Easterleigh Hall (47 page)

Newton shouted, ‘Sergeant Forbes, the hand bombs are useless, nothing to set off the safety fuses. Lieutenant Brampton says you're a pitman. Know anything about setting charges?' Jack nodded, shouting back over the barrage, ‘I was a hewer, sir. Me da's a deputy. I learned from him, sir.'

‘Excellent. Override them then. Carry on.' He continued down the trench.

Bang. They ducked, earth and burst sandbags showering over them all. Jack yelled to Brampton, ‘Where are they?'

Brampton led him along to Doug. Simon followed but Jack shouted, ‘Not you Si, you won't understand.' They were slipping and sliding through the stinking mud in Brampton's wake to the bombers' trench. It was empty. All gone. Dead or wounded? Who the hell knew?

Brampton yelled, ‘We're in a bit of a salient here, much like Froggett's houses, eh Jack.' Perhaps he was smiling, but his face was so drawn and filthy that it was hard to tell. ‘Germans are within throwing range. I was a good bowler in my day but I need a bloody ball. Can you strike the fuse?'

Once Jack would have shouted, ‘It's not a bloody game.' He knew better now, it was one way of staying sane. He and Doug hunted through their pockets for matches. He had some, he knew he had. He patted his tunic pocket again. Yes, here.

Bang. They ducked. Doug had matches too. Brampton was crouching on the fire step, holding a hand bomb. He said, ‘A corporal has fashioned these. I think they're reliable and we need to get it right, Jack. Newton's just told me we're on leave for five days over Christmas. We can get out of this for a few days. We can . . .'

Bang. Crash. Earth showered, Doug grunted, shrapnel slicing his arm. He dropped his matches and stooped to save them as they sank in the mud. ‘No,' Brampton and Jack roared together. Doug stopped dead. Jack said as he propped his rifle against the wall of the trench and took a match from his box, ‘Don't get mud in it, lad. Whatever you do, don't get mud in a wound. You don't want gas gangrene. Where're your field dressings?' His fingers were so damn muddy. He wiped them dry on his tunic.

Doug shook his head, dragging out a white handkerchief. ‘I gave them to that other poor bugger we took to the aid station, Sarge.'

‘Get rid of that handkerchief too unless you're about to surrender, or you'll get yourself shot. Get yourself a khaki one when you're next shopping in bloody Paris. I'm out of dressings too, what about you, sir?' Lieutenant Brampton was already shaking his head. ‘Used them up earlier.'

Jack shouted above the racket, ‘Get a clean bandage from Si. He carries extra. I've none left. Go now.'

Jack didn't watch as Doug doubled back, but stooped over the bomb fuse. Brampton said, ‘You light 'em, I'll throw them.'

‘Hold one for me, sir.' Jack held a match head on the end of the fuse and struck the matchbox across it, shielding the flash with his body. It lit. Brampton stood on the fire step and lobbed the bomb towards the trench. Machine guns rattled as he ducked back, his hand out for the next. ‘Too slow. He'd never bowl me out.' His face was set and pale.

Jack said, ‘You're right there, sir. He'll never get us, we're going home. I know we are, we all are.' He lit another fuse. Brampton threw the bomb, ducked down, machine guns rattled, kicking up mud, spattering it over them.

The barrage was thickening overhead and in front, and to the sides. Jack cursed salients, they were too bloody vulnerable to flanking attacks.

They moved along a few yards to another fire step. The machine-gunners would be targeting the former. ‘Quick as you can, Jack,' Brampton yelled over the barrage. They were panting as though they had run a thousand miles. Bang. Another shell. Hot shrapnel tore through Jack's water bottle and mud showered.

Jack lit another fuse, Brampton lobbed the bomb. More machine guns rattled. Shells exploded. Had he ever had a different life, Jack wondered as the ground shuddered. Would they ever really get out of it?

‘Sergeant, another please.' They were moving back fifteen yards to another fire step, varying the pattern. Suddenly there was a break in the shelling, just like that. As Jack bent over the fuse he heard Simon's clear beautiful tenor sing ‘Oh for the wings, for the wings of a dove. Far away would I rove. In the wilderness build me a nest, and remain there for ever at rest.'

Neither Jack nor Brampton moved, then shells pounded again. Jack looked up. Brampton had tears in his eyes. ‘We're a long way from home, and I'm glad I'm with people who know it. I've dreamed of coming to France, I seem to keep repeating myself but I want to travel to the tranquillity of the Somme.'

Jack swallowed, unable to speak for a moment. ‘We might get there yet, sir. After the war, we can go before we head back. Do a bit of fishing. Take home a catch to Evie.'

Brampton smiled. ‘Why not? I'd like that, Jack. Now, another ball please. We haven't quite finished this over, and we need to win the match.'

Evie and Veronica sat in the hall in front of the Christmas tree after dinner, running over the requirements that had been decided at the daily meeting this afternoon. ‘On top of all that, Richard would like an egg custard,' Veronica said.

Evie grinned, knitting another row of the khaki scarf. Knit one, purl one. ‘Then he will have one and you can make it. Yours are a great success.' The huge tree had been decorated by the servants, nurses and walking wounded, and parcels were heaping up beneath it, sent by relatives or bought with the proceeds of the tea room. Knit one, purl one.

Veronica sighed, writing something on her notepad. ‘I must sort out some gifts for the servants.'

‘Not material, please.' It just came out.

Veronica stared. ‘I beg your pardon?' There was an edge to her voice.

‘We don't want material for uniforms, we want something nice, like any sensible person would, because we are people.' Evie could hear the edge in her own voice. Veronica looked so tired, but so was she. Since Captain Williams had been home Veronica had been working round the clock, during the day at the hospital and at night with her husband. His recovery was proving to be rapid. Knit one purl one, start a new row.

Veronica half rose, then slumped back into the spacious armchair. ‘Of course you are, you all are,
we
all are. Leave it to me. I wonder what time they'll be here on Christmas Eve? Is Margaret behaving all right?'

The moment was over, feathers were smoothed and all was well. Evie had thought that Captain Williams might alter things between them, but he had merely smiled and accepted their friendship. The poor man was barely alive when he arrived, so why would he care?

‘Yes, Lady Margaret is recovering and the nurses are keeping an eye on her.'

Veronica said, ‘I'm so sorry, Evie, that the servants' bedrooms were without coal, and always have been. It's unforgivable and will not happen again.'

Evie said, ‘That's in the past, and I need to think more deeply about Lady Margaret, because you have enough to concern yourself with Captain Williams. I think she'd benefit from having a purpose, it might help her find a way out of this darkness that's overcome her. She doesn't want to return to her family for whatever reason, though I feel it's because they disapprove of her activities.' They laughed. ‘And we don't?' they said in unison.

Evie waved her knitting at Veronica to bring her to order, grinning. ‘Anyway I thought I'd put her to work. Do I have your agreement?'

Veronica opened her eyes and laughed so heartily that the orderly swung round from his desk, smiling. ‘My full permission and good luck.'

Evie was still grinning as she laid down her needles and made a note.

‘Anything else?' Lady Veronica asked.

Evie felt the orderly's eyes upon her, and nodded to him. They'd been chatting as they hung some of the baubles on the tree and had noticed how the patients were cheerful and focused as they helped. She took up her knitting again. Knit one, purl one.

Veronica shook her head. ‘Come on, my girl, spit it out. I always know when you're on a crusade.'

‘It's the men. They have nothing to do as they start to improve. They need something, something useful just as Lady Margaret does. There will be the gardens in the summer but there are the glasshouses now, and we're so short-staffed. The walking wounded could help there. We need artificial limbs too, and they can be made in the workshops. We need crutches. Da and the pit blacksmith said they'd come up and sort that out. It's much quicker than waiting for some quartermaster to send them.'

Veronica was sucking her pencil, looking doubtful. ‘A wonderful idea, but I don't like taking advantage. Should we pay them? I mean, I'm sure the officers are all right for money, but the men . . .?'

Evie looked at the young woman and could have hugged her. She hadn't thought of that. ‘Perhaps we should discuss it with Dr Nicholls and we could make it unofficial, so that we give them the money and no one is any the wiser. Now, let's get the egg-custard maker down into the depths.' She pushed her needles through the ball of wool.

They both walked to the green baize door and down the steps. Mrs Moore was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to chicken broth for the new arrivals who had been brought up from Southampton, the dirt still on them.

The laundry was going full blast, with women from the village operating it. Millie swanned into the kitchen, her hair soaked from the steam. ‘We are being sent more sheets tomorrow. We'll have to work through the night. Did you know Jeb, the union rep, is off to war now?'

Somehow Millie had created a minor supervisory role for herself in the laundry, but nothing surprised Evie any more about anything, because she tried not to think outside the moment. Simon and Jack were coming home for Christmas, just for a few days, but they
were
coming home, if nothing happened. No, she had insisted to herself that she did not think of it. She concentrated on Millie. ‘I didn't know but it's inevitable, isn't it? It could take a while yet to finish the whole damn thing.'

Veronica was making egg custard. Annie was in the servants' hall writing to her parents. Evie settled in the armchair, pulling a blanket around her. She had two hours to get some sleep before the late suppers, which were important to the men. Cocoa or tea, and cake. Prices were rising but panic buying had calmed down and supplies were adequate. Perhaps the war would be over in the new year and normality would return. What would Bastard Brampton think of that? He'd have to shut the armaments factories before he could make more money. She slept, to be woken by Mrs Moore who was untying her own apron, and yawning.

‘I'm off for some sleep now, Evie. Call me if there's a rush.' It seemed that Mrs Moore's rheumatics were continuing to behave reasonably well but even so, Evie would not call on her. She, Annie and two new women who gave up their evenings when their bairns were in bed would prepare tonight's cocoa and tea. The cakes had been made earlier. They would take up the trays and leave them in the care of the VADs in the hall.

Before the rush began Evie slipped up the attic stairs to check on Lady Margaret. The attic felt warmer than it had ever felt before, and the bedrooms were toasty, just toasty. Lady Margaret was sitting in the chair that had been imported from Mr Auberon's bedroom, now given over to a Lieutenant Colonel who had dreadful head and face wounds. The tin mask that had been suggested was appalling. Perhaps her father and the blacksmith could come up with something better?

Lady Margaret was struggling with khaki wool, producing something that could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a scarf. Her hair was unbrushed, as usual.

As Evie stood there she flung the knitting down, tears starting yet again. ‘I thought I'd help you, but I've made a terrible mess. I'm good for nothing except keeping everyone awake. I'm tired but too scared of the dreams to go to sleep.' Her voice was limp, as limp as everything about her. Evie felt the heat from the fire. So, if it took a war to bring coal up the mountain just listen to what she was about to say to this woman. She walked across and picked up the knitting, tossing it on to the bed, and sitting down next to it. She started to pull it out, looking at that, not at Lady Margaret.

She said, digging out from somewhere a gentleness which she felt really too tired to produce, ‘Lady Margaret, you're too good to be fiddling about with bits of wool, just look at how hard you worked for the cause. You thrived under it, didn't you, and now you have no direction. We need you. We need every woman we can find to help out, and I don't mean just to read to the men but to work.' She lifted her head and looked directly at Lady Margaret.

‘Work? What would my mother say, not to mention my father?'

Evie looked around the room. ‘Your mother and father? I don't see them here, and what did they say when you were in prison, what did they say when you arrived here? I didn't see them rushing to help you. Where are the letters that they've written? I haven't noticed any.' The gentleness had faded.

When she had disentangled all the wool and wound it into a ball, she left to continue her shift which would last until two in the morning, saying, ‘Think about it, Lady Margaret. Choose your area, but choose one. Bank up the fire before you leave, if you feel you can start tonight. I'll be in the kitchen, so come and tell me what you'd like to do.'

Within an hour Lady Margaret appeared, with her hair brushed and in a bun for the first time since she became unwell. ‘I don't know what I want to do but perhaps I can start here, while I find out. At least I can learn how to make a cup of tea, if nothing else.'

She stood at Evie's elbow as they answered the calls for broth for yet another fresh intake that had arrived, this time from Folkestone. It was as the two of them, pausing for a moment, climbed up the back steps into the yard for some crisp fresh midnight air that Evie thought she saw Millie disappear round the corner and down the path running along the walled vegetable garden. What on earth was she playing at, she should be in the laundry room? Evie hurried to the corner, memories of Millie's meetings with Roger surfacing, but there was no sign of her on the path. Well, it was probably a trick of the light and she would be in the laundry room. She was too tired to think straight, let alone see straight.