At last, he heard the fire truck draw up below him. Firemen were rushing about, yelling and shouting. You’re too bloody late, he thought. By the time they reached the roof, the fire was almost out. He drew his sleeve over his sweating face, happy to leave the last flames to them.
‘You’ve saved the roof,’ the fire chief told him. He was a tall, rangy man, with cropped grey hair and an angular face. ‘With respect, Sir, you’ve been immensely lucky. These firebombs aren’t usually put out by a man piddling on them.’
‘Thank you,’ Stephen said, glaring at him. He had started shaking uncontrollably as he realised how nearly his luck had run out.
Much later, after the fire brigade had left and the staff had gone to bed, Stephen stood with Ginie surveying the wreckage of their beautiful hall. It was ankle deep in dirty water, the furniture was ruined, and the long red damask curtains had shrunk to half their normal size.
‘I don’t care about it, really, as long as you’re alright!’ said Ginie, her eyes moistening. ‘While you were on the roof, I kept thinking what I would do if anything happened to you and I just couldn’t bear it.’
Stephen put his arms around her. ‘You’re not to worry. I’m fine, it’s over now.’
Walking around the smouldering grounds at daybreak, they were glad to discover that some beauty remained intact – the orchids were still alive, despite huge holes in the glasshouses and shards of broken glass everywhere. Like the Courtaulds, they were survivors.
They secured the wrecked roofs of the great hall and the glasshouses with temporary coverings and carried on as best they could. They hoped to be able to repair the damage properly after the war, provided the Germans didn’t hit them again, for Eltham was taking a beating. In the weeks that followed, scores of bombs fell on the palace grounds, though none on the house.
Stephen had the stern, puritan blood of his Huguenot ancestors running through his veins and bore the attacks with quiet stoicism, but it was too much for Ginie. She was worn down by the sound of enemy planes, flinching every time one droned overhead. She, who had always loved fast cars, now could not tolerate speeds of more than fifteen miles an hour. She couldn’t even walk to the shops without sweating. She began to have nightmares, waking up night after night to battle imaginary flames. Stephen saw her become increasingly like a creature in a cage, hurling itself against the bars. He needed to do something. Fast.
23
Ginie, Scotland, 1940s
Ginie woke from a dream of swimming in the sea, paddling towards a sun-drenched shore that kept getting further away the harder she tried to reach it. She woke with a start and for a moment, didn’t know where she was. Low, autumn sun crept through the bedroom windows, illuminating the checked curtains. A jolt of recognition: Scotland. She buried her head in the pillow, trying to hold onto the final fragments of her dream as they slipped away.
The Courtaulds had shut up Eltham and moved as far from the bombing as they could, to Muckairn in Taynuilt, on the west coast of Scotland. They had handed the palace over to the army – it was now the Headquarters of the Royal Army Education Corps. The staff were shocked and upset by the news of their sudden departure. It had been a wrench saying goodbye to them and to Eltham, but Ginie’s paranoia and nervousness began to ease as soon as they were across the border.
She got out of bed and dressed quickly in the chilly room, looking at the brass bed with distaste, the graceless Victorian furniture. The beds were damp, the curtains and carpets were damp and there was no drying-room. A pulley was fixed on the kitchen ceiling for wet clothes, which dripped onto the table below. She buttoned her blouse and pulled a heavy grey cardigan over it, shivering.
Despite feeling grateful to be away from the bombs, she struggled to adjust to her new life; the grey, stone house with its long passages and winding shallow stairs, the stodgy food. She had spent the spring and summer trying to recreate a garden that felt familiar. She’d worked for months, digging, planting, and fertilizing under the watchful eye of their gardener, Rob Campbell. Rob was a hardworking, taciturn man with a square head tilted back on a body it seemed too big for, who didn’t bother to hide his disapproval of her plans. Ginie wanted a garden full of flowers and she wanted peppers and aubergines, but the summer had been cold and rainy. Raw skies the colour of wet cement bore down on them and the handful of frail shoots that managed to push their way through the earth wilted before they reached maturity. She had given up, feeling as weak and sun-starved as her plants.
She opened the curtains and felt her mood lift. At least the landscape was beautiful. She had loved Loch Etive from the moment she saw it. Mountains rose from the shore and were reflected in the still water, and a colony of seals lazed on the rocks opposite. Turning to the mirror, she began to do her hair. In the unforgiving morning light, mirrors were dangerous objects, showing only too clearly the signs of ageing. Lines were visible on her face, fanning out beneath her eyes like strands of a spider’s web, tracing a path from her nose to the edges of her mouth. There was something sly about this process, so gradual and so apparently imperceptible, yet so inescapable. The fleeting glimpse of a trip wire waiting to topple her into old age.
She leaned her forehead against the mirror’s cool glass, feeling a sharp pang of longing. It was an old craving, a thirst to be connected to a place that felt like home. In her mind’s eye, she saw scenes of all the places she had lived. Perhaps it wasn’t good for a person to live in so many places, it wasn’t natural? She thought of her bedroom at Eltham, the serenity of the curving walls, the sound of wind rustling in the trees. Even if the allies won, there would be no going back because the life they’d known no longer existed. And if Hitler was victorious. . . Her mind shied away from the idea.
Her thoughts turned to Stephen. He loved Scotland and had thrown himself into building up a beautiful herd of pedigree Highland cattle, learning all about milking and dipping and inoculating. The thought comforted her. He was her constant, her anchor. It was swiftly followed by a twinge of guilt, familiar as her little fingernail. The deception on which she had built their marriage was festering inside her. She had felt a growing need to tell him the truth, whatever the cost to herself.
They had been cooped up for days by rain, so after breakfast they decided to take advantage of the fine weather and walk up Ben Cruachan with Solfo. It was one of their favourite climbs, especially on a day like this, with clear views everywhere and the glorious reds and golds of the honey-scented bracken suddenly turning purple and silver as clouds rolled overhead.
Walking beside Stephen, breathing in his familiar smell, it was hard not to notice what a good mood he was in. His step was buoyant, he was whistling out of key. There would never be a better moment than this one to confess. She tried to rouse the courage, but couldn’t. She looked at his contented face and the words would not come. When they reached the summit, they put stones on the cairn and admired the calm, unchangeable landscape; the distant hills stretching away in a pearly light. They could see as far as Ben More on Mull and the mountains of Arran. They felt far from everything in space and time, the war a distant memory.
Stephen spread a tartan rug on the ground and they sat down. Ginie took out a flask of tea and sandwiches in a paper parcel. She straightened her back and pushed on through the knot of dread in her stomach.
‘I have something to tell you. Something big. I should have said it a long time ago.’
His eyes on her face, he joked gently that she wore her emotions so transparently, how could there be anything about her he didn’t know?
‘Well, there is,’ she said. She cleared her throat. ‘A long time ago, I fell pregnant – it was before Paulo. I was young and stupidly naïve.’
She told him about being deserted by her lover, about the botched abortion and how losing the baby had hurt her for years. Words she had kept damned up inside her poured out of her lips, a tidal wave. Her throat burned and ached as she talked. When she stopped to catch her breath, he tried to fold her in hi
s arms and for a moment, she almost let him. But she steeled herself and continued.
‘No, you don’t understand, Stephen.’ Her voice caught. ‘The point is the abortion left me barren. Do you see? I’m barren, I can’t get pregnant. I. . . I’ve known it since before I met you.’
She watched his face change as he made the connection. His eyes met hers for half a second and he looked away.
Silence stretched out, empty and dangerous. The memory of that bedroom in Italy slid into her mind: hungover and aching with misery, Paulo’s tormented eyes. . . the slam of the front door behind him. It terrified her.
At last, Stephen said, ‘So. . . when you came to me before we were married and told me you were pregnant. . . you were lying.’ His voice was so flat and hard, it was as if a stranger spoke.
She swallowed. ‘I was frightened of losing you.’
‘Every month, you let me hope, and you never said a word.’
She nodded in despair.
‘Why?’
‘If I could turn the clock back and do it differently, I would.’
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. Solfo was gazing anxiously at them.
‘I hate it that you lied.’
‘I’ll never lie to you again,’ she said, ‘I swear.’
There was another pause. She tried to take his hand, but he shook her off. Clouds were gathering on the horizon, swollen with unshed moisture. The wind was picking up, buffeting her, blowing pieces of hair across her face. Her eyes started to smart. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and nose, willing herself not to cry.
‘The truth is,’ said Stephen slowly, ‘It wouldn’t have made a difference.’
She looked at him incredulously.
‘I would have wanted to marry you anyway. You are everything to me.’
He brought his eyes up to meet hers. She saw the love and need in them and realized that with Stephen, she could be the person she really was; she could reveal all of herself and be loved. A slow joy rose in her. She reached for him, but he shrank away.
‘What is it?’ she asked, gripped by fear again.
‘I have something to tell you, too.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s about the First War.’
In all their years together, Stephen had never spoken of his war. He began to talk and she listened without interrupting. It was a part of him she hadn’t seen before, steeped in mayhem and blood.
They had been in the line for weeks, he said, and the whole division was exhausted and demoralised. The casualties had been enormous. Stephen was part of the Machine Gun Corps; they were known as the ‘Suicide Club’ because of their position ahead of the front line and their high death toll. They were chosen from all regiments across the British Army for their mechanical ability and their initiative. They were trained intensively in the use of the Vickers gun. They committed the manual to memory, until each machine gun part was familiar as a limb and any one of them could spring into action in three to four seconds flat. Everything was done on the double: if you didn’t move quickly, you would be killed. Although what was most amazing was the strong friendships that developed. No-one argued, they got on with the job and watched each other’s backs.
Nine men from the same part of Essex had enlisted with Stephen, but soon, only he and the Taylor twins were left. The others had been killed or badly wounded. Will and Edward Taylor had grown up half a mile from Stephen’s family. They were wonderful men, broad-shouldered and vigorous, with fair hair and identical good-natured smiles, always going that extra mile for their fellow soldiers.
Stephen was sick of seeing good men killed and maimed every day. He had been promoted to officer, so was responsible for the safety of his men. The slightest misjudgement meant the difference between life and death. Some of them were hardly more than boys; they should have been living their lives and instead, he was sending them out to face bullets and high explosives.
He was determined to do his duty, even though he was as afraid as the rest of them. He had always been able to maintain a calm, cheerful exterior and he liked to believe it gave strength to his comrades, although he noticed a change in himself. His nerves were frayed, he had lost the will to fight and he had lost faith in the top powers. Their actions led to the pointless, bloody sacrifice of young men. It had become more than clear that in this war, they were all just cannon fodder.
It didn’t help anyone’s morale that it had been raining endlessly. The countryside had been bombed to a desolate wasteland. Everywhere he looked, there was rubble and mud and death. . . He had no words to describe what it felt like to struggle forward through the sludge, with shells and incendiary bombs exploding all around – how the pounding that shook the earth seemed about to burst his eardrums and get inside his head. It drove men to insanity. The air was heavy with tear gas and shell smoke; the stench of rotting flesh, animal and human. Men were falling wherever he looked, some only wounded but choked to death as they were sucked into the sticky, stinking slime. They were all soaked to the skin with rain and blood.
Stephen was just about at the end of his tether when the whole division moved out of line and a relief took over. This was done at nightfall. The rain had stopped at last, the sky was clear and a full moon was rising. As they marched away from the front, they saw a military cemetery. The white stones were lined up in rows and the graves seemed to march with them, eight by eight, all the way along the road. An army of ghosts. It gave Stephen a bad feeling. The booming of the guns was reverberating through the air and echoing in the valleys.
When the journey was over, they were allotted their quarters; a roomy barn on the edges of a wood. The village was empty, the people and livestock killed by mortar fire. The houses were rubble and the barn was just about the only building standing. It was clean, with plenty of straw and after the filthy conditions they had been living in, it seemed like The Ritz.
Equipment was taken off and there was a pump with running water, so they were able to get rid of their unwanted beards and lice and have a proper wash – a great relief. For the first time in a long while, Stephen let his guard down. There was a vegetable garden just outside the barn and he had noticed a few vegetables growing, so he decided to make a stew for the lads. He gathered wood, dug up the vegetables and prepared the ingredients. He put in some bully beef for extra flavour. The men enjoyed it, washing it down with tea or rum to keep out the cold. An owl hooted in the distance. The moon was large and clear, casting a soft coppery light on their faces. Someone had a banjo and songs were sung.
Mother, I’m feeling hungry and I want my bread and milk
Your prodigal son is coming home
With their bellies full, the men were looking forward to a decent night’s sleep.
Suddenly, a burst of gunfire rained down on the barn, slashing branches from the surrounding trees and sending startled pigeons flapping in all directions. Men dived for shelter as soil, stones and bullets sprayed into the air. Stephen found cover behind a bale of hay. The attack seemed to last for hours, though in reality, it was no longer than a minute or two. When a calm settled on the barn he emerged cautiously, unsure whether to trust the silence.
Edward Taylor was lying on the ground with his jaw ripped from his skull. Where the lower part of his face should have been, there was only blood gushing down the front of his uniform. His agony didn’t last long. He lost consciousness before Stephen reached his side, his eyes rolling back in his head, his breathing rasping and gurgling. Moments later, he let out a ghastly death-sound and was gone. Will was crouched next to him, sobbing and incoherent. Stephen laid a hand on his shoulder. Will howled and buried his head in his brother’s chest.
The woods had been the perfect hide-out for a German ambush. Stephen castigated himself bitterly for his stupidity. He should never have let his guard down, he should have realised there were always Germans lurking nearby, waiting for a chance to attack. His men had been sitting ducks eating and singing in the perilous light of the moon. What was the use if he couldn
’t even keep them safe on rest?
Leaving the others to care for Will as best they could, Stephen took his pistol and went into the woods. He followed the line of fire and started off in that direction, but he didn’t know which way the men had gone, or how many there were. Something had snapped in him. He wanted to kill, to batter the Kraut bastards to death with his bare hands. His rage drove him forward.
The moonlight didn’t penetrate the tangled trees, so he searched with his torch; its thin beam trailing over branches that looked like skeleton limbs, a few dead leaves still clinging to them. Once, the yellow eyes of some animal, probably a deer, shone back at him, then disappeared as it crashed back into the thicket.
The ground was a mess of tree roots and splintered, broken wood. As he groped his way forwards, he tripped and fell heavily, cutting open his palm, but scrambled to his feet and carried on without bothering to staunch the blood. He heard a sudden rustling ahead of him. Quick as a flash, he fired half a dozen shots in the direction of the sound. There was the noise of someone falling and a thin, choked cry that made his heart stop. Something was dreadfully wrong.
He advanced cautiously, gun at the ready. The torch beam landed on feet first. Small, scuffed red shoes and dirty, grey ankle socks that had once been white. The muscles of Stephen’s stomach contracted and his hands started to shake so violently that he nearly dropped his gun.
It was a girl aged about ten, with knotty tobacco-coloured hair. She was wearing a red and white checked pinafore and there was a neat bullet hole in the centre of her chest. She was still alive, but only just. She had likely come from the ruined village and had lost her family in the mortar attack, hiding out in the woods; terrified, lonely and hungry. Instead of protecting her, he had pulled the trigger and murdered her. He was frantic with shock and despair. His instincts had let him down catastrophically, and not just once, but twice.
The Dragon Lady Page 13