‘But you don’t intend to…’ Honor lowered her voice to the barest whisper and blushed, ‘…indulge in married love, do you? Say you don’t, Em! What if you have a baby? That’s what happens, you know. You should be thinking of getting married as soon as possible. I’m sure your father and Alec would give their consent. Yes, yes.’ Honor nodded, as if seeking to reassure her worries about this. ‘You must take the wisest course, Em. You’d be a properly respected widow if Ben were to—’
‘Don’t say that! Don’t even think it.’ Emilia reached out a work-roughened hand and tenderly touched Honor’s alarmed face. ‘Whatever happens, Ben will come back to me, and Billy’s coming back to start a future with you. They have to. We must believe they will.’
* * *
Emilia waved goodbye to Dolly and Honor at a spot where the lane forked off in two directions, one leading to Hennaford, the other, around an immediate bend, uphill to Ford House, eventually another route to the main road, just inside the village boundary. Eager to slip back across the bridge and into the field where Ben would be, Emilia was startled to see Alec blocking her way.
‘I thought you might be here about now.’ His expression was stone-cold. ‘I may need your support, and Ben’s. Stay here, Emilia, while I fetch him.’
‘Alec—’ Emilia started following him – ‘what’s this all about?’
‘Just do as I say.’ Something severe and grave in his tone made her obey. Speculating about the reason behind his mysterious behaviour, she stared down at the fast-moving muddied waters of the ford, which emerged from the field through an unseen shute under the bridge, and after passing across the lane it carried on, wider and stony-bottomed, in sight for about five hundred yards, between two other fields.
Moments later, Ben was staring at her, equally baffled, as Alec headed off for Ford House.
‘He’s ordered that we wait here for ten minutes then follow him and stay outside the gate,’ Ben said. ‘Alec wouldn’t say what it’s about. I’ve never seen him looking so deadly serious.’
‘For a moment I thought he’d come to tick me off for being here to meet you. Well, we’d better do what he wants, at least we can be alone for a while.’
They kissed and stayed arm in arm. Emilia homed in on the vivid redness spreading down from under Ben’s eye patch to his cheekbone. She was about to say he should see the doctor again, but he said, ‘Listen, darling, I’ve been in the woods turning our old camp into a comfortable place for us to be together. All we need now is the chance to be alone for a reasonable length of time. Do you think Honor will cover for you?’
‘I’m not sure. You know how she hates lying.’
‘You’ll just have to convince her then!’
‘There’s no need to raise your voice at me, Ben. Is your eye troubling you?’
‘It’s tender, nothing more. I’m only wearing this silly patch to be sensible. Sorry, Em, for snapping at you.’
He turned his head away. Shortly before Alec had called him from where he was concealed beyond the field gate, he had been rubbing around his eye, muttering and swearing in pain and frustration. It still felt as if the particle of grit was stabbing into it. He had blinked and blinked, and wiped thick discoloured moisture away with the clean handkerchief Emilia had given him after breakfast. Then he had looked down at the waterlogged ground. He could see as usual with the right eye, but there was a hazy patch, the size of a pea, blocking his vision on the left. It just had to clear. He would not be allowed to take up the commission promised to him if it didn’t. He had to serve. It’s what he desired with all his heart and mind – even before Emilia, at this moment. One day soon someone would be handing him a white feather.
* * *
Alec let himself into his brother’s house using the key Tristan had entrusted to him. Ursula Harvey had good reason to keep her doors locked. Some of the villagers had walked in before and vilified her over her unfaithfulness to her well-liked and highly respected husband. His popularity and Henry’s war decoration were the reasons why the Harvey family had not been written off socially.
Alec crept into the parlour. Ursula was there alone, with a tea tray set for one, working on a square of embroidery beside a docile fire. In a decorous high-necked blouse and plain skirt covering her ankles, and singing softly to herself, she made a perfect wifely picture. But, just as Lucy had been, her best function as a wife had turned out to be merely decorative. Here was a prepossessing, dark-haired woman with prized white skin, beautiful on the outside, but treacherous and selfish within. Many times he had implored her to give up her lover, to consider Jonathan’s feelings, if not Tristan’s. Tristan, who loved her so much, had fought back tears, perceiving, Alec believed, that she no longer loved him, when saying goodbye to her on his last leave.
As if sensing some ominous presence, Ursula sprang up, blood appearing on her finger where she pricked it on the needle. ‘God in heaven, Alec! How dare you walk in like this? What do you want?’
‘Where’s my nephew?’ His voice was abrasive.
He looked as cold as ice, but Ursula, although depending on him and Ben to bring provisions, and knowing Alec could be inflexible and persistent on matters that were deepest to him, parried in a stringent manner. ‘Whatever you’ve come for, keep your voice down. Jonny’s having a nap.’
‘I’m not here to waste my breath. Jonny’s too old for a nap, isn’t he? Is he unwell?’
‘He has a slight cold, that’s all. Now say what you must, then go.’
Alec moved up to within an inch of her. ‘I understand it’s you who’s going, Ursula. Out of this house and out of Hennaford for good, having planned with your lover to run off together and take my brother’s child with you.’
‘How…?’ Ursula’s delicate narrow fingers flew to her breast.
‘Did you think I’d not find out? You didn’t try to hide your affair, not with the number of visits you’ve made to Bruce Ashley’s lodgings in Truro, and you and he thought you were being clever. Not so. While Ashley was promising his landlady all manner of rewards to be discreet about your plans, I was paying her to inform on you both. I also know you’re four months pregnant. I’m afraid I can’t stand back and allow you to just go off with Jonny, to deprive Tristan of his son. I’m here to ask you to allow me to take him with me to live at the farm. I have two honest, reliable women living at the farm now. Jonny will be well cared for.’
‘But you can’t expect me to leave Jonny behind.’ Ursula backed away from him, swept out hands of appeal. ‘I was about to write to Tris. Explain that it wouldn’t be the last he’d see of Jonny.’
‘And tell him what? That you’re about to go off with a cad, a ne’er-do-well, and plunge his son into an improper, unacceptable life. Ashley hasn’t got a job, Ursula. He’ll never amount to anything, and I know for a fact he damaged his own kneecap to get out of service to his country. Do you really want to swap Tris, the loving father that he is, for a man like that? Jonny used to be gregarious, but he’s grown reserved and anxious because he’s being shunned by his grandparents and that’s something you’re responsible for. Don’t you think it’s time you put Jonny first?’
Having her inflexibility suddenly whipped away, her promised joy threatened, Ursula paled but fought back. ‘It’s not that easy, Alec. Think what it would do to Jonny to be without me.’
‘Think what it would do to him if your life with Ashley goes to form. Could you bear to see him running away from Ashley’s debtors? There’s a certain syndicate in Truro who are not above strong-arm tactics, about to call in his loans.’ Ursula shook her head, as if to stop herself from absorbing the truth of his arguments. ‘Bruce has said there’s some people he’s got to settle up with before we go.’
‘Do you really believe that, Ursula? Don’t you think it would be better if you were the one who Jonny saw occasionally?’ Alec was grim, sighing, for the whole thing was such a mess and he was hating this.
‘I can’t do it. I can’t leave Jonny behind.’ She
sank down into her chair, her head bent over, and started weeping through her hands.
Alec felt little pity for her. Ursula might mean now to reunite Jonny with Tristan later, but the risk of Tristan never seeing his son again was too great. He had promised Tristan he’d look after Jonny and he would use any means to do it. ‘Then perhaps I should inform the police about the part Bruce Ashley played in Lucy’s death.’
Ursula’s head shot up. ‘But Lucy made him help her.’
‘Yes, she did, because his behaviour made it easy for her. She told me all about it, how his extortion of an old man’s life savings led to her blackmailing him into finding out a particular address for her. How she made him take her there, and afterwards drop her back to the farm under the guise of a cabbie. His crime cost me the life of my child and I’ll always hate him for that. He should be rotting away in gaol for what he did. I don’t want Jonny near that man. How can you?’
Ursula stopped crying and glared at Alec as if she wanted to hurt him. ‘You’re just an embittered hypocrite, Alec. You were never faithful to Lucy.’
‘Lucy and I never declared we were in love. Now let’s get back to Jonny.’ He lowered himself in front of Ursula. ‘If you want, I’ll help you. Give Ashley up and let me look after Jonny for a while. Go away and have your baby; you can tell Jonny you are to do war work. Tris loves you, I’m sure he’d forgive you. You know it’s only fair, don’t you, Ursula? Make your decision. Is it to be Ashley or Jonny and Tris?’
* * *
Emilia and Ben watched, astonished, as Alec carried Jonathan Harvey, robust and dark, peeking out nervously from his woollen balaclava, through the gate. Alec had a suitcase in his other hand, which he passed to Ben. Ursula brought up the rear, her face an immobile mask.
‘Wave goodbye to Mummy, Jonny,’ Alec said, with a false jaunty smile. ‘Uncle Ben and Emilia are here to walk with us to the farm.’
‘Mummy, don’t leave without me.’ Jonathan started to weep and, looking over Alec’s shoulder, he held his arms out to Ursula.
‘We should go quickly,’ Alec ordered Ben and Emilia. He strode off down the hill.
Ben glared at Ursula, then grabbing Emilia’s arm, marched after his brother. Emilia glanced back and saw Ursula crumple to her knees, then with her arms stretched out after them begin to wail.
Jonathan struggled and sobbed until the sounds of his mother’s lamenting had been left behind. ‘It’s going to be all right, old chap.’ Alec pressed the boy’s face gently against his shoulder. ‘Mummy has to go away, but she knows you’ll be happy with us until Daddy gets back.’
‘Alec, is Ursula going away with a certain person?’ Ben asked.
Alec whispered so Jonathan could not hear. ‘Yes, and she’s carrying his child. I managed to reason with her not to take Jonny with her.’
‘She was terribly upset,’ Emilia said. A short time ago she would have believed the woman had got what she deserved, but the echo of her suffering made it harder to be self-righteous.
‘I offered her a way out but she’s made her choice.’ Alec walked on, trying to ignore the acid chewing away at his insides.
Chapter Six
Tristan was walking away from Ford Farm, in the opposite direction of the ford. The lane tapered to a mere cart’s breadth and it was hard to avoid the overhang of sopping foliage and tangled dead brambles on the hedgerows, and the banks of mud thrown out by farm conveyances and traps and the rare motorized vehicle. Inevitably, there was mud under his boots. Always, always he could not get away from thick, cloying mud. A sea of the foul-tasting muck seemed to be clogging up his lungs. If ever there was an end to this war, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to return to farming where there would be mud to contend with throughout the long winter months and whenever it rained.
A comfortable desk job, perhaps writing for a living was tempting. Ursula had urged him to sell Ford House, get a loan from the bank if need be, and set himself up in a business. He had been content to help run the farm with Alec; one of his tasks had been to see to written matters because of Alec’s humiliating condition. He had been content. Perhaps he had also been boring and dull, and this was why Ursula had turned to another man.
He passed the turning that led off to Druzel Farm, and was reminded of the son from there who had died of trench fever. His name? His name? He should know his name – Tristan was the same age as the poor unfortunate. And here was a lonely dwelling – he couldn’t remember who lived there. Wayside Cot. Alec owned it, didn’t he? It seemed empty, deserted.
He took a left fork. This way led to the parish church, where it hid itself, among the ancient yews and oaks, in aloof aloneness from the village. Here and there the lane fell away into sharp ditches filled with murky brown water. Miniature trenches. He shuddered. Trees were arching over him, the twigs of the lowest branches curving upwards, like beckoning fingers. Ben had named this stretch of lane Devil’s Arch, and he and his playmates had dashed under the trees calling out a sacred oath, of Ben’s invention, for protection. Tristan half expected to see his tearaway younger brother as a little boy in knee britches come hurtling towards him, whooping and issuing bloodcurdling threats to some imaginary enemy. So reckless Ben had been in his games, never a week had gone by without him coming home covered in scratches and bruises, his clothes ripped, or his boots reduced to tatters. Pray God, if the time came for him to suffer in the trenches he acted sensibly in them. Those God-deserted, abominable, manmade creations.
The tunnel of trees seemed, to be going on for ever. It was getting darker. Colder. Why was he walking away from home? He wanted to go home so much. To see Jonathan. To see if he could wrench Ursula away from her lover, to see if she could love him again, and he love her as he did before.
Billy Rowse was coming towards him. Tristan broke into a run, ready to shake the corporal’s hand. ‘You got back in one piece too! Well done, Billy. Have you anything to report?’
Billy didn’t stop, or stand to attention and salute. Billy didn’t see him. He was staring at nothing. He walked straight past him. No – he walked straight through him.
Tristan’s body gave a violent shiver. Billy had felt as cold as death.
The rest of his section was marching towards him. What a brave sound their boots made on the dull ground. The captain was at the front, baton under his arm, head up. Well turned-out. Proud. But there was a blur under his cap instead of his face. None of the men had faces. A shiver of fear and revulsion raced up Tristan’s spine. He leaned into the hedge to give them room to pass. They did so with the speed of a whizzing shell and the slowness of a cortege. He watched them disappear, not under Devil’s Arch, but into a mire of mud. Dear God in heaven! He snapped his eyes shut.
Then he was in the churchyard, a lonely half mile further on along the lane and he was looking down at Lucy’s grave. Thin slate. Alec had chosen slate so thin and brittle for her headstone it looked as if the merest puff of wind would disintegrate it. Lucy Jemima Harvey. Beloved wife of… Alec had omitted his name. Also their infant son. But Lucy had not given birth. The child had perished with her in the fifth month of her pregnancy. Above anything in the world Alec had wanted a son. How sad, how terrible, he had had a son and lost him.
‘Tristan.’
‘Ursula?’
‘No. It’s me, Emilia. You shouldn’t be here, Tristan.’
He couldn’t see Emilia. There was only her voice, soft and caring, with its soothing intonation. ‘Emilia, where are you?’
‘You have to go back to look after Billy. You must go back. Go back, Tristan.’
He opened his eyes. He was lying on his side with his face on his arm. He coughed on the mud that was in his mouth. Looking up, he saw only greyness and looming shadows.
He opened his eyes again, and guessed more hours had passed. There was a smoky darkness now, but only for a second. His heart jerked in pain and fright as the darkness was lit up by flashes and darts of fire. Then he became aware of the continuous roar of heavy arti
llery and the shattering raps of machine guns. He tried to put his hands over his ears. He’d go mad if he didn’t stop the noise echoing round and round inside his head. But he couldn’t move his arms. Jesus, Lord God. I’m injured.
Now came the terrible sense of wetness underneath him and the rain pelting down on him. And pain. Pain like he’d never known before. Burning pain and thumping pain in every part of him. He couldn’t see any barbed wire, only a stretch of hideously pock-marked terrain. Must be in no man’s land, where he had fallen in the early morning. A star shell lit up the sky and the land.
What was that close by? A bush? No. It was a body. Lots of bodies. A tableau of heads and limbs hanging at strange angles, with the embellishment of a single upright rifle. There was a large lump. A mound of earth? In the next shocking spiral of light he made out the remains of a headless horse. It was rotting, been there for some time, but he had not noticed it in the attack. He grinned. It was incomprehensible but he found it funny, an interesting difference to Ben’s tales of a headless rider on a horse. God, I’m going mad. At least I’ve got some company, even if it’s dead.
A weight was pressing in on his back and another weight was crushing his chest. His lungs were packing up. I’m dying. Bloody, bloody fool, why did I ever hope to survive this hell?
Best to get out of it. Leave all the pain behind. His body was screaming in agony but the torture in his mind was a thousand times worse. Then he saw Jonathan’s face. His handsome little dark-haired boy, who’d wanted to come here with him, be brave with him. ‘Don’t be afraid, Daddy.’ Jonny’s last words to him.
He shouldn’t just lie here. He would drown soon if he didn’t move. He had a reason to try to get to safety, a son to live for, a son’s freedom to fight for. Providence had dictated so far that he hadn’t been blown to smithereens and he must get up, get back, get himself patched up so he could take another crack at Fritz. Grunting with the effort to keep his head up, he tried to move his arms again. In the eerie illumination of a Very light, he saw his arms were moving, he just couldn’t feel them with the weight of mud that was clinging to them. Probably the same thing figured for his legs. Somehow he rolled and got up on to his forearms, then started the long process to raise himself on to his knees. A pain-filled process, every movement telling him where bits of metal were embedded in his flesh and bones. It would be impossible to walk. His left ankle was pierced through, shrapnel sticking out of it. He must crawl back to his front line, but which way? For God’s sake, which way? He nearly gave way to a rush of panic.
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