Road to War

by Valerie Wilding

  For Frederick John Harris,

  my Uncle Fred

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter 1. December 1916

  Chapter 2. January 1917

  Chapter 3. February 1917

  Chapter 4. March 1917

  Chapter 5. April 1917

  Chapter 6. May 1917

  Chapter 7. June 1917

  Chapter 8. July 1917

  Chapter 9. August 1917

  Chapter 10. September 1917

  Chapter 11. October 1917

  Chapter 12. November 1917

  Chapter 13. December 1917

  Historical note

  Timeline

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  1916 Christmas Day

  I’m getting fearfully slack. When war broke out, I vowed to keep a diary, so that one day I could tell my children what it was like. And when my mother asked me, just last month, how it was going, all I could say was, “Not very well, Mimi. In fact, it’s not going at all. I’ll start it tomorrow, most definitely I will.”

  “Daffy, darling,” she said, “if you don’t want to do it, don’t do it.”

  That’s my mother all over. But I do want to do it and, lo and behold, I’ve begun (even though a month has gone by since I said I’d start the next day). One of my Christmas presents was this beautiful book. I love the pale pink silk cover and the creamy pages, and today seems the perfect day for starting something new. However, I can’t think what else to write, so, as it’s a lovely crisp afternoon, I’ll go for a ride on Honeycomb. I have a Christmas present for her – a thick rug to keep her warm.

  28th December

  Gosh, so much has happened. The very very very worst thing is that Papa has been badly injured and is in hospital in France. Mimi is going wild with worry.

  “If only Charles had stayed in London,” she moaned to my Aunt Leonora, who’s here for Christmas and New Year. “Why did he go to war? He was working for the government. He didn’t need to go to France. Why? Your Cecil has stayed.”

  Aunt Leonora said firmly, “My husband has a bad chest. You’re his sister, so you know that very well. Anyway, he’s doing important work here. I know I’m lucky that he comes home to me every night, but you must remember that Charles felt he needed to go to war.”

  “Aunt Leonora’s right, Mimi,” I said. “Papa’s frightfully patriotic.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “He’s fighting for England.”

  I didn’t argue, but I think she means he’s fighting for France, because when all’s said and done, that’s where the Germans are doing their worst. At least I think it is. It’s very confusing. I can’t really tell whether they’re in Belgium or France, to be honest. They have this imaginary line they call the “front” and that’s where a lot of the fighting is. Either way, the Germans shouldn’t be in either France or Belgium.

  Gosh, I hope they don’t invade us! A battle at a place called Verdun, in France, ended only a week or so ago, and it had been going on since February! Imagine if that was happening here, in our peaceful corner of England. We’ve been lucky, so far, but I know there have been bombs dropped from aeroplanes on to London. And, of course, those hideous airships, the Zeppelins, have managed to bomb and kill nearly 300 people this year.

  It seems a very dangerous sort of war. All the ones I’ve read of in history books have been about men on horseback making charges, and having skirmishes and what not. In those you only got killed if you were face to face with the enemy. But in this war, they fire shells and use machine guns and drop bombs from the air, and it’s all just awful. The word “shell” didn’t sound too dreadful to me at first, so I looked it up, and it turns out to be a metal container with explosives inside. I suppose that when it lands, it explodes. Horrible. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of men have been killed in the last two years of war, Papa told us in his last letter. Horses, too, which I cannot bear to think about.

  But let us hope that our new Prime Minister, Mr David Lloyd George, can do what Mr Asquith couldn’t: bring us safely through this war, to victory.

  I’ll pray especially hard for Papa tonight. Aunt Leonora says there are terrific nurses out there in France and Belgium. I hope they look after him.

  I’m letting my darling dog, Billie, sleep on my bed tonight. He’s such a comfort when I’m anxious, and I’m sad he’s growing old. I don’t know why everybody doesn’t have an Airedale. He’s the nicest, most polite dog, and so handsome.

  31st December

  On the way to church, I decided that all my prayers would be for Papa. The weather’s atrocious at the front. Men suffer the worst conditions imaginable in their trenches, everyone says. They’re constantly standing in icy water and thick mud. I’m frightened for Papa, but I’m also scared that when he comes home, his ship might be sunk by an evil German U-boat, gliding through the sea beneath them.

  Before we went in, the vicar sought me out and said I needn’t sing in the choir today if I didn’t want to, in view of my worries.

  “I can’t let them down,” I said. “I shall sing.”

  “But Miss Rowntree,” he said, “we’ll manage perfectly well. You shouldn’t take on too much.”

  “I insist,” I said, and took my place. Behind me, I heard him heave a heavy sigh. I know why. It’s my voice. Even I am aware it’s pretty awful – much too loud – but I do love to sing.

  I prayed so hard for Papa during silent prayer that I didn’t notice when the rest of the choir stood. You’d think someone might have nudged me!

  I love being in the choir. The other members are mainly from the village, and tend to stick together, but I don’t mind being the odd one out. Truly I don’t. I just love to sing out with all my heart!

  2nd January 1917

  We have had the worst news possible. My darling Papa has died.

  3rd January

  There’s so much to do, and we are all too upset to cope. Thank goodness Aunt Leonora’s here. Uncle Cecil’s coming down at the weekend to help with the arrangements.

  My young brother and sister are being looked after so tenderly by Miss Rowan, their governess. May says she will embroider a new handkerchief for Mimi, because all hers are being used up. Freddie says he will look after us all until Archie comes home.

  Archie! My poor brother. He spent New Year with a school friend’s family in the West Country, where the dreadful news was broken to him. He’s on his way home today. He’s due to leave school altogether very soon. Perhaps he won’t return there. Perhaps he’ll stay here and be the man of the house and help look after everything.

  4th January

  Archie was late home last night and was very late to breakfast this morning. Fortunately, Mrs Rose, our cook, expected him to be tired and kept everything hot for him. He didn’t eat much, though.

  After he’d gone upstairs to supervise Elsie unpacking his luggage, Mimi cried herself into a puddle. “I just don’t know how I’m going to look after everything,” she sobbed.

  Our estate isn’t huge compared to some others – just the gardens, the parkland and lakes, the woods, two farms and some cottages, and a couple of larger houses – but there is still much to do, and Papa knew about it all.

  “When Papa went to France, he said you should leave everything to the staff,” I reminded Mimi. “They know what they’re doing.”

  Even so, there are always decisions to be made, and normally Mimi would write to Papa for advice. She’s a bit like me about decisions – I can’t even decide what to have for breakfast.

  Oh dear.

  When Archie reappeared, he found me staring out of the window, twiddling the curtain.

  “Are you all right, Daffers, old thing?” he asked quietly.

 
; “Not really,” I said, and told him about Mimi’s concerns over the estate.

  “When I’ve finished my education, I shall look after the estate,” he said firmly. “In the meantime, I suppose we can always get someone to manage it for us. I’ll talk to Uncle Cecil at the weekend.”

  Why didn’t I think of that?

  7th January

  Papa’s body has been returned to us. The funeral is arranged for Monday. I don’t think I can bear it.

  9th January

  Today we buried my Papa. It was awful. May sobbed so hard that my throat went lumpy, and I thought I might start weeping. But I was determined not to. Mimi was strong. At least, she looked strong – yet frail at the same time. Afterwards, Freddie was so sweet and played the big (well, quite big) brother perfectly, for once. “Come on, May,” he said. “Buck up. I’ve seen an otter in the lake. Let’s go and find it.”

  May shuddered. “Ugh.” She hates nature. He took her off to play in the nursery instead.

  When I went to my room to dress for dinner I did, at last, have a little cry. And so, I swear, did Elsie. I’m lucky to have such a sweet maid. Mimi’s is a tyrant.

  12th January

  This morning, Mimi asked to see me after breakfast. I went to her room just as her tray was being removed. She’d eaten very little. I felt guilty for stuffing down sausages and ham (decisions again!) but this is the first day since we heard of Papa’s death that I’ve felt like eating at all. An early morning ride certainly wakens the appetite.

  “Daffy, darling,” she said. “Archie’s going back to school to sit his last exams, so I’ll need your help until Cecil finds me an estate manager. I know your father said the staff can manage, but they’re bound to ask me things, and I’m sure I shan’t know the answers.”

  “You will, Mimi,” I told her. “You probably don’t realize how much you do know about the estate. After all, you listened to Papa over the breakfast table for all those years. You must admit,” I said, daringly, “he did go on…”

  She laughed! “On and on! You’re absolutely right, Daffy.” Her forehead wrinkled. “But you will help me, won’t you?”

  Of course I promised. But when it comes to the estate and the farms and everything, I honestly don’t have a clue. I always have a book on my lap at breakfast.

  I hate myself a little bit tonight, because for a while today I felt angry at Papa for leaving us like this.

  What sort of a horrible person am I?

  20th January

  We’re all still so unhappy. Whenever we meet on the stairs or in the corridors, we look at each other and the tears start to leak out again. But today, when it happened, we actually laughed at ourselves.

  Unhappy we may be, but the pain eases a tiny bit each day. Some nice people call on Mimi every couple of days. I am so pleased. Like me, she doesn’t have many friends. With her, it’s mainly because she works at her painting for such long hours. With me, I honestly think it’s because people’s mothers don’t really approve of me. I once overheard Elizabeth Baguley’s mother saying, “Daphne is such a tomboy. She’s always spent so much time racing around with Archibald and his friends, so I suppose it’s hardly surprising. She can never just ride anywhere – she has to gallop. And whoever heard of a girl of her age climbing trees?”

  Well, I don’t care. Archie will be home for good at the end of term! Mimi wants him back as soon as he’s finished his exams. His school’s too close to the south coast for her liking. She says she can’t sleep at night for fear a German bomb might burst through the school roof into Archie’s little study. She wants him back here where, thank goodness, the war scarcely touches us. Oh, I cannot wait! Even when he goes up to university, he won’t be far from home at all! Though I’m a little older than him, I love his company.

  21st January

  I returned from a ride on Honeycomb this morning to find our housekeeper, Mrs Hallibert, hopping about in a lather, and Freddie being taken upstairs by Miss Rowan, roaring his head off that he hadn’t done it, whatever it was.

  He was in trouble for doing something naughty with a pair of scissors and a tray cloth.

  Mrs Hallibert, who is very forward sometimes, stood, hands on hips, watching them go upstairs. “You should keep a closer eye on those children, Miss Rowan,” she said.

  I whipped my boots off before she saw how muddy they were. When she turned her face was like thunder. “And who’s going to keep a sharp eye on you now your father’s gone, Miss Daphne, eh?”

  I couldn’t believe she’d spoken to me like that. I raced upstairs and burst into tears. I know she’s known me all my life, but she should stick to housekeeping, should Mrs Hallibert. She has a point, though. I’m almost certain to have a little more freedom now. Poor dear Papa never liked me gallivanting off on my own, or with Archie and his friends.

  Mimi will soon return to her painting, and it’s clear the servants have enough to do running the house and keeping tabs on Freddie and May. They won’t even notice me. Apart from Mrs Hallibert, who misses nothing, most people don’t notice me. At least, they seem not to.

  22nd January

  Oh dear, our first major problem. One of the stable lads, Troggs, has left us. Although he’s of the age when he should go and fight for our country, he can’t, because he’s almost blind in one eye and has a missing big toe.

  Hawkins, who looks after the horses and our awkward goat, Gulliver, brought him to us.

  “Perhaps you can change his mind, Madam,” he said to Mimi. “He says he’s going to work in one of they factories where they make ammunition. Dangerous work, I call it.” He glared at Troggs. “Especially with only one good eye.”

  I don’t think Mimi has ever laid eyes on Troggs. The nearest she goes to a horse is when she takes our pony and trap into town. She had a fall when she was young and hurt her right hand so badly that it’s never been the same since. That’s why she doesn’t play the piano, or embroider or anything. But it turned out to be a blessing, because while it was healing, she tried writing and drawing with her left hand. Her writing was a mess, but as she worked more and more at her art, she discovered she has an amazing talent.

  Some of our friends draw and paint, too, but their work is small, delicate and finely detailed. Mimi’s paintings are large and colourful, with big, bold brush strokes. People can’t understand why she works the way she does. “So unladylike,” Elizabeth Baguley’s mother said. But lots of people, especially Americans, want to buy her work. Papa used to take it all to a London gallery, where they sell it.

  Gosh, that’s something we’ll have to do ourselves now.

  Anyway, Troggs was not to be shifted. His family, it seems, has a history of soldiering and, while he cannot uphold that tradition, he can, he said, do something to help fight the Germans. Well, what he actually said was, “If they’m all brave enough to go fighting, Miss Daphne, then I ain’t gonna be shirkin’ me dooty.” Something like that.

  Mimi looked at me, shrugged and turned to Hawkins. “We must all be driven by our consciences.”

  He pressed his lips together, then said, “Well, I better be off and see to Gulliver, Madam. Goats won’t wait for us to sort out our consciences. Come on, Troggs.”

  Though I’m sure he didn’t mean to be impertinent, I’m quite sure Hawkins wouldn’t have spoken like that in front of Papa.

  1st February

  I had a glorious ride on Honeycomb early this morning. As I passed the village, I met Elizabeth Baguley and her cousin, Reggie. They were riding out from Elizabeth’s home, Great Oaks. Reggie’s practically always there. His family live in London, but he loves to hunt and shoot and everything, so he often visits. Elizabeth has a pretty new bay mare. She’s called Foxglove and has the gentlest temperament, just like her mistress! I always feel distinctly gawky next to Elizabeth. I know her mother thinks so, too. Probably another reason why I’m not invited to Great Oaks as often as I might be.

  We rode together for a while and talked about Papa. They were both mo
st kind. Then Reggie talked about the war, and how so many of his friends have either become cavalrymen or are planning to. How wonderful they must look in their uniforms, with shining spurs and swords flashing in the sun! Do they use swords these days, I wonder? Perhaps they just have guns. That’s certainly not as romantic. I’m quite sure Reggie would be at war himself if he did not limp. He has one leg considerably shorter than the other.

  We rode and talked for so long that breakfast had been cleared away by the time I reached home. I did what I always used to do as a child and visited the kitchen. I don’t know that I’m as welcome now as I was when I was young, but I was too hungry to care.

  “Here you are, Miss Daphne,” said Mrs Rose. “Fresh from the oven.” She handed me a hot bread roll, nestling in a white cloth, then set out a knife and dish of butter. Mmmm!

  “Miss Daphne?”

  “Yes, Mrs Rose?”

  “Is your mother quite well?”

  “She was when I left her after dinner last evening,” I said. “We played a hand or two of cards and then retired for the night. Why?”

  Mrs Rose busied herself with flour, eggs and sugar. “Oh, nothing, Miss. I just wanted to be sure she’s all right. You know, with the master gone and everything.”

  How sweet.

  2nd February

  Just as I feel I’m coping with the loss of my darling Papa, somebody mentions him unexpectedly, or I look at his empty chair. It’s as if someone has slammed a fist into my heart.

  3rd February

  The day got off to a rotten start. Honeycomb cast a shoe after less than a mile this morning, so I felt obliged to walk her back. Hawkins took care of her, but I was cross because I wanted some new gloves from the haberdasher’s. I’m going to tea at Great Oaks tomorrow, and Elizabeth always looks so perfectly turned out.

  I thought I’d have to wait for the pony and trap to be made ready, but Hawkins had a clever idea. “Why not take your bicycle out, Miss Daphne?” he suggested. “Lots of people have taken to bicycling since the war began.”