Книга - Remembrance Day

Remembrance Day
Leah Fleming


Lest we forget… A poignant tale of love and loss for fans of Nadine Dorries and Katie Flynn.It's 2003 and at over 100 years old, Selma Dixon is the last link to the hidden truth behind her village's refusal to honour its war dead.1914 saw the Yorkshire village of West Sharland send its men off to fight, including Selma's brothers and her sweetheart Guy. But when Guy is badly wounded and returns home on leave, the horrific reality of war is fully realised in the village.Guy's mother, in a fit of protective madness, secretly sends Angus, Guy's identical twin brother who was medically unfit to enlist, back to fight in his place. But reckless and naïve Angus is bitterly unprepared for war, and when his actions seal not only his fate but that of Selma's brother, Selma’s life is changed forever.Forced to start a new life in America, Selma is oblivious as to why her family’s name is now mud. Until the past comes back to haunt her and the names of the dead must be spoken once more…









Remembrance Day

Leah Fleming














Copyright (#ulink_cc3e31c2-4ffe-5f08-be37-daf375a69cd2)


AVON



A division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

FIRST EDITION



Copyright © Leah Fleming 2009



Leah Fleming asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work



A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library



This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.



All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.



EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007343690

Version: 2016-03-18




Not forgetting the fifteen men of Langcliffe who never made it home.


Who made the law that men should die in meadows?

Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes?

Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards?

Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains?



‘Who Made the Law?’ Leslie Coulson




Contents


Cover Page (#ud5128c25-f59f-519f-a4fe-39b8505ddc12)

Title Page (#u24fcd179-6234-5271-99c5-f1123bc9b156)

Copyright (#udc85d9f4-f642-5edf-bed6-319af58d9cb0)

Dedication (#u22cf0ade-5a94-5cb0-b71e-76f5beeee1ba)

Epigraph (#u52e66548-cf44-52eb-9ea6-e96dd523c7e3)

Excerpt (#ufdcfd3f2-1f96-5c0b-942e-95b9a082a54e)

1 GOLDEN SUMMERS (#u41e4323b-81b8-5f12-9f70-5b22ff9221ae)

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2 DARK DAYS (#ub4e87764-5cef-5757-8a1d-45e2b831e8a0)

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Remembrance Day 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

By the same author: (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Excerpt (#ulink_077f9c35-93a7-5cae-a3c9-5b0eb621e237)


11 November 2000

The ceremony is about to begin, the shuffling feet and coughing settle as the dignitaries line up in uniforms, cassocks and mayoral chains. A silence descends over the crowds on this most solemn of mornings.

We stand before the new war memorial in Elm Tree Square while a scuffle of film crews jockey for position. There is a chill Martinmas wind from the north but I am well wrapped with quilt and cushions in my wheelchair.

At last after all these years justice has been done, the dead are honoured; all of them by name. These cobblestones, once heavy with old sorrows, damp with tears and bloodshed, now sparkle with hope and pride. I never thought to see this day.

No more arguing about things that can’t be altered, no more dissention in the village about planning permissions. The names of the dead say it all, etched here on marble tablets.

That I have made the effort to witness this moment is miracle enough at my great age. My eyes are dimming, my hands tremble and my limbs disobey commands. Old age comes not alone, they say, and my heart leaps to see such acrowd of supporters. I hope our menfolk would be proud that we’ve settled things at last.

We wait in patience in the chill air, all the West Sharland faithful and their far-flung relatives, all the families represented where possible, prosperous in thick overcoats and stylish black hats with grandchildren, tall as saplings, and great-grandchildren on their knees, bemused by the pageantry unfolding.

There are faces I don’t recognise but in their features are echoes of village folk long buried. There is new life and fresh growth here, and that is good.

The clouds part as a ray of weak sun beams down for a second, haloing all the hand-held wreaths and circlets. Bloodred poppies flash on lapels like medals. The golden light glides across the green fells and stone walls above us, across the slate rooftops of familiar old buildings, and my eye turns to the forge in Prospect Row, but it is long gone.

They have put me in the front as one of the honoured guests, alongside the great and the good of the district; just another old matriarch, an ‘ancient of days’ waiting to pay her respects. There are plans to interview me later but I have other ideas.

In my fancy I see sepia faces hidden in the shadows, a crowd of ghosts watching, waiting with us, faces of the long dead from the war who knew only suffering, sacrifice and shame. What would they make of all this now?

My daughter stands upright, breasted like a plump capon. I am so proud of the spirit she has shown in fighting our corner. By her side her grandson, the spit of his great-grandfather, built like a tree trunk, the wind and sun etched on his bronzed brow.

There is no one left to recognise me, though a few mayguess a little of my history. I am just one of the many visitors and want no fuss. I have been absent so many years but this place is at the heart of my being.

Nothing has changed but everything is changed. The familiar Yorkshire air is sweet after the dryness of the Arizona desert, the rooks caw in the churchyard ash trees even into my failing ears. I had forgotten how raucous and noisy they are.

The cars parked right through the village, the houses expanded into barns and outbuildings, speak of a prosperity and comfort we could only dream of as children.

My mind is flooding with memories. I have completed a circle in coming back to West Sharland, fulfilling a promise, honouring those closest to me, but it is hard to contain the ache still in my heart for their undeserved sufferings. What has driven me back here one last time is a strange yearning, a sense of the wanderer returning to this now sacred space for peace before my long sleep. My days are leaching away, but no matter.

To live long is not enough, and it is a wise soul who knows his beginning and his end and makes some answer for the life given him. Over the years I have thought it fitting to set my own story on paper, to turn over the pages in my mind and wonder where I would be if what was done long ago could be undone. This task has been a close companion in my widowhood. They would not let me fly back so, in my cabin suite on the Atlantic crossing I reread the chapters, relived those parts of my life that brought me from the West Riding to the New World and back.

This journal will be left among the archives of West Sharland when I’m gone, but not before. Perhaps someone will turn its pages with interest and profit from what I write. For, makeno mistake, there are secrets within that belong to this village alone, secrets that explain the real reason why no war memorial was ever erected in our village until now.

But enough. The age-old ceremony begins. The silver band is marching down the hill, gathering a crowd just as it did all those years ago in the late summer of 1914. How trusting, how ignorant, how innocent we were back then. Little did any of us know what heartache lay ahead…




1 GOLDEN SUMMERS (#ulink_85646c97-7ada-59d5-bb55-77e89cd4e75e)


Yorkshire, 1913-14



Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag And smile, smile, smile…



George Asaf, 1915




1 (#ulink_e4194209-a449-571a-bda8-f72470c92692)


August 1913

It was just another Yorkshire afternoon in high summer with nothing to mark it out as a day that would change their lives for ever. The young Bartley brood had done their Saturday chores in the morning heat, watered the horses waiting to be shod under the shade of a clump of elderberry trees in the paddock behind the forge. Newton and Frankland, their broad shoulders tanned like leather, were pumping water from the well into the slate tank at the back of the yard for Father’s wash in the zinc tub. It was time for his Bible class preparation. Asa Bartley never liked to touch the Holy Book with blacksmith’s rusty fingers.

Selma, his young daughter, made her usual rounds of the village shops with her mother’s wicker basket: off-cuts for stew from Stan, the butcher, soda crystals for Monday’s wash tub from Mrs Marshbank at the Co-op, stopping to chat with neighbours taking advantage of the end of their shift at the cotton mill, and picking up a second-hand copy of the local Gazette. It was one of the hottest afternoons in the whole summer. Doors were wide open onto the street with strips of beaded rope pinned over the lintels, waving in the breeze to discourage the flies, windows propped up with bedding hanging out to bleach in the sunshine, stools set outside in the shade to catch passers-by for crumbs of gossip. Dogs panted in the shade and the forge cat, Jezebel, was curled up under a hedge.

The rooks were silent for once, high up in the ash trees of St Wilfred’s, West Sharland as Selma scuttled through the ginnel short cut between Main Street and the forge, her striped cotton shirt clinging to her liberty bodice, her long skirt and petticoats sticking to her thin legs. She was boiling hot and dying for a swim.

‘I’m going down to the Foss,’ she announced when she brought in the paper and the change. Essie was laying down the best rug for the Sabbath, tidying away the bread, cheese and pickle dinner. It was too hot for a full meal. There was a pot jug of lemonade on the dresser, covered with a beaded cloth ready to be put back on the slate shelf under the stairs; the coolest place in the cottage.

‘Not on your own, you’re not,’ Essie replied. ‘You’ll wait while Frank and Newt do their chores. You know I don’t like you going down there alone. It’s private land. I don’t want her ladyship on my doorstep again and her with such a down on chapelgoers.’

The Cantrells owned everything in Sharland. They didn’t mix in the village; they were more gentry folk than farmers. The colonel was serving in the army and his boys were away at school. They were churchers not chapellers, and lived at Waterloo House with their sons, servants and a carriage. Lady Hester was queen of the district: Father said she was above herself. Selma had never seen her sons except far down the field in the annual cricket match between the school and the village.

‘Mam, I’m boiling in all these clothes and they’ll be ages yet!’ Selma protested. If only she could strip off like her brothers, who jumped in the water in their undershorts or, better still, with no clothes at all. As the youngest and the only girl she had to tag along with them to school, to chapel. Her best friends, Sybil and Annie, lived on scattered farms and it was over a two-mile walk uphill to play with them.

The path from the village to the Foss was well trodden by village children. It was a secret cavern, a hideaway, where the beck cascaded over silver stone shelves, falling headlong into a deep pool overhung with trees and bracken, a hiding place for salmon and trout, and the slabs were cool to bare feet. There was always lots of splashing and fooling about, but the water was cold and shallow in parts and fathoms deep in others. You had to know where to jump in. It was supposed to be haunted by a highwayman who fell to his death when chased by the squire’s men in the good old days.

Half an hour later, Selma was trudging behind her brothers. They could hear squeals of laughter ahead echoing across the rocks. There would be the usual gang of village lads all vying for a good jumping-off point, with silly girls giggling, eyeing them up. Selma shivered by the cool shade of the trees. She thought all that romancing was embarrassing. She never knew where to look when the boys took off their shorts.

Now there were strangers in their pool, picnicking across the bank, boys she’d never seen before, dressed in proper one-piece swimming costumes, with a basket of food on a rug. They stared across at the intruders, nodded but said nothing.

‘It must be them twinnies of Cantrells’, alike as two peas,’ whispered Newt with a respectful nod in their direction.

Selma eyed them up with interest. They were tall and gangly, about fifteen or so, fair-haired and slender as willows, not rugged and leathered like her brothers. She’d never seen a proper bathing suit before on a lad.

Newt and Frank stripped off their workday shirts and breeches to splash in the water. None of the Bartleys was a strong swimmer but they were good at diving underwater, turning circles and coming up somewhere far away from where they’d gone in. Selma dipped her toes in the water and screamed.

Not to be outdone, the two boys on the far bank started shouting. ‘Fancy a diving match?’ one of them turned and yelled. ‘Come on, let’s show these bumpkins how to dive!’

The other brother hung back, watching as first Newt and then Frank, intent on their own fun, ignored the jibe by jumping off the ledge midway. Selma edged herself into the water, embarrassed to take her clothes off now there was an audience. Better to paddle and not show off Monday’s washing to strangers.

One of the boys swam across the beck and climbed up onto the slate ledge jutting out above where Newt had jumped in. Selma gawped up as the boy postured on the edge and made a perfect dive into the pool. He rose to the surface grinning, and that was the first time she clapped eyes on Guy Cantrell. The other twin was already clambering up even higher to the topmost shelf that none of them had dared use before.

Frank shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t go that high, chum. It’s not safe.’

‘I’m not your chum,’ the boy pouted.

‘Don’t be a fool, Angus. Do what the young man says,’ yelled his brother.

‘Come on, Newt, can’t let them toffs show us up!’ Frank shouted in defiance.

‘I never took you for a coward, Guy!’ yelled his brother from his rocky perch.

It was then that Selma knew that something awful was about to happen and she couldn’t stop it. ‘Don’t jump, please, Frank, on our mam’s life. Showing off’s not worth it!’ Selma screamed. Frank hovered, shocked at her outburst, and backed off just as Angus Cantrell took a flying leap from the highest ledge, plunging down into the dark abyss, down and down and not bobbing up again.

Everyone was in the water, sensing something was wrong. Guy was splashing about, unsure of his bearings now. Selma pulled off her skirts and dived deep, opening her eyes to get her bearings. Newt was already down there, coming up for air, gasping before diving down again. It was Frank who spotted the boy curled up on the rock floor. Selma and Newt dived in to grab him but he was wedged.

‘Over here!’ she screamed to Guy, who dived with them to rescue his brother, pulling and tugging to set the boy free.

They dragged him to the surface. There was a gash on the side of his head. He was not breathing. Guy took over, turning him on his stomach, lifting his arms to raise his chest. ‘Come on, Angus! Someone go and get help! Give me a hand,’ he ordered Selma, while Frank ran off as bid. It felt like hours before the boy coughed and spluttered but then promptly fell back into unconsciousness.

‘He’s alive!’ said the boy with the ink-blue eyes glinting with fear and relief as he looked up at the Bartleys with gratitude.

Selma swam across the beck and waded back with the picnic rug over her head to cover Angus’s cold body.

‘What a daft thing to do!’ Newt said.

Selma wanted to kick him. ‘Shut yer gob! Let’s get some warmth into his limbs. He’s so cold. Pile all our clothes on him.’ She felt so helpless. They must keep him warm and dry while they waited. That was what you did with a sick horse.

It was an age before the servants from the House arrived with a flurry of blankets and Angus was passed from arm to arm until he could be placed on a dog cart. Still he made no movement.

‘Hell’s bells! Mother will kill us for this,’ sighed Guy, who looked close to tears.

Selma resisted the urge to reach her arm out to him. ‘Praise God, he’s alive and that’s all that matters,’ she whispered.

‘Thanks to you and your brothers. My mother will be so grateful. What a frightful thing to happen—and I don’t even know your names,’ he said, reaching out to shake their hands. His fingers were like ice, his lips trembling with shock and chill.

‘We’re Bartleys from the forge, my two brothers, Newton and Frankland, and I’m Selima but everyone calls me Selma for short. Sorry we were trespassing on your land.’

‘Thank God you were. From now on feel free to enjoy this cursed place. I don’t think I’ll ever dare come here again. We’ll be gated by Mother when she hears about this. What unusual names you have…I’m Guy Cantrell, by the way, and you must call me Guy. How can we ever thank you?’

‘It was nothing,’ Frank blushed.

‘Make sure your dad has his horses shoed at our place,’ quipped Newt, the elder, apprenticed as a farrier, heir to Asa Bartley’s smiddy and always one for the last word. Selma turned pink, embarrassed, and nudged him hard.

‘Of course…Better go now. Mother will be back soon and Father will be furious. She will want to thank you in person, I’m sure,’ Guy repeated, pausing to smile at Selma.

She stared back as if a magnet were pulling them together until they both dropped their eyes. One look into those deep blue pools and thirteen-year-old Selma felt to have grown three years in three hours. She had come to play at the Foss as a child; why did she now feel she was leaving here closer to a woman? Suddenly she felt naked, her chestnut hair dripping wet, hanging in rat-tails, shivering in her darned underwear, shabby, uncouth, ashamed to be just a blacksmith’s daughter. One look from Master Cantrell and she didn’t know who she was any more.

Hester Cantrell saw the doctor’s new motor car parked in the drive, blocking her carriage from the front portico. Annoyance quickly changed to panic. What was he doing here? Not waiting for the step to be let down from the carriage, she stumbled out, rushing up the steps of Waterloo House with an energy that belied her fifty-three years.‘What the blazes is going on, Arkie?’ she said, storming past the parlour maid, and looking to Mrs Arkholme, the housekeeper, standing at the foot of the stairs, wringing her hands.

‘I’m sorry, Lady Hester, but it’s Master Angus. He’s had an accident in the Foss…I took the liberty of calling Dr Mac. He’s with him now.’

‘Why wasn’t I summoned? You knew where I was… Those Board of Guardians meetings at the workhouse are such a waste of time.’

‘Beg pardon, ma’am, but there wasn’t time.’

Hester raced up the stairs, tripping over her long silk skirt, her heart thumping and the wretched sweats making her cheeks flush like rouge. This was no time for her usual decorum.

Angus was lying on his bed, his face swollen and bruised and his eyes shut. There were stitches on his left temple.

Hester turned to her other son. ‘What happened this time?’

Guy muttered the whole story about Angus going too high, the village boys warning him and his mistimed dive. ‘If the Bartleys hadn’t been there, and their sister, I dread to think…It was awful, Mother, and I was useless.’

Angus opened his eyes sheepishly, sighed and went back to sleep.

‘Now don’t get your mother in a state, young man,’ ordered the doctor. ‘It’s no’ as bad as it looks. He’s a wee bit concussed and shaken, but lots of rest and sleep will sort him out in no time.’

‘He ought to be in hospital,’ said Hester, examining her son closely. Mackenzie was a fool, in her eyes, driving around in his car like a lord, living above his means with his silly wife called Amaryllis, for goodness’ sake, and far too friendly with the natives. She would get a second opinion.

‘Hospital would be fine if it weren’t twenty miles away. Movement and sudden jerks would be unwise. Rest, but no sleeping draughts, mind, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’ she demanded.

‘If he’s sick and drowsy after tomorrow I want to know, but give the laddie a chance to settle himself. Nature knows best. He’s had a lucky escape. Yon Foss has seen a fair few into the next world. Ah, but boys will be boys…the wee devils!’

‘Thank you, Doctor. You will call later,’ she ordered.

‘Of course, Lady Hester. Do you want a nurse?’

‘That won’t be necessary. I shall see to my son myself.’

‘The colonel is abroad, I hear,’ said the doctor, packing up his Gladstone bag.

‘That is correct. I shall inform him immediately.’ She was not going to endure his presence a moment longer, but he turned to Guy, who stood pale-faced by the window.

‘You look like you need a brandy, young man. How old are you now? How time flies, and you so tall already…Don’t worry, Angus’ll live to plague the life out of you for a while longer. He’s done far worse falling off his horse.’

How dare he be so familiar with her son? ‘Arkie, show Dr Mackenzie to the door. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of patients waiting.’

‘Funnily enough, I’m quiet. It’s too braw a day to be sick and I’ve sewn up all the cut fingers at haytiming, but if it stays this hot, the old folk’ll peg out if they’re daft enough to go walking midday.’

‘Yes, quite,’ Hester sighed. Would the fool ever go? ‘Goodbye, Doctor.’ She waved him away, then pulled down the window blinds to stop the sunlight shining on Angus’s face. ‘Ask Shorrocks to organise a bath, Guy—it’ll ease out any stiffness—and I’ll get Cook to send you up a coddled egg and soldiers.’

‘Mother, don’t fuss, I’m fine…Angus was just showing off as usual. He can be such a chump.’

‘I turn my back for five minutes and you get up to mischief again.’

‘We’re not babies. It was so hot and we just fancied a swim.’

‘What were those village brats doing on my land?’

‘You know everyone plays in the Foss when it’s warm. It’s tradition.’

‘Not while we’re in residence for the summer, they don’t. I shall speak to the Parish Council.’

‘Oh, Mother, the Bartleys saved Gus’s life. You ought to be singing their praises, not punishing them. I told them you would be grateful,’ Guy argued. He always stood his ground, just like his father. What a fine soldier he would make one day, she thought, but she must be firm.

‘Sometimes, Guy, you overstep the mark…Over-familiarity with the lower orders breeds contempt and disobedience. Playing cricket against the village is one thing, but cavorting in front of locals is another. It is your duty to set an example, not make promises on my behalf. Ask Arkie to have tea sent up here. I’ll sit and watch over Angus, just in case…He really ought to be in hospital.’

‘I wish Father was here. He promised to be home for the hols.’

‘The army needs him. There’s talk of war with Germany. The situation demands all the staff officers to be making contingency plans. We mustn’t worry him now about such folly. Run along. Have a warm bath, you’re shivering in that indecent bathing suit.’

Hester needed to be alone. Angus looked so fragile and battered, poor darling. Nothing must harm either of her precious sons, her golden eggs. They were so late coming into her life. At nearly forty she had feared she was barren and then they came together one terrible night when all her dignity was abandoned in the struggle to bring them into the world. Guy Arthur Charles came first, all of a rush, and then the shock when another baby emerged, Garth Angus Charles, taking his time. Two for the pain of one, her beautiful boys, alike in every way. In one night her world was changed for ever and she loved them both with a devotion that knew no bounds.

Looking round at the mess in Angus’s bedroom—cricket bats and fishing rods, horse crops, rugby shoes, clothes scattered on the floor—she sighed. He was such an energetic boy, full of pranks and madcap ideas. He was a skilled horseman, winning rosettes to prove his competitive spirit. On the wall were stag antlers, model ships and biplanes, and a map tracing Colonel Charles’s campaigns in South Africa. The twins were as bad as each other when they were home. At school it was another matter. They were put in different houses, beaten for any misdemeanours but excelled on the sports field and in the Officers’ Training Corps.

It was always so quiet when they were away. That was why she’d begged Charles to let her buy Waterloo House, so she could be close for their exeats and any public concerts at Sharland School, the great stone fortress that stood on the edge of the moor.

To think that life could have ended for one of them this beautiful afternoon didn’t bear thinking about. Horse treks and camping out over the Dales would be out of bounds for the rest of the holidays after this escapade. Now she must be gracious and receive their rescuers, but of all the children to save Angus why did it have to be the blacksmith’s brood of non-conformists?

Only last week she was in her carriage doing a round of charitable visiting when she chanced to see the blacksmith striding along the cobbled narrow street in his leather apron, shirtsleeves rolled up, showing muscled arms the colour of walnut oil. His black curly hair was far too long under his cap, more like a gypsy’s locks. She looked down at him from her carriage, expecting him to doff his cap in deference but he swaggered on as if she was nobody of consequence.

‘Stop the carriage!’ she ordered Beaven. ‘Go and ask that man why he has been so rude.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said her coachman, pulling up until Bartley was alongside them.‘Hey,you, why didn’t you pay the usual respect to her ladyship?’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Asa Bartley, looking straight at her with those coal-black eyes. ‘You tell your mistress I bows to no man but my Maker, and that’s a fact!’

Hester flushed at such insolence and demanded that Beaven drive on. The blacksmith might own his business but he rented his cottage from the Waterloo estate. How dare he be so rude?

Men like him didn’t know their place. These chapel ranters were behind all the stirrings of unrest in England: the Labour Movement and trade unions, socialist ideas of all being equal, women wanting to register for the Vote and such like. The Women’s Suffrage Society had the cheek to send wagons round the villages canvassing for support from Sharland’s millworkers, encouraging them to strike for better wages. She blamed all the unrest on the preachers in the pulpits of these stone chapels, giving workmen ideas above their station.

‘God bless the squire and his relations, And keep us in our proper stations,’ went the verse of a hymn. That was how society worked. How could any army survive without discipline and rank? Rank first and foremost. Orders must be given and obeyed, that was the key to social cohesion. Charles’s generals and his staff knew how to plan battles, and their foot soldiers, under officers, must carry out the orders without question. It was always thus.

Bartley had insulted her rank and class by his insolence and now she must forbear this insult to show Christian fortitude to stomach making conversation with his children. But one thing was certain. No child of his would ever be employed on the estate. Dissenters’ children had too much spirit to be knocked back, asked too many questions. They were difficult foals to break in. Their kind were best ignored and kept a bay: a different tribe, and long may that continue.

Angus seemed comfortable enough so she gathered up some of the mess on the floor. What must the doctor have thought of the clutter—that she was slack with her servants? The eye of the mistress was worth two of her hands, she mused. Arkie must make sure the room was more presentable for his next visit. She didn’t want any tittle-tattling to his silly wife.

Hester caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing mirror. She’d never been an oil painting: tall, on the gaunt side of slender, but well corseted to give a robust shape and bolstered bosom like her heroine, the new Queen Mary. Her thin cream dress was a little frivolous for a Board of Workhouse Guardians meeting but the weather was so hot. That was the trouble with country living, you had to be so careful to set a suitable standard.

A military wife knew how to dress appropriately, to impress junior officers’ wives as to what they must aspire. There were formal school visits to endure, dressing discreetly with nothing to cause the boys embarrassment, especially being such an older parent: no fancy jewellery or lavish trimmings on her picture hats. The risk of under—or overdressing in such a backwater was a balancing act she found quite within her grasp. If she stuck to muted colours: mauve, taupe, eau-de-Nil, stone and her beloved silver grey for her palette, her spirits rose. Afternoon and tea gowns, skirts blended with tweed and dull plaids, furs and country tweeds were what she ordered from her dressmaker in London. Silk and wool, cotton lawns and simple lace trim distinguished her as top drawer at a glance.

Yorkshire might have smoke and soot but the best woollen cloth in the world was just over the hills in Leeds and Bradford. She felt dignified in such quiet shades. Colour was for the young fry and dress uniforms. She was a colonel’s lady, daughter of an earl, albeit the youngest of many sisters, well enough placed to receive calling cards from the Birkwiths of Wellerby Hall and Lady Sommerton, the aunt of the headmaster of Sharland School. His wife, Maud, was the cousin of Lord Bankwell.

It was important to know where one was placed on this ladder. There were those who tried a little too hard to climb up a rung, like the vicar’s poor wife, Violet Hunt.

Then there was Dr Mac, with his ambitious wife and their two pretty daughters, one of whom was old enough now to be brought to her sons’ attention. All to no avail, of course; her boys were far too young for such entanglements. They were destined for the army and glittering careers.

Hester sat down on the window seat, suddenly exhausted, staring out across the walled garden, through the orchard that went down to the river, across to the great moors rising above. A patchwork of bronzed squares and golden greens caught her eye where the grass had been mown off for hay. Such was the heat haze that the stone walls dividing up the fell side shimmered like silver ribbons.

This part of the West Riding of Yorkshire was remote but not unpleasantly so. There were plenty of regular trains into Leeds and a direct line to London through the Midland Railway. The Dales’ rough-hewn beauty, a grandeur of limestone scars and moor, was growing on her. She liked the fresh damp air, for they were removed from the worst of mill chimney smoke.

Most of the locals were pleasant plain folk who made few demands on her services. Once the boys were out of school and established she would think again about where to settle. Charles preferred the southern uplands, the Sussex Downs, to this rugged terrain. Soon he would finish off his career at a desk in London, if all went to plan. But she didn’t like these rumours of war. He was far too old for battle service now. Her boys were nearly sixteen. Hester shivered. Surely they would be far too young to be mobilised, should any threat occur?




2 (#ulink_4a487e72-06b0-5b9b-b54d-7b85dcd480d6)


‘You’re not going up to Waterloo House looking like a pig in muck, Newton!’ ordered Essie at the sight of her elder son strolling out of the forge,covered in soot. ‘Go and scrub yoursel’ down in the sink. There’s hot water in the kettle.’

‘Do I have to go?’ he moaned, pumping the well handle and dunking his head in cold water.

‘Yes, you do, and, our Frank, get into your Sunday best. It’s all laid out upstairs. Sharp on! I’m not having her ladyship peering down her nose at my family for want of a bowl of hot water. It’s half-past already, get a move on.’

She’d laid out clean shirts and their serge chapel suits. Selma was already dressed in her white cotton best with the pintucked bodice and lace frill. They’d put rags in her hair last night to coil into ringlets. She had white canvas shoes and white socks which she was under pain of death not to get dirty. Everything was a little tight and short for her but it’d have to do until next year when a parcel of hand-me-downs from Essie’s married sister, Ruth, in Bradford, would augment Selma’s meagre wardrobe. There was no money for frills.

This presentation at Waterloo was a belated thank you to the Bartley family for the rescue of Angus. He was making excellent progress and now back at school, according to Bert Smedley, who worked in the grounds. Asa was all for refusing to send them, seeing that a whole month had passed since the accident. He stood by the forge door looking like thunder, his black brows clenched, but even he recognised that as the Cantrells were their landlords, things must be done proper.

When they were all tidied up and respectable, Frank’s hair plastered down with water, Essie lined her children up against the wall. Where had her babies gone? These three were all she had to show for six labours of love; three of her babes already buried in St Wilfred’s churchyard—nothing unusual in this village but still, precious lives lost before they were two years old—and there were the other two who never made it into the world. Such was life. Two fine sons and a clever daughter made up for all those other losses. And now a public thank you for her brave children. Her heart was bursting with pride at bringing three bright stars into the world.

How handsome they all were. Newt tall, broad-shouldered like his father; Frank softer round the edges and as fair as Selma was dark; Selma herself sprouting fast, sharp as a brass tack at her schooling. They all needed kicking with a different foot but they knew how to toe the line when it came to family matters.

Everyone was proud of their part in the rescue. They had saved a life and deserved a treat. Why shouldn’t her ladyship receive them with gratitude? Working folk or not, they knew what was right and proper.

‘Don’t forget your manners and bob a curtsy when you’re spoken to. Hold your head up and don’t mumble. Remember, in the eyes of the Lord, we’re all equal so no slouching.’ Essie wished she could go with them and have a peep inside Waterloo House. Everyone knew it was very grandly furnished,with a beautiful walled garden,hidden from village eyes, but the invitation was addressed only to the children.

‘Three o’clock sharp, and come by the side entrance through the door in the wall and not up the front drive to the grand entrance,’ said Beaven, the coachman. What an experience to be received as guests. Selma would be full of it when she returned, Essie thought. Wick as weasel, the girl missed nothing.

The Bartleys were an old Sharland family, not offcomers like many of the cotton millworkers who kept the machines at High Mill on the go. There was a pecking order in any village: parish councillors, church wardens, school master, shopkeepers, tradesmen and farmers. Everyone came to them sooner or later for horseshoes, repairs of tools and harnesses, chains, pots and pans and iron bars. The Bartleys had been blacksmiths for three generations and Asa was a reliable fettler of anything reusable. He didn’t waste his brass at the Hart’s Head of a night that put so many families short of food and clothes. He liked to support the chapel reading room and took a men’s Bible class.

Selma was the clever-clogs of her brood. Mr Pierce, the headmaster, was suggesting she become a pupil teacher when she was fourteen. Essie was so proud that her daughter might get the chance she never had. Not for her the grind of the mill or going into service but a proper training on the job

Selma was first to the side door of Waterloo, her brothers dawdling along as if they had all day. It was still warm for September and they were red-faced in their Sunday best, playing football with fallen conkers, scuffing their polished boots.

‘Hurry up, or we’ll be late,’ she yelled.

‘So what? Let ’em wait. I’ve not heard the church clock chime the hour.’

‘But I want to see inside…oh, do shift yourself,’ Selma cried. Why did her brothers spoil everything? She was so excited to see where Guy lived.

Only last week he’d called in person at the forge with a horse, admiring the other beasts waiting in the paddock behind the cottage. Newt had shown him round and she’d hung on the gate, hoping for a chance to show off her own riding skills. He’d waved and then Mother had called her in and when she’d run back, he’d gone. She hoped against hope he’d be waiting behind the high stone wall with the copper beech hedge that divided the Cantrells from the village. This was her chance of a glimpse into another world and she promised Mam to notice every little detail so she could enjoy it too.

The side door was unlocked, a dog barked at their entrance and they crossed the cobbles of the yard, hearing horses neighing in the stable. The back door was opened by a stern woman in a black dress, whom Selma knew as Mrs Arkholme. She looked after the house while the Cantrells were away from Yorkshire.

‘Wipe your boots on the mat,’ she ordered, looking them up and down. ‘Follow me and don’t touch anything.’ Her long black skirt swished in front of them, swaying from a gathering of material over her ample bottom.

Selma swallowed, awestruck, her eyes adjusting to the dark passageway. Would Guy and Angus be at the other side of the door? She hoped so. How she wanted Guy to see her looking her very best.

On and on they marched until they came through a green door into a wide hall and staircase that spiralled up into the sunlight, which beamed down through rays of coloured glass like a kaleidoscope.

‘Take your caps off, boys,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Wait here until you’re called. I’ll tell her ladyship you’ve arrived.’

Even Newt and Frank were silenced by the echoes of their boots on the marble floor, the grandeur of the carved furniture, the foot of a real elephant full of walking sticks, vases the size of great copper boilers, and the face of the tiger sprawling at their feet. There was a smell of rose petals and polish. It felt a bit like the inside of the parish church, Selma thought. They seemed to wait for hours until the double doors to another vast room opened and a maid in a stiff white apron ushered them inside.

A lady sat before them, her back as straight as a chapel pew. She wore a lavender dress with ruffles round her bosom, a choke of milk-white pearls, her face was pale and her white hair coiled high above her head like a helmet. She didn’t rise but gestured like a queen receiving courtiers in one of Selma’s old picture books.

‘So here you are…the Bartley brood.’ She examined each of them in turn. ‘Sturdy workhorses, by the look of you…Your names?’

Selma bobbed a curtsy, suddenly struck dumb by the grandeur of the room, the marble fire surround, fine brass irons and a fire shield. Her dad would like the metalwork on display. There were silken rugs and cushions, silver candelabra and ornaments, draped curtains of heavy rust velvet, framed photographs gathered in a cluster. There was the scent of wood smoke and tobacco, and on the sideboard crystal bottles full of Satan’s brew. Such luxuries she’d never seen before.

‘Speak, girl,’ said Lady Hester impatiently.

‘This is Newton, the oldest, and my brother Frankland and I am Selima Bartley,’ she offered, seeing her brothers standing tongue-tied.

‘What peculiar names for Christian children,’ the lady replied. ‘You look more like Tom, Dick and Nellie to me. You will be pleased to know that Master Angus has made a full recovery, and is back at school with his brother. They wish me to thank you all for your part in the unfortunate accident. They wish you to know that they appreciate all the effort you made on their behalf. The Colonel and I of course endorse such sentiments. We agree therefore that you should all be given a token of our gratitude. Arkholme, fetch the tray.’

Selma thought they were in for a bun feast but a silver tray with curlicue edges was placed on the table with a lace cloth. There were three gold coins, three half sovereigns, glinting in the sunlight.

‘Please take one each,’ said Lady Hester. ‘Tell your parents we are pleased that our tenants have brought up their children to be of such service to the community.’

Selma grabbed the first coin and bobbed her curtsy, not knowing what to do next. Frank and Newt did the same and bowed. There was a silence and then Lady Hester rang a bell and the parlour maid ushered them to the door.

‘Just this once, let them go out the front entrance and down the steps. I expect they will want to admire the view to the river. Thank you and good day.’

The audience was over. No handshake, no cup of tea and cake, no conversation. But most of all, no Guy or Angus in attendance.

Disappointment rose like bile in Selma’s throat. All that dressing up for five minutes in a beautiful drawing room.

How pokey, cold, plain and homespun their front room, with its rag rug and chenille tablecloth, would appear when she got home. How ordinary everything was. A splinter of discontent pierced her heart and she felt shame and pain.

This was another world, a world of luxury and comfort the likes of which the Bartleys would never know. ‘We are all equal in the eyes of the Lord.’ Mam’s words rang in her head like a tolling bell. Why at this moment were they sounding so hollow?

It was quite evident that they were not equal, or why did her ladyship not even stand or shake their hands? The gold coins meant nothing to the Cantrells. She had paid them for their services. Selma wanted to throw hers away in disgust. How dare they think so ill of them?

What would Dad make of it all? Half a guinea to spend or save? The boys weren’t bothered either way, glad to be out in the fresh air, wanting to tear off their Sunday clothes.

Selma felt a strange sadness when she opened the back door to their cottage.

‘Well? How did it go? That didn’t take long.’ Mam was anxious to hear every detail of the visit, stirring soup on the range.

‘It were all right…She give us one of these each.’ Selma plonked the coin on the table as if it was burning her fingers.

‘That’ll come in handy for your schooling,’ Essie smiled, and then she saw her face. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. It were all so quick, in and out in five minutes as if we were the delivery boys.’

‘You didn’t get a look round, then?’ Essie registered surprise. ‘I thought the young masters would want to show you the horses.’

‘They’re back at school. It was a right thunder of nothing. I felt like a fool,’ Newt added. ‘She’s a right proud madam, is that one. Had us through the door in a flash in case we might steal owt, I reckon.’

‘Surely not.’ Essie sighed and shook her head. ‘I suppose we must expect that they do things different. Gentry folk don’t mix, never have except when they want the rent. She’s a bit stiff but I hear she’s very fond of her boys. They say she never had a nursemaid to them. Anyhow, I’m sure she was grateful.’

‘She didn’t look it. She looked at us as if we were the scrapings off her boot,’ muttered Frank.

‘Happen she’s just reserved with lower orders,’ Essie consoled.

‘You said we were all equal,’ Selma jumped in.

‘Aye, we are but that lot up there don’t know it yet. One day perhaps…Things’ll be better. You’ll see.’

‘I’m getting out of this clobber.’ Newt made for the stairs.

‘I’ll put the kettle on the hob. I gather she didn’t give you any tea then? I had hoped…never mind. Nowt as queer as folk.’

‘You can say that again,’ snapped Selma. ‘I’m never going back there.’ It wasn’t right to be made to feel small or ashamed of their fancy names as if they didn’t deserve them. Selima was her dad’s choice. It was foreign different. How dare Lady Hester belittle his choosing?

The drill sergeant had them marching up and down the quadrangle of Sharland School. ‘Forward…at the double.’ He wanted them drill perfect for the next inspection day. The officer cadets were soldiers-in-waiting, pride of the school parades, but today Guy was out of step and not his usual efficient self. He couldn’t concentrate. Something was wrong and he didn’t know what. It kept making him lose his rhythm. He kept looking over to where his twin brother was marching, head up, eyes forward, a glint of steel in his eye. He was a born drill merchant, far better than he.

Angus had made a remarkable recovery, only the gash on his left temple bearing evidence of his accident, and this was now hidden under a tuft of blond hair that fell like a forelock when it wasn’t plastered down. In their uniforms they were identical, but now all those pranks and swapping identities would not be so easy to go undetected. Angus was the one with the scar.

Guy felt uneasy. Poor chap had no recollection of the accident or indeed the afternoon picnic or the jump when the Bartleys rescued him. It was as if the whole slate was wiped clean, had never happened until he looked in the mirror at his brow with disgust. Mother kept reminding him to be careful. She’d not wanted him back at school so soon. Angus had shrugged off her worries as fussing and brushed aside Guy’s enquiries about how he was feeling.

Having a twin brother was both a blessing and a curse. There was always your own face looking back at you. It was always the two of them, dressed alike, objects of curiosity. Sometimes he felt as if they were one whole person split into two halves—or he did until the accident. Now he sensed Angus was changing and he was sure he was getting headaches because they throbbed in his own head. It was curious how when one of them was ill the other felt groggy too. Sometimes he sensed they could think each other’s thoughts before they spoke them, knew instinctively what the other was going to say.

He’d noticed that Angus didn’t concentrate on his studies for very long now, that he jumped up and paced round their study room, much more restless than last term. His tri-weekly test scores were much lower than his own and the competitive edge between them had vanished. All Angus wanted to do was run cross-country, chase up and down the rugger pitch and drill. They may still look like two peas in a pod but something had shifted. Guy had tried to speak to Mother and warn her something was up, but she put it all down to going back to school too early.

At least she’d had the Bartleys to tea one afternoon and given them a present each but he was horrified when she’d told them she’d given them a coin as a token. It wasn’t his place to criticise her decision, though. He tried but failed to imagine her putting little Selma and her brothers at ease.

Father would’ve been more gracious, but he was never around these days. Colonel ‘Give ’em hell’ Cantrell was now an important member of Lord Kitchener’s advisory staff. If war did come, as everyone was saying it would, they’d hardly see him.

‘Eyes right!’ shouted the drill sergeant.

Damn! Guy nearly tripped into the back of Forbes Senior.

‘At ease, gentlemen. We will be stepping up training this term and for the foreseeable future. We want all Sharlanders to be prepared for every eventuality, to answer the call to arms, should the situation arise…’

Suddenly there was a commotion in the rear and a chorus of ‘Sir!’ Guy spun round, suddenly sensing that it would be Angus on the ground. ‘It’s Cantrell Junior, sir! He’s fitting.’

Angus was lying on the ground, spasms of jerking limbs, frothing at the mouth and a pool of wetness on his trousers. It was a frightful scene. Guy broke ranks to be at his side. ‘For God’s sake, give him some air!’ he heard himself shouting.

‘Take him to the san,’ someone yelled, but the master shoved them all aside.

‘Wait till he comes round.’ He turned to Guy. ‘How long has he had fits, Cantrell? Better put something on his tongue.’

Someone with a satchel brought out a ruler. Everyone stood around. Guy felt sick and shaky. Then the twitching tremors stopped and Angus woke up dazed, surprised to find himself the object of attention.

‘What’s up? Guy? Did I fall?’

‘You’ll be fine, old chum. You had a bit of a turn, that’s all.’ Guy wanted to cover his wet trousers with his army jacket to mask his brother’s shame. The cadets were dismissed. Angus was carried to the san and the doctor summoned from the village.

‘What’s happened to him?’ Guy asked Matron, suddenly scared at such a public exhibition.

‘He had a seizure…nothing to worry about. It probably won’t happen again. Too much drilling, I expect,’ she fobbed him off. ‘Run along now…we’ll see what Dr Mackenzie has to say. Your parents will be informed in due course. It may be nothing but overtiredness.’

‘Can I stay?’ Guy pleaded, knowing Angus would be feeling strange on his own.

‘No, the boy needs rest and privacy…And he’s never done this before, you say?’

Guy shook his head. Fits were terrifying to witness. He’d felt so helpless.

‘Ah well, growing pains and fits go hand in hand in my book,’ Matron smiled. ‘Doctor will know what’s best for him.’

Guy ambled through the leafy grounds of Sharland School, puzzled, scared and confused. What if they made Angus leave? What if it happened again on the rugby pitch in a match, or riding across the moor, or with a gun in his hand? He was an outdoorsy chap, and Sharland was a school that fostered team spirit, personal challenges, fresh air and exercise. He’d never cope.

Mother would have him home-tutored in a flash if she thought there was any danger.

Guy stared up at the turrets of the stone building. He loved his Alma Mater, with its warren of study rooms, corridors, fine chapel and acres of playing fields.

Angus wasn’t academic. He’d loathe being deskbound or cosseted. He needed open spaces, hunting over the fields to release all his spare energy. He bounded everywhere like an over excited Labrador puppy.

Guy found a hidey-hole under a huge black poplar and whipped out his forbidden pipe. Had Angus’s jump from the Foss left permanent damage. Had it ruined his chance of an army career? Would he be an invalid? Guy couldn’t bear to see him unhappy and frustrated.

Take a hold of yourself, he thought. Don’t get so windy! One fit doesn’t mean life in a basket chair. It was just a warning sign, that was all. If his brother calmed down and took enough rest and some pills, he’d be his old self again. Guy said a silent prayer to the Almighty to put everything back to normal.

Reluctantly he lifted himself out of his funk hole and made for the school. He’d face a barrage of questions from his house chums on his return. It was none of their business but news would have already gone round the school like wild fire. Cantrell Junior had had a fit. The question was, would he have another?




3 (#ulink_9112fe90-f032-5442-9b4e-b943c6a6a8f8)


Selma stared into the window of Bow’s Emporium on Market Square in Sowerthwaite. The window was lit up like a magic lantern with fairy figures in silhouette against a glowing sky. She couldn’t wait for Christmas to come and the first carollers to sing at the door for a slice of spiced loaf and hot elderberry cordial. It was cold and her breath was steaming up the window. Mam was doing her secret shopping on market day but it was already darkening fast and the sky was full of snow feathers. Selma’s feet were freezing on the stone pavement.

She wandered past the toy shop, glad she was grown up enough now not to be disappointed by the lack of the Christmas dolls and games her other friends bragged about. This year there might be a new knitted cardigan with matching beret and scarf, a parcel of clothes from Aunty Ruth when she called in on Boxing Day, some of which might fit her, if she was lucky.

Selma’d grown inches since the summer, and filled out. Her breasts were like two rubber balls sticking out of her thick vest, and with them came the curse one morning and all that messy business that Mam explained was a step on the way to being a proper young lady. But fourteen was not quite old enough to roll her hair over in pads like Marigold Plimmer did, the other pupil teacher and the bane of Selma’s life.

Marigold was older by a year, pretty enough, clever too, but had a way of setting Selma’s teeth on edge. The Plimmers ran the Hart’s Head Inn on Elm Tree Square at the other end of Prospect Row, but not far enough from the teetotal Bartley forge for comfort on a noisy Saturday night. The pub had once been a house, with two fine bow windows and a large stable for horses at the back with benches for draymen to idle away their lunch times.

Marigold and her mother, Betty, were also on the horse-drawn bus to Sowerthwaite alongside the Bartleys, boasting about how big a turkey they were going to carve and how Marie was getting a new tartan dress with a crocheted collar for the Sunday school Christmas concert.

It was Marie who had pointed out that Selma and her brothers were heathens, since none of them had been baptised, and they would all go to Hell. Selma knew the Chapel didn’t do infant christenings but preferred them to make a profession of faith when they were teenagers, but it had still worried her for days afterwards.

‘What happens to my baby brothers and sisters who died before baptism?’ she had cried to Mam in distress one night. ‘Will they be saved?’

‘Of course. The Lord only lent them to us for a season. They are angels now in Glory, too lovely to live long in this wicked world. Take no notice of Marie Plimmer’s popish superstitions,’ Essie had reassured her, but Marie had a way of insinuating that chapelgoers were the poor relations in this village.

The mill owner, Mr Best, was a big worker and Sunday school teacher, as was their organist and schoolmaster, Mr Firth. They had a great concert party and outings to the seaside at Morecambe, fun and games at Christmas like everyone else.

Dad said that Christmas was the Lord’s birthday, not theirs, and the heart of Christmas was in giving to others, not wanting for yourself. But on this chill December afternoon, the forthcoming Christmas festivities glowed like a beacon on a dark night with all the special baking, the scent of spices, roasting meat and the promise of fun and games.

Farmer Dinsdale up the dale had promised them a joint of pork as a thank you for Dad’s good services to his Clydesdale horses over the year.

Selma knew all about pig sticking and slaughter at this time of year. The poor beasts were cornered and hung upside down with their throats cut to bleed into a bucket for black puddings. But she did love a roast with crunchy crackling and Mam’s special herb stuffing. Her mouth was watering at the very thought, making her forget the chill of the wild north-easterly as it tore through her thin coat and scarf: a lazy wind, they called this, one as went through you not round you. It was time to make for the bus home.

Then she caught sight of a tall young man striding across the square, parcels under his arm and another identical figure chasing after him. They looked so smart in thick tweed suits with Sharland School scarves flapping behind them, those distinctive purple and gold stripes that marked the public school boys out from other town scholars. Who could miss the Cantrell twins doing their own Christmas shopping?

Selma tried not to stare and pulled her muffler over her face to spare her blushes but not before she caught the eye of the first twin.

‘Hello there, Miss Bartley…Busy with your Christmas shopping too,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have a lot of folk to buy for.’

His brother marched on,hardly giving her a glance.‘Hang on, Angus! Let me introduce you to the young lady who helped save your life!’

Angus stared at her, his eyes blank and dull as if he had never seen her before. He nodded but said nothing. ‘He doesn’t remember a thing, sadly,’ Guy explained. ‘How are you? Looking forward to Christmas?’

Selma smiled back, not knowing what to say.

‘It’s jolly cold. There’s snow on the way but I hope it holds off for the Boxing Day meet.’

Selma nodded, knowing her father had been hard at the forge shoeing fine hunters for the annual foxhunting gathering that started outside the Hart’s Head.

‘Spare a thought for us on our Christmas morning parade,’ she offered. ‘I don’t fancy singing through a blizzard.’

‘Parade?’ Angus looked puzzled, fidgeting with the string on his parcel and looking at her sideways through drooping eyelids.

‘The Christmas waits. We sing carols under the tree in the early hours and then we have a band…’

‘Oh, the chapel thingy.’ Angus shrugged. ‘Spoiling everyone’s lie in, Mama says.’

‘Angus!’ It was Guy’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘Oh, look, there’s Beaven with his new toy. Father has bought a motor car. We’d offer you a lift only we’re off to the station to meet the London Express. Father is home for the hols too.’

‘I’m waiting for my mother. We’re catching the bus, thank you. I hope you both have a pleasant Christmas,’ she offered, bobbing a short curtsy.

‘And the same to you and yours. You know we are awfully grateful to you and your brothers, aren’t we, Angus?’ He turned to his brother, but Angus had already strolled off towards the big saloon. ‘Forgive his rudeness. He’s not been quite himself lately. I’d better be off. And you must go too. You look frozen.’

To Selma, Angus looked just as haughty as he had on that fateful afternoon when he was showing off. ‘I hope he recovers soon,’ she replied, more out of politeness than conviction.

Guy paused. ‘Will you be watching the meet?’

‘I might if the weather holds but we’re expecting company from Bradford: my aunty Ruth and her husband.’

‘And so are we, loads every day, Mother’s friends mostly. It’ll be charades, singsongs and cards, long walks and cross-country hacks; exhausting!’

‘We have singsongs too but no card playing…we don’t hold with gambling,’ she answered, not telling him that they never imbibed alcohol either. ‘Have fun then.’

‘Merry Christmas, Selima,’ Guy replied, raising his cap as he marched off.

She felt a glow of pride that he’d remembered her proper name. Guy was as warm as his brother was cool, sick or not. It was as if he saw her as a friend, an equal. Confusion and excitement fluttered in her chest as if butterflies were let loose from a cage.

Their families lived in separate worlds even within a small village, sectioned off by a high stone wall and beech hedge, but Christmas was a special time, she smiled, a time of goodwill to all men, rich or poor, high or low. Was it possible that their two worlds might meet again? One thing was certain: she wanted to see Guy on horseback in his hunting dress.

Suddenly her reverie was halted by a sharp dig in the back from a passer-by.

‘What were you hobnobbing with those two toffs about?’

Selma spun round to see the pinched face of Marigold Plimmer pursing her lips into a sneer. ‘Never you mind!’ Selma whispered back.

‘Be like that but don’t think you’ll get any favours from that quarter. My mum says one of them’s gone daft in the head. Had a fit in the school yard, or so Tilly Foster said. She works in the canteen and saw it all—well, one of her mates did. Just shows money can’t buy you everything. It’s only fair they should have some bad luck as well as us, isn’t it?’

‘That’s sad,’ murmured Selma. No wonder Angus looked so blank. ‘His mother must be so worried.’

‘Who, that stuck-up cow? Lady Muck of Waterloo? Serves her right. You should see her in church. Comes in through a side door just before the service, all dolled up with a thick veil like curtains round her head so she don’t have to look at us. Then leaves the same way as soon as the organ strikes up at the end. I pity them boys. She’ll not let them far off the leash. My mum got it off her that works in the kitchen that she—’

‘Oh, there’s Mam. I’ve got to go. See you on the bus!’

Selma couldn’t wait to get away from Marie’s gossiping. She didn’t care for all that backbiting. Poor Guy and his brother—no wonder he looked tired and glassy-eyed. Her little brother, Dawson, had fitted badly when his temperature went sky high and never came down, all those years ago. They’d tried to soak him with ice water from the slate tank in the yard and then piled on blankets to sweat it out of him but his heart was too weak, the doctor had said. Why did Marigold have to remind her of such sad memories?

Selma stood looking up to the grey-white hills rising above the town, sparkling with ice, and the trees dusted with air frost. How beautiful it looked at dusk. In two days it would be Christmas morning and they would be singing ‘Joy to the World’ around the village green. So no more sad thoughts when there was so much to look forward to. Mam was waving at her now to get in the queue. Time to go home.

On Christmas morning the wind would carry the sound of bells into every household, thought Essie, waking at dawn with excitement long before the peals filled the air with promise. This was the day for singing and feasting. However humble they were, each family managed some cheer at their fireside and kept good company together.

Essie had packed each stocking with love: a shilling, an orange, a bar of chocolate and some walnuts to crack, knitted socks for the boys, and a new scarf and beret for Selma, with some sweet-smelling lavender sachets for her pocket. How she wished she could do more than just these little tokens, but they were going to have a fine feast with all the trimmings later; plum pudding and a traditional dish of frumenty, fresh creamed wheat in a bowl and mince pies to share with visitors.

Tomorrow Ruth would bring treats from Bradford. She had been in service and married a wool sorter’s apprentice who had done well in the trade and set them up comfortably. Sadly there were no little ones so Essie’s own children were at the receiving end of much kindness. Not that they were short of anything this year.

Only two days ago she had laid out old Mrs Marshall, who had died in her sleep, well prepared with her best nightdress and pennies ready in the top drawer.

There was an art to laying out the dead with dignity and pride, plugging places that might leak, washing and dressing the body, tying the chin with a bandage, combing hair and changing all their linen for the first viewings.

Mrs Marshall was a good sort, plain spoken but kindly, and would be missed at the weekly Women’s Bright Hour. Her son and widower were pleased and had left Essie two florins on the dresser for her willing services, a thank you that had come in useful in buying little extras for the coming days.

It was not that Asa made a poor living, but with the rent and their everyday expenses, the budget was always tight. Growing boys needed good boots and strong breeches and shirts. She was trying to save for Selma to have some fresh skirts and blouses for her new post as a pupil teacher assistant, and it was time she wore a good corset to hold her firm. They were blessed with work and not want.

As she crept down the dark stairs with a lamp she smiled at all the little trimmings Selma had dotted about the cottage, evergreen branches, winter berries, a kissing bough of holly hung from the kitchen. They didn’t go in for decorated trees because Asa said they were pagan and killing perfectly good shelter for winter birds wasn’t on, but he did light one candle at the window on Christmas Eve as a symbol of guidance to those who lived in dark ignorance.

Asa was a good husband and one who didn’t put his religion away with his Sunday suit like so many she could mention. He was strict and fair and honest to the point of being a stickler. Only last week he had refused thirty shillings for a piece of wrought iron work that had taken him hours of reshaping and finishing. ‘Give me twenty-nine shillings, Alf,’ he’d said. ‘Never let it be said that I sold this for thirty pieces of silver. The Lord was betrayed for just that sum.’ How could you not love such a man?

Now the front parlour smelled of elbow grease and beeswax polish, the pine needles added a rich tincture and the fire was laid and ready. They had roasted the joint overnight slowly, wrapped in greaseproof and cloth so it would fall apart and go further cold for Ruth’s visit.

Every surface was cleaned and tidied, the best rag rug down and white linen cloth ready to receive the feast. Their boots were lined up for the Christmas procession they called the waits. Even she was not too old to feel a thrill on such a joyful morning.

Soon the children were stumbling bleary-eyed into the dawn light.

‘Rise and shine! We shall stir the hearts of West Sharland with our songs of praise this merry morning.’ Asa was wide awake, chivvying up his sons to wash and shave while Essie shoved hot porridge from the stove into bowls for them all. No one was going out on an empty stomach in this chill.

‘Do we have to?’ moaned Newt, who liked his lie abed.

‘Faith before feasting, son! How can we honour the day without honouring Him first?’ There was no arguing with Asa when it came to what was right and proper.

By the time they picked their way across the cobbled square there was a small crowd huffing and puffing, stamping their clogs; the faithful brigade of chapel stalwarts wrapped against the cold with caps, shawls and bonnets on their heads. Men in hobnail boots and hats holding baskets of hymn sheets, children, muffled with hoods, skating on icy flags.

The last to arrive was Mr Best from the mill, in his carriage with his son and daughter and a line of servants walking behind, looking pinched underneath their best cloaks. Harold Fothergill flourished his trumpet and the sober remnants of the village silver band gathered in a huddle. The drummer strapped on his instrument ready to lead the proceedings. They were ready for the off but not before a prayer.

‘All present and correct,’ shouted the pastor, raising his hat. Only the old and infirm were exempt from this morning’s witness.

‘Hurry up, I’m freezing!’ yelled Frank, laughing. ‘What’s the first hymn?’

‘As it always is,’ Newt replied. ‘“Christians, awake” followed by “Hail, smiling morn”.’

‘That’ll wake the dead then,’ quipped Selma.

‘If we’re awake and doing, I don’t see why those still in their beds should slumber on,’ said the choirmaster. ‘I want full throttle.’

There was a drum roll, a tuning up of the large euphonium and the procession stood to attention as the bass drum banged out the start of their parade. Everyone tried to stay in tune and on time but they kept parting company and stopping so stragglers could catch up as they stormed round the village green, past the church and through the side streets before back to the square.

‘Christians, awake, salute the happy morn…’ rang out in the frosty air loud enough to wake the dead in the churchyard; ‘O come, all ye faithful’ and ‘Once in royal David’s city’. A few curtains twitched and then a head appeared from behind the shutters of the Hart’s Head. An irate Charlie Plimmer was yelling his protest as he chucked the contents of his chamber pot out the window in their direction.

‘Shut that bloody racket! Can’t a man get a decent night’s sleep without you caterwauling?’

‘And a Merry Christmas to you and yours, Mr Plimmer…’ The minister raised his hat and everyone cheered.

Essie smiled as they carried on singing until they were hoarse, standing under the elm tree that shaded both teetotallers and hard drinkers alike of a sunny evening. ‘Who needs John Barleycorn to lift spirits on such a day?’ whispered Asa, slipping his arm into hers. Essie smiled and patted his hand, her dark eyes flashing mischief.

‘That was a good sing-along. We got in first before the church bells,’said the minister.‘Time for a slice of Christmas pie in the chapel room.’

Essie stood admiring the grey stone building, proud to see her family name, Ackroyd, carved into one of the foundation stones. We’re built to last, she thought, looking at her bonny children growing into fine specimens. One day they would be leading the faithful in this age-old tradition.

The pastor handed small books to the children, full of terrible tales of poor little Eva who waited in the snow for her father to come out of the public house, dying with fever and bringing him to sign the pledge of her dying wish, alongside decorated biscuits. They sipped cups of tea with relish; glad of the warmth on their fingers.

Essie smiled, thinking she had brewed up her Christmas cordial from hedge berries; blackberries and elderberries, rosehips all steeped in sugar for weeks on end; all the goodness of God’s earth in a stone jar. Asa, Ruth and her husband, Sam, would wolf it down and complain of a puzzling funny headache in the morning. Essie was sure it must be the extra sweetness of the juice, but what if the fermentation was too strong? Perhaps it was better not to know. She was sure the Lord, who turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana, would not begrudge a little laxity on His birthday.

‘You don’t really believe there’ll be war, do you, Charles?’ Hester asked her husband, pressing her damask linen napkin to her lips, her grey eyes full of concern.

‘Of course there will,’ Colonel Cantrell snapped. ‘Why do you think I’m setting up a Rifle Association in our bottom field for the local men to sharpen up their musketry and drills? Got to get ’em up to scratch, and the Territorials too. It’s been coming for years. The Kaiser and his henchmen do nothing but boast about their navy. One of these days he’ll want to pit it against us British, Lord Kitchener was reminding us only the other day,’ he replied, wiping his waxed moustache.

‘But what about the twins?’ she countered. Her sons were now past their sixteenth birthday.

‘Just the sort of trustworthy leaders of men the army will want. Officer cadet training is first class for stiffening the backbone.’

‘But you heard what those doctors said about Angus. He’s had two fits in the past few months. That blessed jump from the Foss is to blame, I’m sure.’

‘He looks A1 to me; nothing a bit of drilling won’t cure. Guy keeps an eye on him. They’ll both make excellent officers.’

‘But they’re hardly out of short trousers.’

‘Don’t fuss, woman. Boys grow up fast these days, and when the time comes they’ll want to do their duty for King and Country.’

‘Not at sixteen, they won’t…You mustn’t let them do anything stupid, Charles,’ she pleaded, stabbing the air with her cake fork.

‘Huh! If every woman took your attitude, why bother with an army? We could just invite Kaiser Bill over the Channel to occupy us. Pass the cheeseboard and stop wittering.You’ll make a baby of Angus with all those hospital appointments and rest cures.’

‘Now who’s being unrealistic? Who’ll have rest cures if there’s a war on? I think he should be tutored privately for the meantime, away from all that activity they go in for at Sharland School.’

‘And I think you should go back to your tapestry and get things in proportion. I don’t want my son raised as a spineless sissy. He’s been bred to be tough and a skilled marksman.’ Charles rose, grabbing the port decanter and heading for his library without a backward glance. Hester sighed and rang the bell for Shorrocks to clear away the debris of their supper.

There was no talking to Charles when he was in one of his belligerent moods, his eyes bright with too much Christmas fare and wine. Better to let him doze off his bad temper alone. When the boys came in from their party, he’d be back to his old self. His eyes lit up with pride when he saw them together.

Poor man had journeyed north for a break from war talk and planning; all he wanted was his paper, a good book and plenty to smoke and drink. He’d taken the boys out for long hikes. A house full of men could be lonely for a mother at times, however much they gave her loving presents and praise. Sometimes she sensed he was relieved she was out of his hair in London, glad she was up north so he could keep his own hours in peace.

She had bred him sons, however late in life, ensuring the family name into the next generation. Her duty was done. He slept in the dressing room in the single bed most nights—his snoring would upset her, he apologised—hardly bothering her with any physical affection. She guessed he was getting that elsewhere. He hadn’t meant to hurt her but his indifference and short fuse stung just the same.

They had had the usual Christmas ceremonies: church at midnight, a delightful Christmas tree in the hall, a long walk after an enormous luncheon, lots of visitors bringing gifts and gossip. The house was trimmed discreetly with holly and ivy, berried garlands up the spiral staircase. There was even a dusting of snow like a Christmas card scene on Christmas morning. The vicar had complained over mulled wine about the chapel rowdies waking them at dawn.

‘I can’t bear religious enthusiasts,’ Charles sympathised. ‘But I suppose we ought to be grateful that our local workers are singing from a hymn sheet rather than a striker’s ballot paper.’ They all laughed.

She’d bought the boys new dinner suits and they looked so handsome together, so grown up. They could pass for eighteen, they were so tall and strong. It was alarming.

What if war came? Should she go to London or stay here? Her place was close to her boys and the village where she would be expected to take some leadership in parochial matters. She would see that no son of hers would be allowed to slip underage into the forces, cadet or not! Plenty of time for them to enlist should such a time come.

Oh, why did such thoughts have to sour their festivities? Charles’s warning, like Angus’s recent fits, hung heavy on her heart. Surely the Royal Navy would make enough noise to see off the Kaiser’s affectations? Suddenly she was not looking forward to 1914.

Guy and Angus joined the crowd gathered in Elm Tree Square outside the Hart’s Head for the traditional send-off to the Boxing Day meet. The snow had come to nothing and the ground was sure enough for a full hunt. Hounds were wagging their tails ready for the off, horses snorting breath and dumping manure for the allotment holders already waiting with buckets at the ready. A crowd of spectators and followers were assembled on the pavement, watching the colourful spectacle of masters in their scarlet coats, ladies in veiled black top hats and riding habits, younger riders in tweed hacking jackets and jodhpurs circling round with their ponies; a magnificent turnout. It was going to be a brilliant meet.

Guy’s eyes searched through the crowd to see if Selma Bartley had bothered to see them off but the door of the forge was shut, with no sign of life from the cottage. Perhaps they were visiting or out walking, as was the custom in the village on this holiday.

He’d never been interested in girls before. It wasn’t encouraged even to flirt with the maids in school. There were careful articles in his Boys’ Herald about gentlemanly behaviour towards the weaker sex and such rot. He just thought it was a shame that boys and girls couldn’t be friends, brothers and sisters, and equals. Why couldn’t you talk to a girl without sniggers from chums? Funny, though, when he looked at Selma, all he saw were those huge chocolate-brown eyes and smiling face, and how her wet shirt clung to her body when she had stood out of the beck after the accident. A strange yearning churned him up inside at the memory.

It was not as if he didn’t meet pretty girls at the family gatherings, girls all buttoned up with frills and ruffles, and simpering glances in his direction.

Selma was different, full of life and fun. He’d once watched her leap onto one of the horses grazing in the paddock waiting to be shod. She would make a fearless horsewoman, confident and yet gentle at the same time. That talent was innate; riding skills could be taught but not that sense of oneness with your mount. The Bartley boys too were skilled with the farm horses, leading the huge beasts, checking their forelocks, calming them down. It was a pity that none of them had the use of a horse to exercise.

Perhaps it was that tomboy bit of Selma he was attracted to. How he’d love to lend her Jemima, Mother’s chestnut, which she hardly rode, but he knew it wouldn’t be proper to single her out. The Bartleys and Cantrells didn’t mix socially and it would be taken amiss if they did. Pity, he sighed as he searched the crowd again. Riding high it was so easy to look down on villagers as if you were somehow above them.

Then he saw her watching him from the corner of Prospect Row, almost hidden. She was wearing a bright scarlet beret and scarf over her usual winter coat. He gave a short wave so as not to embarrass her and she smiled back mouthing ‘Good luck’. How he wished he could ask her to come and join them. Now the landlord was carrying a tray full of stirrup cups. Soon the hunting horn would round up the stragglers for the off; the hounds were champing for the chase.

Guy had promised his mother to keep an eye on Angus, but he was already ahead with Father in his scarlet jacket. Angus got very stroppy if he thought they were mollycoddling him and refused to discuss his last fit in the school changing rooms.

Guy took one final look but Selma had disappeared. It was sad that there were two villages in Sharland divided by an invisible bridge. On one side were the House and church, the vicarage, the public school and the gentleman farmers’ estates, on the other side were millworkers’ cottages, the chapel and board school and quarrymen’s houses. Once a year they met on the cricket pitch and sometimes in the Hart’s Head, and that was about it.

As he trotted down towards the river bridge and fields ahead, he thought how it was just like himself and Selma…all they could ever do was smile and wave across the yawning divide.

I smile thinking of those horses clattering off from Elm Tree Square all those years ago. Horses…horses, always horses close to my heart. I’d watched the Boxing Day meets since I was nobbut a child, little knowing this would be the last gathering before war came and things were never the same. Besides, how do you ever forget the day you first fell in love?

I can see him now resplendent in jodhpurs and hard hat on his mount, giving me that precious grin of recognition and, with it, a spark of knowing flashing between us. How innocent were those stolen glances but how I hugged them to myselffor months on end. How I longed to be riding alongside Guy Cantrell as an equal, but knowing this was not how things would ever be in our staid Yorkshire village. The next time we met on horseback, the world was entirely changed…

Come on, old girl, concentrate, back to the ceremony. Will that young version of Guy turn up somewhere on the fringes of my vision if I’m patient?

One of the secrets of old age is the people you see that others do not: those long departed gathering in the corners, waiting to welcome you home. But not just yet.

The ceremony’s hardly begun but I can still hear hoofs on the trot and remember that awful day they took all our horses to war…




4 (#ulink_b55461e3-b8df-5636-92df-59f347dab0ce)


August 1914

‘They can’t take all the horses away! They just can’t!’ cried Selma, watching the men in khaki leading a line of them roped together like prisoners across the square. ‘Dad! Stop them!’

Asa shrugged his shoulders and sucked on his pipe, shaking his head. ‘They’ll be well looked after if they’re doing war work. Don’t take on so. The country needs them.’

‘But there’s Sybil’s pony!’ She pointed out a sturdy grey belonging to her school friend. ‘How can the farmers manage without them? You will have no shoeing…’ Selma turned indoors, unable to watch this terrible procession, hardly believing what was happening.

In just a few weeks since the Bank Holiday war had been declared, everything was topsy-turvy in the village. The Rifle Association had taken over Colonel Cantrell’s bottom field for target practice, there were posters everywhere demanding citizens be on guard for German spies. The railway line was patrolled day and night. The Territorials were making preparations to leave from Sowerthwaite station.

Poor Mr Jerome, the old German photographer, had had his windows smashed and his equipment taken in case he was in league with the enemy. All the talk in school was about the wicked Hun stealing poor little Belgium.

Now the district had to yield up a quota of serviceable animals: hunters, cart horses and drayhorses, ponies. How could the milkman manage without Barney, or Stamper, the coalman’s steady Dales horse? They were taking all the beasts she’d known all her life down the road and across the sea to a foreign land. They would be so bewildered and scared. Selma was sobbing as Essie tried to comfort her.

‘They’re not all gone. Don’t fret. Lady Hester’s hunter is still in the barn out of the way. It was a good job she was being shoed here but I expect she’ll go with Master Guy or Angus before long.’

Selma wept over these dumb beasts that had no say in their fate. Next it would be her brothers and the boys who stood at the notice board regarding Lord Kitchener’s big poster: ‘Your Country Needs You’, his finger pointing accusingly towards her. Well, he wasn’t having any of her family. They were blacksmiths and farriers; important trades that kept the farm machines at work. Men could volunteer but her dad would have more sense and her brothers were too young. They knew nothing about fighting wars.

Suddenly it felt as if the whole world had gone mad. There were flags and bunting in the streets, and cheering processions as if this was something to shout about. Soon the village horses would pull guns and the guns would be let off and people would be getting killed. All because some duke they had never heard of got shot in a country she couldn’t find on the map. Why had they got to get involved? No one had explained it to her satisfaction, not even the Head, Mr Pierce, whom she’d heard was enlisting in the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, the famous ‘Havercake lads’.

‘Now the army’s gone, take Jemima out of the barn and into the paddock, Selma. Keep busy and don’t fret is my motto,’ Asa smiled. ‘Go and take that miserable face into the sunshine. Happen it’s time to stop the bullyboys in their tracks and show them what all our King’s men can do. Go on…wipe yer tears and get a bit of fresh air in your lungs.’

Selma led the tall chestnut mare out into the sunshine. She loved this gentle giant who had carried Guy on her back. The groom would be ages before he came to collect her, and then she remembered that Stanley and the stable boy had enlisted together to go with the horses. There was just the chance that Guy might…No, she mustn’t hope too much.

The late August afternoon sun beat on her forehead as she led the horse into shade and towards the slate trough where cool fresh water bubbled up from a natural spring. Soon the holidays would be over and she would take her post as proper teaching assistant alongside Marigold. Her brother, Jack, was with the Territorials and she kept boasting about him being the first in West Sharland to take the King’s shilling and asking why her brothers weren’t in uniform yet.

‘You have to be eighteen,’ Selma replied.

‘Who says?’ Marie sneered. ‘You don’t have to take your birth certificate. No one in Skipton would guess that Newton was underage if he signed on there.’

‘He has to help Dad.’

‘Frank can do that…Anyroad, when the horses go, he’ll have nowt to do, my dad says.’ There was no arguing with Marie. She was always right, but not this time. It was official. Dad needed an assistant and Frank was only sixteen and not very tall.

The urge to mount Jem was now just too hard to resist. They were old friends and riding bareback was no problem for Selma. ‘We’ll not let you go with those soldiers,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘You can hide in our barn any day. Now you and me can have a little trot round the paddock or I can ride you home, if no one comes for you.’ Guiding the horse to the mounting block by the gate, she slid onto her velvety back and nuzzled into her mane, kicking with her heels to set Jem on her way. But the mare had other ideas and began to gather speed. Then with a whoosh she jumped the stone wall into the next field with Selma clinging on, hair flying, her face flushed with the fun and freedom of chasing the wind. This horse was no sloth and shot off at speed, cantering across the last of the mown hayfields, frisky, disobedient to Selma’s commands. There was nothing to it but to relax and enjoy the bumpy ride, let the horse have her head for a while but what if she got injured and Dad had to get the veterinary out to repair the damage? ‘Stop! Who-ah!’ Selma dug hard and raised her voice. She pulled hard on the reins and mane to no avail. Then Jemima suddenly halted, jerked and threw Selma to the ground, leaving the horse bolting off out of reach towards the river bank.

Selma lay winded but laughing, smelling the clover, meadowsweet and honey of the scratchy stubble. Another horse was flying across in pursuit. The horseman jumped down and came to her aid.

‘Are you all right?’ It was Guy, like a knight in shining armour, lifting her up to let her hobble to the shelter of the stone wall. ‘She can be a monkey if you don’t check her.’

‘I’m fine, just my pride hurt. I thought she’d like a genteel little trot but she just decided to let rip. Sorry.’

‘Just stay put,’ Guy ordered, and he was back on horseback and cantering off in the direction of the far field where the chestnut hunter was casually grazing. He tethered her to his own horse and walked them back.

‘No bones broken this end,’ Guy laughed. ‘I gather your father hid her in the barn when the soldiers came but we have permission to keep her awhile longer. I was coming to collect her.’

‘We heard the grooms have enlisted,’ Selma said, not believing her luck in having Guy all to herself.

‘Lucky blighters! I wish I could go now. They say it’ll all be over by Christmas but I hope not. I’ll only just be seventeen then and I don’t want to miss the show.’

‘You make it sound like a firework display. Did you see they took twenty horses?’

Guy nodded. ‘Mother is furious. They took the trap ponies…One day this old lady will have to do her bit, won’t you?’ Guy nuzzled the horse. ‘I hope she’ll come with me when my turn comes.’

‘Has the colonel gone to France?’ Selma asked, hoping it wasn’t a secret.

‘He’s at HQ with Lord Kitchener, would you believe. Father says it will be a long show and no picnic getting Kaiser Bill’s army out of Belgium, though.’

‘Will you be joining up?’ Selma dared to voice the question that had been in her head for days.

‘As soon as I can, and Angus too. It should be splendid fun going to France. And your brothers? I know Father expects the village to fill its quota.’

‘I hope not…they’re needed at the forge. Mam’ll never let them sign up underage.’

‘My mother neither, but everyone has to answer the call as best they can. It’s sort of expected at school that the cadets set an example.’ His eyes glazed over with pride and determination.

‘Why do we have to fight for people we don’t know?’ Selma said, not convinced.

‘Because if the Hun comes here, he might do to our womenfolk what he’s done over there. No one is safe from bullyboys. You have to stand up to their threats and show them your fists, stand and be counted. The sooner we go, the sooner they’ll be kicked back to Germany where they belong.’

‘Everyone’s going mad about this war. I don’t want you all to go away…It’ll be a village full of old women and kiddies.’

‘I know this is a bally cheek, but if I do enlist would you write to me…about the horses and the village and all that stuff? I’d be awfully grateful, but if you think I’m being a bit fast…It’s not as if we’re…you know,well…’Guy stuttered, his cheeks flushing.

‘I’d like that but you’ll have to write first so I know where you are,’ she replied, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

‘Try and stop me. I expect we’ll be months doing boring training and all that. If you’d like to exercise the horses while I’m away, I’m sure Mother wouldn’t mind. You have a way with them, all you Bartleys. Jemima can be a fussy old thing.’

‘So I see,’ Selma laughed, and then wished she hadn’t. ‘Ouch! That hurt.’ They were nearing the paddock and the final gate through into village view. Selma couldn’t stop looking up at her rescuer. ‘You won’t leave before you say goodbye, will you?’

‘It’ll be ages yet. We have to go into school until the end of term or Mother will have a blue fit. Once I’m seventeen she can’t stop me doing what I want, though. Perhaps we could go for a walk one afternoon soon? We could meet under the river bridge.’

‘As if by accident…’ Selma nodded eagerly. ‘That would be the best.’ It wouldn’t do to blaze their friendship in front of her neighbours. Both of them knew that without having to spell it out.

‘What about next Sunday before school starts up?’

Selma smiled and flushed, feeling strange to be agreeing to something both of them knew was breaking some unwritten rule of decorum. But so what, Selma thought. The whole world was breaking rules, storming into a neutral country, ransacking homes. Theirs was a very minor misdemeanour compared to that.

‘Is it true what they’re saying on the market, Lady Hester?’

Hester turned from her basket of materials in the church hall with impatience. ‘What is it now, Doris?’ If some of these young mothers spent more time sewing and less time gossiping, they might be able to finish their quota of saddle pads, limb bandages and ambulance cushions for the troops on time. There was a list of knitted comforts for soldiers for Christmas still to do.

‘We heard the Hun has poisoned all the black spice in the hedgerows,’ Doris replied, and her friends all nodded their heads.

‘What utter bunkum! The blackberries were all picked ages ago before the first frosts. It’s October now, and the crop was poor because of the hot summer, my cook tells me. You mustn’t believe such rumours.’

Doris was not to be put down. ‘Well, I heard that we mustn’t use eau-de-Cologne or eat Battenberg cake. It’s unpatriotic, it said in the paper.’

‘Then use lavender water and call it marzipan slice, if you must. I don’t see how that helps the war effort, but concentrating on your stitches does,’ Hester snapped back, tired of their tittle-tattle.

These meetings were a chore but Hester was not one to shirk her duty to the community, though her fingers were raw from the rough cloth. The poor souls at the barricades needed all the help they could get and she was going to make sure West Sharland delivered whatever was asked from the District Ladies Comforts Fund. The older women were no bother, sitting primly in their best hats, thimbles at the ready. It was the young fry—farmers’ wives, tradespeople—who were eager to volunteer but not so keen to work. The village was pulling together under her tutelage and the vicar’s call to arms. She took back all she had said about his wife, Violet. Mrs Hunt was proving to be indefatigable in chivvying up the congregation. Her son, Arnold, was now serving in France and the news wasn’t too good there, judging from his letters home.

Most of the women here had family going to the front. Betty Plimmer’s boy, Jack, was the first to enlist when the recruiting sergeant held a parade in Sowerthwaite, the nearest town. Everything was all very satisfactory, according to the local Gazette, but Charles hinted it would be a long war and the casualty lists were getting longer.

She was dreading the moment her boys turned seventeen. There was pressure for Sharland pupils to be commissioned, of course. Their training was seen as an advantage, shortening the time for official training. Officers of such stalwart character were needed urgently, but not her sons, not yet.

Angus was bursting with keenness. But what if he had another seizure? She had told Charles to use his influence and get him a home posting, something not too vigorous. He’d just laughed and told her to stop mollycoddling the boy. ‘Cantrells go in the thick of it! It’s what we’re bred to do.’

‘But they’re so young. Plenty of time after school,’ she had argued.

‘Fiddlesticks, woman! What sort of chap do you think I am to hold back my sons from glory in the field when I’ve been round every farm and house in the village making sure all the able bods are rooted out and volunteered into service? I can’t let one of my own be seen as a slacker…’

In her head she knew he was right, but her heart was fearful. You didn’t bring children into the world to be shot to pieces. How could it have come to this?

‘Lady Hester, are you feeling unwell?’ Violet whispered softly. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

She had been daydreaming again, staring into space, making an utter fool of herself.

‘I’m just making lists in my head. So much to do…so much to do,’ she replied, fooling no one.

‘The bell will ring soon,’ Violet continued.

At noon every day St Wilfred’s church bell tolled the hour to remind the village to halt work, bow and pray for those who were fighting. The room fell silent and afterwards it was time for them to break up for luncheon. For once Hester decided to walk home unaccompanied. Time for some fresh air before afternoon visits began. Her days were so full there was hardly time to change from morning gown to afternoon dress, but duty and standards must be set, war or no. She must fly the flag of confidence, no matter how terrified she was feeling.

Essie paused at her scrubbing when she heard the wall clock strike twelve. ‘Lord have mercy on our boys, wherever they may be and give courage to their folks at home,’ she prayed. Then she carried on rubbing over the flags on her hands and knees until she saw the shadow fall over her and a pair of size ten boots in front of her nose. The polish on his toecaps made her stomach turn over. She looked up. ‘I’ve done it, Mam. Took the King’s shilling. I’m off to war!’ he announced, grinning as if it was something to rejoice about.

‘Oh, Newton Bartley…whatever for? What’ll yer dad say? He needs you in the forge.’

‘No he doesn’t. He’s got Frank to pump the bellows. When I told them my trade, they nearly bit my hand off…asked if I could ride and I leaped on one of their hosses in one jump to show I was not kidding. It’ll be the Artillery or Engineers for me. I might get to work with hosses in the cavalry…I won’t be in the front line but doing what I’m good at. Don’t cry…I’ll be back.’

Essie couldn’t hide her tears. ‘Oh, I wish you hadn’t…but I’m that proud of you, just the same. At least they won’t send you abroad until you’re nineteen.’

‘I told them I was eighteen and a half,’ Newt confessed.

‘Well, you can just go and untell them. If you don’t I will. You’re not eighteen until next March. Don’t be in such a hurry to wish your life away.’

‘It’s my life. I hate it when people eye you up and down in the street for not being in uniform. There’s loads of lads joining up together. The colonel’s been up and down the streets checking who’s joined up. I think one of us should go.’

‘But not to please him. Yer dad has already chewed off his ear when he poked his head round the smiddy door. He told him someone had to keep the wheels turning and machinery in fine fettle and the farmers’ hosses on the trot. That’s war work too. The colonel went red in the face and stormed out but yer dad got the last word on’t matter.’

‘I’m not going to please anyone—or the lassies, before you start—but ’cos I sort of have to…to prove to meself that village lads are tough and reliable and stand up for what is right. Don’t be mad at me; I’ll write to you.’

‘You’d better had, young man. When will you tell yer dad?’

Newt looked sheepish. ‘Not yet a while. I’ll wait until he’s cooling off. I don’t fancy breaking the news with him with a hammer in his hand.’ He grinned and Essie wanted to hug him, her first-born, the daft happorth! He had that stubborn mule Bartley streak in him, a devil to shift. Selma had it too, but Frank was more her own makeup, sensitive and feeling. Essie shivered, knowing this blessed war had just crept through her front door and stolen a son.

Angus and Guy stood in Otley Street outside the Drill Hall in Skipton sizing up the queue, the bustle of lads coming in and out, the giggling girls hanging around the gates waiting for their chaps to come out smiling, waving papers.

‘Come on, don’t hang about,’ Guy said. ‘Let’s get it over with, we’ve not got long.’

‘Not so fast,’ Angus grinned. ‘We can have some fun here. I’ll go in first and you wait outside…’

‘What for?’

‘You’ll see.’ Angus disappeared through the arched door while Guy looked to see if there was anyone he recognised. Mother would rant and rave when she found out what they were doing but if they waited any longer the war would be over. Angus reappeared, grinning. ‘Your turn, give your initials and wait and see.’

Guy stepped inside and joined the queue. He felt conspicuous in his striped school blazer. He stepped up to the table where the Sergeant Major looked up at him with surprise.

‘What’ve you forgotten, lad…changed yer mind? Let’s be havin’ you! Next.’ He ignored Guy and looked to the boy behind.

‘Sir, I’ve come to enlist,’ Guy offered.

‘Oh, aye? You can’t do it twice, laddie. I’ve got you on the list already. Next!’

‘That’s not me,’ Guy said.

‘I’m not deaf dumb and blind…stop wasting my time. See this joker out!’ A soldier made to manhandle him out of the door. So that was Angus’s little game.

‘Thanks a bundle! They wouldn’t take me…’

‘Don’t you think it’s better if only one of us goes? Poor Mama will have a fit,’ Angus offered.

‘Don’t be so stupid! You’re the one who ought to stay at home, not me.’ Guy dragged his brother back into the hall. This time there would be no monkey business. The Sergeant looked up as they both saluted and roared, ‘Well, I’ll be damned! A right pair of jokers, we have here! We’ll soon wipe the smile off your faces…’

Selma was busy supervising the junior knitting bee when the noon bell tolled. The children rose, put their hands together and offered a silent prayer. Soon the dinner break would start and she must make sure the knitting was well away from spills and sticky fingers. They were attempting mittens for soldiers. Some of the girls were experts already with knitting needles fixed to their belts, but her boys were all fingers and thumbs even though everyone was taking it as seriously as any eight-year-old could.

The autumn sun beamed down through the high arched school window, dust and chalk motes sparkling in the light, no sound but the clacking of needles and squirming clogs on wooden boards. Barbara Finch had just been sick again and sent home though the smell of vomit and sawdust was still in the air, as was the stink of someone’s dirty socks, but for once her thoughts rose above her own knit one, purl one to those afternoon walks with Guy…

How many Sundays had they met in secret now? How she longed for that precious moment when she stepped onto the secret path, through the iron gate up onto the scar to avoid the usual Sunday strollers and Sharland scholars, her heart beating fast, anticipating the moment when Guy would step out onto the path ahead of her as if by magic and she could drink him all in, those long striding legs, the sway of his hips, the moment when she caught him up and he looked down at her, inclining his head as if he was appraising her for the first time, smiling with those bluest of eyes, holding out his hand, his long fingers grasping her hand with such warmth and tenderness as they held each other in such a gaze that made Selma feel dizzy. It was as if the whole world stopped for those precious hours when they could lose themselves in each other, holding hands like any courting couple but always with one eye on the horizon in case they were discovered, hands separating as they drew close to the village to go their different paths. Sometimes Guy left Jemima tethered close by and they took turns to ride and walk up to the far ridge from where they could see the whole valley spread out before them.

Last week Guy sat staring out over the hills. He’d just heard that one of his school friends had been killed while on training with live ammunition. His name would be the first Sharlander to go on the Roll of Honour but not the last. Both of them sensed that this war was changing lives for ever and Selma felt a flash of fear that this was only the beginning of things to come. They sat under the shelter of a huge piece of granite rock; an erratic, Guy called it.

Selma noticed how when she talked to him her voice softened and her vowels rounded and deepened away from broad Yorkshire, taking her cue from his own refined accent. They were reading from his pocket Palgrave’s Golden Treasury.

‘You read so well and with such meaning like an actress,’ Guy said.

‘I’ve never been to a proper theatre,’ she confessed.

‘Then you must go…perhaps to Bradford or Leeds on the train.’

‘I don’t think so…we don’t go to those places.’

‘Not even to Shakespeare? You just have to see one of his plays. School’s going to do Hamlet next term but I won’t be there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was thinking if we got up a party now, a crowd from the village for a train trip or something, your pa’ll know you’d be safe. It’ll be fun before I…’ Guy paused. ‘It’s no good. I’ve got something to tell you…’ He was looking at her with such serious eyes and she knew what was coming.

‘Oh no, not you and all? You’ve never joined up, have you?’ Selma’s heart sank as Guy winked and smiled.

‘Officers can join at seventeen, you know. I can’t sit about and do nothing when other chaps are getting on with the job.’

‘My brother lied about his age and joined up too and now our Frank is going round with a face like a wet weekend and Dad threatening to chain him to the horse’s stall if he does the same. Why do you all want to rush off? Your mother will be as worried as mine is now.’ Selma felt sick at this news just when they were getting to know each other. What would happen to their Sunday walks?

‘Actually she doesn’t know yet. We’ll pick our moment but she can’t stop us. We can get written permission from Papa if she won’t agree. Secretly, she’ll be very proud. We’ll be in training for months so she’ll get used to us being away before we’re sent off somewhere.’

‘It won’t be the same though, will it? I mean our walks and talks…’ Selma blushed, knowing how much she’d miss them.

‘I’ll be home on leave,’ he offered.

‘It won’t be the same though, will it?’

‘Why not?’ He looked puzzled.

‘It just won’t, I know it. You’ll be doing manly things while I’m stuck in school with the baby class to teach.’

‘That’s important work too,’ he said with such a look of tenderness in his eyes. ‘I’ll be larking about marking time, playing pranks with Angus. It’ll be just like school. We have to do our bit.’

‘I’ll miss you.’ Selma felt tears of disappointment rising up as she gazed back at him.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he whispered, his face drawing ever closer so they were almost touching. His lips found hers in a soft kiss and they stared at each other with surprise.

‘I’m sorry…I’ve never done this sort of thing before,’ Guy apologised but, tipping her chin towards him with his finger, he kissed her again and they clung to each other, breathless.

‘Me neither,’ Selma whispered. The look between them stirred her to the pit of her stomach as they drew close again, kissing and hugging.

‘You are my best girl, Selima Bartley, do you know that? My best girl.’

She drew back,laughing.‘How many others do you have?’

‘You know what I mean. Ever since I saw you rescuing my brother…’

‘Ever since I saw you in that bathing costume,’ she giggled. ‘But I don’t want you to go away…’

‘I’m here now so let’s make hay while the sun shines,’ he said, pulling her down onto the grass.

Selma surrendered herself to this delicious moment. There was so much to learn.

‘Miss…Miss, I dropped a stitch again.’ Selma was jolted back to work. No peace for the wicked, she smiled. This secret courtship warmed her heart and fired her resolve. She would not let Guy down with shoddy knitting. ‘Come on now, children, winter is upon us and those poor soldiers need warm fingers, not mittens with holes!’

Hester sat bolt upright on the horsehair sofa, one eye on the grandfather clock in the corner of the farmhouse parlour. It had a brass face of some distinction, as did the dark oak furniture with fine pewter plates in racks. In her hand a piece of porcelain of antiquity that unfortunately smelled and tasted of musty damp from the china cabinet. The rounds of the sick and elderly were done and she always finished off at the Pateleys’ farm at the top end of the village out on the old high road to Sowerthwaite. It was set back among the trees with a fine view across the valley. Whoever had chosen this site knew his arse from his elbow, as Charles would say.

She smiled, knowing her dutiful day was done and Beaven would be waiting to return her to Waterloo House for tea and hot pikelets dripping with this season’s raspberry jam. The fire would be roaring in the morning room; they were setting an example of austerity by having only one fire lit during the week to save fuel.

‘How’s them young ’uns?’ said Emma Pateley, the farmer’s maiden sister, who kept home for him now he was widowed.

‘Ah, growing up too fast,’ Hester offered. ‘Still at school, of course…too young yet for any war work.’

‘Is that so? But not too young to go a-courtin’,’ Emma chuckled. ‘I seed one of yourn the other day up the far field walking a horse with a girl on its back. A proper knight in shining armour he looked.’

‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ Hester protested. ‘The boys are busy at school.’

‘It were a Sunday afternoon, as I recall; he were on that chestnut mare, fine beast. You were lucky the army didn’t get her on a rope. Tall as a spear, fair lad. The girl were dark-haired like that one of Bartleys’ as teaches school. You know, the one with the funny name. I’d watch it there. Them chapelgoers can be trouble when crossed. They like to match with their own.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be one of my boys, Miss Pateley.’ Hester felt herself flushing. Emma could be a gossipy old crone but her eyes didn’t miss much. The boys, it was true did have free periods on Sunday afternoons but surely one of her children wouldn’t make a fool of himself in the village?

‘When men and maids meet, there’s allus mischief, my lady,’ Emma continued, unaware of Hester’s discomfort. ‘Lads will be lads, and lasses aye let them…’

‘Thank you for the tea, Miss Pateley, but I must take my leave of you. Things to do in these trying times.’

‘I ’eard as how old Jones the plumber’s boy copped it last week and him a regular in the army. He’s been out there since it began…He’ll not be the last. My cups are telling me we’ll all be wearing black afore the next year’s out.’

‘Yes, yes, perhaps…Now you’ve got some more wool for the socks. I hear you’re one of the best heel turners in the district. We want to send socks, scarves and comforts by the end of next month, parcels for our local boys. I can rely on you?’ Hester wagged her finger, desperate for Emma to stop talking.

‘I’ll do my best. Thank you for calling on a poor old soul as is cut off from the world up here.’

Not so cut off that you can’t find gossip, mused Hester as she stepped briskly into the waiting carriage. There was something about the woman’s ramblings that unsettled her. Could one of her boys really be making a fool of himself with a village girl? How ridiculous, how stupid, to foul on your own doorstep! How dare he shame the family? No doubt it would be one of Angus’s pranks. He was always up for silliness. Had he no respect for his station in life? Just wait until their next exeat: she’d lay down the law. A liaison with a villager was simply unthinkable.

Guy saw the thunderous look on his mother’s face after church and wondered what was up. She’d been acting strange all morning, silent and severe. Had another under gardener left them in the lurch? She plonked down her Prayer Book and her gloves, and pointed the twins into the cold drawing room.

‘Inside…both of you,’ she ordered, out of earshot from Shorrocks, who was hovering by the hall stairs with their coats and hats.

‘Now which one of you has been silly enough to pay attention to the Bartley girl?’

Neither of them spoke but stood together to attention while she choked them off.

‘Don’t look at me, Mother,’ said Angus. ‘I’ve not been near the village for ages.’ He turned to Guy. ‘And Guy’s head has been stuck in a poetry book, hasn’t it?’

Bless Angus for covering for him, but Guy was not ashamed of his friendship with Selma.

‘Don’t blame Angus. Selma and I have been walking out, riding Jemima. She’s awfully clever, you know, training to be a teacher. You’ll like her when you meet her.’

‘I have no intention of doing any such thing. At your age, walking out with a blacksmith’s daughter and a nonconformist—have you no sense? You should be in school, not gadding about with a girl, giving her false expectations. You are far too young for such matters and there’s a war on. Why didn’t you tell me this was going on, Angus?’ Hester accused.

Angus shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s all news to me,’ he grinned.

‘Have you nothing to say, Guy? Stop grinning at each other like simpletons.’

‘Sorry, Mother, but we’re not kids any more. We’re old enough to volunteer and take up commissions—’

‘That’s as may be, in good time,’ Hester interrupted.

‘No time like the present.’ Angus threw in his verbal grenade,standing to attention to salute. ‘We’re soldiers now, all signed on the dotted line.’

‘You have done what!’ she exploded. ‘Behind my back? I forbid it!’

‘You can’t, Mother. It’s done. We’ll be off to training camps in the next week or so.’

Guy felt sorry for his mother as he saw her bravado crumple. She sat down, pale-faced, deflated for once, speechless at this news. ‘Does your father know about this madness?’

‘We’ll write to him. It’s only what he expects of us.’

‘But, Angus, you can’t go, not with your recent affliction. You won’t pass a medical, not with your history.’

‘Don’t fuss. I’m fine now. It’s going to be such a wheeze. Oh, don’t cry, Mother. We’ll be fine and they might let us join the same regiment.’

‘I see you have got it all worked out behind my back. Does this Miss Bartley know your plans too? I dare say she’s behind all this show of gallantry,’ Hester said, her lips composed, her arms crossed tightly against her bodice.

‘That’s not fair. Her brother’s going too. Everyone’s going. You both worked hard enough to make sure half the village boys answered the call to arms.’

‘But not my sons, not yet, not my two boys at once. Why can’t you wait? There’s no hurry,’ she pleaded.

‘The sooner we leave, the sooner our training begins and the sooner we’ll be in action before it all fizzles out. I’d hate to miss it,’ Angus added, his eyes bright with fervour. ‘Guy will keep an eye on me, won’t you?’

‘I can’t take this in, all this secrecy and I’m the last to know. Why?’

‘Because we knew you’d take on so…You must let us be like all the others and give us your blessing.’ Guy sat down beside her, trying to jolt her out of her maudlin mood. It was not like his mother at all.

‘I have a bad feeling about this. It’s too soon. What will I do without you?’

‘What you’ve always done: put a brave face to the world and get on with your charity work and church duties, keep the home fires burning, as the song says, and make sure we get clean socks, hankies, some of Cook’s marmalade, pipe tobacco and up-to-date newspapers. Don’t be sad, be glad that we’re old enough to be useful to our country in its hour of need.’

‘Oh, Guy, do you realise what you’re doing?’ She was shaking her head, not looking at them both.

‘I’m not rightly sure but all I know is that it must be done now…Come on, chop chop, no more moping about. There’s the luncheon gong. I hope it’s roast lamb. Dry your eyes. We’ll get plenty of leave while we’re training. Might even get as close as Catterick camp. Buck up, old girl. It’s not the end of the world.’

But it is the end of my world, sobbed Hester as she paced the bedroom floor later that night, the gentle tick of the marble clock lagging far behind her own heartbeat. How can I live if anything happens to my sons? No sooner out of the nursery than into school and now into the army, and Guy on the arm of some trollop. She’s behind it somewhere. Prim school miss she might appear but there’s fire in those dark eyes and she’s not getting her claws into my boy.

Hester sat on the window seat, drawing back the brocade curtains to reveal a night sky lit with a thousand stars.

There’s one good thing about all this, though, she thought, drying her eyes. Once Guy disappears from the scene, all this mooning about will soon fizzle out. I’ll put him in the way of some decent county girls from good families; girls of our own class, not upstarts no better than servants. At least he’ll be too busy to satisfy that girl’s craving for influence. And as for Angus…Hester smiled a knowing smile. There must be ways to make sure he got no further than the medical board. Perhaps she could let Guy go now, but not two, oh dear me, no…Angus must stay close by, whatever it took.

First the horses, then the men, and the village fell silent as it went about the daily grind. I sigh, looking around the crowds. Everyone thought it was ‘all a bit of a bluff and wouldn’t come to owt, as old Dickie Beddows had pronounced. I’ve not thought of him for years, sitting under the elm on the bench with string tied round the knees of his corduroy breeches, sucking an empty pipe, dispensing his wisdom to those who had the time to listen. But as the months wore on and curtains were closed in respect for some mother’s son who was lost in places they couldn’t pronounce, even he fell silent.

Then there was the shelling of Hartlepool and the Zeppelin raids that bombed Scarborough and the east coast. Yorkshire was under attack; a terror none of us could understand; little kiddies crushed under bricks, mothers cooking breakfast blasted to eternity. This was no bluff.

How strange that I can recall every detail of that time yet forget what day of the week it is so easily, or what I’ve had for supper.

Being here brings everything to the fore. Nothing’s been lost in the house of my memory. I can walk round its rooms and recall those far-off tumultuous days at will.

The elm tree may have been replaced by a sycamore, the guard railings removed with most of the cobbles, the chapel is now a spacious house, but I can see it all as it once was.

The school is still functioning, with its fine playing field. It was my refuge from all the worries of war and home. Things were never the same when Newt left. Frank took his desertion to heart and wouldn’t settle. Oh, Frankland…

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, couldn’t put you together again.




2 DARK DAYS (#ulink_adcc079b-2a35-54f5-8b63-6e9bd9e2353c)


1915-17



When this lousy war is over, no more soldiering for me,

When I get my civvy clothes on, oh how happy I will be.

No more church parades on Sunday, no more begging for a pass.

You can tell the sergeant-major to stick his passes up his arse!



Attrib. Joseph Scriven




5 (#ulink_961147a5-5bd2-5202-9c4e-bc8a39aa956f)


‘What’s up now, son?’ Essie asked, seeing Frank storming out of the forge, flinging off his leather apron in disgust.

‘Everything’s got to be done his way and I can’t stomach no more of it. I never wanted to be his skivvy. It was more to Newt’s liking than mine. Nothing I do is ever right.’

‘It’s just his way, love. He likes things to be right,’ Essie tried to explain.

‘Right enough will do for me…Just ’cos I put the sheep horns on the wrong hook, you’d think the world’d come to an end. He’s like a bee stuck down my neck buzzing in my ear. I’m off!’

‘Calm down, son. Go and get a brew and I’ll have a word with your father.’

‘Don’t bother. It’s not fair, me having to take Newt’s place,’ Frank muttered, disappearing round the corner just as Asa strode out of the forge.

‘Where’s he gone now, Mam? Never at hand when he’s needed. Pateley’s unbroken beast is due any moment and he’s a right beggar to shoe. It’ll take two of us hold that stag down. I never had to tell our Newt what to do. This one’s got his head in the clouds.’

‘Don’t fuss him, Asa. He’s only doing his best but his heart’s not in the job. It never was. He’s allus hankered after working with horses,’ Essie said, trying to smooth over yet another bust-up. Poor Asa was looking greyer round the gills these days with twice as much work, despite fewer horses. Everyone was trying to save their tools, repairing their irons and pots, kettles waiting to be fettled up and wheel rims sorted. Making do and mending was the order of the day; no one wanted to waste precious metals.

In the evening they all had to lend a hand with the allotment patch cut out of their paddock and fenced off from nibbling horses. Potatoes, vegetables, anything to fill the pot had to be weeded, hens in the back yard fed and swill taken to fatten up the shared pig in the stable at the back of the Hart’s Head.

How Essie missed her eldest son, with his quiet ways and steadying influence over his brother. Frank was missing him too, them being so close in age, and her heart went out to him. But what could she do? Her free time, such as it was, was taken up with the Chapel Ladies Comfort Guild, who met most afternoons to gather up parcels, knitting and treats.

Selma, though busy with the fundraising concert party as well as the school, drifted round like love’s lost dream. She was at that funny stage, betwixt and between girl and woman, mooning over letters from one of the Cantrell boys. What could they make of that friendship? All innocent enough, but they were both far too young to be serious, especially when Lady Hester’s disapproval was plain to see.

Last week she’d stopped her pony and trap and almost poked Essie in the ribs with her parasol.

‘Is my son still sending billets-doux to your daughter?’ she demanded.

Essie smiled. ‘They both have a keen interest in poetry, I believe,’ she replied, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Rather sweet at their tender age.’ She was not going to be browbeaten by her imperious tone of voice. ‘How are your sons faring with their training?’

‘As one would expect of a Cantrell,’ came the curt reply. ‘But I don’t want my son distracted by unsuitable entanglements.’

‘Of course not…but young people today seem to have minds of their own on such matters,’ Essie offered, watching Hester Cantrell puffing herself up with disagreement.

‘It is a ridiculous situation. I absolutely forbid it!’

‘Really? Forbiddance is usually a great encourager, don’t you think?’ Essie argued back. ‘In my experience it adds a whiff of danger to the whole enterprise.’

Hester stared back at her in disbelief at such a bold riposte. ‘I hardly think so. In such times as these there’s no room for romantic escapades. This war must be won, and soon.’

‘You are so right, Lady Hester, but the world has to keep turning and soldiers will take comfort out of battle…Better with their friends than with strangers?’ Essie continued

‘You chapel folk are mighty sure of your opinions, Mrs Bartley.’

‘Thank you.’ Essie nodded sweetly. ‘I find it best to trust to the good common sense of the young, these days. They are bearing the brunt of our mistakes with their blood. I think we can allow them the freedom to choose how they spend what little leisure they have, don’t you?’

Lady Hester sat back in shock, trying to think up some caustic put-down, her lips opening and closing. But nothing came out but, ‘Good day.’

Oh heck! I’ve put the fox in the chicken run, and no mistake, thought Essie but still she’d take nothing back. If young men were risking their lives then they must be given such freedoms as compensation. It was only fair, and that went for Newton as well as the Cantrell twins. This war was turning customs upside down.

What a diabolical cheek! Hester couldn’t get over Essie Bartley’s impudence. Freedoms indeed! In her day children did what parents commanded and with no argument. The whole world was going mad and all civilities were disappearing fast. Even dressing for dinner in the evening was being slackened in favour of lounge suits in some households. Servants were giving notice to go into factories, making it difficult to find replacements. In fact, on several occasions she’d had to go into the kitchen herself to prepare a cold collation when Cook had her day off. Arkie had upsticked to run some convalescent hospital for wounded soldiers. Shorrocks was marrying her soldier boy in a rush and Hester feared she was already in the family way. Mrs Beck came in each day from the village now to clean and tidy and lay the fires, instead of having a live-in maid. That it should come to this at her age. Where would it all end?

She’d not seen Charles for months, just a fleeting visit when she’d begged him to get Angus a safe job out of the line of fire. Of course he’d laughed away her fears and told her to stop meddling. So far there had been no repetition of Angus’s seizures but she worried that it was only a matter of time before another one struck.

All too often now, when she came through the front door into the marble-floored hall, there was only silence to greet her or the chimes of the hour from the drawing-room clock. The silence was deafening, the echo of her shoes on the tiles, the barking of a stable dog somewhere. In the silence of the evening she had time to churn over all the day’s incidents, her worries, but no one with whom to share these thoughts.

Occasionally this gloom was lifted by one of Guy’s letters that she devoured, trying to hear his voice in her mind.

That was what hurt the most: the fact that the Bartley girl was getting his thoughts, his affection. She received a dutiful page or two but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more from him, and as for Angus, he was even worse. How could they be so thoughtless? There was such an empty space where once they’d filled her days.

Was this the pattern for her future: afternoon visits, committees, the occasional fundraising concert breaking up the monotony of her days? To rattle around in this uncomfortable silence, waiting for one of her men to return for a night or two was a daunting prospect.

At least her boys were safe in England. They all planned to meet in London on their next leave. She would go down on the train and they could take in a show. Why did she feel so old and unwanted, though?

‘Buck up, Hester,’ she said to herself. ‘Pour yourself a drink and get your sewing out.’

Damn the bloody sewing, she thought. I want them all back…I want my boys back here…

Selma caught up with Frank on the High Road out of Sowerthwaite, the winding lane that was a short cut to West Sharland. He was swaying in the breeze and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was ‘market fresh’. But Bartley men were abstainers—or were they? As she drew near she smelled the booze on his breath.

‘You can’t go home in that state!’

‘Leave me alone…I’ve had enough of being bossed about…I’m going.’

‘Going where?’ Selma snapped, and then realised what was coming next. ‘You haven’t…’

‘I have. I’ve joined up this morning and no one can stop me. I’m sick of being the only lad left in our street. I’m sick of being stared at. I can work with horses in the army. They need drivers and good riders.’

‘You can’t go! Dad needs your help. Don’t let him down. Mam’ll go spare when she finds out. Honestly, Frank, you can be so selfish!’

‘That’s right, Selma, be a hedgehog; roll in a ball and get your prickles out. It’s all right for you, still in school. Girls have got it made but I’m not staying round here while there’s a war on.’

‘We’re doing our bit too. Look at all the women doing men’s jobs—driving horse buses, making shells. There’s even a postwoman in Sowerthwaite, and volunteer nurses joining up.’ Selma strode on, leaving him behind.

‘All right, you’ve made your point.’ Frank sat down by a rock on the verge, his eyes glassy. The drink had got to his legs and he was sobering up in the fresh air.

‘I hate the forge, pumping bellows, lighting fires, dunking hot metal, and he’s allus preaching at me. When do you ever see him laugh?’

‘There’s not much to laugh about right now. Even less if you walk out on him. Poor Mam will be frantic with two of you out there.’

‘I’ll be one less mouth to feed, one less shirt to scrub.’

‘That’s not the point. You’re letting them down. Going for a soldier isn’t the answer.’

‘It is for me. It gets me out of this godforsaken hole!’

‘Don’t get funny with me, it doesn’t suit you.’

‘And don’t you go telling me what I can or can’t do. We all know you’ve got big ideas ever since you palled up with Cantrell. He’ll drop you like hot coals before long,’ Frank snapped back.

‘It’s not like that. We’re just friends,’ she replied, blushing.

‘Pull the other leg. I’ve seen you put those letters in your bride box.’

‘What bride box?’ she retorted.

‘The little carved chest that belonged to Granny Ackroyd. You keep all your treasures in there.’

‘Have you been rooting around in my things?’ Her cheeks flamed.

‘You’ve got your prickles out again,’ he laughed, and despite herself she joined in

He’d be in a heap of trouble when he got home. One by one they were leaving her. The family would shrink to just three. But he was right to go and do his duty. The women would manage; they had to in school when the male teachers had volunteered. Now they were practising for a big fundraising concert where her infant class would be the star turn. They were making outfits for the infants dressed as bantam soldiers to march across the stage and sing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.

They walked the rest of the way in silence and Selma kept wondering if Frank was having second thoughts about his rash decision. Trouble was, he’d be too proud to admit his mistake. The Bartleys were all stubborn mules. It was bred in the bone but she’d be sure to be out of the house when he broke this news.

Guy sat on the train going south from training camp, staring out of the blackened windows, hoping this family weekend would be a success. In some ways his new life was just the same as boarding school: long route marches, drill, rifle shooting, studying the manual like a textbook, learning to bivouac and do cross-country treks in the dark. There was so much theory to learn on how to train up men to obedience and to give orders and earn respect. Some of his training was obvious and some of it bizarre, but he trusted it was all to get him up to scratch for the purpose. He must lead men into battle, make sure they held the line, encourage and discipline men far older than himself and many more experienced.

Angus was in another battalion, romping away like a pig in muck, according to his scribbled letters. Mother’s threatened interference hadn’t happened, but Guy was uneasy that his brother had lied about his fitness. They’d had their portraits done in uniform, singly and then together, left and right profiles, head to head as if they were one face looking out. They’d both grown moustaches to make them look older, fair tickly little tufts covering their full lips.

He’d sent a photo to Selma for her opinion and she’d not sent it back. It was good to have a girl to write to. He could let rip and describe all the funny incidents in training, his boredom and impatience to get into action. Her last letter had been full of Frank’s defection into the Horse Artillery and how her father was struggling to keep up with his work.

He pulled out his pipe, pondering how he’d cope when the time came and the barrage exploded over his head. Would he make a tit of himself and funk the whole show, be dismissed to the rear or get cashiered out as a coward? He hoped he’d make a good account of himself and serve his men well.

With all the exercise and good food, he’d filled out, grown an inch or two and found new muscle strength. His mother would see a difference and his father would be proud of them both. They were meeting up for lunch at the Trocadero restaurant and then on to a West End show. Angus was joining them from his base near Aldershot. He’d caught up with Father more than once.

The news from the front was mixed. It didn’t take a genius to work out the attrition rate among officers was much higher than in the ranks. The casualty lists in The Times made sombre reading but Guy was all the more determined that he would be one of the exceptions to the rule.

Charles Cantrell was waiting in the Long Bar of the Trocadero restaurant in Shaftesbury Avenue. It was full of distinguished men in uniform, and Guy was expecting to see Angus lounging somewhere close by, but his father was alone.

‘Good journey, old fellow?’ Father smiled, shaking his hand.

‘Angus not arrived?’

‘Not yet. We’ll leave his ticket at the Royalty Theatre, if he’s late into town. Mother is shopping, and I’ve booked a theatre dinner. How’re things going?’

They sat huddled in the crush, talking shop. Now he was in the army Guy felt a shift between his father and himself, a loosening of the reins, a relaxation in their chitchat, but still he kept checking his new wristwatch, looking up at the entrance for his brother. Still no sign of him.

‘Come on, young man…Time to go and find your mama before she buys out Derry and Toms.’ So they left the male-only enclave to go to search for his mother but she was already waiting downstairs in the foyer, regal in lilac and grey, her eyes smiling up at them with pride.

‘No Angus yet? Oh, I did so want us all to be together.’ She paused to look at her son admiringly. ‘Guy, you’ve grown.’

‘He’s learned to stand up straight at last,’ Charles laughed. ‘No more slouching around; that’s why we chose something frivolous to take our minds off all the doom and gloom. Charley’s Aunt…damn silly play, but you’ll enjoy it.’

‘You’ve seen it then?’ Guy said. ‘Perhaps we should go somewhere else?’

‘No, no, chaps in the office gave it the thumbs up. I’m starving. I wonder where Angus has got to this time?’

And on to the Royalty they went but Angus’s seat stayed empty all night. Mother kept twitching, wanting to make a telephone call to his barracks, but Father wouldn’t hear of it.

It was nearly midnight when the doorbell rang in their apartment in South Kensington. Angus stood there, grinning sheepishly.

‘Sorry, folks, my pass was cancelled. I’m on leave tomorrow instead so hitched a lift into town. Better late than never.’

‘Thank God for that.’ Father ushered him in. ‘Now your mother can sleep in peace. She’s been pacing the floor, worrying as usual. On the move soon?’ he asked.

Angus slouched down in the nearest armchair. ‘Something like that…going down to Wiltshire for more outdoor stuff. How about you, Guy?’

‘Still stuck up north, worst luck.’

‘Be patient, the two of you. It’s no picnic in France,’ Charles butted in,handing Angus a glass of brandy.‘No shifting those Huns from their defences…bit of a stalemate all round.’ He tapped his nose. ‘But you didn’t hear it from me. You two are better off here for the time being, believe me.’

‘So what’s it really like? We’ve heard some tales as how they are firing gas shells at us now.’

‘Shush! Don’t let Mother hear you next door. Don’t worry, we got the measure of them. Mask drill is the only way. You’ll find only the battle teaches you about war. One battle is worth two years’ training. But make sure your men get used to covering their faces. Discipline and drill, that’s the ticket! Two can play at their dirty game. We’ll give them a dose of their own medicine soon enough. Come on then, time for bed, young man. Your mother’s got a morning of culture lined up for you both and then I’ll meet you for lunch. I’ve got things to do for Lord Kitchener tomorrow. He asked after you both. He still remembers you in short pants.’

Guy noted his father had changed the subject, but he was tired and Angus looked done in. ‘Good night.’

Guy lay listening to the noise of traffic outside, so different from the sounds of the barracks or the near silence of Waterloo, where there was only the rattle of trains in the night and the owl hooting in the ash tree. He felt restless after all that talk about gas masks and shells.

They were kipping down in the dressing room on officers’ camp beds in the flat.

‘You all right?’ Guy called to his brother. He didn’t answer at first.

‘Do you ever wonder if we’ll get through this in one piece?’ Angus said eventually.

‘I don’t think about it much, do you?’ Guy replied.

‘It all seems a bit unreal, all the stuff in the training manual. What if I forget half of it?’

‘You won’t. That’s why they drill us to make sure it’s second nature. I don’t suppose there’s time to think in the thick of it,’ Guy added.

‘I wish we could have a rehearsal and try it all out first, get used to the noise and the smells, don’t you think? Exercises and manoeuvres are all very well but I don’t want to make an ass of myself in front of my men. I’ve never seen a dead man in battle. What if I funk it?’

‘Any more headaches?’ Guy asked; a coded reference to Angus’s fitting episodes.

‘No, fit as a fiddle. I reckon it’s all behind me now, thank God. I don’t fancy missing the show now it’s really getting going. Can’t wait.’

Guy hoped his brother was telling the truth. But still he was uneasy.

You’re getting as bad as Mother, Guy mused. Enjoy this family time. Only God knows when we will all meet up again.

The Bartleys were enjoying having Newton home and Frank returned to the fold from his barracks, resplendent in their uniforms. Essie was fussing over them, while Asa muttered he could do with a hand in the forge.

‘If I’d known they were coming together I’d’ve done some more baking,’ Essie said as she beat sugar and butter into a bowl to make a sponge cake for the school concert that evening.

‘I’d like to make some cinder toffee,’ Selma asked. ‘So we can sell it for the Princess Mary’s Soldiers’ Fund. The boys can take some back with them.’ She was so glad to see her brothers back, all the family together. Aunty Ruth and Uncle Sam were coming on the train from Bradford. It would be like old times. If only her father would cheer up and not bang around muttering to himself.

He’d taken Frank’s leaving as a desertion. Selma’d never seen him take on so. Now he mumbled, ‘I doubt it’ll be a picnic out there…I’ve got a bad feeling about it all. It just don’t seem right to be fighting other Christian folk. How can the Lord be behind the both of us? It don’t make sense. Frank’s nobbut a milksop with hardly hair on his chest yet, but I’m the last one as any will listen to in this house these days. He should be here by my side, learning his trade.’

‘Now don’t go on, Asa, getting yourself worked up about what can’t be changed,’ Mam was quick to silence him. ‘Don’t spoil their leave. I’m so proud of the both of them.’

‘But they don’t know what they’re letting themselves in for. They’re too young to be let loose on the battlefields. Now I’m wondering if I ought to volunteer myself to keep an eye on them both.’

‘At your age? Don’t be so daft. You’ve got your work here.’ Selma heard fear in her mother’s voice.

Alone in the kitchen, she pulled out the little iron pot they kept for toffee making, gathering the ingredients, measuring the butter and sugar, bicarb of soda at the ready. Everything was spick and span for Aunty Ruth’s visit, brasses shining, fire high, table laid. Having company to visit was a highlight, war or not. There was always a welcome for an honoured guest.

She smiled, thinking of Guy’s last letter filled with his trip to London, the shows and musical concert and visit to an art gallery. His world was so different from her own. They didn’t have to scrimp and save for every little treat. Lady Hester bought whatever took her fancy but Selma wouldn’t swap her family for his starchy one any day.

Tonight her little pupils were going to bring the house down with their drilling and marching antics. The school hall would be packed out and she would be showing off her soldier brothers in uniform. Marigold Plimmer would be making eyes at them; all fluttering eyelashes and simpering little laughs at their jokes but for once, Selma would not begrudge them this attention.

She would write to Guy describing all the details of the fundraising concert and the latest news from West Sharland.

Dearest Guy, she composed in her head, wondering what he looked like in his smart uniform. Are you coming home for Christmas or staying in London? Will we be able to go riding on Jem again? I’m busy with my pupils, dressing them up like soldiers, but I can’t get them to march in step. Frank and Newton are here. I do miss you…Then the smell of burned sugar hit her nostrils.

Frank and Newt were laughing in the doorway. ‘Dolly daydream, wake up, your pan’s on fire!’

Liquid toffee spurted over the pan top. The mess was everywhere. Frank went for the water jug and before she could stop him he flung it on the mixture and it exploded in all directions, splattering the range, the clean tablecloth, every nearby surface.

‘What did you do that for, you dozy brush?’ Selma yelled. She cried tears of rage, trying to wipe up the gunge. The molten toffee was solidifying fast.

In the end it took hours, scouring bits of toffee off the floor and the walls, the boys laughing at her all the while. She was furious with them but most of all herself. What would Mam say about that sickly smell of burned sugar, and her wasting all that precious food? And all because of Guy…

Ever since then just the smell of burned sugar or caramel transports me straight back to that afternoon. There should be an orchestra playing in the background, a soundtrack to such special moments as these. How can a scent open the floodgates of memory to a time and a place so fixed in your heart when your history was in the making?

If only we’d known how precious those few evenings were in the autumn of 1915, when we all gathered for a singsong round the piano, walked over the Ridge to watch the last of the autumn leaves painting the trees, me arguing with my brothers, as we always did about whose turn it was to do the washing up? Then I stood on the platform of Sowerthwaite station waving them off as if we had all the time in the world, as if our lives were secure and unchangeable. If only we knew things in advance…

Halcyon days, poets call them, those days of calm before a storm. Now I have little sense of smell with which to taste or enjoy food, but still in my dreams I can recall that scene as if it were yesterday: Newt and Frank on their hands and knees scrubbing for dear life while I brushed the blacking on the grate and tried to hide the evidence, all to no avail. I got such a rocket from Mam for wasting precious sugar and there was no cinder toffee to put in their knapsacks. I sent them on their way to war empty-handed. It still breaks my heart to think how unprepared we all were for what was to follow.




6 (#ulink_5a8fe8ca-e88e-5f32-9abb-c270510bda3b)


1916

Hester felt proud of her effort. A thick bowl of broth, with mutton bones, pearl barley, vegetables chopped and lots of salt and pepper. They were having a penny dinner in the church hall to raise funds for the new Women’s Institute. To her surprise she quite enjoyed getting stuck in, wearing a long white apron and a lace-edged cap, while Violet Hunt chatted away about all the things this new society might do to help the war effort.

‘We need a committee and you must take the chair, of course, Lady Hester. There are groups springing up all over the district. It’s all very exciting.’

Violet was becoming a staunch ally and, for a vicar’s wife, most liberal in her views. It was she who suggested it might be politic to invite the chapel women. This was an interdenominational institution, after all, open to all women, married or single, and a splendid way of galvanising all their working parties into one big effort. Instead of lots of separate meetings in order to publicise all the new directives from the government about saving fuel and food and equipment, they were going to pass on useful tips and skills. It would give the wives of soldiers something to occupy their evenings after an outbreak of khaki fever in the district and some unfortunate incidents between visiting soldiers and local women.

Hester stirred the soup pan, sniffing the delicious aroma. Who would’ve thought a year ago she would have to cook some of her own meals, tidy her own room, see to some of her mending and, her most daring venture to dare learn to ride a bicycle.

Cycling up and down to the shops with her basket was most invigorating in the fresh air, and once or twice on a bright day she’d ventured further afield, shortening her riding skirts to prevent them catching on the chain. Sometimes down the green lanes with stonewalls enclosing her, she heard the curlew bubbling over the fields as she watched the lambs gambolling, almost forgetting that there was a war on. It was all so peaceful and serene. It was impossible to contemplate that five hundred miles away young men were being killed.

She was getting used to the boys being away now, believing Charles when he’d said that they’d not be shoved across the Channel without proper training. Their letters were brief chatty notes full of a world she hardly knew these days. Hers in return were full of how war was changing her domestic life, how the village community responded to the sad news of boys who would never return home. She told them about Violet’s new idea to form the Women’s Institute like the ones set up in Canada, which her sister had joined.

But the casualty lists were never far away from everyone’s mind. Charles hinted that there was a big push coming when the weather faired up; a push in which her sons would surely be involved. The French were taking a pounding, holding their forts at Verdun against terrible odds and suffering atrocious bombardments, so the paper said.

Keep busy and don’t think too much was her maxim now. Fill every day with things to do, shore up the gaps with busyness. The garden was turned over now into one big allotment, and potatoes chitted and planted before the ninth of April, the traditional date for planting here. She’d been on her hands and knees with the best of them now she was down to just one old gardener. Everything was dug over except her rose bed.

There had to be some vision of colour and hope to look forward to, she sighed, noticing, as she returned to her morning room, the postman cycling up the drive. As she saw him pull out a telegram from his bag, she went cold.

Hester made for the drive to meet him. It took every ounce of courage to look nonchalant. Old Coleford, seeing her anxiety, waved the paper jauntily in the air.

‘Nowt to worry about, your ladyship. ’Tis only from yer son…’

She could feel the weakness of relief seeping into her limbs. It was all she could do not to snatch the paper from his fingers but she stood nodding politely.

‘Thank you, Coleford,’ she managed to say, before taking it to the bench against the south wall, and tearing it open with shaking fingers: ‘Meet me at the station. The four o’clock train. A.’

What a relief. Angus was home on leave!

The news sent her into a flurry of flower arranging, lists for Beaven the coachman to do, engagements to cancel, sending the relief maid upstairs to air his bed. There was a menu to shop for. Angus was coming home. It was going to be just splendid!

The train was late and she was miles too early. Beaven had brought her down in the pony and trap, knowing she was impatient to be on the platform as the steam train chugged slowly into the station. The porter was hovering and the stationmaster fussing with his watch and chain.

Then doors clanged open to disgorge scruffy soldiers, unshaven, weary-faced, in muddy uniforms with kitbags on their shoulders. Boys who had travelled for days to snatch a few hours with their families on leave. Some fell into the waiting arms of their womenfolk. They all looked exhausted.

Then from the first-class compartment she saw Angus step out slowly but not in his uniform, looking ordinary somehow in a long tweed coat, carrying a suitcase. How strange. He was shuffling along like an old man and, to her horror, leaning on a walking stick.

‘Angus, darling! What a surprise!’ Hester smiled, reaching out to greet him.

‘Not now, Mother. Let’s get out of here.’ He didn’t look her in the face but shuffled over the railway bridge and out through the station gate into the trap, pulling his trilby over his face. He didn’t speak all the way home, but sat sullen, staring out into the dusky night.

Hester could hardly breathe with the shock. What on earth was going on?

Once through the hall, Angus plonked his case down and went straight to his room. She followed him up slowly, fearing the worst. Had he been cashiered out of the army for a scandal, failed his examination, found wanting in leadership? What had Angus been up to and why had Charles not warned her of this disgrace?

Opening the door, she found her son sitting on the bed, sobbing, shaking with distress like a little boy.

‘Angus! Pull yourself together and give me some explanation,’ she ordered, knowing she must be hard to bring him out of this childish display of emotion.

‘I had another bloody fit, didn’t I, right in front of everyone on parade when we were standing to attention. It’s when I get that smell…like iron filings, a metal iron smell, and the flashing lights—my fireworks, I call them—and the next thing I wake up in the hospital ward and they were prodding and poking and asking questions. I made a right tit of myself again. Why? It’s not fair just when we were shipping off to France. It’s just not fair. I’m going to miss it all, discharged on medical grounds as unfit for service,’ he grimaced. ‘All I ever wanted to do is taken from me and now I’m useless and there’s nothing wrong with me. Not even a bloody war wound to show…How can I ever show my face again? They’ll think I’m a conchie or a coward.’ He flung himself down on the counterpane. ‘Just leave me alone…’

Hester didn’t know what to say to comfort him when all she was feeling was relief that one of her boys was not to be going to the slaughter fields. One day he would thank them for saving his life but now he was in the throes of frustration.

She summoned Dr Mackenzie. They needed a proper explanation of all this.

‘In the wars again, young man?’ he said, offering his hand in sympathy, but Hester was in no mood for small talk.

‘What is epilepsy? There has to be a cure for this complaint, surely? We must find one of the best doctors—’ Hester started but Angus interrupted.

‘You’ve got to let them find me a job for the war effort. Anywhere…I can’t not be part of the show!’

The doctor sat down, trying to make sense of the distress in the room.

‘Calm down, young man. I don’t suppose you told them anything before, did you, at the first medical, about those school fits?’

‘What do you take me for? Of course not. I’ve been a year in training and no bother. Then this, out of the blue! The headaches come and go and I have been struggling to concentrate. Sometimes I go a bit blank for a few seconds but I can cover it up. I was doing perfectly fine but now I’m a freak! They say I’m an epileptic. What sort of condition is that?’

Mackenzie hesitated. ‘It’s a serious condition. There are those who suggest you might be better off in a special hospital…It can get worse…or there’s always the hope that it settles down and you never have another one.’

‘No one’s putting me into some loony bin. If I can’t do my job at the moment I’ll rest up here until I can be cured,’ Angus pleaded, pacing the floor in agitation.

Mackenzie shook his head and glanced at Hester. ‘You have to understand, laddie, there’s no permanent cure for your condition, but some pills might calm it down.’

‘Give them to me,’ Angus said. ‘Then I can carry on.’

‘I’m sorry, but the medical officers are right. You are a risk to your men, with this condition. You might collapse under battle strain. Better to stop now before you do damage.’

Hester watched him dismiss her son’s career with a wave of his hand. Angus was distraught at his honest assessment.

‘How can I live after this? I’ll have to go away. I don’t want the world knowing I’m a nutcase.’

‘We’ll do no such thing,’said Hester. ‘You have the certificates to prove your discharge. We’ll find you something to do here. What’s needed now is peace and quiet to settle whatever this is and we’ll get a second opinion from Harley Street. Isn’t that right, Doctor?’ She turned to Mackenzie with a sigh.

He nodded in agreement. ‘There are other things you can do for the war effort,’ he offered, more in hope than certainty.

‘Like what?’

‘We’ll think of something. Hiding away here is pointless. You can rest and be useful in the community. Young men are in short supply. It’s not what you wanted, but the alternative is unthinkable.’ The doctor leaned across to offer a supportive pat on the arm.

Angus made for the door. ‘I’d rather stay indoors and out of sight. I’m tired. I don’t want any supper. I’m not hungry.’

It was like dealing with a truculent child, but his distress was real enough.‘Have you told your brother?’Hester asked, sensing Angus would hate to be seen as the lesser of the two, unable to be alongside him when he went abroad.

‘No, nor Father yet. I can’t bear to think of Guy going and not me. I don’t want them to see me like this in civvies again. What am I going to do? It feels I’ve been given a life sentence. I’m not like other men, am I?’

‘Enough! You’ll change your clothes, wash your face and we’ll dine as usual. Life goes on without us and this isn’t the end of the world for you.’

Mackenzie stood up to leave. ‘Think on, young man, you’re alive when others have gone west. We’ll find you something useful to do. No one will berate you for being ill.’

‘But I’m not sick! You’re not listening. There’s nothing wrong with me but these stupid fainting fits. Oh, why me?’

Hester paused to answer his pain as best she could. She wanted to enfold him in her arms but he would only push her away. ‘Your child is your child all your life, Doctor,’ she sighed. ‘When they hurt, you hurt too.’

He nodded in sympathy. ‘Never a truer word, Lady Hester.’ He turned to Angus. ‘You must play this ball where it’s landed. This epilepsy is your battlefield now and you mustn’t let it take over your life. We must deal with it as best we can, but now is not the time to argue. You’re home and it’s time to rest and regroup and think out a strategy like your Father does. There must be a way forward, given time. Nil desperandum—don’t despair. There are other ways to serve than rattling a sabre.’

Angus ignored his departure. Hester saw the doctor to the door, leaving her son to compose himself. Suddenly her ordered world was turned upside down by his return. Her selfish prayer had been answered, but this wish fulfilled gave no satisfaction at all.

Essie didn’t like the sound of Newton’s war. His letters came in muddy-fingered clumps—when they came at all. His soldiering was hard, from her reading of his comments. He was busy fettling up gunmetal and horse tackle and delivering wire to the front-line troops. It had been a harsh winter and now his section was supporting the French troops at a place close to Verdun, if the papers were to be believed. He sounded cheerful enough but little phrases kept spearing her mind.

‘It’s a bit hellish here, and you have to watch your head from sausage bombs and shrapnel. The other chaps are grand,’ he said. He’d palled up with a lad from Bingley called Archie Spensley. The villages in France were all in ruins and his food rations sounded boring, tins of Maconochie stew and hard biscuits. The French soldiers had hot meals and were treated much better, he complained: ‘You wouldn’t feed the dog on what we get.’ But she wasn’t worried.

It was Frank who was causing her anxiety; he had got in bother for upsetting some officer with cheek. This captain wasn’t treating his horse right and Frank had showed his disapproval, which got him on a charge. Frank had always been for his horses. He wouldn’t stand any cruelty but he was young and brash, none too keen to hold his tongue.

She had joined this new Women’s Institute as a distraction as well as to do her bit. They sang the National Anthem, they had talks on cookery and other women’s matters, and sometimes held little competitions for baking and flower arranging, which was fun. It made a change from chapel and the usual chores. But she was worried about Asa struggling to cope on his own. She did what she could in the forge but the heat inside made her wheeze and cough so she couldn’t stay in long.

Selma was looking after the veg plot and exercising the horses, still writing to the young Cantrell boy, whose brother was back home now on health grounds. Betty Plimmer said he looked perfectly fit to her when he rode out on his mother’s horse. Lady Hester was busy trying to get him fitted up at Sharland School as an instructor for the officer cadets or something. It was all very mysterious. Ethel at the post office hinted he might have got a girl into trouble somewhere. Trust the village gossips to make two and two into five.

Essie tried to keep herself away from tittle-tattle. If they talked about others, they’d talk about you behind your back, she’d worked that out long ago. Better to keep private stuff in the family, and if it made her seem standoffish then so be it.

She was walking up the street when she saw Coleford approaching Prospect Row. Her heart began to thud as he moved closer to their houses. Who was it this time? Jack Plimmer from the Hart’s Head?

She scurried home, trying not to look where Coleford was going as she overtook him. He parked his bicycle by the stone wall and bent over to tie his shoe lace and smiled. Phew! Another false alarm. Praise the Lord!

She made for the snicket at the side of the cottage to let herself in the back door, leaving the gate open, and then she turned to see the old man hovering behind her holding an official brown envelope in his hand. The look on his face said it all. She cranked up a grimace of a smile as if he might perhaps move on to another door. Perhaps he didn’t have the right address. But she knew, deep in her gut she knew the envelope was for them.

‘Mrs Bartley,’ he whispered.

‘Aye, it’s our turn then,’ was all she could manage as she turned her back on him and made for the safety of her kitchen. Her hands were shaking and wouldn’t open the door properly. The envelope lay burning a hole in the table for hours until Asa came in. She nodded in its direction, unable to speak. He wiped his hands and tore the envelope, read the page, looked up at her shaking his head as if all the sorrows of the world were contained in those sad eyes.

‘He’s gone missing. Our Newton’s missing, presumed killed.’ He sat down, his head in his hands. ‘I don’t understand. We had a letter only the other day. My son…’

Asa walked back to his workshop, his shoulders bowed. Essie walked down the path to the open gate and out onto the lane and stared up at the green hills. How could her son be lost and her not know it? How could her lovely lad be so far away from her and she not sense he’d gone from her? While she was sitting, chattering away, he was lying somewhere, unseeing. They got things wrong sometimes, she thought. She would not close the front room curtains yet a while…not until the others knew. How on earth was she going to tell Selma?

Selma couldn’t believe she’d never see her brother again. He was only missing in action, Mam said. There was hope, however small. So at first she refused to go into black clothes. Frank was not even allowed home from France on compassionate leave. Perhaps he knew more than he was letting on, but he was in the north somewhere far away from Newt’s regiment. She managed to go to school in a dream, trying not to show her true feelings. Children didn’t want to see suffering faces. Her brother, said the pastor, was in a better place now. Dad nodded but said nothing as neighbours called with their little gifts of kindness: buns, pastries and vegetables. As if any of them wanted to eat at such a time. Everything stuck like pebbles in her throat. Mam just stared at Newton’s portrait and insisted the gate be kept open at the back just in case.‘You never know…he might be trying to find his way home,’ she kept whispering.

But it was Archie Spensley’s letter a week later that shattered all their illusions.

Dear family,

I am sad to have to write to you that your son and my dear friend, Newton, is no more. We chummed up straight away in Halifax and he was highly regarded as a conscientious worker and a good Christian. I shall miss his cheery company. We are greatly troubled by enemy fire in this district, which damaged our guns with shells and fragments. Your son was going forward to do a repair. There was another bombardment and I never saw him again. Be assured he would not have suffered and would want you to know you were ever in his thoughts.

May God bless all of you in your darkest hour, may He show you every mercy.

Yours sincerely,

Private Archibald Spensley

Suddenly, Selma’s parents looked old, weary and bent with sorrow. If only there was something she could do to lighten their load. Without the boys’ help Dad was sinking under a pile of unfinished orders. If only Frank could be made to come home like Angus Cantrell, who was hanging about the Hart’s Head like a knotless thread. She knew Guy was anxious to hear if she’d seen him but she was no tale-teller and said nothing to worry him.

Angus looked able-bodied enough to give a helping hand if he had a mind to it but such an impertinent request was out of the question. Lady Hester would never condone such lowly employment.

They held a simple memorial service and sang Newton’s favourite hymn, ‘Who would true valour see, Let him come hither’. She tried to sing but the words collapsed in her throat. She didn’t hear the pastor’s oration. She was living in a sort of dream. It wasn’t real because they had no body to bury, just a flag draped around the portrait he’d had taken in his uniform when he first volunteered. There were only old men and Angus Cantrell and his mother. He looked so like his brother and her heart ached at the sight of his tall frame and broad shoulders. Those who had already lost sons shielded her parents with loving concern. They had been admitted to a club whose entrance fee was young blood; a club no one wanted to join.





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