The Care and Management of Lies (17 page)

It was the Tuesday before Christmas. Kezia had not wanted to go to London on a Monday, for that was the day she, Bert, and Danny discussed the week ahead over breakfast. The linen tablecloth was still put out each day, and Kezia never wavered in her commitment to set the men off on their work with a good meal inside them, which in winter meant a bowl of porridge to line the stomach, before eggs and bacon and strong tea. The price of sugar had gone up, and supplies were limited, so they’d all cut back on the number of teaspoonfuls they’d heaped into the morning brew. The only difference in the morning round was that Ada was left to the house, and Kezia went out onto the farm. But not today.

She’d bathed the night before, delaying her weekly soak from Friday night until the Monday, ready for excursion. She dressed in a matching wool barathea skirt and jacket, with a wrap to keep her warm, and her best winter hat, which was of a nutty brown with a wide grosgrain band and a feather at the side. She had taken a few pounds from the tin in her dressing table drawer, for it was her intention to purchase gifts for each of her workers to go along with the Christmas “box”—not a box at all, but a small envelope with money, an extra week’s wages for Danny and Bert, and for the boys who came there would be a few coins. Ada, too, would have a week’s wage. Kezia had checked the ledgers before making her decision, which was to give the workers an amount more generous than Brissendens had parted with in the past. She felt she must, for Tom was not there, and she needed their direction as much as they needed her optimism, though she was not aware of the latter.

Danny drove her to the station, and was instructed as to when she would return. But instead of thinking about London and the shops and the approaching festive season—which amounted to her traveling to her parents’ home on Christmas Eve, and not returning until the morning after Boxing Day—she was thinking about the extra help she would need for dung spreading in the new year. She asked Danny to stop at the shop as they drove through the village, giving a note to him for the shopkeeper to post in the window. It was to the effect that if any village women needed extra work while their men were away, they should see Mrs. Brissenden at Marshals Farm.

There were times each day that Kezia felt the cloud of doubt envelop her, though for the most part she was so intent upon her work and what had to be done next that she kept it at bay, remaining positive about tasks that needed to be completed on the farm, trusting Bert that they were not getting behind, and hoping Tom would come home soon. She kept up standards in the home, but she wanted him to return to a semblance of order, not the mire of chaos. When she felt the cloud approaching, she would check herself, would push the thought to the back of her mind—perhaps that the apples would fail, or the hops, or they would not get the new pastures ready and the crops planted. She was now adept at handling Ted, a kindly horse, willing and affectionate, but remained wary of Mabel. She had been leading the giant mare up the lane from Pickwick when the cloud of doubt leached into her soul, and it was as if the mare sensed it and took aim with a sharp nip to shake Kezia out of herself. She might be wary of Mabel, but she respected her all the same.

Now, on the train, she had time for worry to bloom again, time for wondering if all would be well in the end. She tried to imagine Tom soldiering, and realized that she could not strike an image in her mind’s eye. She could see him in his uniform, in the photograph he’d sent to her before leaving for France, but she could not imagine what his days were like as an army man.

Kezia was taken aback by London. It was not just that she had become accustomed to the quiet of the countryside, where an internal combustion engine was a rarity, but London was more immediate, had more bustle than usual, even for Christmas. Khaki-clad men from across the Empire were on the streets, shopping with everyone else. She had expected some sort of gravity to have seeped into the city, but still people were about the business of the festive season, and there appeared to be little in the way of shortages in the shops. It surprised her that there seemed to be a jollity, especially among the soldiers. She’d noticed more women wearing black in the village, and men with black armbands. The list of boys who would never come home was growing longer, and now, when Mr. Barham came, or the new telegram boy was seen in the village, people asked, “Who’ve we lost?” Kezia noticed the “we.” It had become a collective loss, with mourners attending the mother and father, the siblings and cousins. Here in London there were women in mourning, sharing the pavements with soldiers on the grand adventure.

Kezia, who had in the past looked forward to afternoon tea with Thea or a luncheon with her mother, felt almost as if she had ventured abroad, for posters everywhere encouraged young men to enlist, and young women to plant corms of guilt in a best boy who had not yet stepped forward to serve his country, to protect his family. She was at once proud of and awed by the activity around her.

She bought Ada a set of three delicate lace handkerchiefs in Marshall & Snelgrove. She bought a woolen scarf for Bert, and a pair of gloves for Danny, then wondered if she might swap the two, giving the gloves to Bert, but in deference to his age, and what he called “a bit of a chest,” she went back to her original plan. But what would she buy for Thea, who had been invited to join the Reverend and Mrs. Marchant at the parsonage for the holiday? She walked on to Liberty’s, where she chose a square scarf of the finest silk and had it wrapped in deep pink tissue before it was placed in a gift box. By the time she had passed Dickins & Jones, guilt was descending upon her. She had sent Tom a knitted scarf—her own creation—and baked him a cake, which she sealed into a tin with candle wax, then wrapped with brown paper before dispatching it to France via the post office. Had it reached its destination? Would the wax fail, and the rich fruitcake arrive moldy and damp? And would the scarf be enough? Kezia felt tears form at the corners of her eyes, and she reached for her handkerchief.

“ ’Ere, you all right, love?” called a flower seller outside the Palladium.

“Yes. Thank you. I think some dust flew up into my eye. So sorry . . .” Kezia made to hurry on, back towards Oxford Street.

“Don’t worry, love—let’s hope your boy’ll be home soon.” The flower seller stamped her feet and pulled up her scarf against the cold. “Let’s hope they’ll all be home soon.”

“B
limey, Tom, this is good cake,” said Cecil.

The military post had been brought to the trench just ten minutes earlier, a surprise because they thought they’d have to wait for letters and parcels until they went down the line again.

“Goes down a treat with a cuppa, eh?” answered Tom, who seemed to stand straighter, despite the snow, the cold, and the promise of more shelling to come.

“ ’Ere, Brissenden, heard you got a cake from your missus,” said another soldier, Alfred Apps.

“I knew it wouldn’t be long before they all came out of their holes for this,” said Cecil. “Everybody wants to be your best mate now.”

“I heard you got a nice bit of cake, Brissy,” said Sidney Harris.

“All right, all right,” said Tom. “Come here, and I’ll give you some—hold out your hand.”

The four men were joined by Arthur Petty and Bill Saunders.

“When’s your missus gonna be sending another one, Brissy?” said Harris.

“I’ll write and ask for more,” said Tom, feeling warmer for the banter, and an affection from the other men, who he thought had been keeping a distance, given the attention from Knowles. No one wanted the sergeant’s shadow to fall their way.

“What d’you reckon she put in this? I’ve never had fruitcake like it,” said Harris.

“I think your missus is a bit of an artist,” said Cecil, winking at Tom. “You know what I can taste, as well as the sultanas, the orange peel, and the candied cherries? I can taste a little bit of something else in there, and I reckon it’s lavender.”

“Lavender?” said Petty. “Bloomin’ ’ell, ain’t that for putting on the sheets?”

“It keeps moths away,” said Cecil. “Which means that Mrs. Brissenden has created the perfect cake for the British army—it remains moth free, is moist, has been sweetened by honey, and is just mouthwatering.”

Tom blushed and nodded, biting into another piece of cake.

“Yeah, and she turned the spoon with love, eh Tommy!” Petty nudged Tom, making him blush more. The other men grinned, joining the tease.

“Well, I should save the rest for tomorrow, eh, lads?”

“Just for us, then? You won’t be spreading all that around, unless there’s another one coming a bit sharpish!” Petty emptied his mug, throwing the dregs down into the water-filled trench.

Edmund Hawkes heard the conversation. Every word. And as the men spoke of Kezia’s cake, his mouth watered. The sensation, though, was not a salivary gland reacting to the promise of fruitcake with Kentish honey and lavender, but sickness erupting from his stomach with the message, delivered not ten minutes earlier, that on the morrow, in the fog-enshrouded first light, a cannonade would begin at oh seven hundred hours. When it ended, he would wait one and a half minutes for the cordite-laced smoke to rise, and then his men would go over the top and meet the enemy, most of them for the first time.

Chapter 12

The woman who can write exactly as she speaks, who can talk on paper to the recipient of her letter just as easily as if she were actually conversing . . . is mistress of the art of letter-writing.

—
THE WOMAN’S BOOK

Dear Tom,

I have not heard from you about the cake yet, so I expect the post has been caught up somewhere because of Christmas. Did you like it? I had never before made a rich fruitcake, and the recipe said to be absolutely spot-on with the weighing. It was a little hard to get the flour, but I went directly to Dallings Mill and bought some. It looked a little brown, but that doesn’t matter in a cake, and I thought it added to the flavor (I made one for the farm too, and gave Bert and Danny a slice each to have with their tea, and they said it was very good).

Well, we still have Mabel and Ted, even though the army have been back three times now, but I don’t think they will come again, after what happened with Mabel. They decided they would take her and leave us with Ted, which the officer said was being very generous. I think they didn’t like the look of Ted—you know how his face can bear that strange look at times, like a dog who hasn’t had any food for months. Bert says it’s on account of Mabel hen-pecking him. He says those two are like an old married couple. Anyway, they took Mabel, and Ada cried and I had to hold back my tears. Danny walked away, as if he was going to start with the weeping too, and Bert stood at the farm gate, just watching them walking down the road with her. It was as if he wanted her to know he was watching her go. Then she turned her big head—fair pulled the soldier’s arm out of its socket—and looked back. As soon as she saw Bert watching, that was it. I have never seen her do such a thing, and I didn’t think she could, even though she’s a big strong mare. She reared up all of her eighteen hands, and she came down so hard you felt the ground shake. The soldiers and the officer skittered to get out of the way. Then she gave a buck to reach the moon, turned tail, and she galloped all the way back to Bert, who looked down the road at the soldiers and led her to her stall. The officer came and took back the money he’d given me for her. I was happy to hand it over. He said a horse like that wouldn’t last two minutes in France, that they would end up shooting her anyway because she would cause more trouble than she’s worth. He said omnibus horses and hunters were the best, because they knew what they were about and didn’t mind the noise so much, then he walked away saying that it was no wonder the other nag was soft, he’d never known spoiled horses like it. Well, Tom, those spoiled horses were back in front of the plough again as soon as Bert had let them have their talk to each other and a bag of oats. Bert says that Mabel has been quite the lady ever since, almost as if it shook her up enough to make her grateful. He says it was Ted she came back for, that they’ve never been parted. I think she came back for Bert. He’s the only one who can really get the best out of her. She’ll work for Danny, and I sometimes think she only tolerates me. Ted, though, is different, isn’t he? I think I could ride Ted if I had a mind to. He’s a gentleman, and I am glad they thought he was not good enough, though by all accounts they’ve taken lesser horses, and there’s some talk in the village about it, as if we haven’t done enough for our boys at the front, keeping our horses. Then they see how we’ve had to plough in the—

Kezia took another sheet of paper and began the page again. It would be a mistake to tell Tom about ploughing in Micawber Wood, and the orchards. She closed her eyes and considered her next paragraph. Tom and Thea both loved Micawber Wood, as did the village children who played there, all swearing they’d seen fairies while chasing one another through the trees. The younger Brissendens had taken Kezia to Micawber Wood on her first visit to the farm. There was something magical about it, the way the sun dappled through the canopy overhead, and the lilting echo of the stream running across rocks and fallen wood, swishing through narrows and filling out pools where the water had worn away the banks across the years. The wood was filled with primroses and bluebells in summer, and when she’d walked along the forest path in autumn, dried leaves crunched under her feet, making her feel as if she were connected to the earth in a way that she had not, until then, truly experienced.

Kezia wondered what she would write next, what meal would be prepared in her imagination. She smiled at the image that came to her.

Do you want to know what I cooked for your dinner tonight? Knowing you would be full of cake, I have not cooked a big pudding to follow. I can imagine you sitting in the tent with your friend, Cecil, and the two of you with cups of tea and the cake on the table, cut into big slices—probably bigger than I would have cut them.

Anyway, here’s your dinner. I’ve never cooked duck before, and once I’d plucked it, I thought it didn’t leave much meat on the bone for anyone to get their teeth into. I was wondering what to make the stuffing with, and remembered I’d bottled some plums. So I brought a jar from the larder, and tipped the fruit into a bowl, keeping the juice to one side in a jug. I picked out the stones from the plums—you should see my stained fingers—then I went out to my kitchen garden to have a look. Being as it’s been snowing, there isn’t much to find at this time of year, but I snipped a sprig of rosemary—you can always depend upon rosemary, it’s hardier than some. I’ve grown a few other herbs from seed in pots on the windowsill in the kitchen, so I cut off a little oregano—it’s from Italy. I chopped up the herbs and added them to the plums, then I ran some old bread through the meat grinder to make crumbs, and added a handful to give a bit of body to the stuffing. Finally, I thought almonds would go well with it. I bought a couple of ounces when I was in London, so I chopped them, not too small, then put them in too, and added half an onion, sliced really small, and stuffed the bird. I put it in the roasting pan, the one with the lid, and poured on the last of the sherry—I’ll treat us to another bottle soon. I’d already rubbed the bird with butter, so the juices and sherry and the butter all together made the kitchen smell wonderful. The dogs even pawed the door to get in, and you know they respect their place and would never do that as a rule . . .

Kezia thought of the collies settled on a blanket in front of the stove in the kitchen. She would have to get them used to sleeping outdoors again before Tom came home. Composing the meal she would have cooked for Tom made her stomach growl. Soon she would go to the kitchen, but not yet.

Roast potatoes and parsnips were the best vegetables to go with the duck, and I thought you’d also like some of those peas I’d dried in summer. I’m glad I laid out all those roots—the potatoes, the parsnips, carrots, beets, and swedes set apart on newspaper—because there is not a scrap of mold anywhere, and the same with the apples and pears, although I bottled some and dried some too, so we have plenty to keep us going.

The dinner came out better than I’d even hoped, and the gravy, which was made from the juices of the meat and the syrup from the bottle of plums, with a little browning and some flour to thicken; well, the gravy was just like you always say you want it, not too thin, not too thick, but enough to make the bird go down easy.

Now, then, knowing you’d be full from the cake, I made you applesauce with fresh cream and a bit of cinnamon for your pudding. I know you always said you didn’t care for cinnamon, but it keeps a cold at bay, and just a little brings a good flavor to an apple. Try it, Tom, close your eyes and try it all.

Kezia set down her pen and pressed her hands to her eyes, feeling the tears run through her fingers. She turned aside so that they would not fall on the still-drying ink. She thought of the vegetables she’d tried to preserve, but had instead fed to the pigs because they were mold-ridden and ruined, and her poor attempts at drying the peas, which at least she’d been able to put in a broth, and tried not to taste the mustiness. But Tom would not know. She wouldn’t want to spoil Tom’s picture of home.

She picked up her pen, shook it onto the blotting paper to get the ink running again, and continued.

Keep that cake in the tin, my dear Tom, so it will last you a few days, and try to wrap something around it, so the damp doesn’t get in now the wax seal is broken. I believe the sweetness will give you something extra down in your feet when they get you marching up and down the parade ground! I’ve been thinking about the tents and I hope they’re not too drafty. Mind you, Mrs. Pontin told me that her boy wrote that he’d been billeted in a farmhouse with big fireplaces, so perhaps you have too. I’ll think of you sitting by a nice blazing fire.

E
dmund Hawkes was deep in the dugout, in what passed for officers’ quarters in the trench. A series of joists and load-bearing piles held the ceiling and the walls in place, though the ugly headache-inducing smell of mold and fungus, death and rats—so many rats—was inescapable, remaining there even when he went out into the trench, even when it was almost overpowered by cordite, but never quite—always lingering in his eyes, his nasal passages, his throat, so the smell became the taste and the look became the taste, and the taste, always, seemed to be of decaying corpses.

He sat at his desk, upon which a map had been rolled out earlier. A runner had brought orders and a new, freshly printed map of the battlefield. Here it was, all planned by a man in a warm room with not a grumble in his belly—another run over the top, another try for the opposite trench. How long had they been here, in this trench—moving back and forth? Was it days? Or weeks? There had been no respite in between, no comfort at the house, and no solace from the fact that he had brought back some three out of every five men. It was like poker, like roulette, like a gamble at the races; a game of who would run, who would jump, and who would fall. Then begin the wager again—replenish the field, add to the pack, put the chips on the table, and start the wheel spinning. Cannonade ends at oh seven thirty, one and a half minutes for the smoke to clear, then blow the whistle and off they go. And let’s see who I can bring back alive, thought Hawkes, amazed at his own survival, at the fact that he still had arms, legs, a brain, that his guts remained inside him.

He lifted the letter and began reading a second time, or was it a third? Letters to the soldiers were not sealed, nor were those from soldiers home to Blighty. But this was the letter he’d waited for, the handwriting he recognized when the post was delivered. He would check enveloped post first, then hand the sack to Knowles to distribute the mail; the letters, the cards, the packages of Wright’s Coal Tar Soap, tins of Ovaltine, of Huntley & Palmer’s digestive biscuits and Oxo cubes, brown-paper-wrapped parcels of socks and of chocolate; the food, he knew, might be filled with weevil by now.

I’ve been trying something different with the gravy lately. I put some bottled damsons and pears through the meat grinder (I had to be careful in case the juice went everywhere), and when they were all nicely mashed, I fried onions, which I added to the mix. Then I stirred up a gravy and poured it all into the saucepan together. At first it looked a bit lumpy and not something you’d want, but then I added some hot water to thin it out, with herbs and just a tiny bit of spice, and brought the lot to the boil while whisking at the same time. It was hard work, but it turned out perfectly—in fact, I was thinking of sending the recipe up to one of the women’s monthlies, because this gravy goes very well with liver, which as you know, I don’t even like to touch as a rule, but I know you like it and this new gravy does wonders for the meat—makes it good enough for a rich man’s supper, especially with roast potatoes, parsnips, and peas.

Hawkes imagined the meal, imagined himself sitting in the farmhouse kitchen, saw himself smiling as Kezia served the sweet gravy-drenched liver, and the parsnips and peas, and then pouring more gravy over the roast potatoes, and he felt himself watching her, leaning forward with his table napkin and dabbing some of that rich fruit gravy from the side of her mouth, and he wondered how it would be to kiss that mouth, and how he might taste the fruit on her tongue, and how she might kiss him back and lean forward, and how the dinner might be abandoned, how he might take her into his arms and into his bed, and how they would come to that meal later, still hungry for the love of each other.

“Sir!”

Hawkes turned with a start. “Oh, Knowles, yes, here’s the mail. Just wanted to check one or two, just in case. As you say, you never know. Anyway, it’s all satisfactory, you can take it to the men now.”

“Yes, sir. And the orders?”

“Of course. Could you find Lieutenant Markham for me? Bring him back here, and we’ll look at the maps. Watches at dawn tomorrow morning, artillery at seven, and we’re off at oh seven thirty. Right?”

“Right, sir.” Knowles lingered.

“Is there something else, Sergeant Knowles?”

“Private Brissenden’s letters—find anything, sir?”

“They can be collected and delivered, as with all the men. I will continue to monitor them, but I see no issue with the content—we cannot judge what a man faced with death almost every day might say to his wife, and her to him, knowing his predicament.”

“I don’t reckon she knows anything about the predicament, sir.”

“Not my place to judge, but I would say that not many of our loved ones at home know anything much about our predicament, Knowles, which is probably just as well. Now then, Lieutenant Markham, in ten minutes, here, both of you.”

“Sir!” Knowles saluted Hawkes.

The salute was acknowledged in kind, but once the sergeant had left, Hawkes turned his thoughts to Kezia, to the woman sleeping under his tree, resting her head against the roots. And he remembered how he could have lingered there, watching her, for a long time. He yearned to have Tom’s place at the table, not the lonely dining room each night, with servants to clatter plates, china dishes, and silver chargers, to be at his beck and call. He wanted to eat food cooked not from duty, but from the heart.