The Caxley Chronicles (16 page)

Dearest Mamma,

I opened your parcel on Christmas morning and everything in it was first-class. Thank you all very much. The cake was shared with some of the other Caxley chaps who appreciated it very much.

The queerest thing happened here. Just before dawn we heard the Germans in their trench opposite singing carols. They sang 'Peaceful Night, Holy Night'—only in German, of course, and we joined in. After a bit, one of our officers went into no-man's-land and met one of theirs, and gradually we all climbed out and wished each other 'Happy Christmas' and exchanged cigarettes. Some were from your parcel, mamma, and I hope you don't mind a few of them going to the enemy. I can assure you, they did not seem like enemies on Christmas morning. We kept the truce up long enough to bring in our dead.

Further down the line, we heard, both sides had a game of football together. It makes you realize what a farce war is—nobody wants it. But it looks as though it will drag on for a long time yet, I'm afraid.

My love to you and to all the family,

Your loving son,
Bertie

Bertie's fears were echoed by all at home. The cheerful cry: 'Over by Christmas' was heard no more. Fighting was going on in all parts of the world, and the news from the western front grew grimmer weekly. It was here that the local men were engaged, and anxious eyes read the columns of 'Dead, Wounded and Missing' which were published regularly in the
Caxley Chronicle.
It was a sad New Year for many families in Caxley, as 1915 came in, and the knowledge that losses must continue to be very heavy was too terrible to contemplate.

For Bender, at least, the war had brought one small consolation. He was again in charge of the old shop, and all alterations had been postponed. Young Mr Parker was serving in the Navy, one or two of the assistants had also gone to the war and Bender struggled on with Miss Taggerty and a chuckleheaded boy from Springbourne, called Ralph Pringle, as his only support.

It suited Bender. Trade was slack, so that he was not overworked, and he had time to look after the shabby empty rooms of his late home, and to keep the beloved garden tidy. It was a reprieve for North's, Bender thought, and he was thankful.

He had recovered some of his old zest, doing his best to cheer Hilda now that Bertie was away from home. They spoke little of the disastrous marriage. The subject was too painful, but time and the background of war did much to lessen the tension. Hilda held weekly sewing parties in her new drawing room and busied herself in packing up the results to be sent to the Front.

Bender joined the local branch of the Home Defence Corps and thoroughly enjoyed his evenings at the Corn Exchange or in the Market Square. He, in company with other Caxley men
too old for military service, drilled rigorously. Stiff joints and creaking knee-caps gave off reports as loud as the guns they longed to have, and although they knew in their hearts that their contribution was pitifully inadequate, yet they enjoyed the comradeship, the exercise, and the feeling of being alert.

Sep Howard was not among them. He had joined the Red Cross at the outbreak of war, and spent many nights at Caxley Station tending the wounded on their way to hospital from the battle front. He never forgot those tragic hours.

Between trains, Caxley station lay dim and quiet in the hollow by the river. The waiting room had been turned into a canteen. Urns bubbled, sandwiches were stacked and the helpers' tongues were as busy as their willing hands. Sometimes Sep left the warm fugginess to pace the deserted dark platform. Alone under the stars he walked up and down, watching the gleam of rails vanishing into the distance, and listening for the rumble of the next train bearing its load of broken men. His compassion had quickly overcome the physical nausea which blood and vomit inevitably aroused. He had become used to limbs frighteningly awry, to empty sleeves, and to heads so muffled in cotton wool and bandages that nothing emerged from them but screams.

Sep was recognised as one of the most tireless workers, with an uncanny gift of easing pain.

'I'm used to working at night,' he said simply, 'and I try to move the chaps the way my mother handled me when I was ill. She was a good nurse.'

He gained great satisfaction from the voluntary work. He recoiled from the martial side of war and even more from the pomp and glory of its trappings. Military bands, flags fluttering,
soldiers in splendid array, all gave Sep a cold sickness in his heart. He had viewed with tears the jubilant crowd outside the Town Hall at the outbreak of war. The boisterous zeal of the elderly Home Defence Corps was not to Sep's liking. He found himself nearer the truth of war in those dark pain-filled hours at Caxley station.

He had seen Bender stepping out bravely with his fellows as they marched through the streets of Caxley to some military exercise on one of the surrounding commons. After the terrible scene in Bender's office, Sep had purposely kept out of his way, but had longed for things to be easier between them.

He had never been able to find out the truth about the ugly rumour of the girl at Bent. Leslie had denied the whole thing roundly when he had asked him about the matter. Sep was still troubled about the affair, and could not wholly believe his son, but was too proud to do more than accept Leslie's word. In any case, both he and Edna were delighted with his marriage to Winnie, and welcomed the couple whenever they could manage a brief visit. One must look forward, not back, Sep told himself.

As the early weeks of 1915 passed, Sep was relieved to see Bender looking more cheerful. Now they spoke when they met. Topics were kept general, enquiries were made about each other's families, but no mention was ever made of Winnie and Leslie between the two men. There was still a constraint about each meeting, but at least the ice was broken, and Sep hoped earnestly that one day he and Bender would be completely at ease with each other. The families did not meet so readily these days. Since the move, and since the war began, they had grown apart. The younger children did not mix as
readily as the older ones had done when they lived so near each other in the market place, and the marriage had proved another barrier, much to Sep's grief.

It was in February that the Howard family had its first blow. Two local men had been killed near the Ypres Canal, and one of them was Jim Howard. The other was Arnold Fletcher, the gardener at Beech Green, and the fiancé of Dolly Clare who taught at Fairacre.

Sep received the news with numbed dignity, Edna with torrents of tears and furious lamentations. Sep grieved for her, but secretly envied the ease of her outbursts, for they were so exhausting that she slept soundly at nights. He went about his affairs pale and silent, and refused to give up his Red Cross vigils, even on the night of the news. Each man that he tended was Jim to him, and from this he gained strength.

Bender heard the news as the wintry sun was setting behind St Peter's. Without a word he made his way across the square, still clad in his shop overall, and went into the bakehouse in the yard. As he had suspected, Sep was there alone, stacking tins automatically, his face stricken.

'Sep,' muttered Bender, putting one massive hand on each side of Sep's thin shoulders and gazing down at him. 'What can I say?'

Sep shook his head dolefully. He did not trust himself to speak.

'I feel it very much,' went on Bender gruffly. 'And so will Hilda. We were always very fond of your Jim—a fine boy.'

Sep bit his quivering Hp but remained silent. Bender dropped his hands and sat down heavily on the great scrubbed table, sighing gustily.

'This bloody war,' he growled, 'is going to cause more heartache than we reckoned, Sep. Who'd have thought, when our kids were playing round the old Queen out there, that it would have come to this?'

He gazed unseeingly at the brick floor and his two great black boots set upon it. After a minute's silence he shook himself back into the present, and began to make his way to the door. It was then that Sep found his voice.

'It was good of you to come, Bender. I've missed you.'

'Well, we've had our ups and downs, Sep,' replied Bender, turning in the doorway, 'and there's some things we'll never see eye to eye about. But in times like this we forget 'em.'

His voice dropped suddenly.

'God's truth, Sep, I'm sorry about this. I'm sorry for all of us with sons these days.'

And before Sep could reply he had turned the corner and vanished.

The war dragged on. Food was getting short, and the posters everywhere exhorted men and women to save every crumb and to guard against waste. Caxley did not feel the want of food as harshly as the larger towns. Set amidst countryside, with the Cax meandering through it, vegetables, fruit, eggs, milk and river fish were comparatively easy to come by. There was a shortage of sugar, and sweets, and Mary North was told never to ask for such things when they were visiting.

'People haven't enough for themselves,' pointed out Hilda. 'Just say you aren't very hungry.'

'But I'm
always
hungry for sweets,' protested Mary. 'You wouldn't want me to lie?'

'There are such things as
white
lies!' responded Hilda. 'And in wartime you'll have to make use of them.'

Certainly there were minor hardships as well as the dreadful losses overseas which cast their shadows. But the spirit of the people was high, and many of the women were tasting independence for the first time. They set off daily to munitions factories or shops, enjoying company and the heady pleasure of earning money of their own. They did not intend to throw this freedom away when the war ended. As they worked they talked and laughed, as they had never done cooped up in their own homes, and snippets of news about local fighting men were always the first to be exchanged. So often they were sad items, but now and again there was good news, and there was great excitement in 1916 when Caxley heard that Harold Miller had been commissioned at Thiepval after displaying great gallantry. His brother, Jesse, still struggling with the farm and with very little help, received many congratulations on market day that week.

It was towards the end of the same year that Hilda had a letter from Winnie to say that a baby was expected the next summer. She sounded happy and well. She was living in a small flat near the hospital, where she was going to remain at work for as long as possible. There were also plans for her to have the baby there in a small maternity wing attached to the main hospital.

Leslie Was still in France and had taken to army life very well. He made a good soldier, quick, obedient and cheerful, and had received his commission about the same time as
Harold Miller. He did not write to Winnie as often as she would have liked, but as things were, she readily forgave him. Now that the baby was coming, she longed for the war to end, so that they could settle down together as a family.

Hilda was delighted with the news and even Bender softened at the idea of a grandchild in the family. The Howards were even more pleased, but Sep had the sense to resist mentioning it when he and Bender met. Let him make the first move, thought Sep!

One wet November day when the market square was lashed with rain and the wet leaves fluttered about the garden of Rose Lodge, the postman arrived at the Norths' door with another letter.

Bender took it in and tore it open. His face grew pale as he read the message and he put a hand on the door for support.

Hilda came up the hall to him, perplexed. He handed her the flimsy paper in silence.

Trembling, Hilda read it aloud.

'We regret to inform you that your son has been wounded and is receiving medical attention at the above military hospital. He may be visited at any time.'

Wonderingly she raised her face and looked at her husband. His expression was grim and determined.

'Put on your coat, my dear. We'll go at once.'

T
HE HOSPITAL
lay a little way from Bath, some sixty miles or so from Caxley. Bill Blake, who owned the motor firm where Bertie worked in peace time, drove them there himself.

There was little talking on the journey. Hilda gazed through the rain-spattered windscreen at the wind-blown countryside. The sky was grey and hopeless, the trees bowed, the grass flattened. Long puddles lined the road reflecting the dull skies above. They passed little on the long agonising journey, except an occasional army lorry which only reminded them more sharply of their purpose.

In happier days the hospital was a country mansion. The three mounted the long flight of steps, dreading what lay ahead. Within a few minutes, formalities were over and they found themselves at Bertie's bedside. He was barely conscious and very pale, but he smiled when he saw them.

They had been told that one leg was badly shattered and that a bullet had gone clean through his upper arm. Loss of blood was the chief cause for concern. He had lain for several hours in the mud before he had reached a field station.

Bender never forgot Hilda's bravery at that time. Not a tear fell. She smiled as encouragingly at her son as she had done years before when he was bed-bound by some childish ailment.

'You'll be home again soon, my dear,' she whispered to
him, as she kissed his waxen face gently. 'Back safely in Caxley, you remember?'

He nodded very slightly, his blue eyes bemused. She could not know that the word 'Caxley' brought back a vision of the market square to him, framed in the familiar curtains of his old Caxley bedroom.

They were only allowed to stay for two or three minutes before being ushered out by the nurse.

'The doctor thinks he will be able to operate tomorrow or the next day,' the sister told them later. 'Of course he's gravely ill, but he's a strong young man and all should go well, we hope.'

With this guarded encouragement to give them cold comfort, the three made their farewells, and returned sadly along the road to Caxley.

The hours seemed endless when they reached home, and there was little sleep for Hilda and Bender in the next two nights. Bender rang the hospital twice a day, and at last he spoke to the surgeon who had operated that afternoon.