Easterleigh Hall at War by Margaret Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

corridor, his boots ringing on the tiles, and into the kitchen. Veronica had the tea ready and the fancies. She laughed at his face. ‘No, don’t worry, Evie made them, not me.’
    But that wasn’t why his smile had faded. Veronica said, ‘Evie thought we’d like time to ourselves, so they’ve all taken their breaks and Sister Newsome has given me half an hour.’ Auberon looked at the servants’ hall, and there they all were, knitting something khaki. The war was everywhere. Evie was knitting a balaclava for which someone would be thankful.
    Ver was pouring tea into enamel mugs. ‘You don’t mind a mug do you, Aub, but we haven’t time for niceties.’
    He laughed. ‘And we have, out there?’
    Behind her the pan of beef tea was almost finished, except for skimming the fat. The tea poured, he watched as she reached for a sheet of greaseproof paper, stood by the range, laid it on the pan’s surface, soaked up some of the fat, placed the paper on a plate beside the pan. Again and again she did it until it was fat-free. They talked of nothing of importance, except for the fact that Ver was trying to knit a pair of socks, and would use Kitchener’s stitch to create a seam-free finish. ‘Hopefully fewer blisters,’ she muttered, nodding towards her needles stuck into the ball of wool on the armchair. Raisin and Currant were curled up beside it, asleep.
    He said, ‘You’ve no idea how blessed you will be by some soldier out there. Keep at it, keep making them, trench foot is a bastard and blisters are harmless but bloody painful. I have a feeling our mother would be doing exactly the same. Do you still miss her?’
    Ver smiled at him. ‘Always. She died too young, and she’d know that we knit because we’re so worried, all the time. Grace writes to us from her VAD perspective and here we live amongst some of the results. But then again we don’t
really
know. We can only imagine. What more can we do for you all, dearest Aub? How do you get through it?’
    He sipped his tea. ‘Do you remember Saunders, my old tutor? He always talked of the River Somme, which is Celtic for tranquillity. He’d fished it. Said it was a slice of heaven. I think of that. One day, I’ll go, when this is over. But in the meantime, Ver, there’s a sense of it here, tranquillity I mean. It’s partly because Father’s absent.’
    â€˜Partly?’
    He said nothing more but looked into the servants’ hall again, seeing Evie, the tilt of her head, the frown of concentration. Then it was time to go. Ver walked with him through the great hall and down the steps to where the taxi waited. Roger sat in the front, the luggage in the boot. Auberon said, ‘It seems better with Richard, Ver.’
    â€˜Aub, I love him. It’s as though everything is beginning to settle. He drives me to distraction with the repetition, but it is improving. Evie’s father and Tom Wilson, the blacksmith, are making him false limbs for when Dr Nicholls says his stumps can cope. Simon’s father helps too. It’s wonderful. We’re all working together and the mood is good, but then of course there are times when we have to telegraph a relative with the worst news. We send telegrams to the enlisted men’s families too, though the army doesn’t. Did you know that, Aub? Their families have to wait for letters and it can take weeks.’
    Auberon could not bear to hear more. He kissed her hand. ‘Be happy, Ver. You and Evie look after one another. I will try and see Grace Manton if I can. You must write, please, if you can spare some time. I love to hear news of you all.’
    He hugged her then, looking over her head towards the house, and the old stables, but Evie had not come.
    He turned, opened the car door, and at last Evie’s voice rang out. She was standing at the entrance to the stable yard. ‘Mr Auberon, be