My Father, My Son

by My Father, My Son (retail) (epub)

  This she did, but the answer was not particularly enlightening. ‘It’s a sin for a married man to “know” another woman,’ said Miss Halford.

  ‘But my father knows lots of ladies besides my mother,’ replied the confused child.

  And the teacher, not being conversant with the Hazelwoods’ ‘problem’, had laughed simperingly and tried to make herself more clear, but instead made it all the more perplexing. One small fact that did emerge from the conversation was that it was a sin for a child to be born out of wedlock and Rowena, recalling that her father had said he ‘wasn’t actually married to Charlie’s mother’, finally began to understand.

  ‘Did you find out?’ enquired an impatient Charlie when she arrived home that evening.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she mouthed quietly.

  Becky overheard. ‘Tell him what? What have you found out?’

  ‘Don’t be so nosy,’ answered her sister. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’ And, though pressed, she refused to reveal anything until she and Charlie were up in the attic. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got some bad news for you, Charlie.’ She played with her fingers. ‘We were right about the Commandment. My father committed a sin with your mother… I’m afraid it makes you a sort of sin too, because you were born out of wedlock.’

  ‘And is that why my mother’s a harlot?’ The brown face was solemn.

  Rowena shrugged. ‘Must be.’

  ‘Mary Magdalene was a harlot, wasn’t she?’ Charlie probed his lip. His companion said she didn’t know. ‘Yes… yes. I think so. And Jesus loved her, didn’t he? So it can’t be all that bad, can it?’

  ‘I’m sure your mother was very nice,’ comforted Rowena. ‘And Father must have thought she was, mustn’t he?’

  They fell silent.

  Becky decided she wasn’t going to hear any more and crept back down the stairs. But she had heard enough: their father had left them because he was a sinner.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The order had come. On the ship that was to take them to France, there was great exhilaration from all but Russ. While those with families to see them off were waving, blowing kisses at the quay and generally making exhibitions of themselves, the Lance-Sergeant was leaning over the starboard rail, looking out across the uninviting grey water. What lay out there for Russ? An autumn wind roared in from the sea, trying to rip the tarpaulins from the lifeboats, shoving itself under the peak of his cap, teasing his ears. Every now and then an extra strong blast would succeed in pushing him from the rail. Russ narrowed his eyes against its force, wondering involuntarily what his own family was doing. Bertie would be at his new school now and Charlie would be gone. ‘He’ll never be gone!’ he heard his wife cry again. ‘Because he’ll always be up here, staring out at me, reminding me how little you thought of our marriage!’

  He heard laughing. Not that incessant tide of banter from the other side of the ship, but a nearer, more furtive sound. He turned, but saw nothing and duly brought his face back to the wind and the sea, his thoughts blending with the waves. Shortly, though, the snigger came again. Vexed, Russ pushed himself from the iron rail and went to investigate. At his footfall, there was the sound of hasty scrabbling. ‘Well, if it isn’t those refined duettists, Wheatley and Dobson!’ cried Russ as he rounded upon the culprits. ‘And what bit of skulbuggery have we here?’

  ‘Nothing, Sergeant,’ replied an angelic-looking private, flustered hands trying to push something back into his pocket.

  ‘Nothing?’ Russ stepped behind the shelter of the lifeboat, at once cutting off the blast of wind. He circled the pair. ‘Didn’t sound like nothing to me, Wheatley.’ The two were from his own platoon. During his retraining Russ had singled out the mischief-makers – to which group these two belonged.

  ‘We were just talking about France, Sergeant,’ supplied the other soldier in broad Yorkshire accent. He was a more pugnacious-looking character altogether, with dark hair, a broken nose and the beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip.

  Russ surveyed them and gave a mental shake of head. They didn’t look much older than his own son… that brought his troubles seeping back and he was trying to staunch these. ‘And France is funny, is it, Dobson?’

  The green eyes looked up at the sky. ‘Well… no, Sergeant.’

  ‘No, Sergeant? Then I didn’t hear you sniggering?’

  ‘We weren’t actually laughing about France, Sarg.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure the bleedin’ Frogs will be delighted to hear that, Private. Then what were you actually laughing at?’ The angel and the devil swapped guilty looks. ‘Come on, out with it. What were you hiding in your pocket when I came round here?’

  ‘Nowt, Sarg, honest!’ protested Wheatley.

  ‘Then you won’t mind emptying your pockets, will you, Private?’ Russ stopped Dobson from reaching into his pocket. ‘Not you, lad – him! Come on, I’m a-waiting, Wheatley.’

  Lower jaw distorted by resignation, Wheatley dug slowly into his pocket. For the sergeant’s inspection he withdrew a handkerchief, his pay book, a box of matches and some playing cards. ‘And the rest!’ The hand was reluctantly inserted and withdrawn. ‘And what might that be, Private?’ Wheatley mumbled something and looked out to sea. Russ cupped an ear. ‘I can’t hear you, Private.’

  ‘A French letter, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant’s face was clothed with interest. ‘Oh? And for what purpose is this French letter, Wheatley?’

  ‘So’s he can write home to Mother, Sergeant.’ Dobson lost his impudent grin as Hazelwood turned wrathful eyes on him.

  ‘You seem to think this is all very hilarious, Dobson.’ Russ started to circle them again, stiff-legged, like a dog before it sinks its teeth in. ‘You think this is all gonna be a load o’ fun, don’t you? Well, stand by for a shock, we’re not off to France to plunder the female population, Private, we’re off to save them from the bloody Hun.’ He cupped his ear. ‘What are we going for?’

  ‘To save them from the bloody Hun, Sergeant,’ parroted Dobson.

  ‘Correct! So we won’t be needing that, will we, Wheatley?’

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  ‘No, Sergeant! I suppose you do know what a French letter is for, Wheatley – no more bloody cracks, Dobson, thank you very much!’

  Wheatley offered an embarrassed face and glanced at his partner for support but Dobson was looking at the sky again. ‘I think it’s what you use when you go with a woman, Sergeant.’

  Russ thumbed his chest and bent forward. ‘You think it’s what I use?’

  Wheatley shook his head rapidly. ‘No, I didn’t mean you personally, Sergeant! I meant what anybody can use when they go with a woman.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Well… just go,’ replied a discomfited Wheatley, his golden eyelashes brushing his cheek.

  ‘Oh, they do, do they? And what particular portion of their anatomy would they be using it on?’

  Wheatley glanced at Dobson again. The latter tucked his chin into his chest to hide a smirk.

  ‘Stand up straight, the pair of you!’ Both youths shot to attention. ‘Worldly little pair, aren’t we? Do you have one o’ these, Dobson?’ The private said he hadn’t. ‘Intending to borrow your mate’s after he’s had his go, were you? Just because you’ve got a bit o’ bumfluff on your lip doesn’t make you a man, you know. What would your mothers say to all this debauchery? Would she say, oh go ahead, lads, have fun?’

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t, Dobson! But you thought that now you were soldiers, now you were away from your mother’s care, you could do what you liked, didn’t you, lad? Well, let me tell you that you might have left your mother back in Blighty, but you’ve found another one here. For the duration of this scrummage I’m your mother, Dobson, and I don’t want to see no French letters being flashed about, specially by fellows that don’t know how to use ’em. Got that clear?’

  Both heads tilted backwards. ‘Yes, Sergeant!’

  ‘R
ight! Now put it away before I confiscate it.’ Russ held them with steely eyes as he reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette. Once it was lighted he relaxed against a pile of crates. Despite the dressing-down he had formed quite a liking for these two lads. In fact, there was not a man in his section whom he actually disliked.

  ‘Er, Mother,’ began Dobson as innocently as his face would allow. Then, at Russ’ narrow-eyed glare, said, ‘Well, you did say you were our mother, didn’t you, Sarg?’

  ‘Dobson,’ the name came on an exhalation of smoke, ‘you see that load what’s being winched aboard that there ship? Pretty heavy, wouldn’t you say?’ Dobson nodded. ‘How heavy – three, four tons? Make a nice mess of your shiny boots if it should happen to fall on you, wouldn’t it?’ Another nod from Dobson. Russ’ chin jutted out. ‘Well, if you’d like to know just how much of a mess, call me Mother again. I’ll be on you ten times heavier than that bloody load!’

  ‘Sar’nt!’ Dobson jerked his shoulders back.

  Russ relaxed again. ‘What did you do before you came in the Army?’ It was the first real opportunity he had had to chat with these lads, their time being taken up by hard work. Dobson replied ‘this and that’.

  ‘This and that? This and bloody that. Funny sort o’ job, wasn’t it? What firm did you work for?’

  ‘Er, well… it wasn’t really a firm,’ evaded Dobson. ‘I just sort of had the one master.’

  ‘In service, then?’

  ‘You could say.’

  Russ voiced a theory, taking a thoughtful puff. ‘I expect there’ll be a hundred lines waiting for you over this little escapade when you get back.’ He saw Wheatley bite his freckled lip, and leaned towards Dobson. ‘Aye, I’m not so green as I’m cabbage-looking, Private!’

  ‘You won’t tell, will you, Sarg?’ The green eyes were anxious.

  ‘Bit bloody late for that now, isn’t it? Anyway,’ Russ added grudgingly, ‘you won’t be the first to lie about your age.’ He spat a strand of tobacco from his tongue. ‘How old are you, then?’

  Dobson replied, ‘Fifteen… well, nearly.’ He was still lying. ‘It’s my birthday soon.’

  ‘Oh well, I’d better telegraph ahead and get the Hun to arrange a party for you.’ Russ wondered at the mentality of the recruiting sergeant who had accepted Dobson’s word. ‘That was nineteen, you said, wasn’t it, Dobson? Just signed on for the duration, have you?’

  ‘No, Sarg.’ Dobson’s chest swelled. ‘I’m a regular.’

  ‘A regular silly sod. What about you, Wheatley, you playing truant an’ all?’

  The angle of Wheatley’s pale eyebrows showed he was offended. ‘No, Sarg! I’m nineteen… in a couple o’ weeks.’ He certainly didn’t look it.

  ‘Oh, both birthday boys, are we?’ The sergeant’s expression became derogatory. ‘You bloody mugs! What did you want to join the Army for, eh?’

  Puzzlement from both boys. ‘It’s exciting,’ said Dobson.

  Russ gave a bitter laugh. ‘Aye, it should be that all right.’

  ‘What you in the Army for then, Sarg, if it’s that bad?’ demanded Dobson.

  ‘For some of us, lad,’ sighed Russ, ‘what’s over there,’ he nodded out to sea, ‘is preferable to what’s back there,’ a landwards gesture.

  Wheatley gave his reason for being here. ‘I know the Hun’s only in Europe at the moment, but if we don’t stop him he’ll be over the Channel and doing to our mothers what he’s done to the Belgian women. Us British have a duty to put him back in his place.’

  ‘A very noble sentiment, Private,’ said Russ. ‘Isn’t anybody here to wave you patriots off?’

  A shake of the head from Dobson. ‘Me mam doesn’t even know I’m here.’

  ‘You little… don’t tell me you’ve run away from home an’ all?’

  Hastily, Dobson explained. ‘I’ve written her a letter and posted it here. If she’d known where I was before she would’ve dragged me off home.’

  ‘I should think she bloody well would! How d’you manage to hide for two months and not be found out?’ Dobson said he’d been lucky, making the sergeant laugh out loud. ‘So now you think it’ll be too late for her to do anything about it, you deign to let her know you haven’t been murdered. What about your mam, Wheatley?’

  ‘Oh, she knows I’m here, Sarg. But she didn’t want to come and see me off, said she’d only cry.’ A grin for his pal.

  Russ placed a fatherly hand on Wheatley’s shoulder. ‘Don’t be too quick to mock, lad. Some of us would be very grateful for someone to cry over us.’

  * * *

  Bertie had once watched a blackbird scuffle its wings over an ants’ nest, stirring the creatures up in order to have them swarm over it and so rid the bird of its parasites. Mother was like that, he thought now, watching her wring her hands and flap her arms, stirring her family into a frenzy in the hope that they would provide an answer to her problems.

  ‘What will I do? Oh, what will I do!’ Rachel flopped onto a chair and leaned her elbows on the table, still wringing her hands. ‘I’ve a dozen people waiting for hats, how am I ever going to finish them with the shop to look after?’ She had just received word that Russ’ young assistant was also to desert her for the war.

  Rowena tried to offer her services. ‘I could help you to sew the hats. There’s no school today.’ It was Saturday. ‘I’m very neat.’

  ‘It needs an expert, Rowena,’ replied her mother ungraciously and began to pile the breakfast pots. ‘Oh, I suppose I shall be up till midnight stitching my fingers to the bone – and all because of your father!’

  And that wasn’t the only problem Russ had left her. After receiving the priest’s letter, she had gone to visit the woman from the NSPCC with the intention of confessing that Charlie was still here. Mrs Ingram, snowed under with new cases and not a little impatient at being disturbed, had seemed surprised to see her and before Rachel could speak had announced, ‘Mr Hazelwood did tell me that Charlie had returned to Africa earlier than expected.’

  Rachel had stammered, ‘Oh, did he? Good… I wasn’t sure if he’d been in touch, what with this war and everything… I just thought I’d come and see.’ She had apologized for delaying Mrs Ingram’s work and left hastily – and thank you, Russell, very much for making a liar of me! It was nice to learn that Charlie had been taken off the files, but there would be hell to pay if Mrs Ingram should learn he was still here. Why hadn’t Rachel told the truth? She couldn’t keep him hidden for ever. It was just one thing on top of another.

  Bertie left the others to take the role of the ants and wandered up to his room, where he fell on his bed. They probably wouldn’t even notice he had gone. The mood of profound desolation he had thought might lessen with the departure of his father had instead grown worse. In moments of inertia it would seize and torment him like a malicious terrier. In a fit of desperation, he flung himself from the bed and went to lean on the windowsill. He rubbed a hole in the condensation and peered out at the miserable day. There was nothing to watch, only wet roofs. An idle finger came up to scrawl on the misted pane, Fuzzball is a pig. He sat back on the bed to stare at his handiwork. Almost immediately, rivulets began to trickle from the lower loops of the words… like tears. Bertie lurched away and plodded blindly to his sisters’ room, where the view offered more. There was another battalion of soldiers marching to Knavesmire, which was already densely packed with lines of white tents, strings of horses and huge pieces of artillery. The horses, heads lowered against the drizzle, reminded him of his own misery. Once more he spun from the window and tried to ease his pain in movement.

  First, he paced the confined area of the girls’ room, then moved onto the landing. Biddy’s quarters offered scant occupation. He tapped his feet on the lino, fingering the few personal items that were present. Pulling back the covers of the maid’s bed, he stared down at the undersheet, then bent and filled his lungs with her smell. A pair of Biddy’s knickers were folded over the clothes horse that also held the baby’s
napkins. Dropping the covers, he ambled over to pick the knickers up, holding them open in front of him. There was a hole worn in the crotch. Bertie stuck his finger through and waggled it. He thought of the things his father had done to the black woman. The finger was withdrawn and he went to close the door.

  Unbuttoning his trousers, he held the drawers at hip level and inserted his penis through the hole. It made him feel all hot and dirty. The hole suddenly became smaller than it had been; it tightened on him. His skin prickled and he tried to pull himself out but the garment seemed to have grown attached to him. Thinking he heard footsteps he panicked and tugged the knickers free, hurting himself. After a hurried buttoning of trousers he threw the knickers back on the clothes horse and went to put his ear to the door. Then he peeped onto the landing. He had been mistaken. The guilty sweat began to cool and he took the stairs to the attic, rubbing at his crotch.

  There was only one put-up bed now. The other had been folded away – a sign of finality. Bertie stared intently at the remaining one, picturing his half-brother’s brown face on the pillow. The mood of guilt and despair was overtaken by hatred, hatred for both of them. He bunched his fist and slammed it into the pillow with all his might. He wanted to punish his father for bringing this upon him – but how, when he was no longer here? Bertie’s eyes fell on the cabinet that housed the collection of eggs, his father’s pride. Moving around the obstacles in the room, he stopped before it and lifted his arms to chest level to pull out a drawer. After an uncertain delay, he picked up one of the eggs and studied it, not really seeing an egg but his father’s reaction when he found a lifetime’s work destroyed. He saw the egg shatter on the ground, though it had not yet left his hand. His fingers closed gently around it, felt its fragility. The merest increase in pressure would begin the destruction. Having crushed one he would be unable to stop. It would be fitting retribution for his father’s treachery… but then he remembered what his father had said the day that he had turned up: ‘All these will be yours one day’. Bertie prized the collection as much as his father did, and such mindless vandalism was contrary to his nature.