The Angel Of Mons - Chapters 1 and 2

One
A shaft of brilliant sunlight burst through the heavy, humid grey cloud. It struck a desolated landscape, turned and churned, dusty and white from the chalk which until just a few days before had been covered with long grass and rich topsoil. Deep trenches cut into the earth and the sound of frantic activity bellowed all around. The turning and pumping of engines, the working and scratching of shovels, the breathless endeavours of an army of shirtless perspiring men each with their own job to do, each making their own contribution.
A huge mechanical digger cut a massive swathe into the earth and spat out its load onto a waiting truck which with a roar headed away leaving a trail of white dust and black diesel smoke in its wake.
Amongst all of this, a tiny area was beautifully maintained. Like an oasis in a vast desert, there stood a selection of brightly coloured plants in pots on a small paved terrace. A rich green lawn was surrounded by flowerbeds that were full of sweet peas and pansies. A young peach tree stretched its new green branches against the wall of the small pristine house. A thin wire fence mounted on wooden stakes surrounded the garden marking its boundary.
George looked up at the ray of sunshine and smiled. His head shook slightly and his blue eyes filled with moisture as he squinted into the brightness. He was on one knee next to a rose bush, which was planted in a large red pot. His left leg was stretched out in front of him awkwardly. His thin grey hair was parted on the right and the strands fell across his forehead sticking to his moist skin. He wore a blue striped cotton shirt, with no collar, braces and light brown corduroy trousers. His brown brogues were polished to perfection.
Next to him, panting noisily lay a thick set bulldog who was as black as coal, apart from a brilliant white patch of hair which covered the left side of his face. His dark watery eyes watched his masters every move. Occasionally he would lift his lazy body and vigorously shake his head, cascading thick silver ribbons of saliva noisily from his hanging jowls, before turning a tight circle on the spot and dropping to the warm ground once more.
George clipped a dead head from the bush and suddenly drew air through his teeth. He frowned and moved his head forward toward a large perfect yellow bloom at the centre of the plant. The dogs ears pricked up and he slowly heavily awkwardly lifted himself into a sitting position and nuzzled against George’s out stretched leg whilst letting out a quiet cry from under his laboured breath. George watched as a drop of blood ran down the outside of the flower. At first it was thick and dark, but as it continued on its path, the colour became translucent, until eventually it seemed to become part of the plant itself. He held his right index finger in front of his face. He lifted his head back slightly and as he did, he lowered his hand away. A thorn had broken the skin and another drop was forming on his fingertip. George reached with his left hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a carefully folded handkerchief. He was just about to rap the wound when he hesitated and instead put the finger into his mouth. His eyes closed slightly his grey face tightened for a moment as he cleaned the wound. The dog leant to one side and lifted his paw, resting it on George’s foot. George removed the finger from his mouth and once again held it in front of him. This time, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his wire frame spectacles. He was able to hold his injured finger closer to his face now. He pressed his thumb on to the finger forcing another drop of blood to rise and run down onto his hand. George looked down at the whimpering dog and smiled. He lowered his hand in front of its face, only to remove it quickly when it became obvious that the animal had it in mind to lick away the thin stream of blood. George smiled and shook his head, “only a flesh wound Bulls-eye,” he muttered to the dog as he pushed his body up and struggled slightly to stand. “Only a flesh wound.”
“Come on Bully,” he called above the surrounding din. George’s left leg turned awkwardly as it was placed on the grass in front of him. The leg was shorter than his right. To compensate, George walked on the top of his toes on his left side but even with this action, his limp was pronounced. Bully walked alongside, his head raised looking up at George. The dog walked in time to George’s awkward steps. Like a soldier marking time, he slowed at every other pace, his front leg hovering for a moment above the ground.
George and Bulls-eye headed back to the kitchen where George made a half pot of tea. He glanced at his pocket watch and then checked its accuracy with the electric clock on the front of the cooker. It was four thirty. George poured his tea into his favourite mug, which he had rinsed out under the cold tap added two sugars and headed back into the garden.
The sun was bright now; a light breeze had broken the cloud that had cast a depressing shadow over the land for most of the day. George sat back, his left hand resting lazily on Bulls-eye’s head, his long fingers gently rubbing the animal’s ears. Bulls-eye in return occasionally licked the hand and purred noisily like a large contented fat cat.
George admired his handy work. He had cleared a large area at the top of the garden of tangled nettles and weeds. Turned the soil and planted a variety of bulbs, which he hoped he would be around to see in the spring. He had cut along the edges of the flowerbeds, leaving neat curves and steep borders. He had cleared a large rhubarb and hastily thrown it into the plot next door. George hated rhubarb.
George lifted his face toward the sun and leant back on the garden bench. He seemed oblivious to the racket of building work going on around him. Cement mixers turned, dumper trucks thumped and men shouted and whistled. The mechanical diggers scraped the land away and the trucks roared and clattered down the unmade roads.
George’s head lowered to one side and his eyes closed. The mug, now empty tilted perilously and then fell; it rolled down George’s right leg onto the paving stones where it eventually came to rest undamaged against Bulls-eye who raised his head for a moment before rolling onto his back and falling asleep, his long pink tong hanging from the side of his drooling mouth.
George woke with a jump, his eyes wide, sweat running from his temples. He leant forward, his breathing was fast. He had been woken by the silence. Suddenly, everything around him was still. The machines were silent; the men were leaving, on bicycles and on foot in battered cars and rusty vans. He reached into his pocket; he knew what the time would be. This happened every day at five.
George spotted the cup laying next to Bulls-eye who slowly opened one eye then the other. He rolled over, stood and stretched himself out. Picking up the cup George headed back into the kitchen eventually followed by the dog that clattered his drinking bowl around the floor to indicate that it needed replenishing.
Suddenly he became aware of the sound marching music that grew ever louder as it approached – the sound of a car radio. George smiled and slowly shook his head, ‘Can you hear that Bully?’ George braced himself for the imminent arrival home of his younger brother, Graham.

Two

George was running like the wind. His fair hair was swept back from his smiling face. He had cut across country toward Ashridge and was heading through the beach and oak filled woods toward the village of Albury in the valley below. His shirt was open to the waist and as he ran it blew behind him revealing his wiry frame, sinew and muscle formed and trained by hours of work on the land, sowing and reaping.
George expertly dodged the trees and jumped the fallen branches; he ducked below the leaf-laden boughs and skipped across the tangled brambles. The air was warm, as it had been for the whole of July and the first two weeks of August.
The sun was setting across the valley and it was growing dark beneath the thick wood canopy. Before long he reached a hedge, which he ducked through emerging in a field from where he could see the village. The brickwork of the assorted cottages glowed red in the evening light. A smoky mist hung over the thatched roofs from the cooking stoves, which had been stoked for the preparation of the evening meal. George stopped, took in the view and smiled; his blue eyes were moist from the rushing air. Within moments his breathing returned to normal and he set off again, watched lazily by a small heard of cows which looked up at him as he dashed passed them, briefly interrupting their eating of the rich green meadow.
When he reached the village, he slowed down. He could smell the wood smoke from the chimneys and the rich soiled farmyards.
As he crossed Manor farm George spotted Bert Jackson crossing the yard in long straight strides. Bert was of farming stock, he was broad and strong, his face and arms were tanned his hair was bleached blond from the sunshine. He wore a long smock, rough sack trousers and leather knee length boots. They exchanged greetings, and Bert told George that his son and their friends had gone to the pub, “anxious to take a look at the day’s newspaper.” Bert paused and looked for a moment at his boots before raising his head and squinting into what remained of the day, “can’t think why, looks like nothing but bad news to me,” he said shaking his head a little.
“You’ll be joining us Mr Jackson?”
“Dare say, little later perhaps. We’ll see,” he paused and looked down once more. “See you later boy, and remember, don’t you have to much of that ale, as best man, you’ve a busy day tomorrow.”
George smiled and winked at his friend’s father before breaking into a slow run.
The path ended near the heart of the village. To his left George could see the pond where they cleaned and watered the horses and the farm equipment. Next to that were the old stocks. A huge oak filled the skyline around the pond next to the road, which lead back up to Ashridge. Directly ahead, George could see the gaslights of the Greyhound glowing warm and welcoming. As he approached the open door he fastened his shirt and hurriedly tucked it beneath his thick brown belt. He could hear the sound of deep voices, interspersed with laughter. George looked at the old building as he approached. Its red brick walls were covered in ivy, its black window frames were cracked, the old paint flaking and the panes filthy with the breath and tobacco smoke of generations of local people who had gathered there for over three hundred years. Generation after generation, un-interrupted, as predictable as spring following winter.
The room was thick with smoke and as George walked in a brief silence seemed to enter with him. His friends were gathered in the corner by an empty lifeless fireplace. Sid saw him first and nudged Peter, the groom to be, who turned to George smiling, his eyes slightly glazed a thin layer of glowing perspiration glistening on his forehead.
Peter walked toward George, his right hand held out in greeting. “George, you got some catching to do my friend,” he said quietly.
Peter went to the bar and without waiting to be served, reached up and took George’s tankard from a hook above the counter. He handed it to George and filled it from a frothing pitcher of beer. He then topped up the rest of waiting cups.
“To Peter,” announced George, “the first of us to succumb to the charms of,” he paused for a moment, “of a fair maiden. Good luck, God bless the both of you.”
They banged their cups together, and cheered.
The sound of their laughter could be heard across the pond where Bert Jackson was pushing a wooden wedge into the chicken hutch latch. He smiled, a distant look in his eyes, he was reminded perhaps of the night before his wedding twenty-three years earlier.
Bert turned and headed back into the farmhouse where he was welcomed by the smell of stew bubbling on the stove. Edna, his wife stood stirring the pot, her back to the door. She didn’t look round or acknowledge his entering the house in any way. He walked around the kitchen table and standing behind her he slid his hands around her waist, placed his head across her right shoulder and brushed his cheek against hers. She smiled while she stirred. Bert held her tight for a while and then gently released her, sat down at the table and took off his boots.
“You need a shave before tomorrow Bert Jackson,” she said still smiling as she spooned the stew onto their plates.

By eleven-o clock, Norman Jackson, the landlord had had enough of the merry making.
They were sitting, as they had been for an hour, slouched on benches, belching loudly, demanding more beer. He suggested that they had had more than enough to drink, and said that as the groom’s uncle he felt duty bound to send them on their way while they could still walk.
Ten minutes later they emerged into the dark stumbling and singing, their arms rapped around each other’s shoulders. “I can’t see a thing,” cried Harry, “God has struck me blind.”
The stars shone above them in the warm moonless night. The group of young men, all but boys, stood outside the pub, swaying and stumbling, unsure of which way to turn. George suggested they sit down for a while to gather themselves a little before they went their separate ways. They agreed and headed toward the pond, which was barely visible in the inky darkness.
When they reached the bank, they fell to the ground, giggling uncontrollably like children in a playground.
Harry reached into his jacket pocket and quietly pulled out a silver flask. He tugged out the cork stopper with his teeth and took a long slug before offering it to his friends. “Brandy” He said.
Sid took a drop and as he swallowed he grabbed his throat and gasped.
As the fiery liquid was circulated, they became quiet. They lay back on the damp grass and looked, hollow eyed at the star filled sky. Harry was the only one to remain standing, he danced and jigged as he took regular swigs from the flask, accompanied by his own tuneless humming.
“You’ll never guess who I saw at the market on Tuesday?” he called, his voice struggling to maintain a natural rhythm. “Go on, have a guess, and while you’re at it guess what he was wearing.”
After several minutes and some wild guesses, which included the Kaiser, dressed as a nun and the Archduke Ferdinand dressed as his wife, they gave up and virtually begged Harry to tell them.
“Only that goats dick Donald Rogers.”
“Donald Rogers, I haven’t see that twat for months,” said Peter, portraying in his tone a history between them.
“I hope you didn’t speak to the toss pot?” Said David, spitting slightly as he spoke.
“I did,” said Harry, who plonked himself heavily down on the grass next to the rest of them.
“Why?” Asked Paul who had sat up and was reaching to Harry for the flask.
“I wanted to know why he was in uniform.”
Harry smiled and nodded his head when he heard the gasps of disbelief.
“ I didn’t think the situation was so desperate that the King would want a someone like Donald in the army,” said George who was now holding the flask and shaking his head.
“Well,” continued Harry, “it would seem they are. And you will never guess what he said?”
“Don’t start that again Harry for CC Christ’s sake,” said Sidney in a weary tone.
“He said he was going to fight, wait for it, going to fight the French.”
They all began to laugh deep painful belly laughs, rolling on the grass and grabbing their stomachs.
Eventually they grew quiet; only the occasional exclamation of disbelief could be heard muttered under the breath.
They lay under the stars in silence until the flask was drunk dry. Each with their own thoughts of the evening they had enjoyed and no doubt of the day to come.
“S’pose we’d better think about making a move,” said George doing his best to live upto the responsibilities of his duties as best man.
“S’pose,” they agreed in quiet lazy tones.
A moment later, Peter sat up and drew his feet toward him in a concerted effort to stand. He noticed something or someone was preventing his foot from moving. He could see nothing in the dark but thought at first that perhaps it was caught in a reed. Suddenly he felt his shoulders lift, and his lower body rise as he became conscious of hands gripping his arms and legs.
“On my count,” called Harry who was holding Peters thrashing feet. The rest of them were laughing and stumbling under his weight.
“One, two, three.” There was a second of silence as Peter’s large frame could be seen flapping and flailing as it disappeared into the darkness. The throwers lurched backwards, slipping on the bank of the pond, George’s foot sunk into the muddy water. And just as he felt the cold seep into his boot, Peter hit the water with a thumping splash, as if a large bolder had been dropped from a great height into a deep pool. He emerged moments later, coughing and gasping for breath, while the others slapped each other on the back and cheered.
Peter too was laughing and swearing as he stepped back onto the bank. It was not long before he began to shiver, and George suggested they head for home.
As they left the bank of the pond, George paused for a moment and looked back to where they had been laying. “Come on George, lot to do tomorrow,” said Peter who placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “lets get some sleep.” The sound of water squelching in Peter’s boots accompanied them across the road toward home.
By the time George had made his way back up the hill to Ashridge, the black of the night was beginning to give way to the dark blue of the first signs of morning. Birdsong shattered the silence as the tiny creatures awoke in their nests and celebrated the dawning of the new day.
George was sober when he arrived at the Gables, he felt alive and alert. He let himself in through the kitchen door trying hard not to disturb the peace of the house. He could smell stale tobacco smoke and soot in the chimneys. He could hear the loud reassuring tick-toc of the grandfather clock, which stood at the bottom of the stairs. George headed through the hall stepping as lightly as he could. None the less the polished wooden floor flexed and creaked noisily.
As he passed the door to the drawing room he was surprised to see his father in his dark green quilted dressing gown standing at the window watching the sunrise, apparently unaware of George.
“Father?”
His father turned slowly and exhaled cigarette smoke.
“Hello George,” he said in a loud whisper. “Did you have a good evening?”
“We did, thank you.”
His father smiled and turned back toward the window as George walked up to him. “I was woken by the morning chorus,” he said reaching out and placing his hand on George’s shoulder. He pulled George gently toward him and kissed him the side of the head. “You should try to get some sleep George. What time have you to be at the church? I’ll make sure that you are woken.”
George explained that he was expected at midday
His father turned and opened the top drawer of his desk. He handed George a ten-shilling note. “Give Peter my regards and buy your friends a drink. Dare say they may need it, hair of the dog and all that. Go on lad, get yourself up to bed.”
George took the money and smiled. He turned and made his way upstairs aware that his father was watching him as he left the room.
The sun was streaming through his window as he lay his head on his thick duck down pillow; he could feel its warmth stroking his face while he slipped gently into a deep dreamless sleep.

Peter’s eyes looked vacant as he sat at the top of the aisle next to George. Every few seconds he turned and looked back at the entrance of the church. The place was full to rafters with the people of Albury and the surrounding district. Young and old, all had come together to celebrate the joining of two their own.
Peter’s mother and father sat immediately behind them holding hands and smiling at one another. Children ran excitedly up and down, ducking and hiding between the pews and the font. The Reverend Jones stood watching them with a thinly veiled look of disdain.
George noticed the sun streaming in through the side windows throwing patterns of colour across the congregation, all of whom were turned out in their Sunday best. Dust hovered and floated in the beams of brilliant light, it turned and flew in tiny eddies like a rushing stream, which never seemed to reach the polished tiled floor.
And above all this activity and excitement, stood the image of the Son with a fixed forlorn gaze which met no ones eye, patiently waiting for the flock to become quiet, right hand raised to the heavens, left lower, fingers spread as if about to stroke the head of a child.
George felt Peter’s hand squeeze his thigh as the door at the rear of the church drew open exposing the frantic activity of dresses and veils receiving there final adjustments.
There was an intake of breath among those assembled, a moment of stillness and then the sound of people smiling as Liz and her grinning father made their way in silence toward the alter, flanked by her two youngest cousins.
Her dress was long, in white cotton. A simple veil covered her fair freckled face, and her red hair hung over her broad shoulders. She was carrying a small bouquet of wild flowers picked that morning by Peter from the path that lead to Ashridge; it had been George’s job to deliver them to her home. Each step she took revealed a tiny bare foot, her shoes having been left at the entrance.
When she stopped and the veil was lifted, George could see that she had woven some of the flowers into her hair, she turned to look at Peter, her smile was as broad as her father’s. Peter smiled and bowed a little, and then her eyes crossed his shoulder and for a second met George’s. He smiled and nodded to her. She looked into his eyes a moment longer before she turned away and faced the altar.
The young children were first to burst into the sunlight. Some gathered around the path; others among the lichen covered gravestones. They were followed by the parents of the bride and groom and then the guests. George took the hands of the bridesmaids and led them out, followed eventually by the happy couple. They paused for a moment at the door, and then Liz hitched up her skirt and ducking their heads they ran through a barrage of paper, rice and rose petals, the congregation laughed and cheered. Peter’s father took hold of the bit of his finest horse and led it forward pulling his red wheeled cart to the arched gate at the edge of the churchyard. Peter and Liz stopped beneath the arch and after considerable encouragement from the crowd they kissed before Peter helped his bride onto the back of the cart. She reached down and took a handful of straw, which she threw across the cheering people below.
“Forward,” called Peter’s father and the horse trotted on excitably carrying its happy passengers toward the Greyhound pub and their wedding breakfast.
George stood for a while behind the guests as they streamed in pursuit of the wedding party. Couples arm in arm, children running ahead, infants carried in the arms of their parents. He looked down at the dusty road in front of him. And amongst the makeshift confetti he noticed a short daisy chain, four flowers in length.
“I shall make a chain of these George, thank you,” she had said when he delivered the bouquet to Liz that morning. George bent down and gently picked up the tiny flowers, he held them on the palm of his hand and smiled. He looked up toward the crowd and once he was sure no one was watching him, he placed the chain in the back pocket of his wallet, which he then tucked safely into his jacket.
John Faulks, a grocer from Tring stood outside the Greyhound, his fiddle resting precariously on his forearm, his bow arm thrusting in quick precise movements as he struck another tune. The wedding party had spilled out into the street half of them danced gaily in the late afternoon sun.
George and Peter sat by the pond with their friends. Their silence was broken by the arrival of Peter’s father who carried with him a fresh pitcher of beer. “Thought you might need a top up son,” he said with a glint in his eye, “don’t have to much though lad, you’ve got work to do later on.” He smiled as he ruffled his son’s hair.
“What do you think will happen in France Mr Jackson?” Asked Paul Mole who was laying on his back, his empty tankard on his chest, his hands behind his head, a long sweet piece of grass in his mouth.
“This is no time to talk of war boys,” he replied forcing a shallow laugh.
“They say the Germans are killing anyone that gets in their way, woman children even,” said Sidney who stood up and stretched his arms above his head like a waking giant.
They talked about the battles being fought in France and discussed the retreat back toward Paris.
Harry announced to Peters father that Donald Rogers had joined up to fight the French and was a little disappointed when this time no one thought it to be funny.
“Listen to me lads, it don’t effect any o you, you got to work the land, you’re needed here. Them soldiers still got to eat ain’t they?”
George reached across and poured some of the frothy beer into his tankard. He looked back toward the pub where he could see the party dancing and laughing skipping and tripping in the afternoon sunshine.
“What you men talking about down here?”
They hadn’t noticed Liz who stood behind Peter.
“Come on Husband, come sweep me off my feet.”
Faulks needed no encouragement to break into a fast rhythmic jig, which was quickly accompanied by the sound of polished hobnail boots stamping the ground. Peter swung his wife around him while the others clapped their hands in time to the music. Liz smiled, her father cried and George wished the day would never end.
On the far side of the pond George could see a gathering of young children. Two lay by the pond with long sticks in their hands. On the other side of the farmyard wall he could see another four tiny grubby faces holding sticks to their cheeks, taking aim. He saw a barrage of dried dung fly through the air and hit one of the boys at the pond who stood for a moment, his arms raised above his head before he dropped his stick grasped his stomach and he fell to the ground with a loud scream.
The four climbed over the wall and ran toward the other boy at the pond who raised himself onto one knee. “Bang, bang bang.” One of the four stopped in his tracks, and fell seemingly lifeless to the ground. “Bang Bang Bang,” called the remaining three.
When they reached the pond, the attackers stabbed the defender with their sticks and with a loud scream he too fell.
One of the boys walked over to the defenders and stood over them. He gently kicked their bodies and they turned over. “Bang,” he shouted pointed the stick at each of their heads. “Bang.”
They went back to their friend who had fallen in the road lifted him up; and carried him to the wall of the farm, laid him down taking care to place his arms on his chest. The smallest of them made the sign of the cross above him and they bowed their heads as if in prayer.
“Boys, come get some o this ham you little rascals,” called Norman Jackson from the entrance of the pub. The dead arose and the living cast down their weapons, they smiled and ran happily around the pond and into the pub.