The Cockney Girl
Page 26
‘Gawd ’elp us, Florrie, whatever’s the matter? Yer look like someone’s ’it yer with an ’addock,’ said Elsie, backing away.
Florrie pointed towards Number 8. ‘Look at ’em. Just look. Carryin’ on in front of everyone,’ she gasped. ‘An’ with ’er old man away at sea an’ all. Bloody disgrace. No shame, the pair of ’em.’
Elsie, for once, did not get the opportunity to tell Florrie to shut up. This time, that honour went to Mr Baxter who had come out to investigate the source of the row. ‘Why don’t yer shut yer mouth, Florrie? Rose Fairleigh’s a good woman,’ said Wally to his wife. ‘A bloody good woman. Yer could learn a few things from the likes of ’er. Now are yer comin’ in, or what? I want me tea.’
‘Welcome ’ome to you an’ all, yer ol’ bastard,’ answered his wife.
* * *
Rose pushed the teacup across the table to Joey. ‘Sorry there’s no ale or nothin’, Joe. Don’t look like Ted’s done a lot of shoppin’.’
‘’E’s been over ours mostly. That’s where ’e is now, I’ll bet, with Mum. They’ve been playin’ cards an’ that of a night. Funny, she doesn’t usually take to people much. But young Ted seems to get through to ’er. An’ that little ginny monkey. She loves it. Fascinates ’er, it does. She talks away to it.’
‘Lookin’ after me kids an’ their bloody zoo. I dunno, yer’ve been a good friend to me, Joey Fuller,’ said Rose.
‘Leave off, Rose, yer’ll make me go all soppy.’
‘Don’t joke, Joey, I mean it. That’s why I wanted to talk to yer.’ Rose wrapped her hands around her cup, took a sip of the tea, then stared at the kitchen wall. ‘I can’t keep it all to meself much longer, Joe. What with Bill away an’ everythin’. See, I’ve gotta tell someone about my Jessie, an’ yer know most of it anyway.’
‘Yer talk away, Rose. I’m right flattered yer trust me, but don’t tell me nothin’ yer’d regret.’
‘Yer a mate, Joe. There’s nothin’ I’d regret tellin’ yer. Nothin’. An’ that’s the truth.’
Chapter 16
Letters Home
Dear Mother,
I hardly know where to begin. When I picked up my pen, I realised that this is the first real letter I have ever written to you – or anyone, for that matter. There never seemed the need before, but out here everyone writes letters home. It gives one a feeling of contact with the real world, with a world that hasn’t gone entirely mad. So here it is, a letter from your son…
At night, if nothing is happening and I am sitting here with the sky so dark and no shells exploding, it’s then that the boredom sets in. It’s strange; when the bombardments are happening, all you want is for them to stop, but the boredom is even more terrible, because it’s then that you begin to think, and that is the worst time of all.
It’s then, in those quiet moments, that I am really affected. It’s then that I feel this overwhelming need to tell you how I feel. Yes, Ma, you read correctly, I did say ‘feel’. Don’t be too shocked, and no, I haven’t gone totally insane, not yet anyway.
I’m not sure how to explain these feelings to you yet, but I’m certainly learning how to try. I work through them again and again in my mind, while I sit out there waiting alone in the dark. One of the things I feel most strongly is a need to ask your forgiveness for all the things I have done in the past. Not only the important things which I now know must have hurt you so badly, but all the ridiculous, stupid little things I did because I didn’t bother to think about anyone but myself.
I hope I don’t sound too much like one of the Reverend Batsford’s Sunday specials. Those awful sermons of his! Thinking about them is enough to send me to sleep. I couldn’t think of anything more horrible than becoming like that dreadful pinch-nosed little man. I want you, please, Mother, to believe that I am speaking to you from my heart, and not from hypocrisy like that so-called man of God. Being the good woman you are I am sure you understand what I am trying to say. But know that I wouldn’t blame you if you simply screwed up this letter and threw it in the fire before you’ve even finished reading it.
Do you know, that is how I imagine you? Sitting there at Worlington, warm and snug by the fire, logs crackling. Looking through those splendid windows in the Chinese Room (which I hardly noticed when I was at home and now I think of them constantly) at the fields outside glistening with fresh snow, unspoiled by mud or the burnt stumps of trees. There’s no sound out there but the geese as they fly across the lake, their wings beating in the still, crisp air, the scene untainted by hatred and despair.
I cannot tell you exactly where I am, but you know it is in Belgium. It used to be farm land around here, just like the Kent wold when we first arrived. Rich and fertile. A place of living things and beauty. That’s how it used to be. It isn’t any more. How I wish I was there with you at Worlington.
War is not as I had thought it would be, Ma. That arrogant young officer who came here all that time ago – when was it, three, four months ago? – he no longer exists. I have seen and done things which I never imagined, not even in my worst childhood dreams. I have seen men, incredibly brave men, stunted by an existence of poverty and hardship. I was totally bewildered when I first met them. I had seen the farm labourers and the men who came to stay with the hop pickers, of course, but never have I seen so many sickly, bedraggled-looking men together at one time. It is as though these working men of Britain are from a different race. Yet they are stout-hearted, willing to give up their lives for men like me. And why? Just because we are officers and have ordered them to go forward. To go over the top into hell. I am ashamed to say that I find it extremely unpleasant to be in such close proximity to these my fellow men. I hadn’t realised until now what a very special privilege it is to have a room of one’s own. The sties at Worlington smell sweeter than a dug-out full of men.
I wonder if this letter will be left unmarked by the censor’s ink, or if someone will scratch out lines as I do for those brave young men who want only to tell their loved ones that they are alive. I intend to slip this in with the rest when I have finished, and hope that it will go unnoticed. Another undeserved privilege.
We get the newspapers here, you know. It seems unreal. Not only because we are living in a different world from which the newspapers, and we, once came, but also because of what we read in them. It makes everyone so angry. Those reports of glorious victory and success, while we live in dug-outs sharing our squalor with rats, disease and mud, death, lice and more mud.
Someone is calling me. I will write more later.
I have just returned, wet through and exhausted. I have reread what I wrote earlier. It simply doesn’t say what I feel. If only I could tell you how I have changed, explain the paradox of how I have been renewed by this hell. It is not only land frontiers which I have crossed, but frontiers in my mind and in my feelings. The old world will never be the same again. But I don’t know how to write the words to explain myself.
Please be patient with this son of yours, he is newborn and needs his mother. And no, I repeat, Ma, I really haven’t gone mad. Nor have I suffered a blow to the head, well, not so bad a one that I have gone completely dotty.
I have changed, that is all I can say. This place changes us all.
I will tell you what happened at Christmas. Thanks for the parcel, by the way, my manners have been rather left behind in Kent, I’m afraid. You can’t believe how important it is to get such things from home. Whisky and chocolate and socks! I am truly a rich man. It arrived yesterday, too late for Christmas but just in time for our New Year celebrations tomorrow. A time when many resolutions will be made. They said this lot would all be over by Christmas, and here we are, going into 1915 and still no sign of it ending. But I digress – I really don’t have the hang of this writing game yet, Ma. Back to Christmas. We all started singing carols, to cheer ourselves up. You know the sort of thing. ‘Holly and the Ivy’, ‘Silent Night’. Then, what do you think? Fritz started singing back from across no man’s land. Same
tune as ours, different words of course. We were actually singing together. It might sound unbelievable, but it seemed so natural, so right. We were shooting at each other one minute and singing together the next. Even telling you about it makes the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. No one fired any guns that night. There were even stories from further along the line of the men meeting and shaking hands, playing football and showing photographs of their families. That didn’t happen here, but the singing did. High Command on both sides were pretty damned angry about the whole thing apparently. But none of us cared. For that moment we were all human beings. Men. Far away from home, cold and lonely.
And that’s really what I wanted to say to you. I know now what matters in life. We are all here together, and all the same when all’s said and done. We aren’t so very important as individuals after all. It’s what we are to each other that counts, we work together and support our fellow men. That is how we survive. It might have taken me twenty-four years to find that out, but better late than never, eh, Ma?
Please write soon. I am sorry for not writing to you before, but you will not be able to stop me now. I do seem to have written rather a lot, but I have so much I want to tell you.
Give my regards to Father, Paul and Julia.
With my very fondest love, from your son, Robert
* * *
Leonore sat by the fireside as Robert had imagined her, reading his letter for the third time. Still she could hardly take in the words. Could this really be from the same Robert, the man who had behaved so unspeakably to all those young women? The man who had left a young girl pregnant without even caring enough to realise he had done so?
Leonore stood up and went over to the window. She looked out across the fields. It looks exactly as he described, she thought. The gently rolling ground covered in bright, fresh snow, sparkling in the clear January air, the wisp of blue smoke rising from beyond the orchards. It would be coming from the Garnetts’ chimney, she supposed. Sylvia was probably having her breakfast in the neat little cottage sitting in the special highchair that Garnett had made for her from elm wood. Leonore smiled, counting herself fortunate that her granddaughter would learn about the ways of countrymen from such a kind, gentle person as Matthew Garnett. Her smile quickly faded. It was certainly a more auspicious introduction than Jessie, her poor abandoned mother, had had at the hands of Robert Worlington.
Leonore sighed. Her mind was filled with confusion. She had known for a long time that life was not clearly divided into good and bad, kindness and evil. But did she really have any reason to hope that her son was changing, that he was growing into a better man? She looked down at the letter in her hand and read it yet again. The new year had begun only a few days ago, and yes it was a time for resolutions, but was she fooling herself? Why should she feel even a little optimistic about her son’s true intentions when the civilised world seemed to be crumbling around them all? Was Robert simply reacting as anyone in his position might? Making promises to be good so that he might be saved, a childlike talisman against his own destruction.
Leonore leant forward and breathed on the icy-cold windowpane. When her breath had clouded the glass she wrote in the mist with her finger: Sylvia Worlington.
She stepped back and read what she had written. There was nothing so very extraordinary about the words, so was it really so improbable that her grandchild might one day take her rightful name? Leonore looked at the words for a moment longer, then rubbed the pane clear with her hand. She hesitated no more; she went over to the desk, took up her pen and began to write.
My dear Robert,
Such a very welcome letter. I admit I cried tears of joy when I first read it (I have read it many times since) because now I know my son is alive. Such a blessed relief when the newspapers are daily so full of those horrifying lists, only words, I know, but words which can destroy a mother’s world.
I also cried tears of sadness as I read it. I grieve that you are not here, safe with me at Worlington. I am also more than a little concerned that you speak so lightly of having a head injury, Robert. No matter how slight, I trust you have sought proper medical attention. You were always so careless with such things.
I am so glad that the parcels reached you. How wonderful to think of that. It doesn’t seem possible. I have visions of a postman walking through the fields to you with his sack over his shoulder, whistling a tune, as though it were here in the village. You must think me so silly. From what you say it couldn’t be more different from the peace of Tilnhurst.
I want to tell you, Robert, that I too am finding it difficult to express what I feel, but want you to know that your letter has touched me deeply. I understand only too well that it is not easy to put such things on to paper, but I can truly say that your efforts to do so have made me very proud of you. The proudest I have been of you in a very long time.
I hope you will continue to think about the way you have behaved in the past and about how you might change yourself for the better. Believe me, I know from my own experience that it is never too late to change, for the better or for the worse. The choice of path is ours.
Remember that it is said that there is always some good which comes from evil. Perhaps the good which will come out of this terrible war will be a power for change. You speak of the unimportance of the individual, the need to work with our fellow men if we are to survive. I pray that others will feel the same and help make the world a better place for us all, when, please God, they return. Change requires a great deal of bravery. I believe you have that special courage, Robert, if only you learn how to use it to good effect.
I will soon be sending letters to both of my sons in foreign lands. Paul’s regiment sails for France next week.
You would be so amused to see him, Robert. Always the peacock, he has had so many uniforms made his trunk is positively bursting. I believe he is going to dazzle the enemy with his beauty, rather than go into battle with them. He becomes very angry when I mention it as he considers himself quite the grown-up nowadays.
Julia will be going to Ireland to stay with her mother for a while. Perhaps you might write to her, my dear. I am sure she would like to hear from you.
I have been thinking of ways to write the next part of this letter. I have thrown a lot of spoilt pages into that crackling log fire by which you imagine me to be sitting. I hope that I have succeeded in expressing it clearly this time. You ask me to forgive you for all the things you have done in the past. But, my darling, how can I? I am in no position to do such a thing, but I can offer you my love and some advice. Look deeply into your heart, Robert, and see if you are ready for forgiveness. Know if those you hurt would be convinced that you are genuine in your regret, and be certain you are not responding in fear, reacting to the horrors that you have seen in that dreadful place. And forgiveness for what? you must ask, and of whom.
I hope I do not depress you, Robert. I genuinely wish you every happiness and love for this new year, but I want you to find out about yourself and your dreams before you decide what you really want from life. I pray that you stay safe to return to me, so we can grow to know each other as friends.
One day we will share our hopes; let us keep them safe for the future. It is there waiting for us.
With love, Robert,
from Mother
Dear Mum and Ted,
Here I am in France. That surprised you, didn’t it? They didn’t send us to Belgium after all. Funny old place it is. But I haven’t had a lot of chance to see much of it. Most of the time I’m in this bloody trench. It’s more like a river than a trench. I hope our Ted don’t believe all that stuff in the papers. It gives me and me mates the right hump. A load of old cobblers most of it. You think yourself lucky you’re still too young to join up, Ted. Tell you what, Mum, the rats here are bigger than in Burton Street and that’s saying something. And the nits and bugs are horrible. Everyone’s got them even the posh blokes. You should hear them. They don’t half talk funny. Can’t understand
them half the time, but they still have a lark with us. We go into the town sometimes. The French girls are a bit of all right and they like us Tommies. And the food ain’t bad and there’s plenty of it. I reckon I’ll come home fatter than when I left. You won’t recognise me.
Anyway, Mum and Ted, that’s all for now. Write to me soon and tell me how Dad, Charlie and Jess are getting on. Do you know where they sent Dad’s ship yet? Thanks for the things you sent but don’t go wasting your money on me. I’m doing all right.
Love from Sammy
* * *
Ted folded the letter and handed it to his mother across the table.
‘Yer sure that’s all it said?’ demanded Rose, looking uncomprehendingly at the scribbled words, then flashing a warning glare at her son. ‘Yer didn’t leave nothin’ out, did yer? ’E ain’t ’urt or nothin’?’
‘That’s all there was, Mum. Promise,’ said Ted. ‘An’ I dunno what yer lookin’ so miserable about. Sounds all right to me. Plenty o’ grub, an’ all them foreign gels.’
‘That’s enough o’ that talk,’ said Rose. ‘Now go an’ chop that bit a firewood for me. Go on.’
‘Mum,’ he moaned.
‘An’ none of yer complaints, thanks very much. Do that choppin’, then yer can ’ave yer tea before yer take a few bundles of sticks round to Miss Feldman’s for me.’
Before Ted could object, Rose lifted her hand.
‘Don’t even say it, Ted. We’ve got enough on our plates without you showin’ off.’
Ted dragged sulkily into the back yard and began half-heartedly splitting the offcuts he’d brought back on his handcart from the woodyard. All the time he swung the axe he complained loudly to himself about the injustice of it all, being treated like a kid but expected to work like a man. If he was a few years older, then they’d all see, he’d be away fighting like his brother.