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Great Writing - Home > Extended > The Polish Connection - Chapter 9
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Extended Work
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| The Polish Connection - Chapter 9 | |
| By jean.day | ||||||
| 05 October 2006 | ||||||
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If you want to know how this novel got on at my creative writing class, read my comment at the bottom of chapter 8. August 1915 As the summer progressed, we saw much less of Peter during the day, but then he said, “Why can’t Beth and Rebecca make a trip down to the cellar in the evenings? Surely nobody would think of that as an odd thing to do. So we tried it, and mostly I sat out on the back lawn, and they would run up and downstairs from the cellar as if they were playing a game there – which of course they were. Peter was very good at playing games and thought of all sorts of ingenious ways to keep his and my daughter happy. The biggest risk we ever took was when we decided to go, separately of course, by train to Edale, and then have a meal at the pub there, and go for a walk along the Pennine Way. John is a great walker so we have footpath maps of all that area. We as a family had gone that route several times, so it seemed quite a normal thing for us to be doing. The unusual part of this trip was that when we reached New Mills, Peter got on the train, having travelled there earlier, and we had a day out together. It was absolute bliss – a beautiful day, and such wonderful scenery. The war seemed light years away. I hadn’t laughed so much in ages, and I don’t think any of the others had either. I did feel rather guilty having such a good time when our men, including my dear husband were having such a wretched time. Although from his last letter, John didn’t seem to be in any real difficulties. “Darling Barbara, Rebecca and Beth, For the last week we have been working from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. most days, with a short break in the middle to go down to the beach. A whole brigade was dumped down and they told us to give them telephones. Having now done that they now want more. Another of our troubles is that some Greek or Turk unknown keeps cutting the lines. I sit around for hours in the top of a tree with a sten gun and a search light but I haven’t caught him yet. I will one day though. Watching the Grenadier Guards on security patrols in Limasol is a sight well worthy of Punch. They march up and down in groups of 3 as if they were outside Buckingham Palace – head up, arms swinging, looking straight ahead. The civil population just laugh at them. If anyone threw a bomb they would never know about it. I got the shock of my life the other day from them. In fact I nearly got shot. I drive in and out of the Guards camp about 3 times a day without much worry as they have got used to me by now. However the other day I drove in about 4 pm and a bayonet was thrust in my face and a nervous looking guardsman demanded my identity card. I suppose he thought I was a German. I just told him to mind his own business and that I was in a hurry and the next time he saw an English officer he should salute and be a bit more polite. I then drove on leaving the bloke standing strictly to attention by the gate. I half expected a bullet to follow me up the road but I don’t suppose he could have hit anything anyway. Love to you all John" But now back to our trip to Edale. As we were parting in New Mills for our separate journeys the rest of the way, I had a shock when I saw our near neighbours the Grants just getting on the train. I didn’t know if they had seen Peter leaving it – and how we had said goodbye as more than casual strangers would, but Mrs. Grant gave me a very peculiar look. I wondered if our lovely day would end in discovery. However, nothing was said, and the next weeks went on much as before. Peter left early, walking to his job, via the back of the house and the fields. He came back late, and we saw very little of him except on weekends when we contrived to do something special. His relationship with me was necessarily on hold. I had told myself sternly that I could not allow any more intimacy to take place, and I knew I had to be firm with myself to make sure it didn’t happen. My heart was more than willing, but my head said that it would not do. Beth by now was fairly fluent in English, and had no accent at all that one would notice. Her vocabulary was quite astonishing, but of course she spent most of her time with adults and a twelve year old (Rebecca had her birthday last week) who herself was far advanced from those her age. Beth won’t be starting school until next September, so I still have one year with her at home. But now that she was less shy and unlikely to give away the situation, I even have friends around for tea who have children of a similar age. September came, and the nights started drawing in again. I was pleased as I knew it was much easier for us to keep our secret when the nights were long and dark. Rebecca had gone back to her school in Mellor, very pleased to be advanced a year and with the older children grouping. Her teacher is Mrs. Marsland, the Headmistress, and she likes her very much. She said that shortly after school restarted, all the children we allowed out into the playground to see a flight of four biplanes slowly pass over. They were the first planes anyone had even seen. Rebecca also said that they had a new boy in her class called Emil Cloots and he was a Belgian refugee. He stays with his family at a cottage on Cheetham Hill, but several of the refugees are being housed at the Cathedral Home. Most of the Belgian children, being Catholic, go to St. Mary’s School. I worry about Rebecca getting cold at school. Within Mellor School is a large iron fireplace and stove, although it is located in the infant room and Rebecca is now in the Juniors. On the stove a big kettle is kept simmering and has brass taps and is similar to a tea urn. Surrounding the fire is an enormous fire guard where wet clothes can be placed to dry. There is also a big black stove, fed by coke in the boys’ cloakroom. Rebecca says that Mrs. Marland does sometimes use a bamboo cane on the naughtier children, but she usually wraps knuckles with a ruler. For instance, it is an offence to take off one’s shoes to put one’s feet on the pipes which run around the skirting board. This will be Rebecca’s last full year of school because next year, when she was thirteen, she will be expected to work at Rammy Mill, where Peter also works, from 8.30-12.30, where she will earn 3 shilling and 4 pence a week, and then spend the afternoons at school. Then by the age of fourteen, she will have left school. Because she is very clever and very much wants to go to University, we will let her sit the exam for Manchester High School for Girls, and if she passes and gets a scholarship, she can continue her education there rather than going off to waste her time working at the mill. Manchester High has a very good reputation and offers classes in science, Russian, French, German, Latin and Greek, as well as all the conventional subjects. They also have a very good tennis team, which perhaps interests Rebecca more than their academic qualifications. The Pankhurst sisters went to that school, and of course Rebecca thinks very highly of them.
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