The Winter Baby

by Sheila Newberry

  *

  After Bruce and Marion had driven away, while young Wilf stood waving with his left hand because he had the florin Marion had given him clutched in his right, they settled down in the living room. It was cooler now in the evenings and Sam lit the fire with the bundle of wood he’d brought home. The girls were playing patience at the table, while Bobby eyed the sofa and then settled on the rag rug nearer the blaze.

  ‘Bedtime, Wilf,’ Daisy told him. ‘Kathleen has just settled Jimmy down.’

  ‘I think I’ll go up too, if you don’t mind,’ Mrs Amos said. ‘I’m glad I’m staying with you, Jessie, as Marion was obviously flirting with that young doctor.’ She had managed a short private conversation with her daughter earlier, but fortunately had refrained from saying this to her face. In fact, she had actually drawn her daughter close to her and whispered, ‘Marion, I know it’s partly my fault that you and Danny have parted. I was too keen to have you married off, and really, you were both too young, weren’t you? But don’t do anything rash just because you feel lonely, will you?’

  ‘Now, now, Ann,’ Jessie admonished her. ‘They are just friends, I’m sure. I’ll go shortly and get ready for bed myself. It’s been a long day . . .’ After Mrs Amos left the room, Jessie told Abraham, ‘You won’t be up yet, I know, but girls, you can take your cocoa upstairs at the same time as me. Done your homework?’

  Kitty said airily, ‘I’ve a composition to write. I might call it “A visit from a crotchety grandmother”.’

  ‘Write something nice about her too, mind,’ kind Heather reminded her sister.

  ‘We might not be up until later,’ Kathleen put in. ‘Goodnight, girls.’

  Sam gave them both a hug. ‘I’ll be gone early in the morning, but I hope to be home now and again before—’

  ‘Before you sail the seven seas, Dad!’ Kitty told him.

  It was not long before Abraham followed them upstairs. Kathleen plumped up the cushions, took off her shoes and stretched out on the sofa. ‘Pass me that rug, please,’ she said to Sam.

  He was making the fire up. ‘We don’t need the lamp; it’s nice to talk in the firelight. Mind you, I’ve got other things on my mind while we’re unlikely to be interrupted,’ he added.

  ‘Wait until I’ve taken my trousers off.’

  ‘Kathleen – honestly!’ he laughed.

  ‘I meant to change them earlier but didn’t get a chance – Mrs Amos was looking very disapproving.’

  ‘I must get you a new pair – Mary wore those when she was twelve, you know.’

  ‘I wish I’d met Mary. I would have had a sister then.’

  ‘You had Marion.’

  ‘I know, but I felt quite envious when I saw her with that nice Bruce. They will be going to war together . . . Though I do feel sorry for poor Danny.’

  ‘Well don’t. I suppose I am relieved he will be away from home like me.’

  ‘Sam, you’re not still jealous of your brother, are you?’

  ‘No, like you, I feel sorry that he and Marion are ending their marriage.’

  Kathleen threw the offending garment on to the mat. Bobby sniffed, scuffed it with his paws, and then settled down on it.

  ‘Oh Sam.’ Kathleen cuddled up to him. ‘I love you more every single day!’

  ‘Prove it,’ he teased. ‘No stuffy petticoats or stays, Kathleen,’ he added approvingly.

  ‘No room in the trousers, or they would split!’

  ‘Saves time,’ he said daringly, looking down at her shapely bare legs.

  ‘Turn the key in the door first.’

  ‘That reminds me of the saying about bolting the stable door after the horse has gone,’ he mused, but he did as she suggested.

  The fire had dwindled when she yawned and said, ‘We’d better go to bed. The girls will wonder where we are.’

  ‘Before we go up, I wanted to let you know that I have signed a document with the bank so that if you wish to let either the Brickyard House or the Barn House, you have my permission to do so. Also, if anything should happen to me . . . well, you’d be able to sell the property, because you would be left with three children to bring up, my darling.’

  He had expected tears, but she said quietly, ‘Thank you, Sam, I knew you would provide for me, but I pray it never happens. You’ll have my rosary to take with you when you go to the battlefield.’

  ‘Thank you. Having something with me that you treasure means a lot to me,’ he said.

  *

  Marion and Bruce went upstairs in the hostel; their rooms were on the same floor. She paused at her door to thank him for taking her over to Home Farm, and also for lunch.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in for a while, Marion? A cup of coffee would be welcome, and,’ he patted his pocket, ‘I haven’t yet broached the flask of whisky my father gave me for an emergency.’

  ‘What emergency?’ she asked, but she allowed him to follow her into the small, sparsely furnished room, with a bed under the window, two hard Windsor chairs, a small card table, an armchair with twanging springs and a Primus stove. ‘You can make the coffee, Bruce; cups are on the draining board, and luckily I have two of everything. Do you mind turning your back while I change out of this dress, and then I can relax in my dressing gown and slippers.’

  Bruce was wondering what this might lead to, but he obediently looked away. ‘Kettle’s steaming, hurry up,’ he observed.

  They sipped the hot coffee, and emboldened by the fact that the beer she had drunk earlier didn’t seem to have affected her, she accepted the tot of whisky he offered. Suddenly he observed, ‘You are a beautiful girl, Marion. I don’t know how your husband could be so foolish as to part with you.’

  ‘I couldn’t give him what he wanted, I suppose.’

  ‘I must say that Kathleen was not what I expected; she’s no femme fatale. She’s obviously happily married, and a good mother. Well, I suppose I must make a move . . .’ When she giggled, he added, ‘And go to my room.’

  Was it the whisky that made her say, ‘Don’t go – please stay, Bruce.’

  ‘You really want me to?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure if I’m ready, but . . .’

  ‘I am certainly not going to force myself on you,’ he said, but he took off his jacket, pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his collar. ‘I did have a childhood sweetheart, but she didn’t wait for me while I was at university, and . . . well, I am aware of the proper procedure. As a medical student, that was drummed into us, but you must tell me if you change your mind.’

  ‘I won’t, Bruce. It seems incredible, but I think I have been waiting for someone like you ever since I grew up.’

  ‘Well, I knew you were the girl for me the moment I met you.’

  ‘Just a few weeks ago,’ she said softly. ‘Turn the lamp low, will you, please?’ She couldn’t help wondering, though, what Danny would think. His love for Kathleen was unrequited.

  Bruce left quietly at dawn. Later, Marion discovered a note under her pillow: I will always remember last night. We must be discreet from now on, especially when we are working together in France.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Marion will have arrived in Boulogne by now.’ Mrs Amos sighed heavily at the breakfast table.

  ‘With Dr Gillespie,’ Kitty said cheerfully. ‘So she’s not alone.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about . . .’

  ‘He seems very nice, doesn’t he, Heather? He’ll look after Marion, won’t he?’

  ‘Stop talking and eat your breakfast, or you’ll be late for school,’ Kathleen said hastily. ‘I must get back to work – be a good boy, Jimmy, and I’ll see you all later.’

  Thank goodness the young ones didn’t realise that Marion wasn’t on holiday, thought Jessie, but instead was about to be involved in the war, like Danny and Sam.

  *

  Marion soon discovered the reality and dangers of her situ-ation. There were qualified nurses and doctors, including Bruce, in the field
hospital some distance from the trenches, but the volunteer nurses were part of a mobile medical unit: a horse-drawn ambulance emblazoned with a red cross, driven by a member of the Royal Army Medical Corps, who was in charge. There were two stretcher-bearers who could perform first aid on injured soldiers; the nurses also provided temporary care for casualties on the spot. The first time the VADs were called upon was after an episode of fierce hand-to-hand fighting; they spent the journey in silence, contemplating what they might find among the fallen infantry.

  The nurses were dressed in white, with caps completely covering their hair. After her first experience of treating the wounded, Marion’s skirts were streaked with blood, matching the red cross on her bodice, but she carried on. She saw injured or dying horses too, but had to avert her eyes, because there was nothing she could do for the animals. An Alsatian guarded a mortally wounded man and whined to alert the rescuers. Dogs were used to find casualties and stayed by the fallen to comfort them. The injured were sorted into three categories: the slightly injured, who could go back to the front line after treatment; priority cases to be transferred to hospital; and those beyond help.

  Shifts usually exceeded fourteen hours a day, and sleep was often broken at night. When Marion was off duty, she rested up in the deserted farmhouse nearby with her fellow volunteer nurses. The only habitable rooms were the big kitchen downstairs, where copper pans still hung on the walls, and the main bedroom upstairs, which was used as a dormitory for up to six nursing auxiliaries at a time. Outside there was a well and a tarred black barn, still full of decaying hay, where rats had taken over. There was no livestock apart from the scavengers.

  She met up with Bruce only once during those first weeks, when she was accompanying casualties to the field hospital. She was settling her patient carefully into his bed when suddenly she turned and he was there. They exchanged a long look, and then Bruce said, ‘Thank you, nurse.’ As she turned to go, he murmured softly, ‘I remember our last meeting . . .’

  ‘So do I, Dr Gillespie,’ she replied. That was all, because the sister in charge bustled over and Marion was summarily dismissed.

  *

  Back at Home Farm, they avidly perused the newspapers that Daisy brought home from the village every day. Mrs Amos passed the Times on to Kathleen; it was grim reading, and Kathleen anxiously checked the casualty lists. Jessie preferred the village news, though that was all about war now too. Women were told it was their duty to keep the home fires burning and to take over the jobs their husbands had left. By this time, half of the British army horses were in France. The rest were in the Middle East, Egypt and Italy.

  Kathleen asked Doc how their own beloved horses were likely to be employed. He replied, ‘The strongest will move general supplies and ammunition; some fast horses like Grasshopper will be ridden by dispatch riders, and when there is a charge by the cavalry, they will be on the front line.’ He added, ‘Shire horses, in tandem, pull the heaviest loads, like the big artillery guns.’

  ‘Will some of them be injured?’ she asked fearfully.

  Doc said slowly, ‘It is inevitable, Kathleen. But the Army Veterinary Corps will carry out medical treatment.’

  That evening, after Kathleen had taken a much-needed bath, she asked Jessie, ‘Would you cut my hair? Not too short, but to my shoulders, so I can just brush it through and not bother with putting it up or plaiting it. Easier to wash, too, I think.’

  Jessie didn’t demur. She fetched her sharp scissors and swathed Kathleen’s shoulders with an old towel. She bit her lip as she released Kathleen’s long black locks from their restraint. What would Sam say? She banished her misgivings as she concentrated on the job in hand.

  When Jessie had finished, Kathleen shook her head so that her hair bounced on her shoulders. ‘Freedom! I love it, Jessie, thank you!’

  Jessie was collecting up a bundle of hair from the floor, but she looked up to see Kathleen dancing around. ‘It suits you, Kathleen,’ she said softly.

  Heather and Kitty crowded round. ‘Oh Mummy you look lovely! Like a Dutch doll! Will you cut our hair like that, Grandma?’

  ‘Not this evening,’ Jessie said. ‘Time you got washed and went to bed, isn’t it?’

  Later, Jessie, Doc and Kathleen were joined in the living room by Mrs Amos, who said pointedly, ‘I haven’t had a spare minute to read my paper yet. I hope I dug enough potatoes for you, Jessie . . . we’ll need them, as there is a shortage of them already. I reckon I earned my keep today. Whatever have you done to your hair, Kathleen? You’ve lost your crowning glory . . .’

  Kathleen refused to be ruffled. She was concentrating on knitting socks for Sam. She paused for a moment and then said, ‘I’m a liberated woman now, Ann. You might want to follow my example. Well, any good news today?’

  Mrs Amos gave an exclamation. ‘That great ship I saw in Sydney harbour . . .’

  ‘Has it been sunk?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘No – there was a battle off the Cocos Islands, where a German cruiser, the Emden, was causing havoc. The article says that the crew captured and sank several ships, French and Russian. Apparently the Germans landed a raiding force on the islands but were attacked and overpowered by HMS Sydney, the vessel I was telling you about, Most of the German crew were killed or taken prisoner. A victory for the Australians, eh?’

  ‘No good news then,’ Doc observed. ‘Well, I’m off to bed.’

  ‘I’ll let Bobby outside for five minutes,’ Jessie said. ‘There’s still some cocoa in the jug, Ann, if you’d like it. Kathleen, are you coming up?’

  ‘I want to write to Sam first. The girls have given me their notes to enclose.’

  ‘Tell him you’ve been shorn like a sheep,’ Mrs Amos said, but Kathleen ignored the jibe. The old girl’s bark was worse than her bite, she told herself, and at least she was pulling her weight; she’d got dirt under her fingernails to prove it.

  *

  After the first big battle of the war, the Battle of the Marne, Allied troops had stopped the advance of the Germans through Belgium and France, and both sides were optimistic that the war would soon be over. However, hostilities continued and more trenches were dug. Sam was now working in muddy conditions and miserable damp weather.

  There were three lines of trenches constructed in a zigzag pattern, the front line being located fifty yards from its enemy counterpart, with machine guns in action on both sides. Steps were built up to the machines; when facing the enemy, the brave gunners were exposed, and grenades were thrown as the other side advanced. There were communication trenches and shallower positions that extended into no-man’s-land, with observation posts protected by cruel barbed-wire fences. When men went over the top, they were all too often caught in the tangle of spikes and became a sitting target.

  The second trenches were several hundred yards behind the first, their occupants waiting to support the front-line combatants. The final trenches held the reserve forces. There were dugouts beneath the trenches fitted out with rudimentary furnishings for the officers. Their safety was paramount, as they were in charge of planning, plotting and decision-making.

  Sam was involved with digging more trenches further along the line. Some of his fellow workers were Welsh miners, muscular men skilled at tunnelling, who sang lustily as they toiled underground to keep up their spirits. Sam worked alongside a carpenter who had a pencil behind one ear and the nickname of Woody, while Sam himself was known as Digger. It was far removed from digging clay pits at the brickyard. Despite the cold and the rain, he thought ruefully that he was in a muck sweat. He wondered where Danny was, and if they would ever meet up again. He thought about Kathleen and the children, and Jessie and Doc at Home Farm, but was thankful they could not see him in this situation. They would know about it one day, though, because he had a little notebook in his pocket in which he wrote random thoughts. This was a parting gift from his daughters: To Dad, come home soon, love from Heather and Kitty.

  The latest scribbled entry read:
This is a bloody hellhole. I feel as if I am digging my own grave. Perhaps I am. What is this war all about? It makes no sense. No sense at all . . . He had broken the point of his pencil underlining that.

  *

  Danny, meanwhile, was stationed just a few miles away from where Sam was labouring in the mud. He had not been reunited with Grasshopper; his favourite horse was with the cavalry. King Cole, the big black horse he rode to deliver messages to the front line, had distinctive white socks and was a feisty animal but also very speedy. They tolerated each other, but if Danny became too familiar, the horse would bare its teeth and shy away. King Cole was a superb jumper who seemed to fly over any obstacle.

  Danny was in touch with Marion and was aware that when their divorce went through, that part of his life would be over, apart from the link with their son. He wished she had not told him there was another man in her life. We will remain friends, I hope; may you also find someone else, she had written. Kathleen is the only woman I want, Danny thought, but that’s an impossible dream.

  On their rare days off, he and some of the other men visited villages beyond the war zone that amazingly had not been ruined by the fighting. Life seemed almost normal there, but of course it wasn’t. Brothels had sprung up, where some of the men went seeking comfort. Danny told himself he couldn’t pass judgement on that. He must continue to be resolute and fight for his country.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  By Christmas 1914, food rationing had not yet been introduced in Britain, though after the initial rush by customers to stockpile goods, shopkeepers clamped down on bulk buying and tried to be fair to rich and poor alike. They were all aware of the loss of food supplies from overseas, as many supply ships were torpedoed by enemy submarines.

  At Home Farm, they had always been more or less self-sufficient, with land set aside for essential crops – strawberries as well as vegetables of all kinds – and meat provided by pigs and spring lambs. They had increased the number of chickens and ducks, and Mrs Amos became their chief adviser after her years on the poultry farm. The strawberries were manageable without outside help, and the girls and Kathleen enjoyed being involved in what they considered the highlight of the year. Jessie was aware, though, that strawberries would not reach peak sales nowadays.