Easterleigh Hall at War (3 page)

He laughed. ‘It's because you live and breathe cooking, and I love you for it. One day I'll be home, we'll all be home and you can get on with sorting our dream of a hotel, at last.'

She lifted her glass of chilled white wine, taking a large sip, more a gulp really, but by, she needed it. Within seconds it seemed her shoulders were low, her muscles felt loose, her smile was growing. ‘You will sing and fiddle for the wedding parties and we can get Bern . . .' She stopped. Bernie had been killed, so too Jack's marra, his close pitman friend, Mart Dore.

Jack had been listening and leaned forward, stroking Tim's dark hair. ‘We'll come back, Evie pet. We'll all come back.'

Mam said, ‘All will be well.' The family laughed and Da patted his wife's shoulder. It was then Evie noticed that Millie's place was empty. ‘Where is she?'

Jack shrugged. ‘She's gone for more cranberry sauce.'

Mam murmured, ‘I told her there was some further along by Captain Neave but she was determined.' She mouthed, ‘Showing off for Jack, I reckon.'

Evie placed her serviette on the table, and started to rise, her food like ashes in her mouth. ‘I'll help her. She probably doesn't know where it is.'

Simon pulled her back down, saying for her ears only, his blue eyes determined, ‘Let someone else do something for a change. Every moment with you is precious. She'll find what she's after.'

That was what Evie feared, because the only other person down there was Roger.

Jack was watching and listening, and now he leaned forward yet again, saying quietly, ‘Let it go, pet. It's the bairn that's important. Over my dead body will he have Tim, who deserves better, and, by, I don't want to have to keep leaning over like this to calm you down, it's causing havoc with me innards.'

She laughed. Jack grinned, lifting a finger towards the baize door. ‘Here she is with the cranberry, so I reckon you've counted two and two and made ten.'

Millie sat, avoiding everyone's eyes, her hair adrift from her cap, and Evie would have bet that nearer ten was right after all. Stupid woman. She always had been and always would be, and why had Jack ever married her? But she knew why, and it was best left alone.

After the meal the nurses sang Christmas carols under Matron's Amazonian conducting, and were joined by several of the wounded, as well as Simon and Evie, and Dr Nicholls, the Medical Officer. It was Simon whose solos brought the audience to their feet, his pure notes taking them from the present to a quieter, more blessed time. Jack told Evie how Simon had stilled everyone's hearts in the trenches, during a lull in the fighting, when he had sung ‘Oh for the wings of a dove'.

For that moment she allowed happiness to enter.

OVERNIGHT, LIGHT SNOW
had fallen, but that didn't deter Mr Auberon and Jack from joining Old Stan, the head gardener, in the arboretum to drag out the roots of a swathe of old trees cut down a few days before Christmas. Every spare space was to be used for vegetables, Captain Richard had insisted in a memo sent from his convalescent bed to the usual staff breakfast meeting in the kitchen on 23rd December. He had ended,
‘The Atlantic is relatively safe for merchant shipping, but for how long? We must be responsible. We must sidestep shortages
.'

In the kitchen, a Boxing Day morning would perhaps have dawdled for Evie in a perfect world, allowing her time for Simon, but it rushed past in the face of the never-ending demands of the kitchen. This was due, in part, to the fact that Mrs Moore, and Evie, had decreed that invalids needed food when their body clocks insisted, not when Matron's chimed. At first Matron had hitched her vast bosom and huffed, but it was a token gesture. Almost immediately she had said, ‘I have never had a kitchen willing to put the patients first. My thanks to you and your staff and volunteers.'

At eleven, whilst the turkey stock was simmering, and the calves'-foot jelly setting for invalid support, Mrs Moore and Lady Veronica ordered Evie and Simon to the servants' hall, to sit on one of the ancient overstuffed and torn sofas. ‘At once, Evie, and turf those dachshunds out who have tried a different venue. They should be stretching their little legs,' Lady Veronica paused. ‘The clock is ticking. Simon needs to see the rest of his family, who I believe are travelling to his parents in Easton for the day. Are you quite sure you won't go with him? If you do, I will follow Mrs Moore's instructions to the letter, I promise, and to prove it, I will now obey her and make the mayonnaise for luncheon.'

‘Must you?' Evie said, grimacing. ‘Just a drop of oil at a time, remember. We don't want another disaster.' Lady Veronica sniffed. ‘It wasn't that bad. Now will you go with Simon to Easton?'

Evie longed to, but their lives were not their own at the moment, and he had said he needed time with his family, and that her patients needed her. She shook her head, and Lady Veronica ordered, ‘Get along with you, then.'

Mrs Moore was opening the door into the central corridor as Simon tugged Evie along. Mrs Moore waved them through. ‘I'll leave a bundle of carrots by the back door for Old Saul, that lovely old pony of your da's, lad. Aye, he does grand work carting in the volunteers. There're a few bits for the table and all. Now, go.'

Simon kissed the cook, hugging her ample body to him. ‘You're a belter, Mrs Moore. If I didn't already love Evie I'd be after you.' He earned a twisted ear for his pains. Mrs Moore called the dachshunds, who scampered into the kitchen after scraps, and far from stretching their legs they took over the armchairs again, scrabbling amongst the knitting. The door was slammed behind them. Evie and Simon crossed the central corridor into the servants' hall, which was empty, presumably on Mrs Moore's orders. It was a wasted effort though, because as Evie nestled into Simon's arms there was no comfort to be found against his braced body.

She lifted her head and saw that he was looking from one oozing horsehair tear in the sofa to another. She waited, so used was she to recognising the signs of anguish in their patients, to the point where, a few weeks ago, she had suggested to Dr Nicholls that she should ask new patients about their favourite foods, and produce it for them. It had helped some to connect again with the normal world. God bless food; the sight of it, the taste and smell. It could ease aside savage images, and reclaim better times.

Simon removed his arm from around her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasping and unclasping. ‘The tears are like wounds that I can smell and see. It's what we live with. Will it be me next? Will I lose my face? It's so easy, you see. You're in the trench. You peer over. Bang. Shrapnel takes your face. Bang, you're dead.'

He stood and paced before her, and Evie wondered if it had been the best idea to mix these lads in with the wounded for lunch yesterday. She stood, taking his hands. ‘We'll walk. You must show me where Old Stan is to plant the rose for Bernie.'

She hurried him through the kitchen, noting that Lady Veronica was adding the oil drop by drop, and Mrs Moore and Annie were embarking on the vegetables. She snatched her coat from the hook in the bell corridor and his khaki greatcoat from his pack by the bootbox, heading up the steps into the snow-heavy wind.

She shrugged into her coat, pulling the collar up around her neck. He did the same, lifting his head, sniffing the air as gardeners do. All sounds seemed muted as they walked arm in arm, sometimes slipping and sliding in the snow, round the back of the house and into the formal gardens. A few hardy soldiers and airmen, who were almost fully recovered, were slapping their hands and puffing on their pipes, or smoking their forbidden cigarettes.

Dr Nicholls, who had been the district's doctor before he had been seconded into uniform to head the medical staff at Easterleigh Hall, harangued them almost daily on the disgusting habit. ‘Soiling your lungs, dammit, after we've spent time and effort putting you back together.' He became so red-faced on the subject that Evie and Lady Veronica felt that one day he would burst with indignation, though Matron said it would be from too much pudding.

Evie told Simon this as he headed for the southern face of the garden, and he laughed in reply. A sergeant called to her. ‘Great meal, Evie. Marry me and we'll live like kings.' Another, Colonel Masters said, ‘Stand down, Sergeant. She'll choose me if it's anyone.'

Evie called, ‘You're all out of luck. It's Si who'll get fat around my table.'

They reached the rose bed Simon and Bernie had dug, manured, and planted. Simon slipped his arms round her and held her against him. ‘Here, Old Stan will plant it, here. Bernie was our rose expert. Loved the buggers, he did. Do it for me too, will you, next to his, if . . .'

There was a long pause, because there was little point in telling him it wouldn't happen. She said eventually, trying not to cry, ‘I'll do it for you, but we must hope. We truly must.' It was easy enough for her to say, when she was just picking up the pieces, and not in jeopardy herself.

They walked on, round the wall surrounding the nursery plants and back past the stables which had been turned into winter quarters for the pigs after the horses had been taken by the army. Evie's da and Simon's helped to tend them, but today it was Sergeant Harris, in his face mask, carrying a bucket of vegetable peelings, together with a couple of corporals whose wounds were healing more quickly than they would have liked. Simon squeezed her to him. ‘Poor bugger.'

They returned to the warmth of the kitchen and she shooed Lady Veronica back to the acute cases ward where she had begun to work, under the eagle eye of Ward Sister Annie Newsome. It had taken a syrup pudding from Evie for Matron, and the threat of no more, ever, for her to agree to allow Lady Veronica to move on from VAD dusting, sweeping and sterilising to try her hand at proper nursing. The acute cases ward was to test her dedication, Lady Veronica suspected. Auxiliary hospitals were not originally intended for serious cases, but this war was determining otherwise.

Evie called, gathering up the cocoa and milk, ‘You'll be late, Lady Veronica. It's almost eleven. Matron will have your guts for garters.' She left.

Mrs Moore was either in the cold pantry or resting in her room. Evie and Simon sat on stools side by side at the table, drinking cocoa. He wiped the moustache from her top lip with his thumb and kissed her. She tasted his cocoa and all fear, all worry faded for that moment. She opened her eyes and saw the clock. It was time. His parents, together with his aunt and uncle who had walked in from Hawton, would be waiting for him at home. ‘Come with me after all,' he said, kissing her hands.

She shook her head. ‘I want to, but I can't, I have the patients to feed. Mrs Moore did the back shift and needs a rest.'

He kissed her mouth again, heedless of Millie who slipped past them, heading for the kettle. It was time for a brew of tea for the laundry staff, and as Millie lifted it on to the range hotplate she said, ‘It's all right for that old bag Mrs Moore to put her feet up, then? I was awake all night with your brother shouting when he slept, pacing when he didn't, and was I allowed to slip to my room like Mrs Moore? Well, no, what I've had to do is work solidly since I had to hike to the crossroads for the pickup cart, and Old Saul clopping through the snow as though he's a ruddy snail. I'm right worn out and not in the right way. I expected better from a husband I haven't seen for months, I'll tell you that for nothing.'

Simon's grip on his mug seemed to tighten. ‘It's the guns and . . . well, everything, Millie. It gets to you. You can't sleep in the quiet, and when you do sleep you hear them and . . . Well, everything. You could try being understanding.'

Millie put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, what about understanding me for a bloody change? The uniforms are ready, hung up in the laundry, well away from the boiling coppers so they won't be steamy and damp. Disgusting they were, alive with lice, stinking like a lav. Right worn out we are, too.' She strutted back to the laundry, which was off the central corridor. Evie rested her head on Simon's shoulder. ‘What would it take to change her? Should I lock her in the coal cellar for a year?' For the first time that morning she wondered where Roger was.

They collected Simon's uniform. It was pristine and louse-free and smelt of soap. Evie felt a flicker of gratitude towards Millie. As Simon left the laundry to dress in the nurse's changing room Ethel called across, ‘It was Dottie and me who worked right hard on those, Evie, and an honour it was too.' Millie flushed and returned to the kitchen to make the tea.

On Simon's return he looked grand, from his ankle boots and puttees right up to his cap. Evie walked with him as he wheeled his bike through the garage yard and past the stables with only Tinker, Lady Veronica's pony, to snuffle his farewells, against the sound of pigs rooting in the straw. Sergeant Harris waved. ‘Keep your head down, lad.' His voice was muffled by his mask.

Evie and Simon walked on to the gravelled drive and stood outside the front of the house. In the centre of the huge lawn was the cedar tree. ‘Just as strong and unmoving as ever,' Simon murmured, his arm tight around Evie.

‘In spite of breathing in all that smoke day after day,' Evie laughed gently, because there were her favourites, Captain Neave with his almost healed broken femur, alongside young Lieutenant Harry Travers with his crutches and one leg, both smoking for England and keeping a permanent lookout for Dr Nicholls. ‘You'll be left with a twitch, young Harry,' Evie called. He laughed. ‘Keep your head down, Simon,' he shouted.

Simon waved, but turned to Evie. ‘God, I miss you every moment we're apart,' he said into her neck. ‘I don't know when my next leave will be. You'll write?'

‘Always,' she said. ‘Just think of yesterday when you need strength. Think of the chatter, the laughter, the warmth, and your friends. Remember singing for us all, and most of all, remember me.'