The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  ‘Who’s that?’ Frank muttered as the wagonette carried us on.

  ‘Philip’s girl,’ I managed, though the words all but choked me. Was she Philip’s girl again? Had he turned to her for consolation? I stared at her receding figure, wondering what Philip had told her. How I envied her the right to weep for his absence.

  * * *

  At Denes Hill, Grandmother and Vicky had kept a late, cold lunch for us. Vicky put on a show of welcome that disguised whatever she was feeling, but the warmth of Grandmother’s greeting seemed designed to assure me that, whatever had happened a year ago, we should put it behind us now.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re both looking well,’ she said, surveying both her son and me with sharply observant blue eyes. ‘From what Oliver told me, Catherine, I feared you had become a sickly waif.’

  ‘Devon did me the world of good,’ I replied. ‘I’m sorry if—’

  But she cut me off with a gesture. ‘No apologies. No looking back. You’re here. And we need you. Let us go in to lunch.’ Like Frank, she believed that in times of national crisis a family should stick together. Family skeletons, of whatever nature, were best left to moulder in firmly locked cupboards.

  Inevitably, we discussed the news. Frank told of the queues of men we had seen outside recruiting stations and his mother applauded their patriotism. ‘We may need a few extra men if we’re to get through this trouble in short order. But I don’t foresee general conscription, do you?’

  ‘Not unless there’s a real threat of invasion,’ Frank replied. ‘In Torquay, they—’

  ‘Oh, there won’t be any invasion,’ she broke in with an airy gesture. ‘Their naval strength is far inferior. And, if a few ships were to get through, our coastal defences will stop them. Plans are already in hand, you know. I think it will be good for the country. It will be a cleansing – we’ve got too many men chasing too few jobs. If some of them disappear in a good cause it will be all to the good in the end.’

  I exclaimed, ‘You’re talking about human lives, Grandmother!’

  Uncle Frank echoed me and for a while a heated argument raged, Vicky adding her two penn’orth with the opinion that to die for one’s country was a wonderful thing – all the poets said so. Tom listened, open-mouthed, occasionally crying, ‘Yes! Fight!’ in support of his mother and sister.

  ‘Sometimes a few must be sacrificed for the good of the majority,’ Grandmother insisted. ‘Theirs will be the glory. But we shall not be idle. We shall work to support the troops, and help the wounded – and their families. It’s never easy for those who have to stay behind. We shall have the worst of it, waiting and worrying. I know. You forget that one of my own sons shed his blood in his country’s cause – and died for it, subsequently. I know about sacrifice.’

  Which was all very fine and noble when none of the people she cared about was in danger. As yet.

  The conversation veered to other aspects of the war. Like a true capitalist, Grandmother foresaw profit for both Thorne-Thomas, making munitions and engines, and for Chef Foods, where the factory would be on full production. In the current crisis, she predicted, the country would need all the food it could get. However, ‘Oliver can’t be there all the time and, though I trust George Chorley to a point, he’s not family.’

  ‘Is Oliver?’ Frank put in.

  ‘Oliver is a trusted friend,’ his mother responded. ‘Don’t be churlish, Frank, you know very well what I mean. So, Catherine, you see, a family eye on affairs is what we require at Chef Foods. With your typewriting and shorthand skills, you will be of invaluable use to Mr Chorley.’

  ‘Oh, but—’ I began, but she cut me off.

  ‘I’m conscious that you may have had other thoughts in mind. However…’ She drew herself up, stretching her long neck and dabbing elegantly at a corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘Now that the war is upon us we must all modify our plans. Later, when this emergency is over, you may wish to rethink your career. But in the meantime, Catherine, we need you. The family needs you. I need you.’

  Perhaps it was better, for now, to remain in familiar places and do what I could to help people I cared about. I might, too, glean news of Philip now and then. Was it so wrong to care about him? After all, he was as closely related to me as Frank or Tom or Emmet, and no one forbade me to care for them. His father, too – that horrible, hate-riddled, pathetic old man – was my grandfather. And he was all alone now. How did he feel, with his only remaining son off to the war?

  My dreams that night were troubled, nightmares that shocked me awake to lie staring into darkness waiting for my heart to slow down. Philip, blood, land ironclads, Philip marching away from me, Tom lying dead in the woods, John drowning, Philip… a tangle of terror. I was thankful when morning came.

  * * *

  Next day, under a bright sun, everything looked so peaceful and normal that it was hard to believe men were fighting, killing and dying, not many miles away across the blue North Sea. But the news of the war continued, affecting us even at Denes Hill. Frank took himself off in his motor to record activities at the docks, along the coast and at Thetford where the Territorials were gathering horses; he told us to expect him when we saw him. Grandmother, Vicky and I all started knitting socks and scarves in spare moments: their Red Cross committee was collecting clothes and necessaries for Belgian refugees: the new telephone was in constant use.

  Tom seemed restless, anxious for company. He showed me where, up against one of the garden walls, he and Garret had built a new, larger aviary for the birds – the mynah had its own small section while the rest was filled with budgerigars flitting their bright wings in the sunlight. In another pen a pair of golden pheasant strutted with four well-grown chicks. The new dog, Jim, proved to be a lively terrier cross, mainly white but patched with black, a friendly little soul with whom I struck up an instant rapport. It was a pity that Grandmother didn’t like animals in the house. Jim would have been a merry companion.

  Around us, everything swung into a new gear. Men in uniform appeared in Hunstanton and the nearby villages, and in one of Jack Farcroft’s meadows hammering sounded as soldiers erected tents, fences for horse paddocks, and canvas screens to hide latrines and protect cooking stoves. Men from Worcestershire and Gloucestershire arrived to stand as home defence for west Norfolk, stringing barbed wire along the beaches and building defences around gun batteries in strategic spots. Our Norfolk Territorials had, I was relieved to hear, gone to perform similar duties in Suffolk. They were not going to the front. Thank God. Thank God!

  To Grandmother’s dismay, a requisition officer came to Denes Hill and commandeered her carriage horses for use in war work. Her head groom and one of the gardeners took that as their cue to go off and sign up for the army; several young men of the village were planning to do the same once the harvest was over.

  ‘And so they should,’ she said at dinner. ‘We must all do what we can to support the war effort, and to aid the refugees. The Red Cross committee is meeting again tomorrow, at Mrs Lacey’s. I want you to join us, Kate. I’m sure there’ll be something you can do.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have taken the horses!’ Tom cried, banging his spoon on the table with such a crack that we all jumped. ‘They’re our horses.’

  ‘England needs them, dear,’ his mother said, as if Tom could comprehend such an answer. I wasn’t sure that I did.

  Vicky, pinch-faced and pale, argued, ‘They needn’t have taken them all, need they? How are we to get about?’

  ‘There are bicycles,’ said Grandmother, who had never been known to mount one of those wobbling machines. ‘And we have the dogcart. They left us Willow, didn’t they, Tom?’

  ‘That old hack!’ Vicky objected. ‘Is she fit to pull the dogcart?’

  ‘I’m sure Tom will look into that for us. Won’t you, Tom?’

  The prospect of a useful job cheered Tom up, though he resented having old Willow called a hack: she had served him and Emmet well when they were younger.

&nbs
p; We were still discussing the transport problem when Billing arrived, his usual imperturbability so ruffled that he was almost wringing his hands. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, milady, but some police officers have called. They’re asking for Miss Kate.’

  Grandmother flicked me a narrow look, but said calmly enough, ‘Did they give any reason, Billing?’

  ‘No, milady.’

  ‘Catherine?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Unless something’s happened to…’ Was it Mother?

  As I got to my feet, Grandmother gave an audible sigh. ‘Why is Frank never here when we need him?’

  ‘We don’t need Frank,’ Vicky said. ‘I’m sure Kate can handle it, whatever it is. We’re three grown women, Mother. We’re not helpless just because we’ve no man here.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Tom protested, but by then I was leaving the room, wondering what the policemen could want.

  Billing had shown them into the saloon, where a lamp or two shed pools of light, enough to let me see four uniformed figures at the far side of the vast shadowed darkness. As I crossed the room, I discerned that the two by the door were not policemen but soldiers, armed with rifles. The others were a tall, thin inspector of police and his burly sergeant, whom I recognized by sight.

  ‘Good evening, miss.’ The inspector, a lanky man with a heavy black moustache dividing his lugubrious upper face from a triangle of chin, stepped forward. ‘Would you be Miss Kate Brand? Otherwise known as Catherine von Wurthe?’

  My heart seemed to twist and sink. This was about Mother. But, did it take four men to bring bad news? ‘That’s right. Wha…?’

  ‘Would you be so good as to get your hat and coat, miss? I need you to come with me back to the station.’

  When I hesitated, more out of bewilderment than a reluctance to obey, the two soldiers stepped forward, holding their rifles as if prepared to use them.

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’ Grandmother’s imperious voice cut the shadows behind me, her stick making dull thumping sounds on the Persian carpet. ‘What is this? Do I know you, Inspector…?’

  He straightened himself. ‘Jarvis, ma’am. Inspector Jarvis of the King’s Lynn force.’

  ‘And Sergeant Playford of Hunstanton,’ she observed.

  Her tone made the thickset sergeant look sheepish as he saluted her. ‘Good evening, Lady Rhys-Thomas. I’m sorry if that’s an inconvenience, but they asked me to come along and assist Mr Jarvis. They now want Miss Brand to go along to Lynn, to answer some questions.’

  ‘In regard to what?’

  Jarvis replied, ‘In regard to the new law on undesirable aliens.’

  ‘Aliens?’ she scoffed. ‘This young lady is as British as you are, Inspector. She happens to be my granddaughter.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, ma’am.’

  ‘Are you also aware that the Chief Constable is a personal friend of mine?’ She was at her disdainful best, managing to look down her nose at him though he was a good foot taller than she. ‘I’m quite sure that if he knew of this—’

  Without even blinking, and with the utmost courtesy, the inspector said, ‘The Chief Constable asked me to say, ma’am, that the allegations are too grave to be ignored. To do with the defence of the realm. I have orders to take Miss Brand back to Lynn with me at once.’

  ‘Very well.’ Her voice turned frosty. ‘But you may tell Mr Payne that I hold him personally responsible for my granddaughter’s safety. I shall expect a full explanation of this outrage.’

  They had brought with them a closed carriage. One soldier rode shotgun, alongside the driver, while I, feeling like a desperado, was put inside, facing Inspector Jarvis and the other soldier. Sergeant Playford started back to Hunstanton on his bicycle. My armed guard wore the Worcestershire Yeomanry flash on his shoulder; he kept looking at me sidelong, clutching his rifle as if he expected me to sprout horns and leap to disembowel him with my talons – after all, I was a German spy. It was pure farce.

  The joke turned sour, however, when I found myself incarcerated in a tiny cell under the Town Hall. The stench of vomit and urine emanated from a filthy bucket in the corner. A single candle fluttered and smoked, sending shadows looming round damp-streaked walls, showing me the high barred window and the wooden bench with a plank for a pillow, where lay a rough-looking woman, very drunk and singing raucously to herself. The song broke off as I stepped inside and the metal door closed with a clang that sent a chill through me even before the key grated, locking me in.

  My companion threatened to be overfriendly until she divined what charge had brought me there, when she spat at me and called me a filthy murdering Hun. Then, while I wiped spittle from my face, she lay back on the bench and sang herself to sleep bawling, ‘Just a song at twilight…’ Afterwards, I never heard the song without remembering that night, and her snores.

  What seemed like hours but, according to my watch, was forty-five minutes later, I heard boots treading along the flagged passageway. With a jangle of keys, my lock turned and the opening door showed me a grizzled constable, who gave me a baleful stare and bade me come with him. He said I was lucky – the Chief Constable himself was going to speak to me. Come straight from a civic dinner, he had. Didn’t usually take such trouble over female felons.

  ‘I am not a felon!’ I exclaimed. But I was grateful to hear that I would soon be seeing the genial Mr Payne.

  As the constable ushered me into a cluttered, oak-panelled office, the first person I saw was Inspector Jarvis. But my glance went to the man behind the desk – a slight, middle-aged man: not Mr Payne. He was in evening dress: a black, silk-lined cape lay folded on a cabinet, with a top hat and white gloves. But if his evening had so far been convivial his pale face had now settled into stern lines.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Brand. Or is it Fraulein von Wurthe?’

  Apprehensive, though keeping my chin up, I slid on to the hard chair. ‘Von Wurthe is my stepfather’s name. I used it for convenience, when I lived in Berlin.’ Glancing at the lanky, mustachioed inspector, I added, ‘I understood I was to see the Chief Constable.’

  ‘You are seeing him, miss,’ Jarvis replied.

  ‘Mr Payne retired last year,’ the other informed me with a glimmer of what might have been satisfaction. ‘My name is Hunt. Charles William Hunt. And if I consider you to be a danger to this country, Miss Brand, I shall have you interned, whatever your lady grandmother may say.’ His tone said he was not amused by Grandmother’s attempts to apply pressure. ‘You don’t deny being in regular communication with Berlin, then?’

  What was this nonsense? ‘Why should I? My family are there. My mother, and—’

  ‘We know that, Miss Brand. Your letters go out regularly. But your family don’t seem to reply. Is it your family you write to?’

  ‘And one or two friends. I have a problem with my stepfather. I think he prevents Mother from writing to me.’ Even to my own ears it sounded a feeble excuse, but before I could amplify with details, he said:

  ‘Does the name Gudrun Thunissen mean anything?’

  He mispronounced it, but that he knew her name at all was disquieting. ‘She’s a friend,’ I said, beginning to wonder how all this evidence had been collected. What twisted mind had reported me to the police?

  ‘You’ve been sending her packages.’

  ‘Articles for a magazine! I’m a writer, you know.’

  But, as the questions went on, my apprehension grew. He knew all about me – it was written down on a sheet in front of him, to which he referred now and then. He knew I had been involved with Sylvia Pankhurst and the WSPU; knew I was friendly with, and had conversed in German with, Harald Ehrenfried, the inoffensive Hunstanton butcher – who had, my inquisitor informed me to my horror, been interned for the duration. Mr Hunt even accused me of ‘loose talk in railway carriages’ – by which, I deduced, he meant my talking with Uncle Frank about land ironclads. Dear God, Frank had said he could be dragged to the tower for mentioning that secret to me!

 
As I argued that my uncle and I had merely been discussing a piece of fiction, which, far from being a military secret, had been published for anyone to read, raised voices outside made us all pause. The door burst open. The duty constable started to apologize for the intrusion, but he was thrust aside by an imposing figure in tails and blue-lined cape. Thank heaven! My shining knight: ‘Oliver!’

  I leapt up and almost threw myself into his arms, but with one swift glance he steadied and reassured me. How glad I was to see him! Everything would be all right now. He, too, had been at the civic dinner, it seemed, so he had not received the frantic telephone messages Grandmother had left with his housekeeper until he returned home.

  After a fraught half-hour or so, when Oliver employed all his legal expertise to secure my release, we were allowed to leave, with stern warnings about my future behaviour. While the war with Germany continued, it seemed, I would remain under suspicion of being an enemy sympathizer.

  All I wanted was to put the awful place behind me. Head down, like a whipped puppy, I trotted beside Oliver’s long stride, feeling angry, ashamed and bitter, thinking of all the things I should have said. I hardly noticed where we were going, along narrow cobbled streets with ancient houses crowding. Before long, Oliver opened a small door in a big gate and led me into a carriage court lit by gas lamps, where tall windows peered down on all sides from walls thick with ivy.

  A porticoed entrance led into a hall with numbered doors leading off it; up a stairway a further door, blazoned with a brass 7, gave into an apartment that felt cool and airy. As Oliver turned up the gas, pale light disclosed a spacious hallway, empty but for a coat-stand and cheval glass, and then a large drawing room. From above a mantel of grey-veined marble a big framed mirror threw back a reflection of the room, showing me my pale-faced self, dishevelled beside Oliver’s elegant evening attire. As if roused from a dream, I blinked at the room, seeing it mainly monochrome – a black leather chesterfield and armchairs on a grey carpet, with polished side tables, on one of which stood a chess set carved of ivory and ebony. The only splashes of colour came from leaded glass shades which adorned four gas wall lamps.