I sang to him, my German love songs. He puzzled over the translations, fitting the English words to the German; so he understood when I sang of his gold ring on my finger, and of the joyful day when his image would smile up from the cradle beside my bed. When I had finished he said, ‘Our bed, Helena, you’ll have to alter that.’ Teasing, I sang ‘Der Schmied’ – the ‘Song of the Blacksmith’ was the best I could do, since Brahms had written no tunes celebrating footplatemen.
‘Am schwarzen Kamin,
Da sitzet mein Lieber,’
At the black furnace, there sits my lover.
‘Doch geh ich vorüber,
Die Bälge dann sausen,
Die, Flammen aufbrausen
Und lodern um ihn.’
But if I pass by the bellows then whistle, the flames flare up – and blaze all about him.
He laughed aloud. ‘You got it wrong – it were Frank who worked blower that evening on radial tank – and I reckon it were your flames as were blazing up – when I got home that night you fair scorched pants off me!’ My face burnt with blushes.
I sang Strauss’ song: ‘Glückes genug’ – abundant happiness – the abundant happiness of holding him in my arms as he slept, and of lying against his heart in the night. As he read it he said, ‘Way it’s written it should be a man singing it – still, if we both feel like that, it can’t be bad, can it Helena?’
‘No Ben – it can’t be bad.’
Then it was Beethoven:
‘Ich liebe dich, so wie du mich,
Am Abend und am Morgen,’
I love you as you love me, at evening and at morning.
He held me as I sat on his lap afterwards, a little breathless, and reflected, ‘You know, life’s real odd sometimes – to think of me sitting here in a house like this – hearing you sing me love songs – and in German, of all tongues. Still, I suppose if it hadn’t been for Germans we’d never have come together – so there’s justice in it somewhere.’
Ben held his own at Hatton; speaking carefully, moderating his accent; and he had something to say. He was a trade unionist, a Labour voter, and he defended his beliefs vigorously: putting forward the point of view of his class but always arguing on equal terms. And of course, all the younger men had served in the war; it was a common bond between them, regardless of rank or social status. Ben, like them, had wielded authority and taken decisions – decisions which had meant life and death to those men they had been responsible for.
One night, I wept in Ben’s arms, remembering my brothers, and the next day I made my pilgrimage. As soon as breakfast was over we walked together down the avenue to the Lostherne gate and out into the lane. I stood beside my husband in the windswept graveyard gazing at the white stone:
‘They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions.’
Beside me Ben said gently, ‘They were only youngsters, lass – but at least they had a good time afore they went – growing up here and with everything young lads could wish for ready and waiting for them. And they had each other for first twenty years, at least; and the Captain had you with him right to th’end.’
So we left the green churchyard where my brothers lay together – in the peace they had fought to achieve for all of us, and for their unborn nephew, still in my womb. I would tell him of them one day, and he would be grateful.
The first time I took Ben up to meet Nanny in the nursery he dropped down to the floor where Guy’s sons were playing with our old fort. He joined in with the game, taking it as seriously as the children did. But when Lance and Ted squabbled for possession of a guardsman and began to push at each other, Ben’s voice rang out, ‘Now then – that’s enough of that,’ and they stopped at once and agreed to his suggestion to toss for the toy.
After that Ben took me up to the nursery every day and I sat with Pansy and Nanny while the children competed for his attention. One day, when Pansy had gone downstairs before us, he turned to me outside the nursery door saying. ‘They seem happy enough – and I know you think the word of your old Nan – but, well, it seems funny to me – keeping them shut up there like they were wild animals.’
I laughed. ‘They are wild animals, sometimes.’
‘Mebbe – but you’re going to look after our youngsters yourself, Helena – with a bit of help if you need it.’ He glanced at me watchfully.
I squeezed his hand. ‘I know, Ben. I’ve already told Nanny – she was terribly shocked!’
‘I can see now, since I been staying here, that Ainsclough must have been quite a shock to you, lass – more ’an I ever realized at first. You been a good lass – never complaining.’
But I thought of the other women in Royds Street, who did not have Mary Grimshaw’s smiling face bringing them a cup of tea every morning, and said, ‘We’ve had Robbie’s and Eddie’s money, Ben – it makes a big difference.’
‘Aye – and I reckon I’m coming round to thinking it’s as well we have. You’d’ve coped because you’d have made yourself cope – but it would have been hard on you, Helena. I never thought clear enough afore.’
‘We neither of us thought – before.’
‘No. But – mebbe.’ He stopped, and reflected a while, before he went on, ‘Mebbe our bodies knew better ’an our heads. Because, for all them differences between us, Helena, we’re two of a kind, you and I. We fit together.’ I looked at him as we stood there in the draughty nursery corridor at Hatton and knew that, incredibly, he was right. Then he laughed. ‘Just as well we do, seeing as I’ve already put my youngster in your belly – so we’re tied together, whether we like it or not.’
‘Oh, but I do like it, Ben – I do.’
He pressed my hand against his warm thigh. ‘So do I, lass – so do I.’
The little house in Royds Street seemed very small when we got home. In the kitchen Ben put the kettle on then sat down with a sigh. ‘I enjoyed me week – it weren’t like anything I’d ever done afore, or expected to do – but it’s nice to get home and be on our own together. And I’m even looking forward to going back to shed tomorrow!’ He laughed. ‘Life with the aristocracy is all right for a change – but I couldn’t live like that all the time. Happen you have to be born to it.’
As I had been. But the war had come and had changed me as it had changed all of us – and now my home was in this small smoky valley, with my husband. I had much to be thankful for – and the child kicked in my womb.
November 1921, Armistice Day. As the church bells tolled their signal the whole country came to a standstill; in those two long minutes of silence we stood motionless, remembering our Dead. The following Sunday the service was held to unveil the war memorial panels in our Methodist church. The names of all the men of the congregation who had served were written in gold, with a star beside each one who had died.
We walked down to the church together; Ben’s medals were pinned on his breast, my service ribbons were fastened to my black coat, buttoned tight across my full belly.
We raised our voices in Kipling’s hymn:
‘God of our Fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle line…’
The minister proclaimed: ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord.’
We rose to sing again the age-old words of trust and comfort:
‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…
And then the panels were unveiled: ‘Let us remember with thanksgiving, and with all honour before God and men, those who have died, giving their lives in the service of their country.’
The roll of the starred names was read. Ben’s face was taut beside me as he listened to them – the names of the boys he had played with, the men he had worked with – and the soldiers he had fought with. We listened silently, grieving for their unlived lives.
As the echo of the last name died away my eyes rested on the name which was not starred:
C. S. M. Holden, Benjamin, DCM, MM, L & CLI. He had come back, back to love me.
The minister’s voice rang out in the dedication: ‘To the glory of God and in grateful memory of those who gave their lives, and of all those who served their King and country in the Great War.’
The Great War – the final war – the war which had ended all other wars. We bent our heads and prayed together, and then the sobbing lament of the Last Post pierced our hearts – to be followed by the hope of the Reveille. Ben’s hand touched mine; for a moment we were back in France, serving our King and country.
We sang and prayed and sang again. We listened to the lesson, the address – and then rose for the closing hymn:
‘O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.’
‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen.’
At home that evening, the child was restless. I lay on the sofa, my hand on my belly, while he kicked vigorously. I whispered, ‘Be calm, little one – there will be no battles for you. Your father and your uncles went to fight for us, and they gave all that they had so that there would be no more war. Because of their sacrifice, you may sleep in peace.’
But the child kicked on.