Heart of War (95 page)

An hour later he unhitched the plough, led Duke up the lane to the barn, and handed him over to Joan Pitman, saying, ‘I'll be needing him again at two, Joan.' Then up to the house, head bent, shoulders hunched, the coat flapping wet against his legs, the rain flicking his ears and dripping off his shapeless felt hat and down his collar.

As soon as he was inside the door he realized that something was wrong. There was an intense silence, quite unlike the murmurous quiet of a normal day. He took off his heavy boots, slipped his stockinged feet into slippers, went upstairs and washed, and came down again. Still the silence.

Louise was waiting for him in the drawing room, the rain beating on the window panes behind her. She said, ‘Shut the door, John.' He did so, puzzled. Was she concerned that there might be a draught?

She said, ‘Helen's left, John.'

He stared at her, not understanding – ‘Lady Helen… left? Left what?'

‘She's left High Staining,' Louise said with more than her usual patience. ‘As soon as you went off with Duke she came
in and said she did not want to work here any more. She thought there was more important work she could do for the war.'

John sat down in a chair. It was a shock, now that he understood what she was saying; but he was protected against shocks now. Since the telegram about Boy, there could be no pain, only numb acceptance. He said, ‘She's going back to the Park, I suppose.'

‘I'm sure she isn't,' Louise said. ‘She told me she had told her parents, and of course I had to believe her … she left an hour later – must have packed last night … got Joan to drive her to the station.'

John thought, Joan was looking rather strange when I handed Duke into her care.

‘Joan says Helen didn't tell her where she was going, but it must have been the London train she was going to catch. Mr Miller can tell us. All we have to do is telephone the station and ask him.'

John said, ‘We'd better tell the Swanwicks. We are responsible for her, even though she is twenty-five.'

‘I already have,' Louise said. ‘Lady Swanwick didn't say much except, “Thank you,” but I am sure she thinks the same that I do.' She paused, waiting expectantly.

John said, ‘I suppose that Helen really couldn't stand farm life any more. It is hard work, and dull, after all, when she could be a V.A.D. in a fashionable hospital in London, or … doing – exciting things in France like Naomi with the F.A.N.Y.s.'

Louise said, ‘The wretched girl is pregnant! I'm sure of it … and, as I said, I think Lady Swanwick is sure, too.'

John said slowly, ‘Pregnant? How can you think that? Helen is so sweet natured, such a responsible person … and a lady through and through.'

Louise said, ‘Ladies fall in love, like other young women – and older ones. Women feel in these times that they must seize happiness … passion … while they can, before it is destroyed, bombed, shelled, out of existence. They want to give the man they love what he might not otherwise survive to know.'

John said, ‘Poor Helen. I thought you were unkind to use the word wretched about her, but I see now what you mean … Is there anything we can do to help her?'

Louise said, ‘I don't know … Not if she goes into hiding, has the baby, then gets rid of it, secretly, or has an abortion. And that baby's going to be our grandchild.'

John sat up with a jerk – ‘Ours? You mean … good heavens, Louise, you mean that Boy is – was – the father?'

She nodded emphatically – ‘While he was home on his leave. I told you she had fallen in love with him.'

‘All the girls did,' John said.

‘Not really. But Helen, yes. And he with her.'

John said, ‘Our grandchild …' His eyes lit up. He felt a warmth coursing through veins and arteries that for weeks now had been filled with some cold, viscous fluid. He said, ‘If it's a boy he could inherit High Staining! We'd have to work here a few years longer than if Boy had been able to, but …'

‘He – or she – will be illegitimate,' Louise said.

John believed profoundly in the sacred nature of the marriage sacrament; but he could not at this moment find that he cared whether Lady Helen's child was going to be born legitimate or otherwise. It would be their grandchild. They ought to find Helen, and bring her home.

Louise said, ‘Helen will be in touch with us some time soon, I am sure of it. She is not going to leave us, or her parents, thinking that she might be dead, or has in some way deserted us all. I don't think we ought to make extraordinary efforts to find her. She doesn't want anyone deciding her and the child's fate for her. We must just offer our love and help as soon as she gets in touch … I'm coming to London with you tomorrow for the N.C.F. meeting.'

John felt the heavy disinterest of the past weeks settle on him again. He said, ‘I'm not going. I'm resigning from the Fellowship … Boy's dead.'

His wife said, ‘Well, I'm joining – because millions of other young men aren't … yet.'

The Earl of Swanwick jabbed at a coal in the grate with the poker in a futile gesture of frustration. The coal settled down in a new formation, but no more flames burst to life. Swanwick remained standing, staring down into the nearly dead ashes, but seeing nothing, except their greyness. He said, ‘We ought to go to London next Thursday.'

‘What for?' the countess asked quietly.

‘They're having a memorial service in the Guards Chapel
at Wellington Barracks, for all officers of the Brigade killed this year … It'll be just the same as last year. But I don't think I can stand it.'

‘We must,' she said, her fingers moving steadily at the knitting needles, knitting a khaki wool scarf. ‘The sad thing is that Cantley really hated it all. Arthur didn't, really.'

Lord Swanwick grunted. Nothing. Both sons gone. Helen gone God knew where or why. This great barrack falling down about his ears. Servants leaving. The hounds …

He said, ‘I'm going to disband the hunt. Can't get enough meat for the hounds.'

She said nothing. It was a pity, but she could see that it could not be helped. Roger seemed to have no idea of what might have driven Helen to running off like that. He thought she must have had a quarrel with John Rowland – or taken umbrage at some criticism from Louise; but obviously it was not that. Should she tell him what she thought – what, indeed, she was certain of? Better not. He had enough on his mind. Helen would write sooner or later, then he'd have to know. Then there would be a terrible scandal … and losing two sons for England would make no difference. There would be no charity – not for the Earl and Countess of Swanwick. It was Boy, of course … if only they had had time to get married before he went back to France. But would Roger have given his permission? Be honest … would she herself have been quite content? They needed money; they hoped for more. Helen should have fallen in love with someone like the Duke of Westminster, or Lord Derby's son … a great name, a great fortune. And, above all, she should have remembered who she was … making love in a field, they must have, like Fletcher Gorse and his doxies! Oh, this war, this war!

But one day even this war must end. Then what? They would never again be able to afford the number of servants they used to. That meant – leave Walstone Park. Go where? A big flat in a not-too-fashionable part of London … say South Kensington? Roger must be urged to attend the Lords … more useful than a pack of foxhounds, when you came down to it; and it was his birthright. If people like him – the Backwoods Peers they were called – didn't attend, and vote, the country would be left in the hands of the radicals … Barbara could work in a livery stable and give riding lessons. There were plenty of
such institutions round all sides of Hyde Park … Helen? Ah, who knew? That would have to wait. But Helen was the most sensible of them all (that's why the wild falling in love, the passionate surrender, so surprised her); she would steer her course in the current of the future. Herself? She was used to managing a large house, with many servants. She did it well as well – as the money had allowed. There must be a place for her somewhere. It would be in trade, of course, for she was much too old to learn a profession; well, so be it. Her father, an impoverished Welsh baron, had run sheep on his mountain land, and kept the family's head above water many years by his judicious buying and selling of the sheep, wool, and mutton. Perhaps she could become a buyer for a food shop, or chain of shops. She had some connections … come to think of it, that she certainly had.

The earl said suddenly, ‘I think Hoggin wants to buy this place.'

She stopped her knitting, looking up, ‘How much?'

‘One hundred and ninety thousand pounds … half down. We have not discussed how the rest would be paid. I haven't even said I would accept that.'

She said, ‘You won't get any more. Take it, Roger. We don't have much time left for charades.'

‘Seen these?' Russell Wharton said, throwing the slim red bound book across the fireplace, from the armchair where he sat to Tom Rowland, sitting in another, its twin, on the other side. Tom was wearing uniform, Wharton in full evening dress. He was due at the theatre in an hour; but the part he was playing required that he wear evening dress for the first two acts, so he went to the theatre already dressed. Although evening dress was becoming rarer, as uniforms and dinner jackets became more common, the process had not gone far enough for him to cause any comment.

Tom glanced at the title
At the lip
, and subtitle
Poems from France, by Fletcher
.

Wharton said, ‘The title's from the first line of the first poem – “At the lip of the trench, a poppy grows from a man's eyeball” … It's strong stuff, sometimes rhymed, sometimes not. Some of the poems are bitter, others are lyric – even bucolic – about exactly the same subject. Some amazing insights … He's very good, whoever he is.'

‘Who is Fletcher?' Tom looked at the back of the dust jacket and read that Fletcher was a pseudonym for a young soldier, who wished to remain anonymous.

‘He's not formally educated, I think,' Wharton said. ‘It doesn't say so, but that's what I feel … he's like Isaac Rosenberg in that way, and also in the power of his imagery … Take it home with you.'

‘Thanks, I will,' Tom said, ‘I find it very hard to imagine what it's like in the trenches. It must be so incredibly different from life in a cruiser … still more, from life at the Admiralty.'

‘How's that going, these days?'

‘I was in Queenstown for a month, as you know. Went to sea a lot with the Americans. They have plenty of ideas … and they're all keen as mustard. It was great to be back at sea, even only as a passenger. It made the Admiralty seem pretty awful, especially with the feeling that nameless spies are watching me every moment, waiting for me to … fly my true colours – so that they can throw me out, court martial me, have me hanged, drawn and quartered … The feeling against us is very strong, Russell, very bitter.'

‘Guilty conscience,' Wharton said laconically. ‘Every man has something of sexual love for other men in him. If they ostracize us, or send us to gaol – they're doing it to the impulse in themselves at the same time … How much longer do you think the war is going to go on?'

‘A year, at least,' Tom said grimly. ‘When I got to the Admiralty in April, it looked as though it might end in a few months – with our defeat by the U-boats … but we have the measure of them now. This last campaign at Ypres doesn't seem to have got anywhere. The French are exhausted. The Germans are weakened but not enough for us to be sure of knocking them out quickly. They're stubborn, and courageous. They're not going to give in easily, just because the Americans are coming. We may well be fighting in 1919 still – even 1920, some say.'

Wharton stood up, went to the sideboard, and poured himself a glass of sherry, which he brought over, with a couple of sweet biscuits in the other hand. This was what he normally took before a performance, or between a matinee and an evening show. He sat down again, and said, ‘Do you think you could get out of the Navy?'

Tom said slowly, ‘I suppose it would be possible. But I'm thirty-nine. I'd be conscripted at once … Why?'

‘The time is ripe for you to apprentice yourself to Arthur Gavilan. He told me last week that he badly needed a partner… and he said he'd like to give you the chance. Actually, he said you or Noel … incidentally, Noel's in this show at the Garrick with me. He's got tremendous talent – you really ought to come and see it … but he wants to stay in the theatre. Now's the time to get yourself established, before the war ends and a lot of others with the same idea come back out of the services.'

Tom said, after a time, ‘It would be easy to get out of the Navy. I'd only have to come here a couple of times in plain clothes and they'd have me. They could court martial me for that, as I've been ordered to wear uniform, but they'd probably demand that I resign my commission. Then I'd be liable for conscription … and they'd see that I
was
, too … Anyway, I can't do it. It would be like desertion.'

Wharton said, ‘Didn't you say your job was done? That you have the U-boats beaten … Well, then!'

Tom said, ‘I really do feel that I am a bit of a spare wheel now. I've given them my ideas, they've accepted them and they've worked. What I really want is to be given a destroyer flotilla in Western Approaches, and work out still better methods myself, at sea … but they're never going to send me back to sea – never!'

‘So you'll never be promoted to captain?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Then you owe them nothing! And they're wasting you. Don't worry about being conscripted. There are some of us in quite high enough places to see that you are protected from conscription … no trouble at all. Get out, Tom, and start your new life, your new career, now!'