by Fern Britton
‘Terrible thing, this war. The war to end all wars is what they are telling us.’ He lifted his newspaper and waggled it at me. ‘So many young men gone. Heroes, the lot of them. Apart from the conchies of course.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘Cowards.’ He shook his head and tutted. ‘They’re all right, Jack. They never had to face the enemy, did they? No. And what’s happened? We have lost a generation. All those brave lads. The brightest and the best, all gone.’
My fingers tightened around my bag, rubbing the weft of the velvet. I’d heard all of this before. People spouting off about stuff of which they had no experience. Patting my hand. Telling me how proud of Bertie I must be. I had wanted to scream at all of them. Shout at them, ‘Of course I am proud of him, you fools.’
I felt the unbidden anger raging in me again and I gripped my hands into two bony fists, hoping to gain control over the violence within me.
The man kept going. ‘We won, though, and that’s the important thing.’
‘Please, don’t,’ I said loudly, surprising myself with the vehemence in my voice.
He stopped smiling and looked at me in astonishment.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Don’t talk about the war? I was only making conversation,’ he said. ‘Being civil. I told my wife, I blame the suffragettes. Young women have forgotten how to make pleasant conversation. All that driving ambulances and thinking they can do a man’s job …’ He stopped abruptly, a thought dawning on him. He nodded slowly, ‘Oh, I see. You’ve suffered a loss, haven’t you? Someone close? I can always tell. A lot of women have suffered. Many sweethearts left behind. I don’t suppose you’ll ever marry now. Not with all them young men gone. For ever. I feel sorry for you.’
He lit the fuse inside me and my bomb exploded. ‘How dare you. How dare you presume to talk to me in this way. You know nothing about me.’
‘All right, all right. Keep your hair on, dear. Grief, that’s what it is, love. Turned many a woman difficult, grief.’
‘Shut up. Just shut up and leave this carriage and close the damn window as you leave.’ My voice was rising in pitch and volume.
‘Crikey,’ he said, gathering his things, ‘looks like some poor bloke is better off dead than married to a fishwife like you. You’ll never get a bloke like that.’ He stood up to retrieve his hat and coat. ‘I shall find a more amiable travel companion, if that’s the way you are.’
Outside on the platform, the last door was slammed shut, a guard’s whistle blew and the train suddenly lurched forward. The man fell back almost into my lap. I pushed him off me and he fell forward onto an edge of his huge suitcase, dropping his paper as the wind was knocked from him. He scrabbled to his feet, rubbing his shoulder.
I picked up his newspaper and threw it at him. ‘I pity the poor woman who married you.’
Shaking his head at me, but keeping his lips firmly closed, he left the compartment.
Left in the peace of my carriage, I closed the window and then searched my little bag for my handkerchief, angrily wiping away hot tears as, with another jolt, the mighty train wheels, powered by coal and steam, began to pull away from the platform.
I cried tears of grief and anger on and off for a further hour or so, appalled that I should do this in a public space but glad that it deterred the few passengers still walking the train’s corridor from joining me.
And now, several long hours later, I was finally crossing Brunel’s great iron bridge, the Royal Albert, taking me over the river Tamar, from Devon into Cornwall.
Chapter Two
Clara, Callyzion
December 1918
I leant my head on the cold glass of the train window, drinking in the outside scenery. Bertie had described all this to me time and time again. He had insisted on reciting all the romantic names of the Cornish station stops.
‘As soon as you are over the bridge you come to Saltash. The Gateway to Cornwall.’
‘Why is it called Saltash?’ I had asked.
‘No idea. Then after Saltash it’s St Germans, Menheniot, Liskeard—’
I interrupted him. ‘I’ll never remember all those names. Just tell me where I need to get off?’
‘I’m getting to that, Miss Impatience.’ He inhaled comically and continued. ‘Saltash, St Germans, Menheniot, Liskeard and then Bodmin. I shall be waiting for you at Bodmin.’
‘Will you really?’ We had been lying in the tiny bed of our Ealing home. ‘I’m not sure I have had anyone wait for me anywhere before.’
‘What sort of blighter would I be if I didn’t pick up my beloved fiancée after she’s travelled all that way to see me?’
‘You’d be a very bad blighter indeed.’ I smiled.
He held me closer, dropping a kiss onto my head. ‘I can’t wait for you to meet my family. Father will adore you. Mother too, or though she may not show it at first, she’s always cautious of new people. But Amy and you will be great friends. She’s always wanted a sister. Brother Ernest can be a pompous ass but he’s not a bad egg.’
‘It’ll be wonderful to feel part of a family again.’
‘You are the bravest person I have ever met.’ He squeezed me tightly, his arms encircling me. ‘My stoic little squirrel.’
At this point, I am sorry to say I had already told a few lies to Bertie about my upbringing. Needs must sometimes. ‘My parents were wonderful,’ I fibbed, ‘and I miss them every day, but I feel they would be very happy for me now.’ Shameless, I know.
‘Do you think they’d approve of me?’ he asked.
‘Oh Bertie,’ I smiled, ‘they would adore you.’
The train guard was walking the corridors as he did before arriving at every station. ‘Bodmin Road. Next stop Bodmin Road.’ I readied myself to disembark.
Standing on the platform, I watched as the train chuffed away down the line and out of sight on its journey towards Penzance. The sun had set and the Cornish winter air blew gently on my skin. I took a scented lungful.
Bertie had told me that it was warm enough down here to grow palm trees. ‘You’re pulling my leg,’ I had laughed. ‘No, I’m telling the truth. We have one in our garden. I will show it to you.’
I picked up my bag and walked past the signal box painted smartly in black and white, towards the ticket office where a sign painted with the word TAXIS pointed. Even now, the half-expected hope that Bertie would be waiting for me made me breathless with longing. I imagined him running towards me. His long legs carrying him effortlessly. His strong arms collecting me up easily, lifting me from the ground so that my face was above his, the look of love shining between us.
‘Excuse me, miss.’ A man with a peaked hat walked towards me. ‘Would you be Miss Carter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. You looked a bit lost on your own.’ He had a kind face but not too many teeth. ‘Welcome to Cornwall.’ He held out his hand and I shook it. He had a good handshake. Dry and strong.
‘I’m your taxi to Callyzion. Name’s Chewton. At your service. Let me take your case, miss.’
‘Oh yes. Reverend Bolitho wrote to me to explain. It’s very kind of you both.’
‘No trouble. I’ll put your case in the back and you sit up front next to me. You’ll be warmer.’
Chewton was a fountain of all local knowledge. He gave me a running commentary with potted histories of the family houses as we passed, and pointed out a couple of shops he thought I might be interested in.
‘There’s the post office and a very nice ladies’ wear shop. Won’t be as good as your London shops, mind, but you’re bound to find something pretty to suit you. Mrs Chewton told me to tell you that.’
I felt a pang of alarm. ‘Do many people know I’m coming?’
‘Oh yes. You’re the talk of the parish. Mr Herbert was loved by us all. We missed him when he was doing his rubber planting in Malaya. What a thing, eh.’ Chewton shook his head incredulously. ‘Malaya. Cor dear. He had a pet monkey, you know.’
I felt the familiarity of tears pricking the bac
k of my eyes. ‘Yes. Bingo?’
‘That’s right. Mr Herbert told me about all the tricks that monkey played. Running off with Mr Herbert’s breakfast, hiding things round the house.’
The tears tightened in my throat. ‘I wish I had met him.’
‘Ah,’ Chewton smiled, ‘you may not have met the monkey but you did meet the man.’
‘Yes.’ I swallowed hard. ‘He was a wonderful man, wasn’t he.’
‘Brave man,’ Chewton replied. ‘One of the best.’
We said nothing more to each other, sitting with our own memories.
We were out of Bodmin now and the headlights struggled in the shadowed lanes. Great tunnels of trees blocked out any starlight. I could make out small cottages, some with their lamps still lit. And as the car came to a sharp bend in the road, a white owl took off from a gatepost and flapped away, calling as it went.
At last we passed a road sign telling us that Callyzion was just one mile away. Winding our way down a steep lane, then bursting out of the darkness of another tree tunnel, we turned left at a tiny crossroads with a small village green. Upon the muddy, mole-hilled grass, a sign advertised CHRISTMAS JUMBLE SALE, CHURCH HALL, 2.00 P.M. SUNDAY.
Chewton pointed it out to me. ‘We’m raising money for our village war memorial. Mr Bertie will be on it.’
Three houses down he stopped the car. We were outside a large iron gate.
‘Here we are, miss,’ he said as he pulled on the handbrake. ‘The vicarage. Let me get the door for you.’
He carefully helped me out of the car and then lifted my case from the back seat. I searched in my velvet bag for my purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing at all, miss. The account has been settled by Miss Amy.’
I held out a shilling as a tip. ‘Please. For your trouble.’
He waved it away.
‘For the war memorial at least?’
He looked at the coin doubtfully before winning the battle in his mind. ‘Thank you, miss. Very kind. That’ll be for Mr Bertie.’ He touched the peak of his cap. ‘Have a nice stay with the vicar. He’s a lovely man.’
He drove off, waving a cheery hand, and left me standing outside the cold iron of the house’s gate. Bertie’s home lay beyond. I looked up at it. A big house. The sort I would have drawn as a little girl. A front door in the middle and, on either side, four bay windows, two up and two down.
It sat in the middle of a square garden with a hedge that seemed to go all the way around it and a path leading from the gate to the front door.
There were several neighbouring houses; all had wisps of smoke coming from their chimneys indicating the warmth inside. From the vicarage chimney there was nothing. Bertie had warned me to pack twice the usual amount of warm underwear as his parents did not like heating the house unless completely necessary.
‘Maybe when there’s ice on the inside of the windows,’ he’d told me, ‘but not before.’
I hadn’t told him that I knew all about freezing homes in bitterly long winters. I didn’t speak of my cruel beginnings to anyone. My past life was a closed book. My secret. Instead I had told him that my parents had been farmers in Kent. Hard-working but comfortably off and that I was an only child. That bit was true. The next bit was not. I told him of a tragedy that had struck when a fire in one of our oast houses had taken hold. Both my parents and one of the pickers had died trying to put it out. Fortunately, there was enough money from the sale of their farm, I told him, for me to go to a boarding school for young ladies where I had been taught extremely well by very kind women who, with care and love, had helped me to forge a new life. All a lie.
Standing outside Bertie’s home now, I was glad he would never discover the truth. What lay in front of me was a fresh chapter in my new life. A chapter without Bertie.
It was getting cold and I was shivering. I wrapped my coat tighter around me, collected up my case and opened the tall iron gate. Taking a deep breath for courage, I walked the chequered tiled path to the front door.
The navy blue paint was chipped, particularly around the letter box. I imagined the letters of condolence that had been dropped through it since the black-edged telegram had been delivered. The terrible news.
IT IS WITH THE DEEPEST REGRET … KILLED IN ACTION … GOD SAVE THE KING.
I hesitated before pulling the bell. Bertie would want me to be brave. ‘No point mooning about, old girl,’ I could hear him saying.
The bell rang deep in the house.
Inside, I imagined the two servants Bertie had talked about. Dora, the maid of all work and Cook. They would have heard the bell and been expecting me. Dora would be drying her hands on her apron, pushing the escaped strands of hair under her cap, and scurrying from the kitchen, into the chilly hall and to the front door. I thought how Cook would have told her off more than once that day. ‘Stop your jittering and jumping. She’ll be here soon enough. Finish the ironing, that’ll keep your silly brain quiet.’
And now here I was. The stranger they had been waiting for. Mr Herbert’s intended. Clara Carter. A thin, pale woman in her early twenties with hazel eyes that could be lively if they weren’t so sad.
How would Dora describe me later, downstairs behind the closed door of the kitchen?
‘The poor lamb is broken with grief. I could have hugged her there and then.’
Cook would clasp her hands over her bosom in sympathy. ‘Oh, the poor duck. What was she wearing?’
‘Black, of course. I think she had rouge on her cheeks to cheer herself up, and red lipstick too.’
‘Oh dear,’ Cook would say, ‘Mrs Bolitho won’t like that. Nor Miss Amy neither. What about her hair?’
‘Brown and crimped into a bun. And she’s so thin. There’s no meat on her.’
Cook might shake her head sadly. ‘Well, she won’t get fat in this house. Another mouth to feed on the housekeeping that Miss Amy gives me – it doesn’t go far enough as it is. What did you say to her?’
‘I says to her, “Hello, miss.” As polite as I could. “Welcome to the vicarage. Please come in.” And she says, “Thank you”, in a nice voice, and she looked around the hall while I put her case by the hat and coat stand, and then I says, “Miss Amy will be along presently.”’
She would lead me into the parlour.
‘Did you take her coat?’ Cook would ask.
‘Oh no. I asked her but she wouldn’t. Shivering with cold she was.’
Through pursed lips, Cook would say, ‘Miss Amy needs to get that fire alight and quick. Mr Herbert would be horrified to know his sweetheart is upstairs getting frostbite.’
Dora would shake her head. ‘I asked Miss Amy if she wanted it lit after lunch to warm the room up but she said …’ Perhaps Dora would suck her cheeks in and make herself a little taller to speak in a posh dismissive voice, ‘“Whatever for?”’
Cook would sniff. ‘If she doesn’t get a move on, Miss Amy is going to be a shrivelled-up old maid. What a way to greet your own brother’s fiancée. And where’s Mrs Bolitho?’
‘Lying down. It’s the stress of it all. Or that’s what Miss Amy said. If you ask me, Miss Amy is the one who’s giving Mrs B stress.’
‘Pass me the eggs,’ Cook would demand, ‘I shall bake a welcome cake. A big one. It’s the least I can do for the poor girl.’
And now, Dora came to open the door and all that I imagined became reality. She took my bag, led me to the parlour, and left me alone.
I could not stop shivering. The parlour’s bleak fireplace was swept clean. No ashes, no kindling, no box of logs at its side.
I wondered if I should take off my coat and gloves. Would it be impolite to keep them on? My gloves were covered in smuts from the train so I removed them and stuffed them into my pockets. Were there smuts on my face too? A mirror was above the mantelpiece. Speckled and so high you would have to be over six foot before you could inspect yourself. Bertie was so tall he would have been able to see himself in it. I took out my rather tear-dampened
handkerchief and rubbed at my face.
If Bertie were here he would do it for me. Bending down to make sure I looked presentable. He used to make a joke out of his height. He was at least a foot taller than me.
When we lay side by side, he would wrap his warmth around me and call me his little squirrel.
‘I mustn’t cry. I mustn’t cry. Be strong.’ I spoke into the empty room.
I put my hanky back in my bag, and felt for the cigarette case lying within. Silver and slim. Bertie had given it to me the first time he’d come home. Before he had to go back to France. We’d been walking on Ealing Common. He’d taken my hand and led me to a small bench where we sat down. ‘I have something for you.’ He’d reached inside his army tunic, pressed the little package into my hand and watched as I opened it.
‘Bertie!’ I remember turning it over in my hands, tracing the ornate engraving on the precious metal. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I laughed, ‘Now I shall have to take up smoking properly.’
‘That’s the idea. Every time you put a cigarette to your mouth,’ he said, rubbing his thumb over my lips, ‘think of me.’ He’d bent his head and kissed me.
‘I will think of you all the time,’ I said, trying not to sound too drippy but failing. ‘I will dream of you when I sleep.’
And now, here I was, standing in his house, in a room he knew so well. My knees went weak and I recognised the impending wall of grief that would floor me at any moment.
I pulled a cigarette from the case and tapped it on the lid, tamping down the loose tobacco strands as he had taught me. ‘Get a grip, old girl.’
I lit it and inhaled deeply, my lipstick staining the unfiltered end. A sense of calm filled my veins.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Bertie standing next to me; ready to introduce me to his parents.
His pride in me.
My pride in him.
His mother would be happy and welcoming. ‘You must be cold! I will get Dora to light the fire and get Cook to send up afternoon tea.’
I squeezed my eyelids tight, pushing back the inevitable tears, but my silly brain conjured up an image of Bertie as a small boy: crawling under the chenille cloth of the tea table; winding himself in the heavy, bottle-green velvet curtains; jumping from one stiff sofa to its twin, unable to dent the horsehair cushions.
