Bright sunlight shone through the trees dappling the vegetable patch in Dr Hargreaves’ garden. Down on her knees, Amy prised out clumps of chickweed and newly sprouted dandelions from in between rows of cabbages. The vegetable plot had been her idea, as well as the plan to distribute the fresh produce to needy families in Barnborough. Mrs Hargreaves was delighted to add yet another strand to the good works she oversaw at the comfort meetings, leaving Amy and the gardener to tend the plot.
At Amy’s side, wielding a small trowel, Kezia turned over the rich soil looking for worms. Unearthing a particularly lengthy specimen, she picked it up with her thumb and forefinger, dangling it teasingly close to her mother’s right ear. Amy sat back on her heels and laughed. ‘You cheeky little madam,’ she chuckled, ‘are you trying to frighten me?’
Kezia swung the worm closer to Amy’s face. Magnified by a shaft of sunlight, its reddish-brown segments glistened moistly. The worm wriggled, attempting to escape. Amy watched it, a mental image of the worm’s natural habitat conjuring a different image of Jude underground sweating and straining beneath the fields of France. His letter, received that morning, had told her he was tunnelling under a hill near the German lines. ‘No matter where I am, I spend my life underground. Please God send me a bit of sunshine, or a handful of stars,’ he had written.
Amy shuddered and shook her head to expel the comparison. ‘Put it back on the soil. You don’t want to hurt it, do you? Worms are good for the garden,’ she said, lightly catching hold of Kezia’s wrist.
Kezia puckered her face, but when Amy insisted a second time, she set the worm down. Hastily, it slithered into its earthy lair. Amy continued weeding, but the image of Jude scrabbling like a subterranean creature amidst the muck and mud of endless narrow passageways troubled her and the pleasure was gone from the task.
Setting aside the fork she shifted her weight, her hands flat on the grass behind her hips and her legs stretched out. Tilting her face upwards she peered through the leafy shade of a beech tree that deflected the sun’s glare and then closed her eyes. ‘Please God, send him home safe,’ she prayed.
A warm, soft yet solid weight plopped across Amy’s thighs. She opened her eyes. Kezia wrapped her arms about Amy’s neck and Amy hugged the wiry, little body tight. ‘Stop moping,’ she silently advised herself, ‘don’t let silly imaginings spoil the day.’ Playfully, Amy pushed the little girl off her knee so that she rolled onto the grass squawking with glee when Amy reached out and tickled her. As Kezia wriggled and rolled away out of reach, Amy stood and dusted bits of grass from the knees and hem of her old navy-blue skirt.
‘Ah, I thought I’d find you here.’ Mrs Hargreaves walked across the lawn to Amy, a brown paper carrier bag in her hand. She cast an inspecting eye over the vegetable plot. ‘Splendid, quite splendid,’ she boomed, handing Amy the bag. ‘Just a few books for you to send to Mr Leas. How is he, by the way? Bearing up, one would hope.’
Amy assured her that Jude was doing just that. On the way home, the string handles of the carrier bag biting her fingers, Amy wondered about the books. Ever since she had asked Dr Hargreaves if he had any books she could send to Jude, his wife had taken it upon herself to ask her friends and acquaintances for their unwanted books. Amy sent only those that weighed the least and that she thought Jude and his fellow soldiers might find interesting. Heavy religious, historical or political volumes she kept on the shelves in her bedroom, awaiting his return; the room was coming down with books.
‘We’ll have to ask Uncle Sammy to build more shelves,’ she said to Kezia, as they walked down Wentworth Street. ‘We’ll ask him tomorrow.’
*
Early next morning, Amy and Kezia walked to Intake Farm. These days Amy looked forward to visiting her family. There had been a time when she dreaded Samuel’s company but, since Thomas’s untimely death, her brother had changed beyond recognition. He no longer drank heavily and much to Bessie’s delight he worked willingly with Raffy, the farm thriving.
‘Who have we here then?’ Samuel said, as Kezia trotted into the kitchen. His niece ran to him, eager to be picked up and swung in his beefy arms. To Amy he said, ‘You must be able to smell the kettle boiling. Mam’s just about to make a pot o’ tea.’
Amy grinned. She had deliberately timed her arrival to coincide with Samuel and Raffy’s tea break. ‘I hoped I’d find you in from the fields,’ she said, ‘I need more shelves. I’ve more books than I know what to do with.’
‘You should sell ’em,’ said Raffy, ‘take a stall on the market.’
‘I couldn’t do that. They’re for Jude when he comes home. Besides, I had them given. It wouldn’t seem right.’
‘No daughter of mine is working on a market stall,’ said Bessie, bustling to the table with the teapot. ‘Amy has enough to do with her war work and minding Kezia.’ The mention of her granddaughter reminded her of her other grandchildren and their mother. ‘What’s Beattie up to these days? Still playing the trollop, is she?’
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Amy replied. ‘I still spend half my time looking after her children even though I told her I wouldn’t, but I can’t see them go hungry or shut out when it’s raining.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘They’re not to blame for whatever it is that eats away at Beattie.’
‘Innocent victims, all of ’em,’ muttered Raffy.
Bessie’s face crumpled. She knew that he included Beattie in that remark. To hide her distress, she hurried into the pantry. Blinking unwanted tears away and forcing a smile, she brought out the cake tin.
‘I could always lend a hand,’ she said brightly. ‘After all, I am their grandmother.’
As Amy struggled to hide her surprise, Raffy chipped in with ‘Them two boyos could help out rightly on the farm when they’re not at school.’
‘Aye, so they could,’ said Samuel. ‘They can pick stones in Low Fold and give a hand wi’ making silage.’
‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ Amy said, pleased to think that in a roundabout way she was keeping Bert’s sons from harm. ‘Maggie’s no bother, and she’s very good with the young ones. I enjoy having her about the place, but those lads are so lively I never know what to do with them, Sammy.’
‘We’ll keep ’em occupied, an’ I’ll give ’em a few coppers. I wouldn’t want ’em working for nowt.’
‘And you could send Maggie up here now and then to help with the hens,’ Bessie said, her satisfied smile suggesting that she had masterminded the solution to Amy’s problem.
*
And so, in the month of June 1916, whilst Amy tended the vegetable plot in Dr Hargreaves’ garden or knitted socks and packed comfort parcels, and sorted out Bert’s children, Jude was toiling underground.
Although he believed he had left mining behind him, probably forever, it made perfect sense that his regiment – most of them coalminers in peace time – should be called upon to tunnel under the German lines. Beaumont Hamel was the objective and Jude once again found himself deep in the bowels of the earth, this time beneath the Picardy Hills, toiling alongside the Royal Engineers in charge of hacking away the thick chalk deposits that lay beneath the surface. It was heavy work, and the close proximity to the front line meant that he could hear the rattle of heavy gunfire and the whistling explosion of shells. The dangers of war were now reality.
Whilst Jude and his compatriots in the 13th Battalion breathed chalk dust and heaved dirt, the 14th were deployed to the front line. At first, Jude felt cheated of a chance to demonstrate his skills as a fighting soldier but when news filtered down the lines of the horrors of trench warfare and the heavy casualties the 14th had sustained, he consoled himself with the thought that maybe mining was the better option.
The most hazardous part of any shift was the journey to and from the tunnels and several of Jude’s pals were killed or wounded as they made their way to and from the mines. Shells and shrapnel became an expected hazard on the journey and they knew to run for cover at the first explosion but there was no escape from the lethal gas canisters if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. Jude feared being gassed more than death itself. The sight of men, dazed and confused, their wits befuddled by the poisonous fumes tortured him. Better to die than return home with your brain addled, an object of pity to all who knew you.
Jude’s world centred around Mailly Maillet, Auchonvillers (or Ocean Villas as the troops called it), Beaumont Hamel and the road to Serre. His life was repetitive and tedious but Bert’s, on the other hand, was anything but; he was here, there and everywhere. From the moment he received his first driving lesson at Hurdcott Camp, Bert had found his true vocation. Behind the wheel of a truck, Bert felt like a god in command of a powerful beast. Not only was he a skilful driver, he knew every part of the vehicle like the back of his hand. He could nurture the most cantankerous rattletrap into action. As the officer in charge of transport commented, ‘That man’s a bloody marvel. Put him behind the wheel or under an axle and he’ll keep that vehicle driving to hell and back.’
And on a warm, overcast evening in the middle of June that’s exactly what Bert was doing. They might not have made a marksman out of him, but where transport was concerned, they had uncovered a genius.
As he swung the lorry over the ruts and hollows of the New Beaumont Road, returning from an ammunition delivery up towards Serre, a flurry of shellfire cascaded down from a German redoubt above Beaumont Hamel. Regardless of his own safety Bert swerved in and out of the bombardment, oblivious to the fact that a stray shell could blow him and the remains of his precious cargo to kingdom come. He’d seen a troop of fellows making their way back to the billets in Mailly Maillet and was intent on picking them up from the roadside and speeding their journey.
Putting his foot to the floor, he put enough distance between the lorry and the range of the shellfire and slewed to a halt at the side of the road. The miners, white-faced from a mixture of chalk dust and fear piled aboard and Bert gunned the engine.
‘You took your bloody time,’ a voice called above the roar of the engine. Bert glanced over his shoulder and saw the grinning face of Jude Leas. ‘What kept you? If you’d come earlier you could have saved us having to walk half a mile.’
‘I were takin’ tea wi’ General Haig,’ Bert yelled back. ‘He come over specially to ask me what I thought about all t’carry on here. I told him it wa’ about time we finished Jerry off an’ got back home.’
Wry laughter rose above the rattle of the engine, some of the lads adding their own ribaldry to Bert’s, but this quickly petered out at Bert’s next remark.
‘I’ll tell you now, there’s summat big bein’ planned. I wa’ up doin’ a bit o’ listenin’ in as you might say when I wa’ up at the front. There’s talk of a big push an’ we’ll all be in it. So you lot what’s never been further than a bloody hole in t’ground ’ud better watch out. You could be up there afore you know it.’