My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  They passed a boy in the street but took little notice. The envelope that Russ had taken such pains over was delivered into Rachel’s hands. It wasn’t even opened. Seeing his handwriting on it, she threw it straight on the fire.

  * * *

  As warned, the children stayed out until dinner time. After being fed, they were packed off again until their next meal. They were quite glad to do this as Mother had been very irritable with them. Alas, she seemed no better for the afternoon’s respite.

  ‘Oh, dear God, as if I haven’t enough to put up with!’ Rachel, who had just picked up the evening newspaper, now threw it down again and looked harassed. Rowena emptied her mouth before asking what the matter was. Her mother snatched angrily at the paper and read aloud in a tart voice, ‘Notice is hereby given that the following public elementary schools will not reassemble on Monday August the tenth as the buildings have been requisitioned for use of troops: Scarcroft Road Council School…’

  ‘Hurray!’ the girls harmonized gleefully. ‘How long are we off for?’ asked Lyn.

  ‘Oh, they don’t bother to tell us an unimportant little thing like that!’ replied her mother in hoity-toity manner. She read from the paper again. ‘When it is possible for ordinary schoolwork to be resumed an advertisement will appear in the papers.’ Bertie asked if his school, Archbishop Holgate’s, was mentioned. Rachel consulted the list. ‘No – presumably you’ll be going on the expected date.’

  Bertie made a face as his sisters mocked. ‘Anyway! I’ll be going to grammar school, you still go to baby school,’ he said disdainfully.

  ‘Can we take a picnic lunch out tomorrow, Mother?’ enquired Rowena. ‘It might help if we’re out for the whole day. We could go across to Fulford on the ferry.’

  Rachel said they could.

  ‘Can Charlie come, please – oh, please, Mother!’ entreated Becky with spaniel’s eyes.

  ‘No!’ Rachel erected the newspaper to fend off more pleas. Becky fell silent but offered a compassionate look to Charlie.

  The door knocker sounded. Biddy went to answer it. ‘It’s Mrs Archer come to pay for her hat,’ she told Rachel. ‘I’ve put her in the front room.’

  Rachel hummed and went off to see to the woman – who was not in the front room but hovering in the passage in the hope of spotting Charlie. Donning her usual smile, Rachel coaxed her into the room. Mrs Archer took her purse out. ‘I’ve just come to pay my bill, Mrs Hazelwood.’ Rachel did not encourage first name terms with neighbours; it would lower her to their level. Only Ella was allowed the familiarity, simply because Rachel couldn’t prevent it. ‘How’re you keeping? I saw Councillor Hazelwood in uniform – he’s gone, then?’

  ‘It looks that way,’ said Rachel.

  ‘What about…?’ Mrs Archer tilted her hat in exaggerated fashion, obviously referring to Charlie. ‘Is he still…?’

  ‘Yes – I’ve forgotten how much you owe, Mrs Archer.’ Rachel hurried over to the sideboard, searching for a bill. ‘Oh, here it is.’

  Mrs Archer took the bill and extended payment. Rachel stared at the contents of her hand but didn’t take it. Mrs Archer waved her money hand with a smile.

  After a moment Rachel took hold of the slip of paper. ‘What’s this?’

  The other laughed brightly. ‘It’s a pound note!’

  ‘I can’t take that.’ Rachel shoved it back at her.

  Mrs Archer turned shirty. ‘It’s legal tender – don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘I don’t care about the papers,’ said Rachel dismissively. ‘I’m not giving you change for that. I’ll wait till you have some proper money.’

  ‘That is proper money!’ objected Mrs Archer.

  ‘Not to me it isn’t.’

  ‘Look, it’s got a picture of the King on it!’ Mrs Archer tapped the white note viciously, thrusting it under Rachel’s nose.

  ‘So has my wall,’ responded Rachel, ‘but that doesn’t make it legal tender. I’m sorry, I won’t take it.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is you must be well off if you can afford to turn your nose up at good money!’ Offended, Mrs Archer stuffed the note back in her purse. ‘If you insist on gold you’ll have to wait for it – some of us are making an effort to end this war!’ She stalked off down the passage and on her exit closed the door heavily.

  Her next port of call was the shop round the corner. ‘I hope you’re more patriotic than Mrs Hazelwood!’ she told the owner tartly before obtaining her goods. ‘I want to pay with this new money.’

  ‘It’s all money, isn’t it?’ answered Mrs Phillips amiably.

  ‘Not to her it isn’t!’ retorted Mrs Archer. ‘I’ll have ten eggs please – she looked down her nose at me as if I was trying to pass a forged one! Her of all people! Stuck-up devil – and a pound of butter, Mrs Phillips, please – it was in the bloomin’ press telling us we had to use these pound notes as much as we could – oh, hello, Ella!’ She had turned at the jingle of the doorbell. ‘By, I’ve just had a right do with that neighbour o’ yours! And a box of candles, Mrs Phillips, please – I sez to her, I’ve just come to settle up with you, you know, thinking she’d be short of money now her husband’s gone off to war…’

  ‘Oh, Russ has gone, has he?’ Ella leaned on the counter. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Aye, he’s gone – so I sez to her, I’ve come to settle up and offers her this pound note an’ do you know what she sez? She sez, I’m not having that – as if I’m offering her muck! You know that way she looks at you, all snooty like – I sez, eh it’s proper money, you know. She sez, well I’m not having it, I want gold…’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ said Ella.

  ‘Aye – so I sez… oh sorry, are you in a rush, Ella? Go on, get served, I’m trying to remember what else I want, she’s got me so blinking mad.’ While Ella made the purchase of a pack of cigarettes and paid for them, Mrs Archer gabbled on. ‘So, I sez to her, if you want gold, madam, you’ll have a long wait – some of us are making an effort to end this war.’

  ‘And what did she have to say to that?’ quizzed Mrs Phillips.

  ‘She couldn’t say anything, could she? ’Cause I was right! She never bothers with anything that goes on round here – thinking she’s better than us. If I was in her position I wouldn’t dare show my face – mindst, she hasn’t been doing lately, has she?’

  ‘Still, you have to feel sorry for her,’ said Mrs Phillips. ‘The way her husband’s…’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do!’ Mrs Archer began to drop the items of shopping into her bag. I think it’s shocking what he’s done – I don’t talk to him, you know. Ooh no – do you?’ She had turned back to Ella.

  ‘To tell the truth I don’t see much of either of ’em, what with being out at work all day,’ said Ella, moving to the door. ‘Anyway, I’d better go and let our Kim out, he’ll be bursting – tara.’

  ‘Bye, love…’ Mrs Archer watched her go. ‘I don’t wonder she never sees them, she’s too busy with her Suffragette rubbish.’

  ‘Oh no, she’s finished with that,’ said Mrs Phillips wisely. ‘They’ve called a truce with the Government until the war’s over.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear somebody apart from me is making a patriotic gesture!’ exclaimed Mrs Archer. ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered what I want – give us six pounds of sugar, dear. If this war goes on longer than expected there’ll be people hoarding it like gold, selfish devils, I’ll get my bit while I can. Here you are.’ She put the paper note on the counter. ‘If she doesn’t want my money I might as well make full use of it.’

  * * *

  After a week of constantly refusing to handle the new pound notes, Rachel was forced to yield or go broke; the new money seemed here to stay. Fortunately, she did not have to suffer the children’s antics for much longer; that same week news arrived that the occupied schools were being vacated. Things began to calm down – though there was one slight drama when she made the rash announcement to Biddy that the Pope was dead and thereby plunged routine into c
haos as the maid insisted on visiting church every single day to pay her respects. Other than this, Rachel’s main worry remained the same: how was she going to cope for the next few months without a breadwinner? At least her other worry was almost over: eleven more days to cross off the calendar and Charlie would be gone.

  * * *

  Russ spent a further two weeks in York before receiving orders to entrain for the South. He wondered vaguely, as he and his comrades marched down Holgate Road to the railway sidings, if any member of his family was in the cheering crowd that lined the route. The atmosphere was overwhelming, everyone behaving as though they were at a huge party. There were Union Jacks fluttering from every window and every hand, streamers thrown. Russ stared ahead in military style, but occasionally his peripheral vision caught a pretty woman flourishing a handkerchief and shouting, ‘Brave boys! Give it to ’em!’

  Brave boys! If only they knew. If only they could sense his misery. He lurched with a grunt as an overzealous spectator launched herself at him and pressed wet lips to his cheek. From somewhere he conjured up a laugh and marched on, wondering why the silly cow had picked on him. But then people behaved like jackasses in war – look at that soft bitch! She was actually waving a pair of knickers. He could never imagine Rachel doing anything so coarse.

  The marchers were nearing the sidings where hundreds more soldiers, many still in civvies, were waiting to board the trains. The regiment which he had rejoined was now greatly expanded, a fact which gave him some comfort; it raised the odds against him and Jack being in the same unit. God spare him that constant reminder of his downfall.

  There followed a tedious journey, which was alleviated from time to time when stops were made to pick up more military. At every station locals shoved oranges and sweets through the blackened carriage windows and flourished Union Jacks. Russ contributed little to the euphoria, though it was impossible to remain depressed with the lewd jokes that were bandied about the carriage, and by the time he arrived at the training camp he felt much better. A period of intensive retraining soon altered that. Having previous experience of Army life, his suffering wasn’t as pronounced as that of a raw recruit, but it was damned tough for a man who had done little physical exercise in eleven years.

  ‘Come on, Hazelwood, let’s get some o’ that bloody beef off!’ bawled the sergeant instructor, an old regular whose entire body was coated in tattoos. ‘How you gonna kill the Hun with a kite like that? You’ll never get near him!’

  Yet it appeared he had not acquitted himself too badly, for when the course terminated the new, streamlined Russ found himself with the rank of Lance-Sergeant. This increased responsibility gave him less time to dwell on his troubles at home, for he had fresh ones in the mixed bunch of 5 Platoon, D Company. Such was the eagerness of some to be at the enemy that all his time was spent in dousing insubordinate moans over dixie-bashing and playing silly bloody games with wooden rifles and objections that the war would be over before they ever reached the Channel.

  Meanwhile, on a different stretch of sea, a ship was heading towards England bearing a letter:

  Dear Mr Hazelwood,

  By the time this reaches you, you will have no doubt guessed that my trip has had to be postponed. For this I beg your forgiveness and for not informing you sooner, but I have had much to arrange. I feel it is my duty to go to Belgium to tender my help to those unfortunate souls under siege. I know it is your wish for Charlie to return to Africa as soon as possible, but it is my opinion that with the possibility of warships in these waters, this would be most unwise. I therefore request that he remain with you for the duration of the war, which by all accounts looks like being very brief…

  Now that her father was taking a role in the war, it had become important to Rowena that she follow the latter’s progress. For the past month she had been studying the daily reports of the fighting in the local newspaper. The manner of Father’s leaving had upset them all, but with Mother’s reassurance that she hadn’t really meant it about wanting to see him killed – and knowing Mother’s bent for making a song and dance about everything – the children had calmed down now. Only Rowena detected the hint of urgency in her mother’s manner as August turned to September and the priest still had not arrived. Today, the eldest daughter was reading aloud another extract from yesterday’s Evening Press which she had sneaked up to the girls’ room. Mother wouldn’t approve of them seeing the bits about German atrocities on Belgian and Servian peasants. Neither would she have countenanced Lyn’s gloating when these were read out. ‘Ugh! That’s ’orrible – tell us more, Wena!’

  ‘That’s the end of it.’ Rowena closed the paper to moans of disappointment from the gathering, who were only permitted to be up here because it was raining.

  ‘Father will take revenge on the Germans once he gets there,’ vouched Charlie, who was also an avid reader of the reports. ‘I wonder when that will be.’

  ‘He must be there already,’ answered Rowena. ‘If he was still in York he would’ve called to see us. Maybe we’ll get a letter soon – here, listen to this! They’re asking for householders to donate knives and forks and plates for the soldiers who’re living at the Assembly Rooms. It says they’ve hardly anything to eat off and they’re very cold on a night because of the shortage of blankets.’ She presented an earnest face. ‘I think we should help. We wouldn’t want our father to be cold, would we?’

  ‘Serve him right,’ contradicted Lyn, who hadn’t forgiven him for lying about the tooth fairy. She was immediately set on by the others and retreated to a corner to sulk. However, guilt over her own malice soon had her edging back into the discussion.

  Rowena suggested they form a committee. ‘The only thing is, we’re at church tomorrow and school on Monday so it’ll have to be today… and Mother said we weren’t to disturb her. She’s doing some very intricate work.’

  ‘What’s intri—’ started Beany.

  ‘I think you should ask before you go taking anything,’ warned Charlie.

  ‘Wena, what’s “intricate”?’

  ‘It’s something very fiddly – but Charlie, if I disturb her she’ll be angry and might not let us do it. She’s cross enough that your priest hasn’t come for you yet.’

  ‘Yes!’ Lyn gave her half-brother a poke in the side. ‘I thought you were only meant to be here a few weeks. When’re you off?’

  Charlie hoisted his shoulders.

  Becky, sitting on the bed behind him, kneeled up and laced her arms round his chest, pressing her cheek to his temple. ‘I don’t want you to go, ever. I hope he never comes for you.’

  Charlie covered her hands with his.

  ‘Well at least while you’re here we don’t have Bertie bossing us about,’ agreed Lyn. Her brother had spent much of the school holidays in his own company.

  This raised a question from Rowena. ‘D’you think we should ask Bertie to join our committee?’ She was answered straight away by Lyn, who was adamant that it should be strictly for the girls.

  Becky asked, ‘What about Charlie?’

  ‘He’s not allowed out, is he?’ responded Lyn. ‘An’ Bertie’s such a misery-guts that he wouldn’t want to help if it’s anything to do with Father.’

  Bertie, on his way down from studying the egg collection, heard this and more.

  ‘A moment ago you didn’t want to help Father,’ retorted Becky.

  ‘Well, I do now! Anyway, Bertie’d only be throwing his weight about. I say we don’t tell him.’

  Rowena looked at the others. ‘It seems a bit mean.’

  ‘I bet there’s only you that thinks so,’ replied Lyn. ‘Let’s take a vote on it. Who wants Bertie to come?’

  Bertie heard the vote cast against him before slouching to his room. None of them seemed interested in how he had taken to his grammar school. Oh, Mother had asked if he liked it, but when he had said no, she had merely answered that he would soon get used to it. Bertie swore to himself that he would never get used to it. The building was so la
rge he was constantly getting lost on his way to other lessons and some of the boys were like men, making Bertie feel very vulnerable. In its favour, there was no bullying and going here meant he could escape from Charlie for six hours a day… but then he had to come home and look at Charlie and see how his sisters fussed over him… and witness his father’s empty chair. He closed the door and lay on his bed. He was meant to be playing in the school football team today, but he couldn’t raise the interest.

  ‘Right, I’ll go and ask Biddy what we can take,’ volunteered Rowena. ‘She’ll know what stuff Mother never uses.’

  ‘And we can tell Mother when she’s not busy,’ said Becky.

  After careful thought, Rowena answered. ‘No… I think we should keep quiet about it. You’re not supposed to brag about charitable acts.’

  She went downstairs.

  Biddy was kneeling before the hearth cleaning the oven, her brawny arms streaked with grease. ‘What was that, Miss Wena?’

  ‘I said, do you know if Mother has any plates and cutlery that she never uses?’

  The maid finished her task and closed the oven door, pulling herself to her feet. Without wiping the grease from her arms, she began to put her coat on. ‘Well, I never yet seen the stuff in that cupboard put to good use.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ agreed Rowena. ‘So d’you think…’

  ‘I haven’t time to be conversin’ with ye,’ said Biddy, now at the back door. ‘I’ve been ordered to go down to the shops for a sack o’ spuds.’ Rowena said she thought the man delivered them. ‘An’ so he did until the beloved Army commandeered his horse! As if I don’t have enough work, I have to play the bleedin’ donkey.’ She closed the door on the conversation.