The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  ‘I have been given an onerous commission of my own.’

  David Tod embraces Kitty’s tactful diversion with an enthusiastic response.

  ‘For which I am sure you are eminently suitable, Lady Katharine!’

  ‘You’re so kind, David. Do call me Kitty. Well, I’m delighted to tell you that as well as my work for the Voluntary Aid Detachment, my new contribution to the war effort is going to involve legions of knitters! As you all know, Scottish regiments go to war in their kilts, with not a lot of warmth beneath their pleats of Highland cloth, substantial as these are. General Sir John Cowan, our army’s outstanding Quartermaster General, has asked me to produce fifteen thousand hose tops to warm the knees of our Scottish boys this coming winter.’

  Bardie smiles. This is a family gathering, so unnecessary propriety is eschewed.

  ‘The truth of it is, knees are not the nub of the issue!’

  Kitty continues without the slightest embarrassment.

  ‘Quite what part of the male anatomy is at risk has not been discussed. Regardless, “fifteen thousand hose tops” is the order of the day.’

  Dertha’s husband, Harry, the only non-Scot present, is curious about the mysteries of the dress of the ‘True Scot’.

  ‘Come on, Kitty, are they long socks or long johns?’

  ‘Harry, I can tell you categorically, they are hose tops and extend only to the top of a man’s thigh, but they will still take some knitting. As I’m sure you know, a Scotsman’s thigh is a fine example of the male anatomy.’

  Everyone laughs at Kitty’s wit. She takes their evident enjoyment as encouragement.

  ‘My sister, Imogen, who is an accomplished knitter, has provided the template. She told me that she had to carry out some detailed research in order to do so …’ She pauses, enjoying the innuendo. ‘Please note, Imogen is a spinster of mature years, so I refrained from asking how the research was done.’

  There is more laughter.

  ‘In any case, General Cowan has approved the design, so I’ve enlisted Gwendoline Macbeth, Bardie’s secretary, who is an organizational whizz, and all the wives of the Scottish Horse, who are now knitting feverishly. Unfortunately, there is not enough khaki wool to knit them all in battlefield colours, so we’re using various coloured wools that match regimental tartans. We’ve got a team of scrutinizers to inspect the finished garments. Any that are too big are being sent to the navy, to be worn in their sea boots; any that are too small are being sent to the Indian Army, whose knees, God bless them, are more used to tropical climes and have arrived in Europe several inches below their short trousers.’

  There is a further round of applause from Kitty’s audience, who are eager to restore the good humour of the evening.

  ‘And I can assure you that the order will be complete by the end of October; well before the winter’s chill swirls around the sporrans of our brave lads!’

  An even bigger bout of enthusiastic applause and laughter ensues, which is followed by as convivial a dinner as worries about Geordie’s well-being allow.

  When Monday morning arrives, and the Stewart-Murray weekend gathering comes to an end, they will all realize that this is the last occasion they will spend together for some time. Nothing is said explicitly – that would be tempting fate – but the embraces and farewells are long and heartfelt.

  Monday 28 September

  Hereford General Hospital, Herefordshire

  While Bronwyn is taken care of by Margaret’s nursing friends at Hereford General, she travels to the Midland Bank in Ludlow to retrieve the contents of the safety-deposit box that Philip has left for Bronwyn.

  Inside is a small intricately inlaid walnut box containing a large collection of jewellery – rings, brooches, pearls and earrings – a few gold coins, which Margaret thinks must be Greek or Roman, and a roll of crisp white £5 notes, worth £150 in total. By the look of the cache, Bronwyn is not going to be immensely rich, but she is certainly no longer poor.

  There is also a letter. It has no envelope and bears no date.

  Darling Bron,

  That you are opening this box means one very sad truth – my demise has come to pass. Perhaps it is for the best! I sincerely hope that my end has been swift and relatively painless.

  Rushing off to the Welch Fusiliers and leaving you behind was the worst day of my life, but at least we had that last magical afternoon together. I hope you remember it as fondly as I do. Contained herein are a few things that I hope will allow you to pursue the life you deserve to enjoy. I’m sorry about Tom. He’s a good man and I hope he finds happiness with someone else. As for you, please choose your men carefully. Few will be worthy of you.

  Finally, I have a confession to make about those drawings that seemed to add so much excitement to our time together. You often said that you felt guilty about initiating our relationship and that you weren’t sure that a ‘decent’ girl should enjoy the feelings you experienced.

  First of all, I must tell you that I was the seducer. I deliberately left those so-called lewd images around in the hope that they would entice you. I wove the web that entangled you. I have no regrets; it brought me the greatest pleasure of my life. I hope the same is true for you.

  As for your feelings, the fact that you feel them so readily and in such abundance is not a sign that you are not a ‘decent’ woman, but that you are a real woman. Always remember that. And during your long and undoubtedly successful life, think of me from time to time.

  With all my love for ever and a day,

  Philip

  ♥

  At the bottom of the box, there is a small lithograph signed with Philip’s initials and a short message: ‘Remember me, x’.

  When Margaret looks at the print, she is shocked at the explicitness of the image. She immediately understands the intensity of the relationship between Philip and Bronwyn, and why the girl now feels so tormented by guilt.

  When Margaret returns to Hereford General, she finds Bronwyn looking much better. She has been well taken care of by the nurses and has been seen by a consultant venereologist, who has begun a course of treatment for her. Thankfully, she does not have syphilis. He has also confirmed that she has recently suffered a miscarriage.

  Margaret now has a dilemma. She needs to complete her recruitment drive around the hospitals of the West Country. Even more importantly, she needs to return to France to continue to care for the thousands of dying and wounded young men on the battlefield. However, Bronwyn has had almost no time to regain her health, to come to terms with her guilt or to regain her self-confidence.

  That evening, they discuss the problem together. It causes Bronwyn immediate distress.

  ‘Please don’t leave me, Margaret! I don’t have anywhere to go. And I’m not strong enough to get by on my own yet.’

  Margaret knows that Bronwyn is right. She also knows that she cannot ask the Hereford nurses to take care of the girl indefinitely. She is at a loss for a solution, until Bronwyn makes an audacious plea.

  ‘Take me to France with you. I’ll scrub floors, make beds, mop up the blood; anythin’ you want me to do.’

  It is a radical suggestion. But Margaret knows that so dire is the situation in France, no one will care where Margaret’s recruits come from.

  ‘Bron, you will see terrible things; you can’t imagine how distressing it will be for you, especially on top of your own problems.’

  ‘But it will help me! I won’t have time to think about my own worries.’

  Margaret is unsure. She needs time to consider.

  ‘Let me think about it. We can talk in the morning.’

  ‘How much is what Philip left me worth?’

  ‘Well, there’s the money, and probably the same again in jewels and coins, if not more.’

  ‘Then I can make my own way to France.’

  Margaret smiles. Bronwyn is finding her feet already.

  ‘You could, but you should really put it in the bank. Bron, please let me think about it. I’m
an army nurse, with professional responsibilities.’

  Sensing that Margaret is not prepared to discuss the matter further, Bronwyn abruptly changes the subject.

  ‘Did you see the drawin’ Philip left for me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think I’m wicked?’

  ‘No, you’re just a woman, like the rest of us. We all have secrets and dark thoughts.’

  ‘Is that really true, Margaret?’

  ‘It is for those of us who are prepared to admit to them.’

  ‘It’s really important for me to know that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you are no more wicked than the rest of us –’

  ‘So have you done things you regret?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I ask you about them?’

  ‘Not yet; maybe one day, but not yet. Who knows, when we get to France …’

  Bronwyn’s eyes light up. Her face glows, and she beams like a child.

  ‘Does that mean you’re going to take me?’

  Margaret smiles. She can see why Philip could not resist this young girl; she is adorable.

  ‘Yes, but don’t let me down.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise.’

  ‘I have three more hospitals to visit, one of them in Birmingham. I think we should sell the jewels and coins there and open a bank account for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Margaret, I’m so grateful.’

  ‘One more thing, Bron.’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘Let’s burn that print. You need to bury that part of your past.’

  Bronwyn smiles before taking a last look at one of the images that led to the agony and ecstasy of recent months.

  She then folds it neatly and throws it on to the fire.

  Part Five: October

  RACE TO THE SEA

  Friday 2 October

  Keighley Green Working Men’s Club, Burnley, Lancashire

  Life has become a little easier for the small group of friends sitting together at Burnley’s Keighley Green Club. The men’s army pay is being delivered weekly by D Company’s paymaster, and Cath has begun to help Mary washing pots behind the club bar in the evenings and cleaning the club rooms in the afternoons.

  As it is only 6.30 p.m. and the Friday night rush has not yet begun, Mary and Cath are relaxing with Tommy, Mick, Vinny and Nat before their shift starts at 7 p.m. Although not as well off as they were when they had regular employment, they are not suffering the hardship they faced a few weeks ago.

  Former club steward John-Tommy has put on his old apron and is helping his successor get to know the locals. The club looks like it did a generation ago. It is as if nothing has changed, but much has – some things profoundly. There are still vast amounts of beer being drunk and tobacco smoked. Billiards and three-card brag are being played, with extravagant amounts of money changing hands in gambling and challenge matches. As always, there is good humour, plus occasional flashpoints of antagonism and the usual end-of-evening fisticuffs. But there is also lots of talk about the war, with debate focused on its morality, and much reflection on the way the fighting is touching so many people.

  Although the radical pre-war discussions about votes for working-class men, trade union rights and the rights and wrongs of the suffragette movement have become less vocal, people are still talking openly about the future and what will happen when the war is over. It is as if the conflict in Europe has created a new national debate about a whole range of issues, but mostly with the presumption that change is no longer a desire, more an inevitability. The national and local press are central to the discussion, but so are people like Mary and Cath, whose opinions are being listened to more and more.

  Cath has been asked to speak at a British Socialist Party meeting in Great Harwood Town Hall, which will take place in ten days’ time, but she is terrified about speaking in public and does not want to accept. Mary is trying to persuade her to change her mind.

  ‘Y’ll be fine. I’ll ’elp thee write it, then we can rehearse together until tha can all but recite it parrot-fashion.’

  ‘No, lass, I can’t. Henry Hyndman’ll be there. I can’t speak in front o’ ’im. What wi’ my accent an’ all; they’ll think I’m stupid.’

  ‘Well, think on it. I’ll ’elp thee wi’ it, if tha wants.’ Mary glances at the clock behind the bar. ‘Come on, look at t’time. We’ve got work to be doin’.’

  As Mary and Cath begin their night’s work, the men begin drinking in earnest. Their talk is all about the trials and tribulations of their training with the Accrington Pals. Vinny’s major gripe is the route marching.

  ‘If I sken another track up fuckin’ Pendle, I’ll shoot mesen.’

  ‘Tha can’t shoot tha’sen; tha’s not got a rifle!’

  Nat’s smart remark makes them all laugh but, as Mick points out, other than marching, they are not doing much that will prepare them as soldiers.

  ‘No boots, no uniform, no weapons! It’s just daft, innit?’

  Tommy is philosophical about it.

  ‘Aye, but we’re gettin’ paid; dunno abaht you lot, but I can cope wi’ doin’ bugger all.’

  ‘Twenty-five-mile hikes are not “bugger all”, Tommy.’

  ‘Stop yer moitherin’, Vinny, an’ get some more ale in.’

  Mick is reading Cath’s newspapers.

  ‘’As tha seen this in t’Accy Times? Some lad’s saying that Local Master Tailors are up in arms cos old Harwood ’as given t’uniform contract to a Leeds firm. That’s not reet, is it? Can’t ’ave Tykes makin’ uniforms fer a Lanky battalion!’

  A batch of obsolete Lee-Metford training rifles arrived for the battalion in the middle of the week, but only 350 of them, and they all went to the two Accrington companies, much to the dismay of the Burnley lads. There has also been disquiet in the week about pay, initiated out of the blue by a recruit who wrote an anonymous letter to the Burnley Express, which was published in its midweek edition.

  The gist of the letter suggested that the Accrington Pals are being paid 5d a day less than other pals battalions – notably the men of the Manchester City Battalion, who are receiving 3s 11d per day – and that their clothing allowance is much less than other battalions.

  To everyone’s surprise, the letter produced an immediate response. Honorary Battalion Captain John Haworth, the Mayor of Accrington and founder of the battalion, appeared on Fulledge Recreation Ground just this morning, in the middle of drills, and announced that he knew nothing of the discrepancy, but that it had clearly been an error. He declared that pay would be increased to match the sum paid to the Manchester lads and that it would be backdated to the day of joining up. He also said that the clothing allowance would be increased to match other battalions.

  He finished his short speech with a blunt statement: ‘Gentlemen of North-East Lancashire, you have answered the call to defend your country; now your country must respond in kind, and I’m going to make sure it does!’

  His words produced a wave of cheers and applause. Most of the men were astonished. They were used to having to fight their employers tooth and nail for even minor concessions in pay and conditions, and now a single letter to a newspaper had produced an immediate response. There was much excited talk among the men: perhaps this really was going to be the beginning of a new kind of citizen’s army and a new kind of country, where ordinary people matter. That afternoon, D Company ran up Deerplay Moor with an enthusiasm not seen before.

  Mick has put his newspapers down.

  ‘What do yer reckon to our new officers, Tommy?’

  ‘They’re alreet. I thought they’d be reet posh, but they’re not bad lads, especially Riley. He’s a good ’un, I reckon – plays a bit o’ cricket, likes an ale – he’ll do fer me.’

  Lieutenant Henry Davison Riley was the first man in Burnley to react positively when John Harwood began his campaign to raise a local pals battalion. It was Riley’s advertisement in the Burnley Express in September that led to the b
eginnings of the Burnley contingent of the Accrington Pals.

  Riley is a 33-year-old local businessman with a finger in several commercial pies, notably his family’s Fancy Cloth business in Colne. He spends his spare time trying to create opportunities for local youngsters, especially the provision of sport and evening educational classes. He began Burnley Lads’ Club in 1901 and many of D Company’s recruits are from the club. He is also a leading light in the Industrial School Movement and the Discharged Prisoners Aid Society.

  Vinny and Nat know Riley from Burnley Lads’ Club, but they also know another recent officer recruit – local cricketer and footballer Fred Heys.

  ‘He’s a good lad an’ all; Nat an’ me’s laiked wi’ ’im many a time. He can bat a bit and ’as got a beltin’ off-break.’

  Frederick Arnold Heys is a 26-year-old solicitor from Oswaldtwistle and, like Henry Riley, throws himself into the local community at every opportunity. He is secretary of Calder Vale Rugby Club and Burnley’s Clarion Club for working-class enthusiasts of the new sport of cycling. Because most members have left-leaning tendencies, the cycling club, like many others in the country, took its name from Robert Blatchford’s left-wing newspaper, the Clarion. Heys, himself a man of socialist principles, is an avid thespian and member of the Burnley Light Opera Society.

  Mick likes D Company’s CO, Captain Ross, largely because both men have a passion for boxing, which they talked about when Mick joined the battalion. Both men are huge admirers of British champion Bob Fitzsimmons.

  ‘Any man who can list all Bob’s fights an’ knows in which rounds he knocked out ’is opponents is alreet wi’ me.’

  Raymond St George Ross is an analytical chemist in Burnley and was asked by his good friend Henry Riley to become the borough’s recruiting officer for the Accrington Pals. Another local man of diverse talents, being an accomplished flautist, chorister and amateur thespian, he has been a territorial soldier for several years and brings some military experience to D Company.