‘And so are all the others, mister.’
‘I understand you have a son working for you.’
‘Aye, you’ve been well informed. Me son does work here, but he’s on forty. So, I should think it’s been a waste of your journey trying to recruit round here.’
‘Oh, not entirely, not entirely. I got four from the village yesterday.’
‘Huh! I bet they were half canned.’
Janie now heard the stranger’s voice turn to laughter as he replied, ‘Well, not quite, but it helps, it helps. By, that’s a funny village of yours down there!’
‘It isn’t my village, mister, never has been.’
‘No? You don’t seem to think much of it.’
‘You’re right there, you’re right there.’
‘Well, if one believes only half of what that lot get talking about in the inn there’s no love lost. By! They can spin the yarns like fairy tales. But I suppose there was something in it, for they say all the mischief started when your boss jilted a lass in the village and went and married a dancing piece from Newcastle. Is there any truth in that?’
‘There’s truth in part, mister. She was no piece, she was a lady.’
‘Oh! But did he jilt anybody?’
‘I don’t know so much about that. I can only repeat what I’ve said: his wife was a lady.’
‘Well, is it true that the supposed jilted one set fire to the place?’
‘She didn’t set fire to the place, just a field.’
‘Oh, just a field. Well, as I said they spin the yarns down there. They even said she killed the wife, I mean…dancing lady, with a catapult. I laughed at that, but they swore it was true.’
There was silence in the barn for a moment; then the stranger’s voice said again, ‘They say he had her put away in an asylum, and there she is to this day.’
Still Mike made no reply until the stranger said, in a low tone now: ‘If what they said next is true, I’d put them down as a rotten spiteful lot of buggers, for they said that three of the village blokes raped his daughter, and her but a lass of fifteen. And she had a child and the lass is of an age now…Well, I gather by your silence there was some truth in it. By God! All I can say is, I would have helped that lass’ father to strip those buggers, as they said he did, an’ pin ’em up on the church screen. By! I would. And I would have helped to flail them an’ all. They deserve to be shot. And you know something? I didn’t like the village when I came into it. I’m a recruiting sergeant, right enough, an’ I take all I can get me hands on, because that’s me duty, but as I said, I never liked that village from when I first smelt it; and I’ve been in lots of villages. They’re all peculiar in their own ways. Give me the city any time. And it’s true what I said, mister, I didn’t believe half of it. But I can see now, as I said, by your still tongue, I didn’t know the half of it. That child will never find out from where she sprang, will she? And they talk about the atrocities of the bloody Germans and what they did to the Belgian women! Well, I would say you couldn’t go much further than this village. Anyway, we’ll be leaving it the night and I won’t be sorry. But thank you, mate, for showing me around. And I’ll take your word the whole place is run by old codgers.’
There was the sound of laughter now, then the byre door closed, and the empty bottle dropped out of Janie’s hand onto the straw. And she sat staring across the calf at the wall opposite …
How long she sat there she never knew, but she didn’t seem to come to herself until Jessie’s voice said, ‘Have you gone to sleep, dear?’
She turned to see Jessie standing in the opening to the little byre, and she gave her no answer but tried to stretch out her legs, which had gone into cramp. And when Jessie’s hands came under her arms and lifted her up and her voice said, ‘Did you fall asleep?’ she muttered, ‘Yes. Yes, I must have.’
Jessie now stooped and picked up the empty bottle, saying, ‘It drank it all. And oh, it looks more lively. Come along.’
As they walked up the byre Jessie, bending down to her, said, ‘You must have fallen asleep; you look dozy. Are you all right? You’re not feeling tired?’
Janie shook her head slowly. ‘No,’ she said; ‘it…it was warm in there.’
‘Yes. Yes, and you must have dropped off to sleep. Come and have a cup of tea. I’ve made some of those scones you like.’
Janie drank a cup of tea and forced herself to eat a scone. ‘Must I have my history lesson this morning? I…I could do it later on today.’
Jessie looked at her closely. ‘Well, you have done your English and geography,’ she mused. ‘Yes, I suppose you could have your history lesson later. But what do you wish to do instead?’
‘I…I would just like to take a walk.’
Jessie remained silent for a moment. She had just checked herself from saying, ‘You won’t go over to the Hall again, will you? I mean, you mustn’t trouble them.’ But she knew if she voiced those words a look would appear on Janie’s face that she had come to dread. The only name she could give to it was withdrawal; and oh, she didn’t want her child, as she still thought of her, to move away from her again, because lately, through not penning her in any way they had become close. Nevertheless she was worried about the association with that man, who had outrageous ideas and was said to be a conscientious objector. Oh, how she wished they would force him into the services, so that his absence would break his self-imposed responsibility for her.
‘You won’t go far, will you? You get tired so easily, you know.’
‘I won’t get tired, Auntie Jessie. I’ll walk slowly.’
‘Well then, you must wrap up well. Come and put on your thicker coat and your woollen hat.’
She now helped Janie into her outdoor clothes, and lastly she put a woollen muffler around her neck before handing her her gloves. Then stooping, she kissed her cheek, saying, ‘Don’t be long now, dear, because it will soon be dinner time.’
Without giving her aunt any response other than a smile, Janie turned and left the cottage, walked across the yard and into the road; then along it until she came to the stile. Having crossed this, she walked half round the perimeter of the field, pulled herself up into a sitting position on top of a low stone wall, then swung her legs over and walked across the meadow and into the wood. Beyond this, she skirted another field before arriving at the edge of the smallholding, and from there she made her way towards the first of the long greenhouses; but seeing Gerald apparently in serious conversation with McNamara, she stopped. But presently McNamara pointed towards her; and then there he was…her nice man, standing before her, saying, ‘Where have you sprung from? This is a coincidence. I was just on my way to visit you.’
‘You were?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was. I…I wanted to tell you something. Come along; come into the house.’
She did not move, but said, ‘Could…could we go to the cottage first?’
He looked down on her for a moment before saying, ‘Yes. Yes, of course, if you wish.’ And so they walked side by side along a roughly hewn path until they came to the cottage. The outside had been cleared of dank grass and weeds and the door was now upright on its hinges. He pushed it open; then when they were both inside and he had closed the door, he shivered and said, ‘Well there’s one thing: we can’t remain long in here, it’s enough to freeze you. But come and sit down a minute.’
They went into the next room, which no longer held the bed. Its window had been mended, and the presence of a number of large wooden crates showed it had been used as a store room.
She sat down on one of the crates, and he pulled another in order that he could sit opposite to her. And now, bending forward, he said, ‘Something wrong?’
‘I…I don’t know. What I mean is, yes, there is something wrong. But it must have happened a long time ago. A lot of wrong things happened a long time ago. And that’s why I am—’ she stopped now and shook her head, then said, ‘me.’
His voice was quiet when he spoke, saying, ‘You’re
beating about the bush. What has happened?’ He now watched her bend forward and put her joined hands between her knees, and this, as always, indicated her troubled mind. Then she started: ‘I was in the cow byre,’ she said, ‘we’ve got a sick calf; I was feeding it. No-one could see me; it’s partitioned off. Then Mike came in. I recognised his voice but not the man’s who was with him. From what I know now, he is one of those men who go around gathering recruits. Well, he was in a public house in the village and he heard things that he didn’t believe or only half-believed. And he asked Mike if they were true or not.’
She lifted her head and looked at him, and she said, ‘Now I know what it’s all about: why…why I am lonely, always have been lonely; and why, when I once asked Auntie Jessie if my mother was upstairs ill, and where my father was, and why wasn’t he with her, she screamed at me and yelled, “He’s dead. He’s dead! Do you hear? He’s dead!” And now I wish he was dead, because I don’t know who my father is, do I?’
The words that were passing through his mind could have been considered blasphemous. He continued staring back into her eyes, when all the while he wanted to turn away from her, or yell in much the same manner as Jessie had done: not ‘He’s dead! He’s dead!’ but ‘It doesn’t matter who your father was. You are you, yourself, and you are a wonderful little girl, one growing rapidly into a tall big girl.’ Oh, my God! What was he going to say? This shouldn’t be happening to him. That stiff-necked individual should in some way have broken it to her.
Yet, how could anyone break such news to a thinking child? But no; she was no longer a child; she had never been a child. They had never allowed her to be a child. She had a mind and she used it. A mind that had been cultured in an adult school without love, or with such love that was frustrated through fear. He put out his hands now and gathered hers into them. Then, his voice cracking on the words, he said, ‘It makes no matter who your father was’—he could not say which one was your father—‘you are yourself, someone very special; and not only to your aunt, but…but to me. Yes, to me.’ He nodded at her. ‘Always remember that.’ And now feeling he had found a way to take her mind off the present situation by enlisting her sympathy for him, he added, ‘I may not see you for a long, long time after today. I…I’m leaving in a few hours.’
‘No! No!’ She was on her feet now, her knees touching his, her hands still between his, pressed against his chest; and again she cried, ‘No! No! Oh, please, please don’t go. You are the only one I have.’
‘I’ve…I’ve got to, my dear. I am not going into the Army because, as I think I told you, I’m against killing people, but…but this is a kind of job that others don’t like doing, you know.’
She closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side in a despairing fashion as she said, ‘I will have nobody. Nobody.’
‘Look at me. I shall write to you and you will write to me; and in the meantime you must continue to come over and see my mother. She’s very fond of you, and you can keep her company now and again.’
‘She’s not you. I can’t talk to her, tell her things like I can to you. You’re the only one I can talk to. And now I know this dreadful thing, I won’t be able to speak about it to anyone else.’
‘Well, that’s as it should be: it is all past and finished with; you now have only yourself to contend with. By that I mean…’
Shaking her head impatiently, she interrupted him; ‘I know what you mean,’ she said, ‘I know what you mean. You mean that I shall never get rid of this…well, what I know.’
‘I mean nothing of the sort. I mean, as you grow older your common sense will tell you that it is something you’ve got to accept. You cannot change yourself. You are what you are’—he paused—‘a very beautiful person.’
When she fell against him he put his arms about her, but when he felt her body shudder he pressed her gently from him, saying, ‘Now, now. No tears. I don’t want to remember you with a wet face.’ When her eyelids blinked rapidly he leaned forward and put his lips gently on her brow. But when her arms came around his neck he bit tightly on his lip and pulled himself to his feet. His own lids moving rapidly now, he looked down on her, saying, ‘Come along. We’ll go and see my mother.’ But when she said quickly, ‘No, no. Please not now. And anyway, I promised I wouldn’t be long. But I will, I will come and see her soon. Yes, very soon, because she will tell me what you are doing. And…and you will write to me?’
‘Oh yes, I will write to you. And I will expect long letters back, mind.’
‘I have never written a letter to anyone, but I can write well.’
‘Then you must practise your letter writing on me.’
They were outside the cottage now and when he said, ‘I will see you to the stile,’ she answered quickly, ‘No. No. I’ll leave you here. I…I would rather. Yes, I would rather I left you here because this is where we first met. I don’t count the time by the wall.’
He held out a hand now, saying, ‘Goodbye then, my dear.’ And she, placing hers in it, said, ‘Goodbye,’ then she turned and walked away from him. And he watched her until she had disappeared into the thicket.
Slowly now he made his way back to the Hall, and there, after telling his mother what had transpired, he said, ‘Keep an eye on her, will you, dear? Make her welcome. Try to get her to talk’—he smiled—‘if it’s only about me.’
As she kissed him she said, ‘Let her be the least of your worries. I shall see to her. And perhaps we shall comfort each other for your loss.’ And when she added, ‘Oh, my dear, what am I going to do without you?’ he replied, ‘As I’ve told you before, dear, it’s more a case of what am I going to do without you?’ to which his mind added, ‘and her’.
Two
The first letter he wrote was neither to his mother nor to Janie, but to Jessie. He wrote it that night, before he left the house. It was brief, stating that her niece had found out the facts of her beginning through overhearing one of the men and a recruiting officer talking while she was attending to a sick calf. And authoritatively, he ended, ‘If she does not mention this to you herself, it would be very unwise of you, at this stage, to make her aware that you know. No doubt the opportunity will occur some time when she’s more able to handle the situation.’
He knew that this letter would undoubtedly anger Jessie, but he had little patience with her and condemned her for her treatment in keeping a child segregated for years.
The next letter he wrote was to his mother, and this was from Birmingham, telling her he was stationed in a camp near a village and undergoing training. The letter was quite cheery. He sent a similar, shorter one, to Janie. And this he ended on a light note, saying that the kind people in charge were thinking of sending him to London on a holiday, but that he wouldn’t be given any spending money.
The next letter his mother received from him was from a hospital in Richmond, and in it it was evident that he could not contain his feelings, for he was angered at the purposeless suffering of the men there.
Gerald had known well from the beginning that he would go through the mill, even though he was under a certain protection, being a member of the Friends’ Ambulance Unit. Yet it wasn’t the way he was received and treated, nor the menial tasks imposed on him and the others in the same corps, but the number of mangled bodies filling the wards. He was sickened and horrified by the agony endured by the limbless and mangled remains of men, and rent inside himself by the nameless courage that sustained many of them with the desire to go on living. But there were equally as many who gave up the ghost, and for these he was thankful that their crucifixion was over. Yet, covering all his emotions was an anger at the senseless waste of human life and the feeling of frustration at being unable to do anything about it. Here he was cleaning latrines, his hands burnt with the use of so much chlorine. And he was sickened further with the habits of men en masse.
They were camped outside in unheated huts and he had made friends with a couple of like minds in his section. But he had also discovered
there were some weak knees within their company when one day he was warned by a young fellow that it would be well for him if he kept his mouth shut and his opinions to himself, else the lot of them would be landed overseas before they knew where they were.
Gerald had asked in mock enquiry, ‘Do you happen to be a conscientious objector?’ And the answer he got was, ‘Oh, to hell with you!’
One day, when he was on his way to the theatre to wheel out bloodstained sheets and parts of human anatomy to be consigned to the incinerator, and seeing a visitor whom he had noticed once or twice before now making her way towards a ward door, he stepped forward and was about to open it for her when the side of her hand came like a chisel across his wrist, and in a deep throaty voice she said, ‘Your courtesy doesn’t hide your cowardice. My son is back there, his body mangled just to protect the likes of you. I know what I would do with the lot of you if I had my way. But this is what I think of you.’ And then she spat in his face.
He remained still while the door was opened and then closed on her. He felt as if all the blood had been drained from his body. They called cowards white-livered, and that’s what he felt at this moment, white right through. Nothing seemed to be working inside him. Even when he turned away he found that his legs didn’t actually obey him; it was as if he were drunk.
This incident attacked the sensitivity in him. Not only did it increase his awareness of who he was, and why he thought as he did, but also the knowledge of how the action of one person, that might cover merely a matter of seconds, could affect the life of another, as it was to do in his case for the next three years.
Three
It was towards the end of July 1917 that Janie received a letter from Gerald telling her he was in France, and glad to be there, for now he felt he would be of some real help. And when she next wrote to him to the address he would leave at the bottom of the page, she must tell him how the smallholding was going, because his mother didn’t give him many details. And was she really all right and not ill? But he had finished on a light note, saying, ‘Before I make myself of some use I think I’ll just pop over to Paris tonight and have dinner, somewhere along the Champs-Elysées; then perhaps go to the opera. Or on the other hand, I may prefer a lighter entertainment. It all depends upon my mood. Be a good girl, and one day I shall bring you over to France, that is after I’ve shown you all the beautiful places in London.’ And he signed himself as always, ‘The “nice man” Gerald.’
The Maltese Angel Page 37