Remembrance Day

by Leah Fleming

  What everyone had feared had happened. Too much exposure to worldly company and argument had corrupted his son into disobedience. Straight is the path and narrow the way that leads to salvation, they were taught. Rose blamed Guy not with harsh words but with a stinging silence that was hard to bear.

  For the first time in years, Guy felt his unquestioning faith wavering, his loyalties torn. His stomach gave him such pain and bile in his throat. He was not born to this life. Had his old military heritage passed into his blood and through to his son? Was it bred in the bone, this warring urge? Was it all a fault of his own breeding?

  For the first time in years, he thought about his own mother’s efforts to keep them safe, her desperation to have them close to her side. He knew now what it felt like to lose a child to ideals, to feel the draught of his absence, to yearn to know how he was faring. He didn’t know if his own mother was dead or alive, or if Dr Mac was still in West Sharland. Should he make contact, make his peace with her after all this time?

  How could it have all gone so wrong? Why don’t we understand until it’s too late to make amends? How could he survive with such a rock hung round his neck, weighing him down?

  Rose was adamant. ‘We have no son now. The fields will be ploughed, the harvest reaped, the seasons will turn whether he is here or not. People need corn and milk. We carry on as we have always done for hundreds of years, trusting in the goodness of the Lord that the way of peace is best. You have the girls and friends to help you, and the brethrens’ respect. That is surely enough for any man’.

  Guy took his straw hat off the peg hook and nodded. How could she be so hard and unfeeling?

  Selma knew the film was going to be a hit from the moment William Wyler got hold of Jan Struther’s creation, Mrs Miniver.

  She had to laugh at how British society was portrayed; the genteel English village with thatched cottages with roses everywhere, the cut-glass accents. It was a thousand miles away from the life she had known but she thought about how Lady Hester and her mother had bridged the class gap between them somehow after the Great War. Hollywood had such an unrealistic view of little old England with its quaint locals and funny ways, but it pulled no punches about the way it was suffering under the Luftwaffe.

  They were doing the scene in the bombed-out church, being stoical and brave under fire, and Greer Garson doing her upper-crust lady of the manor, but everyone knew her lover was playing her son! She was utterly convincing as the staunch heroine defying the odds as her home was bombed, surviving with the stiff upper lip and Dunkirk spirit that, it was hoped, was going to shock the American public into action.

  Selma had a small part in the church scene where the vicar preached a stirring call to arms to the world. It was all good war propaganda for Europe but others in the cast with boys in the Pacific wanted the studio to focus on hitting the Japs, not going to Europe again.

  Selma had no feelings either way. She’d seen it all before, her heart sickened by the sight of so many young men in uniform, and now Shari had volunteered for service in the American Red Cross abroad. She was proud but fearful. Lisa said they’d keep the girls safe but if she was posted to London she might be in even worse danger from firebombs.

  Lisa was anxious about her fiancé, in the navy. Selma was still living alone in the service flat at Casa Pinto, glad of a bolt hole from the studio set.

  Wartime restrictions had hit the studios: no more use of ironwork; walls must be made of flimsy cotton; nails were to be used sparingly and anything sunk in a battle scene had to be refloated and used again. There were to be few artificial snow scenes as this was wasteful of breakfast cereals. The location work had to be close by and double up for any foreign country needed. There were air-raid shelters and precautions, but everyone seemed to carry on as if the war was a minor inconvenience. Films were good for morale.

  Selma tried not to think about England being at war again, tried to keep the ice in her heart against her own people, but the newsreels were heartbreaking. She’d met two little refugees, Cynthia and Mavis, sent by their Jewish parents for safety to relatives who worked in the studios and soon working on set, with their perfect English accents, acting as schoolgirls. She couldn’t blame these innocent children for what happened to Frank all those years ago.

  There were other residents who fared worse. The American Japanese community was gathered at Santa Anita racetrack as prisoners of war. Soon they were exiled into camps in the valley of the High Sierras out of sight. She had found so many of them kind, quiet, hard-working folk and now they were banished and dismissed as ‘the enemy’.

  She had written a steaming letter to Aunty Ruth saying she knew now about Frank and what were they going to do about it? They told her that the military death penalty was finally abolished for the sort of offence Frank committed. It had taken ten years of political wrangling and debate. Ruth put her straight in blunt Yorkshire language that she had already written to her MP to protest about her nephew’s case.

  Don’t sit back and sulk, Selma, do something. Write and keep writing! One day the matter will be aired properly. It was Frank’s dying wish that you must not be informed. He thought of you so highly. His wishes were honoured at such a cost to Asa and Essie. Don’t go blaming anyone else for that!

  Some of the anger Selma felt evaporated with this knowledge, but Guy’s part in the court martial she would never forget—or Lady Hester’s part. She never wrote to her again. She didn’t trust herself putting pen to paper.

  Everything to do with this matter she kept in a special teak box out of sight from Shari. She was too young to be burdened with such sad facts. Now she was keeping the legacy of silence and shame from Shari, just as had been done to her.

  Ruth said there was still no memorial in Elm Tree Square, and now another war was raging who knew when they’d get round to a decision? They might as well wait for extra names to be added.

  Selma wrote back to apologise, stuffing the parcel full of tins of salmon and fruit and sweets, cookies, ham and butter. That was something she could do for the Broadbents. They had been so kind in the past and it felt good to be giving something back. Soon she began to collect tins and clothes on a regular basis so they could be parcelled up and sent abroad.

  She promised that Shari would look them up if ever she were posted to England. It would be good for her daughter to see the old country in its rough grandeur and muck. Yorkshire was about as far from Mrs Miniver’s fake English set as she was from the moon!

  23

  Charlie spent the long journey across the Atlantic praying that his stomach wouldn’t come out of his throat. He’d never retched so much in his life. If this was going to sea you could keep it. Most of his buddies were hanging over the sides as they zigzagged their course, convinced the U-boats would be following alongside ready to pounce on the convoy. They played cards and at first he opted out, trying to keep up old habits from his church life but there wasn’t much else to do but pray. You can get mighty holy when there’s a wolf pack prowling in search of you.

  He’d passed all the exams and aptitude tests. There was a chance for him to go for officer training but as he watched the waves lashing the sides of the ship, spraying him with ice-cold water, he wondered what he’d gone and done in signing up. He could still see his ma’s face trying not to cry; hear his father’s stricken pleas for him to change his mind. That final view of all he held dear, lost for ever because of his principles.

  What a shock army life was: one rule after another, fitness regimes, marching parades, bunking with strangers, and all that lecture stuff on how they must behave towards the British civilians. Don’t criticise the King and Queen or say it was us that won the last war. Don’t be greedy if you’re asked to tea. They will be giving you their rations. Always take something with you, and never talk politics or religion, it is bad form. What would these Brits be like?

  He had to remind himself that he was English on his father’s side. His family had once lived in Yorkshire
and he went to school there at a place called Sharland. That was about all he knew except that his father had a twin brother who died in the war.

  For some time he’d been curious about his family history but could never draw Pa out. He’d been in the Merchant Navy but apart from a few details the rest was shrouded in mystery. There was enough, though, to find out a bit more. He had sensed for a long time that Pa was a troubled man before he met the Yoders and joined the Church. There was more to Charles West senior and he meant to find out just what sort of family he came from to satisfy himself once and for all.

  He’d devised a way of communication with his parents that they couldn’t ignore. He was going to send postcards in envelopes with no message, just pictures unsigned; a gift of pictures so they knew just where he was, even if they couldn’t respond. He knew they loved him, and in the end that loving concern would soften them, but it was all too raw and hurtful to them at the moment. So they’d be getting postcards from New York, and whatever port they landed in next, Ireland, Scotland…nothing would stop him sending them his love. Even in this disobedience to their rule, he would not be ignored.

  Shari sat in the tiny sitting room off Ivy Dene, while Aunty Ruth hovered over her with excitement. ‘I can’t believe it’s you after all these years. So grown up and smart in your uniform…We’ve only had two pictures to go by, haven’t we, Sam? You’ll have to shout, he’s gone quite deaf,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know who you take after. Not your mother, except you’ve got her father’s black eyes, but that hair, such a colour. I’ve never seen owt like it…like autumn leaves.’

  ‘Maple syrup, my mom calls it. That comes from my dad. He’s Scotch like the whisky.’

  ‘We saw the film Mrs Miniver. Everyone wept buckets. Not that it looks anything like that round here, of course. I’d have missed Selma if she hadn’t told me where to look for her. She’s put on a bit of weight since I last saw her.’

  ‘She loves her ice-cream sodas,’ Shari said, thinking how cosy it was to be sitting here with someone who knew her own family.

  ‘We’ve forgotten what they’re like, it’s been so long. But what can I get you? Some tea?’

  ‘Tea, no milk…that’ll be fine.’ Shari remembered the instructions and brought out cookies and chocolate as a gift.

  ‘You’re lucky it was baking day. I’ve got some scones with some rhubarb jam, and ginger parkin, and what’s all this you’ve brought?’

  ‘For you and Uncle Sam.’ Shari produced some more tins out of her bag.

  ‘There was no need for that, but thank you.’ Ruth flushed. ‘Your mother’s so good to us, but I think a few of her parcels have gone missing at the port. We number our letters now so we can tell if one of the parcels is out of sync.’

  ‘Before I go, I want to see all the family pictures to know who I am on this side of the pond. Mom doesn’t tell me much, you know,’ Shari laughed. Aunty Ruth was exactly how she’d pictured her, round, warm and neat as a pin.

  ‘Not before we sit down to tea. You have to learn, at four thirty or five we British like to take tea, biscuits, whatever we can scrounge, just to pause and take stock of the day. I got my best china out and washed it especially. Rationing is hard, but it’s fair, and I reckon some folks are better fed than they ever were. Whatever we’ve got, it looks better on a pretty china plate, don’t you think? I learned that from my mam.’

  ‘Where was that?’ asked Shari.

  ‘In a little village near Settle not far from West Sharland.’

  ‘That’s where my name come from. I’ll have to see that for myself one day,’ Shari replied.

  ‘It’s only up the Dale, very pretty. We’ll have a run out one day, if we can get some petrol.’

  ‘Petrol?’ Sam came alive. ‘There’s no coupons to be had.’

  ‘Well, we’ll borrow some when Shari comes again. You will come again?’ urged Ruth.

  ‘Sure, now I’ve found you folks,’ Shari replied.

  ‘We weren’t blessed with little ones so we’re going to spoil you, young lady. I love to hear you speaking. Straight out of the pictures, you sound. Didn’t you fancy being in the pictures yourself?’ Ruth asked.

  Shari smiled. ‘One in the family is enough. No, I love what I’m doing here, and based at a new place that’s just opened called the Rainbow Club. We run all the office work upstairs. When the American army arrives or is on the move, the Red Cross isn’t far behind with welfare clubs, shows and comforts for our troops.’

  ‘I hope they keep you at the front desk. You’d cheer up any gloom with that big smile of yours. They’re lucky to have you.’

  ‘I could have stayed stateside but I felt I wanted to come over to Europe to do my bit. I gather my uncles did their duty in the last show.’

  ‘Aye, lass, and paid for it. Your poor grandparents never got over it. Your grandfather had the forge in Sharland and he was a blacksmith. It’s a garage now. Such a shame it took a war to bring you over here. The last visit was a sad one for your mother. I suppose she told you about it…But enough of this. Tell us all about your life in California. It sounds so warm and wonderful, and here is so drab and wet.’

  ‘I don’t mind. It’s different. I’m getting used to the air. I can see why English girls have such lovely skins. We have so much sun we end up with faces like alligator hide if we don’t cover up.’

  They chatted and drank tea until Shari was busting. ‘Can you show me where Lisa lived? I promised to give her a full account of my visit.’

  Ruth pointed up the road to Rose Villa. ‘They were a lovely family, the Greenwoods. Is Lisa married yet?’

  ‘Almost. Her fiancé is in the navy.’ Shari pulled out a picture of them all lined up on the lawn of Casa Pinto, everyone laughing round the swimming pool.

  ‘Mrs Levine was away, so we got to use the pool. We don’t always live in such luxury, though.’

  ‘It makes my poor room look very pokey.’

  ‘You have a home here, Aunty. Pearl has a house. It’s mostly empty, full of dust sheets. It’s just a shell. Mom has a nice flat, though.’

  ‘You say the nicest things, Sharland. I can see we’re going to get along. Make this a home while you’re in England. Now we’ve found you, we’d love to have you stay.’

  Shari hugged them both when she left for the station and the London train. This was what Mom called a real Yorkshire welcome: a crackling fire, a plate of warm biscuits and jam, cake, pots of tea and family chatter. They knew her mother when she was a girl, her grandparents, her great-grandparents the Ackroyds; a whole side of herself she’d never explored until now.

  There had only ever been the two of them. She ought to find out about the Barrs in Glasgow. But her father had often painted such a terrible picture about that side of her family. She had no desire to meet the parents who’d made her own pa so feckless and unreliable. This was her first venture north and she liked what she saw. She hoped she could get back for Christmas.

  In July 1942 Charlie sent postcards from Liverpool dock and Warrington. How could he describe the broken horrific sight of the bombed city, the grimy docklands, the devastation around him as they disembarked? That was all he could find to show them where he was in the north of England, helping with the transfer from the RAF base at Burtonwood into the United States Army Air Force service centre for US aircraft maintenance and supplies.

  It was a huge airfield with thousands of personnel to be housed in Nissen huts alongside the service station. It was like little America on British soil, with their own shops and recreation halls, canteens and baseball teams. He could go for weeks and never hear a British voice except in the canteen or outside the dance hall.

  Sometimes he felt like a worker ant scurrying away, but his mechanical expertise was needed. He’d earned his sergeant’s stripes and took no cheek from his men. They seemed to respect him because he didn’t curse and swear at them, didn’t drink or go with women. It just wasn’t his way.

  He looked at some of those girls h
anging round the camp with painted faces and frozen bare legs, eyeing him up with interest. He kept thinking of his sister Lorrie, who was about their age. How would he feel if she was one of them, touting her charms for a pair of nylons?

  Men would be men and take their chance if it was offered so blatantly on a plate. But he’d rather go hungry than use a girl and dancing wasn’t much his scene either. It wasn’t like the sort of barn dance frolics he was used to, more an animalistic sort of mating frenzy. This was when he felt so out of touch with his peers. It was as if he had skipped a whole lusty growing stage. In his Church, courtship was a quiet ordered affair between families, nothing rushed or romantic. He wasn’t a regular GI Joe at all. On his leave and twenty-four-hour passes he headed off into the Cheshire countryside to get his bearings, wandering through the ancient towns, admiring the architecture and the churches. That’s when he found people suspicious if he asked for postcards, thinking he was spying out the land.

  Then one liberty pass he persuaded a friendly mechanic to loan him a Jeep. He was going to head north to the distant hills of Lancashire and see if he could find that school of Pa’s. His friend Gary wasn’t going to let him out of his sight.

  ‘I’m coming with you, just in case. For a farmer’s boy you drive like you have never ridden on four wheels in your life.’ Charlie laughed, wondering what Gary Ambler would think if he knew how his father had struggled with his conscience to own a tractor. It was hidden in the barn for days before he dared bring it out and use it.

  They took a compass and kept driving north through the grimy cotton towns of Atherton, Leigh, Bolton, Burnley, and onwards to a great town with a castle at the end of the High Street, called Skipton. They stopped to admire the sight and asked directions as there were no signposts to guide them.

  It was early winter by now, and cold and snowy on the ground. The hills rose up majestically and the houses were of the same limestone as Springville. By the time they reached Sowerthwaite, it was almost dusk, and they were guided up a narrow lane towards West Sharland.