A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

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A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel Page 19

by Margaret Graham


  ‘On you get, Bridie pet,’ Young Stan ordered. She slid into the saddle behind Norman, in spite of being in her skirt. She clenched Terry with her knees, put her arms around Norman. ‘You’ll be fine, bonny lad,’ she breathed.

  He said, ‘Aye, I’m getting better.’

  Ron eased him forward, and she said quietly, ‘Getting better?’

  ‘Oh aye, it’s a set-up, bonny lass. They wanted to get you back on track. Apologies are alright, but they wanted the real Bridie back.’

  ‘Mam thinks that, too?’

  Norman shrugged. ‘That’s another kettle of fish, lass. Have to wait and see on that, but I expect Estrella will be whispering any updates into Dave’s ear.’

  Bridie turned to look back at Dave, who was chatting earnestly to Young Stan and Clive, gesturing and pointing to the far corner of the building. She knew that he’d always thought a tack room should be set up here. ‘I heard. It’s really grand.’

  ‘Aye, but shall we get a bit of a move on? Matron will be here to pick me up, and if we’re dawdling about she’ll be thinking her plan didn’t work.’

  Bridie laughed, knowing she was lucky to have these people, hoping that one day her family would forgive her, all of them. She thought of James, clambering over the Pyrenees, and she prayed he would be lucky too. Safe and lucky.

  James, Ian and Archie waited at a farmhouse for a couple of weeks, while others arrived. It seemed forever since he had left Bridie. Finally, several of them went to Nîmes, where they took another bus. It was an old, beaten-up vehicle, which bumped along the lanes, its lights dimmed, until it turned onto a dry, hard-packed field. ‘Alright, lads, let’s be having you,’ Stephen called. They filed from the bus. Stephen, who had only grunted at James since he had returned without Bridie, led the way in the dark. They walked for an hour, and finally saw another dark farmhouse, which looked deserted. Inside were two guides, and tables with pâté and bread and wine. There were more men sitting at the table. Stephen said to them, ‘We have a few more for the International Brigade.’

  They moved along the benches to make room. In all, there were about forty. Stephen said, ‘Eat. Later we go over the mountains and into training.’

  The murmur of voices gained momentum, as the various different nationalities chewed the cud. Some were communists, some socialists, some who just felt fascism should be stopped, and if their governments wouldn’t, they would. They all talked, sitting in their language groups. All the time, James wondered about Bridie. Was she alright? Was she still crying? Did she phone home as she had promised? Would she forgive him?

  He remembered the smell of her hair, the feel of her in his arms. He was in love with her, of course, which was crazy, because she was his cousin, his playmate, his best friend. But she was in love with Tim, and he wondered when she’d realise that.

  Archie nudged him. ‘Eat up, we have important things to do.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m here.’ James nodded, as Ian held up the carafe of wine, and poured.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Spain, August 1937

  At the farmhouse, at dawn on the third day, they were handed alpargatas – rope-soled sandals – that were useful for climbing, and what’s more, as Ian said, no-one would ’ear a bleedin’ thing. They were to wear their boots to start with, and change into the sandals in due course. With two guides in the lead, and Stephen walking at the head of their group, they began a long trek through lanes, past farmhouses, or hamlets. Sometimes dogs barked. No-one spoke because frontier guards were alert for groups such as theirs.

  They cut alongside a field now, keeping their eyes on the man in front as the darkness deepened. James could hear running water, a mule brayed. He shrugged his pack straps into a more comfortable position and as he did so, he remembered the rope Uncle Aub had fixed to a branch across a dry, wide ditch for the three of them.

  Out by themselves that afternoon, Bridie had swung through the air and fallen with a crash at the bottom of the ditch. For a moment he and Tim had thought she was dead, so quiet did she lie. When they rushed down to her, she was sobbing silently as blood spurted from her nose, her forehead and her shoulder, which had been pierced by a sapling that had snapped under the force of the fall. They’d had to lift her from it, and the blood had poured. Tim had ripped off his shirt and shoved it hard against the wound. ‘Hold it,’ he’d said to Bridie.

  His thoughts were interrupted briefly by Stephen walking back along the length of the trail of men, repeating in a whisper, ‘No clanging of water bottles. Keep them separate.’

  Tim had carried Bridie at a run, to Home Farm barn. Uncle Aub had said nothing, though they had feared he’d tan their hides. Instead he’d bundled them all into his old jalopy of a car and driven like a lunatic to the Neave Wing. Dr Nicholls was in attendance, with Matron. Matron had sent them from the room. Aunt Evie had arrived, sent for by Sister Newsome. She had started to shout at the boys, ‘How could you?’

  Was that what she’d say to Bridie now? A stone clinked. A man cursed. Everyone froze. Then started again, bent over now, to make themselves smaller, though whether it would make the slightest bloody difference was a matter of opinion. Archie poked him from behind, and he grinned, then the smile faded at the thought of Uncle Aub, that day, holding Aunt Evie to him as she repeated, to the boys, not him, ‘How could you?’

  He had pressed her head to his chest, hushing her. ‘I put it up. Bridie chose to swing on it. They didn’t drag her to it. It happened and she’ll learn to be more careful. It’s no-one’s fault, and therefore, my darling, neither is it yours. So, enough, and before you start on me it isn’t my fault either. It just is.’ They had all laughed.

  Tim had stood there, his chest bloodied. Bridie had been stitched and bandaged and did not mention her fall again. She had just powered on.

  They were now skirting a derelict shepherd’s hut and the ground was inclining. They must be at the foot of the mountains. They were instructed to stop, and change from their boots into their alpargatas. They were then to tie the boots by their laces to their rucksacks, one to each side, so there was no chance of them clashing together. They set off again, with Stephen clapping them on the shoulder, whispering as they passed. ‘I’ll be off to pick up more of you hooligans but will come and see you while you’re training. You are a grand bunch, keep your heads down.’

  They kept going, and for a while James felt lost without their leader. A sliver of a moon lit their way and he thought again of his uncle that day, the way he had taken over. He and his marras had a wisdom, almost a weariness, as though they had seen the worst the world had to offer but had survived, and achieved a sort of calm. But was it calm? Because everyone was really still struggling, Uncle Jack and Mart at the mine, the pitmen, young Jonny Earnshaw who they’d seen catching minnows on the bridge, with his da out of work, women too. Was that what peace was? If so, was anything worth fighting for, or against?

  He walked on. The answer was yes. Sometimes you could not stand aside, but in the end life would be just as it always was: imperfect, some of it good, some of it loving. If they survived this, they would be lucky enough to know that it could have been worse, perhaps, if they had not stood against the bullies.

  He shook his head. What a load of guff, surely he wasn’t becoming like Uncle Edward? He’d need a pulpit next. He clambered on, following Ian, trying to keep to the path. He stumbled, caught his balance, righted himself, and as he did so, he saw Tim again, and his bloodied chest from carrying Bridie. He stopped, and Archie banged into him. ‘You alright, James?’ he hissed.

  He moved on, but the image remained. What if Tim was here? What if they fought?

  Ian half fell. James caught him.

  ‘Jamie, you’re a pal,’ Ian whispered. ‘My bloody feet’ve got blisters like I don’t know what.’ They laughed quietly together. James dropped in behind him again.

  They only travelled little used trails, in order to avoid the non-intervention patrols. After two hours they ha
lted for a brief rest. Ian touched the ground. ‘This is France, soon it’ll be Spain. Never thought I’d get this far. Don’t seem real, some’ow.’ James knew what he meant.

  They set off again, and somehow he felt an inner peace, because he knew, now, that his Uncle Aub would calm his parents, as he had his wife after Bridie’s fall, and that, when Bridie returned, she would be safe and Aub would not allow her to be blamed. It was as though a load had been taken from his shoulders and he could press on with all he had to do.

  As the sky lightened towards dawn, it somehow teased scent from the trees. Dawn actually broke as they neared the summit. Mists drifted in and around rocky crags. He wished Bridie was here to see the colours, but he would tell her. They moved onwards, and the whisper went along the line, ‘Almost there.’

  Archie and he were helping Ian, who had almost collapsed in the thin air. Three others were similarly helped, but no-one had turned back. At the summit they lowered Ian. They would not be stopped now, because they had reached Spain and would carry the fight to the enemy. What would he do if he saw Tim? Could he fire? He knew he could not. Would Tim fire? He didn’t know, that was what was so awful. He just didn’t know.

  Ian ate some of the biscuits that they all carried, and managed the descent into Spain. It was afternoon when they reached the foothills and started to pass elderly Catalonian farm workers who clenched their fists and shouted, ‘Salud, camaradas.’ The sun beat down, the light was harsh, as they approached a mountain outpost. The pace quickened, and their guides were greeted like old friends and so too the group of volunteers. One of their guides shouted, ‘Fall out. Trucks come soon, camaradas.’

  Archie eased off his rucksack and pointed to the stream. ‘Last one in’s a cissy.’

  The race was on. The clothes came off, the bodies went in, and the feel of the rushing water as it powered down to the plain washed away the exhaustion, and the aches, and the life before. The trucks arrived after they had dressed, and they bumped along the track for an hour or so, to a sign off to the right, Las Brigadas Internacionales – The International Brigade. They pulled up eventually at a large stone building. The guide in their truck called, ‘These your barracks. Climb staircase at end, iron one, outside.’

  Ian murmured, ‘Not more bloody climbing.’

  James laughed. ‘No help this time, my lad. The air’s thick enough to get into even your weak muscles.’ They jumped down onto the dusty ground.

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ Ian threw his alpargatas at him. Archie, in turn, threw one of his at Ian.

  They all ran towards the barracks, dodging alpargatas and returning fire, up the staircase and into the dormitory, and soon the whole room was awash with flying sandals, until an Australian bawled from the open doorway, ‘Wonderful, damn it, we leave you ankle biters for a ruddy minute, and you’re playing games.’ He cast a long shadow in the afternoon sun.

  ‘Ankle biters?’ queried the communist, Otto, who had been chased out of Munich in ’34.

  Archie replied, ‘I rather think he means two-year-olds or younger.’

  ‘Ah,’ the Australian replied, entering and looking around at them. ‘We have an adult amongst us, I see. Well, you’re boss for the moment. Get this lot across to the mess room in the building opposite so we can get some tucker down you before training begins.’

  Ian called, ‘But we ain’t slept for more’n twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Well, a few more hours won’t hurt, then, will it?’

  The Australian marched out, his boots crashing on the rough wooden floor, his wide-brimmed hat pulled down against the light. They put their boots on and followed Archie down the steps. He stood at the edge of the square, pointing doubtfully across to the building. They strolled towards it, until the Australian appeared in the doorway of the building and roared, ‘At a bloody run, if you don’t bloody mind.’

  James did mind, actually, but he said nothing, just ran with the others, clattering into the mess room in their boots, then doubled back out again at a scramble as the call came, ‘avion’ – aircraft.

  The Australian called from behind, ‘Run, to the slit trenches to the left at the edge of the square. Left, you bleeding idiot, I said.’ Archie had run right.

  They dived into the trenches, scanning the skies, Guernica and Bilbao in their minds, but the planes passed and no bombs dropped, this time. James stared at the ants running along a narrow ledge in the trench wall. They were unaware. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard his grandma’s voice: ‘All is well.’ I bloody well hope so, Grandma, he said silently as he followed the others back to the mess room, his legs trembling, not with tiredness, but from fear.

  The next day they signed on as soldiers of the Spanish Republican Army, and the days took on a uniform pattern of being ‘bugled’ awake in order to rush to the water trough, wash, then to the mess room to gulp down coffee and bread, probably to be interrupted by another air alarm. Then, to form into squads for firearms instruction and drill.

  In the evenings they had to learn enough Spanish to follow orders in the field. Also in the evenings, they played football, though chess was Ian’s passion: he had lugged a set along in his rucksack, and found several opponents to thrash. ‘Crazy bloody English,’ snarled the Australian, Sergeant Neil Coffey, then proceeded to sit down and beat the lot of them.

  On the seventh day a load of uniforms and boots arrived, which in no way, shape, or form, fitted. Sergeant Coffey handed out needle and thread. ‘You sat at your mother’s knees, so get sewing.’

  The avion warnings continued, and each time James watched the ants rushing along their ledge in the trench, just as they had done at home. On one particularly hot day, he had crouched with Bridie in the height of the summer, when the ground by the beck had cracked. The ants emerged, one after the other. These were not the ants they knew, but ones that had wings, and which took off, in a sort of swarm, at which he and Bridie had run screaming. So they must have been really young. How young?

  He searched the skies now, and the ground shuddered, but the bombs were falling some distance away. How long would their luck hold? He watched the sand in the walls of the trench trickle down. Were they Nazis or Italian bombs? Were the Republican Russian airplanes bombing Franco’s men? He concentrated on the ants, remembering he must have been about ten, and Bridie only five. Where had Tim been?

  He remembered now. Tim’d been swimming in the beck, and had clambered out, rushing after them, grabbing them with his wet hands, pulling them to him. He must have been about twelve or a bit older. ‘What?’ he said, his face scared. ‘What? Are you hurt?’

  They had told him, and he had held them both to him for a moment, and it hadn’t mattered that Tim was cold and wet, and they became so too. It was enough that he was there. Tim said, ‘They’re the males, the drones, and there’ll be a female, a queen, too. They’re looking to start a new home, a new place, that’s all. They’re not looking for you.’

  They had all traipsed back, but they couldn’t find a single ant. ‘They’ve gone,’ said Tim. ‘So, into the beck, all of us, and Bridie, you must swim to the other side by the time I’ve counted ten.’ She had done so, and James had felt quite safe.

  These must be the workers, he thought as he watched the ants, as another wave of planes flew over. The drones might come out any minute and fly, and if they did, so what? He wasn’t about to start running about screeching. There were far more ugly buggers flying about these days.

  The all-clear whistle sounded.

  Tim was in the corner pub, the one near his bedsit in Newcastle. Why the hell was August so bloody hot? It was the twenty-seventh, so surely it should be cooling down by now? He’d had four pints, but he needed more: to sleep, to get through the days, to live, really. Work was busy, thank the lord, as more orders were reaching them from around the world, for the rich were always demanding, and yachts were still being built. Now much bigger ships were being built, but not here – in Germany.

  His boss, Mr Andrews, had wonde
red today what he’d do if he got an order from the Nazis. Tim hoped he’d turn it down, as the very thought of Germany brought back the nightmares of the beatings, and the cell, the death, and the final sight of Avraham as he was taken through the double doors, of Heine, and his mother, and her silver, and her use of him, her supposed love, which he very much doubted had ever existed.

  He moved his glass around, feeling it skate in the spilled beer. It was summer bank holiday on Monday, and he wanted to be lolling over the rails of the exercise paddock with Bridie and James, working out how they could get more horses, what they could do now that Prancer was gone. It had been the lovely old grey who had trained Fanny and Terry, really. Yes, Bridie had done a lot, but it was Prancer who would nip them, and keep them on the straight and narrow.

  He felt the cold of the cell, saw again the light fading from Otto’s eyes. He reached into his pocket and fingered Avraham’s mezuzah case. Maybe he should ditch it. It might help him to leave it behind, but in a way, he didn’t want to forget. As long as he had it Avraham existed.

  The ashtray was full of his stubs, and the air in the pub was its usual smog. A bloke was playing ‘Begin the Beguine’ on the piano, and he bloody well hoped no-one was going to get up and sing. He rose, staggered and grabbed the back of the chair, then gathered himself and fought his way through the crowd towards the bar. Sunny the barman, tea towel slung over his shoulder and cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth, eyed him. ‘Haven’t you had enough, Tim?’

  Tim shook his head, digging in his pocket for money, blinking as he counted it out and tipped it onto the bar. Sunny handed him his pint. ‘Make it your last, there’s a good lad.’

  He sipped it, standing there. Someone jogged him. ‘Watch your bloody self,’ he growled.

  ‘Sorry, man.’ The customer was reaching forward to pay.

  Sunny warned, ‘Go and sit down, Tim. Now.’

 

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