Harvest of War

by Hilary Green

  He had seen Ralph three times over the six-month period. Twice he had managed to catch up with him when his battalion was in reserve billets behind the line, but he had been distracted and on edge, drinking heavily and unable to sustain a conversation for longer than a minute or two. But then Ralph had been given forty-eight hours’ leave and had come to find him at the chateau. There was no spare accommodation, so they had shared a room and, for the first time since the incident with the boy, Louis, they recaptured some of their old schoolboy comradeship. Tom had reconciled himself to the idea that Ralph had desires which he would have been only too happy to satisfy, but that he had been cast in an idealized role that made any thought of that impossible. Ralph loved him like a brother, and that would have to suffice.

  Ralph had admired the pictures and said with a grin, ‘I knew I was doing the right thing.’

  ‘You engineered this, didn’t you?’ Tom asked. ‘But how did you manage it?’

  Ralph tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘Old boy network. ‘Nuff said?’

  Now, heading away from the chateau, Tom wondered if he had been a fool. Probably he could have strung out the painting for another month or two, and by then there would have been another ‘big push’ which would bring the final victory. Everyone said it must come this summer. But he knew that if he had done that he would have felt diminished in his own eyes, if not in the eyes of the world.

  The crates were loaded into the goods van, which had been attached to the troop train, and Tom settled himself in a First Class, Officers Only compartment. His three companions, who were all considerably higher in rank than himself, talked among themselves and seemed to regard him as an interloper. Used to the snobbery of the regular army, Tom opened a magazine and ignored them.

  The train was half way to Calais when it jolted to a sudden halt and whistles began to blow all along its length. ‘Enemy aircraft! Take cover! Take cover!’ Tom grabbed his tin hat and peered out of the window. There was a roar and a German Fokker biplane skimmed low over the train. Tom could see the pilot and in the rear cockpit the gunner, sighting his machine gun. White puffs of smoke blossomed around it from the anti-aircraft guns mounted on a flat truck at the rear of the train. Then came a rattle like heavy hailstones as bullets swept the train from front to rear. Tom ducked back sharply and joined the other officers crouched on the floor of the compartment. They heard the plane’s engine scream as it pulled up at the end of its traverse, then the increasing noise as it returned for a second sweep. This time there were no bullets, but two explosions rocked the carriages.

  As the sound of the plane’s engine faded away a new cry went up. ‘Fire! Fire!’

  Tom leapt out of the compartment and ran back towards the rear of the train. The German pilot had dropped his bombs with remarkable accuracy, presumably thinking that the closed truck at the rear contained weapons or other items of war material. They must have been incendiaries, because the whole truck was ablaze. Men were swarming round it with stirrup pumps but Tom could see at once that it was pointless. There was nothing he could do but watch as the work of six months, the pictures that might have established his reputation, went up in smoke.

  When the fire had been put out the train proceeded on its way and Tom went with it. There seemed little point in doing otherwise. By the following day he was in London. Standing on the platform, surrounded by ecstatic scenes of returning servicemen being greeted by their loved ones, he was undecided about where to go. There was no reason to stay in town, now that he had no exhibition to arrange. He had the telephone number of the gallery owner in his diary, so he went to a phone booth and called it. The man was aghast at the cancellation of the plans and seemed more concerned with his own loss than with Tom’s, so Tom brought the conversation to a rapid conclusion.

  He still had to decide where to spend his leave. His house in Cheyne Walk was let for the duration and the prospect of checking into a hotel did not appeal. He reminded himself that he had not seen his parents since he’d finished his officer training, over a year earlier. He had not enjoyed that leave and his heart sank at the thought of repeating the experience, but he felt duty-bound to make the effort. So he crossed London to Marylebone Station and took a train for Denham. It was late April and the beech trees were flaunting their new green leaves, while the understory was carpeted with white wood anemones. Watching the scenery slip past, Tom was possessed by a wave of nostalgia for boyhood wanderings and reminded that his childhood had not been entirely bleak. He hired a pony and trap at the station to take him to the Hall and as they drove through the gates he was struck by the air of neglect. Weeds were growing up through the gravel and the lawns were untrimmed, and as he drew closer he saw that the paintwork around the window frames was peeling. He knew labour was short, because of the war, but he was surprised that things had been allowed to deteriorate to this extent.

  The door was opened by Lowndes, the family butler, and Tom was shaken to see how much he had aged since his last visit. He could never remember him being a young man, but now his hair was completely white and the hand that held the door open shook slightly. Tom had not given any warning of his arrival, which perhaps accounted for the expression of something close to alarm that crossed the old man’s face when he recognized him.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you, sir. Sir George is in London, at his club, but Her Ladyship is upstairs in her boudoir. If you’ll wait in the drawing room, I’ll tell her you are here.’

  Tom thought of the scenes he had witnessed at Victoria station, but reminded himself that he had not let anyone know he was on his way back, so he could scarcely complain that no one had come to meet him. Nevertheless, he could not dismiss a lingering feeling that even if he had told his parents it would not have made a material difference. He went into the drawing room and stopped short. Above the mantelpiece an oblong of unfaded wallpaper, edged by a line of dust, stood out starkly.

  Tom swung round to address the butler’s departing back. ‘Lowndes, what’s happened to the Stubbs?’

  The old man turned back, his shoulders drooping. ‘Sold, I believe, sir. A matter of paying off a gambling debt.’

  Tom drew a deep breath. So, his father’s gambling addiction was getting worse, apparently. He felt sorry for the old butler, who had served the family for so long. ‘Thank you, Lowndes. That is all.’

  When the man had gone Tom looked around the room and quickly realized that the painting was not the only thing missing. Two smaller watercolours had vanished, as had a silver rose bowl and a Chinese vase. He began to see the room as a stranger might and noticed that the furniture was dusty and the carpet worn threadbare in places. His sense of disquiet deepened.

  Lowndes returned. ‘Her Ladyship asks you to go up, sir.’

  No rush to embrace the returning soldier here, then! Tom climbed the stairs and found his mother sitting at her embroidery frame in a room cluttered with examples of her work. Cross-stitched cushions were heaped on every chair, pictures were thrown over the backs, table runners and bell-pulls were scattered on every other surface. The evidence, he saw for the first time, not of a hobby, but of an obsessive escape from reality.

  His mother looked up from her work but did not put down her needle. ‘Good afternoon, Thomas. I hope you are well.’

  He walked over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Well enough, Mother, thank you. And you? How are you?’

  ‘Oh, much as usual. Have you eaten? Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Later, perhaps.’ He tipped some of her work off a chair and set it close to her. ‘Mother, I want to ask you something. Did you know that the Stubbs painting has been sold – and some other things as well?’

  She bent her head closer to her sewing and answered indistinctly, ‘I believe your father needed some money. He owed it to some bookies.’

  ‘He’s still gambling, then. How bad is it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know about these things.’

  Tom reached out and took her
hands, stilling the obsessive movement of her needle. ‘When was father last here?’

  ‘I . . . don’t remember. It was Christmas, I think. Yes, there was a party . . . a lot of noise.’

  ‘A party! Up to his ears in debt, and he’s still throwing parties! And he hasn’t been down here since then?’

  ‘No, I . . . I don’t think so.’

  He leaned closer, gripping her hands, forcing her to look at him. ‘Mother, how bad are things really? You must have some idea.’

  She closed her eyes, as if trying to shut out a thought. Then she said, almost in a whisper, ‘John Standing was here the other day. He wanted to talk to me about selling off some land. He was saying something about the bank, and a mortgage. I told him there is nothing I can do. Your father is the only one who can deal with these things.’

  Tom sat back and took a deep breath. He knew Standing, the estate manager, for an honest, sensible man. If he was worried enough to want to sell land, affairs must have reached a critical state. He looked at his mother, seeing her now not as the cold, unloving figure of his childhood but as a pathetic woman who had shut herself off in order to escape from an unhappy marriage. He patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see Standing in the morning and then I’ll go up to town and talk to father.’

  At a meeting the next day with the estate manager and Mr Featherstone, the family solicitor, Tom was made fully aware of how desperate the situation was. His father had mortgaged the estate to fund his alcoholism and his gambling and now the bank was threatening to foreclose on the debt. Bills for wine and groceries remained unpaid, staff had been dismissed and for those that were left wages were months in arrears. And to add to that there was the unknown amount that might be owing to bookmakers.

  ‘I’ll be frank with you, Lieutenant Devenish,’ Featherstone said. ‘Unless something is done soon we shall have the bailiffs in.’

  As soon as the meeting was over Tom took the train to London and made his way to his father’s club. A steward informed him stiffly that Sir George was not on the premises at present but was expected back that evening. Meanwhile, he suggested, the club secretary would like a word with him.

  It was just as Tom expected: a catalogue of complaints about unpaid bar bills and drunken confrontations with other members.

  ‘To be frank with you, Lieutenant,’ the secretary said, ‘unless you can see your way clear to settle the outstanding bill I am afraid we shall have to ask Sir George to leave – and it may even come to a matter of involving the police.’

  ‘I understand,’ Tom said. ‘How much is owing?’

  The secretary handed him a bill and Tom reached for his cheque book with a sigh. It was almost exactly the same amount as the general had paid him for his picture.

  ‘Do you know where my father is at the moment?’

  ‘He has gone to Newmarket for the races, I believe.’

  Tom shook his head in disbelief. He knew, from conversations in the mess, of the crazy conviction of the inveterate gambler that one last lucky bet would solve all his problems, but he found it hard to credit that any sane man could believe it. But then, he was beginning to wonder if his father was sane. He waited in the bar for him to return. Sir George came in just before dinner and from the tone of his voice, heard from the hallway before he entered the bar, and from his face when he appeared, it was plain that no such stroke of luck had come his way and, moreover, that he had been drinking to console himself.

  He stared at Tom for a moment as if he did not recognize him and then barked: ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you, sir,’ Tom replied.

  ‘Skiving off, eh? Things got a bit too hot for you out there?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Got yourself cashiered, is that it? Conduct unbecoming? Well, it’s no good coming to me to bail you out.’

  ‘No,’ Tom said, trying to keep his voice level, ‘that’s not why I’m here. I’m on leave, quite legitimately, and I’ve been made aware that there are things at home that require your attention. I want you to come home with me.’

  ‘Been made aware, have you?’ his father repeated satirically. ‘Aware of what, may I ask?’

  ‘Certain financial matters.’

  ‘Financial matters? You insolent puppy! What do you know about my financial matters?’

  ‘I know,’ Tom said, lowering his voice, ‘that if something is not done soon you and mother may be turned out of the house.’

  ‘Turned out! Turned out! How dare you come here and make threats like that to me? I know what it is. You’re worried about your inheritance! Well, let me tell you this. You can starve in the gutter for all I care. You and your arty-crafty friends. Don’t you come here and tell me how to conduct my life. Now get out, before I take my stick to you!’

  His father’s face had gone from red to purple and his eyes were bulging, so that Tom found himself wondering if people really did die of apoplexy. His raised voice had drawn disapproving looks and mutters from the other occupants of the bar and at that moment two of the club stewards appeared at his elbows.

  ‘Now then, sir. Let’s calm down, shall we? Or we’ll have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘Calm down! Calm down! Just let me get at him, the cowardly dog! I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget.’

  ‘Come along, sir. No need for any trouble. The young gentleman didn’t mean any harm. Why don’t you let us take you up to your room? Time to dress for dinner, isn’t it?’

  Murmuring similar soothing platitudes the two men manoeuvred Sir George, still muttering threats and curses, out of the room. The club secretary had followed them in and turned to Tom.

  ‘Sorry about that, Lieutenant. But you see our problem.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Tom responded shakily. ‘Unfortunately, I have no idea what to do about it.’

  ‘It’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened. I’m afraid if it goes on we shall have no alternative but to ask Sir George to leave. The other members won’t tolerate that kind of behaviour.’

  ‘I understand,’ Tom said. ‘You must do as you think fit. I’m afraid if I try to interfere any further it will only make things worse.’ Privately, he thought that if his father were to find himself out on the street with nowhere to go but home to Denham it might bring him to his senses.

  Out in the street himself he was at a loss where to go next. He had no appetite for dinner, and the prospect of returning to the gloom of Denham Hall was too depressing to contemplate. Then he remembered something he had intended to do while in London, before all his plans fell apart. He hailed a cab and set out for Sussex Gardens.

  When Beavis opened the door to him he said, ‘I’ve come to enquire if you have any news of Miss Malham Brown? I haven’t heard from her for months.’

  ‘Miss Leonora is in the drawing room, sir. Shall I tell her you are here?’

  ‘Leo, here? That’s marvellous! Don’t worry, Beavis. I’ll announce myself.’

  Tom bounded into the drawing room and stopped short at the sight of Leo reclining on a chaise longue, pale-faced and en déshabillé.

  She started up at his entry and gave a small cry. ‘Tom! Oh, Tom, how wonderful! I’m so glad to see you.’

  He crossed to her side and knelt by the chaise. ‘Leo, you’re not well. What is it? What has happened? I thought you were in Salonika.’

  She sank back against the cushions. ‘Oh, I left there some time ago. So much has happened since. I don’t know how to tell you . . .’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Sasha is dead.’

  He caught her hand. ‘Oh, my dear. I am so sorry.’

  ‘That is not all.’

  ‘What else? Tell me, please!’

  He listened in growing anguish as Leo related the events of the past year: the culmination of her love affair with Sasha; her pregnancy; their final encounter; her dash to be at his side when he was wounded; her prolonged labour; the birth of her daughter and how the child had been left in the
care of a stranger, and her desperate attempt to return to the village.

  ‘It was a stupid thing to do. I nearly died and the next thing I knew I was on a ship back to England. And now the village is back in Bulgarian hands and I’m stuck here like a helpless invalid.’

  He raised her hand to his cheek. ‘My dear girl! What can I say? I am so sorry for you. I know how much you loved Sasha, and how it hurt you when he had to marry someone else.’

  ‘But that marriage was never consummated,’ she said quickly. ‘He swore that. I had a letter from him, Tom, written just before he was killed. In it he told me that he had repudiated his marriage to Eudoxie and made my child, our child, his heir. But what use is that, when I don’t know where she is?’

  ‘We will find her,’ Tom said firmly. ‘When the war is over, we will go back and find the family who took her in and bring her home.’

  ‘When the war is over . . .’ Leo said with a sigh. ‘Is it ever going to end, Tom?’

  ‘Of course it is. The Germans must be nearly at the end of their resources. And now the Americans are with us, it can’t go on much longer. By the end of the summer you may be reunited with your baby.’ He hesitated, then went on: ‘But have you thought what it will mean, bringing up a child as an unmarried woman?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘What do I care? Do you suppose I shall be the only woman in that position after this terrible carnage?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I should have known you better. But bear this in mind: if you want me, I will stand by you. After all, we are still officially engaged.’