Regret to Inform You...
Read Regret to Inform You... Online
Authors: Derek Jarrett
Copyright
© 2015 Derek Jarrett
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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There
are over 100,000 World War One memorials in the UK.
Perhaps there should be a memorial to those at home who suffered for their loved ones fighting and dying abroad.
It is to these millions that this book is dedicated.
â
I will weep when you are weeping;
When you laugh, I'll laugh with you.
I will share your joy and sorrow
Till we've seen this journey through.'
- Richard Gillard, Hymn âBrother, Sister'.
The Servant Song âBrother, Sister let me serve you', Gillard, © 1977 Universal Music â Brentwood Benson Publishing (
Admcapitolcmgpublishing.com/UK&Eire
Song
Solutions.org
www.songsolutions.org
) All rights reserved. Used by permission.
The
Six Young Men
John Atkins (Jack)
James Carey (Jammy)
William Johnson (Willy)
Albert Jones (Boney)
Abraham Richards (Racer)
Frederick Smith (Fred)
Part One 1912
Part Two 1914 â 1919
CONTENTS
Thursday, 15 January 1874
The pall of smoke rose slowly. Dark grey below, becoming ever paler until it was lost in the powder-blue sky. It gave no clue as to its origin, but a fire of great intensity must have been the cause. Whilst at first appearing becalmed, it provided the only movement on this windless and sweltering day.
The cause had to be a good distance away, for much closer was the lush green of trees stretching in every direction. So dense was this green that it could only be a tropical forest. No sound came from this forest, but perhaps the animals had been warned of the distant blaze and fled.
Nearer, the soaring trees gave way to land that had been cleared; a red carpet of soil, littered with occasional tree stumps and rocks. Whilst nothing save the gentle ascent of this pall of smoke was moving, and that only slowly, a closer look showed two signs of activity, but only just. On one of the tree stumps, a bird; grey-brown above, buffy-brown below and with a predator's beak. It was gazing as if with troubled eye, towards a larger being close to the ground. As
eyes
adjusted to the dazzling sunlight, a human figure, hardly crawling over the bare ground, would have been recognised. This figure was also in brown, but that uniform was filthy, blackened and torn. The man, for assuredly it was just that, edged forward, clawing his way onwards. The buzzard moved closer.
That movement saved the man: a soldier grappling to stay alive, a man whose actions were to hugely affect his son, at that time but a young child.
Morning, Friday, 22 March
From the gentle, tree-covered slopes, the village was little different to others in this part of rural Suffolk; the small clusters of cottages, the soaring church spire and occasional human movement were unremarkable. As one got closer, it became apparent that many of the cottages were in need of repair: old thatch or broken tiled roofs and peeling paintwork. The narrow streets, where carts and horses vied to make the rutted impression, wove their way between the cottages. Given such an expansive landscape, it was surprising that the clusters of homes were so tightly packed: perhaps to protect each other from winter gales that occasionally swept up from the not too distant river.
Such was Rusfield, once a bustling scene, at least during the sowing and harvesting times when there had been employment for villagers wielding hoe, dibber and scythe. However, since many fields had been bought by a distant brewery, machines had taken over and many from generations of agricultural workers had been pressed further into a state of poverty.
To the west of the church could be seen the village school, a beacon of hope both when it was built thirty-five years earlier and now to the present generation. Families were large with many of the two-up, two-down cottages giving slim
comfort
to their large numbers. Some teenagers had learnt enough to move to one of the nearby towns where there were demands for builders and clerks; some to London where the urban sprawl gave opportunity, the workforce returning each Saturday afternoon. A few of the more ambitious, along with some who felt they had nothing to lose, had just migrated to Canada, two as far as New Zealand.
Apart from the church, few substantial buildings could be seen. The red-brick school and nearby schoolhouse, from which Peter Meadows and his wife would shortly be leaving, were partly obscured behind towering elm trees. Similarly, part hidden by the bare trees, was the decade-old Methodist chapel, which had replaced the former wooden structure. To the north of the village, and sensibly half-hidden by a dip in the hillside to catch the best hours of the sun, was the one large house, its mainly timbered walls and high, grey-stone chimneys clearly announcing a Tudor origin: the manor. To the south-east a substantial farmhouse and finally, a light-bricked, many-windowed and pleasant house near to the church: the vicarage.
The land around the church was owned by a Cambridge college, one of the reasons that make church history a fascinating story. St Mary's had stood since the eleventh century, its many additions and alterations almost hiding its Norman foundation. Coinciding with the final year of George II's reign, a priest was appointed to work among the people of Rusfield and four adjacent parishes, but a few years later he became poorly and the kindly bishop had removed the responsibility of the other four parishes from him: so it remained. The house was splendid in its fine Georgian style. With the realisation that parish priests might have large families, six bedrooms were included along with two studies and three living rooms.
The bedrooms had never been fully used, as the most productive incumbent had a mere three children and the current vicar, the Reverend Arthur Henry Windle and his wife,
were
childless. He had moved to be curate to the Reverend Charles Gulland twenty-one years previously, becoming its sole occupant when appointed as the vicar two years later. Any thought of moving to a grander church was counterbalanced by his unexpected feeling of comfort in working in this poor village. Undoubtedly, his delight in subsequently marrying the lovely, vivacious, much younger Eleanor had added greatly to this feeling of contentment. He could never stop counting his good fortune in taking a service at Wensfield, a village some four miles away, when he had first seen the beautiful Eleanor Brown. Whilst he later asked for God's forgiveness in having such feelings towards her in the midst of a morning service, he had been immediately enchanted by her looks, from her long black hair and her high cheekboned face to her elegant bearing. Such beauty, above all a gentleness, that reminded Arthur of a Vermeer painting he remembered from his student days.