A Season of Secrets (5 page)

Carrie sucked in her breath, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping. Charlie’s face was a face no longer. Many of the officers recuperating at Gorton had facial burns and injuries. None came
close to Charlie Hardwick’s monstrous disfigurement. One eye was now much lower than the other, the eyelid distorted and puckered. He had no eyelashes. No eyebrows. His nose was missing and,
on a face once pleasant and homely, every inch of skin was leprously white and shiny, the scarring so raised and tight that all facial expression was impossible.

For a fleeting instant his eyes met Carrie’s, filled with an agony beyond all bearing. Then, with a low moan, he pushed past her and, as the woman who had said he should be wearing a
balaclava hastily got out of his way, made a desperate dash for the door.

It banged behind him, and once again there was a clamour of voices.

‘It would’ve been better for him if he’d bin killed.’

‘He’s no right walking the streets, giving folk nightmares.’

‘He won’t be doing so for much longer. He can’t get work – and no wonder. First time I saw ’im I thought I was going to faint.’

With Violet clutching hold of her free hand tightly, Carrie bought stamps. Then, moving along the counter so that the woman behind her could be served, she stuck the stamps on the envelopes, her
fingers unsteady, her legs like jelly. What she had seen had frightened her just as much as it had frightened Violet, but she didn’t want Violet knowing that.

Taking her by the hand, Carrie led her outside to where a bright-red pillar-box stood. Normally posting the officer’s mail was a happy occasion. Violet liked hearing the envelopes drop
inside the letter-box, and Carrie enjoyed thinking of the pleasure with which the letters would be received. Today there was no joy in it for either of them. All both of them wanted was to get back
to the normality of Gorton Hall.

As they straddled their bicycles Violet said in a stunned, scared voice, ‘Will the monster-man always be in the village, Carrie? Because if he is, I don’t think I’ll come with
you to the post office any more. I don’t want to see him again. He frightened me.’

With her foot down hard on a pedal, ready to push off, Carrie said, ‘He isn’t a monster-man, Violet.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘He’s Charlie Hardwick. He used to
play in the village cricket team, and he once rescued Miss Mellor’s cat when it had climbed a tree it couldn’t get down from.’

She had been trying to make Violet feel better, but for some reason that she didn’t understand her words only made her feel worse.

The minute they returned to Gorton, Violet fled in search of her mother.

Carrie went up to the playroom and was glad, when she got there, to find it empty. She didn’t go in search of Thea and Olivia. Instead she pulled a chair up to the table that had once been
used for jigsaws and was now covered by a huge map of Belgium and northern France.

The map had been Blanche Fenton’s idea. Blue crayoned lines indicated the last-known British positions, red lines the German ones. To say that the lines gave only an overall general idea
was an understatement, but the girls gleaned what information they could from newspaper reports and from information Lord Fenton gave Blanche whenever he had one of his all-too-rare leaves.

It wasn’t often that any of the lines moved backwards or forwards more than an inch – an inch that invariably moved back to its original position immediately – but they lived
in hope, waiting for the day when the blue line would surge forward, heading victoriously towards Germany.

Carrie stared at the map unseeingly, unable to think of anything but the moment when Charlie Hardwick had turned around and his eyes, in a face scarcely recognizable as human, had fleetingly
held hers.

She was still seated at the table when Blanche Fenton entered the playroom. Startled, Carrie scrambled to her feet, saying quickly, ‘Thea and Olivia aren’t here, Lady Fenton. I think
they may be down on the courts, playing tennis.’

‘I wasn’t looking for them, Carrie.’ Blanche’s voice was full of concern. ‘Violet has been telling me that when you went to the village there was a monster-man in
the post office. She’s so distressed I didn’t want to question her about it, but I’d like to know who it was she had seen, and why she is describing him in such a way.’

Relief at the prospect of being able to talk with Lady Fenton about what she had seen and experienced flooded through Carrie. If anyone could make sense of it and make the world seem a happy
place once again, Lady Fenton would be able to do so.

‘He wasn’t a real monster, though he looked like one, and that was why everyone in the queue shouted at him and was angry at him for being there.’

Blanche’s concern deepened. ‘Who was he, Carrie? Was he from the village?’

‘It was Charlie Hardwick – though he only looked like Charlie from the back. His father is the cow-man at High Top Farm.’

High Top was one of the few farms in the area not part of the Gorton estate and, though Blanche had never spoken to either Charlie or his father, she knew them by sight.

Aware of how unnerved Carrie still was, she said gently, ‘What happened in the post office, Carrie?’

‘Violet and I were standing behind Charlie, so we couldn’t see his face. Other people in the post office had seen it, though, and because of what they began shouting out when Violet
screamed, I think they had seen it before.’

Blanche’s hands had been clasped lightly in her lap. Now they tightened.

Still keeping her voice carefully under control, she said, ‘And what were they shouting, Carrie?’

Tears burned the backs of Carrie’s eyes. ‘Someone shouted at him that he’d scared Violet half to death, and someone else said he should be in a hospital, where he
wouldn’t be able to frighten anybody; and then someone else, the lady who had come in behind me, said that he should be wearing a balaclava.’

Blanche’s knuckles shone white.

‘After he had gone they said other things, too.’ Carrie’s voice trembled. ‘They said it would have been better for him if he’d been killed, and that he had no right
to be walking the streets, giving folk nightmares.’

Blanche struggled to master her emotions. Charlie’s unspeakable injuries had been suffered while fighting for his king and his country, yet women who had cheered him for enlisting had
shown no pity when he had paid for doing so with a ruined face and, because of it, a ruined life.

‘He can’t get work,’ Carrie added. ‘What will he do, Lady Fenton, if he can’t get work?’

Blanche closed her eyes. Men who’d had a leg blown away – or, even worse, who’d had both legs blown away – sold matches on city streets, with trays of them around their
necks as they stood with the aid of a crutch, or sat in small makeshift carts. How many people, though, would be compassionate enough to approach a man with his face blown away?

She opened her eyes and looked at Carrie, knowing that although she was only ten years old, Carrie would approach Charlie, and that for her the horror of the morning had been made worse by the
hideousness of the remarks Charlie had met with.

When she could trust herself to speak she said, ‘What happened to Charlie has happened because he fought for his country, Carrie. He is a hero and he deserves to be treated like
one.’

She unclasped her hands and ran a fingertip across one of the blue lines on the map, wondering what it was that she should do; wondering what it was Gilbert would want her to do.

Her decision, when she came to it, was one she knew would not be popular. It would be hard on her children and hard, too, on her domestic staff. Even the nurses at Gorton now would probably have
difficulties with it, as would perhaps some of their patients. If Charlie Hardwick was willing, it was, though, what she was going to do.

Her mind made up, she said, ‘I’m going to pay a visit to the Hardwicks, Carrie. Would you come with me? Your presence will perhaps make Charlie feel more at ease.’

For a brief moment Carrie hesitated, wondering if she was brave enough to look at Charlie’s face a second time. Then she remembered the fleeting moment when her eyes had met his. Even
though one eye had not been where it should have been, his eyes had still been Charlie’s eyes. If she looked only into his eyes, then she would be able to behave as she knew Lady Fenton
expected her to.

‘Yes,’ she said, wondering what was going to happen when Lady Fenton arrived at the Hardwicks’ tied cottage; wondering if Lady Fenton was truly prepared for the horror that
awaited her there.

They left Gorton chauffeured by Armitage in Lady Fenton’s Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. It was the first time Carrie had ever ridden in a motor car and even though she
wasn’t looking forward to reaching their destination, she found the experience thrilling. They sped down the hill into Outhwaite, the breeze stinging their cheeks and tugging at the lilac
gauze scarf that Blanche had tied over her hat to prevent it being blown away.

‘How fast are we going, Lady Fenton?’ she asked, knowing it was far faster than she had ever been able to go when riding downhill on Rozalind’s bicycle.

Blanche leaned forward, touching the chauffeur lightly on his shoulder with the handle of her furled umbrella. ‘Armitage?’ Her voice was raised so that even against the breeze he
would be able to hear her.

‘Fifteen miles an hour, m’lady. Would you like me to slow down?’

‘No, thank you. Carrie is enjoying the speed.’

Though Blanche couldn’t see him doing so, Armitage clenched his teeth. He was having a bad morning. Carrie Thornton’s near-constant presence at Gorton Hall had always mystified and
offended him. Her granny might once have been Lord Fenton’s nanny, but it didn’t alter the fact that she was a village girl. Her riding alongside Jim Crosby in the pony-cart was one
thing; her presence in the back of the Rolls-Royce that was his pride and joy was quite another.

Even worse were the directions Lady Fenton had given him. He was to take her to High Top Farm. What was a viscountess doing, paying a visit to a working farm? And what state was the Silver
Ghost’s highly polished aluminium bodywork going to be in, after he had driven it up a farm track? Lady Fenton had always had her eccentricities – treating Carrie Thornton as if she was
quality being a major example – but as far as he was concerned, this latest eccentricity beggared belief.

High Top Farm lay on the edge of moorland, and the autumn heather was in full bloom. A sea of vivid purple, it stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see, filling the air with
honey-sweet scent. Carrie drank in the sight of it. Despite her anxiety about the meeting that was shortly going to take place between Lady Fenton and Charlie, she couldn’t help being happy.
She had always been told that Wensleydale was the most beautiful of all Yorkshire’s dales and, as Armitage drew up outside the farmhouse and she looked around her, she knew, beyond a shadow
of a doubt, that what was said was true.

At the sound of the car drawing up a middle-aged woman ran out of the farmhouse, her hands and arms covered in flour, her face a picture of incredulity.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Blanche said. ‘I’m looking for Charlie Hardwick. I believe his father is your cow-man. If you could tell me whereabouts the Hardwicks
live I’d be very grateful.’

The woman gaped at her. Carrie didn’t blame her for being speechless. It wasn’t every day that a farmer’s wife opened her door to find in her farmyard a silver motor car and,
seated in the back of it, a member of the aristocracy.

‘The ’ardwicks, Your Ladyship?’ she managed at last. ‘They live over yonder.’ With a beefy arm she pointed across a couple of fields to where a chimneystack peeped
above a fringe of trees. ‘But Your Ladyship won’t be able to speak wi’ Charlie. Charlie doesn’t speak wi’ anyone these days.’

‘Thank you for telling me where I can find him, Mrs . . . ?’

‘Lumsden. Florence Lumsden.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Lumsden.’ Blanche turned to Armitage. ‘As near to the cottage as you can get, Armitage.’

The cottage, when Armitage reluctantly reached it via a narrow, overgrown lane, was appallingly decrepit. Mrs Hardwick rushed from its dark interior to find out who on earth was coming to pay a
call on her and then, on seeing who it was, fell against its door jamb in shock, causing a tile to fall from the roof.

Both Mrs Hardwick and Blanche ignored it.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hardwick,’ Blanche said, sending hens scattering as she walked across to her. ‘I understand your son has returned from Flanders badly injured. I would like
to have a few words with him, if I may?’

‘Wi’ our Charlie?’ Mrs Hardwick stared at Blanche as if she had taken leave of her senses, something that Armitage, standing yards away beside the Silver Ghost, was convinced
of. ‘You can’t see Charlie, m’lady. He isn’t fit to be seen. Not by anyone.’ She plucked agitatedly at the edge of an apron, which was as long as the shabby dress
skimming her clogs.

‘I know about Charlie’s injuries, Mrs Hardwick.’ Blanche’s low, sweet voice was as reassuring as she could make it. ‘They are why I am here.’

Mrs Hardwick’s bewilderment was now total.

Aware of this, and also aware that Mrs Hardwick was far too overwhelmed by her title to think of inviting her into her home, Blanche went on, ‘I want to help Charlie, Mrs Hardwick. Perhaps
it would be best if we continued talking inside?’

Without waiting for Mrs Hardwick to agree, Blanche stepped past her, with Carrie still at her side.

The low-ceilinged stone-floored room they entered was dominated by a blackleaded kitchen range almost the height of the room. Though it was autumn it was a mild day and there was no fire in the
grate, or kettle on the long hook hanging above it. In one corner of the room was a cast-iron copper for heating water, in another was a well-scoured stone sink and in the centre of the room stood
a heavy wooden table and two upright chairs.

Blanche seated herself on one of the chairs and Mrs Hardwick, with nervous glances towards a half-open door leading to a narrow curving staircase, seated herself on the other one. Carrie,
mindful of her manners, remained near the door they had entered by.