The Storms of War (9 page)

‘No,’ hissed Celia, and dug into the newspaper until she found the big parcel she knew was the doll, and thrust it into Missy’s hands. Missy took it, but as she did so, Celia regretted her actions. The child’s face was full of fear. ‘Have them both,’ Celia cried, but Missy shook her head. The tears were coming again.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten her,’ Celia said, looking at Tom.

‘You didn’t. She’s tired. It’s a long day for her.’ He wasn’t really looking at her, she knew. He was looking away.

‘Why isn’t she wearing her best dress?’ She knew why. If he’d walked from Eversley with Missy in her Sunday dress, everyone would have known they were coming to the party. ‘You’re ashamed of us.’

He shrugged. ‘Everybody thinks I’m one of your lot anyway.’ She hardly recognised his voice, tinged with anger.

‘You
are
one of us!’

He stared at her, his eyes full of an expression she could not place. His lip curled. ‘I’m your servant.’ He looked beyond her. ‘Thank you, sir, madam, Miss de Witt, for the party. We enjoyed ourselves very much.’ He did not go closer, did not walk up to Rudolf or give him a chance to deliver his speech. ‘Thank you very much,’ said Missy. She bobbed a curtsey, shyly, then lifted her apron to rub at her eyes.

They turned and walked away, followed by Jennie to let them out. The de Witts watched them, Celia, Emmeline, Verena and Rudolf, the cakes melting around them, the bunting slipping from its pinning on the tables.

Rudolf stood up. ‘Let us take a walk,’ he said. They gazed up at him, blankly. ‘Come along. Let us walk. Walking is good for the soul.’

‘I don’t want to walk, Papa,’ said Emmeline.

‘I think we all should go.’

‘Go where?’

‘To the village, of course!’

Verena gripped his hand. ‘But we cannot do that.’

‘It is surely all a very easily solved mystery, I think. Let us go and investigate.’

‘Please, Papa.’ Emmeline put her hand over her face. ‘Please.’

‘Come along!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Chop, chop!’ Celia stood up, followed them. Emmeline’s head was drooping. Rudolf was parading ahead. Celia could not bear it. She broke forward and
began to run. She cut around the edge of the building, through the side path and out on to the front drive. She ran to the end. And then she looked. And again. There was red paint daubed over the drive. Huge capitals, scrawled across like blood:
GERMANS GO HOME.

She dropped to her knees and began scrubbing at it with her bare hands, ignoring the pain. ‘Celia!’ she heard her father shout. ‘Stop that!’ She felt Emmeline’s arms around her, pulling her back.

There was no dinner that night. After the party they usually had a supper of cold cuts, to give Mrs Rolls and the girls a rest. But this time, when Celia came down at eight, changed into a white gown Verena liked, there was no one there but Smithson.

‘I think most of them are dining in their rooms, miss,’ he told her. ‘You can do the same if you like, I would think.’

‘I think I’ll stay here.’ Her room looked out on to the party tables, still waiting for children. She sat down in front of the great piles of meat and wondered how she was supposed to eat any of it. Smithson ladled ham and cold potatoes on to her plate and stood back from her, gazing into the garden. She ate slowly. The words on the drive blazed in her mind.

‘I will not go to bed just yet,’ she said. ‘I’m not tired.’

‘As you wish, miss.’

She did not even want to go into the garden. She sat in the dining room, after Smithson had cleared away the plates, her mind tumbling. Eventually she put her head in her hands and felt a dozing sleep overtake her.

‘Oh, it’s you, miss.’ Smithson was at the door. She lifted her head, sleep making her heavy. ‘I’d forgotten you were here.’

‘I think I fell asleep,’ she said, dizzily.

‘There is a gentleman on the telephone for Mr de Witt. Someone from London. I can’t find Mr Vine anywhere.’

‘Oh.’

‘Your father said he was not to be disturbed.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I last saw him in his study. If the gentleman says it is urgent, I think we must find him.’

‘I will go,’ said Celia. ‘Don’t worry.’ She hurried out to the corridor, to Rudolf’s study, and knocked on the door. ‘Papa?’ There was no answer. She pushed open the door. He was not there.

Smithson stood behind her. ‘I think he may be sleeping, miss.’

Celia had not been into her parents’ bedroom since she was a child with nightmares. ‘You go to wake him up,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask the man to wait.’

She walked along the corridor to the room where Rudolf kept the telephone. Smithson had left the door open. She pushed through and stood at the booth. She picked up the telephone, cool in her hands. The line crackled. ‘Hello?’ she said, down the receiver. ‘Mr de Witt is just coming.’

‘Mrs de Witt?’

She was about to say no, but the voice continued. ‘It’s Edward Lewis here, from the London office, Mrs de Witt.’

‘Hello, Mr Lewis.’

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs de Witt. I’m calling from the house of a friend in Westminster. London is quite overcome. There are people everywhere, cheering outside the Palace and trying to get to Downing Street. They are crying out for the King. Mr Asquith has put down an ultimatum. If Germany does not retreat from Belgium by eleven tonight, we are at war.’

‘What time is it now?’

‘Nearly eleven.’

Celia strained to hear. ‘What do you think will happen?’

‘Word is that Germany will not respond. We have spoken of getting in place an emergency plan, to protect the interests here and in Germany. We can lose no time. Can you tell your husband? It is imperative that we speak.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. Mrs de Witt, can you hear? I’ll hold the telephone at the window.’

She strained at the crackle down the line. A clanging sound,
very faint. It was the strike of Big Ben. She sat in silence and listened. Ten strikes – eleven. At the final one, there were cheers.

‘I don’t know, Mrs de Witt. I think perhaps we are at war. Let me go to see.’

There was a bump as he put the telephone down. Celia sat quietly, holding the receiver, staring at it. Where was her father? After five minutes or so, Mr Lewis came back, breathless. ‘The street is full of people cheering and shouting that we are going to war. It’s not certain, of course, but I think … I think …’

‘Oh.’

‘Everybody is calling for the King. Mrs de Witt, can you hear?’ His voice was excited, in spite of himself.

‘I can hear faintly.’

‘Well, I should leave you now. I will go to the Palace to see if there is an announcement. I will call again from the office tomorrow morning. Goodbye, Mrs de Witt.’

‘Goodbye.’ She heard the click as he put the telephone down. The line fuzzed. She continued to listen, hearing only noise that meant nothing.

There were footsteps. Rudolf with Smithson. Her father was gathering his dressing gown around him. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Is Mr Lewis there?’

‘He’s gone to Buckingham Palace.’

‘Gone to Buckingham Palace? But why on earth would he do that?’

‘Because he says we are at war with Germany.’

Rudolf looked at her, his face paling.

‘I must speak to him. Was he in the offices?’

‘No, at a friend’s house. He has gone out now.’

‘And what is the telephone number?’

‘I don’t know.’ She felt a tinge of fear. Her father’s face was angry.

‘How can you not know the number, Celia? What is wrong with you?’

‘I’m sorry, Papa.’ He had never been so angry with her before. She had no idea what to say.

‘Well you should be! Such carelessness!’

Hot tears sprang to her eyes. She turned and rushed up the stairs.

On the second corridor, near the turn for Emmeline’s room, she heard the sound of a man’s voice. She saw that the window was open and crept closer. It was Tom’s voice. He was outside in the garden, just underneath where she stood.

‘What are you talking about, Michael? Good at sport? What can that possibly matter?’

Someone replied – Michael. Celia could not catch his words.

‘You don’t mean that.’

Celia edged forward, and as she did so, she knocked the table decked with her mother’s photographs of the family. They rattled flat; five fell off.

‘What’s that?’ said Tom.

‘Someone is up there,’ said Michael. ‘You should go.’

‘Michael! Tom! It’s me!’ Celia called from the window. She saw them look up.

‘What are you doing there?’ hissed Michael. ‘Go on, Tom, go.’ Tom hurried away, not glancing back. Michael looked up at her. ‘Celia. You should be in bed.’

‘What were you talking about?’

She wished she could have jumped from the window and followed Tom. Instead, she got to her knees and started picking up the silver-framed photographs: Lady Deerhurst, Arthur as a baby. She put them back on the table, even though she could barely see and knew they were going back in the wrong order, out of place.

Michael pulled apart the fronds of the trees where Celia was sitting. ‘Take a walk with me, Ceels?’ She had an hour and a half before lessons with Mr Janus started again, after a whole morning of equations. She was supposed to go up to her room for a rest after luncheon, but instead she ran out to sit on her stone under the trees, her place. She didn’t want to be in the house anyway.

It was Friday, three days after the party, the tables cleared, the food thrown away because Verena did not want to see it. Celia had thrust her dress to the back of the wardrobe.

Jennie had brought in women from the village to scrub the drive. But cleaning wasn’t enough; they couldn’t take the house back to what it had been. Rudolf paced around, tried to use the telephone, talked of going to London. He said the government had banned export of animals, though it probably wouldn’t make meat cheaper in the end, because there wouldn’t be any more imports; the most important thing was that the factories kept going. He talked of writing to the
Mail
to tell them to stop printing tips on how to economise. ‘Now is not the time to economise,’ he roared. ‘It is the time to spend!’ Verena quivered on the brink of tears. ‘I know it will be over by Christmas,’ she said. ‘But Christmas is so far away.’

Mr Vine had fallen ill on the word of the war and had retired to bed. They had never been without their butler for so long. Rudolf said he had requested permission to visit his relatives in Surrey – a thing he had never asked for before. Mrs Bell had begged to remain with her niece, whose husband was planning to sign up. ‘She will never return,’ said Verena dully. She and Rudolf had until the seventeenth to register at the police station. Verena was refusing to go. ‘I am no alien,’ she snapped. ‘Neither are you, husband. You’re a better subject than Mr Asquith himself.’ On the
day before, Verena had gripped Celia’s hand, holding tight as if she could not see anyone, and started talking about how her father had always said it was the responsibility of the British Empire to balance the power in Europe before it was too late. ‘And that was in 1880!’ she said, pained. The servants were under orders not to let anyone in.

‘Come on, Ceels, what do you think? A wander into Eversley?’

‘I could do.’ She would normally have leapt at it, but she wouldn’t this time; she wanted to show him that he was wrong to have hidden himself in his room on the day of the party. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Let’s go down to the village green.’

‘Michael! We can’t! They didn’t come to our party.’

‘No one cares about parties any more. We are at war now.’

‘I don’t think Mama would like it.’

‘She is in her bedroom with a headache. She won’t know. Listen, Ceels, I don’t have all day. If you don’t want to come, then I’ll go alone.’

‘I’m coming.’ She jumped to her feet and the two of them set off towards the side gate, nodding at the gardeners as they walked through. There were traces of red paint on the stone and the gateposts of the drive. Rudolf had said the rain would wash the last of it away.

‘Who do you think did this to us?’ Celia asked.

‘Who cares? They all think it.’

‘But someone must have!’ Someone must have found the paint – bought it, even – carried it down to their drive, scrawled the words, not caring who saw them.

‘Stop it, Celia. I don’t think it’s worth thinking about.’

Out on the road, Michael was quiet. Celia asked him about the aeroplanes, but he shrugged off her questions. She wanted to talk to him about so many things: the war, whether the factories would do well, and Hilde and Johann. But he dug his hands in his pockets and didn’t look at her, walking fast so she had to skip every five steps or so to keep up with him. The sun was very hot. No cars passed them, or even carts. As they came closer to the
village, the houses thickened along the road: low cottages, the scrubs of grass outside piled up with broken chairs, rubbish, an old pan, left there in the hope that someone might take them away. There were goats and sheep tethered to the front of some, pigs tumbling in dirt by others. Outside one with a roof that was losing its thatch, two women were talking, arms folded, a baby in a basket at the foot of one, three children of about four or so poking at the ground with a stick, a bored-looking older girl supervising them, her pinafore grimy with dirt. As Celia and Michael passed, the women stopped talking and stared at them. The children halted too and gazed. You could have come to the party, Celia wanted to say.

‘Look away,’ hissed Michael in her ear. ‘Stop staring at them.’ Celia tore her eyes away from the round-eyed children on the ground, the stern-faced women. He gripped her arm. ‘Do you want them to come after us?’

‘They are only children,’ she protested when they were clear of the house.

‘Their mothers aren’t. I really don’t think you understand a thing, Celia.’

‘I do! I understand everything.’ But she faltered as she was saying the words.

They turned a corner and came to the village green. It was, Celia thought, surely one of the prettiest in the area, the pond at the centre, the houses dotted around, the spire of the church visible over the tops of the pubs and the few shops: a baker’s, butcher’s, greengrocer’s, haberdashery and dry goods. The two pubs either side of the pond, the Drake and Duck and the Bell, were full. Men and women spilled out over the grass in front, holding glasses as they leant on tables and talked in the sun. To the side of the Bell was another big crowd of men.

‘It looks like it is a holiday day.’

‘We are all at war. It is a holiday for them, Celia, don’t you see that? Keep walking.’

They were heading towards the White Hart. ‘You don’t want to go to the pub, do you?’ she said, suddenly panicked. ‘We can’t!’ The
men were red-faced, their arms slung around the women. Pubs were for working men, servants. The whole world would fall down if people like Michael and Celia went to one.

‘Of course not. We are just walking.’ He hurried on to the path across the green, making for the White Hart. She clutched his hand but he threw her off. About three yards away from the crowd of men, they stopped. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘What do you think of that?’ Celia could see men in bright red jackets sitting behind a table. Their buttons shone silver. ‘Don’t you think that is marvellous?’

‘What is it?’

‘The men are signing up to go to war. They set up tables here yesterday evening. Tom Cotton told me. They’ll probably be in France in a week, fighting for the King.’

‘But …’ She couldn’t say what she wanted to, somehow couldn’t explain that it didn’t seem fair to have a stall right next to the pub. ‘They might get killed.’

‘Thousands are signing up across the country. Imagine how proud they are. Don’t you think it’s exciting?’

She realised she did, a little: there it was, a surge in her heart, like before the school play started or when Rudolf had taken her to a concert in London and the big trumpets began playing.

‘Look at those other men at the pub, just standing there. They must feel like cowards.’

‘I’d be afraid.’

He tossed his head. ‘But you are a girl, of course, Celia. Why would you think otherwise?’

‘Don’t say that!’

But he didn’t seem to hear. He stood there staring at the men in red jackets, who were holding out papers, talking, offering pens. She was reminded of their school trip to the National Gallery, and how Miss Grey, the history teacher they all mocked for her escaping hair and flappy ways, had gazed at the portrait of Olympia, her eyes yearning.

Celia waited next to him, dipping her head because the men and women in the pub were staring at them, her face flushed. The sun was burning her hair. Still Michael did not speak to her, and
she felt afraid that he might tell her to go home, walk back alone, past the houses and the women watching.

Finally he brought himself back. ‘We should leave. Come on home now. Mr Janus will want you soon.’

She turned, glad to leave the red-coated men behind. ‘What were you and Tom talking of that night after the party? I heard you.’

‘Oh, this and that.’

‘It was something!’ She could not bear the idea that they had a secret from her.

‘Really, Celia, it was nothing.’ He strode forward, making her run again to keep up. He did not talk to her on the way home. At the house with the falling-down roof, the three children were still outside with the stick but the women and the older girl had gone. They could hear the sound of a woman crying and begging, a man shouting back. Celia wanted to stop, to smile at the children, but Michael pulled her on.

Back at the house, they walked around the side and Emmeline was there. Celia had seen her very little over the past few days. The change in her appearance was painful. Her beautiful eyes were rimmed with deep purple and her cheeks were hollow and grey. She was wearing her favourite apple-green and lace gown, but it looked as if she had worn it yesterday as well, maybe even the day before, for it was dirty around the neck and the hemline.

‘Where have you been? To the village?’

Celia nodded. ‘There were men at the pub.’

‘Did you see Sir Hugh anywhere?’ Her voice was almost cracking in her desperation.

Michael put his hand on Emmeline’s arm. ‘No, we didn’t, but you know, Ems, he wouldn’t be around the village green. You mustn’t worry. He’ll come. He must be busy with something. You’ll look back and smile at this when you’re married.’

A tear was forming in Emmeline’s eye. ‘I just wish he would write. The country’s at war and he hasn’t written to me.’

‘I’m sure he is occupied. He is probably still away on business,’ said Michael. ‘Really, that’s all it is.’

‘Yes,’ said Celia, nodding too hard, she thought. ‘It will be a
business thing for him. With the war, he might have to apply himself to something like that.’

Emmeline shook her head. ‘This is his favourite gown, you know.’ She touched her neckline. ‘He likes the lace here.’

‘You look very pretty,’ said Michael, patting her arm again.

‘Sir Hugh will be pleased when he comes,’ said Celia, looking at her sister’s pained face and feeling guilty at having detested Sir Hugh so.

‘Well there you are, Miss Celia!’ Mr Janus came around the corner. He saw Emmeline and his face changed. ‘Good morning, Miss de Witt.’ His sharp voice softened and he gazed at her. Celia had once asked him what had caused his illness, and he had blushed, said he had caught a chill. He still looked unwell, Celia thought, thin and pale, his hair fine as if it had only recently grown back, like a rabbit that had been underground too long. And yet, she had to admit, when they were supposed to be doing history and he was distracted by philosophy and started talking about how economies had been dominated by kings, he was very passionate. You could see that he might have been interesting, before he was ill.

Emmeline barely shrugged. ‘Good morning.’ She turned her face away from him.

Celia could see that Mr Janus was itching to say how beautiful Emmeline looked, how he admired the dress, her hair. She was staring at the floor, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. Michael stood there, looking at them all. ‘Celia, you should go to your lessons now,’ he said. ‘Will you take her, Mr Janus?’

Mr Janus snapped to attention. ‘Of course, Mr de Witt. Come along, Miss Celia. Let us make a start on Louis XIV.’ He walked away, Celia following him. All afternoon Mr Janus droned on about Cardinal Mazarin, and wouldn’t be distracted into discussing the inequality of people and kings.

After lessons, Jennie came to collect Celia as usual. ‘There will be a proper dinner tonight, miss,’ she said. ‘Mr de Witt has said. Seven sharp. Miss Wilton will come to you at six.’

Celia had not mourned three days without Miss Wilton’s harsh fingers. But then a dinner meant that things were returning to how they had been, making the party a thing of the past, like Cardinal Mazarin.

‘Is Sir Hugh coming?’

‘I don’t think so, miss.’

They walked back to Celia’s room together, the noise of the house flowing around them: a maid clattering up the stairs; Thompson or someone moving furniture around; Miss Wilton knocking at Verena’s door. Things were going back to how they had been before.

‘I think the bravest thing a man can do is to fight!’ Michael had drunk six of the crystal glasses of wine – Celia had been counting. His face was red and his hair was falling over his forehead. ‘If everyone else is going, he should go too.’

‘But everyone else is not going, dear,’ Verena said, patiently. Rudolf was concentrating on eating, his knife cutting the meat in swift strokes. ‘It’s all just talk in the newspapers. They say that people are running out to sign up, but I just don’t believe it. We have a plentiful army in this country. That is enough.’

‘What do you know, Mother?’

‘Dear. I have seen many wars. Always the same. There is a big fanfare at the start and then it all ends in a damp squib.’

‘This is different.’

‘That is why I have told the ladies’ committee that Stoneythorpe cannot be given up under any circumstances. I had a letter from Lady Redroad requesting the use of the Hall as a place for men to recuperate. Not for the wounded, because of course there will not be many; just for those men who are tired after the war and wish to rest. She said we had an ideal position for the railway station and the kind of ground-floor rooms needed. Warbrook is just as good, if you ask me. She might surrender her own house before she starts asking others.’

‘Imagine,’ said Rudolf. ‘Stoneythorpe full of nurses.’

‘We’ve enough to do with this ridiculous demand to give up the car.’

‘I think—’ Celia wanted to say that she thought it would be splendid, that ladies at Stoneythorpe tending poor soldiers would be great and heroic. But Verena shot her a look.

Emmeline was staring at the table, fiddling with the lace on her collar. She had eaten nothing as far as Celia could tell, just pushed her meat and potatoes around the plate.

Michael was still full of questions. ‘What about Smithson and Thompson, then? Shouldn’t they be allowed to go?’

‘They wouldn’t want to,’ said Rudolf. ‘They have important work here. They don’t need a job.’