A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (33 page)

He heard Ian calling, ‘You bastards.' He heard the recently arrived soldiers shouting and herding those other Spaniards away from the pit, at gunpoint.

‘
Gracias por tus esfuerzos
,' he called to José, not sure if he had found the right words to thank him for his efforts.

José bowed slightly. ‘
No es de todos nosotros
.'

The recently arrived officer, unshaven and exhausted, kicked at the murderer on the ground, and turned to the survivors. ‘Indeed, it is not all of us. My apologies.'

Ian muttered, ‘But though the others didn't do it, they let it 'appen.' His voice was cold and shocked.

‘
We
let it happen,' James said quietly.

They were herded into trucks and taken to an established camp, an old farmhouse. There was the sound of distant firing. They were thirsty, their tongues were swollen, their stomachs hollow. They sat in the cool of their room, and no-one really spoke, not for hours, or was it days, or weeks? Those already there had greeted them, and wondered at their silence. At last, Ian said, ‘We dug a pit, they shot every other one. They killed our sergeant. We refilled the pit, clink clunk. Now bugger off, and don't ask again.'

They had not asked again, but a German socialist of the International Brigade had brought a handful of twigs and shown them how to play ‘Pick up a Twig'. He told them it was February.

There was snow on the distant mountains. There
was one meal a day, sometimes. Gruel. There was structure, a sort of safety. Uncle Jack had been right. They ducked when
avion
was called. The firing in the distance was continuous. The days were long and filled with Pick up a Twig. They were getting rather good. Ian or Frank kept the score.

They lost three men in the camp from malnutrition that week. Two the next, one from malnutrition, one from a beating, or was it illness? James' knees were healing. They didn't complain, because the International Brigade was lucky in comparison with the Republican nationals. But then, it was said to be no picnic for fascists who were caught by the Republicans.

Ian thought they might be saving the foreigners for use as hostages. One man was released in return for a delivery of a mortar. They laughed. Rumour or fact? Who knew?

Who knew anything?

James was unable to sleep, so he rose and walked down the side of the yew hedge, unable to believe that he was home. He reached the silver birches. The primroses carpeted the ground; birds sang, protecting their territory; the birch leaves were in early bud; the wind was cold. He reached the bothy and stared at his bike. The handlebars were rusty. He pulled it forward. The chain needed oiling. Perhaps he would do that. Perhaps.

He walked across the drive; the gravel crunched. He reached the arboretum and stared up at the sky. No bombers. He shut off his mind. The others would still be there, where he had left them. He shut off his mind again. He. Had. Left. Them.

He hadn't known then what it meant when the Italian officer arrived at the camp in his sleek black car, and strode up the steps to the commandant's office. All the prisoners had stopped what they were doing, because sometimes this happened, and people were dragged away. The fear was so tangible you could almost smell it. After a while three guards had
left the commandant's office, while the Italian strolled to his car, slapping his swagger stick against his shiny boots, nodding to his driver. James had watched as they headed straight towards his Pick up a Twig group. Each of them, as though of a single mind, had stood, braced together.

‘You,' the squat, brutal guard had said. He had pointed at James, who felt his legs almost go from under him. Ian grabbed one of his arms, and Frank, the other. He had swallowed the bile that had risen to his throat, forcing himself to stand upright.

‘Why?' he had croaked.

‘You,' the guard had shouted again. The other two had bashed Ian and Frank away and grabbed him.

‘Why?' he had repeated, wanting to struggle, but refusing to show these bastards such fear.

Instead he had called back, as he was hustled away, ‘I'll be fine.' Ian was nursing a broken nose; Frank was dabbing at a split lip. He'd walked to the car. ‘Why?' he'd asked the officer standing by the car. He opened the back door. James said, ‘I know nothing that can help you, except the rules of Pick up a Twig.'

‘Get in,' the officer had ordered.

Inside was a German officer. He patted the seat beside him. ‘Ah, Herr Williams. You have powerful friends, or someone somewhere is offering something of value in exchange for your return.'

James sat. The Italian slammed the door and eased into the front passenger seat. As the German's words
sank in, James grabbed for the handle. It did not exist. ‘I don't want to leave. They are my friends. How can I leave?'

The driver spun the wheels and took James away.

He reached out now, and touched the branch of a sycamore. It was smooth. The wind was chilly. Here there was food to eat, wine to drink, but even after two weeks at home, his stomach couldn't cope. He sighed, feeling as though he was looking at everything through thick glass. Primrose was beyond the leggy stage; Terry and Fanny were old professionals, ably taking over from Prancer. David was doing a grand job. Estrella and Maria were more settled, but had said little to him, beyond that they were happy he had survived.

It was as though Easterleigh Hall had flowed on undisturbed. There was a peace in that, he supposed, but the only thing he felt was a burning rage. It made him too hot all the time, it made him want to run, it made sleeping impossible, and when he did there was the sound of ragged shots, the voices of his friends calling, as he was shoved into the back of the Italian's car.

He ran headlong between the trees now, enjoying the pain of his ribs as they jolted and jarred, still not healed from one or other of his beatings in the prison camp. He arrived, panting, at the cedar tree. He checked his new wristwatch, given to him by his
parents who had not been able to tell him quite how much they loved him, how relieved they were, and how much they wanted to box his ears for not telling them he was going, but knowing why he had not.

Tim was there as he had promised, because James had said he must thank him. He didn't want to, but he must.

He put out his hand, Tim shook it. James said, ‘Thank you, but . . .'

There was a pause. Tim said, ‘But . . . You left people behind. You feel guilty. You have nightmares. You wish in many ways you were dead. You want to try and get them out.'

James let his hand drop. How did his cousin know all this? Tim said, ‘I will try to secure their safety. But . . .' Now it was his turn to stop.

Both men, for that was what they were now, James thought, turned and looked at the big house. Tim said, ‘It's so solid, isn't it, James? It never seems to change, just runs on, no matter what bloody mess we get ourselves into.'

Just then, the dachshunds, Currant and Raisin, rushed round from the stables, barking, jumping up on Tim, licking, squealing their joy, snapping at one another so they could be first to be petted. Tim reached down and pulled their ears gently, ‘Well, you two. You're pleased to see me, at least. How're you doing, you dear old things?'

Bridie's voice cut through the yaps, ‘Come here, you two. Just come away.' The anger in her voice made the dogs cringe, and they slunk back along the lawn, and then the gravel, skirting round her and scuttling through the stable yard into the garage yard, and then the kitchen. She stared at Tim for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. She turned on her heel, and followed the dogs.

James dug his hands into his pockets. He wished they wouldn't shake as they did. He said, ‘Do you remember the beck, Tim, when Bridie and I saw the flying ants?'

Tim nodded. ‘Aye, bonny lad. We ended up in the water, as I remember.'

James said, ‘When we were being bombed by your Luftwaffe mates, there was a line of ants busy on a ledge in the trench. Each time they were there, and I remembered the three of us together. I remember you coming when we screamed and ran. I remember you holding us to you. You were all wet. You made us wet too. What's happened to us, Tim? How did we get to the place we are now?'

He saw that Tim's hands were shaking too. Or had they already been when they shook hands? He looked closely at his cousin. ‘Look at me, Tim.'

Tim turned. His eyes were full of tears, his hands
were
trembling and in his face was the memory of nightmares that James saw in his own, whenever he looked in a mirror. ‘What happened to you, man?'

Tim turned away, dragging a hand across his eyes. He muttered, ‘Just glad you're back, James. That's all.'

It wasn't all. James wasn't a fool, and neither did he want to stand here feeling his whole body racing, as well as his mind. He needed to move, to run. He said, ‘For old times' sake?'

Tim turned. ‘What do you mean?'

‘The beck, now. Race you?'

It was something they used to do, but always slowed for Bridie so they could arrive at the finishing line together. The finishing line being the beck. Tim laughed, ‘You're on.'

James counted them down, and they were off, running down the drive, the gravel kicking up behind them, James' ribs jolting, his legs weak from the prison camp. Tim powered ahead, stronger, fitter. They ran along the road to the crossroads, Tim well in the lead. James was panting, but he'd win over the bugger. Tim might have put James under an obligation, but . . . Now he placed the fury. That was it. He owed Tim, fascist Tim, the one who'd betrayed the family, the one . . .

He found energy from somewhere, and he began to gain on his cousin as they pounded along the road. A car passed and hooted. They took no notice. He was catching Tim now, though the breath was jagged in his chest. Tim was passing the church on the right, but James was only twenty seconds behind. There were sheep in the pasture
beyond. Uncle Aub had put them out now the snow had cleared. There were crows pecking at the ploughed field on his left. They'd have to get the bird scarers out.

He was tiring, his legs were about done, he had to think of one step, and then another. One. Another. He had no shovel this time, no garlic-stinking officer . . . He reached the turn to the beck. Tim was still ahead but he was slowing. James powered on. Tiring, was he, the beggar? Well,
he
damned well wasn't, because the fury was back, driving him on. There were just over a hundred yards to the beck, and now he was pounding along the lane. The cobwebs in the hedge shuddered. He was drawing close. He was passing.

He snatched a look at Tim's face, but saw only a burgeoning sadness and disappointment, while in himself there was searing triumph. The beck was ahead. He could see it, and he was going to beat the bastard. The sun was glinting on the still surface, just as it used to. For a moment he heard their laughter, and Bridie's call, ‘Wait for me.' He remembered their pace slowing, heard her panting as she reached them and they ran on, together.

In that second, the fury that had fuelled him since his return dissipated.

Now, he was the one slowing, and steadily Tim drew alongside, matching him pace for pace, until they reached the bank, together. As one, they bent over, gasping for breath.

‘I'm getting too old for this,' Tim said, straightening, and dragging out his cigarettes, offering them to James.

He heaved himself upright and took one. Tim lit them with his lighter. ‘What happened to you, bonny lad?' James asked again.

‘Life,' Tim said flatly. ‘Life is what happened, but what keeps me going is Easterleigh Hall, and the people in it. That's all you need to know, James. Just be happy you're home. You owe me nothing. It's been a good result and led me to what should be done.' He seemed tired.

James didn't understand. ‘You're still going to the Hawton meeting hall, I hear?'

Tim paused, inhaled, exhaled. ‘Yes.' That was all.

They walked back together, side by side. ‘The nightmares will fade,' Tim said.

‘Yours have, then?'

‘Listen.' Tim stopped, turned James around, gently. ‘You don't want to know about my nightmares. You don't want to know about my life, not for now. It is enough that you
see
that I am still a fascist, but perhaps we can still be cousins. I love you, James. Remember that. I'll use my contacts to do what I can for your friends.'

They walked on together. James said, ‘I don't und—'

Tim put up his hand, it still trembled. ‘We're who we are. Get better, James, go to university, make a good life. Look after our family, if ever I can't.'

Neither spoke again until they reached Tim's
motorbike. James waited while Tim put on his gloves, his leather helmet, his goggles. They shook hands, but it wasn't enough for James. He pulled Tim to him. ‘I don't know what the hell is going on, but something is. No matter who or what you are, I love you, and you need to take care.'

Tim pushed James away, mounted his motorbike, and thrust down on the kickstart. The engine fired. ‘Thank you, but it's better if you hate me. Do you understand?'

For a long moment they looked at one another. ‘I hate you,' James said. ‘Don't worry, I hate you, very much.'

He watched Tim power down the drive. He didn't understand what was happening in Tim's life but he was left with a sense of the complexity of the world, and a feeling that a game was being played, one that was reserved exclusively for the lonely and the brave.

Bridie listened to the chatter as Evie and Ver prepared breakfasts for those who had risen late. Annie, her work at the Neave Wing done for the moment, hugged a mug of tea and said, ‘Honestly, Matron and Sister Newsome are driving me scatty, fretting that David's burning the candle at both ends, what with the horses,
and
Estrella. Silly old dears don't seem to understand that the best thing in the world is for him to have a pretty girl sitting on his knee, as long as the brake's on, of course.'