by Sam Angus
Wolfie, creeping toad-like along the bank, collecting creeping crawling things for his jar, paused to consider this.
‘How does it?’ His mind, more literal than hers, fought such an idea.
‘Show me,’ said Dodo, reaching for the magnifying glass and jar.
She inspected his haul of buzzing and black things. ‘What will you do with them, Wolfie?’
‘They’re for the bantams,’ he replied, very proud. ‘They lay more if you give them bugs.’ He paused, looked up and said with a mayfly leap from one subject to another, ‘Pa’s case will be soon, won’t it?’
Dodo said nothing for a while, then, ‘Hettie says they are not laying so much now, she doesn’t know why.’
Wolfie stuck his chin out and lowered his eyes.
‘Do you think of London much, Wolfie?’ she asked later.
‘No, I just want Pa to come here, I want him to see Hero – I want that every day.’
Scout, tethered loosely to an arthritic withy tree, tugged at her rope. Dodo laughed fondly, knowing she was fretting for Hero.
‘Look, there, he’s just there . . .’ She broke off and leaped up. ‘Look, Wolfie, the ponies – they’re here.’
They cantered in a dark and pounding clot, short legged, clever as cats on the steep soft ground.
‘Fifteen – there’s only . . . I can only see fifteen,’ began Dodo.
Wolfie squatted and held the glass over his jar. ‘Why do they take them?’ he asked, probing the contents of his jar with a blade of grass.
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t like to think why they take them or where they take them.’
She counted again with a trembling forefinger. She knelt and packed the remnants of the picnic away, snapped her paint box shut.
Hettie, surprised to see them back so soon, came out into the yard. She saw Dodo’s face and asked quietly, ‘How many?’
Silently Hettie removed Scout’s saddle. Dodo followed her into the tack room with the bridle.
‘What’re we to do? Must we have them in the house to keep them safe?’ asked Hettie, running the tap, taking the bridle from Dodo to wash the bit. She bent deeply over the sink, and put a hand over her eyes. Dodo and Wolfie watched her in anxious silence. After a minute, she lifted her head. ‘They’re born here, bred here, hefted to this hill, generation after generation . . .’ After a little while, she turned with a visible effort and went to take a towel from a basket in the corner.
She paused, lifted the basket and turned to them, holding it out and saying in a lighter, forced tone, ‘I was worried the bantams weren’t laying and all this time they were, weren’t they?’
Wolfie looked at the floor. Dodo looked at Wolfie, stepped forward to the basket, then spun round to Wolfie.
‘Wolfie,’ she said, horrified. ‘Wolfgang, you can’t just help yourself! What were you planning on—?’
Wolfie was still staring at the floor. Dodo took his arm.
‘Wolfie, what . . . ?’
‘I’m saving them for Pa – for when he comes. You don’t get fresh eggs in a barracks.’
‘Oh, Wolfie.’
There were tears in Hettie’s eyes. She put an arm around his shoulder and led him across the yard and into the house.
Father Lamb, sitting by the fire, looked up at Wolfie’s grimy, guilty face.
‘You must tell them, Father, you must tell them now,’ said Hettie. She held up the basket of eggs, two dozen or more, perfect and lovely as porcelain. ‘Wolfie’s been hoarding eggs for when his father comes.’
Father Lamb shifted a little in his chair, folded his glasses on to the table, and patted the arms of the chair, for them to sit on either side.
‘What?’ said Dodo, alarmed. ‘What must you tell us?’
‘We’ve had a letter from your pa. It’ll be a long time before he’s able to see you, much longer than you or we thought.’ He waited a while. ‘You see, there’re charges against him . . . As you know, desertion and disobedience are serious charges, very serious indeed, and the punishment can be—’
‘Pa didn’t run away,’ said Wolfie, quiet and furious, eyes burning. ‘He never would.’
‘No, Wolfie, I don’t think he would run away, but you see there is no other witness. There is no one to speak on his behalf besides himself . . . He’s going to be held in close custody while the charges are investigated. If the charges hold, there’ll be a court martial.’
‘What will happen?’ asked Dodo.
‘Where is he?’ asked Wolfie at the same time.
‘He’s still in barracks and will stay there until . . . well, until he is tried by a court martial.’
‘But what is a “marshal”?’ Wolfie asked, exasperated.
‘A judge,’ said Dodo. ‘A very important judge.’
‘He’ll write to you, but he wanted me to explain, because these things are complicated. But we must all – you must both – keep your faith in him, not believe what people say, what will be written. It may be –’ he put an arm around each of them – ‘it may be some time before his trial, and a very long time before he’s able to see you.’
‘If he is found guilty . . .’ Dodo, white-faced, was unable to complete the question.
‘He didn’t, he never—’ began Wolfie.
‘If he is found guilty . . . well, we must pray that someone who was there, someone who saw it all, is still alive, is alive somewhere, perhaps a prisoner of war – if there was such a survivor, that man could come forward one day as a witness. In time, it is possible that—’
‘What . . . !’ Dodo was screaming. ‘What if no one is alive, what if no one comes forward, what if they find him guilty?’
Father Lamb said nothing. Hettie stepped into the loud silence and tried to draw Dodo to her, but Dodo was rigid in her arms, her head swelling with half heard things, things she dimly remembered Pa once saying about the punishment for desertion in the last war, things the Causey sisters whispered noisily amongst themselves. And Dodo thought she knew, now, for certain, from the pain in Father Lamb’s eyes, that the punishment for Pa, if he were found guilty, would be death.
Chapter Seventeen
Hettie cancelled the newspaper delivery.
Many letters came from Pa to the children, tender, fearless and uncomplaining, then, in the autumn, a long letter came from him, addressed to Father Lamb. Father Lamb rose from the breakfast table and went to his study.
After what seemed a long while he called the children in. When he spoke, it was without reference to the letter, which lay to one side under his glasses on a walnut side table. Dreadnought sat beside him, unblinking, immovable as a statue, above noticing the unusual presence of children in his master’s study.
‘You must be brave in the days to come, Dodo, Wolfie.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘The national press have taken a great interest again in your father. There will be a court martial. He will be tried and the case is likely to be very public. It may well drag on for some time and it may cast a cloud, perhaps forever, over his name – and over yours. He knows this and knows he owes it to you to tell you what happened.’
The children drew closer to each other. Dodo took Wolfie’s hand.
‘I’ll try to explain, as simply as I can, what he’s written to me.’ Father Lamb rose, and took a deep breath. ‘When we pulled out of France, there was a terrific rush as our men raced to the beaches around Dunkirk, the enemy hot on their heels. Your father was in the rearguard, in command of a company. He arrived at a place called Wormhout, and was given orders to defend a farmhouse, to stay there and to hold it. When the enemy approached, they were to delay the Germans, to hold them off, so that as many of our men as possible could get to those beaches and get home.
‘They held Wormhout for two days, until the last of our men had passed through. By midday on the third day, German troops were massing on the outskirts. Your father came under heavy fire from waves of German Stuka bombers. One by one, the Allied units holding the town withdrew until only
three companies remained. The town was turned to dust and rubble. Their job had been done but they received orders to stay put, “to hold their position to the last man and the last round”. Your pa and his men had only the rounds left in the Boys anti-tank rifle and the Bren gun, but they fought on, exhausted, hungry, trapped and outnumbered.
‘Again the orders were given from HQ to stay put, that a company of Norfolks would bring relief and ammunition. Still the German planes came in waves and waves.’
Father Lamb turned from the window and looked at them both.
‘Imagine what he felt as he looked at his men, three of whom had served with him in 1918, all of whom must have felt like sons or brothers. If they were to stay, they would face the choice of death or surrender. There would be no other option. Your father’s men were to be sacrificed for no good reason. Nevertheless, they obeyed instructions and waited. Some time later a Major Vickers of the Cheshires, and two of his men, made their way along a ditch and into the farmhouse. Since Vickers was the more senior officer, he took command and instructed your father and his sergeant, Box, to go out and find the Norfolks. Your pa and Sergeant Box crawled along a hedgerow, to the position in which the Norfolks should have been. There they heard the sound of drunken laughter. They saw three German officers outside a barn. From inside the barn there was silence. Those weren’t ordinary German officers, but officers of the SS. The SS – Dodo, Wolfie – are Hitler’s personal guard.
‘There’s no gentle way to say what your pa found, later, inside that barn . . . The Norfolks had been killed – all of them – at point-blank range. They’d surrendered, that was clear because they were naked to the waist. The shooting of men that have surrendered goes against all laws of military conduct . . .’
Father Lamb paused, looking blindly out of the window.
‘It was clear to your father that the SS were in command of Wormhout. If your pa and his men surrendered, they too, would be massacred. He ran back and urged Vickers to retreat, to get the men away, to retreat if they could, but Vickers, quite simply, did not believe what your pa said he’d seen. Vickers said such a thing was impossible, that no massacre had happened. He instructed the company to stay and hold the position. Horrified at the fate that would befall his men, your father argued with Vickers and again urged both Vickers and his own men to leave. Vickers accused him of inciting cowardice and desertion. Your pa grew more forceful in his argument. Vickers said he had no choice but to report your pa to HQ. A report was filed against your father.’
Father Lamb turned from the window and spoke directly to the children.
‘In a desperate attempt to save the useless sacrifice of the lives of the men he loved, and thinking nothing of his own reputation, again your father begged his men to retreat. In front of his own men he was arrested, led at gunpoint to the dairy building and locked in. A while later, with nothing but their bayonets to defend themselves against the flood of black tanks, Vickers surrendered. Through a window your pa saw the SS line his men up, strip them and herd them into a barn. He heard the machine guns and he heard their cries.’
Father Lamb’s eyes clouded, ‘Later, much later, he managed to break out of the dairy and make his way to the barn. Every man was dead except Vickers, who was badly wounded. Your father dragged him out. For a while they lived off raw potatoes and water from puddles. At some point, a Frenchwoman took Vickers in and nursed him. Your pa made his way home through France, Spain, and then to England from Gibraltar. Nothing has been heard of Vickers.’
Father Lamb knelt stiffly on the floor at their feet, took the letter and read, ‘Wolfie, Dodo, I did encourage my men to retreat, I did disobey my commanding officer, I did incite desertion . . . But I did that for what I believed to be the right reason. Unless I can prove that the massacre occurred, there’s little chance of my winning my case. Until the bodies of my men are found, there is only the hope that Vickers is alive somewhere and will one day prove my story. As far as I know, he is the only possible survivor.’
Many letters followed, but it was what Father Lamb explained to them that day that helped Dodo’s anger with Pa evaporate, that made Wolfie’s pride in his father burn with a fiercer flame, that helped them both endure the private scorn, the public glare, that was to come.
Chapter Eighteen
Hettie propped Dodo’s painting on the mantel. Wolfie, on the floor, amidst a heap of wrapping paper, was spellbound, as if seeing Hero for the first time, by the candour of his eyes, by the confidence, the assurance of the carriage of his head. How fast that baby face had changed. When had it become that of a beautiful young horse?
Wolfie held Pa’s parcel in his hands. He’d saved that till last, but still he made no move to open it, spellbound by the beauty of his horse.
‘It’s not your brush strokes he’s so astonished by,’ whispered Hettie to Dodo. Wolfie longed, they all knew, to send the picture to Pa. Wolfie bit his lip, bent his head and unfolded Pa’s card.
Dear Wolfie,
You’re ten today. I wish I could see you to know what you are growing up to be. Are you still the explosion of a child that you were? Do you still leap like a gadfly from one thing to another? Are you still impatient as the dawn? Be impatient with the world, Wolfie, but never be impatient with a horse.
It’s not easy to find a present when you’re under arrest but I’m proud to give you my saddlebag. This is the bag that Captain carried at Moreuil Wood. It’s a fine bag to strap to the saddle of a fine horse to be ridden by a fine young man.
If you ride a horse with your heart and you believe you fight for what’s right, nothing can stop you.
Ride from the heart, Wolfie, always ride from the heart.
With all my love,
Pa
Eventually Wolfie passed the bag to Dodo, his voice breaking as he whispered, ‘Captain wore this at Moreuil Wood.’
‘I’ve something for you, Wolfie,’ said Hettie. ‘Come.’
She led him into the kitchen. On the table sat a saddle, the deep seat and skirt darkened and softened with years of oil, the cantle and knee roll in a lighter tan, the pommel polished as a chestnut. To the side lay a bridle, ribboned with a grey and white bow at the side of the gleaming bit.
‘We were lucky – this old saddle of Father’s fits. Unless Hero grows much more, it’ll last a while.’
‘Is he ready – can I . . . ?’ Wolfie leaped to the window. Father Lamb joined him and they looked out at Hero and Scout, standing muzzle to muzzle. Scout whickered gently at Hero, then resumed her nipping and grooming of him.
‘Two years old, Wolfie, and he’s already tall for you . . . He’s going to be a horse to be reckoned with . . . but at two years he can be saddled.’
Wolfie yelped for joy, flung open the casement and whistled.
The horse raised his head and cantered between the snowy thorns, leaf light quivering over his flanks like stippling on water.
‘Bring the saddle, Wolfie,’ said Hettie, taking two apples and chopping them. She slipped the pieces into Wolfie’s pocket and picked up the bridle.
Wolfie leaped towards the saddle, his heart spinning like a Catherine wheel. He picked it up, staggering under the weight of it, and soldiered out across the yard.
That day Hettie and Wolfie began to break in Hero.
They took him to the lane where green glimmered in the beech hedgerows, Dodo ahead with Scout, Wolfie leading the young grey horse, feeding him apple as he went. Day by day, they walked him through the magical dappled green of spring, a little more weight on his back each day. Hero’s eyes blazed with outrage when the saddle was first placed on his back, but Scout was always at his side, steady and calm at his flank, so Hero accepted it. Later, he was astonished by the bit, outraged at the indignity of the bridle, but Wolfie whispered to him, and he listened with a willingness to cooperate born of the unqualified trust he had in the boy who’d slept at his side, who’d fed him honey on his fingers, drunk milk from the same bucket.
Later, free of t
he saddle, Hero would roll on the cool turf, watched tenderly by Scout. The games of his colthood, the fawn-like leaping and starting, were now outgrown, his movements grown rounder, more considered, more graceful. His chest had broadened, there was elegance in his stance, seriousness in his eyes, a patrician depth to his face.
If ever he stepped away from Scout, she’d squeal and he’d answer, standing kingly and tall, with the deep valley below, the purple curve of the common beyond.
He was shod in early June, and grew fizzy and proud at the sound of his feet clipping on the cobbles. He’d been an easy horse to break, Hettie said, because the trust he had in Wolfie was absolute.
Mounted for the first time on Hero, looking as accidental atop the tall horse as a piece of thistledown, pride shone, wide as sunlight, in Wolfie’s smile. Dodo and he rode together, she on Scout, leading him on Hero. If she loosed the lead rope, Hero would sniff and skitter, dart sideways from leaves and breezes, leap to avoid water. His flickering ears would betray his ignorance, suspicion or astonishment at everything but as the summer ripened, his understanding of the world grew and he stepped out with confidence and pride.
When they cantered, for the first time, through golden brown grass waist high, laughter sprang from the boy like water from a spring. Hearing the boy’s laugh, feeling the current of it in his own veins, Hero moved freely into a long, clean gallop, learning the strength he had in him, power surging inside, one ear turned as Wolfie’s laughter rolled and tumbled and crested in a froth of joy. The boy’s trust in the horse, the horse’s trust in the boy, was each beyond question.
With Dodo and Scout they’d picnic in valleys ribboned with silver streams, the coat of the young horse silver as a moon in the leaf shadow. They’d ride to Hoar Oak, remote and fairy-tale, to watch the firing practice at Larkbarrow. They patrolled the ponies at Pennywater, or rode over the Common to watch the troops and tanks on manoeuvres, or gallop across the high moor, through feathery tufts of cotton grass, sweet as summer snow.
