Softly Grow the Poppies (25 page)

‘Thank God, thank the dear Lord,’ they both sobbed and so did Harry for it meant he was released from the frozen desolation in which he had been trapped ever since he could remember. Joe Turner could forgive him now for stepping on what remained of his pitiful wounded body and with that forgiveness he could return the love he knew Rose felt for him. When he found her. When he found her.
When he found her
.

They were all going mad with joy, and scenes that were taking place at Beechworth and at Summer Place were being repeated all over the country. But in her quiet room at the back of Beechworth House Rose sat very still and waited for she knew not what. Perhaps for an indication of what she was to do now. She would no longer be needed to care for the wounded. Gradually they would all go home to resume the life they had once known or, as best they could, make a new life for themselves. What would it be like, the life she had known before the war? What had she done, she wondered idly, staring out at the garden where, despite the excitement, Tom was industriously dragging the lawn mower out ready to be hitched up to Sparky. Grass had to be cut despite the end or even the beginning of a war. Nessie was running down the lawn to him, waving her arms and as Dolly would say, ‘giving him the rounds of the kitchen’. Rose could imagine what she was saying, on this longed-for day, telling him to leave the damn grass for once and come and celebrate with the rest of them in the kitchen. They had not lost a loved one in the war for they had no children but they had been touched, both of them, by the suffering of the men in the two hospitals. Nessie drew Tom into her arms, soundly kissing his cheek then, taking his hand, drew him up the lawn towards the house and Rose sighed, for she was past tears now but longed with all her heart to be doing the same with Harry.

I
t was the strangest thing, Rose reflected sadly, that now Harry appeared to be his old self again apart from a slight limp he seemed to be totally unaware of her presence in the dismantling of the two hospitals. He was helping with the transfer by ambulance of the badly wounded who were not yet fit to go to their own homes, but to the hospitals that were now emptying of those who were. He still made no attempt to resume the relationship that had been theirs before the war. He seemed to be living within himself, only concerned with his estate and the badly wounded who were leaving it. Now that he was fully and physically restored to health he was engaged in riding round the farms to see his tenant farmers, doing his best to help them to achieve their full potential. She was forced to come to the conclusion that what she had thought of as their true and lasting love had only been what was called ‘a bit of fun’ to him, as it was to all soldiers who were making the most of what they could – in other words a ‘fling’ with a willing female before the tide of war washed him into the trenches of the Western Front. She had been available to him and he had taken full advantage of it, as men did.

She was not to know that Harry Summers harboured the same agonising belief about her, only in the opposite sense, a woman filled with pity for a soldier off to war. Not that she was having a bit of fun, for she was not that sort of a woman, but that out of patriotism and pity she had allowed him into her bed.

They moved about each other’s lives like polite strangers. Rose was in despair. Here they were, the four of them safe after coming through the worst experience that could be asked of man, or so she thought it, and yet they could not seem to resume the life they had led. She had believed that the reunion shared by Charlie and Alice meant that though Charlie was still missing many parts of his life Alice would repair him and they would continue with their marriage but it was not so. Another bed had been placed in the bedroom where Harry had slept since he had come home and it was there that Charlie settled. Alice did not speak of it to Rose for the Alice they had all come to love over four years ago had vanished in the horrors of the war, leaving in her place this quiet stranger who had waited so patiently and fought so bravely for Charlie. Though he had come home he was not the man she had fallen so passionately in love with. He had chosen to sleep apart from Alice, which was bad enough, but though he could have had any one of the many bedrooms at Summer Place if he so wished he clung to his brother.

Harry was without exception kind and patient with him. He had managed to find a gentle mare for him which seemed strange because Charlie had lived and breathed horses before the war and was capable then of controlling the wildest, but until his brother was a great deal better Harry felt it would be wiser to start him on a gentle animal with a sweet temper. A young grey mare totally unlike Lady, who had been a bit of a handful but had been blown into a bloody haze on the battlefield, so that there was nothing to trouble his brother with memories. They rode out together to visit the farms on the estate, much to Will’s fierce resentment since he had considered Harry to be
his
friend and not this other man’s and they were treated to frequent tantrums. Will was almost five years old now, strong and wilful, and Harry was of the opinion that he needed a good ‘walloping’ for he was thoroughly spoiled. He told Rose so, knowing it was no good appealing to the child’s mother.

‘Harry, you must try to be patient with him. He has been raised in trying circumstances.’
Trying!
What a ridiculous word to describe the past four years when the boy had not had the benign childhood given to most children. He had been loved, of course. He had been the centre of not only the servants’ world but the hundreds of wounded who had passed through the hospitals. They had doted on him and many of them could be said to have been helped in their recovery because of him.

‘He has had no mother nor father and though I have done my best to be both, Dolly has petted him, refusing him nothing. Tom’s the same. They have loved him trying to make up to him for his lack of—’

‘I know that, Rose, and I’m sorry for it but it can’t continue. I’ve been on the lookout for a small pony for him then he can ride out with me and Charlie but until his mother is recovered again someone has to discipline him,’
and it won’t be Charlie
, the words unspoken.

‘Oh, Harry, please tell me you won’t—’

‘Won’t what, Rose?’

She was going to say ‘Beat him’ for in the back kitchen Will could be heard yelling that he was going with Harry and no one was going to stop him!

Rose could see the anger on Harry’s face change slowly to sadness. For how could he, who was himself only just beginning to recover his own sanity, manage not only his badly damaged brother but this demanding child who was his brother’s son? Strange it was that Charlie had not questioned anyone about Will. He must know that Will was his but he ignored him, escaping with Harry into the burgeoning spring countryside, slowly gaining confidence on the lovely little grey that he had called Misty. Dear God, were they ever to get back to normality, to the contentment of the past? To
reality
. She wanted a child of her own but she could not manage it without Harry, could she? And what were Charlie and Alice to do with the rest of their lives with Charlie off each day with Harry and Alice drifting about, staring out of the window, drooping from room to room as though looking for something and with an unhappy and bewildered little boy creating mayhem between them all.

Charlie had been home two months when Alice dropped a bombshell into their midst.

‘I wanted to tell you while we are all here together. I’m going to London at the weekend. I want to help the suffragettes to continue their fight for the vote.’

‘But . . . but surely they are bound to get it now the war is won? They stopped all their protests when war was declared,’ Rose stuttered, while Charlie looked from one face to another, an expression of bewilderment on his gaunt face. They had spoken of many things to bring back his memory, but universal suffrage had not been one of them. Though the fight was being fought long before he went to war he could not remember it.

Harry shook his head in despair. Was he to be burdened for ever with his brother? He felt great affection and pity, for Charlie but there was no hope of his recovery if Alice left him; no reconciliation between husband and wife and a normal life for Will. Harry had believed –
hoped
– that with his wife and son Charlie would regain what had been taken from him in the carnage of France. His terrible injury, his time in a German hospital and then the prisoner-of-war camp: those days would be repaired by the love he gave and received with Alice. And the sturdy, handsome, winsome boy who was his son. The child needed a father, and he, Harry Summers, needed Rose who had held it all together through the last four years. Sweet Jesus, how he loved the woman who was at this moment staring in horror at Alice and he knew deep in his wounded heart that she loved him but neither of them could move on with this little family hanging round their necks. His guilt racked him but when was
his
life to begin? He wanted Rose. He wanted children of his own. Rose should be mistress of Summer Place, living here with him and the family they should have. Charlie had a wife and a child and must take responsibility for them. But how . . .
HOW
?

They had just sat down round the dinner table at Summer Place, unfolding their napkins; their new housemaid, a niece of Jinny Herbert called Martha, was bringing in the soup that Mrs Philips had made. Martha was very proud of her position as housemaid to
Sir
Harry Summers and for a moment she did not notice the curious tension in the air. She was fourteen and pretty and was even now entertaining the exciting prospect of allowing Jossy, who though he was really a cowman was helping Tom with the gardens at Beechworth, to kiss her behind the stable block! There were several ex-soldiers working about the grounds who winked at her and life could not be better. She was no longer the schoolgirl she had been before the war and enjoyed lording it over Polly, who was a scullery-maid and not considered suitable to be made up to housemaid.

She suddenly became aware of the absolute stillness of those round the table. Martha had never seen the inside of Summer Place before she became housemaid but her mam, who also had been a housemaid before she married Pa, had told her that the gentry always dressed for dinner. Dressed for dinner? What did that mean for goodness sake? Then her mam had told her about the lovely frocks of silk and taffeta and velvet that the ladies wore and the black and white evening suits worn by the gentlemen. Martha could not, for the life of her, imagine such things but then that was in the olden days before the war.

Martha stood as though frozen to the spot, just inside the doorway wondering what was wrong. Was it her? Had she made some blunder? Because if she had she couldn’t think what.

Thankfully Miss Rose saw her. ‘Leave the soup on the sideboard, Martha, there’s a good girl.’

Again Martha hesitated for it was part of her job to
serve
the soup and she had became right good at it, she had told her mam, spilling not a drop.

‘You can go now. We’ll help ourselves.’

‘But miss, I’m . . .’

‘Just leave it,’ Miss Rose said, right sharp, she was.

Martha placed the soup tureen on the sideboard and fled.

It had been one of those lovely days that come in spring. Not a cloud in the sky. On the terrace stood urns of lavender and Tom was in his element with his preparations for his herbaceous borders, his rose-beds and the re-growth of the lawns. Will was in bed in what had once been the nursery, where the two Summers lads had played out their childish games. Rose had read to him and he had fallen asleep with his thumb in his mouth, something he had not done for several years, and it was an indication of the uncertainty in his life that he had reverted to the habit.

The old ways were gone and they no longer changed for dinner every day as once had been the custom. Alice wore a dress she had not worn for five years, old-fashioned but attractive. It was composed of a collarless, bloused bodice fastened down the front with a row of tiny pearl buttons which were repeated at the wrist of the long sleeves. It was attached to a plain seven-gored skirt in the semi-princess style, the colour a delicate apricot which touched her cheeks. She looked as once she had done, the only difference being the length of her pale silver hair. It lay like a curly cap on her well-shaped head, the fringe almost reaching her eyebrows. Rose had gasped when she saw it and was sorry and so was Harry but Charlie seemed not to notice. Rose herself was in what she called her usual ‘get-up’: an ankle-length skirt in a shade of pale coffee, a white, open-necked shirt, a wide leather belt about her waist and her riding boots, as she had ridden over from Beechworth to check on the people she loved and worried about, and to dine with them as was her custom. She had grown thinner since the return and the apparent indifference of Harry Summers. The only one to notice was, naturally, dear Dolly, who begged her to eat up since she was nowt but skin and bone. Dolly had believed that once the brothers and sweet Alice were home, all would be as it once had been but sadly she had remarked to Nessie that they were all going to hell in a handcart and she didn’t think she could take much more, shaking her old grey head in sorrow.

‘What is this all about, Alice?’ Harry asked Alice quietly.

‘You cannot change my mind, Harry. I am no use to—’

‘I don’t think that is true, Alice,’ Harry interrupted, knowing what she was going to say. ‘You have a husband here,’ indicating Charlie who sat open-mouthed, not understanding.

Charlie was not absolutely sure what they were talking about but somehow it made him feel as though he should be involved in whatever it was. He had been home two months and was beginning to feel secure in what they told him was his home or had been before the war. Sometimes he had flashes of memory, some particular event or object brought back a moment from when he was a boy or a young man. The woods behind the house where he and Harry rode; a certain hedge which he knew before they got there on their horses hid a wide ditch and was a bugger to jump; the welcome from the farming tenants, some of whom he recognised in a hazy sort of way; the woman who hung out the washing who had shouted, ‘Good to have you home, Mr Charlie.’