by Gloria Cook
He let her go and turned his hands into rigid fists. ‘I’m not stupid! It’s just that I can’t see the words right or write them down to make much sense.’
She had never seen anyone so close to tears and so frantic to hold them back, so filled with emotional agony. ‘You’re the last man I’d call stupid, Alec. You’re greatly respected in all circles. You’re a wonderful uncle to Jonny. You’re good and kind and committed to those you care about. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to humiliate you.’
His turbulence eased, he unlocked the tension throughout his body. ‘Lucy enjoyed taunting me about it. My father beat me over it, he made my life hell. My teachers never attempted to work out why I couldn’t apply myself to my lessons, they refused to listen when I tried to explain. It’s hard to shake off something like that.’ He gave another long discouraged sigh and raked a hand through his hair. ‘Forgive me, Emilia. I’ve no right to be thinking about myself. I wish the letter had been good news about Ben. If anything was to happen to him… Tris probably won’t come back, and I’d only have Jonny left – and you. I mean, I can always count on you, Emilia?’
She wanted to reach out and comfort him. He had so many responsibilities and, it seemed, few friends to confide in. ‘Of course you can, Alec. I swear.’
He looked down at the crumpled letter. ‘I can trust you never to reveal my problem?’ He could do nothing about those who already knew his shame but he was desperate it would never be known in Hennaford.
‘On my life. You can always talk to me, Alec, if you want to, about anything at all.’
‘Thank you. I’d be glad to do that, Emilia.’
She waited a moment, not wanting him to feel she could dismiss him quickly from her thoughts. ‘Ben will come home, won’t he?’
With the backs of his fingers Alec smoothed back the hair loosened from her plait in her run. His hand came to rest close to her neck. ‘Of course he will. He hasn’t lost everything. His life is at the farm. Where you are, Emilia. I envy him that.’
* * *
‘Uncle Alec! Everyone! Come and look!’ Jonathan came tearing into the kitchen, creating havoc as the Jack Russells, led by Pip, piled in after him, barking madly. Alec paused in putting on his riding coat for the search in Truro. Emilia was about to lead Lottie into the sitting room but left her in her armchair.
Hope made her blurt out. ‘Jonny, is it Ben?’
‘He’s back, in a grand motor car left parked in the lane, with a big boy and a beautiful lady,’ Jonathan said, grinning importantly at gaining the grown-ups’ attention, including Tilda’s. ‘And there’s other people with them too.’
‘My word,’ Lottie chuckled. ‘I was only saying the other day… a little bit of silence… it wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Will you watch Mrs Harvey for me, please?’ Emilia asked Tilda. She was out of the back door before Alec got his wits to move.
She flew up to a pair of roughly dressed men, obviously related by their swarthy complexions and stocky stamp. Shuffling their feet by the pump, they greeted her civilly. There was no sign of Ben. She was desperate to see him. Then reasoning he would have taken the ‘big boy’ and ‘beautiful lady’ to the front door, she backtracked and tore round the side of the house.
He was there. Immaculately turned out, his hair newly barbered, his shoulders proud, chin up. She caught her breath at his confident, handsome, smiling face. He stepped away from the boy and the lady with him, holding his arms out to her.
‘Ben! Oh, Ben, thank God you’re back safe.’ She cared nothing for the refined strangers in brogues and veiled hat, or if anyone from the kitchen had followed her and was watching. She ran straight into Ben’s arms. He swept her off her feet and their lips were meeting before she was on terra firma again. ‘I’ve been so worried about you, darling. Are you terribly upset? I’ve been so afraid for you. I’m so sorry about your eye. But please don’t ever go off and leave me again.’
Ben squeezed her until she had no breath left. ‘You can explain what you mean by that later,’ he said. Emilia was puzzled by his firmly spoken words but she was too joyful to give it any thought. He kept a possessive hold on her hand while Alec and Jonathan approached them. He made the introductions between his family and friends, describing Emilia as his fiancée.
Alec was already acquainted with the lady. ‘It’s good to see you again after all this time, Polly. And it was good of you and your brother to bring Ben home.’
‘It was kind of you to pass on your sympathy, via Eugenie, after Hugh’s death, Alec,’ said Polly Hetherton, fluttering a gloved hand. ‘You have a fine house. It was an unexpected sight after wringing ourselves through these quaint little country paths.’
Emilia was trying to tame her wayward hair. She felt shabby in the brother and sister’s presence, although her only care was not to let Ben down. ‘Charmed, Miss Rowse,’ Julian said with quiet chivalry. ‘You’re even lovelier than Ben’s description of you.’
‘I’ve brought some workers for the farm, Alec,’ Ben said, a chary gaze on his brother. Alec’s rigidity meant he had not forgotten his disrespect of yesterday. ‘Brothers, Cyril and Albie Trewin. I thought—’
‘So I saw.’ Alec broke Ben off in cool tones. ‘I’ve already been approached by those individuals and refused them work. They’re vagrants. Untrustworthy.’
They’ve told me about that and your opinions of them,’ Ben replied, narrowing his eyes. ‘But in view of what I’m about to say I’m sure you’ll reconsider. Julian has contacts with the police, and they’ve given me a good character of both men. The reasons for their homelessness are as equally honest as those for the other man you’ve allowed to lodge here. I’m confident the Trewins are good workers. I thought they could live in Wayside Cot. It needs attention, but they won’t mind bedding down with Rothwell for a couple of nights.’
Emilia looked at Alec for his reaction. His expression was unreadable. He said, with the charm of a host, ‘We’ll talk about it later. Perhaps Mrs Hetherton and Mr Andrews would care to step inside for tea or sherry.’
‘I’ve already invited them in,’ Ben said, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He spied Tilda peeping round the comer. ‘Tilda, would you bring out a mug of tea to the men, then place some extra towels in the washhouse so they can clean up please?’
Emilia was growing uneasy over the chilly atmosphere between Ben and Alec. She was delighted about Ben’s positive undertaking, but she understood Alec’s resentment over the manner in which he was giving orders.
She saw someone coming around from the yard. ‘Here’s Dad.’ She thought it best to unhook her hand from Ben’s.
Her smile was wiped off her face.
She moved away from the gathering. Her father was walking towards her as if on drunken feet, and clinging to him was her mother, dressed in black and weeping. Honor was bringing up the rear in slow reverential steps.
‘No! No!’
In that moment the world closed in and lost all its meaning for Emilia. She shook her head. She didn’t want to witness the macabre march of her parents and her best friend. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground, her hands up to her face. ‘Billy! Oh, dear God, not Billy!’
Alec intimated to Tilda that she should take Jonathan away. He waited for Ben, who had turned ashen and frozen, to go to Emilia. But Ben suddenly veered away and was hurrying down the garden path. Alec called after him but he didn’t stop. He could only express his apologies for his brother’s behaviour to Julian Andrews and Polly Hetherton with an expression of hopelessness.
‘We’ll go after Ben,’ Julian said in a hushed tone. ‘And then we will take our leave.’
‘We can see… our condolences.’ Polly motioned towards the grieving family, then she took Julian’s arm and they walked away.
‘Come along, Emilia.’ Alec lowered himself down to her. ‘You have to be strong, my love, for your mother’s sake. Get up now, I’ll help you. I’m so sorry about Billy. Here’s your parents and Honor. I’ll leave you with
them.’
‘No, stay.’ She felt out of control and could not stand up on her own. She clung to his body, shaking, weeping, moaning Billy’s name.
Edwin took her from Alec, and holding Dolly too, the three of them gave way to the chasm of their grief.
Alec and Honor stood aside. She wiped her eyes with a hanky. ‘I happened to be at the cottage when the telegram arrived. It said that Billy was killed in action. By the date, it happened eight days ago.’
‘There should be a letter on the way about it from Tristan,’ Alec whispered. The Rowses would find out the details then about Billy’s death. An arctic chill invaded Alec’s heart. Was Tristan still alive? As soon as he could get away he’d go to
Ford House to see if a telegram had been delivered there.
Emilia’s face was resting on Edwin’s shoulder. ‘Where’s Ben?’ she appealed to Alec through her sobs.
Alec was at a loss to explain. ‘He’s escorting his friends to their car.’
‘Are you saying he couldn’t be bothered to stay here with me?’ Her tears grew more desolate. How could Ben desert her when she needed him most?
‘That boy hasn’t got as much backbone as he’d like everyone to believe,’ Edwin snarled, his eyes wet, stroking the heads of his womenfolk. ‘Sorry, boss, but I call that behaviour damned shallow and callous.’
‘Ben’s going through a crisis of his own,’ Honor said, feeling the need to point this out. Ben was her childhood hero. She could never bring herself to believe he’d ever merit Edwin’s description.
‘Doesn’t compare. The loss of some of your eyesight for a life.’ Edwin swallowed his grief. ‘Can I take them inside, Alec?’
‘Of course. Give me a moment and I’ll open the front door. Use the sitting room, and please stay, the three of you, for as long as you need to.’
Chapter Twelve
More greyness. Strange, Tristan thought, heaven should be ablaze with colour, sparkling with countless gems and lit by the Shining Presence. A sharp pain piercing his shoulder told him he wasn’t dead. Not yet.
‘Decided to join us at last, Lieutenant Harvey? Sorry about that, just removed a sliver of metal working itself out of you there.’
‘What? Who are you?’ Tristan was aware of the dry croak his voice made, and instead of the sulphurous putrid stench, other sour-sickly odours. Moans of delirium and wretched groans of pain reached his befuddled brain. Something moist and tepid was wiped across his brow. Then something blissfully warm was pushed between his lips, wetting his raw throat. His sight cleared slowly and he found himself looking into the sallow, rubbery face of a ward orderly. He was thickset and heavy-footed but thankfully light-handed. ‘God forgive me, but you’re ugly.’
‘Charming,’ the orderly replied, taking no offence and finishing off with wash bowl and shaving gear. ‘You’re in 24 General, sir. You were on the dangerously ill list for days but started coming round in the small hours this morning. Regular pincushion, you were. Too dangerous to move you, and we like to move casualties on quick with a push like this going on. The surgeon got all the lead balls out, but you’ll have shrapnel popping out of you in strange places for weeks. The name’s Maynard Lucas. You may remember me, we spoke when your second-lieutenant, God rest him, was stretchered in here a month ago. We’ve got a rush on, so you won’t get much rest today. The doctor’ll likely say you’re fit to travel now, so you’ll be on your way home this evening. Must go, ’fraid I’ve got to get on. Good luck, sir.’
‘Wait! How did I get here? And please, tell me the score. I mean, my ankle looked crocked. Have I still got a foot? And I need to know who else survived in my section.’
With an air of good-humoured reluctance Maynard Lucas came back. ‘Everything’s intact, sir. Your ankle’s a nasty wound – the surgeon was in two minds. Could end up with a limp. As for your men, ’fraid I couldn’t say about that. You was fetched in by a returning recce party, so we’re told, couldn’t say by who exactly.’
Tristan glanced down the bed and saw the shape of his foot under the blanket. ‘Thank God, but the cost, the cost.’ He wept silently for Billy Rowse and the other thousands dead.
‘Look, I’m not bad enough for a blighty,’ Tristan protested to the sister, who got busy with the usual observations: pulse, temperature and examination for tell-tale signs of gas gangrene on his numerous dressings. ‘And I’ve taken up a bed for far too long. I can rest in my billet until I’m fit enough to resume active service.’
‘The doctor thinks otherwise,’ the Sister said, hardly giving him eye contact. Tristan fancied she had long ago developed a necessary self-protective callousness, but every now and then she offered a queer little smile. She was small and nondescript, but exuded power and efficiency, instilling a much longed-for confidence to the patients temporarily in her care. ‘You’ll be seeing the inside of another hospital ward for some time yet.’
‘I suppose my wife has been informed of my injuries?’
‘A telegram has been sent to England. We’ve managed to get hold of your batman. He’s brought you another uniform and left a note. Good luck.’
* * *
Good luck? Why did people keep wishing the impossible? There had been no good luck for his section. His batman had listed the survivors; barely into double figures.
The twenty-five other officers in the ward were all strangers to him, and after an insipid meal which made him feel sick after every mouthful, he talked Maynard Lucas into wheeling him to the enlisted mens’ ward. There was no one he knew among the crowded rows of suffering Tommies.
He sat with a private, whose boyish face reminded him of Ben, while he died of a haemorrhage. As more casualties were crammed into the field hospital, he accompanied another private, paralysed from the waist down, to the Red Cross ambulance.
Private James Worth, of a Lancashire battalion, stared at him, during spells of consciousness, throughout the bumpy journey. Tristan talked to him and smiled at him. He held his hand. And shortly after they had been unloaded at the railway station, with no padre free for the task, he prayed the last words over young James Worth as he gasped his final frantic breath from pneumonia. Briefly, he had been the boy’s closest friend and mentor and link with the world of the living. Tristan had prayed James would live. Now he would write to his parents and tell them how well their nineteen-year-old son had died.
Before covering the silent body he touched it. To stop himself from spinning out of control in the constant discordance of noise and crazed activity. Tristan held on to the silence of tragic meaningless, until he was wrenched away.
How many friends had he made and lost in these last three years? Friends of a few weeks, six months at the most. Eight, ten, twelve among the officers. It wasn’t wise to make friends. The grief was almost too much when they died. Yet he was a man who desired companionship, someone with whom to share his hopes and fears. God willing, if the ship he was to board wasn’t sunk by a U-boat or German aeroplane, he would be back on British soil before daybreak, and after the medics were finished with him, he would be with his son again. Perhaps Ursula could be persuaded to bring Jonathan to visit him. But perhaps somewhere in all the confusion on this foreign soil, a letter was waiting for him bearing the news he was dreading, that she had left him and taken their son with her. He had survived for Jonathan; it would be unbearable to learn he had lost him.
Shattered, nauseous, tormented by his aches and agonies, he made to close his eyes and shut off all thoughts until the rail journey was over. But a soldier with a boy’s face – they all seemed to have boy’s faces – desperate and pain-ridden, was watching him. How the lower ranks watched the officers, to gain confidence, to settle their fears. It drove some officers mad.
Tristan conjured up a calm smile. ‘You want to speak to me, private?’
Chapter Thirteen
Honor and her aunt were eating a meal of ham and bread and butter, the food accepted by Florence, with red-faced grace, from Ford Farm. There was no coal and only e
nough sticks to keep one unsatisfactory fire alight, so the women were in their kitchen, wearing extra cardigans and shawls to keep warm. With no funds to pay a gardener, Florence, with some relief, was allowing a villager to keep the ground at the back and front planted in vegetables, for rent in kind, so they also had vegetable soup.
The room was dank and fusty, the walls damp with condensation. Most of each week it was inhabited by a wooden clothes horse drying laundry, and Florence held to an unbreakable belief that opening even a crack of window between autumn and spring would lead to dangerous chest infections. Honor was increasingly finding her home a miserable place to live in and she longed for a more companionable atmosphere, like she found at Ford Farm – had found there before the news of Billy’s Rowse’s death and the subsequent events.
Bracken House, so named by Florence when she had taken up residence fifteen years ago, was the largest in Hennaford after Ford House, a square, four-bedroomed dwelling, in sore need of fresh paint and repairs to the roof and walls and front gate. Not far from Tremore Farm, the house had once housed the stewards of the long-dismantled Tremore estate, much of which had been acquired by Silas Harvey, Alec’s grandfather.
Having no appetite, Honor was trailing her spoon through the watery soup – all hers and her aunt’s food had to be eked out.
‘You’re not being fair, Aunt,’ she said with forced calm, in answer to the near-hysterical lecture she was receiving. ‘I can’t see what I can do to make Alec Harvey interested in me. He’s got too many other things on his mind and I’m no sort of vamp.’
‘You’re not trying hard enough to get him to notice you.’ Florence banged her hand down on the table. Her heated breath was enough to threaten the air around her to burst into flame. ‘When we’re at Ford Farm you spend all your time with that wretched girl.’
‘Emilia’s in mourning, Aunt. She needs my support.’ And Emilia was less wretched company despite her terrible grief.
