Easterleigh Hall (38 page)

Brampton screamed, ‘Corporal, take the left flank, I'll take the right. We've got your flanks, Jack.'

Jack snatched a look at Martin. ‘No stopping, come on Si, come on the rest of you.' He hadn't altered pace and now Brampton's men charged into the melee, clashing with both flanks of the green team, who stalled momentarily, only to rally. Jack tore ahead, closing in on the water butt, hearing his men behind him. By, it was like chasing down the parson all over again. There were just the two guards now, bringing down their rifles, aiming. Jack swerved, Simon tight behind him, Colin too. Bang. The referees called. ‘No. 14 down.' It was Martin. Damn it, but Colin knew to take over, knew to run at a swerve.

‘On your left, Forbes. On your left.' It was Brampton shouting a warning. Jack saw the raised rifle butt and swung his arm, deflecting the blow, then making contact with the man's jaw; he sagged and dropped. The water butt wasn't far now, but Swansdale's men had broken through and were roaring towards Jack's platoon. He shouted, ‘Si, take two men and secure the butt. The rest, with me. Colin too.' He swung into the attack, charging the green team, clashing rifles, face to screaming face with Colin beside him, kicking out, head-butting. Brampton joined them, forcing back the opposition, creating a straight run through for Simon. Jack saw him reach the butt with James and Andy. The referees' whistles blew but Swansdale's team didn't stop, fury etched on every face, and so no one stopped.

Beside Jack, Brampton's pistol was discarded in favour of a rifle that he snatched from one of the green platoon and with it he was fielding them back, just as Jack and the others were doing. The whistles blew again and this time Brampton seemed to come to himself and stopped, shouting, ‘Enough, men. Enough. We've won.'

Swansdale's sergeant had other ideas and crashed his rifle butt into Brampton's face. Brampton sagged against Jack, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. Jack heard the whistles blowing frantically. Beside him Colin said, ‘Well, I'm not having that, man.' He raised his rifle stock but Jack blocked him, and blocked the sergeant's rifle which was crashing down towards Brampton for a second time. ‘Leave it to me,' he yelled, dropping his rifle as Brampton sank to the ground, and jabbed at the sergeant's ribs again and again, before taking his feet out from under him with a sideways kick. ‘That'll teach you, you daft bugger.'

The fighting ceased, and soon all the men were bending over, resting their hands on their knees, panting. After he had regained his breath Jack looked around and signalled Roger over to Brampton. Around him the red team were jubilant, slapping one another's backs while Swansdale's men, from Hawton Pit, sulked, gathering in groups. The referees stood together making notes on a clipboard. The sun was still hot, the breeze gentle.

Roger was still on the periphery, examining his nails. Brampton was still on the ground, spitting out blood. He rolled over on to his side now and tried to scramble to his feet. He needed help. Jack turned away and it was Colin and Simon who hauled him up. Jack's uniform was splattered with Brampton's blood, and why the hell hadn't he let the sergeant's rifle fall on the little shit just once more?

The referees were gesturing to them all to start back to camp. Martin pretended to limp back to Jack as they headed down the hill, digging in their heels to stop their momentum. ‘Just call me Lazarus,' he said. Jack laughed. ‘Aye, I will, lad. So, what's it like coming back from the dead?'

‘Not bad at all, especially when we've bully beef for tea. Can they come up with anything else, d'you reckon? Maybe some of your Evie's chicken pie?' Martin slung his arm round Jack's shoulder, nodding towards Brampton who was walking back with Captain Williams. ‘Not you, was it, who mashed his face?' His voice was low and serious.

Colin broke away from his group and eased up beside Jack. ‘By, that was some lesson you taught the sarge. Teach him not to mess with one of us, even if it is the bastard.'

Jack said, ‘But he's our bastard.' He was astonished at himself.

‘Well, I reckon you're right there. He's not all bad, is he, not like his bloody da.' Colin slid on down the hill, racing with the other boys and men. Jack and Martin looked at one another, checked with Simon who was cutting across towards them. They all nodded and joined the race back to camp, which was set up half a mile from the Stunted Tree. Even that turned into a competition between the red and green teams, and Jack held his men back and let the greens win. But the greens still sulked, because it was a win that had been handed to them. When they went back to the pit after the bank holiday they'd have to face their marras, and failure was never a good move.

Jack heard Brampton saying to Swansdale as they shook hands in front of the mess tent, ‘Not a good day for you, Thomas.' His speech was clumsy but whose wouldn't be, talking through lips as swollen as his.

‘Nor for you, Aub. I saw what happened and I'll deal with Sergeant Harris,' Swansdale was ripping off his green armband which he handed to Brampton, who did the same. Blood was still running from the cut on Brampton's cheek, and from his nose which was surely broken. ‘No, it was the heat of battle, let it go, Tom. For God's sake, who knows better than I that mistakes are made.'

Captain Williams was over to the right of the tent. A messenger had come beating up on a grey, and handed the referees a note. Jack saw their faces, saw the note drop to the ground. Williams picked it up again and hurried to the Territorial officers in front of the tent, his face grim. Martin nudged Jack. ‘What's amiss, man? Let's get the beer down us unless they take it back because they haven't paid the bill. I've a throat like the bottom of the canary's cage.'

Jack looked once more towards the officers, and then joined his platoon at their mess. They'd been promised beer, and they got it in tin mugs. It tasted wonderful. They stripped off their jackets and in shirtsleeves they lolled on the ground. Jack loved August, the fields of corn, the smell of heat-soaked grass, the long evenings, the longer shadows. It was the final fling of summer.

They lit up Woodbines, and some had pipes. All the men, red and green, were here now, swapping bands and stories now that tempers had cooled. Winners and losers were friends again. ‘Amazing what a beer can do,' Jack murmured to Martin.

‘Aye, that it is. Maybe it's what that lot need?' Martin nodded towards the officers who were listening to Captain Williams.

‘It's not a welcome speech from the set of their faces,' Martin said, picking some grass and throwing it up in the air to see the strength of the wind, which was a waste of time because you could feel it well enough, Jack thought.

He said nothing, but he thought of the news of the past week and for a moment he wondered. But no. But what if . . . But how? On a day like this? And would it be Ireland or Europe? It would be neither.

Simon said, as he stuffed tobacco into the pipe he had taken to smoking, ‘They'll have made a mess-up somewhere. Probably because the whistles blew and we kept on doing what we were doing. Bet he's calling us a rabble. That's it. We're a rabble, you lot.'

They were laughing now, and Martin checked his watch. ‘I could kill for some food but it's only three. Never thought I'd be longing for that damned bully-beef muck.'

Jack was still watching Captain Williams. The officers, some of whom had acted as referees, saluted, stepped back and walked behind Williams as he strode towards the men. Jack stood. ‘Squad, attention,' he shouted. The men scrambled to their feet, stubbing out their Woodbines, or holding their pipes by their sides.

When he reached them, Williams' subaltern used the whistle to cut through the remaining chatter. Williams said, ‘At ease, men.'

They moved as one, standing with legs apart. Captain Williams raised his voice. ‘Our plans are altered. We are to dismantle the camp immediately and head for home. Why? The equipment is needed elsewhere as the military are in a precautionary state of emergency in view of the situation in Europe. Thank you for an excellent exercise. Quite excellent.' He spun on his heel. The men stared after him. Jack shouted, ‘Dismiss.'

The men faltered, looking from one to another. Several grabbed up their beer and downed it in one. All followed. Simon cursed. ‘So, it's back to work for us.'

Martin shook his head. ‘Just our bloody luck. We'll be down Auld Maud come Monday, bank holiday or not, what's the betting on it.'

Brampton came to Jack. ‘Please call them to order, Sergeant.'

Jack did so. Brampton said, ‘No, you'll have your holiday. If there's really to be a war, God knows when you'll get another if they need us. We might not be back before Christmas. So, tomorrow you are with your families. You will be paid as though you were on your usual rate. Stand them down, Sergeant.'

Jack did so and the questions began. ‘War?' ‘Where the hell did that come from?' ‘But we've an army for God's sake, they won't need us.'

They dismantled the camp in near-silence and the day seemed darker to Jack. Much much darker. There might be an army, but they were the Terries and could be needed. It wasn't just a game after all.

Lady Veronica heard the sound of horses on the gravel drive shortly before six on Sunday evening. She was walking Raisin and Currant in the formal gardens and hurried back towards the front lawn, not expecting either Richard or Auberon until tomorrow. Neither was she expecting their bank holiday guests today, for heaven's sake. The staff had only just finished preparing the bedrooms, not forgetting the suite for Lord and Lady Brampton. Their arrival was the only blot on the landscape. Stepmother would raise her eyebrows, wondering if Veronica had news to tell of a son and heir. Well, she hadn't. Was it because she lay there wondering when it would be over?

As she reached the cedar tree she saw Richard and Aub. What on earth? They should still be at camp playing soldiers. Damn it again. That meant another evening with Richard, and worse, another night. She set her shoulders and approached the men, who had halted, their horses pawing the ground. She called, forcing a smile, ‘What's happened, have the men revolted?' Richard looked rather splendid in his uniform, it had to be said, but he was still her husband, still someone who had curtailed her life into a morass of visiting and entertaining and a dark nothingness. He raised his stick to his cap. ‘No, it all went very well, but give me a moment, Veronica. I'll tell you in just a moment.'

Aub's face did not look splendid. She called after him, ‘Spoils of war, Aub?'

She waited for them in the Blue Drawing Room, standing at the window looking over the balustrade to the distant hills. Some of the harvest had been taken in, and the sun on the stubble seemed almost rosy. They had looked so sombre. Was it because the Foreign Secretary had proposed a meeting of the major powers to try to stop Austria and Serbia squabbling over the assassination? But surely no country would be stupid enough to go to war. It was more likely that their exercise had come adrift somehow. Men took their games so seriously.

The door opened. She turned and Richard entered, his face drawn and weary, and she experienced the same pang of guilt she felt whenever he returned on leave. She should be warmer towards him, but she couldn't or perhaps wouldn't. She breathed in deeply. She must try harder and perhaps tonight she would, if she possibly could. She said, ‘You look tired, my dear. Everything is ready for the party but perhaps we'll have to settle for lobster vol-au-vents after all. I know your favourite is crab . . .'

He shook his head. ‘Please, Veronica.' He joined her at the window, standing at her side and staring at the view as though he was soaking in every curve, every shadow, every birdsong, for now there were blue tits on the balcony. Without turning he said, ‘It really doesn't matter to me about crab, my dearest. You see, I'm so sorry to leave you with it but I won't be here. I've been recalled. Well, we've all been recalled. This is still the precautionary period officially, but you need to prepare yourself for my absence. Prolonged, perhaps. Not that this will be a hardship for you.' His smile was wry, his eyes held their usual hurt. ‘So, continue with your party. I have asked Roger to pack me and I will come to you here before I leave. I have asked Stuart to drive me, if you can spare the Rolls-Royce for a few hours.'

Then he was gone. His words registered at last. She ran after him. ‘What do you mean, recalled?'

He was pounding up the stairs. ‘The Navy has been ordered to sail north to take up position at Scapa Flow. God knows what's going to happen. The German troops are gathering.'

He was gone, into his bedroom. He shut the door, firmly.

She did not see him again until he presented himself in the drawing room at eight. She said, ‘I've held dinner for you and Aub.' She should have gone to him while Roger packed, but what would she have said?

He sighed. ‘I have no time for that, my dear. I leave now. James is bringing my valises.'

She walked from the room with him. ‘You should eat. I'll ask the kitchen to pack something for you.'

‘I'll eat on the way.' He was almost leaping down the stairs, and she ran to keep up with him. At the front door he shook Mr Harvey's hand. ‘Thank you for your kindness. Look after Lady Veronica, Mr Harvey. She will explain.'

Behind them she heard Auberon calling at the top of the stairs, ‘No, I'll take the valises, thank you James.'

He also ran down the stairs, washed, looking marginally better. He carried the valises to the car and Stuart stowed them. Richard stood with Veronica beneath the porticoed entrance, staring at the cedar tree. ‘It looks as though it will withstand anything.' His voice was quiet.

‘Will it have to?' Veronica asked.

He took her hand, and kissed it. ‘I think we'll all have to. If it's war I doubt it will be over soon, no matter what the newspapers say. Look at our industry, our machinery. Think of the size of the artillery, the submarines. Think factories, think armaments. It will be a different sort of a war, Ver. A damned slog, and that's what my general thinks too. I will try and get word to you, of course.' He dropped her hand but made no effort to kiss her. He just walked away, in uniform, perhaps to war.