The Care and Management of Lies (15 page)

Chapter 10

In no circumstances is specific reference to be made on post cards, in letters, on matter posted in parcels or in private diaries sent from the theatre of operations . . . to the moral or physical condition of the troops.

—
FIELD SERVICE POCKET BOOK
,
1914

I
t was after supper, after the plates had been washed and the fire banked for the night, after the collies had settled on a blanket in front of the stove—a privilege never allowed by Tom, who would have said mollycoddling would soften a working dog’s heart—and after two bricks heated in coals had been wrapped in towels, one placed between the sheets of each bed, that Kezia and Thea made their way upstairs, carrying oil lamps to light the way. On the landing Kezia turned towards Thea and kissed her on the cheek.

Thea felt herself lean into the kiss as if she were a child, and though she drew back from articulating the feeling in her heart—she would not even say the words to herself, silently, in her mind—she felt a mothering warmth as Kezia’s lips brushed against her skin, and as her hand rested on her shoulder. Thea looked down, drawing herself back from the inner realization that perhaps Kezia had always mothered in her way. As her dearest and perhaps only friend, Kezia might have intuited that the former Mrs. Brissenden felt little affection for her children, but could be swollen with pride when it came to Tom’s accomplishments. Yes, she put food on the table, clothed her offspring, and set them off on life’s road, but she was a farmer’s wife, and it was her husband, her son, and the farm that took the milk of her love.

“It’s a cold night, Thea—bring your brick and come into my bed. I’ve put an extra blanket on, so it’ll be just like Camden. We can pretend we’re still girls, can’t we?” Kezia smiled, resting her hand on the door handle.

Thea hesitated, but was persuaded by the chill air. “All right. I don’t want to remember those cold dormitories, though.”

“Or the anthracite stove at the end of the room—threw out no heat, but filled the air with fumes.”

Thea laughed. “I’ll just get into my nightclothes.”

Kezia could not have bundled herself more thoroughly. She wore a flannel nightdress with Tom’s thick woolen dressing gown wrapped around her, and heavy socks pulled up above her ankles. Thea clambered in beside her, similarly mummified.

“Grief! Who would have thought it could be this cold—and the day was so bright.”

“There was no cloud to keep the land swaddled, that’s why we’re all feeling it.”

“Spoken like a true farmer’s wife.” Thea elbowed Kezia, who elbowed back.

They giggled, heads together. And in this proximity, it was as if they were retracing their way along time’s byway, down the years and back to Camden; back to a time before they went on to college, even before matriculation—to a moment before their paths diverged.

The giggles had subsided, and they were quieted in the room, sheltered by gentle lamplight. The walls felt closer, the nighttime quiet, comforting.

“Thea.”

“Yes?”

“What made you volunteer? You’ve never liked anyone telling you what to do, have you? And you love your London life—you worked hard for your little slice of independence, Thea. You even changed your name. And now you’re set to go to France. I just don’t understand.”

Thea’s body tensed.

“I’m going, Kezia, and I can’t change my mind now, you know.”

Kezia sat up, staring into Thea’s eyes. “I’m not interested in trying to change your mind. You’ve made your choice. I just want to know why.” She folded her arms into the copious sleeves of Tom’s dressing gown.

Thea was silent, then spoke, parsing her reply with care. “It just seemed to come up while I was thinking about looking for another position. I met an old friend—you remember her, Hilary Dalton—she’d joined a medical unit as a driver, and she took me along.”

“Oh, so you were swept away.”

Thea shook her head but moved closer to Kezia, who leaned back against the pillow. “Not really, Kez. I wasn’t so much swept away as I caught the tide. I wanted to be in something. I wanted to belong, and . . .”

“Belong to what?” Kezia pressed.

“Well, I belonged to other things, societies and so on, because I wanted to do something worthwhile—it doesn’t really matter what they were. But when war came, none of that made me feel as if I’d been doing something really, well, important for our boys. I wanted to play a part.”

Thea was aware of Kezia, nodding her understanding. She remembered a certain look, from the very early days of their friendship. Kezia would often take her time with a question, ruminating over it in her mind, chewing on it like a cow with a clump of grass, grinding it down from side to side to get the goodness—only with Kezia, it was as if she were looking for something in the middle of the problem. The truth, perhaps. Thea had attributed it to having a vicar for a father, for surely life in the parsonage meant that you thought about everything more than anyone else, because God had his eye on you all the time.

Thea turned onto her side and looked at Kezia, at her long hair braided for bed, at the collar of Tom’s dressing gown pulled up around her neck, and at the shallow wisps of her visible breath, turning into little puffs, like sheep’s wool caught on a hawthorn hedge.

“Do you think everything will be all right, Kezzie?” said Thea.

“Yes, I do. It’ll be over soon, just like they say it will. Look at you—you’ll go out there and be back in five minutes. And Tom will come home, I’m making sure of that.”

“What do you mean?”

Kezia’s eyes met Thea’s. “I’m tempting him with my cooking—he’ll come back for that, just you see.”

And then, in their burst of laughter, Thea felt joined to Kezia in the way that childhood friends are connected. As girls they had wanted to be mistaken for twins, because the error would simply add another layer of glue to their sisterhood.

Kezia reached out towards the lamp and turned down the wick, then burrowed under the covers once more.

“Thea.”

“Yes?”

“When do you leave for France?”

“Up to London on Thursday, then more training, and as soon as that’s done, I’ll be on a boat from Folkestone, I would imagine. It might even be before Christmas, or soon afterwards.”

Kezia drew breath to speak, then paused.

“What?” said Thea.

“Well, when you said you belonged to other things, you weren’t talking about social clubs, were you?” Kezia waited for a response. Thea said nothing, so she continued. “I mean, was it something dangerous? Were you in some sort of trouble, Thea? Is that why you volunteered—to go away?”

“Of course I’m not in any trouble. What gave you that idea?” Thea felt the tone of her voice rise.

“It was nothing, really. I mean—well, I’d read about an Avril someone or other being arrested at a pacifists’ rally, and I remembered, at Buckingham Palace . . . and I know you’ve a friend—a good friend, I think—called Avril.”

Thea laughed. It was a forced laugh, and she knew Kezia would recognize it for what it was, a prelude to the bending of truth. “Avril? I haven’t seen her for ages. Not since she decided she didn’t want to go on an Alpine walking tour. I have no idea what she’s doing, actually. No idea at all.”

“I suppose there are quite a few Avrils.”

“It’s not an uncommon name.”

The women were silent for several more minutes, until Kezia spoke again.

“Thea, are you scared?”

“I’ll be safe—don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried. Of course you’ll be safe. But are you scared, Thea?”

“No more than you are, when you have to unhitch Mabel.”

Kezia chuckled. “As God’s my witness, there never was a more contrary mare, truly there wasn’t.”

More laughter, then they reached towards each other to embrace.

“Night, Thea.”

“Good night.”

And in the darkness, each felt the other shiver, and as they continued to hold hands, they understood that it wasn’t the cold air, or the cooling bricks, for now they were warm beneath the bedclothes.

E
dmund Hawkes sat at his desk in a tent, one tent in an encampment of tents. He was safe, for now, unless shelling reached this place, a farm chosen for its seclusion behind the lines. Seclusion was, of course, a relative concept, for the trees—those still standing—were bare of all foliage, and there were orders to go up the line again in forty-eight hours. Another push. Push and shove, thought Hawkes. Push here, shoved back, push forwards, shoved sideways—shove them, and we’re pushed. And in the middle of all that pushing and shoving, men—his men—would lie dead. Men that lay buried, now, in hasty graves; bodies wrapped in ground sheets and set in the cold, wet earth. Only the words of a soldier’s prayer to see them on their way, so far from home and love.

“Sir!”

Hawkes looked up. A month ago he might have felt inept, inadequate, and ill prepared when facing a sergeant with years in uniform, but now all care had left him.

“Sergeant Knowles. Good. At ease, Knowles.”

“Sir!” Knowles eyed Edmund Hawkes and saw a man beyond intimidation.

“Right. How are your raw recruits to the game?” Edmund Hawkes looked directly at Knowles.

Knowles appeared to bristle when he heard the word
game.
Hawkes understood that Knowles was an army man through and through, and that he had only so much time to knock his lads into shape, to knead them into a fighting corps, a body willing and able to take a man’s life, and to die. Recruits should have had a year of training, but for some it had been whittled down to not much more than a month. It was no game to Knowles. And Hawkes knew that Knowles considered him just one more new officer, raw and disillusioned—another enlisted man to be trained up enough to save his own life.

“All present and correct, and ready for the Hun, sir.”

“Well, that is good news.” Hawkes ran a finger down the list. “I know some of these men—come from the same village. I—”

“Sir?”

“This chap—Brissenden. How’s he shaping up?”

“Not one of the best, sir.”

“I’m surprised. He’s a farmer, a good worker. He didn’t have to enlist, he’s got a farm to run.”

“Sir.” Knowles made no other comment.

“What’s the problem?”

“Couple of incidents, sir. Troublemaker, I would say. Didn’t like the food, sir.”

“I don’t think any of us like the food, Knowles.”

“Didn’t keep it to himself, sir. Gets the men going, comments about the ration.”

“Well, we’ll see how he gets on here. Not that we’ll all be here for long. Anything else?” Hawkes looked up when there was no immediate response. “Sergeant Knowles? Anything else?”

“Private Brissenden. Personal letters—very odd, sir. Not good for morale, I would say.”

Hawkes felt a wave of fatigue flood his body. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a soft bed, and a good meal. “Describe how the letters are ‘odd,’ if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, he reads them out—the men ask him to. But it makes them dissatisfied, to my mind. And that sort of thing can cause trouble.”

“Keep an eye on it, then.” Hawkes sighed. “Frankly, I can’t see how a personal letter can change matters here, but I will bow to your better judgment. Now then, I will inspect the men in precisely one hour. Tent inspection.”

The sergeant saluted. “Sir!”

K
nowles smiled as he emerged from his officer’s tent. He didn’t like Edmund Hawkes, but he had sown the seed. There was always one, ever since he’d joined up himself, over twenty years ago. He’d seen his sergeant find the one, and he knew it was the way to keep the men together. Separate the one, and make him the enemy inside—made all the difference when they went after the enemy outside. Private Gravy was his one—not a complainer, but not a man to let anyone trample over him either. The perfect one. Push him too far, and he would push back. Make sure the men bear the brunt of it. Yes, he knew how to run a bloody army—and he knew how to get the Captain Edmund Hawkeses of this war where he wanted them. Bloody toff wouldn’t last long anyway—it was a wonder he was still here now, the way they were going down like flies. Still wet behind the ears, most of them, though this one was older, looked wiser. As if that would help the poor bastard.

T
om sat on his camp bed and checked his khaki tunic—buttons gleaming—then his webbing and boots, to which plenty of spit and polish had been applied. He had pulled a soft cloth on a string through the barrel of his Lee Enfield rifle so many times that not one speck of dust lingered to delay the passage of ammunition. Every part of his weapon would shine where it was supposed to shine in the low winter sun. He checked his AB64 pay book, tucked into his breast pocket, and made sure that the First Field Dressing was in its place. Now all he needed was a helmet. Now what any of them needed was a helmet. Helmets were in short supply—like proper uniforms, which had only been distributed before they set sail for France. Tom counted everything in his pack, and checked again. He knew Knowles would be after him, so he had to be ready. There would be nothing,
nothing
, in Tom’s kit or about his person that the sergeant could identify as wrong, out of place, or not up to snuff. He knew full well that he was the sergeant’s choice for singling out, for humiliation. He would give him no excuse.

A bugle announced inspection. Cecil Croft was the neighbor to his right, so they gave each other’s bed and uniform the once-over, just to make sure. Then they stood by the ends of their beds. Knowles and the officer would come in, walk up and down, and when the inspection was finished, the men would be quick-marched to the parade ground. Such as it was. A field flattened and rolled by the sappers. A field that would be pounded to such a degree that mud would form only after the most plentiful rain.

Knowles entered the tent and stopped at each bed. He lingered when he came to Tom. He dropped a ha’penny on the blanket to check the coin’s bounce, a sign that the covers were drawn tight across what passed for a mattress. He took Tom’s rifle and peered down the barrel, and with a flourish he used a magnifying glass—a glass not used with any other soldier—to study the buttons on his tunic. His boots were scrutinized, and he asked Tom to open his pockets. Pay book, field dressing. All present and correct.