Easterleigh Hall at War

by Margaret Graham

  Jack jerked his head towards the men who were kicking up mud and spray on the field Captain Bridges had commandeered along with the billets. Bloody luxurious they were too, as they all had roofs and walls without holes. ‘I was just thinking we need this lot of buggers, bonny lad, good, bad and indifferent though they are. But they’ll not be up to proper fighting scratch for a while, and likely be dead before they have a bloody chance to be. Look at the roads, crawling they are, like a bloody ant run. There’s something brewing.’

  Captain Brampton appeared around the corner and called, ‘You’ve your sunshine face on again this morning then, Sergeant?’

  ‘Just telling it as it is, sir.’ Jack shuffled upright, saluting. Auberon had just been made up from Lieutenant and for a moment he and Si had wondered if it would go to his head. It hadn’t. ‘Stand easy for God’s sake, Jack,’ Auberon told him. ‘Well, let’s do our best to look after this lot when we move up to the front, if we move up, especially the Lea End crowd. You’ve done well, Jack, put them through hell and back again, which I feel you enjoyed to the full?’

  They all laughed. Auberon continued, ‘Now I’d pit them against any Glaswegian or Canadian company, let alone the Huns. So let’s blow the clouds away, and find that little Mr Happy I know you have hiding somewhere.’ Auberon grinned at both men and walked across to Captain Bridges who was conferring with the company sergeant major, kicking up spray and sinking into the muddy field until he reached the duckboards.

  Jack slumped back against the barn, smiling in spite of himself. By, those buggers could fight like heathens, but he and Si had known that way back when they’d fought them while sea-coaling. ‘That was a grand barney on Fordington beach that day, wouldn’t you say, bonny lad?’

  Simon knew exactly what he meant. ‘Aye, what a damned fool Parson Manton was. Our Evie says he can’t cross the road safely, so high are his thoughts, so how he fancied he’d trot along the beach, Bible in hand, and convert that drunken lot, God alone knows. The only result was always going to be a ducking. Would have done for him an’ all if you and Timmie hadn’t led the charge to send ’em packing, and then gone in after the fool.’ They were watching as the two captains stood together now, discussing something. Perhaps they were on the move again? Jack hoped not, but then touched Evie’s package in his pocket. Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst news.

  Simon continued, ‘Not done a lot of that, have we, charging I mean? But we’re pretty bloody good at hunkering down in trenches and shell holes and getting better at keeping our tippy-toes dry, and trench foot away, and our heads whole. So, are you taking that package to Grace Manton, man? You can’t keep putting it off.’

  Jack stared at the Lea End men who came from beyond the Sidon pit, and even from beyond Hawton and Easton collieries, as they made fours. Their marching was neat, very neat. It had taken a few goes behind the barn with his fists to show them the error of their ways but yes, the buggers were far from the pregnant camels they had been. In fact, Auberon was right, they were the best of the bloody intake bunch. They put him in mind of the Canadians. Nobody’s yes men, but fighters to the last man. He just had to make sure his Lea End men lived long enough on the front line to be as safe as they could be. They’d make their own luck. Yes, his men, dammit.

  Simon was laying tobacco along his cigarette paper, which he then rolled, licked and lit, blowing the smoke up into the wind. ‘You’ve been carrying the damned package about for months. How it survived Ypres, God knows. Get a grip, man, and give me some peace from our Evie’s letters. Just let me tell her you’ve delivered it, please, or do I have to get on my knees in this mud?’

  He made a show of getting down until Jack hauled him upright. ‘Give it a rest, Si. I’m going’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Why she didn’t just send it to the woman, I don’t know. They’re friends after all and most things get to where they need to be by the postal service, for Christ’s sake. Women? I just don’t understand them.’

  ‘You never used to swear, young Si. Your roses wouldn’t like it, so think on.’ Jack started to walk away, but stood to attention, throwing a salute as Auberon ambled over from Captain Bridges, flagging him to a stop. ‘Surprised to see you’re still here, Jack. Shouldn’t you be on your way? Please give Miss Manton my best wishes, and Ver’s, though I expect they’re in regular contact. You deserve a few hours off camp, you’ve worked damned hard.’

  Jack threw a look at Simon. ‘Thank you, sir. Corporal Preston did his little best with the men too.’

  Auberon laughed. ‘You heard that then, Corporal? Faint praise, but praise indeed.’

  Simon stood to attention. ‘I heard it all, sir. How’d you manage to get him to agree to shift his arse and get the package to where it should be?’

  Auberon laughed, and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Bumped into a friend of Ver’s who is also one of the Very Adorable Darlings and asked if they had a Grace Manton. One gets so tired of letters from home asking if Jack’s delivered the wretched thing. My sister doesn’t seem to understand that the VADs are a movable feast and could be anywhere, and what’s more there’s a war on and we actually have more important things to do than fulfilling Evie’s wishes.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Don’t tell her that, or we’ll all be buried six foot under.’ Captain Bridges was standing watching the new intake again, as the sergeant major yelled at them to get a bloody move on.

  Auberon laughed. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Corporal. But miracles happen, and this VAD said that Miss Manton is here, or as near as dammit, just a few miles or so away, near the railway station at the camp hospital. I suggested to Jack yesterday that I find and ask this particularly attractive VAD to deliver the package but our Jack refused, wanted to make sure it reached her himself. I daresay that was one of Evie’s directives. So I was denied a reasonable excuse to make contact with the most recent apple of my eye.’

  Jack listened to the pair of them behaving like little girls. Daft buggers. Around them bugles played. It would be the same over at the camp hospital as the nurses skidded along the duckboards, just as the men did here.

  He let them light up yet more cigarettes, and blow the smoke away across their shoulders, saying nothing. Why should they know that he always knew just where Grace Manton was, because he asked every nurse or VAD he came across.

  Auberon wagged a finger at him. ‘Why are you still here? Surely you’ve remembered I suggested sixteen hundred hours in my message to Miss Manton, at the estaminet, but she has officer status and you have not, so sit at the back where you are unlikely to be seen, there’s a good lad. And think about taking a commission as Bridges suggested. We’d all support it.’

  ‘What, and have to buy my own bloody uniform and mingle with the bosses?’ Jack retorted.

  Auberon laughed. ‘Not sure the bosses are ready for it, but he’d look good in long boots, wouldn’t he, Simon? Then you could have his stripes and before we knew where we were we’d have you buying your own uniform too. Just a short step to you two running the ruddy war, each with a batman like Roger.’

  They all laughed. Jack said, ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘Highly likely, Jack.’ Auberon’s tone was dry, their laughter was loud. They seemed to do a lot of it, but not deep down.

  The estaminet was well over an hour’s walk, Auberon had said, or he could grab a ride on the ration lorry. Jack refused. Why meet sooner than they had to? ‘Once there,’ Auberon said, ‘you’ll see a narrow road that leads from the square, dominated by the church. It leads to Le Petit Chat.’

  Auberon shrugged when Jack asked if there actually was a little cat. ‘You’ll have to wait and see, and for God’s sake, man, get there, give the package over and only after that may you head for the cellar at Rogiers’. Yes, I know you can get good beer there, but it’s as good at Le Petit Chat, I’ve tried both. Bear in mind that I’ll tear your stripes off myself if you retreat before hand over. Just give us all some peace from home, there’s a good lad, and let’s b
e done with it.’

  Jack made his way to the exit, passing the Lea End lot who had been dismissed and were scrounging amongst the tents and stores, looking for hand-bomb-making material no doubt, to supplement their personal armaments: jam tins, bits of metal and screws, and fuses, all of which Aub and he knew from experience worked a treat. Soon, the rumour was, the factories back home would come up with something better, but who had time to wait?

  He took to the road, thinking of war, not his meeting. It was easier. And another thought came to him. Those Lea End buggers could certainly throw, bowling out the Newcastle recruits within minutes at the winter cricket match. It had earned them beer from Captain Bridges. Not a good move because Jack and Simon, plus Eddie and Frank, who had come out in a January draft, both hewers, had had to round them up and herd them back to their billet and sit on them till morning, or have a raging fight on their hands, not to mention the whole lot on a charge.

  Jack stuck to the verge as the ammunition carts rumbled onwards, to the station probably, or towards Ypres perhaps? The Front was so extended that every conceivable form of transport was used. The lorries with red crosses were as busy as ever, heading either to the Front or away towards Rouen and the base hospital, or Le Touquet, or even to the ships, if someone was lucky enough to have a wound that would get them back to Blighty. Taxis and buses had been called into service too and all around, carried on the wind, was the crump and muted roar of artillery, the stutter of machine guns. Often there was the crack of a solitary sniper. With every step nearer the Front the noise would increase, and added to it would be the sound of the men, and the blast of hand bombs.

  He was striding on mud-splattered cobbles as he entered the village, splashing through swathes of surface water, even though it had stopped raining by nine hundred hours or thereabouts. Bloody hell, what about some warmth, and sun? But it was only March. Nuns were scurrying children along the edge of the road towards the church spire. Were they off for Mass? He didn’t know and didn’t care because God was a lot of baloney, but if it kept the poor buggers happy, so be it. It was their country being wrecked and how did one cope with that? He didn’t dwell. Why would he when it dragged him down?

  Cars and lorries revved. A horse neighed as its driver sat astride and urged it forward with its cartload of shells. Now he could see the church ahead, and the long line of children entering through its massive doors, being shepherded by the nuns. There was a market set up in the square, with people buying, talking, bartering. It was comforting, in a way, that life went on within the sound of warfare. It meant that one day sanity could prevail because some people would remember the sense of normal life. He couldn’t, not any more.

  He headed straight for the turning Aub had mentioned. It was shaded here and the cold penetrated deeper. He slowed, looking left and right, and there it was. Le Petit Chat. He stopped, feeling in his pocket for the package. Damn Evie. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, and then another. Damn Grace. Damn her to hell for what she had done.

  Inside Grace Manton sat at the back of the café, near the swing doors leading to the kitchen. An elderly waiter in a long white apron glided past, his tray held high on the tips of his fingers and thumb. How on earth had he retained such elegance? Didn’t his back ache, his feet throb, or was he a better man than her? Never had her feet been as swollen, her back as sore, her knees so agonising. She sat back, enjoying this moment of rest. The estaminets were the lifesavers of the nurses and VADs, away from the noise and smell of the hospitals, and the coffee was just heaven, usually. Le Petit Chat didn’t disappoint and she’d already ordered one, and a beer for Jack. Both would be served on his arrival.

  The waiter had told her when she arrived two weeks ago that the proprietor had bought many barrels from the cellar Rogiers’ for les Anglais before Christmas, as the war would not end for many months. She had replied, ‘If there is money to be made and throats to slake, then one must.’ As she had spoken in French she was now his best friend.

  Grace pulled her coat belt tight. There was no need to make her VAD status obvious, though there were usually no bearers of tales here. Usually being the operative word, for some of the new officers could be stuffy about enlisted men breaching their sanctum. At the front of the café officers cluttered up the tables, but today they all had that unmistakable look and pallor of old hands. At the back were several enlisted men, some with VADs, some with officer friends they had known at home.

  The doorbell tinkled. She looked up but it wasn’t Jack, only Major Sylvester, an American surgeon who had come across the Atlantic on his own initiative to work at the camp hospital. He was introducing them to the wonders of blood transfusions, which would save many lives, God bless his good heart. He saw her, and waved, weaving his way between the tables towards her. ‘Gracie, all alone?’

  Behind him the door opened again. It was him, Jack. She half rose. Major Sylvester hesitated, turned. ‘I see you’re not. Later, perhaps?’

  Jack had stopped, and was closing the door carefully, searching the room. He saw her immediately, and Major Sylvester. The colour rushed to his drawn face, his poor tired, thin, drawn face, and he swung round on his heel, reaching out for the door. ‘Jack Forbes, don’t you dare.’ Her shout silenced the clatter and murmur of the room. Major Sylvester laughed quietly. ‘I’ll leave you to your prey. Be gentle with him, he looks in need of tender care.’ He tipped his cap and sauntered in that long-legged way of the Americans over to a distant table.

  Grace saw Jack hesitating, his hand gripping the door handle, then it was as though he gave up. He strode towards her, weaving through the tables, his head down, his weight forward as though he was approaching the enemy. Surely that’s not how he thought of her? Had she been wrong all this time? She stood tall, refusing to doubt.

  He reached her, and half bowed. She sat. He looked anywhere but at her. ‘Oh do sit down,’ she snapped, as disappointment drained courtesy from her.

  He did. She said, drawing off her gloves, ‘I have ordered a beer for you, and a coffee for me.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Manton.’ He laid his cap on the table and groped in his pocket. Miss Manton? Had he really forgotten those last looks they had exchanged before he embarked? Yet again, as she did every evening before she gave in to exhaustion, she berated herself for all her mistakes.

  He stopped fiddling in his pocket at last, and drew out the package that Evie had spoken of in her letter. A letter which arrived in the new year, when she was at the base hospital in Rouen. Dearest Evie, she knew how much she loved Jack, she had always known and was determined that somehow the situation must be resolved. ‘God, I was such a fool.’

  She didn’t realise she had spoken aloud until Jack looked up, startled and said, ‘You’ve never been a fool.’

  He looked down again immediately, studying the package as though it was something curious he had never seen before. It was two inches by three, and battered. The ribbon had once been silver from the look of it, and now it was dirty, but stained and precious because it had been with this young man since Christmas. At that, Grace paused. Yes, young man. He was twenty-four, she thirty-two, no wonder he had forgotten. The waiter glided to their table with coffee and a beer.

  He placed the coffee before her, reverentially, and the beer before Jack. ‘Il n’y a pas de frais,’ he said. Jack replied, in French. ‘Oh no, of course we must pay.’

  Grace said at the same time, ‘You must make a living.’ The waiter nodded, smiling. ‘For those who speak our language, and protect our families, we insist, especially for those who speak as one. War is a time for lovers, you must never forget this, for time is short,’ he told them.

  He swept away. Grace and Jack stared at the package, neither speaking. At last Jack pushed it across the table. ‘From Evie, Miss Manton, and I need to tell you . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ She knew she was too eager.

  ‘That the French you taught her to help her career as a cook and hotelier has been of value to me here
, because of course she passed on the lessons.’ He took a deep draught of beer, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘That’s our Evie.’ How formal they both were, she thought, her heart breaking. She untied the ribbon of the battered package. Inside was a squashed white cardboard box. She removed the dried and cracked greaseproof-paper package within it. The waiter had moved nearer to their table, watching, a benign smile on his face. She removed one layer, then another, and another until she reached a light grease-stained package tied again with ribbon. It was shapeless, it felt like – beads? Sand? What on earth was it? Evie had refused to say. She undid the knot, opened it and there was yet more greaseproof paper. This she opened, and there lay a piece of Christmas cake, or rather, a mass of crumbs.

  Jack flung himself back in his chair. The waiter, who had perhaps expected to see a ring, just shook his head and muttered, ‘Les Anglais?’ He shrugged, and banged back the swing doors as he escaped to the kitchen.

  Jack spluttered, ‘Bloody Evie, all this way for crumbs? What d’you think of that then, Grace?’ He laughed, reached forward, pinched up some crumbs and held them towards her mouth, she opened her lips, his fingers touched her tongue. It was as though electricity passed through her. At that moment he snatched his hand away. ‘God. Sorry.’

  He shook his fingers free of the crumbs and seized his beer, finishing it, reaching for his cap, but Grace clutched his hand, holding it vice-like to the table. ‘Oh no you don’t, Jack Forbes. You damn well don’t.’

  He tried to pull away. She held on. ‘Do you think I’m about to let you go? I’ve worked with men out of their minds and wrestled them back on to their stretcher, I’ve removed crawling, bloated, greedy maggots from wounds, bleached my hands a million times a day so I carry no infection from one to another. I’ve cut off clothes until I have corns on my hands from the scissors. You, Jack Forbes, are a lightweight. I have muscles where I didn’t know I had places, my hands are so rough, tough and gnarled I have the grip of a prizefighter. So you will listen.’