The Care and Management of Lies

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “It’s a cold night, Thea—bring your brick and come into my bed. I’ve put an extra blanket on, so it’ll be just like Camden. We can pretend we’re still girls, can’t we?” Kezia smiled, resting her hand on the door handle.

  Thea hesitated, but was persuaded by the chill air. “All right. I don’t want to remember those cold dormitories, though.”

  “Or the anthracite stove at the end of the room—threw out no heat, but filled the air with fumes.”

  Thea laughed. “I’ll just get into my nightclothes.”

  Kezia could not have bundled herself more thoroughly. She wore a flannel nightdress with Tom’s thick woolen dressing gown wrapped around her, and heavy socks pulled up above her ankles. Thea clambered in beside her, similarly mummified.

  “Grief! Who would have thought it could be this cold—and the day was so bright.”

  “There was no cloud to keep the land swaddled, that’s why we’re all feeling it.”

  “Spoken like a true farmer’s wife.” Thea elbowed Kezia, who elbowed back.

  They giggled, heads together. And in this proximity, it was as if they were retracing their way along time’s byway, down the years and back to Camden; back to a time before they went on to college, even before matriculation—to a moment before their paths diverged.

  The giggles had subsided, and they were quieted in the room, sheltered by gentle lamplight. The walls felt closer, the nighttime quiet, comforting.

  “Thea.”

  “Yes?”

  “What made you volunteer? You’ve never liked anyone telling you what to do, have you? And you love your London life—you worked hard for your little slice of independence, Thea. You even changed your name. And now you’re set to go to France. I just don’t understand.”

  Thea’s body tensed.

  “I’m going, Kezia, and I can’t change my mind now, you know.”

  Kezia sat up, staring into Thea’s eyes. “I’m not interested in trying to change your mind. You’ve made your choice. I just want to know why.” She folded her arms into the copious sleeves of Tom’s dressing gown.

  Thea was silent, then spoke, parsing her reply with care. “It just seemed to come up while I was thinking about looking for another position. I met an old friend—you remember her, Hilary Dalton—she’d joined a medical unit as a driver, and she took me along.”

  “Oh, so you were swept away.”

  Thea shook her head but moved closer to Kezia, who leaned back against the pillow. “Not really, Kez. I wasn’t so much swept away as I caught the tide. I wanted to be in something. I wanted to belong, and . . .”

  “Belong to what?” Kezia pressed.

  “Well, I belonged to other things, societies and so on, because I wanted to do something worthwhile—it doesn’t really matter what they were. But when war came, none of that made me feel as if I’d been doing something really, well, important for our boys. I wanted to play a part.”

  Thea was aware of Kezia, nodding her understanding. She remembered a certain look, from the very early days of their friendship. Kezia would often take her time with a question, ruminating over it in her mind, chewing on it like a cow with a clump of grass, grinding it down from side to side to get the goodness—only with Kezia, it was as if she were looking for something in the middle of the problem. The truth, perhaps. Thea had attributed it to having a vicar for a father, for surely life in the parsonage meant that you thought about everything more than anyone else, because God had his eye on you all the time.

  Thea turned onto her side and looked at Kezia, at her long hair braided for bed, at the collar of Tom’s dressing gown pulled up around her neck, and at the shallow wisps of her visible breath, turning into little puffs, like sheep’s wool caught on a hawthorn hedge.

  “Do you think everything will be all right, Kezzie?” said Thea.

  “Yes, I do. It’ll be over soon, just like they say it will. Look at you—you’ll go out there and be back in five minutes. And Tom will come home, I’m making sure of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kezia’s eyes met Thea’s. “I’m tempting him with my cooking—he’ll come back for that, just you see.”

  And then, in their burst of laughter, Thea felt joined to Kezia in the way that childhood friends are connected. As girls they had wanted to be mistaken for twins, because the error would simply add another layer of glue to their sisterhood.

  Kezia reached out towards the lamp and turned down the wick, then burrowed under the covers once more.

  “Thea.”

  “Yes?”

  “When do you leave for France?”

  “Up to London on Thursday, then more training, and as soon as that’s done, I’ll be on a boat from Folkestone, I would imagine. It might even be before Christmas, or soon afterwards.”

  Kezia drew breath to speak, then paused.

  “What?” said Thea.

  “Well, when you said you belonged to other things, you weren’t talking about social clubs, were you?” Kezia waited for a response. Thea said nothing, so she continued. “I mean, was it something dangerous? Were you in some sort of trouble, Thea? Is that why you volunteered—to go away?”

  “Of course I’m not in any trouble. What gave you that idea?” Thea felt the tone of her voice rise.

  “It was nothing, really. I mean—well, I’d read about an Avril someone or other being arrested at a pacifists’ rally, and I remembered, at Buckingham Palace . . . and I know you’ve a friend—a good friend, I think—called Avril.”

  Thea laughed. It was a forced laugh, and she knew Kezia would recognize it for what it was, a prelude to the bending of truth. “Avril? I haven’t seen her for ages. Not since she decided she didn’t want to go on an Alpine walking tour. I have no idea what she’s doing, actually. No idea at all.”

  “I suppose there are quite a few Avrils.”

  “It’s not an uncommon name.”

  The women were silent for several more minutes, until Kezia spoke again.

  “Thea, are you scared?”

  “I’ll be safe—don’t you worry.”

  “I’m not worried. Of course you’ll be safe. But are you scared, Thea?”

  “No more than you are, when you have to unhitch Mabel.”

  Kezia chuckled. “As God’s my witness, there never was a more contrary mare, truly there wasn’t.”

  More laughter, then they reached towards each other to embrace.

  “Night, Thea.”

  “Good night.”

  And in the darkness, each felt the other shiver, and as they continued to hold hands, they understood that it wasn’t the cold air, or the cooling bricks, for now they were warm beneath the bedclothes.

  Edmund Hawkes sat at his desk in a tent, one tent in an encampment of tents. He was safe, for now, unless shelling reached this place, a farm chosen for its seclusion behind the lines. Seclusion was, of course, a relative concept, for the trees—those still standing—were bare of all foliage, and there were orders to go up the line again in forty-eight hours. Another push. Push and shove, thought Hawkes. Push here, shoved back, push forwards, shoved sideways—shove them, and we’re pushed. And in the middle of all that pushing and shoving, men—his men—would lie dead. Men that lay buried, now, in hasty graves; bodies wrapped in ground sheets and set in the cold, wet earth. Only the words of a soldier’s prayer to see them on their way, so far from home and love.

  “Sir!”

  Hawkes looked up. A month ago he might have felt inept, inadequate, and ill prepared when facing a sergeant with years in uniform, but now all care had left him.

  “Sergeant Knowles. Good. At ease, Knowles.”

  “Sir!” Knowles eyed Edmund Hawkes and saw a man beyond intimidation.

  “Right. How are your raw recruits to the game?” Edmund Hawkes looked directly at Knowles.

  Knowles appeared to bristle when he heard the word game. Hawkes understood that Knowles was an army man through and through, and that he had only so much time to
knock his lads into shape, to knead them into a fighting corps, a body willing and able to take a man’s life, and to die. Recruits should have had a year of training, but for some it had been whittled down to not much more than a month. It was no game to Knowles. And Hawkes knew that Knowles considered him just one more new officer, raw and disillusioned—another enlisted man to be trained up enough to save his own life.

  “All present and correct, and ready for the Hun, sir.”

  “Well, that is good news.” Hawkes ran a finger down the list. “I know some of these men—come from the same village. I—”

  “Sir?”

  “This chap—Brissenden. How’s he shaping up?”

  “Not one of the best, sir.”

  “I’m surprised. He’s a farmer, a good worker. He didn’t have to enlist, he’s got a farm to run.”

  “Sir.” Knowles made no other comment.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Couple of incidents, sir. Troublemaker, I would say. Didn’t like the food, sir.”

  “I don’t think any of us like the food, Knowles.”

  “Didn’t keep it to himself, sir. Gets the men going, comments about the ration.”

  “Well, we’ll see how he gets on here. Not that we’ll all be here for long. Anything else?” Hawkes looked up when there was no immediate response. “Sergeant Knowles? Anything else?”

  “Private Brissenden. Personal letters—very odd, sir. Not good for morale, I would say.”

  Hawkes felt a wave of fatigue flood his body. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a soft bed, and a good meal. “Describe how the letters are ‘odd,’ if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Well, he reads them out—the men ask him to. But it makes them dissatisfied, to my mind. And that sort of thing can cause trouble.”

  “Keep an eye on it, then.” Hawkes sighed. “Frankly, I can’t see how a personal letter can change matters here, but I will bow to your better judgment. Now then, I will inspect the men in precisely one hour. Tent inspection.”

  The sergeant saluted. “Sir!”

  Knowles smiled as he emerged from his officer’s tent. He didn’t like Edmund Hawkes, but he had sown the seed. There was always one, ever since he’d joined up himself, over twenty years ago. He’d seen his sergeant find the one, and he knew it was the way to keep the men together. Separate the one, and make him the enemy inside—made all the difference when they went after the enemy outside. Private Gravy was his one—not a complainer, but not a man to let anyone trample over him either. The perfect one. Push him too far, and he would push back. Make sure the men bear the brunt of it. Yes, he knew how to run a bloody army—and he knew how to get the Captain Edmund Hawkeses of this war where he wanted them. Bloody toff wouldn’t last long anyway—it was a wonder he was still here now, the way they were going down like flies. Still wet behind the ears, most of them, though this one was older, looked wiser. As if that would help the poor bastard.

  Tom sat on his camp bed and checked his khaki tunic—buttons gleaming—then his webbing and boots, to which plenty of spit and polish had been applied. He had pulled a soft cloth on a string through the barrel of his Lee Enfield rifle so many times that not one speck of dust lingered to delay the passage of ammunition. Every part of his weapon would shine where it was supposed to shine in the low winter sun. He checked his AB64 pay book, tucked into his breast pocket, and made sure that the First Field Dressing was in its place. Now all he needed was a helmet. Now what any of them needed was a helmet. Helmets were in short supply—like proper uniforms, which had only been distributed before they set sail for France. Tom counted everything in his pack, and checked again. He knew Knowles would be after him, so he had to be ready. There would be nothing, nothing, in Tom’s kit or about his person that the sergeant could identify as wrong, out of place, or not up to snuff. He knew full well that he was the sergeant’s choice for singling out, for humiliation. He would give him no excuse.

  A bugle announced inspection. Cecil Croft was the neighbor to his right, so they gave each other’s bed and uniform the once-over, just to make sure. Then they stood by the ends of their beds. Knowles and the officer would come in, walk up and down, and when the inspection was finished, the men would be quick-marched to the parade ground. Such as it was. A field flattened and rolled by the sappers. A field that would be pounded to such a degree that mud would form only after the most plentiful rain.

  Knowles entered the tent and stopped at each bed. He lingered when he came to Tom. He dropped a ha’penny on the blanket to check the coin’s bounce, a sign that the covers were drawn tight across what passed for a mattress. He took Tom’s rifle and peered down the barrel, and with a flourish he used a magnifying glass—a glass not used with any other soldier—to study the buttons on his tunic. His boots were scrutinized, and he asked Tom to open his pockets. Pay book, field dressing. All present and correct.

  “Private Gravy.” Knowles’ mouth was so close to Tom’s face that he swore he could smell yesterday evening’s coffee and this morning’s tea rolled into the sergeant’s night breath.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “A good show, Private Gravy. Keep it up. Keep it up every single day. Every single day, Private Gravy.”

  “Sir!”

  “Good morning.” Given the attention focused on Sergeant Knowles and Private Tom Brissenden, the voice at first sounded disembodied, before the men realized their commanding officer was present. The greeting came from the tent opening, where Captain Edmund Hawkes stood with another soldier at his side—his batman, Pullings.

  The soldiers’ feet thumped to attention on the rough boards beneath them.

  “At ease, men.” Edmund Hawkes looked down the row of men, each standing at the end of his camp bed. His eyes stopped moving when he came to Tom Brissenden, and then he turned to his sergeant and nodded.

  “Brissenden,” said Hawkes, as he approached Tom.

  “Sir!” said Tom, standing to attention, his salute firm.

  Hawkes smiled. “At ease, Private.” He paused. “You’ve left a good deal of work on the farm, Brissenden—winter coming and then the spring sowing. And I’ve no doubt there’s been men down from the ministry to tell you to plough in the orchards.”

  Tom glanced directly at Hawkes, but was brought up short by Knowles.

  “Eyes front!”

  “That’s all right, Sergeant Knowles,” said Hawkes.

  “I’ve a couple of good workers, sir, and the boys in the village will like to earn a penny or two for piecework—the older lads have enlisted though. We’re not ploughing in the orchards—the russets have always done well for us.” Tom’s voice was modulated.

  “Very well,” said Hawkes. “Good man for enlisting to serve your country. You had no need.” Hawkes turned, his eyes once more taking in each man standing. “None of you had need to enlist, but you came forward to the call of your country. Now your country asks you to march on to defeat the enemy—and each and every one of you will set forth on that march with a full heart, knowing the gratitude of the British people is at your back.” He looked at Knowles and nodded.

  “Attennnn-shun!” ordered Knowles.

  The men snapped their backs even straighter and thumped their heels together. Hawkes nodded, and left the tent, Knowles following in his wake.

  The men stood to attention for another second or two, then looked at each other.

  “Aren’t we supposed to wait for the at-ease?” said one soldier.

  “He probably forgot,” said another.

  “He didn’t bleedin’ forget anything. Attennnn-shun!” The tent flap was open again, and Knowles stepped in. The men stood at the end of their beds. “Well, that was all very nice, to be congratulated for turning up to fight for your country. There’s plenty dead and gone that did the same a lot sooner than you lot, and you’re going up after them. If you want to come back, you’d better toe the line.” He stepped towards Tom, a sneer on his face. “Even you, Private Gravy.” He turned to the men.
“Otherwise, the man at your back will be me, and you don’t want that. I promise, you don’t want that.” Knowles paused. “Right then, my little nancy boys, after a turn on the parade ground, you’ll be cooking your own breakfast this morning, giving them you-ten-sils in your kit a bit of a go, so you don’t starve up the line when the cookhouse goes up because a shell has just hit it, and the only meat coming your way is a bit of the horse that just pulled your dinner along the road in the first place.” Knowles continued to give instructions, but Tom was only half listening. Kezia had told him she’d managed to persuade the army men who’d come to take the horses that their plough horses weren’t up to the job. Apparently Mabel had gone for one of them, then turned and kicked out, while Ted snapped away and took off at the first sign of her temper, so the men shook their heads and went to another farm. He smiled, imagining the scene.

  “Oh, so now Private Gravy is finding something funny. Tell us what you were thinking about that was funny, while your compatriots”— he pronounced the word like a child in school, getting his mouth around each syllable, come-pate-rye-ots—“get shelled into little pieces.”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Nothing, sir. Nothing, sir! Well, for the trouble of your finding all this very funny”—he turned to the men—“all this serious business of soldiering, funny”—he looked back at Tom—“you, Private Gravy, will be on latrine duty today—because I for one have had enough of your S-H-one-T.” He paused, smirking. “Now then, at the double.”

  Dear Kezia,

  I hope all is well on the farm. I was very glad to hear that you still have Mabel and Ted, though I am surprised the army walked away from them. Perhaps Mabel really did put them off, because believe me, you don’t want trouble out here. Mind, she is a sturdy girl, and we need her on the farm. I saw Hawkes today. Captain, he is. He asked about the orchards, whether the farm still had the apples, because the ministry had been giving instructions to plough them in for other crops to be planted. You never said, so I told him we still had our russets.