A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

by Margaret Graham

  They shambled on and reached a fork in the track. Would they go left, which led away from the buildings, or right? They went right, and relief gave them some energy, and even the guards stepped out. Sergeant Miller ordered, ‘Straighten up, then. March, if you please. Remember who you are. Left, left, left.’

  They marched the last three hundred yards, and in through the entrance, shoulders back. Now they could see that it was small enough to be a transit camp, yet again. Disappointment clutched at James; Ian swore; Boyo and Frank kicked at stones as they marched. They all scanned the wire for breaks, just in case. There didn’t seem to be any, though there was another entrance at the far end of the camp, with the gate hanging open, as though half derelict. It seemed devoid of other prisoners, and just a few soldiers loitered around. Yes, a transit camp. James knew the others would be feeling the same disappointment.

  Sergeant Miller ordered a halt. They stood. Their own guards mingled with the other soldiers, back-slapping, chatting, smoking. Ian said, ‘I’d kill for a drag.’

  Miller kept his men at ease. They waited. A small man strolled out from the roofless farmhouse, shouting orders in Spanish. James named him Garcia in his head. It was what he did on these occasions. He didn’t know why, but somehow it helped. The guards who had accompanied them on the march looked at one another, and spoke to those already there, who shrugged and threw away their half-smoked cigarettes. One pointed to a barn set further back. José led their own guards over to its shade, and they helped themselves to water from a well before grouping together, lounging on the ground.

  Garcia’s men selected ten of ‘Miller’s Men’, as the twenty now called themselves, handed them picks and shovels, and pointed to the ground a short distance away, which looked as though it had once been a pit but was now half full of rubbish, sand and rocks. What it must have been used for James had no idea. Perhaps they protected some sort of crop in it during the height of the summer.

  Ian was amongst the ten who were ordered to dig it out. James and the others had their hands tied behind their backs, and were forced to kneel a short way from the working party. They sighed, wondering what the game was this time. James felt the rope dig deep into his wrists and scanned the skies. Who knew, perhaps Garcia was expecting Russian planes? Was this his idea of a safety trench? Would there be a chance of escape? He shook his head. No, if he had to bet on it, it would be a game.

  They’d given up protesting at the indignities they had suffered. The only thing to do was to put up and shut up, because it would end, the bastards would become bored. They’d be released, to find shade and sleep. Perhaps even water and food. To do anything else meant a bloody good hiding.

  His tongue swelled in the heat. Their knees hurt beyond endurance. Sergeant Miller demanded water from Garcia for his men. He was ignored. He tried again. James saw Garcia mutter to a guard, who stalked across, lifted the rifle butt and calmly and clinically clubbed Sergeant Miller to death, in front of them, his hands still tied behind his back.

  The shock rippled down the line. The diggers didn’t see, working with their backs to them as they were, their shovels clinking, the rocks crashing as they threw them onto the edge. Boyo stared from Sergeant Miller’s body, to James. His lips were cracked, his eyes blank with horror, and an inability to absorb what had just happened. It was the same with them all. Their own guards were sprawled in the shade of the barn. James saw José start to rise. Another, Miguel, pulled him back down.

  Was this a game? What sort of bloody game? James tried to speak but no words came. Garcia walked in front of him and the others, the smell of garlic oozing from him, mixing with, but not overlaying, the smell of Sergeant Miller’s blood, which pooled and then seeped into the sandy ground. Ian and the working party continued to dig; James and the others continued to kneel, past the point of processing anything. The sun beat down, although it was winter.

  Garcia fired questions at them in poor English. They refused to answer anything beyond their names, shock killing the pain of their knees. The smell of Sergeant Miller’s blood was suffocating, and James thought he’d never be rid of it. They were invited to beg for their hands to be released so they could perform a fascist salute. They refused, and instead followed Boyo, who said, ‘We are fighting for a return to democracy.’ Garcia smiled, gestured, and each one kneeling received a jab to the head with a rifle butt.

  Finally Garcia seemed satisfied with the hole. The diggers were instructed to throw their shovels onto the far edge. It was only then that they turned. For a moment it was clear that they couldn’t work out what they were seeing. James saw that some of their own guards had emerged from the shade and were talking amongst themselves, shaking their heads. José hurried off, keeping to the shade of the buildings, and was hard to see. Then he was through the far gates, running down the track which skirted the hill.

  Now Garcia was shouting and James, along with the others, was grabbed by the soldiers and dragged along the ground. He fought, twisting and turning, because they were heading to the pit, and now he dared to think what the game was that was to be played.

  Boyo said, ‘No, they bloody don’t.’

  They were all fighting, leaving streaks of blood on the earth as jagged stones gouged flesh from their legs, but it was no good. They stopped on the edge of the pit. The guards wrestled them back into a kneeling position.

  Frank said, ‘They could be just shoving us in?’

  Boyo said, ‘Another bloody game?’

  But no, there was Sergeant Miller. James’ mind had frozen.

  Several soldiers were aiming their rifles at the diggers, gesturing them out. They scrambled up onto the surface. They were corralled and forced away, held at gunpoint to one side. Their own guards were hesitating. Some stepped forwards, calling and gesticulating, then turning to look at the far entrance. José had not returned. Had he gone for help?

  Garcia approached the kneeling line-up. They all watched as he stood at the end, by James, for a moment. He drew out his revolver from his holster belt. Everything seemed so slow. The man didn’t fire it. James breathed again, but instead he walked to them, and behind them. James could smell the garlic. He heard a shot, smelt cordite. Boyo fell to the ground next to him, dead from a bullet to the head. The officer kicked him into the pit as James peed himself.

  Garcia shot every other one of them in the back of the head, and kicked them into the pit. Sergeant Miller’s body was then dragged and tossed in too. James and Frank were amongst the survivors, all of them kneeling in their own urine. Ian and the other nine stood like stone, pale as alabaster.

  Ian’s group was gestured towards their shovels. They began to refill the pit, covering their friends. Two soldiers cut those left kneeling free of their binding. One laughed, the other didn’t. His hands were shaking, and he too had paled. James and the others were given shovels. The handles of the shovels were hot. Above a raptor glided on the thermals. Everything seemed quiet. There seemed to be no clink of shovel on stone. Nothing. They worked like automatons, just seeing the earth, sand, stones. Their friends must be buried.

  Could any of this be real? How could it be? As they finished, and rested on their shovels, and stared at the blood-soaked ground, their minds began to work. Slowly they felt the horror really take hold. James looked at the shovel in his hand. He turned towards Garcia, who was smoking a cigarillo at a table that had been set up in the shade of the ruined farmhouse. On the table stood a carafe of wine. James lifted the shovel. He put one foot in front of the other, raising the shovel higher, heading for Garcia, the garlic-stinking officer who had killed his friends and his sergeant, his bastard bloody wonderful sergeant. Others were walking too.

  Rifles were lifted, Garcia laughed. He gave the order. James took another step and then there was shouting. Miguel and the rest of their own guards were running towards them, their weapons out, but pointing at the soldiers, not at the prisoners. He didn’t care. Another step, but then a rider galloped between them and Garcia, hauling his h
orse to a stop in a swirl of dust, sand, and the clink of a bridle. It was an officer, large, incensed, screaming his orders to his men, who ran behind him, panting, sweating, and there was José. He’d brought help, but too late. The air was full of outrage. James took another step. Garcia’s men lowered their rifles but James and the others kept walking, shovels lifting higher, higher.

  The officer set his men to face the prisoners then turned to fist the stinking Garcia to the ground, kicking aside the table. The wine spilled, red as blood. It seeped into the ground. It was then that James stopped, and laid down his shovel, along with the others, able, quite suddenly, to hear and see properly.

  He heard Ian calling, ‘You bastards.’ He heard the recently arrived soldiers shouting and herding those other Spaniards away from the pit, at gunpoint.

  ‘Gracias por tus esfuerzos,’ he called to José, not sure if he had found the right words to thank him for his efforts.

  José bowed slightly. ‘No es de todos nosotros.’

  The recently arrived officer, unshaven and exhausted, kicked at the murderer on the ground, and turned to the survivors. ‘Indeed, it is not all of us. My apologies.’

  Ian muttered, ‘But though the others didn’t do it, they let it ’appen.’ His voice was cold and shocked.

  ‘We let it happen,’ James said quietly.

  They were herded into trucks and taken to an established camp, an old farmhouse. There was the sound of distant firing. They were thirsty, their tongues were swollen, their stomachs hollow. They sat in the cool of their room, and no-one really spoke, not for hours, or was it days, or weeks? Those already there had greeted them, and wondered at their silence. At last, Ian said, ‘We dug a pit, they shot every other one. They killed our sergeant. We refilled the pit, clink clunk. Now bugger off, and don’t ask again.’

  They had not asked again, but a German socialist of the International Brigade had brought a handful of twigs and shown them how to play ‘Pick up a Twig’. He told them it was February.

  There was snow on the distant mountains. There was one meal a day, sometimes. Gruel. There was structure, a sort of safety. Uncle Jack had been right. They ducked when avion was called. The firing in the distance was continuous. The days were long and filled with Pick up a Twig. They were getting rather good. Ian or Frank kept the score.

  They lost three men in the camp from malnutrition that week. Two the next, one from malnutrition, one from a beating, or was it illness? James’ knees were healing. They didn’t complain, because the International Brigade was lucky in comparison with the Republican nationals. But then, it was said to be no picnic for fascists who were caught by the Republicans.

  Ian thought they might be saving the foreigners for use as hostages. One man was released in return for a delivery of a mortar. They laughed. Rumour or fact? Who knew?

  Who knew anything?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Easterleigh Hall, March 1938

  James was unable to sleep, so he rose and walked down the side of the yew hedge, unable to believe that he was home. He reached the silver birches. The primroses carpeted the ground; birds sang, protecting their territory; the birch leaves were in early bud; the wind was cold. He reached the bothy and stared at his bike. The handlebars were rusty. He pulled it forward. The chain needed oiling. Perhaps he would do that. Perhaps.

  He walked across the drive; the gravel crunched. He reached the arboretum and stared up at the sky. No bombers. He shut off his mind. The others would still be there, where he had left them. He shut off his mind again. He. Had. Left. Them.

  He hadn’t known then what it meant when the Italian officer arrived at the camp in his sleek black car, and strode up the steps to the commandant’s office. All the prisoners had stopped what they were doing, because sometimes this happened, and people were dragged away. The fear was so tangible you could almost smell it. After a while three guards had left the commandant’s office, while the Italian strolled to his car, slapping his swagger stick against his shiny boots, nodding to his driver. James had watched as they headed straight towards his Pick up a Twig group. Each of them, as though of a single mind, had stood, braced together.

  ‘You,’ the squat, brutal guard had said. He had pointed at James, who felt his legs almost go from under him. Ian grabbed one of his arms, and Frank, the other. He had swallowed the bile that had risen to his throat, forcing himself to stand upright.

  ‘Why?’ he had croaked.

  ‘You,’ the guard had shouted again. The other two had bashed Ian and Frank away and grabbed him.

  ‘Why?’ he had repeated, wanting to struggle, but refusing to show these bastards such fear.

  Instead he had called back, as he was hustled away, ‘I’ll be fine.’ Ian was nursing a broken nose; Frank was dabbing at a split lip. He’d walked to the car. ‘Why?’ he’d asked the officer standing by the car. He opened the back door. James said, ‘I know nothing that can help you, except the rules of Pick up a Twig.’

  ‘Get in,’ the officer had ordered.

  Inside was a German officer. He patted the seat beside him. ‘Ah, Herr Williams. You have powerful friends, or someone somewhere is offering something of value in exchange for your return.’

  James sat. The Italian slammed the door and eased into the front passenger seat. As the German’s words sank in, James grabbed for the handle. It did not exist. ‘I don’t want to leave. They are my friends. How can I leave?’

  The driver spun the wheels and took James away.

  He reached out now, and touched the branch of a sycamore. It was smooth. The wind was chilly. Here there was food to eat, wine to drink, but even after two weeks at home, his stomach couldn’t cope. He sighed, feeling as though he was looking at everything through thick glass. Primrose was beyond the leggy stage; Terry and Fanny were old professionals, ably taking over from Prancer. David was doing a grand job. Estrella and Maria were more settled, but had said little to him, beyond that they were happy he had survived.

  It was as though Easterleigh Hall had flowed on undisturbed. There was a peace in that, he supposed, but the only thing he felt was a burning rage. It made him too hot all the time, it made him want to run, it made sleeping impossible, and when he did there was the sound of ragged shots, the voices of his friends calling, as he was shoved into the back of the Italian’s car.

  He ran headlong between the trees now, enjoying the pain of his ribs as they jolted and jarred, still not healed from one or other of his beatings in the prison camp. He arrived, panting, at the cedar tree. He checked his new wristwatch, given to him by his parents who had not been able to tell him quite how much they loved him, how relieved they were, and how much they wanted to box his ears for not telling them he was going, but knowing why he had not.

  Tim was there as he had promised, because James had said he must thank him. He didn’t want to, but he must.

  He put out his hand, Tim shook it. James said, ‘Thank you, but . . .’

  There was a pause. Tim said, ‘But . . . You left people behind. You feel guilty. You have nightmares. You wish in many ways you were dead. You want to try and get them out.’

  James let his hand drop. How did his cousin know all this? Tim said, ‘I will try to secure their safety. But . . .’ Now it was his turn to stop.

  Both men, for that was what they were now, James thought, turned and looked at the big house. Tim said, ‘It’s so solid, isn’t it, James? It never seems to change, just runs on, no matter what bloody mess we get ourselves into.’

  Just then, the dachshunds, Currant and Raisin, rushed round from the stables, barking, jumping up on Tim, licking, squealing their joy, snapping at one another so they could be first to be petted. Tim reached down and pulled their ears gently, ‘Well, you two. You’re pleased to see me, at least. How’re you doing, you dear old things?’

  Bridie’s voice cut through the yaps, ‘Come here, you two. Just come away.’ The anger in her voice made the dogs cringe, and they slunk back along the lawn, and then t
he gravel, skirting round her and scuttling through the stable yard into the garage yard, and then the kitchen. She stared at Tim for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. She turned on her heel, and followed the dogs.

  James dug his hands into his pockets. He wished they wouldn’t shake as they did. He said, ‘Do you remember the beck, Tim, when Bridie and I saw the flying ants?’

  Tim nodded. ‘Aye, bonny lad. We ended up in the water, as I remember.’

  James said, ‘When we were being bombed by your Luftwaffe mates, there was a line of ants busy on a ledge in the trench. Each time they were there, and I remembered the three of us together. I remember you coming when we screamed and ran. I remember you holding us to you. You were all wet. You made us wet too. What’s happened to us, Tim? How did we get to the place we are now?’

  He saw that Tim’s hands were shaking too. Or had they already been when they shook hands? He looked closely at his cousin. ‘Look at me, Tim.’

  Tim turned. His eyes were full of tears, his hands were trembling and in his face was the memory of nightmares that James saw in his own, whenever he looked in a mirror. ‘What happened to you, man?’

  Tim turned away, dragging a hand across his eyes. He muttered, ‘Just glad you’re back, James. That’s all.’

  It wasn’t all. James wasn’t a fool, and neither did he want to stand here feeling his whole body racing, as well as his mind. He needed to move, to run. He said, ‘For old times’ sake?’

  Tim turned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The beck, now. Race you?’

  It was something they used to do, but always slowed for Bridie so they could arrive at the finishing line together. The finishing line being the beck. Tim laughed, ‘You’re on.’

  James counted them down, and they were off, running down the drive, the gravel kicking up behind them, James’ ribs jolting, his legs weak from the prison camp. Tim powered ahead, stronger, fitter. They ran along the road to the crossroads, Tim well in the lead. James was panting, but he’d win over the bugger. Tim might have put James under an obligation, but . . . Now he placed the fury. That was it. He owed Tim, fascist Tim, the one who’d betrayed the family, the one . . .