The Telegram: The Allsorts FC Series, #3

By Nic Clare

The Telegram- The Allsorts FC Series Book 3

Martha Drysdale is the bearer of bad news.

The messages keep coming from the war in France and telegram girl Martha does her best to deliver them.

It is an important job, but Martha wants to do more for the war effort.

With rumours of an enemy spy hiding in Nether Bridge, Martha sets out to uncover him,

But could her amateur attempts cause more damage than good?

When the Great War arrives on home soil in the form of a terrifying Zeppelin raid, Martha and her friends from The Allsorts football team are tested.

Will they be succeed? Or will Martha find the strength she needs from somewhere within?

The Telegram is the third in The Allsorts FC series.

A heartstopping story of courage, friendship and adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nic Clare
• Release date: Sep 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739601751

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Martha’s Story

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There’s a lad lives down our street who came home from the war with a rattle in his chest and a bandage over his eyes.

The gas got me, he said. There was no avoiding it. It was silent but not invisible. We could see it coming for us across no-man's-land. A yellow cloud that set heavy over the ground. It rolled towards us like water running down a mill race, seeping into every crevice. The sergeant rang a bell. GAS! GAS! he screamed. Take Cover! A couple of the boys tried to outrun it, but it swallowed them up like a monster from another world. We scrambled for our gas masks to sit it out. Mine had a hole in it, so I breathed it in. It went into my eyes and throat, stinging, burning, choking. I couldn’t escape it. It was inevitable. If it’s got your name on it, there’s nothing you can do.

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When I stand at the top of the street, smart in my uniform with the telegram in my hand, I am the same as that yellow gas, moving slowly, inevitably towards my target. Some try to outrun me. They slam their doors when they see me approach, as if the news will not be true if they don’t hear it. Some stand in their front windows watching with their handkerchieves over their mouths, praying that I pass them by. But if the telegram has their name on it, they can’t escape it. There’s nothing they can do.

The telegram in my hand was addressed to Mrs Ross at number twenty. I could feel the breath of those I had spared on the back of my neck as I passed, and they let out a sigh of relief. Stopping at the front door, I steadied myself. A tin bucket dripped on the wet front step, a scrubbing brush, a donkey stone and a block of soap abandoned in a hurry. She must have sensed that I was coming for her. She must have seen me as she scrubbed at the doorstep and rushed inside to blockade herself against the news. But there was nothing to be done. I knocked, firm and deliberate, then stood back with the letter in my hand. The net curtains in the front parlour fluttered before the door opened slowly and the strained figure of Mrs Ross looked out. Her flashing, striking blue eyes that once lit up her face, were empty and raw with pain, begging me to say it wasn’t so.

Telegram for Mrs Ross, I said softly as I held out the envelope. She looked up and down the street, then set her jaw and took it from me. Six sons at the front and this was the third telegram I had delivered to her house. No wonder she couldn’t stand the sight of me. I didn’t wait for a reply. I didn’t offer any condolences, that’s not in my gift. My job is to deliver the message. Nothing more, nothing less.

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Right from the outbreak of war, I wanted to contribute more. I wasn’t doing any good stuck behind the counter at the post office. I had friends working in munitions and for the Red Cross but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. Then, with the boys away, they called for girls to take their place delivering the letters. They couldn’t object to that, could they? I would still be working for their precious post office and I’d be doing my bit.

It’s not a job for you Martha, my dad said as he sat behind his desk with my application in his hand. As the postmaster as well as my father, he could decide my fate.

Why not? I can do it as well as any boy?

Are you sure? In all weathers? The wind and the rain and the snow? What if your bicycle gets a puncture, can you fix it? You might deliver dreadful news. Are you prepared for that? For crying mothers or angry fathers? There’s a reason for the expression ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ You’d be in the firing line.

I hesitated. I hadn’t thought it through, but I was prepared for it. No one ever said that war was easy. The girls in the munitions factories filling the shells don’t flinch because the work is dangerous. The boys at the front don’t run away because they are afraid. I am prepared for that, I said, raising my chin.

If I let you sign up for this, you can’t give it up if you don’t take to it. If you sign up, you commit for the duration of the war.

CHAPTER 2

An army of neighbours rushed forward to catch Mrs Ross as she fell. I could hear them weeping together as I retrieved my bicycle. How long could this go on for? How many more telegrams could there possibly be? I felt the prickle of tears behind my eyes and knew that this time I wouldn’t be able to hold them back. It was shameful. It wasn’t my news; I didn’t have anyone away at the front, no brother or father or sweetheart to long for, so why should I be upset? But I couldn’t help myself. The thought of Mrs Ross all alone grieving for her three beautiful sons lost in the mud and fearing for the three still fighting was unbearable. I turned into the alleyway behind the row of terraced houses and, checking I was alone, I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle the sobs, but I let the tears flow. If I could get them all out, I would be alright. I would be ready to go back to the post office and pick up the next message. I straightened as the latch on the back gate I was leaning against clicked and an old lady appeared holding her washing, looking round for the source of the pathetic sobs. Dear dear! What’s to do? she asked, reaching out for me.

It’s nothing. I took a breath and stood tall.

Have you had bad news? She put her gnarled working woman’s fingers on my arm.

It’s nothing. I haven’t had bad news. I am bad news. As I said the selfish words the tears came again.

Now, now. This won’t do. Come inside. Let’s have a cup of tea.

It’s fine, I said. I just need to… My breath caught in my chest and I gulped for air. My lungs burned to take in more oxygen, but they were already full. I couldn’t get my body to do as I asked. Gasping, I felt the world spin around me. I was dying. I was sure of it. My heart was giving out. Before I knew it, I was in the lady’s arms and she was leading me inside.

Put your head between your legs dear, she said as I sat at the kitchen table and she rubbed my back. Slow your breathing. That’s right. I looked at the dusty flagstones of the old lady’s kitchen floor and forced myself to breathe in and out to the rhythm of her commands. I felt my heart settle into a steady beat and the stars cleared from my eyes.

There now. That’s better, she said as I sat up, wiping the tears from my face. Let’s have that cup of tea. My cheeks were hot and flushed.

I’m sorry, I said, picking up my hat from the floor. I don’t know what happened.

Never mind dear. It’s all just got on top of you that’s all.

"But I haven’t any right. What have I got to be upset about? I just