The Carpenter's Children (16 page)

It was later observed that the Gallipoli fiasco, which had caused such disastrous loss of life to both British and Dominion troops, achieved an evacuation with almost no losses, though there were a number of deaths on the hospital ship and at the military hospital on Malta to which the sick and injured had been taken.

Pascoe stirred as he awoke, but did not open his eyes. He wanted to go on sleeping in this wonderfully comfortable bed, so dry and warm. He began to be aware of the sounds around him: the coughs, snuffles and grunts, the rattle of trolleys and clatter of bowls and basins; he could hear women’s voices speaking in low tones. The strong smell of carbolic disinfectant was a sweet, clean scent compared to the stench of a battlefield, and he gratefully breathed deeply as he drifted in and out of sleep…

‘Pascoe!’ whispered an eager voice. ‘I say, Pascoe
old chap, it’s good to see you here! How’re the old guts – any better?’

Pascoe opened his eyes slowly and looked at this young man who had been his latest company commander. ‘Lieutenant Neville,’ he whispered. ‘W-where?’

‘Where? We’ve landed up in hospital on Malta, old chap, and I wouldn’t change it for the Ritz. Can I get you anything? Water? Cigarette? They let you smoke in here.’

Pascoe’s eyes were now wide open. ‘Corporal M-Munday,’ he muttered. ‘Can you tell me anything? Is he dead from dysentery, like the MO?’

‘No, he’s been very bad with dysentery and dehydration, but he’s here, in another ward. He—’

‘Let me see him. Let me go to him, sir.’ Pascoe struggled to sit up.

‘You can’t see him just yet, old chap. It’s been a close-run thing, and he’s not out of the woods yet. You’ll have to wait till—’

But Pascoe had already thrust one leg out of bed, and now heaved out the other to stand beside it on the cold tiled floor, swaying slightly. ‘Let me lean on your arm, sir, and take me to him. If he’s alive, I must see him.’

Neville was about to tell him not to be a fool, when an orderly came over to see what the fuss was about. Neville tried to apologise, but the orderly saw Pascoe’s desperation and reckoned that to bend the
rules might be the best course. He went to find a wheelchair, but changed his mind and came back with a stretcher trolley.

‘This could get me into trouble, old son, but if it calms you down… Would you care to push the stretcher, Lieutenant? D’you know where Munday is?’

‘I’ll find him,’ said Neville, and obediently trundled Pascoe out of the ward and down a long corridor to another ward. It was quieter than the one they had left: men lay silently in their beds, weakened by the ravages of gastro-enteritis. Pascoe’s glance darted round the ward, alighting on an emaciated figure whose body hardly showed beneath the bedclothes. His eyes were closed, and his face was ghostly pale.

‘There he is – that’s him over there,’ said Pascoe, pointing to the man. The trolley drew up alongside the bed.

‘Be careful, Pascoe – don’t alarm him,’ warned Neville, and Pascoe nodded.

He stretched out a hand and lightly laid a forefinger on the man’s forehead.

‘Ernest,’ he said softly. ‘It’s me, Aaron. It’s all right, we’re in hospital, we’re together again, Ernest. We’re alive.’

Ernest Munday turned his head slowly and fixed hollow eyes on the face of his friend. A smile of pure joy lit up his face. His prayer had been answered after all.

‘I’m tellin’ yer, it’s a jolly good life, Grace! – and right up your street, ye’d be top o’ the bill in no time!’ enthused Madge Fraser, on a visit to her sister in Everham. Sunday was her day off, as it was for Grace Munday who had cycled over to see her, having told her parents that she would be unable to attend church with them and Ernest because she was meeting a friend.

‘Do we know this girl?’ her mother had asked sharply. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Marjorie Fraser, Mum, we met while she lived in Everham.’

‘Fraser?’ repeated her father. ‘Wasn’t she the other girl at the Railway Hotel?’

‘Yes, Dad, but she’s moved to London now, and works as a chambermaid at the Ritz Hotel,’ replied
Grace, not quite meeting the eyes of either parent. ‘She’s visiting her sister this weekend, and asked if I’d like to go over. And seeing that I’ve got Sunday off, I said I would. You don’t mind, do you?’

Neither parent looked pleased, but they reluctantly agreed to forego the pleasure of her company this Sunday.

‘As long as
you
don’t go tootling off to London at a time like this, my girl. Your mother and I have enough worry over Isabel living in constant danger from those Zeppelins.’

‘And make sure you call in and see your brother on the way back,’ added her mother. ‘He’s out with Aaron just now, and he’s very upset that Aaron’s going back to the fighting next month, in France this time.’

‘Oh, poor Ernest! Poor both!’ exclaimed Grace in genuine concern. ‘D’you think Ernest’ll ever have to go back, after he’s been so ill?’

‘He’s regaining strength day by day,’ began Tom Munday, but his wife broke in. ‘I’m
sure
that Ernest won’t
ever
be called back into the army!’ she said emphatically. ‘Not after all he’s been through. The very idea! He was at death’s door.’

Tom said nothing, but wished that he could be as sure. ‘Enjoy your day with your friend, my girl, and call in on your way back.’

Grace pedalled off, a slightly guilty smile on her face as she reflected on what an old darling her
father was. At least she’d told the truth about visiting Madge, even if she’d fibbed a little over Madge’s new life in London: she was not a chambermaid, but a chorus girl at Dolly’s, one of the new licensed music halls that had sprung up in London since the war began, as if to cock a snook at the Zeppelins.

‘A couple o’ girls share lodgin’s with me, but we could make room for one more little’un!’ Madge continued gaily. ‘It’s the best life I’ve ever ’ad, Grace! The ol’ Railway ’Otel was nothin’ compared to this – London’s
full
o’ soldiers on leave, wantin’ to forget about the war till they ’as to go back to it. They just
flock
in to see the show, twice nightly an’ a good chance o’ bein’ invited out arterwards – there’s these ’ere night clubs all over the place, champagne flowin’ like water. An’ fellers to dance wiv – an’ they all got money to chuck around – I tell yer, Grace, I never ’ad as much fun before –
and
no ol’ Tubby Tupman to spoil it!’

‘It sounds good, Madge,’ said Grace, ‘and I’d be tempted to come and join you, only…well, I’ve got a good life at Hassett Manor, looking after the wounded as they recover, you see. It makes me feel that I’m doing my bit for the war effort.’

Madge gave her a broad wink. ‘Believe me, Grace, so am I!’

Grace smiled and shook her head. It wasn’t only that she enjoyed her work at Hassett Manor; she knew her parents would hit the roof if she were to
go to live in London at seventeen, to take on a way of life that Madge talked of so invitingly. Perhaps in another year or two…

When he was judged to be on the road to recovery, Ernest had been shipped home in February with other men who had survived the Gallipoli landings, and was overjoyed to see England again. His appearance shocked his parents, and Grace thought he looked worse than some of the admissions to Hassett Manor. His reunion with Aaron had to be somewhat restrained in company, but their hand clasp and the look in their eyes conveyed their thoughts as well as any embrace. Their happiness was short-lived, however; Aaron had orders to return to active service in May, and he would soon be followed by Dick Yeomans, called up under the new Military Service Act of January that year, as a single man not in a reserved occupation. Farmer Yeomans protested in vain, and Mary Cooper was heartbroken, for by now their mutual attachment was common knowledge, and Dick was in favour of a quick, quiet wedding before he went for training at Aldershot. His parents had disagreed, however, thinking him too young to make such a commitment in a hurry; but when he marched away to war, Mary wore a silver engagement ring, and carried a promise that they would be wed when he came home. Meanwhile two land army girls had been sent to assist on the farm, and both the
farmer and Mary had their work cut out, she told her father, to train and supervise them in the daily rigours of life on the land.

‘The poor girl’s upset, o’course,’ said Eddie worriedly. ‘It sounds as if there’s goin’ to be one hell of a battle when the British and French charge at the Jerries eye-to-eye. Dick Yeomans’ll be takin’ his chance along of all the others, and God help us all if…I don’t ’old with farmers bein’ called up, Tom. They’re more use at ’ome than out there, riskin’ their lives.’

Tom found this difficult to answer. He and Eddie had in a way changed places, now that Ernest was at home and Eddie’s probable son-in-law was away.

‘Did you hear about the Goddard boy, what’s his name, Sidney?’ he asked. ‘Got called up but didn’t pass his medical, seems he can’t see without spectacles. He seems a pretty fit bloke otherwise.’

‘Yeah.’ Eddie nodded. ‘I s’pose they’ll draft him into some reserved occupation, so he could end up in one of these munition factories, turnin’ out guns an’ whatnot. In which case he’ll stand a better chance o’ comin’ home than Dick Yeomans,’ he added bitterly.

‘Old Goddard’ll miss him, though. He’s not been so well lately, and they’ve been looking to Sidney to take over the shop if – er…’ Tom sighed. ‘Seems to be trouble everywhere you look. Young Neville’s gone back, and his poor mother
keeps herself going with Hassett Hospital, as they call it.’

‘What about her husband and the elder son? Still out in India, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, Sir Arnold’s even more of a bigwig out there, recruiting local native chaps to join in the fun. And young Arnold, I don’t know what he’s up to, but you can bet they’ll be stuck out there as long as the war’s on. The whole world’s changing, Eddie. Not many able-bodied young men left around.’ Tom’s mouth tightened, remembering Ernest’s return from Gallipoli, thin and gaunt – and the first question he’d asked, ‘Is Aaron home?’ And now young Pascoe was to go back to active service on the Western Front. To face death. And for what? It just didn’t make sense.

Young Mrs Storey was much in demand at Barnett Street School, and even more in the parish of St Barnabas. The lives of the poor, which had always been hard, now seemed gloomier and shabbier than ever, and she listened to tale after tale of hardship and heartbreak. The news of a son killed in the trenches caused as much grief in an overcrowded tenement block as in a neat suburban avenue, and they all feared the dreaded telegram with its message
of ‘killed’ or ‘missing’, which usually meant the same thing. ‘Wounded’ just
might
mean that the soldier would eventually return, minus a limb or two, and perhaps horribly scarred. Isabel’s own anxiety for her brother Ernest had drawn her closer to these people, and they looked to her for comfort and reassurance.

‘Ye’d better be careful, Mrs Storey,’ warned Mrs Clements. ‘Some o’ these women expect too much o’ yer. Ye’re too soft-hearted, and they take advantage.’

Isabel smiled a little wearily. In fact she was quite well aware of those who tried to play on her sympathies, and she was as gently firm with them as she was generous to the more deserving. She could not offer money, but she could advise them about ‘Outdoor Relief ’ and how to apply for it to the Board of Guardians, sometimes putting in a word to the Rev. Mr Storey.

‘And as for that
disgusting
drunken woman Tanner, shoutin’ and hollerin’ in the street, shakin’ her fist and behavin’ worse’n an animal, ye’d do better to keep away from the likes o’ her,’ continued Mrs Clements. ‘It’s a scandal, in front o’ children an’ all!’

Isabel sighed. She had alarmed even her husband by the way she had shown kindness to poor Mrs Tanner, linking arms with her and guiding her to her dismal home, where she’d brewed a pot of tea. She had called again the next day, and listened to the woman’s wretched story.

‘I got nuffin’ left, missus, nuffin’. I was brought
up in an’ ’ome, never knew muvver or farver, an’ when I was sixteen I got work scrubbin’ floors an’ doin’ them sort o’ jobs…an’ then I met Alf Tanner, an’ we took to each other straight away, so we got married, and I was expectin’ a baby an’ was as ’appy as a woman could be… Oh, missus, we was that ’appy, I fought I was in ’eaven.’

Mrs Tanner collapsed in sobs, and Isabel put her arms around her. There seemed to be nothing to say, and she waited until the woman was able to continue.

‘Go on, my dear. What happened?’

‘My poor Alf was killed when one o’ them airships came down in flames an’ landed on top o’ the factory where ’e was workin’ nights. I couldn’t believe it at first, an’ the shock was so bad I lost the baby. In the ’ome we was told that God loves us an’ takes care of us, but ’E ain’t done nuffin’ for me, missus, an’ the only time I get away from meself is when I ’as a drop o’ gin. I can’t understand it, missus, I ain’t been a bad woman, I never ’ad any man but Alf, but now I got nuffin’. Nuffin’!’

Isabel’s heart ached with pity. How could she tell such a woman to put her trust in God rather than turn to drink for a few brief hours of oblivion? She did not even try, but held her close and rocked her gently. The memory of Mary Cooper’s mother came back to her, the lost look in her eyes, the tragedy of her life and death.

‘What’s your Christian name, my dear?’ she asked.

‘Sally, an’ I ain’t no Christian, missus.’

‘Well, Sally, remember how Alf loved you, and try to be brave for his sake, and live as he’d have wished you to,’ Isabel said softly. ‘He’d want you to look after yourself properly, and keep occupied – I mean keep busy. There’s a new clothing factory opened on the Commercial Road, and they need women to stitch khaki uniforms for the soldiers. Why don’t you apply for a job there? I’ll help you to write a letter, and if they offer you work, take it and do it as well as you can – and earn yourself some money!’

Sally sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ll try, missus. It’s good o’ yer, missus.’

That evening Isabel told Mark of her encounter with Sally Tanner, and how she hoped that Sally would regain her self-respect in paid employment.

‘Poor soul, she’s lost everything that made her life worth living,’ she said. ‘Having a job to go to each day will give her self-discipline, and she’ll meet other women. She promised me that she’d try.’

Mark was not entirely in agreement. ‘But Isabel dear, suppose she can’t give up the drink, and loses her job because of it, she’d be in a worse case than she is now, with a sense of failure added to loss, and likely to become dependent on you if you allow her.’ Mark frowned, for he did not relish the idea of his wife associating openly with drunks and hangers-on.
‘If you could restore her faith, get her to pray and put herself in God’s hands…’

‘Oh, Mark, she thinks that God has let her down, and who can blame her? Perhaps if she could learn to put her trust in
me
, and not want to let
me
down, she’d make the effort, seeing that I haven’t condemned her, as others have.’ Isabel spoke seriously, seeing the look of surprise on her husband’s face. ‘Surely we can only teach the love of God by
showing
it, as Jesus showed it to tax collectors and poor women who were…well, harlots.’

Mark drew her close and kissed her. ‘You are an angel, Isabel, and I don’t deserve you. These people of ours learn more from you than they learn from me.’

‘And I’ve learnt from
them
, Mark, and I’m still learning,’ she answered.

For Isabel knew that she was not an angel; she knew that Sally Tanner had lost the love of her life, while she, Isabel, still had hers, living and breathing and loving.

Tom Munday felt as if he were the repository of too many secrets, by which he meant the things he couldn’t share with his wife, who needed to be shielded rather than confided in. At forty-nine Tom was only eight years ahead of the age limit for having to go to war, following the second Military Service Act, which now included married men between the ages of eighteen to forty-one. It would bring yet more
heartbreak into homes as husbands and fathers were drawn away from their dependents, for the attitude to the war had changed from enthusiastic patriotism and adventure to shock and grief at the death toll so far in the conflict. Whereas in 1914 there had been long queues at recruiting offices, now there were men who openly declared themselves unwilling to make ‘the supreme sacrifice’ for king and country. Some went further, and the members of the No Conscription Fellowship increased. These ‘conscientious objectors’, also called conchies, cowards, slackers and any number of epithets, were howled at and spat upon, their meetings were broken up with jeers and throwing of rotten eggs; hauled up before military tribunals, they were thrown into comfortless prison cells where they were often beaten and half-starved.

‘It requires a different sort of courage, Dad, to stand up and say you’re a pacifist in time of war,’ Ernest had said after seeing Aaron off to France. ‘
I’d
have been a conscientious objector if it hadn’t been for Aaron who decided to go to war against our country’s enemy. I couldn’t let him go alone.’

It was then that Tom began to realise the depth of the relationship between the two young men, which he could not condemn, but had of course to keep to himself.

‘And when they tell me I’m fit for duty again, I’ll have to go, Dad.’