While I Was Waiting

by Georgia Hill

  ‘Ar Rachel, love –’

  ‘No honestly, Stan. In fact you’d be doing me a favour. When I first moved in, I thought I’d like the quiet, the isolation. I thought I’d get loads of work done. But sometimes,’ she paused and thought of Hetty’s presence felt only too clearly in the house, ‘I miss having people around me. In London I had neighbours all around me, above and below. I didn’t know them, really, but I knew they were there.’ She trailed off. She wasn’t sure how much truth there was in that statement. She wasn’t feeling lonely in the cottage, especially with Gabe becoming a more or less permanent fixture, but it would be good to have Stan around more. She’d buy him a nice new kettle too.

  ‘I don’t know, Rachel.’ Stan, for some reason, was obviously feeling uncomfortable. ‘Don’t want to intrude, like.’

  ‘You never intrude, Stan!’ Rachel put her hand on the old man’s roughened one and patted it. ‘You could have a kettle in there, too, so you could have a coffee whenever you like.’

  ‘Well that’d be good. You never make it sweet enough.’

  Rachel laughed.

  He harrumphed. ‘And could I, you know, have a –’

  ‘Yes, Stan, you could smoke in there. Deal?’

  ‘Go on with you, then. Deal.’ Stan laughed throatily. ‘You know, our Rachel, I’ve got very fond of you, like.’

  Rachel’s throat tightened. She’d become fond of Stan too. Then she wondered how much sheds cost. She’d find the money from somewhere – maybe the latest commission would fund it. Somehow, she knew a mutual declaration of affection wasn’t what was called for. Changing the subject, she said, briskly, ‘Can we grow some pumpkins for the autumn? I’d like to carve them out and put candles inside for Hallowe’en.’

  Stan cleared his throat. They were back on safer ground. ‘Ar, squashes an’ all. Nothing like a bit o’ soup made with one of them boys. I’ll get ‘em planted up. It’s a bit on the late side to be putting ‘em in, but we’ll give it a go. Might have some fine ‘ole specimens come October.’ He stood up and adjusted his braces, shiny with age and, without looking back, strode off to his vegetable patch.

  Rachel watched him go. When she’d first moved here, she’d had a romantic vision of a creative solitude, of having just herself to look after and to look out for. She thought of the people who had entwined themselves around her: Stan; the kind but abrupt and permanently cross Mike; Kev with his sleazy ways; Roger and his cream-cake addiction; boring, good- looking Neil.

  And Gabe. Gabe with his wide smile full of white teeth, with his strong body and willing hands. Gabe. Young and energetic and straightforward. She still wasn’t sure how she truly felt about Gabe or where their relationship was heading.

  Then the thought of damp footprints on her new bathroom floor had her exclaiming and hurrying upstairs.

  Chapter 29

  Monday 9th November, 1914

  It has been the most exciting day!

  I was shown into the main room of the school by a Miss Fletcher, also a teacher at the school and a surprise. I thought they had only men teaching there. She presented me to a tall, thin man, who was standing in front of a very large group of children.

  ‘This is Mr Innisford,’ she said, ‘he will explain what our expectations are.’ And with that, she swept out, swishing her rusty black skirts with an imperious air.

  I stood, self-consciously waiting for my next instructions.

  ‘You have come rather late, Mrs Trenchard-Lewis,’ were his first words. ‘I have been waiting for you.’

  My heart sank. I had the distinct impression I was not approved of.

  ‘Please take a seat and observe. I will be able to discuss things more fully at lunch time.’

  Feeling chastened, I scanned around for a chair and found one next to an ancient and very blackened stove, protected by an equally filthy guard. How Dorcas would love to get her hands on that! I sat, as primly as I could manage, on the edge of a hard wooden chair. I was determined to show this Mr Innisford that I could be useful and hard-working.

  I saw fifty or so children, ranging in age, I imagined, from about six to eleven. In this, I later found out I had been wrong. The class was Standard IV, the older pupils in the school. Unaccustomed to ordinary country children, I had forgotten that poverty and poor food did not strong bones and tall youth make.

  I thought the room dismal. The direful warning: ‘All liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone’ was inscribed on the wall. With the windows being so high, there was little natural light and it was very chilly. There was the distinct aroma of damp, a smell I was only too familiar with from Delamere. Underlying it, the odour of poverty and unwashed bodies.

  Not one child looked at me; they were held in rapt attention by their master. I think, even then, I recognised the respect they had for him. He had a rich, deep voice and I found myself enraptured too. I could not take my eyes off him. Here was a man dedicated to bettering these children’s lives through education – and his devotion was obvious. And although stern, he was not unkind. The task could have been a dull one: copying a poem from the board. Peter Innisford, however, read the poem aloud first with such dramatic flourish it made the pupils laugh and eager to practise their copperplate.

  I thought him wonderful.

  An hour passed. After the recitation of times tables, the girls were set to their sewing while the boys undertook some kind of technical drawing. I looked at the pupils in front of me. One or two of the nearest risked a glance at me and I smiled back. One boy giggled, which earned him a gentle rebuke from his master.

  At the end of the lesson, the children trooped out to the playground past me, each saying a polite good morning. Mr Innisford gave me the hurried directive that I should follow them, where after scrubbing their hands, they would line up and I was to inspect their hands and nails to see if they were fit to eat lunch. I was to inspect the girls. This I did, for the few girls who remained at school for their meal. Most, it seemed, walked home and returned for the afternoon session afterwards.

  ‘That is,’ explained Mr Innisford, as we oversaw the pupils eating their meal whilst eating our own, ‘if they bother to return at all. Most get called upon to do chores at home and do not manage the afternoon.’ He sighed. ‘We try very hard to improve our attendance. We have awards and give out certificates, but we’re fighting against what these children have to cope with at home.’

  ‘And what is this, Mr Innisford?’ I was trying hard to sound grown up and intelligent. I wanted to prove worthy of my new role. Here was a man of principle and good intentions. Excepting Hester, he was the first person I had met who genuinely wanted to improve the lives of others. I wanted to impress this man.

  ‘Mrs Trenchard-Lewis, he began heavily, flicking his hair back. ‘I am sure you cannot contemplate the difficulties these young people have to face on a daily basis. Sent out to pick up stones from the field so as not to blunt the plough, having to care for five or six younger siblings, gathering apples and berries, slopping out the household buckets.’ He stopped abruptly, as if sensing he had gone too far. He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I apologise, please forgive me. It has been a long morning. The headmaster is at a management meeting in Fordham and I have already had to deal with three cases of suspected chicken-pox and broken the news of the death of an ex-pupil to the school. One who met his end in France. I am sure you have not had to face this kind of situation and neither should a woman of your class have to.’

  I stiffened. It was obvious he was under a deal of strain and seemed to be battling an instinctive antipathy to me, based on what he perceived as my privileged position. If only he knew how many times, like the children around us, I had had to eat slabs of bread and cheese for lunch! Despite his misconceptions, I sensed a decent man labouring under some great weight of worry. My heart softened to him. Too much so, for a married woman.

  I tried for dignity. ‘I can assure you, Mr Innisford, I would not volunteer for this role had I t
hought myself incapable of giving service to the children and the school. I understand you are a teacher short, with one enlisting. I may be inexperienced, but I am a hard worker and a useful one.

  ‘But what can you do?

  Forgetting that sewing made me even more fingers and thumbs, I answered rashly. ‘I am sure the sewing in Standard IV is not beyond a woman of my class. With a husband at the Front I wish to do whatever I can to help.’

  Mr Innisford looked down at his meagre lunch of some sort of cold pie and gave a tight smile. His shoulders relaxed a little. After a pause, during which he seemed deep in thought, he said, ‘I apologise again, Mrs Trenchard-Lewis. These are difficult times – for us all.’ He straightened and said, in friendlier tones, ‘if you are of a mind to do so, it is gardening this afternoon. With food in short supply, we are endeavouring to grow our own.’ He smiled. It transformed his thin face into a very appealing one. ‘And with some success, I might add. You look a capable sort. I’m sure we’ll be able to find a use for you.’

  June 1963, Clematis Cottage

  Hetty watched as the old man made his way along her garden path. He walked with a stick, but she knew who he was. She flexed her stiff shoulders and leaned back on the chair, amazed it was him.

  How she had struggled with Peter Innisford! He was as stubborn as she, but a warm and respectful friendship had evolved. There might have been more had circumstances been different. The War! It always came back to that. It destroyed lives – and not just those who had died.

  Her role at the school had settled into a pattern. For three days a week she undertook whatever was asked of her. When the weather was dry, she helped the children with their cottage garden; a rather fine effort, Hetty remembered with a smile. She even began a knitting circle to knit socks for the brave boys at the Front and coached some of the girls for the concert they were to give at the workhouse.

  Hetty grew misty-eyed at the memory, she had loved every minute. Then Peter Innisford’s sensitive, intelligent, beloved face crept into the edge of her memories. She’d found out later why he was so distracted that morning. In his pigeon hole in the school office he had found a single, solitary, accusing white feather.

  The old man knocked at the front door. Hetty rose and went to answer it. She was done with waiting.

  August 2000, Clematis Cottage

  ‘You still reading Hetty’s journal?’

  Gabe’s voice brought Rachel back to the present with a jolt. So disorientated was she that, for a moment, she could not answer him. They were sitting on the sofa, she engrossed in Hetty’s diary, Gabe watching television. It was a chilly evening and he’d lit a fire. The flames crackled and glowed, adding a warming third presence to the sitting room.

  ‘What’s she getting up to now?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rach,’ Gabe’s voice was impatient, ‘Hetty. What’s she doing now?’

  ‘Well, she’s had an awful argument with Richard and is volunteering at the local school. The one on the Worcester road.’

  ‘That’d be St Mary’s, then. My old school.’

  Rachel turned to Gabe, face alive with enthusiasm. ‘Do you think they’d mind me popping in?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. What are you hoping to find out?’

  Rachel was silent for a moment. ‘I don’t really know.’ she began, ‘I’m trying to understand it all myself. I think I’d just like to get a feel for the place. She’s working with this man – a Peter Innisford – and I think he’s going to be important to her.’

  ‘Go Hetty! She doesn’t hang about, does she? One husband dead, his brother after her and now this Peter bloke.’ He stretched and yawned, running a tired hand over his face.

  Rachel laughed. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong. Edward’s still alive at this point, he’s away at war.’

  Gabe pulled himself up. ‘What did she look like?’ He flicked channels and found a football match. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever shown me a photo.’

  Rachel hunted through the mess of papers and found the wedding photograph. It was the only one she had of Hetty.

  Gabe glanced at it, half an eye on the game. ‘Well, I’m not sure I can see the attraction. She’s only about a seven, as Kev would say.’

  ‘You score women?’ Rachel was horrified. ‘You give them marks out of ten?’ Her voice rose.

  ‘I said Kev did.’ Gabe reached a good-natured hand to the back of Rachel’s neck and caressed it. ‘It amuses him. Doesn’t get him anywhere, but it amuses him.’

  Rachel shrugged off his hand, too cross to respond. She wished Gabe would ditch Kev, he was a bad influence.

  Gabe nuzzled her earlobe. ‘You coming to bed?’ he murmured.

  Rachel batted him off. ‘No,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘I want to read on. This bit’s absolutely fascinating.’ As he got up, she added, ‘Gabe, I keep meaning to ask, have you thought about doing some more sculptures?’ She looked up at him, missing his sudden rigidity. ‘You’re really good, you know. Bags of potential.’ She waved the old photograph at him. ‘You found Hetty’s tin for me and it was you who suggested I make a book out of it. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’ Smiling, she added, ‘I’d love to do the same for your career. You know, get you going on a project somehow.’

  Gabe was silent for a moment. ‘Not the right time for that now.’ His tone was dismissive. He turned and went upstairs alone.

  Rachel returned to Hetty’s journal.

  How I wanted to curse Peter Innisford that cold December morning!

  He had tasked me with taking a small group of girls and teaching them ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. Miss Fletcher was supposed to accompany us at the piano. Except Miss Fletcher disappeared. How those girls fidgeted, fiddled about – and their voices! I doubted anyone would be uplifted by the sound.

  I argued my case at the end of the day when I found him in the main hall. To my surprise he roared with laughter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as he wiped his eyes. ‘I had thought you safe with Miss Fletcher. She really shouldn’t have left you alone.’

  ‘They were a handful,’ I hadn’t wanted to disappoint him and it made me snippy. ‘I had not thought teaching would be so hard. It will not be a pleasant sound for the workhouse concert.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I’m sure the sad folk there will appreciate it anyway. I’ll speak to Miss Fletcher about it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Innisford.’

  ‘Please, when it is just us, call me Peter. I cannot abide formality.’

  I was taken aback, but demurred. ‘Then you ought to call me Henrietta, or rather Hetty, as most do.’

  Peter gave me that beguiling smile. ‘I should be honoured to do so. Are you on your way home, Hetty? If so, I should like to walk with you.’

  And so it began, that deep, deep friendship. I never said a word to the aunts about Peter escorting me part of the way home, pushing Flora’s bicycle for me. If they had known, all would have crashed about me.

  Peter was a gentle soul. Intelligent, with a curiosity that even matched my own. We talked, as we walked along, our eyes adjusting to the gloom of the winter afternoons. We discussed many things: how much more we admired this king than the last, the lack of coal to keep the pupils warm – and the dreadful, endless casualty lists. I told him of Sam, once our stable boy and now missing in action, and of David Parker, cut down just the month before. In return, Peter explained how angry and ashamed he had been on finding the white feather and his confusion over what to do. He abhorred killing, he explained, but if the war continued he could have no choice but to go.

  Peter listened to me. He did not constantly dare me into frantic escapades as Richard had done. He wasn’t the unknown quantity of my husband. He accepted me for what I was and asked nothing in return. If Richard had been my affair of the body and Edward my affair of expectation, then Peter was the affair of my soul.

  It should have been a time of great fear and anxiety – and, of course, it was – but it was als
o one of quiet, guilty joy.

  For far too short a time.

  After Edward’s death, Leonora made it clear I was required at home, now more than ever. She had plans, she said, for my money. Hester, destroyed with grief, needed me desperately. Of the staff, only Cook and Dorcas remained and they were getting old.

  As with Papa, I had no body to bury, no graveside on which to place flowers. And, again, I had no idea how to feel. Edward had been in my life both forever and hardly at all. And for too brief a time as husband. Had I loved him? I wasn’t sure. I certainly hadn’t loved him as a wife should love her husband. I’d never been given the chance. I grieved, instead, for the loss of a fine young man. Another who had had all hope ripped apart in the squalid mire of industrial warfare.

  In the spring of 1915, when the war should have been over long before, I took my news to school. It was the last time I saw Peter.

  It was very early, far too early for anyone but he to be in school. I found him in the main hall.

  ‘The aunts have told me I cannot come here any more,’ I burst out, through tears. ‘I am needed more at home. How I shall miss you all. You, most of all.’

  He took one look, crossed the room in swift, long-legged strides and embraced me. His arms felt warm and solid and he held me for a long time, letting me sob, saying nothing, simply being Peter. I cried for Edward, for the thin rag that was now Hester, for all those lost boys.

  I wept for a world robbed of its innocence.

  ‘I heard about Edward. I’m so terribly sorry, Hetty,’ he whispered, eventually.

  At length, I broke away from him and turned to tidy myself, reverting to convention, as emotions were again threatening to engulf. ‘Hester cannot be left. I have to be with her,’ I said, my back to him.

  ‘Of course. I understand.’

  I asked the question, but dreaded its answer. ‘Will you have to go?’ It came out on a strangled whisper. I heard him move away, heard his footsteps on the wooden floor.

  ‘I fear there is no alternative.’ He gave a strange laugh. ‘And I find I cannot bear my parents’ disapproval any more. Or that of those around me.’