by A. M. Howell
Robert ignored him. Clara bit down on her bottom lip. How could she make things better between them? “You’re doing a good thing, organizing these fruits and vegetables for the hospital.”
A flush stole onto Robert’s cheeks. “Well, it was the Earl’s idea, I can’t take all of the credit,” he muttered.
“Yes…but Mrs Gilbert was saying how proud she is of you, after your…disappointments.” Clara clamped her mouth shut. She was prying again.
Robert rubbed his nose. The flush had mottled his neck, like a nettle rash. “The thing is, Clara – and you’ll learn this when you are grown – you can get over some disappointments. But others stay with you, perhaps for ever.”
Clara stared at Robert for a second, then looked away.
“We’re here,” Robert said, bringing Kitty to a halt in a street just around the corner from the Abbeygate. His face seemed a little lighter as he hopped down from the cart and looped Kitty’s reins around a lamp post. “Good girl,” he murmured, stroking her mane. “We shan’t be long.”
Ivy coated the front of the three-storey hospital and crept over some of the windows too. The Union flag and the Red Cross flapped on the white flagpole – two flags Clara had grown to know well since the War had begun.
Robert and Clara unloaded the crates of vegetables and carried them to the entrance. A man wearing a blue shirt with too-short sleeves and baggy trousers was smoking near the doors. He leaned on wooden crutches. His right trouser leg was neatly folded at the knee; the lower half of his leg was missing.
Clara swallowed a gasp, her feet grinding to a halt, her eyes glued to where his leg once was. She heard Robert disappear inside. The crate Clara was holding tipped in her arms. Two parsnips and three carrots fell onto the pavement.
The man with one leg propped a crutch against the wall, and rested his cigarette and matches on the rim of a large plant pot next to him. “No pockets in these Hospital Blues,” he said, gesturing to his outfit. “Can you imagine it?”
Clara stared at his odd-looking outfit. No pockets? How could a person be expected to travel through a day without them?
“You’ve got a good pair of pockets, I see,” the man said, indicating Clara’s apron. His voice was tinged with envy.
She glanced down and saw the tip of her envelope from the War Office was peeping out. By the time she looked up again, the man was bending awkwardly to pick up the fallen parsnips. “Oh, please. There is no need…” Clara began to say as the man picked them up and placed them carefully back in her crate.
“It’s nice to be useful,” he said, giving Clara a small smile.
“Yes, it is rather,” said Clara, smiling back. “Well…thank you.”
She waited as he bent again to pick up the carrots.
Robert strode out of the doors. His eyes skimmed over the man, to the crate in Clara’s arms. “Mr Gilbert is expecting us back within the hour.”
Clara gave him a small nod.
The man picked up his crutch and his cigarettes. Clara’s eyes flickered to his leg again.
“It doesn’t hurt me much, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said softly, following her gaze.
“Oh, no…I…” Clara felt a flash of heat rise up her neck.
“It’s natural to be curious. And the docs here say it helps to talk about it. And now I’ve started talking, I can’t seem to stop. Leg was blown clean off. Nurses in France saved my life. Proper angels they were.”
Is that what had happened to Christopher? Is that what the letter from the War Office said? Clara looked at the man again and instead of seeing him, saw the dimple in Christopher’s chin, the hair like Father’s, which refused to lie flat unless he greased it. A leg that might or might not be there any more.
“This is the last of them,” Clara heard Robert mutter as he walked past, his back stooped under the weight of the crates.
The man was still looking at her as if he wanted to talk. She should go and help Robert, but it would be rude to just walk away.
Clara cleared her throat. “Was it very awful? On the Front, I mean.” The crate was making her arms ache. She placed it on the pavement and took a step closer to the man.
The man’s eyes darkened. “You have family there?”
Clara nodded.
The man’s eyes became glassy. He cleared his throat. “It’s worse than what they say in the newspapers – which don’t tell the whole truth. You couldn’t understand it unless you’d been.”
“Please. I would like to know,” said Clara, clasping her hands together.
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “The trenches are like a maze. Sometimes the fighting is so terrible that there’s no time to bury the dead anywhere else. When it rains, the sides of the trenches collapse so people’s legs and arms, and sometimes skulls, stick out.”
Clara curled her toes in her boots to try and quell the sickness which had leaped into her stomach.
“The yellow mud gets everywhere. It fills your boots, jams the rifles and guns, makes you so cold you wouldn’t think you could get any colder.” The man rubbed his neck. “But it was the noises that got me. The air’s thick with grenades and mortars. It’s like ten explosions rolled into one. And as for the smells…”
“Charlie,” said a nurse in a crisp white hat, sticking her head around the front door. “Are you bothering this young lady?”
“No…he wasn’t. Not at all,” said Clara. Although she was rather glad the nurse had appeared. She had not expected the man to go into quite so much detail. She had learned more from him in a few minutes than she had in all the months since her father returned from the Front. He had made it very clear he did not wish to speak of his experiences. Was this why?
The nurse ushered Charlie towards the door. He gave Clara a quick wave.
“Goodbye,” Clara called. “And…good luck.”
The man’s cheeks cracked into a broad smile. He tipped his hand into a salute before disappearing through the doors.
When all of the vegetables had been dropped off at the kitchen storeroom – and the rosy-faced cook had kissed Robert on both cheeks to thank him for the Earl’s generosity – they returned to the cart and Kitty.
Robert’s eyes flickered to his watch. “I’ve a quick errand to run – at the post office. There’s no need for you to come. I’ll be ten minutes tops.”
Kitty was still standing contently chewing on some parsnips Robert had dropped for her.
“Perhaps I could walk to the Abbeygate? Find a bakery and buy us a bun each for the journey back?” Clara asked.
Robert frowned. “Do you know where to go?”
Clara felt in her pocket for the folded tapestry. “I know it. It’s just around the corner, back the way we came. I’ll be quick.”
Robert threw a concerned glance at Kitty, then gave Clara a quick, but serious nod. “Fine. But don’t go telling Mr Gilbert. I promised not to let you out of my sight.”
“You can trust me,” Clara said, throwing him a broad smile.
Towards the end of the street she turned, and saw Robert still standing by Kitty, watching her. At the street corner she paused and looked back again. But this time Robert was striding off in the opposite direction with his collar pulled up, his shoulders hunched forward into the brisk autumn wind, a whirl of fallen leaves dancing in his wake.
Summers & Sons Framemakers was halfway up the cobbled street, sandwiched between a chemist, its window display full of jars of brightly-coloured liquids, and a bakery. Clara ignored the gurgle in her stomach elicited by the scent of freshly baked cinnamon-glazed Chelsea buns, making a mental note to buy three on the way back – for her, Robert and Will. The framemakers’ shop bell jangled as Clara pushed the door open. She had half-walked, half-run all the way there, ignoring the curious gazes of afternoon shoppers, and she gathered her breath as she stood in the doorway. The maroon-painted walls were covered by a jigsaw of picture frames – delicate ones edged in silver, large wooden ones as big as a window
, fancy gilt-edged frames which were thicker than the pictures they would eventually frame. “Hello, higgledy-piggledy puzzle wall,” Clara said breathlessly.
The shopkeeper behind the counter was talking to a lady in a smart blue hat, explaining the differences between two small frames, which looked exactly the same to Clara. It seemed the lady thought so too, for she said she could not decide and would return the following week. The shopkeeper sighed and placed the frames under the counter as the lady brushed past Clara and left, the doorbell jangling a quick goodbye.
The shopkeeper glanced up at Clara. “Can I help you?” His white catlike whiskers wiggled as he spoke. He reminded Clara a little of Neptune.
Clara stepped closer to the counter. “You framed a tapestry for Mrs Gilbert, I mean, my aunt.”
The shopkeeper tilted his head. “Is there a problem with it?”
Clara rubbed her bottom lip. “There was an accident. The frame broke.” She pulled the folded tapestry from her pocket and placed it on the counter. She stood back and watched the shopkeeper’s face as he smoothed it out and studied it.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a very fine-looking pineapple. The fabric will need to be stretched before it can be reframed though.”
“Oh. Will that take long?” Clara asked.
“A day or so. It’s not urgent?”
Clara dipped her head and stared at her scuffed boots. “I think it may be.”
“Ah, I see,” said the shopkeeper. Clara looked up. He was giving her a friendly smile, as if he understood exactly what type of emergency it was. “When I was small I broke one of my father’s clay pipes, his favourite. A chimney sweep lived next door. I carried his brushes every day after school until I had enough money to replace it.”
“I have some money,” Clara said. “My parents gave it to me for emergencies.”
“Hmm. Did they now? And you think this might be one?” the shopkeeper asked, smoothing his moustache.
Clara gave him a small nod.
The shopkeeper pulled a large brown ledger from beneath the counter. “You don’t happen to remember the date on the back of the frame?”
“1914,” said Clara quickly.
“And the name was Gilbert, you say?”
“Mrs Elizabeth Gilbert,” replied Clara, nibbling on a thumbnail.
The man flicked through the ledger, running a forefinger down the pages lined with perfect handwriting. “Here we are,” he said, jabbing his finger at a page. “Yes, I have all the measurements. He chose cherrywood. A good choice. Oh, there was to be an inscription on the front of the frame, but your uncle changed his mind.”
“My uncle?” said Clara, wrinkling her nose.
“Yes. Mr Gilbert ordered the frame.”
Clara held onto the countertop. “What was it to say?”
The man squinted. “Deep peace of the quiet earth.” He swallowed, rubbed his jaw.
Clara frowned. It sounded rather gloomy, but also rather nice. It fitted the tapestry quite well, for pineapples did grow peacefully in the soil. She had a sudden longing to be back in the hothouses with Will, where the air was warm and still and sweet.
“Would you like the inscription on a brass plate?” the shopkeeper asked, his pen poised over the ledger. “It will cost a little more. I imagine that’s why your uncle decided against it.”
Deep peace of the quiet earth.
“That would be lovely,” said Clara. “But I need to check I have enough money first.” She pulled her purse from her pocket and tipped the contents onto the counter.
The shopkeeper quickly counted the coins and glanced at the ledger again. He tapped a finger on his chin, then pushed half of the coins back across the counter to Clara. “You have more than enough,” he said firmly. “Shall I send the package to Gardener’s Cottage, addressed to…Mrs Gilbert?”
“Yes, please,” said Clara, sweeping the leftover coins back into her purse and pushing it into her pocket.
She picked up the piece of paper that had tumbled out with the coins and handed it to him. “Please can you put this behind the tapestry?”
The shopkeeper took it from her and gave her a quick nod, as if it was an everyday occurrence to be asked to place pieces of paper bearing the word Maestro behind replacement tapestry frames.
She walked to the door, but then paused and turned, watching the shopkeeper smoothing out the tapestry. “I don’t suppose there is any chance at all it will be ready by tomorrow? You see…my aunt doesn’t know I’ve brought it into town and…”
The shopkeeper looked up and smiled another crinkly smile, which was a little sadder than the first and didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not much call for framing at the moment, what with the War. Both of my sons are at the Front. Had no news of them for a while. Well, we get the odd letter, but most of the detail is censored. You know how it is.”
Clara gave a serious nod, thinking of the shop sign swinging outside. Summers & Sons. She desperately hoped his sons would return.
“I’ll see what I can do about getting this tapestry reframed quickly. We can’t have you getting into trouble, can we?” the shopkeeper said.
Clara smiled her thanks, giving the wall of picture frames a final glance on her way out. It was curious that Mr Gilbert had ordered the frame. Surely, having sewn the tapestry, Mrs Gilbert would have wanted a say in the final choice? But then again, perhaps it had been a surprise, for her birthday or Christmas. Whatever the reason, Clara dearly hoped that paying for the brass inscription plate would at least halfway make up for her trespassing in their bedroom and breaking a precious thing which did not belong to her.
After helping the stable boy clean the cart and bed down Kitty in her stable, Clara and Robert walked back down the hill to the gardens. Clara pushed the final piece of her Chelsea bun into her mouth, her gums aching at the sugary sweetness.
“Thanks for the bun, Clara,” Robert said, licking a shred of lemon peel from his thumb.
Clara smiled. Robert had been surly and pale-faced when she had returned from the framemakers’ shop, but as they made their way out of the town, his shoulders had seemed to relax and he had begun to chat. He had become quite animated as he spoke of the poor wheat harvest that year, how he was concerned that there may be food shortages soon and perhaps even rationing. Clara had thought of the Gilberts’ pantry, loaded with jars of jams, pickles and chutneys. Perhaps she would ask to take a few home with her – if she ever went home…
Having left Robert with Mr Gilbert outside The Bothy, Clara opened the door to the cottage. A note from Mrs Gilbert was on the sideboard, saying that she would be working late at the Big House. It was an opportunity she could not ignore.
The bun Clara had eaten sat heavy in her stomach as she traipsed upstairs and unhooked the key to the locked room from behind the Gilberts’ bed. She should not be trespassing in the Gilberts’ room again. She most certainly should not be taking keys and unlocking doors and reading letters which did not belong to her. But what if other letters had arrived, ones that did belong to her? She had been at the cottage for over a week and there had been no word from her mother, no answers to the letters she had written and asked Mrs Gilbert to post. Clara walked to the bureau and picked up the envelope on top of the pile. Just like last time there was no name or address on the front. Was this the same letter she had already read, or could it be a new one? She slipped out the sheaf of paper and began to read.
October 1916
My Dearest,
Time is passing so quickly. The days are shortening and Alfred has thrown himself into the gardens – he is obsessed with them. He is often at work with his spade and fork before sunrise and does not return until teatime. Afterwards we sit by the fire, barely speaking as we stare into the flames, both wishing for the same thing I am sure – to be free. Oh, to hear your laugh! What joy that would bring me. Maybe tonight, when I creep through the gardens while everyone sleeps, I will see you. I will be waiting as usual, near our favourite pineapple house. Your fonde
st,
Lizzy
Clara stared hard at the words, willing them to reveal their secrets. Mrs Gilbert had admitted in her letter that she was creeping around the gardens and visiting the hothouses. As much as Clara did not want to believe it, could Will’s theory that the Gilberts were stealing the pineapples be right? And wasn’t it a little peculiar that Mrs Gilbert was not specifically dating her letters? Did she have any intention of addressing them and posting them? Carefully pushing the letter back into its envelope, she placed it back on top of the pile, ensuring it rested at a slight angle, just as she had found it.
That evening Will’s face was paler than usual, his eyes red-rimmed, when Clara met him at the boiler house. “Robert came to see me,” he said, his voice cracked and low. He picked up a lump of coal and threw it at the wall. It shattered into tiny pieces.
Clara’s tongue felt too large for her mouth. Had she made Robert suspicious by questioning him about his family on their way into town earlier?
“Father’s regiment have returned his uniform and his personal items.” Will slumped on the blanket next to Clara.
“Oh,” said Clara, handing him the bun she had bought in town. Will didn’t even look inside the paper bag, just placed it on the blanket beside him. Clara picked at the skin around her thumbnail. Was that why Robert’s cheeks had been pinched and pale earlier on? He must have been to collect their father’s things from the post office. “What will you do with them?” She hugged her knees to her chest. Despite the warmth from the furnace, cold seeped through her bones, making her shudder.
“I think…” He paused. “Robert and I think they should be buried.”
The boiler spat and hissed.
Clara turned and looked at Will in surprise, remembering the funeral she had seen in town earlier that day. “In a churchyard?”
“No,” said Will wearily. “That wouldn’t be allowed.”
“Where then?”
“Father and I came to visit Robert, soon after he’d started working here. It was springtime. The trees were full of birdsong. Bulbs were pushing up through the soil. Everything was fresh and new, like a drawing that had just been finished.”
