Easterleigh Hall at War (38 page)

There was silence. Auberon said eventually, ‘So you vote against a partnership, even though Evie took over as commandant to make life easier for Veronica, and has most ably fulfilled that role?'

‘At the present time, yes, I do. During extraordinary circumstances, ordinary people rise to the occasion, but cannot sustain their role. We need to restore the traditional order in our efforts to return to normality,' Lady Margaret insisted, stabbing the table with her forefinger.

Evie concentrated on the kettle. The furnace was no longer hissing. It would need more coal soon. The armchair beside it looked appealing. It would ease her backache, or that of the incoming cook who would take her place, but she'd have to turf off the dogs. She half smiled and looked around at the spotless cupboards, then up at the gleaming copper pans, all the result of hard work by the scullery and kitchen maids. They had learned their skills and carried them out, flawlessly, above and beyond the call of duty, ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances be damned. Her fury was building.

She breathed deeply, concentrating on this room, her hub, her powerhouse. Everything was so much brighter now that it was electrified. The new cook would approve, but how many would stay to help her in her work? What of the upper servants, those dear loyal souls? She pushed her glass towards the centre of the table, and began to stand. Auberon was waving her down. She remained standing.

‘No, I . . .'

Auberon looked at her, his eyes so blue, so serious. ‘Trust me. Please, sit, just for a moment, Evie.' She did so, as he glanced at Veronica and Richard. They nodded. He said, ‘Thank you for your honesty, Margaret, and we are sorry that you won't be part of our new adventure, and wish you well. You are of course welcome to remain in the cottage until you have found other accommodation.'

That was all. It was enough. Lady Margaret flushed even deeper, her breath coming in short gasps. She stood, confused. Veronica went to her, slipped her arm through hers and led her from the kitchen, down the central corridor, stopping to talk to Mrs Green who smiled a smile that the Cheshire cat would envy. Then they disappeared up the stairs to the great hall.

Auberon lifted his glass to Evie and Richard. ‘Now let's sort out the contract, and settle on plans. Ron and Harry want to be part of this, and agree totally with the co-operative idea, especially as it is likely that times will become hard, and jobs scarce for even our able-bodied lads returning to “a land fit for heroes”. We need to make sure that we continue to do our bit.'

Evie sipped her brandy, watching Auberon, his face alive, warm, beautiful. Yes, she'd trust him, to the ends of the earth and back again.

Jack waited outside Grace's house, watching the gas lighting in her bedroom flutter. It seemed that he had stood here so often, his heart breaking. He screwed up his cap, the cold bitter on his head but he had to have something to do with his hands. He wore the greatcoat he could have handed over at the demob centre in return for a couple of quid, but it was a good coat, and would come in useful. He, Mart and Charlie had hung about until their de-mob suits were ready, though they had to keep their uniforms, as they were still on the Z reserve.

He moved from foot to foot as the breeze got up. Snow was falling, but lightly. They said every snowflake had a different pattern. How could that be? Who was it who'd told him that? Ah yes, Tommy Evans, as the mud sucked at their boots, and over their boots to their puttees, one foot in front of the other. One foot. One step. Another. Another. Bugger fatigue. Keep walking, one foot. One foot. Towards the Menin Gate, the stink of stagnant water, the broken teeth of the buildings, the slip slide of the limbers with their guns on the planked Ypres road. He remembered the feel of the rope when they'd all had to pitch in to haul one of the bloody things out of the mud.

Must have been one hundred men there, their packs dragging at their backs, the rope as muddy as hell, their hands slipping on it, burning off the skin, their boots slipping as they hauled, hauled, bloody hauled. They'd got it back on the road, the sky alight with the flashes of field guns, the sounds pounding and racketing around their heads. Yes, they'd got it back, Charlie in front, Mart and Aub behind, while all the other officers stood and shouted orders.

Where was Tommy now? Ah, yes, he could picture the back of the aid station they'd taken him to after a sniper had got him on a wiring party. They hadn't expected him to die, but it was shock, the orderly said. They'd both written to his mam.

He flicked his cigarette to the ground now, drew a deep breath. He was alone and he missed them; all of them, every minute of every day, because they were his marras and he didn't have any focus now, any real reason for . . . He walked through the front gate. It more than squeaked, it screamed. He reached the porch, and the front door opened. She was there, she was his, and now his arms were round her, but still he felt alone, because no one but his marras knew what he felt, what he dreamed, what he remembered, what he smelled.

He cried then, great wracking sobs, because he loved this woman who had said she would live with him. She said, ‘I know what it's like. I've felt it, I've nursed it, I know what it's like and it will get better.'

She led him up the stairs because Edward was out, having decided that he must sit with a parishioner. She led him into the bedroom whose light he had stood and watched so often. Now he saw that the wallpaper had roses, the counterpane was pink. She was in her dressing gown. She removed his coat and let it drop on the floor. She undid his shirt, and now he was frantically helping, and she allowed her gown to fall at her feet and they fell on the bed and at last they were together, and she was as soft and wonderful under his rough and scarred hands as he had thought she would be.

Afterwards he slept, and though he dreamed it was of sunshine, and the cedar tree, the older tree to begin with, but then his old friend the darkness slunk and then roared into his world as it always did. When he woke he lay looking at the sun streaming through the windows. He had slept the night through, and in his mind had been the young cedar tree, which would grow and become strong, as he would, again.

Later that morning Jack was in Evie's kitchen, telling her of Grace's decision that after the trial run of last night, the parsonage was large enough to cope with Tim and Jack, and that though there was no need of a tin bath, his back would still have to be scrubbed. Evie held up her hand. ‘Stop, go no further. I am far too innocent.'

He perched on the edge of the table and turned when Grace hurried in, her VAD uniform as pristine as always. ‘Evie, Roger's asking for you. He's not going to make it. Will you come? He's most insistent. Hold a handkerchief to your face, though what good that will do, I don't know. We're going down like flies.' She blew a kiss to Jack and spun out again. Jack grinned after her and Evie raised an eyebrow, holding up her hand again. ‘No, not a word, I don't want to know.'

She hurried after Grace, waved to one of the two remaining orderlies, and asked after Matron, who had gone down yesterday with the flu. Grace muttered, ‘She's seen it off. Well, would you stand against her?' It didn't require an answer.

Evie took one of the sphagnum moss sachets from the basket outside the conservatory. It had been sprayed with disinfectant. She held it to her face as she entered. All the drapes were down and the furnace was roaring to keep the temperature up in this glass building. Outside the snow lay at least three inches on the ground. She hoped Simon had his jerkin on, even though he was in the warmth of the glasshouses nurturing the overwintering plants.

Roger was nearest the door, his colour grey. His hair had turned quite white. She sat beside him, pity moving her, for he had no one else to care or visit.

‘How are you, Roger?' she said, her voice low to keep the mood calm and quiet for the other patients.

‘Bloody dying, you daft cow.' He opened his eyes briefly, his laugh turning into a cough. She smiled. She'd never known him to joke before, and it was a bit bloody late. She didn't share that thought. He said, ‘It's about that Millie, you know. I did her a bad turn, and she's gone on to better things, but there's still the boy.'

Evie tensed, because this man had threatened he would take the boy from Jack. She said, ‘Tim's happy with my mam and da, and Jack. You have no claim. You're not on the birth certifi—'

‘Hush your noise, Evie. You know as well as I do that I'm bloody dying, haven't I just said so.' He coughed again. Evie held the moss sachet tighter to her face. ‘I've money, that's all. Me pay while I was a POW, me pay while I was valet, and this, that and the other.' He coughed again, and she could almost feel the pain it caused him and didn't know what this, that and the other entailed. Please God, not a deathbed confession. He started again. ‘I've money. I wrote a will. It's in my pack. We all did it. It's for him. Tell him it's from his dad. It's good to know you were loved by your real dad, wish I had been. Or don't tell him. You can decide, or your Jack. Matron knows the details.' His voice was fading, his eyes closing. Evie held his hand; it was just skin and bone, poor wee man. She wanted to ask what name to use on the headstone, Roger or Francis Smith, but how could you shove that in a dying man's face? He coughed, opened his eyes, gave a funny breath, long, outgoing. Gracie touched her shoulder. ‘He's gone, Evie. I'm glad he wasn't alone. It was good of you to be with him, after all he's done.'

Evie sat for a moment, looking at him. ‘No, it was nothing. Life makes us what we are.'

THE TREE WAS
up in the great hall but not decorated. Work had stopped for Roger's funeral, conducted by Edward. The church was full, not out of affection but because of sadness for one so disliked. They buried him using the name Francis Smith, which seemed only right. Evie sat in the front with her mam and da, Tim clutching Mam's hand. It had been decided that he should not be told who his real father was at this time, especially after the departure of his mother, whom he still expected to return at any minute.

Simon spoke about Roger from the lectern. ‘He was an excellent orderly, and showed me the tricks of the trade while we were incarcerated in the Offizier Gefangenenlager. He was interested in butterflies, and we discussed many times the plants and bushes that gave them succour. Somehow we became friends, perhaps because we were the ones left behind: I because I gave up my place for another, he because he felt the price to pay for an enlisted man if recaptured was too high.'

Tim was wriggling. Jack stroked the boy's head with something close to fury in his face. Evie stared at him. Was he angry because Roger had left money? Now Edward was speaking, and Simon was entering the pew, reaching for her hand. ‘Was that all right?' he whispered. ‘Of course,' she replied, but something was wrong. She looked towards Veronica and saw that Auberon, standing next to Charlie and Mart, was thin-lipped; in fact they all were. There was no funeral tea, because it was Christmas Eve and yet more staff had gone down with influenza, and more patients had arrived, to be housed in the huts. Dr Nicholls had sent for extra nurses in order to cope.

Simon helped to decorate the tree, along with Jack, Charlie and Mart, before going home to spend the night in his parents' house. They would all be here for lunch tomorrow but it would be in the servants' hall, because Mrs Moore wasn't having Mr Harvey messing about trying to squeeze tables into the ward as Mr Auberon had insisted in 1914; not with his back. The patients would be served first, and then it would be the turn of the servants, so they could put their feet up, or use them to dance. It would be a cold supper for those who felt like it.

Christmas Day dawned deep and crisp and even, with snow a foot deep, and the wind blowing it into drifts against any wall or tree it could find. Evie took a moment to go out, wrapped in her comfortable threadbare coat given to her years ago by Grace, and with a shawl around her head. She stood beneath the shelter of the young cedar tree. ‘Keep warm, keep safe,' she murmured, the wind beating and battering its branches. Auberon spoke from behind her. ‘Let's hope it has as gallant a heart as its predecessor.'

His head just cleared a branch. ‘It was good of Harry and Ron to organise this for you.'

She leaned back against the trunk, her arms crossed against the cold. ‘It wasn't for me, really. It was for everyone. It has become a talisman, I think.'

Auberon looked skyward. Some snowflakes fell through the branches to lie on his lashes, cheeks and hair. He wore his khaki greatcoat, stained, worn but a familiar part of him now. ‘It was for us, a talisman I mean. But they did it for you, they told me. They hold you in high esteem. You seemed to be everywhere, making sure that everyone had all they could possibly need.' He looked at her now. ‘What about you, Evie Forbes? Have you everything you could possibly need?'

In the darkness of the tree she remembered the camp hospital, the feel of his arms around her, the war stench of his coat, his eyes, the safety. She pushed herself free of the trunk, straightened her shoulders. ‘Yes, Simon is home and we're going to make a wonderful hotel here, Aub, thanks to you. And I have to thank you too for bringing everyone home safely.' She reached out her hand. It was frozen from clutching her shawl. He took it, kissed it. ‘I forgot my gloves also, Evie, so we're both too cold for our own good. We should return to the warmth, don't you think?'

He waved her before him. They walked together across the lawn, creating new footprints, the snow squeaking as they did so. She hurried across the gravel towards the kitchen. He went up the steps, waiting at the top, watching her, hoping his love hadn't shown, nor his despair. But all he wanted was her happiness, he reminded himself, and that was what she had now. It was time he moved on.