The Shadow of War (13 page)

Bronwyn had not heard Philip come into the room. His study is next to his bedroom, and the door had been left slightly ajar. She jumped to her feet but, as she did so, knocked several of the prints on to the floor, compounding her embarrassment.

‘No … well, yes … I'm sorry, sir. I was just tryin' to clean your room.'

As she scampered to pick up the prints, all of which portrayed highly suggestive imagery, Philip bent down to help her.

‘I hope to sell them next week in Ludlow. They are very collectible.'

‘I can't imagine who'd buy them; perhaps only lonely old men.'

He smiles at her.

‘You'd be surprised, Bronwyn. I sell quite a few to female collectors as well. Aristophanes' comedy is based around a woman called Lysistrata, who wishes to bring an end to the Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta by convincing the women of Athens to withhold sexual privileges from the men until they agree to declare a peace, effectively holding the men's libido hostage. Don't you think it an interesting coincidence with war looming in Europe?'

‘War, sir?'

‘The heir to the throne of the Austrian Empire was assassinated three days ago. They say it may lead to war. Perhaps you women will prevent it happening.'

Bronwyn did not really hear what Philip was saying. She just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

‘I don't know about war, sir. But if I may say so, those things are just filth in my eyes.'

‘Well, that's interesting. Beardsley's dead now. He was only
twenty-six when he died, but before he died he converted to Roman Catholicism and begged his publisher to destroy his erotic drawings because he thought them an abomination. Luckily for his devotees, and for me, he didn't.'

‘Well, I think you should burn 'em. He was right, they are an abon … im …'

‘Abomination.'

‘Yes, one of those.'

Bronwyn, scarlet in the face and sweating profusely, hurried from the room, closing the door behind her with a boom before bursting into tears.

She was left with her mind in turmoil. Philip had talked about the prints in a matter-of-fact way, as if was talking about the art of the great masters of painting. He had also spoken to her with kindness, without embarrassment, and had treated her as an adult. The more she thought about the incident, the more she forgot about how embarrassing the circumstances had been. Over the next few days, the images began to fill her head with lurid thoughts that led her to fantasize about recreating the scenes with Tom.

On the next two occasions when she cleaned Philip's study, he was away working in Ludlow – selling his ‘dirty prints', she imagined. But the Beardsley prints were not the only ones she found. There were others, by illustrators with exotic foreign names like Count de Waldeck and Paul Avril, which were far less grotesque, but equally explicit. Bronwyn's initial shock and revulsion soon turned to fascination, and the images became central to her love-making with Tom. Gradually, and to the sweet torment of her vivid imagination, the large and powerful lover who dominated her secret fantasies came to resemble Philip, not Tom.

The second incident took place a week later and has filled her with remorse ever since.

Clara Davies had been taken for a carriage ride by her brother, who lived nearby. The house cook and maid were in
Presteigne at the shops and Bronwyn knew she was alone with Philip. Despite knowing full well that it was inappropriate – and potentially perilous – her mind raced and she felt her heart thumping in her chest.

She found herself cleaning his study, even though it was not the day for her to do so, when she heard him splashing in his bath. The door to his bedroom was partly open and she noticed that, by looking at the mirror over the mantelpiece in his study, she could see the door to his bathroom.

When she heard him step out of his bath and let out the water, she positioned herself so that she could catch sight of him. Philip is a big man, built like a warrior or an athlete, his body covered with thick hair. Compelled by a heady brew of mixed emotions – intense guilt, fear, but also a much more exhilarating sense of anticipation – she looked between his legs and there she saw that his manhood matched his powerful frame. It seemed partially erect, a sight that sent a wave of adrenalin through her body.

What happened next was an inevitability, entirely instigated by Bronwyn, who merely pushed the study door fully open and stepped into Philip's bedroom.

In the days that followed, in between sessions of intense love-making, Philip began to tutor Bronwyn, not only in the nuances of erotic art, but also in many other subjects. After a few days, he hired another cleaner, so that he could spend more time with her. He also paid the charges for two of her other cleaning jobs so that she could cancel them and come to him almost every day. Bronwyn's mind is alert and perceptive, and their conversations became more and more erudite as she charmed him with her questions and insight.

Their couplings were sometimes wild, but often tender. Bronwyn felt satisfied in ways she had not experienced before, as sex became an intellectual experience as well as a physical one. She became besotted with him, leaving her with the anguish of loving two men at the same time: her gentle
fiancé, sweet, considerate Tom, and Philip, her masterful older lover.

She continued to make love to Tom, partly because she had to, but also because her passions of the day often carried over to the night, a sin that only worsened her feelings of guilt. Philip asked her about Tom and she told him the truth. He became jealous and asked her to keep herself for him alone, only adding to the shame she felt.

She was wrestling with her dilemma and was on the point of deciding to break off her engagement to Tom, when war intervened. When Philip told her he was leaving, it was as if the world had ended. She had no idea he was a reserve soldier. He made arrangements for Bronwyn to have access to a post office box in Presteigne and for her to withdraw her cleaning fees, much augmented by Philip, from his account at the town's Bridgnorth Bank.

Then he was gone, summoned to his regiment and the impending war.

Bronwyn's tears still flow on to her pillow. She is traumatized: exhausted by the intensity of her relationship with Philip and ashamed by her lustful behaviour and the web of deceit she has had to spin. Her mind spins in a whirlwind of intoxicating memories and dreadful remorse.

Philip has gone. She knows that many reservists are preparing to go to France; she may never see him again. Next to her is her fiancé, now deeply asleep, a man for whom she no longer has the same feelings she had just a few weeks ago.

Her tears soak into her pillow. Her dreams are shattered; she thinks her life is over.

Despite the traditional conventions that apply to their gender, Cath Kenny and Mary Broxup have insisted on joining their menfolk for their Saturday drinking session at Keighley Green Working Men's Club. Although they are much younger than the ‘older married ladies' tolerated in the club, they are with ‘Tommy Brox' and ‘Mad Mick' – two of Burnley's most notorious hard men – so their presence goes unchallenged.

Tommy and Mick have agreed that their wives can join them on the strict understanding that it is not taken as a precedent. Cath and Mary have also had to agree to behave themselves by not raising three taboo subjects: their support for the suffragette cause, their socialist beliefs and their commitment to pacifism, which has been nurtured by the growing opposition among some left-wing groups to the war with Germany.

Cath and Mary have been espousing anti-war sentiments all day. For the past week, the mee-maw in their mills has been all about the outbreak of war and its consequences.

At that morning's tea break at Cath's mill, the Trafalgar, a union official produced a copy of
Labour Leader
, the journal of the radical Independent Labour Party, and read out its exhortation: ‘Workers of Great Britain, down with war! You have no quarrel with the workers of Europe. They have no quarrel with you. The quarrel is between the ruling classes of Europe. Don't make the quarrel yours.'

A very heated debate followed, which left Cath in a tiny minority who agreed with the ILP's stance. As many fellow
socialists pointed out, the left-wing
Manchester Guardian
has come out in favour of supporting the war, as has the ILP's rivals, the Labour Party, and, indeed, Cath and Mary's hero, Mr Harry Hyndman, leader of the British Socialist Party. Much the same debate happened at Daneshouse Mill, where Mary works, leaving her in a small but vociferous minority. Mary's Irish roots had not helped her cause; accusations of disloyalty and even treason were levelled at her, including by some of her union colleagues.

Although Keighley Green's typically carefree and raucous Saturday night atmosphere still holds sway, there are nevertheless several grave and animated discussions to be heard. Through the usual din there is much argument about the morality and efficacy of Britain's declaration of war. One of the most contentious issues among the club's members, almost all of whom are weavers, is the thought that the town's colliers are certain to be excused military duty on the basis of the importance of coal to the war effort.

Phrases like ‘fuckin' colliers' and ‘lucky bastards' drift by Mick's ear – he is probably the only miner in the room – but they have no effect on him. As usual, his demeanour is remarkably placid.

In contrast, all the conversation at the Broxup/Kenny table is focused on young Vinny Sagar who, that very afternoon, has had the honour of playing in a trial match at Turf Moor for Burnley Football Club's youth team against Blackburn Rovers' youths.

The new season is less than a month away and Vinny is hoping he might get a part-time apprenticeship at the club, the first step to becoming a professional footballer. Burnley, currently the FA Cup holders and riding high in public esteem both locally and throughout the land, are the bookies' favourites for the 1914–15 league title. Joining the illustrious club would be a dream come true for Vinny. His ambition is to play cricket in the summer for Lowerhouse, a
famous old team based on the outskirts of the town and one of the stalwarts of the renowned Lancashire League, and football in the summer for Burnley, the leading team in the land.

That morning, he had rushed to the ground after his shift at the mill. He had no time to eat the sandwich in his snap box, threw his working clothes at his ever-present companion, Twaites Haythornthwaite, and made it on to the pitch with only minutes to spare. Nonetheless, he made an excellent impression on John Haworth, Burnley's manager. Burnley beat Blackburn 3-1 and Vinny scored the third goal, late in the second half.

He and Twaites have been celebrating in the club since arriving at five o'clock and have lost count of how many pints of Massey's King's Ale they have consumed. They can just about see the bar, but most of their other faculties are fading rapidly.

‘Tha should 'ave sken me goal, it were a belter! Must 'ave been thirty yard; went in like a bullet.'

Twaites takes issue, if a little incoherently, with Vinny's claim about the distance of his ‘wonder' goal.

‘More like eighteen yard, our kid, tha were only just outside t'penalty box!'

John-Tommy Crabtree, the club steward, himself a fine footballer in his day and one of the town's greatest fast bowlers, suddenly appears behind them.

‘I 'ear tha laiked fer Burnley Youths today, lad.'

‘I did, Mr Crabtree – scored an' all.'

‘Well, tha won't be scorin' many more if tha keeps suppin' ale like tha does.'

‘I've only 'ad three.'

‘More like six or seven. You and Twaites can 'ave one more, then it's 'ome for t'pair o' thee.'

Vinny tries to argue, but Tommy Brox puts his hand on his shoulder.

‘John-Tommy's
reet. One more and you're on thy way down t'road.'

After Vinny and Twaites are sent packing to their beds, the conversation between Mary, Cath, Mick and Tommy, well lubricated by alcohol, turns to the impending war. The discussion quickly becomes strident. Mary is doubly disappointed. Not only are most left-wing groups on the British mainland supporting the war, most of her Nationalist kin in Ireland are suspending their demands for independence in order to lend support to Britain and the Empire.

‘I can't believe it. After 'undreds o' years, an' just as independence were agreed, our Irish brothers and sisters 'ave bowed to their oppressors in Westminster. They must 'ave gone soft in
th'eed
!'

Cath nods in agreement with Mary, but neither Tommy nor Mick respond. They are eavesdropping on a loud conversation taking place at the bar, where several men in a group of weavers are arguing about the merits of Britain's declaration of war. One of them, Jimmy Dowd, an old adversary of Tommy's from schooldays, is as drunk as a skunk and eager for a confrontation. He has three equally belligerent friends with him as he staggers over to where Tommy and his group are sitting. Jimmy Dowd is six inches shorter than Mick and Tommy, but as wide as a barn door, and one of Burnley's most notorious scrappers.

He gets drunk most Fridays and Saturdays when, with sufficient Massey's inside him, he usually leads his little group of fellow nutters in a mass brawl with whichever similarly inclined pugilists they can find. The bobbies know to come gang-handed, crack a few skulls and then lock them up for the night.

‘So, our Tommy, what does tha reckon to this feight wi' t'Germans?'

‘I 'aven't thought abaht it much, Jimmy.'

‘I 'ear thy missus is not only a peacemonger, but also a
fuckin' suffragette. What abaht thee? Is tha freightened o' feightin'?'

‘Tha knows me better than that, Jimmy.'

Jimmy turns to Mick with a sneer on his face.

‘What abaht thee, lad? I hear you're a collier an' a Paddy. We don't normally let colliers in 'ere, especially Mick colliers.'

Mick doesn't rise to the bait, but Cath does.

‘Why don't you bugger off back to t'bar an' 'ave another ale?'

Jimmy looks at Cath with contempt.

‘We don't normally let young lasses in 'ere either. Unless they're up for tuggin' a few cocks!'

Cath manages to reach Jimmy before Tommy does and lands a clenched fist on the side of his jaw. All hell breaks loose as chairs, tables, pots and bodies go flying. Cath and Mary retreat behind the bar, where they pass John-Tommy Crabtree, shillelagh in hand, on his way to sort out the brawl.

By the time the doughty steward reaches the combatants, only Tommy and Mick are standing. Jimmy Dowd and his friends are prostrate, bloodied and bowed. Jimmy looks the most damaged. Where his nose was prominent only moments ago, there is now a mess of blood and cartilage.

Tommy looks at Mick.

‘Alreet, lad?'

‘Aye, I'm fine. I'd 'eard tha's quick wi' them fists. But, by 'eck, tha can 'andle
tha'sen
.'

‘Tha's reet 'andy tha'sen, Mick, lad.'

Tommy turns to John-Tommy, who is still holding his shillelagh with intent.

‘Sorry, gaffer –'

‘Not thy fault. I should 'ave chucked 'em out an hour ago. Will you lads 'elp me get 'em outside? Then you can 'ave one on th'ouse.'

Later that night, as Tommy and Mick stroll home a few yards behind their wives, Mick asks Tommy about the war.

‘What
dost reckon to this set-to wi' t'Germans? Will tha feight if it comes to it?'

‘Aye, I think so. In't it our duty to defend our country an' our families?'

‘What abaht Cath? She won't like it.'

‘I know, but I'm me own man. What abaht thee?'

‘I s'pose so, but Mary 'as been lecturin' me abaht it. She never lets up. It's our Irish roots more than
owt
else. She reckons that if Ireland doesn't get independence, we shouldn't fight. Mind you, that's apart from not believin' in wars in t'first place!'

‘Vexin', in't it?'

‘Aye, then there's our babby on t'way. That's thrown cat among t'pigeons; it's a reet bugger.'

‘Well, t'feightin' 'asn't come to owt yet. It might all blow over.'

‘Aye, let's hope so.'