My Father, My Son

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

  My warmest regards,

  Father Guillaume

  Dear Father,

  Your letter was most welcome but only a poor substitute for your company. I do not have much news at the moment. I don’t know if my father wrote you, but Bertie has run away to the war. I hope they find him before he gets killed or Mrs Hazelwood will blame me. She blames me for everything. She shouts at me more and more, but I suppose that’s because she’s worried about Bertie. At Sunday Mass I lit a candle for him, also one for you and Father. I will go to the college if that is what you want…

  Love from Charlie

  * * *

  Each time a letter dropped through the door, Rachel sped down the passage, hoping for news of Bertie. Even her husband’s letters were opened, though as soon as she found they contained nothing of interest they were flung on the fire in disgust.

  There had been few enquiries as to Robert’s disappearance – Rachel did not encourage callers – but one of those who did pay a visit was the boy’s schoolmaster. Rachel had been quite rude at first, assuming his presence to be because of some lack of liaison at the school. ‘I did write and inform the headmaster!’ she told the man before he could state the intention of his call.

  The teacher was accustomed to dealing with awkward pupils and replied kindly that yes, he knew that Robert had run away to join up. ‘I didn’t come because I fear for his education. I just wondered if you’d had any news. Robert’s a nice boy, this is just the sort of patriotic thing he would do. A lot of Archie’s boys have gone to be officers – naturally they are a little older than your son.’

  Rachel did not disillusion the man about her son’s reasons for joining up, but merely nodded.

  ‘I’m going too,’ the master revealed with a bashful smile. ‘I can’t sit there marking papers while our fellows go off to fight. That’s one of the reasons why I came to see you, to let you know that I’ll do everything I possibly can to find Robert and get him sent home.’

  ‘That’s extremely kind of you.’ It seemed to the master that his gesture had taken her aback, and so it had. ‘Sometimes, I feel that nobody cares,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they do, Mrs Hazelwood.’

  ‘The Army doesn’t, that’s for sure! They’ve done absolutely nothing to find him.’ Months, he had been gone. What the devil was the Army playing at? It wasn’t as if Robert looked older than he was. All they had to do was open their eyes and they would see that one of their soldiers was only a baby.

  She had been back and forth to all the Army depots she could think of, had even wandered around Knavesmire in the pouring rain, searching every face – until one soldier had made a very vulgar proposition and she had sped home in distress to cry over the birthday presents that lay on her son’s bed, unopened. All she could do was to carry on as normal and wait… and wait… and wait.

  Another Christmas was spent in the trenches. This time, by order, there were no games of football nor exchange of photographs. Each side kept behind its own barbed wire. By the spring of 1916, little ground had been won by either faction, each performing a kind of military square dance – two steps forward, two steps back, dig those trenches, tote that pack!

  For Rachel, the waiting became unbearable, though her concern seemed not to be shared by anyone else in the household. ‘Father went missing once and came home safe and sound, didn’t he?’ comforted Rowena. ‘So why shouldn’t Bertie?’

  Two inches of snow in the early days of March eradicated all thoughts of Bertie and of the war. The white plain of Knavesmire grew stripes and whorls of green where the girls and Charlie had rolled giant balls of snow to make a snowman.

  But during the night, the war returned. Intermingled with the peaceful, drifting flakes came a deadlier shower of Zeppelin bombs to wreak misery on Yorkshire and seven other counties. As yet, York itself remained unscathed… but the enemy was striking more and more inland targets at each raid. After that night, whenever the gas pressure lowered – the sign of an impending Zeppelin raid – Rachel feared that her home and family would appear in the newspaper’s list of strikes. With the dual worry, sleep became a luxury. Fatigue compelled her to rely on reflex to get her through the day. She rose, dressed, breakfasted, went to the shop, came home, went to bed… and lay awake fretting half the night.

  Easter brought a deluge and complaints over the price of fish. Buds began to sprout on the trees on Knavesmire. In the front garden, Rachel’s roses showed tiny red shoots. The children were sprouting too; Rhona had just been enrolled at the new Knavesmire School, which was much nearer to home. With the Army and other authorities still jiggling with the older elementary schools, Rachel had decided to put her here; there was less chance of occupation by the forces. The air turned warmer and the sky blue. April Fool turned to May Gosling… and still Bertie was missing.

  This Tuesday evening, Rachel was in the kitchen, thinking about her son as she usually did when sitting idle. It was ten-thirty. The children were in their beds and the maid was tidying up before going off to hers. Rachel was watching the lumpish figure uninterestedly, lost in thought, when the lights dimmed.

  ‘Ah, Jesus!’ Biddy pawed her chest in alarm. ‘’Tis a raid! ’Tis a raid!’

  ‘Stop being so stupid! They haven’t bothered to visit us before, have they?’ Nevertheless, Rachel’s eyes were touched by fear as she leapt up and began a nervous pacing, waiting for the lights to return to full power. She would not go to bed until they did so.

  A rumble of what sounded like thunder brought Biddy to her knees and she crossed herself rapidly. ‘Hail Mary, Mother o’ God, pray for us sinners…’

  ‘Shut up!’ Rachel hared around the room, twisting all the gas lamp switches off, then, feeling her way along the darkened passage, she opened the door to the street. The rumble was louder out here, but her hopeful examination of the sky betold no lightning. It was a raid all right. Where there were gas lamps, young boys were shinning up the standards to snuff the flames; the electric ones had been shut off at the main supply. She moved out into the street and was joined by others, Ella among them. Rachel chose not to look at her but clutched the edges of her knitted jacket and pulled it round her, pressing her knuckles into her ribs. ‘Are they near?’ It was said to the man on her left.

  ‘About ten or fifteen miles, I’d say,’ murmured the elderly Mr Parker, looking up at the sky. ‘Oy, don’t do that!’ He pointed at a boy who had struck a match. ‘You silly little devil, the Zepp’ll see it – get it blown out now!’ Looking along the street, he shouted to a woman that he could see a light through her doorway. The door was closed rapidly. The grey-haired Mrs Parker finished buttoning her coat and moved out of her doorway to stand on the path behind her husband, placing her blue-veined hands on his shoulders, one thumb unconsciously working her wedding ring round and round and round. All heads were lifted to the sky.

  ‘Oh!’ Rachel cried out and grabbed for support as the ground beneath her feet tremored and the thunderclaps rolled closer. She asked fearfully of Mrs Parker, ‘D’you think I ought to get the children up?’

  The older woman nodded. ‘It might be a good idea, love.’

  Rachel rushed back into the darkened house. ‘Biddy, get the girls’ coats!’

  Soon, the girls and Charlie, still confused by sleep, wandered out onto the pavement, nightgowns showing neath the hems of their coats. Beany yawned and screwed a knuckle into her red puffy eyes before looking round at all the people. The thunderclaps had ceased. All was silent now. ‘Mrs Mountain’s got her nightie on,’ she observed.

  ‘Ssh!’ said Mr Parker. ‘The Germans might hear you.’ He rubbed an apprehensive hand over his upper arm.

  All was completely calm. The streetful of onlookers wriggled their toes in their slippers and waited, faces turned upwards. It was a beautiful clear night, the sky bedecked with stars. A sky for lovers. A young soldier home on leave from the front slipped an arm round his wife of three months, pulling her into the doorway to bury his face in t
he warm curve of her neck. She tilted her head back, the clinging touch of his lips painting ecstasy on her face. They forgot about the other people in the street, carried away by the joy of their belated honeymoon and the beauty of the night. The soldier’s lips grew more passionate, his hands ran wild… then his face emerged from his wife’s shoulder to look at the sky. The romantic setting was ruptured by the low growl of a Zeppelin.

  Amongst the thirty faces peering upwards, Rowena thought: it’s rather like standing on the platform of a station and hearing the approach of an express train – the growl became a roar and the express would burst through the station, flashing past, rackety-rack! rackety-rack! fluttering skirts, swooshing hair over faces and in a flash was gone. But there was one difference here; the growl magnified to a roar, the whole night shivered with it… yet they could not see their enemy. He hovered somewhere above them, waiting to excrete his deadly eggs, but they knew not where. Rowena fumbled for Beany’s hand and grasped it tightly. Charlie’s hands gripped Rebecca’s shoulders, his wide eyes glued to the sky.

  Then unexpectedly the roar ceased – as abruptly as turning off a light. The silence which followed was even more nerve-racking. What had happened? Where was he? Had he gone? Becky was the one to ask this.

  ‘He’s shut his engines off for some reason,’ whispered Mr Parker, eyes scanning the heavens. ‘Probably taking his bearings. Ssh, don’t talk else he’ll know where we are.’

  The silence seemed interminable. Their necks became cricked and their eyes kept blurring out of focus with staring at the sky for so long. Thirty pairs of ears strained for a sound. It was all so very eerie… With a roar, the engines whirred back to life. ‘Look, there he is!’ Mr Parker forgot to whisper and jabbed a finger skywards. A great ‘Oh!’ arose from the spectators as all caught sight of the long, cigar-shaped airship which nosed its way across the sky over Knavesmire with amazing ease for such a bulky craft. They were all admiring its dexterity when there came a flash of blue light. ‘Take cover!’ someone shouted and everyone fell automatically into a squat.

  The impact of the bomb was even worse than they had anticipated. Though it had fallen several hundred yards away, the shock waves bowled some of them off their feet and set their ears ringing. Children cried out. Mothers made them lie down and protected the young bodies with their own. Rachel ordered Biddy to get her big body across the girls, but poor Biddy was too numbed to do anything except wail and pray. Charlie followed Rachel’s example and shielded two of the youngest, though he wished someone would protect him; he was very, very frightened.

  ‘It’s coming towards us!’ screamed a woman who had chanced a look. Another explosion occurred. This one was totally different – less of an explosion, more of a huge sizzle, like a basket of chips being placed into fat, only much louder. When the cowering people glanced up, flames were lighting the sky. The blaze seemed very close, but no one had the chance to speculate as to where it was for the Zeppelin gave birth to another litter of bombs. Six explosions came in rapid succession. The air stank with the afterbirth.

  As abruptly as it had started, the bombing stopped. Rachel crouched over her children behind the low garden wall, heart racing, listening to the roar of people’s homes being destroyed, waiting for the Zeppelin to return. After a brief interlude, the Zeppelin performed a deafening encore – one! two! three! four! five! Rachel bit her lip and pressed her face into a child’s warm back. It seemed endless.

  The pilot of the airship turned his motors off, looked down with satisfaction at the blossoming flames and smiled. Let them stew for a while.

  Hours seemed to pass after the last explosion. ‘Has he gone, d’you think?’ Rowena lifted a frightened face above the garden wall and looked up. Barely had the words emerged than the pilot – as if hearing them and acting out of mischief – dropped the remainder of his load with thunderous accuracy, before sallying off towards the North Sea, leaving a trail of black smoke like a snail’s thread to mark his passing.

  After a long period of uncertainty, the all clear sounded and everyone got to their feet, rubbing at knees, shushing frightened children. ‘Great, wasn’t it?’ said Lyn unconvincingly. In the next street, a woman was screaming hysterically. Rachel, sick with fright, brushed at the soil which clung to the girls’ nightgowns.

  ‘What happened to our anti-aircraft guns? That’s what I’d like to know! I could do better with a peashooter!’ She hustled the children and the maid back into the house and slammed the door.

  ‘Yes, we are all safe and well, Rachel, thank you for asking,’ said Ella, at which Mr Parker laughed shakily whilst tending his wife.

  ‘Has she heard anything of their Bertie yet?’ Ella asked the couple, trying to sound calm.

  ‘I don’t think so. She doesn’t have much to say to me,’ said Mrs Parker, clutching her handkerchief.

  ‘Me neither.’ Ella surveyed the sky. A rubicund glow marked the area of stricken houses. ‘I mean, how was I to know he’d run away if she didn’t tell me? Eh, he wants a good braying does that’n – he’s overspoilt. Anyway… I’d better go in. ’Struth, I couldn’t do with this lot every night, could you – eh, look at them two!’ She elbowed Mrs Parker and they both found a smile for the young soldier and his wife who were engaged in a clinch. ‘I’ll bet they were at it all through the attack! It’d take more than a German balloon to separate them.’ Ella drew in a wistful breath and let it out again. ‘Phew! I still feel a bit shaky. Does anybody fancy a cup o’ tea? Away then, I’ll get kettle on. I can’t see me sleeping after this lot.’ And a number of folk piled into Ella’s house, where they calmed their nerves with her brew and tried to guess just how many homes had been destroyed.

  The combined mumble of their voices penetrated the walls of Rachel’s bedroom. She flung herself onto her side, wrapped her arm across her chest and used a finger of it to plug her ear, blaming her inability to sleep on her inconsiderate neighbours, when in truth it was the fear that the Zeppelin would return which kept her awake. The children were frightened too, but at least they had someone to cuddle up to. She had no one. No one. She pushed her face into the pillow and cried.

  * * *

  Wednesday’s paper was full of the Zeppelin raid – apparently the biggest so far, with bombs being dropped all along the east coast from Norfolk to Aberdeenshire. Censorship forbade naming York in the accounts but when Rachel read that ‘in a certain place in Yorkshire’ a night of devastation had taken place, she knew well enough where that was. Nine people had been killed and three times as many injured, houses completely destroyed. When the funerals of the victims took place, hundreds of people lined the route to the cemetery.

  So obsessed did Rachel become with the fear of another Zepp raid that lesser events went completely unrecorded. Another Monday dawned – which Monday, Rachel did not know nor care; she felt absolutely worn out from lack of sleep. Dragging her sluggish limbs out of bed, she performed the usual, automatic routine, allowed Biddy to set the children off for school and went to work. Something was different today, but she was too estranged from reality to unravel it. In fact she got through an entire working day without realizing that she had forgotten to observe the new Daylight Saving Scheme by putting her clocks forward at the weekend. Only when she arrived home did she learn of her error.

  ‘We all got into trouble today!’ The girls clamoured round her the moment she got in. At her blank face, Lyn said, ‘You forgot to put the clock forward and we were an hour late for school!’

  ‘And then Biddy wasn’t in when we got home for dinner so we had to go back to school without none!’ cried Beany.

  ‘Sure, how was I to know about the daft clocks?’ objected the maid.

  Rachel gave a shout of frustration and threw down her bag. ‘Will you all please shut up! Biddy, is the clock right now?’ The maid shook her head. ‘Then do it – and alter the others while you’re about it. Oh, God! As if they haven’t plunged the country into enough regulations without messing up the time as well! But
ask them to do a simple thing like finding a little boy and can they? Oh, no!’

  Rowena, sorry for joining in with the others’ complaint, sat by her mother. ‘I’m sure they’ll find Bertie soon…’

  ‘Will everybody stop saying that!’ Rachel covered her ears. Then, seeing she had upset the girl, said, ‘I’m sorry to shout… but all everyone seems to do is talk – none of them are doing anything! I’m so worried…’

  * * *

  Russ was worried too. However, before the summer rose there came exciting talk that brought with it a touch of relief: there was to be a big push that would finish this stalemate once and for all. This meant that the war would be over and Bertie would be safe. A year had gone by and still he had heard nothing of his son, though his efforts to find him remained undaunted. He could only pray that Bertie was still alive.

  At the end of June, they received written verification of the battle – as if they needed it; for the past week their artillery had been lobbing everything it had at Jerry, pulverizing his lines. The sound that came as a mere rumble on English shores assumed myriad decibels here. The effect was physically sickening. Russ became disorientated by the ceaseless roar in his brain. The gunfire seemed to speak to him, reverberating the names of past battles – Ver-dun-dun-dun! Looosss! All that kept him from going mad was the thought that Jerry was on the worst end of it.

  On the eve of battle there was a church parade then a concert on the village green. The British Artillery still pounded non-stop, yet there seemed to be little answering fire, allowing the men to devote their attention to the band. Russ sat quietly, listening, wondering if Bertie had been found yet and if Rachel had received word from the priest about Charlie’s education. For the moment he considered writing a letter as others were doing, but abandoned this as pointless and simply sat and enjoyed the music. It seemed an anomalous situation, the band playing on the village green in the middle of a war.