The Angel of Mons - Chapter twelve

Twelve

George raised himself slowly and accepted his cup of tea with a smile. Graham drew back the curtains and when George looked up all he could see was uninterrupted blue sky.
Half an hour later he was shaved and dressed and in the kitchen cutting tinned ham and tomato sandwiches which he then loaded into a wicker basket along with two flasks, one containing morning coffee and the other afternoon tea. Bully looked on excitedly and was occasionally rewarded for his efforts with a thin slice of discarded fat or cucumber.
Graham sat at the dining table scratching his head as he pawed over a large Audinance Survey map. The wireless played easy listening music which was interrupted occasionally for the announcement of a golden wedding anniversary or birthday greeting.
At half past eight, George washed an empty milk bottle and waited by the back door. He was slightly hunched and he held his head perfectly still, breathing lightly as if he were desperately trying to hear someone or something. He kept peeping round the kitchen door to check that Graham was still seated at the table.
Suddenly George’s eyes opened wide, he smiled and pulled at the door. He tugged again and realising it was locked, he hurriedly slid back the bolt and threw the door open.
George virtually fell over the step in his haste, followed closely by Bully who was familiar with this early morning chance to escape for a while and make his mark on a few new bushes. George straightened himself up and ran his fingers through his thin grey hair which had fallen across his face.
“Morning George,” said Terri as she ushered Joseph out of the front door of number six.
“Morning,” replied George whose eyes were trained on the child, “good morning Joseph,” he continued as he bent down to place the bottle in a small milk crate which stood by the door. George frowned when Joseph turned a nestled his face into the folds of his mother’s long pleated grey skirt. The child’s body shuddered and George could hear him whimpering gently. George held his head to one side and smiled at Terri.
“He’s not too happy this morning I’m afraid George,” she said sighing, “I remember how it feels. Still dare say he’ll get used to it in time.” She took Joseph’s hand and led him down the path. George watched for as long he could before they vanished round the corner. And even after they had disappeared he stood for a moment his head raised and a faint smile played on his lips as he caught Terri’s sweet fragrance hanging on the soft warm, late summer morning air. Eventually, he shook his head, called Bully, turned and limped back toward the house, pausing briefly to pick up the milk bottle which he then returned to its place next to the boiler in the kitchen.
They drove down the Ickneild Way toward Aylesbury, the hood of their two tone Sunbean convertible neatly folded away and the radio blaring. The sun was beating down on the road ahead.
Bully sat dead centre of the rear seat, his head held high, the wind blowing his slobbering jowls and his long greying ears. If a dog could smile thought George, then Bully was smiling.
George noticed that the horse chestnut trees were showing the first signs of the approaching winter. But he smiled and inside his heart beat a little faster in anticipation. It had been many years since he had last embarked on a journey not knowing what he was expecting to find.
Graham drove at his usual sedate thirty miles an hour. He smiled as he swung the car gracefully through the winding roads slowing occasionally when confronted with an approaching lorry or van.
They had been driving for little more than thirty minutes when they headed up a steep hill beyond the sleepy town of Wendover. At the top, Graham parked and with car rug and thermos in hand they crossed a stile, walked a short distance across a field and sat to drink their morning coffee looking across the rich patch work of fields that covered the Aylesbury Vale below.
The birds were singing and George felt like he could see the entire country laid out for his inspection. He smiled as a light breeze unsettled his wispy hair, and he held his head up to the sun and felt its soft touch on his face, he reached with his finger tips to stroke the top of Bully’s head as he sat silently between the two brothers.
They said nothing to one another. There was no need.
Twenty minutes later they headed into the vale, through the lanes and into the market town of Thame.
The broad high street was a mass of activity, cattle and small stores selling everything imaginable to a bustling crowd. People stood at the doors of the Pubs drinking beer in the morning sun. It reminded George of the times he had helped Peter take his flock to Berkhamsted and how they had visited the Swan and met their friends, long, long ago.
They stopped briefly at the church and walked to the centre of the ornate iron bridge, which spanned the river and marked the boundary between the counties of Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire.
George wondered what they must have looked like as they crossed that line all those years before. In their smart uniforms, their strong backs straight, their hearts beating with pride. He imagined them walking down the hill to the river on their way to the station. He wondered if they had given it any thought. He wondered if it had occurred to them that perhaps they would never cross that line again. From Buckinghamshire to Oxfordshire from England to France, and from there to eternity.
Graham drove slowly through the village of Long Crendon and as they left, George could see the country open up in front of them. To the right a rounded green hill rich and fertile rose out of the flat ground of the vale. The road undulated and turned, high hedges blocking their view as they progressed. And then, ahead George spotted a small church tower, in grey brick and black flint and he knew they had arrived. He smiled at Graham who kept his eye on the road ahead, a faint smile stretching his rounded cheeks.
Graham pulled the car into the side of the road opposite the entrance to the church. The sun was shining and other than the distant sound of a working tractor ploughing in the stony soil, far away, all was quiet.
And there in the sun, stood a tall stone cross on a plinth into which were carved the names of “the fallen.”
“Shall park here for while George?”
George looked at his brother and smiled, he squeezed his hand and slowly nodded. Bully lowered himself back down onto the back seat and fell asleep.
As he got closer to the memorial the carefully chiselled names became clearer as did the faces of the men and boys he had known.
He looked up at the church tower and thought of them on their wedding days, at the christenings of their children, at the funerals of their neighbours friends and families. He thought of them walking down the narrow lane to work, to visit friends, to worship. He wondered how the small communities had ever begun to recover from their loss.
George closed his eyes and lowered himself to sit on the bottom step of the memorial. He felt the sun on his face and listened to the quiet.
“Peaceful in it,” said a soft deep voice from behind George who’s body jerked as he turned. “I’m sorry, the voice continued, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
George smiled and then frowned.
The young man walked from behind a lichen covered headstone, he was tall and had a large jolly face, his eyes were blue like the clear sky above. He was wearing a grubby white shirt with the top two buttons open, dark corduroy trousers, heavy boots and was carrying a scythe. It was Chandler. No doubt in George’s mind he had been here all the time he thought. George turned and looked toward Graham who was leaning against the car his back to him looking out across the fields on the far side of the road.
George tried to speak, but nothing happened. The words simply stuck as he stammered. The young man continued to smile and lifted his eyebrows as if trying to encourage the words out. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” The young man turned his head to one side and half closed his left eye.
George suddenly felt unsteady on; he leant back against the cross and held himself up. His breathing was deep and laboured; perspiration was glistened on his face. Chandler stepped forward and grabbed George by the arm his powerful grip helping him to recover himself.
“I’m not sure we’ve met sir?” said the young man holding out his hand.
George nodded and smiled, he looked at him and slowly his nod turned to a shake of the head. “I would hazard that your name is Chandler.”
“Then we have met?”
“No, I knew your,” George paused as he tried to calculate what relation he would be to the man he knew in France all those years ago. He turned and lowered his hand to the list on the memorial.
“I’m Frank, you knew my grandfather?” he asked taking George’s hand in a firm grip. “You knew my Grandfather? You really knew my Grandfather?”
Frank sat in the back of the car, his hair blowing in the breeze, one arm outstretched across the top of the back seat, the other wrapped around Bully’s neck. He had his head back. He leant forward occasionally to tap Graham on the shoulder as he issued directions on the short journey to the pub owned by Frank’s father, James.
Graham swung the car into a space next to the door. It was the only car there, but George noticed a couple of bicycles leaning against a fence next to the narrow road. He could hear deep voices inside and as they approached the smell of beer and spicy tobacco drifted from the door to greet them.
The Chandos Arms was a small building with a thin dark thatch roof. The sandstone walls were flaking and the paintwork blistered and cracked. They stepped through the door, straight into a tiny stone floored bar, where four elderly men turned to greet Frank. They looked inquisitively across his shoulder toward George and Graham.
“This gentleman,” said Frank holding the palm of his hand toward George, “is George who was with my Grandfather in France during the Great War,” he announced, his voice altering in pitch as his excitement showed through.
George noticed that the men stared at him intently, smiling and nodding. He noticed something comforting and familiar about them. One of them who was later introduced as John reached into his pocket and placed some coins on the bar, the others silently and without hesitation did the same. Peter looked across the bar and rang a small bell that stood by the barrels.
As George looked around the tiny smoke filled room, he tried to imagine them being there, standing at the bar before they left for France. And the more he thought about it the more real their images grew, the more their presence seemed to grow. Suddenly his eye caught a row of campaign medals on the far wall next to a large bulging brick chimney stack, and next to that, a frame which was about the size the of a sheet of letter paper. George moved slowly across the room and noticed that the talking at the bar stopped.
Although George had no memory of the photograph being taken, he remembered the place, he remembered being there. They were laying in long grass, their shirts either open or cast aside. Their bodies were tanning in the brilliant sunshine. Their rifles were stood up leaning against each other forming rows which looked like tiny uncovered tents. The picture was full of smiling men looking up at the camera, squinting into the light or with their hands held to their faces shading their eyes from the glare. And there, at the front nearest the camera lay two men accompanied by one sitting cross-legged. They were Peter, Frank’s grandfather and George himself.
George raised his fingers to his lips and shuddered. His eyes darted from one side of the picture to the other, he looked at the faces and tried to remember the sound of their voices. He thought about how they had felt that day, the mixture of trepidation tension and excitement.
George became aware of someone standing behind him, he didn’t look round, he felt he had no need to. He felt warm and comfortable and safe.
“Sometimes it feels like it was only yesterday don’t it George,” said the man in a half whisper.
George looked at his own young eyes peering back at him from the sepia print.
“I thought you had gone with the others,” whispered George, “your name, it’s on the memorial.”
“Do you see the others too George?”
Suddenly the sound of the room changed, and from the soft silence he heard the voice of young Frank. “Dad this is George, he was with your father in France.”
George turned and there stood a man who looked so familiar, but a man who he knew he had never met before. His hair was grey and long across the top, he was stout in build, he was wiping his hands with an old towel which he folded and placed on the back of a nearby chair before reaching across and shaking hands; first with George and then with Graham who had been leaning for some time, rather expectantly against the bar.
“I’m James. This really is a great pleasure, I never knew my father, and I never met anyone who was with him in France.” The smile faded on James’s face and he glanced over at the photograph, raising his head, “None of them ever came back you see, not a one.”
“None?” said George, “Never?”
James gently shook his head. “Drinks?” He asked as he turned abruptly and made his way behind the bar. Graham was the first to order his pint of bitter and George politely accepted a half. Bully was given a large metal bowl full of cold water which he hurriedly guzzled before disappearing outside to explore.
They all sat attentively as George told the stories of the war. He spoke of his respect for the men of the village and how brave they had been to the end.
James frowned and gently interrupted George as he told of the struggle on the First of July 1916. “You mean you were there, you know what happened?”
“Oh yes, I was just a matter of a few feet away from your father when the end came.” George walked over to the photograph and gently unhooked it from the wall. “There,” he said pointing at the dusty glass, “that’s me, that was a very dear friend. This was taken the day before the attack.”
It was gone three-o clock when they emerged into the afternoon sunshine. Graham walked unsteadily and George volunteered to drive. James, Peter and the other men stood around the door, they shook hands. “We will see you again I hope George, there are other men in the village, four of them who like me never knew their fathers. I know they would like to meet you.”
As George drove slowly down the lane back passed the church he noticed a group of young men, some sitting and some standing around the memorial, they were in their shirtsleeves. Some had their faces turned toward the sun with their eyes closed leaning back and relaxed. Others were chatting and laughing. All were smiling and happy; all were at ease, just as they had been that day the picture was taken in the sun drenched field in France.
They waved to George as he drove bye. George looked at his brother who had fallen asleep next him. And then he raised his hand and waved back, and he continued to wave as he turned the corner, until they finally disappeared from the sight of the rear view mirror.