Remembrance Day (9 page)

It was Lady Bellerby at one of their morning sewing bees who gave her an idea.

‘We’ve opened our home up for wounded officers as a temporary hospital: somewhere with country air to help them to convalesce quicker, quiet with gardens, where boys can relax and regroup. I know they are looking for suitable billets with spare rooms, and they provide the nurses and staff. To tell the truth it’s been a godsend to keep the old ship afloat. You wouldn’t have to do the nursing but just provide a suitable space…Waterloo House would be ideal, not too big and close to the station for visitors and that sort of thing. You must be rattling round like peas in a drum with just the two of you and Charles off on his jaunts with Lord Kitchener.’ Once Daphne Bellerby was in full flow there was no halting her. ‘Now isn’t he a one-man battleship, a marvellous example to us all? Cometh the hour, cometh the man…You must be so proud that Charles is by his side.’

Hester nodded, thinking that this suggestion might just help Angus to get things in perspective when he saw men far worse off than himself. He could talk army talk amongst fellow officers. Was he not in some ways as wounded as they were? It was worth taking the matter further but then came the thought of strangers roaming over Waterloo House. But, she reasoned, officers were gentleman and would honour her home, and the authorities would bring
much-needed staff to cook meals and take care of the grounds. Perhaps Daphne was right to suggest they were living in a resource that might help the war effort.

Spring in the Dales was now at its most beautiful; the lush green of the beech leaves, the pink confetti of bird cherry blossom. Nature didn’t know there was a war on and put on its annual display of hedgerow flowers, mountain poppies, woodland purple orchids, the scents of bluebells in May bringing colour, hope and renewal. How could a spirit not be lifted in such a place? The aromas from her rose garden in the summer would be another calming influence with views to lift the dullest of spirits. Even the Hart’s Head could provide some jollity. Was this the answer to her prayers? Perhaps even the peace and quiet of a humble village setting like Sharland might play its part in winning the war.

Essie was paying a rare visit to see her sister, Ruth, who lived on the outskirts of Bradford. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d made the effort to catch the train south but this was Asa’s treat to lift her flagging spirits and to celebrate her fortieth birthday. They were going to have tea in town and then go to a matinée; all Ruth’s treat, and it was such a beautiful June day when even the chimneys and mills and the dark streets shone in a midsummer glow. She was wearing her best grey frock with a black armband sewn onto the sleeve for Newton’s sake. Selma had padded out her hair in the fashion, and her best black straw was perched on the top.

But she could hardly muster any enthusiasm. She still couldn’t believe Newt wouldn’t come home again. It was as if he was still over there somewhere. How she longed to hear her son’s voice again.

Molly Forster had whispered one morning in chapel that she’d been to see a woman in Sowerthwaite who regularly communicated with the dear departed. It had given her comfort to know that her son, Cyril, was happy beyond this veil of tears. The lady described him and said he was watching over her and he’d called her mum. Molly strained to hear his voice but Martha Holbeck said only those God had chosen to be His channels could hear the words.

Essie didn’t know what to make of this. She was not sure Asa would approve, not to mention Pastor Rathbone, but Molly seemed the better for it and had started coming back to the Women’s Institute again. When women started mixing in company it was a good sign.

They’d had a talk on rearing poultry and rabbits for the pot, and demonstrations on using potatoes as a flour substitute to save the British wheat supply. Someone brought a knitting machine that could churn out balaclavas and socks like a factory and they were taking it in turns to master the technique. Then there was the lady Liberal politician whom Mrs Hunt brought along, who talked about how having the Vote would make a difference to their lives, how it was important that their voices were heard by the elected government. Essie had just wanted to shout, ‘Stop this bloody war before anyone else gets hurt!’

Everyone was talking about some big sea battle in the North Sea and a lot of ships sunk, more lives lost, but the navy had repelled the enemy at Jutland bank. She thought of all those men at the bottom of the sea and the afternoon flew by. How quickly she’d forgotten the time, what with the scones and jam tea and the tour around Ruth’s grey brick semidetached villa with its parlour and dining room, and a little kitchen with a gas cooker, and inside toilet.

Ruth and Sam lived such a contented life, with no kiddies to mess the floors or worry about. It felt a silent empty space, all neatly fenced off with not a thing out of place. Funny how Essie didn’t envy her sister her pretty home one jot. Children had not been given to them and this was what they got in their place, she reckoned.

Ruth had bought her a new blouse with pintucks in lilac cotton, and a pretty knitted cardigan ready for Selma’s birthday in August.

Sam Broadbent was busy in the mill, checking wools for quality and sorting it into grades. He was short-staffed for all he was looking prosperous. They had lost so many young men to the Forces. Already, he wondered if the trade would ever recover. Some of his German colleagues had been imprisoned for a while and were now leaving in droves—many for America, taking their skills and money with them. Bradford was busy making uniforms and cloth; another world away from Sharland: faster, slicker with trams and traffic noise and smoke, and she was longing for the train to head north, back to where she felt most at home.

It wasn’t as if Ruth made her feel like a country mouse. It was that she was invisible and uncomfortable in such a strange space.

Sam got the latest news in the
Telegraph
each day. Ruth had gone worldly with her wealth, for all she still attended chapel. There were the temptations of cinemas and theatres open every day except Sunday, public houses on every street corner, and the smell of fresh fish and chip vans. The mills towered over her, making Essie feel small and insignificant, but wherever she turned she saw the same sad faces and widows’ weeds.

They were saying their goodbyes through the carriage
windows when a man rushed into the vacant seat, waving a newspaper. ‘Have you heard? Isn’t it terrible?’ No one spoke as he waved a page in the air. ‘Lord Kitchener’s dead…blown up…at the bottom of the sea!’

The woman opposite Essie crossed herself in shock. ‘The war is lost then,’ she cried. ‘What will become of us?’

Secure in his audience, the young man began to read it aloud. ‘The known facts are that his ship struck a mine off Scotland. They abandoned ship…six hundred and fifty dead. His lordship was amongst them. It was a dark and stormy night with terrible cries heard from the lifeboats. Only a handful made it alive to the rocks. There will be an inquiry into what happened…’

This news silenced everyone as the train steamed out of the station. Essie shivered. Lord Kitchener—he that had taken her sons away from her—Lord Kitchener, the Minister for War, lost at sea. Then she remembered where she’d heard his name recently: from the lips of Lady Hester Cantrell at the last WI meeting. Wasn’t her husband one of his…?

In the drawing room of Waterloo House, a chaplain Hester had never seen before was making sympathetic noises that floated over her like smoke. A senior officer accompanying him had come up from London on the morning train to give her the details of this most terrible of tragedies.

Angus sat holding her hand, frozen by the shock of his father’s death but trying to ask sensible questions. Hester couldn’t speak, just nodded, observing the open and shutting lips as if in some silent dream.
This is not real. This is just some nightmare.
But the instinct of years kicked in and she received their condolences like a true officer’s wife, with dignity and courtesy, sitting ramrod straight in
her black bombazine dress that needed its beadwork repairing.

She was a widow now. Charles lay at the bottom of Scapa Flow; a sailor’s, not a soldier’s, death. How strange…Were his last thoughts of them or of panic for breath as the waters closed over his head?

‘Is there no hope of other survivors?’ she asked, knowing that lifeboats could be cast adrift many miles. She thought about the
Titanic
disaster.

‘It was a terrible night, Lady Hester. The lifeboats were smashed to pieces by heavy seas and the explosion was midship. The
Hampshire
sank in minutes. Only twelve men have survived, reaching the shore in the lifeboats. The wind and the cold took its toll. The waters round to the Brough of Birsay are treacherous.’

‘What were they doing going out on a night like that? Stupid to set off into a storm,’ Angus asked angrily.

‘You might well ask…but we only know that they were on their way to Archangel for some negotiations with the highest Russian officials. The German navy had left mines around Scapa Flow but they were undetected. It was all a terrible coincidence. Had they not turned back because of the storm…Had the weather not been so inclement…We shall never know.’

Hester didn’t want to hear any more of their commiserations. Nothing would bring her husband home again. Their life was changed for ever by this sickening news. And Guy was going into battle even as they spoke.

‘Thank you for telling me all this in person. No letter or telegram can ever convey such bad news but I would appreciate being left now to consider all this with my son.’

‘Of course, Lady Hester,’ said the chaplain. ‘There will
be a memorial service in London in due course, but we will keep you informed of any other developments, should they arise.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, rising, her knees shaking. ‘Angus will see you to the door.’ She flopped down again, suddenly exhausted by the images in her head: the crashing waves, the broken ship, the scrabble for lifeboats, the cries of the injured and the fear of the doomed men as they wrapped their cork vests over themselves in hope of a rescue. It must have been chaos. There was never any hope.

Oh, Charles, to have drowned in an undignified scramble for safety whilst trying to get Lord Kitchener into a lifeboat. They had survived the explosion, but not the savage seas.

How she needed to weep at such scenes but not a tear would fall. She just felt numb inside. Never to see him again or hear that loud booming voice…Theirs was never a romantic passion, but there was respect and friendship, a steady sort of married love. For the past years they had lived separate lives, joined mostly by concern for the boys, but she would not wish that sort of death on anyone. Just when they were looking forward to a more settled way of life in retirement, along came war, and now this.

‘Oh, Charles,’ that was all she kept repeating. His voice rang in her ears and she shut her eyes and saw him resplendent in his dress uniform. His tall elegant figure with those long legs, ‘Give ’em hell’ Cantrell, poor, poor Charles, food for the fishes at the bottom of the sea.

Stop this! Hester drew herself together into an effort to get out of the room. There was only one place of consolation for her and that was the walled garden, where the first
of the June roses was already opening its buds in the sunshine.

It would be good for just the two of them to have a few hours to themselves before the news drifted through the village and all the formal acts of mourning would begin, a few hours to sit in peace and look out over the Ridge. ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills: from whence cometh my help.’

Just to feast on the fresh green of the fells was soothing and with it came a relief of sorts.
I am now as everyone else, a war widow. We have had our quota of suffering, like Violet; the odds have been satisfied.
And to her horror she secretly sighed with relief at the thought that this meant Guy would be spared.

Guy had never received so many letters of sympathy from strangers, from his old headmaster and the vicar, from officers who had served with Charles Cantrell in the past. With every post there were more and more tributes to his father; tributes that gave him fresh insight into his father’s army career, his friendships, his club associates, and even one from a lady who claimed to be her father’s special friend, a Mrs Amy Trickett from Balham Common. So many tributes from people he’d never met. His mother wrote a terse note telling him his father would want him to do his duty and how proud he was to have him serving in the Yorkshires. Angus wrote that the Village had sent wreaths and attended the church memorial service in droves. It was a splendid occasion with hymns and readings, but strange because there was no burial or coffin, just a picture of Father with a laurel wreath round it like a frame.

Mama was holding up and talking about opening a wing of Waterloo for wounded officers, and she was keeping so busy she kept falling asleep at the oddest times like between the entrée and the dessert, or while she was sitting doing her infernal sewing. Angus was going to oversee all the new arrangements.

I wish we could exchange places. I’d rather be with you any day.

They say they can hear the Allied guns across the Channel in London on a clear day, so you’re the ‘Give ’em hell’ Cantrell now. Go to it and good luck.

Selma’s letter was short and simple. She sent pressed flowers from the hay meadows, asking if they were the same as in the French fields. She’d drawn a sketch of the Ridge with Jemima in the foreground and enclosed a copy of the memorial service for him to treasure. How strange that he didn’t feel anything much, just numbness.

His father’s death was a keen quick end. Now Guy was seeing so much death that was anything but: men hanging on the wire in agony, blown apart. Stomach wounds were the worst, with entrails spilling out and poor beggars pleading to be put down like wounded horses, endless crying for help in no man’s land, he listening as the cries for mothers got weaker and more spaced apart. It was a living hell, and there was more to come.