by Georgia Hill
Rachel’s temper rose to meet Gabe’s. ‘Well, you could stop hanging out in that dingy pub with your no-hoper friends,’ she blurted out.
Gabe went very still. ‘Just why do you tolerate me, Rachel?’
She looked up at him in shock. She’d never seen him like this. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, let’s see.’ He began ticking things off on his fingers. ‘My job obviously doesn’t meet with your approval, you hate me drinking beer, you wince every time I speak – no I see you, I’ve seen you do it. You don’t want to get to know my friends, I’ve never even met any of yours and now you want to make me into some kind of poncey artist.’
‘Gabe, I never meant any such thing. I just think you’ve got so much more to offer,’ she added, lamely.
‘Let me tell you this. When I decide to change direction, it’ll be my decision and I’ll do it in my own time, when the moment’s right.’
‘Then you’ll never do it because you’ve got no ambition!’ The instant she said it, Rachel realised how cruel she sounded.
Gabe’s lips thinned. ‘That’s what you think, is it?’
Rachel nodded, she didn’t trust herself to speak. She had the terrible, dreadful feeling she’d gone too far with this. Much too far.
‘I see.’ Gabe was calm now. Horribly calm. He picked up his jacket off the kitchen chair. ‘Well, I’ll be off, then. Nice knowing you,’ He nodded.
‘Gabe?’ Rachel couldn’t believe what was happening. Was he leaving? Was he leaving her? ‘Gabe you’re not going? Come back and finish your supper.’
He laughed. It was a horrible sound. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll get something down at that dingy pub.’
‘With Dawn, I suppose,’ she spat out before she could stop herself. The age-old jealousy and insecurity rose in her like bile. She was sure of it now. He’d been playing her like a fool, just as Charles had done. It could be the only explanation for his constant disappearances.
Gabe gave her a hard stare, began to speak and then thought better of it. He shook his head and scrubbed an exasperated hand through his hair. A pulse leapt at his throat.
She followed him into the hall. He picked up his boots from where he kicked them off in the hallway, then straightened. Rachel saw his expression and knew.
‘You know, Rachel, there can’t be anything worth having without trust; it goes a long way in a relationship. So now I know what it is I’ve done wrong, what it is that makes you so fucking irritable.’ His face was tight with a kind of quiet fury. ‘It’s been like walking on fucking eggshells with you.’ He paused, his expression hardening. ‘And now you think I’m not good enough for you. Well, perhaps I never was.’ He came closer. ‘Or maybe, just maybe, you’re not good enough for me. Think about that.’
He shoved his feet into his boots and, without waiting to tie the laces, wrenched open the front door and disappeared into the night.
Chapter 34
For days all Rachel did was wander the house as if Gabe was playing a joke and hiding somewhere.
But he wasn’t.
He was nowhere to be seen. Nor did he ring. Hetty ignored her too; all she was aware of was a cold and accusing silence sliding round the walls of the sitting room. On the third day after he’d gone she finally slumped at the desk, staring blankly at the view. She’d lost him and it was all her own stupid fault.
She laid her head on her arms and wept.
The autumn wreaked revenge on what had been an Indian summer by bringing a premature winter, with howling gales and rain, which lashed at the windows of the cottage, exposed as it was, high on the ridge.
Rachel’s life closed in on itself. She hunkered down, with her work and with Hetty’s journal. She read a few more of Edward’s letters, with their brittle attempt at making the best of what must have been a truly dreadful situation. They included yet more requests for socks, as the winter cold set in, and writing paper. Then Rachel found one that mentioned Richard. It must have been one of the last letters Edward had written before being wounded at Neuve Chapelle.
26th February, 1915
1st Bn The Worcestershire Regiment
BEF
Darling girl,
No, of course I did not mean anything by my comment about Flora. I do think she is brave, however and especially so after David’s death. From what little I have seen of the work they do, VADs are doing all they can to help us win this filthy war. Redoubtable ladies, all of them. But I did not mean any criticism of your actions. I know you are doing your bit at home and the aunts cannot be left, especially now Richard has joined up.
Your work at the school is tremendously useful – and suitable. Your Mr Innisford sounds an interesting man and I am pleased you have found a new friend. You sound as if you are loving it all, although I simply cannot imagine you knitting! Tell me more about it. It is pleasant to be reminded of home. I long to see Delamere.
Oh, but foolish Richard, what was he thinking? He hasn’t even graduated! And why enlist as a ‘gentleman soldier’? He will regret his impulsive action soon enough, once he is out here. Why does the boy never think? I send prayers to keep him safe and urge you to do the same.
You asked for more detail about the goings on out here. Well, my darling, forgive me if I do not tell you too much. There is little time to write and I would prefer not to linger on what has been done. Suffice to say I got back at about 10pm last night, after a stint and had the most splendid night’s sleep. We had been conducting the rations party to the front trenches and had a narrow escape. Fritz’s guns were going like billy-oh. Sadly couldn’t take the boots off, when we got here, but it mattered not. Just glad to get my head down.
The trenches beggar belief; we are often knee deep in mud. Although, now the colder weather is upon us, it has hardened and we have a different problem; one or two of the men have gone down with frostbite. France and the Hun conspire to get us one way or another!
Thankfully, last night, some of the men organised a singsong, which has lifted spirits no end. Some of the sergeants sang in parts beautifully, although the guns made the windows of HQ rattle a bit as an accompaniment. It was very pleasant and I know we all gave our grateful thanks to those who thought to do it. There is talk of a concert later in the year but none of us likes to tempt fate by thinking too far ahead.
On the same subject, there is little hope of me obtaining leave at present, dear girl. It is a little too lively in these parts for any officer to be granted leave. We’ve seen one or two exciting doings. The Hun make life interesting, I can tell you!
Do let me have any news about Richard. My love, as always, to you and the aunts.
Edward
Even lost in her own misery, Rachel empathised with Edward. Head of the family, stuck at the Front and worrying over his wife and brother. Was there a hint of jealousy there too? And it was typical of Hetty to get indignant about Edward praising Flora!
She continued to leaf through more of Hetty’s papers. There were one or two more letters from Edward and some diary entries describing her work at the school. She seemed to relish volunteering at the school and wrote, in glowing terms, about her friendship with Peter Innisford. Good for Hetty, thought Rachel. She must have felt she was actually doing something useful at last.
There was one more letter, reeking of the familiar stench of war. But this one wasn’t from Edward. It was signed Richard.
27th April, 1915
8th Bn Devonshires
Hetty,
I am saddened beyond belief to hear news of Edward’s death. Of course, you were quite right to tell me – never think of holding any news back, no matter how distressing.
It may be my turn soon. The Devonshires are soon to go to France. I had imagined I would ride fearless into battle. It will not be like that, I’m told. Still, it will be an adventure and I am determined to do my best for king and country, but most of all for Edward and you, dear Hetty.
Please write – and don’t forget me, Hetty.
&nb
sp; I remain, as ever, yours in heart and soul and blood,
Richard
So Richard had gone to France, leaving Hetty, once again on the fringes of life – and death. A widow to one brother, fretting over another and Peter at war too.
Scanning through some brief diary entries, Richard’s name caught her eye again:
Wednesday 15th December, 1915
What will 1916 bring? It surely cannot bring us any worse news.
The letter from Richard has not been followed by others. I write often but hear nothing. I fear he will almost certainly try something headstrong, something he thinks is heroic. I call him selfish and then sob and beg his forgiveness. We are forever linked, in heart and soul and blood. Whatever happened before the war is forgotten. Against this slaughter it is less than trivial. Will you survive, Richard? I am willing it so. But – why do you not write?
The newspapers are our lifeline but we dread them also. None of us can bear the lists of names. Gerald Trainor, from the Parker estate, was reported killed in action last week. The misery, the slaughter, is unending. Is there to be no man left, no home untouched? Sometimes I cannot bear the pain. Anxiety and love for Richard and Peter overwhelm me. I have to absent myself from the aunts and weep over what our lives have become.
Leonora becomes ever more demanding and fractious. I fear for Hester’s health too. She tries to do too much. We all do. Elsie has gone to be a munitions girl and, with Cook ill, Dorcas and I run the household. Such that it is. The house is falling down about our ears and we live in a few unheated rooms. We lead a claustrophobic life, three women dressed like crows, hunched over and waiting to hear news we do not want.
It is a miserable existence.
Friday 18th December, 1915
Richard is home! What a Christmas present for us!
After such excitement, our greeting was subdued. Richard is changed. He is too thin and terribly sallow, with a cough that doubles him up. He has been in hospital since Loos. We are told it was gas.
We are determined to keep our boy safe and to make him well again!
Friday 31st December, 1915
A quiet Christmas and New Year. I killed one of the older chickens and it made for a pleasant meal.
Richard worries us all. I endeavour to keep the papers from him. If he catches sight of one, he will take it to the sitting room and pore over it like a man possessed. And the papers have such horrors in them. Line upon line of names. It is too much to bear. Only last week there was a report the Bosch had crucified a Canadian soldier. A crucifixion! Is there any horror to which our enemy will not stoop? The stories from Belgium in fourteen were bad enough but this!
Friday 14th January, 1916
I look at Richard sometimes when we are reading in the evening. I look at his hands, which he tries so hard to quieten but which jump and twitch with a life-force quite alien. It is as if all the energy of the old Richard, the pre-war Richard, has concentrated in his hands, for he has no energy for himself. The war has bled that. I take hold of his hand sometimes and it trembles underneath mine, but he will not meet my eyes and soon rejects any contact. He is one living apart from all of us. If one can call this living. I fear the war is one adventure too many for him. I fear for his mind and mourn the lively, impulsive, wild-eyed Richard I used to know.
I look at those hands and wonder if, he too, committed acts of horror. Has he killed with them? Did he bayonet and shoot? The answer is, of course, yes. That is war. But he will not talk, not even when woken from his nightmares. He suffered one last night – I could hear his screams echoing along the corridor.
Thursday 2nd March, 1916
Richard is showing signs of improvement. His cough is improving. There is talk of him rejoining his regiment. Could this happen? Hasn’t he done enough? The thought of him going back to the Front fills me with horror.
I tried to talk to him today. I am afraid I asked him what it was like. I confess I had a selfish motive; I am yet to hear from Peter and fear the worst.
Richard and I were sitting in the kitchen. He was studying Papa’s old atlas, I was huddled near the range, knitting yet more socks for yet more soldiers to die in.
‘You never wrote, Richard.’ I looked up and saw his shoulders stiffen.
He straightened and gave a curious smile. ‘What did you want to know?’
‘Just that you were well. Nothing more. We heard nothing from you for so long and we were desperate for news.’
‘Desperate to know what it was like?’ He leaned back against the kitchen chair, one arm swung carelessly over its back. His eyes were shuttered.
‘No. Just that you were alright. Not injured. Still –’
‘Alive?’ He shoved the atlas across the table, making me jump. ‘What if I told it was a living death? That I died a hundred, a thousand, times. That I trod on bloated corpses, which were eyeless, eaten by rats. That the phantom of gas came over us and we blessed it as it silenced the screaming of the dying in No Man’s Land. Is that what you needed to hear?’
I flinched, trying not to let him see my tears. Was this what Edward, with his bracing, brave letters had shielded us from? Had he suffered like that? Was Peter, even at this moment, going through this hell? Not for the first time since he had been back, I wondered if Richard were quite sane. He was certainly being cruel. Then I cursed myself. Had I not asked, not probed, these nightmarish thoughts may not have resurfaced.
‘We only wanted to know if you needed anything.’ I said the first thing that came into my head and, because I was trying not to cry, it came out sounding prim.
Richard roared with laughter. He came to me, snatched my knitting away and, taking my hands, lifted me to my feet. ‘Hetty! That’s why I love you.’ He kissed me soundly on the lips. ‘You are the one thing that kept me going. You and Delamere. And now, with your money, we can re-build it together. After you’ve married me, of course.’
He had a maniacal look.
‘I do not –’ I began, ‘I am not sure I can marry you.’
‘Yes you can,’ he said, misunderstanding. ‘There is a new law. You can marry your husband’s brother. As long as he’s dead, of course.’
I pushed him away. ‘Don’t say things like that, Richard.’
‘There’s no one else, is there?’ It was a voice filled with cold menace.
Concentrating on gathering my wool and needles, I said, ‘There is no one.’
There was a long moment when I could feel Richard staring at me. The back of my neck prickled with his gaze. He knew. Heat filled my face. I heard the kitchen door slam.
I found out later he had gone to Breckington, to ride. With no one left to exercise them, the horses had become out of condition.
Rachel clipped the lid back on the biscuit tin. She hoped Hetty and Richard hadn’t married; he was a cruel and unstable man and had been even before the war. Yet, they must have done. She remembered Gabe saying Hetty had had two husbands. She pressed the lid more firmly on and, in the process, sliced open her finger. The memory of Gabe’s concern when she’d cut herself the last time, all those months ago, flooded through her.
Going to the kitchen to find a sticking plaster, she wept over it. There was no plaster to help heal the pain in her heart.
Chapter 35
Rachel’s frozen heart refused to thaw. She had spent the Christmas holiday with Tim and Justin and had even managed to get together with Jyoti, but she mumbled her way through things, in a dream, in a numbed state, only eating and drinking when she needed to and doing very little else. She lost weight, her hair lost its lustre and she didn’t have the energy to work. Tim and Jyoti expressed their concern, but she refused to listen. She spent days listlessly watching the clouds obscure the view from her desk. Hetty remained silent, but shadows of sympathy sometimes flitted across the room.
The weather refused to help. Rachel had never known it so cold and dark. And when it wasn’t icy, it rained – a heavy, sleety rain, which left the roads and fields a monotonous a
nd depressing mud-brown.
Salvation arrived, one frosty February morning, in the shape of a wriggling black-and- white bundle.
‘A puppy!’ she exclaimed at Stan.
‘Thought you might like him. Runt of the litter, see. No one wants him, ‘specially now after Christmas, like.’ He stood, on the doorstep of the cottage, his breath misting in the cold air and a hopeful expression on his face.
‘What the hell am I going to do with a puppy?’
‘They don’t need much. Just a bit o’ love and food and suchlike.’
‘But I haven’t got time to walk him,’ Rachel lied
‘Won’t need no walks for a bit. Too little and needs to have his jabs. He can’t go out for a while longer.’
Rachel was overwhelmed. A million problems crowded in. ‘Oh, Stan, it’s a lovely thought, but I don’t know the first thing about looking after dogs or puppies. I’ve never had one. Mum always said they’d make too much mess.’
‘That’s as maybe. Thought he’d be company for you. I got the feeling you were a bit lonely, like.’
Don’t go there, thought Rachel. The village gossip hotline was the last thing she could cope with. She looked down at the warm, surprisingly heavy, bundle in her arms and saw two mournful eyes gazing back at her. ‘He’s lovely,’ she faltered, as the puppy nestled into the crook of her elbow, ‘but I just can’t have him.’ She held the puppy out for Stan to take back and, as she did so, the puppy reached out a long tongue and licked her ear.
‘See, he likes you,’ Stan said, with some satisfaction.
Rachel and the puppy stared eye to eye. ‘What will happen to him if I don’t take him?’ She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. The puppy whined and struggled a little, so she put him back against her body and he settled.
