Grace Hardie (15 page)

‘What is it you'd like?'

‘A case of champagne. You're an angel.'

As Grace opened the door more widely to let the stranger come in she was conscious that Mr Witney, working late in his office, had stepped quietly out to make sure that all was well. The rules of chaperonage seemed to have been abandoned with the outbreak of war, but Mrs Hardie had only been prepared to let her seventeen-year-old daughter help out in The House of Hardie on condition that she was never left alone on the premises.

The lieutenant took off his cap as he stepped inside,
revealing dark wavy hair above a fresh complexion. His eyes were bright with the success of his dash to beat the clock and the prospect of his party. ‘Well,' he said, ‘ten bottles would do, to save trouble.' He had noticed that on the counter stood an opened case from which two bottles of champagne had already been sold. ‘The college porter's on his way with a trolley. I didn't want to risk hearing you say that you couldn't deliver in time.'

The porter arrived at that moment.

‘Take them to Mr Jordan's set,' the lieutenant instructed him. Then he turned back to Grace. ‘I've got an account with you, of course, but I want to settle it now. There's four terms' steady drinking down to it already, and I shan't be coming back into residence. Well, that's probably obvious. And if there should prove to be a bullet with my name on it, I wouldn't want my last thought to be that I owe The House of Hardie for a lakeful of champagne.'

‘We can't deal with that now, I'm afraid, Mr Jordan.'

‘Bailey,' he said. ‘Christopher Bailey. Mr Jordan is the friend who'll be acting as host for my farewell, though he doesn't know it yet. I've already given up my rooms. No, of course, I've kept you late already. I can't expect you to stay on just for the sake of my conscience.'

‘Could you come back tomorrow?' she asked.

‘Bleary and hung-over; but yes, if you'll promise to attend to me yourself. I'll report at noon. Did I mention before that you're an angel? Six happy gentlemen will bless your name tonight.'

Grace tried not to laugh as she bade him goodnight, but that evening she found herself smiling as she recalled the brief conversation – and next morning it was the first thing she mentioned to Mr Witney.

The manager opened the book in which personal accounts were detailed. During his four terms at Oxford Mr
Christopher Bailey had been a regular customer without, however, taking advantage of the amount of credit required by some of the bloods.

‘Tell him not to trouble himself,' he instructed Grace. ‘When the war's over we'll talk about it again.'

‘He's anxious to settle his affairs. In case – in case he should be killed.'

‘All credit to him. But we won't put his anxiety to the test.' Mr Witney gave the sudden grin which invariably made Grace smile in sympathy. Anyone who met the manager of The House of Hardie in the street would be impressed by his gravity. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who wore his formal business suit of frock coat and dark trousers with dignity. But when he came indoors and took off his high hat, the thick bristle of red hair which stood straight up from his head made him appear years younger. His face was as freckled as Andy's and his eyes were as bright and alert as those of Grace's father. He had been employed by The House of Hardie ever since he fell through a carelessly-opened trapdoor outside their premises at the age of twelve, laming himself for life, and his loyal hard work had made him almost one of the family. His forehead wrinkled now with earnestness as he explained.

‘It was one of the first things that your grandfather taught me when I came to work here in Oxford,' he said. ‘When it comes to choosing which tradesmen to patronize, the aristocracy – and other gentlemen as well – will always be most loyal to those they owe the most to. Give a young gentleman generous credit for three or four years while he's at university, and he'll be a faithful customer for the rest of his life.'

Grace considered this dictum doubtfully. She had no money of her own to handle; nor did she take any part in the spending of the household budget – she had, in fact,
no idea of the cost of anything except, now, wine. But the idea that bills need not be paid was as instinctively displeasing to her as obviously it was to Mr Bailey.

In this case, however, there was a different consideration. It did seem right and proper that a young hero who had pledged his life to defend his king and country should be excused payment of his debts. It would give her pleasure to tell him so, with the manager's authority. She waited eagerly for Mr Bailey's return.

He came half an hour before his promised time – not bleary-eyed at all, but as full of energy as on the previous day. Mr Witney, calling Grace to attend to him, used her name, as was his custom, and the young officer remarked on it at once.

‘The daughter of the house? I didn't realize yesterday that I was so privileged. We drank to you last night, of course – but because I didn't know your name, the toast had to be to “the angel in the High”.'

Grace did her best to conceal her pleasure under a pretence of businesslike efficiency as she explained that he had no need to settle his account.

‘You mean that if I'm lucky enough to survive the war, I shall be rewarded by realizing that I'm still in debt?' He sounded doubtful whether to accept the arrangement, but then smiled cheerfully. ‘Oh well, thanks. There's no doubt that trying to settle everything at once imposes rather a strain on the exchequer. And my father's on your books at Pall Mall, so I shan't disappear into thin air.'

He held out his hand and Grace, after a moment's surprise, took it in her own. ‘Good luck,' she said.

‘That's something I have.' He was still smiling, but his eyes were serious. ‘Some people are born lucky. I'm one of them. Everything always turns out well for me in the end. You must have noticed. Even when I arrive at a shop
after closing hours, there proves to be someone at hand to open the door. I shall be all right. So I hope we shall meet again.'

The excitement and movement of the first few months of the war did not endure for long. When the German army ceased to retreat and instead dug itself into trenches guarded by barbed wire, the British casualty lists printed in the newspapers became daily longer and more alarming. But even before Grace and her mother became aware how short was the expectation of life of a young officer in the trenches, another anxiety grew. Why was there no news from China?

Gordon Hardie had left on his latest plant-hunting expedition in the autumn of 1913. He had written once to announce his safe arrival in China; and six months later a second letter, sent by runner from the Tibetan frontier to his agent in Shanghai and forwarded from there, had been safely delivered. After that, there had been only silence.

Although he was not due to return until July 1916, Lucy had written to him as soon as the war began and Frank left home, suggesting that he was needed back in England at once. She knew that it would take many months for the letter to reach him in the wild area of the Himalayan valleys which he was once again exploring, and more months after that for him to return to England: the end of 1915 was probably the earliest time at which he could be expected to arrive. But why were no letters reaching Greystones?

Because she had once accompanied her husband to China, she knew all about the difficulties of communication. For the same reason she was well aware of the dangers which would be surrounding him now. To those
which she had experienced herself, the war had added another. For whilst many families in England hung a map of Europe on their walls, marking the hard-fought advances or retreats of the opposing armies with flags or pins, the Hardies referred more frequently to the large globe which stood in the schoolroom. They noted with alarm the passage of Admiral von Spee's squadron through Chinese waters and the attacks of the
Emden
on British shipping in the Indian Ocean. The voyage home might well prove as hazardous as the exploration itself.

Grace did her best to provide reassurance by reminding her mother how many ships had been requisitioned by the Navy. Overseas mail services were bound to be disrupted – and it was more than likely that some of the letters so eagerly awaited were at the bottom of the ocean, victims of U-boat attacks.

In spite of these attempts at comfort, Grace shared her mother's growing unease. And she had her own reasons for sympathizing with the daily hope and disappointment with which each delivery of post was greeted, for she too waited hopefully for letters. The conditions of war made it impossible for Andy to write regularly, and letter-writing did not come easily to him. To his own mother and father he sent as a rule only the army issue of printed postcards which assured them that he was well. But he had written Grace the first two love letters of her life, and she longed for more.

The second, written during the Christmas truce, reached her early in 1915. After that there was no further news. Grace waited patiently for some weeks and then could be patient no longer. Doing her best to pretend that the question was a casual one, she approached the head gardener as he pricked out seedlings in the potting shed.

‘Do you hear regularly from Andy?' she asked, when
they had exchanged comments on the weather and the likely effect of a late frost on the fruit trees.

‘Not for more nor three months. Can't be expecting to, neither.'

‘What's happened? Is he hurt?' Fear tightened Grace's throat, so that her voice hardly seemed recognizable as her own.

‘Wounded, yes.' The gardener set down the trowel with which he was mixing a compost. ‘End of January. His officer wrote a letter.'

‘But why didn't you tell us?'

‘Reckoned the mistress had enough to worry about on her own account, with Master Frank and Master Philip both being away at the war. Didn't want to bother her with our troubles.'

‘Is it serious? What happened?'

‘A shell on the billet. There were six of them, in some kind of farmhouse barn behind the line. Sent there for a night's rest, but they might have been safer in the trench. Three of them killed. Two hit by shrapnel but able to get away. Andy couldn't walk, though. The Frenchy farmer's wife said she'd do what she could until a stretcher could come for him.'

‘And did she? Was he all right?'

‘Well, now.' His father gave a sigh. ‘Bit of time must have passed. The shell that hit him was part of an offensive. A new German push. A lot of noise and confusion, I don't doubt, and other casualties to be brought in. By the time they sent to look for Andy, the Germans had advanced and the farm was behind their lines.'

‘So where is he now? D'you mean that he's a prisoner?'

‘Don't rightly know. Not on any lists yet.'

‘You mean – you mean he might even be dead!'

‘The officer didn't think so, and so no more do I. Can't manage to persuade the wife that she doesn't need to cry.
According to his mates, though, his legs were in a bad way but that was the beginning and end of it. Likeliest is that he's a prisoner of war. It takes a bit of time, I'm told, for the names to come through.'

Close to tears, Grace needed to be alone, but managed to remain calm enough to ask one more question. ‘I'm so sorry,' she said. ‘You must be terribly worried. You will let me know, won't you, when you hear anything? Anything at all.'

The gardener tipped his hat in acknowledgement of the request and returned to his work. Grace, for her part, should have hurried off to Oxford. Now that the days had become lighter she rode to The House of Hardie on her bicycle every day instead of waiting for the light delivery trap to come and pick her up. But she needed to recover from her feeling of giddiness before she could feel safe on the machine. Pushing it slowly down the long drive, she brought herself under control at last. It was inconceivable that Andy should die – and so, because she could not conceive of the possibility, she brought herself to believe that it could not happen.

From that time onwards Grace made a point of calling every month at the lodge where the Friths lived. Her visits were ostensibly to offer sympathy to Andy's mother, but actually to enquire whether there was any news. The wait was a long one and, on the day when she found Mrs Frith in tears, she naturally feared the worst. But they proved to be tears of joy, and there was no need for Grace to ask her usual question.

‘He's alive, Miss Grace. In hospital and not able to walk yet, but alive.'

‘I'm so glad, Mrs Frith. Where has he been? How was it that he couldn't write?'

‘He was in that farmhouse all the time. The one with the barn, where he was wounded. They kept him hidden
there, the farmer's family, even when the whole place was swarming with Germans. And now our boys have got the village back again, so he's been able to come out.'

‘But in hospital, you said?'

‘One of his legs isn't right, like. He was on his feet, in a manner of speaking, but limping. They've broken the bone again and reset it, or some such thing. Still, with proper doctors and nurses, he'll be coming along a treat now. Not that – what's her name?' Mrs Frith fetched her son's letter from a drawer and found the place, running her fingers along the words as with some difficulty she spelled them out. ‘Madame – I don't know how to say this. Funny sort of word.'

‘May I see?' Grace leaned over, almost as excited by the sight of Andy's handwriting as she would have been by his presence in the room. ‘Madame and Mademoiselle Delavigne.'

‘That's right. They did their very best for him, he says, and it's not their fault that his leg didn't heal up right.'

Grace was still looking at the letter. The address was a number, which presumably identified the hospital. Memorizing it, she said goodbye so that she could write it down quickly before it slipped from her mind.