A Season of Secrets

by Margaret Pemberton

  It wasn’t often that any of the lines moved backwards or forwards more than an inch – an inch that invariably moved back to its original position immediately – but they lived in hope, waiting for the day when the blue line would surge forward, heading victoriously towards Germany.

  Carrie stared at the map unseeingly, unable to think of anything but the moment when Charlie Hardwick had turned around and his eyes, in a face scarcely recognizable as human, had fleetingly held hers.

  She was still seated at the table when Blanche Fenton entered the playroom. Startled, Carrie scrambled to her feet, saying quickly, ‘Thea and Olivia aren’t here, Lady Fenton. I think they may be down on the courts, playing tennis.’

  ‘I wasn’t looking for them, Carrie.’ Blanche’s voice was full of concern. ‘Violet has been telling me that when you went to the village there was a monster-man in the post office. She’s so distressed I didn’t want to question her about it, but I’d like to know who it was she had seen, and why she is describing him in such a way.’

  Relief at the prospect of being able to talk with Lady Fenton about what she had seen and experienced flooded through Carrie. If anyone could make sense of it and make the world seem a happy place once again, Lady Fenton would be able to do so.

  ‘He wasn’t a real monster, though he looked like one, and that was why everyone in the queue shouted at him and was angry at him for being there.’

  Blanche’s concern deepened. ‘Who was he, Carrie? Was he from the village?’

  ‘It was Charlie Hardwick – though he only looked like Charlie from the back. His father is the cow-man at High Top Farm.’

  High Top was one of the few farms in the area not part of the Gorton estate and, though Blanche had never spoken to either Charlie or his father, she knew them by sight.

  Aware of how unnerved Carrie still was, she said gently, ‘What happened in the post office, Carrie?’

  ‘Violet and I were standing behind Charlie, so we couldn’t see his face. Other people in the post office had seen it, though, and because of what they began shouting out when Violet screamed, I think they had seen it before.’

  Blanche’s hands had been clasped lightly in her lap. Now they tightened.

  Still keeping her voice carefully under control, she said, ‘And what were they shouting, Carrie?’

  Tears burned the backs of Carrie’s eyes. ‘Someone shouted at him that he’d scared Violet half to death, and someone else said he should be in a hospital, where he wouldn’t be able to frighten anybody; and then someone else, the lady who had come in behind me, said that he should be wearing a balaclava.’

  Blanche’s knuckles shone white.

  ‘After he had gone they said other things, too.’ Carrie’s voice trembled. ‘They said it would have been better for him if he’d been killed, and that he had no right to be walking the streets, giving folk nightmares.’

  Blanche struggled to master her emotions. Charlie’s unspeakable injuries had been suffered while fighting for his king and his country, yet women who had cheered him for enlisting had shown no pity when he had paid for doing so with a ruined face and, because of it, a ruined life.

  ‘He can’t get work,’ Carrie added. ‘What will he do, Lady Fenton, if he can’t get work?’

  Blanche closed her eyes. Men who’d had a leg blown away – or, even worse, who’d had both legs blown away – sold matches on city streets, with trays of them around their necks as they stood with the aid of a crutch, or sat in small makeshift carts. How many people, though, would be compassionate enough to approach a man with his face blown away?

  She opened her eyes and looked at Carrie, knowing that although she was only ten years old, Carrie would approach Charlie, and that for her the horror of the morning had been made worse by the hideousness of the remarks Charlie had met with.

  When she could trust herself to speak she said, ‘What happened to Charlie has happened because he fought for his country, Carrie. He is a hero and he deserves to be treated like one.’

  She unclasped her hands and ran a fingertip across one of the blue lines on the map, wondering what it was that she should do; wondering what it was Gilbert would want her to do.

  Her decision, when she came to it, was one she knew would not be popular. It would be hard on her children and hard, too, on her domestic staff. Even the nurses at Gorton now would probably have difficulties with it, as would perhaps some of their patients. If Charlie Hardwick was willing, it was, though, what she was going to do.

  Her mind made up, she said, ‘I’m going to pay a visit to the Hardwicks, Carrie. Would you come with me? Your presence will perhaps make Charlie feel more at ease.’

  For a brief moment Carrie hesitated, wondering if she was brave enough to look at Charlie’s face a second time. Then she remembered the fleeting moment when her eyes had met his. Even though one eye had not been where it should have been, his eyes had still been Charlie’s eyes. If she looked only into his eyes, then she would be able to behave as she knew Lady Fenton expected her to.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, wondering what was going to happen when Lady Fenton arrived at the Hardwicks’ tied cottage; wondering if Lady Fenton was truly prepared for the horror that awaited her there.

  They left Gorton chauffeured by Armitage in Lady Fenton’s Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. It was the first time Carrie had ever ridden in a motor car and even though she wasn’t looking forward to reaching their destination, she found the experience thrilling. They sped down the hill into Outhwaite, the breeze stinging their cheeks and tugging at the lilac gauze scarf that Blanche had tied over her hat to prevent it being blown away.

  ‘How fast are we going, Lady Fenton?’ she asked, knowing it was far faster than she had ever been able to go when riding downhill on Rozalind’s bicycle.

  Blanche leaned forward, touching the chauffeur lightly on his shoulder with the handle of her furled umbrella. ‘Armitage?’ Her voice was raised so that even against the breeze he would be able to hear her.

  ‘Fifteen miles an hour, m’lady. Would you like me to slow down?’

  ‘No, thank you. Carrie is enjoying the speed.’

  Though Blanche couldn’t see him doing so, Armitage clenched his teeth. He was having a bad morning. Carrie Thornton’s near-constant presence at Gorton Hall had always mystified and offended him. Her granny might once have been Lord Fenton’s nanny, but it didn’t alter the fact that she was a village girl. Her riding alongside Jim Crosby in the pony-cart was one thing; her presence in the back of the Rolls-Royce that was his pride and joy was quite another.

  Even worse were the directions Lady Fenton had given him. He was to take her to High Top Farm. What was a viscountess doing, paying a visit to a working farm? And what state was the Silver Ghost’s highly polished aluminium bodywork going to be in, after he had driven it up a farm track? Lady Fenton had always had her eccentricities – treating Carrie Thornton as if she was quality being a major example – but as far as he was concerned, this latest eccentricity beggared belief.

  High Top Farm lay on the edge of moorland, and the autumn heather was in full bloom. A sea of vivid purple, it stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see, filling the air with honey-sweet scent. Carrie drank in the sight of it. Despite her anxiety about the meeting that was shortly going to take place between Lady Fenton and Charlie, she couldn’t help being happy. She had always been told that Wensleydale was the most beautiful of all Yorkshire’s dales and, as Armitage drew up outside the farmhouse and she looked around her, she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what was said was true.

  At the sound of the car drawing up a middle-aged woman ran out of the farmhouse, her hands and arms covered in flour, her face a picture of incredulity.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Blanche said. ‘I’m looking for Charlie Hardwick. I believe his father is your cow-man. If you could tell me whereabouts the Hardwicks live I’d be very grateful.’

  The woman gaped at her. Carrie didn’t blame her for b
eing speechless. It wasn’t every day that a farmer’s wife opened her door to find in her farmyard a silver motor car and, seated in the back of it, a member of the aristocracy.

  ‘The ’ardwicks, Your Ladyship?’ she managed at last. ‘They live over yonder.’ With a beefy arm she pointed across a couple of fields to where a chimneystack peeped above a fringe of trees. ‘But Your Ladyship won’t be able to speak wi’ Charlie. Charlie doesn’t speak wi’ anyone these days.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me where I can find him, Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Lumsden. Florence Lumsden.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Lumsden.’ Blanche turned to Armitage. ‘As near to the cottage as you can get, Armitage.’

  The cottage, when Armitage reluctantly reached it via a narrow, overgrown lane, was appallingly decrepit. Mrs Hardwick rushed from its dark interior to find out who on earth was coming to pay a call on her and then, on seeing who it was, fell against its door jamb in shock, causing a tile to fall from the roof.

  Both Mrs Hardwick and Blanche ignored it.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hardwick,’ Blanche said, sending hens scattering as she walked across to her. ‘I understand your son has returned from Flanders badly injured. I would like to have a few words with him, if I may?’

  ‘Wi’ our Charlie?’ Mrs Hardwick stared at Blanche as if she had taken leave of her senses, something that Armitage, standing yards away beside the Silver Ghost, was convinced of. ‘You can’t see Charlie, m’lady. He isn’t fit to be seen. Not by anyone.’ She plucked agitatedly at the edge of an apron, which was as long as the shabby dress skimming her clogs.

  ‘I know about Charlie’s injuries, Mrs Hardwick.’ Blanche’s low, sweet voice was as reassuring as she could make it. ‘They are why I am here.’

  Mrs Hardwick’s bewilderment was now total.

  Aware of this, and also aware that Mrs Hardwick was far too overwhelmed by her title to think of inviting her into her home, Blanche went on, ‘I want to help Charlie, Mrs Hardwick. Perhaps it would be best if we continued talking inside?’

  Without waiting for Mrs Hardwick to agree, Blanche stepped past her, with Carrie still at her side.

  The low-ceilinged stone-floored room they entered was dominated by a blackleaded kitchen range almost the height of the room. Though it was autumn it was a mild day and there was no fire in the grate, or kettle on the long hook hanging above it. In one corner of the room was a cast-iron copper for heating water, in another was a well-scoured stone sink and in the centre of the room stood a heavy wooden table and two upright chairs.

  Blanche seated herself on one of the chairs and Mrs Hardwick, with nervous glances towards a half-open door leading to a narrow curving staircase, seated herself on the other one. Carrie, mindful of her manners, remained near the door they had entered by.

  ‘I understand Charlie is finding it difficult to earn a living, Mrs Hardwick,’ Blanche said, her voice as friendly as if they had known each other for a long time, ‘and I would like to give him employment at Gorton.’

  Mrs Hardwick gasped.

  Carrie heard a similar sound come from beyond the half-open staircase door.

  Unsteadily Mrs Hardwick said, ‘I think maybe you don’t understand quite ’ow bad my Charlie is, m’lady. He frightens folks, you see.’

  ‘Gorton Hall is a convalescent home for wounded officers, Mrs Hardwick. Charlie won’t frighten them. Every one of them will know that what happened to him could easily have happened to them too, and other people at Gorton will take their example from me. What kind of work did Charlie do before he enlisted?

  As Mrs Hardwick hesitated before replying, a shadow fell across the last three steps of the staircase.

  Seeing it, Carrie wondered if Blanche was aware that someone was standing just out of sight on the stairs – and had now moved down them a tread or two in order not to miss anything being said.

  Mrs Hardwick plucked again at her apron. ‘Charlie was an agricultural worker, m’lady. Sometimes he worked for Mr Lumsden, sometimes he worked for Mr Benson at Sproggett Farm, and sometimes he worked for a vicar over at Nosborough.’

  ‘A vicar?’ Blanche’s sleek, dark eyebrows rose. ‘But why on earth did Nosborough’s vicar require an agricultural labourer?’

  Mrs Hardwick cast another nervous look towards the half-open door leading to the stairs. ‘The vicar ’eard as ’ow Charlie was good wi’ flowers – laying ’em out prettily like.’ Almost apologetically she added, ‘It’s summat Charlie enjoys doing, m’lady.’

  ‘And will the vicar want Charlie to continue gardening for him?’

  Carrie, who had been shocked rigid by the revelation that Blanche intended offering Charlie employment at Gorton Hall, bit her lip, fervently hoping that Mrs Hardwick was going to say yes and that Blanche’s offer – an offer that would surely terrify Violet out of her wits – wouldn’t need to be taken up.

  ‘No, m’lady Not now everything’s planted and blooming . . .’

  From the staircase a voice raw with bitterness cut across hers. ‘That’s not the reason, Ma, and well you know it.’ Still hidden from view, Charlie said, ‘It was the vicar’s wife who put paid to me working on t’ garden – and I could ’ave worked, for it’s my face that’s been burned away, not my ’ands. He said she was very sorry for me, but that I gave ’er a funny turn and that ’e couldn’t ’ave ’er being taken ill on account o’ me.’

  Blanche rose to her feet and, facing the stairs but making no move towards them, said, ‘I have Carrie Thornton with me, Charlie. She was in the post office this morning and told me what happened there. From what she said, I gather you haven’t yet found work. If that is the case, I would greatly appreciate it if you would consider becoming an estate worker at Gorton Hall. The gardens and parkland have been virtually untended since Gorton’s gardeners enlisted with the 7th Yorkshire Regiment. Mr Crosby –Jim Crosby – does his best, but he’s also doing stable work and odd jobs, and a house as big as Gorton is never short of work needing doing to it.’

  For a tense moment there was still no response and then Charlie said in an odd, abrupt voice, ‘I’m very appreciative of your kindness, Lady Fenton, but you ’aven’t seen me yet and might think twice when you do. I already scared Miss Violet ’alf to death this morning. I don’t want to do so again.’

  ‘Violet was scared because what has happened to you hadn’t been explained to her, and because the sight of you was so unexpected. That won’t be the case in the future, as it won’t be the case with my other two daughters and with everyone else at Gorton, both household staff and nursing staff.’

  There was another silence and then came the moment Carrie had been dreading; the moment when Charlie walked down the last of the stair steps and entered the room.

  Despite her fierce determination to show no outward sign of horror, Blanche sucked in her breath, shaken to the depths of her being, as everything she had imagined paled in comparison to the reality.

  Charlie stood perfectly still, his eyes holding hers.

  Carrie could hardly bear the tension as she watched and waited – and then Blanche dug kid-gloved fingers deep into her palms, saying in a voice that was only slightly unsteady, ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Charlie. I do hope you will become one of Gorton Hall’s estate workers. A tied cottage goes with the position and, if you are agreeable, I will tell both Mr Heaton and Jim Crosby that you will be arriving tomorrow morning to take over the care of the Hall’s gardens.’

  ‘Thank you, m’lady.’ There were tears in Charlie’s eyes. ‘I vow you’ll never regret the asking – and if it’s beautiful gardens Your Ladyship wants, I’ll make gardens so beautiful they’ll be the talk o’ the county!’

  Chapter Four

  NOVEMBER 1918

  On a misty day a little over a year after Blanche and Carrie’s visit to the Hardwicks, Blanche burst into Thea and Olivia’s schoolroom with news she had been praying for every day for four long years.

  ‘The war is over!’ Her face was radian
t with joy. ‘The Germans have signed an armistice!’

  Hermione Cumberbatch had been writing on the blackboard. Tall, thin and angular, she dropped the chalk, clapped a hand over her mouth and then, when she could trust herself to speak, put her hands on either side of her pedestal desk, saying emotionally, ‘Dear Thea and Olivia – remember this moment, for you are living through history. The most terrible war ever known is at an end. Years of unimaginable struggle, bloodshed and sacrifice are over. There will be no more grieving war widows and war-orphaned children. Today . . .’ her voice surged with pride, ‘today, we are a Christian nation seeing the dawning of a brave new world!’

  She turned to Blanche and, in an action so unexpected both Thea and Olivia were never to forget it, the two women hugged each other tightly, tears of relief and joy streaming down their cheeks.

  Aware that such momentous news could, with luck, mean no further lessons for the rest of the day, Thea pushed her chair away from her desk. ‘Do the officers and the nursing staff know the war is over, Mama? If they don’t, can I go and tell them?’

  Laughing through her tears, Blanche broke away from Miss Cumberbatch’s embrace. ‘They already know, darling. Listen!’

  By now the sound of jubilation was spreading through the house like wildfire.

  ‘Then can I go and tell Hal, Mama?’ Thea’s voice was urgent. ‘I do so want to be the first to tell someone.’

  ‘And me, too, Mama.’ Olivia was also now on her feet. ‘I want to tell Carrie. And what about Mr Crosby and Charlie? Will they know yet? Can I tell them?’

  Another sound merged with that of a score of convalescing men roaring out ‘Rule, Britannia!’ at the top of their lungs. Blanche ran across to the window and flung it open, letting in the distant sound of Outhwaite’s church bells as they rang out peal after glorious peal.

  ‘I think everyone knows by now, darlings,’ she said, still laughing, so happy she thought she was going to burst with it. ‘But as it is such an extraordinary, historic, wonderful moment, I’m sure Miss Cumberbatch will let you off lessons for the rest of the day.’