‘Here we are,’ Frank said cheerfully,jolting Charles from his thoughts.
In a vast expanse of flat countryside,dominated by large tracts of empty brown fields and no obvious landmarks, themotorbus drew to a stop.
Charles observed the swelling mass ofkhaki in a nearby field, as the four companies comprising the Battalion beganto regroup. He stood and made his way down the stairs and off thebus.
As he stepped down onto the soggy soil,Charles noticed for the first time the sporadic dull thudding of shells landingsomewhere near the distant village of Le Touret—precisely where they wereheading.
ChapterThree
21st December 1914, Beachy Head, Eastbourne, EastSussex, England
NellieFarrier, dressed in a long red coat and matching hat, cut a striking figure inthe gloom of the cliff edge. It was bitterly, bitingly cold as she stood, handstightly clasped to the pram, staring into the endless dreariness of the EnglishChannel, where sea and sky met seamlessly. She was perched at the top ofa rolling chalk downland on the tail-end of the South Downs. Waiting andlistening. She glanced down into the pram. Wrapped up like a tinydoll, her son, Alfred slept in blissful ignorance of the darkness that wasravaging the continent.
Then she heard it; the sound that she hadso often, almost daily, climbed the steep ascent from the dirty backstreets ofEastbourne to hear: the agonising thump and thud of heavy artillery poundingFrench soil, indiscriminately tearing and ripping apart everything and everyonecaught within reach.
With each dull thud, Nellie gaspedanew. The dreadful drum of destiny, she thought. Each strikeresonated to her very core, sickening her to the stomach. Her belovedhusband, Charlie, was out there somewhere beyond—inside—that gloom,fighting for his country.
She came here to be nearer to him. She came here to remind herself that no matter how hard life was for her andher infant son, it was infinitely better than it was for poor Charlie. Asalways, she would forbid eager tears from flowing, instead returning stoicallyto her dingy house to continue life as best she could. Waiting. Waiting for the day Charlie returned. It pained her greatly to think thathe was so close by—just a few hours away—and yet at the same time so dreadfullyfar.
Today, the cold had beaten her. Shelingered for a moment longer, absorbing the rhythmical thudding, searching thegloom for something—anything upon which to fix her gaze. But therewas nothing but grey.
Alfred began to stir, his tiny blue eyesopening, reacting to the stark winter chill. It was time to go.
Nellie closed her eyes, uttered a shortprayer and began her descent. Just a few feet away from the precariouscliff edge and removed from the incessant wind, the temperature seemed to liftby a few degrees. Nellie leant over the pram; Alfred had closed his eyesand returned to sleep.
She pushed on further down the hill untilshe reached a small copse of trees and hedgerow. In the murk of thelate-afternoon light, Nellie reached up and snapped off a piece of hollycovered in leaves and bright red berries. She laid it gently at Alfred’sfeet, alongside a long sliver of ivy she had removed from the side of a stonewall on the climb up.
Crouching down, Nellie carefully parted acurtain of holly, revealing the simple snare trap that she had setyesterday. She smiled. A plump dead rabbit, its neck snapped in thewire loop, lay waiting for her. She carefully loosened the wire, removedthe rabbit and reset the snare. Nellie tied a band of string around therabbit’s hind legs and slung it from the side of the pram. The housewill not go hungry for the next few days, she thought to herself, as shecontinued on down towards the town.
Nelliepushed the door tightly closed and ran the brass bolt into place. Sheshivered, grateful to be finally home. She shared the narrow Victorianhouse with two other women, Dorothy and Gwen, and their children: women whosekhaki men were out there fighting.
She carried the ivy and holly sprigs up toher bedroom then returned for Alfred. She clutched him carefully in herarms and made her way up the bare-boarded stairs. Her room was on thefirst floor and faced the front street. Before he had left for war,Charlie had done his best to liven up the drab room, whitewashing the walls andfinding the money from somewhere with which to buy material for some curtainsto try and keep out the weather that the old sash windows could not. Adouble bed, cot, chest of drawers and a writing bureau filled the space. On the floor was an old woollen rug, whose best days were long since past.
Nellie laid Alfred down in the cot andkissed his forehead.
Taking the sprigs of ivy and holly over tothe empty hearth, Nellie arranged them on the fireplace, carefully removing arun of postcards that Charlie had sent from the front line.
She took the most recent one and held itto her nose, trying to distinguish the various scents held within it. Oneof the smells, now fading, was of Charlie himself. A musty, manlysmell—not at all unpleasant—that was unique to him. On the front of thecard was a picture of a solider examining the bayonet of his rifle, whilst inthe top right corner a pretty young woman gazed dreamily heavenwards. Charlie had hand-tinted the khaki uniform and given the lady a vivid pinkdress. On the reverse of the card was her address, franked with twostamps Passed by censor, No.443 and Field Post Office, 14 Dec’14. In the bottom right-hand corner, Charlie had drawn a smallorange lily.
Dear Nell, a card to let you know that Iam quite well & keep smiling. Your last parcel arrived this morning -thank you so much, my darling. The toffee
