“I say—Mrs. Brissenden? Are you all right?”
Kezia felt lightheaded, and at once the heat of the station engulfed her. Sweat drizzled down her spine, and she thought that if she moved to pick up her bag, the stains under her arms would embarrass her beyond measure.
“Oh, Mr. Hawkes, this is a surprise.” Kezia reached into the pocket of her linen jacket for a handkerchief, which she pressed against her brow. “It’s so busy here today, and it’s very close, isn’t it?”
“May I escort you to the train? I take it you’re on your way home.” Hawkes leaned down to pick up her bag, and offered his arm. “It’s this way, on platform three—they’ve just changed it again.”
“I don’t think I have ever seen so many soldiers—even when I was a child and my father took me to see the changing of the guard. I could never imagine seeing something like this.”
“Well, you’d better get used to it. This is only the beginning.”
Kezia stopped, steeling her face to dam her tears. “Surely it’s all a storm in a teacup, Mr. Hawkes.”
Edmund Hawkes looked at her, and she felt as if she were being judged. Was he disgusted at her naïveté? Annoyed at a childish assumption? He bore just a flash of attitude.
“I think it will be quite a tempest, Mrs. Brissenden.” He nodded towards the platform. “Ah, there’s our train.” And at once he was the gentleman again.
Hawkes opened the door of a third-class carriage for Kezia and, having seen her situated, raised his hat and continued along the platform to a first-class compartment.
Kezia would have liked to talk to him on the journey. She would have liked to talk about literature, to find common ground so that she might know him better—she noticed that he, too, had been to Hatchards. She wanted to converse with him to distract herself, to take her mind off the moment when she’d lifted the lid of Thea’s desk before leaving Queen Charlotte’s Chambers. It was an old desk, brought home from the school where she worked when new furniture had been purchased, so it always seemed as if she were a pupil, leaning against the angled lid to write in her composition book. Kezia had lifted the lid and seen a letter to Thea, written on the finest linen stock. There was no return address on the envelope, but the letter had been left open, visible to anyone who took the liberty of looking, though of course the only person she ever imagined delving into the depths of the ink-stained desk was herself. Or had she anticipated Kezia seeing the letter?
Dearest Thea,
To my sister in our cause, how lovely it was to walk together and then continue our long conversation while lingering over tea. I have found a new, beloved kindred spirit, and I cherish our friendship, which I am sure will last as long as we both walk this earth. We will go forward together and rejoice in our victory.
With affection,
Avril
Once the train reached Brooksmarsh station, Kezia lingered with the door ajar for as long as she could before stepping down onto the platform. She didn’t want Tom to see her walking out of the station with Edmund Hawkes, for she felt sure the landowner would be a gentleman and insist upon helping her with her case and parcels. She waited until Hawkes had exited the station, though she was anxious to be in the safe embrace of her husband. But Tom was not there to meet her; he had sent Danny Hatcher in the gig. Danny was Bert’s nephew, a quiet young man, twenty years of age. He had been lame since birth, with his grandmother setting blame upon the head of the midwife, who—she said—held him up with such a strong hand on the day he was born that she disjointed his ankle. No one knew if this was true, and doctors could not account for the lack of muscle between knee and heel—though Danny’s widowed mother had only ever taken him to the hospital once, when he was a small boy. It seemed that Danny was lame, and that was all there was to it. He was given no quarter at school, and at work he always made an effort to pull his weight along with the other men. Bert had brought him to the farm when the boy was twelve, saying it was about time he learned to be a man. While Tom tried not to favor Danny by giving him the lighter jobs—he knew better than to belittle the lad in front of the men—he was mindful that Danny’s leg sometimes ached, so he would assign a “special” task, one to which the boy was best suited. Mrs. Joe, the little mare who was more pony than horse, seemed all affection with Danny, which might have had something to do with the apple he’d bring, or the mints he kept in his pocket.
“Danny, how are you?” said Kezia as the boy took her bag and stowed it behind the seat, then held out his hand to steady her as she stepped up into the cart.
“Very well, Mrs. Brissenden. What was it like up there, in London?”
“Overwhelming, what with war being declared. I bet there’s been talk in the village about it.”
Danny shrugged, tapped Mrs. Joe on the rump, and they moved off. “There was a bit, I suppose. Some of the lads in the village have been jawing about having to join up, but I reckon we just get on with it, eh? Mattie and Bill have both said they think they ought to go—after all, we’re right in a striking line of the Channel here, so if the Germans come over, we’ll be among the first to cop it. They reckon it’s best to get over there to France and do something about putting a tin lid on the kaiser’s plans before his army get that far. And Mr. Brissenden says we might have to change the crops, and that there’ll likely be men down from the ministry soon, telling farmers what they want more of. He said that as long as there’s a war, farming becomes part of the ammunition.”
“Did he? I never really thought about it like that,” said Kezia, looking out at the fields, golden in the sun. The air held a loamy fragrance, a blend of the heat from barley almost ready for the harvest, and hops waiting to be picked. She slipped off her linen jacket. “So, what of village news? How was the expedition to the seaside?”
“The first thing is that the Hawkses’ harvest party has been canceled, on account of the war. And as for the seaside, well, the charabanc broke down on the way back from Hastings, but Tub Watkins from the garage sorted it out. He reckons he’ll be getting more passing business now, what with people going to and from the coast, you know, army and what have you.”
Kezia felt a wave of fatigue. “Oh, that’s a shame about the party. But did everyone have fun at the seaside?”
“From what I saw, everyone caught the sun a bit, and Mrs. Finch was fair burned across her nose—mind you, my mum always says she’ll get her nose burned off one of these days, if she don’t keep it out of people’s business.”
Kezia laughed, knowing the shopkeeper’s wife to be a great source of village gossip. She had learned the importance of not adding to the woman’s arsenal of information.
They talked of local news until they drew closer to Marshals Farm and the oast house, with its witch’s-hat cowls signaling that home was just minutes away. Whenever she left the farm to go into the village, Kezia had felt a rush of joy when she finally caught sight of those white cowls on her homeward journey. She imagined them sometimes as courtly women in voluminous skirts, beckoning her back to her house, to her kitchen, and to her husband. It was where she belonged now.
“Mr. Brissenden said to tell you that there’s a chicken hanging in the larder, and that he fancies a bit of chicken tonight,” said Ada, turning from making up the fire as Kezia came into the kitchen.
“Yes, that does sound lovely.” Kezia was putting on her pinafore, having set her leather case in the bedroom.
She had recently read in a monthly that it was important for a lady to take the time to talk to her servants, so that they might form a loyalty to their mistress and be more inclined towards accommodating behavior if required to work on their day off. Though Ada was her only staff, and they had so far rubbed along nicely, she felt it important to heed the advice, and be sure to acknowledge her employee.
“Did you go down to Hastings, Ada?”
Ada shook her head. “No. I didn’t. Mum took the other children, but I had to stay with Granddad, because he can’t be left on his own.”
“Oh, my, that is a shame.” Kezia pinned a loose hair in place and took a recipe book down from the shelf above the stove. “Could your granddad not have gone too, with a little help? There were plenty of big strong men on that charabanc.”
Ada sighed, and Kezia wondered if she were annoyed at the questioning, or perhaps it was because Kezia didn’t know something that most of the village knew already.
“It’s on account of his waterworks.”
“Oh, I see,” said Kezia. “Yes, of course.” She turned and went through to the larder, returning with the chicken. Kezia enjoyed roast chicken as much as the next person, and loved the way the farm chickens waddled up to meet her when she came out with the scraps pail in the morning, but she was well aware that the journey from farmyard to plate—from farmyard to roasting pan, even—was somewhat sketchy in her imagination. She realized she had never cooked chicken for Tom. They had eaten beef and mutton, already cut for her to cook. And they had eaten pork, but again, she had not been the one to actually take the life of the pig. She had cleaned a fish once. She’d gone fishing with Tom and come home with two fine trout. Tom had washed the fish, placed them on the kitchen table, and demonstrated gutting. Holding the trout upside down, so it seemed as if it was looking back up at her, Tom had cut down behind the gills to just half an inch below the top of the head.
“Then you just pull,” he said. “And the guts will come out with the head. Or if you like, you can slice him open here, and clean out the rest under the tap—see?”
And yes, she did see, and though she felt a salty phlegm rise in her throat, she had taken up a trout and followed Tom’s instruction.
“Good girl.” He’d smiled, and kissed her on the mouth. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
She flicked through the pages of her mother-in-law’s recipe book until she found what she was looking for. “To Draw Poultry.” Now she had to get the hang of this.
Kezia opened the kitchen table drawer and took out a boning knife—she hadn’t realized there was such a thing, but fortunately there was an illustration of the knife in the book. Then she pulled the bird towards her and lifted the knife.
. . . pass the knife under the skin, cut off the neck at its junction with the body, taking care not to cut through the under skin of the neck with this motion.
Kezia lifted the knife and touched the point to the chicken skin.
“Mrs. Brissenden . . .”
Kezia looked up, as if startled.
“Yes, Ada?”
“Mrs. Brissenden, do you want me to do that?”
“No, I should get on with it, though I will confess, this is the first time I’ve drawn and trussed a chicken.” Kezia lifted the knife again.
“Mrs. Brissenden . . .”
“What is it, Ada?” Kezia, her nerves on edge at the thought of a task that in truth turned her stomach, realized as soon as she’d uttered the words that her tone was sharp.
“I just thought I’d say that it’s easier to take all the entrails out after you’ve plucked it.”
“Oh. Yes, of course it is.” Kezia stepped back. The room was warm now, with the range burning to heat the ovens and the sun outside beating on the clay path. Everything seemed yellow and hot.
“Let me, Mrs. Brissenden.” Ada put down the towel she was holding and came to the table. With a deft movement she lifted the chicken, moved it to the draining board, and placed a bowl in the sink. As she did so, blood ran in a trickle from the bird’s beak onto her hand. She turned on the tap, washed away the blood, and turned off the tap. Kezia watched these movements as if in slow motion, then fled out of the back door towards the privy.
At the sound of her retching, which seemed to echo all the way to the kitchen table, Ada smiled. Before noon the following day, most of the village was apprised of the fact that Marshals Farm was to be blessed with a honeymoon baby. But it was not new life that had caused Kezia to hold her stomach and retch into the dark hole of the earth closet—and when would they get a proper lavatory at the farm? Surely it could be done, she thought. The source of her nausea was something else—a dread that had escalated at Charing Cross Station when she’d been caught among the mass of soldiers setting off towards their platform. It was a second’s terror, as if she were being dragged into the sea by a wave, and the feeling had not released its grip until she came back to the farm, where everything seemed to be as it was before she left.
Her new neighbors in the village—people she was coming to know, people she passed the time of day with—were taking the news of war in their stride. Or were they? wondered Kezia, as she wiped her mouth and used her apron to draw beads of sweat from her brow. Were they simply waiting for London to come to them, which is what those from the towns believed countryfolk did anyway? Would the war end before it reached Kent? She cast the question aside. She was not in London, not caught in the melee . . . and then she remembered preparing her notes for last year’s matriculating class, and the book she’d chosen for the oral examination, Far from the Madding Crowd. Oh, she loved Hardy, loved the measure of his language, the heft of his stories. And now a favorite image from the book came to her, and though it had been only a matter of weeks, it seemed so long ago that she was a teacher, when her favorite lines from so many books could be recollected with ease.
And at home by the fire, whenever you look up there I shall be—and whenever I look up, there will be you.
And she saw Tom as Gabriel Oak, saw his solid form by the fireplace, as they would be this evening and in years to come. There you will be.
Chapter 5
Practise good manners with your own people if you wish to shine before strangers.
—THE WOMAN’S BOOK
The purpose of Edmund Hawkes’ journey to London had not been simply to sit in a leather chair at his club, reading the Times and jawing with City grandees about the state of affairs in Europe, or the effect war might have on the mighty Bank of England. Despite his father’s best efforts, Edmund had steered the fortunes of the family estate in a positive direction. His banker was always happy to see him—indeed, doubly happy that he did not have to deal with the current Hawkes senior. Hawkes’ credit was not in question, and he was not indebted to his tailor, his shoemaker, or indeed to his club. A valet attended his room, and while he was in the capital, his every need would be met. There was no reason to think that anything in his life would change—but the one thing he was about to do would change everything.
His first task, after settling into his rooms and taking lunch with one of his advisors, was to take steps to enlist in the army. He would not wait to be conscripted; because for Edmund Hawkes there was the question of honor. He had followed the news, spoken to men older and wiser—his father not being one of them—and decided that a landowner in his position must set an example. He had been an army cadet at school, and upon going up to Oxford he’d thought it wouldn’t do any harm at all to join the Officer Training Corps. Since then he had been an officer in the Territorials—there was only the obligatory commitment of twelve or so days each year in the army—so it was up to him to honor his status in the county, and ultimately, to honor his name by presenting himself for service before he was called. He did not want this war to be one that a Hawkes avoided, but instead one where his willingness to step up and be counted reflected well on his name, his village, on his beloved Kent, and on his country. It was time, thought Edmund, that a Hawkes was prepared to stand for something of greater import than the next round of drinks or another wager.
It had taken him aback, the different responses to news of war in Londoners and county folk. The crowds both fascinated and appalled him, and it occurred to him that it would all change once war was under way, that when people had to get on with it—whatever “it” might be—they would not be on the streets but instead would be going about their business, whether the business was that of fighting, or of keeping the country running for a few months until it all ended, like a storm blowing itself out with gusts of its own
energy. While many young men seemed to be spoiling for a fight—men wearing their summer straw hats and light suits, men who laughed together as if it was all a bit of fun, as if going to war would be another distraction, a sort of prolonged day at the seaside—Hawkes thought that most people, when war was declared, would take solace in the ordinary things in life, whatever they might be. Of course, what Edmund Hawkes did not know—and, to be fair to him, could not have known—was that so many of those young men, especially flat-capped working-class lads from the poorer areas, were after the king’s shilling, a steady job, three square meals a day, and a warm place to bed down. They had seen their share of death at home. Most had watched siblings die in infancy, and perhaps lost a mother in childbirth. Grandparents passed away at home, and in many cases a father had lost his life at work. If they saw that, and it held no fear for them, then the threat of war was nothing more than words. The Hun was just Backer the Baker with a gun in his hand. So off to enlist they went, cheering and back-slapping along the way, pals all.
After making his inquiries, Hawkes had set off to present himself for service, with the good wishes of men at the club, men in their pin-striped suits bearing the shine of age, men who said “Good chap” and slapped him on the back before reclining in leather chairs and reaching for a glass of port or brandy. Edmund Hawkes stepped into a waiting taxicab and, once settled, reached for the notebook always kept in his jacket pocket and wrote, “Mirror image—leaving the quiet ease of the club into the noisy street—like leaving life in Kent, like departing from peace into war. What will it be like? Will I see men killed? How best can I serve, and make a good account of myself?” Later he would add to those notes, and in time, he knew, he would begin to compose verse, his scattered thoughts taking on form and rhythm, catching the beat of the heart like an army marching. But, he wondered, whose heart, if he kept the poems to himself?
The Care and Management of Lies Page 7