Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  Desperate men tried to tear themselves from menacing wire. Others struggled to keep their footing as they fought their way through the chest-high water of the ditches that had failed to drain; the swirling water dyed crimson by their comrades’ blood. Then came the disheartening news that the first attack had failed. No time to mourn for departed friends, no time for that last letter to an anxious sweetheart. Stores were stocked and ammunition was delivered from further up the line. The men had a hasty meal and snatched sleep. Somewhere in the darkness of Abraham’s trench a lucifer flared and the peaty smell of pipe smoke drifted on the night air.

  In the early hours of Wednesday morning they regrouped once more, in anticipation of the infantry assault that was planned for 9am. By summer’s early daybreak the rain had eased but heavy mist still haunted the flat plain. Shorn tree stumps loomed ghost-like above the haze. The order echoed down the line, warning of further delay. There could be no bombardment until the visibility improved. The men’s spirits were low and they felt ill-equipped. Some of the heavy artillery batteries had not fired before and the infantry were poorly trained. There were rumours that one of the Australian Lewis guns had been captured by the enemy.

  The attack, when it came, dislocated time. Minutes crawled like hours yet suddenly it was dusk. Men fought like automatons, consciousness suspended, their senses temporarily divorced from reality, no thoughts beyond survival. Inexperience took its deathly toll as the British shells fell short and landed on their Australian allies. Unaware, the Tommies fought on. Some failed to keep the horrors at bay and crept further from the line of fire, where they hugged their knees and hid under blood-stained blankets, shaking, shuddering, unable to forget. Or, hallucinating in blissful oblivion, others fancied themselves at home. Still others copped it; wrong place, wrong time. Oh, more than anything, was this the wrong time. Shattered, sobbing men, with blood pouring in a damnable, undammable tide.

  Darkness was lapping at daylight’s fringes before the firing ceased. Shrouded by the shadows the search for the fallen began. Moonlight rarely penetrated the thick, rushing clouds. The search party blundered across the endless expanse of No Man’s Land, guided only by the unearthly moans of wounded men. In scarlet ditches they crawled over bodies, bodies of those who had been friends for a season. The corpses of those whose anguish and hardships they’d shared. A soldier clutched a grimy, creased photograph of his sweetheart. As his eyes glazed, his grasp weakened and the image of Gladys, or of Betty, or of Joan, fluttered away in the breeze.

  Abraham struggled back across the aching vastness of No Man’s Land, the feet of the wounded man that he carried, dragging on the clinging mud. It was three hundred yards to the relative safety of the British trenches. Abraham felt every step as if it was a marathon. The ground was as slippery as an abattoir’s slab but here the carcasses were men. He hoist his burden higher and took a firmer grip on the arm that was draped across his shoulders. He strained his eyes to avoid the craters that pitted his route. Bitter smoke rose from isolated fires on the ravaged plain. Remnants of what had once been men carpeted the ground, scarcely human. A soldier, naked to the waist, lay in Abraham’s path, the hole in the back of his shoulder was wider than a man’s fist. He was still alive, still groaning but already encumbered, Abraham had to leave him. It was hard to believe that this morning these men had been his comrades, living, breathing, loving, hoping.

  The gunfire was spasmodic now but still lethal. A single, ominous shot divided survival from death.

  ***

  Through dreamlike haze, Abraham fought to focus on the face above his own, ghostlike in the muted moonlight.

  ‘Sergeant Tuke, Sergeant Tuke, bear up man. The stretcher boys will be here soon. We will have you back to the medics in two ticks. Now it’s dark we can bring in anyone who’s copped it.’

  ‘Squance?’ he whispered, almost beyond speech but recognising at last the corporal who had already once that day braved enemy fire to repair the telephone cable between HQ and the firing line.

  Frustratingly, Squance’s earlier efforts had been rendered ineffective by continued shellfire.

  ‘The ruddy line’s gone again,’ the corporal replied. ‘We’ll not let the square heads get the better of us but I need to mend it pal.’

  Corporal Squance looked fearfully over his shoulder, unwilling to leave a comrade to die alone but well aware that here was a man who would soon be past all aid. Reluctantly he moved away, knowing that the wire needed to be mended.

  A white-feathered owl swooped on silent wing. Abraham heard the gentle hiss of the wave song, sensed the scent of the sea on an errant breeze. Somewhere in the depths of remembrance a seabird cried and he crushed the daisy that he held in his hand.

  9

  1917

  A well-dressed couple in their thirties alighted from a chauffeur driven hired motor at Head the Hill and stood surrounded by three large portmanteaux, two hat boxes and a picnic hamper. Clovelly was no stranger to posh folk visiting. True, they had been fewer in number since the hostilities started but they came, they went, leaving little of themselves behind. There was no reason to think that this particular pair would make a lasting impression on the fishing village or its inhabitants, no suggestion that their actions would bring trauma and anguish, fear and pain. The past experiences of these holidaymakers and the burdens that they carried, were still concealed behind a veneer of bland normality.

  There was a desolate air about the couple. The man, tall, lean and pale, stood uncertainly as the woman arranged the cases at their feet and paid their fare. Their luggage showed little sign of wear. Embedded in the shiny leather were clues to their identity; tooled gold initials glistened in the sunlight. The car’s driver cranked the starting handle on the Model T Ford and the engine burst noisily into life. Putting his foot on the running board, he swung himself behind the wheel. The vehicle set off on its return journey, the exhaust exploding vociferously. The man that had been jettisoned at the top of the cobbled path twitched and began to tremble, an indication perhaps that the pair were not merely ordinary visitors. The woman put a steadying hand on her husband’s arm. His shuddering gradually subsided and he looked round apprehensively, to see if anyone had witnessed his anxiety. The motor rattled on up the road, emitting clouds of smoke, its driver oblivious to the distress he had caused.

  Once the sounds of the combustion engine had died away, the street was silent once more, unusually quiet for the time of year. If there had been any observers, a cursory glance might perhaps have led them to wonder if the couple were honeymooners but closer scrutiny would reveal no newly-wed nervousness about the woman. Several minutes passed as they remained unspeaking and watchful, in the dappled shade; they appeared to be waiting for someone. The man began to pace back and forth, he fingered his necktie repeatedly and wrung his hands, then he withdrew a pocket watch from his waistcoat.

  ‘It’s three fifteen,’ he remarked irritably. ‘We were to be met at three fifteen.’

  ‘Someone will come soon Edward dear, I’m sure,’ replied his wife, soothingly.

  She transferred her weight from one foot to another, trying to ease the pressure of her side buttoned boots. Some children clattered past and the lady watched their retreating figures with a wistful smile. At that moment, a weather-beaten man appeared, leading a recalcitrant donkey. He cleared his throat to attract the couple’s attention.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Collins?’ he enquired. ‘Jack Foley.’ His fingers waved in the region of his cap in a gesture of respect. ‘I’m to take your things down to Mrs Stanbury’s and show you the way. She be expecting ee.’

  He deftly removed packages from the wooden frame that spanned the back of the donkey and gave the animal’s nose an encouraging scratch, as it pawed the greying stones beneath its feet. Judiciously, Mr and Mrs Collins maintained a safe distance from hooves and teeth. Foley tied the donkey to the white-painted railings and abandoned the boxes for collection by their owners, who were labouring up the street. Donkeys ca
rried luggage up the hill but they could not manage laden downward journeys, so the Collins’ belongings were heaped on to a waiting sledge. Amelia wished that Edward had not been so insistent that they travelled with their cases. He had vetoed her suggestion that they send a trunk on in advance. She exhaled deeply, with what might have been mistaken for a sigh, took her husband’s arm and followed Jack Foley as he began the descent to the village.

  ‘Your first visit to Clovelly ma’am?’ asked their escort, seemingly aware that Mr Collins was a man of few words.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she replied. ‘We are here for my husband’s health.’

  That was true enough, she thought, hoping fervently that the complete contrast to their life in Liverpool and respite from the traumas of wartime, would restore Edward to the man she had married two years previously. It was fortunate that the family engineering business was prospering due to the demands of the military machine. It meant that they could fund a lengthy stay in a haven where sea air and solitude might be balm to her troubled spouse. The Collins trailed a few paces behind their luggage as the lurching sledge negotiated the cobbles under the adept guidance of Jack Foley.

  ‘They’re looking at me Amelia,’ hissed Edward Collins to his wife in an undertone. The passing villagers were in fact indifferent to the Collins’ arrival. Visitors were two a penny at this time of year, despite the war. This couple were unremarkable, arousing no especial interest.

  ‘I am sure they aren’t dear,’ she said, reassuringly but she knew that her words would make little impression.

  Edward was convinced that he was being watched. The army doctor had explained that this was part of his affliction and that it would pass, like the other worrying symptoms but Amelia was finding his uncharacteristically suspicious nature wearing.

  As they placed their feet gingerly on the unfamiliar cobbles, Amelia wondered how suited she and Edward really were to married life. She did not delude herself that theirs was a grand passion. Perhaps it was better that their relationship was not complicated by strong emotions. They had been casual acquaintances since childhood, their fathers being business associates. Edward was an only son and with the passing of the years, his father had become increasingly worried about the future of the family firm. As an engineer, Edward’s work was considered to be essential in wartime but when he had told his father that he was considering volunteering for the front, the pressure to produce an heir became more acute. It was decided that Edward, already in his thirties, should marry. Amelia often questioned why she, regarded by her friends as a confirmed spinster, had been deemed a suitable brood mare. True, she represented a connection with her father’s engineering concern but her brother would inherit this, so there could be no economic motive behind the union. If providing a son to secure the future of the business had been so important, surely it would have been better for Edward to marry someone younger? Her husband had never given an explanation but Amelia suspected that she had been selected because Edward would have been intolerant of a bright, young woman, who might prove to be superficial or flighty. Amelia represented someone with gravitas; perhaps her appeal was that she was familiar, less demanding and more willing to fit into Edward’s rigid routines. The drawback was that here they were, two years into the marriage and no sign of the anticipated heir. Edward had of course been away on active service for some of that time but even before he went to war, his approach to procreation had, at best, been lacklustre. With his illness, his enthusiasm had dwindled still further and Amelia acknowledged that they were now unlikely to become parents.

  Was Clovelly going to provide the tranquillity that Edward needed and solve their difficulties? Amelia was pinning her hopes on the healing effects of this little community on the dramatic North Devon coast. Edward had expressed a desire to recuperate further west still, in the Cornish fishing village of Newlyn, where his parents had grown up. Amelia had feared that a place Edward had visited as a child and where the family was known, might not provide the complete break with the past that he sought. On the recommendation of a friend, who had visited from South Wales before the war, Amelia had proposed Clovelly as a compromise. Already, the tangy sea air was invigorating and she took comfort from the fact that, on the train from Liverpool, Edward had spoken positively of getting a small boat to relive the fishing expeditions of his youth. Perhaps this extended stay would be the new start that they both required.

  The path divided; Jack and his sledge swung to the right. Amelia was roused from her musings as they drew up at the far end of a row of cottages. Bright hollyhocks framed the newly painted door and the brass knocker shone.

  ‘You there Mrs Stanbury?’ bellowed Jack, rapping vigorously with the knocker. ‘Your guests be ’ere.’

  As Jack raised his hand to knock a second time, a brisk, older woman opened the door and greeted them with a smile.

  ‘Thank you, Jack,’ she said, ‘no need to break the door down.’

  She turned to the couple in front of her as Jack began to unload the luggage from the sledge. A fleeting look was enough to give her the impression of an affluent couple. Mrs Collins was stylishly dressed but in an understated manner, befitting the fact that the bloom of youth was now a memory. Emma Stanbury’s glance took in the expensive-looking cases and Mr Collins’ highly polished shoes, visible beneath the hems of his carefully tailored suit. It wasn’t Emma’s place to question her guests’ motives but she did wonder why they had chosen a small, inconspicuous guest house in Clovelly, when everything about them indicated that they were more accustomed to staying in better class hotels.

  ‘Welcome to Clovelly,’ she said, shepherding the couple into the kitchen, leaving Jack to stack the cases inside the door. ‘Your room is ready for you. I have reserved it for the whole season, so you can stay as long as you like.’

  For the first time since they left the safety of the motor, Mr Collins seemed aware of his surroundings, rather than being concerned about the accusatory eyes of his imagination. He took in the cosy kitchen’s rough, whitewashed walls, adorned with a black-bordered portrait of the late Queen, torn from a magazine and an inexpertly worked sampler, which was hanging askew. Edward paused to straighten it, taking several seconds before he deemed it to be at the desired angle. The stove was emitting an unwelcome heat; the kettle on its hot plate was beginning to rock and sing. Amelia hoped they would be out of the room before its hissing gained momentum. It seemed that even something as simple as a cottage kitchen contained hazards that she hadn’t anticipated.

  ‘Your evening meal will be served here at six,’ said Mrs Stanbury, gesturing toward the oil-cloth covered table.

  Much to Amelia’s relief, Mrs Stanbury led her guests swiftly up the narrow stairs to the largest bedroom at the front of the house. The establishment might be lacking in grandeur but it was scrupulously clean. The crisp coverlet was stretched tautly across the highly polished, brass-framed bed. An elaborately flowered jug and bowl stood on the wash-stand in front of the window. There was a bright rug on the rough floorboards, an oversized wardrobe and two bentwood chairs, flanking an oak chest of drawers. Edward Collins adjusted the position of one of the chairs that was protruding slightly further forward than its fellow. Amelia tried to suppress a grimace as she looked at the print above the bed, which depicted a fox gorily devouring a game bird. Dejected, Edward sat on one of the chairs, kept his eyes firmly on the floor and began pulling at his cuffs.

  ‘I hope this will suit,’ Mrs Stanbury was saying. ‘Three guineas a week all found, as we discussed. You will find the food plain but wholesome. You passed the Post Office on your way down; you’ll be wanting to send a card or telegram to say you’ve arrived. Oh and it’s two pence a week to use the Reading Rooms at the top of the street, should Mr Collins wish to look at the newspaper.’

  As Mrs Stanbury rattled on, Amelia could see Edward’s fists clenching on his knees and she knew that he was resisting the temptation to put his hands over his ears.

  ‘I think we would just l
ike to change into fresh clothes now, thank you Mrs Stanbury,’ Amelia said, firmly.

  ‘There’s always hot water on the stove,’ Mrs Stanbury went on, failing to take the hint.

  Amelia attempted to place herself between Edward and their hostess and to steer her towards the door.

  ‘There will be tea and cut-rounds when you’re ready.’

  With these words, Mrs Stanbury finally left the Collins to survey what was to be their home for several months, or as long as it took for Edward to recover. The doctor had been firm; complete rest and freedom from anxiety was essential. When Amelia had questioned the doctor further, he had admitted that there was no knowing how long it might be before there were any signs of improvement. Well, they had made a start, now it was up to her to see that Edward was restored to health.

  ***

  As the summer blended into golden days with hints of autumn and the vibrant fuchsias and hydrangeas, that bravely shone in the cottage gardens, began to fade, Amelia and Edward established a routine. Mr Collins’ desire for solitude soon became apparent and Emma Stanbury left the pair alone as much as she was able. Mrs Stanbury was a widow, so there was no husband to be seen off to work but her day started long before the Collins took their breakfast at nine. Edward would then walk up to the Reading Rooms to peruse the daily newspaper, whilst Amelia wrote letters or did embroidery in the small parlour. They sometimes took a short excursion in the afternoon, perhaps having cakes in a tea-room at Hartland. When Edward felt up to a day trip, they went further afield, to Bude or Ilfracombe. Clovelly villagers were not the sort of people who would have been included in the Collins’ circle of acquaintances at home and genuine friendships would have been inappropriate. Nonetheless, being long-term paying guests, rather than casual holidaymakers, they soon began to recognise some of the neighbours and Amelia would exchange pleasantries when she saw them in the street. She participated in sewing circles and knitted socks for servicemen, gradually getting to know the women of the village.