The Carpenter's Children (18 page)

Isabel put down her knife and fork, and fixed her eyes steadily on her husband until he had to look up and repeat his question: ‘What did she say in her letter?’

‘We’ve always told each other the truth, Mark,’ Isabel answered solemnly. ‘My mother’s worried about Ernest, in case he has to go back to the
fighting, and my sister Grace has been dismissed from Hassett Manor for bad behaviour, though she’s now a nursing cadet at Everham General. Now, tell me what your father wrote.’

He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, silently praying for a few moments while she waited for him to speak.

‘My father and I have been thinking about this latest Military Service Act,’ he said at last. ‘And whether it can be right for a man to leave his family and go to fight in a war he doesn’t properly understand, to kill other men like himself for some political ideology – or for whatever reason. Is it ever justifiable, and what should a man do? Your brother Ernest thought this over for a long time, and came down on the side of king and country, as he has proved in that Gallipoli fiasco. But what should
I
do, Isabel? Tell me what
you
think I should do.’

She replied without hesitation. ‘Oh, Mark, my dear, good, foolish husband, why haven’t you told me this before? I’ve known that you had something on your mind, and why couldn’t you
tell
me? You’re like my father, unable to confide in my mother about his fears for Ernest. Now, listen! A man like you, a clergyman whose life is dedicated to God, can
never
go out and kill his fellow men – and besides, it’s against your nature. You couldn’t do it.’

‘Ah, but dearest Isabel, I wouldn’t go with the intention of killing, though I’d wear a soldier’s uniform. I’d be an army chaplain.’

Isabel went pale; a suffocating sensation of fear seized her, but she resisted it; she had learnt from her experiences at St Barnabas’ to be strong; she had toughened, and was no longer a shy young bride, though she trembled as she spoke.

‘Then you’ll have to do what you believe God wants you to do, Mark,’ she said. ‘I mustn’t kneel to you, begging you not to go. W-what does your father say?’

‘He’d already advised me to write to the bishop of the diocese,’ he answered bleakly.

‘And have you?’

‘Yes. It seems that I have a choice, to stay here or join the army as a chaplain. He says he can only give me guidance, and the final decision must be mine.’

‘And who’d do your work here, in an underprivileged parish in desperate need of a wise spiritual leader?’ asked Isabel, chalk-white.

‘It’s been suggested that my father could come here and take over.’

‘But that’s ridiculous – impossible! Your father’s old and retired, and your mother’s much too frail!’ cried Isabel, feeling as if she was in the grip of a nightmare, and must wake up at any minute.

‘My father is willing to come out of retirement – he won’t be the only one to do so – and my mother
would go and stay with Sylvia and her family.’

‘Good God! You’ve thought all this out between yourselves, but without a word to me. Oh, Mark, how could you leave me out?’ There was deep reproach in her voice, and he got up from his chair and went to her side, putting his arms around her shoulders and kissing her cheek.

‘I didn’t want you to be worried until I’d come to a decision, Isabel. There was no point in upsetting you until there was something definite to tell you, either way.’

‘And can you tell me now?’ she demanded in a voice made strange and unfamiliar by fear.

‘Up until this day – this minute, Isabel, I hadn’t anything to tell you for certain, either way,’ he replied. ‘But now I have.’

‘And?’

‘And I must go, dearest.’

She gave a long, drawn-out moan, and he gathered her up in his arms and carried her into the parlour where they sat together on the settee, her head on his shoulder. There seemed to be nothing more to say; words were hollow and empty.

The all-out Allied attack on the German trenches in the Somme valley on July 1st was at first reported as a success, with heavy enemy casualties. It was only when the long lists of Allied casualties began to take up whole pages in national newspapers that the truth began to filter through to a horrified nation;
The Times
had to print additional pages to record the numbers of men killed, missing and wounded, and they ran into tens of thousands.

Looking back later on that sunny summer, Tom Munday always shuddered. His mind reeled away from the daily news of young lives lost, and terrible as it was to contemplate such a national disaster, it was when the dreaded telegrams brought news of deaths of local boys that the shock truly hit home. Among those killed on that first day of the Battle of
the Somme were Dick Yeomans and Ted Bird, the younger of the two brothers who had been among the first to enlist. Dick had been conscripted for less than two months when his parents received the news that they would never see him again, and they had to break the news to Mary Cooper. The devastation at the farm was only equalled by the grief at Birds’ Outfitters; the shop was closed for a week while Ted’s parents mourned for him, and Phyllis’s grief for her brother was compounded by her fears for William Hickory. Miss Daniells advised her to take some time off work until things were more settled at home, but Phyllis felt that she needed to get away from the grief-stricken house of mourning, so continued her teaching of the youngest pupils, hiding her sadness as she unfolded to them the mysteries of the alphabet and names of numbers.

On Sundays St Peter’s usual congregation was augmented by a few who now turned to the church for a word of spiritual comfort in their deep distress. The Reverend Mr Saville found it difficult to offer consolation, for he and his wife lived in daily fear for their son Philip, but this very fact brought him closer to his sorrowing flock, and they forgave him for talking about a Christian’s duty to trust in the Lord at all times, when any day might bring him the news that would test his faith to the uttermost.

While there was unity among the bereaved and those fearing they would become so, there was
little tolerance for those with no son at the front, and sometimes active hostility towards families who still had a son at home and not in uniform. Sidney Goddard was a case in point, saved by his short sight – his good luck, as some said, in failing his medical examination for the army. He became an object of scorn by patrons of Goddard’s haberdashery shop, and some women refused to enter while he was there. Children on their way home from school would shout, ‘Old Specky Four-Eyes!’ if they met him in the street, and his mother found herself shunned by Mrs Bird and Mrs Munday. Tom thought this unfair, but did not take his wife to task over it as he might have done in other circumstances, for the day was fast approaching when they would have to part with Ernest again. He had quite recovered from the enteritis which had struck him down in Gallipoli, and had put on weight; the army doctor at Everham had therefore passed him as fit to recommence active service, and a date in mid August was confirmed by a terse communication from the War Office, which also noted his request to be sent if possible to the same battalion as Lieutenant Pascoe, both men being now warrant officers.

Violet Munday broke down and wept, and Tom suggested that Ernest had better take himself off for an hour or two, until she was calmer.

‘I can deal with her better than you can, son,’ he said, having grown used to hiding his own fears,
and not wanting Ernest to be upset by his mother’s tears. ‘Er…could you cycle into Everham and get me a couple o’ sheets o’ sandpaper from the hardware store? And some linseed oil while you’re there?’

‘’Course I can, Dad.’ Ernest gave a little smile to himself, for he knew that his father was giving him an opportunity to visit the Pascoes at Everham, to see Aaron’s mother and his two young sisters. Their mutual love for Aaron had drawn Ernest close to them, especially to Devora who most reminded him of her brother. They greeted him warmly, and made him sit in the Schellings’ garden to tell them of his coming departure and his chances of being in the same company as Aaron; Mrs Schelling brought out lemonade in a large glass jug, and handed round home-baked biscuits.

As he lounged in a garden chair Devora laid her innocent head upon his shoulder and confided that she would pray every day for him and Aaron fighting in this war together. He whispered his thanks, closing his eyes and knowing that this would be a golden memory to take back with him to Aaron at the front and whatever horrors awaited them in that valley of death.

‘Haven’t you finished the bedpan round yet, Munday?’ asked the staff nurse. ‘The doctors will be here soon.’

‘Sorry, but Miss Clandon’s been sat there for ages,
and can’t go,’ replied Grace. ‘The rest o’ them have finished, and had wash bowls.’

The staff nurse frowned. ‘Well, take Miss Clandon’s bedpan away, and let her try later – and be quick about it, I’ve just seen Dr Lupton arriving.’

Grace rolled up her eyes and went to the
red-faced
old lady who was sitting astride an enamel bedpan and straining hard.

‘Nearly there, Nurse,’ she panted.

‘But the doctors are coming in, Miss Clandon, and I’ll have to take it away and let you try later,’ said Grace, knowing that there would be a fuss. And there was.

‘You can’t take it away
now
, Nurse, I’ve nearly done!’ Miss Clandon’s loud protest echoed round the now quiet ward. ‘Another couple of minutes’ll do the trick!’

The other women in Princess Alexandra Ward looked at each other, some smiling, others muttering about the cruelty of bullying an old lady. Grace was inclined to agree with them, and went to fetch two wooden-framed screens from a corner, pulling them along on their casters. She arranged them round Miss Clandon’s bed just as the ward sister came in with Dr Lupton, junior partner to Dr Stringer. All the patients in Everham General Hospital were under the care of their own general practitioners who sometimes called in a specialist. Grace fervently hoped that this doctor had not come to see Miss
Clandon, and watched as he and Sister stopped at another patient’s bed and studied her temperature chart.

‘Nurse Munday, fetch the screens,’ ordered Sister, and Grace pulled forward another pair of screens. Dr Lupton spent a few minutes with his patient, and then moved on to another.

‘Screens, Nurse!’ hissed the sister, and Grace hurried to transfer the screens from the first patient’s bed. At that moment Miss Clandon called out triumphantly.

‘I’ve done it, Nurse! You can take it away now, and bring me some paper,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Sorry about the horrid smell.’

Grace went to remove the bedpan and take it to the sluice room, where she emptied it and returned with a roll of coarse paper. She left the screens round while the old lady wiped herself, and Sister raised furious eyebrows and gave her a look that plainly said,
I’ll speak to you later
. The other women in the ward watched the little drama with amusement, and one of them winked at Grace who grinned back at her, then hastily composed her face to total blankness.

It was very different here at Everham General after the easy informality of Hassett Manor with its twelve convalescent servicemen. The hospital was a solid Victorian building with forty beds divided into fifteen on Prince Edward Ward for men, and
twenty-five
for women on Princess Alexandra; children were
put into Alexandra, including boys up to the age of twelve. As a cadet nurse, Grace did the daily sweeping of the floor, damp-dusting the bedside lockers and scraping the casters of beds and screens. She emptied bedpans down the sluice, rinsed them and replaced them on wooden shelves. Her only nursing duties were bedpan rounds followed by washing bowls. She helped make empty beds, turning the horsehair mattresses and arranging the three pillows allotted to each patient. If a woman asked her for anything other than a bedpan, such as pain relief or a change of dressing, she had to call a staff nurse or one of the probationers in training to deal with it.

‘My name’s Bedpan Annie,’ she would explain, but when some of the patients jokingly called her by this name, she was eyed with disfavour by her seniors who thought her frivolous, which did not worry her as long as the patients liked her. Due to her long and irregular hours of work she needed to be resident, and slept in a small, bare room on the third floor; a necessary arrangement that suited Grace, preferring it to the mounting tension at home as Ernest’s departure drew near.

‘You’ll find Isabel an invaluable help to you, Dad,’ said Mark Storey, ‘just as she’s always been to me. She seems to be able to bring light into the darkest places, and women especially turn to her for comfort. She’s an angel.’

Father and son were seated on a bench in the small back garden of St Barnabas’ vicarage, where a dusty privet hedge screened them from view. The sound of children’s sharp little cockney voices could be heard from the street where they were playing, and an angry shout from a man with a cart ordering them out of his way; barking dogs and women calling from front doors added to the background noises of the warm summer evening, and the two men spoke in lowered tones.

‘I shan’t demand too much of her,’ replied the Reverend Richard Storey who in his seventies had volunteered to come out of retirement and deputise for his son at St Barnabas’. ‘She’s got so many duties, teaching at that school and parish visiting, whereas most clergy wives only have the church and the vicarage to care for – and run the Mothers’ Union, of course.’

‘Ah, we are very fortunate in having Mrs Clements to do those duties,’ said Mark with a smile. ‘The church is
her
domain, polishing the brasses, doing the flowers, if there are any, and laundering the altar linen and surplices. And she comes in almost daily to cook and clean for us, in fact she’s a treasure, and all she requires is to be regularly told so. She’s inclined to gossip a bit, in fact if you want anything to be known in the parish, you’ve only to tell Mrs Clements and it’ll be all round in no time, but if there’s any trouble between her and other parishioners, Isabel’s the best
one to deal with any differences.’ Mark paused, noting how frail his father looked, and yet how firm of purpose. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am…we are to you, Dad, leaving Instone and coming here – and being separated from my mother.’

‘Your mother will be well looked after at Sylvia’s, son, and I came here in answer to a clear call from God,’ replied the old man firmly. ‘I’d been turning the matter over in my mind and conscience for some time, wondering what His will was for me at this time of national crisis, and when your letter came to tell us that you were joining up as an army chaplain, everything fell into place and I could see my duty clear before me – just as you do, Mark. Your mother is in total agreement, and willingly commits us both to God’s care. I shall do what I can for the souls of this parish, with His divine help. Let us bow our heads for a moment, Mark, and pray for our country and your part in its defence.’

The two men duly lowered their heads and the father commended the whole family into God’s care and protection; as Mark added his fervent
Amen
, Isabel called to them that supper was ready.

Isabel looked pale and was rather silent as she served her husband and father-in-law with a stew made from neck of mutton and root vegetables with the addition of a little pearl barley ‘as the Irish do, to make it go further,’ she said with a little smile. Bread-and-butter pudding followed – ‘it’s margarine,
actually,’ – and when they had finished old Mr Storey tactfully withdrew to his room, saying that he needed to spend some time in prayer. In fact he felt tired out.

‘We shan’t be late to bed, shall we, my love?’ said Mark when they had finished the washing-up and the table was laid for breakfast. Isabel took her husband’s hand and followed him up the stairs to their room and the bed awaiting them. They opened the window on to the fading light; a brilliant sunset lit the western sky.

Lying side by side, Mark spoke with a certain hesitation. ‘I haven’t any words, Isabel, only that I love you and I’ll think of you and pray for you every day we’re apart.’

‘And so shall I, Mark,’ she replied, and flinging her arms around him, she whispered, ‘Love me, Mark! Love me now, tonight, always!’

At once he felt his defences were broken, and he took her at her word, seizing her and throwing his body over hers. ‘You want me to, Isabel, and by God, I
will
!’

He pulled up her nightgown, something he usually left her to do when she felt ready, and clasped her in his arms so tightly that she gasped for breath; instead of waiting for her to open her thighs to him, he roughly forced the weight of his body between them, and instead of touching her secret place with a questing forefinger and gradually bringing her up to
a peak of pleasure, he thrust his rigid member inside her, hard and harder still, flattening her down upon the bed. She gave a little gasp of discomfort, but he seemed not to hear.

‘Isabel, I’m here, I’m here with you – I’m here within you!’ he groaned with a kind of desperation. There was no tenderness, none of the consideration he had always hitherto shown her; never before had he used her in such a
brutal
way, if such a word could be applied to her gentle, serious-minded husband, a clergyman of the Church. She was overpowered, unable to move or resist, utterly helpless. It made her remember stories she had heard from women of the parish whose drunken husbands had forced themselves upon their wives; they had confided in her as a married woman who would understand the meaning of the word
rape
, and this night she felt that it was happening to
her
. She had not sufficient breath to cry out, and her attempts to push him away were ineffectual; she simply had to lie there until at length he gave another wordless groan and collapsed panting, his passion subsided. She was at last able to move away from under him, her flesh bruised and sore.