A Last Goodbye

by Dee Yates

  ‘Look, pal.’ The man did not intend to let the conversation drop. He indicated his own chest. ‘We can look after the farms. It’s what we’ve done all our lives. It’s no’ so difficult. The other… they’d no’ take us. We’re considered too old. You could go though… do your bit for king and country. There’s men much younger than you volunteering.’

  Tom looked round, but there was no one of his own age present.

  ‘That’s right, you’ll no’ find any of your pals in here today. They’ve gone outside to listen to the enrolling officer… which is where you should be.’

  Picking up his glass, Tom took another gulp and turned to go outside. Rough elbows hastened his progress to the door.

  In the warmth of the summer afternoon he breathed more easily. On the far side of the market square a crowd of people had gathered. Their numbers waxed and waned as some left to continue their errands and others, curious, joined the throng. There were men and women there, some with children at their knees. He identified several of his acquaintance among them. He could not call them pals, for he wasn’t someone who found it easy to make friends. Wandering slowly over, so as not to attract attention to himself, he caught the words of the army officer. He was explaining why all able-bodied young men, who had not already done so, were now required to join up forthwith, if the Hun were to be defeated.

  ‘It’s numbers that are important,’ he went on. ‘Let us show these bullies the overwhelming manpower that we have at our disposal. The tide is turning. Huge offensives are planned. We will soon have them on the run.’ His piercing eyes bore through each of the young men in turn. ‘Would you stay here in the comfort of your homes while others are fighting your battles for you? What would you say to your children in years to come? Would you be able to tell them that you did your part to keep your country free… or would you have to admit to your sons and daughters that you took the coward’s way out?’

  The comfort of home. There was little comfort to be had there any more, Tom thought with a cynical smile. His father-in-law’s feet were well and truly under the table now and he was showing no inclination to return to his own cottage. He had known how it would be. Sympathetic to his father-in-law’s illness and shouldering the extra work without complaint, he nevertheless chafed at the restrictions to his private life when Duncan, now fit and well again, continued to enjoy the comforts of domesticity that Ellen lavished on him.

  Like a bad toothache, the sergeant’s words nagged at him all the long journey home. It wasn’t fair… he’d only been married four months. Hardly time to stamp his authority on the union. And then there was little Netta. He couldn’t bear to be separated from her.

  It was fortunate that he would be exempt from the new legislation by virtue of his work on the farm. But the words of the men around the bar nevertheless rankled. He knew that what they said was true. They were farm labourers through and through. They would be able to manage.

  The horse rounded the last bend of the journey home and Tom felt his body relax. He had grown to love the wide barrenness of this land. With any luck, the plans of the Water Board to flood the valley eastward would come to nothing, for the money would surely all be needed for the war effort. He decided to stay away from the town if he could. Working quietly here on the farm, his presence would be hopefully forgotten.

  Tom stabled the horse, unloaded his purchases and walked slowly up the slope to the cottage where Ellen was sitting outside in the evening sun. Her hair, long and loose, appeared to be on fire. It was a sight that never failed to arouse Tom. She was dangling the baby on her knee and laughing at her father and at a tall young man who was sitting next to him.

  ‘Tom, you know Iain Murdie from along the valley. His dad needs to borrow a can of drench from us… and, no doubt, has told him to make sure he finds out how we’ve done with the lambing!’

  Tom nodded in reply, but his face remained unsmiling. Lifting his daughter from Ellen’s lap, he kissed the baby on the top of her head and cradled her in his arms.

  ‘Iain’s got some news of his own to tell us,’ Ellen added. ‘He’s joining the army.’

  Iain shrugged his shoulders. ‘They’ve made it compulsory now for all of us, married or unmarried, unless we can claim exemption.’

  ‘He reckons they can do without him on the farm for a bit, now that lambing’s over,’ Ellen added.

  Tom stared at Iain. ‘Lambing may be over but what about drenching, shearing, markets and suchlike? Dost tha’ think they will run themselves then?’

  ‘Nay. But the two old retainers who work for my father will manage until I come back.’

  If you come back, Tom thought. Aloud he said, ‘You’ve no family, have you?’

  ‘None yet. We local lads don’t stand a chance with you all coming up from England and taking the pick of the girls!’ The young man spoke light-heartedly enough but his eyes devoured Ellen.

  ‘I better get yous some tea,’ said Ellen, jumping up.

  ‘What’s the hurry, lassie? Stay for a bit.’ Duncan put a hand on her shoulder and encouraged her to sit down again.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case I’ll need summat to put me on until dinner time. Come on, Netta, thee and me’ll go and see what we can find.’ Tom lifted his daughter skywards, which elicited from her a deep chuckle and, holding her to his shoulder, disappeared around the side of the cottage and through the open door.

  *

  ‘How long have you been friendly with that Iain Murdie then?’ Tom asked while they were preparing for bed. Ellen sat in front of the glass, brushing her hair.

  She frowned. ‘I’ve always known him. We’ve been friends since as long as I can remember… born and raised in the same valley. His mother brought him with her when she visited and we grew up playmates. I think she felt sorry for us, having no woman in the family to look after us. She used to bring us cakes and pies, and new-baked bread, before I learned to do it myself. And even then, she’d bake two loaves instead of one and Iain would drop one in on the way to school. He’s a nice lad, don’t you think?’

  ‘I can see that’s what you think.’

  Ellen glanced inquiringly at her husband. ‘I didn’t mean anything like that. He’s just a friend…’

  ‘And he better stay just a friend. Come along now to bed, lass. I’m waiting for you.’

  His wife lingered at the mirror so long that Tom, losing patience, crossed the room and swung her round towards him. In her eyes was the glint of tears.

  ‘What’s wrong, Ellen? What are you crying for?’

  ‘Because of what you said. Iain and me, we’ve grown up together and I’ll always be his friend.’

  ‘And I’m your husband… and I can see he’ll likely be carrying on as soon as my back’s turned.’

  ‘That’s nonsense and you ken it well.’ Ellen pulled her arm from Tom’s grasp and turned back to the glass.

  Anger rose through Tom’s body in an unstoppable wave. Snatching the brush from her hand, he threw it into the corner of the room and grabbed hold of his wife, pulling her to her feet. When she still resisted, he lifted his hand and slapped her across the face, rage blinding him, until the sound of the slap echoing in the shadowy room brought him abruptly to his senses. He felt the fight go out of his body and his legs give way beneath him. Flopping down onto the side of the bed, he put his head in his hands.

  Ellen stood in the middle of the bedroom, her body turned away from him, stiff with shock.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured at last. ‘I’m sorry, Ellen. I don’t know what got into me. Forgive me.’

  His wife remained silent.

  Tom let out an unsteady breath and said jerkily, ‘I’m going away. That’s why I was concerned for your safety. I don’t want owt to happen to you while I’m not here.’

  Ellen spun round, her face, apart from her burning cheek, pale. ‘What do you mean? Where are you going? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m enlisting in the army. They were there at the market today, sayin
g as how young men were needed to defeat the Hun. I decided it were the right thing to do,’ he lied.

  ‘But why didn’t you say anything earlier when we were talking about it with Iain outside?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you on your own, like, not in front of an audience.’

  ‘But what about Netta? What about me? How long will you be gone?’ Her voice rose in dismay.

  ‘I’ll be gone for as long as it takes. And as for you and t’ babby… your father’s here. You’ll manage fine wi’ out me.’

  Ellen’s reply was full of tears. ‘Och, Tom. Don’t go. I’ll miss you so badly. We’ve only been married a few months.’

  ‘Aye, but the same is true of a lot of the lads at the front. They’ve wives and bairns at home too. No, my mind is made up. The more of us enlist, the sooner the war will be over.’ Tom threw back the sheets and climbed into bed. ‘Come on now, lass. Let’s talk no more about it tonight.’

  Ellen pulled the bedclothes over them and, lying against his supine body, placed her arm protectively across his chest, his earlier attack seemingly forgotten.

  Tom lay still and listened to her breathing. His own rest was long in coming. The effect of his sudden decision swept over him, but to change his mind now would be to lose face. In no more than a few days he could be leaving his wife and child and the landscape that he loved so much for the dubious glory of serving King and Country in a foreign land.

  15

  A Lot to Be Thankful For

  As the line of men stepped out of the carriage into the slanting rain, each of them in turn lifted his eyes and scanned the panorama. A small huddle of villagers at the far end of the platform watched in silence. A child broke the spell by asking his mother whether they had come to stay and, if so, would any of them like to stay in their house because there was plenty of room, now that father had gone off to the war. His mother shushed him, took hold of his arm and pulled him, none too gently, towards her.

  The crowd of visitors grew as the carriage disgorged its contents. Some, in the uniform of British soldiers, spilled from the same carriage and from the adjacent one and began to round up their fellow travellers, as though they were unruly cattle. In truth, they needed little coaxing. From the ticket office, the stationmaster emerged, followed by three dark-suited, self-important, bowler-hatted bureaucrats, who spoke in mumbled undertones with the army officials. A few clipped commands were given and the visitors marched up the steep path from the station. There, a further group of villagers were waiting to see the spectacle. They shrank back as the line approached, as though afraid of attack or contagion, or perhaps both.

  They were a strange collection of men. Some wore uniform, though tattered and piecemeal now. Whatever they lacked was supplemented by rough jackets or jumpers. Most were bare-headed, though a few wore square navy berets, stiff with salt. Several of the men glanced at the onlookers. One or two of them smiled at the children gathered around their parents’ knees and received a hesitant smile in return before the inevitable reprimand to ‘pay nae heed to the enemy’.

  One of the prisoners stopped when he reached the summit of the incline and surveyed the view. He was, like many of the others, a young man, not long out of teenage years, of slim build, with close-cut curly brown hair. He wore a bedraggled uniform of dark blue, stained white with salt, but his head was bare. His pale blue eyes scanned the rounded hills, whose contours made up the horizon and where the bareness was broken only by sheep dotted on the grass. From his mouth escaped a deep sigh.

  ‘Yes,’ an older prisoner at his shoulder muttered. ‘It is a desolate place, is it not? I would rather we were back in the huts with our memories and our dreams… not in this harsh countryside… gottverlassen, is it not?’ He laughed tonelessly.

  The younger man regarded him with surprise. ‘This land reminds me of my homeland. It is very like… Only at home, I think, we have more trees. The air is the same, clean and sweet.’ He inhaled deeply but the sudden intake of breath caused a spasm of coughing and he failed to hear his fellow prisoner’s reply.

  ‘Move along! Keep in line! Stop talking!’ An army officer had approached from behind and nudged the young man’s shoulder with the butt of his gun. The prisoner began to walk again, keeping his eyes on the view ahead.

  ‘That is a troublesome cough,’ the older man resumed, when the soldier had dropped back again. ‘How is it you were able to enlist? They should allow you to see a doctor.’

  ‘I have been always in good health until now. This I got from being in the sea with oil spilled from the U-boat. I must have taken some into my lungs. I… I don’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Poor bastard,’ the other murmured and then said more loudly, ‘You were lucky to survive. Perhaps the fresh air of the countryside is what you need then. Though, for my part, I would rather have the city.’

  The line of men had crossed a narrow bridge that spanned a river, and from the bridge a footpath led across a low-lying field of lush pasture to join a country road. This they followed as it took them away from the village and into the heart of the valley. The rain that had accompanied their journey thus far showed no sign of abating. At least they could be thankful that the westerly wind meant that it was behind them, rather than lashing their faces.

  Josef Kessler, his spasm of coughing at an end, looked around him with increasing interest. The track ran along the valley side, and down below there was a chattering stream and a noisy collection of birds. Rounding a bend in the road, he could see in the distance a scattering of farm buildings. Behind them, pines clothed the deep channel between two hills and marked the path of a tributary that ran down to the valley floor and wound across to join the river near a small bridge. This, it appeared, was the single access to the farm beyond.

  The party of men snaked its way into the valley, resisting attempts by their captors to hurry them along. The enfeebled state of several of their number in any case made this impossible. Eventually they drew level with the farm and Josef could see it more clearly now. A substantial grey building, almost certainly the farmhouse, stood, with its backdrop of dark pines, in a cleft in the hills. A short distance away two stone cottages hunkered down on the valley side, as if to escape the force of the elements. So engrossed was he in contemplation of the farm that he failed to hear the commands from the front of the line and collided with the man in front of him.

  ‘Watch where you’re going.’ The prisoner swung round and two squinty eyes glared at him. ‘Oh, it’s you, Kessler. Don’t you ever stop your daydreaming?’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Once we have spent some time out here, you will not be dreaming, nicht war?’

  ‘Are we to stay here? I see no accommodation,’ Josef replied. ‘Do you know then what they plan to do with us?’

  ‘No, Dummkopf, but I see no signs that they are planning a picnic. More likely they intend to use our bodies, though what use yours will be I don’t know.’ His eyes ran slowly down Josef’s thin figure before returning to his face, where they gave him an insolent stare. ‘So, Music Boy, you better get used to it.’

  The rain still slanted eastward through the valley and Josef shivered as he felt the dampness beginning to seep through to his undergarments. In better weather, he thought, they might be relaxing in the grassy meadow at the side of the road or sunning themselves on the lower slopes of the hill that ran down to the road on its other side. Instead, they stood like the sheep, their backs to the worst of the weather.

  Presently, the sound of motors could be heard and the men turned their combined gaze to see a line of trucks approaching. Further orders were shouted for the men to unload the trucks and Josef’s spirits fell as he helped to lift onto the grass the unwieldy boxes and canvas packages. Here in this beautiful but wild and wet place, they were to set up camp.

  That night they shivered on their straw mattresses after taking several hours to erect the tents. They were large, each sleeping eight men. The acreage of suitable flat land not liable to turn to bog was small and the po
sitioning of the camp needed careful planning. To a man they were soaked through and their uniforms now hung from lines draped above them, imparting a musty odour to the damp air.

  Josef stared into the darkness above his head. He was thinking of his family. Had they received his letter, telling them of the sinking of their submarine and his subsequent rescue? He had written twice since but had no way of knowing whether the letters had reached their destination. Certainly, there had been no correspondence from any of the family since spring, when the boat was last docked. At that time, he had opened letters from his mother and his sister.

  His sister Eva’s letter had been full of news of her friends. She wrote of Marthe, the girl whom his parents hoped he would marry and with whom they had been carrying out hesitant negotiations in an attempt to interest Marthe’s family in an alliance. And she described the concerts in which she herself had recently taken part. Her news made him yearn to be home, sharing with her their mutual love of music. Would his expertise on the piano still be as sought after when he eventually returned?

  But how much worse things could be, he considered, and the thought dispersed some of the misery of the day. True, he was a prisoner of war. But how many of his countrymen now occupied a watery grave? How many more lay unburied and rotting in the French mud? He wasn’t sure, but those of his fellow prisoners who knew a little English told him that their captors boasted of thousands of deaths at their hands. Yes, he had a lot to be thankful for. And the war could not last forever. Here, at least, he was safe.

  *

  When he emerged blinking and stiff in the early light, Josef gasped. It was beautiful. There was no trace of the rain of the previous day, save for wispy shreds of mist encircling the highest hills and snared on the pine branches behind the farm. The air was new-washed and full of the cry of birds, none of which he recognised. As he stood absorbing the scene across the valley, gold began to flow smoothly down from the summit of the hills. Slowly and silently it poured into the lower pastures, where it spread out to engulf the fields, the farmhouse and their occupants. Captivated, he continued to stare at the scene and strands of music came into his head… music that he had played so often on his piano in front of an appreciative audience.