Regret to Inform You... (47 page)

Arthur had found these conversations encouraging, at least preventing him from a rejection of God's presence in the world, even if he was certain of little else. More than once the words of the Buddhist monk with whom he had briefly travelled went through his mind: ‘Truth or, as you would say God, is so great that no single religion can fully encompass it.'

The services on the following day were attended by full congregations; tears of joy and sadness shared the occasions at both places of worship.

‘I read over a month ago that things would soon get back to normal, now the bloody war is over,' Sammy Hatfield remarked to Bernie Thomas, together drinking in the New Year at The Ark. ‘I don't think things will ever be the same again.'

‘I was talking with Olivia Atkins a couple of days ago and she is still waiting for her son Jack. Still, I'd better say it: here's to 1919,' Bernie toasted, gnarled hand lovingly holding his pint glass. ‘It must be better than the past few years. Olivia told me that the last time Jack was home for Christmas was 1913. Can you believe it, over five years ago?'

The army of Rusfield men had begun to trickle home. Frank Boulton and Harry Grainger were the first back; Frank with a badly damaged leg sustained from fighting two days before the armistice, and Harry missing two fingers from a rogue grenade. By Christmas thirty more were back in Rusfield and the homecoming continued.

Pauline and Frederick Richards heard in late December
that
Abraham was in an infantry base depot near Calais waiting for an available boat. His letter revealed that he was well and as he put it:
When I think about all that's happened I'm just lucky to be alive
. He went on to say that like all the volunteers at the beginning of the war, he was being given some preferential treatment regarding the timing of his return.

Wives, parents, brothers, sisters and sweethearts all waited; some, like the Richards family, received notice of their man's homecoming; Gwendoline Edwards and others were amazed that when answering a knock at the door they found their man standing there. Men arrived home in uniform with steel helmet and greatcoat; some loved ones almost unrecognisable from the eager volunteers of a few years earlier. Most found that mother or wife had ensured civilian clothes were waiting, but some which had last been worn years earlier, showed much slack in the fitting. When Jack Atkins finally came home in late January he, like so many battle-scarred soldiers, found the whole idea of peace bewildering; thoughts were a mixture of horrors experienced and friends who did not return. Loved ones needed all their sensitivity to cope with their man's return. Fathers who had fervently looked forward to seeing their children after such a long absence found their loving advances barely returned; Harry Grainger broke down in tears, exclaiming to his wife Mildred: ‘Ruby doesn't seem to care about me. She thinks I'm just a visitor.' Daniel Reynolds wanted to be out in the open air even in the coldest weather.

Arthur Windle and Reggie Gregg tried to keep up with families when men returned, carefully avoiding interference, but aware that only time and the patience of entire families could heal the separation and horrors of the time away. Some men eased back into civilian life with apparent ease; Abraham Richards was one, it was as if he had hardly been away, yet his parents realised that he might just be more successful in hiding his memories. Arthur wondered if one of the saving graces for Abraham was that within a few days he recommenced running.
At
first on gentle runs, but as health improved so distance and speed took over. He soon returned to being the well-known figure running through and well beyond Rusfield. However, he like other returning men, declined to talk of war activities and Arthur perceived traces of guilt in some that they had survived and not their mates.

Arthur made it known that the vicarage door was open each morning from ten o'clock for anyone who wanted to drop in for a chat and a cup of tea or coffee; some villagers called during the next weeks, but rarely any of the war veterans. His heart continued to bleed for Eleanor; she would have known the best way forward with the returning soldiers. She would have charmed them, listened and given support. He was surprised to find that he now prayed more often for help. His old habit, was it no more than that he wondered, of spending a quiet time in his dressing room before retiring, became more frequent. His appeal for forgiveness of his own sins was frequently on his lips. This was never more so than with the approach of an appointment, he could not think of a better word, in early February.

Ten days after his return to Rusfield, Jack Atkins received a letter from Patricia Bagshott that her parents would love him to stay in Ealing for a few days. In spite of prolonged absence, their correspondence and two short spells together had enhanced their love and letters between them spoke of a life together. Three days before his departure to Ealing, Jack had been surprised when his mother said to him: ‘Jack, there's something I need to tell you, something really important.' Jack looked at his loving mother, as beautiful and caring as ever, but faltering even in the few words she had just spoken.

‘Jack, please trust me. It won't be easy for me to tell you and it will be even harder for you to hear, but please remember that I love you dearly and always will.' Jack was further surprised to see a tear forming in his mother's eye. He wondered what
it
was she wanted to tell him; perhaps about her childhood and the disastrous fire that had killed her parents at the family home in Coventry when she had been eighteen, later moving to Rusfield. The thought even flashed through his mind that she had met someone and was going to tell him of a marriage arrangement, but why should she be so fearful of telling him? He would have rejoiced in anything that would bring his mother happiness.

‘I have invited Arthur Windle round tomorrow evening to join us; you will see why later.' She walked across to her son, leant down and gently kissed him. He knew the kiss was a sign to ask no more for the moment.

The following evening Olivia and her son were ready to receive Arthur Windle. A blazing fire warmed the small, comfortable room; several of her own drawings added to its attractiveness. It was Jack who answered the knock just before six o'clock and welcomed the Rusfield vicar. As he took the visitor's coat and his mother and the vicar greeted one another, Jack felt a slight tension between them. Jack offered drinks, but these were politely declined as the two older people sat down; both failing to relax in the armchairs. It was Olivia who spoke first.

‘Jack, my dear, you must be wondering what it's all about. I have something to tell you which I should have told you many years ago. I kept putting it off and then intended to tell you when you became eighteen. Again, I delayed and then the war came and you were away for so long. I'm sorry I've been a coward and can only ask for your forgiveness.'

Jack gave a gentle smile, just wanting his mother to tell him whatever this was all about. He determined not to interrupt her. ‘It's a long story and there's no easy way to tell you. It's about me and your father.' Jack's mind flashed to the only evidence he had seen of his father: Edward Atkins' headstone in the Rusfield graveyard relating his death on 23 October 1894. But in the next few seconds Jack was to receive his
first
major shock from his mother: ‘Jack, your father was not whom you think it was. I have to confess that your father was not Edward whom I had married.' Jack's look was a mixture of surprise and slight anger.

‘But Mother…' he cut short what he was about to say, remembering the promise to himself that he would not interrupt.

‘Jack, you know I came to Rusfield in 1890 when I was eighteen and worked at Spinney Farm and two summers later I was married. Edward was handsome and when we first met he was amusing and I loved him. What I've never told you was that he could be very cruel. We were quite poor, but we could manage. I earned a little money in odd jobs and Edward's modest money, mainly from hedging and ditching, was only seasonal work. I didn't know when we got married that Edward drank a lot. I knew he occasionally spent time in The George, but he had kept the full extent from me; or maybe I was just too stupid or in love to see. He began to drink more and we just didn't have enough money. Thinking back, I realise Eliza Carey tried to warn me, but I hadn't paid any attention. Jack, I'm not just blaming the man you thought was your father, a lot of it was my fault. Things got worse and some evenings he came home very drunk and then he'd hit me and force himself on me. It was awful.'

Jack found himself having to say something, ‘Mother, I had no idea. Why didn't you ever tell me? You should have left him if things were so bad?' He reached out and gently placed his hand on her knee.

‘Jack, I had nowhere to go. I hadn't any money and by this time my grandmother had died; I didn't have any other relatives and didn't know anyone in Rusfield well enough to tell them what was happening. I know all this sounds as if I'm making excuses for what happened later; maybe I am.'

‘But didn't other people, you mentioned Eliza, see what was happening?' Jack could not easily believe what his lovely mother was telling him, yet he knew she was not lying.

‘
Edward was clever. He would always punch me so the bruises were covered. In any case I felt too ashamed, because I knew I was failing to make our marriage work. Once he did punch my face and threw a saucer which cut my forehead, but I pretended that I'd had a bad fall and people seemed to believe me. Things just got worse and some evenings I'd wrap up and go for long walks hoping that by my return he would have got home and fallen asleep. That often happened, but sometimes he'd got home first and locked the door and I had to stay outside in the log shed.' She stopped for a while and Jack knew she was approaching the climax of her story.

‘One evening, Arthur,' she briefly gestured in his direction, ‘came round to see me. Somehow he'd heard that all was not well and had come to see if he could speak with Edward. But he had gone off to The George particularly early that evening as he'd just received his pay. I was desperate. I liked Arthur. I'd got to know him a little since he'd come to Rusfield and when his wife died after they had been married such a short time, lots of us had tried to help him. Well, that's the evening no one else knows about, until now. It's no excuse, but I was in a really bad state from all that had happened and Arthur was desperately unhappy since Florence had died. We realised each other's despair and reached out to each other for comfort: somehow our feelings spiralled out of control and we made love. Arthur is really your father.'

Tears overcame Olivia, but Jack failed to notice them; the room was spinning round, he felt his world was coming apart. He tried to focus on the man whom he had just learnt was his father, but could only see a blurred figure. It was the Reverend Arthur Windle who spoke next, hesitantly.

‘Jack, I was the one to blame, just me. Your mother was in a terrible state and I caused things to happen, things that I have felt ashamed of a million times over. I was the priest, I had come round to offer my support and I abused my office. Your mother was guiltless, blame me.'

‘
That's not true, Arthur. We were both young, we had the normal passions of young people and they had been stifled: mine through the abuse of Edward, yours through your wife's death. For a brief time we each held one who cared, and we were completely carried away.'

Jack turned and looked at Arthur Windle. ‘But how do you know he's my father?'

‘Jack, Edward and I had not been together for weeks; after that evening I managed to keep away from him. He preferred hitting me more than anything else.'

‘But didn't he know you were pregnant?'

‘I pretended my sickness was food poisoning. And remember he was killed in that thunderstorm only three months later. I was frightened. I would have told him, but that never happened.'

‘So you were pleased when your husband was killed in that thunderstorm?' Jack regretted saying this as soon as the words were said.

‘No, I wasn't pleased. How can anyone be pleased at someone being killed in such a terrible way? But our love for each other had died a long while before.'

‘So why didn't you two marry then?'

‘We talked about it, Jack,' Arthur replied slowly. ‘We talked about it a lot. Your mother knew that if it became known that I was the father, it would later be hard for you. She worried about that a lot. I know your mother was thrilled when you were born and her love rightly turned to you. We still talked together, but always made it look as if it was just between priest and parishioner. I wanted to be known as your father, but we had made a vow to each other. As you grew up and became the son I had always wanted I begged your mother to marry me, but she said no.'

‘Jack, you've got to understand,' interjected his mother, ‘that such a confession would have ruined Arthur. He would have had to leave the church, certainly Rusfield, and he was a
good
man. No, I couldn't. But my real sin was in not telling you a long time ago.'

The fire crackled and a log tumbled forward, otherwise the room was silent. Olivia had known it was going to be hard to tell Jack; she had not realised how hard. Olivia and Arthur were not surprised when Jack stood up; they were delighted when he stooped down, placed an arm round his mother's shoulders and kissed the top of her head. He, too, had tears in his eyes.

‘Mother, I'm hardly able to believe what you've just told me. I don't know what I feel and I wish you had told me a long time ago. I'll just have to think about everything I've heard.' He paused for several seconds. ‘I remember you said earlier that whatever you told me, you loved me. I love you, too.' He added: ‘Neither of you will tell anyone else, will you?' Both Olivia and Arthur nodded their agreement.