Monday, 30th October—Evening.
Snow flurries swept down from a night sky full of inky black clouds as Veronica emerged from the hotel the following evening. In honour of the occasion, she’d freshened up her hairdo and put on her best autumn clothing, a hunter green, calf-length tweed skirt and coat over a pale cream blouse. She topped it all off with a matching green cloche hat pinned securely in place, and a Victorian cameo brooch gifted by her mother on her left lapel.
The unseasonable wintry weather looked set for the night, so she splurged on a tram fare to the marketplace, walking beneath her umbrella from the stop to the tearoom. The time-worn surfaces of the sandy coloured flagstones gleamed with slush and made walking treacherous. A brisk northerly wind sought a way through her woollen overcoat, and she was glad she had only a couple of dozen yards to walk from the tram stop.
Brooke had arrived at the tearoom before her. The waitress led Veronica to where he sat at a table for two situated near the back of the tearoom.
When Brooke saw her approach, he rose with a genial expression and bowed. “Good evening.”
She smiled and removed her gloves so they could shake hands. “Good evening, Captain.”
“I’m so delighted you could make it. The weather is not the best.”
He’d dressed for it, with a sensible tweed outfit in sage green with muted brown flecks. A white kerchief poked up from his breast pocket.
“Indeed,” she said, removing her coat. “It looks like we’re in for an early winter.”
“I’m afraid so.” He eyed her snow speckled coat. “I should’ve sent a taxi for you.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’d feel quite spoiled if you had.”
Brooke’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you deserve some spoiling.”
“I’m the last one to judge that.”
The waitress took Veronica’s hat and coat, and Brooke held her chair for her as she sat.
Brooke resumed his seat and smiled. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea. The waitress recommends the pork chops.”
“That’s fine.” The warmth of his welcome, coupled with the warmth of the room helped Veronica relax. A small nub of anticipation lodged under her breastbone. “This is the first time in ages I’ve had a meal with a gentleman.”
His smile flashed. “I understand. I’ll endeavour to make the evening pleasant for you.”
She smiled back, liking the rare feeling of being the object of a man’s—or anyone’s—earnest attentions. “It’s already pleasant.”
The waitress returned, pad and pencil at the ready.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Brooke smiled with a nod. “Shall we order? I’ve been busy all day, and I’m positively famished.”
“I’ll have the pork chops, please,” she told the waitress.
“The same for me, miss.” The waitress left, and he turned his attention to Veronica. “I should imagine it must be a relief for you to get out and about for a while.” His lips twitched. “To get away from whining guests and their beastly habits.”
She chuckled. “Oh, the hotel has its moments. And I’m sure you’ve no beastly habits.” The words slipped out before she could censor them.
She kicked herself for being too personal, but Brooke appeared not to notice her slip. The waitress brought a tray bearing tea things, and Veronica poured for them both.
“The work’s not too bad, on the whole.”
He nodded and leaned forward. “Yet I feel I must apologize to you again for my brusque manner yesterday. In my defence, I do have a lot on my mind.”
“Apology accepted.” She hesitated. “You might be a little more lenient on young William, the lift boy. The poor lad’s terrified of you.”
His eyebrows rose then fell. “Yes, of course. I’m afraid the young shaver caught me off-guard.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “I’d quite forgotten I was the subject of one of those silly cigarette cards.”
Veronica smiled. “I remember those cards. Although I don’t smoke, my father does. He gave the cards to my youngest brother, who collected them like a little fiend. You were commemorated on one?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “I was awarded the Military Cross for a piece of tomfoolery I got involved in over in Flanders. The cigarette cards were issued depicting our brave lads to boost morale at home and all that.” He waved a languid hand. “For what it was worth, I didn’t mind. We had the devil of a job to do over there, but the folks at home needed the fillip. They went through hell in their own way, what with the war telegrams and rationing.”
Brooke’s eyes became clouded with concern. “But, of course, you know this. Enough of me prattling on. May I ask, how did an educated young lady such as you come to work at the hotel?” His expression was open and attentive.
Veronica felt an urge to confide in him. “I had little choice, really. The war left me with a widow’s pension and no other source of income worth the name. A hundred pounds a year doesn’t stretch that far.
“Times were hard for me. Everything became so much more expensive in the war years, and matters haven’t improved since. I worked as a relief bus conductor here in Norwich until the end of the war. After the men came home, I was out of a job.”
He shook his head. “So many women were in the same boat. A dashed unfair reward for all their wonderful efforts if you ask me.”
Veronica’s liking for him deepened. “At least we won the vote from our efforts. It won’t matter to me until I reach thirty, of course.”
He snorted. “Thirty, for goodness sake! If a man can vote at age twenty-one, why can’t a woman? It’s another arrant piece of stupidity on the part of our political masters.”
“On that we agree.” She gave him a small smile. “After the war, I drifted in and out of secretarial work until a friend of the family found me the assistant manageress position at Chesterton’s. I’ve worked there for over a year, now. I appreciate having a job. So many are out of work.”
“Life’s hard all around, I fear. I don’t think anybody escaped the war unscathed.” Brooke stirred sugar into his cup. “Family is such a wonderful comfort. I’m glad yours helped you.”
“Yes.” Veronica sipped tea. I don’t think I’ll mention my estrangement from Mother, especially given the reason for it. “Do you have any family?”
“A sister. Edith. She’s older than I by a handful of years. I’m afraid Edie suffered a riding accident when she was twelve. It left her unable to walk as well as she should. Still, our parents left us well provided for, and she lives in the old family home. Edie copes wonderfully with the help of her nurse companion.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Do you see her often?”
“Not as often as I’d like, especially since I’ve had to do a lot of travelling lately.”
“I noticed your luggage had a lot of travel labels.”
He gave her a considering look. “How perceptive of you.”
“You’ve left the army, I take it.”
“Oh yes. Up until two years ago, the army claimed my time in helping to get supplies to our chaps involved in that Russian intervention fiasco. I had a drafty billet above the harbour up in Murmansk and spent a lot of time preventing the impoverished locals from stealing stuff. Thankfully, though, I didn’t see any more fighting. When I came home, I barely recognised the old country.” He grimaced. “Everything’s changed. It’s all so much rush, rush, rush nowadays. I have little experience of civilian life, I’m afraid. I still find it hard to adjust, yet even I can see the hardship on our streets as plain as day.”
She sipped her tea and eyed him over the rim of the cup. “There must be some things you like?”
Brooke smiled. “Oh, life does seem a lot freer and easier than before the war. That’s to the better. I think the horrible experience we and the country went through has made people inclined to live for today, and tomorrow be hanged.”
“I think you’re right.”
His expression turned reflective. “The war still casts a long shadow. My dreams...” He shuddered. “I would gladly not experience those ever again. What was it that chap Owen wrote? My friend, you would not tell with such high zest, to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori...”
He sank into a reverie.
Veronica had read the poem by Wilfred Owen soon after it had been published and thought it moving. To hear a few lines of it now, recited by a man who’d been through the same bloody awful experience as the poet, struck her deep.
She noticed he kept his back to the wall. Whenever someone entered the tearoom, Brooke would look over her shoulder at the newcomers as if checking them for hostile intent. Over time he seemed to relax. Their meal arrived, and they talked of inconsequential things throughout, their voices mingling with conversations from nearby tables in a pleasant low hubbub. Most of the men present seemed to be discussing Norwich City football club’s recent goalless home draw against Swindon Town.
Veronica smiled to hear it. “We have a number of guests come down regular as clockwork for the football fixtures. They’re always friendly and polite.”
Brooke nodded as he pushed his empty plate away and dabbed his lips with the napkin. “I’m more interested in cricket, but I find the British football fanatic is a decent chap on the whole.”
“Yes. We have far more trouble from the political types booked-in at the hotel for the election.”
As she spoke, Brooke paused in the act of lighting a cigarette. He looked at her with eyes glittering in the light from the flame, and his expression became distant.
He acknowledged the arrival of the waitress bearing coffee with an offhand wave. “I can imagine.” He drew on his cigarette, the tip glowing a fierce orange, then blew out a stream of smoke, politely aiming it toward the ceiling. “Although I know our cause was just, a pusillanimous crowd of politicians got us into the war without adequate preparation for such a conflict. Everything was a mess then, and from what I see, little has changed since it ended. Take this business in the Middle East, for example. Rioting in Egypt and Palestine. Mesopotamia—sorry, Iraq—in open revolt. Our lads are caught up in all that because Lloyd-George overextended our commitments there.”
He poured coffee for them both. “I’d hoped, really hoped, that having a few chaps in Parliament who’d been through the whole show would help temper matters. It seems it’s not made a whit of difference. Some of the candidates I’ve seen aren’t fit to be left in charge of a corporal’s guard.”
Veronica cringed at the vehemence in his voice. “You speak as if you know them well.”
He snorted. “Too well. In fact...” He seemed on the verge of saying more, then waved his hand again, trailing cigarette smoke through the air. “Oh, enough of all that. Let’s not spoil a perfectly pleasant evening.”
She felt a twinge of disappointment at not hearing his thoughts on the subject. “Well, quite. Will you be staying with us long?”
His eyes glittered again with amusement and an element of consideration. Veronica felt a slight thrill at his attention.
“Would you like me to?”
Veronica felt her face grow warm. “I would. You’re very convivial company.”
“I’m glad to hear it. One mustn’t be a bore with such a charming young lady as you.”
She blushed hotter. “You’re too kind.”
He settled the bill for them both, insisting on paying for her share. The waitress brought their coats and hats, and they made their way outside. Fine snow hung in the air, each flake seeming suspended in the lamplight filling the empty marketplace. All the stall canopies wore white drapes. Not far away, the church clock of St. Peter Mancroft chimed nine.
Veronica pulled on her gloves and looked up at Brooke, standing tall beside her. “It’s growing late, and I have to begin work at six tomorrow morning. I’d better return home.”
He took her arm and tucked it through the crook of his elbow. “I’ll escort you. If I may take your umbrella for you?”
They caught the tram from the corner of the marketplace. As it rounded the castle mound and rattled down Prince of Wales Road toward the railway station, she noticed Brooke’s attention alternated between her and their surroundings. His keen gaze scanned every side street and dark alleyway they passed as if searching for potential. I wonder if he’ll ever lose the habits that kept him alive during the war?
When they alighted at the stop opposite the hotel, she knew the doorman had long gone off duty. Veronica looked up at the late Victorian frontage of the building and felt a mix of emotions. “I don’t really want to go back inside just yet.”
He smiled. “We don’t have to.”
“I know. When I do, I’ll have to go in through the staff entrance at the rear. The manager, Mr. Fielding, is the only one allowed to use the front entrance when not on duty.” She shrugged. “Yet he seldom does.”
“How quaint.” He stroked his moustache. “I think such absurd little niceties are dying out, and good riddance, too.”
She looked at him sidelong. “Why Captain, what with that and all you said tonight, you sound quite the Socialist.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Why should I not be? The old order never gave us much that’s worthwhile.” He waved his hand between them. “Take our class, for example. The gentry. Decent folks on the whole. But of course, you find those with as much feeling for their fellow man as this lamppost.”
His expression turned reflective. “There was a chap in my battery. He was born with a withered left arm, just like the Kaiser. These things happen. In the ordinary course of events, he would’ve been quite exempt from military service. I learned he’d been employed as a handyman on an estate owned by an elderly couple, the husband a retired major, the wife some scion of minor nobility.
“When the war began, they pressured the poor chap to join up. He expressed a willingness but pleaded his disability wouldn’t allow it. In the end, his employers threatened to dismiss him without references unless he did join up.”
“That’s awful!” Veronica imagined the consequences of such a dismissal. Proper references were everything in the working world. Few legitimate jobs were open to those without them.
“Yes.” Brooke’s tone turned bitter. “A charming couple, don’t you think? Of course, the chap felt he had to join the army or face a life in unemployable penury, so join he did. This was late in fifteen when the War Office was desperate for manpower. By then, they were willing to overlook most physical disadvantages if it meant another warm body in the ranks. A withered arm was quite acceptable in that context.
“This chap was enlisted in the Royal Field Artillery, my regiment, and came to my battery. For all his handicap, he proved a quick, intelligent, and reliable soldier, and he rose to the rank of Bombardier in short order. He was killed on the Somme.”
Veronica had sensed the denouement coming, but it still shocked her. The dread name of Somme made her think of Harold. “The poor man!”
“Yes. Had it not been for the social status of his employers, and their ability and intention to make life difficult for him, he’d be alive today.”
His expression turned resolute. “Yes, perhaps it’s time for something new.” He shook his head then smiled and linked arms with her again. “But enough. I’ve become quite the Gloomy Gus. If you’re not willing to go inside just yet, let’s take a turn down by the bridge. It’s not far.”
They walked down the hill, the gradient levelling out the nearer they got to the River Wensum. A locomotive whistle shrieked from the direction of Thorpe Station across the river, the sound eerie in the snowy night. In spite of the cold air weakening her sense of smell, the odour of rotting waterweed from the river made its presence known.
The walk allowed Veronica to compose her mind. I can’t remember feeling so relaxed for a long time. It’s not quite happiness but certainly feels close to it. Closer than I’ve been to such a state of mind for years. After losing poor Harold...
Captain Brooke ensured she took the wall, placing himself between her and any dangers from the traffic on the slushy street. He seems a true gentleman, and I can’t imagine how I came to think him severe and brusque. Perhaps something has changed in his fortunes since yesterday?
They reached the bridge and stood at the parapet, looking down at the dark waters flowing beneath. Late travellers bustled over the bridge, either coming from the station or going to catch the last trains for that evening. The air filled with the muffled sounds of footsteps. On the other side of the road, the bright lights from the Norfolk Railway House pub spilt across the pavement, and she could hear the sounds of jollity coming from within as patrons entered or left. Brooke didn’t release her arm.
She pointed across the road. “There’s a nice walk that begins near the pub. It follows the river toward Pulls Ferry and the Cathedral. It’s better in the daytime, though.”
“I know of it.” The locomotive shrieked again, and he glanced up at the sound. A nearby streetlight cast his features in a pensive aspect. “Perhaps one day I’ll get to enjoy the walk.”
“You speak like a man with more cares on his mind than most.”
“I am.” He hesitated then glanced at her. “Please don’t think I exaggerate, but there’s a distinct possibility my life may be in danger.”
His words stunned her, and Veronica found herself gaping up at him. Her good mood of moments before shattered.
“There is?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so.” He gave her a pained smile. “I’m sorry if my words gave you a shock, but I don’t speak in jest. Really, I cannot divulge the reasons why I suspect this, and it would be for the best all-round if I remain silent for now.”
“I see.” She struggled to understand. “This peril you sense will not affect those you know?” She had a moment of shame for being so selfish as to think of her own life over Brooke’s.
His eyes glinted, and a little smile twitched his lips. She suspected he read her mind.
Brooke patted her hand. “No. You’re perfectly safe.”
“What of your wife, Captain? Are you married?” She couldn’t stop the question escaping her lips and half-dreaded his answer. “I didn’t ask before, it seemed too...” She paused, feeling flustered.
“Personal? I don’t mind you asking.” He shook his head. “No. I was engaged once, just before the war. I ended it when I saw what madness lay on the other side of the Channel.” A sigh escaped his lips and clouded the air. “I couldn’t make any woman dread the arrival of a telegram announcing my death.” He looked along his shoulder at her. “You know all too well what I mean, Mrs. Nash.”
Veronica shivered. “I do. And please, call me Veronica. Mrs. Nash sounds so formal and so... old.”
“Then you must call me Sylvester—and you’re far from old.”
His smile looked winsome. “You know, I remember that evening when I first saw you across the mess hall at the barracks in Bury St. Edmunds. You wore a gown of royal blue and had your hair in the upswept style of the time. I recall thinking by Jove, she’s a classic flaxen-haired beauty and no mistake. I’d quite made up my mind to go over to talk with you when a fellow told me you were but recently married to Harry Nash. I was quite dashed.”
His expression became tender. “I have to say, you’ve only gained in beauty. Your modern hairstyle suits you. What’s it called?”
Her face grew warm. “You’re too kind.” She ran a finger through her hair where it peeped out from under her cloche hat. “It’s called a page-boy bob. Mr. Fielding intimated that he doesn’t like it, but there’s no rule against it. Did you... did you ever hear from your fiancée after the war?”
He gave her another smile, which showed a hint of pain. “I heard of her from mutual acquaintances. She married another fellow during the war. Obviously, she didn’t think the same way as I about the prospects of life and death. He is, or was, a Navy chap who served on destroyers operating out of Harwich. I heard he survived. God knows the Navy had its moments during the war, but on the whole, they had a safer life than we army bods in some respects. I suppose my former fiancée had that in mind when she chose him.”
He shrugged. “It hurt when I heard she’d married, of course, but on reflection, I wish them well.”
Veronica looked at the snow drifting down through the lamplight and thought of her husband. “I married Harold scant weeks after I left school, and now he’s been dead for six years. Sometimes I wonder if we were married at all. It seems we were together for so short a time, a mere blink of an eye. All I have of him are those brief memories and his surname.”
“I understand.” He looked sidelong at her. “Do you know where he’s buried?”
She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “Yes. Étaples Military Cemetery, in the Pas-de-Calais. I received notification from the Graves Registration Commission early last year, along with the War Penny.”
“You’re fortunate in that regard. It’s still a bloody mess over there. We had to bury chaps wherever and whenever we could, and what records we kept sometimes went astray. So many families await news of a loved one’s remains.” He gave her a keen look. “Have you visited him?”
Veronica took a deep breath past the lump in her throat. “I haven’t. It’s something I mean to do, of course. It’s just...”
His gloved hand closed over hers, a warm and comforting clasp. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “You should go, in the spring, perhaps. Whether you believe in Heaven or not, it’ll give you a degree of comfort. You should say goodbye properly. Wherever Harold is now, I’m sure he’d like that.”
His words made sense. In some instinctive way, he’d reached the heart of her complexity of emotions.
“Yes. I think you’re right. Perhaps I should, as soon as possible.”
Perhaps it’s time for something new. The words burned in Veronica’s mind. Brooke’s words make a lot of sense. She’d had the spectre of Harold’s death in action hanging in the back of her mind for years. It felt right to say goodbye, at last, to move on, perhaps with someone new. She wanted to ask Brooke about his life, his hopes, and dreams. Whether he’d consider her as a future bride. Oh, on such short acquaintance, too! Mother would throw a fit if she knew my feelings right now! Such things are simply not done in the families of the gentry, as she made perfectly clear when she found out about Claire. Until recently Veronica would have considered it a betrayal of Harold’s memory. The Victorian penchant for extended periods of mourning still held sway in some quarters.
Brooke straightened up and smiled. “It grows cold, my dear. I’ve kept you out here far too long. We should go back to the hotel.”
Veronica demurred but the moment had passed. She did feel cold and accepted Brooke’s arm and steady strength on the way back. The gradient climbed toward Chesterton Hotel, and she saw its lights shining clear ahead. A taxi drove off from its door, and a man muffled in hat and overcoat ducked into the cover of the marquee. A guest returning from an evening out, or perhaps a new one arriving. Monsieur Durand will take care of him, either way.
Veronica felt the strain of walking uphill building in her legs. “I’ve walked up and down this hill so often in the past year, I fear my legs have grown quite muscular.”
Brooke chuckled. “Yes, I imagine it keeps one fit. Do you play tennis by any chance?”
“I used to play lawn tennis at school and at home when my parents had guests, which was often.” She sighed, remembering carefree summer days spent running about a court, with the smell of crushed sun-warmed grass filling the air. “I used to be quite athletic, but I haven’t played in years.”
“What a shame. I’m afraid I’m in much the same position. I enjoy a game of tennis along with cricket but didn’t have the opportunity to play either game this year. I should imagine you’re quite good at tennis.”
She smiled, imagining the dashing figure he’d cut in cricketing whites. “I have my moments. It would be nice to ride more often, too. At the moment, I only get to do so when I’m visiting my parents. They have stables, and I can go for a hack.” They’d reached the hotel, and she gestured toward the side entrance. “This is where we have to part.” She looked up at him, feeling shy. “Will I see you tomorrow, Sylvester?”
“I... shall be busy tomorrow.”
Her face must have given away her feelings.
He held up a hand. “Believe me, Veronica, I’d like to see you again. I enjoyed this evening tremendously. However, I’m here in Norwich to attend to a matter that really cannot wait.” His expression clouded. “It’s of a personal nature which I’ll not trouble you with, but I made progress today. All should be concluded within the next few days. After that, I know I shall be safe. From then on I’ll be at your disposal.”
She suppressed a sigh of relief. “I can’t say fairer than that.”
With the merest hesitation, he gave her a buss on the cheek. “Goodnight, then, my dear.”
Veronica’s heart fluttered at the touch of his lips. “Goodnight.”
She walked to the side door and looked back to see him standing in the light from the hotel. He gave a little wave, which she returned before passing through the gate. She crossed the yard and let herself in the staff entrance. As usual for the time of night, the staff room was empty, although she could hear the noises of crockery being washed coming from the kitchen. Heading upstairs, she trod the familiar route to her rooms, thinking about Captain Sylvester Brooke and the possibility of a future with him. She looked at the plain panelled door to her suite and felt her resolve harden.
“Perhaps it’s time for something new.”
The gallant Captain Brooke featured prominently in Veronica’s dreams, to the point she woke in the early hours feeling quite aroused. Mindful of her neighbours in the staff quarters—not least Fielding next door—she slid her hand between her legs and relieved her arousal, burying her face in the pillow to muffle her cries.
Relaxed, Veronica soon fell asleep again, but this time her dreams took a darker turn. Mysterious strangers flitted through shadowy hotel passageways, eluding her attempts to catch and identify them. At one point, she heard a man’s death cry, until the dream segued into the old familiar nightmare of losing her baby.