‘You were the one who told me I had to go to Bradford and take my chance there, and I have. There’s a whole new world outside this village. Look, I’ll always be grateful that you and Dad let me leave,’ she continued softly, ‘but I can’t settle back here. It would drive me crazy. You’ll be all right without me, won’t you?’
This was the moment when Essie could tell her how lonely she was, explain about Frank, put her into the true picture of what had happened since Frank was shot. If she told her all this, she could make her daughter stay. But one look into those bright, eager eyes, full of hope and excitement, and she knew she couldn’t spoil her big adventure.
‘The grass isn’t always greener over the fence, lass. You think on. I’ll manage fine on my own. I have a little rent from the forge to tide me over. You go off on your travels and send me postcards. As long as I know you’re safe, I’ll be content.’ She lied with conviction, looking down so Selma couldn’t see the tears in her eyes. ‘I expect you’ve lots to do.’
‘You’re right there: documents, a passport. I came for my birth certificate and I need a reference on my photograph. I thought Dr Mackenzie or Mr Best might sign them. It has to be someone important.’ Then she paused. ‘I heard
about Guy Cantrell from Aunty Ruth. Why didn’t you tell me first?’
‘I thought it was best left unsaid. Then slipped my mind, what with your father—’
‘Did his brother ever come back here?’ Selma interrupted.
‘No one has heard from him for years. There was a big falling out at Waterloo House, they say. But Lady Hester is not as haughty as she once was.’
‘She put the spoke in the wheel of Guy and me,’ Selma said with obvious bitterness. ‘Serves her right!’
‘Perhaps it was for the best but, let me tell you, it was her as kept Asa in work when no one else bothered. I have to thank her for that and so must you. Now she lives alone, like me.’
‘You will manage after I’m gone?’ Selma said, drawing her chair closer ‘You will get out more? I never understood why the village took against us.’
‘All that’s past history, all dead and buried now. I do a bit of sitting in, laying out. I keep busy. But promise to write regular or I will worry.’
‘I promise, honest, you’ll be the first to know all there is to know.’ Selma jumped up. ‘I’m going to go and tell Dad, if you don’t mind, on my own. He’d want to know.’
Essie sat staring into the flames, unable to speak. Her heart was so full. One by one they’d all gone. Selma living in Bradford was one thing, halfway across the world was quite another. But there was no stopping her. Essie could read the raw determined look in her eyes. She had Asa’s dark eyes like nuggets of coal. She was so like him in many ways.
‘Your children are only lent for a season,’ she once heard her own mother say, years ago, ‘and they must go their own gait.’
Essie had never wandered far from her own fireside, but for one second she envied the chances her daughter was getting.
‘Let her go…She’ll find her own way back one day. All manner of things shall be well.’ Where did those words come from?
‘Is that you, Asa?’ She turned, half expecting him to be standing in the doorway, his black eyes flashing. The door was ajar, but no one was there. But she felt his presence as surely as if he was sitting by her side. How could she ever roam far from here while his spirit was watching over her? She smiled through the tears. ‘Thanks, love, I needed that.’
The graveyard across the square holds them both now. I never got to see my mother in good health again. It took a child of my own to make me realise what a gift she had given me in that precious week I spent with her.
When you are young you are thoughtless, wrapped up in your own world. You don’t think of the hurt you cause others by your selfish actions.
I deserted my mother in favour of a stranger’s child. I wanted adventure I wanted to travel and to leave behind this mundane world of sad memories. I didn’t think of her feeling rejected, losing me as she had lost all the rest of us. I just wanted to get away.
She let me go without protest because she loved me, and only wanted my happiness. She let me go to give me the freedom to be myself. She protected me from the shadows in the family, covered up her grief and loneliness and pain. I didn’t see behind her farewell tears or realise that I might never see her like this again.
All the secrets in the family were hidden from me for good reason. Had I known what I know now, would I have ever left West Sharland? What a different life I might have lived, and these children and grandchildren by my side would have had no existence.
Some say, what is meant for you will not go past you, what comes round goes round until its perpetual motion finds a resting place. Now, I return to where I began, and at last there is peace in this remembering.
1920
Guy signed on another term after the war ended. He was in no mood to return to England. What was there for him there but deceit and investigation? His only contact was with Dr Mac, who wrote amusing letters, keeping him informed about the doings of his village. Over the years he had become a friend, and his letters reminded Guy of Selma’s with their funny little stories. He had gleaned from them that Selma’s father had died and the forge had turned into a garage for motor cars. Selma was living in Bradford and not expected to return. His own mother was battling on with some committee work and in good enough health. Wasn’t it about time he sent her a postcard on the principle of forgive and forget, Mac said.
You can stuff that for a game of soldiers! He wanted no reminders of home. He was too busy roaming all over the world on passenger liners. His days as a deckhand were long gone. He played deck quoits with pretty girls, drank like a fish, spent his money in ports east and west. He was beholden to no one but himself, and that suited him just fine.
He picked up his mail in Boston after returning a cargo of wounded American soldiers too sick to be sent straight back after the war. Some were prisoners of war and shell-shocked. It was one of the sadder crossings he had made and he spent time with those who were put on deck for fresh air. There were several sea burials aboard the
Regina.
How sad to be so close to home, and yet not make it back. How cruel! He kept thinking of one particular soldier, Zack, an infantryman—‘a dough boy’—from Pennsylvania, who had struggled to fight off the effects of his wounds, until infection gradually overwhelmed his body.
‘I have to get home and make my peace with my folks,’ he whispered. ‘They don’t know, nothing much. I ran away. They don’t hold with fighting, being plain Mennonite folk. I was one until I became a soldier. Now I ain’t going to make it…’
Guy protested, ‘Shush…’
‘No, I know it in my bones but I need to make my peace. Can you fetch some paper and write it down for me?’
‘Sure,’ Guy nodded, having done this many times over the years. But by the blue tinge on Zack’s lips, he knew he must be quick.
SS
Regina
Dear Folks,
We were not much for putting pen to paper so my buddy here is putting my last thoughts to you. You were right as you always were, war is a terrible waste. All that is left in France at the end are great monuments to destruction, broken homesteads, barren fields and sad pieces of ruined lives. Now it’s over, and I hope never again. We fought to kill, to
maim and destroy; everything that is against your faith.Some of us will come back home to be with our folks, but not me. I won’t be making it back to you.
Forgive my disobedience. I should have listened to Pa and followed the Ordnung as he ordered, but I wanted to see this old world for myself and I have…It ain’t much to write home about, except for the kindness of strangers.
I don’t want to enter life eternal knowing that we are not at one with each other. I got my taste of worldly freedom, and now it is bitter on my tongue. May I have in death what was denied in life—your blessing, Pa
Your loving son,
Zacharias Yoder
Guy read it back to him with tears in his own eyes. Here was another son, estranged from his family. He thought about Angus, defying his mother, and then he folded the letter gently and turned to ask for the address from a Red Cross nurse, but Zack had already drifted back into unconsciousness and wasn’t likely to return. He called for help and to find someone who would give him the address.
They buried Zack at sea, and when Guy reached the port of Boston, Massachusetts, he collected his own post, such as it was, a long letter from Dr Mac. He stuck it in his pocket to read later.
He sat in a bar gazing out over the harbour, thinking about young Zack not much younger than himself. Then he opened Mac’s letter.
There is such a hullabaloo in the village about the proposed war memorial statue. No one can agree on which design and now it must be funded from public subscription. No one can agree about that either. Everyone is up in arms, no pun intended. Then there is the delicate matter of whether Frank Bartley’s name can be added to the roll of honour. As you could imagine the village is divided.
There are those who think a man executed for disobedience should never be honoured alongside those considered heroes, like Captain Guy Cantrell. Oh, what a tangled web we weave…
These sentences leaped out at Guy. Frank shot at dawn? What had happened? The last he knew was that he was in one of the artillery regiments and that Angus had joined them. What on earth had happened? Poor Selma and her family. He could just imagine the response in the village to that scurrilous news.
He’d known of military executions but, thank God, was never present at one himself. Had Angus been present? Did he have to witness such an awful event? He had to know.
There was only one way to find out—by swallowing his pride and writing to his mother. Young Frank was never a coward but he was near the edge that day on the road to Peronne. Had something happened?
Guy ordered another bottle of whisky and settled down in a corner to drown his sorrows in the bottom of a glass.
It was good to get the garden back into shape again, although Hester had to do most of it herself. There were no young gardeners willing to take up the challenge. She was making
plans for a new herbaceous border. There was such talk in the Royal Horticultural Society magazine about the designs of Gertrude Jekyll and descriptions of her lush and flowing palette of colours with rippling perennials for every season. She rather fancied having a go herself.
The staff was now down to a minimum and she was back to using the kitchen herself except when she entertained, which was rare these days.
This business of a memorial was causing such a stir in the village. The new chapel pastor, Fanshawe, wanted all serving men to be honoured, dead or alive, on a scroll. Only the dead would be carved on the monument with their ranks, ages, regiments and dates of death.
Then there were those who wanted no rank to be mentioned, or a statue, but a useful building to be dedicated to the fallen. She had argued they already had a church, a chapel and men’s reading room and parish room-cum-village hall and the children’s swing park. What else could they possibly want? She wasn’t going to fork out for such unnecessary extravagance.
Then someone suggested an annual scholarship for a pupil to go to Sharland School. They were making their own elaborate arrangements to honour their former pupils, which was another matter. Looming over it all was Frank Bartley’s omission from the memorial. It had split the village since persistent rumours that he had been wrongly executed. Some said that he was as much a victim of war as anyone else and ought to be honoured, but others would have no truck with his inclusion under any circumstances.
It had raised such a furore at the last committee meeting, she’d been tempted to walk out, if only her family weren’t
implicated in so many ways. It made Angus’s lack of action so much worse. Perhaps if he had intervened…
She must bear the knowledge that the wrong Cantrell might be etched in stone for eternity and once done could never be put right.
Every night, she prayed that Guy would make his peace with her, let her know how he was faring. She could then tell him how sorry she was and how much she wanted to be reconciled.
As if in answer to all these supplications, one morning George the postman brought a letter to the door. ‘From foreign parts is this, Lady Hester.’ He gave her the letter, hovering over her, curious to see who it was from, but she smiled and closed the door, her heart racing. She’d know that writing anywhere.
It has come at last. Thank you. Thank you. She noticed the American stamp and made up a cup of precious Earl Grey tea as a treat and sat down to savour the envelope, slitting it open with her silver paper knife.
Mother,
I feel it is time that I gave you news of my life. I enlisted into the merchant navy under an assumed name. I served on the Atlantic convoys and signed on for further trips to see the world. I have had many adventures and met interesting people of all nations.
But the real reason for my writing is this. It has come to my notice that Frank Bartley was executed after a court martial in 1917 and that this has caused problems for his family. I gather that the village cannot decide about his name on the memorial. I strongly believe his name must be honoured there.
I hope you were doing all to support the family in their quest for justice. I have heard about summary executions at the front and know many were rushed affairs with not all the prisoners adequately defended. Did he have a prisoner’s friend to speak for him? Did Angus mention anything before his death?
It troubles me that I was not able to write in his defence as he was a good lad and dedicated to his horses’ welfare when many were not. He gave Angus a chance of life when he could have drowned. It therefore behoves us to take up his defence and find the true facts of this case.
I am well here. I don’t know how long I shall stay at sea. America is a land of opportunity. I may explore the States, but I don’t intend to return to England. Here, I can be who I choose to be with no questions asked. You may reply to the poste restante address here. I would appreciate an early response.
G. A. C.
Hester laid down the paper with a sigh. A cool formal letter of enquiry. It was only to be expected, after all this time. He’d not asked about her welfare. He had not shown any softening of his anger towards her.
He was expecting a prompt reply but what could she say but more lies and half-truths to put his mind at rest. Should she tell him the shocking truth?
At least this was a chink of light in the shutter. He had written, risked his address, and she already knew his assumed name from the clinic. She would write to Mr Charles West and tell him just what he wanted to know,
whether it was to his liking or not. She owed him the truth: no more shielding the dead. It made no difference now to Angus or Frank Bartley and she cursed the day those boys had met at the Foss and their lives became inextricably linked.
If Guy saw her honesty, and if she made a promise to help Mrs Bartley get some justice for her son, perhaps then mother and son could be reconciled. She could make her own passage to America and visit him, make peace.
‘Justice…to right an injustice’—where had she heard those words before? In the back of her mind rose that misty night all those years ago, when she had gone to visit Martha Holbeck in secret. ‘You have to right an injustice.’She hadn’t understood then but she did now.
If she befriended Essie Bartley, she might melt Guy’s frozen heart.
Hester sat down at the bureau and wrote the most important letter of her life.
Selma hung over the side of the SS
Carmania
, savouring every last second, breathing in the seaweed smoky air of the Liverpool dock. In a week’s time she’d arrive in the New World. She felt the breeze whipping round her and shivered with excitement. It was really happening. The luggage was safe in their smart second-class cabin. She stared up at the grey stone buildings of the city; towering blocks of offices, such grandeur on the waterfront, and then at the gunmetal sea that was to carry them so far. She’d never seen the sea before—park lakes and rivers, nothing bigger—and now she was going to cross an entire ocean.
Somewhere amongst the crowds were Aunty Ruth and Uncle Sam waving a farewell with white handkerchiefs. She
wanted Mam to be with them but she refused, saying she’d not want to make a show of herself. They had said their farewells on Sowerthwaite station instead and she could still feel those trembling hands and see those eyes full of emotion.
‘Don’t forget where you come from, Selma. There’s always a bed waiting for your return, and don’t wed the first man who asks you. I know you’ll cope, but don’t forget you’re a Yorkshire lass, so no fancy American talk.’
She had cried all the way back to Bradford, tears of guilt, excitement and relief all at the same time.
Now the moment had come and Lisa was clinging onto her arm, almost falling over the rails in an effort to make one last farewell. The girl darted a look of fear, as the horn blew from the two funnels. ‘It won’t sink, will it?’ she cried. No one would ever forget the fate of the
Titanic
eight years before.
‘Not a chance…looks as if it’s been done up with fresh paint and a fancy rigout. We’re going to have such a time, so wipe your eyes.’
‘What if my uncle doesn’t like me and sends me back?’
‘Now stop this mithering and let’s go exploring. Did you see those ladies in their fur coats and hats coming up the gangplank to first class? I expect they’re dripping with jewels.’
Selma didn’t want to waste a minute. She wanted to breathe in everything along the Mersey: the tugboats, the ferries, the barges and the grey warships docked. When will I see this again? she sighed. Who will I be then? Her new life was beginning right here on the ship. She drew in a breath of satisfaction. This time next week they’d be in America.
Guy sat watching the ships docking in the harbour. He loved to see them as specks on the horizon drawing ever closer, turning in with a flurry of ropes and carts on the dockside, waiting for the loading to begin, the gangplank coming down and a stream of passengers pouring out, some carrying bundles and children into waiting cars and taxis. Who were they? Where had they come from?
He was putting off the moment when he would have to open his mother’s letter addressed to him in his now familiar name.
He laughed, catching himself in a chandler’s window. She wouldn’t recognise Charlie West, his hair bleached white from salt and sun, his reddish beard making him look more like a Viking raider than the former officer and gentleman. His hands were calloused with rope burns and the wind, his breath smelled of stale bourbon, his lips cracked with tobacco smoke like an old sea dog.