Part 7 (1/2)

She walked down the path and opened the gate onto the cobbles of a large open s.p.a.ce, which separated the kitchen garden from the stables and garages. She heard a horse whinny and voices coming from the stables. Should she go and look? Don't be a ninny she said to herself, they're not going to eat you! She wandered over to the stables.

Ned turned at Leah's light step. He couldn't see her for a moment as she stood in the brightness of the doorway.

'h.e.l.lo there,' he said. He walked towards her and Leah stepped back. Emerging into the daylight he started in surprise. He'd seen this la.s.s before when she used to come down Waters Street where he lived. At sixteen Ned was just beginning to take an interest in girls. Not that he'd seen many, except Miss Marion, while he'd been at Hyndburn 'I'm Leah Hammond,' Leah said, as Ned seemed tongue-tied.

'Aye,' he said, when he'd recovered himself, 'I know who you are. You're Harold's la.s.s.' He blushed as she stared at him.

Leah liked his open face at once, although she didn't like red hair. She patted one of the horses and then left the stables with Ned staring after her and walked around to the front of the house, this time to have a good look, feasting her eyes on it for quite some time. She walked down a path which led to a large rose garden, bent to smell a large red one, then on again to the orchards where the gardener was picking some apples.

'Lovely day,' she said to him; Bob, that was his name she suddenly remembered. 'Bob.'

'Aye,' he looked up with a smile. Emma Hammond's la.s.s, he thought. Looks like her as well. 'Treating you all right up there, are they la.s.s?'

Leah nodded. 'I like Mrs. Walters,' she said.

'Aye, she's a grand woman, Maud.'

So by the end of the day she'd toppled into bed, her mind ticking over with all the new sensations, the people she'd met, sights she'd seen, her eyes finally closing on the sight of that red rose and the heady perfume as it filled her nostrils.

CHAPTER NINE.

Ostend: a cold wind blowing, men in uniform, s.h.i.+vering and blowing on hands for warmth, noise and confusion. This was Darkie's introduction to the Flemish coast as he stood waiting with the rest of his regiment.

'Name?' asked the sergeant at the desk, abruptly 'Arthur Coleman.'

'Rank?'

'Private.'

'Number?'

'Eight, oh, farty, farty,' Arthur Coleman said, looking more like a little lad than a soldier.

The sergeant in charge of the new recruits looked up in surprise.

'What's that? What sort of a b.l.o.o.d.y number is that?

'That's me ident.i.ty number you asked for,' replied the short thin lad in front of Darkie.

'And I said, soldier, what sort of b.l.o.o.d.y number is that, farty farty, and don't try to get funny with me or you'll b.l.o.o.d.y well wish you hadn't,' barked the c.o.c.kney sergeant. His moustache almost bristled as he looked at the weak looking specimen before him. And we're supposed to win the war with this, he thought!

'He means forty forty,' Darkie interjected. 'Where we come from we say farty for forty. It's the dialect.' Darkie grinned at the sergeant, who couldn't help smiling back for an instant.

'Aye,' Arthur repeated stubbornly. 'That's what I said, eight, oh, f...'

'Yes, yes, all right, I know,' the sergeant interrupted. 'Eight, oh, f...'

Before he could finish the long line of avidly listening men behind Darkie shouted, farty, farty at the top of their voices. Shouts of laughter and ribald comments followed until the sergeant managed to quiet them down. Arthur Coleman was called Farty for the rest of his life, which unfortunately ended six months later - he was blown to smithereens by a bomb.

The queue of men finally joined the hundreds of other soldiers waiting in an enclosed area. Waiting for what, Darkie wondered. They were all cold, bored and hungry. Rations had been meagre on the crossing from England to France, most being regurgitated when a gale force wind blew up, the boat bobbing around like a cork.

'What wouldn't I give for a nice cup of tea and some fish and chips,' Arthur said, s.h.i.+vering.

'Aye, that would go down nice. I can't see us getting anything just yet. Blimmen 'eck, it looks like a b.l.o.o.d.y circus.'

How could anyone win a war like this? No one seemed to know what was going on and that included the officers, also standing around stamping their feet and looking, Darkie thought, like they were waiting for a bus.

Nothing seemed to be happening: the shouts of men, the jostling and neighing horses in the compound next to them and the creaking horse-drawn carts with huge guns.

'Where are we going from here?' Arthur said to Darkie. They'd met on the train to London and Darkie had taken to the small, starved looking lad straight away. 'I'm from Preston,' Arthur said as the train had chuffed south.

'No idea. I heard someone talking about a place called Wipers.'

'Wipers? that's a funny sort of name.'

It started to rain again. Fortunately they got the order to move out. At least we're moving, Darkie thought as they trudged through thick mud, which he gathered was a road. He grinned down at Arthur who looked like a drowned rat in his greatcoat, which was almost trailing on the ground. 'Put your b.l.o.o.d.y hat on you silly happorth it's b.l.o.o.d.y thumping down.'

Darkie trudged on with the rest of his company in the East Lancas.h.i.+re Territorials and thought about how he'd left Harwood. He hadn't had the nerve to tell his mother. Instead he'd left her a letter. b.l.o.o.d.y coward, he thought.

It had only taken a few minutes to get recruited, no questions asked, just his name and age and bang he was a soldier, kitted out in uniform and all the etceteras in almost as short a time.

Within two weeks he was on his way to Southampton. He'd not said a word to anyone except, strangely enough, his father. He didn't know why he'd done that, but when Harold saw him on his doorstep his face lit up. Darkie had been shocked at his father's appearance. He'd known he hit the bottle regularly. He'd seen him at the Wellington on occasion, but he'd never looked like this.

'Agnes died,' Harold said, as Darkie sat in the dreary looking sitting room.

'I'm sorry, Dad.'

'Aye, you might not believe it, but I was fond of Agnes. We were at Blackpool, on the pier when she dropped dead; just like that!'

Harold was shocked when he heard Darkie was going to join up. 'It'll just about kill your mother,' he said.

He pressed a five-pound note into Darkie's hand before he left. 'A going away present,' he said. Darkie tried to refuse. 'Agnes left me some money,' Harold insisted, 'And I'd like you to have it.'

Harold watched Darkie walk up Waters Street. His eyes were bleak. He realized suddenly what he'd missed out on. He lifted his hand as Darkie turned for one last wave. My son! What a fool he'd been. Would he ever see him again? He'd be lucky! He walked back inside the house and closed the door.

As Darkie plodded on, his boots squelching in the mud and Arthur swearing beside him, he wondered if he'd ever see Harwood again. The seasoned soldiers said that it changed you, over here: funny that, he seemed to have changed in the last few hours. Was it his imagination or had the faces of the men around him changed, too. They were young lads, most of them. Now they looked like men, as though the bleak surroundings and the noise of war had already infiltrated their consciousness. Had they suddenly realized that it might not all be fun and games? Darkie shuddered.

Captain Stephen Townsend was miserable and cold. He was not the only one. The mud in the trench almost reached his knees and he thanked G.o.d for his gum-boots. The rain was coming down in torrents and his waterproof cape was not all it was cracked up to be. He pulled his cap further down over his forehead, the rain pouring from the brim like a waterfall. It had been like this for the last twenty-four hours. Every now and then he'd duck into the covered part of the trench, but it was so stacked with bodies (Germans), the stench so overpowering he could only stand a few minutes of it. The first time he'd retched for a good hour. Now he was a bit more used to it, but not much. The bodies had lain there for months, slowly rotting away or being eaten by the rats.

There had been a stalemate for days on end and the men were bored and restless. Yet going over the top was the most terrifying thing of all. He had just had word that they were to be given the signal in half an hour. The men had had their tots of rum. Stephen smiled grimly under the brim of his hat. It took more than rum to get some of the men over. He could see Darkie Hammond at the end of the trench. Leah had told him that her brother was going to join up, so he'd not been too surprised that he was in his Company. He'd made himself known after he'd gone through the list. Darkie had been embarra.s.sed at being singled out so Stephen hadn't lingered over the introduction.

He stamped his feet to get the circulation going and risked a peep over the trench. The grim scene made Dantes Inferno look like Paradise. And only a few days ago he'd been at Jessica's dinner party, all toffed out in tie and tails. Jessica had been livid with him, from all accounts. He'd drunk too much and been belligerent with it. He wasn't usually aggressive when intoxicated, but that night something had come over him. Some kind of perversity had taken over, anger at the world or some such thing, which had played itself out in irking his mother. He remembered telling an important member of Cabinet he was an old goat and didn't know what the h.e.l.l he was talking about: something to do with the war.

He'd sent a letter of apology the next day at Jessica's urging. Jessica had also tried to pair him off with Penelope Grentham, a lovely girl but too horsey for his liking.