My Beloved Son

by Catherine Cookson

  There were only three men in the corporals’ room and they were all busy writing. He wasn’t aware of how long he himself had sat there writing, but when two of the men went to leave the room and one remarked to the other, ‘Saturday tomorrow, and I would be on duty, wouldn’t I! He picks on me, he does,’ Joe suddenly remembered that he too was on duty tomorrow, NAAFI duty from dinner time till ten o’clock tomorrow night. He’d have to tell Maggie, because she would be expecting him up. At the moment she was helping out behind the scenes; she usually did at concerts.

  He looked at his watch. It should be over now; he’d likely catch her if he hurried. There would be little chance tomorrow for, by the time he had finished in the labs and got cleaned up, she’d be gone.

  When he came out of the NAAFI room he saw that the concert was already over, for the road ahead leading towards the main camp was thick with the departing audience.

  He made his way round to the side door and, pushing it open, went through a passage and entered the area behind the stage. There were a few people still about packing clothes into boxes but they were already dressed for the road, some still wearing their make-up. There was an air of slight bustle, voices saying, ‘Get a move on! Look slippy!’ and, ‘How do you think it went?’

  He looked over their heads for a sight of Maggie. Away to the side of him, walking across the stage, he saw the sergeant who was usually in charge of these entertainments talking to an SP. To the right of him the back stage was clear. There was no sign of Maggie.

  He walked the length of the back stage towards where a passage turned off, and as he neared it he heard her voice and it brought him to a stop for a matter of seconds, for she was saying, ‘Take your hands off me! I said take your hands off me! If I have to tell you again I’ll scratch your eyes out. Do you hear?’

  When he rounded the corner he saw her standing in the arms of Corporal Billings, who had her pressed close. But hearing Joe, he turned and looked towards him. His face was red, his mouth open, his lips wet. His grip on Maggie slackened, and as she thrust him from her and stood gasping, Joe looked from one to the other. But he didn’t see either Billings or her; the faces before him were those of Mick Smith and Carrie.

  As he sprang on Billings he heard Maggie scream: ‘Don’t! Don’t, Joe. Joe, don’t!’

  He was pummelling the thick body, aiming for the red face, when, joined together, they fell to the ground and rolled over. Their bodies coming in contact with a piece of scenery brought it down on them.

  There seemed to be commotion all about him, and when he was hoisted to his feet as if by a crane, he still continued to struggle.

  ‘Steady on! Steady on! Enough!’

  Of a sudden he became still as if in obedience to the voice. He felt his body sagging, he saw it sinking, going down and down; he felt the numbing quietness creeping over him, creating the desire to fall asleep where he stood, and when they turned him about and led him out into the open and across the square through the maze of huts to the guardroom, he went like a child between them.

  He was aware he was being put on a charge; it also got through to him that he would be brought before the commanding officer on Monday morning. In the meantime he would report at set hours to the guardroom. Understood?

  Yes, he understood; he understood everything that was being said to him but he could find no way to answer. And this annoyed the sergeant and the SP. But Warrant Officer Gilbert, who was present and had his own ideas of what was happening, or had happened to Corporal Jebeau, silenced them by saying briefly, ‘Leave it…’

  Later, sitting on the bed opposite, Len talked and talked at him: ‘What possessed you, man? What came over you? She could have handled Billings, as she always has; it’s a joke, Billings being gone on her. And he’s not a bad sort. Funny, but he’s always been daft about her. Lays himself open. He cries when she sings, he does. You’ve messed him up, you know that? Lad, I can’t understand you. You go round as solemn as a monk, then act like a madman. All I can say is, it’s a good job you hadn’t a gun in your hand.’

  When Joe’s body jerked in the bed and he turned his head to the side, Len said, ‘All right, all right. Anyway, I’ve arranged it for tomorrow. I’m standing in for you, as your time will be taken up in reporting. You could be for the glasshouse, you know that? This is the second fight you’ve had within a few weeks. What’s come over you, man?’

  He would like to tell Len what had come over him in order to ease the pressure in his head, but every time he wanted to give an answer or to talk, a weird pain enveloped his whole body. When he remained quiet and said nothing he was at peace, or nearly so. But it was becoming more evident to him that he wouldn’t really be at peace until he escaped from this place, because here he’d be forced to talk, answer questions, give reasons, and he was past giving reasons because all the reasons he gave were lies. And were he to give the real reasons, the truth, they would not call it a lie but the result of a twisted imagination that had gone into madness.

  He slept heavily, and the following morning he went through the usual routine, but he did not go to the cookhouse for breakfast: in fact, he did not leave the hut until it was time to make his first report of the day to the guardroom.

  Twelve

  It was half past four on Saturday afternoon when Maggie arrived at the cottage. Lizzie was waiting for her and before she had time to speak Lizzie said, ‘Where have you been? I was worried. You said you’d be here at two and we were going to…’

  ‘Aunt Lizzie.’

  Lizzie became quiet and stared into the troubled face before her, and now she said quietly, ‘What is it? What’s happened? Is it him?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s him. He…he’s absconded.’

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘He’s gone AWOL.’

  ‘But it’s Saturday afternoon…well, I mean, he’s off duty. What do you mean, gone absent?’

  Maggie closed her eyes for a moment and bowed her head; then thumbing towards the stove, she said, ‘Is that tea hot?’ After Lizzie had poured her out a cup of tea she gulped on it before answering. ‘He went for Billings last night as if he could kill him. You know, the fellow I told you about. He was making a pass at me, and Joe came on the scene. But I could have managed; I always do with that bloke; there was no need for him to belt him as he did. He…he’s sick, Aunt Lizzie.’

  They were looking at each other now. Then again Maggie gulped on her tea before she went on, ‘He was put on a charge. He was to report every so often today. I saw him first thing; he was on his way to the guardroom. It was just after nine. I…I stood in front of him and said, “Oh Joe, I’m sorry.” He…he tried to speak, kept opening and shutting his mouth, and then he said, “All right,” and he touched my sleeve, like that.’ She demonstrated by tapping Lizzie’s hand. ‘Then after a minute, when he tried to speak again, he said what I thought was, “Go home.” I imagined he was referring to me coming up here this afternoon and I said, “Yes, Joe. All right, Joe. And I’ll tell Aunt Lizzie.” And at that, he smiled at me. It was a quiet reassuring smile. You know, he looked like he does when he’s rested, relaxed. It was later when I saw Len Forbister; he’s a pal of Joe’s. He said Joe hadn’t turned up for his second report. I hung on, and then at three o’clock I saw Len again. Joe still hadn’t turned up, and he’d been reported absent without leave. Bill Regan and Amos Bernstein, two of the other corporals on the tech section, had been round the camp looking for him. But that was fruitless. His bike had gone. He must have walked out straight after the first report.’

  ‘Dear God! The silly lad. Where on earth would he get to? Why didn’t he come here?’

  ‘I feel I know where he’s got to, Aunt Lizzie.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘He’s gone to that place where apparently he never wanted to be; he’s gone back to it. I know now he wasn’t saying to me, “Go home” but “I’m going home”.’

  Lizzie got to her feet now, her head nodding as she said, ‘Well, he won’t be long
there; they’ll soon pick him up.’

  ‘Likely that’s the last place they’ll dream he’ll make for; most fellows don’t go home unless they’ve got a wife there or some substitute. Anyway, I’m going to find out, Aunt Lizzie.’

  ‘You’re what!’ Lizzie screwed up her eyes as she peered down at Maggie.

  ‘I’m going to this place, this home of his, and I’ll bring him back, because he’s not a deserter, he’s a sick man. And I feel…I feel it strongly, Aunt Lizzie—’ she nodded her head towards the old woman and she repeated, ‘strongly, that whatever’s troubling him deep inside started there; not only with that girl Carrie; you don’t abandon your mother and all that goes with it for a girl like that.’

  ‘But how in the name of God, do you propose to get that far, when you don’t have a pass?’

  Maggie was now on her feet bustling towards the hall and she called over her shoulder, ‘My leave’s long overdue. Miss Robertson was very accommodating; she gave me my pass and a travel warrant.’

  ‘Did you tell her why you wanted them?’

  ‘Don’t be silly; I told her I was feeling very off-colour and if I didn’t have a break I would likely have to report sick; I’m supposed to be visiting friends.’ Maggie was running up the stairs now and Lizzie called up to her, ‘I’m not with you in this; it’s like a wild goose chase. If he’s not there, what are you going to do?’

  She didn’t hear Maggie’s mumbled answer but she turned about, went back into the kitchen and began to prepare sandwiches, and when Maggie next appeared in the kitchen there was a parcel of food ready for her and, standing beside it, a flask of tea.

  ‘Can you get these in your case?’ Lizzie’s voice sounded ordinary, and Maggie, opening the case, answered quietly, ‘Yes, twice as much; I’ve only got night things.’

  ‘And where do you expect to use them?’ There was a tart enquiry now in Lizzie’s voice and Maggie answered, ‘Standing up in the train, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s another thing. Do you know where you’re going, or how you’re going to get there?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m getting the seven-twenty from Hereford, change at Birmingham, and I should arrive in Durham some time after three in the morning. That’s if we haven’t got to crawl through any air raids.’

  ‘Yes, that’s another thing’—Lizzie’s face was screwed up tight—‘air raids. You’re walking straight into them. That end of the country gets blasted pretty often.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be an experience, won’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody saucy; I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I, Aunt Lizzie’—Maggie’s words were slow and soft—‘never more serious. But if I can help in any way an air raid’s not going to put me off.’ Then noticing Lizzie’s moist, blinking eyelids, she altered her tone, saying briskly, ‘It’s about time I saw some action anyway. And just think, if I go through an air raid, how I can brag when I get back to the camp, because I’ll swear half of that ground staff have never seen an incendiary, even. Well, listen to me; I haven’t either, I mean, seen one dropped.’

  Lizzie was standing very straight now, her hands folded one on top of the other at her waist, as she said, ‘How am I going to know what’s happened to you?’

  Maggie hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll…I’ll phone Donald down at the farm, and he’ll give you a message. All right?’

  After a moment Lizzie nodded and said, ‘Yes, all right.’ Then she went to Maggie and put her arms about her and hugged her close for a moment before she said, ‘Take care, girl. And believe me, I understand why you feel you must do this, but I’ll be worried every minute that you’re away.’

  At the door Lizzie said, ‘Where’ll you leave your bike?’

  ‘Oh, at Mr Foster’s; I’ll need it when I come back.’

  She turned and touched Lizzie’s cheek as she said, ‘Take care. Look after yourself.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, it’s you who’ll have to take care…Go careful. Bye-bye, dear.’

  ‘Bye-bye, Aunt Lizzie.’ She paused a moment, then added in a mutter, ‘I love you.’

  Mounting the bike, she rode swiftly down the path, and as she did so she had the feeling she was leaving home for the first time and going into the unknown. And she was filled with a strange foreboding which had nothing to do with the journey or air raids or even what would happen to Joe if she didn’t get him back to the camp, but something indefinable that she couldn’t put her finger on.

  At seven o’clock the following morning, stiff and weary, she climbed up into the front seat of a milk lorry standing outside the station at Consett.

  The milkman had come into the station with some packages to be sent by rail and as she had just got off the train and there wasn’t a porter in sight she said to him, ‘Can you tell me how I’ll get to a place called Screehaugh?’ He had stopped and looked at her curiously for a moment, then scratched his head as he said, ‘Don’t know no such place as Screehaugh, not as a place, miss. I know of a house by that name.’ And to this she had answered, ‘Yes, that’s where I want to get to, a house called Screehaugh. From what I can gather it’s just outside the town.’

  ‘Oh no, miss’—he laughed as he shook his head—‘it’s well beyond Edmundbyers and that’s all of six miles away. And I should say Screehaugh is another good three. As for a bus, you’ll maybe have to wait another hour or more, and then that just goes to Edmundbyers, not anywhere near Screehaugh.’ He paused and looked down on the small figure, and his voice held a note of sympathy as he said, ‘Come far, miss?’

  ‘Yes, quite a way; I’ve been travelling all night.’

  ‘Oh, well now’—he turned towards the entrance, saying—‘me truck’s outside; I’m cutting past Edmundbyers and if you’d like to hop in with me, you’re welcome. And I can put you on the road to your destination like.’

  For this she had thanked him warmly; but now, cold and tired, she was sitting perched on this high seat and being bone-rattled over very uneven ground.

  Her companion, she discovered, was a talker, an inquisitive talker: Where did she hail from? Hereford. Oh, that was quite some way, wasn’t it? Did she know anybody at Screehaugh?

  A friend. Oh well, that would be Mary Smith then, wouldn’t it?

  The jolting of the truck had saved her answering and to save further questioning she became the talker: it was very wild country, wasn’t it? It would be very nice in the spring and summer, but it must be dreadful when the snow fell. Had they had much snow…had they been isolated? Did they get many air raids? Was he a farmer? On and on, until they came to a small village and he, shouting now, called, ‘This is Edmundbyers. It’s only a bit afore I turn off, but I can go out of me way an’ ride you another mile or so along the road, an’ show you the turning to Screehaugh. Half an hour should see you there. All right?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  When, a short time later, he stopped the lorry, he leant across her and pushed open the door, saying as he did so, ‘Good luck, miss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said; ‘and thank you very much for your help. I’m very grateful.’

  ‘It’s nothing. That’s what we are here for, to help one another, especially around these parts. And in these times. We’ve had a quiet time lately, thank God.’

  She smiled at him, then stepped back onto the grass verge, and he called to her, ‘Just do as I say. That turning over there, down the hill, keep on and then you’ll come to a big belt of trees. That’s the beginning of their land. Might have to push your way up the drive.’ He nodded at her. ‘Gone to the dogs a bit…a place soon goes if neglected, or worse if the military get in. Well, so long.’

  ‘So long,’ she said. Then as he started up the engine she moved in the direction he had indicated and left the narrow main road for a narrower side one.

  The early morning had been dull and grey but of a sudden it was as if a blind had been rolled up and there were hills stretching away, fold on top of fold, shining in the sunshin
e. They still looked grey and brown but the drabness had gone. The light became so clear that she could see into the far, far distance. Coming to a rise in the road, she stopped and looked about her, but wherever her eyes roamed they saw no habitation, not even the ruins of one. But there below her was the dark belt of trees that the milkman had mentioned.

  When she actually came up to the trees it was as if she were about to enter a tunnel. She was walking through a plantation of fir. The road was narrow; it would take a car but that would be all.

  It was almost ten minutes later when she emerged into broad daylight again. A few yards further along the road and there were the gates, iron gates, closed but not locked, and she paused a moment before them, staring through them up the driveway. As she took in the overgrown tangle of hedge and shrub she was again assailed by the strange feeling of fear.

  She now asked herself what would she say to this Mary Smith. Joe might not yet have turned up. As she had reasoned out during the long night ride, he wouldn’t have attempted to use a train, knowing that he might be stopped at any station and asked for his pass. His only chance of getting here was by lifts. And was it likely that having left the camp only just after nine yesterday morning he would have reached this far? Granted he was about ten hours ahead of her but it would have been difficult for him to find through transport from Hereford to Newcastle, so it wasn’t likely she would find him here yet. Again she asked herself what she was to say to this Mary Smith.

  She pushed open the gate and walked up the drive. It was long and winding. On coming round one curve she saw the house. At first sight it just looked like a big grey pile of stone; then as she blinked against the strong sunlight she could see that it seemed to be in three parts: a middle which had a trace of a chimney running right up its front, and two wings. The buildings were all of the same height and with the one roof, yet they looked separate. There were steps leading from a gravel drive to the front door, and from where she stood she could see the entrance to a yard on one side of the house and which was bordered by stables or outhouses.