A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (25 page)

They kept going, and for a while James felt lost without their leader. A sliver of a moon lit their way and he thought again of his uncle that day, the way he had taken over. He and his marras had a wisdom, almost a weariness, as though they had seen the worst the world had to offer but had survived, and achieved a sort of calm. But was it calm? Because everyone was really still struggling, Uncle Jack and
Mart at the mine, the pitmen, young Jonny Earnshaw who they'd seen catching minnows on the bridge, with his da out of work, women too. Was that what peace was? If so, was anything worth fighting for, or against?

He walked on. The answer was yes. Sometimes you could not stand aside, but in the end life would be just as it always was: imperfect, some of it good, some of it loving. If they survived this, they would be lucky enough to know that it could have been worse, perhaps, if they had not stood against the bullies.

He shook his head. What a load of guff, surely he wasn't becoming like Uncle Edward? He'd need a pulpit next. He clambered on, following Ian, trying to keep to the path. He stumbled, caught his balance, righted himself, and as he did so, he saw Tim again, and his bloodied chest from carrying Bridie. He stopped, and Archie banged into him. ‘You alright, James?' he hissed.

He moved on, but the image remained. What if Tim was here? What if they fought?

Ian half fell. James caught him.

‘Jamie, you're a pal,' Ian whispered. ‘My bloody feet've got blisters like I don't know what.' They laughed quietly together. James dropped in behind him again.

They only travelled little used trails, in order to avoid the non-intervention patrols. After two hours they halted for a brief rest. Ian touched the ground.
‘This is France, soon it'll be Spain. Never thought I'd get this far. Don't seem real, some'ow.' James knew what he meant.

They set off again, and somehow he felt an inner peace, because he knew, now, that his Uncle Aub would calm his parents, as he had his wife after Bridie's fall, and that, when Bridie returned, she would be safe and Aub would not allow her to be blamed. It was as though a load had been taken from his shoulders and he could press on with all he had to do.

As the sky lightened towards dawn, it somehow teased scent from the trees. Dawn actually broke as they neared the summit. Mists drifted in and around rocky crags. He wished Bridie was here to see the colours, but he would tell her. They moved onwards, and the whisper went along the line, ‘Almost there.'

Archie and he were helping Ian, who had almost collapsed in the thin air. Three others were similarly helped, but no-one had turned back. At the summit they lowered Ian. They would not be stopped now, because they had reached Spain and would carry the fight to the enemy. What would he do if he saw Tim? Could he fire? He knew he could not. Would Tim fire? He didn't know, that was what was so awful. He just didn't know.

Ian ate some of the biscuits that they all carried, and managed the descent into Spain. It was afternoon when they reached the foothills and started to
pass elderly Catalonian farm workers who clenched their fists and shouted, ‘
Salud, camaradas.'
The sun beat down, the light was harsh, as they approached a mountain outpost. The pace quickened, and their guides were greeted like old friends and so too the group of volunteers. One of their guides shouted, ‘Fall out. Trucks come soon,
camaradas
.'

Archie eased off his rucksack and pointed to the stream. ‘Last one in's a cissy.'

The race was on. The clothes came off, the bodies went in, and the feel of the rushing water as it powered down to the plain washed away the exhaustion, and the aches, and the life before. The trucks arrived after they had dressed, and they bumped along the track for an hour or so, to a sign off to the right,
Las Brigadas Internacionales
– The International Brigade. They pulled up eventually at a large stone building. The guide in their truck called, ‘These your barracks. Climb staircase at end, iron one, outside.'

Ian murmured, ‘Not more bloody climbing.'

James laughed. ‘No help this time, my lad. The air's thick enough to get into even your weak muscles.' They jumped down onto the dusty ground.

‘Speak for yourself.' Ian threw his
alpargatas
at him. Archie, in turn, threw one of his at Ian.

They all ran towards the barracks, dodging
alpargatas
and returning fire, up the staircase and into the dormitory, and soon the whole room was awash with flying sandals, until an Australian bawled from the open doorway, ‘Wonderful, damn it, we leave
you ankle biters for a ruddy minute, and you're playing games.' He cast a long shadow in the afternoon sun.

‘Ankle biters?' queried the communist, Otto, who had been chased out of Munich in '34.

Archie replied, ‘I rather think he means two-year-olds or younger.'

‘Ah,' the Australian replied, entering and looking around at them. ‘We have an adult amongst us, I see. Well, you're boss for the moment. Get this lot across to the mess room in the building opposite so we can get some tucker down you before training begins.'

Ian called, ‘But we ain't slept for more'n twenty-four hours.'

‘Well, a few more hours won't hurt, then, will it?'

The Australian marched out, his boots crashing on the rough wooden floor, his wide-brimmed hat pulled down against the light. They put their boots on and followed Archie down the steps. He stood at the edge of the square, pointing doubtfully across to the building. They strolled towards it, until the Australian appeared in the doorway of the building and roared, ‘At a bloody run, if you don't bloody mind.'

James did mind, actually, but he said nothing, just ran with the others, clattering into the mess room in their boots, then doubled back out again at a scramble as the call came, ‘
avion'
– aircraft.

The Australian called from behind, ‘Run, to the
slit trenches to the left at the edge of the square. Left, you bleeding idiot, I said.' Archie had run right.

They dived into the trenches, scanning the skies, Guernica and Bilbao in their minds, but the planes passed and no bombs dropped, this time. James stared at the ants running along a narrow ledge in the trench wall. They were unaware. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard his grandma's voice: ‘All is well.'
I bloody well hope so, Grandma
, he said silently as he followed the others back to the mess room, his legs trembling, not with tiredness, but from fear.

The next day they signed on as soldiers of the Spanish Republican Army, and the days took on a uniform pattern of being ‘bugled' awake in order to rush to the water trough, wash, then to the mess room to gulp down coffee and bread, probably to be interrupted by another air alarm. Then, to form into squads for firearms instruction and drill.

In the evenings they had to learn enough Spanish to follow orders in the field. Also in the evenings, they played football, though chess was Ian's passion: he had lugged a set along in his rucksack, and found several opponents to thrash. ‘Crazy bloody English,' snarled the Australian, Sergeant Neil Coffey, then proceeded to sit down and beat the lot of them.

On the seventh day a load of uniforms and boots arrived, which in no way, shape, or form, fitted. Sergeant Coffey handed out needle and thread. ‘You sat at your mother's knees, so get sewing.'

The
avion
warnings continued, and each time James watched the ants rushing along their ledge in the trench, just as they had done at home. On one particularly hot day, he had crouched with Bridie in the height of the summer, when the ground by the beck had cracked. The ants emerged, one after the other. These were not the ants they knew, but ones that had wings, and which took off, in a sort of swarm, at which he and Bridie had run screaming. So they must have been really young. How young?

He searched the skies now, and the ground shuddered, but the bombs were falling some distance away. How long would their luck hold? He watched the sand in the walls of the trench trickle down. Were they Nazis or Italian bombs? Were the Republican Russian airplanes bombing Franco's men? He concentrated on the ants, remembering he must have been about ten, and Bridie only five. Where had Tim been?

He remembered now. Tim'd been swimming in the beck, and had clambered out, rushing after them, grabbing them with his wet hands, pulling them to him. He must have been about twelve or a bit older. ‘What?' he said, his face scared. ‘What? Are you hurt?'

They had told him, and he had held them both to him for a moment, and it hadn't mattered that Tim was cold and wet, and they became so too. It was enough that he was there. Tim said, ‘They're the males, the drones, and there'll be a female, a
queen, too. They're looking to start a new home, a new place, that's all. They're not looking for you.'

They had all traipsed back, but they couldn't find a single ant. ‘They've gone,' said Tim. ‘So, into the beck, all of us, and Bridie, you must swim to the other side by the time I've counted ten.' She had done so, and James had felt quite safe.

These must be the workers, he thought as he watched the ants, as another wave of planes flew over. The drones might come out any minute and fly, and if they did, so what? He wasn't about to start running about screeching. There were far more ugly buggers flying about these days.

The all-clear whistle sounded.

Tim was in the corner pub, the one near his bedsit in Newcastle. Why the hell was August so bloody hot? It was the twenty-seventh, so surely it should be cooling down by now? He'd had four pints, but he needed more: to sleep, to get through the days, to live, really. Work was busy, thank the lord, as more orders were reaching them from around the world, for the rich were always demanding, and yachts were still being built. Now much bigger ships were being built, but not here – in Germany.

His boss, Mr Andrews, had wondered today what he'd do if he got an order from the Nazis. Tim hoped he'd turn it down, as the very thought of Germany brought back the nightmares of the beatings, and the cell, the death, and the final sight of Avraham
as he was taken through the double doors, of Heine, and his mother, and her silver, and her use of him, her supposed love, which he very much doubted had ever existed.

He moved his glass around, feeling it skate in the spilled beer. It was summer bank holiday on Monday, and he wanted to be lolling over the rails of the exercise paddock with Bridie and James, working out how they could get more horses, what they could do now that Prancer was gone. It had been the lovely old grey who had trained Fanny and Terry, really. Yes, Bridie had done a lot, but it was Prancer who would nip them, and keep them on the straight and narrow.

He felt the cold of the cell, saw again the light fading from Otto's eyes. He reached into his pocket and fingered Avraham's mezuzah case. Maybe he should ditch it. It might help him to leave it behind, but in a way, he didn't want to forget. As long as he had it Avraham existed.

The ashtray was full of his stubs, and the air in the pub was its usual smog. A bloke was playing ‘Begin the Beguine' on the piano, and he bloody well hoped no-one was going to get up and sing. He rose, staggered and grabbed the back of the chair, then gathered himself and fought his way through the crowd towards the bar. Sunny the barman, tea towel slung over his shoulder and cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth, eyed him. ‘Haven't you had enough, Tim?'

Tim shook his head, digging in his pocket for money, blinking as he counted it out and tipped it onto the bar. Sunny handed him his pint. ‘Make it your last, there's a good lad.'

He sipped it, standing there. Someone jogged him. ‘Watch your bloody self,' he growled.

‘Sorry, man.' The customer was reaching forward to pay.

Sunny warned, ‘Go and sit down, Tim. Now.'

He did so, dragging out his packet of cigarettes – not the case Heine had given him, because he'd realised on his return that the faded insignia was a menorah, a Jewish candlestick. One day he'd go back and find the Jews to whom the apartment had belonged, and all the goods within it, like this.

He lit up and chucked the match in the ashtray, inhaled deeply, exhaled, then coughed. He should eat, of course. His boss had said his clothes were hanging off him.

His mother had written from Berlin, nagging him about finding the letter again. He said he was hunting for it as they had insisted. He was really busy with work, which meant he couldn't go to Hawton meetings, but he was keeping his fingers on the pulse. It seemed easier, and something – he didn't know what – stopped him from cutting the ties completely.

He had also told Sir Anthony that he was too busy to go to the Peace Club meetings at the moment. Sir Anthony had said, ‘I understand. We'll be pleased
to see you, Tim, when you can manage. Peace and co-operation are more important than ever.'

Tim had wanted to bang the table, and say, ‘Open your eyes, you silly old fool. Do you think the fascists sitting round your table are reasonable people? Listen to them.' But perhaps they were. Perhaps they were on the trail of peace – but at what price?

He drank the tankard dry. He wanted his dad to be here, so much, so he could tell him what had happened, and apologise. He wanted his mam to clutch his hands in hers, and say fiercely, ‘We love you. We knew you'd come back. You have just made a mistake, like we all do.'

Well, he'd tried after Prancer died, but perhaps it was too early. Bridie must have been there to send him away. One day, he'd try again.

He staggered to the bar, and Sunny relented. ‘Just the one more, and go and see someone about those nightmares you told me about, or talk to your da. He'll have had 'em after the war, like me. He'll understand.'

Sunny said this every night. Tim counted out his money, the coins tipping into the spilled beer. He took the pint, sipped it, and was jogged again as a bloke muscled alongside. Tim said nothing, just staggered back to his seat.