Daughters of Cornwall Read online

  From Tilbury, I took the train to Victoria Station, which was crowded. I noticed that there were four distinct groups.

  Men and women in civvies, going about their day.

  Young men, proudly clothed in unsullied uniforms. Smiling. Eager to join their units.

  The returning men, wounded, with the mud of France still on their boots, their bandaged heads and arms bloodied, crutches under their armpits, sharing cigarettes, struck dumb by the horror they had left behind.

  And finally, women. Wan with waiting. Staring at each and every man in the hope that one of them was theirs.

  I left Victoria and walked the short distance to present myself at 59 Buckingham Gate, London. The headquarters of the First Battalion of the London Scottish Regiment. As a proud Scot, Duncan had joined the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders in Stirling, and I promised to join its equivalent in London.

  After giving my name to a recruiting officer, receiving a medical test (sight, height and hearing), I was equipped for active service, and embodied there and then.

  I was Private number 4192.

  Caroline

  Present day

  I opened the small discoloured brown envelope and shook out the little key.

  The clasps on the trunk were cold to the touch as I turned the key in each of the two locks.

  The right one was stiff and took a little time before yielding. The left one turned as if new.

  Placing the key on the floor, I put my thumbs on both of the clasps and pushed them down and away. I felt the mechanism of the lock click and then release. The clasps sprang up and open and with a deep breath I lifted the lid slowly. The smell of camphor and old books rose from within and there, on top of everything was a khaki army jacket.

  Bertie, Callyzion, Cornwall

  June 1915

  Ernest was waiting for me at Bodmin Road station.

  ‘Hello, old chap, or don’t you speak English any more?’ He playfully punched my arm and took one of my bags, swinging it over his shoulder.

  I rubbed my arm. ‘Still got your superb sense of humour, I see.’

  ‘I’ve got the old jalopy outside. She’s a bit of a goer actually.’ He set off towards the station exit.

  ‘Don’t tell me Pa bought you a car?’

  ‘Sadly not. Mum didn’t want me going off to join the Army, so I had to find a job.’

  ‘A job? Do students work?’ I joked.

  ‘I graduated with a First in English actually. Better than you anyway.’ He sidestepped my attempt to swipe him.

  ‘Congratulations. So where are you working?’

  ‘With old Mr Sands.’

  ‘He must be ninety.’ I thought of him servicing our bicycles when we were boys; he’d seemed old even then. ‘Is his workshop still going?’

  ‘Rather. His two sons-in-law have spruced the old place up a bit. Doing very well. Sell rather snazzy motors on the forecourt. They have even installed a petrol pump.’

  ‘I see, so you’re a car salesman, are you?’

  ‘Not yet. The sons-in-law do that. No, I’m in the workshop, servicing lawnmowers. I sometimes get my hands on a car engine. It keeps me out of the house, and Mother happy.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘And occasionally I am allowed to borrow the odd motor.’ He stopped and pointed at a tiny red car with a canvas roof. ‘There she is.’

  I gave a low whistle. ‘Smart.’

  We stashed my bags on the tiny back seat and folded ourselves into the cramped interior.

  ‘Fancy a pint before facing the parents?’ he asked as he got the engine running.

  ‘I have been dreaming of one,’ I answered happily.

  ‘Right then. Off we go.’

  With a clash of gears and a honk of the horn, we left the station and got out onto the lane towards Newquay and Callyzion. ‘The Rifle Volunteer do you?’ he shouted above the noise.

  I answered him with a thumbs up and settled back to watch the landscape of home unfold ahead of us.

  In The Rifle Volunteer, Ernest got the first pints in and brought them to the quiet table in the nook by the fire.

  ‘Cheers.’ We solemnly raised our glasses and drank. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand he said, ‘Mother can’t wait to get you back in her clutches. How are you at winding wool?’

  ‘As bad as I ever was,’ I laughed. ‘The thing is, Ernie …’ I began, but he talked over me.

  ‘While you have been away, Bertie, I have been stuck here. And I don’t resent you having the chance of freedom and independence, but while you’ve been doing that, I have been busy being the dutiful son.’

  I took another mouthful of my pint. I had a feeling I knew what was coming next and I wasn’t wrong.

  ‘The thing is,’ Ernest continued, ‘I am twenty-two and it’s my turn to get out of Cornwall and see the world.’

  ‘I understand that,’ I said.

  ‘Good. Because it’s your turn to be the good son. I’m off to fight in France.’

  I thought of the war papers in my pocket. ‘Really? Ah well, that’s a bit awkward, because I enlisted this morning.’

  His face turned from unwelcome surprise to anger. ‘No. I’m the one going to France. I signed up last week. I have my papers at home.’

  ‘I have my papers right here.’ I tapped my top pocket.

  ‘But I enlisted a week before you.’

  ‘Makes no odds. Neither of us can back out now.’

  ‘You selfish bastard.’ He looked at the stained yellow ceiling and sighed. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We are going to have to tell them.’ We laughed, I realise now quite cruelly, and said, ‘They’ll still have Amy.’

  At the top of our lane, Ernest turned the engine off and quietly rolled the absurd little car to the vicarage. It was now very late, and all around us the houses lay in respectable darkness, their owners sleeping soundly.

  I had my old house key on my watch chain and opened the door to the hall as Ernest brought my luggage in.

  ‘Sssh.’ He put his index finger to his lips and promptly kicked the front door closed behind him, making an almighty bang. We stood like naughty boys, shaking with silent, terrified laughter, waiting for our father to come to the top of the stairs and tick us off. But no sound came from upstairs.

  ‘Fancy another beer?’ Ernest whispered.

  ‘Prefer a Scotch,’ I whispered back.

  He put my case down by the old hat stand and beckoned me to follow him into Father’s study.

  I shut the door behind me, very gently, whilst Ernest fumbled in the dark for a match to light the old oil lamp that had been on Father’s desk for as long as I could remember. Ernest got it going and turned the wick up. At once the cherished room, with all its memories, lay before me as if I had never left.

  Nothing had changed. The worn leather chair by the fire. The rag rug Mother had made one Christmas with the scorch marks of a hundred wood spits dotting it.

  The curtains were drawn shut, keeping out the night and the draught that always seeped through the old sash windows.

  In this room I had received my (un)fair share of whacks on my palm from my father’s ruler. It was also where I had been told, with some relief, that I had a place at Cambridge to read Classics. And, it was where I had brought my mother to tears, announcing that I was off to Malaya to make my fortune.

  I had never expected to see the familiar yards of books on the shelves again, or the inkstand with the fountain pen that Father had received from his parents when he was ordained, and the family photo. All five of us. Mother tiny, Amy very tall and angular, me in my old school uniform and Ernest stiff and unsmiling, wearing short trousers, leaning on Father who was sitting on his chair. His throne.

  ‘My God. Nothing has changed.’ I settled myself by the fire. Ernest, who’d been searching the bookshelves, finally found a bottle of good malt between Flora and Fauna of the British Isles and The Free Church Year Book, 1912 edition.

  ‘Get that d
own you.’ He chinked my glass. ‘Welcome home, big brother.’

  ‘Cheers.’ I raised my glass to him then drank.

  He settled himself opposite me and we sat, easy in each other’s company, neither of us feeling the need to speak.

  The Scotch was instantly relaxing and I closed my eyes. I was home.

  Quite suddenly my mother burst through the door. ‘Oh my darling, Bertie!’ She was standing before me in her nightdress and shawl, shaking off the restraining hand of my father. ‘Ernest.’ She pointed at him. ‘How could you not have woken us?’

  ‘I didn’t know you wanted to be woken.’ Ernest shrugged.

  My father said quietly, ‘The boys have a lot to talk about, I expect.’

  I stood up immediately, and put the glass down. ‘Darling, Mother.’ I embraced her. ‘You look wonderful.’

  She kissed my cheek and held me away from her. ‘Home for the summer! But you’re too thin. All that rice and all those spices. Cook will make you some good English food tomorrow. How about shepherd’s pie? We can still get good mutton.’

  ‘My favourite! And how is dear Cook?’

  My mother pursed her lips. ‘Just the same. Always complaining. Amy deals with her now although how she manages her, I don’t know. Constant complaints about the stairs and her bad knees and her kitchen budget.’

  My father stopped her flow. ‘My dear, Bertie doesn’t want to hear about all that just now.’ He had gained a little weight and maybe his beard was a little longer, but my father’s comforting bulk made me want to hold him, press my face against him and inhale the soothing smell of him. I resisted the impulse and held out my hand to shake his. He winked at me. ‘Good to see you, boy. Welcome home.’ He turned to Ernest with a playful smile, ‘And put that bottle away now.’

  Ernie produced the whisky from where he’d stuck it behind his back and handed it to my father’s outstretched hand. He checked to see how much we had taken.

  ‘Hmm. Still plenty left. We can share it tomorrow, boys, after dinner.’

  My mother said peevishly, ‘I can’t wait until tomorrow. I want to hear all Bertie’s news now.’

  ‘My dear Louisa,’ my father said. ‘The boy needs some sleep. There’s plenty of time for his news now that he’s home for good.’ He looked at me. ‘Isn’t that right, son?’

  I saw Ernest’s eyes flick towards mine. I kept my gaze set on my father. ‘I’m sure we have a lot of news to share. Don’t we, Ernest?’

  Chapter Six

  Herbert, Callyzion, the calm before the storm

  June 1915

  ‘Give Bertie more sausages, Amy,’ my mother ordered from her seat at the breakfast table. ‘He needs some proper food.’

  Amy got up without smiling, took my plate and went to the sideboard where Cook and Dora, our maid, had laid a feast of eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms. ‘How many do you want?’ Amy asked with her back to me, her shoulders set. ‘I know that Cook was wanting the leftovers for tomorrow’s casserole.’

  ‘Amy!’ My mother’s response was harsh. ‘Cook will have to make something else for tomorrow.’

  Amy returned my plate, now laden with sausages. As she sat down she said, ‘Oh yes, I had forgotten the fatted calf we have in the larder.’

  Father gave her a stern look. ‘Gracelessness does not become you, Amy.’

  I smiled at my little sister, ‘That’s OK. I’m not here to eat you out of house or home.’

  She fiddled with the napkin on her lap. ‘I apologise, Bertie.’ She added, ‘It is good to have you back home.’

  ‘It’s good to be home.’ I meant it. ‘How have you been, Amy?’

  She glanced at Mother who was buttering some toast. ‘Just the same,’ she said.

  ‘Any news on Peter?’ I asked as I sliced into a sausage.

  She shook her head, eyes down.

  ‘Any idea where his battalion is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he writes to you?’

  She stood up, ‘Do excuse me, there’s something I have forgotten.’

  When she’d gone, I looked around the table. ‘I feel I have said the wrong thing.’

  My mother became very businesslike. ‘The truth is, she writes to him twice a week but hasn’t had a reply for six weeks. She scours the list of casualties in the papers every day, but there is no news.’

  ‘Then he must be OK.’ I tried to sound cheerful. ‘It must be awfully hard getting letters into or out of France given the circumstances.’

  My father wiped his lips and beard with his napkin. ‘We can only pray.’ He stood up. ‘My dear, that was very nice. Thank Cook for me.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ my mother asked testily.

  ‘I am taking the boys into my study. We have a lot to discuss.’

  ‘Then I am coming too.’ My mother stood up.

  My father held up a hand. ‘No, my dear.’

  ‘But I want to hear all you have to say. All Bertie’s news.’

  ‘And you shall, but first we have men’s things to discuss.’ He made for the door and signalled for Ernest and me to come with him.

  The curtains had been pulled open and the June sun slanted onto the large desk where Father took his seat.

  He motioned at us to take our seats. I took my cigarettes from my pocket and proffered one to Ernest. ‘Thanks, old man,’ he muttered, searching his pocket for a match.

  ‘Don’t let your mother catch you,’ Father growled, but his eyes gave us his tacit approval. He leant back in his chair, hands over his stomach, and looked at the ceiling. ‘I am assuming that both of you are going to France?’

  Ernest flashed me a look of terror.

  I put my cigarette to my lips and inhaled deeply.

  Ernest had gone white.

  ‘Yes, Father. I joined up yesterday.’

  His gaze remained on the ceiling. ‘The Army?’

  ‘Yes sir. London Scottish.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was the nearest recruiting office to Victoria Station.’

  ‘And you joined up on a whim? Or for your country?’

  I took a moment to think, stubbing out my cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘I saw a German boat, masquerading as a British cruiser. It had put up a false funnel, of all things. It was only when the captain ran up the German flag that we realised what was happening. By then it was too late.’

  I could still hear, smell and see the thrashing, doomed men, screaming as they burned. ‘It came into George Town harbour and I watched as it torpedoed a Russian vessel.’

  ‘What utter bastards,’ Ernest fumed.

  ‘May God have mercy on their souls,’ my father intoned.

  I shifted in my chair and tried to make light of it. With a smile I said, ‘Well, you can imagine that after that I decided the Navy was not for me.’

  Ernest sniggered but Father did not. I continued, ‘And I’m not one for heights so the Air Force would be no good.’ I finished, limply, ‘So, it had to be the Army.’

  My father asked simply, ‘When do you go?’

  ‘Six days. Must turn up, you know, like the proverbial, at Abbotts Langley barracks for training.’

  ‘I see.’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘And you, Ernest?’

  ‘I have my teaching position at Oundle, as you know,’ he said shiftily.

  ‘I do know. But I also know that they are not expecting you until the war is over. That was what you wrote to tell them, wasn’t it?’

  Ernest’s mouth fell open.

  ‘I am not a fool, Ernest,’ my father continued. ‘I would have done the same as a young man. Which regiment?’

  ‘Duke of Cornwall Light Infantry,’ Ernest said quietly.

  My father continued with the rhythmic stroking of his beard. He watched us. We waited.

  Eventually he sat up and placed his hands on his desk. ‘You are not to tell your mother,’ he said. ‘I want her to have the next few days without worry. When you both have to leave, and I suggest yo
u leave at the same time, I will hand her the letters of explanation you will each have written to her. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ we replied in unison.

  ‘Now, not a word of this to anyone outside this room. For the next few days I expect you to be on your best behaviour and to demonstrate the affection you have for Amy and your mother. If anything should happen,’ he cleared his throat, ‘to either of you, in France, they shall have the best of recollections.’ He reached for his fountain pen and filled it slowly from his ink pot. ‘Now, my sons, I must ask you to leave to allow me to get on with my business.’

  When we had closed the door of the study, and were standing in the hall, we heard our father praying for our safety. I know it nearly broke my heart.

  Six days later, Ernest and I had done as our father had prescribed.

  We had told our mother nothing, and had been the perfect sons. I mowed the lawn and mended the old swing under the apple tree. When all was done, I asked Dora to serve afternoon tea beneath the tree. My mother was persuaded to sit on the swing and I pushed her gently. She was so happy. Her sons at home, her daughter setting the tea table, her husband solid and kind. She sat on the swing giggling like a girl.

  Then she said, ‘Oh, my dearest Bertie. It is so good to have you home. I am blessed to have such loving children.’ The guilt I felt then nearly floored me.

  I felt, as I left my envelope next to Ernest’s on the hall table, a terrible coward. My father had prayed with us the night before and given us his and God’s blessing.

  How on earth was he going to cope with my mother when she discovered how he, and we, had betrayed her? I could have stopped it there and then. Written to the War Office explaining that my parents needed me at home for the duration. But instead, I collected my coat and bag, and with Ernest in front of me, closed the front door and crept away.

  We walked in silence to the crossroads where the bus to Bodmin stopped. While we waited there, I made some innocuous remark about the early mist rolling in. ‘It should burn off by mid-morning.’