Leah Fleming - Remembrance Day

Looking round at the mess in Angus’s bedroom—cricket bats and fishing rods, horse crops, rugby shoes, clothes scattered on the floor—she sighed. He was such an energetic boy, full of pranks and madcap ideas. He was a skilled horseman, winning rosettes to prove his competitive spirit. On the wall were stag antlers, model ships and biplanes, and a map tracing Colonel Charles’s campaigns in South Africa. The twins were as bad as each other when they were home. At school it was another matter. They were put in different houses, beaten for any misdemeanours but excelled on the sports field and in the Officers’ Training Corps.

It was always so quiet when they were away. That was why she’d begged Charles to let her buy Waterloo House, so she could be close for their exeats and any public concerts at Sharland School, the great stone fortress that stood on the edge of the moor.

To think that life could have ended for one of them this beautiful afternoon didn’t bear thinking about. Horse treks and camping out over the Dales would be out of bounds for the rest of the holidays after this escapade. Now she must be gracious and receive their rescuers, but of all the children to save Angus why did it have to be the blacksmith’s brood of non-conformists?

Only last week she was in her carriage doing a round of charitable visiting when she chanced to see the blacksmith striding along the cobbled narrow street in his leather apron, shirtsleeves rolled up, showing muscled arms the colour of walnut oil. His black curly hair was far too long under his cap, more like a gypsy’s locks. She looked down at him from her carriage, expecting him to doff his cap in deference but he swaggered on as if she was nobody of consequence.

‘Stop the carriage!’ she ordered Beaven. ‘Go and ask that man why he has been so rude.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said her coachman, pulling up until Bartley was alongside them.‘Hey,you, why didn’t you pay the usual respect to her ladyship?’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Asa Bartley, looking straight at her with those coal-black eyes. ‘You tell your mistress I bows to no man but my Maker, and that’s a fact!’

Hester flushed at such insolence and demanded that Beaven drive on. The blacksmith might own his business but he rented his cottage from the Waterloo estate. How dare he be so rude?

Men like him didn’t know their place. These chapel ranters were behind all the stirrings of unrest in England: the Labour Movement and trade unions, socialist ideas of all being equal, women wanting to register for the Vote and such like. The Women’s Suffrage Society had the cheek to send wagons round the villages canvassing for support from Sharland’s millworkers, encouraging them to strike for better wages. She blamed all the unrest on the preachers in the pulpits of these stone chapels, giving workmen ideas above their station.

‘God bless the squire and his relations, And keep us in our proper stations,’ went the verse of a hymn. That was how society worked. How could any army survive without discipline and rank? Rank first and foremost. Orders must be given and obeyed, that was the key to social cohesion. Charles’s generals and his staff knew how to plan battles, and their foot soldiers, under officers, must carry out the orders without question. It was always thus.

Bartley had insulted her rank and class by his insolence and now she must forbear this insult to show Christian fortitude to stomach making conversation with his children. But one thing was certain. No child of his would ever be employed on the estate. Dissenters’ children had too much spirit to be knocked back, asked too many questions. They were difficult foals to break in. Their kind were best ignored and kept a bay: a different tribe, and long may that continue.

Angus seemed comfortable enough so she gathered up some of the mess on the floor. What must the doctor have thought of the clutter—that she was slack with her servants? The eye of the mistress was worth two of her hands, she mused. Arkie must make sure the room was more presentable for his next visit. She didn’t want any tittle-tattling to his silly wife.

Hester caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing mirror. She’d never been an oil painting: tall, on the gaunt side of slender, but well corseted to give a robust shape and bolstered bosom like her heroine, the new Queen Mary. Her thin cream dress was a little frivolous for a Board of Workhouse Guardians meeting but the weather was so hot. That was the trouble with country living, you had to be so careful to set a suitable standard.

A military wife knew how to dress appropriately, to impress junior officers’ wives as to what they must aspire. There were formal school visits to endure, dressing discreetly with nothing to cause the boys embarrassment, especially being such an older parent: no fancy jewellery or lavish trimmings on her picture hats. The risk of under—or overdressing in such a backwater was a balancing act she found quite within her grasp. If she stuck to muted colours: mauve, taupe, eau-de-Nil, stone and her beloved silver grey for her palette, her spirits rose. Afternoon and tea gowns, skirts blended with tweed and dull plaids, furs and country tweeds were what she ordered from her dressmaker in London. Silk and wool, cotton lawns and simple lace trim distinguished her as top drawer at a glance.

Yorkshire might have smoke and soot but the best woollen cloth in the world was just over the hills in Leeds and Bradford. She felt dignified in such quiet shades. Colour was for the young fry and dress uniforms. She was a colonel’s lady, daughter of an earl, albeit the youngest of many sisters, well enough placed to receive calling cards from the Birkwiths of Wellerby Hall and Lady Sommerton, the aunt of the headmaster of Sharland School. His wife, Maud, was the cousin of Lord Bankwell.

It was important to know where one was placed on this ladder. There were those who tried a little too hard to climb up a rung, like the vicar’s poor wife, Violet Hunt.

Then there was Dr Mac, with his ambitious wife and their two pretty daughters, one of whom was old enough now to be brought to her sons’ attention. All to no avail, of course; her boys were far too young for such entanglements. They were destined for the army and glittering careers.

Hester sat down on the window seat, suddenly exhausted, staring out across the walled garden, through the orchard that went down to the river, across to the great moors rising above. A patchwork of bronzed squares and golden greens caught her eye where the grass had been mown off for hay. Such was the heat haze that the stone walls dividing up the fell side shimmered like silver ribbons.

This part of the West Riding of Yorkshire was remote but not unpleasantly so. There were plenty of regular trains into Leeds and a direct line to London through the Midland Railway. The Dales’ rough-hewn beauty, a grandeur of limestone scars and moor, was growing on her. She liked the fresh damp air, for they were removed from the worst of mill chimney smoke.

Most of the locals were pleasant plain folk who made few demands on her services. Once the boys were out of school and established she would think again about where to settle. Charles preferred the southern uplands, the Sussex Downs, to this rugged terrain. Soon he would finish off his career at a desk in London, if all went to plan. But she didn’t like these rumours of war. He was far too old for battle service now. Her boys were nearly sixteen. Hester shivered. Surely they would be far too young to be mobilised, should any threat occur?

‘You’re not going up to Waterloo House looking like a pig in muck, Newton!’ ordered Essie at the sight of her elder son strolling out of the forge,covered in soot. ‘Go and scrub yoursel’ down in the sink. There’s hot water in the kettle.’