The Fleethaven Trilogy (22 page)

Esther clicked her tongue with exasperation. Now she would have to wait until they were well up the lane before she could set out. When they too had taken the curve in the road, she left her hiding place and followed them at what she hoped was a safe distance.

‘Esther – Esther, lass. Wait for me!’

She turned to see Ma Harris hurrying towards her as fast as her little round body would allow. ‘You going to the meeting, lass?’

Esther nodded grimly. ‘I don’t want Matthew to see me though.’

‘Huh, I don’t want my old man to see me either,’ Ma Harris replied with feeling, but tonight there was no toothless grin, no attempt at humour.

On a green stretch of grass on the sea front, a huge crowd had gathered. At one end on a raised dais were a table and several chairs where some of the local dignitaries had gathered. When Esther arrived and joined the throng, weaving her way through the crowd in order to hear better, Squire Marshall was on his feet addressing the meeting, shaking his fist in the air.

‘We are fighting for our very existence, for freedom and democracy. In Belgium ordinary men are being shot and their women violated . . .’ A horrified gasp rippled amongst the crowd. ‘And when they have overrun Europe they will turn upon us, upon Britain. We must unite for God, for our King and for our country . . .’

Cheers broke out all around Esther, as the squire thumped the air with his raised fist. Then he turned and gestured towards a middle—aged man in army uniform, with several medals on his chest. He was introducing him to the crowd.
‘We are privileged to have Major Langley with us this evening. He is a recruiting officer for Lincolnshire. Major Langley, I invite you to address the gathering.’ The squire almost bowed towards his honoured guest as he rose and stepped forward.

The major’s booming voice rang out over their heads, echoing in the dusk of the evening. He entreated all the local men between nineteen and thirty-five to enlist. ‘You all stand and sing the National Anthem or Rule Britannia, but now we ask you to prove your patriotism by your sense of duty.’ His voice suddenly softened, and yet it still carried out into the night air. ‘I pay tribute to the great self-sacrifice of the women of our country during the past few weeks. Bravely, they have waved goodbye to their loved ones who have given themselves – their very lives – in the service of their King and country.’

His voice rose. ‘No young woman should allow herself to be seen with a man between the ages of nineteen and thirty-five unless he wears the King’s uniform.’ A few in the crowd applauded and he leaned towards them. ‘For any man who does not wear the uniform will make a rotten lover . . .’ the crowd cheered – ‘and a very much worse husband,’ The cheers grew louder.

Oh, he’s clever, thought Esther, he’s very clever. First he fosters a sense of outrage by his stories of the violation of women and children in Belgium, then he appeals to a man’s pride and sense of honour and as a final weapon he states blatantly that only a man in uniform is worthy of a woman’s love and pride. He’s making it a matter of a man’s virility.

Major Langley was speaking again, issuing a veiled threat. ‘If the young men of our country do not answer the call, the same fate will befall our women and children as those in Belgium. I know our fine young men cannot – will not – let that happen!’

Loud cheering and applause broke out and there was a surge towards the platform as from all sides young men moved forward to volunteer.

To a great roar from the crowd, the squire’s elder son, Rodney Marshall, was the first to step up on to the platform and be greeted by a vigorous handshake from the major. The squire beamed and surveyed the crowd, holding out his arm to show off his boy, as if it were the proudest moment in his life.

Others were following, climbing up on to the platform to be greeted by Major Langley.

Esther grabbed Ma Harris’s arm. ‘Oh no,’ she breathed. ‘There’s Ernie! We’ve got to stop him.’

Ma Harris, though her eyes were fixed upon her son, remained motionless.

‘Come on, Ma. We’ve got to—’

Ma was shaking her head. ‘No, lass,’ she said quietly, so softly that Esther had to bend her head closer to hear what she said above the excited hubbub. ‘No, let him be. He’ll not thank me for interfering. Neither would his dad.’

‘Ma, you
can’t
let him go. He’s not old enough anyway.’

Ma shook her head ruefully. ‘That’ll not stop him – nor them taking him.’

‘Then I’ll tell them,’ and Esther made as if to push her way through the crowd towards the platform.

‘’Ere, who you shoving?’ The man in front of her turned round to see who was trying to elbow their way through. ‘Wait ya turn . . .’ When he saw it was a woman, he grinned and his tone changed. ‘Hello there, darling,’ he leered. ‘Want to do ya bit for King and country, eh?’

‘Let me through,’ Esther said, outraged. ‘One of the volunteers on the platform is under age and I mean to stop him.’

‘Oho, I can’t let you do that, me darling. If the lad wants to go, then—’

‘Get out of my way,’ Esther spat and pushed the man in the chest with the flat of her hand.

‘Esther, don’t—’ Ma Harris tried to intervene, but no one was listening to her.

At once anger replaced the man’s teasing tone and he grasped Esther roughly by the arms. ‘Oh no, you don’t . . .’

Esther cried out, more in frustration than in pain. She struggled and kicked the man’s shins. He gave a yell of pain and those close by now turned round to watch the scuffle.

‘Not a German, is he?’ some wag shouted, ‘having a go already?’

‘Let me go!’ Esther yelled again.

Suddenly there was Matthew standing before her. The fight went out of her instantly as she looked into his face. His eyes were dark with fury.

‘Leave her alone!’ Matthew said in a low, controlled voice that held more menace than if he had roared.

‘What’s it to do with you?’ asked the stranger, still holding Esther.

‘She,’ Matthew said with deliberation, ‘is my wife’

The man let go of Esther as if she had burned him. ‘Aw, mate, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I’m sorry . . .’ He turned and shouldered his way through the crowd, escaping before the vengeful husband could retaliate.

Matthew was not concerned about the man. He was glaring at Esther, who was rubbing her forearms where the man had gripped her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

She returned his glare with equal rancour. ‘Making sure you don’t do anything stupid, like volunteering.’

Colour suffused his face and his eyes bulged. ‘Christ, you’ve got a bloody cheek, woman! You’d do anything – anything to make me look small, wouldn’t ya? I’ve a good mind to go up there this minute and—’

‘That’s right, mate, you tell ’er. Don’t you hide behind a woman’s skirts,’ a voice from those nearby joined in their quarrel. Neither Matthew nor Esther took any notice.

She put out her hands and took hold of his shoulders. ‘Please, Matthew, don’t do anything foolish, anything rash. You’re needed here, on the farm. You have a family now . . .’

Matthew’s mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Aye, the farm! Always the farm, isn’t it, Esther?’

He brought his arm up and knocked her hands away, twisting out of her grasp at the same time. Then he turned and blundered away through the throng. In a moment he was lost from her view.

‘Oh, Esther,’ mourned Ma Harris. ‘Ya’ve done it now, lass. He’ll join up just to spite ya.’

M
ATTHEW
did not join up, but he did not arrive home until the early hours of the following morning, staggering up the stairs to tumble into bed beside her and fall into a state of drunken unconsciousness rather than of sleep.

Talk of the war dominated everyone’s conversation and seemed to rule their lives, even though it was happening hundreds of miles away in another country between peoples whom Esther had only heard of in her days at the village school. Foreign places became part of everyday speech, and when lists of casualties began to appear in the local newspaper, suddenly it was very real and very close.

Ernie Harris came to say goodbye, looking somehow bigger, more filled out already. All at once, he was a young man going off to war.

‘Oh, Ernie!’ In a sudden surge of emotion, Esther put her arms about him and hugged him to her. ‘Do you really have to go?’

The boy wriggled with embarrassment at her unexpected display of sentiment. ‘I want to go, missus. I’m a soldier now.’ His thin face beamed at her as she stood back to look at him. She shook her head sadly and murmured again, Oh, Ernie, I – we shall all miss you.’

‘I’ll be back, missus, when we’ve taught these Germans a thing or two. Besides, everyone says it’ll be over before Christmas.’

As she followed him to the gate, it seemed as if everyone who lived at the Point had turned out to wave Ernie off to war. They shouted after him as he walked proudly down the lane, a slight figure growing smaller and smaller. At the curve in the road, he turned and gave a final wave. Then he was gone. The gathering dispersed, leaving the lonely figure of Ma Harris standing in the road staring at the place where her eldest son had disappeared from view.

Esther went over to her. She put her arm about the older woman’s plump shoulders. ‘Come and have a cup o’ tea with me, Ma.’

It took some considerable urging to make Ma move, but at last she allowed Esther to lead her into the farmhouse.

On the Sunday following Ernie’s departure, Esther insisted that they should attend church. As they might have expected, the service revolved round the war. The hymns the rector had chosen were full of patriotic fervour and self-sacrifice, and the prayers appealed for God’s help on the side of righteousness and the fight for freedom from oppressors. Stubbornly, Esther refused to mouth the words she could not believe in. However, when the prayers took on a more personal note, and the vicar prayed for all those from this parish who had volunteered, Esther was glad to join in. Fervently she added her own prayers, closing her eyes and pressing her hands together.

As she stood up at the end of the service and looked about the church, she was saddened to see, already, so many empty spaces. The squire and his lady now had only their younger son in attendance, and yet it was their absent elder son who was the main topic of interest. As Squire Marshall passed down the aisle he was stopped at every pew to be grasped by the hand and congratulated.

‘A fine boy, Squire.’

‘You must be so proud.’

‘Good luck to your boy, sir.’

A few pews in front of where Esther, Matthew and Kate were sitting, and on the opposite side, the Willoughbys waited their turn to greet the squire.

‘My best wishes to your boy, sir,’ Tom Willoughby’s voice boomed around the church. ‘He does our little community proud and no mistake.’

The squire shook the man’s outstretched hand. ‘Thank you, Willoughby, thank you.’ He nodded towards Martha Willoughby and her sister, Flo Jenkins.

Martha’s shrill voice echoed down the church. ‘There’s some here as might take a lesson from your boy, Squire.’ Her glanced swivelled towards Esther and flickered to envelop Matthew. The gathering still in the church had all fallen silent to listen to the exchange. It was as if the congregation was holding its breath.

‘And you, ma’am,’ Martha was addressing Mrs Marshall. ‘What a fine example you have set all women. So brave, so patriotic, ma’am.’

Flo was leaning forward over her sisters shoulder. There’s some – far be it from me to name names – but there’s some who’d keep their men at home, making out they can’t be spared from the work on the land.’

Martha nodded vigorous agreement. ‘Aye, and the men are all too willing to stay at home. Slackers, they are, ma’am, and worse!’

Flo pursed her already thin lips to a slit. ‘Cowards, Squire, that’s what
we’d
call them. Cowards!’

A gasp rippled through the listeners and shocked whispering broke out. Beside her Esther heard the hiss of Matthew’s breath and felt it on her cheek.

It sent a shudder of premonition down her spine.

She turned to look at him and saw that colour had suffused his face and that his dark eyes were fixed upon the Willoughby family.

Take no notice, Matthew. It’s all right for her to talk. She’s no sons to send and she knows Tom Willoughby’s too old to be expected to volunteer.
She
can talk – she’s safe.’

Through clenched teeth, Matthew muttered, ‘Shut up, Esther. What do you know about it, anyway?’

Irritated and angered by what she saw as a misplaced patriotic fanaticism, Esther swept Kate into her arms and stepped out of the pew. She hurried from the church before the squire and his party had reached them. No doubt that would give the congregation further cause to speculate about her and her family. It was an unheard-of discourtesy for anyone to precede the squire and his family from the church. Even the vicar, as she swept past him, gaped at her open-mouthed and did not gather his wits in time to speak to her before she was down the cinder path and out of the gate.

Esther walked home alone, alternately carrying Kate and getting the child to walk a short distance.

The smell of roasting beef greeted her from the range oven as she stepped into the house. Esther sighed. She doubted her husband would return until very late, and more than likely he would be in no state to eat a Sunday dinner.

At ten thirty that night, Esther was about to turn down the lamp and go up to bed when she heard singing in the yard. She hurried to the back door and opened it. In the bright moonlight, Matthew was standing in the middle of the yard, holding on to the pump for support and waving a bottle in one hand.

‘ “Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, Britons never, never, never, never . . .” ’ He sagged against the pump. ‘Hello, Esh-ter. Come and kiss your soldier husband.’ He slithered down to sit on the ground propped against the pump.

Esther moved forward slowly. ‘
What
did you say?’

‘ “Britons never, never, never . . .” ’ he began again.

‘No, no, not that. After that.’

His head wobbled from side to side. ‘I – I forget.’ He took another swig at the bottle as if he wanted to obliterate the remotest chance of remembering.