the maltese angel (46 page)

Carl asked himself how he could answer this one. However weak the

illness had left her, it hadn't weakened her thinking or probing. She would get to the bottom of it one day. But it shouldn't be now. She was too old for her years. But what could you expect? she'd had no ordinary babyhood or childhood. She had been

among adults all her life and she had listened to their prattle. And her thinking must have been heightened by her sharp ears and taking in what wasn't meant for her, with the result that things had left her puzzled.

"Can I ask you something, Carl?"

"Anything, Janie."

"Well, did the nice man call when I was ill?"

"The nice man?" He screwed up his face, thought a moment, then said,

"Oh, you mean Mr. Gerald from the Hall?"

"Yes, from the Hall."

"Yes. Yes, he came a number of times, and brought you nice big bunches of grapes. Didn't Miss Jessie tell you who the grapes were from?"

"No. She only said a visitor had brought them. She does not like me speaking ... of him. When I first mentioned him she said she didn't want to hear anything more about him, as he was a very rude man. But I found him very nice."

"I'm sure you did. And he is a nice man. He carried you home, you know, on that particular day."

"Oh, I knew he brought me home, but I don't remember him carrying me."

"Well, he did." He now bent down to her, saying, "You were so drunk you couldn't stand."

She pushed him with her hand, laughing, as she exclaimed now, "Oh, it is nice to be out again, Carl, and to be able to walk. I mean, on my own."

Looking down on her, he thought to himself. Yes, and you've got the nice man to thank for that an' all. He recalled Gerald's second visit and the talk they'd had in the barn there. It had been very open on both sides. And he believed what the young fellow had said he would do if the child was locked up again. Oh yes, he certainly meant business about that, and this was the result. The only obstacle to this new freedom, as he saw it, was a big one: what would happen should she confront the master and in her forthright way ask him why he wouldn't speak to her or recognise her person .. Well, sufficient unto the day the evil thereof. Today was bright and the child was happy. In fact, it could be said the whole atmosphere of the place had certainly

lightened from the day they had buried Miss Angela; yet he knew it hadn't for the master: he had become more morose than ever.

Carl had imagined that now Ward didn't need to give most of his time to his daughter, his old interest in the farm would have returned. But it hadn't. In fact, he walked less, and spent most of his time either in the sitting-room or in his bedroom. Could it be that his mind was

affected, too?

However, the work inside the house was definitely lighter, and Patsy was in a better frame of mind. At first, the war had troubled her in case he should be called up: being thirty-six he was still within the age limit. But then he was running a farm and food was wanted, and so it was a special job. He had no fear for himself, but they might take Rob. The first spate of patriotism seemed to have died down somewhat, only to have been re-awakened by rumour of German atrocities,

especially that of sticking babies on the end of bayonets. Unfounded, but it had brought a fresh surge to the Colours. It also brought, and soon, three heroes into the village, but they were all dead ones. And Mike had reported the strong village feeling that was growing against Mr. Gerald, because he had openly said that in no way would he take up arms and fight. Apparently he had made no bones about it. This, Carl thought, was a daft thing to have done; he should have kept his mouth shut. He had surely lived long enough in the vicinity before he went away to know how the villagers reacted to individual opposition. Of course, he was well aware of it, for hadn't he had to leave his home because he dared to stand up for the truth that day in the church?

Nevertheless, he still thought he was a fool for making his opinions so plain, because as far as he could gather, conscientious objectors were being given hell one way or another.

They were outside the gate now, and he said to Janie, "Which way are you going to walk?" And she pointed along the road: "That way," she said.

He bent down to her and, quietly, he said, "That leads, after a long walk, to the village. But you won't go that far, will you?" And she looked at him and said, "No. No, I won't, Carl. I don't want to go to the village. The people there are not nice. No, I will just walk a little way, then I will come back. I promised Auntie Jessie that,

too."

Watching her walking away, he thought: there goes an old head on young shoulders. And he wondered if the old head would be strong enough to face the future and what lay in it, particularly for her.

Book Three 19161921 Part One It was in February 1916 that War Office form W. 3236 came through the post. It stated that the recipient was required to join some section of the armed forces. And that if this was not complied with the recipient would be regarded as a deserter.

Also the recipient was expected either to present himself at the local recruiting station or to send documentary evidence en tiding him to exemption. But the exemption, it stated, had to be accompanied by a certificate from the local tribunal before which he would have

appeared.

In November 1915 Gerald had appeared before a tribunal, made up, he recognised, of local businessmen of supposedly assumed varying

standards, from the bank manager down to the butcher. There were women members, too, and their questioning he found virulent when he

truthfully owned up to being a conscientious objector. However, he had pointed out that he was supplying a great deal of food to the

community. And he felt it was only because of this and the particular sympathy of two members of the tribunal, that it ordered suspension of the verdict for three months.

He knew that his suspension had, in a way, been a matter of luck, for his objections to his conscription had not been pleaded on religious grounds, for tfiere were many doing so solely to save their own

skins.

It was reasonable to suspect that no conscientious objector was

objecting solely on his principles.

And this he had strongly pointed out to his mother, to which she

replied, "I don't blame them. And I beg of you, Gerald, do what I ask, please. Do this for me, or else I can see you, too, landing up in

prison."

"I fully expect to. Mama."

"Oh, don't say that." She closed her eyes tightly, then swung round.

"You've already told me what some of your company, as you call them, are going through in prisons. I couldn't believe it, but since that acting soldier wrote to the papers about it ... well, you've got to think there's some truth in it."

"There's all truth in it, Mama. Some of the Army and the prison warders are treating these men of conscience much worse than any German would do. They claim that the Germans are barbarians; they haven't got a look-in where our brave Englishmen are concerned. Yes, it is true that they are being manacled, beaten into insensibility in some cases, and degraded in such a way that is hardly possible to imagine, because they refuse to do work of any kind to enable this barbarous business to go on. These men, to my mind. Mama, are heroes."

"So you want to be a hero, do you?"

"No, I don't. I'm not made of such stuff."

"Well, why don't you do what I'm asking? You said yourself, some time back, that you wouldn't mind driving an ambulance and going into the thick of it. So what's the difference in signing up with the Friends'

Ambulance Unit? because you said there were Red Cross units that

wouldn't look at a conscientious objector."

Gerald emitted a long drawn-out sigh before he flopped down on to a chair, saying, "It ... it seems too easy a way out."

"Easy? If I'm to go by what Arthur says, they are given the most menial tasks possible and sent to France and all over the place."

"What does Arthur Tollett know about it? and he being in the Army all his life."

"Yes, Arthur's been in the Army all his life, but he's got very broad views. And... and although it's like betrayal, I must say that he saw things differently from your father." She went to him now and dropped down on her knees beside him and, gripping his hand, she said, "Do this for me, please. I'm worn out with worry about you."

He leant towards her and took her face into his hands and said softly,

"And I'm worn out with worrying about me. And what will you do if I go now? McNamara will never be able to carry on by himself."

"I'll ... I'll help him. I'm much stronger than I look. As long as I know you aren't in prison and ..."

He sighed deeply, saying now, "Hush. Hush. All right. Let me have a look at that form again."

She now almost sprang up from the floor, rushed over to a sofa table, and returned with a sheet of paper.

Sitting back now, he read aloud: "I, so and so, and so and so, and so and so, of the so and so, so and so, so and so, in undertaking service with the Friends' Ambulance Unit, hereby agree to comply with the

conditions which entitle me to the protection of the Geneva Convention and to observe the rules, regulations and orders issued by the officer commanding or by the committee, provided that I am not called upon to enlist and that my conscientious objection to military service is

respected."

He now looked upon his mother, saying, "It's a Friends' Ambulance Unit, yet they go on to say that you must conform to all military etiquette when wearing the uniform, which you're expected to provide yourself, as well as your own kit. Now, I think that's a bit thick.

They give you your food and lodgings and travelling expenses. How kind of them. " He again looked up at her; then read on, " You are expected to serve for the duration of' the war but with the right to leave after six months' he nodded his head at her now 'which I take to mean I'd be drafted into the armed forces after all . Oh, Mama. "

She stared at him now and her look was so pitiful that he said, "All right, all right. I've given you my word; I'll do it. And you know something? You're worse than any tribunal. I could face them and defy them, to the last breath, but there's you with that plaintive look on your face." He drew her up and, putting his arms about her

shoulders, said, "I'm not worth all your trouble, dear. I really am not. Inside myself I know I'm not worth twopennorth of copper. The only real, strong bit about me is my so-called principles, which just means I don't like sticking a bayonet into another fellow's belly. All right! all right! My conversation tends to be coarse even before I get into the army or corps or whatever."

She smiled at him now, saying, "Unit, dear, friendly unit."

"Friendly unit? My!" He shook his head, then said, "How much time are you giving me before I sign my name on the dotted line?"

"No more than twenty-four hours, dear."

' You 're joking! "

"No, I'm not. From what I gathered from Arthur, you could be up before another board, and this time not the local one, and this one wouldn't let you off for three months. And, oh, dear me! The very thought of it makes me .."

"All right, all right! dear. I have twenty-four hours. What shall I do with them?" He turned from her, walked over to one of the long windows that overlooked the terrace, and after a moment turned around, saying, "I'll get drunk, simply blind, paralytic drunk."

"There's not enough wine left in the cellar for that, dear."

"Who's talking about the cellar? I'll go out and paint the village red, give them something to remember me by, and likely land up in a cell and you'll have to come and bail me out."

She smiled at him tolerantly, saying, "Do that, dear, but not before dinner; it's Nancy's night off and cook's legs won't carry her back and forth from the dining-room to the kitchen, as you know; so leave it until after we've had dinner."

She now put her hand to his cheek in a gentle gesture and smiled at him before leaving the room. And he turned to the window again and his gaze roamed over the balcony, the drive, and that part of the flower garden they had cleared and which now looked bare, but actually was full of seeds, bulbs and young plants which, come the spring, would have given him a good harvest. And he looked beyond that, over the tall hedge to where lay the work of their main labours, now showing rows and rows of bright green heads of winter cabbages and brussel sprouts. Then on to the store-house where stood boxes of carrots and parsnips and such ready for Saturday market. And he felt a weakness in the bottom of his stomach, and it rose to his chest, then into his throat. Only the feeling that it might spring from his eyes in the form of tears turned him about.

He had never, up till this moment, realised how he was going to miss his work on his land, and this house, and his mother. And yes, the little visitor who came occasionally, not only to the woodman's cottage but also to this house, for she had become a kind of responsibility, a responsibility that worried him; at least her future did.

The calf was motherless. The cow, having died shortly after giving birth, had left a sickly calf which, if she were to survive, had to be fed four-hourly; and Janie had taken on to herself part of this

nursing.

The calf was housed in a small partitioned area at the end of the long byre: Carl had told her that it would be comforted there by the sound of the others' voices. It was lying now in a bed of straw and, in

order to give it a constant body warmth, two lighted lanterns were hanging close by on the end of the byre wall.

Janie was sitting with her back to the partition, and she talked softly to the small animal, which was lying quite inert: "Come on now, you'll like this," she said.

When it moved its head away from the teat she squeezed some milk out on to her fingers and put one to its mouth and rubbed its lip gently.

And slowly now it began to suck; then with a deft movement she inserted the teat into its mouth and, tilting its

head a little back, she said, "There now. Drink it all up, then you'll grow up to be a big girl, or' she smiled down on it 'a big