Leah Fleming - Remembrance Day

‘Not at sixteen, they won’t…You mustn’t let them do anything stupid, Charles,’ she pleaded, stabbing the air with her cake fork.

‘Huh! If every woman took your attitude, why bother with an army? We could just invite Kaiser Bill over the Channel to occupy us. Pass the cheeseboard and stop wittering.You’ll make a baby of Angus with all those hospital appointments and rest cures.’

‘Now who’s being unrealistic? Who’ll have rest cures if there’s a war on? I think he should be tutored privately for the meantime, away from all that activity they go in for at Sharland School.’

‘And I think you should go back to your tapestry and get things in proportion. I don’t want my son raised as a spineless sissy. He’s been bred to be tough and a skilled marksman.’ Charles rose, grabbing the port decanter and heading for his library without a backward glance. Hester sighed and rang the bell for Shorrocks to clear away the debris of their supper.

There was no talking to Charles when he was in one of his belligerent moods, his eyes bright with too much Christmas fare and wine. Better to let him doze off his bad temper alone. When the boys came in from their party, he’d be back to his old self. His eyes lit up with pride when he saw them together.

Poor man had journeyed north for a break from war talk and planning; all he wanted was his paper, a good book and plenty to smoke and drink. He’d taken the boys out for long hikes. A house full of men could be lonely for a mother at times, however much they gave her loving presents and praise. Sometimes she sensed he was relieved she was out of his hair in London, glad she was up north so he could keep his own hours in peace.

She had bred him sons, however late in life, ensuring the family name into the next generation. Her duty was done. He slept in the dressing room in the single bed most nights—his snoring would upset her, he apologised—hardly bothering her with any physical affection. She guessed he was getting that elsewhere. He hadn’t meant to hurt her but his indifference and short fuse stung just the same.

They had had the usual Christmas ceremonies: church at midnight, a delightful Christmas tree in the hall, a long walk after an enormous luncheon, lots of visitors bringing gifts and gossip. The house was trimmed discreetly with holly and ivy, berried garlands up the spiral staircase. There was even a dusting of snow like a Christmas card scene on Christmas morning. The vicar had complained over mulled wine about the chapel rowdies waking them at dawn.

‘I can’t bear religious enthusiasts,’ Charles sympathised. ‘But I suppose we ought to be grateful that our local workers are singing from a hymn sheet rather than a striker’s ballot paper.’ They all laughed.

She’d bought the boys new dinner suits and they looked so handsome together, so grown up. They could pass for eighteen, they were so tall and strong. It was alarming.

What if war came? Should she go to London or stay here? Her place was close to her boys and the village where she would be expected to take some leadership in parochial matters. She would see that no son of hers would be allowed to slip underage into the forces, cadet or not! Plenty of time for them to enlist should such a time come.

Oh, why did such thoughts have to sour their festivities? Charles’s warning, like Angus’s recent fits, hung heavy on her heart. Surely the Royal Navy would make enough noise to see off the Kaiser’s affectations? Suddenly she was not looking forward to 1914.

Guy and Angus joined the crowd gathered in Elm Tree Square outside the Hart’s Head for the traditional send-off to the Boxing Day meet. The snow had come to nothing and the ground was sure enough for a full hunt. Hounds were wagging their tails ready for the off, horses snorting breath and dumping manure for the allotment holders already waiting with buckets at the ready. A crowd of spectators and followers were assembled on the pavement, watching the colourful spectacle of masters in their scarlet coats, ladies in veiled black top hats and riding habits, younger riders in tweed hacking jackets and jodhpurs circling round with their ponies; a magnificent turnout. It was going to be a brilliant meet.

Guy’s eyes searched through the crowd to see if Selma Bartley had bothered to see them off but the door of the forge was shut, with no sign of life from the cottage. Perhaps they were visiting or out walking, as was the custom in the village on this holiday.

He’d never been interested in girls before. It wasn’t encouraged even to flirt with the maids in school. There were careful articles in his Boys’ Herald about gentlemanly behaviour towards the weaker sex and such rot. He just thought it was a shame that boys and girls couldn’t be friends, brothers and sisters, and equals. Why couldn’t you talk to a girl without sniggers from chums? Funny, though, when he looked at Selma, all he saw were those huge chocolate-brown eyes and smiling face, and how her wet shirt clung to her body when she had stood out of the beck after the accident. A strange yearning churned him up inside at the memory.

It was not as if he didn’t meet pretty girls at the family gatherings, girls all buttoned up with frills and ruffles, and simpering glances in his direction.

Selma was different, full of life and fun. He’d once watched her leap onto one of the horses grazing in the paddock waiting to be shod. She would make a fearless horsewoman, confident and yet gentle at the same time. That talent was innate; riding skills could be taught but not that sense of oneness with your mount. The Bartley boys too were skilled with the farm horses, leading the huge beasts, checking their forelocks, calming them down. It was a pity that none of them had the use of a horse to exercise.

Perhaps it was that tomboy bit of Selma he was attracted to. How he’d love to lend her Jemima, Mother’s chestnut, which she hardly rode, but he knew it wouldn’t be proper to single her out. The Bartleys and Cantrells didn’t mix socially and it would be taken amiss if they did. Pity, he sighed as he searched the crowd again. Riding high it was so easy to look down on villagers as if you were somehow above them.

Then he saw her watching him from the corner of Prospect Row, almost hidden. She was wearing a bright scarlet beret and scarf over her usual winter coat. He gave a short wave so as not to embarrass her and she smiled back mouthing ‘Good luck’. How he wished he could ask her to come and join them. Now the landlord was carrying a tray full of stirrup cups. Soon the hunting horn would round up the stragglers for the off; the hounds were champing for the chase.

Guy had promised his mother to keep an eye on Angus, but he was already ahead with Father in his scarlet jacket. Angus got very stroppy if he thought they were mollycoddling him and refused to discuss his last fit in the school changing rooms.

Guy took one final look but Selma had disappeared. It was sad that there were two villages in Sharland divided by an invisible bridge. On one side were the House and church, the vicarage, the public school and the gentleman farmers’ estates, on the other side were millworkers’ cottages, the chapel and board school and quarrymen’s houses. Once a year they met on the cricket pitch and sometimes in the Hart’s Head, and that was about it.

As he trotted down towards the river bridge and fields ahead, he thought how it was just like himself and Selma…all they could ever do was smile and wave across the yawning divide.

I smile thinking of those horses clattering off from Elm Tree Square all those years ago. Horses…horses, always horses close to my heart. I’d watched the Boxing Day meets since I was nobbut a child, little knowing this would be the last gathering before war came and things were never the same. Besides, how do you ever forget the day you first fell in love?