Daisychain Summer

‘And did you? Did you shoot yourself?’ It hadn’t been uncommon. Driven to desperation, some soldiers had put a round into their own foot; an easy way out of the Army – a ticket to civvy street.

‘Did I hell! We went over the top, one night. I tripped and my rifle went off. Did you ever know what it was like, out there in No Man’s Land?’

‘I knew,’ Tom said grimly. ‘I was a marksman.’

‘And so was I. Like I told you, I was a keeper, and I know how to shoot, mister. If I’d had a go at my own foot I’d have made a tidier job of it than that!’ He stuck out his right boot. The front of it had been hacked away to accommodate the distortion of flesh and bone. ‘So they wouldn’t give me a pension. Told me I was lucky I wasn’t being put on a charge with a firing squad at the end of it.

‘My wife goes out scrubbing. She goes without so the boy can eat. If I had a loaded gun now, it wouldn’t be my foot I’d aim it at!’

‘That’s enough!’ Tom rapped. ‘You’re alive, man! Think back to how it was, and be grateful. There’s many a one who’d be glad to be as hungry and alive as you!’

‘Aye. Then more’s the pity I wasn’t one of them,’ he said without self-pity. ‘I’d be a hero, now, with a tidy gravestone to show for it – and my Polly with a widow’s pension.’

‘Sit you down, man. You don’t have to make excuses to me. How bad is that foot? In pain, are you?’

‘Sometimes. It’s my balance, though. I have to walk on my heel. Bairns make fun of me and you don’t get any help – not a penny parish relief – when your discharge papers say you shot yourself in the foot. A coward, that makes me, and I’ll swear on my son’s life it was an accident.’

‘How old is he?’ Tom was still remembering Daisy’s smile.

‘Just gone three, though I haven’t seen him for six months. Don’t know how it is with him and Polly – no fixed address, as they say, for them to write to. But you believe me, don’t you, sir?’

‘I believe you.’ He did – and besides, what right did a deserter have to stand in judgement on any man? ‘But you’re a long way from your wife and child – how come you ended up here? You’ll not find work in these parts, either.’

‘Maybe not. But I was billeted here, in the war, for six months. All of the summer of ’fifteen. A grand time it was, and the war something that was happening to the other poor sods – not to me.

‘The Army took over Windrush Hall as a billet. Polly was in service, then, ’bout two miles away. That was when I met her. When I knew I was going to the Front we got married and she went back home, to Cornwall. Her father was badly. She helped her mother to nurse him, though he died …

‘But that time around these parts were the best months of my life. I knew this estate and the big house, too, like the back of my own hand. Can’t blame me, I suppose, for making my way back.’

‘No, though the army left a right old mess behind them when they moved out. Windrush had gone to rack and ruin and as for these woods – nothing but a wilderness and not a game bird in them. I came here about eighteen months ago; been trying to lick things into shape, ever since. Reckon we’ll have some decent sport, though, come October.’

‘Aye, sir. And you’ll not turn me over to the constable? I’ll be off your land as soon as maybe if you’ll turn a blind eye to the snares.’

‘Did you catch anything?’

‘A rabbit. It’s in the bush, yonder. I’d aimed to light a fire, tonight – cook it. That was one thing you learned in the army. You were never stuck fast to find a way to cook a rabbit.’

‘Nor a chicken,’ Tom grinned. ‘But look over there.’ He pointed to the church tower. ‘Over to the right – that clump of oaks. There’s a hut, beside them. You can kip there.’

It was a keeper’s hut, usually to be found near the rearing field but moved away, now the chicks were grown, to the edge of the estate. On small, iron wheels with a tin roof, it was snug and dry with a stove inside it and a kettle and pan. A fine place for a keeper to shelter in on cold, wet nights when a poacher might be forgiven for thinking the weather was on his side.

‘I know it – remember it from way back.’

‘Then you’ll know there’s a little iron stove in there. Find yourself some dry wood, and light a fire. You can cook your rabbit on it. There’s matches on the ledge over the door, and water in the beck, nearby.’

‘How will I get in?’ he demanded, eagerly.

‘About twenty yards from the door you’ll see some stones. The key is under the big one …’

‘I’ll find it – and I’ll not take liberties. I’ll leave it tidy.’

‘You better had! And there’s no hurry, for a couple of nights. If anyone finds you there, tell them Dwerryhouse said it’s all right.’

‘I will, and thank you, sir. God bless you, and yours.’

‘Aaar. Be off with you,’ Tom grated, embarrassed. ‘And here – catch!’ he called to the limping man, throwing his packet of sandwiches. ‘Have these. You need them more than I do. And by the way – got a name, have you?’

‘Purvis, sir. Dickon Purvis …’

Tom turned abruptly, striding angrily away. It should not have been like this – a decent man begging, his wife and bairn miles away. And when he’d see them again, only God knew. Nothing but skin and bone, poor devil. He’d never see another winter through, in his condition. What would become of his wife, then? And what about the little lad; what if it had been Tom Dwerryhouse with a badly foot and Alice and Daisy miles away and living on charity and Alice taking in sewing, like as not, to help ends meet?

‘Come on!’ he snapped at his dogs, though they had never left his heels all morning. ‘Home!’

He took a deep, steadying breath. Alice would cut him more sandwiches and besides, he needed to see her, tell her about the man. Alice would listen, understand his anger, and happen Daisy would smile for him again.

And that lot had better not start another war! They’d never get him into a uniform again, if they did; not if they begged him on bended knees and offered him a cushy billet for the duration.

Then he stopped his rantings, and thought on. They would never get him. How could you call a man to the colours who’d been killed at a place called Epernay; wiped out with eleven others on a March morning, more than two years ago?

‘Alice!’ he called, breaking into a run. He needed to touch her, hold her, pour out his bitterness. At his garden gate, he paused. The big black, shiny pram stood there, with Morgan asleep beside it, head on paws. It would be all right. Alice would know what to say to ease his conscience.

She heard the snapping of the sneck as he opened the gate and came, smiling, to stand on the doorstep.

‘Hullo, love,’ she said softly and all at once his world was sane and safe again.

‘Put the kettle on, lass, and make us a sandwich, eh?’

‘But I cut you some, this morning. Didn’t you think on to take them?’

‘I did, love, only – oh, come on inside, and I’ll tell you …’

‘Well, now.’ Julia checked that the compartment door was properly closed, then settled Drew beside the window. ‘That wasn’t as awful as you thought, now was it?’

‘I wasn’t entirely looking forward to it,’ Helen admitted, ‘but Mr Carver was very understanding, and the young one seems efficient enough, though he asked a lot of questions.’

‘Officious, more like.’ Julia had not liked Carver-the-young. His manner had been patronizing; he didn’t like doing business with women, and it showed.

‘Neither could see any difficulty. We might not even have to go to court, if everything works out as it should. And I suppose it’s only right they should want to meet Alice and have a talk with her. After all, we might be domineering in-laws, bullying her into giving up her son.’

‘Gracious, mother – they know we aren’t like that! It will all go through smoothly.’

‘I hope so. And do keep hold of Drew. He mustn’t stand on the seat.’

‘Sit down, you little horror!’ Julia ordered. ‘But you’ve got to admit he was very good at the solicitors,’ she defended. ‘We’ll have a good run on the lawn before bedtime – tire him out,’ she smiled.

‘Play cricket,’ he demanded, then turned his attention again to the window and the fields and animals slipping past it.

‘He’s a good little soul,’ Julia smiled, fondly. ‘He ought to have someone his own age to play with.’