Chapter 4

In February Tom’s letters became more rousing. The 18th Sussex took part in the big advance on the Ancre, and though Tom himself did not do anything very exciting, he was no longer in the humiliating position of having never seen a German. His descriptions of battle were rather fumbling—“Then we had some tea and a chap got in from the Glosters who had his tunick torn something terrible.”—“We come into a French village full of apple-trees and the walls were down so as you saw into the houses, and in one house there was a pot of ferns on the table.” He also confessed, in reply to a message from Zacky, that though he had seen several Germans, “with faces like roots,” he had not, to his knowledge, killed one.

Mus’ Beatup thought it necessary to improve on his son’s letters at the pub.

“Tom’s having valiant times,” he would say to the bar of the Rifle Volunteer or of the Crown at Woods Corner. “He killed a German officer wud his bayunite and took his machine-gun. Mus’ Archie Lamb is unaccountable proud of him, and says he’s sure to be a lieutenant of the Sussex before long. He’s a good lad is my lad, and it’s a tedious shaum as he was tuk away from his praaper personal wark and maade a soldier of. There’s none of my folk bin soldiers up till now—it’s yeomen we’re born and we doan’t taake wages.... When’s he think the war ull stop?—Well, it might be any time, if the Govunmunt doan’t starve us all fust.”

Sometimes Thyrza Honey brought Tom’s letters up to read to the family at Worge. She was rather shy of her future relations-in-law, who made no special effort to be agreeable to her. Mrs. Beatup persisted in looking on her as a designing woman who had forcibly [126] captured the innocent Tom, Nell was too clever for her, and the males were grumpy and sidling. Only Ivy seemed to like her, but Ivy was on bad terms with her family at present, as ever since young Kadwell on leave had forsaken his sweetheart of the Foul Mile for her robuster charms, and the deserted one had turned up in rage and dishevelment to make a personal protest at Worge, the Beatups had chosen to resent her “goings on.” They also threw Jerry Sumption in her teeth and vaguely accused her of “things.” Now no young man ever came to Worge without her parents lamenting that they had a light daughter, and rows were frequent and undignified. So Ivy’s liking was no recommendation of Thyrza, who in consequence was suspected of goings on herself. However, she would not give up her visits, for she knew Tom liked her to pay them, and often—rather tactlessly—sent messages to his family through her.

Thyrza knew more about the British front and the Battle of the Ancre than did the Beatups. Not that Tom could be eloquent even to her, but her imagination, warmed by love, was quicker to piece together the fragments and fill in the gaps. Also he told her things that he would not have told the others. It was she who heard the details of the great occasion on which he first actually and personally killed a German.

[127]

“I was sentry, and you always feel as the place is full of Boshes, and you think you see them and it isn’t them. Then one night after moon-up I thought I saw a Bosh over against the enemy wire, and I said to myself as he wasn’t a Bosh really, though my hair was all standing up on my head. Then he moved and I let fly with my rifle as I’ve done umpty times at nothing, and then he was still and I saw him hanging on the wire. Reckon he was dead, but I went on putting round after round into him I felt so queer—not scared only kind of enjoying it like as if you were shooting at the Fair, only I knew as I was killing something and it made me happy. But afterwards I got very cold and sick.”

“He never tells us how he feels about things,” complained Mrs. Beatup. “It’s never more’n ‘I had my dinner’ to us.”

“Reckon he doan’t git much time for writing letters. He knows as wot he tells me gits passed on to you.”

“Well, I’ll never say naun agaunst you, Thyrza Honey, but I must point out as he knew us afore he knew you. He’s unaccountable young to be shut of his mother, and it ud be praaperer if his messages wur to you through us.”

Mrs. Beatup’s voice was hoarse with dignity, and Thyrza hung her head.

“I’m the last as ud ever want to taake him away from his mother,” she murmured—and ten days later Mrs. Beatup got a thick smudgy letter on which Tom had spent hours of ink and sweat in obedience to Thyrza’s command.