Leah Fleming - Remembrance Day

Then she caught sight of a tall young man striding across the square, parcels under his arm and another identical figure chasing after him. They looked so smart in thick tweed suits with Sharland School scarves flapping behind them, those distinctive purple and gold stripes that marked the public school boys out from other town scholars. Who could miss the Cantrell twins doing their own Christmas shopping?

Selma tried not to stare and pulled her muffler over her face to spare her blushes but not before she caught the eye of the first twin.

‘Hello there, Miss Bartley…Busy with your Christmas shopping too,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have a lot of folk to buy for.’

His brother marched on,hardly giving her a glance.‘Hang on, Angus! Let me introduce you to the young lady who helped save your life!’

Angus stared at her, his eyes blank and dull as if he had never seen her before. He nodded but said nothing. ‘He doesn’t remember a thing, sadly,’ Guy explained. ‘How are you? Looking forward to Christmas?’

Selma smiled back, not knowing what to say.

‘It’s jolly cold. There’s snow on the way but I hope it holds off for the Boxing Day meet.’

Selma nodded, knowing her father had been hard at the forge shoeing fine hunters for the annual foxhunting gathering that started outside the Hart’s Head.

‘Spare a thought for us on our Christmas morning parade,’ she offered. ‘I don’t fancy singing through a blizzard.’

‘Parade?’ Angus looked puzzled, fidgeting with the string on his parcel and looking at her sideways through drooping eyelids.

‘The Christmas waits. We sing carols under the tree in the early hours and then we have a band…’

‘Oh, the chapel thingy.’ Angus shrugged. ‘Spoiling everyone’s lie in, Mama says.’

‘Angus!’ It was Guy’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘Oh, look, there’s Beaven with his new toy. Father has bought a motor car. We’d offer you a lift only we’re off to the station to meet the London Express. Father is home for the hols too.’

‘I’m waiting for my mother. We’re catching the bus, thank you. I hope you both have a pleasant Christmas,’ she offered, bobbing a short curtsy.

‘And the same to you and yours. You know we are awfully grateful to you and your brothers, aren’t we, Angus?’ He turned to his brother, but Angus had already strolled off towards the big saloon. ‘Forgive his rudeness. He’s not been quite himself lately. I’d better be off. And you must go too. You look frozen.’

To Selma, Angus looked just as haughty as he had on that fateful afternoon when he was showing off. ‘I hope he recovers soon,’ she replied, more out of politeness than conviction.

Guy paused. ‘Will you be watching the meet?’

‘I might if the weather holds but we’re expecting company from Bradford: my aunty Ruth and her husband.’

‘And so are we, loads every day, Mother’s friends mostly. It’ll be charades, singsongs and cards, long walks and cross-country hacks; exhausting!’

‘We have singsongs too but no card playing…we don’t hold with gambling,’ she answered, not telling him that they never imbibed alcohol either. ‘Have fun then.’

‘Merry Christmas, Selima,’ Guy replied, raising his cap as he marched off.

She felt a glow of pride that he’d remembered her proper name. Guy was as warm as his brother was cool, sick or not. It was as if he saw her as a friend, an equal. Confusion and excitement fluttered in her chest as if butterflies were let loose from a cage.

Their families lived in separate worlds even within a small village, sectioned off by a high stone wall and beech hedge, but Christmas was a special time, she smiled, a time of goodwill to all men, rich or poor, high or low. Was it possible that their two worlds might meet again? One thing was certain: she wanted to see Guy on horseback in his hunting dress.

Suddenly her reverie was halted by a sharp dig in the back from a passer-by.

‘What were you hobnobbing with those two toffs about?’

Selma spun round to see the pinched face of Marigold Plimmer pursing her lips into a sneer. ‘Never you mind!’ Selma whispered back.

‘Be like that but don’t think you’ll get any favours from that quarter. My mum says one of them’s gone daft in the head. Had a fit in the school yard, or so Tilly Foster said. She works in the canteen and saw it all—well, one of her mates did. Just shows money can’t buy you everything. It’s only fair they should have some bad luck as well as us, isn’t it?’

‘That’s sad,’ murmured Selma. No wonder Angus looked so blank. ‘His mother must be so worried.’

‘Who, that stuck-up cow? Lady Muck of Waterloo? Serves her right. You should see her in church. Comes in through a side door just before the service, all dolled up with a thick veil like curtains round her head so she don’t have to look at us. Then leaves the same way as soon as the organ strikes up at the end. I pity them boys. She’ll not let them far off the leash. My mum got it off her that works in the kitchen that she—’

‘Oh, there’s Mam. I’ve got to go. See you on the bus!’

Selma couldn’t wait to get away from Marie’s gossiping. She didn’t care for all that backbiting. Poor Guy and his brother—no wonder he looked tired and glassy-eyed. Her little brother, Dawson, had fitted badly when his temperature went sky high and never came down, all those years ago. They’d tried to soak him with ice water from the slate tank in the yard and then piled on blankets to sweat it out of him but his heart was too weak, the doctor had said. Why did Marigold have to remind her of such sad memories?

Selma stood looking up to the grey-white hills rising above the town, sparkling with ice, and the trees dusted with air frost. How beautiful it looked at dusk. In two days it would be Christmas morning and they would be singing ‘Joy to the World’ around the village green. So no more sad thoughts when there was so much to look forward to. Mam was waving at her now to get in the queue. Time to go home.

On Christmas morning the wind would carry the sound of bells into every household, thought Essie, waking at dawn with excitement long before the peals filled the air with promise. This was the day for singing and feasting. However humble they were, each family managed some cheer at their fireside and kept good company together.

Essie had packed each stocking with love: a shilling, an orange, a bar of chocolate and some walnuts to crack, knitted socks for the boys, and a new scarf and beret for Selma, with some sweet-smelling lavender sachets for her pocket. How she wished she could do more than just these little tokens, but they were going to have a fine feast with all the trimmings later; plum pudding and a traditional dish of frumenty, fresh creamed wheat in a bowl and mince pies to share with visitors.

Tomorrow Ruth would bring treats from Bradford. She had been in service and married a wool sorter’s apprentice who had done well in the trade and set them up comfortably. Sadly there were no little ones so Essie’s own children were at the receiving end of much kindness. Not that they were short of anything this year.

Only two days ago she had laid out old Mrs Marshall, who had died in her sleep, well prepared with her best nightdress and pennies ready in the top drawer.

There was an art to laying out the dead with dignity and pride, plugging places that might leak, washing and dressing the body, tying the chin with a bandage, combing hair and changing all their linen for the first viewings.

Mrs Marshall was a good sort, plain spoken but kindly, and would be missed at the weekly Women’s Bright Hour. Her son and widower were pleased and had left Essie two florins on the dresser for her willing services, a thank you that had come in useful in buying little extras for the coming days.