The Care and Management of Lies (24 page)

“I see,” said Hawkes. “Well—Barclay, what about you?”

“I was in pupillage, actually, with a firm of barristers. Lincoln’s Inn.”

Wells looked up. “So we’ve a bloody barrister in our midst, and here we are making a donkey’s arse of the law. For God’s sake, man—why didn’t you say, instead of keeping quiet about it and watching us make ruddy fools of ourselves?”

“I’m not a barrister yet, sir.”

“And I’m not a judge advocate general, but I’m doing the same bloody work. Right then, you can start.”

Barclay fumbled with the papers in front of him, and Hawkes closed his eyes. For a minute he wanted to throttle both of them. They were all three of them neophytes, tripping over themselves in the dark while a man’s life hung in the balance.

Barclay cleared his throat. “Sir, I think we should look at the evidence, and I think we should consider what the witnesses had to say, and I would put it to you that we should also look at the military record of the accused.”

“I’m impressed,” said Wells. “You’ve hidden your light under a bushel, haven’t you, Captain Barclay? Don’t get too good at this, or they’ll have you at every Field General Court-Martial, doling out the advice.” He sighed. “All right, let’s make this snappy. For God’s sake, the man will probably be dead tomorrow anyway—we could save him the trouble of being sliced in two by the Hun and his machine guns.”

“It would be better for an Englishman to die honorably in battle than be cut down in a barrage of British bullets, sir,” said Hawkes.

“And there is a plethora of evidence to point to reasonable doubt regarding his guilt, sir,” added Barclay.

Wells smiled. “Reasonable doubt, eh? I don’t think military law plays by that particular rule, Barclay, but well done. Get through this, and you might make something of yourself in London’s cushy Inns of Court.”

A silence descended and, as if hanging on Wells’ sarcasm, remained for a moment, but to each man it felt like an hour. Hawkes sighed, then spoke up.

“Let’s vote now. Let’s vote on innocent or guilty.”

Wells took out a hip flask from an inside pocket and passed it to Hawkes and Barclay, who each took a pull of the malt whisky. Barclay tore a sheet of paper into three, and handed one piece to each man. Hawkes allowed himself to feel confident. He was sure Barclay shared his feelings, but Wells was the wild card. Wells was mad.

J
ust a few yards away in another, smaller tent, Tom was seated, though he remained shackled. Cecil—who had been allowed to stay with him as his “friend of the accused”—drew his chair closer so their conversation would not be heard by the military police standing guard outside. Tom tried to rub one wrist with the fingers of the opposite hand, but only caused the rusty metal to cut deeper into his skin.

“Watch that, mate—you don’t want lockjaw, do you?” said Cecil.

Tom shook his head. “Makes no difference, does it?”

“Come on, Tom. It’s going in your favor, I know it is.”

Tom looked at his friend. “But what if it doesn’t?”

They were silent again.

“Do you reckon they’ll give me time to write to Kezia? Or will they just march me off and shoot me?”

“Tom, don’t—”

“But what if I don’t get time?”

Cecil reached into his tunic and drew out a small notebook, a diary.

“Christ, never mind me, but you could get shot for that—keeping a diary—you’d better put that away,” said Tom.

Cecil opened the leather-bound book and flipped to the back, where the pages where plain, not printed with dates. He tore out several sheets and reached into the tunic again for a pencil.

“Here. I’ll keep quiet, and you write to your missus. Be quick about it, because I reckon we’ve only got about another five minutes. Can you manage?”

Tom nodded. Crossing his wrists to get more movement in his right hand, he placed the paper on his knee and held the pencil above the paper.

“I don’t know what to write,” said Tom. “I mean, I can’t tell her, can I, that I’m about to be shot for cowardice.”

“She knows you’re not a coward—no one here’s a coward. You signed up for this—you didn’t look the other way.” Cecil paused, pressing his lips together as his eyes reddened. “Tell her what’s important—whatever comes to mind. But for God’s sake get on with it.”

Tom looked down at the torn sheets on his knee and began to write.

Dearest love, my Kezzie,

If you receive this letter, you will know that I’m in a bit of a tight spot. Cecil will tell you all about it, if things don’t go my way, but I don’t have much time to write this. What’s important . . .

He stopped writing, closing his eyes, trying to bring order to his thoughts.

“Keep going, mate,” whispered Cecil.

Tom nodded, and pressed the pencil to the paper.

. . . is that you know how much I love you, and have loved you since I was a boy. I always knew you were meant for me, even though I worried that a farmer might not be good enough for you. But you’ve done me proud, my Kezzie. I’ve asked a lot of you—I didn’t realize it until I left, I suppose. The farm has been all I’ve known all my life, and what with having Bert and Danny, I thought you’d be able to manage until I came home, but I reckon it’s been hard, and you’ve been a trouper and kept it all going. And you’ve been cooking me all the wonderful dinners and I’ve even dreamt about them at night, and—to tell you the truth—when I shouldn’t have been dreaming at all. Kezzie, if I don’t come home, you mustn’t let yourself be tied to the farm. I can’t see Thea wanting to come back, so you must do what you think is best, and you look out for yourself, even if it means selling up.

“Hurry up, mate. I can hear people coming,” said Cecil.

I love you, my Kezzie. I will never forget our wedding day. You looked beautiful, but you’ve always looked beautiful to me. It was the best day of my life.

Tom folded the sheets of paper and gave them to Cecil, who placed them inside the back cover of his diary, which he returned to his pocket, along with the pencil.

“I’ll make sure she gets it, don’t you worry, Tom—whatever happens.”

“Not time to say much,” whispered Tom.

“Enough to say what matters.”

S
ergeant Knowles walked into the improvised courtroom first, followed by Tom Brissenden, who hobbled in the shackles that hampered every movement. The witnesses also attended, as did Cecil Croft. Wells, Barclay, and Hawkes were standing.

Wells, unsteady on his feet, took the sheet of paper upon which the fate of Tom Brissenden was penned in ink from the fountain pen of Captain Barclay. He asked Tom to state his name, rank, and army number. He recited the charge once more. Then he paused. It was a long pause—a theatrical pause, thought Hawkes.

Wells coughed. It was the throaty clearing of a man well used to the burning nip of alcohol throughout the day, an adjunct to breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper. He looked down at the sheet of paper, then back at those assembled.

“The court has come to a conclusion that the accused, Private Tom Brissenden, is not guilty of sleeping on sentry duty. He is hereby acquitted on all charges and is free to join the battalion once more.”

A cheer went up from the men who had spoken in Tom’s defense, though Tom did not smile.

Edmund Hawkes nodded at the redcaps, who removed the irons and chains from Tom’s wrists and ankles. Sergeant Knowles showed no emotion, but called the men to attention, and ordered a salute and quick march from the tent. Hawkes wanted to talk to Knowles before more time elapsed.

“Right, I suppose we’d all better get back to work, eh, chaps? Got a party to prepare for.” Wells pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead. “Bloody lice get everywhere.”

The men left the tent, and as they stood outside, Hawkes, Wells, and Barclay swapped their caps for tin helmets, and put on their greatcoats once more. It was lighter now. Dawn had passed, and Tom Brissenden was alive. Hawkes watched Barclay and Wells leave, though he kept his attention on Wells as he wove between tents, and then back towards the trenches that led to his men. And at once he was again aware of his aloneness, another black cloud in the storm.

Chapter 18

Upon Applying For A Job. If we shut ourselves up from our friends and live entirely within our own small circle we very soon become narrow-minded and end in being forgotten.

—
THE WOMAN’S BOOK

K
ezia had just returned from taking the gig into the village for the milk round when Mr. Barham delivered a letter addressed to her. The embossed return address on the front of the envelope informed both the postman and Kezia that it came from the Camden School for Girls in Tunbridge Wells. Kezia thanked Mr. Barham, and inquired after his sister, whose son had joined the navy before the war. The young man had been killed at Dogger Bank, and his mother left grief-stricken. The postman replied that she was as well as could be expected, and that the navy, in a letter from an officer at Dartmouth, spoke highly of Gregory and his bravery. Kezia wished she had not asked, for it seemed that such a question was akin to splashing through a woodland stream—the inquiry only kicked up silt and made any effort to understand opaque once again. She thought it might be best if she stopped asking about the local men and boys altogether. Then she would not have to feel anything. And if she admitted it, the feeling she had was a bitter blend of grief for those lost and guilt for the gratitude when she thought, “Thank God, I still have Tom.”

Ada was blacking the stove when Kezia walked into the kitchen. Kezia picked up a knife, slit the envelope, and took out the letter.

March 8th, 1915

Dear Mrs. Brissenden.

As one of our most beloved mistresses and a Camden old girl, I am turning to you in an hour of need. In the past two months, four of our staff have volunteered for war work. Miss Ruperts, Miss Oliver, Miss Boulton, and Miss Harrington will be leaving at the end of this term, which leaves us understaffed as we approach the summer term and matriculation examinations for the older girls. I am not in a position to fill all posts before Easter—and anyone settled upon would take time to become familiar with the curriculum and expectations at Camden. I realize you are now a married woman, but the current circumstances have inspired me to cast rules aside and approach you with an offer. Would you kindly consider returning to Camden next term for one or two days each week? If this is of interest to you, perhaps you would be so good as to write by this Friday, March 12th, so that I will receive your reply by the following Monday, and if you are agreeable, the school will then make a more formal offer. I confess, I have already consulted the timetable at Tunbridge Wells station, and have ascertained that in order to meet the demands of the school day, you could catch the London train from Brookmarsh station, which arrives in Tunbridge Wells at twenty to nine, allowing you ten minutes to walk to the school, and another ten minutes before your first class begins at nine o’clock. You could return home on the five o’clock from Tunbridge Wells, though there is a half-past four, but that particular journey requires a change of train at Tonbridge Station.

Kezia put the letter down on the table in front of her. She felt a ripple of excitement cross her stomach. Could she leave the farm for one day each week? She rubbed her forehead. What would it look like if she went off to a job in Tunbridge Wells? No one seemed to bat an eyelid when she arrived at the village store wearing Tom’s clothes, so it seemed unlikely that anyone would gossip about her going back to her job. Apart from anything else, even though it wouldn’t amount to a lot, she could do with the money. Kezia took up the letter and read again. She would think about it. She would talk to Bert, but not today. And she would have to consider Tom, what he might say when he came home to find his wife ensconced in her former profession, even if it were only one day a week. Yes, she would give the matter time to brew in her mind, and in the meantime, she had work to do.

“Right, Ada, this sitting about won’t get anything done, will it? I’ll see you when I get back, all right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Brissenden.”

They exchanged a few more words about Ada’s tasks to be completed, and about the weather, and if it might clear up enough to get a line of washing out. Then Kezia left the kitchen, put her gum boots on by the back door, and marched off towards the stable while putting on her old felt hat. The collies ran at her heels, following their mistress.

E
dmund Hawkes asked Sergeant Knowles to pull the makeshift sacking curtain across the entryway so that they might have some semblance of privacy.

“At ease, Knowles.” Hawkes pulled out a chair and pointed to another opposite the desk. “Take the weight off, Sergeant Knowles. The day isn’t going to get any shorter—there’s a lot to accomplish.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll stand,” said Knowles.

“Well, I’m not getting up, Knowles,” said Hawkes.

Knowles felt himself tense, and became even more ill at ease. Everything he knew seemed to be coming into question. If he was standing, wasn’t he supposed to feel as if he had the upper hand? But no, he didn’t. As far as he was concerned, Hawkes was just another enlisted man making a mockery of the army, and they were all a disgrace, these new men. Brissenden had made a fool of Knowles, yet . . . yet . . . when he’d glanced at him in the courtroom—and yes, for want of a better word,
courtroom
would have to do—there was no emotion registered on the soldier’s face. If circumstances had been different, he might consider Private Tom Brissenden to be a very good stamp of a man. But Brissenden had made him look a fool. And though the court had concluded he was not guilty, and had passed down no punishment, Knowles knew there was more than one way to skin a cat, and that being so, he would have his pound of flesh. All in good time. They were a rabble, these enlisted men. You knew where you stood with a regular, and you knew how to control him. This lot were something altogether different.

“I’ve got the men sandbagging, sir, and making good the trenches where there was that attack the other night.”

“Good, yes, very good.” Hawkes looked up at his sergeant. “Look, Knowles, I wanted to talk to you about Brissenden and about the trial. The man has been acquitted of the crime, and though I know you wanted to press the ultimate charge, so that others would learn from a perceived error of judgment, we must forge on together here. The men are getting anxious about tomorrow, with some looking forward to the push, but—”

“Gets it over and done with, sir. Waiting to go over the top is hard on the men—it’s easier when you get them running.”

“Yes, of course. Well, I wanted to ensure that there’s no ill-feeling towards Brissenden, or the men who came forward to give evidence.”

“Not at all, sir. He’s been acquitted, as you say.”

“Good. A grudge harbored multiplies, Knowles. It’s like a sickness in a man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. I’ll be inspecting at twelve hundred hours. I want every piece of equipment checked and double-checked. I want the trenches cleared to the extent that the mud allows, and I want the men reminded of their job. The artillery begin their show at oh seven hundred hours tomorrow morning. It will last for thirty minutes precisely, and we wait for the smoke to clear, then it’s over the top at seven thirty-two on the dot.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Runners will be bringing synchronized watches before the artillery commence their work. I want you to ensure the bearers are ready for their turn. And finally, tonight the men must rest. No sentry duty is to last more than two hours. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowles was aware of a certain darkness in Hawkes’ eyes. As the officer looked at him, he felt it as contempt. If Hawkes loathed him, then the feeling was mutual.

“Just one more thing, Knowles,” said Hawkes. “Lay off Brissenden. He’s had his scare, and so have the men. They’re going into hell tomorrow, and we’ve got to do our best to get the job done and then bring back as many as we can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all, Knowles.”

Sergeant Knowles pulled back the sacking and left the dugout. He swore under his breath, and if Hawkes could have met his eyes then, he would have known that as far as Brissenden was concerned, the sergeant was not finished. No, not by a long chalk.

A
gain Kezia could not sleep, so instead of struggling with the covers, she wrapped herself in Tom’s woolen dressing gown and made her way into the kitchen. The dampers were all but closed, and the fire, banked up for the night, provided a gentle warmth. The collies, ears unfolded at Kezia’s footfall, wagged tails as she pulled out a chair to sit at the kitchen table and set her writing paper and pen in front of her. She turned up the wick on the lamp she’d carried from the bedroom, and wondered what dish she might conjure to tempt Tom. She flicked through her cookery books, though nothing Mrs. Beeton or anyone had to say took her fancy. She opened the book Thea had bought her, the wedding present given with no knowledge of what lay ahead. Kezia closed her eyes and pictured Tom on their wedding day, his face as he turned to her, and remembered how she felt as she walked towards him, her hand resting on her father’s arm. The congregation on either side of the aisle had seemed a blur, molded into one smile, one sea of goodwill. She felt her father lay his hand upon hers as they reached the altar. And dear Thea, dear beloved Dorrit, stood behind her. She opened the book and read the inscription.

To dearest Kezzie,

Thinking of the day you will be my sister in name as well as the sister of my heart.

With all my love to you, my most cherished friend,

Thea

Kezia felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. She realized that she had never given due thought to the inscription, never lingered over the words, but instead had closed the book after flicking through the pages, so hurt was she by Thea’s apparent dismissiveness of her future role. They had made up—that was true. But she missed Thea, grieved for those days of school and college and easy friendship—a time before Thea became at odds with herself, before anger set her apart from those she loved and who loved her in return.

Turning the pages, now, Kezia found almost nothing to mirror her life. There was no tribe of servants to concern herself with—and Ada couldn’t be considered a tweenie maid or a housekeeper, not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no butler’s pantry, and no footman. She would never have to worry about seating the King and Queen at table if the Prime Minister were present—this was a guide for a different, more ordered existence. Now her life began and ended with the farm. She picked up the pen and, closing her eyes, composed a letter to Tom—her words creating an alchemy to bring them together, if only in their imagination.

Dear Tom,

I wonder if the weather there is any better than here. It’s early morning now, and soon I will have to get the breakfast ready, and I think it’s about time we all had something a bit different, don’t you? So here’s what you can look forward to today, you and the men. This will set you up! I’ve read a recipe for pancakes, using two sorts of flour—corn as well as wheat—and it occurred to me that it would be very nice with some ground almonds mixed in. Now, ground almonds are not the easiest thing to get—usually you only see them around Christmastime, to make marzipan for the cake. So, I went into the pantry and found some marzipan left over from Christmas—do you remember the cake I sent to you? Well, I didn’t use all the marzipan, so I sealed it in another tin, just like I’ve been sealing the cakes when I send them out to France, with a bit of candle wax. Your mother had quite a few old tins stacked in the larder, and now, what with sending cakes to Thea and to my father, and to you, we’re down to four. I shall have to get some more if I carry on like this. Bert says I should open my own bakery in the village. Marshals Farm Bakery, he said I should call it.

So, to make the pancakes, I chopped the marzipan in tiny pieces and warmed it a little, then I mixed in an egg and more flour, and made it into a batter—I never even knew you could do that; it wasn’t easy, but it worked! The pancakes are light and fluffy, and I didn’t cook them thin, not like on Shrove Tuesday, but left them a bit thick, more like a flat Yorkshire pudding. I heated up some jam with a little hot water and made a sauce. It’s not the thing I would usually do, but I bet your mouth is watering, isn’t it?

Where are you, Tom? Where are you, in France? Are you in a tent? Or a farmhouse? Kezia closed her eyes and tried to imagine where her husband might be, how he would be sleeping. Was he warm enough? Did he miss her? She wiped the tears again and said aloud, “Oh, Tom, please come back to me. Wherever you are, come back to me.”

It was Ada who woke Kezia at seven o’clock.

“Oh, my goodness. Where are the men? I didn’t cook the breakfast. Where are they?”

“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Brissenden. They saw you through the window, sleeping, so they went off to the oast house, and they had their dinner for breakfast. They made a pot of tea on an old paraffin stove they keep up there—they bring it out and boil a kettle outside. Bert said there’s nothing like a cup of tea brewed in the elements.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I’ve got to get ready, there’s work to do.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Brissenden. The women are in the milking shed now, and Danny took the mare into the village for the usual round.”

Kezia rested her head in her hands.

“Ada, would you be a dear and make me a cup of tea?”

“Of course I would, Mrs. Brissenden. You just rest now. You’ve had a lot on your plate since Mr. Brissenden left the farm.” Ada went to the stove and put the kettle on the hot plate. “Oh, do you want me to take that letter down to the postbox when I leave? It’ll be no trouble.”

“Thank you, Ada—the sooner it gets over to France, the sooner I’ll get a letter back, eh?”

T
om did his best to keep out of Knowles’ way for the remainder of the day, and was grateful to be in his dugout once darkness fell. He was not assigned sentry duty, which was just as well, as far as he was concerned.