Easterleigh Hall at War (2 page)

He did not react. Evie touched his arm, flinching as he spun round, the spatula lifted to strike.

‘Sir,' shouted Jack, leaping forward, the knife in his hand. Evie stayed quite still as Mr Auberon stared at Jack, and then at her, his thoughts visibly clearing, the colour draining from his face. He lowered his arm. ‘Stand easy, Sergeant. Forgive me, Evie. Never would I . . . Not you . . . Never. How absurd . . . And Mrs Moore.' He placed the spatula in the pan, his hands shaking. He examined the onions. ‘Are they really supposed to look like that?'

The mood was broken. Mrs Moore laughed, before heading for the scullery. Evie laughed too, though her mouth was dry with shock, and her hands trembled. She said, ‘I believe not, or no one would ever have stuffing with their turkey again.'

Jack was placing the razor-sharp knife on the table, looking first at it, and then his sister, and his hands were shaking, and then his whole body. By, they were all at it. Evie wanted to take the war from these two young men who were only three years her senior, and promise them that all was well, which was what her mam always said. But it wasn't, was it? They had to return to the front, tomorrow.

Instead she smiled cheerfully, which was what everyone who worked here was taught to do. ‘You both need to stretch your legs, do something active, breathe in some fresh air. There will be peace and quiet as the gamekeepers are only allowed to shoot at a time suitable to the hospital, to save upsetting the patients. Come.'

She moved the pan on to the range's rest corner, leading them out of the kitchen into the bell corridor. Mr Auberon paused, looked at the bells, then at Evie, and nodded, his face even more drawn. She realised he had not seen before that the room names beneath the bells were those of a hospital.

‘Everything has changed,' he murmured.

‘Not everything,' she replied. ‘The cedar tree on the front lawn remains the same.'

He merely nodded slightly, Jack too. Evie headed towards the back door, the men following her down the corridor like ducklings. At the door Mr Auberon reached forward and opened it, stepping aside and ushering her up the steps before him. It wasn't proper that he should do this for a servant, so perhaps he was right, almost nothing was as it used to be.

She reached the top step. Opposite were the garages, which housed the volunteers' children's playroom, run by Evie's mam, Susan Forbes. Raisin and Currant, Veronica's dachshunds that Lord Brampton had ordered to be killed on the outbreak of war, were disappearing round the corner, probably heading for the formal gardens to be spoilt by whatever patients were taking the air. Evie's family had taken them in until the Bastard left, and then they had been returned.

Evie stepped on to the cobbles, looking for Simon, who had said he must find a place for the head gardener to plant a rose bush in Bernie's memory. Bernie had been another under-gardener, his friend. He had died of shrapnel wounds at . . . Where was it now? Ypres? Somewhere with rain, mud and cold as well as the bloody guns, Si had said.

He was nowhere in sight. She lifted her head, taking in the grey sky. They only had today together and then the men started on their return journey, and she needed her fiancé to herself for a few hours. Surely that wasn't too much to ask? Then she closed her eyes. Stupid, greedy girl, of course it was and at least he was alive.

To the left of the garage yard the kitchen staff and volunteers were trooping down the internal corridor steps, pinching out their Woodbines. She waited, counting out the seconds, and sure enough within a minute she could hear Mrs Moore shouting, ‘What time do you call this? Yes, I know some of you volunteers have given up your Christmas Day to help, but those lads upstairs have given up a sight more than that, and these vegetables won't wash or peel themselves, the table won't lay itself, the game won't find its own way into soup pans and I won't produce a smile until a grand bit of work is done. You, Sally Armitage, can wipe that look off your face, because I, for one, am not living with any more nonsense today. You scullery lasses, I need them pans and I need them now. Remember, soda and elbow grease is the key.'

Next to Evie both men laughed. Jack poked her. ‘Aye, fresh air and peace, eh, bonny lass? I'll take the gamekeepers any day.'

The snow still just covered the cobbles, though it was scuffed by the footsteps of the volunteers who came from the pit villages of Easton, Sidon and Hawton by day and night as the rota dictated, knowing that it could have been their bairns, husbands, or brothers who needed help. She felt the chill breeze, and watched the clouds shifting fast across the sky, but then she heard her name called. ‘Evie.' It was her lovely lad, Simon, hurrying across the cobbles, clutching dried sage and thyme for the stuffing, his face alight with love, his glorious red hair shining even without the sun. He slowed when he registered Mr Auberon, and started to salute, and then stopped, uncertain.

Mr Auberon called, ‘No uniforms so no salutes, Simon. We'll have them back soon enough, and that bloody nonsense will start up, but for now they're being cleansed by the laundry, whilst Jack and I are sent for a walk. It appears that we're surplus to requirements, but I daresay you'll make a better fist of helping your Evie.' He laughed, but it was strained.

From the bottom step they heard another voice. It was Lady Veronica, Mr Auberon's sister, in her kitchen apron rather than her VAD uniform. ‘Oh tut tut, no disappearing for anyone today. Come back here, all you able-bodied men. Poor Mr Harvey needs help organising the tables as you, Aub, have insisted everyone eats together in the ballroom ward: servants, staff, patients and visitors. This I applaud, but we need your soldierly muscle power to make it happen, or Mr Harvey will resign as butler and the place will fall apart. You too, Jack, but Simon, as a special dispensation, can have half an hour to spend with you know who, or she will quite deliberately burn the turkeys' parson's noses in retribution.'

Jack winked at Evie as he about-turned, his hair riffled by the cold breeze, as he waited for Mr Auberon to precede him. She watched them troop back down the steps, one so dark, one so fair, following Lady Veronica into the corridor. Lady Veronica called. ‘Make the most of it, Evie, because though you have thus far only instructed me in the preparation of a roux and a passable cup of tea, I am here to help, so let the real havoc begin.'

‘Don't worry, I have just the task, we need more onions chopped.' Lady Veronica's groan and the guffaws of the men wafted up the steps, to be cut short by Mrs Moore's bellow. ‘Shut that door. We're not living in a barn.'

Evie heard Simon murmur behind her, and felt his breath on her neck. ‘No, not living in a barn here, but in reserve we do. Now, I have half an hour to show you how much I love you, Evie Forbes.' She felt his arm around her waist, his kisses on her neck, and turned into him. He dropped the herbs, but the scent was still on his hands as he cupped her face. He was the same age as the other two and looked as many years older as they did, but she suspected she was no rose any more, if she ever had been. It didn't matter, he was here, he was safe for now, and what was more, he was hers. They clung to one another. ‘I love you,' he repeated. ‘I love you so much I could drown in it.'

‘Don't,' she said against his mouth. ‘Don't you dare or I will kill you myself.' They didn't laugh, because time was so short and the future so . . . what? Uncertain? Dangerous? Impossible? When would it end? Who would survive? What would happen if they lost? She buried her face in his shoulder and he rocked her back and forth and she thought again of her mother's endless sayings, which frequently drove those who knew her to want to strangle her. She would say, yet again, ‘All will be well.' This time Evie found comfort in the words.

Half an hour later Lady Veronica used her hands to sweep the vegetable waste on to sheets of Mr Harvey's out-of-date
Daily Sketch
. The juice from the carrot tops seeped into the front page, which told of the Scarborough, Hartlepool and Whitby deaths and casualties resulting from the shelling by the German navy. Evie said, ‘It's hard to believe, Ver.'

‘Nowhere's safe, Evie,' Lady Veronica almost whispered, rolling up the waste and putting it into the compost bucket. ‘How is Mrs Green's niece?'

Mrs Moore was passing. ‘The shrapnel wounds to her leg are healing and she's home with her mother, and so Mrs Green will be back from Whitby within days to take up her housekeeping duties. She thanks you for the hamper, Your Ladyship, and asks after your husband. I told her Captain Richard is improving but not yet able to function downstairs. I hope you find him improved again today, slightly at least?'

Lady Veronica sat down on a stool, easing her back and wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I do believe he is, Mrs Moore. Just a tad.'

Evie snatched a look at the clock before saying briskly, ‘Now, enough chat, let's get the roasts out so they can rest. It won't be for long enough, but it will have to do. It'll be a bit of a trudge to get it all up to the ward, so perhaps you should suggest that Mr Auberon and his little troop help Archie and Mr Harvey transport the feast to the multitude, Lady Veronica.' She tried to remember to address Veronica properly in the company of others. She passed her a heavyweight oven cloth. ‘You hoy out the turkeys if you wouldn't mind, and Annie, you take the middle range, there should be six geese in there, and watch the fat. We mustn't spill a drop as we'll need every scrap for January. Who knows what food shortages are coming? I'll handle the hams. How's the soup, Mrs Moore?'

Chaos took over for the last hour with only one mishap. Lady Veronica burned her arm. It was dusted with flour, and she was told it was a medal. She promised she'd wear it proudly.

Somehow Mr Harvey had organised the tables in the ballroom ward so that everyone could be seated, though it would be shoulder to shoulder with one's neighbour. All around would be the recovering enlisted men still bedbound; the officers had their own cubicles, created from the many bedrooms on the second floor.

For now, sherry was served in the great hall and helped to ease the social revolution that was occurring. Nicely lubricated, Mr Auberon led the gaggle into the ballroom, taking his place at the head of the long, long table covered in pristine white linen tablecloths. The fact that they were really sheets was ignored. The glasses glistened, the cutlery too. Chrysanthemums on short stalks were arranged in shallow bowls down the centre of the tables, and candles were lit in candlesticks taken from the silver safe.

Lady Wendover, a middle-aged VAD, was waiting to take her seat next to Maudie, one of the scullery maids, another VAD would sit next to Daisy, a housemaid. Evie thought they could discuss the merits of soda in the scullery, or the virtues of sprinkling tea leaves on the carpets before brushing, rather than the usual subject of how lazy the servants were. She grinned as Jack, who sat opposite her, and a few places down from Mr Auberon, raised an eyebrow. He'd always been able to read her like a book. So had her da and mam, who were to Jack's left and chuckling at her.

Mrs Moore leaned into her, saying in a voice meant to be a whisper but which was considerably louder, ‘If you feed the beggars well, it will always be an occasion of cheer no matter who has to sit next to whom.'

Perhaps Mr Auberon heard, for not long after, when the turkeys had been carved on the side table, and the main course was about to begin, he proposed a toast to the kitchen, absent friends, and lastly, the King, mentioning that it was a rare occasion for cheer, grinning at Mrs Moore and Evie as he did so. After glasses were raised, sipped and replaced, they sat again, except for Roger the valet, who Evie saw hurrying to the baize door, having said to Simon that he wasn't going to sit opposite ‘that monstrosity' for a minute longer. The ‘monstrosity' was Sergeant Harris, who wore a tin mask to hide his facial injuries and sat alongside Captain Simmons whose nose had got lost, as he delighted in telling everyone, due to carelessness. He would then stick his thumb between his fore and middle finger and say, ‘Good grief, and here it is, after all.'

As Roger stormed off Evie and Jack exchanged another look, this time one of fury. Mrs Moore said forcefully, but for the family alone, ‘Then he'll go hungry. There's nothing left downstairs for even a sparrow to peck on, and with the dogs taking up both armchairs he'll have to make do with a stool.'

Evie pretended not to notice Millie, Jack's wife, flush at these words, laying down her knife and fork. Jack sat next to her, his stepson Tim on his lap, with lashings of cranberry sauce on his small plate. Evie smiled. It was a sure bet that this would be the two-year-old's favourite part of the meal. He was a lovely little lad, but was there an increasing look of his father, bloody Roger, about him? Dear God, she hoped not and if there was, that it was the end of any family resemblance.

Simon ran his hand along her arm and it was only then she saw she had gripped her knife and fork so tightly her knuckles had whitened. He nudged her with his knee and whispered, ‘Stop fretting; Millie wouldn't jeopardise what she has with Jack to go chasing after the bloke who made her pregnant when she was the kitchenmaid, and dumped her. She's not that big a fool.'

Jack helped Tim to another great dollop of cranberry and shrugged when his mam said it would rot the bairn's teeth. ‘Sugar could get short soon enough, Mam. It's Christmas, we'll let him, shall we?'

Soon conversations were fluttering more easily around the long table, and laughter was spreading. Bravo for Mr Auberon, Evie thought. He'd been right, everything had changed, even the nobs, but perhaps it wouldn't take long to get back to the old order once the war was over, if it ever was. Evie whispered, ‘Si, we must remember this: good food, good company, and wine. When things get difficult let's just think of it. I prefer it to looking up at a moon dangling in the sky like the poets say.'