My Father, My Son

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

  ‘Back to billets again tonight, old chum,’ said Jewitt. ‘I wonder if the mam’selles will be there.’

  Russ watched Lonsborough’s face light up – no, he corrected himself, behind that lustful spark there was something moribund; the look of one who lives in a graveyard.

  ‘Bound to be if they know I’m comin’,’ Lonsborough replied.

  ‘Gerraway! It’s my beautiful body they can’t get enough of.’

  Snatching at every carnal opportunity as if it might be their last… which it might. All those fine young boys he had seen disintegrate into bloody lumps of flesh. They shouldn’t be here, thought Russ. They should be scrumming in the mud of the rugby field, groping in the back row of the picture house, but not here…

  There was a sudden explosion. Russ watched the effect. The war had produced a strange malady he had dubbed ‘retractable neck’. The men were like tortoises; at each bang they would draw their necks deep into their shoulders. Then, when the smoke had cleared, out would pop their heads to peer balefully about them.

  ‘He’s going nuts, you know,’ remarked Lonsborough gravely. He shoved a cigarette in his mouth, brought his dirty face close to Jewitt’s to draw a light from the other’s tab. Behind his cupped hands it appeared to Russ as if the two were kissing.

  ‘Who, old Filbert?’ The soldiers had once heard Daw use this nickname and had instantly adopted it… though now it had taken a different connotation.

  Lonsdale finished sucking the fire into his cigarette, but their heads remained close together. ‘He keeps looking at that photograph, have you noticed? As soon as there’s a lull he gets it out and stares at it.’

  ‘Sounds a bit like you,’ joked Jewitt.

  ‘Soft sod… You watch, next full moon an’ we’ll be having to tie him down. I’ve seen it often enough to know the signs.’

  Jewitt, who liked the sergeant, grew sombre. ‘He keeps talking to me about his lad. I don’t know what to say.’

  Lonsborough shrugged. Death was so frequent a visitor that his thoughts were more on who would die today than who had bought it six months ago.

  ‘He hardly ever gets any mail, you know. I asked…’

  ‘Jewitt! Are you gonna sit there kallin’ all day?’ Russ shoved the creased photograph into his pocket – he had guessed by their lowered voices they were discussing him. He got to his feet. ‘All I can hear is pss-pss-pss. I’m beginning to think I’m in the bleedin’ reptile house. Look! There’s a section just about to cave in up there. Take hold of this here sandbag – oh sorry, Lonsborough!’ He made much of brushing the soldier’s tunic where his hand had distorted its fit. ‘I didn’t realize it was human, what with it being stood there motionless for so long. Shift your arses, the pair of you!’

  The two grasped sandbags and were about to carry out the order when Captain Daw, just returned from his Blighty leave, stumbled down the narrow trench. They moved aside to allow him passage. When he was past, Jewitt’s startled eyes followed him. ‘God, there must be a big one coming up – did you see his face? It was white as chalk.’

  Lonsborough returned an apprehensive nod. ‘D’you know anything about it, Sarg?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Russ had slipped back into his vacant stare.

  ‘The Captain, he’s lookin’ awful windy. Jewitt here says there must be a right big one comin’ up.’ The men didn’t like Daw, but his fearlessness always impressed them. If he was looking afraid then God knew what lay ahead.

  Russ came back to the world, and said in a grim tone, ‘It is a big one, Lonsborough. It’ll be known as the Battle of Le Molar.’

  Jewitt had never heard of the place and set his head at a slant. ‘Is that around here, Sarg?’

  ‘Quite near. It’s just below these two densely thicketed areas called Les Nostrils in a barren plain known as Le Gob.’ He grunted as he turned away. ‘He’s off to have a tooth pulled.’

  Jewitt and Lonsborough roared their appreciation – the valiant captain scared of the dentist! Russ strode off, wondering how he could joke whilst hurting so badly inside. Oh, Jesus, it hurts, it hurts… Poor Jack, he shouldn’t have divulged his secret fear in front of the men. But what did it matter? What did anything matter? Mud. Mud everywhere. He sloshed along the waterlogged trench, inspecting the breastwork as he went. The men had been repairing all night but the slime continually gave way to gravity. Each step was accompanied by a slurping sound as the mud hugged his feet. They had been issued with rubber waders now, but scant use they were in some places with the sludge up to one’s thighs.

  He had once seen a horse drown in this mud. It had been one of a pair hauling a gun carriage. All of a sudden the pair were floundering in the quagmire. In seconds they were up to their knees, the weight of the carriage preventing their escape. Men had swarmed over the animals like termites, cutting harness and fixing ropes about the lathered necks. They had succeeded in pulling one of the horses free, but the other’s struggles had forced it deeper until only its neck and head was showing. Someone ran to fetch the assistance of an officer’s revolver to put it out of its misery. When they came back the horse was gone. Russ remembered the terror in those rolling eyes, but slowly that look had dissolved into resignation as it was finally sucked under. Wounded men had died this way too…

  The sweat sprang to his armpits though it was bitterly cold. He felt his own mouth fill with mud; it squirted from his nostrils and out of his ears… stop! stop! he charged his mind, and started to sing in order to provide another focus for his brain. But the visions stayed with him, pressing their way through the words. Oh Christ, it was coming again! He sought out a dark place where he could battle with his terror in private. The cubbyhole was occupied. ‘Get out!’ barked Russ to the three mud-caked privates, who slunk like weasels into the daylight, leaving behind their stench. He presented his hands to the fire, hands that were chapped and raw beneath the dirt. They began to quiver. He tucked them under his armpits and squeezed. Go away! But the tremor began to spread. It crept oh so stealthily through his body, chattering his teeth, juddering his bones.

  He doubled over and began to rock. ‘It’s the wrong way to tickle Mary. It’s the wrong way to go! – concentrate! It’s the wrong way to…’

  ‘Tea, Sarg.’

  Hazelwood yelled his shock out loud. His manic eyes glared at Jewitt, who stood at the entrance to the dugout. The private pretended he had seen nothing, though the laugh he gave was awkward. ‘Sorry, Sarg! Did I make you jump?’

  Russ fought with his swirling thoughts, eyes fixed to Jewitt’s young face. So many young boys… Slowly, the panic subsided. He took a deep breath and sat up. ‘What was that, Jewitt?’

  The private came inside and parked his rear on a crate by the fire. ‘I brought you some tea, Sarg. Where’s your mug?’

  Russ, still not fully sensible, groped around his pack then held the tin mug out to Jewitt, who filled it with muddy-looking tea. Nodding his thanks to the private, he wrapped his hands around the warm metal, staring down into it. Jewitt put aside the can and began to delve into his own pack, selecting a tin which he duly opened.

  ‘Might I be so impolite as to ask what you’re doing, Jewitt?’

  Jewitt studied him evenly, then grinned. ‘Havin’ me snap, Sarg.’

  Hazelwood regarded the tattered muddy uniform. Jewitt was wearing a woman’s hat that he had found on the road, fingerless gloves and a sheepskin coat that he had probably stolen from someone. ‘What a bloody state… Around these parts, Jewitt, I’ll have you know we dress for dinner.’

  ‘Right, Sarg!’ Jewitt began to unbutton his trousers. ‘Any preference as to which side I dress to?’ Grinning more widely, he dug into his tin of pork and beans, then made a face. ‘Christ, I’d like to know what they put in here – it certainly isn’t pork.’

  Russ stared into the fire, pictures in his mind.

  Jewitt, despite his complaint, ate the contents of the tin then brought out some biscuits and a tin of Tickler’s plum and apple jam. ‘Want
some, Sarg?’

  ‘You must be joking. Your plums’d taste sweeter than that.’

  ‘Now we’ve got to keep our strength up,’ quipped the private, spreading a dollop of jam on a biscuit.

  ‘Eating for two, are we, Jewitt?’

  ‘I did offer you some.’

  ‘Ah… I can’t stomach that muck any more.’ Russ shook his head and took a sip of tea, which tasted of onions. ‘You get past eating.’ There might be hot food coming tonight with the ration party, but that was no more appetizing. Even the thoughts of home-baking could not stir him now.

  ‘Sarg… I heard that the captain’s servant copped it this mornin’, is that right?’

  ‘Thinking of having a change from latrine duty, are we? I wouldn’t fancy the captain’s chances if those mitts were dishing up his grub.’

  ‘Would you put in a good word for me, Sarg?’

  Russ gave a tight laugh. ‘The word I’d put in, Jewitt, is “shirker”.’

  ‘It’d benefit you an’ all, Sarg,’ Jewitt proposed earnestly. ‘I might be able to smuggle a few leftovers in your direction.’

  Russ was still smiling, his pain subdued for the minute. ‘I’m not sure I want anything you’ve handled, knowing the places you frequent. Oh, all right, Jewitt! I’ll see what I can do.’ He underwent a furious period of scratching then, with a sharp sound of annoyance, pulled off both his greatcoat and tunic. Striking a match, he ran it down the seams of the filthy garment, enjoying the intermittent puff as a louse was incinerated.

  Jewitt gave up trying to eat the hard biscuit, ‘It’s like chewin’ a lump o’ donkey stone,’ and tossed it into a corner. There was a scuffle as the missile disturbed a rat. ‘I’ll do that, Sarg.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be trying to suck up to me, Private?’ Nevertheless, Russ let the youth continue the delousing process whilst listening vaguely to Jewitt’s babble. The pile of dead matches at his feet grew as one after the other was run along the seams of the tunic. ‘I’ll bet you’re not as useful as this at home – only if you want something from your poor mother.’ Jewitt smiled as he worked. ‘Got any brothers and sisters, have you?’

  ‘No sisters, I had six brothers but I’m the only one left now.’

  A fresh wave of horror rippled Hazelwood’s breast. It always amazed him when it happened. After the things he had heard and seen one would not expect him to be surprised any more, but he often was. ‘Your parents have lost six sons?’

  A nod. ‘Two were regulars, went down at Mons. Another joined up ’cause he couldn’t stand being a coward. Me, I got more white feathers than Sitting Bull before I let them rope me in. The others were conscripts an’ all. Didn’t even get past their first day in the trenches.’ A small laugh that muffled his true feelings. ‘Never mind, they won’t get me. Seventh son of a seventh son. I was born lucky. There we are, Sarg!’ He handed back the jacket, which was in a very poor state due to this regular treatment. ‘Think I’ve got all the little bastards – given ’em chilblains anyway. They won’t be so eager to dance about so much.’

  Russ offered gruff thanks, whilst inside the dread was once more rumbling. Jewitt’s parents had lost six sons. This boy was their only remaining child… and he was in Hazelwood’s hands. The enormity of this responsibility unleashed a fresh tide of panic. ‘You can get back on duty now, Private!’

  Jewitt came out of his squat. ‘You’ll speak to the captain, Sarg?’

  ‘I’ll do what I bloody well see fit! Now move, soldier!’

  And as the nonplussed Jewitt made for the daylight, Russ fought to stem the blood that poured from every crevasse of his mind.

  * * *

  It was freezing cold in the church. Charlie tucked his hands between his legs and shivered. He had come here for Mass, but the thought that worried his brain caused his eyes to keep flickering towards the confessional. He should go in. He should go and confess the way he felt about Bertie. All through Mass he thought about it. If he begged forgiveness, would it be genuine? Or was it that he hoped this act might exorcize the ghost which had haunted him for months? The church had almost emptied by the time he decided to join the pew of confessants. Being the last in line gave him a chance to compose himself. But after the initial, ‘Bless me, Father,’ he couldn’t think of what to say. In the end, he confessed some paltry digression, sat for a moment praying mentally for help, then made for the outside as quickly as he could.

  ‘One moment, young fellow!’

  Charlie revolved swiftly to see that the priest was following him.

  The man gave a beckoning smile. ‘Hold on a moment, will you?’

  ‘I’ll be late for my dinner.’ Charlie kept his distance.

  ‘I won’t keep you that long.’ Father Duncan came down the short flight of steps to stand on the pavement, barring Charlie’s way. ‘I just want to ask you something. Come on, it’s cold here, there’s a fire in my study.’

  Still Charlie tarried. ‘My mother will be worried if I’m late.’

  ‘Your mother doesn’t practise her faith?’ The priest had never seen the woman with her son.

  ‘She’s ill.’

  Father Duncan cocked his head in knowing fashion. ‘Is she ill every Sunday? You always come with Biddy Kelly as I remember.’ At Charlie’s miserly reply, he said, ‘You seem disturbed. I’m not going to beat the living daylights out of you. It’s Biddy Kelly I’m after knowing about.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t seen her in…’

  ‘Tell me in my study!’ The priest captured Charlie’s arm. ‘It won’t take five minutes but in that time we could both be dead of cold.’

  The warmth of the priest’s fire caused Charlie’s nose to run. He perched on the edge of the chair, looking out of place. ‘Now then!’ Father Duncan took the chair opposite. ‘As we’ve never been introduced, let’s start with names. You always seem to slope away quietly after Mass.’

  Charlie performed a huge sniff and gave his first name.

  ‘Charlie what?’

  The boy gave his father’s surname.

  ‘So, Charlie Hazelwood, can you tell me why Biddy Kelly doesn’t come to Mass any more?’ Charlie said maybe the priest should ask her family. ‘They’re as wise as you are! You were saying you hadn’t seen Biddy for…?’

  ‘About four months or so. Mrs Hazelwood gave her the sack.’

  ‘That an odd way to refer to your mother, isn’t it – Mrs Hazelwood?’

  Charlie stared at the kind face, then lowered his eyes. ‘She’s not really… not really ill and not really my mother. My mother’s dead.’ Hesitantly, he embarked on the complicated story, telling the priest about Father Guillaume, his own longing for his father’s affection and finally Bertie’s death.

  Father Duncan thanked the instinct that had made him follow the boy from the confessional. There was a great deal of pain here. At the end of Charlie’s monologue the priest raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Well, I never anticipated my enquiry about Biddy Kelly would spark off such a lengthy story – no, no!’ He waved aside Charlie’s apology. ‘It’s thoroughly intriguing, and it’s me who should be saying sorry. To think that one of my flock was undergoing such torment and me not even bothering to ask his name… Well!’ He slapped his cassocked knees. ‘I’d better make a start at redeeming myself.’ Rising, he went to a bureau. ‘What was the last address you had for Father Guillaume?’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll do any good to write,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ve written dozens of times and it’s over a year since we’ve heard from him.’ He nibbled at a piece of skin on his lip with his teeth. ‘Something’s happened to him, I’m sure.’

  ‘Give me the address anyway, and the one in South Africa too. I’ll make enquiries.’

  Charlie provided both, then looked at the clock; he had been here half an hour. ‘I really must go, Father.’

  ‘Oh, yes! You run along. I’m going to write a couple of letters right this minute. One way or another, Charlie, we’ll get you some education. It’s not right for you to
have to do the work of a housemaid.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Anyway, I’m a bit old for school now.’

  ‘Rot! And wait till I catch that Biddy Kelly, walking out on you like that.’ Charlie told him not to blame Biddy; Mrs Hazelwood had said some awful things to her. ‘Oh now, don’t you be sticking up for her! I know that girl. She can be an idle so and so, too idle to get her body up for Mass, by the look of it. Off you go, Charlie. I’ll see what I can find out. Whatever way, we’ll meet here next Sunday… I don’t suppose you’ll be coming to Midnight Mass? No, no, one can’t expect a young lad like you to be on the streets alone at midnight. Never mind, I’m sure you’ll say your prayers at home.’

  Charlie said he would and left. He would have to run now or he’d be late getting back to help with Sunday dinner. But getting this off his chest had helped enormously. Next time he went to church he felt sure he would be able to fulfil his confession.

  * * *

  Christmas Eve. Rachel fought her way home through the last-minute shoppers, feeling none of the festive bubble. After a hard day at the shop she was not looking forward to all the preparations that lay ahead for the morrow. Even in these frugal times there had to be some sort of special meal for Christmas Day and the house made presentable in case of visitors. Though she doubted there would be anyone coming. However, when she stepped from the cold evening into her kitchen, she found that her list of preparations had been whittled down. A blast of warm air carried the scent of baking to her nose. The children, instead of creating a mess, had tidied all the waste from their decorations – which now adorned the walls – and had dusted and swept the room. The cushions were plumped and sat to attention on the sofa, the hearth was polished, the grate leaded. Bidding her to be seated, Rowena divested her of the basket and handed her a cup of tea. Charlie grinned from his position at the range and said the meal wouldn’t be long. An afternoon’s carolling round the piano had made him feel very Christmassy. They had done their caterwauling while Rachel was out so as not to upset her.