Until We Meet Again by Margaret Thornton Page A

homes and, in some cases, their loved ones in the unexpected and devastating attack.
    In the local paper there were many stories of peoples’ comments and of the bravery of ordinary folk. A postman, named as Alfred Beal, had losthis life whilst carrying on as normal with his delivery. Sam Fletcher, a milkman, had had a narrow escape. He had left his cart to deliver milk to the nearby houses, and on returning – quickly, lest his horse should be frightened at the noise – he saw a piece of shell entering the body of his horse, killing it instantly, but leaving himself – and the milk – untouched.
    The Archdeacon at St Martin’s church carried on with his early morning Communion Service when the church was struck by three shells, remarking that they were as safe there as anywhere else. And an old lady, when asked to go downstairs for greater safety had replied, ‘I’ll noo go doonstairs. If the good Lord wants me to be killed He’ll see to it anyroad.’
    The reports of damage were myriad. The castle wall was pierced and the castle itself – already a ruin – suffered further damage; and the lighthouse was hit so badly that it had to be pulled down. Several of the prestigious hotels suffered from the shelling; the Grand, the Royal and the Crown; and the Council chamber in the Town Hall, as well as the countless homes of ordinary people, some of them more than a mile inland, where they might have expected to be safe.
    One report, pertinent to the members of Uncle Percy’s Pierrots, was that their rival, Will Catlin, had suffered a double blow. His show’s entire wardrobe at the Clarence Gardens site had been demolished, and damage had been caused at his newly built Kingscliffe Holiday Camp. But none of Percy’s troupe would have dreamt of gloating about this. They had all miraculously escaped without injury.
    The folk of Scarborough nodded sagely at the report in the
Times
by that paper’s special correspondent. He wrote, ‘The shells which scattered the town of Scarborough have made no impression on the spirit of the people. Nothing could be more praiseworthy than the manner in which the town passed through its ordeal and has returned to its normal life.’
    None more so than William Moon. ‘Aye, we’re a tough breed, us Yorkshire folk,’ he commented to his wife. ‘There’s nowt much can faze us.’
    The attack, however, did spark fears of an imminent invasion, and a major recruiting drive for the army was started almost at once, under the banner, ‘Remember Scarborough’. This was to have a lasting effect on the male population of the town, not least the menfolk of the Moon family and their close associates.

Chapter Seven
    I n the streets of Scarborough, as 1915 dawned, the pointing finger of Lord Kitchener was still to be seen on billboards exhorting the men of the town to enlist in the army. His image was joined now by posters with the stark message ‘Remember Scarborough’. Indeed, who would ever forget the savage onslaught on their town in mid-December?
    Freddie Nicholls was the first of the family to respond to the call. He waited until Christmas was over before breaking the news to Maddy. He told her just before leaving for work one Monday morning in January that he would not be coming home that day for his midday meal. He and another of his fellow bank clerks had decided to go to the recruiting office and sign on for the army; this was still referred to as ‘taking the king’sshilling’, harking back to the days of the Crimean and Boer Wars.
    Maddy gave a sad smile, then kissed her husband, as she did each morning when he departed for work, with more fervour that usual. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ she told him. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to tell me.’ She had noticed his restlessness and his avid reading of the war bulletins in the newspapers. She did not try to comfort herself, or Freddie, now, by saying that it might all be over before long. All hopes of a speedy return to