Soldier's Valentine (3 page)

He’d been offered a job driving one of the blue taxicabs that plied around the city centre. He liked the sound of it. No being stuck in a factory for him. Driving around the city would suit him very well.

Life began to return to normal, though Lewis remained in his heart. He would never forget the look on his face and those clawing hands as he slowly slid towards the ground. He would never forget his dying or, more specifically, the surprised look on his face when the officer had shot him.

He would never forget the officer either and, although Lieutenant Ross was dead, neither would he ever forgive him. Damn him to hell. Damn him and all the officers like him.

Although his throat was dry, on his way out, he managed to wish the preacher a good day. He prided himself on not drinking on Sunday. Let the Lord have his day; the demon drink could have the rest of the week.

Mary Anne’s father noticed that Henry Randall never missed a Sunday service and mentioned the fact to his wife at Sunday teatime.

‘He’s here every week without fail whether it’s me doing the preaching or somebody else. Now that’s what I call a regular and respectable young man.’

His wife sighed and shook her head sadly. ‘Like lots of other young men he served his country well. I expect after going through that he needs God more than most folk.’

Her husband agreed with her. ‘So many died and those that survived are never likely to be the same again.’

Mrs Sweet bustled around with the tea things. Sunday lunch was always relished after a good bout of sermonising from her husband. Teatime was more relaxed; there was always buttered bread, pots of jam and cakes. A large brown pot took pride of place in the middle of the table.

Just two of them for tea this evening, though sometimes they invited guests, usually business people or those Mr Sweet thought particularly deserving of his charity and his wife’s home-made cakes.

Mrs Sweet looked at the dining chair where her daughter used to sit, consoling herself that she’d be home soon.

‘No doubt she’ll come back with a bloom on her cheeks,’ tittered some of the old ladies who frequented the shop.

‘I hope not. I hope she’s taken my advice and used a sunshade and white cotton gloves. If you have a white skin, then keep it white. That’s what I say,’ Mrs Sweet had declared.

The comment about how her daughter’s complexion might have been affected by continental sunshine alarmed her. It was something she hadn’t considered before. Luckily her retort about the sunshade and white cotton gloves seemed to satisfy them.

However, the sooner the past was buried the better. The sooner Mary Anne was married to somebody else the better. That’s when the idea occurred to her regarding the lonely young man who attended Sunday service so regularly.

‘I know his name is Henry, but is there anything else we know about him?’

Her husband, now deep in notes for next Sunday’s sermon, looked up at her. ‘Who?’

‘The young man. Henry whatever his name is.’

‘Randall. Henry Randall. All I know is that he lives alone in lodgings somewhere and that he has no relatives. And of course we already know he served on the Western Front.’

‘No wonder he spends Sunday with God. Weekends, especially Sundays, are so lonely if one doesn’t have any family – everything being closed and nothing happening anywhere.’

She smiled while peering at her husband from beneath a fringe of reddish blonde hair which was only a little lighter than her daughter’s. She could still smile prettily and turn on girlish ways when there was something she wanted him to agree to. This was exactly what she did now.

Her husband shook his head mournfully. ‘Sundays are a day of rest, my dear. The Lord rested on the seventh day following a hard week of creating the Universe. Poor fella! Still, at least he’s hard working. I know that much. Drives a taxicab; one of them blue ones that pick people up from outside Temple Meads Station.’

‘Oh really,’ said his wife, sounding surprised, though in reality she already knew that. ‘I wonder, dear, whether we should invite him for tea, not next Sunday, but perhaps the Sunday after? I mean, Mary Anne’s back next week. She needs to settle …’

The seed was planted. She could tell that by the way he frowned, lightened, then frowned again. ‘He’s very working class.’

‘Under the circumstances, I think we have to overlook that particular shortcoming,’ said his wife.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I suppose we do.’

The first Mary Anne knew of Henry Randall was when he shook hands with her father at church the following Sunday.

On this particular Sunday another lay preacher was giving the sermon, her father consigned to listening and nodding in agreement with certain statements, however clichéd they might be.

Mary Anne was introduced to Henry immediately following the end of the service.

Her father cleared his throat. ‘This is our daughter, Mary Anne.’

Henry Randall seemed taken aback at the sight of her before finally before finding his voice. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ said Mary Anne, before retrieving her hand from his firm grip.

She never thought anything more of it until her mother announced that he was coming to tea the following Sunday.

‘Now you’re recovered from your little trip,’ she said smiling.

Mary Anne grimaced at the knowledge that her confinement would always be referred to as her ‘little trip’. The fact that giving away her baby had left her feeling devastated was brushed over. It was all for the best, that was what they kept telling her. The story they’d told
people about having been on a trip to Europe was almost laughable, or would be if she didn’t feel so sad.

‘Be kind to Mr Randall,’ her father said to her, his voice was firm. ‘He fought on the Western Front. We haven’t mentioned anything about your engagement to Edward. Your mother and I think it’s best nothing is said. It’s over and what’s past is past.’

Her mother was supportive of her husband, her gaze flashing nervously between Mr Sweet and their daughter.

‘Three-quarters of a million men were killed, Mary Anne; a dreadful tragedy for them their families and the girls that might have become their wives. There are going to be a lot of young girls who will never know the joy of having children …’ She hesitated, suddenly aware of what she was saying. ‘What I mean to say is, if you do marry then you’ll be one of the lucky ones.’

It was on the tip of Mary Anne’s tongue to retaliate and say that she was quite happy to be one of those ‘old maids’. Edward was gone. Her baby was gone. What did she care if she never married? The man she was going to marry was dead.

At night she sometimes dreamed of that summer day before he’d gone to war when they’d stripped naked and swam in the weir, afterwards lying in the cool grass, the sun drying their bodies. That was when they’d made the baby that Edward never got to see, and all she could recall were a pair of tiny hands, waving goodbye to her forever.

In the aftermath of meeting Mary Anne Sweet, Henry Randall was subject to a number of interesting thoughts.

For one thing he felt certain he’d seen her somewhere before, but no matter how much he racked his brains, he couldn’t think where. It could be that he’d dreamed about her when bone weary following yet another push, another battle full of noise, blood and bodies blasted to pieces before his eyes.

Mary Anne was the sort of girl most of the soldiers dreamed of in their rest moments – the girls they’d left behind, the girls of their dreams. Other soldiers dreamed of their mothers.

He’d never dreamed much of his mother or of the girls he’d left behind because there hadn’t been any. As for his mother, she’d been a poor thing, unable to stand up for herself against his father’s temper and the cuffs and blows that came with it. Once he’d got over the ‘found under the gooseberry bush’ thing and knew the truth about how babies came to be, it surprised him that regardless of his father’s bullying, his mother produced one child after another.

He vaguely recalled having two or three younger siblings, if they’d survived the deprivation that is; he didn’t know for sure if they had.

Over plates of home-made cakes, he watched as Mary Anne glided around the table, pouring tea from a big brown pot. Her hair changed colour when she moved, and she smelled good.

He accepted another cup of tea, glad it was her pouring it out rather than her sanctimonious father or her stiff-looking mother. He had the distinct impression they favoured a match between him and their daughter. It occurred to him that she could do better than him, that there had to be a reason they favoured him.

He wasn’t entirely unfavourable to the idea. He had his own reasons for favouring such a match, though he wouldn’t of course divulge it to them. His was a reason that had to be kept a lifelong secret.

Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to set the pace, he moved his arm so that his elbow brushed against her. As women went, she was very attractive. All he had to do was play his cards right, keep his temper in check and rise above what he had been in the past.

Every Sunday was much the same, their conversation light and focused on general topics such as what he thought of her father’s sermons. He said it was one of the reasons he kept coming on Sundays; he needed to hear those things.

Mary Anne noticed her father visibly puff up with pride. It wasn’t often he earned such giddy praise and she couldn’t help the smile that came to her face.

Thinking that the smile was intended solely for him, Henry smiled too.

‘I hear you’ve been to France,’ he said to her. ‘I hope it was a bit more pleasant than when I was there.’

Mary Anne’s smile vanished. She blushed but found her voice, compounding the lie her parents had already began.

‘There were no battlefields where I was. Only the sadness they left behind.’

He looked down into his teacup. The visions of the Great War came back regularly. He made a conscious effort to remember the glories of battle rather than the carnage, after all if those boys hadn’t died for glory, freedom and a better world, what was the point of them dying at all? He’d survived and was even something of a hero to those who knew him. The likes of him had helped make a peaceful world, a better world in which to bring up a family and it was a family he wanted. A family would obliterate all that had gone before, and Mary Anne could help him achieve that.

Now, he said to himself. Now is the time to ask her if you’re going to ask her at all.

‘I was wondering about next Sunday—’

Mr Sweet intervened. ‘So were we, my boy. We don’t like to think of you spending Sunday all alone. How about you come for tea again next week? Only if you’ve nothing else to do of course.’

‘That would be very nice. I was going to ask Mary Anne if she’d like to go for a walk after we’ve had tea.’

‘A delightful idea.’

They went for that walk. It turned out Henry had been in the same regiment as Edward, though she couldn’t mention him of course.

She badly wanted to ask him if he’d known Edward, but she’d been sworn to secrecy. Her old love must not be mentioned not even to close friends and certainly not to neighbours or customers at her parents’ shop.

She had no friends to speak of except Evelyn. They met one day in Carwardine’s and over coffee Mary Anne brought up Edward’s name.

‘Shame he died. You two were always sweet on each other. Still, it’s bad luck to talk of the dead I think, don’t you? Now how about buying some dress material. I fancy yellow myself.’

Evelyn’s brothers had stayed in reserve occupations on the railways throughout the war so Evelyn always skirted any talk of those that had died.

They both bought material to make dresses that day. Evelyn found a yellow floaty material dotted with tiny white flowers. Mary Anne bought a few yards of mint green silk, enough to make something simple and straight in the latest fashion.

Bent over the sewing machine, her feet beating the treadle, Mary Anne imagined herself in the mint green dress. Henry will like me in this. The sudden thought brought her up short. Why had she suddenly considered him admiring her in this dress?

She admitted to herself that she did want to see admiration in his eyes. Henry had been in the same regiment as Edward, perhaps even the same battalion. He was the closest thing in her life to her lost love. They’d had the same experiences, perhaps fought in the same battles.

She decided to ask him about his experiences on the Western Front; it might do them both good.

She wore the green dress when he asked her out for a walk in the park. His eyes lit up at the sight of her just as she’d imagined they would.

Once she judged the time was right, she asked him about the Western Front.

‘What was it like? Not the battles. What was it like to endure – all you men lumped together?’

‘“Lumped” is about the right word, still, we got over it. In fact we all became great comrades! We were like brothers, all looking out for each other. That’s what the army does for you. I never regretted joining up and I never will. Would have stayed in for the rest of my days if …’

He paused, his eyes hooded suddenly. She took it he didn’t wish to talk about some hideous slaughter and changed the subject.

‘You must have made some good friends. I suppose you would in those circumstances.’

He nodded and told her that indeed he had. ‘From the very first minute I joined up. Then there was Lewis, of course. He were my mate. We joined up together four years before the war even started. That’s why I made corporal when the war came about. Lewis was a lance corporal. He was always ribbing me about playing second fiddle to my corporal. No offence taken though. As I said, we were great mates …’

His voice trailed off and his expression was strained.

‘Did he …’ Mary Anne’s voice was hesitant. ‘What I mean to say is … he didn’t come back?’

Henry shook his head. ‘No. He didn’t come back. He was killed in front of me eyes.’

Since they’d first met, Henry had made a point of carefully pronouncing his words. She deduced his lapse was as a result of his grieving.