Easterleigh Hall at War

by Margaret Graham

  Edward was nodding, but not at her. She began to turn, seeing someone on the periphery of her vision, but Edward grabbed her shoulders, making her face him. She resisted. ‘What . . .?

  Hands came down over her eyes. ‘Jack? Simon?’ she said.

  ‘Oh damn, Evie, I didn’t think.’ It was Ron. She was confused. ‘Turn round,’ Ron ordered. ‘Thank you, Parson, for getting the timing right.’

  Edward said, ‘There’ve been a lot involved, young man.’

  Ron was turning her round, his hands still over her eyes. She said, ‘So that’s why we came the back way. Just what are you up to? No good, I imagine.’ She was laughing.

  Harry said from her right, and Edward from her left, ‘Steady now. Let us guide you.’ They each took an arm. She could see light through the slits where Ron’s fingers met, and felt the cold of his hands. She hesitated to put a foot forward, but Harry and Edward steadied her, pulled her gently along. Around her the dogs yapped. Ron shouted, ‘Bugger off, you two, for heaven’s sake.’

  The cobbles became gravel, which slid and crunched beneath her boots. Around she could hear a murmuring of voices. Were her men home? All of them, Jack, Simon and Aub? Was it them? She strained to hear but there was just the murmuring, and a laugh. It was Tim, and that was James crying, and Angela Dore, soothing him.

  She turned her head. ‘Let me see,’ she demanded. ‘Not yet,’ Ron insisted. They were on the lawn now, and she thought that to the left would be the marquee which was still up, though quite why, no one knew. It just seemed to be tempting fate to remove it, though Old Stan wanted it gone, so the grass could recover. They stopped. ‘Now.’ It was Captain Richard.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ron said. He took his hands away. For a moment she could see nothing, the light was so bright. She looked down, blinking as Harry and Edward released her arms, and now there was clapping all around. She lifted her head, and in place of the huge cedar tree was another, a quarter of the size, planted in, strong and firm with pine props supporting it against the winter winds. It was young, fresh, beautiful, graceful and motionless even in the wind that was moving the branches of the other trees edging the lawn.

  The burned grass was gone, and turfs had been cut from elsewhere and bedded in its place; sand had been scattered. Would the tree grow in the winter? Her throat hurt, her eyes were stinging.

  Lady Veronica came to her and said, ‘You’ve been our strength, just as much as the cedar tree. So this is for you. Stan says the turfs will overwinter with care, and the tree is best planted now, in the dormant season.’

  She took Evie’s hands and whispered, ‘It is a gesture of faith. Somehow we will survive. Auberon has today sent a telegram and asks for our trust. He has a plan and is with Father now.’

  Ron put his arm around Evie’s shoulders and in front of everyone she sobbed: for the men who would never return, for those who would spend their lives damaged beyond repair, for these friends whom she could not bear to lose, for the whole damned crime of the war. But most of all for this wonderful tree that somehow must flourish.

  Two days later Evie was preparing chicken casserole alongside Mrs Moore and Annie when there was a thunderous knocking at the back kitchen door. ‘Come in, and then plug the hole. We’re not living in a barn,’ she shouted, cutting the chickens into joints and passing them along to Annie to be rolled in flour. Mrs Moore was sautéing them on the range, prior to slow cooking in the ovens.

  In the scullery Maudie and Joyce were banging and crashing the pans, but Evie managed to hear the thud of the boots. Lifting her head, she turned, and there was Jack, her bonny lad, with Mart beside him. She flew at them, hugging them both, kissing them in turn, and again, and again, until they held her off. ‘By, lass, steady on, you’ll have us over, you will and all,’ Jack laughed. They were so thin, so old, so scarred, but they were here. They dropped their packs on Mrs Moore’s clean floor. ‘You’ll have your backsides tanned,’ Evie whispered.

  ‘Aye, you will that.’ Mrs Moore was beside her now, wiping her hands on her hessian apron, then patting the men, then wiping her hands before patting them again. Mart flung his arms round her, kissing her until she squealed. Evie shouted, ‘Annie, leave the chicken, go and get Grace.’ Annie beamed at Jack and Mart before hurrying off. The noise from the scullery stopped and the girls appeared at the kitchen door, their hands red from the soda.

  Jack’s arms were round Evie, holding her so tightly that she thought she’d never breathe again. ‘By, lass, I never thought I’d get here.’ He’d knocked her cap sideways but what did it matter. ‘We were stuck waiting and waiting at Calais for the demob permissions to come through, then we got ours but there was something wrong with Charlie’s and we wouldn’t embark until his was sorted. He’s at his mam’s but is then coming here.’

  ‘Aub?’ she asked, looking behind her brother. Jack muttered, ‘He said he’d go to see the Bastard.’

  ‘Aye, I forgot. Lady Veronica said something.’ She was reaching out her hand to Mart, who lifted it and kissed it, his eyes dark-rimmed with tiredness. Evie said, ‘Mrs Moore, we need his mam down here from the nursery. She’s doing such a grand job, Mart. There’s just James at the moment, Penny has been away with Lady Margaret.’

  Mrs Moore patted both men again and left, and the scullery maids scuttled back into their lair. As they did so, Grace came to the kitchen door, Annie behind her. Jack released Evie and stood up straight. He faced Grace full on. She wore her VAD uniform, and her hair in a loose bun over Agatha. ‘Well, bonny lass. I expected to have heard better from you.’ His voice was cold. ‘Is it going to be like last time, then, because I can’t take that.’

  Evie looked from one to the other, then at Mart, who raised his eyebrows. She tugged at Jack’s arm, but then moved to the range, pulling off the sautéed chicken which Mrs Moore had left on the heat. ‘Don’t be so damned silly, the pair of you.’ She tipped the chicken into several large casserole dishes, checking the clock because there were still patients to feed, and more expected. The steam rose in her face as she poked the chicken down into the gravy, concentrating on it, but talking too. ‘Let me explain in words you can understand, Jack,’ she said. ‘Grace is worried about Agatha and the scarring in the cold light of peace, and fears that someone as unblemished as you will find her distasteful.’

  Evie straightened up, pointing to the dishes of sautéed chicken, and the uncooked joints beside them. ‘That’s what’s distasteful, luncheon waiting to be cooked, with no wine to add as the Bastard has collected the cellar load; it is not the absence of an ear. Now you’re back, Annie, you take that gormless great lump called Mart into the servants’ hall, and keep him occupied until his mam gets here, then come back. We have luncheon to prepare. Jack, you take Agatha’s mistress to the garage to see Tim and Mam, but sort this woman out before you get there.’ She threw flour-dusted chicken joints into the sauté pan, turned her back and continued with lunch. Her heart was full, and soon they’d all be home. It was only then she realised she hadn’t asked about Simon. She turned over the chicken joints. Well, of course she hadn’t. He and Roger would be coming from the prison camp, so why would he be with them?

  It was two days later, as Evie was standing at the cedar tree, stroking its low branches and telling it that it must survive and bring great good luck, that she saw Ted’s taxi crunching up the drive. It skidded to a halt in front of the portico steps. The door opened and there he was, clambering out in the blue-grey coat given to returning POWs, his red hair glinting, while Ted hauled his new kitbag from the boot. Simon looked older, but not as drawn as Jack, or scarred, but why would he be? He had been an orderly, safe behind bars, when the others had returned to the fray.

  She stood, unable to move. Simon was here and she’d waited so long and she couldn’t believe it. Yes, that was what it was. She just couldn’t believe he was here. ‘Evie.’ His voice was the same. Now she ran, tearing across the new turf, the gravel, and into his arms, and they were the same arms, his lips were the sa
me, his eyes still so blue. It was she who was different, her mind in a turmoil.

  He picked her up and swung her round. He had grown, filled out. Easterleigh Hall had received released prisoners of war who were skeletal, damaged after years of mistreatment, without an arm, or leg. But he was strong, and still handsome. She said against his mouth. ‘You must see your mam and da too. I’ll get time off.’

  ‘I have, we stopped there first.’ He put her down. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  She shook her head, holding his face between her hands, kissing his mouth. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ But she did.

  Roger was coming round from the other side of the car, his coat rather too large. He looked thin, feverish, and stopped to lean on the back of the taxi as Ted hauled out his kitbag now. Neither bag was full, but what did they have after years in captivity? Ted was clambering back in.

  Simon said, ‘Auberon arranged for our speedy repatriation. You do know that I gave up my place on the escape, don’t you? I thought I would be of more use distracting the Germans. They loved the show. We had to play it for a further night. It was only then they realised some had gone missing, but they never found the tunnel, thank God. It would have been the end of the drama company.’ He hesitated, as though remembering something, his blue eyes searching his mind. Then, ‘More importantly, we got more people out. Not bad, eh?’

  Sister Newsome was standing or the front steps, taking the air, accompanied by other staff.

  Roger fell on the drive as the taxi ground its gears and moved off. She ran to him, felt his forehead. She screamed above the sound of the disappearing car, ‘Get the orderly to help, Si. Come on, don’t just stand there.’ Bloody bloody Roger, he had brought the flu, poor bugger. She was pretty sure of it. There was the sound of running feet across the gravel. Sister Newsome reached them first and put her hands out to the orderlies and the two VADs behind her. ‘Only two of you, and then into the isolation ward with him.’ The isolation ward had been set up in the conservatory because it had a separate door. The women patients had all gone home.

  Simon stood where she had left him, staring. He called, ‘It’s bloody catching, isn’t it?’

  In Rotterdam Auberon had thought how neutrality became the place. In his hotel room he had practised his father’s signature until he felt it close to perfect. He then wrote the letter of authorisation on Easterleigh Hall headed notepaper that Richard had sent across, without question, in response to his telegram, which promised a plan to save Easterleigh, perhaps.

  He arrived at the bank that held his father’s safety-deposit box, the one that had been mentioned in the stack of paperwork he had leafed through before he left the Hall a lifetime ago. The manager greeted him with a reserve appropriate to his station, but his coolness faded in response to the letter, which passed muster, thank God. Auberon forced himself to accept a sherry and sit in one of the plush leather chairs set in front of a roaring fire, to discuss the progress of the peace talks, and the power the Americans would now wield in the world after winning the war. ‘Well, not quite, old chap,’ Auberon said, gripping his sherry glass too tightly. ‘I rather feel the plethora of Continental and Empire dead had something to do with it.’

  His remark was received in frosty silence. Auberon reined himself in, remarking on the fineness of the artwork that hung about the wood-panelled office, and the excellent eye the manager must have. He checked his watch, drained his glass, placed it on the table. ‘Regretfully, I have a ship to board once I have attended to my father’s business,’ he murmured. ‘I am under orders from my father, you understand.’ The manager smiled sympathetically. ‘Ah yes, I know of Lord Brampton’s impatience.’ They laughed, man to man.

  Auberon surreptitiously wiped his hand. He was sweating with tension. They shook hands at the door, and the manager called into the anteroom, ‘De Vries, escort Lord Brampton’s son, if you please.’

  De Vries led him down wide marble steps, down and down. They reached a barred walkway. De Vries unlocked the gate and locked it behind him. The keys were attached by a chain to his belt. There were many and they clinked when he moved. The walls were white-tiled and reflected the gas lighting. They reached a heavy steel door. De Vries unlocked this, and came into the safety-deposit vault with Auberon, locking the door behind them.

  He noted the number on the letter of authorisation that Auberon held out to him, his hand shaking. De Vries looked at him closely. Auberon shrugged. ‘Forgive, too many shells.’ De Vries nodded. ‘I understand.’ It was clear that he did.

  He unlocked the locker, and drew out a black metal box. Auberon expected that the manager would appear at any moment, having somehow rethought the validity of the letter. Auberon felt sorry for him, momentarily, for his father would not let this lie. De Vries was opening the box. He stood back. ‘You understand that your letter does not authorise you to remove anything? It merely states that you have access to peruse.’

  Richard had explained that it would be easier to gain access to the box in this way. Auberon smiled, drew out his cigarette case. ‘Indeed,’ he said.

  De Vries shook his head at the cigarette case. ‘This is not allowed, smoking, that is.’

  ‘Ah.’ Auberon rested it on the edge of the table. He leafed through the papers. ‘My father asked me to confirm that he had placed a certain document in the file, as I was so close to Rotterdam.’ He laughed. ‘Well, one is when one has been fighting.’

  As he talked he bent over the box, searching for figures, accounts, letters. He found what he needed and took them from the box, holding them up, examining them closely. He nudged his cigarette case with his hip. It spun to the floor at De Vries’ feet. The man stooped to reclaim it. Auberon folded the relevant sheets and stuffed them into his pocket, then rifled again amongst the remaining papers before replacing them in the box. De Vries laid the cigarette case on the table, carefully. Auberon stood straight, his hands open, saying helplessly, ‘Well, it’s not here. It must be in his office. At least we know where to look now.’

  He slipped the cigarette case into his pocket. There was a reason for a bulge now. He waited while De Vries relocked the box, the locker, the vault, the barred gate. Auberon counted the steps as he mounted them alongside the clerk. He shook his hand before walking across the shiny marble floor, reaching the revolving doors, exiting into the fresh cold air and the sound of gulls and ships’ hooters, feeling as though his legs would give way as he walked towards his ship. Part one completed.

  Three days later he was in London, leaving his Pall Mall club for pre-dinner drinks at his father’s house, with his uniform smartly pressed and his boots gleaming. In the heel was the compass, still. He walked to Eaton Place. How strange to be here, in peacetime. How strange peace was, full stop. How quiet, how drab, how wonderful.

  He was admitted by his father’s new butler, Mr Aston, who waited to take his cap, document case and swagger stick. Auberon refused because he would need to leave pretty smartly, and knew all about the need for speed in a retreat. He followed Mr Aston upstairs, passing portraits of his stepmama’s ancestors. He touched his pocket. The slight crackle of paper reassured him. He walked along Indian carpets to the drawing room, entering as Mr Aston announced him. His father stood by the roaring fire, a brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other. The munitions industry had done him proud. The wallpaper was cream silk, there were more ancestors on the wall. How many did the woman have, for God’s sake? Chippendale furniture was scattered about, just as at Easterleigh Hall.

  Auberon bowed to his stepmother who sat, a cocktail in her hand. She sipped. The drink didn’t touch her lips. She inclined her head slightly. Auberon stopped a yard from his father, who barked, ‘Brandy for my son, Aston.’

  Auberon put up his hand. ‘No thank you, Aston, I have a train to catch. This is a fleeting visit.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ his father said. ‘We have much to talk of. You are expected to dine.’ The ash on his cigar was as huge and brash as he.

  Auberon re
peated, ‘No, I have no time to dine. I have business to attend to in the north. Stepmama, you might like to leave the room, you too, Aston.’

  His father gaped, and the ash fell to the Indian carpet. What was it with the man and his Indian rugs? Was it he, or his stepmama, who was so devoid of imagination that each house had to replicate the other?

  Auberon continued, ‘Or I’m perfectly happy to discuss this in front of the butler and my mother’s replacement.’

  His father was bulling up, on to his toes. Auberon had faced far too much to feel even a flicker of the fear he once had. He merely stared straight into his eyes. ‘It really would be best,’ he said quietly.

  It was his father who dropped his gaze first, waving Aston and his wife from the room. Auberon waited until he heard the door close with a click. His father still held his brandy glass, and now took a quick drink. His cigar ash was growing again.

  From his document case, Auberon drew out photographs of the letters and accounts he had taken from the deposit box. ‘Perhaps you would like to put your glass down, and your cigar. I have papers which will be of interest to you.’ He held up the photograph of the letter confirming the sale of cordite to Germany, via agents in Rotterdam, after the declaration of war and when Britain was in dire need of it, and then others of the accounts.

  He handed them to his father who paled. Sweat broke out on his forehead, his hands shook. Auberon knew all about the symptoms of panic and fear. His father turned and groped for the mantelpiece, placing his glass on it, throwing his cigar on to the flames, staring at the photographs and then into the fire for a moment. Auberon could almost hear his brain working, but there was no way out for this traitor and bastard, thank God.