strangely enough, and had forged quite a friendship with Catherine Kirkby.

  The year progressed pleasantly enough, war or no war. Life was being kind to him at last.

  Then came the breakthrough everyone had longed for. In France the German forces, boosted by troops released from the Eastern Front, pushed the allies hard, taking back Soisson and Rheims. The ‘Big Bertha’ gun prevented them from taking Paris, however, and this gave the allies fresh courage to finish them off.

  By the end of September Bulgaria had surrendered. In October peace talks began. And on 9 November the Kaiser abdicated, followed on the 11th by complete surrender.

  And that was it. Everyone could heave a sigh of relief. The guns fell silent all across Europe as the Armistice was finally signed.

  No one had believed the Great War would last more than a few months. They’d laughed when Kitchener had predicted it would take three years and the lives of a million men. In fact it had taken four, and more than twice that number dead or wounded in Britain and the Empire alone. ‘The Lost Generation’ was the phrase now on everyone’s lips. Those who had escaped the bullet, trench fever, being gassed or losing parts of their body or their lives in some awful way or other, were now dying of Spanish Influenza. It was a stinking world all right, Bertie reflected. He supposed he should consider himself lucky to have escaped largely unscathed, give or take the odd shrapnel wound.

  He got up from the bench and handed the unsmoked half of his cigarette to the chap still huddled in the corner of it, nodding at his, ‘Ta, mate, good on you,’ and walked away across Green Park, hands deep in his pockets, chin sunk on to his chest.

  Where he was going he had no idea. Home, he supposed. To Carreckwater, Lily and Mama. He should make his way to Paddington, or was it Euston? His mind wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. He couldn’t quite remember where the northern trains went from.

  What a pantomime the last few days had been! And what a let down. Just like the damned war. Bertie still marvelled at how swiftly four years of torment could be resolved.

  The map of Europe had been redrawn, the tyrants put in their place, where he sincerely hoped they would remain. The war to end all wars was over, and he had survived.

  Everyone had gone mad at first, not surprisingly. But there’d been no enthusiastic crowds cheering them as the weary troops had disembarked, the novelty of flag waving having long since worn off. Empty quays and silence had been their welcome after four long and bloody years in France. Medicals consisted of no more than a quick tap on the chest and a bath to delouse them of God knows what. Then a few restful nights on a soft mattress, for which he’d been grateful, and this morning fine speeches from their commanding officer, a parcel of rations, chocolate, cigarettes and a few quid in his pocket.

  What had it all been for? They’d be sure to ask him back home. Peace? Democracy? Freedom?

  He could almost hear Margot’s strident voice in his ear. ‘This is my son, the hero, home from the war.’

  He shuddered. Some hero. They’d tried putting him in requisitions, because they’d thought he might have some residual weakness after the diphtheria. He’d soon put paid to that idea, reminding them that officers weren’t supposed to suffer the same physical ills as other ranks.

  He’d gone on to spend most of the war with the Royal Flying Corps, spotting where the enemy were so our boys would know where to attack. He’d enjoyed the flying which was right up his street, but as one of a mere handful of planes about the same business, the powers-that-be had refused them permission to bomb German cities. While he and the other pilots railed against the frustration of not being able to go in and finish the job properly, the politicians held them back with smart words and endless arguments. Until the end, when the support of tanks and aeroplanes had finally won the day.

  Bertie had missed out on that particular shindig, in hospital again having a bit of a plane dug out of his leg. Bloody frustrating, though he supposed he should be grateful it had left him with no more than a slight limp.

  So now he was a free man. Free to go on with his life - whatever that might be.

  He’d eaten the chocolate, smoked most of the cigarettes, now he jingled the coins in his pocket and rubbed his eyes wearily. God, he was tired. He’d go to his club. Hadn’t been to London in an age. If being demobbed didn’t deserve a bottle of champers, he didn’t know what did. Maybe he’d stay overnight, set off back to the Lakes tomorrow. Where was the rush?

  The one bottle turned into two when he met up with a few chums, and the one night into three as the celebrations continued. Some of them had been out for six months or more without a sniff of a peacetime occupation. An officer friend of his had lost all his money to some conman who’d sold him shares in a company that didn’t exist. Another had found his wife had left him, run off with the chap who’d used to look after his damned horses, would you believe?

  ‘The world’s changing, old chap,’ the man mourned. ‘Ain’t going to be the same. ‘S’all right for you. Back to the family business. Little wife waiting.’

  Bertie winced, said nothing and ordered another bottle. It would all have to go on his father’s account but he deserved a bit of relaxation after that hell, and before he faced Edward with the knowledge that his son wasn’t the hero he expected.

  After a hearty breakfast the next morning everyone drifted away, and Bertie was forced to do likewise. He strolled along the Embankment, breathing in the fresh morning air as he struggled to sober up and think clearly. The place was full of soldiers wandering aimlessly like him. No doubt many had been walking all night, trying to get away from their thoughts.

  A thin drizzle started and he hunched deeper into his greatcoat. He’d never been one for ambition, never had the urge to make his father proud, much to Edward’s disgust. He’d been content to take life as it came, happy to enjoy himself with his drawings and dreams. Life had always seemed fun, filled with youthful promise. A lark. Now he knew different.

  Strangely, having no real purpose no longer appealed. He’d seen the mess in the trenches, his chums screaming in the last throes of death, even if he hadn’t shared that final horror. He’d been privileged to survive. Now to idle away that life which had cost others so dear seemed somehow obscene. Yet what could he do? He still had no skills. There was little point in pretending he wished to join his father in the family firm. Shifting paper around an office all day long while being ordered about by Edward held little appeal.

  He’d survived the worst war in history with his life intact, and hadn’t the first idea what he was going to do with it.

  A passing boat sounded its hooter out on the Thames and for a moment Bertie thought of home, of the lake at Carreckwater, of the dear old Faith and the jolly picnics they’d had. It’d all been ripping good fun.

  How much did a ticket to the Lakes cost these days? Maybe he had enough if he didn’t eat much on the way. I can’t put a railway meal on Father’s account, he thought, with a wry smile. Might run to a packet of limp cheese sandwiches, if such a thing still exists.

  ‘Buy a box of matches, guv’nor?’

  Bertie focused with difficulty upon the man on the pavement before him. He was filthy and unshaven with one leg, the khaki greatcoat and the tray hung about his neck telling its own story. What a bloody waste! This chap had probably survived Gallipoli or the Somme practically to die of starvation on the streets of London.

  Bertie emptied his pockets into the man’s tray. There was exactly three pound notes, one half crown and a fistful of coppers. More than he’d thought. The man gasped.

  ‘Thanks, guv. Keep my family from starvation that will.’

  ‘Go and find a proper job with it,’ he said.
‘One worthy of a bloody hero, one leg or no.’ Then he wandered off, wondering how he would now pay for the train. But he couldn’t face going back, not just yet.

  Bertie began to check through a list of chums in his mind for any likely to offer him the loan of a bed, a pound or two, even a job. He couldn’t push Pa’s debts at the club too high. Anyway, he’d be too easily discovered there. Maybe he could get rid of this sense of shame and frustration if he made something of himself before he faced the family. Was that what he was suffering from? Was that the reason for the sour taste in his mouth, the bitterness in his throat?

  Bertie hunched his shoulders and turned left, then right, wandering indecisively, bumping unseeing into people until he reached Trafalgar Square. The place seemed full of pigeons and yet more soldiers, nobody paying them a blind bit of notice. Was there no escape? He found a bench and collapsed on to it, breathing deeply.

  Piggy Fielding. The name came to him out of his past. They’d been in the same dorm for years, and Bertie had been made welcome more times than he could remember by Piggy and his family. His people had owned a cottage in Sedbergh where they’d both attended school, and a house over in Hampstead. He’d call on the old sport before he made any firm decisions.

  Edward could wait a bit longer with the plans he’d no doubt drawn up for the return of his only son. Margot would be busy with her charities, doing her bit, as she called it. Who’d have thought it of her?

  There was his lovely Lily to consider, of course. He’d never regretted marrying her. Very easy to live with, was Lily. She’d not minded a bit about his little bit of hanky-panky with Rose, so far as he could tell. Though why should she? What chap didn’t have a mistress these days? He’d thanked his lucky stars that she wasn’t the prudish sort, if a bit blow hot, blow cold as to whether she let him into her own bed.

  He missed Rose too. Warm and responsive, she’d always been good for a cuddle. But he’d felt compelled to give her up after young Thomas was born. Daft, really. What difference did it make? Anyway, the world was full of girls called Rose. Particularly here, in the capital. Plenty ready to be kind to heroes, or even to those who, like him, only gave the appearance of one.

  A soldier asked him for a cigarette. Bertie handed him the packet then wandered off down Cockspur Street. Still befuddled with the after-effects of too much alcohol, though mercifully free from headache, he walked for what seemed like hours and found himself by Piccadilly Station. Drat it! Had he been walking in circles? Now what?

  Then he saw Rose, or someone very like her, leaning against the newspaper kiosk and it came to him how long it had been since he’d shared a bed with anyone, let alone his wife. Not since that French girl on his last leave in Paris. Heavens, that must be nearly eighteen months since.

  Bertie felt a not unpleasant ache begin somewhere low down as he considered the comfort this girl could offer. She fancied the look of him too, he could see it in the way she caught his eye and tilted her chin so cheekily at him. Her dress was a dull blue satin that had seen better days, but it outlined a pair of exceedingly shapely legs.

  What was the hurry after all? Lily could wait a bit longer.

  He brushed his fingers through sandy curls, straightened his jacket, pushed back his shoulders and sauntered over. Maybe she’d accept an IOU.

  Lily stood on Windermere station watching the people about her crying and laughing, some desperately seeking loved ones, others fainting when they didn’t come or even, sometimes, when they did. People kissing each other, often complete strangers. Joy had become a common currency, freely exchanged.

  It was a long time since people had been given the chance to feel happy. Emotions were running high. Her own stomach churned with excitement, and something very like fear. Now, at last, he was coming. But what would he be like? Just the same, or changed?

  She’d made sure she was looking her best in a long jacket with a fur collar in a warm rust colour to set off her brown hair, together with a matching hat sporting a dashing feather. Bertie would like that. From beneath the coat peeped an ankle-length narrow skirt, buttoned right down the side of her hips to the hem. Rightly named a hobble skirt, it positively discouraged movement but Lily was fond of it.

  A swirl of steam blanked out a whole group of people on the platform, leaving them laughing and choking and not minding at all as they walked blindly off with arms wrapped about their loved one. Lily watched them go with longing in her eyes.

  She’d never expected Bertie to be romantic or particularly demonstrative in his affection. She knew he was fond of her and that had been as much as she could deal with, but she felt a pang of regret sometimes at the lack of love in her life.

  The stench of soot and acrid smoke caught at her throat and set her coughing, eyes streaming. Lily pulled out a handkerchief to dab at them, then as quickly put it away again in case someone should think she’d been deserted and was crying.

  As the platform cleared, there was still no sign of him. Surely he couldn’t have let her down? For a moment she did indeed feel tearful as disappointment welled in her throat. All that anxious waiting and anticipation for nothing.

  Perhaps he’d simply missed the train. He’d certainly promised to be on it. No great letter writer, yet he’d written to tell her of his imminent arrival. Lily curled her fingers around the crackling paper in her pocket, drawing it out to read it for the hundredth time. It was a typical Bertie-type note, written more than a week ago.

  ‘Home next Saturday. Be on afternoon train. Wait for me. Love B.’

  Lily folded it away again. She’d waited for four years. Another day or two wouldn’t matter. Sighing, she turned away and bumped into a young couple, lips glued together, arms wrapped about each other in a passionate embrace. Her heart lurched. Then she dipped her head and hurried quickly from the platform. She really shouldn’t feel jealous. Everyone had the right to love and be loved.

  As have I, a voice in Lily’s head reminded her. She was a healthy young woman, wasn’t she?

  What would be the state of her marriage when Bertie did come home? Would fond affection still be enough? Could they carry on as before, living their separate lives, with all that that implied? Or could she make the necessary effort to build a marriage that worked? Many questions but few answers.

  Choking back tears, Lily felt oddly alone and abandoned.

  She’d brought the gig to collect Bertie and his luggage, leaving it in the station yard. Now she skirted the horse-omnibus and the knot of people bustling each other in their eagerness to board, and set off in that direction as quickly as she could, mentally rehearsing the words she would need to prepare Margot for a disappointment.

  At this very moment her mother-in-law was organising a feast of biblical proportions. The table had been laid with the finest silver and glass. The champagne was on ice. Every larder groaned with Bertie’s favourite dishes, made in preparation for this great day. Except that the chief guest, the prodigal son, would not now be present.

  Others too would be missing. Dora for one. She was lying in a French hospital somewhere. She’d written a long letter to Lily, declaring how terribly boring it all was, and how she couldn’t wait to be up and about again instead of slowly recovering from pneumonia and exhaustion. Lily had written back instructing her to stay exactly where she was, or she would come and deal with her personally.

  Then there was Nathan. Still with no word, the loss Lily felt had become a permanent ache in her heart. She’d learned to live with the silence. Many young men were missing after all, and some - a few anyway - did come home eventually. How could she possibly accept the idea that she might never see him again? It was too frighteningly final.

  In the melee of the station yard Lily could make little progress towards the gig. Try as she might she kept being stopped by people who knew her, all anxious to share their news, good or bad. She learned a great deal about her old neighbours in that short distance.

  Jim, the landlord of the Cobbles Inn, had survived but le
ft one of his legs in France, Mrs Edgar of the cook shop informed her.

  Mrs Robbins, who still supplied the choicest bull’s eyes, stopped to tell Lily that Percy Wright, the agent who had once threatened them with eviction, had been officially declared missing, presumed dead, so there’d be no grave for his poor wife to visit and mourn by.

  ‘He’ll be one of the unknown warriors buried somewhere in France.’

  Lily expressed her regrets, struggling to make them sound sincere for he had always seemed to her a most unpleasant man, for all she supposed he’d only been doing his job.

  She paused to congratulate Mrs Adams on the return of her younger son. The elder had died at Gallipoli, quite early in the war, but young Josh, topping his tiny mother by a good foot and a half, stood beside her now, having survived against all the odds.

  ‘And your own husband?’

  ‘Been delayed, but he’s on his way.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’

  ‘Grand to hear a bit of good news for a change.’ The woman proceeded to reel off such a litany of bad that Lily regretted having stopped to speak to her in the first place. But then from somewhere above her head came another voice, dearly familiar.

  ‘Lily?’

  She jumped as if she’d been scalded, for there he was. As if spirited somehow from the recesses of her mind into the wind-swept station yard.

  ‘Oh, dear God…’ Hand to her mouth she couldn’t even say his name. He had lived in her mind for years. Now all she could think to do was stand and stare at him. Very tentatively she put out one hand to touch his cheek, as if fearful he might be a mirage or a puff of smoke left by the departing train which would disappear at her touch. ‘Nathan?’ She breathed the word like a caress, liquid gold on her tongue.