Like Father Like Son Ch. 03

“No, father, I don’t know her people. And that doesn’t matter to me in the slightest. I do know her father owns his own farm in Wales but, even if he were a chimneysweep, I shouldn’t care. I think I love her, father and I have some hopes she may come to love me.”

“But you hardly know her, boy! And you must also bear in mind that you were hurt, wounded. It’s the most natural thing in the world to feel attracted to one’s nurse in those circumstances.”

“Just wait you until you meet her, father, that’s all I ask. You’re worried that she’s some gold-digger, aren’t you?”

“Well, the thought had crossed my mind. However, I shall do as you ask and suspend any judgement until we have made the young lady’s acquaintance. I do hope you can understand our natural concern, my boy. I have no desire to stand in your way and neither does your mother. We have your welfare at heart, you know. It’s just that we would hate to see you taken for a tuppenny ride.”

“I understand, father. And please don’t think me ungrateful for your concerns. You will see, though, that they are groundless, when you meet Miss Meredith.”

“I do hope so, my boy, I do hope so. Now tell me, is she pretty?”

Phillip and his father chatted on for an hour or so. William Welford-Barnes often cultivated the outward appearance of a fool but this was simply armour against the world. Like his son, he was by nature diffident. Whereas Phillip accepted this side of his character, William had erected a barrier of buffoonery. In truth, he was an educated and enlightened man, especially for one born in the middle of Victoria’s over-long and stultifying reign. That he was a patriot, there was no doubt. He believed the reports of the Newspapers because he wanted them to be true. Talking then, with his son, he found the truth less palatable and realised, with something akin to genuine shock, that his only child did indeed stand a very good chance of becoming another name in the endless casualty lists. It was a sober and thoughtful man who went to his bed that night.

At breakfast the following morning, Phillip’s father again raised the subject of Bethan Meredith.

“Your mother and I had a a good longgood long chinwag, my boy, and we have decided that whatever you decide to do will have our blessing. These are turbulent times, especially for the young. Seize what happiness you can. Carpe diem, Phillip, carpe diem!”

“Thank you, father. Oh, and you, too, mother. I cannot say what the future holds for Bethan and me or even, indeed, if we have a future. Perhaps the next few days will tell, perhaps not. I only know that I want to discover whether we do have the makings. And, of course, I would value your opinion as well.”

After breakfast, Phillip found the day stretching out ahead of him as an endless void. The night before he had penned a few lines to Bethan and taken his letter to the Post office to catch the first collection. With a little luck, she would receive it that afternoon; if not, the following morning first thing, giving her plenty of time to catch the train to Salisbury and onwards to Dorchester. He had looked up the times in his father’s copy of ‘Bradshaw’s Directory’ and had resolved to meet her in Dorchester, sparing her the wheezing branch-line to Bridport. He would borrow his father’s Vauxhall Prince Henry tourer. The car rarely got a proper run out. But that still left the day to get through. He resolved on another walk, to the North of the village this time. He scrounged up a lump of hard cheese and a couple of last year’s apples, stuffed these into his jacket pocket and set off.

He had to walk through the village to reach the northern hills and he stopped once or twice to exchange pleasantries with old acquaintances. Turning up Fleet Street, he soon came to the little collection of houses known as ‘the new town.’ Yet again, he was saddened by the black wreaths on the cottage doors and was glad to hurry on, past the old church and the farm and up onto the hills. It was a long, easy climb. The hills to the north were set further back from the village and, although no less high, sloped more gently. He climbed the dip, rather than the scarp, and he set a good pace. The hobnails rang on the flinty road and he amused himself for a while by striking sparks with every tread.

Soon he had left all signs of habitation behind. He came up out of the woods and crossed the Maiden Newton road. There, on the upland, sheep grazed undisturbed, and he delighted in seeing the swift stoop of a falcon taking a pigeon on the wing. He saw no cruelty in this – it was simply natural -- and the speed and grace of the raptor lightened his heart. Four miles later he was in the woods above Cheddington, gazing out through a gap in the cover at the distant views of the Somerset Levels. He saw the white plume of a steam engine as it huffed its way up the line to Yeovil and was reminded again of Bethan. With any luck he would be with her this time tomorrow!

He walked on, stopping only briefly around noon to gnaw on the cheese and the sweet, wrinkled apples. The afternoon was hot and still and the sky an azure bowl without the trace of a cloud. He amused himself by trying to identify the different snatches of birdsong that he heard; there was a chaffinch and there a warbler; behind was a distinctive yellowhammer and, as counterpoint to all, came the constant cooing of collared doves. By mid afternoon he was tired and turned his footsteps homewards, cutting across the country with a familiarity born of many such rambles. He pondered as he walked, weary but at ease, thatthis was what he was fighting for. This, to him, was England, Britain and the Empire and all that that stood for. The little patchwork farms and sleepy hamlets, the industrious little towns like Bridport and Crewkerne. It was not about the big ideas; he could not relate to those. It was about the simple freedoms: to walk the hills, to graze one’s sheep, plough the land and raise a family. If a man could do those things unmolested then, in Phillip’s view, there would be little wrong with the world.

It was nearly six o’clock when he walked up the dusty drive to the house. The evening light softened the hard planes of the old stone buildings and bathed them with an amber glow. He was tired, thirsty and not a little overwrought. Despite the fatigue, he still felt restless. He mounted the stairs to bathe and dress for dinner. Why couldn’t it be tomorrow? Suppose his letter didn’t arrive in time? He checked himself; that would not do at all. It was no use mooning about like a love-struck puppy. He owed it to his parents to be convivial. He must pull himself together and stop acting the goat.

The bath relaxed him somewhat and by the time he had dressed and tied his bow tie, he felt more able to get through the remaining hours. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. A memory of Anne Marie floated to the surface and he felt a pang of guilt. How could he have been so easily seduced? He would have to confess the episode to Bethan. No! He dare not. What would she, a decent young lady, think of him? He was no better than a beast unable to control its appetites. But, somehow, that didn’t feel quite right. Certainly, there had been wild, abandoned passion, but there had also been a sweetness and a tenderness that had touched him deeply. Perhaps, after all, Madame Rose had had the right of it. He had needed the understanding of what love could give. He began to imagine what it might be like to make love in such a way with Bethan but dragged his thoughts away from the lascivious images forming in his mind’s eye. It was not seemly; they were neither married nor betrothed and yet and yet…

He drank rather too much at dinner and was silent and slightly morose for much of the evening. Stray fancies kept disturbing him. His parents’ jollity seemed forced. He was overcome with a dread of loss. What if Bethan did not like him? He was rushing things. After all, they had had dinner only the once. But she had written; long, wonderful letters that seemed to grow more affectionate each time. Or maybe was he imagining things. Perhaps she was simply being polite to a young soldier, simply doing her bit to keep up morale. The more he worried at it, the more confusing it all seemed. He realised with a jolt that he was scared – as scared as he ever had been in the trenches before going over the top! How could this be? His life wasn’t at stake if Bethan didn’t love him, or was it?

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The car engine fired on the third swing of the starting handle. Phillip advanced the spark a little and pushed the Vauxhall into first gear. It had been a while since he had driven the car and he made less than smooth progress at first. By the time he had swung through the village square and turned up East Street, he found it all coming back to him and he started to enjoy the sensation of speed as he accelerated up the hill. The engine sang with the power of twenty horses and he drove faster. He turned right at the junction at the top of the hill and sped off over Rampisham Down. There was no other traffic on the road and he gave the car more throttle. Of course, he couldn’t drive back this way, not with Bethan on board.

He was in Dorchester in forty minutes. He had to slow as he approached the town and he carefully negotiated each junction, swinging wide to avoid the square corner kerbstones. Motorcars were still a relative rarity in that part of the world and they had not yet begun to round off the corners, as they had in London. The Salisbury train was still fifteen minutes away when Phillip bought his platform ticket and walked into the station. He killed the time by walking back and forth along the length of the platform. He glared at the faded recruiting posters: ‘Women of Britain say GO!’ and Kitchener’s bluff features insisting ‘Your Country needs You!’ A million men had answered the call and now many of them, too many, lay in ragged heaps along a French river.

But even these reminders of the war could not dampen his spirits. He attracted some hostile looks and returned them with a self-assured smile. He could almost hear the old busybodies thinking: what’s a young man like that doing out of uniform? He had put on his best ‘thornproof’ suit; a sort of brown tweedy affair that he always felt was most suitable for the country, a cream woollen shirt and a bottle-green woollen necktie. He decided against a hat but his flying goggles dangled nonchalantly from one hand. He caught sight of his reflection in the waiting room window and smoothed down his wind-ruffled hair. He was satisfied with what he saw. Two days walking the hills had given him a fine colour and he looked a picture of health. He prayed that Bethan would be favourably impressed.

At length he stopped his pacing and stood at the end of the platform straining his ears for the first sounds of the express. He caught sight of the fine feather of smoke before he heard the grunting chuff of the engine and he was positively bouncing on his heels as the distant shape resolved itself into the Salisbury train. The locomotive started to slow and then he was running along the platform, peering into each carriage, trying to catch a glimpse of her. He spotted her at last and he jumped onto the train before it had come to a stop. He grabbed her leather valise from the luggage rack and beamed at her like a schoolboy.

“Oh, Bethan, I’m so glad you could come! Five whole days, isn’t it positively splendid?”

She smiled at him and blushed. He had forgotten how shy she could be. He hefted the valise and took her arm to help her from the train. Their surroundings had disappeared from his view and he nearly collided with the train guard in his eagerness to hurry her away from the platform and into his world. The elderly guard glared at him and muttered “shirker.” Bethan rounded on him.

“I’ll have you know this gentleman is an officer in the Royal Flying Corps. And he was wounded with the infantry at Loos. Shirker, is it? It’s mind your manners, I should say.”

The guard looked uncomfortable, as did several of the other bystanders who had been sharing his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Miss, I didn’t mean no offence. It’s just we ain’t used to seeing young gentlemen what’s not in uniform these days.”

“Well, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions, isn’t it?”

And with that she stalked off to follow Phillip, who had been oblivious of the whole exchange.

Phillip waited for her at the ticket barrier and she took his arm as they strolled out into the station yard. He slung the valise onto the Vauxhall’s rear seat and opened the door forr Bethan to mount beside the driver. Bethan watched in awe as Phillip fiddled with various levers and moved to the front of the car and swung the starting handle. The engine was still warm and it obligingly fired first time. She had never been in a private motorcar before. Her experience was limited to the odd ride in an ancient taxi. The gleaming green buttoned leather of the big Vauxhall seemed to her to be the last word in luxury. Then Phillip was beside her and they were moving off.

“Oh, Phillip, wait! I haven’t got a hat and my hair! It will be ruined!”

He stared at her in consternation. Why hadn’t he thoughtt of that? Then he remembered the milliner’s shop on the High Street and he drove there very slowly. He stopped the car outside the shop and sprinted around to hand Bethan down.

“Here we are, we’ll soon fix you up.”

Bethan selected a suitable hat with a veil that would shield her from both wind and sunshine. It wasn’t fashionable but it was serviceable and Bethan was not the sort to pursue the dictates of fashion at the expense of her own comfort. She noted Phillip’s reddened eyes with professional concern and resolved to ensure that he bathed them twice daily in a mild solution of brine. Then she felt a small twinge of guilt – suppose such a course hastened his return to the war? She decided to force back any thoughts of the future for at least the next five days.

They swung out of Dorchester and Phillip took the car around by the Bridport road so that he could show Bethan the imposing earthworks of Maiden Castle.

“There it is. At least two thousand years old and, I believe, the largest Iron Age hill fort in Britain.”

“It wasn’t built by the Sais, then?”

Phillip laughed. “No, I’m not quite sure when it was first built but it was before even the Romans came. The clever chaps who’ve looked into it say it was abandoned and reoccupied a number of times.”

“Why is it called Maiden Castle?”

“Again, they think it was originally called Mai Dun, or something like that anyway. You Celts didn’t write a lot down so nobody is really sure. It’s all based on oral traditions.”

“Ah yes, well we Celts have always been ones for telling stories. That’s why we have so many bards, see?”

They walked around the mighty earthworks for about half an hour before setting off for Phillip’s home. They were both secretly pleased to find that they were easy in each other’s company if still a little nervous and unsure. Bethan, particularly, was uncertain quite how she should behave towards him. She had never been courted before. Her understanding of what was appropriate had been gleaned from novels. Some of those, like the books of Miss Jane Austen, of which she was most fond, were very old fashioned and she just couldn’t see herself acting like that. In reality, they had spent such a small time together that there had been no chance for that gradual accretion of intimacies that is the usual way of things.

Instead, Bethan felt she had come to know Phillip through his letters. He wrote to her at least three times a week and she had read and reread every missive, looking for hints and meanings in every word he had written. For his part, though he was unaware of it, Phillip had embroidered their single evening’s conversation, added a patchwork of impressions and revelations from her correspondence, to invent a personality and character for her. Happily for them both, there was little either would discover that would disappoint.

Bethan settled back into the green leather upholstery and revelled in the sensation of power and speed as they drove along the highway. She supposed that this must be a little like flying. The veil protected her face from the insects that splattered against the windscreen. A motorcar was still enough of a novelty in those parts to bring out crowds of small boys as they rocketed through the villages. She took in the passing scenery and found herself entranced by the soft greenness of it all. The hills were lower and less bleak than in her native Wales. Little coppices and orchards dotted the countryside. She was pleased to see the abundance of sheep; that, at least, reminded her of home.

Phillip swung the Vauxhall through the gates of the house and onto the gravel drive. Bethan caught her first view of the old house and felt anew the little thrill of fear. How grand it all seemed! Not the sort of place for a farmer’s daughter at all. The car glided to a halt by the steps in front of the house and she saw Phillip’s parents come out to greet her. Her mouth felt dry and she was glad again of the veil that hid her blushes. Then she realised it would be impolite not to remove it and her trembling fingers fumbled with the knot beneath her chin. Phillip was suddenly by her side and opening the door for her and she descended on legs that seemed to have turned to water.

“Mother, father, allow me to present Miss Bethan Meredith. Bethan, my mother and father.”

Bethan saw a man of middling height with a jovial expression. He looked like a fatter, older version of Phillip. Her gaze moved on and she saw a slender woman with faded blonde hair turning slightly grey in places. The woman seemed to have a kind face and Bethan thought she must have been very beautiful in her youth. The couple appeared most elegantly dressed and Bethan felt a further tremor of trepidation when she thought of her own meagre wardrobe in the leather valise that Phillip was lifting out of the car.

“Well. Miss Meredith, welcome to Pitton House. I say, I can really see why my boy’s so smitten, you really are quite lovely.”

“Oh, William, don’t embarrass the poor child! I expect you’re quite nervous enough already, Miss Meredith. Pay no attention to my husband. He’s nothing but an old roué. Now come inside and refresh yourself. I expect you are quite exhausted after the journey. Travelling is so tiring, don’t you think, my dear?”

Bethan was ushered into a large hall with a confusing number of doors. A central staircase rose up in two flights and angled beyond her view. The housekeeper showed her upstairs to her room and Phillip followed with her valise. Mrs Bugler shooed him away and ushered Bethan into the room. It was far bigger than any other bedroom she had ever seen. Tall windows gave out onto a little balcony with a stone balustrade that afforded a view over the formal gardens and beyond to the distant hills. Mrs Bugler poured water from a tall ewer into the china basin and smiled at her.

“Now don’t you fret none, Miss. This family is as good and gentle as you would ever wish to meet. You just freshen up a bit and then come down when you’re ready. I’ve been told to serve luncheon on the back terrace. It’s just a cold collation so there’s no need to rush.”

Bethan gave her a hesitant smile and enquired timidly how to find the back terrace. Mrs Bugler gave the simple instructions and bustled off to finish her preparations. Poor child, she thought, she’s scared half out of her wits! And who could blame her? Such a pretty thing with those huge, dark eyes, no wonder Mister Phillip was so taken with her.

Somehow, lunch on the terrace was a great deal less intimidating than she had imagined. The Welford-Barnes family was obviously a very close one and she found herself emerging gradually from her shell. Phillip’s father told silly jokes and pulled outrageous faces and Phillip’s mother mocked him gently and told him to stop showing off. Then the older woman had taken her arm and shown around the sunken garden. Bethan was still a little overawed by the obvious wealth on display but found she was chatting happily, nonetheless. Phillip’s mother seemed quite human after all and although Bethan recognised one or two pointed questions, it seemed that mother at least was readily being won over.