XXIV
The morning of the celebrations began in brilliant sunshine. From the early hours, the townspeople had been scrubbing their doorsteps, polishing their doorknockers and festooning their windows with bunting. By nine, Mr Arkwright, the moving spirit behind the festivities, could be seen, bird-necked in a double starched collar, bustling hither and thither to make sure things were going to plan. To every stranger, he touched the brim of his Homburg, and wished him a happy holiday.
Under his âall-seeing eyeâ, the façade of the Town Hall had been tastefully adorned with trophies and bannerets. Only the week before, he had hit on the idea of planting a patriotic display of salvias, lobelias and little dorrit around the base of the municipal clock; and if the result looked a bit scraggy, his colleague Mr Evenjobb declared it a âstroke of geniusâ.
At the far end of Broad Street â on the site set aside for the War Memorial â stood a plain wood cross, its base half hidden under a mound of Flanders poppies. A glazed case contained a parchment scroll, illuminated with the names of the âgallant thirty-twoâ who had made the âSupreme Sacrificeâ.
The service had ended before the Jones twins reached the church. A band of ex-servicemen was playing a selection from âThe Maid of the Mountainsâ, and the triumphal procession to Lurkenhope was gradually gathering coherence.
The Bickertons and their entourage had already left by car.
In an âact of spontaneous generosityâ â the words were Mr Arkwrightâs â they had âthrown open their gates and hearts to the publicâ, and were providing a sit-down luncheon for the returning heroes, for their wives and sweethearts, and for parishioners over the age of seventy.
All comers, however, were welcome at the soup-kitchen: the Sports and Carnival Pageant were scheduled to start at three.
All morning, farmers and their families had been pouring into town. Demobbed soldiers peacocked about with girls on their arms and medals on their chests. Certain âfemales of the flapper speciesâ â again, the words were Mr Arkwrightâs â were âgarbed in indecorous dressâ. The farm wives were in flowery hats, little girls in Kate Greenaway bonnets, and their brothers in sailor-suits and tams.
The grown men were drabber; but here and there, a panama or stripy blazer broke the monotony of black jackets and hard hats.
The twins had put on identical blue serge suits.
Outside the chemistâs some urchins were blowing their pea-shooters at a Belgian refugee: âMercy Bow Coop, Mon Sewer! Bon Jewer, Mon Sewer!â
âZey sink zey can laffe.â The man shook his fist. âBott soon zey vill be khryeeng!â
Benjamin doubted the wisdom of appearing in public, and tried to slink out of sight â in vain, for Lewis kept elbowing forward, looking high and low for Rosie Fifield. Both brothers tried to hide when P.C. Crimp detached himself from the crowd and bore down on them:
âHa! Ha! The Jones twins!â he boomed, mopping the sweat from his brow and clamping his hand on Lewisâs shoulder: âNow which one of you two is Benjamin?â
âI am,â said Lewis.
âDonât think you can get away from me, young feller-me-lad!â the policeman chortled on, pressing the boy to his silver buttons. âGlad to see you looking so fit and hearty! No hard feelings, eh? Bunch oâ bloominâ hooligans in Hereford!â
Nearby, Mr Arkwright was deep in conversation with a W.A.A.C. officer, an imposing woman in khaki who was voicing a complaint about the order of the procession: âNo, Mr Arkwright! Iâm not trying to do down the Red Cross nurses. Iâm simply insisting on the unity of the Armed Forces âŠâ
âSee those two?â the solicitor interrupted. âShirkers! Wonder they dare show their faces! Some people certainly have a bit of gall âŠ!â
âNo,â she took no notice. âEither my girls march behind the Army boys or in front of them ⊠But they must march together!â
âQuite so!â he nodded dubiously. âBut our patron, Mrs Bickerton, as head of Rhulen Red Crossââ
âMr Arkwright, youâve missed the point. Iââ
âExcuse me!â He had caught sight of an old soldier propped up on crutches against the churchyard wall. âThe Survivor of Rorkeâs Drift!â he murmured. âExcuse me one moment. One must pay oneâs respects âŠâ
The Survivor, Sergeant-Major Gosling, V.C., was a favourite local character who always took the air on such occasions, in the scarlet dress uniform of the South Wales Borderers.
Mr Arkwright threaded his way towards the veteran, lowered his moustache to his ear, and mouthed some platitude about âThe Field of Flandersâ.
âEh?â
âI said, âThe Field of Flandersâ.â
âAye, and fancy giving them a field to fight in!â
âSilly old fool,â he muttered under his breath, and slipped away behind the W.A.A.C. officer.
Meanwhile, Lewis Jones was asking anyone and everyone, âHave you seen Rosie Fifield?â She was nowhere to be found. Once, he thought he saw her on a sailorâs arm, but the girl who turned round was Cissie Pantall the Beeches.
âIf you please, Mr Jones,â she said in a shocked tone, while his eye came to rest on the bulldog jowls of her companion. At twenty past twelve, Mr Arkwright blew three blasts on his whistle, the crowd cheered, and the procession set off along the low road to Lurkenhope.
At its head marched the choristers, the scouts and guides, and the inmates of the Working Boysâ Home. Next in line were the firemen, the railway workers, Land Girls with hoes over their shoulders, and munitions girls with heads bound up, pirate-fashion, in the Union Jack. A small delegation had been sent by the Society of Oddfellows, while the leader of the Red Cross bore a needlework banner of Nurse Edith Cavell, and her dog. The W.A.A.C.s followed â having assumed, after a vitriolic squabble, their rightful place in the parade. Then came the brass band, and then the Glorious Warriors.
An open charabanc brought up the rear, its seats crammed with pensioners and war-wounded, a dozen of whom, in sky blue suits and scarlet ties, were waving their crutches at the crowd. Some wore patches over their eyes. Some were missing eyebrows or eyelids; others, arms or legs. The spectators surged behind the vehicle as it puttered down Castle Street.
They had come abreast of the Bickerton Memorial when someone shouted in Mr Arkwrightâs ear, âWhereâs the Bombardier?â
âOh my God, whatever next?â he exploded. âTheyâve forgotten the Bombardier!â
The words were hardly off his lips when two schoolboys in tasselled caps were seen racing in the direction of the church. Two minutes later, they were racing back, pushing at breakneck speed a wheeled basket-chair containing a hunched-up figure in uniform.
âMake way for the Bombardier!â one of them shouted.
âMake way for the Bombardier!â â and the crowd parted for the Rhulen hero, who had rescued his commanding officer at Passchendaele. The Military Medal was pinned to his tunic.
âHurrah for the Bombardier!â
His lips were purple and his ashen face stretched taut as a drumskin. Some children showered him with confetti and his eyes revolved in terror.
âHrrh! Hrrh!â A spongy rattle sounded in his throat, as he tried to slither down the basket-chair.
âPoor olâ boy!â Benjamin heard someone say. âStill thinks thereâs a bloody war on.â
Shortly after one, the leaders of the procession sighted the stone lion over the North Lodge of the Castle.
Mrs Bickerton had planned to hold the luncheon in the dining-room. Faced with a revolt from the butler, she had it transferred to the disused indoor dressage-school: as a war time economy, the Colonel had given up breeding Arabs.
She had also planned to be present, with her family and house-party, but the guest-of-honour, Brigadier Vernon-Murray, had to drive back to Umberslade that evening; and he, for one, wasnât wasting his whole day on the hoi polloi.
All the same, it was a right royal feed.
Two trestle tables, glistening with white damask, ran the entire length of the structure; and at each place setting there was a bouquet of sweet-peas, as well as a saucer of chocolates and Elvas plums for the sweet of tooth. Dimpled tankards were stuck with celery; there were mayonnaises, jars of pickle, bottles of ketchup and, every yard or so, a pyramid of oranges and apples. A third table bent under the weight of the buffet â round which a score of willing helpers were waiting to carve, or serve. A pair of hams wore neat paper frills around their shins. There were rolls of spiced beef, a cold roast turkey, polonies, brawns, pork pies and three Wye salmon, each one resting on its bed of lettuce hearts, with a glissando of cucumber slices running down its side.
A pot of calfâs-foot jelly had been set aside for the Bombardier.
Along the back wall hung portraits of Arab stallions â Hassan, Mokhtar, Mahmud and Omar â once the pride of the Lurkenhope Stud. Above them hung a banner reading âTHANK YOU BOYSâ in red.
Girls with jugs of ale and cider kept the heroesâ glasses topped to the brim; and the sound of laughter carried as far as the lake.
Lewis and Benjamin helped themselves to a bowl of mulligatawny at the soup-kitchen, and sauntered round the shrubbery, stopping, now and then, to talk to picnickers. The weather was turning chilly. Women shivered under their shawls, and eyed the inky clouds heaped up over the Black Hill.
Lewis spotted one of the gardeners and asked if heâd seen Rosie Fifield.
âRosie?â The man scratched his scalp. âSheâd be serving lunch, I expect.â
Lewis led the way back to the dressage-school, and pushed through the crush of people who were thronging the double doors. The speeches were about to begin. The port decanters were emptying fast.
At his place at the centre of the table, Mr Arkwright had already toasted the Bickerton family in absentia and was about to embark on his oration.
âNow that the sword is returned to the scabbard,â he began, âI wonder how many of us recall those sunny summer days of 1914 when a cloud no bigger than a manâs hand appeared on the political sky of Europe ââ
At the word âcloudâ a few faces tilted upward to the skylight, through which the sun had been pouring but a minute before.
âA cloud which grew to rain death and destruction upon well nigh the whole continent of Europe, nay, upon the four corners of the globe âŠâ
âIâm going home,â Benjamin nudged his brother.
An N.C.O. â one of his torturers from the Hereford Barracks â sat leering at him loutishly through a cloud of cigar smoke.
Lewis whispered, âNot yet!â and Mr Arkwright raised his voice to a tremulous baritone:
âAn immense military power rose in its might, and forgetting its sworn word to respect the frontiers of weaker nations, tore through the country of Belgium âŠâ
âWhereâs old Belgey?â a voice called out.
â⊠burned its cities, towns, villages, martyred its gallant inhabitants âŠâ
âNot him they didnât!â â and someone shoved forward the Refugee, who stood and gaped blearily from under his beret.
âGood old Belgey!â
âBut the Huns never reckoned with the sense of justice and honour which are the attributes of the British people ⊠and the might of British righteousness tipped the scales against them âŠâ
The N.C.O.âs eyes had narrowed to a pair of dangerous slits.
âIâm going,â said Benjamin, edging back towards the door.
The speaker raked his throat and continued: âThis is no place for a mere civilian to trace the course of events. No need to speak of those glorious few, the Expeditionary Force, who pitted themselves against so vile a foe, for whom the meaning of life was the study of death âŠâ
Mr Arkwright looked over his spectacles to assure himself that his listeners had caught the full flavour of his bon mot. The rows of blank faces assured him they had not. He looked down again at his notes:
âNo need to speak of the clar...