Easterleigh Hall at War (11 page)

Mrs Moore replaced a fourth biscuit, uneaten, and shuddered.

Richard eased his left arm stump and nodded. ‘Excellent. This would mean that in due course the cotton can be used for armaments.'

‘Be quiet, Richard,' Veronica snapped. It was all she seemed to be doing today.

Evie released Mrs Moore's hand and drank her tea which was almost cold, feeling proud of her mam as Susan said, ‘It's excellent for burns, and the moss dressings don't heat as much as the cotton. I'm sorry, I should have remembered it earlier.'

‘My dear, we haven't needed them earlier.' Matron said quietly, avoiding Evie and Veronica's eyes. Mrs Moore squeezed Evie's hand again.

The next morning Evie patted Old Saul while the dogs yapped until Mr Harvey called them into the house. Evie then allowed Sergeant Briggs to hitch the horse up to the cart, which was jointly owned by her family and Simon's. ‘Beautiful old boy,' she murmured into his cream mane. Alongside Old Saul was a space for Grace's mare, Sally, and the Manton cart, which Parson Edward Manton, Grace's brother, had said he'd trot over. He arrived in a flurry, leaping from the cart. ‘So sorry I can't stay to help, Evie. Parish business.' He hoisted down his bicycle from the cart and tucked his trousers into his socks.

Evie's smile was the genuine article as she led him to the kitchen for a quick cup of coffee, sidestepping Annie and the scullery maids as they cleared breakfast, and Daisy who was after used tea leaves for the sweeping of the sitting room. The thought of dear Edward, with his two left feet, his wayward sense of direction and tendency to drift off into the heavenly ether, trying to help, was not comforting. Far better that he went about his hand-holding.

Her smile died as Richard arrived, standing blocking the doorway to the central corridor. He shook his head. ‘No news is good news,' he said, leaning on his walking stick and trying to throw his false leg forward without falling over. He had forbidden anyone to help. Relieved, she left Edward and Richard together and returned to the carts.

Veronica was to drive her trap pulled by Tinker, with as many volunteers as she could cram in. The others would ride bicycles as far as Froggett's farm and then hike round the base of the hill to the bogs. Harry Travers, with Captain Neave, who had been pronounced fit yesterday and would be returning to restricted military duties at the end of the week, would drive Sally's cart and be responsible for stacking the hessian sacks of moss in it, while Evie's da, who was on the back shift at the pit, and Ben, his marra, would drive Old Saul's cart and stack it. Everyone else with two legs and two arms would gather up the moss from the pickers. The gatherers would include Stanhope, who had lost all his fingers when a hand bomb blew up too soon, and was dextrous with his thumbs. Sergeant Harris with the face mask and Captain Simmons without half a leg and his nose would heave the moss on to the carts.

It took an hour to drive to the bog, Evie travelling with Captain Neave, and all the time the wind swirled. Along the verges the primroses struggled in the cold of early spring. In a few weeks there could be cowslips. The hawthorn blossom was about to emerge. Once there, the women hitched up their skirts, the men rolled up their trousers, and everyone removed their boots and waded out, barefoot. It was icy and slimy and Evie's toes sank into the peat. She had left Mrs Moore and Annie to prepare luncheon. It was rabbit and bacon stew with herb dumplings, and tons of carrots, in line with Richard's anti-extravagance initiatives. It was the same meal that Evie and Mrs Moore had provided the previous week, but if it helped Richard to feel he was breaking new ground by issuing orders about economy, building his confidence as a result, then they didn't mind.

Why should they trouble him with the fact that they occasionally added wine that Mr Harvey ‘rescued' from Lord Brampton's cellars as per Mr Auberon's instructions, when last home at Christmas. He had the written permission in his desk should Lord Brampton visit and want to see the wine-cellar audit.

Evie's mam explained that they must just yank up the top layer. ‘Like this,' she instructed. Evie reached into the bog, tugged at a clump of moss, pulled it up and wrung it out, just as her mam did and as she now remembered doing, with Jack at her side, bonny, bonny Jack. The water ran down her arms and into her sleeves. She threw the moss to the waiting collectors, feeling energy surging to replace that which had seeped from her as they had fed one another's panic and anxiety. ‘Come on, Evie, you're lagging behind,' Captain Neave called from the cart. Jack was strong, he would live. She would believe that. She must.

John Neave looked so much better and his shrapnel wounds had healed, his femur too, with Dr Nicholls removing the last of the splinters from near his spine a month ago, rendering him fit for service. Nicholls had kept him back for as long as he could, and had been heard to say to Matron that the boy had done his bit. The powers that be couldn't afford the luxury of letting their experienced officers sit out the war, apparently. ‘You can just mind your own business, bonny lad,' Evie retorted. ‘I'm a fast finisher.'

She retied her shawl and set to with a will. She'd show him. Again and again she yanked out the moss, wringing it as dry as she could, feeling the debris scratching. It didn't matter. She laughed across at Veronica, and then her mother, knowing that there was a race on. She snatched a look at the piles. John Neave was shouting at her looking at the Forbes and Preston cart. ‘Come on, we're losing.' He was stacking her pile in the front of the cart, and Harry was piling more at the back. Her mam's and the other volunteers' harvest was going into the cart her da had charge of. She glanced over. Ben was gazing across the moor. ‘Thinking of your next painting, Ben?' she called.

‘Aye, lass. I thought the servants' hall could do with some brightening.'

‘You're not far wrong,' she replied, easing her back.

John called, ‘Away with you, bonny lass. Fill that sack.'

She and her da laughed. ‘You're no Geordie, lad,' Evie told him. ‘So try again.'

John yelled, ‘Get a move on, old girl.'

Her da called, ‘Much better.'

Evie went back to work. The sun was creaking through the clouds, giving a weak warmth, but warmth nonetheless. They were moving along the bog, the carts keeping pace. Her hands were sore, but what did that matter? The moss was needed. Harry Travers called, ‘We're winning, Evie. Keep going.'

She straightened her back. ‘Easy for you, bonny lad. We're the ones with cold feet, sore hands and wet sleeves.' At last it was midday.

They had sandwiches huddled in the lea of the Forbes' cart, and it was as though they were sea-coaling, but instead of wet coal heaped in the cart, there was springy moss in the hessian sacks. Veronica said, ‘Mrs Green is setting out the apple store as a picking platform. Old Stan is replacing some of the roof felt with glass so it'll heat up when there's some sun and help dry it, and the draught when the opposing doors are open will help too. He's also drawing up a rota for the moss to be turned by volunteers and patients who want to help. They will also pick it free of debris. Some of the villagers are coming up later today and tomorrow to start off the picking. Others are sewing gauze pockets. The best moss is for dressings, the intermediate for dysentery pads, splint pads, and we chuck the worst.'

Harry said, sipping tea from a mug, ‘The sterilisers in the hospital wing are going to do what is necessary, aren't they? I was thinking that perhaps it would do Captain Williams good to have a project, like trying to get more sterilisers to us, and working out where they can go.'

John Neave tossed a crust at him. Harry ducked and laughed. John said, winking at Evie and Veronica, ‘Not just a pretty face, eh?' He tossed another crust at Ronald Simmons. ‘Whereas, you, my lad, are definitely a pretty face, with or without a nose.'

They all grinned. Matron had heard of a Canadian doctor in the south of England who thought he could do something with faces, and she was trying to find out more.

‘Good idea, Harry,' Veronica said, pushing away from the side of the cart, and dusting off her hands. ‘We'll install Richard in Father's study. Evie and Mrs Moore will have their kitchen back, and I will stop being a harridan.'

‘Oh no, you won't,' came the cry from them all.

The next day Captain Neave's taxi drew up at the door an hour before luncheon on a bright and shining morning, with a sky so blue the birds were soaring for joy. Mr Harvey carried his portmanteau down the steps as he did with all those leaving, regardless of rank. Evie walked with John Neave to the taxi. He kissed her hand, then he smiled, holding out his arms. She hugged him. ‘Be safe, be lucky.'

He said, ‘I have been up to now. Just being here has been something that has changed my life. When I think of all the people I've met – you especially, Evie – it means so much. Trust that your men are safe, Evie Forbes. Trust that they are, until you hear different, and don't let go of your dream of a hotel. The problem will be that your guests will never leave your kindness and your cooking.'

Matron came to them, crunching across the gravel. She shook hands. Captain Neave held out his arms. She drew herself up to her full length and breadth. It was impressive. ‘That's quite enough of that, young man,' she told him. Captain Neave laughed and was still laughing as he threw his captain's obligatory stick into the back of the taxi and bounded in after it. They waved as the taxi roared off down the drive. Matron called, ‘Be careful, young John. You just be careful. I won't have our work undone.' Tears were running down her face.

Without turning to Evie she told her, ‘You will say nothing, do you understand. You will say nothing to me.' With that she dragged her hand across her eyes, set her shoulders and marched back inside.

Evie waved again, and saw Norman, the telegraph boy from Easton, cycling, head down, up the drive. He passed the taxi, which stopped. She saw John lean from the window and look at the boy's retreating back. Norman was pushing hard on the pedals, trying to make speed on the gravel. Evie could hear him panting as he drew near. He skidded to a stop, looking over her shoulder as he had taken to doing, because he said he couldn't bear to look in people's eyes any more.

He dug into his leather pouch. ‘Here you go, Evie, hoy this beggar to Lady Veronica.' He licked the lead of his pencil and thrust the telegram at her. She signed for it. He stuffed the docket into his bag, swung his bicycle round and pedalled back down the drive. John Neave had climbed out, and now flagged the boy down.

Norman stopped. They spoke. Evie took the telegram into the hallway. There were men on stretchers on the floor in the rest room that had been put aside for visitors, and on mattresses in the billiards room, which was for the recreation of all ranks. Neuve Chapelle had taken its toll on all establishments. An orderly was passing. Evie gave him the telegram. ‘Let Lady Veronica have this, would you, Sid.'

He grinned. ‘This'll put a smile on her face. She's been waiting long enough.'

Evie hurried to the back stairs, heading for the kitchen. She must trust it was good news. She must. She must. Potty would have told them if it wasn't. Yes, that was it, of course, and she was glad that today they were breaching Captain Richard's orders and creating a golden soup, to be removed by Home Farm pork with sautéed potatoes and spring greens from Easterleigh Hall land. This would be removed by honey sponge and custard. The men had been informed. Excitement was in the air, and Captain Richard would have forgotten his instructions.

She leaped down the stairs. Honey sponge had been suggested by young Derek Hayes, just eighteen and here to convalesce. His war was over, his foot left somewhere in France. Had he shot himself? Who the hell cared, Dr Nicholls had said to Evie as they sheltered from the wind beneath the cedar, ‘It's far better than losing his mind.'

Mr Thomas, the Hawton bee-keeper, said there was a greater demand for honey as people were still stockpiling, and he might not be able to supply as much as the Hall needed on a regular basis. Nevertheless, the sponge would have an extra few spoonfuls today.

As Evie hurried down the corridor she remembered that Harry Travers's family had beehives. When he got going it was the only time that the young man was boring, such was his interest in the little beggars. She must remember to suggest to him that he sell them jars from home, because he'd be heading back there soon. The false leg Da and Tom, the blacksmith, had made for him was working well, if yesterday's efforts at the bog were anything to go by. He'd be back, of course, because the stump would shrink and adjustments would need to be made.

In the kitchen Annie was up to her elbows in flour, and Mrs Moore was chastising the vegetable volunteers for being lax with their washing of the leaves. There was a rich smell of tender pork, pumped up with several bottles of Merlot, thanks to Auberon and which Richard mustn't know about. For a moment Evie could see Auberon's grin, his blonde hair falling over his forehead, his eyes that were even more violet than Si's. Aye, the lad had changed into a good, good man. She felt happier than for such a long while, and she started to sing, ‘If I was the only girl in the world, and you were the . . .'

She saw that Mrs Moore was looking at her, but no, not at her, behind her, Annie too, and Mrs Barnes from the village, who had stopped chopping carrots. She fell silent, and turned. It was Ver, holding out the telegram, her face alabaster. Captain Richard was behind her, holding on to the door frame, his face rigid.

‘Take it,' Veronica told Evie.

‘Read it,' Evie insisted.

Captain Richard limped forward, using his cane, and snatched the telegram. ‘Mrs Moore, kindly help Veronica and Evie to the stools. Annie, tea at once. Mrs Barnes, would you be so kind as to continue preparations for luncheon. Life must go on.'