‘Now tha’ll be a good, brave lad, won’t tha?’
‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘How many wheels does tha think t’ engine will have?’
The engine roared in and shuddered gasping to an exhausted halt.
‘It’s got ten wheels,’ he told her. ‘Two little ’uns and three big ’uns on each side.’
‘Oh aye?’ said Ada. ‘Now think on. Be a good lad.’
The train started with such a display of skidding and coughing from the engine that Henry felt sorry for the iron monster.
Some chickens which had arrived from Carlisle in a wicker basket protested volubly.
Ada waved until she was just a speck.
‘It had ten wheels,’ said Henry on the way home. ‘Two little ’uns and three big ’uns on each side.’
‘Oh aye?’ said Auntie Kate, who was determined not to give him too good a time, so that he would miss his mother. ‘Now remember what our Ada said. Be a good boy.’
The summer term began. Miss Candy asked them about their experiences in the holidays.
‘My dad’s been injured in t’ war,’ he said proudly.
‘My grandad was hurt in t’ Dardanelles,’ announced Henry Dinsdale.
‘Does anybody know where the Dardanelles are?’ said Miss Candy, ever the improviser.
‘Just above the knackers,’ said Jane Lugg. Everybody giggled.
‘That’s a bit silly, Jane,’ said Miss Candy. ‘And it’s not the sort of thing we laugh at.’
Miss Forrest entered the classroom without knocking, which irritated Miss Candy, because if she had ever entered Miss Forrest’s classroom without knocking there would have been ructions.
‘Your great-uncle’s here to see you, Ezra,’ said Miss Forrest.
Uncle Frank stood in the corridor, in his battered green tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He was twisting his hat in his hands. His face was as old as the hills and as dry as a stone wall. He put his hand on Henry’s shoulder and led him out into the playground. It surprised Henry that the sun was shining.
So his father had died! He couldn’t really feel much. He had almost forgotten his father.
Uncle Frank led him towards his car. Pleasure motoring was forbidden now, but this journey had not been for pleasure.
His father got out of the car with difficulty, and hobbled to meet him. His left leg was in plaster. He looked gaunt and old.
‘She stepped straight in front of a bus,’ he said. ‘She never knew what hit her.’
*
His father’s injuries had healed. He was going back to the war. Henry was glad, although he knew that he must never say so.
They sat beside the infant Mither. It worried away at its stones. Three months of its ceaseless efforts had passed since Henry had learnt of his mother’s death.
They had so little to say to each other, father and son. It was nearly harvest time, and the sky promised rain again. There was to be bad weather for the harvest of 1943, although the hay crop had been good, and prices for sheep and calving cows had been good all year.
Henry dived off the top board of the pool of silence that separated them.
‘Why does God kill people?’ he asked.
Ezra had longed for, yet dreaded, some question such as this.
He would never tell Henry about the funeral. She’d gone to Bristol, on her way to Plymouth, to visit his sister, who had married a bus driver, and to arrange for them to break their journey there on the way back. She’d gone shopping. Perhaps she’d been dreaming of his return. The driver hadn’t stood a chance.
His sister and her husband had gone to Plymouth to meet him. Her husband had said, ‘I’m only glad it wasn’t my bus.’ They hadn’t been churchgoers, and there had only been three mourners at the funeral. Ezra, his sister and her husband. The harassed vicar had referred to Ada as ‘our dear departed brother’. They hadn’t told anybody at Rowth Bridge, because they might have felt obliged to come, and there was no point, and it was best that Henry should be told by his father.
‘He doesn’t kill people,’ said Ezra at last.
‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘How many wheels does tha think t’ engine will have?’
The engine roared in and shuddered gasping to an exhausted halt.
‘It’s got ten wheels,’ he told her. ‘Two little ’uns and three big ’uns on each side.’
‘Oh aye?’ said Ada. ‘Now think on. Be a good lad.’
The train started with such a display of skidding and coughing from the engine that Henry felt sorry for the iron monster.
Some chickens which had arrived from Carlisle in a wicker basket protested volubly.
Ada waved until she was just a speck.
‘It had ten wheels,’ said Henry on the way home. ‘Two little ’uns and three big ’uns on each side.’
‘Oh aye?’ said Auntie Kate, who was determined not to give him too good a time, so that he would miss his mother. ‘Now remember what our Ada said. Be a good boy.’
The summer term began. Miss Candy asked them about their experiences in the holidays.
‘My dad’s been injured in t’ war,’ he said proudly.
‘My grandad was hurt in t’ Dardanelles,’ announced Henry Dinsdale.
‘Does anybody know where the Dardanelles are?’ said Miss Candy, ever the improviser.
‘Just above the knackers,’ said Jane Lugg. Everybody giggled.
‘That’s a bit silly, Jane,’ said Miss Candy. ‘And it’s not the sort of thing we laugh at.’
Miss Forrest entered the classroom without knocking, which irritated Miss Candy, because if she had ever entered Miss Forrest’s classroom without knocking there would have been ructions.
‘Your great-uncle’s here to see you, Ezra,’ said Miss Forrest.
Uncle Frank stood in the corridor, in his battered green tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He was twisting his hat in his hands. His face was as old as the hills and as dry as a stone wall. He put his hand on Henry’s shoulder and led him out into the playground. It surprised Henry that the sun was shining.
So his father had died! He couldn’t really feel much. He had almost forgotten his father.
Uncle Frank led him towards his car. Pleasure motoring was forbidden now, but this journey had not been for pleasure.
His father got out of the car with difficulty, and hobbled to meet him. His left leg was in plaster. He looked gaunt and old.
‘She stepped straight in front of a bus,’ he said. ‘She never knew what hit her.’
*
His father’s injuries had healed. He was going back to the war. Henry was glad, although he knew that he must never say so.
They sat beside the infant Mither. It worried away at its stones. Three months of its ceaseless efforts had passed since Henry had learnt of his mother’s death.
They had so little to say to each other, father and son. It was nearly harvest time, and the sky promised rain again. There was to be bad weather for the harvest of 1943, although the hay crop had been good, and prices for sheep and calving cows had been good all year.
Henry dived off the top board of the pool of silence that separated them.
‘Why does God kill people?’ he asked.
Ezra had longed for, yet dreaded, some question such as this.
He would never tell Henry about the funeral. She’d gone to Bristol, on her way to Plymouth, to visit his sister, who had married a bus driver, and to arrange for them to break their journey there on the way back. She’d gone shopping. Perhaps she’d been dreaming of his return. The driver hadn’t stood a chance.
His sister and her husband had gone to Plymouth to meet him. Her husband had said, ‘I’m only glad it wasn’t my bus.’ They hadn’t been churchgoers, and there had only been three mourners at the funeral. Ezra, his sister and her husband. The harassed vicar had referred to Ada as ‘our dear departed brother’. They hadn’t told anybody at Rowth Bridge, because they might have felt obliged to come, and there was no point, and it was best that Henry should be told by his father.
‘He doesn’t kill people,’ said Ezra at last.
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