Heart of War (3 page)

The green was full of hundreds of soldiers with rifles and full packs, some leaning against house walls, some sitting in the gutter or on the grass. Eight guns were lined up in the field beyond the churchyard, clouds of whitish smoke jetting from the muzzles as they fired the blank ammunition. Five lorries ground up the street, and a car was coming fast from the opposite direction. Them dratted soldiers'll have drunk all the beer in the Arms and the Goat & Compasses, too, Probyn thought – who asked them to come here? Even as he turned away, he heard a screech of brakes, and saw that the staff car had come too fast round the corner, and would not be able to avoid the lorries. As he watched, right outside the church gate, the car skidded sideways into the leading lorry and lurched over onto its side with a fearful crash and rending of metal. At once the engine caught fire. Everyone stood frozen, for everyone, soldiers and villagers and the wedding party, had had their minds on other things. Then, just as Probyn told his muscles to move, just as other men close by stirred toward action, a brown figure burst from the crowd at the gate, and ran forward. It was Stella, her bouquet hurled away, her wool dress held up. She was beside the car, dragging out one of the three uniformed men in it. Before she could get him free a dozen men were there helping, others covering the flaming engine with coats and blankets. In ten seconds all three occupants were rescued, scorched, bruised, bleeding, one unconscious, but all alive; in another minute the flames were out. Stella walked slowly back to her husband's side. He was looking at her in awe, Probyn thought. Her dress was scarred and blackened where she had leaned into the car, her gloves red with blood, smudges of dirt on her face; but she was happy, radiant. Probyn shook his head, wondering, a little fearful. The young American didn't know what he had caught.

Afterwards, at the reception in the manor, Ginger Keble-Palmer stood, glass of champagne cup in hand, stooped over a little, listening to Betty Merritt. She said, ‘Ginger, you're a director of Hedlington Aircraft, aren't you?'

He cracked the big knuckles of his free hand nervously. Betty Merrit was good-looking without being exactly beautiful to his eyes; and she was terrifyingly direct – almost as bad as Guy's cousin Naomi, across the room there. ‘Yes,' he said at last, ‘your father was good enough to offer me a directorship.'

‘Instead of a higher rate of salary, I expect,' Betty said. Ginger made to say something and she raised a hand – ‘What's your chief problem?'

‘Problem?' Ginger said. ‘In the factory, you mean? It isn't built yet … We've got the use of one hangar up there, but it's nowhere near big enough to take the bomber I've designed. We're working as fast as we can, three shifts a day, to build the proper sheds, and use the hangar as a sort of temporary office … very draughty, it is, too. And lonely. I feel that I'm working in King's Cross station, or something.'

‘So you work alone?'

‘Almost. I have one man to help me, who's a competent draughtsman, but …'

‘But … what?'

Ginger looked round for help, and said, ‘I have to do all the calculations – stresses, thrust, everything – myself.'

‘Would you like an assistant designer? Don't you
need
an assistant designer?'

‘Yes, we do, but …'

‘I have three years of advanced mathematics of every kind, and I want to specialize in aircraft design.'

Keble-Palmer drank copiously, coughed, and spluttered – ‘But …'

‘But I'm a woman, eh? What difference does that make? I can do it, Ginger. I really can. You'll have to teach me the formulas, and give me some practical tips, but in a couple of weeks I'll really be able to help. If
you're
willing to accept me, I'll speak to Johnny and my father.'

Ginger felt as if he had been sandbagged. She must be joking. But she wasn't. To gain time he said, ‘I thought you were going to join the Women's Land Army.'

‘Not really. Since we came over from America I've been
waiting, looking for something that would suit me … excite me.'

Ginger drank again. It was mad. She was mad. But he
did
need an assistant, badly; and she had drive; and intelligence … and more mathematics than he himself had, having gone direct from Wellington to Handley Page. And she was Mr Merritt's daughter. Why couldn't she have been his son, and then it would all be easy? But why
couldn't
a girl do the work, if she had the maths?

‘All right,' he said.

She leaned forward quickly and kissed him on the cheek, ‘Thank you, Ginger. You won't regret it. Now I'll speak to my father.'

She moved easily through the crowded room, passing close to Stella and Johnny, who were densely surrounded. Both had champagne glasses in hand, Stella flushed, wearing a light tweed suit, tears of happiness and excitement gleaming in her eyes, Johnny standing straight beside her, one arm round her waist.

Betty found her father talking to his widowed sister, Isabel Kramer, and Mr Cate. They turned to face her as she came up, and her father raised a hand. ‘You have something of great import to tell me, Betty. I can see it in your face. Are you sure it shouldn't wait till we are alone?'

‘We won't have much time, will we, Daddy, as you're sailing on Monday … Ginger – Mr Keble-Palmer – wants to hire me as assistant designer at Hedlington Aircraft.'

‘Wha-a-at?' her father exclaimed.

Her aunt, who was petite and dark haired, with snapping blue eyes, said, ‘Are you sure you didn't
tell
him he wanted to hire you, dear?'

‘Well, I suggested it, but he liked the idea. He
needs
an assistant, and there's no one available with better qualifications … or
any
qualifications, really. The men who might be are at the war. And there's
no
reason why a woman shouldn't do it. Now, is there?'

Her father surveyed her with a measuring look in his eye. Mr Cate's face was calm in repose, his eyes steady on her. At length her father said, ‘You really think you've found your mission in England?' In an aside to his sister he said, ‘Betty's been determined to stay in England, but has not – until this moment – had the least idea of what she was going to do.'

‘I do,' Betty said, answering his question.

‘You always were a headstrong girl … good luck to you,' Stephen Merritt said. ‘You can live with Johnny and Stella.'

‘Oh no, Stephen!' Isabel cried. ‘The groom's sister living with the honeymoon couple? It's out of the question. She must have a little apartment in Hedlington.'

Stephen was frowning and Betty cut in: ‘Daddy, times are changing. Lots of girls live alone – they have to.'

‘I'll help you find a suitable place,' Aunt Isabel said.

Mr Cate broke his silence. ‘I will put you in touch with estate agents who might be able to help, Mrs Kramer.'

‘Thank you …'

Betty put her arms round her father's neck and kissed him. ‘Thank you, Daddy … I'll be starting work on Monday. And Ginger can fix my salary with Mr Rowland.'

She waved her hand, and drifted off, heading by a circuitous route towards the little group of Gorses near the tall windows. The electric lights glowed in Florinda's auburn hair, and the softer wave of her brother's curls. Old Probyn was wearing a yellow four-in-hand tie, and had newly dyed his sparse grey hair to a rich henna quite comparable to his granddaughter's auburn. Willum, Probyn's eldest, the father of Florinda and Fletcher, stood a little apart in worn serge hand-me-downs, beaming aimlessly. Probyn's Woman stood upright and severe at Probyn's side.

They all turned to face her, just as her father's group had done. Florinda smiled at her, Probyn's face remained neutral, as did the Woman's. Fletcher, the gorgeous Fletcher, examined her with his lips slightly curled, the eyes hooded under the heavy lids wandering down her dress, over her breasts, down to her feet, up again, pausing at her loins, up. He smiled at last: ‘Nice day, Miss Merritt – I don't think.'

‘What else can we expect in February? I only pray it isn't like this for the poor men in the trenches.'

‘It is,' Fletcher said.

Probyn spoke up suddenly, ‘Who be that lady with squire and your dad?'

His Woman answered before Betty could speak, ‘Mrs Kramer. Mr Merritt's sister. Widowed. Younger sister, by the look of her.'

‘She's nine years younger than my father,' Betty said.
‘She has a son about my age at Yale University. That's in Connecticut.'

‘What's she doing here?' Probyn said.

Betty said, ‘Her late husband's brother is Secretary of our Embassy in London. She's been living with him – and his wife – for nearly six months. She likes England.'

Probyn grunted, and kept his eyes on her Aunt Isabel Kramer, as though suspicious that she might steal the silver ladle out of the huge silver champagne cup bowl.

Betty turned to Fletcher, ‘I suppose you'll be going into the Army soon, now that conscription's been voted.'

‘Maybe,' Fletcher said. ‘Where will you be staying, now that your dad's going back to America, and Mr Johnny's wed to Miss Stella?'

‘I'm going to get an apartment – flat – in Hedlington,' she said, ‘and work at Hedlington Aircraft. I may have to take a room at the South-Eastern until I can get one.'

Fletcher nodded, and after a while said, ‘You'll have a motor car?'

She said, ‘Oh, I'll have to, to get to and from work.'

‘On Sunday, some time, you could drive down here and we could go to the sea. I've never seen the sea.'

‘Oh, that would be lovely,' Betty cried. She pulled herself together, and added, ‘It'll have to wait till I get the car, of course … and for better weather.'

Fletcher nodded as though what she had said was so self-evident that she had wasted her breath in saying it. Betty thought, I must be careful. He is so handsome, so magnificent a male animal, that he makes my hand shake, almost: but what would Mr Cate say or think of her going out with him, alone? He was, after all, not exactly upper class … Florinda was smiling quizzically at her; Florinda knew what was in her mind. And what did it matter? She was American, not English. She said firmly, ‘As soon as I get the car, and we have a nice day, we'll go to the sea. It's only just beyond Hedlington.'

‘Not that way,' Fletcher said. He pointed through the windows, toward the south – ‘The sea.'

‘Ah, the English Channel. In Sussex, I think it is there.'

‘T'other's dirty, and full of muck and oil from London. I seen that, by Chatham,' Fletcher said. ‘I'm going to kiss the bride. There's some room round them now.'

‘Better hurry,' the Woman said, ‘they'll be going upstairs soon.'

When the others had left him, skirmishing their way towards the bride and groom, Probyn sidled in the direction of Mrs Kramer, who was now talking to Mr Harry Rowland, the bride's grandfather. Mr Harry, recently elected Member of Parliament for the Mid-Scarrow Division of Kent, was in full cry on the subject of conscription – ‘It was the only fair way, Mrs Kramer. Our best men were sacrificing their lives while others skulked at home.'

‘It's a big decision for England to make – the first compulsory military service bill in history, my brother-in-law tells me.'

‘That is correct. Mr Asquith was very reluctant to take the step,
most
reluctant, but events and circumstances left him, and us, no alternative.'

Probyn listened; they had acknowledged his presence by moving a little apart, leaving room for him to join them, but that was all. Mrs Kramer said, ‘Will the conscription law apply to Ireland?'

‘I think it must. Ireland is, after all, part of the United Kingdom … but my wife tells me that there will be far greater troubles than we have yet experienced, if we in fact enforce conscription there. She is from an old Irish family.'

‘My brother-in-law says that it will take 200,000 British soldiers to enforce it there … which is just about the number of Irish men who would be conscripted. And it will create even greater bitterness than now exists.'

Probyn cut in, ‘Do you think they'll take Willum for a sojer, Mr Harry?'

‘Your Willum, Probyn? I'm sure they won't. He's … well, a little simple, isn't he?'

‘Aye, but he's got two legs and ten toes. The way they're killing the men off out there, they'll be taking them out of cradles and hospitals and lunatic asylums soon, and sending them to France.' He turned to Mrs Kramer … ‘I'm Probyn Gorse.'

She smiled at him, ‘I'm Mrs Kramer, Mr Gorse. I've heard of you. You're the best … ah, game shooter, in Kent, my brother says. And he was told that by Mr Cate.'

Probyn said, ‘Will you be staying down here now?'

‘I'm afraid not. I'm going back to London with my brother tonight, and then on Monday he takes the train for Liverpool, and I … well, I suppose I'll settle down to my work in London – for the wounded, organizing food parcels from America …'

‘You like hunting? Fox hunting? Shooting? Fishing?'

‘I like riding, and I'm sure I would love to hunt, if I could. I have done a great deal of bird shooting. My husband owned a meat packing plant in Chicago and we used to go out after pheasant and partridge in Wisconsin and the Dakotas. I've also done some elk and deer hunting in Wyoming. And I fish for salmon in New Brunswick, which is close to Maine, where my home is.'

‘Did he leave you rich?'

She paused a moment, but then answered evenly, without embarrassment, ‘Very, Mr Gorse.'

Probyn nodded and moved away, looking for Squire Cate. He'd got to talk to him, man to man.

When the crowd had swallowed him, Mrs Kramer began to laugh silently. Harry Rowland said, ‘You must excuse him, Mrs Kramer. He is a sort of child of nature, a relic of the past, and lives by different rules from the rest of us.'