Bold, Brash and Brave

by Alan Tansley

  ‘So then, Joseph, will you be threshing in late January again?’ asked the agent, before he slurped a drink of tea.

  ‘Oh yes. The corn will be ready to pick up in early February as usual,’ he replied, and then sighed while as he stared at his cup.

  ‘You look a bit worried, are you having any problems?’ asked the agent, studying his face as he closed his case.

  ‘Oh no, well, maybe. Well, it all this unrest in Europe. Everyone seems to want a war to happen. It’s just one country against another. What the hell’s up with our politicians? It seems all they are doing is encouraging everyone to fight,’ replied Joseph, resting back in his chair.

  ‘I know what you mean, Mr Cotton. The days of us building up extra trade abroad in Europe are fading fast, even though our royals are related to most countries. Anyway, as long as we keep out of it, that’s what I say,’ said the agent, and standing up, glanced around to see if he had left anything. Joseph wasn’t really interested in world affairs; he preferred to concentrate on his family and his own community. Pleased at having pre-sold his barley at a better price than last year, Joseph stood up and smiled, then escorted the agent to the door. The smile became a beam as he held out his hand; as he shook it, the agent said, ‘All being well, we’ll see you next year, Mr Cotton.’

  ‘I bloody well hope so,’ replied Joseph, gripping the agent’s hand firmly. He waved politely to the agent as he set off towards his coach, noting the poor condition of his horses, and then nodded to the agent before he closed the door.

  Mahala had wandered into the lads’ bedroom, and was sitting with Timothy, who was lying on his bed reading. They began discussing their future and the possibility of war, but she was astounded when he stated that he didn’t care what happened, so long as when he joined up received an officer’s position.

  ‘Oh,’ gasped Mahala. Having no knowledge to continue a conversation of war, she went into the parlour to sit with Joseph and think about Timothy’s statement.

  Newspapers were the main conveyance of nearly up to-date information, even though it took a few extra days for them to be delivered into the countryside. Those who couldn’t read relied on others who could; in some cases their own children. In the larger towns, as strange as it sounds, most people would sit and wait for the town crier, although they were even then a dying breed.

  ‘Does it say anything about a war then?’ snapped Mahala, staring at Joseph.

  He folded up the newspaper angrily and held it out towards her. ‘It’s on nearly every page, woman!’ he grumbled.

  ‘No thank you, you can keep it!’ Mahala frowned as she rested her arms on the table, and bowed her head onto her arms.

  ‘Are you worried about the lads?’ Joseph knew that was the problem, and tried not to smile.

  She sat up swiftly and stared at him. ‘You know I am! They are learning to be farmers, not soldiers!’

  ‘That’s true, my love. However, when called upon, we all must do our duty for our country. You are doing that with your women in the village, aren’t you?’ asked Joseph, and deliberately raising his eyebrows in pretended innocence to goad her.

  She realised what he was doing, and that he knew the purpose of the mothers’ circle, but she could not help snapping. ‘I am not training them to be killers. It is merely a social gathering where we can exchange ideas to improve our living standards.’

  ‘The only thing I can say to that is this: better get ready and teach them to use a plough, because when all of us men folk have gone off to war, you will be left running the farm,’ said Joseph, standing up, tired of the teasing.

  Now looking dumbfounded, Mahala watched him go over to the hearth. ‘They will never take you, will they?’ she asked, her voice quiet. Joseph bent down to stick a splinter into the ashes, and then picked up his pipe. When the splinter flamed, he pulled it out of the hearth and lit his pipe with it. ‘Please tell me you are joking?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t really know, my love. I shouldn’t think they would. I’m too old really,’ he replied, and sat down.

  Now looking bewildered, Mahala asked, ‘Is there an age limit, then?’

  Joseph began running out of patience with her nattering, and staring at her, he grunted, ‘How the hellfire do I know.’

  The winter month of February 1914 was not as harsh as many had been; as the cows lay cosily in the barn, George fed the horses with carrots as he watched sacks of threshed wheat being loaded onto the brewery wagon. During winter time it was a difficult and tiring trek to Sheffield. Since the horses soon tired while pulling heavy loads, many teams were used on the way.

  In the stables, they now had four calves, twenty piglets and a sow that had just had her seventh and probably last litter. Joseph couldn’t decide whether to risk the weather and take them to market; although they had their own transport, a wooden crate that fitted onto a horse-drawn cart, it would mean two of them being away from the farm all day. However, as he realised that the animal feed was dwindling fast, he saw there was no other choice—they had to go. The horses were the main mode of transport on the farm; they also ploughed the land and delivered milk, coal, timber and corn. Nearly everything that moved had to be pulled by horses, but the use of traction steam engines on the land was catching up very fast. Unfortunately, only the wealthy could afford them, but as there were fewer customers because of the looming war, the prices were falling fast.

  Joseph finally picked a date for the market and took Henry with him to help with loading and unloading the animals. Joseph left Henry to tend the horse as he browsed through the shops of the local tradesmen, including those that had automobiles for sale. Knowing exactly how much he had in the bank, and as the old saying goes, under the carpet as well, he decided to put off buying one for another year, thinking of the war. He stopped by Henry to check the horse and the contents of its nose bag, and then returned to the market to wait until the sale had finished. An hour later, Henry signed out from the auctioneer and continued to the cashier to collect their money, minus commission. ‘Bloody hell, dad, it’s gone up again,’ he grumbled, as he passed his father the bank notes.

  ‘It used to be a flat fee but now it’s a percentage of the take. They are being dead crafty—and they get away with it because not many can reckon it up properly,’ smiled Joseph, thankful because Mahala had taught him the system. They arrived home just in time for dinner. Henry tended the horse as Joseph went inside the house. Timothy and George had nearly finished milking the cows when they heard the toot of a steam engine. George sprang up and peered out of the window.

  ‘I hope dad hasn’t been daft enough to buy one; it will be idle while we harvest,’ moaned Timothy, before poured the last of the milk into a churn.

  George stared at him, and sick of his complaining, snapped, ‘Dad can buy what he wants to, it’s his farm.’ He sighed as he stormed out of the cowshed and strode towards the house, but didn’t pay much attention to Timothy’s statement, because if it wasn’t related to the war, it was usually a complaint about something else.

  There was a sharp frost that evening. Well wrapped up, with his head bowed, George briskly walked to Florence’s house after dinner, sticking to the paths or cart-tracks. Somehow he was thinking again about Timothy, and feeling very disappointed that he was distancing himself more from the family. He did his duties well enough, which George respected, but he regretted that most of Timothy’s spare time was spent on his own, usually reading war manuals.

  Courting Florence was also getting frustrating for George, because they were never left alone. She would meet him at the door, and after a quick kiss they would sit at the kitchen table opposite each other, always with one of her parents in attendance. Playing cards or dominoes, with the occasional drink of stewed tea, they would while away the evening. When it was time to go home again, after a quick kiss at the door, George would wave before he set off. Florence’s eyes echoed his frustration; she really wanted to get married. After falling in love with George when she first met
him, she had been tormented by her friends, who usually claimed that she was trying to marry into money.

  Like everyone else in the area, Florence was also scared by the idea of war, and she feared the consequences if George was taken away from her. Her father was a collier, and a very strict Christian. His first child had been a boy who died at the age of three, and the family had decided that it was a punishment from God.

  As was usual with the death of any small child, the grieving parents had to wait until someone else died locally, and if their family agreed, would bury their child on top to save funeral expenses.

  A year later, Florence was born, and a year after that, her sister Mavis came into the world. The Webster family held their reasonably good health to be the result of keeping with their faith. Of late, however, Florence’s father Harold, an experienced collier, was increasingly put under pressure to increase the output in the three coal seams he supervised, and began to cut safety measures. Unfortunately, there had been an increase in minor accidents; however, like most shift foremen, he always feared the worst, a roof cave-in, so to ease the burden, Harold began to call at the local tavern more regularly, and began to drink heavily, which meant that there was less food on the table.

  Chapter 3

  In the early summer of 1914, following an average winter and spring, Timothy, accompanied by his brothers, was scything an exceptionally healthy meadow of grass. The weather was good, so they hoped that it would dry into hay and be ready to collect in a few days’ time. Noticeably, and increasingly frequently, there was a different noise drifting through the atmosphere now. Every day at noon, the chugging of a steam train passed through the village, and the lads timed their lunch by when they heard and saw the smoke from the tender.

  Later that afternoon, George remained to finish the last half-acre while Timothy and Henry set off to the farm to start milking. As arranged, Florence had set off to meet George in the lane approaching the farm, but when she didn’t find him, she continued towards the farmhouse. Although she was in a hurry, Mahala noticed the disappointed look on her face, and chatted to her as she quickly prepared them some sandwiches. She filled an old pop bottle with tea and smiled as she asked Florence to take the picnic to the field where George was working.

  George was nearly finished when he heard someone shout. He glanced around and waved to Florence when he spotted her. He rushed to finish his task while she approached. When she finally made it into the field, they hugged quickly and kissed, and sat down to enjoy the sandwiches. As it was the first time they had the chance to speak openly and be frank with each other without a chaperone, they became so engrossed with their sudden freedom that they failed to notice the night drawing in. Their passion had risen, and when they realised that they were hidden in the dark, they ended up in a nearby copse of trees.

  It was already ten o’clock that night, and both were looking very embarrassed, when George escorted Florence home. Putting on a brave face, he explained to her parents that she had been to dinner at his house, which was eventually accepted. At the last moment, Mr Webster, sitting in front of the fire, and looking the worse for drink, ranted away to himself, then suddenly shouted, ‘Just don’t let it bloody happen again.’

  ‘I won’t, Mr Webster,’ said George, and knowing Mr Webster’s words seemed unusually lenient, he craftily winked at Florence, then gave her a quick kiss and reluctantly set off home.

  Chapter 4

  In June there was bad news. Archduke Ferdinand and his wife Sophie were murdered in Bosnia-Herzegovina. This was terrible news for Europe, and many countries, including Britain, feared repercussions, so they began to prepare for war.

  At the farm, unperturbed by this news, the hay was safely in, harvest was approaching and they were very nearly at the end of last year’s potatoes. Henry had been rearing two calves; the neighbour who came to buy them informed Joseph of the bad news. ‘It’s as true as I stand here. Germany has declared war on Russia and last week on France. They say it’s Belgium next, so they are getting nearer.’

  ‘I have heard they are recruiting in the village next week,’ said Joseph, and frowned, knowing the consequences.

  ‘Our lads are signing up in droves, and can you blame them? My lad did; they gave him a shilling, an identity card and full uniform. By God, did he look smart, and his mother was over the moon,’ said the neighbour looking rather proud, as he made two non-slip loops and carefully bound them around the calves’ necks to keep them together.

  ‘Did he indeed?’ said Joseph, and studied the neighbour as he took the money from him, thinking his statement sounded false.

  Joseph waved as the neighbour set off, then suddenly turned when Mahala approached him. She had heard their conversation, and as she watched their neighbour walk up the lane, she suddenly snapped, ‘I’ll lock my buggers up in the barn before let them go to any war.’

  ‘The trouble is, my love, we can’t stop them,’ he said, staring at her. ‘They can drink, but they can die for their country at eighteen before they can even vote for it. Where’s the justice in that?’

  The day before the rumoured recruiting drive in the village, Timothy approached his father about joining up. However, when they began to discuss the impending war with all its complications, the conversation became very one-sided. Timothy began to inform Joseph of his intentions, saying he was going to ask for officer status before signing up, and if no positions were available, he would not. ‘That’s what you think,’ said Joseph, and walked off, amazed at his son’s enthusiasm.

  That evening, standing at her garden gate, George and Florence discussed him signing up. Her mother was watching them through the window and realised that there was something wrong with Florence’s body language, but put it down to the war. ‘They say it will be all over at Christmas,’ said George, smiling.

  ‘That’s not the point. What if you don’t come back?’ asked Florence, and tearfully stared at him.

  ‘Don’t be silly, my love. They will only train us up to show the rest of the world how strong our country is. Besides, I have you to look after now,’ he replied, and smiling tenderly, stroked her cheek.

  Florence blushed and quickly laid her head on his chest. Her mum smiled; she could see the love between them, and turned away to give them privacy, for once. Florence slowly looked up, and staring into his eyes, quietly said, ‘I do love you.’

  ‘And I love you too, so don’t worry about me. When I return, I will have some money saved. I’ll ask dad for some land, then we’ll get married and start up on our own,’ said George. He gently raised her chin and kissed her.

  George stopped dead as he approached his home at around seven-thirty. He stared at four horses tied to the water trough. He had never seen the like of their saddles and their highly polished tack. He neared the door, but as he heard laughter coming from inside the house, he suddenly stopped again.

  George slowly opened the door, and glanced around, seeing four uniformed men. Each had a large moustache the width of his face, greasy hair brushed straight back and beaming smiles. They were seated at one side of the table, opposite his mother, father, Timothy and Henry. They all went quiet when George closed the door, then very sharply one of the men stood up to attention, saluted him, gestured towards the others and introduced them.

  ‘You’re late,’ snapped his mum, as George sat down, and gave him a pretend scowl.

  ‘Sorry,’ said George, knowing full well the scolding was false. He glanced at his father, before gingerly settling down with them.

  One of the soldiers, who constantly held his riding crop under his arm, suddenly leant forward, and wearing his best smile asked, ‘May I interrupt?’

  ‘Feel free,’ said Joseph, and sat back in his chair.

  ‘Right then, I am Recruiting Officer Nicholson, and in charge of this Yorkshire area. My job, as I have already informed your family, is to recruit the best men for our battalion.’ He smiled at George, who instantly knew his beam was just a veneer.

 
What Mahala, Joseph, and the rest of Yorkshire didn’t know was that the army had been instructed to visit every farm and smallholding in the countryside, because they didn’t know how many men there were of recruiting age. They were to sign up as many of the lads as they could, and not just for a specific number of years—one, three, or five—but to fight for their king and country indefinitely. Obviously, they made it sound too easy; stating that if or when England joined in the war it would be over very soon. Of course, with discipline and training, and including full board and lodgings, which they would receive for free, the army would definitely make them better men, and in most cases, they would even learn a trade.

  ‘Will we be able to return home at some point?’ asked Henry, glancing at his mother.

  Showing his displeasure, RO Nicholson replied, ‘Everyone is due leave—that’s if you sign up now. And let me tell you this, lad, we don’t just accept anyone.’

  Turning to stare directly at him, George asked, ‘So what’s the rush then?’

  RO Nicholson leaned towards him across the table, clearly trying to keep his composure. ‘The rush is this, lad, Yorkshire is a big area. To cover it all and meet everyone takes time. Training you up also takes time. We have to clothe you, and make sure you have the best equipment to fight with.’

  Timothy was running out of patience while listening to his brothers’ questions that weren’t even about the war. Sitting up straight, with shoulders back, as if he was already in uniform, his interest clear, he asked, ‘Where will we have to report to?’