Friendship's Bond (4 page)

Oblivious to the hiss and clatter of the kettle, Ann walked again through wide streets flanked by buildings fighting to outdo each other in architectural splendour.

How long had she walked? Time had ceased to exist, the beauty and grandeur of the city sweeping everything else from her mind until the bells of the many churches and cathedrals filled the air with a symphony of music.

The medley of chimes had released her from the narcotic pull of her surroundings but where was she? Despite the strangeness of the lettering she managed to read a sign placed high on a wall. ‘Suvorova’. She had seen that word before. Think! She had urged her brain to function but it was not until her eyes lighted on the gigantic statue of a classical warrior complete with plumed helmet, raised sword and shield that recognition dawned. The statue was a dedication to the celebrated General Suvorov of whom she had read in those many hours spent alone in the house.

Suvorova Square. Relief had rushed in a warm flood along her veins. Those same books had told her this was where she would find the British embassy. She had caught her breath at sight of a building entirely occupying the further side. She had also read of this and now she was looking at it, the Saltykov Palace. She had been in no way prepared for what greeted her, for the sheer resplendence of such a vision in stone.

Confident in their own cream-white beauty, a façade of graceful arches topped with enormous windows each intersecting with elegant semi-circular double columns of the same white stone stared majestically back at her.

How different to the Angliskaya Embankment where people like her father, the porters, postal workers, clerks and lower administrative staff in the employ of the embassy were housed. No doubt those buildings too had once been the elegant homes of nobility but being subdivided as they now were had robbed them of that former glory.

It had taken several moments to gather courage enough to approach and a few more to tug that heavy iron bell pull. Beyond an ornate railing the door of a small gatehouse had opened.

‘Them pots don’t be like to wash theirselves! Be you a goin’ to stand maudlin’ all day, wench?’

‘What!’ Ann frowned.

‘I says be you goin’ to stand all day admirin’ o’ that there kettle!’

Ann struggled with a voice which did not fit the body stepping from the doorway, a shape fading even as it spoke again.

‘There be cream pans a waitin’ to be scalded and benches to be scrubbed and they won’t bide while folks stands daydreamin’.’

Turning to find Leah and not a uniformed figure watching her, Ann blinked the last remnants of mist from her mind. ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ she said as she reached for the kettle and hurried with it into the scullery, ‘I was miles away.’

Leah hooked her own large pan of water to the iron trivet then swung it above the fire, saying as she returned to the scullery, ‘We all gets carried away betimes wench, me no less than many, but it don’t do to go a wanderin’ the lanes o’ memory when reaching forra boilin’ kettle.’

Leah was right of course. When the older woman had gone from the room Ann bent to the task in hand. But how did you prevent the memories returning? How did you banish words and pictures that had you long for sleep which came only with the dawn?

Leah was as well-meaning as she was kind. She had taught Ann many things since bringing her to this house, had answered many questions, but even she could not answer that one.

How was it a young woman and a lad had managed to travel so far? Not that she knew the number of miles separating Russia from England. Leah looked up from yet one more cloth she was sewing to cover an increasing number of cream vats, letting her glance rest on the boy sitting at the table.

Worry rested heavy on the shoulders of the lad, that was obvious in the way he scanned the newspaper, but far from home and family as he was then it was only natural he would fret.

What of his family? Leah returned to her sewing but her mind stayed with Alec. He himself, though friendly in conversation, never made mention of parents, of brothers or sisters. Was that because of some dreadful happening that had robbed him of all his kin? An event so awful he had closed his mind against it? That was something she had seen in several men repatriated from the front, their bodily injuries only one part of the harm this dreadful war had done them, while other more terrible injuries had been done to minds so filled with horror they had withdrawn into themselves like men hiding from life.

This lad surely could not have been called up into any army, he were barely of an age to be gone from school. But then who could say what policy other nations abided by. Glancing again at the figure, tow-coloured head bent over the newspaper, Leah silently repeated the prayer said so often in the privacy of her bedroom.

Lord, may the light of Your mercy shine on all who be sufferin’, may the comfort of Your love ease grief and heartache, Your grace rest on them who seek to ease the pain of others and for the many who have been taken by this terrible war, I ask You gather them into Your loving arms as I knows You have gathered my own sons.

After she finished, Leah held her breath tight to prevent a sob, but she hid her reaction as Ann rose from the chair asking if Leah would care for a cup of tea.

‘That’d be welcome and mebbe’s Alec would like some hot milk, I brought a jug fresh from the last milkin’ and there be a spoonful or two of cocoa left in the tin.’ She smiled across at the boy carefully closing the newspaper. ‘I knows y’ be partial to a sup o’ cocoa.’

A smile had accompanied his reply but Ann had seen the hint of tears glinting in the soft light.

Ann mixed cocoa powder with sugar she knew Leah deliberately declined to take so there would be a little extra for Alec. She felt her heart twist in sympathy for the boy she had come to care for as she might a younger brother. He was hurting inside; much as he tried to mask it he was not always successful, and though many times she had hoped he would confide in her, tell her how he had come to be at Morskoy Vokzal that day, so far he had not. She had wondered if she should ask whether he and the man with him had been intending to board ship at the sea terminal only to be swept along with her in a different direction.

Ann poured hot milk into the cup and stirred the creamy brown contents. She had often hoped he would say, but tonight as so many times before she would not ask.

‘Our brave men are fighting, God bless them, are suffering grievous injuries, many of them giving their very lives to keep this country free, to ensure their loved ones can sleep safely in their beds. How many of you have known the heartbreak of that ultimate sacrifice?’

Thomas Thorpe paused, his face creasing with sympathetic pain at the broken sobs of women, the shuffling of the few men, the old, the repatriated or those who for whatever reason had been deemed ineligible for combat in this conflict with Germany; a war now involving so many countries it was fast being described as a world war. The men cleared their throats, swallowing tears the pride of manhood forbade them to shed. But the tears he wanted to see would not be shed in this chapel, although that did not mean the cause of them would not originate here. Beneath the veneer of compassion the need for revenge dripped its venom. Ann Spencer and Leah Marshall both would regret crossing Thomas Thorpe; the sorrow they would feel would long outlast any war.

He surveyed the seated congregation, allowing his voice to throb with subdued emotion.

‘How many mothers will never again hold a son in their arms, know the pleasure of his kiss against their cheek? How many fathers will never again shake the hand of the lad they reared with love and pride, that same pride filling their hearts as they watched their son march away to face the danger threatening his homeland? But danger does not exist solely on foreign shores. The ambitions of the enemy can spread far beyond those borders crossing even the shores of England.’

He could see fear mounting on the faces of women suddenly clutching children to them, men frowning in bewilderment. This was not going to prove difficult.

‘We have all heard of spies,’ he went on, ‘of people living in our towns and cities, folk that are liked and trusted yet who in truth serve the enemy by passing on to them knowledge of defence measures as well as vital information regarding places of production of armaments.’

‘Be you saying we ’ave such ’ere in Wednesbury?’

Thorpe shook his head at the question. ‘No.’

‘Then why be you a sayin’ it? Such talk serves to frighten women.’

‘’Old on Zeke,’ another man’s voice cut across the protest, ‘the pastor don’t be meanin’ to frighten folk.’

Pastor
. Thomas Thorpe’s blood warmed at the term. He was already recognised as leader of the congregation, the man who conducted religious service and now he was being referred to as ‘Pastor’; a few more uses of the title and talk of having a properly ordained minister would be forgotten.

‘Don’t ’e!’ Though seventy years old, Ezekial Turley’s voice rang firm round the small unadorned chapel. ‘Then what do ’e be meanin’ of!’

‘Zeke be right in what ’e be askin’, what do you mean Mr Thorpe, ain’t been no strange man not in these parts, ’ad there been we . . . well, we would ’ave noticed.’

Mister! Elation which had briefly soared hot in Thorpe’s veins tumbled to a cold hard stop.

‘So goo on,’ Ezekial Turley urged, ‘tell ’er, tell we all what be back o’ this talk o’ spies? What be the reasonin’ when like Mary says there ain’t bin sight o’ any strange man, not hereabouts there ain’t.’

The demand, assisted by a wave of speculation fluttering among the assembly, afforded him time to mask his displeasure at being addressed as plain Mister. Thorpe looked at the woman who had called her question, a woman now clutching protectively at the arm of a lad beside her.

A woman and a lad! A lad appearing to be much of an age as the one who had shared Chapel House!

A lad of much the same age.
He must remember to thank heaven for its bounty.

‘Mrs Slater . . . Mary.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘It was not my wish to cause concern but simply to remind us all of the need for vigilance. We have to remember the enemy may not always act as we would expect.’

‘Meanin’ what?’

The question again put by Ezekial gave further assistance to the plan formulating in his mind. Thorpe kept his tone placatory.

‘You have all heard Mary and Ezekial attest to the fact that no strange man has been seen in this area, and I agree with them . . .’

‘So why all this hoo-ha?’

‘You says y’self you agrees wi’ Zeke an’ Mary, that there be no cause for we to go a’ worryin’. So why talk o’ spies if there don’t be none?’

A rumble of questions was beginning to rise on all sides, questions he quickly dismissed as a fuss over nothing.

Evening service had ended some minutes since and the women especially would be wanting to be home putting their youngsters to bed. He had to speak now for once the congregation was on its feet the advantage would be lost. Thorpe floundered, then a sudden loudly called query rekindled his determination.

‘Wait!’ The ringing voice made every head turn in its direction. ‘Wait, all o’ you. Mr Thorpe don’t mek no habit o’ sayin’ what don’t need the tellin’ an’ for meself I says we should listen, let ’im put his point, an’ again for meself,’ a man’s glance swivelled to fasten on the figure still standing in the plainly wrought pulpit, ‘I asks you, Mr Thorpe, to explain what were meant by the enemy not always actin’ as we would expect?’

The chance might never come again! Thanking his good fortune Thorpe grasped the moment.

‘Friends . . .’

He lifted both arms in what he hoped would prove a calming gesture as he repeated the call and when the hubbub subsided lowered his hands to his sides, a brief diplomatic smile flitting across his narrow features.

‘Friends, we are all weary of war, weary from the pain and heartache it brings, but we must not let weariness close our eyes to what I can only call a danger from within. I said a moment ago the enemy may not always act as we would expect.’

He paused as silence affirmed his audience’s attention.

‘I said also I was in agreement with those of you claiming no strange man has been seen here in Wednesbury, but seeing no threat we look for none and that complacency is our country’s inner danger. The enemy is aware we would suspect a man.’

A deep frown furrowed his brow as if the next words were a bitterness on his tongue. His head swung slowly side to side as he breathed deeply before saying almost to himself, ‘But a woman, a woman perhaps with a youngster, that would raise no question.’

Saying God bless to each of the people, watching them shuffle into the darkness of night, Thomas Thorpe congratulated himself. He had left off at just the right moment. He had made no specific accusation; leaving people to dwell on what he had said would prove the wiser way. Mothers with sons at the front, wives who feared every waking moment might bring news of their own man’s sacrifice, they were the means by which the seed he had planted would be nourished.

He locked the door of the chapel, slipping the key into a pocket of his coat. They would talk, those women, in the market place, in the home, in their place of work, talk over what had been said in the chapel, discuss the possibilities Thomas Thorpe had put forward. If a woman with a child was a spy in the pay of the enemy, she would add to the danger their own sons and husbands were in; and their attention would turn to the one newcomer to their midst with only one result. Ann Spencer and the lad along with her would be driven from the town.