‘It’s embarrassing.’ Charlie’s face burned.
‘There’s only me and thee here,’ said Arthur, contorting his arm this way and that. ‘And I shan’t laugh at you. Not till you’ve gone, anyroad.’ Charlie liked the barber, but it was difficult to begin. At his reticence, Arthur guessed. ‘Ah, one o’ them sort o’ problems, is it? Well, your father’s home now, can’t you talk to him?’
Charlie muttered a no. His father thought little enough of him as it was, if he should discover that Charlie was abnormal too… He had been worrying over it for quite a time. Living as he did in a houseful of women, he had no one in whom he could confide, and he certainly couldn’t tell Father Duncan.
‘Away then, bend my lug, that’s what I’m here for.’
Charlie looked at Arthur’s reflection. ‘Well… you’re an expert on hair, aren’t you?’
‘Only on heads and faces, lad. If you’re expecting me to trim around John Thomas I’ll have to charge double.’ He grinned at Charlie’s expression. ‘How did I know? I have been a lad meself, Charlie. Stop worrying.’
Charlie’s face brightened. ‘It’s normal, then?’ With the affirmative answer he was emboldened to mention about his pyjamas being damp on a morning. ‘I’m sure I haven’t peed myself… it’s not that kind of wetness, anyway.’
‘Happens to all of us, lad. There’s nowt wrong with you.’ Vastly relieved, Charlie asked the barber what it was. ‘It’s the stuff babies are made of – shows you’re a man. But don’t you go showing off now and planting it in any young lasses.’ Seeing the renewed puzzlement, Arthur sighed, ‘Ah dear! Well, it’s like this son,’ and proceeded to give Charlie a rough outline of the masculine role.
Charlie was so relieved and pleased to be told he was normal that he wanted to go straight out and tell someone, but the only people he saw were females and it wouldn’t have been fitting to tell them. They wouldn’t have understood, anyway. When he reached home, the first person he encountered was another female; Regina was pushing her doll’s pram up and down the pavement outside her house. She saw Charlie and came to meet him as far as she was allowed, which was three doors away from her own, where she stopped and waited for him. ‘The barbara’s cut all your hair off.’ She turned the pram clumsily and trotted home with him.
‘Yes.’ He walked with the striding gait of one who has discovered his masculinity.
‘Looks nice. I’d like mine like that.’ She turned the pram through the gateway.
‘Girls don’t wear their hair short like this. This style’s for men. What’s Father doing?’
‘He’s hiding under the bed. I frightened him.’ It was announced with pride.
Dismayed, Charlie went straight upstairs, but found his father on top of the bed and looking relatively composed. ‘Are you all right?’
Russ looked at him. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Regina’s just told me she frightened you.’
Russ sneered. ‘Me, frightened of a three-year-old! What d’you think I am, lad? I’ve been through a war. She just got on my nerves with her screeching, that’s all. I sent her out to play.’
Charlie saw the fluff in his father’s hair, recognized the lie, but said nothing further on the subject. He had much more important things to tell his father.
But before he could, Russ spoke again. ‘Now you’re back I might just have a stroll to the end of the street, give this damned leg some exercise.’
Charlie stepped back to give his father room. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, I’d prefer to go on my own.’ Russ stood up gingerly. ‘You stop here and look after the little ’un.’
‘All right… I’ll help you down the stairs, though.’ Charlie tried to take hold of his father’s arm.
‘I don’t need helping! For Christ’s sake, go find something else to do with yourself.’ Russ hobbled past the boy and went downstairs.
He lingered in the front doorway for long seconds, then took the first positive step into the outside world. Still within his own boundary, he looked up the street to his left. Suddenly, it seemed very long, though there were only eleven houses in this part of it. He hesitated, weighing his surroundings, and noticed for the first time that Rachel’s rose bed had gone. In its place was a neat row of cabbages. It was this that gave the true realization of how she had changed – though not towards him; she still held him in the same contempt.
Steeling himself, he took another five steps and was on the pavement. Devoid of cover, he found himself checking every tree and every window where a sniper might be lurking, then set his sights on the end of the street and began to walk. He would stroll down this side and walk back on the other. Halfway to his target, he was accosted by a neighbour, an old man of seventy-eight, who emerged from his gate to shuffle alongside him.
‘Home again, Russ?’
‘Again? This is only the second time in three years.’
‘Nay, is it? Doesn’t seem like five minutes since I were last talking to you. When’re you going back, then?’
Silly stupid old fart, thought Russ, but managed congenially, ‘Oh, they’ve finished with me, Mr Powell.’
‘What?’ The rheumy eyes looked him up and down. ‘You must have had it cushy. There doesn’t look much amiss. I’ll bet you get a damned sight more pension than I do an’ all.’
Russ clamped his lips over the retort and said, as they reached the corner, ‘I’ll see you. I’m only going this far,’ and left the old man, crossing the road, where he leaned against the iron railings for a time. Ignorant old bastard. He gritted his teeth against his anger and in time it receded.
Knavesmire was still dotted with white tents. He could hear the voices of the training officers ringing out as they assembled the new recruits. There was a mock battle going on. Russ could see groups of men lying on their bellies, waiting to go over the ‘top’. A whistle blew. The men rose as one and began to advance on the ‘enemy’ over the green belt… and then Knavesmire became the Somme. The visions leapt at him. His fingers gripped the iron rails as he watched the carnage taking place. He could not let go – dare not let go. The queasiness overpowered him. Men were falling, being blown to bits…
Ella Daw turned into the street and saw him there. Faltering, she came across the road to stand at his elbow, only now seeing the terror on his face. All of Jack’s letters could not have conveyed the reality more succinctly. Suddenly, she understood that which had hitherto remained between the lines.
Russ did not feel the hand on his arm. Only when she spoke did he flinch and look at her. ‘Walking my way, soldier?’ The voice was cheery. ‘Here, you can carry my shoppin’.’ Prising his grip from the fence, she hooked the handle of the bag over his fingers, then steered him firmly in the right direction. ‘How’s your leg?’
He took a deep breath and began to return to normality. ‘Oh… it’s healing nicely.’
‘Must be odd coming back to this quiet after what you’ve been used to?’ She received a nod in reply. ‘Aye, I noticed when our Jack came home last time he couldn’t seem to settle, cleaning his gun umpteen times…’ She broke off. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say. She glanced at Russ, wondering whether to raise the subject of Bertie, then decided not to. ‘I think he’d like to hear from you if you get time to write.’ They had reached her gate.
He gave a laugh. For a moment he appeared as his old self, but his eyes spoke differently. ‘I think I might be able to find a few minutes.’
‘Coming in for a cup of tea?’ She took her bag from him.
Russ hesitated, looked at his own door, then said, ‘Aye, why not?’ and followed her inside.
* * *
That night, Charlie heard his father cry. He was lying awake worrying about how he was going to fit into the college and about the train journey, when the sound of his father’s unhappiness percolated his own concern. He lay there for a spell, listening. The weeping persisted. Rising, he crept down the stairs to the landing. Here he hung back, uncertain, t
hen opened the door of his father’s room. Submerged in grief as he was, Russ did not hear him. The first sign of another’s presence was when he felt his hand being taken in someone else’s and squeezed gently. He looked up to see his comforter’s identity, but on seeing who it was, said nothing and let his head fall back to the pillow.
Charlie said nothing either, just sat on the bed, gripping his father’s hand until the crying was over.
Russ gave a shuddering sigh, slipped his hand from the boy’s grasp and muttered thickly, ‘I’m all right now. Go back to bed.’
* * *
The next morning, Charlie, all togged up in his new suit, took his leave of them; Rachel first, as she was the person he met on rising. She surprised him by saying she would be accompanying him to the station. ‘I might as well. It’s not far out of my way, is it?’
‘How will you go on about the books?’ Charlie was still helping with the accounts.
‘Oh, he can do them, make himself useful for a change. Here, put this in your bag. It’s a long way up to Durham.’
He took the tin, prised the lid off and looked inside. There was a packet of sandwiches and an orange. His face lit up. Oranges had become a rare treat; the last one he had had was at Christmas. ‘Ooh, that’s very generous.’
‘Yes, I thought so too. Think on, when you’re eating that you’ll be eating fourpence.’ But Rachel said it with a smile.
He pushed the tin into his bag. ‘Mrs Hazelwood… oh, it doesn’t matter.’
She knew him well enough by now to know what this entrée meant. ‘Oh, come on, out with it! What pearl of advice are you going to leave me?’
‘Not advice… I just wondered if you heard Mr Hazelwood last night?’
‘Heard him? Doing what?’ Yes, she had heard him. It had shocked her.
But at this point Rowena entered and Charlie, not wanting to upset her, said, ‘Oh, I think he was dreaming or something.’ He greeted Rowena with a smile and began to help with breakfast. Shortly, the others came down and during the meal the conversation was all about Charlie’s new school.
During the fifteen-minute interval between breakfast and school time, Becky told Charlie how much she would miss him. ‘Like mad,’ she said, endorsing this with a hug and a kiss. Rowena, brushing her hair, waited until her sisters had gone up to say goodbye to her father and her mother was out in the yard before issuing her own sentiments. Clasping the handle of the brush, she turned from the mirror and gripped her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘It’ll be ever so funny not having you here, Charlie.’ With a querulous smile, she held out the brush. ‘Will you brush my hair for me?’
After a moment’s surprise, he took the brush. Rowena stood with her back to him, looking into the mirror, through which she could only see from her eyes upwards. Charlie began to stroke gently at her hair. At once her scalp prickled in ecstasy. ‘Ooh, that’s lovely,’ she murmured. ‘It makes me feel all tickly inside.’ His eyes smiled at her through the glass. After a dozen more strokes, Rowena said quietly, ‘Did you hear Father last night?’
Charlie ceased brushing for a second. The eyes in the mirror were anxious. His arm began to move again and he nodded with a tight smile.
‘I wonder what’s wrong with him… he’s so strange since he came home.’ She put a hand up to clasp the one holding the brush.
Charlie felt the fear and put his other arm around her. ‘He’ll get better, Wena.’
The sound of the others on the stairs broke their intimacy. After wishing him much luck, Rowena went off to school and a little later so did her sisters, leaving Charlie to make ready for his journey. With Rachel still in the yard hanging out the washing, he offered instructions to the youngest child, who was gazing into a hand mirror. She had just discovered that her eyes were two different colours and was now winking them alternately – blue, brown, blue, brown. ‘Now you must promise not to frighten your father while I’m away, Squawk. He’ll be the one who’s looking after you and you’re not to upset him.’
‘Will he play with me like you do?’ she asked, distorting her face.
‘I shouldn’t think so, his leg’s still poorly. You’ll have to make your own games.’
‘I don’t like him,’ sulked the child.
‘That’s naughty. You’re only thinking of yourself. Father’s been fighting in the war, he doesn’t feel like playing games. If you promise to be good and not upset him then I’ll play with you when I get home.’ Regina asked when that would be. ‘Not long – the summer holidays aren’t far away.’ He squatted and made a face into the mirror over her shoulder, luring the sulk away.
She nodded unenthusiatically and said she would be good. Charlie patted her, then went to give his parting regards to his father and to see if he was ready for the tray that Rachel had prepared.
‘I just came to say goodbye.’ Charlie put the tray on his father’s lap.
‘Goodbye?’ Russ looked up at him quizzically.
‘I’m going to college. I did tell you yesterday.’
‘Oh aye.’ Russ examined the contents of the tray.
‘Regina’s promised to be good.’ His father looked at him, then looked away. ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye.’
Charlie turned to the door.
Russ frowned at the retreating back and added sparingly, ‘Good luck.’
Chapter Thirty-two
The Victorian station echoed with the announcement of train times, the psssh! of steam and the rumble of wheels. People converged on the train, clutching their coats about them. Whatever the season, the cold always bounced up from the stone platform. Charlie, one of the last to board, paused at the carriage door, unsure how to take his final leave.
Rachel tugged his tie straight and gave him a push. ‘Right, go on then, or the train will go without you.’
‘Goodbye.’ He accorded her a nervous smile, then stepped up into the carriage as the guard came down the platform slamming doors. There was a vacant seat on the near side. Barely had he taken it than the whistle sounded and the train gave a bump into motion. It jerked and jolted, then began to pull away more smoothly, taking him out of York. He did not look back. She had turned to walk away the instant he had embarked and he didn’t want to look back at an empty platform.
Yet, as the engine sallied round the elegant curve of rail, he could not help a wistful rearwards glance.
Rachel lifted her hand, saw the look of surprise and pleasure that her simple act had produced. Then, sighing, she went to open the shop.
* * *
The journey was not quite as monotonous as Charlie had feared from its first stages. There was a family in his carriage and the children kept him entertained. After a while he began to peel the orange, not because he was hungry, merely for something to do with his hands. He had dissected it reverently when he noticed he had a captive audience. A skein was half-raised to his mouth, then, with a smile he handed it over to the little girl, treating her two brothers likewise. Appreciating his kindness, the adults chatted with him amicably, though most of their conversation centred on the war. On leaving the train, Charlie found a cab to take him to the college where, after introducing himself, he was put in the charge of a likeable boy named Adrian who showed him first to the dormitory and then around the rest of the college.
‘You’ll probably get a nickname,’ the fair-haired Adrian told him as they strolled the grounds. ‘No one’s called by his real name here.’ Charlie asked what Adrian’s was. ‘Blossom.’ Adrian laughed. ‘I’m interested in botany. What’s your hobby?’
Charlie elevated his eyebrows. He hadn’t had time for hobbies. ‘I haven’t really got one.’ When Adrian asked what he had done in his spare time he answered, ‘I played with my younger sisters.’
‘Poor devil! Well, you’ll get plenty of time for a hobby here. What do you fancy?’ At Charlie’s shrug he said, ‘What lessons did you like best at your other school?’
‘I haven’t been to school for three years,’ Charlie divulged
.
Adrian stopped dead. ‘Good grief!’ But when Charlie explained the situation the boy was sympathetic. ‘It must’ve been rotten for you. Will you ever go back to Africa?’
‘I’ve nobody there,’ said Charlie. ‘Father Guillaume’s dead. That’s why I’ve been so long in getting here. He arranged for me to come but then… well, what with the war and things…’
‘Oh well,’ Adrian smiled. ‘If you want help with cramming – which you certainly will – I’ll be glad to oblige.’
‘Thanks.’ Charlie warmed to his new companion.
‘And we’ll have to find you a hobby,’ added the other.
‘My father collects birds’ eggs,’ said Charlie. ‘But I wouldn’t know one from another.’
‘Oh, Peg does that, you could ask him for advice. He’s called Peg because of his queer teeth, by the way.’ Adrian looked to his right as another boy ran past shouting, ‘Hello, Blossom! Hello, Darkie!’ and was gone. ‘Oh, that’s it then,’ said Adrian as they looked back at the fleeing figure. ‘Darkie Hazelwood.’
And this was how Charlie was introduced to his classmates later. They seemed a nice bunch, asked him all about himself and appeared to be genuinely interested in his answers. By nightfall he was relieved and happy to have settled in so quickly, and a sneaky glance at the unclothed bodies as the boys changed for bed showed him that Arthur had been correct about him being normal. When all were attired in nightclothes there were cups of cocoa and further conversation. The atmosphere was not one of a school but of a large family. Charlie turned to Adrian. ‘I’m going to like it here. I don’t know why I was so nervous of coming.’
‘You’ll know when we have a maths lesson,’ Adrian replied, making the others laugh. ‘No, I’m only joking. Old Rattyarse is a bit of a stickler but his heart’s in the right place.’
‘In his wallet,’ said Peg and laughingly explained to Charlie that the maths teacher gave an end of term prize of ten shillings to the person who made the most improvement or put in the best effort. ‘You could have a chance of winning it, Darkie. You don’t have to be brainy, just work hard.’
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