Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Nobody would say there was.’ Laban puffed several times before tapping out the lighted spill.

  Nerves as yet not completely free of the emotion of the past couple of hours, Unity sniffed tartly. ‘So long as it be understood! I seen what neither that wench upstairs nor Abel Preston thought to be seen, I seen they had feelings one for the other even though it could be as they didn’t realise as much theirselves. You might argue it don’t be so but I guesses her feels guilt for never speaking of them feelings afore the lad went away and yet a bit more for never writing even a line to him.’

  Taking the mug handed to him, Laban set it in the spot the teapot had occupied on the hob and where it was easily reached from his chair. ‘Mebbe’s the lad didn’t ask her to.’

  ‘Ask!’ Unity snapped like a bull terrier. ‘If’n a wench waits to be asked all the time then there be a lot of things her won’t get!’

  ‘But you can’t hardly expect a young woman to go writing letters to a man if he didn’t ask.’

  Unity’s hands rose slowly to her hips, the firelight catching the glint in her eyes. ‘Have years taught you nothing? A war with the Boers and now this one with Germany and you still haven’t learned! The world be different to the one we was born to, it be a place where you needs grab opportunity, for life might be taken away afore there be the chance to live it. What be a letter after all? Pen strokes on paper… a word of friendship from a home left behind ain’t exactly like a wench offering to… to—’

  The irate words ended as swiftly as they began, a flush suffusing Unity’s face as she turned away. Behind the veil of tobacco smoke Laban set free his tortured smile. The world had changed but not so much his wife could finish that sentence.

  ‘I know you’ve asked no question.’ Vindication of his belief in her diplomatically asserted, Laban went on, ‘but what be in that letter the wench were given?’

  Lowering her hands to her sides Unity shrugged. ‘You might ask what be on the other side of the moon for I could answer that with equal truth. I don’t know what be written in that letter for it still be sealed.’

  ‘Sealed… you mean her ’asn’t opened it?’

  Unity’s head shook briefly. ‘I means just that. Her hand be clutching it as if it were beaten gold but the strength to open it, to read what it says, don’t be in her. Yet, until it be read, the knife Anne Corby feels in her chest won’t never be drawn.’

  27

  The house lay in silence but the sound of it throbbed in Anne’s ears. Unity and Laban had been so thoughtful, asking no questions of her though both must want to know the circumstances of Abel’s death, what it was had claimed the life of a man they looked upon almost as a son. But she could not tell them, could not read the words which would finally take him away from her, nor could she give the letter to be read by them. While it remained unopened, unread, Abel was still alive, she had only to wait for his return.

  The letter was a mistake, to have gone to Mrs Davies proved it was a mistake; all letters from servicemen were checked by the censor and somehow this had been replaced in the wrong envelope, going to the wrong person. Abel would write to her here, he would… he would…

  Across the uncertain light of morning the sound of St Lawrence church clock drifted across the roof tops.

  But Abel would not write… she had received no word in all the months he had been away. There had been no mistake. She turned her face into the pillow. Whatever lay inside that envelope had not been intended for her; Mrs Davies had simply brought it out of kindness because of her weekly enquiry after Abel’s well being.

  Footsteps on the stairs followed by a lighter quicker tread told of Laban and Unity up and readying the house prior to leaving for work. Her body heavy, Anne lay still. There was no sense in any of it… the leather, the Glebe, Butcroft House, Bentley Grange… what good did any of them do? The war went on in spite of them; men got injured, they came home to recuperate only to be thrown back into the hell they had left: the factories and foundries turned out implements by the thousands but they had no effect, the fighting went on and men continued to die, men who were loved… men like Abel.

  ‘I’ve fetched you up a cup of tea.’ Quietly, as if not wanting to find her awake, Unity stayed a few seconds in the doorway then came to the bedside and set the cup on the tiny table. ‘Laban has banked the fire and there be a slice of bacon in the oven when you be ready forrit.’

  Eyes closed, Anne made no reply.

  ‘I be sorry, wench… sorry for you both but that be the way of it, the lad be gone and we be left to get on with things.’

  Get on with things! Something inside Anne sparked into life, flaming in every vein. That was the motto everywhere she went, in every shop, every workplace; we must get on with things.

  ‘Why?’ Her eyes springing open she stared up at the woman stood beside her bed. ‘Why must we get on with things? No matter what we do or how hard we strive to do it, it makes no difference… men die and it makes no difference!’

  ‘I know you be hurting—’

  ‘Hurting!’ Anne’s laugh was half anger, half heartbreak. ‘Why should I be hurting, it’s only lives we are wasting.’

  ‘Wasting, is it!’ Unity’s voice rang in the quiet house, her own anger vibrant and sudden. ‘Then mebbe we should send the Kaiser one of them fancy telegrams apologising for opposing him, telling him we be sorry for not wanting him on the throne of England and please to come straightaway for we all be wanting nothing more than to be his rubbing rags! Lie you there nursing whatever be inside you… me? I’ll get me shawl on and go tell every woman in Darlaston who’s lost a man or lad that their death makes no difference, that like Anne Corby they should down tools, do no more to end a war we didn’t start, see whether it makes any difference to them!’

  The slam of the door a testimony to her feelings, Unity swept out of the room.

  *

  … see the women with heads bowed, see the tears which streak their faces…

  Anne stared at the closed door.

  … you don’t be the only mother to lose a son…

  Those had been Unity’s words. She had been angry then as she was angry now, condemning then as she was condemning now.

  … theirs be a grief equal to your own…

  Memory rolled the words through her head and instantly she challenged them. Mothers and sweethearts could grieve for lost love, Anne Corby could only grieve for a love never spoken of.

  … though they cries they have the courage to live for the sake of others…

  Like some terrible game of to and fro the words hurled themselves back from the past. She had done that. Anne’s fingers clutched the bedcovers. She had gone on after the loss of her son, living for others, believing, though her heart seemed dead, the work of her hands gave them the chance to live… but Abel had not lived, he too was lost to her, taking with him her strength, her will.

  … there’ll be more mothers and wives yet to add to the river of tears…

  She could not help that she was empty, she had given all she could, Unity could not expect more.

  Silent as the house was the answer slamming into her brain, seeming to fill it with the scream of its own fury.

  Be you satisfied to watch that happen while you shirks your responsibilities? Be that all folk means to you!

  Unity had been right that first time, it was time to lay aside her selfishness. She must go on otherwise Abel’s death and the death of every other man would be a farce, a worthless sacrifice. Throwing aside the covers her hand brushed the envelope she had clutched through the torment of the night hours. She would do what she had to do… she would do it for Abel.

  Washed and dressed she turned to tidying her bed, her glance deliberately avoiding the letter lying beside the pillow. She would do what she had to, she would share the grief of so many other women… but first she must share their courage, she must face what was written in that letter.

  *

  There had been a hint of tears, a choki
ng in the voice quietly saying her apology for the words which had gone between them an hour or so since, but the wench bore a look which said more; it said that though unhappiness were not gone it could be borne. Unity fetched a mug of tea from the table around which the women and girls sat to eat their midday meal. Placing it beside Anne she took her own seat at the workbench. The wench had courage… it would ‘ave been easy for her to stay in the house, no excuse was needed on her part to take time off from the job… but Anne Corby were made of better stuff. The true privilege of being the gaffer of any works was the setting of a good example; that were this wench’s creed and it were one would stand her in good stead.

  ‘I think you should read this.’

  Glancing up from the clamp holding part of an unfinished courier bag in its jaws, Unity watched an envelope being drawn from Anne’s pocket, saw the broken seal beneath the boldly stamped ‘Censored’ and heaved an inward sigh. The wench had opened it, had accepted what had happened… that was the first step to healing, the days to come would each bring their own burden but each day that burden would be less heavy.

  ‘It don’t be for me to read.’ Unity gently pushed away the hand holding the letter, her own eyes glistening with compassion.

  Taking the hand touching her own, Anne closed the fingers over the letter. ‘Abel was more than a friend to you and to Laban,’ she smiled, ‘he loved you as he might love a mother and a father… you more than I have the right to read what is in that envelope.’

  It had been so many years, so long since that first letter, just a few handwritten sentences but they had brought her world crashing down, had stolen joy from her life. The years had told her it could never happen again, the pain would never be relived, yet now as she withdrew the paper from the envelope her hands shook and her heart cried with a sorrow too deep to speak of. A film deforming the uncertain scrawl still further she blinked rapidly, leaving the dislodged tear to lie on her cheeks as she read.

  Dear Missis,

  I calls you that though I have no knowing to weather you be a married wumun or no but only as you be friend to Abel I be sending this as wos asked by him afor he went over the top but he give me no saying of weer it wos to come so I found the adresing of it in his kit bag hoping it finds you as it leaves me.

  Respectful

  Alfred Bunn

  Alfred Bunn? This be for somebody else!

  Reading the unspoken message in the look lifting to her, Anne shook her head while pointing to the second sheet of paper as yet unfolded.

  A quizzical frown not clearing from her brows Unity spread the single sheet, her glance lifting after she read the first words.

  ‘This be written to you,’ she said, handing the whole back to Anne. ‘It be your name is written on it so it be for you alone to see. I thanks you for the offer to share in the reading of it but a private letter be private; I needs only to know do it tell Abel be safe.’

  Returning the envelope and its contents to her pocket Anne took the mug of tea, holding its warmth with both hands. ‘No,’ she answered quietly, ‘it says a heavy bombardment had begun and he had no time to write more.’

  Over the top! It meant they had gone into battle. Her tears spilling fresh, Unity took up her needles and pushed them through the strong leather. God keep them, God keep them all.

  *

  ‘There’s been no delivering for nigh on a week… goes on much longer and we’ll have to close the lorinery down.’

  ‘Close!’ Anne turned to the man at her side. ‘But without those pieces nothing can be made up, not saddles not harness, nothing!’

  ‘1 knows that same as you does.’ Aaron Butler fingered his scalp beneath his flat cap. ‘But without the stuff to work with my hands be tied.’

  First it had been the brass. Not enough copper had been the first excuse, that had been followed by there not being enough zinc. ‘Everyone wants the same thing.’ The reason given rang in Anne’s mind. ‘You understand, Miss Corby, much as we would like we cannot supply every foundry.’ So the making of horse brasses had ceased. Not that the loss of brass had been a hardship, the war had seen little call for non-essentials; but spurs, bits, stirrups, buckles, harness rings and cart furniture were not non-essentials, without them the army could not operate, guns and materials could not be transported, food and medical equipment could not reach men who needed it.

  ‘What exactly was the reason given this time?’ Anger holding her mouth tight, Anne glanced at the man she had placed in charge of the Glebe Works.

  ‘There be no one reason.’ Aaron Butler pulled the cap into its usual place low on his forehead. ‘If it don’t be one it be another. Somebody don’t have the nickel or the chromium, and steel don’t have the right degree of hardness we needs without it, then if it don’t be a shortage of alloys it be a shortage of coal and coke. I tells you, Miss Anne, it feels like a man be being strangled.’

  Not a man. Anne smiled grimly to herself. But a woman! And she was not being strangled but starved out of existence. A woman in the iron and steel business had not been met with any enthusiasm by men with feet stuck firmly in a man’s world and now some of them, it seemed, intended to be rid of that unwanted nuisance.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Butler.’ She rose, nodding briefly as he opened the door of the small office. ‘I know you are doing your best as are the rest of the men. Please give them my thanks.’

  It were a shame. Aaron Butler watched the slight figure walk across the yard and out through the gateway. The wench had tried making a go of things, her had not turned her back on the foundry as her father had nor run it into the ground like Clara Mather. Her had showed a courage many a man wouldn’t have showed, standing up to the big nobs, the coal mine owners and their like, but now they had beaten her. The Glebe would soon belong to one or another of ’em and they would all delight in slapping the wench back into her place.

  *

  ‘But you can’t go in there, such a thing be unheard of!’

  ‘Unheard of no doubt, but not impossible.’ Anne set the small round hat firmly on her head, its narrow brim devoid of veil sitting square on her brow.

  ‘Of course it be impossible, no decent woman would dream of settin’ foot in that place!’ Unity was not to be deterred.

  Taking up soft calf gloves Laban had made as a gift for her, matching the colour of the leather to the soft cream of the cuffs and collar of the russet suit she had bought herself the year before, Anne smiled, but it was a smile which in no way conceded defeat, then said firmly, ‘Then it will have to be an indecent woman.’

  ‘Of all the hare brained ideas this be the best!’ Unity exploded. ‘A young wench… no husband at her side… you’ll be the talk of the town!’

  ‘I doubt it will be the first time for that.’ Anne smoothed the gloves over each finger.

  ‘And I don’t doubt it’ll be the last time folk’ll have respect for you. Can’t you see by going into that – that place you be leaving yourself with not a shred of reputation barring the sort any wench be better without!’

  Unity’s concern was well founded. Anne smoothed the belted jacket of her velour suit. Maybe no decent woman would speak to her after news of what she was about to do reached their ears, but right now that was the least of her worries. It was one thing turning up on that doorstep, getting into its hallowed halls was quite another.

  ‘If you must go then at least wait for Laban, let him go along of you.’

  ‘No.’ A quick shake of the head added emphasis to Anne’s answer. ‘This is something I wish to do alone. I understand your fretting and I love you for it but I cannot let that alter what has to be done; all I care about is your respect, yours and Laban’s, I pray that will not be taken from me.’

  ‘Oh my little wench!’ Gathering the slight figure into her arms, Unity held it close to her breast, her words a whisper. ‘That’ll never be took from you nor will the love we holds for you. Matthew and Luke were the breath of my body, the blood in my veins, but what the Lord took wit
h one hand He replaced with the other; He took my sons but sent me a frightened lonely girl, He sent me you… you to become the beat of my heart, the light which lifts the darkness from my soul.’

  Would what she planned reflect upon the couple she had grown to love so much… would people refuse to associate with them as they would with her? Clasped in Unity’s arms Anne felt her resolve waver. They had done so much for her… but then so had all those men like Abel, they had done so much for everyone and she could not ignore that.

  *

  It would have been so easy to have changed her mind und stayed in the house, Unity would have seen that as the sensible thing to do and maybe it would have been so, but what would it have achieved? Questions running in her brain every bit as rapidly as the tap of boots on the setts she hurried along Church Street. She would go by way of Waverley Road; with so few houses there would be less chance of being seen to turn into Slater Street whose only building was the locally known ‘Temple’. It was a strange name to give to an establishment gossip said practised more than gambling behind its doors.

  The carefully shrouded windows of houses afforded little comfort as she hurried past them but the sudden wide emptiness and the spacious grounds of Templeton House were positively forbidding. She could run past the old square building set back among its screen of trees, run on to the end of the street and turn the corner into Victoria Road; there would be people there, folk hurrying about their business.

  But what of her business, the matter which had brought her here tonight, was that to be forgotten… was she to turn her back on Darlaston as her father had done?

  To her left the pillars of the old house, each topped with a stone phoenix, rose black against the night sky. Out of the ashes of the old a new life arose. For this once graceful home its new life was not one of pride; bought by a group of industrialists for the purpose of combined business meetings it was thought by many to serve for meetings of a very different nature.

  A glorified whorehouse! Unity had spat her own description. Decent folk don’t even have the hearse go past that place! And she must not go past… she must go in.