Beyond the Storm

Samuel James Lawrence was born some hours later, on 24th March 1902. After the last patient had left his evening surgery, Dr Lawrence paid his wife and first-born son a visit. The small east bedroom had been prepared as a lying-in room. Dr Lawrence was relieved to find that all was clean and neat, and quiet. Winifred was sitting up in bed, brushing her hair. Next to her, the infant was sleeping in a mahogany cradle in which, nearly forty years previously, Dr Lawrence himself had slept.

‘Here he is, John,’ Winifred whispered, ‘here’s our Samuel.’

Dr Lawrence peered into the cradle.

‘Splendid. What a funny little fellow.’

* * *

Sam, his younger brothers Humphrey and Albert, and his sister Freda, grew up in the rambling house on the edge of the village of Stonethwaite in Cumberland. Their father’s surgery occupied half the ground floor. During surgery hours, patients waited on hard wooden chairs in the hallway. There were two consulting rooms: one for Dr Lawrence, large enough for minor operations, and a smaller one for Dr Jasper, his junior partner.

At the back was a small dispensary, where Dr Lawrence made up pills and medicines. Stacked on one shelf were glass bottles of ominously coloured liquids: red, green, and brown, each sealed with a cork. Dr Lawrence was a great believer in the placebo effect for simple country people. These bottles contained nothing but sterilised water, some harmless colouring, and a little alcohol added as a ‘pick-me-up’. His patients swore by them.

‘Ah no, Doctor, not the green one; my Betty takes that. It’s the red one ’as worked wonders for my rheumatism.’

Apart from the kitchen, the house was always cold, even in summer, the sun rarely having time to penetrate the thick stone walls before the chill of evening returned. On the bitterest winter nights a meagre fire smouldered in the sitting room grate. Bedroom fires were lit only on rare special occasions, such as when Freda shivered and quaked with scarlet fever. Winifred was in charge of the running of the house. It was a house looming with heavy dark furniture inherited from an earlier age. Carpets were worn and soft furnishings threadbare.

Sam had no memory of anything new ever being bought for the house. Even shoes were considered an extravagance, and were kept for as long as possible. As the eldest, Sam sometimes had new shoes bought for him, but only when his toes were firmly pressed against the tips. Shoes were patched and mended, their soles and heels reinforced with crescents of metal. When unarguably outgrown, Sam’s shoes eventually passed to Humphrey, and finally to Albert. Sam’s feet caused him problems for the rest of his life.

Meals were bland and simple, in accordance with Dr Lawrence’s taste. He considered that excessive use of seasoning overstimulated the appetite and the senses, and was to be avoided. Each week, Winifred struggled with the domestic budget allowed by her husband. She made careful lists and opted for the cheaper cuts of meat, which were cooked at length in the Aga until reasonably tender, and stretched with turnips, potatoes, barley and suet dumplings. Certain items not absolutely essential were omitted from the shopping until the following week. She supplemented the family diet with produce from a large vegetable and fruit garden. It did not occur to Winifred to suggest that Dr Lawrence might have increased her household allowance. The children always left the table a little hungry.

While they were very small, the children were taught to read and write by their nanny in the nursery. Nanny Lawrence was a kindly spinster of middle years, from whom the children enjoyed occasional demonstrations of affection. When Sam was nine, a governess arrived and introduced him and Humphrey to the rudiments of history, mathematics and French. Two years later Nanny Lawrence disappeared, despite anguished tears shed by Albert and Freda, then aged six and five. At the same time, a tutor was engaged to prepare the older boys for their entrance examinations. He performed his task with rigour, caning Sam and Humphrey viciously across the knuckles for any lack of effort or application.

The austerity of home life prepared Sam well for conditions at boarding school. He expected neither comfort nor affection, and received none. The battlefields of France and Belgium were rapidly absorbing a generation of young men. Many of Sam’s teachers were old men or survivors of the war, returning damaged and embittered, and resenting their pupils’ untouched youth and opportunity.

Despite its harshness, Sam’s childhood was not without pleasure. His father’s work meant he was rarely present at home, except when occupied in the surgery. The children were expected to entertain themselves, when not actively engaged in schoolwork. They roamed the hills and country freely on foot and by bicycle, slabs of bread and cold tea packed into knapsacks. Sam often helped his mother in the vegetable garden. She was not a talkative woman, but he sensed her quiet fondness for him as they worked side by side, planting lines of potatoes, turnips and carrots.

‘Well done, Samuel. By autumn we’ll be enjoying these.’

When Sam reached the age of seventeen, Dr Lawrence called him into his study for a discussion about his future.

‘Are you considering medicine, Samuel? I have contacts at St Thomas’s, you know. I’m sure they’d take you on, as long as you don’t make a mess of matriculation. It’s a fine profession.’

‘I don’t think I’m really cut out to be a doctor, Father. Not like Humphrey.’

‘Not cut out for it? I don’t know about that. That seems a somewhat flippant way to refer to your future. You do realise we can’t send you all to university, don’t you? If you don’t want to pursue medicine, have you thought about the other options? There’s law or there’s the army.’

Sam longed to escape the constraints of his life. He longed to see the wider world. In 1922, he became one of the youngest officers to graduate from Sandhurst. Dr Lawrence and Sam’s godfather – an uncle in Ireland – shared in paying for his commission, with money long set aside for just such an eventuality.

His first posting was to Ireland. It was not the exotic setting he might have hoped for, but he liked the Irish, and recognised that history had dealt them a poor hand. His commanding officer warned him against this view.

‘Be careful, Lawrence. It’s a mistake to try to see both sides of the argument – or to consider the argument at all for that matter. Our job is to keep order, nothing more. Keep out of the politics.’

In Ireland Sam learned that great charm was not incompatible with extreme brutality. There was a spate of house burnings by the Black and Tans, after which the IRA considered what reprisals against the Protestants might be appropriate. IRA leaders of the local Brigade felt it would be unjust to burn the homes of people not involved directly in anti-Catholic acts. Instead they decided to target Leindown Castle, residence of Lord and Lady Tullycomb. Lord Tullycomb was a member of the British House of Lords and a determined opponent of Irish National aspirations. British officers sometimes stayed at the Castle, and officers from the local garrison – including Sam – were occasional visitors there.

The IRA also selected Leindown for its history of devout Unionism and its longstanding links with the British establishment. At the time of the attack, Lord Tullycomb was away in Scotland on a fishing trip. The only occupants of the Castle were Lady Tullycomb, her daughter Hester, and five servants. The Castle and most of its contents were burnt to the ground in the raid, but no one was harmed.

Sam participated in the subsequent military investigation. He was impressed by Lady Tullycomb’s steadfast refusal to identify the attackers, saying only that they had ‘behaved like gentlemen’. She informed the military that she and Hester had been allowed to identify some of their most treasured possessions, and then ten IRA men had been assigned to carry these objects out of the house. Two armchairs had also been taken outside for herself and Hester to sit in safety and comfort. Sam noted that these chairs were placed in the rose garden, where the women would be sheltered from the sight of their home being destroyed, and where the smell of burning might be masked by the fragrance of the blooms. He was ordered to remove these references from his report, his commanding officer being concerned that the true criminality of the act should not be disguised.

On another occasion, Sam was cycling back to his base following a match at the nearby tennis club, when he rounded a corner and stumbled upon an IRA ambush. A general – a highly decorated hero of the First World War – and his friend, a colonel, together with their wives, were driving in the other direction, in order to play tennis themselves. Seeing signs of an ambush ahead, and unable to turn the car around in time, the general accelerated the car in a desperate attempt to escape. The ambushers opened fire with revolvers, rifles and shotguns, killing the general and the colonel’s wife instantly. The car swerved sideways and crashed into a ditch.

Sam was nearly upon them. He witnessed the event, but was unable to intervene or escape the notice of the attackers. He had no option but to continue cycling. As he reached the rebel road block, unarmed and vulnerable in his white shorts and shirt, he waved his tennis racket in the air. The IRA men, respecting a sportsman, shook their heads and allowed him through unharmed, before making their escape without further bloodshed.

Sam was able to summon help for the injured survivors of the ambush. He was genuinely surprised when his advance through the site of the attack was later referred to as an act of heroism. He had been confident that the rebels had nothing to gain by targeting him too and, in any case, felt he had no alternative but to proceed. Sam’s gentle and courteous manner endeared him to all sides of the conflict. Over time he gained a reputation for being a fair and effective negotiator.

After two years, he made a brief visit home before leaving for India with his regiment. Freda was overjoyed to see her eldest brother. Humphrey had begun his medical studies in London, and Albert was still at school, prior to joining his brother at St. Thomas’s Hospital.

The family had been invited to an evening with the Fairbairn sisters. Dr Lawrence disliked social gatherings. He regarded them as a regrettable but necessary extension of his working role. Winifred felt shy and self-conscious, worrying about the earth that refused to be prised from under her fingernails, and about her outdated gown. Freda was thrilled at any opportunity to leave the house and meet people. She had heard that the Misses Fairbairns’ orphaned niece Charlotte was staying with them, and she hoped to befriend her. Sam regarded the evening as a bit of a bore, but he was quite happy to accompany his sister. Their parents joined the older guests in the drawing room, while Sam and Freda made their way to the sitting room, where younger people were gathered.

Though not vain or self-conscious, Sam was aware that he made quite an entrance; tall and slim in his lieutenant’s uniform. After two years away from home, his shoulders had broadened and he had acquired a confident and easy-going manner.

He and Freda were introduced to Charlotte. She had a pale complexion and fair hair arranged on top of her head. She was wearing an azure blue dress, pulled in becomingly to her narrow waist with a darker blue satin band. Sam supposed she was pretty, yet there was a hardness about her. Her smile was quizzical rather than warm, as if she was about to say, ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Sam’s attitude to women was one of gallantry rather than true connection, due perhaps to lack of exposure. He thought nothing critical of Charlotte; only he sensed that experience had made her suspicious of others. Perhaps it was an instinct to comfort and protect her, but he found himself strangely drawn to her.

‘Do you ride, Miss Fairbairn? The weather is so fine at present – I wonder if you would like to go for a ride with me? Not too far, of course.’

She frowned. ‘Distance is no object for Bunty, or for me.’

That prickly, challenging expression again.

‘Bunty is your horse? I’m afraid I was thinking of my bicycle.’

Charlotte snorted. ‘Never been on a bicycle in my life, and don’t intend to try.’

Sam was not an expert horseman, but he had achieved some proficiency in Ireland. Charlotte’s uncle lent him his horse, which was a little more frisky than he would have liked. Charlotte’s Bunty was a fine bay with a serene temperament. Over the coming week, they made several excursions together. Charlotte seemed to enjoy his company. She relaxed and started to laugh more, but there was little warmth in her manner. She remained distant and gave no signal that greater closeness would have been welcomed. Yet, by the time Sam was ready to leave for India, they had agreed to write to each other.

* * *

Sam was completely bewitched by India: the overwhelming heat, the noise, the colours, smells and tastes of it. He wrote to Charlotte of all he experienced. In particular, he told her of his trips to Kashmir: trekking on horseback through hills smelling of pine and rosemary, sleeping under canvas on a camp-bed made up by his batman Morris, and eating delicious fragrant food cooked over an open fire by Rahman Singh. He knew she would like to hear of his equestrian adventures, the sturdy little horses sure-footed on stony screes and steep mountain tracks.

Despite the detailed and vivid descriptions of his experiences, Sam thought little of Charlotte during the long voyage, and for the first weeks in Calcutta. At times he worried about not missing her, but he put it down to the distraction of adjusting to such an alien environment. His head was filled with one new impression after another – there was little room for anything else.

Gradually, he settled in to his rooms and took stock of his life. He became aware of an absence. It was not as if he were lonely; far from it, he was constantly in company. His fellow officers were a mixed bunch, as always, but he found comradeship with Ellis, St John, Cameron and Hailsham. His men liked and respected him. He enjoyed the knowledge that he had created a good rapport with them. His contact with the local people was equally positive. He was learning Urdu in order to communicate better with them. There were regular dinners and dances at the officers’ mess, where he dallied with one or two young women: an English governess employed by a local Maharaja to tutor his children, and the older daughter of the District Commissioner. His senior officer, Major Wellbeck, warned him off.

‘Take care, Lawrence. These girls are after husbands, remember. If that’s what you want, fine. But make the proper approaches.’

Sam felt colour rising up his neck.

‘If it’s just a bit of hanky-panky you’re after, there are always the native women. The adjutant can tell you which is a safe house, so to speak.’

Sam wrote beautiful letters, descriptive, expressive, poetic. As time went on, the tone of Charlotte’s replies became a little softer. The emotional content of Sam’s letters rose in intensity. He was deeply moved by them himself. They were so convincing. How much easier it was to put feelings into writing than to express them face to face.

After a year, he asked Charlotte if she would consider becoming his wife and joining him in India. She wrote back to affirm that she might consider such a proposal, and detailing her precise needs regarding sufficient stabling at their married quarters. She explained that as she had no father to ask the ‘correct questions’, she had to ask them herself. Namely, what exactly were Sam’s prospects in terms of his likely career path and future earnings? He replied that he expected to be promoted to captain the following year, when he would be twenty-five. He was too modest to mention that his commanding officer had explained that such early promotion reflected Sam’s exceptional potential. Charlotte suggested they wait until the following year to get married. Until that time they considered themselves engaged.

The following year, 1927, Sam returned home on three months’ leave. His parents were delighted to see him, and pleased about the forthcoming marriage. For some weeks Sam and Charlotte embarked on a spending spree, which alarmed Doctor Lawrence and Winifred inordinately, but they came to accept that the young couple needed to equip an entire household. The army provided some essential basics, but further items of furniture, bedding, kitchen goods and clothing were assembled, ready to be boxed and shipped to India. Winifred’s greatest sadness was that Charlotte rejected her offered gift of her mother’s old wedding ring. Charlotte wanted to choose a new one for herself.

‘But what about the expense, my dear?’ asked Winifred.

‘Hang the expense,’ Charlotte replied.