Broken Music (4 page)

Now, four years later, and with the end of the war and Oaklands as a hospital ceasing to exist, Nella's work as a nurse was coming to an end, and there was an alarming gap stretching in front of her, an emptiness she couldn't think how she was going to fill.

‘Why don't you carry on nursing, become qualified?' Miss Inman had suggested. ‘We need more women of your calibre in the profession.'

A life devoted to the alleviation of human suffering sounded worthy and lofty, and many of the other temporary nurses she had served with were seeking in it an escape from what might well now be a life of idle, enforced spinsterhood, but Nella didn't feel that was justification enough. She had volunteered and done her duty willingly, and not only because she had found in it an antidote to the restlessness which had consumed her before the war. But now she was, in effect, back where she had started: even in those pre-war days she had upset a good many people by rejecting what she had seen as the aimless life projected for her, its sole object to get herself married as soon and as well as possible.

Oaklands Park was a Queen Anne house built of brick that time had turned to a warm rose pink, in its approach looking smaller than it actually was, being tall and narrow at the front, flat-faced and shallow-roofed, four storeys high, but stretching out a long way towards the back. Wall shrubs spread out at its base, seeming to anchor the tall house to the ground and prevent it looking top-heavy, while climbing the walls were Virginia creeper and roses – Gloire de Dijon, Albertine, Zephirine Drouhin (a bad choice, this – a rose of a vibrant pink colour that clashed horribly with the brick, but kept because it was thornless, had a rich fragrance and bloomed continuously). Where the carriageway from the road ended, the hundred-yard-long drive began, running ruler straight towards the front steps between a double row of yews, with grass stretching either side behind them, in turn flanked by matching herbaceous borders against brick walls, until the drive swept into a circle round a central fountain and then continued round towards the back.

Nella emerged from the back door with her usual haste, passed the stables and the carriage house now used to accommodate motor vehicles and ambulances, and made for the arched wooden door set in the old brick wall, struck anew by a glimpse of the disorderly aspect of the ornamental garden at the front. The borders were overgrown, with last year's growth not cut back, the gravel was grass-grown and weed-infested; the roses on the walls, taking advantage of neglect, lolled unsupported and unpruned; the shaggy yews nearly touched each other, almost begging for their annual clip into the neat candle-flame shapes Lady Sybil had always been so particular about. Trimming them was a four-man-and-a-boy job and there was only Hughes and his garden boy now, where once there had been six men employed to look after the gardens, three of whom would never return.

Hughes had left a basket of vegetables for her outside the potting shed. Despite all the odds, he'd managed to keep his kitchen garden in good shape. The glasshouses might be empty of the peaches, nectarines and grapes, the hothouse roses and stephanotis which had filled them before the war, but the neat rows of cabbages, potatoes and onions were what mattered now, and kept the family in fresh produce, with some to spare. Compared to those unlucky beings in the towns and cities, Broughton Underhill, accustomed to being self-sufficient, had never gone hungry in the wartime years; they'd never had to queue miserably for even the bare necessities as food became scarcer and dearer. Sugar and tea rationing had hit them as hard as everyone else, and meat and dairy produce had been commandeered by the government, but what farmer was going to deny his family and friends a bit of butter, enough milk? In one or two backyards the odd clandestine pig rooted, hidden from officialdom – while snaring rabbits and hares and taking a game bird or two for the pot was an inherited skill for some in Broughton, and easy enough when lame old Scuddy Thomas was the only help the head gamekeeper had, and they both turned a blind eye, anyway.

Nella picked up the basket of parsnips and carrots and let herself out through the wicket gate that opened onto the ancient oak woods which had given the house its name. She hurried on, and as she reached the stile, the clock over the old stables chimed the half-hour and for a moment she hesitated, but then she climbed the stile steps and perched on the top rail, pulling her red-lined cloak around her. It wouldn't hurt to snatch some time to herself.

A strong, cold wind blew across the fields and she impatiently tucked back into the confines of her uniform cap some escaped strands of the slippery dark chestnut hair, less red than that their mother had passed on to all the rest of the family. Her mind jumped back again to what had happened this morning, when she'd first heard from matron the name of the doctor who would be arriving within the next day or two to replace the present MO, who was leaving the army for good. Captain AD Geddes. Duncan Geddes. Yes, of course it was him, no mistake. And in a world which had for so long been so very dark and grey, a secret warmth flooded her.

She'd done her best to put the implications of his imminent arrival out of her mind while she worked, without conspicuous success, it had to be said. Panic touched her every time she thought of how she might react when they met. Even his name had stirred up feelings she thought she had controlled, despatched firmly into the past. What fate had sent him to Oaklands, of all places? Fate? Surely not. The thought that she might be working here must almost certainly have entered his mind.

She gazed, seeing and yet not seeing the familiar view which had shone like a glimpse of remembered Heaven beyond the mud and devastation in Flanders: rolling pastures and meadowlands extending to the ha-ha which protected the gardens of Oaklands from wandering cattle; to the left the big house itself, the figures on the terrace made tiny by distance. A tranquil, timeless scene. Transformed in autumn by the gold and amber of beech and oak, the trees were as yet bare and leafless, waiting for the true spring and the haze of bluebells that would spread beneath their feet. The dying sun was low and red in a cold green sky. A white flock of seagulls had flown inland, beautiful in flight, raucous and screaming as they followed the plough, scavenging for worms and small creatures fleeing from the blades as the earth was turned. The rows were arrow straight, a matter of pride and habit for Harry Packer, who'd learnt to plough a furrow trudging with his father behind the huge and heavy, patient Cleveland bays when he was thirteen. Still going strong at eighty-two, he should have been enjoying a comfortable retirement by now, but like his old 'osses, was still in harness and proud to be so – ‘till the boys come home'.

 

In front of her, beyond the stile, lay the path that led across the field and down to the lake. Nella could look at that dark stretch of water now without trembling inside, but she still couldn't make herself pass through the stile and take the short cut from Oaklands to the rectory which passed by the lake. She, and all the family, were marked by what had happened there; they, and the others, too: Steven Rafferty, Eunice, Grev especially. And perhaps Rupert, though how would they ever know about Rupert?

From here, to the left, you could see the terrace at the back of the big house, and just about make out the distant figures on it. Once, a lifetime ago it seemed, scented women with stay-boned waists and pouter-pigeon busts, sweeping skirts and high-necked lacy blouses, had sat drinking Earl Grey from delicate Crown Derby china, with nothing better in the world to do than make flirtatious conversation with the men in stiff collars dancing attendance on them, ready to refill their cups or ply them with pretty little cakes and cucumber sandwiches, and pay them delicious, silly compliments. Unaware of the looming catastrophe which would shortly change their privileged world for ever. Now, behind the French windows that opened onto the terrace, Lady Sybil's once elegant, flower-filled drawing room, with its white marble fireplace, French porcelain and silk lampshades, was denuded, still part of the convalescent hospital it had been turned into at the beginning of the war.

Those women with their elaborate clothes, hair and jewellery seemed a distant dream that might never have happened; there were only nurses there now, noticeable from here by the white sails of their headdresses. And, of course, the men wearing the lurid hospital blue suits, white shirts and scarlet ties meant to proclaim their honourable wounds. Red, white and blue, the colours of patriotism. A stirring word which had summoned ardent young men in their thousands, eager to do their bit; an admonition that now had a hollow ring for those whose cost had been their limbs, their sight, their livelihood…for some their sanity.

Nella could see them strolling or limping on crutches by the overgrown parterre, sitting in wheelchairs, reading or simply talking, with empty jacket sleeves, and trouser legs pinned up over missing legs, learning to readjust their lives. That would be Warrant Officer Shawcross lying in the bed she had wheeled out into the afternoon sunshine. She hoped Nurse Burkin, inclined to be too busy to be thoughtful, would remember to take him inside and give him an extra blanket before he became too chilled; it was growing late and he soon felt the cold, not being able to move about, though he never complained. Perhaps Eunice, kind, shy little Eunice, would see to it if she came in to talk to the patients, or read and write letters for them, as she had taken to doing, unasked.

Nella jumped down from the stile and wrapped her cloak more closely around her, picked up her basket and walked briskly on towards the rectory. The crows settled in their nests in the bare elms and the sun slid behind the belt of oaks that hid the village from Oaklands.

 

Joe Strudwick, verger, sexton and general handyman, had almost finished digging the grave for the funeral later that week of old Mrs Cromer as Nella pushed open the lychgate, and was leaning on his spade by the heaped earth in the corner, taking time for a smoke before going into the rectory for his tea, after which he'd be off home. He raised his hand to his cap when he saw Nella, and began to pack up his tools. She waved back and walked on.

The evening meal was nearly ready. The time was always arranged to suit Nella's working shifts, however awkward the hour, and as she opened the kitchen door, she was greeted by the homely smell of something savoury simmering gently on the hob, and the spicy scent of an apple pie Grandmama Villiers herself had made, she who had once barely known what it was to enter a kitchen.

Nella sensed something expectant in the air the minute she walked in. Grandy was wearing her neat, tucked-in little smile, and Florrie, sturdy, dour and unflappable as usual, was humming tunelessly under her breath, a good sign if ever there was one. As for Amy, curled up in Florrie's rocking chair by the fire, shoeless, polishing her fingernails with a tortoiseshell-backed nail buffer, she could hardly wait for Nella to get inside the door before making the breathless announcement that there was a letter on the dresser. ‘Guess who from?'

‘
And
there's a bacon hock Percy Troughton left when he brought the milk,' added Florrie, at the sink, draining potatoes and picking up the wooden masher. ‘What a day!'

Nella was already making a beeline for the dresser.

‘It won't disappear if you wait to take your outdoor things off, Nella,' said Mrs Villiers.

‘And that hideous cap,' Amy added, swinging her foot and admiring the curve of her instep.

Nella absently snatched off the offending cap, universally hated by all VADs as well as Amy, leaving a red mark where it had rested low on her forehead, slipped off her cloak and began to read the letter eagerly, leaning against the dresser. She read the short message through, twice, then folded it and put it down carefully.

‘Home. He's coming home.' William, home again! She spoke softly, quietly, otherwise she would have shouted for joy and felt perhaps she wouldn't be able to stop.

‘But not just yet,' said Amy. ‘He says he has things to do first. What things are more important than coming straight home?'

‘He's going to Sussex, he says. I expect he's gone to see the Beresford parents.'

‘Oh.' Amy flushed. She knew William and his friend had been right through the war together, right until Piers Beresford had been killed, just a few weeks before the Armistice was signed. There was a moment of silence. But then Nella couldn't help grabbing her grandmother round the waist and whirling her around. Everyone was beaming, even Grandy, whose smile was usually as neatly controlled as her greying hair and the upright carriage of her little figure. And Florrie, who scarcely smiled at all. William was suddenly there, in the room amongst them. Tall and broadshouldered, his thick thatch of foxy hair flopping untidily over his forehead, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed.

‘How very fortunate we are,' said Mrs Villiers softly.

Florrie, red from the fire, suddenly found a reason to examine the bacon more closely, forking it up and letting it hang suspended, dripping over the pot, pink and succulent, the skin glistening golden brown, before flipping it expertly onto a plate. ‘Well, it's a nice bit of bacon,' she remarked after a minute, ‘and bit's the word all right, though I suppose we should be grateful for what we can get, and I dare say the stock'll make some good pea soup.' She removed the rind and began to slice the meat from the bone – it was mostly bone, and pathetically small for five people. ‘Make short work of this, Mr William would,' she went on, eyeing its proportions with resignation. ‘The major, we shall all have to call him now, I suppose – fancy!'