Charlie grinned his approval, then turned back to Adrian. ‘What’re you going to be when you leave here, Ade?’
The wideness of Adrian’s smile showed he thought this a funny question. ‘Same as everyone else.’ Seeing Charlie’s bemusement, he added, ‘A priest, of course’.
The cup was lowered from Charlie’s lips, revealing a look of stupefaction.
‘Didn’t you know it’s a junior seminary?’ asked Adrian.
Charlie reared in alarm. ‘I’m not going to be a bloody priest!’
Adrian regarded him with calm interest, as did the others. ‘There’s no law says you have to be. Honk over there is going into science, and Peg hasn’t decided yet, have you?’
Charlie was definite. ‘I’m going to join my father’s regiment.’
‘Then what did you come here for?’ asked Adrian, mood altering. ‘Soldiers don’t need an education, they’re totally stupid, going round killing one another.’
‘My father isn’t stupid!’ Charlie jumped to his feet.
Adrian did not rise, but looked up grimly for a time at the angry figure. Then he brought himself to his feet, his face affable once more. ‘I apologize.’ His hand came out. Charlie glared at it a moment, then took it. ‘It’s just that my father was wounded and two of my brothers were killed in France,’ explained Adrian.
‘My brother was killed too,’ said Charlie. ‘And my father wounded. Sorry.’
‘And you still want to be a soldier?’ Adrian was amazed. ‘If you could see what this stupid war’s done to my parents… anyway, let’s not argue over it, especially at bedtime.’ He kneeled to perform a prayer.
Charlie followed suit, then climbed into bed. He had harboured this ambition to be like his father for so long. ‘Actually,’ he confessed as Adrian got into his own bed, ‘I’m not that keen to become a soldier. I just want to make him proud of me.’ It came as a whisper.
‘Don’t you think he’d rather have you alive?’ asked Adrian.
‘I’m not really sure.’ Charlie rolled his head to look at his friend. Then the lights went out.
* * *
As he had expected after the educational laxity of the past three years, Charlie found his new regime tremendously exacting to begin with. While the others had the weekends to themselves, Charlie would be crouched over a text book or being given extra tuition from a sympathetic master. The only time this swotting was eased was at prayer. These oases of tranquillity were such a blessing – as was Adrian, who coaxed and supported and listened. They had only known each other a short time but Adrian was the sort who formed instant friendships. He had the ability of making the person he was with at that moment feel as though they were his one and only friend.
Charlie turned his head now to look at the sleeping occupant of the neighbouring bed and smiled. Only the blonde hair was visible, sprouting like marron grass above the blanket. Everyone else was asleep except Charlie, who always woke very early. He raised his head a fraction, eyes roaming the dormitory, then dropped it back to the pillow, feeling an immense wave of happiness. How long he had yearned for male company, and here he was with an abundance of it. Stretching, he allowed his foot to slip over the edge of the mattress and swing in childlike content. When it began to cool he drew it back under the covers, then with impish glee he inserted it under Adrian’s blankets and pressed it to the warm flesh.
There was a sharp inhalation, then a grumble of complaint. Adrian pulled his knees away from the cold intrusion and rolled onto his back to peer over the blankets. ‘Darkie, you rotten old bugger. I was having a lovely dream.’ Charlie grinned and asked if it included him. ‘No, it didn’t or it would’ve been a nightmare.’ Adrian stretched and, reliving his dream, gave an ecstatic groan.
Charlie probed. ‘I’ll bet it was about a girl.’
‘No, it wasn’t, then! If you must be so nosy, I was down in Cornwall wallowing in the blue green sea until some lout woke me up.’
After a grinning pause, Charlie said, ‘Ade?’ His friend groaned and pulled the covers over his head. ‘Do you ever dream of them?’
The bleary head emerged. ‘What?’
‘Girls.’
A hesitation, then Adrian’s glazed eyes became thoughtful. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you think you’ll miss being married?’
Adrian pulled himself up and punched his pillow. ‘Why do you always leave it until the crack of dawn or the middle of the night to make these searching questions?’
This was answered with another question. ‘When did you decide to become a priest?’
‘When I was eight.’ Adrian saw his friend’s look of astonishment. ‘Oh, I’ve had lots of second thoughts since then, but I’m as sure now as I’ll ever be.’ He rubbed the sleep from his hazel eyes.
‘I never know what to make of God,’ confessed Charlie. ‘One minute everything’s sailing along fine, then – bump – down you go!’
‘That’s not God, that’s people.’
Charlie nodded. ‘I suppose so. You never answered my question: will you miss being married?’
‘Do you actually mean married,’ asked Adrian, ‘or do you mean will I miss not ever having “done it”?’
Charlie laughed at the sly look on his friend’s face. ‘Both.’
‘I think,’ said Adrian, arching his body to scratch his rear, ‘that to me, serving God is more important than either of those things. It’s the most important thing in my life.’
Charlie admired his friend’s single-mindedness. ‘I couldn’t say what the most important thing is in mine.’
‘I could,’ said the other. ‘It’s your father.’ Charlie was always talking about the man.
Charlie looked startled, then gave a woeful nod. ‘It’s stupid of me, isn’t it? He’s never shown me the least affection. If I’m to be rational, Father Guillaume was much more of a father to me… and I deserted him. I feel really bad about that, wish I could make it up to him.’
‘What d’you think Father Guillaume would have had you do with your life?’
‘Be a priest, I supp…’ Charlie gave a laugh. Adrian had a great knack of getting to the truth of the matter. ‘Maybe I owe it to him.’
‘Darkie, being a priest is a commitment to God. It shouldn’t be viewed as an obligation to others. Is it partly because you’d miss not having a family that you’re reluctant to join the priesthood?’
‘’Struth, no… I’ve had enough of families. I don’t know that I even want to get married. All I’ve ever seen of matrimony is unhappiness.’
‘But you’ve not exactly been in a normal situation, have you? Do you think Mr and Mrs Hazelwood will ever be reconciled?’
‘I can’t see it,’ came Charlie’s pessimistic reply. ‘Neither of them is making the least effort…’
* * *
The day that Charlie had gone, Rachel put it to her husband that it was time he got back into the running of the shop. ‘I really don’t see why I should slave away when you’re here doing nothing.’
Russ looked uneasy. ‘I’m not sure my leg would stand up to it yet.’
‘You don’t need legs to do bookwork. Good heavens, it isn’t much to ask.’
‘Oh, I can do the books,’ he supplied hurriedly. ‘If you don’t mind fetching them home.’
‘Right, well, here you are then!’ Rachel presented him with a couple of ledgers and a thick wad of dockets. She saw his expression as he flicked through the pages, and flared. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry the figures aren’t as neat as you’d do them!’
He was swift to praise. ‘Oh no, no! You’ve done a splendid job.’
‘Yes, well… Charlie helped me.’ Crossing her arms, she came to look over his shoulder at the figures. ‘When you went away, I didn’t know how to do the ordering or anything, I just had the old invoices to go by. One or two people I couldn’t find, there was a Mr… what’s his name?’ She reached over and rippled the pages. Russ caught a whiff of her scent. ‘There! Mr Cranley. There was no address or anyt
hing for him, I had to buy off one of the other suppliers. I hope his nose won’t have been put out of joint. If it is, it’s too bad.’
‘No need to bother about him,’ said Russ, with mordant smile. ‘He was a damned nuisance anyway.’
He spent the evening balancing the books, as indeed he did every evening after this. His wife became more tolerant to his presence. Russ wished he could be more tolerant of himself. There wasn’t a day went by without him thinking of the carnage. With every night returned the blood and pus of the trenches and the ones who had died.
There were reminders, too, from the live ones. This morning, Becky ran into the kitchen and pressed a letter into his hand. ‘Ah, thank you, me love!’ he responded with a smile as she dashed out again, then examined the envelope, making no move to open it.
Today was Empire Day. ‘National Food Saving Day,’ as Rachel pointed out acerbically while conserving the crumbs from the breadboard for some future use. ‘What the devil do they imagine we’ve been having for the last three years, banquets?’ The children would be taking the afternoon off school and many places of work were closed, but Rachel would have gone mad if she had had to stop in the house all day so was going to open the shop. It didn’t matter that there would be little custom, only that she was out of his company. He was unchanged in spirit, though his flesh was healing well. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before he could return to the shop and allow her to resume her millinery work. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ She was not too busy to notice the way he fingered the letter.
‘Aye… I suppose I’d better if somebody’s taken the trouble to write it.’
She wondered whether that was a dig at her for burning all the letters he had sent, but hadn’t time to dwell on it. Finishing the clearance of the table she took the pots on a tray to the scullery. The letter was opened.
Dear Sarg, just thought I’d pencil a few lines in between emptying the old biscuit tins – don’t worry, I only used the paper once.
Russ smiled and projected his voice towards the scullery. ‘It’s from Jewitt.’ Hoping the boy’s words might amuse her, he read it out loud. ‘How is your leg? Healed up nicely, I hope. I know you will be sorry to hear that old Lonsborough bought it last week. He cut his finger on a bully tin and didn’t report it, got lockjaw… Oh hell.’ The tone of Russ’ voice became grave. ‘Not a very heroic end, was it? We have got a load of new chaps up here now and they are no good to anyone, always getting wind up. Still, things are going quite well and I hope to be on my way to Blighty tomorrow on a seven-day leave – look out, girls!’
Rachel came in to collect the tablecloth and sniffed. ‘Typical soldier.’
Russ flared, dropping the letter to his knee. ‘And just what is a typical soldier? I’d be obliged if you could put me straight on that. I’ve seen kids who’re barely out of the cradle fight like demons, I’ve seen big tough sergeant-majors cry like babies, I’ve seen weedy little men who are born killers – there’s no such thing as a typical soldier!’ After glaring at her, he picked up the letter again and, ironing his tone, read, ‘I might just call and see you as well when I have unloaded my DCM on my mum…’
‘Oh, he’s got a medal then?’ Rachel gathered the four corners of the cloth and shook it in the yard.
‘No, he means Decent Covering of Muck.’ Russ continued with the letter. ‘You will know about Captain Daw, what with you two being neighbours. We will miss his…’ Russ didn’t consider ‘spunk’ a fitting word to read out to his wife so interchanged it with ‘…courage, but can’t say we’ll miss his sarkiness. The new captain is a bit of a greenhorn. He won’t last long. Who knows, I might get his job. Well, Sarg, cheerio for now and if I don’t see you on this leave I’ll definitely call on you at the end of the war. Love and kisses, Piltdown.’
Rachel had stopped folding the cloth to stare at him. ‘Has something happened to Jack?’
Russ looked uncertain. ‘It sounds as though… surely Ella would’ve told us?’
His wife shoved the tablecloth in a drawer. ‘I’d better go round.’ Russ said, wouldn’t she be at work? ‘I won’t know if I don’t go.’ He asked if he should come. ‘No, let me find out what’s happened first.’ She left by the back door.
Ella had taken Empire Day off. She beckoned Rachel into the scullery and answered the tentative question, ‘Aye, it’s right – he’s been wounded.’
‘Oh dear.’ Rachel touched her breast. ‘Badly?’
Ella nodded and leaned on the sink. ‘His leg’s had to come off at the knee.’
Rachel inhaled sharply. ‘Oh, Ella, I am sorry! But why didn’t you come round?’
‘I had no idea you were a surgeon, Rachel, or I might’ve done.’ She flapped her hand. ‘Oh, take no notice of me. I’m just that mad… I didn’t tell you ’cause I reckoned you had enough troubles of your own. I suppose I should be grateful I’m getting three quarters of him back… but you just can’t help feeling bitter, can you?’
‘No.’ Rachel’s thoughts meandered to her son. Absent-mindedly, she picked up a dishcloth and began to wipe up the spills of tea from Ella’s worktop.
Ella made no objection, but watched her. ‘D’you know, I can’t think of a family round here who hasn’t lost somebody or had them maimed. And what is it all for? I’m blowed if I can say. I mean, has it brought us any more freedom, prosperity? Has it buggery.’
‘I suppose getting the vote doesn’t seem as important now,’ ventured Rachel.
‘My God, Rachel, it’s more pressing than ever that we get it! Who’s been running the country while our men have been getting blown to pieces – us women! Just let them reject the bill this year, there’ll be hell on. No… we need that vote and we need women in Parliament so that this never happens again – I mean, can you ever imagine a woman Prime Minister getting us into this lot?’ At Rachel’s negation, she sighed. ‘Eh, I don’t know what I’m going to do about looking after Jack, what with having to go out to work. He’ll be in hospital a fair while o’ course but he’ll have to come home some time.’
‘Well, don’t worry about that,’ answered Rachel, suddenly noticing she had the cloth in her hand and putting it down. ‘I can look in on him and cook his dinner.’
‘Oh, that would be a help – do you mind?’
‘I wouldn’t have offered if I minded. I have to cook a dinner for that useless article of mine, one more won’t make much difference.’
‘Oh, champion! Eh, I’ll give you the money o’ course and you can take what you like out of the garden.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of taking money. If we can’t all help each other it’s a bad thing. Though I will dib into your garden. I notice your cabbages are further on than mine.’
‘Ah well, I have access to some nice cowpats where I work.’ Ella smiled and asked, ‘So, how is Russ coping now?’
‘Well, if you can call doing a bit of bookwork coping, then he’s coping. D’you know, Ella, he hardly shifts from that sofa. I’ve told him he should be back at the shop now his leg’s mended but he says he isn’t ready.’
‘Well, I don’t want to stick my nose in… but I’ve seen him trying to turn the corner at the end of the street. It’s as if there’s a string pulling him back. He just turns round and comes home. Don’t force the lad.’
Instead of resenting this interference as she once might have done, Rachel took heed of it. ‘I didn’t know… when he says he’s been for a walk I never bother to ask where. What d’you think’s the matter with him?’
‘I don’t know what’s in his head, love,’ sighed Ella.
‘Has he… has he ever said anything to you about Robert?’
‘No, our conversations don’t get that deep. Why, do you think that’s what his problem is?’
‘I wouldn’t know. He’s never once mentioned his son.’ Rachel’s face softened. ‘But then, neither have I… I can’t.’
‘Would you like me to talk to him about it?’
‘No.’ Rachel turned to put a hand on the
doorknob. ‘I’m not really that concerned about what’s troubling him.’
‘Still as bad as ever, is it?’
Rachel postponed her exit to ruminate. ‘Well… we just sort of tolerate each other.’
‘How’s Charlie doing at that college, then?’
‘Oh, he seems to like it.’ Rachel opened the door. ‘We had a letter from him last week saying he’s catching up – slowly, of course, but the main thing is he’s happy there.’
Ella considered this a strange remark from one who had previously contributed towards the boy’s unhappiness. She stepped into the yard to watch Rachel go. ‘Thanks for coming, Rache. I appreciate your offer of help.’
* * *
At lunchtime, Rachel closed the shop. When she reached home she went straight upstairs. It was Robina’s birthday soon and, having purchased some material to make her a dress, Rachel wanted to keep it a secret until the day. The best hiding place would be Robert’s room. No one ever went in there. She reached his door and opened it. A figure spun guiltily from the mirror. Rachel gasped, thinking for a fleeting moment that it was Robert. Then, ‘Rosalyn!’ she shrieked. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Red-faced, Lyn took the cap from her head, allowing the trapped hair to tumble to her shoulders. Her legs were encased in long trousers – Robert’s trousers.
Rachel flew at her, gave her a hearty slap on the arm and commanded her to take them off immediately. ‘You have no right even to be in here! Let alone wearing Robert’s clothes.’
Lyn tried not to cry, though the blow had hurt. ‘I asked Father. He said it would be all right.’
‘Well, it’s not all right!’ Rachel pushed the child backwards onto the bed and tugged the trousers over her heels. ‘This is Robert’s room! These are Robert’s clothes!’ Divested of the trousers, Lyn righted herself and pulled the pinafore over her head. ‘Well, I only wanted to be important!’ she hurled, before running away down the stairs and locking herself in the lavatory.
My Father, My Son Page 56
