All Quiet on the Western Road

All Quiet On The Western Road
They will arrive after a hearty breakfast. Washed, ironed shirts, pressed suits, bowler hats, polished shoes that squeak. Underneath their college and regimental ties, brass studs will secure their starched collars tight around their necks. There will be few words. Whispered good mornings. Chained watches will be taken from waistcoat pockets, looked at furtively and replaced. The vicar will clasp the Holy Bible and offer prayers, it will be psalm 23, ‘…ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…I will fear no evil.’ There will be other formalities, saluting, bowing, and the doffing of caps, and although it will be a solemn affair, it will be carried out with a certain efficiency and informality, with all of the parties well versed in the roles they must play. After all as Doctor Johnson pointed out, ‘there is nothing like a good hanging to concentrate the mind.’

Upon the heavy metal gate of the prison there is posted a notice.
“ Capital Punishment Amendment Act 1868 - The sentence of law passed upon Edward Blashford-Snell Mancini, the Eighth Duke of Richmond, found guilty of murder, will be carried into execution at 8am tomorrow.”

After ringing the bell for several seconds, Mr Whelks was let into the prison. He went through the usual formalities of signing the book and chatting to George the duty warder at the desk, who he knew well after several visits the previous years.
‘And how are you keeping George? Well I hope.’
‘Yes Mr Whelks and yourself?’
‘Very well thank you…I must say,’ he said rubbing his hands, ‘we ‘ave something ‘ere that is very special. After all my years in the profession I’m quite looking forward to this one…by the way ‘how is your missus? Did her sister ‘ave ‘her bouncy baby?’
‘She most certainly did sir. It was the biggest baby born in the Infirmary last year, weighed in at 11lb 3ozs. They were gonna call it Tarzan ya know.’
‘Blimey! That must ‘ave made her eyes water? But what did they call it in the end?’
‘ Jane sir. Anyway the usual cup of tea at seven Mr Whelks?’
‘Oh yes please…and ya couldn’t see if Bert could see his way to making me a bacon roll.’
‘No worries sir.’
‘Cheerio see you in the morning.’
‘Good night sir!’

He was shown to a cell where he would spend the night. He had with him his night bag containing his pajamas, toothbrush and paste, slippers, a book on music hall jokes, a picture of his dearly beloved ramrod of a wife, who insisted he take her picture with him everywhere, plus the usual accoutrements of wrist and knee ties that would ensure that there would be no last minute struggles. After all in the twenty odd years of doing his job as public hangman, he wanted to go out on a high.

Later the prison Governor came to his cell, summoned by the duty warder. It was, in the main, to ensure that everything was in order, and that any last minute hitches were of the right kind.
“It really is quite a finale for me.”
“Finale?” asked the Governor.
“Yes, I intend to retire after tomorrow… after all my years in this business, it is the first time I have ‘ung a Duke. Even the great Mr Barry never had the privilege of ‘anging a Duke.’
Mr Whelks continued in a similar vein. A rather matter of fact monotone voice with totally no emotion whatsoever. 'The train arriving on platform four.'
“Not since I ‘ung a poisoner at Wandsworth ‘ave I looked forward so much to an ‘anging.”

They walked towards the condemned cell. The Governor would have liked him to have shown a little more finesse in the matter, but it seemed most unlikely.

“I do lament the loss of silk ropes ya know. You knew where you stood with silk ropes…but these ‘emp ones, they stretch all over the place and ya ‘ave ta weigh the prisoner right up to the night before ta get the drop right…I blame the cutbacks me self…ruddy Tories.”

They had by now reached the cell and the Governor slid back a small observation hatch in the door.
‘Well here we are.’
Mr Whelks looked in. The Duke was sat with his back to the door. Unbeknown to him, his rather long, graceful neck came under close scrutiny, and after several seconds of humming, scratching his chin, and putting his head first to one side then the other, Mr Whelks seemed satisfied.
“Well let me see, yes, approximate weight…11 stones 7lbs.” The Duke now stood with his back to them. “Height about 5ft 11inches…I fink I’ve got the ‘ang of that” he said in a cheery voice. The Governor flinched, and looked at the heavens for some kind of guidance. He would have settled for proper pronunciation of the English language. He closed the hatch.

Mr Whelks took his watch from his waistcoat. “Well sir considering the importance of the occasion I fink I will retire early, after all I do believe the last occasion when a Duke was executed it was very badly bungled…mind you that was in the days of the axe. The Governor rubbed the back of his neck and felt slightly queasy.

‘ Oh! By the way you will have to excuse my ignorance, but when we meet in the morning what is the correct form of address to use? Is it your Lordship?” To the Governor it was a rather surprising request, considering his crass behaviour up to that point.
‘It is your Grace…yes your Grace.’
‘Oh! your Grace.’

Mr Whelks thanked him and walked off, one thumb in his waistcoat. In the corridor, he started rehearsing his greeting out loud.
‘Good morning your Grace,’ he bellowed.
He stopped for a moment, and practiced a bow, one arm across his fat stomach, the other behind his back. He lowered his voice, ‘Good day your Grace.’ When he was satisfied with his address he proceeded to his night cell whistling the Death March.

The Governor did a smart about turn in the true tradition of a former officer in the Grenadier Guards, and went to visit his rather special prisoner. On entering the cell two warders sprang to attention. “Please sit down gentlemen.”

The Duke was sat at his desk finishing off and sealing letters. He turned, “Are good evening, Colonel.” His manner was light and extraordinarily buoyant considering it was probably his last.
“Would you care for a glass of wine? It is rather a good Rothschild circa 1904, from my wine cellar, a very good grape that year.”
The Governor declined.
“I came to enquire as to whether there were any particular or special requests we could fulfill with regard to your breakfast in the morning?”
The Duke smiled.

“Well contrary to expectations by the newspaper reading public, this condemned man will not be eating an hearty breakfast, but on the other hand, I would rather like to have a large cup of strong tea, and perhaps a slice of toast, and a few white grapes on the side would not go amiss. I think it is far too early to be eating a large breakfast, don’t you?”
The Governor twirled his moustache and looked rather worried.
“If I may venture to say so your Grace I am totally amazed at your calmness.”
The Duke looked steadily at him.
“I have so many matters to be getting on with that I cannot possibly allow my impending death to get in my way. Admittedly it does centre the mind but there is so much to do on this my final night, so many matters to bring to conclusion. Time is of the essence so to speak, and quite naturally I will be extraordinarily busy. So I may be a little tired in the morning, but where I’m going I will have an awfully long time to recover.”

The Governor bowed slightly. “Well if there is nothing more I can do for you, your Grace, I must be leaving. I will bid you goodnight.’
‘Thank you Colonel I’m sure we will have ample opportunity to make our dues in the morning.’
With that the Governor gave a slight bow once more, and departed.

The Duke sat at his desk writing, periodically dipping his quill into the inkwell, the scraping of the nib on paper being the only noise, apart from the gentle snoring of one of the warders, head propped on his hand. He sat at the table in the corner.

“For God’s sake can you wake that man?”
His mate nudged him. “Come on Walter wakey! Wakey!” The man sat up. He looked slightly startled.

“At least do me the courtesy of staying awake whilst on duty. It is the least a man can do when in the company of a fellow creature in the final hours of his time on earth.”

The man muttered to himself, adjusted his hat, stood up, did a quick knee- bend and sat down again. “Not long now.” he said cheerfully.

“I would appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself,” snapped the Duke, “ it is not by my choice you are here, and there will be plenty of time for your opinions when I have gone.”

The warder smiled, “Gone where sir?” a face of innocence and impertinence.

“Please none of your gallows humour it does you no service. If you wish to sleep then do it quietly.”

The warder stood once more and walked over to where the kettle was. He took if off the gas ring and went through the door into the next room. He could be heard filling it under the tap. “You’ll have to excuse him sir,” said his mate, “it’s his first time on this kind of watch.”
“Well that’s comforting to know.”

The Duke continued writing.
“A brief history as to the events leading thereto written on the eve of his execution by Edward Blashford-Snell Mancini, the eighth Duke of Richmond who ventures to hope that it will not prove uninteresting to those who remain to read it.”

‘There is so little time to complete my story; it is difficult to know where to begin. I was a healthy baby born of an English mother and an Italian father, who on setting eyes on me promptly succumbed to a heart attack and dropped dead on the spot. At the post mortem it was determined that he had had a weak heart all of which was unbeknown to my dear mother. What little I knew of my father came from my dear Mama.

They had met in the great hall of the castle of the Richmond’s, him being a singer of no repute, with a repertory company based in York who occasionally toured the provinces with their rendition of Gilbert and Sullivan, and on the odd occasion when the family sought entertainment was hired for the afternoon. His rich baritone voice, from Mama’s account, filled the Great Hall and sent trembles down her spinal column, and all this whilst making eyes at her, as she sat on the settee next to her mother and father, the Duke and Duchess. Often on completion of the days singing there would be light refreshment in the drawing room. By various means of suggestion my father would arrange to meet my mother in one of the large gazebos in the grounds, from which with true Italian aplomb, he would announce his undying love.

In what could only be termed a comparatively short time my mother fell in love also, whereby in a fit of utter abandonment they decided to elope, she swapping the luxuries of Richmond Castle for the more meagre and somewhat romantic address of 75 Tennyson Place, Harrogate. They were poor, but exceptionally happy, and they had five harmonious years before my arrival sent my father to meet the heavenly choir.

The Blashford-Snell’s, which were my mother’s ancestors, were a remarkably wealthy family of long standing, who resided in the main at Richmond Castle in the north Riding of Yorkshire. It was in deed a large estate of many acres bequeathed to the first Duke, then a Colonel in the King’s Life Guards, for services rendered throughout the King’s exile. During his subsequent restoration the Duchess offered solace and comfort to His Majesty all of which was duly rewarded by the creation of an exclusive heraldic entitlement that far outstripped anything at the time or since for that matter.

By the time I was 12 years old I was totally versed in the genealogy of the family and was aware of the unique position that females took. This comprised of equal footing in the line of descent, there being no discernment between the sexes. It was therefore theoretically possible that I may have, given the chance, inherited the Dukedom via my dear Mama.

The family on receipt of the news of my father’s death, promptly summoned Mama to the family seat, where she was informed that having married beneath herself, against the wishes of the family, she could expect little or no recompense for what was considered a poor marriage. If she had married into a loveless relationship that brought extra wealth to the family, the considered norm, things would have been perfectly acceptable, and she would have received her peerage in time, along with a substantial income, which no doubt would have been bequeathed to me on her death.

Years of relative hardship followed. Mother even swallowed her pride, and was reduced to the horrible expedient of having to take in a lodger, a certain Mr Piffin, an accountant at the Town Hall. As his name implies he was rather a dull, steady, sort of man that smelled of cheap cigars and blew his nose almost constantly, into a rather grey handkerchief, which he subsequently would fold and place in his top pocket. For him she had to perform the most menial of tasks. Pressing shirts, preparing food, cleaning shoes, and changing linen.

Mama wrote long and heartfelt letters usually addressed to her brother the banker of the family, Archibald Blashford-Snell, asking for reconciliation and some form of income in order to support both of us now that her husband was dead. She felt that the family were conspiring to cheat her of her birthright. Nothing was heard. It was indeed a cruel blow. With not one penny coming in, and cut off from what was rightfully hers, my dear mother had in addition to take work in a local factory, a position she found absolutely repugnant and was determined that I would not suffer likewise.

There, really begins the account that as led me here today… I remembered the sixth commandment, ‘thou shall not kill’ of which I had very little problem, nor did I have much of a problem with the seventh ‘thou shall not steal.’ Somehow my education, paid for by my dear Mama’s hard labour, had led me down the path of seeking evidence as to the ‘Greater Being’ none of which I could find. The question of Religious pursuit however, did not impede the behaviour of the Blashford-Snell’s. How else was it possible to be so heartless and uncaring toward my mother? Against such adversaries I was determined to show little sentiment. So with that in mind I began my quest to attain what was rightfully mine…by whatever means it took.

Chapter Two
Somewhere deep inside of Ted’s head he could hear thin strips of flexible metal rubbing on glass…tapping on glass, screeching on glass. It was intentionally irritating. For a moment he thought of school, fingernails scraping down the blackboard, slurring metal shovels on the concrete path by the boiler house… an involuntary shudder went down his spine, making the hairs on his arms stand up.

He lay tucked in his warm bed, his eyes half closed, looking at the chest high, steamy, window at the end of the small room. He pulled himself from the ice – floes and dreams of Captain Scott, frozen and starving in a cramped tent, eleven miles from salvation. Under the golden light of the lunar landscape, Oakes walked out to his death, whilst Emperor penguins stood around chatting about the price of fish.

Ted raised himself, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and went to the window. He opened it. A gust of ice - cold sobering air hit him square in the face. Large swirling snowflakes landed on the sill, and started melting. His nipples contracted. His breath turned to steam. His eyes watered.
Through his chattering teeth he shouted down to the street. “It’s all right Barry I’m up!”

In the snowy dawn he could see Barry stood by the gas lamp, wrapped in a dark brown, overcoat, his white face, poking out from above a red scarf, his black hat pulled over his ears. Barry yelled, “It’s a ruddy cold’un this morning lad!” and with that he shouldered his long pole, with its metal strips attached at the end, and went next door to tap on the window there, where no doubt Mr Andrews would soon start coughing his lungs up, and gobbing his green and yellow catarrh down into the snow covered garden.

The long metal strands beat out a tin drum reveille all the way down the street, in tune with coughing, spluttering and spitting, dragging people back into the boiler suited world of what Ted euphemistically called “the living.” Already the “Goons from Gooney Island” were walking the streets in twos, tramping down Tennyson Place, arms swinging rhythmically from their sides. In the snowy dawn they exchanged steamy “ughs” of acknowledgement outside Ted’s window as they went to work.

Ted took off his pajamas in the cold room, shivered, found a pair of underpants, dug out his shoes and socks, and went along the short landing into the small bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, shivered, decided he did not need a shave that morning, rubbed himself dry very quickly, and went downstairs into the living room. There he found his clean, starched, shirt, hanging on the clothes – horse, drying or dried. It was always the consistency of cardboard. Then from the coat hanger dangling on the cupboard handle, a practice his mother frowned upon, he slide off his charcoal grey trousers and pulled them on, tucking his shirt into the waistband, and pulling the braces up over his shoulders.

The garish light hanging in the middle of the room illuminated his mother, who was already getting the fire going. The shovel resting on the edge of the grate, a double sheet of newspaper pressed against it, the damper open, air-rushing underneath, being sucked up into the dancing flames that lapped around the lumps of “nutty slag.” 'Keep the home fires burning.'

The kettle was whistling on the stove in the corner. “This is the Night Mail crossing the border… bringing the cheque and the postal order…”

His mother was saying, “Make a pot of tea if you like… I’ll be back about tea time as usual...as you no doubt know Mr Piffin is away in Scarborough for a few days. She looked slightly relieved. 'Letters for the rich, letters for the poor, the shop at the corner, the girl next door.'
She removed the shovel and scorched paper, and placed them by the mantelpiece next to the half filled coalscuttle. The dull heat spread into the room. Going over to the coat hanger by the door, she took down her well - worn overcoat with shiny buttons, and wrapped it around herself. Finding her fur hat she put it over her hair and buttoned it under her chin, she then pulled on her fur lined ankle boots, a gift from her husband many years prior. It had matching gloves; she looked like Nanook of the North.

She then searched in the corner of the room and found her gas – mask. They had been issued with them that winter in preparation for goodness knows what. 'Hitler will send no warning.'

They stank to high heaven. Once they had to go to a Gas Mask Testing Station to see if they worked properly, walking in one door of a Nissan hut filled with gas, they were then told to make their way to the far end where they would be let out. They were also told they always had to carry them. Some day’s members of the Home Guard would throw tear gas at people coming out of the factory. It was a kind of training to see if they were prepared, and no doubt was considered a hoot by the men throwing the gas. His mother, on one occasion, was off work for four days with swollen eyes.

Ted seldom bothered carrying the cumbersome thing, as did so many others. Somehow it seemed beyond comprehension that Hitler would use such a weapon as dropping gas bombs on them, and many other people thought the same. Yet, 'In Flanders fields the poppies blow…between the crosses row on row…'

Ted’s mama was saying, “And by the way I want you to call in to the butchers this evening, and pick up the meat ration for dinner... there’s two shillings on the sideboard and I want some change... Oh! And don’t forget the ration coupons and make sure he weighs the meat properly, and put the fireguard on after you’ve warmed yourself, I don’t won’t holes burned in the best rug.” Though how lumps of dull, lifeless coal, with such little spark could jump over the fender was a mystery to Ted.

“All reet Mam!” Ted replied, holding out his arms for a hug, but not getting one. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that Edward it’s so common and sounds appalling. The words are ‘right, and mother’…” Ted smiled to himself knowing full well.

She went through the pantry and out into the snow covered street, narrowly avoiding tripping over the wooden sledge that Ted kept there all year round. The snowy, blurred, orange dawn of a winter’s morning greeted her.