Remembrance Day

Hester sat bolt upright on the horsehair sofa, one eye on the grandfather clock in the corner of the farmhouse parlour. It had a brass face of some distinction, as did the dark oak furniture with fine pewter plates in racks. In her hand a piece of porcelain of antiquity that unfortunately smelled and tasted of musty damp from the china cabinet. The rounds of the sick and elderly were done and she always finished off at the Pateleys’ farm at the top end of the village out on the old high road to Sowerthwaite. It was set back among the trees with a fine view across the valley. Whoever had chosen this site knew his arse from his elbow, as Charles would say.

She smiled, knowing her dutiful day was done and Beaven would be waiting to return her to Waterloo House for tea and hot pikelets dripping with this season’s raspberry jam. The fire would be roaring in the morning room; they were setting an example of austerity by having only one fire lit during the week to save fuel.

‘How’s them young ’uns?’ said Emma Pateley, the farmer’s maiden sister, who kept home for him now he was widowed.

‘Ah, growing up too fast,’ Hester offered. ‘Still at school, of course…too young yet for any war work.’

‘Is that so? But not too young to go a-courtin’,’ Emma chuckled. ‘I seed one of yourn the other day up the far field walking a horse with a girl on its back. A proper knight in shining armour he looked.’

‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ Hester protested. ‘The boys are busy at school.’

‘It were a Sunday afternoon, as I recall; he were on that chestnut mare, fine beast. You were lucky the army didn’t get her on a rope. Tall as a spear, fair lad. The girl were dark-haired like that one of Bartleys’ as teaches school. You know, the one with the funny name. I’d watch it there. Them chapelgoers can be trouble when crossed. They like to match with their own.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be one of my boys, Miss Pateley.’ Hester felt herself flushing. Emma could be a gossipy old crone but her eyes didn’t miss much. The boys, it was true did have free periods on Sunday afternoons but surely one of her children wouldn’t make a fool of himself in the village?

‘When men and maids meet, there’s allus mischief, my lady,’ Emma continued, unaware of Hester’s discomfort. ‘Lads will be lads, and lasses aye let them…’

‘Thank you for the tea, Miss Pateley, but I must take my leave of you. Things to do in these trying times.’

‘I ’eard as how old Jones the plumber’s boy copped it last week and him a regular in the army. He’s been out there since it began…He’ll not be the last. My cups are telling me we’ll all be wearing black afore the next year’s out.’

‘Yes, yes, perhaps…Now you’ve got some more wool for the socks. I hear you’re one of the best heel turners in the district. We want to send socks, scarves and comforts by the end of next month, parcels for our local boys. I can rely on you?’ Hester wagged her finger, desperate for Emma to stop talking.

‘I’ll do my best. Thank you for calling on a poor old soul as is cut off from the world up here.’

Not so cut off that you can’t find gossip, mused Hester as she stepped briskly into the waiting carriage. There was something about the woman’s ramblings that unsettled her. Could one of her boys really be making a fool of himself with a village girl? How ridiculous, how stupid, to foul on your own doorstep! How dare he shame the family? No doubt it would be one of Angus’s pranks. He was always up for silliness. Had he no respect for his station in life? Just wait until their next exeat: she’d lay down the law. A liaison with a villager was simply unthinkable.

Guy saw the thunderous look on his mother’s face after church and wondered what was up. She’d been acting strange all morning, silent and severe. Had another under gardener left them in the lurch? She plonked down her Prayer Book and her gloves, and pointed the twins into the cold drawing room.

‘Inside…both of you,’ she ordered, out of earshot from Shorrocks, who was hovering by the hall stairs with their coats and hats.

‘Now which one of you has been silly enough to pay attention to the Bartley girl?’

Neither of them spoke but stood together to attention while she choked them off.

‘Don’t look at me, Mother,’ said Angus. ‘I’ve not been near the village for ages.’ He turned to Guy. ‘And Guy’s head has been stuck in a poetry book, hasn’t it?’

Bless Angus for covering for him, but Guy was not ashamed of his friendship with Selma.

‘Don’t blame Angus. Selma and I have been walking out, riding Jemima. She’s awfully clever, you know, training to be a teacher. You’ll like her when you meet her.’

‘I have no intention of doing any such thing. At your age, walking out with a blacksmith’s daughter and a nonconformist—have you no sense? You should be in school, not gadding about with a girl, giving her false expectations. You are far too young for such matters and there’s a war on. Why didn’t you tell me this was going on, Angus?’ Hester accused.

Angus shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s all news to me,’ he grinned.

‘Have you nothing to say, Guy? Stop grinning at each other like simpletons.’

‘Sorry, Mother, but we’re not kids any more. We’re old enough to volunteer and take up commissions—’

‘That’s as may be, in good time,’ Hester interrupted.

‘No time like the present.’ Angus threw in his verbal grenade,standing to attention to salute. ‘We’re soldiers now, all signed on the dotted line.’

‘You have done what!’ she exploded. ‘Behind my back? I forbid it!’

‘You can’t, Mother. It’s done. We’ll be off to training camps in the next week or so.’

Guy felt sorry for his mother as he saw her bravado crumple. She sat down, pale-faced, deflated for once, speechless at this news. ‘Does your father know about this madness?’

‘We’ll write to him. It’s only what he expects of us.’

‘But, Angus, you can’t go, not with your recent affliction. You won’t pass a medical, not with your history.’

‘Don’t fuss. I’m fine now. It’s going to be such a wheeze. Oh, don’t cry, Mother. We’ll be fine and they might let us join the same regiment.’

‘I see you have got it all worked out behind my back. Does this Miss Bartley know your plans too? I dare say she’s behind all this show of gallantry,’ Hester said, her lips composed, her arms crossed tightly against her bodice.

‘That’s not fair. Her brother’s going too. Everyone’s going. You both worked hard enough to make sure half the village boys answered the call to arms.’

‘But not my sons, not yet, not my two boys at once. Why can’t you wait? There’s no hurry,’ she pleaded.

‘The sooner we leave, the sooner our training begins and the sooner we’ll be in action before it all fizzles out. I’d hate to miss it,’ Angus added, his eyes bright with fervour. ‘Guy will keep an eye on me, won’t you?’

‘I can’t take this in, all this secrecy and I’m the last to know. Why?’

‘Because we knew you’d take on so…You must let us be like all the others and give us your blessing.’ Guy sat down beside her, trying to jolt her out of her maudlin mood. It was not like his mother at all.

‘I have a bad feeling about this. It’s too soon. What will I do without you?’

‘What you’ve always done: put a brave face to the world and get on with your charity work and church duties, keep the home fires burning, as the song says, and make sure we get clean socks, hankies, some of Cook’s marmalade, pipe tobacco and up-to-date newspapers. Don’t be sad, be glad that we’re old enough to be useful to our country in its hour of need.’

‘Oh, Guy, do you realise what you’re doing?’ She was shaking her head, not looking at them both.

‘I’m not rightly sure but all I know is that it must be done now…Come on, chop chop, no more moping about. There’s the luncheon gong. I hope it’s roast lamb. Dry your eyes. We’ll get plenty of leave while we’re training. Might even get as close as Catterick camp. Buck up, old girl. It’s not the end of the world.’

But it is the end of my world, sobbed Hester as she paced the bedroom floor later that night, the gentle tick of the marble clock lagging far behind her own heartbeat. How can I live if anything happens to my sons? No sooner out of the nursery than into school and now into the army, and Guy on the arm of some trollop. She’s behind it somewhere. Prim school miss she might appear but there’s fire in those dark eyes and she’s not getting her claws into my boy.

Hester sat on the window seat, drawing back the brocade curtains to reveal a night sky lit with a thousand stars.

There’s one good thing about all this, though, she thought, drying her eyes. Once Guy disappears from the scene, all this mooning about will soon fizzle out. I’ll put him in the way of some decent county girls from good families; girls of our own class, not upstarts no better than servants. At least he’ll be too busy to satisfy that girl’s craving for influence. And as for Angus…Hester smiled a knowing smile. There must be ways to make sure he got no further than the medical board. Perhaps she could let Guy go now, but not two, oh dear me, no…Angus must stay close by, whatever it took.

First the horses, then the men, and the village fell silent as it went about the daily grind. I sigh, looking around the crowds. Everyone thought it was ‘all a bit of a bluff and wouldn’t come to owt, as old Dickie Beddows had pronounced. I’ve not thought of him for years, sitting under the elm on the bench with string tied round the knees of his corduroy breeches, sucking an empty pipe, dispensing his wisdom to those who had the time to listen. But as the months wore on and curtains were closed in respect for some mother’s son who was lost in places they couldn’t pronounce, even he fell silent.

Then there was the shelling of Hartlepool and the Zeppelin raids that bombed Scarborough and the east coast. Yorkshire was under attack; a terror none of us could understand; little kiddies crushed under bricks, mothers cooking breakfast blasted to eternity. This was no bluff.

How strange that I can recall every detail of that time yet forget what day of the week it is so easily, or what I’ve had for supper.

Being here brings everything to the fore. Nothing’s been lost in the house of my memory. I can walk round its rooms and recall those far-off tumultuous days at will.