Liam’s Story
Ann Victoria Roberts
By the same author
Louisa Elliott
© 1991, 2013 Ann Victoria Roberts
Ann Victoria Roberts has asserted her rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
First published and printed in 1991 by Chatto & Windus Ltd 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London SWIV 2SA
First published in eBook format in 2013
eISBN: 978-1-78301-072-1
(Printed edition: 0 7011 3537 9)
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The lines on p.374 from ‘Little Grey Home in the West’ are by Hermann Lohr and Dorothy Eardley-Wilmot © 1914 Chappell & Co. Ltd (assigned 1988 to Marlow Lynn Ltd trading as the Chappell Recorded Music Library), reproduced by permission.
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Contents
Author’s Note
Maps
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Author’s Note
Liam’s Story was inspired by a diary written in 1916 by a young soldier serving with the Australian Imperial Force. In the novel, all that relates to WW1 is based upon that diary and extensive research undertaken to verify it. The rest of the novel is fiction and, except with regard to public figures, the characters are not intended to resemble real people, either living or dead.
Like its predecessor, Louisa Elliott, I felt this edition needed a fresh look for a new readership. It is not markedly different from the original, and I hope old fans will forgive me for small changes undertaken for the sake of clarity.
A note for new readers: the ‘modern’ part of the tale is set in the mid-1980s, and so has become a period piece in itself. The origins of the war in the Persian Gulf have largely been forgotten, but I wrote this account in homage to seafarers both past and present, the unsung heroes who do a difficult and dangerous job on a daily basis.
I remain indebted to all those who assisted with the original research. Of the many books consulted, four were invaluable: The Official History of Australia in the War of 1914-1918 by C.E.W.Bean (University of Queensland Press); The Anzacs by Patsy Adam-Smith (Nelson); The Broken Years by Bill Gammage (Penguin) and Pozieres, by Peter Charlton (Leo Cooper).
Ann Victoria Roberts
2013
For Peter Scott Roberts with all my love
*
“Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, ‘Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old...’
‘And when we die
All’s over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips,’ said I...”
From ‘The Hill’ by Rupert Brooke
Maps
World War I Map of France and Belgium
Map of the Persian Gulf
One
All over England the year was dying in a blaze of glory. The shortening days were blessed at noon by cobalt skies and brilliant sun, by a warmth which belied early morning frosts and chilling mists at twilight. Tempted by the weather, groups of late tourists ventured forth to enjoy some lingering views before winter quickened everyone’s step and made the cosiness of tea-shops more attractive.
In York, Americans with cameras exclaimed before the Minster, backing into the road for better shots of the famous twin towers, while a party of Japanese, with the stoic expressions of dedicated tourists on a tight schedule, brushed past as they left by the west door. Clutching her guide-book, Zoe Clifford paused, debating whether or not to go inside. It was not yet twelve and she had the rest of the afternoon, but four or five hours might not be enough to do what she had planned, and the Minster deserved an hour or more to itself, an hour which might be regretted later in the day.
Reluctantly she stepped back, joining those transatlantic cousins on the pavement’s edge, staring up, with them, at fine stone tracery and those soaring white pinnacles, two hundred feet above the ground. In full sunlight and against a cloudless blue sky, the effect was dazzling. And magnetic: she did not want to leave. Half-regretting her decision, she contented herself with a walk around the outside, astonished by the cathedral’s length and size, the way it dwarfed everything nearby.
With the massive east window at her back, Zoe stood for a moment in a clear triangle of space, contemplating the long, half-timbered building of St William’s College, the line of trees that faced it, and a medieval archway that led into the street beyond. What seemed a dolls’-house scale of chimney stacks and irregular rooflines marked that narrow thoroughfare, and she thought how satisfying it must be to gaze up at the Minster every day from one of those tiny windows. As she turned, a huge bell began to toll the dozen strokes of noon, the deep, sonorous note reverberating against her breast-bone. Its solemn grandeur was like a knell for the dying year, underscoring the glorious, golden day, and the fact that she was alone.
For a moment she stood quite still, eyes closed; as the last stroke died away, she wondered why it was that beauty perceived alone should be so poignant, and why it made loneliness so much harder to bear.
On a deep breath she turned away and completed her circuit of the Minster. By the south transept she cut across the road to enter a paved walkway which led into the city’s maze of medieval streets. A cup of coffee and a sandwich went some way towards restoring her emotional balance, and, with her mind set on more immediate matters, she consulted her guide again.
Gillygate, the street she wanted, ran, according to the map, just beyond and parallel to the city wall, not far from the Minster. She checked the number of the house against her notes, and mentally prepared herself for disappointment. For all she knew, Gillygate might well have been a slum, razed to the ground decades ago, or crushingly redeveloped in the brave new world of the 1960s. Anything could have happened; the chances of finding her great-grandmother’s birthplace intact were very slim, but looking for that house was one of her reasons for being in York.
According to a birth certificate obta
ined some weeks ago, Zoe’s great-grandmother had been born in the late summer of 1897, the year of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. She was named Letitia Mary Duncannon Elliott, which was something of a surprise, as no one in the family could ever recall Letitia using the name Duncannon. It did not even appear on her marriage lines, although one Robert Devereux Duncannon had been a witness at her wedding. Was there a mystery there, Zoe wondered, stuffing notes and guide back into her capacious shoulder-bag, or was it simply that the Elliotts had wanted to impress wealthy relatives at the birth of their only daughter?
Zoe inclined towards the latter theory, although her mother always maintained that Letitia – who was never called Grandmother – had been a walking mystery until the day she died.
Mysterious perhaps; aggressively independent and more than a little eccentric she certainly was. As a child, and contrary to the rest of her immediate family, Zoe had always liked her: probably because the old lady had never given a damn for anyone’s opinion and frequently said so. She had possessed an amazing ability to confound people, Zoe’s mother particularly, reducing that strong-willed but intensely conventional woman to tears of abject frustration. And as a child, subject to her mother’s arbitrary decisions, Zoe had admired that quality. Even now, when time and the beginnings of maturity enabled her to understand something of Marian’s problems, there was still a strong bias towards Letitia.
She was, after all, the only member of her family with whom Zoe felt any affinity. Mother, father, a couple of aunts and a few cousins on her father’s side, shared little in common with Zoe. She liked her father, and had it not been for the divorce, might have been closer to him; but it could hardly be said that they understood each other. And Marian would never be any different, Zoe thought, regretting, not for the first time, that she could not like her mother more.
For a few brief weeks, the ten-year-old child and the woman of seventy-three had been like allies resisting a common foe. Those weeks stood out in Zoe’s memory as being the happiest of her childhood. Her biggest regret was that Letitia had not lived long enough to share the secrets of her past. Some deep-seated instinct – or was it mere wishful thinking? – pressed Zoe into the conviction that the roots of her identity lay here, in York, amongst the long-dead members of Letitia Elliott’s family, rather than with her father’s line of Surrey stockbrokers and businessmen. She needed to discover that identity, needed to know why she was the odd one out, the wilful, creative, unconventional child of such conservative parents. Perhaps, understanding herself, she might then learn to understand other people.
Passing beneath the great square mass of Bootham Bar, Zoe made her way around the corner and into Gillygate. Unconsciously slowing her step, she was aware of a smile touching her lips as it dawned on her that structurally at least, the street could have changed little in the past hundred years. But if shop fronts had been restored, their original purpose had changed: less butchers and bakers, more cafes and gift shops with a variety of bijou goods on display. She quickened her step, counting numbers as best she could. Most were missing, which was frustrating; but then she saw the house she was looking for, its number clearly displayed on the door. Three stories high, broad-fronted, windows and doorway compatible with the 1850s – Letitia’s birthplace was still there.
Not merely intact, but a guest-house, clean and bright and apparently newly-furbished, with pretty curtains at upper windows and draped lace at street level. Zoe could scarcely believe such good fortune. For maybe half a minute she hesitated, staring up at rusty-pink brick, gleaming paintwork and a bright brass knocker on the dark blue door. The temptation to be inside that house was too much. She had cheque-book and credit cards, and her return rail ticket would be just as valid tomorrow as it was today. On a surge of anticipation she rang the bell.
A middle-aged woman answered, inviting her into a narrow hall. The reception desk was no more than a half-moon table with a vase of chrysanthemums and a visitors’ book, but after a cursory glance at her booking plan, the woman said yes, she could offer a single room. It was small and on the second floor, but, she added with a smile, it had the advantage of quietness and an excellent view of the Minster.
The stairway ran across the house, dividing front from rear, and doubled back on itself at a half-landing. On the first floor the corridor was broad, with a modern glass fire-door leading to a second staircase. On the upper floor the landing was smaller, with three doors opening off.
‘Here we are. You’ll be nice and quiet, there’s nobody to trouble you next door, which is a family room, and children can be a bit noisy. Bathroom across the way, here – and all to yourself.’ The landlady, who had introduced herself as Mrs Bilton, opened the door of a single room and went across to a low-silled window, bending her head to look out. ‘There, you can see the Minster, now the leaves are falling. Trouble is, in summer the trees form too thick a screen – people complain. I keep telling my husband we should have them cut down.’
Zoe was horrified by the idea. ‘Oh, no, you mustn’t do that! Just tell people to come in the winter, instead.’
‘Well, perhaps we should have them thinned out – then everybody’s happy!’
Warming to Mrs Bilton’s amusement, Zoe was almost tempted to reveal the significance of her visit, but to start talking now would waste too much time. Confidences, with perhaps a tour of the whole house, would be better left until later. While the sun lasted, she wanted to be out, seeing as much of the city as possible. Above those grassy, wooded ramparts, the white city wall divided Gillygate’s back yards from the Minster precincts. It was hard to believe that she was just a few hundred yards from where she had stood at noon.
‘Can you walk on those walls?’ she asked, noticing for the first time the heads bobbing between the crenellations.
‘Yes, of course – but I should hurry if you want to do it this afternoon, dear. They close the walls at dusk.’
Zoe was given the times of breakfast and a front door key, and, with a cheerful wave, set forth down Gillygate. Returning to Bootham Bar she could barely contain her elation as she climbed the steps. Inside the great room above the archway, she touched ancient limestone blocks, ran her fingers over the wooden portcullis and pictured it being lowered to bar the road beneath. She looked down on medieval Petergate, a huddle of projecting gables and tiny windows against the backdrop of the Minster’s great west front.
The people walking below made her think of Letitia, who must have passed beneath the Bar innumerable times. No doubt with her parents – and her brothers. Zoe tried to imagine them in this room, wondering if, as children, they had enjoyed pretending to be soldiers defending the city…
A sudden shiver reminded her that the afternoon was slipping away. So easy to be side-tracked, she thought, making her way out into the open air. At street level, the picture was a close and detailed one, but from the height of the city walls she saw at once that it was the broad sweep of the canvas which took the eye. Above a sea of roofs and chimney-pots, the Minster rose like an enormous ship in full sail, catching the falling light of late afternoon, and shadowing the narrow streets around it.
Couples passed her, and a large party, complete with guide, politely excused themselves as she lingered, entranced by the views. There was fascination on every side, from the undisguised age of the backs of houses on Gillygate, to the elegant expanse of the seventeenth-century Treasurer’s House within the walls, its tree-shaded grounds carpeted in bronze and gold. Autumn was a season for nostalgia, she always felt, the scent of dying leaves so evocative of the past. As the shadows lengthened she thought again of Letitia, leaving this place for London and her tragically brief marriage; could not help wondering why she had settled for Sussex and a house her parents-in-law had ensured she would never own, when York in all its beauty was here, waiting. Her family, too. The parents she never talked about, the brothers she had mentioned but once. Why did she leave, Zoe wondered; and why did she never come back? And what had happened to those brothe
rs of hers, two handsome young men in a photograph sent from France in the summer of 1916?
In a cloudless sky, the sun was setting, no more than a fiery rim of gold low down in the south-west. There was a damp chill in the air, and above the chimney-stacks and pantiled roofs, an orange haze was deepening to red.
As she came to Monk Bar, a uniformed attendant was waiting, looking out for stragglers on the walls before he locked up for the night. With a sigh of resignation he held the heavy oak door, and as she stepped inside the stairwell, closed it behind her. It was very dark, and the limestone walls within the Bar were smooth and cold, like those of a dungeon. The attendant’s feet, in heavy boots, echoed behind her. With no light but that of the tiny doorway below, Zoe felt her way gingerly down those well-worn steps, and with some relief emerged into the everyday bustle of the street.
Goodramgate was busy, home-going shoppers edging carefully along narrow pavements, avoiding traffic which passed alarmingly close along that ancient and idiosyncratic thoroughfare. Across the way a pharmacist’s brightly-lit window reminded her that she had brought no luggage. Pausing to buy some essentials, she crammed the parcels into an already bulging bag, tucking it beneath her arm for safety as she wove her way between traffic and passers-by.
In the darkening sky, a vestige of natural light remained. Above the jettied buildings of that winding city street, it had deepened to an astonishing colour, like the French blue in renaissance paintings of the nativity. Gazing up as she walked, Zoe stopped as she reached a junction, arrested by an unexpected view of the Minster, the whole of its east end floodlit against the dark blue sky. White and perfect as ivory, it stood in mighty gothic splendour, dwarfing all that stood before it.
With some surprise, Zoe realized that she was facing the spot where she had stood at noon, and across the street was the little archway leading into Minster Yard.
Standing beneath its shelter, she simply stood and stared, knowing this to be a rare and perfect moment, and wanting to preserve it in her memory. The traffic had eased and the flow of pedestrians dwindled to a few hardy strollers who paused to look for a moment before passing on. It was numbingly cold, but Zoe hardly noticed. Her keen artist’s eye was absorbing colour and light, the vastness of the picture and its tiniest details. Intent upon the whole, she suddenly noticed a strange phenomenon. What appeared to be thick white smoke was billowing from the Minster roof and curling round pinnacles and piers.
Liam's Story Page 1
