A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (26 page)

At Easterleigh Hall kitchen, Bridie waited by the scullery door. It was Friday evening, and they'd been
busy preparing for the summer bank holiday weekend, but her da had sent a note to everyone insisting that they be here at ten o'clock. Her mam, Auntie Ver and Mrs Moore sat on their stools. Uncle Richard, Harry, Annie and Ron stood around, all busy with their own thoughts, from the look of it. The kitchen and scullery staff, including Maria and Estrelle, sat in the staff hall across the passage.

Bridie heard his car enter the yard, then the slam of the door. She clasped her hands in front of her, as though she didn't care. Was he going to shout at her again as he had done when she'd arrived home, chastising her for lying, and for causing them such worry about her well-being? Well, that at least would be a change from the continuing frostiness here. Just how many times did she have to apologise? Well, she couldn't do it any more. She felt her throat contract, but she wouldn't cry.

Her da entered, pulling off his gloves. ‘Lovely evening,' he said. ‘The harvest is finally in, and the drive over from Home Farm was delightful.'

The others turned to look at him. Mam and Auntie Ver had poured cognac into goblets, and his waited for him at the head of the table. Bridie's tea was cooling on the corner of the dresser, where she'd left it. Mrs Moore was sipping hers. Her da pulled out the stool and sat. He picked up the goblet, breathed in the scent of cognac.

He snatched a look at Bridie, and she watched his face twist with sadness, and then anger. He raised
his glass, looked at each in turn, including Bridie. ‘Cheers.'

They raised their glasses, and Mrs Moore her tea. Bridie didn't reach for her mug. What was the point? ‘This has to stop,' her da said, keeping his voice friendly and calm. ‘I will not have Bridie penalised for James' decision, or, any more, her own actions.'

Bridie stood ramrod straight. Her mam also straightened, slamming her glass down onto the pine table, opening her mouth. ‘No,' her da insisted. ‘Evie and Ver, you went in to bat for votes, without a by your leave to anyone. You didn't come out into the open, if I remember rightly? Remember, Ver, you didn't share your suffrage activities with our step-mother. And Evie, you changed your surname in order to work here because my father didn't like the Forbes family.'

Auntie Ver shouted, ‘Fighting for votes wouldn't get us killed – well, only in some rare instances.'

Richard moved round the table and put his arm around her. ‘But joining the army, as we did, could. Listen to your brother, for pity's sake.'

‘Exactly,' Aub said. ‘Our daughter was loyal; she didn't give away her cousin's intentions at any stage. She lied, I agree, so that she could follow her beliefs. So?'

He held the balloon glass to his lips, breathing in the scent, then sipped from it. ‘I've been thinking hard about this ever since Bridie returned, and I want you to ask yourselves how what she's done is
different from what anyone around the table has done, really? Yes, you're worried about James, and were worried about her. Yes, you're embarrassed that she attended the Institute and used them. Yes, you're embarrassed that she used Madame Beauchesne, but have you spoken to either of them, other than to write blathering apologies on top of Bridie's?'

The two women looked down at the table. The others shuffled, embarrassed at the family palaver. Her da shook his head, and she was amazed, because even when he'd shouted at her, he had not been this annoyed.

‘Well, I have. Lucien Allard applauds her endeavour, both as a student and as a person who wanted to do what our assembled governments won't: to defend democracy. Even dear old Sir Anthony is involving himself in the international situation, in the wrong way, with the wrong people, in my opinion, but he is addressing it.'

‘But . . .' Auntie Ver spluttered.

‘I have also spoken to Madame Beauchesne. She feels that Bridie's heart was completely in the right place. If Captain Beauchesne had been alive, she feels he would have driven her to the Pyrenees himself. What's more, he'd have carried on with the pair of them to do his bit. As for the lies, she says, “pouf”.

‘So, I repeat, this stops now. Evie, my darling, Bridie is our daughter, she is so like you and I doubt you
would have done anything different. Ver, your son is his own person, just as you were, and Richard.'

He held his glass towards Bridie. ‘Bridie, another time, you must trust us enough to tell us the truth. We might try to talk you out of it, and indeed, we would have forbidden you until you were older, but you can see that on this occasion we would have been right. James turned you away at the behest of his leader, for your safety, and theirs. I suspect that this has made you an adult. If not, then see that it does, by the morning. Do we have an understanding, everyone.'

His voice was such that they knew it wasn't a question.

He looked at Mrs Moore and they shared a smile. At that moment Bridie knew that they had decided on this plan of action together, and she wouldn't be surprised if Matron hadn't also been in on the act. Now she reached for her tea, and sipped it. It didn't matter that it was almost stone-cold. She listened as everyone chatted, and it was as though a safety valve had been released as the men talked about how the Japanese were occupying Peking, and the women contributed, and then moved on to tomorrow's menu.

No-one had spoken to her yet, or even met her eyes. Her father, however, was smiling at her, and she loved him to the sky and back down again, just as she always had. Her mother called out, ‘Let's try that mushroom soup soon, shall we Bridie pet?'

Bridie smiled, ‘Aye, Mam. Let's.' She was forgiven. Her mam was gesturing to her.

‘Come and tell us how to do it again. Your da is quite right. We were wrong. Ver and I would have done the same. I'm sorry, dearest girl.'

Ver smiled at her, pale from worry about her son. ‘Of course, Bridie. I don't know about
you
needing to grow up, but certainly there are a few of us here who do. I should be the first, methinks.'

Bridie smiled. It seemed over, but it wasn't, because she hadn't told the truth about Tim. He had come but she had sent him away. She put her tea down and opened her mouth, but she could say nothing. Not now, or it would all start again, and she was too tired, too upset, too worried.

James sat in the back of the truck, clinging on to the rifle propped up between his legs. Archie was looking at the mountains, which seemed just a stone's throw but were much further.

‘So,' drawled Frank, the American. ‘What d'ya reckon advanced training means? More running, more press-ups, more God-awful pasta. It's alright for you, Jamie boy, with all your ploughing and hedging, and whatever the hell else you did for your uncle, but us lot, from offices . . .' The grimace said it all.

James rested his chin on his hands, which formed a cushion on top of the rifle butt. The barrel was well oiled, the stock shiny. Ian nudged him. ‘Studying yer navel again, are yer? Shouldn't bother. It's the same as it was yesterday.'

James grinned. Ian had struggled with basic training because the most exercise he said he usually got was putting his Woodbine to his gob. He'd kept at it, and swallowed Sergeant Coffey's orders for extra press-ups and joked his way through. He was
the best shot in the platoon, a fact that had surprised them all, especially Ian. He'd said, ‘I just imagine it's your bum, Sergeant Coffey, and it all happens.'

He was given extra press-ups, yet again, but he maintained it was worth it.

Today, when they'd left the compound, the others saluted Sergeant Coffey, then waved as the truck revved away. Ian, however, bowed and bellowed, ‘You're a right bastard, but you're our bastard and I have muscles to prove it. I s'pose I'm to be grateful.'

The others had dragged him down, and for the first time, Sergeant Coffey had laughed.

On their arrival at a barracks in the lea of a hill, they were greeted by Sergeant Miller and Corporal Badia, a Catalan. They led them through ever more rigorous terrain, while a platoon of Badia's Catalans ambushed or sniped at them with blanks. James began to realise even more clearly why his uncles and father were different from those who had not been at war.

The following week they were trained in light machine guns, which they fired until the barrels grew hot, and each evening some of the platoon was allowed into the nearby village. Finally it was the turn of their group. Together with Frank and Boyo, they headed down the track towards the lamplight, hearing the accordion playing, and discordant voices, long before they arrived. They drank wine and cognac at the café, as moths batted at the lamps.

Men were entering a house opposite the café, then leaving half an hour later. ‘A brothel,' Ian declared. ‘Who's up for it?' None were. Instead they drank steadily, quietly, and again James took himself back to Easterleigh Hall: its formal gardens, the herbaceous beds on the front lawn, the arboretums. To watch things grow was precious.

He wondered if David was helping Bridie with the injured. How did you go through life in a wheelchair? Would that happen to him? Then his thoughts moved on to the horses, and he wondered how Terry was working out, and if he had Prancer's sense of care.

They staggered back, drunk as skunks, and it felt good. Sergeant Miller met them at the gate and insisted, ‘Water, lads, lots of it, or you'll want me to chop your heads off in the morning. Why? We've had the signal. Up at sparrow fart, if you please, ready and willing to join the British Battalion.'

They set off in a convoy of trucks at dawn, taking a last sip of decent coffee in the mess room, and grabbing the half loaf they were to take with them. They stuffed it in their packs with their water bottles, their heads throbbing in spite of the water. Sergeant Miller travelled in the back of the truck with them, Corporal Badia in another.

They ignored their aching heads and constantly searched the terrain, as they'd been taught. They scanned the sky, and listened as they roared through canyons, up hills and along valleys, dotted with trees
and bushes, and the occasional small wood. Who knew what was hiding in there? They were on alert as never before. Finally, as evening fell, they pulled into a camouflaged lay-by in a long valley.

They jumped from the truck and followed Miller at a run, up a gentle incline that was hidden by trees and shrubs until they reached Battalion HQ, which was a ramshackle stone farmhouse. The exhausted adjutant, in a uniform as shabby and ad hoc as their own, allocated them to different companies. Archie, Ian and James were designated to No. 4 Company, along with Frank and Boyo.

The HQ was set up amongst trees and bushes, and all around were
chabolas,
or lean-tos. They were directed to B Company lines. Their section leader, Alan Douglas from Sussex, pointed towards the spot where they could erect their own shelter. He told them to lay their blankets out on the pine needles, and sleep. ‘You'll eat in the morning, so no complaints; you've had some bread, Miller tells me.'

He stomped on, pretending not to hear the groans, and Ian's voice, ‘Ray of bleedin' sunshine, that bloke.'

James slept immediately, and it seemed only seconds later they were woken by a bugle and heard their section leader, Douglas, calling, ‘You lot, jump to it. Get to the ablutions early and you'll stay clean. At the bloody run, lads.'

They diverted on their return to pick up axes, because today they were to build their
chabolas
,
having grabbed bread and cheese from the mess hall. They ate as they headed into the pine trees and James knew he would not be heading home to university because, he told himself, he had done nothing to earn such a luxury.

Later that afternoon he talked to Sergeant Miller, who said he'd try and get a letter out of Spain, via the guides back at base training. They'd take it back to France to send from there.

‘They'll do their best, they always do.'

He slept soundly again, the letter written, and his mind at rest.

Two days later they marched at night and rested under cover by day. As they marched they kept to the sides of the tracks when the occasional truck passed. In the light from the moon they could see the red crosses on the canvas. The next night, with the valley starting to box in, they headed, footsore, into the dawn, hearing sounds of firing probably just a half kilometre distant, if that. They hunkered down by a dried-out river bed, looking for, and eventually finding, water in potholes, then clambered up towards the shade of a small outcrop. The mountains blurred in the far distance.

They chewed at their dry crusts and sipped their water, always alert, examining the landscape, and James couldn't believe they were actually going into action, heading for the front line. He slumped into his little bit of shelter, a dip he had found, and stared
up at the early morning sky – and then rifle fire cracked, machine guns chattered, mortars exploded all around. They smelt the explosives, heard Miller roaring, ‘Take cover, take cover.'

Men were shouting; rifles were firing at the enemy flashes on the opposite slope. The
avion
whistle blew, and the planes with German crosses came over, strafing and bombing, but their aim was off, and by mistake they pounded the opposite hill. James felt the ground shudder, the percussion hitting his eardrums, and saw the dust and debris fill the sky. He heard the screams too and for a moment he froze.

Archie yelled, ‘Bloody German planes, couldn't hit a bloody barn, they couldn't.'

‘Shut your noise,' roared Miller. ‘Keep your head down, they'll be back.'

The
avion
whistle blew again after they had been returning fire for a few hours, pinned down by the enemy. James hugged his dip, feeling sand in his mouth. He saw Ian doing the same, behind a bush. James put his arms over his head as this time the road caught some of the fire, but now it was catching the lower slopes on their side.