Rachel took her eyes from the words and stared into thin air. I wonder what she was like? It was a long time since she had entertained this thought. She didn’t want it now. Coming to life, she screwed the letter up, shoved it into her apron pocket and went about her cleaning, rubbing more strenuously than ever.
When she came to Bertie’s room she sat for a while, thinking of the orphans, then took all his clothes from the drawers and piled them on the bed. The tallboy was manoeuvred from the wall, dust swept away, skirting-board washed, the tallboy replaced, all the drawers were given new liners… and back went the clothes yet again.
Exhaustion claimed her at lunchtime, compelling her to ask for volunteers to prepare the meal. As usual, Charlie and Rowena were the ones who helped. The former could feel Mrs Hazelwood’s eyes on him as he moved about the kitchen; it made him uncomfortable.
What was she like? Rachel wanted to ask the boy… but she couldn’t.
* * *
Charlie found the rest of the school holiday very tense and was almost glad when it was time to go back to the college. Though he had quite enjoyed the days spent picnicking with his sisters, they could not compete with Adrian’s partnership. To tell the truth, he grew rather bored of them and of the incessant bickering of his father and Mrs Hazelwood. Funnily enough, the latter was much more kindly disposed towards Charlie than her husband.
Russ noticed this too and longed for the school holiday to be over as much as Charlie did. There seemed to be even more bad feeling from his wife when the boy was around. At least now that he had gone back to the shop there could be fewer battles, and he was quite pleased with the way he was coping with the business; his attacks of panic were growing less frequent. In late summer, Charlie left for college, and the girls went back to school. Life was as near normal as it would ever be – peaceful, one might almost say. Too peaceful sometimes. Today, Sunday, Rachel had taken the children to church. In the deathly silence he could hear Jack moving about next door, the thump of his crutches. The man had been fitted with an artifical leg, but it rubbed and chafed so he rarely wore it. Russ only knew this from second-hand sources; he had still made no move to visit his neighbour. He knew also, from Rachel, that Jack was chronically depressed, yet still he did not go, answering his wife’s prompting with, ‘Jack could have called to see me if he wanted, couldn’t he? I’ve told you he feels like I do, wants to be left alone.’
Ella had confirmed this to Rachel but neither could understand the view. How could two people who had depended on each other for their lives be so indifferent now?
Thump, thump, thump. Today the sound was driving Russ mad. He lit a cigarette and drew on it savagely. ‘Shut up!’ he yelled irritably. ‘Bloody shut up!’
There was silence for a while… then thump, thump, thump. Russ sprang up and began to fidget about the room, picking stuff up, putting it down, making himself a cup of tea. Silence again. He sat down. There was a louder thud. He tensed. The noise stopped. His cigarette grew shorter – suddenly there was an almighty bang from next door. God, he’s shot himself! Russ careered into the yard, on into the lane and through his neighbour’s kitchen door.
Jack looked up as he burst in.
‘Jesus Christ! What you been doing?’ Heart still palpitating, Russ stared at the hole in the ceiling and the mess of plaster on the floor.
‘Bloody fly,’ muttered Jack. ‘Buzzing round, driving me mad. I couldn’t reach it with the newspaper… fell over. So I shot the fucker.’
Russ collapsed into a chair. ‘’Struth, I thought you’d shot yourself, you mad bugger! Ella said you were depressed… Oh, God, let me get me wits together.’ He breathed deeply for a time. Then a laugh slipped from his mouth and he looked at the other. ‘She’s gonna rip your other leg off when she gets in – where is she, anyway?’
‘No idea.’ Jack ejected the spent cartridge. Then a fresh buzzing caused him to swear and level the gun at the ceiling.
Russ flinched as another round massacred the plaster. A sweat broke out on his body. ‘Eh, steady on, Jack… here, give us that paper. I’ll get the sod for you.’
But Jack continued to fire until the buzzing stopped and the ceiling was a mass of holes. Finally he said, ‘Do you know where I went last night?’ Russ, who had been cringing from the noise, now began to uncurl and shook his head. ‘A concert at the Mansion House for the wounded heroes. Going to entertain us with a dance troupe to take our minds off our problems, they said – an audience of a hundred with not forty legs between them an’ they entertain us with bloody dancers! They have no idea, no bloody idea what it’s like out there. They read all this crap in the papers about the jolly old war and “cheerful despite the wounds” – what am I going to do now, tell me that? Who’s going to employ me? I’ll end up on the streets selling matches.’
‘I think you’re aiming a bit high there, Jack.’ Russ used his sleeve to wipe his brow. Beneath his arms the sweat prickled.
‘You count yourself bloody lucky.’ Jack directed a finger at him. ‘You had your business to come back to.’ He put the gun aside.
Russ pinioned him with steely eyes. ‘And you think that makes it easier? You think having two legs and two arms makes it any easier to get used to? I’ll never get used to it, never! I can’t settle, I feel… itchy all the time, can’t relax. God knows how much I hated it over there but – it sounds bleedin’ stupid – it’s as if I miss it. People like you an’ me, we’re like foreigners, nobody here understands. Oh, some of them say they do and nod sympathetically, but they don’t really know.’ And the guilt, he agonized privately. The bloody guilt at being left alive when all your mates are dead.
Jack echoed him. ‘Aye, they keep telling us how proud they are of what we’ve done an’ what do they do for us? Sweet F. A. They fix us up with a leg that looks like it’s been modelled out of bean tins, entertain us with a load o’ silly bastards and leave us to get on with it. You go outside, what do you get? A load of shit. I could punch their stupid faces… I feel so bloody frustrated sat here like Little Boy Blue.’
Russ became thoughtful. ‘Why don’t you go back on the Council?’ At the look of skepticism, he added, ‘There’s nothing to stop you putting yourself up again at the next elections. Should go down well, wounded war hero.’ He gave an ironic smile.
Jack was pensive. ‘Are you thinking of…?’
‘Oh, not me, pal!’ cut in Russ. ‘I’m allergic to limelight.’
‘Aye, how is that lad of yours? Rachel says he’s at college.’
Russ nodded and looked at the carpet, thinking not of Charlie but of Bertie. ‘Doing quite well by all accounts.’
‘Not that you’re concerned, eh?’ cognized Daw.
Russ gave a brief presentation of palms. ‘I just can’t see him as mine, part of me.’
‘Rachel appears to’ve got used to him.’
‘Aye, she can say his name without spitting now. That’s cause all her spleen’s reserved for me.’ He looked at the clock. ‘She’ll be back soon. I suppose I better shift… shall I come and see you this afternoon?’
‘If you like.’
Russ made his way slowly to the door. As he reached it he paused but didn’t look back. He knew he should say thank you to Daw for getting him sent home, but was not sure the thanks would be genuine. He turned his head.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said Jack without looking at him. Russ simply opened the door and left.
* * *
‘Where’ve you been?’ Rachel was already home when he got back. ‘I was going to send out a search party.’ He told her he had been to see Jack. ‘Oh, and what bribery did he have to use to lure you from the sofa?’ She covered her Sunday best with a pinafore.
He sat down. ‘I heard the gun go off and I thought he’d shot himself.’
‘Goodness!’
‘He hadn’t. Seems he just found a rifle more effective than flypaper.’ He told her about the mess Jack had made.
‘The lunatic! I should have made sure Ella got
rid of that blessed gun years ago. What did she have to say to his madness?’ On being told that Ella was not at home she grabbed a broom. ‘I’d better go and clear up the damage before she gets in, then.’
Russ stopped her. ‘He isn’t helpless, you know. He made the mess, he can sweep it up.’
‘But…’
‘Leave him a bit of self-respect, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Like you’ve got, you mean.’ She put the broom aside. ‘Well, I’d better start on the dinner.’
‘The rice is on, I’ve poured the carlins into that pan. I don’t know if I’ve mixed the Yorkshire Pudding powder right, but it’s done anyway.’
She wheeled in surprise. ‘Oh… thank you.’
He nodded, then rustled the newspaper in front of his face.
* * *
Despite his initial move, Russ was to see little of Jack. Following his friend’s suggestion, Daw channelled his anger into local politics, resuming his membership of the Labour Party and standing up for the rights of amputees. He found work, too. Discovering that the NER had held jobs open for employees who had joined up for the war, he decided to ask if their charity extended to the disabled. Rewarded with a desk job, he settled down to being a civilian for the rest of his life.
The fight raged on. The streets of York were full of old men, limbless boys and children, the factories and trams run by women. By this fourth winter of the war, everyone, including Russ now, had grown used to making food and other commodities spin out. Yet there came new hardship with the shortage of coal.
‘I can’t think why they don’t just abolish Christmas altogether,’ said Rachel to her husband as this yuletide season approached. ‘Every year there’s some new shortage… oh, there’s the postwoman. Go get it, Rowena, will you.’ She continued serving breakfast.
The girl came back with two envelopes, both addressed to Mr and Mrs Hazelwood. She paused with them in her hand until Rachel motioned for her to hand one to her father and took the other herself. She found it was a card and a letter from her sister in America, and smiled as she read it. After she had done so, she told Russ, ‘Elsie says it looks like the Americans will be reaching the front soon.’
‘’Bout bloody time,’ muttered Russ and folded his own letter, looking annoyed.
‘Well?’ Rachel was waiting to hear who the other letter was from.
‘It’s from the boy.’ Russ shoved it back into the envelope and started his meal. ‘Asks if we’ll mind if he doesn’t come home this Christmas. Seems he’s been invited to stay at his posh friend’s house.’
There were ‘Aws!’ of disappointment from the girls, especially Becky, but these were drowned by Rachel’s reaction. ‘Of all the…!’ She snatched the letter to read it for herself. ‘He puts us through all sorts of turmoil, lets us spend hard-earned cash on his education and now we’re not good enough for him! And he doesn’t give us much notice to say we do object, does he?’ Greatly offended, she disposed of the letter and sat down to eat. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if he writes and tells us he’s spending his Easter holidays there too!’
This is exactly what Charlie did, inviting more comments on his ingratitude. There was plenty more to complain about in the new year too, for ration cards were introduced. But for Ella, this was overridden by some splendid news.
‘Whee-hee!’ She leapt into the Hazelwoods’ kitchen like some pantomime dame, scaring the wits out of Rachel who happened to be alone at the time. ‘Have you heard, Rache – we’ve got the vote!’
‘Oh, Ella, you frightened the bloomin’ life out of me!’ But after she had recovered, Rachel smiled broadly. ‘Well, at least that’s something good to come out of the blessed war. I’m really pleased for you, Ella.’ She began to search round for the needle she had dropped in her fright.
‘Eh, it’s not just me, you soft clown.’ Ella closed the door and came right in, sallow face alight. ‘It’s for all of us. Least, them of us over thirty. Victory!’ She clenched her fist in triumph.
Rachel found the needle and got out of her crouch, arching her back. ‘We won’t see you campaigning any more, then.’
‘You what? I shall have more than ever to do now! I hope they don’t hold the General Election yet. I need a good few months to get the Socialist message across. I don’t want these women wasting their votes after all we’ve fought for ’em. I don’t suppose you’ll be supporting Labour?’
Rachel put her hand on her hip. ‘Do you know, I really couldn’t give a damn who gets into power. They’re all as bad as each other.’ She sat down, sucking the end of her thread and poked it at the needle’s eye.
‘Nay, be damned! You haven’t seen what a Labour Government’ll do yet. Give ’em chance. Eh!’ She bent over and nudged Rachel, foiling her attempts to thread the needle. ‘You never know, our Jack might be the first Labour Prime Minister!’ She laughed and dashed out to broadcast the news.
‘If he is, I’m emigrating,’ muttered Rachel and, finally succeeding in threading the needle, drove its point home.
A month after this, spirits were doused by a massive German offensive which robbed the Allies of any ground they might have captured and continued to press them further and further back towards Paris. So bad was the situation that the Government was discussing conscription for men up to sixty. Those who had been discharged as medically unfit were re-examined.
Russ, whose attacks of panic had lately begun to dwindle, now experienced an acuteness of terror as great as he had ever known at the thought that he might be called upon to rejoin the fighting. When the summons came for him to attend the medical he had worked himself up to the threshold of insanity. Little was needed to push him over the edge.
‘I think this is a waste of time,’ he laughed nervously to the orderly who ignored the remark and told him to, ‘Wait there!’
It was always the waiting that was worst. Russ stood there for half an hour, breathing jerkily and feeling nauseous, until the orderly returned and instructed him to strip to his waist, line up with the other men and, ‘Wait over there!’
The far end of the queue disappeared around a corner. Russ took his position, staring forward at the regiment of naked shoulders. To calm himself, he began to count the pimples on the white back of the man in front, some bright pink, others topped with little beads of pus… fourteen, fifteen… The queue shuffled forward and he lost count, beginning again. How can they say you’re fit, he tried to bolster himself. You’ll be all right. You’ll be fine. One, two, three… the queue shuffled, taking him nearer his fate. Soon he would reach the corner. What lay ahead? Abandoning the pimples, he fixed his frightened blue eyes on the paint that was flaking off the walls. It looked like skin. Unconsciously, he began to pull at the bits of skin around his thumb, ripping at them until they bled, then shoved the thumb in his mouth, sucking at it. Why did blood have such a metallic taste?
The man in front had reached the corner. Russ would be next. His lungs felt as if they were stuffed with cotton wool. A deep breath, another shuffle and he was around the corner. There were still twenty men ahead of him, prolonging the agony. The foremost soldier stepped behind a curtain and the line moved up. With each man who disappeared around the curtain, the panic grew worse. He felt the desperate need to go to the lavatory, but after seven trips this morning he knew that his bowels had been drained and it was the terror that set them straining. Run, he told himself. Run!
‘Next!’
His turn had arrived. The man behind him shuffled up, preventing escape. He could only go forward – behind that curtain. And there he was, with the MO dabbing a stethoscope about his chest. ‘Breathe in… breathe out!’ After a brief listen to his lungs, the doctor straightened. ‘And what’s been the trouble, Sergeant?’
Russ was still taking deep breaths. ‘I was gassed and shot in the leg as well, sir… and I’ve been discharged with shell shock.’
‘Mmm, well you don’t seem too bad now – drop your trousers!’
After a cursory look at Russ’ scar
, the medical officer lifted his head. ‘Splendid. A1 – next!’
‘Wait! You can’t send me back, I’m not fit!’ Russ’ trousers were still round his ankles.
‘Nonsense! You’re in perfect shape. Pull your pants up, Sergeant!’
‘I’m not!’ Russ grabbed the doctor’s arm. ‘Please! I beg you, don’t send me back… oh, please.’ Naked and vulnerable, he tucked his chin into his chest and started to blubber, body racked with sobs.
‘My God,’ muttered the doctor and shook his arm free. ‘Pull yourself together, soldier!’ He snatched Russ’ file and flicked over a few pages, studying it more closely than he had before. After a scornful word with his assistant about Hazelwood being ‘No bloody good to anybody,’ he told an orderly to employ the rejection stamp for this file and shoved Russ from his sight. ‘Next!’
Still sniffing and sobbing, Russ stooped to catch at his waistband and hauled his trousers up before stepping out from behind the curtain. Everybody was looking at him. He pulled out a handkerchief, using it to cover his humiliation and to hide the looks of derision and pity from his own eyes, eyes that never wavered from the floor until their owner was out of the building. Even in the street he felt that people knew how he had behaved in there. Never had he felt so emasculated… but at least it had saved him.
This being a Wednesday afternoon and half-day closing, he went straight home. Rachel, seeing him pass the window where she sat working at her sewing machine, expected him to come straight into the parlour with his news, good or bad. But when his footsteps faded and a call brought only silence, she left her sewing and tripped along to the kitchen.
Russ’ stance forbade any impulsive rebuke she might have made. His back was to her and his head bent; it must be bad news. Her stomach flipped. ‘They’re sending you back.’ He shook his head, but did not lift it. ‘Then…?’ Rachel took a stride nearer, and noticed he was looking at something in his hand. Her frown was etched deeper when she saw what it was. ‘I didn’t know you’d won a medal…’
My Father, My Son Page 58
