The Diamond Waterfall (33 page)

“Charlie,” murmured Sadie weakly, lying back against the pillows.

Lily said, “You had your war—and were lucky.”

In spite of Charlie's robust talk, she could feel only fear and the fragility of the moment. She was ashamed too of how often she had said to herself these last few eventful days, Thank God, Hal will be all right. A fifteen-year-old boy … and Sadie—a son in the cradle. Valentin's face came before her suddenly. (But he is thirty-six, thirty-seven. And Romania not any part of this.)

“The German governess,” Charlie asked. “I heard something—”

“She left yesterday, but would have gone home anyway this week for a holiday. It's sad after all these years.”

Embarrassing too. Fräulein had always been emotional, but her farewells this time really exceeded everything, the result possibly of worry about her dreadful brother. Weeping and clinging to me, wanting Alice of course, who would not be back from Filey until teatime. The whole household in a general upset.

“I want to say something, Lady Firth, please what I have to tell—there are too many tears … I cannot. You are kind, kind, while I … Please, help. I cannot. Lady Firth, please, I write when I am again in Germany …” Her moon face at the window of the motor car was the last Lily saw of her. Teddy and Sylvia stood at the bottom of the steps, Sylvia, who cried readily, in tears.

“A toast then,” Charlie said. “Great God, we
do
have something to celebrate. Another fifteen years or so and he'll be crossing the grouse moors with me. We're calling him Christopher, you know. Christopher. Did Sadie tell you? After that same grandfather who fought the Russkies.”

Alice snapped miserably at Teddy. Overexcited, she was rushing about talking of all she would do in the war.

“Why not some knitting? It'll be cold in October, if they're still out there. Wool and needles are a lot more use than a song and dance act.”

Teddy didn't knit well, but began at once a body belt in khaki, casting on enough stitches to girth Goliath. Alice knitted also, to still her nerves. The war against Germany was nearly two weeks old. Gib had applied at once for a territorial commission and expected, because of his experience at Marlborough in the early days of the OTC, not to have long to wait. In the meantime something must be arranged for Hal's tuition. Gib told him:

“We'll get a retired schoolmaster, someone out at grass, gentle. Won't work you as hard as I do.”

But it wasn't just her anxiety about Gib and his going that caused her to be snappish. It was, rather, the question of marriage. This marriage that they spoke of perhaps five or six times a year, that Gib had been saving toward, which
would
take place—one day.

She had not been in a hurry. She had felt safe, even in the face of Papa's evident discouragement. If it was necessary she would defy him,
when the time came.
But now, with war declared, Gib was behaving quite differently. He said, almost every day now:

“Alice, dear Alice, let's
get married.”

But it was the maddest of times to choose, with the whole of Europe in turmoil, no one knowing what was to happen. He could not mean it.

“Alice, darling, there are hasty marriages everywhere. People who a few weeks ago hadn't even thought …
We've
been decided over eighteen months—and have known each other for—”

“All the more reason to be sensible. We know and can trust each other.”

“But if we truly want to spend our lives together, we should commit ourselves
now.
Or at least very soon. For, darling Alice,
men are being killed.”

She did not want to hear of that, of what might happen to him, even expressed in so roundabout a way. She said in a voice cold with fright:

“Why would it be better to make a widow of me?”

“I never said … Ah, Alice,” he sounded despairing, and she thought suddenly that she might perhaps be wrong. And yet, if he would wait just a little longer.

“I could,” she began, “perhaps if we—when it's all over by Christmas we can talk again.”

“And if it's not—over?”

But it would be, must be. And anyway, she told him, it was always best to let things rest before hurrying a decision.

“I love you,” she said, burying her face in his neck, just above his stiff collar. “You do know that I love you?”

She did not care to meet his eyes.

“I just want,” he said, his arms tight about her, so that her face was trapped, “I just want—
us.”

In the days of Stephen and Jack he had never been lonely, even when alone. Now he was always lonely. They did not seem to think of that. Teddy, who spent much of her time with Amy and now had a Belgian refugee friend, was no companion.

Everything was wrong and changed and sad. Six months of the war had altered everything. Since the end of September, The Towers had been a hospital for officers: a small one, and only for lighter cases so that it was halfway between hospital and convalescent home. It had no operating room but offered treatment such as electrical massage. The conversion took up most of the house, and the family had separate quarters. Teddy and Amy liked to busy themselves helping: reading to the officers, writing letters. Mother was officially Lady Director, and had a lot to do with the organizing of everything.

Meanwhile he was a schoolboy (even though he had never been to school). Alice had said only the other day, on five days' leave from London, where she was learning to be a nurse, “You're lucky that you are still a
schoolboy,”
and had paid no attention when he answered sulkily that he would really prefer not to be.

Gib's departure in September—although he was still in England—had meant the engagement, as threatened, of a new tutor, the promised “retired schoolmaster.” His name was Mr. Stainthorpe, and he was worse, far worse, than the bandy-legged Mr. Pettinger, shared long ago with Jack. Among other faults, he was critical of Gib, which Hal could not tolerate:

“I think my rather young predecessor, although we must not of course speak ill of those who presently risk life and limb … but one would have thought more emphasis on Euclid and perhaps less on Horace, and by the way I do not care for Conington's translation to be used.” He would also make glancing, dry, insulting remarks to Hal himself, adding immediately afterward, “Of course you must not take what I say
litteratim et verbatim.”

Since he lived with them, his presence had to be endured at mealtimes too. He was aptly named, for his large, drooping, auburn moustache was stained always with food or drink. And even (spied during Greek parsing) small particles of meat or vegetables lodging there. Ugh. Oh come back, Gib.

Studying had once been fun; now it was meaningless. What had it to do with what was happening in the
real
world?

From the very first days of the war, he had worried about Stephen. How not? Stephen was in the Army, a Regular. But he was always without real news. Once he spoke to Olive and her mother outside church, wishing them a good Christmas. He learned through other sources that Stephen was in France.

Then in the third week of January he heard his name read out in church. Killed in action. None of the Ibbotsons were at the service. He thought of going up to the farm, but then he thought, I do it only for myself, that I may feel better. He would not want to distress them further, especially Olive.

For the rest of that day, and most of the night, he raged. He was not sure who he was angry with. God? The Hun? His parents, who had caused the break? Stephen, gone now
forever. We were once blood brothers.

His mother said to him, kindly enough, “That is sad news, Hal, about the Ibbotson boy.”

In his pain the next day he said angrily to Mr. Stainthorpe, “Yes. No. Yes, you silly old beggar.”

“Henry/
You realize the meaning of that word?”

“Sir—”

“Then apologize.
At once,
Henry.”

There was no one to whom he could talk. He did not believe there was anyone who cared. In his free time he walked about the places they had trout-fished together, often going perilously near the farm. It is all hopeless, he thought.

But then, waking up one morning, he knew suddenly what he must do. He wondered he had not thought of it at once. How often had Mr. Stainthorpe said unctuously, “If only it were possible for me to have a go at the Hun.”

But I, Hal thought,
I can.

It was a little more difficult than he had expected at first, and he had to make unnecessarily elaborate plans. The essential was that he should not be found and brought back at once. (He remembered a tale of Mother locked in her bedroom for over a week—not that modern parents would do such a thing.)

From the moment of his decision he was filled with energy. Where had it all been hiding? Everything he did, everywhere he went, he felt purposeful. If he were to join up, to enlist, it would at once solve everything. The dreadful half-life that he led, the chafing, the restlessness. This life where everyone, even Teddy and Amy, seemed to be some part of the war effort. And since he, too, was beginning to be a nuisance, he didn't expect to be missed—or at least
not too much. Mother might worry a little at first. But the hospital, which obviously she found all-absorbing, would soon take care of that.

To keep Mr. Stainthorpe off the scent, he did two unasked-for theorems, beautifully set out. (“Well, well, young Firth, we're beginning to pull ourselves together just a
little,
eh?”)

Money. He had four guineas, three half sovereigns, and five sovereigns— from Christmas, his birthday, and a secret hoard.

The practical aspects of his departure occupied him a great deal. He thought he would like best a Yorkshire regiment, but he didn't want to go and enlist in Richmond or York. Leeds? The idea pleased him. Mother had run away from Leeds. I shall run away
to
Leeds, he thought. Name? He could not dare to be Firth, just in case. (They might go to all sorts of lengths. Father's friends. The War Office. Mother again:
she'd
changed to Greene. So why not be Greenwood, the name she'd left behind as the train for Kings Cross steamed out that Sunday?

Henry Greenwood. The new person took shape. Henry Greenwood spoke with an accent—the one Hal knew best, here in the dale. He was a farm laborer staying with his auntie in Leeds.
And there was nothing wrong with his heart.

In any event, he managed to get away less than seventy-two hours after he had first had the idea.

He left a note: “For King and Country. My country needs me, more than you do.
Please do not worry about me.
Love from Hal.”

He reached Leeds about midday. On the way there, he had spoken only with his accent—when he had spoken at all. Now, once arrived, there was a proper order of doing things. He was thinking all the time, with a keyed-up excitement, that it must not go wrong. The sooner he signed on, and was
in …

At the station, he thought, They will want an address. It would not do to invent that. He bought a newspaper to give himself some ideas, taking it with him into the nearest eating rooms. He had had nothing all day, and now, ravenous and nervous, he ordered sausage and mash with a mound of onions. But after a few mouthfuls, he thought people were watching him, guessing, and he left the plate half-eaten.

He took a tram from the station and got off in Briggate. He was in the center of Leeds. Passing a branch of Greenwood's, he colored, as if already found out.

He had visited Leeds only a handful of times, taken to see Grandad Greenwood. He could remember only that the house had been in Roundhay. Aunt Ethel lived at Huby. She had all Grandad's money, and wanted nothing to do with anyone else.

He was pleased to find a large arcade, which looked to have in it everything he wanted. He began with a cheap suitcase. Then as he walked along
the marbled floor, he saw a huge pair of spectacles, the trade sign above the optician's, and thought of buying a pair to alter his appearance. But then, They won't take me with bad eyesight, he thought.

At a draper's he bought underwear, and then, two doors down, a dark suit for twenty-two shillings (it was his clothes he feared might give him away) and a cap for a shilling. He came out of the shop wearing them: his Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers in the suitcase together with his new underclothes. Secondhand boots he bought for four shillings. He was ready then for the barber's, halfway down the arcade on the right. He asked for a lot to be cut off, telling the barber he'd been ill. Seeing the close crop, the gaunt face —yes, he did look older.

By now he felt hungry again. He had noticed the Lyons sign when he first entered the arcade. Now, suitcase beside him, he had two tea cakes and a pot of tea. As he sat there, cheered by the tea, mischief got into him, so that, wildly, he thought of pretending to be German. He felt a great temptation to tell the woman opposite him, in the voice of Fräulein, all the woes of Augustin.

Before he left he bought from Mooney's a quarter of creme toffee. Then through to the street outside. He had entered the Arcade, Hal Firth. He came out now, Henry Greenwood.

“Age?”

The recruiting sergeant had a red face, with one eye larger than the other. His voice was not unkind.

“Age,
sonny?”

“S—sixteen—”

“Right, well … come back when you're nineteen, sonny. Tomorrow, eh?”

Dismissed. After all the care he'd taken, the rehearsals, the preparations. And his accent that had never slipped. Sixteen. Sixteen.
How could I?

He went to one of the addresses he had noted. Albert Terrace. He explained that he'd enlisted and would soon be leaving. He took a room for three nights—the least she'd take—and paid in advance. She was a small, distracted woman who kept looking over her shoulder as she spoke. He remembered he'd neither brought nor bought nightclothes and wash things. He cleaned his teeth with soap and the edge of the rough towel provided.