by Pamela Bell
She told him about the tensions between the village and the training camp, and how Miffield Hall was being stripped of the paintings and furniture he had grown up with as it was converted to a hospital. His father had written to tell him the news as well and in his previous letter Ralph had professed not to mind. His had been a lonely childhood and he had few fond memories of the Hall. I liked being at High Moor better, he had said, and Maggie had sighed when she read it. Her home seemed so distant now, her memories of an idyllic childhood and youth drenched in gold and blurred with remembered happiness.
It made her too sad to think about High Moor now. She could think only about getting from day to day until Ralph came home.
At least today the sun was out and there was the hope that Rose would be able to pass her a letter from Ralph. Maggie’s spirits rose as she fixed the last pin in her hat, put her own letter into her pocket and pulled on her gloves. Outside she found Frank, stamping his feet against the cold, his hands tucked into his armpits.
Ever alert, Fly jumped up as soon as the kitchen door opened, but Maggie took one look at Frank and told the dog to wait. She went back inside and came out a few minutes later with Joe’s woollen gloves.
‘Put these on, Frank,’ she said. ‘They’ll keep your hands warm.’
He took them wonderingly. ‘For me?’
‘Yes, for you.’
He gaped at her as if she had handed him the crown jewels. ‘A present?’
Maggie could just imagine what Joe would say if he knew she had given Frank his gloves. But it was too hard to explain the concept of borrowing to Frank and besides, Joe wasn’t there. She would have to find another pair of gloves if Joe came back in winter.
If she was here, she reminded herself. The thought that she might not be gave Maggie a shiver of excitement.
‘Yes, a present,’ she said firmly.
A huge smile brightened Frank’s usually stolid expression as he put on the gloves and turned his hands this way and that as if he could hardly believe his luck. Maggie wondered if it was the first time he had ever had gloves to wear.
The two of them walked down to the village every Sunday now. The Pickles were Chapel so Maggie sent Frank home to his mother with his wages for the week and went on to St Mary’s where she could be sure of seeing Rose Haywood.
She had tried to tell Rose what it meant to her to be able to correspond with Ralph, but Rose had waved her gratitude aside. Maggie had used to think of the vicar’s daughter as spoilt and frankly a little silly, but she had changed her mind. Rose wasn’t silly at all. She might be pretty, but there was strength in the set of her chin, spark in her brown eyes. Maggie tried to imagine how she would feel if she loved Ralph and had to accept that he loved someone else, and she knew how hard she would find it. Rose not only dealt with that, she was helping Ralph and Maggie be together.
The more Maggie saw of Rose, the more she admired her, but she felt sorry for her too. Compared to the freedom her own father had given her, Rose seemed to live a cramped life in the vicarage, and the war had only made things worse as far as Maggie could see.
Having checked that Frank had washed under the pump that morning, they set off together down the track with Fly trotting ahead. The dale was spread out below them, glittering in the sharp light. Rimed with frost, the tops of the dry-stone wall glinted like diamonds. Beneath Maggie’s sturdy boots, the mud had hardened into icy ridges and on either side, teasels emerged rigid and sparkling from the tussocks of white-rimmed grass.
Frank kept lifting his hands to admire his gloves and Maggie smiled at his simple delight. The cold pinched at her cheeks and made her teeth ache, but she kept hands stuffed deep in her pockets where could feel her letter to Ralph. Slender as the connection to him was, it set a warmth glowing deep inside her. On a day like this, it was impossible to believe in the war being fought in France, impossible to think that she might not see him soon.
She parted ways with Frank as the road up from the bridge bent round towards the main street. ‘You’ll come back for milking?’ she said as she always did. Frank nodded but she could tell that he was too wrapped up in the pleasure of having gloves of his own to listen to her. She smiled as she watched him go, his hands held up by his sides so that everyone could see his gloves. Frank might forget but Nancy Pickles would send him back in good time.
Maggie was still smiling as she walked up the road past the village hall. A crowd was gathered outside the church as she rounded the bend, and something about the atmosphere made her pause, her smile fading. There was a sombre air to the scene, jarring in the brightness of the light and her steps slowed as a nameless dread pooled in her stomach. People were huddled together in small groups, talking in low voices, but silence fell as Maggie stepped into the churchyard.
At the church door, Rose Haywood was weeping in her mother’s arms. Maggie stopped at the sight, her heart banging painfully. Over Rose’s bent head, she could see Edith’s devastated expression.
Oh, no, not John, thought Maggie. Please, God, let it not be John.
Edith had seen her. She murmured something to Rose, who straightened and shook her head before squaring her shoulders. Her pretty face was ravaged with grief as she met Maggie’s eyes.
Thud, thud, thud. Maggie’s pulse was booming in her ears and her stomach churned. Rose was walking towards her, the congregation parting silently to let her through. Maggie was seized by the urge to turn and run away, but her boots seemed fixed to the stone path and she could only stand, trapped, unable to move while Rose kept coming.
‘Maggie.’ Rose stopped a few feet away. Her voice was barely more than a thread, her face white.
‘Is it John?’ Maggie asked hoarsely and Rose shook her head.
‘No, it’s not John.’ She swallowed and her soft mouth trembled so much that it took her several attempts before she could get the next words out. ‘It’s Ralph.’
‘Ralph?’ Maggie heard herself say, as if from a great distance.
‘Ralph is dead.’
Maggie stared at her. She heard the words, but they made no sense. ‘No,’ she said definitely. ‘No, he isn’t.’
‘I’m sorry, Maggie. I know … I know how much he loved you, how much you loved him.’
‘Ralph isn’t dead.’ Maggie’s fingers closed over the letter in her pocket. She would know if Ralph were dead. This was some cruel trick. ‘He’s not,’ she said fiercely.
‘I’m so sorry …’ Rose’s voice cracked.
Maggie backed away, shaking her head. ‘No,’ she said and put out both hands as if to ward off a blow.
Rose swallowed hard to steady her voice. ‘The telegram came last night, and Lord Miffield called for Papa. I didn’t know how to get word to you.’
Putting her hand back in her pocket, Maggie pulled out the letter. ‘But I’ve got a letter for him,’ she said, as if that proved the news had to be wrong.
Rose just shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
Maggie’s breath was coming is short gasps. Deep inside an anguish was slowly uncoiling. ‘What … how?’ she managed.
Rose moistened her lips. ‘He was fighting at a place called Ypres. I think … Papa said he was killed by a shell. Lord and Lady Miffield are much distressed,’ she whispered. ‘They were going to London tomorrow but now … I don’t know.’
Maggie stared at her blindly. Ralph, dead? Ralph, with the dancing smile in his eyes, Ralph with his warm hands and warm mouth. Ralph, who had promised to come back. Rage gusted through her. He had promised!
There was a hand around her throat, throttling her of air, horror twisting in her belly. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to rewind time, to the cheerful way she had walked down the lane enjoying the sparkling air. She would walk past the village hall once more but this time, there would be only a few stragglers outside the church. Everyone else would be inside, preparing to pray for the troops, thanking God that the casualties had been few so far.
But when she opened the
m again, Rose was still there, her face distressed,
There would be no going back, no unsaying the words.
Ralph was dead.
Ralph was dead.
Ralph was dead.
1915
Chapter Seventeen
‘Mother of God, my feet!’ Nat pulled off his boots and socks and collapsed back onto the cot.
‘What feet?’ Beside him, Mick was lowering his bare toes into a bowl of cold water with a grimace. ‘I can’t even feel mine any more. Twenty miles with full kit! Whose idea was it to join the army?’
‘Yours,’ said Nat with the closest he ever came to a sour look.
‘I didn’t think they’d make us march up and down every one of the bloody Yorkshire Dales. In the rain.’
‘That’s your trouble, Mick. You don’t think.’
Levi could hear them sniping at each other but their voices seemed to be coming from a long way away. Around them, men were groaning and grumbling, and the stench of feet and wet wool socks in the hut was almost overpowering. Levi lay splayed on his cot. His whole body pulsed with exhaustion. His feet were raw and throbbing with pain, but almost worse than that was the humiliation of having to be carried home by his brothers.
He had the first blister before the end of first mile. After ten miles he had collapsed and begged Nat and Mick to leave him to die where he lay.
‘We can’t do that,’ Mick had said, hauling him back to his feet. ‘We promised Mammy we wouldn’t let any harm come to you. What do you think she’d say if she knew we had left you by the side of the road?’
He and Nat had shared out the weight of his rifle and pack between them which had helped Levi to limp on for a while, but they had to carry him for most of the last five miles.
He was never going to make a soldier.
‘Ah, it’s not been all bad, has it?’ Mick was saying as he inspected his feet gingerly. ‘Look what a dab hand you turned out to be with a rifle.’
To his and everybody’s surprise, Nat had shown unexpected ability for shooting. Mick was noted for his running speed and agility – learnt from years of getting out of scrapes, Nat said – and there was talk of him doing specialist training as a scout, although he was more interested in learning to drive.
Levi wasn’t good at anything. He was clumsy and fumbled with a gun. He couldn’t keep up on the route marches. He gagged at the smell of the latrines. He had even fainted when one of the cooks had cut off the end of his finger when serving Christmas lunch in the canteen.
‘What are we going to do with you?’ Nat had said humorously as he shoved Levi’s head between his knees.
Levi knew his brothers worried about how he would cope when it came to real fighting. He was worried too. He should never have enlisted, he knew that now. He wasn’t cut out to be a soldier, that was obvious, but there was no way he was going to desert, and besides he had reached the point where even the prospect of fighting seemed better than staying in the camp for another two months.
Training had been one long humiliation. Whenever he could, Levi slipped away to help Will Hutton at the smithy. At least there he knew what he was doing. He preferred Will’s dour acceptance to his brothers’ fussing, and there was always the chance of catching a glimpse of Rose Haywood.
After Will’s son, Billy, had been killed at the front, Rose had come to the smithy with her mother to ask if there was anything they could do. Will, turning in on himself in his grief, had answered in monosyllables. Levi had stood almost near enough to touch Rose, close enough to see the sadness and distress in her brown eyes, and he felt guilty at the thrill he felt when she had turned to him as they left and said that she was glad that he was there to keep Will company.
‘I’m training,’ he had heard himself say. ‘I can only come on my days off, but I’ll do what I can.’
‘Thank you.’ She had pressed his hand. Pressed his hand! ‘I’m sure that’ll be a comfort to Mr Hutton, even if he doesn’t show it.’
Taciturn at the best of times, Will had become even more withdrawn since Billy’s death, and Levi was ashamed that the farrier’s grief had been the cause of making him so happy.
He never got so close to Rose again, but Levi didn’t mind. Just a glimpse of her walking along the road or disappearing into a shop was enough to make him happy. He didn’t always see her, though he often dawdled past the vicarage on his way back to camp from the smithy, keeping a wary eye out for the vicar.
Concerned for Will Hutton and consumed by thoughts of Rose Haywood, Levi was spending all his free time in Beckindale and had seen little of his brothers. So when Mick clapped him on the shoulder a few days after the route march, just as he was about to set off for the village, he felt instantly guilty.
‘We never see you now, Levi,’ Mick said. ‘Where do you hide yourself on your afternoons off?’
‘I help the farrier. His son died at the front.’
‘Oh. There was me thinking you must have a girl down in the village.’
Levi flushed. He didn’t want to tell Mick about Rose. ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Well, could the smithy spare you for a family outing, do you think? Nat and I thought we’d go up the hill,’ said Mick with a wink. ‘See if we can catch us a rabbit or two as a change from bully beef. What do you say? Are your blisters up to a walk yet?’
Levi grimaced inwardly at the thought of a climb in his boots, but Mick was right, he’d hardly seen his brothers recently. ‘Sure, I’ll come,’ he said.
‘Good man.’
It was quiet on the hill. Pockets of swirling mist clung damply to their faces as they climbed up to the moor above the training camp. Mick kept up a stream of jokes and self-deprecating stories but Nat, evidently delegated to shoot rabbits with his rifle, was looking unhappy. He was probably homesick for Ballybeg and for Molly.
Still, it was nice to be out with his brothers again. This was what he had dreamed of when he had stowed away from Ireland, the three of them together, a team.
He was glad when Mick declared a rest. They collapsed onto the heather to catch their breath before Mick glanced at Nat and then sprang up to admire the view.
‘Mick, can you not sit still for a minute?’ Levi complained, rolling his eyes at Nat, who smiled weakly in return.
‘It’s a grand view from here. You can see all the way to Beckindale. Come over here, Levi.’ Mick beckoned and from force of habit, Levi did as he was told. ‘Is that the smithy down there, next to the pub?’
Levi peered in the direction of his pointed finger. ‘No, smithy’s further ov—’
He broke off at the sharp crack of a rifle behind him. For one frozen moment, he was simply puzzled, and then pain blossomed in his leg. Screaming, he fell onto the tussocky heather. ‘Jesus! My leg! My leg!’ He clutched it as Mick and Nat bent anxiously over him. ‘What … what …’
‘By Jesus, that was fine shooting, Nat,’ Mick said admiringly. ‘Now hold on, Levi, we’re going to get you fixed up.’
‘Aaargh! My leg, it’s broken!’
‘It might be, yes. Is it very painful? Sorry about that, but we didn’t know what else to do.’
‘What?’ Bewildered by the pain, Levi blinked up at his brothers. ‘What are you saying? You shot me deliberately?’
‘We had to. We promised Mammy. You’re not going to war, Levi.’
‘What? You bastards!’ Tears of humiliation, rage and pain filled Levi’s eyes. ‘You could have killed me!’
‘No fear of that,’ said Mick. ‘Nat’s an ace with a rifle now. We’re sorry, but we needed to put you out of action and we had to do it here where we could help you. We wouldn’t be able to do much if you were hit by a shell out in the trenches, now would we?’
Being Mick, he made it sound completely reasonable. ‘We talked about it and this was all we could think of to do. Neither of us liked it, but it’s for your own good.’
His own good! Levi would have laughed if his leg hadn’t felt as if it was on fire. The best he could
manage was to tip his head back with a groan.
‘Here.’ Mick produced a hipflask. ‘We came prepared. Have a drink of this. It’ll help.’
‘What is it? Poison?’ Levi ground out between teeth gritted against the pain consuming him.
Mick had the nerve to grin. ‘It’s whisky. Irish, of course.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Come on now, you’ve had a shock.’ He held it to Levi’s mouth and in spite of his protests Levi ended up swallowing some. The fiery liquid burned down his throat and he choked and spluttered, but it did help him with the agony of their attempts to tie a bandage around his injured leg.
‘That’s the best we can do,’ Nat decided, looking nearly as grey as Levi. ‘We’d better get you down to the hospital straight away.’
Mick squatted down next to Levi, who was panting against the pain. ‘This was an accident, all right Levi? You don’t want Nat to go to prison, do you?’
‘I want you both to go to hell!’
‘That’s my boy,’ said Mick with a twisted smile. ‘Come on then, Nat. We’ll have to carry him. Up you come, Levi.’
Levi’s scream of protest at the burst of agony that followed was cut short when mercifully he blacked out.
He came round in the camp hospital, where he spent three weeks before being discharged. He would have a permanent limp, the doctors confirmed, and was no use to them as a soldier.
‘Will you go back to Ireland now?’ Nat asked hopefully.
‘The hell I will.’ Levi had no intention of doing what his bloody brothers wanted. Go back to Ballybeg and have to admit that his grand stand had all been for nothing? Back to smothering by his sisters? Back to being the baby, the weakling? He’d rather be shot in his other leg! ‘I’m staying right here,’ he said.
He might not have been enjoying life in the army, but Mick and Nat had no business taking the decision out of his hands, Levi thought bitterly.
