I could not understand why we were suddenly at war with Germany. And when Max explained to me the official reasons I could not understand them either.
‘Wars happen,’ he said at last, ‘because people like them.’
No. That could not be true. But Bradeswick was suddenly infected, during that stifling month of August, not with the typhoid which might have been expected at that season, but with the fever for combat and glory, the recruiting officers working overtime to cope with the flood of volunteers; enough to swell the ranks of any army had not so many of them been under-size and under-weight, bandy-legged or crook-shouldered, with too few teeth to eat army rations, or eyesight too defective to see a target, much less hit it.
But these were mainly Victorine’s people from behind the tramsheds and, in the slightly better areas of the town where the diet had been sufficient – if sometimes only just – to ward off the more obvious effects of malnutrition, young men from every house in every street enlisted, all pals together, in the same battalion; marching off, conquering heroes in their hearts already, to prove that one Englishman was worth a dozen of any other kind, any time.
Had they forgotten the man at the corner of Commercial Street who had lost both legs in Africa and who had squatted at the roadside for as long as I could remember selling matches?
Who gave a thought now to Ladysmith or Mafeking and the young men who had died there, only a dozen years ago? I thought of my brother Guy and shivered.
Miss Frances Grey began, very competently, to make a small circle of her acquaintances aware that the likelihood of casualties in the near future would necessitate the forming of committees to organize the provision of bandages, the conversion perhaps of St Winefrede’s into a convalescent home for officers, the knitting of warm scarves and gloves should the war last the winter.
Universities and colleges and the sixth forms of grammar schools emptied. The W. S. P. U. completely abandoned its campaign for the franchise, devoting itself entirely to the war effort, inspired by Mrs Pankhurst’s fervent patriotism and by a measure of common-sense. Someone must run the essential services of the country while the men were away. And if women performed these tasks efficiently, proving themselves perfectly capable of shouldering men’s burdens and responsibilities, then any government – Liberal, Tory, Labour or whatever – would find it difficult thereafter to refuse them the same legal and political rights.
My brother-in-law, Andrew Rexford, like every other politician I had ever heard of anywhere in the world, had not wanted a war. ‘No one,’ he said, looking harassed, ‘desires anything but peace.’
‘Then make it,’ said Victorine, ‘and while you’re talking about the rights and wrongs of it – you and Frances Grey and Alys – you might like to ask your Lloyd George what’s to happen to his soldiers’wives and children while the men are away. War widows might get pensions but these women aren’t widows yet, and in the meantime they have to eat. A little soup and bread would see them through the winter a shade more comfortably than ethics. And if that elderly virgin of a Frances Grey lays her hands on St Winefrede’s and tries to turn out my mothers and babies so that she can spend her time administering to officers and gentlemen with her gloves on, I may strangle her.’
At least Luc was out of it. I thanked God for that. But then suddenly there was Luc, arriving all bright and breezy, incredibly handsome and tanned, abominably self-assured, using words and expressions that grated on my nerves – what an absolutely first-rate lark it was all going to be, ideal opportunity for a chap to show what he was made of, one had to play the game, of course, and play fair, but there was no doubt that the best team would win. Naturally he would not stay out in South Africa while all the chaps he knew were positively stampeding home to have a crack at the Hun. One could not let the side down.
‘Hexingham taught him to think like that,’ said Max.
And what of Miss Kellermann? Well yes – but she’d wait, of course, for a returning hero. What woman wouldn’t? And in any case nothing in the world was going to make him run the risk of a white feather. He could not see it lasting much longer than Christmas in any case.
‘I’ll be all right, Liv, old girl, you know.’
Fervently I hoped, I prayed so.
Ivor Naseby came back from the South of France, not married to Lois, and immediately enlisted. Anyone could have Natasha now, his mother, my mother, anyone at all. He was a soldier, his devotion entirely transferred to the men he commanded, and no one had expected Wellington or Napoleon to stay at home to look after a child.
And then to everyone’s surprise there was Madelon, jumping out of her car while it was still moving and running across the grass to me, thin, brittle, quite beautiful, smoking one cigarette after another, laughing, coughing behind a quick jewelled hand, chattering incessantly. Lady Potterton now, although she fell about laughing whenever she thought of it, Clive’s father having recently died, making Dottie a widow and Clive a lord. Lady Potterton: mistress of an ancient mansion and a noble estate as she had once been mistress of the Naseby fortune.
And here was her new daughter, Ondine. A pretty name. Yes, she had taken good care of that and had fought off all Clive’s suggestions of Dorothea and Theodora and Eustacia. If she could give her children nothing else – and really she rather wondered if she could – then they would have at least these romantic names. Natasha, a Russian princess. Ondine, a water sprite. And how was Clive? Oh well, ready for the fray, of course, and he would look very splendid leading his men into battle, she did not doubt it. Dear Clive. Still wise and wonderful but – well – a little bit bothered sometimes by the difference in their ages. And was she to blame for that? Well, she supposed the war would wake him up a bit, although she had no idea what she was going to do about it. Certainly not sit and moulder at Dawney Park with Dottie and the baby, as Clive seemed to think. It was all going to be too dreary for words and rather than stay here doing worthy things like rolling bandages, she’d much rather go out to the front with an ambulance, where she’d be likely to find most of her friends.
The next morning I found Max at the gate, watching his horses being ridden away.
‘I’ve given them to Amyas,’ he said, ‘before the army comes to commandeer them. If he can prove he needs them for agricultural purposes they may let him keep them – for a while.’
‘Max – your hunters harnessed to the plough?’
He lit a cigar and then, with a gesture made up of supreme irritation and the most irksome pity and regret, tossed it to the ground.
‘Better off at the plough, the poor brutes, than handed over to some damn fool of a cavalry officer who’ll ride them straight into the enemy guns shouting “Tally-ho”. They didn’t make this war, whoever else did. Have you ever seen animals in a field of battle? No, how could you. Well, I have. They cower and shiver and they bleed. They don’t know what any of it means. They just die. God dammit, Olivia, I’m not staying here to watch the slaughter. Because men cower just like the horses, when it gets bad – and cry for their mothers. I’ve seen it in Africa. Never again. Madeira will be the best place, and soon, while one still can.’
‘Max, for how long?’
He looked at me strangely, for a long, uncomfortable moment.
‘I would anticipate years rather than months. Possibly on a permanent basis.’
‘And the Manor?’
‘Bricks and mortar, my pet, which may have served their purpose – for us at any rate. I think the time has come to face a sorry fact. The good life as we understood it is finished. Win or lose – and I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess either way – things will not be the same again. I told you years ago that the pleasures and privileges wouldn’t last. Well, we enjoyed them, we had them. I don’t want to build something second-rate on their ashes. I’d rather move on.’
‘You want me to sell the Manor don’t you.’
It was the sacrifice I would never have made for Robin. Max knew that. He made no reply. After a moment, facing him fairly and squarely I said, ‘The Manor means as much to me now as it always did. Possibly more. My roots are here. Everything of real importance that has happened to me in my life has happened here. And apart from that I love it. My family are here too. Victorine may need my support one day because if Andrew … finds some pretty little girl to keep him company she may take it harder than she imagines. God knows what will happen to Madelon and Luc. I daren’t think. All I can really do is offer them a home when they need it. A base. The Manor represents all that. But yes, Max. I’ll sell it. I’ll come with you. We can go today and make the arrangements.’
‘Olivia,’ he said, rather gruffly for him ‘I do love you. I suppose you did know that?’
He could be in no doubt any longer of my love for him.
We went to London the following day to tie up the loose ends of the many schemes he had afoot, the train full of recruits, every platform gay with bunting and flags, Union Jacks draped everywhere.
‘They’re trusting Kitchener again,’ Max said, closing his eyes, ‘Dear God – and the same old fools they had in the Transvaal. Olivia – if you knew …’
‘Yes, darling.’
London was even more frenzied, more hysterically, tragically gay, the streets full of laughing, cheering, weeping women, watching, blowing kisses, making promises, throwing flowers as, to the music of military bands, tall sergeants in the prime of middle life, their broad chests ablaze with medals, marched their thin, young recruits away.
‘Ten years from now,’ said Max bitterly, ‘the only ones who’ll remember it are those who lost their eyesight or their limbs, and those who have to live with them. They’re being taken to die. Do you know that?’
Yes, I knew.
‘And it won’t be just rifle fire and shells and dysentery that does the trick. They don’t know yet what it feels like to stand facing the enemy with an empty gun in your hand and an empty belly because some idiot has lost the supply wagons or another idiot in Whitehall has forgotten to order the supplies. They’ll find out, just like they did in Africa.’
I gave no opinions. I allowed his bitterness to run its course and prepared myself to meet whatever it should lead to. I loved him. However wrong this war, or any war, might be, I would never have chosen to walk away from it when so many of my family and friends could not. I did not choose to sell the Manor. But I had chosen Max. I would keep my word.
We dined at the Carlton as we usually did, surrounded by young crusaders, pledging themselves in vintage champagne to what had come to seem a holy cause, this war to end all wars, their handsome, healthy faces alight with sincerity.
‘God dammit,’ snarled Max, ‘they think it’s all white horses and armour and Sir Galahad. It’s hunger and filth and lying in the mud when you’re wounded because they forgot to pack the medical supplies. By Christ, whoever called it a contest in blunders was absolutely right.’
‘Napoleon,’ I said.
‘Olivia?’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘I’m not running away you know.’
‘Max – you’re not military age, thank God. You have no reason to run.’
‘Olivia – if they got desperate enough, they’d take Sam Greenlaw.’
We slept late. He left me alone to shop, although there was nothing I cared to buy, and when he came back to the hotel later in the day, his humour was entirely different.
‘All right, Olivia – all right.’
‘All right what, darling?’
‘I have given in. I have enlisted.’
‘You – have – done – what!’
I reached him in one movement and with such force that we fell over together into an armchair.
‘Max – oh God – oh no.’
And then, seeing the quite wicked glee in his eyes, I clutched hard at his shoulders, trying to shake him, and cried out, ‘No you haven’t. You’re too old. They wouldn’t take you.’
‘They’ve taken Clive Potterton. He’s about the same age as me.’
‘He’s a professional soldier so don’t lie to me.’ And I punctuated every word with a blow to his chest.
He caught my hands, kissed them, and eased me into a sitting position on his knee.
‘And I, my darling, am a professional – what? – provider of luxuries for those who can afford them, and luxuries, in wartime, can consist of bread and bullets. Olivia, would you care to move into a rather graceful little house in Belgravia?’
‘Max – what have you done?’
‘Well, I have bought a graceful little house in Belgravia, for one thing – or rather taken an option, which I’ll confirm if it suits you. I don’t know about domestic staff because all the girls here seem to be running off to the nearest armaments factory. I expect you can bring a couple of maids down from Clarrow.’
‘Max!’
‘Olivia.’ And getting up he crossed over to the fireplace and lit a cigar.
‘I told you I’m not brave. I’m not. And I don’t believe in any of this. Their “war to end all wars” is more likely to start another than anything else. And I don’t give a damn what happens to governments and generals – anybody’s generals. They’ll come out of it all right in any case. I tried not to care about those poor young devils, with their pasty faces and their best Sunday suits on, marching off to the slaughter, or those extremely fine young gentlemen – and I am speaking very sincerely – at the Carlton last night. They were Sir Galahad in their hearts, every one of them, and it touched mine. It troubled me, quite a lot, thinking of them with their empty guns, cheering on their men just the same, giving “the chaps” the last of their rations and going hungry themselves because a gentleman takes responsibility, puts others before himself and plays the game. I really tried not to care, and if there’d been nothing I could do to help it wouldn’t have mattered a damn whether I cared or not. I tried to convince myself there was nothing I could do, or that plenty of others could do it just as well. It didn’t work. So I went to Whitehall to see several friends of mine in high places who expressed themselves delighted to use my services and my expertise, as a civilian without rank, and without pay of course, but apparently appreciated. Because they know I never let my customers down. Which leads me to the matter of a small house in Belgravia.’
‘Max de Haan,’ I said, walking towards him, ‘Hexingham gentleman, after all. I am so proud of you.’
‘Don’t be. I don’t want to do any of this. I shall be in a foul humour for the duration of the war, I warn you.’
‘I shall be proud of you if I please,’ and then, suddenly, as a cold wind slices through the warmth of a room when a door opens a thought struck me. ‘They wouldn’t send you to the front would they? Max – they wouldn’t.’
‘Good gracious me, darling, how could they do that. I’m far too old. You said so yourself.’
He was being flippant. It was always a bad sign. Fear flickered into my mind like a nervous thread of electricity – great fear. He was fit and alert and a crack shot.
‘Oh yes they would if it suited them – not to fight perhaps but to get information – have a look – Max.’
He pulled me towards him and held me very close, muffling my voice against his chest.
‘Hush darling, do hush. I think you can rely on me to avoid it.’
‘Avoid it! You’ll just tell them that you’re not going – you’re a civilian, they can’t make you. They can’t, can they?’
Suddenly I was no longer sure. If they could take our horses and St Winefrede’s and the Manor too if it could be of any use to them, then where was the end of it? Fear again.
‘Promise me, Max.’ Pity was one thing, and responsibility, and I entirely approved of them. Heroics were quite another.
‘All right, darling. If you promise me not to fill this little house in Belgravia I keep telling you about, or at least not too often, with Madelon and her assorted infants and husbands. Or with Luc and whatever bright young thing happens to take his fancy when he’s on leave.’
‘I promise.’
We walked down to Belgravia to inspect what I had already decided, without looking at it, was to be our new home. An elegant little house as it turned out with long Regency windows and gracious empty rooms unburdened by the past.
‘Shall we buy it?’
‘Yes Max – if you haven’t bought it already. Shall I sell the Manor?’
He smiled. ‘That, my darling, is entirely up to you. Sell it or let it or convert it, or keep it, just as you please. It is yours absolutely and always has been so far as I’ve been concerned. Is it really such a vital issue – now?’
I shook my head. No. The need for possession was over. It had been resolved.
‘There is only one thing I would really like you to do for me darling.’
‘Yes Max. I hope it is difficult and complicated and will take a great deal of my time.’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘What then?’
‘If you could just – be with me, then I would be exceedingly content with that.’