Easterleigh Hall at War (41 page)

After changing into her cook's uniform, Evie checked that the cold supper was ready to be taken to the huts before joining Richard, Ron, Veronica and Harry. They were in the virtually empty ballroom, poring over the plans, which were set up on the long table. The chandeliers would in time be rehung but there was work to be done before then. Their architect, Barry Jones, was the one-armed husband of the new housekeeper, Helen. They had accommodation in one of the huts.

It was hoped that Easterleigh Hall Hotel would open for guests in the autumn of this year, to take advantage of the shooting now that Charlie and the gamekeeper were working so hard and making great inroads. But it was only a hope. Ted's surviving son had agreed that he would help his father with his taxi business, taking guests on trips on the moors and along the coast as well as collecting them from the station. Tactfully Ron had suggested that Ted purchase a spanking new limousine, funded by a low-interest loan, which could be repaid from the fee that Easterleigh Hall would pay for Ted's son's exclusive services.

Builders, carpenters, plumbers and electricians had converged on Easterleigh Hall after Richard had advertised for workmen at the Newcastle demob depot, and were working practically round the clock, in shifts. The men were desperate for jobs in this post-war country that was struggling to create any sort of world, let alone one fit for heroes. Richard had sufficient skilled men to train the unskilled he insisted on taking on and those who arrived seeking his help to fill in forms and establish their disabled pensions.

Evie's da had retired in January and she was using some of John Neave's bequest to pay for him and Tom Wilson, the blacksmith, to spend two months at the artificial-limb unit at Roehampton, in order to bring themselves up to date on the world of prosthetics. Once back, they wanted to work with the amputees who came to stay in the huts for some respite from their daily lives.

Veronica waved Evie over. ‘Barry Jones has suggested some changes to the plans. Look, if we knock through from our two rooms upstairs and incorporate half the bedroom next door, we have an apartment. You and Simon can then form an enclave with us and have the adjoining group of rooms, or would you prefer to be with the lovebirds in the stable conversion?'

‘I think perhaps Si would prefer the stables. More fresh air and closer to the gardens, and it might be an idea for me to be halfway between the house and the huts, to be able to work between the two. I think Barry's idea of creating a kitchen in the first hut, with covered walkways between all the huts, is ideal, and my money will easily cover it.' She put up her hand. ‘No, Ver, I want to invest financially as well. My skill only goes so far. But listen, what about the apartment for Aub, when he returns?' She pointed to another set of three rooms on the second floor and said into the silence that had fallen, ‘Have you heard anything?'

‘Nothing, though his bank, having received an update from him, says all is well. The fishing is good and the river runs calmly. He is fly-fishing, to the amusement of the French, who prefer a pole.'

Evie nodded. ‘As long as he is finding some peace.'

Harry slipped to her side. ‘What about you, Evie, is there any news of Simon's return yet?'

‘No, but why would there be, when he's on Broadway?'

Again there was a silence, again Richard made the offer he had made last week. ‘Let us pay for you to sail over and attend a performance.'

Again she declined. ‘I think he, like Aub, needs this time to himself, and if I went, I could afford to pay for myself, but thank you.'

She pored over the plans again, listening as Veronica announced that she was about to advertise for Prancer. ‘He might have survived and his return could tempt Auberon back. Jack said that he was forever on the lookout for him in the war.'

Yes. Yes. Prancer could do that, and the headache that had drummed in the background since their men had left, lifted for a moment.

In mid May Auberon stood in his waders as the river Somme swirled around his legs. He cast again with the new fly he had made yesterday evening. Midges swirled above the clear water, and a woodpecker was busy knocking hell out of one of the hazel trees along the opposite bank. Behind the hazel trees a farmer and his family and most of the village were scything the hay, delayed this year, so heavy had been the rain in the last month. But they had just enjoyed a week of sun, and Monsieur Allard had decreed in the
estaminet
yesterday that the scything would begin at dawn. The
estaminet
had emptied, with the men shaking their heads at the idea of work.

Monsieur Allard had stood in the doorway, calling after the hurrying men, lifting his glass of rough red wine,
‘Aujourd'hui à moi, demain à toi.'
Today me, tomorrow thee. They turned up at dawn, Auberon as well. Aristide Allard had shaken his hand and said in French, ‘My friend, a few hours will be sufficient for those with untried backs and hands, and then you must drink wine with us this evening.'

Indeed, a few hours had been sufficient, because Auberon's back was breaking and his hands blistered. This afternoon, he held the rod loosely, pulled back the line with his fingers and cast again. He had named the fly Evie IV. Perhaps one day it would be Adelaide or Marie-Thérèse, but he doubted it. How could anyone compare to that extraordinary woman?

He flicked back his rod, and cast yet again. The plop on the water did not disturb the midges, or the carp, but occasionally the carp rose to the bait. ‘Today you're failing me, Evie,' he said.

He waded to the bank and sat on the grass, his basket floating empty of catch in the river, except for minnows that swam through the netting. All around the trees were clothed in soft green leaves and they were a joy, because they were whole and the village was untouched, physically. Not emotionally, of course, and once a month Monsieur Allard journeyed to the battleground and joined the men who were attempting to clear the unexploded shells, so that agriculture could begin again, and life continue. Last month he had taken Auberon in his cart. They had travelled for some hours, and spent the night at Allard's cousin's house. There were pockmarks in the walls, and the church had lost its steeple, but it functioned. Nearer the line the churches and villages did not.

The next day, with some ex-soldiers, they had probed, searched and lifted, with the utmost delicacy; much had already been done by servicemen not yet demobbed, but more needed doing. Tomorrow, a month to the day, they would go again, while others continued with the scything. Monsieur Allard had said, when Auberon asked why he went, ‘
Aujourd'hui à toi, demain à moi
.' Today thee, tomorrow me. It was enough. Auberon shook himself. Allard said this too often, but that was what life was, just enough, and that sentiment helped him through the day.

The next morning Monsieur Allard was waiting in his farmyard, a basket of pâté and bread in the back prepared by Madame Allard, enough for an army but actually just for the pair of them. They set off, the geese squawking and following them in bursts out of the farmyard and down the lane, their necks forward, their wings arched.

Allard was not given to talking, and his cigarettes were too strong for Auberon, so he smoked his own. The sun had dried the ruts on the tracks, and they lurched in and out. Auberon wore a panama, his host a beret. In the back several jugs of wine slopped in a bucket of cool water from the well. They stopped for lunch and drank several glasses. The mule knew the way to Allard's cousin, fortunately, because they both slept, their heads lolling on their chests, lulled by the lurching cart. They woke to fields of red: poppies growing in profusion in the area south of Albert. ‘
C'est approprié
,' muttered Auberon.

‘
Oui, Monsieur
.'

They drank more wine at Allard's cousin's property. He was also an Allard. Monsieur Aristide Allard insisted that now he and Auberon would call one another by their given names. It made things simpler. Indeed it did, especially by the time they had finished three of the bottles. Monsieur François Allard lived in the barn which was all that was left standing, and to which he had returned a few months ago, leaving his wife in Poitiers where she had family. They had lost their son at Verdun. The men slept on the straw and this time there were no dreams or nightmares which had plagued Auberon since November 1918, just a raging thirst and a head fit to split apart in the morning. He preferred the headache.

They travelled, all three together in the cart, to clear a small section of François' land, both the Frenchmen in berets, their faces dark from the sun, their moustaches long, their eyes half closed. Auberon half closed his too. God, his head. The cart lurched. Oh God, he was going to be sick. He felt a tap on his leg. François held out a flagon of water. Auberon downed it desperately. François said something to Aristide, and both men laughed. Auberon had missed it but frankly didn't give a shit. He just wanted to die, and thought of the time Mart and Jack had taken him to an
estaminet
and the same thing had happened. He was a lightweight, Jack had said then, and would say again today.

He closed his eyes and must have slept, because he woke and feared he'd dribbled. He wiped his mouth, thank God he hadn't, and his head was marginally better, but the sun was even hotter. Aristide had pulled up the cart and the two of them were eating cheese this time, with bread. François handed him some, his hands as strong and blunt as Jack's. It made him feel at home. He ate, and felt better, though shook his head at the offer of more wine. Dear God, no. He asked François when he felt he could farm his land again. The Gallic shrug was familiar, because the toxins from the munitions raised a question mark about it all.

They travelled on along tracks leading through poppies waving in the breeze. Auberon searched the terrain, as he had the first time he came. They must have marched through here, step by step by step, dragging their feet, ducking, sleeping on their feet. He didn't recognise it particularly, just the shell holes, the churned-up earth, and always the poppies. Was there one for every soul?

‘Tonight we will sleep in the cart, under the stars,' Aristide said, ‘dreaming of beautiful women, but first we will work.' They pulled up. ‘First we will work.'

There was a working party several yards from the track, several ex-soldiers among them. One man waved, spreading his arm to indicate the area they were to search. All three of them nodded, carefully, because of their heads. They gathered up their long prodding sticks and worked for hours, under the baking sun, and by then Auberon felt he understood van Gogh's style of painting, because his headache was so appalling he could barely see. They had called for the ex-soldiers several times when their sticks had met resistance, and each time a shell had been carefully exhumed and carried to the dump near the track.

He stretched his back as the sun began to slip down towards the horizon. Another shell was carried past by one of the ex-soldiers. ‘Soon, my friend,' Auberon called across to François. ‘Soon you can farm here again, and bring life to it.'

Auberon gently drove his stick into the earth, a second behind François. He heard nothing, but felt the gust. It tore the stick from his hand, he tried to think, he rocked on his feet, his head screamed, his ears were pulsing, pulsing, a wave drowned him, the explosion tore into his body, the pain, and now the roar, the sound, the smell, the pain, the nothingness.

‘
MART, PICK YOUR
bloody feet up, you're kicking up enough dust to drown us.' Jack dipped down lower and lower as the gradient increased, and the roof lowered, but it was only for fifty feet. They were heading out of their cutting towards the main drag. They'd picked a good allotment when they'd drawn the cavil with a pure load at the club the other night. Jeb, the union rep, had a smile on his ugly face for once, because Davies was allowed sufficient money to provide enough decent props, and a rescue station positioned between Hawton and Easton. Sidon and therefore the Lea End lot, what remained of them, were to be a party to it. Dave would have been pleased.

‘Done your homework, have you?' Jack puffed. His chest hadn't been the same since that waft of mustard gas had caught them at Passchendaele, and enough had caught Mart to give him a snifter too.

Mart was panting as he said, ‘Enough to treat meself to a beer. Bloody hell.' He ducked smartly, but the sharp edge in the roof caught him. ‘There you are. If you stopped talking, I'd stop knocking me bonce.' They were approaching the cage now, and joined the queue waiting for their turn. Mart wiped his forehead and muttered into Jack's ear, ‘Bloody glad we're doing the certificate. It's not the same, not quite the home from bloody home it was with this chest of mine.'

‘Aye, I'm with you there.' Jack eased his back. He couldn't wait to get home to Grace, to have her scrub his back, kiss his mouth, laugh and tug his hair. Then he'd read to Tim, and spend the rest of the evening with his bonny lass. It was murder when he was on the back shift and they barely saw one another, let alone lay in bed together, as far from Edward's room as possible. He wiped the dust from his mouth.

‘Where the hell is Auberon?' Mart muttered, worry creasing his forehead.

‘No news is good news. He's still drawing money from the bank and he did say we wouldn't hear a ruddy word.' Jack was trying to talk himself down, as well as Mart, who wouldn't give it a rest, tapping his bait tin as he said, ‘Aye, but he's not said whether he's coming for the hotel launch, and that's not too many months away. I don't like him there, alone at the Somme. He's one of us. He's ours.'

Eric was feeding the men into the cages efficiently for once, after Jack and Mart had told Davies that the bugger needed to up his game and the men didn't want his dilly-dallying after a long shift. He was on a warning, the little rat, and it had given Jack the greatest pleasure to be allotted the task of spelling it out to him, with Jeb's permission. Eric had been the only one to bad-mouth Da after he'd gone up to Deputy, and had had to join Brampton's lodge, not the union.