‘No we bloody well won’t,’ returned Hazelwood. ‘I’m staying well away. And if you take my advice you won’t take Strawbridge and his camera either, else you’ll all be candidates for blackmail.’ Dobson wailed his protest.
‘I’ve given my advice,’ said Russ airily. ‘If you want to waste your brass that’s up to you.’ He consumed the last of his beer and gave a summoning wave at Madame. ‘But if you catch anything nasty, don’t come weeping to me.’
With that, everyone except the sergeant rose and, with one man on either side of Dobson to act as moral – or immoral – support, they left the estaminet, laughing obscenities.
Russ glanced at Madame who hovered with her jug. He shook his head and gave one of the phrases he had picked up. ‘Vin rouge, s’il vous plaît.’ Receiving his bottle of wine, he tossed two francs onto the table and filled his glass. ‘Ah, that tastes better. Not bad stuff.’ He finished it sooner than he had the beer and refilled his glass. In his loneliness, thoughts of home returned and it was not long before he was asking for another bottle. ‘Come an’ have one wi’ me, love,’ he slurred at Madame, who did not understand. He patted the bench, pointed at her and at the bottle. ‘Away, just the two of us – you share with me.’
Grasping his meaning, she found herself a glass and allowed him to fill it. This done, he raised his own glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘A votre santé.’
After both had taken a mouthful, Russ said, ‘D’you know why I’m here?’ At her gesture of incomprehension, he added, ‘No, neither do I. What the hell must I have been thinking of… I do love her, you know.’ All the desperation flooded out. Things he could not share with any man he poured out to this foreign woman, who would not give advice, would not condemn because she could not understand him. ‘She means the world to me, her and them kids.’ He made fists of his hands. ‘Bertie… I just can’t think what to do to get him speaking to me. Have you got any children, love?’ He rocked his arms as if holding a baby. ‘Compree?’
‘Ah oui, j’ai quatre enfants… ou plutôt, trois enfants. Mon fils est mort… la guerre.’ A shrug and a sip of wine.
‘I’ve got seven. Six girls and one boy.’ He stared down into his glass. The reflection of the lamp shone up at him. ‘No… I’m lying. I’ve got eight. I keep trying to pretend he isn’t there… but he is.’ He gave a snorting laugh. ‘He’s sent me a Christmas present; a packet of fags. She said I was a coward, leaving her to see to things at home.’ His eyes beseeched the listener. ‘How can I be a coward? I’m fighting a war, aren’t I?’ He drank deeply and stared at the dingy wall, then gave an unhappy chuckle. ‘No… happen she’s right. I only came here as a way of escape. Sounds bloody daft, doesn’t it? Oh, pardon my French. It’s just that I couldn’t bear to be in that house any longer with the way they kept looking at me… as if they hated me. I kept trying to tell her it meant nothing, that affair. It was just… well, you know what it’s like when you’re away from home. But I can’t put it into words, how I feel about her. Sometimes… sometimes I could bloody cry…’ He snatched a drink, almost biting through the glass. ‘It’s like,’ he thrust his fist under his breastbone, ‘a lump here that won’t go up nor down, like it’s eating me away from the inside.’ He looked at the woman again. ‘You think I’m bloody mad, don’t you? Maybe I am.’
He said no more, confining his attentions to the bottle. The others returned half an hour later, still laughing heartily at the revoltingly ugly woman who had answered their knock and had peppered their backs with French curses when Dobson – virgo intacta – had led the hasty retreat. But the sergeant was too far gone to share the joke. He was lying, as he had fallen, with his back on the floor and his knees still hooked over the bench, temporarily dead to the world.
* * *
On Christmas night it was back to the Flanders trenches where, under cover of darkness, the changeover took place. A sergeant from another battalion spoke to Russ before he left. ‘Pukka time we’ve had today, mate.’ Hazelwood took this to be facetious and made a rude comment, slopping about in the mud to keep his feet warm.
‘No, I mean it! We’ve been playing football.’
The slopping ceased. ‘What!’
‘It’s bloody right!’ said the man on a laugh. ‘There’s been a truce most of today. Look!’ He delved into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. ‘This is Freidrich and this…’
‘Fuck me,’ breathed Russ.
The other man’s hands fell to his trouser buttons, voice furtive. ‘Is there anybody looking?’ Then he pointed to the photo again. ‘This is his wife and kids. I always thought German women were built like prizefighters but she’s a bonny little thing, isn’t she?’
‘You mean, while we’ve been getting ourselves poisoned on French beer you’ve been having a bloody party?’ bawled Russ. ‘I don’t believe it! It’s that bloody wine making me hear things.’
The other sergeant filed the picture in his tunic and patted it. ‘It’s all over now, of course.’
‘Oh aye, it would be now muggins is back! Eh! Have you buggers heard this?’ he called to his men. ‘Been having a Christmas party in our absence.’
His informant chuckled and, with his company, departed. With twisted mouth, Russ gave his platoon orders as shells began to fall more copiously and bullets zapped into the sandbagged parapet. ‘Any bugger know what time it is?’
‘Dead on midnight, Sergeant!’ It was Daw who called the answer. ‘It’s now officially Boxing Day.’
Simultaneously there was a huge explosion in the direction that the other company had just taken. Comparative silence for a moment… then dreadful shrieks of wounded men. ‘Ah well.’ Russ gave an ironic sigh, belying his inner revulsion. ‘All over for another year.’
Chapter Twenty-two
It was March and the war that was supposed to have been over by Christmas was still on. Yet, there remained an air of optimism on the streets of York. People were still saying, ‘We’ll soon have them beaten.’ Outside the recruiting offices, young men still queued to join the Big Adventure. To those at home, the war seemed far away and little to do with them. The folk in the Hazelwood residence were no different. Although they often thought of Russ, they had grown used to his absence.
Bertie was now fully acclimatized to his new school and though he still showed animosity towards his half-brother it took the form of cold shoulders rather than open warfare. Rachel had recovered from her initial panic and was managing, if a mite haphazardly, to run both shop and household. With all this to occupy her head, she had little thought to spare for her errant spouse. Only when his letters arrived did the old anger boil up again… as this morning.
She turned from setting the breakfast table as Rowena dashed in with a handful of mail. Normally she made a point of getting to the letterbox first, but somehow today the child had beaten her to it. It just had to be the day when her husband had chosen to write.
‘Rhona’s got lots of cards!’ breathed Rowena excitedly. It was her sister’s fourth birthday. ‘And look! I think this is a letter from Father – at last!’ She pressed it into her mother’s hands and waited eagerly.
But instead of opening it, her mother just stood and looked at her, turning the envelope in her hands. Then, calmly, she placed it on the fire.
Rowena’s expectancy gave way to a cry of alarm as the envelope turned brown.
‘It’s as well that you know.’ Rachel studied the devastated face for a second, then turned back to her task of laying the table.
Rowena couldn’t speak. She watched the letter flare and shrivel, then turned a horrified face on Biddy, who grimaced and stirred at a pan on the range. ‘Have you… have you been burning all of Father’s letters?’ The child’s voice was barely audible.
‘Yes.’ Rachel finished setting the cutlery out and laid the cards at Rhona’s place.
‘Don’t you love him any more?’
‘That’s rather a silly question, not to mention impertinent! Your father was the one
to leave us, if you recall.’
Rowena thought about this. Then said, ‘If you don’t want his letters, would I be allowed to read them? I promise I won’t tell the oth—’
‘You most certainly would not! Any correspondence between your father and me is a private affair and if I choose not to read it then that is a private affair too!’
‘Sorry…’ Rowena traced a pattern on the carpet with her toe. ‘Did you burn the birthday cards he sent for us too?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it! The fact of the matter is that your father didn’t even bother to send any – now go and call the others down to breakfast!’
Rowena tried not to let her sisters see how upset she was and joined in the rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ for Rhona’s sake. After the song, Rhona opened her cards and presents.
‘Is there anything from Father?’ Lyn knelt on her chair and craned her neck eagerly. Rowena, who had been reading them out to her little sister, murmured a no. ‘Good!’ said Lyn and sat properly on the chair. ‘Well, he never sent me one, did he?’ she said at Rhona’s scowl.
‘He never sent any of us,’ said Rowena. ‘You can’t expect him to when he’s fighting in a war.’ She chanced a look at her mother, who said nothing.
‘When’s your birthday, Charlie?’ asked Becky.
‘February.’ He took a piece of toast and spread marmalade on it.
‘Aw, we’ve missed it!’ Becky touched his hand, but at Bertie’s glower removed her fingers. ‘I’m ever so sorry. Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘It would’ve looked like I was asking for presents,’ said Charlie.
‘No, it wouldn’t. You could’ve had a party, couldn’t he, Wena?’
‘Never mind,’ answered her sister. ‘We know now. We’ll give him one next year.’
Rachel saw the look on her son’s face and said sharply, ‘He’ll be gone by then,’ clattering their empty bowls together. ‘Now hurry up, it’s nearly time for school.’
After the episode of the burnt letter, Rowena made sure she was about whenever the postman called, not merely to see if her mother destroyed any letters, but to try and intercept one for herself. It was almost a month before another arrived. Being Easter, there was no school, but Rowena still rose early and as she came downstairs a delivery of mail dropped onto the mat. She flew up the passage to pounce on it. A green envelope stood out among the others. She saw to her delight that it was from Russ and stuffed it into the pocket of her pinafore just as her mother came down the passage. Luckily her back was to Rachel, which hid her action, and when she turned the dimness of the passage camouflaged her blush as she handed the rest of the mail to her mother.
Rachel flicked through the envelopes and, finding nothing to offend, set them aside to read later. All through breakfast Rowena hardly dared move for fear that her mother would hear the letter crackling in her pocket. She sped through the meal, finishing well before the others and asked if she might be excused. Fortunately, Mother didn’t detect the red cheeks and she scurried up to her room to open the precious envelope.
My dear Rachel,
I hope this letter finds you and the children in good health. As ever, I cannot tell you where I am but you know my heart is with you…
How romantic, thought the child, and nibbled her fingernail.
I suppose it’s silly of me to keep writing when my letters are obviously unwelcome, but I do so in the hope that my genuine plea for your forgiveness will one day be answered. I still care very deeply for you and our children. I treasure the gifts they sent me at Christmas. Did you give them the note I sent with my last letter to you? I keep hoping they will write back to me. In between action the boredom really gets to you and a letter, however short, would be a godsend. It gets very lonely here too. It sounds funny, doesn’t it? Saying I’m lonely amid thousands of men, but I’m lonely for you, Rachel. I wish most desperately that I was there with you and Bertie and our darling girls. I know it’s a bit late for such a declaration but I do beg you to believe the sincerity of it. I hope, too, that Bertie is settled into his big school and that Charlie is no longer there to remind you of the hurt I caused you. Why didn’t the priest come for him when he was supposed to? I do wish you would write and tell me. I worry about you so much and if there’s anything I can do please let me know. I long for the day when this is all over and I can be with you to tell you in person how very sorry I am for everything I’ve done to you. I really didn’t love her, you know…
Rowena read the closing words, then folded the letter solemnly. Poor Father, one of the girls should write to him – it could only be her. But alas! when she looked on the envelope for her father’s service number there was a great smudge of mud making it indecipherable. She would have to wait until another one came – but what was she to do with this one now? She couldn’t bear to destroy it. Looking round for a hiding place, she plumped for one of the pictures on the wall. Finding some brown sticky tape in her drawer, she used it to fix the letter to the back of the frame, then replaced it on the wall. She wouldn’t tell the others that Mother had been burning the letters. Oh, if only Mother would read one, she would see the way Father felt for her. This sparked further thought: if Rowena were to intercept the next letter, she could open it and place it between the pages of the newspaper so that her mother could not help but read it – what a splendid idea!
* * *
They had been at this place called Eeprez, or Wipers as most of the men had started to call it, for over four months, being shuttled from sector to sector but used mainly as reinforcements for the front line which was in very poor shape. The trenches here were extremely shallow and had to be built up with sandbags. Tonight, the men of 5 Platoon were returning from rest billets where they had enjoyed a tepid shower, but as Dobson pointed out this seemed, ‘A total waste of time! I’m still carrying two tons of lice.’ He tried to reach the spot between his shoulder blades.
Russ answered in polite tone, ‘Yes, but at least they’re clean lice, Dobson,’ then bawled for his platoon to take up positions.
‘I wonder what sort o’ lice Fritz has.’ Dobson placed one foot on the firestep and leaned casually on his knee.
‘Eh God, the thoughts you have – same as us ’cept they itch with a German accent.’
Hours passed. Morning was sounded by the clank of the dixies bringing gunfire tea. Russ pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Beside him, Dobson offered, ‘Fancy a sandwich with your gunfire, Sarg?’
‘Where’d you get a bloody sandwi…’ Russ turned, then swung out at Dobson, who was holding out a dead rat sandwiched between two biscuits. ‘You soft little bugger!’
Dobson cackled and hurled the ‘sandwich’ up in the air, whence it was pierced by a sniper’s bullet. After this brief display of crack shooting came the normal barrage of morning hate, and later a period of calm. Russ made use of a periscope and surveyed the outside world. Things were just starting to grow. Indeed, it was a typical spring outlook: blue sky, sunshine, an exhilarating edge to the air. He saw himself strolling by the River Ouse, pushing the pram containing Rosalyn and Becky – the three youngest not yet born – and at his side walked Rachel, holding the eldest girl’s hand, her face glowing from the nippy temperature. And there was Robert, running on ahead, full of excitement, for this was his Breeching Day and he had in his pocket a bright new sixpence donated by his father… his proud father.
The day progressed as usual – well, perhaps not quite as usual, for around five o’clock the German guns fell silent.
Russ cocked his ear. ‘How very considerate, they’ve clocked off for tea – get brewing, Dobbo.’
The guns remained speechless for the ten minutes it took to drink their tea. It was very odd but no one complained. ‘Eh, wouldn’t it be nice if they’d run out of crumps?’ said Dobson thoughtfully.
‘Huh! I can’t see German efficiency allowing that,’ opined Russ, tipping the dregs from his mug and throwing it at the private. ‘Right then, my lovely lads,
off your arses! Jump to it, Dobson – at least try and make Fritz think there’s summat human over here.’
‘Permission to use the latrine, Sergeant?’ At Hazelwood’s growl the private responded brightly, ‘Well I am only human, Sarg,’ laughed and made off down a communication trench.
He had been gone maybe five minutes when it happened. There was no warning given, for nothing of this sort had happened before. Russ thought he detected a faint hiss. Frowning, he employed his periscope again. A cloud blocked its view. Not one of the wispy shapes that pom-pommed the sky, but a strange greeny-yellow… Russ took his rifle down and examined the tiny mirror that was fixed to its bayonet – then looked up as a layer of mist rolled over the parapet. He took one sniff and started to cough. It grew worse – he couldn’t get his breath. There were others in the same plight, staggering blindly along the trench, trying to escape. He felt as if his brain was about to burst out of his skull, his eye sockets, his nose. He found the communication trench, stumbled down it… someone pressed a cloth over his mouth, suffocating him. He fought them, retching vile foam… pain, pain and more pain. I’m going…
* * *
April was coming to a close and there was no sign of another letter from Father. Rowena thought, he’s grown sick of not getting a reply. Let down on yet another morning, she did a last furtive shuffle of the mail before carrying it to the kitchen and eating breakfast. It was as she was participating in this meal that a knock came and Biddy went off to answer it. When she came back, she hesitated at the mistress’s chair, then extended her arm.
Rachel stared at the thick wrist. A napkin came up to dab at her mouth and nervous eyes gripped the telegram. Then the napkin was deposited on the table and an arm was raised, slowly, so as to delay the opening, for she feared what was in it. Then with a sudden move it was snatched from Biddy’s hand, torn open and read.
The children, ignorant over the substance of the piece of paper, continued to eat. Only when their mother gave a small exclamation did they view her with concern. When she failed to make further utterance, Rowena looked at Biddy, who stood gormlessly by, then directed her eyes back to her mother and put a hand over the one holding the telegram. Rachel could not escape her mental paralysis, but handed over the message. Rowena gave a cry too. ‘Father’s missing!’
My Father, My Son Page 35
