by Annie Murray
She got out of bed, covered Grace and stumbled next door to where Jess and Sis slept. Jess woke to find icy fingers clutching at her hand.
‘Poll?’ She sat up immediately. ‘What’s up? You’re freezing! Is everything – Grace . . .?’
‘She’s asleep – I just . . .’ Polly sank down on the bed, still shaking. ‘Summat terrible’s happened.’
‘What – what’s the matter?’ Hearing the fear in Polly’s voice Jess could feel herself beginning to panic.
‘I was just lying there, and I just went cold, and it was then I knew. I’m so scared, Jess!’ She began sobbing. Jess moved beside her, wrapping her in her arms. ‘It’s Ernie – I’m sure that’s what it is, summat’s happened to ’im.’
‘Oh Poll – how can that be? You’ve likely caught a chill and yer imagining things – you know ’ow yer get delirious when yer poorly. All them bad dreams you had last winter when you was bad—’
‘I’m not sick,’ Polly interrupted. ‘Jess, there’s nothing wrong with me. I was perfectly awright when I went to bed. It’s a message from Ernie – he’s calling out to me, I can feel it!’
A letter arrived that Saturday. Olive brought it to her. One of Polly’s hands went to her throat. She didn’t say a word, and her hand shook as she reached out to take the envelope.
10th Royal Warwickshire Regt.
B.E.F.
July 6th, 1916
Dear Mrs Carter,
It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that your husband Pte Ernest J. Carter 10/612 died of wounds last night.
His Company showed great bravery and he was a gallant man who will be missed by his comrades.
Please accept my very sincere sympathy for your loss.
The letter was signed by the Captain of his Company.
Polly’s legs went from under her and she sank groggily to the floor. Gently, Olive helped her up on to a chair.
Ronny stood staring, not needing to be told he must keep quiet when Polly, who was usually full of jokes, was sitting absolutely still, her face stony with shock.
Grace was crying upstairs and Jess fetched her down.
‘She wants yer,’ she said, holding her out to Polly who took her, automatically latching her on to feed, hardly seeming to notice she was there.
‘Oh Polly, bab . . .’ Olive whispered, watching her. Her own legs were trembling, but she forced herself to be practical: get the kettle on, hand Ronny a finger of crust to keep him quiet.
‘I knew . . .’
‘What’s that?’ Olive was putting cups out.
‘I knew summat had happened. I had a message, the other night, from Ernie. ’E were trying to tell me . . .’
‘Don’t start talking like that,’ Olive said sharply. She didn’t mean to. Her daughter’s suffering was unbearable to her. It made her hands shake so she could barely put out the cups. She wanted to take that agony on herself and knew there was nothing she could do. Polly had had just a few days of proper marriage with Ernie, and now it was over.
For a second, as she went to the hissing kettle to warm the teapot, another loathsome thread of recall from the past forced its way up through a crack in her mind as if one cause for distress brought back the memory of another. Images chasing one another, the staircase, sound of footsteps on the bare stairs, that dark room, the woman with her back to her at the window . . . but there were curtains drawn, closed, she was staring at nothing. And there was a smell . . . that smell . . .
She found she was shaking her head hard from side to side – forget, forget . . . don’t let it come back, keep it down, down . . . It was Polly she must think of now.
‘What’re yer doing, Mom?’ Ronny said.
‘Yer mom’s upset, darlin’,’ Jess told him. ‘Don’t you worry.’
‘I’m so sorry for yer, love.’ Olive left what she was doing and went and stood by her, pressing Polly’s head to her and stroking her hair with her rough hands. ‘So sorry. I don’t know what to do for yer.’ Polly began to cry, high sobs like a little girl. Ronny came to her, his eyes full of sorrow, and stroked her too.
‘I’d just sent him them nice things,’ Polly sobbed. ‘And now ’e won’t get ’em. Oh Mom, I want ’im back – I hadn’t even seen ’im, not for ages. And now I shan’t ever see ’im again. Never!’
Polly had been thinking about weaning Grace early and going back to work, but now she didn’t want to be parted from her. Jess had to tell Peter Stevenson what had happened.
She stood in his office, feeling as if she was going to teacher for a telling off, her cap held in front of her, aware that her hair was sticking out in wayward wisps. Mr Stevenson’s face looked bruised with exhaustion. He listened quietly as Jess explained what had h appened.
‘There’s no need for her to worry, tell her.’ He spoke kindly, but it seemed somehow an effort for him to bring forth the words. ‘We’ve almost more work than we can manage all the time. I’ll happily take her back when she’s ready.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ Jess said. ‘That’s nice of yer.’
He shook his head with such a sad expression in his brown eyes that Jess was touched by his sympathy. ‘Not at all. Poor thing – with the child to look after as well.’
‘Yes, she’s upset ’er husband never saw Grace – that’s the babby. It’s been a terrible shock for all of us. You don’t think it’s going to happen to yer ’til it does.’
‘That’s true, you don’t. Terrible for her.’
There was an awkward silence during which Mr Stevenson seemed to sink into his own thoughts, and Jess wondered whether she should be gone.
‘Well, thank you,’ she said, turning away.
‘Oh, Jess?’
She turned back.
‘Is everything all right out there?’ He nodded towards the Rumbling Shed.
‘Yes, thank you. I think so.’
‘Good. That’s good,’ he said distractedly. Jess went back to work, grateful for his genuine sympathy.
She was full of sorrow for Polly, and of unease. The Big Push everyone had been talking about on the Somme had begun on the first of the month, and that was where Ernie had been with the 10th Warwicks. Jess felt sure that was where Ned must be, and as the Casualty lists poured in, taking up more and more column inches in the newspapers, she became increasingly frightened and uneasy. Death had already come to the heart of the family: sudden, arbitrary, final. The image of Polly sitting at home, so numb and bereft, haunted her all the time. They were helpless, unable to argue with anything that was happening. Nothing could be done to change the fact that they would never see Ernie’s chubby, cheerful face again and Grace would grow up without her father. Jess’s eyes kept filling with tears thinking about it. It touched on her own deepest feelings, her memories of Louisa’s death, and her desperate longing to have Ned home, safe, loving her and alive.
Twenty-Five
Weeks passed. Casualty lists kept on and on coming from the Somme. Each day they looked at the newspapers in silence, the long columns of names, seeking out, in dread, any that might be familiar. Polly had kept the little cutting of Ernie’s name, had stuck it into the frame of their wedding photograph. In August the name Bullivant appeared twice: this time Frederick, who had been the youngest to go, a bright-eyed, muscular sixteen-year-old, and their oldest son John, who was wounded. Olive steeled herself to call next door and see Mrs Bullivant.
‘I’ll come with yer,’ Polly said.
‘Oh no – yer awright. You stay ’ere with Gracie. I want to go now while ’e’s not there.’ She was none too keen on Mr Bullivant, a sullen man who was working in munitions.
‘I’ll bring the little’un with me – I want to come.’
Polly had scarcely been out since the news of Ernie’s death. Olive eyed her pinched face. She didn’t want to inflict any more misery on her, but thinking it might do her good to give sympathy to someone else, relented.
‘Awright. But none of that clap-trap you’ve been on about.’
&n
bsp; Polly carried Grace next door, where they found the lady with her younger children. The house smelt of cabbage water. Mrs Bullivant was a quiet, stoical lady, broad in the beam, with a ruddy complexion and a mound of thick, dusty-looking hair fastened into a bun. She was trying to be brave, admiring little Grace and sitting them down while she made tea. But she was clearly not far from tears, and their sympathy started her off weeping.
‘I should never’ve let ’em go,’ she sobbed. ‘Not the two young’uns. Fred never said ’e was joining up, not before ’e’d gone and done it.’
‘You couldn’t’ve stopped ’im,’ Olive said, reaching over to pat her hand. ‘Not once ’e was signed up. And ’e thought ’e was doing the right thing . . . There’s no telling ’em, not at that age.’
Mrs Bullivant mopped her tears with a large crimson handkerchief.
‘Has ’e tried to get in touch with you at all?’
‘Don’t, Poll,’ Olive seemed to swell with anger. ‘I told yer not to . . .’ Her eyes flashed fury at Polly, who ignored her. Since Ernie’s death she had started coming out with some notions which filled her mother with horror and distaste.
‘What d’yer mean?’ Mrs Bullivant sat turning the handkerchief round, kneading at it.
‘The day my Ernie died ’e tried to tell me – get in touch with me. I know ’e did.’ Polly spoke with great intensity. ‘All them boys dying out there – their souls don’t just disappear, you know. Not when they can’t rest. They’re all out there, round us, trying to find a way back to us . . .’
The woman stared hard, as if stunned. For a moment Olive thought she was going to lash out and hit Polly. But she said, ‘D’yer really think . . .?’ Mrs Bullivant wanted to believe it. She wanted desperately for her sons not to be gone from her forever.
‘I do,’ Polly sat with Grace in the crook of her arm, a fact which somehow increased the impact of her earnestness.
‘Stop it,’ Olive hissed at her. ‘I’ve had more than enough of yer nonsense and yer carrying on. You’ll only get ’er all upset!’
‘She ain’t upset, are yer, Mrs Bullivant? Least, not about that. Whatever you think, Mom, it’s a comfort to know we might not’ve heard from the ones we love for the last time. You wait and see, Mrs Bullivant, if your Stan and little Fred don’t send you a sign from where they’ve passed on to.’
Olive held on to herself until they got home. She closed the door and stood leaning against it as if in need of support or containment for her feelings.
‘Don’t you walk away from me, my girl!’
Polly turned by the door of the back room, still holding Grace. Her face held a kind of blank defiance.
‘You’ve got to stop this – stop it now! I can’t stand any more of it. You’re making yerself bad with it.’
Polly sensed the suppressed fear and panic in the way her mother was talking. What was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she see how simple, how beautiful it was that Ernie was taken from her but was still here, still loving her, watching over her?
‘I’m not making myself bad, Mom.’ She tried to sound reasonable and calm. She moved back along the half-lit hall. To Olive she looked like a ghost herself, her face long and white in the gloom. Olive shuddered. ‘I don’t know why yer getting in such a state. I just know Ernie’s still ’ere, somewhere, trying to get through to me.’
‘I wish I could bloody well get through to yer!’ Olive summoned her last shreds of patience and tried to speak gently. ‘I’m worried for yer, Poll. Girls sometimes turn funny after birthing a child. And now Ernie going too. Yer need to try and get hold of yerself, Poll, or people’ll start talking if they see yer acting peculiar . . .’
Polly gave a bitter laugh. ‘That’s a good’un coming from you!’ She backed away down the hall. ‘I’m not the one who’s peculiar, don’t you worry . . .’
‘Yer not the first woman to be left on ’er own, yer know!’ Olive couldn’t hold back her feelings any more, felt that if she raged and screamed loudly enough she could batter some sense into her daughter’s head, make her put a stop to all this nonsense. ‘I lost my husband and I weren’t going on the way you are! You ’ave to keep going – put it behind yer, or yer going to end up in the nut house, that you are!’
Appalled to find she was bawling along the hall at the top of her voice, she pressed a hand over her mouth to stop anything else escaping from it. Would they have heard next door? Her breath rasped unevenly in and out.
There was no response from Polly. As Olive stood there trying to collect herself, the door opened behind her and Jess and Sis came in.
‘What’s going on, Mom?’ Sis asked cautiously.
Olive tried to pull herself together. She jerked her head in the direction of the front room.
‘I was having words with Poll. More of ’er carry-on about spirits and ghosts and such. Came out with it to Mrs Bullivant. It’s got to stop.’
The atmosphere was uneasy as they sat down for tea that night. Polly had Grace on her lap.
‘Why don’t yer put ’er down while yer eating,’ Olive suggested brusquely.
‘She’s awright. She’ll only blart. It’s quieter keeping ’er here.’
Olive pursed her lips, carrying a pan to the table. In it were pieces of pig’s liver, onions gleaming in thick gravy, a great treat nowadays when things were short.
‘Ooh – liver!’ Sis cried. ‘Did yer have to queue long for it, Mom?’
‘Long enough.’
Jess took a potato to go with her liver and gravy, not looking at her aunt. She didn’t dare say anything about the latest row with Polly. Over the past weeks Olive’s temper had been even more uncertain than usual. Jess felt she had to be secretive about so many things so as not to provoke trouble: her visits to Iris, letters from Ned. One day, the week after Ernie was killed, Olive said to her, ‘So ’e’s awright, is ’e?’
Jess was startled. She had had a letter from Ned, but had not breathed a word about it.
‘Er – who?’
‘Who d’yer think?’
Somehow neither of them could speak Ned’s name in front of the other.
Olive was looking at her, waiting for an answer.
‘E’s awright, Auntie, yes. Says he’s . . .’
Olive held up a hand.
‘Yer can keep the detail to yerself. I don’t want news of adulterers in my ’ouse.’
They all ate in silence for a time, until Jess said,
‘We heard some sad news today, didn’t we, Sis?’
‘Oh ar – I’d forgotten . . .’
‘What?’ Polly was always interested to hear gossip from the factory.
‘Mr Stevenson’s wife died,’ Sis said.
Polly looked surprised. ‘I never knew ’e had one.’
‘Nor did we,’ Jess said. ‘Never thought about it, I s’pose. Apparently ’er’s been bad for months. ’E’s got a little lad an’ all, only two years of age, poor little lamb.’
‘Oh dear,’ Polly said, with genuine sympathy. ‘What a shame for ’im.’
‘No wonder ’e’s always looked so miserable,’ Sis said. ‘Poor thing. ’E’s probably quite a nice man really, under it all.’
Olive shook her head. ‘Bad thing, that, a man left on ’is own with a child. With all them dying over there you forget people’re still dying here like normal.’
Jess had felt shocked by the news, suddenly seeing her employer as a real person with a whole life outside the works.
‘He must’ve been going through hell, and never said a word,’ she said. She had found herself thinking about him all day, seeing him in a quite new light and moved by the sadness that she’d felt from him.
Two nights later, when Jess came home Polly beckoned her to go upstairs, peering round to see whether Olive was listening.
‘Go and see Mom for a minute,’ she whispered to Sis. ‘I’ve summat to say to Jess.’
Jess hung up her hat and went up to the room she shared with Sis. Polly slept in Bert’s room now, w
ith Grace, and through the wall at night, they often heard Polly sobbing. Sometimes she went to her and tried to comfort her, other times just left her alone. Polly’s loss aroused strong, conflicting feelings in her: sorrow, helplessness that there was nothing any of them could do or say to ease her suffering, but along with these emotions also a tangled mix of relief and fear. Relief because she felt, superstitiously, that if death had come to them once, then Ned was the safer for it. Death should spread itself out fairly, should strike somewhere else. But fear also at the danger Ned was in, and at the violence of Polly’s grief and loss. Polly had crossed the black river into the land of mourning and it made her seem older and separate.
‘You awright, Poll?’
‘I’m awright. More than Mom thinks. Look, I wanted to ask if you’d mind Grace for me tonight. I want to go out.’
‘Course. Why’re you asking me though?’
‘I don’t want Mom knowing about it – not ’til I get back. I’m going to a meeting – she won’t like it.’
Jess sat down on the bed, her face serious. ‘What is it?’
Polly hesitated. ‘Look, I’ll tell yer if yer don’t start on me. They call themselves Spiritualists. There’s someone there, a Mrs Black, can get messages from – you know, the other side. Mrs Bullivant told me – she’s going as well.’
Jess looked closely at her. She knew Olive was worried Poll was going off her head, but Polly seemed calm enough.
‘Poll – after Mom died, for a long time after, I used to talk to ’er. I mean, there wasn’t anyone else I could talk to, ’cept sometimes Mrs Hunter at the farm. I used to tell ’er how I was feeling and that. And it felt as if she was still there, some of the time, close to me. I mean, I never heard her voice or nothing like that, but I thought she could hear me. So I know ’ow yer feel. It’s natural to feel like that. But d’yer really need to keep on about it so much – going to meetings? They’re most likely all barmy and if Auntie finds out you’ll be for it.’
