Grace's Story

by Jennie Walters

  ‘Well, Grace,’ she said, looking me up and down, ‘are you cut from the same cloth as your mother?’

  ‘I’m not sure, ma’am,’ I replied, wondering what on earth she could possibly mean. ‘I’m not much of a one for housework or sewing.’

  She laughed. ‘Neither am I. What I should like to know is, are you a useful sort of girl who can be relied upon not to lose her head in an emergency, and doesn’t mind working over the odds if the need arises? And can you handle the dog-cart on your own?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, meaning the same answer to all three questions.

  ‘Jolly good. I want you to help collect the soldiers at Hardingbridge station and bring them back here - the ones who can get about, that is. Now, William, I should like to talk to you about converting the Rolls-Royce into an ambulance.’

  My father and I exchanged glances. This was going to be difficult. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hathaway,’ he began, ‘but Lord Vye left instructions that the motor-car was to be kept locked up until he returned. In case of accidents.’

  She shook her head. ‘Out of the question. We can’t possibly let something so useful rust away in the barn. Do you know, the Rolls-Royce company can fit an ambulance body on to the back of an ordinary motor-car? I’ve been finding out all about it. Don’t worry, Lord Vye has given me authority to handle matters in his absence. I shall take full responsibility.’

  So now we knew the shape of things. Our door had been open wide (wider than Lord Vye had probably ever intended), and Mrs Hathaway wasn’t particular about who came through. I wondered what old Lady Vye must have thought about the hoi polloi tramping through her house. Florrie was hurrying along the corridor one day when she saw the old lady approaching, so she stood to one side with her eyes lowered (the Dragon Lady not liking to be looked at). Unfortunately one of the volunteer ladies happened to be following on behind who didn’t know the rules.

  ‘She said, all cheery, “Good afternoon, Lady Vye. Not so bad for the time of year, is it?”’ Florrie told me afterwards. ‘Anyone could have told her that was a mistake. The look the old lady gave her by way of a reply! I couldn’t resist taking a peek. Poor Mrs Jarvis went as red as that bowl of tomato soup on my tray.’

  Yet we’d been shut away from the outside world for too long; it was about time to let in some fresh air. Why shouldn’t a few other people put those big empty rooms to good use or wander through the grounds? Especially men who’d been to hell and back so that we could carry on living in freedom and comfort.

  19 February 1915

  Dear People

  I am writing this to you all as I think my news must be passed around but aren’t I the lucky one, with letters from each of my sisters and mother too. I cannot tell you how much I look forward to hearing from you and it is the same for the other lads. Thinking of home helps us through the hard times.

  Things are not too bad at the moment. We are getting used to the constant barrage of shells coming over, Jerry is certainly doing his best to stop us sleeping. But our company sergeant is a very decent chap and keeps us cheerful. We even manage to have a good old sing-song sometimes. Now Mother I don’t know what you would think of the state of this dug-out because it is knee deep in water most of the time no matter how hard we try to pump it out. Last night a mouse fell off one of the boards at the top into a billycan of soup that we were heating up for supper! I don’t mind mice but you should see the rats. Huge great blighters, they are - Father could harness them up to a carriage. No sign of the socks yet but thank you for sending them.

  Well, time for sentry duty so I shall have to say goodbye. God willing, it won’t be too long before I’m home again. We shall have a few stories to tell each other then! I hope those lucky fellows you are looking after up at the Hall aren’t keeping you too busy.

  Best regards from your loving son and brother,

  Tom Stanbury

  The fellows we took in at the Hall might have been lucky in one respect - they were safely out of the fighting for a while - but that was about the extent of it. I had butterflies dancing in my stomach, waiting to meet the train at Hardingbridge station for the first time and wondering what kind of state our passengers would be in. One of the professional nurses was with me to help them on the journey back: a cheerful, fair-haired girl from London called Margaret.

  ‘There’s no need to look so worried,’ she said, squeezing my arm. ‘They won’t bite, you know. Just take it slowly and try not to tip anybody out.’

  We had two patients to collect, one poor soul with both his hands blown away and the other suffering from some sort of nervous trouble. The man’s eyes were starting out of his head and he couldn’t stop shaking. ‘Shell shock,’ Margaret whispered to me. She had to sit beside him in the dog-cart, holding his arm to keep him steady. His uniform was filthy, caked in solid mud up to the thigh, and he didn’t smell any too good either. The other chap was in a slightly better state; they must have cleaned him up at the field hospital where his wounds had been dressed before he came to us.

  It was a great shock to see those two men, although I was ashamed of my reaction and tried not to show it. They had come from the country where Tom was fighting now. Was he seeing the same dreadful sights that haunted their empty eyes? Would he be in the same state when we saw him again? Later, when I knew Margaret a little better, I asked her how she could bear it and still keep smiling: this constant stream of men with the most awful injuries, some of whom would be sent back to the battlefield as soon as they were deemed to have recovered.

  ‘Pity won’t do them any good,’ she told me. ‘That’s not what they want. I’m not saying I don’t cry sometimes - you wouldn’t be human otherwise - but I’m careful to do it in private. These fellows need reminding how things used to be, how they used to be, before this nightmare started. I reckon a bit of flirting makes them feel better than any medicine, and Matron can go hang. Telling us we shouldn’t get too familiar! What would she know about it, the old trout?’

  Her words made sense to me, and I tried to bear them in mind; not so much the flirting (which I’ve never been any good at), but just talking normally instead of putting on an ‘I’m so sorry for you,’ kind of voice. I’d have done anything to help our patients, and we all felt the same. Mrs Jeakes and Florrie were in charge of cooking for everyone, along with Dora and two new scullery maids from the village, but I never once heard Florrie complain. She and Mrs Jeakes were making plain dishes now, with no frills - stews and cottage pies, and jam roly poly for pudding - but I think they got more pleasure out of feeding those men than the noblest duke Lord Vye had ever entertained.

  I couldn’t do much more for the patients than ferry them to and from the station as required. The gig and dog-cart weren’t the only vehicles I could drive by now. Da thought it might be useful if I learnt how to handle the Rolls-Royce, to help him with errands on private roads around the estate sometimes. I could start it up (luckily it was the latest model with an electric ignition, instead of a starting handle), go forwards and backwards, and turn the corner. There wasn’t much time for driving, though, since Mrs Hathaway had come up with an idea for helping the men.

  ‘Do you think a few of them might be able to go out riding?’ she asked us one day. ‘The weather’s warming up a bit and I think they’d enjoy getting out and about. Nothing too strenuous - just ambling along on Daffodil or Moonlight for an hour or so would do them the world of good. What d’you say, William?’

  ‘Very well, Ma’am. They’ll need somebody to go with them, but we should probably be able to manage that.’

  ‘I’ll lend you Philip,’ she said. ‘Some fresh air would do him good, too. He’s working far too hard, though of course I’m glad of the help.’

  The Hathaways’ cottage was quite close to the estate yard so I’d sometimes bump into Philip on his way up to the house early in the morning, or coming back late at night. He seemed to spend all his time on the wards; you certainly couldn’t accuse him of slacking, even though he
might not have been doing his bit for the army. He’d always say hello and pass the time of day, and I was beginning to find him a good deal less annoying. He didn’t seem to be nearly as cocky these days; perhaps a spot of hard work was turning him into a nicer person.

  Spring crept up on us, and it seemed to me that Swallowcliffe had never looked so lovely. Our rose garden might have been turned over to growing vegetables, but the woods were full of bluebells and daffodils tossed their bright yellow heads in the wind. Silvery waves on the lake sparkled and danced in the sunshine, and the trees were bursting with blossom. Men might have been busy killing each other all over the world (for the war was being fought in countries like Russia and Turkey now, too), but the world kept on turning, and there was still beauty to be found in it. So we dragged some of the beds outside on to the terrace for the men to enjoy the fresh air, and those who could walk were encouraged to explore the grounds. It must have helped heal them, breathing in the peace of those quiet woods and fields.

  Spending time with the horses was surely good for the men, too. Animals are very comforting: they never complain, or expect anything from you, or look shocked or disappointed - just go along their own sweet way. Old Daffodil was steady as a rock, so even the patients who’d lost an arm or part of a leg could take her out. If they didn’t feel confident, my father would put her on a leading rein and ride alongside. To help them into the saddle, we fixed up another mounting block opposite the first. I’d hold the horse still in between the two and Philip would stand on the second block, ready to offer a hand if it was needed.

  We got to know quite a few of the soldiers who came to the stables as the weeks went by, and I became more used to being with them. They didn’t want fussing over or parading about (although the volunteer ladies were always squabbling about who should take them for outings), and I didn’t ask about what they’d been through unless they mentioned it first. Hardly any of them ever did. Some wanted to chatter on about nothing in particular, as if they were trying to drown out darker voices inside their heads, while others scarcely opened their mouths. Perhaps they couldn’t see the point of talking any more, or maybe they felt that once they started, they’d never stop. There was one thing they shared in common, though. They were all desperately sad. You could see it in the depths of their eyes, the trembling of their hands, the uncertainty of their footsteps. Any spark of joy in their hearts had been put out, and the only thing left behind was a deep well of misery.

  The saddest of all was Private Gordon Patterson. He couldn’t have been much more than nineteen, if that: a great ox of a country boy with stout legs planted on the ground and a neck as wide as his head. Inside that strong frame, though, his mind had given way completely. It was dreadful to see his staring eyes and the nervous tic which made his head jerk as if someone was pulling it on a string. Philip told me he had been the only one left alive from a trench under constant bombardment for twelve days; the soldiers who were supposed to relieve his section had all been killed. He wouldn’t speak to Da and me, but he’d often come to the stables and sit there on a bale of straw in the corner, holding his head in his hands to keep it still. Maybe he liked the familiar smell of the place as much as I did; he might have worked with horses in the past, or lived on a farm. Gradually he started taking more of an interest in what we were doing, and one day he picked up a dandy brush and started grooming Pippin, our little Shetland who pulled the mowing machine. I held my breath, wondering if I should step in, but he was as gentle as if the pony had been made out of spun sugar. From then on, he would spend hours in Pippin’s loose box, brushing her over and over again with long strokes and humming quietly under his breath. We became used to him being there and he was no trouble, really.

  One fine April afternoon, Da went out for a ride on Bella with a captain from the Hussars who was getting over trench fever. I’d been polishing leather in the harness room for a good hour, so it would be a welcome change to sweep out the stalls while the horses were away. As soon as I walked into the stables, I could tell something was wrong. Oats and straw had been scattered all over the floor, and Cobweb (the only pony inside that day) was dashing about in his stall, kicking the back wall. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, although I couldn’t have said exactly why.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ I called, ashamed of the tremor in my voice.

  Suddenly an arm snaked out of nowhere and wrapped itself around my neck. I found myself slammed up against the wall, staring into the most terrifying face I had ever seen. It was Private Gordon Patterson, far away in some private hell of his own. His eyes gleamed with madness and there were livid scratches all over his face, as though he had raked it with his fingernails. ‘Thought you’d come creeping up and shoot us while we slept, did you?’ he snarled at me. ‘Well, you’ve got more than you bargained for! I know the sort of things you do, filthy Hun, and I’m going to do them to you first and see how you like it. So what have you got to say about that?’

  I couldn’t speak; he was throttling the life out of me. All I could do was gaze into his crazed, bloodshot eyes and pray that he would come to his senses. ‘Not so cocky now, are you?’ he hissed, his fingers around my neck. ‘You’ll start begging for mercy in a minute, like the stinking coward you are. What mercy did they get, those pals of mine you killed? Do you still hear them screaming? Because I do. Now it’s your turn to start hollering, just like they did.’

  His fingers tightened on my throat. The only sound I could make was a strangled, choking gasp. A red tide rose up in front of my eyes, the blood drummed in my ears, and I felt myself slipping away …

  Nine

  We hear it said by all the soldiers who have come back and have been able to take a day or two’s covert shooting, that the war seems to have had a disastrous effect on their marksmanship. They are disposed to attribute it to a little natural ‘jumpiness’ of the nerves, after listening to the shells screeching and bursting around them for so many days.

  From Country Life, 16 January 1915

  I don’t know which of us heard the sound first, Private Patterson or me. Cutting through the roaring in my head came a clear, sweet whistle, to a tune we both knew well: ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary, a long way to go …’

  Patterson’s fingers relaxed a fraction around my neck. ‘Who goes there?’ he called. ‘This is my watch.’

  ‘Time to change over,’ came the answer. ‘Caught yourself a prisoner, old chap?’

  ‘Spying on us, he was, and some blighter’s run off with my bayonet.’

  ‘Looks like he’s surrendered, though. Better bring him back, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, no!’ Patterson shouted, shaking his head violently. ‘Got to kill him! Quick, before he does for us all.’

  Suddenly his hands dropped away and I fell back, coughing and spluttering in relief. It didn’t last long. Patterson had grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the wall and thrust it at my chest, skewering me like a butterfly on a pin. If I hadn’t been wearing the thick leather stable apron, this story might have had a different ending.

  ‘Run him through before he can squeal!’

  The other man raised his voice. ‘Can’t do that, Private. It’s against orders. You kill him and the sergeant’ll have you.’

  ‘Orders?’ Patterson frowned. ‘Got to obey orders, Tommy!’

  ‘That’s right, orders are orders. Anyone surrenders, we bring ’em back alive.’

  ‘Got to obey orders,’ Patterson muttered to himself. I could hear the hesitation in his voice. ‘Orders are orders. Bring ’em back alive, that’s what the sergeant says.’

  He lowered the pitchfork. I didn’t dare move, although my throat was on fire and it hurt to breathe. Patterson stared at me doubtfully for a second, before somebody stepped between the two of us. I knew already who it was, having recognised the voice: Philip Hathaway. I’d never been so glad to see him in all my life.

  Gently, he took Private Patterson by the elbow. ‘Time to go home, old man.’

&
nbsp; The soldier put a hand up to his head. ‘I’m so tired,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t seem to get any sleep these days. It’s the nightmares, you know?’

  ‘I know.’ Philip started guiding him towards the door, one slow step at a time. ‘Come along with me and we’ll sort you out.’

  I watched them go, still frozen with shock. Patterson’s shoulders were slumped and his head hung down; he looked quite defeated. Philip reached out to take the pitchfork trailing from his hand.

  I saw the private’s fingers tighten around it. ‘Take away my weapon, would you?’ he growled. ‘What kind of a fool do you think I am?’ He shook off Philip’s arm. ‘You’re in this together, the pair of you! I know your game.’ He was shouting again now. ‘You’re going to take me away somewhere and do me in.’

  Philip took a step back. ‘Calm down, no one’s going to hurt you.’

  But Patterson followed, lunging at him with the pitchfork while he shouted wild threats. The air crackled with violence and rage, and fear made my stomach lurch. Even if I screamed for help, there was probably no one about to hear and it would only make Patterson panic even more. He was standing between us and the stable door, a seething hulk of fury. We were cornered, like rats in a trap.

  Philip was being forced backwards towards me. Perhaps even then, he might have been able to talk Patterson round – except that suddenly he lost his footing on the uneven floor, staggered against a pillar and fell, sprawling helplessly at the man’s feet.

  ‘Now I’ve got you!’ Private Patterson raised the pitchfork with both hands as Philip lay helpless, ready to bring it down and finish him off. For a second, I wondered whether to try throwing myself at Patterson’s back and pounding him with my fists. He was so strong, though; I might distract him for a moment but he’d swat me away as easily as a fly. I stared frantically around for a weapon. There was nothing to hand, except for -