A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (11 page)

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.

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.

‘This is it, you two,' she called, wiping her hands. They scampered across, just as Susie entered. ‘Please can I sauté the breasts, Bridie? When is your mam coming back?'

Susie's da was the blacksmith at Auld Maud. They were having a hard time, although sales of coal seemed to be improving, but not by much. Jeb, the union rep, was being pressured to push for more money by Fred, the rep at Lea End, who was a member of the Communist Party and had just returned from Russia.

Uncle Jack said that the communists' intention was to knock down, not improve. Bridie tried not to listen to politics any more, because it was such a
mess, with everyone shouting about something, and her two cousins making daft decisions, and if her uncle wanted to do something to shut up Fred, why didn't he push forward with the co-op idea?

‘Bridie?' repeated Susie, and she brought the pigeon breasts out to the cool cupboard. ‘Please can I do them?

Bridie hushed the dogs, who were jumping up and whining. ‘Sorry, Susie. Yes, you can. You know how after all this time. Mam will be back from Home Farm in about half an hour, so if there's a problem, she'll help.' She checked the clock. ‘Is that the time? Well, no, she'll be back in five minutes. I must run, I'm needed at the stables.'

Susie called after her, ‘It's the blind lad today, is it? Daniel Forsyth. Weren't he at school with us? Grand lad, as I remember.'

‘Aye, he was smacked on his head at the BUF meeting in Hawton last month.' The words stuck in her throat. She ran up the steps, refusing to think about it, but she had, ever since she'd seen that he was booked in for this afternoon. Was Tim the one who had brought a heavy great chair down on the lad's head? The police had not brought charges, because no-one was saying anything.

Perhaps Uncle Richard could find work for Daniel. It was what the Neave Wing did. She'd hoped that seeing the result of violence would make James think again about going to Spain. But why would it? Easterleigh had been looking after men who'd been
hurt in that way for years, so he knew full well what he was walking into.

She hurried into the stables, calling out to Prancer, who whinnied from his stall. She could hear Clive crooning to him as he brushed the old boy. He stopped and called out, ‘I'll be taking him across in a minute, lass.'

Clive had been here as long as Bridie could remember. He only had a thumb and forefinger on one hand, and one finger on the other. ‘Damn great pigeon,' she'd heard him snap at James when he had asked how he'd lost them. But it was the war, of course.

She changed into boots, jodhpurs and a heavy sweater in the privacy of the tack room. Perhaps James had already changed his mind about Spain, because he'd not mentioned it since. Daft beggar – probably just a whim; he was prone to them. She said it aloud. ‘Prone to them, aren't you, lad?' It seemed to set it in stone. She tried it for Tim. ‘You'll come back to us, won't you, lad?' The words seemed to bounce about in the air and did no good at all.

Young Stan had promised to help her with Daniel, and Clive would be there, of course. Perhaps David would be at the paddock, watching from his wheelchair, as he was most days. Matron thought he was serious about helping, but Bridie couldn't really see how that would work. Matron said that he would be invaluable as an emotional support.

This meant, in Matron's world, ‘You will do this,
Bridie.' She shrugged. She was surrounded by women who never knew when to keep quiet, who thought they knew best. The problem was, they did.

Prancer was no longer in his stall, and she checked the stable clock. She was late again. She took the risk of running across the stable yard. ‘Enough of that,' bawled Uncle Richard, his voice skidding her to a halt. She heard his laugh as he said, ‘Oh, the power of command. Go on with you, gal. You may run this time.'

She took off again, shouting, ‘Well, come and help us if you've a minute.'

She heard his limping gait following her. She slowed, late though she was, and they continued together, leaving the protection of the yards and heading towards the paddock to the right of Neave Wing. As the wind caught them she wished she'd put on a scarf as well. He asked, ‘How are the preparations for Sir Anthony's dinner going? I gather your mother has left much of it in your capable hands.'

Bridie glanced at him. Was that a criticism? She said calmly, ‘Well, let's put it this way, Uncle Richard. Yes and no. I've had step-by-step instructions and she's only left me for two hours. She'll be back any minute, breathing down my neck until it's cleared away this evening. I've let Susie sauté the pigeon breasts, it's about time.' Over his laugh she continued, ‘I just don't understand why he doesn't entertain them at his Searton Estate?'

‘Ah, in that case, you don't know our Sir Anthony
very well. He is committed, not just to our rehabilitation work, but to the hotel. It is partly his son's business, after all, and he'd not miss an opportunity to introduce the delights of Easterleigh Hall hotel to yet more of his contacts.'

They were at the paddock now, and Young Stan was walking Prancer round the periphery. When Prancer came alongside Bridie and Richard, he stopped, whinnied, and nuzzled Bridie's hand. Bridie lifted her face and this time he nuzzled her hair. ‘I love you, you're such a canny angel,' she murmured. She watched as Young Stan walked him on.

Uncle Richard said, ‘I don't know who loves that horse more, you or your father.'

Bridie turned round and leaned back, spreading her arms along the top of the fence. ‘About the same, I reckon. He's the grandest horse there's ever been. Uncle Richard, why are all these Peace Clubs sprouting up when no-one's taking a stand against the Nazis anyway, so they're not likely to be needed?'

Richard looked to the right. ‘Here's Matron, with the lad. Look at that scar.'

Bridie said the words before she could stop them, ‘It couldn't be Tim who did it, could it?'

There was a pause. Richard said, ‘Dangerous ground, Bridie. Let's not even go there, for how are we to know? Now, why are the Peace Clubs sprouting up? Could be something to do with the alliance Germany made with Italy in October. It's
concentrating minds, making people anxious, and now that their rearmament programme is really under way, not to mention German conscription . . .'

‘It's a mess, but we need to stand up to bullies,' Bridie ground out.

Richard said quietly, ‘The world is frequently in turmoil, Bridie, and you're right. The problem is always when good men do nothing. That is why we must applaud Sir Anthony for doing what he thinks is right, and reaching out for peace. That at least is doing something, though it might not be what you and I would do.' He studied Prancer, murmuring, almost to himself, ‘But then, we're doing nothing.'