The Keepsake

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Neither could Etta, who was stunned by the new eloquence of her husband’s writings. She should have been delighted; instead she was afraid. To add to her consternation, the lists of casualties grew ever longer, complete with smiling photographs of the valiant dead which seemed to make the loss even more poignant somehow. Ironically, due to the war, she was no longer the only one without a husband at the Christmas table, for most of her brothers-in-law had joined up too, but this brought not the slightest comfort to Etta. Nor did the pay rise in spring, which at one time might have been enough to make her smile but now merely provoked the utterance that she would give every penny she had in return for her husband’s safe return. Besides which, the increase was soon gobbled up by the rising cost of food.

  As the year went on the outlook was to become even more depressing, for the newspapers told of terrible gas attacks by the dastardly Germans, and a shortage of munitions placed the beleaguered troops at even higher risk. Etta felt useless in going about her own affairs, and wished she could do more for Marty than supply a few home comforts. There had been no letter from him for some weeks. As August brought the first anniversary of the war, along with the anniversary of her eleven years of marriage, she began seriously to resurrect her plan to go and find him.

  Searing summer days. Between the flowers of the field sprawled black and bloated corpses rank with flies, their tumbled entrails dried to rope, their stench omnipresent, permeating the very weave of Marty’s garb until he was aware of little else, save his own filth, no longer a man, just a breeding ground for lice.

  Prolonged by extra hours of sun, the mood of the day veered twixt sheer terror and abject boredom, the constant pummelling by enemy guns forbidding aught other than to lie low. Only under cover of darkness did those imprisoned gain respite in activity, the labyrinth of trenches resembling city streets on a Saturday afternoon, men rushing this way and that, trying to make repairs, fetching up supplies, venturing into No Man’s Land to renew barbed wire or to launch raids or to bury dead, before dawn brought fresh mayhem.

  And what was the object of such violent contention? A hole. A colossal crater to be exact, possession of which seemed to have become every man’s reason for being. Along with a ruined château it had been held by the British until just over a week ago, when the enemy had taken it back. Having thought to have seen the ultimate horror, Marty had been unprepared for the diabolical barbarity of that attack, thanked God he was only a witness and not one of those brave souls who had perished. Yet never would the memory be put to rest: the eerie quiet that preceded it, the hiss of the dragon before its breath lit up the dawn, turning it a raging crimson with jets of flame, great spurts of burning fuel that arced over No Man’s Land to roast all those in its path…

  Since then the nightmares had intensified. Even awake he had lived in fear of being burnt alive, had quaked at the order to counter-attack but had done so nonetheless, with naught to protect him but a new tin hat and the colonel’s ‘God bless you’, had ventured stoically against bomb and bullet into that bloody hole where he had fought the Germans hand-to-hand until all were vanquished and the hole was once again a British hole.

  Now, thank God, his battered battalion had been relieved, and an exhausted Marty was on his way to rest.

  But there were many miles to travel through a network of trenches, and the pom-pom-pom of the heavy guns dogged him all the way, shaking the earth so violently that its reverberations extended to the fillings in his teeth. Even as the sun rose it saw them still a good distance from their billets. One minute plodding, the next waking to find himself on the ground, a confused Marty realised he had fallen asleep whilst marching. Unable to drag his feet another step, he gasped wearily to the man who hauled him to his feet, ‘It’s no use, Tommo, I’ll have to nip into that barn for a kip. Will ye cover for me? I know where you’re headed, I’ll catch you up.’ And with the fellow’s nod he stole a quick look around for officers, then ducked into the barn and immediately dragged himself up a ladder into a loft, where he threw off his military paraphernalia and collapsed on a bed of straw. Before the sound of tramping boots had died away he was claimed by oblivion.

  It was still daylight when he awoke, though the quality of that light told him that more than a few hours had passed. Had he slumbered all afternoon and all night too? From the way he felt this was probably correct. Robbed of proper sleep for days – nay months – due to nightmares over that firing squad, he was now sufficiently equipped to tackle the rest of the march. He lay there for a moment, wondering, thinking, yearning, rubbing pensively at the stubble on his shorn scalp, picking at the blood-encrusted scabs inflicted by his own razor in an attempt to avoid playing host to nits. Then, he stretched his limbs wide, farted, and raked his head with black fingernails, before finally coming round and sitting up. It was abnormally quiet this morning. True, the big guns were still hammering away in the distance, but there was not the usual sound of barked orders, men’s conversations, the jingle of harness, or anything much at all except the trill of a lark. It was only when he risked a glance over the edge of the hayloft that he remembered he was alone. Any improvement he had felt was quickly dispersed by the knowledge that he would be in serious trouble if he did not find his unit quickly, and snatching up his pack and rifle, he slung them on, scrambled down the ladder and bounded outside. Knowing where the billets were located he felt no undue panic and, after emptying his bladder and bowels, embarked on his own way there, looking forward to a meal, for he was famished.

  But when he arrived at the bomb-damaged village, though there were troops amassed, his own unit was nowhere in evidence, and in the confusion no one could tell him where they resided. Panic did flare then. It was anyone’s guess which way they had gone. The footsteps in the trampled verges were directed at every point on the compass. Flashing a dirty, nervous face to right then left, he scanned the pockmarked countryside in between, then made a very rash decision. He set out to find them.

  He jogged for as long as he could, accompanied only by the clinks and clanks of his equipment and the short sharp bursts of his own breath until he could run no more, when he slowed to a walk, alternating in this manner for most of the morning until he stopped to partake of his iron rations. He ate only a third of the tin of bully beef and one of the biscuits – best to eke them out just in case his search took more than twenty-four hours. He ran and walked and ran again for much of the afternoon too, hauled his heavy pack and his exhausted carcass down this lane and that, traversed the countryside in search of his battalion until nightfall, when his pace abated to a tortured limp and finally he could walk no more. At which point, with no barn and no hedgerows, he slept where he fell. Another morning dawned to the ominous cawing of rooks. Having slept hardly at all, his belly raw from hunger, he devoured the rest of his bully beef and another of the biscuits. Not wishing to draw attention to himself by lighting a fire on which to boil a can, the ration of tea and sugar and the Oxo cubes had to be left in their wrapping and the paltry meal washed down with water. After relieving himself in the open field he set off again, accompanied by no small amount of concern.

  By midday, absolutely ravenous, he threw caution to the wind and lit a fire in order to boil some water for one of his Oxo cubes, in which was steeped the last two biscuits, for his teeth and gums were sore from gnawing at the hard tack.

  Evening put paid to the remainder of his rations, though he hung on to the old tea leaves, which would provide another brew in the morning. There was no shortage of water, for the area was traversed by countless little streams and ditches into which, in his weakened state, he occasionally stumbled. Wondering how long one could last without food, he lay down and closed his eyes.

  More filthy, more frightened by the day, existing on fruit and one battered tin of meat discarded by some soldier in a hedge bottom, his weighty pack and equipment long abandoned but grimly hanging on to his rifle, for to cast it away was a crime, he was to wander around for almost a week.

 
With no office work to attend that Saturday afternoon, the children out at play and the men out too, Etta pondered telling Aggie of her decision as the pair of them collected bits and pieces to be included in a parcel to the Front – a batch of newspapers, socks, underwear, cigarettes, soap and chocolate – but then the postman came, and, hoping he might bring news of Marty, she beat her mother-in-law to the door.

  She was to return looking disappointed yet thoughtful, as she recognised the writing on the envelope.

  ‘Not from Marty then.’ Aggie’s voice was dull.

  ‘No, my mother.’ Etta studied the letter pensively for a moment, then opened it. ‘She’s staying the night in York and invites the children and myself to dine with her this afternoon.’

  ‘You could sound happier.’ Aggie picked bits of lint off some socks that were destined for the parcel.

  Etta looked dubious. ‘I’d feel as if I were betraying Marty somehow.’

  ‘Why on earth would you think that? She’s your mother.’

  ‘Yes, but would she invite my husband if he were here? I doubt it. He’s having such a beastly time of it over there…’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you have to have one as well.’ Aggie was charitable. ‘And when he comes home you can stick up for him then, but you’ve been given this opportunity to make things up with your family, ’twould be a shame to throw it away.’

  Etta looked guilty. ‘Well, actually, it’s not the first time I’ve seen Mother…’

  ‘Sure, I know that.’ Aggie hardly batted an eyelid as she went on with her task. ‘Didn’t those children of yours tell me the minute you were out the door.’

  Etta looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I instructed them not to upset you by gabbling on about her over-indulgences.’

  ‘As if to make me jealous? Nonsense, their grandmother’s just trying to make up for all the years she’s lost. Be off with you and get the children ready.’

  Etta passed her a smiling nod of gratitude, wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead and looked through the window at the sky. ‘I wonder whether I’ll need an umbrella. We could do with a shower, it’s so close.’

  ‘Ye never can predict lately.’ Aggie mopped her own brow. ‘It’s all them blessed bombs going off that’s messed the weather up.’

  Etta nodded and prepared to go out, but then Joan arrived and for this reason she tarried to lend Aggie support.

  ‘Oh, these must be for our brave Marty.’ Joan smiled over the array of items that lay on the brown paper ready to be wrapped. ‘I sent him one of those but mine was a good one.’

  Aggie flared her nostrils and turned away. ‘Cup of tea, Joan?’

  The dainty little creature demurred, wafting her glowing face. ‘No, I’ll just have a glass of water if it’s no trouble. My goodness, it’s a bit, er, a bit –’ she groped for a word to describe the climate.

  ‘Cottony?’ suggested Etta helpfully.

  Joan looked at her sharply, heard the snigger that came from Aggie, and pursed her lips looking most put-out. But before she could respond Etta went to answer a knock at the door.

  On her return she held a telegram, her face deathly pale. ‘He’s missing.’

  Joan immediately exchanged her look of reproach for one of pity, reaching out a sympathetic hand.

  But strangely, Aggie did not, as might be expected, create instant hullabaloo, her ice-blue eyes totally calm and her voice steady as she told Etta, ‘He’s not dead. I’d know if one of my children was dead.’

  For the moment Etta could not respond, her limbs turned to jelly, her mind and stomach churned.

  ‘He’s not dead I tell ye,’ said Aggie in as airy a tone as she could muster.

  ‘You’re right of course.’ From somewhere beneath the layer of bile, Etta found the power of speech, though her response was far from confident.

  ‘Anyway, weren’t you going out?’ Aggie reminded her.

  ‘I can’t go now!’ protested Etta.

  ‘And what good will that do Marty, you sitting and worrying about him all afternoon?’ Aggie snatched the telegram from her. ‘Now off with you and see your mother.’

  Joan’s sad demeanour changed to one of alertness. ‘You’re going to see your mother?’ Swiftly she gathered her belongings. ‘Perhaps I should accompany you if you don’t feel up to going alo—’

  ‘Sit down!’ commanded Aggie. ‘You can save your grovelling introductions for another day.’ And Joan meekly complied.

  Though Etta hardly felt like going anywhere, was too consumed by worry to contemplate the small feast that her mother would undoubtedly lay on, and feared she might burst into tears at any minute, she decided to put on a brave face for the children, and, composing herself into some sort of order, duly took them out to meet Grandmamma Ibbetson at the hotel.

  Their meeting was almost as awkward as the last time, both withholding comment whilst a young waiter delivered a trolley to Isabella’s suite, and set out items on a starched linen tablecloth. When asked if there was anything else the ladies required before he left, Isabella thought she detected a foreign accent and frowned suspiciously. ‘You’re not German, are you?’

  ‘No, madam, I’m from Northumberland.’

  She dealt a satisfied nod and signalled briskly for him to proceed, before leaning to murmur to Etta, ‘One never quite knows if one is doing the right thing in being civil to them. Well now, sit down, children, and let us have tea!’

  Even if the somewhat aloof barrier was to remain between mother and daughter, Isabella made great effort to pierce it by asking as she extended a plate of sandwiches, ‘What is the latest of Martin, I do trust he’s not having too hard a time out there?’

  Greatly surprised to hear the forbidden name from her mother’s lips and feeling a rush of gratitude, Etta felt tears burn her eyes, but fought them and soon recovered her voice to say, ‘Yes, thank you, as far as we know he’s safe…This is an excellent spread Grandmamma has put on for us,’ she said briskly to the children, ‘I think we should all say thank you.’ And nothing much more was said as everyone tucked in.

  Even later, when the youngsters had taken their fill and had been granted permission to leave the table and go across to the window that overlooked the city, Etta declined to admit her true worries to her mother.

  ‘You’ve hardly eaten a thing, Henrietta,’ ventured her hostess, polite but kind. ‘Can I not tempt you with some of this delicious cake?’

  Etta simply shook her head.

  Isabella thought she knew the cause, issuing thoughtfully, ‘It’s a strain not knowing if they’re safe, isn’t it? I worry terribly about John. At least he doesn’t have a wife to fret about him. Life must be even more difficult for you without a husband. The children must be missing their father too.’

  Across the table, Etta nodded quietly, fighting tears.

  Then her mother amazed her even more by referring to the cause of their previous estrangement. ‘Eleven years,’ breathed Isabella, as if disbelieving the passage of time, ‘and there was I foolish enough to imagine it was only a girlish romance, that you’d come back to us when you realised your mistake…I should never have doubted your fortitude.’

  Etta looked slightly pained. ‘You make it sound like an ordeal. My years with Martin have been wonderful.’ She chose not to mention the rift, did not even want to think of it. But she had come partly to understand the reason her mother had chosen to stand by her own husband and not her child, and could only hope that she herself would not one day have to make that same decision.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said her mother. ‘Really I am. I’d much rather my daughter be happy than have had all those years gone to ruin.’

  Etta took a deep breath. ‘So, you’re prepared to admit that my life hasn’t been wasted as you feared?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ confirmed Isabella. ‘How could one dismiss it so when it has produced such a charming brood.’ She turned her elegant head to smile at her grandchildren who stood looking out of the window at the stree
t scene below. ‘Good as gold.’

  ‘I didn’t like to say in front of them,’ blurted Etta, ‘but I am rather worried.’ And she divulged to a shocked Isabella about the telegram.

  ‘Etta, how dreadful,’ breathed her mother, ‘were the children not present when it arrived?’

  Etta shook her head and said they had been out at play. ‘Martin’s mother thinks it must be a mistake, says she’d feel it if anything had happened to him, and I tend to concur…’

  Isabella nodded. ‘I agree, absolutely.’

  ‘But one can’t help wondering.’ Etta’s distracted eyes went to the children, who were too involved in giggling over some joke to overhear.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Isabella with feeling. ‘My dear, I’m so desperately sorry…’ Lost for words, she grasped the silver teapot and refilled her daughter’s cup.

  ‘I’m going to look for him.’

  ‘To France?’ Her mother was stunned, dribbling tea into the saucer before setting the pot down. ‘Oh, Henrietta, it’s so dangerous! You were always so impulsive.’ But recognising the depth of feeling Etta had for her husband, she voiced her desire to assist. ‘I wish that there was more I could do, but all I can offer is money and I’m afraid to insult you again.’

  Etta shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have behaved so rudely to you on our last meeting.’