by Mary Mackie
‘I’m glad.’ At least he would be safe, then. But his certainty puzzled me. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in God.’
‘Who mentioned him?’ he asked sardonically. ‘We’re talking morality, not religion. I make choices out of respect for my fellow man – and for myself – not for fear of hell or hope of heaven. What about you?’
My own creed was less easily defined. I found myself confused about many things, my loyalties torn. But of one thing I was sure: ‘I want to do something useful. But I hate strife. I couldn’t even put jam in a post box on behalf of Votes for Women. I… I did once go on a protest march, with stones hidden about my person, but I’m not sure I could have thrown them.’
‘I heard about that,’ he informed me with a glimmer of amusement.
‘Miss H called me a “mindless slave of duty” – like that poor idiot Frederick in The Pirates of Penzance. It’s not that I’m wonderfully good, or wonderfully moral, it’s just… I was brought up to live by certain rules. Does that make me a fool? Or a coward?’
‘Sometimes it takes more courage not to join in with the crowd.’
That was a comforting thought. ‘But I shall write about it. “The pen is mightier than the sword.”’
‘The brush, too,’ he added. ‘And the camera. I couldn’t be a fighting man, but what I can do is record it, in all its horror and glory. It might persuade future generations to be more careful.’
‘Perhaps.’ But it was the present generation that worried me.
‘Anyway,’ he said bracingly, changing the subject adroitly as always, ‘war or no war, life goes on. What do you plan to do, now you’ve finished college?’
‘I really don’t know, except that I want to write.’
I was, in fact, blessed with several choices. If I stayed in London, I might follow a career in journalism; the suffragettes might provide a cause, and work with the disadvantaged; and a professor of history had offered me a post as his research assistant. In Norfolk, Grandmother offered the possibility of my taking a job at Chef Foods, and Saffron had intimated that, if I worked in Lynn, I would be welcome to live with her at Hawthorn House – had they, for once, got together and decided it might be wise to distance me from Far Drove Farm?
‘Probably,’ Frank agreed. ‘They also seem determined to throw you at Wells. He’s practically taken over at Chef Foods, you know. Oh, George Chorley’s nominally manager, but Wells holds a watching brief.’
‘H. G.?’ I joked.
‘I might prefer him as a nephew-in-law,’ he said darkly. ‘I’d almost prefer young Farcroft to—’
I winced. ‘That’s not funny, Uncle Frank.’
‘No, maybe not. Sorry.’
‘I do wish you could like Oliver more,’ I sighed. ‘I think you misjudge him. Did you know he was in love with Mother once?’
Frank snorted. ‘I remember him mooning round after her, along with half the men in the county. Not that she was interested, except that he added to her tally of conquests. So now he latches on to you. Couldn’t get Clara, so he’ll settle for her daughter.’
‘It’s not like that!’ I objected.
‘Isn’t it? Well, if you say so. Madly in love with him, are you?’
If anyone else had put the question so bluntly, I might have been affronted, but since it was Frank I tried to answer honestly. ‘I’m… fond of him. Oh, I know he’s older than I am, but I believe he cares for me. I’m sure he’d make a fine husband.’
His whole face sharpened. ‘Has he proposed?’
‘Not in so many words.’
He shook his head, giving a dry laugh as he unfolded himself stiffly from his seat on the fender. ‘Well, I can’t advise you, old lady. I’m sadly prejudiced. Besides, when it comes to matters of the heart I’ve found it wiser to keep out of other people’s business. It’s hard enough sorting out my own love life.’
‘Judy Love?’
Sighing, he pulled a face. ‘Can you imagine her at Denes Hill? I adore the girl, but, well… while the Mater’s there…’
‘She wouldn’t be happy.’
‘Neither would Judy.’
‘It was Judy I meant.’ Imagining Judy Love at Denes Hill was as difficult as imagining myself in Lynn: Mrs Oliver G. Wells, wife of the sturdy, successful – and sensual – solicitor.
Only a year ago, I had seen my future at Far Drove Farm. Making pickles, salting hams, feeding chickens, brewing beer for the harvest supper in the barn, watching Philip stride his broad acres of good English soil and listening to him sing: ‘To be a farmer’s boy…’ A year ago, I had felt in my bones that the farm was where I belonged. Perhaps it was. But not because of Philip. Maybe I felt an affinity with the farm because it was where my natural father had lived and died.
I caught myself longing for Philip, remembering, aching, wishing for the impossible, and wondering how, why, when… It was no good: before I could decide which path to choose for the future, I had to clear the debris of the past. The only person who could help me was Mother and, since she didn’t – couldn’t – answer letters, I must go to see her. Only she could tell me what I needed to know – how she had felt; why it had happened. Whether the von Wurthes liked it or not, tomorrow I would go and arrange to journey back…
But the thought died before it properly formed. I couldn’t go to Germany, could I? The war… I had all but forgotten the war.
Eighteen
Struggling through the teeming city next morning, bound for Liverpool Street station, Frank and I passed squads of marching soldiers and sailors and dodged ladders on which bill-posters poised, slapping glue as they plastered hoardings with the call to arms. Newsstands echoed headlines telling of marching armies and refugees; crowds gathered around food shops in the hunt for supplies which, rumour said, might soon run short if German submarines laid siege to the British Isles; and, outside designated ‘recruiting stations’, men of all types and ages queued by the hundred to sign on for the army, eager to fight the dastardly Hun. Every voice had another slant to the latest rumour, or some cry of aggressive patriotism. I was inevitably reminded of Miss H and her calls for violence in another cause – to me, the war talk seemed equally misguided.
We settled into a first-class compartment, supplied with a selection of newspapers in which I immersed myself while my uncle got out his sketch pad and began jotting little cartoons and ideas. As yet, the news was confusing: no one knew quite what was happening, what was going to happen, or how life would be affected in the short while the war was expected to last. In Germany and Austria, British people were being arrested, while in Britain anyone with a foreign background or accent was suddenly suspect: parliament had introduced new laws for dealing with aliens, especially those of German blood; they were to be questioned and interned for the duration. ‘Just as well you settled for being “Miss Brand”,’ Frank said when I read out this news in disbelief. ‘Otherwise, there might have been awkward questions to answer.’
‘How do you think it will affect Mother?’ I asked.
‘Hardly at all. She’s Frau von Wurthe – mother to three little blue-blooded Prussians. That alone should be enough to protect her.’
Hoping he was right, I went back to the papers, which told how an Expeditionary Force of regular soldiers would probably go to Belgium, while Territorials dealt with home defence; reserves and new recruits would be trained and held in readiness – already a stream of them were applying. But the general feeling was that life at home would go on much as usual. The armies of the Triple Alliance – Britain, France and mighty Russia – would very soon knock the Dual Alliance of Germany and Austro-Hungary for six. Not before time; they’d long been asking for it. Well, now they were going to get it, and after a bit of regrettable bloodshed the Kaiser and his ally would be put firmly in their place, our lads would be covered in glory, and perhaps the world could get back to normal.
But normality was a long way off that Wednesday morning.
At King’s Lynn, the station hummed with excit
ed suspense. Railway staff directed us out via a side entrance, keeping the platforms clear for the official party which was waiting to see off a special train filled with local troops – which explained the seething mass of spectators outside.
A downpour had left the ground steaming and puddles waited to soak an unwary foot as I hurried to keep up with my uncle’s long strides. I lost him in the crush of people and then I saw him swing up to claim a place on the wall near St John’s church, along with other men and excited boys who ought to have been in school. They hung from the railing, calling and whistling as they peered down the road for the first sign of the parade. Small children carried flags to wave. Faces were tense but bright. What an adventure it all was! What a show!
Two mounted policemen cleared the main route from the town centre, telling the gaping crowds to keep back. I found myself hemmed in behind an errand boy whose cycle basket was full of parcels of groceries, with other people clustering round me so that I was imprisoned behind the cycle’s rear wheel, but with a clear view of the road.
‘What’s happening?’ someone asked.
‘That’s the Terriers now leaving,’ a man replied.
‘Leaving for where?’
‘For the war! Blast, bor, hen’t you heard?’
Territorials… Oh, God. Hand to throat, I savoured the texture of the blue silk scarf Philip had given me on my twentieth birthday. Why had I put it on that morning, as a comfort or a torment? Had I hoped to see him? But not like this. Oh, not like this!
In the distance a bugle called, while a drum tapped a quick-march rhythm. The sound caught at my heart, stirring and thrilling it despite my mind’s unease, as the parade came into sight, a moving mass in khaki service dress. Two senior officers led a long column of men marching four abreast with rifles shouldered, flanked by junior officers and helmeted constables. Beneath their smart military caps some faces were pale, some tanned, solemn or smiling, but all with sturdy purpose and steady gaze, arms swinging, boots crunching. I saw them through eyes filled with tears. They looked so proud. So fine.
Rejecting a thought too fearful to contemplate, I told myself they were not Philip’s battalion: the Norfolk Yeomanry wore dark blue, with yellow flashes at revers and cuffs – Philip had been wearing that uniform when he came up to Denes Hill on the night of the ball. So these men couldn’t be… And then I saw him, on the nearside flank. That fine, tall subaltern in proud khaki, puttees making him look more long-legged than ever. He would pass within three feet of me. I might almost touch him.
My heart seemed to beat to the rhythm of marching boots as the column brought him ever closer. My insides seemed to turn over and lie quivering, leaving me dry-mouthed. My heart was unsteady, a vein in my temple pulsating with tension, but outwardly I stood frozen, unable to take my eyes from that lean, brown face. Oh, so familiar. Oh, so dear! I had forgotten how handsome he was. I’d forgotten how much I loved him, how the sight of him could make me want to cheer and weep all at the same time. Not at all the same emotion I felt for Oliver. What I felt for Oliver was darker, a thing of flesh and intellect rather than spirit. With Philip, despite obstacles between us, there had been mutual delight, brightness, rightness, heart and soul, mind and body. Now that I saw him again, the difference was clear. Which made the fate that had bound us too closely by blood all the more cruel.
As he came closer he looked through me, beyond me, then his glance darted back, widening in disbelief. No one else had eyes quite that green. No one else could hurt me so much by regarding me with such cold contempt. Did he recognize the scarf I was wearing like a talisman? Did he think I was there deliberately, to taunt him? I felt that I was drowning – drowning, or melting, or dying – as the advancing column drew him closer, and closer, until the inexorable moment when he was past me and moving away. Then, all I could see was the kit and greatcoat strapped to his back, and the backs of all the others similarly laden, as they rounded the corner and headed away, making for the station where the train hissed, sending up impatient gouts of smoke and steam. A dragon, come to carry all those fine young men away.
I stood transfixed, alone in a bubble of numb disbelief while about me the crowd cheered and waved. I couldn’t forget the hard, set expression on Philip’s face, or the hatred in his eyes, or the dull flush that had crept up his lean cheek. Two mounted policemen ended the official parade, but behind them came a sad straggle of women, some pushing prams, some with babes in arms, some holding children by the hand; each of them wanting to bid a last farewell to her man. If only I, too, could follow. Just to say goodbye. Just to wish him well. Just to hear his voice one last time…
Around me, the crowd began to disperse and a brewer’s dray trundled along the road, pulled by two great shire horses. I looked for Frank, and found him threading his way towards me with drawn face and pity in his eyes. He said, ‘Is that why you were asking about the Territorials?’
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
‘Oh, hell,’ said Frank without emphasis. ‘I’m sorry, old girl.’ Taking my arm, he guided me down a path beside the church, heading for the park where trees flirted their summer finery and the air smelled fresh after heavy rain. It was quiet there, few people about, strange after the crush in the street. We walked in silence, his hand under my arm both propelling and supporting me, but I knew he understood my grief – he just didn’t like to talk about such things. We both paused and looked round as faint cheering came on the breeze – it probably followed the mayor’s valedictory speech to the troops, as later reported in detail by the local paper.
‘They’ll be away soon,’ Frank said. ‘Then our train will be in. It will be good to get home.’
‘Yes.’ And with Philip far away there would be no danger of our meeting. I ought to be glad about that.
‘We can try telephoning to the Mater to let her know what time we shall be there. Did you know she’d agreed to have the telephone installed at last? It has to be kept in a cupboard, according to Emmet, but the Mater’s discovering its usefulness, now she knows it doesn’t bite.’
We came to a park bench dewed with rain, which he wiped off with his handkerchief before he sat beside me, leaning on his knees. A pair of ducks waddled up, hoping to be fed. When no bread appeared, they pecked disconsolately around us, echoing my mood.
At last a steam whistle screamed and, with much belching and blowing, grinding of metal and clanking of couplings, the troop train moved off. I saw it beyond a screen of trees and heard the cheering that sent it on its way, accompanied by loud explosions that made me wince. We later learned that railwaymen had set fog signals on the line as a kind of salute, but to me they sounded like gunshots, anticipating the future. I was terribly afraid, and lonelier than I had ever been in my life.
* * *
Sorrowful though that homecoming was, as our own train rattled across the marsh flats I found myself watching for the first glimpse of the double-headed hill rising against the skyline, and when we entered the Eveningham vale the place seemed to reach out and enfold me. Somehow, whatever joys and sorrows it might hold, it was more home to me than anywhere else I had ever been.
Once again, Tom was at the station to meet us, hopping from foot to foot as he peered anxiously at alighting passengers. Catching sight of me, he shouted my name in a huge voice that turned heads as he came to envelop me in a bear hug that all but suffocated me.
‘Let the girl breathe, old man,’ Frank objected.
His brother released me, wiping damp eyes and nose on his cuff, before heartily pumping Frank’s hand. I wondered what was upsetting him, but he brushed all questions aside in a rush to tell me about his new dog. ‘I call him Jim, because he’s got short legs – he reminds me of James Lacey.’ That made him laugh as we went to the yard, where Garret was waiting with the wagonette.
As we drove, Tom chattered all the time – about small details of his daily life and, naturally, about his animals. He seemed overexcited, like a small boy, endearingly glad to have me home. I found
it difficult to picture him taking a gun and shooting at a dog – and not only a dog: only luck had prevented him from killing Jack Farcroft. But poor Tom appeared to have forgotten all about that.
For me, memories lay everywhere, like sharp stones waiting to trip me. Here Philip had stood with Troy, the last time I came home; in the lane was the spot where I had nearly knocked him down with Frank’s car, the first time I laid eyes on him, and where one moonlit night he had claimed a kiss ‘as compensation’; the ridge where we had walked formed a skyline, and on its slopes stood the church where we had first really talked, and the lane where he had rescued me from the flood, and… and now the vale might as well have been deserted. For Philip was gone. But gone where? Where?
Garret turned on to the short-cut lane, beyond whose tall hedge I could see the sway-roofed farmhouse in its hollow, behind its trees, its barns and its pond, surrounded by harvest-rich fields. The farm, where once a wilful girl had defied her family to play promiscuous games with the farmer’s older son. Had she not done so, I would not be here, I thought. At that moment I hated Mother for what she had done to me.
A gang of weeders hoed among green tops and corn stood tall, rippling dusty-gold under the breeze. In a fallow field a couple of shire horses grazed, and near them Philip’s own Troy, but Mad Jack himself did not appear. Had he given up trying to prevent us from using the farm track?
A young woman was coming from the farm, making across the fallow for the gate which connected with the lane we were on. She wore a shady hat and loose linen jacket with her long skirt, but instinct told me who she was, even before we drew near enough for me to see her clearly. As we passed, she came through the gate and I saw that she had been crying. Then she recognized me and her face changed, hardening. The red-rimmed eyes glared hatred at me.
‘He’s gone!’ she yelled. ‘You’re too late. He’s gone away to the war. And if he get killed I hope he’ll come and haunt you, blast your eyes!’