by Maggie Ford
They spoke lightly; they smiled. But behind the gossip, voices were flat, and behind the smiles there was a stubborn refusal to be defeated. Even so, she’d see that expression betraying despondency, despite a refusal to be conquered by it. To her, it revealed the spirit of these people. It broke her heart as she sketched, secretly, her sketchbook hidden by the open book she held in front of her, appearing to be reading.
Back at her desk on Monday, she faithfully copied on to larger sheets of paper what she had quietly sketched: women’s heads thrown back in laughter at some joke or other, animated as they exchanged recipes. She’d purposely left out that look she saw in every eye, that expression on every face. It would be up to her chief editor to decide what would go into the next edition. She guessed what he would decide on. This time the underlying despair was for her eyes alone.
First she showed them to Stephen, watching his eyes grow thoughtful as he surveyed them, maybe thinking of his wife or even maybe he saw what she’d tried so hard to keep out. ‘I’m in awe, Connie,’ he said. ‘I’ll get these up to Mathieson, and if he rejects them, I’ll half kill him.’ Then in a whisper: ‘Love you, Connie.’
Chapter Fifteen
December 1915
‘I don’t know what to do.’ George gazed appealingly at his pastor for help, for advice, though before the man opened his mouth he knew what that advice would be. ‘It wasn’t so bad when it was just a case of being free to volunteer. I felt justified keeping well away from it. But with this rumour of enforced military conscription, I don’t know what to do.’
There was a long silence as Joseph Wootton-Bennett regarded him. Finally he said slowly, ‘All you need, my son, is to remain strong. God will guide you. Trust Him.’
‘But I’m beginning to feel isolated, as if I’m the only one.’
‘You are not the only one,’ came the reply. ‘Look around you, my boy: everyone in this little community of ours believes that life is sacred, held only in the hands of the Lord until He knows when it is right to gather his creatures into His arms – not for man to decide as and when he feels a need to slaughter another – a man in whom God put as much into making as He did into you. Would you then take His decision into your own hands, even if that man came at you with murder on his mind?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve always followed our faith, but—’
‘But now you are in a quandary. You feel as if God has deserted you. But He hasn’t. It is the Devil speaking to you, whispering in your ear so that you think it is your own mind pushing you. Cast aside that evil whisper. Listen instead to the clear voice of God Himself, who is ever beside you.’
‘I do listen, but when I see what’s happening all around me, it’s hard to—’
‘The Devil flits hither and thither as the whim takes him,’ his mentor broke in, ‘leaving you with the agony of indecision. The Devil has no care how you feel beyond rejoicing at what he does. His sole aim is to destroy your faith in God’s word. But our Lord is forever by your side and He will never leave you. Listen to His words, George. Listen and take heart.’
‘They’re talking of forcing conscientious objectors to fight and sending them to jail – hard labour – if they refuse to drop their beliefs.’
His minister’s expression had grown sad. ‘Then you must face that inevitability with a strong resolve, my son, as Jesus did when nailed to the Cross. He is your example. He died for you. In your own small way you owe Him this sacrifice. If you are thrown into prison, made to slave harder than you ever imagined in your life, survive on slops, be deprived of sleep, think of Him – you choose to suffer to preserve His great sacrifice, God’s great lesson by sacrificing His Only Son for us all, your friends and your enemies alike.’
He paused to give George an encouraging smile. ‘That thought alone will give you strength to endure, my son. And endure you will, because I know your belief is very strong. So take heart.’
As he listened to that quiet, authoritative yet understanding voice, he began to feel his resolve growing by the second. What a truly marvellous man his minister was; one who would himself endure what he preached – against killing a fellow human, albeit an enemy looking to kill oneself.
Except that he was well above the age of conscription, but George felt certain that if called to fight, the man would resist unto death.
It had been some months since Stephen had taken Connie to dinner and then the theatre. At her door afterwards he had spoken of how he felt about her, raising her hopes.
Since then, there always appeared to be one reason or another to take up his time. Connie had become deeply confused. It was as if he was holding her at arm’s length in case she had read more into it than he’d intended.
But he’d opened his heart to her, hadn’t he? That night he’d kissed her. Then what he said afterward, and that day, not long afterwards, when he had whispered that he loved her….
So why did he now seem to have stepped back from her? She couldn’t bring herself to ask. One kiss, a small indiscretion instantly curbed, a promise to have dinner the following week, which hadn’t happened, he having been called away on some private business – what did that constitute?
She had felt let down after he had raised all her hopes. She’d made a fool of herself. She knew she was in love with him, but as time went on she was indeed beginning to feel like a fool.
Whenever he approached her on office business she’d force herself to treat it casually, not looking at him, even if he tended to hover.
True he was busy, they were all busy, the war saw to that. Every day news was gathered on the war’s progress. Even though the Western Front appeared to be in the throes of stalemate, neither side seemed to gain or lose ground. People wanted to know, to read every scrap of information that might bring some encouragement to the heart.
But at home more zeppelin raids had meant her being sent out more often for her pencil to depict what she saw. Yesterday was the sixth time she’d been sent out.
‘Mathieson’s saying how pleased he is with what you’re doing, Connie,’ Stephen said, making her jump.
Engrossed in sorting out her filing, still doing that job between times, she’d not heard him approaching her desk.
Recovering her composure, she forced a smile. ‘I didn’t hear you come up. You made me jump.’
‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I just needed to tell you what Mathieson told me, that he thinks you’re proving an asset to the paper, against all his prior reservations. He says it’s beginning to draw readers’ attention and he thinks before long they’ll be looking for your sketches more and more. It’s something totally different and, so he says, brings something more human to the paper than cold photographic images, though we still need them.’
He paused to draw breath, then continued, ‘There’s something else I need to tell you … ask you. I’m so sorry about the time that’s passed since you and I went to dinner together – it couldn’t be helped, but everything’s okay now. A bit of private business, and I apologise. But it’s all sorted out now and I’d like to ask if you’d care to have dinner with me again this coming Saturday.’
Her first impulse was to voice an offhanded no thank you. Instead she found herself almost leaping at him, mentally, striving to modify this sudden joy she felt. In a steady voice, she said, ‘That would be nice, a nice change.’
‘To humdrum filing,’ he laughed.
Despite herself, Connie laughed too. A silly joke, but it bore more joy than he could ever know, in one instant releasing all her doubts. Her heart warmed as he gave her a lovely smile and, turning, went back to his office, not looking back.
Through the glass separating his office from the rest of the area, she saw him sit at his desk to bend his head over whatever he’d been previously working on. He should have looked up at her and smiled, but he didn’t.
It felt as if they had been here for ever. All Albert could do was pray that he and Ronnie would come out of it in one piece. Going over the top in the s
mall hours of this morning, a bullet had seared across the flesh of his upper left arm as he ran blindly towards the enemy lines, the darkness split only by the unpredictable and blinding flashes of chaotic shellfire. The bullet had ploughed a deep gash; blood soaked the sleeve of his stained and filthy uniform. Fortunately it had missed the bone, but God, it hurt! A second of numbness then, whoosh, the pain had hit him.
He wasn’t sure if he’d yelled out or not. Ronnie hadn’t appeared to have heard or seen anything in the chaos of the charge. Moments later they’d been forced into a retreat as men fell all around, an officer frantically signalxling back those on their feet but staggering almost to a halt. Hope of gaining the enemy line was utterly dashed; common sense had been the officer’s only option.
Ronnie, seeing all that blood, had been in a panic when they’d finally tumbled back into their own trench, demanding to know how bad it was and what should he do to help. But a medic had taken one look at the wound, grinned and nodded. ‘You were bleeding lucky there, son,’ he’d muttered as he pointed him in the direction of the first-aid field tent. ‘A bit further right, you’d have had your chips – hearts and bullets don’t mix, y’know.’
To Albert’s disappointment – in a way – he’d merely undergone first aid; his wound was stitched and bound, and he had been pronounced fit enough to return to his post.
Had the bullet gone deeper, smashed the bone to smithereens, he’d have been sent back to the field hospital for a while to escape the madness of war, the soul-shaking reverberations of shell blasts, that wall of rifle fire, death and pain all around.
It might even have meant the arm having to be amputated and he’d have been sent home invalided – safe at last, who knew? Except that he’d have been forced to leave Ronnie behind in this hellhole, and that he didn’t want.
He thanked his lucky stars his was no more than a flesh wound. Six months here, so far he’d been lucky, so damned lucky. Thousands and thousands had been killed just in that short time.
‘You all right?’ Ronnie opened his eyes to ask as he slipped back down into the trench beside him.
‘I’m fine,’ Albert answered, sliding down to a sitting position beside his brother. But Ronnie had closed his eyes and was already snoring again.
Taking advantage of a lull in the fighting, most were dozing, legs out-stretched or tucked beneath them, their heads cradled in some muddy niche in the trench wall where it felt most comfortable. They were miles away in dreams of home, no doubt, and loved ones, others lost in a precious letter from wives, sweethearts, parents back home; or absorbed in writing to them, lost to the war for a while.
He thought of Edith and began searching his kit for a bit of paper and pencil. Crouched over a scrap of paper, stub of pencil in hand, one knee crooked to support his letter, oblivious to those next to him, all of them packed so closely that to try to walk even a short distance meant stepping over legs and hunched bodies.
Edie wore his engagement ring and wrote almost daily, letters filled with love and concern, though half of them were so delayed they often came in one batch and he was never sure which to start on first. They lay now all together in his kit, went with him into battle. Men were sent over the top in full kit and it always felt to him as if she was with him; her love shielded him from harm.
Even so he looked forward to those couple of weeks away from the front line, men given this break now and again to rest up and regain their sanity. Without it a man could go mad. There were some to whom that actually happened: they just went crazy, did daft things, their bodies shaking from head to toe; some who shot themselves in the foot looking to be invalided home; some who went berserk and attacked their officers or just stood staring about them with wild eyes, ignoring orders; some who just stood up and walked away. Such men were caught, arrested and, so it was said, shot as deserters.
He just hoped this flesh wound of his would be the only one he would ever get; he prayed – he who’d never been one given to praying – that when this war was over, as it had to be one day – it couldn’t last for ever – that he be returned whole to Edith. There were times just before being sent over the top that he would glance at Ronnie and see his lips moving and know that he too prayed.
He prayed Ronnie would come out unscathed in this war, that he’d continue to have good luck smile down on him, just as Albert felt it was smiling on himself at this moment while, his arm bandaged, he bent over his letter of love to Edith. Before too long they’d hopefully be granted a few days’ leave and sent home to rest. And he intended to enjoy that to the full with Edie.
Tenth of December, Connie’s birthday. Being a Friday she was at work. Tomorrow Mum had planned a little family get-together for her.
Her parents had given her slippers first thing this morning – not a huge present, but most things were hard to come by with all the shortages these days. Unless of course you had pots of money – then you could buy any luxury you fancied. But for ordinary people such things were out of reach.
Today she and Stephen were having midday lunch together. He had wanted to take her to dinner this evening but Mum and Dad were expecting her home. Stephen wouldn’t be at her party because she’d so far not told her family about him – something made her cautious: his age, hers; he an editor, she nobody, really.
He still saw her home, dropping her off a few doors from where she lived so that he could kiss her goodnight properly while the taxi’s engine throbbed noisily as it waited to bear him away.
He said he loved her and his kisses did linger but no more than that; they might as well have been mere friends. He’d never spoken of his previous marriage or of his deceased wife since his first mention of it, nor of having any relatives. Connie felt it best not to probe but where his past life was concerned, he sometimes seemed to be like an island in the middle of an empty sea. He had a flat but had never asked her there.
Nor could she ask anyone at work about him, for he seemed to prefer to keep his private life to himself, especially where his previous marriage was concerned, and he certainly seemed to want to keep their relationship quiet as well. Yet he was attentive to her in his own way. Passing a florist on the way to lunch he had slipped in, telling her to wait outside, and had emerged with a bouquet of pink chrysanthemums for her, saying, ‘Happy Birthday, Connie.’
Now in the little restaurant he pushed an expensive-looking red velvet box across the table towards her.
‘Happy Birthday,’ he said again as she stared at it. ‘My real birthday present to you. Hope you like it. Open it, Connie.’
Her hands fluttered excitedly, as she did so, and she gasped as she pulled out the lovely silver bracelet that was nestling inside.
No one had ever bought her anything so beautiful, and so obviously expensive. The outer edge was inlaid with a curved leaf design; it glinted and shone. She had never seen anything so gorgeous.
‘For me?’ she cried stupidly.
‘Who else?’ He laughed. ‘Look on the inside.’
She lifted it from its box and peered at where he’d indicated. There inscribed were the words, All my fondest love, Stephen.
Fondest love! Not undying love, not enduring love. Like a gift from a friend or a relative. A little of her joy dissipated but she smiled and said, ‘Stephen, you shouldn’t have done that – this must have cost a fortune. It’s so lovely.’
‘Glad you like it,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s given with more sentiment than it says there.’
And looking up across the table, she, who had the gift to fathom what a person was feeling, read deep love in his eyes, and with a huge leap of her heart, she knew she was his. She had to be.
Head bent, busily sorting out some bits of filing, Connie looked up to see Stephen standing at her elbow. She hadn’t heard him approach. But then the office was always so noisy.
‘Sorry, Connie,’ he blurted as she started. ‘I’m disturbing you.’
‘No,’ she said as her heart did a tiny leap of elation. These days it happen
ed every time he came near. She wished it wouldn’t, yet she also wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked needlessly.
‘Yes … Fine.’
He seemed edgy. She heard him clear his throat nervously. ‘Christmas not far off now,’ he began. ‘I’m told we need something to cheer our readers up.’
The second Christmas of the war, with still no end in sight. She knew what he meant about people needing to be cheered up. But how did one do that when there was nothing to cheer up about?
‘I had a talk with Mathieson,’ he said, ‘and he agrees we need to interview a few people having a good time – if we can dig up any.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Get a few pictures if we can. Only on this occasion you’re being asked to go out without a photographer, maybe just an interviewer, to depict people being happy, or trying to, depending on which way you look at it. It might make a good scoop. A photographer might end up making people look self-conscious. But no one will realise what you’re doing … you know what I mean, Connie? And afterwards …’ He paused and she heard him draw in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as if to control some inner conflict. ‘Have dinner with me? We need to talk about your sketches before they go to print – go over things very carefully, because God knows, there’s little enough to cheer anyone up these days.’
That was true – there was always dire news of the fighting on the Western Front, and from Turkey as well, and it did nothing to raise one’s spirits; the food shortage was growing worse by the day despite rationing; wives were being widowed, children being orphaned, and families bereaved by the thousand; in every street more than one window, often several, with curtains drawn, each announcing a loss. The total of men being killed in these last three months was some two hundred and fifty thousand, that on top of the thousands killed this year alone.
