by Leah Fleming
Another market day again, and there was a queue of traps drawn by horses to be shod. It was Selma’s job to make a list and see that they were attended to in turn. The fire had been lit early and needed watching; she was getting used to the acrid smoke, the heat and the routine now. But there was still so much to learn, stuff she’d never noticed before. And how her shoulders ached at the end of the day. But this morning, she dared to put on a pair of Frank’s old work breeches, thick wool drabs that fell down almost to her ankles. Skirts were too dangerous and cumbersome. But what would her father say?
Girls who wore trousers were considered fast a few years ago. Surely war had put an end to that. ‘I hope Dad’ll not be shocked by my new costume?’ she had whispered to her mother, blushing.
‘To the pure, all things are pure. There’s no shame in sensible clothing as long as you don’t make a habit of it outside,’ Essie had replied
Asa never even noticed her new garb. He was too busy getting ready to receive one of Pateley’s horses; a right sparky stallion.
‘Now don’t get windy of this beast. He’ll sense you’re new to the job and try it on. We’ll put a rope round his neck and bring in Mam to put a rope round the back legs so the fetlocks are drawn in…He’ll soon go down and know who is boss in here, and while we’re at it I want all the tools to hand and then when job’s done you’ll get on with making stamps to mark the sheep horns…Oh, and there’s a horse coming in that’s knock-kneed and needs special shoes. How are we off for Stockton Tar?’
Selma sighed. ‘It’s on the shelf. There’s a tin of salve, half full,’ she said. It was going to be another long day.
After a few weeks the novelty of sacrificing her career had faded into the grim reality of life as a blacksmith’s apprentice. Even she had to admit she didn’t have the physical strength and, willing as she was, there was so much lifting and dunking and hammering and setting. Her muscles were hardening under the regular strain of this daily grind and she was constantly hungry.
None of them had any appetite for weeks after the news of Newton’s death, but gradually life went on, and other casualties were lost and black clothes became as common as closed curtains at the windows and memorial services in the chapel. There was not a single cottage spared some tragic news. The vicar lost his son and he and his wife went into deep mourning like the rest.
There was shock at first that a young woman would do such a job, important as it was, but there had been women blacksmiths before, usually widows who carried on their husbands’ work with help. Soon enough, when the farmers came into the forge they ignored Selma as if she wasn’t hovering holding reins, massaging nervous horses, her hair piled up high under a makeshift tea cosy of a hat with just a few straggles remaining visible. She looked like any small farmer’s boy.
Marigold had stared at her with pity and horror the other day. ‘You’ve ruined your figure and those hands. You must be mad to give up teaching for this! You’d never catch me…’ Marigold was good at shooting off with her mouth and thinking afterwards. She’d soon forgotten her flirtation with Newt and was now writing to a boy from Sowerthwaite who’d taken her fancy.
Selma didn’t mind what people thought, knowing Newton would be proud of her efforts. Frank wrote scrappy letters about being in charge of some officers’ horses in the cavalry. She’d hoped he’d ask to be returned home but that wasn’t going to happen now so she’d just better get on with the job and try not to make a hash of it.
The only joy of her week was when Guy’s letters plopped on the doormat. He wrote pages of news about his life. They were exercising by the coast and once he’d sent her a postcard of Rouen Cathedral. He had a way of describing his men and their funny antics that made her laugh out loud. How the little orderly Bostock had become his batman and how he could read teacups like a woman, but still lost all his pay playing cards. She was glad he couldn’t see her looking such a scruff but this was her uniform now.
Then sometimes she’d catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the dressing table and see the state of her dishevelled hair and the iron dust ingrained on her cheeks, and she’d want to cry. How sick she was of this war and what it was doing to people all over the country. A brave face was expected, even if it was getting harder to pin it on each day.
Her father was snappy to work with, silent, lost in his tasks. Sometimes, he barked orders at her as if she should know already what was expected. When she didn’t drill the square hole to the exact measurement, he snatched it off her to do it himself, making it plain she was a poor substitute for his son.
She cursed Frank for shirking his duty even though she knew he was only doing service as he thought fit. It was all so confusing. Everything was upside down, and she was afraid.
They were so cut off in the village. News, when it came, was days late and they only had the local newspaper accounts to rely on. They were filled with noises of far-off sea battles, of gallant local boys fighting on the front. But the sad lists told another story that didn’t add up to all this talk of victory. No one really knew what was happening out there and even Guy was careful how he phrased things. He’d had his first taste of battle and being under fire, and his pencil-scribbled words were sobering.
We are going through the mincer, a hundred of my men gone west already and not much to show for it, I’m afraid. I have to write these ghastly letters to mothers who will hate me for ever for giving them such terrible news. We spend days on the march, while in the distance great shells are blasting some other poor chaps to smithereens. It is hard to believe it is spring with fields full of blossom to the rear. Then as you get near to the front everything is blasted into a brown soup of mud and sludge, broken-off trees and ruined billets, where we smoke and chat, enjoying the peace and quiet until another great blast from the German guns sends us running for cover like the huge rats we see everywhere.
I am so filthy, with a host of living creatures taking residence in the seams of my jackets and trousers. Bostock is doing his best to keep me half decent, nicking them off with a lighted candle. Mother would disown me if she saw the state of me, but mud is a great leveller and I am no better than the men I serve, a hardy loyal bunch of chaps. I have to inspect their feet each evening and make them change their socks or their toes will get in the most appalling mess. So keep the ladies of West Sharland knitting socks. When it is really wet afoot I wear three or four pairs at a time.
When night falls it gives me pleasure to look up at the stars to relive those rides out over the Ridge in the sunshine together with old Jemima, knowing that nothing can now touch our green and pleasant land if we stand firm. It makes me feel a bit mushy at times to think of such beauty in this awful terrain.
Be brave, little friend, and keep your letters coming. I laughed thinking about how Elvie Best sang a whole solo out of tune at your Brave Belgium Funds Concert and everyone trying not to laugh and clapping to get her off stage and she thinking she was wanted for an encore and you having to suffer it all over again. You and all you stand for are what keeps me sane.
Your dearest friend, Guy
Selma shared his letters with no one. They were a precious link with his terrible world. Every night she looked up at the night sky, trying to imagine Guy in his trench, pacing the duckboards, shepherding his troops, sitting curled up writing to her, thinking about her and looking up at the same stars. His letters gave her the strength to suffer her father’s frustration and bad temper.
‘Pull yourself together, Bartley,’ she said. ‘You’ve got it easy. Go and do your duty and stop moaning. You must fight your war with a hammer and anvil, not a rifle. So go to it.
Hester had to admit having Angus at home wasn’t quite the joy she had hoped for. It wasn’t as if he didn’t get up to do his drilling stint at Sharland School with cool efficiency. He took no prisoners, according to the head’s wife, Maud. He would stand no indiscipline in the ranks or sloppy marching. But they were boys, not troops, and sometimes he bawled them out in such a ra
ge that he was becoming very unpopular and there were complaints from parents.
Not ever being part of the farmers’ boys or the village lads, he was trying hard to mix and had started to frequent the Hart’s Head, giving them his opinions on how the war was faring and how it should be won. He’d got into a fight one evening when the publican’s son, Jack Plimmer, back on leave, told him to shut up and put his money where his mouth was, that he was sick of armchair soldiers who never even crossed the Channel…There’d been a scrap and Angus had been banned for causing a fracas.
Angus was becoming like a bear with a sore head when Guy’s letters arrived; reading them and then tossing them away. ‘It’s not fair. I’m a useless ornament stuck here!’ The more upset he got the more frequent were his fitting episodes, and Dr Mac was summoned to give him sedation.
‘Yon laddie’s just feeling sorry for himself. Find him some tough work to keep his mind from all this self-pitying. He’ll find a way through. God gives the back for the burden. Just give him time.’
That did not go down well with either of them, but Hester set him to garden tasks. Then she sent him down to Charles, to the flat in London, but the colonel was preparing to go north with Lord Kitchener on some hush-hush task and didn’t give the boy much time. Angus came back even more miserable than before and considerably more restless. He’d even reapplied for another medical, only to be discharged once more.
Hester confided her worries to Violet Hunt, who since Arnold’s death had shrunk into an old woman overnight. Only her duty at the Women’s Institute meetings and her Sunday school teaching had kept her from total collapse. It was pitiable to see such a strong woman brought so low, making Hester feel how lucky she was to have even one of her sons close but things could not go on. If only there was something they could do.
It was Lady Bellerby at one of their morning sewing bees who gave her an idea.
‘We’ve opened our home up for wounded officers as a temporary hospital: somewhere with country air to help them to convalesce quicker, quiet with gardens, where boys can relax and regroup. I know they are looking for suitable billets with spare rooms, and they provide the nurses and staff. To tell the truth it’s been a godsend to keep the old ship afloat. You wouldn’t have to do the nursing but just provide a suitable space…Waterloo House would be ideal, not too big and close to the station for visitors and that sort of thing. You must be rattling round like peas in a drum with just the two of you and Charles off on his jaunts with Lord Kitchener.’ Once Daphne Bellerby was in full flow there was no halting her. ‘Now isn’t he a one-man battleship, a marvellous example to us all? Cometh the hour, cometh the man…You must be so proud that Charles is by his side.’
Hester nodded, thinking that this suggestion might just help Angus to get things in perspective when he saw men far worse off than himself. He could talk army talk amongst fellow officers. Was he not in some ways as wounded as they were? It was worth taking the matter further but then came the thought of strangers roaming over Waterloo House. But, she reasoned, officers were gentleman and would honour her home, and the authorities would bring much-needed staff to cook meals and take care of the grounds. Perhaps Daphne was right to suggest they were living in a resource that might help the war effort.
Spring in the Dales was now at its most beautiful; the lush green of the beech leaves, the pink confetti of bird cherry blossom. Nature didn’t know there was a war on and put on its annual display of hedgerow flowers, mountain poppies, woodland purple orchids, the scents of bluebells in May bringing colour, hope and renewal. How could a spirit not be lifted in such a place? The aromas from her rose garden in the summer would be another calming influence with views to lift the dullest of spirits. Even the Hart’s Head could provide some jollity. Was this the answer to her prayers? Perhaps even the peace and quiet of a humble village setting like Sharland might play its part in winning the war.
Essie was paying a rare visit to see her sister, Ruth, who lived on the outskirts of Bradford. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d made the effort to catch the train south but this was Asa’s treat to lift her flagging spirits and to celebrate her fortieth birthday. They were going to have tea in town and then go to a matinée; all Ruth’s treat, and it was such a beautiful June day when even the chimneys and mills and the dark streets shone in a midsummer glow. She was wearing her best grey frock with a black armband sewn onto the sleeve for Newton’s sake. Selma had padded out her hair in the fashion, and her best black straw was perched on the top.
But she could hardly muster any enthusiasm. She still couldn’t believe Newt wouldn’t come home again. It was as if he was still over there somewhere. How she longed to hear her son’s voice again.
Molly Forster had whispered one morning in chapel that she’d been to see a woman in Sowerthwaite who regularly communicated with the dear departed. It had given her comfort to know that her son, Cyril, was happy beyond this veil of tears. The lady described him and said he was watching over her and he’d called her mum. Molly strained to hear his voice but Martha Holbeck said only those God had chosen to be His channels could hear the words.
Essie didn’t know what to make of this. She was not sure Asa would approve, not to mention Pastor Rathbone, but Molly seemed the better for it and had started coming back to the Women’s Institute again. When women started mixing in company it was a good sign.
They’d had a talk on rearing poultry and rabbits for the pot, and demonstrations on using potatoes as a flour substitute to save the British wheat supply. Someone brought a knitting machine that could churn out balaclavas and socks like a factory and they were taking it in turns to master the technique. Then there was the lady Liberal politician whom Mrs Hunt brought along, who talked about how having the Vote would make a difference to their lives, how it was important that their voices were heard by the elected government. Essie had just wanted to shout, ‘Stop this bloody war before anyone else gets hurt!’
Everyone was talking about some big sea battle in the North Sea and a lot of ships sunk, more lives lost, but the navy had repelled the enemy at Jutland bank. She thought of all those men at the bottom of the sea and the afternoon flew by. How quickly she’d forgotten the time, what with the scones and jam tea and the tour around Ruth’s grey brick semidetached villa with its parlour and dining room, and a little kitchen with a gas cooker, and inside toilet.
Ruth and Sam lived such a contented life, with no kiddies to mess the floors or worry about. It felt a silent empty space, all neatly fenced off with not a thing out of place. Funny how Essie didn’t envy her sister her pretty home one jot. Children had not been given to them and this was what they got in their place, she reckoned.
Ruth had bought her a new blouse with pintucks in lilac cotton, and a pretty knitted cardigan ready for Selma’s birthday in August.
Sam Broadbent was busy in the mill, checking wools for quality and sorting it into grades. He was short-staffed for all he was looking prosperous. They had lost so many young men to the Forces. Already, he wondered if the trade would ever recover. Some of his German colleagues had been imprisoned for a while and were now leaving in droves—many for America, taking their skills and money with them. Bradford was busy making uniforms and cloth; another world away from Sharland: faster, slicker with trams and traffic noise and smoke, and she was longing for the train to head north, back to where she felt most at home.
It wasn’t as if Ruth made her feel like a country mouse. It was that she was invisible and uncomfortable in such a strange space.
Sam got the latest news in the Telegraph each day. Ruth had gone worldly with her wealth, for all she still attended chapel. There were the temptations of cinemas and theatres open every day except Sunday, public houses on every street corner, and the smell of fresh fish and chip vans. The mills towered over her, making Essie feel small and insignificant, but wherever she turned she saw the same sad faces and widows’ weeds.
They were saying their goodbyes through the carriage wi
ndows when a man rushed into the vacant seat, waving a newspaper. ‘Have you heard? Isn’t it terrible?’ No one spoke as he waved a page in the air. ‘Lord Kitchener’s dead…blown up…at the bottom of the sea!’
The woman opposite Essie crossed herself in shock. ‘The war is lost then,’ she cried. ‘What will become of us?’
Secure in his audience, the young man began to read it aloud. ‘The known facts are that his ship struck a mine off Scotland. They abandoned ship…six hundred and fifty dead. His lordship was amongst them. It was a dark and stormy night with terrible cries heard from the lifeboats. Only a handful made it alive to the rocks. There will be an inquiry into what happened…’
This news silenced everyone as the train steamed out of the station. Essie shivered. Lord Kitchener—he that had taken her sons away from her—Lord Kitchener, the Minister for War, lost at sea. Then she remembered where she’d heard his name recently: from the lips of Lady Hester Cantrell at the last WI meeting. Wasn’t her husband one of his…?
In the drawing room of Waterloo House, a chaplain Hester had never seen before was making sympathetic noises that floated over her like smoke. A senior officer accompanying him had come up from London on the morning train to give her the details of this most terrible of tragedies.
Angus sat holding her hand, frozen by the shock of his father’s death but trying to ask sensible questions. Hester couldn’t speak, just nodded, observing the open and shutting lips as if in some silent dream. This is not real. This is just some nightmare. But the instinct of years kicked in and she received their condolences like a true officer’s wife, with dignity and courtesy, sitting ramrod straight in her black bombazine dress that needed its beadwork repairing.
