by A. W. Exley
Except I failed to summon even the smallest shred of courage, and any words I tried to form on the paper withered under her father's stare and I left as I arrived.
Silently.
7
October ran out of days and became November. Ella and I still worked all the hours we could, dividing out time between the farm and Serenity House. One day, as I walked across the ballroom floor, Warrens’ head swung in my direction and then he crooked a discreet finger to summon me closer. The reserved butler never raised his voice. Wouldn't do to yell.
"A question for you, Evans," he said in his refined and clipped voice.
I placed the armload of clean linen on the tea trolley, now repurposed to carry medical supplies and blankets, and approached.
"Tell me, lad, can you drive a truck?"
I nodded. Once I proved a failure as a soldier, I trained as an orderly and at times drove the ambulance, ferrying wounded soldiers from the battlefield to the makeshift hospital.
"Good. Our usual driver has succumbed to the influenza." He nodded with his head to the end bed on the closest row. A tall, thin man lay under a sheet, his face covered in the sheen of perspiration. He didn't toss or turn but lay still. Poor bugger. From my observations, the ones with no fight in them gave up their souls to death quicker than any others.
We were dropping like flies. I hadn't seen healthy men fall this quick except under fire, either from a machine gun or when dysentery burned through the trenches. The Grim Reaper's scythe cut a path around the globe.
"Report out in the courtyard, Evans. The deceased need delivering to the village green." Warrens patted my back and walked away. The man went from one crisis to another, trying to find solutions to a never-ending flow of problems. The duke had died two weeks before and been interred in the family mausoleum. That left the butler running the entire estate until the next duke returned home. Assuming he ever did return from the battlefields.
I swallowed and took slow steps from the grand room and down the hallway. Death would be my cargo once again. Would there come a time I would simply accept its dark presence at my back?
Thankfully I missed the worst part of my new job and our cargo was secure in the truck by the time I emerged into the pale sunlight of late autumn. I nodded to my companion and climbed into the driver's seat. My hands curled tight around the steering wheel until my knuckles shone white, and I tried to ignore the load in the back as I drove.
They were dead.
All of them.
And yet their silent moans and cries rippled over my skin. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and chills flowed down my spine as though someone poured ice water down the back of my shirt.
"You all right?" Tom, once a stable hand and now my co-driver, asked.
I nodded yes while my mind screamed no and fixed my gaze on the road. The wheels of the truck seemed to find every hole in the road and we pitched upward in our seats every time we hit one. With each mile, the noise from the back diminished, until I heard only the chug of the engine.
I turned into the road that led to the village green, the heart of our community. Once, it had been a place of fun and recreation. We held fêtes and cricket matches and gathered to hear the band play in the rotunda. But no longer. Army tents of khaki canvas lay around like enormous slugs that raided a garden and then were too full to move any further.
The weather turned against us. Dark clouds gathered overhead and the trees dropped their leaves early. Paths worn between tents and would turn to deep mud with the rain. It was as though we skipped autumn and went straight from summer to winter with the arrival of the pandemic.
I parked the truck as close as possible to the largest slug tent and then killed the engine.
"Come on, then." Tom hopped out, his tone light as though our grim task didn't affect him at all. I wished I could be more like Tom, but my mind shivered and baulked when I thought about what awaited me in the back.
Tom threw open the drop cloth covering the interior. Within, horrific Christmas presents tightly wrapped in linen waited for us. The whispers started again. Cold words I couldn't make out slid over my skin and I rubbed at my arms. I was grateful I didn't have to peel back the bindings and answer the questions posed by their blank eyes.
As I waited by the rear of the truck, a man emerged from the tent and held out his hand. Tom handed over his clipboard. The short list detailed the men and women who had died in the last two days at Serenity House. This was the sad new phase of the pandemic, as many who sickened never recovered. I realised how fortunate we were that both Magda and Charlotte pulled through, when so many lost those closest to them.
Tom jumped into the back, picked up the end of one shroud, and dragged it closer. The maids at Serenity House had sewn each deceased person into their own final resting place. Neat stitches once reserved for the duchess' clothing now edged rough linen.
My hand reached out but my mind froze. Who was within? Judging by the size, not a child. Mercifully the few sick children at the estate received special attention. No one wanted to see a life snuffed out before it had even started. Most of the ill had been fit, young, and healthy. It truly seemed some sort of divine revenge that struck down those who should have been most able to stand against it. Why not the already sick or elderly? Why did this Spanish flu take the best and strongest of those amongst us?
Because it will leave you unprotected, a voice whispered in the back of my head.
Unprotected against what? I screamed the question in my mind but the voice didn't answer. I shook my head to dislodge the fancy brought on by dwelling on my last encounter at the Morris farm.
My vision refocused on the package before me. I stared at the fabric, trying to discern the facial shape through the thick wrapping. A cold hand gripped my heart and squeezed. What if Hazel lay within one of the bundles? Would I know? My lungs stopped working as I drew another breath inward but forgot about outward. Icicles of panic lanced through me; my hands wanted to tear every shroud open to reassure myself none contained long golden plaits.
"I can't do this on my own, you know." Tom's voice pulled me from the spiralling labyrinth in my mind.
I had to do something or Hazel would one day be unloaded from a truck by uncaring hands. More immediately, I had to catch the body Tom pushed into my arms. It appeared to be feet first, and I slid my hands around what I assume were ankles as Tom took the shoulders. Labels sewn to each bag had the name of the person within. My pulse calmed as I glanced at this one and saw a name I vaguely recognised.
Once Tom jumped to the ground, we carried our burden over to a tent and laid the unfortunate out next to similarly wrapped forms.
So many people dead. For every three who fell ill, at least one left this mortal coil, and sometimes two. No community was untouched as winter's shadow passed over the land and left death in her wake. In our corner of the countryside we had communal graves, there were too many bodies for individual funerals and burials. We laid bodies in open pits and added more dirt until they were full.
A figure in black walked amongst the line of bodies. His head bowed, a bible clasped in his hands. He whispered prayers as he touched each one and then moved on. Father Mason held his congregation together and the man worked unceasingly, trying to be at the bedside of every dying person. Except his wife.
Mrs Mason had died at home, alone, while Mr Mason sat with the sick at Serenity House. The maids gossiped that he wasn't aware of how serious her condition had become. He focused on helping everyone else and neglected those closest to him.
The reverend walked his penance back and forth in these tents. Ferrying departed souls to Heaven, perhaps looking for Mrs Mason amongst the shades swirling within the canvas confines. Would he apologise if he caught sight of her? And yet he seemed oblivious to their presence around him, like everyone else. But I saw wisps of smoke rising from the shrouds, then they curled around the central tent pole before darting to one side and escaping between gaps in the fabric.
/> "Come on," Tom said, slapping my stomach. "Lots more to go."
There was the sad truth. The truck contained ten people who had passed and their beds as quickly filled. How could anyone dance in that ballroom again, knowing what had happened under the sparkling crystals of its chandeliers? Or did the aristocracy not bother with such gruesome details of life? With enough champagne they probably wouldn't even notice if the corpses were all laid end to end under their feet.
We laboured until the truck was empty and my back ached from the physical and spiritual load. Remaining family would be notified of the passing of their loved one. If they could, they would be collected and buried closer to home. Some farms had their own tiny cemeteries devoted to one family.
Father Mason stopped me on the way out. "You do God's work, my son, bringing these poor souls to their final resting place. I thank you on their behalf."
He had a kindly way about him. He always listened to the village children and made us feel as important as the adults. He never looked down on us. But my eyes saw cracks in his faith as clearly as the dark lines around his eyes. His tone lacked conviction. His words said one thing, but his eyes said, "This isn't God's work. This is what happens in the absence of God."
If Father Mason lost his way, would his flock also be lost? Nothing made any sense, even to my troubled mind. I brimmed with questions I could never ask of a man who questioned his own purpose. We all fumbled in the dark, looking for a candle and a match.
If I did His work, surely He would give me the foresight to know how to protect Hazel and ensure she was never taken too soon? I wanted her to grow old and die surrounded by great-grandchildren and photographs and mementos of her many adventures. But the darkness whispered that it would take her from me and a coward could do nothing to stop it. No matter how hard I scrubbed at the black spot on my soul, it could not be shifted. No matter how much I wished it otherwise, only one certainty stood in my shattered mind.
I was powerless to protect her from the forthcoming storm.
I couldn't stay away; I was the moth to her flame. It didn't matter that I would burn, I had to be close. Part of me needed to talk to her, to try to explain, or simply to hear her voice as she raged at me. I preferred anything to silence.
It would be a covert mission behind enemy lines. I doubted Mr and Mrs Morris would ever open their door to me again. From the dark look on Mr Morris' face when we last parted, I didn't want to find out what he would do if he discovered me creeping around the tower.
Before I set out, I bathed and scrubbed at my skin with the hard-bristled brush. I would not carry the slightest hint of disease to Hazel's doorstep, even if I had to take off layers of skin. Then I rode to the top of the hill, left Cossimo in a copse of trees, and told the placid horse to wait. A quick glance told me no one was about in the adjacent paddocks, so I crept over the meadow, crouched low under cover of descending dusk. The familiar action of running over enemy territory had me waiting for the barrage of gunfire to pepper the ground about me, but none came. No one manned a machine gun waiting to cut me down.
As I reached the base of the wall undetected, I faced a rather obvious problem. Now what? A lifetime ago, Hazel used to drop a rope ladder so I could climb over the wall. In the fairy-tale, the prince ascended the tower using only Rapunzel's long hair. That was stupid; it's incredibly hard to climb a vertical stone face using just a rope, and if he fell he would have killed himself. In real life, the door and steps in the base of the tower are far more reasonable. Which left me with the issue of getting over the wall first.
I ran my hands over the rough-hewn stones, looking for familiar hand holds or anywhere that allowed my fingers enough space to grip the edges. I fell twice before I managed to scrabble high enough to reach one arm over the top. My muscles burned with the exertion of pulling myself up by my fingernails while my boots slid before they stopped on a bump of stone.
For a long minute I lay along the top of the wall, catching my breath and surveying the large garden and grounds. It wouldn't pay to drop over the side and land on Mrs Morris. But with the approach of dark, they tucked themselves inside the cottage. The only shapes moving were the last chickens to roost.
Light spilled from the cottage's window and cast shadows over the lawn. A shape moved past, momentarily blocking the lantern's beam, and I froze. Did someone look out the window? I counted my heartbeats until the shadow moved on again.
I dangled over the side and then dropped the remaining couple of feet to the ground. It was far easier to get down than it was to go up. I wasn't sure how I would make it over again without Mr Morris filling my arse with rifle shot, but I would worry about that later.
One step at a time, I crept around the base of the tower to the small door. It stood ajar, as though someone had only recently gone through, and I hoped Hazel was within and not helping her mother with dinner.
With one hand on the stone as a guide, I trod the worn steps spiralling around and around the inside. I kept to the outside edge, where the stairs had more room for my large feet. Trying to climb too close to the axis could result in a misstep and a tumble all the way back down. The walls seemed closer than I remembered and the roof lower. Thin arrow slits at regular intervals allowed a slice of pale light to penetrate the tower's thick spine. They also offered a spectacular view over the countryside. Keen eyes could spot rabbit ears in the long grass from up here and an even keener sight might hit one at such a range.
At last, I took the final step but hesitated. I had no way of knowing what sort of reception I would find behind the last door. Experience of the other day would suggest not a very welcoming one. I took some comfort in the fact she couldn't shove me out a window. I wouldn't fit through an arrow slit. But she could toss me down the stairs to tumble all the way to the ground like Humpty Dumpty.
I stared at the smooth wood. Someone had carved a tree up one side and it spread its branches from one side to the other. Carved wooden leaves even had wooden veins. I traced one while I mustered up a vestige of courage. Shame to turn back after coming all this way. Before I could change my mind, I rapped softly with the back of my knuckles.
Silence. No sound from the room. She must be with her parents. Oh well, I tried. I had turned to contemplate the return scramble over the wall, when a rusty hinge gave a creak.
"Henry?" Her tone was soft, not angry like I expected. "Father will hang you from the oak tree if he catches you here and mother will light a fire beneath your dancing feet."
That worried me, too, but I would risk it all for a few stolen moments with her. I took off my cloth cap, held it in my hands and waited.
She frowned and didn't move. I didn’t know how to read her look. Was she considering what to do with me? I moved a step closer to her and one further away from the edge of the dark spiral below.
Then the door opened a fraction further. "You may as well come in. There are things I want to say to you that I couldn't say in front of my father."
Not the invitation I expected and when she put it like that, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to step into her tower room. Maybe I should return home and forget my hare-brained scheme to see her. Apparently I hesitated too long, because she grabbed my arm, hauled me in, and slammed the door behind me.
Little had changed in four years; the circular room was just as I remembered it. A bed draped in swags of brightly coloured muslin. An ocean of green, blue, and azure entwined around the top of the four-poster and floated over the mattress. Bookcases were built into the walls and crammed full of books. The enormous fireplace with a cold grate waited for a match to be tossed on the paper and tinder. A wide window seat in front of the south-facing window had a deep green cushion decorated with flecks of yellow like dandelions in a meadow. A rifle leaned against the window frame. A small table and two chairs under the narrow north window where she used to sit and write. A brightly coloured knot rug made of left over fabric scraps covered the floor.
Hazel gave me no time to drink in the co
mfort of the familiar surroundings, though. She launched her attack immediately.
"You abandoned me! You promised you would only be gone a couple of months at most and that you would come back for me." She paced back and forth and threw her hands in the air.
I bowed my head under the verbal assault. She ranted and raved, but most of all, she railed at her confines. She pulled at the chains binding her to the tower and they were far more powerful than the stone blocks. Emotional ties kept her at her mother's side and unable to venture far. Her mother's martyrdom wrapped Hazel in steel and pinned her at the Morrises’ feet.
Her voice thickened with pain as she spoke of all she missed, of the change of the seasons she could only watch unfold over the landscape. Each lament was a bullet through my body until I could take it no longer.
Reaching out, I pulled her to me. She wept and pummelled me with her fists, and I let her. Over and over she hit me, crying at how unfair it was that she was trapped while I got to see the world. Until she exhausted her anger.
When her body slumped and her head dropped to my chest, I wrapped my arms tight around the only woman who ever held me captive. I pressed my cheek to the top of her head and wished I had the words to whisper to set the world right and ease what ached in her heart and mind.
After several minutes, her body stopped shaking and she lifted tear-filled eyes to me. "I know I must stay with mother, Henry, but it's killing me inside. I desperately want to live and instead I am buried alive."
The desire to help her tore me in half. I wanted to set her free, to toss her into the air and watch her soar, over the wall and out into the world. But it wasn't safe. People died every day, struck down by the influenza. Fit, healthy, young people like Hazel. The idea of finding her name on a label sewn into a shroud terrified me.
