Charlie’s stomach contracted in shock and he gasped with the others. He asked what had happened and his half-sister showed him the telegram which stated that Sergeant Hazelwood was missing, not how this had come about. Fear tickled his insides – what if his father had been killed? All this time Charlie had put up with the insults from Mrs Hazelwood and Bertie purely for his father’s sake… He looked at Bertie, whose face was impassive, and all at once hated him for having that which he had never known – his father’s love… and now he might never know.
Rowena’s doe-like eyes flew to her mother. ‘What can we do?’
‘Do?’ said Rachel stupidly. I don’t believe this!
‘We have to help find him!’ cut in an anxious Becky, chewing a strand of red hair.
Rachel took the telegram back and folded it with dull resignation. ‘That’s hardly practicable, Rebecca. He’s somewhere in the middle of Europe.’
‘But aren’t you worried?’ Beany’s muddy eyes welled her own concern. ‘He might be… could have been…’ She could not bring herself to say ‘killed’ and pulled at a flap of tablecloth, screwing it in her fists.
Rachel seemed to come to her senses, then cottoned on to what they were all thinking. ‘No, no! If anything serious had happened they’d have told us straight away. He’s probably…’ She broke off – she’d been going to say he was probably in a prison camp but that would hardly comfort them. The silly fool, getting himself captured! She looked at Bertie, who had volunteered nothing. Bertie tried not to let the shock reach his face but inside his heart pounded. ‘You mustn’t think the worst. Your father’ll turn up, I’m positive.’ Leaving the table, she tucked the telegram behind an ornament on the mantel. ‘Now, eat up, it’s nearly time for school.’
‘But… we can’t go to school today!’ gasped Rowena. For one moment she had taken the expression on her mother’s face to be concern, but it wasn’t there now.
‘And what’s wrong with today?’
‘But Father’s missing!’ It was obvious now to Rowena why there had been no more letters.
‘And being absent from school is going to find him, is it?’ That was harsher than she had intended. It was natural that they should be worried about him even if she wasn’t. She sought to comfort. ‘If you like I’ll go down to the War Office later and make enquiries, but I’m sure he won’t have been hurt or they’d have said. It wouldn’t do any good for you to stay off school now, would it – your education’s suffered enough this term. Biddy, clear away, please.’
And the children were forced to go to school. But they continued to worry all day. Lyn questioned people in her class, ‘Have you ever had a telegram about your father being missing?’ Most of them said no, they hadn’t. One said he’d had a telegram when his father was killed. Finally someone said more helpfully, ‘Yes, we had one saying he was missing then we found out he’d been taken prisoner.’
Lyn related this to the others at home time. ‘I hope Father hasn’t been captured – it’s worse than being killed.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Rowena. ‘Nothing’s worse than being killed.’
‘Yes it is!’ argued Lyn. ‘Surrendering to the enemy is… a fate worse than death! Eh, here’s Aunt Ella, shall I ask her if she’s got any Easter eggs?’ They hadn’t seen Ella over the holiday period. In days gone by, she had brought Easter eggs home, which they would devour in the secrecy of her house – not that Mother minded them having Easter eggs, for she provided this treat herself, but she would have grumbled if she’d known Ella had supplied them. Now of course with the restrictions on confectionery and Ella working in munitions, there was scant hope of her bringing eggs home – but they could ask.
‘Lyn, don’t you know there’s a war on?’ Rowena caught her sister’s arm and held her back as Ella approached, saying under her breath, ‘Besides, you know very well we’re not even allowed to talk to her now.’
‘We weren’t supposed to before but we did,’ objected Lyn.
‘And Mr Daw might know where Father is,’ suggested Becky.
‘Becky, remember what trouble you caused last time by telling Aunt Ella about Mother’s private business! Just say hello and walk on.’
This they did. Ella smiled as she passed and returned their hellos but said nothing more. If she asked an innocent question like, ‘How is your father?’ it would get back to Rachel, who’d think she was spying, the clot.
The moment the girls were indoors they started to pester their mother for news. Rachel lied and told them she had been down to the War Office where she had been informed that steps were being taken to find their father. ‘So, are you happy now?’ The girls said yes, but she could see this wasn’t wholly true. I shouldn’t have said anything about the telegram, she told herself, looking at their faces. I should have waited until I had some definite news…
The arrival of another telegram some weeks later removed any uncertainty.
* * *
Madam,
It is my painful duty to inform you that, no further news having been received relative to no. 25632 Lance-Sergeant Russell Charles Hazelwood, Reg. King’s Own Yorkshire North Riding, who has been missing since 22-4-15… regretfully constrained to conclude that he is dead and that his death took place on… I am to express to you the sympathy of Lord Kitchener…
* * *
Seized by shock, Rachel’s hands pressed the telegram over her gaping mouth as if about to eat it. It can’t be! She had expected him to turn up, had truly anticipated this telegram to say he had been taken prisoner… In a daze, she lowered the piece of paper and read it again. It read the same. Tears misted the words. Russell was dead! Despite all he had done to her, she had once loved this man. Again she heard his cheery voice, his children’s laughter, the warmth and hardness of his body… then the shocking image of bullets piercing that same body, blood gushing, the fear on his pleasant face – then in the same breath she cursed him: damn you to hell, Russell! How am I ever going to cope? I’ve got the shop, seven child— no! eight children. Oh, dear God, what am I ever going to do?
She broke down and sobbed. Thank heaven she had been alone to receive this news. The children hadn’t arrived home for dinner yet. There were only the two littlest ones at home – and him. Oh, the dear children! How was she ever going to break the news? Already she could hear their grief. She couldn’t bear that on top of her own. But where was the need to tell them straight away? Maybe… maybe in a few days she would feel strong enough to break it to them.
She blew her nose, gave a long shuddering sniff and wiped her eyes. For a time, she paced aimlessly about the front parlour, remembering the good chapters in her life, seeing her husband so vividly it didn’t seem as though he was dead. There would be all his clothes and belongings to dispose of. But she couldn’t do that before telling the children… and she couldn’t tell the children. She gnawed on a corner of the handkerchief. Then, with a sigh, she inspected her blotchy face in a mirror and went to the kitchen.
On ascertaining that Rhona and her sister were upstairs, she spoke to the maid. ‘Biddy, I don’t want you to say anything to the children about this telegram that just came. Not a word.’
Biddy was wiping her hands. ‘Yes’m.’ Then she noticed the bloodshot eyes and asked concernedly, ‘Is it about himself – is he safe?’
‘Never mind what it’s about! I shall relay the content when I deem it fitting.’ Rachel turned and headed back to the parlour. As she did so she heard Rhona laughing merrily. The tears came again.
* * *
Mrs Phillips picked up a tin of mustard from the shelf and ticked it off the list she was holding, at the same time chatting to Ella Daw. Their topic was Rachel. ‘Ruby Parker said she’d had a telegram the other day.’
Ella’s face turned serious and she fingered a button on her coat. ‘Oh hell… I hope Russ is all right.’
‘Oh, I thought she might’ve said something to you.’ Mrs Phillips sounded disappointed.
‘She hasn’t s
poken to me since… oh, ages ago.’ Since Bertie’s shooting, but Ella wasn’t going to raise that here.
‘Nor me neither,’ sniffed Mrs Phillips. ‘She must be getting her shopping somewhere else, I haven’t seen her in weeks – she’ll be quick enough to come here when she runs out of summat, though.’ She wandered around the shelves of stock, collecting boxes and tucking them under her arms. ‘I’ve asked one or two folk if they’ve heard anything about Councillor Hazelwood but nobody seems to know owt. If he has been killed, he’ll be the first one in your street, won’t he?’
Ella nodded thoughtfully. ‘Aye, we’ve done well up to now. He can’t be dead. though – I saw the kids larking this morning, they were bright as buttons. I’ll have to write and ask my Jack.’ She removed her basket from the counter to make way for Mrs Phillips’ armful of goods. ‘He never tells me anything, you know.’ She smiled fondly. Mrs Phillips asked how Jack was keeping. ‘Oh fine, thanks – he’s an officer now, you know.’
Mrs Phillips loosed her burden on the counter and acted surprised, ‘Ee, I say!’ although she had heard this long ago. Then she spotted a telegram boy in Queen Victoria Street.
At her diversion, Ella turned to watch anxiously until the boy found the right address. ‘Aw no, it’s poor Mrs Skilbeck again – by, doesn’t she have some bad luck.’ She bit her lip and stared at the woman’s haggard face as she received the telegram, imagining herself in that position. ‘It must be her Ronnie; he’s the only one left. Did you know her other lads got ki… aye, course you would. Poor old lass.’
She and Mrs Phillips watched until the woman’s door closed, then Ella turned back to the counter. ‘Aye, well, it’s no good me stood standing here. I’ll see you later.’ She made for the door.
‘Eh, let me know if you hear anything about your neighbour!’ called Mrs Phillips.
* * *
‘I wonder if they’ll find Father tomorrow?’ A small voice – Becky’s – wavered through the darkness, drawing complaint from her bed companions.
‘I was just going off then!’ Lyn turned onto her left side, facing the wall and dragging the covers with her.
This disturbed Beany, who slept on the other side of Rebecca, and she hauled the covers back with a loud objection of her own.
‘Go to sleep, Becky,’ murmured Rowena from the other bed, which she shared with Rhona.
‘I can’t,’ the voice quavered. ‘I keep thinking Father’s been shot.’
This thought had been keeping Rowena awake too, but she told her sister not to be so silly. ‘Father’s probably just been moved to a different camp. There are millions of soldiers, the army must get mixed up as to where they all are.’
‘But it’s been weeks,’ argued Becky, eyes shining over the green eiderdown.
It had been a month since the telegram had arrived, but Rowena was wise enough not to correct her.
‘If he has been killed…’ began Becky.
‘He hasn’t!’ Rowena cut her off as Beany started to cry. ‘The telegram said he was only missing – anyway, if anything had happened Mother would’ve told us, wouldn’t she?’
This seemed to calm Becky, but Rowena’s heart fluttered at the recollection of the burnt letters – Mother hadn’t told them about those, had she? Oh please, God, don’t let Father be dead. And while the others fell asleep she herself lay fretting almost until the dawn.
She had barely lost consciousness when angry voices were rousing her. ‘Becky, you filthy pig, I’m sopping!’ Rowena parted sticky eyelids. Two figures stood, arms outstretched, between the beds. The pink outline of their bodies shone clearly through the drenched nightgowns where it clung at thigh and buttock. Another pathetic figure sat amid a puddle of wet bed linen, tendrils of damp hair clinging round her neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ whimpered Becky as Rowena stumbled from her bed to attend the crisis. ‘I didn’t know I was doing it.’
‘Why didn’t you go before you went to bed?’ demanded Lyn, beginning to shiver as the morning air cooled her dripping garment.
Becky protested that she had done, but her sisters continued to harangue until their noise drew Rachel into the affray. ‘For pity’s sake, it’s like a monkeys’ tea party in here!’ She glared at the now naked figures. ‘It’s five o’clock in the morning!’
‘Becky’s wet the bed,’ supplied Beany, clinging her arms around her nymph-like body and chattering her teeth.
Rachel went wild, dragged Becky from the bed, tearing at the saturated linen. ‘As if I haven’t enough to do!’ She went to bang on the nursery door. ‘Biddy, get up and put these sheets in to soak! Rebecca Hazelwood, you are a naughty child! How old are you supposed to be? Only babies wet the bed. Look at this mattress – oh, give me strength! If this happens again you are for it!’
This threat only served to worsen Becky’s incontinence, for the next morning the mattress, which had taken all day to dry, was once again awash… and the next, and the next.
Charlie lay in his bed waiting for the yelps of complaint that had become his regular alarm call. ‘Ugh, Wena, she’s done it again!’ And then in would storm Mrs Hazelwood and a sharp crack would follow which, Charlie knew, was Becky receiving her punishment, and then would come the sound of sobs and Biddy stamping along the landing with the bundle of wet sheets and nightgowns.
The cracks seemed to get louder each time. Charlie could envision the red handprint on poor Becky’s rear. On top of the worry over his father, it all grew too much for the boy, who was very fond of his red-haired sister. Consequently, he spent the hour before breakfast devising a plan to help her with her predicament. In the evening after the children were put to bed he crept down to their room, tapped on the door and, on admittance, told of his plan.
‘Becky can come and sleep in my bed. And in the morning she can sneak back down and be dressed before your mother gets up.’
‘She’ll probably just soak your bed, Charlie,’ said Rowena.
‘I know, but I can keep that secret. Your mother never comes up to my room. I can dry the stuff when she goes out to work.’
Both Lyn and Beany agreed that this was a marvellous idea and were swift in pushing their sister from the bed to go with Charlie. It was rather a tight squeeze for two in the put-up bed, but Charlie dared not take any sheets to put on the spare one. However cramped, Rebecca much appreciated the kindness and told him so.
‘Ssh, you’d better not talk in case your mother hears you,’ warned Charlie.
‘Oh yes, I forgot!’ She kissed him and snuggled up. ‘Goodnight, Charlie.’
In the morning, having no need of an alarm, for the drenching served to wake him, Charlie hid his eyes while the child struggled with her clothes. Then, still in his own wet night attire, he stripped the bed and put the bottom sheet in the bowl he normally used for washing his face. The mattress was a fraction harder to deal with but, as he had forecast, he was able to dry this in front of the fire once Mrs Hazelwood had gone out… though after a week the stench of it was almost unbearable to sleep with.
‘I’m sorry to keep doing it, Charlie,’ Becky lamented on yet another morning. ‘I try and wake up in time but it’s always too late. You can look now.’
Now that she was dressed, Charlie unveiled his eyes and rolled out of bed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He picked up her wet nightgown between thumb and forefinger and carried it to the bowl.
Becky struggled to pull her stockings onto damp legs. ‘I wonder if there’ll be any news of Father today.’
‘Maybe.’ He used a pencil to press the garment under the water. Bits of it kept ballooning out.
Without warning, she started to cry. Charlie turned from the bowl, not quite knowing what to say. ‘He’ll be all right, Beck.’
‘But you don’t know that!’ It came as a sob. ‘Three people in my class have had their fathers killed. Why doesn’t Mother do more to find him?’
This question was repeated later when the children, with no school to attend on this rain-swept weekend, congregat
ed in the girls’ bedroom. ‘Why doesn’t she do something, Wena?’ a tearful Becky pleaded with her sister, who dared not speak her thoughts. ‘She just sits there as if she doesn’t care.’
‘That’s because she doesn’t,’ supplied Bertie, sitting on the bed, back propped up by the wall, an open book on his knees.
‘Oh, what a rotten thing to say!’ Becky jumped up from the rug to glare at him.
‘It’s true,’ said Bertie. ‘And I don’t care either. I hope he has been killed.’
‘You’re a bloody bugger!’ shouted Lyn and her sisters chorused their disapproval, Charlie too.
He came to sit on the bed beside his half-brother, about to give his opinion until Bertie snapped the book shut and said, ‘That reminds me! I’ve got to clean some dog muck off my shoes,’ and made for the door. Before leaving, though, he gave a scathing addition. ‘And if he has been killed it’s your fault, you drove him away.’
Charlie looked into the girls’ faces and saw that they held this belief too. ‘I didn’t want him to go away,’ came his unhappy murmur. ‘He’s my father as well, you know.’
His half-sisters looked at each other. Somehow, he still didn’t feel like their brother. Even though they liked him, for he was a good-natured boy and was always doing things for them, he still didn’t feel like part of them. Bertie did. Bertie, for all he lorded it over them and boasted, and was not so pleasant as this boy, was their brother.
Becky tried to lighten the negative mood. ‘Well, I say we’ve waited long enough. We should do something about finding him.’
My Father, My Son Page 36
