Jessie had watched her reading the letter, the while pushing from her thoughts the hope that they might suddenly cease, for terrible things were happening in this war. As McNabb said, the papers were just one big cover-up. He had proof of it, he said: his grandson, minus a leg and half an arm, had recently been sent home from a hospital where they had endeavoured to make him walk; but the mutilations being on both sides of his body, he found himself unable to balance. And now his life would be spent in a wheelchair, and what pension he got would scarcely feed him.
But Jessie resisted the thought that there was still hope. Yet she knew if that man survived nothing she could do would change her child’s attitude towards him. It would be only the man himself who could change it, and he had become her father figure, which he could well have been, having been twenty years old when she was born.
Seeing Janie raise her head from the letter as if about to speak, she put in quickly, ‘No, you can’t miss your lessons this morning, dear. It’s becoming a habit.’
‘Oh, it isn’t, Auntie Jessie. I don’t often ask in the mornings, I go over in the afternoon. You know I do. And I know what’s the matter with Lady Lydia; it’s because the house is full of soldiers and she hasn’t told Mr Gerald about it. And they are noisy; some of them are quite rude. Although she’s had most of the furniture packed away there are some things she can’t move, of course, such as the big bookcases in the library. And one of the men in the last lot pulled out illustrated plates from the big books. And when she went for him he was rude to her. The sergeant said he was sorry and had him moved…Some people are very ignorant.’
‘And you will be one of them if you continue to miss your lessons.’
‘I don’t miss my lessons, Auntie Jessie. You do exaggerate, you know. And when I don’t have to do the lessons, I still read.’
‘Yes, but not the things you should. Poetry won’t get you very far in this world.’
As Janie looked at the thin, tight-lipped face of her aunt, she thought she knew why her nice man and her aunt didn’t like each other. Yet how could she put it into words? Only that one was light and the other was heavy. Yes, she understood the heaviness that was on her Auntie Jessie’s shoulders, and that she herself was a big part of that heaviness.
Of a sudden she sprang up and with an unusual display of tenderness put her arm around Jessie’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.
Jessie was much taken aback by this unexpected gesture, for what kissing had to be done she did herself, and then with a peck on the child’s brow or cheeks at night. But as it was now, she had the urge not only to cry but also to hold the child tightly to her, as she used to when she was small and manageable. The embrace, however, ended as quickly as it had begun, with Janie, laughing and saying, ‘Let’s away to the grindstone, for if the corn is not turned to flour, there’ll be no bread and then we’ll all be surprised when we find ourselves dead.’
Jessie had been about to turn away to go into the other room, but now she swung around and looked at the laughing girl, saying, ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’
Janie seemed to think for a moment, then said, ‘I’ve never heard it. I mean, it just came out.’
Jessie sighed. Rhyming. Another result of her association with that man, and so she remarked tartly, ‘Well, in future I think what you let…just come out should have a little more sense to it. Come along.’
Janie sighed. There was no fun with her Auntie Jessie, whereas Lady Lydia, although she was very worried about Mr Gerald, could always laugh and see the funny side of some things. Oh, she wished this afternoon was here. She seemed to be always wishing these days: wishing the war was over, wishing her nice man was back again, wishing she wouldn’t keep growing so tall, wishing she was older. Oh yes, a lot older, seventeen or eighteen, wishing…Here, her wishing came to a full stop and she answered herself, No, she didn’t wish any more that her grandfather would speak to her. Her grandfather hated her and she hated him. Oh yes, she hated him.
Well before reaching the main gates she could see that the old lot of soldiers must have gone and a new company had arrived, for behind the line of trees on the right side of the drive, tents had been erected right down to the lodge. But she saw no soldiers until she was about to ascend the steps leading to the balcony and the front door, when she was hailed by a voice behind her, saying, ‘Ah, now, what ’ave we here? A spritely young miss who ’as come to see the lord of the manor and asked to be taken into his service. Eh?’
Janie turned on the bottom step and so her face was almost on a level with those of the two grinning soldiers; and when one looked at the other and said, ‘She has lost her tongue,’ she quickly came back at him, saying, ‘It’s a great pity you haven’t lost yours, too, if you can’t make it say anything sensible.’
The smile slid from the man’s face whilst the grin on his companion’s widened; and in a very changed tone the first man said, ‘Now, now, missie! There’s no need to be cheeky.’
As she went to turn away from him, he added, ‘And where d’you think you’re off to?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Oh, but it isn’t, madam. Let me tell you it isn’t. This house has been taken over.’
‘Yes, and it’s a great pity.’
‘Look’—he had quickly placed himself one step above her now—‘it’s my business to see who goes in and out of here.’ He pointed to the single stripe on his arm. ‘And now I’d advise you to get yourself away. There’s a notice on the gate that this is private property. Weren’t you checked there?’
‘No; but you will certainly be checked if you don’t let me pass.’
‘What is it?’ The voice brought the man round to see Lady Lydia coming across the balcony to the top of the steps, and he was about to say, ‘This ’ere girl,’ when she said, ‘Is there anything the matter, Janie?’
She was coming down the steps now and the man looked up at her, saying in a tone that could only be called smarmy, ‘I was just enquiring, m’ladyship, what her business was. We’ve just come in, as you know, and not used to the run of the place yet.’
Lady Lydia stared at the man for a moment, taking in his type; then she held out her hand to Janie as she said to him, ‘Then the sooner you recognise members of my family, the better, Corporal.’
‘Yes, ma’am, your ladyship.’ He stepped aside, then watched the two figures mount the steps, cross the balcony and enter the house through the front door of the hall, before he muttered, ‘Bloody upstarts! One thing this war’ll do will be to put an end to that lot.’
‘And perhaps your lot an’ all.’ As his companion turned away laughing, the man demanded, ‘Whose side are you on?’
Still holding Janie by the hand, Lady Lydia crossed the empty hall, passing the uncarpeted stairs, to the broad passage where new notices had been attached to the doors, and so to the far end to a door on which the notice said, ‘Private. No admittance’; through this and into a further passage that led into a largish room which had been the servants’ hall but was now fitted out as a sitting room. Next to it, what had been the housekeeper’s sitting room was now Lady Lydia’s bedroom. The butler’s pantry, the silver room, the housekeeper’s office and various other small rooms in this quarter, with the exception of one which held a bed for Nancy Bellways, were filled with silver and china and relics of family history, besides small pieces of antique furniture.
In the sitting room Lady Lydia said, ‘Come, warm yourself.’ Then she pointed, ‘Look at the big lumps of coal. We’ve got a coalhouse half-full.’
‘Really? Where did you get it?’
‘Well there was a soldier in the last lot, they really were a nice crowd altogether…well, he and one or two of them went out with a lorry yesterday, apparently, and did some foraging, all in the name of the Army, of course.’ She bit on her lip now and shrugged her shoulders as a young girl might. ‘And just before they left, and it was quite early, quite early in the morning, they handed me a great big key. And t
hey said, “We’ve left a present for you, ma’am. It’s in the coalhouse. And hang on to that key. Anyway, that lock’ll take some getting off.” I didn’t know what to say. Having said it was in the coalhouse, I thought it must be wood, because, you know, they’ve been chopping down a lot of trees. Oh, Gerald would have been so angry if he were here. Anyway, after they left…and you know, they waved me goodbye from the lorries—it was as if they were going on holiday. And, oh dear, dear’—her tone changed now—‘they’re all for France, all of them, and they know it. And some of them don’t want to go, from what they said. But anyway, I was telling you’—she shook her head—‘when I opened the coalhouse door I couldn’t believe my eyes. You’ve never seen our coalhouse, have you? It’s enormous, like a small room, and there…there was a hill going up from it and all beautiful big lumps of coal, what they call roundies here. And another thing—of course we’ve had to store it in here: we daren’t leave it in the kitchen cupboard—but look at that!’ She pulled open the doors of a large Dutch press, and there on one shelf was an array of tea, sugar, butter, bacon, and some eggs. On another shelf was an array of tins, some of jam, others of bully beef. ‘Isn’t that marvellous! The only thing is the butter won’t keep. But that doesn’t really matter because your aunt is always kind in sending me both butter and cheese. But wasn’t that sweet of those men? And you know something? When they brought the stuff in, it was late last night, they said, “This, ma’am, is with the quartermaster’s compliments.” Nancy had let them in, and when she saw all that stuff and heard what they said, she answered, “Like Jimmy McGregor, it is.” And at that, one of the soldiers burst out laughing and pushed her, and she pushed him back. My dear, I’ve never seen such goings-on in this house. I couldn’t help but laugh.’ She paused now as she closed the door and said, ‘It’s good to laugh at times, isn’t it, Janie?’
‘Yes, Lady Lydia, I think so, too. But the only ones at the farm who seem to laugh are the men, and mostly the Irishmen. McNabb—he’s a Scot, you know—he rarely laughs but he says funny things. And you can laugh at them, although he never really laughs. Yet Mike—you know, Patsy’s father—says the most comforting things at times. Some of them may be a bit mixed up. I remember the other day he said to Patsy: “God helps those who helps themselves,” but then added, “And God help those who are caught helping themselves; it’ll be three months’ hard labour.” It was funny, wasn’t it? The Irish people talk very mixed up. But other people’s talk is nearly always about war, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, dear. But, come and sit down.’ She drew her towards the fire, and when they were seated, she said, ‘A lot of warm things happened to me yesterday. There was the coal, and all that food, but most of all there were those words that a soldier spoke to me. He was just a private, and during the weeks they’ve been here I’ve noticed him once or twice looking at me as I walked across to the greenhouses. In fact, it was he who, when the unit first came here, said he was sorry that the vinery had been stripped the way it had, before the fruit was really ripe. I was so angry at the time I didn’t take much notice of him. But then yesterday he made a point of coming to me and asking me if he could have a word. And he started with, “We’ll be leaving here tomorrow, ma’am, and there’s something I want to say to you, and it’s just this.” And he went on to say that he was, as he put it, dead nuts against conchies. At least when the war had first started, he was. To him they were simply just a lot of cowards. But after he had joined up, or was enlisted, or, as he put it, was pulled in, and himself now saw how men of conscience were treated, with the lowest type of work being put on them, he had had to change his opinion. He was now seeing for himself. And having recently heard from the village that my son was a conscientious objector, he felt that he wanted to say to me—’ Here she stopped and, taking out her handkerchief, she wiped her mouth hard with it before going on, ‘He wanted to say to me I should be proud of my son.’
When Janie caught hold of her hand and in a breaking voice said, ‘You’ve always been proud of him, and I have, too. I…I wish he had been my father,’ Lady Lydia leaned forward to touch her, saying, ‘Oh, my dear.’ Then she was holding the sobbing body to her and comforting her: ‘There, there. And I can tell you something, my dear, he looks upon you as if he were your father. He feels he has a responsibility towards you. If he’d had a daughter he’d have wished for one just like you. There, there now. Dry your eyes; here comes Nancy with some tea. You can hear her feet a mile off. And oh dear me, she’s had to be on them such a lot since cook left. But, of course, cook was getting very old. It was the soldiers in her kitchen that she couldn’t put up with. But Nancy doesn’t seem to mind.’ She now took her handkerchief and dried Janie’s eyes, saying in a whisper, ‘She gets very skittish with them. They tease her and she loves it. Poor Nancy. But why do I say poor Nancy? She could have been married years ago but she didn’t want it. She’s of a happy and contented nature. All she wants is to look after me. Don’t you think that’s wonderful? I should be so thankful, and I am. Oh, I am. Every day I’m thankful for her. And for you, dear. Oh yes, and for you. Ah, here it is.’
The far door of the room was now opened by a bump from Nancy’s buttocks and she came in carrying a laden tray, saying, ‘Oh, ma’am, we’ve got a lot ’ere; I feel as if I want to run after the others and bring ’em back. The sergeant’s as snotty as a polis. Wanted to know how many hours I was allowed in the kitchen, and I told him it was more a case of how many hours I was going to allow him in my kitchen.’ She now put the tray down none too gently on a side table, adding, ‘The officer came in. He wasn’t too bad, but young, ma’am, just out of the cradle. How he’ll ever give orders to that lot beats me. But there, it’s them pips on the shoulders that does it. Will I pour out, ma’am?’
‘No, Nancy; Janie will do it. Thank you.’
Nancy approached Janie now and, bending down towards her, she whispered, ‘Did you see our gold-store?’ She jerked her head back towards the cupboard, and Janie whispered back, ‘Yes, and I won’t split.’
‘You’d better not, you’d better not, ’cos I’d cut off your retreat.’ And with this she went out, leaving them both smiling now, and Lady Lydia saying, ‘What she means by that last bit I don’t know. But look’—she was pointing to the tray—‘she’s managed to make some scones and a fruit tart. Come on, let us tuck in. You pour the tea and I’ll cut up the tart and butter the scones.’
It was an hour later when Janie left the Hall. It was then spitting rain mixed with sleet, but before she was halfway to the farm she was enveloped in a downpour of hailstones. They stotted off her hood and stung her face, causing her to slow her running. But she was still running when she reached the farm gates. She bent forward, and through the hail she thought she saw Patsy going into the dairy, and so, keeping to the shelter of the buildings, she was making for it when someone stepped out of the harness-room, and she bounced into the figure, only to bounce back again and stare up, gasping, into the face of her grandfather. She was standing in such a position that she was blocking his way forward, and when the voice growled at her, ‘Out of my way you!’ she screamed at him, ‘I hate you! Do you hear? I hate you! You’re cruel! ugly, horrible! I wish you were dead. Dead!’
She did not know that the arm going round her was Patsy’s, but she knew it was Patsy’s voice, louder than her own had been, that was crying, ‘Don’t you dare hit her!’ And then it seemed they were both sent flying into the air as his forearm hit her shoulder, while at the same time Patsy was lifted off her feet.
For the next minute or so all Janie seemed to be aware of was the shouting, everyone shouting in the yard. And then, as someone picked her up from the ground another voice shouted, ‘You’d better get Carl, Patsy’s dead out.’
Janie was also aware now of Jessie being on the scene and of her saying, ‘What happened? What happened?’ and a voice answering, ‘All I know is he knocked them flying. And the slush didn’t help.’
‘Father?’
And the reply in the Scottish accent was curt: ‘Who else? Now, who else?’
Her head had cleared by the time they reached the cottage; and now Jessie was plying her with questions. And when, for the third time, she said, ‘Look, tell me what happened,’ she shouted back at her, ‘I couldn’t see through the hailstones and I bumped into him. He lifted his hand to strike me.’
‘He would not do that, child.’
‘He did! He did! It was not to push me away. I know the difference. I am not a baby or a child. No, I am not a child, Auntie Jessie. And I tell you again I am not a child and I know what he meant to do. And so did Patsy, and with his whole forearm. And…and I told him what I thought.’
‘You…you mean you went at him?’
‘Yes, I went at him. I told him he was cruel and ugly and a beast. And you can close your eyes like that, Auntie Jessie, but he is. He is. He always has been to me. He’s never wanted to own me and I don’t want to own him. Do you know something?’ She now stood up and her voice rose to almost a high scream now: ‘I would rather have had one of those other men who made me than him for a…’
When the hand came across her face and stung her, while knocking her backwards, they both became silent. And when Janie now began to cry, Jessie made no move towards her; instead, turning about, she went towards the door and grabbed up the coat that she had thrown off as she entered.
The Maltese Angel Page 38
