Easterleigh Hall

by Margaret Graham

  He was stabbing the air now, aiming at Auberon’s face. His father would make a good killer. Oh yes, indeed he would. Again he thought of the balcony.

  ‘There will be no shooting, hunting, or the season. I will return here more often.’ His father left the window and approached. Auberon felt the fear overwhelm him. More often? How often? Closer and closer his father drew until he was against him, his breath full on Auberon’s face. It was then that his father smelt the brandy.

  The fists came again, faster and faster but on his ribs because there was less to be seen, and this evening there was a dinner party. That was what he thought of as he tasted his tears. It was then his father stopped, triumphant. ‘You are a coward and an appalling failure.’

  Auberon was dismissed. He found the door somehow, and looked to left and right to check there were no servants about, but they never were, they knew their place and he must know his. He made himself climb the stairs to his room, the pain catching him with every step, and he knew he must make a success at the mine. What the hell would happen if he didn’t? He pushed the fear from him and instead drew in France, drew in the Somme. Were there kingfishers? He would take a boat. He would fish. Nearly at the top of the stairs now, thank God.

  Mrs Moore struggled to her sitting room once the dinner had been cleared and the pots, pans, utensils and plates were being washed. It was midnight and the visiting chauffeurs had gone, the servants’ hall the poorer without their uniforms and boots. The footmen and housemaids were washing the glasses and silver in the butler’s pantry but were also still on duty, should hot chocolate be required by the family.

  Evie wiped down the table for perhaps the final time that day and slipped out into the night for a last long breath of air, knowing that her cooking had helped to create a success and she had many more tips for her recipe book. She felt proud and satisfied as she tugged her shawl over her head against the chill and held it close around her neck, gazing up at the stars. Would Jack and Timmie be sleeping, or were they struggling in from their shift? Was Simon sleeping, or standing somewhere, stargazing too? There were owls hooting and from the stable yards came the huffing of the horses, and the clip as they moved from hoof to hoof.

  She walked quietly across the cobbles heading for Tinker, Lady Veronica’s old pony. Evie had taken a carrot from the pantry for her. As she entered the yard she saw a stable lad standing beneath the oil lamp that hung on an upright near her stable. What’s more, for God’s sake, he was smoking. She called, ‘What d’you think you’re doing, man? Put out that cigarette or you’ll have the place in flames. Think of the horses. You’ll be dismissed, you fool.’ She was running across, slipping on the cobbles, turning her ankle more than once. ‘Put it out.’

  As she ran, Lady Veronica’s two dachshunds started skittering across to her as they rounded the corner from the drive, yapping and snarling. Good grief, it was turning into a riot. She slowed, trying to hush the dogs, who continued to rush about like creatures possessed. The lad was ignoring her so she snatched the cigarette from his hand as she reached him, stamping on it. ‘You’ll be dismissed, why don’t you listen? Lady Veronica will be here in a minute after the damn dogs.’

  Tinker was neighing now and jerking her head as she looked out of her stall. The lad stumbled out of the pool of light as he turned, swearing, treading on one of the dachshunds. It yelped, and both dogs ran back towards the front of the house, then one returned. Oh God, the last thing they needed was Lady Veronica swanning round the corner. Evie managed to catch the lad, holding his arm, keeping him from falling. In the gloom she couldn’t see who it was.

  ‘You smell of booze, get to bed and pull yourself together, you stupid beggar. You’ll not be up in time to sweep the damned yard for this lot of idle layabouts, and think of the horses. What if they’d gone up in flames? Come on, hurry up. Her Ladyship will be here, hot on the trail of the sausages.’ She was tired, it was cold. She needed her bed. The dog was jumping up at her.

  He wrenched himself free, and for a moment it looked as though he would strike her. Evie stepped away but then he dropped his arm, saying, ‘How dare you speak to me like that, or at all? How bloody dare you?’ Evie froze. This was no stable lad, it was Brampton’s whelp. The second dog came rushing round the corner, yapping, and now both were running in circles around Evie and Mr Auberon. Lady Veronica was calling, almost hissing really, ‘Currant, Raisin, come here. Aub, where on earth are you? Come in and don’t make it any worse.’

  Mr Auberon said, ‘Il faut parler français, nous avons des serviteurs ici.’

  Did he really think Evie wouldn’t understand that he was warning his sister to speak in French in front of the servants? Thank God for Miss Manton. Evie turned, modifying her voice, hoping it was unrecognisable, hoping he was too drunk to remember the sight of her. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ She should say that, she thought. Perhaps she should also explain that she had thought he was just a stable lad, but she was damned if she would. No one was ‘just’ anything.

  ‘Aub, come on,’ Veronica hissed. ‘Vite.’

  As he turned to leave she saw his face, at last, in the lamplight, his poor battered face. She watched as he managed to pull himself upright, ease back his shoulders and call Currant and Raisin softly to him. ‘Come on lads.’ He left without a backward glance. They had been told that Mr Auberon had been unwell and unable to attend the dinner, so his place setting was to be removed. Mr Harvey had been unamused. ‘Too much brandy, no doubt,’ he had muttered. ‘Now we have to measure up the place settings again.’

  ‘Too much something, but it wasn’t brandy,’ Evie muttered to herself as she turned away, because she had seen the result of Jack’s fist fights too often not to recognise the result of blows. She had heard the gossip and here it was, confirmed. She shuddered that a father could do that to a son as she made her way back to the kitchen, where the light and warmth comforted her. Millie came out of the scullery with the broom, almost dropping with tiredness. ‘Is it good enough?’ Millie’s anxiety was palpable as she pointed to the floor. Annie and Sarah were just behind her, pale as ghosts.

  Evie took the broom from her. ‘It’s good enough, and that’s all that’s required. You’ve done well.’ There was too much fear about the place tonight. ‘I’ll swab the floor, you put out a pan in case hot chocolate is required, and then you can change into your ball clothes without the aid of a fairy godmother and fly on up to bed.’ Millie laughed.

  Evie let them all go to bed and she reached hers by two in the morning almost insensible with tiredness, but in spite of that she merely dozed: would tomorrow bring her dismissal? And how was that poor young lad?

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT MORNING breakfast came and went with no summons from Mrs Green, or Mr Harvey. Mrs Moore shouted at her as she burned the kidneys, and took her into the ice room, asking what the devil had got into her. ‘Devilled kidneys they wanted,’ she continued. ‘Not Auld Maud lookalikes, you silly lass.’

  Evie told her. Mrs Moore flushed. ‘We’ll know by luncheon. In the meantime work and say nothing. And concentrate. Always concentrate, it will get you through most things, pet.’

  The morning dragged. She collected herbs from the gardeners’ store but it was Sidney, not Simon, who was there, checking the baskets of flowers, and Evie could have stamped. She hurried back towards the kitchen. As she crossed the yard towards the steps down to the basement Roger, the valet, emerged from the bell corridor and mounted the steps. He pressed himself to one side as she passed, but reached out, holding her back, his hand on her arm. She dropped some rosemary and it fell on to the lower steps. She pulled away, stooping to gather it, and he stooped with her, his head too close, his hands brushing hers as she scrabbled for the herb.

  ‘Let me,’ he said. She shook her head. ‘It’s my job. Please don’t.’ Her voice was sharp. He laughed, his breath, peppermint-flavoured, in her face.

  ‘Life isn’t just work, you know, Evie. It is Evie, isn’t it? Perhaps we could have
a little chat soon, get to know one another better?’

  Evie gathered up the last of the rosemary and rose quickly, so quickly that he staggered. Let’s not, she wanted to say. But she remembered to be careful; after last night, would she ever forget? Last night: had Mrs Moore heard anything? ‘I must go,’ she said, rushing down the remaining steps and into the kitchen.

  Mrs Moore shook her head, mouthing, ‘You’d have heard by now, so stop worrying.’ But it was only when an earlier than usual luncheon of mock turtle soup, removed by dressed salmon and dressed cucumber, removed by rump of beef à la jardinière, removed by jelly in glasses and damson tart was served that she could relax, and she felt as though she would never worry about anything again because nothing could be as bad as those last hours.

  Evie baked scones and fancies watching the clock on and off, for her free afternoon began at three. ‘Do extra and take them to your family. Sea-coaling is hungry work,’ Mrs Moore murmured before she went to rest. ‘No need to mention it to the others.’ She winked as she took a cup of tea and left the kitchen. She reappeared to check that Millie had cleared the table in the servants’ hall, and looked in on the scullery maids who were clattering the pots and pans. ‘I’ll unlatch the pantry window if you’re late back, but remember the creaking stair,’ she whispered to Evie as she limped out again.

  She must hurry. She had sieved the flour and now rubbed in the butter, watching Mrs Green through the windows as she busied herself checking that her housemaids had completed their tidying of the sitting rooms while the Bramptons took luncheon. It was Mrs Green who should be making these fancies for the upstairs afternoon tea, but Mrs Moore had taken over the task when originally faced with the sad little lumps which masqueraded as scones and fancies under the housekeeper’s heavy hands. The task had been passed over to Evie, pretty smartly, when she arrived. No mention must be made to Mr Harvey though, Mrs Moore had said, with a finger to her lips.

  At last everything was baked and cooled, and as she changed into her home clothes the relief of not being dismissed made her feel as though she weighed a mere few stones and to crown it all, Simon had said he’d be waiting from three. Stopping only to pick up the bag of hessian aprons, cakes and scones she ran down the back track, but only for the first hundred yards, at which point the breath was jagged in her chest and her legs felt as heavy as Mrs Green’s fancies. Instead she walked as briskly as she could, with the clouds racing across the sky and the wind strong enough to throw up huge waves at Fordington. The sea coal would be grand.

  To her right, in between the silver birches, she could see the lawns stretch for what seemed like miles, and in the centre the cedar tree stood majestically. Further over, beyond the sweeping drive, the arboretum was threatening to burst into leaf. Did Simon prune those trees? Or did he put leather shoes on the horse, hitch up the mower and take care of the lawns? Or maybe both jobs, maybe neither? She realised that she knew so little of the lad she was sure she loved.

  There was the bothy over to the right of the gates, thatch-roofed and almost hidden by rhododendrons and there, too, was Simon, holding the handlebars of her bike and his own. He walked out from the trees, looking from left to right, for bicycles were not approved of for the female staff. Presumably they were to walk everywhere, unless they caught a lift on a cart.

  She ran again, snatching off her felt hat and waving it. ‘I’m free,’ she laughed. ‘Free!’

  His face was alight with mirth. ‘Then let’s get going. Did you bring your apron? You’ll need it.’

  ‘Two.’

  He pushed her bike towards her. ‘That’s my girl. Saddle up.’ For a moment she was reminded of the stable yard last night, but the sun broke through the clouds and Simon pedalled away, down the road leading to Easton, leading home. My girl, he had called her, my girl. She adjusted her hat, took to the saddle and followed him, relishing the sense of freedom that speed brought. ‘Wait for me,’ she called, pedalling hard, head down. As she did so she decided to say nothing of last night and Mr Auberon. She had been a fool. She would learn by it, and the fewer people who knew about it the better.

  Half an hour later they sped through Easton and on to the road leading to Fordington. It was easy going over the tarmac surface and Simon called across to Evie as they puffed up the hill together, ‘Economies, eh? But new smooth roads for the Rolls-Royce, eh?’

  Once up the hill the tarmac road turned off for Gosforn and in due course to Durham, but Evie and Simon continued towards the sea along the rutted track, settling into a steady but jolting pace with hedges and verges either side. They talked of their jobs, of the Brampton family, and Simon told her that the talk was that the whelp Auberon was going to be taking over some position at Auld Maud as a punishment for his debts, boozing, and being chucked out of Oxford University. ‘That comes courtesy of Roger the Dodger. When we know for sure we should let Jack know, or perhaps we should do that today?’ Simon said. ‘By the way, lass, has Roger made a play for you?’

  Evie shrugged. ‘He just offered to help. I was in a rush and ignored him.’

  ‘Keep it like that.’ He looked angry for a moment. ‘He’s just trouble, as that daft lass Charlotte found out. She’s not the first by a long shot, so they say.’

  Evie was unconcerned because she could handle any man, having grown up with a brother like Jack who’d shown her how to fight. But she had something she needed to ask after last night. ‘What’s Bastard Brampton really like?’ They pedalled over a bridge, the stream high because there had been a great deal of rain during the week. There were sheep up on the hills. Over to the south there were the workings of Sidon Colliery and to the north, Hawton Pit. Slag heaps were dotted like smoking sulphuric tussocks as far as the eye could see. Her father said that the Empire was built on coal, and one day she’d like to make sure the bloody Empire knew it was her family’s backs that had hoisted out that coal. She realised that Simon hadn’t answered her. She looked at him, at the length of his eyelashes, the set of his jaw.

  He looked at her now. ‘He lives up to his name, let’s just say that, handy with his fists and not the person to have as a father. He’s black as coal right through to the other side. Heard it said by Miss Wainton that his first wife was different, fair, good to her staff. His money came from his father, who rolled up his sleeves and set up the steelworks and then the brickworks. It was this Brampton who bought up the two collieries on top of all that, so I suppose he wants to prove himself by milking them for all their worth. Money is his god. The present lady of the manor has the same focus, so Miss Wainton said. Money and power.’

  Ahead there were some cattle on the road, being herded by a farmer with two sheepdogs and a whippet that was off doing its own thing. They stopped and hauled their bikes on to the verge as he drove the cattle past with calls of ‘Hoy-ah’. The beasts’ coats steamed and they seemed to veer towards them, and then away, nodding and huffing at Simon as though in approval. Evie grinned, snatching a look at Simon, only to find him smiling at her. ‘They like you,’ he called above the noise. They waited until the dogs, the farmer and his charges had passed along, and then set off again, but Simon hadn’t finished.

  ‘Bastard Brampton’s getting a bit of a smile growing on his chops these days, Roger the Dodger says, because them Germans are building all these ships, which means we are too, and who’ll be providing the steel? Could it be Brampton’s got his head in the trough? Aye, he most certainly has, so he’ll get richer, and you just wait and see, we’ll get poorer. Not a nice bugger to be working our fingers to the bone for.’

  Evie nodded, swerving to avoid a huge hole. ‘I thought you liked the gardening?’

  The sun was shining now. It was only another few hundred yards to the beach and they’d be in time to help bring up the coal. Simon said, ‘Aye, I do but I miss being part of a marra group, having someone watching my back. I’m an outsider. You’ll see when we get there; I’ll be welcome but not part of them, not in the gang. They went one way, I went the other,
our Evie.’

  Evie understood, because it was true. She said, ‘You can be in my gang, lad.’

  He laughed, throwing his head back so far he nearly lost his cap. ‘I intend to be, bonny lass.’ As they entered the beach, her heart soared as high as the gulls which were tumbling and rising in the chaotic wind.

  They left their bikes propped up on the dunes where others had tumbled theirs and traipsed along to the north, looking for the Forbes and Preston cart. The wind was so brisk that she snatched her hat off and rammed it into the pocket of the tweed coat Miss Manton had passed on to her last winter. Simon did the same with his cap. They searched until they saw them, down near the surf, and ran, Simon leading then stopping, waiting for her to catch up. ‘By, you need to get a bit of steam up, lass.’

  ‘Steam up yourself,’ she said, pushing him so that he lost his balance as she took off again towards the sea. ‘I’ll beat you,’ she called, running as though her life depended on it, but she heard him panting, heard him in pursuit, as she slipped and stumbled through the dark coal-soiled sand, until he was abreast of her. Her father was looking at them as he emptied a sack of wet coal into the back of the cart, and laughing. They arrived together, though Simon could easily have sprinted yards ahead.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Da,’ she called as he jumped down from the cart, threw down the sack and held out his arms. She ran into them, smelling coal, smelling home. ‘Aye pet, me too. Your mam’s over by Miss Manton,’ he said into her hair. ‘And where’s your hat, there’s a bite in the air.’

  She pulled away. ‘Miss Manton?’

  Her father grinned and raised his eyebrows. ‘Aye, that brother of hers thinks that we’re heathens who need to be gathered up and lugged off to church, or something like that. Perhaps he needs to talk to Brampton about our woes, because he thinks he’s God, wouldn’t you say? Your mam’s been waiting for you, get yourself over there.’ Her da held out his hand to Simon. ‘You giving us a hand here, lad? Your da will be pleased to see you, but that’s not to say we’re not.’