From Monday to Saturday every week Arthur Redhead left his house at precisely ten past nine in the morning to make the fifteen minute walk to the railway station. He always exchanged a few words with the newspaper seller where he bought his copy of the Daily Mail. During the journey into London Bridge Station he read the articles about the main stories of the day and then would turn to the Editor’s page to read what he should believe about the events he could not hope to fully understand. As he approached London Bridge he would carefully refold the paper and place it with the sandwiches that Alice had made that morning in the small attaché case that was part of the uniform for someone of his grade. All the other clerks in Arthur’s department carried identical brown cases which would also contain sandwiches their wives or mothers had made for them along with their copies of the Daily Mail.
Arthur had worked in the same office for fifteen years, since his son David had been a small boy. There were some days when he had found what he did interesting, but there hadn’t been many. He sat every day at his desk alongside four others, spending every working day writing words and numbers on pieces of paper in an identical script. They never knew the entirety of the documents, seeing only a page here and a page there of complex reports which must have meant something to someone. ‘Perhaps the editor of the Daily Mail understands’ Arthur had thought.
He talked about the generality of his work with his son, who, he hoped, would follow him into the service. There was talk, that armies of women would take over their jobs using machines called type writers, that they would lose their jobs to these ‘type writer girls’. It had taken years for Arthur and his colleagues to perfect the Vere Foster script that they, and all civil servants, had to use. Women would be able to copy the documents operating type writing machines just as easily as they could use a sewing machine. Arthur could not afford to lose his job, and he reassured himself that there would always be a need for the experience and skill of proper clerks to ensure the vast libraries of documents required by government were created correctly.
When the government changed in 1906 Arthur found his life transformed.
He still left at the same time in the morning, but it was often well past 7 o’clock in the evening before he left the building off Whitehall to walk over Westminster Bridge and under the dark network of arches and bridges to catch his train to the suburbs. For the first time in his working life he was finding the documents he was copying interesting. For fifteen years he had written many thousands of pages of dry words about taxation followed by more thousands of pages of numbers in neat columns. He had copied them all taking no notice of the content ‘from the eye to the hand without passing through the brain’ he had said. But in 1906 he had been moved to the new Foreign Office. No longer was he copying dry and meaningless figures, now there were memoranda about places and people he recognised from his reading of the Daily Mail. So interesting were they that, not only did Arthur extend his working days, he also began to spend his Saturday afternoons in the library pouring over an atlas of the world to see where these places were that he was writing about.
Arthur was never told why he had been chosen to move from the Finance Ministry to the Foreign Office, he had made no formal application and had not even known there were positions available but it was promotion and a timely one for him personally. David had left school and was working for his Civil Service exams so Arthur and Alice had not expected to have another child, but the unexpected baby Elizabeth had brought laughter to the household despite the increasing gloom of international events.
Everyone knew a war was coming. Whatever Kaiser Bill said about his friendship with England the Daily Mail knew that the German people would force a war.
It would be over quickly, Arthur told his son, there was so much preparation going on. Although bound to secrecy Arthur told David of the young men in the best public schools being trained to be officers, young and fit men being trained as a Special Reserve, the build up of arms of a quantity more than sufficient to overcome any foe and the lessons of recent wars all learned. “There won’t be a chance for you to cover yourself with glory,” Arthur had said, “Once it starts we’ll have sorted it all out in a few weeks.”
In common with many men of his class, Arthur would never discuss anything of world affairs with his wife. He would never have expected her to understand what he was talking about let alone have an opinion that might have value. The papers, and what they reported, were men’s business and Arthur felt it best not to worry his wife with such details. He did not for one instant think that his attitude was patronising and he was totally unaware that she read every page of the newspaper he gave her at the end of each day. He assumed that she put them to good use for wrapping up the waste or rolling into tight fire lighters, which of course she did for she was a thrifty housekeeper, but not before she had read every word. Frequently she bit her lip when he said she wouldn’t understand or shouldn’t be interested in what occurred in the widening world around them. She kept quiet with Arthur, but spent many happy hours discussing ‘events’ with David.
Arthur was older and more experienced than the other clerks in his department and perhaps that was why he was singled out to do special work. If a particularly sensitive or difficult document was to be copied it would be Arthur who was instructed but he had still been surprised when was called to the front of the room and asked to stay behind after the bell that marked the end of the working day sounded.
“I have a favour to ask you, Mr Redhead.”
“Sir?” It was extremely unusual for his Manager to address him in this way and Arthur couldn’t hide his curiosity.
Mr Fowler nodded down at a parcel on his desk wrapped in brown paper, tied with string and sealed with red wax. “This must be delivered to The Metropole Hotel in Brighton tomorrow. I would take it myself but I am unable, for reasons I need not bother you with, to make the journey. I would be indebted to you.” Mr Fowler had a way of asking his staff to do something that made them feel they had a choice when they knew they hadn’t, so Arthur had nodded, put the parcel in his attaché case along with the envelope containing the rail tickets and wondered how he was going to tell his wife that he would not be with her until the evening on her birthday.
Alice had tentatively ventured ‘you said you would take a holiday’ when Arthur had told her he would not be at home until the evening. She didn’t mention her birthday. ‘I know’ Arthur had answered unhelpfully ‘I have not forgotten it is your birthday. I’m not going into town, I just have an errand to do for Mr Fowler.’ He had smiled as he kissed her cheek and something in his eyes reminded her of the man she had fallen in love with 20 years before. ‘I promise I’ll be home for tea.’
But he wasn’t.
David had been out most of the day as well. He sang in the local church choir, not because he was any more religious than the next man but because he liked to sing. The choir always met on a Saturday afternoon to practise the hymns and psalms for the services the following day. Afterwards David would go to an ale house for a glass or two but on his mother’s birthday he made sure he was home in time for tea.
He watched his mother and four year old Elizabeth lay out the thin slices of ham and carefully spread just enough butter on the freshly baked bread. The parlour was warm and homely, the kettle filled and ready to put on the range as soon as Arthur returned.
He had said he would be back in time for tea. And he always did as he said.
Alice wasn’t worried until she began to light the lamps. As the clock on the mantle struck 5 o’clock she decided they would have to start without him. It was an unheard of situation but Elizabeth was getting tired and fractious, so the three sat down around the table and tried to ignore the empty chair.
David tried to distract his mother as they ate but without success. He even helped her to tidy away, explaining his uncharacteristic behaviour by saying that it was her birthday rather than admit the reality that he was very worried. His father had told him what his errand was and David realised how unusual the request had been.
“Perhaps he had to go into town after all.” Alice said, as if thinking aloud as they heard the mantle clock strike seven.
“Perhaps he …” But David couldn’t think of any reason for his father not to have been able to make the journey to Brighton and back in ten hours. Elizabeth had gone to bed at 6 in a sulk so David was sitting alone with his mother by the fire in a heavy silence when there was a knock on the door.
They looked sharply at each other, both recognising that there was no reason Arthur would need to knock.
“Mrs Redhead?” The well dressed man at the door spoke too well to be a policeman.
“My mother is in the parlour.” David answered formally. When the man moved into the light of the hallway and removed his hat David saw the look on his face.
“My name is Fowler.”
“Of course Mr Fowler, I was forgetting my manners, do come in. Do you mind the back room? That’s where the fire is.” David took the visitor’s hat and coat and hung them up, pausing barely perceptibly as he noticed the empty hook where a more familiar coat should have been.
David led Mr Fowler through to the back room. Alice was standing, her back to the fire, her hands firmly in the pockets of her apron. If either of the men had looked they would have realised her fists were clenched under the thin checked material.
“Do sit down, I’m afraid Arthur, I mean Mr Redhead, I’m afraid my husband isn’t back yet. He said he would be back for tea, you see it’s my birthday, but he isn’t. It’d be him you’re wanting to see.” She saw her son frowning at her. She knew she should stop talking but she thought that as long as she talked the visitor couldn’t say what she knew he was going to say. “Come in Mr Fowler, David, this is my son David, say ‘how do you do’ to Mr Fowler.” But she didn’t give him time to say anything as she fussed about the visitor. “Are you quite comfortable, can I get you a cup of tea? The kettle won’t take a moment. It won’t take a moment to …”
“Mrs Redhead. Please. Sit down.” Mr Fowler shifted his glance between the two involving both in his words.
“Mrs Redhead, David, you will realise I am not here with good news.” As the words were spoken David walked round to stand behind his mother and put his hands on her shoulders, pressing firmly on them to give her something else to think about as Mr Fowler continued. “In fact it is the worst.” He paused, knowing the effect his words would have. As he had entered the house he had recognised that the Redheads lived quite well for their class, probably due to the boy’s wage as well as the father’s. The room was clean and well appointed, there were interesting pictures on the walls and there were good rugs on the floor. They probably had a girl to help in the house, a man to help in the garden. This prosperous home was to be broken with the news he had to give them.
“Arthur, may I call him Arthur?” he looked across at Alice who nodded her head very slightly in assent. “Arthur kindly stepped in to undertake an important task for me. It was imperative that a package was taken to Brighton.”
“Brighton?” Alice asked, uncomprehending.
“The Hotel Metropole in Brighton. Arthur agreed to take the package for me and if everything had gone smoothly he would have been back by the middle of the afternoon.”
“If everything had gone smoothly?” David asked, knowing that something must have gone wrong.
“Unfortunately, and it with great sadness that I have to tell you, there was an accident, a very bad accident. A train was derailed, it crashed into a station and your husband, your father, he was amongst the casualties.” He seemed to realise he had said the wrong thing, David knew his father was dead, but by using the word ‘casualty’ Mr Fowler had given Alice hope. David looked at him sharply and Mr Fowler spoke quickly to overcome his regret at any misunderstanding. “Arthur was, most unfortunately, amongst the fatalities. He was one of the seven people killed at Stoat’s Nest railway station when the Brighton train was derailed.”
He paused, waiting for some reaction from Alice; a cry, a sob, something to show that she had realised how suddenly her circumstances had changed. It was some time before the silence was broken.
“Will my mother have any form of pension?”
“That’s very practical of you young man.” Mr Fowler was relieved that he was not to be faced with hysteria, practicalities were far easier to deal with. “Pensions are very much in the news are they not.” The question had not been directly answered, but in the evasion David understood the negative as much as if the word ‘No’ had been spoken.
“So I will have to become breadwinner.”
“You are a remarkably sensible young man.”
“I have a mother and a young sister to support. I will have to be.”
“Indeed you will.”
Mr Fowler had been expecting the boy to speak with the broad south London accent Arthur had always tried to hide. Through this exchange he had an opportunity to assess the young man who spoke courteously, with no hint of the servility Alice couldn’t help displaying when dealing with someone she would consider ‘above her’. David spoke as he did to visiting choir-masters at the church, with respect but as to an equal.
“What will you do to help us? After all is said and done if you felt no responsibility you would have left it to others to come to break the news to us.”
Mr Fowler bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of the truth in David’s statement, his interest in the young man growing.
“When the police arrived at my house some two hours ago they had believed it was to tell Mrs Fowler that her husband was dead. The body had been…” he hesitated endeavouring to find the right word and David, whose hands were still on his mother’s shoulders, felt her wince in anticipation “…damaged and identification was … difficult. They had found an envelope addressed to ‘Mr Harold Fowler’ at my address and so they had made the assumption that the dead man was the said Harold Fowler. Having discovered their mistake they were relieved when I said I would take it upon myself to visit the family. The police had six other calls to make. You are quite right, your father would not have been on that train had I not requested him to go to Brighton this morning.”
“And we would not now be facing penury.”
“And you would not be facing a change in your circumstances. I suggest that you would always be able to maintain your family above penury.”
David understood that this man was testing him, perhaps to see if he might be useful to him. Wise to the probability that Mr Fowler would be more likely to assist them if he felt he had won the bout he changed the tone of his voice. “I will support my mother and my sister for as long as they need me.”
“I am absolutely certain you will for you are the head of the household now.”
Alice seemed to be taking little account of the conversation that occurred above her head. She heard the rise and fall of the voices as if in a dream and the words made no sense to her. Her Arthur was dead.
There had been no passion between them for years, Elizabeth had been a mistake, she had thought she was too old to conceive when they had been husband and wife that one last time. They were companions, good friends, partners, albeit unequal ones, in the business of bringing up their family. She would mourn him and she would miss him but she would get on with the business of raising their daughter and keeping her home together.
She thought of how he would have felt in his last moments. Would he have known? Would he have thought of her? As her son’s voice rose and fell above her head, she banished such thoughts and never again let herself think about her husband’s last moments.
“Where is he? We must make the necessary arrangements.”
Some years later she told her son that she wished she had been listening more carefully that evening because he must have given a truly wonderful performance. The following week a letter from Mr Fowler called David to his office. David was taken under his direct tutelage and, far sooner than he should have been, David was working in the Ministry of War. He began the accelerated charge through the grades of the Civil Service that was possible for a clever and ambitious young man in that Ministry as spy fever swept the country.