A
Mother’s Love
Joe
stepped off the train and held the package close to his side. He adjusted his
weight on his crutch and dropped his kit bag to the platform. It smelt like
home – the grease and steam from the engine mixed with that distinct smell of
man, beast and machine working flat out to produce shells and armour plate. And
yet there was no joy in him.
Mick’s mother lived in the notorious Crofts; he would take a cab from
the front of the station: people moved aside, a look of horror mixed with pity
in their eyes. Before he could attempt to rebuild his life he had to give her
this – all that was left of Mick wrapped in, now smutted, brown paper – Christ!
how was he going to explain to her. The Christmas table at Mick’s would have a
very empty seat. Good ol’ Mick – what a bloody laugh they’d had last year – as
he lost his last Christmas dinner over the side in the Bay of Biscay. Sailing
to Egypt was just one big adventure then for boys who, until they’d enlisted,
had never been further than Derby that happy September day in times of
innocence when the United netted five.
The old horse strained to move the cab away – all
the good ones had been blown to bits in France. Town looked just the same, and
yet everything had changed. He fingered the string on the packet – Mick’s book
– his Bible – his lucky charm – with a sniper’s bullet right through the middle
of it. What sort of God was this? As he’d lain there next to Mick he felt warm
liquid seeping over his own chest – he’d been hit too. Except, when he’d felt
inside, it was just his pewter flask leaking whisky where it had been punctured
by shrapnel. The bloody irony of that! The sweet boy who’d taken the pledge,
shot dead through his holy book, and the sinner saved by his sin.
Ten minutes before Zero on the first of July they’d left the trench,
comrades side by side, as the mortars opened up a hurricane bombardment and a
huge mine exploded to the south shattering the world and sending smoke and
earth hundreds of feet into the sky, drowning out even the deafening noise of
the bombardment. There they’d lain down in the middle of No Man’s Land as
grenades and artillery flew over. Then it went quiet, momentarily – perhaps it
wouldn’t happen after all? But Zero had arrived – the artillery started again
and the whistles blew. They got to their feet – they had to walk with rifles
raised, not run – and then all of hell descended. They were supposed to be
going forward but didn’t: as the front line fell more targets took their place,
bodies piled up and blood and humanity mixed with mud. Screams and moans and
cries of “mother” from boys only just in breeches pierced through the din, the
smoke, the blasts that shook and rent flesh. Him and Mick pushed on but the
bloody wire was still there and they couldn’t cross the last few yards. Then
Mick fell and he’d picked him up and dragged him towards a shell hole – then a
grenade went off and he came round with Mick under him and a searing pain in
his foot and across the side of his face. Mick was conscious; he tried to keep
him talking but gradually he had faded in his arms. He kissed him, but he had
never known just how much he meant to him. How could he ever?
There were a few of the Pals in that shell hole. They’d had to fight
like hell to defend that open grave until nightfall. Then he’d had to leave
Mick – along with all the others they stepped over on their way back. All he
could return of Mick was that precious Bible – the one with pressed poppies and
wild flowers in.
He had been amongst the one in three of the City Battalion that
survived that day.
He was shipped out to a first aid station and was spared those next
three nightmare days clearing up the mess. He had tried to find out if Mick’s
body had been retrieved and buried – he couldn’t bear to think of that
beautiful boy – out there – being stripped by rats and maggots.
The next day the post from home arrived and they were instructed to
open it all – cigarettes, chocolates, socks, packed up with tender cards,
letters of good wishes and prayers sent out to a God who just wasn’t there.
No afterlife. Just this. One go at getting it right.
No post arrived for Mick, for which he was grateful.
He tried to give the cabbie the one and six but he
refused it – always that look in their eyes – he’d rather have their respect.
He stood and looked round for the right courtyard. A child stood gawping at
him.
‘Nah den kid, weer’s Mick Flannery’s ’ouse?’
The child, bare-footed and wearing clothes his own
mother wouldn’t have considered fit for cleaning cloths, led him timidly into a
soot-blackened courtyard. There was a stench of overflowing middens; some hens
pecking near an open drain and the broken paving was coated in brown slime. He
shuddered as his mind flashed back to July. His hand went up to the claret scar
on his cheek. The boy indicated the house; Joe tossed him a ha’penny and
approached the door. He took a deep breath and knocked. A girl pulled the door
open, something in those blue eyes said she was Mick’s sister – how could he
not know? – but Mick never spoke of his family.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is Mrs Flannery in?’
‘Mother there’s a fella at t’ doo-er’
‘What’s ’e want?’ came a voice from inside.
‘I dunno.’
Joe waited. A dishevelled woman came out of the
gloom. She was filthy; grey, matted hair, ancient-looking. Joe thought she had
been drinking.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Flannery – Michael’s mother.’
‘Tha’s found ’er.’ Joe was shocked. This woman could
surely never have given birth to someone so beautiful.
‘I’m a friend of Mick’s.’ He held out the package.
‘This was his Bible. I think he might have wanted you to have it.’
‘Tha can keep it. I’m not bothered.’
The door closed in his face. He didn’t move. She was
supposed to invite him in, ask how Mick died, weep and wail.
How could a mother’s love be less than his own?
You can get the book that this story is taken from here
All author royalties go to War Child to help support children in conflict affected parts of the world.
Thanks.
