No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (28 page)

Nobody really thought the Germans would win; but late at night, when all the lights were out, it was hard not to remember stories told by the likes of Clarke, one of the more unpleasant prefects, stories he had actually heard, he told them, of the Hun bayonetting Belgian children and tearing their tongues out, before roasting them alive.

Giles was actually frightened of going to sleep, for fear he would dream of these dreadful things, but lying awake staring into the darkness with the horrors going round and round in his head was worse. And then he would think of his own father, fighting these terrible people, and wonder what would happen to him if he was captured rather than killed, and subjected to torture.

And then something else dreadful happened; they were all called into the hall one morning, and told by the headmaster that he had some very sad news for them. The boys glanced at one another in terror. A few had already been summoned singly into the head’s study and emerged weeping, a few minutes later, having been told that their fathers, or occasionally their elder brothers, were dead. Could this mean that all their fathers had been killed? In some inexplicable mass murder? Or that the Hun had won the war and was on his way over?

‘I know you will all be extremely sorry to hear,’ said the head, ‘that Mr Thompson, who taught most of you, and was very popular with you all, has been killed. He was an officer in France and died a hero’s death; I have at least the comfort for you that the battle in which he was killed was a victory for England. So his death was not in vain and we must seek comfort in that. We will observe two minutes’ silence; later today special prayers will be said in the chapel for Mr Thompson and for his family.’

Giles walked out of the hall in silence; he was crying, as many of the boys were. For once no one was mocking anyone else. Mr Thompson’s lessons had been fun, he had made history into a wonderful story, and he was never sarcastic or impatient, in fact if anyone had a problem answering a question, he would go through it with them after the lesson and make sure they understood. And then he was a wonderful sportsman, a marvellous coach on the soccer field, building up strong first and second teams, persuading them to practice and train on the coldest winter mornings, not by bullying them but by setting a cheerful example himself. And every Sunday he would hold tea parties in his study, and serve hot toast with anchovy paste, and fruit buns; for many of the boys, who were miserable and homesick like Giles, he was the only person who made life worth living. And now he was gone: gone forever. It was Giles’s first taste of real grief, and worse, of experiencing the finality of death. He found it almost unbearable.

‘I think,’ said LM, walking into Celia’s office, ‘when the war is over—’

‘When?’ said Celia wearily. She was feeling particularly tired.

‘Yes, when,’ said LM firmly. In some perverse way, Celia envied her. She had already survived the worst; her lover had been killed, and although her grief was dreadful she had faced it, coped with it, and it was over. And she was so happy with her little boy, so unexpectedly and wonderfully happy; while for Celia every day began and ended with a crawling, awful dread. Sometimes she would stand at the window in Cheyne Walk, see a telegram boy walking along the Embankment. She would watch him, her stomach seized with horror, anticipating the pause at her gate, the glance up at the house to check the number, the walk up the path, the knock at the door. And when he passed on by, she would sit down weakly, released from fear, and wonder how much longer she could take it. Oliver had been home only once since his departure for France; a strange, almost surreal time. He had been so exhausted that for two days he had simply slept; after waiting for him so long, filled with desire as much as anything else, she had lain frustrated beside him, wondering if he would ever make love to her again. He did, but only once in the seven days; and then with a kind of desperation which seemed to have no joy in it. He did not talk much to her, preferring to sit in silence, just being with her. He was eager for details of domestic life, and of the children, but he did not want to hear about Lyttons.

‘I dare not even think about it, Celia, it would just frustrate me, make me miserable.’

When she asked him to tell her about life at the front, to share with her at least some of the horrors which she knew would have been censored out of his letters, he simply said he was trying to forget them for a blessed few days. She suspected that it was more likely he thought she would not understand; and she felt hurt by it. Finally on the night before he left, he did begin to talk to her and with passion, of many things: of a life that was scarcely endurable.

‘No, it’s unendurable, living in the mud where men and horses had died, with the noise and the stench, with the lice and the rats and the flies – sometimes so loud the buzzing of those flies, that it confuses the noise of approaching aircraft.’

He spoke of a dreadful confusion on the battlefield, of smoke and noise separating men from their commanders, with orders lost, of senior commanders miles away from the trenches refusing to accept that battles were not going the way they planned, of emergency field hospitals, little better than First Aid stations, of a growing sense of disillusionment with the direction of the war.

‘There is a dreadful stalemate going on, it seems to me, with both sides defending themselves fiercely and successfully at the front. When a few inches are gained here and there, it is claimed as a great victory. Of course it is nothing of the sort. Some other strategies will have to be employed.’

She sat listening, appalled, frightened, but knowing there was nothing that she, nor he, nor indeed anyone could do but endure it. And when he went back, she felt dully, miserably aware that he had not enjoyed his leave as they had both hoped, that it had not brought the expected dazzling happiness, but formed a scarcely credible contrast to the conditions he had left behind, and thereby made returning to them worse.

‘So what is this idea?’ she said to LM now.

‘I think we should do a book about the art of war. It has produced a remarkable outpouring of creativity. The paintings and the poetry, of course.’

‘Those poems by Francis Grieg are so lovely,’ said Celia, ‘I keep reading them over and over again. I’m sure we shall do well with them. There’s something really special about them, patriotism tinged with regret, a kind of slightly more realistic Rupert Brooke. Clever of you to find him, LM. Anyway, sorry to interrupt. I agree with you. And I don’t see why we should wait to publish.’

‘Well – two reasons. I came to the idea while thinking about the posters; I think they have to be part of it. They’re remarkable works of art, some of them, and they’ve great power to evoke emotion. But I think people need a bit of distance to appreciate them as art. It would also be an expensive book to produce, and we can’t afford good paper and so on at the moment. Mind you, some of them are extremely unpalatable. The less subtle propaganda is very unattractive. I saw one yesterday, showing a German nurse pouring the water on to the ground while an English soldier was begging for a drink; frankly unbelievable.’

‘Oh I agree with you, I’m afraid,’ said Celia, ‘I saw another one – of a German bayonetting a child – horrible. My own particular hate is that one addressed to the young women of London. You know the one? Does your “Best Boy” not think you and your country are worth fighting for? And something about if he neglects his country, he may one day neglect you. It made me very angry. There are perfectly good reasons for some of these young men not to go; common sense being one of them,’ she added briskly. ‘I suppose the men running this war know what they are doing; but one does begin to wonder. Hundreds and thousands of dead and only a few yards of mud to show for it. I cannot believe it makes sense, that there isn’t a better way. Now look, why don’t we cheer ourselves up and go to the pictures?
Birth of a Nation
sounds so wonderful even if it is all about war, and I think we deserve a treat.’

The twins often said, once they were old enough to articulate the thought, that their view of men, formed as they grew up at Ashingham in their grandmother’s convalescent home, was a rather sorry one.

‘No one under fifty, unless he was blind, or had lost a limb, or was suffering from shellshock,’ said Adele. ‘It really was very strange.’

Initially people tried to protect the children from some of the more tragic sights; but it soon proved impossible. Apart from the fact that they roamed the grounds unchecked, they were fascinated by what they saw. They would stand staring at the poor men sitting on the terrace or the lawns, in their wheelchairs, their stumps tucked neatly into their trousers, their empty sleeves pinned to their chests, and would ask them in genuine fascination if they were going to grow some more legs, or if they would have wooden ones, or how they could eat without their arms. The first time this happened, Nanny heard them and seized their hands, horrified and flushed, pulling them away, apologising to the soldier; but he smiled at her and said it was quite all right, he really didn’t mind, and it was extremely nice to be an object of such interest to two pretty young ladies. Nanny had an anxious conversation with Lady Beckenham, who said that if the soldiers didn’t mind, then it could do no harm.

‘Probably cheer the poor wretches up. And they’re all decent chaps, from good families, they won’t upset the girls in any way.’

Barty, being older, was more distressed by what she saw, but at the same time, could be more useful and she enjoyed that; she liked to sit with the soldiers who had been blinded and read to them, or simply chat, and she would run errands for the nursing staff, taking the men their cups of tea, leading or pushing them in their wheelchairs out into the garden, taking their visitors to them, and even helping with the making of beds and tidying of rooms when everyone was really busy. There were, at any one time, twenty or so men at Ashingham; mostly amputees or blind, very few with the much dreaded shellshock, for it required more skilled nursing, and presented problems that the slightly genteel staff there could not cope with. But one man came for a few days and then had to be sent away again; Barty watched, horrified, as he sat, shivering violently, staring ahead of him, apparently unable to hear or speak; every now and again he started clawing at his mouth, and mumbling incoherently.

‘It’s a horrible thing,’ said one of the other men, watching her face.

‘Poor chap.’

‘But what is it, what’s wrong with him?’ asked Barty, her own eyes huge with horror.

‘It’s – well it’s having been out there for too long,’ the man said carefully, ‘the noise from the shells, you know, going on and on endlessly and having to go into battle every day, and losing some of your friends.’

Barty said nothing, but she thought of Wol who had been gone for a long time now, and of her own father, of whom she had heard so very little, and dreaded the same thing happening to them.

‘Oh my God,’ said Celia. She was very white; she stood in the hall, looking at the telegram which lay on the silver letter tray, ‘oh, dear God, Brunson when did this come?’

So it had happened. It was over. Oliver was dead.

‘Lady Celia, please don’t be distressed. I was hoping to intercept you before you saw it. The telegram is—’

‘Brunson, of course I’m distresed, what do you expect, why on earth didn’t you get in touch with me, it’s unforgivable of you, oh God—’

She had picked it up now, not noticing that it was already open, pulling it out of its envelope. And then looked at Brunson, smiling slightly shame-facedly.

‘Sorry, Brunson.’

‘That’s quite all right, Lady Celia. It was natural you should be upset. I have asked Cook to make Major Lytton’s favourite meal for tomorrow night. Steak and kidney pie, as I recall.’

‘You recall correctly, Brunson. Thank you. Dear Jack. It will be so good to see him.’

Jack looked at least five years older she thought, studying him as he lounged in a chair in the drawing-room, still in his uniform, with one long leg crossed over the other. Even so, he was still incredibly handsome; more so than Oliver, she thought, unwillingly disloyal, and then firmly stifled the thought.

‘It’s so wonderful to see you, Jack,’ she said.

‘It’s pretty wonderful to see you, Celia. You’re looking marvellous, as always. I’ve thought of you so much out there.’

‘Me! I thought you had – what was her name – Kitty to think about.’

‘Kitty’s history, Celia. You should listen more carefully. It was Sally last leave. Terrific girl. Wonderful dancer. Did a solo in that revue at the Duke of York’s. Can’t remember its name. We had a lot of fun. But’fraid she’s forgotten about me. Never wrote, anyway.’

‘So you thought about me instead! Well, I’m very flattered.’

‘Celia, my darling, you are far more beautiful and desirable than either of them, actually. God, Oliver’s a lucky chap.’ He was rather drunk already, she thought; and he hadn’t had any wine yet.