Easterleigh Hall at War

by Margaret Graham

  After dinner had been cleared in the evening, Mrs Moore declared that she was too tired to face a lot of argy-bargy and swept into the central corridor. ‘Enjoy your evening with Mr Harvey,’ Evie called. Mrs Green had passed along the corridor, on her way from the laundry to the linen store, and smiled wearily above her pile of sheets. Mrs Moore called, ‘Have a glass of sherry with us, Mrs Green?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Moore.’

  Evie watched them walk along the corridor together. Mrs Green’s hair was quite white now, and matched Mrs Moore’s exactly. What was going to happen to these dear loyal efficient people? Would they stay or go? If they stayed, would they be paid properly, receive shares, be treated with respect?

  Lady Veronica had said they would be down at nine, when James was settled and Lady Margaret would have returned from her visit to her parents with Penelope. Evie couldn’t understand what it had to do with Lady Margaret, but no doubt it would be explained.

  Beef tea was available for any patient who needed it, and as always there were bowls ready should egg custard be requested. Evie wiped over the dresser, and checked that Maudie and Joyce were getting on with the pots and pans. She collected those that were dried and polished, and rehung them above the deal table. The furnace was gurgling quietly. At eight forty-five she released the scullery maids from their duties and they headed into the servants’ hall. Maudie muttered, ‘Can’t get used to sitting there with no knitting on the go. I dream about balaclavas and ruddy khaki socks.’

  At nine sharp Captain Auberon, Lady Veronica and Captain Richard entered the kitchen. Captain Auberon carried a tray with brandy goblets and a decanter. He set these on the table. Evie said, ‘Someone about to faint?’

  At last they met her eyes, at last Veronica laughed.

  Lady Margaret came along the central corridor and entered, closing the door, the chill clinging to her, a few snowflakes caught on her hat, and in the black fur collar of her coat. She had moved into one of the estate cottages when half the VADs left last week. Marion Walters, her new housemaid, had in fact moved her in, while she was with her parents. She was rubbing her hands. ‘I received your letter, Auberon, and have given the matter thought. Heavens, I only arrived back an hour ago; thankfully the cottage had been warmed through by Walters.’

  Veronica pointed to a stool. ‘So lovely to see you, Margaret. As you know, we’re here to discuss the hotel that Evie has suggested. You did say after the brouhaha with Father that if there was a rescue mission you would like to participate. Well, this is it, Margaret.’

  Lady Margaret was wrenching off her black leather gloves with her teeth. It made her look even more like a horse. Evie stared, fascinated, then saw that Auberon was doing the same, and probably making the same comparison. For a moment their eyes met, and the laughter almost screeched out of his, as she knew it did from hers. She looked away, and down at the table, listening as Lady Veronica outlined the idea of the hotel, and the conditions as laid down by Evie.

  There was a pause. Evie looked from one to another, refusing to be cowed. Lady Veronica ended by saying, ‘I think we each need to say what we feel, honestly and briefly. Aub, would you begin?’

  ‘In a moment, let’s pour the brandy first. I need a tot if no one else does. There should no longer be shells popping off every five minutes, but it feels as though there might be.’ Auberon poured. They all watched as though he was creating a masterpiece. The kettle burbled on the range, some damp coal hissed in the furnace. He handed out the brandy glasses. Evie saw the scars on his hands, the gouge across three fingers. Shrapnel, which had cut to the bone?

  He said, lifting his glass and studying the amber liquid, swirling it within the glass, ‘I applaud Evie’s ideas and apologise without reservation for my reaction. It’s strange how you leave one situation and arrive in another, one so different that it defies belief and changes, fundamentally, everything one has been brought up to adhere to. I refer, of course, to the war. However, at this point I pause, because you and I, Ver, were brought up by Mother and Wainey to respect others as people. I had forgotten that, but in war I found it again, thanks, primarily, to yet another member of the Forbes family. At the outbreak of peace one returns to the old world, and assumes the old attitudes all too easily. Forgive me, Evie. I think your idea of shares is inspired and I accept with eagerness a partnership with you, Mrs Moore, Uncle Tom Cobley and all. My name is Auberon, I do not require Mr, just to be quite clear.’ He raised his glass to her.

  Richard looked from him to his wife. ‘Your turn, Ver.’

  She gripped his hand. ‘Aub’s thoughts are ours entirely, aren’t they, Richard? Nothing changes, we are as we were, friends, and now partners, and I couldn’t be happier, or more excited.’ She and Richard raised their glasses, grinning.

  Lady Margaret was running her finger around the edge of her glass, her colour high. Perhaps she should remove her coat, Evie thought, and suggested as much.

  Lady Margaret declined, and turned to Veronica. ‘I know that you and I have always held different opinions regarding the ability of the lower orders, Veronica. You and Evie followed Sylvia Pankhurst’s universal suffrage ideals, while I supported Christabel and Emmeline’s more selective and realistic policies. I concur with their thoughts and feel that only those of certain breeding, means and education can handle information and behave with intelligence in positions of authority. If you all cast your mind back to February of this year you will remember that the vote was awarded to women over thirty, and those who were property owners, a clear indication that this situation is recognised and supported by our government. There is sense to the old order. In our society, you and I, dearest Veronica, have the education to guide those less able. I am fond of Evie, as you know my dear.’ She smiled at Evie. ‘Indeed, my late husband enjoyed the many hours he spent with you, in here, laughing and joking, leaving me alone, to my own devices.’

  She was smoothing her gloves now. Evie watched, remembering Major Granville who would remove his mask and just sit and talk, because his lower jaw and tongue were whole, and his face, though an initial shock, was something that became unremarkable. She hadn’t known that Lady Margaret was lonely, and missed his company. Lady Margaret continued, ‘But I can only be involved in something which I respect.’

  There was silence. Auberon said eventually, ‘So you vote against a partnership, even though Evie took over as commandant to make life easier for Veronica, and has most ably fulfilled that role?’

  ‘At the present time, yes, I do. During extraordinary circumstances, ordinary people rise to the occasion, but cannot sustain their role. We need to restore the traditional order in our efforts to return to normality,’ Lady Margaret insisted, stabbing the table with her forefinger.

  Evie concentrated on the kettle. The furnace was no longer hissing. It would need more coal soon. The armchair beside it looked appealing. It would ease her backache, or that of the incoming cook who would take her place, but she’d have to turf off the dogs. She half smiled and looked around at the spotless cupboards, then up at the gleaming copper pans, all the result of hard work by the scullery and kitchen maids. They had learned their skills and carried them out, flawlessly, above and beyond the call of duty, ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances be damned. Her fury was building.

  She breathed deeply, concentrating on this room, her hub, her powerhouse. Everything was so much brighter now that it was electrified. The new cook would approve, but how many would stay to help her in her work? What of the upper servants, those dear loyal souls? She pushed her glass towards the centre of the table, and began to stand. Auberon was waving her down. She remained standing.

  ‘No, I . . .’

  Auberon looked at her, his eyes so blue, so serious. ‘Trust me. Please, sit, just for a moment, Evie.’ She did so, as he glanced at Veronica and Richard. They nodded. He said, ‘Thank you for your honesty, Margaret, and we are sorry that you won’t be part of our new adventure, and wish you well. You are of course welc
ome to remain in the cottage until you have found other accommodation.’

  That was all. It was enough. Lady Margaret flushed even deeper, her breath coming in short gasps. She stood, confused. Veronica went to her, slipped her arm through hers and led her from the kitchen, down the central corridor, stopping to talk to Mrs Green who smiled a smile that the Cheshire cat would envy. Then they disappeared up the stairs to the great hall.

  Auberon lifted his glass to Evie and Richard. ‘Now let’s sort out the contract, and settle on plans. Ron and Harry want to be part of this, and agree totally with the co-operative idea, especially as it is likely that times will become hard, and jobs scarce for even our able-bodied lads returning to “a land fit for heroes”. We need to make sure that we continue to do our bit.’

  Evie sipped her brandy, watching Auberon, his face alive, warm, beautiful. Yes, she’d trust him, to the ends of the earth and back again.

  Jack waited outside Grace’s house, watching the gas lighting in her bedroom flutter. It seemed that he had stood here so often, his heart breaking. He screwed up his cap, the cold bitter on his head but he had to have something to do with his hands. He wore the greatcoat he could have handed over at the demob centre in return for a couple of quid, but it was a good coat, and would come in useful. He, Mart and Charlie had hung about until their de-mob suits were ready, though they had to keep their uniforms, as they were still on the Z reserve.

  He moved from foot to foot as the breeze got up. Snow was falling, but lightly. They said every snowflake had a different pattern. How could that be? Who was it who’d told him that? Ah yes, Tommy Evans, as the mud sucked at their boots, and over their boots to their puttees, one foot in front of the other. One foot. One step. Another. Another. Bugger fatigue. Keep walking, one foot. One foot. Towards the Menin Gate, the stink of stagnant water, the broken teeth of the buildings, the slip slide of the limbers with their guns on the planked Ypres road. He remembered the feel of the rope when they’d all had to pitch in to haul one of the bloody things out of the mud.

  Must have been one hundred men there, their packs dragging at their backs, the rope as muddy as hell, their hands slipping on it, burning off the skin, their boots slipping as they hauled, hauled, bloody hauled. They’d got it back on the road, the sky alight with the flashes of field guns, the sounds pounding and racketing around their heads. Yes, they’d got it back, Charlie in front, Mart and Aub behind, while all the other officers stood and shouted orders.

  Where was Tommy now? Ah, yes, he could picture the back of the aid station they’d taken him to after a sniper had got him on a wiring party. They hadn’t expected him to die, but it was shock, the orderly said. They’d both written to his mam.

  He flicked his cigarette to the ground now, drew a deep breath. He was alone and he missed them; all of them, every minute of every day, because they were his marras and he didn’t have any focus now, any real reason for . . . He walked through the front gate. It more than squeaked, it screamed. He reached the porch, and the front door opened. She was there, she was his, and now his arms were round her, but still he felt alone, because no one but his marras knew what he felt, what he dreamed, what he remembered, what he smelled.

  He cried then, great wracking sobs, because he loved this woman who had said she would live with him. She said, ‘I know what it’s like. I’ve felt it, I’ve nursed it, I know what it’s like and it will get better.’

  She led him up the stairs because Edward was out, having decided that he must sit with a parishioner. She led him into the bedroom whose light he had stood and watched so often. Now he saw that the wallpaper had roses, the counterpane was pink. She was in her dressing gown. She removed his coat and let it drop on the floor. She undid his shirt, and now he was frantically helping, and she allowed her gown to fall at her feet and they fell on the bed and at last they were together, and she was as soft and wonderful under his rough and scarred hands as he had thought she would be.

  Afterwards he slept, and though he dreamed it was of sunshine, and the cedar tree, the older tree to begin with, but then his old friend the darkness slunk and then roared into his world as it always did. When he woke he lay looking at the sun streaming through the windows. He had slept the night through, and in his mind had been the young cedar tree, which would grow and become strong, as he would, again.

  Later that morning Jack was in Evie’s kitchen, telling her of Grace’s decision that after the trial run of last night, the parsonage was large enough to cope with Tim and Jack, and that though there was no need of a tin bath, his back would still have to be scrubbed. Evie held up her hand. ‘Stop, go no further. I am far too innocent.’

  He perched on the edge of the table and turned when Grace hurried in, her VAD uniform as pristine as always. ‘Evie, Roger’s asking for you. He’s not going to make it. Will you come? He’s most insistent. Hold a handkerchief to your face, though what good that will do, I don’t know. We’re going down like flies.’ She blew a kiss to Jack and spun out again. Jack grinned after her and Evie raised an eyebrow, holding up her hand again. ‘No, not a word, I don’t want to know.’

  She hurried after Grace, waved to one of the two remaining orderlies, and asked after Matron, who had gone down yesterday with the flu. Grace muttered, ‘She’s seen it off. Well, would you stand against her?’ It didn’t require an answer.

  Evie took one of the sphagnum moss sachets from the basket outside the conservatory. It had been sprayed with disinfectant. She held it to her face as she entered. All the drapes were down and the furnace was roaring to keep the temperature up in this glass building. Outside the snow lay at least three inches on the ground. She hoped Simon had his jerkin on, even though he was in the warmth of the glasshouses nurturing the overwintering plants.

  Roger was nearest the door, his colour grey. His hair had turned quite white. She sat beside him, pity moving her, for he had no one else to care or visit.

  ‘How are you, Roger?’ she said, her voice low to keep the mood calm and quiet for the other patients.

  ‘Bloody dying, you daft cow.’ He opened his eyes briefly, his laugh turning into a cough. She smiled. She’d never known him to joke before, and it was a bit bloody late. She didn’t share that thought. He said, ‘It’s about that Millie, you know. I did her a bad turn, and she’s gone on to better things, but there’s still the boy.’

  Evie tensed, because this man had threatened he would take the boy from Jack. She said, ‘Tim’s happy with my mam and da, and Jack. You have no claim. You’re not on the birth certifi—’

  ‘Hush your noise, Evie. You know as well as I do that I’m bloody dying, haven’t I just said so.’ He coughed again. Evie held the moss sachet tighter to her face. ‘I’ve money, that’s all. Me pay while I was a POW, me pay while I was valet, and this, that and the other.’ He coughed again, and she could almost feel the pain it caused him and didn’t know what this, that and the other entailed. Please God, not a deathbed confession. He started again. ‘I’ve money. I wrote a will. It’s in my pack. We all did it. It’s for him. Tell him it’s from his dad. It’s good to know you were loved by your real dad, wish I had been. Or don’t tell him. You can decide, or your Jack. Matron knows the details.’ His voice was fading, his eyes closing. Evie held his hand; it was just skin and bone, poor wee man. She wanted to ask what name to use on the headstone, Roger or Francis Smith, but how could you shove that in a dying man’s face? He coughed, opened his eyes, gave a funny breath, long, outgoing. Gracie touched her shoulder. ‘He’s gone, Evie. I’m glad he wasn’t alone. It was good of you to be with him, after all he’s done.’

  Evie sat for a moment, looking at him. ‘No, it was nothing. Life makes us what we are.’

  Chapter 18

  Easterleigh Hall, 24th December 1918

  THE TREE WAS up in the great hall but not decorated. Work had stopped for Roger’s funeral, conducted by Edward. The church was full, not out of affection but because of sadness for one so disliked. They buried him using the
name Francis Smith, which seemed only right. Evie sat in the front with her mam and da, Tim clutching Mam’s hand. It had been decided that he should not be told who his real father was at this time, especially after the departure of his mother, whom he still expected to return at any minute.

  Simon spoke about Roger from the lectern. ‘He was an excellent orderly, and showed me the tricks of the trade while we were incarcerated in the Offizier Gefangenenlager. He was interested in butterflies, and we discussed many times the plants and bushes that gave them succour. Somehow we became friends, perhaps because we were the ones left behind: I because I gave up my place for another, he because he felt the price to pay for an enlisted man if recaptured was too high.’

  Tim was wriggling. Jack stroked the boy’s head with something close to fury in his face. Evie stared at him. Was he angry because Roger had left money? Now Edward was speaking, and Simon was entering the pew, reaching for her hand. ‘Was that all right?’ he whispered. ‘Of course,’ she replied, but something was wrong. She looked towards Veronica and saw that Auberon, standing next to Charlie and Mart, was thin-lipped; in fact they all were. There was no funeral tea, because it was Christmas Eve and yet more staff had gone down with influenza, and more patients had arrived, to be housed in the huts. Dr Nicholls had sent for extra nurses in order to cope.

  Simon helped to decorate the tree, along with Jack, Charlie and Mart, before going home to spend the night in his parents’ house. They would all be here for lunch tomorrow but it would be in the servants’ hall, because Mrs Moore wasn’t having Mr Harvey messing about trying to squeeze tables into the ward as Mr Auberon had insisted in 1914; not with his back. The patients would be served first, and then it would be the turn of the servants, so they could put their feet up, or use them to dance. It would be a cold supper for those who felt like it.

  Christmas Day dawned deep and crisp and even, with snow a foot deep, and the wind blowing it into drifts against any wall or tree it could find. Evie took a moment to go out, wrapped in her comfortable threadbare coat given to her years ago by Grace, and with a shawl around her head. She stood beneath the shelter of the young cedar tree. ‘Keep warm, keep safe,’ she murmured, the wind beating and battering its branches. Auberon spoke from behind her. ‘Let’s hope it has as gallant a heart as its predecessor.’