‘All this for that gypsy wench? I don’t understand you, man. You’re my brother but I don’t understand you.’
‘I understand you and them only too well, Nat.’
The two men studied each other for a moment before Nathaniel said, ‘I’m asking you not to go, Chris. I – I don’t want to lose you.’
There was a long pause before the answer came: ‘It’s too late for that.’
Again there was a pause before Nathaniel spoke. His countenance had darkened, and for a moment Christopher could see their father in his brother’s angry face. ‘You only knew her for two minutes and you’re prepared to sacrifice our brotherhood on the altar of this ridiculous whim? I agree with Mother and Father that—’
‘I know.’ Christopher cut into his brother’s furious tirade and his voice was cool, even cold. ‘Goodbye, Nat.’
He left with his brother’s curses ringing in his ears, but kept his back straight and his head high until he had passed through the gates. Once away from the house he stopped Jet in a quiet lane, taking great gulps of the freezing air as he fought to keep back the tears which were stinging his eyes. He didn’t know why he was crying – whether it was for Nat or himself or Pearl, or simply the end of an era. He just didn’t know. His stomach churning, he made an effort to pull himself together. From a child he had shrunk from scenes, hating confrontation of any kind. Perhaps he had been too inclined to circumvent any unpleasantness?
He shook his head at himself. There was no perhaps about it. He had been content to take the easy road and let his parents ride roughshod over him, and now he was getting what he deserved. But Pearl . . . Pearl hadn’t got what she deserved. The ache in his chest that came with thoughts of her made him want to groan out loud, but he was past that now. In the first few weeks after he’d visited the gypsy camp and learned of her fate he’d lain in bed at night biting his pillow in an effort to stifle the animal-like moans that made his guts writhe.
There was the odd snowflake drifting about in the wind and the night was as black as coal. He wanted nothing more than to put some distance between himself and the estate, but he couldn’t leave without making his goodbyes to Wilbert and his wife. He turned Jet in the direction of the farm.
When he reached the farmhouse, the lights shining from its window looked welcoming in the darkness. He knocked on the door and it was one of the children who opened it, immediately calling over his shoulder, ‘Da? It’s Sir from the big house.’
The next little while was one of bustle and activity. Wilbert sent his oldest boy to lead Jet into the stables, and Mrs Tollett ushered the rest of her brood to bed, despite their protests, leaving the two men to talk in peace. Before she left the room she made it very plain that she wouldn’t countenance Mr Christopher doing anything else but staying the night under their roof; she wouldn’t sleep a wink at the thought of him riding out on such a night.
Once Christopher had acquainted the manager with the facts of the matter, Wilbert sat back in his armchair opposite Christopher’s in front of the open range. He’d fetched a bottle of whisky on the young man’s arrival. Now he poured them both a generous measure, drinking half of his before saying, ‘You’re serious about this smallholding – cum – farm idea?’
‘Never been more serious in my life, Wilbert.’
‘It won’t be like here, sir. You do understand that? You’ll be up to your eyes in it most days, come hail or shine, and farming is backbreaking work at the best of times. Are you sure you’re up to it?’ It said much for how their relationship had progressed that Wilbert could talk to the son of his employer so frankly.
‘If I answer that truthfully I have to say I’m not sure, but I’m going to have a damn good try.’
‘You’ll need a couple of good men working with you, men with experience.’ When Christopher would have protested, Wilbert held up his hand. ‘Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Even I, with fifty odd years behind me of working on the land, wouldn’t want to take on a farm without help, and excuse me for saying it, sir, but you’re still wet behind the ears in that regard.’
Christopher grinned. He finished his whisky and Wilbert poured them both another glass. It was then the manager said thoughtfully, ‘I might know the very place . . . that’s if it hasn’t already been sold. I was talking to an old acquaintance of mine at the last cattle fair in October, and he was all set to move further south and live with his daughter once he’d sold up. His wife died a year or so ago, and he has the need to be with family; there are several grandchildren he’s only seen once or twice. Mind, his holding is a fair distance, and as far as I know there’s nowt in the way of modern conveniences, if you know what I mean. Back of beyond, Jed’s place is.’
‘Back of beyond would suit me admirably.’
‘Aye, well forgive me again for talking straight, sir, but you’ve been used to a life of comfort and ease. The winters can be devilish, and spring and autumn can be mud baths on a farm. Going out riding and coming back to a stable boy who sees to the horse, and servants who take care of your every want makes the worst weather pleasurable. There’ll be days – weeks at a time – when your body is aching and you feel wretched, and still you have to see to the animals’ needs. And you’re not a hundred per cent fit yet after the . . . incident, sir. You know you’re not.’
Christopher stared at his friend in the mellow light from the fire. There was an understanding smile on his face when he said softly, ‘I know you feel you have to point all this out, but it won’t make any difference, Will. If I don’t do this I might as well blow my brains out because I can’t go on as I am. That’s the truth of it. It’s do or die – in the real sense of the words.’
‘Oh, lad, lad.’ Convention and propriety went out of the window and Wilbert spoke as he would have done to one of his own children. ‘Bad as that?’
‘Every bit as bad as that.’
‘Still the girl, the gypsy lass?’
‘Yes, and no. What I mean is, it’s not just Pearl. Meeting her, falling in love, shone a light into my life and I didn’t like what I saw. Or what I was, come to it. I think I’m a weak individual, or I have been. I have to change if I’m to live with myself. I’ve hidden in books too long. Now I feel I have to take life by the throat and find out what I’m made of. I might not like it at the end of it all, but at least I’ll know. Does that make sense?’
Wilbert nodded. ‘Aye. Reckon you think too much, lad, but if nothing else you’ll have no time for that if you’re running a farm, even a small one like old Jed’s. I’ll take you there in the morning but it’s a fair ride, past Alnwick and then some. I understand since Jed’s wife died, one of the wives of the couple of men who work for him goes in and does, so that’d take care of your meals an’ such, which would be a blessing. Like I said, it’s isolated though. Don’t see folk from one month to the next, so Jed says. He didn’t mind that, but it’d send some folk barmy.’
‘Not me.’
‘Aye, well hold your horses till we see what’s what in the morning, eh? And in the meantime this whisky needs drinking. The wife’ll make up a bed for you on the sofa in the sitting room later, once we’ve had a bite of supper.’
‘Thanks, Wilbert.’
‘My pleasure, sir. I’ve often said there’s nowt but one good thing come out of the big house and I’m sitting talking to it right now. And if Jed’s place don’t suit, I’ll make enquiries elsewhere, all right?’
Jed’s place did suit Christopher, although Wilbert was full of misgivings when he saw how rundown the small farm was, certainly by his standards. They had followed the road to Alnwick, but when it divided they turned left, past the River Aln and towards Ditchburn. The day was bitterly cold but the snowclouds had cleared and a weak winter sun lit their journey. The sunlight brought a kind of charm to the lonely landscape, the bare trees and windswept hedgerows beautiful in their own way.
Christopher checked the thought. He couldn’t afford to think like this if he was going to be a farmer
. From now on he had to be practical and not given to flights of fancy.
They travelled up hill and down dale off the beaten track before they reached the huddle of buildings which made up Hill Farm. The farmhouse itself looked to be half the size of the one on the estate, and this proved to be so once they’d arrived and Jed had welcomed them in, his eagerness proclaiming the fact that the farm had not yet been sold. There were two rooms downstairs, a sitting room-cum-kitchen and a massive scullery complete with mangle and poss-tub and a brown stone sink. A wooden ladder led to the upstairs, which was one large room. The whole place was filthy, and an aura of neglect hung over everything.
After a cup of strong black tea Jed showed them the boiling-up room for pigswill which was reached by a narrow door leading off the scullery. From here an outer door led directly into a large stone-flagged farmyard. This was bordered on one side by the pigsties and on the other by a long hen run and hen crees. The dairy was situated at the end of the farmyard, and beyond this were the stables and several large barns. An outdoor privy was a stone’s throw from the house in a corner of the yard next to the hen run. Jed admitted that a large part of the acreage he owned was devoid of crops or livestock; he had been ‘running things down’ since his wife had died. Wilbert’s sniff at this point suggested he thought the farm had been running down long before this.
Christopher and Wilbert met the two labourers employed on the farm. They and their wives lived in two of a row of five terraced one-up, one-down cottages built some hundred yards away from the farmhouse on a slight incline. They seemed nice enough fellows, and the older of the two confided that in Jed’s father’s day all five cottages had been in use and the farm had been thriving. But, the man added hastily, he was sure that with a little money thrown at it the farm could be returned to its former glory.
The men’s wives milked the herd of cows and worked in the dairy, joining their husbands in the fields when required to do so and looking after the hens and pigs.
One of the women, a red-cheeked matron of middle-age, was introduced to them as the lady who saw to things in the farmhouse and Jed’s meals. ‘Not very well, by the look of it,’ Wilbert had quietly murmured to Christopher once they were out of earshot.
The children of both couples had grown up and left, there not being a job for them on the farm. Christopher suspected there had been plenty of work for them to do, but Jed either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay to keep them.
None of this deterred him. The farm was sufficiently remote for the solitude he craved whilst providing a very real challenge. In due time he could visualise extending the farmhouse to make a comfortable home, and building a new boiling-up house and pigsties some distance away from his living quarters, along with utilising vacant fields for more grazing stock. There were plenty of gushing streams providing fresh water; he would see about bringing running water into the house and certainly digging a couple of wells on the property. But all that could wait for some time. Initially he could see he would have his work cut out just to get things shipshape.
By the time he left the farm with Wilbert a deal had been struck, and it had been agreed that he would take possession once the necessary paperwork and funds had changed hands, and certainly within the month. In the meantime he would find lodgings somewhere other than with Wilbert and his wife. He had no wish to place his friend in an awkward position with his father.
His head was whirling as he rode away, but for the first time since he had learned of Pearl’s death, Christopher felt a glimmer of interest in life again. He didn’t fool himself that the road he’d chosen was an easy one, but he had chosen it – and that made all the difference. Here, in this remote piece of Northumberland, he might find peace.
PART FIVE
Wartime
July 1914
Chapter 21
After many months when the European arms race had continually fuelled fears of war, events suddenly unfolded with bewildering speed during the July of 1914. By the end of the month it was clear that British ministers’ efforts to avert the catastrophe of war in Europe had failed. As Britons returned from the annual Bank Holiday, Germany invaded Belgium. Britain’s declaration of war against Germany sent cheering crowds surging through London to gather in huge numbers in Downing Street and outside Buckingham Palace, singing the National Anthem.Young men in their thousands crowded into the recruiting offices, volunteering to cross the Channel and put an end to what that maniac, the Kaiser, was doing to the poor Belgians.
The men of the British Expeditionary Force were hailed as the heroes who were going to finish the war by Christmas, and patriotism was at fever pitch. However, by the end of August, after a bitter struggle for the town of Mons which resulted in a bloodbath, what was left of the British forces had pulled back. In under a month the Germans had swept over most of Belgium, crossing the Sambre and Meuse rivers and forcing a French retreat to the Somme, the last barrier before Paris.
In September, Prime Minister Herbert Asquith called for another 500,000 men to sign up for the Army, and in October trench warfare began. By November a continuous line of trenches full of weary soldiers stretched from the North Sea to Switzerland, and December saw nearly 600,000 Allied prisoners in German hands. No one talked of the war being over quickly any more.
Pearl had been beside herself when war was declared, for the simple reason she was terrified that James and Patrick would enlist. Although recruits to the Army had to be at least eighteen, determined young men all over the UK were lying about their age and finding a way to fight for their country. James was sixteen now and Patrick fifteen, and boys of that age were particularly idealistic. When young Jimmy Hogarth two doors down, who was the same age as Patrick, joined the Royal Marines one day and was away the next, Pearl sat her brothers down and made them promise they wouldn’t do anything rash. She needed them, she insisted. She and Nessie couldn’t run the business on their own.
The last five years had been good ones, and the business had grown swiftly. The house next door had become vacant twelve months after they’d moved into Zion Street, and Pearl had remortgaged and bought the property. This had enabled her to extend both the shop and kitchen facilities, and their living quarters. She’d had the extra space upstairs converted to a kitchen-cum-dining room – thus making the flat independent of the shop – and added another bedroom. Once the alterations were complete, Nessie had left her lodgings and moved into the new bedroom, and the arrangement had worked very well. Not only did the two get on like a house on fire, but for the first time in her life Pearl had a friend to share any problems with, and in that regard Nessie was a tonic. Nothing seemed to get her down.
Once the lads were working in the shop Pearl’s workload had lessened for a while, but the popularity of Croft & Bros. proved to be something of a double-edged sword. The success of the business meant Pearl was able to pay off the mortgage completely just before war was declared, but the shop was also a hard taskmaster. Not that she was complaining. The business meant the boys’ home was secure, along with their future.
James in particular had a flair for cooking, and she had introduced him to all her secret recipes and tricks she’d learned whilst with the Romanies. She found she only had to show him something once and he remembered it perfectly. Patrick, on the other hand, burned everything he touched and couldn’t get the hang of the simplest dish, but was great with the customers and had a gift with figures which meant she was beginning to teach him how to keep the accounts and so on.
For a short while life ticked on as usual, despite the news in the papers. There was great elation in January when British warships scotched a German plan to bombard East Coast towns and sunk the most powerful battlecruiser in the world, the Blücher – then outrage in February when German submarines began a blockade of the British Isles in a strategic gamble aimed at destroying the UK economy. Posters of Kitchener, his right arm stretched out and his forefinger pointing, were everywhere, stating Britons (Kitchener) Wants You. The bottom of the
poster carried the message: Join your country ’s Army! God save the King.
But now the telegrams were starting to arrive, headed On His Majesty ’s Service. But it was after Ypres, and then Gallipoli, when British soldiers were caught on barbed wire on the beaches as they tried to land, and were mown down by enemy fire, that an ugly phenomenon really took hold. Women, angered that their loved ones were being slaughtered in their thousands, couldn’t bear to see one able-bodied man walking the streets in a civilian suit. White feathers were thrust into male hands or tucked in jacket pockets or lapels, or sent through the post. It didn’t seem to matter that the individual in question might be in a reserved occupation or genuinely exempt on medical grounds. Normally gentle and reasonable women targeted other women’s husbands and sons and brothers with a cruelty that would have been unthinkable before the war began.
Whether it was the mood of the country’s women or the fact that several of his peers had lied about their age and gone away to fight, Pearl wasn’t sure, but at the beginning of February 1916 – a month before the Military Service Act that called for all single men between the ages of eighteen and forty-one to enlist came into force – James came home one day and said he’d enlisted. He was five months away from his eighteenth birthday. When Patrick, loath to be parted from his brother, followed suit the next day, Pearl felt her world had come to an end. Patrick was only sixteen, eleven months younger than James, and furthermore he didn’t look any older than the age he was, but with the call for recruits ever more urgent due to the ongoing slaughter on the battlefields, the war machine didn’t look too closely at things it preferred to ignore. Or that was how many mothers felt anyway. With the Navy already legally taking lads of fifteen, many a big burly Recruiting Sergeant had the idea that what was good enough for the Navy was good enough for the Army.
The next day, the boys left for training camp. Pearl didn’t know what she would have done without Nessie. It wasn’t so much the lads’ work in the shop, although the two girls she hired weren’t a patch on the boys, but the constant nagging worry once she knew they’d actually left for the front that had her beside herself. But with Nessie’s help she finally accepted what she couldn’t change. By May, when a brilliantly sunny day marked the start of the Government’s new ‘daylight saving time’, and clocks throughout Britain were put forward by an hour to make the most of work output in long, lighter evenings, Pearl was able to sleep properly again most nights. The boys wrote to her when they could, cheerful letters which made light of their circumstances. This changed after the beginning of July. The carnage which began as the Somme campaign opened resulted in 19,000 men dying in one day, mown down by German fire, and over double that number maimed, blinded or crippled. Old Generals – elderly and unimaginative professionals from the peacetime Army – refused to contemplate the problems of trench warfare, and the result was a massacre. The slaughter was prolonged for weeks, then for months. It only came to a halt in November when it foundered in mud and both sides dug in for the winter, the zest and idealism with which nearly three million Englishmen had marched forth to war gone for ever.
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