‘MART, PICK YOUR bloody feet up, you’re kicking up enough dust to drown us.’ Jack dipped down lower and lower as the gradient increased, and the roof lowered, but it was only for fifty feet. They were heading out of their cutting towards the main drag. They’d picked a good allotment when they’d drawn the cavil with a pure load at the club the other night. Jeb, the union rep, had a smile on his ugly face for once, because Davies was allowed sufficient money to provide enough decent props, and a rescue station positioned between Hawton and Easton. Sidon and therefore the Lea End lot, what remained of them, were to be a party to it. Dave would have been pleased.
‘Done your homework, have you?’ Jack puffed. His chest hadn’t been the same since that waft of mustard gas had caught them at Passchendaele, and enough had caught Mart to give him a snifter too.
Mart was panting as he said, ‘Enough to treat meself to a beer. Bloody hell.’ He ducked smartly, but the sharp edge in the roof caught him. ‘There you are. If you stopped talking, I’d stop knocking me bonce.’ They were approaching the cage now, and joined the queue waiting for their turn. Mart wiped his forehead and muttered into Jack’s ear, ‘Bloody glad we’re doing the certificate. It’s not the same, not quite the home from bloody home it was with this chest of mine.’
‘Aye, I’m with you there.’ Jack eased his back. He couldn’t wait to get home to Grace, to have her scrub his back, kiss his mouth, laugh and tug his hair. Then he’d read to Tim, and spend the rest of the evening with his bonny lass. It was murder when he was on the back shift and they barely saw one another, let alone lay in bed together, as far from Edward’s room as possible. He wiped the dust from his mouth.
‘Where the hell is Auberon?’ Mart muttered, worry creasing his forehead.
‘No news is good news. He’s still drawing money from the bank and he did say we wouldn’t hear a ruddy word.’ Jack was trying to talk himself down, as well as Mart, who wouldn’t give it a rest, tapping his bait tin as he said, ‘Aye, but he’s not said whether he’s coming for the hotel launch, and that’s not too many months away. I don’t like him there, alone at the Somme. He’s one of us. He’s ours.’
Eric was feeding the men into the cages efficiently for once, after Jack and Mart had told Davies that the bugger needed to up his game and the men didn’t want his dilly-dallying after a long shift. He was on a warning, the little rat, and it had given Jack the greatest pleasure to be allotted the task of spelling it out to him, with Jeb’s permission. Eric had been the only one to bad-mouth Da after he’d gone up to Deputy, and had had to join Brampton’s lodge, not the union.
As Eric clanged the chain across the cage, he glared at Jack, who laughed. One tap. They creaked and groaned up towards the light. ‘What about Si?’ Mart shouted above the noise. ‘He’ll be back, surely?’ Jack just shrugged, and they shared a look which said he’d better bloody be, for Evie’s sake. Mart muttered into his ear now, not wanting to be heard by the others, who were crammed close, ‘We should tell her that he wanted to stay for his own sake, not for this blather he keeps on about. He’ll give himself a medal soon.’
Jack shook his head. ‘He could straighten out, become a man.’
Evie and Veronica stood in front of Lady Margaret’s stables, as they’d recently been christened, in memory of her attempt to burn them down as part of Christabel Pankhurst’s pre-war campaign of destruction. Work was complete on the two apartments, except for a touch up here and there. The foreman called, ‘Clock is ticking, got to get on, lots more work needed around the place.’
Evie replied, ‘Carry on, we’re on our way to the Captain Neave wing.’ They lingered, though. The wood had been replaced with brick from Brampton’s brickworks, which he’d offered at a discounted price, via his manager. Richard and Ron had dug about for a catch, but there seemed none. They knew that any sniff of a rift within the family would not have enhanced an image already besmirched by Brampton’s munitions gains. The press were having a fine old time whingeing about the profiteers, now the war was over.
Not one to let an opportunity go by, Richard had grabbed the moment and ordered more bricks, because Evie had decided on Barry Jones’ advice to dismantle the wooden huts and rebuild them in brick, and had sufficient funds to do so. It just meant moving the men and the nurses from one place to another until the work was finished. They were also building a small annexe where Evie’s da and the blacksmith could work on their various limbs.
Ver slipped her arm through Evie’s. ‘I’m so pleased Mrs Moore . . . No, Mrs Harvey decided on the ground-floor apartment. The thought of the stairs after her retirement worried the life out of both Richard and me.’
Evie glanced up at the building. It looked clean but severe, though honeysuckle growing up it would remedy that. She should feel excitement, but she felt nothing. ‘Si will be pleased to live here, I know he will.’
She knew nothing of the sort any more, because he seldom wrote. She wrote weekly, but with news about the hotel when she should have written words of love, words that failed to come. There was just a sort of anger, a disappointment, a fatigue at the thought of cajoling him as she had so often done.
The first Sunday after the Treaty of Versailles was signed, at the end of June, Edward held a memorial service in Easterleigh Hall’s church. People arrived carrying white chrysanthemums and lilies, Evie and her parents amongst them, Grace, Tim, and Jack too. The scent was overpowering, and cleansing. The Forbes family sat with Richard, Veronica, and James, who objected to sitting on his mother’s knee and preferred to clamber on to Tim’s. Harry sat with Annie, and they held hands beneath the folds of her uniform. What would Sir Anthony Travers think of that, Evie wondered. Well, at the launch they might find out. Charlie sat with Mart, who was squashed against Maisie, the nurse who worked with the men who skipped from hut to hut, one step ahead of the builders. Matron sat with Mr Harvey and Mrs Moore, who had sighed at the last meeting, as everyone tried to remember to call her Mrs Harvey, ‘For goodness sake, call me Mrs Moore. It’s who I still am, if you get my meaning. Nothing’s changed.’ But it had. There was a bloom about her that Evie envied.
The service began, and it was conducted jointly by Edward and Davy Evans, from the chapel at Easton. The church was so crowded that people stood outside, with the windows and doors open so that they could hear. The choir sang a hymn composed by Harry’s mother, with Evie as the soloist. For a moment, as she gazed out across the packed congregation, holding pristine white flowers for those who had not returned, she felt something stir, and it was a sense of great loss.
Richard spoke of the courage of the patients at Easterleigh Hall, and of the staff with their enduring compassion. Jack spoke of the war, the larks that flew over the fields when away from the front, the ruin of the land as it now was, the kindness of some of the German guards which had made life tolerable. He spoke finally of Auberon.
Evie watched as her brother faltered, searching for words, and for composure. ‘He became one of us. He fought with us, and for us. He watched our backs and we his. He is a grand man, a man of honour, one who returned to make good the promises he made to himself. I repeat that he is one of ours and we miss him, and want the silly bugger back here again.’
The congregation laughed, and it was laughter that rolled out through the windows and doors to be joined by that of those outside.
In September the invitations for the launch in November were sent out, though there was still decorating to be done, with no furniture yet reinstated. It was a gamble, but with a definite date they’d just have to make it.
Veronica and Evie sat over stewed cups of tea in the kitchen with Harry, who had asked for the meeting just to check on a few details about the launch. Harry was to be front of house, operating from Lord Brampton’s old desk placed where the orderly’s station had been in the great hall. He poured himself some more tea and scoffed a scone, loaded with honey. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I’ve put the word about to all Father’s connections. The newspaper editors say they’ll send reporters, and they might, though they’re not known for reliability. It all depends if an actress is caught with a cabinet minister in a state of undress.’ He was talking with his mouth full. Crumbs landed on the table. Evie said, ‘Don’t be disgusting.’
He laughed, and more crumbs showered out. ‘I’m not, it’s the sort of thing that does happen.’
Veronica said, ‘She meant the crumbs, naughty boy.’
He swallowed, and wiped his mouth, then flicked at the table with a serviette. Evie sighed. ‘Ver, can we possibly have this urchin as front of house?’
Veronica shook her head. ‘He’ll have to show some improvement or Mr Manners will have something to say, indeed he will.’
Harry grinned, and shoved a list across to the two women. ‘Have a look. I’ve sent to these, in my very best handwriting, ma’am.’
At the top of the list were Lord and Lady Brampton. Evie and Veronica looked up, appalled. Harry held their stare, though his colour rose. ‘We have to, or it will look strange to our guests. It is still, to all intents and purposes, perceived as his house.’ Evie recognised the set of his chin. She had seen it so often when he struggled with his wooden leg. He would not move on this, and it was too late anyway.
Veronica said, ‘Richard knows of this?’
‘No, it is my province and I thought you two should know first.’ He reached for the last scone, but at the last minute offered it to them. They declined, letting him lather it with honey and watching, fascinated, as it went in whole. Then they read down the list. Everyone who should have received an invitation was there. Beneath Lord and Lady Brampton was Auberon. Beneath him, Simon.
‘Now we wait,’ Harry said.
Two days later Evie woke at midnight in her attic room, her head and heart pounding. She drank a little water, but her hand trembled and more spilt down her nightdress. She slept until a banging on her door woke her. ‘Evie, it’s late, it’s eight o’clock, breakfast is finished.’ It was Annie. Evie couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move, her body ached, her lungs were full of water, she was drowning, swimming amongst reeds. Someone was touching her forehead. It hurt. Just the touch hurt.
Matron was there. ‘Sit up, lass.’
No, she couldn’t move, she was drowning. She felt an arm under her, it hurt. She was being lifted. No, it hurt. ‘Drink.’ The glass against her lips hurt. No. It was being forced. Rum scalded her throat. She swallowed. It hurt. No. No more. But there was more. It scalded.
They laid her down, let her drift, let her swim and the waves were there, twisting and turning, throwing her up and then down, the sand was scraping her, hurting her. ‘No.’
‘It’s to cool you down, bonny lass.’ It was Mam, here in the water too.
‘No.’
‘Come on, darling, just a sip.’ It was Ver, and it scalded. No.
She was alone at last. The waves pulled her towards shore, and then away, further, further, deeper and colder, deeper, colder, into a place where there were no voices, no one tugging but then Jack came, through the sea. ‘Come on, bonny lass. One sip, just one.’ No.
‘Try, lass, try to breathe.’
I’m tired, Da. I’m just tired, let me be. I’m tired and I’m alone and it’s quiet. Now it’s quiet.
‘We need you, pet. Come along now.’
No, Mrs Moore. I’m just too tired and I like it here, away in the deep of the sea, away from the roar of the surf, and the scratching of the sand, away from your newly-wed bloom which makes me happy and then sad, so sad. It’s dark here, in the river. Yes, it’s a river, not the sea. It’s softly flowing where no waves move me. I’m just floating, through pictures, fragments, lots of fragments. There’s Mam’s kitchen and the proggy rug. In and out with the strips, not the green there, Mam says. Not there, pet. Here’s Grace, digging in her garden, earthing up the potatoes. Jack, you’re in the water, why are you digging too? Timmie, you’re painting your soldiers. They’re grand, bonny lad.
‘No, Evie, no. You must not do this. You must try.’ It was Ver, too loud, too harsh. No.
Mrs Moore was reading her recipe bible. There she is, her finger running along the page, her poor swollen finger. There are the fancies that Mrs Green should make but I do, for them, Veronica and . . . and . . .
Jack smiled as he swam through the tendrils, and Timmie and there were no blue-black scars and it was cool and dark and no voices called. It was quiet, at last it was quiet and she could let the air from her lungs, and let her chest rest, let her heart rest, let everything stop.
She was on her bike, the air was sweet, the larks sang, the sheep were in the meadows, the cows in the corn and little boy blue . . .
‘No, I won’t have it, do you hear.’ Ver was shouting.
Be quiet, I like the quiet. Little boy blue . . . Such blue eyes. So very blue, so kind.
The water was kind, Jack was kind, swimming close, and she could feel his breath on her cheek. Timmie was close, and there was someone. Who? Who? There was someone in the shadows, and he was waving and calling, and she’d missed him. Her heart was empty because he had gone but he was calling her now, and she could hear him, faintly, and she could see him, faintly and he was smiling, and his eyes were blue, so blue in the darkness and he was moving upwards towards the light, and his hair was shining, yellow like the sun, and he was calling her up, to the surface and she must hurry, or she would lose him, this man who could fill and warm her heart.
She broke the surface, gasped, dragged in the air, and the light was too bright, shiny and bright. Where . . .? Where . . .? Her head ached. Evie gulped in more air. ‘Where is he?’ she whispered. ‘Where is Aub?’ But there was no one there to hear her.
She slept.
Jack and Mart acted as guides on 7th November, the day that Easterleigh Hall Hotel opened its doors. The press came in force, photographers set up their cameras and Lord and Lady Brampton were photographed shaking hands with Richard, Veronica, Evie and Mrs Moore on the front steps. Lord Brampton’s eyes glazed as he found himself looking into the face of a Forbes, but Evie merely said, ‘I’m so pleased you could attend the launch of our hotel, Your Lordship.’
Jack was grinning in the crowd, which clapped when Harry finished the welcome speech. ‘Short and without crumbs,’ Veronica whispered to Evie
He was to be assisted in his role by Steve Briggs, the demobbed orderly, who looked as smart as a new pin. His suit had come out of the hotel expenses, and worth every penny, Matron was heard to bark. Though it was November it was a clear bright day, and in the distance the rattle of guns could be heard as one of the shooting parties fired their first salvos.
People thronged the lawns, the formal gardens, and explored the house, and the Captain Neave wing, which was what the brick-built huts had been named. This gave his mother great pleasure, she insisted on telling everyone. Lady Margaret arrived with her parents, and Penny. Several people made a point of addressing her as Lady Margaret, even Veronica and Richard, which perplexed her parents, and Lord and Lady Brampton.
‘Who the hell cares,’ whispered Richard to Evie. ‘You look a million dollars, as they would say on Broadway.’
Evie’s elegant pale green silk dress had been made by the seamstress who had run up the dining room gold and cream curtains. Richard led her to a quiet spot in the great hall. ‘Do you really not mind that Simon has married that American girl? Denny’s sister, did you say?’
‘No, it’s perfectly all right. How could I have left Easterleigh and moved to New York? This is my home, it’s my peace and perhaps one day he’ll . . .’ She stopped, and shrugged. Richard prompted, ‘He’ll . . .?’
‘Never mind. We have people to see, people to talk to, Richard. But thank you.’
She was still weak, but calm. It was as though something had lifted, and the light had entered her life, in a way it had never done before. Light and certainty, and if he, Auberon, never returned, what did it matter? She loved him, and it was enough that she knew. Easterleigh Hall, her dream hotel, would suffice, because it had to.
She walked out into the cold, and across to the cedar tree. Mrs Neave was there, with Harry, her hand slipped under his arm. She smiled at Evie. ‘Thank you, my dear. He lives on.’
Evie gripped her outstretched hand. ‘Indeed he does. He was such a good man, and Harry’s particular friend.’
‘Yours too, I believe, my dear Evie,’ Mrs Neave said. ‘I feel he would never love another woman quite as he loved you, but I suspect you knew that.’
Evie hadn’t known, and moved on, touching the branches as she made a point of doing every day, insisting that the tree grew strong and firm. Old Stan said she was a daft beggar, and it would do its little best, with or without her help.
Lord Brampton and Sir Anthony were drinking champagne, donated by Brampton, on the other side of the tree. The Bastard was less bumptious, Evie thought, looking at him. She moved closer. He was saying, ‘Of course, all this nonsense about squeezing the Huns until they squeak is nonsense. They can never pay the reparations, look at the mess they’re in, and the Versailles Conference must have known that. It’s window-dressing. The Kaiser has gone to live in Holland, there’s chaos in Germany with faction fighting faction. Trouble is the people don’t know they lost, because we didn’t follow them in and wave it in their faces. They think they’ve been sold out, to use a ghastly American expression, and mark my words, they will want revenge. There will be war again. Good for business.’ He sipped his champagne.
Sir Anthony looked back at the Hall. ‘I do hope not, or we’ll be needing beds in here again, with more youngsters to patch up.’
Evie moved on, past the Easton and Hawton brass band in full blow. Ron and Steve had draped bunting across the front of the house. Lady Brampton had declared it working class and worthy of the seafront. Veronica had said, ‘Do you go often?’
That had successfully ended that conversation.
She made for the kitchen, wondering where Auberon was, hoping he was safe, but perhaps they’d never know. Jack caught up with her as she was checking that there was sufficient food to replenish the buffet set up in the marquee. ‘You know we know, don’t you, pet?’
Evie was confused. ‘Know what?’
‘You were talking when you were ill. We all know that it’s Auberon you love, and Ver has just told us that in the diary he left at the start of the war, he wrote of his love for you.’
For a moment Evie thought she had not heard correctly. Jack repeated it as though she was a penny short of a shilling, and then common sense came to her rescue. ‘Well, Jacko,’ she smiled, ‘that was the start of the war, and a boy who knew no better. War changes people, as we well know.’
Mart ran down the steps from the stable yard and burst into the kitchen. ‘I’ve just checked with Veronica. No one’s heard from Aub except the bank, and that’s not as often as it used to be. It’s daft and I’ve had enough, because Ver’s just heard on the telephone that Prancer’s still with us. She’s bought him off the major who was stuck in supplies, lucky beggar. Well, the bloody horse is coming home, so Aub needs to damn well come back too. I vote we go, Jack, drag him back by the balls, beggin’ your pardon, Evie, if we have to.’
Three days later Jack and Mart took leave of absence from the course, and the mine. Charlie had to stay behind to fume at Easterleigh Hall, because he was needed for the shooting parties. They paid Ted to drive them to Gosforn and were gone from England by the 12th November. The bank would give out no details but they knew he’d have headed for Picardie, and the Somme, and they would march the bloody length of it, if it came to it.
They took the ferry to Calais. There were no longer any tents on the cliffs, though the cobbles were the same when they disembarked. They entrained, heading for the Somme via Albert, asking for an Englishman called Brampton as he had said he would be back one day to see if the virgin had been restored. They carried on to Amiens, which was a stone’s throw from the river. Albert had looked like broken teeth in a destroyed mouth, and Amiens, for so long a quiet rest area, had been bombed and shelled towards the end of the war, so it, too, had ended up damaged and torn, but infinitely more whole than Albert.
They asked at the town hall for an Englishman called Brampton. Heads were shaken. ‘It’s walking the river for us, then,’ Jack said, hitching up his pack.
They marched together, falling into step as though it was as natural as breathing, past relatives who were searching for graves, for answers, for something to take away the silence of their lives. On, out of town, in the direction of the river, in boots they had worn in the war because they had struggled and toiled for many miles around this area, and it seemed right that they use the same footwear again. Besides, they had been worn in to the point that they felt like slippers. Mart looked about. ‘Poor Frenchies. The Channel is a good old moat for us British, you know, lad. Keeps the enemy at bay.’
They found the river and walked towards the west, eating the almond-paste biscuits, macarons d’Amiens, which the baker explained were a rarity because of the shortages, but which he made from time to time. They had bought six and asked if an Englishman had been seen fishing the Somme, and the Gallic shrug said it all.
‘Once we get to the mouth we’ll head back until we reach the source. It could take weeks,’ Jack said. ‘So, it takes weeks, bonny lad,’ Mart said, humming. They saw churned-up land and stumps of trees if they looked over to the north, so instead they looked at the river, slow-running and carp-filled. Soon they saw green fields and undamaged villages into which they diverted, always asking, ‘Have you seen an Englishman fishing, called Brampton?’ Always the answer was no.
They walked for three weeks, and then turned back, paying a lorry to take them as far as Amiens. Before making for the source, they turned towards the front line. It was in the second village that they found him.
Evie waited by the cedar tree with Veronica. It was Christmas Eve and guests were enjoying dinner, and those patients and ex-patients in need of limbs and respite had joined them. Evie was to sing later. Simon had hoped that he would be here; he had telegraphed saying, Evie stop I have made mistake stop I want to come home in time for Christmas stop we can be together again stop
She had replied, Simon stop you must live with your decision stop I have another life stop I wish you well stop
Jack had not said a precise time, it depended on the train on a night like this, with the snow on the line. Veronica said, ‘He actually told us nothing, just that they were bringing him home. What the hell does that mean?’
Evie was straining to see the lights of a car. ‘We’ll find out.’
Harry came out of the main doors, down the steps, across the gravel to the lawn, a lit cigarette in his hand. He stood by her. ‘Do you remember the first Christmas of the war, Evie? You waited, you, Millie, and Veronica, and they came. They’ll come again and he’ll still love you. Just you wait and see.’
There were headlights at the entrance now, and the cough and splutter of Ted’s old taxi. The engine died. The lights went out. The car doors opened and closed. How many? Two? What did that mean? Two people, or was it three? Bugger Jack, why couldn’t he have said more? Did Auberon still love her? Ver was sure he did from the look on his face when he left. But why had it been so long with no word? How could he? Did he love her? How could he? The thoughts were chasing one another like Currant and Raisin. She could see the bobbing of lit cigarette ends. Three. Surely there were three?
Prancer whinnied from his stall next to Tinker. She heard him kicking. He neighed now. Figures were emerging from the darkness. Three, the middle one Aub. Veronica clutched her arm. ‘It’s him, but so slow. Oh great heavens, Evie, so slow.’
Evie was running then, wrenching free of Veronica, seeing, on the edge of her vision, Harry reaching for Veronica, holding her back, saying, ‘No, this is Evie’s time.’
She ran, her feet slipping on the snow, crunching the gravel beneath it, closer and closer, and then she was there, standing so near that her dress touched his suit. He smiled, throwing his cigarette away, his face full and free of fatigue, his eyes so blue, his hair yellow even in this dull light. He said, ‘I will love you for ever, Evie Forbes, if you will let me.’
She clung to him, feeling him reel just slightly. ‘If you ever go away again and leave me alone, I will kill you myself, bonny lad.’ His arms were round her and he was kissing her. Mart and Jack stayed with them.
‘Why didn’t you come?’ she said against his mouth, which felt as she had dreamed it would. She reached up and stroked his hair. Still her brother and Mart were there, and then she realised it was because they were propping him up.
Auberon said, ‘I wasn’t well enough. I needed time to heal, my mind and my body.’ She stepped back, holding his arms, seeing his cane, now held by Mart. ‘How much damage?’ she asked, because whatever it was she could cope.
He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Very little. I’m just a bit hard of hearing, and have a leg that is in a spot of bother.’
‘It will have to come off?’
He gripped her hand and pulled her close. ‘It has already gone, dearest Evie, and now it just needs you, Easterleigh and your da. I have a rather clunky peg leg and healing stump, which are in need of his and Tom’s tender mercies.’
Prancer was neighing. ‘Can you hear that?’ she asked. He was grinning as his horse neighed again. ‘We’re coming,’ he called, kissing her again. ‘Sometimes life is too wonderful to be real, but you know what, dearest Evie, when I’ve said hello to Prancer I would so love to walk to the kitchen and sit down on one of Mrs Moore’s stools, if there is a cushion?’
The seamstress had made them only last month. Her three men walked up the drive with her, and they met Veronica and Harry halfway. Auberon was limping badly now, but clutching her hand and Jack was at his side, his hand under his arm. They stopped to look at the cedar tree. Auberon murmured, ‘We search and search but it’s so often here, laid under our feet like a cloth of gold.’
Mart said, ‘Aye lad, a home from bloody home.’
Jack told them, ‘All will be well.’ They laughed, and Auberon’s arm was round her and she had never known such tranquillity.