The Storms of War (10 page)

‘The men aren’t signing up because they need a job.’

‘We saw them—’ Celia began. Michael kicked her hard under the table.

‘You saw what, Celia dear?’ said Verena.

Michael was glowering at her. ‘Birds,’ she said, improvising wildly. ‘We saw a beautiful flock of birds over the garden. They were not fighting.’

‘You should be more like your sister,’ Rudolf said, putting down his knife. ‘Think of birds, not soldiers.’

Out in the cooler air of the garden, when Rudolf and Verena had retired to the parlour and Emmeline had walked heavily to her room, Celia ran through the dinner in her mind. Michael and Rudolf picking away at each other with words, Michael hurrying into the garden after it was all over. Celia had felt sure she had seen the glow of a cigarette just ahead, but when she walked on, there was no sign of anyone. She looked back at the house, scattered windows lit and dark clouds skating over the roof. Tomorrow, she decided, tomorrow she would tell them about how they had gone to see the soldiers in the village. She would say to Rudolf that he should let Michael just talk about it, that he wouldn’t really do anything. If her father wasn’t so quick to anger, Michael would be calmer.

She walked a little further, feeling the evening wetness of
the ground on the soles of her feet. If only things could be as straightforward as gardens. Flowers grew, insects ate them and trees drank the water from the soil. It was all simple, the same thing over and over.

‘I’m going to pretend you don’t exist, war,’ she said, out loud. She would not think about it. She walked on, her feet padding in the damp grass.

‘Celia!’ Tom’s voice. ‘Celia, over here!’ His shadow was cast against the great oak tree.

‘What are you doing down there?’ She trod carefully through the wet leaves.

‘I’m waiting for you!’ He sprang up in front of her, the smile on his face so wide that she could see it in the gloom. It surprised her when he stood up so quickly, tall and broad, not a little boy any more.

‘I thought you might come to the garden,’ he hissed.

‘Were you
hiding
?’

‘Some might say the same about you!’ He was giggling, his eyes wide in the dark. ‘Are
you
hiding?’

‘No! I was thinking about the war.’

‘Grand thing, isn’t it? And over soon.’

‘Shouldn’t you have gone home by now?’

‘I thought I’d stay! See the stars.’ He waved a leg from behind the tree. ‘Dance with me?’

‘I don’t know how.’ She was blushing in the dark.

‘You must! They must teach you something at that school of yours.’ And then, laughing, he came from behind the tree and seized her around the waist. ‘Let’s sing!’ he cried.

‘Papa will hear,’ she hissed.

But Tom wasn’t listening; he was singing out to the stars. He caught her and danced her around, whirling her to and fro, laughing. She could not remember who tripped, whether it was her or Tom, but then they were tangled on the ground, laughing and breathless. He propped himself up and leaned over her. ‘You are a very pretty girl,’ he said solemnly. His eyes were bright.
Something was going to happen, she felt it. But then he dropped and lay beside her.

‘I’ve a secret. There’s something I’m going to do. I want to tell you but I can’t.’

‘Maybe I don’t want to know.’ Michael’s refusal to tell her what they had been talking about was rankling. ‘I think I’ve heard enough secrets.’ Jonathan saying that Emmeline wasn’t his type of broad, that he would go in the morning. Michael wanting to leave college. Verena and her worries; what Sarah had said about the King needing men. The girls at school were always swapping secrets, using them to leave people out, especially Celia, and when she heard them, they were nothing more than silly things, jokes about teachers or nasty words about someone’s hair. ‘I think I want to know them but then I don’t. If secrets really matter, you don’t tell them to anyone.’

‘Please. If I die—’

‘Why would you die? You’re only a year older than me.’ She clasped his hand.

He smiled up at her. ‘You’re right. Why would I die?’

He brought himself up again. Then he bent over and his face touched hers, and before she understood anything, he was kissing her. She stiffened – and then reached for him. The darkness behind them leaned down and wrapped them in its arms.

The next morning, Celia woke with her head heavy and groggy from the night before. What had she been doing dancing around the garden with Tom? Rudolf and Verena would surely have heard, seen. She buried her head in the pillow. The feeling of Tom’s hand was burned on to her skin. And his words.

She turned on to her back, gazing up at the stripes of light coming through the curtains as they shifted on the ceiling.

Then there was a sound, a terrible cry, half suppressed, something like an animal being strangled. She swung herself out of bed, hurried her gown on and ran into the hall. The person was weeping now, great hiccupping sobs. The sound was coming from Michael’s room. She ran then, tripping over the cord of her
gown as the noise subsided into low, awful wails. She turned the corner and there was her mother, holding on to Miss Wilton, her head buried in her maid’s arm. Rudolf in his blue dressing gown was dashing red-faced up the stairs, Emmeline behind him, her features suddenly tiny in her pale face.

Michael’s door was open.

‘What is it?’ shouted Rudolf above the noise. ‘Wife, what is happening?’

She did not look round, cried even more loudly.

‘What is wrong?’

Miss Wilton turned to face him. ‘It is Mr de Witt, sir. He’s gone.’

Rudolf’s face drained white, as pale as Emmeline’s. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

Verena lifted her head and gazed at them all, Celia on one side, Rudolf and Emmeline on the other. Her face was ravaged by tears. ‘Michael is gone! Gone to die!’

‘What is this?’ said Rudolf, pushing past Verena and Miss Wilton through the open door. Then he too let out a terrible wail. Celia rushed forward. Her father was sitting on Michael’s bed, head in his hands, holding a piece of paper. Above him, the planes were dancing, clopping in the air from the open window. He looked up at her. ‘Your mother is right. Michael has gone to fight.’

She leaped towards him, hardly knowing how she did so, and seized the paper from his hands. It was a long letter, and she could barely make out some of the words. She turned it over, picking them out as they flashed before her eyes.
Truth … love … bravery … the King. I want to really feel alive. To live for real, not just in this pretend world. Do not worry about me. I will be in the open air, hearing the birds sing and feeling the soil of France under my feet. I will bring peace.

‘Papa,’ she said. And then she looked at the final line of the letter.
I will not be alone.

Oh God help us.
Fear filled her mind. She put the letter back in her father’s hands, backed out of the room, past her weeping
mother, and then she ran. ‘Celia!’ her father was calling. She did not turn back. She hurried to her room, pulled on a shabby woollen winter gown that buttoned at the front and Verena never let her wear except for when she was painting, then her old pair of boots, fingers stumbling over the laces, begging her hands to hurry, slapping the laces for not obeying. Finally clothed, she ran out of the door, down the stairs, through the hallway, past the parlour, the dining room, the other sitting room, towards the kitchen and out into the garden. She ran, ran up the hill, turning past the flower beds and flinging herself at the stable door.

‘Marks! Where are you?’

Marks emerged, rubbing his eyes. ‘Very early for a ride, miss.’

‘I don’t want a ride. Is Tom here?’

He stood looking at her. His delay was unbearable, entirely unbearable. ‘Tom?’

‘Tom Cotton!’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘The young lady of the house enquiring for Tom at this time of the morning? Wouldn’t credit it.’

‘Is he?’

He drew his shoulder up slowly and dropped it again. ‘Who knows?’

‘He’s not, is he?’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she started to back away. She heard him laugh, but she did not care; she was running, running, careening down the hill, falling over a lace that had become untied, dashing around the side of the house and out into the road – where she had never been alone before. She knew where to go. She hurried past early-morning labourers and women collecting water, children awake early and playing, old people stumbling along; turned down the cobbled road and right, then left, to a row of low houses with white fronts. She flung herself at the door. ‘Mrs Cotton! Let me in!’

Two old men sitting together at the far end of the row of houses stared, enjoying the show. A shutter on the other side opened and a man’s head peered out. Celia thought, in that moment, how strange she must look, red-faced, her heart hot in her mouth, desperate and afraid.

‘Mrs Cotton! It’s me, Celia!’

The door opened a crack and a dark-haired woman in an apron peered out. Celia had not seen her since they were in London – she had grown even thinner, and her body was bent over. Little Missy clung to her waist. As soon as she saw Celia, she tried to close the door.

Celia put her hand against it. ‘No! Please let me in. Missy!’

She banged again and the door opened. Mrs Cotton stepped back. The corridor behind her was dark. Celia blushed at her boldness, arriving at the door like this.

‘What are you doing here, Miss de Witt?’ said Mrs Cotton evenly. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Missy gazed up, her great eyes wide in the gloom. Celia could hardly believe how close the place was, the corridor cluttered with wooden things. It smelled damp. So many times she had thought of Tom’s house, thought of him living in a pretty country cottage like the ones in the stories. She had not imagined it would look like this: dirty, peeling paint on the walls.

‘Is Tom here?’

‘No. He spent the night at the Hall, so to be better up with the horses.’

‘May I see his room?’

‘I think you should leave, miss.’ Celia saw the fear in the woman’s eyes. She realised then that Mrs Cotton was afraid of what would happen if Rudolf found that Celia had been in the house. A cruel instinct of how to get what she wanted came to her. ‘If you will not let me up to his room, I will tell my father that Tom told me I had to come here!’ Mrs Cotton dropped her head into her hands, backed away. ‘Where is it?’ Celia cried.

‘Up there,’ said Missy, pointing.

Celia clambered up the narrow steps, putting her hand on the damp wall and then snatching it back. One room with the door thrust open was clearly that of girls, dresses strewn over the bed. The doll from the lucky dip had been thrown on to the floor, leg in the air. Celia forced herself not to look. She flung open the door of the next one – and knew it was Tom’s. The bed was neatly made, the thin blanket pulled over. A set of books on the
small table. He had so few things, it was what Celia might have thought a prison cell would be like. She had thought Tom’s room would be more like hers, looking out over a neat kitchen garden.

Mrs Cotton, Missy and another, older, red-haired girl were standing behind her. Celia looked at the older girl. She was surely Mary, the one Tom said always wanted her own way. ‘What is missing?’ she cried at them. ‘What’s not here that should be?’

Mary considered. ‘I can’t see his boots. Maybe some books.’

There was no wardrobe, but a pile of clothes on the chair. ‘No coat,’ Celia said.

‘What is all this about?’ said Mary. She had a pretty, turned-up nose. At school, Celia would have been jealous of her for her nose.

Celia turned and began pulling the blanket off the bed. ‘Michael, my brother, has gone to fight,’ she said. ‘He wrote that he was not alone.’ She looked back at them. ‘There has to be a letter!’

Mary paled. ‘You think Tom is with him?’ A strangled cry came from Mrs Cotton.

‘Where would he leave a letter?’

Mary stepped forward, so close to Celia that she could have gripped her hair. She bent to the row of books and picked out one with a leather binding. ‘Your father gave him this.’ She opened it, and a sheet of paper fell to the ground. Mrs Cotton cried out and dived for it; Mary snatched it first and held it up. She touched the sentences. Mrs Cotton crouched on the floor.
I will read it!
Celia wanted to shout. How could they be so slow? ‘Miss de Witt is right, Mother. Tom has gone to France. He says he wants to fight for glory. He says we must not worry about him.’

There was an awful wail, and suddenly Mrs Cotton was grasping at Celia, Missy was shrieking and Mary was grabbing her mother’s other hand. ‘Stop, Ma, stop!’ But Mrs Cotton was strong, pulling Celia down. ‘You’ve taken everything!’ she was weeping. ‘Your family has taken everything.’

Mary was talking fast to her mother. ‘Let her go now, Ma! Stop!’ Celia felt herself being hauled up. ‘Stop it!’ She scrambled to her feet, away from the girl and her mother in a tangle on the floor. Mary looked up. ‘Go! Go now! And don’t come back.’
Missy was staring at her. Celia meant to run, but instead she put her arms around the child and held her close. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. Then, as she heard Mrs Cotton push up to her feet, she began to run, down the stairs, out of the door and into the rising sun of the street.

On the way home from Winterbourne for the holidays – had it only been three weeks ago? – Celia had made a resolution. Every day she would choose a new word from the dictionary and use it at least three times, without anybody spotting. At night she would write down the word and the sentences used. In her first six days, she found susurrus, diaphanous, ephemeral, grandiloquent, emaciated and exiguous. No one noticed. She had told only Michael of her plans. ‘I would like just an exiguous spreading of butter,’ she said to Thompson at breakfast, hoping he might look up and smile. He did not. Well, she told herself, the words would be pleased about it. They sat side by side in her notebook, happily neat, like soldiers.

There were two more words that she had learned, too special to share. Anaphora – the art of beginning repeated sentences with the same word. And her favourite of all, anadiplosis – using the last word of the sentence to begin the next. Words were like that, they would obey. You could put them in a circle, beginning sentences over and over, and they would follow your wishes. She had been choosing new long words every day, since the end of school. She could slip a word in here and there and no one would know, she thought, as if she had shouted out a word in fairy language in the middle of it all.

On the day that Jonathan arrived, she had a new word: misconjugated, which was particularly appealing as it didn’t repeat a single letter. But with everything happening that day she’d forgotten to use it. Since then she had barely looked at the dictionary. Now, she thought, what was the use of all those words? Not without Michael and Tom. She could learn five thousand new words, and still Michael would not come home. And it wasn’t as
if she was going back to school in September. Verena wanted her at home. ‘Without Michael and Arthur, I need my daughters with me,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you are better off here. You know what girls are like. No doubt the German teacher has been sent away and you would not be welcome.’

Celia’s form teacher had written her a letter saying they were sorry she would not be returning. Others had written too, all fizzing with excitement about the start of the war. Celia had replied, but when they had written again, she hadn’t the heart to keep up the correspondence. What was there to say? She would not be going back to Winterbourne, and she had nothing to do but wait for letters from Michael and Tom. Being told there was a letter for her only to discover that it was one of her classmates updating her on things that did not matter – well, she would not be able to bear that. The whole house was quivering, waiting for news. Mrs Rolls had been crying into her food, and it tasted bad. She blamed the fact that there wasn’t much sugar.

When he was at school, Michael had sent her long letters, about the other boys, the masters, the thick custard on the apple sponge at lunch, the silly pranks played by a boy called Elkins. She used to squirrel them away, just for her, savour them in her room. He gave her so many details that she often felt she could imagine herself in the school, eating the puddings, running around the sports field and throwing paper aeroplanes back at Elkins under the desks.

From Magdalene he had sent letters that were more varied, sometimes quite short, other times long, full of his thoughts about the history books he was reading and the essays he was writing. She remembered one letter, bursting with his ideas about the Wars of the Roses, whether it was more than just a family rivalry. She had read it over and over under the cover of her prep books at Winterbourne, touching every word, pondering the questions about Edward IV and Richard III, ready for the debate they might have when they were both home. Within a fortnight, of course, his letters were about Henry VII. She always felt as if she was hurrying to catch him up, then. Now, she took out those letters,
read them over and over, as if by looking at his words she might grow closer to him in France.

On the afternoon after Michael and Tom left, the house was in chaos, Rudolf writing letters, Verena alternately weeping and demanding of Thompson, Smithson and Jennie what they knew. Mr Vine grew upset and demanded to leave even earlier to see his relatives in Surrey, and Rudolf let him go. Celia crept away, up the garden and towards the stables. They were empty; Marks was not there. The horses were pacing and blowing hot wind from their nostrils. She went to Silver and touched her. Silver shivered slightly and Celia stroked her side. ‘There, girl,’ she said. ‘There.’ Silver shuffled around so that her flank was next to the door. Celia stroked her again. ‘Good girl. Good girl.’ The other horses were moving around as well. Michael’s horse and Emmeline’s were turning in their stables. ‘Marks will come soon.’

She put her head on Silver’s flank. ‘Tom will come back to us.’ She thought of his room, the few books, the thin pillows on the bed. The tears were rolling down her face on to Silver’s coat. ‘He will come. Soon.’

She was still there when Marks arrived. His clothes looked rougher than ever.

‘You know you are not allowed in here, miss.’ His lip wrinkled at her red face, the tears in her eyes.

She was angry at the world, at Tom, at everyone. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. Tom’s gone to war.’

He raised his eyebrow. ‘Has he now? Mind you, doesn’t matter for him. He knows that you lot will have a job waiting for him whatever he does.’

‘He’ll come back covered in glory.’

‘Or be shot to bits by a dirty Hun. Take your hands off that horse. You’re upsetting her.’

She couldn’t help it; the angry words seized her. ‘You should go to war too.’

‘Well I might just do that, you know. Much better money fighting. And then where would your precious father be? In the state
we are in now, you wouldn’t find anyone to look after the horses. They’d have to go.’

‘I could look after them!’

‘You’re a child.’

‘I am not.’ She leant down to seize a fork. ‘I’ll show you!’ She opened Silver’s door and began forking up piles of Silver’s straw. The horse watched, quietly.

‘Ha! Very good, miss. Let’s just see how long you last.’ Marks gestured at the saddles. ‘You could polish those next.’ He walked out. Celia carried on forking. ‘Good girl, Silver,’ she said. ‘Good girl.’ She could feel the sadness rising in her, the anger against everyone, and she tried to fight it down. But then Silver backed up against her and knocked her with her foot, and that was the end of it. The tears started in her eyes and she slumped against the side of the stable. She was so angry and afraid, she wanted to scream.

Marks arrived back at the door. ‘Given up already?’ He was smiling, showing all his teeth.

Celia jumped to her feet and pushed past him, tears blurring her vision as she ran back to the house.

Every day since, she had woken up, seen the sun slipping through the curtains and thought of rising. Then she would remember that Tom and Michael had gone and she would begin to weep. She tried to tell herself that those tears should be her only ones of the day, but they kept seeping out, sliding down her cheeks in the afternoons and pooling in her eyes when she lay down to sleep.

Mr Lewis had a friend with contacts in the War Office who had told them that he expected Michael would be training in England for a few months, although he could not say where. Rudolf had written to the War Office, but as Mr Lewis’s friend said, it was likely to be months before he received a reply. He had even gone to the headquarters in Winchester, but when he arrived, the men had already left, and no one could tell him if Michael had been there or not. He came home that night bowed, his shoulders bent.

Now, he did not go anywhere. Instead he read the newspaper
every morning and told them the news. Outside, Celia realised, the war was growing, creating, becoming great, the thing that they did everything for. The newspapers talked of troop movements to France, the terror of the Germans. Celia read hopelessly, avidly: descriptions of the discussions back and forth, the late-night Cabinet meetings, the letters to the King, the German ambassador refusing to reply, everything that had brought them to the moment of war. Mr Lewis had told her about the people swarming around Buckingham Palace to cheer for the King, but she still read about it, imagining herself there, looking up at the Queen. The newspapers reported many spies.
Does signing as an alien take the malice out of a man?
was in the
Daily Mail.

‘I’ve had a letter about the horses,’ Rudolf said, over a cold-cut dinner. ‘From someone who says he’s the local commissioner. He says he understands we must submit them to the war effort.’

‘No!’ Celia pitched forward. ‘You can’t let them.’

‘Quite, Celia,’ said Verena, sharply. ‘They’re ours. The children need them.’ Rudolf raised an eyebrow. ‘All of them,’ she snapped.

‘Wife, we must be shown to support.’

Celia stared at her father, stricken. Silver carrying things over the channel on a boat. ‘Papa, she might
die.’

‘They wouldn’t be the most useful of horses, I suppose,’ Rudolf said. ‘They have been trained to trot around and carry ladies. Not go to fight.’ He pondered, staring at his plate. Celia beseeched him silently. He looked up, slapping the table. ‘I know. I shall offer my car instead.’

‘Oh Papa, would you?’ Celia’s heart swelled.

He shrugged. ‘I expect it is only a matter of time with the car, you know. They say no aliens should have a car. So I might as well.’

Three days later, two policemen came and drove the Rolls Royce away.

Rudolf was pleased by the news. ‘The modern war is an excellent idea,’ he said. ‘No one hurt.’ He told them that men were amassing in France to fight. Both armies had begun digging long holes in the ground, from which they would attack the other side. They
would be guarded by rolls of barbed wire, and it would be the particular responsibility of teams of men to check on this wire every night.
The Times
said there would be none of the casualties of the Boer War or the Crimea. The trenches would allow the British to assemble in an efficient fashion and prove their superiority over the Germans before they all came home at Christmas.

After a week, the newspapers had changed, no longer discussing troops and Asquith meeting the King, but relating terrible stories from Belgium about children shot along with adults, and churches burned down with babies inside them. Verena fretted about Arthur in Paris, seized the newspapers from Celia when she saw them, but Celia was a fast reader; she rushed past the housekeeping and economising tips, took in all the stories of babies without their mothers, soldiers shooting little boys for fun.

‘Why can we not help them?’ she said to Mr Janus.

He shrugged. ‘I suppose Asquith thinks the entirety of Belgium will come and live here if we do. We haven’t space for everyone. Anyway, maybe the Germans will follow.’ Mr Janus was the only man unenthusiastic about the new modern war. ‘Now, Celia, back to Richelieu. No point following the war. It proceeds badly, as history tends to show us.’

‘The Germans can’t come here!’

‘They might.’

That night, Celia practised barricading her door with her desk and her chest of drawers. If the Germans came, they would have to hammer through her doors, and by then she would have jumped out of the window. She packed a small bag: clothes, her favourite horse ornament and two books. She stole a packet of raisins from the kitchen and stuffed that in too.

‘You must put the wardrobe in front of your door,’ she said to Verena. ‘Then, if they come for us, you can climb out and we can all meet in the garden to run away.’

‘Dear me, Celia,’ said Verena. ‘We are quite safe here.’

Emmeline shook her head. ‘I am not running anywhere.’

There had been no word from Sir Hugh since the party. Two days earlier, Rudolf had intervened by sending a letter himself. He
and Verena had sat together at breakfast, not speaking to Celia but talking together in low voices. ‘But what if I push him the wrong way?’ said Rudolf, anguished. ‘I could anger him.’

Finally Verena got to her feet. ‘It must be done. There is no question. Not a letter asking about his intentions, no need for that, not yet. Just an invitation to dine here on Saturday. It is simple enough, husband.’

Rudolf stood up heavily. ‘As you will.’ He closed the door after him and they heard his footsteps padding to the study. Emmeline spent that day in her room and refused to come out for dinner.

There had been nothing from Michael either. Celia wanted never to leave the house in case a letter came – or, she dreamed, a visit from Michael himself. He would walk in the door, holding out his hand. ‘The Germans have agreed not to fight,’ he said. ‘So I have come home!’

‘Come, Celia. You must accompany me. It is Lady Redroad’s sewing committee at Warbrook.’ Verena stood in the door of the bedroom. The brave look on her pale face pierced Celia’s heart. Just over two weeks since Tom and Michael had gone, and Verena believed that things could be the same again if only she kept faith in the future. She was standing perfectly erect and still, her blouse spotlessly white, her hair so neatly arranged. Only the pearl brooch at her neck quivered a little, betraying her.

Celia was sitting on her bed, book open on her lap, although she had not been reading. She had been trying to write to Tom, in her mind.
I’m waiting for you. We hope we’ll see you soon. As I told you before, Marks says he might go to war, so he could take your place.

‘Miss Wilton has arranged your hair nicely, as I asked her to. Now, put on your blue dress with the edging and come out with me. It is important we present ourselves at the sewing committee. Lady Redroad said it is for the poor people of Belgium.’

‘Why can’t Emmeline go?’

‘She is not well, dear. She has a headache. You know she’s been very tired.’

Celia stood up with ill grace. ‘Well, if Emmeline won’t come then I suppose I have to.’

‘Good. I will meet you downstairs and we will take the carriage.’

The footman announced them as they entered: ‘Mrs de Witt. Miss de Witt.’ Celia felt she heard an edge of scorn in his voice. Seven ladies turned to look at them, all erect in silk dresses more exotic than anything even Emmeline would wear. The walls were striped blue and gold and hung with portraits of august-looking old men, glaring out over heavy vases on tables.