by Gloria Cook
‘Yes, yes, please.’ Ben clung to this last hope. ‘Will he examine me today?’
‘He’s on the other side of the door. I’ll call him in.’
* * *
Alec was waiting in the trap just inside the high bleak walls of the infirmary. He watched Ben trail his overcoat through the puddles, his hat off, head down, oblivious to the comings and goings of ambulances, patients and medical staff. There were various uniforms of His Majesty’s services. It was raining steadily, fittingly gloomy for Ben’s day of reckoning.
‘Dear Lord, why did this have to happen?’ Alec asked the leaden skies. Ben would be feeling drained, empty, blank, rejected, worthless. A horrible debilitating combination. Alec knew it intimately. Only the ownership of the farm and the responsibility of raising his youngest brother had kept him from succumbing to drink, opiates, or madness to escape his own despair. Now that Ben was suffering the same way a heavy touch of the bleakness and desolation settled on him. He jumped down off the trap. Ben had not seen him and was about to turn off down Infirmary Hill.
Ben leapt when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Still staring down, he recognized his brother’s boots. It was market day, and Alec should be at the market, selling and buying stock. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I couldn’t let you face this alone, Ben. I can see it’s what we’d feared. I’ll take you straight home.’
‘You can see? How bloody damned wonderful for you!’ Ben cuffed Alec’s hand off him. ‘Well I’ll never know what it is to have two good eyes again. I’d rather you take me for a drink.’
‘You know it’s illegal to buy another a drink nowadays.’
‘Then I’ll buy my own. I won’t be needing the money for anything more important, will I?’
‘I’m so sorry, Ben. We’ll go to the Red Lion. Get on the trap.’
During the short negotiation of Truro’s busy streets it seemed every other man was kitted out in uniform. Men on leave from their training, as indicated by their smartness and proud bearing, and men who had ‘done their bit’, haggard and old beyond their years, some displaying the aftermath of injuries; badges of honour. All warriors. Heroes. A stand outside a newsagent declared: ‘OUTSTANDING BRAVERY IN FLANDERS MUD’. Ben’s head sunk to his chest. He’d never be a part of the allied powers, never train, never fight, never become a prisoner of war. He would rather be certain of death on foreign soil than face the long years ahead of incapacity and non-achievement. He was a failure before he had done anything with his life.
Alec kept glancing at him. ‘They can manage at home without us for a few hours. Honor and the Burrows woman arrived just after you left, offering to pitch in on the farm. Believe it or not, Florence Burrows is practical and helpful. She’s pitching in with Tilda, and Honor’s helping Emilia and Archie unload mangolds.’
‘Yes, who’d have believed it?’ Ben’s tone was pure bitterness and sarcasm. ‘The woman who believes she’s the lady of Hennaford acting as a skivvy, and me a fallen soldier, although not on a battlefield but in a bloody garden!’
Alec pulled on the rein to direct the nag down St Mary’s Street to the back of the hotel, where he would leave the trap, and the cathedral came fully into view. Ben let out an angry snarl. His heart felt as if it was being ripped out of his body. Short years ago, as a schoolboy, he had helped put the protective sandbags in place round the towering building. Now the only way he could protect his country was to wallow on his knees in prayer – and that didn’t work!
‘Ben—’
‘You can’t say anything to make me feel better, Alec, so keep your mouth shut! A liability, that’s what I’d be. A danger to myself and the men I’d have had serving under me. A liability, even in the ranks. That’s it, plain and simple. It’s what the Army medic that Mr Preston called in told me.’
The two men climbed down on to the wet pavement. A groom, the only one employed at the hotel now, waited patiently to ask if they wanted the nag stalled. ‘I know how you must be feeling, Ben, but we have important work to do for the country as farmers,’ Alec said.
‘I knew you’d bring up that pathetic excuse!’ Ben was in no mood to keep his voice low and passers-by stared at them. ‘You’ve never wanted to fight, admit it! You don’t know how I’m feeling because you’re a bloody coward, Alec. A whore- shagging, two-faced coward! You don’t know the meaning of pride and honour.’
‘Is that what you think of me?’ Alec waved the astonished groom away, hurt and betrayal plain on his face. ‘Get back on the trap. We’re going home.’
Ben had nothing left inside himself to care. He took several steps away. ‘I’ll go home when I’m ready. I’d rather walk back alone anyway.’
‘Have it your own way, but you were wildly unfair. I’d have gone with Henry and Tris, but someone had to run the farm and as its owner it was my responsibility, as you yourself were then. Don’t you think I’d like to put on a uniform and kill every bastard German for butchering Henry, for putting Tris through all kinds of hell? Well, I can’t go out there any more than you can. I can’t read or write properly, remember? I’d also be a liability. I couldn’t read an order or fill in a report, something as basic as that! How do you think that affects my pride and honour, Ben? You should have mentioned that you couldn’t see days ago, something might have been done about it then. You’ve either cost yourself your dream by keeping it a secret or it was just a terrible accident, but it wasn’t my fault!’
Ben was left steeped in despair and resentment as Alec leapt up on the trap and ordered the nag, in furious tones, to walk on. People they knew had witnessed their quarrel, overheard the details of both of their weaknesses. Alec’s days of bluffing his way through business transactions in the town and marketplace, until Ben or their legal representative read the small print, was over.
The wind was often channelled unkindly down this street and an icy draught made Ben’s eye water and smart. ‘To hell with you, Alec. At least you’ve got the farm, at least you’re your own man.’ Stuffing his hands in his pockets, something he had never done before, for he had always hated slovenliness, he stalked off.
* * *
Emilia took Archie Rothwell’s midday meal out to him, where he was perched on the rear of the unloaded cart. He had been invited inside, but, as always, had politely refused. He had Snowy, a scraggy white barn moggy, hugged to his chest and was stroking him with his long, lean fingers. Man and cat had the same colour eyes, but while Snowy’s were usually fierce and predatory, Archie Rothwell’s were clear and watchful, as if he had long ago fortified himself to never reveal much about his inner person. Pip, who had made friends with him on the first night’s watch in the hay house, was up on the cart, his muzzle pushed into the crook of his arm. The three had slept each subsequent night together.
‘Thank you, Miss Emilia.’ His cold had cleared and his speech was back to being rich and precise.
‘Animals like you, Archie.’
He nodded, reluctant to speak, as always.
Emilia felt she still owed amends over her treatment of him the first day he had come here. ‘How are your feet? You never complain, but we’d hate to think they needed a doctor’s attention and you felt you couldn’t say so.’
‘They’re comfortable, thanks to all of you here, and these boots Miss Honor kindly procured for me.’
‘You’re aware of the worry about Ben’s eye?’
‘Yes. I hope there won’t be great sorrow for him.’ His gaze was soft, sympathetic, but drifting away.
Emilia glanced anxiously towards the lane, hoping to see Ben arriving home, then she left Archie to his privacy.
Indoors, she found it strange to have Florence Burrows wait on her, wearing an apron previously worn by the maid-of-all-work whose services she had long been forced to dispense with. She thanked Florence for the mug of tea and plate of bread and cheese that was placed in front of her. The woman always had an expression of disciplined composure on her heavy oblique features. Her silvery hair was tasteful
ly groomed, but her habit of tight-lacing had produced a figure that was aggressively thrust forward. The ballooning effect was completed by a spreading posterior and generous hips.
‘Be careful to keep those thick gloves and your hat on, Honor, dear,’ Florence said, serving her niece tea in a cup and saucer. ‘And don’t look into the wind, or you’ll end up looking like Emilia.’
‘How do I look? Like some shrivelled-up old witch?’ Emilia demanded.
Florence studied her as if she was something received on approval from a shop inferior to what she was used to. ‘You are attractive in a pink-skinned, healthy kind of way, Emilia. You have a pleasing deportment and a good shape. Your hair needs urgent attention, but it gives you a wild, pre-Raphaelite look that many men would be fascinated by. I am keen for Honor to keep the desired pale looks of a lady, that was all I meant.’
Emilia turned her hands over and decided she was proud of their coarseness. ‘I didn’t ever expect to receive a compliment from you, Mrs Burrows.’
‘I give credit where credit is due, Emilia.’ Florence’s intention to float down on to Alec’s carver chair was spoiled by a swift ungainly rise, for his penknife was on the seat, having slipped out of his pocket. She hid its presence behind the large blue milk jug and carried on as if nothing discomforting had happened. ‘Did you know you’re talked about as a desirable bride more than any other local girl? It’s not surprising that Mr Benjamin Harvey is besotted with you.’
‘’Tis more than that.’ Tilda joined them by taking a seat on the form. ‘Young Mr Ben and Miss Em are in love. They’re engaged.’
Emilia glared at Florence while waiting for some disparaging remark to be made about foolish marriages. Her mouth opened in shock and she shot a look of wonder at Honor when Florence rejoined with, ‘Do accept my congratulations, Emilia. Your place is at the farm.’ Then she was suspicious of the woman’s sentiments. Was it a ruse to aid her in the ensnarement of Alec as a husband for Honor? It had been plain from Florence’s coquettish behaviour and her meaningful phrases to Alec before he left, that she was undertaking her ambition in earnest. How two-faced! To look down on the behaviour of others but to ruthlessly set about trying to marry off her niece so she could live in comfort. It was a good thing Honor wasn’t disturbed by it – she had said, while transferring mangolds into the clamp from the cart, that she didn’t expect Alec, who obviously had a lot on his mind, to even notice her.
‘Thank you, Mrs Burrows,’ Emilia said with all the stateliness of preceding Harvey wives. She checked on Lottie, and was satisfied to see the old lady was content in her armchair, winding up a ball of khaki wool. Lottie was making a poor job of it but it would be just about knittable. ‘Where’s Jonny? He was disappointed there was no letter from his father again, then he got upset because he couldn’t go to Truro with Alec. He’s not sulking, is he?’ Jonathan was unsure of Archie and she hoped he wasn’t staying indoors because Alec and Ben were not there.
‘He’s in the schoolroom.’ At Emilia’s puzzled frown, Florence explained. ‘The playroom. He didn’t recognize me at first and took me for a schoolmistress – I suppose I do have that sort of officious air about me – and I asked him if he wanted to play at being in school. I can’t bear little boys running about and making all manner of noises, and I could see he is a bright child. Tilda fetched some paper from the den, and I set him some lessons. Jonathan’s will to learn is voracious. He’s kept me busier at marking his work and setting him more than I’ve been about my tasks in the house.’
‘He’s cleverer than even Alec thought,’ Emilia smiled. ‘It’s very good of you, Mrs Burrows.’
Florence was suddenly up and on her feet. ‘Off you go now, girls, to the kitchen garden and fetch some vegetables. Tilda and I have much to do in here. And Honor, be very sure you keep away from that tramp.’ She stared in an interrogatory manner at Emilia. ‘We don’t know his history, do we?’ Emilia ignored her probing. She swallowed the last of her cheese on her feet, but held on to the mug Florence tried to wrench from her until she’d drank the last drop. ‘Before I go out, Mrs Burrows, I must take Mrs Harvey to the lavatory. Unless you’d like to do it?’
Florence turned an unladylike shade of red.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon, Honor and Florence had left, and Emilia and Jonathan were scattering grain for the hens when Alec returned. She grabbed Jonathan’s hand and ran towards the trap. ‘Where is he? Is it the worst then?’
‘I’m afraid so, Emilia.’ Alec hauled Jonathan up beside him and put the reins into his hands. ‘Take us to the trap house, old chap.’ He inspected the boy’s hurt ear; it would stay swollen and bruised for days.
‘Is Uncle Ben’s eye dead?’ Jonathan said, twitching the reins too softly for the old mare to obey.
‘It’s one way of putting it, I suppose, Jonny,’ Alec sighed. ‘What have you been doing this morning?’ He looked down at Emilia. Her thoughts were on Ben and the suffering he must be going through. Going through without her. ‘Jonny seems chirpy. Emilia?’
‘What? Oh, yes, he is. Where’s Ben now?’
‘He’ll come home when he’s ready,’ Alec said, his imposing features tightening, a tiny nerve contracting in his neck.
‘What happened to Uncle Ben’s eye?’ Jonathan fixed the sort of penetrating gaze on his uncle that preceded a barrage of inquisitiveness. ‘Did it happen in the war? Did he have an accident? Does it hurt like my ear hurts?’
‘What a lot of questions.’ Alec laughed, but he looked grim.
‘Your ear’s going to get better, Jonny, but Uncle Ben’s eye is not. I don’t think it would be a good idea to mention Uncle Ben’s poorly eye to him. It might upset him.’
‘I see. I’ve got lots to show you, Uncle Alec. Put me down and I’ll fetch it for you.’
‘Must be important, I can hardly wait.’ Alec sounded impressed as Jonathan ran off indoors.
‘Talk about an old head on young shoulders,’ Emilia said. ‘It’s a pity Tristan can’t see him now.’
Alec jumped down beside her. ‘God above, how I wish he was here now. Were Honor and her aunt of much help?’ Emilia met his concerned grey gaze. ‘Actually, they were. Mrs Burrows now sees it as her duty to come over two or three times a week, and, in her words, put her shoulder to the wheel. Tilda didn’t seem to mind her ordering her about. She was cold towards Archie, but that’s only to be expected with someone like her.’ Archie had whispered something under his breath when Florence had sauntered past him on her way home. His expression had stayed bland, but Emilia had the impression he would not tolerate any insults from her.
‘She won’t accept payment for hers and Honor’s help, but we can help them in return by supplying them with produce. I’m glad of anything which eases your life, Emilia. You’re my greatest asset, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Thank you, Alec.’ She was pleased by his remarks, then she remembered her worries. ‘Just how upset is Ben? Do you think he’s angry with me for the way I blurted it out about his eye yesterday? He was awfully quiet afterwards.’
‘It’s likely, but he’s not thinking straight. It’s best to let him come to terms with it in his own time. I’m afraid we might be in for a rough ride, Emilia. There couldn’t have been a bigger blow to Ben. He’s a dreamer, an adventurer, he’s always seen himself as a pioneer. He was deeply, almost romantically, in love with the idea of joining the fighting. After Henry’s death, it’s going to be his greatest loss, and I don’t think he’ll ever be the same again.’
The day dragged on and Emilia watched from the upstairs windows or out in the lane for signs of Ben. She walked as far as the church with Jonathan, hoping to meet him on his expected route home. They climbed the tallest hedges and every field gate, scanning the parts of the road where the twisting lanes allowed visibility. On the way back they stopped off at the rectory to tell her mother the grim news about Ben’s eye. With every passing moment Emilia grew more worried, admonishing herself for not realizing long b
efore that the incident with Lottie had left him partially blinded. He must have been so scared at the infirmary, so disillusioned, so bereft and lonely.
When she and Jonathan were back outside the farm they heard a sombre whistling – no one displayed cheerfulness nowadays – coming up the hill. ‘It’s the postman. The second post!’ Jonathan dashed away in excitement.
‘He might be on his way somewhere else, Jonny,’ she shouted after him, not wanting to see his bold little face crestfallen again today.
‘There’s one from my daddy among this lot!’ Jonathan was waving a fistful of letters up in the air in a manner of victory, when he reappeared moments later.
Emilia waited at the farm entrance for the postman, a portly, dim-faced individual, who was inclined to be forgetful, to appear on his bicycle. ‘Hello, Mr Crewes. Have you delivered anything at home from Billy?’
‘Sorry, m’dear.’ Hector Crewes doffed his cap and brought his creaking machine, which his bulk overflowed indiscriminately, to a halt. He rubbed his nose. ‘Your Billy’s probably got his eye on a French maiden or two. Must get on. Where’m I going next? Oh, yes, the rectory. Cheerio!’
Emilia caught up with Jonathan. He had climbed up on the granite wall of the inner yard, and was in the process of reading one of the letters. ‘You mustn’t do that, it’s naughty, Jonny. It’s addressed to your uncles. Give it to me.’
‘Shan’t. And it’s addressed to my mummy. She isn’t here, so it’s mine.’ Jonathan handed over the other letters.
Emilia couldn’t think of an argument against his reasoning; Alec had arranged for Ford House’s post to be delivered to the farm. ‘Is your daddy all right? Does he say anything about my brother, Billy?’
‘It’s quite old,’ Jonathan said sadly, folding the letter. ‘It’s dated October twelfth. That’s four weeks ago. Mummy had a letter before she left, dated after Daddy wrote this one. This must have got lost somewhere. Do you think my mummy will write to me?’