Whether an answer to a prayer or simple coincidence, Eleanor felt the latter, a response came the next day – and from an unexpected source, indeed, from two.
Neither Violet Rushton nor Robert Berry had ever been to the vicarage, but mid-morning both appeared on the doorstep. It was Eleanor who answered the knock. ‘Sorry to disturb you ma’am,’ said the usually reclusive Robert Berry, ‘but we wondered if we could speak with the Vicar for a few minutes?’
He looked mildly embarrassed, yet determined. Violet Rushton just smiled, adding, ‘And you too, of course, Eleanor.’
Eleanor, surprised, even puzzled, was quick to respond. ‘Of course, come in. Arthur is in his study, I’ll give him a call.’ She led them into the light, restful lounge and beckoned them to sit. Violet Rushton sat on the edge of an upright leather armchair, her colleague remained standing.
A few minutes later Arthur appeared. After warm greetings, the four sat. ‘Now, how can I help?’ asked Arthur turning to the unexpected duo. ‘Please.’ The two looked at each other and, surprisingly to Arthur, it was Robert Berry who spoke. He was usually to be found in his large garden, although Arthur had noted his occasional attendance at St Mary’s when prayers and meditations were announced for the men abroad.
‘Well, Miss Rushton and I have been talking. I called in at her shop a month or so ago and we got to talking about how we could help the men who are away. It wasn’t too long after quite a lot of people had sent parcels to their men and Miss Rushton here got to saying that it was a shame if that only happened at Christmas. Maybe the rest of us could do something. Anyway, Miss Rushton came round to my house last week and we talked things through a bit. We thought we might be able to help.’
Arthur’s interest was certainly aroused at his unexpected visitor’s enthusiasm for an idea that obviously mattered to him. Eleanor smiled and murmured her encouragement. Looking at Violet Rushton, Eleanor did not want her left out of the conversation. ‘So, Violet, please tell us your thoughts.’
‘Well, as Mr Berry said, we got talking about the Christmas parcels and we thought why not organise the sending of parcels, food, cigarettes and a few warm things on a more regular basis? Why not encourage everyone in the village to contribute? We could all give something. How many men are there from the village that are away fighting now, Vicar?’
‘When I looked at the list in the porch on Monday it was fifty-one, but it’s growing all the time.’
‘Well, we could try to send a parcel to everyone, say, once every three months. We could ask people to give what they can, it needn’t cost a lot of money as some could sew or knit things. I’ve got my store at the back of the shop and can make space for things to be kept there, so people could bring things along at any time. Then, when the time comes round we could find people to make up the parcels ready to send.’
‘It certainly sounds a wonderful idea,’ Arthur enthusiastically replied. ‘I know how much the men welcomed their Christmas parcels.’
‘I also think,’ added Eleanor, ‘it’s about them knowing they are in people’s minds. It must be terribly lonely as well as dangerous wherever they are and just to know that people are thinking about them probably means a lot.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ interjected Robert Berry, ‘but there’s something else we need to remember. The families of some of the men are very poor; I was talking to one lady whose son is in France, and she happened to say how difficult things had been made worse, since a soldier’s pay isn’t very much and little came her way. Some can’t afford parcels on their own.’
Eleanor wondered whether their visitor, whose thoughtfulness was revealing a caring side of which she had not been aware, was thinking of Liz Smith who scraped together a living by hard laundry work and must miss Fred’s earnings at the smithy.
The four went on gathering ideas and were surprised when they heard the hall clock strike twelve. They could all see the idea becoming a growing activity in the village, although just how much, they could not have imagined.
As the couple left the vicarage after warm goodbyes, Arthur turned to his wife. ‘I’m not surprised at Violet Rushton, she has always seemed a caring person, but I wouldn’t easily have placed Robert Berry in the same mould. I know some find him not only reclusive, but rather brusque.’
‘Ah, Arthur. You’ve seen how he always has the Union Jack flying in his garden and we’ve heard he served in the army. Obviously, he has a great feeling for our men overseas; knows what that must be like and wants to do something practical about it. Bless them both.’
Saturday, 10 April 1915
The excitement opposite the pond was reminiscent of the time, five months earlier, when the children had been allowed to mount the soldiers’ horses. ‘It’s as well it’s a Saturday,’ remarked Gwendolyn Edwards to Rachel Fielding from The Queens Head. ‘The children would hate to miss this.’
The source of excitement was a red and green omnibus parked in the gravelled area between John Francis’ shop and Gwendolyn’s cottage. It was only half past eight on this grey April morning, but a crowd had already gathered. Twelve-year-old Lily Reynolds had been the first to spot it, when at first light she had been up as it was her birthday. Now there were at least thirty gathered round the impressive, shining omnibus, hooded but open-sided. Rachel Fielding had often wondered how her smartly dressed neighbour, John Francis, made a living from his shop. There never seemed much to buy there with few customers although some went into his back room where he doubled up as a barber.
When he had been in The Queens Head a week earlier and told Rachel how he had bought a bus and was going to provide a regular service to Steepleton, she thought the drinks she had served him had whetted his well-known ability to exaggerate. She realised now that he must have driven it into his large barn running alongside his shop several days previously; she had seen him bustling between cottage and barn on several recent occasions; often wearing overalls. It was also Lily who had first spotted the name on this brightly painted vehicle: “The Rusfield Rocket”.
‘So what are you planning, John?’ asked the elderly Joe Bacon from the forge opposite. ‘It looks very smart and somehow you’ve managed to keep it a secret.’
‘Ay,’ replied the robust, proud owner of the village’s first omnibus. ‘It’s time folks were able to get in to Steepleton without having to walk or bicycle. I plan to drive in every morning, except Sundays, and return about two hours later. I may think about an afternoon run as well. Anyway, I’m going in on an introductory ride at eleven o’clock this morning. I can take twenty-one passengers so we’ll see who wants to go.’
Children rushed home to ask parents to take them into town and plans for the morning were changed. There would be no shortage of passengers.
Arthur and Eleanor quickly heard about “The Rusfield Rocket” when an animated Eliza Carey came in to do a morning’s cleaning. She could hardly contain her excitement. ‘Won’t it be wonderful if we can easily get into Steepleton?’
‘Indeed it will,’ smiled Eleanor. ‘We must be one of the few villages where there isn’t easy transport, so what Mr Francis is promising is excellent news.’
Arthur had heard his wife talking and came into the kitchen to see who had called; he had forgotten it might be Eliza. ‘Good morning Eliza.’ He turned to his wife, ‘I heard you mention John Francis’ name, is he all right?’ He was quickly brought up to date with the news by the excited Eliza.
‘That is excellent,’ he smiled, ‘I wish the new “Rusfield Rocket” every success. It’s long been needed and since the county authority gave us a proper road into Steepleton last year, it really is about time.’
‘And,’ added Eleanor, ‘it’s time we had some good news. Nurse Hazlett told me yesterday that over twenty children now have measles and young George Jones is really quite ill.’ She turned to Eliza, ‘Will you please help me with putting up the curtains in the guest bedroom? I’ve been meaning to do the job for the last few days
.’
‘And I must take another look at my sermon for tomorrow,’ interjected Arthur.
But neither replacing the bedroom curtains nor the next day’s sermon were to be completed on that day. The knock at the door took both Arthur and Eleanor through the hall.
‘Peter, how are you?’ Eleanor smiled her greeting to the young man, who was becoming an increasingly important figure in the village; regrettably, sometimes for heartbreaking reasons.
Arthur saw the young man bearing a telegram. ‘Oh Peter, more bad news! Who are you taking this telegram to?’
‘It’s for you, sir.’
‘Oh, I see. Well thank you; perhaps an urgent note from the bishop.’
‘Goodbye, Peter. Go carefully,’ added Eleanor, realising how much Arthur wondered at the telegram’s content. She closed the door.
Arthur hurriedly opened the telegram: Your father is ill. Please come urgently. Love Mother.
He passed it to Eleanor. ‘Arthur, I’m sorry,’ offered Eleanor, putting her arm round her husband. ‘We know he’s not been well for a while and clearly your mother wouldn’t have sent this unless it’s really urgent. We must get down to Dorset as soon as possible.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Arthur. ‘Poor mother, she will be so worried. There will be regular trains today, but tomorrow will be much harder; Sunday ones are few and far between. I’ll have to get word to Fred Richards and he’ll make the best arrangements he can for tomorrow’s service. Maybe he can get the Reverend Herbert Mainwaring in from Steepleton. I’m so fortunate having Fred as a churchwarden.’
‘And while you’re dealing with that I’ll have a word with Eliza and see if Sparky can conjure up some transport to take us to the station.’ She smiled and gave Arthur a gentle kiss. ‘I don’t think the “Rusfield Rocket” would be a good idea on this occasion; we don’t want everyone to know and add their well-meaning words before we set out.’
Arthur nodded. As Eleanor left to seek out Eliza, he went into his study and took down the green Bradshaw railway guide. There were two trains that could get them to Sherborne and it should not be too difficult to find a cab to take them the further three miles to his parents’ house. He hurried along to the Richards’ cottage.
‘I’m so sorry,’ sympathised the kindly churchwarden. ‘You must get away as quickly as you can. I’ll get word to the Reverend Mainwaring and I’m sure he will help out if he can. In any case we shall manage and I know everyone will be thinking of you and your family. Just leave it to me.’
The thought went through Arthur’s mind of how much he was reminded of Abraham when talking with Fred Richards, his father. By the time he got back to the vicarage, Eleanor was busy packing. ‘Sparky will be round here in half an hour. I think we need to take enough clothes for several days.’
Sparky, resourceful as ever, got them to Steepleton in good time with only a thirty minute wait for a train into London and they then made good time to Waterloo station. They were amazed at the vast crowds of soldiers, many with tearful loved ones; whether greeting or bidding farewell was hard to know. The awful thought went through Arthur’s mind and, as likely as not through Eleanor’s, as to how many of the young men soon to cross the Channel, would never return. How many would soon have their lives completely changed?
There followed an hour’s wait and the two and a half hour journey to Sherborne. By the time they alighted at that station, the light had faded and a slight drizzle was falling.
‘Good evening sir, madam, are you looking for a cab?’ Arthur was delighted, spoke his thanks and gave his parents’ address. The driver set out on the Yeovil road, turning off after a mile to the small village where Charlotte and Colonel Hector Windle had lived since his retirement ten years previously. Wrapped in their thoughts, neither paid much attention to the journey and within twenty minutes the cab pulled up outside the eighteenth-century former farmhouse with its five acres of well-tended garden and woodland. The driver took the two cases along the cobbled drive and Arthur, having thanked and paid him, knocked at the door.
Within a few moments the door opened to reveal Charlotte Windle, as always elegantly dressed. ‘Oh Arthur, how wonderful to see you.’ She threw her arms round him. ‘And Eleanor, how kind of you to come so quickly. Come in. It’s warmest in the kitchen. I didn’t dare dream of you coming today.’ Her close embrace of Eleanor expressed as much warmth as to her son. They followed her into the much warmer and well-lit kitchen. Charlotte, her gaunt face breaking into a smile which Arthur knew and loved so well, stepped forward and, in turn, kissed both he and Eleanor. ‘Oh, thank you for coming. Arthur, your father is very ill, sometimes barely conscious in between his long spells of sleep.’
The three sat in comfortable, well-worn chairs arranged around the open fire. ‘So, Mother; tell us about father and then perhaps I can go up to see him.’
‘As you know, he has not been well for many months, suffering from a shortage of breath and becoming increasingly tired. He hated that because he has been so vigorous all his life. Doctor Randall told me your father is suffering from a cardiovascular disease; I remember his own father’s death and wonder if the problem is hereditary. As I told you in one of my letters, just before Christmas the doctor prescribed tablets, but told me that your father’s heart was failing.’ She momentarily paused in describing the deterioration in her husband’s health. ‘Two weeks ago, he had a particularly bad night and when Doctor Randall came in the next day he told me there was really nothing more he could do, his heart was rapidly failing. Doctor Randall arranged for me to have a nurse call twice a day and she is very supportive. Your father seems to drift in and out of consciousness, although I’m not always sure whether it is more a case of drowsiness.’
Arthur stood up, walked the few steps to his mother, leant down and lovingly placed an arm round her. ‘I’m sure you are doing everything possible and if pain can be kept at bay that’s the main thing. Eleanor and I can stay here as long as you like; we just hope that will help.’
‘Of course it will; bless you both for coming. I suppose this is the time that everyone has to face. Now would you like to go up to see him; he’s in the main bedroom. You must both be starving,’ and turning to Eleanor, added: ‘perhaps you would kindly help me get something simple to eat?’ Eleanor willingly agreed, feeling that Arthur should see his father alone. She realised how distressed her mother-in-law was in telling them about her husband’s illness, but could not help noticing a slight remoteness in her words. Thinking back over the years, Eleanor could not remember Colonel Windle always being referred to as “your father”; surely Arthur’s mother used to slip a pet name in from time to time?
Twenty minutes later, Arthur came back into the kitchen with a worried expression. ‘I sat with father, just holding his hand. We spoke only very briefly, but he knew I was there.’ He turned to his mother: ‘Father asked me if you had told me something and I said that you had described how poorly he was. I wasn’t sure he understood. Then he drifted back to sleep.’
Eleanor was the first to realise that Arthur’s mother was crying, silently but with shoulders shuddering. She went over to Charlotte whom she had always loved and put her arm round her. ‘There’s really nothing that I can say that’s of much comfort, but know that Arthur and I care for you deeply and will do anything and everything we can at this sad time.’
Charlotte looked up, took a lace handkerchief from out of the sleeve of her green dress and wiped her eyes. ‘Thank you, dear. I know you mean that and I really appreciate it.’ She turned to face her son, ‘Arthur. It was not your father who failed to understand what you said; rather that you didn’t understand what he was saying. He asked you if I had told you about something; that’s what is troubling him.’ She sighed and stemmed her tears. ‘You must both be very tired so we should all have this little supper and go to bed. But there is something that I have promised your father, albeit with some reluctance, to tell you. It’s complicated and something that I shall find hard to say, but I
promised him. Furthermore it’s something that I feel you should know, but let us leave it until the morning.’
Arthur realised his mother was determined not to divulge anything further that night. Soon they kissed each other goodnight, Eleanor insisting that she be called if there were any worries in the night. Both she and Arthur wondered what it was that Charlotte Windle would tell them in the morning.
THIRTY-FOUR
Sunday, 11 April 1915
Apart from the rain lashing against their bedroom window, Arthur and Eleanor heard no sound during the night. No one slept well and by a quarter to eight the threesome were sitting down to a breakfast for which they had no real appetite.
‘So what time does the nurse come in?’ asked Arthur.
‘Well, as it’s Sunday she will come in just once today, probably within the next half-hour.’
There was tacit agreement that they wait until her departure before Charlotte Windle revealed what she had promised her husband. Arthur was relieved when Nurse Higgins left just before nine o’clock, having performed her duties in an efficient manner. They busied themselves clearing away the breakfast table, their minds on other things. After talking about her garden, Arthur’s mother turned as the last plate was put away.
‘My dears, hard though it is, it’s time for me to tell you what I have promised your father. Shall we stay in here or go through to the lounge?’
‘Let’s stay in here, Mother. It’s warm and comfortable.’
‘What I have to say is by far the most disagreeable thing of which I have ever spoken. I would be reluctant to break my promise to your father, Arthur, but that I would do if I didn’t feel you deserved to know the truth. You are a wonderful son and deserve to know this part of our family history, awful though it is. Whilst telling you I shall probably break down, but please don’t worry or say anything. Simply let me get this out of the way although I realise that for both of you, things will never be quite the same again.’