The Care and Management of Lies

by Jacqueline Winspear

  In the bed in his dugout, where a small paraffin stove exhaled pungent fumes and little heat, Edmund Hawkes wrapped the blanket tighter around his body and lifted a flask of whisky to his lips. He wondered what Tom Brissenden felt when he began to read his wife’s letters, and he hoped every word she wrote was cherished. He too could almost taste the food she cooked, and he imagined again that it was he who walked through the door to be greeted by Kezia. Sometimes he imagined them in a grand house, but of course, if that were so, then Kezia would not prepare a meal. No, it would be a farmhouse, with low beams and the stove always lit, come summer or winter. He wanted to see the look in her eyes when she brought the dish to the table, when she said, “I made this for you.” Oddly, he felt no passionate envy of Tom Brissenden, and found that he admired the man for his fortitude—God knows, he needed it with that Knowles on his back. Hawkes closed his eyes. Soon it would be time for him to rouse himself. He never wanted to be an officer who waited to be woken in the morning; he wanted to be one who would walk the trench at night, would talk to his men on sentry duty, perhaps offer a smoke and a light and ask about home. Is everyone well? And how are your children? Your daughter’s first letter? She has a good hand, doesn’t she? Well, thank you—and your mother made the toffees, you say? By jove, they’re good. Not long now, Private Hopkins—you’ll be able to stand down soon, but keep your eyes peeled and a good ear out for Fritz, won’t you?

  Yes, just another five minutes, another sip of the whisky, and Captain Edmund Hawkes would go out and join his men.

  Chapter 15

  It is a woman’s duty to make the life of the home as happy and gay as possible, and however depressed she may sometimes feel, she ought to struggle against the feeling and not damp the spirits of those around her.

  —THE WOMAN’S BOOK

  Kezia scraped her chair back from the table and took her empty bowl and teacup to the sink. Plain broth with vegetables. No salt. No pepper. No anything extra. She couldn’t taste and she was not hungry, yet she was sure that if someone else had put a supper in front of her, she would have shown gratitude by finishing every scrap on her plate. The day had been long, her back ached, and she had barely the strength to rise and take herself upstairs. When had she last felt inspired to open a book before bedtime? When had she memorized a sonnet, for the pleasure of hearing the rhythm in the verse? When had she taken a few moments to brush her hair one hundred times before wrapping the bristles with a silk scarf? She was still wearing the corduroy trousers she’d put on at five this morning. When was the last time those trousers had seen suds and the washboard? It was all she could do to think about bathing.

  She leaned against the sink, feeling hot salty tears run down her dirty, scratched cheeks. How had she managed to graze herself like that? Perhaps clearing winter-dead bramble from the side of the field. She didn’t know. She didn’t pay attention any more. There was a job to be done, and she simply got on with it. And this was an important job, keeping the farm up for when Tom came home. Oh, she wished Thea were here, helping her, taking some of the load. Thea would not wonder all the time whether she had been doing the right thing. Thea would just know, because this was her history, her beginning. It was Thea who had brought her here. Thea was so strong—and it occurred to Kezia that she might miss her even more than Tom, a thought that set off a fresh bout of weeping. This will never do. I cannot be weak. I cannot fail. She’d been all right until this morning, when Mr. Barham arrived with two letters. One from Tom, and one from her father. Perhaps it was her father’s voice on the page that unsettled her.

  Dearest beloved Kezia,

  It seems to have been so long since we saw you last. When was it? January? Your letters fill your mother and me with pride, yet at the same time astound us both, and we find we are concerned for you. We never thought you would be left in charge of the farm, and it seems so much rests on your shoulders, which we are sure are becoming broader by the day. Your mother was rather taken aback when you explained that you were wearing Tom’s trousers for work, but when she went up to town last week, she came back shocked and at the same time very proud. It seems that many young women are in trousers, working in all manner of jobs so that men can be released to fight for these British Isles. She said the skirts have become shorter too, and although the observation was voiced in the mildly disapproving manner with which we are most familiar, she said she would be one of the working girls if she had her time again. She may yet surprise us.

  Now I must come to the purpose of this letter, to the nub of it, lest I dance around my news and do not get to the point. I leave for France tomorrow, attached to men of the Queen’s Own Regiment. I offered myself as chaplain, and even though I was at first deemed too old, it seems I have been called to service in France, where I pray I make a good account in the eyes of the Lord at this terrible juncture. I join the men with the full armor of God around me and with the shield of faith in my grasp, and I pray that I may bring peace to the regiment in this time of war.

  I am sure it will not be long before I am home again in the parsonage, with your mother quietly nudging me to have just another cup of tea with Mrs. Johnson, so that we can get the flower roster sorted out for harvest festival. I pray for these quiet staples of life to take us through our days, and I pray for your husband to come home again. I pray, too, for dear Thea, who I believe is a warrior of the heart. Last Christmastide, she left us in no doubt that the passions she carries within her run deep indeed. May God bless you all, and keep you safe until our precious Tom, Thea, and I return.

  Your loving father.

  Kezia filled two large cast-iron cauldrons with water and put them on the stove, then banked up the fire. She must not lose pride in herself. It was all very well, working on the farm, but she must keep herself clean, wash her hair, and be presentable on the farm and in the village. She was a farmer’s wife, granted, but she was also a vicar’s daughter, and she had to keep up appearances. The thought of her father brought with it an acute pain to her chest, a discomfort both sweet and sharp. But why so? Was it because he had been her foundation stone—now rarely seen, but there at the beginning of her life’s architecture? Or was it because she missed Tom so much, and was worried about the farm? She would be going to market on Friday, and she hated market day. The feeling that she was a fish out of water came upon her whenever she was away from the farm’s daily round, and could look back upon what circumstance demanded of her. At the market it was as if she were in a ring where she had no muscle for the fight. Yet, thankfully, Bert would be at her side, telling her, “Now then, I wouldn’t take a penny less, you know. You stick to your guns, they’ll come up to your price.” And for the most part he was right, always congratulating her on a good market day, even if it was in his grudging tone—and if nothing else, she bolstered herself for his sake, and for Tom’s. When proceedings didn’t go their way, when the tweedy farmers, dealers from London, and rough trading overwhelmed her, he would lean towards her and whisper, “Never mind, Mrs. Brissenden, it was close, so we’re not too badly off. The master would’ve been satisfied enough.” And when she came home and worked on the books, as Bert predicted, they were usually not badly off, though the figures told her she often flirted with the red ink, and she had already been to the bank on several occasions to withdraw money from her aunt’s bequest to make up the wages.

  She stood by the stove and waited for the water to boil, picking up Tom’s letter once more.

  My Love,

  The sun paid us a visit today, much to the surprise of us all. It didn’t last long before those dark grey clouds congregated like gossipy cross old women, and sleet came down again, but at least it showed its face so we know it’s still there above the weather. The boys in their flying machines would’ve been glad of it, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ve heard they don’t like the clouds, because you never know what might come out of them.

  Your last dinner took me by surprise. Lamb’s liver with what? I said to myself. Wild garlic? Now, I
thought it would all be under frost, then you said you dried some over the hop picking. You are a strange woman at times, Mrs. Kezia Brissenden. My mother used to give us a piece of her mind and a clip around the ear if we so much as got a whiff of wild garlic around our ankles. She said it was a terrible stink and it would never be shifted from the house for months, if we brought it in. And there you go and dry the stuff to put with lamb’s liver. She’s probably turning in her grave. Well, I have to say, it was tasty. Sort of oniony, though I think adding peppercorns and a dash of cream was a mark of genius, for a woman who says she doesn’t know about cooking. I suppose I could say that I know I’m a loved and lucky man because my wife gives me wild garlic. It makes me think of home, Kezzie, of the streams running through the woodland. I can’t wait to walk through Micawber Wood, with your hand in mine. I thought about it when I got your letter, and of course it won’t be long before there’s that lovely carpet of bluebells, spread right through the wood, and the clumps of primroses and the wood anemones. They generally bloom just before Mothering Sunday in Micawber Wood. Go down there for me when they’re blooming, and pick some and press them, then send them to me so I can think of the wood and you. Don’t send any of that dried wild garlic though—the lads here will kick me out.

  We had a nice surprise here, a couple of days before we marched up the line again. Captain Hawkes (you know him, from the big house across the lake), went out and bought loaves of bread, like long sticks they were, but very tasty—I reckon a crust of that bread would have gone down a treat with your lamb’s liver . . .

  Kezia looked up to see the water boiling, so lifted the first cauldron off the hot plate to make room for the second, which she pulled along from the simmer plate so it too could come to the boil. She went into the scullery, took the tin bath from the hook, and carried it into the kitchen, where she set it close to the hearth. One after the other, she took up the cauldrons and poured scalding water into the bath, adding cold to bring it to stepping-in temperature. She shed her clothes and allowed them to drop to the floor. A towel was already hanging over the rail above the stove, keeping warm to envelop her body once it was fresh and scrubbed clean. She opened the fire door so as not to chill. Easing herself into the bath, Kezia reached for another towel she’d placed on the table, folded it into a roll, then set it behind her head. She brought up her knees a little more to get as comfortable as she could, and closed her eyes.

  How will I ever tell Tom about Micawber Wood?

  She thought about the many letters, about the breakfasts and dinners and suppers she’d concocted, her recipes of love, not cooked on the stove or stirred at the table, not whisked with a bowl encircled by one arm while looking out of the window, but written out on paper. And her darling Tom had loved every bite, had responded to the peppering and the spicing and the cream and the herbs and all the things they imagined together. But what would she do about the lie that was Micawber Wood? Yes, she would have to wait until he came home. There was nothing else to do. Why worry him now, when he was fighting for his country? For their safety and their future? She sighed. Before she’d left for France, Thea had said that was a lie too, perpetrated by the government to get everyone behind the war. Oh, Thea. Always so suspicious.

  On Saturday morning Kezia planned to leave on the early train for Tunbridge Wells. Thea had written asking for silk gloves. Fine silk gloves with good stitching, two pairs. She had said that everything was going well, and that she was working hard. Kezia thought Thea must not be working too hard, to need silk gloves.

  “Attention! Private Gravy!”

  Tom awoke to the sharp end of a bayonet poking him in the back. He shook his head, pulled up his rifle, and presented arms. A sticky nighttime sweat gathered at the back of his collar.

  Sergeant Knowles leaned in towards Tom, and once again Tom wondered what he’d done to inspire such hatred, though at this point he could not say he felt any different towards the sergeant.

  “You are in trouble now, Gravy. I’ve caught you, and you are as good as dead—do you hear me, Private?” Knowles motioned with his weapon, bringing the bayonet up under Tom’s chin. “As. Good. As. Dead. Sleeping while on sentry duty, putting the whole battalion at risk of being killed in their sleep. Fritz over there could have come running across, and believe me, he wouldn’t have been bringing a nice cup of tea. I could shoot you now and be within my rights—and I’d probably be saving us all if I did. But I won’t deprive you of your court-martial, Gravy, or a firing squad. And I won’t deprive myself of the pleasure of making sure you get your due, either. Over my dead body will you get away with this.” He pushed the bayonet harder. “Over. My. Dead. Body.”

  Edmund Hawkes wanted to be a fair man, a man who earned respect. He wanted to be known as a good officer, for there was little time to make deposits into his moral account. And now Tom Brissenden stood before him, with Sergeant Knowles’ bayonet pressing into his ribs. Five minutes. If only he had left the dugout five minutes earlier for his nighttime walk along the trench.

  “I’ve sent a runner for the MPs, and they’ll be here soon, sir.” Knowles bore an expression of self-satisfied pleasure, his mouth appearing distorted by the lantern’s flickering light.

  Hawkes shook his head. Bloody stupid vermin of a man. He’s had it in for Brissenden almost from his first day in the battalion. If only I’d come out earlier. If only I’d found Tom Brissenden, I’d have woken him up and told him to keep his wits about him. Hawkes closed his eyes for but a second and wished he could put a stop to what he was now duty-bound to do. Tom caught his eye and gave a strange half smile. It wasn’t a wry smile, or one filled with the kind of humor that a man indulged in when he was enveloped by fear. It was a smile that spoke to Hawkes. Never mind, it said. Never mind, I know you don’t want to do this.

  “Right you are, Sergeant Knowles. Please escort the prisoner into my quarters, where I will question him. I would also like to speak to the MPs when they get here. As we both know, we have time for nothing more than a Field General Court Martial and we certainly cannot summon a judicial adjutant general, given plans for an attack on Wednesday morning. Send runners for Major Wells and Captain Barclay, so we will have the required three commissioned officers.” Hawkes wanted Knowles to know he understood the correct procedures under battle conditions. “I want them here as soon as possible, given what dawn might bring. I know they’ll curse at having been dragged along the trenches, but time is of the essence and they are the most senior officers I can get my hands on. I don’t want Brissenden moved far, so find somewhere for his imprisonment—shunt some men along if you have to. I suspect the regimental aid post will be the most suitable venue for the hearing—God knows we don’t have time to move back to the encampment.”

  “Sir—”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Knowles. Good work. Now then, if you could escort Private Brissenden into my quarters, Knowles, and then wait at the entrance here for the MPs.”

  A few whizz-bangs jettisoned from the German trenches peppered the sky, and men began emerging into the trench from their infested dugouts. When he looked back, Hawkes could see only the shadowy shapes of soldiers burdened by layers of damp cloth and the weight of their weaponry. And though he could not discern their faces, Hawkes knew they were all looking in his direction. He could feel their animosity begin to expand, and their collective emotion, thick with the understanding that Brissenden’s life could be taken by his fellow men, touched him like a blade run through his clothing and into his skin.

  “Thank you, Knowles. That will be all,” said Hawkes.

  “But sir, according to regulations—”

  “I am aware of regulations, Sergeant, but we are in circumstances where we have to interpret the regulations to meet the demands of our situation. I would like you to brief the MPs, who I believe will be here shortly. They will guard Private Brissenden until we can convene the Field General Court Martial.”

  Hawkes waited until Knowles had stepped outside the dugout, and
kept his voice low. He did not want to know why Brissenden had allowed fatigue to claim him—God knows, he knew well enough the speed with which sleep could come, even amid shelling so loud it could shatter an eardrum. He had seen a stretcher bearer come off duty, then fall on the ground, fast asleep before his head met the earth. But now Hawkes knew he had to act quickly.

  “Brissenden—Tom—I am going to speak up in your defense. And I will tell you that, although men have been found guilty of the same military crime in a Field General Court Martial, I personally know of none. Hard labor or penal servitude might be the worst you have to face, and believe me, both of those punishments can crush a man. We face battle within thirty hours, and I need every man going over the top if we are to take that German trench. Is there anything you can say to help me? Tom, there must be something you can give me, so that I can aid you in this hearing.”

  Tom shook his head. “No, sir, Captain Hawkes.”

  Hawkes sighed. “Look, I’m not stupid. I know Knowles has had it in for you. He’s old-school—a man of the regiment long before the war—and he thinks all enlisted men are nothing more than town-and-country scruffs who’ve joined up for a bit of adventure. He doesn’t think much of me, either—and I am speaking to you as my neighbor and an honorable soldier of the British army.” He shook his head and rubbed his right temple. “And I’m going to admit, I can see his point—he has a job to do and he wants to get it done, and serve the army; he’s been wearing the uniform of his country since he was thirteen years of age, and his loyalty is without question—he has seen action in places I don’t even want to go. But I’ve seen his tactics, too—he’ll choose one man and make him the scapegoat, the whipping boy. It serves to remind the men of the humiliation everyone can expect if they step out of line.”