Thea hesitated, then took the small sheet of paper. Was this her salvation? She knew that Avril would be pressed to talk, would be deprived of food or fed too much, would be questioned until she gave up names, and Thea’s was likely the only other name she knew. Thea was convinced that she was now on borrowed time, and she was scared. And she hated herself for her fear. Perhaps that’s what she had said, after all—Fear, Fear, Fear. My name is Fear.
“Well, all right, Hilary. I can go along, can’t I? They might not want me, but I can see someone. I’d feel better anyway, because my brother, Tom, is enlisting.”
Hilary smiled and sat back in her chair. “He married Kezia Marchant, didn’t he?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Thea.
“Can’t say that I could see her a farmer’s wife. Interesting girl, wasn’t she? Sort of passive until you realized that really she was quite a force in her way, and could be a bit stubborn too. But you two were thick with each other, weren’t you? You must be very happy to have her in the family fold.”
Thea nodded. “Yes, I suppose I am.” She realized then that Kezia was family and, for the first time since receiving Tom’s letter, wondered what the woman who had been her dearest friend might think when both she and Tom left for France. And as Hilary Dalton raised her hand to the waitress to call for more tea and cakes, Thea caught herself. When. She had thought when.
As she walked home, back to her room, which she had come to think of as her lair, she thought she might not go on Monday after all. She had felt more than a little strong-armed by Hilary, who had always been a pushy character. She suspected Tom might have found himself in a similar position, pressed to enlist, except it would have been his own sense of duty that pushed him, not the pressure of another. She wondered why Kezia had not stopped him, had not put her foot down and demanded he stay.
Arriving at Queen Charlotte’s Chambers, Thea was at once pounced upon by Mrs. Montague, who must have been lying in wait for her, twitching the curtains in her flat and watching the street to monitor her return. No sooner was Thea’s key in the lock than she was on the threshold; Thea stumbled as the door opened with the warden’s pull.
“There’s been two men here looking for you, Miss Brissenden.”
Thea felt the flush evaporate from her cheeks; she was now both hot and cold at the same time. “Looking for me? Do you know who they were?”
“Didn’t say, but it looked like trouble, and if there’s one thing I won’t have here, it’s trouble among my women.”
“Oh, Mrs. Montague, I assure you, I have neither courted, caused, or been the source of any trouble—you know that very well. I go to my work, I continue my work in the evenings at my desk. I keep myself to myself, and I pay my rent on time.”
“That’s as may be, but they looked like trouble all the same. I’ll have to ask you to be careful—I wouldn’t want to see them again. Men aren’t wanted here.”
“I know that very well, Mrs. Montague, and I assure you, I do not know any men. I wonder if something untoward hasn’t happened to my brother or sister-in-law. Did they say they would come back, or did they leave a message—a note?”
The woman shook her head. “No. They just said they would return early next week, in case you were away until Monday. They know you’re a schoolteacher—that much is evident.”
Thea smiled and made to move on. “Well, it doesn’t seem to be bad news, so I will just have to wait and see. Thank you, Mrs. Montague.”
She was well aware that she had left the warden standing, her mouth shaped in a perfectly round O, such was her surprise at not having the last word in the matter. Thea unlocked the door to her room, let herself in, and turned the key behind her. She leaned her back against the door, and as the full weight of realization seeped into her body, her legs went out from under her and she slid to the ground. They’re coming for me. I’ll be charged under the Defense of the Realm Act. I’ll end up in Holloway. She staggered over to the sink for fear that her stomach could not contain her anxiety on top of tea and cake.
She would see Hilary Dalton on Monday. She would put her best foot forward and persuade the “fearless leader” that she would stand tall before any foe, and could turn her hand to any task in support of the men of her country. She would do this because she knew she could not face a judge and jury. She would do it because she could endure the terror of a gun and the shell, but she could not see Kezia or Tom again if she were accused of being a traitor. And then she wept. She wept because she felt alone. She wept because she was powerless against the monsters of war and want. She felt trapped by her own passion. She wept because she was burning with a deep, searing pain, as if she had pierced her own heart with the knife of betrayal and was bleeding her failure to hold true. What irony—that the only way she could make amends with herself was to go to war.
Chapter 9
The housewife requires the qualities of a field-marshal. Instruction in selecting subordinates, tact in managing them, organizing of daily work, financial ability in handling the household budget, the taste that imparts charm to the home—these are not common facilities.
—THE WOMAN’S BOOK
As Ada was scouring egg from the knives, Kezia stood at the back door and looked down at the collies, both shaking in anticipation, their ears like folded envelopes.
“He’s gone, sweet boys,” said Kezia. “He’s gone to be in the army, but he’ll be back. Don’t you worry.”
She knelt down and ruffled the scruff of each dog, then came to her feet again. “Let’s go and find Bert, shall we?”
The sky was silvered with clouds hardly distinguishable from one another. It was late October, yet November’s nip was already in the air as Kezia marched along the farm road, past the pigpens, past the oast house and then the orchards on the left and the new fields of turnips on the right, just beyond the old barn. There was no sign of Bert and Danny, or the four lads taken on to help settle the farm for the winter. There were fences to be mended, fields to turn, and cattle to be moved. Spent bines from hop picking were now piled along the empty rows of the hop gardens, left to brown and bracken, ready to be burned later when they’d dried, filling the air with that scent once again, but now filtered through smoke and flame that lent splashes of red to a day devoid of hue.
Kezia stopped at the top of the hill, where the road slipped down towards Dickens’ two cities, and stood for a while. It seemed at once that the landscape had ceased to breathe against the cold, its color dull, as if she were looking through a windowpane with grey muslin drawn across. She inhaled deeply, trying to bring Tom back to her, now, in this place. And she realized that she must fight her fear of being alone, of having taken on more than she ever imagined she could accomplish as both mistress and master of the farm.
One of the collies barked, its head forward, nose to the wind. Bert and Danny were bringing sawn wood up to the farm, each driving a cart, Bert with Mabel’s reins in his hands and Danny behind, working the more amenable Ted. Kezia waved. When Bert was alongside, he rested the leather on his knee.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Brissenden.” He touched his cap. “I’ve got them lads out in the hop gardens, cleaning up so we can let them sit till spring.”
“I’ll walk down and see them—I was making my way over there anyway, then up towards the railway line and back to the house.” She paused, looking at her feet and at the mud sticking to her boots. She used the foot of one to dislodge mud from the other, holding on to the side of the cart to steady herself. “Look, Bert, I know you and Danny have brought your dinner, but I thought you might like something hot today. Would you like to come into the kitchen? I’ve got some soup on the stove.”
Bert pushed back his cap. Mabel stamped her foot, ready to be off.
“Well, I don’t know, Mrs. Brissenden. I mean, it’s not like breakfast, is it? We’ve been at work since then, and we’re both a bit ripe, if you know what I mean. And besides, we’re used to taking dinner in the oast house. Just the two of us.”
Kezia smiled. She did not want to press the point, and she wondered how the men felt, now Tom was gone. Did they pity her? Did they think she was lonely? More to the point, did they wonder if she could cope when the rudder was in swing against a tide freshened by storm?
“I don’t mind, Bert. If you like, I can bring soup to the oast house—nice with your sandwiches.”
Bert nodded. “Right you are. We’ll be there at the usual dinnertime.”
“Good. That’s good, Bert. I’ll bring the soup.”
Kezia smiled and went on her way, bidding Danny good morning as she passed him. Ted seemed content enough to stand, showing none of Mabel’s impatience.
When she had circumnavigated the farm and arrived back at the farmhouse, Kezia felt her spirits rise. There was no soup on the stove, and none had been prepared yesterday, so she set to work. She would imagine her soup was for Tom, and it would be a good soup, the best soup, a soup that had her imprint on it. Bert and Danny would talk about the soup, and it would become known that she, Kezia Brissenden—Mrs. Tom Brissenden—was a good farmer’s wife.
Kezia chopped the vegetables, simmered the broth, plundered the larder for peas she’d dried in summer and beans that had been soaking since the day before. She went to her kitchen garden and searched among the tied-back and cut-down sprigs for thyme and rosemary, savory and parsley. And as she cut into each, she held them between finger and thumb to breathe in the aroma. She added curcumin bought in London, and some tiny peppery seeds found in a jar in the larder, seeds she could not identify because the label had fallen off ages ago. She thought the bittersweet flavor that settled upon her tongue when she bit into a single seed would add something to Tom’s soup. And it wasn’t until Ada came in from the front of the house, where she had scrubbed the doorstep—not that anyone ever came to the front door—and asked, “Was someone here, Mrs. Brissenden?” that Kezia realized she had been talking to Tom, telling him all about his soup as she moved vegetables to the pot, as she peppered and salted the broth, and as the beans and peas and lentils merged with carrot, onion, swede, parsnip, and celery root. And just because she liked the idea, she added a chopped pear brought from the cold shed next to the kitchen garden. This would be the very best soup Tom had ever tasted, and she would write to him as soon as it was on the simmer, as soon as she was ready to pour it into a small saucepan and take it to Bert and Danny. She would serve them soup in her china bowls, and give them white linen napkins to wipe across their chins when they ate so fast the liquid dribbled into their stubble.
Dearest Tom,
Marshals Farm misses you. The men miss you, Sloppy and Squeers miss you, and I miss you most of all. But we are all looking after the farm, so you must not concern yourself. We know you have enough to worry about without wondering if this or that has been done. It’s all well in hand. We’ve still got Ted and Mabel, thanks be to the Lord. The men from the army came again last week, but they were both looking a bit tired (the horses, not the men), and Mabel was ready to knock a fly’s eye out if anyone but Bert came near her. I think she misses you too. I told them I was a woman trying to run the farm on my own, with only two men left and one of them lame, and I told them we had already been under orders to plough up a meadow and take down an orchard for more growing, and asked how they thought we would feed their army without our horses. I mentioned that my father had enlisted as an army chaplain—not that he’s gone any farther than a London barracks, as far as I know—and I would like to think the word of God settled in their ears and kept Ted and Mabel with us. I don’t know what we would do without the horses.
Kezia read the letter, and shook her head. No, she could not tell Tom of her concerns. It was unfair to tell him he was missed, and she could not possibly worry him about the horses, about the orchard to come down—she realized it had not been mentioned before, and would keep him awake at night. She decided it would be best to write the letter in pencil as a draft, then edit it before copying out her final version on writing paper. It took her two hours.
Tom was hungry. His hunger gnawed at his backbone. Nevertheless, he wondered if he could eat what was put in front of him. He had never been among savages, but he thought jungle tribes must be like men in a mess hall. Hundreds of men, hundreds of khaki ants, and big men, cooks—men cooks, mind—men serving up food, not with spoons but with their bare, soiled hands, hands that became cleaner as dirt adhered to the meat, potatoes, and bit of bread they shoved onto the next plate. Move along, move along, no slacking. A sergeant stood in attendance to make sure the new recruits ate, to make sure they didn’t linger a moment where a moment could not be spared.
The line shuffled along, elbows into ribs, knee into the back of another knee, man moving man. Tom hated it, could hardly stand the lack of space around him. Dinner was supposed to be private, personal, just him and Kezia, together. And no one else. Her hands were clean, the tablecloths laundered and crisp. Flowers were on the table, and all for him. Now this. He felt as if something were being taken from him, that he was no longer Tom Brissenden but a private among many privates. Funny, that—now he was Private Thomas Brissenden, yet everything was far from private, or personal, or individual. It was one lumbering beast of man animal. An army.
“Come on, move along, lads. Get on, move your arses and get that food down yer! On the double!”
Some of the men laughed; others paled—in particular the younger lads, many not even with a bit of fluff around their chops—and looked sick. Food had always been cooked by a mother or a wife. And even if the lad had been in a family of six children and one pot of broth, and the army food looked better than at home, home and mother were still a long way past. Weeks, even.
“Scum, that’s what it is. Look what they’re feeding us.” The speaker sat down next to Tom. It was a hut mate, Cecil Croft, who now pushed his food around on his plate. Croft had been a teacher before enlisting, a university man.
“I’d get on with it, mate, if I were you. That sergeant over there sees you playing with your food, you’ll be on a charge,” said Tom. He nodded towards his neighbor’s tin plate. It held stew, potatoes, and a hefty slice of bread.
“It’s not as if we’re not getting the calories, is it?” said Croft. “It’s what they do with the food to make them add up that makes me suspicious. I mean, it all looks the same. And brown bread.”
“They say it’s better for you.”
“Try telling the other men that—look at them, ready to throw it back. There’ll be a mutiny before we get to the boats, at this rate. White bread is cleaner, you know.”
Tom shrugged and poked at his food.
“Not good enough for you, son?” The sergeant loomed over Tom.
“Just getting the gravy onto the meat,” said Tom.
The sergeant leaned forward, the waxed end of his moustache tickling against Tom’s ear like an errant fly on a summer’s day. “Stand to attention, Private Gravy, now!”
Tom set down his knife and fork and scraped back his chair.
“Do it again, and this time do it faster, Private.”
Tom sat down, his behind barely touching the chair before he stood up once more. The noisy clattering of knives and forks had diminished, though few had stopped eating.
“Just getting the gravy onto the meat, what?”
“Just getting the gravy onto the meat, sir!” said Tom, his eyes to the front.
“Just getting the gravy onto the meat. Looked to me like you were playing with your food, Private.”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir. No, sir. Well, you’ve no time to get your gravy now, or your spuds, or your meat.” He turned his attention to the other men gathered, who were looking back and forth as if watching a tennis match. “Atten-shun!”
Men scrambled to their feet, standing with straight backs, facing forward.
“Private Brissenden here was poking round his gravy looking for a bit of meat. Was anyone else having trouble finding their meat?”
; There was a low mumble.
“Did anyone else have trouble finding their meat?”
“No, sir!” the soldiers answered in unison.
“Well, now you’ll all have a chance to show Private Brissenden how to find his bit of meat, because it’s down to him that I want you all on the parade ground. Now!”
There was a stamping of feet to attention, and a turning around as one when the men marched from the mess hall. Tom remained at attention, only marching when the cohort at his table began to move.
“Not you, Private Gravy. The cook wants his floor scrubbed. The cook wants no filth in his kitchen, nothing to taint the rations.” The sergeant looked at Tom, who continued to look ahead. He pressed his face close to Tom’s and shouted a command. “About turn!”
Tom turned in the direction of the kitchen.
“Quick march!”
It was later, in the hut, that Cecil Croft came alongside Tom’s bed. “It’s all part of the game, Tom. Like surnames only, like the mass of men eating like pigs—men who have never had a good meal sitting next to men who’ve had better than you or I—it’s all done to make us into an army.”
Tom nodded. He went on polishing his boots, cleaning his webbing.
“Putting the mass of men against one is all part of the play. I’ve seen it before, at school,” added Cecil.
The Care and Management of Lies Page 13
