Regret to Inform You... (41 page)

It was on 28 August, the night of the great storm, that Eleanor died. Arthur was alongside her when he realised the change in her breathing pattern; an increase even to the usual gasping. He went to her, carrying the gentle light from the all-night burning candle, and held her hand. Suddenly, her breathing stopped; she had passed away. Arthur placed each hand on one of hers, leant forward and kissed her brow. He gazed at her and the tears fell. He whispered words to his wonderful wife, words that thanked her, words that spoke of his all-consuming love, words that would have broken any listener's heart – but there were no listeners. He was alone, yet he knew that Eleanor's presence, in whatever form, would be with him forever. He sat, he held her ever colder hands, he wept. No prayer came to mind; how could he love a God
who
had taken away the only thing that really mattered? How could such a life be cut so short and end in such pain? When his mother entered the room an hour later for her turn with Eleanor, she found Arthur bent low over his beloved, still clasping her hands, still weeping.

C
HAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

September 1917

Arthur knew his misery was shared by all in Rusfield, but this gave him no solace. Everything he touched or saw reminded him of her; these were the things she had touched, that she had seen. He missed everything about her, but most of all he missed her voice: her conversation, her wisdom and her humour. He had visited many who had lost loved ones in the terrible war years, but surely none had ever felt all that he was now experiencing. He had talked to them of God and his love, but where was that now? No comforting verse, no words he had spoken to others gave him a moment's relief. How useless had been all his prayers and those of so many in the village. God had not listened or, worse still, had spurned all intercessions. He had sat in the stillness of Eleanor's garden, and listened; but he heard no voice and he realised his own foolishness when he recalled saying to one who had lost her son: ‘Time is a great healer.' How wrong; each day that passed brought greater, not less pain.

His mother was fearful of how Arthur would approach the coming Tuesday, yet hoped he would then be able to put the funeral behind him and move on. She was relieved Hugo Sheridan was taking the service, for as vicar at Wensfield he had married Eleanor and Arthur and was a great
friend
of Charles and Georgina Brown, Eleanor's grieving parents.

As the day grew nearer, Arthur's distress dipped into depression; he trembled with grief at the thought of Eleanor being laid to rest in the cold ground. The thought even went through his mind that he would not be able to attend, yet in his heart he knew this was an occasion when he and Eleanor needed their spirits to touch.

While the unusually violent storm attending Eleanor's final hours had passed, the rain continued, and late on the first Monday in September, the eve of the funeral, it continued to lash against the conservatory windows. Charlotte Windle had wondered why Arthur sat in this room where the wretchedness of the weather was exaggerated, but he had told her that it was there he felt closest to Eleanor. Charlotte felt desperately tired, but knew she should wait until her son retired for the night. The time moved on slowly, but she now saw that it was already Tuesday. A few minutes later she realised the rain had stopped and the new moon with its weak light was forcing its way through the night clouds.

Arthur stared up at the silvery light, forced a smile and spoke quietly: ‘Perhaps the weather is turning. I often used to think that Eleanor could change anything.' He stood and moved towards his mother. She, too, stood and they embraced, not a word was spoken, but love flowed between them: love and great pity.

Arthur followed his mother upstairs; they embraced again on the moonlit landing, neither speaking of the event to follow later that day. Alone in his room he gazed at the empty bed. He had no inclination to go to bed, for sleep was not possible and still fully clothed he sat in the upright Victorian chair. This was Eleanor's favourite chair and he recalled how Aunt Elsie, his mother's sister, had given it to them as a wedding present; but his mind soon returned to Eleanor. ‘I always wanted to get married on a snowy day,' he remembered Eleanor saying as
they
had come out of Wensfield church on that February day to see large snowflakes falling. There had been a little covering of snow as they had been driven to the station to catch the train to Southwold. Their welcome at the Old Ship Hotel had been warm; so many happy days there. Wonderful memories for them and they had returned to the hotel for two more holidays before the war. How much they had enjoyed just wandering along the empty, sandy beach, Eleanor determined to paddle, shrieking with joy when stepping into the icy water. They had walked for miles in the seven days, coming back to the small hotel exhausted, but not too tired to love in a way that Arthur had never thought possible. Only eight years, but amazing years that Arthur realised few others could ever know.

He sat, he may have dozed; it was a little after half past five that he was conscious of a brief bird song from the garden. He wondered why any bird would sing an hour before dawn; Eleanor would have gone to one of many natural history books they had accumulated and sought an answer. Perhaps, it was a sound of joy, simply heralding another day. He stood and realised how stiff his limbs had become. It was hours before the funeral and a splash of his face was all that he felt inclined after pouring the cold water from the blue and white jug bought by Eleanor at Steepleton market.

Carrying the light and treading carefully so as not to wake his mother, he descended to the conservatory. There was a slight lightening of the eastern sky as the hall clock struck. How many dawns had there been; yet no other one like this? He had uttered no prayer that night, hardly any since Eleanor had died, but words spoken by him at the many funerals came unexpectedly to mind. Perhaps it was watching dawn breaking which called to mind the words: “In Christ shall all be made alive”, but they meant nothing.

He was uncertain why, but a few minutes later he collected his heavy coat, scribbled a brief note for his mother, unlocked
the
side door and walked the short distance to the church. The sky, now fully aglow as he approached the ancient wooden door to the porch, promised a fairer day than of late. He knew St Mary's would be open, since with the tragic news of the first Rusfield casualties it had been decided that the church must always be left open; solace might be sought at any time. One objector had warned of church silver being stolen, but Fred Abrahams had retorted that he would rather see something stolen than deny anyone access to God's house. The Methodist chapel also kept its doors permanently open, a decision determined by Arthur's increasingly close friend, the Reverend Reggie Gregg. Eleanor had once said to Arthur that it struck her as strange that it had taken a war for some churches to reverse an age-old habit of locking its doors.

Arthur could hear her gentle voice saying this with just her touch of light mockery. It was a tone she used when she questioned, or indeed criticised the church for what she called its mumbo jumbo: there's so much meaningless tradition that gets in the way of Christianity. Oh, why are there so many things that men have made up; not truths that Christ ever talked about? Arthur knew how she had never said such things with bitterness, but a sadness because much of church tradition conflicted with her simple, but strong faith. What would she want Arthur to do now, what would she gently tell him? He reflected for a moment that her belief, her ideas had touched him; in preparing services he found himself more wary of some of the Old Testament readings, casting aside, or at least seriously questioning, biblical readings that he thought Eleanor would question. But even when critical of the church's teaching, she softened her words by adding: ‘Well, anything that helps any one of us to follow Christ's teaching and get nearer to God must be all right. We're all different.'

He stepped round a puddle on the well-trodden path a few yards from the massive oak door. Above the door, the semicircular tympanum, washed and worn by eight centuries
of
wind and rain so that its once highly-decorated design of the world's creation had deteriorated to a fragile and unadorned outline. Arthur pushed hard and the door eased open with its well-rehearsed scraping sound that no one had resolved. He was glad visitors were welcomed by a light church; the early English windows had been well designed seven centuries previously. The colours on the altar cloth and modest silverware sparkled, the increasingly brilliant arrows of the early morning sun cutting through the window at the east end. Arthur was surprised to find himself in this place he knew so well; what had prompted him to come amid his self-searching grief? Out of habit, as much as meaning, he crossed himself and sat at the end of one of the front dark-stained pews.

One debt he owed his father had been an introduction to some of the classic religious buildings of the land. He remembered the cathedrals at Gloucester, Salisbury and Wells, but most of all the magnificence of King's College where he had been overwhelmed on a visit to Cambridge in his youth. Yet, as he sat quietly in this modest and simple church he felt closer to those who had built it than ever he felt in one of those great edifices. How little it had changed in all the centuries; here people had come in times of disaster and, for some moments, he imagined the poorly-clad villagers coming in and praying during the times of the Black Death, the Great Plague, the threat from Napoleon and moments of personal tragedy. He could hear Eleanor, accompanied by her gentle smile, saying: ‘Arthur, just think of all those people who have been in here before you; somehow they found the strength to go on.' At that moment the increasing sunlight caught a flower pedestal bearing white and red chrysanthemums. The pulpit with its intricate workmanship, not a work of significance as Grinling Gibbons might have carved at one of the cathedrals, but which someone had taken much time and skill to achieve. Maybe, he would make time to find out more about St Mary's and write a proper history.

But
then his mind stopped wandering and his eye fell on where he knew Eleanor's coffin would rest at midday, and the pain returned. He dipped his head on to his arms resting on the pew in front and slithered forward on to his knees, as much in angst as prayer. Tremors overtook his whole frame, tears his eyes and he gently sobbed. ‘Why hast though forsaken me?' were not words he spoke, nor even thought, but was his whole view of God and the world.

He had heard no sound of anyone coming down the aisle, but then a gentle voice: ‘Come now, Vicar. Let me pray with you.' He brushed his eyes, blinked, turned and saw dear Liz Smith standing there. Liz, of all people, one whom he never associated with St Mary's, another person whose life had known, indeed still knew deep tragedy.

Shamefaced, he pushed himself up and stood; she right next to him, sorrow inscribed in her haggard features. ‘I'm sorry Liz; I didn't know anyone was here.'

She gently spoke, ‘Lovely Eleanor: we all weep for her. She was the most kindly woman this village has ever known. On this day of all days, no one will be thinking of anything but her,' and here she paused for a moment before adding, ‘and you, Vicar. Come, let us sit down together.'

After a few moments, Arthur realised her hand was resting on his. There were tears in her eyes as well. ‘Liz, I'm sorry, but why are you here?'

‘In part to pray for dear Eleanor, but there is another reason: you see today is my Fred's birthday. If he hadn't died in this terrible war he would be twenty-one today. Fourth of September, his birthday; the only difference is that today's a Tuesday and he was born on a Friday. They say that Friday's child is loving and giving; that was Fred. No one ever had a better son. Oh yes, he'd never found learning easy, but he was so kind. When Willy Johnson came home on leave after Fred died, he came to see me. Do you know what he said, Vicar?' Arthur gave a slight smile of encouragement, but kept silent.
‘
He said that Fred was the most loyal friend he ever had. Willy had lots of friends and to say that was wonderful.'

It was now Arthur's turn to place his hand on that of Liz's, ‘Bless you Liz. I had no idea it was Fred's birthday. He was a splendid young man. So we really share our sadness today.'

‘Indeed we do, but let's also think how we can share the best of memories: mine of Fred and yours of Eleanor. Think of the good things you have enjoyed together: be thankful for those. Vicar, do you remember when you came to see mother in her final moments and then we sat downstairs together with Nurse Hazlett?'

‘I do. Your mother was a fine lady.'

‘And do you remember when you and Eleanor, oh so kind, came to see me at the munitions factory when Fred died?' Again, Arthur nodded at his clear memory of that day. ‘Well, both those times we said the Lord's Prayer together, do you remember that, too?' Another gentle nod and smile.

‘Let's join in saying it together now, shall we? Remembering dear Eleanor.'

‘And Fred,' he added.

‘Yes. Let's think of them being here with us now, at least in spirit. I'm not a church person, but I think there is a God, perhaps he's here right now; five of us together.'

Whilst other villagers were rising from their beds, eating a hurried breakfast, Liz and Arthur said the prayer in a way that he had never known the words before. For a moment he imagined Eleanor's smile displaying approval. They sat quietly for a moment and then, without any prompting rose together. Liz leant forward and gently kissed Arthur's cheek. ‘I don't think anyone really dies whilst there is still someone who remembers them with love. I'll be with you when we gather in here in a little while; just remember, so will Eleanor in spirit.'

‘And Fred,' he added. Liz turned and left the church. Arthur followed a few minutes later.