The Moon Field

by Judith Allnatt

  They arrived at seven, motor cars crunching over the gravel sweep to draw up in front of the house, maids bobbing curtseys in line outside the porch as Violet and her mother stood in the doorway to welcome their houseguests. The clear October evening smelt of wood-smoke and cold as the party swept into the wide entrance hall, laughing and talking with the relief of having arrived, unwrapping themselves from cashmere coats and fur wraps and clustering around the fire, whilst behind them the servants unloaded boxes and valises and scurried to and from the trade entrance. Violet, whilst enquiring about the nature of the journey, saw her father kiss Mother fleetingly on the cheek and ask her how she was and then turn away without listening for the answer. He looked older, his hair and beard whiter, although his solid build and colour still suggested health and vigour.

  ‘May I introduce you all?’ He raised his voice and presided over a great deal of hand shaking. ‘Linton Dempster, one of my business partners, and his wife Hebe; my friend of long standing, Oliver Ryland, from the War Ministry, and his wife Juliet; and Eustace Haydon who is at the bank, with his lovely wife of a mere two months, Allegra – my wife, Irene, and my daughter, Violet.’

  Violet stood close beside her mother, whose cheeks were flushed with excitement as she murmured a welcome to each guest. She caught the hint of an American accent in Linton Dempster’s greeting, noticed the stiff formality of the Rylands’, who were an older couple, and was caught by an envious feeling as she saw the way that Eustace Haydon kept his hand at the hollow of his wife’s back, an easy familiarity between lovers that brought back to her a longing for Edmund’s touch that was almost a physical pain.

  The guests were shown to their rooms to dress for dinner, and Violet, after checking with Mrs Burbidge that all was well, and the motors garaged, was grateful to withdraw. She wondered at her father’s motley selection of guests and what they had in common. The men all members of the same club perhaps? Otherwise what on earth was he up to? She hoped that the weather would stay clear so that they could walk or shoot. If not, she would have to suggest bridge or an impromptu concert to keep them entertained.

  At dinner Violet was seated with her father on her left and young Eustace Haydon on her right. At first conversation was general: the progress of the war and the difficulties in Belgium; the effect that conscription would have on the labour market and the suggestion that women might play a greater part. Violet noticed that her mother looked bemused and was covering her lack of involvement in the conversation by continuously sipping her wine. She was glad when Juliet Ryland admired the portraits in the room and began to ask Mother about the history of the house. Her father continued talking to Oliver Ryland about the war, long after the subject had moved on, and Violet picked up snatches of the conversation: ‘the length of the supply chain’, ‘tonnage per acre’, ‘shipping and distribution costs’. She idly wondered what deal her father had his fingers in with the War Office, and then, noticing that everyone had finished their soup, signalled to the maids that they should clear.

  She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction as she surveyed the scene. The room had come to life, filled with guests in animated conversation, the lamplight falling on the ladies’ satins and silks, wraps of velvet or diaphanous chiffon, and hair dressed with jewelled combs and flowers. The men too looked well and relaxed, leaning back in their chairs, evening dress shirt-fronts starched, smart in neat white ties. A good fire glowed in the hearth and the side tables were laden with serving dishes and wine coolers. This was what the room was meant for and she felt proud of her home and her household.

  When the covers were removed and the duck was served, Father finally broke off his conversation, set down his glass and turned to her with a mischievous look.

  ‘Well, Violet. Have you completed your education? Are you well and truly finished?’ He looked her up and down with an appraising eye.

  ‘I’ve been home for a year, Father,’ Violet said.

  ‘Ah, indeed. And is it suiting you? The country life?’ He glanced around as if to include the nearby guests in the conversation. ‘Any gentleman farmers coming to call, eh? Anyone looking for a good brood mare?’

  Violet blushed at his boorishness.

  Eustace Haydon said quickly, ‘I believe your mother was telling me that you have an interest in photography? Tell me, have you tried developing your own prints? You can produce some very interesting effects.’

  Violet turned to him in relief and found him an attentive and charming dinner partner. As they talked of books and music, she was keenly reminded of the evenings she had spent with Edmund. How she missed him: the way he leant forward on his elbows when he talked to you, the way he would engage you in ridiculous debates on the relative merits of writers or composers – Dickens or Austen? Chopin or Sibelius? – the way that when he told a joke he embroidered it so much that he sometimes forgot the punch line. In her mind, she said a prayer that he was out of the line and safe and that the war would soon end.

  When the talk of the table turned once more to general topics, she daydreamt for a while of a future when Edmund would be here and everything would be different. The place would be transformed. They would have Edmund’s family to stay; she would arrange for croquet on the lawn, just as they played at Elizabeth’s, maybe even tennis parties if the grass could be rolled smooth enough. She pictured them sitting in the bamboo tub chairs in the colonnade, taking tea. It would bring Mother back to life too, even if Father did stay away. He could stay away forever for all she cared.

  As dessert was cleared away, talk turned to musical theatre and the latest West End shows. Mother invited the ladies to withdraw, to leave the men to smoke, and as the men rose absentmindedly to their feet, Father was enthusing loudly about a performance of Our Miss Gibbs.

  ‘I tell you, it was stunning,’ he said to Linton. ‘A real spectacle.’

  ‘What did Dodie make of it?’ Linton said in a voice that was clearly audible to Violet above the scraping of chairs.

  ‘Oh, we both loved it …’ Father said, but then trailed off as he saw Violet staring at him in disbelief.

  ‘Let me show you to the drawing room,’ Mother was saying to the ladies who followed her. Juliet Ryland, who had pursed her mouth at her father’s comment, quickly started a conversation about how much she looked forward to seeing the grounds tomorrow if Irene felt able to show them around, and wondered if the others would care to join her.

  They all know, Violet thought. Father has a mistress and he has brought his friends, who all know about it, to this house. She felt savage. The men, to cover their embarrassment, were making a great fuss of passing cigarette cases and cutting their cigars. She hung back as the ladies left the room and stood folding her napkin, as if deep in thought. She leant across to her father and in a low voice and a conversational tone, said, ‘You truly are a hateful man.’

  For a moment he looked taken aback; then he gave a snorting laugh and shook his head. ‘You have your mother’s sensitivity, I see.’

  ‘I have my mother’s trusting nature and, I hope, my mother’s manners,’ she replied.

  She bade the other men goodnight and left them.

  At last, after what seemed like hours of small talk, all the guests had retired and after a quick conversation with Mrs Burbidge about tomorrow’s breakfast and luncheon, Violet was able to retreat to her room. She told the maid that she didn’t need her and undressed herself, letting the pale grey satin dress slip from her shoulders, stepping out of her petticoats and laying the clothes aside over a chair. She turned over the events of the evening as she finished undressing and brushed out her hair.

  Poor Mother, she thought. What a betrayal. She could only hope that Mother hadn’t heard and that Father would watch his words more carefully for the rest of the weekend. Everything made sense now. No wonder they never saw him, he must have another home, another life … She stopped brushing. Maybe other children? Could she have half-brothers and -sisters somewhere? She felt queasy with hurt and worry.
Always aware that she had been a disappointment and that her father had wanted a male heir, she thought what a fine irony it would be if he did in fact have a son who, for propriety’s sake, he couldn’t acknowledge.

  She wondered whether her mother knew about his infidelity but chose to ignore it for the sake of her dignity and position. Instantly she knew that she would never be able to ask her; they didn’t have that kind of intimacy. That too made her sad. All she could do was stick close to Mother this weekend and try to steer conversations into harmless waters.

  She laid down her brush on the dressing table, opened a drawer and took out Edmund’s last letter – her only safe haven. The paper had thinned almost into holes at the creases. For the umpteenth time she read:

  My darling girl,

  I’m writing this very early in the morning; we had a muster parade at six a.m. (presumably to avoid the enemy finding us in bed). I’m sitting in the parlour of the farmhouse where we are billeted and for the moment it’s peaceful with just the sound of a blackbird singing outside. If I close my eyes I could be in England, in some secluded spot, with you …

  I hope and trust that you are well (and that your mother is better too). We are still in reserve so no need to worry. We are quite comfortable and keeping our spirits up. Mallory gave a little concert last night, playing the melodeon, and we have cards and conversation too. The men keep cheerful and are a steadfast lot on the whole.

  I spend a lot of my time filling in returns and orders, which seems boring on the face of it but which I hope will bear fruit eventually, as the powers that be need to know that unconscionable numbers of shells are duds and some of the rifles you wouldn’t want to rely on in a tight spot.

  There is no prospect of leave for now but I’ll write as soon as I have news on that score. We could meet in London, your mother’s health permitting: we would have more time together and could make every hour count. I miss you. I ache to hold you in my arms again. My thoughts of you are my joy and sustenance, dearest Violet.

  I’m told there is a mail about today so I am hopeful that I may get a letter from you. I shall carry it with me as my good-luck charm: your loving thoughts next to my heart.

  Ever yours,

  Edmund

  Violet folded the letter and pressed it to her lips; then she got into bed and put it under her pillow.

  She ran through the plan for the next day. The ladies were to be shown the gardens, the lake and the little church and would play cards in the afternoon but the men had opted for Hodges to take them up into the woods. Violet thought this strange as they weren’t hunting but only walking and there was not much that would interest them, the view being obscured by the thick planting. She felt rather peeved to be obliged to show the gardens when she would so much rather walk in the woods. They were beautiful this time of year in russet and gold, although Father, with his logging interests, would probably say that one tree was much like another.

  As she relaxed towards sleep, her mind made a sudden connection to her father’s conversation with Oliver Ryland, whom he had introduced as working at the War Office. Tonnage per acre. Shipping costs. Suddenly wide awake, she felt sure that her father planned to sell the timber for the war effort, their beautiful trees felled for trench supports and pit props.

  Her mother had been so excited at the prospect of his visit; she too had harboured the same old hope that something might have changed. Now the real reason for it was clear. She wished the weekend could be over. She wished he would just go.

  11

  PLAYING CARDS

  The worst thing for George about being on fatigues, apart from the relentless slog, filling sandbags for the sappers or winding wire on to poles, was that whenever he got any break it was likely to be interrupted by Sergeant Tate sending him off somewhere. If he had ten minutes to spare, he liked to sit quietly at the edge of a group and sketch what he saw: the farrier sergeant murmuring to a horse as he unhitched it from a wagon, a private asleep with the farm cat on his lap, Turland and Rooke sharing a billycan. There was never enough time for painting but catching an expression or a man’s typical posture with a few quick strokes and a little shading gave him immense pleasure. On this occasion he had hardly taken his sketchbook out to draw Haycock blowing smoke rings when the sergeant whistled him over. He put the book away reluctantly, heaved himself back on to his feet and was sent off with the officers’ evening meal.

  When George arrived at the farmhouse, laden with a dixie of stew and a sandbag full of potatoes, the officers were sitting around the table, playing cards. Candles were set in the window embrasures as well as on the table, their flames guttering and dancing in the draughty room, making the shadows of the men, intent on their game, jump and start on the walls and ceiling. The smell of whisky and cigarette smoke was in the air, and several bottles, one still half full, stood on the table amongst a muddle of enamel mugs and an empty sardine tin in use as an ashtray. George felt relief as Edmund nodded to him before returning his attention to the game.

  George put the dixie on the stove to reheat, tucked a rickety three-legged stool between the stove and the woodpile, found a bucket and sat down to peel the potatoes. The night’s shelling was beginning to build as the batteries of field howitzers behind the billets fired, and were answered by German guns seeking the guns and ammunition dumps. Sometimes they were nearer, sometimes further away; there was no telling when the next might come or how close it might fall, and the unpredictability made them impossible to ignore, keeping the men in a constant state of fearful anticipation that stretched the nerves.

  ‘I’ll see you,’ Hunton was saying. ‘Come on, let’s see what you’ve got.’

  One by one, the others laid down their cards. Carey was last and turned his cards up slowly as if confident of a win. Hunton fanned his cards out and tapped them with his forefinger. They all paid up. Hunton, his face impassive, leant over and scooped the money towards him saying, ‘Let’s double up this time, shall we?’

  Carey groaned.

  ‘Come on!’ Hunton said. ‘Don’t take all night about it.’ He picked up the bottle of whisky, poured a shot into each mug, and then took a slug and topped his up again.

  Carey put up his money, saying under his breath, ‘You’ll clean me out at this rate.’

  Edmund noticed the hesitation of Mallory and Parks, who, as lower ranks, had less pay to throw around. He put his money in and said lightly, ‘I’m out after this round, I’m afraid.’

  Hunton looked at him sharply for a second before pushing a mug towards him, saying, ‘Drink up, Lyne.’

  The others added their francs to the pile and Mallory took his turn to deal but kept on losing his place. Hunton ignored his slurred apologies, took the cards from him, irritably tapped them back into a pack and handed them to Carey, who dealt with quick, competent hands.

  They played on and George was glad of their concentration. He peeled steadily and kept his head down in case Hunton’s eye should fall on him. He didn’t trust Hunton’s mood. The game was just ending, this time in Carey’s favour, and he was gathering up both cards and money when there was a whining sound from the pasture between the farmhouse and the wood and Carey’s hands stilled. As the shell came down, the sound reverberated around them. George’s stool skittered on the flagstones. Plaster dust and tile fragments fell down through the gaps in the boards of the ceiling above them, sprinkling their hunched shoulders and the table, so that Hunton cursed and put his hand across his mug of whisky. The sound died away and a swag of cobweb, shaken loose, hung down from between the floorboards, white with dust.

  Mallory, slurring his words, said, ‘Oh Christ, oh God. I thought that was it. I really can’t stand it. What on earth are we doing here? It’s not safe; we should be further back …’

  Parks said, ‘Shut up, Mallory.’

  ‘It’s the noise; I can’t bear the noise … and we’re not even in the line yet. I don’t think I can do it, just wait there like a sitting target: no one should have to do
it …’

  Mallory moved to stand up and Edmund put his hand on his arm, saying, ‘Mallory, get a grip on yourself.’

  Mallory subsided back into his seat and put his head in his hands.

  Hunton brushed the dust from his sleeves and Carey set a candle straight and began slowly to gather up the cards again.

  Hunton said testily, ‘Let’s just play, shall we?’

  Edmund said, ‘I think I’m going to pass, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Hunton carried on as if Edmund hadn’t spoken, and reached for the bottle, saying, ‘You deal, Parks.’

  Edmund said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t match the stake. I’ll have to go broke.’

  ‘You’ll stop when I say stop,’ he said. ‘You can play for whatever’s in your pockets.’

  Edmund glanced at the others. He was down to a handful of coins himself and he hoped that Mallory and Parks had had the sense to tuck some of their pay away elsewhere, and not to be carrying it on them. Mallory was clearly drunk and could hardly keep his cards to himself and Parks’s mind wasn’t on the job; it would be like taking sweets from a baby. Whatever was the matter with the man, the way he toyed with them, always putting them to the test? Edmund tried to stop his irritation showing in his face. He had seen Hunton drink like this before and it wasn’t advisable to cross him. If he carried on long enough, he would simply fall asleep where he sat and one of the others, usually Carey, would rouse him and take him through to the parlour, which he had to himself as a bedroom.