Brampton came along the trench, panic writ large on his face, his hands shaking. He ran crouching towards Jack. ‘Hold the line, I’m going for help, Sergeant,’ he yelled.
Jack turned from his firing position to block his path. ‘No you’re not, sir. You can send someone else, but you mustn’t leave the line.’ He could smell the terror of the man, almost taste it. It was contagious. If he ran, some of the men would run. Brampton hesitated, a shell crashed to the rear, a rifle shot zipped past their heads. ‘Get down, you silly beggars,’ shouted Martin, lying on his side, reloading before flinging himself back on to his belly again, and firing, firing, firing, and humming.
Brampton still hesitated, as pale as a ghost. He tried to sidestep Jack. ‘Please sir. No,’ Jack said firmly. For a moment neither man moved, and then Brampton nodded, his eyes on Jack. ‘Thank you, Sergeant, you’re quite right.’ He ran back, crouching low, calling encouragement to the men. ‘Hold firm. C Company will hold until we are told otherwise.’
They waited for orders and still the firing continued, still the mules arrived with ammunition, still the shelling continued, and the screaming of the injured, men and beasts. ‘All well, Sergeant?’ Brampton asked as he doubled over checking the line, slowly this time. He turned at a cry. ‘Stretcher-bearer here,’ he called. Charlie, Bernie’s cousin, was hit.
‘Everything’s bloody marvellous, sir,’ Martin panted, grinning at Jack, his face smudged with sweat and dirt.
All day the call went out for stretcher-bearers. All day they held the line and those that were pitmen stayed calm because they were used to living with injury and death, and this in turn helped others. With the evening the order came, at last, for them to retire. ‘Overwhelming forces but we’ve diverted some attention from the French, which was the aim,’ Brampton murmured to Jack as they slipped out of the trench after dusk had fallen, their legs like shaking dead weights.
Jack led one faction while Martin held the Germans in a rearguard action. In their turn, Jack’s men set up their position and gave covering fire while Martin’s unit leapfrogged it, running at a crouch, their faces dirty and exhausted. Again and again they did it, leapfrogging, running and then holding the Germans. They stumbled over the dead, and dragged along a wounded private until they reached the road and heaved him into a London taxi that raced off. At last the Germans faded as the British artillery roared and smashed and held them. Jack’s platoon rallied in the village where they had eaten bread and oil and tomatoes a lifetime ago, shaking themselves down as though they were dogs, and now there were refugees passing them, streaming west, mingling with the soldiers while Jack hunted for Martin.
He couldn’t see him. He chased from man to man. ‘Where’s your corporal? Where the hell is your corporal?’ He gripped one man. It was Bernie. ‘Where’s the daft beggar?’
Bernie looked at the ground, his shoulders slumped. ‘Shell took his head, Jack. There were two others killed. It was bedlam. Nothing we could do.’
‘Don’t be so bloody daft, now’s not the time. Where’s the bugger?’ Jack looked around, searching for Martin. Bernie grabbed his tunic. ‘He’s dead, man. He’s bloody dead.’
He wouldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be. They were marras. He ran from group to group, until Simon found him near the barn going from man to man. He held him while he struggled. ‘He’s gone, Jack.’
Jack wrenched free and started to run back to the crashing guns, to the frontline, skirting around the barn, heading off down the cobbled street alongside which men were sitting, hunched over Woodbines, or asleep, just for a moment, as total exhaustion took hold. Simon was hot on his heels, so close but he couldn’t stop because Martin was out there. He swerved to get to the field, tucking in behind a broken cart, but then he was brought down by a thump on his back. He’d been charged, damn well charged by someone, but he had to get to Martin.
It was Simon who had charged and now he grabbed Jack’s legs as he tried to scramble to his feet. The spokes of the cartwheel were broken. Some bugger should mend them. He lifted his fist to beat Simon from him, but Brampton’s voice ground out from behind him. ‘Enough, Sergeant. Get back to the men, Simon.’ Brampton grabbed Jack, who was pulling away. ‘Stand,’ he hissed. ‘Stand, man. You have to leave your corporal, we have witnesses to his death. He’ll be buried.’
‘But not by me and I’m his marra,’ Jack shouted, struggling free, only to be grabbed again. ‘I gave him the order. I could have given it to someone else.’
Brampton had his shoulders now in a hard grip, forcing Jack to face him. Brampton was saying, his voice almost drowned by the rushing in Jack’s head, ‘You did your duty. He did his. You must come with me now.’ Jack hit him then, on the jaw, so hard that the shock shuddered up his arm and into his shoulder.
Still Brampton did not alter his grip, though his lip split and his eye almost instantly swelled. ‘You must come with me now, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, so you can have me shot.’ His knuckles ached, the wind was blowing and Martin was out there, on his own.
‘No, not to have you shot, but so that you can rest like your men. No one saw you strike me. You made a mistake just as I did earlier. It’s what we do until we learn, and then we make some more. Now we’re going to move on, we have to.’ It seemed as though everything had gone silent. There was no gunfire, no birds, no clatter of horses. ‘Now, Jack. Now we move on.’
Jack knew he was talking of more than soldiering, knew from the intensity of his eyes, from the way he brought his head so close. But he was right. It had to be over, because he couldn’t have the hell of this hate towards Brampton inside him as well as the hell of war all around, but the hate was such a part of him and he didn’t know if he could let it go.
Around them shells were thumping, men were marching, scuffing their feet as they retreated. In the distance slag heaps reminded him of home, but his marra was dead. Quite dead. He nodded at Brampton. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, but who’ll watch me back? You see, I didn’t watch his. I’m his marra and I didn’t.’
He shrugged free and struggled towards his men, feeling as though each step required too much effort. Brampton walked a pace behind. ‘We’ll all watch one another’s backs for that’s what soldiers do, and sometimes even that’s not enough. It’s not your fault and it won’t be the last time, damn it to hell.’
That evening there was a scratch roll call held in the village. So this was war, Jack thought, as he called out the names of the men in his platoon and too few answered. He could almost hear Martin saying, ‘Like the bloody pit, eh. It’s a home from home, lad.’ He could hear his laugh, here in his head, where it would always stay. Aye, man, just like the bloody pit. Blood on the coal, eh?
He reported the figures to Lieutenant Brampton. ‘Very good, Sergeant. Lead the men off. We have a long way to go.’
Auberon stepped back and watched the company march away. He stood straighter. He moved his jaw. He had been hit by a better man than his father would ever be, and he had stood his ground.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE EASTERLEIGH HOME Farm harvest was finished as August became September, the plums picked and the greengages bottled and in the preserve pantry. It had been a matter of joining forces with Mrs Green to complete the task, but it had been enjoyable. As September advanced the fateful letters in buff envelopes began to arrive from the Front, because only dead officers were deserving of telegrams. The postmen took to pushing the letters through letter boxes, if available, as the constant tears of the recipients took their toll. Evie dragged her bicycle from the bothy and set out for Martin’s uncle and mother.
She arrived, leaning her bike against the cottage wall, and knocked on the front door, not going through the backyard as normal. Martin’s uncle answered and Evie stayed outside to talk to him. She didn’t want to go in and make the family feel they had to gather their strength, exhausted as they were. ‘I have a meeting about the hospital with Lady Veronica at the Hall, but I needed to come.’
&
nbsp; Martin’s uncle said, ‘Well, pet, if the Germans hadn’t got him, the pit probably would have. Poor Jack though, he’s lost his marra but perhaps we pit people are better placed than most to bear it, we’re so used to . . .’ His voice broke, he wiped his hand over his face, and his smile was weary as he closed the door.
What an appalling epitaph, she thought, as she pedalled back, making herself concentrate on the meeting ahead. She’d learned within days of their return from Newcastle that work and concentration were the answer, as Mrs Moore had said long ago. After the retreat from Mons, Liège and Namur had fallen. Jack’s platoon had been further depleted but he, Simon, Bernie and James still lived.
Evie watched as the grouse flew free across the fields. No shooting parties this year, not here anyway. She pedalled hard, sliding in and out of the ruts. The honeysuckle crawled over the walls. Were they crawling towards the Germans now? Was Simon safe? She took a hand from the handlebars and patted the photo in her pocket. It had never reached its frame because she needed it with her, night and day.
She made herself see the pigeons pecking at the wheat that had fallen from the stalks, and then the sheep still as statues on the low slopes of the Stunted Tree. She turned into the Hall drive. The leaves in the arboretum had not yet begun to turn, though some were falling. Perhaps because of the hot dry summer? She’d ask . . . No, she wouldn’t, Simon had gone.
She padlocked her bicycle and ran along the back path, round the storeroom and alongside the walled garden, into the yard. Len and Stuart, the chauffeurs, were in London or Leeds with Bastard Brampton who was busy with his steel and brickworks, leaving Mr Davies to run the pits, all of which were working to full capacity. So the greedy grubber and others like him were doing very well, thank you. But it didn’t matter where the man was, as long as he wasn’t here.
She tore down the steps, snatching off her hat and shawl, throwing them on to the bootbox in the bell corridor. Only Lady Veronica’s bell rang now, and that seldom. She more often came down and spoke to them.
Evie spun into the kitchen. Mrs Moore had prepared tea and Mrs Green, Mr Harvey and Annie were already tucking into a sponge cake, though the choice wasn’t as numerous as it had been because prices were already rising.
‘We can’t have waste,’ Lady Veronica had said. ‘We simply can’t in times like these. There’s a war on.’ Her own food had become simple and differed little from downstairs. Good grief, soon she’d be taking her meals with them, and would probably be happier. What must it be like to be so alone? If it weren’t for the hospital plans would she have hoyed off to London to help the war effort, or to dance at the Ritz like Lady Esther? Evie and Mrs Moore felt not.
The clock read four and here was Lady Veronica, hurrying down the passage, her bruises gone. ‘She’s coming,’ Evie warned, pouring tea for herself and Lady Veronica, carrying her own to a free stool next to Mrs Moore. They had put out the china cups, but enamel mugs would have been quicker. There were pencils on the table for note-taking. Each had their own notebook.
Lady Veronica knocked as she always did, and should. Mrs Moore invited her in. She took her place at the head of the table, a notepad and pen in her hand. ‘I have heard today that Easterleigh Hall has been approved as an auxiliary hospital and I have the recommendations from the board. I want to outline some thoughts, and discuss with you how we are going to apply their recommendations,’ she told them.
She described the plans for an officers’ hospital and convalescent home. Dr Nicholls had been transformed into a military doctor. Evie wondered if there had been a magic wand involved, because Nicholls was a portly gentleman with not a militaristic bone in his body. She kept the query to herself. She began to make notes as the others debated using the ballroom as the main ward. Lady Veronica chewed her pen. ‘How many beds will it take?’
Mrs Green thought thirty. Should they or shouldn’t they keep the billiard room as it was, Mr Harvey wondered, a recreation for convalescent patients? Mrs Green wondered if the bedrooms could be utilised, leaving just three – one for Lady Veronica, one for her husband during his leave, and one for Mr Auberon. It was agreed. Mr Harvey asked how many beds Lord Brampton had ordered. Lady Veronica said, ‘He put in a general request, it’s up to us to come up with the final figures.’
Only Evie remained silent, listening intently, waiting, waiting.
At last it had been decided that the billiard room should remain as it would be good for the officers’ morale, the dining room should remain as the dining room, and the two drawing rooms would become the Officers’ Mess, the Orangery a rehabilitation and games room. The smoking room would convert into Lady Veronica’s drawing room, the library would be the drawing room for the nurses, doctors, and VADs, though they could overflow into the servants’ hall and storerooms in the basement which would be made homely. More bathrooms were to be added, and sink rooms for the bedpans and assorted nursing procedures.
How delicately put, Evie thought.
Lady Veronica continued, ‘The kitchen remains the kitchen. All the houses on the estate should be utilised as staff accommodation. Now that brings me to staff.’ She looked expectantly at Evie, who was doodling in her notebook.
Carefully Evie placed her pencil down, looking around the kitchen, gaining strength from its familiarity. She knew most of what there was to know about managing a kitchen and she could work anywhere now, and in a few moments, she might have to. Collecting her thoughts she spoke firmly, her eyes on Lady Veronica only. ‘I am not prepared to recruit any of the villagers to work at a hospital that caters only for officers.’
She saw the shock, but didn’t falter. ‘If we must segregate the ranks, then so be it, but I’m sure that Sylvia Pankhurst, if she was here, would stipulate that we catered for all injured. I know that you are repeating the recommendations of the board, Your Ladyship, but I suggest that we have the right to make our own decisions.’
Mr Harvey looked fit to explode, Mrs Green was almost crying with mortification, Mrs Moore was smiling slightly and Annie just looked from one to another.
Lady Veronica broke away from Evie’s stare and made notes on her pad, then looked up. ‘Absolutely right.’ Her smile was magnificent. ‘So, let’s rearrange the rooms, shall we, but perhaps we’ll need more tea, Evie, and next time, let’s have it in enamel mugs, shall we?’
Yet again Mr Harvey looked dangerously close to explosion, and Mrs Green as though she needed to lie in a darkened room.
The next morning Evie cycled back to Easton, knocking on doors, explaining the problem, reassuring the villagers that Lord and Lady Brampton were busy with their other concerns and had left the running of the hospital completely in their daughter’s hands, at which point the volunteers came thick and fast. She collected names of wives and daughters, and retired fathers and uncles, both for work around the estate and in a nursing or housekeeping capacity, as there would be a mountain of cleaning and laundry. She explained that rotas would be drawn up and Lady Veronica’s trap would be brought into use for those who didn’t have bicycles. ‘Tinker’s contribution to the war effort,’ she smiled.
She ended up at the vicarage, where Grace and Edward were heaving two valises into the trap. ‘Thank you for the message, Grace. I’m sorry you’re going, but glad too, if you know what I mean. It’s what you want.’
‘Yes, it is. I have my Home Nursing and Red Cross Certificates and am now a VAD. I need to be doing something to help, but I’m scared to death.’
Edward had his arm around his sister. ‘The men will be lucky to have her. I’ll fetch your shawl, Grace.’ He hurried inside. Grace came to Evie and hugged her, saying quietly, ‘I need to be near him. I need to know I can reach him if he is hurt and that I can bring him home safely to his family, and Simon to you, if need be. Poor Martin, poor all of them, Jack will be suffering at the loss of his marra. It’s not going to be a quick war, though we will probably win. But in the doing it will break all our hearts.’
Evie’s last call was to h
er mam. She helped her and Millie to hang out washing, while Mam agreed to help inasmuch as her duties as a wife and grandmother allowed. It was the same answer that Evie had received from many of the women. ‘We need a nursery for the children, someone to look after them while you all work. I’ll sort it out,’ Evie said, pegging up a sheet Millie handed her. There was a decent breeze. Millie was reluctant to join the growing bank of helpers. ‘The Hall has bad memor-ies for me,’ she complained, crossing her arms and looking petulant.
Evie ignored her longing to slap Millie, so normal was it. ‘Perhaps you’d like to help in the nursery, then you could have Tim with you.’
Tim was playing with a small wooden train that her da had made him, sitting on the path and making choo-choo noises. Her mother was pegging up Da’s trousers. Millie snapped, ‘I’m a trained cook, so the kitchen’s where I’ll be if I’m anywhere.’
Evie sighed, trained my Aunt Fanny, it was the extra food she was after, and the thought of having Millie back gave her a headache. But of course she could be shifted elsewhere once she arrived, if she arrived.
That afternoon the Home Nursing course and Red Cross First Aid course began, and Evie smothered a grin as Dr Nicholls brought the newly arrived Matron to visit the group, which included two aristocratic neighbours of Lady Veronica’s as well as a bevy of servants and villagers. Matron said, her bosom as large as a shelf, ‘I only want people who will work, not people to turn up at the end of the day to soothe a few brows and hold a few hands. You will be dealing with disgusting dressings, bedpans full of urine and excrement, men who swear and groan and smell and perhaps have maggots in their wounds. If you are not prepared for that, do not remain, do not return.’
Easterleigh Hall Page 33
