by John Masters
Three young people stood together behind the elder Rowlands – Naomi, a driver of the Women’s Volunteer Motor Drivers; Guy Rowland, a Lieutenant in the Royal Flying Corps; and his sister Virginia, a worker in the Women’s Legion. The embroidered wings on Guy’s tunic were beginning to fade, but now the white-purple-white ribbon of the Military Cross shone below them, bright and new. He watched the rain running down the rose window and thought, hope it clears a bit before four, as he was due to fly a new Hedlington Leopard twin-engined bomber to France, leaving at that hour. They had sent his squadron a telegram about the death of his grandmother, but he had not expected to be able to attend the funeral – the Somme battle was still raging, and the R.F.C. stretched to its utmost to maintain air superiority over the battlefield; but Major Sugden had called him in last night, and said curtly – ‘General Trenchard heard about your grandmother. He wants you to attend the funeral. In uniform. And don’t forget to mention to your grandfather that we cannot carry the fight to the enemy unless we have aircraft at least as good as his. And we now know what we’re going to be up against – the D. 1.’
Guy thought, we do; or at least we can make an informed projection, on the basis of what Intelligence had learned from neutral sources, and what the few German pilot prisoners have hinted at, usually in their cups, while being wined and dined in the mess of the squadron that shot them down: a Fokker biplane, with two synchronized machine guns, a top speed of about 110 m.p.h. and a ceiling of near 17,000 feet – the Albatros D. 1. Jasta 16 would get them any moment now, then von-Rackow would be sending over more challenges for the Butcher to come out and fight. He bit his lip, tightening his jaw muscles. He’d got to find some way that the C.O. would allow, to identify himself so that they could have it out.
Naomi kept her eyes on the coffin as she listened to the curate’s strong, young voice and rather exaggerated Oxford accent reciting the Psalm. She would have to be on her guard with Colonel Rodney Venable. His long face was so intelligent, and so were the brown eyes under the thatch of his eyebrows … widely read, widely travelled, grandson of a viscount … had been in the 17th Lancers, used to play polo with Uncle Christopher’s brother Oswald … but … but there was something in his look whenever she drove for him that made her flesh creep; and she could not say whether the frisson was of disgust, or expectation. She shook her head. He had not yet said or done anything improper, as between a colonel in the Intelligence section of the General Staff at the War Office and a female Volunteer. If he did, he must be told that she was in uniform to do her part in winning the war, not to be near men.
Guy’s sister, Virginia, on the other side of him, furtively wiped her eyes, keeping her handkerchief rolled up in her hand. She had loved her grandmother, loved her father, did not understand her mother, adored her brother; and now, at seventeen and a half years of age, she was happy for the first time in her life. The girls in her detachment outside Aldershot were nearly all from the lower classes – mill girls, factory hands, girls escaped from service in big houses in the depths of the country. They were open, direct, crude, and she loved being with them. She still had much of her puppy fat, and had sworn, the day before she got the telegram about Granny, to start dieting. For Battery Sergeant Major Stanley Robinson, D.C.M., ex-Royal Field Artillery, had taken her out to the cinema, and said she was pretty; and, apologetically, that he would like to take her out again, if she wouldn’t mind, him being only an O.R. and her father a colonel, and all. She, too, felt a frisson – Stanley Robinson, only one arm, his left gone … old, of course, must be twenty-seven, twenty-eight … but so kind to her.
Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first-fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive …
Bob and Jane Stratton stood behind the Swanwicks and Hoggins. Like many other women in the crowded church Jane dabbed frequently at her eyes. Rose Rowland had been a great lady, and a source of strength to her and her family from the earliest days, when it had been a matter of having babies and finding doctors for colic, to these latter times, when there had come other, darker troubles. Her sciatica ached badly today, and now the knuckles of her right hand, long swollen with arthritis, began to stab with pain. She winced and tried to compose herself. She must not allow any physical pain to take her mind off the loss she had suffered with Mrs Harry’s death. Without her, Bob would be in prison now, instead of doing his job, and, perhaps – she prayed – escaping from the sinful and unnatural lusts that had held him.
Bob kept his head bent. Mrs Harry had frightened him as, he knew, she had frightened many others. Still, without her, Mr Harry wouldn’t have been the man he was and, though she never came to the factory, he and the shop foremen knew that her presence was there, in the influence she had on her husband. And she had saved him from gaol … at a price. Seeing Dr Deerfield five times a week was worse than having a wisdom tooth pulled every time, without gas. The things the doctor wanted him to remember, and say out loud, were downright filthy!
In the back of the church a baby set up a long wail, and Bob winced. Why did Mary Gorse have to bring the child to church? It must be about two months old, a girl, and they’d christened it Henrietta. Well, if it had to be brought, better Mary bring it than Violet. Having the baby had turned her into a real woman. Mary’s next girl, Betty, was ten now. She’d be smooth and hairless and thin. He felt an erection growing in his trousers and prayed, No, no, God help me, no!
And so it is written, the first Adam was made a living soul; the last Adam was made a quickening spirit. Howbeit, that was not first which is spiritual, but that which is natural: and afterward that which is spiritual. The first man is of the earth; the second man is the Lord from heaven.
Frank and Anne Stratton stood beside Bob and Jane; heads bowed. Anne tried to let the idea of peace and rest for Mrs Harry occupy her mind; but all she could think of was the cold of the open grave by the lych-gate. She stole a glance at her husband. He was thinner than he used to be, but carried himself straighter, and still wore the reddish beard that he had grown when he was Pioneer Sergeant. That beard meant a lot to him, but it made her nervous. Still, he was here, recovered from his wound and never, never to go to France again, or even to get into uniform – pensioned.
Frank’s eyes strayed now, from the canon standing with clasped hands behind the coffin, to the Mayor of Hedlington reading the lesson, then across the aisle, to the three young people in uniform. His gaze rested there, on Guy Rowland in the maternity jacket of the Royal Flying Corps. Mr Guy was a great pilot, they were saying, but how good were his mechanics, on whom his life depended, too?
Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.
The canon stepped forward, making a motion with his hands. The undertaker’s professional pallbearers moved down the aisle, all in black, bare headed.
Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.
The congregation led by Harry Rowland, leaning on the arm of his daughter, Alice, followed the coffin down the aisle.
In the midst of life we are in death; of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee O Lord, who for our sins are justly displeased?
Mary Gorse walked in the middle of the throng shuffling slowly down the aisle and out into the open. The rain had slackened but was still falling, slanting down on the southwest wind, rustling the horse chestnut trees, still heavy with leaves, that bordered the churchyard, glistening on the spines of the yews by the lych-gate and on both sides of the church door. Henrietta, her granddaughter, had stopped crying and lay asleep in the crook of her right arm. Her first-born son, Fletcher, was somewhere out there in the rain, still, living like an animal in the woods. The polic
e had come for him three weeks ago, and told Mary he’d deserted from the Depot, up in the Minden Barracks. He’d not be comfortable but he’d not be starving or dying of cold, either: Probyn had taught him everything he knew about the country …
The tenor bell began to toll its six strokes, for the death of a woman, a long pause between each. The head of the procession reached the graveside, and the pallbearers waited, heads bared to the rain, the coffin resting on the edge of the grave, ropes tied to the carrying handles at each corner.
Ethel Fagioletti wept quietly. Mrs Harry was dead, who had given her sweets when she was a little girl, who had shown her how a woman should behave in hard times. She wished Niccolo could be here, and wept harder, realizing that Niccolo, too, might be dead. The colonel, Quentin, had assured her that he had been alive when he left the battalion … but that was five weeks ago. And the colonel had said that he was a good solider, and had actually killed Germans at the colonel’s side, with a bayonet.
The pallbearers took hold of the ropes, and first lifting, brought the coffin over the centre of the grave, then steadily lowered, while the curate, picking up a handful of wet earth, dropped it on the coffin top. The canon intoned:
Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground.
Ruth Hoggin sniffed, choked, and held her breath. Mrs Harry had been a great lady … hard to know, perhaps, but then, as a Stratton, it was not her place to know her that well. It was hard to think that Mr Richard and Mr John and the colonel and the Commander had all been little boys once, needing a mother’s love …
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Stella Merritt leaned more heavily on her husband’s arm. She had not known her grandmother well, and had been afraid of her. All her life she had felt that Granny was able to sense her transgressions or sinful thoughts however hard she tried to hide them; and this feeling had been intensified in recent years, when the transgressions were not of failing to clean her teeth properly, or eating with her mouth open, but to do with the lusts of her body, the awareness of her beauty and of men’s desire, the irresistible impulses towards whatever excited or carried the chill perfume of danger. She glanced across the grave and caught Dr Deerfield’s eye. The hint of a smile touched his lips, then the tip of his tongue slid out, caressed the upper lip lasciviously, and slid back. That was the signal he gave her when, over lunch or tea, in some public place, he wanted to tell her that he desired her body, that they would soon again be enjoying the forbidden fruit, passionate mating … How could she, she thought, loving Johnny so much? How could she not, though, when even now the memory of that lecherous lick was soaking her underwear, even at her grandmother’s graveside? They had been lovers for over three months.
Her husband patted her gloved hand with his, and prayed under his breath. The rain was increasing, Stella would catch cold; but, of course, she had to be there.
Lord, have mercy upon us.
Christ, have mercy upon us.
Lord, have mercy upon us.
Tim and Sally Rowland, the adopted children, were crying loudly, almost howling. Richard frowned down at them, murmuring, ‘Quiet!’ They were really unpleasant little brats, and were crying now not because they were really sad at his mother’s death, but because they thought it would earn them sympathy and approval from the family, perhaps even some money or sweets. Richard tried to remember what she so often said: the children had had no chance in life, knowing only the harsh world of the streets, and of men coming to use their mother’s body, for money. Only love could help them. He’d keep trying.
Almighty God with whom do live the spirits of them that depart hence in the Lord, and with whom the souls of the faithful, after they are delivered from the burden of the flesh, are in joy and felicity.
Christopher Cate stood with his son Laurence on one side, Stella and Johnny on the other, and Mrs Isabel Kramer behind Laurence. He had admired his mother-in-law, and wished he could love her. His wife, his own wife, Margaret, the dead woman’s eldest daughter, had not loved her … at first, she had told him, out of Rose’s inability to share any real intimacy with her; later, because she came to believe that her mother, a descendant of the High Kings of All Ireland, had not fought enough to free Ireland from British rule. Now she was gone.
The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen.
Richard stood with his father and sister near the French windows in the morning room of Laburnum Lodge, all with champagne glasses in hand. Rain streamed down the glass, spattered on the shallow stone steps outside, and pattered on the leaves of the tall trees along the wall. They had spoken of the woman recently buried, discussed family matters that she had raised on her deathbed – the disposal of rings and jewels among her daughters and the wives of her sons: special mementoes for the female staff, a pearl necklace for Jane Stratton. Then, for a minute they had been silent, in their own ways bidding her goodbye. She had lived, and was dead.
Harry said, ‘Churchill commiserated with me in the House yesterday. I don’t think I like him or trust him, but I can’t help admiring him … noticing the announcement of her death in the paper, working out who she must have been, taking the trouble to find me …’
Richard said, ‘I thought he was with the army in France. Quentin said he’d met him.’
‘Yes, but that was early in the year. He told me that his battalion was disbanded to make reinforcements for other battalions, and he decided to come back to Westminster … where an honest man needs a gas mask more than he does on the Western Front, he said.’ He shook his grey head wonderingly.
Richard saw his opportunity to broach a subject that he had for some time been meaning to bring up: ‘Father, a long time ago, when we founded the Jupiter Motor Company, I asked Dormouse to work for me. Now I’m going to ask her again – I think she’s wasting her talent and education.’ He hesitated, not wishing to add bluntly – ‘looking after you, when there are half a dozen servants to do it’; but his father nodded and said, ‘I agree. Before the war, it was all right, perhaps … what better work for woman was there, than to be mistress of a household? But now –’ he shook his head. ‘Women are doing things that one would have dismissed as impossible, or out of the question for them – and doing them well. And so releasing men for the Front.’
Alice said, ‘That’s the only reason I hesitate to take up some full time war work – that and my House Parties and Tipperary Room. I can find someone to take them over from me, but I shudder to think that I shall, in effect, be personally sending some man to France … It’s good of you to think of me, Lamps,’ she added, smiling up at her brother and using his old nickname, from the thick-lensed spectacles he had always had to wear. ‘But I have made up my mind to apply for work at Rowland’s – the Shell Filling Factory.’
Her father looked at her and said, ‘That’s dangerous. They have had no accidents there, since it was converted, but there have been in other parts of the country. And Bob tells me the women suffer greatly from headaches.’
‘It’s the fumes of the TNT,’ Richard said.
Alice said, ‘Well, I feel that I must take my share of danger and discomfort – and headaches.’ She ended with a small laugh. She looked at her father, ‘I will continue to live here, but we’ll have to ask Mrs Stallings if she will be housekeeper as well as cook. … Willy will be conscripted, and Brace already has been. We can let Laura and Carrie go – they’ll have no difficulty finding other work. That’ll leave Judith and Martha to help Mrs Stallings, and Parrish as butler and houseman.’
And Wright, the chauffeur, Richard thought, and McCracken the gardener, too old to be conscripted: Dixon the under gardener had gone … all this would leave three men and three women to look after the Governor and Alice
. It would have seemed quite inadequate before the war; now, we looked at these matters very differently.
Naomi stood with her cousins, Virginia and Guy, Rowlands all. Naomi and Guy were tall and lean, the young man hawklike, the girl lithe and alert: Virginia was of average height, plump, with a heavy bosom. Naomi’s eyes were brown, Virginia’s pale grey, Guy’s mismatched – one blue, one brown. Naomi was talking animatedly, with eager gestures – ‘So I wriggled under the car … it was a Humber – and flashed my torch up into the engine to see where the oil drip was coming from. The major was on his knees beside me in the mud, calling, “Come out, miss. You shouldn’t be under there. It’s not right.” It’s not decent, either, I thought, because of course I was wearing a skirt, so I had to worry about not showing too much leg while I was rolling about under the engine. I called back, “Would you know what to look for, sir?” and he said, “Well, no, miss, but someone else might.” “There’s no one within ten miles, sir,” I said – we were in the middle of the Hartford Bridge Flats, on a side road – “This is my job.” At that moment I saw the source of the leak – a loose nut at the base of the sump, and got out my adjustable spanner and tightened it and came out – face covered with oil and grease, skirt filthy. The major said, “You know your job, miss.”’
Guy said, ‘Good show! Do all the girls in your detachment know their mechanics as well as you? After all, not many of them can have been raised in a car manufacturing family.’
