Easterleigh Hall at War (42 page)

As Eric clanged the chain across the cage, he glared at Jack, who laughed. One tap. They creaked and groaned up towards the light. ‘What about Si?' Mart shouted above the noise. ‘He'll be back, surely?' Jack just shrugged, and they shared a look which said he'd better bloody be, for Evie's sake. Mart muttered into his ear now, not wanting to be heard by the others, who were crammed close, ‘We should tell her that he wanted to stay for his own sake, not for this blather he keeps on about. He'll give himself a medal soon.'

Jack shook his head. ‘He could straighten out, become a man.'

Evie and Veronica stood in front of Lady Margaret's stables, as they'd recently been christened, in memory of her attempt to burn them down as part of Christabel Pankhurst's pre-war campaign of destruction. Work was complete on the two apartments, except for a touch up here and there. The foreman called, ‘Clock is ticking, got to get on, lots more work needed around the place.'

Evie replied, ‘Carry on, we're on our way to the Captain Neave wing.' They lingered, though. The wood had been replaced with brick from Brampton's brickworks, which he'd offered at a discounted price, via his manager. Richard and Ron had dug about for a catch, but there seemed none. They knew that any sniff of a rift within the family would not have enhanced an image already besmirched by Brampton's munitions gains. The press were having a fine old time whingeing about the profiteers, now the war was over.

Not one to let an opportunity go by, Richard had grabbed the moment and ordered more bricks, because Evie had decided on Barry Jones' advice to dismantle the wooden huts and rebuild them in brick, and had sufficient funds to do so. It just meant moving the men and the nurses from one place to another until the work was finished. They were also building a small annexe where Evie's da and the blacksmith could work on their various limbs.

Ver slipped her arm through Evie's. ‘I'm so pleased Mrs Moore . . . No, Mrs Harvey decided on the ground-floor apartment. The thought of the stairs after her retirement worried the life out of both Richard and me.'

Evie glanced up at the building. It looked clean but severe, though honeysuckle growing up it would remedy that. She should feel excitement, but she felt nothing. ‘Si will be pleased to live here, I know he will.'

She knew nothing of the sort any more, because he seldom wrote. She wrote weekly, but with news about the hotel when she should have written words of love, words that failed to come. There was just a sort of anger, a disappointment, a fatigue at the thought of cajoling him as she had so often done.

The first Sunday after the Treaty of Versailles was signed, at the end of June, Edward held a memorial service in Easterleigh Hall's church. People arrived carrying white chrysanthemums and lilies, Evie and her parents amongst them, Grace, Tim, and Jack too. The scent was overpowering, and cleansing. The Forbes family sat with Richard, Veronica, and James, who objected to sitting on his mother's knee and preferred to clamber on to Tim's. Harry sat with Annie, and they held hands beneath the folds of her uniform. What would Sir Anthony Travers think of that, Evie wondered. Well, at the launch they might find out. Charlie sat with Mart, who was squashed against Maisie, the nurse who worked with the men who skipped from hut to hut, one step ahead of the builders. Matron sat with Mr Harvey and Mrs Moore, who had sighed at the last meeting, as everyone tried to remember to call her Mrs Harvey, ‘For goodness sake, call me Mrs Moore. It's who I still am, if you get my meaning. Nothing's changed.' But it had. There was a bloom about her that Evie envied.

The service began, and it was conducted jointly by Edward and Davy Evans, from the chapel at Easton. The church was so crowded that people stood outside, with the windows and doors open so that they could hear. The choir sang a hymn composed by Harry's mother, with Evie as the soloist. For a moment, as she gazed out across the packed congregation, holding pristine white flowers for those who had not returned, she felt something stir, and it was a sense of great loss.

Richard spoke of the courage of the patients at Easterleigh Hall, and of the staff with their enduring compassion. Jack spoke of the war, the larks that flew over the fields when away from the front, the ruin of the land as it now was, the kindness of some of the German guards which had made life tolerable. He spoke finally of Auberon.

Evie watched as her brother faltered, searching for words, and for composure. ‘He became one of us. He fought with us, and for us. He watched our backs and we his. He is a grand man, a man of honour, one who returned to make good the promises he made to himself. I repeat that he is one of ours and we miss him, and want the silly bugger back here again.'

The congregation laughed, and it was laughter that rolled out through the windows and doors to be joined by that of those outside.

In September the invitations for the launch in November were sent out, though there was still decorating to be done, with no furniture yet reinstated. It was a gamble, but with a definite date they'd just have to make it.

Veronica and Evie sat over stewed cups of tea in the kitchen with Harry, who had asked for the meeting just to check on a few details about the launch. Harry was to be front of house, operating from Lord Brampton's old desk placed where the orderly's station had been in the great hall. He poured himself some more tea and scoffed a scone, loaded with honey. ‘Trust me,' he said. ‘I've put the word about to all Father's connections. The newspaper editors say they'll send reporters, and they might, though they're not known for reliability. It all depends if an actress is caught with a cabinet minister in a state of undress.' He was talking with his mouth full. Crumbs landed on the table. Evie said, ‘Don't be disgusting.'

He laughed, and more crumbs showered out. ‘I'm not, it's the sort of thing that does happen.'

Veronica said, ‘She meant the crumbs, naughty boy.'

He swallowed, and wiped his mouth, then flicked at the table with a serviette. Evie sighed. ‘Ver, can we possibly have this urchin as front of house?'

Veronica shook her head. ‘He'll have to show some improvement or Mr Manners will have something to say, indeed he will.'

Harry grinned, and shoved a list across to the two women. ‘Have a look. I've sent to these, in my very best handwriting, ma'am.'

At the top of the list were Lord and Lady Brampton. Evie and Veronica looked up, appalled. Harry held their stare, though his colour rose. ‘We have to, or it will look strange to our guests. It is still, to all intents and purposes, perceived as his house.' Evie recognised the set of his chin. She had seen it so often when he struggled with his wooden leg. He would not move on this, and it was too late anyway.

Veronica said, ‘Richard knows of this?'

‘No, it is my province and I thought you two should know first.' He reached for the last scone, but at the last minute offered it to them. They declined, letting him lather it with honey and watching, fascinated, as it went in whole. Then they read down the list. Everyone who should have received an invitation was there. Beneath Lord and Lady Brampton was Auberon. Beneath him, Simon.

‘Now we wait,' Harry said.

Two days later Evie woke at midnight in her attic room, her head and heart pounding. She drank a little water, but her hand trembled and more spilt down her nightdress. She slept until a banging on her door woke her. ‘Evie, it's late, it's eight o'clock, breakfast is finished.' It was Annie. Evie couldn't speak, she couldn't move, her body ached, her lungs were full of water, she was drowning, swimming amongst reeds. Someone was touching her forehead. It hurt. Just the touch hurt.

Matron was there. ‘Sit up, lass.'

No, she couldn't move, she was drowning. She felt an arm under her, it hurt. She was being lifted. No, it hurt. ‘Drink.' The glass against her lips hurt. No. It was being forced. Rum scalded her throat. She swallowed. It hurt. No. No more. But there was more. It scalded.

They laid her down, let her drift, let her swim and the waves were there, twisting and turning, throwing her up and then down, the sand was scraping her, hurting her. ‘No.'

‘It's to cool you down, bonny lass.' It was Mam, here in the water too.

‘No.'

‘Come on, darling, just a sip.' It was Ver, and it scalded. No.

She was alone at last. The waves pulled her towards shore, and then away, further, further, deeper and colder, deeper, colder, into a place where there were no voices, no one tugging but then Jack came, through the sea. ‘Come on, bonny lass. One sip, just one.' No.

‘Try, lass, try to breathe.'

I'm tired, Da. I'm just tired, let me be. I'm tired and I'm alone and it's quiet. Now it's quiet.

‘We need you, pet. Come along now.'

No, Mrs Moore. I'm just too tired and I like it here, away in the deep of the sea, away from the roar of the surf, and the scratching of the sand, away from your newly-wed bloom which makes me happy and then sad, so sad. It's dark here, in the river. Yes, it's a river, not the sea. It's softly flowing where no waves move me. I'm just floating, through pictures, fragments, lots of fragments. There's Mam's kitchen and the proggy rug. In and out with the strips, not the green there, Mam says. Not there, pet. Here's Grace, digging in her garden, earthing up the potatoes. Jack, you're in the water, why are you digging too? Timmie, you're painting your soldiers. They're grand, bonny lad.

‘No, Evie, no. You must not do this. You must try.' It was Ver, too loud, too harsh. No.

Mrs Moore was reading her recipe bible. There she is, her finger running along the page, her poor swollen finger. There are the fancies that Mrs Green should make but I do, for them, Veronica and . . . and . . .

Jack smiled as he swam through the tendrils, and Timmie and there were no blue-black scars and it was cool and dark and no voices called. It was quiet, at last it was quiet and she could let the air from her lungs, and let her chest rest, let her heart rest, let everything stop.

She was on her bike, the air was sweet, the larks sang, the sheep were in the meadows, the cows in the corn and little boy blue . . .

‘No, I won't have it, do you hear.' Ver was shouting.

Be quiet, I like the quiet. Little boy blue . . . Such blue eyes. So very blue, so kind.

The water was kind, Jack was kind, swimming close, and she could feel his breath on her cheek. Timmie was close, and there was someone. Who? Who? There was someone in the shadows, and he was waving and calling, and she'd missed him. Her heart was empty because he had gone but he was calling her now, and she could hear him, faintly, and she could see him, faintly and he was smiling, and his eyes were blue, so blue in the darkness and he was moving upwards towards the light, and his hair was shining, yellow like the sun, and he was calling her up, to the surface and she must hurry, or she would lose him, this man who could fill and warm her heart.

She broke the surface, gasped, dragged in the air, and the light was too bright, shiny and bright. Where . . .? Where . . .? Her head ached. Evie gulped in more air. ‘Where is he?' she whispered. ‘Where is Aub?' But there was no one there to hear her.

She slept.

Jack and Mart acted as guides on 7th November, the day that Easterleigh Hall Hotel opened its doors. The press came in force, photographers set up their cameras and Lord and Lady Brampton were photographed shaking hands with Richard, Veronica, Evie and Mrs Moore on the front steps. Lord Brampton's eyes glazed as he found himself looking into the face of a Forbes, but Evie merely said, ‘I'm so pleased you could attend the launch of our hotel, Your Lordship.'

Jack was grinning in the crowd, which clapped when Harry finished the welcome speech. ‘Short and without crumbs,' Veronica whispered to Evie

He was to be assisted in his role by Steve Briggs, the demobbed orderly, who looked as smart as a new pin. His suit had come out of the hotel expenses, and worth every penny, Matron was heard to bark. Though it was November it was a clear bright day, and in the distance the rattle of guns could be heard as one of the shooting parties fired their first salvos.

People thronged the lawns, the formal gardens, and explored the house, and the Captain Neave wing, which was what the brick-built huts had been named. This gave his mother great pleasure, she insisted on telling everyone. Lady Margaret arrived with her parents, and Penny. Several people made a point of addressing her as Lady Margaret, even Veronica and Richard, which perplexed her parents, and Lord and Lady Brampton.

‘Who the hell cares,' whispered Richard to Evie. ‘You look a million dollars, as they would say on Broadway.'

Evie's elegant pale green silk dress had been made by the seamstress who had run up the dining room gold and cream curtains. Richard led her to a quiet spot in the great hall. ‘Do you really not mind that Simon has married that American girl? Denny's sister, did you say?'

‘No, it's perfectly all right. How could I have left Easterleigh and moved to New York? This is my home, it's my peace and perhaps one day he'll . . .' She stopped, and shrugged. Richard prompted, ‘He'll . . .?'

‘Never mind. We have people to see, people to talk to, Richard. But thank you.'

She was still weak, but calm. It was as though something had lifted, and the light had entered her life, in a way it had never done before. Light and certainty, and if he, Auberon, never returned, what did it matter? She loved him, and it was enough that
she
knew. Easterleigh Hall, her dream hotel, would suffice, because it had to.

She walked out into the cold, and across to the cedar tree. Mrs Neave was there, with Harry, her hand slipped under his arm. She smiled at Evie. ‘Thank you, my dear. He lives on.'

Evie gripped her outstretched hand. ‘Indeed he does. He was such a good man, and Harry's particular friend.'