The Care and Management of Lies

by Jacqueline Winspear

  The officer riding alongside held up his hand in response to another officer leading the march, and the company stopped, brought to attention. The order was given to fall out, so they staggered to the side of the road and were given leave to sit.

  “You all right, Brissenden? You were miles away.” Cecil offered Tom a Woodbine.

  Tom nodded and took the cigarette. “Obliged, thank you.” He paused to light up. “Just thinking of home, that’s all.”

  “Your wife still making up fancy dinners to give you when you get back to Blighty?”

  Tom nodded, and laughed. “I’m looking forward to it. New recipe with every letter.”

  Cecil looked up at the sky, then back at Tom. “It’ll be a while, that.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, God, look who’s coming down the line.”

  It was Knowles. The men clambered to attention, the rain dripping from their helmets onto their mackintoshes, then down onto their boots.

  “Attennnn-shun!” Knowles stopped in front of Cecil and Tom. “Well, what are you two nancy boys jawing about now?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Tom and Cecil replied in accord.

  He came close to Tom. “Just as well, Private Gravy. Because I am watching you.” He waited a moment and then marched down the line, barking orders.

  “He’s well and truly got it in for you, mate,” said Cecil.

  “Every bully needs a whipping boy, I suppose,” replied Tom.

  “I’d watch out if I were you, that’s all.”

  The order came along the line to form a column. Once more they began marching, and once more Edmund Hawkes rode up and down, as if to pull his soldiers along, though there was not a man who felt rested, warmer, or drier, or whose feet ached less for the brief sojourn. The sound of big guns came ever closer, and as the column of British and Canadian troops moved forward, so they began to pass another column, a slow stagger of men moving in the opposite direction, many bandaged, held up by comrades.

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Cecil.

  Tom said nothing, only watched as activity increased, as ambulances groaned along the rutted road or were pulled by blood-spattered horses. He saw Edmund Hawkes cantering back and forth now. It was a slow, measured canter. Tom knew he had already been up to the front line several times, and was—if you looked at the men returning—an old hand. He watched him each time he passed, and saw the pinched look on his face, and though his cap was pulled down and his collar pulled up, he tried to imagine the Edmund Hawkes of old, the young man who’d seemed so very confident in his world. This time it was like watching the ghost of someone who had not died. He cast his eyes sideways at the passing column, saw a few raise their hands in acknowledgement, though the men, who were from an Indian regiment, did not call or sing. They kept their haunted eyes focused in front of them. The strange thing, to Tom, was that though they were alive they seemed dead, their faces whitened by the chalky mud, and whatever it was that awaited him and Cecil and Edmund Hawkes, and every man marching towards the war.

  Kezia had not been up to London since before Tom’s enlistment. In the early days of her marriage she had taken the gig into the village several times each week, or perhaps more, and now she only found time to visit the grocery shop and post office once a week, on a Friday afternoon, and often persuaded the postman to take her letters, to save her time. The farm sucked up every ounce of her energy. She barely had the power to wash herself at the end of the day, and it seemed the only clothes she ever wore now were Tom’s. The men had become used to seeing her wearing trousers and a workmanlike shirt, a weskit, and then, later, her old woolen jacket buttoned up to her neck and a scarf tied to keep her warm. A knitted tam-o’-shanter was pulled down to just above her eyes, and covered her ears. She wore heavy leather gloves, and set about her day’s work with the same vigor as any young man who had ever worked on the farm.

  It was the Tuesday before Christmas. Kezia had not wanted to go to London on a Monday, for that was the day she, Bert, and Danny discussed the week ahead over breakfast. The linen tablecloth was still put out each day, and Kezia never wavered in her commitment to set the men off on their work with a good meal inside them, which in winter meant a bowl of porridge to line the stomach, before eggs and bacon and strong tea. The price of sugar had gone up, and supplies were limited, so they’d all cut back on the number of teaspoonfuls they’d heaped into the morning brew. The only difference in the morning round was that Ada was left to the house, and Kezia went out onto the farm. But not today.

  She’d bathed the night before, delaying her weekly soak from Friday night until the Monday, ready for excursion. She dressed in a matching wool barathea skirt and jacket, with a wrap to keep her warm, and her best winter hat, which was of a nutty brown with a wide grosgrain band and a feather at the side. She had taken a few pounds from the tin in her dressing table drawer, for it was her intention to purchase gifts for each of her workers to go along with the Christmas “box”—not a box at all, but a small envelope with money, an extra week’s wages for Danny and Bert, and for the boys who came there would be a few coins. Ada, too, would have a week’s wage. Kezia had checked the ledgers before making her decision, which was to give the workers an amount more generous than Brissendens had parted with in the past. She felt she must, for Tom was not there, and she needed their direction as much as they needed her optimism, though she was not aware of the latter.

  Danny drove her to the station, and was instructed as to when she would return. But instead of thinking about London and the shops and the approaching festive season—which amounted to her traveling to her parents’ home on Christmas Eve, and not returning until the morning after Boxing Day—she was thinking about the extra help she would need for dung spreading in the new year. She asked Danny to stop at the shop as they drove through the village, giving a note to him for the shopkeeper to post in the window. It was to the effect that if any village women needed extra work while their men were away, they should see Mrs. Brissenden at Marshals Farm.

  There were times each day that Kezia felt the cloud of doubt envelop her, though for the most part she was so intent upon her work and what had to be done next that she kept it at bay, remaining positive about tasks that needed to be completed on the farm, trusting Bert that they were not getting behind, and hoping Tom would come home soon. She kept up standards in the home, but she wanted him to return to a semblance of order, not the mire of chaos. When she felt the cloud approaching, she would check herself, would push the thought to the back of her mind—perhaps that the apples would fail, or the hops, or they would not get the new pastures ready and the crops planted. She was now adept at handling Ted, a kindly horse, willing and affectionate, but remained wary of Mabel. She had been leading the giant mare up the lane from Pickwick when the cloud of doubt leached into her soul, and it was as if the mare sensed it and took aim with a sharp nip to shake Kezia out of herself. She might be wary of Mabel, but she respected her all the same.

  Now, on the train, she had time for worry to bloom again, time for wondering if all would be well in the end. She tried to imagine Tom soldiering, and realized that she could not strike an image in her mind’s eye. She could see him in his uniform, in the photograph he’d sent to her before leaving for France, but she could not imagine what his days were like as an army man.

  Kezia was taken aback by London. It was not just that she had become accustomed to the quiet of the countryside, where an internal combustion engine was a rarity, but London was more immediate, had more bustle than usual, even for Christmas. Khaki-clad men from across the Empire were on the streets, shopping with everyone else. She had expected some sort of gravity to have seeped into the city, but still people were about the business of the festive season, and there appeared to be little in the way of shortages in the shops. It surprised her that there seemed to be a jollity, especially among the soldiers. She’d noticed more women wearing black in the village, and men with black armbands. The list of boys who would neve
r come home was growing longer, and now, when Mr. Barham came, or the new telegram boy was seen in the village, people asked, “Who’ve we lost?” Kezia noticed the “we.” It had become a collective loss, with mourners attending the mother and father, the siblings and cousins. Here in London there were women in mourning, sharing the pavements with soldiers on the grand adventure.

  Kezia, who had in the past looked forward to afternoon tea with Thea or a luncheon with her mother, felt almost as if she had ventured abroad, for posters everywhere encouraged young men to enlist, and young women to plant corms of guilt in a best boy who had not yet stepped forward to serve his country, to protect his family. She was at once proud of and awed by the activity around her.

  She bought Ada a set of three delicate lace handkerchiefs in Marshall & Snelgrove. She bought a woolen scarf for Bert, and a pair of gloves for Danny, then wondered if she might swap the two, giving the gloves to Bert, but in deference to his age, and what he called “a bit of a chest,” she went back to her original plan. But what would she buy for Thea, who had been invited to join the Reverend and Mrs. Marchant at the parsonage for the holiday? She walked on to Liberty’s, where she chose a square scarf of the finest silk and had it wrapped in deep pink tissue before it was placed in a gift box. By the time she had passed Dickins & Jones, guilt was descending upon her. She had sent Tom a knitted scarf—her own creation—and baked him a cake, which she sealed into a tin with candle wax, then wrapped with brown paper before dispatching it to France via the post office. Had it reached its destination? Would the wax fail, and the rich fruitcake arrive moldy and damp? And would the scarf be enough? Kezia felt tears form at the corners of her eyes, and she reached for her handkerchief.

  “ ’Ere, you all right, love?” called a flower seller outside the Palladium.

  “Yes. Thank you. I think some dust flew up into my eye. So sorry . . .” Kezia made to hurry on, back towards Oxford Street.

  “Don’t worry, love—let’s hope your boy’ll be home soon.” The flower seller stamped her feet and pulled up her scarf against the cold. “Let’s hope they’ll all be home soon.”

  “Blimey, Tom, this is good cake,” said Cecil.

  The military post had been brought to the trench just ten minutes earlier, a surprise because they thought they’d have to wait for letters and parcels until they went down the line again.

  “Goes down a treat with a cuppa, eh?” answered Tom, who seemed to stand straighter, despite the snow, the cold, and the promise of more shelling to come.

  “ ’Ere, Brissenden, heard you got a cake from your missus,” said another soldier, Alfred Apps.

  “I knew it wouldn’t be long before they all came out of their holes for this,” said Cecil. “Everybody wants to be your best mate now.”

  “I heard you got a nice bit of cake, Brissy,” said Sidney Harris.

  “All right, all right,” said Tom. “Come here, and I’ll give you some—hold out your hand.”

  The four men were joined by Arthur Petty and Bill Saunders.

  “When’s your missus gonna be sending another one, Brissy?” said Harris.

  “I’ll write and ask for more,” said Tom, feeling warmer for the banter, and an affection from the other men, who he thought had been keeping a distance, given the attention from Knowles. No one wanted the sergeant’s shadow to fall their way.

  “What d’you reckon she put in this? I’ve never had fruitcake like it,” said Harris.

  “I think your missus is a bit of an artist,” said Cecil, winking at Tom. “You know what I can taste, as well as the sultanas, the orange peel, and the candied cherries? I can taste a little bit of something else in there, and I reckon it’s lavender.”

  “Lavender?” said Petty. “Bloomin’ ’ell, ain’t that for putting on the sheets?”

  “It keeps moths away,” said Cecil. “Which means that Mrs. Brissenden has created the perfect cake for the British army—it remains moth free, is moist, has been sweetened by honey, and is just mouthwatering.”

  Tom blushed and nodded, biting into another piece of cake.

  “Yeah, and she turned the spoon with love, eh Tommy!” Petty nudged Tom, making him blush more. The other men grinned, joining the tease.

  “Well, I should save the rest for tomorrow, eh, lads?”

  “Just for us, then? You won’t be spreading all that around, unless there’s another one coming a bit sharpish!” Petty emptied his mug, throwing the dregs down into the water-filled trench.

  Edmund Hawkes heard the conversation. Every word. And as the men spoke of Kezia’s cake, his mouth watered. The sensation, though, was not a salivary gland reacting to the promise of fruitcake with Kentish honey and lavender, but sickness erupting from his stomach with the message, delivered not ten minutes earlier, that on the morrow, in the fog-enshrouded first light, a cannonade would begin at oh seven hundred hours. When it ended, he would wait one and a half minutes for the cordite-laced smoke to rise, and then his men would go over the top and meet the enemy, most of them for the first time.

  Chapter 12

  The woman who can write exactly as she speaks, who can talk on paper to the recipient of her letter just as easily as if she were actually conversing . . . is mistress of the art of letter-writing.

  —THE WOMAN’S BOOK

  Dear Tom,

  I have not heard from you about the cake yet, so I expect the post has been caught up somewhere because of Christmas. Did you like it? I had never before made a rich fruitcake, and the recipe said to be absolutely spot-on with the weighing. It was a little hard to get the flour, but I went directly to Dallings Mill and bought some. It looked a little brown, but that doesn’t matter in a cake, and I thought it added to the flavor (I made one for the farm too, and gave Bert and Danny a slice each to have with their tea, and they said it was very good).

  Well, we still have Mabel and Ted, even though the army have been back three times now, but I don’t think they will come again, after what happened with Mabel. They decided they would take her and leave us with Ted, which the officer said was being very generous. I think they didn’t like the look of Ted—you know how his face can bear that strange look at times, like a dog who hasn’t had any food for months. Bert says it’s on account of Mabel hen-pecking him. He says those two are like an old married couple. Anyway, they took Mabel, and Ada cried and I had to hold back my tears. Danny walked away, as if he was going to start with the weeping too, and Bert stood at the farm gate, just watching them walking down the road with her. It was as if he wanted her to know he was watching her go. Then she turned her big head—fair pulled the soldier’s arm out of its socket—and looked back. As soon as she saw Bert watching, that was it. I have never seen her do such a thing, and I didn’t think she could, even though she’s a big strong mare. She reared up all of her eighteen hands, and she came down so hard you felt the ground shake. The soldiers and the officer skittered to get out of the way. Then she gave a buck to reach the moon, turned tail, and she galloped all the way back to Bert, who looked down the road at the soldiers and led her to her stall. The officer came and took back the money he’d given me for her. I was happy to hand it over. He said a horse like that wouldn’t last two minutes in France, that they would end up shooting her anyway because she would cause more trouble than she’s worth. He said omnibus horses and hunters were the best, because they knew what they were about and didn’t mind the noise so much, then he walked away saying that it was no wonder the other nag was soft, he’d never known spoiled horses like it. Well, Tom, those spoiled horses were back in front of the plough again as soon as Bert had let them have their talk to each other and a bag of oats. Bert says that Mabel has been quite the lady ever since, almost as if it shook her up enough to make her grateful. He says it was Ted she came back for, that they’ve never been parted. I think she came back for Bert. He’s the only one who can really get the best out of her. She’ll work for Danny, and I sometimes think she only tolerates me. Ted, though, is different, isn�
��t he? I think I could ride Ted if I had a mind to. He’s a gentleman, and I am glad they thought he was not good enough, though by all accounts they’ve taken lesser horses, and there’s some talk in the village about it, as if we haven’t done enough for our boys at the front, keeping our horses. Then they see how we’ve had to plough in the—

  Kezia took another sheet of paper and began the page again. It would be a mistake to tell Tom about ploughing in Micawber Wood, and the orchards. She closed her eyes and considered her next paragraph. Tom and Thea both loved Micawber Wood, as did the village children who played there, all swearing they’d seen fairies while chasing one another through the trees. The younger Brissendens had taken Kezia to Micawber Wood on her first visit to the farm. There was something magical about it, the way the sun dappled through the canopy overhead, and the lilting echo of the stream running across rocks and fallen wood, swishing through narrows and filling out pools where the water had worn away the banks across the years. The wood was filled with primroses and bluebells in summer, and when she’d walked along the forest path in autumn, dried leaves crunched under her feet, making her feel as if she were connected to the earth in a way that she had not, until then, truly experienced.

  Kezia wondered what she would write next, what meal would be prepared in her imagination. She smiled at the image that came to her.

  Do you want to know what I cooked for your dinner tonight? Knowing you would be full of cake, I have not cooked a big pudding to follow. I can imagine you sitting in the tent with your friend, Cecil, and the two of you with cups of tea and the cake on the table, cut into big slices—probably bigger than I would have cut them.