Easterleigh Hall at War (30 page)

‘Ours not to reason why.' Auberon flung down his pencil.

Captain Vivien muttered from the depths of the dugout, where he'd been dozing on a truckle bed, ‘Ours just to do or die, old fellow.'

Auberon nodded. ‘Best not to think of it, any of it. We're alive, for this minute. Alive and whole.'

‘Grace is better,' Jack said quietly, passing his finger through the candle flame. It was a game he and Evie used to play, seeing who could move their finger more slowly. Bloody silly of them. Another crump. The candle flame danced violently this time and debris dropped from the roof. ‘But she still can't, or won't, do anything. It would be better if she did, it seems to help them, doesn't it Aub?' He heard his own anxiety.

Auberon smiled at him, reaching for his helmet. ‘Leave it to Evie, she'll sort it out, but talking of doing something . . .' He rose, the others with him. ‘No-man's-land is waiting for its wiring party, gentlemen.' Jack blew out the candle.

By December the Germans were still pushing hard along the whole Front, especially now that the Russian revolutionaries had deposed the Emperor Nicholas II and withdrawn from the war. At Cambrai, Haig rushed in reinforcements to successfully prevent German counterattacks from breaking through General Byng's line. For the first time the attack was not preceded by a prolonged bombardment, and tanks rumbled into the action, marking an advance in tactics, and using the element of surprise. ‘One wonders why it's taken so long,' Auberon had muttered to Jack.

Jack had peered through the trench periscope. ‘Might have helped if he'd actually spent some time in the trenches, like that bugger Winston Churchill. If I had to be in a war, I'd want him in charge. He understands, having had the delightful experience of being in the thick of the trenches after the balls-up of Gallipoli.'

The casualties were massive again, the cold intense, trench foot increased, rotting the feet to the bone if it wasn't caught soon enough. Once in the reserve trenches Auberon made sure that every man had a Christmas meal sent up the line, paying for it out of his own pocket. There was a small present for Charlie, who was back from the camp hospital after shrapnel had embedded itself deep into his arm. ‘You've been made up to Corporal in your absence,' Jack told him, thinking of Simon, but he pushed the thought of the man from him. After Simon had chosen to stay, Jack didn't like him in his head. He didn't deserve the room. He didn't deserve Evie either, but that was up to the lass.

Grace was more alert now, but Evie had said in her last letter,
‘I believe she's hiding because of her looks. She jokes about only needing one earring now, but she also has scars on her neck, and will not think of taking up Gillies' time and having them improved. I can see why, Jack, because we have seen so many far worse, but I don't need to tell you that. You see the doing of it all. I am so proud of you, of you all. Please give my wishes for their safety to Mart, Charlie and Aub. Lovely Major Granville has died. Lady Margaret is bereft but was prepared and shows great fortitude, and of course, there is Penelope, her daughter.'

This mention of Aub had surprised Jack, when he thought he could no longer be surprised about anything. Christmas passed into January and parcels arrived from Easterleigh Hall if the postal service could find them, as they trudged, still a team of four, still alive and just about kicking in the freezing mud of Ypres, sinking in up to their thighs or further if they slipped on the duckboards. In a push or wiring party they might take shelter in shell holes, clinging to the sides, digging in their toes, desperate to stay above the stinking water at the bottom.

Every damned day there was such damp cold, such thick mists, perfect for advancing, and for penetrating through their clothes. Every hour they were beyond thought and forgot there was another way of living. Death was their neighbour, and no longer a surprise, whatever form it took. They cursed America for taking so long, but understood, and regretted their curses.

Morning and evening Auberon did the rounds of his men, wondering if he'd ever walk upright again, ever walk over meadows with flowers and trees with branches. He thought of the ha-ha at home as he ducked and scrambled, doubled over. This morning he leaned against the sandbagged sides of the trench, smoking a cigarette one of his men, Ben, had given him: a roll-up. It was thin and flopped in the middle and he was grateful for it. Ben was a private from Hawton; he was nineteen, he should be at the Miners' Club, or walking with his young lady, not here, leaning against a trench wall striking his match on the skeletal arm that had been washed free of mud by the overnight rain. It could have belonged to a lad like him.

‘Funny old world, Ben,' he murmured as flares lit the sky.

‘Bloody hilarious, sir. Bit bloody cold an' all.' The lad was shivering; they all were as the snow began. ‘Strange, to think of home. Thought me da was a right old grump when he stopped me from volunteering, but maybe he was a wise old bugger. Home would seem like a nice world now, if I could remember it.'

Mart was keeping his head down as he came towards them, carrying a hot drink. ‘For you, sir, tea boiled on our Jacko's magical spirit stove.'

‘Tell Jack, thanks.' Auberon passed it to Ben. ‘I'm drowning in the stuff.' They could see the steam rising from it, and the snow falling into it. Ben drank it down, gulping it as though he'd not seen tea for decades. Mart nodded, waited, and Auberon watched the lad and smelt the tea. He'd kill for a sip of it.

At Easterleigh Hall in April, Millie was flouncing around the kitchen, scooping up tea towels, getting in the way. Evie snapped, ‘We'll bring them through when we're ready. Can't you see they've a few wipes left in them?'

‘I know when a tea towel needs boiling, so I do, Evie Forbes, and you can keep your damn great nose out of it.'

Annie shoved her with her elbow. ‘Watch your tongue, it's the commandant you're talking to. You've been foul for weeks now.'

Millie flung the tea towels down and they skidded into the pie dishes already lined with pastry for the pig-offal pie. The dishes were waiting for heart, liver and kidneys, and a mountain of herbs and potatoes. One spun off the table on to the floor, where it broke, the pastry falling off. Mrs Moore gasped, they all did. Rationing had been introduced to try and make life fairer but they were still scrimping and saving to keep the men fed, because they now had huts down past the walled garden for the extra cases streaming in, and as quarters for the workers they were employing to ease their disability pensions.

Millie half shouted to Mrs Moore, ‘Annie pushed me, it's her fault.' She ran out of the kitchen and up into the garage yard. There was silence, and Marie from Easton, whose day it was to volunteer, cleared up the mess. Evie sighed and followed the wretched girl. Her behaviour might be due to worry over Jack who was still at Ypres, where the German drive to reach the ports of northern France had failed, or it might just be Millie. Evie would safely place a bet on the latter.

In the yard Millie was shouting at the laundry volunteers who were doing their best to peg out the sheets in a raging wind, and Evie took her by the arm and dragged her over to the garage where the older children of the workers played at the weekend. Shouts and laughter greeted them. Evie slotted her arm through Millie's. ‘Look at Tim, he's having a great time.'

Millie watched her son. ‘He loves your mam more than me.'

Evie shook her head. ‘Oh no, you're his mam. He loves his granny but you're his mam.'

Millie was pale as she whispered, ‘Lots of people don't have a mam and they're happy.' She waved to her son, and went to him, hugging him tightly.

Later that afternoon, on Evie's break, Matron came to find her in the servants' hall. ‘Grace's almost there, Evie. We just need to get her to remove the shawl from her head and put her nursing cap back on.'

‘Just?' Evie said. Matron waited. Evie struggled to her feet eventually. ‘Your wish is my command.'

‘Of course it is,' said Matron. Evie followed her out and fetched Grace from the conservatory. They headed for the bee meadows, glorious in their wild flowers and sunshine. Grace said, ‘Never mind the bees, it's the hives that seem to procreate every week. People are bringing so many to us.'

It was the first light-hearted thing she had said in all this time. Evie slipped her arm through hers, squeezing. ‘Bee-keepers want to help with provisions, and give the recovering wounded something wholesome to do. Not that getting stung strikes me as wholesome.' Millie was near the hives, which meant that probably Heine was too. Perhaps that was unfair, because three of the laundry girls were there also, keeping their distance and chatting to the POWs and the wounded as they removed the tops of the hives to do whatever bee-keepers did. These helpers were in full bee-keeping outfits, and busy. Grace and Evie could hear the buzzing amongst the flowers and it evoked memories of a time before the war, happier calmer times.

One of the bee-keepers waved at them, and bowed, calling something to Millie, who laughed. It was Heine. Evie stared, wanting to slap the pair of them, and walked on, taking Grace with her. Grace drew the shawl tighter around her head as they passed. ‘Grace, the bees aren't about to sting you. They're far too busy, up to their eyeballs in pollen. Let the sun get at your hair.' Evie squeezed her arm tighter.

Grace laughed quietly. ‘It's not the sun getting at my hair, it's the bees.'

They walked through the meadows, on to the path that had been left between the ha-ha, which ran along the bottom of the cedar-tree lawn, and the new potato field. Grace still clutched her shawl around her head as Evie waved to the men and land girls earthing up the potatoes. ‘The bees have gone,' Evie murmured.

Grace snapped now, shouting, ‘I'll decide. Mind your own business, Evie.' She pulled free and strode ahead.

A volunteer looked up, surprised. Evie ran, though she was too bloody tired for all this. She grabbed Grace's arm, swung her round. ‘Look around you. Go on, look around you. Who the hell is interested in looking at one mouldy earhole in this den of misfortune and pain? Good grief, we are housing you women in the conservatory, which was to have been the entrance for the wheelchair patients, which is why we have had to devise a ramp at the front entrance which they use in front of everyone, having slogged across the gravel. Do they hide? You really do have to get a grip and start to use your experience for the good of everyone. I've had enough, just about enough of everyone being so damned bad-tempered.'

Evie stamped. It hurt. She stamped again. Grace glared at her and stalked off and Evie let her, dragging her hand through her hair, feeling like the witch she was. She walked back, trying to regain some calm, looking at the POWs coming back from the fields they had de-thistled. She and her family used to do that to earn extra money when her da was without a job, and later, when they were saving for Froggett's cottage.

Evie joined Veronica in the kitchen, where she was helping to prepare dinner. Veronica worked two days on the wards, and half-days the rest of the week in the kitchen and wherever she was needed. ‘I tried to get her to take off her shawl,' Evie said. ‘I handled it badly.'

Ver hugged her. ‘No, you wouldn't have done. Kindness hasn't worked, so blunt speaking might.'

Evie swung round. ‘I'm not sure there was much kindness, but certainly there was a huge dollop of the latter.'

Veronica said, shaping the staff rissoles, ‘I heard about Millie. Matron too and she knew you'd be annoyed enough to push Grace.'

The next morning there was a banging on the kitchen door, and Harry Travers stood there, his face bright red with rage. ‘Someone's been at my bees, my poor bloody bees. We've lost two hives. Just shoved over, they were. I want everyone lined up. I need to look for stings.'

Richard and Evie wouldn't agree because it would be bad for morale, but all day she and Harry looked for sleeves that were pulled down, though the weather was warm for April. Heine and Millie were amongst those who were wearing their sleeves long. Harry said, ‘I'll have their guts for garters. I can understand him, it's his duty in a way to hinder us, but why her?'

They were in the kitchen and Mrs Moore was preparing potato and apple pudding, peeling the apples which Evie and Annie would then force through the sieves. It was the one occasion when they allowed a knife near the apple peel. Later they'd add honey, a pinch of salt, the cooked sieved potatoes, one egg per pie dish, to be baked for half an hour. ‘We can't prove it, they might feel the cold. Let's get him sent back to the camp, he's a bad influence, and she might settle down.'

Grace had stood at the window, looking out as Harry and Evie hurried backwards and forwards, looking at people strangely. What on earth was going on? Sarah, who had been badly burned, came to stand beside her. ‘Someone knocked over some hives. God knows what those two are doing. What's a few hives when you look around here? You'd think it was life-threatening.'

Sarah was from an industrialist's family and would always be scarred across her back from the fire after a Zeppelin attack. The two women had become friends. Grace leaned her head on the glass, cool now the sun had moved round. Sarah said, ‘Perhaps it is. We forget in here that people need to be fed, and have to find their own way to recovery. Young Harry has come a long way. He has no lower leg, he can't fight but he can help. This is what he does. He nurtures his bees, he nurtures his helpers, British and German, he provides honey now sugar is short. He finds a reason to live, to go on, to handle the losses he endures as his friends die.'

Grace heard her words as though from a distance. Sarah said, ‘Let me do your hair, please. Come on, take that damned shawl off and let me show you a better way.'

Grace couldn't, not yet. Jack had said at the camp hospital that she was the most beautiful person he knew. Slim Sylvester had held her hand as the ambulance came. ‘I am always here for you.'