Unwelcome Inheritance

Copyright Oggbashan December 2020

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

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It was a cold day in January 1916. I was walking with my father away from his tailor in Savile Row. My hand was tucked through his crooked arm.

Ahead of us a group of women were blocking the pavement. We didn't want to walk into the traffic, so we continued, expecting them to allow us through.

They didn't. They surrounded us and one of them thrust a white feather at my father's face.

"Take it, coward!" she shouted.

He laughed at her. That was a mistake. It aroused the group to fury. They hurled insults at him for his lack of uniform and at me, suggesting that I was 'no better than I should be' and my father's mistress.

"Ladies," My father said calmly. "You are mistaken. This lady is my daughter. She is engaged on important war work."

"And my father's uniform is being replaced," I added.

They didn't believe us. The abuse continued and attracted the attention of a passing police sergeant. He walked slowly across to us. He is responsible for policemen on the beat near our home. He was obviously an injured ex-soldier with a damaged leg.

"What is all this?" he asked in a loud voice. He recognised my father and saluted. Dad returned his salute.

"These women bothering you, Major?"

"Major?" The woman who had originally pushed the feather in my father's face queried.

"Yes, Major," the sergeant replied. "I know Major Harold very well, and his daughter."

"I don't believe you," the woman retorted.

"Very well," the sergeant said, unbuttoning his uniform pocket and producing his notebook. "Your name, Madam? I will report you and your colleagues for obstructing the highway, use of abusive language in public, and harassing a serving Army officer. Your name?"

"I don't think that will be necessary, Sergeant Abram," My father said. "I am sure these ladies were well-intentioned..."

"But stupid!" I cut in. I turned on them. "My father couldn't take your ridiculous feather. He has no hands." I pointed at the black gloves covering his carved wooden replacements. "And he has medals for bravery. You should think about what you are doing. Go to Victoria Station and watch the injured troops coming home, many of them dying. What use are you? What are you doing for the war effort? This stupid charade doesn't count."

My tirade shocked some of them, but not the original lady.

"What are you doing for the war?" she retorted.

"I'll answer that," My father said. "My daughter is just back from a front line hospital in France where she has been working since 1914. She escorted me home. She will be going back with another group of volunteer nurses for her hospital."

The lady wouldn't give up.

"Why did you need to take a nurse away from her duties? That's selfish."

"He didn't. I was coming anyway. And you should think. What can he do with no hands? He needs help."

"Sometimes," My father said quietly.

"And now his wife and maidservants can do that, when they're not on war work."

"Move along, ladies," Sergeant Abram said. "The magistrate would not be kind to you when you are in front of the bench."

They walked slowly away.

"I'm sorry about that, Major," the sergeant said. "They don't help the war effort. Far too many who are given their feathers are wounded soldiers, or unfit for military service, or on essential work. I have to deal with several arguments a day caused by them. They even gave a feather to a VC. Stupid..."

He might have added a rude word, but I was smiling at him.

"Major Harold, Miss Harold, if you don't mind I'll escort you to your home. There are several such groups of white feather ladies around today. They are running a campaign before conscription is agreed by Parliament. They might harass you again."

"Thank you, Sergeant Abram," I replied.

My father didn't think it was necessary. The sergeant and I were right. We would have met four more groups of White Feather ladies in the short distance to my house. The sergeant glared at them and they left us alone.

As we arrived at our front door I turned to Sergeant Abram.

"Would you like to come in for a cup of tea, Sergeant?"

"I'd like to, ma'am, but I ought to be checking on my policemen."

"I'm sure they are doing their tasks," I said, "and if you have tea with us, I'll ask Marie to bring it."

Sergeant Abram actually blushed.

"That would be pleasant," he admitted.

"Or you could have tea with Marie," I suggested, "and another maid would bring ours."

"That is a better idea," My father said. "So, Sergeant Abram, you have a choice. Tea with us, brought by Marie, or tea with Marie. I think you should choose tea with Marie, don't you?"

"Yes, Major. I'd like that."

I arranged it. Jessica brought our tea. Sergeant Abram went to the kitchen. I told our housekeeper to give Marie an hour off to entertain her 'follower'. The housekeeper was very willing. A police sergeant with responsibilities for our neighbourhood was a very welcome visitor to the servants' quarters. Mother had made it very clear that policemen on or off duty were acceptable visitors to our domestic areas. The housekeeper told us that sometimes it was like a police station in our kitchen, with the sergeant sending out his patrols from the warmth beside the kitchen range.

"What are you going to do now, father?" I asked.

"Go back to France next week, Ruth," He replied.

"What can you do with no hands?"

"I'm an artillery officer. I don't need to load or fire the guns myself..."

"You can't even dress yourself!" I retorted.

"My batman can do that. My men need me."

"Haven't you done enough for the Army?"

"They are short of experienced officers. We've lost so many and the artillery will be busy this year. My tailor is not just replacing my damaged uniform. From Monday I'll be a Lieutenant Colonel, not a Major. I've been acting that rank for six months. Now it's permanent, Ruth. If the war continues much longer I'll be a staff officer. The Army need my brain not my hands. I'll have a clerk to write my orders and I can use a telephone with a headset."

"But..."

"But what, Ruth? You of all people know how desperate we are. You're constantly patching men up to go back to the front. Some are too damaged to fight again, like Police Sergeant Abram with his wooden leg."

"It's not fair..."

"Fair, Ruth? War isn't fair. We are fighting for the freedom of Europe against an enemy that is just as competent as we are, sometimes better than us. We need everyone including me, and you. When conscription starts we'll have more new men but they need training. I can train gunners but we need time. Some of our recent volunteer recruits are keen but too over-enthusiastic to be safe with live ammunition. The old soldiers from before the war are rare now. Their experience is vital. So is mine. I'll be there as long as I'm needed."

"Until you too are killed or wounded beyond repairing."

"That's always a risk but I'm not in the front line of trenches. Without hands I'd be really useless there. I'm back with the long range guns firing at distant targets. If only we had more reliable shells. It's so frustrating that so many are duds."

"Or not duds, like the one that took off your hands, Dad."

"It was faulty. I lost my hands but no one else was hurt, Ruth. That's what matters."

Jessica brought some more hot water for our tea.

"How's Sergeant Abram doing?" I asked.

"I didn't dare look, Miss Ruth," Jessica replied. "If they carry on like that much longer I think they should get married."

"How's your husband Joseph?" Ruth asked.

"Him? Much better now he's home. Do you know? He was given a white feather today. He stuck it in his hat band. That annoyed those stupid ladies."

"They are stupid," I replied. "They tried to give my father one today."

"You, Sir? But your hands are visible. Joseph's injuries aren't. Silly women!"

"Joseph should wear his medals, Jessica," My father suggested. "That will put them off."

"I put them off, Sir. I told them what I thought of them and I wasn't ladylike if you know what I mean. Giving my Joseph a white feather? They have no idea."

"My father is going back to France next week, Jessica," I said. "So am I."

"I wish I could, Miss Ruth. I'd give those Germans what for. My Joseph did his best and now he's a wreck. I'll look after him but I'd rather be blowing up them Huns."

"Be glad you've got your Joseph, Jessica. My father and I might not survive the war. You and Joseph will."

"You, Miss Ruth? But you're a nurse. They shouldn't kill you." Jessica objected.

"Aerial bombs don't know the difference, Jessica. I lost friends last month when their hospital was bombed."

"That's evil."

Jessica left us. Her Joseph is recovering after surviving a gas attack. He'll never return to the front. He shouldn't have been there and only had been because he lied about his age and had dyed his white hair black. He's a grandfather and one of his grandsons is now training for the Royal Navy, much to Joseph's disgust as an Army veteran. Another grandson wants to learn to fly but can't convince the authorities that he is old enough. He's a small boy aged 12.

I was day-dreaming. I was jealous of Sergeant Abram and Marie. What they were doing in the kitchen was far more than I had ever gone with my boyfriend Alfred. He was too polite. The most he had ever done was to kiss my hand. I had startled Alfred by giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. On my narrow camp bed in the hospital tent I had imagined myself going much further with a naked Alfred resting against my naked breasts after making love for hours. If I had told Alfred about my dreams he would have been shocked but every night in my dreams I made mad passionate love to him, the sort of encounter we had never had in real life. I think my dreams of Alfred had kept me sane after a brutal day tending to badly wounded soldiers. I kissed and hugged dying men far more passionately than I had ever kissed Alfred. Maybe that was why I was so upset when yet another one died.

"Have you heard from Alfred recently?" My father asked.

"Recently? Alfred writes every day. I had seven letters forwarded from the hospital yesterday and one this morning because he knows I'm at home."

"Where is he now?"

"Dad! You know I'm not supposed to know, and he's not supposed to tell me, and if he did his mail would be censored."

"That's not an answer, Ruth." Dad was smiling.

"OK. He was advancing from Albert in today's letter."

Dad looked serious.

"Oh. That area is dangerous."

"I know it is. I've dealt with many casualties from around there."

"What is? No. How serious are you and Alfred? You haven't said yet but Alfred did ask my permission three months ago."

"He did? He didn't tell me. What a sly Alfred? OK, Dad. We hope to get engaged when he is next back in England."

"And married?"

"Soon after the engagement, Dad."

"You're not waiting until after the War ends, Ruth?"

"Will it ever end? You should know better than I do."

"I have no idea. We are just killing each other by thousands every day. Will either side win before there are no soldiers left?"

"When Alfred asked your permission did you enquire about his prospects?"

"Of course. It was enough then but better now. If he survives the war he is the only remaining son. His older brother James was killed recently. Alfred will inherit his family estate eventually but already has a personal estate in Suffolk. When you marry him you will be the wife of the local squire."

I hugged my father and kissed him on the cheek. I know he loves my mother and the two of them were far more demonstrative of their love for each other than Alfred had ever been - so far, except in my dreams. Maybe he'll change when we are married. My father's arm came up to touch mine. I know he misses his hands for expressing his love for my mother, and me. But I can hug him, knowing he loves his daughter, and his daughter loves him.

+++

A week later I was back in France working hard to patch up wounded soldiers. I am the charge nurse at this field hospital, the post that would be a Matron in a hospital in England. I had twenty nurses working for me. My father was back with his artillery but he had been told to expect a posting to Lydd ranges in Kent to be commander of an artillery training depot. I hope he survives until that happens. I'm seeing too many badly injured men of all ranks and I know my father will be close to the guns, and under counter-battery fire.

Every night, except when I was just too tired to do anything except collapse on my cot and fall instantly asleep, I was making mad passionate love to Alfred. Even when we are married I think Alfred would be shocked by what I wanted to do to him, and what I wanted him to do to me. But perhaps I was underestimating him. There was a hint in one of his letters that he was 'dreaming' as he put it, about me.

One night Alfred seemed more there than before. I seemed to feel the real weight of a man's body covering mine as he thrust away passionately. But as the dream ended, the impression of Alfred said. "I'm sorry, Ruth."

Those few words worried me and he didn't return in my dreams for the next few nights. Was that because I was too tired or was there another reason?

On Sunday I was resting with a cup of tea waiting for the next arrival of wounded troops. The hospital commandant walked over to me, clutching a letter. His face told me what I didn't want to know. It was bad news.

"I had to open this, as I do for all mail, Ruth. It would have been given to you tomorrow when the recent mail has been censored but..."

"Thank you, Sir," I said.

He handed me the letter. It was addressed in a hand I didn't know.

"I'm sorry," the commandant said.

The letter was from Alfred's father Gerald Simons. Alfred had been killed last week leading his men over the top. They hadn't got more than fifty yards from the British lines before being cut down by shrapnel and raked by machine guns. Out of one hundred troops only thirty had returned to the starting trench with five unwounded. Alfred had been closest to the German trench when he had detonated a large mine. He had been badly injured but survived long enough to be taken to the field hospital where he had died within minutes of arrival. Alfred's father asked me to visit him when I was next in England.

Alfred had been killed on the day that in my dream he had said 'I'm sorry'. I should have had a premonition that that was the end but I was just too exhausted to read anything into those words - then. Now? I knew that Alfred had come to say goodbye.

It broke my heart to write a letter of condolence to Alfred's father. He has lost both his sons to this war. His family home and estates will descend to one of Alfred's cousins, if that cousin survives. Alfred's mother had died in childbirth when Alfred was five years old. An elderly aunt had done her best for Alfred and James, but now Alfred's father would be alone with only his memories. I will visit him when I can but that won't be for months.

I had written the letter and put it in the box to be censored about a quarter of an hour before the next ambulance train arrived. I didn't have time to grieve for my dead almost-fiancé until after midnight when I collapsed on my cot, weeping from tiredness and pity for the shattered men I had tended. It took me nearly a week of unremitting work before I could think of what I had lost in Alfred. I had loved him. I had wanted to marry him, have our children, and become the squire's wife of a quiet village.

Quiet? Will I ever have quiet again? All through the night I can hear the distant thunder of the guns on the Western Front. Sometimes they are closer and I can tell the difference between British and German artillery. My father is still in the midst of that maelstrom of shelling. I can't lose him too, God, not him too...

Each day more injured men arrive. Each day we succeed with some who are sent back to England and a few who are patched up to go back to the trenches again. Each day we lose a few. Most of the dying don't get as far back as our hospital. They die at the first aid posts closer to the front. But we still bury dozens a week. Their faces are a blur. Did I tend that one last week? Or was it a week ago? I see so many wrecks of men that I lose track of individuals.

Each night I try to dream of Alfred but the personality has gone. I am dreaming about an encounter with what is gradually becoming an anonymous male body, not the Alfred I had loved who has gone and was disappearing from my dreams. Perhaps if I had had a base of more reality of sexual encounters between us the vision of Alfred would have lasted longer. I couldn't build much on a hand in mine and a couple of hugs that had shocked him.

Two months later I receive the letter I have been praying for. My father has left France for the last time. He is at Lydd for the duration of the war. He tells me that what decided the powers-that-be was when his right leg was hit by some shrapnel. The authorities decided that his knowledge and experience were too valuable to waste needlessly. As a commandant of a training depot his services would be more use to the war effort.

I could read between the lines. My father always minimises his injuries. If he wrote 'some shrapnel' that probably meant he had nearly lost a leg. With his hands already gone, the Army wouldn't have much left of him if he stayed close to the front. He and my mother will be living at the official residence in Lydd.

+++

Another month went by before I was ordered to accompany an ambulance train back to England. Once the train had arrived in London I would have fourteen days leave. That wasn't long because I wanted to visit Alfred's father and my parents in Lydd.

When I arrived at our London house Jessica and Marie were the only servants still there. They made me welcome. I congratulated Marie who had become engaged to Sergeant Abram. I had a pile of letters to read. There were several from Alfred that hadn't been posted when he was killed. I cried over those. There was also a letter from Alfred's family solicitors. Alfred had left me a bequest in his will. Could I call at their London office at my convenience, please?

I felt that was awkward timing. I suppose I could visit the solicitors tomorrow morning before catching a train to go to Alfred's father. Had Alfred left me a sentimental keepsake? Never mind. I would find out tomorrow morning.

+++

At the solicitors I was startled to be told that Alfred had left me his personal estate in Suffolk. There was a covering note. If he was killed in the war the family estate would have to be sold, or most of it, to pay the death duties for himself and his brother, James. His personal estate might be more than the whole of the remaining part. If I accepted the bequest, please could I ensure that his father had somewhere to live, because if Alfred was dead his father would have no surviving close relations?

The solicitors told me that Alfred had been overly pessimistic about death duties. Since their father was still living, neither brother had inherited the family estates. Death duties would only be payable on their personal estates which were sufficiently large to absorb that without having to sell any land. When their father died, yes, there would be death duties to pay but again it shouldn't affect the majority of the family estate.

What Alfred had left me was a farm with a large farmhouse built within the remains of a Roman fort that had become the farmyard. The farm itself, of several thousand acres, was let to a tenant farmer who had been paying a substantial rent for decades that had accumulated because Alfred had spent very little. Even after his estate had paid death duties I would have a capital of fifty thousand pounds and an income of several thousand a year after income taxes.