War and Peace 1920

WAR AND PEACE, 1920

William awoke to the sharp clatter of breaking glass. Second time this week, he thought as he surveyed the window opposite his bed, visible as a grey square against the blackness of his room, as February inched reluctantly towards the equinox. Light enough now for him to put a match to the small candle that was his only source of illumination. But he would wait, he was not in a hurry.

Another few minutes and there would be enough daylight to locate a dustpan and brush, sweep up the debris scattered over the floor of the small room where he slept, cooked, ate and read. He would light the single gas ring, which enabled him to boil a kettle or heat up some soup. Water he could fetch from a tap in the yard outside. This was where he washed and used the privy in the far corner. None of these arrangements incommoded him, for they were not much different from those he had left behind six months ago, when he had been released from prison.

He got out of bed, swept up the broken glass, boiled the kettle of water for his breakfast cup of tea. Prising the lid off an old biscuit tin, he extracted his current loaf of bread and cut off a couple of slices, deciding that the remainder would probably last him another day or two. He finished his meal, stuck another square of paper over the broken windowpane, resolving to repair the damage before another one came to grief.

Half-an-hour later he was out of his room, on to the street, walking fast in the chill late winter air.

It was Sunday, best day of the week, when he went out to the local newsagent to buy a newspaper, his weekly treat. The shopkeeper glanced at the small, tidy figure at the counter, grabbed the Observer, and threw it down in front of him. William put down two pence, took his paper, and ventured a remark about the weather. The shopkeeper, resuming his sorting of the papers, did not reply. A fortnight ago William had been handed an old issue, so he was careful to check the date of the one he had just bought. February 15^th, 1920. Eighteen months since the end of the war. Six months since his freedom.

William had no job. Not for want of trying, his chief daily occupation was looking for work. It will happen, eventually, he thought, new opportunities were opening up, civilian occupations that had been set aside in favour of those vital to the war effort. He would like to have his old job back, a senior clerk in the housing department of a Midlands town, but that was impossible. The world had changed since those days, he thought, though he had not.

Six months ago, he’d answered an advertisement for a gardener. The house was on the edge of the village, its boundaries adjoining open moorland, it had been late summer. He’d heard the ancient sound of the lark rising into the clear air above Hay Tor, recognised the honey-smell of heather drifting down from the moor, felt the August sun on his shoulders and his neck, reminding him of the aching toil of the work he used to do amid so much beauty. His prospective employer droned on.

‘I’ve been doing the garden myself up to now, but I’m getting a bit past it – one day a week should keep it tidy. Grass cutting in the summer, trimming hedges and a bit of digging in the winter. The borders will need weeding, of course, and the compost heap turning each week. The glass in the greenhouse will have to be kept clean, and the tomato plants pinched out. There’ll be other odd jobs that crop up, any messages my wife might need you to do…I’ll pay you thirty shillings a day. Where was your last job? I’ll need a reference.’

‘I worked for Northampton Council. In the housing department. I’m sure they’ll give you one.

‘I hope so. Come back a week today and you can make a start.’

William returned the following week. The door was opened before he had time to knock.

‘So you’ve come back, have you? Didn’t tell me everything, did you? Said you had a responsible job with a Town Council, you didn’t say that was four years ago! The council said the last they’d heard of you was that you were in prison somewhere. D’you think I’d bring an ex-convict into my home? My wife would be terrified!’

‘Yes, I broke the law. But the law I broke was not a reasonable one.’

‘I’m not interested in what you did, but it must have been pretty bad to put you in prison. Whereabouts? Northampton jail?’

‘No, here. Up on the moor.’

‘Dartmoor? Dartmoor prison? By God, there’s no job for you on my property. You’ve got a bloody cheek to come here at all. Clear off, now!’

William left.

 That was six months ago, his first attempt to find work. Despondent, he watched day by day the shrinking of his tiny bank account. From time to time he managed to find someone who would pay him for casual work without asking too many questions. He wondered if the reference that had been given had mentioned his record in the job he had held for so long. Not a day’s attendance lost, steady promotion from lowly clerk to a position of responsibility.

What else could he do but keep trying? His latest attempt followed a notice he’d spotted in the newsagent’s window. He found himself walking up the drive of the grandest house he had ever entered. Sir Lorimer Beck was M.P. for the area, and needed someone to shift a ramshackle barn which was blocking his view of the distant sea, moving the stones to a nearby field. William was ushered into the library. He glanced around. So many books, he thought, with a flash of envy. Their owner was seated at a desk, lighting his pipe.

‘Well’ said Sir Lorimer, without formality, ‘You’re looking for work.’

‘Yes.’ said William, wondering what members of Parliament did when they weren’t representing their constituents. Representing him? He smiled to himself. But there had been people willing to support him, Kier Hardie had written him a kind letter, he had kept it with him, hidden, to read and re-read in the darkest days.

Sir Lorimer spoke again. I know something about you,’ he announced, People say you’ve been in Dartmoor prison.’

William knew that passers-by had often seen prisoners, walking in supervised crocodile formation, repairing roads, or breaking rocks in the prison quarry. He guessed it wouldn’t be long before someone recognised him and passed the news on. Recently that he had seen a change in the attitude of his local shopkeeper, experienced his first broken window.

‘ I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he started to explain, ‘I was in prison for what I didn’t do, in a way, not for what I did.’

Sir Lorimer looked at him distastefully.

‘I’m not interested. I don’t care why you were there’ he said. People get into all sorts of trouble during their lives. Usually through stupidity. You broke the law and you’ve paid the price. You can start work tomorrow, job shouldn’t take more than a few days. And you’d better bloody behave yourself or you’ll find yourself back inside. I’ll pay you a pound a day. And no trying to make things last longer, I know the tricks your sort play.’

The offer was not a generous one but it was better than nothing. He was back next day, at the appointed time. He was greeted by Sir Lorimer, apoplectic with fury.

‘How dare you?’ he shouted, ‘How dare you set foot in my house! I know why you were kept out of decent people’s company. I had a word with the prison governor. He told me why you were sent to the Moor. He remembers you very well!’

William was silent. He too remembered the governor. He’d been reprimanded and deprived of all ‘privileges’ after downing tools to join a protest meeting.  Sir Lorimer, in a climax of righteous triumph, took a step towards William, fists clenched.

‘You’re one of those ‘conchies’. A coward and a traitor. Too goddamn scared to fight for king and country – I tell you I’d rather shake the hand of any one of those decent convicts than soil my fingers touching you. And I’ll make bloody sure that everyone else knows what you are. Get off my property, before I kick you out!’

William got off the property. Making his weary way homeward, he wondered if he should try to move out of the area. He had not anticipated such a reaction to conscientious objectors now that the war was over. Men were being demobilised in their thousands, some welcomed back into their old jobs, others changed by their experiences, many unable to fit in to civilian life, with new attitudes, new politics, new beliefs. He could imagine the social upheavals that would follow their return. Surely some people would find it in their hearts to offer work to someone who had never done harm to a living being, and could not bring himself to do so, even to an enemy of his country. I can only do what I think is right, he told himself, it’s all I have left.

Back in his room, he felt too dispirited to take any useful action. He leafed through a few old copies of his weekly Sunday paper, hoping to come across some article he had missed, something, anything, to occupy his weary mind. There was a first meeting, he noted, of a movement called ‘The League of Nations’. It was designed to look at policies that would foster friendship between countries, to avoid situations that might lead to war. A step, maybe, towards a kinder world? There had been people willing to support him, Kier Hardie had written him a kind letter, he had kept it with him, hidden, to read in the darkest days.

A tap at his door brought him quickly back to the present. No-one had ever called on him before, his landlord, he thought, come to tell him to find somewhere else to live. He opened the door.

‘I’m sent to tell ye that if ye’re looking for work, call round to this house. It’s written down on this card.’ The unknown man handed William a calling card, ‘Tha’s all.’ He turned away and left.

Strange, thought William, but worth checking. He looked at the card. A name and an address. This, he noted with some dismay, was next door to Sir Lorimer’s place. The name gave him even less hope. ‘Brigadier Mark Holdern, M.C.’. A high-ranking army officer, decorated for bravery. Friend, no doubt, of the angry M.P. who had reviled him from the moral high ground of patriotism and loyalty... Was it even worth bothering to call? What else should he do with himself tomorrow, the next day, the day after that….Oh, well…

He set off on the journey he had already made before. A short distance past Sir Lorimer’s house stood an equally imposing dwelling. Sighing, he pushed open the wrought-iron gate, and made his way to the rear of the house. ‘Hullo!’ a voice shouted, ‘Over here!’

The owner of the voice appeared through a cluster of trees. His military bearing was unmistakable, William thought. Taking a deep breath, he introduced himself.

‘You sent a card,’ he said, ‘I’d be glad of any work you can offer.’

‘I ran into my next-door neighbour’ announced the Brigadier. ‘Told me he’d considered you for a job but changed his mind. Said he didn’t want to employ you, so I thought it’d be a chance for me to get a bit of help’. He gestured towards a mass of overgrown bushes and weeds. ‘Time this lot was cleared,’ he said, when can you start?’

William decided it would save time to cut straight to the point.

‘Yes’ he said, ‘I’m looking for work. But I might as well tell you now that I have been in prison for my conscientious objection to conscription into the Army. Didn’t Sir Lorimer tell you?’

‘Oh yes, he was going on no end about it all. I don’t take much notice, he’s a funny old bird. Only speaks to me because I’m an army man. Seems to think I won the war single-handed.’

William felt a jolt of surprise. An unexpected lack of shock and horror from a prospective employer. He was being addressed as a normal human being. Felt strange, felt good.

‘I would have thought...’ he started, but his new acquaintance interrupted him.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘Load of bunkum. Can’t be bothered with all that nonsense, what matters is getting things done. As I said, I’m an army man through and through, and proud of it. Yes, my unit were in the front line, and I was responsible for inflicting as many casualties as possible on the enemy. So were they. That’s what armies are for. I saw bravery, self-sacrifice, heroism, even.  But courage comes in different forms, doesn’t it? Bet you’ve needed plenty of it during the past few years.’

‘I never thought of it as courage,’ William said uncertainly, ‘it’s a matter of principle. I’ve had to hold on to my belief that it’s wrong to kill. It’s not been easy. I knew there’d be consequences. I’ve really got no alternative but to get on with my life and make the best of it.’

‘Same here,’ said the Brigadier. That’s what we should all do. We’ll get on fine. Army pay. Start tomorrow?’