Her Father's Daughter

by Beezy Marsh

  ‘Nothing,’ she lied, blushing and returning to her typewriter. She started tapping out the details of the ships docking over the past week – their tonnage and freight.

  He touched her lightly on the shoulder, which was unexpected, and she turned and found herself gazing up into his eyes, which were so green and reminded Kitty of an agate brooch that her mother wore.

  ‘Is it a letter from your brother?’ He gave her such a look of concern that it was pointless lying to him.

  ‘Yes.’ She pulled the crumpled paper from her jacket pocket. ‘It is.’

  ‘It’s fine to take time to read it,’ he said softly. ‘I know it must be terribly hard to have family away fighting. He’s a brave lad, your brother, by all accounts.’

  ‘Do you have anyone over in France, Mr Philpott?’ She’d asked the question before she could stop herself. She only hoped he wouldn’t find it impertinent.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never married so there are no Philpott minors; there’s just myself and my mother these days.’ He ran his hands through his wavy hair, which was dark brown, like a chestnut. ‘I’m always here to talk, if you need to share the burden.’

  ‘I see,’ said Kitty, who wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more about Mr Philpott’s family circumstances or share anything more than proofreading duties with him. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  He gave her a little smile and turned on his heel to go back to his office, which was half-glazed so that he could keep an eye on what his staff were up to. He never closed the door so that he could eavesdrop too; well, probably. He wasn’t a bad boss, though. She was still pondering how old he was; he had a calm air of authority like older gentlemen, but there was a sort of bounce to his step, which made him seem younger. Not that any of that mattered one jot to Kitty.

  He expected the highest standards, but he gave praise where it was due. He’d never raised his voice to her, as he did with the other staff, particularly Gerald, the portly chief sub-editor, who was renowned for his long lunches and had once fallen asleep under his desk. But Kitty didn’t want to feel that she was being treated any differently just because she was a woman.

  She worked every bit as hard as the men, if not harder, and was only too happy to proofread late into the evening, even when she was so tired that she was squinting. The blokes all grumbled about staying late these days because the pubs stopped serving after nine p.m., due to the war-time restrictions on alcohol. More often than not, Kitty would volunteer to stay behind with Mr Philpott, to painstakingly pick their way through page after page of small print about ships, checking for errors, while everyone else trooped off for a well-earned pint. Mr Philpott would light his pipe, put it down, mislay it and she would find it for him. Then he’d pat about his waistcoat for his matches and it would fall to Kitty to find those as well, just as she had done the first time they met. Not that she dwelled too much on that occasion. It had been a memorable and happy day because she’d got herself a proper job – man’s work.

  The light was fading as she left the office, and the first chill of autumn was making itself felt on the evening air. She pulled her coat around her and glanced upwards to spot Mr Philpott at the window. He gave her a little nod and she smiled up at him, more out of politeness than anything else.

  For some reason, she couldn’t get the image of Mr Philpott out of her head as she wandered up Percy Street towards Grey’s Monument to board the tram home. In the end, to banish him, she started humming a nursery rhyme that Dad used to sing to her when she sat on his knee as a little girl – ‘This is the way the ladies ride, trit-trot, trit-trot’ – and she thought about Harry astride Domino, hauling the heavy guns to the front, the rattle of the metal wheels on the French roads and then the deafening roar of shelling and explosions as the horses sank in the thick mud of the battlefield, struggling with their load; then the shouts of the soldiers and the screams of the injured. It was an awful thought but she’d overheard the sub-editors talking about the shocking truth of battle, and wounded soldiers seemed to be everywhere in Newcastle these days, dressed in their blue hospital uniforms, with their distinctive scarlet ties. Their missing limbs and terrible scars were proof enough of the horror of war. And they were the lucky ones.

  She didn’t have much time for God, not after what had happened to her father, because although she’d prayed so hard, God hadn’t helped. Now, for Harry’s sake, she was prepared to turn to Him once more and as she waited for the tram she offered up a silent prayer to keep Harry safe. In her mind’s eye she saw her brother loading the shells and taking cover as the gun recoiled and they exploded on their target, the air thick with smoke and shrapnel.

  The tram screeched to a halt in front of her and she boarded. She paid a penny fare, not to the conductor, but to a conductress. So many women were working on the buses and the trams now, it had become commonplace, even though such a thing would have been unthinkable before the war. She’d even seen women dressed in police uniforms patrolling the city streets. The suffragettes had ceased their campaigning at the outbreak of war, at the behest of their leader, Mrs Pankhurst, but no one could have imagined that the loss of life on the Western Front would lead to such a change of opinion towards women doing men’s jobs.

  Women had proved themselves, in the most terrible of circumstances, but the question in the back of Kitty’s mind was what would happen once the war was over? Everyone wanted that moment to come and it seemed wrong to talk about the future of the female workforce once men returned from the trenches, but Kitty was thinking about it because she didn’t want to go back to being just a shorthand typist again. She was enjoying her job so much.

  And then, just like that, despite her best efforts, she was back to thinking of that damned Mr Philpott again, with his eyes as green as agate.

  Kitty wrote often to Harry, filling him in on the most mundane details of her daily life, and she’d taken to embroidering things for him, just little keepsakes, to stop herself going mad with worry. But it was nearly a fortnight before she received another letter from him and her hands were shaking with excitement as she opened it.

  Somewhere in France

  29th September 1916

  Dearest Kitty,

  Your prayers have been answered and I am safely back from my spell at the front. Came back with fleas all over me, worse than the neighbour’s cat! Next time, please mention that to the Good Lord Almighty and ask him to send hot water and Borax. Thanks so much for the baccy and the chocolate. A real treat and keeping my spirits up. The embroidered handkerchiefs are lovely – Top Hat and Domino are honoured that you have captured their likenesses so beautifully. I always knew you were a dab hand with the needle and thread, Kit, but they are so special to me. I can imagine you in the parlour working away on them. And they’re just what I need to keep my runny nose at bay!

  We’re on a respite now for a week, which means lots of drills and checking over the guns plus a rest for the horses before we move on – Flanders most likely but we won’t know for certain for a few days yet. Domino is in good spirits. Top Hat showed signs of lameness, but he’s had a poultice and is doing much better. Tough as old boots, just like me. Talking of which, I’d love some more woollen socks if you can persuade Mum to knit me some to match the ones you sent. We have a hell of a job getting things dry.

  Godspeed. I’m sorry I haven’t asked how your work is going, Kit, silly of me. I do hope you have got those men in the office marching to your tune by now!

  Yours, lice-ridden but with love,

  Harry xxx

  He wrote letters to Mum too, of course, and that meant the pleasure of hearing from him was doubled, because he managed to report different things to them both. He was delighted to hear that Mum had been keeping so busy with charitable work to help the war effort and passed on his good wishes to her new acquaintances, the Misses Dalton – a pair of spinsters who were pillars of the local church, and helped to organize a voluntary fund for the military hospitals in the city.r />
  The Misses Dalton had even come round for tea one day last week, which had left Mum in a state of high excitement. She’d dusted off her best china and used all the sugar and dried fruit in the pantry to make a cake for them.

  With their lace collars, starched bosoms and rustling silk skirts, they reminded Kitty of Queen Mary herself, but in duplicate, and they were quite scandalized when they heard from Mum that Kitty was working in an office as a sub-editor.

  ‘An office full of men! How extraordinary!’ they chorused.

  The next time they came calling, they peered at Kitty through their pince-nez spectacles as if she were a curiosity at a funfair. Kitty knew how much it meant to Mum to have their company, so she was always polite, answering all their questions about her work, which seemed to impress them more with every passing week.

  ‘You are so very modern, Kitty,’ they’d say, as Mum poured the tea. ‘But aren’t there any fine-looking journalists in the office who might catch the eye of a lovely girl such as yourself?’

  Kitty shook her head and they listened intently as she told them all about Mr Philpott and his many editorials about important subjects in the shipping world, which were very widely read among the powers that be, not only in Newcastle but also in London. Rumour had it that the Prime Minister himself was an avid reader of his column. So, it was perfectly clear to everyone that, with her workload, she had no time for romance. That was just for giddy girls, not working women.

  A particular concern of Mr Philpott’s was the sinking of so many ships that had been built on Tyneside, particularly after the Battle of Jutland back in the summer. The whole city felt their loss, because the shipyards were part of the lifeblood of the community and everyone poured their hopes for victory into them, for the war effort. The incessant hammering of the rivets into iron and steel rang out along the Tyne from Newcastle all the way to the North Sea and when a ship was sunk, it was like losing a member of the family.

  A further menace was the German submarines sinking British merchant vessels, which only made food shortages worse, particularly after the potato crop had failed earlier in the year. Doctors had even seen cases of scurvy amongst the poorest children. The Misses Dalton had already helped set up a soup kitchen for the needy in the church hall, but they were planning to do more. Mum wanted to help but Kitty was worried that they barely had enough to feed themselves some days. Mum spent long hours queuing to get vegetables and fruit, often only to find that they had all sold out by the time it was her turn to be served. A decent cut of meat was hard to come by and everyone knew that the baker was adding sawdust and Lord knows what else to the bread to make it go further. The submarine blockades had stopped grain being imported and with so many men and horses away at the front, farms were struggling to keep pace with demand.

  The hunger didn’t bother Kitty; she’d focus on her work, the words and proofreading. Besides, just being around Mr Philpott in the office seemed to take the edge off her appetite most days.

  They struggled on through Christmas and New Year, feeling guilty for opening their presents in the comfort of their home while Harry was in the trenches. And whatever hardships they faced in Newcastle paled into insignificance next to what Harry was going through, as his letters showed that winter.

  Somewhere in Flanders

  February 1917

  Ghastly few days. The brigade has suffered much but we are not broken, Kit. Top Hat and Domino, fine animals, showed their strength and bravery under a heavy artillery barrage from the Hun and are now having a well-earned rest.

  It’s freezing cold here, snow on the ground. We do what we can in our dug-outs with straw and firewood to make them cosy. Our rations of bully beef are not enough to feed a fly so I’m grateful for the extras, Kit, and though we get our tot of rum and a smear of axle grease on our biscuits, it’s nothing like the parlour at home. How I miss you all. I have waking dreams, Kit, of Simonside Terrace and even on the darkest nights when I cannot sleep, Lily Avenue, as it was, the four of us, with Dad and his betting slips and Mum fussing around making steak and kidney puddings. It brings me such comfort. I could reach out and touch you all.

  I am your loving brother, Kitty, and tell Mum she can hold her head high in Newcastle because everything I am doing here is not only for our country but for our family name.

  Harry xxx

  10

  Harry

  Cambrai, France, 30th November 1917

  Artillery barrage to be put down in support of infantry operations today on GILLEMONT FARM and the KNOLL at Honnecourt, following smoke shell bombardment.

  At ten minutes before zero, smoke shells will be fired from 4.5 Howitzers into the trenches to encourage the enemy to put gas masks on, if the wind is favourable.

  The battalion will form up in NO MAN’S LAND about 300 yards from our positions and attack with four companies in line. The infantry will advance at ZERO. ZERO will be 06.20 a.m. Heavy artillery barrage to be put down at 06.30 a.m.

  Harassing fire by a few 18-pounders will take place at the same time and on the same targets as given above for the 4.5 Howitzers, with due regard for the safety of our own troops.

  Zero plus ten to zero plus twenty, 3 rounds per gun per minute.

  Zero plus twenty to zero plus twenty-five, 2 rounds per gun per minute.

  Zero plus twenty-five – CEASE FIRE.

  Two guns will move in a creeping barrage to assist the defensive barrage. Every platoon will be issued with SOS signals and observation posts will be held in the craters to watch for these and repeat them.

  Machine guns will bring indirect fire on the ground and be held in reserve when the SOS goes up, to assist the defensive barrage.

  Watches will be synchronized by an officer from the heavy artillery batteries.

  The village of EPEHY is to be held at all costs.

  ACKNOWLEDGE

  After the sea of mud at the Somme, the chalky French soil of Cambrai came as a relief, but the bitter winter wind that whipped across the desolate landscape offered little comfort and the pain of the biting cold rendered Harry and his pals dumb in their dug-outs.

  There were those who jabbered incessantly through the night in the grip of trench fever, which many saw as a fate worse than taking a German bullet. There was one who sang ‘Blaydon Races’ at the top of his lungs at all hours until the sergeant had him taken away because no one got any rest. It was never the most obvious candidates who went doolally; not the quiet, shy ones, but the most chatty and cheerful, the ones who’d not be out of place getting lairy after a few pints in the Bigg Market back home. Harry had resolved early on to keep his own counsel. People seemed to respect that.

  As the brigade made ready for battle at first light, they were enveloped in a thick and freezing fog, heavier than the early morning fret on the Tyne. At the head of the column, Harry could only hear the shouts of the gunners as they attached the harnesses at the rear and made ready the ammunition wagon. The horses always got a bit skittish before zero hour, stamping their hooves in readiness, great clouds of condensation rising from their nostrils. But Domino stood stock-still, waiting for Harry to give the order to move off.

  They were stretched thinly along the front, it had to be said, with the whole division defending about thirteen thousand yards of trenches and fortified posts, supported by just two brigades of field artillery.

  Harry climbed up into the saddle, settled his feet into the stirrups and touched the packet of letters from Kitty that he kept in his breast pocket for good luck. They were wrapped in a handkerchief she’d embroidered for him, of the horse with a white blaze down his nose. Poor old Top Hat. Harry had made sure he didn’t suffer in the end. Top Hat had broken his leg falling down a shell hole on the Ypres Salient. Harry had pulled out his gun, patted the horse’s muzzle, said his farewells, and fired a good clean shot between the animal’s ears, to put him out of his misery.

  He hadn’t the heart to tell Kitty. She lived for all the tales about Top Hat and Domino, thei
r bravery under fire, what they got up to when the battle was over and how they gave the sergeant gyp. Of course, Harry was acting sergeant now, a German sniper had seen to that a few months back, but he didn’t tell Kitty or Mum that either because they’d only worry about him. Harry had to admit, it gave him something to think about too, keeping all those stories going for his sister, recreating battles in which the horses were heroes and the men lived to fight another day.

  It was true that Domino was a diamond and Harry would never be happy going into battle without him. He’d heard about it from other brigades, when the lead driver had lost his best animal and then their luck changed. As long as Domino was with him, he’d get through it. He reached down and gave him a little pat on his flank, just as he always did before they set off.

  So many pals of the 55th had perished in the mud of the Somme and Ypres; Flers-Courcelette, Morval, the Menin Road Ridge, Passchendaele. They were just foreign names to folks back home but to him they were a living nightmare, of men drowning in a sea of mud, the screams of the dying, the sky blackened by smoke from the endless artillery barrages and the air thick with the stench of death and cordite. The gas, oh God, the mustard gas; the poor sods who’d been blinded, their eyes covered with thick bandages, feeling their way, hands on each other’s shoulders, the burning pain etched on their faces. He’d rather die, like his mate Robbo, who had his head blown clean off his shoulders by an enemy mortar, than face that agony.

  Harry knew the desperation of hurling himself into a freezing, muddy trench at nightfall to take cover from enemy machine gunfire; the horror of opening his eyes at first light, the rain pattering on his face, to find he was sleeping with men who would never wake and the rats were already at work, gnawing at their fingers. The sight and smell of the dead rotting in flooded shell holes haunted his dreams. So, there was no shame in lying to his family. He was doing a job that would make them proud, even if he couldn’t tell them the half of it.