Regret to Inform You... (24 page)

Gwendolyn Edwards came out of her cottage with her neighbour, Lillian Reynolds, who had joined forces to find enough mugs of steaming tea. Rachel Fielding walked from The Queens Head with another tray, this one of freshly baked scones. The men seemed very pleased to chat even as they were enjoying their unexpected refreshment, breaking off only to give another child a turn on the back of his horse.

Robert Berry who had seen many cavalry groups in his time, was thrilled that he had been taking a stroll round the
village
when, to his delight, he had seen the soldiers. ‘So,' he knowledgeably said, ‘I can see you're all from the 1
^st
King Edward Horses Regiment, but what are you doing here?' he asked a fine-featured soldier, one of the youngest in the group.

‘Well sir,' he responded with much charm, ‘our captain is anxious that both we and the horses keep fit. We've been training over the other side of that hill,' he added, pointing towards Bramrose Hill. ‘So we just came out this morning and coming across your village we guessed there must be somewhere we could water the horses.' He nodded towards the half-eaten scone and added, ‘We clearly chose well. Everyone is so kind.'

Arthur had found himself by the captain, an older man with a neat moustache and sideburns whom Arthur judged to be in his mid-thirties. ‘Let me say how much we welcome you to the village.'

The captain continued to stroke the mane of his fine dappled mare as he replied to Arthur: ‘Your people have been so kind and I would ask you to pass on our thanks to everyone. We'll look back on our stop here with much pleasure.' He then spoke quietly to his men and the last of the children were helped down from their horses. ‘Now,' called out the captain, ‘we want to thank all of you for your kindness. You're wonderful people. Now men, ready.' Everyone joined in saying farewell, with many a thank you and best wishes as the men quickly got on to order. As they were ready to ride off the sergeant led three hearty cheers which rang round the green; tears were in some of the villagers' eyes. For many this was their first real contact with the war. The villagers waved, the men replaced their hats and rode off towards Steepleton.

Some stayed chatting, there was plenty to talk about. Peter Woods had seen the soldiers coming towards the village and made a slight adjustment to his delivery round, ending with the few houses at the far end of Sandy Lane. Now bicycling
back
up the hill, he slowed down outside the village butchers. ‘This I must not forget!' he thought to himself. How much smarter the shop looked since Susannah and Sidney Jones had taken over. Everyone hoped that things were going well for the couple after the anxieties of Sidney's unemployment for several years. As Peter went in, accompanied by the satisfying jingle of the fixed bell, he was pleased to see one of his village favourites in the shop: Olivia Atkins, looking as pretty as ever, Peter thought.

‘Good morning, Mrs Atkins, good morning, Mr Jones,' Peter said as he came into the shop. Shopkeeper and customer replies were equally cordial.

‘Susannah is just cutting up some bacon on the smaller slicer in the rear room, Peter. So what can I get for you?'

Peter looked along the display. ‘Mum asked me to get four lamb chops and a few pork sausages, please.' After paying, and wishing both a good day, he was just about to leave the shop when Olivia spoke to him.

‘Oh Peter, I don't suppose there was any post for me this morning was there?'

‘There was a letter, Mrs Atkins. I don't think it was from Jack as it looked too official for that. I hope that was all right,' he added encouragingly. ‘I must be off now. Thank you.'

Why Olivia felt a spasm of anxiety she did not know. Perhaps it was from Jack for sometimes letters were put in different envelopes after the censors had looked at them. She only had to wait a few moments before Susannah appeared with the wrapped bacon and she was on her way. She found herself hurrying and was glad she did not meet anyone who might hold her up. She pushed open the front door and immediately saw the letter: a buff-coloured envelope which certainly looked official. Now, with trembling fingers she ran her nail along the envelope seam and pulled out the single sheet.

Olivia's world moved, the walls tilted and moved again. She half stumbled, then grasped the back of the nearby chair. She sank into it, read and reread again and again the brief communication.
Notifying the injury… in a field hospital.
But what injury? Was he still alive? And the letter... dated 30 October. A whole week ago; so what had happened since? She sat slumped, a shell of her normal self. ‘Oh God, I don't want anyone to be hurt, no one to be killed… but not Jack. Please God, not Jack.' Her mind was numbed, her thoughts twisting the same few words round and round. The tears flowed, she wiped them away; she must do something, but what? Liz Smith. What was it she had said to Liz? ‘Whenever you feel down you must always feel able to call on me – and I'll do the same.' She must find Liz; she must share this awful news with her. Clutching the letter, she stumbled to the open door, pulled herself upright and set out. There was no need to take the road to Liz's cottage as that way she might meet someone; she could not bear that thought, so she cut across the green. The bonfire from the previous evening's rather muted Guy Fawkes celebration still smouldered. Some had wanted to cancel the event, but Olivia had agreed with those who believed that the children should be given the few enjoyable things that were still possible. No one seemed to be around as she reached the row of cottages... thank goodness the heavily scratched green door of Liz's cottage was open. She knocked, but went straight in. Passing in to the back room there was
Liz,
her right hand guiding the mangle round, piles of dried washing on the nearest table top, a basket of unwashed linen by the door.

Liz was suddenly aware of the movement; she saw Olivia and immediately stopped her activity. ‘Olivia, what is it?' Before Olivia could speak her friend knew there was bad news; the tear-stained face, the grey pallor said it all. ‘Oh Olivia,' she said as she threw her arms round her friend, embracing her for she knew not what; just love.

‘Oh Liz. Jack's been hurt. It may be worse. I got this letter,' still grasping it even in the embrace.

It was Liz who now proved the strength in this friendship. ‘Let me see, love. You sit down,' but Olivia stayed standing, rooted to the spot in the anguish of the moment. Liz wiped her damp sleeve across her sweating face, and stumbled through the meaning of the few words. ‘I'm so sorry, but Olivia, it may not be too bad. Surely, if it was really bad news you would have heard by now. It may not be too serious.'

But Olivia, always a realist, would never have said words of such comfort when they were not certain, but she was grateful for them now. They were silent for a few moments; they held each other's hand. They talked lovingly of their sons for they shared the awful ache beyond which Olivia could see no hopeful sign. Yet, thirty minutes later when Olivia hugged Liz again and left the cottage, she knew that although anxious times lay immediately ahead, she must wait for further news.

Jack had always been one of the most well-liked young men in the village and the news of his injury and, worse still, how serious it might be, rapidly spread round Rusfield. Arthur, who was particularly anxious, was the first to call on Olivia; Eleanor and many other friends visited her in the next few days. The village waited with her.

To Olivia the following days were endless. Each morning found her waiting for Peter. He, like all in the village, knew
that
she waited for a further letter: to announce grief or relief. He willed that he might have such an encouraging letter in his postbag, but the weekend passed and the early days of the following week: still nothing. The belief that company was a solace became accepted and realised by Olivia as she waited. Eleanor, who was busy with autumn pruning in the vicarage garden on the Monday, was aware of more people calling in at the church than was normal; she knew why.

By the Wednesday Olivia was despairing of hearing any news, ever. It was the following day that Peter arrived in the village earlier than normal. He had been pedalling hard, changing the order of his round so that he started at the far end of the village. He carried not one letter for Olivia, but two: both in formal buff-coloured envelopes. He was no believer, but came closer to God on that bicycle ride than he had ever felt before, praying for the right content of the letters. Past the vicarage, the school, the schoolhouse and, as he slowed down, he was not surprised that Olivia was again cleaning her front-room windows. She turned as she heard the bicycle brakes applied and the slight sound of the tyres coming to a stop on the road.

‘Good morning, Mrs Atkins. I have two letters for you. I hope they have good news for you.' He wanted to stay, he wanted to know what was in the letters, but he respected his role - just to deliver. He cycled off to undertake the rest of his round.

With shaking hands Olivia took the two letters, both in their formal covers. She pushed open the door, into the front room and sat down. She placed the one on her lap and then slit open the other which was written in a hand she did not recognise.

The document, in different writing to the envelope, was in a scribbled hand:
Dear Mrs Atkins, I spect you are woryd about Jack. He is all rite. I was with him wen the shell exploded and bits came everywere. One peece got stuck in Jacks sholder and anuther in
his
leg. He was unconshus and went to the hospital. I went to see him yesterday and he is all rite. He says he is going to rite to you soon. I am all rite to. Love from Fred.

It was the most wonderful letter that Olivia had ever received. She knew Fred had recently written to Liz, but that was probably his first letter ever. His writing portrayed the effort, but it conveyed the most marvellous news of all: Jack was injured, but was all right.

She turned quickly to the second letter. It was a pre-printed form which allowed the writer to cross out some statements and write in others. But wonder of wonders it was signed by Jack. Dated four days ago it must have caught up with Fred's letter written a day or two previously. Olivia read:
I have been admitted into hospital and I am going on well. Proper letter to follow at first opportunity.
Then followed Jack's signature. Olivia felt light-headed with relief. She realised she was smiling: the first time for days. She found herself kissing both letters. She must go to tell Liz and then Arthur. Soon, the whole village rejoiced for mother and son, but the loved ones of thirty-eight other Rusfield men quietly trembled a little more, hoped and prayed.

T
HIRTY-ONE

January 1915

The driving snow was as daggers, piercing and ever reducing the temperature of their bodies. The whiteness covered everything and, as Abraham looked out, the war-torn landscape looked momentarily peaceful. The land near this village of Givenchy-lès-la-Bassée was flat. The few trees threw their arms into the air as if in desperation; the snow-filled dips in the landscape caused by the endless bombardment of shells barely showed.

In the trench it was mercilessly cold and though a welcome change from the incessant rain of late December, the cold numbed the mind. Whatever top was spread over the trench, the wind-driven snow found its way through and the boards along the bottom of the trenches had long since disappeared into the filthy mess created by the stomping feet of the freezing men.

26 January. Almost unaware of the endless days that stretched out with dates becoming meaningless, this was the one that Abraham could remember: his mother's birthday. He tried to focus on his family for a moment; a foreign place. It would be winter in Rusfield too, but hopefully all were safe there. He thought of the letters received just after Christmas, now safe in his tunic pocket. All had seemed to be well. Grace
had
just finished at Wensfield for the Christmas holiday and her letter was warm, loving and had given him a huge lift. His parents were fine, although his mother's anxiety crept between the lines.

‘You finished now then, Richards? You lucky bugger. Off to paradise for a bit.' Sergeant Frisk gave him a friendly push. The final one of the twelve-day stretch in the trench, but Abraham felt almost too numb to think about the four-mile move behind the lines. They had at least held the Germans up in their westward assault; now there was talk of an allied offensive. His mind turned back to the disaster a month earlier. He still could not believe that attempts had not been made to destroy the heavily barbed wired barriers before their advance. Wire-cutters and mattresses as a way of cutting through or scaling the German defences had been a total failure. Scarred deep into his mind was how he had been one to attempt an advance which had been easily held up by machine guns. All had been made worse by the unbelievably muddy fields which had reduced the fastest advance to a slow walk. The men were cut down as falling skittles. The fields of dead and horrendously wounded men would always be with him. How he had survived and got back, he would never know.

For the past twelve days, enemy bombardment had been spasmodic, though news had been carried along the lines that fifty men in a not too distant trench had received a direct hit and all had been killed or dreadfully wounded. The job for Abraham and the rest had been to stay put, to prevent any German advance and wait for the reinforcements. How often they had been told of new forces arriving; where did they get to?