Marianne was late coming down to breakfast and so wasn’t at her usual post to intercept the mail. She had woken at dawn and the draw of yet another amazingly warm, enticing August morning had been irresistible. Pegasus had been as eager for the early ride as she had, and as she drank in the peace of the moor, it seemed incongruous that not far on the opposite side of the Channel, a vicious battle had been raging for weeks in an extensive area near a river called the Somme.
On her return from the ride, Marianne had gone upstairs to change ready to go straight to the moss collection centre after breakfast. But when she came down, the post boy was waiting by the open front door, and she knew immediately that something was wrong. The dining-room door was also ajar and Marianne hurried into the room, her stomach screwing into a sickening knot. Having placed the little silver tray on the table next to her master, Patsy had stood back, a stricken expression on her face. Marianne’s glance swivelled to Seth who was opening a telegram, his jaw set like Dartmoor granite, and then she met her mother’s fear-filled gaze. Oh, God. Please no. But her father’s audible gulp confirmed their ultimate terror. He lifted his shocked, misted eyes and looked at his wife. Didn’t speak a word. Didn’t need to. They all knew.
Time fractured. Marianne’s confused mind felt she was staring at a human tableau. No one moved. It could have been for seconds or hours. And when her mother finally rose up like some silent effigy and Seth moved wordlessly to fold her in his arms, he seemed to float. They clung to each other, desperate. As they faltered past her towards the door, Marianne knew their hearts were broken, for so was hers, bleeding and dying. Patsy followed them out of the door a moment later, sniffing loudly as she went to tell the post boy there would be no reply, leaving Marianne alone in the room that had so often rung with fun and laughter.
It seemed unreal, like a nightmare. She wanted it to be unreal, a horrible dream from which she would soon wake. Her hand moved of its own will towards the scrap of paper that held the key to her family’s future. Would it crumble to dust as her eyes opened from sleep? But no. It was real enough, despite her demented pleas. The paper wasn’t pure white but a mottled fawn colour, which seemed disrespectful somehow. The letters wavered like seaweed beneath the water, and Marianne had to force her eyes to focus on them, for until she read the words for herself, she would not believe them.
regret to have to inform you lt h warrington of the 15th the kings hussars killed in action france august 6th
Marianne lowered herself slowly onto a chair, her vision locked, unseeing, on the telegram which still trembled in her hands. Her brother, her kind, gentle brother was dead. Blown to pieces, perhaps riddled with bullets. She prayed it had been quick, that he hadn’t suffered and that it hadn’t been from that dreadful gas the Germans had been using that caused men to vomit and choke on liquid that oozed from inside their own burning lungs. Suddenly the horrific vision her mind had conjured up brought reality rushing down on her, and she buried her face in her hands as the tears began to flow, unchecked, down her cheeks.
How long she sat there, she didn’t know. The grand house was silent, like a mausoleum. Her parents were in another room, perhaps upstairs, distraught as she was, grieving for their only son. Never to hear his quiet, thoughtful voice, see that slow, amused grin as he good-naturedly received the butt of both his sisters’ teasing. Never again.
She ran out of tears at last and sat, immobile and dry as a rock. Oh, Hal. Why hadn’t she tried harder to dissuade him from enlisting? But he would doubtless have been called up by now, and it could have happened in a different way at a different time and place. But at least he had died working with horses, his passion, which might not have been possible if he had waited for conscription to catch up with him. Fate. Call it what you will. She didn’t feel guilty if the truth be told. Just drowning in a bottomless void.
She had dropped the telegram on the table among the silver cutlery glinting in the morning sun that streamed through the French doors. Normally, the familiar, reassuring sight would have heralded a happy summer’s day. But not now.
As she moved her head, the sunlight caught on the silver tray on which Patsy had carried in the tragic news. Two other envelopes lay there, insignificant after the telegram. Marianne picked one up, mechanically and without thought. And her heart exploded agonizingly so that her hand went across her chest. It was a letter from Hal.
Oh, Lord.
Should she open it? It was addressed to her parents, after all. But somehow propriety didn’t come into her numbed brain just now. If Hal had written them a letter, the telegram must be a mistake. Among all the chaos of the battlefield, the confusion must be immense. Marianne’s heart crashed against her ribcage, driven by a surge of reckless hope as she tore open the envelope.
As always, the red shield of the Soldiers’ Christian Association at the head of the page, and Hal had filled in the tiny red square with his name, rank and regiment. And, of course, just ‘France’. Yes, it was definitely him. His handwriting. So he was alive, after all!
And then she read the date. 1st August. She grabbed the telegram. Perhaps . . . August 6th. Her eyes moved desperately from one to the other, and then came to rest as her world splintered into a million shards. Of course. A telegram would be almost immediate whereas letters from the Front took four or five days to reach their destination.
Oh. Nothing left, then. No hope. It was true. Dear Hal had gone, buried in the sepulchre of war. This was likely his last letter home.
Should she read it? But some unidentifiable compulsion drove her to do so, she couldn’t say what. Would it bring her comfort, or gouge deeper into the already gaping wound? But perhaps it would make her accept the truth, and so she dragged her gaze down to the familiar handwriting.
Dear All
I hope this finds you well, as I am. I’m sure news of our big offensive in the area of the Somme has been widely reported back in Blighty but if I write anything I shouldn’t, the censor people will blank it out. Suffice to say, there have been countless attacks and counter-attacks, and we’re still waiting to ride our horses through that elusive Gap in the German defences. We remain in hope that the cavalry will have its longed-for opportunity, but we are, at present, being kept two hours’ march from the Front. However, we are constantly providing work parties in various capacities just behind the trenches and we can be under shell-fire then. But it makes me feel I am making some contribution to the fight. Our casualties from these work parties are negligible and when we finally ride through the Gap, it will be in victory so you mustn’t worry about me at all. Meanwhile, we keep our horses in tip-top condition which gives me great pleasure and reminds me of home. I think of you all constantly and dream of our beautiful Dartmoor. God willing, that breakthrough will come soon and I will be back with you before winter comes round again. Look after yourselves and I will write again soon. With all my love, Your loving son and brother, Hal.
Write again soon? He wouldn’t, would he? Marianne stroked the paper, one of the last things Hal had touched, and the tearing pain raked her throat again. But she mustn’t allow herself to renew her tears. Reality must be faced, life got on with. The moss collection centre must be opened, and her mother clearly wasn’t in any fit state to do so. It was vital work, was helping to save lives even if it was too late for Hal.
She was about to get resignedly to her feet when she noticed the other envelope was typewritten and addressed to her. She frowned. Who could be writing to her in an official capacity? And then her pulse accelerated as the fog of shock cleared from her brain. Of course. What she had been waiting for. A reply from the FANY.
This time, she opened the envelope carefully. She was right. The letter stated that strictly speaking, an applicant needed to be recommended by an existing member. However, from what she had told them about herself, she sounded more than suitable and so was invited to London for interview the week after next.
Oh. She
could really do without this just now. She would have to write back and ask them to postpone it. Surely they would understand? She had just lost her brother. But on the other hand, it would help her to cope with her grief, throwing herself into helping to save lives so that others might not receive the same devastating news they just had. Resolve strengthened inside her before she slipped the letter back in its envelope. Yes, she would go. Hal was dead, and for his sake, she must.
But, dear Lord, how could she tell her parents she wanted to serve in the very place where her brother had just lost his life?
‘I’m going to London next week,’ she announced a few days later, ‘to see Mary Franfield.’
She cringed at the lie – or rather the half-truth as she was indeed going to meet up with her dear friend while she was in the capital. But it seemed unfair to inform her parents of her plans when they were still so raw from the dreadful news about Hal. And after all, she didn’t know that she would actually be accepted into the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry anyway, so there was no point putting them through that distress until it was confirmed.
Her mother looked up from aimlessly turning over the food on her plate with a fork, and met her with a wan smile. ‘That’ll be nice for you. She’s proved a good friend, hasn’t she? I’m so pleased. I know how I valued dear Molly’s friendship for all those years.’
‘You don’t mind me going, then?’ Marianne’s relief at Rose’s attitude was nonetheless tempered with guilt at her deceit.
‘It’ll be good for you,’ her father agreed. ‘But will you be all right travelling and staying at the house all alone? Do you need myself or your mother to come with you? You’ve never been to London on your own before.’
‘Mary does the journey on her own and she’s years younger than I am,’ Marianne replied hastily. ‘I’m sure I can look after myself.’
‘You be careful, then. They say the trains are full of soldiers these days.’
‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’
‘And when you get back, we’ll start planning a memorial service for Hal.’ Seth cleared his throat, glancing at his wife who gave a silent nod of approval as if they had been sharing a secret. ‘This came this morning,’ he said gravely, drawing a letter from his breast pocket. ‘It’s from Major Thorneycroft, Hal’s commanding officer. You remember him?’
All at once, a shiver of excitement tingled through Marianne’s veins and she instantly recalled those steady grey-blue eyes and his wistful smile. ‘But of course,’ she nodded. ‘And Hal . . . mentioned him in one of his letters recently.’
‘Yes, he did. But as Hal’s CO, it was his duty to write to us. Only, as he knows us slightly, it’s a little more personal than you’d expect. You might like to read it in private.’
‘Oh. Yes. Thank you,’ Marianne faltered, not quite sure how she felt as she took the letter from her father’s hand. Her guilt over deceiving her parents appeared to double at the happy surprise of hearing from Albert Thorneycroft, especially since it was only as a result of Hal’s death. But surely it wasn’t wrong to feel joy that someone who had briefly touched her heart had survived the battlefield for two more years? Nevertheless, she was all at odds with herself, her stomach fluttering with butterflies, as she went outside to sit on one of the benches on the terrace.
The letter was slightly crumpled, the ink smudged here and there, which was hardly surprising. The major’s handwriting wasn’t the neatest, either, but Marianne rejoiced that he was still alive and that Hal had spent his last days in Albert’s company. But her heart tripped nervously as she wondered what she would discover in the letter, and she had to steel herself to unfold it and start to read.
Dear Mr and Mrs Warrington, Miss Marianne and family
You will by now have received the terrible news of your son’s demise, and it is my duty to write to you as his Commanding Officer. It is doubly difficult for me to do so as I know you personally and will never forget your kindness and hospitality when I stayed with you for those few days what now seems a lifetime ago. It grieves me particularly deeply also to have to tell you that your son was the only officer our regiment has lost during the current offensive, since we have yet to be ordered into the expected cavalry charge. We were, however, waiting two hours’ ride behind the lines when we received the order to provide a work party to return to the trenches for the sad task of burying the dead of whom hundreds had been recovered while thousands more lay out in the battlefield. Your son, with whom I became well acquainted during his time in the regiment, volunteered to lead the party and, quite simply, he was caught by a stray enemy shell and killed outright. So, although he was not engaged in any particular act of heroism in action, he gave his life giving dignity to some of those who had gone before him.
Lt Warrington was very popular among both his fellow officers and his men. Although he scarcely had the chance to show his valour on the field, he always had a good, calm head and I know would have followed any order bravely and courageously. His devotion to the horses was second to none, and he was always willing to help those whose equestrian skills were not quite up to his own. He learnt those skills, he always said, from you, his parents, and was as proud of you as I am sure you are of him. He always spoke with outstanding affection, also, for his madcap sister as he referred to you, Miss Marianne, as well as for his married sister. I know there is nothing that can ease the pain of your bereavement, but rest assured that Lt Warrington was held in high regard by all who knew him. Please accept my most sincere sympathy for your loss.
Your faithful servant
Major Albert Thorneycroft
Marianne lowered the letter onto her lap, scarcely able to read the signature as her vision blurred with tears. Dear Hal. The major’s thoughtful, caring words had torn open the chasm of her sorrow before it had barely had the chance to start closing, and yet she thanked him for it. There would never be an end to her grief until her soul had been scoured dry, and as she stared sightlessly out over the garden and the moor beyond, she somehow drew comfort from those rolling granite hills. For no matter what madness man made of the world, Dartmoor would always be there, cradling the souls of all those who had loved its magnificent, savage wilderness.
A few weeks later, Marianne broke the news to her parents over dinner, her pulse thundering as she did so for she knew how hard it was going to be for them. But Hal’s death had made her even more determined since she felt she was doing it for him. The memorial service had been and gone, and somehow this was the next step for her to be able to come to terms with her grief.
When she had finished speaking, she gazed at her parents in silent anticipation. Oh, God, what would they say? Her mother’s face had blanched, making her eyes appear to deepen to sable, while Seth stared at her, immobile.
When no one spoke for what seemed like an eternity, Marianne felt the colour flood into her cheeks. ‘I know . . . you might not want me to go. Not after Hal. . .’ she stammered in a broken whisper. ‘And . . . I suppose I could still back out. But I originally applied long before all that. And I really want to go. For Hal’s sake even more now. And they don’t let the FANY anywhere near the lines. Not any more, anyway. Most of the work’s ferrying the wounded from the trains to the hospitals, and then from the hospitals to the quayside when they’re fit enough to be shipped home. So I won’t be in any danger.’
She waited, trembling, until her father finally rose to his feet and came round to her. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he said quietly.
Marianne felt his beloved hand squeeze her shoulder and she rubbed her cheek against it. ‘Mum?’ she dared to breathe, and watched as Rose lifted her eyes and the shadow of a smile hovered over her mouth.
‘I know you must go. I’ve been expecting it. If I’d been your age again, I’d have done exactly the same.’
‘Y-you don’t mind, then?’
‘Of course I mind. But sometimes in life there are things you h
ave to do. And for you, this is one of them.’
Marianne’s eyes pooled with tears and, just for a moment, she almost felt she might change her mind. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you both for understanding.’
‘When do you go?’ Seth asked, and Marianne was distracted as Rose stood up and stepped out through the open French doors onto the terrace.
‘Oh, I have to do two mechanics’ courses and several First Aid ones in London yet,’ she answered, bringing her attention back to her father. ‘I have to pay for those and my uniform, but I’ve been saving up my allowance. But . . . let me go and talk to Mum now.’
Seth nodded and stood back as Marianne followed Rose outside. Marianne was so like her mother, and he sensed they needed to be alone together.
It was a beautiful, balmy summer’s night, utterly still, and Rose smiled at her daughter as she came to lean on the stone parapet beside her. The sky was a dome of indigo velvet scattered with a million twinkling stars, and below it, the folds of the moor were liquid silver in the light of a full moon.
‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’ Rose murmured. ‘I’ve always loved this house, you know, and the view over the moor from here. It’ll be yours and Kate’s to share one day, you know.’
Marianne nodded, not wanting to think of the time when her parents would inevitably join Hal wherever he had gone. ‘You don’t get many evenings like this,’ she muttered instead. ‘Just look at that old moon up there. I wonder what he’s thinking about the mess our world is in just now.’
‘I was just wondering the self same thing.’ Rose’s voice, too, was low, almost reverent, as she spoke. ‘I think he’s looking down on the earth and crying. You can see his teardrops so clearly tonight. Tears for Hal and all the other thousands of dead.’
Yes. Marianne’s gaze joined her mother’s. As a child, she had liked to make out the face of the Man in the Moon, to pick out his features, the curve of his eyes, the nose and mouth. And tonight her mother was right. The moon was definitely crying.
Teardrops in the Moon Page 12
