She permitted him to hug her. He took advantage, sliding his hands down her back to cup her large bottom. Still, she did not return his embrace. ‘I’ll never forget you, lass, never,’ he told her earnestly, rotating his palms around the warm flesh. ‘But you know this is the way it has to be. I couldn’t settle in your country, just as you couldn’t settle in mine, we’ve different ways of doing things. That’s why I’m wiser than to offer to take you with me, you’d never fit in – you’d hate it. But just because we’ll be apart doesn’t mean to say I’ll forget you or you’ll forget me.’
‘I will not forget.’ Moist eyes searched his. ‘I will never take another man.’
He acknowledged her remark with gratitude. The heat of her skin burnt through the thin material, making it cling damply to his palms. He rubbed them over her, pulling her against his crumpled uniform.
‘Oh, my husband!’ She held him then, pressed herself at his hard soldier’s body and wept into his chest. The knot of fuzzy hair at her crown tickled his face. ‘If you go there will be darkness always.’
‘Nay… I’d hate for you to brood,’ coaxed Russell, tearing one moist palm away to cup her face. ‘Just you think of all the happy times we’ve spent together and the sun’ll shine again. I’ll miss you terribly as well, you know.’
They stood embracing thus for some time, until the black woman heaved a shuddering sigh and said, ‘You would see your son?’
‘Oh, I would that!’ Russ donned a cheerful smile as the photograph in his breast pocket materialized before his eyes: the bald little fellow propped in the photographer’s chair, eyes and mouth round with the shock of the flash. Fifteen months ago – during a year of upset in which his wife had lost her own father and mother, the first from old age, the latter from illness – Russ’ parents had been killed in a dreadful traffic accident, for which he had been given compassionate leave. During his emotionally trying seven days at home, Russ and his wife achieved that which they had been trying for in all their five-year marriage: they had conceived a child – his son. The smile was still on Russ’ face… until he realized she was not speaking of this child. Straightening, he said kindly, ‘Aye, I’d like to see him before I go.’
His manufactured pleasure folded as she left him, displaced by guilt. She knew nothing of his wife at home, saw herself in that role – though of course there had been no ceremony. The liaison had begun two years ago soon after she had arrived in the camp with the Boer family to whom she was servant. Theirs had been one of the first groups to be brought in; thousands followed. Most of the men in Corporal Hazelwood’s battalion had complained about having to play nursemaid to women and children and being taken away from the fighting, but not Russ. A lover of female company, he had welcomed the new job – at least until he discovered the hostility it brought. He supposed it was understandable when the British were burning these people’s homes and killing their stock – but Russ had tried to impress upon the women that he wasn’t of that persuasion, had tried to be kind and sympathetic to their plight. At their rejection he had turned to her, the only one who recognized his charm… and things had just sort of happened. Henceforth, whenever he had returned from a foray with another batch of refugees she would be waiting to greet him as a wife.
He had welcomed the intermittent stays in this camp. Despite his claims of being a regular soldier and his sociability with the men, Russ preferred to shoot at targets and not people – though he had managed to get through this war without actually killing anybody. He had joined the Army in peacetime. The draper’s shop where he had worked as an assistant had been forced into liquidation and, there being a lot of unemployment around at that time, he had seen the armed forces as a means to a steady income. Then, he had been unmarried, but his immaculate turn-out had soon captured a young woman’s eye – as, indeed, her own neat and fresh presentation had attracted his. Russ saw, too, somebody who wanted to get on in life like himself. Abandoning all other flirtations, he had married her.
It had worked well. With his young wife’s natural thrift and her small inheritance they would soon be able to set up in business. Unfortunately, before his term was up, this blessed skirmish had started and Russ’ record of not having fired a shot in anger was drastically changed. Belligerence had never been one of his traits. It was common sense as opposed to bravado that had achieved his rank of corporal. This affair had frightened him badly at first. Even the old regulars declared that here was a different enemy to the ones they had faced before. The Boojer was invisible and with the new smokeless powder he used there was no way to pinpoint him even when he fired at you. There was a phut in the sand beside his boot. Answering the call for self-preservation, Russ ducked to his haunches, before realizing it was not a bullet, just a bird dropping its waste. God! He ran a hand over his slippery brow and emerged from his crouch; he was getting to be a nervous wreck. Often was the time he came out of his sleep with the boom of Long Tom rebounding in his eardrums. Thank the Lord it was all over now.
His smile reinstated itself as the woman returned bearing a chubby brown infant in the crook of her arm. He chucked the baby’s cheek with a finger. ‘Now then, young Charlie! What mischief have you been up to today?’ The brown eyes danced and the lips turned up to emit a noise of pleasure. He certainly is a canny little chap, thought the corporal regretfully. I really have grown quite attached to him… but only inasmuch as he was fond of any child. When Russ thought of his son it was the one who had been born to his wife Rachel six months ago. He could never equate that term with this one-year-old, fine as he was.
It had been the woman’s idea to name him Charles. She had wanted to call him after his soldier father but Russ, envisioning a court martial at this blatant sign of paternity, had forbidden it. However, at her hurt face he had grudgingly proffered his second name and she had accepted that. They had managed to keep it quiet so far – from the authorities, if not Daw – but once the child was able to talk it might be a little harder. He could just imagine his commanding officer’s face if a little piccaninny was running around calling one of the NCOs ‘Daddy’.
Russ looked down at the woman’s moon face, recalling the excitement of that first night: sidling past the sentry, creeping back hours later and trying not to waken his tentmates. Just looking at her could inspire the same illicit tingle. It conjured, too, his mother’s voice the time he had sneaked down before time one Christmas morning and opened all the presents round the tree including those that weren’t his: ‘Oh, Russell, you naughty boy!’
‘God, I wish I wasn’t going!’ The words were expelled as a warm rush into her ear, and for that brief second he meant them – not that she was in any way pretty or even good looking… apart from her antelope eyes and inviting bottom. But she had provided him with the comfort he had needed and for that he owed her some affection, and Russ, whilst irresponsible and disloyal, was a very affectionate sort.
‘What is to become of your son?’
Again the little bald fellow was the first to manifest himself. Russ looked at the pair before him. He didn’t love them, it would be too deceitful to state that, but he did owe them something. In fact, what he was about to offer was not a spontaneous gesture; ever since being informed that the battalion was going home, Russ had been wondering how he could provide for them. ‘You know Father Guillaume, who calls to bring relief to the vrouws?’ She nodded gravely. ‘I’ve spoken with him, told him about you and the boy.’ Not who had fathered him, naturally, but it hadn’t been too difficult for the priest to guess – why else would a British Tommy offer to pay for a child’s upkeep and education? But there had been no vocal condemnation, only a brief spark of disapproval in the blue eye. ‘He’s agreed for you to live at the mission. You’ll work as his servant. It’ll be no different to what you’re used to – well I expect it might, ’cause you weren’t very well treated by this lot, were you?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the Boer women. ‘I’ve told him I’ll send some money every month to pay for Charli
e’s schooling.’ Just how he would do that without Rachel noticing he hadn’t worked out yet, but he would keep his promise. ‘He’ll get a good education there and you’ll be well looked after too.’ He put his head to one side. ‘Well, what have you to say to that?’
‘I will do as you wish,’ came the obedient response.
How could he have expected enthusiasm? ‘Good – and see that Charlie here doesn’t skip his lessons. Tell him I expect him to make more of himself than his father did.’
She gripped his arm and answered earnestly, ‘I will tell him what a fine soldier his father is and teach him to be proud of you.’ The baby between them, she leaned her woolly head on his shoulder to be hugged comfortingly. ‘How many years before the Army allows you to return to us?’
He realized with a start that she still didn’t understand the finality of this. Curbing the pang of unease, he kissed her to expunge some of his guilt. ‘I’m not sure… but you know I’ll always be with you in thought.’ He spent a moment wondering why God had taken all the hundreds of Boer children with measles, scarlet fever, dysentry and chosen to let this little Kaffir flourish. It seemed wrong somehow, when he’d been a mistake in the first place. Baby fingers worked at his tunic buttons.
The woman raised her head. ‘We must say goodbye now?’
‘There’s no rush,’ he soothed. ‘We’ll have one more night.’
‘I shall wait for you.’ Detaching the child’s hand from the buttons, she pulled away, stared him full in his eyes for long seconds… then she was gone.
Chapter Two
When the ship carrying the 1st battalion, the King’s Own Yorkshire North Riding regiment – or KOYNeRs as they were known in the ranks – docked at Portsmouth, there was no flag-waving for the homecoming heroes, no brass band playing ‘Rule Britannia’, no pretty girls handing out roses. Eight months earlier the quay would have been thronged with people all cheering and weeping jingoistic tears; today only a handful of shivering relatives mingled with the dockworkers as the troopship edged into harbour.
The sergeant replied to this acerbic observation from his corporal as both relaxed over the rail of the ship, watching the quay move nearer. ‘I’m bloody glad. I couldn’t stomach all that palaver.’
Russ shifted his weight to his other leg and shrugged himself further into his tunic against the cold. ‘Oh, I don’t know… a bit of celebration wouldn’t’ve gone amiss – helped me to feel that this lot really is over.’ It was going to be difficult to adapt to home service again.
Daw agreed. ‘Aye, it’s a funny thing, war. One minute you’re working your trigger finger into a palsy and the next some bugger says, “Right, chaps, cease fire, war’s over”. It’s a bit hard tapping the old juices in midstream. I see something move out o’ the corner o’ my eye and I tend to want to blow its head off.’
Russ formed an irreverent grin. ‘To be hoped our Rachel hasn’t set a trend in Boer headgear, then.’ His wife, an expert and innovatory milliner, made hats for the whole neighbourhood.
‘Will she be here?’ asked Daw. Mooring lines were snaking through the air to the quay where they were caught and attached to thicker ropes.
‘Shouldn’t think so. I did scribble a few lines when we got our marching orders but even if my letter’s arrived she’ll be too busy getting the house clean and tidy for my homecoming. What about Ella?’ Arabella, Jack’s wife.
The sergeant shook his closely cropped head. His ears were bright red with the drop in temperature. ‘She’ll probably be round at her mother’s – doesn’t know I’m coming.’
Daw was wrong in part. When he and Hazelwood turned into the York street in which they lived, both women were outside their respective houses. It was Arabella who spotted them first, being no more occupied than chatting to her neighbour. The men saw her lips move, at which, the slim person in the brown, fur-trimmed coat looked up from pruning her roses and by the time they had taken three more strides was running up the terrace to fling herself into Russell’s arms.
‘I wasn’t expecting you so soon! I only got your letter this morning – ooh, let me look at you!’ She laughed delightedly, planted a smacking kiss on his cheek and unhooked herself from his neck to accept the flowers he had bought on the way home. ‘Oh, how lovely – but you shouldn’t have!’ She thrust her face into the bouquet, then straight away began to tug his uniform into place, patting and dusting. ‘Look at you! What’ve you been doing to get in this state?’ Yet more tugging.
‘Well, they tell me I’ve been fighting a war.’ Russ grinned and repositioned the hat that had been knocked lopsided with her onslaught. He was as pleased to see her as she was to see him. Using his hands to belt her waist, he commented on how she had managed to keep her slender proportions. The only indication that she had been through pregnancy was the softening of her face. His hands moved up to cradle her cheeks. ‘Even bonnier than I left you. You’re a bit pale though, lass.’
‘Bound to be after what you’ve been used to,’ offered Jack, making the other’s skin prickle – then added innocently at the taut expression, ‘I mean, anyone would seem pale alongside those sun-bronzed mitts, wouldn’t they?’
Russ looked at his hands against his wife’s fair skin and exclaimed, ‘Oh… oh, aye!’ Yet felt a twitch of ire, knowing very well that this was not what Daw had meant at all.
Arabella had arrived to greet her own husband, though in less boisterous fashion. There was no bouquet here; she knew Jack too well to expect one. After a fond hug and a kiss, she linked her arm through his and tossed an amused expression at Russ, who was being pulled towards his house with a hasty, ‘So long!’ over his shoulder.
‘By, it’s grand to be home!’ Russ paused at the gate to run his eyes from roof to foundation. Though the upper storey had only a sash window, the ground floor was set off by a large bay. Picked out in grey brick against the red, it looked very elegant; the reason his wife had selected it. The front door was painted dark blue and had a letterbox and knob of brass which sparkled even on this overcast day. Between door and gate was a small strip of garden. The row of houses formed part of a longer crescent which, bisected by another road, seemed more like two separate streets. There were no houses opposite, though the splendid view this might have given them was marred by an ugly sleeper fence. Looking over his shoulder, Russ snatched a final glimpse of Knavesmire before going inside.
Rachel preceded him over the threshold. Shrugging off her coat she revealed a grey ankle-length skirt and a blue knitted jacket. The blouse underneath was crisp and white with a mourning brooch at the throat, worn in memory of her parents. ‘Wipe your feet, love! I don’t want half of South Africa in my hall, we’ve just cleaned it.’ That which she grandly termed the hall was no more than a passage. She called for the maid whilst divesting Russ of his cap and tutted again at his appearance. ‘Oh dear, we’ll have to find a place for this.’ She studied the dusty kitbag as if it were a problem of world importance then said decisively, ‘It can go in the coalhole until you go – ah, Nancy!’ A maid had appeared by the door of the back room. ‘This is Mr Hazelwood. He’s had a long journey and I’m sure he’d welcome a cup of tea.’
‘Aye, I would that.’ Russ’ face had lit up, though not entirely at the thought of tea; the maid was a comely sort, bonnier than the one who had been here on his previous leave. He questioned the latter’s absence as Nancy retreated, taking the flowers with her.
‘Oh, I had to dismiss her, Russ,’ Rachel informed him seriously. ‘She was much too lax – ooh, come on, it’s chilly stood here! Let’s go where it’s warm.’ She moved off. ‘We’ll take our tea in the kitchen, I think, we can’t have you dustying up all my best upholstery. Then afterwards Nancy’ll draw you a bath.’
Same old Rachel. Russ smiled as he followed her to where Nancy busied herself with the brewing of tea; it wouldn’t do to go untidying the best sofa by putting bodies on it. Funny, how he had said same old Rachel, for she was only twenty-eight, the same as himself. It was just t
he way she bustled about organizing – or rather disorganizing – folk with her old-fashioned attitude that made him think of her that way. Before taking his kitbag into the yard, he had reached into it for the present he had brought her. Rachel held the carved wooden bust of an African woman this way and that, remarking on its oddity, then placed it on the mantel. After which, she clapped both delicately boned hands to his face and pressed her lips to his, just to emphasize her gladness at his return.
When he came in from the back yard he seated himself at the table and tried to insert his request, which was difficult as she kept chattering away excitedly. One could liken Rachel to a flea – though she herself would have found this a most distasteful analogy – one minute she was sitting in a chair, the next she was in a totally different part of the room, putting some ornament into position or straightening a picture that to anyone else would seem straight already. There she was at the mirror, patting her chignoned, honey-brown hair into place, though not one strand had escaped from the pins inserted this morning. After a final pluck of the curls on her brow she began to fuss over something else. She was extremely thin – no wonder; her fuel intake was expended on nervous energy before it ever had the chance to manufacture flesh. Her chocolate-drop eyes were always darting about in the way of nervous folk. She had piquant features and a pretty mouth that was forever spilling words, but the sentences had little depth, for Rachel, though pleasant and friendly, was an empty-headed creature.
My Father, My Son Page 2
