When they had moved into their room there was a gloomy painting on the wall facing both beds: the crucified Christ bleeding from his crown of thorns. The first time he got into Alex’s bed, Edmund got out again to turn the picture to face the wall. ‘I don’t think He’d approve.’
‘Superstitious nonsense,’ Alex said. ‘We’re here to kill Germans. Is this more sinful than that?’
At the end of the week, the 5th Epping Foresters moved east to the front line.
Believed killed
Black-and-white photograph from the Graveney Hall booklet: ‘A view of the Italian garden from the first floor terrace, 1912.’ We are looking down the length of the walk towards the ha-ha and an elaborate wrought-iron gateway. The lawns are cut into geometric shapes by diagonal paths; in two places where they converge we see octagonal stone basins with elaborate fountains. The garden is punctuated by stone obelisks and statues, small standard trees and clipped cypress and yew, all in a complex symmetrical design. The twin summerhouses— one guarded by telamons, one by caryatids—face each other across the width. As we can see no colour, the overall impression is of an extremely formal garden: clipped, ordered, meticulously maintained.
In bed on Monday morning, Greg was reading a booklet given him by Faith. It was rather dry: a few black-and-white photographs breaking up pages and pages of close print, listing unelaborated facts about earls and acreages. Greg skimmed through information about early buildings, extensions, feuding families and a hunting squire; about an earlier Tudor house on the site of Graveney Hall. The present mansion, he read, dated from the 1750s, going through a series of extensions and refinements in the late nineteenth century. The owner at that time, William Ernest Pearson, had added two new wings, a conservatory and a ballroom, and had hired an eminent architect to landscape the gardens and grounds. The grotto by the lakeside is believed to have been commissioned by Pearson in memory of his first son, Edmund, who died in infancy, Greg read. It was Pearson himself who decorated the interior with its striking tile mosiac. Faith must have known that. Why hadn’t she told him when he asked?
Most of all, Greg wanted to find out about the fire, though the book gave little detail. The fire which almost destroyed Graveney Hall is believed to have broken out during the morning of 6th April 1917, he read. Members of the household had set off or the Good Friday church service, and the fire was discovered by one of the servants. The local horse-drawn fire engine was summoned, but on arrival it was found that the water supply was inadequate. By this time the fire had taken hold, and servants set about removing items of value. It took several hours for the fire team to extinguish the blaze, and the building continued to smoulder for many days. Henry Pearson and his wife, Mary, later took up temporary residence in the Lodge by the eastern approach, apparently intending to attempt some restoration of the burnt-out shell, but this was never undertaken. The fire was attributed to a servant’s carelessness. The Pearsons’ only son, Edmund, aged twenty-one, who had been serving in the Epping Foresters Regiment since enlisting at the outbreak of war, is believed to have been killed at the time of the fire.
Greg read that sentence three times, struck by the ambiguity of the phrasing. Believed to have been killed — that, presumably, meant he was never found. At the time of the fire. Did that mean in the fire? It sounded almost as if he had thrown himself into the flames—but the account mentioned no fatalities. And in 1917, a young army officer was unlikely to be at home. One of the hundreds of thousands killed in the First World War, then, whose death had happened to coincide with the destruction of his home? Still, it was an odd way to put it.
His interest in Graveney Hall was quickened by the mention of Edmund Pearson: it gave the place an inhabitant he could begin to identify with, unlike the fox-hunting squires and squabbling earls. Another doomed young soldier, like Wilfred Owen. In 1914 he’d have been eighteen, only a year older than Greg. The photograph of Owen slipped into Greg’s mind: serious, shy, guarding his intelligence, his talent with words. He had died young, but he had outlived Edmund Pearson by more than a year. Greg flicked through the booklet to see if there was a photograph of Edmund, but there was none.
Believed to have been killed. Did no-one know for sure?
Had Edmund, at eighteen, joined up voluntarily, or was he pushed into it by family or school? He’d have been at Eton or Rugby or somewhere like that, Greg supposed—one of those schools that supplied huge numbers of young officers for the lists of Glorious Dead. Had he fallen for all that Rupert Brooke patriotism Greg had been reading about—expecting laurels, nobility and picturesque sacrifice? And what had he found?
He would ask Faith what she knew about Edmund Pearson, Greg decided, glancing at his watch, realizing that he’d ignored his mother’s post-alarm shout and should have been up fifteen minutes ago. He showered and dressed quickly. Katy and their father were in the kitchen, Katy shovelling cornflakes and reading Mizz, their dad with his tie hanging loose round his neck, making coffee.
‘Is there a boy in your form called Dean Brampton?’ Greg asked, pushing past Katy on his way to the bread-bin.
‘Rrrucchh!’
‘Here we have an example of the young female of the species,’ said their dad, in David Attenborough mode. ‘Whilst feeding she emits a series of grunts, apparently a primitive form of communication. Coffee, Greg?’
‘Ta. Well, is there?’
‘Yeah, more’s the pity,’ Katy said with her mouth full. ‘Nerd. Thinks he’s hard. Always looking for trouble. What d’you want to know about him for?’
‘Does he know me?’
‘Everyone knows you.’ Katy made it into a sneer.
‘How?’
She scraped her bowl with the spoon. ‘Because half the girls in my form fancy you, nerd-features. The sad half, that is. Haven’t you noticed all these sick-cow faces in the corridor whenever you walk past? Makes me want to throw up. Can’t see what the big deal is, personally, but there’s no accounting for taste.’
Their father’s eyebrows had shot up into his hair. He passed Greg a mug of coffee and nodded at him, impressed. ‘Takes after his dad, obviously,’ he remarked, knotting his tie. ‘Good looks and sheer animal magnetism.’
‘You wish! Both of you.’ Katy dumped her cereal bowl in the sink for someone else to wash up. ‘That Jordan you go round with now,’ she added over her shoulder to Greg, ‘he is lush.’
‘Oh? I suppose you want me to tell him you said so?’
Katy stuck out her tongue.
‘So this boy—Dean whatever,’ their dad said, ‘you’re not telling me he’s making sick-cow faces at Greg as well?’
‘Sick, yes,’ Greg said.
Katy looked at him closely. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Oh, nothing much. He wrote something about me on—on a wall,’ Greg said.
‘What, in the boys’ bogs? How d’you know it was him? And what did he write?’
‘Greg H is a tosspot, if you really want to know,’ Greg said, ignoring her first question.
Katy laughed delightedly. Their father went back into David Attenborough, addressing an invisible camera. ‘Rivalry is frequently observed among young males. This distinctive marking of walls may indicate an outbreak of jealousy from a thwarted juvenile—’
‘Juvenile delinquent, more like,’ Greg said.
‘Shut up, Dad,’ Katy said. ‘Where’s Mum? She’s going to make me late if she doesn’t get a move on.’
‘Good weekend?’ Greg asked Jordan at registration. ‘How was the swimming?’
‘OK, thanks. Yours?’
‘Fine,’ Greg said; then, seeing Jordan’s secretive, rather smug expression, ‘Well, did you win?’
Jordan nodded.
‘What, the butterfly?’
‘And the freestyle. And got my best times for both.’
‘Brilliant!’
‘Er . . .’ Jordan looked embarrassed. ‘I was wondering if—we’re having a special meal at home next Saturday night, for Michelle’s b
irthday, and I thought you might come.’
‘What, a party?’
‘Not really, just family and a couple of friends of Michelle’s.’
‘OK. Er . . . thanks,’ Greg said, simply because he could think of no way of refusing. He was wary of occasions that might demand his best behaviour. And there would be Michelle. Jordan had told him that Michelle had started off at Radway, but since her illness their parents had decided to fork out the necessary fees for St Ursula’s, because she was too frail for the boisterousness of comprehensive life and missed so much school that she needed individual tuition. Greg pictured a wan, drooping invalid. What would he say to her? If something better came up he’d make an excuse not to go. On the other hand, it might be a handy way to fend off whatever Gizzardry might await him next weekend.
The weather turned cold and autumnal during the day, the wind coming from the north. At the end of school Greg collected his bike and cycled down the main driveway. A girl in navy-blue uniform stood at the entrance, conspicuous among the indifferent greys and unofficial variations of the Radway pupils. A group of Year Nine boys were calling out to her, jeering—Greg couldn’t hear what, but she turned aside, chin high.
Her hair was pulled back in a neat French plait, not loose round her face as he’d seen it before, but he recognized the turn of her head. Faith. Braking, he pulled over to the kerb next to her.
‘What are you doing here?’ It was almost a mile from St Ursula’s.
‘Waiting for you.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘I wanted to see you,’ Faith said. ‘To talk. You’d better give me your mobile number, then I can text you next time.’
Greg registered the next time. ‘Has something happened?’ He was aware of being seen by everyone coming down the driveway—him and a St Ursula’s girl.
‘No. Why? Does something have to happen for me to want to see you?’
He felt self-conscious, annoyed, pleased. ‘Come on, then. We can’t stand here. Let’s go somewhere.’
Where? Not home. Katy would be there, all eyes and ears and snipey remarks.
‘We could go into town. Get a coffee,’ Faith said.
In the burger bar at the far end, he thought she meant. They set off, Greg pushing his bike, Faith walking beside him, accompanied by wolf-whistles from some tedious kids behind. When they reached the High Street, Faith stopped outside Casa Veronese, the Italian restaurant near the church.
‘You mean here? Will they let us in?’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Faith said. ‘We’re customers, same as everyone else.’
‘I know that. I meant can we have just coffee?’
‘Don’t see why not. I’ll ask.’
Greg secured his bike and Faith led the way inside. The Italian waiter recognized her and showed them to a table by the window, bringing menus. The decor was minimalist—elegant black tables and chairs, white walls hung with paintings of skewed red squares. There were no other customers; the tables were set for dinner.
Faith handed back the menu without looking at it. ‘Just cappuccino, please. No flaked chocolate. Greg?’
‘The same. With chocolate,’ Greg said. When the waiter had gone, he asked jokily, ‘Do you come here often?’
‘I’ve eaten here a few times with my parents. We love Italian food.’
Greg was silent. One glance at the menu had shown him that Casa Veronese was out of his parents’ price range. They rarely ate out as a family, and when they did it was a bar meal at the pub. Surreptitiously he checked the coins in his pocket, hoping he had enough for a cappuccino. It was another reminder of the difference between Faith’s background and his own; it made him uncomfortable. He would have felt happier in the burger bar, drinking from a styrofoam cup. But at least here there were no gawpers from school.
‘What do you want to talk about?’
Faith fiddled with her napkin, losing the composure she had shown to the waiter. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me turning up like that.’ She looked at him, awaiting his response.
He gave a shrug, non-committal. In a way he did mind: she had put him on the spot, obliging him to make a public spectacle of his friendship—if that was what this was—with a St Ursula’s girl. ‘It was a surprise.’
‘A nice one?’
He gave a faint nod, unsmiling.
‘I just wanted—’ She looked away from him, gazing through the window as though her attention was caught by something. ‘I wanted to say sorry for being so prickly—you know, when we argued. I’ve been thinking about it all the time since. I shouldn’t have got annoyed like that.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, you said you were sorry on Sunday.’
The cappuccino arrived, in heavy white cups, with chunks of brown sugar in the saucers. Greg sipped at his, grateful for the diversion, tasting creamy foam through the sweetness of sprinkled chocolate. Was that all? She’d stood outside school, exposing herself to the taunts of Radway loudmouths, just to say that? Why not leave it till next weekend? She really was a very odd girl—intense, brooding. What he mainly remembered about their argument was the way she’d flung herself at him, then just as suddenly pulled away. With any other girl he’d have thought he was well in, but with Faith it seemed to be more a matter of being true to herself, of setting things straight in a way that satisfied her sense of honour, or truth, or whatever it was.
‘But it does matter.’ Her dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. ‘I ought to be more sure of what I believe in—no, I am sure. So if you want to discuss it properly, we can.’
Greg dropped the chunks of sugar into his coffee, stirred it, and tapped the side of the cup irritably with his spoon. ‘You’ve brought me here to have another discussion about God?’
‘If you want.’
‘It’s up to you what you believe in. Nothing to do with me.’ He couldn’t, at present, think of a single thing he wanted to say on the subject; in fact he was bored by it. He said, instead, ‘You know that booklet you gave me? I was reading it this morning. Saw the photos of the gardens as they used to be, and your caryatid.’
‘Mm?’
‘And I read about the fire. You know Edmund Pearson?’
She nodded. ‘The son who was killed in the war?’
‘How do you know he was killed in the war? The booklet doesn’t say that. It says Believed to have been killed at the time of the fire.’
‘I know, but surely—’
‘If he’d died in the war, wouldn’t it have said? Died in action, or Died at—at Passchendaele, say? Whatever.’
‘What are you suggesting, then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? Does it mean in the fire? But then why not say so?’
Faith shook her head firmly. ‘No. Definitely not. There’d have been . . .’ she made a face ‘. . . bones, a charred body. And he’d be buried somewhere.’
‘Well, he must be buried somewhere, either way.’
‘Yes, but if he died at home he’d be in the churchyard next door.’ Faith made a gesture with her head. ‘Lots of his relations are there. We’ll go and have a look if you like. But I’m sure we won’t find him. I don’t really see why you’re bothering about it. There would have been plenty of chances for him to get killed in 1917. There’s nothing specially odd about that. And we’re not likely to find out now, are we?’
‘Believed to have been killed. That’s not the same as was killed. That must mean his body was never found. His parents outlived him, didn’t they? Didn’t they know any more than it says in the book?’
‘I expect his name’s on the monument at Thiepval,’ Faith said. ‘Or that other one at the place beginning with Y—what is it?—Ypres, in Belgium. You know, those huge Memorials to the Missing, with thousands of names engraved on them? I’ve been to Thiepval, on the school battlefields trip. If I’d known about Edmund then, I could have looked for him.’
‘But perhaps he didn’t die at all,’ Greg said, thinking aloud.
‘You
mean—?’ Faith lowered her cup carefully to its saucer, staring at him. ‘You’re not thinking he could still be alive? That’s impossible! He’d be over a hundred years old if he was twenty-one in nineteen seventeen.’
‘Don’t be daft. What I mean is, supposing he survived the war? He could have married, had children. There might be descendants.’
‘If he’d survived the war he’d have come back to Graveney,’ Faith pointed out. ‘Obviously. The book doesn’t mention him after the war. Or any descendants of his. Surely he, or they, would have taken over what was left of the house and the estate? It all went to some second cousin, the book says.’
‘What if he survived, came home, found Graveney burned out and decided to start again somewhere else?’ Greg was struck by a new idea. ‘Who wrote the book? Maybe we could ask him.’
‘I don’t know if we can. It was written ages ago, before the Friends took over—you can see how old-fashioned it looks, all that tiny print. It’s going to be re-done, with colour photos, when the work’s finished, if it ever is finished.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Greg conceded. ‘The most likely explanation is that he did die in the trenches. Poor sod. Only twenty-one. That’s only four years older than me, and he enlisted at eighteen. I bet he swallowed all that Rupert Brooke stuff about honour and glory.’
Faith nodded. ‘If I should die, think only this of me — that’s the famous one, isn’t it? We read that.’
‘If he died in nineteen seventeen—that was after the Battle of the Somme—he’d have seen enough to change his mind,’ Greg said. ‘Can I have your sugar if you don’t want it?’
Faith nodded; he reached over for the two brown chunks, put them in his mouth and crunched them.
‘There were two Edmund Pearsons,’ he said, thinking, his mouth full of sweetness, ‘and they both died young.’
Faith gave him a quizzical look.
The Shell House Page 8