Easterleigh Hall (12 page)

‘Hurry up, I need to tell you all something even though I'm too busy, but Mrs Green wants you to know, so know you will. You will not even mention that it has been said, is that clear?' Her lips were as thin as Simon's had been.

The younger girls looked at Evie and their anxiety was clear. Were they to be sent away when they'd just arrived? What on earth had happened? Evie stood with them, the rabbits swinging on their string, her fingers white and numb. Mrs Moore murmured, keeping her finger on her place in her recipe book, ‘His Lordship is back with Roger, his valet, though he is no longer his valet.'

The girls tried to follow what they were being told. Millie moved her lips as she repeated what she had heard. ‘What do you mean?' Annie asked.

Mrs Moore snatched a quick look at the list of chores she had drawn up for the dinner, then back to the girls, frowning, preoccupied. ‘I'm getting to that. The valet has been told he is to remain here as Mr Auberon's valet. Annie, you know that we have a slight problem with Roger.'

Annie nodded. ‘He can't keep his bits in his trousers.'

Mrs Moore shook her head in exasperation. Evie laughed. Mrs Moore snapped, ‘And that's enough from you, Evie Anston. What I'm trying to say is that you mustn't be swayed by any soft talking. Remember, you will be dismissed out of the door if there's any of those goings-on. It's never the men, always the women who are left with the bun in the oven and you'll go, with no character and a babe on the way, and end up on the streets or in the workhouse.' Millie moaned, and started to cry. Evie put her arm around the girl. ‘It won't happen to you, Millie, if you listen.'

Mrs Moore shook her head impatiently. ‘The point is, apparently Roger's in a real fret at being passed to Mr Auberon. He sees it as a right slight, which it is. So stay out of his way in case he tries to prove he's top cock-bird.'

Millie looked even more scared, but then she had been a scaredy-cat ever since her da had been killed in a pit explosion when she was a bairn, and who wouldn't be, Evie supposed. It had taken off her brother's arm too and now, rather than the workhouse, they lived with her mam at an aunt's. Her mam cleaned for the head clerk at Hawton Pit.

Evie held up the rabbits. ‘Come on, Millie, we have important things to do. Let me show you how to skin a rabbit, and if anyone is a nuisance to us, we'll nip off his tail and skin 'im.' Everyone laughed and the mood was broken. What a fuss about nothing. Evie scooted Millie along before her to the cold room, and the heavy piece of slate on which they'd skin the rabbit.

Auberon left the safety of the Blue Sitting Room and approached the library, which was further along the landing at the front of the house. He had been summoned by his father after a lunch of mushroom soup and rabbit pie and no dessert, just fruit and cheese as per Lord Brampton's instructions. Auberon hated rabbit but had eaten well, for his father couldn't bear people poking and prodding their food like namby-pambies.

He stopped on the landing, looking out over the front lawn to the old cedar tree. The sun was shining across the Indian carpet on which he stood. He studied the pattern, breathing deeply, squaring his shoulders, and was about to knock when Veronica called softly, ‘Aub.'

He spun round. She was tiptoeing towards him, her hair fluffed and radiantly blonde, like a halo. What on earth had she done with it? He'd wondered that at lunch, but had decided against a remark. One didn't make remarks when his father was in residence. She said, ‘Remember what Mother said. Listen to him, agree with him, and then find a way to do what you feel is right, regardless. All will be well.'

Her hand was shaking as she touched his arm. She added, ‘Please say you haven't been drinking?'

‘Only a brandy. Could you face the bugger without one?'

‘Shhh.' She held up her hand. ‘Be quiet, he'll hear.'

Auberon felt his legs go to jelly. It was the usual feeling. He checked his watch. Three o'clock. On the dot. It had to be on the dot. Veronica faded away, up the stairs to her bedroom, to change, to hide, perhaps to do something with her hair? What the hell was he doing, thinking of hair? He knocked. At the sound of his father's voice he entered, shutting the door behind him, holding on to the doorknob for a moment, feeling he'd fall to the floor if he let go.

His father stood in front of his desk, facing him across what always seemed like a huge expanse. The window overlooking the front lawn was behind him, and the other walls were lined with books. Had his father read any? He knew he had not. In their old house they'd had a library and Auberon had spent hours there every evening, reading about the past. His tutor, Mr Saunders, had shared his passion for history until his father had dismissed him and sent Auberon to a public school to make a man of him.

‘Stop slouching and get over here.' The voice was cold, but when wasn't it? The face was fierce, but when wasn't it? Auberon walked across the carpet. It was also Indian. No two patterns were the same. Why was he thinking of such trivia?

He stood facing his father and never saw the hand lifting, so fast was it. He just felt it backhanding across his face. He felt his lips burst. His father said, ‘I will not be called a bugger. I will not be shown any lack of respect in my own house, is that quite clear?'

The blow was no surprise. Why would it be? ‘Yes, that's clear, Father.'

His lips wouldn't work properly, but that wasn't a surprise either. He braced himself. The next blow caught him in the ribs. He felt the crack, and the pain. ‘I will not have my money spent by some idle drunkard who is presumably weeping and wailing because his little Wainey is no longer here, and whose fault is that, may I ask?'

The next blow caught him above the kidneys as his father stepped forward quickly, and then retreated, on his toes, like a boxer, or a ballet dancer. Should he share that thought? He almost laughed, but felt too sick, and fought to stay upright when all he wanted was to crumple to the floor. His father moved again and he was backhanded again across his face, the signet ring catching his cheekbone. He usually kept his blows to the body so no one would know. He must be very, very angry. ‘I asked you whose fault it is?'

Auberon tasted the blood from his lips. ‘Mine,' he murmured, wanting to groan.

‘Why?' His father lifted on to his toes and Auberon flinched but no blow fell, instead those hands, so large, so hard, remained by his sides. Auberon's grandfather had such hands too, but he had never lifted them against his grandchildren. Had he against his own son? Well, who was going to ask that question of his father? ‘Why?' his father bellowed.

Auberon made himself focus, stay in the moment, stay upright. His voice must not shake. He said, ‘I asked to go to Oxford. I insisted. I said I had some money from Mother if you wouldn't pay. I went. You dismissed Wainey because I wasn't here. If I'd stayed and not been selfish she would not have . . . She would not have died. There would have been no reason.'

His father nodded, head on one side, listening. His mother had been right. Say what he wanted to hear, but the devil was that it
was
his fault. He should have stayed.

His father lounged back against his desk, crossing his arms. The knuckles on his right hand were bruised. ‘Finally, is your mother's money mine, or yours?'

‘Yours, Father.' It wasn't. It had been left by his maternal grandfather to his daughter, and thence in trust to Veronica and Auberon. There had been a substantial bequest from his mother to Wainey too, in gratitude for her enduring role of support which she had never received. He looked beyond the man he hated to the sea in the distance. One day he would set sail for France and never return until his father was gone from here, hopefully in a wooden box, utterly dead.

Yes, he would take a boat across the Channel and then a train to Paris. From there he would head for the river Somme, which Mr Saunders had said was the Celtic name for tranquillity. He wanted to feel tranquil, just once, and he thought perhaps he would there. A wide river, meandering . . .

‘Listen to me, boy.' It was a growl.

Auberon could barely breathe because of the pain from his ribs. They were cracked, he knew because they'd been cracked several times before, and the throbbing from his kidneys and face was beating in time with his heart. ‘You are a disgrace but seem to have no shame. Am I going to have to get the belt?' His father was upright, balanced on his toes again.

Auberon almost laughed. The belt? He wasn't a child but when had that made a difference? At least his father had never laid a hand on Veronica. How strange. Women, it seemed, were exempt from his father's moods, or were they? Again he thought of Wainey. His father dismissed her, so had she argued? Did he become angry? Did she back away from him out on to the balcony? Did he come closer, closer? Did she tumble over the balustrade or did he forget himself and push her? Or did she really jump? He had to stop this. Stop. Stop. His father said again, ‘I repeat, do I have to get the belt?'

‘No, Father, you won't have to get the belt. I am listening.' It hurt to speak. Everything hurt, it had hurt for rather a long time. Again he almost laughed. What was the matter with him? He used to cry.

His father moved to stand by the window. Auberon dared not move though his back ached, and his legs trembled. He shifted his weight from his toes to his heels and back again as they'd been taught in the Officer Training Cadet Force at school.

‘You will not return to Oxford. Instead you will become a man here, under my guidance. Rustication is no laughing matter.' His father glared.

Oh God, was he laughing after all? Apparently not, for his father continued. ‘You have wasted my money, heedless of the pressure these cretins are bringing to bear with this People's Budget. But just wait, the House of Lords will wipe the smile off their faces because no damned idlers are going to get pensions paid for by us.' He was banging his fist into his hand as though he was in some music-hall melodrama. ‘Meanwhile I can do without pathetic creatures like you adding to my problems.'

Auberon nodded. ‘I understand, Father.' Say what he wants to hear, he prompted himself, trying to move his lips as little as possible. He swallowed down the blood. He knew his words were slurred. His father was waving his hand as though conducting a ruddy orchestra as he continued.

‘You will recover the money you have cost me by sitting on the shoulders of Manager Davies at Easton Colliery. You will learn the business. There is trouble coming because I'll screw down the wages on the back of the Eight-Hour Act. You will teach them a lesson if they dare to strike. In addition you are to cut back on props, on anything you can find, to make the bloody place more efficient, more productive. And don't forget Froggett's three houses. They are to be bought immediately because they're a loose end, and I want it tied, and I want it tied cheaply. They will not go to any pitman, is that clear? I want the workers tied to their cottages, I want them scared of eviction, I want them working like bloody maniacs. So I don't care what you have to do, but get those houses.'

He was stabbing the air now, aiming at Auberon's face. His father would make a good killer. Oh yes, indeed he would. Again he thought of the balcony.

‘There will be no shooting, hunting, or the season. I will return here more often.' His father left the window and approached. Auberon felt the fear overwhelm him. More often? How often? Closer and closer his father drew until he was against him, his breath full on Auberon's face. It was then that his father smelt the brandy.

The fists came again, faster and faster but on his ribs because there was less to be seen, and this evening there was a dinner party. That was what he thought of as he tasted his tears. It was then his father stopped, triumphant. ‘You are a coward and an appalling failure.'

Auberon was dismissed. He found the door somehow, and looked to left and right to check there were no servants about, but they never were, they knew their place and he must know his. He made himself climb the stairs to his room, the pain catching him with every step, and he knew he must make a success at the mine. What the hell would happen if he didn't? He pushed the fear from him and instead drew in France, drew in the Somme. Were there kingfishers? He would take a boat. He would fish. Nearly at the top of the stairs now, thank God.

Mrs Moore struggled to her sitting room once the dinner had been cleared and the pots, pans, utensils and plates were being washed. It was midnight and the visiting chauffeurs had gone, the servants' hall the poorer without their uniforms and boots. The footmen and housemaids were washing the glasses and silver in the butler's pantry but were also still on duty, should hot chocolate be required by the family.

Evie wiped down the table for perhaps the final time that day and slipped out into the night for a last long breath of air, knowing that her cooking had helped to create a success and she had many more tips for her recipe book. She felt proud and satisfied as she tugged her shawl over her head against the chill and held it close around her neck, gazing up at the stars. Would Jack and Timmie be sleeping, or were they struggling in from their shift? Was Simon sleeping, or standing somewhere, stargazing too? There were owls hooting and from the stable yards came the huffing of the horses, and the clip as they moved from hoof to hoof.

She walked quietly across the cobbles heading for Tinker, Lady Veronica's old pony. Evie had taken a carrot from the pantry for her. As she entered the yard she saw a stable lad standing beneath the oil lamp that hung on an upright near her stable. What's more, for God's sake, he was smoking. She called, ‘What d'you think you're doing, man? Put out that cigarette or you'll have the place in flames. Think of the horses. You'll be dismissed, you fool.' She was running across, slipping on the cobbles, turning her ankle more than once. ‘Put it out.'