A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (24 page)

‘Ah, indeed. Yes, he asked me to make a slight diversion. It is of no consequence, but I must now resume my journey, just as you, my dear Evie, will probably re-embark on this ferry for the return trip? I wish you well with everything. The young are impetuous but seldom mean harm.' He bowed and left her, clipping along the quay, merely nodding at Bridie as he passed.

Evie saw Bridie lift her hand, as though it was very heavy, and call, ‘Thank you, Herr Bauer. You have been very helpful and kind.' Evie's love soared again.

The passengers had all disembarked, and the last, an elderly man, limped in Herr Bauer's wake. Evie gestured to Bridie to join her, and as Bridie approached, the anger returned, and Evie spun on her heel and hurried back up the gangplank. She heard Bridie call, ‘Mam, please wait for me.'

Evie couldn't wait. ‘You've managed this far without any of us, Bridget, so just follow me, because I can't find the words to speak to you at this precise moment and until I do, I suggest you try to make good the hurt you've caused to those who love you.'

Two days later Bridie was leaning back on the wall of the indoor exercise arena in her jodhpurs, having mucked out the stables because she couldn't bear the ongoing silence in the kitchen any more. She watched Dave to the left of the mounting platform. He was in his wheelchair and talking to his blind friend, Daniel Forsyth. On the mounting platform Young Stan was guiding an older man with only one arm, and two legs, but one foot, onto the double saddle, with one of the under-gardeners standing at Terry's head.

Clive was standing on Terry's right-hand side, guiding the man's leg over the double saddle. She heard Clive saying, ‘That's the way, Norman, you know the ropes. Matron said you're up to this, so that's that, you ruddy well are.'

Norman said something as Clive put his hand on his back, and Young Stan showed him how to hold
the reins with just one hand. Clive laughed and said, ‘You shouldn't use language like that or she'll deal with you in her own special way.'

Since her return, Aunt Ver and Uncle Richard had not spoken to her, beyond saying, almost in unison, ‘What were you thinking? Why didn't you tell us his plans?'

Her mother had said nothing more on the ferry until they had set sail, and then, though the wind had been fierce, Bridie had heard the fury and hurt in her words, the accusations of betrayal towards Monsieur Allard, Madame Beauchesne, Bridie's friends, her family, herself. In reply, Bridie had screeched, ‘Someone had to do something, the Republicans need me and James. And you did something too, when a cause needed you: you fought for votes; Da went to war.'

Her mother had held up her hand. ‘You talked us into sending you to a prestigious institute, and then you used it to follow James. You left your horses and your patients, and
they
need you just as much, if not more, than the bloody International Brigade. Tim has never lied. He's just done what he needs to do, and not hidden who he is. That's what's wrong with you, madam.'

On her arrival home, Mrs Moore had whacked her with a wooden spoon across her knuckles, then wept. She had whispered, ‘Bridget, what have you done?'

Since then, the kitchen had been virtually silent.
She had suggested macarons. Her mother had ignored her. She had suggested her version of mushroom soup. Again her mother ignored her, and Annie too had avoided her since her return. Maria and Estrella had been embarrassed, as though it was their fault. They had offered to leave. Evie would not hear of it. Bridie had written letters of apology to Madame Beauchesne, Monsieur Allard, Colonel Potter, and through him, Herr Bauer. Lastly she had telegraphed Lucy and Marthe and they had replied, missing her but enjoying the remainder of the course. It had hurt but she deserved it. Today, in her break, she had plucked up courage, at last, to visit the paddock.

No-one had looked up when she slipped through the entrance, but Terry had whinnied.

She heard the panic in Norman's voice, as Clive carefully removed his hand. Someone should be up behind him. Who would it be? Clive replaced his hand. Perhaps it would be no-one, but that wasn't wise. Clive must at least walk beside Norman. She stood upright, but said nothing. She had no right. Just as she had said nothing when her mother had held up Tim as a shining example. She had wanted to say that she had found him in Da's office, but she had promised she would not. That he had punched her, that . . .

She shook her head now. She had not because she had done worse: she had sent him away when Prancer died, and she had told no-one. Perhaps she
should have done, because it wasn't her decision to have made.

‘Well, are you helping or not? Don't just stand there miles away. I've said it twice and I won't again, young madam.' It was Dave, bawling across his wheelchair. ‘I need someone up on the saddle, you runaway. You've had your adventure, stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something.'

Young Stan was grinning at her as he crouched down, next to Norman. ‘She's been a bad, bad girl, has our Bridie. But we're all allowed to be, once in our life. Isn't that a fact, Norman?'

Norman said, as Bridie hurried across the paddock, kicking up the sand, ‘I don't give a monkey's arse who does it, as long as someone does, before I fall off the bloody thing.'

She skirted round Dave's wheelchair, whispering, ‘What's this I hear about you and Estrella? Fast worker, eh?'

Before he could pinch her, she was up the ramp, face to face with Young Stan, who looked her straight in the eyes, waiting. She murmured, ‘I'm sorry—'

He shook his head. ‘Louder, and face the front, so we can all hear, including Terry. He's missed you. None of
us
have, but
he
missed you.'

She breathed in, and pushed back her shoulders. ‘I'm sorry,' she shouted, her voice reaching the back of the building. ‘I'm right sorry. I should have thought of you more, all of you, and this.' She waved
her hand around the exercise building. ‘All of this,' she repeated. This time she gestured to Easterleigh Hall.

‘And?' Dave called up. ‘You haven't finished, Bridie.'

‘I acted like a child. I thought I must do something, because no-one is doing anything, not really, to stop them: the Nazis in Germany, the fascists in Italy and Spain. But I ignored the fact that to do that I had to lie; I ignored the things and people who need me here.'

‘And?' Dave called again.

‘I'm sorry, alright? I've said I'm sorry. What more do you want?'

Dave was still looking up at her. ‘I'm getting a crick in my neck waiting, Bridie. And?'

Terry shifted his weight; the under-gardener, who she remembered was called Ron, held his bridle; Norman gripped the saddle; while Clive held him. Young Stan squatted to reassure him, twisting round, saying, ‘Get on with it, bonny lass. It's getting boring here, and me back's killing me.'

She didn't know what they wanted, and anger surged. ‘Alright, I'm really sorry, but I still think James is doing what he thinks is right, just as everyone else has always done. Look at Mam with her votes, and Da with his war, and Aunt Gracie, and everyone. But I was wrong in the way I did it – I bloody know that – but I was still right. So bloody there.'

Young Stan looked down at Dave. They both nodded. Clive grinned; the under-gardener, Ron, laughed and rubbed Terry's nose. Norman said, ‘Now she's said it, can we get on?'

‘On you get, Bridie pet,' Young Stan ordered. She slid into the saddle behind Norman, in spite of being in her skirt. She clenched Terry with her knees, put her arms around Norman. ‘You'll be fine, bonny lad,' she breathed.

He said, ‘Aye, I'm getting better.'

Ron eased him forward, and she said quietly, ‘Getting better?'

‘Oh aye, it's a set-up, bonny lass. They wanted to get you back on track. Apologies are alright, but they wanted the real Bridie back.'

‘Mam thinks that, too?'

Norman shrugged. ‘That's another kettle of fish, lass. Have to wait and see on that, but I expect Estrella will be whispering any updates into Dave's ear.'

Bridie turned to look back at Dave, who was chatting earnestly to Young Stan and Clive, gesturing and pointing to the far corner of the building. She knew that he'd always thought a tack room should be set up here. ‘I heard. It's really grand.'

‘Aye, but shall we get a bit of a move on? Matron will be here to pick me up, and if we're dawdling about she'll be thinking her plan didn't work.'

Bridie laughed, knowing she was lucky to have these people, hoping that one day her family would
forgive her, all of them. She thought of James, clambering over the Pyrenees, and she prayed he would be lucky too. Safe and lucky.

James, Ian and Archie waited at a farmhouse for a couple of weeks, while others arrived. It seemed forever since he had left Bridie. Finally, several of them went to Nîmes, where they took another bus. It was an old, beaten-up vehicle, which bumped along the lanes, its lights dimmed, until it turned onto a dry, hard-packed field. ‘Alright, lads, let's be having you,' Stephen called. They filed from the bus. Stephen, who had only grunted at James since he had returned without Bridie, led the way in the dark. They walked for an hour, and finally saw another dark farmhouse, which looked deserted. Inside were two guides, and tables with pâté and bread and wine. There were more men sitting at the table. Stephen said to them, ‘We have a few more for the International Brigade.'

They moved along the benches to make room. In all, there were about forty. Stephen said, ‘Eat. Later we go over the mountains and into training.'

The murmur of voices gained momentum, as the various different nationalities chewed the cud. Some were communists, some socialists, some who just felt fascism should be stopped, and if their governments wouldn't, they would. They all talked, sitting in their language groups. All the time, James wondered about Bridie. Was she alright? Was she
still crying? Did she phone home as she had promised? Would she forgive him?

He remembered the smell of her hair, the feel of her in his arms. He was in love with her, of course, which was crazy, because she was his cousin, his playmate, his best friend. But she was in love with Tim, and he wondered when she'd realise that.

Archie nudged him. ‘Eat up, we have important things to do.'

‘I know. That's why I'm here.' James nodded, as Ian held up the carafe of wine, and poured.

At the farmhouse, at dawn on the third day, they were handed
alpargatas –
rope-soled sandals – that were useful for climbing, and what's more, as Ian said, no-one would 'ear a bleedin' thing. They were to wear their boots to start with, and change into the sandals in due course. With two guides in the lead, and Stephen walking at the head of their group, they began a long trek through lanes, past farmhouses, or hamlets. Sometimes dogs barked. No-one spoke because frontier guards were alert for groups such as theirs.

They cut alongside a field now, keeping their eyes on the man in front as the darkness deepened. James could hear running water, a mule brayed. He shrugged his pack straps into a more comfortable position and as he did so, he remembered the rope Uncle Aub had fixed to a branch across a dry, wide ditch for the three of them.

Out by themselves that afternoon, Bridie had swung through the air and fallen with a crash at the bottom of the ditch. For a moment he and Tim had
thought she was dead, so quiet did she lie. When they rushed down to her, she was sobbing silently as blood spurted from her nose, her forehead and her shoulder, which had been pierced by a sapling that had snapped under the force of the fall. They'd had to lift her from it, and the blood had poured. Tim had ripped off his shirt and shoved it hard against the wound. ‘Hold it,' he'd said to Bridie.

His thoughts were interrupted briefly by Stephen walking back along the length of the trail of men, repeating in a whisper, ‘No clanging of water bottles. Keep them separate.'

Tim had carried Bridie at a run, to Home Farm barn. Uncle Aub had said nothing, though they had feared he'd tan their hides. Instead he'd bundled them all into his old jalopy of a car and driven like a lunatic to the Neave Wing. Dr Nicholls was in attendance, with Matron. Matron had sent them from the room. Aunt Evie had arrived, sent for by Sister Newsome. She had started to shout at the boys, ‘How could you?'

Was that what she'd say to Bridie now? A stone clinked. A man cursed. Everyone froze. Then started again, bent over now, to make themselves smaller, though whether it would make the slightest bloody difference was a matter of opinion. Archie poked him from behind, and he grinned, then the smile faded at the thought of Uncle Aub, that day, holding Aunt Evie to him as she repeated, to the boys, not him, ‘How could you?'

He had pressed her head to his chest, hushing her. ‘I put it up. Bridie chose to swing on it. They didn't drag her to it. It happened and she'll learn to be more careful. It's no-one's fault, and therefore, my darling, neither is it yours. So, enough, and before you start on me it isn't my fault either. It just is.' They had all laughed.

Tim had stood there, his chest bloodied. Bridie had been stitched and bandaged and did not mention her fall again. She had just powered on.

They were now skirting a derelict shepherd's hut and the ground was inclining. They must be at the foot of the mountains. They were instructed to stop, and change from their boots into their
alpargatas
. They were then to tie the boots by their laces to their rucksacks, one to each side, so there was no chance of them clashing together. They set off again, with Stephen clapping them on the shoulder, whispering as they passed. ‘I'll be off to pick up more of you hooligans but will come and see you while you're training. You are a grand bunch, keep your heads down.'