Easterleigh Hall (37 page)

Darkness had not fallen yet, and as they wandered towards the east wing she thought she saw someone moving about near the rear stables that housed the carriage horses and the hunters, including Prancer. No, not near, behind. Simon had seen something too, and they started forward, then stopped. ‘It'll be Norman checking Prancer, he took a bit of a tumble on the cobbles,' Simon said, pulling her to him and kissing her. ‘I need to go in soon,' he murmured. ‘The old man's on the warpath because his under-gardeners have all been out after hours. He thinks the summer sun's gone to our heads.'

She reached up and drew his head down, and kissed him long and hard, releasing him only when she felt him begin to laugh. ‘I'm so in love with you and so excited. We're on our way, Evie. We're really on our way.'

The horses seemed to be joining in, neighing and stamping over in the rear stables. Evie grinned, and pointed. ‘You see, they agree.'

Simon moved forward. ‘What's that?' He pointed and at first she could see nothing, but then she saw smoke, or was it? Though it was still vaguely light, it was difficult to make it out. They moved closer, and could smell it now, and there it was, seeping out of the hayloft above the stables. ‘Dear God,' Simon gasped.

‘Not the horses,' she whispered. They were running and now the smoke was billowing, and they heard the neighing, and thuds as the horses kicked out in the stalls. ‘Come on.' Simon grabbed her and together they ran along the path, the roses snagging her skirt. She tore free. ‘You go on, you're faster,' she shouted.

He reached the stable yard ahead of her, heading for the double doors. She saw him pull, then curse. ‘They've been padlocked.'

Smoke was coming out under the huge doors, neighs had turned to high-pitched shrieks.

Evie rushed for the alarm bell, clanging it, shouting, ‘Fire, fire!' Simon hunted for a steel bar, a brick, anything, and found a shovel leaning up against the wall. He bashed again and again at the padlock. The banging and the bell were causing even more panic. The thuds of hooves and the cries of the horses could be heard above everything, and now there was the crackle of fire. ‘God, Evie, it won't break, the bloody thing won't break.' Evie rang the bell harder and harder, almost screaming, ‘Fire!'

Stable lads were coming now, with Norman in the lead, and at last the padlock burst. Evie and Simon rushed in with the lads but the air gave the fire fresh impetus, and the straw flashed into flames. They were thrown back but were unhurt. All around was the crackle of burning hay and straw and the high pitched whinnying of the horses. They were joined by Archie and James under the command of Mr Harvey, but he was elbowed aside by Norman, who issued orders. They all began to open the stalls, leading the horses out, the hunters rearing and bucking through the smoke and flames.

Under-gardeners arrived too and the head gardener, Stan, ordered them back out to pump water from the pond. Evie returned, heading for a back stall, grabbing the halter of a bucking mare, feeling no fear as she led her out, seeing Simon doing the same, avoiding the flames, coughing in the smoke, ducking as burning straw floated down from the loft.

Roger rushed in and tore the reins of a hunter from a stable lad. ‘You go back for another.' He led it out into the open, leaning back against the huge shoulder, slowing the horse to a walk. Evie was just behind him and took the mare to the side, stroking her, whispering, ‘It's fine, girl. It's fine.' The mare was skittering, snorting, and then she reared. Evie kept hold of the rope, searching for Simon. Was he safe?

There he was, with Prancer, handing him to a stable lad who instantly calmed the beast. Another lad took Evie's mare. The under-gardeners were bringing up the pumps and spraying the building with hoses. Steam rose. She saw Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica, she with a shawl around her, he in his shirt and trousers. He shouted, ‘Not you, Ver. Stay out.' Evie watched as he ran into the stable and there was a crash of falling timber. ‘Aub,' Lady Veronica screamed.

A stable lad was leading out a hunter which reared in panic, his blanket singed. Evie held Simon back as flames burst through the hayloft windows, and then the final horse bucked and reared out of the stables, led by Mr Auberon. It was Big Boy, who had a stitched thigh from a hunting accident two weeks before. Mr Auberon was smoke-covered, his shirt black with soot. He passed close by. Evie said quietly, ‘You could be taken for a pitman.'

He looked at her. ‘That'd make me proud, Evie Forbes.'

There was a burn on his arm which was blistering. ‘You'd best get that tended,' she murmured. He replied, ‘It's little enough after Timmie.'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘But it's something.' There was no anger in her any more. There had not been since she had fought against Roger. In many ways Mr Auberon was a good man, but he'd made mistakes, though who hadn't?

Lady Veronica rushed up and dragged him away, while a stable lad took Big Boy. Evie remembered that other night in the front stables, what seemed like years ago. Who knew how anyone would react when beaten by their own father? For the first time for a long while she felt a renewal of sympathy for him.

Out in the yard Roger was telling of his exploits but Simon said, ‘Howay, you daft beggar, you took the horse from a lad and sent him back into the inferno.' That was all; it was enough.

Over there, in the background, was Lady Margaret. Lady Veronica was dragging Mr Auberon past her. Something was said and by morning Lady Margaret had gone. The stables were a soaked and smoking wreck. Everyone was told it was a freak accident, perhaps a lightning strike, perhaps a hoof against stone causing a spark.

Lady Margaret never came into the conversation and she mustn't, because otherwise she might one day shout out Lady Veronica's involvement in the suffrage movement. Everyone knew, however, that it was the policy of the Pankhursts to carry out arson attacks on private property. Did the stupid girl always do everything she was told, Evie wondered.

Within the week the rebuilding of the stables had begun, and Captain Williams had returned to check that Lady Veronica was safe and sound.

ON SUNDAY 1ST
August 1914, the start of the bank holiday, Jack and Martin had crawled up the eastern slope of the Stunted Tree, their red armbands appearing more like brown after they had scuffled along the ground. They rested in the lee of a scattering of gorse bushes which grew two-thirds of the way up. Jack had insisted his team traverse the ground full-length and on their elbows until they reached the highest of the bushes. ‘Take a breather now, lads,' he whispered. They rested easy in the narrow strip of shade which gave some relief from the baking summer sun, relishing the sips they took from their canteens. Jack wiped his mouth and grinned across at Martin. ‘Beats sweating at the coalface, eh lad?'

‘Aye, let's just sweat on a hillside instead, up to our arms in sheep shit.' There was low laughter. Jack joined in. Over on the left was Lieutenant Brampton, whose platoon had been designated the red team and who was easing out around the gorse. If he wasn't careful Lieutenant Swansdale's green platoon defending the crest would let go a load of blanks and they'd have lost the exercise and the free beer, the daft bugger. Jack checked his rifle. He liked the stock of this one, it fitted his shoulder just fine. He turned and held it to his shoulder, getting Brampton in his sight. Bang. He could almost hear the non-existent shot rifling out of the barrel and into that self-satisfied skull. Now, that would be an August Bank Holiday to remember. ‘Steady, lad,' Martin murmured.

Jack shook his head, lying back, staring up at the sky through half-closed eyes. ‘When I get him no one will know, don't you worry.'

Colin, the lance corporal, crawled up and rolled on to his back next to him. ‘Sarge, I've just crawled through a load of sheep shit, I need a smoke and a pee, and I'm wet through with sweat. I might as well have stayed in the damned pit.'

Jack held up his hand. ‘You'll be back down there if I hear you above a whisper again, Col, and before you ask, no, you can't stand to do a pee, and no you can't have a Woodbine. Swansdale'll have scouts out, or lookouts at least. You send up just a flicker of smoke and I'll have you.'

Simon was up with them now, bringing the periscope that Jack had devised the night they arrived on exercise. He'd just known the gorse would be good cover from which to observe.

Brampton was crawling over, his face burned from the sun, but not as badly as the pitmen. They weren't used to it.

Jack eased up just a fraction, his uniform coarse round his neck, reaching for the periscope, raising it. He could hear Brampton panting as he nestled in next to him. ‘Any movement, Sergeant?'

Jack slid the periscope over. ‘Check for yourself,' he paused. ‘Sir.'

‘Good idea of yours, Sergeant,' Brampton whispered, raising the periscope.

‘Aye, my brother Timmie, you know, the one who was killed in your pit, made one of these when planning a battle with his lead soldiers.'

Lieutenant Brampton lowered the periscope and the colour rose up his neck. There was an uneasy silence. Simon raised his eyebrows at Jack. Colin studied an ant climbing a blade of grass, Bernie whistled silently. Martin was signalling to those who had just reached them to stay down, stay quiet.

Brampton whispered, ‘I caught the glint of binoculars. They're on the alert. Not long now. Get the men ready please, Sergeant. I'm so sorry about Timmie. It was totally my fault.' He was checking his hunter watch. The diversionary attack by a third of their platoon led by Corporal James Smith, the footman, would take place at two thirteen. It was Brampton's idea to make it an odd time. It was Jack's to create a diversion.

Brampton crawled back to his group. Martin gripped Jack's shoulder. ‘Might be time to give him a break, man. I'm sorry to say you make a good team and he's made you up to Sergeant, he's given your da a good kist. He's just apologised.'

‘He killed Timmie.'

‘But not deliberately. He's a lad, like us.'

‘Bugger off, Mart.' Jack felt as cold as he had done since Timmie's death and it was time something warmed him. He knew the only thing that could do that now was to see the whelp six foot under. ‘Keep your head down, Corporal,' he grinned. He knew it didn't meet his eyes. He glanced across at Brampton, who was snatching a look at his watch. They were all waiting, but there were worse places to do that. He turned on to his back again. On Friday his father had handed him
The Times
which was going on about how many treaties Germany had broken, how it had been pushing its military ambitions and how, if the government didn't help France and Belgium, Britain would be guilty of the grossest treachery.

He shielded his eyes from the worst of the glare and tried to make shapes out of the white clouds that ambled across the sky. But if there was to be fighting surely it would be in Ireland, where private Catholic and Protestant armies were already creating havoc? Would he go to war? He wouldn't need to, they had armies for that. But by, it would give him a chance with Brampton and then he could clear his head and be back for Christmas, with everything sorted. Maybe he'd settle better with Millie, even get Evie into her hotel. The lass had waited and worked for so long and she was ready, really ready, and the solicitor had said they'd have first refusal on the guest house.

Martin punched his shoulder. ‘Can you hear them?'

Jack turned to his front, raised himself into a crawl. A third of the platoon under Ben's boy, Steve, were letting rip with their blanks on the other side of the hill and he could almost see them charging as the shots rang out. Brampton was crouched as though he was on the starting line of a race, counting off the seconds with his hand. He and Jack had decided on thirty seconds for the lookouts on this side to be drawn across in support.

‘Remember, silence on the approach, silence until they see us. Pass it on,' Jack hissed. He saw the men nod as they each received the reminder. Behind Brampton they were receiving the same order and he saw Roger nodding, his face a picture of misery, and now Jack's grin did reach his eyes. On the exercise and drill Saturdays the valet was seconded as batman to Brampton and had to train too. It delighted the whole platoon. He barely knew his left foot from his right, and ‘About turns' were a bloody disaster.

Jack kept his eyes on Brampton and at the signal he surged forward, forcing his way through the gorse via the badger run he'd spied earlier, which made the going easier. He had ordered the men to find similar spots and do likewise and soon they were doubled up and powering up the hill, their rifles held across their chests. He could hear heavy breathing behind him. Martin was at his shoulder as he always was. To Jack's left Brampton was keeping pace, and so were the men except for Roger, but no one considered him a man, so that didn't count. He'd be rambling, staying out of danger, Jack knew he would.

So far, they had not been spotted. There was just the distant sound of orders shouted and blanks fired towards Steve's group to the east. It could work, it could bloody work. The blood was pumping, his weight was forward, they were cresting the hill and there was hand-to-hand fighting on the other side and a small group huddled together to the left with blue armbands, the designated injured. The referees stood in a small group to the rear of these, one of whom was Captain Williams of the North Tyne Fusiliers, back from his foray to Folkestone. The water butt, the holy grail, was in the centre with a guard of eight, who were oblivious to the red team's approach.

On the far side Swansdale turned, saw them, and rallied half his platoon before charging towards them. Jack flanked to the right, Brampton to the left as they had planned. Swansdale had to divide his charge but didn't beef up the holy grail guard. ‘Cut 'em off, cut 'em off,' Swansdale and his sergeant were yelling.