A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel Read online

  James shouted in his frustration, ‘Do listen, everyone. I’ve just said I’ve dropped the bride, groom and Tim with the photographer, but Uncle Jack’s being difficult, saying he doesn’t want the photos on the steps, but in front of the cedar tree. Tim’s getting in a state because the photographer’s arguing, so he’s sent me to tell you and Aunt Evie, so you can sort it out.’

  Evie grinned at the boy, and tilted her head at Ver. Mrs Moore was tutting and making her way past the table. Evie and Ver caught up with her. All three linked arms, and they set off. ‘Calm down, James, we’re on our way,’ Evie said. They marched through the door, Evie calling over her shoulder, ‘Jack’s right, everyone was fond of the old cedar tree. It gave people comfort in the war, and just see how tall the replacement has grown. James, make sure Bridie doesn’t slide off to fret in the dessert pantry. The crèmes brûlées are perfect and she should be proud. Bridie, cover the cake, bonny lass, and both of you, follow us for the photos, quickly.’

  They had reached the bottom of the steps when Evie heard her daughter call, ‘It’s not going to help the family photos, Mam, to have you and Aunt Ver in aprons, unless you’re advertising the charms of our hotel, which I wouldn’t put past the pair of you.’

  Evie and Ver looked at one another, tore off their aprons and handed them to Bridie, who had run after them. Mrs Moore shouted as she reached for the handrail, mounting the first step, ‘Bridie, remember to shut all the doors when you come. We don’t want the dachshunds barking their barks, walking their walks, and deciding they’d like to be food tasters.’

  Evie and Ver let Mrs Moore tackle the steps on her own, knowing that to offer help would go down badly. Instead they followed her up, keeping a close eye as she puffed and panted. Once she reached the yard safely, the three set off.

  James had parked his father’s Bentley in front of the second garage, white ribbons still attached. The first garage acted as a playroom for the children of staff and guests. There was an outdoor area with swings and a slide.

  Together the women walked from the garage yard, into the stable yard, and then to the gravel driveway. Ahead was the marquee on the front lawn, and to the right, Easterleigh Hall. The three women were arm in arm, a monstrous regiment, so Jack and Auberon frequently called them. Ver’s husband, Richard, wouldn’t dare, he’d whispered to Evie.

  As they crunched across the gravel, Mrs Moore sniffed. ‘Did you see the vicar’s bicycle clips on under his cassock when he conducted the blessing? Daft old thing, he is.’ They marched on to take their place amongst the throng.

  Chapter Two

  Bridie adjusted the muslin. She adored cooking and baking, and would happily do it every day. Well, she did, daft lass. First, she, Mrs Moore and her mam had made the wedding cakes using a heavy fruit mixture. They had not only added brandy to the mix, but as the weeks went by Bridie had dribbled more onto the top until the fumes stung her eyes, watching it sink into the guts of the cakes.

  Mr Harvey, the butler, thought they had used too much in these days of lingering economic depression, until Evie had pointed out it was an exceptional wedding, for Jack, and furthermore that the cake would be iced by Mrs Moore. At that, he had marked up the bottle in his account book with alacrity, and said nothing further. Mrs Moore was his wife and meant everything in the world to him, and besides, she’d tell him the error of his ways and not mince her words in the doing of it.

  Bridie had also said that the remains of the cake would go to the pitmen at the retirement houses Gracie and her brother ran beneath Stunted Tree Hill.

  Finally, it had been time to ice the cake. After her day’s work in the kitchen, and before her riding therapy for the Neave Wing, Bridie had looked and learned, as Mrs Moore ordered. She had observed the spinning of cobwebs, the thicker piping, and breathed in the sweet smell. It had made her long to go to cookery school, to become the best pastry cook, and the best ever at icing.

  ‘Come on, Bridie,’ James nagged.

  ‘Leave me be, man,’ she snapped, as she tucked the muslin gently beneath the tiered cake stand, and made sure the knife was by its side and would not be forgotten.

  Each day she had hoped that Mrs Moore would let her try her hand on something other than practice cakes, until finally she had been allowed to pipe much of the finery on the surface of the three tiers, and, last of all, the bow beneath the heart.

  She stood back, tweaking a fold of the muslin which lay too heavily on the heart, saying to James, ‘There’s a great deal of looking and learning in life, isn’t there?’

  James hadn’t been sure what degree to do, so had decided to work for a couple of years at Home Farm, where Bridie and her family lived, and her father, Auberon Brampton, farmed. It was as James had walked behind the plough, geeing on the Clydesdales, that he’d decided to read Classics at Oxford this October. He said it was something to do with looking at horses’ bums for hours at a time. He also said that he understood why her father preferred the peace of farming to tiptoeing about like a spare part at the hotel, because in some ways it gave you time to think, but at others, no time at all. A good mix.

  James came to her, wiping crumbs from his mouth. She snatched a look at the cool pantry. The door was open and she slapped his arm. He said, ‘I only took one canapé, so hush yourself. I think they might be delicious, but perhaps I should taste another just to make sure?’ His dark blonde hair flopped over his forehead, his blue eyes reflecting his grin.

  She slapped him again, and hurried to close the pantry door. ‘You dare and I’ll have your guts for garters, you hear me? And answer me, please. Does Da make you look and learn when you work on the farm with him, or do you just “do”?’

  When she returned he was peering under the muslin, and he whistled. ‘She’s a game old bird, isn’t she? That really is good. No, your father says the best way to learn is to get stuck in. So there’s your answer. Farm work is not a romantic notion, it’s damnably hard, but, as he says, better than his generation had to put up with, given the war and all that.’

  Bridie shut the door into the internal corridor, grinning through the glass at the kitchen staff in their sitting room across the corridor. Maudie, who was in charge of the scullery and laundry, was jabbing her finger at the clock on the wall. Bridie retaliated by miming that it was time for all of them to change for the reception.

  Bridie noticed that the fourth generation of dachshunds, Raisin and Currant, were with them, ensconced on the sofa. James nipped into the pantry, leaving with yet another canapé in his mouth. ‘All clear of dogs,’ he said, spitting crumbs everywhere.

  Bridie undid her apron and hung it on the hook. ‘I bet you knew very well Maudie had them. You are a disgusting and greedy child, James Williams.’

  She led the way from the kitchen, checking that James shut the door behind them. Out they went, up the stairs into the garage yard, while he grumbled, half laughing, ‘I’m twenty, if you don’t mind, so you can watch it, foul and unreasonable infant.’

  It was no more than their usual mode of communication. As they started on their way they were diverted by Prancer’s whinny and they went to his stall to stroke his neck. Then Bridie heard her mother’s call, ‘Troublemakers, where are you?’

  ‘Coming,’ they both replied in unison, and gave Prancer one last stroke. ‘You’re a grand old boy,’ James crooned, then asked, ‘How’s young Tom finding it now? Is it helping him?’

  Tom Welsh was the young miner who had lost a leg in a rare roof fall in Auld Maud, the Easton pit Uncle Jack managed.

  Bridie smiled. ‘Ah, we got him up the ramp in a wheelchair yesterday, then with Young Stan and Clive we hoisted him onto Prancer. We set up his balance just right and you should have been here, bonny lad. Within an hour he had made a circuit of the paddock, and his shoulders were straight, his eyes alight.’

  James nodded. ‘Well, clever girl, you. Sometimes, Bridie Brampton, you put two and two together and make four. Not often, mind, never could count, as I rem—’
/>   They heard Evie call again. ‘Better go.’ They ran now, James in the lead, and he called over his shoulder, ‘What about Prancer’s daughter, Fanny, how’s she training? And the mare, in foal to him? You have to remember, Bridie, he’s an old boy who had a tough old war, so he can’t go on forever.’

  She shouted back as they ran along the gravel drive of Easterleigh Hall, past the wedding marquee set up on the lawn in front of the cedar tree, ‘I’m sick to death of hearing about the war. We need to be thinking about today, James, because it’s like a bloody war. Have you seen the latest newspapers? Have you forgotten the fascists are opening a British Union of Fascists’ Meeting House in Hawton? A pit village, for pity’s sake. So, we haven’t time to witter on about the past, we need to see how we can stop these buggers right now.’

  Colonel Potter was walking down the steps of the Hall and he looked up, startled, as Bridie ran past him, kicking up gravel. She called, ‘Sorry, Uncle Potty, we’re late.’

  James called, ‘Morning, Colonel Potter. Sorry about Bridie, appalling language and manners. Don’t miss all the photos, and you too, Sir Anthony.’

  Potty laughed and Bridie heard him say to Sir Anthony Travers, who walked at his side, ‘Ah, the energy of youth. Makes one feel quite exhausted, what?’

  Bridie was on the grass now, and her mother was gesticulating and frowning. ‘Oh, heavens,’ Bridie groaned. ‘She heard me swear.’ She reached Evie, who dragged her beneath the branches of the cedar. The shade was deep, and so was her mother’s frown.

  ‘I’ve told you several times, Bridie. You will mind your manners, you will not swear and you will address Colonel Potter properly, or I will want to know the reason why.’

  Bridie longed to pull away, but knew better than to try. ‘Oh, Mam. Yes, I know, and I try, but I’ve always known him as Uncle Potty, and I forget.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Not again. And don’t rush about kicking up gravel, and I repeat, mind your language. It’s disgraceful and won’t do.’

  Bridie swung round as Tim’s voice carried to them, from the wedding party who were drifting about nearby. ‘What’s she done now, James? Isn’t it time she grew up?’

  Tim was standing near Sir Anthony Travers, who headed the consortium that sponsored the Neave Wing rehabilitation unit. The photographer was pointing at people here, there and everywhere for the group photograph. Bridie glared at Tim because his tone had been cold and harsh, not teasing like it used to be. She felt tired suddenly, and upset. She muttered, ‘Families are damned confusing.’

  Her mother warned, ‘Language, Bridie.’

  ‘Sorry, Mam.’ She still looked at Tim, so tall and handsome, his hair with that red glint, his eyes almost black. He was ordering James about now, because it was what he had taken to doing. ‘Surprised he’s not wearing his Blackshirt uniform.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Evie, starting to walk towards full sunlight. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  Bridie said, ‘Never mind.’

  Evie turned and beckoned to her. ‘Come along now.’ It was an order, given in that voice, which meant: you’re on a knife-edge, young lady.

  She followed. If he did have a uniform, would he take it to Germany tomorrow when he went out to see his mam again? Bridie felt the now familiar hurt at Tim’s rejection of her and James, when they had always been so close. As she left the shade of the cedar, Tim called, ‘Do hurry, and for God’s sake, try and behave.’

  Her mother turned and gave her a warning frown. ‘Bridie, don’t react. Not today.’

  It was too late, and Bridie felt the words leaving her mouth, and she didn’t damn well care. ‘I am an adult, I’m working just as hard as you in your airless little office, if you don’t mind, and why have you changed, Tim Forbes? Because you are a Forbes, you know. You’re being corrupted, bonny lad, by your damned moth—’

  ‘Bridie,’ roared her father, who had been talking to the photographer. She stopped dead, horrified at herself. She saw that everyone had turned and the chatter had stopped. Jack had stiffened, Gracie had paled, and Tim had flushed. Above them birds flew across the blue sky; the clouds chased one another in the cool east wind. That was the only movement for what seemed like hours, and then her father took a step towards her, but Jack held him back, shaking his head, forcing a laugh. She heard him say, ‘They always nitpick one another.’

  James took a step towards her but Ver and Richard held him back. Bridie swallowed, her body so rigid it hurt. She shouldn’t have said it, she knew that, but why did no-one say anything to Tim when he behaved like that? Were they scared he’d leave for good if they did? It was the first time she had asked herself that question and was frightened at the possible answer, because she couldn’t bear never to see him again.

  Evie almost ran back to her, saying in a voice low and fierce, ‘How dare you, Bridie Brampton? Really, how damned dare you? We’ve all talked about this over the last few months. We will not make a judgement about Tim, do you understand, or are you too high and mighty to do as Uncle Jack has requested?’ Her mother ended on a hiss.

  Bridie rested her head in her hands for a moment, wanting to run from the whole lot of them. But then she looked up. ‘You swore then, Mam, so it’s not damn well fair.’

  Her mam raised her finger, shaking it. ‘Not one more word, Bridie, unless it is an apology, and keep your voice down. This is not your day, and I won’t have you ruining it.’

  ‘But Mam, he was so arrogant.’

  Evie raised her finger higher.

  Bridie wanted to bat it away, but instead felt her fury turn to an awful sort of silent sobbing in her chest. She swallowed, and again. Above her the cedar branches were moving in the breeze. She felt chilled, and alone. She whispered, ‘I’m so sorry, but he used to like me. He was always there, the three of us. He made me feel safe, us feel safe. It’s not the same now and it’s as though . . . Oh, I don’t know. It’s all just empty, it’s changed us all. Poor Uncle Jack, poor Aunt Gracie, and I’ve made it worse, and I hate it without him. Hate it. Hate him.’

  The photographer was calling and beckoning to the family members, who came to life and began to move as directed. James looked over at her, and winked. She felt weak with relief. Good old James, at least they still had one another. He’d help her through the next few hours, even if everyone else was furious.

  Her mother was saying quietly, ‘Stand up straight, wipe your tears, put on a smile. Your uncle and aunt are married, and as Grandma used to say, far too often, “All will be well.” But that, of course, will be after you’ve apologised to everyone.’

  They straightened their shoulders, smiled at one another, and headed off to join the group. At that moment her mam squeezed her hand. ‘It will be alright, Bridie, and you’re right, he was horribly superior. If you hadn’t said anything, I fear I would have done, so that makes me a hypocrite for snarling at you. What a pair we are. Now let’s smile for the camera and remember that Tim is probably very muddled at the moment. Who wouldn’t be, having a real mother coming back into your life? Let’s keep thinking of that, and understand.’

  Bridie wished that Grandma Susan and Grandpa Bob were still alive, because they wouldn’t have put up with Tim’s behaviour for one moment. Or would they? She didn’t really know about much any more. She gripped her mam’s hand, tightly. She couldn’t bear it if Evie wasn’t her real mother, and she hadn’t thought of it like that before. Pity for Tim overwhelmed her, and as they reached the wedding party, she began her apologies. The first was to him, and heartfelt.

  He smiled, and shrugged. ‘Don’t give it another thought. I won’t.’ Again there was that sneering harshness. She walked away.

  Chapter Three

  The wedding guests circulated within the marquee, or lingered outside where they smoked, talked, or just admired the herbaceous borders. Tim stood alone, and ground out his cigarette on the lawn, checking that Young Stan, the head gardener, wasn’t looking. Instead he was talking to someone who had been introduced by Tim’s da, Jack, as H
err Bauer.

  Apparently Jack and he had met when Bauer was an officer at Da’s German prisoner of war camp and had helped out Jack and his marras. They had kept in desultory contact since then, and as he was in the country he had accepted an invitation to today’s wedding.

  Young Stan was pointing out hyacinths, bluebells, peonies and a clump of something which had not yet bloomed. Young Stan looked around, saw Tim, and called across, ‘Hope you put that stub into one of the sand buckets provided.’

  Tim almost stood to attention, before picking up what was left of the stub. He waved it at Young Stan, who nodded before turning back to Herr Bauer. Tim half laughed at himself. Scared of a gardener, for heaven’s sake, but then Young Stan had inherited his grandfather’s way with words, and volume, or so Mam said. He couldn’t really remember Old Stan. The laugh died in his throat because Gracie wasn’t his mam. His mother was in Berlin.

  He felt a rush of nervousness at the thought of seeing his mother, but this was mixed with excitement, and anticipation. Heine and Millie had been living in a little town near Hamburg last year, when she had first written to him, but since then Heine had been promoted, and was now an officer in the SS, the Schutzstaffel, a major paramilitary organization under Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party, and they had just moved to a smart apartment in Berlin.

  When he arrived tomorrow they would have a dinner party for him, his mother had said, and after that she’d take him to a coffee house. Perhaps they’d have a stroll round the lake, and later, the opera. He walked to a sand bucket and dropped the stub, where it lay amongst others. He sneaked a look at Young Stan, who nodded his approval, then walked on with Herr Bauer.

  Tim moved to the shade of the cedar. Somehow it seemed to block out all noise, though that was impossible; it must just be psychological. He stared up through the branches. He realised he’d never asked who had blown up the original one and no-one ever talked about it. It was so long ago, he supposed, but what a foul thing to do.