Mummy's Little Man

Mummy’s Little Man

Even as a very young child, Bobby was brave.

As soon as he could sit up, he wanted to crawl. As soon as he could crawl, he wanted to walk. As soon as he could walk, he wanted to run.

His mother was very proud of her “Little Man” but despaired of the fact that he was always covered in bumps and bruises. However, in the late Victorian age, it was expected that “boys will be boys”, decades before social services would be suspicious of such frequent injuries.

Even so…

Little Davy burst into tears. “Aw, my mum’s gonna kill me if I go home without my coat.” Davy, Bobbie and Jim had spent all morning throwing things into the tall horse chestnut tree, trying to dislodge the fat glossy conkers that hung from its branches.

When they had used every decent stick or stone they could find, they changed their tactics. Jumping as high as they could, they whipped their coats into the foliage, hoping to snap the stems of the prickly green pods that contained the coppery treasures. They had some success, stuffing their haul into their trouser pockets like hamster cheeks, until Davy’s coat became entangled at the end of one of the more slender boughs.

A good, thick coat was a prized possession and even though this one was much mended and Davy had almost grown out of it, his mother would expect it to be handed down to one of his younger siblings. Two older brothers had already had good wear out of this coat but, as Davy’s mum always said of everything, no matter how dilapidated, “There’s plenty of life left in that.” She would tan his hide if he came home without it.

Jim tried to console his friend but Bobby was a boy of action rather than words. While Davy was snivelling into Jim’s handkerchief, Bobby was already halfway up the tree. As his friends watched, he climbed carefully along the branch, testing its strength as he went. The wood creaked and bent under his weight but he kept going.

“Bobby,” Jim called. “Be careful. It’s not safe up there.”

“Ha,” Bobby laughed. “My dad says that fortune favours the brave. Does Davy want his coat back or not?”

Davy nodded tearfully and Bobby continued inching his way along the bough. He was on his belly now, his fingers stretched out in front of him. The sleeve of the coat was almost within reach.

Almost.

With a large crack, the branch broke and Bobby and the coat and a whole host of ripe conkers came crashing to the ground. There was a moment of silence as Jim and Davy stared.

Bobby sat up and shook himself. “There we go, Davy. Your coat-” The sentence ended in a cry of pain as he tried to get to his feet but one leg collapsed beneath him.

Twenty minutes later, Bobby hobbled through his kitchen door, supported by Davy and Jim on either side.

“Oh, what have you done now?” his mother cried, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Collecting conkers,” he grinned. “You want to see how many we got and the size of them.”

“Never mind that,” his mum said, shaking her head. “Bobby, sit there. You two boys, run and fetch the doctor.”

#

Dr Jones rolled his eyes. “Again?” he said to Bobby as he splinted his leg.

“I’m so sorry,” Bobby’s mum fussed, wringing her hands together.

The doctor smiled. “Don’t worry, Mrs Hardy. Boys are always breaking bones, although this particular one,” he tweaked Bobby’s ear, “is keeping me in a life of luxury. Okay, young man, you should rest this leg for several weeks. Do you think you can stay out of trouble that long?”

Bobby nodded but they both knew it was very unlikely.

#

“Been in the wars again, son?” Bobby’s father chuckled when he came in from work.

His wife wasn’t amused. “Another doctor’s bill,” she said, “not to mention the worry this child gives me. My hair’s going grey. Look!”

Bobby and his father just grinned at each other.

#

Having banked the fire, Bobby’s mum came up the stairs, wiping her eyes as she climbed into bed.

Her husband cuddled up behind her and stroked her hair. “Don’t upset yourself, Bet,” he said gently.

Her voice was no more than a whimper. “But-but he’s my little man, John, our only…”

“I know,” her husband replied, finishing the sentence that she couldn’t complete. “We waited so long for him and the doctor said there would be no more but-”

“But he’s going to get himself killed one day,” Bet cried.

“He’s just a boy,” John reasoned, “doing what boys do. Aren’t you proud that he’s so brave? We wouldn’t want a sissy for a son, would we?”

“He must get it from you,” Bet decided.

#

John Hardy had fought bravely in the Boer war and come home with a chest full of medals – but only one leg. He was celebrated as a local hero and despite his injury, soon found work in the regional government office. Well paid and well-respected, he provided handsomely for his family.

#

Mr and Mrs Hardy,” the headmaster greeted them. “Come in and sit down.”

Cigarette smoke hung heavily in the air and the whole office seemed to be decorated in different shades of dark wood. Marble and gold trophies gleamed on mahogany shelves and the thick wool carpet was soft underfoot. John snorted to himself. He could see how at least some of this school’s fees were being spent.

Bet sat with her head down, rubbing nervously at an imaginary stain on the old oak desk in front of her.

Her husband, however, was not cowed. “Is Bobby in trouble again?” he asked, looking the headmaster straight in the eye.

“I’m afraid so,” Mr East replied.

Bet let out a small sigh.

“What happened this time?” John said, keeping an even tone.

“He’s been fighting again,” was the flat reply.

“Fighting?” John asked. “Or defending himself?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr Hardy.”

“Come now, Mr East,” John said, “as a competent headmaster, you must know everything that goes on your school.”

“Well, I-”

“So you know that my son has been bullied by a whole gang of older boys.”

“I’m not sure-”

“And all he has done,” John cut across him, “is defend himself – which is what I taught him to do. As an ex-military man yourself, I’m sure you understand the importance of bravery.”

“Of course,” Mr East conceded.

“How else would we want our boys to become men?” John concluded. “Good day to you, sir.”

Bobby’s father, his wife in tow, left the headmaster’s office, winking at his son sitting outside.

#

“Don’t cry, Mum.” Towering over her now, Bob put a muscular arm around his mother’s shaking shoulders. “England expects every men will do his duty and, besides, this war will be over by Christmas.”

“That’s the spirit,” his father said proudly. “We’ll give the Huns a good thrashing to remind them who’s boss and that will be that.”

“But what if they fight back?” Bet whispered.

“Oh, no doubt those bullies will put up a little resistance but they’re no match for the bravery of young English men. Isn’t that right, son?”

“I’m actually quite looking forward to cutting my teeth on the battlefield,” Bob replied. “Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll be back before you know it, with a clutch of medals if I can.”

“You can and you will, boy,” John replied, clapping his son’s khaki-clad shoulder. “Do stop fussing, Bet. You’ve always called him your ‘little man’ but he’s not so little anymore and the war will make a real man of him. Look at him, standing there in uniform. He’s always been so brave and we’ve always been so proud of him.” He beamed. “Never more so than now.”

#

July became August that became September.

Bob sent regular letters to his parents, full of upbeat news and making light of life in the trenches. However, his father knew that, far from being a push-over, the Germans were putting up a fierce fight using new automatic guns that made ribbons of men. And winter was coming. Meanwhile, Bet was still expecting her son home for Christmas.

September became October that became November.

Bob’s letters became fewer and further between. Reading between the lines, John knew that it wasn’t what his son said, it was what he didn’t say. Stories of the mud and the blood, the pain and the fear, all in stark contrast to the “Play up, Play up and Play the Game” ethos of the recruiting office, leaked into John’s ears from his military contacts. For the first time, he was actually afraid for his son. However, he kept this well-hidden from his wife who was getting Bob’s room ready for her son’s safe return.

Christmas cards began to arrive in the Hardy household. John kept a close eye on the door, ready to intercept the telegram should it arrive at their house. But he had to go to work sometime.

Bet decorated the place with coloured paper chains and bright evergreen sprigs and planned the Christmas dinner well in advance. She listened to the carols on the wireless and was singing along when there was a knock on the door.

#

John returned home to a house as dark and silent as the grave.

“Bet,” he called, opening the back door, “I managed to get us the goose you wanted.”

There was no reply.

He frowned. Usually there was a hot meal served by his smiling wife, waiting for him on his return from work. She wouldn’t have gone out without telling him. Perhaps she was unwell and had taken herself back to bed? She did suffer more from her nerves nowadays although Dr Jones had supplied some very helpful medicine.  John laid the goose on the bare kitchen table and headed upstairs. “Bet? You up there, love?”

Still nothing.

The bedroom, which normally had a fire burning in it by now, was cold and dark. As was the hand hanging over the side of the bed.

John stopped breathing. He lit the lamp as quickly as he could although he knew what he would find.

Bet’s body lay lifeless on the covers, surrounded by empty pill bottles. On the nightstand, was the telegram from the War Office, telling them that their son, Lt Robert Hardy, had died a hero. And at the bottom of the paper, in Bet’s neat hand, was written, “Fortune does not always favour the brave.”