Easterleigh Hall at War

by Margaret Graham

  Evie called, gathering up the cocoa and milk, ‘You’ll be late, Lady Veronica. It’s almost eleven. Matron will have your guts for garters.’ She left.

  Mrs Moore was either in the cold pantry or resting in her room. Evie and Simon sat on stools side by side at the table, drinking cocoa. He wiped the moustache from her top lip with his thumb and kissed her. She tasted his cocoa and all fear, all worry faded for that moment. She opened her eyes and saw the clock. It was time. His parents, together with his aunt and uncle who had walked in from Hawton, would be waiting for him at home. ‘Come with me after all,’ he said, kissing her hands.

  She shook her head. ‘I want to, but I can’t, I have the patients to feed. Mrs Moore did the back shift and needs a rest.’

  He kissed her mouth again, heedless of Millie who slipped past them, heading for the kettle. It was time for a brew of tea for the laundry staff, and as Millie lifted it on to the range hotplate she said, ‘It’s all right for that old bag Mrs Moore to put her feet up, then? I was awake all night with your brother shouting when he slept, pacing when he didn’t, and was I allowed to slip to my room like Mrs Moore? Well, no, what I’ve had to do is work solidly since I had to hike to the crossroads for the pickup cart, and Old Saul clopping through the snow as though he’s a ruddy snail. I’m right worn out and not in the right way. I expected better from a husband I haven’t seen for months, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  Simon’s grip on his mug seemed to tighten. ‘It’s the guns and . . . well, everything, Millie. It gets to you. You can’t sleep in the quiet, and when you do sleep you hear them and . . . Well, everything. You could try being understanding.’

  Millie put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, what about understanding me for a bloody change? The uniforms are ready, hung up in the laundry, well away from the boiling coppers so they won’t be steamy and damp. Disgusting they were, alive with lice, stinking like a lav. Right worn out we are, too.’ She strutted back to the laundry, which was off the central corridor. Evie rested her head on Simon’s shoulder. ‘What would it take to change her? Should I lock her in the coal cellar for a year?’ For the first time that morning she wondered where Roger was.

  They collected Simon’s uniform. It was pristine and louse-free and smelt of soap. Evie felt a flicker of gratitude towards Millie. As Simon left the laundry to dress in the nurse’s changing room Ethel called across, ‘It was Dottie and me who worked right hard on those, Evie, and an honour it was too.’ Millie flushed and returned to the kitchen to make the tea.

  On Simon’s return he looked grand, from his ankle boots and puttees right up to his cap. Evie walked with him as he wheeled his bike through the garage yard and past the stables with only Tinker, Lady Veronica’s pony, to snuffle his farewells, against the sound of pigs rooting in the straw. Sergeant Harris waved. ‘Keep your head down, lad.’ His voice was muffled by his mask.

  Evie and Simon walked on to the gravelled drive and stood outside the front of the house. In the centre of the huge lawn was the cedar tree. ‘Just as strong and unmoving as ever,’ Simon murmured, his arm tight around Evie.

  ‘In spite of breathing in all that smoke day after day,’ Evie laughed gently, because there were her favourites, Captain Neave with his almost healed broken femur, alongside young Lieutenant Harry Travers with his crutches and one leg, both smoking for England and keeping a permanent lookout for Dr Nicholls. ‘You’ll be left with a twitch, young Harry,’ Evie called. He laughed. ‘Keep your head down, Simon,’ he shouted.

  Simon waved, but turned to Evie. ‘God, I miss you every moment we’re apart,’ he said into her neck. ‘I don’t know when my next leave will be. You’ll write?’

  ‘Always,’ she said. ‘Just think of yesterday when you need strength. Think of the chatter, the laughter, the warmth, and your friends. Remember singing for us all, and most of all, remember me.’

  They clung to one another until he tore free and cycled through the snow, head down, pack on. Evie watched him until he reached the gate at the end of the drive and turned left for Easton. She felt empty, her legs heavy. In the distance she could see Stunted Tree Hill looming over Farmer Froggett’s farm, near to which was her family home. She dragged her shawl around her shoulders, waved briefly at Harry and John Neave and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Jack and Evie ate lunch in the servants’ hall with their mam and da, Tim and Millie and the rest of the staff, including Roger, who had apparently been kept busy by Mr Auberon, polishing his boots, belts and anything leather, and brushing down all the clothes in his dressing room. Perhaps his master realised that Roger was not the most popular person below stairs?

  There had been very little turkey left, but enough to create a splendid soup, served with the barley bread with which Evie and Mrs Moore were experimenting in case of wheat shortages. It was accompanied by cheese from Home Farm dairy, Mrs Green’s tomato pickle, and the remains of the goose and ham. Lamb stew had been sent up for the patients, and wheat bread, which they preferred. Two young men had had special requests. One was scrambled egg, and the other was liver and bacon. This was encouraging, because they had both been listless and unaware until Evie visited them late last night to see if she could stimulate them into showing interest in eating. They were sitting up today. It was a crucial first step.

  The volunteers had laid up the table in the servants’ hall under the footman’s eagle eye. Archie had been asked by Mr Harvey to delay volunteering for the war, as the butler needed support with his duties, but how long he would stay, who knew. He was now laying up the beer that had been sent down by Mr Auberon, who was lunching with his sister and brother-in-law up in Lady Veronica’s suite. Mr Auberon would be meeting up with Jack and Simon at Easton Miners’ Club, and would take them to Gosforn station in old Ted’s taxi. Ted’s driving was hit and miss but somehow he got people to where they needed to be, usually in one piece though the taxi was increasingly battered, and the hedgerows showed ever more signs of damage.

  It seemed no time at all before Evie was out again by the cedar tree, waving farewell to her brother, alone, because Millie had said she couldn’t face seeing Jack leave. Her mam and da had hugged him tight in the kitchen, where he had insisted they stay. Tim had followed him up the steps into the garage yard, clinging to his leg, crying, until Mam had eased him away and carried him down with the promise of a biscuit.

  As Jack walked away, following Simon’s tracks, heaving his pack up on to his back, Evie called softly, determined that he must have some joy, some good memory to take back with him, ‘Jack, please go to the beck, for me. It’s important that you do. Trust me. You need the beauty.’

  He turned, and waved. ‘Bonny lass, I need to get to Mart’s to see his uncle and mam, to tell what I know about his death.’

  ‘Promise, Jack. Do it for me.’

  He shrugged. ‘For you, lass, but you should walk there, too. It would be grand for you to get away from the kitchen once in a while.’

  He saluted, and began to walk away again. Evie ran after him, snatching at his arm, her shawl slipping from her shoulders. She said urgently, ‘You joined up with Mr Auberon’s North Tyne Fusiliers to kill him for causing our Timmie’s death when he deliberately put him in a dangerous area in the pit, but he’s still with us?’

  He grinned down at her, shaking his head. ‘Such an elephant you are, you never forget the rubbish I talk. He was a lad like the rest of us, put in to manage a pit by his bastard of a father. He had no experience and he made a mistake, letting his feelings get the better of him because I was a union man, a thorn in his side. Aye, pet, he punished us for my activities by putting the Forbes family in poor seams, but hate gets to be a habit. It’s a dark and dismal bugger and takes up space inside your mind and maybe . . . Ah well, we’ll see. You’ve moved on past it, I can see you have. Besides, there are enough shells banging about without me getting involved.’

  She blocked his path. ‘That’s no answer.’

  He moved her to one side. ‘I
’ve got to go, Evie.’ He stooped and kissed her, his dark eyes the same colour as his hair, coal dust embedded in his skin, blue scars on his brow, and she could hardly bear to let him go, but she did, watching as he walked on, looking at the cedar tree. He called back over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to see our bonny lad first.’

  Evie nodded. ‘Of course you are.’

  He waved and walked on, hearing her call, ‘I’ve slipped a package into your pack. Have a look and deliver it when you’re in France.’ He just waved again.

  Jack felt the gravel and snow shifting beneath his boots, heard Evie add, ‘Be safe, be lucky.’ There goes the pitman’s prayer, he thought and it works as well for a soldier. He dragged in deep breaths, but all he could smell was France. He reached the road, turned left and almost immediately right, down the rutted lane with its iced puddles, and the deeper snow drifted up against the hedge. The gate was snow-crusted, and looked much like Evie’s Christmas cakes, if you stretched the imagination a mile. It screeched as he shoved it open, the snow banking up behind it.

  The churchyard nestled several fields away from the Hall, but was still in the grounds. It was the Protestant village church, and there was no way his mam would have had Tim laid to rest in chapel land. At the time of the funeral Jack had objected to Timmie being buried on Brampton land, but where else was there?

  The snow had almost covered the many footprints that led the way to Jack’s brother. He added to them, knowing he could have found his way blindfold. He reached the grave, it too was cloaked in snow. He stood looking down, and when he could speak he said, ‘Well, bonny lad, I forgot what a fine spot it is here. Quiet. Bit of birdsong, and there’ll be violets in the spring. You’ll be liking that. It’s a damn sight better than being tossed into them great graves with a mass of others with no birds, just bloody artillery blasting overhead. Remember you thought you’d heard a cuckoo in February, or was it earlier? Bloody great pigeon, wasn’t it?’ He stopped talking, feeling his voice shake.

  He looked back at the church where the burial service had taken place and he and Millie had been married, in that order, with Parson Manton presiding. ‘Well, lad, what else could I do but marry her after she had been brought to us by Evie to have the bairn? Better than the workhouse by a mile. Millie named him after you, and that helped Mam, it did. So, as I say, what else could I do and what the hell does it matter?

  ‘Aye Timmie, it’s all a bit of a bloody mess, wouldn’t you say? Your lead soldiers were simpler, bonny lad.’ He surveyed the landscape: the hills that hid Easton’s Auld Maud pit, the Stunted Tree hill. He slung off his pack, hunkered down and wiped the headstone clean of snow. He traced the words chiselled by Da: Timmie Forbes 1897–1913.

  ‘At least you’re with your lead soldiers and your marra.’ He nodded hello to Tony, who lay beside his family’s lovely lad. He liked to think they were riding Galloways, the pit ponies they had loved, across fields in another world, not this crazy one. ‘Bad was it, Tony, man? But they brought you back from the Marne to the Hall. You wanted to smell bacon the night you were dying, our Evie said. So she cooked it for you and you died with your mam by your bed. I thank whatever bloody idiot thinks he’s God, for that. So much bloody life left unlived for you two, eh. Perhaps the rest of us can live it for you if . . .’ He stopped.

  At the base of the gravestones, jam jars held holly. The water had frozen but not cracked the glass yet. Jack had sworn he would not, but he cried, brushing the snow from both graves, until his hands were red, wet and numb.

  He took a lead soldier he had bought in Southampton from his pocket and placed it by Timmie’s jam jar. ‘Not like the ones you painted, but it’ll last even if I don’t. But look, Timmie, I have to tell you something, it’s difficult and I’m not sure what you’ll think, but I’m finding it hard to carry the hate for the Bastard’s whelp any more. I know, I know, lad, but I think that the cart that killed you would have run away in any seam, on any slope. I punched him in the front line when he stopped me going to find Mart’s body, but he let it go when he could have had me shot. It was then I felt . . .’

  He waited a moment, wanting permission to let go of the hatred he had felt for Auberon, but knowing he was bloody daft to expect a voice to boom out and give it. He patted the headstone one more time, and rose, hauling up his pack, wiping a freezing wet hand across his face. The wind was getting up now. Had Timmie understood? ‘We’re not marras, you know, me and him, but we’re something. Perhaps it’s just that we’re soldiers? I call him Auberon now, in private. Not a lot of the bosses allow that.’ He looked down at the grave again, and left, saying once more at the gate, ‘Aye, we’re something.’

  He marched quickly, turning at the Cross Trees crossroads, glancing at the middle spruce, which was where they’d hung highwaymen not that long ago. An hour later Jack reached the turn-off to the beck, where he and all the local bairns had dammed the stream to create a pool for swimming. He checked his watch. Why not, he had time? He hurried along the track, slipping through Froggett’s ploughed fields to cut off the corner. Last time he’d been here, with Evie, there had been a kingfisher. Did it still come in the summer? Why not, there were still trees – here. ‘Why not’ seemed to be something he said too often.

  He slipped through the gate on to the path and along the bank towards the dam, and remembered the feel of the water on coal-slecked skin when they were older and coming straight from the pit. He could feel the plunge into the dam, then the calm of the sky as he lay on his back watching the clouds scudding, the tug as Mart took him underwater, the bugger. He laughed. Aye, he’d been a bonny bugger all right. He reached the beck, picked up a stone and tossed it into the water. ‘For you, lad.’ Another stone. ‘For you, Timmie,’ he whispered. Another. ‘For you, Tony.’ One more, for Grace. God keep her safe. He watched until the ripples died, squatting on his haunches. He stayed, and stayed, rising at last when his legs hurt and his back ached. Aye, it was beautiful here, Evie was right. She usually was.

  He made for the road again, his boots muddy, his puttees too, damn and blast it. He walked into Easton, past the parsonage. He would not look, he had promised himself he would not, but of course he did. The windows were dark, but they would be. Parson would be on his rounds and the parson’s sister, Grace, was nursing in France. It was as well. He marched on, facing front. Ahead and around were the conical slag heaps, seething and fuming, the winding engines glinting in the sun, and over everything hung the smell of sulphur. Now he was really home.

  Lieutenant the Honourable Auberon Brampton watched from his bedroom window as Evie waved to Jack’s departing back. Her shawl had slipped and one end was trailing in the snow. She would be shivering. Behind him Roger opened the door from the dressing room. Auberon turned. His valet was in his private’s uniform and had therefore metamorphosed into his batman once more. ‘I have your clothes ready, sir, and your boots have a high gleam.’

  Auberon nodded. What a bloody silly way to fight a war, with gleaming boots, and one’s servant alongside to cater for one’s needs, and what a servant. He tried not to let his distaste show, remembering the stories he had heard from below stairs. He dressed quickly, allowing Roger to brush his shoulders, spotless though they were. His uniform belt was buffed. Had he used spit as well as polish on this, likewise the boots? The thought of going to war with Roger’s spittle accompanying him was so utterly bloody ridiculous that he had to walk to the window and look out again, or laugh in the harsh manner that overwhelmed him all too often. It was all so damned surreal. He pushed the window further open and breathed in the icy air. Evie had gone, back into the warmth. Jack had disappeared.

  Roger coughed behind him. Auberon closed the window. The room became quiet and it was too strange, this silence. He said, still looking out but this time across the lawn to the hills beyond, and then back to the cedar tree, ‘Best finish the packing, then, Private.’

  Auberon was unsurprised at what he had overheard between Evie and her brother. If Jack, as boss
, had used his power to do the dirty on him and it had resulted in the death of Veronica, he would have wanted to stick a knife in his gullet. He had been that boss, an arrogant, angry, bloody fool, and who knew if it was over between them? But it was only in Jack’s provenance to declare a truce. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the icy windowpane, feeling strange, out of place. He was torn between wanting to be back there amongst the normality of chaos, screams, the sudden laughter, the sense of belonging, the comradeship and grief, but also desperate not to be.

  Behind him Roger was packing his silver-backed brushes. Silver brushes, for God’s sake. Auberon checked his battle-scarred wristwatch. Too much time had passed, and he had things to do. He hurried down to the second floor, moving steadily to his father’s study, hearing the noises of the hospital all around: the groans, a laugh, a scream, a ‘Hush’. A nurse hurried past with a kidney bowl covered in corrugated paper. Veronica was working in the Acute Injuries Ward, and who on earth would have thought it? Well, his mother, for a start, God bless her good democratic heart. How she would have applauded Ver’s suffrage activities.

  Another nurse, Sister Moss, came from the Blue Sitting Room, now divided into a Rest and Recreation area for officers and nurses. The VADs had their own area in the servants’ hall.

  Sister Moss was checking her watch, which was pinned above her heart. He smiled at her hurried greeting, then opened the door into his father’s study, a place that had held such misery for him in the form of beatings too numerous to count. His father might be a lord, created by the Liberals in 1907, and his appalling stepmother a lady in her own right by virtue of her poverty-stricken aristocratic family, but you couldn’t remove the inner man and woman.

  He shut the door quietly behind him, leaning against it. The aura of the man remained, though his father had not been here for months, not since he had slammed his way here, having brought the back of his hand across Veronica’s face at dinner when she dared to mock him, or so she had told Auberon when they met at Newcastle Central station as he and his men were embarking for the Front. He shook away the memory of the bruises she had exhibited on her face. That time he had not been able to take the beating for her.