Regret to Inform You... (36 page)

‘Let me read the letter first.' He slid his finger along the top, opening the letter which the Reverend Charlton Woods had written. It described how Fred was ill, but contained the words that Fred had spoken: of how he had loved caring for the army horses and of the love he wanted passed on to his family and friends; they were words written with a great tenderness. Liz shuddered at the mention of her own mother, as Fred had been unaware that his grandmother had died. The letter ended:
Mrs Smith, your son is very ill and, sadly, he may not recover. I will come back to this field hospital in a few days to see how he is and will write again with any further news. Please know that we have talked together and Fred is proud of all that he has done in serving his country in this dreadful war. He is, indeed, a fine young man and you should be very proud of him.

Arthur found it hard to read the words and had an alarming view of what was to follow. Tears were running down Liz's face, hardly less with the other three. He opened the telegram and read:

Regret to inform you of the death from a disease of Private F. Smith, 2nd Battalion Suffolk Regiment at 29 Field Hospital
on
29th April. I express the sympathy and respect of the Army Council.

‘Oh Fred, darling Fred, God bless you.' The shocking cry from Liz was so personal, yet Arthur had heard the same cry from Eliza and Sparky Carey, from Ruby Rowe, from young Robert Bacon's father and others. He knew it would be repeated. Liz had asked for God's blessing on Fred, but Arthur had to wonder where God was just now.

‘And I haven't seen him since he was a baby. I so wanted to,' sobbed Mary. ‘Now mother and Fred are both dead. They could never say goodbye to each other.'

Arthur and Eleanor could only quietly sit by as the sisters shared their terrible family sadness. ‘What does it mean, disease?' asked Liz.

‘I don't know. But there are so many illnesses caught from being in the trenches. I doubt if we shall ever know, but maybe you will learn more in due course,' Arthur, hand on Liz's shoulder, said.

Liz cuffed away her tears and looked at Arthur. ‘Vicar, when mother died you was with us. You said some words; I think they was a psalm and then we all said the Lord's Prayer. Can we do the same now? Somehow that will help draw Fred and mother together, us too.'

‘Of course.' Heads were bowed and Arthur remembered the evening when old Mrs Smith had died. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…' There, in that office overlooking the weapons of war, a war that had killed a beloved son, they joined in the Lord's Prayer. As he said the much-loved words, he did feel a little of God's presence.

It was Eleanor who spoke next as she looked at Liz. ‘Fred was a fine and caring person. We all loved him and will miss him, but you should be very proud of him. Remember, it was your strength and your love that made him such a fine person. Never forget that.'

After
a few minutes, Arthur told her of Jack Mansfield's offer to arrange for her a car to take them back to Rusfield. ‘That is very kind of Mr Mansfield. Please thank him, but Mary and I will stay here. A lot of the ladies working here have lost sons and husbands, so many of us have the same things to share. Thank you for coming to see me, that's been wonderfully kind, in a few days we shall come home to Rusfield.' Mary nodded; she would do whatever her sister wanted.

When Eleanor and Arthur had got back to the vicarage from the National Filling Factory, they shared an unusually quiet evening with their individual thoughts. Eleanor was a little puzzled: Liz and her sister Mary shared the same family name: Smith. She knew Mary had never married so why had Liz kept her maiden name? Maybe she had just wanted to retain her maiden name when Fred was born; not uncommon in Rusfield when an unmarried woman had given birth. She knew so little of Liz's past and feared for her future. Arthur broke into her thoughts as he quietly stood up and then spoke to her with much love: ‘Eleanor, it has been a dreadful day for Liz, but one thing I want to say. I was amazed at the work being done at that factory by women, young and old. I saw the same thing at the military hospital we visited a few weeks ago. And you are right; women are at least equal to men, sometimes more than equal.' He added with a slight smile, ‘I'm not going to become an angry suffragette when the war is over, but I will do what I can to get them voting rights.' Eleanor kissed him.

That night in bed, Eleanor and Arthur simply clung to each other.

A week later Liz and Mary Smith made the journey back to Rusfield. Mr Glover said they could return to the factory whenever they wanted. When Liz opened the front door she immediately saw a letter which Peter had delivered the
previous
day. A thought flashed through her mind: perhaps there had been a mistake and it was someone else who had died. She and Mary quickly walked to Olivia Atkins. After a consoling and lingering embrace, Liz asked Olivia to read the letter. It was from Major Richard Carpenter of the 8
^th
Dragoon Guards. It read:

I deeply regret to have learnt that your son Pte. F. Smith, No. 204491 of the 2nd Battalion Suffolk Regiment died on the night of the 29th instant. He had been ill for some days with an unknown illness, but did not suffer.

His service to the army was of major importance and I and all my men had the highest regard for him. After showing great bravery at the front, I was pleased that he joined my team where he worked tirelessly with army horses, enabling a vital part of the war effort to be carried out. He was hardworking, cheerful and a good colleague. I had the privilege of many conversations with him especially about his abiding love of horses and his happy life in your village.

I and all the staff here and his colleagues deeply sympathise with you in your loss.

Your son always did his duty and has now given his life for his country. We all honour him, and I trust you will feel some consolation in remembering this. I know that many attended his burial; the place marked with a simple cross bearing his name. I am sure his effects will reach you via the Base in due course.

In true sympathy.

F
ORTY-THREE

August 1916

For months Ruby had watched the buzzard, remembering the time Willy had pointed out the tree four years earlier; this year she had seen a buzzard showing itself on a high branch in April. Four days later she spotted its nest and from then on she saw the buzzard most mornings; Willy would have been able to tell her when it laid its eggs. A further three weeks on, she had observed two buzzards and heard a strange yelping noise as one flew to join the other. She wondered if the cry meant “I'm coming” or was it the one on the nest saying “welcome”? And then, on one glorious summer morning, she could hardly believe her eyes when she saw two young buzzards perched on the branch near the nest.

So much to tell Willy and now he was coming home. It was all so exciting after all the sadness that had gone before. She knew how everyone had been saddened by the news of Fred Smith's death; she had loved him. She had liked him when they had walked home together after the party four years earlier and then felt a sense of wonder as that feeling had grown into love. Now as she lay in bed, she knew that Fred's bed next door would remain empty; each time she walked past the forge she imagined him tending the horses. She had burst into tears of joy when Mrs Smith had told her that Fred had
spoken
of her in the letter home just before he died. Somehow, watching the buzzards had helped, as she knew Fred loved birds as well.

On this same early August morning, Eleanor was returning from Sidney Jones' butchers, thinking just what she might say at the meeting in the afternoon. Not that she knew the questions and she was only one of four on the answer panel, but she was pleased the Mothers' Union was going from strength to strength. The weekly gathering showed warmth and friendship with a number of women attending who, like Eleanor, did not have children. Eleanor tried to look forward to the meeting, although she would have preferred to stay at home; her headache still troubled her.

As she approached the vicarage she waved to Peter. ‘I've delivered your letters, Mrs. Windle,' adding with a smile, ‘no exciting stamps on either of them.' Eleanor thanked him and opening the door saw the letters on the hall floor: one for Arthur bearing the official Canchester Cathedral crest and, addressed to both of them, a letter from Arthur's mother. Eleanor admired how Charlotte Windle always wrote in such positive fashion; her lively news with attendances at her branch of the Mothers' Union, art classes and time with friends.

Eleanor thought back to the desperate times the previous year when she had thought Arthur's mother might never be able to escape from the terrible deceit of her husband. She had stayed in Rusfield for over a month, becoming immersed in helping to prepare parcels for the Rusfield men, attending church services and choir practices and enjoying afternoon tea with several kind villagers. She had become particular close to Olivia Atkins and they spent time together with their interest in painting: Olivia with her children's drawings and she with still-life sketches.

But as the village moved into the second half of May, Charlotte Windle announced that it was time she returned home. That afternoon Eleanor, Arthur and Charlotte walked
the
four miles to Wensfield to Eleanor's parents whom she had met on several previous occasions. Charlotte had found she had much in common with Charles and Georgina Brown, especially a love of books. The next day Arthur and his mother travelled to Dorset with Arthur staying for three days to make sure his mother was settled in. As Eleanor put the letter down, she marvelled at how well the widow was coping. She heard the front door opening and called out to Arthur, ‘I'm in the kitchen. You're just in time for a cup of tea.'

‘How are you feeling, my love? Is the head still hurting?' Eleanor gave her gentle smile.

‘I have something for you,' smiled Arthur, putting a pretty decorated tin on the table. ‘Some scones which Violet Rushton has baked and wants us to try. Dare I hope we might have one with our cup of tea?' he asked. ‘Incidentally, good news from Violet who told me that the next batch of parcels is ready to go off. Of course, the parcels are smaller now but, as we agreed, it's showing the men we think about them, although I'm sure what is received is very welcome. She also mentioned that she and Robert visited Richford House hospital yesterday. Apparently a number of men have arrived from somewhere near Albert, some in a parlous state.' He paused for a moment. ‘Over one hundred of our men now away, it doesn't seem possible.'

‘And nine that will never return,' added Eleanor. A slight drop of her shoulders and the sadness on her beautiful face slowly turned into a smile, albeit a slightly forced one. ‘Here's your tea, Arthur, and one of Violet's scones. They look delicious. Oh, and there's a very happy letter from your mother.' She sipped her tea and enjoyed the unexpected scone while Arthur read the letter.

‘Well, mother seems to be getting on very well. We can look forward to going down to see her next month for a few days, which will be lovely. And, to change subjects for a moment, it's not only the parcels for the troops that are going well. I met
Robert
round at Violet's shop and he said several people had given over parts of their garden to growing vegetables.'

‘Indeed,' interjected Eleanor, ‘Eliza told me that Sammy had persuaded Sparky to give up part of his garden to growing beans and peas, something he'd never done before.'

‘And Sparky and Eliza were not alone in doing just that. Robert said he and Sammy are sure the idea will work as long as it means vegetables are cheaper.'

As he finished talking, Arthur ran a kitchen knife along the seam of the larger envelope and pulled out some folded papers. With a smile which Eleanor knew just how to interpret he said, ‘Eleanor this is from an old friend of yours, the Very Reverend Edgar Hartley Williamson, Dean of Canchester Cathedral. He says that as the bishop is ill it is his duty to make us, I think he means all the priests in the diocese, aware of certain truths. You might like to read it while I move on to this much longer one.'

Eleanor answered in similar vein: ‘I cannot wait to read what he has written. He appears to take every opportunity to thrust his own ideas forward.' As Arthur opened out the two large sheets of paper she read:
The deputy assistant chaplain to the forces has written asking for support in his efforts to counteract the temptations of vice and intemperance presented to soldiers when they are stationed in different parts of this and other countries.
Having read through this brief document she realised that it was a wise and well-intentioned plea, but just how should Arthur go about pursuing it? Was it to be the gist of a sermon, should he mention it to every man in the forces when home on leave; indeed, given the awfulness of being at war, how much a priority should this be?

She took another scone, cut it in half and placed a piece on Arthur's plate. She realised how absorbed Arthur was in the longer document. Finally, he put it down: ‘Oh, thank you, how well Violet bakes. I would simply say that this second document is interesting.' He passed it to Eleanor.

The
document was entitled:
Two reasons for continuing the war.

There are still, we find, some persons who do not understand about the war. Perhaps the following remarks may help them.

We are fighting for honour and right and truth: to give in now would be disgraceful after having promised to defend our friends.

It would also be the greatest foolishness. We have might as well as right on our side, as the following facts show in round numbers:

For the right Population