‘No, I never should’ve said that, Tom – and I owe you a lot, too, for bringin’ it about. And not only that, but somethin’ else – when Mrs Yeomans got huffy with Mary over it, Sidney told her she should make it up with my Annie, and brought her round to see us. Mary burst into tears, but I stood back and left it to Annie to comfort her, and she did. Meant everythin’ to me, that did. Now they get on like a pair o’ sisters, makin’ up for lost time, and Annie’s doin’ a weddin’ breakfast at our house.’
Tom smiled in acknowledgement, silently thanking his lucky stars that his scheming had paid off. He and Violet were privileged in being the only non-family guests invited to the wedding, the Yeomanses having declined to attend. Once married, the couple were to move into Eddie’s and Annie’s home temporarily, until the Blackwater cottage could be cleaned up and rented, and Sidney would continue to work at the farm, though Mary would not return there.
Sitting beside Tom in the Methodist church, Violet watched Mr and Mrs Goddard and their daughter Betty putting a brave face on their son’s choice of a wife, for they had not been consulted or given a chance to object to it. Mary looked pale and serious in a loose-fitting grey coat and matching hat decorated with one blue silk rose; she trembled as her father put her hand into Sidney’s, but looked up trustingly as he stood by her side, a proudly defiant expression on his face, and his responses clearly audible.
‘It’ll be a nine-day wonder, I dare say,’ said Tom Munday when the ceremony was over, and they made their way on foot to the wedding breakfast at Eddie’s. ‘But it’ll be the making o’ Sidney, just you see.’
But the hasty wedding was forgotten in news of a very different kind that arrived by telegram to the Bird household on the following day, bringing utter desolation to them: their eldest son Tim had been badly injured and had died of his wounds in a field hospital, so now both their sons were lost, never to return. There was also news that William Hickory had been wounded, but was on his way home. It was Phyllis Bird’s only consolation over that dark Christmas.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Christmas, 1916
Standing beside Violet in their usual place on Christmas morning, Tom Munday looked around the church, and could not remember a more sorrowful Christmas. The loss of the Birds’ two sons brought a desolation that was beyond words or tears, and the Rev. Saville offered up prayers for all bereaved families in the parish, including the Yeomans family who did not attend church, but who mourned the loss of their only son, killed so soon after being forcibly conscripted. The vicar then went on to name all North Camp and Hassett families who had sons, brothers or other relatives serving in the war, and these included the Nevilles, the Mundays, the widowed Mrs Hickory and the Savilles themselves; he also mentioned Mrs Storey, formerly Miss Isabel Munday, whose husband was in the army as a chaplain.
Tom saw Lady Neville in her front pew, flanked by Mr Cedric who was on home leave, and Miss Letitia, pale and unsmiling as ever. Mr Bird occupied a pew near the back of the church with his daughter Phyllis beside him; they sat, knelt or stood at the appropriate times, and spoke to no one, except when the service was over, and Mr Bird replied briefly to the whispered enquiries about his wife with a polite ‘She’s much the same, thank you.’
‘Which means she’s breaking her heart over her two lost boys and wishing she was where they are,’ commented Violet Munday, sadly shaking her head. ‘I’m surprised at Bird leaving her alone in the house this morning.’
‘She’s not alone, she’s got Mr Bird’s sister over from Aldershot staying,’ said Mrs Lansdowne, wanting to correct a wrong impression.
‘But I thought the two sisters-in-law never got on – they fell out years ago, something to do with the boys’ confirmation.’
‘This is no time for bearing grudges, Mrs Munday,’ came the sharp retort from Mrs Lansdowne. ‘Bert and I went round there last night with a few bits and pieces for the larder, and Miss Bird – the elder Miss Bird, was most civil to us, and said she was doing her best in a very difficult situation.’
Violet Munday, suitably rebuked, joined the congregation filing out through the south door; Mr Saville shook hands with everyone, and instead of ‘Happy Christmas’, said ‘Peace be upon you.’
Outside in the churchyard people spoke in hushed tones. Lady Neville exchanged a word or two with as many as she could, and enquired after Ernest.
‘Wasn’t it a happy chance that Cedric met your son and his friend at Gallipoli?’ she said, adding that he had been most impressed by their bravery. Tom noticed that Cedric looked thin and war-weary, but smiled when he approached them.
‘What about that jolly daughter of yours, the one who entertained us so well at Hassett Manor?’ he asked, and Violet’s face fell.
‘Grace worked at Everham General Hospital for a few weeks, and now she’s in London,’ Tom replied, trying to speak lightly. ‘She doesn’t tell us much, but we gather she’s well and making new friends – doing her bit for the war effort, no doubt!’
‘And your elder daughter, the one who married that clergyman – my mother mentioned that he’s away at the front, too?’
‘Yes, Mr Neville, he is, and Isabel still lives in Bethnal Green in East London, and does a lot of good work there, we hear,’ said Tom with pride. ‘Of course we worry about her, with these bombing raids going on, but…’ he shrugged. ‘Isabel always followed the path of duty – a good girl, she’s been to us.’
‘Though I can’t understand why she couldn’t leave that dreary vicarage, just for Christmas,’ interposed Violet. ‘We are her parents, after all, and with Mark away, I’d have thought we meant more to her than those rough East Enders – like that young widow she’s taken up with – what’s her name, Tom? Tanner!’
‘Sally Tanner probably needs Isabel more than we do, to see her through Christmas,’ said Tom gravely. ‘As long as no harm comes to our girl and the baby—’
He stopped short, realising he’d said more than he’d intended. Violet flashed him a furious look that said, Wait till I get you home! Talking to a man about such intimate family matters, it was too bad of him; and other people may have overheard!
Cedric smiled and tactfully changed the subject. He told them that he would not be going straight back to the front after Christmas, but was to take a course at a place he could not mention, to learn about the use of a new form of transport on the battlefield, a heavily armoured vehicle that had no wheels but moved on a ‘caterpillar’ track and could plough through barbed wire and cross a ditch eight-feet wide, its occupants able to fire at the enemy whilst protected from German machine gun fire.
‘And the sooner we get it up and running, the shorter the war’s likely to be,’ he said to Tom, ‘before the Jerries get on to the idea.’
January, 1917
It took Grace Munday just two weeks to change her mind. Madge Fraser laughed and gave her a congratulatory kiss.
‘Good gal, I knew ye’d come round to it once ye’d thought it over – easy money for doin’ a valuable service to the nation, that’s what Mrs Moore calls it! I’ll let ’er know ye’ve seen the light, an’ she’ll pick yer out a nice young chap who needs cheerin’ up. You’ll be fine!’
Grace’s nightmare memory of Tupman’s attempted rape had lost much of its horror after more than two years had elapsed; the young men who had taken her out to supper in a ‘foursome’ with Madge or some other ‘Dolly’s girl’ had all been good fun, and their kisses and cuddles pleasant rather than otherwise; it was the same with the wounded men she had met at Hassett Manor.
Madge lost no time in telling Mrs Moore, and the very next day she beckoned to Grace after their morning rehearsal.
‘Sybil’s found us a couple o’ fellers, an’ tomorrer night after the show we’ll get into a taxi with ’em, so ol’ Dean’ll think we’re goin’ out on a foursome, but we’ll go straight to 17 Lamp Street,’ she said with businesslike authority. ‘Yours is a poor boy goin’ over there for the first time, an’ mine’s ’is pal who�
�s arranged this little rendy-voo for ’im, an’ a bit for ’imself as well. Yours is Derek, mine’s Bob, an’ I’ll take ’im to me own room.’
The following evening the girls were duly introduced by Mrs Moore to their clients. Derek had said goodbye to his parents that morning, and they’d thought him on his way to Southampton and the ship to take him to Calais; it had been Bob’s idea to find a couple of girls to enjoy before looking death in the face.
‘There’s the key to Number Four,’ said Madge. ‘Lock it be’ind yer when yer go in. There’s clean sheets on the bed, an’ a bottle o’ bubbly on the table with glasses an’ a corkscrew. Make sure yer knock back a couple o’ glasses ’fore yer get down to business. Ye’ve got a decent-looking little feller there –’e may not want to do it, only talk – but make sure ye’ve got the doin’s in.’
The ‘doings’ was a piece of bathroom sponge about the size of a plum, that had soaked in a jar of vinegar. Madge had expertly shown Grace how to push it up into the vagina – for which Madge had an extremely vulgar name – as a preventive measure.
‘No need to be scared, kid, one man’s much the same as another, an’ they all look the same in the dark!’
So Grace found herself leading Derek up the stairs and into room Number Four. She locked the door and turned to him, her first client.
‘We’ve got a b-bottle of champagne to share,’ she said shyly. ‘Er…are you any good at opening bottles?’
With cold hands that shook slightly, he drew the cork; there was a pop, and the glasses were filled with the sparkling, bubbling liquid. They clinked them together.
‘What shall we drink to?’ she asked.
‘Victory!’ he answered at once, and she replied, ‘Death to the old kaiser!’ She swallowed hers straight away, and he poured her another. Presently she felt herself relaxing under its influence, and her nervousness eased a little. His arms went round her waist, his face was near to hers, and she closed her eyes as his lips touched her cheek and then found her mouth. They stood together, swaying slightly, and it occurred to her that he was as nervous as herself. Madge had told her that a nervous client needed gentle encouragement, and should not be hurried; she should help him remove his clothes, and ask him to help remove hers, unbuttoning and unhooking as necessary, slowly and between kisses.
‘Let ’im see yer tits, an’ ’old ’em up for ’im to kiss,’ her mentor had advised.
‘Most of ’em don’t need no second biddin’, but it’s up to you to bring ’em on. Get into a nice, steady rhythm, not too fast, not too slow. Once ’e’s kissed yer tits, it’s time to let yer ’and go wanderin’ down to ’is trousers, an’ see if e’s risin’ to the occasion.’
Grace was now definitely feeling the effect of the drink, and her body was soft and pliant in Derek’s arms. Her clothing seemed to melt away, and she gave a little hiccup as they lay down on the bed. The room circled slowly round, and then to her surprise they were both naked, and he was lying on top of her.
‘Oh, Grace – you dear girl – are you ready?’ he asked thickly, knowing himself to be so. ‘You don’t mind?’
She gave a little laugh, and what happened next was so surprising, so different from what it had been like with Tupman; this was nice and warm and comfortable. Derek tried to be gentle as he entered her, and after a few thrusts he ejaculated, groaning incoherently. This was very different from Tupman!
‘Good, good, that’s so good, Grace – oh, Grace, oh, Grace!’
Grace’s head was swimming, and she scarcely realised that it was over. She lay peacefully and contentedly until roused by the sound of weeping: it was Derek, trying to stifle his sobs. She sat up, pulled the sheet and blankets over them, and put her arms around him, hugging him to her bare breasts and stroking the top of his head.
‘Sssh, sssh, Derek, it’s all right, don’t cry,’ she whispered.
‘It’s not all right, Grace, I’ve got to go to hell tomorrow, and the chances are I won’t be coming back,’ he sobbed against her softness. ‘I don’t want to go – I’m afraid – I’m so afraid, Grace.’
She could only try to comfort him with her warmth and nearness, and gradually he became calmer. ‘Want to stay here for ever,’ he muttered. ‘Wish there was an air raid, and a bomb to kill us both – we could die together.’
Grace had no such wish for death, and held him closer. ‘Sssh!’
After a while he spoke more clearly. ‘I’ll remember you all the time I’m in those trenches, Grace. All the time. God bless you, Grace. I’ll never forget you.’
Presently the drink and their love-making had its effect on them, and they both fell asleep, their limbs entwined, to be awakened by a knocking on their door at five o’clock. Grace unlocked the door and saw Madge and Bob; he was dressed and ready to go to Waterloo Station, and from there to Southampton and the troopship.
‘Come on, come on, Derek! It’s time we were up and away – hurry up!’
With a sinking heart Grace helped Derek, still half-asleep, to find and pull on his clothes; he gave her one last kiss before going off with his friend, and Grace was left to ponder on the experience. Her thoughts turned to Nick, probably dead, and to her brother Ernest and his friend Aaron. And her sister Isabel’s husband. Surely, if what she had done had given comfort to one young soldier going off to war, it couldn’t be entirely wrong – could it?
When Madge handed her the money in a sealed envelope, she was amazed. Even after Mrs Moore had taken her share, and Madge had generously waived hers, it was still equal to two weeks’ pay at Dolly’s. For some reason she did not want to spend it straight away, but put it into a post office savings account.
The cold January days passed mournfully by. The news from the front, what there was of it, was not encouraging. Casualty lists continued to lengthen, and under the new prime minister, Mr Lloyd George, regulations and restrictions seemed to proliferate, and shortages began to be felt.
‘Lucky for us, growing our own spuds,’ remarked Tom Munday to Eddie as they heaved a sack out of the coal shed where the potatoes were stored to keep them frost-free. In the towns shops were running out of vegetables and all kinds of goods; the public were asked to cut down on the amount of bread they ate, and flour became scarce. Yeomans’ farm was a centre for meat and dairy produce in North Camp, and even at this winter season Sidney and the land girls were kept busy.
‘We hardly ever see Sid,’ said Eddie. ‘He’s up and out ’fore it’s light, an’ don’t get back till after dark. Not much of a marriage for him and Mary, but—’ He hastily checked himself, thinking of Tom’s daughter Isabel who saw nothing at all of her husband, and who like Mary was expecting her first child. ‘How’s she doin’, your Isabel?’ he asked.
‘She’s the only one we hear from, and the poor girl tries her hardest to give us good news,’ replied Tom heavily. ‘We didn’t get so much as a Christmas card from Grace, and Ernest’s too busy just staying alive in those winter conditions over there. Have you heard anything about young Hickory since he came home?’
Eddie hesitated. ‘Poor lad, he’s in a bad way. He’s stone deaf from shellfire, and his brain’s been affected as well. His mother don’t encourage visitors.’
‘When did you hear this, Eddie? Who told you?’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, I overheard Betty Goddard tellin’ Mary when she came to visit her. They used to be friends at school, along wi’ your Isabel and poor Phyllis Bird.’
‘Phyllis Bird? Oh, yes, she and young Hickory were…er, sweethearts, weren’t they? There was a time when she had her eye on Ernest, but he…well, he was never much interested in girls. She must have been counting on Will Hickory to bring a bit o’ sunshine back into her life. So – did she go to see him?’
‘She did, Tom, and that’s what Betty Goddard was tellin’ Mary about. It must’ve been terrible. Phyllis told Betty that Mrs Hickory wouldn’t let her in at first, but Phyllis begged to see him, and at last Mrs Hickory took her into the kitchen where he was sittin�
� by the oven. She said he was so altered, and wasn’t sure if he knew her at first. He kept his eyes on his mother who stayed in the room, callin’ him her poor boy, and sayin’ what he’d been through – and when Phyllis went to take hold of his hand, he drew back and turned to his mother, just like a kid. He said somethin’ like “pretty girl”, but he didn’t actually speak to Phyllis at all, only his mother.’
‘Good God, Eddie, what a terrible blow for the girl! Whatever did she do?’
‘She told Betty she couldn’t bear it, and got herself out of the house before she broke down an’ cried – that’s when she went round to the Goddards an’ told Betty, seein’ as she hadn’t got anybody at home to talk to. Her mother’s pinin’ for the boys, and won’t speak a word or eat a morsel. Bird keeps the shop goin’, but it must be like a morgue round there.’
Tom was shocked, picturing Ernest or Mark Storey in such circumstances.
‘Is there any chance o’ young Hickory improving and getting his hearing back?’ he asked. ‘And his memory, maybe?’
‘Dunno. How can anybody tell? His poor mother fusses over him as if he was a baby, and won’t have him upset by anybody, not even Dr Stringer – not that he’d be much use in a case like that. I reckon we can only wait an’ hope, but I can’t see him marryin’ Phyllis or any other girl, as he is now.’
Tom shook his head and when he spoke again it was to say to Eddie what he could never say to his wife.
‘Y’know, Eddie, when you think about the Bird brothers and the Hickory boy, it makes you wonder how many homes there must be, up and down the country, waiting for telegrams to say that their boys are dead, or missing or wounded. I can’t see that our lives are ever going to be the same again – how can they be? How much longer can it go on till some sort of an agreement has to be made with the Germans? And when you come to think of it, they must be getting a bit of a pasting, too – the women and kids left behind while the men march off to get killed, likely as not.’ He sighed heavily. ‘My son could be killed at any time, Isabel and her baby could be killed by a bomb, and God only knows about Grace. I might not ever see her again.’
The Carpenter's Children Page 22
