Easterleigh Hall at War

by Margaret Graham

  Veronica rushed along the corridor, calling back, ‘If you don’t mind.’ She slowed to step over wires, avoiding men who were drilling holes and wielding screwdrivers. Someone was singing in the laundry. It was Millie, for God’s sake. It was as though she had leapt into widowhood with alacrity and pleasure, appearing in black the day after the news, tripping through the kitchen, her hair damp from the early morning mist, her face the picture of someone bereaved. Veronica had thought that Evie would strike her, but Mrs Moore had stepped into the fray, giving Millie a flea in her ear for jumping the gun, shouting, ‘Believed dead, you silly girl.’ She had then shoved her down the corridor and into the laundry.

  Since then Millie had remained firmly in black and asked daily about some money to help eke out her earnings, but as Richard pointed out, she was still receiving her allotment at this stage from Jack’s wages. He had also emphasised that Potty still had no more news that would alter the fact that they were ‘believed’ killed. Mrs Moore had said, more diplomatically than usual, that shock took people in strange ways and perhaps this was the case with Millie.

  Veronica slowed to enter the kitchen where all was cheerful bustle and seeming chaos, with the usual discarded knitting guarded by the dogs on the two armchairs by the furnace, ready for the night shift to work on between providing what food and drink was needed. It wasn’t chaos of course, but it was cheerful. It had to be, it was the rule of the house. Evie looked up and jerked her head towards the pastry waiting on the marble slab. ‘You wanted to learn how to do this, so stop messing about in Richard’s cubbyhole and get to it, young lady. It needs to be cool, hence the marble. It does not need to be kept waiting in the heat of the ranges.’

  Veronica placed the accounts for Nairns on the dresser and snatched a white cotton apron from the hook by the door. She had half an hour before her shift began in the hospital, just time to roll out the pastry and learn how to line the pie dishes, but she couldn’t stop looking at Evie who had such dark circles under her eyes, and was even paler than yesterday, and the day before, and before that. Fear clutched at Veronica. This girl’s fiancé and brother were missing but nonetheless she never slacked, never failed to smile, or run the kitchen to its full capability. As if that wasn’t enough she played with Tim over in the nursery her mother ran, and was always ready to laugh and joke with the men, but what if one day she did stop? What would they all do?

  As though Mrs Moore could read her thoughts, she heard the head cook say as she came in from the central corridor with tea towels heaped in her arms, ‘Good, you’re here, Lady Veronica. Then we will have a bit of a sit-down in my parlour, if you please, Evie. We have those kitchen figures to go through, those that Dr Nairns has requested. He’s requested every single invoice, if you can believe that, Lady Veronica, as though Mr Harvey hasn’t been in charge of our accounts since time began.’

  Mrs Moore put the tea towels next to Veronica’s accounts, picked these up and waited, watching Evie, who was ignoring her and instead was checking the Home Farm lamb that was slowly casseroling in all three ranges, with an overload of carrots, turnips and parsnips to eke it out, as everyone agreed they should, as shortages were beginning to occur. ‘Now,’ Mrs Moore bellowed. The kitchen staff froze. Evie straightened and wiped her hands down her apron, saying, ‘Keep your hair on.’

  She raised her eyebrows at Annie and Veronica as she followed Mrs Moore out of the kitchen. They passed Mrs Green, who was almost running from the airing cupboard to the stairs. A fresh convoy had just arrived, this time from Ypres where what was being called the Second Battle of Ypres was taking place. Poor Canadians, bearing the brunt, poor all of them. Soon they’d be arriving, after every push it was the same, and in between, with the steady attrition, it was the same.

  Veronica wielded the rolling pin under Annie’s expert eye.

  In his study, while Ron was upstairs phoning Sir Anthony, Richard stared at his portmanteau. Was now the time to give dearest Ver her brother’s sealed letter that was to be opened in the event of his death? It was a question that didn’t linger, because hope hadn’t left the building. Not yet. Not yet. But soon common sense must take its place because Richard had been in northern France, he had lived here, at the hospital, and who could not be a realist after all of this? These women, that’s who: this monstrous regiment who might waver, but would hold on until the absolute end. Grace had written, and she, too, would not let hope fade.

  In the parlour Evie sat in the armchair, opposite Mrs Moore, watching her flick through the paperwork. She couldn’t sit, she really couldn’t. She leapt to her feet. ‘Sit down,’ bellowed Mrs Moore, pushing her spectacles up her nose, peering over the top. ‘Just stop this endless activity. You have to be well for the patients, and for Simon and Jack when we know where they are. Now stop it or Matron will be down again, worrying over you. I just wish Dr Nicholls hadn’t taken it upon himself to go on leave, because I’d get him down to check you. That’s men for you.’

  Evie sat down. ‘There’s no need for worry.’

  ‘What do you call wobbling all over the place in the kitchen the other day, if it’s not cause for worry?’

  ‘The heat from the oven took me by surprise.’ The door into Mrs Moore’s basement bedroom was open and Evie wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to sleep in a room with no windows. At least up in her attic room she could see as far as Fordington, and the sea, in between the folds of the hills, with not a sign of the pits. It was just countryside, and sky.

  ‘Nonsense, you need to get some decent sleep. Your mam thinks so too, and I heard her telling you only yesterday.’

  Evie said, ‘I could be the only one left, Mrs Moore. First Timmie, now Jack, and Simon. It’s lonely, Mrs Moore, and I can’t bear it for me mam and da, or for me.’ She shut her lips on the words she had refused to voice before, which had somehow bubbled to the surface. But they must sink again, because everyone needed her to be strong.

  Mrs Moore wiped her glasses. Evie watched her. Mrs Moore said, ‘“Believed dead”’, remember that. You can’t keep everyone else’s spirits up but ignore hope yourself, Evie lass.’

  Evie started to rise. ‘They will be back from the bog with more moss. They will need hot drinks.’

  Mrs Moore gestured her to sit, and snapped, ‘You have trained your staff well. Trust them to manage. You are almost, but not quite, indispensable, so lean back and do as I say.’ Evie took one look at her and did as she was told, feeling the air leave her body quite suddenly as it had started to do recently. It was as though she was a balloon that had been pierced when the telegram came. It was just a tiny hole, one she could almost see, and each day the breath left her body a little bit more and was not replenished. Sometimes, though, it just gushed from her and left her limp, empty, and weak, as it had last week, so that she wobbled like a jelly, daft beggar that she was.

  Now in this chair, in this room which she loved as much as the woman sitting opposite her, she struggled for breath, found it, nurtured it, her limbs as heavy as lead, lost it again, searched and found traces. She panted it back into her lungs. For a moment all she could see was black.

  Millie’s black dress.

  Every day, Jack’s wife came in that black dress. But Potty had said, ‘Believed dead’ Evie had told her. ‘Grow up, Evie,’ Millie had said.

  It was at night when Evie had time to think, lying in her bed, wondering where they were, or how they had died, seeing the long years ahead with everyone gone, or not. Perhaps hurt, or not. They were her lovely lads, Simon, Jack, Aub. Perhaps she’d never see Si’s red hair again, feel his soft lips, perhaps he was out there buried in mud, shrinking into a skeleton, perhaps there’d be no more burned onions from Aub, she could almost smell them, see the smoke, no more screeching knives from Jack.

  Yes, she was tired but she couldn’t sleep, and every day, and night, there were more convoys, every day now there were electricians and spirit stoves to organise, and today the accounts must be taken upstairs to p
lacate Nairns, and what was Bastard Brampton up to? It was such a strange thing, this world at war. It seemed unreal, but wasn’t. It existed, and was like a wheel that went round, and round, picking up bits, dropping them, leaving its filthy tracks wherever it went, on whatever it rolled.

  Mrs Moore fanned herself with Dr Nairns’ papers, then tossed them on to the table. ‘I know I usually say that work is the answer in a crisis, but within reason. A body can’t go on and on, even if it belongs to a pitman’s daughter. You must accept the need for rest, in order to be strong. Do you understand me, Evie Forbes?’

  Evie had watched as Mrs Moore’s lips framed the words, and slowly she nodded. ‘Aye, I do understand. It’s what I tell myself, so you’re right.’ She made herself smile, as Mrs Moore laughed, but what Mrs Moore did not understand was that the one thing she could not be was weak, because everyone depended on her strength. ‘I believe and hope, I do really, Mrs Moore. I mostly do. Sometimes though it just goes out of me, like the air.’ Mrs Moore looked puzzled, but Evie continued, ‘I can’t tell you how long I will go on hoping because I don’t know, but I won’t stop for a long while. We owe it to them, to the lads.’ She sat straighter, feeling the breath restored inside her again, and the blackness fading, as she groped for more of the words that Mrs Moore wanted to hear. ‘I don’t feel that they’ve gone, not here, inside me.’

  Mrs Moore just nodded. ‘If the time comes when you have to accept the darkness, then you will manage, just as all the other poor souls are doing. In the meantime we have many a young man who will only want beef tea tonight after arrival, or calves’-foot jelly, or egg custard, but you won’t be on shift. You will be sleeping. If not sleeping, resting. Tomorrow you will do the rounds of your poor wee new boys to see what are their favourites, and together we will produce them. On the ranges at the moment, and on spirit stoves later.’

  She crossed her arms. ‘Now you will rest. If you can sleep, well and good, but if not, then you just lean back and close your eyes. All I want you to do when you wake is to take these accounts to Dr Nairns, and then have a gentle walk in the fresh air. Your mother and I have discussed this and she is of the same mind, so nice and easy does it.’ Mrs Moore heaved herself up from her armchair, then glanced down at her side table. ‘Oh, but best read this letter Nairns sent down for you, which is probably some nonsense about more finicky stocktaking that we can deal with together. I gather the wretched man is a member of the same club as Lord Brampton and came here on Brampton’s orders, but why, one wonders?’ She stopped. ‘The ramblings of an old woman. Forget my words.’

  Evie felt the prickle of the upholstery under her hands as she gripped the arms of her chair. Nairns knew Brampton? She breathed deeply, looking at the letter Mrs Moore was placing on top of Nairns’ papers. Mrs Moore said, ‘Not now, Evie. Instead, see, I have a new photo.’ She was pointing at the frames above the fireplace. Evie saw the usual photograph of Grace, Mrs Moore’s first employer, on the wall. Next was another, one she had not seen before. It was of herself with Mrs Moore, taken at Christmas beside the tree. Standing behind them were Jack, Auberon and Si in civilian clothes, smiling. She leaned back in her chair, watching them until she slept, and all the while the tears ran silently down her face, soaking her collar and uniform.

  When she awoke Mrs Moore had gone. She checked her watch; two hours had passed, more than she had slept in weeks. Nairns’ papers were still on the table. On the top was the envelope addressed to her, in black ink, with a sloping hand. She reached forward, pushed her finger under the flap and ripped it open. She read, and then read again. As she did so she felt the air rushing in, stretching her balloon thinner and thinner. Who did this man think he was? How dare he?

  She crushed the letter and left the room, returning immediately to collect the papers. She looked neither to left nor right as she headed along the hall, the words in the letter dancing in her head. She pounded up the stairs, through the baize door and into the grand hall, almost floating in the air that stretched and thinned the balloon. Lance Corporal Samuels, the orderly on duty, stood up at his desk. Ambulances were arriving, all was activity. Orderlies, nurses, VADs and Matron were hurrying across the hall, into wards, down the steps to the ambulances, then back up the steps alongside the stretchers. Steve Samuels had a pencil behind his ear, and another in his hand. Did he know he had two? Did it matter? ‘All well, Evie?’ She could see herself in his boots, and even his putties looked pressed.

  ‘Soon will be, pet,’ she gasped. Steve Samuels reached out, concerned. ‘Evie, what is it?’

  She spun away, weaving between these people who were bent on saving lives, but so too was she. She entered Dr Nairns’ office without knocking. It was one of the anterooms, the one that Dr Nicholls had commandeered as the hub of the Medical Officer’s empire. Nairns was drinking a cup of coffee. She dropped the papers on his desk, and then the letter he had sent. It was still crushed. He looked up, his lips thin. ‘Did I hear a knock?’

  She said, leaning forward, taking her weight on her hands, forcing him to withdraw sharply against his chair, ‘I doubt it, unless it was my head banging on my kitchen table at your ridiculous time-wasting shenanigans. We haven’t time for this rubbish, you absurd little man. How dare you send paperwork asking for specific numbers of knives, forks, spoons, cups, and instigating a weekly stocktake of said items as though we are overrun with kitchen thieves? As for demanding sterilisation of all cutlery, mugs and God knows what else, Maud, our scullery maid runs a tight ship, and there has been no history of stomach trouble since we started the hospital. Unless, of course, you count those who have half their guts hanging out when they arrive.’

  She had moved even closer to him, and he was pale by now. His sandy hair, which he swept over his bald pate, had plunged over his wire-rimmed spectacles. He put up a hand. She slapped it down, actually slapped it. She saw the shock on his face and it only fuelled her fury, and was the only thing that seemed to reduce the air inside her. ‘We are short of all supplies so where are we to get yet more sterilisers? Captain Richard has obtained as many as are available and is moving mountains to fulfil the needs of the hospital as it is. Where are your priorities?’

  She was panting, air was rasping in and out, hurting her chest. She must draw more in. She stood upright. ‘You require invoices from us, figures that balance. Mr Harvey provides Lord Brampton’s accountant with these, so why must he copy them out a second time, for you too? We’re busy here, rushed, tired, with always more to do.’ Dr Nairns rose too, his mouth open. She put up her hand. His mouth closed. She continued, shouting in her rage. ‘We run our kitchens to the commandant, Lady Veronica’s, satisfaction, and also to that of Matron and Dr Nicholls. I will suggest that we cut up those papers into squares and hang them in the latrines, and you may use your imagination as to their further use, but buttocks come to mind. Is this quite clear? If there is any more fuss, then beware the food you eat. Who knows what will be in it for the few weeks that you remain here. Now, as for the letter, if you dare to order the dismissal of Mrs Moore and Annie, to be replaced by volunteers under my control in the interest of economy, then you are missing a great many brain cells. Mrs Moore is essential, Annie too.’

  The air was leaving her, coming out in great bursts along with her words, and none was replacing it. She knew tears were not far behind, but no, she would not allow them to come. ‘I repeat, Dr Nicholls and Matron, and Lady Veronica, our commandant, have no reservations about the running of the kitchen and until they do, nothing changes, because you, as a temporary Medical Officer, have no authority to dismiss anyone. Nothing changes. Do. You. Understand?’

  Dr Nairns walked out from behind his desk to her side, towering above her, a piece of paper in his hand. She faced him as he waved the paper and began to speak. ‘I care not what Dr Nicholls, Matron, or indeed the Lady Veronica have to say on the subject. Here I have a directive from Lord Brampton. In it he explains that he has arranged for Dr Nicholls to be transferred to a new auxiliary hos
pital outside Newcastle and I am to remain until this . . .’ He waved his hand towards the grand hall. ‘This chaotic sloppy informal mess is under control and that means more volunteers and fewer paid servants, and strict rules of hierarchy. Those that remain must pull their weight. Your Mrs Moore does not, and Annie’s work can be taken over by any flibbertigibbet from the village.’

  ‘The kitchen is the powerhouse . . .’

  ‘You stupid little girl.’ He sliced the air; the directive fell fluttering to the floor. Evie forced herself to stand firm, feeling his spittle on her cheek as he roared, ‘The government pays three shillings per patient per day. It costs this establishment three shillings and ninepence, but that is rising. His Lordship is not prepared to shoulder the burden of the extra cost any more, but instead is opening another hospital nearer Leeds, a smaller establishment, the upkeep of which is to be shared with an influential Member of Parliament. We either close, or we make the changes and operate within three shillings per patient per day. To do this, we must lose staff, and if you wish to keep Mrs Moore, then do so. You however, will be off these premises by the evening, and perhaps this will encourage you to treat your betters with respect. One must hope that Mrs Moore will last the course without you, or die trying. Do. You. Understand?’

  Evie stared at him, feeling the weakness threatening. He had spittle in the corners of his mouth, protruding nasal hair, and thin lips. For the first time she noticed that he was old, drawn and tired, with an air of grief and fury so tangible that she could almost touch it. Had he lost someone? What did anyone know about anyone else?

  He pressed closer. She smelt the coffee on his breath. She would not move. She transferred her weight on to the balls of her feet, as Jack had done when he was fighting. She breathed deeply, and again. ‘I will leave, but I will return as one of the volunteers.’ Her voice was totally calm. She turned and strode to the door, wrenching at the handle. It opened. He said, ‘You will not enter these premises again. Do you understand? You have caused trouble, and I will not tolerate it. Be gone by this evening.’