The Carpenter's Children (10 page)

‘Oh, no, Isabel,
no!
’ cried Violet Munday. ‘You can’t leave your home so soon, you must stay with us for Christmas – shouldn’t she, Tom?’

Tom had also suffered a pang at the news of his daughter’s imminent departure from home, but he could only offer her his blessing, because she was as determined as Mark, and no amount of persuasion would change her mind.

‘I want to get to know as much about Mark’s parish as I can,’ she told them, ‘and then when I go into St Barnabas’ Church as his wife, I won’t be a stranger to them. You must try to understand, Mum and Dad, it won’t make any difference between us, I’ll always love you as much as I do now.’ Her voice faltered a little, and Tom reached out his hand to touch hers across the table.

‘We know, Isabel, we know, and your mother and I wish you well. I think you’re probably doing the right thing.’

Ernest felt that a few words were required of him, and smiled at his sister.

‘I…we shall miss you, Isabel, but knowing that you’re with Mark, we shan’t mind as much…as if…’ He could say no more, and for some reason his thoughts flew to Aaron; he looked down at his plate to hide his eyes, suddenly full of tears.

‘And
I
shall be bridesmaid!’ exclaimed Grace, clapping her hands together and beaming round the table.

The visit passed quickly, and all too soon, it seemed to Mark, it was time for him to leave North Camp; he and Isabel had not had much time alone together, but she was to come to Bethnal Green at the end of August, to stay with Mr and Mrs Clements.

‘But what about Miss Daniells and the children who need you at the school?’ asked her mother.

‘Surely you’re not going to leave them in the lurch?’

‘No, Mum, this is the opportunity Phyllis Bird has been waiting for,’ replied Isabel with a smile. ‘
She’ll
be taking my place in September, and she won’t be sorry to leave the Post Office, I can tell you!’

At some time before the wedding Mark planned to take Isabel to visit his elderly parents in Gloucestershire. Isabel knew that his father was a retired clergyman, and that his parents had their reservations at his marrying such a young girl, though they were prepared to give him their blessing.

When he returned to the vicarage on the Thursday evening, she walked with him as far as the thick, curving beech hedge, where they stopped just inside the gate, unseen from the house. He at once folded her in his arms.

‘Dearest Isabel, I am afraid that there may be war ahead, but God’s given me the greatest blessing a man can possess, so I don’t need to fear the future,’ he whispered, his lips against her hair.

‘I-I just hope that your parents will accept me,’ she whispered back.

‘When I take you to see them, my love, they won’t have any more doubts, they’ll just marvel that such a wonderful girl could have chosen
me
!’

The sweetness of their kisses said more than any
words, and Mark at last drew away from her, and said she must go back; he could not trust himself further.

When Ernest arrived at the office of Schelling and Pascoe on the Thursday morning, Aaron had departed for Southampton, and thoughts of him and his returning family filled Ernest’s head; no news came through that day, though the newspapers were full of alarming stories, including that the British Fleet was preparing to go to sea; there was nothing about a ship docking passengers at Southampton. At noon on the Friday the telephone rang in Mr Schelling’s office, and Ernest sat stock-still and with bated breath, waiting for the news it brought, if any.

‘That was Aaron, and he says they have arrived!’ shouted Mr Schelling, and Ernest exhaled a long sigh of relief. The rest of the day was spent wondering if the Pascoes had managed to get a train to London, for the railways were in a state of chaos, with long delays and cancellations. When the office closed that evening, there had been no further news, and Ernest was loath to leave Mr and Mrs Schelling who were clearly very worried.

‘You will take charge of the office tomorrow as usual, Mr Munday,’ said Mr Schelling, ‘and if there is no more news overnight I shall travel up to Waterloo by whatever train is running, to see if they’ve arrived at Tamarind Street or not.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Ernest assured him, though he felt helpless to be of any real use or comfort, and spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning, trying to pray for the safety of Aaron’s family – his parents Victor and Eva Pascoe, their son, Jonathan, and the girls Greta and Devora; he felt that he knew them personally, having heard Aaron constantly talking about them during the last month. His parents heard him groan out loud at one point in the night, and Violet wanted to get up and go to him.

‘He’s fretting over Isabel, that’s what it is,’ she said when Tom advised her to stay where she was, and not to embarrass their son. ‘
I
noticed how upset he was when Isabel said she was leaving home so soon, even if the rest of you didn’t. I understand only too well how he’s feeling.’

Ernest cycled away early after a breakfast of tea and toast, and arrived at the office to find that Mr Schelling had already left for London. There followed another day of waiting and wondering, while rumours circulated and Mrs Schelling reported that Everham shops were becoming depleted by a rush to lay in stores of provisions. Mid-day came with no news, and it was nearly four o’clock when suddenly Aaron burst through the door and flung his arms around Ernest in an emotional embrace. Mr Schelling followed close behind him, his voice shaking but triumphant.

‘They’re safe in London!’ he announced
breathlessly, hugging his wife. ‘I’ve seen my sister Eva, poor soul, she blames herself for the delay – but they got here, and Aaron took them to London – we’ve come from Tamarind Street!’

Ernest was conscious only of Aaron’s arms around him, Aaron’s tears against his face; he yearned over his friend, longing to hold him close, but resisting, for he knew that Aaron’s emotion sprang from concern for his family and relief at their safe arrival. And besides, the presence of the Schellings restrained the dictates of his heart.

‘So they got here safely, Aaron,’ he whispered. ‘And…and how are they?’

Aaron withdrew himself from Ernest’s passive embrace, and raised haggard eyes. ‘They…they looked pathetic, Ernest, utterly exhausted – there were lots of them, refugees, some of them with nowhere to go when they got off the ship,’ he said brokenly. ‘Women and babies, just in the clothes they stood up in – and my poor mother’s face, she blames herself – oh, it’s horrible, Ernest, there’s going to be war, and you and I are going to have to fight in it!’

For Ernest that Saturday afternoon marked the beginning of the war, though it was not until midnight on the Tuesday that Britain officially declared war on Germany, and the Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, uttered his solemn prediction:

‘The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.’

The wave of patriotic enthusiasm was almost palpable, like a crackle in the air. Rumour had given way to certainty, and it was as if the British lion had suddenly awakened with a roar, stirred by the threat to liberty.
Rule, Britannia
! was sung in theatres and music halls, on football pitches and at any open-air gathering where Britons felt the need to declare that they
never, never, never shall be slaves
.

And Britannia was not short of heroes ready to defend her shores. Recruiting offices were opened in every town, and long queues of excited young men, some scarcely more than boys, formed up to be enlisted in the British Army or Navy, and it was known that the British Expeditionary Force had been despatched to France to assist in holding back the German invasion. Everham swarmed with new
soldiers, mostly without their khaki uniforms, and some armed with their own weapons: rifles and revolvers used for shooting rabbits and pheasants, now brought out, oiled and fired into the air for practice. They drilled on school playgrounds, cricket pitches and wherever there was a piece of level waste ground. Brass bands assembled and rehearsed to lead the columns of new recruits, and townspeople turned out to wave Union Jacks and cheer as they marched through the streets of Everham with hardly a foot out of step.

The Bird brothers, Tim and Ted, were among the first volunteers, while Dick Yeomans hung back, as did Sidney Goddard. Cedric Neville was already with the Territorials, and expecting to be sent to join the BEF any day soon. At first Tom Munday said nothing to Ernest about enlisting, knowing that his son hated all forms of killing, including that legalised by warfare. Violet Munday dreaded the very idea of her son facing mortal danger, and insisted on believing the editorials of those newspapers that predicted that it would all be over by Christmas.

‘Let’s hope that turns out to be right, Eddie,’ Tom told the friend in whom he confided his deepest fears. ‘The boys are under a lot o’ pressure to join up – I mean look at all these posters with old Kitchener pointing his great finger straight at you. It’s bound to have an effect, making out they’re cowards if they don’t join in.’

The posters did indeed have their effect on Ernest and Aaron, who discussed the matter openly and honestly, coming to the conclusion that there was no need for them to join the army at this point, for there were surely more than enough men who had already done so; and Ernest reported this to his father.

‘Aaron and I are opposed to killing our fellow men, Dad, be they Germans or any other nation. And we’re not afraid of the charge of cowardice.’

Tom said that he understood and supported his son, though inwardly he breathed a sigh of
Thank
God
, and passed on the reassurance to Violet. He was in fact more troubled by the departure of Isabel for Bethnal Green. Having planned to go at the end of August, the declaration of war had made her more anxious to be near Mark, and despite her mother’s protests and sighs, she left for London midway through August. Tom encouraged her and praised her decision, though partly to cover his own distress at losing a daughter who would never again return to live at home, because home had become another place, the place where Mark Storey lived and worked. Tom and Violet accompanied their daughter to Everham Station in a horse-drawn cab, as the omnibus had no room for her travelling trunk.

‘Goodbye, dearest Dad and Mum. Thanks for coming to see me off,’ she said with a bright smile, and Tom tried to force a smile in return, to
counteract Violet’s copious tears. Only when Isabel’s train had completely disappeared from sight did he allow himself to put his arm around his wife to comfort her.

‘We haven’t lost her, Vi, she’s got a good man to look after her now, just as we’ve done. We’ve still got Grace at home, and Ernest is absolutely dead set against joining up,’ he added cheerfully, though his own heart was heavy with a sense of loss, for inwardly he too longed to keep Isabel at home for another year or two. She was so young to be getting married, too young to be wrenched from her family and condemned to early motherhood and the cares it would bring. But Tom Munday kept these thoughts to himself as being unhelpful and not likely to do anybody any good.

Grace had to run for the omnibus to North Camp, and called out to the driver to wait for her, which he did, though with disapproval.

‘This is the third time ye’ve kept us waitin’, an’ I won’t wait for yer again,’ he grumbled as, breathless and dishevelled, Grace climbed up to the dozen passengers’ seats behind the driver. He cracked his whip, and the horse ambled forward, pulling its too heavy load.

‘Sorry, busy at work, thanks for waiting!’ she panted, taking one of the two remaining seats. Her apology was wasted on the driver who had called in
at the Railway Hotel for a half pint of ale, where he had seen this young miss exchanging a lingering kiss with an army officer in a corner alcove of the public bar. Asking for trouble, the flighty little hussy, and he shouted out in the hearing of all the passengers:

‘Ye’d’ve been in Queer Street if I’d gorn without yer, there ain’t another bus to North Camp for an hour, and I ain’t goin’ to wait around for yer again!’

Grace considered it beneath her dignity to reply, and sat watching the passing hedgerows, laden with autumnal berries. If she’d missed the bus, she’d have walked home – and perhaps that charming lieutenant would have been pleased to walk with her… Grace smiled to herself as she recalled the open admiration on his handsome face. His name was Nick, and he was soon to be sent to France to show the Jerries what a mistake they’d made in taking on the British. And he’d only asked her for one little kiss, the memory of which made Grace shiver with delight and a thrilling sense of her own power. Would Nick be at the Railway Hotel tomorrow, looking for her again? Life was so exciting these days, and romantic! She would ask Dad for a bicycle to travel to Everham and back each day, as Ernest did, thumbing her nose at old Miseryguts and his boneshaker omnibus as she pedalled past!

Tom Munday was not so keen on the idea of her cycling four miles each way, six days a week. ‘Winter’s coming on, and the evenings are getting
darker, Grace. There are some lonely places you’ll have to pass, and some strange characters about.’

‘But Daddy, I don’t like telling Mr Coggins that I’ve got to leave when the restaurant’s busy, just to catch that old omnibus! Cycling will actually be
quicker
for me, and there are several others who do it every day, so I shan’t be on my own, and think of the fares I’ll save! In fact I could cycle in with Ernest every day, and return with him, likely as not!’

‘But Ernest sometimes doesn’t get home till quite late, when they’ve had a busy day,’ her father objected. ‘You couldn’t be expected to wait an extra hour – I mean, what would you do with yourself?’

‘Work an extra hour at the Railway,’ said Grace with a smile.
Dear
old Dad, so kind and caring, and such a worrier! She had no intention of cycling home with her brother every evening, though Ernest might be useful as a messenger sometimes, to tell their parents that she was working a little later. She had no wish to lose all her admirers to that cheeky blonde barmaid Madge Fraser, and could always say that Mr Coggins had personally asked her to stay for longer, on double pay. She knew he thought her an asset to the Railway Hotel, much to the chagrin of that miserable Tubby, but both she and Madge were under strict orders not to meet any of the patrons out of hours. The girls could be as provocative as they liked when working but, as their boss, he said he could not be responsible for what they did outside.

In the end Tom Munday gave in and allowed Grace to cycle to and from work, though Violet thought it would be much too tiring for her.

The train journey down from London to Cheltenham seemed endless, and from there Isabel and Mark had to take a slow omnibus to the little village of Instone, from where they walked to the pretty, hidden-away cottage where the Reverend Richard Storey and his wife lived in seclusion. The sight of the peaceful countryside, the fat cows grazing in the autumn sunshine and the lanes like green tunnels with the trees meeting overhead, made it difficult to believe that England was at war; and to enter the Storeys’ home was to travel back in time, with oil lamps and candles as the only lighting, and every piece of furniture an antique. The old couple received Isabel cordially, and said how much they hoped that Mark would soon be transferred to an easier parish than St Barnabas’. Mrs Storey poured tea for them from a silver tea service, and they ate bread and butter spread with home-made jam, supplied by the Storeys’ daughter, Mrs Reynolds, who’d married a farmer, and lived near Hook in Hampshire. After tea, Isabel sat talking with Mrs Storey while her husband took Mark on a tour of the garden. She would have been surprised to hear their conversation.

Old Mr Storey took an envelope out of his pocket, addressed simply to the Rev. Storey, Instone, Glos.
He drew out a letter and handed it to his son. It was from Tom Munday, and Mark hesitated to read it.

‘Go on, Mark, he asks me to have a word with you about your marital union with Isabel, and I must say that I’m in complete agreement with him,’ his father said gently. ‘You should take care not to give her a child for at least a year, not until she is well experienced as a clergyman’s wife, and not until this dreadful war is over. If you will pardon two old men for advising you on this matter, Mark, and if you could give me your word that you will take heed of what we say, your mother and I would be much reassured, and happy to attend your wedding to this very young girl.’

Mark was surprised at the depth of feeling showed by his father, and gave his word that Isabel would not be made a mother too soon; but inwardly he knew that he would have to pray for self-restraint, for he longed above all things to hold Isabel in his arms and make her his lawful wedded wife.

On the twenty-third of August came reports of a battle fought at the Belgian town of Mons, and at first there was rejoicing and flag-waving; but after a day or two the news came through that the Allies had been defeated and forced to retire. Only after more than a week had passed did the death toll become known: the British losses were reckoned to be about five thousand men.

‘My God, five thousand,’ Ernest said, looking across at Aaron’s newspaper as they sat at their desks in the office. ‘
Five thousand
. And it wasn’t even a victory.’

‘We may yet be called up, Ernest,’ replied Aaron sombrely. ‘And called on to give our lives.’

‘No.
No
, Aaron. I shall
never
agree to go anywhere to kill my fellow men,’ said Ernest, his words like a groan of pain.

‘My poor friend, you may have to.’ Aaron spoke very quietly, and Ernest made no answer, but sat with his head between his hands.

Life at the Clements’ was reassuringly the same, and Isabel’s welcome much warmer than on the first occasion. Mrs Clements took a great interest in dear Mr Storey’s wife-to-be, and when Isabel said she would be working as a teacher, starting at the beginning of the autumn term, she was very happy to advise her.

‘Mr Storey’ll get you into St Barnabas’ Church School,’ she said. ‘It’s much nicer than the one in Barnett Street, run by the London School Board, that’s an
awful
place, and the children don’t attend half the time, ’cause the mothers keep ’em at home to mind the babies – and there’s always plenty o’
those
round here, ten or twelve kids to a family. I knew one o’ the teachers, nice girl, but she ended up with a nervous breakdown and laryngitis from
shoutin’ at the dirty little rascals, and the girls were as bad as the boys, she said. That’s what comes o’ free education, I reckon, nobody puts a value on it. Now at St Barnabas’ they pay a shillin’ a week, and the two ladies who run it are reg’lars at St Barnabas’, mornin’s and evenin’s every Sunday. They’ll be glad o’ your help. Miss Munday!’

Which was why Isabel told Mark that she would like to apply to Barnett Street School as a teacher for the younger pupils there, for which she was well experienced.

‘But it’s in the roughest area of the parish,’ he told her, ‘and not many of my congregation send their children there!’

‘Dearest Mark, I’ve come here to be the wife of the Reverend Mr Storey, and to live among the people my husband serves, churchgoers or not,’ she replied, smiling. ‘You’ve told me about Barnett Street in your letters, and how you’ve got a football team going for the boys – well,
I
shall see what I can do for the girls!’

Her application was well timed, and she was accepted at once.

‘It’s only fair to tell you, Miss Munday, that we fight a constant battle with poverty here,’ said the headmistress, ‘and all the social evils that go with it – drink, debt and poor health – so we have difficulties with behaviour: some children learn bad language at home, and flaunt it here at school. I
do
occasionally
use the cane as a last resort, but we try to instil Christian principles by example and patience. I hope that you have plenty of patience, Miss Munday!’

Isabel found the first week very challenging, and as different from Miss Daniells’ school as it was possible to be. The new intake of five-year-olds was a mixed bag of the noisy and mute, the defiant and timid, the well-scrubbed and the smelly. A quarter of them were barefooted, and another quarter had
ill-fitting
and much-repaired boots, while their clothing similarly reflected parental care or lack of it.

At first they were in awe of her, but as she encouraged them to talk about themselves, they began to open up and sometimes told her quite extraordinary things, like the little boy who cheerfully informed her that ‘Me mum ’ad a baby in ’er bed last night, miss, and it wasn’t ’alf a bloody mess! The nurse shoo’d us all away, an’ we ain’t ’ad no breakfuss!’

There had been campaigns and parliamentary debates for and against the provision of school meals over the past two decades, and Barnett Street School had reached a compromise, by which a bowl of soup with bread and cheese was offered for one penny unless the parents applied for exemption; the headmistress tended to turn a blind eye to children who could not produce their penny, and no child was denied the midday refreshment. Isabel was able to go to the kitchen
and beg at least a slice of bread and butter for the breakfastless.