Gather the Bones

by Alison Stuart

  Evelyn had made no mention of the previous day’s exchange over breakfast but Helen, still bruised and hurt by the events at Wellmore, could barely bring herself to respond to Evelyn’s attempt at conversation.

  The familiar words of the Morning Prayer service provided the balm she sought and by the end of the service, she felt that she had a better perspective on what had occurred, how it had been perceived and how circumspect she needed to be in future.

  Evelyn had a meeting about the church fete after the service and Helen took Alice’s hand and walked along the ill-kept path toward the hall. As she put her hand on the rusty gate between the church and the Holdston lands she heard Angela Lambton call her name and looked up to see Angela and Paul walking down the path toward her.

  “How was God this morning?” Angela said as they joined her at the gate. “I hope you put in a good word for me? I need someone on my side. Where’s Evelyn?”

  “Church fete meeting,” Helen said. “Angela, have you met my daughter, Alice?”

  “Yes, I have. She owes me a rematch over Snap,” Angela smiled at Alice. Glancing up at Paul, she said, “We’ve just been for a walk. This weather is glorious. Almost makes one like the countryside.” She looked up at the church. “You know, I haven’t been into this church for years. When I was a little girl, I always thought it would be the church I would like to get married in. Let’s go inside shall we?”

  Before Helen could reply, Angela took her arm and propelled her back toward the church. The parishioners had dispersed and the massive oak door stood open. Angela led them back inside and they walked slowly down the chancel, the women’s heels and Paul’s uneven step echoing in the empty building.

  “Have you seen the Morrow family vault, Helen?” Angela said with a mischievous smile. “They’re all there, right up to Sir Gerald.” Her face sobered. “God, that was a dismal funeral. You were–” she glanced at Paul, “–fortunate to miss it.”

  Helen recalled Sir Gerald had died not long after Charlie’s death, at a time when Paul would still have been hospitalized. For Evelyn to have lost her son and then her husband in rapid succession must have been heartbreaking.

  “Do you have the key to the vault, Paul?” Angela asked.

  “Why would I carry a key to the vault?” Paul responded tersely. “You don’t really want to go down there, do you?”

  “Of course I do. It’s so deliciously creepy. Alice will love it, won’t you?” She addressed the child who was tracing the carved face of the first Morrow at Holdston, Sir Albury, with her finger. “The Scarvell family vault is positively antiseptic in comparison.”

  Paul sighed. “The verger’s outside. Alice, can you go and ask if we can borrow the keys?”

  Alice skipped off in search of the verger and returned with a heavy iron key which she presented to Paul. He tossed it to Angela.

  “There you go, be my guest.”

  Angela caught the key and slid it into the lock. It turned stiffly and she swung the grating open. Beyond the gate was a wooden door with a heavy latch but no padlock. Angela lifted it and the door swung back on creaking hinges.

  She looked back. “Anyone else coming?”

  “Not me.” Paul leaned against the nearest pew.

  “Helen?”

  Helen looked at Paul, but his attention was fixed on the beams of the ceiling.

  “See if you can find a candle, Helen,” Angela said. “It’s as black as pitch in here.”

  Curiosity overcame natural revulsion and Helen had no difficulty finding a box of half-burned candles near the prayer books at the back of the church. Angela lit two with her cigarette lighter and they stepped into the vault. Alice looked up at her, her eyes wide with excitement.

  “May I come too?”

  “Certainly not,” Helen said. “You may wait here with Uncle Paul.”

  Alice’s face fell and she sank into a sulky heap on the nearest pew.

  The air in the vault smelled close and musty and Helen’s nose twitched. Death, even old death, had a particular scent. Angela held up her candle. The stone-flagged room was lined on two sides with stone shelves on which rested a large number of coffins. From what Helen could see, the older coffins were pushed to one side to make room for the newer. The overall effect was one of careless neglect as if the more recent occupants had been shoved in where they would fit.

  The oppressive atmosphere closed in on her and her candle went out as a breath of icy air touched the back of her neck.

  Helen shivered. “That’s enough for me,” she said.

  “Don’t you want to find the secret tunnel?” Angela said.

  “No thank you,” Helen said. “I’m going back up.”

  Compared to the gloom of the crypt, the church seemed filled with warmth and light. Helen ran a hand through her hair as she rejoined Paul. “I would hate to be buried down there.” Paul nodded. “I agree with you.”

  “I’m glad Charlie isn’t in there,” Helen said.

  He looked down at her but his eyes were in shadow and unreadable.

  “So am I.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Angela emerged from the vault, blowing out her candle. She shut the door, locked the grate and gave the key back to Alice. “Take that back to Mr. Potter, Alice.”

  “If you’ve seen enough, I would like to breathe some of that fresh air now.” Paul strode from the church. In the churchyard, he took a deep breath and leaned against the wall.

  “Do you believe there is a tunnel from the house to the church?” Helen asked as they strolled back along the path to the house.

  Paul shrugged. “An old house, an old church. It’s possible. Charlie and I looked for it when we were boys but we never found it.”

  Alice, trailing behind the adults, piped up. “Mummy? Where’s Daddy?”

  All three adults stopped quite still. Helen and Angela turned to look at the child. Paul didn’t move. Helen glanced at him and saw the color had drained from his face.

  Alice looked up at her mother with large, serious eyes. “I mean,” she continued, oblivious to the adults’ discomfiture. “I know he’s dead, but I was just wondering if we could go and visit him?”

  Helen swallowed. “Daddy doesn’t have a grave like these,” she said, sweeping a hand over the tombstones. “He...he’s somewhere in Belgium where the war was fought. I don’t know where.”

  “Oh,” Alice said. “Never mind.”

  Angela looked up at the church clock. “Oh, good lord, is that time? I’m expected back at Wellmore for lunch. With any luck, those dreary debutantes will have dispersed. Paul, be a dear and walk me to the stables.”

  When Paul didn’t respond, Helen touched his elbow. He seemed lost, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. “Paul?

  Paul looked down at her, the green eyes refocusing on her face.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Something about stables, Ange?”

  Angela tucked her arm into his and they walked together in the direction of the stables.

  Alice, bored with the company of adults, ran on ahead. She turned and looked back.

  “Coming, Mummy?”

  “I left my riding gloves in the stable this morning, Alice. I’ll just fetch them,” Helen said and followed the path others had taken.

  She stopped at the entrance to the stableyard, drawing back into the shadows as she saw Paul and Angela beside the mounting block. Angela had the reins of her horse looped over her arm and unaware of Helen’s presence, they turned to face each other. Angela lifted her hand and touched Paul’s cheek in a gesture that was at once tender and solicitous.

  Paul bent his head and kissed the woman, a light kiss on the mouth that Angela responded to by placing her hands on his shoulder. As Angela climbed into the saddle she bent down and said something to Paul. He laughed in response and slapped the horse on the rump.

  Helen turned and hurried back toward the house. In the courtyard she stopped and leaned against the wall, gathering her breath and her thoughts. Angela
had intimated that there had been something more than friendship between herself and Paul. Did she want to revive the relationship? Helen took a steadying breath. She should be glad if they had rediscovered each other. They both deserved happiness in their lives. Anyway, she told herself fiercely, as she walked back into the house, it was none of her business.

  What she didn’t understand was the unfamiliar ache that the thought left in her heart.

  * * * *

  Paul stood at the stable yard gate long after Angela had ridden away. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, his thoughts not of Angela but of a simple, obvious, innocent question from a child. A question he couldn’t answer: “Where’s Daddy?”

  He braced himself, dismissing the dark memories. It would be a good half hour until lunch. That gave him time to sort through some notes. In the library he found Helen standing at the window, her arms folded in front of her in a curiously defensive posture. He could not see her face, only her straight back and the long graceful neck, revealed now by her short haircut.

  “Helen?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell but she did not turn to face him. “Do you know where he is, Paul?”

  Paul took a deep breath but said nothing.

  Helen turned to face him. He expected to see signs of tears again but her face, while pale and strained, showed no sign of obvious distress.

  Paul looked up at the ceiling, trying to find the right response, all the platitudes he had worked so hard at developing deserting him when he needed them most. When he brought his gaze back to Helen’s, he said, “What do you want me to tell you, Helen?”

  “As much as you do remember.”

  He looked away, the confused visions of his nightmares crowding in on him. He closed his eyes, knowing as he did so, that the bursts of light and the tightening band around his temples presaged a migraine.

  “Did you kill him?”

  Her words took his breath and he knew the shock registered in his face. It was not the first time he had heard the whisper but to hear it come from Helen appalled him. “Why do you say that?”

  “I heard some of the others gossiping yesterday. They said there were stories that you –”

  “Helen,” he cut in sharply. “Is that what upset you yesterday?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Mostly. There were other things to do with Charlie and me.”

  “James Massey,” Paul said in disgust. “He is one of those malicious people with nothing better to do with their time except cause trouble. Helen, Charlie was as close to me as any brother could have been and there is not a day goes by when I don’t feel his loss as keenly as you must, but I can’t tell you what happened.”

  “Will you ever, Paul?”

  He met her eyes wanting to say, “Perhaps one day. One day I will, but not now, not here.”

  “You heard Alice?” she continued. “It’s the first time she has ever asked about her father. What do I say? How do I explain it to her?”

  “You can’t, Helen.”

  She turned back to the window, bowing her head.

  He knew he hadn’t answered her question, hadn’t denied the accusation. He longed to touch her, reassure her, tell her what she so desperately wanted to know–instead he turned away, closing the door behind him, intent only on reaching the sanctuary of his bedroom before the black beast of the migraine felled him completely.

  * * * *

  Passchandaele, Belgium September 16, 1917 2200 hours.

  It seemed almost impossible that in the middle of a war there could be such complete and utter silence. Paul twisted the matchbox in his fingers, conscious of the three taut faces turned toward him. Brent, only just twenty, a Lieutenant commanding a company, chewed his lip and glanced nervously at Collins, Captain and Commander of B Company. Collins had been at the front too long. His nerves had gone and he had trouble hiding the fact that his hand shook as he brought the stub of his cigarette to his mouth.

  They all knew the answer and they all knew why Paul hesitated.

  He set the matchbox down on the table and turned to the third person seated at the table.

  “Charlie,” he said, forcing himself to meet his cousin’s eyes.

  Charlie neither blinked nor looked away and in that brief moment his eyes said more than words ever would. They had discussed it often enough over the past few weeks.

  “Captain Morrow, your objective is the pill box,” Paul said, spreading his hand over the map on the table before him. They all knew the layout of the German lines. They had been staring at them for months.

  “How?” Brent exclaimed

  “The pillboxes are designed for mutual support,” Paul said. “The slits are on the diagonal.” He drew a rough sketch on a corner of the map. “Their front is blind”.

  “Their front may be blind, but there are plenty of other eyes,” Collins put in.

  Paul nodded. “H hour is zero six hundred. Charlie will take two men armed with grenades out into no man’s land while it is still dark.”

  “The brass’ll skin you alive!” Collins said.

  “The brass won’t care,” Paul said bitterly. “It’s merely a heavily armed patrol.”

  “The Huns’ll see them coming.”

  “Charlie knows to keep low and use the shell holes as cover and if we have a feint at the far end of the line, that will keep them busy until Charlie can reach the pill box.”

  “What sort of feint?” Brent asked.

  “A bit of obvious movement.”

  Brent creased his brow. “But, won’t that give the whole game away?”

  “It won’t matter. We’re going over at H hour and the game will be on for one and all,” Paul said.

  “What about the artillery barrage?” Collins put in. “Those idiots can’t hit anything,” Charlie said.

  “You’ve spent too long in Australia. You’re starting to sound like them.” Paul said with a half smile. “Brent, you’ll provide the diversion and then act as the reserve once we go over the top. Collins, you’ll take your company and Charlie’s as the main attack force.”

  Collins raised his shaking hand and wiped his mouth. “And you, sir?” he asked.

  “I’ll be with you in the main charge,” Paul said. “Our objective is to take these trenches.” He indicated the map. “And if we can push through the objective, then we damn well will.”

  “Is that in your orders, sir?” Collins asked with a suspicious frown.

  Paul just looked at him.

  After the others had gone, Paul and Charlie sat back against the cold earth of the dugout and smoked in silence.

  “I’ve no choice, Charlie.”

  Charlie blew out the smoke. “I know that. We’ve discussed it often enough. Time to see if it works.”

  Paul closed his eyes. “I can refuse–”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool, Paul. If you refuse it won’t change anything. You’ll be shot as a coward and we’ll all still be going over the top into certain death. It’s better for us all if you’re with us.”

  Paul shot his cousin a rueful look. “Well, you better damn well make sure it works, Captain Morrow.”

  Chapter 12

  Helen knocked on Paul’s door and sighed with relief when she heard his voice. He sat in his chair by the fire, a book in his hand. Looking up at her, he set the book aside. Sarah had told her at breakfast that a migraine had laid him out and his face was still ashen with dark circles under his eyes.

  “Sarah said you wanted to see me,” Helen said. “Are you better?”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m so sorry about what I said yesterday,” she said, filled with remorse and a nagging fear that it had been their confrontation that had brought on the migraine.

  “What for? You didn’t give me a migraine,” he said. “It had been threatening all morning.”

  “I’ve not been idle while you’ve been out of action.” Helen smiled. “I finished your report.”

  She handed him the papers and he flicked through the
report, before laying it to one side.

  “Thank you. That’s saved me days of work. Now, I have something for you.”

  He pulled himself to his feet in a manner that suggested every bone in his body ached. When he saw her face, he gave a rueful smile.

  “I feel a hundred years old tonight.”

  He limped over to the table by the window and gathered some sheets of paper together. He turned back to face her and gestured at the spare chair.

  “If you’re in no hurry, sit down.”

  He handed her the papers and resumed his own chair.

  “The diary. You broke the code.” Helen looked up at him.

  “It wasn’t that hard but I have to give the credit to my great-grandmother, it was clever.”

  Helen scanned the pages, trying to make sense of Paul’s now familiar scrawl that was completely at odds with Suzanne Morrow’s feminine hand in the diary itself.

  “January 30, 1812,” she read aloud. “For the last two days I have been employed in the compilation of this simple yet effective code. I am sure a man of no great intelligence could see through it at once but for a simple woman, it will serve my purpose well enough.”

  Paul smiled ruefully. “It is good to think of myself as a man of no great intelligence. It’s taken me hours.”

  “...A letter came from Robert this morning. A brief epistle which I dutifully read to Lady Morrow. Another recounting of a battle, of the cold and the shortage of food. Robert is so far away. S is here in England and I do not know when I will see him again. At night before I sleep, I imagine his face. Why is it when I close my eyes, I can see this man so clearly and not the face of my husband?

  “Lady Morrow remarked on my high color and asked me if I ailed. Indeed she insisted I retire to my bedchamber for the morning. She is of the opinion that I am far too excitable.”

  “She seems to be a woman ruled by her heart not her head,” Helen commented. “Surely she knew the consequences of conducting an affair of this nature. If she was to be found out, she would be ruined.”