Letters to Mrs Hernandez Page 3

  “Of course, Okasan! I have been waiting for this day to come. I am going to do my very best in training and see if I can make it as an officer – you will be so proud of me.”

  “Of course, my dear. Of course. Now, excuse me for a moment, there is a radio broadcast on NHK for the Neighbourhood Association and I don't want to miss it – it's all about fire fighting and it's my turn to lead the group in our meeting, this week.”

  Masako made a swift exit for the living room and once the sound of the radio could be heard, Setsu felt that she could speak with her brother.

  “Katsuhiro, will you stop talking to Okasan about how much you want to join the army?”

  “But she is proud of me, you just heard her say so.”

  “She says that to spare your feelings – she's terrified of losing you in the war.”

  “I'm not frightened of dying. All of us at school are prepared to do that. It is an honour to fight and die for Japan and the emperor. I'm going to be the best officer in the army, you wait and see.”

  “Ah, such an honour . . . that's what they all say. You are prepared to die for the emperor, but why? I don't want you to die for anyone. Why aren't you prepared to live for those who love you? Okasan and I don't want you to go away. However much you and I disagree on things, I would hate to hear that you have been killed in some far away land for nothing. How many grieving families have we got on this street alone, Katsuhiro? Do all of those weeping mothers look proud?”

  “They know that it is an honour to have their sons give their lives for the emperor, just as it would be for me. Listen, Setsu, do you hear the sound of the radio? Okasan is learning how to fight for Japan – she is prepared to run out and fight the fires from those American bombers. Are you frightened for her? Is she doing the wrong thing?

  “It's six months, now, since the Americans first flew their bombers over Tokyo. They'll keep coming unless we defeat them. We've all got to be prepared to make a sacrifice.”

  “Okasan works hard with the Neighbourhood Association because it stops her from thinking about Otosan. She never got over how they took him away and she doesn't believe their stories about his death.”

  “They said he had a weak heart,” stammered Katsuhiro, “He wasn't strong enough to face their questions.”

  “Do you have to believe everything you're told by the authorities? They've filled your head with enough rubbish at school!”

  “It is not rubbish! They are giving us what we need so that we can win this war for Japan. Besides, your going off to Argentina is hardly going to help us win the war, is it?”

  Setsu suddenly realised that this would be one of the last conversations that she would have with her brother for some time. At worst, it could quite possibly be the very last. She tried to take the venom out of the dialogue.

  “Yes, you're right. But please, Katsuhiro, be happy for me – I didn't start this war and it's a chance of a lifetime to go and work there – you know how much I love learning Spanish. Don't forget, Japan has to get its food from somewhere, so when I come back, I'll be able to help Japan in its trade with South America.”

  “Yes, you are right – I suppose that everyone can help in different ways.”

  “I promise that I'll write to you and tell you how lovely the weather is, not to mention how much food I'm eating!”

  Katsuhiro gave a rare chuckle, “I don't suppose you'll be able to fit some of that Pampas beef steak in to an envelope? I'm sure there will come times when I'll be far away and I'll end up missing the taste of sukiyaki!”

   

   

  Chapter Five - September 1942

  The bright red, single decker bus, with 'Barton's' emblazoned on both sides in gold lettering, reached its terminus just off the town square. Housewives with children in tow made their way toward the shops, ration books at the ready for whatever meagre store of essentials was available.

  The town was largely ignored by the German bombers, which had much more important things to destroy in neighbouring cities such as Nottingham, Derby and Leicester, all of which sported factories that were 'doing their bit' for the war effort. However, despite that unlikely event of attack, the black out rules still applied and there were plenty of nights when the locals sat behind their extra-thick black curtains and heard the low, ominous pedal notes of the Luftwaffe overhead, en route to delivering destruction, accompanied by a percussion section of anti-aircraft fire.

  On this Saturday morning, the austerity of rationing, the near-empty stores and the pallor of the bricks, mortar and masonry were refreshingly well lit by a clear, blue sky. The fresh, crisp air gave Ben a lift as he stepped from the stuffy, cigarette smoke-filled confines of the bus. He made his way around the corner to the cobbled market square, giving a respectful eyes-left to St Mary's church, where he had been Christened – a centuries old place upon whose high old walls rested the steeple, pointing ever heavenwards – before continuing on his way to the far side of the square to the library.

  Ben's trajectory was halted by a familiar face. It was Arthur Luddit.

  “Ey up, youth, 'ow you getting on? Is your mother well?”

  “Aye, not so bad, thanks, Arthur. Are you still busy down the pit?”

  “Aye, we are – it's hard, though. We've got a few of them Bevan Boys with us, who don't want t'fight. I reckon some of 'em didn't want t'work, either, but they've got no choice when I'm about! Are y'still working on't railways?”

  “I am – nearly finished my apprenticeship, an'all.”

  “Ah! You've done well, Ben. Do tell your mother that she was right all along, y'know. You can go a long way on't trains, eh?”

  “Well, Arthur, I suppose if I got on the train at Derby and didn't get off, I could go all the way to London!”

  Arthur laughed, “You've got y'dad's sense of humour, Ben! Any-roads, what brings you to town?”

  “I'm going to the library.”

  Arthur scoffed as if Ben were going to a seedy strip club, “What yer goin' in there for?”

  “I like me books, Arthur, it keeps me off the streets.”

  “Aye . . . aye, each to their own, I suppose. Well, I'd best be off – the lads are waiting for me at The Prince of Wales and no doubt, it'll be my round by the time I get there! Say hello t'your mam for me! Ta-ra, youth!”

  Arthur made his way to the pub and Ben turned back on course for his destination.

  The old library building was as grey as all the others around it, but some effort had been made with its design – it was a typical work of Victorian Greco-Roman stature, somehow seeming as if it had been stolen from the grandeur of London's Whitehall and placed, surreptitiously, in this small, provincial town, to let the natives know that they were part of the great British Empire – and it stood, along with the church, as a reminder of better times past.

  On entering the library, there were always two things that struck Ben: firstly, the reverential silence, as if the readers within were at prayer; secondly, the smell of old books – that musty but strangely compelling scent of old paper and leather which lures one in like an aromatic siren song with the promise of rich, florid words, poetry, prose, edification and entertainment.

  Revelling in the atmosphere of silent sanctuary, Ben made for the technology section, but there was someone there already. He knew that figure – sporting the same stance of oblivious fascination that comes from being lost in a book. The young man was dressed much the same as every other male – boy and man – within the library (and perhaps the whole nation): dark overcoat, shirt, tie and sweater, baggy trousers and sensible shoes, but Ben recognised him, nonetheless. It was Tom Pleasance.

  “Ey, up, Tom,” whispered Ben, so as not to upset the librarians, “What are you reading there?”

  “How do, Ben – have a look at this – it's the latest thing in the RAF: the Typhoon. It looks a real beast!”

  Ben leaned over and joined Tom as they had a look at the magazine. The feature was on the newest fighter plane to come i
n to service and both young men marvelled at the sleek and muscular looking aircraft.

  “I tell you, Ben, when my time is served, I'm going for the air force – I fancy one of these. Apparently, it does over four hundred miles an hour! Imagine that!”

  “Shhhhh!” came the stern reprimand of a nearby reader.

  Both young men looked sheepish and mimed the word 'sorry' to the disgruntled old lady, who gave them a near-fatal look, then returned to her copy of 'Competitive Flower Arranging' with a sigh of disbelief at the youth of today.

  “I'd better get what I came for – I'll meet you outside in five minutes, mate,” suggested Ben.

  Giving short-tempered flower arrangers the widest possible berth, Ben and Tom perused the shelves, stamped out their selections and then headed for the exit.

  It was nearly noon and the chip shop was just opening. Both men grabbed a bag of chips and went to sit in the church grounds. Placing themselves on a wooden bench, they unwrapped their newspaper bundles and on their faces they felt the hot air rise from the steaming, greasy chips, which were swimming in vinegar and caked in salt.

  Between mouthfuls, both young men tried to plan out their futures.

  “So, it's the RAF for you, Tom? How long before you can go in?”

  “I've only got a couple of months to go before the end of my apprenticeship, then I'll be eligible. I've volunteered, 'cause that way I can choose where I go. I don't want to leave it until I get a call up and end up as a squaddie in the army. I don't fancy all that square bashing and spit and polish stuff.”

  “How did you go about it?”

  “I've been to the recruiting office and I'll be doing the exam and medical next month. How about you, mate?”

  “Well, I've got the same time to serve as you, but you're six months older than me, so I think I'll stay at the Derby Works for a little bit and see what happens.”

  “You don't fancy the RAF, then? We could go together, eh?”

  “I think I would, you know. But I don't really fancy that Typhoon – it looks as bulky as one of our engines at work! I reckon a Spitfire would do me just fine – that's one graceful looking 'plane. You know that that Mitchell chap who designed her, he was a railway engineer to start with?”

  “Really? It's a good job he made the move, else we'd not have got the Spit. Just goes to show that you can do anything if you try, eh?”

  “Maybe you can . . . I'm not sure what I should try for, though. I need something to come along and give me a push, I reckon. Hey, this vinegar is choking me – give us a swig of your water, please, mate.”

  Despite being old enough to fight in the war, neither young man was old enough to drink. Tom had brought a bottle of water in his satchel and passed it over to Ben, who grinned and raised the bottle in a salute to his friend.

  “Let's drink to the future, mate!”

   

   

  Chapter Six - A Stranger Calls

  The knock on the door was assertive, as was the response from the house's occupant.

  “I'll be right there!” Called Liza as she hastily put down her broom and scuttled from the back yard to the front door. The door thundered again.

  “Alright, alright! Leave the door in the frame, will yer!” Liza was ready to give the visitor an ear bashing but her next sentence stopped short of her vocal chords and she was lost for words. There stood James Carruthers, his tall, broad shouldered figure cutting a dash in his grey flannel three-piece suit, immaculately polished black shoes and long black overcoat. In his left hand was a brown, leather attaché case, whilst his right hand reached up and removed his trilby hat.

  “Mrs Hutchinson, I presume? Forgive me for being a wee bit over zealous with my knocking on your door, there, but as your son will no doubt tell you, I never do anything by halves. Is young Ben in?”

  “He's just gone to the library, but he'll be back in a bit. Do come in, you can wait for him – would you like a cup of tea?”

  “That would be capital, Mrs Hutchinson, but I must say that the purpose of my visit is that I need to speak with you, just as much as I do with Ben.”

  Liza led James in to the front room and he removed his over coat and sat down on one of the wooden chairs at the table. Unbeknownst to him, the room had changed barely a jot since Ben had become the man of the house. James did not need long to survey the room: plain, cream painted walls, old but well-cleaned curtains, a table and four wooden chairs, a sideboard with an old carriage clock and a couple of framed photographs – one of Liza and Walter's wedding day and another of Walter in his army uniform.

  Liza brought in a tray from the kitchen, on which was a large, brown tea pot, a jug of milk, a pot of sugar, three teaspoons, two matching cups and saucers and one well-worn brown mug. She had been hoping to make the rationed tea leaves last a couple more brews, but this unexpected visit had necessitated the use of her last fresh spoonful.

  “Well,” started James, “Firstly, don't worry yourself, I've only come here with good news to tell you.”

  “That's always nice to hear!”

  “Aye, it is – your Ben has been a fine apprentice and he's due to finish serving his time in just over a month. I've come here firstly to congratulate him, then talk to you both about what he can do next.”

  “So, he'll be staying on at the Derby Works, then?”

  “That is certainly a possibility, but I've got a slightly more interesting proposition for the pair of you.”

  “And what might that be, Mr Carruthers?”

  James took a sip of his tea, then reached for his attaché case and removed a small, framed photograph. His eyes lingered upon the picture for a moment and then he continued.

  “Before we talk about that, I must say what a pleasure it has been to teach your lad over the last four years. He's been as good a student as I've ever had and I must confess to becoming quite fond of the young fellow.”

  “That's very kind of you, Mr Carruthers – Ben speaks very well of you, too.”

  “Och, that's touching to hear that, Mrs Hutchinson. I'd like to show you this photograph – it might help to explain what I have in mind.”

  James handed Liza the frame. The photograph was a familiar one, as seen in most houses across the country since the start of the Great War: a young man sitting bolt upright in his new, khaki uniform, well-shined brass buttons and soft cloth cap sporting the regimental badge, fresh from training and ready to make his way to the front lines of France and Belgium. It differed from the picture of Walter on the sideboard in that it sported a diagonal black band across the top right corner of the frame.

  “Who is this, Mr Carruthers?”

  “That was my boy, Euann – Mrs Carruthers and I only had the one child. He was a bonnie young lad, I was so proud of him, as any father would be. He was born out in India – I had good job offer out there, and we went back to Scotland when he was about five. He followed me into railway engineering as an apprentice at North British and served his time just as your young Ben has done – he had the makings of a fine engineer and could have gone anywhere in the world with his talent.

  “But the Great War was upon us and he wanted the adventure of the battlefield, Mrs Hutchinson, and couldn'ae wait for his apprenticeship to end, so he could go off and find some excitement. I pleaded with him not to enlist, but he'd just turned twenty one and he was his own man. It broke my heart, but I had to let him do as he chose.

  “Sure enough, he got trained up and was shipped out to France just in time for the Germans' big attack in 1918.”

  “Oh, Mr Carruthers, you don't have to tell me any more – I can imagine the rest,” Liza assured him.

  “Thank you, but please let me finish. He was captured on that first day and spent the last six months of the war in a prison camp, living on scraps and kicking his heels.”

  “So, he survived, then? But what about the black band on his picture?” Asked Liza.

  “Well, I was coming to the part which galls me to this day. Only day
s after the Armistice, when they were all waiting to come home, Euann's camp was struck by the Spanish 'flu. He died within a week. My boy went out there in search of glory . . . his head was all full of bravado and all he could see was himself coming home with a chest full of medals, but he didn'ae fire a shot and then he died for nothing, coughing himself to death in a wee wooden hut.” James paused, grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his moist eyes.

  “Mrs Hutchinson, I know that your Ben will be twenty one himself, next year. I would like to suggest something to you that would allow him to see a bit of the world in a way that my Euann never did - before this war may take control of his life.”

  Before Liza could speak, the front door opened and Ben returned with his clutch of books from the library, calling along the hallway as he entered. On hearing Ben's voice, James quickly took his son's picture from Liza, placing it with speedy reverence back in to the attaché case.

  “Ey up, Mam! I asked the librarian if they'd got 'Gone With The Wind' for you, but they said that somebody's ripped the last page out, so I didn't bother . . .” he stopped in his tracks and stood up straight at the sight of his chief engineer sitting in his front room, supping tea from his mother's only other presentable china cup and saucer.

  “Good morning to you, young Ben. I've come here to congratulate you on your fine work as my apprentice. You've been a capital student and I'm proud to say that you'll be time served, next month. I've also got something of a proposition that I need to put to you.”

  “Well, lad,” said his mother, who was now very eager to hear about this proposition, “Sit down and let the man speak.”

  Ben did as instructed as his mother handed him the well-worn brown mug full of now strongly brewed tea. The trio sat around the dining table like some close-knit committee in full discussion.

  “Ben, my boy, you'll be finishing your apprenticeship in a few weeks and I was wondering what your plans were beyond that?”

  “Well, I thought that there might be a job for me at the works? We've still got to keep the trains going, haven't we? And there's the aircraft parts, too? Mind you, once I'm twenty one, I might well get called up, don't you think?”