In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  “Arthur, I think, might be quite pleased to go, sir. He is full of rheumatism and I’m sure you would be generous with him.”

  “Well,” Carson looked doubtful, “as generous as I can be. That goes without saying.”

  Ivor seemed to have something else on his mind and stood there kicking the pebbles at his feet.

  “I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, Sir Carson, but did you not say your problems might be eased if you sold the property you own in London?”

  “Yes they might be eased,” Carson said, “and I don’t mind you asking. But the fact is that if I take a roof from over my stepmother’s head in London she will want to come and join me here, so, until I can solve this problem it’s something I’m hesitating about. Also house prices are low and everyone seems to think that as the economy improves and the effects of the war diminish, they will rise. By that time we may have sorted out just what to do about Aunt Agnes. Well, now, let’s make a start on drawing up plans. “This decision having been taken, already Carson felt more cheerful as if a great weight had been lifted from him. “And then as soon as possible we can begin.”

  But it was very slow work and Carson soon realised that he and Ivor alone were unequal to the task. It was a very big house and had been so constructed that it was difficult to know where to make a division. For one thing the great drawing room, with its spectacular view over the countryside, ran from one side of the house to the other. How to divide that? And then if a division was made from front to back all the domestic services, the kitchen, scullery, pantries and so on would be separated from the rest of the house. The house had been designed in an integrated way, so that division was difficult.

  One evening Carson, having finished dinner which, as usual, he took by himself, was yet again seated at his desk fretting over the plans when there was a knock at the door and Arthur put his head round. Thinking he had come to enquire about his future Carson invited him in and asked him to shut the door.

  “I daresay you’ve heard rumours ...” Carson began, but the servant interrupted him.

  “Sir Carson, there is a gentleman at the door asking for you. I took the liberty of inviting him in, sir, as it was cold outside, but he is in rather a dishevelled state.”

  “Well, then can you find him some soup and maybe a bed for a night in one of the old servants’ rooms?”

  “No sir, not that sort of gentleman, I mean not a tramp, sir. He says he is acquainted with you from the war and happened to be passing ...”

  “‘Happened to be passing’!” Carson exclaimed looking at the clock. “At this time of night! Did he give you a name?”

  Arthur, looking embarrassed, mumbled:

  “He appears to be a foreigner, a French gentleman, sir. He gave me his name but I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch it. Part ... Part something ...”

  “Parterre!!” Carson exclaimed. “I simply can’t believe it’s my old friend Jean Parterre,” and he hurried to the door and flung it wide open.

  There standing in the hall, a rucksack at his feet and looking footsore and weary was a man of about Carson’s age and height, with a few days’ growth of beard. His dark hair was tousled and in need of a wash and comb, he was hollow-eyed as though he had not slept, or had slept badly, and he was dressed in walking clothes: thick trousers, a combat jacket and sturdy leather boots with thick socks turned over at the top.

  Carson held out his arms, throwing them round his friend and holding him close while Arthur looked on in some astonishment not ever having seen his master, normally so restrained, give vent to such emotion.

  “Jean, Jean,” Carson stood back holding firmly on to his companion’s shoulders. “It is so good to see you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  Jean Parterre shook his head.

  “I don’t know, my friend. I wasn’t sure. I have simply been walking, walking, walking, unsure of my direction.”

  “I see.” Carson let fall his hand and turned to Arthur. “Maybe some sandwiches for my friend? A bottle of wine?”

  “Of course, Sir Carson.” Arthur bowed and went in the direction of the kitchen while Carson ushered his friend into the drawing room at one end of which a fire still burned.

  “My goodness,” Jean looked around, “this is some place you have here, Carson.” He scratched his head. “It was hard to find. Such a huge place.” He glanced at his companion in arms. “I didn’t realise, Carson, that you were the owner of a vast chateau ...”

  “Alas, my father died last year,” Carson replied heaping logs on the fire as Jean looked so cold. “I inherited it from him.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jean sat down and extended his hands towards the blaze.

  “It needs a lot doing to it,” Carson gestured round. “It has been allowed to fall into disrepair. The last years of my father were sad ones.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jean said again and looked up at Carson. “And you, my old friend, saviour of my life, what of you?”

  “I resigned my commission after the death of my father. I found he had left nothing but debts, but these were run up by my stepmother. The house has been in my family for generations. It is very precious to me. An uncle has partly helped me by paying off my father’s debts, but the rest is up to me. It is a challenge.”

  “It is,” Jean Parterre nodded and looked up as Arthur entered bearing a tray with a large plate of sandwiches, a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  “Thank you very much, Arthur,” Carson said relieving him of the tray. “I think you can go to bed now.”

  “Thank you, Sir Carson. I expect Mr Parterre will be staying the night, sir?”

  “I hope so.” Carson looked over at Jean who nodded.

  “Yes of course. If I may?”

  “I have had the bed made up in the old nursery wing, sir.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Arthur.”

  “Not at all, Sir Carson. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night Arthur.”

  Arthur bowed to Jean, who nodded his head and watched him thoughtfully as he left the room.

  “You have a title of some kind? You are a lord? I didn’t know.”

  “My father was a baronet. It is a bit like a lord, not so important.”

  “Well mon vieux ... had I known.”

  “It would not have made any difference,” Carson said firmly. “It does make no difference.”

  “We have a bond that no one can break,” Jean agreed. “You nearly gave your life for me.”

  “It wasn’t as bad as that.”

  “I was inches from death. It was as bad as that.”

  They both fell silent looking into the fire as if seeing again the scene where Carson had, indeed, rescued Jean from a certain death. It had been at the Battle of the River Ancre, a tributary of the Somme, in 1916. Jean Parterre had been a liaison officer from the French forces attached to the British Fourteenth Brigade, two companies of which had fallen back upon the Serre trench. They were pressed hard by the enemy until the 1st Dorsets came up from the rear, lobbing bombs, and saved the situation. During the fighting many were killed or wounded and among the latter was Jean Parterre, who had been hit in the shoulder and thigh.

  Those who were left were exposed to a German counter-attack of great severity and many were killed. Carson had been about to withdraw his men when he saw a soldier lying in an exposed position between trenches, obviously still alive and in great pain. Telling his men to cover him he went out and drew him back to safety just a second before a bomb fell in the spot where Jean had lain, demolishing the terrain completely.

  When he recovered Jean had returned to his unit with the French forces, but he managed to trace Carson and thank him, and the two had remained in touch, never knowing if they would see each other again, until the end of the war.

  In the silence, Jean munched his sandwiches as Carson opened the wine and poured them each a glass. Then, as he held his aloft, the light shining through the crystal reminded him powerfully of blood, all
the blood that had been shed in that most futile and senseless of wars. The same idea seemed to have occurred to Jean.

  “Santé, to peace,” he said raising his glass.

  “To peace, indeed.”

  They both drained their glasses, which were refilled by Carson.

  “This is very good wine.” Jean looked appreciatively at his glass.

  “My father enjoyed the good things of life. He built up a fine cellar. We’ll have a few bottles more before you go. I hope it won’t be for a while.” He looked down at Jean who, having finished his sandwiches with the speed of a man on the point of starvation, was now gazing again at the fire.

  “Tell me, Jean, how goes it with you? Your wife? Your children?”

  “My wife left me for another man during the war. He was not a combatant but had one of those mysterious ‘reserved’ occupations where people seem to make a lot of money, no one quite knows how. I think he was able to operate on the black market very profitably and became very rich.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “If she was that sort of woman she was not worth bothering about. It is my children I miss. They went with her too. Of course, they were so young.”

  “And have you seen them?”

  Jean Parterre shook his head.

  “With the money I had left from the war I travelled and, eventually, I came here. Maybe I thought I would see you and talk about old times.” Jean looked up and gave Carson a grateful smile. “Thank you for receiving me so well. You are very kind. You saved my life and now you offer me hospitality.”

  “For as long as you like.” Carson leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder. “Believe me I would be glad of the company too.”

  Carson got more pleasure in his friend’s company than he could have imagined possible. It was the companionship that was important, as well as the revival of old memories. Although the war was hideous it had also been important, the most momentous event, not only in his life but in the lives of millions. It had also radically altered his outlook, his philosophy.

  Those things which hitherto had been of such importance were important no longer. Faced with the carnage he had seen human life seemed infinitely precious. He had been twenty-seven when the war began, already mature and yet, in many ways, his behaviour had been that of a youth, his outlook undeveloped and insular. He had been trained for nothing, did nothing. No wonder his parents had despaired of him and considered him a wastrel. He wondered what his life would have been had the war not occurred? The only regret he had was that, had that been so, the consequence of his affair with Emma might have been very different. He might have succeeded in persuading her to leave her indifferent husband and marry him.

  Jean too had suffered in the war, not only physically, emotionally and mentally since he had lost his wife and children. Like Carson he was adrift, and as the two tramped or rode round the Woodville acres they discoursed long and deeply about the meaning of life.

  For Jean it had no meaning. It was pointless. Yet why had he lived when so many others had died? To what purpose? He was the only man to live from the bombardment he had been in and, had not Carson been there to save him he would have sunk in the mud of the banks of the Ancre to have disappeared for ever.

  Jean, however, was able to be of help to Carson in another, practical way. He had trained as a builder and pointed out many modifications that could be made to the house so as to save costs. He made a lot of technical suggestions which Carson and Ivor noted down and studied at the end of each day.

  However, after a week or so of this pleasant life, Jean decided it was time to move on. He confronted Carson over breakfast one morning, saying he had packed his bag and stripped his bed.

  “But you can’t go just like that,” Carson looked at him in surprise.

  “I have to move on, Carson.” Jean rose and began to pace the floor of the breakfast room. “I can’t stay here forever. I feel like Ulysses’ men and the Lotus Eaters ...”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Carson grimaced. “Don’t forget I have not the benefit of a classical education.”

  “Ulysses’ boat was driven on to the land of the Lotus Eaters as he journeyed home from the Trojan War. The taste of the lotus made men forget all desire to reach home. Ulysses resisted the fruit and managed to rescue those of his men who had eaten it. I too know how delightful it would be to linger here where the company is so good, the countryside so beautiful. But I must go.”

  “Where? Why?” Carson demanded.

  “To tell you the truth I don’t know.” Jean slumped in his chair again and lit a cigarette. “All I know is that I can’t stay here.”

  “But I want you to stay here.” Carson’s tone was insistent. As Jean was about to speak he held up a hand. “Please don’t say anything, but I have been doing some serious thinking during the past few days. Not only do I enjoy your company, your presence takes me out of myself, but you have given me much valuable advice due to your training as a builder. Well,” now Carson got up and began to stride excitedly back and forth past his friend, “I want to offer you a job.”

  “A job!”

  “What say you take charge of restoration at Pelham’s Oak? You can oversee the rebuilding programme. I can’t offer you much money, but I can pay you something, plus your board and lodging. Say it takes you six months or a year or even longer? That way you can think about your future, as I can think about mine? You can have your own quarters. The place is big enough. We don’t have to live on top of each other or in each other’s pockets. Neither of us would want that; but I think we get on well enough to be able to endure this kind of close contact and if we find we don’t, then we can agree to part and remain friends.”

  “Well,” Jean leaned back scratching the back of his head, “I don’t know what to say.”

  Yet it was true he felt refreshed and rested from his short stay. He loved the house, the countryside, and Carson was one of the finest men he had ever met, as well as the bravest. He liked and respected him; in a way he loved him.

  “It’s very tempting,” he said after a pause. “Can I have a little time to think about it?”

  “How much time?”

  “An hour. Two hours?”

  “Take all the time you want,” Carson said extending his hand. “I, meanwhile, will go and have your bed made up again. I shan’t let you go unless the answer is ‘yes’.”

  Chapter Six

  The woman moved quietly among the graves, a large bunch of flowers clasped in one arm. She stopped before one at the far end of the churchyard and, placing the flowers on the grave, stood there for a few moments, head bowed, hands clasped. Momentarily she rested a hand on the cross at the top of the grave as if reluctant to leave, and then she moved on, stopping every now and then to examine the inscriptions on the tombstones as she passed them. Some she lingered by and, again, that curiously touching gesture with the hand.

  She moved in a graceful, arresting way rather like a mannequin, as if she were used to showing off herself and her clothes. She wore a white linen coat over a pretty belted floral dress with a large white collar. She was of medium height but this was enhanced by a pair of high-heeled white shoes, and a broad-brimmed, white straw hat shaded her eyes, lending her an air of mystery. A white handbag was slung casually over one arm and, in her right hand she carried a pair of long white kid gloves.

  Strangely out of place in Wenham churchyard, Carson thought, watching her progress with no small degree of fascination from the gate which he had been just about to open when he saw her. A stranger, yet something about her was familiar, although he couldn’t think he’d ever seen her before. Suddenly she raised her head from the tombstone she was examining, but appeared not to see him and walked on again, her coat swirling gracefully about her. She seemed to know where she was going because when she came to the Woodville family vault, surrounded by high iron railings, she paused again carefully scrutinising the names inscribed on it.

  More intrigued than ever Carson
opened the gate, went through it and, as he started along the path towards the vault, the woman turned, raised her head and from beneath the brim of her hat looked directly at him. Then she looked quickly back the way she had come, as though she was searching for a way of escape. But the moment of panic appeared to pass and she confronted him, a faint smile on her lips.

  “May I help you?” Carson enquired politely. “Are you looking for something or, perhaps, someone in the churchyard?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” the woman murmured in a low musical voice, shaking her head. “I think I know my way about.” She raised her head as if to see him better and he saw that she had a rather fine pair of eyes, if a little close together, as if suggestive of a very slight squint, but this was not unattractive. She had a frank, engaging smile which showed white even teeth. There was definitely a hint of mystery about her, but once again Carson had felt his memory jar, as if he knew her and the way that her eyes expressed merriment, rather as though she too knew him.

  “Do we know each other?” he enquired, stooping towards her in order to try and see her better.

  The woman now laughed openly in a frank, good-natured way and put out her hand.

  “I see you don’t remember me, Carson ...”

  “Connie!” he exclaimed. “Constance Yetman.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But Connie I would never have recognised you. I thought there was something familiar about you but I couldn’t place it. It must be the hat, and yet you’re taller and ...” he was going to add “smarter”, but pulled himself up in time.

  “Different,” she suggested as he took her hand and shook it warmly, murmuring “Connie Yetman, well I never. When did you arrive?”

  “Two days ago but ...” Seeing the question in his eyes she looked down at herself. “Oh I see you think I’ve just arrived because of the way I’m dressed? I am just on my way back from Yeovil where I had business, and I was anxious to put flowers on the grave of my parents. While I was here I took the opportunity to look at the other stones to our departed loved ones. It’s been a long time, Carson.” She realised that her hand was still in his and swiftly removed it.