How selfish! Miss Fox tutted to herself, wondering how anyone could even think of something so trivial and frivolous at such an awful time. These were dark days. Men were dying on the battlefield and all Ruby cared about was where her next new outfit was coming from. Maybe if she stopped eating so much and lost weight, some of her beautiful gowns could be adapted to suit the latest slimline designs, intended specifically to save on precious fabric. But then Phyllis had learned long ago that Ruby was thoroughly selfish, with no thought for anyone but herself. Sometimes she wondered why she stayed with her; why she didn’t just clear off and make a life for herself instead of waiting on Ruby hand and foot all the while, but the truth was she loved her and was loyal to her despite her many faults and couldn’t bring herself to do it, even when Ruby pushed her patience to the limit.
Pushing the newspaper aside, she rose from her seat, saying only, ‘I’d best go and give Maggie and Kitty a hand with the cleaning. Now that the maids have left to work in the factory, the house won’t clean itself, will it?’
Ruby was too absorbed in her grooming to even answer so Miss Fox left the room to find Kitty mopping the hall floor while Maggie polished the banister rail. Both girls had been marvellous in that respect now that she only had Mabel left, although Maggie did the lion’s share of the housework if Kitty was off to Richard’s, which was far too frequently for Foxy’s liking.
The older woman padded off to the kitchen to make sure that Cook had all she needed for the main meal. Certain foods were becoming harder to obtain, but thankfully their cook had a canny knack of being able to produce a meal from the most meagre of supplies, so up to now they had continued to eat well compared to most, although Phyllis wasn’t sure how they would fare when the produce that Arthur had grown in the garden ran out. A mental picture of him in his uniform, looking ridiculously young and vulnerable when he had come to say goodbye to them all, flashed in front of her eyes and she had to swallow the lump in her throat. Miss Fox was not a sentimental woman, but the thought of that young lad going off so bravely to fight for his country had touched her deeply, and she prayed that one day he would return safely. It was also only now that he had gone that she realised just how hard he had worked about the place.
Miss Fox suspected that the cook only stayed on because she was rather too old to change her ways, which was one blessing for them at least. Foxy dreaded to think how they would have fared if the cooking had been left to her, for she openly admitted that cooking had never been her strong point. In fact, long ago when she had been just a child herself she could remember that her mother, Katherine, had used to tease her and tell her that she was the only one she knew who could burn water if left to her own devices.
Downstairs, she found the cook chopping a large cabbage for dinner, and after checking that all was well she went off to the laundry room to do some washing. It certainly wouldn’t do itself, and now that the girls were busily engaged in the cleaning it was a case of all hands to the pump! Thank heavens for the hot weather, thought Phyllis Fox, as she soaked their drawers in the copper and fed sheets through the mangle before pegging them onto the line. War or no war, the washing had to be done.
As the year crept on, news from the front did not improve. The soldiers were dropping like flies in their thousands – mass slaughter – and being forced to live in atrocious conditions. The battlefields were a sea of mud, and corpses sank into it, some never to be seen again. When the Prime Minister broadcast that yet another half a million men were needed, once again there was a surge to enlist. Training camps were springing up all over the country and the women left behind raced to work in the armament factories.
‘It’s not looking likely that it will be over by Christmas like they forecast, is it?’ Sunday asked George one day and he shook his head. He too desperately wanted to enlist now, although he was no longer a very young man – but he was torn. With Ben and Tom already gone, the majority of the hard work at Treetops Manor now fell on his shoulders and with Cissie still not being completely well yet he didn’t know how they would manage without him.
Sunday had been hoping that the menfolk might get leave in the near future but that hope was fading now. It appeared that only those who had been badly injured were being shipped home, so in a way she hoped that they were not amongst them. Every day, families were receiving telegrams informing them that their loved ones had been killed in action, and now she watched the drive leading to the Manor apprehensively each day, praying that she would not see the boy on the bicycle whose unfortunate lot it was to deliver these missives of death. It felt as if the world had gone mad and she dreamed of the way things had once been and wondered, like many others, if those happy days would ever return.
Far away, Tom was also thinking of the comforts of home as he rubbed the horses down before making them as comfortable as he could for the night in the makeshift shelters that had been erected for them. He had placed deep layers of straw down on the floor for them to lie on and was almost ready to bed down for the night himself when he heard a couple of young soldiers, new recruits, sniggering outside the tents.
‘What have you got there then, lads?’ he asked affably and the two young privates jumped nervously.
‘It’s just a magazine that’s goin’ round,’ the youngest-looking of the two told him guiltily, then with a grin at his mate he passed it to Tom.
Tom began to flick through the pages, which were covered in photographs of young women in various stages of undress. ‘Dirty young devils,’ he chuckled. After all, they weren’t doing any harm and he had been young himself once, although it seemed like a long time ago now. ‘You’ll be giving yourselves wrist ache if you keep looking at these.’ And then suddenly the smile froze on his face as his eyes fastened on one particular photo. It was of Kitty, there could be no denying it, and the photograph left little to the imagination.
Shock and anger coursed through him as he thrust the magazine back at the young private and strode towards his barracks, his mind in turmoil. What could have made her stoop to such levels? he wondered. He had thought that she was making a name for herself on the stage, and the Kitty he remembered would never have done anything like this. Sunday must never find out about it. He paused to light a cigarette and think. Just as soon as I get home I’ll persuade Sunday to come to London with me one more time, he decided, but he was all too well aware that this might be some long time away. What could happen to their lass Kitty in the meantime?
Late that evening, Kitty returned from Richard’s and carelessly tossed a small black velvet box towards Maggie, who had waited up for her.
Maggie sprang the lid of the box and gazed down at a beautiful ring, a sapphire surrounded by sparkling diamonds. ‘Why, this must be worth a small fortune!’ she exclaimed.
Kitty shrugged. ‘Throw it in the drawer with the others,’ she said, her voice dead.
Maggie did as she was told, putting it in amongst the collection of expensive-looking boxes. There were bracelets, rings, necklaces, brooches – so many of them now, and yet she had never seen Kitty wear any of them.
‘One day I’ll take the lot to the pawnbroker and get rid of them,’ Kitty said scornfully. Only she could know what exactly she had had to do to earn these baubles, and she resented them as much as the men who had given them to her.
‘Do you know, the silly old sod I entertained this evening actually offered to make an honest woman of me?’ she snorted as she started to remove the pins from her hair.
Maggie was aware that Kitty had changed lately. She’d become harder somehow. Noticing that her friend was watching her closely, Kitty confided, ‘I don’t think about any of it any more, so what does that make me?’ Then she held her hand up before Maggie could answer. ‘You don’t have to say it – I already know what I am. I’m a whore, or as good as.’
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes dull. ‘Like mother like daughter, eh?’ Then when Maggie looked shocked she went on, ‘Oh, I admit I was very naïve w
hen I came here. I thought my mother had brought me here because she loved me and she finally wanted to be with me. I dreamed we would live happily ever after but I worked out some time ago that she only saw me as a means of making money.’ She laughed, a harsh sound that made the hairs on the back of Maggie’s neck stand on end.
‘She thinks I don’t know that she and Richard get paid for the favours I give to the men,’ Kitty said bitterly. ‘But what can I do about it? At the end of the day, she is my mother and the truth is, I would do anything for Richard. I’m still sure that he’ll marry me one day so until then I’ll just have to keep on doing what I’m doing. In the meantime, I’ve discovered that it isn’t so bad. The men, most of them, treat me well and spoil me – and I suppose I enjoy that side of it.’
Maggie gulped deep in her throat. She wanted to tell Kitty that they should both get right away from there, and yet she knew that she would be wasting her breath. Some things were better left unsaid – and until Kitty had realised that Richard had no intentions of ever marrying her, all Maggie could do was be there for her. She hurried across to undo the buttons on the back of Kitty’s dress, and help her with her hair.
At that moment, Tom was sitting on the camp bed in his bitterly cold tent quietly smoking a cigarette and thinking of home and his wife, so he decided to write to her. He always felt closer to Sunday somehow when he put his thoughts on paper, although he had no idea if his letters were getting through. Sometimes it was weeks before he heard from her, then suddenly a glut of letters would arrive all together. He kept every one beneath his pillow and throughout the day he always put the latest one beneath his jacket, close to his heart. Now he lifted his pen and began as his breath floated like lace around him in the freezing cold air.
My dear love,
I pray that this letter finds you and everyone at Treetops safe and well. I have just finished my shift with the horses but wanted to write before I attempt to sleep. It’s always so hard when you have the sounds of the big guns in the distance, although I am getting used to it now. I have not had a good day. Earlier this afternoon I was forced to shoot one of the beautiful horses that had broken its leg in battle. We have little or no medication left for them now, and even straw and hay are becoming scarce so I am just having to do the best I can for them in this bitter cold weather. I don’t mind telling you, as I took the gun to this magnificent animal I was openly crying at such a waste of life. I send them off each morning with a heavy heart knowing that some of them won’t make it back. I feel the same every evening when I watch young men being stretchered off the battlefield with horrific injuries or dead. When will it all end?
I just had a meal in the dining tent. It was some sort of greasy stew with a few over-cooked vegetables floating around in it, but I ate it anyway as I know I have to keep my strength up, but how I long for one of Cissie’s delicious dinners!
A new batch of young men arrived in the camp this afternoon. I haven’t met them as yet but I dare say I will as once again there are empty beds in my tent. Know that you are the first person I think of in the morning and the last one I think of before I close my eyes at night. Pray God we will be together again soon, my dearest love. Until then take care.
Your loving husband,
Tom xxxx
He had barely finished signing his name when a few new faces drifted in and he nodded towards them.
‘All right, lads?’ he greeted them. They reminded him of the incident with the mucky magazine earlier, and he knew his decision not to tell Sunday was right.
They smiled, looking utterly terrified. It had felt like they were embarking on a great adventure when they left home, but they weren’t feeling quite so brave now that they were faced with the stark realities of war. Most of them looked to be little older than babies, barely old enough to shave, but then his eyes were drawn to one older chap – and his stomach churned.
It was Hugh Tate, Cissie’s son – and he was the double of his father.
Once the initial shock of seeing him had worn off Tom was consumed with anger. If the handkerchief he had found at the scene with Hugh’s initials on were anything to go by, he was the one who had attacked his defenceless mother and left her for dead. He was a coward, just as his father had been before him.
As yet, Hugh hadn’t noticed Tom watching him and was gazing about with a hunted expression on his face, clearly terrified of what lay ahead of him. And so he should be, Tom thought, but he felt no sympathy for this chap; he deserved everything that was coming to him – and more. The young men quickly claimed the empty beds, nodding towards Tom in a friendly fashion, but Hugh kept himself to himself, which suited Tom just fine. The least he had to do with him the better as far as he was concerned.
He watched as Hugh unpacked his kitbag and stuffed the contents into the bedside locker. He then withdrew a bottle and took a hefty drink from it just as the sergeant strolled in and barked, ‘Right, you lot, let’s have you outside. You aren’t here for a holiday. I want to go through the drill of what will be happening first thing in the morning with you. You’ll be up at five and over to the dining tent then back here and kitted up before you’re taken to the trenches. You’ll do twelve hours on and twelve hours off – if you’re lucky enough to come back, that is. Now look lively and line up and try and look like soldiers, eh? We’ve no time for nancy boys here, and any of you that decide you’ve had a change of heart, forget it. Once the shout goes up for you to move out of the trenches and attack comes, any of you that decides to do a runner will be shot for the coward that he is!’
The pasty-faced youths and Hugh were lined up along the side of the tent now as the sergeant strolled along inspecting them, but Tom couldn’t hear what was being said now because some of the chaps who had just finished their twelve-hour shift were stumbling inside and heading for their beds. They were all covered in mud from head to toe but were so traumatised and exhausted that they simply dropped onto their blankets as they were, the only colour showing on them being the whites of their eyes. Tom quietly crept amongst them shaking their blankets out and gently covering them before retiring to his own bed. His day would begin at five the next morning as well and he intended to get as much sleep as he could before the nightmare started again. It was easier said than done with the sounds of explosions and gunfire echoing all around him, but he had learned to cope with it now and soon he slept.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The clanging of a bell had the men tumbling out of their camp beds the next morning and as one they surged towards the wash tents, for what good it did them. They were confronted with tin bowls full of freezing cold water beside which stood a scratchy towel and slivers of soap. Tom wondered how long it had been since he had felt properly clean and couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even take his boots off to wash his feet because the layer of mud on the duckboards only ensured that they would be as filthy by the time he put them back on. Many of the men were suffering from infected blisters and trench foot so he supposed he shouldn’t complain.
When they were done, the men trooped off to the dining tent, their teeth chattering, and Tom found himself watching Tate, who was already sweating profusely at the thought of what was ahead. Had it been any of the other young chaps, he would have sympathised with them, but he couldn’t feel an ounce of pity for this man.
Breakfast consisted as usual of lumpy porridge and slices of cold toast and Tom forced some down, noticing that Tate barely ate anything. They all returned to the tent then to collect their rifles while Tom went off to the stables.
The horses whinnied and tossed their heads when they saw him, and he went along the line of them whispering in their ears and stroking their noses. The next hour was taken up with saddling them ready for the officers and trying to keep them calm as they stamped their feet and pulled on their reins.
It had been quiet since early that morning but by now Tom knew that this could change at any moment. And then the shout would go up: ‘Forward!’ and the men would surge up o
ut of the trenches and charge towards the barbed-wire fences that marked the enemy line. That was when the real nightmare would begin, as the Germans opened fire and he was forced to stand and watch the young men fall. Only when the all clear sounded would the stretcher-bearers venture out to retrieve the wounded and the dead who hadn’t already been swallowed up by the foul-smelling mud.
It was no wonder the rats were so huge, he thought. The sight of them gorging on the corpses was seared on his mind and would haunt him for ever. The soldiers in the trenches were plagued with them too; the damn filthy things seemed to be everywhere but there was little anyone could do about it, they were all too busy trying to kill the enemy to have time to try and kill the plague of vermin. Those men who had been there for a while and still survived had come to accept them, while the new recruits were horrified at their presence.
He was still stroking the horses when the dreaded shout went up: ‘Forward!’ and all hell broke loose. The soldiers rose from the trenches like spectres in the early-morning mist and from his vantage point he watched as they waded as best they could across the field. Within seconds the air was filled with the sound of gunshots. He could see the Germans approaching from the other side of the field and then the two sides were locked in combat as men dropped like stones. It was sickening and he glanced away, only to see one soldier hovering on the lip of the trench. With a little shock, he recognised Hugh Tate. He was shaking uncontrollably until an officer suddenly came behind him and pushed him forward with the butt of his rifle.
The Little Angel Page 37
