Chapter 22- Keep the Home Fires Burning

Lizzie goes to work in the factory. She takes up residence in Gretna, the village created for the influx of workers. She is assigned to the press house, where she uses large presses to force the finished cordite paste through the holes that spew it out in long strands, long cords. Other women dry the cords, cut them, and ready them for transportation. It is the least dangerous job in the factory, and one in which she is unlikely to need to yell a warning to a coworker. Not that she thinks it would do any good. She knows what this is they make, this gun cotton, this devil's porridge. Any spark and a building will blow, killing everyone inside. No metal, not even in their clothing.

She hates the fear of explosion, but continually reminds herself that her brother and her friend are somewhere on the Continent, probably being shot at on a regular basis. And, if the reports are true, possibly at risk from a gas that will fill their trench and kill them by burning their lungs from the inside. Making cordite seems like a minor risk, and at least death by explosion would likely be swift.

She works every day of the week and her visits to Thomas move to weekends only. He worries about her constantly and throws himself into his studies to avoid thinking of the danger the cordite is to her health and life. But he also feels helpless knowing that she is working for the war effort and he is stuck in prison. Despite her closeness, he still writes. His letters take on a different tone, one with a greater urgency. With German submarines always somewhere just offshore and rumours that Zeppelins might come over the country at any moment, no one is safe. Her replies are reassuring, calm, despite the fact that she is in a far riskier location than he is.

The news from the front is not good and in the warmth of summer there is a battle at Somme that changes Lizzie's world. In August, word reaches the village and Mr York travels to Gretna to talk to her in person. When he has her sitting in the workers' cottage, he takes both her hands.

"Liz...there's bad news. Nathaniel's been shot. He's in bad shape. They're sending him home if he survives. But Ezra's dead."

She collapses against him and sobs, trying desperately to keep quiet enough to hold off her coughing, but it does not work and she eventually cannot catch her breath. Her father carries her to her bed, holds her until she passes out from the exhaustion. He sits on watch until she wakes and it all starts again. She tries to eat supper, but vomits it into the sink. She falls asleep leaning against him late in the night.

When morning comes, she washes her face, dresses in her uniform, and goes on shift, her face as blank as she can keep it. The other women on her crew know what has happened. This is a look all of them have seen before. Lizzie returns to her father in the evening, changes out of her uniform and falls asleep. Mr York sits up beside her reading. When she wakes for supper, she writes one thing in her notebook.

"How will I ever tell Thomas?"

"Would you like me to tell him?"

She shakes her head. She eats little. That evening, she writes a letter to Thomas telling him she will not be able to visit on the upcoming weekend.

Thomas is reading the letter while Mr Hayes lingers at his cell door, "Mr Sharpe- I've got some news for you. The Crown's sent a letter- every man's needed for the war. You're within a few years of the end of your sentence. They want all men fit for it free to lend their hands to the work. So you're out as of Friday."

"That's in two days. Will a letter reach the village in time?" He does not know that Mr York visits Gretna. Lizzie's letter only says she cannot visit. It gives no reason why.

"No. You're going to have to make your own way or wait in Carlisle until the letter gets there."

"I suppose I should write quickly, then."

"I'll wait."

Thomas hastily scrawls a note and addresses an envelope. Mr Hayes takes it so he can send it with the post.

Lizzie cannot stand staying longer than she has to at the factory, a reminder of why her friend is dead, her brother possibly dying. After her shift on Thursday, Mr York takes her home for the weekend. They will travel again on Sunday; she will sleep in the carriage on the way to Gretna.

Mr Hayes gives Thomas a satchel for the books and journals he cannot bear to leave behind and packages the others for him so they can be shipped to the village. He tightly rolls the quilt and foregoes carrying most of his possessions in favour of it. His papers, a change of clothing, and a book are with the quilt in a bag slung on his back when he walks out into the bright daylight for the first time in fourteen years. He is overwhelmed by the movement, the life. He has no idea what to do, but he asks a police officer which road he should take to Gretna. The officer points him in the right direction and Thomas begins walking in hopes of finding Lizzie in the miles of cordite factory.

On Saturday, Mr York receives Thomas' letter.

Thomas, meanwhile, has inquired at Gretna and been told that Lizzie is not there for the weekend. By sheer luck, one of the other press women happens to be at the guardhouse when he asks. He thanks her, and then retraces his steps back to Carlisle. He is exhausted, but he knows there is little he can do but keep walking. He has no money, he is hungry, he is tired, but everything he wants is waiting in a little village many miles away. So he tries to remember what path it was that brought him into town so many years before and sets out.

Mr York shows Lizzie the letter and she looks concerned, a reaction he was not anticipating, "Where is he now? He hasn't any money, he can't hire a horse or a room."

It dawns on him that Thomas has been turned out into the world with a head full of knowledge but no means to come home. He hands the page to her and goes to ready his horses.

It is late at night and Thomas feels entirely unsure of his path. He thinks he recognizes the landscape, but he can't be certain, and a damp chill has set in, so much that he shivers without his jacket. He is exhausted, but sleeping along the road seems like a terrible idea. He is hungry enough that his stomach aches and his head swims, dizzy, but this is not a new feeling. He remembers the starving years in Allerdale Hall. He keeps walking, staggering, hoping that he will find his way home. Or, at least he hopes it will be home. He has nothing else to return to.

He hears hoofbeats ahead and sees carriage lanterns swinging, growing closer by the moment. He steps to the side of the road and leans on a tree. It is a good rest. He keeps his head lowered as the bright lights' glare hurts his eyes. The carriage slows as it passes him.

"Thomas?"

He raises his head, knowing the voice, "Mr York?"

"Thank god. I was worried I wouldn't be around to find you."

"I wasn't sure I'd make it home. Did you get my letter?"

"Yes. Come aboard. How long have you been walking?"

"I walked to Gretna. Then I walked here."

"The entire time."

"Yes."

Mr York takes his bag and tosses it in the wagon. He then invites Thomas to sit beside him.

Thomas declines, "As much as I never want to ride a prisoner in this wagon again, I need to sleep and I can do that back there better than up here. I've been walking without much rest for over a day."

"How you're still standing is beyond me. But I thought you might be tired. There are a couple of blankets back there. And a basket of food."

"Thank you. Infinitely. For...everything. And for coming for me."

"Get some rest, son. It's a long ride back to the village."

Thomas doesn't bother with the bench, collapsing into a heap on the floor, tugging the quilt from his bag and cuddling up in the blankets. He barely stays sitting up long enough to dig through the basket of food. Bread, cheese, fresh vegetables, some a little limp from the heat, but it is still some of the best food he has eaten in years. He falls asleep, a hunk of bread still in his hand.

When they arrive in the village , the sun is blinding bright and Mr York is far beyond tired. He is glad his horses know the way home on their own. They are far more tired than they should be, too, and he hopes that their pace was gentle enough on them. Thomas is still sleeping when he opens the door, the horses in their stable, Thaddeus looking after them. Mr York steps into the carriage and packs the basket, what little is left of it, and shakes his shoulder. Thomas slowly sits up.

"Welcome home, son."

Thomas' mind clicks back on and he nearly jumps to his feet and steps down from the carriage, forgetting his bag in the process, the quilt in his arms. Mr York carries it for him, along with the blankets and the basket. It is a warm day and Thomas realizes just how dirty he feels and is immediately embarrassed by his condition. Mr York gestures for him to follow.

"Come. A bath. Lizzie's at the Doyle house. You'll feel better after you're cleaned up a bit."

Once everything is in the house, Mr York leads him upstairs to draw a bath, the quilt left on the piano bench. He finds clothes, lays everything out, and goes to make coffee and breakfast.

Thomas cannot wait to see Lizzie and he washes quickly, dresses, shaves, and combs out his hair, and standing in front of the mirror to inspect himself. He is fourteen years older than when he last stood in this place and while the room has not changed much, he has. His face is more gaunt and grey peppers his hair, still cut as it was when he left Allerdale Hall. He is nearly fifty. His joints sometimes ache from the years in the cool of the stone cells. His clothing fits differently, and he notices for the first time just how much thinner he is. The food in the prison was certainly not as bad as starving in Allerdale Hall, but it certainly wasn't enough to keep him from becoming more angled. He thinks his face looks too harsh, the bones just a little too distinct.

There is a light knock on the door. Mr York calls to him that there is food ready if he is hungry. Thomas gladly joins him for breakfast. He returns upstairs after to look out over the village for a moment, the summer sun burning off the morning mist. Everything feels new. And then he sees Lizzie running across the street to her father's house. His heart leaps into his throat and a moment of deep doubt consumes his thoughts. They have only ever known each other while he was confined. What if they cannot maintain this relationship? What if he cannot live out here? And where will he go if he cannot? He grips the window frame, looking down at the street, but not really seeing what is happening, his mind inward.

Hurried footsteps on the stairs bring him out of his thoughts and he turns to see Lizzie, her face serious, running towards him. He expected joy, but she looks as though she might cry. He opens his arms and catches her. She burrows against his chest and the tears come quickly. He leads her to the bench at the far end of the hallway and sits with her.

"It is so good to see you, Lizzie."

She nods, still crying.

"But what has darkened your mood so? I expected a happy reunion."

She wipes her eyes, stands, and holds out her hand. He accepts and follows her into her bedroom. She sits down on the side of her bed and pats beside her. Thomas hesitates. This is her space. A private space. No longer a cell where he is caged and therefore trusted by virtue of being guarded. She pats again and he sits.

"I'm sorry, I just...I've never..."

She picks up her notebook, "You've never been in anyone else's bedroom before, let alone the bedroom of a woman you are very close to."

"Yes."

"This space is mine, but I intend to offer you sanctuary here whenever you wish it.."

"Thank you. But tell me what hurts you so."

She takes a deep breath and writes, "I have bad news. It is hard to say, but harder to see written." She drops back on the bed, the notebook tossed aside, and tugs on his arm so he does the same. He glances toward the door. She whispers, "Father isn't coming."

"I'm sorry. I just...this is very new."

"I know."

"Please, Lizzie. Write."

"No." She curls up beside him and he turns to face her, gathering her in his arms, "Ez is dead." The tears begin again, "And Nathaniel isn't doing well." She cries so hard that she starts coughing and he does not know what to do. He rubs her back, trying to soothe her.

Mr York enters with a mug and Thomas' quilt; Thomas tries to sit up, to put some distance between them, but Mr York shakes his head as he sets the mug aside, "No, you stay there with her. At least until we have to move her so she can drink." He drapes the quilt over the footboard.

"I don't know how to take care of her."

Mr York meets Thomas' eyes, "You're going to learn, son." Her father sits on the end of the bed and watches them. Thomas tucks her close, rubbing her back, his face nestled against her hair. He hums to her, an approximation of her own song. Mr York wonders how he learned it and how he remembers it. There was no piano for her in the Carlisle prison. When it is time, when she has calmed enough that she can move a little, even if she shakes when she does, Thomas untangles himself from her and carefully sits her up. She leans heavily on him. Mr York hands her a steaming mug, "Honey, lemon, and hot water. Slow. As always." She sips the drink and nods her thanks.

"I think you need to rest. Your father can tell me details. This has drained you."

She lays down on the pillow. Mr York hands him the quilt; he tucks it around her. He kisses her forehead before following Mr York out of the room.

"How did it happen?"

"The line of our boys marched across the no-man's land straight into machine gun fire. Ezra fell fast. Nathaniel's in bad shape, but he stayed still, knowing that playing dead might save his life. They said he was shot in the chest, the stomach, and a bullet grazed his face."

"Good god, it's a wonder he's alive."

"Some of the bullets that hit him passed through Ezra first. The one that tore open Ez' throat is the one that only grazed Nathaniel's cheek. I know the man leading his unit."

Thomas feels weak, "Did...did Ezra step in front intentionally?"

"That I don't know. He was supposed to be beside Nathaniel. He's always been protective. I think maybe he did."

"Oh..."

"I haven't told Lizzie all the details. She hasn't asked and she's having a hard enough time coping as it is."

Thomas sits on the hall bench, "I hardly knew him, but I feel as though my heart will break. And Lizzie..."

"She wants to go back to the factory for her shift on Monday. I don't know how she's going to do it. She says she can't stand to think about the war and what it's doing to boys like ours, but she feels she has to do something to give them a chance."

"Mr York...I have only honourable intentions, if Lizzie and I can hold this now that we will see each other far more often. Perhaps I can help the war effort to give her time to grieve and rest."

"Maybe she'd allow it. It's a fair distance away, but the shipyards in Barrow-in-Furness are always looking for men, especially men who know engines. You'll find a place there. But you won't be home much."

"I think I need to be with her, sir. They released me so I could help. But I don't know how to be the man I need to be for her and to serve 'god and country' as well."

Mr York sighs, "Don't think so far ahead yet. Just go rest with her. That's how you can take care of her right now."

"My intentions-"

"I know. But I can tell you here and now that hers aren't." As Thomas searches for words, Mr York smiles, "I'm no fool, son. I know what was in her letters, why she didn't want me to see them. She's not a girl anymore. She's been a grown woman for quite some time. She needs you, not her father. Go. You two will figure this out."