Remembrance Day (13 page)

Loving someone, she was beginning to understand, had a price. It meant risk and sacrifice. Distance and absence from Guy had made her love even stronger now. He had to know she was praying for his recovery.

December 1916
…

Waterloo House was looking festive in its red and white and green, all the holly garlands with lush berries decorating the staircase, the Christmas tree freshly cut from the wood by the river, bedecked with tiny candles and baubles. It had snowed just enough to give the grounds a dusting like sugar. Hester was so excited that Guy would be home for Christmas, that both her boys would be by her side to face this first one without Charles. She could hardly wait to see the back of this dreadful year.

Guy was recovered enough to travel north on condition he slept with windows open night and day, no matter what the temperature. His chest was to be checked regularly and his fluid diet maintained to help alleviate the terrible effects of gas on his stomach and lungs.

She had sent Beaven to drive Guy home. He was not to be subjected to a train journey and the germs lurking amongst the dirty soldiers at the crowded stations.

Her officers had all gone home for the season, much to her relief, and she was in no hurry for them to return while Guy was on extended leave. It was going to be
wonderful to be together at last. And no expense was being spared to give them the best Christmas they could possibly have.

He was still weak, and his first medical examiner had agreed that he needed extra recovery time.

‘They can’t mean to send him back,’ Hester screamed at Dr Mac when he called in with Angus’s prescription.

‘He’s a lucky young laddie and his body will recover given time,’ he offered, seeing her concern.

‘But what about the next time? He might not be so lucky.’

‘Try not to fret. We’ll take care of him, see that we build up his vital organs with rest and fresh air. But mind to keep him away from sickness and he’ll be fine. It’ll be good for young Angus to have his brother’s company. He’s been a different chap since you took in those officers, and you all deserve a bit of respite. You’ve not had far to find your sorrows this year,’ said the doctor.

‘Yes, well, yes,’ Hester dismissed his sympathy. It didn’t do to let people see your weakness but she must be charitable, this being the season of goodwill to all men.

‘You’ll be having a wee soiree?’ he continued, fishing for an invitation, no doubt.

‘But as you said, there’s to be no mixing amongst the village, just in case,’ Hester replied, ushering him towards the door. ‘I hope you have a good celebration,’ she ended, pointing to the door again.

‘The same to you all, and may yer lum aye reek!’ He laughed.

‘I beg your pardon, what language is that?’

‘Scots, Lady Hester. May you have good fortune in 1917.’

‘Thank you, I will see to it that we do. Nineteen sixteen has not been one of our better years.’

Now she must go and wrap presents for the boys: a pair of binoculars each and some leather journals, a smart Thresher and Glenny trench coat for Guy, and a fine Harris tweed hacking jacket for Angus and another of the John Buchan novels he was so fond of. It was as if they were little boys again.

She couldn’t wait for the festivities to begin: the Midnight vigil on Christmas Eve, the Belfield soiree at the Brooklyn. They were going to Daphne Bellerby’s Boxing Day dinner. There would be lots of lovely gals for the boys to dance with. No more cavorting with local girls. She was going to launch her handsome sons into the county and see what beauties they could ensnare. It was going to be such fun.

Guy slept most of the journey up the Great North Road, though Beaven had to stop to mend punctures; only four in total. Guy had to stay in the car. He was useless at lifting anything and the chill air caught his chest. He was sick of this damn weakness in his lungs. Every exertion was an effort. He had to admit the last medical had been a farce and he’d hardly passed anything, but red tape meant it had to be attended.

As he stared at the brown earth and big skies of Lincolnshire, he felt his excitement mounting. He couldn’t wait to see the hills again, the green Dales, where the air was crisp and sharp and tasted of peat.

In his pocket was Selma’s last letter, full of concern. Angus had delivered the village card not knowing it was from her alone. No one had let her know of his injuries and he was furious with Mother for being such a stubborn stickler. Now he was coming home, and he was going to see Selma somehow, even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees to get to her.

They stopped at The George in Stamford, to take lunch and freshen up, and to find a garage and fill up the petrol cans just in case there was a shortage further north. Guy just wished he felt stronger to stand up to Mother over her absolute refusal to accept Selma. He feared he was going to have to do something drastic to make her see sense, to break free of her stranglehold over his private life.

Bless her, those first early visits were comforting and gave him the courage to survive the pain, the choking and the weakness. But then she started to give orders to the nurses and he could see the looks of relief after she’d gone. He was embarrassed to be thought of as a mother’s boy.

None of them understood the horrors he had endured. How could they imagine what it was like out there, the sufferings of his fellow soldiers? He was ashamed of the treatment he got as a priority, the comforts he was receiving, the privileges that came with rank. He was going home now knowing other poor sods were having to live through another cold winter in the trenches, fingers and toes frozen to the marrow, the threat of gas shells and everyone nailed down until the spring. He had got off lightly, and he knew it wasn’t fair.

It was dusk when they approached the High Road leading out from Sowerthwaite to his village and the warmth of his fireside, his eyes straining to see in the darkness with only the side lamps for guidance. A lone figure was trudging uphill, a slow familiar shape of a soldier with his gun slung over his shoulder. His cap was softened to show he had been in action, his shoulders were slumped with tiredness. Probably walking from the station to give his family a
wonderful surprise. In the shadows he looked for all the world like the last man at his post, lost in his thoughts, unaware of the motor behind him.

‘Stop the car, Beaven!’ Guy ordered. Officer or no, no man should have to walk on by as he rolled past in comfort and style. ‘Hop in, young man,’ he called from the back seat. ‘We can take you as far as West Sharland.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ said the breathless voice as he was saluted. Their eyes met. It was Frank Bartley, last seen in distress on the road from Peronne all those months ago. The boy stared back at him. ‘That were a Christian act and no mistake. Thought I’d never get back, I’m that whacked.’

‘Do they know you’re coming home?’ Guy asked.

‘No…thought I’d give them a surprise, but the boat was slow and the train was that thronged. But I’m here now. I’m much obliged.’

‘Don’t mention it. Things going well with your company?’ He didn’t want to ask him how long his leave was, knowing no soldier wanted reminding he’d only have a few days before turning back south again. Leave was leave, no matter if you lived in the back of beyond or close to the Kent coast. Everyone got the same amount.

‘I’d like to thank you, sir, for what you did back in France…I were in a right state. They gave me two days’ rest, just the ticket.’

‘Forget it…It’s another world out there, so don’t expect much sympathy from folks here. They haven’t a clue.’

‘My first leave in years,’ Frank sighed as the car drew up to the village square. ‘Drop us off here. It’ll be good to walk the last few yards. I am much obliged to you, Captain Cantrell. Merry Christmas!’

Guy watched him gathering himself together, his shoulders pushed back, his step brisk. He was going to put on a brave show; they all did. No point in burdening families with all that horror and uncertainty. You pinned on your cheerful smile like the song: ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag and smile, smile, smile.’

He whistled the tune to himself. They all did it, made light of things. It was the only way to survive.

Essie was hard at her chores. It was time for the Christmas clean, and while Asa and Selma were busy in the forge, she wanted to get all the brasses polished in the front parlour. They would light a fire and have a singsong round the piano, and perhaps ask a few neighbours in for a bit of Christmas cheer and a slice of her Christmas loaf.

She heard the latch dropping. ‘Is that you, love? Kettle’s on the hob…fetch us a brew,’ she shouted into the living room.

‘One sugar or two?’ Essie froze at the sound of a man’s voice. She dropped her polishing rag and ran into the room to see her son standing there, pink-faced, bright eyes shining.

‘Oh, Frankland Bartley, you gave me such a fright. I don’t believe it! Let me look at you, you devil, you…not giving us word. God be praised, what a Christmas gift is this…better than anything boxed up. How you’ve grown! But you look pinched in the face, sit down, sit down! Wait till your dad sees you’re home.’

Her son plonked himself on the nearest chair, staring round the room with pleasure. ‘I have dreamed of this return…It’s grand to be back.’

Selma burst through the door in all her muck and glory, her breeches covered in dust and her jumper in holes, a flat cap on her head. She took it all in at once. ‘Frank!’ she shouted, and he stared back at her in disbelief.

‘Look what the wind’s blown in,’ said Essie, beaming.

‘You never told me you’d changed into a boy. God Almighty, Selma, what have they done to you?’

‘None of that, son. She’s taken your place, as well you know. Don’t tease her. She had to change her clothes and her hair for this job but she’s still our bonnie lass!’

‘Look at you…all the way from France. How did you get here?’

‘With my own two feet,’ Frank laughed. ‘I’ve not grown wings yet, but I’m working on it. It took a train, a boat, another train and an angel on four wheels. I got a lift up the lane. You’ll never guess who…’

‘Go on…’

‘Captain Cantrell. He stopped for me,’ Frank said.

‘A right gentleman is that one,’ said Essie.

‘He’s only about the same age as you, you know. You make him sound like an old man,’ Selma added.

‘Officers are officers, a different breed, but he’s a good ’un, a proper gent, and he asked after you all.’

‘We’d heard he’d been gassed and in hospital for months. Is he well?’

‘I couldn’t see in the back but his voice were croaky.’

‘He’s a friend of your sister. They’ve been riding out together and sending letters,’ Essie couldn’t resist.

‘Mam!’ Selma was blushing.

‘Let’s get the soup pot warmed up and some bread on the table. You must be starving.’

‘I am that. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking
forward to coming back. But I must warn you, I am in need of a damn good scrub.’

‘Language, Frank…you’re not in the barracks now. We’ll get the zinc tub down and boil the kettle. I’ll light the copper and boil up your clothes in the morning. This is just champion, an answer to prayer,’ said Essie, wanting to hug him.

The door opened and Asa stood smiling at the scene before him. ‘Well,I’ll be beggared.Who have we here? Bring out the fatted calf, Mam. The prodigal has returned. Tidings of comfort and joy, and no mistake.’

It was going to be the best Christmas ever.

He’s home, Selma sighed, but it wasn’t her brother she was thinking about. A mile up the road Guy was resting, and somewhere, sometime, they’d meet up again.

Frank had slept solid for nearly two days and nights. No one spoke about Newton. They wanted nothing to spoil his fleeting visit, but she noticed when anyone asked him questions about his war he swiftly changed the subject: ‘I’m on holiday. So don’t remind me.’

On Christmas Day he refused to go to church with them. ‘I’m not much for God-bothering these days,’ he said defiantly.

Asa was shocked. ‘While you are under my roof, you will honour the season, young man. So put your uniform on.’

Frank stood firm. ‘Sorry, Dad, but we have to differ. If I’m old enough to fight and die for my country, I’m old enough to make up my own mind on such matters as what I believe. Nothing that preacher can rant about hellfire and damnation can match what I’ve seen out there…nothing! It don’t make sense. You will know what the
Germans wear on their belt buckles: “Gott mit uns” or “God with mittens”, we say…“God with us”, it means. He thinks God Almighty is on his side and we think He is on ours but I’ve seen such things as makes you wonder where the hell He is in no man’s land.’ Frank began to shake and Selma took his arm.

‘Don’t take on. It’s just that Dad’s that proud you’re back, he wants to show you off. Just come and sing a few carols with us today. That won’t break your principles. It is the season of goodwill to all men.’

‘Oh, aye…what about the poor beasts of the fields who are out there in the mud with hardly any proper rations, frozen solid. It’s so cruel. I hate to see our horses suffer as they do. They’ve done nothing to deserve all of it. I came home to see you lot, not be paraded round like a dray horse on gala day.’

‘You’ve made your point,’ Dad replied, stepping back for once. ‘Never let it be said I had to force one of mine into chapel, but I am disappointed.’

Frank ignored him. ‘I need to go out for a walk, for some fresh air. I’ll stay back and bank up the fire and keep an eye on things for you. I’ll sing you a few trench hymns but you won’t like them…There’s this one to the tune of “What a friend we have in Jesus”. “When this lowsy war is over, no more soldiering for me…”’

‘That’s enough, son,’ said Asa. ‘I don’t think I want to hear any more of that.’

At chapel his absence was noted. Everyone asked after him at the end of the service and Essie made excuses about him being tired and needing to rest up.

Frank had changed, hardened; his eyes were like flints when he was roused. In some lights he looked an old man
hunched by the fire, staring into the flames, lost in his own world.

‘Penny for them,’ Selma asked.

‘Not worth a farthing, love,’ he replied. ‘I feel strange being back like a visitor in my own house.’

‘Are you still with Captain Richards?’