Daisychain Summer

by Elizabeth Elgin

  There’s a lot of water for this time of year.’ Ralph Hillier frowned as he and his gamekeeper gazed at the swollen river.

  ‘That late snowfall,’ Tom offered. ‘Dratted nuisance.’ A nuisance to keepers whose wild pheasants had begun to nest; a bother to fruit growers with trees in blossom and to everyone, when the risk of snow in April was rare in the south, though at Rowangarth it had been less of a phenomenon. ‘Nature, sir – reminding us never to take things for granted.’

  ‘Much damage?’

  ‘No. We were lucky. Most of the sitting hens survived it.’ Tom Dwerryhouse was a good keeper, marking each nest he found on a plan of the estate, visiting them regularly, making sure the hens were sitting close and that vixens with cubs to feed were not allowed to take too many. ‘A hundred and forty-eight nests, this year, and only six of them deserted.’ Best ever, in spite of the snow.

  ‘Here, Beth! Heel!’ He whistled to the labrador bitch who ran back and forth with delight, snuffling and sniffing the scents of an earth awakened from winter. ‘She’s still a bit wild, but she’ll be all right for the guns, come October. She behaves better with Dickon …’

  Dickon Purvis had had the rearing of Ralph Hillier’s newest retriever; had chosen her as the best in the litter and taken her under his supervision the moment she was weaned. For Dickon, Beth was wholly obedient; today, out with comparative strangers, she took liberties, leaving them without permission, tilting at authority like a naughty child.

  ‘She’s a beauty.’ Ralph Hillier bent to fondle the large, intelligent head. ‘Purvis will be trying her with the gun, soon?’

  ‘Aye, but she’ll be all right.’ Bethan of Winchester – her real, pedigree name – was fearless as she was beautiful. ‘Dickon’s reared you a good little bitch.’ Tom gave credit where it was due.

  ‘How is Purvis doing?’

  ‘No complaints. Him and Polly look like being fixtures at Willow End and their lad is doing well at school. Dickon is walking the better for a decent pair of boots.’ Credit again where it was due. Footwear was an accepted part of a keeper’s wages; Dickon Purvis, though only a dog boy, had received the same, and specially lasted by a shoemaker in Southampton to accommodate a deformed foot.

  ‘So he’ll be getting ideas; wanting a keeper’s job now he’s better on his feet?’

  ‘No, sir. Purvis knows where he’s well off. That foot’ll never be right – gives him gyp in bad weather. He could teach me a thing or two, though, when it comes to training gun dogs, but where would a lame keeper find work when there’s able-bodied men fighting at factory gates for a day’s work?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Ralph Hillier frowned. ‘Things are bad. She’s going too near the river!’ He nodded anxiously to where the young, inquisitive bitch regarded a small branch that circled and spun on the swirling water. ‘She’ll be all right?’

  ‘Right as rain. Dickon says she’s a strong swimmer. Leave her. If she goes in, she’ll get out. You don’t want a retriever that’s feared of water, do you? And sir – talking about jobs. You don’t think the miners’ll come out on strike, do you, all things considered, I mean?’ Tom stood respectfully as his employer made himself comfortable on the trunk of a fallen tree.

  ‘Sit yourself down, man.’ He indicated a place beside him, his eyes still following the labrador. ‘Come out?’ he murmured. ‘I hope they don’t, but they’d have my sympathy, if they did.’

  ‘You, sir?’ Tom’s head jerked up in surprise. Wealthy Mr Hillier who had bottomless pockets, siding with the coal miners?

  ‘Me! What would you do, Tom Dwerryhouse, if I cut your wages, then asked you to work more hours?’

  ‘I reckon,’ Tom answered cautiously, ‘that I’d be on the lookout for another job. But you wouldn’t do that?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. You suit me well. But there’s little work for the colliers; half of them with their dole money run out and forced onto parish relief. And digging coal is a swine of a job – dangerous, too.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me about the pits, sir. My dad was a collier till the coal dust got to him. That’s why I went into keeping.’

  ‘Yes. A good man, your father. He’s the reason I’m sitting here today.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Tom gasped. ‘You knew my dad?’

  ‘I owe him my life,’ the elder man said tersely, turning to observe the effects of his words.

  ‘I wondered …’ Tom shook his head. ‘Up north, I mean, meeting you – you giving me a job when I came out of the Army.’

  ‘You were curious – yet you never asked?’

  ‘I didn’t, Mr Hillier. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘But it still bothered you? What I was doing in your village – me, a man with a chauffeur-driven car?’

  ‘It did. And a job for the giving, an’ all.’

  ‘But I wasn’t there looking for a gamekeeper. My estate agent hired and fired, not me.’

  ‘But you still took me on – provided my references were good, you said …’

  ‘I did.’ Ralph Hillier took in a long, deep breath. ‘I was there to pay off an old debt,’ he murmured, staring at the river. ‘I owed your father, Dwerryhouse, but I was too late. I found that both your parents had died.’

  ‘An’ I was too late, an’ all – about Mam, I mean. When I got back from the war she’d died in the ’flu epidemic.’ He gazed at his boots, remembering. ‘But what did you owe my father?’

  ‘My life, that’s what. And don’t look so gormless.’ He spread out his hands, palms down. ‘Take a good look. Whose do they remind you of?’

  ‘My dad’s.’ Tom saw for the first time the prick-sized blue-black marks. ‘Though yours hardly show. Dad’s hands were pitted bad.’

  ‘Coal marks. Miner’s hands.’

  ‘You, Mr Hillier?’

  ‘Below ground, at Torvey Main, where your dad worked. Remember the accident, there?’

  ‘No. I was a young bairn. But he told me about it. He was hurt. Never went down again – what with that and the coal dust on his chest.’

  ‘Nor did I. I was a Workhouse child, Dwerryhouse; no folk of my own – well, none that owned me. I left school when I was twelve and was sent down the pit to work. I was a can lad, then later I helped load the bogies.

  ‘I was working beside your father one day and we heard a rumbling. Nothing much, but we stopped what we were doing and stood still. Then it came – a cracking sound, and your father grabbed my arm. “Roof! Run!” he yelled. But we weren’t sharp enough. It came down and we caught it, me worst of all.

  ‘Your father got free, then pulled me out. My leg was crushed and he carried me half a mile to safety. Those behind us further down the seam weren’t so lucky. Never brought out. Still down there, for all I know …’

  There was a long, awkward silence, then Tom said, ‘That roof fall was the beginning of the end for dad. He never rightly recovered – and they paid him nothing.’

  ‘I never knew. I was taken to hospital. They kept me on the charity ward till I was fit as made no matter. Petted me, the nurses did – fed me well. The Workhouse Master saw to it that I got compensation. Fifty pounds, would you believe? Don’t know if they expected a cut of it, but I didn’t give them the chance. Just pocketed it, and left. Got myself lodgings, then started trading – buying and selling – anything and everything, as long as I made a penny profit on it.

  ‘Took a market stall and folk pitied me – a lad so young, hurt down the pit. I played on that pity. By the time I was sixteen I had my own horse and cart; a coal round during the week and a market stall on Saturdays. By the time the war came, I’d already bought a half-share in a small engineering works. We were tooled-up, ready to go onto war production long before the fighting started. From then on, everything I touched turned to money – and the rest you know.’

  ‘Aye. You paid what you thought was a debt to my father by giving me a job and –’ he smiled briefly, ‘by making a fuss of our Daisy.’

 
; ‘I fuss Daisy because I’m fond of her. Maybe I think of her as the daughter I never had or perhaps I’d have liked my girl to be like her if ever I’d married, and fathered one. She’s a little charmer.

  ‘But I’ve levelled with you, Dwerryhouse – now will you tell me one thing? Tell me why you never talk about that war? You’ve only mentioned it in passing, and then only when you were after me for a job for Purvis. And why, when there’s a service in the church on Remembrance Sunday, aren’t you there, wearing your medals like most other men?’

  ‘Now see here!’ Tom was on his feet, face blazing red, his mouth traplike. ‘I did join the Army, though I’d think twice and thrice afore I did it again. And I did fight in the trenches on the Somme and other hell holes and spent my fair share of time out in No Man’s Land, sniping.

  ‘But I was taken prisoner, and no one told. My mother was given to understand I’d been killed – aye, and Alice, an’ all. And if I don’t choose to wear any medals, then that’s my business and no one else’s! And they don’t give medals to dead men – because that’s what I am as far as the Army’s concerned. Dead, and forgotten!’ he flung, shaking with temper and doing nothing to disguise it. ‘And with your permission, sir, I’ll be getting back. I’ll take Beth with me, leave her with Purvis, though I’m of the opinion she should be with me at Keeper’s, now, in the kennels.’

  He whistled to the bitch and she came at once. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and made for home.

  ‘Dwerryhouse!’ Tom sensed the command in the voice and common sense cooled the anger in him. He stopped, then slowly turned, walking back to the tree trunk.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ He brought a forefinger to the brim of his cap. ‘I had no right to walk away without permission.’

  ‘Stop it, man! And don’t tip your cap to me ever again. I don’t hold with it, and you know it! Just don’t get so uppity when I mention the war, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Only you’ll not find many ex-soldiers want to talk about it. We were fools – cannon fodder, and of no value. Can you blame me for being bitter?’

  ‘No, I can’t – especially when a badly leg kept me out of it. But what’s been said between us today is not to be repeated. I don’t often talk about my private life and I don’t want it blabbed all over Windrush. It was just the talk of the miners going on strike, maybe, brought things back.

  ‘And you’re right about Beth. Tell Purvis she’ll be with you, from now on. Tell him he’s done a good job on her, mind.’

  ‘Then with respect, Mr Hillier, don’t you think it would sound better, coming from you? A word of praise means a lot to Dickon.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll do that and I’ll ask him to find me another good pup, and start training it up. That please you, Dwerryhouse?’

  ‘It does, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Then we’ll get back. Tomorrow, if you’ll bring your plan of the wild nests, I’d like to take a look at a few of them. Meet me at Windrush at about ten – that all right with you?’

  They walked back in near silence, Ralph Hillier musing that his keeper was a chip off the old block. His father, he remembered, had been given to flares of temper. And by his side, Tom made a silent vow to count to ten before flying off the handle – and especially about the war. What would have happened, he thought, if he’d told the truth, said, ‘Medals? They don’t give medals to deserters. It wasn’t all that long ago they shot them!’

  He closed his eyes briefly and shook memories out of his head; memories of a cold dawn and a boy being led, stumbling, to his execution. That morning in Epernay would stay with him for the rest of his days. Memories of murder.

  All at once he wanted nothing more than to be with Alice and Daisy; Daisy home from school, with Keth leaving her safely at the gate after the long walk home. He had so much to be thankful for; so many blessings, though his quick temper wasn’t one of them.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Mr Hillier.’ He paused at the gate of Keeper’s Cottage. ‘Sharp at ten, I’ll be there.’

  Clementina Sutton’s Rolls Royce came to a stop beside the front steps of Denniston House; the house in which her son and his wife lived; where Anna had been in labour for almost twenty-four hours.

  She alighted slowly, gazing around her. She had been opposed to the purchase of Denniston House as a home for her son. It had stood neglected for two years after the Army moved out, taking with them their black iron bedsteads and the stench of disinfectant and suppurating wounds.

  Now, though, it was exactly what she had intended it should become; the home of a gentleman, though heaven only knew the money she spent on it with furnishings and fittings of the very best and the gardens and surrounding woodland brought under control after years of neglect.

  Now, an immaculate drive swept through spring-green grounds with drifts of white narcissi growing beneath pink blossoming trees and lawns looking as though they had been clipped with nail scissors.

  She glanced briefly at the small car parked not far away and the bicycle propped against a tree trunk. Doctor James was here, thank goodness, and the midwife. Surely Anna would be delivered, soon? Certainly she had been too long in labour – for a second child, that was. At least, Clementina sighed, Anna was a good breeder. She and Elliot had spent their honeymoon in Venice and Florence, travelling there by Orient Express and Golden Arrow, and Anna pregnant by the time they got back. She must, Clementina frowned, have conceived on the train! How ever was it possible to get pregnant on a train? But peaky-looking she had been when they returned, six weeks after the wedding, giving birth ten months later to a girl.

  They had called her Tatiana for one of the Russian grand duchesses and a pretty little child, she was bound to admit, though she had longed for Elliot’s firstborn to be a son; an heir for Pendenys.

  Yet to give Anna her due, Clementina conceded, she was soon pregnant again, only to miscarry at four months which was a mystery indeed, since Tatiana had caused not one iota of trouble.

  ‘Where is Mr Elliot?’ she demanded of the footman who answered the door. ‘No! Don’t bother!’ Her son was in the library. She had only to follow her nose to find him there. Drat those foul-smelling foreign cigarettes! The stink of them clung to the upholstery and curtains; surely now that Elliot was a married man a pipe would have been more in keeping?

  ‘There you are!’ She flung open the door unannounced. ‘Why wasn’t I sent for sooner? This thing has gone on far too long. What can Richard James be thinking about?’

  ‘I fear it has nothing to do with the doctor, Mama.’ Elliot stubbed out his cigarette, then reached for another. ‘I have tried to see Anna, only to be ordered out by that Wagnerian midwife. And in my own house, mark you! I had planned to be out tonight. Anna wasn’t due for at least two weeks.’

  ‘Due? A baby comes when it is good and ready,’ Clementina snorted. ‘Nature knows when the time is right and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. What has been done to help the girl, might I ask?’

  ‘How would I know,’ Elliot shrugged. ‘No one gives a thought to the father, worrying on his own.’

  ‘And tippling more brandy than is good for him!’ She replaced the stopper firmly, then placed the decanter out of reach of her son’s hand. ‘Now get yourself upstairs and wash your mouth out. You reek of the stuff! I’ll ring for coffee, then we can decide what’s to be done.’

  Anna had miscarried her second pregnancy and her third; nothing must go wrong with her fourth attempt to produce the urgently needed son, Clementina frowned anxiously. Pushing the bell with an impatient finger, she was pleased to find it was answered almost at once.

  ‘Bring coffee for two, then be kind enough to go to Countess Anna’s room and tell Doctor James that Mrs Sutton would like to see her daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Yes’m. At once, ma’am.’ The housemaid bobbed a curtsey, in such a tizzy that she wasn’t at all sure which order to carry out first. But Mrs Clementina was well known for upsetting staff the minut
e she set foot in the place. Not like the little countess who was a lady through and through. And it wasn’t a housemaid’s place to go knocking on the door of a sickroom, no matter who told her to!

  ‘Cook says the coffee will be up at once, ma’am,’ said the terrified housemaid a minute later, ‘and Doctor James says – says – well, I’m to tell you he’ll be down, soon …’

  Down, soon? A red-faced doctor had roared something that sounded very much like ‘interfering old hen’, then slammed the door on her! She bobbed another curtsey then hurried away, determined not to become involved in what was obviously turning into a melodrama.

  ‘Down soon, will he?’ Clementina’s hand shook as she spooned sugar into cups of black coffee. ‘Something’s wrong, mark my words. I said mark my words if it –’

  ‘Yes, I heard you – mother dear …’

  ‘This is going to be another girl. Had a girl with no trouble at all, then lost the next two, didn’t she?’ Clementina demanded, red-faced. ‘Boys, I shouldn’t wonder. Some women can’t carry boys. Slip them, half-way. Two boys, she lost. I’d take wagers on another girl!’

  ‘Mother! I don’t care if it’s a piebald monkey!’ Pregnancies were beginning to bore Elliot. ‘All I want is for it to be born!’

  ‘All you want! And what do you think that girl upstairs wants?’ Clementina had been delivered of three sons in as many years and her entire sympathies were with Anna – or would be if the girl was about to produce the grandson she so desperately wanted. ‘You men are all alike! Stupid, the lot of you!’

  ‘But necessary, in the scheme of things.’ Complacently, he refilled his cup. ‘You can’t entirely dispense with our services.’

  ‘Services!’ Clementina winced. Her son could be so direct, uncouth almost, at times. ‘Watch your mouth, young man. I want none of your London whorehouse talk here!’ Oh, Mary Anne Pendennis! You surface at the most inappropriate times!

  ‘Then calm yourself, mother. We are all on edge. There’ll be news, soon.’

  News came sooner than either expected when the door was opened without ceremony by a doctor who was clearly at a loss for words.