The Children's Book

53

Basil and Katharina Wellwood had an unhappy war. There was a huge upsurge of anti-German hatred. Katharina’s friends and acquaintances ceased to call on her or to invite her to gatherings to roll bandages or knit for the British soldiers. The fact—insofar as it was known—that their son was a conscientious objector also cast suspicion on them. Their country neighbours were as venomous as their city ones. They were anxious both for Charles/Karl and for Griselda. Basil was also concerned for Geraint Fludd, who was his substitute son in the City. Geraint was somewhere with the big guns. He wrote occasionally—reasonably cheerfully from the Somme, more grimly as his guns crawled through the mud in Flanders. General Ludendorff ordered the German army to retreat to the Siegfried Line in February 1917. Word came back to Britain of his “Operation Alberich,” named for the Nibelung who had abjured Love as he clasped the stolen Rheingold. Operation Alberich scorched the earth, hacking, burning, poisoning wells, slaughtering cattle and poultry, leaving nothing that could be used by an advancing army, French or British. A woman spat at Katharina in the street. Servants gave in their notice. Katharina, already thin, grew thinner.

The letter came. It had a Red Cross and was addressed to “Basil and Katharina Wellwood” in the Quaker style. The Friends’ Ambulance Unit, it said, was greatly saddened to have to report that their friend Charles Wellwood was missing, and must be presumed dead. His courage had been exemplary. He had ventured into parts of the battlefield where many stretcher-bearers feared to go. He had brought in the wounded, English and German, had dressed their wounds and spoken to them with true gentleness. He had appeared indefatigable. He had been much respected, and would be much missed, by his fellow workers and by those whose lives he had saved.

“He is only missing,” said Katharina, in a thin, exhausted voice. “He may come back to us.”

“I don’t think the writer of that letter thought he would,” said Basil. He said

“We have the letter he gave us, to be opened, if—if he died.”

“But he may not be dead.”

“Do you want to leave the letter unopened?”

“No. No. I think it would be right to open it.”

They were afraid of opening it. It would not simply contain assurances that he had always loved them. That was not like Charles/Karl, who knew they knew he loved them. The letter contained a secret they might not want to know.

My dear father and mother,

If you read this I shall be dead. I hope I shall have saved other lives before losing mine. You will know that I thought of you steadily, with great love and gratitude, not least for your letting me go my own way, and live a life of study that you would not have chosen for me.

There is a secret I have kept from you. I have a wife, whom you have never met. Her name is Elsie, and she finally agreed to marry me because I was going away. We were married by Frank Mallett in St. Edburga’s Church. We should have told you, and shared this with you, but there was no time.

Elsie is the sister of the potter, Philip Warren. She is a student teacher and I would have hoped, if I had lived, that she could study more widely and deeply.

I am asking you both, with loving apprehension, to go and find Elsie, and take care of her, as my wife. She is very independent, as you will see, and taking care of her is hard, as I have found, myself.

She is not from our “class.” I believe profoundly that this has no real importance. She—more practical—does not believe that you would want to accept or acknowledge her, for this reason. I have more faith in you—in both of you—than that. She does not know you, as I do. You are honourable, and generous, and just, and you will see her for what she is, as I do.

I end with love, again. I have no wish to die, and hope I may come home, and burn this letter, unread.

If not—please forgive me, and please look after Elsie.

Your son

Charles/Karl.

It was a week before they set out, in the Daimler, with an elderly chauffeur, for the cottage at the end of Dungeness. Basil had the idea that they should stop at Frank Mallett’s vicarage, and ask him what he thought of this Elsie. Katharina said this would be unfair, from which Basil inferred that she expected to think ill of the young woman. They did, in fact, drive through Puxty, but the vicar was not home, and Dobbin was away on war work on the land. So they drove on, into the only English desert.

On the outskirts of Lydd they were stopped by sentries as they passed the army camp. They could indeed hear the artillery, practising on the range amongst the shingle and blown bushes. This was a military zone, said the soldiers. They must state their business. They could hear the guns. It would be best to turn back.

Basil was by nature inclined not to reveal his business. He said he had private business with a lady in the cottage, along the Ness. His hauteur annoyed the soldier who said he would need a permit to drive in these parts, these days. Basil said he was visiting the schoolmistress, and the sentry said the army had taken over the school and the teachers had moved out of the zone.

Katharina showed them the letter.

“Our son is dead, this letter tells us. We have found the schoolmistress is his wife. We must see her.”

Katharina’s accent was more suspicious than Basil’s hauteur.

“How do we know you’re not spies? You sound German.”

“I am German. I have lived in England most of my life. I think I am English but that is no help. Please let us go through and look for this person. Our son is missing in Flanders. Presumed dead. It is bad, out there.”

The chauffeur said, in a Kentish voice,

“You can see where we go. You can keep an eye. You’ll see us come back. There’s nowhere to go you can’t see us, it’s all bare.”

So they drove on. Katharina imagined, not incorrectly, Charles/Karl on his bicycle, on the stony path. They came to the cottage.

A young woman was hanging out washing.

The chauffeur opened the door, and Katharina, in her veiled hat and driving-coat, stepped down.

“We are looking for a Miss Elsie Warren.”

“Well, you’ve found her,” said Elsie, finishing the pegging of a towel. Katharina’s voice trembled. She said “Can we go inside? Sit down? Please.”

“If you wish. Come in.”

Basil stepped out of the car, bowed and caped. Elsie gathered her basket of clothes under one arm, balancing it on a hip, and opened the door. They all went in. Elsie asked if they would like a cup of tea, and Katharina thought she could not sit, with the weight of her news, and endure the tea-making. She asked for water, and Elsie brought water for all of them.

“We have received,” Katharina said, “a letter. It tells us our son Charles is missing. It tells us we must think he is dead.” Elsie took a sip of water. She was rigid.

“We had a letter,” Katharina said, “from him. For—for this time. He asked us—to look for you.”

“It’s true,” Elsie said, in a thin, expressionless voice. “What he told you. We were married before he went out. The vicar could show you the register. You needn’t worry yourselves. I don’t want anything. I’ll not bother you.”

Katharina said “What he said. She is very independent. Taking care of her is hard, as I have found, myself.”

“That’s him,” said Elsie. One tear rolled down her cheek. She said “I lived here with Mrs. Oakeshott and Robin and Ann. Robin was killed in France. Like Mrs. Wellwood’s Robin. So Mrs. Oakeshott went to work in a hospital in Hove, when they closed the school. The military want to have this cottage—for their staff—but I need to stay here and mind Ann. Philip’s in Flanders—my brother. Charles came back once, on leave, some time after Robin was killed, and left us some money. I need to find work. Ann is almost a young woman. She’ll have to find work, too.”

“Ann?” said Katharina.

“Oh no. Don’t think that. Ann’s sixteen. Ann’s not—not your granddaughter.”

“So you were married before?” said Basil Wellwood.

“No. No I wasn’t. Ann was—a mistake. He didn’t tell you about Ann.”

“No. He didn’t.”

“Ann were the bridesmaid when we got married. He’s very fond of Ann. Was very fond of Ann.”

They sat there, and sipped water, in a fog of suspicion.

“It’s all right,” said Elsie. “You don’t have to bother about me and Ann.”

Katharina Wellwood surprised herself. “It isn’t only you and Ann. Is it?”

“I don’t know how you can see. It doesn’t hardly show.” Katharina said “It’s the way you hold your hands, on—You have no right to keep our grandchild from us.” Another tear rolled down Elsie’s face.

“You can’t take it from me. It’s all I got of him. You can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?” said Basil, slower than his wife.

“Can’t take it and bring it up to be a snobby lady or a posh gentleman. Oh, please go away, I don’t know what to do.”

“You are very unjust,” said Katharina Wellwood, “to think so badly of us. Charles/Karl—asked us to look after you, which is what we want to do. It is not good for expecting mothers to work in armaments factories, and we—I was going to say, we cannot allow you to, but you must understand I know you are a free agent.

“What I want—more than anything—is to take you—and of course Ann—back to our house in the country. To make you comfortable. Karl said—wait—I will read it to you—‘She is a student teacher and I would have hoped, if I had lived, that she could study more widely and deeply.’ ”

Elsie began to cry in good earnest. Katharina said

“You know—Elsie, if I may call you Elsie—we are his parents. He is—he was—our son. Not so unlike each other. Please come with us.”

“You don’t understand. Your friends will despise me and laugh at you. I’m not in your class and shan’t ever be, no matter how you dress me up.”

“I have lost most of my friends because they despise me and sneer at me because I am a German. We can survive that. It is superficial and horrible. You are the woman my son married.”

Basil made a croaking sort of sound. He said “She’s right—um—Elsie—she’s right. It will make us very happy if you come with us. And we shall be—hurt, yes, hurt, if you won’t come.”

“It isn’t right.”

“Stop arguing,” said Basil. He liked her for arguing.

Ann came in, thin, little, leggy, with a face like a will o’ the wisp. She looked as though you could blow her away, or snap her like a twig. She smiled uncertainly.

“These are his—Charles/Karl’s—mum and dad. They’ve invited us to their house.”

Ann nodded seriously.

Katharina said “We can try, Elsie. And if you are unhappy, we will think of something else.”