Grace's Story

by Jennie Walters

  I’m not sure exactly when the idea came into my head; as I walked over to Copenhagen’s stall, it felt as though my body were obeying instructions from somebody else. I lowered the bar and slipped inside. ‘Come on, boy,’ I whispered, quickly attaching a lead rope to his halter and taking him out.

  ‘What on earth d’you think you’re up to?’ My father was too astonished to do anything other than stare at me, for the moment.

  ‘Say he broke out of the field, or you couldn’t catch him, or he’s cast a shoe. Anything you like,’ I said, hurrying past him on my way to the mounting block. All that mattered was to get Copenhagen out of there before the army men arrived. There was no time to bother with a saddle or bridle, but I’d ridden bareback on the Swallowcliffe ponies plenty of times as a child, and this was a horse I trusted to behave himself - even though he was a fair size. Hitching up my skirts, I grasped a handful of chestnut mane alongside the halter rope, hauled myself on to his back and teetered there for a moment with my bottom waggling in the air. Not particularly dignified (lucky there was no one but Da to see), but Copenhagen stood as still as a statue, thank goodness, until I managed to swing a leg over and straighten myself up. The ground looked a very long way down.

  ‘Grace, you come back here right now!’ Father had broken out of his trance and was running towards me, but he was too late; I squeezed my heels against Copenhagen’s side and we were off! I heard Da shout again, caught a glimpse of his pale, upturned face, then we were out of the stables and away, clattering over the cobblestones into bright sunshine. If Lord Vye and the soldiers had been in my way, what on earth would I have done? Ridden straight past them, I suppose, for my blood was up and I wouldn’t have stopped for the Kaiser himself - but luckily the yard was empty. Copenhagen blew down his nose, scenting freedom at last after a day shut up in the stables, while I jolted about on his back like a sack of potatoes.

  I didn’t dare turn around to see if anyone was watching as we careered out of the yard, miles of open parkland ahead of us and the east face of the Hall behind, but it felt as though a hundred pairs of eyes were boring into my back. Any second now, someone was bound to glance out of one of those tall windows. The last thing they’d expect to see was a kitchenmaid making off with the Colonel’s horse, riding astride with her skirts and petticoats tucked up into the bargain! The very thought of it made me laugh out loud, and Copenhagen twitched his ears back and forth as though he were sharing the joke.

  We charged down a path which led away from the house and through a gate out into the park. Copenhagen set his head towards a wooded slope half a mile or so away, which would be the perfect place to hide until the soldiers had gone. A stretch of open grassland lay ahead of us and he eased into a canter; such a smooth, rolling gait that it felt like sitting on a rocking horse, and a relief after the bumpy trot. Clamping my legs against his sides, I buried my hands in his mane and held on to the coarse, slippery hair for dear life. A thrill of excitement ran through my veins. We’d done it! We had given the army the slip - this time, anyway.

  We were nearly at the woods by now, but the horse showed no signs of slowing down. I began to feel afraid. Surely he couldn’t keep going at this pace? ‘Hold on,’ I called. ‘Not so fast!’ The trees were looming up in front of us; I could see a path of sorts among them, but it was overgrown and tangled. ‘Wait!’ I shouted again, more urgently this time, as we plunged into the coppice and hurtled along the track. Brambles tore at my clothes and twigs were snapping all around me. ‘Stop,’ I begged, throwing myself low around the horse’s neck as we crashed through the undergrowth. ‘Please, stop now!’

  After what seemed an age, at last I felt him lurch back into a trot. I straightened up to see what lay ahead - and that’s when it happened. In one split second, a branch had loomed up across the path in front of me; ducking down to avoid it, I lost my balance and felt myself falling, the world spinning around me in a sickening whirl of sky, leaves and tree trunks. Then came a bone-jarring thud. After that, nothing more except darkness, and pain.

  Two

  Everywhere along the country road one meets horses, by twos and threes, dozens and scores, being brought into the temporary depots where they are to be taken over by the various units, packed into the waiting trains and despatched to the scene of action.

  From Country Life, 15 August 1914

  I hadn’t been knocked unconscious, only winded. Gradually my head cleared and I found myself lying on my back by the side of the path, staring up through the canopy of leaves to a patch of blue sky, far above. It seemed too much of an effort even to raise my head, but I had to find out where Copenhagen was. Shakily I propped myself up on my elbows and glanced around. He was standing a little further up the path, looking back at me with his head down low and a sheepish expression in his eye. All very well playing the hang-dog now, I thought.

  Then we both became aware of a noise that made me, at least, feel quite alone and helpless. Someone was running down the track towards us. I could hear feet pounding on the ground, branches cracking and a loud whirring of wings as a bird somewhere flew up in alarm. A young man in cricket whites came rushing round the corner, sending Copenhagen backing into the undergrowth with a snort of fear.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ he said, slowing down and approaching the horse with his hand outstretched so as not to frighten him any more. ‘There, now. No one’s going to hurt you.’ He reached for the trailing rope and tied it over a branch, patting Copenhagen’s neck and talking to him all the time in the same quiet, calm voice. Then he turned to me. ‘Are you all right? Have you broken anything?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I tried to arrange myself in a more dignified position, but the effort made my head swim and suddenly I felt violently ill.

  ‘Here, put your head between your knees.’ He was beside me in an instant, his hand pressing down on my back, forcing my head towards my legs. It was horrible.

  ‘Don’t! Let me be.’ I pushed his arm away, fighting for breath. I couldn’t disgrace myself in front of him; that would be the end.

  ‘Sorry. I thought it would help.’

  My eyes were shut but I could sense him rustling around in the leaves next to me. What was he doing now? Why didn’t he just go away and leave me to die in peace? Then I felt something soft around my shoulders and he was leaning me gently back until I came to rest against … a tree trunk, it must have been. That was better. I sat there until gradually the whirling in my stomach settled to a flutter and stars stopped dancing in the darkness behind my eyelids. I opened them. There was the boy, sitting against another tree a few feet away, watching me. I closed them again.

  Neither of us said anything for some minutes; the silence thundered in my ears, but I wasn’t up to breaking it. We sat and listened to the birds singing, and Copenhagen nosing about in the undergrowth. When I looked again, the boy was still watching me. He had untidy fair hair falling on to his forehead and grey-green eyes, I happened to notice, the same shade as the bark of the elm trees around us. His cricket sweater was the soft thing at my neck; it smelt of dried grass and Sunlight soap.

  ‘So, Grace,’ he said, smiling. ‘Nice afternoon for a ride.’

  He might have thought that was funny, but I didn’t. And however did he know my name? ‘That’s Uncle Rory’s horse, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘I recognise the white star on his forehead.’

  All at once everything fell into place. I would have to be sprawled over the path in front of Philip Hathaway, one of the family. (Whatever would my mother have said? I could only hope she never got to hear of it.) Philip is the son of Lord Vye’s younger sister - known to Ma in absent-minded moments as Miss Harriet, which is the most ridiculous of all, since she’s been married to a doctor for years and looks decidedly matronly. The Hathaways live not far from the Hall. Philip’s a year or so younger than my brother Tom, and at one time the two of them were the best of friends - before they grew old enough for people to notice. They’d spend hours together in the stables when Philip
came over to Swallowcliffe to learn how to ride, getting up to all sorts of mischief. ‘Go away, Grace!’ I can still hear them telling me. ‘Girls aren’t allowed.’ It must have been eight years or more since then, and three or four since I’d last seen him. I had always been a little jealous of Philip for taking my brother away, and I didn’t like him a great deal better now.

  Still, something had to be said. ‘I’m sorry, Master Philip - sir. I didn’t realise it was you.’

  ‘Come on, you don’t need to “sir” me. There’s no one to hear; they’re all at the cricket.’

  Of course, I remembered now. There was a big match on that afternoon: His Lordship’s team against the servants’. So that’s why Bill wasn’t sweeping the stable yard: he was a demon spin bowler. ‘Shouldn’t you get back there?’ I asked.

  Philip shook his head. ‘I’m batting last. They won’t get around to me for ages yet.’ He stretched up his arms, then crossed them behind his head and leaned back. ‘Thought I’d take a break. All that talk about whether the French Riviera’s going to be ruined for holidays next season, and whether it’s more patriotic to go out to parties or stay at home. As if any of that matters!’

  Well, I had to agree with him there. ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I said, thinking of luncheon parties and curdled mayonnaise.

  ‘Do you?’ He looked at me with that smile in his eyes. ‘I thought as much. When I saw you galloping up the hill, I said to myself, now there’s a girl who can’t bear to peel potatoes a minute longer and needs some time on her own to think about things.’

  How arrogant he was! I had no business losing my temper, but what with feeling so peculiar and undignified after my fall - and perhaps also because there was no one around to overhear, as he’d pointed out - I just couldn’t help it. ‘There’s no need to make fun of me! Does working in the kitchen mean I haven’t the right to an opinion like anyone else?’

  ‘Calm down. I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said. ‘Come on, you have to admit I’ve a right to be curious. Does Uncle Rory know you’ve taken to exercising his horse? He probably wouldn’t mind if you saddled him up first.’

  There was nothing for it: I had to explain. In the end I decided to come out with the truth, since nothing else sprang to mind.

  ‘Weren’t you worried about getting caught?’ Philip asked when I’d finished the story. ‘Anyone could have seen you. And how are you going to get the horse back again?’

  ‘He could easily have broken out of the field and wandered off somewhere. I’ll say I came across him in the woods.’ Somehow I struggled to my feet, but the dizziness came again and I had to grab hold of a branch to steady myself until it went away.

  ‘Take it gently,’ Philip said. ‘Here, see if you can walk. There’s a good view of the house from where I was sitting, further up the hill. We can watch from there until it’s safe to go down.’

  He untied the horse and I followed them slowly up the path to reach the point where it skirted the edge of the trees. My stomach hurt with every jarring step I took, but gradually it became easier to get along; Philip found me a fallen branch to use as a walking stick, which helped. We stood there together with Copenhagen and gazed down at the cricket pitch, to one side of the house beside the rose garden, with little figures dressed in white dotted all over it.

  ‘This war is going to change everything,’ Philip said, looking at them. ‘How can they not see it?’

  ‘Maybe it’s time for everything to change.’ We’re like the pieces in a kaleidoscope, I thought, swirling about when somebody twists it. Who knows what pattern we shall be in when the kaleidoscope comes to rest?

  ‘Well, this is a cosy little scene.’ A cold voice cut through the air, making us both whirl around. ‘You must excuse me for interrupting.’

  It was Colonel Vye. ‘I’ve come to fetch you back to the cricket, Philip,’ he said. ‘But you clearly have other things on your mind. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’re doing with my horse?’

  I tried to jump in and explain that I was the one who had taken Copenhagen, and why, but the Colonel was having none of it. ‘You’d better run along now,’ he said. ‘I think my nephew can account for himself.’

  So that was that: I was dismissed, and had to leave without another word. I stumbled down the hill in a daze of fury and shame, neither knowing nor caring whether they followed on behind. You could see Colonel Vye thought we’d arranged to meet up there in the wood: his precious nephew and some flighty young maid. He probably didn’t even recognise me as the coachman’s daughter who’d ridden his horse round the yard all those years ago. Yet I’d taken Copenhagen for his sake!

  How could I have been so stupid? The soldiers would come back for the horse another day, my father would end up in trouble with His Lordship, and now Philip was having to explain himself to his uncle. Even if he told Colonel Vye the truth, the story would sound so far-fetched no one could possibly believe it. I felt a niggle of guilt about that; but then again, I hadn’t asked for Philip’s help. Why did he have to get involved in the first place? He’d only made everything worse. I was angry with him, too, besides Colonel Vye - but most of all I was angry with myself.

  By the time I’d reached the Hall, this anger had frozen into a kind of icy resolve. I decided not to have anything more to do with the family than was strictly necessary, whatever the circumstances - neither Colonel Vye, nor Philip Hathaway, nor any of them. Philip would just have to get out of this mess as best he could. After a quick wash and change of clothes in our attic room, I flew down the back stairs to start the evening’s work. There was to be a special dinner that night, because Mr John Vye, His Lordship’s half-brother and the youngest of the old Lord Vye’s sons, was off to France the next week, and the family had gathered for the whole weekend to wish him well. Let Mrs Jeakes be in a good mood for once, I prayed, hoping to creep unnoticed into the kitchen. No such luck. She was standing behind the table, sharpening a large carving knife on the whetstone with a face like thunder.

  ‘You’re ten minutes late,’ she said, not even bothering to look at me. ‘Why weren’t you here at half past five?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, which was all to the good as I could hardly tell her the truth and couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘There’s a roast leg of mutton for dinner. What are we serving with that?’

  I racked my brains to try and remember what had been chalked on the slate that morning. ‘Parsley sauce?’ I certainly like to eat parsley sauce with mutton; Ma cooked it for us once at home and it was delicious, so creamy and fresh alongside the dry old meat.

  ‘Caper sauce, you numbskull!’ Mrs Jeakes growled, leaning towards me over the table with the knife still clenched in her fist. Her face was a mottled shade of puce, framed by downy wisps of pale hair at each side which had escaped from her cap. It made me think of a dandelion head that has turned to thistledown and been half blown away by the wind. ‘Caper sauce and carrots, so you’d better get cracking.’ The words shot out of her mouth like bullets. ‘What have you done to your face?’

  Even though I was stiff and sore all over (and would probably be black and blue with bruises by the next morning), the only injury you could see was a long red scratch across my cheek; from one of those vicious brambles, most probably. ‘I went for a walk in the woods this afternoon and fell over. Sorry, Mrs Jeakes.’

  ‘You went for a walk and fell over.’ She stared at me for a few seconds. Then she laid the knife down very deliberately on the table, as though she had to force herself to let it go. ‘You are my challenge, Grace Stanbury,’ she said quietly. ‘You have been sent to test me, and I shan’t be found wanting. I am going to turn you into a kitchenmaid if it kills me in the process, which at this rate is highly likely. So you might as well make up your mind to stop shilly-shallying about with your head in the clouds and start pulling yourself together. Now, what do we need for caper sauce?’ That low, menacing voice was making my knees tremble; I’d rather she shouted at me.

  ‘C
apers, Mrs Jeakes,’ I replied faintly.

  She nodded her head. ‘Go on.’

  ‘And butter.’

  She let out her breath. ‘Then you’d better go and fetch them, hadn’t you? And hurry up!’ The last two words were roared out at top volume, which gave me such a shock I nearly fell over backwards. (I noticed Florrie biting her lip not to giggle, which wasn’t very kind, but I’d probably have been the same.)

  Dinner was served to the family in the dining room at half past seven, and supper in the servants’ hall at nine; we kept plates warm for the footmen. You had to keep your wits about you once the meal started. Have you ever seen those jugglers at a fair who spin plates on top of long poles and have to keep dashing from one to another to stop them falling? That’s what it felt like to me, scurrying around the kitchen. The hours we’d all spend: chopping and slicing, rolling and pounding, roasting and boiling, from morning till night. Out went the dishes, looking almost too good to eat; back came the dirty plates what seemed like two minutes later to be washed up in the china room so the whole process could start all over again. Meal after meal, day after day - it made you wonder what was the point.

  When Dora came through from the servants’ hall that evening to tell us they were ready for their bread and cheese, she had some news to pass on. (Luckily, Mrs Jeakes had gone to eat her meal with the rest of the upper servants in the housekeeper’s parlour by then, so we were free to gossip.) Poor Dora: she has a terrible stammer and when she really, really wants to say something, it gets worse.

  ‘The C-Colonel’s g-g-g …’

  ‘The C-Colonel’s g-g-going to F-F-F …’

  ‘Henry h-heard that the C-Colonel m-m-m …’

  My ears had pricked up, as you might imagine. All evening, I’d been half-expecting a summons from upstairs to come and account for myself, and the very mention of Colonel Vye’s name made me even more nervous. Did he know I worked in the kitchen? Had he complained to Lady Vye about me? You can’t hurry Dora, though; any extra pressure and she collapses completely, like a soufflé in a draught.