West Sharland was another planet away from this shit hole. No wonder he could read things and not feel emotion, as if he were floating above it all into another world. Sometimes he feared he would end up a dithering idiot, but he must stay strong for his men.
On the first day of the Big Push they’d gone over the top after the bombardment expecting there would be nothing but wasteland between them and the German trenches. The wire would be flattened with such great gaps so they could run through. But it was a hopeless fiasco. They were hit by machine-gun fire and he’d watched men mown down and not get up and waited for something to explode inside him. There were bodies sleeping in the fields as if they were sunbathing, others alive, twitching, begging for water, calling to their comrades. But they moved on like automatons. He was no longer afraid, as if every one of his senses was alert to danger, eyes, ears, muscles tensed up for a fight.
The devastation got worse, and they didn’t get far in no man’s land before there was no recourse but to turn back while thousands lay piled high in the sunshine, never to return. All this slaughter for a few yards of territory, and then, under cover of darkness, he and his party crawled over the top to collect the dead or the few wounded still breathing.
What a shambles! What a terrible waste of life and limb! He couldn’t believe he’d made it so far, and with this standoff came a terrible shaking fear that the next time over would bring his last moment alive on this earth.
What an act it was to stay calm, fighting the urge to sweat and pant, trying to look full of confidence, knowing his men were eyeing his every move in the dugout. They would take their lead from his demeanour. Hidden from view he felt that first courage leaching away, felt his resolve weakening, his hands shaking with fear.
I don’t want to die yet. I don’t want to end up like these grinning skulls sticking out in the shell holes, picked clean by rats; these shiny long white faces staring, accusing with hollows
for eyes.
His dreams were full of dancing skeletons and rats the size of moggies.
No one had warned him that in battle he’d be out on all fours in the mud, dragging bodies back to dig shallow graves, taking off identity tags, making lists of names and numbers, ferreting through bloody clothes for letters and remains, writing letters to widows, letters to strangers. This was not the sort of boy heroics he had been expecting and all his childish hopes of glory died in seconds on the poppy fields of the Somme in those first few days of action. Now he knew what his father meant about two hours of battle being worth two years of training.
In those first weeks of July, the sense of desolation grew as one by one his officer chums were blown up or just simply disappeared. He felt their loss more than that of his own father. Over the months they’d all become his family more than his own and that made him feel sick with guilt. Now they were lying in shallow graves while his remaining company was living a gypsy life, scavenging for cover and food until the mess wagons arrived with supplies for their platoons.
After battle there was always plenty to eat, for more than half his men were gone but their rations still kept coming and must be shared out. Feet must be inspected, wounds examined, charges of ill discipline dealt with on the spot. There was no let-up, and all the time he must look as if this fiasco was just a minor blip in the battle plan and encourage them on to the next fight.
There were hints he’d be made captain, for who else was left to do the job? He was one of only a handful of officers living, already on borrowed time.
Then the blessed order to fall back into the reserve line
came, and then further back for some rest. That was the worst time: behind the lines, with time to think about all of the responsibility left on his shoulders, the huge losses, where they would be sent next, how to wind down for a few days in the
estaminet
without the smoke and noise and thunder in his ears.
Guy lay back in a haystack, utterly exhausted, weary of all the nonsense and futility of trying to shift the Hun from their trenches. It was backwards and forwards like some dance of death, and for what…a few yards of territory?
Perhaps there was a bigger plan at work but he didn’t know what it was. His job was to obey orders, not to question them.
Then he was ordered to HQ, and his first thought was, what have I done wrong now?
‘Cantrell.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘At ease! You’re off, so get your kit.’
‘Off where, sir?’
‘Spot of leave…orders from above…Your father was with Lord Kitchener?’
‘Yes, sir, he was.’
‘Bad show…Ten days’ leave. Don’t just stand there. Get your kit. Just time to catch the hospital train…’
‘But, sir, my men…There’re others who’ve been out longer…’
‘Orders, Cantrell. Just go. You can argue the toss when you return.’
‘Sir!’ he saluted briskly, not believing what he was hearing. He was going home to Yorkshire, leaving this hellhole and going north out of the fray. Suddenly he felt very unsure. He wanted to stay where he was with his shaken men.
It felt like desertion, and he didn’t deserve leave. He’d achieved nothing. How could he bugger off without a by-your-leave? But orders were orders and who was he to question them?
He should feel overjoyed at this release but then why was he feeling so afraid?
Hester was busy overseeing the preparation of bedrooms for the first contingent of wounded officers. The iron beds arrived by lorry and she’d got Mrs Beck from the village to clean out the large bedrooms, ready to receive them.
Since the Battle of the Somme, as the papers called it, there was a rush to equip private homes with beds, and Waterloo House was assigned a voluntary auxiliary nurse and an orderly to prepare the hygiene routines. There was a cook and assistant, so the servants’ rooms in the attic had to be cleared out.
Suddenly her home wasn’t her own. The staff were taking over. Angus kept out of the way, happy to drive Charles’s car to fetch supplies or see to the horses.
Hester felt so bone weary at the end of the day, no time to enjoy cooked meals or anything much but her garden chores. Here she could find some peace and quiet from all the bustle and gardening kept her from worrying about Guy.
Not a word from him this week. Not since the Big Push had fizzled out and the terrible realisation that most of the Sowerthwaite Pals had been killed in the first wave of battle. All those brave local boys, school friends, members
of the football and cricket teams, lines of them massacred. The whole town and the villages surrounding were in mourning. Young men at the peak of health and vigour gone for ever. Who would take their place? What would become of their wives and sweethearts? It made her own loss bearable in so far as Charles had had a good life, had travelled the world and seen his boys grow to manhood.
What gaps would
these
men leave when war was over?
Not a word from Guy, but bad news travelled fast from France. The military post was most efficient. Why, only the other day, the first poor Mrs Marshbank knew that her son was fatally wounded was when a letter of condolence came from a fellow soldier and this before she even got an official form!
When Hester looked at Angus she could see Guy in so many ways, which was always a comfort. But still, it was not like her son not to write. Perhaps the girl in the village, the Bartley girl, might have received word. Time to make a detour from her errands and humble herself by visiting the forge.
Hester had to admit she seemed a spirited sort of filly and her mother was a willing horse in the Women’s Institute these days. But assistant teacher and Sunday school teacher she might be, she still was not one of their sort. She may not know anything either, but it was worth a try.
Selma was busy stoking the fire. They’d had a delivery of coal and she was covered in dust and muck. June had been a busy month, with grinding and sharpening the sheep shears for clipping time. Now it was time to see to scythes and hay forks and repairs to mowing machines for haytiming. Even a blacksmith had his own seasonal rhythm.
Horses always needed good shoes for the jobs ahead. There were the usual queues to be seen to.
Over the last months, Selma felt her muscles sharpening, her calloused hands hardening up, her shoulders broadening, and after an incident with a spark in her long hair, she’d pleaded to have her hair bobbed short. She was sick of the smell of singed hair. In her breeches and her collarless shirt, she felt like a boy but this was her job and she was sticking to it; feeble as she was when it came to the real heavy work. Now they were that thronged with comings and goings, she didn’t know the day of the week, or the hour, so when she saw the figure standing in the doorway she ignored him.
‘We’re closed!’ she shouted, not looking up—even a blacksmith had to eat—but the man didn’t move.
‘Is Selima in the house?’ he asked, and she looked up.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Tell her Guy is home on leave…’ He took off his army cap.
Her eyes stared at the silhouette in the doorway and she felt herself blush. He didn’t recognise her under all this dirt and mucky clothing.
‘You just told her!’ she called back, smiling, pulling off her hat to release her bobbed hair. ‘You’re home!’
‘Selma, I’m so sorry…I thought…’ Guy stammered.
‘I know what I look like. I should have warned you, you don’t wear skirts in a forge!’ She paused, embarrassed. ‘There’s no other way, as you can see, to stay safe. How lovely to see you safe and sound. There’s been such terrible losses around here.’
‘I know. I heard about the Pals brigade.’
‘I was at school with so many of them. But enough
sadness, this is just brilliant…what a wonderful surprise. If only I’d known, I’d have tried not to give you such a fright!’
Guy was staring at her in all her mucky glory, while her father hovered by the back door observing them both.
‘Back from the wars then, Mr Cantrell,’ he said. ‘One of the few left. This one’s my right-hand help now…doing champion for a girl. Might I add, not of our choosing. This is not work for women, but as the boys were desperate for glory, beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘Dad!’ All his compliments vanished in his last sentence but she knew he was teasing.
‘I say as I find.’ Asa Bartley stood firm.
‘I think it is rather splendid for her to volunteer…and I’m none too clean myself.’
He looked marvellous to her. Selma wanted her dad to disappear, but he stood there staring at them both while she couldn’t take her eyes off Guy. He had grown so tall, so thin and gaunt in the cheeks, even more like his brother than before. He looked worn out, and his eyes were tired.
‘I can’t believe you’re here. I got your last letter only yesterday. It sounded terrible. Your mother must be so relieved to see you,’ she added.
‘She doesn’t know yet,’ he replied.
‘What doesn’t she know?’ Selma saw his mother standing in the doorway, staring at the scene before her and looking at Selma in fury.
‘I just called on the off chance, Miss Bartley, that you might have had word from Guy, but I see you have already renewed your acquaintance in person…’ She was staring in disbelief at Selma’s outfit now. ‘I thought you were teaching school.’
‘I was, but my father needed a boy,’ she stuttered, not sure whether to bob a curtsy or not.
‘Well, he certainly has made one of you, I see. I didn’t expect my son to arrive unannounced but you obviously have first call on his attention.’
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ Guy replied, now looking awkward.
‘You certainly did that, my son,’ said his mother sharply.
But her father intervened. ‘You must be thankful that the Lord has brought him home in one piece,’ he said, which didn’t help the situation at all.
Hester Cantrell drew herself up to her full height, bristling at his impudence. ‘Thank you, I don’t need telling what is between me and my maker, Mr Bartley. Come along, Guy. Angus will want to know you’re back. Good day to you both,’ she said pulling Guy’s arm.
He smiled and looked sheepish. Perhaps later, his eyes were pleading. Now was not the time for any showdown. He had come to Selma first and that must be enough for now.
‘How long have you got?’ Selma could not resist this most important of questions as he turned to leave.
‘Just five days,’ he whispered. ‘It takes so long to get here, Selma.’
Only five days of leave…after all this time, and his mother and brother desperate for him after their sad loss. She mustn’t be selfish, but just to see him standing there, smiling at her…Oh, Guy, please come back before you go, she sighed. Any crumb of his company would do.
Guy was so confused by the sight of Selma standing like a soldier in trousers, her dark hair cropped, her brown eyes
flashing, caught like rabbit in a Very light. Dear Selma, he hadn’t realised how physically he was attracted to her until now, and then for poor Mother to come in, all guns blazing. This was not how it was supposed to be, this unexpected homecoming. Already he felt like a stranger in a foreign land where roses bloomed and green fields were undamaged, no wooden crosses nor bloated horseflesh rotting by the roadside, and cottages standing, not stoved in by shells.
England was going on undisturbed, with stations full of weary soldiers like himself staggering home with dead eyes, uniforms covered in lice. He had dreamed of this moment for so long and now it felt awkward and unreal. His world was back there in the trenches with his men, with Bostock fussing over him and HQ breathing down his neck.
For the first time he felt nervous as they drove up to Waterloo House. It wasn’t true that everything was unchanged; even Selma had cut her hair. There were vegetables growing on verges and in parks, and even in the gardens here. Everyone seemed to be wearing black, and there were queues for food in the shops. This was a different sort of war.
‘I’d better warn you,’ said Mother, ‘we’ve made a few changes. I’ve got a contingent of six officers coming any day and the whole house is turned upside down to accommodate them. But after your father…well, it seemed the right thing to do. I wasn’t expecting you, so we’ve made no extra provisions. If only you’d written earlier.’
‘I’m sorry, I should have sent a telegram.’
‘And scared the wits out of me? No, this is a wonderful surprise—even if we’re to come second after that girl.’
‘Selma—she has a name, Mother.’
‘Whatever…The war has done her no favours, coarsened her looks—and short hair!’
‘But she’s doing her war service as she thinks fit. What have you got against her?’ He was not going to be bullied by these cutting remarks, not when he had been through such hell.
‘Oh, Guy, as if I have to explain that…She’s not your type, no refinements at all.’
‘But I like Selma, I always have. She’s a lovely girl and writes funny letters.’
‘I’m sure she does, to entrap you into some engagement. A girl like that wants to better herself, that’s all. She’s not for you, son,’ said his mother, staring up at him with steel in her eyes.
‘I’ll choose who is or isn’t for me. Don’t tell me how to spend my time. I may not have much of it left,’ he replied, staring away into the distance to the green open spaces he loved so much.
‘Guy, please, don’t talk like that! We’ve had our loss. You will live, but not to…Have your fling if you must. Get all this youthful lust out of your system, but don’t tie yourself in knots to the first pretty girl who flashes her eyes in your direction. Take a mother’s warning. Look, there’s Angus. Go and give him a surprise and we’ll talk no more about this. Don’t let’s quarrel on your leave. I’ll get Cook to make a wonderful supper this evening.’
But Guy wasn’t hungry any more.
Oh, Guy, Guy, don’t waste your time courting when we have seen so little of you.
Hester didn’t want to let him out of her sight now he was here, to have him breathing the same air, smiling, looking so young and handsome and alive when there was nothing but doom and gloom all around. He lit up her
life with his grin and his mischievous blue eyes, her beautiful boy, and she could forgive him for taking a peek at the girl from the forge who was stealing his heart—for the moment.
What on earth could he see in such a common trollop? She was a disgrace to her fair sex, war work or not. How could he waste precious time on such a creature?
If he wanted girls she would rustle up a few beauties, nice gals, not village harpies. Even Dr Mac’s two daughters would be a better substitute than that girl.
He’d got only a few days and she’d make sure he didn’t spend another minute with that Bartley brat. He would only make trouble for himself there if he did.
All she could think of was, would Guy call back? Would he risk his mother’s wrath and visit again? As the hours of that first day ticked by Selma felt an excruciating panic and anguish. What if he went back without seeing her, without a chance for them just to talk?
Outside, the summer days were flying by. It didn’t last long in these parts. There had been some wet weeks but now the sunshine was beautiful. The swallows were darting overhead and swifts circling high, the smell of fresh-cut hay scenting the air. Their time was so short, and there was nothing she could do but agonise.
Now was the busiest time for the blacksmith, with haymaking in full swing. Broken tools needed fettling up and she couldn’t just down her work and meander off in the direction of Waterloo House on the off chance, however much she wanted to.
Mam could read her agitation. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘If I read that young man, he won’t leave without saying
goodbye to his friends. Your dad told me his ma weren’t right pleased with him for calling on you first. She’s going to have to learn to let go, is that one. Isn’t it enough she’s got one of them twins by her side already?’
‘But I looked such a fright, he didn’t recognise me!’
‘Take yerself off for a dip in the river, a bit of a paddle. You can rinse the dust out of your hair. I’m getting to like that bob now. It shines like a conker when it’s washed.’
Her father, however, was agitated, watching her for any slackening of pace. ‘You’re too young for walking out yet. And I wouldn’t go looking in that direction. Toffs stick with their own, as a general rule, so don’t get your hopes up. He’s a soldier on leave. I’ve heard tales of what they can get up to. No girl of mine is going to be mucked about, gentleman or not. He’s a man now, with a man’s needs, no doubt. You must remember who you are, young lady; chapel born and bred…far too young to be wed, but his mother will make sure he never puts a ring on your finger, if I know her sort.’
‘It’s not like that…we’re just good friends, pen pals,’ she argued, knowing that this was not strictly true.
‘That’s all right then, isn’t it?’
Why was everyone going on about it as if there could ever be a future between the two of them? It wasn’t that she didn’t feel something much more. When he had stood there in his uniform she wanted to fling herself into his arms.
All those letters and feelings shared, all the personal stuff they’d written, the things he’d told her about his fears and nightmares. He had drawn them so close. She wanted to see Guy again, but what if he didn’t call?
Guy wanted to slip away after supper, back down to the village to see Selma. He’d brought her a little gift in his kitbag, some French perfume in a pretty bottle.
But Angus was exhausting, pumping him dry with questions and his own theories on the war. He was so desperate to know what was going on but Guy was in no mood for going over the realities of his soldiering. He felt protective of his family, not wanting them to know just how awful it was out there, especially for the lower ranks. His brother was hanging on his every word as if it were gospel and sadly Guy felt the difference between them had grown with every day he’d been away. He felt as old as the hills, while Angus was little more than a schoolboy with all his ideals intact, untempered by battle.