The Song of Hartgrove Hall (3 page)

‘I say, would you two lend us a hand getting the old place ready for a bash tonight?' says George with false camaraderie and an awkward smile. George is never easy in company. I'm surprised that he's so keen on the party – I suspect he's pretending for Jack and my sakes. George is a thoroughly decent fellow, the best I know.

The girls look up. They do not smile back. They know instantly we're amateurs. I fear it's hopeless. We need Jack. Jack has all the charm; within two ticks he'd have the two girls eager to help, just to please him.

‘We got a lot to get through,' says the larger of the girls.
‘We're only paid through till twelve.' She's stout with deep-set brown eyes, like a pair of little wet stones.

‘Oh, gosh, bother,' says George, deflating. I can hear him cursing Jack in his head for going off and leaving us like this.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out a portion of the General's Christmas cash (‘Presents, unless they're guns, are for girls'). I stuff it into the large maid's stubby fingers. ‘When you're finished for the morning, then.'

At twelve on the dot, they reappear in the drawing room, ready to help. They're almost smiling. I wonder how much of my Christmas money I handed over, but I don't care. I want this bash to be splendid. Jack and George have had parties in the mess, and they've travelled, seen things. Terrible things, perhaps, but at least they've been somewhere, done something. I spent the whole war at school. As we hunt out unbroken chairs from the four corners of the house, I try once again to ask George about it. I've attempted to persuade Jack and George to divulge details on various occasions with a notable lack of success.

‘What was it actually like? I think it's rotten that you won't tell me.'

He shrugs. ‘There's not much to tell. In the most part it was frightfully dull.'

‘And in the other part?'

‘Unpleasant.'

‘Dull or unpleasant, that's all?' I ask, incredulous that this is all he'll give me.

‘Mostly yes. Sometimes, when we were particularly unfortunate it was dull
and
unpleasant.'

I wonder if he's teasing me, but that's not like George. He doesn't like to be ribbed himself, so rarely pokes fun at anyone else. We set down a small and only slightly stained sofa in the corner of the drawing room, pausing for a minute to catch our breath.

‘I can't really picture you as a soldier, George.'

He smiles. ‘No, neither could I. I think that was part of the problem.'

‘What was the other part?'

He chuckles but doesn't answer. ‘It's jolly nice to be home. I missed the rain. Never thought that was possible but it is. Sunshine's all very well but I've discovered that what I like best is the surprise of it after rain.'

I'm not sure what to say to this. Freezing rain is smashing against the windows, sneaking in through the ill-fitting panes and making small pools on the sills. We could do with a surprise of sunshine about now.

‘What were the other chaps like?'

‘Oh, all sorts. Every type. You know.'

I don't know at all. I sigh and abandon my questioning.

Cambridge is pleasant enough – they're decent fellows, precisely the sort I knew at school – but I hanker for something different, less familiar. I can't study music (chaps like us don't study music; it simply isn't done, according to Father) so the entire rigmarole feels utterly pointless, a dreary extension of school. If the war were still going on, I'd be in the thick of it instead of banished to endure cosy little tutorials in fireside snugs and listen to the assorted triumphs of Henries Tudor. And if I can't have music, then I'd like a bit of war. I can't say this to anyone. Even Jack's wayward grin would falter and George, well, George would quietly walk away, head bowed. The General would approve the sentiment and that would be the worst condemnation of all.

The guests arrive meticulously late at a quarter to nine. In the dark the house doesn't look quite so dilapidated. Candlelight, branches of holly and carefully placed globes of mistletoe
conceal the worst of it. With the help of the two girls, George and I have made a pretty decent show. There's a surprising amount of wine. When the house was requisitioned, the General didn't fuss about packing away the carpets or the furniture (all strictly third rate anyhow – more decrepit than antique) but he and Chivers did hide away the good drink. They had the gardener build a false wall in the cellar, and while the soldiers graffitied obscenities in the downstairs loo they didn't defile the pre-war burgundy, so in the General's view the place has survived unscathed in essentials.

The night is cold, several degrees below freezing, and even before midnight the ground glints, thick with frost. The yew hedges are unkempt, overgrown from years of neglect and brushed with white like a drunk's untrimmed beard. It's too icy for cars – for those who still own them anyhow – and most people choose to walk. We've staked torches along the driveway and they flare out, banners of red flame in the darkness. The gloom provides a mask of perfect restoration and from outside the house looks splendid once again. You can't see that the southern wing is burned out or that several windows along the front are boarded up or that the lawns are mown only by the sheep, at present snoozing in the shelter of the garden wall. All the party guests perceive is the yellow light spilling from the unbroken bay windows onto the terrace, ivy patterning the sandstone porch and the frost feathering the slate roof. I vow silently that if ever I'm rich, I'll return the Hall to her former beauty so that she always looks like this, even in daylight. I drink a glass of sloe gin and watch the river, a black ribbon spooling noiselessly below.

‘Jack's still not back, blast him.'

George is angry. Well, as angry as it's possible for George to be. I really can't picture him as a soldier, sallying forth full of rage and fury. He glances around the crowd of party-goers,
tense, his forehead sweaty. We need Jack to play host. Neither of us is up to the task. George huffs and grumbles.

‘Every time. Every bloody time. He swans in, gives his orders and swans off again. I'm tired of it, Fox. Next time, he can do the hard work. Where the devil's he got to anyhow?'

I say nothing. Jack's undoubtedly in a pub somewhere, nestled beside a toasty fire with his latest popsy, having lost track of time after his second or third pint. We move inside and we're immediately engulfed in fur. The county girls have cracked them out again, now the war's done and it's no longer vulgar. I'm enveloped in the camphor whiff of mothballs and armpit.

‘Vivien. Caroline. How wonderful to see you.'

The girls incline their cheeks to be kissed.

‘Freezing, isn't it? Where's Jack?'

I deflate. No one even comments on the constellation of candles we've dug out or the huge log we've managed to drag inside that roars and crackles in the mantel-less hearth. A gramophone that wasn't new before the war scratches out a tune, but it isn't loud enough to be heard over the voices. No one dances. Half a pig with a tennis ball in its mouth lazes on the vast hall table. Chivers presides with a knife long enough to be a sword but I notice that only the men are eating. The women veer away from the spectacle, slightly revolted. We didn't think of providing anything else. George and I assumed a pig would do it. Vegetables seemed superfluous.

One of the girls wafts over. Her dress is made of a fine, gauzy fabric and her skin is speckled with gooseflesh.

‘Hello, Fox. Splendid show. It's all thoroughly charming.'

‘Is it, Vivien?'

She laughs. ‘No. Not really. But you've tried terribly hard and that's charming enough. But in a house of men, what could anyone expect?'

‘Have some pig. If you eat, then the other girls might follow.'

She takes my arm. ‘All right, but only if you tell me where your dastardly brother's got to.'

At least there's enough to drink. Everyone clusters near the fire, which is starting to smoke. I turn off the gramophone; the incessant scratching is making my ears itch. It's only half past ten. God knows how we're going to make it to midnight. Everyone appears to be waiting for something but we've planned nothing else.

The General moves through the crowd, a cigar in one hand (even during the war he never seemed to be short; I wonder what poor Chivers had to do to secure the things), and attempts small talk. If I wasn't so anxious about the failure of the party, I'd be amused. The girls listen with toothy smiles that match their tiny strings of polished pearls – they're all far too well bred to allow their boredom to show and everyone remains afraid of the General. He's an old dog but one always senses the snarl and ill humour under the curl of his moustache.

And then, all at once, the uneasy chatter blooms into laughter. Just as the applause of the audience signals the arrival of the conductor, I know without turning to look that Jack has arrived. I can't quite make out the girl with him. She's small and half concealed by the throng that instantly forms around Jack.

‘Right. Lead me to the drink,' he cries.

The crowd part to let him pass and now I see a slight, dark-haired girl, her little gloved hand tucked into his arm. Jack signals to me. I cross the room. I stop, quite still. I recognise her.

‘Fox. This is Edie. Edie Rose.'

‘Of course. Yes. Edie. Miss Rose. A real delight. I'm a pleasure. To meet you. '

To my horror, I feel colour rising to my cheeks. Edie only smiles.

Inevitably the girls I like are already Jack's girls. Each time he was on leave he'd show up to lunch with another wide-eyed, slim-legged thing who would flap a tear-soaked handkerchief as his train pulled out of the station and pen him letters that, knowing Jack, he never read. I've seen pictures of Edie of course. I even kept a postcard of her in my school trunk – she's the nation's sweetheart as well, it seems, as being Jack's – but seeing her standing in our mildew-ridden hall, amongst the press of girls in their well-worn frocks and the usual chaps with their ruddy cheer and their muddy shoes, I nearly forget to breathe. She's smaller than I imagined from her photograph. Even in the midst of my awe, I notice how tired she looks.

Holding my elbow, Jack steers me through the crowd to a corner, with Edie still attached to his other arm.

‘There's no music, Fox.'

He frowns, troubled.

‘No, the gramophone's broken.'

‘Dammit, Fox. That thing's quite useless anyhow. You should have hired a band.'

I sag, about to apologise and concede that that would have been a jolly good idea, when I remember Jack bloody well left us to it. I'm ready to snap back and ask him what I was supposed to hire a band with, since the General is hardly awash with cash, but Jack's already turned away and is pleading quietly with Edie.

‘Go on, darling, be a doll. Just one.'

‘It's never just one, Jack, you know that.'

‘All right, two then.' He grins and strokes her cheek. ‘It would mean the world to young Fox here.'

Jack's trying to persuade Edie to sing. I'm torn. I want to hear her sing, I really, really do, but she looks exhausted. She
wrinkles her forehead and chews her fingernail in a sudden, childlike gesture, then gives a little sigh.

‘Yes, all right, I'll do it. But one short set and that's all. No requests. No encores.'

I've never heard a girl speak so firmly to Jack. He places a solemn kiss on her lips.

‘Agreed, madam.'

‘And now, you lured me here with promises of champagne. Are you all talk, Jack Fox-Talbot?'

With playful remonstration he leads her away and presents her with a glass of the General's best pre-war Veuve Clicquot. I can't help but stare after them. Edie might be the one who's famous but the same aura of glamour shines on Jack. When we were children our grandmama played several games with us but her favourite was to pluck a buttercup and hold it under our chins. If it cast a yellow glow, she'd declare, ‘Yes, Little Fox likes butter very much indeed,' and we'd squeal, perfectly delighted. My brother lives permanently in that buttery glow.

As I watch Edie and Jack colluding by the fire, they seem set apart from everyone else – like figures in an old master in a gallery full of amateur works – and I feel a pulse of envy, hot and sharp. George perceives the direction of my gaze. George always does.

He chuckles. ‘Forget it, Fox. Not a chance.' I look away, pretending not to understand.

I don't pay attention for the rest of the party. The minutes drift by. Edie Rose will sing us into the New Year. This soggy failure of a party is transformed into a triumph. Everyone will talk about it for years to come. The church bells boom the half-hour and I look around for Edie but I can't see her.

‘Hello. Harry, isn't it?'

She's beside me.

‘Yes. That's right.'