A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  Hannah looked at him.

  Arthur laughed. ‘Don’t be so serious. It’ll be live ammunition, that’s the only difference.’

  ‘And deaths,’ Harry said, his hand shading his face, his legs crossed one over the other. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you, Arthur, that there must be another way of solving this? The politicians could still talk. You could pressure your father.’

  The air hung motionless, the leaves were curled on the pear tree and the sun burnt Hannah’s hands as she sat and watched and listened. Esther was looking at samples of curtain material for the London house just off Eaton Square which they would live in when they were married.

  ‘Don’t be such an old woman, Harry.’ Arthur was impatient now and no longer smiling. ‘Just join the regiment with me. It’ll be good fun.’

  In the silence that followed Hannah watched the ants run in and out and over the terrace cracks, the moss, her feet.

  ‘I won’t be volunteering,’ she heard Harry say.

  ‘I mean when you’re better, old lad.’ Arthur smiled. Esther was holding up the samples to the light. Hannah knew that she could not decide whether it should be white or cream for the bedroom. ‘Come on, you old misery, surely it will be the Blues.’ Arthur kicked Harry’s boot.

  Harry handed Arthur back his boater and Hannah saw that his hands were trembling. ‘I’ve just told you, I won’t be volunteering and it has nothing to do with my health. I really am quite fit now, as you can all see. It is simply that I can’t agree with violence.’

  Hannah watched as her brother sat looking up at Arthur, and the lines were deep to his mouth again; and then she rose, walking behind the table, moving to stand behind her brother. She put her hands on his shoulders for she had immediately realised what this meant.

  ‘I will not be fighting at all. I will not be a party to this war. I will not kill anyone, fight anyone. I have seen too much.’

  Arthur stood there, quite still, his face puzzled, as though he could not understand the words he was hearing.

  Hannah was gripping her brother’s shoulders now. Though Harry sat quite still she could feel the trembling throughout his body and was glad that it did not show because he was so very brave. Did he know what this would mean? And then she remembered how he had held Esther’s hand. Yes, he knew. She saw that the bees were rising from the lavender. They moved to the thyme which she had planted in the late spring.

  Arthur was still standing, quite still, looking at Harry, and as the meaning sank and gripped him he flushed and turned away. Hannah looked at Esther. The samples lay on her lap and her face was turned to Harry as astonishment changed to contempt, and she recognised the look which her cousin had once bestowed upon her and she wanted to stop everything now; to somehow wipe away the last few minutes, the last few days and change the world and the words but she could say nothing. She could only watch and it all seemed so slow but so inevitable as Esther rose. The bees had settled into the pink flowers of the thyme and could no longer be seen.

  ‘Harry, you can’t mean this. Where is your sense of honour, of duty?’ Esther’s voice was cold. The samples fell from her lap to the floor as she rose to her feet. Her parasol was still in her left hand and Hannah saw that her hand was gripping the handle so that white showed on her knuckles.

  Harry stood now and reached for Esther’s hands but she pulled back, her eyes large and dark. Hannah wanted him to sit again so that she could hold him, steady him for he was so thin.

  ‘Try and understand, my love. I cannot take a life. I just cannot hurt anyone, not now, not after Baralong.’ He tried to take her hands again and Hannah flinched as Esther backed from him striking his hands from her, her face contorted with rage and disgust.

  ‘What has a negro got to do with courage? It is natural to keep a dog in order. These are white men and Britain needs to fight. You are a coward, Harry, hiding behind this nonsense of principle.’

  Her face was flushed and Harry turned from her. He could not watch as she walked away as he knew she would. He loved her and he hated her, for Baralong was not a dog.

  Arthur looked at Hannah who walked from the sun, into the sitting-room where it seemed as dark as night. She followed Esther who did not stop to say goodbye but walked out through the hall and the front door. She did not close it behind her. Hannah walked past the empty silver tray on the rug-chest and watched as Esther turned into the avenue and disappeared from sight.

  Arthur stood opposite her, his boater in his hand, his cheeks red, his top lip tight and she leant against the banister, feeling it solid against her back. Once before she had wanted to be as solid as the wood she held and now she wished it again. She put her hands behind her and held it. So much had happened out of nowhere. She could not speak. Thoughts fled in and out of the shadows in her mind, she did not know what was right or wrong. She could only feel the pain that Harry was feeling.

  Arthur put his hand in his pocket while all the time the red light from the small window shafted through and stained his hay-coloured hair. Red on white, Hannah thought and looked away from him. This was all so unreal, like a dream. She would wake and there would be no war, no heartbreak for Harry, no decision to be made. But she did not wake and there would have to be one, she knew that.

  She looked at Arthur again. ‘He is right and brave. If he feels as he does, then he has courage to say it.’

  Her voice was without emotion and Arthur looked at her and there was the contempt that she had seen on Esther’s face but this time it was for her.

  ‘You realise that you will be dishonoured if you support your brother.’

  ‘There is nothing that Harry could do that would ever make me feel anything but honoured,’ she replied and still there was the red on white and the tautness of his face.

  ‘Your brother, madam, is a coward. If you insist on supporting him, I withdraw my offer of marriage.’ His face was so cold, his lips thin and his voice clipped.

  Had they ever laughed together, Hannah thought, had they ever stood by the ice pit, danced in the conservatory, kissed with soft, cool lips? She held the banister tighter, feeling her shoulders drawing back.

  ‘I wish you well, Arthur.’ It was all she could reply for there was nothing left to say and nothing more between them. She was glad when he moved from the house into the sunshine for then the red left him and shafted, harmless now, to the carpet.

  She did not watch him turn into the street but moved through the shaded sitting-room and out again to the terrace but Harry was not there. She saw him by the horse-chestnut tree. There were young conkers clustered in the parched leaves and as she approached he sat on the ground and wept, his head down on his knees. She knelt and held him and heard him say:

  ‘You understand, don’t you, Hannah?’

  ‘Of course. You must have the courage of your convictions. You have a right to your own opinion, Harry.’ She feared for him because the course he was taking meant that he was breaking the rules and he had done that before; in South Africa, at school. Because of her knowledge of this she held him tighter, wanting to keep him here safe from everyone. The birds were scrabbling on the branches, a fly clung to the bark. She watched it jerk and then fly to the ground. Her mouth felt dry. She did not think of Arthur but was aware that she could breathe again; she was free.

  When afternoon had turned to evening and they had talked until they were merely repeating words a letter arrived from Esther and Beaky brought it through to the terrace on the silver tray. Harry took it but did not open it until the housekeeper had entered the house again. The paper was parchment but the white feather was from a fan of Esther’s. Hannah recognised it.

  ‘She has broken the engagement,’ Harry said, but they had both known that already.

  Hannah took the feather from him and put it back in the envelope. She hated her cousin now and hoped never to see or hear from her again.

  Harry just sat and looked out across the garden. The croquet hoops were still in the lawn; she must ask the gardener
to remove them, Hannah thought as she walked into the sitting-room. She was tired, very tired but this was only the beginning.

  She took matches from the silver filigree box on the mantelshelf and, drawing up her pale yellow dress, knelt before the unlit fire drawing out the feather from the envelope. It was so soft with a cold, hard spine. Hannah would not think of Esther or the pain which Harry was now feeling, she would just strike the match and watch the feather flare and become nothing. The first match would not light and so she threw it on to the crushed newspaper in the grate and then took another from the box.

  She had not heard him come in. The front door must have been left open; had she not closed it, she thought, as she lifted her head and his darkness towered above her. She had thought that he could no longer frighten her but his hand as he reached for her arm was so big and his nails so long beneath the black gloves that they dug into her flesh.

  He dragged her up, bruising her arm, and even when she stood he was still so very big. Her father took the feather between his thumb and forefinger and the white was shocking against the black of his leather gloves. He still gripped her arm and the pain was harsh.

  ‘Thomas has told me,’ he said, crushing the feather in his hand. Hannah watched as he dropped it to the floor. The spine was broken, the fronds twisted and coiled together. Dear God, what will he do to him, she thought, and her throat was taut with fear. But it was her face he bent towards; her face he whispered into.

  ‘It’s all your fault. You bitch,’ he said through lips that hardly moved. ‘You came here and filled him with your poison.’ His eyes were not blank now but filled with the hatred that she had seen before.

  His grip tightened on her arm and she could not speak as he began to shake her.

  ‘Bitch, bitch,’ he said and then brought his hand up and slapped her face but she did not cry out as the blood from her lips flooded her mouth and now he shook her again and still she would not cry out or let her eyes fill with tears for him to see.

  ‘Bitch,’ he ground out and she could smell the nicotine and Scotch on his breath.

  She closed her eyes so that she could not see his face. Her hair had fallen loose and she felt him grip it and force back her head and it was like the men outside the meeting again. His breath was heavy now and closer, in her nostrils, her mouth. She opened her eyes and his were close and were filled with hatred and something else and his lips were full and too close to her mouth and his breath was rapid. It was as he kissed her that she screamed but his mouth absorbed the sound and now she beat him with her arms and her hands, pushing his panting face from her and thrusting against the hand that gripped her hair.

  She screamed again and thought the sound would never stop rising from the terror which tore inside her. Everything was darkness and there was no air, just her father, and she could not fight him, he was too strong, but suddenly, dear God at last, he was gone and there was air to breathe and Harry’s voice.

  ‘Leave her alone, you bloody bastard.’

  She fell to her knees and she was weeping but she must not weep, not when he could see her and so she held her hand to her mouth, smothering the sobs, brushing at the tears. Harry had pushed him up against the fireplace, their faces were close and Hannah’s blood was on her father’s mouth. She heard Harry’s voice again.

  ‘Leave her. Are you mad? She’s your daughter, your daughter, your daughter, your …’

  ‘Harry,’ she shouted, dragging herself to her feet. ‘Harry, leave him, leave him.’

  She went to her brother who turned to her and cried, ‘I should hit him but I can’t. I can’t, Hannah.’

  She pulled him away from the man who had struck her, whose mouth had been on hers but she must not let herself remember what she had seen in her father’s face, what she had felt in his body. She would hot look at him. She would never look at him again because she would never be without fear of him now and hate.

  She wiped her mouth and her hand was bloody and so she wiped it down her pale yellow dress but still pulled at Harry who struggled to reach the man again but she would not let him. No, they must leave. They must go from here to somewhere where they could find some peace to think. Where she could wash, where there was water, cool clean water to wash her mouth. Where Harry could think of the rules he was breaking. Yes, he must, for this was just the start and she was weeping again but she must not. This was not the time. War had been declared and this was not the time. She pulled at Harry until they were outside the room and then she felt her strength ebb and now it was Harry who held her, summoning a cab, talking to her and holding her hand, blaming himself as he left their father’s house for ever. She told him the only fault lay with the man who used to be her father.

  John Watson did not watch them go. He wiped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief instead and sat in his chair by the fire until it grew dark and then he walked through the streets until he reached the narrow alleys that led to the river.

  He found a girl, not the right one but what did it matter and as she screamed when he tore into her and gripped her breasts and felt the surge of his passion he called ‘Mother’ and hated her again for leaving him that day when she had looked so beautiful in her pale yellow dress. He hated her for kissing him goodbye with tears that wet his cheeks too. He had not known she was never coming back. Had she writhed beneath her lover as this girl did, he wondered? Did she ever regret that she had never seen her son again?

  20

  The October cold hung heavy beyond the window; the leaves were limp on the trees, dark red and brown. Some had already fallen and lay dull and damp on the grass; they should have been swept and burnt but the gardener had left for Flanders. Hannah put down her toast. The marmalade seemed too sweet this morning.

  Frances poured more tea and passed a cup to Hannah. Harry shook his head and looked at the war news in the paper again. His face was thinner, his hands nervous. Hannah looked at Frances who smiled and mouthed, ‘Don’t worry.’

  Hannah wiped her hands on her linen napkin before rolling it up and placing it in the silver ring. ‘Perhaps you would rake up the leaves this morning, Harry?’ she asked.

  He lowered his paper and looked out of the window and then back at her. ‘Of course. I thought I’d stack the desks up in the loft as well. If that’s all right with you, Frances?’ He turned now to the Headmistress who nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Harry. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’ She rose and walked to the desk, lifting the paper-knife and then replacing it.

  Hannah watched and knew how Frances was feeling. There was no hurry any more. The school had closed because so many pupils had been withdrawn since the start of the war three months ago. They had been taken to the country because there might be zeppelin raids, their parents had said, but was that the real reason? She looked at the newly puttied window which had been broken by a stone thrown at the conchie’s house, the coward’s home. Did Frances regret taking them in, she wondered, looking at the woman who was thinner now too.

  But no, Frances had said after she had bathed Hannah’s face the day war broke out, the day her father had … She stopped her memory. She would not think of that but thought instead of Frances sending Harry for more damp cloths, the feeling as Frances had rubbed her hands, the comfort of the familiar sitting-room which was where they were now. Frances had said then that Harry was braver than those rushing in a fever to enlist; violence was wrong. Hannah shook her head. She did not know what was right or wrong, she only knew that she loved Harry and must support him for now it seemed that it would be a long struggle, both for the men who fought and for those like Harry. She looked at the paper which her brother had laid on the table. A map was drawn of the trenches which ran from Switzerland to the North Sea. She sighed; big pushes led to small advantages at the cost of many lives and it was clear that this was not going to be a quick war.

  Last week they had heard that Arthur’s elder brother had been killed at a salient on the Somme. Did Esther know yet
? For that would make Arthur the first son, the heir.

  She stacked up the plates, watching as Harry left the room; at least he was safe and Joe too, for Americans would not be fighting in the European war, or so Harry had said.

  She moved to the window and watched as Harry took the besom and swept the leaves from beneath the lime tree. Once they would have laughed at the sight of that broom and the thought of Beaky sitting astride it, old witch that she was, but now he was too full of grief for Esther, though that was not what bowed his shoulders and made his movements those of an old man. It was the guilt connected with the war. She had heard him in the night, walking up and down, up and down and still the casualty lists came in and he was not amongst them. But he would not weaken, she knew that. He would never take life after South Africa, he had said again and again, even if it meant losing the only woman he had loved.

  ‘It’s no good, we must do something, Hannah. This idleness is not good for any of us.’ Frances was walking over to the fire, lighting it with a long taper, watching the crumpled newspaper burn blue and then yellow the kindling darken and then burst into flame. She stooped and pulled at the dog’s ears. Bess had died last year and this was Molly, a new liver-and-white spaniel.

  ‘I know,’ Hannah replied. Without the school there was no haste in the morning and there was no suffrage work because the suffragists and suffragettes had suspended all work for the duration of the war. But she had been active, even though Harry and Frances had not, and there was something that she needed to talk to them about, and was relieved that her Headmistress had now approached her.

  She thought with gratitude of the Sunday ladies who had kept her busy with their problems because she did not want even a minute of her day to be free for thoughts of her father, of men at all. She looked at the pile of correspondence on the cabinet at the side of the desk and could still hear the cracked and broken voices of the women as their men had enlisted and the separation allowances had been delayed, if they came at all.