Remembrance Day. Leah Fleming

were they? As she drew near she smelled the booze on his breath.

      ‘You can’t go home in that state!’

      ‘Leave me alone…I’ve had enough of being bossed about…I’m going.’

      ‘Going where?’ Selma snapped, and then realised what was coming next. ‘You haven’t…’

      ‘I have. I’ve joined up this morning and no one can stop me. I’m sick of being the only lad left in our street. I’m sick of being stared at. I can work with horses in the army. They need drivers and good riders.’

      ‘You can’t go! Dad needs your help. Don’t let him down. Mam’ll go spare when she finds out. Honestly, Frank, you can be so selfish!’

      ‘That’s right, Selma, be a hedgehog; roll in a ball and get your prickles out. It’s all right for you, still in school. Girls have got it made but I’m not staying round here while there’s a war on.’

      ‘We’re doing our bit too. Look at all the women doing men’s jobs—driving horse buses, making shells. There’s even a postwoman in Sowerthwaite, and volunteer nurses joining up.’ Selma strode on, leaving him behind.

      ‘All right, you’ve made your point.’ Frank sat down by a rock on the verge, his eyes glassy. The drink had got to his legs and he was sobering up in the fresh air.

      ‘I hate the forge, pumping bellows, lighting fires, dunking hot metal, and he’s allus preaching at me. When do you ever see him laugh?’

      ‘There’s not much to laugh about right now. Even less if you walk out on him. Poor Mam will be frantic with two of you out there.’

      ‘I’ll be one less mouth to feed, one less shirt to scrub.’

      ‘That’s not the point. You’re letting them down. Going for a soldier isn’t the answer.’

      ‘It is for me. It gets me out of this godforsaken hole!’

      ‘Don’t get funny with me, it doesn’t suit you.’

      ‘And don’t you go telling me what I can or can’t do. We all know you’ve got big ideas ever since you palled up with Cantrell. He’ll drop you like hot coals before long,’ Frank snapped back.

      ‘It’s not like that. We’re just friends,’ she replied, blushing.

      ‘Pull the other leg. I’ve seen you put those letters in your bride box.’

      ‘What bride box?’ she retorted.

      ‘The little carved chest that belonged to Granny Ackroyd. You keep all your treasures in there.’

      ‘Have you been rooting around in my things?’ Her cheeks flamed.

      ‘You’ve got your prickles out again,’ he laughed, and despite herself she joined in

      He’d be in a heap of trouble when he got home. One by one they were leaving her. The family would shrink to just three. But he was right to go and do his duty. The women would manage; they had to in school when the male teachers had volunteered. Now they were practising for a big fundraising concert where her infant class would be the star turn. They were making outfits for the infants dressed as bantam soldiers to march across the stage and sing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.

      They walked the rest of the way in silence and Selma kept wondering if Frank was having second thoughts about his rash decision. Trouble was, he’d be too proud to admit his mistake. The Bartleys were all stubborn mules. It was bred in the bone but she’d be sure to be out of the house when he broke this news.

      Guy sat on the train going south from training camp, staring out of the blackened windows, hoping this family weekend would be a success. In some ways his new life was just the same as boarding school: long route marches, drill, rifle shooting, studying the manual like a textbook, learning to bivouac and do cross-country treks in the dark. There was so much theory to learn on how to train up men to obedience and to give orders and earn respect. Some of his training was obvious and some of it bizarre, but he trusted it was all to get him up to scratch for the purpose. He must lead men into battle, make sure they held the line, encourage and discipline men far older than himself and many more experienced.

      Angus was in another battalion, romping away like a pig in muck, according to his scribbled letters. Mother’s threatened interference hadn’t happened, but Guy was uneasy that his brother had lied about his fitness. They’d had their portraits done in uniform, singly and then together, left and right profiles, head to head as if they were one face looking out. They’d both grown moustaches to make them look older, fair tickly little tufts covering their full lips.

      He’d sent a photo to Selma for her opinion and she’d not sent it back. It was good to have a girl to write to. He could let rip and describe all the funny incidents in training, his boredom and impatience to get into action. Her last letter had been full of Frank’s defection into the Horse Artillery and how her father was struggling to keep up with his work.

      He pulled out his pipe, pondering how he’d cope when the time came and the barrage exploded over his head. Would he make a tit of himself and funk the whole show, be dismissed to the rear or get cashiered out as a coward? He hoped he’d make a good account of himself and serve his men well.

      With all the exercise and good food, he’d filled out, grown an inch or two and found new muscle strength. His mother would see a difference and his father would be proud of them both. They were meeting up for lunch at the Trocadero restaurant and then on to a West End show. Angus was joining them from his base near Aldershot. He’d caught up with Father more than once.

      The news from the front was mixed. It didn’t take a genius to work out the attrition rate among officers was much higher than in the ranks. The casualty lists in The Times made sombre reading but Guy was all the more determined that he would be one of the exceptions to the rule.

      Charles Cantrell was waiting in the Long Bar of the Trocadero restaurant in Shaftesbury Avenue. It was full of distinguished men in uniform, and Guy was expecting to see Angus lounging somewhere close by, but his father was alone.

      ‘Good journey, old fellow?’ Father smiled, shaking his hand.

      ‘Angus not arrived?’

      ‘Not yet. We’ll leave his ticket at the Royalty Theatre, if he’s late into town. Mother is shopping, and I’ve booked a theatre dinner. How’re things going?’

      They sat huddled in the crush, talking shop. Now he was in the army Guy felt a shift between his father and himself, a loosening of the reins, a relaxation in their chitchat, but still he kept checking his new wristwatch, looking up at the entrance for his brother. Still no sign of him.

      ‘Come on, young man…Time to go and find your mama before she buys out Derry and Toms.’ So they left the male-only enclave to go to search for his mother but she was already waiting downstairs in the foyer, regal in lilac and grey, her eyes smiling up at them with pride.

      ‘No Angus yet? Oh, I did so want us all to be together.’ She paused to look at her son admiringly. ‘Guy, you’ve grown.’

      ‘He’s learned to stand up straight at last,’ Charles laughed. ‘No more slouching around; that’s why we chose something frivolous to take our minds off all the doom and gloom. Charley’s Aunt…damn silly play, but you’ll enjoy it.’

      ‘You’ve seen it then?’ Guy said. ‘Perhaps we should go somewhere else?’

      ‘No, no, chaps in the office gave it the thumbs up. I’m starving. I wonder where Angus has got to this time?’

      And on to the Royalty they went but Angus’s seat stayed empty all night. Mother kept twitching, wanting to make a telephone call to his barracks, but Father wouldn’t hear of it.

      It was nearly midnight when the doorbell rang in their apartment in South Kensington. Angus stood there, grinning sheepishly.

      ‘Sorry,