A Pattern of Shadows

By Ralph T. Fairhead

A Pattern of Shadows is set in August 1914 and looks at the shattering effect the approaching conflict has on the lives of three young people who have grown up together in the same Kentish village. Alice Campion keeps house at Rendle Manor for her father, Sir Douglas, and younger brother, Ben. She is in love with Peter Crawford, a professional soldier and eldest son of one Sir Douglass tenants. However, she becomes aware of a mystery over Peters birth which could affect their future together. Ben sails to America as war is declared on a pre-arranged visit. Meanwhile Peter embarks with his unit for France.

Sir Douglas decides to turn Rendle Manor into a hospital and sends Alice to London to a meeting at the Local Government Board, where she makes an astonishing discovery about herself. She returns home confused and unable to concentrate.

In France, Peter is involved in the general retreat from Mons and is wounded.
Ben, emboldened by his experiences, returns from America to join the Royal Flying Corps, and with the news he is to be married. Peters mother, Edna, finally divulges the secret that will allow Alice to marry Peter. However, no one has heard from him for over a week. The novel ends at the beginning of September with Alice hoping for a letter, but determined not to lose heart.
The epilogue, which looks back at events in the war, is set in 1930.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 14, 2008
• ISBN: 9781466956896

Ralph T. Fairhead

Ralph Terence Fairhead was born in Islington, London in 1930. Only at his christening was his first name used. Forever after he was known as "Terry". Educated at East Barnet Grammar School, he managed to frustrate his teachers and parents by twice failing to pass the School Certificate examination, before leaving at the age of 16. However, after a series of no-hope jobs, including 18 months National Service in the RAF, he finally committed himself to five years of study at night-school to end up with a Higher National Certificate in mechanical engineering at the age of 32. The real turning point in his life was when, in 1960, he met his future wife, Sylvia. They married in October of the same year and by 1964 had two children, David and Jane. They moved to Meopham in Kent in 1963 where they have lived ever since, apart from engineering postings in Hong Kong (2 years), Cyprus (6 months) and Norway (3 years). He started writing as a hobby in 1969 when he was asked to write an article on the family's stay in Hong Kong for the company's house magazine. Since then, he has had an article and some short stories published but, until he retired in 1994, was not able to devote the time to researching and writing a novel. In 2000 he was runner-up in the Churchill Theatre one-act play competition and has had a full-length play performed by Meopham Players.

Book preview

PETER

Folkestone-Saturday 1st August, 1914

EUROPE IN ARMS-RUSSIA ORDERS MOBILISATION (Headline in the Daily News & Leader)

Folkestone had changed since Peter’s last visit, just before his posting to India five years ago. He’d been nineteen then and the new Marine Promenade hadn’t even been started. The old switchback—Uncle Tom’s Cabin—was still going strong though and he took Alice on it, while Ben looked after the picnic hamper. When he was a child, he’d found the ride tremendously thrilling. But this time, the thrill came from a different source. Alice, hair flying, clung to him in joyous terror as the car dipped and turned. He held her tightly, more conscious of the thin dress she wore than of their erratic, headlong plunge along the rails. It was all over in less than a minute. The car straightened and slowed to a stop. He took her hand and helped her out, glancing away from the dazzle of her eyes fearful he might give himself away.

Wasn’t that fun? she laughed. Wasn’t that fun? Aren’t you glad you came now?

Peter smiled at her. There’d never been any doubt in his mind once he’d managed, with his mother’s encouragement, to assuage the feeling of guilt over not helping with the harvest. I should say so, he said, still looking at her; still enchanted.

Yes, I’m glad I came too, since you ask. Ben, walkingunnoticed for the moment on the other side of Alice, wore his familiar sardonic smile.

Oh, shut up, Ben. Don’t be a twerp. The words from Alice were sharp, but not the tone. Ben seemed unperturbed.

Then they walked along the beach crowded with holiday-makers sweltering in the August sun. The other two paddled and kicked water at each other, giggling like children, while he carried the hamper. Perhaps if he’d been out of uniform he would have been in the water too. Even the uniform might not have stopped him if he’d still been just a trooper. But a sergeant, and particularly a sergeant in the Hussars, had to set an example. Besides, for him, there was an old barrier to be crossed. He’d been away a long time and it had stolen some of the familiarity they’d all taken for granted before. It seemed to have made little difference to them, but in his mind there was a shadow of uncertainty holding him back.

Further on they came across a boat waiting for just three more passengers before it cast off. They clambered in with seventeen strangers and, at the tiller, a sturdy old man with a white beard. His bare feet protruded from threadbare, off-white ducks. The navy-blue and white striped jersey covering the upper part of his body had seen much better days, as had the battered sailor’s hat he wore. But it bore proudly, the legend HMS Cressy. He sailed the boat as though it was a part of him. There was little wind, but what there was he found and kept the red sails full in both directions. They were seated along the side. Peter, with the hamper on his knees, sat next to Alice. Her dress, still damp from paddling, clung to her slim, shapely legs. She seemed not to notice or care, leaning back to trail her fingers in the water.

Was your troopship home anything like this? she asked, laughing.

A bit bigger, but just as crowded. A lot of the time we were in hammocks, below deck. It wasn’t the most fragrant of places. He thought for a moment, wanting to balance the image. I liked it best when they let us sleep up on the hurricane deck. We could do that when we were in the tropics, or the Med, if it was calm. Peter chuckled.

Alice gave a puzzled smile in response. What’s funny about that? It sounds delightful to me.

Well, yes, it is. But not if you’re still sleeping when the swabbers arrive on deck in the morning. I’ve seen many a man hosed into the scuppers. It’s the most effective wake-up call I know.

Alice looked shocked. How cruel. Did that ever happen to you?

No, I was used to waking early from my days on the farm. I may have been wet behind the ears on the way out, but I was never wet all over I’m glad to say.

The old sailor eased the tiller over, allowing the high boom to swing gently across the boat for the return journey. As they turned, he peered out to the horizon and pointed.

Over there, do you see it?

Everyone strained to look in the direction of his arm. The distant, grey silhouette would have been barely visible but for the black smoke streaking from its funnels, smudging the shimmering sky.

Looks like a class C destroyer to me, the old man announced, squinting against the glare. A bit long in the tooth, but they can still do thirty knots when they’ve a mind to.

What’s it doing here? someone called.

Probably one of the Dover Patrol ships. You see ‘em occasionally. He shielded his eyes with his hand, looking more than ever, Peter thought, like a picture of The Ancient Mariner.

Seems to be in a bit of a hurry though. Something must be up.

Manoeuvres perhaps? Peter suggested.

The old man looked at him for a moment before answering.

Dunno, son. Could be, I suppose. He scratched at his beard with his free hand. Could be the skipper’s late for his lunch. I dunno.

Some of the watching passengers sniggered at this, but Peter recognised the old man was backing off the suggestion that something was up. It was holiday time. The shadow of a continental war would be bad for business.

Exactly an hour after getting into the boat, they were back on the beach considering what they should do next. Hunger made the decision for them. They found a spot close by and sat down on the shingle beach. Alice took charge of the hamper and selected the items for lunch: pork pie, cheddar cheese, cottage loaf, some stout for the men, ginger beer for her. As they ate, Peter gradually relaxed. They began to talk about old times; times when the difference in their stations hadn’t mattered; hadn’t even been realised. To the other two, it still seemed not to matter, but the Army had shown him there were lines you only crossed at your peril. He had lost his innocence.

Behind their own voices Peter was aware of the general hubbub of comforting holiday sounds; of children shrieking, of boat barkers calling and hundreds of people just chattering. The sea lapped gently and unheard on the shore a few feet from them. Only the shrill cries of bold gulls, swooping down to pick up a discarded morsel of food here and there, could pierce the din. Further along the beach, there was a line of bathing machines wallowing, up to their axles, in the sea. They tried to count the number of heads bobbing up and down in the water in a rough arc from the machines. But the comings and goings defeated them.

I’d love to be in there with them, Alice said. Only I wouldn’t want to go in those silly machines. I expect they’re all wet and horrid inside.

A bit like the costumes? He surprised himself with his boldness and felt his face begin to glow as the other two stared at him. Then they both roared with laughter, allowing him to join in, relieved.

You wicked man, she said, still chuckling. You’ve obviously been mixing with some coarse people. Her face took on a more thoughtful look. You’re right, though. Who needs costumes? How lovely it would be just to throw off all our clothes and rush straight into the water. We’re such prudes.

The delicious image of a naked Alice flashed briefly into his mind before he suppressed it with an extreme act of will.

They decided to move on and took the Metropole Lift up to The Leas, with its grand, dignified hotels on one side and the cliff-edge on the other. They strolled along the paved path through the wide, grassy thoroughfare, following the stirring sounds of a Souza march. The Royal Engineers played on the small raised island of the bandstand, surrounded by a packed audience seated in canopied deckchairs. Many more people stood behind them listening appreciatively.

Let’s stay for a bit, Alice said, doing little to hide her eagerness. I love military bands.

Bit of an acquired taste if you ask me, Ben responded. I prefer orchestral music. What about you, Peter?

I don’t mind staying. Sitting down and listening to them will make a nice change. I’m usually marching in some parade or other when an army band plays.

Well... Ben pondered. I’d like to have a look around the harbour. Why don’t I meet you back here in an hour? The concert should be finished by then.

They found some space on the grassy mound on the other side of the path and sat down. The Engineers had a good repertoire,interspersing the grand marches with some quite delicate pieces, most of which he couldn’t put a name to.

I think it’s Gilbert and Sullivan, Alice whispered when he asked about one. "Iolanthe perhaps?"

The concert finished with Land of Hope and Glory—rapturously applauded—followed by the National Anthem, for which everyone stood to attention. Peter had been moved by the performance and, looking about him, saw he was not alone. Some other people, men and women, were surreptitiously dabbing their eyes. He glanced at Alice standing beside him. She was looking towards the bandstand absorbed, it seemed, by the sight of the Engineers picking up their instruments and getting ready for the march back to barracks. There were no tears in her eyes.

Did you enjoy it?

She turned her face towards his, her expression solemn somehow, despite the little smile. Yes I did, she said, very much.

He could see now, her eyes were moist and he remembered, even as children, she always held back her tears; always appeared unconcerned, never letting anyone know how much she’d been hurt until she was alone—or thought she was.

He’d found her the evening before he left the farm for the Army—was it eight, or nine years ago?—lying in an empty stall in her father’s stables, sobbing as though her heart was forever broken. Unseen, he stood watching her, distressed at her distress, but unsure what to do. Then, a noise alerted her and she saw him.

Oh... It’s you! She turned her face away from him. Go away... Just leave me alone.

He might have complied, but there was something in her voice which gave the lie to her words. Oh, Lal! He dropped down on the fresh, new straw to kneel beside her. What is it? What’s the matter? Fate must have been on his side that night. For once, he had a clean handkerchief. He offered it to her. She took it and wiped her face clear of tears before sitting up and facing him.

Oh, Peter...

He couldn’t remember who made the first move but suddenly they had their arms around each other. She still sobbed, but not with the same desperation as before.

He tried to persuade her to speak: Tell me, Lal. What is it? There was urgency in his voice. Tomorrow, he would be gone. He wouldn’t be here to help her. But the secret, whatever it was, remained a secret and, in any case, soon became forgotten.

Still saying nothing, she moved her face from his chest to his cheek. Her arms tightened around his neck. Their bodies were pressed together. They were children and they kissed like children—at first. Then, a strange, wonderful madness seemed to take possession of them and the kissing took on an urgency that he thought neither of them understood. They rolled over in the straw, his fumbling inexpert fingers exploring her young developing body, while her sighs of ecstasy urged him on.

Suddenly, there were footsteps on the gravel outside and they froze, not even breathing. The door opened and one of the grooms, lantern in hand, entered. Their arms clasped each other tightly as the shadows thrown by the approaching lamp rotated slowly across their stall. The groom paused outside. Seconds passed like hours. Then he moved on to the far end of the stable and entered one of the stalls there. They heard him talking to the animal inside in a soft caressing way. Perhaps it had been injured. Whatever the reason, it was an opportunity to escape.

Did you enjoy it?

Ben’s return took them both by surprise. Peter felt a momentary sense of panic as though the images in his mind had suddenly been revealed for all to see. He responded too quickly.

Yes, he said, it was... nice.

Nice? Alice looked at him in astonishment. We were both standing there at the end choking back tears, and that’s the best word you can find to describe it? Smiling in apparent disbelief, she turned to Ben. "Don’t listen to him. It was very moving, particularly when they played Land of Hope and Glory. I’m really surprised you didn’t want to stay and listen. You’re the musician in the family."

Ben laughed. "Perhaps that’s why I didn’t stay. Military bands are all very fine for marching men off to war, but when it comes to performing in concert and playing something delicate by Grieg, or Mozart, well... He paused for a second. It’s a bit like an elephant trying to dance to Swan Lake."

Time to change the subject, Peter thought. So, how was the harbour?

Interesting, Ben said. I wandered along The Stade, past the fish market and then out along the East Pier. You can see the swing bridge in the Inner Harbour operating from there.

I’m surprised you’ve not gone in for engineering, Ben, Peter said. You always were interested in things mechanical. As he spoke, he noticed a subtle change in Ben’s expression as though he’d been reminded of something unfulfilled.

Yes, I was—still am—but we don’t always get what we want... For a moment it seemed he was about to elaborate. His eyes flicked from Peter to Alice. Then he grinned. C’est la vie. Who cares? I’m hungry. Isn’t it time for tea?

They found a spot on the cliff-side and laid a cloth out on the grass. Alice set out the china and Ben lit the small, patent water heater. They devoured their quartered and de-crusted cucumber sandwiches as though they’d not eaten before, surprised at their own hunger. The seed cake followed and was similarly demolished, washed down with several cups of tea, laced with condensed milk.

Mrs. Foley does make a really good seed cake, Ben muttered as he settled back on the grass, his eyes half-closed.

You should know, Alice chided. You had at least half of it.

"I was saving you from yourself, Sister dear. You know what they say: A slice through the lips puts a pound on your hips. Ben’s voice seemed to drift away. His eyes were closed and he was smiling as he gently lowered his straw hat over his face. Alice, taken aback, looked down at him. Then she turned to Peter. I’ve never heard that expression before, have you?"

Peter shook his head and smiled. I think I’d be prepared to wager half-a-crown, he just made it up.

The little bounder. She sounded cross, but the grin gave her away. I ought to give him a good tickling for that. She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. I won’t though, she said at last. It’ll give us a chance to talk.

But he’s not asleep yet, surely. It was Peter’s turn to be surprised.

Amazing, isn’t it? He’s like a gas light: you turn off the tap and the flame goes out. It’s a wonderful gift. Unfortunately, it doesn’t run in the family.

"Oh? Does that mean you have difficulty going off to sleep?" Peter was struck by the pause following his question.

When, at last, she did reply, all she said was: Sometimes.

It was an odd response, and it seemed to preclude any further discussion of the subject, although he would dearly have loved to know about the sometimes. Did sleep, he wondered, avoid her for the same reasons it did him? He couldn’t bring himself to believe it was because she was thinking of him. Why should she be? They were friends, of course; had been for as long as he could remember, despite the difference in their families’ status. They’d grown up together; sharing the minor tragedies and joys that littered their journey from childhood to adolescence, as well as one brief, and now probably forgotten, moment of passion. And after he’d enlisted, they’d started a correspondence which continued, even when he went to India with the Hussars. She’d encouraged him to continue with his reading, sending him the latest books by Wells, Kipling and others so they could discuss them in their letters. But they were friends’ letters; letters between affectionate friends, not lovers.

It was his fault. After what had happened between them, the night before he left the farm for good, he was the one who should have taken them to another plane. He should have written straight away to tell her of his love. He should have, but he hadn’t because...

Even now he couldn’t be sure what his reasons were. He had the excuse he was only a child then, unable to describe his feelings. But even if he could have found the words, would he have had the courage to write them? Had he the courage now to say them, lying here, facing her on the browning, flattened-down grass, with the last full day of his forty-eight hour leave slipping away?

Tell me about India, Alice said, interrupting his thoughts, her face close enough for him to be aware of the eau de Cologne she’d dabbed behind her ears. Is it hotter there than it is here; hotter than today, I mean?

Hot? This is nothing compared to the height of summer in India. In the plains, where we were stationed, we daren’t move out of our barracks it was so hot. The heat just sapped every ounce of strength from you. This wasn’t what he wanted to talk about but at least he had her attention. I must have mentioned something of this in my letters, or did I?

You said it wasn’t very comfortable. It didn’t sound too awful.

Probably I didn’t want to remind myself when I was in the middle of it. It was awful though, believe me. If it hadn’t been for our native servants, I’m sure we’d have had all the juice stewed out of us, like over-baked potatoes. Peter saw the little grimace cross her face and was amused.

Ugh! She shuddered. What a thought. Was it all bad then? Was it worth the four years away from us?

If only she’d said me instead of us Peter would have kissed her then. God knows, he wanted to, but he wasn’t sure it was what she wanted.

Was it worth it? His first reaction was to say no. Even if they were only friends, that’s what she’d want to hear. He wanted to please her. He wanted to say it wasn’t worth one second of being away from her. But, somehow, the words came out differently. It’s been an incredible experience. So different from what life would have been for me here. It was the wrong answer. He knew the second the words were out of his mouth and her gaze flicked from his eyes towards her still-sleeping brother.

Four years gained then. Is that how you see it? Her eyes were back on him. Rather than lost I mean.

I don’t know I’d put it quite like that. If only he could read her mind. If only he could see past that lovely, haunting face, solemn but for a faint enigmatic little smile.

How then?

He took a deep breath. Alice, you know better than anyone, I could never have been a farmer. Even my dad had to accept that eventually, and Lord knows he tried hard enough to persuade me otherwise. He saw her grimace at that. He knew she didn’t know for certain what had gone on between him and his father, but sometimes, the marks could not be hidden. It was partly your fault; you and your father’s.

Mine? Her eyebrows arched in surprise. How was it my fault?

You let me in to see your father’s library. I can’t remember how old we were—perhaps eleven or twelve—but my life changed that day. The sight of all those books in one place; the thought of all the knowledge they contained; all of them just sitting there waiting for someone to open them and learn from them; it just overwhelmed me. He smiled at the memory. And that great big globe, standing by your father’s desk, with all the countries of the world on it; I don’t think I realised how tiny England was until then; and how big some of the others were. There was so much to see; so much to learn and I suddenly understood that, as the eldest son, I would have to take over the farm one day and if I did that all I’d ever see would be Smeeth and Ashford and perhaps Folkestone once every other year. I knew then I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spend all my life in ignorance of these other places, other people. He stopped abruptly. He’d been blathering. She would be bored.

I never realised it had such an effect. She looked amazed, but not bored. I knew you were excited, of course. That much was obvious. She laughed, apparently recalling more of that day. I remember now, you going along the shelves, looking at titles, one after the other, and asking me what they were about, as though I’d read them all. And I pretended I had and kept making up stories about them until I couldn’t think of any more. I so wanted to impress you with how clever and well-read I was, but I just ended up looking shallow and pathetic.

You wanted to impress me? I can’t believe that. He felt a profound, delighted astonishment sweep over him. All these years and he’d never realised. Even as a child, she’d always seemed so self-possessed. She’d been affectionate and close to him but somehow there had been a part of her she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, reveal. And as for looking shallow and pathetic, that’s just nonsense. I was always in awe of you. He looked into her eyes, suddenly, breathlessly, emboldened. I still am.

Oh Peter! What a couple of fools we’ve been. She reached across for his hand. A sudden low, double boom out to sea shattered the moment. They both sat up, startled. Peter felt it in his ears and despite the evident distance, the ground seemed to shake momentarily. Everyone on the cliff-side, with the exception of the apparently unconscious Ben, was staring seawards.

Sounded like artillery, Peter said. I don’t think it’s a ship though. It might be the coastal batteries at Dover. Another explosion followed, and then another. It’s probably just practice; maybe something to do with that destroyer we saw earlier. He wanted to reassure her; to get back to how things had been developing moments before. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.

The moment was gone though. The explosions had shaken her.

I think I’ll find somewhere to wash my hands. They’re a bit sticky still from tea-time.

Disappointed, he helped her up and watched her walk off, silhouetted against the lowering sun, towards the hotels. How quickly things change, he thought. How quickly people change. When he’d last seen her, Alice had been merely stunning. Now, she was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Now, she had a poise; an unselfconscious confidence that was as delightful to him as the way her slim body swayed, gently and elegantly when she walked. He wanted to tell her; longed to tell her; even formed the sentences in his mind that he would say to her when the right moment came. But, somehow, the right moment eluded him. It had again just now. So close, he might almost have caught it, embraced it. Her hand had been near to his as they’d talked. He’d felt the closeness rather than seen it; felt it like an electrical charge on his skin. He could have moved his hand, just a fraction, and it would have touched hers. Their fingers might have entwined, exchanging silent messages; surrogate bodies moving sensuously against each other, promising a greater intimacy. That would have been the right moment. But, fool that he was, he’d delayed too long and it had passed him by.

"Do you think there will be a war?"

Alice’s return took him by surprise, jerking him back to the present. He looked away from the sea and into her eyes, shaded from the sun by the straw hat she wore. He waited as she settled down beside him.

I don’t know Alice. It depends on how much the Kaiser wants one, I suppose. Bit of a depressing question to ask on such a day though.

She gave him one of her knowing little smiles; knowing, yet somehow, unworldly. He felt himself shiver and hoped she hadn’t noticed.

Yes, it is. I’m sorry Peter. It’s just that Daddy’s been talking about it for a month now, ever since that business in Sarejevo. He seems very worried.

Peter tried to picture the imperturbable Sir Douglas Campion looking worried, but failed. I’m not sure he needs to be. I can’t see we’re likely to be involved. Willy would be mad to take us on. The Navy could blockade Germany to death in a month if it wanted to. The words emerged, echoing those uttered in the sergeants’ mess a few days before the start of his leave when the same subject was under discussion.

Daddy says we have treaty obligations.

Only if the Germans invade Belgium. They’re not going to do that. Their quarrel will be with France. Belgium’s neutral.

If you’d like another opinion, Sis, I think there will be a war and that we’ll be in it. But perhaps this is a private conversation?

The interruption reminded Peter he didn’t have Alice to himself. Ben had apparently switched on to consciousness as quickly as he’d previously discarded it, although, with his hat covering his face, it was difficult to tell how long he’d been awake. Peter had thought when they’d first met at the station, what an odd choice of attire Ben’s tweed suit had been for such a hot day. But now, looking over at his slender body, he understood. The tweed suit gave him bulk.

No, of course it isn’t, Ben. Alice turned to her brother. I asked Peter because he’s in the cavalry and because I thought you were asleep.

The eastward-creeping shadows had reached them now and she started to gather up the pieces of china, brushing off scavenging ants as she did so. Many of the other groups, with whom they’d shared the cliff-side, had departed. They would be among the last to leave.

Well, go on Ben, she said, after his silence threatened to drift on. Why do you think so differently from Peter?

Peter’s looking at the known facts. What he says is quite logical, given what we’ve been told. The trouble is, I don’t think we’ve been told everything.

Oh, the cynicism of youth. Peter grinned, but felt faintly irritated.

Forgive me for being young, he said, returning Peter’s grin. "But I did study politics at university and, as you know, I spent part of last summer polishing up my German in Berlin."

And this led you to what conclusion?

Not a conclusion—it’s still only speculation. But, when you’re there for a period of time, you begin to realise that beneath that heavily polite hospitality and stolid good humour, there’s a burning sense of resentment because, as they see it, the rest of Europe undervalues them. They feel... Ben hesitated, searching for a phrase. They feel that the other powers have conspired against them, somehow; that they’re not given proper respect.

What rot! Peter, incensed, blurted the words out and then realised, from the look on Ben’s face, he’d been misunderstood. Sorry, Ben. I’m not disputing what you said. What I meant was it’s ridiculous for the Germans to feel that way. In any case, they can’t all be like that, surely?

No, of course not, but quite a lot are and, don’t forget, I could understand their language. People are not always so guarded when they think you don’t know what they’re saying.

Peter stood up to help Alice fold the cloth. Together, they shook off the crumbs. And what were they saying? He brought his end of the cloth to Alice. Her mouth was hidden by it, but he knew she was smiling. Their fingers touched and briefly lingered; tingling.

Oh, that they’re being hemmed in by France and Russia; that they’re threatened by the size of our navy; that their greatness isn’t given proper recognition. It’s all stuff that’s fed to them in the newspapers every day.

Reluctantly, Peter turned back to Ben. Sorry Ben, I still can’t see it. King George and the Kaiser are cousins. The days when members of the same royal family tried to murder each other were left behind in the Middle Ages.

Let’s hope you’re right.

An old clipper—probably just a training ship now, Peter thought—its sails beginning to fill in the last of the sun’s rays, had managed to progress beyond the rapidly-lengthening shadow of the headland. A barely visible wake followed it like a thin, wispy streamer. Two pleasure-boats, one with churning side paddles and belching smoke-stack, passed her from the opposite direction, disturbing the calm sea and causing her to gently pitch.

What a lovely day they must have had. Alice commented as she strapped up the picnic basket. I wonder where they’ve been.

Have we finished with the war? Peter wondered. He hoped so. Perhaps Alice had become bored with the subject. Or frightened by it? I think one is from Boulogne. I don’t know about the paddle-steamer, Southend perhaps. He bent down to pick up the hamper.

Here, come on! I’ll give you a hand. Ben came over and grabbed one of the side-handles. Now that all the food had been eaten, even Ben could easily have carried it by himself. But it was a gesture and Peter knew it. But of what? Solidarity perhaps? Or had Ben sensed his irritation?

Thanks.

Why was it Ben had always made him feel as though he must prove himself? As long as he could remember Ben’s views ranged from slightly, to greatly, at odds with his own, whatever it was they were discussing. It was as though they were rivals. When they were young children, it had been different. The two years between the boys had been a chasm across which Ben had looked to Peter for support and advice. Ben listened unquestioningly then, like a docile younger brother. Peter had been able to look out for him at the village school. He’d dealt with the bullying Hammond brothers who made Ben—a toff in their eyes and a rather undersized one at that—the object of their particular brand of childish cruelty. But it was hard to say whether they’d actually been friends. Perhaps the relationship was too one-sided for that, and not just because of the age difference. Ben’s father owned the land that Peter’s father farmed.

In any case, Ben had been moved to the County School after a while. He was a bright child, but no more so than Peter. Had entry to this excellent centre of learning been on the basis of ability, Peter would have preceded him. It was though, never a possibility, not with four younger brothers. If Dad was nothing else, he was a fair man. If he couldn’t afford to send them all, then none would go.

Even though he understood, he regretted the lost opportunity. But he was not bitter. Nor was he jealous of Ben’s good fortune; envious perhaps, but not jealous.

They made their way back to The Leas and headed in the direction of the Harbour Station, spurning the lift this time. Then, as they started on the downward path, they heard an angry, buzzing noise in the sky. Faint at first, it grew louder, insinuating itself above the holiday clamour. People were stopping and looking into the sky. The noise became louder. Fingers pointed skyward, but they could see nothing. Then suddenly it appeared over the top of The Majestic Hotel, a few hundred feet above them, heading for the sea. Everyone seemed to see it at the same time and began to cheer and wave. Alice, decorum forgotten, was jumping up and down with excitement.

How wonderful, she cried. It’s incredible; it just seems to be floating.

Ben, his mouth half-open, watched in amazement. It’s so... solid-looking, he said, struggling to find the words to describe what he could see. So different from most of the other aeroplanes I’ve seen... all struts and wires, like... lattice-work... the pilot sitting in the open at the front. This machine’s all covered in... he must be inside.

I think it’s a BE2, Peter said, knowing it was. They make them at Farnborough, in the Royal Aircraft Factory. Being at Aldershot, we see them flying over quite often.

It’s a fine looking aeroplane. How fast do you think it’s going?

Well, it’s a calm day, and it’s fairly low down. If he’s going flat out, he might be doing about seventy miles-an-hour.

I didn’t realise we made any aeroplanes, Alice chimed in, pushing between the two men. I thought they were all French, or German.

This one’s British all right. Peter allowed his arm to rest gently on Alice’s shoulders as they continued to watch the plane’s progress towards the sea. We actually visited the aerodrome a month or two back and met the designer—a chap by the name of de Havilland.

de Havilland?

Yes, Peter Laughed. Sounds like a Frenchman, doesn’t he? He’s not though. He’s English through and through. Family came over with the Normans, I suppose.

The plane was just over the sea now and starting to bank to the right, revealing two occupants. Through the struts, joining the upper and lower wings, they could see the figure at the front waving to the crowd.

Is that the pilot? Alice asked. As she spoke, the second figure waved also.

No, the pilot sits in the back seat. See, he’s waving as well now. Peter drew her gently closer as though to emphasise his words. She seemed not to mind.

All around them, people were waving back. Some were cheering. Others were talking and pointing; questioning and explaining. All the while, the plane continued with its turn before straightening up and heading back the way it had come, over the heads of the crowd. It was some minutes before it reached the line of hotels again, to disappear from sight. Gradually the noise of the engine faded and was lost in the still-excited buzz of the crowd. Peter, with no further excuse for keeping his arm around Alice, reached down for the basket.

We’d better get on. He picked it up by the single handle on top of the lid, forestalling the younger man. It’s okay, Ben. I’ll carry it. It’s not heavy. We’ll be in other people’s way otherwise. They continued down the path, restricted to a shuffle at times by the dispersing crowd. As it began to thin though, they were able to walk more easily and the silence into which they’d lapsed was broken. It was Ben who spoke first:

How does the Army view the use of aeroplanes in a war? Isn’t it likely to put the cavalry out of a job?

They did very well on manoeuvres last year, Peter conceded. Surprised some of the top brass, I can tell you... I think it’s a good tool. The observer can see a long way up there and armies can’t hide so easily any more. But, aeroplanes can’t root out infiltrators in the field, for example. Or charge at a body of troops and disperse them. There’s still a place for the horse in war, and always will be in my opinion.

Alice was between the two men. I hate the thought of horses being used for war, she said. I know that sounds silly when men are being killed and maimed, but animals have no choice. They’re just dumb, innocent, trusting creatures.

I’ve heard people say the same thing about soldiers, Peter grinned, apart from the innocent bit.

Alice’s smile faded quickly. Do you remember the first time we rode with the hounds?

The unexpectedness of the question caused him to hesitate.

Well... I remember I was there under sufferance. Why do you ask?

Oh Peter, don’t be so silly. She sounded cross. You were there because you were the best rider in the district.

I was there, he thought, because Sir Douglas said I should be. Most of the hunt was affronted by the presence of a tenant-farmer’s son.

Sorry, he said. Why do you ask?

We killed a fox that day. The hounds cornered him and tore him to pieces. Do you remember?

I remember.

And then they blooded us; smeared the blood all over our faces. It was horrible. I was nearly sick. She grimaced at the memory.

They had reached Marine Parade now and could see the Harbour Station. Other groups, carrying towels, buckets, flags, bags and all sorts of holiday paraphernalia, jostled by them, intent on getting to the station as quickly as possible. Peter though, knew there was plenty of time and kept the three of them walking at a comfortable pace. He wondered where Alice’s reminiscence was leading.

It’s traditional. A bit of fun, he said.

It’s barbaric; that great gathering of riders and horses and hounds just for one little fox. But I learnt something that day.

Which was?

"Which was, that people can be persuaded to behave en masse in a way—sometimes, in an atrocious way—they would never dream of as individuals."

Peter could see a young woman coming towards them, struggling against the tide of people flowing down the hill. She wore a wide summer hat and a voluminous pale green dress that was at odds with her slim, perspiring face. It flashed into his mind that she might be pregnant. He stepped aside to clear a path for her, touching his cap as he did so. She smiled, acknowledging his kindness before passing by. He was grateful for the interruption, but knew the conversation was not yet over.

I’m not quite sure what you’re saying, Alice, he ventured.

She took hold of his arm possessively. Don’t you remember their faces? Eyes like demons. They must have known I was scared stiff, yet they stood around hooting and yelling while they wiped that stuff on us. People I’d known all my life. People I’d thought were kind, who cared for me. And suddenly, they were a mob of hysterical, dangerous strangers.

He could feel her fingers digging into his bicep as she spoke and he longed to take her in his arms to hold her and protect her and whisper comforting words as he’d once done, long ago.

They were at the booking office now and Peter put down the basket to locate his ticket.

You’re still thinking about the war, Sis?

She nodded towards her brother. It’s the same as it was then—at the hunt. People are excited as though it’s all a bit of a lark. No one’s thinking about the people who will die. No one’s thinking at all!

Peter brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

I’m sorry Lal, I’d no idea it scared you so!

She looked at him sharply.

Lal? Nobody’s used that name since….

Since before I went to India, perhaps? he was looking down at her, holding her gaze.

No! I think you’re right! She was smiling now. What a lot has happened since you last used it."

What, to us or with the world in general?

Both! You went to India a boy and you’ve come back four years later, a man—a soldier. She looked round to see if Ben was within earshot, but he’d disappeared in the crowd of people milling about in the lobby.

You look so fit and you positively tower over Ben.

He felt uncomfortable as he always did when someone praised him, but he continued to look into her eyes.

You’ve grown up a bit yourself. You were a skinny little thing when I left. Now... well, now... you’re a beautiful woman.

He was amazed he’d used the word beautiful. Her eyes creased into a delighted smile and she pulled his face down to hers. Her lips were soft and cool and they moved against his, surprising him; encouraging him to test her defence with the tip of his tongue...

Hey! What are you two up to?

Ben was suddenly beside them, causing Alice to jump away, clutching her hat. Peter, also surprised, suppressed the urge to laugh and managed to just smile at the look on Ben’s face.

It’s a tradition in the Hussars. You always kiss the most beautiful girl in the immediate vicinity.

My sister, beautiful? I thought you had to have good eyesight to be in the Cavalry. Ouch! That’s not very lady-like. Ben rubbed his arm where Alice had punched. And it’s not what one would expect from someone with such pacifist feelings.

Even pacifism has its limits, Alice grinned. It doesn’t extend to cheeky younger brothers.

Yes, well! Be that as it may, that’s our train and it’s about to leave. Ben bent down and picked up the hamper. I’ll put this in the guard’s van. You two go and find some seats and I’ll join you in a moment.

Despite the number of people, they found three seats in one of the compartments. Alice insisted Peter should take the window-seat. Because, she said, You’ve only just come back to us. You should look out for the changes since you were here last.

Out of the window Peter could see the harvest being gathered in the last of the day’s light. If he’d been on a longer leave, he might have been helping on his father’s farm himself, but he would be back in his barracks tomorrow. There had been no time.

In the distance, a swarm of tightly-packed starlings was making its last flight, moving like a rapidly changing black cloud, before roosting for the night. Small birds: dunnocks, chaffinches, wrens, were flitting around hedgerows that were heavy with summer fruit and mauvely-sprinkled with upright, trumpeting foxgloves. The train snorting slowly up the incline, briefly disturbed a herd of cows on its way to the milking shed for the night. The panic was over almost before it started and they stopped to watch with their solemn eyes, at peace once more, their jaws gently chewing. Peter saw few changes. There had been two or three large open-topped charabancs, packed with people returning from their day trips. More than he would have seen in a week before he went away. The countryside though was the same as it always had been; soft, lush and peaceful. But his thoughts weren’t really on what he was watching. They were on that impulsive, unexpected, glorious kiss.

Smeeth-Saturday 1st August

The journey from Folkestone to Smeeth took half-an-hour, dragging the remains of the day with it. Already, the station lamps flickered with a few hysterical moths beating their wings against the glass. As expected, a horse and trap was waiting for Alice and Ben. What Peter had not expected was the sight of Sir Douglas Campion holding the reins. It was years since he’d had last seen him and yet Sir Douglas seemed little changed. His beard was perhaps a little greyer, but he was still lean and straight-backed in his ageless, comfortable-looking tweed suit. Only the battered angler’s hat appeared close to extinction.

Daddy! I thought Jennings would be meeting us. Alice ran over to her father and kissed him on the cheek. Peter, carrying the hamper with Ben a little way behind, watched with amusement as Sir Douglas bristled with embarrassed pleasure at his daughter’s embrace.

It was such a lovely evening, he said at last, reluctantly returning the kiss. I decided to take the opportunity of having a run out. Have you had a good day?

Wonderful! Alice, eyes sparkling, looked towards Peter. Sir Douglas followed her gaze.

Ah, young Crawford, good to see you back with us. How’s my old regiment?

Still serving the King with distinction, Sir Douglas.

Glad to hear it. He smiled indulgently. Your father well? I haven’t seen him for a day or two.

He’s fine thank you, Sir. Busy with the harvest, of course. I’d be helping with it, but I’m due back with my unit tomorrow evening.

So soon?

With the present situation as it is, I’ve been lucky to have had these forty-eight hours.

Oh yes, of course! Silly of me! Sir Douglas appeared momentarily flustered and the two men lapsed into silence.

We were discussing it earlier, Ben broke in. Peter thinks we’re unlikely to go to war.

Sir Douglas appeared surprised by the intervention as though he’d not noticed the presence of his son before.

Does he indeed? And what do you think?

Ben paused before answering.

I’m not so sure, he said hesitantly. We could be involved.

Another pause. The horse, startled by a large night insect heading towards the gently hissing acetylene lamp on the trap, jiggled its harness.

Whoa, boy! Alice took the reins and gently stroked the animal’s nose.

"When you say We, I assume you mean this in the broad sense of the word?" The irony in Sir Douglas’s voice was undisguised.

Father?

Well, I don’t imagine you include yourself, seeing as you’ll be on your way to our American cousins by this time next week.

To Peter, the smile on Sir Douglas’s face, etched by the shadowy light of the lamp, seemed almost malignant.

Flustered, Ben took the hamper from Peter and put it in the back of the trap.

That’s hardly fair, Father. His voice was little more than a whisper.

Alice, intervening, took her father’s sleeve and led him, unresisting, to the driver’s side of the trap

Come on, Daddy. Stop your bullying. You know perfectly well Ben’s going to study their political system. She turned to Peter. Can we drop you off?

"No, thanks. Your horse has more than enough to pull already. Besides, as your father said, it is a lovely evening. I’ll enjoy the walk." In truth, he would have loved to stay with Alice a little longer, despite being under the eye of her father, but Sir Douglas had managed to sour the happy mood with this overt display of contempt for his son. Peter had witnessed it before without fully understanding the reason. It was true that Ben was not a particularly physical person. He could ride well enough, but didn’t care for hunting in any of its forms, and particularly not with hounds. Perhaps this lack of enthusiasm for what Sir Douglas loved with a passion went part way towards explaining the conflict, but its enduring nature was strange—disturbing even. Ben, after all, had been a credit to his father, coming away from Cambridge with a first in Modern Languages and Political Science.

He helped Alice up on to the seat beside Sir Douglas and stood for a moment, holding her hand.

Will I see you before you go? she asked, her eyes shining in the lamplight, searching for his. It was a warm evening, but he felt himself shiver again.

I have to be in Ashford at around ten to pick up the train for Charing Cross. Will there be time?

I’ll take you in, she offered eagerly. I’ll bring the trap over early. What time shall I come? Then, as though just remembering they were not alone, she looked over at her father. That’s all right Daddy, isn’t it?

There was a slight pause, then: I don’t see why not. Ben will join you though.

Ben, now sitting with the hamper in the back of the trap, opened his mouth as if about to protest, but no sound emerged.

That all right with you, Ben? Sir Douglas threw the questionover his shoulder. You can take the Studebaker.

The Studebaker! There was another pause while the shock of the peace offering (it must have been that) sank in. Ben was suddenly beaming.

Of course, Father. Only too pleased!

It was settled then. Peter protested he was putting them to a lot of trouble, but they took no notice. Sir Douglas flicked the reins and the horse started to pull away. By the light of the moon, now rising, Peter saw Alice lean out and surreptitiously blow a kiss back at him. Emboldened by the twilight and the increasing distance between them, he caught it and held it to his heart. He stood like that for a while, watching the trap as it slowly drew away, the little red lamp at the back swaying like a pendulum. Then, when he could no longer hear the sound of the hooves and the creaking wheels, he turned away.

It was a fine night for walking. The moon was in its first quarter, more than halfway to fullness. He remembered looking up at the velvety black, star-encrusted sky when he was in India and