Now it was time to find a new billet. Guy Cantrell didn’t exist here, nor Angus neither. Time to find a new name, a new identity and a new hiding place. He would not be taking his brother’s name. He wanted to go far away from this cursed place to lick his wounds. If your family betrays you who else can you trust?
Hester paced from room to room, opening and shutting doors, tidying up any sign of clutter, busying herself as if there was a purpose to each day. Dr Mac’s words were ringing in her ears.
‘Of course, that young man will do fine now he’s got a place where there is no temptation. They’ll clear out his system with hot baths and a good regime of sleep and exercise. It’s a pity he was allowed to get in such a state in the first place, Lady Hester. Going through the withdrawal of sedation is never easy, but he is young and determined to get back on the straight and narrow. But what is puzzling me is how he got hold of the stuff in the first place. It’s not as if I’m in the habit of prescribing such drugs. But then I suppose plenty of apothecary shops will deliver to the door. Did you not notice anything?’
Hester shrugged. ‘The youth of today are a law unto themselves,’ she replied, not looking him in the face.
‘But what also puzzles me is how Captain Guy is still here, but everyone was calling him Master Angus. He was troubled by that too. I had to look for the scar to convince myself that it was the case. Where is Angus? Is he well?’
‘Well enough, the last letter I had from London,’ she lied.
‘I’m glad to hear it. For a moment there I thought he might have played some silly prank on the lot of us. If I
thought that were so I would have to report it to the authorities, knowing what I do about his condition.’
‘I’m sure you would, but enough of this nonsense. Angus is safe in London. Guy is in the clinic. You will have his address?’ she asked, anxious to put things right.
‘Ha-ha! Patient confidentiality, your ladyship…I’m not at liberty to reveal that without his permission.’
‘Oh, come now, I’m his mother!’ she snapped.
The man paused, peering at her over his spectacles. ‘Aye…I know that but I’m still wondering just what your part has been in all this chicanery, Lady Hester.’
‘How dare you suggest that I would be a party to—’
‘Of course not,’ he said hurriedly. ‘What mother would do such a terrible thing to her boys? It’s a mystery to me.’ He paused by the door. ‘By the bye, there’s a new chappie in Sowerthwaite taking up medical practice, looking to build up his list of patients. I was just wondering under the circumstances whether it wouldn’t be better for you to consult him in the future. He would be grateful for your patronage.’
The cheek of that jumped-up Scot, to dismiss her as if she was some common or garden patient. He knew…he had guessed the shameful knowledge that tore at her gut.
You have to live with this for the rest of your life.
At least Angus didn’t know what misery she was suffering. He was too busy fulfilling his dream. Perhaps he would make them proud. Perhaps it was his time to shine. That was a crumb of comfort to cling on to.
For the moment she didn’t want to see anyone but found solace in her garden. Her back was aching, her fingers numb from weeding and hoeing down the rows. She was safe from
scrutiny behind the high walls. There would be no letters from Guy. He wanted no contact.
Here among the evergreen shrubbery she could weep for all her mistakes, the stupid deception. There was no one to blame but herself. But a colonel’s wife knew that tactical retreat wasn’t a battle lost…not yet. If only one could turn the clock back…How was she ever going to put things right?
If only. If only I’d known what was going on at this time, but Waterloo House was its own kingdom behind those great stone walls and imposing gates No one called there without an invitation and in the following months Lady Hester went a bit peculiar, as they said back then. She kept herself to herself, cut herself off from the village so no one knew about the estrangement. Except that Master Angus had gone away for treatment at some spa, it was rumoured, and Captain Guy was back at the front fully recovered from his wounds.
I received no letters but had long since given up hope of any coming. Frank was not much of a scribbler so news was always stale. That year, 1917, was hard for the troops and the losses continued. Little did we know what a terrible burden was to drop on us from a great height, which even now is clouded in mystery, lost in the archives of military records; a burden to tear out the very roots of my life in West Sharland, breaking the bonds of our family for ever, an event that has cast a shadow down each generation in turn.
Easter 1917
There was great excitement in the village about the annual Easter egg rolling. The pace egg decorating and the chapel ramble to Bolton Abbey. Spring had come in all its glory to the Dales, with its yellow and white hedgerows, the garlicky smell of ramsons, the chatter of birdsong and promise of sunshine. Everything was fresh, and a crop of new lambs were in the fields like little blobs of cotton wool, all reminding Selma that life went on, no matter how miserable she was feeling inside.
She must get used to the idea of Guy having gone from her life. Marigold kept asking her to go dancing at the farm hops but she just wasn’t in the mood to get her feet trodden on by boys in hobnail boots. Her parents wouldn’t approve anyway; they would rather she joined the choir and keep with her own chapel crowd.
‘You’re such a spoilsport, not going to the cinema or dancing. Where’s the fun in singing hymns all day? You’re fast becoming an old maid, stuck in that forge or on a chapel pew,’ Marigold protested.
‘All in good time. I’m too young for romancing.’
‘You’d better get your skates on. There won’t be many lads left at the rate they’re being killed off,’ came the reply. Marigold could be a right little ray of sunshine sometimes, Selma thought.
‘I’ll let you marry my brother, Jack, if you like. He’s still going strong, although I don’t fancy your Frank much. He’s too young for me. He’d smell of horse manure all day. Have you heard from him?’
‘Not for a while, he’s driving ammunition wagons—or at least he was.’ They’d not heard a word in weeks.
‘What about your fancy captain? We didn’t see him at your door over Christmas.’
‘Leave it off, Marie, it’s none of your business. Come and give me a hand with bringing in this coal.’
‘Not on your life with my clean dress on. How you can stand such a mucky job…? Be seeing you.’
Not if I can help it, Selma muttered, having decided weeks ago she didn’t care overmuch for Marigold Plimmer any more. She had the knack of making her feel small, poured cold water over her ideas, and Jack was a foulmouthed oaf who always pinched her bottom when no one was looking. She’d rather stay single for ever than marry him.
She was still scuttling up the delivery of coal when the postman passed by, wheeling his bike. He took off his cap.
‘I think you’d better go home, love. There’s bad news, I fear, come to your door.’
Selma rubbed her hands on her breeches and made for the back gate. She could hear Mam’s wailing and stood there, not wanting to go in. If she didn’t go in, she wouldn’t hear and it wouldn’t be real.
Steeling herself, Selma entered the house. The dreaded
brown envelope was lying on the floor, and Mam was sobbing, while Dad was reading the notice over and over again.
He looked up. ‘News travels fast, then. It just says Frank died of wounds two weeks ago and is buried at Poperinge. Where the heck is that?’
No one spoke; they just sat huddled together.
‘I’ll make another brew,’ Selma offered eventually, too shocked to cry.
‘I am sick of brews. I need something stronger,’ sobbed Essie, fishing in her pocket for a hanky.
‘Now, don’t start that caper. Just give her another cup with plenty of sugar in it. Two sons gone west…two sons given up to the war machine, and for what? This scrap of paper that tells you nothing.’
‘We’ll get more letters soon like we did when Newton died. They were a right comfort to us. We’ll soon know more. His officer will write like Captain Guy used to do,’ Selma suggested, but her mother wasn’t listening.
‘I thought he was safe with them horses. They don’t put them in the front line, do they?’
‘I’m not sure it’s not that sort of battle these days,’ Dad replied gravely. ‘No one is safe from big guns or carrying ammunition up to the front. Close the curtains, lass, and lock the door. Let’s keep it to ourselves awhile longer.’
‘I can’t seem to see straight,’ Mam cried, rubbing her eyes. ‘It’s the shock. You think everything is going well and then the Lord beats us on the back with the stick. What is it He’s playing at?’
Mam wasn’t making much sense, rocking backwards and forwards hugging herself. Selma didn’t know what to say to either of them. There were just the three of them now.
She couldn’t bear the stuffy atmosphere, this fug of gloom. How could Frank be gone? It was only a few months since he had been here, playing the fool, helping in the forge each morning. Now there was no one left to take over her place. She would be stuck for life in that forge like a prisoner in chains.
It was a selfish thought but she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t fair. Why them? Why Frank? What had he done to deserve to die but be daft enough to serve his King and Country? She wanted to stamp her feet like a child, but then she saw her mother’s tear-stained face, her crumpled shoulders. Time to see to the living, not the dead.
Essie was relieved to see the prompt obituary in the
Gazette
with a picture of Frank in his army uniform.
Driver Frankland Walter Bartley of the Field Artillery, has died of wounds in action on the Western front, the official intimation to that effect being received by Mr and Mrs Asa Bartley who reside at Forge Cottage, Prospect Row in West Sharland.
Driver Bartley is their second son to be lost in France. He joined the army at 17 and has seen a great deal of service in the war front. He was connected to West Sharland chapel and was held in high esteem by all who knew him. Much sympathy is felt for his parents and his sister on this sad loss.
The windowsills were filled with fresh flowers, late daffodils and gillyflowers from neighbours. Their tins were filled with other people’s baking, their mantelpiece filled with condolences. Essie was trying to pick up the threads and keep
going, but it was hard with no proper details of where her son fell. Then, when letters began to appear with army postmarks, she felt a relief. What made her pick up one before the rest, she’d never know, but it was a bulky package and looked official. This would be a comfort to read, a solace in this terrible time.
She read the first typed letter, not understanding a single word. Something about a court martial and only the barest sentences, a note from a padre called the Reverend Thomas Mulcaster.
It is a burden for me to have to send what must be your son’s last letter home after the sentence of death was confirmed on him. In his final hours he rose to the very bravest conduct in facing his punishment with dignity, cheerfulness and courage. I will pray for you at this difficult time…
The letter slipped from her hand. A sentence of death? Not Frank, never in this world! Had he murdered someone? Inside the package was another letter, in a familiar scrawl. Her hands were shaking as she read each sentence slowly, over and over, trying to take it in.
Dear Mam and Dad,
I hope by now you will have had the news. I have to leave you all. I am sorry for the trouble I will cause. My hand is shaking as I write goodbye.
Tomorrow I will have to face the firing squad. You see, I did something very wrong. I was provoked but what I did carries a heavy penalty.
I am not alone now, the padre is with me tonight,
but I should like you to write to him back as he has been very kind. I leave all my effects to you. Will you give Selma my best wishes for the future and half the monies owing to me. Please don’t tell her what I did. I am sorry for bringing shame to your door this way.If only her captain would have spoke up for me things might have been different. There were other things against me. It must be God’s will that I must go.
This is all I can put down on paper. I never were one for words.
God bless and protect you all.
Your loving son,
Frankland
Essie gripped the paper, shoving her fist in her mouth to stop the screams. What did this mean? The burden of all this terrible knowledge ripped through her. She staggered over to the slop sink and vomited just as Asa came through the door.
He stared at her ashen face. ‘What’s brought this on?’ he said in his usual gruff voice.
She pointed to the letter. ‘Read them, both of them, but not a word to Selma. What’s been going on? What did he do to deserve this? And what was all that about Captain Guy?’
Hester saw the obituary in the newspaper and shuddered; another village boy lost but not how it appeared in print. She combed another account of his demise. It was sitting on her lap, a letter that gave her no pleasure to read. She would make sure no other person would ever read it if she was to keep the family name intact.
Dearest Mother,
This has been the toughest month yet, but I’m still holding up and I’ve got a splendid troop of men.
Just thought I’d warn you. News has no doubt broken about Frank Bartley and how he died, but I’m afraid it wasn’t quite as simple as you will have been told. There was a court martial. He went berserk over some incident in a stable, so I heard. Of course, he was charged and sent to a field general court. He pleaded guilty, the evidence was overwhelming and not a very edifying occasion. But the poor chap tried to stick up for himself saying there was provocation, but without a prisoner’s friend to defend him he made a pig’s ear of it.
All soldiers know the score. Disobedience is next to mutiny and carries the death penalty so his fate was sealed, but he had the cheek to ask Guy to be a character witness, to give a testimonial. I was out at the front and didn’t really know the form on this one so I didn’t attend.
How was I to give him a good word? Hardly knew the chap and neither did Guy, except through his sister and that wasn’t relevant, so I wrote what I could, not realising that written testimony didn’t count. Not that anyone could make any difference, his own field service record told volumes. There were several serious charges of indiscipline, giving cheek to superiors, etc.
There’s no stomach for this behaviour when everyone has to muck in under terrible conditions. So he was sentenced according to the military law and details of each firing squad goes down the line as a warning. I’m told he made a good end.
Hope the truth doesn’t get round the village. It’s the family I feel sorry for. Gives us all a bad name.
I don’t think you’d better tell Guy. Tell him I’m due leave soon, if I can wangle it. He deserves every medal he can get, surviving so long in this hellhole. It’s no cakewalk. I have trouble sleeping and the conditions defy description, but I am fine.
All the best,
G.A.C.
PS. I could do with more socks and lice powder.
Oh, Angus, you stupid boy, Hester sighed. How could you forget it was the Bartley boys who saved your life all those years ago? How could you imagine that word won’t get out about how a Cantrell refused to speak up for one of his villagers?
How immature his letters sounded. Strangely, he was enjoying this war in his own irresponsible way. Did he never stop to think of anyone but himself? It was time he was told a truth or two to put him straight. At least a mother could chastise her son, make him see that this charade must end sooner rather than later. Hadn’t he done enough damage?
They were quiet in the forge on market day, no horseshoes to repair, no visitors. It ought to have been their busiest of times with sheep shears to be reground and sharpened and fettled but there was nothing doing.
‘It’s like a Sunday,’ Selma mumbled.
‘Aye, but happen it’ll come busy while dinner,’ said her father.
But even then there was no business to speak of, and she was sent home.
Since the memorial service in the chapel they’d not had many visitors, nobody was speaking to them much. Her mother had stopped going to the women’s meeting, preferring to sit at home, pinched and shrunken, lost in her own thoughts.
Something was amiss. Whenever Selma tried to mention Frank, she was rebuffed. ‘Not now…not yet,’ was the only reply. Selma didn’t understand why this mourning was so different from Newton’s, this wall of silence growing around them.
Then funny things started happening. There was a small fire in the back garden shed, dog muck was chucked outside their door. One morning she went up to the allotment to pick peas and found all the pea sticks removed and the peas trampled on as if a flock of sheep had been let loose onto their plot. Who’s doing this? she asked, but met with only a shrug of shoulders and blank faces from her parents.
Then one day, when she was on the bus to Sowerthwaite, she sensed people were pointing her out, nudging each other and eyeing her up in a strange way. Marigold Plimmer passed her by in the street with her nose in the air. Where once there was warmth in the chapel greetings, now there was a distinct coolness.
One Sunday afternoon she found she had no pupils in her class. So she went to the superintendent to ask where they all were and he shook his head. ‘It’s summer, the children are tempted by the open fields. Perhaps we can start your class up again in the autumn.’ But other classes were full.
What have I done? she thought, sniffing her armpits to see if she smelled ripe. Had she grown horns overnight? There was no solace to be had at home. Sadness lingered there like smoke, hovering up on the ceiling. Her parents
began to look old and grey and lost for words, bickering at each other over silly things and whispering in corners where once they all talked and laughed round the kitchen table.
One evening, when they heard a brick thrown into the parlour window, cracking it from end to end, she’d jumped up in anger. ‘What is going on?’ she demanded. ‘I’m fed up of all this silence and nobody speaking to us. Are we in trouble? Do we owe money?’
Her dad was quick to reassure her. ‘Nowt like that, love, just a little disagreement…local politics and such stuff…’
‘But our window’s been smashed.’
‘Just little toerags up to mischief. Think nothing of it,’ he replied, but his eyes told another story. ‘Put the kettle on. Your mam and me have something to tell you.’