Angels in the Gloom (3 page)

“Tell me about them,” he pressed. “How is Tom doing at school? What is his ambition?”

A shadow crossed her face. She tried to make light of it. “At the moment, like most fourteen-year-old boys, he wants to join the war. He’s always following soldiers around when there’s anyone on leave in the village.” She gave a tiny laugh, barely a sound at all. “He’s afraid it will be over before he has a chance. Of course he has no real idea what it’s like.”

He wondered how much she knew. Her husband, Archie, was a commander in the Royal Navy. Such a life was probably beyond the imagination of anyone who lived on the land. He had only the dimmest idea himself. But he knew the life of a soldier intimately. “He’s too young,” he said aloud, knowing as he did so that there were boys, even on the front lines, who were not much older. He had seen the bodies of one or two. But there was no need for Hannah to know that.

“Do you think it will be over by next year?” she asked.

“Or the one after,” he answered, with no idea if that were true.

She relaxed. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can bring you? Are they feeding you properly? It’s still quite easy to get most things, although that might change if the U-boats get any worse. There’s nothing much in the garden yet, it’s too early. And of course Albert’s not with us anymore, so it’s gone a bit wild.”

He heard a wealth of loss in her voice. At the front they tended to think everything at home was caught in a motionless amber just as they remembered it. Sometimes it was only the thread of memory linking that order of life to the madness of war that gave the fighting any purpose. Perhaps on the front they were as blind to life at home as the people at home were to the reality in the trenches? He had not really thought of that before.

He looked at his sisters anxious face. “The food’s not bad at all,” he said at last. “Maybe they’re giving us the best. But when I heal a bit more, I’ll be home anyway.”

She smiled suddenly, alight with pleasure. “That’ll be wonderful. It’ll be quite a while before you can go back, I should think.” She was sorry for his wounds, but they kept him in England, safe and alive. She did not know where Archie was, nor Judith. No matter how busy she was during the day, there was still too much time alone when fear crowded in, and helplessness. She could only imagine, and wait.

Seeing her loneliness far more than she realized, he felt an intense tenderness for her. “Thank you,” he said with a depth that surprised him.

It happened sooner than he expected. More wounded arrived. His bed was needed and he was past immediate danger. Gwen Neave helped him to dress in trousers, with a shirt and jacket over one shoulder and around his bandaged arm. He was taken to the door in a wheelchair and, feeling unsteady, helped into the ambulance to be driven home to Selborne St. Giles. He was startled to find that he was exhausted by the time the doors were opened again. He was assisted out onto the gravel driveway where Hannah was waiting for him.

She held his arm as he negotiated the steps, leaning heavily on his crutch, the ambulance driver on his other side. He hardly had time to notice that the front garden was overgrown. The daffodils were bright; leaves were bursting open everywhere; the yellow forsythia was in bloom, uncut since last year; and there were clumps of primroses that should have been divided and spread.

The door opened and he saw Tom was kneeling on the floor in the hall, holding the dog by his collar as he wriggled and barked with excitement. Henry was a golden retriever, eternally enthusiastic, and his exuberance would have knocked Joseph off his feet.

Tom grinned a little uncertainly. “Hello, Uncle Joseph. I daren’t let him go, but he’s pleased to see you. How are you?”

“Getting better very quickly, thank you,” Joseph replied. He did not feel that was true, but he wanted it to be. He was light-headed and so weak it frightened him. It was an effort to stand, even with help.

Tom looked relieved, but he still hung on to Henry, who was lunging forward in eagerness to welcome Joseph.

The two younger children were at the top of the stairs, standing close together. Jenny was ten, fair, with brown eyes like her mother. Luke, seven, was as dark as Archie. They stared at Joseph almost without blinking. He wasn’t really Uncle Joseph anymore; he was a soldier, a real one. More than that, he was a hero. Both their mother and Mrs. Appleton had said so.

Joseph climbed the stairs, hesitating on every step, assisted by the driver. He spoke to Luke and Jenny as he passed, but briefly. He was longing to get back to bed again and lie down, so the familiar hall and stairs would stop swaying and he would not make a spectacle of himself by collapsing in front of everyone. It would be so embarrassing trying to get up again, and needing to be lifted.

Hannah helped him to undress, anxious and repeatedly fussing over him. She helped him into the bed, propped the crutch where he could reach it, then left. She returned a few minutes later with a cup of tea. He found it shook in his hand when he took it, and she had to hold it for him.

He thanked her and was glad when she left him alone. It was strange to be at home again in his own room with his books, pictures, and other belongings that reminded him so sharply and intrusively of the past. There were photographs of himself and Harry Beecher hiking in Northumberland. The memory and the loss of his late friend still hurt Joseph. There were also books and papers from his time as a professor of Bible studies at St. John’s, even of his youth before his marriage, when this house had been the center of life for all of them.

His parents were no longer here, but when he lay awake in the night with the light on to read, he heard Hannah’s footsteps on the landing. For an instant it was his mother’s face he expected around the door to check if he was all right.

“Sorry,” he apologized before she could ask. “My days and nights are a bit muddled.” It was pain that was keeping him awake, but there was nothing she could do to help it, so there was no purpose in telling her. She looked tired, and, with her hair loose, younger than she did in the daytime. She was far more like her mother than Judith was, not only in appearance but in nature. All he could ever remember her wanting was to marry and have children, care for them, and be as good a part of the village as Alys had been—trusted, admired, and above all liked.

But everything was changing, moving much too quickly, as if a seventh wave had accumulated and drowned the shore.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she said anxiously. “Or cocoa? I’ve got milk. It might help you sleep.”

“Yes, please,” he said, as much for her as for himself. “Cocoa.”

She returned ten minutes later with two cups on a tray, and sat in the chair beside the bed sipping her own, having assured herself that he could manage his.

He started speaking to fill the silence. “How is Mr. Arnold?”

Her face pinched a little. “He took Plugger’s death pretty hard.” He was a widower, but she knew Joseph would not have forgotten that. “He spends most of his time down at the forge doing odd jobs, cleaning up, taking people’s horses back and forth. Mostly for the army, and to keep busy, I think.”

“And Mrs. Gee?” Memory of Charlie Gee’s death still twisted inside him. When he was well enough, he planned to go see these neighbors and friends. He knew how much it mattered to them to hear firsthand news. They wanted to ask questions, even if they were afraid of the answers. Mrs. Gee’s other son, Barshey, was still at the front, and most of the other young men she knew as well. Everyone had friends or relations in the trenches; most had lost people they loved, dead, injured, or simply missing. In some cases they would never know what had happened to them.

“Mrs. Gee is all right,” she answered him. “Well, as all right as anyone can be. She always has to make up her mind whether to go and look at the casualty lists or not. And she always does. Like the rest of us, I suppose. You go with your heart in your mouth, then when your family’s names are not there you feel almost sick with relief.”

She bit her lip, her cocoa forgotten. Her eyes searched his to see if he understood the depth of the fear, the moment of crippling aloneness. “And then you realize that other women next to you have lost someone, and you feel guilty. You see their faces white, eyes with all the light gone as if something inside them was dead, too. You know it could be your turn next time. You try to think of something to say, all the while knowing there isn’t anything. There’s a gulf between you that nothing can cross. You still have hope. They don’t. And you end up saying nothing at all. You just go home, until the next list.”

He looked at the misery in her eyes.

“Mother would have known something to say,” she added.

He knew that was what Hannah had been thinking. “No, she wouldn’t,” he answered. “Nobody does. We’ve never been here before.” He paused for a moment. “What about your friends? Maggie Fuller? Or Polly Andrews? Or the girl with the curly hair you used to go riding with?”

She smiled. “Tilda? Actually she married a fellow in the Royal Flying Corps last year. Molly Gee and Lilian Ward have gone to work the factories. Even the squire has only one servant left. Everybody seems to be doing something to do with the war: delivering the post, collecting clothes and blankets, putting together bags with mending supplies, and of course knitting… miles of it.” She sipped her cocoa. “I don’t know how many letters I’ve written as well, to men who have no families. And of course there’s always cleaning and maintenance to be done. And lots of women drive now—delivering things.”

He smiled, thinking of the vast organization of support, everyone striving to do what they could for the men they loved.

“I expect the squire will be to see you,” she went on, changing the subject completely, except that he, by his very position, was part of the old way of the village. He belonged to the past that she trusted. “He’s bound to be a bit tedious, but it’s his duty,” she added. “You’re a hero, and he’ll want to pay his respects and hear about your experiences.”

He debated it. He hated to talk about the men he knew. No words could draw for anyone else what their lives were like. And yet the people left at home who loved them had a need to know. Their imaginations filled in the emptiness, but it would still be immeasurably better than the truth.

“You don’t have to see him,” Hannah cut across his thoughts, but her voice was gentle. “Not yet, anyway.”

“No,” he said. “I’ll see him as soon as he feels like coming.”

She finished her cocoa and put down the cup. “Are you certain? I can put it off very nicely.”

“I’m sure you can,” he agreed. “I’ve seen you. Always a lady, but like Mother, you could freeze anyone at twenty paces if they took liberties.”

She smiled and lowered her eyes.

“If he comes now,” he went on, wishing he were able to lean over and touch her hand, “then I can be very brief, and get away with it!”

She looked up with a flash of understanding. “You don’t like to talk about it, do you? Archie doesn’t, either.” There was loneliness in that, knowing she was being excluded. She stood up. “Do you think you can go to sleep now? I’ll stay if you like.”

That was just what she must have said to her children time and time again, after a bad dream. He felt so very much at home now, as if he were back in the past: the house, Hannah, the books and habits, the best from childhood—all these were familiar and comfortable with use. There were ways in which they were threads that held the core of life together. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

She went out, leaving the door ajar, in case he should want her. He felt like a child, and at least for a short while, just as safe. Surprisingly, he did fall asleep shortly after.

CHAPTER TWO

Hannah remained at home the following day until the squire had visited in the morning. He seemed to be as relieved as Joseph was that he could just utter a few hearty platitudes and consider his duty done.

After he left, Hannah ascertained Mrs. Appleton was downstairs and would make lunch for Joseph. She herself needed to go into Cambridge and see the bank manager, and perform one or two other necessary errands.

She caught the train in the village and was there in half an hour. The city did not look so different to her—the change had been gradual—but she still noticed the absence of young men. There were a few errand boys, junior clerks, and delivery men, but in streets once crowded with the cheerful conversations of the young with the world of knowledge before them, there were hardly any students. She could not bear to think of how many of them were already dead in France, and how many more would be.

She went into the bank and asked to speak to the manager. She liked Mr. Atherton. He was very capable and she always left reassured.

After a few minutes, a smart young woman in a plain, dark blue suit came out of the side door. The blouse was crisp and tailored, and the skirt was rather full and reached only to the middle of her calf. No doubt the jacket would be long, and equally fashionable. She had also cut her hair short. She looked about Hannah’s age.

“Good morning, Mrs. MacAllister,” she said with a slight smile. “My name is Mae Darnley. How can I help you?” She offered a cool, lean hand, without any rings.

The gesture struck Hannah as odd, but she nonetheless shook the woman’s hand because it would have been rude not to. “I would like to speak to Mr. Atherton, please.” She had already said as much to the original clerk.