OVERNIGHT, LIGHT SNOW had fallen, but that didn’t deter Mr Auberon and Jack from joining Old Stan, the head gardener, in the arboretum to drag out the roots of a swathe of old trees cut down a few days before Christmas. Every spare space was to be used for vegetables, Captain Richard had insisted in a memo sent from his convalescent bed to the usual staff breakfast meeting in the kitchen on 23rd December. He had ended, ‘The Atlantic is relatively safe for merchant shipping, but for how long? We must be responsible. We must sidestep shortages.’
In the kitchen, a Boxing Day morning would perhaps have dawdled for Evie in a perfect world, allowing her time for Simon, but it rushed past in the face of the never-ending demands of the kitchen. This was due, in part, to the fact that Mrs Moore, and Evie, had decreed that invalids needed food when their body clocks insisted, not when Matron’s chimed. At first Matron had hitched her vast bosom and huffed, but it was a token gesture. Almost immediately she had said, ‘I have never had a kitchen willing to put the patients first. My thanks to you and your staff and volunteers.’
At eleven, whilst the turkey stock was simmering, and the calves’-foot jelly setting for invalid support, Mrs Moore and Lady Veronica ordered Evie and Simon to the servants’ hall, to sit on one of the ancient overstuffed and torn sofas. ‘At once, Evie, and turf those dachshunds out who have tried a different venue. They should be stretching their little legs,’ Lady Veronica paused. ‘The clock is ticking. Simon needs to see the rest of his family, who I believe are travelling to his parents in Easton for the day. Are you quite sure you won’t go with him? If you do, I will follow Mrs Moore’s instructions to the letter, I promise, and to prove it, I will now obey her and make the mayonnaise for luncheon.’
‘Must you?’ Evie said, grimacing. ‘Just a drop of oil at a time, remember. We don’t want another disaster.’ Lady Veronica sniffed. ‘It wasn’t that bad. Now will you go with Simon to Easton?’
Evie longed to, but their lives were not their own at the moment, and he had said he needed time with his family, and that her patients needed her. She shook her head, and Lady Veronica ordered, ‘Get along with you, then.’
Mrs Moore was opening the door into the central corridor as Simon tugged Evie along. Mrs Moore waved them through. ‘I’ll leave a bundle of carrots by the back door for Old Saul, that lovely old pony of your da’s, lad. Aye, he does grand work carting in the volunteers. There’re a few bits for the table and all. Now, go.’
Simon kissed the cook, hugging her ample body to him. ‘You’re a belter, Mrs Moore. If I didn’t already love Evie I’d be after you.’ He earned a twisted ear for his pains. Mrs Moore called the dachshunds, who scampered into the kitchen after scraps, and far from stretching their legs they took over the armchairs again, scrabbling amongst the knitting. The door was slammed behind them. Evie and Simon crossed the central corridor into the servants’ hall, which was empty, presumably on Mrs Moore’s orders. It was a wasted effort though, because as Evie nestled into Simon’s arms there was no comfort to be found against his braced body.
She lifted her head and saw that he was looking from one oozing horsehair tear in the sofa to another. She waited, so used was she to recognising the signs of anguish in their patients, to the point where, a few weeks ago, she had suggested to Dr Nicholls that she should ask new patients about their favourite foods, and produce it for them. It had helped some to connect again with the normal world. God bless food; the sight of it, the taste and smell. It could ease aside savage images, and reclaim better times.
Simon removed his arm from around her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasping and unclasping. ‘The tears are like wounds that I can smell and see. It’s what we live with. Will it be me next? Will I lose my face? It’s so easy, you see. You’re in the trench. You peer over. Bang. Shrapnel takes your face. Bang, you’re dead.’
He stood and paced before her, and Evie wondered if it had been the best idea to mix these lads in with the wounded for lunch yesterday. She stood, taking his hands. ‘We’ll walk. You must show me where Old Stan is to plant the rose for Bernie.’
She hurried him through the kitchen, noting that Lady Veronica was adding the oil drop by drop, and Mrs Moore and Annie were embarking on the vegetables. She snatched her coat from the hook in the bell corridor and his khaki greatcoat from his pack by the bootbox, heading up the steps into the snow-heavy wind.
She shrugged into her coat, pulling the collar up around her neck. He did the same, lifting his head, sniffing the air as gardeners do. All sounds seemed muted as they walked arm in arm, sometimes slipping and sliding in the snow, round the back of the house and into the formal gardens. A few hardy soldiers and airmen, who were almost fully recovered, were slapping their hands and puffing on their pipes, or smoking their forbidden cigarettes.
Dr Nicholls, who had been the district’s doctor before he had been seconded into uniform to head the medical staff at Easterleigh Hall, harangued them almost daily on the disgusting habit. ‘Soiling your lungs, dammit, after we’ve spent time and effort putting you back together.’ He became so red-faced on the subject that Evie and Lady Veronica felt that one day he would burst with indignation, though Matron said it would be from too much pudding.
Evie told Simon this as he headed for the southern face of the garden, and he laughed in reply. A sergeant called to her. ‘Great meal, Evie. Marry me and we’ll live like kings.’ Another, Colonel Masters said, ‘Stand down, Sergeant. She’ll choose me if it’s anyone.’
Evie called, ‘You’re all out of luck. It’s Si who’ll get fat around my table.’
They reached the rose bed Simon and Bernie had dug, manured, and planted. Simon slipped his arms round her and held her against him. ‘Here, Old Stan will plant it, here. Bernie was our rose expert. Loved the buggers, he did. Do it for me too, will you, next to his, if . . .’
There was a long pause, because there was little point in telling him it wouldn’t happen. She said eventually, trying not to cry, ‘I’ll do it for you, but we must hope. We truly must.’ It was easy enough for her to say, when she was just picking up the pieces, and not in jeopardy herself.
They walked on, round the wall surrounding the nursery plants and back past the stables which had been turned into winter quarters for the pigs after the horses had been taken by the army. Evie’s da and Simon’s helped to tend them, but today it was Sergeant Harris, in his face mask, carrying a bucket of vegetable peelings, together with a couple of corporals whose wounds were healing more quickly than they would have liked. Simon squeezed her to him. ‘Poor bugger.’
They returned to the warmth of the kitchen and she shooed Lady Veronica back to the acute cases ward where she had begun to work, under the eagle eye of Ward Sister Annie Newsome. It had taken a syrup pudding from Evie for Matron, and the threat of no more, ever, for her to agree to allow Lady Veronica to move on from VAD dusting, sweeping and sterilising to try her hand at proper nursing. The acute cases ward was to test her dedication, Lady Veronica suspected. Auxiliary hospitals were not originally intended for serious cases, but this war was determining otherwise.
Evie called, gathering up the cocoa and milk, ‘You’ll be late, Lady Veronica. It’s almost eleven. Matron will have your guts for garters.’ She left.
Mrs Moore was either in the cold pantry or resting in her room. Evie and Simon sat on stools side by side at the table, drinking cocoa. He wiped the moustache from her top lip with his thumb and kissed her. She tasted his cocoa and all fear, all worry faded for that moment. She opened her eyes and saw the clock. It was time. His parents, together with his aunt and uncle who had walked in from Hawton, would be waiting for him at home. ‘Come with me after all,’ he said, kissing her hands.
She shook her head. ‘I want to, but I can’t, I have the patients to feed. Mrs Moore did the back shift and needs a rest.’
He kissed her mouth again, heedless of Millie who slipped past them, heading for the kettle. It was time for a brew of tea for the laundry staff, and as Millie lifted it on to the range hotplate she said, ‘It’s all right for that old bag Mrs Moore to put her feet up, then? I was awake all night with your brother shouting when he slept, pacing when he didn’t, and was I allowed to slip to my room like Mrs Moore? Well, no, what I’ve had to do is work solidly since I had to hike to the crossroads for the pickup cart, and Old Saul clopping through the snow as though he’s a ruddy snail. I’m right worn out and not in the right way. I expected better from a husband I haven’t seen for months, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’
Simon’s grip on his mug seemed to tighten. ‘It’s the guns and . . . well, everything, Millie. It gets to you. You can’t sleep in the quiet, and when you do sleep you hear them and . . . Well, everything. You could try being understanding.’
Millie put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, what about understanding me for a bloody change? The uniforms are ready, hung up in the laundry, well away from the boiling coppers so they won’t be steamy and damp. Disgusting they were, alive with lice, stinking like a lav. Right worn out we are, too.’ She strutted back to the laundry, which was off the central corridor. Evie rested her head on Simon’s shoulder. ‘What would it take to change her? Should I lock her in the coal cellar for a year?’ For the first time that morning she wondered where Roger was.
They collected Simon’s uniform. It was pristine and louse-free and smelt of soap. Evie felt a flicker of gratitude towards Millie. As Simon left the laundry to dress in the nurse’s changing room Ethel called across, ‘It was Dottie and me who worked right hard on those, Evie, and an honour it was too.’ Millie flushed and returned to the kitchen to make the tea.
On Simon’s return he looked grand, from his ankle boots and puttees right up to his cap. Evie walked with him as he wheeled his bike through the garage yard and past the stables with only Tinker, Lady Veronica’s pony, to snuffle his farewells, against the sound of pigs rooting in the straw. Sergeant Harris waved. ‘Keep your head down, lad.’ His voice was muffled by his mask.
Evie and Simon walked on to the gravelled drive and stood outside the front of the house. In the centre of the huge lawn was the cedar tree. ‘Just as strong and unmoving as ever,’ Simon murmured, his arm tight around Evie.
‘In spite of breathing in all that smoke day after day,’ Evie laughed gently, because there were her favourites, Captain Neave with his almost healed broken femur, alongside young Lieutenant Harry Travers with his crutches and one leg, both smoking for England and keeping a permanent lookout for Dr Nicholls. ‘You’ll be left with a twitch, young Harry,’ Evie called. He laughed. ‘Keep your head down, Simon,’ he shouted.
Simon waved, but turned to Evie. ‘God, I miss you every moment we’re apart,’ he said into her neck. ‘I don’t know when my next leave will be. You’ll write?’
‘Always,’ she said. ‘Just think of yesterday when you need strength. Think of the chatter, the laughter, the warmth, and your friends. Remember singing for us all, and most of all, remember me.’
They clung to one another until he tore free and cycled through the snow, head down, pack on. Evie watched him until he reached the gate at the end of the drive and turned left for Easton. She felt empty, her legs heavy. In the distance she could see Stunted Tree Hill looming over Farmer Froggett’s farm, near to which was her family home. She dragged her shawl around her shoulders, waved briefly at Harry and John Neave and hurried back to the kitchen.
Jack and Evie ate lunch in the servants’ hall with their mam and da, Tim and Millie and the rest of the staff, including Roger, who had apparently been kept busy by Mr Auberon, polishing his boots, belts and anything leather, and brushing down all the clothes in his dressing room. Perhaps his master realised that Roger was not the most popular person below stairs?
There had been very little turkey left, but enough to create a splendid soup, served with the barley bread with which Evie and Mrs Moore were experimenting in case of wheat shortages. It was accompanied by cheese from Home Farm dairy, Mrs Green’s tomato pickle, and the remains of the goose and ham. Lamb stew had been sent up for the patients, and wheat bread, which they preferred. Two young men had had special requests. One was scrambled egg, and the other was liver and bacon. This was encouraging, because they had both been listless and unaware until Evie visited them late last night to see if she could stimulate them into showing interest in eating. They were sitting up today. It was a crucial first step.
The volunteers had laid up the table in the servants’ hall under the footman’s eagle eye. Archie had been asked by Mr Harvey to delay volunteering for the war, as the butler needed support with his duties, but how long he would stay, who knew. He was now laying up the beer that had been sent down by Mr Auberon, who was lunching with his sister and brother-in-law up in Lady Veronica’s suite. Mr Auberon would be meeting up with Jack and Simon at Easton Miners’ Club, and would take them to Gosforn station in old Ted’s taxi. Ted’s driving was hit and miss but somehow he got people to where they needed to be, usually in one piece though the taxi was increasingly battered, and the hedgerows showed ever more signs of damage.
It seemed no time at all before Evie was out again by the cedar tree, waving farewell to her brother, alone, because Millie had said she couldn’t face seeing Jack leave. Her mam and da had hugged him tight in the kitchen, where he had insisted they stay. Tim had followed him up the steps into the garage yard, clinging to his leg, crying, until Mam had eased him away and carried him down with the promise of a biscuit.
As Jack walked away, following Simon’s tracks, heaving his pack up on to his back, Evie called softly, determined that he must have some joy, some good memory to take back with him, ‘Jack, please go to the beck, for me. It’s important that you do. Trust me. You need the beauty.’
He turned, and waved. ‘Bonny lass, I need to get to Mart’s to see his uncle and mam, to tell what I know about his death.’
‘Promise, Jack. Do it for me.’
He shrugged. ‘For you, lass, but you should walk there, too. It would be grand for you to get away from the kitchen once in a while.’
He saluted, and began to walk away again. Evie ran after him, snatching at his arm, her shawl slipping from her shoulders. She said urgently, ‘You joined up with Mr Auberon’s North Tyne Fusiliers to kill him for causing our Timmie’s death when he deliberately put him in a dangerous area in the pit, but he’s still with us?’
He grinned down at her, shaking his head. ‘Such an elephant you are, you never forget the rubbish I talk. He was a lad like the rest of us, put in to manage a pit by his bastard of a father. He had no experience and he made a mistake, letting his feelings get the better of him because I was a union man, a thorn in his side. Aye, pet, he punished us for my activities by putting the Forbes family in poor seams, but hate gets to be a habit. It’s a dark and dismal bugger and takes up space inside your mind and maybe . . . Ah well, we’ll see. You’ve moved on past it, I can see you have. Besides, there are enough shells banging about without me getting involved.’
She blocked his path. ‘That’s no answer.’
He moved her to one side. ‘I’ve got to go, Evie.’ He stooped and kissed her, his dark eyes the same colour as his hair, coal dust embedded in his skin, blue scars on his brow, and she could hardly bear to let him go, but she did, watching as he walked on, looking at the cedar tree. He called back over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to see our bonny lad first.’
Evie nodded. ‘Of course you are.’
He waved and walked on, hearing her call, ‘I’ve slipped a package into your pack. Have a look and deliver it when you’re in France.’ He just waved again.
Jack felt the gravel and snow shifting beneath his boots, heard Evie add, ‘Be safe, be lucky.’ There goes the pitman’s prayer, he thought and it works as well for a soldier. He dragged in deep breaths, but all he could smell was France. He reached the road, turned left and almost immediately right, down the rutted lane with its iced puddles, and the deeper snow drifted up against the hedge. The gate was snow-crusted, and looked much like Evie’s Christmas cakes, if you stretched the imagination a mile. It screeched as he shoved it open, the snow banking up behind it.
The churchyard nestled several fields away from the Hall, but was still in the grounds. It was the Protestant village church, and there was no way his mam would have had Tim laid to rest in chapel land. At the time of the funeral Jack had objected to Timmie being buried on Brampton land, but where else was there?
The snow had almost covered the many footprints that led the way to Jack’s brother. He added to them, knowing he could have found his way blindfold. He reached the grave, it too was cloaked in snow. He stood looking down, and when he could speak he said, ‘Well, bonny lad, I forgot what a fine spot it is here. Quiet. Bit of birdsong, and there’ll be violets in the spring. You’ll be liking that. It’s a damn sight better than being tossed into them great graves with a mass of others with no birds, just bloody artillery blasting overhead. Remember you thought you’d heard a cuckoo in February, or was it earlier? Bloody great pigeon, wasn’t it?’ He stopped talking, feeling his voice shake.
He looked back at the church where the burial service had taken place and he and Millie had been married, in that order, with Parson Manton presiding. ‘Well, lad, what else could I do but marry her after she had been brought to us by Evie to have the bairn? Better than the workhouse by a mile. Millie named him after you, and that helped Mam, it did. So, as I say, what else could I do and what the hell does it matter?
‘Aye Timmie, it’s all a bit of a bloody mess, wouldn’t you say? Your lead soldiers were simpler, bonny lad.’ He surveyed the landscape: the hills that hid Easton’s Auld Maud pit, the Stunted Tree hill. He slung off his pack, hunkered down and wiped the headstone clean of snow. He traced the words chiselled by Da: Timmie Forbes 1897–1913.
‘At least you’re with your lead soldiers and your marra.’ He nodded hello to Tony, who lay beside his family’s lovely lad. He liked to think they were riding Galloways, the pit ponies they had loved, across fields in another world, not this crazy one. ‘Bad was it, Tony, man? But they brought you back from the Marne to the Hall. You wanted to smell bacon the night you were dying, our Evie said. So she cooked it for you and you died with your mam by your bed. I thank whatever bloody idiot thinks he’s God, for that. So much bloody life left unlived for you two, eh. Perhaps the rest of us can live it for you if . . .’ He stopped.
At the base of the gravestones, jam jars held holly. The water had frozen but not cracked the glass yet. Jack had sworn he would not, but he cried, brushing the snow from both graves, until his hands were red, wet and numb.
He took a lead soldier he had bought in Southampton from his pocket and placed it by Timmie’s jam jar. ‘Not like the ones you painted, but it’ll last even if I don’t. But look, Timmie, I have to tell you something, it’s difficult and I’m not sure what you’ll think, but I’m finding it hard to carry the hate for the Bastard’s whelp any more. I know, I know, lad, but I think that the cart that killed you would have run away in any seam, on any slope. I punched him in the front line when he stopped me going to find Mart’s body, but he let it go when he could have had me shot. It was then I felt . . .’
He waited a moment, wanting permission to let go of the hatred he had felt for Auberon, but knowing he was bloody daft to expect a voice to boom out and give it. He patted the headstone one more time, and rose, hauling up his pack, wiping a freezing wet hand across his face. The wind was getting up now. Had Timmie understood? ‘We’re not marras, you know, me and him, but we’re something. Perhaps it’s just that we’re soldiers? I call him Auberon now, in private. Not a lot of the bosses allow that.’ He looked down at the grave again, and left, saying once more at the gate, ‘Aye, we’re something.’
He marched quickly, turning at the Cross Trees crossroads, glancing at the middle spruce, which was where they’d hung highwaymen not that long ago. An hour later Jack reached the turn-off to the beck, where he and all the local bairns had dammed the stream to create a pool for swimming. He checked his watch. Why not, he had time? He hurried along the track, slipping through Froggett’s ploughed fields to cut off the corner. Last time he’d been here, with Evie, there had been a kingfisher. Did it still come in the summer? Why not, there were still trees – here. ‘Why not’ seemed to be something he said too often.
He slipped through the gate on to the path and along the bank towards the dam, and remembered the feel of the water on coal-slecked skin when they were older and coming straight from the pit. He could feel the plunge into the dam, then the calm of the sky as he lay on his back watching the clouds scudding, the tug as Mart took him underwater, the bugger. He laughed. Aye, he’d been a bonny bugger all right. He reached the beck, picked up a stone and tossed it into the water. ‘For you, lad.’ Another stone. ‘For you, Timmie,’ he whispered. Another. ‘For you, Tony.’ One more, for Grace. God keep her safe. He watched until the ripples died, squatting on his haunches. He stayed, and stayed, rising at last when his legs hurt and his back ached. Aye, it was beautiful here, Evie was right. She usually was.
He made for the road again, his boots muddy, his puttees too, damn and blast it. He walked into Easton, past the parsonage. He would not look, he had promised himself he would not, but of course he did. The windows were dark, but they would be. Parson would be on his rounds and the parson’s sister, Grace, was nursing in France. It was as well. He marched on, facing front. Ahead and around were the conical slag heaps, seething and fuming, the winding engines glinting in the sun, and over everything hung the smell of sulphur. Now he was really home.
Lieutenant the Honourable Auberon Brampton watched from his bedroom window as Evie waved to Jack’s departing back. Her shawl had slipped and one end was trailing in the snow. She would be shivering. Behind him Roger opened the door from the dressing room. Auberon turned. His valet was in his private’s uniform and had therefore metamorphosed into his batman once more. ‘I have your clothes ready, sir, and your boots have a high gleam.’
Auberon nodded. What a bloody silly way to fight a war, with gleaming boots, and one’s servant alongside to cater for one’s needs, and what a servant. He tried not to let his distaste show, remembering the stories he had heard from below stairs. He dressed quickly, allowing Roger to brush his shoulders, spotless though they were. His uniform belt was buffed. Had he used spit as well as polish on this, likewise the boots? The thought of going to war with Roger’s spittle accompanying him was so utterly bloody ridiculous that he had to walk to the window and look out again, or laugh in the harsh manner that overwhelmed him all too often. It was all so damned surreal. He pushed the window further open and breathed in the icy air. Evie had gone, back into the warmth. Jack had disappeared.
Roger coughed behind him. Auberon closed the window. The room became quiet and it was too strange, this silence. He said, still looking out but this time across the lawn to the hills beyond, and then back to the cedar tree, ‘Best finish the packing, then, Private.’
Auberon was unsurprised at what he had overheard between Evie and her brother. If Jack, as boss, had used his power to do the dirty on him and it had resulted in the death of Veronica, he would have wanted to stick a knife in his gullet. He had been that boss, an arrogant, angry, bloody fool, and who knew if it was over between them? But it was only in Jack’s provenance to declare a truce. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the icy windowpane, feeling strange, out of place. He was torn between wanting to be back there amongst the normality of chaos, screams, the sudden laughter, the sense of belonging, the comradeship and grief, but also desperate not to be.
Behind him Roger was packing his silver-backed brushes. Silver brushes, for God’s sake. Auberon checked his battle-scarred wristwatch. Too much time had passed, and he had things to do. He hurried down to the second floor, moving steadily to his father’s study, hearing the noises of the hospital all around: the groans, a laugh, a scream, a ‘Hush’. A nurse hurried past with a kidney bowl covered in corrugated paper. Veronica was working in the Acute Injuries Ward, and who on earth would have thought it? Well, his mother, for a start, God bless her good democratic heart. How she would have applauded Ver’s suffrage activities.
Another nurse, Sister Moss, came from the Blue Sitting Room, now divided into a Rest and Recreation area for officers and nurses. The VADs had their own area in the servants’ hall.
Sister Moss was checking her watch, which was pinned above her heart. He smiled at her hurried greeting, then opened the door into his father’s study, a place that had held such misery for him in the form of beatings too numerous to count. His father might be a lord, created by the Liberals in 1907, and his appalling stepmother a lady in her own right by virtue of her poverty-stricken aristocratic family, but you couldn’t remove the inner man and woman.
He shut the door quietly behind him, leaning against it. The aura of the man remained, though his father had not been here for months, not since he had slammed his way here, having brought the back of his hand across Veronica’s face at dinner when she dared to mock him, or so she had told Auberon when they met at Newcastle Central station as he and his men were embarking for the Front. He shook away the memory of the bruises she had exhibited on her face. That time he had not been able to take the beating for her.
He turned the key, checked that the door was firmly locked, and strode across the Indian carpet to the vast walnut desk in a way he could never, perhaps, have done, had he not killed his fair share of men. Some he had killed at quarters close enough to smell and touch them before ramming his knife into their guts, looking into their eyes. No, he would never let that bastard lift a hand to anyone again. Instead he would probably kill him. But he wouldn’t think of that now.
There was a window overlooking the side of the house, and another at the front. The clouds were thickening. Was there more snow on the way? Would it hold up Ted in his taxi? Would it make bivouacking in France and standing there in the trenches that were being dug everywhere even more of a bloody misery? He must hurry.
He dragged a piece of paper from his pocket, checking the numbers Miss Wainton, their beloved governess and his dead mother’s friend, had given him before he left for Oxford University. She had advised him to keep it safe, and secret. It was the last time he had seen her alive. But he wouldn’t think of Wainey now. He had work to do.
He skirted the two large sofas set either side of the fireplace, which was laid with the best coal from Auld Maud, but not lit. Auberon removed the oil painting of London Bridge hanging to the right of the fireplace, revealing the safe. He turned the combination lock, hoping it remained the same. There was a click, then another until it was done. He turned the brass handle and pulled the door open. Auberon found he was holding his breath. He made himself suck in air, right down, and again. He steadied his hands and took out the stack of papers, carrying them to the desk, shoving aside the blotter, making space.
He returned to the safe and pressed the right-hand corner of the back panel. He pulled it down. Inside there were many more papers. He carried these to the table, and laid them down, too. His hands were shaking. He drew in more deep breaths, and steadied himself. It was like going over the top of the sandbagged trenches into the rattling guns. He removed the folded parchment deeds, laying them to one side; these were not what he needed.
Outside the snow was falling in earnest; it darkened the room. There was enough light for him, though. He leafed through the papers. Please don’t let him have taken it to one of his other lairs. He had seen the letter on the desk during a beating for failing to prevent the parson and the Forbes family buying Farmer Froggett’s houses; the only independent houses in the pit village. He had seen the letter, and the letterhead, but it had held little interest until the war began. Now it could hold the power to change his and Veronica’s future security and the well-being of everyone under this man’s thumb, especially the miners.
He reached the end of the pile. God damn it. It wasn’t here. There were the usual figures on the Leeds brickworks, the steelworks, mines and the new armaments and netting factories, which were possibly legitimate, but they were of no interest to him. He swung round to scan the safe. Had he left anything? No. He rubbed his hands over his face. Think. Think.
He made himself begin again, slowly, slowly, turning the papers face down as he started a ‘seen’ pile. And there it was, halfway through, the letter with a German factory address, and another, more recent, dated 5th August 1914. How had he missed them? He held them up towards the window, to read in the weakening light. He scanned the fractured English of both, quickly. He replaced the earlier one, but placed the more recent letter on the blotter. It contained the name of a German company, and one in the Dutch port of Rotterdam. He read the recognisable words ‘acetone’ and ‘cordite’, not enough to bring his father down, but it was a start.
He sat at the desk and wrote a letter to Veronica, blotting it and tearing the blotting paper from the pad, ripping it into strips so that nothing could be deciphered. He burnt the strips in the metal waste-paper bin. He put his letter and the most recent one from the German firm in an envelope, sealing it with wax. How dramatic. But it must only be opened if he died or became totally insane, which seemed to him a distinct possibility. He laughed. He must be mad to prefer northern France to England.
He put everything else back as he had found it, then locked the safe, replaced the painting and shoved the envelope in his uniform pocket. He retraced his footsteps to the door and unlocked it, slipping out into the corridor. He was shaking, but that might not be because of his father; it was something that was beginning to happen with monotonous regularity. It comforted him that Jack sometimes shook when they wrote their letters of condolence in the dugout by the light of a candle.
One of the irritations of the front line was the lack of jam jars in which to stick the bloody candles. Auberon’s captain, Alan Bridges, similarly regretted that the supply was so limited. ‘Glass shatters so easily these days,’ he would say, tutting at the German artillery which frequently fixed their position accurately and rocked the ground around them, causing the jam jar with its candle to crash to the ground, plunging them into darkness. ‘Mother wouldn’t like the mess.’ It was funny, really and truly funny, every time he said it.
Auberon made his way to his sister’s room. On the door was the label Lady Veronica. Inside, though, would be Captain the Honourable Richard Williams, who had returned some time ago, severely injured. His progress had been slow but now, under his wife’s care, he was improving daily. He knocked gently, knowing that Ver was downstairs, making yet more beef tea to be available day and night for the badly wounded. He had gathered that rum was also on the menu and probably did a damn sight more good, but he hadn’t shared that information with any of the kitchen staff. His bravery had its limits, and getting on the wrong side of Evie, Mrs Moore or Ver was beyond the call of duty. ‘Come.’ Richard’s voice was weak but at least he was speaking.
Auberon entered, making his way towards the bed where Richard was sitting against heaped pillows. The curtains were drawn back and weak sun entered. The snow shower had ceased. Richard lifted his remaining arm, the right, in a sort of wave. His left leg had been amputated below the knee. What remained of his left ear was jagged. His cheek had been scorched and torn by the shrapnel. Once he had been handsome but now he was not, though he was loved. He had told Auberon on Christmas Eve that he much preferred the latter.
Auberon sat on the easy chair beside the bed. ‘Ver’s doing her bit in the ward, then?’
Richard laughed. ‘Indeed she is. I’m sorry you’re going back and bloody glad I’m not.’ The two men exchanged a glance. ‘It’s worse now, isn’t it?’ Richard asked.
Auberon smiled. ‘It’s never been a picnic. You were right, it’s an industrial war and absurd to think in terms of a short conflict. We’re entrenched, deep in mud, blood and shit, and the war of movement is finished. It will be a rotten hideous slog and we’ve a chance of winning if the generals realise that attacking is absurd; it’s sitting it out defensively that will bring most of us home in one piece. Or so say I, and what do I know? I’m glad you’re out of it, and that Ver’s come to her senses and is pleased you’re here. It was all the years with Father, you see. Well, you know what she’s told you about the beatings he gave me. I think she saw you as capable of the same violence, perhaps also that you would stop her doing what she wanted.’
‘I know, old chap. We’re getting our lives . . . arranged.’ Richard eased his back, moved the stump of his leg. ‘It’s as well she is a determined woman with a mind, a proper mind, because look at me. But I like the fact that she and Evie didn’t approve of the violence of the suffragettes, nor did the parson’s sister, Grace. But, for all that, they make a frightening trio, you know. Grace was home on leave two weeks ago and supported Evie’s campaign to let Ver loose on the patients by telling Matron that when Evie gave her word, she kept it. So no more pudding meant just that. I’m pleased that at last Ver has a couple of proper friends, especially in Evie, which is a strange one, in this day and age. Light me a cigarette, would you, old lad, bloody difficult one-handed.’ Richard’s hair was long, and fell into his eyes. His face was drawn.
Auberon did so, then lit his own, snapping shut his silver cigarette case. Richard looked at him through the spiralling smoke. ‘Grace Manton found me in a clearing station and I was on that bloody train before the surgeon could stop her. Straight to Le Touquet. Evie shoved Veronica on a train this end, in spite of her protests. You know, old lad, I thought she might not come and I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. I loved her but knew she didn’t love me. Your stepmama and my mama are a formidable force, you know, and pushed the poor girl into the marriage.’
Auberon nodded, feeling uncomfortable. One didn’t usually share such things. It was women’s talk, but the wounded were different. He had heard this from Richard before, several times, but the wounded man’s memory was strange and he repeated himself. Dr Nicholls said it would perhaps improve and then had shouted, removing his pipe to do so, ‘If you’d had a mighty crack on your thick head, wouldn’t you be a bit knocked sideways?’
Auberon had replied, ‘Probably. By the way, it’s one rule for the men – no smoking – and one for you, is it?’
Nicholls had grunted, ‘Pipes are different and enough of your impertinence.’ He had charged on his way to the next crisis.
Richard was muttering again, waving his cigarette in the air. ‘I believe Ver has a cause, you know, with the hospital, and I think that it makes her happy. All I have to do, it seems, is to step to one side and let her work, and her love will continue to grow. Or so Evie said. I think I should get a cauldron for all three of them, but especially . . .’
Auberon reached for the ashtray on the bedside table and held it beneath the growing ash on Richard’s cigarette, and then his own. Both of them tapped, the ash fell. ‘Evie,’ Auberon finished for him. ‘Yes, a cauldron might be good, but nothing bad would be created, just some of her special magic.’
Both men laughed.
Auberon stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray he had laid down on the sheets, and dug into his pocket. ‘I have this letter. I need you to keep it for me, safely. If I don’t return, I need you to pass it to Ver for me. Make her use it. You’ll need additional information, from Father’s deposit box in a bank in Rotterdam. You won’t understand at the moment, but I repeat, make her use it, and help her to do so. Now where can I put it that you’ll remember, but where it isn’t obvious?’
Richard pointed towards his portmanteau, his cigarette almost finished. ‘There’s an inside pocket. It contains my will. Put it there, then it will be found if either of us pops our clogs, old lad. Now, have I told you that we have bought you boots with a heel that contains a compass? Did I? I know I forget. Your batman has packed them but you must wear them in action.’
‘Yes, you have told me, but it’s unlikely I’ll need it. Not done to be caught by the Hun, better to die.’
Richard’s ash fell on to his pristine sheets. ‘Sister Newsome will murder me, that she will. Calls it a fire hazard to be smoking in bed. Don’t be bloody silly, don’t die, think of Veronica. If there’s nothing else for it, you must stick your bloody hands up and surrender, others do. Yes, you’ll have to fill a bloody form in on your return giving a damn good reason but sometimes there’s no alternative, or so my general said, so hands up, live. Then use the compass to get yourself back to the lines, pretty damn quick. They should insist we all carry one. Well, now you do. Now, have I told you how I thought Ver might not come to fetch me?’ Auberon smothered his sigh and lit them another cigarette. If he stayed much longer he’d ask for a bullet in the brain. ‘No, what was that then, Richard?’
Auberon had half an hour before Ted and his taxi arrived. He had promised himself tea and fancies in the kitchen, just as he and Veronica had done before the war. They’d probably be in Evie’s way but if they were, she’d tell them. The very thought amused him.
He headed through the green baize door and along the internal corridor, his boots ringing on the tiles, and into the kitchen. Veronica had the tea ready and the fancies. She laughed at his face. ‘No, don’t worry, Evie made them, not me.’
But that wasn’t why his smile had faded. Veronica said, ‘Evie thought we’d like time to ourselves, so they’ve all taken their breaks and Sister Newsome has given me half an hour.’ Auberon looked at the servants’ hall, and there they all were, knitting something khaki. The war was everywhere. Evie was knitting a balaclava for which someone would be thankful.
Ver was pouring tea into enamel mugs. ‘You don’t mind a mug do you, Aub, but we haven’t time for niceties.’
He laughed. ‘And we have, out there?’
Behind her the pan of beef tea was almost finished, except for skimming the fat. The tea poured, he watched as she reached for a sheet of greaseproof paper, stood by the range, laid it on the pan’s surface, soaked up some of the fat, placed the paper on a plate beside the pan. Again and again she did it until it was fat-free. They talked of nothing of importance, except for the fact that Ver was trying to knit a pair of socks, and would use Kitchener’s stitch to create a seam-free finish. ‘Hopefully fewer blisters,’ she muttered, nodding towards her needles stuck into the ball of wool on the armchair. Raisin and Currant were curled up beside it, asleep.
He said, ‘You’ve no idea how blessed you will be by some soldier out there. Keep at it, keep making them, trench foot is a bastard and blisters are harmless but bloody painful. I have a feeling our mother would be doing exactly the same. Do you still miss her?’
Ver smiled at him. ‘Always. She died too young, and she’d know that we knit because we’re so worried, all the time. Grace writes to us from her VAD perspective and here we live amongst some of the results. But then again we don’t really know. We can only imagine. What more can we do for you all, dearest Aub? How do you get through it?’
He sipped his tea. ‘Do you remember Saunders, my old tutor? He always talked of the River Somme, which is Celtic for tranquillity. He’d fished it. Said it was a slice of heaven. I think of that. One day, I’ll go, when this is over. But in the meantime, Ver, there’s a sense of it here, tranquillity I mean. It’s partly because Father’s absent.’
‘Partly?’
He said nothing more but looked into the servants’ hall again, seeing Evie, the tilt of her head, the frown of concentration. Then it was time to go. Ver walked with him through the great hall and down the steps to where the taxi waited. Roger sat in the front, the luggage in the boot. Auberon said, ‘It seems better with Richard, Ver.’
‘Aub, I love him. It’s as though everything is beginning to settle. He drives me to distraction with the repetition, but it is improving. Evie’s father and Tom Wilson, the blacksmith, are making him false limbs for when Dr Nicholls says his stumps can cope. Simon’s father helps too. It’s wonderful. We’re all working together and the mood is good, but then of course there are times when we have to telegraph a relative with the worst news. We send telegrams to the enlisted men’s families too, though the army doesn’t. Did you know that, Aub? Their families have to wait for letters and it can take weeks.’
Auberon could not bear to hear more. He kissed her hand. ‘Be happy, Ver. You and Evie look after one another. I will try and see Grace Manton if I can. You must write, please, if you can spare some time. I love to hear news of you all.’
He hugged her then, looking over her head towards the house, and the old stables, but Evie had not come.
He turned, opened the car door, and at last Evie’s voice rang out. She was standing at the entrance to the stable yard. ‘Mr Auberon, be safe, be lucky.’ The dogs rushed at him, barking. He stroked them. They tore back to Evie.
He took a moment, and when he could be sure his voice would be steady he called, ‘Thank you, Evie. I will bring your Simon safely home, and Jack, if I possibly can.’
She waved. ‘And you, you come back too, bonny lad.’ Then Mrs Moore shouted, ‘You’ll catch your death, lass. Come in here this minute.’ Evie waved again and disappeared.
He and Veronica laughed, and then he left. Yes, he must bring Simon back, because Evie’s happiness was everything to him, and at last she’d given him the marras’ farewell.
As Ted drove down the drive Auberon wondered if his father would ever accept that he employed a Forbes as his cook. Probably not, so Evie must continue to be known on the books as Evie Anston. How absurd it all was.