Evie's War

by Mackenzie, Anna

  Christmas Eve, 24 December

  Beautiful Carol Service this evening: candlelight against the old stone walls and heavenly singing. Walking back to the house with moonlight on the snow and the sky crisp with stars one could almost forget the War. I sent a prayer on behalf of the Men at the Front. Lady B has organised parcels for all the local boys, some containing socks knitted by me — which I hope do not prove too lumpy and misshapen!

  Earlier we collected holly and mistletoe (having, of course, foregone a tree) with which we festooned the hall and dining room. Monty asked whether he might put out two stockings as his were so small. His mother said definitely not, though I suspect she will indulge him nonetheless. As I write I find myself wondering about my friends at home, and try to imagine them waking to a hot, bright morning while here all is snow and tradition. Standing outside our door after Church I felt as if I had stumbled into a scene from a Christmas card. Strange to think that, in the midst of such beauty, across the Channel our Men are at War.

  Christmas Day, 25 December

  There has been the most fearful scandal — I scarcely know where to begin. We had just sat down to dinner when there were raised voices in the hall and, moments later, a man burst into the dining room. Bromley had him by the arm but he wasn’t to be stopped. He was dressed as a gentleman, though rather on the shabby side, and there was a wild air about him. I should say he was about thirty — or at least that he was somewhere between Edmund’s age and Mother’s. He shook Bromley off, straightened his collar and said, for all the world as if he knew us, ‘I see you’ve started without me.’ You can imagine how everyone stared! Uncle Aubrey cut through Bromley’s apologies, demanding of the man to know if he was mad, then Father stood up, spilling his soup in his haste. He was very pale. Quite shockingly the stranger said, ‘Hello, Father. You recognise me then.’

  It became even more confused thereafter. Uncle Aubrey, Father and Bromley hustled the man off to the library, Mother gave a little cry and clutched at her breast, Monty stood up on his chair and demanded to be told who the fellow was, while my aunt announced it was all a misunderstanding and we should carry on as usual. As if we could! A glass of wine had been spilled and Nancy came in to clear it away, and the soup as well, though we’d scarcely touched it, while Aunt Marjorie wittered about how the poor man had probably escaped from the asylum.

  As one might imagine, Christmas dinner was rather spoiled. The men remained in the library for an age while Aunt M endeavoured, quite unsuccessfully, to jolly everything along. The goose was finally served by a rather dishevelled-looking Bromley and we began to eat, though really, I think we should have waited, it being Christmas. Mother picked up her cutlery and put it down several times then set her plate aside and stood.

  ‘Dear, stay. It’s for the best,’ my aunt whispered, sotto voce. When Mother neither moved nor replied, my aunt added, ‘You look very tired. I shall have a tray sent up.’ Which was her way of telling Mother not to interrupt whatever was going on in the library. Monty next insisted rather loudly on being told where his father had gone, Millicent’s efforts to quiet him undermined by his kicking Eugenie, to which she replied in kind. Aunt Marjorie finally abandoned her pretence of normality, sent the children to the nursery, and instructed Edmund and me to ‘proceed to the parlour, where she would join us forthwith’.

  And that was Christmas Dinner. Edmund has no more idea than I of what is going on, and has gone off to scout the scene. As far as we know the stranger is still here. I shall go to see how Mother is once Edmund comes back.

  Later

  I am not sure matters have become any clearer. Mother has collapsed and poor Dr Chiltern has had to be called away from his own family to attend her. Father has spoken with Edmund but all my dear brother would tell me is that it is ‘not a straightforward situation’ — which was already abundantly clear! The unknown man has gone. Given the disruption caused, I should jolly well think so.

  Aunt Marjorie has just been in to tell me Mother is improved and that I should go to bed. Of the rest she would say only that Father will speak to me in the morning.

  Boxing Day, 26 December

  I do not know what to feel. Shortly after breakfast Father deigned to Explain the Situation — despite which I am left with more questions than answers. It seems that Father was married before he met Mother, and yesterday’s visitor is his son. There: it is written. It is very upsetting, especially to Mother. Edmund, too, is rather angry, which I suppose is because he is no longer Father’s heir — though Aunt Marjorie says that is nonsense, as the man, whose name is Harry Clark, is not recognised. To which I said the point was rather that Father did recognise him, and was told off for being glib, though that was not my intent. Part of me feels rather sorry for this Harry, who has grown up with neither father nor mother (his mother apparently having died when he was born). But why would Father have turned his back on a baby? And why has he never told us that we have a half-brother?

  Later

  Aunt Marjorie finally agreed to answer my questions, though she says it is all rather scandalous, so I must not repeat it to a soul and especially not mention it to Mother. She says Father fell in love when he was very young, but that his family disapproved the match. Thinking that they would eventually accept the situation, Father and the girl eloped to Scotland, where they married. My grandfather was furious and had them found and brought back, the marriage annulled on grounds of age, and Father shipped off to New Zealand to ‘bring him to his senses’. Grandfather later wrote to tell Father that the young woman had died, but not that he had a son. Aunt M thinks it was anger at Grandfather that led Father to remain in New Zealand, where he met Mother some ten years later. Harry, meanwhile, was raised by his maternal uncle, Grandfather providing some financial support but otherwise taking no interest in the child.

  I suspect Grandfather must have been something of an ogre. When I told Edmund that I felt a little sorry for Father, he scoffed at such ‘feminine fancies’. To him it is straightforward: Father should not have formed a liaison against his family’s wishes, should not have eloped, nor got the girl pregnant. Also he should have told Edmund about the child as soon as he learned of its existence which was on Grandfather’s death. When I pointed out that the ‘it’ was a ‘he’, and our half-brother, it put Edmund in a fearful temper and he stormed off outside.

  Sunday 27 December

  Last night I wrote a list of all the questions I still have and this morning prevailed upon Aunt Marjorie to address them. She told me I was far too inquisitive and it was not at all becoming. When I persisted she threw up her hands and said she was too busy to be bothered with it, and was I not aware of how ill all this was making Mother?

  Knowing my uncle responds far better than my aunt to a reasoned argument I hunted him out and requested an interview. Principally, I wished to know whether my grandfather also disapproved of Father’s second marriage (hence us); whether, if the marriage was annulled, Edmund needs consider our half-brother a threat to his inheritance; and whether there would be anything inherently wrong with getting to know our half-brother. Uncle Aubrey heard me out and gave the following answers: as he understood it, my grandfather had intended that Father return to England after a few years; he did not disapprove of Mother, but of Father’s decision to remain in the Colonies. He did not consider Harry Clark a threat to Edmund, but believes we must be guided by our parents regarding contact with him.

  So that is that. My feeling is that Father has nothing to be ashamed of, either in having been twice in love, or in having married against his parents’ wishes, if it was a love match. But that he let my grandfather bully him into abandoning the young woman, for whom it must have been a frightful experience, casts him in a less favourable light. Perhaps it is pardonable given he was so young (how young, exactly, no one has said) and because he did not know she was with-child. And not knowing of Harry’s birth, he cannot be held accountable for failing in his duty on Harry’s account. What happens now, however
, is something of a mystery.

  28 December

  Winifred called to offer the Season’s Greetings and to invite me to a supper party on New Year’s Eve. I confess, with the furore in the house, I had all but forgotten her. I said I was not sure whether I could attend with Mother so unwell, and felt something of a fraud, as I could not tell her what was really ailing Mother.

  30 December

  As if we have not enough to contend with, Edmund and Father last night had a rather loud falling out and now Edmund has disappeared — where to, I do not find it hard to guess. Father is furious and Mother has completely collapsed. Aunt Marjorie told Uncle Aubrey that he simply must deal with the situation as she cannot cope with any more. The Doctor has been called; Mother seriously unwell.

  Later

  Uncle Aubrey has gone to discover Edmund’s whereabouts. Dr Chiltern spent considerable time with Mother and will return later. Aunt Marjorie insists all is well but it is clear she has been weeping.

  31 December

  No one slept last night. I am fuzzy with tiredness and feel as if the noise of a pin falling might split my head open. And now I am barred from Mother’s room, while Dr Chiltern and a woman he brought with him come and go. Aunt Marjorie told me an hour ago that it is the baby, but would answer none of my questions. I wish I knew more.

  Later

  I have just stood outside Mother’s room and heard the most fearsome wailing. I do wish Edmund was here. With all the bother I had quite forgotten Winifred’s party. Aunt Marjorie says I must certainly go, and has ordered the carriage to take me. I can’t tell whether she is less or more worried than earlier.

  1 January 1915

  In the space of a week I have gained two brothers! When I arrived home last night, at around 11.30 p.m., I met Dr Chiltern on his way out; he smiled and said Mother was much improved and the rest he’d leave Father to tell me. The news was that I have a brother, a tiny, red, smudged-up scrap of a thing. He is to be named William Aubrey Guscott Faulkner. Father looked relieved in the extreme and Aunt Marjorie hugged me then sent me to bed — where I was jolly pleased to be, and fell asleep almost before I could take it in. Being thoroughly worn out I slept through and missed breakfast, but things are still topsy-turvey so Cook was happy enough to provide me with a tray; I think it was the last of the Christmas goose. What a week it has been.

  Mother is very pale and tired, and Father gone off about some business on the estate. Little William is not beautiful but Aunt M says he will improve. He sleeps a lot at present, and cries to be fed; he looks rather as if he had quite a battle arriving, as does Mother. When I confided to Winifred that the baby was imminent she told me some rather alarming details. Were the evidence not before me (and the memory of Mother’s cries), I should simply not believe her.

  That aside, Winifred’s party was perfectly pleasant. There were thirty or so guests, amongst whom I felt something of an interloper. Two young men invited me to dance but my conversation proved worse than abysmal, which I blame on my abstraction (when told of the situation vis-à-vis Mother, the first positively blanched, so I thereafter kept my counsel). Several of Winifred’s WSPU friends from London were there, but I had not the confidence to break into their circle. Supper was white soup, cold pheasant and ham, and a veritable mountain of quivering puddings and jellies of wonderfully fanciful design. I should probably have enjoyed the whole thing a good deal more had I not been so worried about Mother.

  2 January

  It is bitterly cold — I have never known anything like it, and have resolved to knit faster so that the men will not suffer on account of my tardiness. In all the flap of William’s arrival I forgot to write that Edmund is located; as suspected he has joined the local Regiment. Uncle Aubrey assures us the situation is not irreversible and that we should trust him to arrange things.

  3 January

  At lunch Father offered distraction by way of an astonishing story that Uncle Aubrey confirmed: namely, that on Christmas Day the men in the trenches arranged a ceasefire with the Germans and they scrambled out across the snow and talked with one another and exchanged gifts. Some even played football. Then they all went back to their trenches and started firing at one another again! It scarcely seems credible. But I suppose the German troops are just boys like our own, though of course their Officers are not at all like ours, having no qualms about ordering terrible atrocities to be committed.

  4 January

  A watery sun showed itself for an hour in the afternoon and my cousins and I rolled snowballs and built a snowman on the front lawn. He has twigs for fingers and a carrot nose and looks quite as he should, other than being a little lopsided.

  5 January

  Our snowman survived the night perfectly well but has now been battered by Monty, who announced it was a German snowman and that he was teaching it what for.

  William is a noisy fellow; Mother looks exhausted.

  8 January

  Uncle Aubrey brought news of Edmund; not that which Mother hoped to hear, but my uncle believes it the best outcome in the circumstances. Edmund has been released from the local Regiment to take up an Officer Cadetship with Uncle Aubrey’s old Unit — my uncle’s hand can clearly be seen — and with that Mother must be content. Edmund will undergo two months of training, after which he will return to us on leave until he receives a posting. Had he stayed with the local Regiment he would have reached the Front sooner, which might have suited him better, but this way when he goes it will be as a Leader of Men.

  11 January

  Snow and more snow. My uncle left at midday yesterday to catch his train, then spent some miserable hours at the Station only to learn that the line was completely blocked. Winifred discovered him waiting and offered to drive him home, but the road was by then no better than the line and they were obliged to abandon the car in a drift, arriving back here in a very sorry state. Winifred took a glass of brandy to revive her and retired to bed while my uncle sent one of the men with a message for Lady Braybrooke. Whether he managed to reach her we know not, as he is yet to return.

  12 January

  It has been such a boon to have Winifred with us: I do hope a little of her gusto rubs off on Mother, who remains rather flat. Father has asked whether she might consider staying a few days. Meanwhile she has regaled me with tales regarding the WSPU meetings I missed. On the Tuesday before Christmas a number of toasts were offered up in the general festive spirit, causing several ladies to become tipsy, while last week, in more sober mode, the visiting speaker left her greatly impressed. I have forgotten the woman’s name but she apparently spent some months nursing in Belgium before returning home to arrange shipments of medical supplies and to alert us to the hardships suffered by the poor Belgians, whose towns are constantly being bombarded and whose lives are torn asunder. Like Winifred, I wonder if there is not more we can do.

  14 January

  On return to my bandaging class I found a mutiny had taken place: it seems certain local women — they shall remain unnamed — do not believe a ‘Colonial’ should be instructing them, and would rather learn nothing than accept that I may, on this subject, know more than they. Such an attitude is inexcusable! I do hope Edmund does not meet anything so foolish. Lady B assures me she has an Altogether Better Plan. I tremble to imagine it!

  Received a short letter from Lettie, who reports that Christmas was pleasant but the rest of her days quite unremarkable, the young man she spoke of having departed for the Front. Perhaps it will encourage her to take up her plan to apply to Oxford. I doubt her Greek is much improved: perhaps I should send her Mr Lindsay’s address so that they might write — though, on reflection, I suspect her family would not approve.

  I have not heard from Ada or Harriet in an absolute age. For the first time since we arrived I feel a little homesick. Perhaps it is the cold. At home it will be sweltering hot, even the garden beginning to shrivel, while the hills will be quite browned and the cicadas in constant creaking chorus.

&nbs
p; Sunday 17 January

  Mother seems a little brighter, no doubt thanks to the arrival on Friday of the nanny engaged to assist with William. Walking to Church, the crisp chill turning our noses quite pink, Mother tucked my hand through the crook of her arm and patted my fingers. ‘You are a good girl,’ she said — rather to my surprise. Nothing further was said, Millicent at that moment skipping up to point out a squirrel peering over a branch, the tufts of its ears comically large, and thereafter walking with us. The snow that was such a bother when it fell is now packed firmly underfoot and lies mounded on every horizontal surface, including the branches of trees; sometimes there is more snow than branch! Millicent says the weight of it will occasionally cause branches to break, but that there is not enough for that yet. Some sloughed off with a great whump as we walked past the gates to Catmere. It gave me quite a start, and made me wonder about the noise of falling shells, which brought to mind Winifred’s report of the injuries and suffering described at the WSPU meeting. Millicent says the snow will turn to slush if it rains, as it is likely soon to do.

  18 January

  Father has spent the day shut in Uncle Aubrey’s study, not even emerging for meals. Apparently he received a letter, though whether it is from Edmund or Harry (from whom there has been no word since Christmas Day) or contains bad news from home is a matter upon which we can but speculate.