* * *
‘Take your coat up to your room like a good girl,’ ordered Charlie when he and Regina returned. ‘I’ll just go and unload the shopping.’ While he disappeared into the kitchen the little girl clambered up the stairs. It wasn’t until she was passing her old room for the second time that she heard the creak. Without hesitation she reached up for the knob and opened the door – and saw a strange man in Charlie’s bed.
Russ’ attack of panic had subsided now. The face which stared back at the little girl was quite normal. ‘Why, hello, Rhona!’ He smiled and leaned forward, arms open. ‘Aren’t you coming to say hello to me?’
Something about the man frightened Regina and she let out a scream, ‘Charlie! Charlie, there’s a man!’
‘No, don’t…’ Russ put out a hand in an attempt to quell the scream. It didn’t work. He started to get out of bed. The child screamed even louder and backed away. ‘Please, Rhona!’ The screams reminded him of the time he had come home when Bertie was a baby; he had cried too. Russ covered his ears and swayed.
At the first noise, Charlie had bounded up the stairs and now stood in the doorway gaping at the man on the bed. ‘Father… Squawk, it’s all right, it’s Father!’ He bobbed down and put an arm round the child to show her it was safe, tried to lure her to the bed, but she shrieked all the louder.
‘Take her out!’ begged Russ, hands glued to the sides of his head. ‘Get her away!’ He fell back against the pillows as Charlie hurried the child from the room, curling up into a foetal ball and moaning like one deranged.
Regina had stopped screaming but her breath still came in little wet sobs. Charlie dried her eyes and picked her up to cuddle her. ‘He won’t hurt you, Squawk. He’s your father. I thought you were looking forward to seeing him?’
‘If he’s Father, why doesn’t he know my name?’ She sniffed into Charlie’s shoulder.
‘He does – and stop wiping your nose on my jacket.’
‘He doesn’t! He called me Rhona.’
‘Did he? Well, he has been away a long time. He won’t realize how Rhona has grown – and you do look like how she used to look.’
‘He’s scary, I don’t like him!’
‘Don’t say that, you’ll make him sad,’ replied Charlie.
‘Why isn’t your face pink like ours, Charlie?’ said the tear-stained child out of the blue.
‘I was left too long in the oven,’ came his pat response. ‘Look, I’ve got to go in and see Father. You frightened him with your screaming.’ She said she hadn’t meant to. ‘I know.’ He touched her reassuringly. ‘Now, d’you think you can stand quietly without doing anything naughty while I go in? Unless you want to come in too and see him?’
She refused this, but peeped inquisitively around the door as Charlie opened it. The man had his head under the pillows.
‘Father?’ Charlie placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The trembling had almost stopped. Slowly, Russ’ head emerged. ‘I’m sorry Regina screamed,’ supplied the boy. ‘She didn’t know who you were.’
‘Regina?’ A frown, then he remembered the baby he had left behind. ‘I thought she was Rhona.’ He pulled himself into a more comfortable position.
Charlie grinned. ‘She said… Rhona’s at school now.’
‘I can see you’re still here, though.’
Charlie’s smile levelled at the brittle tone. ‘Father Guillaume died before he could make any arrangements.’ He paused for Russ to insert his condolences, but none came. ‘Father Duncan’s arranged a place for me at college. I should be going shortly.’
‘Good.’
That word hurt ten times more than any cruelty Rachel had inflicted on him. Charlie covered his feelings by picking up the cup and saucer. ‘Would you like me to get you another cup of tea, Father?’
‘No… but I would like you to stop calling me “Father”.’ Revolving slowly, Charlie went to the door, closing it after him and telling Regina to come down to the kitchen.
‘Will he be staying?’ asked the small girl as they went down.
‘Of course he will, he’s your father,’ said Charlie, and hoped she wouldn’t hear the catch in his voice.
* * *
Rachel came in at lunchtime, going straight to the sink to wash her hands. ‘You saw the note, I presume?’
Charlie looked at her dumbly. He was still bruised from his father’s words.
‘I left a note on the table to say your father is home.’
Charlie ducked under the table, then gave voice to his discovery. ‘The draught must’ve blown it off. We got a bit of a shock when we came in and found him. Regina screamed the place down.’
She threw up her eyes and tutted. ‘I must say, there doesn’t appear to be much the matter with him. I hope he didn’t keep you talking all morning instead of doing what you’re supposed to be doing?’
‘He didn’t want to talk to me.’
Rachel caught the hurt tone. ‘Oh… so what’s he been doing with himself, then?’
Charlie said he didn’t know, making no mention of the man’s strange behaviour with Regina. Before anything else could be discussed, the rest of the girls came in and when told that their father was home pelted straight upstairs to greet him, Becky carrying the silver medal she had made to pin on his jacket.
However, they were to reappear in less than two minutes looking dejected. They said nothing at first, but when Rachel commented upon Robina’s quivering lip, Lyn burst out, ‘He told us to go because we were too noisy – and we were only welcoming him home, weren’t we?’ Her indignant face made consultation of the others.
Rachel bristled, but continued to dish out the lunch. As soon as it was served, though, she told the children to get on with it while she went up with a tray.
His smile, which had formed at her entry, evaporated as she placed the tray on his lap and said acidly, ‘It’s your business how you mistreat the boy, but if you think I’ve allowed you back into this house simply to upset my daughters, then you can think again! They’ve suffered enough at your hands. If you can’t be civil to them you’d better go somewhere else.’
Russ stared at the icy face. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt them… they just made me feel suffocated.’
Her expression told him that she did not understand. She was about to turn away, when he said, ‘Would you like to see my photograph?’ Reaching for the tattered picture on the bedside table, he held it out to her. ‘These are the boys who fought with me.’ She did not take it and he held it to his own face, smiling fondly. ‘Good lads, they were.’
‘Yes, well, you’re at home now so I expect no rough soldiers’ behaviour.’
He didn’t appear to hear her and began tapping the figures in the photograph. ‘That’s Dobson, that cheeky-looking one there. And that’s Schofield, Wheatley, Jamieson…’
‘Do you really think I’m interested in who they are? Just remember what I told you!’ With this she flounced out.
Russ didn’t hear her go, his eyes still on the photograph, whilst his lunch grew steadily cold.
* * *
The stench of the dead followed him home. He lay there in the dark, listening, listening… The pulse behind his ear began to thud. A voice said, ‘Sarg… are you scared?’ He pressed his hands over his ears, but the voice came again, ‘Sarg… Sarg…’ A globule of fear bubbled to his throat. He struggled to subdue it… and then his brain became a whirlpool of blood. The heat seeped over the top of his skull, down into his neck, into his shoulders… He fought it, but the terror rolled on, enveloped his belly, his bowels, his thighs.
He bucked his tormented body from the mattress and put his feet to the lino. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he lifted his weight from the bed and reached for the walking stick that had travelled with him in the ambulance. He began to stump about aimlessly. His fevered brain told him to run – but where to? Seeking escape, he threw open the door of his room and stepped onto the landing. Left hand holding the stick, right hand on the balustrade, he mad
e his painful way down. Dark, everywhere dark. He felt his way along the wall to the gas lamp and used the last match in his box to light it. With the coming of the soft yellow light his panic began to subside. It only ever lasted seconds, but to Russ it was a lifetime. Breathing heavily, he limped further into the kitchen and folded onto the sofa, staring for ages at the fireplace until he felt relatively calm.
Acid began to nibble at the lining of his stomach, a legacy of the terror. He hauled himself up and visited the breadbin, carving four thick slices. Finding no butter, he dug his knife into a lump of margarine, plastered it on. The meal was supplemented by a glass of milk. He returned to the sofa to consume the results of his sortie. With the eventual easing of his torment he decided to go back to bed. Reluctant to move from lightness into dark, he sought the aid of a paraffin lamp. There were no tapers in the brass cup by the fireplace, but he found a box of matches on the mantel and struck one. The sulphur crumbled. Muttering a curse, he tossed it on the hearth. The same happened with the next half dozen. It appeared the matches were damp. Throwing the box aside, he looked round for a newspaper, found one and tore off a strip to use as a taper. The lamp was ignited. He took it to bed.
In the morning, Rachel was presented with the remains of his midnight feast. The state of the kitchen blocked her entry. There was a breadboard on the table covered in crumbs. Her eyes moved to the hearth, which bore a plate and a glass coated in dried milk, and several spent matchsticks. She moved into the room, then turned quickly as Charlie came in behind her. ‘Did you come down last night?’ He shook his head and looked at the breadboard. Her expression was grim; she hurried over to the breadbin and lifted the lid. What had been a whole loaf yesterday was now reduced to a three-inch wedge. She slammed the lid back down. ‘The greedy…!’ Charlie asked what was the matter. She wheeled on him. ‘Your father has just deprived us of our daily bread and not content with that he’s guzzled all the milk!’ Furious though she was, she did not confront him at that moment, but buzzed around the kitchen conjuring up eight meagre breakfasts from somewhere, then set the children off for school.
Following routine, Charlie helped her with these tasks then took Regina out for the usual walk. Instead of going to open the shop, Rachel sat down and waited. By eight-fifty she thought that she might have to abandon her pose in order to go and open up but, when the following seconds brought the tap of his walking stick on the floor above, she set her mouth and waited for him.
Shock flickered across his features when he came through the doorway and saw her sitting there. Then he smiled lopsidedly. ‘It didn’t sound as if anyone was in. I thought you’d gone to work and…’
‘And forgotten your breakfast,’ she finished for him.
‘No, no, I…’
‘Well, I’m afraid there won’t be any breakfast!’ She rose and strutted up to him. ‘Because some thief came in the night and stole two days’ bread allowance.’
His face creased in guilt. ‘Oh, hell… it was me. I’m sorry, I didn’t give it a thought.’
‘Oh no, you wouldn’t, would you? You’ve been fed by the Army, you wouldn’t have to worry about a little thing like shortages. That presumably is why you also drank the milk reserved for the children’s breakfasts and ruined the best part of a box of matches. I suppose they’re in plentiful supply over in France. I shouldn’t think the “brave boys” have to pay tuppence for a box of matches!’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ he stuttered. ‘They were damp.’
‘If you had enough brains to see that, why didn’t you leave them alone! They were on the mantelpiece to dry out. Anyway, I can’t stand here listening to excuses, I have a business to run. As you deprived us of bread you’ll have to make do with a cup of black tea until dinner time – and please be kind enough to wash the pot and cup after you’ve used them! We don’t have a servant any more.’ She waltzed out.
Russ stood for a moment, then limped back to bed, picked up his photograph and stared at it.
* * *
It was still in his hands when Charlie came up to see if he needed anything. ‘I’m not allowed to have anything,’ murmured Russ. ‘It seems I’ve eaten more than my share already.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d know, being away for so long.’ Charlie’s tone was forgiving.
‘That’s what she said: I don’t suppose you’d know, having been living it up in France.’
‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’
‘I’ve had one. I wouldn’t like to steal anybody else’s.’
Charlie craned his neck to get a glimpse of the photograph in the man’s hands. ‘Can I see it?’
‘If you like.’ Russ didn’t hand it over, but allowed the boy to take it.
Charlie ran his eyes over the group. ‘Are these your men?’
‘They were – they’re dead.’
Slight shock. ‘What, all of them?’
‘Except the one that looks like a half-wit.’ At least I don’t think I am, thought Russ. Or am I? Who can tell the difference? The boy was asking their names. ‘Next to me is Dobson,’ said Russ, having no need to refer to the picture. ‘On his right is Lance-Corporal Heath, the one on the end is Private Jamieson. Front row, left to right, Wheatley, Schofield, Corporal Popely…’
After the men had been named, Charlie handed the photograph back. ‘When your leg’s better will you be going back to the war?’
‘I’ve been discharged, unfit for duty. When my leg’s healed I’ll be going back behind the counter.’ If it had only been the leg, he would doubtless have been going back, but as a quivering jelly of cowardice he was no more use to the Army – though his discharge was subject to reappraisal by the Army Medical Board.
‘If the war goes on for another three years, I’ll be old enough to go myself.’
‘Still want to be a soldier, d’you?’
Charlie nodded. ‘We’ve got to beat them, haven’t we?’
‘Why?’
Charlie’s furry eyebrows met. ‘For what they did to Bertie.’
Bertie. This was the first time he had heard the name spoken in this house. He had not dared mention it himself for fear that he would have to tell his wife the whole story. ‘It wasn’t the Germans who killed Bertie.’
Assuming the blame, Charlie dropped his gaze. A moment passed, then he offered, ‘Do you want me to bring you anything, then?’
‘If I want anything I can just as easily come and get it. I’m not a cripple.’
‘Right… I’ll go, then.’ Charlie left quietly.
Russ picked up his photograph.
* * *
Uncanny, how letters addressed to one Hazelwood or the other had the habit of arriving at the most inopportune times. Russ had only been home forty-eight hours when the one for which his wife had been begging for three years finally arrived: Charlie was to go away to college.
‘Of all the times he has to choose!’ declared a chagrined Rachel to the boy after reading it. ‘Who’s going to be here to look after Regina? Not to mention him.’
‘I won’t go,’ decided Charlie. ‘It’d probably take me too long to catch up anyway.’
‘I thought you wanted to go?’
‘I do, but…’
‘Then you’ll have to go.’ Her manner was decisive. ‘I don’t see why you should have to run about after him anyway. He was fit enough to come downstairs and pinch our bread, I’m sure he could manage to keep an eye on Regina and do a bit of tidying up while I earn our living. Yes, you must go.’ She looked at the letter again. ‘Go as soon as you like, it says. So!’ She folded the letter back into its envelope. ‘We’d better get you some new clothes – you can’t go with your pants full of holes. You’ll want a haircut too.’ An involuntary hand went to the boy’s head. ‘Here!’ Finding her purse, she handed him some money. ‘You can go to the barber’s this morning.’ Charlie’s was not the kind of hair one could cut round a pudding basin. ‘Leave Regina with her father.’
The barber, having cut the
boy’s hair on several occasions, welcomed him with a smile. ‘Morning, Charlie! Sit down while I go and fetch my scythe.’
Charlie made a rueful face into the mirror and plucked at a clump of hair. It had grown to resemble sphagnum moss. ‘It is a big long, isn’t it? But I have to wait till she gives me the money to get it cut.’ He sat down.
‘You want to try getting yourself a job.’ The barber flung a cloth round Charlie’s neck and tied it behind. The boy said he was going away to college tomorrow. ‘Oh, that’s why you have to look smart, eh? We’ll have to make a special effort today, then.’ The scissors and comb began to move over Charlie’s head. He stared into the glass, watching the clumps collect on the bib. ‘I hear your dad’s home.’ Arthur, the barber, knew all about Charlie. What gossip he hadn’t picked up from other customers, Charlie had volunteered himself. ‘Got wounded didn’t he?’ Charlie’s reflection nodded. ‘’Spect he’s pleased to be out of it. Way things’re going I could be getting called up meself.’ Arthur was in his late fifties. ‘Bet them lasses’re glad he’s safe, aren’t they?’ Another slight nod from Charlie. ‘What about you?’
‘Mm?’
‘Well, you must be pleased to see him home?’
‘I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing much of him after today.’ Charlie was asked where the college was situated. ‘Up north somewhere. I can’t remember the name of the place.’ The barber asked if he was looking forward to it. Charlie did not answer directly, but gave a little laugh. ‘I’m a bit nervous, really.’ There would be another load of strangers to conquer.
‘All boys, is it?’ Arthur received a yes. ‘Shame.’ He grinned into the mirror. ‘What’re you worried about then?’
Charlie held back, listening to the chatter of the scissors as they worked around his ear. ‘I think I may have something wrong with me.’
‘Nothing catching, I trust?’ The scissors were moved to a different angle. At the lack of response, Arthur glanced into the mirror. ‘Well?’
My Father, My Son Page 54
