Remembrance Day

by Leah Fleming

  Guy tried to speak, but nothing came out. He tried to nod and open his mouth but his lips were burned.

  ‘Got a dose of chlorine gas inside your lungs but you will live to fight again. The doctor says in a couple of months we’ll have you storming the barricades. What?’

  Guy tried to form a smile but his face was too sore. What was this brigadier on about? Chlorine…what chlorine? Then he recalled that dreadful green cloud enveloping him as he stood trapped in the mud. Who had saved him? Bostock? Was he alive? A vision of the mud and him floundering took his breath away and he started to choke with fear. Would he ever walk again? He felt so feeble, so raw and at the mercy of nurses and orderlies and now some officer chivvying him up. Leave me in peace, he sighed and turned to face the wall.

  He remembered drifting away from hell on that stretcher, and then he’d heard a voice in his head calling him back, shouting his name. ‘Come on, Guy, don’t leave us…Guy, wake up!’ It was Angus’s voice. How the blazes! It must have been one of those strange dreams. He wanted to sleep but Angus kept shouting his name. It was as unreal as this man standing over him. But how could Angus know what was happening here except for that connection he’d always felt with his twin brother? It was something he’d never spoken to anybody about, not even Angus.

  Had they got the dreaded telegram? Did they know where he was? Would this mean he’d got a Blighty? He hoped not. All he wanted was to be back with his company, back into the fray. This was not how it was meant to be at all. But for the moment he knew he’d not be going further than this iron bed.

  Why had he not died on that stretcher like so many others? Nothing made any sense any more.

  Selma was at Battys, the Sowerthwaite grocer’s shop, queuing patiently in line for the chance of dried fruit. Mother was insistent that she must get her supplies in for Christmas baking, war or not. There would be a plum pudding of sorts and spiced cake, and now that these goods were in short supply Selma was making sure that they got their allowance.

  They were lucky in the country to have a ready supply of eggs and milk, fresh fruit and vegetables, and the Bartleys had been packaging eggs down the railway line to Aunty Ruth in Bradford.

  Every spare bit of ground was now sprouting leeks, winter cabbages, kale and boxes of chicory salad hidden in sand. The field mushrooms had been good this year and they’d taken to drying them off and stringing them up along with apple rings. Mushroom soup was one of Selma’s favourites and she could now make it as well as her mam.

  Someone was poring over the Gazette in front of her, raking through the casualty lists, every known name commented upon while others in the queue joined in sympathy. A weary acceptance of death and mutilation was creeping over the area, numbing them. It was no longer a shock to hear that so-and-so’s brother had ‘gone west’.

  ‘Shame about young Cantrell,’ said the woman. ‘Lady Hester has had her share and no mistake, and now her son.’

  Selma went cold. Had she heard right? Guy? She edged closer, trying to sound casual. ‘Who was that you just mentioned?’ she asked the unknown woman in the black crocheted shawl and pokey bonnet.

  The woman turned, eyeing her up and down. ‘No one you’d be knowing, love. One of Lady Hester Cantrell’s sons.’

  ‘Dead?’ Selma asked, her stomach churning .

  ‘Not yet…gassed, it says here. I dunno, rich and poor alike, we’re all getting our bellyful and no mistake.’ The woman turned back to chat to the others about the price of butter. ‘Some of them farmers are charging a pretty penny…’

  Selma stepped back in shock. She couldn’t think of anything but this awful news. She wanted to run, to find out if it were true. But she had to stand there at her post for Mam’s sake. It was only last week that she’d had a cheery letter from Guy all about these newfangled tanks and how they kept breaking down and were like sitting ducks once the Hun set his big guns on them. Where was he? She must find out. Perhaps she could ask for the right address. Would Lady Hester speak to her? Perhaps Mam might find out from the Women’s Institute meeting. Surely they sent officers’ parents to their bedsides if things were really bad. That she did know.

  Oh, Guy…all this time you’ve been ill and I never knew, she thought in anguish. Why has no one said anything to me?

  She knew the answer to that one: she didn’t exist as far as the Cantrell family were concerned. She was just a village girl he wrote to as a friend. She didn’t count in their eyes, but if only they knew how close she felt to him, how much she loved him; her first and only beau. How could they be so cruel as to keep her in ignorance?

  But think on, she sighed. They too are anxious, too shocked, too busy making plans to bother with other people. Just be patient, send them a letter of concern. Do things properly and they will respond. Some way or another she would find his address. She was not going to desert him when he needed her most. No one at Waterloo House was going to shut her out.

  Come back, Guy! Come back to me…

  Hester was busy packing for their journey to London. Guy had been transferred to the First London General Hospital for further investigation. He was off the immediate danger list. She’d pulled every official string to find out how he was progressing. She wanted him seen by London chest specialists so anything that might give him a fighting chance of survival could be started.

  The telegram had come swiftly but Angus had not been shocked. ‘It wasn’t me, Mother, it was Guy…Suddenly I just knew something was wrong with one of us and it wasn’t me for a change.’

  Sometimes he talked such rot but she humoured him and told him to oversee the houseguests while she was away. Her first priority was Guy. He was going to live. To recover. However long it took. The sooner she visited him the sooner she could take control. Then she’d bring him home for fresh air and rest. He was never going back to those slaughter fields if she had a hand in things.

  Hadn’t she suffered enough, sacrificed her husband and now her son to this horrible war, and for what? She felt like a tigress protecting her cub. The Cantrell name still had some clout in military circles. All that mattered was his recovery.

  Her first instinct was to shoo out all those noisy men from her home to pave the way for Guy’s return. He would need peace and quiet and rest, not smoke-filled rooms. There was just so much to think about but first she must open up Charles’s flat and live there until Guy was fit to return. She was not going to let him out of her sight until she could see some progress; nothing and no one must interfere with her mission, not least that Bartley brat. How dare she write fishing for his new address?

  If he’d wanted her to write he’d have sent a card himself. There were nurses to do that sort of thing. Oh, no, better to prune that little fortune-hunter to size and nip out any further connection for both their sakes.

  As the weeks went by Guy felt himself getting stronger, his breathing less laboured. His eyes were healing well and he began to taste a little more food. Mother came every visiting hour, bringing in fresh fruit, newspapers, fussing over him like a baby , anxious to discuss his progress with any man in a white coat.

  He knew all the medical terms now, how his larynx and his pharynx were healing. His bronchial pneumonia had peaked and was fading fast. He had survived the crisis that killed so many in the first few days after a gas attack. His general fitness had fought on his side and now he was attempting to walk a little, but the breathlessness was scary.

  He had tried to read the books Angus sent and received many well-wishes, but nothing from Selma so far, which hurt him at first until he rationalised that her letters were probably drifting all over France in search of him. His thoughts were like wheels spinning, not gripping anything much. They said the pleurisy would take a long time to heal so no exertions for weeks to come. Was he going to end up like a blob of jelly?

  Everyone seemed pleased with his progress, though.

  ‘They thought they might lose you, darling,’ his mother said. ‘But we Cantrells are made to last…But no m
ore soldiering for you, young man. You’ve done your bit.’

  He let her rant on about his war being over. He would be given ample time to recover and then examined for full fitness. He knew the pack drill: a spell of retraining somewhere in England and then patched up to be sent back to France. Experienced officers were too thin on the ground now to be released. The army owned him, no matter what his mother might think, and this war was far from over.

  He was not ready to give up on it either. Better to let Mother have her way for a while, nurse him back to fitness if the officials sent him north. He’d have preferred to stay in London, closer to the heart of things, but he was in no fit condition to do anything much now but lie back.

  This idleness couldn’t last, even if he’d slept better than for ages. What was happening over there? He was desperate for news. Angus was coming down soon. That would be something to look forward to. Mother could be exhausting, with her enthusiasms, her enquiries into his every bowel movement. Angus would be fun and he wanted to thank him for saving his life. For he was certain it was his voice that kept him from drifting away into the final sleep.

  Selma walked up to the stables at Waterloo on the pretext that she had carrots and apples for the horses. She had promised Guy she’d make a fuss of old Jemima, who was getting on in years but still had a glint of interest in her eye when she saw her arrive.

  ‘Here you are, old girl…Guy sends his love to you. He’s getting better, just you wait and see…Then he’ll come and ride you again over the Ridge.’ She was leaning over the stable half-door stroking the velvety skin when Angus walked into the courtyard and announced himself.

  ‘I just came to see Jem. I promised Guy.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘Fine, Mother’s with him in London.’

  ‘Will you be visiting soon?’

  ‘Going down on Friday to relieve her.’

  ‘Will you give him this from the Village…it’s a greetings card.’

  ‘Of course. Who’s it from, did you say?’

  Selma blushed. ‘All of us who know him. We just wanted him to know we were thinking about him and hoping he will get well soon.’

  It was, of course, an out-and-out lie. Inside the envelope everything was from her, but it was the only way she knew to bypass Hester Cantrell.

  Angus wouldn’t mind being a postman. He wasn’t bothered either way, she sensed. Besides, he owed her one, or at least he owed Frank a favour; a favour he’d never publicly acknowledged. ‘I’ll see he gets it.’

  ‘So which hospital is it then?’ she asked, hoping for a clue, but he sidestepped it neatly.

  ‘Not sure…a temporary one…in a college, I think. You know they open and close them after each big push…He’ll be moved again.’

  ‘When do you think he’ll be sent back?’

  ‘Not ever, if my mother has anything to do with it. But it’s early days, and he has been rather poorly, you know.’

  ‘We guessed as much.’

  ‘Nearly died, but came back from the brink.’

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ she answered.

  ‘Just so,’ he replied. ‘Must get on, things to do. You will shut the gate, won’t you, when you leave?’ Angus turned away from her.

  He was as stuffy and awkward as Guy was warm and casual, but seeing him in the flesh was always a comfort, for it gave her a glimpse of Guy fit and well. He’d taken her card and she was sure he’d deliver it.

  If only things could be different between them. Instead of this polite and strained communication Angus could be their ally. All that mattered was that Guy was on the mend and perhaps she might see him again soon and then she would give herself to him body and soul.

  He was never going through the agonies of the past few months again, no matter what the preachers said. Love between a man and a woman was sacred and holy whether there was a wedding ring or not. Like animals, humans had instincts that shouldn’t be denied, and more than ever before Guy needed her. She’d not be letting him down this time, whatever the cost.

  Loving someone, she was beginning to understand, had a price. It meant risk and sacrifice. Distance and absence from Guy had made her love even stronger now. He had to know she was praying for his recovery.

  10

  December 1916…

  Waterloo House was looking festive in its red and white and green, all the holly garlands with lush berries decorating the staircase, the Christmas tree freshly cut from the wood by the river, bedecked with tiny candles and baubles. It had snowed just enough to give the grounds a dusting like sugar. Hester was so excited that Guy would be home for Christmas, that both her boys would be by her side to face this first one without Charles. She could hardly wait to see the back of this dreadful year.

  Guy was recovered enough to travel north on condition he slept with windows open night and day, no matter what the temperature. His chest was to be checked regularly and his fluid diet maintained to help alleviate the terrible effects of gas on his stomach and lungs.

  She had sent Beaven to drive Guy home. He was not to be subjected to a train journey and the germs lurking amongst the dirty soldiers at the crowded stations.

  Her officers had all gone home for the season, much to her relief, and she was in no hurry for them to return while Guy was on extended leave. It was going to be wonderful to be together at last. And no expense was being spared to give them the best Christmas they could possibly have.

  He was still weak, and his first medical examiner had agreed that he needed extra recovery time.

  ‘They can’t mean to send him back,’ Hester screamed at Dr Mac when he called in with Angus’s prescription.

  ‘He’s a lucky young laddie and his body will recover given time,’ he offered, seeing her concern.

  ‘But what about the next time? He might not be so lucky.’

  ‘Try not to fret. We’ll take care of him, see that we build up his vital organs with rest and fresh air. But mind to keep him away from sickness and he’ll be fine. It’ll be good for young Angus to have his brother’s company. He’s been a different chap since you took in those officers, and you all deserve a bit of respite. You’ve not had far to find your sorrows this year,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Yes, well, yes,’ Hester dismissed his sympathy. It didn’t do to let people see your weakness but she must be charitable, this being the season of goodwill to all men.

  ‘You’ll be having a wee soiree?’ he continued, fishing for an invitation, no doubt.

  ‘But as you said, there’s to be no mixing amongst the village, just in case,’ Hester replied, ushering him towards the door. ‘I hope you have a good celebration,’ she ended, pointing to the door again.

  ‘The same to you all, and may yer lum aye reek!’ He laughed.

  ‘I beg your pardon, what language is that?’

  ‘Scots, Lady Hester. May you have good fortune in 1917.’

  ‘Thank you, I will see to it that we do. Nineteen sixteen has not been one of our better years.’

  Now she must go and wrap presents for the boys: a pair of binoculars each and some leather journals, a smart Thresher and Glenny trench coat for Guy, and a fine Harris tweed hacking jacket for Angus and another of the John Buchan novels he was so fond of. It was as if they were little boys again.

  She couldn’t wait for the festivities to begin: the Midnight vigil on Christmas Eve, the Belfield soiree at the Brooklyn. They were going to Daphne Bellerby’s Boxing Day dinner. There would be lots of lovely gals for the boys to dance with. No more cavorting with local girls. She was going to launch her handsome sons into the county and see what beauties they could ensnare. It was going to be such fun.

  Guy slept most of the journey up the Great North Road, though Beaven had to stop to mend punctures; only four in total. Guy had to stay in the car. He was useless at lifting anything and the chill air caught his chest. He was sick of this damn weakness in his lungs. Every exertion was an effort. He had to admit the
last medical had been a farce and he’d hardly passed anything, but red tape meant it had to be attended.

  As he stared at the brown earth and big skies of Lincolnshire, he felt his excitement mounting. He couldn’t wait to see the hills again, the green Dales, where the air was crisp and sharp and tasted of peat.

  In his pocket was Selma’s last letter, full of concern. Angus had delivered the village card not knowing it was from her alone. No one had let her know of his injuries and he was furious with Mother for being such a stubborn stickler. Now he was coming home, and he was going to see Selma somehow, even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees to get to her.

  They stopped at The George in Stamford, to take lunch and freshen up, and to find a garage and fill up the petrol cans just in case there was a shortage further north. Guy just wished he felt stronger to stand up to Mother over her absolute refusal to accept Selma. He feared he was going to have to do something drastic to make her see sense, to break free of her stranglehold over his private life.

  Bless her, those first early visits were comforting and gave him the courage to survive the pain, the choking and the weakness. But then she started to give orders to the nurses and he could see the looks of relief after she’d gone. He was embarrassed to be thought of as a mother’s boy.

  None of them understood the horrors he had endured. How could they imagine what it was like out there, the sufferings of his fellow soldiers? He was ashamed of the treatment he got as a priority, the comforts he was receiving, the privileges that came with rank. He was going home now knowing other poor sods were having to live through another cold winter in the trenches, fingers and toes frozen to the marrow, the threat of gas shells and everyone nailed down until the spring. He had got off lightly, and he knew it wasn’t fair.

  It was dusk when they approached the High Road leading out from Sowerthwaite to his village and the warmth of his fireside, his eyes straining to see in the darkness with only the side lamps for guidance. A lone figure was trudging uphill, a slow familiar shape of a soldier with his gun slung over his shoulder. His cap was softened to show he had been in action, his shoulders were slumped with tiredness. Probably walking from the station to give his family a wonderful surprise. In the shadows he looked for all the world like the last man at his post, lost in his thoughts, unaware of the motor behind him.