by Janet Tanner
He shrugged, and made his way back down the hill. It took him less than half the time that the climb had taken, but when he reached the square, the Victoria Hall was in darkness.
So much for that, he thought. Grace would have gone home alone—or in the company of one of the other men. Curiously, the thought did not disturb him overmuch. His thoughts instead were with a pretty, solemn-faced girl in a ridiculous hat.
ALFRED CHURCH, secretary of Hillsbridge Co-operative Society, was a big man. He stood more than six feet from the ground, and his gold watch chain strained across an expansive barrel chest. Even his voice had a deep, stentorian ring, and Alfred had long since learned how to use all these characteristics to their best advantage.
Since taking office at the Co-op a year before, he had bullied his entire staff into the sort of grudging respect he reckoned to be his due, carefully controlling the temper his family believed to be uncontrollable. Alfred ruled his household with a rod of iron, upholding all the Victorian standards that had been instilled in him by his own father, and punishing misdemeanours with the harshest justice.
Rebecca was his only child, but she was far from spoiled. At mealtimes, she was not allowed to speak, and if she dared to slouch, a board was strapped to her back for the next week or so, to “make her sit up straight.” Each morning and evening she had to recite the catechism, and on Sundays she and her mother were marched to the village church at Withydown, half a mile further along the winding lanes, for both matins and evensong. In addition, Alfred made use of the Sabbath afternoons to preach hell fire and damnation while Rebecca sat meekly in front of him, hands folded, eyes downcast, wondering when he would ever stop.
As for moral standards, Alfred Church was quite fanatical. As a young man he had seen a servant girl who had disgraced herself by becoming pregnant, bundled unceremoniously from his father’s house, and he had found it a curiously satisfying experience. First, he had allowed himself to dwell on the sinful behaviour that had brought her to her present predicament, relishing every detail with righteous disgust until he had almost begun to feel that he himself had had a part in it. Then, as an exorcism for the lust that had begun to swell in him, he had stoked up a rage that a servant girl could so degrade his father’s house. Lastly, he had taken an unhealthy pleasure in contemplating the forms of punishment his vengeful God would mete out to her, an exercise which usually ended with a vision of the wretched girl giving birth to her child in a ditch.
For years the memory had fed Alfred’s imagination, a treasure to be taken out and examined in the dark or his bedroom at night, a dart to titillate interest when he looked at a lovely woman, and as a young man, he had done plenty of looking, if nothing more. But growing older, he had begun to feel a certain guilt at his own lustful imaginings, and a terrible fear that fate would wreak some suitable vengeance on him.
His wife was timid and cowed; he did not think she would do anything to bring about his downfall. But of Rebecca, his daughter, he was less sure.
She was a pretty, solemn-faced girl with her mother’s soft brown hair and hazel eyes. But even as a child she had shown a sense of mischief and fun that she had certainly not inherited from her mother, and occasionally Alfred saw a forewarning of rebellion in the toss of her head or the flash of her eyes.
Remembering the maid who had been thrown out of his father’s house brought no pleasure to him now. As he watched Rebecca grow into an attractive young woman, he grew more and more afraid that the punishment inflicted on him for his secret lusts would come through his daughter. Through downcast eyes he saw her body fill out to the soft curves of womanhood, and the anxiety that nagged him became an obsession.
When she was fifteen years old, he insisted that the showering brown hair should be pinned up in a “seemly” fashion, and he kept a stern eye on the modesty of her clothes.
When he had been offered the position of Co-operative Society secretary, he had almost refused, for he realized it would mean moving to Hillsbridge, the notorious centre of the coal-field, but eventually desire for advancement had overcome him. He had settled for a house as far out of town as was practicable and forbidden Rebecca to associate with the local riff-raff, but so far had failed to find suitable employment for her. In Bath, where they had lived before, Rebecca had helped out at a small private nursery school. Now, she stayed at home all day, sharing the chores with her mother, cooking and sewing.
And that was as it should be, Alfred thought, until he could arrange a satisfactory marriage for her. He had a young man in mind—the son of a distant cousin who was at present articled to a solicitor in Bristol. Rebecca was a pretty girl, too pretty for her own good, and when the family had gathered for a reunion at Christmas-time, he’d noticed young Rupert watching her with an approving glint in his eye. A word or two from him outlining the advantages of marriage to Rebecca, and he felt sure Rupert would jump at the chance. As for Rebecca, she would do as she was told.
Although she was now almost seventeen, Rebecca was scarcely allowed out of his sight, and when she was, she was always threatened with “harsh strap” punishment if she misbehaved. That meant, as she knew only too well, the strap that hung on a peg behind the wash-house door. Once, when she was a little girl, he had used it on her for telling a lie—some silly, childish thing about a disappearing rock-cake—and she had never forgotten. The deep, burning pain, the weals on her back, the sickening sense of shame and degradation had lived on in her nightmares, and even now, years later, it was as real a threat to her as it had ever been.
And so, as she ran up the path that foggy December night, Rebecca’s legs trembled beneath her, and sick apprehension turned her stomach over. Father was bound to be angry. She had been hoping desperately she might be able to slip in quietly so that he would not realize she had come home without Marjorie. But as he was waiting for her, there was no chance of that. Even on a night like this, he would hardly have been able to miss Marjorie running up the adjoining path to her own front door and calling her goodnights. That in itself would arouse his temper, for it was Marjorie who had talked him into allowing her to go to the concert, with her engaging persuasion and her assurance that: “We’ll be together, Mr Church.”
Lantern-light flared in the porch, and Rebecca cast a quick, fearful glance over her shoulder. If her father should see Ted, there would be hell to pay. But to her relief, he had gone, and she tried to compose herself as she ran towards the door.
“I’m sorry, Father, I know I’m late, but Marjorie and I lost one another in the fog …” Her voice died away as she saw his thunderous expression, and she tried to slip past him to her mother, who was standing hesitantly in the kitchen doorway. But he caught her arm, stopping her and swinging her round to face him.
“How dare you behave like a common slut?” he demanded, his voice shaking with anger.
“But, Father, I haven’t,” she pleaded.
“My God, that my daughter should come to this!”
“But, Father …”
“Silence! Don’t dare answer me back. A girl brought up to fear the Lord, deceiving her father and mother as you have done—oh, you’ll be punished, make no mistake of it!”
“I haven’t done anything wrong!” Although trembling with fear, there was a trace of defiance in her voice, and he advanced on her, seeming to grow taller as his fury heightened.
“Nothing wrong, you say? Nothing wrong? That was a boy I saw you with in the lane. No! Don’t deny it. Don’t add lies to your wickedness. You see—here on your coat is proof of your sin!”
He pulled her towards him, wrenching at her coat. “ There, you see?” He jabbed an accusing finger at the dusting of damp plaster that clung to the shoulder. “How did you come by that, you wretched girl?”
For the moment, the memory of shrinking back against the wall beside the subway escaped Rebecca.
“I—I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Well, I do!” he thundered. “ It’s from some dark yard where you’ve been
with that boy. Who is he, Rebecca? Answer me now!”
“I don’t know,” she whispered again through chattering teeth. “I only met him tonight. But he was in the concert.”
Her words rendered Alfred speechless for a moment.
Then he raised his hand, a paroxysm of rage distorting his face.
“You don’t know? You’ve gone with the first lout who picked you up?”
“No… no … it wasn’t like that …”
“It wasn’t, eh? We’ll see about that. Well, you know what you’ve got coming, my girl. I’ve promised you long enough. Winifred!” He turned to the doorway where Rebecca’s mother cringed. “ Fetch my strap!”
Fear widened the girl’s eyes, but she stood motionless, her lip rucked between her teeth. She was past arguing now, past trying to explain. Whatever she said to him, her father would hear only what he wished to hear.
“Not the strap, Alfred!” Winifred Church spoke for the first time since her daughter’s return, creeping along the passage to catch at her husband’s arm imploringly. “ Don’t beat her, please!”
“Why not?” he snarled. “Answer me that!”
“Because … we don’t know she’s done anything wrong …”
“We know Marjorie came home an hour ago, like a decent girl should. And I saw that … that boy with my own eyes. Now, will you get that strap, or shall I?”
“No, Alfred!” She clung to his arm, her small cowed face more determined than he had ever seen it. “No, I won’t let you. She’s an innocent. You only have to look at her to know no boy has laid a finger on her. Do this, Alfred, and Lord knows where it will end.”
He raised his arm to throw her aside, then, as his eye fell on the two cowering women, a feeling of power swelled inside him. His breath rasped unevenly in his throat, and he drew himself up to his full height, elated by his own supremacy. He could crush them both if he had a mind to, stupid, sinful daughters of Eve. He could throw them out into the street as his father had thrown out a fornicating housemaid. Lust, unleashed by fury, began to burn in his belly, and he caught at his daughter’s arm so savagely that his fingers bit into her flesh.
“All right, I’ll let you off this time, my lady. But next time I won’t be so lenient. And if you ever do anything to bring disgrace on this house, I swear I’ll beat you till the skin’s clean off your back, and no boy will want to look at you again. Now, get upstairs to your room before I change my mind. I’ve business with your mother.”
He threw her towards the stairs with such force that she stumbled against the bottom step and fell. Behind her she heard the uneven rasp of his breath, and ignoring her stinging hands and knees she scrambled to her feet and ran hurriedly up the stairs.
The blackness at the top of the stairs enveloped her, and she barked her skin on the corner of the marble topped washstand as she ran into her room. Shivering with cold now as well as fear, she tore off her clothes and pulled her nightgown over her head. Then, acting automatically from long habit, she fell to her knees beside her bed, stumbling into the Lord’s Prayer. After a few phrases, however, her voice died away, and her indrawn breath came out on a long, strangled sob. Tears drenched her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands.
She was still bent double against the iron frame of the bed, the eiderdown stuffed into her mouth, her belly aching with the depth of her sobs when she heard the footsteps on the stairs. She froze, fear choking her. Had her father changed his mind? Was he going to beat her after all? She thought she heard the thud of the strap swinging against his side, and her heart seemed to stop beating. Then she realized it was the sound of light, faltering steps beside his heavy ones. Paralysed by fear, she waited. But the steps went past her door and into the next room. Then she heard the low growl of her father’s voice and the frightened, whining protests of her mother, and sick with dread, she knew what was to come.
She leaped to her feet, throwing herself into her bed and dragging the covers over her head. But nothing could shut out the sounds of lust coming from the next room, the grants and cries and the rhythmic creaking of the bedsprings. Curled like a foetus in the womb, she heard it all, cringing away from the sounds and sobbing silently and helplessly while her stomach churned.
Dear God, how could you let it happen? He’s an animal—an animal!
For what seemed a lifetime it went on, and when at last it was over, she could hardly believe it. Her agony was spent, like Alfred’s passion, and into the great, aching void that was left, came guilt.
It had been her fault, all of it. Because of what she had done, her mother had been subjected to the ordeal she dreaded most—being used not just as a wife, but as a plaything for a sick man. Without being told, Rebecca knew it was so.
Tears gathered again in her throat. She could never go out again, never again see the young man with golden hair. And she would have nothing to look forward to but marriage to a man of her father’s choosing, a man who would bully her and drag her to bed as her father dragged her mother.
Despair gnawed like hunger inside her, and the tears began once more. They were still wet on her cheeks when she fell asleep.
BLISSFULLY unaware of the scene he had left behind him, Ted climbed the hill on the other side of the valley. The fog was thicker than ever now, and he regretted having left his muffler behind in the Victoria Hall. But it wouldn’t hurt him the way it would hurt the older men. There’d be a lot of sickness among them if this weather kept up—bronchitis, pneumonia and the like. His own father hadn’t been at all well the last few weeks. But as Mam said, it was no good worrying about things before they happened.
Ted pushed his hands into his pockets, and thought of the recent reports of the war in the Hillsbridge Mercury. Letters had been reprinted from soldiers in the British Expeditionary Force, describing conditions bad beyond belief: units retiring under terrible fire, doing their best to take their guns with them; coal-boxes falling into squads of infantry; shells dropping into piles of ammunition left behind by fleeing troops.
What was more, the Germans were trying to bring the war to Britain, and battle cruisers had actually tried to attack Great Yarmouth! They hadn’t succeeded, but the cheek of it astounded Ted. It looked as if those who had predicted the war would be over by Christmas were going to be wrong. Kaiser Bill was putting up more of a fight than anyone had expected.
Ted reached the top of the hill and turned along the rank. The fog was less dense here, and with the valley below completely hidden, he felt as if he were standing on the edge of a bank of cloud. As he gazed along the line of houses he noticed a light giving the swarming mist a pinkish glow. Puzzled, he hurried towards it. That lighted window looked to be just about the right distance along the rank to be his own kitchen. Surely the family would be in bed by now!
A few more steps, and he could see he was right. His heart came into his mouth with a jolt. Something must be wrong! Remembering his fleeting anxiety for his father, he began to run.
Urgently he flung the door wide, to find the family in the kitchen. Mam was standing in front of the fire, her skirts catching the warmth of the dying embers: Jack was on the settle; and Fred leaned against the table. They all looked so serious that Ted, already half-expecting the worst, asked in a low voice, “Dad?”
They stared at him blankly.
“He’s not …” He broke off, unable to form the words, and Charlotte shook her head impatiently.
“What’s your Dad got to do with it? He’s gone to bed as if nothing had happened. It’s our Fred, causing all the trouble.”
“Fred?” he repeated, not understanding.
“Yes. Your brother here. He’s just told us he wants to go and join the army. He thinks he’s going off to fight in this bloody war!”
Ted stared, and the room seemed to sway around him. Rebecca was forgotten now as he looked at his brother, the most peace-loving one of the family.
“Fred does?” he repeated.
And their silence told him it was true.
<
br /> Chapter Nine
During the night the fog turned to rain. Charlotte, lying awake, heard the first soft flurry against the window, and felt her anger dissolve into despair.
Rain. It rained ceaselessly in Flanders, so they said. It rained day after day until the battlefields were seas of mud and the trenches were awash. And the men and boys fought and died thigh-deep in the sort of mess in which you wouldn’t leave a dog—if you had an ounce of humanity in you …
She rolled over, staring into the darkness and seeing in her mind’s eye a composite picture of all the stories she’d heard of the Front rolled into one.
No Man’s Land seemed to her to be an extension of Farmer Bert’s ploughfield in November—dark, bumpy, barren and wet as far as the eye could see. The trenches were the ditches at the side of the lanes where she’d taken the children for afternoon walks, deeper, perhaps, and more roughly dug, but cleared of dead leaves and branches as they were when they’d been prepared for February Fill-Dyke. The barbed wire would look much the same as the makeshift barrier they put up to keep the cows out of the allotments; the poppies would be the same vermilion silk as those that dotted the railway embankment in high summer. And the makeshift ambulances taking the wounded away to field hospitals would be not unlike the coal carts that jolted injured miners from pithead to home along rutted roads.
The guns, she found more difficult to imagine, though recalling a firework display she’d seen during the coronation celebrations, she wondered if they lit the sky in the same way, accompanied, perhaps, by a tearing, echoing crash like the thunderclap that ended a summer heat-wave, and smaller, more distant explosions like the crackers they put on the railway lines in foggy weather. But from the reports that came back, France was worse, much worse, than she could ever imagine.
And it was to this living nightmare that Fred, her son, was going, to this hell that was painted not in the scarlets and golds of eternal flame, but in the mud-browns of trampled earth and the greys of a rain-heavy sky, a purgatory permeated by the damp cold that chilled bone deep and scattered with the the mutilated bodies of the wounded and the dying.
