ON 15TH APRIL Tyneside was bombed in a Zeppelin air raid, and the newspapers carried a follow-up article on 25th April. In Richard’s study Ver stood close to her husband, feeling his arm around her. ‘I love you so much,’ she said. ‘We’re lucky, we have our lives ahead of us, not like these Tynesiders, not like those at Ypres, not like . . .’ She stopped. ‘Disaster is all around us, darling, it’s found our men and now it’s coming for us.’
He kissed her hard. ‘No, it’s not targeting us, you, Evie. It’s war, just war, but I think you’re overtired, you have rushed and bustled ever since you insisted on returning to duty after your collapse, too early in my opinion.’
They were in Richard’s study, looking at the map of the progress of the war pinned up on a board to the left of his desk. A few days after Potty’s telegram, while Veronica was in bed, numb and ill from shock and despair, he had sent for his old desk and filing cabinets from his parents’ home in Cumbria. He was unwilling to remain in Lord Brampton’s study which he had found too repressive, too full of the sense of the beatings Auberon had endured at his father’s hand.
Richard had explored the basement, finding many large disused storerooms which he felt would be needed for administrative purposes as the war progressed, but which required electrification. He had chosen the one nearest the servants’ hall for his study and purchased what sterilisers he could find for the spaghnum moss, all the while making the arrangements for the electrification of the basement and the attic. He used his own money for all of this, and severely depleted his resources, insisting that it must be done, saying that it was the least he could do for the war effort. It was as though Potty’s news, and Veronica’s collapse, had jerked him on to a different level, and even improved his memory. Or was it, Veronica wondered, that they all felt that if they worked hard, and were very very good, they would somehow earn the survival of their men? When she finally reappeared in the kitchen after two weeks, she was given cocoa by Evie, and honey cake, and a big hug. ‘All will be well,’ Evie had said. Somehow one half of Veronica believed her.
Now she held Richard’s face between both hands and kissed him. ‘Work makes the days pass, darling, and stops me winding myself up like a great spring about everything. But then something breaks through, like the news of the gas the Huns have used at Ypres, which means we’ll use it, and then where will it end?’ Her head ached from tiredness, but also perhaps from the drilling in the corridor, as the workmen brought electrification to their subterranean world.
‘You must try to sleep, darling.’
She smiled. ‘I do, sometimes, after . . .’ She kissed him again, flushing, remembering the pleasure of those dark hours now he was so improved. ‘But it feels wrong, when Aub has gone, when another convoy is on its way here. So many broken minds and bodies, day after day.’
Richard held her close, kissing her neck. ‘I know I’ve said it before, but moments of happiness are not a crime. I know I’ve also said that you’ve been on the acute ward for three weeks now, so should you ask Matron for fatigue duties?’
Veronica shook her head. ‘I’m useful, I’m learning. I’m needed. I prefer it to dusting, of course I do. It keeps . . . Remember that Evie said they only “believe”.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘She’s right. There’s room for doubt. Think of that, not anything else.’
‘How can there be doubt about all four? One shell would be enough.’ Veronica made herself stop. It did no good, only harm. She shrugged and Richard loosened his grip, turning to the desk. He handed her the costings that Dr Nicholls had produced before going on leave. ‘Here, this is what you came for, darling girl, as requested by Nairns. You said Evie would take them up with the kitchen figures, didn’t you? I’ve checked over them and agree with you that they are accurate.’
The temporary Medical Officer, Dr Nairns, was imposing himself and his ideas on Matron, and had just this morning badgered Veronica as commandant for up-to-date accounts of hospital expenditure. ‘He seems uncommonly interested in our costings, and far less concerned with the patients than Nicholls,’ Richard remarked.
Veronica flicked through them. ‘I suppose everyone has their different methods, and we are cutting it very fine with the hospital budget. But at least the funding you’re trying to raise for the work programme isn’t his concern, so he can keep his nose out of that. He really does seem to be everywhere, like a bad rash, or so Evie puts it. Have you heard back from any of your contacts yet? I know it’s difficult, as one hesitates to approach those who are grieving, but needs must. We do have tea parties and a fete planned for the warmer weather, but that’s for the hospital.’ She drew a quick breath, seeing her husband’s patient smile, but she had to keep talking, keep interested, and working. It was what Evie did, but what didn’t she do? She was a force of nature, that girl.
There was a bang from the corridor, a shout. ‘Watch it, man. That nearly hit me foot.’ The drilling resumed.
It was Evie who had suggested that Richard use his skills to produce money for a work programme at Easterleigh Hall when he had finished preparing for the electrification. This had followed his attempts to help in the kitchen, and then a return visit two weeks ago from a partially disabled army corporal and his wife, who could find no work and had no money. They had work now, at Easterleigh Hall, and were being paid, but there were many other ex-patients who had been in touch, their disability pensions proving inadequate. Something had to be done. Money had to be raised, work must be found.
There was a knock on the door and Captain Simmons poked his, she couldn’t say nose, round the door and announced, ‘Mr Harvey has just taken a phone call from Sir Anthony Travers, Richard. Clearly Harry bent his ear on his weekend home, and he’d like to speak to you at his club in Durham within the next few days, if we’d like to telephone him. Can you manage Durham if I come with you? Didn’t say what it was about but it could be some help with funding for those without work. He’s a good chap, Sir Anthony is. Or so Father says. He’ll put something into the pot too, but I told you that.’
While Ron was speaking Richard had returned to his chair, and was now pushing some papers around, not replying. Veronica beckoned Ron in. She knew that in spite of coming so far, so quickly, her husband still lacked the confidence to leave the confines of Easterleigh Hall and it was becoming a problem, one that Ron had been discussing with Dr Nicholls. He had obviously been discussing it with others too, because he and Harry were as thick as thieves and just as devious. Ron nodded at her, and she spoke her prepared lines, written together with him and Evie first thing this morning.
She said, ‘It would be ideal, Ron. He’ll need someone with him the first time to circumnavigate any obstacles, as long as you don’t mind. People can be cruel, I know they stare, and it won’t be easy for you.’
She felt the heat rise on her cheeks because she had never before brought up the fact that he presented himself to the world with facial injuries, but he’d insisted on this when they prepared her words.
Ron said, ‘We’ll have a high old time, won’t we Richard? The two of us out on the town together.’
Evie had suggested that Richard would feel honour bound to accompany a man who dared to face the stares in order to act as support. There was a pause as he continued to tidy the papers on his desk, placing one on top of the other, lining them up exactly. He looked up finally, and grinned. ‘I now know that there are absolutely no lengths to which my wife and my friends will go to do what is best for me, so how can I refuse?’
‘Splendid, old man. I’ll reply in the affirmative.’ Ron winked at Veronica and limped out of the room. Veronica reached out and held Richard’s outstretched hand, saying, ‘Excellent, now the electrification can progress into the study in your absence, giving Evie the time she needs to properly prepare an alternative kitchen before the electricians rip the old one apart.’
‘Good God,’ Richard said, kissing her hand. ‘You two really are witches, as Auberon said. All this Durham business just for that.’
For a moment their smiles faltered. Auberon. Where was he? But Richard was levering himself to his feet, reaching for his cane. ‘Will you help me pack?’
There was a knock on the door, and Ron looked in again. ‘You can’t hear above the noise, but Evie’s calling for you, something to do with the pastry for lunch.’
Veronica snatched up the figures and rushed to the door. ‘I forgot.’
‘Then you are damned for ever. Try telling her that it is your off shift and you are bestowing a great kindness on her,’ Richard called after her. ‘And I suppose I must pack myself?’
Veronica rushed along the corridor, calling back, ‘If you don’t mind.’ She slowed to step over wires, avoiding men who were drilling holes and wielding screwdrivers. Someone was singing in the laundry. It was Millie, for God’s sake. It was as though she had leapt into widowhood with alacrity and pleasure, appearing in black the day after the news, tripping through the kitchen, her hair damp from the early morning mist, her face the picture of someone bereaved. Veronica had thought that Evie would strike her, but Mrs Moore had stepped into the fray, giving Millie a flea in her ear for jumping the gun, shouting, ‘Believed dead, you silly girl.’ She had then shoved her down the corridor and into the laundry.
Since then Millie had remained firmly in black and asked daily about some money to help eke out her earnings, but as Richard pointed out, she was still receiving her allotment at this stage from Jack’s wages. He had also emphasised that Potty still had no more news that would alter the fact that they were ‘believed’ killed. Mrs Moore had said, more diplomatically than usual, that shock took people in strange ways and perhaps this was the case with Millie.
Veronica slowed to enter the kitchen where all was cheerful bustle and seeming chaos, with the usual discarded knitting guarded by the dogs on the two armchairs by the furnace, ready for the night shift to work on between providing what food and drink was needed. It wasn’t chaos of course, but it was cheerful. It had to be, it was the rule of the house. Evie looked up and jerked her head towards the pastry waiting on the marble slab. ‘You wanted to learn how to do this, so stop messing about in Richard’s cubbyhole and get to it, young lady. It needs to be cool, hence the marble. It does not need to be kept waiting in the heat of the ranges.’
Veronica placed the accounts for Nairns on the dresser and snatched a white cotton apron from the hook by the door. She had half an hour before her shift began in the hospital, just time to roll out the pastry and learn how to line the pie dishes, but she couldn’t stop looking at Evie who had such dark circles under her eyes, and was even paler than yesterday, and the day before, and before that. Fear clutched at Veronica. This girl’s fiancé and brother were missing but nonetheless she never slacked, never failed to smile, or run the kitchen to its full capability. As if that wasn’t enough she played with Tim over in the nursery her mother ran, and was always ready to laugh and joke with the men, but what if one day she did stop? What would they all do?
As though Mrs Moore could read her thoughts, she heard the head cook say as she came in from the central corridor with tea towels heaped in her arms, ‘Good, you’re here, Lady Veronica. Then we will have a bit of a sit-down in my parlour, if you please, Evie. We have those kitchen figures to go through, those that Dr Nairns has requested. He’s requested every single invoice, if you can believe that, Lady Veronica, as though Mr Harvey hasn’t been in charge of our accounts since time began.’
Mrs Moore put the tea towels next to Veronica’s accounts, picked these up and waited, watching Evie, who was ignoring her and instead was checking the Home Farm lamb that was slowly casseroling in all three ranges, with an overload of carrots, turnips and parsnips to eke it out, as everyone agreed they should, as shortages were beginning to occur. ‘Now,’ Mrs Moore bellowed. The kitchen staff froze. Evie straightened and wiped her hands down her apron, saying, ‘Keep your hair on.’
She raised her eyebrows at Annie and Veronica as she followed Mrs Moore out of the kitchen. They passed Mrs Green, who was almost running from the airing cupboard to the stairs. A fresh convoy had just arrived, this time from Ypres where what was being called the Second Battle of Ypres was taking place. Poor Canadians, bearing the brunt, poor all of them. Soon they’d be arriving, after every push it was the same, and in between, with the steady attrition, it was the same.
Veronica wielded the rolling pin under Annie’s expert eye.
In his study, while Ron was upstairs phoning Sir Anthony, Richard stared at his portmanteau. Was now the time to give dearest Ver her brother’s sealed letter that was to be opened in the event of his death? It was a question that didn’t linger, because hope hadn’t left the building. Not yet. Not yet. But soon common sense must take its place because Richard had been in northern France, he had lived here, at the hospital, and who could not be a realist after all of this? These women, that’s who: this monstrous regiment who might waver, but would hold on until the absolute end. Grace had written, and she, too, would not let hope fade.
In the parlour Evie sat in the armchair, opposite Mrs Moore, watching her flick through the paperwork. She couldn’t sit, she really couldn’t. She leapt to her feet. ‘Sit down,’ bellowed Mrs Moore, pushing her spectacles up her nose, peering over the top. ‘Just stop this endless activity. You have to be well for the patients, and for Simon and Jack when we know where they are. Now stop it or Matron will be down again, worrying over you. I just wish Dr Nicholls hadn’t taken it upon himself to go on leave, because I’d get him down to check you. That’s men for you.’
Evie sat down. ‘There’s no need for worry.’
‘What do you call wobbling all over the place in the kitchen the other day, if it’s not cause for worry?’
‘The heat from the oven took me by surprise.’ The door into Mrs Moore’s basement bedroom was open and Evie wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to sleep in a room with no windows. At least up in her attic room she could see as far as Fordington, and the sea, in between the folds of the hills, with not a sign of the pits. It was just countryside, and sky.
‘Nonsense, you need to get some decent sleep. Your mam thinks so too, and I heard her telling you only yesterday.’
Evie said, ‘I could be the only one left, Mrs Moore. First Timmie, now Jack, and Simon. It’s lonely, Mrs Moore, and I can’t bear it for me mam and da, or for me.’ She shut her lips on the words she had refused to voice before, which had somehow bubbled to the surface. But they must sink again, because everyone needed her to be strong.
Mrs Moore wiped her glasses. Evie watched her. Mrs Moore said, ‘“Believed dead”’, remember that. You can’t keep everyone else’s spirits up but ignore hope yourself, Evie lass.’
Evie started to rise. ‘They will be back from the bog with more moss. They will need hot drinks.’
Mrs Moore gestured her to sit, and snapped, ‘You have trained your staff well. Trust them to manage. You are almost, but not quite, indispensable, so lean back and do as I say.’ Evie took one look at her and did as she was told, feeling the air leave her body quite suddenly as it had started to do recently. It was as though she was a balloon that had been pierced when the telegram came. It was just a tiny hole, one she could almost see, and each day the breath left her body a little bit more and was not replenished. Sometimes, though, it just gushed from her and left her limp, empty, and weak, as it had last week, so that she wobbled like a jelly, daft beggar that she was.
Now in this chair, in this room which she loved as much as the woman sitting opposite her, she struggled for breath, found it, nurtured it, her limbs as heavy as lead, lost it again, searched and found traces. She panted it back into her lungs. For a moment all she could see was black.
Millie’s black dress.
Every day, Jack’s wife came in that black dress. But Potty had said, ‘Believed dead’ Evie had told her. ‘Grow up, Evie,’ Millie had said.
It was at night when Evie had time to think, lying in her bed, wondering where they were, or how they had died, seeing the long years ahead with everyone gone, or not. Perhaps hurt, or not. They were her lovely lads, Simon, Jack, Aub. Perhaps she’d never see Si’s red hair again, feel his soft lips, perhaps he was out there buried in mud, shrinking into a skeleton, perhaps there’d be no more burned onions from Aub, she could almost smell them, see the smoke, no more screeching knives from Jack.
Yes, she was tired but she couldn’t sleep, and every day, and night, there were more convoys, every day now there were electricians and spirit stoves to organise, and today the accounts must be taken upstairs to placate Nairns, and what was Bastard Brampton up to? It was such a strange thing, this world at war. It seemed unreal, but wasn’t. It existed, and was like a wheel that went round, and round, picking up bits, dropping them, leaving its filthy tracks wherever it went, on whatever it rolled.
Mrs Moore fanned herself with Dr Nairns’ papers, then tossed them on to the table. ‘I know I usually say that work is the answer in a crisis, but within reason. A body can’t go on and on, even if it belongs to a pitman’s daughter. You must accept the need for rest, in order to be strong. Do you understand me, Evie Forbes?’
Evie had watched as Mrs Moore’s lips framed the words, and slowly she nodded. ‘Aye, I do understand. It’s what I tell myself, so you’re right.’ She made herself smile, as Mrs Moore laughed, but what Mrs Moore did not understand was that the one thing she could not be was weak, because everyone depended on her strength. ‘I believe and hope, I do really, Mrs Moore. I mostly do. Sometimes though it just goes out of me, like the air.’ Mrs Moore looked puzzled, but Evie continued, ‘I can’t tell you how long I will go on hoping because I don’t know, but I won’t stop for a long while. We owe it to them, to the lads.’ She sat straighter, feeling the breath restored inside her again, and the blackness fading, as she groped for more of the words that Mrs Moore wanted to hear. ‘I don’t feel that they’ve gone, not here, inside me.’
Mrs Moore just nodded. ‘If the time comes when you have to accept the darkness, then you will manage, just as all the other poor souls are doing. In the meantime we have many a young man who will only want beef tea tonight after arrival, or calves’-foot jelly, or egg custard, but you won’t be on shift. You will be sleeping. If not sleeping, resting. Tomorrow you will do the rounds of your poor wee new boys to see what are their favourites, and together we will produce them. On the ranges at the moment, and on spirit stoves later.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Now you will rest. If you can sleep, well and good, but if not, then you just lean back and close your eyes. All I want you to do when you wake is to take these accounts to Dr Nairns, and then have a gentle walk in the fresh air. Your mother and I have discussed this and she is of the same mind, so nice and easy does it.’ Mrs Moore heaved herself up from her armchair, then glanced down at her side table. ‘Oh, but best read this letter Nairns sent down for you, which is probably some nonsense about more finicky stocktaking that we can deal with together. I gather the wretched man is a member of the same club as Lord Brampton and came here on Brampton’s orders, but why, one wonders?’ She stopped. ‘The ramblings of an old woman. Forget my words.’
Evie felt the prickle of the upholstery under her hands as she gripped the arms of her chair. Nairns knew Brampton? She breathed deeply, looking at the letter Mrs Moore was placing on top of Nairns’ papers. Mrs Moore said, ‘Not now, Evie. Instead, see, I have a new photo.’ She was pointing at the frames above the fireplace. Evie saw the usual photograph of Grace, Mrs Moore’s first employer, on the wall. Next was another, one she had not seen before. It was of herself with Mrs Moore, taken at Christmas beside the tree. Standing behind them were Jack, Auberon and Si in civilian clothes, smiling. She leaned back in her chair, watching them until she slept, and all the while the tears ran silently down her face, soaking her collar and uniform.
When she awoke Mrs Moore had gone. She checked her watch; two hours had passed, more than she had slept in weeks. Nairns’ papers were still on the table. On the top was the envelope addressed to her, in black ink, with a sloping hand. She reached forward, pushed her finger under the flap and ripped it open. She read, and then read again. As she did so she felt the air rushing in, stretching her balloon thinner and thinner. Who did this man think he was? How dare he?
She crushed the letter and left the room, returning immediately to collect the papers. She looked neither to left nor right as she headed along the hall, the words in the letter dancing in her head. She pounded up the stairs, through the baize door and into the grand hall, almost floating in the air that stretched and thinned the balloon. Lance Corporal Samuels, the orderly on duty, stood up at his desk. Ambulances were arriving, all was activity. Orderlies, nurses, VADs and Matron were hurrying across the hall, into wards, down the steps to the ambulances, then back up the steps alongside the stretchers. Steve Samuels had a pencil behind his ear, and another in his hand. Did he know he had two? Did it matter? ‘All well, Evie?’ She could see herself in his boots, and even his putties looked pressed.
‘Soon will be, pet,’ she gasped. Steve Samuels reached out, concerned. ‘Evie, what is it?’
She spun away, weaving between these people who were bent on saving lives, but so too was she. She entered Dr Nairns’ office without knocking. It was one of the anterooms, the one that Dr Nicholls had commandeered as the hub of the Medical Officer’s empire. Nairns was drinking a cup of coffee. She dropped the papers on his desk, and then the letter he had sent. It was still crushed. He looked up, his lips thin. ‘Did I hear a knock?’
She said, leaning forward, taking her weight on her hands, forcing him to withdraw sharply against his chair, ‘I doubt it, unless it was my head banging on my kitchen table at your ridiculous time-wasting shenanigans. We haven’t time for this rubbish, you absurd little man. How dare you send paperwork asking for specific numbers of knives, forks, spoons, cups, and instigating a weekly stocktake of said items as though we are overrun with kitchen thieves? As for demanding sterilisation of all cutlery, mugs and God knows what else, Maud, our scullery maid runs a tight ship, and there has been no history of stomach trouble since we started the hospital. Unless, of course, you count those who have half their guts hanging out when they arrive.’
She had moved even closer to him, and he was pale by now. His sandy hair, which he swept over his bald pate, had plunged over his wire-rimmed spectacles. He put up a hand. She slapped it down, actually slapped it. She saw the shock on his face and it only fuelled her fury, and was the only thing that seemed to reduce the air inside her. ‘We are short of all supplies so where are we to get yet more sterilisers? Captain Richard has obtained as many as are available and is moving mountains to fulfil the needs of the hospital as it is. Where are your priorities?’
She was panting, air was rasping in and out, hurting her chest. She must draw more in. She stood upright. ‘You require invoices from us, figures that balance. Mr Harvey provides Lord Brampton’s accountant with these, so why must he copy them out a second time, for you too? We’re busy here, rushed, tired, with always more to do.’ Dr Nairns rose too, his mouth open. She put up her hand. His mouth closed. She continued, shouting in her rage. ‘We run our kitchens to the commandant, Lady Veronica’s, satisfaction, and also to that of Matron and Dr Nicholls. I will suggest that we cut up those papers into squares and hang them in the latrines, and you may use your imagination as to their further use, but buttocks come to mind. Is this quite clear? If there is any more fuss, then beware the food you eat. Who knows what will be in it for the few weeks that you remain here. Now, as for the letter, if you dare to order the dismissal of Mrs Moore and Annie, to be replaced by volunteers under my control in the interest of economy, then you are missing a great many brain cells. Mrs Moore is essential, Annie too.’
The air was leaving her, coming out in great bursts along with her words, and none was replacing it. She knew tears were not far behind, but no, she would not allow them to come. ‘I repeat, Dr Nicholls and Matron, and Lady Veronica, our commandant, have no reservations about the running of the kitchen and until they do, nothing changes, because you, as a temporary Medical Officer, have no authority to dismiss anyone. Nothing changes. Do. You. Understand?’
Dr Nairns walked out from behind his desk to her side, towering above her, a piece of paper in his hand. She faced him as he waved the paper and began to speak. ‘I care not what Dr Nicholls, Matron, or indeed the Lady Veronica have to say on the subject. Here I have a directive from Lord Brampton. In it he explains that he has arranged for Dr Nicholls to be transferred to a new auxiliary hospital outside Newcastle and I am to remain until this . . .’ He waved his hand towards the grand hall. ‘This chaotic sloppy informal mess is under control and that means more volunteers and fewer paid servants, and strict rules of hierarchy. Those that remain must pull their weight. Your Mrs Moore does not, and Annie’s work can be taken over by any flibbertigibbet from the village.’
‘The kitchen is the powerhouse . . .’
‘You stupid little girl.’ He sliced the air; the directive fell fluttering to the floor. Evie forced herself to stand firm, feeling his spittle on her cheek as he roared, ‘The government pays three shillings per patient per day. It costs this establishment three shillings and ninepence, but that is rising. His Lordship is not prepared to shoulder the burden of the extra cost any more, but instead is opening another hospital nearer Leeds, a smaller establishment, the upkeep of which is to be shared with an influential Member of Parliament. We either close, or we make the changes and operate within three shillings per patient per day. To do this, we must lose staff, and if you wish to keep Mrs Moore, then do so. You however, will be off these premises by the evening, and perhaps this will encourage you to treat your betters with respect. One must hope that Mrs Moore will last the course without you, or die trying. Do. You. Understand?’
Evie stared at him, feeling the weakness threatening. He had spittle in the corners of his mouth, protruding nasal hair, and thin lips. For the first time she noticed that he was old, drawn and tired, with an air of grief and fury so tangible that she could almost touch it. Had he lost someone? What did anyone know about anyone else?
He pressed closer. She smelt the coffee on his breath. She would not move. She transferred her weight on to the balls of her feet, as Jack had done when he was fighting. She breathed deeply, and again. ‘I will leave, but I will return as one of the volunteers.’ Her voice was totally calm. She turned and strode to the door, wrenching at the handle. It opened. He said, ‘You will not enter these premises again. Do you understand? You have caused trouble, and I will not tolerate it. Be gone by this evening.’
She turned on her heel, exiting into the entrance hall. There Matron and Sister Newsome stood, transfixed. Behind them stood Lance Corporal Samuels, his mouth hanging open. Evie smiled, breathing, refilling the balloon. ‘You’ll catch flies, young man,’ she told him. All around people were working, helping the patients, carrying stretchers. There was the odd shout, the odd groan.
She managed to walk to the baize door without faltering, though the balloon was still punctured, the air easing out, slowly, steadily, and the weakness was building. She descended the stairs, walked to the back door, the one that the volunteers used when going outside to smoke their Woodbines. She must climb the steps and breathe in the air, and walk home, to the Forbes home, where she could sleep, just for a moment. She just needed to sleep because her head was bursting with his words, words which were jumping and juggling.
She walked across the yard, then down by the yew hedge, through the birches where the cowslips splashed yellow against the grass, past the thatched bothy where she and Si used to meet. Sometimes they would kiss, sometimes they would take their bikes and cycle to the sea at Fordington. Sometimes . . . Or never again?
She stopped, returned to the bothy, pulled out her bike from amongst the rest, including Si’s. It was rusting. She must clean it in case . . . But not now. Now, she would ride to the sea. There she could breathe. She pushed hard on the pedals; the right one squeaked. One, two, three, one, two, three, again, and again and steadily the squeak lessened and there was just the call of the thrush, somewhere a wood pigeon, the shout of a pheasant. She turned at the crossroads, and head down she passed the hedges in full May blossom, on past the turning to the beck. Now the stream ran alongside, slecky and turgid, then into Easton, past the parsonage. She wanted to stop, to be where Grace had been. She didn’t, she kept going through Easton, in the shadow of the slagheap, smelling the sulphur, seeing the winding gear of Auld Maud. People waved. She did not. Her hand was too heavy. Out of Easton, still on Brampton’s tarmac road and now the squeak had disappeared. One, two, three. On and on, gliding on Brampton’s smooth road. Brampton. Brampton. But the Bastard had no right to the space inside her head. Brampton. Brampton. He had money. How could he cut his support when it was his idea in the first place? She turned left as she and Simon had done, on to the track, over the bridge towards Fordington. It was cold but soon she would be able to breathe, and inflate the balloon, mend the puncture, somehow.
On and on she rode until she reached the sand and felt the wind that whipped at her, the waves that pounded and roared, the smell of salt. It was so clean. She dismounted and let the bicycle drop and walked along the sand, stepping over the sea coal scattered the length of the bay. She shaded her eyes and looked towards the Lea End section. By, that had been a glorious day when Timmie and Jack had swum to save Edward. Silly Edward, what would he think of the Lea End lot fighting alongside Si, Jack and Aub? Yes, fighting with them, because they were still alive. She needed to say the words in case God was listening. They would come back here and they’d all be friends together. No one would be thrown into the waves again.
She walked on, the sand slipping beneath her boots. There weren’t many waves today. It must be grand to float, to feel the water, to be rocked until you slept. Where was Si? Where was Jack? Where are you, Aub? Stop the fighting for a moment and let’s find them. Aub promised, you see, to keep them safe, all of them safe, him too.
She lifted her head. Above her the gulls were wheeling and crying as the water rose to her knees, dragging at her uniform skirt, but why should the gods and Aub keep all her loved ones safe, when she had not protected Mrs Moore? She had thought she could come back without pay to help her do the job that was now beyond her. It had not worked. It never worked against the bosses, they crushed you, just as they crushed Timmie. But no, Jack said they hadn’t. He could have died anyway.
The waves were breaking on her, lolling against her waist, pushing and pulling her, lifting her off her feet, then setting her down again. She forced her legs to move towards the horizon though she could no longer feel them, and the air was clean, it was deep in her lungs and it was time to sleep, to be rocked beneath the wheeling gulls and the pure air. She leaned back, watching the gulls, and sank into the sea which carried her as though she was a feather, the water soothing her face, again and again. She coughed. Jack had swum, how he had swum to save the parson. Her skirt dragged, she couldn’t move, her legs were gone, just absent, her arms too, but that was right canny, right grand, because all she wanted was to sleep, just sleep.
Oh, how Jack had swum. In and out of those hurtling waves and then he had dipped below them, and above, and then below and had sunk. Timmie had caught him up, laughed in his face, and together they had brought in the parson. She had watched, seen, heard about it later after they had brought the daft man back together. Together.
‘Jack,’ she called. ‘Jack, stay with me while I sleep, I’m so tired. Jack, don’t leave me alone.’ The water was in her mouth, it caught in her throat, strong salt, the gulls were screaming, screaming her name. She shut her eyes, and now there was no water on her face, but it was drawing her down, holding her safely.
‘Evie, Evie. I’m coming. Swim to us.’ Jack was swimming to her, she could see him, and she smiled, but the voice called again, and it wasn’t his. Whose was it? It was there, in the distance, calling and calling. ‘Evie, Evie.’ It was kind, and she knew it, needed it. It was all she wanted. Jack, Timmie and Simon were coming, there, through the water, swimming, smiling. She reached out but they were swept away by the current. They called, but there was another voice too, the voice of someone she must find, the voice of someone who would save her because her lungs were full. Quite full and he would come and take her where she could sleep, with him, for ever.
She moved her arms, because he was over there, but she couldn’t see him. She tried again, tried to reach out, almost. She was on her side, tumbling with the sea, her lungs bursting, she must open her mouth, she must call to them, as they were calling to her. ‘Come on. Try. Swim. Come on.’ It was Jack, Simon and Timmie
She was so tired, too tired, and her clothes were heavy, clothes that were her uniform, but it didn’t matter, she didn’t need it. She could sleep and so she let the sea take her, down and down. She was rolling, gently, and she could hear them, Jack, Simon and Timmie, but over there, behind them, was the blue, the blue of violets. There was his voice. Jack was reaching for her, smiling, but he, the other, was coming, she knew he was, and now there was a flash of yellow. She reached out, past Jack, past Simon and Timmie, and he was coming. Soon she’d see him. Soon.
But then she felt hands, digging into her shoulders, another snagged her hair, pulling. Her arm was gripped, pulled. She turned over, because that lovely voice was calling, ‘I’m coming, Evie.’ She smiled, reached out, and then there was pain because her arm was yanked up, she was leaving the voice, leaving him, because someone was pulling, pulling. Her shoulder screamed with pain, popped. Her lungs were too full. They were bursting. There was someone holding her, kicking, kicking upwards, someone else was hurting her arm, her shoulder, the sea was snatching at her, wanting her to tumble with it, play with it. Her arm was pulled, harder. The pain. She screamed. Choked. Swallowed.
She couldn’t breathe, of course she couldn’t breathe, she was under the bloody sea, and now she was fighting because the pain was tearing at her, and she was kicking in her boots, and clinging to the man. Her arm was still being pulled, and her hair. Her arm was released, the man held her tighter, and was kicking harder, and now there was air, and the sound of gulls, and two men, and wind, and salt on her lips and she was choking, coughing, spitting out water and saliva. Pain roared in her shoulder and down her arm and it was Ron Simmons holding her, laughing, turning her on her back, and stroking for shore, with Steve Samuels helping. Ron Simmons was shouting, ‘Fine day for a swim, our Evie. Fine bloody day, you daft girl. Take your damned boots off next time. Thought we’d let you go, did you?’
They were in the shallows now, and Samuels was hauling her by her armpits over the sand and the sea coal, while Ron Simmons did a funny doggy paddle alongside, right into the shallows, and then he crawled. ‘Had to take the bottom of me leg off, Evie, the only thing it’s not good for.’ Samuels was taking her weight as her skirt clung and made life difficult as they struggled through the surf for the last two yards. ‘Heard the lot, I did. Bloody bastard, that little worm is. Needs to be dealt with, but that’s for another day.’
They were out of the water, and Evie fell to the sand with Samuels on one side of her and Simmons the other. Both men were laughing. Simmons panted, ‘We came to find you in the kitchen but you’d gone. Parson phoned after you’d passed him like a whirling dervish, looking fit to commit murder. Your mam guessed you were heading for the sea.’
They were both without their shirts, pale and shivering with the cold. Evie struggled upright. Samuels held out his hand to Simmons, and hauled him up. Simmons hopped, then his good leg gave way. Samuels took his weight as Simmons laughed again. ‘Ooops-a-daisy.’ Water ran from the nasal holes in his face. He wouldn’t look the same with a nose, Evie decided.
Veronica and her friend Lady Margaret, who helped look after the recovering facial injuries, were running towards them with towels, which they wrapped around Evie, holding her close but avoiding her arm. ‘Matron gave us leave, busy though we are. I will pay for this, mark my words,’ Veronica shouted above the surf and the wind. All the time they were rubbing and Evie felt warmth returning, and with it came even more pain. She said, ‘I needed to sleep. I got confused.’ She looked out to sea. He was gone. He? He?
Lady Margaret said, ‘I remember a time when I was confused, after hunger-striking and suffragette campaigning. I think that you are just extremely sad, worried and tired, like I was.’
Lance Corporal Samuels was grabbing towels from the pile that Lady Margaret had dropped and threw one to Ron, who was sitting on the sand. They both rubbed their hair dry, and slung the towels, sopping wet, round their shoulders. ‘Heave ho, me old matey,’ Steve said, hauling Ron to his feet. Ron had his false leg in his other hand. Lady Margaret picked up their clothes, and together they stumbled along towards the Rolls-Royce, which was pulled on to the beach as far as was safe. Samuels said, ‘You need to get confused nearer home another time, Evie. In the pond would be good.’
She looked out to sea again, hearing the gulls, feeling the wind, the cold. She said, ‘Thank you for saving me.’ She thought she meant it, but wasn’t sure.
They drove towards Easton, sitting on towels with Lady Margaret in the driving seat, through the pit village, and straight to Evie’s parents’ home under Stunted Tree Hill. Her mam and Tim were there, and the range was stoked. Dr Nicholls had been sent for. He was at Fenton House near Newcastle and would fix her shoulder, which Lady Veronica announced was dislocated. They felt it best not to ask Dr Nairns, as if they did, either Evie or he would not live to see the end of the day.
Ron Simmons sat next to Evie on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. ‘What are we to do? How do we get Evie’s job restored? What say you, Lady Veronica?’ His holes were still running and he held a handkerchief to them that Evie’s mam had given him.
‘It’s bigger than just me though, don’t you see,’ Evie said, her mam sitting on the sofa arm and gripping her hand as though she would never let her go. ‘How can we protect Mrs Moore and the hospital from your father, Ver? How can we make the economies he wants?’
Lady Veronica was collecting up the towels, folding them to take them to the laundry at Easterleigh Hall. She had given Evie a sedative because the pain was ripping through her body. Lady Margaret was sitting at the table, fiddling with the strips of material waiting to be incorporated into Susan Forbes’ latest proggy rug. Veronica replied at last, ‘Steve told us all he had heard and Captain Richard is working on that now, and it’s something we all need to think about. We, Evie, not just you. And somehow we must get Dr Nicholls back, too, though the most important thing is for us all to somehow bear the waiting. Just as everyone else must.’
‘Talking of time, which we weren’t altogether,’ said Lady Margaret, looking at her watch, ‘I need to get back to my patients, I really do. It’s the dressings, you know. The moss is helping the pain of their faces but they like people with whom they are familiar to attend them, especially Major Granville.’ She flushed.
Evie’s mother was now pouring tea, using the best china. ‘There is time for a cup of tea, and don’t fret, all will be well,’ she said. Everyone laughed but they were all so far away, Evie thought, and drifted now, down into the water, searching.
Veronica received Auberon’s kit on 28th April, the same day that letters arrived telling the enlisted men’s families that they were missing in action, presumed dead. Their kit accompanied the letters. Lance Corporal Samuels took control at Easterleigh Hall and carried Auberon’s kit up to Veronica and Richard’s suite. He said nothing, just saluted, and left.
Veronica insisted that it was she who unpacked. Her fingers struggled with the cracked and dried leather straps. The dirt of Neuve Chapelle fell on to her carpet. She took out Auberon’s spare uniform, his boots. They smelt of war, and filth. They were lice-ridden. Why? No one had worn them recently? His letter to her, written on the eve of the battle, was here. It had not been posted. So no one thought he was dead? Or had it simply been overlooked?
She read it. He spoke of Wainey, their nanny, and their mother, how he had loved them, how he had learned at last their lessons of fairness, of responsibility. He spoke finally of his love for her, his hope that she would find happiness with Richard, who was a good sort. He ended, ‘Your ever-loving brother, Aub.’
Right at the bottom, alongside his scarf knitted by Annie, and a pair of spare socks Veronica remembered Evie wrestling with, was his diary. She looked at Richard, who said, ‘It is up to you.’ While she read his last entry aloud Richard checked Auberon’s boots, pulling at the heels, which did not move. He seemed pleased. He said, ‘He’s got his compass, otherwise it would be in one of these heels. He stands a chance of getting back if . . .’
Veronica interrupted. ‘Listen, Richard. Listen to this. “Of course, the sun rises and sets with her but as long as she is happy and loved by him, then what more is there? I suppose this is the height of love, something that does not require fulfilment of self. Please God, he lives through this mess, and that I can help in that objective. For her sake.”’
Richard reached across and took the diary from her. ‘I think we must not read any more. It is not ours to know.’ Veronica stared at her hands, at the dirt that engrained her skin. She hadn’t cried for some days, but now she did.