A Horse Called Hero (10 page)

Pennywater was their secret place.

Scout carried them down over the soft nibbled turf through musky clouds of gorse, to a stream, their stream, a stream that never ran dry, a hidden place of glittering amber
water, that flashed between cushions of deep and dripping moss. Fizzy with curiosity or fear at each new thing, Hero followed, dainty on his butterfly legs.

Dodo settled herself on a rock and looked out for Hettie’s ponies. They came to drink at Pennywater, for this was their place, too. She stretched out, face to the dappled sun, listening to
the sounds of sheep and water, waiting. After a while, she said, ‘Time passes more slowly here.’

Wolfie, creeping toad-like along the bank, collecting creeping crawling things for his jar, paused to consider this.

‘How does it?’ His mind, more literal than hers, fought such an idea.

‘Show me,’ said Dodo, reaching for the magnifying glass and jar.

She inspected his haul of buzzing and black things. ‘What will you
do
with them, Wolfie?’

‘They’re for the bantams,’ he replied, very proud. ‘They lay more if you give them bugs.’ He paused, looked up and said with a mayfly leap from one subject to
another, ‘Pa’s case will be soon, won’t it?’

Dodo said nothing for a while, then, ‘Hettie says they are not laying so much now, she doesn’t know why.’

Wolfie stuck his chin out and lowered his eyes.

‘Do you think of London much, Wolfie?’ she asked later.

‘No, I just want Pa to come here, I want him to see Hero – I want that every day.’

Scout, tethered loosely to an arthritic withy tree, tugged at her rope. Dodo laughed fondly, knowing she was fretting for Hero.

‘Look, there, he’s just there . . .’ She broke off and leaped up. ‘Look, Wolfie, the ponies – they’re here.’

They cantered in a dark and pounding clot, short legged, clever as cats on the steep soft ground.

‘Fifteen – there’s only . . . I can only see fifteen,’ began Dodo.

Wolfie squatted and held the glass over his jar. ‘Why do they take them?’ he asked, probing the contents of his jar with a blade of grass.

‘I don’t know . . . I don’t like to think why they take them or where they take them.’

She counted again with a trembling forefinger. She knelt and packed the remnants of the picnic away, snapped her paint box shut.

Hettie, surprised to see them back so soon, came out into the yard. She saw Dodo’s face and asked quietly, ‘How many?’

Silently Hettie removed Scout’s saddle. Dodo followed her into the tack room with the bridle.

‘What’re we to do? Must we have them in the house to keep them safe?’ asked Hettie, running the tap, taking the bridle from Dodo to wash the bit. She bent deeply over the sink,
and put a hand over her eyes. Dodo and Wolfie watched her in anxious silence. After a minute, she lifted her head. ‘They’re born here, bred here, hefted to this hill, generation after
generation . . .’ After a little while, she turned with a visible effort and went to take a towel from a basket in the corner.

She paused, lifted the basket and turned to them, holding it out and saying in a lighter, forced tone, ‘I was worried the bantams weren’t laying and all this time they were,
weren’t they?’

Wolfie looked at the floor. Dodo looked at Wolfie, stepped forward to the basket, then spun round to Wolfie.

‘Wolfie,’ she said, horrified. ‘Wolfgang, you can’t just help yourself! What were you planning on—?’

Wolfie was still staring at the floor. Dodo took his arm.

‘Wolfie, what . . . ?’

‘I’m saving them for Pa – for when he comes. You don’t get fresh eggs in a barracks.’

‘Oh, Wolfie.’

There were tears in Hettie’s eyes. She put an arm around his shoulder and led him across the yard and into the house.

Father Lamb, sitting by the fire, looked up at Wolfie’s grimy, guilty face.

‘You must tell them, Father, you must tell them now,’ said Hettie. She held up the basket of eggs, two dozen or more, perfect and lovely as porcelain. ‘Wolfie’s been
hoarding eggs for when his father comes.’

Father Lamb shifted a little in his chair, folded his glasses on to the table, and patted the arms of the chair, for them to sit on either side.

‘What?’ said Dodo, alarmed. ‘What must you tell us?’

‘We’ve had a letter from your pa. It’ll be a long time before he’s able to see you, much longer than you or we thought.’ He waited a while. ‘You see,
there’re charges against him . . . As you know, desertion and disobedience are serious charges, very serious indeed, and the punishment can be—’

‘Pa didn’t run away,’ said Wolfie, quiet and furious, eyes burning. ‘He never would.’

‘No, Wolfie, I don’t think he
would
run away, but you see there is no other witness. There is no one to speak on his behalf besides himself . . . He’s going to be held
in close custody while the charges are investigated. If the charges hold, there’ll be a court martial.’

‘What will happen?’ asked Dodo.

‘Where is he?’ asked Wolfie at the same time.

‘He’s still in barracks and will stay there until . . . well, until he is tried by a court martial.’

‘But what
is
a “marshal”?’ Wolfie asked, exasperated.

‘A judge,’ said Dodo. ‘A very important judge.’

‘He’ll write to you, but he wanted me to explain, because these things are complicated. But we must all – you must both – keep your faith in him, not believe what people
say, what will be written. It may be –’ he put an arm around each of them – ‘it may be some time before his trial, and a very long time before he’s able to see
you.’

‘If he
is
found guilty . . .’ Dodo, white-faced, was unable to complete the question.

‘He didn’t, he never—’ began Wolfie.

‘If he
is
found guilty . . . well, we must pray that someone who was there, someone who saw it all, is still alive, is alive somewhere, perhaps a prisoner of war – if there
was such a survivor, that man could come forward one day as a witness. In time, it
is
possible that—’

‘What . . . !’ Dodo was screaming. ‘What if no one is alive, what if no one comes forward, what if they find him guilty?’

Father Lamb said nothing. Hettie stepped into the loud silence and tried to draw Dodo to her, but Dodo was rigid in her arms, her head swelling with half heard things, things she dimly
remembered Pa once saying about the punishment for desertion in the last war, things the Causey sisters whispered noisily amongst themselves. And Dodo thought she knew, now, for certain, from the
pain in Father Lamb’s eyes, that the punishment for Pa, if he were found guilty, would be death.

Hettie cancelled the newspaper delivery.

Many letters came from Pa to the children, tender, fearless and uncomplaining, then, in the autumn, a long letter came from him, addressed to Father Lamb. Father Lamb rose from the breakfast
table and went to his study.

After what seemed a long while he called the children in. When he spoke, it was without reference to the letter, which lay to one side under his glasses on a walnut side table. Dreadnought sat
beside him, unblinking, immovable as a statue, above noticing the unusual presence of children in his master’s study.

‘You must be brave in the days to come, Dodo, Wolfie.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘The national press have taken a great interest again in your father. There will be a
court martial. He will be tried and the case is likely to be very public. It may well drag on for some time and it may cast a cloud, perhaps forever, over his name – and over yours. He knows
this and knows he owes it to you to tell you what happened.’

The children drew closer to each other. Dodo took Wolfie’s hand.

‘I’ll try to explain, as simply as I can, what he’s written to me.’ Father Lamb rose, and took a deep breath. ‘When we pulled out of France, there was a terrific
rush as our men raced to the beaches around Dunkirk, the enemy hot on their heels. Your father was in the rearguard, in command of a company. He arrived at a place called Wormhout, and was given
orders to defend a farmhouse, to stay there and to hold it. When the enemy approached, they were to delay the Germans, to hold them off, so that as many of our men as possible could get to those
beaches and get home.

‘They held Wormhout for two days, until the last of our men had passed through. By midday on the third day, German troops were massing on the outskirts. Your father came under heavy fire
from waves of German Stuka bombers. One by one, the Allied units holding the town withdrew until only three companies remained. The town was turned to dust and rubble. Their job had been done but
they received orders to stay put, “to hold their position to the last man and the last round”. Your pa and his men had only the rounds left in the Boys anti-tank rifle and the Bren gun,
but they fought on, exhausted, hungry, trapped and outnumbered.

‘Again the orders were given from HQ to stay put, that a company of Norfolks would bring relief and ammunition. Still the German planes came in waves and waves.’

Father Lamb turned from the window and looked at them both.

‘Imagine what he felt as he looked at his men, three of whom had served with him in 1918, all of whom must have felt like sons or brothers. If they were to stay, they would face the choice
of death or surrender. There would be no other option. Your father’s men were to be sacrificed for no good reason. Nevertheless, they obeyed instructions and waited. Some time later a Major
Vickers of the Cheshires, and two of his men, made their way along a ditch and into the farmhouse. Since Vickers was the more senior officer, he took command and instructed your father and his
sergeant, Box, to go out and find the Norfolks. Your pa and Sergeant Box crawled along a hedgerow, to the position in which the Norfolks should have been. There they heard the sound of drunken
laughter. They saw three German officers outside a barn. From inside the barn there was silence. Those weren’t ordinary German officers, but officers of the SS. The SS – Dodo, Wolfie
– are Hitler’s personal guard.

‘There’s no gentle way to say what your pa found, later, inside that barn . . . The Norfolks had been killed – all of them – at point-blank range. They’d
surrendered, that was clear because they were naked to the waist. The shooting of men that have surrendered goes against all laws of military conduct . . .’

Father Lamb paused, looking blindly out of the window.

‘It was clear to your father that the SS were in command of Wormhout. If your pa and his men surrendered, they too, would be massacred. He ran back and urged Vickers to retreat, to get the
men away, to retreat if they could, but Vickers, quite simply, did not believe what your pa said he’d seen. Vickers said such a thing was impossible, that no massacre had happened. He
instructed the company to stay and hold the position. Horrified at the fate that would befall his men, your father argued with Vickers and again urged both Vickers and his own men to leave. Vickers
accused him of inciting cowardice and desertion. Your pa grew more forceful in his argument. Vickers said he had no choice but to report your pa to HQ. A report was filed against your
father.’

Father Lamb turned from the window and spoke directly to the children.

‘In a desperate attempt to save the useless sacrifice of the lives of the men he loved, and thinking nothing of his own reputation, again your father begged his men to retreat. In front of
his own men he was arrested, led at gunpoint to the dairy building and locked in. A while later, with nothing but their bayonets to defend themselves against the flood of black tanks, Vickers
surrendered. Through a window your pa saw the SS line his men up, strip them and herd them into a barn. He heard the machine guns and he heard their cries.’

Father Lamb’s eyes clouded, ‘Later, much later, he managed to break out of the dairy and make his way to the barn. Every man was dead except Vickers, who was badly wounded. Your
father dragged him out. For a while they lived off raw potatoes and water from puddles. At some point, a Frenchwoman took Vickers in and nursed him. Your pa made his way home through France, Spain,
and then to England from Gibraltar. Nothing has been heard of Vickers.’

Father Lamb knelt stiffly on the floor at their feet, took the letter and read, ‘Wolfie, Dodo, I
did
encourage my men to retreat, I
did
disobey my commanding officer, I
did
incite desertion . . . But I did that for what I believed to be the right reason. Unless I can prove that the massacre occurred, there’s little chance of my winning my case.
Until the bodies of my men are found, there is only the hope that Vickers is alive somewhere and will one day prove my story. As far as I know, he is the only possible survivor.’

Many letters followed, but it was what Father Lamb explained to them that day that helped Dodo’s anger with Pa evaporate, that made Wolfie’s pride in his father burn with a fiercer
flame, that helped them both endure the private scorn, the public glare, that was to come.

Hettie propped Dodo’s painting on the mantel. Wolfie, on the floor, amidst a heap of wrapping paper, was spellbound, as if seeing Hero for the first time, by the candour
of his eyes, by the confidence, the assurance of the carriage of his head. How fast that baby face had changed. When had it become that of a beautiful young horse?

Wolfie held Pa’s parcel in his hands. He’d saved that till last, but still he made no move to open it, spellbound by the beauty of his horse.

‘It’s not your brush strokes he’s so astonished by,’ whispered Hettie to Dodo. Wolfie longed, they all knew, to send the picture to Pa. Wolfie bit his lip, bent his head
and unfolded Pa’s card.