Madge gave her a broad wink. ‘Believe me, Grace, so am I!’
Grace smiled and shook her head. It wasn’t only that she enjoyed her work at Hassett Manor; she knew her parents would hit the roof if she were to go to live in London at seventeen, to take on a way of life that Madge talked of so invitingly. Perhaps in another year or two…
When he was judged to be on the road to recovery, Ernest had been shipped home in February with other men who had survived the Gallipoli landings, and was overjoyed to see England again. His appearance shocked his parents, and Grace thought he looked worse than some of the admissions to Hassett Manor. His reunion with Aaron had to be somewhat restrained in company, but their hand clasp and the look in their eyes conveyed their thoughts as well as any embrace. Their happiness was short-lived, however; Aaron had orders to return to active service in May, and he would soon be followed by Dick Yeomans, called up under the new Military Service Act of January that year, as a single man not in a reserved occupation. Farmer Yeomans protested in vain, and Mary Cooper was heartbroken, for by now their mutual attachment was common knowledge, and Dick was in favour of a quick, quiet wedding before he went for training at Aldershot. His parents had disagreed, however, thinking him too young to make such a commitment in a hurry; but when he marched away to war, Mary wore a silver engagement ring, and carried a promise that they would be wed when he came home. Meanwhile two land army girls had been sent to assist on the farm, and both the farmer and Mary had their work cut out, she told her father, to train and supervise them in the daily rigours of life on the land.
‘The poor girl’s upset, o’course,’ said Eddie worriedly. ‘It sounds as if there’s goin’ to be one hell of a battle when the British and French charge at the Jerries eye-to-eye. Dick Yeomans’ll be takin’ his chance along of all the others, and God help us all if…I don’t ’old with farmers bein’ called up, Tom. They’re more use at ’ome than out there, riskin’ their lives.’
Tom found this difficult to answer. He and Eddie had in a way changed places, now that Ernest was at home and Eddie’s probable son-in-law was away.
‘Did you hear about the Goddard boy, what’s his name, Sidney?’ he asked. ‘Got called up but didn’t pass his medical, seems he can’t see without spectacles. He seems a pretty fit bloke otherwise.’
‘Yeah.’ Eddie nodded. ‘I s’pose they’ll draft him into some reserved occupation, so he could end up in one of these munition factories, turnin’ out guns an’ whatnot. In which case he’ll stand a better chance o’ comin’ home than Dick Yeomans,’ he added bitterly.
‘Old Goddard’ll miss him, though. He’s not been so well lately, and they’ve been looking to Sidney to take over the shop if – er…’ Tom sighed. ‘Seems to be trouble everywhere you look. Young Neville’s gone back, and his poor mother keeps herself going with Hassett Hospital, as they call it.’
‘What about her husband and the elder son? Still out in India, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, Sir Arnold’s even more of a bigwig out there, recruiting local native chaps to join in the fun. And young Arnold, I don’t know what he’s up to, but you can bet they’ll be stuck out there as long as the war’s on. The whole world’s changing, Eddie. Not many able-bodied young men left around.’ Tom’s mouth tightened, remembering Ernest’s return from Gallipoli, thin and gaunt – and the first question he’d asked, ‘Is Aaron home?’ And now young Pascoe was to go back to active service on the Western Front. To face death. And for what? It just didn’t make sense.
May, 1916
Young Mrs Storey was much in demand at Barnett Street School, and even more in the parish of St Barnabas. The lives of the poor, which had always been hard, now seemed gloomier and shabbier than ever, and she listened to tale after tale of hardship and heartbreak. The news of a son killed in the trenches caused as much grief in an overcrowded tenement block as in a neat suburban avenue, and they all feared the dreaded telegram with its message of ‘killed’ or ‘missing’, which usually meant the same thing. ‘Wounded’ just might mean that the soldier would eventually return, minus a limb or two, and perhaps horribly scarred. Isabel’s own anxiety for her brother Ernest had drawn her closer to these people, and they looked to her for comfort and reassurance.
‘Ye’d better be careful, Mrs Storey,’ warned Mrs Clements. ‘Some o’ these women expect too much o’ yer. Ye’re too soft-hearted, and they take advantage.’
Isabel smiled a little wearily. In fact she was quite well aware of those who tried to play on her sympathies, and she was as gently firm with them as she was generous to the more deserving. She could not offer money, but she could advise them about ‘Outdoor Relief ’ and how to apply for it to the Board of Guardians, sometimes putting in a word to the Rev. Mr Storey.
‘And as for that disgusting drunken woman Tanner, shoutin’ and hollerin’ in the street, shakin’ her fist and behavin’ worse’n an animal, ye’d do better to keep away from the likes o’ her,’ continued Mrs Clements. ‘It’s a scandal, in front o’ children an’ all!’
Isabel sighed. She had alarmed even her husband by the way she had shown kindness to poor Mrs Tanner, linking arms with her and guiding her to her dismal home, where she’d brewed a pot of tea. She had called again the next day, and listened to the woman’s wretched story.
‘I got nuffin’ left, missus, nuffin’. I was brought up in an’ ’ome, never knew muvver or farver, an’ when I was sixteen I got work scrubbin’ floors an’ doin’ them sort o’ jobs…an’ then I met Alf Tanner, an’ we took to each other straight away, so we got married, and I was expectin’ a baby an’ was as ’appy as a woman could be… Oh, missus, we was that ’appy, I fought I was in ’eaven.’
Mrs Tanner collapsed in sobs, and Isabel put her arms around her. There seemed to be nothing to say, and she waited until the woman was able to continue.
‘Go on, my dear. What happened?’
‘My poor Alf was killed when one o’ them airships came down in flames an’ landed on top o’ the factory where ’e was workin’ nights. I couldn’t believe it at first, an’ the shock was so bad I lost the baby. In the ’ome we was told that God loves us an’ takes care of us, but ’E ain’t done nuffin’ for me, missus, an’ the only time I get away from meself is when I ’as a drop o’ gin. I can’t understand it, missus, I ain’t been a bad woman, I never ’ad any man but Alf, but now I got nuffin’. Nuffin’!’
Isabel’s heart ached with pity. How could she tell such a woman to put her trust in God rather than turn to drink for a few brief hours of oblivion? She did not even try, but held her close and rocked her gently. The memory of Mary Cooper’s mother came back to her, the lost look in her eyes, the tragedy of her life and death.
‘What’s your Christian name, my dear?’ she asked.
‘Sally, an’ I ain’t no Christian, missus.’
‘Well, Sally, remember how Alf loved you, and try to be brave for his sake, and live as he’d have wished you to,’ Isabel said softly. ‘He’d want you to look after yourself properly, and keep occupied – I mean keep busy. There’s a new clothing factory opened on the Commercial Road, and they need women to stitch khaki uniforms for the soldiers. Why don’t you apply for a job there? I’ll help you to write a letter, and if they offer you work, take it and do it as well as you can – and earn yourself some money!’
Sally sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ll try, missus. It’s good o’ yer, missus.’
That evening Isabel told Mark of her encounter with Sally Tanner, and how she hoped that Sally would regain her self-respect in paid employment.
‘Poor soul, she’s lost everything that made her life worth living,’ she said. ‘Having a job to go to each day will give her self-discipline, and she’ll meet other women. She promised me that she’d try.’
Mark was not entirely in agreement. ‘But Isabel dear, suppose she can’t give up the drink, and loses her job because of it, she’d be in a worse case than she is now, with a sense of failure added to loss, and likely t
o become dependent on you if you allow her.’ Mark frowned, for he did not relish the idea of his wife associating openly with drunks and hangers-on. ‘If you could restore her faith, get her to pray and put herself in God’s hands…’
‘Oh, Mark, she thinks that God has let her down, and who can blame her? Perhaps if she could learn to put her trust in me, and not want to let me down, she’d make the effort, seeing that I haven’t condemned her, as others have.’ Isabel spoke seriously, seeing the look of surprise on her husband’s face. ‘Surely we can only teach the love of God by showing it, as Jesus showed it to tax collectors and poor women who were…well, harlots.’
Mark drew her close and kissed her. ‘You are an angel, Isabel, and I don’t deserve you. These people of ours learn more from you than they learn from me.’
‘And I’ve learnt from them, Mark, and I’m still learning,’ she answered.
For Isabel knew that she was not an angel; she knew that Sally Tanner had lost the love of her life, while she, Isabel, still had hers, living and breathing and loving.
Tom Munday felt as if he were the repository of too many secrets, by which he meant the things he couldn’t share with his wife, who needed to be shielded rather than confided in. At forty-nine Tom was only eight years ahead of the age limit for having to go to war, following the second Military Service Act, which now included married men between the ages of eighteen to forty-one. It would bring yet more heartbreak into homes as husbands and fathers were drawn away from their dependents, for the attitude to the war had changed from enthusiastic patriotism and adventure to shock and grief at the death toll so far in the conflict. Whereas in 1914 there had been long queues at recruiting offices, now there were men who openly declared themselves unwilling to make ‘the supreme sacrifice’ for king and country. Some went further, and the members of the No Conscription Fellowship increased. These ‘conscientious objectors’, also called conchies, cowards, slackers and any number of epithets, were howled at and spat upon, their meetings were broken up with jeers and throwing of rotten eggs; hauled up before military tribunals, they were thrown into comfortless prison cells where they were often beaten and half-starved.
‘It requires a different sort of courage, Dad, to stand up and say you’re a pacifist in time of war,’ Ernest had said after seeing Aaron off to France. ‘I’d have been a conscientious objector if it hadn’t been for Aaron who decided to go to war against our country’s enemy. I couldn’t let him go alone.’
It was then that Tom began to realise the depth of the relationship between the two young men, which he could not condemn, but had of course to keep to himself.
‘And when they tell me I’m fit for duty again, I’ll have to go, Dad.’
And it will be up to me to comfort your mother, thought Tom, to bear with her grief and rage, as if I wasn’t suffering just as much.
As the sunny days passed, Ernest’s health improved rapidly, but Tom secretly wished that his son might remain a pale, anaemic invalid; it would only be a matter of time before he followed Aaron to the battlefields. William Hickory said goodbye to his sweetheart Phyllis Bird, and went to join her brothers Tim and Ted who had been early volunteers; and the Rev. Mr Saville and his wife had to say goodbye to their handsome, golden-haired son, Philip, now eighteen. Sidney Goddard was reluctant to go out of doors or face the customers who came in to buy haberdashery from his father’s shop, tactlessly remarking that all the best men were now in the army. And Eddie Cooper told Tom how his daughter Mary had wept when she saw Dick Yeomans off on his train.
‘He’ll be home for Christmas, as like as not,’ Eddie had told her, but she had gone on weeping, refusing to be comforted.
June, 1916
Lady Neville had gone to visit a bereaved family some distance away on the other side of South Camp. She drove herself in the one-horse two-seater gig, waving aside old Mr Standish’s offer to drive, as she needed to concentrate her mind on her sad task, and what she could say to a couple who had lost a son.
‘You’ll serve me best by staying here,’ she told him, noting his crestfallen look. ‘Nurse Payne has the day off, and Miss Letitia is in her room with another of her headaches, so I’m having to leave the manor in the charge of Miss Munday and Flossie. Mrs Gann will leave as soon as suppers are cleared away, so I’ll be very grateful to know that you’re here to keep an eye on things.’
The old butler brightened as she had known he would, at being given this responsibility. ‘Trust me, your ladyship, I’ll take care o’ them all.’
She nodded and smiled. All the present patients were recovering, and only one amputee was still confined to bed. She trusted Grace Munday who had been re-instated as ward domestic assistant, much to Nurse Payne’s indignation, especially when the men addressed the saucy young hussy as ‘Nurse’. Lady Neville had taken on Grace largely for her father’s sake, but she had grown to like the girl for her cheerfulness and initiative, and the fact that the men found her amusing.
It had been a beautiful day, and after supper most of the men had gathered in the spacious conservatory at the back of Hassett Manor. It was known as the salon, and was furnished with comfortable basket chairs and a couple of tables. An upright piano stood at one end, flanked by potted palms, and one of the patients sat idly tinkling out tunes while the rest played cards, read, talked or sat looking out at the rose garden, drinking in the peace of the evening, contrasted with the scenes they had recently experienced. Old Mr Standish sat on a garden bench smoking his pipe, and the aroma of his tobacco smoke mingled with the scent of roses rising on the still air and drifting into the salon through the open windows and casement doors. The men were dressed in the uniform of the wounded, blue tunics and red ties; some needed crutches or sticks to aid their walking, and Grace was chatting with the one still confined to bed; it was he who gave her the idea of having a sing-song around the piano, and she called Flossie to help her move the man’s bed out to join the other men in the salon.
‘No, no, we don’t need any help,’ she said when a couple of patients offered to push the bed along on its casters. ‘Pansy Potter, the strong man’s daughter, that’s me!’
‘Now, then, let’s see what songs we’ve got!’ she said, riffling through the sheet music kept in the piano stool and on top of the instrument, looking for something rather livelier than the songs that had been acceptable at Lady Neville’s musical evenings. ‘Hm – practically all of Gilbert and Sullivan’s and Sentimental Songs for the Family… Old Favourites… ooh, and what’s this? The Music Hall, a Selection of Songs Made Popular by Miss Marie Lloyd – hooray! We’ll have a go at some of those.’ She looked up and raised her voice. ‘Gather round, everybody, give our pianist another glass of Adam’s ale, and who’s going to start us off? We all know “Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer, Do!”’
The men sang it with gusto, and Grace then gave them ‘There Was I, Waiting at the Church’, with all the men roaring out ‘My wife won’t let me!’ at the end.
‘Coo, yer don’t ’alf sing a treat, Grace,’ marvelled Flossie, round-eyed.
‘So what about you, Flossie? What can you give us?’
‘I know ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down’,’ offered Flossie, but Grace stopped her. ‘We don’t want reminding of the Zeppelins, thank you – does anybody know a “round”, something we can divide up into parts?’
‘Three Blind Mice’ was suggested and duly sung in four parts, and an Irishman felt encouraged to stand up and sing a solo.
‘So I’ll wait for the wild rose that’s waitin’ for me
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea!’
At the end of this soulful rendering, Grace ostentatiously pulled a handkerchief out of her overall pocket and dabbed her eyes in an excess of pretended emotion; when she’d recovered, she led the company in ‘Oranges and Lemons’, sung in two parts, one behind the other, a bit of a fiasco that ended in laughter. Flushed with pleasure at the men’s enjoyment, she asked the pianist to look up the Marie Llo
yd songbook, and told Flossie to go and fetch a wide-brimmed hat from the row of hooks in the kitchen corridor.
‘And a parasol if you can find one,’ she called after the girl, though Flossie could only find a navy-blue velour hat that Mrs Gann wore during the winter, and the nearest thing to a parasol was a large, dark-coloured umbrella.
‘They’ll just have to do, it’s up to me to make the best of them,’ said Grace with a rueful grin. ‘At your convenience, Mr Piano-man!’
As he struck the opening chord, she climbed up on to one of the tables, the hat at a jaunty angle, the umbrella/parasol unfurled and twirling round her head as she gave a robust impersonation of the great music hall diva.
‘If I show my shape just a little bit,
Just a little bit, not too much of it –
If I show my shape just a little bit,
It’s the little bit the boys admire!’
Whistles, cheers, laughter and delighted applause greeted this, a heady mixture that Grace found intoxicating. She opened and closed the umbrella, pirouetting on the table, her hips swaying as she belted out the song again, with many winks and suggestive glances from her dark eyes.
‘Watch that table, Grace, it ain’t ’alf wobbly!’ warned Flossie, and three of the men got up to hold it steady while Grace cavorted above them in reckless abandon. All eyes were fixed on her – which is why nobody noticed Nurse Payne creeping quietly into the salon, drawn by the sound of ‘shameless goings-on’, as she was later to describe the scene to Lady Neville. At the same moment Miss Letitia Neville left her room to investigate the noise which was keeping her awake; she descended the stairs and stood behind Nurse Payne, a pale figure with tragic eyes. Grace carried on singing and dancing, unaware that retribution was about to fall on her. Flossie was the first to see Nurse Payne, and froze: the men followed her gaze and made frantic signals to Grace who eventually turned and saw, not outrage but grim triumph on the face of her adversary.
The Carpenter's Children Page 16
