The Death of Hope

by Andrew Wareham

  “Always a chance of cholera, sir. Dysentery is a certainty, of course. I shan’t be happy when the winter influenza strikes, as it always does. Living in cold and damp conditions with too little of heating and poor food makes the men vulnerable to all of the infectious diseases. Still, not as bad as the Crimea, and that was worse than the Boer War. They say the Peninsula was appalling – losses of twenty to sickness for every one killed in battle. We are running no more than three to one in ordinary weeks. Of course, whenever there is a push, the figures do show a change…”

  “So, Doctor, what you are saying is that we must take care of the men over winter. Disease will be the enemy.”

  “Very much so, Colonel. Not so bad for our men now that they have had a blankets issue. All of them have two at least now of the new, thick, fleecy sort. Some picked up a third, of course, from the casualties.”

  Richard had not considered that. He wondered how the dead men’s blankets had been shared out, had a quiet word with O’Grady.

  “Done by the sergeants, sir, in the companies. The oldest and the youngest are the ones most needing to sleep warm in the nature of things. They dished them out as was right, sir. Where they could, they sent a couple to the sickbay, sir.”

  “Best I know nothing about the business?”

  “You have played your part, sir, as the men know. Not the details, as goes without saying, it’s just that everybody knows you fiddled it somehow, sir. Not just a mad bugger when it comes to a fight, which they like, as is only natural; an officer who looks after the men as well, which is not quite so common.”

  Richard shrugged, it had not been his intention to make a name for himself as a kind-hearted gentleman. It could do no harm.

  O’Grady left, wondering why the man was chuckling. Richard chose not to enlighten him.

  ‘All because I did not fancy the Old Man disinheriting me. And one thing coming on the heels of another and each forcing me further down the same road. If the Old Man had put me in an office, out of harm’s way, with a promise of a half share when he was gone, I would have been perfectly happy. As it is, I am a colonel, in the Trenches, my name in the newspapers, and a fiancée waiting for me… Better write, I put nothing on paper yesterday. Mustn’t have her worrying more than is inevitable, far too good a girl to do that to her.’

  He called to Paisley for tea and sat to composition, admitting that the battalion had been involved in the big battle, because he could not deny it, and trying to find some way of twisting the truth, short of outright lying, to suggest that he had been well out of harm’s way. He suspected she might not believe him. The house at Wells-next-the-Sea served for a good half page – had she seen it, did she like it? He believed that part of Norfolk to be most handsome, healthy as well with the North Sea airs. They could bring up a family there in comfort, he did not doubt. He was stricken by doubt – should he mention a family to an unmarried girl? Was it proper to discuss such matters with her? He dismissed his doubts – anything could be said to Primrose, and by her.

  He spent a pleasant hour, longer than he suspected he should have taken from the business of the battalion, rose refreshed from the desk a considerate German officer had left behind and which was now his. A real desk, with drawers and a small cupboard, not the packing case or door laid across two boxes he was used to. He expected it was official issue, German trenches for the use of. Say what you liked about Prussian militarism, they were better at running the minutiae of war.

  “Paisley, is this to be our bunker for the duration?”

  “Yes, sir. It ain’t the biggest but it’s well set up and has a little one next door for a servant what is convenient indeed. Whoever the Hun was had this built knew how to look after himself, that’s for sure, sir. Got a little flywire meat safe in here, for keeping an opened tin of bully clear of flies, sir. Good for milk, as well. Add to that, if you looks to the wall on the left, there’s a rack for pistol and belts and such, sir. On the right, there’s hooks up to hang a spare tunic. Got electric cables coming in as well, but they ain’t connected to nothing no more so no use to us. Your bunk’s clean as well, sir. Didn’t see no bugs to it when I chucked his blankets out, for not wanting to sleep where a Hun’s been, for not knowing what diseases he might have, them being known for strange habits, as you might say.”

  Richard gravely agreed – one heard all sorts of tales about the Germans and could not take too many precautions where they were concerned.

  Primrose, accompanied by her mother, the older lady making a rare excursion from her London home, was visiting at Wells. Her new father-to-be, who she rather liked, was to meet the pair at the hotel close to the single wharf on the inlet and was next day to escort the pair to examine the house he had closed on. They progressed fairly quickly on the express to Norwich, remarkably slowly on the coast line that trickled between the resort towns of Cromer and Hunstanton, stopping at most villages in between.

  “Beautiful scenery, Mother. One can understand Mr Vaughan Williams a little more for having seen it.”

  Her mama was heard to suggest that it was gloomy music and much suited to the countryside. She did prefer a dashing polka, she admitted.

  That brought artistic conversation to an end.

  Mr Baker was waiting at the station and escorted them the few yards to the hotel.

  “A tiny town, ladies. The bare essentials are obtainable and King’s Lynn is less than an hour distant by motor. You will, of course, have a car, Miss Primrose.”

  She had not considered that possibility, thought it excellent now that it was mentioned.

  “Can we see the house from here, Mr Baker?”

  “Almost. Across the creek, in a line with the boathouse you can see, painted pink for some reason. A clump of orchards there obscures the actual buildings. Some of the trees are yours, as is the boathouse.”

  “Of course, Richard must know how to sail a small boat and will enjoy the relaxation of a yacht or what do they call it, a dinghy?”

  Mr Baker did not know, having never ventured to sea himself.

  They were amazed when the hotel staff pulled heavy drapes across the windows before full dusk.

  “Got to, sir, ma’am. By order. It’s them Zeppelins what come across the sea with their bombs, sir, ma’am. No light to be shown on the coast nor inland for ten miles and more.”

  They were amazed that the war should have spread even to the most rural parts of Britain. It had not affected the food the hotel offered, however. They ate well and long.

  Mr Baker’s chauffeur had the vehicle waiting for them after breakfast, a large and solid Humber.

  “Mostly going to the Army as staff cars, ma’am, Miss Primrose. Being as the steel works is producing in the national interest, armour plate for new projects especially, I have been granted a vehicle.”

  They admired his importance to the country, much to his pleasure.

  Less than a mile, inland, across the creek and then eastwards along a lane leading to the sea brought them to the house.

  “It is larger than I thought for, sir.”

  “Well, Miss Primrose, it is, I will admit, a little more than I had first intended.”

  The manor stood imposing in local stone, a brownish grey, rambling over several extensions and dating from Elizabeth to Victoria by way of the Restoration and early Georgian. Each builder had been true to his times, had clung to the genius of the day. A glance at the upper storey suggested thirty bedrooms, some with tiny diamond panes, others under pointed redbrick Gothick arches, a few broadly welcoming the light of the eighteenth century. The roof line was uneven, all tiled but of differing colours and size. A part of the roof was half-mansard, most was simply steep-pitched against the snows not uncommon in Norfolk.

  The entry led through double oak doors into a grand hallway, twenty feet high and as broad. At least two dozen doors led to various reception and dining rooms and to the rear offices.

  “So many servants it would need, Mr Baker! Not at all practical in this da
y and age.”

  Mr Baker showed triumphant – he had considered the servant problem.

  “From Belgium in the first instance, Miss Primrose. Three families of them. Thereafter, more foreigners, ma’am. You will not mind the odd brown or yellow skin, I am sure, ma’am!”

  Primrose did not know if that was the case. She felt there was little choice, particularly as she was rapidly falling into love with the house – it was warm and eccentric, much as she believed herself to be. She would happily spend her days in such a mansion. In the back of her mind was an awareness that she was spoiled, a rich brat indulging herself. That being so, she would nonetheless enjoy her existence in such luxury, the more for having a much-loved husband at her side, provided only he survived this damnable war.

  “Another battle in Artois, sir. In that part of the lines where Richard is serving.”

  “The figures are high again, as well.”

  Her mother made her first contribution to the conversation.

  “I am sure the Colonel will be well, Primrose. Men of his rank do not go headlong into battle, I believe.”

  “He has already taken part in a trench raid, Mother. He believes that he must lead his men, not tell them to go in front of him. We know him to be the bravest of the brave – I could wish he were not. He must do what he knows is right. I am not to ask him to go against his nature, much though I wish he might.”

  “He has come through safe so far, Miss Primrose. He has the luck with him, I much hope.”

  They inspected the house, slowly over two hours, meeting the staff, finding some of the Belgians to be wholly at home in service, one family to be of a place in life that had given them their own servants prior to the war.

  “I can cook, madame. My husband will mind the wine cellar and the library. My daughters are of ten and twelve and can both clean and dust and learn their English. One day, we shall return to Ciney and my husband will take back his place as attorney in the town and all will be well again. Until then, madame, we are to be thankful for a place to live, a roof over our heads, especially in so pleasant a little town. London was not for me, madame!”

  “No, it is a smelly town, Mrs Bouchard. Not my favourite place.”

  “I am glad to get the girls away as well. There are wicked men in London, madame, offering money to other refugees for their little girls.”

  They were appalled by such vileness, had not heard of its like.

  Mr Baker shook his head.

  “They have been telling me to open an office in London, Miss Primrose, a place where drawings could be made and discussed easily with the War Office. I think I must do so and will send a pair of clever young men there to do the work. I do not think it will see me often if that is what happens in Town.”

  “You said there was a possibility of brown or yellow men coming into our service, Mr Baker. How would that be so?”

  “The servants of dead officers, Miss Primrose. Often, men who have spent years in India or on the China Station will bring favoured servants back with them. Dying in the Trenches, they leave these men at a loose end. I have taken two on at my own house, having had them recommended from the barracks at Bedford, being part of the regimental family now. I have found them good, reliable men. With your permission, I would seek more.”

  It made sense, in its own way. The poor men could not be left without work in a strange land. She wondered how they would get on in the most rural county of Norfolk.

  “The furniture is all old, Miss Primrose. I have it in mind to throw it all out and refurbish from top to bottom. Some of these dressers might be three hundred years old, fit for the bonfire and nothing else.”

  She thought they fitted with the ambience of the house, begged that he should leave all in place, leaving it to the pair of them to decide what would stay and what must go. She debated introducing Mr Baker to the concept of the ‘antique’, decided it might be too much by the way of hard work.

  “What of the gardens, sir? Are they large? You spoke of the orchard last night.”

  He did not in fact know exactly what the boundaries were. The Belgian gardener offered to show him.

  A vast vegetable garden to the rear, all in good order and getting better rapidly, the gardener one to value his vegetables. To the front, an acre of lawns and driveway in a semicircle between two gates. On the east side, a hedge across ten yards of lawn, looking out over the sea. The south sprawled over several acres down to the boathouse by way of thirty or more apple trees and a number of pears. Six goats presided over the grassland, led by a curly horned billy who stared at them with evil slit eyes, announcing his ownership of grass and flock.

  “Good milk, sir.”

  Neither lady nor Mr Baker were in the habit of drinking goat’s milk. The gardener was much in favour – it left more for him and his family.

  Inspection disclosed a small rowing dinghy with a pair of oars forlorn in the middle of the boathouse.

  “Might be you would want to buy a yacht, Miss Primrose.”

  “I think that decision might be left to Richard, sir. I do not know if he is still of a nautical mind.”

  They looked out over the little harbour, one small coaster all that was present.

  “The fishing boats will be out, I must imagine, Mr Baker.”

  “Don’t think there are many, Miss Primrose. From what the lawyer told me, they are distant from the best grounds. Might have a few local crabbers, not much else. The ship will carry grain, I would think, though not much at this time of year. Fertiliser perhaps, though most of the potash is going to munitions these days. House coal in bags, perhaps. Timber for building. Always a call for cement, I suppose. I do not know much of the local trade, Miss Primrose.”

  It was considerably more than she did.

  Mr Baker suddenly stood square, pulling himself up straight to perform an unpleasant duty. Primrose wondered what he had done, what he was to confess.

  “I do ‘ave to say, Miss Primrose, as what I ‘as gone further than what I said.”

  She noticed that his carefully learnt English crumbled under stress.

  “What have you done that is so very awful, sir?”

  She smiled her best, to his delight.

  “Knew it wouldn’t be so bad, Miss Primrose. Thing is, the house comes with a farm, the two sold together and the seller not willing to split them up – you takes the one, you gets the t’other, you might say. His lawyer says as how it’s because there ain’t no farmhouse for a freeholder to live in. Ends up, Miss Primrose, as how there’s the better part of five hundred acres besides!”

  “That is a lot of land, sir.”

  “Well… It is and it ain’t, you might say. It ain’t big enough to make a man a good living and it’s too big to be a smallholding, and nowhere to sell eggs and vegetables and stuff anyhow. So, it ain’t neither one thing nor another. That was why, I think, they had trouble selling the place so that it came to me as a bit of a windfall which was why I bought bigger than I was going to for costing much the same.”

  She considered that last sentence at some length, decided it made sense.

  “So, we have five hundred acres of wheat fields, Mr Baker.”

  “No, Miss Primrose, not as such, for most of it not being land as will go down to wheat. Pasturelands, the bulk of it, down along the side of the sea and the creek. From what the lawyer said, no more than fifty acres of grainland, and that mostly better for barley in these parts, for going down to the brewery at Fakenham what buys it.”

  Primrose summoned her slight knowledge of agriculture.

  “Cattle or sheep, sir?”

  “Beef cattle, was what the man told me.”

  She suspected that neither she nor Richard would be in the way of herding cattle.

  “I expect there will be a local man will pay a rent for use of the acres, Mr Baker. If not, well we can keep a horse or two and perhaps a little dairy herd. Are there cottages to the rear?”

  “Six of them, little places, Miss Primrose. The
Belgians has got three of them just now. Staff quarters up in the attics as well. Plenty of space for a groom and a cowman, if you wanted such.”

  Neither considered the cost of running the land for pleasure – it would be insignificant, they were sure.

  They came away satisfied, assuring the Belgians that they would take up residence as soon as the war permitted a wedding.

  “Colonel Baker will come home for a few months at some time, I do not doubt, Bouchard. He will be needed to train another battalion, or something, no doubt. When he does, we shall be wed and I will come here to live.”

  They hoped it might be so, and soon.

  Chapter Seven

  “I wish to ask for your daughter’s hand, sir.”

  Simon had sought an interview with the elder Parrett soon after arriving at the mansion. His request had been expected and was most welcome.

  “I had hoped you might, Captain Sturton. I have no doubt that Alice will delight in your proposal. So do I. You will be a most welcome member of the family. I have an idea of your financial standing, naturally, having some slight acquaintance with the City. Form demands that I must ascertain that you can support my daughter.”

  They laughed together.

  Simon dropped into the little speech he had prepared.

  “I am heir to the Perceval viscountcy, as you know, sir. I am also sole legatee. My uncle assures me that all of his money will come to me. As an exact sum? I do not know. I suspect we are talking in excess of the million. There will be almost no land – a house in Kent with a few acres of park and perhaps a small farm, sufficient for ponies. We have broken the entail and are in process of selling almost all of the farms. The old house down in Dorset – which I have never seen – has already been taken up by the War Office.”

  Parrett nodded gravely.

  “Very sensible, Captain Sturton… Come now, I believe I can call you Simon, can I not?”

  “With pleasure, sir. There are still those who believe in the Land, my uncle tells me. I am sure they are wrong. Farming in England will never pay for itself.”