Mothers and Daughters (38 page)

‘Mother, don’t fuss, I’m fine … Angus was showing off as usual climbing too high. He can be such a chump.’

‘I turn my back for five minutes and you get up to mischief again.’

‘We’re not babies. It was so hot and we just fancied a swim.’

‘What were those village brats doing on my land?’

‘You know everyone plays in the Foss when it’s warm … It’s tradition.’

‘Not while we’re in residence for the summer, they don’t. I shall speak to the parish Council and remind them.’

‘Oh Mama, the Bartleys saved Gus’s life. You ought to be singing their praises not lecturing them. I told them you would be grateful,’ Gus argued. He stood his ground just like his father. What a fine soldier he would make one day but she must be firm.

‘Sometimes, Guy, you overstep the mark … Over familiarity with the lower orders breeds contempt and disobedience, playing cricket for the village is one thing. It is your duty to set an example, not make promises on my behalf. Ask Arkie to have tea sent up here. I’ll sit and watch over him just in case … He really ought to be in hospital.’

‘I wish Papa was here. He promised to be home for the hols.’

‘The Army needs him. There’s talk of war with Germany one of these days. The situation demands all the staff officers to be making contingency plans. We mustn’t worry him. Run along, Have a warm bath, you’re shivering in that indecent bathing suit.’

Hester needed to be alone. Angus looked so fragile and battered, poor darling. Nothing must harm either of her precious sons, her golden eggs. They were so late coming into her life. At nearly forty she had feared she was barren and then they came together one terrible night of pain and confusion when all her dignity was abandoned in the struggle to bring them into the world. Guy Arthur Charles came first, all of a rush and then the shock when another baby emerged, Garth Angus Charles, taking his time: Two for the pain of one, her beautiful boys, alike in every way. In one night her world was changed forever and she loved them both with a devotion that knew no bounds.

Looking round at the mess in Gus’s bedroom, cricket bats and fishing rods, horse crops, rugby shoes, clothes scattered on the floor, she sighed. He was such an energetic boy, full of pranks and madcap ideas. He was a skilled horseman winning rosettes to prove his competitive spirit. On the wall were stag antlers, model ships and biplanes and a map tracing Colonel Charles’s campaigns in South Africa. The twins were as bad as each other when they were home. At school it was another matter. They were put in different houses, beaten for any misdemeanours but excelled on the sports field and in the Officers Training Corps.

It was always so quiet when they were away that was why she’d begged Charles to let her buy Waterloo House so she could be close for their exeats and any
public concerts at Sharland School; the great stone fortress that stood on the edge of the moor.

To think that life could have ended for one of them this beautiful afternoon didn’t bear thinking about. Horse treks and camping out over the Dales would be out of bounds for the rest of the holidays after this escapade. Now she must be gracious and receive their rescuers but of all the children to save Angus why did it have to be the blacksmith’s brood of Dissenters?

Only last week she was in her carriage doing a round of charitable visiting when she chanced to see the blacksmith striding along the cobbled narrow street in his leather apron, shirt sleeves rolled up showing muscled arms the colour of walnut oil. His black curly hair far too long under his cap, more like a gypsy’s locks. She looked at him from her height expecting him to doff his cap in deference but he swaggered on as if she was nobody of consequence.

‘Stop the carriage!’ she ordered Beaven. ‘Go and ask that man why he has been so rude.’

‘Yes, Maam,’ said her coachman, pulling up until Bartley was alongside them. ‘Hey you, my mistress wants to know why you didn’t pay the usual respect to her ladyship?’

‘Oh Aye,’ said Asa Bartley looking straight at her with those coal black eyes. ‘You tell your mistress, I bows to no man but my Maker and that’s a fact!’

Hester flushed at such insolence and drove on in
fury. The blacksmith might own his business but they rented the cottage from the Waterloo estate. How dare he be so rude!

Men like him didn’t know their place. These chapel ranters were behind all the stirrings of unrest in England; the Labour Movement and Trade Unions, socialist ideas for all being equal, women wanting to register for the vote and such like. The Women’s Suffrage society had the cheek to send wagons round the villages canvassing for support from Sharland’s millworkers, encouraging them to strike for better wages. She blamed all the unrest on the preachers in the pulpits of these stone chapels, giving workmen ideas above their station.

‘
God bless the squire and his relations

And keep us in our proper stations
’ went the verse of a hymn. That was how society worked. How could any army survive without discipline and rank? Rank first and foremost. Orders must be given and obeyed, that was the key to social cohesion. Charles’s Generals and his staff knew how to plan battles and their foot soldiers, under officers, must carry out the orders without question. It was always thus and salutes were part of the discipline.

Bartley had insulted her rank and class by his insolence and now she must forbear this insult to show Christian forbearance to stomach making conversation with his children but one thing was certain. No child of his would ever be employed on the estate.
Dissenters children had too much spirit to be knocked back, asked too many questions. They were difficult foals to break in, coming from such a different world. Their kind were best ignored and kept at bay: a different tribe and long may that continue.

Angus seemed comfortable enough so she gathered up some of the mess on the floor. What must the doctor have thought of the clutter, that she was slack with her servants? The eye of the mistress was worth two of her hands, she mused so Arkie must make sure the room was more presentable for his next visit. She didn’t want any tittle-tattling to his silly wife.

Hester caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing mirror. She’d never been an oil painting in looks; tall, on the gaunt side of slender but well corseted to give a robust shape and bolstered bosom like her heroine, the new Queen Mary. Her thin cream dress was a little frivolous for a Workhouse meeting but it was so hot. That was the trouble with country living, you had to be so careful to set a standard suitable for your rank.

A Military wife knew how to dress discreetly, to impress junior officers’ wives as to what they must aspire. There were formal school visits to endure, dressing discreetly with nothing to cause the boys embarrassment, especially being such an older parent: no fancy jewellery or lavish trimmings on her picture hats. The risk of under or over dressing in such a
backwater was a balancing act she found quite within her grasp. If she stuck to muted colours: mauve, taupe, eau de nil, stone and her beloved silver grey for her palette, her spirits rose. Afternoon and tea gowns, skirts blended with tweed and dull plaids, furs and country tweeds were what she ordered from her dressmaker in London. Silk and wool, cotton lawns and simple lace trim distinguished her as top drawer at a glance.

Yorkshire might have smoke and soot but the best woollen cloth in the world was just over the hills in Leeds and Bradford. She felt dignified in such quiet shades. Colour was for the young fry and dress uniforms. She was a Colonel’s lady, daughter of a baronet, well enough placed to receive calling cards from The Birkwiths of Wellerby Hall and Lady Sommerton, the aunt of the Headmaster of Sharland School. His wife Maud, was the cousin of Lord Bankwell.

It was important to know where one was placed on this ladder of rank. There were those who tried a little too hard to climb up a rung, like the Vicar’s poor wife, Violet Hunt.

Then there was Doctor Mackenzie with his ambitious wife, Amaryllis and their two pretty daughters, one of whom was old enough now to be brought to her sons’ attention. All to no avail, of course, her boys were far too young for such entanglements. They were destined for the Army and glittering careers.

Hester sat down on the window seat, suddenly exhausted with the shock of Angus’s accident, staring out across the walled garden through the orchard that went down the river, across to the great moors rising above. A patchwork of bronzed squares and golden greens caught her eye where the grass had been mown off for hay. Such was the heat haze that the stone walls dividing up the fell side shimmered like silver ribbons.

This part of the West Riding of Yorkshire was remote but not unpleasantly so. There were plenty of regular trains into Leeds and a direct line to London through the Midland Railway. The Dales rough-hewn beauty, a grandeur of limestone scars and moor, was growing on her. She liked the fresh damp air for they were removed from the worst of mill chimney smoke.

Most of the locals were pleasant plain folk who made few demands on her services. Once the boys were out of school and established she would think again about where to settle. Charles preferred the southern uplands, the Sussex Downs to this rugged terrain. Soon he would finish off his career at a desk in London if all went to plan but she didn’t like these rumours of war. He was far too old for battle service now. Hester shivered. Her boys were nearly sixteen. Surely they would be far too young to be mobilised should any threat occur?

Setting a story in a half-remembered era of your own life is always a challenge, especially when trying to drum up the pop music of the time, so I am indebted to
Beat Merchants
by Alan Clayson (Blandford Books, 1995) and
Hit Parade Heroes
by Dave McAteer (Hamlyn, 1993) for jogging my memory. The Beatles did perform at the Oasis Club in Manchester in 1962 but not exactly on the night I have chosen. Thanks to my school friend, Di Leigh, for the sartorial details I’d forgotten, to Peter and Christa Wiggin, for sharing some anecdotes about life as social workers in that era.

The fate of the young unmarried mother in the 60s has been well documented but I was very moved by Pauline Collins’s own biography:
Letter to Louise
(Corgi, 1993).

It was only after I had written the first version of this book that a remarkable member of my own family shared her experience of having to give up her baby for adoption under family pressure and how she recently went about searching and finding this child through official channels. I am deeply indebted to you for giving me insights into how difficult and traumatic this was. I hope this story does justice to the trust you placed in me to convey how punishing those swinging sixties were if you stepped out of line.

However, all my characters are entirely fictitious, and any discrepancies or mistakes are entirely my own.

Once more I must praise my editor, Maxine Hitchcock, for some excellent suggestions, Yvonne Holland, my copy editor for her usual attention to detail and all the team at Avon.

A thank you also to my consultant, Mr A. Nejin for making sure I am still here to tell this tale.

Finally, a loving thank you to my husband David, for his practical support and encouragement during a difficult year.

The Girl From World’s End
The War Widows
Orphans of War

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Copyright © Leah Fleming 2009

Leah Fleming asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work

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