by Gloria Cook
* * *
It was bitingly cold when a nervous dawn began to steal through the dust and smoke of the night’s bombardment.
‘Stand to! Stand to!’
As they followed the hated dawn ritual of standing up to the parapets, rifles at the ready in case of sudden man-to-man attack, Tristan’s section waited for the battle orders. There was a sharp exchange of strafe and artillery power. Unnatural noises and colours, ‘whizz-bangs’, ‘coal boxes’ creating clouds of choking black smoke. The tense marking of time was broken with forbidden talk and the direness of false gaiety.
‘All the best, old mate.’
‘Hope they keep me dinner warm.’
Minutes earlier, handshakes had been given all round and last letters written to loved ones. Goodbyes were now being said inside heads, and pleas to God to be allowed to live through this day, or at least, to enable the supplicant to act with honour. There was another deafening explosion and the men were peppered with debris. Nerves were pared to fine slivers. Each man knew the odds were almost non-existent of getting close enough to take out an enemy machine-gun post, of achieving much towards the main objective of crippling the German army and breaking through to the Flemish coast to capture the enemy naval bases.
Tristan received a nod from the captain. He moved up and down the ranks, a word of encouragement for each man. A blast momentarily halted the tormented burst of activity in removing greatcoats and leather jerkins, rolling them up and leaving them in any dry place – movement in combat must not be hampered. Gas masks were already in place round necks. The occasional trembling hand ensured an already fixed bayonet was secure. Rigid glances were exchanged. Throats that had turned dry were wetted by unworkable swallows. Here and there came a coarse oath.
Tristan returned to the captain. ‘The men are all ready, sir.’
Pistol in hand, Tristan stationed himself in front of a ladder. He was going to be one of the first to go over. He found himself standing next to Billy Rowse. He didn’t take his eyes off the ladder but he did press a hand to Billy’s shoulder. ‘See you back here, Billy.’
‘A certainty, sir.’
Whistles shrilled. Hearts hammered. Nerves were severed, fragmented.
‘Over! Over! Over! Over!’ Tristan wasn’t sure if he or the sergeant was shouting.
He mounted the ladder and was then climbing and edging through chewed-up barbed wire and skew-whiff posts. Somewhere a Highland regiment was being piped into battle. Dodging mounds of slush and rubble, an iron wheel and a heap of something – he didn’t want to consider what – he began his run. ‘Follow me, then spread out! Keep running. Keep running.’
Running soon proved to be impossible in the mire. Men were walking, even crawling, some floundering, already in danger from death by drowning.
‘Keep going! Keep going!’ His words referred to the gruesome orders that no soldier must assist another who fell during an assault. His eyes fixed ahead, he darted and squelched on over the hellish landscape, through the explosions and flashes and rat-tats of machine-gun fire, whistling, whipping, skimming, scudding all around him.
A soldier was suddenly immediately in front of him. The soldier was hit by strafe, his arms flailing outwards. Tristan leapt over him before he was flat on the ground.
The ground was ripped open yards away on his right and those running there at that moment disappeared. Tristan felt their blood and matter and mud spatter all over him. Ducking and tacking around ever-increasing wreckage and craters and the fallen, he kept running and shouting to the men, any men, for he was now among those from other battalions.
He came across a Lewis gunner staggering on shredded legs, trying still to carry his heavy weapon with only one arm left, his carrying party scattered dead like grain plucked off an ear of wheat. A brave lot. They didn’t usually go over the top until support was required. Tristan whirled round. ‘You there! Are you capable of firing this gun?’
‘Didn’t do too badly in training, sir,’ a soldier, hazy in the hail of grit and fragments, shouted back.
‘Rowse! Billy, take it off this soldier. I’ll get you a carrying party.’
The Lewis gunner keeled over. Before Billy hefted the gun on to his own shoulder, he took a second to look at his anonymous dying comrade. ‘R.I.P.,’ Billy muttered before striding forward to find an advantageous setting-up position.
Soldiers, who were to be Billy’s loaders, were picking up the magazines and spare parts. ‘Keep going,’ Tristan shouted at them. There was a shell crater on higher ground. The machine gun could be mounted on its ridge, a suitable place to fire on the enemy positions.
Tristan left them. He kept going by believing, like all the others, that he wouldn’t die. His pistol empty, he reloaded without stopping. For an instant the air was clear and he saw he was wading through a stretch of mud up to his knees; framed by a few devastated trees it might have once been a meadow. He’d never see the meadows and trees of Ford Farm again, never see his son enjoying their delights – if Ursula did not take him away from them. He and his men and all these others were solid in their duty, but they wouldn’t live long enough, in the necessary numbers, to get behind and eliminate the network of German ferro-concrete machine-gun posts, which were defiant to anything except a direct hit from a heavy shell.
‘This is for you, Jonny,’ he shouted, plunging onwards.
The sky in front of him was raining lead balls. He halted, arm up protecting his face, feeling the little demons thud into him. A shell exploded somewhere and he felt himself being thrown backwards and the red-hot incisions of steel casing. Then he felt nothing at all.
Billy scrambled to set the machine gun up on its tripod. He pulled the butt against his shoulder, digging his feet into the tacky clay to stop himself sliding down into the pit. He fired off the first magazine and his number one loaded a fresh one. After each round he retargeted. If he fired incessantly, the German machine gunners would mark his position and he and his mates would be done for.
Billy raised his face a fraction to resight the gun and a single bullet passed through his head.
Chapter Four
Emilia was waiting for Ben in the washhouse, where everyone cleaned up after outdoor work. He was on his way after mucking out the stables and feeding the pigs, and she was daring to steal a quick kiss with him. Seeing her peeping out the window, he quickened his confident strides, then paused and beckoned to her. Her father must be stationed at the back door, waiting for her.
She took a step outside and sniffed the air, still and heavy now the wind had dropped. Filtering through the usual whiffs of animals, fowls and their manure was the seductive delicious smell of hot food.
‘Tilda Lawry’s here already,’ Ben said, reaching her. ‘See there? And joy of joy, she’s cooked our breakfast.’
A modest-sized woman in a grey calf-length dress, a starched apron and white frilled cap was on the flagstones, her posture straight and unruffled, waving them inside. She had sprucely brushed ginger hair and close freckles, gleaming red cheeks and a cheery smile.
Emilia likened her to a contented pussycat, glad to see that the woman she was relinquishing the kitchen to appeared to have no first-day nerves, that there was not likely to be a clash of personalities. Lifting her hand to return the salute, she said, ‘How did I miss her arriving?’
Ben laughed and tugged her plait. ‘For once, your all-seeing eye has let you down. Alec slipped off a while ago, obviously to meet the horse-cab. Don’t know why he couldn’t just say so. Why does he have to be so damned mysterious?’
‘Well, he’s always deep in thought, isn’t he?’
While she and Ben walked together, Emilia swept her eyes over the house, which she had always admired for its two entirely different characters. Here at the back, its late eighteenth-century origins were plain. Thick uneven walls and windows deep-cut, many and small and variously shaped. Indiscriminate additions had formed quirky projections and fascinating recesses, promising secrets and delights wi
thin – some of hers and Ben’s childhood hiding places. If Tilda Lawry had noticed the fine Victorian facings at the front of the rambling building, and that the farmstead was in good order, hopefully she wouldn’t think too badly of her because of the neglect and chaos inside.
She turned her attention to Ben’s bloodshot, puffy eyes. ‘Are they still hurting?’
‘Just a bit sore now, thanks to you.’
Emilia wasn’t convinced. Ben usually made light of injuries and was likely to be feeling embarrassed about the fuss he had made last night. ‘You’ll make sure you see the doctor, Ben? Your eyesight’s too precious to neglect.’
‘Alec’s arranging it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You just concentrate on when and where we can be alone, Em.’
They had reached the back door, and Tilda Lawry dropped a small curtsey, more in a friendly than a subservient way. ‘Come on in, young Mr Harvey, and you, Miss Emilia. Breakfast’s all ready to be put on the table. Mr Harvey, Mrs Harvey and Mr Rowse are waiting for you to join them. I’m Tilda, as you must have guessed. Pleased to meet you both. I remember seeing you, sir, when you was a little boy at the market with your father, always was a longshanks! Going to turn into a rough old day again, and I’m going to see that you’re not sent out in it feeling empty. I’ll have your crib bag packed full. Come on then, wash your hands and all you’ve got to do is sit yourselves down.’
Before he followed the women inside, Ben gingerly touched a hanky to his left eye, careful to rearrange his expression afterward to hide his pain and discomfort.
Lottie had been placed at the table in her dressing gown and slippers, next to Emilia’s chair. ‘I had no trouble bringing her down with Mr Harvey being here, but she’s waiting for you, Miss Emilia,’ Tilda said.
‘Good morning, Mrs Harvey.’ Emilia held the hands reaching out to her.
In his substantial chair at the head of the table, Alec was gazing into space. Emilia greeted him, but only for Tilda’s benefit: there was no point in speaking to Alec when he was this remote. Ben had once remarked, ‘He goes off somewhere inside his head to plan and scheme.’ She had not thought of Alec as a schemer, until his prearrangement of her life last night.
She kissed her father, who seemed diffident about the form, then she asked him how her mother was.
‘Well, she’s missing you, maid, but that can’t be helped. She’s coming up tomorrow, she and little Honor. I’ll bring your things later on.’ Edwin shot a hard look at Ben, then treated Emilia to one of the same. ‘Took your time coming in, didn’t you?’
‘Did we?’ She pretended innocence.
‘You sleep well, Em?’ Edwin asked now in a soft, fatherly way. A small, stooped man, with full side-whiskers, he had aged radically by years of hard outdoor work.
She lied that she had. It seemed the farmhouse wasn’t a place to find peace or rest. Long into the dark its oldest timbers had shuddered in time with the wind. Ben had stayed downstairs after her embarrassed escape from Alec. During a need to slip to the bathroom, she had paused on the landing and listened to their voices. It had mainly been Ben’s voice, then she had realized he was reading aloud from a newspaper, about the war and local news, with the occasional comment from Alec. A strange thing to do in the dead of night, and an effort for Ben with his hurting eyes. When Ben had finally retired he had coughed and paced about his room for nearly an hour. Alec, it seemed had stayed up all night. There were sounds of him going up into the attics and moving things about in the boxroom and the room between Lottie’s and his late brother’s.
Emilia waited in contained appreciation for her food to be put in front of her. Tilda Lawry’s presence would mean the return of much of her former freedom; she had always preferred to be outside. She was served porridge and boiled eggs and expertly sliced toast. All the while, Tilda talked gaily about the conditions she found here, like having hot piped water, at a rate that Emilia’s mother would call ‘nineteen to the dozen’.
Then Tilda sat down, nodded at Alec and bowed her head.
Emilia had to lean past Lottie and prod Alec out of his reverie. It took a moment to realize what was required of him, then he issued a careless blessing over the food.
Ben tucked in straightaway, joking, ‘Proper food at last.’
‘I’m sure Miss Emilia is a good cook. Her butter’s the best I’ve ever tasted.’ Tilda winked at Emilia while plying him with more helpings.
‘We wouldn’t have coped without her these last few months,’ Alec said, his gaze on Emilia as she tucked a tea towel around Lottie’s neck.
‘A beauty, a beauty,’ Lottie was nodding her head.
‘Absolutely right, Grandma.’ Alec stroked her deep-veined hand, as if agreeing to the subject fleetingly in her mind. He was still looking at Emilia.
Sitting at the foot of the table, Ben noticed where his brother’s admiration was directed. He blurted out to Tilda. ‘Em and I are walking out.’
‘Do you know, I thought as much. You looked a pair of happy little souls coming across the yard just now, even though you’re both a mite young. Mr Rowse, you must be pleased, eh?’
Edwin looked uncomfortable at being singled out. He ran a thick finger round the neck of his collarless shirt. ‘As long as everything’s kept above board.’
‘Of course it will be, Edwin,’ Alec said, as if he too was taking the moral high ground.
Angry at being spoken about like this, Emilia produced a disapproving noise in her throat. She helped Lottie finish her porridge, then poured her a cup of tea.
Ben saw she had isolated herself from everyone but his grandmother, and he was maddened at his brother’s hypocrisy. Alec wasn’t living as a celibate widower. There was an address in Truro he sometimes visited on a Saturday night, or after business on market day. ‘When am I to see Dr Holloway?’ he growled down the length of the table.
‘I’ve sent him a message, via the postman. I saw him in the lane, no letters for us today,’ Alec replied. Everyone, except Tilda, totted up that it was two weeks since a letter had arrived from Tristan; the same applied in the case of Billy Rowse. While postal communications remained difficult their anxieties were kept at a similar level. ‘I’ve asked for Dr Holloway to call late this morning, so stay near the stead until then. Edwin and I will take feed to the herd.’
‘That suits me.’ With the two men out of the way, and Tilda Lawry here to help keep an eye on his grandmother, he and Emilia might get the chance to slip away together.
‘Perhaps I should ask the doctor to take a look at Mrs Harvey, seeing as he’s going to be here anyway, Alec?’ Emilia saw the lift of Tilda’s eyebrows. ‘Mr Harvey?’
‘I’d be grateful if you would, Emilia.’ He smiled at her, then turned to the housekeeper. ‘We don’t bother with formality here, Tilda. I’ve got one brother dead and another at the Front. Fighting for freedom of every kind is the way I see it. Take your time settling in. Thank you for breakfast.’
The men fetched their canvas crib bags and left the women to clear the table.
‘Alec’s different to what I’m sure you’d expect to find in a boss, Tilda,’ Emilia said, carrying a stack of dishes to the back kitchen. Tilda had used a lot more crockery and utensils to produce the meal than she had ever bothered with before.
Tilda was filling the sink with hot water. ‘Always was different to most folk. It was the talk of the town when he married Miss Lucy Pollard.’
‘Did you happen to know her? It must be a sad time of the year for the Pollard family. She was their only child, wasn’t she?’ Emilia picked up a dishcloth but Tilda took it from her.
‘You leave this to me and concentrate on Mrs Harvey. Dear old soul, isn’t she? Can see how much she likes you, but then I can see you’re a pleasant little soul yourself, and I’m a good judge of character. As for Miss Lucy, I saw her on the times she dined, before and after her marriage, with my former employers, the Rules of Stratton Terrace. The mistress told me that Mrs Pollard had said to her that she was grateful the Alm
ighty hadn’t given her a son for the war to take away from her too. I was well placed with the Rules, but ’tis some relief to be offered this post. I was brought up not far from Hennaford, in Marazanvose, and it’ll be nice to be back in the country again.’
Emilia was hoping for more revelations about Alec or Lucy Harvey, but she was glad Tilda was not a gossiper. She now knew who one of the persons was Alec had dined with yesterday: Mr Ernest Rule, the Harveys’ lawyer. ‘I hope you’ll like it here, it must be awful to be suddenly uprooted. Sorry about the state of the house. You’ll find it a bit bare. I thought it best to pack a lot of stuff away.’
‘No need for you to apologize. I can see how things have been for you. I’m only happy when I’m busy, I’ll soon put this place to rights.
Emilia had already brought Lottie’s clothes downstairs to the sitting room and she prepared to take her through to get her dressed. Her curiosity now centred on the new housekeeper. ‘Do you have any family, Tilda?’
‘Last cousin I had, from up-country, fell at the Somme, God rest him.’ She paused with a washed plate in her capable hands, as if seeing this cousin in some far-off place. Happy, sorrowful, and then resigned.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so glad you’re here. You’re going to be a God-send, Tilda.’
‘Well,’ Tilda passed her a perky look. ‘According to Mr Harvey, there’s an angel here already.’
* * *
It was twenty-four hours since Lottie had wandered off, and Emilia made sure she was safely napping before she moved her things into the bedroom Alec had allocated her. Although she had been given no say about this either, she couldn’t help feeling an interloper, for this had been Henry Harvey’s room. She paid silent homage to the ordinary, studious young man, who, try as she might, she remembered little about. It troubled her that she had forgotten him already, especially when he, against expectation, and to the pride of his brothers and the county, was a posthumous recipient of the Military Cross. Alec never mentioned him, but perhaps he was thinking of Henry sometimes when he cut himself off. And Lucy? Did he recall her piercing voice, or her demands over finicky detail? Or her beauty of the classical kind, and the way she had floated regally about the house, and how, when holding at-homes or a dinner party, she would metamorphose into a sparkling, sweetly responsive hostess with a siren-like appeal. Emilia had liked to watch and admire her then. Before yesterday she had given Alec little thought. Why was staying under his roof changing that?
