Rachel put a hand over her mouth as a figure thrust aside the curtain and hoisted the sash.
‘What the bloody hell…?’ Ella glared down at the perpetrators of this nuisance.
‘Happy New Year, Aunt Ella!’ called the children.
‘I’ll give you Happy New – you’ve just dragged me from my bed! Some of us have to be up for work, you know!’ With this she hauled down the window and was gone.
They all looked at each other guiltily, Rachel’s hand still clamped over her mouth. Then the skin around her eyes creased and she let out a snort of mirth, which in a split second had the children giggling too as Charlie and his half-sister scrambled back over the wall. Once in the house, the whole tribe roared out loud at the memory of the enraged Ella Daw without her false teeth and her hair in curlers.
The laughter petered out as a familiar shout echoed in the street. ‘Get that bloody light out!’ Rachel, still smiling, went to check her own curtains, then turned around to behold the host of shining faces and was attacked by guilt, guilt at being happy. ‘I think it’s time we were all in bed.’
‘Oh, but I haven’t had my sherry yet!’ objected Beany who, along with the other slumberers, had only woken up with the noise of her siblings’ merriment.
‘Oh, Mother!’ Becky remembered. ‘We haven’t sung Auld Lang Syne.’
‘I could have my sherry while we’re singing,’ said Beany as the others prepared to give voice.
But Rachel said no to both motions. ‘Robina, it’s far too late for sherry now and I think we’ve upset Mrs Daw enough for one night without singing. Come on now, everybody up to their beds. I’m very tired myself.’
After a chorus of moans the girls kissed her and did as instructed, Charlie following.
Rachel paused, her hand set to douse the gas light, checking on everything before going up to the loneliness of her bed. She didn’t know why she had bothered to deny them their request, for with the closing of her eyes the words of Auld Lang Syne came creeping into her mind to bring the tears that she had not wanted to shed in their presence.
* * *
In tune with Rachel’s sentiment, Charlie decided to begin the New Year in proper fashion too. For him this meant going to church to confess the way he felt about his dead half-brother. It was not easy, admitting to God that he had been glad when Bertie was killed – but then God knew that already, didn’t he? Telling it to someone else had helped, even if it did bring penance and the request that he perform an act of contrition. To Charlie, the past three years had been one long act of contrition – for the sin of being his father’s son. Still, he paid his dues to God and felt the better for it.
Yet there was still the worry over Father Guillaume’s silence. It was February before Father Duncan had any definite news for him. Charlie sat in the priest’s study, knowing by the Father’s reluctance to begin that the news was bad.
‘As I told you, Charlie,’ started the priest, ‘I wrote two letters. The one I sent to the address in Belgium has produced nothing… however,’ he held up an envelope, ‘I did get a reply from Sister Bernadette in South Africa.’ There was another long hiatus. ‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you, Charlie.’
Something leapt in Charlie’s breast, producing the image of his friend being dragged away by Germans. With thickened tongue he put voice to his fear. ‘He’s been injured.’
The priest looked down at the carpet, then into the boy’s eyes again. ‘I’m afraid it’s much worse than that… Charlie, Father Guillaume is dead.’
Even though he had been prepared, the shock was so savage that it robbed him of an answer.
His informant’s voice was soft. ‘Sister Bernadette apologizes for keeping you in ignorance for so long, but she herself has only recently learnt of Father Guillaume’s sad demise… It appears he was thrown into prison by the Germans and his physical health suffered – so much so, that by the time Sister Bernadette discovered his whereabouts he was already beyond help. I’m truly sorry, Charlie.’ Charlie nodded… then bent his head and began to cry. Father Duncan stood silently, turning the fateful letter in his fingers. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that Father Guillaume had time to make arrangements for your education before he was captured. Sister Bernadette has given me leave to attend to this and I shall take immediate steps to send you to the college which Father Guillaume had selected – if that meets with your agreement?’
Charlie gave a huge, shuddering sniff, reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and nodded.
‘Perhaps I should come and speak to Mrs Hazelwood about it?’
Charlie cleared his nose and wiped his eyes before saying, ‘There’s no need. She’ll be satisfied to hear she’s going to see the back of me.’
Father Duncan sensed the fullness of the boy’s pain and sent out an aura of sympathy. ‘I think we’ll get Mrs Plumb to make us a cup of tea – and I believe she has just baked so we may be treated to a slice of her fruit-loaf. I can tell you it’s absolutely mouthwatering.’
* * *
‘Your dinner’s in the oven!’ snapped Rachel without looking up from her plate. Her annoyance stemmed not only from the fact that he was late, but that he had not been here to help with the preparation of the meal.
Charlie hung in the doorway, watching the family at their lunch, listening to the busy scraping of knives on plates. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Father Duncan wanted to speak to me.’
‘Then you’ll have him to blame and not me if your meal is dried up,’ answered Rachel, still not caring to look at him.
‘I’m not hungry.’ Charlie turned to go.
Her eyes came up then to spear his retreating back. ‘Oh! So I’ve wasted my time and food, have I?’
He didn’t look back. ‘Father Guillaume is dead.’
Rachel’s mouth stopped working on her vegetables and she stared at the spot where he had been. The stairs creaked as his foot took the tread. She turned to look at her children, who stared back concernedly, then abruptly reapplied her cutlery to her meal.
Rowena studied her mother for a moment, then asked, ‘Please may I leave the table?’
‘You haven’t finished yet,’ said Rachel quietly. ‘And I think the boy would prefer to be alone for the time being. You can go up later.’
The meal was resumed, though more subdued than it had been before Charlie’s announcement. Later the girls crept up to his room and tapped on the door.
‘Oh, leave him,’ said Lyn after the taps went unheeded. ‘Let’s go out and play.’
‘You lot go if you want to,’ returned her elder sister with soft annoyance, and tapped again. ‘Charlie, may we come in?’
Charlie lay on his side, staring at the wall. His grief was compounded by feelings of guilt. He felt deeply ashamed that his last act towards the man who had brought him up had been one of callousness: transferring his love to one who hardly knew him and didn’t even care.
Lyn gave a snort. ‘Well, I’m off out! Who’s coming?’
Only Rowena and Becky refused, exchanging looks of disapproval as their sisters scampered off to get their coats. Becky tested the efficacy of her own knuckles. ‘Please, Charlie, open the door. There’s only me and Wena now.’
There was another period of silence, then a muffled voice said, ‘It’s not locked.’
They went in to sit on the bed, one on either side of him. ‘We’re very sorry about your friend, Charlie.’ When he gave no acknowledgement, Rowena asked, ‘Was he killed by the Germans?’
‘They put him in prison. He died there.’
‘What did they put him in prison for?’
He moved his shoulders apathetically. ‘Because he was helping people, I imagine.’
‘I hate the Germans,’ said Becky with vehemence.
I hate myself, thought Charlie.
‘Mother’s just said she’ll take us for a trip on The River King this afternoon,’ said Rowena, trying to cheer him. ‘As a sort of early birthday treat for you.’ Charlie wou
ld be fifteen this week. ‘It leaves at two-thirty – are you coming with us?’ Charlie said he wasn’t in the mood.
‘It might take your mind off things,’ advised Becky.
He didn’t respond. The girls looked at each other over his recumbent form. ‘Well, we’ll come up a bit later,’ Rowena told him. Charlie had helped her in so many ways and now that he needed her she didn’t know what to say. Quietly she left, Becky too.
Charlie cried again.
* * *
A while had passed since the girls had been to visit. Charlie, head throbbing from shedding so many tears, lay as they had left him. The weight of his grief turned his body to lead. His mind hovered between conscious and semi-conscious, brimming with self-hate. His lethargy was just driving him to the brink of sleep when the door opened. Involuntarily he brought his head up. Rachel looked into the desolate eyes before the head fell back on its pillow.
‘I came to see if you’re going on this trip with us. If you are we’d better go now or we’ll miss the boat.’
‘I’ll only spoil it for you.’
She hesitated, then told him, ‘The girls understand you’ve suffered a loss, they won’t pester you.’
‘I meant my presence will spoil it for you,' he rejoined hostilely.
Taken aback, she was lost for any reply for a second. Then she said quietly, ‘I’m sorry about your priest.’
‘Well you won’t have to put up with me for much longer because Father Duncan’s going to get me into the college – if that was your concern over Father Guillaume’s death!’
‘That wasn’t my concern at all!’ She was offended and took five crisp steps up to his bed. ‘I came to offer my condolences.’
Charlie couldn’t bring himself to believe that this was genuine. All she cared about was that she wasn’t going to be rid of him. She didn’t care about Father Guillaume’s pain, she didn’t understand how much Charlie had cared for him. How badly he wished his mother was there, to put her arms round him, rest his head on her softness. How long it had been since someone had hugged him, really hugged him. The thought of his mother brought fresh sobs to rack his body.
Rachel clasped her hands in front of her, grinding their palms together like millstones. Of course he wouldn’t believe her – why should he? She had shown him nothing but disdain and petty cruelty. Yet she did feel sorry and she wanted to show it by putting her arms around him, comforting him, not just for his loss but for the way she had blamed him for her husband’s crime.
But he wouldn’t want the ministrations of this skinny stick of a woman.
‘I know how upset you must be,’ she said with dignity. ‘And if you want to stay at home this afternoon then I won’t press you… but I would like you to come if you feel able.’ With this she performed a silent exit and went along the landing to her dead son’s room, where she wept profusely.
* * *
The snow had gone. Once again there was deep and stinking mud. This part of the trench was only twenty-five yards from the German lines and some men from his platoon were enjoying a jocular exchange with the enemy. A coalscuttle helmet was hoisted on a bayonet, and immediately converted to a colander by the British. ‘Here’s one for Mr Lloyd George!’ The Teutonic accent was closely followed by the whistle of a shell which exploded far off target, bringing a derisive retort from the British. Russ put away his photograph and thrust himself from his hunkers to wander aimlessly along the bays and bends of the firing line and into a communication trench.
From his dugout, Jack Daw watched his old friend’s erratic passage. He looked like a tramp with his lousy beard and long hair, coat stained with mud. For a long time Daw had known that Russ was on the verge of a mental breakdown, but could do little to help him. The medical officer here refused to recognize any ailment other than amputation or death. If Daw were to send the sergeant, how would the doctor react? ‘Nerves? Nerves, Sergeant? We’ve all got bloody nerves! I’ve got nerves. Men know when they’ve touched on mine, I give ’em a kick up the arse for coming to see me with imaginary bloody ailments like nerves! Get back on that line and test Jerry’s nerves instead of my patience!’
Daw himself felt completely exhausted. His company had been up here for six weeks without rest. All they and the Germans were doing was throwing shells at each other and sniping the occasional unwary target. He, who revelled in hand to hand fighting, was sick as hell. Russ stumbled on, muttering instructions to those whom he passed. His head came up at the captain’s shout and he sloshed his way back to where Daw was standing.
‘I’ve just received word that all men under the age of nineteen are to be withdrawn from the line. Seems the public’ve been giving the War Office some stick over it.’
‘That’ll mean half our battalion.’ Russ looked around at the young faces.
Daw nodded grimly. ‘I don’t know how they expect us to win this bloody war if they take half our fighting force. Anyway, they’re to go to Eat-Apples for instructional duties.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘An’ the public’ll think they’ve done the poor sods a favour!’
Russ left the captain to inform those to whom the rule applied. As bad as this place was, he was glad that Jewitt wasn’t among those going to Étaples. Jewitt, for whose life he had made himself responsible; Jewitt, whose deliverance from this catacomb had become an obsession with the sergeant. Thoughts of the lad produced another: he hadn’t seen Jewitt for fifteen minutes, and he always liked to be sure of the private’s whereabouts.
‘Jewitt! Anybody here seen Jewitt?’
Someone sang, to the tune of ‘Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly’, ‘Has anybody here seen Jewitt? S-k-i-v-er!’
Russ narrowed his eyes, his mind settling on a spot some distance away at the far end of the trench. As his right foot struck out in pursuance, a Minenwerfer was launched from the enemy’s line. He heard the pop and, as he walked, performed the customary upwards glance to gauge its landing place. Its wobbling arc stopped him in his tracks for a split second – it was going to come down on the latrine! The shell began to descend. Russ came out of his paralysis, screamed Jewitt’s name and drove himself forward. Men called out a warning, but he ignored them, pushing his way through the knot of soldiers who were running in the opposite direction. ‘Jewitt, get out o’ there!’
Everyone in the vicinity threw themselves sideways as the shell made contact, one of them catching the sergeant and embedding his full length in the slime as the world erupted.
Russ was up before the smoke cleared, taking five staggering paces before he saw the futility in proceeding – the entire latrine area was completely blown away. His body drooped in chronic despair. His jaw sagged… when out from the cover trench came a soldier painted from head to toe in the contents of the latrine that had been flung for yards. Lonsborough started to roar with laughter. ‘Good job you’re wearin’ khaki, Jujube!’
‘Well, you’re the bloody same – look at you!’ yelled Jewitt as the rest of his pals broke into loud laughter, and tried to wipe his face with his sleeve, only succeeding in making matters more comical.
The sergeant was laughing too. Daw heard the sound as he came out of his dugout to supervise a roll-call. He had almost reached the group of laughing men when the one who laughed the loudest of all began to run back towards the firing trench. There, he was over the top in four quick movements and before anyone could stop him had launched himself, still laughing, across No Man’s Land towards the enemy’s line.
Jack let out an expletive. Striding up to the nearest man, he grabbed his rifle. In a trice he was on the firestep and levelling his weapon in the direction of the crazed figure. There was sharp objection from Jewitt as the captain took aim. There were also jeers and catcalls from the German trench as the laughing madman danced towards them. Soon there would be the sound of their rifles…
Daw squeezed the trigger. Jewitt’s hand flew to his mouth. There was a crack and the figure disappeared. Giving him no time to get up, Daw was over the top himself and closing the g
ap between them at a crouching run. Jerry still cheered, his bullets whizzing past Daw’s ears, as did those of his own covering fire. When the captain reached Hazelwood he was lying face upwards, eyes open and unblinking. For one dreadful moment Jack thought the accuracy of his firing was open to question. He threw himself flat and put a hand to Russ’ temple whilst running his eyes over the rest of his body for wounds. There it was, exactly as he had intended it, in Hazelwood’s thigh. Private Jewitt came splashing up and hurled himself beside the pair. Whilst their comrades provided rapid covering fire, the two of them dragged the wounded man through the morass to safety, rolling him over the parapet, whence he toppled into the trench with an agonized groan.
Jack knelt by him, calling for stretcher bearers and helping to cover Russ with a blanket. ‘You’ll be all right now, Filbert,’ he whispered close to his friend’s ear. ‘I’ve dealt you a nice little Blighty. It might make you limp… but then Rachel will appreciate that.’
Jewitt was astounded at the show of tenderness from this hard man. Only on reappraisal did he understand that he had misconstrued the captain’s action – he had thought Daw had intended to kill Sergeant Hazelwood but had missed.
Daw glanced at Jewitt as a moaning Russ was carted away. The tenderness was gone. ‘Looks as though we’re going to need a new latrine trench, Private. See to it!’
* * *
Charlie was recovering quite well from his own emotional wound. How strange that it had been Mrs Hazelwood who had helped it to heal, rather than the girls; she who did not even like him. Life was very odd. She had actually smiled at him when, red-eyed, he had caught them just as they were leaving for their outing and told them he had changed his mind. It was that smile and the matter-of-fact acceptance of the girls that had set about this change. He suddenly felt… ordinary. Not special because he was black or a bastard or a bloody nuisance, but ordinary, an ordinary member of an ordinary family. It was a good feeling. Now, when Rachel dispraised him, it was not in a vindictive manner, but just the way she was with her daughters. It could even be sort of pleasant, making him feel he mattered. There were, of course, times when the guilt of his behaviour towards Father Guillaume would bring private tears. But that was not today. Today he felt quite cheerful as he unloaded his purchases on the kitchen table. She would be pleased when she came home and saw the lovely piece of meat he had bought – and for not much more than he would have paid for a scraggy bit of offal at the butcher’s.
My Father, My Son Page 52
