Authors: Linda Gillard
‘Good night, Ann. Sleep well.’
‘You too. Good night.’
~
When I got back indoors, I found Phoebe had not only put herself to bed, she’d attempted to tidy the kitchen. There was a scrawled note under a dirty wine glass saying, “Cracked. Sorry.”
I preferred Phoebe to leave loading and unloading the dishwasher to me, but she liked to demonstrate she was still capable of living independently. When she tackled jobs, there were sometimes casualties. To protect her hands, I’d forbidden her to deal with broken glass and crockery.
I wrapped up the cracked glass, put on my coat and headed for the re-cycling bin, taking some empty bottles. On my way, I saw the light was still on in the studio. Connor hadn’t pulled the blinds down and was sitting on the
chaise longue
staring at the wood burner
.
I hurried through the garden and disposed of the bottles. On my way back, I glanced at the studio again. He was sitting with his head in his hands.
I stood in the shadows, rooted to the spot despite the cold. If I went in and asked if he was all right, it would look as if I’d been spying on him. Obviously, I should ignore him, go indoors and get to bed. But his head was still in his hands… I resolved to go indoors. And didn’t.
Connor suddenly got to his feet. In one smooth movement, he removed his sweater and tossed it on to the
chaise longue
. Kicking off his shoes, he started to unbutton his shirt. It was now quite clear I had no business standing in the garden watching a man undress, but if I crossed the garden now, I’d be moving into the light and Connor might see me. Even if he didn’t think I’d been watching him, he’d feel embarrassed. He’d removed his shirt and was unzipping his jeans before I turned and fled to the garage where I waited for several minutes, feeling a complete idiot – and a lot more besides.
When I felt sure he must have gone to bed, I emerged and set off for the house, keeping my head down. The only light came from the kitchen window now and I scurried towards it. Shivering convulsively, I shut the back door behind me, remembering to leave it unlocked for Connor in the morning. I turned out the lights and went up to my room. Too tired to clean my teeth, I undressed quickly and got into bed where I continued to shiver and think about what I’d seen and what I’d felt.
I must have dozed off, because I had no idea how much time had passed or what had happened when I found myself sitting up in bed, clammy with sweat, my heart pounding. I stared into the darkness, trying to interpret the rapidly fading vision I could see in my mind’s eye.
I was outside. In the wood. It was very early in the morning. And I was watching someone…
Then I remembered Connor standing in the studio. As I started to cry, my vision evaporated so completely, I thought I must have imagined it. Overwhelmed by fear and self-pity, I wept for the things I’d wanted and never had. A father. A child. And I cried for what I wanted now and didn’t have. A man. A man like Connor. Kind, intelligent, sensitive, with – as Phoebe had noted – broad shoulders and a nice arse.
Disgusted with myself, I lay down, hauled the duvet up round my shoulders and closed my eyes. I shivered and snivelled and eventually I slept.
~
With the approach of spring, we settled into a comfortable routine. Connor came over at weekends and worked in the garden. I fed him and photographed him for his blog, then in the evenings the three of us would pore over the Mordaunt archive and Connor would read from Hester’s diary. It was like doing a gigantic jigsaw, one we knew was incomplete, but which we nevertheless felt compelled to try and finish.
There was a standing invitation for Connor to stay over on Friday and Saturday nights so he could drink and make an early start in the garden after the breakfast I insisted on cooking for all three of us. Phoebe enjoyed these weekends so much, she counted the days, anticipating Connor’s return and her next fix of what she liked to call, “The Mystery of the Mordaunts”.
I was pleased for her. It was heartening to see her engage with both projects. I was less happy about the fact that I too found myself counting the days. I looked forward to Connor’s visits, for all the same reasons as Phoebe and another I could not have shared with her. Or Connor.
~
‘Things are hotting up,’ Connor announced as he filled our glasses. ‘War breaks out tonight.’
‘Jolly good!’ Phoebe said cheerfully. ‘I’ve been looking forward to that.’ She settled back in her armchair and lifted her feet on to a worn leather pouffe. ‘But I do hope you haven’t been cheating, Connor.’
‘
Cheating?
’ His face was a picture of mock outrage. ‘Phoebe, what
do
you mean?’
‘You know. Reading ahead. To see what happens.’
‘I’ve dipped in here and there, but I haven’t read everything. I was fairly sure what upset Ivy couldn’t have been in the diaries. She’d had them for years.’
‘But they’re quite hard to read, aren’t they?’ I said, handing round the now customary plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘Hester had tiny writing and it’s very elaborate. What was Ivy’s sight like?’
‘That’s a good point. She was ninety-seven when she died and her sight wasn’t brilliant for the last decade. But she
could
have read the diaries years before, when Hester died. That’s when they would have come into her possession.’
Phoebe clapped her hands. ‘Come on, let’s get on with the story. Don’t keep us waiting for this week’s thrilling instalment.
The lamps are going out all over Europe…
Isn’t that what someone said?
‘That’s right.’ Connor picked up the diary and opened it where he’d left a bookmark. ‘Sir Edward Grey, Foreign Secretary, the night before war was declared.
The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.
So let’s see what Hester Mordaunt had to say about it…’
HESTER
August 5
th
, 1914
We are at war. Germany has declared war on Serbia, Russia and France and now we have declared war on Germany. Mobilisation has already begun. How has this happened? Only days ago the papers were full of civil war in Ireland and now we are at war with Germany.
We had to respond to the invasion of Belgium, of course. Neutrality was unthinkable. We were honour bound to come to their assistance, but was there really no alternative to war? If that is indeed the case, why are men so eager to fight? To die? Arthur and Eddie are as excited as schoolboys, full of plans to enlist immediately. To listen to them whoop, you would think they had received an invitation to join a particularly good shooting party.
Father is calm, but subdued. So is Mother. Neither has said much, but it is clear they view the current situation with dismay and apprehension. I overheard Mother discussing food shortages with Cook. Father has already mentioned digging up some of the lawns to increase food production at Beechgrave.
The fate of Europe now depends on decisions women have no power to influence. We can only watch helplessly as husbands, brothers, sons and sweethearts go off to fight. But we must show ourselves worthy of citizenship, even if our claim to it is not yet recognised.
August 6
th
Arthur and Eddie are still determined to enlist. Father says Eddie is too young and cannot enlist without his consent, but I fear Eddie will soon wear him down.
I heard Mother weeping in the music room, so I went in to try to comfort her. I put my arm around her but could think of nothing reassuring to say. I am not so naïve as to assume my brothers lead charmed lives and will walk through the fire unharmed. Millions of young men will engage in this conflict and many thousands must die. So I simply held Mother’s hand, feeling quite helpless.
When she had regained her composure, she began to sort through her sheet music, appearing to cast some aside. Her eyes were red, but her expression was determined. She hesitated only once, when she came to an album of her beloved Beethoven sonatas, but after a moment, she dropped it on to the discarded pile on the carpet.
“We have no use for German music now, Hester,” she said. “It would be unpatriotic to play or even listen to it. Germany is our enemy. Their music is for ever tainted by their wickedness!”
Mother did not wait for me to respond, but swept out of the room, her back very straight.
The sight of so much Beethoven and Brahms lying in a disorderly heap distressed me. I knelt down, gathered the music into my arms and took it away to my bedroom where I hid it at the back of my wardrobe. If the newspapers are right and this dreadful war is over by Christmas, Mother might be glad I put her music by for her. Until then, she will miss Beethoven dreadfully. So shall I.
August 10
th
Walter has now declared his intention to enlist. He said he hoped to make me very proud of him. I told him I was already proud of him and his patriotic fervour.
I think I am proud, but my feelings are not at all clear. I fear for my brothers’ safety and wish they could either be spared the coming ordeal or that I could somehow share it with them. I am also afraid for Walter, but at the same time I have to admit – to myself at least – that I am not sorry the wedding has been postponed. Mother says a spring wedding will be much nicer and we shall have more time to plan and shop. The guest list would have been sadly depleted with so many of our young men away fighting, so it is best that we wait until the war is over.
August 16
th
This evening Mother insisted we play some music together in honour of Walter’s decision to enlist. We could only play a trio since Arthur and Eddie have already left for their training camp. The sound we made seemed very thin. I never thought I should miss poor Eddie’s contribution to family music-making. The sight of Arthur’s ’cello case standing in the corner like a naughty child, lowered my spirits. Mother’s too, I suspect. We played two short pieces,
con brio
, then she seemed to lose heart. She closed the piano lid and, quite disconsolate, said, ‘We shall be reduced to duets soon, Hester. I wonder, is there anything for piano and viola?’ I reminded her I could always play Eddie’s violin. Still she would not rally, but made her excuses and left the room, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Walter left soon afterwards and I went for a walk in the wood, then wandered back by way of the kitchen garden, just for the exercise. As I passed Garden Lodge, Violet Hatherwick ran out to speak to me. She must have been looking out of the kitchen window. After a few polite exchanges, she informed me that her brother wanted to enlist, but felt torn between his duty to his country and his duty to the Mordaunt family. Apparently he has firm ideas about how the garden could be made more productive with the use of fertilisers, but his father is convinced the fighting will be over by Christmas and considers talk of food shortages alarmist. William disagrees. Violet said he has been drawing up plans for the best use of the garden in the event of the war continuing next year.
I did not know how to respond to this dismal thought. In the silence that ensued, Violet said she had remembered something important and disappeared indoors. After a moment, she emerged with a book, saying, ‘William said I was to offer you this, Miss.’ I examined the spine briefly, then opened the book at the title page. It was a copy of
Land of the Blue Poppy: Travels of a Naturalist in Eastern Tibet
by Francis Kingdon-Ward. Once again a seed packet had been used to mark a place, but this time it had been slit and opened out so that someone – William presumably – could write on the blank side,
For the attention of Miss H. Mordaunt.
Violet explained that, if I found it of interest, William wished to lend me the book. I said I should very much like to read it. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, then I set off back to the house, hugging the book with excitement.
I went up to my room to study my new acquisition. The packet on which my name was inscribed had once held sweet pea seeds. Why this fact should seem worthy of recording, I do not know, except that I am very fond of sweet peas, both their colours and their scent. William Hatherwick cannot have known this of course, but the coincidence pleases me. I shall keep this seed packet, together with the other one, inside my journal.
September 3
rd
The de-population of Beechgrave continues. William Hatherwick has enlisted, along with several other staff. The tactical retreat following the Battle of Mons, where our heroic British Expeditionary Force was greatly outnumbered, has spurred many more men to enlist, as has the news that the German army is only thirty miles from Paris.
I feel utterly useless. There must be something more I can do apart from knit socks and mittens for our soldiers! To distract myself, I have taken to walking in the wood most evenings, when it is fine. Yesterday I met a tearful Violet walking with her brother. Apparently Father has promised all the men that their jobs will be held open for them, so they are free to answer the call to arms. Mr Hatherwick senior will have to manage with the pot boys and the few garden staff who are left.
William asked if I should like to borrow any of his books while he is away at the Front. He said Violet could bring them up to the house for me to peruse and that I should keep any that interested me “for the duration”. I thanked him for his kind offer and said I should be delighted to act as custodian of his library. He and Violet then set off back towards Garden Lodge. I was about to continue on my walk when William stopped and turned back. He indicated to Violet that she could go on ahead, then he hurried over towards me. He looked anxious, rotating the brim of his hat in his hands, as if possessed by some strong emotion. He cleared his throat, then said something very odd. I am still trying to digest its significance.
He said, in the event of his failing to return, I should keep his books – all of them. Violet had no use for them and his father’s sight was beginning to fail, but William said he wanted to know his books would be read. I was taken aback and suggested a collection of fine books could be sold, but he shook his head. He then cast a glance over his shoulder at his sister who had ambled on ahead and said he wanted me to have the books because he knew I would appreciate them and because (this was the strange part I did not understand) he owned nothing else of value, save his pocket watch and he wanted to give that to Violet.
I am sitting now at my writing table, surrounded by several piles of books that Violet kindly brought up to the house. I think she must have used the donkey cart to transport them! I have browsed through some of the books already, noting the places William has marked with old seed packets and I have read many of his neat marginal notes made in pencil.
I feel as if I have been entrusted with a great treasure. Safeguarding such a collection is an honour and I am so very glad of the opportunity to study. It will, I am sure, prove an excellent distraction from the war and will prevent me from worrying excessively about the fate of our menfolk.
I know Mother would not approve, but I have added William Hatherwick to my nightly prayers. He has been so very kind, I wish to pray for his safety, together with Walter’s and my brothers’. It is my fervent hope they will all return home safely.
September 13
th
There is talk of the Kaiser suing for peace! But there have been so many rumours, I hardly dare hope this one is true.
September 29
th
My diary has been much neglected of late. I write to Arthur, Eddie or Walter every day and by the time I have concocted something out of nothing by way of news, I am too low in spirits to record the tedium of my days. My brothers’ cheerful but infrequent letters describe their training, which consists of exercises to develop physical fitness, drill, marching, field craft and so on. It sounds dreary, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. Eddie in particular appears to think it all a great lark.
I pray they remain in good spirits if they are eventually sent abroad. But surely the war cannot continue for much longer?
October 10
th
It does not seem at all likely the war will be over by Christmas. Mr Kitchener has said it could last years.
I am knitting furiously. Poor Mother can manage little more than winding wool into balls, but she likes me to sit with her while I knit. I wish I could describe the silence as “companionable”, but it is not. It is not even comfortable. Knitting gives one far too much time to think.
October 21
st
Mother has lost her appetite and seems quite melancholy. After the postman has been, she has no interest in the rest of the day, nor does she follow the progress of the war. I think perhaps she is trying to ignore it.
At times her mind seems to wander and she has started to play Beethoven again, from memory. I have not reminded her of what she said. Fortunately Father does not recognise it as German music. Nor, I imagine, do the servants.
November 15
th
Like Mother, I now live for letters, though Walter’s are so brief and inconsequential, they offer little food for thought. They are affectionate however, if somewhat repetitive.
While reading my last letter from Walter, I realised I can no longer recall what he looks like. I have a photographic portrait, but when I think of him and try to bring his face and person to mind, I see only his head and shoulders, as they appear in the portrait, floating like the Cheshire Cat’s grin. Try as I might, I cannot remember Walter himself. His photograph is not even a good likeness. Walter generally looks cheerful and often smiles. In this, the only picture I have of him, he looks stiff and uncomfortable, as if his collar is troubling him. That is not at all how I remember Walter.
Though the truth is, I do not remember Walter.
December 6
th
Scarborough, Whitby and Hartlepool have been bombarded by the German navy. There have been many casualties. Mother is hysterical, but I am too angry to be frightened.
I have decided to abandon this wretched journal. It seems pointless to chronicle such a futile and unhappy life, especially as I have no right to be unhappy. After all, what sacrifices have I been called upon to make? Nothing more than postponing my wedding! In Hartlepool people have died horribly.
This diary has become a repository for self-pity and cowardly thoughts. I am ashamed of it and ashamed of myself.
I shall waste no more ink and paper.
April 13
th
, 1915
After an interval of several months, I take up my pen again. I can no longer bear to keep all my thoughts and feelings to myself, but there is no one to whom I can talk, so I have resumed this journal.