A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  The silence between them was heavy and Hannah wanted to leave now, go up to Harry and stay where she felt needed, but no, that would mean this man had won and she could not allow him that victory.

  ‘Good evening, Father,’ she said, her voice loud in the stillness.

  He turned from his book now, his eyes still dark beneath his brows, still empty and cold.

  ‘Good evening, Hannah. How is my son tonight?’

  Before she could answer Beaky brought in the haddock. It was Friday, Hannah remembered, and looked at the small white fish on the gold-rimmed plate. Would he still have salmon?

  ‘Harry is stable,’ she replied, watching as salmon was brought to her father. ‘How is the Vicar?’ she asked as the salmon was placed before her father.

  He did not answer. As Beaky walked from the room she turned and called her back.

  ‘I would like salmon too, please, Mrs Brennan.’ Hannah picked up her plate and handed it to the woman who flushed and looked beyond Hannah to her father.

  Hannah turned to him. ‘If I am to nurse your son, I will need an adequate diet.’ She pointed to her plate. ‘This is not adequate, as you obviously realise since you prefer salmon.’

  She looked at him, at his face, his eyes, and hers were steady for she realised that the fear was gone, and the anger also, both washed away by the years which had passed and the life she had led. What was left was a knowledge that this man could no longer hurt her. Her mother was dead, what could he do?

  That night sitting beside Harry’s window she wrote to Esther asking her to call; telling her that Harry was home and longed to see her. She wrote that she hoped they could be friends again and as she gave it to the maid to post she knew that, for Harry’s sake, she had had to write those words.

  She also wrote to Joe telling him that his furniture was beautiful, because the heavy darkness of her father’s house had made all that her friend created seem even more a meeting of simplicity and style. Was it any wonder his work was in such demand? She told him that she would be seeing Frances on Sunday when she would leave Harry with Esther and begin her school again. She told him too that she would be working as a suffragist beside Frances. Hannah paused now, her pen drying in her hand as she looked out across the garden which was colourless in the moonlight. She still could not find the words to tell him of her engagement to Arthur because marriage seemed so far away, and when she did think of it the bars closed round her and the air grew thin. But tomorrow Arthur would be here and now she signed off her letter to Joe and moved to sit by Harry, to hold his hand and nurse him throughout the night, and as the moon rose high and Harry stirred she smiled and nodded. Arthur must be made to understand that there could be no marriage until her brother was completely better.

  April turned to May and May to June and the summer of 1914 was warm and glorious and the shadows were sharp and Esther wore a large diamond ring and kissed and stroked Harry and he laughed and smiled and grew stronger.

  Hannah brought him down to the garden in July and they set up the wicker chairs on the terrace and Arthur and Esther ate cucumber sandwiches and drank tea with them and played charades as Harry could now stand and move, but carefully.

  Arthur’s hair bleached in the sun and became lighter than the colour of hay. He seemed to have matured since his stay in Switzerland and he understood that Hannah wanted to wait, and so he enjoyed the garden and the soft summer air and Harry’s return to health.

  When Arthur and Esther could not come Hannah walked with Harry in the garden and one day they strolled to their old play area and pulled at the long grass, clearing the weeds, feeling the heat on their backs. Hannah wore a broad straw hat and Harry his old school boater. They stacked up the old guinea-pig hutches, one on top of the other, talking of something and nothing. Harry hammered in nails so that the frames were once again firm and strong and said that she should give them to her Sunday ladies, the ones with children.

  They walked on then to the swing and Hannah held the rope while Harry tied a loop and she saw that his hands were broader now, not so thin, and though his fingers worked slowly they were stronger. She put her foot in the loop and hauled herself up feeling the rope as it gripped tightly round her shoe and she hung on as Harry pulled her back and let her go. She leant back, dropping her head and seeing red through her closed lids as the air rushed through her body, and she could hardly breathe for laughing. Again and again he pushed her until she begged for him to stop and as she jumped down he chased her slowly across the lawn and round and round they ran until they sank to the ground and her face was amongst the fresh green grass. She could see the ants as they wove in and out and smell the earth and the sweet scent of fleshy stems and feel his arm across her back.

  I never want this moment to stop, she thought, because she was back in her childhood with her brother.

  That afternoon he spoke of his plans, his money. How he would buy a grand house in the country and another in London. How he would use his money to buy shares and live off the interest. He would take Esther around the world, dress her in the finest clothes, adore her. Hannah smiled. Yes, Esther would make him happy if he could give her this.

  She and Esther had not spoken of the petrol cans or the prison sentence but her blonde cousin was kind to her brother and made him flourish and for this Hannah was grateful and so she laughed and talked as though there was no shadow on their friendship. Each day Harry grew stronger and the weather hotter. They would be harvesting in the fields which ran beside the railway line down to Cornwall. The corn would be golden, the carts stacked high with bales on the roads and Hannah looked at how the grass in the garden was browning and the roses growing limp almost before they burst from bud. The air seemed to hang motionless, heavy with sun and scent.

  Harry could bear the heat more easily than Hannah and they all sat on the terrace when he did but sheltered beneath the large parasols. In mid-July they watched the gardener trim the low neat box hedges and cut back the neat aubretia. Would the stocks be sprawling across the garden in Penbrin? Would the delphiniums still be staked or would they have become limp with each passing day, Hannah wondered.

  Esther sat back and sighed. ‘To think, my darling,’ she said, ‘we can spend our winters abroad from now on. We need never feel the cold again. I’m so glad we’re marrying before Christmas. Let’s go to France, the south, and spend Christmas there and New Year.’

  Hannah watched as Harry touched her hand.

  ‘Of course we’ll go,’ he replied and Hannah hoped that his health would continue to improve and that he would be well enough. But if he was, then she would also have to marry. The heat was too much suddenly and she fanned herself with the newspaper, seeing the large black letters and feeling anger coming from nowhere. She shook out the paper, wanting to think of something beyond their own small lives, wanting to read about something which did not affect them.

  Where was Serbia, anyway, and how sad that some poor Archduke had been assassinated. Yes, she would think of that, not of tomorrow, or next week or next year. She would think of something too far away to matter.

  ‘What about you, Hannah, what are your plans?’ Harry was shading his face against the sun, the skin of his wrist was dark against the white cuff and beige stripes of his blazer.

  Hannah looked out at the lavender which was woody now. It really needed to be replaced. She folded the paper and put it down on the terrace. Beaky would be bringing tea soon and the table should be clear or the frown would come and the breasts would be thrust forward in indignation. One day they would burst, she thought.

  Esther said, ‘Yes, what are your plans, Hannah?’ She was looking at her, her face shaded by the parasol, her eyes cold.

  Hannah paused and then said, ‘I want women to have the vote and I will work for it with the suffragists.’ She saw Esther flush and look away for Esther was not now involved in the struggle in any way. The excitement was no longer there.

  ‘I want to start a school and take children from the
dark mean streets and let them live and run in the country. I want their parents to have houses in the grounds where they can come and stay. I want children from our class to come to my school too and mix with my children so that with time and education poverty will not be allowed to exist because those with money will not feel comfortable knowing that there are those without.’

  She turned to Harry. ‘I want to give some children a chance.’

  Harry looked out over the garden, tapping his finger on his white slacks. ‘Will Arthur let you, do you think?’

  Esther turned to Hannah now, her eyes wide, a set sweet smile on her face. ‘The lifestyle of the wife of a Lord’s son will be different, Hannah, even if he is only a second son. You should be grateful, you know, and make his life easier.’

  Hannah brushed away the fly which flew in front of her face and wished that it was the smile that she was wiping from that perfect face. She tucked up the hair which was hanging limp across her forehead.

  She was too hot; far too hot to stay out here. She rose. ‘I’m going in, Harry, to find some shade.’

  He turned. ‘You can’t keep running away from this, you know,’ he murmured, leaning towards her so that Esther should not hear.

  Hannah stopped and ran her hand round the top of the wicker chair. It was smooth and hot. She wanted to talk of the difficulty in breathing, the bars when marriage was talked of, but how could she? Harry was so happy and besides, Esther was here and Hannah did not want her cousin to know anything of how she felt any more. She smoothed down her dress, shut the parasol and watched an ant climb up the wicker slats.

  ‘I’m not running away, Harry,’ she whispered and smiled. ‘The decision is made, it is just a question of when.’

  Arthur came for tea at least twice a week and he and Esther played desultory tennis without a net and not enough space, and once Arthur trampled on the neat box hedge but her father did not object when he came in from his club. He patted Arthur on the shoulder and called him ‘my boy’, and Arthur laughed, bronzed against his white and red striped blazer.

  They played croquet too, all four of them and Harry could handle the mallet easily now, even though the effort of chasing Hannah that day in the garden had jogged his wound and caused pain for several nights; but only slight pain. He was very much better. It had been worth it, he had said as they drank tea when Esther and Arthur had returned to their homes one day at the end of July. Hannah turned the page of her newspaper. It was between her and the sun and cast a pleasant shade. She read of the Balkan conflict. The ink came off on her fingers and she wiped them on her napkin, making dark smears.

  ‘How will poor little Serbia survive now that Austria-Hungary has declared war on them and all for the death of an Archduke in Sarajevo?’ she asked as the long warm evening of 28 July drifted into night.

  ‘They won’t,’ said Harry shortly. He did not want to think of brutality and suffering. How was Baralong, he wondered. He had not heard from his friend at all. And why in Britain was there talk of war when there had been crises before in the Balkans? It was nonsense and too far away to bother with.

  On 30 July, the Russians mobilised against Austria-Hungary in support of their fellow Slavs in Serbia and Arthur was delighted.

  ‘Perhaps we might get a little bit of excitement,’ he told Hannah, sucking on his cigarette as they sat on in the garden and watched as Esther and Harry merged into the shadows which led to the fernery. ‘Life is so damn boring but with this alliance system we may well be in the fighting, if there is any.’

  Hannah looked at his boater, his blazer, his gold watch which glinted on his wrist. She had known him for so long but knew nothing of him really and what did he know of her? He had not seen her yellow, ragged and vomiting, only glittering and laughing. Would he ever let her run a school, or write letters to MPs when she was his wife? She looked away from him as he read the paper, fanning herself with her hand. But Harry was not well enough yet, was he? Or was it that she could not admit the truth to herself? She looked as Harry stopped and kissed Esther. He did indeed look very well. She shaded her eyes; the sun glinted on his watch too, the one her father had bought him now that his hunter was at the bottom of the Orange River.

  He spoke less and less of South Africa now and he did not call out in the night as often as he used to but she wished that Baralong would write to him because her brother grieved for the loss of his friend and she wondered how she would feel if she never saw or heard from Joe again.

  ‘Yes, a bit of a tussle would be pretty good,’ Arthur repeated. ‘But that old fool Grey is trying to make sure war never reaches these shores, more’s the pity. He’s rushing around Europe acting as peacemaker. Silly old fool, there’s such a thing as honour, you know.’

  Hannah looked again at Arthur. His lips were pursed as he blew out smoke which hung on the windless air. Would her women think war was exciting? Did they think life was boring? She sighed. You are the fool, Arthur, she thought. Look around you and see who has time to be bored between rearing children, working in factories, nursing children who die of rickets and diphtheria, putting one foot in front of the other until they also die, too old for their years. And what about the strikes, the unemployment, the starvation? Is that boring too? But she said nothing. It was too hot, the air was too thin.

  The next day was just as hot and it was lamb for dinner and Harry smiled at Hannah as Beaky brought it through. The steam was rising from the joint and Hannah raised her eyes at the sight. Could they never have anything cold? Harry’s foot touched hers and he wiped his forehead and they laughed but not so that their father could see. They had picked mint in the garden and Hannah could still smell it on her hands.

  Her father did not read when Harry ate with them but neatly and regularly lifted and chewed one hot greasy mouthful after another and throughout the meal he talked of the latest news in the European war arena. He stabbed his finger at Harry and said how the Huns had been building more and more warships. How all this social reform of the bloody Liberals had held back the British Navy. How the Kaiser had waited until the Kiel canal was widened before declaring war on Russia in support of her ally, Austria. Did he never think of anything but this war which was nowhere near England, Hannah thought.

  ‘Clever, that little swine,’ he said. ‘You have to give him that. He’s always wanted to give them another thrashing. 1870 was just the beginning. You mark my words, they’ll be next.”

  Hannah could see the lamb in his mouth as he spoke and she thought of Joe and his pasty but she had not found that distasteful.

  Harry did not answer but he could not finish his meal. He felt too tired. And he was too tired also to think of war even though Uncle Thomas had said it would spread from Europe to Britain. Harry prayed that it would not. The brutality and degradation of violence was something that he could no longer support. He thought of the long nights when he still woke sweating and groaning with the pictures of the compounds, the whippings, the shooting and knew that he could never associate himself with the taking of life or the inflicting of pain.

  ‘If Grey doesn’t keep Great Britain out of this, we’ll make a soldier of you yet, my boy,’ his father said and smoke streamed through the gaps in his teeth.

  On 1 August the Germans declared war on France and his father poured champagne because he had been correct. Harry was thankful that in Sir Edward Grey Britain had a peacemaker, not a warmonger but he did not say as much. He just drank the sweet cool wine and saw the bloodied back of Baralong again and the look of bloodlust on the faces of Frank and his friends.

  On 2 August the Germans demanded free passage through Belgium to reach France. Belgium refused. Great Britain had not wanted to become involved in the Balkan quarrel but, on 4 August, by 11 a.m. England knew it was at war with Germany.

  It was hot on that day and Hannah and Harry sat in the garden after a lunch they could not eat. Today Harry was pale and Hannah wondered what the war would mean and how many men would die a senseless death as Uncle
Simon had done. She thanked God that she knew no soldiers for it was only soldiers who fought wars. Would they hear the guns from here? It had happened so quickly really, all so quickly and it had been such a glorious summer. It couldn’t be serious. There would have been more of a fuss. More in the papers, more talk in the streets. More steps to prevent it. No one wanted war surely, not after the Boer War? Had everyone forgotten that death came too often in war? It was not a game. Couldn’t they see it was not a game?

  At four o’clock Esther came and her dress was white cotton and trimmed with lace and her eyes flashed as she swirled across the terrace, her hat shading her face, her parasol held in her left hand. She bent and kissed Harry and Hannah saw his eyes light for the first time today and he snatched at Esther’s hand and kissed it, holding it to his lips as though he feared he would never touch her again if he let her go.

  Esther laughed and sat next to him. ‘Arthur’s just coming,’ she said. ‘George has come home. He has volunteered of course and Arthur is to join the Blues. Such excitement and at the end of a perfect summer too. Isn’t it all quite marvellous?’

  Hannah turned as Arthur came through the french windows. His boater was in his hand and his hair shone almost white in the brilliant sun. His smile was wide. He was a beautiful man, she thought, and smiled as he stooped and kissed her hand. His fingers were still long and thin and his skin soft and unmarked by work. He was like some unreal doll whom she did not know at all. He threw his straw boater at Harry who caught it and held it in his hands which were still tanned from the sun. Arthur had tied a red, white and blue ribbon around the crown.

  ‘Bloody marvellous, isn’t it, Harry? It’ll be like the Volunteer Rifles again. My father has arranged the Blues for me. What about you, old lad?’

  Hannah watched as he walked past her to Harry, standing with his back to the sun, casting shade over her brother. He rocked back on his heels, his hands in his trouser pockets.

  ‘It won’t be like the Volunteer Rifles,’ Harry replied, his voice quiet. ‘Don’t be a fool.’