Sky Lark

By Joseph F Ledwidge

Sky Lark is a powerful, poetic and sensitive new fictional novel by Irish writer Joseph Francis Ledwidge about the realities of World War One. Ledwidge’s novel tells of Irish Nurse Emily Halpin, the novel concentrates on Emily’s life in Ireland and France before and during World War One. How in the Summer of 1914 as the drums of war began to sound, Emily’s childhood sweetheart Charles Eyre and his two best friends, her brother Tom Halpin and William Hunt are drawn to the war and enlist into the British Forces bound for France. Shortly before they leave Emily marries Charles Eyre. Soon the heartache began with first the death of her brother Tom followed some time later by the disappearance of her husband Charles. Frantic with worry and uncertainty Emily is determined to find news of Charles. Emily and her best friend Jane enlisted as Nurses with the Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service, and soon found themselves working at a Field Hospital on the Western Front. Overwhelmed by danger and fatigue, their strength, courage, and reserve are tested, the horrors of war challenged Emily’s conflicting state of mind as she began to unravel and change. Her efforts to protect the wounded men in her care irrespective of their nationality almost led to disaster... Sky lark captures the courage of Irish Nurse Emily Halpin and the indomitable perseverance of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph F Ledwidge
• Release date: Aug 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310407505

Joseph F Ledwidge

Joseph Francis Ledwidge grew up in Bray County Wicklow Ireland. He presently lives in County Wicklow, Ireland with his wife. Joseph has always had an interest in writing, especially poetry. In 2004 he began writing his first fictional novel Sky Lark about an Irish nurse who enlisted in the Great War. Joseph has spent eight years researching and writing Sky Lark, his research brought him to the battlefields of France for long periods on many occasions. The sensitive and reflective poems in Sky Lark are written by Joseph. Although the characters are fictional many of the events encountered by the characters in the book follow certain events, timelines, and actual locations during the Great War.

Book preview

Sky Lark

By

Joseph F Ledwidge

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Joseph Ledwidge

All Rights Reserved.

Acknowledgements

To Helen, Donna, Jeff

Aoife Barrett of Barrett Editing

Gabrielle Judge

Cover design by kevingallagherdesign.com

Prologue

We thought Grandmother led an ordinary life or so it seemed to all of us. My last visit to her was in the spring of 1973, at her home in a rural area called the Harrow, Co. Wexford. It was a large old house at the bottom of a gravel avenue, lined with blossom trees. Set back from the road, it was a place of tranquillity; far removed from the hustle and bustle of the city life that I had become accustomed to. I hoped that the visit would give me a chance to go back in time and recall the memories of youth long passed, and to remember all the people that had inhabited my life for so long.

I arrived in Wexford Station and got a taxi to the gates of her home. I walked down the driveway and was quickly taken back to the past. It was a typical spring day, nature coming alive all around me just as it has done for centuries. As I strolled along, I could see the house in the distance. It was clear that time and neglect were taking their toll on my lovely sanctuary.

As I reached the front door, the memories of all that had happened there became clear again in my mind. It opened and my Great-Aunt Constance came out to welcome me. I could sense her relief that I had arrived. She looked pale and tired. I knew straight away that Nan had not long left for this life.

I recalled how my grandmother had treated me down through the years: always a smile and welcoming kiss, a larger piece of coffee cake for me than anyone else; all the long summer days playing in the garden with a glass of homemade lemonade and many stories before bedtime. I never remember the end of any of her stories as sleep would overcome me. She always made me feel safe, secure and loved. In my mind’s eye I saw again the large country kitchen with the stove to one side, forever in use for baking and jam-making; and the living-room with her piano which I learned to play with her all through my childhood, a musical gift that I still enjoy to this day.

As I set my bag down in the hallway my eyes rested fondly on the grandfather clock that would sound on the hour, every hour, and could be heard throughout the house; on the great timber staircase that seemed like you were climbing Everest every night. I could still feel the thrill of sliding down the banister every morning, at a speed that would frighten the life out of Nan. I would invariably just miss her black Labrador, Brandy, who would take off through the house to avoid being flattened.

Constance pressed my arm gently.

‘She will be so happy to see you Tom. I will put the kettle on.’

‘Thank you Constance. It’s great to be back home.’

So there I was standing at the bottom of the stairs wondering what was ahead of me and the climb up seemed as daunting as ever, even though the circumstances were different.

Nan’s bedroom I could still recall clearly, a large four-poster bed, with handmade quilts and pillow cases. Her dressing-table with a complete set of silver ivory inlaid hairbrushes and combs. Her jewellery box to one side of the large mirror, everything laid out neatly; all the things to keep a woman beautiful. The sun always seemed to be trapped in this room, her favourite in the house. I slept in the comfort of the bed so many times and she went through the same routine every night. She would sit on the side of the bed with her back to me, let down her long fair hair and brush it a couple of hundred times as she talked about her past. Looking at her I never thought of her as a grandmother, she had so many youthful features. I can still see the many photographs of her when she was young, photographs of a tall, slender, beautiful woman.

I slowly climbed the stairs towards her bedroom, looking at the many photographs along the wall. The sunlight was streaming through the landing window giving new life to these old memories.

As I approached her bedroom, one of the old floorboards creaked loudly as it had done for years. I knew straightaway she would be aware I was coming, as I had taken the same route over that floorboard since I was a child; everyone else avoided it.

I opened the bedroom door slowly. She was lying in the comfort of her large bed with a smile on her face. Strangely enough she didn’t look any different to me. The youthful features were still there, her eyes still sparkling. Nan could look at you and you would be lost in her gaze. It was as if she could see into your soul and you could see into hers.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. Her hand was outstretched for me to hold. I looked down at the long fingers, soft hands, hands that had seen and felt so much work and healing. There was a comfort in holding her hand again after so many years but now it was my turn to comfort her.

Looking around her bedroom nothing seemed to have changed. The sunlight was illuminating all her treasured possessions which were still placed neatly around, but then I realised some extra items had been added to the centre of her dressing-table. A photograph and a black metal cross – a photograph I had never seen before. It was a picture of my grandmother standing beside a tall, slim man. He looked like an army officer but he was dressed in a German uniform. They both looked as if they were in their twenties when it was taken. My grandmother was dressed in her nurse’s uniform. A bundle of letters, a journal, her nursing badges and service medals were also placed by the photograph. The letters were all tied with a black silk bow; a withered flower lay beside them.

Suddenly Nan stared at me, with the alert look I knew so well. She was quite aware that I had noticed the new items.

‘I have a story to tell you,’ she whispered, ‘but it is going to take some time.’

Time was one thing I had to give her, for however long it took.

Chapter One

My beloved brother Tom died of bullet wounds from German sniper fire 100 yards from the enemy on 29 October, 1914. He was 24 years old.

Second Lieutenant Tom Halpin was leading his men along a concealed pathway. He was on a routine patrol, inspecting damage to the forward barbed-wire defences. When they came to a clearing Tom moved ahead. Shots rang out and he fell to the ground.

It was someone called Corporal Smith who reported the details to Tom’s commanding officer and he later repeated them in his letter to my parents:

When Second Lieutenant Halpin was hit, he slumped to the ground and never moved again. Corporal Smith and some other soldiers in the patrol pulled him back to the covered area of the pathway and said a prayer in his ear, but there was no response.

Second Lieutenant Halpin was then brought to the casualty clearing station at ______?

It was 3.30 p.m. in the afternoon of 30 October, 1914, when I was summoned to Matron’s office. When I entered I was surprised to see my best friend Jane was already there. She looked to be in a state of shock, as did Matron. Insisting I take a chair, Jane moved to my side placing her hand on my shoulder. I wondered whatever could be the matter.

Then Matron began to speak in a low, grim voice.

‘My dear it is my painful duty to inform you of the news that I have just received from your father. I am so terribly sorry to have to tell you…’ she paused taking a deep breath ‘…your dear brother Tom has been killed in action.’

The shock was sudden and terrible. My mind groped for reality, tricked into what seemed to be a bad dream, wishing it would pass. I tried to accept the awful news, desperately trying to understand for the first time the bewilderment that Tom’s death caused and the space suddenly left in my heart.

Matron took my hand.

‘I am so terribly sorry dear. Let me organise a cup of tea for you. I will be back in a moment.’

Jane held me and my eyes clouded and filled with tears. My mind raced back to the last time I’d seen my brother. It was only a few months before. We’d all stood among a great assembled crowd in Kingstown Harbour, braced against the cold, salt-filled sea wind that blew through it. The dark, evening sky was drawn down heavily on the grey waves, broken only by the lighthouse beam that again and again pierced the darkness and just as rapidly retreated into the night. The train had stood empty behind us, under the covered canopy, its engine clanking and belching steam that rose and gathered under the roof. Below, the troop ship was docked and waiting, heaving from side-to-side on a full tide, straining the ropes which secured it. I can still hear that queer, menacing sound the ship made, thumping heavily against the timber pier that creaked and groaned beneath us from the weight of horses and supplies being loaded into the ship’s hold.

Then the first of the soldiers had started to assemble, answering the call of the officer-in-charge. I held Charles, my husband of only a week, even more tightly as a nervous trembling overtook me.

‘Are you ill Emily?’ he enquired anxiously, reassuringly rubbing my back, as one-by-one our parents gathered around us, followed by Tom and then William, one of my brother’s best friends.

‘Charles,’ I whispered, ‘I think it is the cold that is making me tremble.’

He, knowing full well it was not, held me even closer, our time together now coming rapidly to an end.

Full of excitement, Tom had inched his way between us.

‘Right, Charles,’ he announced, ‘I’m on first, so let me say goodbye to my sister.’

He gazed directly at me, pushing Charles to one side.

‘Well, Emily,’ he grinned, ‘you should be glad to see the back of us for a while. I promise I will write and bring you back something special from where we cannot say we are off to, and don’t worry, I will look after both of them for they would surely lose their way without me!’

I held him close and emotion overtook me.

‘Mind yourself, Tom,’ I sobbed, ‘and come back safely.’

‘Ah, Emily,’ he joked, ‘how is it I am always the one to make you cry! If only I could do the same with other women.’

I held onto his hand as Mother and my younger sister Constance embraced him, while Father gazed determinedly around him. Cathleen, my older sister, was busy flashing her eyes and tossing her hair, inviting the admiring glances of passing soldiers, as they marched towards the gangway.

Then William had stepped forward and still holding Tom’s hand, I embraced him.

‘Don’t worry, Emily,’ he said comfortingly, ‘we will be fine. Goodbye – for now.’

‘Goodbye, William,’ I murmured, ‘take care of yourself.’

Suddenly everyone was in tears: Mother, Constance, Charles’s mother and sisters – Amelia and Juliet; Mr. Eyre embraced Charles as Father stood off slightly to one side, perhaps wishing he was off to war as well, far away from women’s tears and naked emotion.

Tom eyed Father curiously as he stood taking in everything around him.

‘Time you were off too Father,’ he finally said jokingly.

Quite surprised Father turned, clearing his throat and fidgeting with his collar, trying to conceal the emotion that was welling up inside him.

‘Yes Tom,’ he said, holding out his hand

Tom grasped it with both his hands.

‘Now you take care Tom and keep the head down,’ he muttered nervously

Father was always somewhat surprised by the suddeness of events.

‘Yes Father. Sure I will be back before you know it!’ Tom smiled.

‘Be careful Tom,’ Father said, his voice trembling.

‘I will Father.’

I looked away as Charles turned and faced me, staring intently into my eyes.

‘Well, my love,’ he whispered, as we embraced, ‘I never thought it was going to be this difficult to say goodbye. I love you so much and God willing we will be back home by Christmas.’

He held me even more tightly, then drew back and gave me one last, lingering kiss. Again I began to tremble and waves of emotion swept over me.

‘Please, please Charles,’ I pleaded, ‘promise me you will take care. I love you with all my heart.’

‘I promise, I promise. I love you,’ he whispered. ‘Emily, goodbye, my love.’

And so with clouded eyes we had all parted and one-by-one Captain Charles Eyre, Second Lieutenant Thomas Halpin and Second Lieutenant William Hunt of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers boarded the ship, still waving.

Tom as ever was in the lead. He had laughed and raised his hat as the ship’s horn sounded loudly startling us all. Then a silence had fallen around me, followed by a great cheer from all the soldiers on board. The ropes restraining the ship were cast off and the anchor raised.

Released from the quay it set sail slowly out of the harbour. We’d stood watching Charles, Tom and William, smiling and waving until the green starboard lights disappeared into the darkness.

And now Tom was dead and my mind was filled with anxiety about Charles. I couldn’t stop worrying about him as I sat with Jane, sipping the tea that was sent in to us.

Matron insisted that I should make preparations to return home the next day.

‘I will inform your parents,’ she said briskly.

Throughout that long, tearful evening Jane comforted me. I was in such a muddle and doing things so clumsily that she had to help me pack my belongings for the sorrowful journey home.

When I arrived at Wexford Station I was surprised to see both Cathleen and Constance were there to meet me. Cathleen had arrived late the day before. For some time she had been in college in Dublin and had then taken a job in the Civil Service. In the evenings she played the piano with several musical groups. We seldom met in Dublin and she hardly ever went home to Wexford. She had a variety of new friends that none of us knew. When she had finally got her wings her family was not going to prevent her from spreading them.

A well of emotion overtook us as we stood on the platform, huddled together, unable to speak, shaking and shivering, our hearts cold with sadness. To make matters worse my mind recalled with such clarity the amount of times I had been in the station with Tom, Charles and William.

‘Thank you both for meeting me,’ I sobbed, trying to control my choked words. ‘How are you both and what about Mother and Father? How are they holding up?’

They couldn’t find the words so arm-in-arm we left for home.

Another desperately sad reunion followed when we entered the house. Mother was unable to speak, her eyes red from crying. Father was trembling as he embraced me, barely able to put two words together.

During those first long days our lives seemed paralysed. It felt as if we were just statically existing, waiting and waiting, marking time with the clock as it sounded out each quarter loudly around the house.

I received a letter from my husband Charles some days later. It was from France with the Field Post Office stamped on it and it was over-stamped in red with a mark saying Passed Field Censor-2067.

Charles’s described his and William’s visit to my brother’s final resting-place.

We rode out this morning to say goodbye to Tom at the cemetery. The three of us should have been travelling home today on leave and I find it hard to believe that he won’t be returning with us. But this place is so hard to believe at times; it makes you wonder how unlucky we are to have been born into this era; how through destiny we have ended up here so far from home in this arena of death and destruction.

Emily, I hope you are bearing up well; I am so sorry that I am not with you at this sad time of loss. I will try and piece together a description of where Tom lies; perhaps you and your family may find some little comfort in it.

We set out at 8.00 a.m., a beautiful morning, crisp but clear with a low winter sun. As we rode along the muddy track, we met endless numbers of young soldiers travelling to the front line, the endless conveyor belt of men were marching forward in good spirit. As I watched them I kept thinking: You poor sods! You little know what lies ahead for all of you.

Eventually William and I arrived at a small cemetery situated in a beautiful tranquil spot on the banks of the River Aisne. A large wooden cross was the first sight to greet us as we walked through the makeshift gate. All the graves are relatively new, although those nearest to the gate already have a covering of grass; further along the graves have just a short first growth. I almost knew by looking at the ground where Tom would be.

At the end on the right-hand side, just feet away from the river, is a timber cross bearing the words:

Second Lieutenant Thomas Halpin

Royal Dublin Fusiliers

29 October 1914

Age 24

Soldier of the Great War

William and I sat and talked to Tom for quite a while, neither of us wanting to leave him. It is a strange feeling to know someone so well and for so long and for them to depart so suddenly – it brings such shock and emptiness. Nothing will ever be the same again. Without Tom our return to the battlefield will be even harder.

My thoughts, love and prayers are with you, Emily, and your family. We set sail for home tomorrow and will see you shortly.

Your Loving Husband

Charles

Tom’s death was my first real experience of loss. Of course as a nurse I had grown resigned to people dying; you had to learn how to deal with that as otherwise you would not be able to carry out your duties properly, but this was different. I kept recalling our young, carefree lives together. I was rich in memories of the time we spent in the hills and fields, the winding lanes of home and the talks we had as we went along. With such clarity, I realised what a place Tom held in my heart and in the hearts of his friends and all those who knew him.

With clouded eyes I re-read Charles’s letter as I tried to accept that my brother Tom would never return home; I would never see him again.

* * * *

I was born Emily Eliza Halpin in Co. Wexford, Ireland, in 1892, the third child in a family of four. Tom was the eldest, followed by Cathleen. My younger sister Constance was born in 1897. Her birth was a disappointment to my father who had hoped for another son. Very early on I took on the task of caring for my younger sister and we became very close.

My parents, Mildred and Thomas, were remote figures, both actively involved in running the family business. It was a successful import and distribution enterprise based in Wexford Town, close to the harbour, where an endless supply of ships arrived from various parts of the world. There was very little my parents didn’t trade in. My mother Mildred was a resourceful woman with a strong will, well used to getting her own way. She was still the driving force behind the successful business.

My elder sister Cathleen was a wilful and headstrong girl who challenged the authority of our parents at every turn. She developed her skills well and used them to counteract our father’s emotional remoteness. This constant engagement led to a battle of wills with my parents which persisted down through the years.

Tom was always close by me when we were young and always up to some mischief, usually with Cathleen. He had the happy knack of never being caught, but somehow Cathleen always seemed to be found out. As Cathleen grew older, she seldom got involved with the rest of us, instead she would sit in the garden making daisy chains or wander off on long walks until we were despatched to find her, never a pleasant task.

Tom and I kept a number of hens and a very clever but stubborn pig we called Porky. We spent most of our time looking for him as he often escaped from his pen. That pig managed to open the latch on the gate no matter how often we tried to fix it. A panic would ensue whenever the alarm was raised. One time he was caught digging up Ned the gardener’s vegetable and fruit plots. Tom would race through the garden with Constance on his shoulders, calling out: ‘Porky where are you? Porky!’ Constance would mimic him, bouncing up and down and laughing loudly. Porky would give himself away by squealing loudly when he heard Tom calling. He’d been given to us by William’s father for helping with the hay one summer.

A strange mixture of emotion possessed me as I visited some of Tom’s old haunts the following day. Everywhere I looked I could still see him happily engaged in some activity. I was so glad that much of our young lives had been spent together, in the countryside of Co. Wexford, in the district known as the Harrow. Ashbrook, our house, was a large old place on a sizeable plot of land with a walled vegetable and fruit garden. The garden was managed by Ned Whelan, and through the four seasons of each year he supplied the kitchen with everything necessary to make the household self-sufficient. In the kitchen there was a cook and housekeeper, Ned’s wife Lizzy. As we grew up, we’d learnt how to look after ourselves with their help. These good people provided safety and security for all of us; they were always there in times of crisis or mishap. But now Ned and Lizzy were devastated by Tom’s death.

Wintertime had always been hardest for us; with the dark evenings and earlier bedtimes, we saw even less of our parents. But we’d become very close to Lizzy and Ned, with whom we spent so much time. Throughout his childhood Tom spent hours following Ned around the garden, proudly equipped with his own gardening utensils that Ned had adapted for him. Ned would patiently teach Tom the names of every flower, leaf, shrub, tree, bird and insect. As one season changed to the next, Tom grew in confidence and knowledge. He was Ned’s constant companion, whether hunting or fishing, sowing or reaping. They had developed a strange method of communication that only the two of them understood. I can only describe it as a mixture of whistles and Coo- Hoo calls, used when hunting or when the birds started nesting and hopping around the garden in search of food.

Summer had always been Tom’s favourite season and mine too. We all loved the warm sunny days, long evenings, regular trips to the beach, fishing in the nearby river, climbing trees, gathering apples from the many apple trees in the orchard. We helped Ned to pick fruit throughout the summer, much of it being preserved in jars for the long, dark months ahead. We’d all enjoyed these chores and there had been plenty of time to play in between. I always felt sad coming towards the end of each summer, as the shadows of autumn started to gather around us.

Tom and I had found it difficult to understand why we saw so little of our parents; it seemed a very different relationship to that of any other children we knew. Tom’s two best friends from an early age were Charles Eyre and William Hunt. We were all neighbours and grew up together and spent most weekends happily playing with each other. When summer came they seldom went home, except to sleep.

Tom had a hunger for danger and excitement, just like Charles and William. I knew from his few letters home from the Front that he’d suffered from the boredom of waiting for something to happen. It was not at all the type of war that Tom had expected.

I sat in my old bedroom later that night, re-reading one of Tom’s letters from the Front.

You could be sitting for days and nights on end and all you hear is a couple of shots let off to break the silence and every so often some aeroplanes humming overhead. I think Emily they might have put me in the quietest place possible, except for the loud noises of the bullfrogs in the marshes and along the river banks quite laughable at times when they are in full evening voice. I have been through some of the debris of attack where souvenir hunting is the main preoccupation. It reminded me of when we were young and all the broken crockery I used to dig out from the garden with Ned and collect for you so you could make your own tea-set.

Thank you for the parcel you sent me, especially for the crystallized fruits which had a taste of varnish off them, not that I would know what varnish tasted like, however I ate them all anyway. The Jacobs’ biscuits and crackers are so delicious I am rationing myself; you must have a good connection in that factory opposite you? I needed the warm socks badly so thank you for them.

Emily you must not worry I am indeed well but quite bored with my situation and have seen and heard some dreadful sights and stories but I cannot allow myself to dwell on them. Thanks to my favourite sister I am well stocked up until my next leave which should come through shortly. I shall bring you something nice from here perhaps the makings of a new and exotic tea set or a pet bullfrog if I can catch one – ha, ha. Alas they are as hard to see as the German soldiers.

I think the War should be over before I get a chance to be a real soldier or put my hard training to use. But for the moment we must continue the hide and seek games and imaginary battles drawn out on a map with a pencil. So far I have not seen one German soldier which is lucky for him as we have had days of drilling and bayonet training by some professional lunatic bent on jabbing the life out of every poor German.

If only he had remained safely with the bullfrogs! I tried to sleep but my mind was full of the forthcoming funeral service and when Charles might reach Wexford. I kept thinking back to those ominous but unheeded signs we had encountered during the summer of 1914. I wished with all my heart that Tom, Charles and William had never joined up.

When the first news of war reached the Adelaide Hospital where I worked as a nurse I’d thought nothing of it, but its far-reaching hand drew ever closer with each passing day. The gentle summer breeze of 1914 had carried with it change and not just for me. 1913 had been a year of turmoil in terms of Home Rule and the Dublin Lockouts. When the Tram-workers had deserted their posts in early August 1913, Jane and I had to walk to and from work every day. Then across the road from us the Jacobs factory shut down in September and rioting broke out in various parts of the city. Throughout those months the Dublin people endured a terrible hunger and TB, or the consumption as they called it, was rampant due to the appalling living conditions of the tenement houses. We saw many desperate cases in the hospital. After a year of discontent Ireland stood on the verge of civil war; the eight-month lockout of workers had left widespread unemployment and appalling living conditions in its wake.

I had thought myself privileged to have had the life I’d had thus far and was eagerly awaiting my marriage to Charles, then planned for Spring 1915. But all along the streets of Dublin and throughout the towns and villages of the countryside, newstands and kiosks announced a tale of doom in France; a tale that would divide the nation but diffuse the immediate threat of civil war. Every newspaper carried advertisements, urging men to join England in this great cause, while recruitment posters hung everywhere. The attraction of adventure was too great for many like Charles and Tom to ignore, while the promise of regular army pay was a necessity for the unemployed and downcast. In December 1913 and January 1914 workers had begun to return to work but many could not get their old jobs back so they ended up enlisting for the regular pay the army offered. Through circumstance Lord Kitchener’s recruitment propaganda fell on fertile ground in Ireland but Charles’s more recent letters home hinted that Kitchener’s menacing face and pointing finger had led us all in a false direction.

A wave of excitement had gripped the countryside, the loudest call to arms coming from my own county, Wexford. I returned home one weekend that summer and sat listening to my parents explaining their support for John Redmond M.P. and his politics. How they had watched his Home Rule Bill for Ireland pass through parliament in Westminster, where it sat awaiting Royal assent, with the promise that it would be granted should Ireland show loyalty in wartime. It was all new to me, as in the Adelaide we were far removed from the world of politics. My good friend Jane and I had been far too busy settling into our new accommodation at my Aunt Julia’s house in Rathmines. My aunt, a Sister in the Adelaide Hospital, had accepted a training position in London for a twelve-month period.

That weekend at home was the first time I realised how enthusiastic Tom, Charles and William were to join up.

‘Just think what an adventure it will be,’ Tom declared. ‘And it will give me a bit more time before I have to take over the family business!’

‘It would certainly bring about the freedom of small nations and we can not stand idly by and do nothing while everyone we know is joining up,’ argued Charles.

‘Yes,’ agreed William. ‘How could we three stay behind? We should all enlist and play our part for Ireland in the Great War.’

‘Don’t worry Emily, we’ll be home by Christmas,’ Charles assured me

‘Or earlier!’ laughed Tom.

Before long I too was convinced that joining up was the correct thing to do.

The weekend at an end, we had left for the railway station to return to Dublin. I’d felt that we were leaving youth behind us as the afternoon continued to carry in low cloud from the sea. I remember the sky darkened and filled and the heavens opened with yet another downpour which again quickly cleared to bright sunshine that scorched the water-logged ground and formed a gathering mist. I held Charles’s arm tightly, both of us deeply in love, still not quite believing that we would be married soon, living for the future and secure with each other.

We had boarded the over-crowded Dublin train and eventually found an empty compartment. The station master hurried along the line of carriages, closing each door as he passed. Vigilant as ever, he stopped at the open door of our carriage where Charles and Tom stood calling to William.

‘Come along, lad, put out that cigarette; you will miss the war,’ Charles laughed.

‘Not you boys too,’ the station master sighed.

‘I’m afraid so,’ laughed Tom, ‘all three of us are signing up in fact. Isn’t it great? And you, will you join up with us too?’

‘I’m too old for all of that now,’ he replied, shaking his head with a wry smile, ‘but you boys take care and watch out for the British; they have never yet kept a promise.’

I realised now that his comment came from the maturity of his years, something none of us understood at the time.

‘What an odd thing to say, Charles,’ I commented.

‘Whatever do you mean Emily?’ he replied.

The station master’s words had gone unheeded by all three boys but they had lingered in my head.

As I lay tossing and turning that night, trying not to think of Tom lying dead somewhere in France, I wondered what heroic visions had formed in their imaginations on that journey. Images of the war were everywhere then – mystically transported across the Channel; stories and pictures had been relayed from person to person, through newspapers, advertisements and posters, and the same conversations filled the tea rooms, clubs, hotels and railway waiting rooms, even the very train in which we travelled.

The journey to Dublin was high-spirited. In the overcrowded carriages the same questions followed each greeting; I recall them as half-sentences: ‘Did you hear… ?’ ‘What do you think… ?’ ‘Are you enlisting… ?’ ‘Which regiment are you joining… ?’ By the time we reached Harcourt Street Station I too had believed that our country was in great peril and was all but ready to join up myself.

In the months since he’d left, I had foolishly believed that Tom would make his mark by some heroic endeavour, but this was not to be. With a heavy heart I pondered all the possibilities that could have led to his death. Was it the boredom that he mentioned? Had it led to complacency? Was he somehow distracted while on that final patrol? I knew how keenly aware he was of sound and movement while out in the open. How had he not seen the Germans? But then I realised the last thing Tom would have expected was to have been shot on a routine patrol in the area where he had been posted.

Knowing that I needed to sleep, I tried to stop thinking about that. How could we have known the true face of war? Now Tom would remain as he had left us, forever young, still present in some way in all his favourite places at home.

Tom’s personal effects and bloody mud-stained clothes arrived back from France the next day. The arrival of the brown paper parcel came as a huge shock to all of us. We gathered in the dining-room as my father slowly opened it. He started shaking as he unfolded his only son’s uniform and personal items, laying each object carefully on the dining-room table, while my mother watched, clutching tightly to a handkerchief. The mud had dried into the clothes and boots and I scraped some off, muttering, ‘Is this the soil that so many have died for?’

My father wanted to bury the uniform and boots and at first I did not understand why. I came to realise that the clothing and personal effects were a substitute for the physical remains of his only son. So there we stood with Tom’s few things and the memory of our short time together with him, for once united as a family – in grief.

The following morning I finally heard boot steps on the pebbled driveway and that familiar voice. I rushed out the door straight into my husband’s arms. Charles and William had safely arrived.

My relief was immense and my natural happiness returned as his gaze rested on me.

‘How are you Emily? It seems like an eternity since I last saw you. Sorry for the long delay.’

‘Never mind Charles,’ I smiled. ‘I am so glad you are here.’

Constance and Cathleen came out to welcome them both. We stood together for a few moments as William offered his sympathy to each of us in turn.

I was surprised at how different they both looked; whether it was fatigue from the long journey or the hardship they were enduring at the Front I could not tell.

‘How are your parents bearing up?’ Charles asked.

‘As well as can be expected,’ I sighed.

Both of them took a deep breath before going in to offer their condolences.

‘Emily,’ Charles whispered, ‘we have been dreading this moment since we left France.’ He held my hand tightly as we followed Cathleen, William and Constance inside.

The following morning a Mass was held for Tom at the local church. It was strange being back there. Family life for us had really only taken place at weekends; it seemed to be the only time when we were all together, even though Saturdays had been taken up with my parents’ business; book-keeping duties and endless callers, requiring one thing or another. But on Sundays, without fail, our family would attend the local church.

Tom would nudge me grinning as Cathleen’s impatience grew and her face reddened