A Hero’s Welcome

The village’s men were returning from war, and Dorothea would make sure they received the homecoming they deserved . . .

THE village was planning a day of celebration for the men who were coming back, and Dorothea Wishaw was enthusiastic.

“I feel I have not done my bit,” she told her husband. “At least, not enough.”

“That’s not true, Dorry,” he said. “You’ve knitted for soldiers since the outbreak. You’ve done a dozen fund-raisers.”

“But I want to show other women that I stand with them,” Dorothea replied.

“I want to show them that I’ve tried to understand the loss of many, and that now I want to understand the relief of the rest. You see, don’t you, Neville?”

“I do,” he assured her. Neville and Dorothea had only daughters, who were married now, so they had not had to live with the terrible anxiety that had dogged other parents for the four years of the war.

Neville had a nephew who was a captain, but he was safe at home now and had just asked his sweetheart to marry him.

Dorothea had a cousin who had given his life in France, though she’d barely known him.

“We are the luckiest pair in Britain,” Dorothea sometimes said.

Now, as 1919 began, there was to be a Welcome Home Day. It would be in May, and she was determined to be its leading light.

She had the time, after all – Neville’s law practice meant they were well off.

The parish had raised the idea as many towns and villages were planning similar welcome events, and it was clear that they’d like to get someone to run the thing.

“A meal at long tables!” she exclaimed to Neville. “For the men and their immediate families. We will show the respect and gratitude of our citizens by what we lay on.”

Neville put an arm around her as her tears flowed. She was always emotional when she talked about the war.

When she spoke of the men and boys who had died, there were twice as many tears.

“My goodness,” Dorothea said, wiping her eyes and pulling herself together. “How many places will we need?”

“That’s a good question,” he said.

The number of dead was well known: their names would be carved on the memorial on the common, and as the war dragged on those names had been posted on the board in the high street.

It was not yet clear how many would come back. There were soldiers being demobbed all the time, but nobody had realised how long it would take or how chaotic it would be.

Rumour had it that it would be the summer before every British man who’d fought would finally get back.

“I will go round the village and gather names,” Dorothea said. “I must have some idea of numbers.”

Dorothea began with the more urgent job of gathering resources.

There was, as a minimum, she decided, to be hot beef and cold ham, French salads and sliced tomatoes, baked potatoes and a range of puddings and cakes.

The village hall, the Prince Albert Rooms, would have urns boiling for plentiful tea as the meal came to an end.

Naturally donations were needed, not just of foodstuffs and offers of baking, but of hard cash.

“I’ve formed a committee,” Dorothea told her husband. “Greta Marsham will persuade the well-to-do to hand over their money. She has the charm and good looks that I lack.”

“Nonsense,” Neville said, kissing her.

“Marie Fuller is on flags, bunting and banners. Of course we’ll have a parade.

“I can’t imagine many men will say no to that, though some will be in bath chairs, and some have lost legs, of course.”

There was a short silence as husband and wife thought of the injured men, then Dorothea forged on.

She poured her husband a cup of coffee, and as she talked about her plans it reached the top of the cup and overflowed on to the saucer.

“Silly me!” she said. “The band from the church will play,” she said. “Harriet Prendergast is taking charge of the songs and so on, and her husband Harry will conduct.

“At least those fine, brave men will know how much we value

them, and how much we are thankful to them.” Weeks passed, and Dorothea had still not found time for her tour of the village, which would give an idea of numbers.

She bemoaned the lack of opportunity to her housekeeper, Mrs Johnstone.

“I wonder if I could get someone to do that for you?” Mrs Johnston asked.

“Oh, could you?” Dorothea clasped her hands together. “That would be tremendous!”

It struck Dorothea that someone of Mrs Johnston’s class might well do a better job of the count.

The plain folk of North Thersham were far more numerous than her own middle-class sort of person, and so there would be far more men returning to their homes than to the homes of the doctor and the banker and the parish officials.

“I think Netty Ingram might have time,” Mrs Johnston remarked. “She’s a son coming back soon, so she might feel it’s work worth doing.”

“Mrs Ingram would be perfect,” Dorothea replied.

So Dorothea called on Mrs Ingram, who lived in a very old but charming little terrace in the high street with an original ladder staircase.

Mrs Ingram offered Dorothea some tea and kindly agreed to help.

“There’s to be a party?” Mrs Ingram asked.

“More than that! May I call you Annette? I have so much to do, and formalities do so get in the way.”

“Netty is fine, Mrs Wishaw.”

“And I am Dorothea. We are in this together, along with all the ladies of North Thersham. I am glad that your boy is coming back.” Netty nodded.

They both knew that in their thoughts were the men not coming back, and all the women who loved them.

As the weeks passed, there were many meetings. Dorothea was pleased to announce that a magician would provide a show after the parade and before the luncheon was served.

“For free,” Dorothea said to Neville with a burst of nervous laughter.

She was enjoying this project more than she liked to admit.

“Now, who will take charge of ensuring that the the rest of us will stand in the right place outside the hall to cheer the lads in with their families?”

Lady Frances Thomas, wife of a local bigwig, came to one of the meetings, and Dorothea seized upon her shamelessly. Lady Thomas was persuaded to provide the beer.

“My husband has fingers in many pies,” Lady Thomas said cheerfully. “I believe that one of those pies is the brewery at Thersham Parva, so we shall see what can be done.”

“Marvellous!” Dorothea was delighted. “The lads must have a drink to make the day special.”

The women of North Thersham mostly shared Dorothea’s enthusiasm. Marie Fuller had dragged in her sisters for the production of bunting, and Greta was doing sterling work with her moneybox and her dazzling smile.

They were able to hire the services of a well-known mezzo-soprano from Norwich, who would give a rendition of both the national anthem and “Auld Lang Syne” at the end.

“Let’s hope for perfect weather,” Dorothea said to Netty Ingram.

“Yes, indeed,” Netty agreed. “I have that list for you.”

“Excellent. How many men and what sort of numbers for the families?”

“It’s forty-three men. A few have given a likely return date, and I believe all our surviving men will be in North Thersham by the end of April.

“Add to that eighty more places for families,” Netty added. “Mrs Wishaw?”

Netty hesitated with the list in her hand.

“It’s a fine idea, this Welcome Home Day.” “I should think so.”

“It will be good to give the men a hot meal and some music.”

“We are giving them respect, Netty.” Dorothea nodded. “That’s what we’re really doing.”

“Yes, respect,” Netty said more quietly.

“Netty, are you all right?” Dorothea asked.

“Yes.” Netty nodded and gave Dorothea her list. “Did you know that there are men already making suggestions for the money that’s been raised?”

“The Welcome Home Day money? Well, that’s spoken for.

“It’s to pay for the food that’s not donated, and for getting Miss Laura Barker up from Norwich in a car for her performance, and for a dozen other things.”

“There’s been a suggestion of public baths. That would need a larger subscription, but –”

“Baths?” Dorothea was stumped.

Her head was reeling with how to keep the cheese from spoiling if it was hot on the day, and if fireworks could be afforded, and here was Netty talking about public baths.

“Well, you see, there’s been no improvements to some of the dwellings for so long,” Netty pointed out. “Dwellings?”

“The terraces behind the common. Some have become insanitary.

“There are two families sharing a house up by the Richardson farm because of bad subsidence in a labourer’s cottage.

“Both families have a young father back from the war.”

Dorothea blinked.

“I had no idea.” Netty was looking steadily at her.

“Perhaps I should come and see,” Dorothea suggested.

The concept that men were coming back to a lack of decent housing was entirely new to Dorothea, but Netty showed her that it was a real problem.

Women had battled to make repairs with everdecreasing money, and they had repeatedly asked the council for help, and had repeatedly been turned away.

“There was a war on,” Netty said bluntly.

“I didn’t realise,” Dorothea said as they walked away from a house at the lower end of the village.

That had been divided for two families, too.

The men of the house were due back soon from demob, and the women were struggling to control the damp that was creeping up the walls.

If she and Neville had a problem with the fabric of their house, Dorothea thought as she walked, Mr Gunner, the odd job man, came and made repairs.

“Thank you, Netty,” she said as they climbed back up to the high street.

“I understand now about their suggestion of public bathing.

“I have seen some outside privies today that I’d not wish on anybody.” Netty nodded.

“We must do more than celebrate, then,” Dorothea continued. “I wanted to make a spectacle, but I see that it’s almost an insult to the –”

“No!” Netty interrupted, and placed a hand on Dorothea’s arm.

“No-one thinks that. Of course, the Welcome Home Day in May is very important, but –”

“But there is so much more that might show our local men what we think of their service and sacrifice.”

Lady Thomas was approaching along the pavement.

“Frances!” Dorothea called.

“How is your project, Dorry?” Lady Thomas called back.

“I have another request to make of you, Frances,” Dorothea said as they met.

“About beer?” Lady Thomas smiled.

“Not about beer, no. And it involves your husband, and his pies.”

Dorothea smiled conspiratorially at Netty as she guided Lady Thomas along the street towards her house.

“There is always another project, don’t you find, Frances, dear?” she said. ■