Remembrance Day (22 page)

What was he hoping for from her reply? At best nothing but the usual gossip, a list of society weddings, may be a few pleasantries and small talk. What lay between them now was an ocean of mistrust, disappointment and frustration.

If only Angus hadn’t been such a rash fool, but after nearly three years Guy still keenly felt the loss of that other half of himself. But he only had to look in a mirror to know what his brother might have looked like now, seasoned by war and weariness.

Guy knew he’d toughened up himself, drunk too much, made use of dubious women who prowled the docks. They gave him a quick release from the tension that never went away. How long could he keep up this crisscrossing of oceans? Sometimes he had to force his muscles to crank into gear and give him the impetus to keep going.

The thought of a desk job didn’t appeal—never had—not after the trenches and the convoys. He needed an outdoor life. He rather fancied himself as a cowboy out west riding the range…Open the damn thing, he scolded himself. But he needed another glass for courage before he did. He signalled to the barman.

Waterloo House.

My dear boy,

At last you write to me with news. I can scarcely believe such adventures. I hope you are not tiring yourself out too much. Don’t punish your body.

As for the request for information about Frank Bartley, I will leave it to Angus’s letter to put you in the picture. He wrote to me shortly before his death, telling me about the sad affair. Apparently you were called on for a character testimony, but Angus, being unaware of its importance, and forgetting that the Bartley boy once saved his life, let the matter slide until it was too late. The soldier’s own poor field service record went against him in the end. So don’t blame your brother for his ignorance and forgetfulness, as I did. I fear it may have contributed to his own reckless pursuit of some desperate quest for glory, which ultimately led to his death.

Information is scarce on the trial of the Bartley boy. These things are not for public consumption, but there have been rumblings in the press lately about the execution of soldiers at the front and inquiries are to be held.

Be that as it may, I will do my utmost to see that his name is cut into the monument. If and when it
is ever erected. It is too early yet for any major decision. The grief of us who are bereaved is too raw for any enthusiasm for memorials. Doubtless they will follow in good time.

I hope you will continue to correspond with me, if only occasionally. A mother never means to hurt her offspring, but when she does she must expect the hand that fed to be bitten hard and must bear the pain.

Your ever loving

Mother

Guy read it over again, feeling sick, angry and sad at the same time. He slipped the letter into his inside pocket and to his surprise pulled out another one. It was addressed to Izaak Yoder. It was Zack’s last letter and still no address written on it, as he had promised.

Those poor folks would think their son had died unrepentant. Guy slumped back and ordered another whisky. He was exhausted by his mother’s news. What must Selma think of him now? His family had let everyone down, his honour was besmirched and no mistake. Now he just wanted to drink himself into oblivion, knowing tomorrow he must start another journey. At least there was one honourable thing he could still do.

As the ship made its way into New York harbour, Selma and Lisa strained to see the great skyline coming into view.

‘Pinch me!’ Lisa screamed. ‘Am I dreaming? Look, the Statue of Liberty. It’s huge, and that’s Ellis Island where the steerage passengers must pass through.’

‘Do we have to go there too?’ Selma shivered, seeing the austere buildings in the middle of the bay.

‘No, we’ve done ours, signed all those papers; where we came from, where we are going and our new address. We’ll just dock and go through customs.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Didn’t you read the pamphlet? Honestly, Selma, or should I call you Selima? I didn’t know that was your real name.’

‘Did they mind you being a Elise Grunwald?’ Selma asked, her eyes fixed on the harbour coming into view.

‘No one batted an eyelid. My papers are in order. Look…there’s where we dock, do you think my cousins are waiting? I’ve only got an old photograph of Heinz and Sarah. I hope they come. There’s so much I want to see before we catch the train west.’

Selma was feeling queasy at the thought of meeting strangers. There was no one in this whole country she knew, no relatives. Suddenly she felt very alone. Her job was to protect the professor’s daughter, and here she was feeling that Lisa was looking after
her.
They had had such fun on the ship, dining, playing games, parading on deck—people watching, Lisa called it—making up stories about the other passengers: who was eloping, who was going to start a farm, who was running away with a bag full of banknotes.

They had lived in tiers on the ship and they were in the middle tier, comfortable in their cabin. Selma knew there were hundreds living rough down below in steerage; a different world altogether, just as their deck was separated from the first class passengers above. Now rich or poor, they’d all arrived safely, and the real adventure was beginning.

How could it not feel like a fresh start? The terrible war
was over and the sickness that followed it was abating. Now she must read up about New York. She didn’t want to miss a moment of life in this exciting city.

As they passed through the terminal, Selma stared at the uniforms and heard loud voices speaking in a strange twang. She saw black-skinned porters with big eyes and flashing teeth. Everything was so brash, loud and large. You could fit two Sharlands into the dockside alone.

Hold your head up high and look confident, even if you don’t feel it, she urged herself. This is your job so do it as best you can. Look for those faces in the crowd. Lisa was clinging on to her arm. ‘Can you see them?’ she croaked. ‘I can’t…Oh, what are we going to do?’

Selma’sYorkshire grit took over.‘Wait and see who comes to us,’ she said, her eyes searching a sea of faces. Then she saw a placard held high: ‘Grunwald’. ‘Look over there. Wave and smile, Lisa. They’ve come for you.’

Suddenly a young man with a moustache and bowler hat and a pretty young woman in a fur coat and cloth hat emerged from the crowd.

‘Elise, is that you? I’m Sarah, your cousin, and this is my husband, Heinz Berger. Welcome to New York!’ They rattled forth in German and then in English, ‘And you must be Miss Bartley. Welcome. Come, we’ve got a taxi. You must be tired and hungry.’

‘Where is Uncle Cornelius?’ Lisa asked.

‘Business, I’m afraid, but your aunt Pearl has written to say everything is prepared for you over there. We thought you’d like a few days here to see the sights and go shopping.’

‘Spiffing,’ Lisa smiled. ‘Come on, Selima, let’s get going. Where do we start?’

In the days that followed Selma hardly had time to draw
breath as Sarah marched them all over the city, through Central Park, down to the great art museums, up and down Madison and Fifth Avenues to window-shop and browse around the great department stores. It made the Bradford shops seem like village stalls. The girls were dwarfed by the tall, grey buildings towering above them; skyscrapers, they called them. How on earth could anyone clean all those windows? They were treated to a cinema show in Times Square where Lillian Gish starred in a dramatic tale of a country girl seduced by a wicked man. It was so melodramatic Selma cried with relief when it all ended happily.

Each night Sarah’s cook placed meals on the table such as pasta and cooked meats she’d never experienced before, spicy hot chillies, mustards and sweet relishes, spaghetti like wriggling worms with meat sauces and wonderful dark pop that tasted sweet and fizzy.

They lived in a terrace of tall brown houses with steps leading from the pavement that they called sidewalks, and dustbins they called garbage cans. The streets were full of people rushing to offices and shops in short skirts. It was a different world, and this was only the beginning. Soon they would go on a steam train taking them right across the country; a week on a train to another big city where Lisa would be meeting her father’s brother, and starting a new life out West. That’s when Selma’s own journey would end.

It would be time for her to turn back or stay on. But what was she going to do out there alone? Her future was uncertain, but one thing was sure: this was a land for young people, a land where no one cared who you were or where you came from, a land of opportunity. Surely there was a place for her in such an amazing country.

Guy drank his way down the eastern seaboard of America from Boston through to New York and New Jersey, drifting further south in a haze of bourbon and beer. He saw it as a sort of vacation from everything to do with war, his brother’s death, his English life, but his accent always betrayed his roots and drew attention.

In his head he was on a mission to find the Yoders of Pennsylvania and give them the letter he’d kept so long. But he was finding Pennsylvania was a large state, and Yoder was a common name in places.

His only clue was that Zack had said they were plain folk, which in his ignorance he’d thought meant simple country people. Then he discovered that this meant they belonged to some religious group. They were Puritans of German origin, who lived in districts together separated by their dress, customs, language and religion from the rest of the people. But, to add to this confusion, there were many such groups all over the state.

For weeks on end, he hitched rides on trucks and wagons, jumping on rail trucks, living rough by the road, dossing around but always asking if there were plain folk in this township.

As weeks turned into months his clothes became filthy, his beard matted and his scalp scratched until even the fleas deserted him. It reminded him of life in the trenches, cold, hungry, living by his wits, working a day here or there just to fuel his throat. He knew he was getting weaker, and he must find a settled place before winter set in. He had walked inland from New Jersey, through Flemington and on towards the Delaware River, over covered bridges. To the south of him was the great city of Philadelphia. If all else failed, he could head there, clean up, sign on again.
But he had no more stomach for seafaring. That part of his life was over.

He couldn’t believe he’d reached this level, bogtrotting, as they used to say in Yorkshire, cadging soup and hot drinks in church crypts and hostels with other down-and-out hobos. It was as if his life didn’t matter any more. Angus was dead, his family was broken, all that mattered was the next meal, the next drink. Everything of value he possessed was flogged for a few dollars. There was just no point any more, except for the crumpled letter in his pocket. If he could deliver this to its rightful owner then he’d have completed one act of decency in this wasted life. After that he’d take his chance.

He hadn’t bothered to reply to his mother or Dr Mac. That part of his life was over, never to return. He felt nothing but itching, chill and a tight chest. All the walking had firmed his leg muscles, but his poor eating had weakened him and he guessed one bad bout of bronchitis would finish him off.

Perhaps he’d end up in some ditch, stiff and cold like the boys in no man’s land, their grinning white skulls that haunted his dreams and the rats the size of cats feasting on the rich pickings of the Flanders mud. But not before he found Izaak Yoder.

He did have one piece of luck in a place near Quakertown. He’d gone there because of the name. Even he knew Quakers were plain livers, but no one knew the Yoder family there. A woman in the queue keeping downwind of him suggested he might go further out into a township towards Bethlehem.

‘There are plain folk out there, with many farms and churches. You might find who you are looking for around those parts,’ she offered. ‘They keep themselves to themselves
but are good people. May God bless you on your search,’ she nodded. It was the first kind word spoken to him for weeks. ‘How does a gentle-spoken English boy come to be brought so low? You don’t speak like no bum to me.’ She pushed a quarter in his hand.

He nodded, not wanting to cry at her compassion. ‘I’m not sure, ma’am. But thank you kindly.’

It was too much temptation not to fill his guts with whisky before he set off, but he resisted. He fixed his eyes on the sight of the autumn leaves in the trees ahead, all those gold, crimsons, burnt ochres. It was fine country with white limestone houses that reminded him of Sharland stone. He walked on, hitching a lift towards the wide open farmlands where the red painted Dutch barns dotted the landscape, standing out against the rolling gentle hills.

Everywhere he stopped he asked if Izaak Yoder had a farmstead, but no one knew, until his legs were aching, his back seared with pain and he knew he could go no further.

He stopped at an inn by some crossroads and was sent to the back door and given a cup of soup.

‘You’ll find the Mennonites over the hill. Yoders aplenty up there, all related. Maybe you’ll strike lucky at one of them before sundown, but they ain’t folks like us. No drinking…no dancing, no fancy clothes, no nothing but praying and hard work, and they don’t put up no fight neither. It’s against their faith. If they don’t know yer folks someone else will. They sit tight together, them and the Amish. Now they’re real strict, but they’re over Lancaster County way. You could try there too.’

Feeling exhausted, Guy walked down that lone road. He could barely breathe and knew he’d have to stop and find shelter.

He turned off the first track that wound through a copse of pines. He heard a rustling in the undergrowth. Was it deer, turkey or wild dogs? The silence was broken only by the call of something on the hill. There were no lights to guide him, just a total exhaustion as he gathered up dried leaves to make himself a bed, breaking a few branches to cover him. It was still warm and there was a stream gurgling somewhere close by. He was so doggone whacked, all he wanted to do was lie down and never get up again. To be so close and yet so far. If he pegged out someone would find his coat and a letter in his pocket and pass it on. Then this journey and his passing would not have been in vain. Guy sighed. So this is it, the long sleep. Better here than in the bottom of a shell hole at the mercy of the giant rats. He lay back and knew no more.