The Scarlet Sisters

by Helen Batten

  To which all he’d got back were jeers and, ‘Yeah, not yours, you robbin’ bastard!’

  Charlie had backed off at this point because the jibe had hit home. Because, as well as the pilfered rum inside his rucksack, Charlie had a collection of ‘souvenir’ items: watches, cigarette cases and a couple of signet rings that he was planning to try and sell on when he got back to base.

  Soldiers at the front regularly scoured the battlefield salvaging whatever they could – boots, ammunition, binoculars, brass shell cases – anything that could be recycled by an army desperately short of supplies. However, a fallen soldier’s personal belongings were supposed to be handed in, and the punishment for keeping them was high. But this was completely ignored by most of the soldiers. The British Tommy was notorious for helping himself to souvenirs from both the enemy and his friends – he didn’t discriminate.

  The problem was that the soldiers were at the frontline, away from the (strictly unofficial, of course) market for this sort of merchandise, which was safely back behind the lines. And that market couldn’t get to the frontline. The only people who had access to both the supply and demand were the soldiers of the ASC, and many were only too happy to buy cheap from the front and sell on at inflated prices back at base. In fact, a few were so entrepreneurial that they were able to retire on the proceeds once they got home.

  Charlie was not quite in this league, but he was managing to stash away a useful little nest egg. On his darker nights he consoled himself with the thought that even if he didn’t go home a hero, he might arrive back relatively comfortable.

  After ten minutes or so, the shelling stopped. No one dared move and then cautiously, one by one, the men emerged from their vehicles.

  Charlie and Arthur looked at each other. Arthur cocked his head towards the door: ‘You first.’

  Charlie rolled his eyes and opened the door. It needed a bit of a shove and he fell out onto the ground. Arthur couldn’t help but giggle – the dark humour that comes with dangerous places.

  Unfortunately, Charlie had fallen at the feet of his superior, Sergeant Ashby.

  ‘Come on, Swain. All hands to it.’ He gave Charlie a gentle kick with his boot, and shot a dirty look at Arthur, who was cowering in the well of the truck, still with the bottle in his hand. Lucky for him, Sergeant Ashby decided there were more important matters to hand – namely, getting the front lorry moving again and the hell out of this trap. They were like sitting ducks for the time being.

  The men gathered around the overturned lorry as Ashby issued orders to find some ropes. Once they were secured to the lorry, they lined up and started heaving.

  Charlie stood watching in a daze.

  ‘Swain, come here! Grab this rope. Look sharp! What’s the matter with you?’

  Charlie was struggling. The fresh air had hit him and he was feeling uncomfortably light-headed, sick. He staggered towards a rope and grabbed hold of it.

  The man in front of him turned around and stared at him. ‘You all right, Charlie? You’re not looking too clever.’

  Charlie had caught sight of the lorry’s driver. He was lying by the side of the road with blood pouring out of his head. Half his face was missing. Charlie’s head spun and he slumped to the ground and blacked out.

  He came to with the sensation that he was standing in a waterfall. He opened his eyes to find Sergeant Ashby standing over him, pouring water over his head. ‘For God’s sake, Swain – you’re drunk!’

  At that moment there was the familiar hum and whizz of an artillery shell flying through the air towards them: ‘Take cover!’ the sergeant screamed.

  Charlie closed his eyes tight and put his hands over his face, resigned to death. Instead, he felt himself being dragged over the ground and shoved underneath a truck.

  As the shells whistled around them, Sergeant Ashby, lying next to him, hissed, ‘You’re a liability, Swain! I don’t want you here any more. I’m bloody well going to make sure if any of us make it out alive, you’re going home. Dead wood, that’s what you are. I don’t care if you’re a danger to yourself, but when you risk the lives of other men—’ He stopped as Charlie turned over and threw up, luckily just missing him.

  One month later Charlie was back in England and walking up the hill towards the cottage and home. He was wearing his army greatcoat and looked like a proud soldier. What couldn’t be seen was the bag of booty in his rucksack, the pound notes stashed in his socks, and the dismissal papers in his pocket which gave the reason for his departure from the army as ‘Indigestion’. This was a common euphemism used by the army to let go soldiers who were a liability in some way: drink problems, or mental health problems, were classic examples. Charlie had been dismissed in an instant. It was not the first time he had come to the attention of the authorities for his high spirits and liking for liquor. Moreover, army command had been given instructions to do a general cull of any soldiers who were a liability in the weeks leading up to the great offensive on the Somme.

  Charlie was all too aware that this left him with a bit of a problem. In the fevered atmosphere of July 1916, to be sent home for ‘indigestion’ would make him a laughing stock among his friends and an object of derision among the wider community. He had shamed not only himself, but his whole family. The idea of facing everyone made him feel sick.

  He had had thoughts of disappearing completely – his fantasy was making a dash to the West Country, growing a beard and becoming a fisherman. But still, he knew that he would be regarded with suspicion wherever he went. By now, Kitchener’s Army was in full swing and every man of his age was expected to be away fighting. More importantly, whenever he indulged in this fantasy, he saw two little red-headed girls jumping up and waving at him at the station.

  It was the inability to solve this problem that had kept him from writing to Clara and telling her he was on his way home. It was going to be a bit of a surprise. In fact, Charlie still hadn’t made up his mind what he was going to say when he walked into the house.

  He bumped straight into Dora, who screamed.

  Clara came rushing out. ‘What the—? Oh, Lord!’

  Charlie put out his arms. ‘I’m home.’

  Clara just stood still, frozen.

  ‘I’m back for good.’

  And immediately, the question he dreaded: ‘Why?’

  And before he could stop himself, an answer came flowing out: ‘I was gassed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, I was gassed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’

  ‘I was under a truck … fixing it … it kind of rolled underneath.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. The gas.’

  ‘Rolled?’

  ‘Well, it’s in a can, isn’t it? One came rolling underneath the lorry I was under and blew up.’

  ‘Dear God! But you’re all right? I mean, no one told me. You look all right. Shouldn’t you be dead?’

  ‘What sort of a welcome is that?’

  ‘It’s just I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, I was very lucky …’

  Clara waited and Charlie realised he was going to have to fill the gap. ‘Yeah, the wind was blowing the other way …’

  ‘Thank heavens for that!’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But you can’t fight no more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you must be poorly?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me chest.’ He coughed. ‘Anyway, aren’t you going to say hello?’

  Clara went over and put her arms round him briefly and rather awkwardly, until Dora started to wail.

  It wasn’t many days later that Charlie caught Clara looking at him quizzically. ‘Are you sure you was gassed?’

  ‘What sort of a question is that?’

  ‘It’s just you don’t look like Johnny Gardner up the road.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he can’t breathe no more and shakes an
d stares into space.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘It’s not just what I’m saying – it’s what all sorts of people are saying.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like Alfie Walker’s wife, in the queue at the baker’s. She was asking me all sorts – how was your breathing, and “Is poor Charlie able to walk? I hear he’s going back to the brewery.” Questions I was finding difficult to answer.’

  ‘Why’s that difficult?’

  ‘Because you look all right. Rather too well for someone who’s been sent home ’cos they’ve been hit in the face by a tin o’ gas.’

  ‘What sort of a wife is it that says her husband looks too well?’

  ‘One that’s known you for nearly twenty years.’

  Clara stared at him. Charlie was shocked by the coolness in her eyes. An image of a rat caught in a trap came into his head.

  ‘I’m not going to listen to this.’ Charlie grabbed his jacket and walked out.

  As he sat on his usual bench in the Two Brewers and drank his first pint, then his second and then his third, the alcohol washed through him and soothed him, like a hungry baby when it finally gets its bottle. He reassured himself that if he just stuck to his story and told it enough times, no one could say different.

  He might even come to believe it himself.

  I sent an email to Dennis telling him what I’d found – in particular that Charlie was not gassed, but rather dismissed for ‘indigestion’.

  Dennis emailed back: ‘But if he wasn’t gassed, then he couldn’t have died from his injuries from being gassed. Which begs the question, what did he die from? It’s actually quite important for me to know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dennis,’ I replied. ‘I’m going to order his death certificate tonight. We’ll know in a couple of weeks.’

  Clara wasn’t convinced about Charlie’s story either. He seemed far too perky. He had gone straight back to his old job in the brewery. And why hadn’t she been officially notified, and what hospital had he been in? But with a huge secret of her own – that of Charlie Junior’s rapidly declining health – she didn’t feel inclined to press him.

  Charlie had made no move to see his son other than: ‘How’s Charlie?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll go in and see him later.’

  Except he hadn’t, and things always seemed to get in the way.

  For once Clara didn’t mind. She was dreading the moment when he saw his son, because he would surely realise things weren’t right.

  Charlie Junior was fading fast. When Clara went in to see him he was usually asleep, or not conscious, anyway. The last week he didn’t eat at all.

  Alice would slip in and sit with him. She’d heard that when a person was dying it was important to keep talking to them – even if they seemed not there, they could still hear. So she would whisper little stories in his ear, the sort of gossip that had used to amuse him: ‘Mrs Goodenough owes Mum half a shilling for a pie and now she says she doesn’t, and there was a bit of a row. We was all watching. Mum got really angry and told her she’s not welcome in our kitchen any more. You should have seen her!’ And then she found she was telling him secret stuff. ‘I’ve lost a shoe, Charlie. Don’t know where it’s gone. Mum’s gonna kill me. I think that Dora’s nicked it because I told on her for breaking the jug.’ Sometimes she would find herself saying something more serious. Gaps were dangerous – dark thoughts seemed to fill them. ‘I don’t know. There’s something odd going on. Mum doesn’t seem very pleased to see Dad. I think she doesn’t know what to do with him now he’s back. And he seems to prefer being in the pub rather than being with us …’

  And then she’d catch herself and think it wasn’t fair to burden Charlie. Instead, she’d whisper how she hoped he was feeling better and she missed him and loved him.

  Then one day she found herself saying, ‘Look after me when you’re in Heaven, Charlie.’

  Where had that slipped out from? She said sorry and left quickly, looking for her mother. In a state, she blurted out: ‘Mum, I’ve done something dreadful! I asked Charlie to look after me in Heaven.’

  Alice braced herself for her mother’s fury but instead, Clara was very quiet and just nodded.

  That night Clara stayed up with Charlie. She lit a candle and kept it burning through the night. Somehow it seemed appropriate. At the very darkest hour Charlie opened his eyes and stared at his mum.

  ‘They’re calling me.’

  ‘Yes, son. It’s time to go.’

  He nodded and closed his eyes.

  At some point, as the sun rose, Clara fell asleep. When she woke up, the candle had gone out. The room felt different – still, and a little chilly. She looked at Charlie and realised he had gone. But he had only just gone: he was still warm, and there was a tear on his cheek. She kissed him and opened the window to let his spirit fly free.

  Everything seemed right and appropriate except for that tear. That tear was to bother Clara for years to come. It seemed like a sign that perhaps Charlie had not wanted or had not been ready to go, and that really, really worried her. When he had cried that tear, she had been asleep.

  He had cried it on his own.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Poppy

  I would love to talk to my great-grandmother, Clara, about Charlie Junior: what she went through and how she got through. Lots of questions – did she think about him every day? (I’m sure I know the answer to that one). What would she ask him if she saw him again? Was she ever the same again? Because I lost a child too, my first daughter, Poppy.

  When I went for my twenty-two-week antenatal check-up, my blood pressure had gone up. I found myself having all sorts of tests and spending hours hooked up to machines, but I wasn’t worried and my husband and the family even less so.

  ‘What exactly is your blood pressure, then?’ Mum asked.

  ‘On average, I guess about 138 over 89.’

  ‘Humph, that’s nothing. How silly,’ she said.

  And part of me agreed. I was more worried about my holiday on the Italian Riviera. As a reward for bearing the next generation, my husband had booked a hotel in Positano and I had bought some special maternity wear to glide around in. The Scarlet Sisters would have approved.

  But when I mentioned the trip to the doctor, she was unimpressed. ‘Unless we are one hundred per cent sure that you are not showing the early signs of pre-eclampsia, you will not be getting on a plane.’

  By the middle of April I was twenty-five weeks and four days pregnant and due to fly to Italy the following week. The tests had come up with nothing. Around ten o’clock one evening, I was on my own again. Pregnancy may have cramped my social life, but my husband was out, playing in the City. I kept tackling him: ‘I’m so lonely. I never know where you are.’

  ‘Look, there’s nothing I can do here. I wish there was.’

  ‘At least you could keep me company.’

  ‘I can’t. I need to keep doing my job and that means going out with clients. You know that.’

  I didn’t really have an answer to that so I ended up feeling slightly pathetic: ‘But I never know where you are. You never answer your phone.’

  ‘That’s because I can’t hear it. It’s in my pocket and it’s noisy in those wine bars.’

  But I wasn’t convinced.

  Out of the blue the telephone rang and I jumped. I leapt up, and as I did, I felt something go, like I’d pulled a muscle in my stomach. More uncomfortable than painful, I struggled over to the phone and picked it up.

  ‘Helen?’

  ‘Nanna?’

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  ‘I was until you rang.’

  ‘What?’ (She was a bit deaf.)

  ‘No, I mean, why are you ringing so late?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I just wanted to know that you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m all right. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, dear. Where’s that husband of yours?’
>
  ‘Well, you know how he is. Out again.’

  ‘Hmmmm. Well, as long as you’re all right.’

  ‘Yes, I had my scan today, and the results were good. I’m seeing the consultant tomorrow to be signed off.’

  ‘Oh, that is good news. But you still have to look after yourself. It’s a very important package you’re carrying there.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Nanna. I know.’

  ‘You should be in bed. Goodnight, dear. Take care.’

  ‘You too, Nanna. Bye bye.’

  I hung up and cursed her for giving me such a fright.

  I went to bed, but it was difficult to sleep. Waves of muscle spasms were hitting my body every few minutes. They were incredibly powerful, my whole body doubled up. At some point I staggered to the spare room and was relieved to find my husband lying there. He seemed the worse for wear, but at least I knew where he was.

  I got on the bed beside him and looked at my stomach. It seemed to be growing.

  ‘Please wake up. I swear my stomach is swelling.’

  He did not seem unduly concerned. But, to be fair, I was seeing the consultant the next day anyway.

  It went quiet. I tried to shake him awake but it was no good. I lay beside him in the darkness. I was really scared. Suddenly I didn’t want to have this baby – I wished I could rewind the tape and never get pregnant. Just carry on with our lives the way they were before. I felt very alone.

  The next thing I knew I was back in our bedroom and dreaming. I dreamt I had wet myself. I staggered to the bathroom and switched on the light. And that’s the moment our nightmare started.

  The bathroom was covered in blood. I screamed. It was inhuman, a scream to wake the dead. It even woke up my husband.

  He came running as I sank to the floor. The next minute he was sitting beside me, talking fast to the hospital. They told him to dial 999 and get an ambulance. Of course I knew this was serious, but I was even more frightened by how serious they thought it was. Going around my head was the thought, ‘I’m losing this baby’ and then another strange little thought, ‘How am I going to face everybody?’ Even then I felt a twinge of guilt. Why did that matter?