Easterleigh Hall at War

by Margaret Graham

  She turned on her heel, exiting into the entrance hall. There Matron and Sister Newsome stood, transfixed. Behind them stood Lance Corporal Samuels, his mouth hanging open. Evie smiled, breathing, refilling the balloon. ‘You’ll catch flies, young man,’ she told him. All around people were working, helping the patients, carrying stretchers. There was the odd shout, the odd groan.

  She managed to walk to the baize door without faltering, though the balloon was still punctured, the air easing out, slowly, steadily, and the weakness was building. She descended the stairs, walked to the back door, the one that the volunteers used when going outside to smoke their Woodbines. She must climb the steps and breathe in the air, and walk home, to the Forbes home, where she could sleep, just for a moment. She just needed to sleep because her head was bursting with his words, words which were jumping and juggling.

  She walked across the yard, then down by the yew hedge, through the birches where the cowslips splashed yellow against the grass, past the thatched bothy where she and Si used to meet. Sometimes they would kiss, sometimes they would take their bikes and cycle to the sea at Fordington. Sometimes . . . Or never again?

  She stopped, returned to the bothy, pulled out her bike from amongst the rest, including Si’s. It was rusting. She must clean it in case . . . But not now. Now, she would ride to the sea. There she could breathe. She pushed hard on the pedals; the right one squeaked. One, two, three, one, two, three, again, and again and steadily the squeak lessened and there was just the call of the thrush, somewhere a wood pigeon, the shout of a pheasant. She turned at the crossroads, and head down she passed the hedges in full May blossom, on past the turning to the beck. Now the stream ran alongside, slecky and turgid, then into Easton, past the parsonage. She wanted to stop, to be where Grace had been. She didn’t, she kept going through Easton, in the shadow of the slagheap, smelling the sulphur, seeing the winding gear of Auld Maud. People waved. She did not. Her hand was too heavy. Out of Easton, still on Brampton’s tarmac road and now the squeak had disappeared. One, two, three. On and on, gliding on Brampton’s smooth road. Brampton. Brampton. But the Bastard had no right to the space inside her head. Brampton. Brampton. He had money. How could he cut his support when it was his idea in the first place? She turned left as she and Simon had done, on to the track, over the bridge towards Fordington. It was cold but soon she would be able to breathe, and inflate the balloon, mend the puncture, somehow.

  On and on she rode until she reached the sand and felt the wind that whipped at her, the waves that pounded and roared, the smell of salt. It was so clean. She dismounted and let the bicycle drop and walked along the sand, stepping over the sea coal scattered the length of the bay. She shaded her eyes and looked towards the Lea End section. By, that had been a glorious day when Timmie and Jack had swum to save Edward. Silly Edward, what would he think of the Lea End lot fighting alongside Si, Jack and Aub? Yes, fighting with them, because they were still alive. She needed to say the words in case God was listening. They would come back here and they’d all be friends together. No one would be thrown into the waves again.

  She walked on, the sand slipping beneath her boots. There weren’t many waves today. It must be grand to float, to feel the water, to be rocked until you slept. Where was Si? Where was Jack? Where are you, Aub? Stop the fighting for a moment and let’s find them. Aub promised, you see, to keep them safe, all of them safe, him too.

  She lifted her head. Above her the gulls were wheeling and crying as the water rose to her knees, dragging at her uniform skirt, but why should the gods and Aub keep all her loved ones safe, when she had not protected Mrs Moore? She had thought she could come back without pay to help her do the job that was now beyond her. It had not worked. It never worked against the bosses, they crushed you, just as they crushed Timmie. But no, Jack said they hadn’t. He could have died anyway.

  The waves were breaking on her, lolling against her waist, pushing and pulling her, lifting her off her feet, then setting her down again. She forced her legs to move towards the horizon though she could no longer feel them, and the air was clean, it was deep in her lungs and it was time to sleep, to be rocked beneath the wheeling gulls and the pure air. She leaned back, watching the gulls, and sank into the sea which carried her as though she was a feather, the water soothing her face, again and again. She coughed. Jack had swum, how he had swum to save the parson. Her skirt dragged, she couldn’t move, her legs were gone, just absent, her arms too, but that was right canny, right grand, because all she wanted was to sleep, just sleep.

  Oh, how Jack had swum. In and out of those hurtling waves and then he had dipped below them, and above, and then below and had sunk. Timmie had caught him up, laughed in his face, and together they had brought in the parson. She had watched, seen, heard about it later after they had brought the daft man back together. Together.

  ‘Jack,’ she called. ‘Jack, stay with me while I sleep, I’m so tired. Jack, don’t leave me alone.’ The water was in her mouth, it caught in her throat, strong salt, the gulls were screaming, screaming her name. She shut her eyes, and now there was no water on her face, but it was drawing her down, holding her safely.

  ‘Evie, Evie. I’m coming. Swim to us.’ Jack was swimming to her, she could see him, and she smiled, but the voice called again, and it wasn’t his. Whose was it? It was there, in the distance, calling and calling. ‘Evie, Evie.’ It was kind, and she knew it, needed it. It was all she wanted. Jack, Timmie and Simon were coming, there, through the water, swimming, smiling. She reached out but they were swept away by the current. They called, but there was another voice too, the voice of someone she must find, the voice of someone who would save her because her lungs were full. Quite full and he would come and take her where she could sleep, with him, for ever.

  She moved her arms, because he was over there, but she couldn’t see him. She tried again, tried to reach out, almost. She was on her side, tumbling with the sea, her lungs bursting, she must open her mouth, she must call to them, as they were calling to her. ‘Come on. Try. Swim. Come on.’ It was Jack, Simon and Timmie

  She was so tired, too tired, and her clothes were heavy, clothes that were her uniform, but it didn’t matter, she didn’t need it. She could sleep and so she let the sea take her, down and down. She was rolling, gently, and she could hear them, Jack, Simon and Timmie, but over there, behind them, was the blue, the blue of violets. There was his voice. Jack was reaching for her, smiling, but he, the other, was coming, she knew he was, and now there was a flash of yellow. She reached out, past Jack, past Simon and Timmie, and he was coming. Soon she’d see him. Soon.

  But then she felt hands, digging into her shoulders, another snagged her hair, pulling. Her arm was gripped, pulled. She turned over, because that lovely voice was calling, ‘I’m coming, Evie.’ She smiled, reached out, and then there was pain because her arm was yanked up, she was leaving the voice, leaving him, because someone was pulling, pulling. Her shoulder screamed with pain, popped. Her lungs were too full. They were bursting. There was someone holding her, kicking, kicking upwards, someone else was hurting her arm, her shoulder, the sea was snatching at her, wanting her to tumble with it, play with it. Her arm was pulled, harder. The pain. She screamed. Choked. Swallowed.

  She couldn’t breathe, of course she couldn’t breathe, she was under the bloody sea, and now she was fighting because the pain was tearing at her, and she was kicking in her boots, and clinging to the man. Her arm was still being pulled, and her hair. Her arm was released, the man held her tighter, and was kicking harder, and now there was air, and the sound of gulls, and two men, and wind, and salt on her lips and she was choking, coughing, spitting out water and saliva. Pain roared in her shoulder and down her arm and it was Ron Simmons holding her, laughing, turning her on her back, and stroking for shore, with Steve Samuels helping. Ron Simmons was shouting, ‘Fine day for a swim, our Evie. Fine bloody day, you daft girl. Take your damned boots off next time. Thought we’d let you go, did you?’
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  They were in the shallows now, and Samuels was hauling her by her armpits over the sand and the sea coal, while Ron Simmons did a funny doggy paddle alongside, right into the shallows, and then he crawled. ‘Had to take the bottom of me leg off, Evie, the only thing it’s not good for.’ Samuels was taking her weight as her skirt clung and made life difficult as they struggled through the surf for the last two yards. ‘Heard the lot, I did. Bloody bastard, that little worm is. Needs to be dealt with, but that’s for another day.’

  They were out of the water, and Evie fell to the sand with Samuels on one side of her and Simmons the other. Both men were laughing. Simmons panted, ‘We came to find you in the kitchen but you’d gone. Parson phoned after you’d passed him like a whirling dervish, looking fit to commit murder. Your mam guessed you were heading for the sea.’

  They were both without their shirts, pale and shivering with the cold. Evie struggled upright. Samuels held out his hand to Simmons, and hauled him up. Simmons hopped, then his good leg gave way. Samuels took his weight as Simmons laughed again. ‘Ooops-a-daisy.’ Water ran from the nasal holes in his face. He wouldn’t look the same with a nose, Evie decided.

  Veronica and her friend Lady Margaret, who helped look after the recovering facial injuries, were running towards them with towels, which they wrapped around Evie, holding her close but avoiding her arm. ‘Matron gave us leave, busy though we are. I will pay for this, mark my words,’ Veronica shouted above the surf and the wind. All the time they were rubbing and Evie felt warmth returning, and with it came even more pain. She said, ‘I needed to sleep. I got confused.’ She looked out to sea. He was gone. He? He?

  Lady Margaret said, ‘I remember a time when I was confused, after hunger-striking and suffragette campaigning. I think that you are just extremely sad, worried and tired, like I was.’

  Lance Corporal Samuels was grabbing towels from the pile that Lady Margaret had dropped and threw one to Ron, who was sitting on the sand. They both rubbed their hair dry, and slung the towels, sopping wet, round their shoulders. ‘Heave ho, me old matey,’ Steve said, hauling Ron to his feet. Ron had his false leg in his other hand. Lady Margaret picked up their clothes, and together they stumbled along towards the Rolls-Royce, which was pulled on to the beach as far as was safe. Samuels said, ‘You need to get confused nearer home another time, Evie. In the pond would be good.’

  She looked out to sea again, hearing the gulls, feeling the wind, the cold. She said, ‘Thank you for saving me.’ She thought she meant it, but wasn’t sure.

  They drove towards Easton, sitting on towels with Lady Margaret in the driving seat, through the pit village, and straight to Evie’s parents’ home under Stunted Tree Hill. Her mam and Tim were there, and the range was stoked. Dr Nicholls had been sent for. He was at Fenton House near Newcastle and would fix her shoulder, which Lady Veronica announced was dislocated. They felt it best not to ask Dr Nairns, as if they did, either Evie or he would not live to see the end of the day.

  Ron Simmons sat next to Evie on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. ‘What are we to do? How do we get Evie’s job restored? What say you, Lady Veronica?’ His holes were still running and he held a handkerchief to them that Evie’s mam had given him.

  ‘It’s bigger than just me though, don’t you see,’ Evie said, her mam sitting on the sofa arm and gripping her hand as though she would never let her go. ‘How can we protect Mrs Moore and the hospital from your father, Ver? How can we make the economies he wants?’

  Lady Veronica was collecting up the towels, folding them to take them to the laundry at Easterleigh Hall. She had given Evie a sedative because the pain was ripping through her body. Lady Margaret was sitting at the table, fiddling with the strips of material waiting to be incorporated into Susan Forbes’ latest proggy rug. Veronica replied at last, ‘Steve told us all he had heard and Captain Richard is working on that now, and it’s something we all need to think about. We, Evie, not just you. And somehow we must get Dr Nicholls back, too, though the most important thing is for us all to somehow bear the waiting. Just as everyone else must.’

  ‘Talking of time, which we weren’t altogether,’ said Lady Margaret, looking at her watch, ‘I need to get back to my patients, I really do. It’s the dressings, you know. The moss is helping the pain of their faces but they like people with whom they are familiar to attend them, especially Major Granville.’ She flushed.

  Evie’s mother was now pouring tea, using the best china. ‘There is time for a cup of tea, and don’t fret, all will be well,’ she said. Everyone laughed but they were all so far away, Evie thought, and drifted now, down into the water, searching.

  Veronica received Auberon’s kit on 28th April, the same day that letters arrived telling the enlisted men’s families that they were missing in action, presumed dead. Their kit accompanied the letters. Lance Corporal Samuels took control at Easterleigh Hall and carried Auberon’s kit up to Veronica and Richard’s suite. He said nothing, just saluted, and left.

  Veronica insisted that it was she who unpacked. Her fingers struggled with the cracked and dried leather straps. The dirt of Neuve Chapelle fell on to her carpet. She took out Auberon’s spare uniform, his boots. They smelt of war, and filth. They were lice-ridden. Why? No one had worn them recently? His letter to her, written on the eve of the battle, was here. It had not been posted. So no one thought he was dead? Or had it simply been overlooked?

  She read it. He spoke of Wainey, their nanny, and their mother, how he had loved them, how he had learned at last their lessons of fairness, of responsibility. He spoke finally of his love for her, his hope that she would find happiness with Richard, who was a good sort. He ended, ‘Your ever-loving brother, Aub.’

  Right at the bottom, alongside his scarf knitted by Annie, and a pair of spare socks Veronica remembered Evie wrestling with, was his diary. She looked at Richard, who said, ‘It is up to you.’ While she read his last entry aloud Richard checked Auberon’s boots, pulling at the heels, which did not move. He seemed pleased. He said, ‘He’s got his compass, otherwise it would be in one of these heels. He stands a chance of getting back if . . .’

  Veronica interrupted. ‘Listen, Richard. Listen to this. “Of course, the sun rises and sets with her but as long as she is happy and loved by him, then what more is there? I suppose this is the height of love, something that does not require fulfilment of self. Please God, he lives through this mess, and that I can help in that objective. For her sake.”’

  Richard reached across and took the diary from her. ‘I think we must not read any more. It is not ours to know.’ Veronica stared at her hands, at the dirt that engrained her skin. She hadn’t cried for some days, but now she did.

  Chapter 7

  Near Neuve Chapelle, 20th March 1915

  JACK AND AUBERON shambled ahead of Roger and Simon. The German uhlans, cavalrymen who seemed to have misplaced their horses, had cut their packs from them, and all their webbing, including their belts and chucked them into a pile. Captain Brampton had retained his leather straps and belt as behoved an officer, and as such to be respected, or was it feared? The Germans had ripped watches from the enlisted men’s wrists, but Auberon still had his.

  The rain drizzled down as it had when they were captured a few hours ago; kicked to consciousness around the edge of the shell hole, up to their bloody eyes in mud and guts, with the noise of the flies, gorging on the bodies, overhanging everything. Jack had thought for a moment he was in amongst a meadow of bees. Hadn’t Evie talked of bees in a letter? Something about honey sponge? Another kick had brought him back to the noise, and stink.

  A guard menaced them with his rifle as they kicked up mud, the noise of battle still all around, the artillery pounding, the machine guns chattering, ‘Schnell,’ he bawled, hate in his eyes. Well, who wouldn’t menace the enemy who had sent over a barrage for hours and then advanced, death and hate in their eyes. When you thought of it, they were bloody lucky they hadn’t been run through where they’d lain. Ja
ck wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; they damn well would have been if Auberon hadn’t shouted, ‘Throw away your weapons. Do it now, Jack, or I’ll shoot you myself.’

  Jack asked him now, as they were jeered by other Huns weighted down by their packs, marching to the Front, the dusk lit by great balloons of orange, the ground shuddering beneath their feet, ‘Would you, Aub, would you have shot me?’

  ‘Of course I bloody would. Right through your heart, you bloody fool, Jacko.’ He was grinning. Jacko? Jack realised then what he’d called his captain. ‘Sorry, sir, can’t think straight. Won’t happen again.’ He snatched a look around, but no one had heard, they were too busy stumbling along, either side and in front and behind, a lot of Tynesiders amongst them, some Indians, poor buggers. Too bloody cold for them. Too bloody cold for any of them.

  Auberon slipped on the mud. Jack caught him, shouting as the guns became rapid, and vicious. ‘Because I called you, well, you know. Aub. It’s just that . . . Oh, I don’t know, I don’t get knocked off me feet by a shell every day and kicked awake to find a bayonet pointing at me gut.’

  ‘It’s not a problem, Jack, good to have friends from home. Best not in front of the other men, though, eh?’ Jack felt blood trickling down inside his collar. The shell burst had created shrapnel that had sliced above his ear, and he had shrapnel splinters along his arm, back and ribs as had they all, he reckoned. What was more, he’d lost time, they’d all lost it when the blast knocked them down like bloody skittles, ripping their clothes and flesh and sending them into the land of Nod. But at least they weren’t dead, as those who had been to the left were. No, they were disgraced, they were cowards, they’d surrendered. Jack felt sick.