But this was not what Joe had wanted to hear. He hated it that his queries were always treated as a joke, for if he was to be a soldier then he needed to be furnished with real exploits.
Yet Father constantly refused to speak about his fighting days, saying firmly if the matter was pressed, ‘That’s for another day,’ a signal that the indulgence was over. Detecting the sadness in his eyes, Beata wondered what was going on in Father’s head and what he felt inside him.
One night, eager to know more, she lay awake until Clem had got into bed, then sneaked down to perch in darkness at the foot of the stairs, trying to discern what her parents were saying.
Faced with the daily struggle of having to make ends meet and the awful fear that the Germans might win, Mother was questioning the wisdom of ever getting into this war in the first place. After all, it had not been their country under attack.
Then came Father’s voice, gently reproving. ‘It’s our duty as members of a great Empire to help smaller nations, Grace. If we’d allowed the Hun to bully Belgium they would have seen our lack of action as weakness and tried to invade Britain. Thank God we never got round to building that stupid tunnel under the Channel. The Hun would have been up it like a rat up a sewer and we wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
Mother acquiesced. ‘You’re right, of course. It’s just getting me down a bit, that’s all. I’m sorry, dear.’
Warm words: ‘That’s all right, lass. It’s getting us all down.’
A short silence, then a plaintive appeal. ‘We will win, won’t we, Probe?’
There was the slightest hesitation. Then with a deep breath he dismissed the unthinkable. ‘We have to. There’s been too much suffering, too much sacrifice. All those poor brave men…’ His voice caught with emotion, and, not for the first time, he began to purge himself of the horrors he had seen, unburdening himself to the keeper of his heart, unaware that an innocent little soul was eavesdropping.
Assailed by the reality of war, Beata sat transfixed and trembling, until she could bear it no longer and crept back upstairs to pull the covers over her head. She would never listen again.
* * *
Miraculously, after a month in which it seemed that the exhausted and demoralized British troops might be forced right back across the Channel, their fortunes took a remarkable turn. Bolstered by thousands of vigorous US reinforcements, tanks and planes by the hundred, the Allies managed to gain a foothold. Soon, not only were they holding the Germans at bay, but were actually pushing them backwards.
The seriousness of recent events being kept from them, the children had only their mother’s mood as a barometer of the situation. For weeks she had been tense, but lately she had begun to sing again, removing any worry they might have had about the war.
This was all well and good, but fortunes on the home front remained mixed. Clem was still unable to find work, whilst Augusta had secured a job at Rowntrees, which provided a higher wage than her two existing jobs put together. Though the family could no longer enjoy their generous fish suppers, there were different treats to be had from the chocolate rejects which found their way into Gussie’s overall pockets.
Not everyone seemed pleased about this state of affairs. Just returned from another fruitless venture to the labour exchange, Clem was positively rude when his mother offered him a chocolate as consolation.
‘Oh, I’m sure that’ll help!’ Whipping off his cap to reveal an angry scowl, he brushed past her and headed into the yard.
‘Just because you didn’t get a job don’t take it out on me, my boy!’ called a furious Grace.
There was a brief pregnant interlude, then Clem strode back into the kitchen. ‘Sorry, Mother. I’m just so blood— blinking disappointed!’
Not wholly pacified, Grace folded her arms under her breast and awaited an explanation. From the way he seemed reluctant to look at her, the depth of his anger, she sensed there was more to this than met the eye.
Finally he confessed. ‘You might as well know, I haven’t been to the labour exchange. I went to join u—’
‘My God!’ Grace threw her hands in the air, before taking him to task. ‘You sly little— You never said a word when you went out this morning! Well, you can just get down there and unjoin!’
‘I don’t have t—’
‘You bloody well do!’
‘I don’t because they wouldn’t bloody take me!’ Still unable to hold his mother’s eye for long, Clem was suffused with frustration.
‘Well, thank God for that!’ she sputtered.
‘Why?’ Joe had been standing in the doorway with a bucket of coal, listening.
Red of face, Clem whirled on him. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to!’
Recognizing the depth of her eldest son’s rejection, Grace took the coal bucket from Joe. ‘Thank you very much for helping me, darling. You can go out and play now.’
Joe closed the door behind him, and Clem at last felt able to explain to his mother why he had broken his word. His face was tormented. ‘I know I promised, but I just felt as if I were a sponger not being able to—’
‘Aw!’ Grace broke in, touching him comfortingly. ‘It doesn’t matter. Gussie brings a good wage in.’
‘That makes me feel ten times worse, knowing my sister is worth more than I am!’
‘It’s not as if you haven’t tried, love! I’d rather have you safe at home than out there risking your life.’
Clem sighed heavily. ‘That’s just as well, because you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid, Mam. The army wouldn’t have me because of my bad chest.’ He looked and felt emasculated, could not bring himself to voice what was in his head: there was his father with a breastful of medals, the mightiest man in the regiment, and he himself was judged too puny even to slip into a pair of army boots.
He did not have to say it; his mother understood and her heart bled for him. ‘Love, I’m sorry you’ve been disappointed, but I’m so, so glad to hear you’re staying at home. Really I am.’
On the other side of the door, his ear to the wood, eleven-year-old Joe was glad too. Everyone had always taken it for granted that it would be Clem who followed in Father’s footsteps, had always treated Joe’s enthusiasm for the army as a joke. Now it would be he who carried the baton.
‘You’ll get a job soon, Clem, a clever lad like you. I’ll vouch for it,’ concluded Grace.
But he won’t be a soldier, thought Joe with a satisfied grin.
* * *
As if his mother’s opinion had been an edict, Clem was to acquire a job two days later, tallying the books for a local store. Yet, even in receipt of parental praise, he could not fully enjoy the achievement, for he knew that however far he rose he would always be eclipsed by his father’s illustrious career.
Unaware of others’ personal crises, whilst their elder brother and sister went off to work on a morning, the younger children enjoyed what remained of the school holidays, exploring the streets of York, occasionally watching the latest war news and film footage on the large screen above a chemist’s shop in Parliament Street.
‘It’s a black day for the Germans.’ Displaying wrinkled shirtsleeves, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat, Joe looked up at the screen with an expression of pride. ‘Our lads’ve nearly pushed them right back to the Hindenburg line.’
A passing man hawked and spat on the pavement. Admiring this skill, Duke tried to emulate, but his first attempt produced only a dribble down his chin. Summoning up more saliva, he threw back his head and expectorated as far as he could.
‘Stop that!’ A woman who had been rattling a collection tin nearby rebuked him. ‘Do you think I want to waste my time standing here while you perpetuate those filthy habits?’
Embarrassed, the children moved on, but not before Beata’s attention had been drawn to the placard around the woman’s neck. ‘Fight the white scourge – what’s the white scourge, Maddie?’
‘Consumption,’ answered her sister and in the same breath asked, ‘Shall we go f
or a picnic?’
They had always spent much of the summer holidays enjoying such outings and even a war could not prevent this.
Joe said he would have to use his pocket money on wool for darning. Madeleine asked who did not have any essential item to obtain and upon hearing that Beata still had her tuppence, suggested that one of these pennies would buy enough carrots for four of them. ‘Mims can share yours,’ she told Beata generously. ‘If we pool the rest we’ll have enough to get the tram home.’
Calling in at a greengrocer’s to make their purchase, then rubbing the carrots against a wall to remove the skins as they went along, they made their way out of the city to Knavesmire.
After a long period of racing about and cartwheeling on the vast green sward, they fell breathless upon the grass to gnaw on their carrots whilst watching all the military activity and the aeroplanes taking off. Finding that she did not have a carrot of her own but was expected to subsist on Beata’s offering, three-year-old Mims burst into tears and worked herself into a state of near hysteria.
‘Give her it, Beat,’ advised Madeleine, calmly chewing on her own vegetable.
But even when the youngest had what she craved her whining did not diminish and the outing was thoroughly spoiled.
Joe had had enough, jumping up with the announcement, ‘Bugger this, I’m off home!’ And he set off running across the green. There was a flurry of bare brown legs as others followed suit, all laughingly ignoring Mims’ wails for them to wait, making it a race as to who could be first to the tram stop. With a tram already waiting, they clambered onto the top deck, giggling all the way home at having played such a trick on their nuisance of a sister.
Once back in their own street, though, they argued as to who was to return and fetch the infant. ‘Well, somebody’s got to get her,’ said Maddie. ‘Mother’ll want to know where she is.’
‘She might not notice,’ opined Beata.
‘You started it,’ Maddie accused Joe, who flung the accusation back.
The argument went on for so long that in the end it was decided that they must all go. This time with no tram fare, they were forced to walk the two and a half miles. But halfway there a lorry passed them, on the back of which was loaded a dead cow, and perched astride the corpse was a little figure in a green bonnet with astrakhan trimming, who waved merrily as she sailed past, heading for Layerthorpe.
Though using every ounce of stamina to chase the haulier, they failed to intercept Mims before she could relay their trickery to Mother. Berated for their meanness, they were banned from going on any more picnics for the rest of the holiday.
* * *
As it turned out this was not too great a punishment for the weather became showery.
It being too wet to play in the street, the children simply went calling, and there was never a shortage of people to visit, for, apart from aunts and uncles, their mother had countless friends. For Beata, however, these ports of call were not merely in order to escape the rain but entailed small acts of charity on her part. Whilst the others went elsewhere, Beata would think of Rose, a neighbour’s child who was confined to a bath-chair, her useless limbs contorted into grotesque angles, unable even to turn a page for herself, and would choose to spend the afternoon reading to her. Even when the sun came out there was no eager dash to escape, or at least not without pushing Rose out for some sunshine too.
At other times Beata would go and read to Mrs Jordan, the landlady of The Spread Eagle, who was a diabetic. Seated on a wooden, cushionless settle beside the fire, or perhaps in Mrs Jordan’s bedroom if the elderly woman was laid low, she would while away the hours reading to her. Occasionally, if she had just received her pocket money, Beata would use one of the pennies on a bunch of wallflowers.
Thanking her warmly, the recipient opined, ‘Eh, you’ll never be rich, Beat.’
But Beata smiled and said she did not care.
Often, Nurse Falconer would be there in her grey dress and big white cuffs, attending Mrs Jordan’s ulcerated foot, then the calm and capable Beata would be invited to help put on a bandage. And admiring the little girl’s efforts, both women would concur that here was a nurse in the making.
Beata refuted this firmly. ‘I’m going to be an explorer.’
But the women simply shared a knowing smile and said, ‘You wait and see.’
On other days Beata would take pity on Aunt Maude, a pathetic woman with large teeth and the cares of the world upon her shoulders, assisting in her shop on Walmgate by making up penny pokes of tea and quarter-pounds of sugar.
In fact hardly a day went by when Beata concentrated solely on herself. Rapidly becoming a favourite amongst her relatives for her lack of boisterousness and air of maturity, it was Beata they sent for when in time of need. And there always seemed to be one after another of them needing her, the latest being Aunt Nell, whose confinement meant that someone else would be required to look after the house.
‘You’re a right capable lass,’ Uncle Charlie told Beata warmly as he put her on the train back to York after her week’s stay in Bolton Percy. ‘Tell your mother, I don’t know what we’d have done without you.’
Thinking it might be considered boastful, Beata did not relay this, though was eager to tell her family all about the new arrival when she got home.
After paying close attention to all her daughter told her about the baby, Grace terminated the exchange with a sigh. ‘Eh, I don’t know, as one comes in another goes out.’ And she burst into tears.
Father explained to Beata and her siblings, who were just as much in the dark as was she. ‘Your Uncle Fred’s gone to his Maker.’
Joe could not recall meeting anyone of this name. ‘Who’s Uncle Fred?’
‘You haven’t met him. He’s been in hospital a long time, got poorly in the war.’
Joe studied Grace, whose face was buried in a handkerchief. ‘Mother didn’t cry when Uncle Worthy died.’
‘Uncle Worthy wasn’t my brother!’ retorted a tearful Grace.
Joe frowned. He had never thought of adults as having brothers or sisters.
‘Fred was your mother’s only surviving brother,’ explained his father patiently. ‘Just think how upset you’d be if both your brothers died. Now, stop all your daft questions and get washed. We’re going to pay our respects.’
Joe had only a moment to ponder on the demise of Clem or Duke, before being whisked off to don his Sunday best, and henceforth to the dingy shop in Walmgate where his uncle’s open coffin was balanced on the counter.
One by one the smaller ones were lifted up to view his corpse, Beata particularly stricken by the contrast between that cold cadaverous cheek and the rosebud warmth of the new babe she had kissed only this morning.
* * *
A few days later they were to return, though it was not so bad this time, for the coffin lid was screwed down and Uncle Fred was borne away to the sound of a regimental band. In fact it was all a very exciting affair, for their uncle had been well-respected in the army and volleys were fired over his grave. Beata noticed, however, that not everyone’s attention was on the ceremony, Mother attracting as many concerned whispers as the widow.
Probyn noticed this too and, during the funeral tea, whilst he and Grace were temporarily separated, he was to hear the reason from one of his sisters-in-law. ‘We’re all really worried about our Grace. Why, she must have lost a stone since we last met. That dress is hanging on her.’
Being at home all the time Probyn was not so conscious of such a drastic change, but had to agree that Grace looked unwell. ‘What are we going to do with her? No matter what I say she puts our needs first.’
‘What are you two plotting?’ Grace reappeared bearing a cup of tea. ‘I saw you, whispering away, looking in my direction.’
Her husband pulled no punches. ‘We’re on about you, tin-ribs. Your Millie’s just saying how thin you’ve got.’
‘So have you!’ she retorted to her sister, then indicated Probyn. ‘And you.
’
‘I can do to lose a few pounds,’ he answered, patting his stomach, ‘you can’t.’
Grace dismissed this with a smiling shake of head. ‘Have a look around, Probe. Everybody’s thin, there’s no food.’
‘Even so—’
‘Eh, apart from old Aunt Mary!’ Deflecting attention from herself she gestured at her ancient relative by the fire. ‘The shortages don’t seem to have affected her, do they? I’ve never seen such bonny pink cheeks. I always said she’d outlive us all.’
‘And if you don’t take more care of yourself you’ll be right.’ Millie was not to be diverted, looking her sister up and down with a warning expression.
‘Oh, behave! If you want to feel sorry for anybody what about poor Maude?’
Both Millie and Probyn acquiesced, the latter adding, ‘Still, she won’t be too hard up, what with having the shop.’
At this, Grace donned a look of thoughtful interest but did not elaborate until they were on the way home.
After speaking fondly of her dead brother for a while, her heart still heavy with the loss of him, she disclosed an idea. ‘You know, it might benefit us to open a little shop like Maude and Fred’s in our front room.’ Her children liked the sound of this and asked if Mother would sell sweets but she said no, ‘Just beer, lemonade, stout…’
‘There are already two off-licensed premises in the street,’ pointed out her husband.
‘Look how many there are down Walmgate! And Maude makes a nice living out of hers.’
Probyn was quick to ratify her suggestion. ‘You go ahead, dear, if you want to. I won’t veto anything that brings more money in – as long as you spend it on yourself.’
Grace promised she would, so, as soon as was decent after her brother’s funeral, she set about converting her front room literally overnight into a shop with the simple addition of a counter and a few barrels of ale.
A Different Kind of Love Page 25
