Easterleigh Hall at War (32 page)

As Evie joined her mam, leaning against an upright at her side, she wondered if she should mention the money that Captain Neave had left her, and which she had banked in Gosforn. But it was tempting fate. Something could go wrong. The war could never end.

Susan put her knitting down, another pair of khaki socks, reached up and took her hand. ‘Tired, bonny lass?'

‘Aye Mam, a bit. How are the children? Have you heard from Mart, Mrs Dore?' Evie always enjoyed her visits to the noisy nursery. The garage's service pit had been covered over with huge wooden planks. A small playhouse had been built by two orderlies, painted by Evie and her mother and placed over it. Several of the convalescents had carved cars and created doll's houses, with soft furnishings made by whoever felt like it.

They talked of nothing in particular, and it was good. As she was leaving, her mam said, ‘That Millie must have turned over a new leaf, Evie pet. Perhaps it's because the war might be ending. She often comes in and just watches our Tim when he's here after school, as though she's just discovered him. He's a bright lad for six, you know, Evie. Knows his tables, or the two and three times at the least. She was here not an hour ago, with cleaning materials. She's been sorting the attic up top over the last week or two in her off time.' She pointed up to the boarded area where Geoff the chauffeur had slept. ‘She meant well, but the first two days she brushed all the dust down through the cracks and we had to take the children into the stables to look at the pigs. Pall after a while, pigs do. They smell, the bairns said, and they weren't wrong.'

They all laughed. Evie stared at the ladder leading to the attic. ‘This I've got to see. What is she expecting it to be used for?'

Her mam picked up young Lucy from Hawton, whose mother helped Evie in the kitchen, her desserts a miracle of economy, while Evie climbed the ladder and peered into the space. The floor was clean, and so were the windows. There were sacks neatly stacked at one end, and the bed had been turned on its side. ‘She said it would make a good area for a train set for the older ones,' Susan called up, standing with Mrs Dore at the foot of the ladder, James clinging to her skirt.

Evie called down, ‘Well, I'm blowed, good girl Millie. We'd have to secure the hatch somehow, and hold that thought, ladies, because I'll be keeping my great hatch of a mouth shut from now on, where Millie's concerned. I speak before I think, perhaps.'

She climbed back down the ladder, almost into her mother's arms. Susan's hug was warm and comforting as she said, ‘No you don't. It's just that no one knows quite what to say about anything, any more. It's so strange, all of it. We don't even know what to think, or to feel, or hope.'

When Evie went in, she joined Millie in the laundry, putting her arm round her shoulder, but Millie pulled away. Evie said, ‘I'm sorry, I shouldn't have interfered, and it's grand that you're sorting out the attic for the bairns. Tim will love it.'

Millie started to fold the sheets that had been freshly ironed, her back to Evie, ‘I've always been a worker, Evie, and it's time you realised you're not the only one in this war. It's hard for us all, really hard. There are so many things to decide.'

Evie sighed. ‘Well, you decided well with the attic. It could all be over very soon. Our men will be back, we can all get on with our lives.'

‘Oh, go back to work, Evie. I don't need your blathering.'

It was a freezing October and Auberon clung to the side of the shell hole, digging in his toes, hearing Jack shouting into his ear, ‘I'm getting too old for this.'

Mart on Auberon's right yelled above the artillery, and machine-gun fire, and snipers, ‘Stop bloody grumbling. You're in lovely cold mud, on your way to sliding down into stinking water at the bottom, with heaven knows what bits of which people are floating in it. What could be better?' Zip zip. Crump. Rat-a-tat.

Charlie had stabbed into the side with his rifle barrel. ‘I've found a branch,' he yelled from the other side of Jack, nodding at his rifle. Auberon shouted, ‘Tell him why it's not a good idea to do that, will you, Jacko.' He checked his watch. They should be following on behind the creeping barrage, not hiding in here. ‘Damned Hun machine gun's got us pinned, Don't they know when they're beaten?' Zip zip. Crump. Rat-a-tat.

Mart yelled, ‘Well, obviously they're not beaten. It's our wishful thinking, sir.'

Jack was shouting over at Charlie, ‘Not a good idea, Corporal, if you're thinking of saving your life by firing the damn rifle. Now all that'll happen is that a lug of mud will block it, it'll explode and you'll go up in a puff of smoke.' Zip zip, rat-a-tat. Crump. Debris flew over them, into the water. Aub heard the splashes.

Froggett's son, Fred, new to it, put his head down on the mud. Auberon yelled, ‘It's child's play, Fred. Just keep your head down like that until we tell you otherwise.' No zip zip. No rat-a-tat. Just crump. Auberon dug his toes in harder, balanced himself, and unslung his rifle, thrusting it past Jack to Charlie, who hung on to his ‘branch' and grabbed at it. Auberon could afford to lose his rifle, with the extra arsenal he had taken to carrying.

Auberon listened. Still relatively quiet. He withdrew his pistol in readiness for action. ‘Less lying about, lads, lots to do, got to get the buggers back beyond the Scheldt river and then the Rhine, so we can get home. Let's all make it in one piece please, can't stand the thought of searching through this mud for bits of you. Too damned messy. No heroics now, out of this hole carefully, discreetly, like a bishop leaving a tart's bedroom.' They eased their way up, then, doubling over, ran zigzagging into the guns.

That evening Auberon wrote a letter to the Froggetts from the German trench they had taken, while the artillery coughed spasmodically. It was what he called a B letter, just an explanation of a leg injury from shrapnel, hopefully a Blighty one, but the medics at base hospital would decide. It would bring good cheer to that small farm, and the farmer who had stood against the Bramptons and sold the cottages to Jack's family, and Grace's, to stop Lord Brampton's monopoly. Quite rightly too.

Jack was writing a similar one, also bound for the Froggetts, hunkering down, resting on a board. Auberon raised his head, examining the trench, which was a bloody great thing with concrete walls. It paid to capture a town like Lille, one which contained concrete works, bloody poor planning by Haig to let the Germans' hog it. ‘What the hell are we going to do when we get home, Aub?' Jack said. ‘That's if it's on the way to being over. Nothing seems different, so it's hard to tell.'

‘What we'll do is take off our uniforms, have a bath, and yes, surely it will be over soon, Jacko.' Auberon grinned, looking up at the sky. Frost was in the air.

Mart muttered, ‘What makes you think we'll be let into the house to have a bleedin' bath? They'll hose us down outside, or me mam will. Don't you think your Lady Veronica will be any different. Aye, and Evie will have something to say about you traipsing around stinking the place out, whether you're her boss or not.'

Jack was chewing his pencil. ‘You know Evie said Auld Maud had a roof fall a few weeks ago? One of the first things we should do is put the supports much closer together. It might cost more at the start but think of the stoppages these falls cause, as well as the carnage, which is being sorted at Easterleigh as we speak. We could improve on the pumps to keep the methane explosions at bay, and do regular maintenance of all machinery. Makes sense, Aub. D'you think the Bast—' Mart nudged him to a stop. Jack coloured. ‘I mean your father, would go for it?'

Charlie looked confused. ‘Who's the . . .?' Now Mart nudged him. Charlie paused, then resumed. ‘One minute we're talking about War, Haig and Lille, the next the mine. Well, while we're at it, you should be thinking of bringing shooting parties back to your estate, and controlling the breeding of the game birds again, sir, when the hospital no longer needs them all year round. The grouse could be ready for next year. I could help. I can still do that, I'm sure I can. Or can I? I think perhaps fighting's the only thing I'm good at now. It's what I understand, and not just me, all of us. You too, sir. I don't want us to break up, I mean, what will I do alone? I'd follow you anywhere, sir. We all would, so I'd like to go on working with you.'

Auberon just nodded. He couldn't speak. Mart said, ‘I'll get out the bloody violins, shall I?' They laughed. Mart poked at the stock of his rifle, and it was hard for Auberon to imagine him with a pick. Jack had broken the pencil in half and was staring at it, but Aub knew he wasn't seeing it. It was up to him to say something. He tried, but couldn't. He tried again. ‘Let's get through this thing first, but I have a plan. Trust me, all of you. Jacko, listen to me. And another thing, you shouldn't think of just following me. We make a team, we follow one another, and you need to remember that, but don't tell Colonel Gerrard, or I'll shoot you myself.'

Before Auberon could feel any more embarrassed Corporal Devlin, who had been with the North Tyne Fusiliers since the Somme, came along with a clutch of steaming tin mugs. He bore the scars most of them carried around the face, shrapnel here and there, a zip of a flesh wound. ‘Soup, sir. Sergeant Major's emancipated a spirit stove he found down the end of the trench in the officers' dugout. The Huns left in a hurry, it seems. There's quite a cook-up going on with their bits and bobs until the supplies catch us up. Oxtail it is, from a tin, well, several tins, or so we think. Of course, it might be horse, but either way it'll warm your cockles.'

They hugged the mugs between their hands, and sipped. Auberon knew from Richard that Italy was under pressure, Turkey too, but the men were right, what the hell was going to happen? Would the plan he'd been mulling over work? Would he even live to put it into action? If not, there was always Richard, who had the package he had left in his portmanteau, and a further letter with instructions for the well-being of his men. Across from him Charlie was running his finger around the inside of his mug. No one thought it disgusting, but someone would say it was. Auberon waited. Mart said, ‘That's disgusting.'

Jack shared a look with Auberon. They both grinned. So often there was no need for words.

Auberon thought of Simon, safe in the prison camp, Simon who had not taken the opportunity to leave, to even snatch at a faint chance to see Evie, but had preferred to build up his friendship with the American director's son. But who was he to criticise others; at least Simon would live safely ensconced as an orderly, and therefore at least Evie would live happily. That was something to hold to him as he did most nights, and that was also why the plan must work.

Jack threw a small pebble, and it stung Auberon's leg. ‘Hey, watch it.'

‘Well, get your lugs working. Did you find out any more about that grey that is being ridden by the major, out on the right flank?' Jack asked.

Auberon flung the pebble back. Jack caught it. ‘Yes, and it's not Prancer. But I'm not giving up, he's out there somewhere.' The others looked anywhere but at him. ‘I know, I know,' Aub said, ‘but I just feel he is. Bit like the cedar tree. He's there, it's there, so life will go on.'

‘And all will be well,' muttered Mart. Jack barked out a laugh. They all repeated, as one, ‘And all will be well. Bless her huge and kindly heart.' The artillery was still lobbing shells, flares were sent out ahead of them, but they doubted there'd be any wiring parties with the Germans in retreat.

‘Just keep your heads down and your wits about you. There's still a lot of damage flying around,' Auberon insisted, desperate to keep them safe, desperate to get them back, himself too, just see Evie's smile, hear her voice. She was life to him.

THE WAR WAS
over at eleven in the morning, on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918. ‘Neat and tidy, then,' Evie murmured, shivering as she and Grace stood on the porticoed steps waiting for the ambulances to arrive. Frost covered the grass, and glinted on the gravel of the drive. ‘The war is over.' It seemed to mean nothing. She tried it another way. ‘Over is the war.' She tried it again. ‘Is over the war.'

Grace smiled at her. ‘None of it makes sense and yes, neat and tidy for posterity one thinks, until you look at these ambulances and their cargo.' Her smile faded. ‘Please God, our men are safe. We haven't heard differently, but how long does it take for a telegram to come? Because Aub would signal the news, wouldn't he? Unless he himself was killed, then it would be a letter. What do you think, Evie, how long?'

Evie shook her head. ‘I don't know, lass. I just don't know.' The ambulances were coming up the drive now, and would keep coming, because men would have been blasted to smithereens until the last minute, and of this they were more than sure. There was the grinding of gears, the crunch of gravel.

‘It's teatime,' Grace said. Evie stared at her. ‘Teatime,' Grace repeated.

Evie felt panic. ‘Teatime, oh my Auntie Fanny.' She leapt down the steps, skirting the first ambulance that was skidding to a halt. As she ran into the stable yard the organised chaos behind her began. More awaited her at the top of the kitchen steps, in the shape of Mrs Moore standing with her arms akimbo, yelling, ‘I'll have your guts for garters, so I will, Evie Forbes. Teatime and where the hell are you? Partying already no doubt, when there are gobs to fill with scones, and party food to prepare.'

Evie skirted round her, expecting a clip on the ear, and it was all so normal that she laughed, really laughed, and fled down the steps into the kitchen, Mrs Moore in hot pursuit in spite of her rheumatics, laughing too. ‘I'm beginning to believe,' Evie shouted as she entered the kitchen, ‘I'm beginning to believe it's over.'