The Four Bells

By Brodie Curtis

A Christmas Toast to the past…

Damaged World War 1 veteran Al Weldy revisits his home town on Christmas Eve 1931, intending to raise a toast to his dead comrade-in-arms, Eddie Beane. Behind the bar of The Four Bells he finds Eddie’s sister Maddy, his one-time flame.

Maddy, now a widow, confides how the Great War damaged

• Language: English
• Publisher: Westy Vistas Books
• Release date: Sep 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733783514

Book preview

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright 2019 by Brodie Curtis & Brodie Curtis Westen.

Westy Vistas Books supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [e-mail]. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.

Westy Vistas Books

Colorado, USA

brodiecurtis.com

First Edition: September 2019

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Cover Design by Charlie Farrow, Berkshire, UK; Editing and interior design by Sue Millard, UK, www.jackdawebooks.co.uk

ISBN 978-1-7337835-0-7

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

GREAT Western’s massive green locomotive pulled into Lassingwood station and passengers stepped down through a mix of hissing steam and coal-smoke. They were coming home from work and shopping in Oxford. Some hugged holiday parcels, while others buzzed with chatter and laughter, even as they drew their coats closer against the cold. It was late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, 1931.

Alan Weldy opened the door of his compartment and stepped down onto the platform with care. His left leg dragged slightly. Though he walked without a cane he avoided making eye contact, as if that might somehow deflect attention from the oddity of his gait. He straightened his hat, put up his coat collar, and walked firmly up the tunnel out of the station.

As he passed the market he saw a young girl, about ten years old, wearing a camel-colored jacket, snow-white stockings, and a green tartan skirt. She carried a wreath of green pine boughs, dotted with red berries and adorned with a red velvet bow, but her expression was forlorn, at odds with the festive mood. Then a woman took her gently by the arm and they hurried inside the market. Al stared after them, stricken by familiarity, remembering that almost two decades ago he’d seen a French girl who could have been mistaken for her twin.

* * *

The Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry crossed the Somme River during the first week of October, 1914, and Captain Pridemore halted the Company’s march in the little town of Albert. Its neat shops with colored awnings, many framed by still-flowering climbing roses, and its billowing French flags made Al question whether or not he was really marching towards battle. Soldiers ‘fell out’ and rested in the cathedral grounds under beech trees and hedgerows. High on top of the Basilica the Golden Virgin held her blessed babe to the heavens.

Field kitchens up!

On Pridemore’s order the horse-drawn wagons, packed tight with wooden boxes, rolled past Al and set up on the street. The largest wagons had five-foot stove pipes that began to smoke as the cooks lit the fires.

Al and his best friend Eddie Beane pulled mess tins from their kits.

Gawd, my stomach’s growling, Al said.

You don’t need to tell me. I can hear it!

Let’s be first up after the officers are served.

Eddie nudged him ahead in the queue, towards a server’s over-flowing ladle. You first.

They took their tins of stew and ate with their messmates.

The minute you sit down you realise how bloody cold it is, Eddie said. The queue at the busy food wagon was still growing. We have some time. Let’s take a look around before we move out.

All right mate. Al soaked a Huntley biscuit in his tea, munched it, and packed away his kit.

Al and Eddie put their gear back on, picked up their weapons, and made their way through a sea of supine Tommies. They were stepping over haversacks and mess tins, and upset two metal tea cups, which drew cries of ‘Clumsy sods, look where you’re going!’ After two blocks, they had weaved out of the soldiers surrounding the cathedral. A man and his wife stood in the doorway of their milliner’s shop, staring. Al wondered why they didn’t wave, or at least smile—surely they had to know the English army was on their side. If it were Huns passing through would the greeting have been any different?

Just off the main square, a small grocer’s shop stood in a ruin of jagged bricks and rubble that had once been the back of the building.

I thought Lieutenant Travers said the fighting was in the fields, to the east?

That might be, Eddie said, but a shell must’ve hit the place. Must mean the Huns are close.

Good. It’s time for us to teach ’em a lesson.

Bloody right! Enough of this marching, Eddie said. We’ll put our boot in their arse and kick ’em home! We’ll be back in the Shire by Christmas, Al, my boy.

A wagon filled with fruit crates had been parked on the left of the front door. Bushel baskets on the other side were full of radishes, onions, cucumbers, and carrots.

Blimey. This place is still open for business, Al said. The apples look good.

Let’s buy some to eat on the march.

Al and Eddie filled their haversacks, and pulled Franc notes and coins from their pockets. Eddie called out in French for someone to settle their slate but, for a time, no one came. Finally, a little girl of perhaps nine or ten years appeared from the rubble. She stood barefoot beneath the shop’s blue awning, in a shabby, soiled dress that was torn down the left side. Her legs were grimy, her face was thin and smudged with soot, and she had dark hair and sad brown eyes.

She reminds me of the urchins on the mill side back home who run around without any shoes, Al said.

Yes. But I think something’s not right.

Eddie asked the girl in French to get her parents. She told him her parents couldn’t come. Eddie asked her, ‘Where are they?’ The girl looked at him and said, ‘Ils sont morts à cause de la bombe Bosche.’

What is she saying? asked Al.

They are dead because of the German bomb.

Al looked at Eddie, and realised neither of them knew what to do. At home, they’d have comforted this lass and swept her off to an auntie or a familiar neighbor; maybe fed her, got her a bath and clean clothes. But that wasn’t possible, because they were English soldiers and their unit was about to move out.

"Who cares for you? Qui se soucie de toi?" Eddie asked the girl.

"Ma soeur." She told him her sister had gone to fill the water buckets.

At least she has a sister, Al said. What can we do for her?

Give me your Francs. Eddie put all of their notes and coins in the girl’s hands. The child hugged Eddie, which seemed to startle him, and then she hugged Al.

We have to go, Al said, reluctantly. The regiment is leaving.

* * *

Al was still looking at the market doorway. The English girl had looked sad, but she did have a mother, or at any rate a woman who took care of her. She wasn’t so bad off as the French girl who had stuck in his mind all these years.

You there! What’s your business in Lass-n-wood?

Al turned and saw a gray-haired policeman with a walrus moustache, frowning at him and undoubtedly suspicious of this stranger staring after a girl.

Come ’ere!

Al approached. Yes constable?

The bobby assessed his lopsided gait. War wound?

Yes. Flanders.

Staying here, are you?

At Mrs Adler’s in Wood Street. I’m meeting a friend.

And whereabouts exactly will you meet this friend?

At the pub up the road. The Four Bells.

Ah! Know your way there, do you?

Oh yes, Al said. I know my way.

That’ll be all right, then, sir. You can be getting along, sir.

Al nodded and moved on. A steady rain began to fall, glowing orange in the light of the streetlamps, and thickening like sleet to dampen his face and soak him in a dark mood, born of the affront of the bobby’s challenge.

In the town center he passed the haberdasher and Nelson’s men’s suits shop on one side of the street, and then straight ahead was a bakery and his destination, Adler’s Hotel.

The graying, bespectacled landlady knew him at once. Good evening, Mr Weldy, she said. Your room is ready for you.

Happy Christmas, Mrs Adler. Thank you so much. I’ll just drop my bag and be back down, he said.

And Happy Christmas to you. I’ll put your supper out. You are the only guest on Christmas Eve. As in past years.

Thank you, mam.

Thank you for booking with us again. It was a pity you couldn’t make it last year.

Oh, yes. He paused. Well, there was nothing to be done about the engine breaking down. By the time they’d sorted it out and brought up a bus, I felt it was too late for the trip.

What a shame.

Cheered by Mrs Adler’s supper and her easy acquaintance, he returned to the street in half an hour and found the crowds dispersed and pavements empty. The Four Bells pub was just a short distance away, a low, two-storey building with nine-paned, leaded-glass windows that faced the street, underscored by empty wooden flower boxes which Al remembered were colored in the spring and summertime with marigolds and busy Lizzies. Its pub sign was a handsome red, green, and white medieval crest with four church bells arranged in a diamond pattern. At the heavy wooden double doors he paused, anticipating the refreshment waiting beyond, then pushed at the shining brass handle and was welcomed into the familiar fug of coal fire, beer, and cigarettes.

Al wiped his feet on the coconut fiber doormat and hung his overcoat and hat on the stand.

The pub seemed different since his last visit, two years before. The walls were brighter than he remembered, with years’ worth of smoky hues stripped away and painted over. The worn bar top had been replaced with lacquered hardwood, and the wooden stools were new and topped with leather cushions, a surprising and pleasant improvement that would provide welcome relief for the ache in his leg. A small Christmas tree stood in the nearest corner, adorned with tinsel, tin bulbs painted red and green, and a few candy cane sticks in wrappers. But Al hadn’t remembered George the landlord changing the place since before the War. And where was George?

Al scanned the room. A dozen tables stood on the parquet flooring, which gleamed, faintly—and surely that was new, too. Four tables had customers: an older couple, a group of young men, old Walt Turley and his friend whom Al didn’t recognize, and a couple in their early twenties. The hardwood tabletops and chairs shone with a rich, varnished finish that also seemed new. A cheery-faced Father Christmas automaton was on display, on a rickety high-legged side table that had been put out ever since Al was a lad; a fresh coat of varnish had covered the table’s splinters and splotchy finish. The jolly, white-haired little man sat on a tin roof-top with a bell in his hand, beckoning for a penny to start his act. Al gave him a happy pat on his red velvet cap as he approached the bar. He was thinking of Eddie and their mates Big Billy and Phillip before the four of them had set off for the War. If he closed his eyes he’d see his friends’ faces as they had been years before, right here in this room. Their smiles were vivid in his mind, as was the easy banter that had played among them. But his mates were gone, all buried in Belgium, and the bar stools were empty.

The young couple were sitting at the table nearest to Father Christmas. The woman’s dark hair was tied high and curled, her ringlets bouncing against a red and white striped scarf wrapped around her neck. The young man wore a tweed sports coat. He put his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. She looked into his eyes, and spoke slowly and gently. Al imagined the couple were wrapped in a yuletide-season love, taking a few minutes away from family gatherings to savor each other, alone. He could guess at their conversation; hope and the future, springing from the holidays and the promise of a life together. No creases had yet formed on their young faces, and no stressed twitches marred their moves. They lived free of the enormities faced by his own generation.

Al caught old Walt Turley’s eye.

Happy Christmas, Mr Turley, Al said.

Turley nodded. And to you, Alan.

Al took a stool at the far end of the bar. He wasn’t a stranger there, but he wasn’t one of the local crowd either, sitting in their favorite places with their mates. The bar-maid was busy drawing pints for the young men. He lightly drummed his fingers, and studied the framed photographs on the pub’s walls: a fire wagon pulled by galloping horses, a work crew at the half-built railway station, and local officials at a building opening.

There was a photograph of Eddie directly across from Al, a fine likeness showing him as a bold-faced young man in the uniform of the local Light Infantry. The regimental badge—a hunting horn hanging from a tasseled baldric tied in three loops like a clover leaf—was displayed below the portrait.

Al felt the usual surge of kinship as he looked at Eddie. A deep and gritty bond beyond friendship or even brotherly love, born of absolute allegiance in the perils of Flanders. He recalled a rowdy greeting many years before when Eddie, wearing an infantry peak cap and dusty khakis, had darted up and grabbed Al by his braces then pulled him into a big bear hug. Eddie’s white teeth had flashed in a happy grin, and his cheeks were like big red apples. Al could still feel his friend’s heavy smack on the back. He savored the memory.

Mick, the pub’s cellar man, was working at the sink at the far end of the bar. As Al drew breath to greet him there was a sudden crash of breaking glass, and a shot of pain struck Al’s chest as if he’d run onto the end of an iron pipe.

* * *

A rush of air hit Al like a locomotive, smashing his head against a timber and hurling him to the ground. Everything went black. When he came to all he could hear was a ringing inside his head as if he lay in a metal cylinder being struck with a hammer. Disorienting rifle fire. Frantic voices shouted orders he couldn’t understand. He was certain he’d been hit, but he couldn’t say how, or identify his injuries apart from a strange, dull void on his left side. He tried to sit up, closed his right hand on a fist-full of dirt but couldn’t move, as if his body was listlessly floating in currents below the surface of the sea, far away from Flanders.

He opened his eyes and realised he was looking up at Eddie’s face.

Don’t try to get up, Eddie said, urgently.

Al made out that Eddie was kneeling beside him, with a sad expression, as if he were leaning over a casket. He wondered vaguely whether he was done for.

Chapter 2

AL FOUND he was gripping the bar counter with all his strength. He balled his fist and ground his knuckles against the wood to come back to 1931. He saw the cause of the crash now: Mick had knocked a tray of glasses off the draining board.

The blast in the German trench had tormented him time and again since he returned from Flanders. Simple things triggered it, like a slamming car door, a sudden shout, or even someone bumping into him in a crowded room. Eyes shut and body rigid, he clung to oblivion until the sensation passed. Sometimes his forehead trickled with sweat.

However, the customers in the Four Bells were watching the bar-maid who was scolding the hapless Mick, and Al was relieved that his own terror had gone unnoticed.

Old Walt Turley was standing at the bar waiting to buy a refill. He said slyly to Al, I reckon Mick’s trying to be sent home early!

The bar-maid looked up from tidying the mess. He’ll be lucky if I don’t make him stay an hour after closing time.

Mick pulled a sad face and put a single unbroken glass on the bar counter. Al joined in the laughter, and the pub settled into its pre-crash state.

The bar-maid returned behind the bar. She was a trim woman with a kind expression that gave her a youthful appearance.

I’m sorry about the disturbance, she said.

No trouble, Al said.

What can I serve you, sir?

I would like a hot toddy, please.

She hesitated, as though considering the ingredients in her head, and then nodded. Right you are, sir.

Al was certain he knew her, although he couldn’t place her in his mind. She certainly wasn’t a lass who had ever brought him drinks.

Excuse me, he said, may I ask you…

Engrossed in her task, she didn’t seem to register the question he was forming. Wait a jiff. I’ll have to put the kettle on to boil.

She turned to go, but as she pushed open the door to the rear of the bar, she glanced back at him. Was it recognition, or was she simply puzzled when he hadn’t ordered a pull from her beer cask or a bottle of light ale?

* * *

Al pushed open the door of the Old Swan in the East End to a happy roar from Christmas Eve pub revelers. He limped through the crowd with his cane, past the stand-up bar, and was surprised and delighted to see a man he knew sitting beside a table with his knees spread wide, his cap half-cocked, and boots unlaced.

Corporal Jenkins! Happy Christmas.

Alan Weldy! Jenkins rose and gave Al a hearty handshake. Stop with that Army business. It’s Bill. Happy Christmas to you.

All right, Bill. This is quite a surprise.

Right. I haven’t seen you since the day you were wounded in ‘15. What’s it been, six years now? Jenkins eyed Al’s cane. Glad to see you’re getting around. Sit with me, Weldy.

Thank you. I’m better these days, Al said. But I haven’t seen many of the men since the War.

They’re mostly dead, Jenkins said solemnly. Let’s have a toast to them. Bar-maid! Over here, lass! Now, Al, what will you have?

I’ll have what you’re having, please.

The bar-maid took a little while to bring his order. When she did, she was carrying a thick glass mug from which steam rose in an aromatic cloud.

One hot toddy, she said.

Al sipped it carefully. He hadn’t expected such a mix of spirits, sweets and citrus, but it brought a soothing calm over him, and seemed to fit Christmas Eve better than his regular pint.

My lad, I’ve lots of memories of you and your mate Eddie Beane. Thick as thieves you were. Big Billy and Phillip Sappington, too. All you lads were from Lassingwood, weren’t you?

That’s right, Al said. Friends to share the smelly barracks, hard biscuits and soggy potatoes!

Jenkins laughed. The Swan’s not much, but at least no rats run the floor like we used to see in the trenches.

And with luck no lice crawl inside our jackets, Al said.

Jenkins pulled a face. Gawd, I hated those little buggers!

Didn’t we all!

Yarning with Jenkins was like slipping into old, comfy slippers. When he and Jenkins raised their toddies to toast Eddie and other fallen messmates, it felt to Al as though they were with him.

* * *

The bar-maid returned with the hot kettle and poured boiling water into a large, thick glass mug, following it with a squeeze of lemon juice, a clove and a teaspoon of sugar. Al’s mouth began to water in anticipation. The liquor came next: a tot of whisky and a half tot of brandy. Finally, she plunked in a cinnamon stick and gave the concoction a brisk stir. Al didn’t remember cloves or cinnamon in his toddy in past years, but the lass was new and he was game to try it her way. She paused again, calculating, before she charged him half a crown.

Al winced.

I’m sorry, but the spices are extra, she said. It was as much defiance as an explanation. Al handed her a florin and a sixpence which she swept expertly into the till.

Al carefully lifted the mug and inhaled the comforting aroma of the rising steam. The toddy was too hot to drink, but it smelled inviting. He set the mug down to cool.

The bar-maid looked around the room to check on her customers. She had lovely high cheekbones, formed softly rather than sharply, hazel eyes and dark-brown hair, and a complexion tinted slightly darker than the norm. There was a premature whisper of the creases of age beside her pretty eyes, but her face was altogether pleasing.

His glance moved from her face to Eddie’s photograph and he realised who she was.

Maddy!

She put her hand to her mouth. Oh my Lord. Al!

You must have been shocked I didn’t know you straight away.

I wasn’t sure, myself, she said. It’s the moustache—I’m so sorry! She reached across the bar to grasp his hand.

No one’s called me Al since the last time we met. My, my, gosh. Never in a million years did I think I’d see you here tonight, behind George’s bar. You live in London now, don’t you? Where is old George?

She hesitated. Yes, this is quite a surprise for me, too. What has it been? Five or six years?

That’s about right, Al said. I bumped into you and Quentin on the platform at Whitechapel. I’ve grown the moustache since then. I’d forgotten that.

Again, she hesitated.

I… I am sorry, Al said. I don’t think I’ve seen you since your husband died.

Thank you, Maddy said, in a soft tone. But there’s a bit more bad news, about Uncle Georgie. He died at the start of last year.

Oh no. I enjoyed his company very much. Sorry to hear he’s passed away.

Hearty laughter erupted from a group of young men, too loud to talk over. A few slurred lines of the local club’s song, The Boys from up the Hill, pushed the noise level higher as they waved their arms and puffed their chests at each other. None of them looked older than early twenties. Old Walt huffed and frowned at them and rattled his glass on the table top.

Give me just a minute, Maddy said to Al.

Of course.

Al watched as she strolled down the room past the young men, and just for a moment, he saw them as himself and his friends from before the War: Eddie, Phillip, and Big Billy. Four lads totally comfortable with each other, and the verbal jabs and pokes that always zipped around the table when they met up. Inseparable friends with an unbreakable bond. A long-ago dream. But these lads were shouting about their football clubs. Three seemed to support nearby Headington United and one was firmly in favor of Merseyside’s Everton.

One of the lads was complaining about Headington United’s defeat in the FA Cup. Details were dissected: the centre-forwards, the fullbacks and the goal keepers, corner kicks, club colors, and the pitch. The Everton supporter triumphantly declared that no London team had made even the semifinals.

Maddy circled the young men’s table with the mild interest of a sentry in a quiet sector, and they sat back in their chairs without losing the friendliness of their meeting. Al observed with silent approval. He was glad of the diversion, because he realised that seeing Maddy had unsettled him. He took a first sip of his toddy. Part of him felt as if he’d been transported to a long-ago, much happier time. A time when living had a lightness to it, and everything was still possible. Like a life with Maddy. He would never forget the heat of her touch, or the taste of her kiss, sweeter than a perfect Spanish peach.

But he had lost Maddy, nearly two decades ago, and would have avoided The Four Bells if he had known she would be here.

What good could come of talking with her? A rehash of their disappointments? She must have questions about her brother, things he had avoided telling her, things she would want to know that he would never tell her. He owed that to Eddie, because their bond was of an oath forged in the brotherhood of military compliance, and in the face of mortal dangers. What he knew about Eddie’s death was secret, his most sacred possession, and required absolute fealty.

He knew what he ought to do: drink his toddy down rather quickly, maybe make some small talk, and then go as soon as he could. But the drink was still too hot, and it had cost too much for him to leave it.

He noticed an older couple behind the lads, the man cradling a tumbler of whisky and the woman thoughtfully turning her sherry glass. They were old enough to have raised a family just after the turn of the century, in a time of relative peace and prosperity in England. They would have enjoyed stability, with suitable employment to house, clothe, and feed their brood, and expected their children’s futures would improve upon their lives. They sat quietly, but judging by their expressions, they shared a grave sadness. Al wondered if they had lost a son in the War, maybe someone he had known.

His gaze lingered on the couple as they sat together, looking off, likely reflecting on the emptiness of holiday loneliness that never should have been. The man’s eyes locked with Al’s, just for a moment. There was no questioning, no anger, no wariness in their joined glances, instead a mutual awareness.

A wave of compassion engulfed Al and he turned away, pretending to study the backbar, a new massive mirrored wall featuring dark, fancifully carved wooden dowel rods arranged in rectangular patterns to separate the panes of glass. Liquor bottles clustered on the shelves, within easy reach. It was nothing like the plain, unvarnished set of boards that had held the stock on his last visit two Christmases ago.

The steam of his toddy rose slower now, but with a pleasant aroma. It was still hot, but perhaps drinkable. He took a cautious mouthful, preparing to hurry through it. The liquor was sweet but balanced by the tart lemon juice and spice. He found he was enjoying Maddy’s new version.

So you’ve come to have a drink with Eddie, said Maddy, at his shoulder. He’d like that.

Her sudden appearance jolted him, and her reference to Eddie reminded him to distract her with small talk. Ah! Yes, I have. Have to say; I love the portrait George put up after the War. Bit like a shrine, isn’t it?

She studied the photograph. I never thought of it that way, she said, but I see what you mean.

It brings back the good memories. See, George and me, we’d have a drink and remember the times when Eddie and I and Big Billy and Phillip sat here in The Four Bells before the War.

That sounds nice. Mind if I pour myself one and take Georgie’s place?

Oh …

Now Al; I won’t bite. What happened between us was too many years ago to worry over. Sharing a drink to Eddie wouldn’t hurt, now would it? Her eyes seemed to have a soft, even inviting, look.

Of course not.

Old Walt and his mate got up to leave and called holiday good wishes to Maddy. A burst of snowflakes blew in as Walt’s mate opened the grand pub door, and Al saw that a thin, white carpet of snow already covered the street.