Easterleigh Hall at War (43 page)

‘Yours too, I believe, my dear Evie,' Mrs Neave said. ‘I feel he would never love another woman quite as he loved you, but I suspect you knew that.'

Evie hadn't known, and moved on, touching the branches as she made a point of doing every day, insisting that the tree grew strong and firm. Old Stan said she was a daft beggar, and it would do its little best, with or without her help.

Lord Brampton and Sir Anthony were drinking champagne, donated by Brampton, on the other side of the tree. The Bastard was less bumptious, Evie thought, looking at him. She moved closer. He was saying, ‘Of course, all this nonsense about squeezing the Huns until they squeak is nonsense. They can never pay the reparations, look at the mess they're in, and the Versailles Conference must have known that. It's window-dressing. The Kaiser has gone to live in Holland, there's chaos in Germany with faction fighting faction. Trouble is the people don't know they lost, because we didn't follow them in and wave it in their faces. They think they've been sold out, to use a ghastly American expression, and mark my words, they will want revenge. There will be war again. Good for business.' He sipped his champagne.

Sir Anthony looked back at the Hall. ‘I do hope not, or we'll be needing beds in here again, with more youngsters to patch up.'

Evie moved on, past the Easton and Hawton brass band in full blow. Ron and Steve had draped bunting across the front of the house. Lady Brampton had declared it working class and worthy of the seafront. Veronica had said, ‘Do you go often?'

That had successfully ended that conversation.

She made for the kitchen, wondering where Auberon was, hoping he was safe, but perhaps they'd never know. Jack caught up with her as she was checking that there was sufficient food to replenish the buffet set up in the marquee. ‘You know we know, don't you, pet?'

Evie was confused. ‘Know what?'

‘You were talking when you were ill. We all know that it's Auberon you love, and Ver has just told us that in the diary he left at the start of the war, he wrote of his love for you.'

For a moment Evie thought she had not heard correctly. Jack repeated it as though she was a penny short of a shilling, and then common sense came to her rescue. ‘Well, Jacko,' she smiled, ‘that was the start of the war, and a boy who knew no better. War changes people, as we well know.'

Mart ran down the steps from the stable yard and burst into the kitchen. ‘I've just checked with Veronica. No one's heard from Aub except the bank, and that's not as often as it used to be. It's daft and I've had enough, because Ver's just heard on the telephone that Prancer's still with us. She's bought him off the major who was stuck in supplies, lucky beggar. Well, the bloody horse is coming home, so Aub needs to damn well come back too. I vote we go, Jack, drag him back by the balls, beggin' your pardon, Evie, if we have to.'

Three days later Jack and Mart took leave of absence from the course, and the mine. Charlie had to stay behind to fume at Easterleigh Hall, because he was needed for the shooting parties. They paid Ted to drive them to Gosforn and were gone from England by the 12th November. The bank would give out no details but they knew he'd have headed for Picardie, and the Somme, and they would march the bloody length of it, if it came to it.

They took the ferry to Calais. There were no longer any tents on the cliffs, though the cobbles were the same when they disembarked. They entrained, heading for the Somme via Albert, asking for an Englishman called Brampton as he had said he would be back one day to see if the virgin had been restored. They carried on to Amiens, which was a stone's throw from the river. Albert had looked like broken teeth in a destroyed mouth, and Amiens, for so long a quiet rest area, had been bombed and shelled towards the end of the war, so it, too, had ended up damaged and torn, but infinitely more whole than Albert.

They asked at the town hall for an Englishman called Brampton. Heads were shaken. ‘It's walking the river for us, then,' Jack said, hitching up his pack.

They marched together, falling into step as though it was as natural as breathing, past relatives who were searching for graves, for answers, for something to take away the silence of their lives. On, out of town, in the direction of the river, in boots they had worn in the war because they had struggled and toiled for many miles around this area, and it seemed right that they use the same footwear again. Besides, they had been worn in to the point that they felt like slippers. Mart looked about. ‘Poor Frenchies. The Channel is a good old moat for us British, you know, lad. Keeps the enemy at bay.'

They found the river and walked towards the west, eating the almond-paste biscuits,
macarons d'Amiens
, which the baker explained were a rarity because of the shortages, but which he made from time to time. They had bought six and asked if an Englishman had been seen fishing the Somme, and the Gallic shrug said it all.

‘Once we get to the mouth we'll head back until we reach the source. It could take weeks,' Jack said. ‘So, it takes weeks, bonny lad,' Mart said, humming. They saw churned-up land and stumps of trees if they looked over to the north, so instead they looked at the river, slow-running and carp-filled. Soon they saw green fields and undamaged villages into which they diverted, always asking, ‘Have you seen an Englishman fishing, called Brampton?' Always the answer was no.

They walked for three weeks, and then turned back, paying a lorry to take them as far as Amiens. Before making for the source, they turned towards the front line. It was in the second village that they found him.

Evie waited by the cedar tree with Veronica. It was Christmas Eve and guests were enjoying dinner, and those patients and ex-patients in need of limbs and respite had joined them. Evie was to sing later. Simon had hoped that he would be here; he had telegraphed saying,
Evie stop I have made mistake stop I want to come home in time for Christmas stop we can be together again stop

She had replied,
Simon stop you must live with your decision stop I have another life stop I wish you well stop

Jack had not said a precise time, it depended on the train on a night like this, with the snow on the line. Veronica said, ‘He actually told us nothing, just that they were bringing him home. What the hell does that mean?'

Evie was straining to see the lights of a car. ‘We'll find out.'

Harry came out of the main doors, down the steps, across the gravel to the lawn, a lit cigarette in his hand. He stood by her. ‘Do you remember the first Christmas of the war, Evie? You waited, you, Millie, and Veronica, and they came. They'll come again and he'll still love you. Just you wait and see.'

There were headlights at the entrance now, and the cough and splutter of Ted's old taxi. The engine died. The lights went out. The car doors opened and closed. How many? Two? What did that mean? Two people, or was it three? Bugger Jack, why couldn't he have said more? Did Auberon still love her? Ver was sure he did from the look on his face when he left. But why had it been so long with no word? How could he? Did he love her? How could he? The thoughts were chasing one another like Currant and Raisin. She could see the bobbing of lit cigarette ends. Three. Surely there were three?

Prancer whinnied from his stall next to Tinker. She heard him kicking. He neighed now. Figures were emerging from the darkness. Three, the middle one Aub. Veronica clutched her arm. ‘It's him, but so slow. Oh great heavens, Evie, so slow.'

Evie was running then, wrenching free of Veronica, seeing, on the edge of her vision, Harry reaching for Veronica, holding her back, saying, ‘No, this is Evie's time.'

She ran, her feet slipping on the snow, crunching the gravel beneath it, closer and closer, and then she was there, standing so near that her dress touched his suit. He smiled, throwing his cigarette away, his face full and free of fatigue, his eyes so blue, his hair yellow even in this dull light. He said, ‘I will love you for ever, Evie Forbes, if you will let me.'

She clung to him, feeling him reel just slightly. ‘If you ever go away again and leave me alone, I will kill you myself, bonny lad.' His arms were round her and he was kissing her. Mart and Jack stayed with them.

‘Why didn't you come?' she said against his mouth, which felt as she had dreamed it would. She reached up and stroked his hair. Still her brother and Mart were there, and then she realised it was because they were propping him up.

Auberon said, ‘I wasn't well enough. I needed time to heal, my mind and my body.' She stepped back, holding his arms, seeing his cane, now held by Mart. ‘How much damage?' she asked, because whatever it was she could cope.

He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Very little. I'm just a bit hard of hearing, and have a leg that is in a spot of bother.'

‘It will have to come off?'

He gripped her hand and pulled her close. ‘It has already gone, dearest Evie, and now it just needs you, Easterleigh and your da. I have a rather clunky peg leg and healing stump, which are in need of his and Tom's tender mercies.'

Prancer was neighing. ‘Can you hear that?' she asked. He was grinning as his horse neighed again. ‘We're coming,' he called, kissing her again. ‘Sometimes life is too wonderful to be real, but you know what, dearest Evie, when I've said hello to Prancer I would so love to walk to the kitchen and sit down on one of Mrs Moore's stools, if there is a cushion?'

The seamstress had made them only last month. Her three men walked up the drive with her, and they met Veronica and Harry halfway. Auberon was limping badly now, but clutching her hand and Jack was at his side, his hand under his arm. They stopped to look at the cedar tree. Auberon murmured, ‘We search and search but it's so often here, laid under our feet like a cloth of gold.'

Mart said, ‘Aye lad, a home from bloody home.'

Jack told them, ‘All will be well.' They laughed, and Auberon's arm was round her and she had never known such tranquillity.

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Epub ISBN: 9781448184125

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Copyright © Margaret Graham 2015

Margaret Graham has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is a work of fiction. Apart from references to actual figures and places, all other names and characters are a product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Arrow Books

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is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099567967