There was a crash as a mixing bowl fell to the floor. ‘Bugger,’ said Mrs Moore, and yelled, ‘Dottie, we need a brush.’
Evie looked from Richard to Veronica. ‘So . . .?’
Mrs Moore shouted, ‘Don’t be stupid, Evie, she wants you to beard the dragon in her den, that’s what this is all about. No one else has the courage to actually ask, not even Nicholls, even though he’s right glad we’ve hooked him out of that other place.’
Veronica was smiling tentatively now, and inching towards her husband. ‘You know very well you’re the only one she listens to, Evie. Please, please would you tell her what we’ve managed to sort out, and that includes funding for another three nurses, and two VADs to concentrate on the women, and they can sleep in the storage room beyond the wine cellar which was electrified along with the rest of the basement, and I’ve spoken to Millie who isn’t happy but will for an extra ten shillings a week . . .’
Evie put up her hand. ‘For the love of God, be quiet. Yes, yes. Now will you go, because we have to feed the multitude, and I will not expect that unpleasant look on your face from either of you when I produce the casseroles complete with these beans.’
Richard was staring at Veronica again, and then nodding towards Evie. Veronica, knowing Mrs Moore was now in the pantry, sorting the vegetables, came round the table to stand close to Evie. James was beginning to cry. Evie rubbed his back. ‘And?’ she asked quietly, disturbed by the worry in her friend’s face.
‘And,’ whispered Veronica, ‘Margaret is pregnant and will not marry Major Granville, though he longs for it. She feels that women need to make a point. She has her own money since her aunt’s death and could adequately provide for her child herself.’
Evie replaced the spoons she’d been examining, and wiped her hands down her hessian apron. James was crying properly now. She said, ‘Take him for his walk, and let me think. Richard, will you go with her, or perhaps stay here with me, but someone do something. This needs to be dealt with.’ She knew her voice shook. Pregnant? Another one? What about her? When would it be her turn to have a child? She felt a mixture of rage and pain.
She turned to the range. The kettle was boiling. Tea was the answer. The leaves had been used once this morning, but never mind. Veronica leapt at the chance of escape. Evie made the tea and stirred the pot. Mrs Moore came from the pantry, a large bowl full of carrots in her hands. She slapped it on to the table. ‘We’ll need that tea sooner rather than later, Evie pet. This is a damn sight more serious than bearding Matron over a load of women, this is a child’s future being hoisted on the petard of its mother’s ridiculous principles.’
Richard swallowed, and then the laugh burst from him. ‘I thought you were in the scullery, Mrs Moore. Ears like an elephant, that’s what you have.’ Mrs Moore picked up a carrot and threatened him with it. ‘It’s no laughing matter. We need to sort it. Evie, what are we to do?’
Evie looked from one to the other. She’d slap the silly woman if it was up to her, but not because of any affront to society. It was because Lady Margaret was blessed, it was because Major Granville had lost his face and had to live his life behind a tin mask, and struggled every minute of every day to find some sense of self-respect. How would her refusal be perceived by him? Oh for God’s sake, why couldn’t people just hug their wondrous moments and treat them as the gifts they were, for surely the war had taught everyone that no one knew how long good fortune would last. ‘Where is the silly girl?’ she asked Richard, and was horrified to hear the shake in her voice.
Mrs Moore shook her head at Richard. ‘Now Evie, keep calm. We need to think this through.’
Evie was already heading for the door. Good, they thought it was rage. But part of it was. ‘I’ll leave the tea to brew and will be back shortly. Perhaps you’d like to get your recipe bible open at wedding cake, because I’m not having this. There’s Verdun blasting men to pieces, men dying in Italy, the Zeppelins are causing mayhem over us all, our men are limping back to Blighty so we can repair them, only to send them back. No, I’m not bloody well having this nonsense about principles when that lovely man needs a wife. Dear God, he’s not going to live for more than a year or so Matron says, so what’s the stupid lump of a lass thinking?’
Evie headed up the stairs and through the green baize door, waving to Sergeant Briggs, and making a course straight for the Facial Room off to the side of the great hall. On the way, she heard Lady Margaret organising the VADs in the anteroom, and peeked in. A few extra years had not altered the woman’s looks, which still resembled those of a thoroughbred racehorse. Would the child have the appearance of a foal, or look like its father? That was difficult, because no one here knew how he had looked. Lady Margaret was pale. Well, she’ll be a damn sight paler in a moment, Evie thought, her hands rammed into her apron pockets so she wouldn’t be tempted to strangle her.
She strode into the Facial Room, used to the remnants of faces. She smiled and waved, and spent time talking to each of them, asking if any of their visitors had made use of the overnight rooms that had been created in one of the cottages on the estate. Several had. She had to concentrate on Tom very carefully because the left-hand side of his face was gone, and though she could see the exposed raw mechanics of his jaw and tongue as they produced speech, it was hard to hear what he said.
Major Granville was reading to one of the corporals by the open window. He waved at her, his tin mask reflecting the light, even though volunteers were painting them as close to skin tone as possible these days. The window was open because the men liked to listen to the birds, preferring to hear them from the sanctuary of their day room rather than outside. Lady Margaret had tried to have Major Granville transferred to Aldershot’s facial hospital but it was too late, and his injuries too bad. The good news was that some patients with facial injuries were now going to the Aldershot hospital from the ships, though some still went later. Soon it would be the turn of these young men too. Evie waved, said she’d come again, and only then did she enter the anteroom, gripping Lady Margaret’s arm, and escorting her into the passageway along from the hall.
There, in words of great clarity and force, she told Lady Margaret her opinion of her decision, stressing the need to think of a child in this world as it was now, to think of the father of that child, to think of Mrs Moore who would be denied the chance to make a wedding cake in this time of shortages, and to consider her patients who would wonder why the lovely confident Major Granville was to be denied the role of husband and father, in the eyes of the law.
Lady Margaret tried to interrupt several times. This was a mistake, because it gave Evie fresh impetus. It was only when Lady Margaret held up her hands in surrender and said, ‘Very well, I can see your point, Evie. I will marry Andrew for his sake, and my child’s, and for yours, because your anger moves me, and because you drew me back from the darkness when I came to Easterleigh Hall in ruins, after repeated imprisonments. I know how hard it must be because your friend Veronica has a child, I am pregnant and you are not yet able to marry Simon.Therefore, mostly I will do it for you.’
It was almost as though the woman had rehearsed her capitulation. Evie shook her head, silenced for a moment, but not for long. She gripped Lady Margaret’s arms, both of them this time, shaking her head repeatedly. ‘No, Margaret, you will not do it for any of these reasons. You will do it for yourself, do you understand? To want something for yourself is not shameful, it’s natural, and that is why you must do it, if indeed you do love Major Granville. If not, would you please tell us so I can get Mrs Moore to close her recipe book and let us all escape the misery that will be waiting for us in the run-up to the wedding.’
Lady Margaret leaned against the wall now, covering Evie’s hands with her own, her almost black hair streaked with grey, though she was still in her twenties. ‘You know, damn you, Evie. You know why I don’t want to marry him, don’t you?’
Evie leaned against the wall next to her. ‘Yes, I think perhaps I do. But it won’
t make any difference, Major Granville will die anyway, within a year or two, or so Dr Nicholls feels. By choosing happiness you aren’t tempting fate. Be brave, Margaret. This is harder than any forced feeding, any imprisonment. You are opening yourself to love and you will receive pain, but you will anyway. You deserve this happiness, all these men deserve to see it.’ Evie could say no more, because her voice would have failed her.
She squeezed this awkward, difficult and wholly admirable young woman’s arm, for they were now both weeping. At last though, all was agreed and she left to seek out Matron, who huffed and puffed in the entrance to the acute ward and then agreed to accept women patients. But of course she did, Evie told herself as she left, because she was an angel who thought she hid it well behind a uniform and a massive bosom. ‘Well, bonny lass, you don’t,’ she whispered, then shouted over her shoulder, ‘You’re an angel, a big one, but an angel.’
Matron did not even break stride as she swept into the acute ward, saying, ‘You, my girl, are a bossy and impossible commandant.’ Sergeant Briggs on the reception desk pulled his pencil from behind his ear, pointed it at Evie and grinned. ‘Nah, Evie, don’t tell Matron anything nice. She’ll breathe fire today just to cover up. Talking of fire, Dottie poked her head in here a moment ago with a message for you. Apparently Mrs Moore is breathing it down in the kitchen, because the clock is ticking and you are still absent.’
Evie stared at him. ‘I have never managed the art of being in two places at once. I will just pop on a pair of wings and flutter back.’ She spun on her heel and stamped to the baize door, slamming it behind her, then smiled. The staff liked a pantomime from time to time. As she hit the internal corridor and drew level with the laundry she met Millie, a clipboard in her arm, a frown on her face as she ticked off items. When she saw Evie she said, ‘Well, I think it’s disgusting.’
Evie sighed and tried to sidestep her sister-in-law, but Millie rammed the clipboard across her chest. Evie stopped. ‘What is?’
‘Lady Margaret.’ Millie’s pasty face was twisted with distaste.
‘That’s rather rich from you, Millie. I seem to remember that you had a bun in the oven when you married my brother. Have you written to him, by the way?’
Millie shook her head, her mousy hair lank. Behind the girl the coppers were boiling on the ranges while the staff stirred them with wooden poles. ‘Not the baby, for God’s sake, Evie, but that face. How the hell can she face what’s under the mask every night?’ The girl paused for two seconds while Evie studied her, wondering if she could possibly be any more loathsome.
Millie suddenly smiled, as though a light had switched on. ‘Ah, that’s right canny. He’s going to pop his clogs, isn’t he, any day? She’ll be rich then. Really rich.’
Evie hated her more than she ever had before, and slapped her, right across the chops. The crack echoed down the passageway, followed a beat later by Millie’s howl. Evie shoved her clipboard aside and strode on, storming into the kitchen, with Millie’s voice calling after her. ‘I’ll pay you back, Evie Forbes, you see if I don’t.’
No one said a word. Mrs Moore merely lifted her head from the recipe book and muttered, ‘Cake?’
‘The best we can manage,’ Evie said, changing her apron for a clean one, her hand stinging, and proceeded to tell Mrs Moore what had happened, and even Mrs Moore was silenced.
On Tuesday 4th July 1916 Major Granville waited with his best man, Captain Richard Williams, in the front pew of Easterleigh Hall’s chapel. Edward Manton stood in front of the altar in his cassock, looking older, his hair quite grey though he was only thirty-two.
Lady Margaret’s parents had decided to attend, to Lady Margaret’s displeasure, and sat in the front on the left-hand side of the church, accompanied by Lord and Lady Brampton, to everyone else’s displeasure. All four looked as though they’d sucked on lemons, and there were no others from their circle in attendance. On the right-hand side sat plain Mr and Mrs Roger Granville and a large number of their friends, many in mourning. The rest of the church was taken up with VADs, Lady Margaret’s friends, many of whom had shared imprisonment with her, Major Granville’s friends, John Neave who had snatched a few hours out of his weekend leave, and a good smattering of patients, men and women, including Ron Simmons, who had returned to take up his post alongside Richard as the assistant financial administrator of the work programme and the hospital. He was complete with a reasonable nose now, and a pretty VAD on his arm. Sir Anthony Travers had sent his apologies but Harry was there, of course, and not alone. He was surrounded by all the laundry staff and numerous VADs, not to mention two nursing sisters.
Evie had grinned when he had slipped into the chaos of yesterday’s kitchen as though he had the troubles of the world on his shoulders, and shared with her the fact that not only Annie, the laundry girls, and the housemaids wanted to hang on his arm, but also the VADs and nurses and he didn’t know how to choose. ‘Take the lot of them and one day someone will steal your heart and that will be that. Until then, make all their worlds happier,’ she had advised.
Mrs Moore, Annie and Evie sat in the back pew with Mrs Green and Mr Harvey, as good servants should, and besides, none of them wanted to meet Lord and Lady Brampton. Several from the facial unit slipped into the pew in front, to be joined by Sergeant Briggs. He turned round and whispered, ‘It will be you, one day, Evie Forbes, but we’ve got to get Mrs Moore hitched first and that could take some while. She’s so choosy. She turned me down only last week.’
Mrs Moore slapped his arm as the pianist lurched into the wedding march, and in came Lady Margaret, with her carefully designed dress hanging in such a way as to disguise the child she was expecting in three months’ time. She looked beautiful, her hair fell in soft folds, her face was fuller, more gentle, loving, and Evie felt a tug at her own heart, and called silently for a miracle, for life to be extended for Major Granville, who had just been decorated for his bravery. He had been standing beneath the cedar tree as Evie passed this morning at dawn, on her way to the hives, just to check that the bees were still there. It was what she did, because if they hadn’t left, no one would die today. She had walked towards him. He had held out his scarred hand, and gripped hers.
‘You have read the newspaper? You have seen the lists?’
Evie had nodded. ‘The Somme is supposed to be a place of tranquillity,’ she murmured. ‘We are expecting the convoys of wounded soon.’
He had said, confused, ‘Tranquillity?’ His eyes, within the mask, searched her.
‘Aub told me that the Somme is Celtic for tranquillity.’
He took her other hand. ‘I thank God he is safe, and your brother, Simon, even Roger. You will tell Auberon, when you see him, that I had a great admiration for him, a great love. He is one of the best young men I know.’ His voice was urgent. ‘You see, there is so much I want to do, and say, but I know I haven’t the time. I know that Easterleigh Hall will look after Margaret, Veronica has promised that. I ask you to help too, Evie.’
She did not belittle him by denying the need. She merely agreed, and passed on her way. Please, bees, be here, day after day.
Now Lady Veronica followed, as Margaret’s Matron of Honour. Harry and one of the Germans had worked with Old Stan to create the bouquets of white roses, with some pale pink blooms from Bernie’s rose, planted by Simon at Christmas. They had also worked on the church, and decked it in the tranquil colours of green and white. Myrtle had been included, for constancy.
Though the service passed quickly, the kitchen staff left before the end to put the final touches to the wedding breakfast, which had been a trial to produce, as Lady Margaret insisted that the restrictions that Evie and Mrs Moore had set in stone for the staff should be maintained. There was a preponderance of rabbit, which would please Lord Brampton, whose favourite it was, but practically no one else, since they felt that they were beginning to grow fur, and their two front teeth were lengthening of their own accord. Harry had muttered, ‘Don’t even menti
on my ears, they are elongating and they twitch, I swear they do.’
The situation hadn’t been altogether helped by Major Granville announcing that carrot patties would just make his day, though the red cabbage fricassee had helped somewhat. Mrs Moore had put her foot down at the mention of nettle soup. Instead Evie had got hold of cow-heels and between them they produced Italian soup, as herbs were plentiful. There would be no dessert, but Mrs Moore’s cake would come into its own.
She and Evie had used only honey in the cake, which was sponge. After test-tasting they declared it practically inedible, as somehow honey wasn’t sweet enough, crestfallen though Harry was at the news. It was now a multi-layered jam sponge, thanks to the greengage jam from Mrs Green’s pantry. Mrs Green had arrived with her bounty on a tray and a puzzled expression on her face. ‘I must check my record book,’ she had said. ‘I seem to be missing several jars. But perhaps I forgot to note it.’
At the wedding breakfast, set up in the marquee on the lawn, John Neave joined their table, looking strained and preoccupied, as did most soldiers on leave. He raised his glass to Evie. ‘Wonderful effort, as always, Evie. Mrs Moore too, of course.’
Within seconds, he was joined by Harry. Evie groaned. ‘The incorrigible duo are back together.’ They laughed and John told them of his need to leave within the hour, if he was to catch the train. ‘Get your foot blown off next time, old man,’ Harry said, ‘then you can help me with the bees. Much more conducive to a quiet life.’
‘Nothing would please me more,’ John said, grinning across the table at Evie. ‘Then we can annoy old Nicholls by smoking under the cedar tree again.’
Everyone served themselves from the buffet table, at Lady Margaret’s request, as it seemed the quickest way. Mrs Green slipped on to the seat next to Evie. ‘I see that you signed the greengage jars out in May. I do wish you had told me, Evie.’
Mrs Moore looked askance. ‘Evie, that is Mrs Green’s empire, and well you know it.’
Easterleigh Hall at War Page 19