Fathers and Sons Page 2

  Or to unpick the lock on the stout wooden door at the foot of the stairs which had been thoughtfully turned with a key. A key that was, of course, no longer there.

  It is difficult for us today to fully appreciate just how isolated and rudimentary ordinary rural life was as recently as the early decades of the twentieth century.

  My grandfather’s new home was a brick-built Victorian farmhouse set in fields sloping down to the River Roden, which rolled slowly towards the Severn a few miles downstream. Across the river lay the village, reached by an ancient stone bridge. There was a pub, the Fox and Hounds, which served local ale brewed in the sleepy town of Wem nearby; a village store, the church, and some cottages. That was it–a world away from the little boy’s suburban upbringing in bustling Worcester.

  There was no electricity or gas supply, and no mains water. One of the first tasks assigned to my grandfather was to ‘pump up’ first thing each morning, vigorously working the long wooden handle of the well pump behind the farmhouse. Sometimes the water refused to rise and he would have to prime the pump with a bucket of water kept by from the previous day. Then the crystal-clear, icy-cold liquid would gush from the pump’s iron mouth to fill the waiting jugs and basins.

  Communications were extremely poor. There was no car, no telephone and no radio. This was years before the BBC. Newspapers were more or less unavailable, unless someone walked or took a cart into Shrewsbury or Wem, and why would anyone want to do that? Labour on the farm was gruelling, with only rudimentary mechanisation; carthorses did the work of the tractors that lay many years in Kiln Farm’s future. Work filled each day and bedtime was decreed by the setting of the sun, with a candle to light you to bed.

  Few visitors came to the farm. Geoffrey’s new guardians were unmarried and childless, so there were no playmates on hand for him there. Quite how my grandfather adjusted to the sudden disappearance of brothers and sisters from his daily home life, let alone his mother and father, I can only guess at. But today, more than a century after he was lodged like a puppy at kennels with three virtual strangers, it breaks my heart to think how lonely and betrayed he must have felt, knowing all the time that somewhere, unimaginable miles distant, his siblings were greeting each new day together, with their parents at their side. At times, he confessed much later, he thought he would never see any of them again.

  But as well as his loneliness and the sense of crushing rejection, he must have also felt thrust backwards in time. His parents were a modern, forward-looking couple, inheritors of a bright new century and with the confidence and verve to sail the Atlantic and put down new roots in the vibrant and rapidly expanding New World. Yet here he was, trapped in a rural backwater, to be brought up by three bucolic products of the Victorian Age–an age that had barely passed. When Granddad came to Kiln Farm the Queen had been dead for less than six years.

  William, who by primogeniture was the unchallenged head of the household, believed in hard work and thrift, which translated into backbreaking labour and a sparsely furnished, spartan home environment. How Granddad must have yearned for the softer comforts of his old life in Stanley Road, the sound of his brothers’ and sisters’ laughter, and the touch of his mother’s hand. The double blow to his self-esteem of first being abandoned and then having to accept that he had, in effect, been bargained away, must have been devastating. Not that he let on to anyone what his state of mind was; not then, and barely at all later. In one of his rare descriptions of the situation he confided just two succinct words to me. He had been, he said in his usual quiet tones, ‘utterly miserable’.

  He was not treated like a slave, or a servant. He was, after all, family, and his guardians would be answerable for his upbringing. But he had undoubtedly become something dangerously close to a chattel: a human being who had, effectively, been bought and paid for. But he was not dealt with especially harshly, by the standards of an age when children, it was generally agreed, should be seen and not heard.

  His spinster aunt seems to have done her best to welcome, calm and befriend the child who had so suddenly and unexpectedly entered her life. Approaching middle age, Sarah Madeley had long ago given up hope of marriage and bearing children of her own, and now fate had delivered her a son, of sorts. Meanwhile the boy, instantaneously deprived of a mother’s love and attention, reached out with both hands for a substitute.

  Was Sarah consulted about Henry and William’s arrangement? It seems unlikely. Even at this distance the whole thing has the authentic smack of a classic fait accompli. I doubt even the boy’s mother was informed until the last possible moment, judging by her reported reaction. But we must remember how different times were then. Women were second-class citizens. They were denied the vote. Men were even allowed to beat their wives if they believed correction was necessary.

  As an unmarried sister, Sarah would have had very little leverage in the affairs of her brothers, and in any case, William was his own man with a ruthless streak. If that were not already clear, his actions in years to come would put the question beyond doubt.

  Sarah, I am sure, had no choice but to accept the situation concerning Geoffrey, and tried to help him adjust to his new life. She had no experience of bringing up children and had to rely on memories of her own nineteenth-century childhood. But my grandfather probably gave her a few guidelines based on the things his mother used to do for him, before she vanished from his life. Back in the never-to-be-regained world of Stanley Road, Hannah had a tradition of making rice pudding every Sunday. It was not long before Sarah was replicating the recipe, and remembering, too, to serve Geoffrey’s portion complete with its ‘Mary Jane’–the obscurely named skin of browned milk and sugar that always formed on the surface and which was his favourite part.

  But neither of her brothers could replace Henry in Geoffrey’s affections.

  Meanwhile, as 1907 turned into 1908, Granddad had no option but to make the best he could of the hand his father and uncle had dealt him. He went to the church school in Shawbury, where his superior city education swiftly elevated him to the top of the class. The headmaster was a Mr Caswell, whose wife also taught there, and their darkly pretty daughter Maudie was in Granddad’s class. They quickly became childhood sweethearts; Maudie was another feminine salve helping to heal Granddad’s bruised heart and was probably a sister-substitute, albeit one with romantic overtones. And friendships with other boys must have gone some way to easing the burden of his loneliness.

  But the greatest soothing influence, then and for the rest of his life, was music. Geoffrey had begun piano lessons in Worcester when he was six and was allowed to continue them in Shawbury. By the age of twelve he was accomplished enough to be invited to play church organ in the neighbouring hamlet of Morton Mill.

  Music became my grandfather’s lifeline, his salvation. When he was playing, or attending the regular classical recitals that were one of the mainstays of rural entertainment in those pre-broadcasting days, he was transported from Kiln Farm and the dull heartache that never seemed to leave him. Long before the age of counselling and therapy, my grandfather took reassurance and comfort from Handel, Beethoven, Chopin and Strauss. And as we shall see, great music would provide the language–the only language–through which he would be able to communicate emotionally with his youngest son. My father.

  Slowly the seasons turned, and what remained of my grandfather’s childhood gradually unwound with them. Occasionally a letter would arrive from Ontario, where Henry and Hannah had settled with their six remaining children. Geoffrey must have replied to these missives but nothing survives of the correspondence. I wonder in what terms the exchanges were made? It is certain that Hannah was still desperately missing her lost boy, but what did she write of the reasons for leaving him behind? Did she apologise? Did she ask for forgiveness and understanding?

  For his part he lived and breathed for the day, still long distant, when he could follow his family across the Atlantic. If my grandfather harboured any bitterness about his abandonme
nt he never expressed it to a soul; not then, not ever. He steadfastly refused to allow resentment or anger to stand in the way of his ultimate goal–to get back to the way things had been. Expressing his anger, anguish and bitter disappointment would not help matters.

  But it could not have been easy. My grandfather was probably the most deliberately non-judgemental man I ever knew.

  Meanwhile, he was growing up. He left Shawbury school and was sent to a private school in the nearby village of Astley. William paid the fees–four pounds and ten shillings a term–but not for long. A year later Granddad was deemed to be adequately educated and, more importantly, finally strong enough to begin working full-time on the farm. He was now fourteen years old.

  Did William pay him? Up to a point. Of course he was ‘all found’ with his bed and board, and he told my mother that William allowed him one shilling a week. As Sunday was a day of rest–as far as it could be on a working farm–my grandfather was effectively earning tuppence a day; less than three pounds a year. But the money was of vital importance to him. He immediately began saving. With an iron will, he denied himself whatever small pleasures such a tiny wage might afford him, and hoarded virtually every penny away. He had a picture, which burned bright and sharp in his mind, of a day seven years in his future. He could see it clearly: the heart-stopping moment when he would walk into a Liverpool shipping office and, with his own money, buy himself a ticket. His passage to Canada.

  By the time Granddad left school, Kiln Farm had seen its herd of dairy cows swell to a modest seven heads. Butter and milk were sold at the door. Mixed crops were grown and, gradually, almost unconsciously, the teenager settled into the timeless rhythm of the seasons. He discovered, slightly to his surprise, that he was–unlike his father–rather good at farming. In fact, he began to suspect that he might have something of a flair for it. He had his own private ideas on how to increase yield and productivity, although he had to be careful how he suggested them. William was a proud and prickly character who kept his thoughts to himself and preferred others to do likewise.

  He was also good with figures. Arithmetic and maths had been his strong subjects at school and now he was developing a head for business. Perhaps when he eventually got to Canada he would, after all, have something to show for all his lonely years, a set of skills that would be valued there. How proud his mother and father would be of him.

  Each spring, the adolescent boy would tick off another birthday on his private, inner calendar. By the time he reached sixteen, on 8 April 1913, his goal at last seemed to be, if not within reach, at least within sight. Five more years before he would be twenty-one and free of his father’s and William’s ‘arrangement’; free to rejoin his family abroad. What a year that was going to be! It would be the happiest, he was certain, of his whole life, the point where everything would come gloriously right at last. The date seemed to glow in warm, golden numerals whenever he thought of it.

  Nineteen eighteen. The final, apocalyptic year of the Great War.

  Chapter 2

  FRANCE, FAMILY AND BETRAYAL

  Like most young men in 1914, my grandfather thought the outbreak of war with Germany was rather exciting. This scrap with the Kaiser had been a long time coming and it was time to get it over with. The Royal Navy and British Army were second to none. Our battleships, and an array of crack regiments battle-hardened by the wars of Empire, would swiftly carry the day. Everyone said so. The whole thing would be over by Christmas, and then things could get back to normal.

  Rarely in British history has the national mood been so catastrophically at odds with impending reality. The delusion that the coming conflict would be swift, decisive and glorious pervaded every level of society. Young men–and not-so-young men–were falling over themselves to enlist, if necessary lying about their ages and medical conditions in order to fight for King and Country.

  Enthusiasm to put on a uniform and pick up a gun ran through all the social classes. The influential and well-connected writer, Rudyard Kipling, pulled every string possible to have the son he adored, Jack, accepted for military service. Jack repeatedly failed army medicals because of chronic shortsightedness, but his father would not have his son denied the chance for glory and finally succeeded in wangling a commission for him.

  Jack Kipling was killed as soon as he arrived in France. It was a pitiful death. Lost and stumbling somewhere in the mud and smoke of the trenches during an assault, he simply disappeared–he was virtually blind without his thick spectacles–and Rudyard was plunged into guilt and remorse that remained with him for the rest of his life.

  The causes of the Great War are argued over to the present day, but it was fundamentally about empire. As a sea-going nation Britain was deeply unsettled by the rapidly growing German Navy, and this rivalry on the high seas was the engine that helped drive the world into madness. Tensions in Europe were so high by the summer of 1914 that it only took a single shot to ignite them into open war. On 28 June a Bosnian Serb assassinated the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne. There was immediate retaliation against Serbia and one by one a long chain of intricate alliances was activated. Declarations of war were tossed around like confetti and within weeks most European countries were at each other’s throats.

  Hardly anyone really understood what had just happened but the British cheered enthusiastically anyway when war broke out. At least this was a chance to show the Germans who was boss. Jingoism was nothing to be ashamed of in 1914 Britain.

  Life at Shawbury was largely unaffected at first. Geoffrey was seventeen now, and reckoned the whole shooting match would be over long before he got a sniff of the action. He continued to quietly put his shillings aside, and had no doubt that 1918 would see him departing, on schedule, to Quebec.

  But disquieting rumours of unexpected setbacks on what had become known as the Western Front began to filter back. Newspapers–more people in Shawbury seemed to be reading them these days–persisted with their jingoistic, upbeat tone, but word of mouth was spreading as the first wounded began to straggle home. There were mutters that the British and French armies were stalled along hundreds of miles of snaking trenches and dugouts. Huge offensives to break the deadlock were being cut to pieces by machine guns and colossal artillery barrages.

  The word ‘carnage’ began to be whispered. It was becoming clear the only soldiers for whom this war would be over by Christmas were dead ones.

  One morning, long after the harvest and as the winter wheat was being sown, a neighbour called at Kiln Farm, clutching a copy of The Times. The man was shaking his head in disbelief as he pointed to a seemingly endless list of British dead and missing. ‘It was so long my uncles said it was obviously a mistake,’ Granddad recalled. ‘It must be a list of the wounded, not those killed in action, and the paper should be ashamed of all the unnecessary grief and suffering it had caused.’

  There was no mistake. As 1914 dissolved darkly into 1915, Geoffrey Madeley began to realise, for the second time in his life, that events beyond his control were again shaping his destiny. But this time he would meet fate on his own terms.

  One fine morning he put on his best suit, walked into Shrewsbury, and enlisted.

  His first military shock was an entirely pleasant one. The King’s shilling was payable on a daily basis, unlike William’s weekly offering, and overnight Geoffrey saw his income increase sevenfold. If he came out of this war alive, he would at least be able to afford something better than steerage class to Canada. He had long been familiar with the principal shipping lines’ transatlantic arrangements.

  Eighteen-year-old Private Madeley spent his first night in the army at Shrewsbury Barracks, and two days later got his marching orders. Far from being packed off ‘tout suite’ to the slaughterhouse across the Channel, he was posted in the opposite direction, to northeast England. Cavalry was still considered to be a battlefield option and that gave my grandfather, with his experience of horses on the farm, an intermission between the harshness of his life so fa
r and the horrors that would shortly follow.

  Sixty-odd years later, when I was working as a television reporter, I filmed a story at beautiful Druridge Bay in County Durham. I mentioned it to Granddad. ‘Isn’t that near where you were stationed for a while during the First War?’

  I can still see the look of delight that spread like sunlight across his face. ‘I learned my horsemanship on those sands!’

  He told me of golden hours galloping along the seven-mile beach. Service life seemed like a paid holiday. And for the first time he had the companionship and friendship of comrades. Life in the army had bonded them all tightly together. Those boys who reminded him of Douglas and John were not blood brothers, but a band of brothers nonetheless. Suddenly, life wasn’t so bad.

  It couldn’t last. Cavalry training was abandoned when the British and Germans realised horses weren’t much use against machine guns. Granddad found himself back on a troop train, this time taking him to the trenches. Stalemate on the Western Front persisted, as did the massacres. The facile optimism of three years before had evaporated and reinforcements like my grandfather knew they were headed for the most efficient killing fields the world had ever known.

  His train pulled in to Crewe Station for its last stop before the embarkation points. As coal and water were taken on by the locomotive crew, men wrote final letters home to be posted at the docks; others smoked cigarettes or pipes and made attempts at gallows humour. My grandfather stared out of the window at another train that had halted at the station.

  It was crammed with troops also bound for France. But there was something different about these soldiers, or at least their uniforms. Granddad suddenly realised they were Canadians, sent to help the mother country in her hour of need. He knew from a recent letter from his mother that his two older brothers had joined up back in Toronto. Could they be on board? The chances were hugely stacked against it, but still…