Rachel sat there looking from one shining face to the next, smelling the branches of pine that they had collected from the pavement outside the florist’s. There was a crib on the floor beside the hearth, made up of a cardboard box, a handful of straw and several cut-out figures. The atmosphere was overwhelmingly Christmas. Unbearably so. She wanted to escape, but forced herself to smile and commend them for their hard work. She managed to endure it until she had eaten the meal which Charlie and Rowena had concocted. Congratulating them on their excellent fayre, she said that she must go upstairs to change, for the day’s exertion had made her feel grimy.
She went not to her own room, but to that of her dead son. Closing the door, she leaned on it for a while, gazing at Bertie’s things, before moving to the bed. She smoothed the coverlet. She pictured him on previous yuletides, opening his gifts. Saw him at different stages of his life: a blonde-haired baby… an apple-cheeked soldier. Tears blinded her. She must find something to do, to get her over Christmas.
Hurrying from his room, she went to her own and began to pull at the drawers of the dressing table. Tidying them would take an hour or so off the ordeal. As her fingers ripped the contents from the drawers, they came upon a framed picture of her husband, which she had shoved from her sight the night he had left her. She picked up the brass frame, presenting it to her face. The photograph showed a man of twenty-three in dress uniform. Such a smart, handsome chap… with a scrabbling movement, she took the back off the frame and removed the picture, tossing it onto the floor with all the other unwanted articles, then proceeded with her task.
But later, when it came to bagging up the rubbish, she looked at the photograph again and, instead of screwing it up, laid it to one side.
* * *
Midnight. For lots of reasons, Charlie could not sleep. After tossing about for a spell, he left his bed to steal downstairs. Once in the kitchen, he used the glow of the fire to light his path and went to kneel by the crib – not praying, just letting the feel of Christmas wash over him. He wondered what his father was doing now. Wondered about many things. Shortly, he did offer a brief prayer, then went up to bed.
His journey was interrupted by a startlingly white figure, which caused him to draw in his breath and cross himself, thinking it was Bertie come to haunt him.
Rachel, too, bit back a scream and, hand to breast, heaved a sigh of relief. She finished closing the door of the girls’ room, put a finger across her lips and disappeared into her own bedroom. Charlie looked at the closed door for a second, smiled, then went to bed… where he found an apple, some nuts… and a photograph of his father.
* * *
Morning brought the usual excitement as the children found their small gifts. Rachel was at the range when they tumbled into the kitchen and instead of rebuking them for their noisy entry she smiled and said she hoped next Christmas would see the end of the war and a return to prosperity. Charlie asked if she wanted any help.
‘Maybe with the dinner,’ she told him, and continued making breakfast.
‘Thank you for the picture,’ he ventured shyly.
‘Well, I thought you may as well have it.’ She approached the table with a fistful of spoons and a tin of corn syrup. ‘It was no use to me.’
For once there was no intention to wound, but her thoughtless remark had the effect of tarnishing the gift and the boy was rather quiet for the rest of the morning.
After Christmas dinner had been made, consumed and thoroughly enjoyed and the pots washed, Rachel sprang her surprise. They were all to go to a pantomime film at the Electric Cinema. Beany, ever the excitable one, gave a scream of delight. ‘I do hope you’ll control your inclination to do that in the cinema,’ reproved her mother. When asked the subject of the film she replied, ‘Robinson Crusoe, and apparently there are a lot of other films on with it, so let’s not delay. Go get your coats – and quietly!’
There was a gleeful exodus. All save Charlie tore off to put on outdoor wear. He did not rise, but proceeded to gather up the mess of sweetpapers and nutshells they had left. Becky remembering past events, broke her dash to linger at the foot of the stairs where she could still see into the kitchen.
‘Leave that, Charlie,’ said Rachel. ‘Or we may miss the start. Go get your coat on.’ She watched his expression as he tore off to join a gladdened Becky. It made her feel utterly wretched.
* * *
It was the first film performance Charlie had ever seen and he enjoyed it tremendously. When they emerged from the cinema in Fossgate it was as a gibbering, laughing mass. They made the brisk walk through the cold fog to the nearest tram stop. Rachel listened to their laughter and wondered if any of them was aware how much she still grieved inside…
‘Why hello, Mrs Hazelwood!’ A young woman was smiling into her face.
Rachel focused her eyes to see that it was her ex-maid. ‘Biddy… how are you?’
‘Oh, I’m fine!’ A large hand primped the marcel wave which had dropped from the moist air. ‘And yourself? Is Mr Hazelwood still on this side?’
‘What?’ Rachel was staring at Biddy’s attire – a fur wrap.
‘I said is all well with himself?’ Biddy noticed that Rachel was mesmerized by the fur and performed a clumsy twirl. ‘D’ye like it?’
‘I’m sure it’s very nice,’ mumbled Rachel as Biddy called, ‘Oh, there’s Michael! That’s my gentleman friend, he’s waiting for me.’
‘He must be very well-off,’ opined Rachel, feeling prominently shabby in her three-year-old coat.
‘Oh, he didn’t buy this!’ laughed Biddy and stroked the fur. ‘Real squirrel, ye know. No, I’m on good money meself, at the munitions – two quid a week.’ She conversed with the children, asking them if they’d like to stroke her coat, then made a face when Charlie told her that Father Duncan wanted to see her. ‘He’ll be lucky! Ah well, I’d best not keep Michael waiting. Happy New Year to one and all!’ She lumbered away.
‘Two pounds a week,’ muttered Rachel to no one in particular. ‘As much as a man. Small wonder I can’t get help if the factories are paying those sort of ridiculous wages.’
‘Never mind, Mother.’ It was Rowena. ‘We don’t really need a maid now, do we? We’re quite capable of looking after each other.’
Rachel stared at her, produced a sudden smile and said, almost cheerfully, ‘Yes dear, we are!’
The others absorbed this mood. ‘I’ll bet it wasn’t real squirrel,’ scoffed Lyn.
‘No, it looked too stripey to me,’ agreed Beany. ‘I’ll bet it was off a stray tom.’
Everyone laughed, then cheered as the tram arrived and all piled on board. Charlie led the way to the front and with Regina on his knee chatted happily all the way home. He noticed from time to time that the woman sitting nearby kept staring at him, but then he had grown used to that kind of look.
Rachel hadn’t. The woman’s smug expression annoyed her. The eyes moved over Charlie’s exuberant brown face and his kinky hair that twinkled with diamonds of fog, then took in Rachel, looking her up and down. She’s thinking he’s mine, came Rachel’s angry thought, and she turned her face to the window. But all she could see in the darkened glass was the woman’s smirking reflection. She was glad when the tram reached The Mount. Beckoning to the children, she rose and waited for them to stumble to the exit. As Charlie lifted Regina from his lap, the woman who had been staring took something from her bag and thrust it at him. He accepted the white feather dumbly.
Rachel paled with fury. As the tram lurched to a standstill she stepped forward and dealt the woman a hard slap round the face. ‘He’s not even fifteen, for God’s sake!’
A stunned Charlie looked back, until Rachel gave him a dig in the ribs, ‘Get along!’ and followed him off the tram, while the red-faced woman sat looking out of the far window, trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.
All the way home, Charlie damned the woman on the tram for causing the resurgence of Mrs Hazelwood’s temper. The poor boy was not to realize he
had just been given the most precious Christmas gift he could have wished for – Rachel’s acceptance.
Chapter Thirty
There was no such festive spirit in France. ‘I knew damn well you wouldn’t last five minutes!’ Sergeant Hazelwood informed Jewitt as the company limp-marched to new billets that night. Jewitt had kept his post as servant to the captain for three hours, which was the time it took for Daw to discover the private’s vocation for skiving. He had been put back on the biscuit tins without ever having gained one of the perks. ‘I suppose I’ll be in the shit for recommending you. Don’t you dare ask me for anything again.’
‘I won’t Sarg, I promise.’ Jewitt placed one weary foot in front of the other. ‘Er… just lend me your back to take the weight off me feet.’
The sergeant gave a growl and cuffed him, then marched on into the cold needles of rain.
What should have been a relaxing time was marred by the obvious change in mood of the French hosts from the last time the company was here. The meals the soldiers were given were not much better than they received on the line and whilst before they had been included in the family conversations – even if neither could understand the other – now, Russ noticed a definite lack of friendship. Hence his reply to Jewitt when they met up again and the private asked what his billet had been like: ‘I was made to feel right at home.’
The march to their new sector was marked by a snowfall, adding inches to the waterline. There was little activity on the fighting side, though the constant need to mend trenches helped to ward off boredom. A few days after he had arrived here, a belated Christmas parcel turned up. Even before Russ had opened it, the package itself brought comfort. When nothing had arrived at Christmas he had feared his girls blamed him for killing their brother. First out of the paper was the helmet upon which Rowena had laboured for three months. He smiled at the colours and attempted to don it, but the tight row of cast-on stitches cut into his brow and would go no further. Giving up the fight, he replaced it with his own lice-infested headgear, smiled over it for a second, then read the letter which Rowena had slipped inside it. This gave all the news from home, plus the information that Charlie had not yet left for college. Russ cursed as he fingered Charlie’s gift – a pamphlet about wild birds – what the hell was the priest messing at? He must write to him again if he still had the address.
The other gifts earned a smile. Then he put them all into his pockets, using the brown wrapping to shove inside his tunic as a chest-warmer. When the hand came out of his tunic it automatically bore the group photograph – so creased now that it was in danger of tearing. He handled it with reverence.
Private Jewitt paused some five yards away to watch the sergeant. He didn’t know why he should feel sorry for him; Hazelwood was always bawling at him and they were all in this together. But the death of his son had really knocked him flat. Oh, he still sometimes joked and swore… but then so did Jewitt, and he knew how depressed he himself felt sometimes at being here – even while cracking a joke. So what the sergeant must be feeling like after two years in the trenches… He put on a cheerful face and continued his approach. ‘Got something for you, Sarg!’
Hazelwood’s bleak eyes came up from the photograph to settle on the huge bulge in Jewitt’s pocket. ‘I didn’t know you were that fond of me, Private.’
Jewitt’s throat cracked a laugh. He delved in his pocket and withdrew a large half-sausage and from his other pocket a silver knife.
‘There’s no bloody wonder we’ve outstayed our welcome with the Frogs,’ breathed Russ after a loud exclamation. ‘How many more things have you lifted this week?’ He put aside the photograph to rub some Zam-Buk into his knuckles, which were cracked and bleeding, then reached over to smear a little on Jewitt’s, whose were in the same state.
Jewitt began to slice the sausage, offering the first cut to his sergeant. ‘I think if we’re being shot at defending their country the least they can do is show appreciation.’
‘And so they were, until light-fingered soldiers started pilfering their valuables.’ Russ flicked the skin aside and devoured the meat. ‘Haven’t you got any bread to go with this?’ The sausage tasted of Zam-Buk.
‘Eh, we are on rations, Sergeant,’ chastised Jewitt. Then gave a smirk and, from his tunic, produced a loaf.
Russ coughed out a guffaw and waited expectantly. ‘Butter?’
‘Aw, come on, Sarg! Even I’m not that sneaky… I might just have a bit o’ cheese though.’ The production of the lump of unwrapped cheese incurred more amusement.
‘Jewitt, you are a bloody case.’ Russ accepted the piece of cheese, picking off bits of fluff that came from Jewitt’s tunic.
The private called his friends over then to share in the booty, and for a time they simply chewed and stared out of their shallow trench at the white blanket of No Man’s Land. To one unfamiliar with this place it might have been a scene from a Christmas card, but Russell’s mind told him what was hidden beneath that soft and innocuous blanket… and came the ever-recurring nightmare to cram his mind with awfulness. Red and gaping wounds, the glint of bone, a slaughterhouse stench, demonic screams, rotting men… Patches of red started to ooze through the virgin layer and the sergeant began to tremble.
* * *
On New Year’s Eve there were more celebrations in the Hazelwood residence. It was best, Rachel decided, to make the most of these rare occasions. For the rest of the year they had to live with this damned war; at least let the children enjoy themselves for tonight. The New Year had always been a time of celebration for Rachel and her husband, but with the onset of the trouble the woman had dispensed with it. As at Christmas, she did not altogether feel like merrymaking, but she had matured enough to consider the feelings of others in the house. Besides, when one tried to give pleasure to others one often discovered that the enjoyment became mutual. That was why, as the hands of the clock moved towards the first chime of the year, her children were not yet in their nightclothes – though some of them were on the brink of sleep.
Rachel sat among her brood, thinking of things past. Her eyes fell on the pile of lumber by the back door, causing her to feel that there were many significant things happening tonight. The lumber was part of tradition. One would place it in a pile by the back door along with a sweeping of dust, then when the hour of midnight struck the whole lot would be tossed out into the yard so that New Year would begin with a clean sweep. In normal years the pile would merely be a token, for the house-proud Rachel allowed neither junk nor dust to accumulate. This year, however, there was a great deal of both, not just the tangible sort, but also in her mind. There must be a clean sweep all round.
As the time grew closer, the woman sought to give her children a further treat and wet their glasses with the remainder of the sherry that had been purchased three years ago. She, Rowena, Becky, Lyn and Charlie – for the others had fallen asleep – stood waiting for the hour to strike, when the eldest girl broached the subject of first-footing. Rachel acquiesced. If there were to be celebrations they may as well be done correctly. ‘We need a dark man and a fair lady.’ Becky grabbed her half-brother’s arm. ‘We’ve got our dark man. Lyn, you’ll have to be the fair lady.’
The tomboy made ape-like grimaces. ‘I’m not a lady.’
‘You certainly aren’t,’ laughed her mother. ‘But you’re the fairest of us so we’ll have to make do. Oh, stop complaining! Be quick before it strikes.’
The two concerned were hustled out into the yard and the door slammed on them. Lyn hugged her arms around her body. ‘Blimey, I hope they don’t keep us shivering out here for long!’
‘I’ll warm you up.’ Charlie put his arm round her, knowing how she detested such displays and laughed gleefully when she thumped him.
‘You bloody bugger!’
‘You’ve just got time to make a New Year’s resolution, Lyn.’ He danced away from her attack. ‘I resolve to be a proper little lady for the rest of the—’ He broke off with a laugh as she swo
re and hit him again. ‘Ssh, listen!’ He warded off her assault. ‘It’s chiming.’
Lyn held her ear alert to catch the muffled sound of their chiming clock. In a second, she and Charlie burst upon the others, shouting, ‘Happy New Year!’
‘Happy New Year, Mother!’
And there were hugs and kisses between the girls and Rachel. Charlie stood back, watching and smiling reticently, until Becky grabbed hold of him and, hauling his head down, kissed it. ‘Happy New Year, Charlie!’
He glanced awkwardly at Rachel, expecting her displeasure, but all she said was, ‘Happy New Year, Charlie,’ and though she didn’t go so far as to kiss him he felt as though she just had.
‘Mother, could we go wish Happy New Year to Aunt Ella?’ It was Rowena.
Her mother’s face lost its smile for a moment. Then with her nod it returned. If she were to start the New Year clean then this too must be sorted out.
From the yard there were shouts of complaint. ‘Her yard door’s locked!’
This didn’t deter Lyn. ‘Come on, Charlie, we’ll climb over!’ And with that she was hoisting herself over the wall, an enthusiastic Charlie in pursuit. Both hammered on the door.
Now, up and down the row of houses, there were sounds of jubilation. Due to war conditions there were no church bells ringing, but that didn’t seem to spoil people’s fun. Rachel could hear them laughing as they enacted their customs. She wrung her hands and shuddered as she waited for Ella to respond to the children’s knock. ‘Maybe she’s in the front and can’t hear you – knock a bit louder.’
Lyn did not need any encouragement and all but battered the door down. Suddenly in an upstairs room a lamp was ignited. This registered with Charlie, who noticed now that the entire street seemed to be flouting the regulations; if Jerry flew over now he would have a field day.
My Father, My Son Page 51
