Easterleigh Hall

by Margaret Graham

  Chapter Eighteen

  ON SUNDAY 1ST August 1914, the start of the bank holiday, Jack and Martin had crawled up the eastern slope of the Stunted Tree, their red armbands appearing more like brown after they had scuffled along the ground. They rested in the lee of a scattering of gorse bushes which grew two-thirds of the way up. Jack had insisted his team traverse the ground full-length and on their elbows until they reached the highest of the bushes. ‘Take a breather now, lads,’ he whispered. They rested easy in the narrow strip of shade which gave some relief from the baking summer sun, relishing the sips they took from their canteens. Jack wiped his mouth and grinned across at Martin. ‘Beats sweating at the coalface, eh lad?’

  ‘Aye, let’s just sweat on a hillside instead, up to our arms in sheep shit.’ There was low laughter. Jack joined in. Over on the left was Lieutenant Brampton, whose platoon had been designated the red team and who was easing out around the gorse. If he wasn’t careful Lieutenant Swansdale’s green platoon defending the crest would let go a load of blanks and they’d have lost the exercise and the free beer, the daft bugger. Jack checked his rifle. He liked the stock of this one, it fitted his shoulder just fine. He turned and held it to his shoulder, getting Brampton in his sight. Bang. He could almost hear the non-existent shot rifling out of the barrel and into that self-satisfied skull. Now, that would be an August Bank Holiday to remember. ‘Steady, lad,’ Martin murmured.

  Jack shook his head, lying back, staring up at the sky through half-closed eyes. ‘When I get him no one will know, don’t you worry.’

  Colin, the lance corporal, crawled up and rolled on to his back next to him. ‘Sarge, I’ve just crawled through a load of sheep shit, I need a smoke and a pee, and I’m wet through with sweat. I might as well have stayed in the damned pit.’

  Jack held up his hand. ‘You’ll be back down there if I hear you above a whisper again, Col, and before you ask, no, you can’t stand to do a pee, and no you can’t have a Woodbine. Swansdale’ll have scouts out, or lookouts at least. You send up just a flicker of smoke and I’ll have you.’

  Simon was up with them now, bringing the periscope that Jack had devised the night they arrived on exercise. He’d just known the gorse would be good cover from which to observe.

  Brampton was crawling over, his face burned from the sun, but not as badly as the pitmen. They weren’t used to it.

  Jack eased up just a fraction, his uniform coarse round his neck, reaching for the periscope, raising it. He could hear Brampton panting as he nestled in next to him. ‘Any movement, Sergeant?’

  Jack slid the periscope over. ‘Check for yourself,’ he paused. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good idea of yours, Sergeant,’ Brampton whispered, raising the periscope.

  ‘Aye, my brother Timmie, you know, the one who was killed in your pit, made one of these when planning a battle with his lead soldiers.’

  Lieutenant Brampton lowered the periscope and the colour rose up his neck. There was an uneasy silence. Simon raised his eyebrows at Jack. Colin studied an ant climbing a blade of grass, Bernie whistled silently. Martin was signalling to those who had just reached them to stay down, stay quiet.

  Brampton whispered, ‘I caught the glint of binoculars. They’re on the alert. Not long now. Get the men ready please, Sergeant. I’m so sorry about Timmie. It was totally my fault.’ He was checking his hunter watch. The diversionary attack by a third of their platoon led by Corporal James Smith, the footman, would take place at two thirteen. It was Brampton’s idea to make it an odd time. It was Jack’s to create a diversion.

  Brampton crawled back to his group. Martin gripped Jack’s shoulder. ‘Might be time to give him a break, man. I’m sorry to say you make a good team and he’s made you up to Sergeant, he’s given your da a good kist. He’s just apologised.’

  ‘He killed Timmie.’

  ‘But not deliberately. He’s a lad, like us.’

  ‘Bugger off, Mart.’ Jack felt as cold as he had done since Timmie’s death and it was time something warmed him. He knew the only thing that could do that now was to see the whelp six foot under. ‘Keep your head down, Corporal,’ he grinned. He knew it didn’t meet his eyes. He glanced across at Brampton, who was snatching a look at his watch. They were all waiting, but there were worse places to do that. He turned on to his back again. On Friday his father had handed him The Times which was going on about how many treaties Germany had broken, how it had been pushing its military ambitions and how, if the government didn’t help France and Belgium, Britain would be guilty of the grossest treachery.

  He shielded his eyes from the worst of the glare and tried to make shapes out of the white clouds that ambled across the sky. But if there was to be fighting surely it would be in Ireland, where private Catholic and Protestant armies were already creating havoc? Would he go to war? He wouldn’t need to, they had armies for that. But by, it would give him a chance with Brampton and then he could clear his head and be back for Christmas, with everything sorted. Maybe he’d settle better with Millie, even get Evie into her hotel. The lass had waited and worked for so long and she was ready, really ready, and the solicitor had said they’d have first refusal on the guest house.

  Martin punched his shoulder. ‘Can you hear them?’

  Jack turned to his front, raised himself into a crawl. A third of the platoon under Ben’s boy, Steve, were letting rip with their blanks on the other side of the hill and he could almost see them charging as the shots rang out. Brampton was crouched as though he was on the starting line of a race, counting off the seconds with his hand. He and Jack had decided on thirty seconds for the lookouts on this side to be drawn across in support.

  ‘Remember, silence on the approach, silence until they see us. Pass it on,’ Jack hissed. He saw the men nod as they each received the reminder. Behind Brampton they were receiving the same order and he saw Roger nodding, his face a picture of misery, and now Jack’s grin did reach his eyes. On the exercise and drill Saturdays the valet was seconded as batman to Brampton and had to train too. It delighted the whole platoon. He barely knew his left foot from his right, and ‘About turns’ were a bloody disaster.

  Jack kept his eyes on Brampton and at the signal he surged forward, forcing his way through the gorse via the badger run he’d spied earlier, which made the going easier. He had ordered the men to find similar spots and do likewise and soon they were doubled up and powering up the hill, their rifles held across their chests. He could hear heavy breathing behind him. Martin was at his shoulder as he always was. To Jack’s left Brampton was keeping pace, and so were the men except for Roger, but no one considered him a man, so that didn’t count. He’d be rambling, staying out of danger, Jack knew he would.

  So far, they had not been spotted. There was just the distant sound of orders shouted and blanks fired towards Steve’s group to the east. It could work, it could bloody work. The blood was pumping, his weight was forward, they were cresting the hill and there was hand-to-hand fighting on the other side and a small group huddled together to the left with blue armbands, the designated injured. The referees stood in a small group to the rear of these, one of whom was Captain Williams of the North Tyne Fusiliers, back from his foray to Folkestone. The water butt, the holy grail, was in the centre with a guard of eight, who were oblivious to the red team’s approach.

  On the far side Swansdale turned, saw them, and rallied half his platoon before charging towards them. Jack flanked to the right, Brampton to the left as they had planned. Swansdale had to divide his charge but didn’t beef up the holy grail guard. ‘Cut ’em off, cut ’em off,’ Swansdale and his sergeant were yelling.

  Brampton screamed, ‘Corporal, take the left flank, I’ll take the right. We’ve got your flanks, Jack.’

  Jack snatched a look at Martin. ‘No stopping, come on Si, come on the rest of you.’ He hadn’t altered pace and now Brampton’s men charged into the melee, clashing with both flanks of the green team, who stalled momentarily, only to rally. Jack tore
ahead, closing in on the water butt, hearing his men behind him. By, it was like chasing down the parson all over again. There were just the two guards now, bringing down their rifles, aiming. Jack swerved, Simon tight behind him, Colin too. Bang. The referees called. ‘No. 14 down.’ It was Martin. Damn it, but Colin knew to take over, knew to run at a swerve.

  ‘On your left, Forbes. On your left.’ It was Brampton shouting a warning. Jack saw the raised rifle butt and swung his arm, deflecting the blow, then making contact with the man’s jaw; he sagged and dropped. The water butt wasn’t far now, but Swansdale’s men had broken through and were roaring towards Jack’s platoon. He shouted, ‘Si, take two men and secure the butt. The rest, with me. Colin too.’ He swung into the attack, charging the green team, clashing rifles, face to screaming face with Colin beside him, kicking out, head-butting. Brampton joined them, forcing back the opposition, creating a straight run through for Simon. Jack saw him reach the butt with James and Andy. The referees’ whistles blew but Swansdale’s team didn’t stop, fury etched on every face, and so no one stopped.

  Beside Jack, Brampton’s pistol was discarded in favour of a rifle that he snatched from one of the green platoon and with it he was fielding them back, just as Jack and the others were doing. The whistles blew again and this time Brampton seemed to come to himself and stopped, shouting, ‘Enough, men. Enough. We’ve won.’

  Swansdale’s sergeant had other ideas and crashed his rifle butt into Brampton’s face. Brampton sagged against Jack, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. Jack heard the whistles blowing frantically. Beside him Colin said, ‘Well, I’m not having that, man.’ He raised his rifle stock but Jack blocked him, and blocked the sergeant’s rifle which was crashing down towards Brampton for a second time. ‘Leave it to me,’ he yelled, dropping his rifle as Brampton sank to the ground, and jabbed at the sergeant’s ribs again and again, before taking his feet out from under him with a sideways kick. ‘That’ll teach you, you daft bugger.’

  The fighting ceased, and soon all the men were bending over, resting their hands on their knees, panting. After he had regained his breath Jack looked around and signalled Roger over to Brampton. Around him the red team were jubilant, slapping one another’s backs while Swansdale’s men, from Hawton Pit, sulked, gathering in groups. The referees stood together making notes on a clipboard. The sun was still hot, the breeze gentle.

  Roger was still on the periphery, examining his nails. Brampton was still on the ground, spitting out blood. He rolled over on to his side now and tried to scramble to his feet. He needed help. Jack turned away and it was Colin and Simon who hauled him up. Jack’s uniform was splattered with Brampton’s blood, and why the hell hadn’t he let the sergeant’s rifle fall on the little shit just once more?

  The referees were gesturing to them all to start back to camp. Martin pretended to limp back to Jack as they headed down the hill, digging in their heels to stop their momentum. ‘Just call me Lazarus,’ he said. Jack laughed. ‘Aye, I will, lad. So, what’s it like coming back from the dead?’

  ‘Not bad at all, especially when we’ve bully beef for tea. Can they come up with anything else, d’you reckon? Maybe some of your Evie’s chicken pie?’ Martin slung his arm round Jack’s shoulder, nodding towards Brampton who was walking back with Captain Williams. ‘Not you, was it, who mashed his face?’ His voice was low and serious.

  Colin broke away from his group and eased up beside Jack. ‘By, that was some lesson you taught the sarge. Teach him not to mess with one of us, even if it is the bastard.’

  Jack said, ‘But he’s our bastard.’ He was astonished at himself.

  ‘Well, I reckon you’re right there. He’s not all bad, is he, not like his bloody da.’ Colin slid on down the hill, racing with the other boys and men. Jack and Martin looked at one another, checked with Simon who was cutting across towards them. They all nodded and joined the race back to camp, which was set up half a mile from the Stunted Tree. Even that turned into a competition between the red and green teams, and Jack held his men back and let the greens win. But the greens still sulked, because it was a win that had been handed to them. When they went back to the pit after the bank holiday they’d have to face their marras, and failure was never a good move.

  Jack heard Brampton saying to Swansdale as they shook hands in front of the mess tent, ‘Not a good day for you, Thomas.’ His speech was clumsy but whose wouldn’t be, talking through lips as swollen as his.

  ‘Nor for you, Aub. I saw what happened and I’ll deal with Sergeant Harris,’ Swansdale was ripping off his green armband which he handed to Brampton, who did the same. Blood was still running from the cut on Brampton’s cheek, and from his nose which was surely broken. ‘No, it was the heat of battle, let it go, Tom. For God’s sake, who knows better than I that mistakes are made.’

  Captain Williams was over to the right of the tent. A messenger had come beating up on a grey, and handed the referees a note. Jack saw their faces, saw the note drop to the ground. Williams picked it up again and hurried to the Territorial officers in front of the tent, his face grim. Martin nudged Jack. ‘What’s amiss, man? Let’s get the beer down us unless they take it back because they haven’t paid the bill. I’ve a throat like the bottom of the canary’s cage.’

  Jack looked once more towards the officers, and then joined his platoon at their mess. They’d been promised beer, and they got it in tin mugs. It tasted wonderful. They stripped off their jackets and in shirtsleeves they lolled on the ground. Jack loved August, the fields of corn, the smell of heat-soaked grass, the long evenings, the longer shadows. It was the final fling of summer.

  They lit up Woodbines, and some had pipes. All the men, red and green, were here now, swapping bands and stories now that tempers had cooled. Winners and losers were friends again. ‘Amazing what a beer can do,’ Jack murmured to Martin.

  ‘Aye, that it is. Maybe it’s what that lot need?’ Martin nodded towards the officers who were listening to Captain Williams.

  ‘It’s not a welcome speech from the set of their faces,’ Martin said, picking some grass and throwing it up in the air to see the strength of the wind, which was a waste of time because you could feel it well enough, Jack thought.

  He said nothing, but he thought of the news of the past week and for a moment he wondered. But no. But what if . . . But how? On a day like this? And would it be Ireland or Europe? It would be neither.

  Simon said, as he stuffed tobacco into the pipe he had taken to smoking, ‘They’ll have made a mess-up somewhere. Probably because the whistles blew and we kept on doing what we were doing. Bet he’s calling us a rabble. That’s it. We’re a rabble, you lot.’

  They were laughing now, and Martin checked his watch. ‘I could kill for some food but it’s only three. Never thought I’d be longing for that damned bully-beef muck.’

  Jack was still watching Captain Williams. The officers, some of whom had acted as referees, saluted, stepped back and walked behind Williams as he strode towards the men. Jack stood. ‘Squad, attention,’ he shouted. The men scrambled to their feet, stubbing out their Woodbines, or holding their pipes by their sides.

  When he reached them, Williams’ subaltern used the whistle to cut through the remaining chatter. Williams said, ‘At ease, men.’

  They moved as one, standing with legs apart. Captain Williams raised his voice. ‘Our plans are altered. We are to dismantle the camp immediately and head for home. Why? The equipment is needed elsewhere as the military are in a precautionary state of emergency in view of the situation in Europe. Thank you for an excellent exercise. Quite excellent.’ He spun on his heel. The men stared after him. Jack shouted, ‘Dismiss.’

  The men faltered, looking from one to another. Several grabbed up their beer and downed it in one. All followed. Simon cursed. ‘So, it’s back to work for us.’

  Martin shook his head. ‘Just our bloody luck. We’ll be down Auld Maud come Monday, bank holiday or not, what’s the betting on it.’
r />   Brampton came to Jack. ‘Please call them to order, Sergeant.’

  Jack did so. Brampton said, ‘No, you’ll have your holiday. If there’s really to be a war, God knows when you’ll get another if they need us. We might not be back before Christmas. So, tomorrow you are with your families. You will be paid as though you were on your usual rate. Stand them down, Sergeant.’

  Jack did so and the questions began. ‘War?’ ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ ‘But we’ve an army for God’s sake, they won’t need us.’

  They dismantled the camp in near-silence and the day seemed darker to Jack. Much much darker. There might be an army, but they were the Terries and could be needed. It wasn’t just a game after all.

  Lady Veronica heard the sound of horses on the gravel drive shortly before six on Sunday evening. She was walking Raisin and Currant in the formal gardens and hurried back towards the front lawn, not expecting either Richard or Auberon until tomorrow. Neither was she expecting their bank holiday guests today, for heaven’s sake. The staff had only just finished preparing the bedrooms, not forgetting the suite for Lord and Lady Brampton. Their arrival was the only blot on the landscape. Stepmother would raise her eyebrows, wondering if Veronica had news to tell of a son and heir. Well, she hadn’t. Was it because she lay there wondering when it would be over?

  As she reached the cedar tree she saw Richard and Aub. What on earth? They should still be at camp playing soldiers. Damn it again. That meant another evening with Richard, and worse, another night. She set her shoulders and approached the men, who had halted, their horses pawing the ground. She called, forcing a smile, ‘What’s happened, have the men revolted?’ Richard looked rather splendid in his uniform, it had to be said, but he was still her husband, still someone who had curtailed her life into a morass of visiting and entertaining and a dark nothingness. He raised his stick to his cap. ‘No, it all went very well, but give me a moment, Veronica. I’ll tell you in just a moment.’