In Pale Battalions (12 page)

“The trouble is, sir, that, if the war goes on much longer, too much will be asked of all of us.”

“Is that what happened to my son?”

“No, it wasn’t. John could cope with anything. He gave strength to others—including me. The men looked on him as a talisman.

And they were right: their good luck ran out after he died.”

Powerstock nodded gravely. “That’s something. In the manner of a death . . . there may be some comfort. Perhaps that’s all that’s left to us.” His free hand moved uncertainly to a gilt-framed photograph on the desk: a Victorian wedding portrait. He tilted it towards us.

“John’s mother?”

“Yes. At least she’s been spared this.” His words came ever more slowly, as if his mind were travelling through his past and finding only dismal ruin. “Poor Miriam . . . Such a waste . . . And now our son.” Then he seemed to remember that I was there. “Her father still lives with us.” “Yes. He picked me up at the station.”

“Did he now?” He almost smiled at the thought. “Dear old Charter. Bit of a curmudgeon, what?”

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“I wouldn’t say so.”

“No. Perhaps not.” Again, the slow, distracted delivery. “My father didn’t approve of the match . . . The Gladwins were in trade . . .

Not that that saved me going up to Whitby to meet old Prospect Gladwin . . . Blood like tar, he said, from all the ships he’d sailed . . .

All the ships . . .” He wrenched himself back. “Excuse me. You’ll be able to hear Charter’s tales from his own lips. I dare say you’re ready for some lunch.” He paused to push a bell by the fireplace. “I shan’t join you, I’m afraid. Not much of an appetite these days. But we must speak again later . . . about my son.” “I’d like that.”

“It’s all I can do now . . . Talk about him.”

Then a maid came and showed me up to my room.

It was a fine, airy room with a view of the park and a vase of freshly cut chrysanthemums in the window, a four-poster bed deep in pillows and starched linen and an adjoining bathroom where thick towels hung from warming pipes and the cavernous tub had feet cast in the likeness of a lion’s paws: all the signs and fitments of leisure where I could forget . . . if I could ever forget . . . a frozen bivouac in Flanders . . .

a trench after battle, smelling of burnt flesh and vomit and gas. I sniffed the chrysanthemums and, yes, it was still summer and Meongate and far from the war. I was safe, as Hallows could never be.

Did he think of this place—did he see this park—as he stole across the rank-pooled hummocks of no man’s land with faithful Sergeant Box that last night of April? Did his thoughts wander here—as well they might—and distract him for some final, fatal moment? Who could say? The past turned up its greatcoat collar and I went down to lunch.

Lunch was a strange affair. In the dining room, a side-table had been laid for four in the bay window, looking out over the clipped yew hedges and rose beds of the ornamental garden. Awaiting me I found the still nervous-looking Lieutenant Cheriton and the other resident officer, who introduced himself as Major Thorley of the Ordnance Corps. We were left to help ourselves from the sideboard and sum each other up.

Thorley I did not take to: altogether too chummy and talkative

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in a patronizing kind of way, keen to broadcast his opinions of the household which was generously accommodating him. “Rum lot here, Franklin,” he said, mouth full of cold chicken. “Old Lord Powerstock goes round with a face like a coffin lid while his wife gives me the glad eye and starts me wondering what she really means by ‘make yourself at home.’ Take my drift?” I affected not to, but it did not deter him. “There’s some crazy old uncle, as well, and a daughter-in-law you hardly ever see. Still, who’s complaining?

Better than barracks, eh?”

At length he took himself off with a significant limp and I was left with the pallid young Cheriton, who had much less to say—and nothing at all about the circumstances which had led him to Meongate. These were clear enough to me from his halting speech and facial tremors, but, in avoiding a clearly painful subject, it was difficult to find a congenial substitute.

“How long will the Major be with us?” I enquired with transparent meaning.

“Oh . . . yes.” Cheriton managed a strained smile. “Bit . . . over-bearing, isn’t he?”

“You could say that.”

“Look . . . Don’t mind my mentioning this, but Thorley tells me you’re not a stranger here.”

“The good Major has garbled the facts, I fear, as one might expect. I served in France with Lord Powerstock’s son.”

We were back, inevitably, on disagreeable ground. “Ah . . . yes.”

He did not go on to say what he clearly already knew of Hallows’s death.

“Tell me, how did Thorley come by the information?”

“Oh . . . Mompesson, I expect.”

“Mompesson?”

“An American . . . in business over here . . . Friend of Lady Powerstock . . . Visits often.”

I remembered my conversation with Hallows at Hernu’s Farm six months before: he’d spoken then of an American houseguest at Meongate. Now I was to understand that the man was still a regular visitor and evidently more knowledgeable about me than I was about him.

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On one point I agreed with Thorley. Where was Leonora? She was the one person I’d expected to meet at Meongate and the one person I hadn’t. In a strange way, I felt slighted. I’d written to her after Hallows’s death and she’d written back, briefly but graciously. I was vaguely hurt that she hadn’t made an effort to see me.

As it happened, I didn’t have long to wait. I took a nap in my room—a convalescent’s custom—then went for a turn round the grounds. At closer quarters, there were signs here and there that they were not as well kept as once they had been: only in such small things as a straggling hedge, I reflected, can the war be detected here.

It was a warm afternoon. Thorley was aimlessly thumping a ball round the croquet lawn and would have caught my eye if I’d let him. Instead, I cut through the ornamental garden—where a dry fountain with tarnished cherubim testified to another touch of austerity—into the conservatory.

And that is where I found her. Where vine and clematis trailed amongst the tracery of a glazed roof, where lilies and hydrangeas splashed their potted colours about a tiled floor and musty pink geraniums lined the sun-baked windowsills. Where a cat lounged sleepily amongst the vigilant cacti and Leonora Hallows took tea with a private, sad serenity.

She wore a blue skirt and cream blouse, with a black neck-tie and a wide-brimmed hat. Her hair was straw blond, her face calm and delicate like the porcelain on her tray. She looked up at me with blue, implacably tranquil eyes—and knew me, at once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Franklin. My husband said you would come.”

It was a disconcerting greeting, almost as if Hallows had just spoken to her. I mumbled some more formal introduction of my own and bowed as I held out my hand. She took it and squeezed it slightly as she did so. This, it was imparted, was a special token for the friendship her husband had given me.

She asked me to sit beside her and poured some tea. “What did you mean?” I stumbled. “Your husband said I would come?”

“In his last letter to me. He said that, if anything happened to him, his friend Lieutenant Franklin would find his way here.”

I blushed. “I must tell you that, had it not been for Lord Powerstock’s letter to me, I doubt I would have done.”

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She smiled. “Never mind. Circumstances often intrude upon intention. However late or fortuitous, your visit is more welcome than I can say.”

“I am glad to be here, Mrs. Hallows, and sorry also—for the reason I am here. Your husband was a fine man.”

“Indeed.” Her glance shifted a little. “I always thought so.”

“Above all, a fine friend. I am honoured to have known him. All that I said in my letter to you . . . was true.”

“Thank you.” Then she deflected the subject, as if it were too painful to dwell upon. “How do you find us at Meongate?”

“Such restfulness . . . is delightful.”

“Restful? Is that how it seems? Do we not strike you as a strange household?”

“No. Certainly not.”

“Perhaps we should. We four that are left are none of us tied by blood. Is that not . . . unusual?”

“I suppose . . .”

“Forgive me. I do not mean to embarrass you. I know that Lord Powerstock broods on the thought: the end of his line, the extinction of his name. He wonders what will become of us. He wonders if he has brought us bad luck.”

“Bad luck?”

“The Powerstocks have always been so successful—until now.

My father-in-law’s first marriage was not approved of. His wife gave him a son, of course, but she did not live to see him grow into a man.”

“How did she die?”

“It’s one of the few subjects dear Charter won’t talk about. John told me she was an active member of a society for the relief of the poor. She devoted more and more time to her adopted families in the slums of Portsea and there she contracted smallpox. She died more than ten years ago. But sometimes I think my father-in-law still mourns her.” “Surely his second marriage . . .”

She stopped me with an eloquent glance. “Now, in a way, it’s happened again. John and I had only been married for three months when the war broke out. Since then, Lord Powerstock has lost his son too.”

“Obviously, this is a sad time . . .”

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“But things will get better?”

“We must believe so.”

“Only if it’s true, surely?” Then she smiled again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting such gloomy thoughts in a soldier’s head.”

“That’s all right. There are plenty . . .”

“Why, Lieutenant Franklin.” It was Lady Powerstock, materializing behind us. The hothouse heat, where others had to cool and shade themselves, seemed suddenly her particular environment. “I see you’ve met Leonora. Has she been entertaining you?” Leonora answered for me. “We’ve been discussing the war, Olivia—and its effect on this house.”

“You will find the house a little neglected, Lieutenant, it’s true.

We’re short-staffed, you see. The war must come first.”

“Naturally, I didn’t . . .”

“But I do hope you haven’t tired Leonora. The doctor has suggested lots of rest . . . in the circumstances.”

I took her hint. “Of course. I mustn’t intrude any longer.

Perhaps you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Hallows.” I rose and took my leave.

Lady Powerstock followed me into the house. “Thank you for being so understanding,” she said in an undertone as we crossed the morning room. “Leonora was quite beside herself when she heard about John. The doctor had to prescribe a course of sedatives and sleeping draughts. She still tires very easily and can become upset . . . quite suddenly . . . for no reason. I’m sure you understand.” “Of course.”

In truth, I did not. Leonora had seemed to me neither drugged nor hysterical and the letter she’d written to me at the Front had reflected the same measured composure that I’d now seen. Still, I had no wish to interfere in some mild piece of family friction. Except that, as Leonora had said, they weren’t really a family at all.

I was already feeling fitter under Meongate’s benign influence than I had amongst the invalid and elderly of Eastbourne and, as I settled into a comfortable if sometimes curious routine, I began to ponder the mystery that hinted and hovered at the edges of all that household’s leisurely doings.

The occupants of Meongate pursued lives that seldom seemed to intersect. Lord Powerstock scarcely ventured beyond his study,

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though I was several times invited there to talk of military life and his son’s prowess as a company commander; that seemed to comfort him. He even volunteered a little more about his own life, including the poignant facts about his first marriage which Leonora had already divulged. Of his second marriage he said nothing. Perhaps he thought it spoke for itself and perhaps he was right: no children, a twenty-year age gap, an opulent beauty turning to . . . areas I didn’t care to explore.

Leonora had been right. Powerstock was a man in mourning—for his whole life, not just his son. But why—if she knew this—did she seem to do so little to comfort him? That I couldn’t understand, or even, more pompously, forgive. She pursued her calm, detached course, neither shunning nor seeking my company. I dug out the letter she’d written to me in France, acknowledging my condolences and saying what consolation there was to be had in speaking to her husband’s friends. Odd that, now the chance was here to speak to me, doing so seemed a matter of indifference. Perhaps, after all, I thought, she just doesn’t like me.

Thorley and Cheriton, meanwhile, went their contrasting ways.

Thorley’s took him regularly and lengthily to the White Horse Inn in Droxford, where I was blearily invited to join him, but did not.

Cheriton—whose nerves a drink might have steadied—haunted the house, a wan and awkward figure who started at slammed doors and paced in the footsteps of a shattered dignity. I felt no affinity with either of them. Thorley was just a khakied windbag and I was as helpless to solve Cheriton’s problems as he was himself: the war lay in wait for all of us, in dreams of mud-mangled death which for Cheriton—and sometimes for me—didn’t end with morning.

Charter Gladwin offered a welcome beam of age-sprung joy amidst so much grief, with his tales of childhood in Whitby, of old fishermen who remembered Captain Cook, of shipping timber from Gothenburg and courting White Russian princesses, of marrying the daughter of the Mayor of Scarborough and raising the prettiest girl in the North Riding of Yorkshire. But then Charter Gladwin was, as he often said, a survivor from another world and no real help in this one. Or so I thought.