The Pals of Blackfriars Combe
Although the new century soon brought with it the death of eighty-one-year-old Queen Victoria, who had sat on the British throne for as long as most of the people of Blackfriars Combe could remember, little changed in the day-to-day existence of the small English village when her son Albert Edward, known affectionately as "Bertie," succeeded her and was crowned Edward VII.
Although the exclamation "God save the Queen" was replaced by "God save the King," the lives of the residents went on as they had before during the following decade. People toiled in the fields, worked in the village shops, fell in love, forged friendships, celebrated the joyful occasions and cried at the sorrowful ones.
Two beloved institutions in Blackfriars Combe represented tangible links to England's glorious past. The first was St. George's, an Anglican church that dated back to the time of the Reformation. The second—one that could boast a greater attendance than the first—was the White Stag Pub, which had seen only minor alterations since it first opened its doors, just days after Charles I's head was cleaved from his body in front of the Banqueting House at London's Whitehall Palace. Most unmarried men in the village, as well as many of the married ones, made a nightly pilgrimage to the White Stag when their day's work was done, not so much for the food or drink being served as for the pleasant company of their friends and neighbors.
One evening in the spring of 1910, Alfred Haskins, a young man who labored in his father's fields by day, entered the pub where he found four of his friends sitting at the bar.
"I just passed Reggie as he was putting out the latest news from London," he announced excitedly. "The king is dead."
"What's that?" Floyd Carrothers, the blacksmith asked. "The king's dead, you say? Why, it hasn't even been ten years since the late Queen—bless her soul—passed on and he became king."
"But you mustn't forget that he was almost sixty years old when his mother died," Mason Ludington, the apothecary, pointed out.
"So Old Bertie is gone, and we've got a new king, eh?" asked Oliver Bailey, the proprietor of the White Stag, who was tending the bar.
"Yes," Alfred replied, "Edward is gone, and George will take the throne."
"I always found it hard to think of Albert Edward as anything other than the Prince of Wales," added Gilbert Emsley, the village veterinarian, "but then he had that title for fifty-nine years."
"Well, let's drink to his memory then," Winston Percivall, the schoolteacher, suggested. "To Edward VII!"
This was followed by a second toast, to George V and the inevitable, "God save the king!"
Once the new monarch was given a proper blessing by all with a raised pint of ale, conversation turned to a more personal subject, that of women. Of the six men present that evening—who ranged in age from sixteen to thirty—three were legally wed, one was engaged to be married and the remaining two were bachelors.
"How's your wife feeling?" Mason asked Floyd.
"Well enough," the tall, brawny blacksmith replied. "Although she's eager to have these last few weeks over and done with. She can't wait to be a mother. In fact, she spends most of her time knitting booties and sewing baby clothes."
"Do you have any names picked out yet?" Winston inquired.
"If it's a girl, she'll be called Alice after her mother; and if it's a boy, it'll be Theodore after my father."
"We were going to call our son Theodore," Mason said, "but then my wife decided to name him after me once he was born. She took one look at the head of red hair and knew he was a junior."
"Well, Carrothers, you'd better hope your child looks like your wife," Oliver teased, a joke that elicited an outbreak of laughter in the White Stag. "Especially if it's a girl!"
"Go ahead and laugh, you sorry lot, but at least I'm doing my bit to increase the population of Blackfriars Combe."
"Give me some time; will you?" Winston laughingly defended his manhood. "I've only been married two months."
"And my nuptials are still a few months away," Gilbert added. "But in another few years, I'm sure this schoolteacher and I will be fathers as well."
"That leaves just Haskins and me to enjoy our freedom unfettered by matrimonial chains," the publican boasted.
"Don't be so eager to include young Alfred here in your minority," Winston argued. "I've seen the way he gazes at the vicar's daughter on Sunday mornings."
The farmer, still in his teens, blushed like a schoolgirl.
"And what about you?" Gilbert asked, directing his question to the man behind the bar. "Wouldn't you like a wife, if only to help you out here at the White Stag?"
"No, thank you. I'll leave the wedding bells and baby bottles to you blokes."
Bailey, who was by far the best looking man in the village, had no desire to be tied down. Although his evenings were spent serving food and drinks to his customers, he managed to find time to date a surprisingly large number of women.
"Getting back to Alfred, what's this about the vicar's daughter?" Mason asked, causing the farmer's cheeks to redden again.
"I like her. She's a nice girl."
"Have you taken her out?"
"No, I haven't gotten around to asking her yet."
"Why in hell not?" Floyd bellowed. "What are you waiting for? Men outnumber the women in this village. You've got to act fast before someone else scoops her up."
"Don't look at me," Oliver laughed, well aware of his own reputation as a ladies' man. "She's too young for me. Plus she's a vicar's daughter, no doubt more interested in praying than in playing."
Alfred, whose blush then spread from his cheeks to his ears, lowered his head in embarrassment. Taking pity on his former student, Winston changed the subject.
"Are you planning on taking a trip after your wedding, Gilbert?"
"We're hoping to. We've been saving up money for one."
"Where would you like to go?" asked Alfred, who was eager to keep the conversation away from the topic of the vicar's daughter.
"We're not exactly sure, but somewhere in Scotland."
"Why Scotland?"
"I don't know. I always had a fancy to go there."
As was the case in many small villages at that time, people rarely traveled far from Blackfriars Combe. Not one of the six men in the White Stag that night had ever crossed the Channel to holiday on the continent, much less had been able to afford a transatlantic voyage to America or Canada.
The soon-to-be-married veterinarian then asked the apothecary, "Where did you go on your wedding trip?"
"London, but believe me, you don't want to go there. It's a terrible place! It's like a giant anthill on the banks of the Thames. Crowds of people everywhere you go. And all the noise and the filth! I couldn't wait to get back home to the fresh air and open spaces. I wish I'd have been smart like Winston and gone to Brighton instead."
"At least you both got to travel," Alfred complained. "I've never even been to York. I've spent my whole life in this village."
"You're only sixteen," Oliver reminded him unnecessarily. "You've got your whole life ahead of you. Plenty of time to see some of the world."
"That's right," the schoolteacher agreed. "Before you know it, you'll be off somewhere on your own wedding trip."
There was a momentary lull in the conversation as Bailey poured out more ale.
"Speaking of the vicar's daughter," he then said with a wink toward the young farmer, "are you planning on going to the church fete next Saturday? She's bound to be there."
"Of course, I'm going. I go every year. There's little else to do around here."
St. George's was much more than a place of worship; it was the social hub of Blackfriars Combe. Although relatively few people regularly attended Sunday services—those who did were mostly the elderly and women—every villager crossed its threshold from time to time. Some only went to church on religious holidays such as Christmas and Easter. Others limited their attendance to social occasions: weddings, baptisms and funerals.
"The family and I will be there," Mason replied. "My kids are counting down the days."
"I'll go, too. That is, if my wife is feeling up to it," Floyd said. "Eight months pregnant, she gets uncomfortable when she's on her feet for long periods of time.
Winston was planning on going with his wife, and Gilbert with his fiancée.
"What about you?" Mason asked Oliver.
"I've been asked to supply the food, so I'll be there working."
"Who's going to mind the White Stag?"
"No one. I'll close up the pub for the afternoon. I don't imagine I'd get too many customers if I were to keep it open. Most everyone in the village will be at the fete."
The men ordered another round of drinks. Ten minutes later, Winston put his empty glass on the bar and stood up.
"Time for me to head home," he announced.
"Leave it to the newlywed to go home early," Oliver laughed.
"I've got to be leaving as well," Mason added. "I want to spend some time with my children before they go to bed."
"Me, too," Floyd said. "I don't like to leave my wife home alone for too long in her condition. I'd hate to have her go into early labor with no one around."
"What about you?" Oliver asked the veterinarian. "You're not married yet. You can stay out as late as you'd like."
"I think I'll stop by Maxine's house for a few minutes on the way home," Gilbert replied.
The publican then turned his attention to the young farmer.
"Let me guess. Your mother and father want you home by a certain hour."
"No," Alfred insisted defensively. "But I do have to be up at dawn, so I ought to get some sleep."
After the five men paid for their drinks, Oliver thanked them for their patronage.
"As usual, it's been a pleasure to serve you," he declared. "I had a lot of fun tonight."
"So did I," Gilbert said. "It's nights like this that make me realize how lucky I am to be born an Englishman."
"Here! Here!" his friends agreed.
"We're all lucky men," Winston concluded. "Floyd, Mason and I have our wives and families. You have a fiancée. Oliver has his pub and half the single girls in the village. And young Alfred—I'll bet by the end of the year he'll finally find the courage to ask out the vicar's daughter."
After Winston's unexpected and uncommonly sentimental expression, the men did something even more out of character. They embraced each other as though they were about to embark on a long and possibly difficult journey.
* * *
Upon leaving the White Stag, the five men headed in different directions. Alfred began walking north to his family's farm, Winston went northwest, Gilbert headed due west, Floyd south and Mason southwest. No one headed east, a route that would have taken them past St. George's. Yet half an hour later all five men as well as the owner of the pub inexplicably found themselves standing in front of the church. Not one of them knew what he was doing there.
"How did I get here?" Winston asked himself aloud. "I was walking home thinking about the lesson I plan on giving tomorrow on the Battle of Culloden, and now I'm here, but I don't know why."
The schoolteacher was not the only one battling with confusion. The others were feeling the same way.
"I was on my way to Maxine's house," Gilbert said, "trying to decide whether we should go to Edinburgh or Loch Lomond on our wedding trip. I was heading in the opposite direction. I have no memory of turning around and coming back."
"I was worrying about my future," the blacksmith explained. "What with more and more automobiles on the roads, I have to wonder if blacksmithing will soon be a thing of the past."
"I was worried as well," Alfred sheepishly admitted. "What if the vicar's daughter doesn't feel the same way as I do? What if I ask her out and she turns me down? But I never gave any thought to coming to the church."
Oliver, the publican, was even more perplexed than the others.
"I don't remember leaving the White Stag. I was cleaning up the place and wondering how much food I ought to make for the fete."
"Regardless of how we all got here, I'm going to go home," Mason announced, feeling a sudden urgent need to see his wife and children.
As he turned to leave, the apothecary's eyes were drawn to the large wooden cross on the stone tower above the church door. He squinted. Were his eyes playing tricks on him?
I could have sworn that was just a plain wooden cross, he thought, yet now there was a figure of Christ nailed onto it.
"Bloody hell!" Floyd shouted.
"What's wrong?" Alfred asked, alarmed at the blacksmith's outburst.
"Something happened to Mason! A moment ago he was standing right here next to me, and now he's gone. He was looking up at the church ...."
Floyd had never paid much attention to the cross above the church door, so it did not trouble him that Jesus was now an integral part of the design. Still, there was something disturbing about the crucifix.
It reminds me of something ....
Unlike the disappearance of Mason Ludington, all four men had been watching Floyd Carrothers when he vanished.
"What the hell is going on here?" Oliver demanded to know.
"I have no idea," Gilbert answered, "but I don't like it one bit."
First Oliver Bailey and then Gilbert Emsley gazed up at Christ on the cross, and then they, too, disappeared.
Young Alfred looked to his former schoolteacher with tear-filled, pleading eyes.
"Help me," he groaned. "I'm too young to die."
"I wish I could," Winston Percivall said, his gaze wandering to St. George's tower. "But there's no going against God's will."
He, too, disappeared from sight.
Left alone in front of the church, his eyes cast down toward the ground, Alfred wept like a child. Earlier that evening, he had been looking forward to the promise of a happy future—one that would never come to pass.
Finally, he heard a vaguely familiar voice quote the heroic Horatio Nelson over the eerie, muffled sounds of battle: "England expects that every man will do his duty."
Alfred Haskins straightened up, wiped the tears from his eyes and bravely faced the cross above the church door.
* * *
On August 4, 1914, Great Britain declared war on Germany. It was the beginning of what became known as the Great War and later World War I. Hoping to amass a large fighting force, Secretary of State for War Lord Kitchener followed General Rawlinson's advice regarding the formation of "pals battalions," which were comprised of men who enlisted together with the promise that they would be able to serve alongside their friends and neighbors.
Nearly two years into the war, in the summer of 1916, a pals battalion formed by volunteers from Blackfriars Combe and the surrounding area, found themselves fighting in the trenches of northern France. On the evening of July 14, members of the battalion were involved in combat with the enemy. Six men from the Combe, beginning with Mason, the oldest, and ending with Alfred, the youngest, fell in the Battle of the Somme. Although the brave men died on foreign soil, far from their beloved English countryside, their last thoughts were on their loved ones and their home.
As they breathed their last in the shadow of a large French roadside crucifix—miraculously untouched by the carnage of the battle—the men from Blackfriars Combe did not dwell on the unfulfilled promises of their lives. It was not a time for regrets over lost opportunities. Instead, Alfred Haskins, Mason Ludington, Oliver Bailey, Floyd Carrothers, Winston Percivall and Gilbert Emsley exited this world with peaceful smiles on their faces, as they mentally relived happier times together at the White Stag Pub.
I recently read a magazine article on the Battle of the Somme, and although I'm not a religious person, I was inspired to write a story by an account of what is now referred to as Crucifix Corner. The large wayside cross (looks to be at least 15 feet tall), despite being damaged by shrapnel, survived one of the bloodiest battles in human history.
Funny, but when Salem shows up at the local pub, everyone else (including the bartender) disappears.
