by Max Hennessy
‘Why did Grandpa want me to have it all?’ Josh asked.
‘Because he thought you’d take greater care of it than your Uncle Robert, dear. Your Grandfather never really got on with your Uncle Robert.’
She sighed, because there was more to it than that. Not satisfied with Cosgro Hall, which he had inherited through his wife, Lord Cosgro’s daughter, Robert had tried to gain control of Braxby Manor because he had always felt it made a better background to his title than the ugly brick edifice Lord Cosgro had built.
Josh was smiling at her. ‘I’d rather it remained yours, Granny,’ he said. ‘For years and years.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t want to follow your grandfather just yet, but it’s got to happen sometime. I’m not as tough as he was. They often tried to kill him but never quite managed it–’
Her voice faded and she shook her head, as though, like Josh, she found it difficult to remember the old man was no longer around, difficult, stubborn, eccentric in his old age, but still the most important person in her life.
It seemed time to change the subject and she indicated Louise standing shyly behind Josh.
‘Who’s this, dear? She’s not one of ours, is she?’
He pushed Louise forward. ‘This is Louise Peabody, Granny,’ he said. ‘She’s American.’
The old lady nodded. ‘We get on well with Americans in this family, dear,’ she said. ‘I was one. I was a Dabney, from Neese Ford. Perhaps that’s why I always got on with Winston Churchill’s mother. She was a Jerome, you know.’ She paused, thinking. ‘ I knew some Peabodys when I was young. From Charlottesville, Do you come from near there, dear?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. Charlottesville itself.’
‘Have you been looking at my husband’s trophies? He wasn’t very big, but, you know, he did rather fill life while he was alive.’
‘Did you go abroad with him?’
‘Oh, yes. Sometimes I had to leave my family behind, too. That’s the worst of being a soldier’s wife.’ The old lady’s eyes were far away. ‘People died so easily in those days – typhoid, malaria, cholera, things like that. And I often slept on a camp bed for weeks at a time. At one period, I even slept on the ground because my husband needed the bed.’ She peered at Louise. ‘She’s rather pretty, Josh. Is she a friend of yours?’
‘Good Lord, Granny, no!’ Josh blushed. ‘She’s Chloe’s friend!’
‘Ah!’ the old lady smiled. ‘I wondered. After all, you’re old enough now and you could do worse.’
Two
When Josh returned to school, Reeves Major was swinging round the minute study they shared, humming and clutching a cushion to his chest.
‘Foxtrot,’ he explained. ‘Spiffing girl taught me. Name of Caroline Brett-Johnston. Old man’s a merchant banker with plenty of the ready. You should have come home with me. Ailsa could have danced with you. She’s not bad at it – for a kid sister. You feeling off-colour?’
‘No. School, that’s all. Be glad when I’ve finished.’
‘Expect you’ve been falling for a girl.’ Reeves grinned. ‘People do. At least, I do.’
‘I met a ripping girl while I was home,’ Josh said quickly. ‘American.’
He hadn’t really thought of Louise Peabody as particularly ripping until that very moment. She’d been merely a thirteen-year-old girl who’d been willing to listen to him. But it was always good to be able to keep up with Reeves Major. He was almost too worldly-wise.
Once when he’d accepted Josh’s offer of a day with the Braxby Hunt, a horse box with two magnificent mounts had turned up and Reeves had appeared clad in clothes that were obviously from Savile Row and made Josh’s seem ugly, cheap and provincial. The hack to the first draw had been excruciating and the only thing that had saved Josh’s face had been the performance of his mount – one his grandfather had chosen with all the stamp of the old man’s skill, nothing like Reeves’ handsome animal but with endless stamina and able to jump like a cat, even changing feet on top of stone walls to drop neatly down the other side, while Reeves, faced with what had seemed an endlessly high barrier, had preferred to go through the gate.
‘Pretty?’ Reeves broke in on his thoughts.
‘Who?’
‘The girl, ass!’
‘Oh! Not half.’
‘Do a bit of spooning?’
‘Oh, yes. A lot of that.’
‘Kiss her?’
‘I’ll say. Quite a goer.’
‘So was Caroline Brett-Johnston. I was asked if I’d like to take her to the hunt ball. I said they’d have to trot her up and down a bit so I could see what her action was.’ Reeves was adjusting his tie by the mirror. ‘Got a tip, by the way, for the 3.30 on Friday.’
‘You and your tips!’
‘Thought you liked horses?’
‘Riding ‘em. Not putting money on ‘em.’
‘It’ll make your allowance go further. She’s one of Lord Mara’s nags. Fancy ten bob on her for a win?’
‘Who’s going to get it on for us? Watkins, the porter?’
‘Not at fifty to one.’ Reeves grinned. ‘I’m taking no chances. I’m going to.’
‘You’d better watch out for Headlamps. He’s after you.’
‘He’s after all of us. He thinks the school’s a sink of iniquity.’
‘Anybody else in on it?’
‘Well, George Powell wants ten bob on and so does Grayson. I’m having ten bob. With you it would make two quid. I’ll slip out after Lights Out. I know where to get it on. Chap called Georgy Chubb. Hangs out in a pub called the Hole in the Wall in the High Street.’
By the time the matter was properly under way there were six boys in the syndicate so that they stood to win two hundred and fifty pounds between them, and that night, Reeves climbed down the wisteria that decorated the wall below the dormitory.
‘Look out for Headlamps,’ Josh whispered.
It seemed an age before the rattle of gravel against the window indicated that Reeves was back. They lowered the sheets they had knotted together and a minute later he was in the dormitory. He smelled of beer.
‘You’d better not breathe on Headlamps,’ Powell murmured.
‘I got it on with Georgy,’ Reeves grinned. ‘He said why don’t we draw for it? Winner take all.’
There was immediate agreement and it was Josh who drew the highest card in the pack.
‘Only wants the damn horse to win,’ Reeves said, ‘and you’ve got a fortune.’
For four days, Josh almost forgot the race, then Reeves Major appeared, looking dazed. In his hand he held a copy of The Times, filched from the school library.
‘It won,’ he said.
Josh gave a yell of delight. He had never owned more than a pound or two in his life. The prospect of having two hundred and fifty of them to do what he wished with was beyond imagining.
‘My God,’ Reeves said. ‘I shall be terrified of losing it when I go to fetch it.’
‘If the money’s mine,’ Josh pointed out, ‘I ought to fetch it.’
With the directions carefully written down, he climbed through the window after Lights Out and slipped down the wisteria. It was strange being in the town after dark. A policeman eyed him as he passed, his collar turned up, but he didn’t say anything. It was obvious where he had come from but the policeman decided it was none of his business what the nobs from the college got up to when they should have been in bed.
The Hole in the Wall was a shabby little pub and the bookmaker was a fat little man with a checked waistcoat and a thick gold watch chain.
‘’Ere y’are, young gent,’ he said. ‘Two ’undred and fifty nicker. Give my regards to Mr Reeves. I done business with ’im afore and ’ope to do it again. You goin’ to celebrate afore you set off back?’
&nb
sp; Josh shook his head.
‘Go on, lad. One drink won’t hurt.’
Still dubious but electrified by the feel of the thick wad of money in his pocket, Josh nodded.
‘All right then,’ he said. ‘Just one. I’ll pay.’
Chubb grinned. ‘Well, that’s real gentlemanly, I’m sure. I’ll have a double scotch.’
Swallowing the pint with too much haste, Josh set off back through the dark streets. It wasn’t difficult to scramble over the school wall. He’d done it before – as often as not for a dare. All he had to do now was toss a handful of gravel at the dormitory window and sheets would be lowered for him to be hauled to safety with two hundred and fifty pounds in his pocket.
It was as he bent to scoop the gravel up that he heard a footstep behind him and, whirling round, found himself dazzled by the light of a torch.
‘Got you!’ The voice was the headmaster’s.
A hand descended on his shoulder and tried to swing him round but, in the struggle, the torch was knocked from Lamps’ hand.
‘By Heaven,’ he shouted. ‘How dare you assault your headmaster? And you stink of drink! This is an expulsion matter, my boy!’
Suddenly the rasping voice irritated Josh. He still hadn’t been recognised, it seemed, and as the fingers came groping for him again, he placed a hand on the headmaster’s chest and pushed with all his strength. There was a cry and the crashing of foliage.
‘By Heaven, boy, you’ll pay for this!’ Bolting for the shadows, Josh could hear the yells behind him. ‘I shall find you, have no fear!’
Hiding among the bushes, Josh watched Lamps hurry away to call assistance. Scuttling to the window, he flung a handful of gravel, but no knotted sheets came down. Reeves’ head appeared. ‘The yellow swines won’t help me,’ he said, ‘and I can’t haul you up on my own. Better bolt!’
For a moment Josh wondered what to do. By this time Lamps would have all the entrances guarded and within five minutes, lights would be going on and everybody in the dormitories checked. There seemed no alternative.
Turning on his heels, he set off down the drive. The porter was just closing the gate.
‘Open it, please,’ Josh said.
‘Sir, I can’t. I’ve just had instructions to stop anybody who tries to get away.’
‘I shouldn’t if I were you.’
For a moment, the porter looked worried, then he shrugged. ‘I just hope it won’t get me into trouble,’ he said.
‘I’ll write them a letter,’ Josh said. ‘I’ll say I threatened to assault you.’
The porter pulled a face. ‘No need to go that far, sir. That would mean expulsion.’
‘It already means that,’ Josh said as he headed through the gates into the darkness. ‘I’m not sure I’m very worried.’
He spent the night in a small hotel where he was asked no questions but received a lot of strange looks. They knew where he had come from, all right.
The following morning, he slipped into a newsagents’ down the street and bought writing paper and envelopes and sat on the bed to write to his mother, telling her not to worry. Leaving the hotel early, he avoided the town because half the staff and probably half the local police force, too, would be looking for him now, and, setting off walking, caught a train to Ripon at the next stop. Remembering the two hundred and fifty pounds in his pocket, in Ripon he bought nine registered envelopes and addressed them to Reeves, Grayson, Powell and the others. Into each, he put a note saying that, despite winning the raffle, he considered he should share the money.
He was just wondering what to do next, when he realised he was outside the recruiting office. The walls were splashed with posters recommending the army as a life for adventurous young men. Inside, was a middle-aged sergeant, with a bottle nose, medals, ribbons on his cap and a red sash across his chest. He looked up at Josh.
‘Now, young feller,’ he said. ‘Want to join up, do you?’
Josh hadn’t been considering anything at all but he found himself replying in a strong, clear voice devoid of doubt.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided.’
The sergeant beamed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve got some nice vacancies in the West Yorkshires. Good regiment, that. They could do with a fine upstanding lad like yourself. How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
The sergeant poked his ear. ‘I don’t ’ear so well these days,’ he said. ‘Them barrages on the Somme in ’Sixteen did for me. Did you say eighteen?’
Josh recognised the ploy because he’d heard of it often from his grandfather. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Eighteen. That’s what I said.’
‘Thought you did.’ The sergeant looked at Josh’s black jacket and striped trousers and made a shrewd guess where he’d come from. ‘You ain’t been up to anything you shouldn’t, ’ave you?’ he asked. ‘The army don’t go for young fellers dodgin’ the police, you know.’
‘I’m not in trouble with the police.’
‘A girl?’
Josh grinned. ‘No. Not a girl.’
The sergeant eyed him warily. ‘All right then,’ he said. ‘Why are you wantin’ to get into khaki? You got family connections with the army?’
‘Yes.’
‘’Ow about the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry then? One of the Unsurpassable Six. Helped to rout eighty-three squadrons of French ’orse in 1759. Advanced against ’em with drums beatin’ and chased ’em off the field. They’re a good regiment for a feller who’s proud to be a soldier, and you look fit and athletic. You ’ave to be, to keep up with that lot. ’Undred and forty paces to the minute they goes.’
‘I want the cavalry,’ Josh said.
‘There ain’t no vacancies in the cavalry.’
‘If I can’t join the cavalry,’ Josh said, ‘I think I’ll join the Navy.’
As he pretended to turn away, the sergeant called him back. There was a trace of anxiety in his voice. ‘’Ere, ’old on,’ he said. ‘Take it easy. We might just be able to squeeze you in somewhere. What’s your fancy?’
‘The Clutchers. Nineteenth Lancers. They’ve always done their recruiting in this part of the world.’
The sergeant gave him a shrewd look. ‘Somebody ’ere knows ’is way about,’ he said. ‘Ain’t many knows nicknames and recruiting areas afore they puts uniforms on. You got someone in the Clutchers?’
‘Not now. I had.’
‘Killed in the war, was they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Orficer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t expect no favours. Lots o’ people got commissions between 1914 and 1918. Some of ’em even got to be majors and things like that.’
A smile crossed Josh’s lips. Not many of them got to be field marshals or major-generals, though, he thought.
The sergeant handed him a shilling. ‘There,’ he said. ‘That clinches the deal. Now stand over there and take this ’ere Bible in your right ’and–’
That night Josh lay awake on a hard bed covered with brown blankets and a mattress divided into three portions which looked like army biscuits – which was exactly how they were known. On one side of him a country boy not much older than himself by the name of Edward Orne snored quietly, on the other an older man who had introduced himself as Syd Dodgin lay in an aura of stale beer. Across the aisle which separated the beds, a thin youth called Prescott was crying quietly to himself.
Josh was now 17965238, Trooper Loftus, J, and as he lay awake thinking, he felt very satisfied. This, he decided, was something for which he had been heading all his life.
Three
‘First of all,’ the officer said, ‘consider yourselves lucky. This is a good regiment – the only cavalry regiment in the British army to wear gr
een, because we routed the Polish lancers at Waterloo and when we became lancers ourselves we decided to adopt their uniform.’
The new recruits were in a half-circle, standing stiffly in the position the army laughingly described as ‘at ease’.
‘Goff’s Greens,’ the officer went on, a languid figure in a blue jacket with chain-mail epaulettes, his legs encased in narrow green overalls with a double gold stripe running down the outside. ‘Goff’s Gamecocks. The Widowmakers. The Clutchers. We have all those names.’
Josh listened intently. Though he’d often heard his grandfather giving this little talk to him and had understood it was a tradition to give it to all recruits, it was a new experience to hear it from the other side.
The officer was a tall young man with a yellow moustache who had been introduced by the sergeant as Lieutenant Morby-Smith. It was a name Josh was familiar with. There had been two Morby-Smiths, father and son, both lost in the same action at the Graafberg in South Africa in 1900, where his own father had won a DSO. Though the battle had made his grandfather’s fame secure, the Regiment had suffered heavy casualties in what the regimental history politely euphemised as ‘a too-hasty charge.’ Josh knew, probably better than Lieutenant Morby-Smith himself, that it had been his own Uncle Robert, now Lord Gough, who had launched it.
The field marshal had not loved his elder son much. He had forgiven him for giving up the Regiment but, so Josh had heard, there was more to it than that. Uncle Robert, it seemed, had tried to cheat the old man out of Braxby Manor, and, what was worse, had allied himself to the Cosgro family whom the old man detested. He’d broken one of the Cosgros for cowardice in Zululand and it had never been forgiven by either side.
‘You there!’ Morby-Smith’s voice cut across his thoughts. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Loftus, sir.’
‘Have I seen you before? Your face looks familiar.’
Josh knew very well why his face looked familiar. There were portraits of his father and his grandfather in the officers’ mess and a strong resemblance ran through the family.
