Harry shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But then who has?’
‘Damn few,’ Charles agreed. ‘And it’s funny, isn’t it? I was getting more than a little indifferent to Christmas, but now – now I realise just how much I’m going to miss it.’
Peregrine was also thinking of Christmas and what he would be missing. He looked round his dugout. It needed cheering up with something more than the plate of bully beef and the mug of tea that he was holding. It was, however, a pretty good billet on the whole, and certainly well worth the work: half a dugout and half a hut, with the side that faced the enemy well sand-bagged. Peregrine had used up most of the little free time available to furnish it in the plushest manner possible. There was a table and four chairs – gifts from a local farmer – a small bookcase holding a variety of books and magazines, a case containing a large stuffed pike that he had found in an abandoned gîte, along with a small brass bed he had commandeered for his own use, a fine washstand, complete with china jug and bowl, an antique cabinet containing a supply of vin ordinaire, an umbrella stand with two umbrellas, a gramophone with a good selection of well-worn recordings, gas masks and powder bombs in case of a gas attack, and finally a working fireplace taken from the same farmhouse and built into the clay – and all this in a dugout no more than a hundred and twenty yards from the enemy.
What he needed now was a small Christmas tree, complete with decorations, but so far he had had neither the time nor the luck to find one, despite feelers having been put out by one of his men. The last he had heard, from Private Wilcox, had been a hint from one of the more obliging natives that he might – just might – be able to get hold of a small spruce with decorations for a consideration. Peregrine had dug deep into his savings only to find that due to one thing and another, more precisely wine, cognac, cigarettes, tobacco and English magazines, he was well short of the required tip. Happily Dick Huntley, one of his fellow officers, came to his rescue, only too happy to contribute to the costs, taking a cheque from Peregrine for the entire amount and some cash to spare on Peregrine’s insistence that Christmas was his treat.
With the tree and its decorations promised within the week, plus some extra coal and milk thrown in, Peregrine rightly considered Christmas was now in order.
‘Just need a few presents, eh?’
Peregrine looked at Dick Huntley, and then back at the tree.
‘Mmm, not sure Harrods delivers this far,’ he said slowly.
None the less, by further searches in forsaken dwellings he found some bric-a-brac that he promptly parcelled up, along with cigarettes and chocolate, cognac, and other small items, in pieces of precious brown paper saved from parcels from home.
Now, during a lull in the bombardments, Peregrine was able to put his feet up in front of the fire, light a cigarette and dream of Christmas at Bauders. He imagined it was as it always had been at this time of year, with the giant tree beautifully decorated, the local choir singing carols at the foot of the great staircase, the great luncheon for fifty, and presents for everyone, followed by the servants’ ball on Boxing Day, and in the midst of it all he could not help seeing Partita, her lovely face lit by the library fire, her blonde hair shining in the glow from candles, and her blue eyes full of mischief.
‘Dreaming of home, sir?’ Private Wilcox wondered as he prepared to brew more tea. ‘That’s the ticket.’
‘Yes I was, Wilcox,’ Peregrine replied, pressing his cigarette out in an old mess tin used as an ash can. ‘Although to be truthful I was dreaming of someone else’s home.’
‘That so, sir. Wonder why that is.’
‘Because that is where she is, Wilcox – which reminds me. We haven’t had any post for some time. Know anything about that?’
‘I shall make yet another enquiry, sir, soon as the kettle’s boiled,’ Wilcox replied. ‘Rumour is, any moment now.’
Wilcox was as good as his word, returning with a box full of letters and a small sack for the parcels, all of which were opened by the recipients by the fireside to the sound of recordings of heavenly arias by Donizetti and other composers. Peregrine’s post contained two letters from Livia, forwarded from home, recounting her nursing experience in Nurse Cadell’s hospital and including her belief she might have caught sight of Valentine, of all people. There was also a long, mournful screed from his mother, making no mention of his sister or brother-in-law, a short letter from Kitty, and a very long, funny, warm and affectionate letter from Partita that he saved until last, and then read and reread, because she managed to put so much of herself into her accounts of life at the Bauders hospital.
‘Quiet for the time of year,’ First Lieutenant Toby Ferguson remarked in one of his many accents. ‘I was saying to the wife only the other day, doesn’t seem a bit like Christmas.’
‘I was thinking of inviting Jerry over for Christmas cocktails,’ Peregrine remarked as he finally put his letter from Partita away. ‘Think he’ll come?’
‘I heard Jerry doesn’t need an invitation to visit our trenches, Perry,’ Toby replied. ‘He’s one of those perfectly beastly people who don’t know when they’re not wanted.’
‘All the same, I thought we’d send him an invitation, make it formal,’ Peregrine said. ‘Fire over some empty canisters asking them for drinks in no man’s land.’
‘Black tie, of course.’
‘Naturally.’
‘And decorations?’
‘Only the ones worn by Christmas trees. We’ll get Wilcox to find us some suitable canisters, and I’ll send the invitations to the engravers.’
‘What ho, Perry,’ Toby said, raising his glass of vin ordinaire.
‘Here’s to it,’ Peregrine toasted in return. ‘I really do think it’s time we stopped all this shooting lark and got down to some very serious jollification.’
‘Couldn’t agree more, sir,’ Wilcox added, putting some more coal on the fire. ‘Just hope we don’t have too many more sorties before the big day.’
‘CO indicated things are going quiet everywhere,’ Toby assured him, everyone listening. ‘Just a bit of wire repairs to be done, and maybe a couple of recces, then that’s it until the New Year.’
Peregrine tapped a fresh cigarette on his silver case, ready to light up, nodding as he listened. He had already had a good briefing from their CO. It seemed that the only real party that was being planned was a sortie on a farmhouse one mile to the east of them, which had already changed hands twice, the enemy recapturing it according to the latest reports on the previous afternoon. The CO had expressed the hope that the information was faulty, or if it were not, that at least HQ would not demand any attack on the farm until after Christmas Day.
‘I can’t see the need for any rush, I can’t really. After all, the last time they had it we let them pitch up there for a week or two. I say let them pop a few corks, put their feet up and loosen their uniforms, then we’ll stop by and say how do, once we have Christmas out of the way.’
Peregrine raised his wine glass in a private toast to that hope, watching the flames dancing in the fire, and then with a slow look at his surroundings found it impossible to suppress the thought that it was a pretty funny place to spend a holiday.
‘Happy Christmas, everyone,’ he said finally. ‘And let’s hope we’ll be home safe and sound by this time next year.’
‘No doubt about it, sir,’ Wilcox said, his duties done. ‘In fact, my money says home by Easter.’
‘Reliable information, Wilcox?’ Peregrine wondered.
‘None better and never known to be wrong, sir. Said so in the tea leaves.’
‘Easter it is then, everyone. And here’s to it.’
The Bauders pantomime proved to be such fun and so entertaining in rehearsals that it was quickly decided to organise it as a charity event in aid of the war effort, in particular to help towards financing the Red Cross in their unceasing work in the war zone. Hardly able to believe how many tickets they had sold in the first few days they were
marketed, thanks to the work of volunteers in every walk of life, the organisers realised that one performance was not going to be sufficient, so they planned an extra one, only to find that was all but sold out in three days, which meant that they finally managed to sell every available seat for three performances.
Thanks to the labours and enthusiasm of Canon White, who revealed himself to be a talented theatrician, the standard of performance for an amateur production exceeded all expectations, both young Jack Wilson as Buttons and Michael Bradley – who had taken surprisingly little persuasion to play Prince Charming – revealing natural talents. As for the costumes, due to Partita’s extraordinary ability to make something out of nothing – and not just something but something quite unique – they were outstanding, most particularly since all she had at her disposal were two very old dressing-up boxes, some old clothes from previous generations that for some reason had been kept rather than passed on, and yards of fabric, shiny paper, Christmas decorations and papier-mâché, which she used with great skill for masks and props. As a result, the costumes alone all but stopped the show, particularly Cinderella’s ball gown and even more so the golden coach in which she arrived at the ball, the coach having been painstakingly built by Jossy on the framework of the ponytrap, under the careful supervision of Partita, the ensemble being pulled onto the stage set up in the ballroom by a superbly turned out Trotty.
The audience demanded two encores for the Ugly Sisters’ comic out-of-tune duet, and the same for Kitty’s beautiful rendition of ‘Cinderella’s Dream’, a song specially composed for the show by Elizabeth, while Partita’s interpretation of Cinderella softened even the most unsentimental of hearts, enchanting everyone in the audience, but most of all capturing for ever all the hearts of her adoring patients.
As for Partita and Kitty, the organisers and co-stars of the panto, their own particular never-to-be-forgotten moments were Michael singing ‘Bless This House’ after he has discovered that Cinderella will go to the ball, and Jack, who, having insisted on playing Buttons on crutches, brought the show to a stop when having made a wish to the Fairy Godmother he found it had come true and that he could walk unaided. The moment Jack placed his crutches aside, and almost danced across the stage had a very special meaning to those who had nursed him for so long.
There was only one major difficulty to overcome and it was left to Circe to manage the diplomacy.
Shortly before curtain-up on the third night, as she was preparing for the evening, Circe was summoned to the telephone.
‘I am so sorry to have to telephone you in this way, Circe,’ Consolata began, ‘but I have only just heard and I thought you should know.’
‘Is it – is it Peregrine?’
‘I am afraid so. I received a telegram an hour ago, informing me that my son is missing in action.’
‘Consolata,’ Circe said, ‘while I don’t know what to say, you must know that I do understand exactly how you feel.’
‘That is why I rang you, my dear.’
There was a long pause.
‘The telegram simply said missing, did it?’
‘It just said “missing in action”.’
‘Then you must live in hope.’
‘I think you and I understand what terms such as “missing in action” mean, my dear,’ Consolata replied in a steady voice. ‘While of course I shall live in hope, and will of course continue to pray, I must also prepare myself for the worst, the very worst, news.’
‘I understand, Consolata. If there is anything I can do at this time … ?’
‘You are most kind, as always, Circe,’ Consolata assured her. ‘Perhaps I might come to call after your pantomime is over. I should like that.’
‘Of course,’ Circe assured her. ‘I shall telephone you and we shall make a suitable arrangement. In the meantime you are in our thoughts, and our prayers – all our prayers.’
Circe stayed in the telephone room, her mind rushing ahead as it always did, thinking of the practicalities.
It simply would not be fair to tell the girls the bad news before they went on stage. There was nothing they could do about Peregrine’s disappearance, but then – just as she was about to put the finishing touches to her own makeup and costume as the Pantomime Queen, a voice inside her head wondered: but what if the news had been about Almeric? Or Gus? Would you still have kept the matter secret?
Circe looked at herself in the mirror as she made up for her part, and despite the laughter she could hear, the sounds of happy bustle all over the castle, she could not help recognising the sorrow in her eyes.
What would she have done, she wondered, if the young man posted missing had been Gussie? What in truth would she have felt and decided then? She had simply no idea, and for a moment she despaired at what she saw as her hypocrisy, until she remembered what John had said to her when she was trying to come to terms with the loss of their beloved boy.
‘These are not normal times, dearest. And the events that happen to everyone are not normal events. Yes, they have happened before – people down the ages have lost their loved ones, but war is not normal, and the things that happen within its context are not what we would call normal, and so we must not expect our reactions to be any different. Different demands are being made on us for very different reasons. They make us search inside for the right thing to say or do, but there is no such thing, never has been, probably never will be.’
Circe finished her preparation, and then prayed for Gussie, and most especially for Peregrine. Alter which she checked herself one last time in her dressing glass before descending the great staircase and making her way to the ballroom for another splendid performance of the Bauders pantomime.
When Partita heard the news that Peregrine was missing, she fainted, and had to be revived in the stills room.
‘I am so sorry, so sorry,’ she kept muttering to Kitty, who kept wringing out cold flannels and pressing them to her forehead. ‘It was such a shock, somehow such a shock. Poor Consolata, poor Livia, what will happen?’
‘He has been posted missing, not dead. That at least is some comfort.’
Peregrine was not the only one to have vanished. Two other soldiers were included in the casualty lists as missing presumed dead, but that was all that was known. It seemed that the enemy had set a clever trap, making it look as though they had deserted a farmhouse, when in fact they were all hidden in the roofs and rafters of the outbuildings, the haystacks and the pigsties. Peregrine’s squad was hopelessly outnumbered and his commanding officer let it be known in his report that in his opinion the sortie should never have been ordered, based as it was on a slap-happy and lazy reconnaissance.
But it was no good protesting, either abroad or at home, because Peregrine had disappeared and no one knew where. The loss of her beloved brother had been hard enough for Partita to bear, but now the reported loss of the man she knew she loved coming so hard on the heels of Almeric’s death, and the agonising, unbearable moment of the return of his uniform and effects, made life seem like a living nightmare, and there was no other word for it. She would never forget the look on her mother’s face as she saw all that was left of her son, all that had been sent back to them, which was nearly nothing at all – except for Kitty’s letters tucked where his heart should have been.
Kitty herself was resolute. She had to be, because she knew how strong the Duchess and Partita were trying to be. She insisted that she knew that Peregrine was missing, he was not dead, and so long as he was only missing, that was how they would think of him, not as dead, but as lost for the moment.
Partita was also resolute.
‘I have decided that I will go to France and find Peregrine, Mamma.’
Her mother was seated at the kitchen table in precisely the chair where Mrs Coggle had used to sit. She looked up slowly.
‘They’re short of volunteer nurses, and the closer I am to where it happened the better chance I have of finding out something more about what has happened to him. I wil
l do it for all of us, we all loved Perry. More than that, I must do it.’
‘You must do as you feel best, dearest,’ Circe told her in a tired voice. She paused. ‘Your patients here will miss you, but that is your decision, darling. As your father so rightly says, these are unusual times and the things that we do and decide to do aren’t governed by the same rules as of old.’
‘What do you think I should do, Kitty?’ Partita asked her friend later. ‘What would you do in my place?’
‘I think I’d feel exactly as you do,’ Kitty replied. ‘But then I might also think it would be rather like looking for a needle in a haystack – mostly because all the men with Peregrine were killed, and those two or three that weren’t are also missing, so I might think that no one would be able to tell me anything useful.’
‘While here …’
‘What you have achieved here is very special.’
‘What we all have done here, Kitty,’ Partita insisted. ‘This is something we have all done. Everyone at Bauders.’
‘Of course,’ Kitty agreed. ‘But in the end it is entirely up to you.’
In the end Partita stayed, and she did so because of the patients. At the back of her mind she knew that there was little if any chance of learning something about one missing man in a war where thousands were being killed, wounded and going absent believed dead, while at Bauders she was needed in a very particular way. In the field stations she would, of course, have her uses, but finally she would only be another pair of hands, whereas at Bauders she had specific work to do, work that was still unfinished.
Others left. After Christmas, celebrated in much the same style as the year before, at the next medical board, held to see which of their patients might or might not be deemed fit to return to either active or to home duty, among the many passes was Buttons, as Jack Wilson was now affectionately known, and Quiet Mike, now seemingly fully restored.
Naturally everyone remaining at Bauders was anxious to know where their friends were being sent, and were happy and relieved when they learned that, although passed fit, Quiet Michael was not to be sent back abroad but had been assigned a posting at home. Young Jack Buttons, however, was to return to the Front.
In Distant Fields Page 38
