Remembrance Day (23 page)

Hester woke from one of her nightmares with a bad feeling in her chest. Was it Guy in danger? Who else was there left to worry about? Was it that awful committee meeting that had caused such a storm in the village the night before when she had said her piece, lost her temper over their shillyshallying about Frank Bartley’s name? She had woken in such a sweat and panic. Something was wrong!

‘If you think I’m contributing to a monument that honours only those you think suitable, you’ve another think coming.’ She recalled every word. ‘This debate has gone on long enough and if we cannot agree on a solution, I suggest we reconvene at a later date when we’ve all thought about the proposal carefully.

‘Mrs Bartley lost two sons. I lost one, as have most people here. We do not know all the circumstances of Frank Bartley’s execution, but certain facts are known. Many people in this country are not happy that some of our men met this fate at the hands of their own army. There have been enquiries in Parliament, and until this issue is resolved I think we should wait before condemning this young man to oblivion. I have a son, retired on medical grounds; he should also be on the muster roll of honour. I don’t think
this is the time or moment to make decisions without all the facts to hand.’

‘But Bankwell and Sowerthwaite have plans for their crosses; it’s about time we got ours in shape too. It’s a disgrace to all those families to have nothing to look at when Armistice Day comes round,’ said the treasurer.

‘Where are the memorials to Waterloo or Balaclava or Agincourt? It didn’t make their sacrifice any the less,’ she argued. ‘If we put on the names we put on all the names, I say, not a chosen few. There will be no plaque in St Wilfred’s without the say-so of the patrons. The chapel can do as it likes. It’s the public one in the street that matters. Where is the right place to set it? What is the most dignified design? How much can we raise?’

‘Sharland School is putting up wrought-iron gates in memory of its lost boys, and I’ve heard that they plan to put a bridge over the River Ribble near Settle. Why do we have to do something like everyone else?’ asked Ebenezer Best. ‘I fear, Lady Hester, your protests keep putting our plans in jeopardy. People are impatient to honour Remembrance Day.’

‘So you keep saying, but I say, if they want a two-minute silence, they can keep it in their own houses or go to Sowerthwaite for a ceremony. We either agree or disagree, but don’t go half-cock at this project. Better to wait until we are unanimous on the matter.’

Everyone was muttering at her remarks. She was getting so weary of the same old arguments, well aware she was holding up the show with her protests. She was sick of the whole remembrance sentimentality. Why did they need a public statue?

As she lay in bed, thinking it all out, she knew where that anger was coming from: from guilt and shame, fear
and regret. The longer she could make them wait the longer she could avoid the constant reminder of her own family’s part in the Bartley affair.

Oh, Guy, where are you? Why didn’t you write back? What has become of you? Why do I feel you are in need of my prayers? Oh, son, don’t waste your life because of all this mess. Find peace and happiness for yourself. Don’t give up on life while you have breath in your body.

She was crying again, stupid tears of self-pity. Then another voice boomed in her ear.

‘Get a hold of yourself, woman,’ she could hear Charles ordering. ‘Do your duty. Stop whining over what is lost to you. Just battle on with it!’

Guy blinked, aware that someone was standing over him. It was a boy, barefoot, in dirty denim overalls and shirt, staring at him.

‘Englisher?’ he said. His dog was standing guard, eyeing Guy with interest. He nodded. How could he tell that without him speaking a word?

‘
Kommen sie hier
…’ the boy pointed to the track. He was speaking some sort of German.

‘
Danke, Kamerad
,’ Guy replied, not knowing where he was being led but too damp and stiff to care. It was almost dark.

The boy took him down the track, the dog sniffing his heels as he opened the side door of a wooden barn. ‘You sleep…’ There was a bunch of straw in the corner and a horse blanket.Then he pointed to Guy’s pockets:‘Lucifer…Lucifer.’ He wanted matches and Guy ferreted down his pockets to find the last of his strikes.

‘Give, please. No lights, no fire,’ said the boy. So Guy handed them over.

‘
Danke
…thank you…Yoder?’ he asked.

The boy shook his head. ‘Clemmer. You sleep here. My father will come.’ He closed the door and Guy sat down, not sure what to do next.

A lantern appeared and a man with a full beard and straw hat looked down on him. ‘English, you want to rest?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Guy replied, feeling dirty, smelling to high heaven. ‘I have to find Izaak Yoder. I have a letter.’ He produced it from his pocket, waving it.

‘That can wait. You look sick man to me,’ he replied in slow broken English, and he felt Guy’s forehead. ‘You have fever…Here,drink and rest.You will go nowhere…sleep. In the morning my wife will see to…a wash…food.’

Guy had no energy to argue, overwhelmed by the kindness of a hay barn and a bowl of hot soup with rough bread. ‘You are German?’ he asked.

‘No, we be American Mennonites. We live apart and speak the old tongue but English we can understand. You have a name for me?’

‘Charles West, from England. I was a soldier. Now I am nothing.’

‘Before God, we are all someone. You have travelled a long way to find us?’

‘I have a letter for Izaak Yoder. It is important.’

‘As I said, it can wait for tomorrow. God give you rest and peace,’ said the man as he closed the door. Guy curled up under the blanket, snug and warm.

In the morning, he rose shaking for want of a drink, but strangely rested. Where was he? Somewhere warm and dry and alive, off the beaten track, he remembered with a smile.

The boy brought in a bowl of hot water and a towel and a bit of a soap. ‘For you,’ he said.

Guy smiled again. ‘Thank you. And how do I call you, young man?’

‘Simeon Clemmer.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Simeon Clemmer.’ The boy grinned shyly.

‘You come to the house and the kitchen to eat.’

Guy nodded, touched by this hospitality but unnerved to be offered a seat at their table. He was not fit to be seen. ‘I need a wash first.’ He blushed as the boy looked at his rags with a direct gaze. He was ashamed of his filthy shirt, his unshaven chin, the flea bites on his arms.

Simeon indicated the soap and water, then went to check the stock at the far end of the barn while Guy had his first wash for weeks. ‘We have eggs—you are hungry?’

Guy nodded, feeling fresher for the wash, though the grime on the towel was embarrassing. How had he let himself get into this filthy state? He tried to make the best of his old uniform pants, brushing straw from them and stuffing fresh straw into the holes in his boots. How could a British officer, a Sharland School pupil, a colonel’s son, have sunk so low?

He stood at the back door, smelling the breakfast cooking, suddenly ravenous. It took him back to village days, when they visited Pinkerton’s farm. I wasn’t always a tramp begging at back doors, he thought.

A woman opened the door in a long grey dress and white pinafore, her hair scraped back into a tight bun caught in a cap that tied under her chin.

‘Mr West, come you in, sit down with us and eat.’ Simeon was already seated with a line of small children, all eyeing him with interest. Everything in the kitchen was neat: ordered shelves, clean and very spare, pegs on the walls,
wooden chairs; a simple cooking range. These were indeed plain folk.

A plate of ham and eggs was put in front of him and Simeon sat by his side, parents at either end of the table. They fell silent, bowed their heads in prayer for grace and then pounced on their ham and eggs with gusto. There was fresh milk to drink, and bread. Guy had not eaten so well in weeks.

‘You asked for Izaak Yoder, what is your business?’asked the man, Hans Clemmer.

‘I have a letter, given to me by his son. I promised I would post it but the address got mislaid. Do you know them? I’ve been searching a long time,’ Guy replied.

‘He might be known to me. Yoder is a common name amongst us.’

‘You can say that again…’ His cough broke out and his chest was tight with hope that his journey had borne fruit.

‘You have travelled far to find him?’ Hans’s wife asked.

‘From Boston.’

‘That is far. You are not in work?’ she continued

‘I was a soldier and then a sailor, but now, I don’t know.’ They had seen the state of his clothes and his shaking hands.

‘His son is well?’

Guy didn’t reply. It was not his place to tell a stranger such sad news and yet he must know more. ‘You knew him…Zacharias?’

‘We did know one of that name, but he left our fellowship many years ago. He is not one of us now.’

‘I see,’ Guy sighed. ‘That’s a pity. I had hoped—’

‘Hans, don’t torment the poor boy with what he will not understand. Mr West, when a boy disobeys the orders of our Church he is no longer part of our community. His family
must choose also to distance themselves from him or not. That is how we live by our
Ordnung
, the old order. We discipline each other in love. We are not of this world and choose to live apart, as you see. We choose to dress plain and live simply. The Bible tells us this is the right way and we must all obey.’

Guy was feeling hot again, his cheeks flushed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not well. I’d better go…I do not want to repay your kindness by bringing sickness to your door.’ The room was spinning around him.

‘Mr West, you lie down. There is no rush for your mission. Come, we will let you rest, not as an animal in a barn but as a human being who needs clean clothes, a shave and medicine. I think you have come a long way down from where you began in this life. God has brought you to our door for His purpose.’

Guy lay on the bed for days, tossing and turning, crying out to Angus, sweating; the wooden beams across the ceiling spinning round like tops over his head if he raised himself. Someone sponged his face, made him sip warm bitter tea and bathed his limbs, always in silence and always with courtesy, giving him back the dignity he had forgotten.

His old clothes hung on a peg, and bit by bit were replaced by a clean plain shirt, overalls and breeches until one day he sat up hungry, refreshed in his mind, and his chest no longer bound by steel ropes.

The children came in and watched him: twins Melinda and Mary, Simeon and little Menno. Then later a tall man with a striking beard and hat stood over him in a black frock coat.

‘Preacher Friesen has come to visit with us. We told him of your journey. He has good news.’

‘You have found my Yoders?’ Guy said.

‘On a farm not a few miles up the road. I wanted to check Izaak’s son was your Zacharias. His daughter, Rose of Sharon, and his wife, Miriam Zimmermann, confirm this. You could have wandered for years and never found them.’

Guy sank back, relieved that his mission was accomplished. ‘I have the letter…Do you wish to take it?’ He pointed to the envelope.

‘No, God brought you all this way. It is for you to put it in his hands. No doubt they will have many questions.’

‘You told him I am coming?’ Had he broken the sad news?

‘No, just to expect a visitor from afar. News travels fast in this community. We do not see many English Englishers,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘God must have plans for you. Get your strength back and take your time. He will wait for your visit with a good heart.’

Guy shook his hand, strangely comforted by these words. Plain folk they might be but they had giant hearts, bringing him back from the dead. It would do no harm to rest a while among them and find a way to repay their kindness. For the first time in years, he felt a little of his old self returning, or, at the least, a newer version of himself. Guy Cantrell was dead and buried but Charles West had only just been born.

Selma woke to the rattle of the wheels on the rail track. They had been sleeping in the train for days, travelling across the Midwest States, one by one, going ever westwards, cocooned in their little sleeping compartment, but dining in the open diner, taking in the spectacular scenery from the glass viewing chamber.

How could she describe all the wonders of this journey to her mother back home? She’d sent postcards from New York and Chicago and now she was writing to tell her all about the Greenwood family they would meet in Los Angeles.

Lisa was busy making notes and drawings of the mountain passes and plains from the window, drawing sketches in her journal, chattering about watersheds and river beds with excitement. Selma felt so privileged to have such a wonderful experience.

The more she saw of this country, the more she wondered at its wilderness and open space, the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains. Round every corner was a new vista, rivers as wide as seas, and their fellow passengers were enjoying it all as much as they were, especially the young Scotsman who kept them entertained en route in the evenings.

His name was James Barr, he was twenty-six and off to Los Angeles to find work in the picture industry. He’d been an actor in Glasgow and then in the army. He had the most lilting accent and startling copper hair and chestnut eyes.

Lisa called him their guardian angel. He played a mean game of cards and sang sad folk songs with a funny little pipe. He had latched on to them and when he found out Lisa’s uncle was Cornelius Grunwald, he seemed very impressed.

Selma felt he’d singled them out and her in particular, wanting to know all about her life in Bradford and why they were making this epic journey together.

He had been staying in New York, trying to find work in the theatre, but now was searching out west. Every evening she found she was looking forward to seeing his
handsome face, making sure her dress was pressed and her stockings straight, her hair neatly waved.

‘He’s taken a shine to you,’ Lisa teased. ‘Are you going to kiss him?’