Alfred’s Letter by Sally Trueman Dicken

The soldier wanted to get a message to his family while he still could . . .

SIX in the morning by the station clock. The platform is filled with men stamping their feet to keep out the cold. The mist has not yet cleared. It interweaves with the smutty smoke from the engine to veil the row of shuffling men waiting to board a train. Now you see them, now you don’t.

There is not much conversation, but a cacophony of coughing and spitting fills the air as the smoke from their Woodbines and smog from factory chimneys fills their throats and chokes them.

“Move along, Arthur, lad. Stop dithering. I need to get a seat right by a window.”

Private Arthur Wilkinson looks round in surprise. Alfred Asson is usually such a mild-mannered friend, part of the Lancashire Old Pals Brigade.

“What’s up, Alf? There’s plenty of seats, and it’s not like we’re off on a holiday trip. Serious stuff, is this.”

“I’ve a plan. I need to be near a window on the left-hand side of the train. Help me, will you?”

“What are you up to? This train won’t be stopping at Wigan station; it’s straight through from Carlisle to Manchester. There’ll be no hopping off to kiss your mam goodbye.”

“I know, but the train will slow before it goes through the station. They have to change the points to get us on the main line.” He shrugged. “It’ll be good to see my house again, even only a quick glimpse. Railway bridge goes right over the top of our street, tha knows.”

“You know, Alf, I wish we could let our families know that we are on our way to Flanders. They’ll be thinking we are still safe in training camp at Carlisle till they let us send one of those special postcards. Have you got yours safe?”

“Aye, lad. I’ve filled it out already.”

Alfred pulls a rather battered postcard from his top pocket. The rough brown paper like thin cardboard bears a red stamp imprinted on its surface, King George on one side and a list of possible messages on the back, to be ticked off as appropriate.

He stares at it in silence for a moment or two then stuffs it back in his bulging top pocket and lifts his heavy kitbag on to his shoulder ready to board the train.

Arthur Wilkinson is a well-built fellow and by dint of blocking the narrow corridor with his bulky body, ensuring that none can pass, he manages to secure a window seat for Alf.

Alfred sits down. He’s thinking of his mother poking the coals in the range in readiness for the porridge saucepan and the battered black frying pan.

He imagines her wiping her hands on her flowered pinny and laying the breakfast table, knives and forks taken from the cutlery drawer in the table, then the willow-pattern cups and saucers, the sugar bowl, the salt and pepper.

The familiarity of it all brings a pang to Alfred’s heart. Maybe going off to war is not such a jolly adventure, after all. What he would give to be sitting at his mam’s table right now.

As the train slows, the sound of the heavy wheels on the track alters, alerting the passengers to the changing of the points.

Alf listens carefully, stands and pulls the heavy leather strap off its brass stud to allow the window to drop to almost waist level. Cold air rushes in.

He fumbles in his top pocket and pulls out a package hidden at the bottom. He checks it briefly, then, as they pass the stone parapet of the bridge, he hurls the package high into the dawning sky.

It soars like a skylark upwards in an arc, then drops like a stone into the dark.

Alfred imagines it falling, landing on the cobbles below, being picked up by a passer-by. He hopes it will be someone who can read, or who knows someone who can read.

Billy, the butcher’s boy, can read – he’s been to school. His attendance has been somewhat erratic, but he’s a bright lad and has picked up the basics of reading, writing and mathematics.

He is cycling along with some early morning deliveries when a package descends from the sky to land in his basket. As he inspects the object he notices a word in capital letters.

REWARD.

It’s a knobbly package, secured with several rubber bands.

There is more writing, so he takes off the bands, smooths the paper without smudging the pencilled writing. It’s not easy to make out the words. But there’s an address.

Mrs Asson, 350 Park Rd, Wigan.

Billy will take it there, hand it to Mrs Asson and see what happens. He’s got to pass that very house on his route.

He has delivered there in the past: neck of lamb and a bit of kidney for a traditional Lancashire hotpot; nice piece of sirloin for the Sunday roast; sausages and tripe for the weekly meals.

She is one of their best customers. The word “reward” sounds promising.

Mrs Asson answers the door, wiping her hands on her pinny. She is surprised to see Billy. It’s not his usual delivery day.

He takes off his cap respectfully.

“This letter has got tha’s name on it, missus, and the address. It says ‘reward’, missus. It dropped out of the sky, likely from a passing train. I did hear the whistle.”

He holds out the package. Mrs Asson extends a suspicious hand as if the package might explode. She is wary of boys, particularly butcher’s boys. In her experience, they are often up to mischief.

“Tha’s right, lad, it’s my name. Let’s open it and see what’s what.”

She unwraps the package, layer after layer of paper, like a mummified ball. At the core, a shower of heavy copper coins drop out and a short letter on a shabby piece of paper.

Mrs Asson screws up her eyes and holds the letter close, then far, and eventually hands it to Billy.

“Ee, lad, I can’t make all this out. Can’st tha read it out? I’ve not got my glasses on. It’s a lot of writing.”

“Aye, missus, give it back here.”

Billy is used to this. His mother is poor at reading, too. She has not had much schooling – the old ’uns hadn’t, not being forced to attend school in their young days.

He’s not brilliant himself, but this letter is written in a bold hand. He takes the letter, studies it carefully for a while to make the most of this important moment.

Only then does he clear his throat, husky with the smog, to read the contents of the note.

“Dear Mother,

We are on the Move. I think this is it. We are off to the Front. I can’t tell you where. I just wanted you to know.

Your affectionate son, Alfred.

P.S. Please give the Bearer of this note a reward for getting it to you.

P.P.S. I miss your hotpot sorely Mother. Looking forward to it when I have some leave. Please tell Lily I love her and I’ll send her one of those embroidered postcards, like the ones the other lasses in the street got from their lads.

P.P.P.S. Please send some more socks and a balaclava.

Love to all.”

“Well, I never! Our Alfred, whatever will he get up to next? What a lad! Going to the Front; socks; balaclavas. What a list!” She shakes her head. “Good job our Gladys has been busy with her knitting-needles. There’s a pile as high as her knee waiting to be sent off. She’s been using that knitting supplement for shooting gloves and mittens.”

Ada Asson looks perplexed at this sudden turn of events. She straightens her pinny and adjusts one of her hair clips to secure a wisp of floating hair while she works out what to do next.

“Wait there, lad. I’ll need to fetch the master, to check what you say is written down.”

Billy hops from one foot to another on the cold step. He hopes he won’t be in trouble with Mr Butterworth for being slow on his rounds.

But then, Mrs Asson is allus such a good customer, orders a lot of meat, allus pays on time. Maybe she will put in a good word for him with his employer.

Mr Asson appears at the door, in his waistcoat with his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He is halfway through his breakfast and is wiping his mouth with a cotton napkin.

“Now, then, lad, what’s all this about?”

Billy holds out the note, explains how it landed in his basket, then stands silent, waiting, arms by his sides. He knows his place.

Mr Asson studies the note for some time, then turns to his wife, standing close by.

“That’s our Alfred’s handwriting, all right. I’d know it anywhere, messy beggar. To the Front, eh? A son to be proud of, Mother. A reward? Let’s see . . .”

He fishes in his pocket for some change and pulls out a fistful of copper and silver. He pokes about carefully with work-stained fingers; he is an ironworker in full employment now.

His choice is silver. Billy’s eyes water at this bounty. A shiny shilling lies in his hand, a fortune! He touches his forelock in the manner of a faithful servant.

“Thank you, master, missus, I must be off.”

“Thank you, lad, for bringing us news of my boy, my bonnie soldier lad.”

Billy will tell them later at home how he saw Mr Asson wipe away a tear from his eye.

He speeds off on his tricycle, before anybody can change their minds, to complete his rounds and hurry home for his breakfast.

Meanwhile, Alfred is sitting on his itchy seat, drowsy now that the rush of adrenaline has passed, for he had lain awake all night plotting and planning.

His eyelids droop. He blinks and thinks of home. Has his letter reached its destination or not? It is for fate to decide.

The cheerful chatter of the carriage washes over him, as the tide over shingle. His eyelids droop again and he surrenders to sleep.

“Alfred’s mum did get the letter, didn’t she, Nanny?”

Simon and his grandma are giving the front room a bit of a dust, like they always do on Saturday mornings. Ellie can do with some help with the housework and Simon could do with some pocket money.

It’s an arrangement that suits them both.

“Yes, pet, she did.” Ellie polishes the silver frame of a twin photograph holder.

“And she told Lily about Alfred going off to France and soon Lily had a lovely embroidered card?”

“Yes, pet. This is Alfred in the photo here, on this side, and Lily’s special postcard is in the other half.”

Ellie gives the photos an extra whisk of the yellow duster, as if to make the matter clearer.

On one side is a sepia photo of a solemn young man in uniform, holding a bicycle against a backdrop of rows of white tents, obviously taken in a studio before he embarked.

It is a complete contrast to the vivid colours of an embroidered postcard on the other side, where a young woman looking wistful stands in a doorway framed by pink roses.

There is even a loving verse in flowing copperplate, to remind a soldier of what awaits him at home.

“Alfred came back from the war and married Lily and they had Joyce and she’s my great-grandma, isn’t she?” Simon was concentrating on getting the story in the right order.

“That’s right, my love. Now, I think that’s enough family history for today. I don’t know about you, Simon, but I am fair parched with all this dusting.

“I think we’re finished here. What do you say to some hot chocolate and a Wagon Wheel?” n