He squeezed her to him. She said, ‘You are so calm, so certain.’
‘Maybe I’m certain, but calm? Not sure your Aunt Gracie would agree with that, but I know my boy has a good heart. One day he’ll see past the blather, and know that though Britain is slow, no-one is locked up for what he is, or turfed out of the country.’
James was alongside them now, holding the umbrella over Bridie. ‘But what if he doesn’t see, Uncle Jack?’
‘Then we’ll have to show him, but until then, you two, let it lie. Promise me?’
His voice was so serious, so sad, that they both nodded. Uncle Jack dropped back then, as James and Bridie walked along together, and slowly the marchers drew ahead until finally, they were left looking after them, feeling gormless and useless. Uncle Mart suggested they head for home, and have their drink at the Miners’ Club in Easton, with James too. They could drop Bridie back at the Hall. She had to be back for a patient who was going to try his hand at riding for the first time.
As they reached the car, James surprised Bridie by telling the marras that he’d like to be dropped at the Hall too.
James leaned back against the fencing around the exercise paddock and listened as Bridie read out details of David Weare’s injury, weight and height. Poor beggar, James thought, hurt in a steeplechasing fall – how quickly life could change. The canny thing was that all David wanted was to get back on a horse.
James said, ‘I wonder if it’s just bravado, and once he’s done it, he’ll walk away. Well, roll away?’
Bridie shrugged. ‘Not if Prancer’s got anything to do with it. I reckon his daughter Fanny has the same gift. Wonder if Primrose will have it too?’ She tucked the clipboard under her arm.
James watched as David Weare, who looked about thirty, appeared, pushing himself along in his wheelchair while Matron walked beside him on the concrete path from the Neave Wing. David’s arms looked strong, but you never could tell. ‘It’ll be a total lift, I think, don’t you, Bridie?’
She nodded. ‘Can you?’
He smiled. ‘These muscles can do anything, but just in case, I’ve asked Young Stan along. He’s happy to leave sweeping the leaves for now.’
Matron waved, and now Sister Newsome appeared, walking across from the Hall laundry where she’d left sheets to be laundered. She was never far away when needed, and James thought that the two women worked by some sort of telepathy. That would be a useful tool where he’d decided to go, especially after the talk with the doctor who was on the march. He just wished telepathy would work with Bridie, and then he wouldn’t have to actually tell her of his decision to go to Spain with the International Brigade.
He stopped lounging, and walked with Bridie along the path to meet David. James called, ‘Good to see you. We’ve Young Stan on his way to help with the lift; we might just need him. He’s used to lifting sacks of spuds, and you’ll be a damn sight easier than that, with those arms. Look like they could knock a few blocks flying.’
David laughed. Bridie had started this therapy by being polite and kind, but James had said if he’d lost the use of his legs, not to mention possibly his willy, he’d much rather be treated as an ordinary bloke. It seemed to work. They all chatted as they headed for the ramp and in between explained the procedure.
While they did so, Bridie and James studied him. People might say they were fine, but often, deep inside, they were petrified. It sometimes showed at the foot of the ramp, or when they saw Prancer, who was large; it was a long way to fall, after all. Clive, the groom, was standing with Prancer at the platform of the mounting ramp. He’d put on the double saddle. This time they’d decided James would get on board with David. It was Matron’s suggestion, and she was always right.
‘Two blokes together,’ she’d said. ‘We’re one man down now Tim’s busy, so you’ll have to do a bit more, James. Bridie can’t do it all. Well, she can, but it’s good for you, young man.’
So that was that, James thought ruefully. She was right, of course, but fairly soon Bridie would have to do it on her own. Or he’d have to train someone up; perhaps Young Stan?
Bridie called, ‘Are you going to stand there catching flies all day, James? Come on, don’t know when the rain’s going to start again, and we don’t want David getting soaked.’
Matron said, ‘We need an undercover paddock. I will talk to Sir Anthony.’
Oh dear, James thought, poor Sir Anthony. Bridie winked at him.
They were at the foot of the ramp, and now James shoved the chair up it, while David thrust at the wheels. Bridie slipped into the paddock and moved to Prancer’s side, ready to guide David’s leg. Young Stan was here now, but James said he would try to do it, if Stan would just wait in case he was needed.
James and David reached the platform, and again talked through what was to happen. Stan positioned the chair facing Prancer’s head. James faced David, putting his arms securely around the rider, and knee-to-knee he lifted David forward, swivelled him around and lowered him onto the centre of the saddle in a side-sit position, never letting him go for a second. ‘How are you, David?’
James’ back ached; well, let it ache. At least he could feel it. This young man had broken his. Bridie helped James to ease David’s right leg over the front of the saddle, while Young Stan supported David’s back. All the time Bridie and Clive talked quietly to Prancer, who never moved a muscle, but waited, as though willing the rider to have faith and courage.
‘Right, Clive,’ Bridie panted. ‘Let’s slip this left leg just where it should go. David, Clive will ease Prancer forward and then help me put your feet into the stirrups. They’re wooden, with a bigger platform, which seems to work better.’
James had left Young Stan on the mounting platform, where he was holding on to David’s shoulders, and jumped down into the paddock. He took Prancer’s head, moving him forward a bit, to make room for Clive to take up position by David’s right leg. ‘How are you feeling? Sick, dizzy, in a bit of a tizzy?’
David grinned. ‘Bloody marvellous. I never thought I’d mount a horse again. Bit of a palaver, but worth it. Thank you.’
James let Prancer nuzzle his hand. ‘Prancer is special. Bridie’s da came home from the war minus a leg, and my dad left his arm and leg behind. Very careless. They both ride now. Prancer seems to know things we don’t. Dad also drives a car and we wish he wouldn’t. He seems to think if he drives it fast enough he can take off. A frustrated pilot, I reckon.’ All the time he spoke, he kept his eye on David, monitoring him for sweating, paleness, panic. There was none. This man was bred for riding.
Bridie and Clive finished fixing David’s feet in the broad stirrups, which Grandpa Forbes and Tom Wilson had designed. Bridie was at David’s right knee. Clive at his left, and James at his front. Bridie asked, ‘How’s your balance? Should Young Stan release your shoulder?’
David nodded. Young Stan had followed David as James eased Prancer forward just a bit, but now he let him go, hovering a bare inch above his shoulders. Young Stan was a natural, James felt, with relief – for how could he leave Bridie without help? – and there was time to train him, on the quiet. They all watched, alert to rush to David’s aid. Bridie was supporting his back from her side, and Clive was doing the same from his.
‘Can I walk him?’ David asked.
James laughed quietly. ‘Thought you might say that. Clive will give me a leg up, and then I’ll sit behind you; they’ll walk either side. How does that sound?’
Clearly, rather good. Clive boosted James on board, and Prancer strolled around the paddock, once, twice. As they neared the ramp, Matron and Sister Newsome waved their hands. ‘Enough,’ Matron called. ‘We don’t want to wear him out. When he’s back in his chair he can go and have a look at Primrose and Marigold, and meet Fanny and Terry, and then that’ll be his lot for today. There’s always tomorrow, young man. Bridie combines kitchen duties with this, and James is intermittent, but it looks to me like Clive and Young Stan are coming along nicely – not that
you knew you were in the picture, Young Stan. You are.’
The same procedure occurred, but in reverse. This time it was Young Stan who helped David roll down the ramp, pulling back so he didn’t head down at a rush. As Clive slung Prancer’s stirrups over his saddle, prior to walking him back to his stall, David said, ‘He’s a good horse; not that young, though.’
Bridie snapped, ‘He’s not that old, either.’
David and James exchanged a look. Something passed between them. David said, ‘No, he’ll never be that old. Horses like that aren’t. They’re always with us.’
Bridie wouldn’t listen to this and strode ahead to check on Marigold and Primrose, and give carrots to Fanny, Prancer’s other daughter, and Terry, who had come from a friend of her da and was absolutely trained up now, and ready to join Prancer in his work. As Clive took Prancer to his stall, to remove his saddle and bridle and replace it with his halter, she called back to Clive, ‘Make sure he has a play in the pasture, won’t you, Clive? He’s been such a good boy.’
She leaned on the stall barrier looking at Primrose, who had been brought in with her mother because of the rain. ‘She’s a good mum, isn’t she, Primrose?’ she muttered to the foal, who was developing nicely. ‘Bet your da’s pleased with you, little Primmy.’
James and David were at her side now, with David peering through the horizontal slots. ‘She’s a belter,’ he muttered.
‘Prancer’s foal,’ Bridie said.
‘She’ll have his spirit, you can tell.’ Primmy had come to David, who leaned forward and extended his hand through the gap. She nuzzled it.
Bridie smiled. ‘His other daughter, Fanny, is the same, but she’s out in the pasture right now. We’re going to be able to help more people once we have them all trained. Fanny is five now, and almost ready. I do that in the evenings, or the odd hour off. Terry is just perfect, and we’re already using him.’
They stayed for a while longer but then heard Matron calling, ‘Time.’
David turned his wheelchair and trundled out of the stable, stopping at the doors. ‘If you ever need someone like me to help, perhaps to give people confidence, I have my own money, but I have no life. I’d like to make mine here.’
Matron was waiting for him just outside and said, ‘Good heavens, you’re here five minutes and taking over, young man. Let’s see how you do over the next few weeks, or months, and if Bridie and James can get you to the stage of a shining example, then it might be worth considering.’ She pushed him out into the drizzle that had begun.
Bridie laughed. ‘Well, no need to make a decision on that one then. Matron will tell us when the time is right, and will also say what it is we are to do, James. So we’ll see you up on Prancer tomorrow, then, David.’ They waved him goodbye, and Bridie said to James, ‘I’m having a cup of tea before I get the dinner sorted. Come in and have some with me. You left your bike in the garage, didn’t you?’
As she began to walk into the yard he pulled her back. ‘I was talking to someone on the march.’
‘Yes, I saw that. You looked interested. Come on.’ She walked away, and he watched her go.
Perhaps he didn’t have to tell her, not yet? But then he heard the words pouring from his mouth, ‘Wait, Bridie, I have to tell you. Just wait, will you, and stop rushing everywhere.’
She stopped, and turned. He saw the consternation on her face and rushed on. ‘We were talking about Spain. He’s going out with the International Brigade to support the Republicans against Franco.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, don’t look so dim, Bridie. You’ve read about it in the newspapers. You know the Nationalists are fighting the Republicans because Franco doesn’t agree with the election results. The Nazis and Italian fascists are supporting Franco, and no-one but Russia is doing much to supply the Republicans. I’m tired of just complaining about Tim and the fascists here, so this is my chance to actually do something about the bastards. Arthur’s given me a contact in London.’
‘Arthur, who’s Arthur?’ Bridie said, right up close now, gripping his arms. ‘Fight, you mean? You don’t know anything about fighting, you idiot.’
She was shouting now, an inch from his face. He didn’t move, but shouted back, ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody difficult, Bridie. Tim’s up to his neck in something, and I’m just ploughing your da’s fields, looking at horses’ arses, and being useless.’
She was shaking him now. ‘You’re mad. Tim’s not fighting; he’s having the odd ruckus and being obnoxious. Don’t. You mustn’t. We’ll heckle the fascists here.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it, Bridie, since the Nazis started, and then there was the news about Franco, and someone has to do something. It’s meant to be, can’t you see? I wouldn’t have met Arthur if it wasn’t.’
‘When?’ she asked. ‘When are you going?’ She’d released his arms, and stalked towards the garage yard. It was only then he realised the drizzle had stopped and there were patches of blue in the murky grey.
He hurried after her. ‘I’m not sure, Christmas or thereabouts. You mustn’t say anything.’ Now he was the one gripping her arms. ‘Promise me, Bridie. Say nothing.’
She hesitated, checking his face. Could she see the determination he felt? ‘I won’t, but only because you might change your mind.’
He knew he wouldn’t. He was so angry at everything that had happened, and was happening. Democracy was everything, he knew that now; he’d known it when he saw Tim in his uniform, and when he’d heard Jack talking about his mother and Aunt Evie fighting for the vote. He knew Lady Margaret had been force-fed as a suffragette, though she had only done it for limited suffrage – votes for the well-bred – but nonetheless, she had done it. His da had fought for it in the war, and his uncles.
Bridie gripped his hand. ‘I’m coming with you.’
He burst out laughing. ‘Don’t be so bloody silly, you’re only sixteen. And a girl.’
‘You’re a pig, James.’ She dropped his hand and ran towards the kitchen steps, James in pursuit. At the top of the steps leading to the kitchen, she said fiercely, ‘Only a girl, eh? I expect that’s what they said to my mother.’
She ran down the steps. At the bottom James caught up with her again, holding her back, whispering, ‘Don’t say anything. Promise me. Let me do it in my own way.’
She said, ‘I promise I won’t tell, but I haven’t said I’m not coming. You’re my best friend, James.’
He wished that was true, though he suspected Tim was the one who really mattered to her. Perhaps that was part of why he wanted to go – she might miss him.
Chapter Eight
Easterleigh Hall, November 1936
Bridie had prepared luncheon with her mother, while Sarah and Mary had served it. There had been several orders from hotel guests for the braised lemon cod, but more for the veal ragout, and only one for mutton cutlets and Soubise sauce. Sir Anthony had chosen a light lunch of cod with dressed cucumber, because he was holding a dinner in the old billiards room this evening, for that Peace Club of his. A few of these Peace Clubs had sprung up, Bridie had heard, after Hitler reoccupied the Rhineland in March, in contravention of the Versailles Treaty. The Peace Clubs were concerned that other countries might react – but they hadn’t, had they? – and perhaps they should, Bridie thought.
She checked through her mother’s cookery bible for her recipe for stewed pigeons. Why on earth he wanted those, she had no idea, but at least they were cheap. The first course would consist of Julienne Soup, to be removed by Baked Whitings aux Fines Herbes. This would be removed by pigeon casserole. Her mother felt, and Bridie agreed, that the flavour was quite strong enough in itself without marinating the breasts, but that a dash of red wine would perk up the casserole no end. Sirloin of beef and horseradish sauce would also be served, all to be removed by cheesecakes, and Charlotte à la Vanille. The leftovers of the beef would be used for something tomorrow, and no doubt they could use the pigeon too.
Bridie had prepared the
desserts at the crack of dawn, after she’d ridden her bike across from Home Farm in the face of a cold and bitter wind. Had it carried the scent of snow? She wasn’t sure, but no doubt they’d find out.
She was sitting on Mrs Moore’s stool. Behind her the ranges gave out a gentle heat, and the furnace was gurgling happily. It would need more fuel in an hour or so. Her mother had been right; after a few months you could work out from the noises just how hungry it was for coal.
She found the recipe. Hang for ten days.
Well, the pigeons had hung for a week, and that would do. First thing this morning she’d removed the breasts and checked for pellets, while Susie, the kitchen assistant, had made the hotel breakfasts. She’d sauté the breasts later, and then capture the pigeon bones in muslin, add herbs, and sink it into the stock with the breasts. This way there’d be no need to double-check for tiny bones when decanting into the serving dish.
Young Stan and Uncle Charlie had been in seventh heaven at the request last week, because it meant they could ‘blast the thieving little beggars into kingdom come’, as Young Stan had said, ‘and someone would put them to good use’.
Bridie had shaken her head. ‘I’ll do the same to you if you blast anything, thank you very much. I want pigeons in good shape.’
Raisin and Currant were sharing an armchair today but were very definitely on their marks as they waited for her to straighten up, then wipe her hands down her hessian apron. At that point they knew it would be time to go. She looked into the servants’ hall, beckoning to Susie, whose break was over while hers was about to begin. She grinned at the dogs, teasing them by returning to the bible, but only for a moment.
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