Through Glass Eyes

by Margaret Muir

  Lucy didn’t go down to see him off. She bade him farewell from the house. As they stood in the doorway, beneath the sprig of mistletoe which they had joked about on Christmas Day, she could see the tears welling in his old eyes. He was always happy at Honeysuckle Cottages and it was a wrench for him to leave the friends he had come to love. Lucy feared he was not strong enough to cope with the situation he was going to. When he had left for India she had expected him to return, but this time she wasn’t sure.

  A few weeks later, Lucy was pleased to receive a letter from Edward. He wrote saying he had bought a small flat close to his sister’s house. He had also arranged for a resident housekeeper, and engaged a nurse to visit on a daily basis. By those means the physical and practical needs of both Lydia and Wainwright were largely taken care of, though he still felt the need to be close at hand. Wainwright was improving week by week, with the probability he would eventually walk again, albeit with a pair of sticks, but Lydia’s mental condition was unchanged and unlikely to improve.

  Being in the flat allowed him time to read and write, or take walks in the nearby park. It also allowed him time to think. He said he had been doing a lot of thinking and that Pansy’s situation had been of concern to him. After observing how well both families got on together, he said he had been considering offering Pansy a lease on the end cottage. He thought a peppercorn rental of one shilling a year would be appropriate but he would not go ahead with any agreement without Lucy and James’s approval. If a lease was drawn up he assured her, if any problems arose there would be provision to terminate the arrangement immediately.

  After reading the letter, James had no second thoughts. He wanted to tell Pansy the good news straight away. Lucy also agreed, and wrote back to Edward advising him to proceed with the arrangements.

  The following week, when Pansy opened her door and found Lucy and James standing on her doorstep with serious expressions on their faces, she feared something dreadful had happened, but when they told her of Edward’s offer, she almost collapsed into James’s arms. She was overjoyed and overcome at the same time. Never again would she have to worry about finding rent money. Alice was thrilled too at the prospect of living next door to James. And Lucy, though she tried to hide her feelings, was delighted about having Pansy, Alice and little Timmy as neighbours.

  Because Pansy had been forced to sell off some of her furnishings to support herself and the children, she had few possessions. What furnishings remained in the house were solid but basic. Her husband had been a good craftsman.

  When Miss Pugh heard about the move, she made one trip from Ilkley to Horsforth to deliver a suitcase of linens which had belonged to her mother. When they were alone for a moment, the spinster confided in Lucy that she had worried about Pansy’s future, with no man to support her. Though Lucy never enquired, Miss Pugh made a special point of explaining her financial situation, stating that she managed adequately on her own because she lived frugally. She confirmed that she owned her house, which had been bequeathed to her, and that she received income from a trust. Unfortunately it was only a small sum and was insufficient for her to provide any financial help to her niece. Miss Pugh said she considered Edward Carrington’s offer to Pansy exceedingly generous, then her mind wandered to unrelated matters and she never spoke of it again.

  Edward returned to Horsforth for a short visit in the August of 1912 and again in May of 1913. Lucy felt that since he had slipped back into a bachelor existence, a gap had opened between them and that he was ageing rapidly. His pace had slowed and his back, once straight, curved markedly from the neck. His cheeks, which had glowed with the warmth of India, were now sallow and sunken. The children, too, seemed to sense a change, and though they enjoyed his visits, they quickly became bored with his repetitive conversations.

  Alice, however, was always anxious to play something for him.

  Apart from providing the piano, Edward had engaged a lady to give James lessons. Every Saturday morning, Alice would sit in the front room and watch, and when the music teacher left, she would practice James’s lesson repeatedly until she mastered all the notes. While James hardly ever practiced, Alice was determined to learn to play and it was not long before she became quite proficient.

  The late spring of 1914 was near perfect. Alice celebrated her fourteenth birthday and, though James didn’t seem to notice, was already blossoming into a woman. Timmy was no longer a baby and, with Lucy minding him three days a week, Pansy was able to earn some money working as a domestic maid.

  Lucy enjoyed reading Edward’s weekly letters in which he wrote of trips to the seaside or the City, and of the walks he enjoyed in the town’s parks and formal gardens. She enjoyed her own garden, cultivating a variety of vegetables, pottering outdoors in the lengthening daylight hours till it was almost too dark to see. Most evenings, however, she would sit and spin, or sew, while James went for a short ride. Nineteen-fourteen was James’ final year at school and his application to attend the University in Leeds had been accepted. He was planning to commence his studies in the September, but on one warm August afternoon when Lucy was enjoying the scents of the garden, she was surprised to see James running up the lane. He was shouting and waving his arms, but until he got closer it was impossible to make out what he was saying.

  ‘War has been declared!’ he yelled excitedly. ‘The country needs men! I’m going to join the army.’

  ‘But James, you’re just a boy.’

  ‘No, I’m not! I’m old enough. I’m going to fight for England. It’s my duty!’

  Chapter 9

  The War Effort

  James was infuriated. The first recruitment drive was for men aged eighteen to thirty which meant he would have to wait until his birthday in four months time. He envied his friends who had already enlisted and were now in training; some had already sailed to Europe. Joining the army was all he wanted to do, and for James, University was no longer an option, so he decided to occupy himself until late December – after that he would enlist.

  ‘But why are you so determined to go to war?’ Lucy asked. ‘You could be maimed or killed.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Mum. I have to! And if Edward were younger, he would go too. It’s the right thing to do. It’s up to every man who is fit, to fight for the country. It’s his duty, and if he doesn’t enlist then he’s a coward.’

  Nothing Lucy could say would change his mind. She pinned her hope on the rumour that the war would be over by Christmas and the troops would be sent home. Maybe he would not have to go.

  Alice gave little thought to the war or the future. She cared only for the present and was pleased to have James home everyday. That August holiday, she had more time with him than ever before. They went out walking, or riding together. They talked for hours about nothing in particular and in the evenings James listened while Alice played the piano.

  After seriously considering that James was using the war as an excuse not to study, Lucy dismissed the idea, but because Edward had provided the money for his on-going education, she felt obliged to write to him. She did not expect him to discourage James from enlisting for she knew his views on doing one’s duty, but she felt that her son would listen to Edward’s advice.

  Two weeks after she had written, a reply came back. It was not addressed to Lucy but to Mr James Oldfield. It bore the Tunbridge Wells postmark and was dated 15 October, 1914. After reading it James passed it to his mother.

  My dear James

  Let me offer you my hearty congratulations!

  Your mother tells me you intend to enlist on your eighteenth birthday. I admire you, and envy you. I think it will be the best decision you have made in your life.

  Men who have served in the military are revered and admired. I am thinking here of my father and Wainwright, my brother-in-law, who served in the army in India and South Africa respectively. I know from my upbringing, that discipline builds character, and active service builds courage. I am also keenly aware past service is a pas
sport into all walks of life. It is a path I never followed and because of this I shall go to my grave with regrets; regrets that I never made the effort, disappointment in my younger years when I was bypassed for promotion, and regret I never experienced the satisfaction of being the victor.

  Being in my sixty-second year, I am now too old for active service but I am pleased to say I find myself in demand to serve England in other ways. It is rumoured that if the war is prolonged (I hear talk in the City that the war will not be over as quickly as originally thought), England will suffer from not only a shortage of food, but also a shortage of workers to do the common jobs.

  Thousands of men are being sent to fight on the Continent and, as you know, there will soon be another wave of enlistments. These soldiers will not return to England’s shores until the war is over and because of this, there will be a growing demand, on the home front, for those, like me, who are too old to fight in Europe.

  Naturally, I have volunteered my services and, because of my previous experiences, I have been offered various positions, from munitions factory overseer to correspondence scribe. I declined these because they are in London. I have, however, accepted a job here in Kent, based in Tunbridge Wells. This means I can travel daily from my flat and will never be too far away from my sister and Wainwright.

  As I am neither farmer nor teacher, the role I have accepted may sound a little unusual. I am to organize the enlistment of young women to work on the land doing the jobs usually done by the men folk. These young ladies will be taught how to cultivate the soil, plough the fields and plant and harvest crops. If the project is successful and the war continues, this type of activity will become widespread throughout Britain. I will write and tell you how the work progresses.

  In the meantime, I gather from your mother you are currently looking for something to occupy yourself. Perhaps I can suggest a few things. These will not only help Lucy and Pansy but will allow them to contribute to the war effort in a similar manner to my own.

  Here is a list:

  1) Increase the number of sheep (ewes) you have and buy a ram. Speak with John Fothergill, the farmer who leases the meadow to me.

  2) Acquire one or two hand ploughs (again speak with Mr Fothergill) and train both riding horses to work in the shafts. It is essential you take on this chore. It would be too difficult for the ladies.

  3) If time permits and the ground is not too hard, plough the back meadow in preparation for spring. Dig up the flower gardens and grow vegetables.

  4) Use some of the money set aside for your schooling to stock up on preserves. Fill the pantry, and if you run out of space, store them in the attic – it is dry and clean.

  If the conflict in Europe is resolved by the New Year nothing will be lost, and you will have a bountiful supply of provisions.

  Dear James, you may think these words are the rambling of an old man but do not take them in vain. The coming years may be leaner than we have ever known. Think of your mother and Pansy. How will they manage when you are away?

  I suggest you make provision for them now. On that note I will close. Give my fondest love to your mother, and pass my good wishes to Pansy, Alice and Timothy.

  Write to me when you are abroad.

  Regards as always,

  Your dear friend

  Edward Carrington

  *

  ‘I’m not strong enough,’ Pansy argued, when first confronted with the hand plough. ‘It’s too heavy! I’ll never push it!’

  ‘You don’t have to push,’ James said. ‘Just keep the blade half covered and follow Goldie. The horse will do the work.’

  Wearing a pair of James’s old boots and with her skirt tucked up at the waist Pansy was determined not to be beaten. ‘If Lucy and Alice can do it, then I will do it too,’ she said, as each morning she persevered until she mastered the implement. James quickly realized that Pansy’s frail appearance was deceptive. She was both fit and strong. Living in the country had done her the world of good.

  The Indian summer of 1914 lasted well into October and with the bout of steady rain the soil was soft. As Edward’s horse trudged across the field, the simple plough turned a furrow of earth behind it. At first the ruts drew zigzag patterns across the meadow, but slowly, as James showed the women how to work with the plough rather than against it, the lines became straight and parallel. Once Pansy learned to control the horse, the satisfaction became etched in her smile.

  Using both horses and two ploughs, it took the women less than three days to turn over the whole of the meadow. James watched from the stable roof where he was working. When Alice lost control of the plough and slid sideways into the dirt, he almost fell off the ladder. The horse stopped, turned and snorted at her lying in the furrow, her hands and face streaked in soil. Alice was sure it was laughing at her, too.

  James bought timber and netting and erected a new hen house in Pansy’s back garden. In the past, the chickens had been allowed to range freely but slowly they had disappeared – victims of local foxes, so he made sure the vermin would not get into the new run.

  There was quite a commotion the day he arrived home with two sacks of live pullets. Timothy delighted in running through the hen house, making the birds squawk and sending birds and feathers flying. After being scolded, the three-year-old watched anxiously as James clipped their wings.

  ‘Will it hurt them?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  On those late autumn evenings, with the smell of jam bubbling on the stove, the two families busied themselves preparing for Christmas. There was plenty to do. Fruit for the cakes and puddings to be washed and dried, flour to be sieved as fine as dust, apples to be wrapped and put away, jars to be washed, filled and labelled.

  Late in the evenings, Alice would play the piano and even though there was no fire in the front room, James would take his paper and sit with her until they were both called for supper.

  By late December the pantries in all three cottages were stocked fuller than they had ever been. Apart from the bags of flour, salt and sugar, the shelves were stacked with pots of preserves, jars of sweet chutney and bowls of pickled eggs.

  James’s eighteenth birthday fell on a Sunday. The following morning he presented himself at the barracks in Leeds. After being declared fit, he swore the oath with a group of six other men, but much to his frustration, he was told he must wait until mid-January to join his regiment.

  Lucy and Alice were quietly pleased. Christmas Day would not be the same without him, especially as Edward could not join them. Lucy wanted to make sure it was a Christmas they would all remember.

  The two families had agreed that this year they would have Christmas dinner in Pansy’s cottage. With Timmy’s help, Alice made yards of paper chains to decorate her mother’s living-room. James found a small fir tree in the woods which he potted and placed next to the piano, and, as usual, Lucy made three holly wreaths, one for each of the cottages.

  As Pansy hammered a nail into her front door to hang the decoration on, a man called to her from the lane, ‘That looks right pretty, luv.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Pansy replied, smiling. She didn’t know the fellow but with half a dozen dead rabbits hanging from his shoulder, she assumed he was a local.

  ‘What about a nice hare or rabbit for dinner on Boxing Day?’ he said.

  Pansy thought for a moment. She could make a rabbit stew. She was sure James and Lucy would enjoy it. ‘Are they fresh?’

  ‘Fresh this morning. Shot clean through the head. No damage to the flesh. Have a look if you like.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A shilling apiece. Three for half-a-crown.’

  ‘Can you wait a minute?’

  ‘I’ve got all the time in the world for you, luv!’

  Pansy didn’t notice the sly wink as she hurried inside. She returned with the shilling piece. ‘I haven’t seen you in the village. Do you come from these parts?’

  ‘I get around,’ the man said,
unhooking one of his carcasses. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Almost four years,’ she said.

  ‘And you got kids?’

  ‘Yes, a boy and a girl.’

  ‘Nice family,’ the man said, re-adjusting the load on his shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in a few days to collect the skin. Happy Christmas!’

  ‘Happy Christmas to you!’ Pansy echoed.

  The man was whistling as he wandered down the hill towards the village.

  That evening, the smell of mince tarts wafted into Lucy’s front room where James and Alice were singing the final verse of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Sitting in the armchair by the kitchen fire, Lucy was dozing, when a noise woke her. It was a strange sound and it was coming from next door. Thinking it might be a chicken squawking with a fox at its tail, she grabbed the broom and ran into the back garden. Only when she was outside did she realize it was Pansy’s cry. Her neighbour was screaming and black smoke was billowing from her kitchen door.

  ‘James! Alice!’ she yelled. ‘Quick! The house is on fire!’

  Chapter 10

  Stanley Crowther

  Within seconds of the candle toppling, the Chinese lantern ignited in a ball of fire and flames leapt up the paper decorations. With hardly a sound tongues of fire ran right and left, consuming the chains, link by link, and at the same time, scattering burning fragments on the floor and furniture. Pansy had swung at the flames with a towel but her efforts had only succeeded in fanning the blaze. By the time the others arrived, the curtains were alight.

  ‘Water!’ shouted James. ‘Quick, grab some buckets, bowls, anything!’