more church parades on Sunday, no more begging for a pass.
You can tell the sergeant-major to stick his passes up his arse!
Attrib. Joseph Scriven
‘What’s up now, son?’ Essie asked, seeing Frank storming out of the forge, flinging off his leather apron in disgust.
‘Everything’s got to be done his way and I can’t stomach no more of it. I never wanted to be his skivvy. It was more to Newt’s liking than mine. Nothing I do is ever right.’
‘It’s just his way, love. He likes things to be right,’ Essie tried to explain.
‘Right enough will do for me…Just ’cos I put the sheep horns on the wrong hook, you’d think the world’d come to an end. He’s like a bee stuck down my neck buzzing in my ear. I’m off!’
‘Calm down, son. Go and get a brew and I’ll have a word with your father.’
‘Don’t bother. It’s not fair, me having to take Newt’s place,’ Frank muttered, disappearing round the corner just as Asa strode out of the forge.
‘Where’s he gone now, Mam? Never at hand when he’s needed. Pateley’s unbroken beast is due any moment and he’s a right beggar to shoe. It’ll take two of us hold that stag down. I never had to tell our Newt what to do. This one’s got his head in the clouds.’
‘Don’t fuss him, Asa. He’s only doing his best but his heart’s not in the job. It never was. He’s allus hankered after working with horses,’ Essie said, trying to smooth over yet another bust-up. Poor Asa was looking greyer round the gills these days with twice as much work, despite fewer horses. Everyone was trying to save their tools, repairing their irons and pots, kettles waiting to be fettled up and wheel rims sorted. Making do and mending was the order of the day; no one wanted to waste precious metals.
In the evening they all had to lend a hand with the allotment patch cut out of their paddock and fenced off from nibbling horses. Potatoes, vegetables, anything to fill the pot had to be weeded, hens in the back yard fed and swill taken to fatten up the shared pig in the stable at the back of the Hart’s Head.
How Essie missed her eldest son, with his quiet ways and steadying influence over his brother. Frank was missing him too, them being so close in age, and her heart went out to him. But what could she do? Her free time, such as it was, was taken up with the Chapel Ladies Comfort Guild, who met most afternoons to gather up parcels, knitting and treats.
Selma, though busy with the fundraising concert party as well as the school, drifted round like love’s lost dream. She was at that funny stage, betwixt and between girl and woman, mooning over letters from one of the Cantrell boys. What could they make of that friendship? All innocent enough, but they were both far too young to be serious, especially when Lady Hester’s disapproval was plain to see.
Last week she’d stopped her pony and trap and almost poked Essie in the ribs with her parasol.
‘Is my son still sending billets-doux to your daughter?’ she demanded.
Essie smiled. ‘They both have a keen interest in poetry, I believe,’ she replied, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Rather sweet at their tender age.’ She was not going to be browbeaten by her imperious tone of voice. ‘How are your sons faring with their training?’
‘As one would expect of a Cantrell,’ came the curt reply. ‘But I don’t want my son distracted by unsuitable entanglements.’
‘Of course not…but young people today seem to have minds of their own on such matters,’ Essie offered, watching Hester Cantrell puffing herself up with disagreement.
‘It is a ridiculous situation. I absolutely forbid it!’
‘Really? Forbiddance is usually a great encourager, don’t you think?’ Essie argued back. ‘In my experience it adds a whiff of danger to the whole enterprise.’
Hester stared back at her in disbelief at such a bold riposte. ‘I hardly think so. In such times as these there’s no room for romantic escapades. This war must be won, and soon.’
‘You are so right, Lady Hester, but the world has to keep turning and soldiers will take comfort out of battle…Better with their friends than with strangers?’ Essie continued
‘You chapel folk are mighty sure of your opinions, Mrs Bartley.’
‘Thank you.’ Essie nodded sweetly. ‘I find it best to trust to the good common sense of the young, these days. They are bearing the brunt of our mistakes with their blood. I think we can allow them the freedom to choose how they spend what little leisure they have, don’t you?’
Lady Hester sat back in shock, trying to think up some caustic put-down, her lips opening and closing. But nothing came out but, ‘Good day.’
Oh heck! I’ve put the fox in the chicken run, and no mistake, thought Essie but still she’d take nothing back. If young men were risking their lives then they must be given such freedoms as compensation. It was only fair, and that went for Newton as well as the Cantrell twins. This war was turning customs upside down.
What a diabolical cheek! Hester couldn’t get over Essie Bartley’s impudence. Freedoms indeed! In her day children did what parents commanded and with no argument. The whole world was going mad and all civilities were disappearing fast. Even dressing for dinner in the evening was being slackened in favour of lounge suits in some households. Servants were giving notice to go into factories, making it difficult to find replacements. In fact, on several occasions she’d had to go into the kitchen herself to prepare a cold collation when Cook had her day off. Arkie had upsticked to run some convalescent hospital for wounded soldiers. Shorrocks was marrying her soldier boy in a rush and Hester feared she was already in the family way. Mrs Beck came in each day from the village now to clean and tidy and lay the fires, instead of having a live-in maid. That it should come to this at her age. Where would it all end?
She’d not seen Charles for months, just a fleeting visit when she’d begged him to get Angus a safe job out of the line of fire. Of course he’d laughed away her fears and told her to stop meddling. So far there had been no repetition of Angus’s seizures but she worried that it was only a matter of time before another one struck.
All too often now, when she came through the front door into the marble-floored hall, there was only silence to greet her or the chimes of the hour from the drawing-room clock. The silence was deafening, the echo of her shoes on the tiles, the barking of a stable dog somewhere. In the silence of the evening she had time to churn over all the day’s incidents, her worries, but no one with whom to share these thoughts.
Occasionally this gloom was lifted by one of Guy’s letters that she devoured, trying to hear his voice in her mind.
That was what hurt the most: the fact that the Bartley girl was getting his thoughts, his affection. She received a dutiful page or two but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more from him, and as for Angus, he was even worse. How could they be so thoughtless? There was such an empty space where once they’d filled her days.
Was this the pattern for her future: afternoon visits, committees, the occasional fundraising concert breaking up the monotony of her days? To rattle around in this uncomfortable silence, waiting for one of her men to return for a night or two was a daunting prospect.
At least her boys were safe in England. They all planned to meet in London on their next leave. She would go down on the train and they could take in a show. Why did she feel so old and unwanted, though?
‘Buck up, Hester,’ she said to herself. ‘Pour yourself a drink and get your sewing out.’
Damn the bloody sewing, she thought. I want them all back…I want my boys back here…
Selma