Kenneth, though not convinced by this argument, was impressed by his brother’s confidence. His own certainty that conscription must come soon filled him with alarm.
‘They can’t make a man fight against his will,’ he said, talking more to himself than to his brother. ‘There will have to be some kind of alternative service. I could become a medical orderly, perhaps, or a stretcher bearer.’
David failed to offer the reassurance for which he hoped. ‘I’d have thought you’d enjoy the adventure of fighting, Kenneth. You don’t give the impression of finding your work of much interest.’
‘That’s true enough. But – do you remember Pepper, David?’
‘Pepper?’
‘Grace’s cat.’
David frowned with the effort to remember. ‘A sort of tabby, was it?’
The appearance of the cat was the least important thing about it. ‘You shot it in the eye with an arrow,’ Kenneth reminded him.
‘Oh yes.’ David, recalling the incident, shrugged it away as unimportant. ‘That was a long time ago. What’s that got to do with the war?’
Kenneth had been about to explain, but sensed that his brother would not understand. They had never experienced the intense sympathy and wish to share that people seemed to take for granted in twins. Perhaps it was because they were not identical. He felt no closer to David than to any of his other brothers – and yet, perversely, he looked to David for an empathy which he would not have expected from anyone else.
‘Nothing,’ he said untruthfully. But even as he brushed the subject away he recognized that the time might come when he would have to explain himself more coherently and to an even less sympathetic audience.
Chapter Seven
Even before his name was called, Kenneth knew that his appearance before the tribunal in the summer of 1916 would be a waste of time. Conscription had come and was being enforced with little sympathy for individual cases. Each man who went before him into the village hall was absent for only a few minutes – a contemptuously short time to decide a matter of life and death. And each, when he reappeared, was pale-faced with anger or despair as he was marched away under military escort. Kenneth’s heart sank as his turn approached.
‘Mr Kenneth Hardie.’
He stood up. He was wearing his usual business clothes, and the high, stiff collar choked him as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Not since the day he was summoned to his headmaster’s study for a beating had he felt like this, for he had never before needed to submit himself to an interview of any kind.
The hostility as he walked the length of the hall was unmistakable. The four members of the tribunal – three in civilian clothes and one in uniform – were seated behind a table on a low platform, looking down on him in a manner which reinforced that old memory of the headmaster’s study. Their chairman and spokesman was a retired colonel and a magistrate. It was a trial he was conducting now, with the verdict almost a foregone conclusion.
‘Your name?’
‘Kenneth Hardie.’
‘Age?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘Married?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Dependants?’
‘I have a mother and a young brother and sister.’
‘Father?’
‘Missing, believed dead.’ Kenneth used the military phrase deliberately. Although misleading, it was the truth.
‘In what sense is your mother dependent on you? Do you provide her sole source of income?’
‘Her income derives from a family business. With my father missing and my two elder brothers both serving at the front, it’s my responsibility to keep the business going.’ This second misleading statement was further from the truth than the first. It was Will Witney on whom The House of Hardie depended.
‘An older man, or a disabled one, could do that.’ The military representative was entering the interrogation. ‘So you’ve got two brothers doing the decent thing, eh? What do they think of someone who stays at home while they’re risking their lives?’
Kenneth paused before answering. It was true that Frank – although careful not to spoil his home leaves by quarrelling about it – found it hard to understand why his twin brothers did not join up. But he believed that an unwilling soldier was a bad soldier, and had never attempted to press them into a change of mind.
Philip, by contrast, was disgusted with the war. He wished he had never volunteered, and lived for the day when he could return to civilian life. He regarded his younger brothers as showing greater sense than himself in keeping their distance from the army for as long as possible.
‘They are glad to feel that our mother can rely on my support,’ said Kenneth firmly.
The military man, a major, looked disbelieving, whilst the chairman resumed his questioning.
‘Are you a Socialist?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Religion?’
‘Church of England.’ Kenneth knew that this answer would do him no good. In the church which he attended whenever he spent a weekend at Greystones, every sermon was a recruiting speech. Only a man who could prove that he had been a Quaker since before the beginning of the war could call on his faith to support his stance.
‘On what grounds, precisely, are you claiming exemption from military service?’
‘On the grounds that I’m incapable of killing anyone.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ said one of the other members of the tribunal; a tall man, cadaverously thin, who had the look of a retired schoolmaster. Less aggressive than the two who had taken the lead in asking questions, he gave the impression of wanting to understand the answers. ‘You mean that you are a pacifist, holding all life sacred?’
Kenneth wondered whether it would be sensible to accept the suggestion which had been offered, but chose to repeat the truth, ‘I mean that I’m not able to take life. If I attempted it, my hands would not obey me.’
‘Now come, really.’ The chairman was back in action again. ‘If a mosquito landed on your skin, you’d squash it before it bit you.’
‘No, sir. I would brush it away, but not kill it.’
‘And suppose you saw this mother who depends on you, or your young sister, about to be ravished by some filthy Hun – and it will happen, mark my words, unless we all close ranks to keep the invader at bay – what would you do then? You can’t “brush away” a Hun.’
‘I would do my best to defend them, naturally, by wrestling with him and giving them time to get away.’
‘Where could they run to, if the country was swarming with Jerries?’
‘If the country was swarming with Germans, then killing one of them would have little effect.’ He knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that it was a mistake to argue.
‘You’re assuming that every other Englishman would behave like you. Other women would have protectors who wouldn’t shirk the task, and we’d soon have the Hun on the run. We’re fortunate that at the moment the enemy isn’t on British soil. But the principle’s the same. We’re fighting to defend our wives and daughters and mothers and sisters. Other men are fighting for you. Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t take your place beside them.’
‘They would find me an unreliable companion. Even if I came face to face with an enemy and recognized that he was dangerous – even if I forced myself to hate him – I still couldn’t kill him.’
‘It would be his life or yours.’
‘That might be the easiest situation. What you’re asking me to consider is the possibility of it being his life or that of my comrade-in-arms. But it wouldn’t make any difference. If I was asked to stick a bayonet into his body’ – for a second Kenneth closed his eyes, made faint merely by the thought – ‘I couldn’t do it.’
‘You may think that now,’ said the thin man. Once again his voice conveyed a hint of sympathy. ‘You’ve had a soft upbringing, no doubt. But in the heat of battle –’
‘If I were talking of some rational
decision, sir, I’d agree that in a confused and dangerous situation I might behave irrationally. But I’m talking about instinct, not will. I’m not saying that I refuse to kill, but that I’m incapable of killing.’
‘Never heard such nonsense in my life,’ exclaimed the chairman. ‘Part of the natural order of things. All living creatures kill. Cats kill mice, foxes kill hens, men kill their enemies. What d’you know about it, anyway?’
‘Twelve years ago,’ began Kenneth – but he was not allowed to finish the sentence.
‘Twelve years ago you were only a boy. You’re living in a man’s world now. If you’ve nothing more to say …’ He looked to his left and his right and received a nod of support from the thin man and another from the third civilian member of the tribunal, who had not opened his mouth. ‘Exemption refused.’
Kenneth set his dismay to one side of his mind while he made the all-important request. ‘In that case I would like to apply for non-combatant duties.’
‘You’re in no position to ask favours.’ The major had been given his man and spoke contemptuously. ‘If you’d done the decent thing and volunteered you’d have been allowed to express a preference. But now –’
‘I understand that there are forms of alternative service open to conscientious objectors.’
‘You’re not recognized as a conscientious objector. Your objection has been over-ruled. From now on you’ll go where you’re sent and obey the orders you’re given. And let me tell you this, young man. You’ll be sent to France as soon as you’re trained, and if you disobey an order once you’re across the Channel, the penalty is death. Just think about that. Right, corporal, take him away.’
For a moment Kenneth was unable to move. What a fool he had been to tell the truth! And how much more foolish he would have sounded if he had come out with the whole truth and said: ‘Sir, twelve years ago I killed my sister’s cat because it was in pain. I smashed in its head. Its blood and brains spattered over my boot. I looked at my sister, and it’s because of the horror and grief I saw in her eyes then that I shall never again be able to take life and bring such anguish to a living person.’
Even to himself it didn’t make sense that a small incident so far in his past should have had such an effect. How then could he ever have hoped to convince those hostile interrogators?
Was the major right? Would fear, extreme fear, break down the inhibitions grounded in boyhood? Certainly, as he was escorted past the men who were still waiting for their own fate to be decided, Kenneth was afraid. From now on he would be surrounded by enemies; and not all of them would be German.
Chapter Eight
In July 1916 the world seemed to come to a standstill. It was as though the earth had stopped spinning. No clouds moved; no breeze blew. Thunder gathered itself together in the air without ever quite coming to a head. In the oppressive atmosphere people walked slowly and spoke almost in whispers, but their apparent lethargy was caused by more than the heat of the glaring sun. Everyone was waiting for the news from France.
A massive offensive had been opened. The communiqué had been printed in the newspapers and the brief details were at once augmented by word of mouth. The sound of artillery was said to have been heard as far inland as London. At other times such a claim might have been dismissed as fanciful, but now it was accepted without question. According to rumour, casualties were so heavy that the newspapers had been asked to print only short sections of the lists of dead and wounded. Since what they did print covered many columns in the smallest type, this suggestion added to the prevailing horror. There was hardly anyone in England without a loved one at the Front, and every breakfast table became a place of silent anxiety as the casualty lists were scrutinized.
Mrs Hardie was as anxious a reader as any. Kenneth’s forcible conscription had taken place only three weeks earlier, so he would still be at a training camp in England; but she had two other sons at risk. Grace, waiting for the sigh of relief which would, if all were well, mark the end of a second reading, knew that her mother would look out for Christopher Bailey’s name as well as those of Frank and Philip. It was less certain that her eyes would be alert for mention of Andy Frith. But if anything terrible were to happen to him, they would learn of it from his parents.
On this Saturday morning all was well. Mrs Hardie was able to smile as Grace kissed her goodbye before cycling off to work.
The tension which had gripped the whole country was as strong in Oxford as anywhere else. The city was stiflingly hot and there was less activity than usual in the High now that the university term had ended. The bow windows of The House of Hardie did not open, and even when the doors to the rear yard were left ajar there was no breeze to cool Grace as she waited for customers who did not come.
It was frustrating to waste time in the city when she could have been enjoying the fresh air of the garden on the hill. Fortunately, though, her duties ended at one o’clock on Saturdays, and she hurried home with as much energy as the heat allowed.
Her mother surprised her with a piece of news. ‘Your aunt has come for the weekend.’
‘In term time?’ Although the university year was over, schools were still hard at work and it was unusual for Aunt Midge to visit Greystones before the holidays began.
‘She said she was feeling tired and needed a rest. She went straight upstairs. Asked me to tell you that she’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.’
Grace wondered what could be wrong. She had never seen her aunt anything but brisk and cheerful. But it would be inconsiderate to disturb her rest. She put the puzzle of the unexpected arrival out of her mind as she sat in the rose garden, enjoying its perfumes while knitting yet another khaki sock.
Next morning, awakening in the energetic mood which the prospect of a day at leisure always induced, she looked forward to her aunt’s company for a walk before church. Midge, however, did not appear for breakfast.
‘I’ll see if she’d like a tray in her room.’ Grace ran upstairs and tapped lightly on the door. When there was no answer she hesitated for a moment, not wishing to disturb her aunt if perhaps she had only just fallen asleep after a bad night. But uneasiness prevailed. Quietly she opened the door.
Midge was sitting on a chair, looking out of the window. She wore one of the dark costumes which she was accustomed to describe laughingly as her school uniform and which she never as a rule brought to Greystones. Her hair was plaited and coiled into its usual severe style and her back was as straight as ever. Yet beneath the rigidity of her body, Grace was immediately aware of a despair of spirit. ‘What is it, Aunt Midge?’
Without turning towards her, Midge shook her head.
‘Please tell me.’ Grace hurried across the room and went down on her knees beside her aunt’s feet.
‘Can’t talk without crying.’ Midge’s voice was unnaturally thick and abrupt, and she still would not allow Grace to see her face. ‘Well, that’s why I’ve come here. To cry. With no one looking. Just let me alone. I’ll be all right directly.’ But even as she spoke she broke down, burying her head in her hands and gasping for breath as she attempted to control her sobs. ‘Go away, dear.’
‘Not till you’ve told me what’s wrong. There must be something I can do.’
‘No, nothing. Nothing to do, nothing to say. When someone dies, that’s final. There’s no comfort anywhere.’
‘Well, talk about it, please. Who is it who’s died?’
There was a long silence before Midge slowly turned her head. There would have been no need for her to say in words that she had come to Greystones to cry; her face, red and swollen with tears, spoke for her.
She made no other movement, and yet Grace recognized that by an effort of will she was bringing her emotions under control, as though the headmistress in her was telling the snivelling schoolgirl which for a moment she had become to pull herself together. Giving a single deep sigh, she spoke with a voice which was almost recognizable as her own.
‘No one you know. Although, as
a matter of fact, he knew about you, in a way. He was the architect who designed Greystones.’
‘Mr Faraday?’
Astonishment flashed light into Midge’s dead eyes. ‘How –?’
‘I met him at your house once. Don’t you remember?’
Grace had never forgotten. It was because of Mr Faraday that she had been forced to do all her lessons with Miss Sefton in the schoolroom instead of being invited to stay in London and enjoy the excitements and companionship of school life. She had never quite forgiven him for appearing to remind her aunt that a headmistress’s secret life must remain secret. But this was not a time to express resentment.
‘You told me who he was,’ she said, ‘and afterwards you showed me some of his plans.’
‘Yes, I remember now.’ Again she fell silent, and Grace did not know what questions to ask.
‘It was here that we first met,’ Midge said at last. ‘On the land here, before the house was built. We liked each other at that first meeting. He looked me up in London. He’d let me know when he was coming to Oxford for discussions with your father, or to supervise the building work, and I would try to plan my visits for the same time. Just as though I were a moonstruck seventeen-year-old. Then, later on, when it was decided to extend the school, I managed to get him chosen as the architect. He’s – he was – a very good architect. He always believed in spending a lot of time with his clients, to find out exactly what was wanted. The governors dealt with the money, of course, but I was the one who could tell him all the small things – how much space there should be between the desks, how wide a corridor needs to be, what kind of windows are best. There were so many details to discuss.’
‘Didn’t anyone ever suspect?’
‘There was nothing to suspect then, except that we took pleasure in each other’s company. After the extension was finished, that was when it became difficult. We had to make rules. Never to meet in term time.’
‘But you went on holiday together.’ Grace remembered how Patrick Faraday had painted a picture from the terrace of her aunt’s hotel.
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