A Woman of Substance (73 page)

‘Holy Mother of Jesus!’ Blackie exclaimed quietly.

Joe heard him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded, jumping up.

‘Look! Over there! Do you see what I see?’

Joe stiffened. ‘
Holy Christ.
’

‘Over the top, boys!’ Blackie screamed. ‘The bleeding German infantry’s right up our backsides!’

Men were scrambling out of the other trenches and milling around on the muddy ground which had been levelled by the shelling. And all eyes were riveted on the grey column advancing. Each man fixed his bayonet automatically. The captain was hastily drawing up formations, and even orderlies and signallers were instructed to arm themselves with rifles and grenades.

Again, it was hand-to-hand fighting of the most bloody kind. Rushing forward into the fray, Blackie prayed silently:
Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace.
His face was harshly set and frightening in its terrible ferocity. He killed and killed and went on killing, his rifle spewing forth bullets, his bayonet slashing until it dripped with the blood of the enemy as though it were some horrible living organ. He did not know how many men he killed and he no longer cared. All he knew was that it was his life or a German’s, and
he
was going to live. And in the end he simply stopped thinking and charged.

After two hours, the enemy unexpectedly fell back, retreating for cover in the lower part of the wood, and the Seaforths crawled into the trenches, weary but unvanquished. Blackie had lost sight of Joe and Harry during the horrifying slaughter and there was no way of finding them now. He prayed, with all the fervency of his heart and soul, that his friends were safe.

For the next twenty-four hours the Germans attacked this little band of brave men—heroes all. They tried to rush the Lewis gun positions by bombings delivered under the fire of massed machineguns; they attempted to creep from shell-hole to shell-hole in the darkness, hoping to wear out the Seaforth Highlanders by lobbing grenades at them. But the captain had arranged such lines of fire with his Lewis guns and rifles that each attack was repulsed.

The Seaforth Highlanders went through indescribable strain during these skirmishes, which lasted all night and were in full force when dawn broke. And worse was yet to come. By noon of the next day, Sir Henry Rawlinson was pouring every ounce of power he had on Trônes Wood, believing it had been totally lost and that the British troops holding it had all been struck down. His bombardment was one of unparalleled intensity, for the general was planning to storm the enemy’s Bazentin line.

Although much of this heavy bombardment fell on the Seaforth Highlanders, they grimly endured the pounding they were taking, realizing that it was an absolute necessity. It also had its useful side, since it served to interfere with the enemy’s movements and crippled their infantry attacks.

At one point, the Germans parleyed and asked the British to surrender to avoid total annihilation. But those fearless Seaforth Highlanders refused, and dug in with relentless determination to
hold this part of the wood. The Germans, recognizing their stubbornness and indomitability, began to place more field guns in position, readying themselves for another raid.

At the same time, Rawlinson’s guns thundered on without cease, and Trônes Wood was slowly but decisively conquered in a brilliant infantry operation, conducted under the double crashing of shell from British and German artillery. It was a pulverizing action stupendous in its magnitude.

And through this awesome hurricane of fire tramped the Sussex and other English county regiments intent on finally destroying the enemy and capturing this strategic zone.

‘Hello, lads,’ went up the unanimous cry from the glorious Seaforth Highlanders as they were rescued and hobbled out of the trenches to embrace their fellow countrymen, each one of them grinning from ear to ear.

The ground was ripped asunder and stained with the blood of men from both sides. British and German troops lay dead or dying on the crippled earth and in the shell-shocked trenches. The carnage all around them was so terrible it brought tears to the eyes of many of the tommies.

Red Cross ambulances rumbled in and medical officers leaped out, hastening to the wounded. The doctors tried to ease their suffering as best they could in conditions so appalling to behold that one young doctor turned away, vomiting at the sight of such needless butchery. And the dead were slowly carried off and laid at the far end of the wood.

Blackie, dripping with sweat, filthy and blood-stained, his uniform ripped at the shoulder, his helmet dangling around his neck, began his search for Joe and Harry.

A Seaforth Highlander, thrown against a tree like a crumpled rag doll, a jagged wound ripping open his chest, was obviously in the throes of dying. ‘Help me, for God’s sake, help me,’ he moaned through parched lips.

Blackie knelt down and took him in his arms. The boy tried to speak again. ‘Don’t talk,’ Blackie murmured, cradling him like a baby, his eyes urgently seeking a medical officer to no avail.

The boy sighed deeply and shuddered and went limp in his arms. Blackie looked down at him. He was dead, his eyes wide and staring. Blackie closed the lids, gazing at that young face, so
tender, so innocent in death. No more than nineteen, Blackie thought, and tears of compassion and hopeless anger dimmed his vision. Blackie released the dead boy and with great gentleness laid him down under the tree, the only one standing for miles.

Filled with a searing pain that seemed to split his chest in half, Blackie flung himself onto a patch of grass miraculously not torn up by the shelling. He pressed his face into the earth and closed his eyes. The last two days had passed in a haze of blood and killing and pain. He knew he would never forget the screams of the men as they were mowed down with such relentless efficiency, or ever cleanse himself of the stench that clung to his body like another skin. It was compounded of every kind of foul thing on this earth.

How will it end? he asked himself, this war of senseless murder and destruction precipitated by evil men seeking dominion over the world and the enslavement of mankind to satisfy their own greed for power. He did not know the answer. His mind reeled with furious rage, indignation and despair; his sorrow over-whelmed him. He pressed his face deeper into the grass and felt the cool clean sensation of the dew against his skin. And he did not know that the grass was dry or realize that his face was wet with his own tears.

Reality in the shape of a strong arm on his shoulder roused Blackie. He lifted his head. Harry was standing over him. ‘Come on, me old cock. We’re not at a bleeding Sunday school picnic,’ Harry joked. He pulled Blackie to his feet.

‘Have you seen Joe?’

Harry shook his head and a dismal look wiped the cheery grin off his face. ‘No, I haven’t, lad. And I wouldn’t know where to begin to look, not in this bloody mess I wouldn’t.’

‘Help me to find him, Harry.
Please
,’ Blackie begged, his voice suddenly cracking.

‘Aye, I will that, lad. Don’t worry, he must be somewhere hereabouts. Come on then, mate, let’s start with that group of wounded tommies over yonder.’ Growing increasingly aware of the worried expression on Blackie’s face, Harry grinned and punched his arm. ‘Joe can’t have gone for a bloody hike, now can he!’ he asserted, endeavouring to be jocular. ‘I bet we’ll find the old cocker puffing away on a fag-end, Blackie, and looking as if he don’t have a bleeding care in the world.’

Emma sat on the edge of Christopher’s bed, the storybook in her hand, the lamp infusing her face with roseate tints and casting an aureole of light around her head. She closed the book and smiled at her son. ‘Now, come along, Kit. It’s time to go to sleep.’

Kit’s wide-set hazel eyes regarded her steadfastly and his small round face, covered with a dusting of light freckles, was very intense for a five-year-old. ‘Please, Mummy, just
one
more story,’ he begged. ‘
Please
, Mummy. You promised to read to me a bit longer tonight and you never break a promise, do you? At least that’s what you’re always saying.’

Amused at his unsubtle brand of persuasion but unswayed by it, she laughed and rumpled his hair playfully. ‘I
have
read longer to you, Kit. You must go to sleep now. It’s well past your bedtime.’ She put the book on the table and, leaning forward, kissed his cheek.

His sturdy little arms went around her neck and he nuzzled closer to her. ‘You smell so nice, Mummy. Just like a flower. Like a whole bunch of flowers,’ he murmured in her ear.

Smiling, Emma drew away and smoothed back his hair. ‘Snuggle down, Kit. Good night and sweet dreams.’

‘Good night, Mummy.’

Emma turned out the light and closed the door quietly behind her. She paused at Edwina’s door, hesitating uncertainly before tapping lightly and entering. Edwina was sitting up in bed reading, her pale blonde hair tumbling in luxuriant waves around her thin shoulders visible through the light cotton nightgown. She lifted her head and focused her cool silver-grey eyes on Emma, looking as if she resented this intrusion on her privacy.

‘I just came to kiss you good night,’ Emma said carefully, crossing the floor. ‘And don’t burn the midnight oil for too long, will you, dear?’

‘No, Mother,’ Edwina said. She placed the book on one side and continued to gaze at Emma, a patient expression on her face.

Emma hovered near the bed. ‘Our little nursery dinner
was
fun tonight, wasn’t it?’ she gaily remarked, wishing to reinforce the rapport, tentative though it was, which had recently sprung up between them.

Edwina nodded. ‘Yes.’ The child studied her for a moment and then said, ‘When is Uncle Winston coming to stay with us, Mother?’

‘I’m not quite certain, dear. Very soon, I hope. He said in his last letter he expected to get leave imminently.’

‘I’m glad he’s coming. I like Uncle Winston,’ Edwina volunteered.

Surprised at this unexpected confidence and encouraged by it, Emma lowered herself on to the bed gingerly, always acutely conscious of Edwina’s abhorrence of close physical contact. ‘I am happy that you do, Edwina. He loves you very much and so does your Uncle Frank.’

‘Will Uncle Frank be coming, too? I mean, when Uncle Winston gets his leave?’

‘Yes, that was the plan, Edwina. We’ll have some jolly evenings together. We’ll play charades and have singsongs. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

‘Oh, yes, it will be nice.’ Edwina proffered Emma a rare smile, a deliquescent smile that softened her cold young face and brought a hint of warmth to those enormous argent eyes.

Emma, observing Edwina intently, felt her heart miss a beat. There it was again.
That smile.
That melting smile she remembered only too well. She dropped her eyes, aware that a flicker of fear had entered them, and nervously straightened the coverlet. ‘We’ll make plans for your Uncle Winston’s visit tomorrow,’ she said in a low voice, and stood up abruptly. Bending down, she kissed Edwina fleetingly, afraid of being repulsed, and went on, ‘Good night, darling. Sleep tight.’

‘Good night, Mother,’ Edwina responded dutifully in a stiff tone, and returned to her book without giving Emma a second glance or a second thought. Her mother, this woman whom everyone claimed was beautiful and charming and clever,
hardly existed for the ten-year-old girl. Edwina lived in a world entirely of her own making and she did not permit anything or anyone to penetrate it, and the only two people she loved were Joe and her Cousin Freda in Ripon.

The child was an enigma to Emma. She ran lightly down the stairs, Edwina’s smile lingering in
her
mind as she entered the study. She grows to look more like her every day, Emma thought with a stab of acute discomfort. But it’s only a
physical
resemblance, she reassured herself, hurriedly dismissing those characteristics which were becoming more pronounced in her daughter and which disturbed her from time to time. The desk was covered with a pile of papers that needed Emma’s immediate attention and she sat down, determined to wade through them that evening. After half an hour she realized her powers of concentration had fled and she put down her pen in irritation and leaned back in the chair, wondering what ailed her. Strain? Tiredness? She had felt distracted and restless that morning, feelings unprecedented for her. But they had persisted throughout the day and she had left the store earlier than usual, conscious of needing to break loose from the fetters of her business and assailed by a desperate longing to be at home with her children.

It was the housekeeper’s day off and Emma had shooed Clara, the devoted nursemaid, out of the kitchen and prepared the dinner herself. Emma had enjoyed the simple pleasure of working with the food and using her hands instead of her brain for once, and this brief domestic sojourn had refreshed her. Later she had joined Clara and the children for their evening meal in the nursery, and she had experienced such a profound sense of serenity in their untroubled world her own cares had disappeared.

It was a lovely interlude, Emma said to herself, and vowed she would stop depriving herself of her children’s company as she had done so often lately. She was not going to allow business to interfere so relentlessly with her hours with them. This time in their lives was precious and she wanted to share it. Even Edwina was warmer in disposition and more outgoing than usual during supper, Emma reflected with genuine pleasure, and the child’s sudden declaration of her liking for Winston
was quite remarkable in view of her dismaying lack of feeling for most people. It had been a revelation to Emma, and she was hopeful that it signalled a change for the better.

Emma’s drifting thoughts settled on her daughter. She’s a Fairley through and through and there’s no mistaking that. Emma had long recognized the striking likeness Edwina bore to her grandmother on the paternal side. She was a faithful reproduction—a mirror image—of Adele. Have Winston and Frank ever detected it? she wondered. They had never passed one comment. Blackie, on the other hand, was a wholly different matter. Emma suspected he had arrived at the truth years ago, although he, too, had been discreetly silent on the subject and had never displayed even the slightest hint of his suspicions, either by a knowing look or by a careless reference.

Emma thought then of Edwin Fairley. Her hatred for him remained constant, yet it had changed in nature and now sprang from her intellect and not from her heart. Consequently, it was deadlier than before, for it had objectivity and thus direction.

Even if she wanted to forget the Fairley family, Emma would have found that virtually impossible, since the
Yorkshire Morning Gazette
consistently reported their activities, social or otherwise. She knew a great deal about Edwin. He was a captain in the army and had been awarded the Victoria Cross ‘for bravery above and beyond the call of duty’. Bravery indeed, she thought, her lip curling with contempt. She had also seen the announcement of his son’s birth in the paper only yesterday. His wife, the Lady Jane Fairley, daughter of the Earl of Carlesmoor, had been delivered of a seven-pound boy, to be baptized Roderick Adam in honour of his two grandfathers.

But Edwin Fairley’s life was of no concern to her—at the present time. Adam and Gerald Fairley were her primary targets and for a simple reason:
they
controlled the Fairley mills and therefore the Fairley fortune. The family’s destiny was in
their
hands. Over the years Emma had come to understand that the most potent way to strike back at them was through business. She had already created immense problems for them at Thompson’s mill, because they found it practically impossible to replace the work force she had stolen. There was nothing
she did not know about their holdings and the general state of their commercial affairs. Her information had been acquired with limitless patience, incalculable diligence, and in the ut-most secrecy, and she was already formulating her plans for the future.

They were exposed and vulnerable to her and they did not know it!
Adam Fairley, always negligent about business, had become excessively so of late. Olivia Wainright Fairley had recently been struck down by some strange illness and he rarely, if ever, came to Yorkshire. The reins were in Gerald Fairley’s hands, and
he
was a bumbling fool.
He
was the weak link in the iron chain which she intended to dismantle and cast to one side, just as her father and her daughter and she herself had been cast aside by them. And it was mainly on Gerald Fairley that her vivid green eyes rested with virulent loathing. No woman ever expunged the terrifying memory of the man who had attempted rape on her and Emma was no exception. Yes, Gerald was the key to their downfall. All she had to do was stick out her foot and trip him and the others would come tumbling behind. There were no doubts in her mind about the final outcome. Once she had set herself a goal nothing could deter her from achieving it.

The doorbell rang, echoing through the silent house. It brought Emma up with a start and pulled her away from her contemplation of the Fairleys. She rose and went into the hall, her silk dress swishing as she moved with her usual rapidity. She opened the front door, wondering who could be calling at this hour, to be confronted by a telegraph boy.

‘Evening, missis,’ he said, deferentially touching his cap. He handed her the telegram, touched his cap again, and ran down the steps. Emma closed the door and glanced at the yellow envelope. It was undoubtedly from Winston, announcing his arrival.

Emma glided into the centre of the hall and stood under the crystal chandelier where the light was brighter and ripped it open. Her eyes travelled quickly across the top line and they widened and widened, and the smile on her face faded as she read:

‘
It is with deep regret and the greatest sympathy that the War
Office must inform you that your husband Private Joseph Daniel Lowther of the 1st Battalion of the Seaforth Highlanders was killed in action on July 14 in France
…’

The remaining words blurred and ran together and, recoiling, Emma sat down on the hall chair with a thud, stunned and for a moment disbelieving. She stared blankly at the opposite wall, the light in her eyes dulled, her mouth trembling. Eventually she brought her reluctant gaze back to the telegram crumpled in a ball between her clenched fingers. She straightened it out and read it again. The devastating words slowly sank in and her heart plunged.

It can’t be true! There has been a mistake! A ghastly error! Emma cried inwardly, moving her head from side to side, denying the words. Joe could not be dead. Her throat thickened as reality struck at her, and she sat frozen in the chair, as rigid as stone, held in the grips of the most paralysing shock.

After what seemed like an eternity to Emma she pushed herself up out of the chair, forcing her shaking legs to move forward, blindly making her way to the stairs. She held on to the banister to steady herself, a sensation of fainting weakness trickling through her entire body. She manoeuvred herself up the staircase, dragging one leaden foot after the other, moving with laborious care like an old woman crippled by arthritic pain. She stumbled into her bedroom, collapsed on to the bed, and lay motionless, staring at the ceiling in a trance-like state, her eyes dark pools of sorrow.

Poor Joe. Poor Joe. Struck down after only a brief few weeks at the front. He was too young to die. It was unfair. Unfair. Emma began to weep, the tears streaming down her face unchecked. She would never see Joe again. The children would never see him again. Her mind floundered at the thought of Kit and Edwina sleeping so peacefully in their beds. She could not tell them the news. Not now. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Her anguished mind began to race. How had Joe died? And where was his body? She wanted Joe’s body. Irrational as the idea was under the present circumstances, she wanted to give him a proper burial. The thought of Joe’s body lying smashed and neglected somewhere in France haunted her. It was a
horrendous image that wobbled in the very centre of her brain.

Emma lay in the bedroom, unaware of the hour, watching the night descend, abandoned and lonely in her misery. And she grieved inconsolably for Joe. He had been honourable, and kind in an infinite number of ways, and now she dismissed all the traits that had irritated her, forgot the revulsion she had experienced in their marital bed. She carefully obliterated everything that had been distressing, remembered only the good and the best.

And she wept all night for the loss of a decent man, for all that he had been and had represented, and for the life they had shared together.

It was a glorious Sunday afternoon in late October, one of those unexpected Indian-summer days, radiant with crystalline light that flooded the periwinkle-blue sky. The garden was bathed in a golden haze and the trees and the shrubs were already turning colour, the autumnal foliage a glowing mixture of yellows and orange running to scarlet and burnt sienna.

Laura O’Neill sat on the garden seat lost in contemplation. Her thoughts as always were with Blackie in France. She had not received a letter for several weeks. On the other hand, that dreaded telegram had not arrived either. Despite the lack of news of any sort, Laura held the deep conviction that Blackie was safe and would continue to be safe and that he would come home to her when the war was over. Her unwavering faith in Almighty God was the rock upon which her life was built, and she knew with absolute certainty that Blackie was under His divine protection. Laura, always devout, now went every day to mass, disregarding Emma’s advice that she stay in bed and rest. She lit innumerable candles for Blackie and Winston and for all of the other fighting men. And her gentle heart overflowed with grief for those who had lost sons and husbands and sweethearts, and most especially for Emma, widowed four months before.