by Pamela Bell
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ Ralph dragged a hand over his face. ‘I heard about your father. I couldn’t just ignore it. He was a good man and I wanted to pay my respects but you’re right, I shouldn’t have come. But that’s why I wanted to talk to you today,’ he said, catching hold of Maggie’s hands and refusing to let her tug them away. ‘Let’s go away. Today,’ he said urgently. ‘Your father’s gone. There’s nothing to keep you in Beckindale now.’
‘Ralph, I can’t.’
‘You can! You love me, Maggie. I know you do.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said slowly. ‘But I’m married. It’s too late.’
He gripped her fingers. ‘Don’t say that! We’ll go to New Zealand. A friend of mine has gone out to run a sheep station. We could do that,’ he said, and Maggie laughed shakily.
‘You don’t know anything about sheep, Ralph, and nor do I. We may have grown up in the Dales surrounded by sheep, but we’ve never actually had to do anything with them.’
‘We could learn. Or we’ll do something else,’ he said ‘I’ll come into money when I’m twenty-five. That’s only another year away. It’ll be a fresh start for us both. No one will know or care if we’re really married or not.’
‘I will,’ said Maggie, extricating her hands from his at last. ‘I promised. I don’t love Joe, but I made promises to him and that’s all I have left.’
How could she make him understand? ‘I’ve lost Andrew, I’ve lost my father, I’ve lost High Moor. The only thing I have now, the only thing that makes me still feel like Maggie Oldroyd, is the fact that I keep my promises. If I don’t do that, if I tell Joe that my promise was only good as long as my father was alive, or until you came back, or until I wanted to do something else, then what good is my word?’
Ralph’s shoulders slumped. ‘So that’s it? This is goodbye?’
‘It has to be,’ said Maggie with difficulty. ‘We can’t meet like this, Ralph. It hurts too much. And I don’t think there’s much point in pretending that we can be just friends, do you?’ Joe would never allow it anyway.
‘I’ll always be a friend to you, Maggie,’ he said. ‘But you’re right, we’re so much more than friends. That’s why this feels so wrong.’ He paced in a circle, raking his hands through his hair in despair. ‘It’s so rare to find someone to love the way we love each other! Leaving you before was like tearing off a part of me. Don’t ask me to do it again.’
‘You must, Ralph. ‘You need to find someone else to love, to marry.’
‘No.’ He shook his head without hesitation. ‘That wouldn’t be fair. There’s only ever going to be you, Maggie.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice cracked at last. ‘Oh, Ralph, I’m sorry. I love you, I do, but we can’t do this. It’s wrong.’
‘You won’t change your mind?’
She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak.
There was a silence while Ralph examined her face for doubt or hesitation, until he let out a long sigh.
‘Very well. We’ll say goodbye.’
Later Maggie couldn’t remember if she stepped towards him, or if he pulled her into his arms, but suddenly she was where she wanted to be, held against the lovely lean length of him, they kissed desperately, hungrily, pressing closer and closer to store up memories for a lifetime of missing each other. The buttons on his waistcoat pressing through her cotton dress. His clean male scent. His hard body, his hands moving insistently over her, how the feel of them made her blood thump with desire.
For the first time since leaving High Moor, Maggie felt as if she had come home. This was where she belonged, in Ralph’s arms. Abandoning herself to the swirling pleasure of his mouth on hers, Maggie wavered. Of course she did.
The longing to abandon herself to him beat at her, and her hands tightened on his shoulders before she forced her fingers to relax, to smooth down to his chest, savouring the texture of his waistcoat, feeling his heart thudding beneath her palm.
‘I love you, Ralph,’ she managed in a voice that wobbled treacherously. ‘I’ll always love you, but I have to go.’ Somehow she made herself step out of his arms. ‘Toby, come.’
She couldn’t look at Ralph as he helped her back up the river bank and held the branches of the elderflower so that she could pass.
‘Goodbye, my love,’ he said quietly.
Maggie could only nod an abrupt farewell and march up the lane with Toby prancing beside her, her whole body screaming in protest at leaving Ralph. Her eyes were so blinded by the tears she despised that she didn’t notice Ava Bainbridge who had stepped sharply behind a tree as the two figures emerged from the riverbank and who was now watching her go with a spiteful smile.
Chapter Five
‘It’s war then.’ Charles Haywood laid down The Times and looked around the breakfast table at the vicarage with satisfaction. ‘Thank God we can all now hold our heads up high.’
‘I don’t know why you’re sounding so pleased, Papa.’ Rose buttered her toast crossly. ‘War is a bad thing, isn’t it?’
‘Senseless war, perhaps, but this is a question of honour, Rose, as I have tried to explain to you.’ Her father regarded her with a mixture of doting fondness and exasperation. ‘The Kaiser is intent on taking over Europe and if we do not stop him, who will? We English have always stood up to bullies and if we had not stood by France now, well, I for one would have been ashamed. Instead, we will be fighting for justice and freedom and honour, so yes, I am pleased that the right decision has been taken – and so should you be.’
Rose didn’t think she had ever felt less pleased, but she couldn’t really blame the war. The truth was that she had been feeling peevish ever since Mr Oldroyd’s funeral. When her mother had asked why she was so irritable, she had said that it was because of the heat, but that wasn’t true either. Besides, the hot, dry spell had broken at last and rain was pattering against the dining room windows.
No, the scratchy, edgy feeling dated back to the moment Rose had seen Ralph look at Maggie Sugden. She had been standing right beside Maggie, but Ralph hadn’t even seen her. She might as well have been a teapot! The heat in his eyes had made Rose feel silly for loving him. The way they had looked at each other, that surge in the air, had made Rose feel … excluded, she decided at last.
She was jealous of Maggie, that was the truth of it. Maggie had lost her father, lost her brother, lost her home and was isolated at Emmerdale Farm and married to that awful Joe Sugden while she, Rose, had everything. Her existence was a pampered one, Rose was well aware. She had a wonderful father, a sensible mother and her brothers, John, who she adored, and Arthur. Arthur was irritating, of course, but still, he was family. She lived in this comfortable vicarage with a maid and a woman to do the rough work. Her family might not be grand, but they had connections.
Rose was ashamed of herself for feeling jealous of Maggie, but she couldn’t deny it.
Ever since she had been a tiny girl, her father had boasted of her beauty and promised to find her a husband. Until the prospect of war had loomed, he had talked of sending her to London to stay with her aunt so that she could have a chance of meeting a suitable husband, and Rose had been thrilled at the idea of balls and concerts and dinners.
But then Ralph had come home and she had realised that her feelings for him were more than just a schoolgirl crush. This ache in the pit of her stomach, this certainty that she would never meet anyone she wanted the way she wanted Ralph, this must be real love. Why would she want to go to London to find a husband when the perfect husband was right here in Beckindale?
Rose had known of his passion for Maggie, of course, but she hadn’t seen it for herself. She hadn’t understood it, and now she did. Ralph was never going to love her like that. She was spoilt, Rose knew. Until now, she had never had to accept that she couldn’t have what she wanted, and now she did. Was it any wonder that she was out of sorts?
She was not the only one on edge, though. Everyone had been keyed up since her father’s sermon on
Sunday. Papa was obsessed with the news at the moment and was constantly rushing to the newsagent’s where notices of the main news were put up in the window, or up to Miffield Hall to see if Lord Miffield had any telegrams.
So they had known about the ultimatum the government had issued to Germany. Withdraw troops from Belgium, or there will be war. Assurances that the Germans would leave had to reach the Prime Minister by eleven o’clock the previous night. Rose and her brothers had been playing cards while their father paced around the drawing room, constantly checking his pocket watch. Edith, her mother, had carried on sewing calmly, but once or twice Rose had seen her glance at her husband and the muscles in her jaw had twitched as if she were gritting her teeth.
John had been up at dawn to cycle into Ilkley to meet the early train, knowing that his father would be on tenterhooks for news from London.
Gentle and sensitive, her favourite brother was the exact opposite of Papa, who had charisma, a word Rose had only recently learnt but which described her father perfectly. When Papa talked, people listened. When he walked into a room, everyone sat up. And his children were just as much under his spell as anyone else. Rose understood exactly why her brother was so desperate to please their father. He had never captained the rugby team or excelled at debating the way Papa had. Papa never said anything, but John must have known that he was disappointed.
So his face had been flushed with triumph when he strode into the vicarage dining room a few minutes earlier and presented his father with a selection of newspapers, all with the same momentous news. ‘We are at war,’ he said.
Her mother’s exclamation of distress had been quite drowned out by Papa’s shout.
John brought back news of crowds at the station, all waiting for the train with the papers from London. They had stood five deep around the newsagent’s window, too, reading the notice about the declaration of war which had been signed by the King the previous night.
‘Everyone was excited,’ John had reported while Charles devoured the papers. ‘Anxious too, of course, but it felt like we were part of something historic.’
‘We?’
The faintest of flushes stained John’s cheekbones. ‘Robert Carr was there to pick up the newspapers for Mr Bates.’
‘The newsagent’s boy?’ Rose’s father asked absently, scouring the pages of the newspaper. ‘Is that his name?’
John’s mouth tightened. ‘He’s more than a boy. He’s twenty, the same age as me.’
‘It must have been exciting,’ Rose put in and he smiled at her gratefully.
‘It was. And then when we got back to Beckindale, you wouldn’t think anything momentous had happened at all! Everything was just the same as ever.’
‘That’s because nothing ever happens in Beckindale,’ Rose sighed extravagantly. ‘The King and the Kaiser could have a duel to the death outside the Woolpack and everyone here would keep talking about hay-time and whose havercakes got burnt and why Ralph Verney has really come home. I can’t imagine anything ever changing here!’
‘I doubt very much that we’ll be that lucky,’ her mother said quietly. She had been pushing scrambled eggs around her plate and now she put down her fork. ‘John dear, would you like me to get Mildred to make some fresh eggs? You must be hungry after that ride.’
‘Toast is fine, thank you, Mother,’ said John. ‘I’d better get used to short rations,’ he added quietly.
There was a pause. Edith’s cup rattled in the saucer and she put it unsteadily down on the table. ‘Oh John, you didn’t …?’
John answered her unspoken question with a nod. ‘I went to see the adjutant when I was in Ilkley and enlisted straight away.’ He glanced shyly at his father. ‘I thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘I expected no less.’ Her father was beaming. He picked up the Daily Express to show them the headline again: England expects that every man will do his duty. ‘And you have done your duty, John. Without hesitation. I am proud of you, my son. Very proud.’
John glowed at his praise. Rose wanted to be proud of him but she could see that her mother had gone white. She watched as Edith made to pick up her cup and saucer once more, but the china rattled as her hand trembled with the effort of speaking calmly.
‘But what about university?’ she said to John. ‘You have only a year left and then you can go into the Church as you planned. Could you not do just as much good that way as by fighting?’ she said, and Rose winced at the pleading note in her voice. ‘We would we just as proud of you then, would we not, Charles? It has always been your dearest wish that John should follow you into the Church, hasn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, of course, my dear, but in the circumstances …’ Rose’s father was clearly disappointed at his wife’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘This is a just war,’ he reminded her firmly. ‘We will be fighting with God on our side for the future of civilisation and Christianity itself. What could be more important than that? John is an able-bodied young man. He will make a fine officer, and the Church will still be there when war is over, which pray God will be soon.’
‘You mustn’t worry, Mother,’ said John. ‘I’m looking forward to doing my duty.’
Rose put down her toast. Papa made war sound glorious, and Rose had been able to cheer when it was about faceless soldiers fighting far away. But now her gentle brother would be fighting. John had always been bullied at school. How would he get on in the army? Her mother’s reaction suddenly made sense.
‘Oh, John, you’re not really going to join up, are you?’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I wish you wouldn’t! What if something happened to you?
‘Well, you females certainly know how to spoil a fellow’s moment of glory,’ her father said, throwing down the paper once more in exasperation. ‘You should be telling John how proud you are, not weeping and wailing.’
‘Rose and I are not weeping or wailing,’ her mother pointed out quietly. ‘And of course we are proud of John’s bravery in volunteering without question, but you must allow us some trepidation too. I cannot imagine any mother waving her son off to war without a qualm.’
‘I wish I could join up,’ Arthur sighed before Papa could respond to her mother’s reproof.
Rose wondered if she would have felt so upset if Arthur had been the one to enlist. Her younger brother was much more like Papa, although without the charisma, and of course Papa wasn’t annoying in the way Arthur was. At fourteen, he was a boisterous boy, tall and well-built and ruddy featured like their father. Home from school from the holidays, he had been making Rose’s life a misery. She couldn’t wait for the new term to begin.
Arthur would do fine as a soldier, Rose decided. John, though … She understood why he had signed up, but she wished he hadn’t.
‘You are not to think of it,’ said Edith sharply.
‘Besides, you’re only fourteen,’ Rose added. ‘You’re just a boy.’
‘Yes, you are too young,’ her father said, but he was obviously pleased at his younger son’s enthusiasm. ‘You must continue at school for now.’
Arthur scowled. ‘It’s not fair that John should have all the fun! I should think it would be jolly exciting to fight the Germans. I’d rather do that than go back to school!’
Edith pushed back her chair abruptly, irritably waving to Charles, John and Arthur to keep their seats. ‘Stay and finish your breakfast. I will ask Mildred to come and clear later but I must get on. War or no war, there are things to be done.’
Her voice was high and tight, and they all looked at each other in silence as she left the room.
Her father cleared his throat. ‘Don’t take any notice of your mother, John. She’s upset, naturally, but you mustn’t take it to heart. Females always imagine the worst that can happen.’
The worst that could happen was that John would die, Rose realised and her stomach churned sickeningly.
‘Wouldn’t it be better if we could do something, Papa, instead of just imagining the worst?’ she asked, and her father looked taken
aback before swiftly recovering his assurance.
‘There will be plenty for you ladies to do, I am sure, Rose. We will all have to do our bit, but John will fight harder knowing that those he loves are safe at home.’
Chapter Six
‘Robert Carr’s joined up,’ Dot reported, setting down the can full of milk in the dairy. She flexed her fingers, glad to be relieved of the weight. ‘And Billy Hutton. Dick Swales and Johnny Skilbeck. Bert Clark. They’ve all enlisted. Oh, and t’vicar’s son,’ she remembered. ‘He’s joined up and all.’
‘Not John?’ Maggie was dismayed. She had known John Haywood slightly before he had been sent away to school, and he had always seemed a gentle boy. She couldn’t imagine him fixing a bayonet to his rifle, let alone pointing it at anyone. Killing anyone.
Grimacing at the weight of the tin can, she poured the milk carefully into the churn. ‘I wonder what Mrs Haywood thinks about that.’
‘I don’t know about her, but the vicar, he’s all for it,’ Dot maintained. ‘Him and Lord Miffield had a meeting in t’hall, got everyone all reckled up and now half t’village has enlisted. They got some recruiting sergeant out and they been handing out t’King’s Shilling left, right and centre,’ she told Maggie, her desire to impart news stronger than her dislike of her employer.
‘George told Joe last night that he was going to enlist too,’ Maggie remembered. Joe hadn’t been pleased.
Dot sighed. ‘At this rate there won’t be no men left in Beckindale at all. Who’s going to do all the work if all the men are in the army? That’s what my mam wants to know.’
Maggie shook the last few drops of milk into the churn and set down the can. ‘I suppose we women will have to do it instead,’ she said. ‘It’s not like we don’t work now, is it?’ She showed Dot her rough palms and broken fingernails. Once her elegant hands had been her great vanity. No longer. ‘Don’t tell me these aren’t working hands.’
‘Women’s work,’ Dot pointed out, unimpressed. ‘You ent never ploughed a field or sheared a sheep, have you?’
