The Care and Management of Lies

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Hawkes leafed through his Field Service Pocket Book, the guide to how to be a soldier in a time of war. He was tired, worn down by the trenches and by trying to do the right thing when death exhaled its fetid breath at them every single day. He thought how ridiculous it was, how incongruous, that this one book—no bigger than the Book of Common Prayer his mother took to church on Sundays—should have directions on sanitation, on first aid, and on cooking, on marching orders and on the care of horses, along with instructions for sending a man to his death. He flicked through the damp and yellowing leaves of small, almost unreadable print, and came upon a simple diagram. It illustrated the correct way to secure horses by means of linking. The horses stood side by side, touching nose to tail, the bridle of one looped around the saddle of the other. They could not move forward or backwards. They were stuck in one place. And at that moment, studying the diagram, Edmund Hawkes felt as if he were one of those horses, trapped by the circumstance of war. He was stuck in the middle, tied in a godforsaken place.

  Chapter 17

  CHARGES. Sec. 6 (1K) When a soldier acting as sentinel on active service sleeping on his post. Maximum punishment—Death.

  —FIELD SERVICE POCKET BOOK,

  1914

  Reverend Marchant had woken early and was now in his uniform, seated at a wooden desk in his tent, his arms folded and his chin down, as if he had lapsed back into sleep. Yet exhaustion had not claimed him again. He was deep in thought, considering his role as an army chaplain. He shifted his weight in the chair, raising his head and looking at the center of the canvas in the predawn lamplight, casting his eyes up to a series of triangles joined at the top of the tentpole. He lifted his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, then sighed, stood up, and began to pace. Marchant had wanted to prove something to his parishioners and to himself by volunteering for service. At the declaration of war, he had received word from the diocese that there should be support for the government, and that it would be policy to encourage enlistment among young men in the parish. And at that moment, in the shadow of war’s engagement, it seemed to Reverend Marchant that it was the right thing to do, if in his own way. Onward Christian Soldiers. God is on your side, boys. He had considered it best to walk the path of balance, so in truth he had not encouraged enlistment, as such, though he had supported local boys who stood up to be counted.

  It wasn’t long before a trickle of the buff-colored envelopes began to arrive in town. We regret to inform . . . They seemed to come in on a tide—there would be a week with one or two, and then a flood, which diminished to a trickle again before the next run. And his daily round became more urgent, more troubling. He was turned away from as many bereaved homes as he was ushered into, and at once his sermons felt flimsy, as if they were made of gauze that flapped in the wind rather than the fabric of truth, strong, impermeable. A conversation about planning for the Christmas services and the school Nativity play seemed lacking, and his sense that there was something wanting within him came to a head during a discussion with Mrs. Fordham, who complained about rice strewn across the churchyard following a wedding—another hurried wedding before a young man left for France. He realized that he cared little for the rice, and even less for discussion about the positioning of flowers for evensong. After much meditation and a good deal of prayer, he decided to offer himself to the army. He had given war his blessing, and now he would take that blessing to war. But what had he expected?

  Being referred to as “padre” was at first unsettling, and seemed to define how his role had changed. Padre? Though it smacked of Rome to an Anglican, he felt comfort in the word. Father. And had he expected a more enthusiastic greeting for a man of the cloth from the soldiers? His Sunday services at home drew a scattered congregation—perhaps only fifteen, twenty, at best—but he thought the fire and power of battle might bring a man to prayer. He soon discovered he had made an error in his assumption, though the soldiers were always cordial, and would welcome him when he went up the line to the trenches—and increasingly he went up the line with the men, and found that God worked through him just as well when he was helping a man write a letter, or listening to him talk about his young lady at home, or his work, or family. Kezia—bless her—had sent him a cake, which he cut into as many pieces as he could without it crumbling and took to soldiers in the front-line trenches. To a man they commented that they had never tasted rosemary in a cake, and it wasn’t half bad. He discovered why those telegrams came in fits and starts—that all the men from a single town could be lost in a “big show” when they went forward into the cannonade as one. In between the battles, there were the boys who were picked off by snipers or raiding parties. It all became so clear once he was in France.

  Reverend Marchant had earned respect, for he had shown his bravery in the heat of battle, when he crawled onto no-man’s-land to offer succor to the dying, to give the last rites to one soldier after another. He accompanied men to the casualty clearing stations, and if a doctor shouted an instruction, then Reverend Marchant did as he was told, and on more than one occasion discovered himself to be at the center of a battle to save a life, rather than bear witness to its ending. Now, on this day, in the grainy darkness, he felt himself doubting not only his calling but his place in the midst of war. Who should he be? What would God expect of him?

  Marchant drew back the tent flap and walked towards another tent where he knew he’d be able to get a cup of tea, and perhaps even a bacon sandwich—though the bacon was crisp enough to break a tooth, and the bread would crack any that the bacon hadn’t damaged. The men called it the “refreshment tent.”

  “Reverend Marchant! Reverend Marchant!”

  Kezia’s father turned and squinted in the half-light. “Dorr—I mean, Thea—is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. How lovely to see you!” And forgetting all propriety, Thea held out her arms to the man she had clearly always respected, but knew best through the love and regard of her friend. She looked as if she had never felt so happy to see someone. “I heard you’d come out to France, Reverend Marchant, but I never expected our paths to cross.”

  “I’m not surprised to see you, Thea—you’re a brave young woman. But what are you doing here at this time in the morning?”

  “Oh, we had to bring supplies in for the big push tomorrow. And there are some patients to take back to the field hospital who couldn’t be moved yesterday. We need to make room for a big influx of wounded, so there’s a lot to do today.”

  “Have you had word from our dear Tom?”

  Thea shrugged. “I’m his sister—so not only am I probably the last person to whom he would write, but I’ve moved on from my last billet, so my post hasn’t caught up with me yet, and I’ve not heard from him in a couple of weeks. I’ve had a letter from Kezia though, and she says she’s had communications from Tom—he writes regularly.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it—and I hope he’s well.” Marchant looked down and stamped his feet to ward off the sudden chill that seemed to envelop his body.

  Thea shivered. “It’s colder today, isn’t it? At least I’ve got a cake from Kezia back at the billet.”

  “She’s become a very good cook, I must say,” said Marchant.

  Thea nodded. “Better than anyone expected.”

  “Yes, and finding out what it means to be a farmer’s wife—and probably more farmer than wife, now Tom’s away. I’m just realizing what it takes to run a farm, from her letters.”

  Thea blew out her cheeks. “Well, I’d better get on, Reverend Marchant.” She held out her hand. “I do hope we see each other again—I’m sure we will.”

  Marchant watched Thea walk away, back to the motor ambulance parked outside the main operating tent, then turned back in the direction of the refreshment tent.

  By the time Kezia heard the clatter of hobnail boots on the path, she had been up and about for some time. She had just taken fresh bread from the oven, along with a batch of currant scones. A spoonful of dripping was sizzling
in the frying pan, ready for the bacon. Ada had taken a dozen fresh eggs from the chicken house, so breakfast would be on the table almost as soon as the men had washed their hands and dried them on the cloth already placed on the draining board. She might be tired, but Kezia had let nothing slip. The only difference between this day and a time before the war was that the farmer’s wife was not wearing one of her day dresses, but was once more clad in a pair of Tom’s corduroy work trousers, topped with a flannel shirt and a brown pullover. A tweed jacket had been hung over the back of her chair, along with a plain felt hat.

  “That fair makes my nose ache and my stomach rumble—it’s beautiful, that smell of bacon and egg. Nice to start the day with a full belly,” said Bert.

  Danny stepped into the kitchen and removed his cap, nodding at Kezia. She wondered if he would ever get over his shyness with her. It seemed to her that when he came to the house, Danny tried his best to become smaller, as if he were a shadow who could hide behind Bert. Perhaps she could tempt him out of his shell.

  “I know you like your eggs poached instead of fried, Dan, so I’ve put a saucepan of water on to simmer.”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Brissenden, you don’t have to do that.” Danny turned around as he rolled his sleeves and stepped alongside the sink. “I like eggs any way they go on my plate.”

  “Well, come and sit down then, won’t you? The bread’s still warm from the oven—Mr. Brissenden loves it like that, spread with butter and jam.”

  There was a bustle as the two men took their seats, and Kezia went from stove to table, then to the sink, where she left the pans soaking in water. She was about to turn and pull back her chair when she looked out of the window and saw Constable Ashling escorting the young German prisoner of war along the road to the farm.

  “Oh, it looks like Frederick is here a bit early today. I wonder if—”

  “I’ll tell them he can wait outside until we’ve finished in here,” said Bert, standing up.

  Kezia watched the two men come closer, and it seemed to her as if they were like father and son on a walk, the older man listening, the younger telling a story, perhaps, and then the older one waving a hand to press a point. For a moment she thought she might invite the policeman and his charge to come in for a cup of tea on this, a cold, cold morning, but Bert’s interruption made her think better of it. Even though something had softened in Bert and Danny towards the prisoner, she would not want to embarrass them. It was cold outside, though.

  “Bert—it’s chilly out there. Do you think the prisoner would want a cup of tea?”

  Bert shrugged. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. He minds his p’s and q’s, and he puts his back into the job—and he’s respectful, I’ll say that for him. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll get him settled on cleaning the leathers ready for the horses. Old Mr. Brissenden—not Mr. Jack, but Mr. Benjamin before him—well, he always said that even if the work is dirty, once you let the tools go and don’t bother to clean off the muck, then you might as well see the whole farm slip through your fingers.”

  “I’m sure that’s good advice. I’m taking Mrs. Joe into the village for the milk round, and Danny’s taking Ted so he can do his duty with the coal deliveries this morning. Make sure Frederick knows that everything must shine. If we keep up appearances, it makes people feel better. I’ll put some tea in a flask for him, and a knob of bread and jam.”

  Kezia busied herself making the flask of tea and wrapping a bread and jam sandwich in a square cloth, which she handed to Bert. “There’ll be a fresh pot of tea here when you get back,” said Kezia.

  Bert left the kitchen, and Kezia watched as he lifted his cap to greet the policeman, while the German prisoner bowed to Bert and smiled. She turned back to see Danny standing, craning his neck to see out of the window. He sat down as Kezia joined him at the table.

  “Is everything all right, Dan? Would you like more tea?”

  The young man lifted his mug and set it down again, his manner troubled.

  “I know I should hate him, the German. But I don’t. And I heard some of the women saying the same thing the other day, that they were ready to make his life a misery at first, but there he was, polite and nice, and opening a gate for them. And he sings while he’s working, songs that no one understands, but you reckon you know all the same. I don’t get it, because part of me thinks I’m being a traitor for not hating him. But it’s plain from what he’s said to Bert that he didn’t want to go to war. I reckon the lads from the village were up for a fight more than him. He’s glad he got caught, and all he wants is for all this to be over so he can go back and get on with what he was doing before it started.”

  Kezia sighed. “I suppose he’s more like us, then, isn’t he?”

  “And he told Bert and me something else the other day.”

  Kezia looked at Danny, setting her cup down in the saucer. “What was that?”

  “He’s been getting letters, you know, from home—they come in through the Red Cross, according to Constable Ashling. Turns out his older brother was killed in France. And he was a doctor, the brother—well, training to be one, when he had to go into the army. So he’s lost his brother, and Bert reckons they must have been very tight, because Frederick was full up, you know, as if he would start weeping any minute. Bert said he looked as if he could do with his mother to put her arm around him. I never thought of them as crying, the Germans. I don’t know what to think, really.”

  “No, neither do I, Dan. Perhaps I should tell Bert to ask the constable if Frederick can come in for breakfast in the morning.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. Brissenden. Not with Mr. Tom over there fighting them.” He shook his head. “But none of it makes any sense to me now, none of it at all.”

  When everyone had left the tent, only Edmund Hawkes, Major Wells, and Captain Barclay remained. Hawkes was concerned. Wells should take the lead. He should call them to order, even though they knew each other, and even though this was a tent and not a proper courtroom. The court was the process of executing military law, and Hawkes wanted to do all he could to make sure the law was on Tom Brissenden’s side.

  “Major Wells? I think we should consider the arguments and come to a decision.”

  Wells was slouched in his chair. He pulled his greatcoat around him. “It’s bloody cold in here. You can never get away from the bloody cold, can you? I can hardly believe that just before war was declared, I was in the bloody south of France on my first bloody holiday in years.”

  Hawkes caught Barclay’s eye, and the other man shook his head as if he too was flummoxed by the more senior officer. He decided to take another tack.

  “What were you doing, before the war—what was your profession?” asked Hawkes.

  Wells looked up. “I worked for my father-in-law—stocks and shares, that sort of thing. And in case you want to know, I enlisted because my wife’s family were all for it, what with my bloody interfering mother-in-law saying it was the job of men to go to fight. And my wife agreed, and everyone thought it was a jolly good thing, so the next thing you know, here I am, in a uniform and promoted every time another commanding officer is killed. Terribly proud of me, they are.”

  “I see,” said Hawkes. “Well—Barclay, what about you?”

  “I was in pupillage, actually, with a firm of barristers. Lincoln’s Inn.”

  Wells looked up. “So we’ve a bloody barrister in our midst, and here we are making a donkey’s arse of the law. For God’s sake, man—why didn’t you say, instead of keeping quiet about it and watching us make ruddy fools of ourselves?”

  “I’m not a barrister yet, sir.”

  “And I’m not a judge advocate general, but I’m doing the same bloody work. Right then, you can start.”

  Barclay fumbled with the papers in front of him, and Hawkes closed his eyes. For a minute he wanted to throttle both of them. They were all three of them neophytes, tripping over themselves in the dark while a man’s life hung in the balance.

&
nbsp; Barclay cleared his throat. “Sir, I think we should look at the evidence, and I think we should consider what the witnesses had to say, and I would put it to you that we should also look at the military record of the accused.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Wells. “You’ve hidden your light under a bushel, haven’t you, Captain Barclay? Don’t get too good at this, or they’ll have you at every Field General Court-Martial, doling out the advice.” He sighed. “All right, let’s make this snappy. For God’s sake, the man will probably be dead tomorrow anyway—we could save him the trouble of being sliced in two by the Hun and his machine guns.”

  “It would be better for an Englishman to die honorably in battle than be cut down in a barrage of British bullets, sir,” said Hawkes.

  “And there is a plethora of evidence to point to reasonable doubt regarding his guilt, sir,” added Barclay.

  Wells smiled. “Reasonable doubt, eh? I don’t think military law plays by that particular rule, Barclay, but well done. Get through this, and you might make something of yourself in London’s cushy Inns of Court.”

  A silence descended and, as if hanging on Wells’ sarcasm, remained for a moment, but to each man it felt like an hour. Hawkes sighed, then spoke up.

  “Let’s vote now. Let’s vote on innocent or guilty.”

  Wells took out a hip flask from an inside pocket and passed it to Hawkes and Barclay, who each took a pull of the malt whisky. Barclay tore a sheet of paper into three, and handed one piece to each man. Hawkes allowed himself to feel confident. He was sure Barclay shared his feelings, but Wells was the wild card. Wells was mad.