‘Get a move on, or I’ll shoot you where you stand!’ the officer roared. ‘We won’t stand for cowards here!’
As Tate moved forward, his head down and his whole body quivering, Tom found himself thinking, There’s one I wouldn’t be sorry to see shot! Then he felt ashamed. Tate was still Cissie’s son at the end of the day and she would be distraught if anything were to happen to him. She still had no idea that it was Hugh who had attacked her and left her for dead, and with luck she never would remember. But then the officers arrived and started to mount the horses and Tom had no more time to think of anything but the poor beasts who were about to go into battle.
As the war raged on, Kitty’s first Christmas away from Treetops approached but this year there was little for the people of Britain to celebrate. Ruby was in a drunken stupor for half the time now despite Miss Fox’s constant attempts to pour away any wine or gin she found about the house. Many of the music halls had closed but Kitty was still very popular at the ones that remained open, although her bookings were fewer and further between than they had been before war had been declared.
She was at Richard’s one afternoon when the maid came to inform him that there were some women at the door asking to see him.
Richard frowned as he asked, ‘Who are they? I’m not expecting anyone.’
‘I’ve no idea, sir, they wouldn’t say.’
‘Then you’d better show them in.’ No doubt they were new clients, he thought.
‘Right you are, sir.’ The little maid bobbed her knee and hurried away, to reappear a few moments later with four ladies following her.
‘Mr Richard Fitzherbert?’ The older of the ladies, who was beautifully spoken, stared imperiously down her nose at him.
Richard said smoothly, ‘Yes, how may I help you? If you wish to have photographs taken I’m afraid you will have to book an appointment.’
‘Believe me, I would never appoint you to do anything for me,’ the woman replied, then without another word she handed him an envelope as the other ladies looked on.
Bewildered, Richard slit it open and as he did so, a lone white feather fell out and drifted to the floor. It was then that Kitty realised who they were. They were part of the Suffrage movement and were making it their business to hand out white feathers to any gentleman whom they considered fit enough to be away fighting for their country.
‘You are a disgrace to your sex, sir,’ the woman told him coldly. ‘Shame on you for your cowardice.’ And with that she turned and walked away with a look of pure disgust on her face as the other women trotted behind her.
Kitty was deeply distressed and tears sprang to her eyes, but Richard appeared to be unmoved.
‘Stupid old harridan,’ he muttered angrily as he ground the feather into the carpet with the heel of his shoe. ‘It’s a shame they can’t find something better to do with their time!’
‘The trouble is, they’re saying that soon all men under forty won’t be given a choice about enlisting,’ Kitty told him tremulously. ‘They will be sending for the ones fit enough to fight whether they wish to go or not. What will you do then?’
‘I shall simply go to ground until it’s all over,’ Richard answered icily and, for the first time, Kitty felt ashamed of him.
Despite all of Miss Fox’s efforts to make Christmas Day a special time, it fell flat. In spite of the food shortages she had managed to produce a very good-sized goose, which had been cooked to perfection, and there was also a large and spicy plum pudding that had been soaked in brandy for weeks, yet for different reasons, none of the residents of Brunswick Villa had much appetite.
As usual, Ruby was pleasantly merry by lunchtime, Maggie was quiet and Kitty couldn’t help but remember the happy Christmases she had spent at Treetops Manor with Sunday and Tom. Even Miss Fox was sad as she thought of little Arthur and wondered how he was faring. They had received one very heavily censored letter from him only the week before, telling them that he was now in Flanders, where she knew from the papers the fighting was fierce.
After dinner, they all opened their presents. Miss Fox had bought Ruby, Kitty and Maggie very pretty silk scarves and Ruby had bought Kitty a charming little gold bracelet, which Kitty suspected had been chosen by Foxy. They exchanged all the presents politely and made the necessary noises then Kitty and Maggie volunteered to clear up while the kindly cook, who had put together a large basket of Christmas fare for Arthur’s mother and her offspring, put her feet up by the fire to enjoy a glass of sherry and a mince pie. In truth, the girls were glad of something to do. Kitty had thought she would spend the day with Richard, but he had disappointed her the week before when he had informed her that he would be travelling to his family’s home on Christmas Eve to spend the holiday with them in their country home.
‘So why didn’t he invite you to go with him?’ Maggie had asked in her usual forthright manner. ‘If you are a couple, surely it’s time he took you to meet his parents?’
Kitty had simply shrugged. She had hoped that would be the case too, and the hurt went deep. All in all, it was turning out to be the worst Christmas ever, Kitty thought as she fingered the gold locket that hung around her neck and thought of Sunday.
At that moment, could they have known it, the soldiers were enjoying a break from fighting. A truce had been called for Christmas Day and the men were making the best of it. In the morning, they had attended a service given by the hospital chaplain and they had sung Christmas carols as they thought of their loved ones back at home. The Christmas dinner was the best meal they’d had since enlisting and when it was over they were shocked to see the Germans warily crossing the field waving white handkerchiefs.
Seeing the hesitation on the faces of the young privates who shared his tent, Tom told them, ‘Go to meet them, lads. Enjoy yourselves. I don’t think they wish us any harm.’ He would have liked to go with them but his leg was paining him today so he stood on the edge of the muddy field and watched as the young men met in the middle of the field and shook hands. Tom was choked. Soon an unlikely game of football was taking place between the two sides on any bit of solid ground they could find. It was a time for peace, a time for them to come together as mere men rather than enemies, and it brought home to each and every one of them how pointless the war was. Each one of the Germans was someone’s son, husband, lover or brother – and just for this one special day they and the British troops could be friends. As the day drew to a close they parted, all too aware that the very next day they would be killing each other again, and that yet more telegrams would be sent out to grieving relatives, telling them that a young man they loved had died in battle.
It was early in January 1915 that young Arthur sat in the trenches reading over again the letter he had received from his mother shortly before Christmas. He had read it so many times that he knew every word by heart now but he never tired of it. It seemed to bring his family closer somehow.
Dear Arthur,
I hope you are well, son. Miss Fox come to see us yesterday wiv Miss Kitty an she bourt us the luvliest basket of goodies fer Christmas. I’ve had a rare old game keepin the little uns from eating everyfin before the day. We are all well, cept little Cedric whos had a cold, you know he always suffers wiv his chest in the winter an its been right bitter here. The frosts been so fick I swear yer could cut it wiv a knife come morning. Yer dad is bein kept busy on the river an ive joined a knittin circle. Weve been knittin socks fer the troops. I hope you are bein as careful as yer can, son. We speak about yer all the time an though I was angry wiv yer fer joinin up before yer had to I’m right proud of yer an longin to see yer home safe an sound again. Yer can be sure on Christmas day we’ll all be thinkin’ of yer. I pologise fer the spellin. Yer know I’ve never been a skolar.
May God kepe his eys on yer, my dear boy.
Yer luvin mum xxxxxxxxx
Arthur flicked a tear from his cheek as he folded the precious letter and tucked it down the front of his battledress next to his dog tag. The duckboard he was sittin
g on with his back pressed against the cold earth wall of the trench was slowly sinking into the mud but Arthur was so cold that he didn’t care any more. Men were pacing up and down blowing on their hands and stamping their feet as they waited for the order to advance. This was the part he hated the most; the waiting. Funnily enough, once the shout came and he was up and over on the field, he had got into the habit of blocking everything else from his mind. It was do or die up there – although he often had nightmares now as the faces of some of the men he had rammed his bayonet into paraded before his eyes in their death throes. A huge rat suddenly ran across his foot and Arthur shrieked as he kicked it with all his might. The loathsome creature sailed through the air, hit the other side of the trench, dropped to the ground then scurried away with its prize – someone’s finger – still in its mouth as Arthur shuddered and tucked his hands under his arms. And then the shout came and pandemonium broke loose as the men grabbed their rifles and surged towards the ladders propped up the sides of the trenches.
Once up on the field, Arthur positioned his rifle in front of him and plodded along. He could see the enemy advancing and started to fire then suddenly he felt as if someone had thumped him in the chest before he hit the mud with a sickening thud. He had dropped his rifle and he lay there staring up at the sky before raising his hand to his chest where he found nothing but a gaping hole with something warm and sticky spurting out of it.
That’s strange, where’s me jacket gone? he wondered, then suddenly a picture of his mother’s face flashed in front of his eyes and he smiled. He lifted his arm, for the vision was so real that he felt she was there with him. The sounds of the battleground receded and he felt strangely peaceful. ‘I love yer, Mum,’ he whispered through the blood that was bubbling from his lips and then his eyes gently closed and he knew no more.
It was four weeks later when Arthur’s mother was scrubbing the doorstep that the boy on the bicycle braked beside her.
‘Mrs Partridge?’
She nodded numbly. Her mouth had suddenly gone dry and no words would come out of it. He handed her the brown envelope then touching his cap respectfully he pedalled away as she knelt there staring down at it. She had no need to open it, for she knew what it would tell her. She had felt it for some time. Her son was gone from her for ever. Arthur would not be coming home.
Heaving herself up, she staggered inside leaving the bucket and scrubbing brush exactly where they were. And then she sank down onto the nearest chair and slowly slit the envelope open.
It is with deep regret that we write to inform you that your son, Private Arthur James Partridge, was killed in battle …
The telegram fluttered to the floor and tears rained down her face as she thought of her beloved boy, her firstborn, so smart in his Army uniform, and her chest swelled with pride. Her son had died a hero.
Chapter Forty-Nine
June 1915
‘I sometimes think this war is never going to end,’ Sunday said mournfully, as she stood staring from the drawing-room window at Treetops Manor.
‘Well, at least we are safer here than most places,’ her mother remarked, looking up from her sewing. ‘According to the newspapers, those Zeppelin airships are causing havoc and death all over the country. And that new poisonous gas the Germans are using can blind you or send you mad by all accounts.’
She instantly wished she could retract what she had just said as Sunday burst into tears. She knew that her daughter worried about Tom and Ben all the time. There was no chance of either of them being granted any leave in the circumstances.
‘What you must think is that no news is good news,’ Lavinia said, trying to inject some lightness into her tone.
‘But I haven’t heard a word from either of them for months,’ Sunday fretted.
Lavinia raised an eyebrow. ‘You should know by now how long it’s taking for everyone’s mail to get through. You’ll probably get a glut of letters when they do arrive.’
Sunday nodded, knowing that her mother was right. Somehow she just had to get on with things and continue praying that the war would soon be over. Compared to many of the families in town who had received the dreaded telegrams informing them that their loved ones would not be returning, she knew that she was very fortunate. But it was so hard …
In Chelsea, Kitty was also feeling depressed. Maggie had gone to visit Mrs Partridge with a basket of goodies as she often did these days, since they had received news of Arthur’s death. It was so hard to believe that the lad had been killed when he’d had his whole life ahead of him – but then the war was wicked.
Since being presented with the white feather, Richard had kept out of sight although Kitty still regularly visited the studio to entertain his friends. She had thought that the shame of being exposed as a coward would force him into enlisting, but that hadn’t been the case. If anything, he was even more adamant now that he would never go to fight. Rather than have an end in sight the war seemed to be escalating and it appeared that no one was safe now, be they on land or on the sea. But life went on with many women in Britain now taking on the men’s roles full time. It was common now to see women driving buses, working in factories or as clerks or farmhands. Kitty sometimes wished she could do something to help and she mentioned it to Richard.
‘I’m sure I could drive an omnibus if someone taught me,’ she said. She quite liked the idea but he grew so angry at her suggestion that she abandoned the idea and like everyone else simply prayed that the conflict might soon be all over.
One morning in early December 1915 as Tom was preparing the horses, he noticed Hugh Tate standing at the edge of the trenches smoking a cigarette. For now, all was quiet but Tom knew that this could change at any moment and he watched Tate from the corner of his eye. An early-morning mist floated above the frost-coated field and all that could be heard was birdsong, so Tom was making the most of the peace. But it didn’t last long and all too soon the shout went up and the men began to pour out of their hiding places and march towards their enemy with their rifles raised as the sound of gunfire filled the air.
Tom saw Tate hesitate as an officer drew alongside him. ‘Well, go on then, man!’ the officer roared as he nudged Tate with his rifle. For a second Tate hovered, then suddenly he turned and ran in the direction of Tom as fast as the cloying mud would allow.
‘Halt, I say, or I shall fire!’ the enraged officer screeched but Tate was beyond reason now and was in a blind panic. And then Tom could only watch as the officer raised his rifle and aimed it at the would-be deserter.
‘This is your last chance, Corporal Banks. Stop now or I shall fire!’
So … he’s using a false name is he? Tom thought.
Completely disregarding him Tate ran on until suddenly the officer pulled the trigger. Tate jerked like a puppet on a string, a look of pure shock on his face, then with a grace that would have done justice to a ballet dancer he slowly dropped to his knees before falling face first into the stinking mud.
Greatly shocked, Tom gulped deep in his throat. It wasn’t the first time he had seen this happen with other young men who had lost their nerve, but knowing that this was Cissie’s son affected him badly. She would be devastated to learn that her firstborn had died a shameful death. But then the officers were all around him, mounting their horses, and he had no more time to dwell on it until the last of his charges had been ridden away. When he next looked towards Tate’s body it was to see a huge rat feasting on the hole in his back, and turning quickly from the sight, Tom emptied the contents of his stomach into the mud. It was an image that would haunt him for the rest of his life, along with all the other horrendous things he had been forced to witness.
Late that night, as he lay shivering in his tent, he wondered what he should do about it. The authorities would not be able to write and inform Mr and Mrs Tate of Hugh’s death if he had been using a false name. At least it would spare them the shame of knowing that the man they had raised as their own had died a coward’s death. S
hould he write and tell Cissie about Hugh’s death – would it be better to let Sunday break the news to her? Thoughts of home brought a lump to his throat and he had to blink very hard to stop the tears from falling. It seemed so very long ago since he had seen his loved ones now and he wondered if he ever would again. Was his son all right? Had Ben survived so far? The worry never left him. He had seen hundreds – maybe thousands – of young men lose their lives needlessly. The sound of the chap in the next bed coughing interrupted his thoughts. Many of the soldiers had ailments now – how could they not have, when forced to live in these atrocious conditions? But then he supposed they were the lucky ones. At least they were still alive for now – although who knew what the morning might bring?
The days wore on. It was shortly before Christmas 1915 that Tom was admitted to the field hospital. He was suffering from frostbite, and when the nurses managed to get his boot off and then soak off his sock, the smell was overwhelming.
‘Those two toes in the middle of that foot are going to have to be amputated, otherwise you could lose the whole leg,’ the doctor told him as he examined his feet. ‘Sorry, old chap, but as soon as this is done you’ll be sent home to recover on the first boat available.’
Tom grinned despite the pain. Two toes seemed a small price to pay if it meant him spending Christmas back at home.
‘Ah well, at least they’re on the lame leg,’ he said bravely as a young harassed nurse began to gently wash his feet in a bowl of warm water. It was the first time they had been out of his boots for months and the warmth seemed to be climbing up his leg. For the last two months Tom had also been helping the stretcher-bearers at the end of each day as well as tending the horses, and as he laid back against the pillows he suddenly realised how completely exhausted he was. Tom secretly thought the stretcher-bearers had the worst job of all. They would cross the field each time there was a ceasefire, collecting the dog tags from the corpses and bringing back to the hospital tent as many of the wounded as they could. For months, there had been a terrible shortage of medical supplies, and the overworked doctors and nurses were forced to do the best they could with what little they had. The worst-affected patients died, and many of the ones that were left had suffered horrific injuries.
The Little Angel Page 38
