Echoes of Yesterday

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Oh, you’re so nice I could kiss you,’ said Rachel in a warm girlish rush.

  Blimey, thought Sammy, now she’s gone off her own rocker.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’ll pick you up next Saturday as per me promise.’ Giving a thought or two to expenses incurrable, he added, ‘Mind you, Rachel, I ain’t exactly related to Rockefeller, I’m a lot more hard-up than he is.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll pay for both of us,’ said Rachel, ‘I’d like to.’

  Crikey, what a good idea, thought Sammy. No, wait a minute, Chinese Lady would never let him get away with having a girl pay for both of them. Even if he didn’t tell her, she’d get to know. Somehow, Chinese Lady always got to know everything.

  ‘Well, it’s nice of yer, Rachel,’ he said, ‘but I tell yer what, I’ll pay my share and you pay yours. It’s only right I should be gen’rous.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Rachel. ‘Oh, I’d better get a tram ’ome now. See you Saturday, then?’

  ‘Me pleasure,’ said Sammy, and Rachel departed on light and happy feet for a tram home.

  Her father, Mr Isaac Moses, owned a large flat above shops in Lower Marsh, off Westminster Bridge Road, from where he conducted his business. A widower, he had a daily woman who came in to do the housework and to cook whatever meals he wanted. For all that he was known as Ikey Mo, he was a surprisingly handsome and distinguished-looking man in his mid-forties. The light of his life was his only child, Rachel. His wife had not lived long enough to have others.

  He listened with a smile to Rachel’s glowing description of a lovely boy called Sammy Adams.

  ‘I know that young man,’ he said.

  ‘Daddy, yes, he said ’e’d met you a couple of times in your Walworth Road pawnshop.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I know him,’ said Isaac, ‘twice seen and listened to, never forgotten. He was in business by the time he was ten.’

  ‘Of course ’e wasn’t, how could ’e have been?’

  ‘He was born for business,’ said Isaac. ‘Rachel, you want him for a friend?’

  ‘I should want ’im instead to leave the milk outside the door?’ said Rachel.

  ‘A friend, then, no more,’ said Isaac, who was not strictly orthodox. Had he been, he would have discouraged his daughter.

  ‘My life, Daddy, what more could there be at my age?’

  ‘Other ages arrive,’ smiled Isaac. ‘There’ll be your age next year, when you’ll attend college.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Yes, that,’ said Isaac, ‘to make more of a lady of you and less of a cockney. Now, should I mind that Sammy Adams is a Gentile boy?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind, do I? D’you know what he said? That it was a privilege for us to be called Moses because that was the best-known name in the Bible, along with Jesus and Abraham.’

  Isaac laughed and said, ‘That boy is exceptionally gifted in his outlook.’

  ‘Daddy, let me go roller-skatin’ with ’im.’

  ‘Of course I shall let you, Rachel. If a man can enjoy a good book on the Sabbath, then a girl should be allowed to put roller skates on her feet. Do we not in England open our market stalls on our Sabbath because most of our customers are Gentiles?’

  ‘Oh, good on yer, Daddy,’ said Rachel, born within the sound of Bow Bells.

  ‘Yes, you ’ave worked much better today,’ said Cecile, fanning herself with her straw hat. ‘You may go now and come back in the morning.’

  ‘More churning?’ said Boots, rolling his shirt sleeves down. His cap was off, his head bare, his face, lean from the privations of trench existence, a healthy colour now and free of greyness. Cecile, very French, wondered what his body was like, and a slight flush deepened her tan.

  ‘No, tomorrow you can mix meal for the pigs,’ she said.

  ‘Not on your sweet life,’ said Boots, ‘I’ll need a bath if I go anywhere near pigs, and all we’ve got is a cold water tap.’

  ‘Oh, I will bring out some warm water and soap, and you can wash down in that,’ said Cecile.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Boots, ‘but I’m having nothing to do with your porkers.’

  ‘Porkers?’

  ‘Pigs.’

  ‘I shall report you to your officer.’

  ‘Stop playing about,’ said Boots, putting his cap on.

  ‘You are supposed to do as I say, Sergeant Adams.’

  ‘Behave yourself,’ said Boots, ‘or you will get your bottom smacked.’

  ‘You think that is funny?’ said Cecile.

  ‘Good for a bit of a laugh when you think of everything that’s not,’ said Boots, and left. Cecile called after him.

  ‘You are a peasant, you ’ear?’

  ‘Keep smiling,’ called Boots.

  ‘Oh, tail of a donkey, I hate you!’ she called in French.

  Boots stopped and turned.

  ‘Shall I send someone in my place tomorrow?’ he asked.

  Cecile rushed at him and shook a finger in his face.

  ‘No, you must come, your officer said so, and I say so!’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Boots, and went on again.

  She watched him go. She was not really angry, of course, or she would not have been silently laughing. She was French and she liked provoking him.

  Somewhere in the south-east, where the French held the line, guns were rumbling, while above the trench systems of the British sector, German Albatros fighter planes and British Sopwiths were attempting to shoot each other out of the sky.

  It was always going on somewhere, the war.

  Young Madame Cecile Lacoste stopped smiling and sighed.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Sammy, what did you say?’ asked Chinese Lady over a supper of sausages and mash, referred to these days as zeppelins in a cloud.

  ‘Yes, did we ’ear you say you’re takin’ Ikey Mo’s daughter roller-skatin’ next Saturday?’ asked Lizzy.

  ‘I did remark to that effect,’ said Sammy.

  ‘He’s ’ad a dangerous rush of blood,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Sammy, you sure that what you said was right?’ asked Chinese Lady.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to be honest,’ said Sammy, ‘I think I must’ve fell on me ’ead somewhere. I don’t know what else could’ve made me invite ’er. I ain’t really well-off enough to take girls out, yer know.’

  ‘You Sammy, you didn’t do no fallin’ on your head,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘Tommy’s never fell on ’is head in all his life, nor has Boots, nor Lizzy. I didn’t bring any of you up to be as careless as that.’

  ‘Well, somethin’s given ’im a funny complaint,’ said Lizzy. ‘Invitin’ a girl out at his age, takin’ her to a Saturday afternoon at the Brixton rink and puttin’ his hand in his pocket, you sure you ’aven’t come over ill, Sammy?’

  ‘No, I ain’t sure,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Poor old Sammy,’ said Tommy, ‘’e’ll come back ’ome from the rink seriously ill over what it’s cost ’im.’

  ‘It must be the war,’ said Lizzy.

  ‘The war’s done something to all of us,’ said Chinese Lady, frowning. ‘Well, I was against it in the first place, but no-one took a blind bit of notice of me, specially Boots. He went and joined up the moment me back was turned. Still, it’s hard to believe it’s made Sammy invite this girl Rachel Moses to the skatin’ rink.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s done now,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Oh, dear, what a shame,’ said Lizzy.

  ‘But fortunately,’ said Sammy, ‘Rachel’s ’elpin’ me out, I’m only payin’ for meself. She’s payin’ her own share.’

  ‘What?’ said Chinese Lady, sitting up straight except for her firm and tidy bosom. ‘Now, you look ’ere, Sammy, I don’t expect any of my sons to let young ladies pay for theirselves.’

  ‘But I’ve got the tram fares on me mind, Mum,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘you’re not to let her pay for anything, d’you ’ear?’

  �
�But if a bloke can’t afford it—’

  ‘Not much,’ said Tommy, ‘you’ve got old socks bulgin’ with bread and honey.’

  ‘But they’re me savings,’ said Sammy. ‘I can’t touch them, they’re me capital, me future lifeblood. Don’t forget Rachel might want tea and a bun. No-one can say that won’t be ’urtful.’

  ‘I don’t want any talk like that,’ said Chinese Lady, who had a firm belief in the right order of things, including whose privilege it was to do the treating in a sociable relationship. Sammy was a bit young for being sociable with a girl, but Chinese Lady wasn’t going to discourage him. It would help him to get things right. Besides, Mr Moses was a very well thought of Jewish gentleman in the pawnshop business, and if his daughter was anything like him, she might just civilize Sammy a bit. ‘Listen, my lad,’ she said, ‘if Mr Moses’ daughter feels like a nice cup of tea and a bun, you make sure you treat her.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to, Mum, but fourpence is fourpence, yer know,’ said Sammy.

  ‘I don’t want any answerin’ back,’ said Chinese Lady.

  ‘It’s still goin’ to be ’urtful,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Well, if it kills you, Sammy,’ said Lizzy, ‘your savings won’t go to waste. We’ll divide them up and spend them usefully.’

  ‘Best if Mum ’ad the lot,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Here, mind what you’re sayin’,’ protested Sammy.

  ‘Yes, you could ’ave them, Mum,’ said Lizzy. ‘You could buy a shilling wreath for his funeral, say, and then use the rest to treat yourself to a nice winter coat from Hurlocks or Gamages.’

  ‘Lizzy, you shouldn’t talk like that,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘not about funerals, love. It’s not nice.’

  ‘And it ain’t funny, neither,’ said Sammy. ‘I ain’t daft enough to pass on and leave me savings be’ind. I’ll face up to Rachel bein’ a bit expensive on me pocket. It’s only for this once.’

  ‘I think ’e’s goin’ to live,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Yes, but for how long, when you think of all the pain ’e’ll be suffering?’ said Lizzy. ‘You can’t live very long with that sort of pain.’

  ‘Still, there’s Chinese Lady,’ said Tommy. ‘She’s a woman, yer know, Lizzy, and women are good at lookin’ after someone’s pain and bandagin’ it. She’s bandaged a lot of mine in me time.’

  ‘Yes, all those cuts and grazes of yours, Tommy,’ said Chinese Lady.

  ‘I don’t know Mum can bandage Sammy’s kind of pain,’ said Lizzy.

  ‘Is someone laughin’?’ asked Sammy. ‘Because I ain’t. Besides, I’ve always been ’eroic about me occasional suffering, and I’ll be ’eroic all through Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday too, you’ll see.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Lizzy, ‘he’s goin’ to live till Sunday evening at least.’

  The packed estaminet was uproarious with noise, and even a sharp-eared stevedore couldn’t have heard a cargo of pig-iron drop as Polly stood on her chair and then stepped on to a table. She was lit up, in a manner of speaking. With the contents of a bottle of Jacques’ best claret.

  ‘Give it a go, Polly!’

  ‘How about Salome, Polly? I’ll hold yer seven veils.’

  ‘Never mind any veils, Polly, just Salome’ll do.’

  Men of the Australian 1st Division, the Buffs, the West Kents, the Royal Scots and the Warwicks were among the many soldiers present. Several women ambulance drivers were also in evidence. Polly up on high above them, was wreathed by the blue smoke, a slightly dotty smile on her face.

  ‘Quiet, you ratbags,’ she said.

  ‘Come on, Polly, give us “Barnacle Bill the Sailor”.’

  ‘Who let Nelson in?’

  ‘Chuck ’im out, someone.’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Polly again.

  ‘Yes, let’s ’ave some hush,’ said Alice.

  A certain amount of quiet reigned.

  ‘Pin your ears back,’ said Polly, ‘and listen out for “Angels of Mercy”.’

  ‘We’re ’earing yer, Polly.’

  Polly did her piece.

  Take her up to Hellfire Ridge, girls,

  Give the old bone-shaker a go,

  Let her jump all the craters and bumps, girls,

  Let her gaskets gurgle and blow.

  Take her up to Hellfire Ridge, girls,

  And pick up the pieces of Jim,

  And when you’ve put him together,

  So what if he’s short of a limb?

  Take her up to the road south of Wipers,

  Fill her up with our glorious dead,

  Load her up to her jolly old roof, girls,

  With feet and arms and a leg.

  Take her back to the fields of Mons, girls,

  Where Jerry first peed on our lads,

  And when you’re searching those fields, girls,

  See if they left any fags.

  Cheer up, you Tommies and fleabags,

  Listen out for our merciful toots,

  We’ll always arrive in time, boys,

  To pick up what’s left of your boots.

  Roars of applause.

  ‘Encore, Polly!’

  ‘Not tonight, Napoleon,’ said Polly, and jumped. Arms caught her, swung her and set her on her feet. At which point, Alice got up and worked her way through to the old piano. The Northumberland sergeant, lately arrived, was there again. Pipe in his mouth, cap tipped back, fingers light on the keyboard, he looked up at her.

  ‘Yes, it’s me again,’ said Alice, and his blue eyes, filmed by the trench grey, smiled. He placed his pipe on the piano, next to his beer.

  ‘Aye, it’s you, lass,’ he said, and resumed playing the kind of music he seemed to favour.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Alice.

  ‘What’s in a name?’

  ‘I’m Alice.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’

  ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Everyone knows. Heard that you once stood on a table in Poperinghe and asked for votes for women.’

  ‘Not me, that was my friend Polly,’ said Alice. Polly had been a bit high on some vintage Burgundy. The Tommies pulled her leg unmercifully, and a Middlesex corporal came up with a scribbled limerick.

  There was a young lady called Polly,

  Who thought votes for women were jolly,

  When a bloke disbelieved her,

  She said, ‘Oh, you bleeder,’

  And flattened his conk with her brolly.

  It had made Polly yell with laughter, and since then she’d never mentioned votes for women. It was a subject out of place among men fighting to stay alive. In any case, most of them didn’t seem bothered one way or the other, as long as women didn’t compete for the jobs they hoped were waiting for them back in Blighty. If they got back.

  ‘That young lady’s fond of standing on tables?’ said the Northumbrian.

  ‘You’ve just ’eard her recitin’, have you?’ said Alice.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And did you hear all the noise?’

  ‘I heard. You’re in the jungle now, lass.’

  ‘With the men?’ said Alice. ‘Well, you don’t think I’d rather be in Hyde Park with the nursemaids, do you?’

  ‘You’re still no man, lass,’ he said. ‘You’re a young lady. You can’t run with hounds, nor with wolves, nor live in a jungle as men do. Aye, men are wolves, lass, and women are civilized.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Alice, ‘I’ve ’ad times when I could have torn our gen’rals to pieces.’

  ‘Wrong for a woman,’ said the sergeant, facial bones etched by his starved flesh.

  ‘Not for our kind of women it’s not,’ said Alice. ‘And it’s not a jungle out ’ere, it’s hell on earth.’

  ‘Same thing, lass, dogs are eating dogs.’

  ‘Listen, who are you?’

  ‘Name’s Ben Hawes.’

  ‘Hawes?’ said Alice. ‘Oh, now I see, young Hawes, old Hawes. Old Horse.’

  ‘That’s how they call me,�
�� said Sergeant Ben Hawes. He stopped playing to drink his beer and to talk. He belonged, he said, to the Northumberland Fusiliers. Thirty-four, he joined up in 1898 as a drummer boy, when he was seventeen, fought in the Boer War and saw service in India. In 1914, he was at Mons, Le Cateau and the Marne. Now he was here, and out of the line for a while.

  ‘Well, you’ve got my blessin’,’ said Alice. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No time for that, lass, nor am I right for it as a regular. Not fair on a woman, don’t you see, to ask her without thinking on it. What’s in a marriage for a regular soldier’s wife when it’s nobbut a few nights together and then nought for a year or two years? That’s not marriage, that’s loneliness, and loneliness doesn’t fit a woman.’

  He was laconic but very direct, and Alice felt emotions stirring. He had no future, nothing, unless a miracle spared him.

  ‘But didn’t you ever want to marry?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, there was a pretty lass once, from Hexham.’

  ‘But you didn’t marry her?’

  ‘I thought on it, and didn’t,’ said Sergeant Hawes.

  ‘Well, what did you do, love her and leave her?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Fetch up, young lady, that’s nought to do with love, that’s nobbut selfishness.’

  ‘But if you were in love with her?’

  ‘She were a sweet lass, so I didn’t marry her and make a lonely wife of her. Nor did I bed her, if that’s what you mean. It’s wrong to spoil a young woman.’

  Alice could hardly believe her ears. In all the hell of France and Flanders, there was a man who thought like this? A man who was living on borrowed time? Not many were like him.

  ‘Is that a joke, Ben?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s no joke when a sweet lass finds herself spoiled for another man. Aye, leave her with child and she’ll not remember it as an act of love.’

  ‘Have you met a woman since Mons?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Met?’ said Sergeant Hawes, and gave her a quizzical look.

  ‘Oh, you know.’

  ‘Are you offering, lass?’ he asked, and Alice turned a violent pink.

  ‘No, I’ve never – I don’t be’ave like that.’

  ‘Then you’re a sweet lass, Alice, and should stay so.’

  ‘What-oh, Alice, who’s your friend?’ A hearty-voiced woman ambulance driver appeared out of the drifting fug and the boisterous blue. She was holding a pipe, her other hand in the pocket of her breeches. She looked buxom and cheerful.