Not that anyone ever spoke about the coldness that had always existed between the two houses, as they wouldn’t, Miss Jessica being Miss Jessica, and Miss Maude being Miss Maude. All a long time ago, that business of Miss Jessica falling for Miss Maude’s middle brother Mr Esmond, and he going off to war, hardly past his eighteenth birthday, because Miss Jessica’s family had forbidden her to marry a younger son with no prospects. And so he had gone off to prove himself a man, and never returned, leaving Miss Maude, so rumour had it, blaming Miss Jessica for his death, because Mr Roderick, her favourite and youngest brother, had followed Mr Esmond out there, the two of them being such pals. And of course he, too, had not come back, and that had been the last of them, once Daisy’s father had gone down in the drink, being flown to Deauville for lunch, of all things . . .
Branscombe sighed, and then frowned. Someone was coming up the drive. He narrowed his eyes, staring, as he realised that it was a uniformed dispatch rider on a motorbike, and felt a familiar feeling of relief that it was not the postman astride a pony, carrying a telegram.
Branscombe, quickly assuming his peacetime role of butler, stepped forward on to the front steps to greet the new arrival.
‘Miss Valentyne is on war-work duties, and not expected back for some time—’ he told the man, who presented him with an order sheet. ‘Twistleton Court is commandeered by the army’ – Branscombe stared from the dispatch rider to the order sheet, and back again.
‘There must be some mistake, sir – these houses are all privately owned. This is our village.’
The dead-eyed look Branscombe was given said all too clearly what the older man did not want to know, namely that there was a war on, and that the authorities could do as they pleased.
‘I think you will find that the army owns Twistleton Court now, sir.’
‘The army can’t take over private property without so much as a say-so or a say-not.’
‘The army can do what they like when they like, sir. Brigadier MacNaughton will be arriving at 0800 hours tomorrow. Meanwhile, orders are to start evacuating the village now – sir.’
Maude was thinking quickly, as she had to do.
‘The Hall is not part of Twistleton proper. They can’t commandeer the Hall, or its grounds, or its demesnes. I would very much doubt that they could do that, for it is most certainly not part of Twistleton proper, and never has been.’
Branscombe looked relieved at this. If the Hall could be saved from imminent military invasion, that at least would be something.
‘I shall have to send someone to fetch Huggett, at once. Do you know where he is, Branscombe?’
‘As I remember it, he is busy organising the Look Duck and Vanish Brigade, is he not?’
‘Mr Huggett is head of the LDV, yes, of course, I remember now, he did mention it.’
‘The LDV may be able to cope with a Nazi or two, but they will be helpless against our army, Miss Maude . . .’
On hearing the news of the military takeover of the village, Maude, for reasons even she did not understand, had promptly disappeared upstairs and changed into her nurse’s uniform, so she now straightened her starched apron, and consulted her fob watch.
‘I see they have given us only twenty-four hours to get out of our houses. Surely even the Germans would give us a little more time, would they not, Branscombe?’
‘The Spread Eagle could have taken five people upstairs, but The Spread Eagle, too, is requisitioned. The whole village must be emptied.’
Maude’s lips tightened, and she stared past Branscombe, and into what seemed to her to be an all-too-graphic picture of the future. It was not a very pretty sight. She knew what the army could do to villages, she had heard and seen all too much of what armies did, in the Great War.
‘I heard that with the threat of invasion many towns and villages near the sea have been evacuated, and we are too near the sea; but this is not what they are doing here, is it, Branscombe? They are requisitioning the village for training purposes, which means, in effect, the end of Twistleton. Twistleton will become a desert.’
Maude felt her throat tighten. She felt older than she was, older than she should – and worse than feeling old, she felt hopeless.
‘I was only an ambulance driver in the Great War, Miss Maude,’ Branscombe confessed, looking uncomfortable, as if he half-expected Maude to pin three white feathers to his old, faded black jacket.
‘Jolly brave too, Branscombe, jolly brave, and it cost you one of your eyes, as we all know. Absolutely first class, men like you, couldn’t have done without you.’ She paused, and to Branscombe’s surprise she went to a silver cigarette box, took out a holder, and a small Turkish cigarette, and lit it with a slim gold lighter. ‘No, this is not what this wretched order is all about, Branscombe. Of course Huggett may say different, but with official papers you must always try and read what they are not saying. And what they are not saying here is very unpleasant indeed, very unpleasant.’
Branscombe frowned. Surely there could not be anything more unpleasant than the army taking over your village, the village where you had lived all your life?
‘What they are not saying here, Branscombe, is that they are taking over the village with the aim of making it a playground for tank and target practice, a training ground. Of course they will promise compensation, the army always do, but the truth is there will hardly be a building left standing after this Brigadier MacNaughton, or whatever his name is, has taken us over.’
There was a small silence during which Branscombe, too, felt suddenly helpless. How would he tell Miss Jessica? What would he tell her? He would hardly know what words to use to her, or Miss Blossom. What could he say? He felt as if he had let them down in some way, let in the army when their backs were turned, while they were working all day and all night building planes.
Finally Maude consulted her fob watch as if she was once more on duty on the ward.
‘We will have to call out the LDV to help us, Branscombe.’
Branscombe looked startled. Would there be a new war, then? Would it be the Local Defence Volunteers of Twistleton versus the Territorial Army? Broomstick and musket versus guns and tanks? He had seen the volunteers marching through the village street – the lame, the old, and four schoolboys just about summed up Twistleton’s LDV.
‘Meanwhile I will ask you to go to the rector and tell him to ring the church bells. Everyone must start packing up at once. Just as well all the evacuees have gone home.’
‘Not ours at the Court. The Ropleys have gone, but the Lindsays, they haven’t returned home, Miss Maude.’ Branscombe managed to look rueful, while feeling vaguely proud. He had finally won over not just Alec, but all the Lindsay brothers, to country life, not one of them now wanting to go home, not even little Johnny. Which was just as well, since it seemed that their mother wanted them back about as much as she wanted toothache. ‘We still have all four Lindsay brothers with us at the Court.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’
Maude looked vaguely astonished, before writing a note to advise the rector of their new and thoroughly unwelcome situation.
‘Yes, they are all well and happy at the Court, and not likely to be wanted at home again, at least not for the duration.’
‘I perfectly understand what you are saying, Branscombe. You will therefore, please, after giving the rector this note, return to the Court and pack up your evacuees, and yourselves, and all necessary effects.’
‘The dachshunds—’
‘Of course, the dachshunds, poor creatures. You will pack them all up, and bring them here. Let us hope they can cope with the pugs—’
‘Petrol and car?’
‘Everything. You will pack them all up—’
‘Pony and trap—’
‘Of course. And you must please tell the rector to cut along to the Hall as soon as he is able, as also Huggett. I have put here: “Emergency. Invasion. No, not Nazis, the army requisitioning the village.” Yes, you will tell them all to br
ing everything they can, here to the Hall, Branscombe. Yourself and all your et ceteras must all be put up in the stables, I’m afraid. We will have our work cut out to make them habitable, but habitable we must make them, for the duration.’
‘And what about the rest of the village, Miss Maude?’
‘The rest of the village? The rest of the village must be put up in the house, Branscombe.’
‘In the house, Miss Maude?’
Maude nodded.
‘Yes, in the house, Branscombe. With Bowles and Pattern and the rest gone we have at least, I don’t know – twenty bedrooms now, not including the basement and attics. What there is, when all is added up, is perfectly enough room to accommodate everyone. Hugger-mugger it will be, of course, but hugger-mugger is what war is all about. And let us face it, with the young going off, and soon women being called up, the numbers will doubtless thin out, and we will probably only be left with the remnants of the LDV, and all the rest will be thrown into the melee. Off to the factories, or the army, they will all soon be gone, and only you and I left to marshal them, but marshal them all we must, so you had better get to, Branscombe, and start ferrying the folk from The Cottages up here.’
As Branscombe turned to do as directed – feeling, and doubtless, he was sure, looking flustered – he tried to imagine old Dan Short from Number Five The Cottages sitting down to break bread with Miss Maude. He turned back. ‘Miss Maude?’
‘Yes, Branscombe?’
‘You do mean everyone from The Cottages, do you?’
Maude nodded briskly.
‘I certainly do, Branscombe, I certainly do.’
‘Up to and including Dan Short, and the Tumps?’
‘Oh, yes, everyone.’ Maude turned back to put out her cigarette. ‘Although,’ she paused, ‘although, maybe the Tumps should be in the basement – better for bicycling.’
‘They don’t have any bicycles, Miss Maude, I wouldn’t have thought they own bicycles.’
‘Maybe they have no bicycles, but we do. My brothers all had bicycles, and they are in the basement. When all is said and done, that is one thing that a house as big as the Hall is good for, bicycling down long corridors . . .’
Branscombe thought for a minute. He didn’t like to think of the Tumps, a rowdy, scruffy lot at the best of times, having first pick of the Beresford bicycle shed.
‘May I, with the greatest respect, suggest that we put Dan and the Tumps up in the grooms’ quarters above the stables, and we put my lot from the Court, the Lindsay brothers, in the basement here?’
Maude thought for a minute.
‘I tell you what, Branscombe, why do I not appoint you billeting officer for the Hall? You make all the arrangements that you think appropriate once you have alerted the rector and Huggett. You can be billeting officer, while I myself will become head of nursing and so on, allocating beds and such matters that looking after a small community will doubtless bring.’
Branscombe turned. He could not help remembering that Miss Maude and Miss Jessica had always been known to differ in their attitudes to the idea of another war, Miss Jessica often being called a warmonger by so many, while Miss Maude, seeing no one, never reading a newspaper, going nowhere, had been more than happy to sit in her vast house living off her memories. Now it would seem that she had sprung to life. Perhaps she, like so many, had needed a war to feel wanted again? Although why she had chosen to cut Miss Daisy out of her life was quite another matter.
The brigadier stared at Maude. He was not used to dealing with women that he could not bully, and he was certainly not used to a woman with the look of a latter-day Britannia about her addressing him as if he was some kind of a nincompoop.
‘I am sure, from the army-issue map that I have here, ma’am, that this house, the Hall, is included in the village of Twistleton, and it is the village of Twistleton that we have been ordered to requisition, preparatory to army training and exercises, as you know. Most villages near to the sea have been evacuated, in case of invasion, as you are doubtless aware. I can only suppose that the smallness of Twistleton, its size, has meant that your village has escaped notice to evacuate so far. Perhaps the authorities thought it too negligible, but from 0800 hours tomorrow Twistleton village will be requisitioned. I have been given my orders.’
Maude gave the brigadier her coldest look.
‘Perhaps you have the authority to requisition Twistleton, the village, Brigadier, but with the greatest respect, the Hall is not part of the ancient village of Twistleton, and never has been.’ She paused. ‘If I may explain. In 1086, my ancestor Sir John Beresford was given the lands and grants to what is now known as Twistleton Hall and Twistleton Farm. If you look at these ancient maps, you will see that the people of Twistleton were ceded grazing rights then to the common land of their village under ancient law, and indeed it was the same in each village south of here. The Hall and the Farm, while bearing from the middle of the nineteenth century onwards – and purely for the sake of convenience for the new postal service – the name of Twistleton, have never, ever been part of the village. In fact, as you will see here, as Mr Huggett can point out to you . . .’
Maude looked across at poor Huggett, his face edged with grief above a black tie. She was only too thankful that she had written a condolence letter to him and his wife, for now that it seemed they were all in the soup, she needed to lean on him in a way in which she would never have done had times been different. Grief needed time and tranquillity, but there was a war on.
Whether by intent or design poor Huggett had brought with him a map of such age that it was immensely difficult to make out county, village or any other demarcation lines. He now pointed at a faded line with an authoritative finger, and assumed an expression of legal gravity, before beginning.
‘Here you will see, from these lines, lands granted to Gwillem of Twussel in 1103 by King William. This land, in time, passed not to his son – I think he was killed on a crusade. At any rate, the land passed not to him, the only son of Gwillem, but to his cousin, one Bardolph. The land thereafter passed in 1184 to Thomas, and from Thomas to William, always known as the Saint, because he was said to have healing powers. At any rate, where was I? Yes, it was then that the family name changed to Berrenger, following titles and deeds passing on the marriage of William, son of William the Saint, to the heiress, one Mathilda, only daughter of Thomas Berrenger, and—’
But what happened after Mathilda, only daughter of Thomas, was lost to those present as the increasingly familiar sound of a siren rang out, and they all retreated to the basement.
Perhaps the brigadier had been cowed by the ancient map, or perhaps he had no taste for history, for he left the Hall an hour later, entirely dissatisfied with the stance that its owner had taken, but somehow realising that he could not prove that Maude’s family home was indeed part of the village, and the Hall open to be requisitioned by the army.
‘Well done, Huggett,’ Maude said quietly. ‘We have repulsed the enemy. At least we at the Hall have a temporary respite from his horrid invasion. I must do all I can to help the village, although for how long, we cannot know.’
For a few seconds Roger Huggett looked, if it was possible, even more sombre. Only he knew what few other people knew: that in her quiet way Maude Beresford had always been financially active in every area of the day-to-day life of Twistleton – helping out with anonymous donations whenever possible. The fact that she was now opening her home to the whole village in their hour of need was not surprising. Miss Beresford might be cold in manner and detached in voice, because she was very much of the old school, but he knew, if only from her letter of condolence about Joe, that she had a golden heart.
‘If we have to pour boiling oil from the first-floor windows that man and his troops are not going to invade the Hall, Huggett. He has no right, he shall have no right here. War or no war, an Englishman’s home is still his castle. Now, would you like a gin? You certainly deserve one.’
Roger accepted the
gin and downed it really rather too quickly, while Maude sipped hers, quickly making sure to refill his glass.
‘It’s very difficult for you, at Holly House, I know, but we must all just bite on this particular bullet. The army will offer compensation, it will only be a question of time.’
Roger thought of his poor wife, already distraught at the loss of their youngest son. It would be only a matter of hours before poor Susan would have to come up to the Hall, the owner of a few suitcases and not much more.
‘Some places, I hear, have been given so little time to evacuate their homes that the army have even requisitioned their pets. My wife was talking of having to put the dogs down, but—’
‘Tell her she must do no such thing, Huggett,’ Maude interrupted, appalled. ‘She must bring them here. Whatever happens we must save what we can before the ghastly dawn of tomorrow. But we must hurry, Huggett, we must indeed. The Cottages alone will need our help in such matters as livestock. There will be Dan Short’s hens, and Jean Shaw—’
Roger turned away abruptly at the mention of Jean’s name. Maude had heard the rumour about young Joe Huggett’s marriage to Jean Shaw, from Bowles of all people. The maid had come to take her leave of Miss Maude, in order to go into the armaments factory near Bramsfield, but of course Maude hadn’t believed her story about Jean. It was not Maude’s way to listen to hen-house gossip; yet seeing Huggett’s face, she now believed that Bowles might have been entirely correct, and that Jean Shaw was indeed both pregnant, and a widow.
Maude felt a momentary sadness, but it was only momentary as there was too much to do to allow feelings to get in the way. What she could do, and what she would do, was to ask Branscombe to put aside the best bedroom on the first floor for the poor girl. In the circumstances, that was the least they could offer her.
Freddie was travelling to London to see a patient in a newly set-up burns unit. Daisy had just flown a plane to Scotland and was facing a very long return trip indeed; while Laura had been sent to Norfolk to take charge at a recruiting centre, so none of them knew what was taking place at Twistleton.
The Daisy Club Page 20