Chapter Thirteen
Of Pork Pies And Sausages
Grantham Arms, Downton, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.
In The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Bracknell remarks pithily to Jack Worthing that '"To lose one parent... may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness". One would not have thought there could ever be any similarity between Oscar Wilde's wonderfully preposterous creation, Lady Augusta Bracknell, and Josiah Fenton, the amiable, loquacious, and rotund publican - mine host - down at the Grantham Arms. However, here in Downton, recent events tended to suggest there very well might be.
For, a similar situation had arisen with the proprietor of the Grantham Arms, and, to misquote Wilde, to lose one guest might be thought unfortunate; to lose two suggests... Well, what does it suggest?
However, before this is explained in more detail, it is necessary to recount briefly what it was that had happened on the Downton Abbey estate back in the summer of 1887, the year of the Golden Jubilee of Her Late Majesty, Queen Victoria.
A few years earlier, this in the time of his late Lordship's father, jealous of both his rights and privileges, the sixth earl had already caused several long established footpaths running across the estate to be closed, thus denying public access to areas of what was indisputably common land. Thereafter, a commemorative shoot, held in 1887 in honour of the Jubilee, had ended in tragedy when, despite being warned to leave, a walker intent on reaching Whitestone Crag had blundered into the field of fire of the shooting party, and with fatal consequences.
So as to avoid any repetition of such an appalling incident the earl, had given orders that all remaining public paths across the estate be closed off: permanently. The sealing off of the footpaths had been met with considerable anger and causing, so it was said but never proven, the earl to be burned in effigy atop one of the several Jubilee bonfires. His son, Robert, had been rather less inclined to insist on his keepers enforcing the closure of the footpaths but it was left to his successor, Matthew, the present earl, mindful of the mass trespass on Kinder Scout in the Lake District a few years before, to insist that all the public footpaths be fully reopened. This in turn, for the past few years and usually during the summer months, had brought a swathe of hikers and walkers here to this part of Yorkshire.
Quite how these things ever come to be known is usually a matter for conjecture but since no-one knew the truth, it is perhaps best not to speculate. However, it soon became common knowledge hereabouts that the present countess of Grantham was decidedly unamused by the repeated sight of members of the common herd traipsing across the hallowed acres of the Downton Abbey Estate.
Entrance Hall, Downton Abbey, April 1937.
Exasperated, Mary strode into the Entrance Hall where she promptly flung down her riding crop and began pulling off her leather gloves. It was at this precise moment that, about to set off on his afternoon rounds, Matthew, engaged in perusing the contents of a letter received in the morning's post from George Manley, of Fortescue and Manley, who had long since replaced old Murray as the estate's solicitor, came out of the Library.
On seeing Mary, he smiled. Long ago she had eschewed wearing a skirt for riding; instead these days wore jodhpurs which only served to accentuate her shapely legs.
"Ah, there you are, darling! Did you have a good ride?" Matthew's breezy, hail-fellow-well-met, bonhomie was as a red rag to a bull.
"In part," snapped Mary. Patches of colour flamed across her ivory cheeks.
"Only in part? Why was that?" Matthew asked, barely deigning to look up from Manley's letter.
"Because, darling, again I had the misfortune to come across another hairy kneed peasant rampaging his way across our land, no doubt hell bent on lighting his blasted camp fire, before trampling down crops, and frightening the livestock. Anarchists and communists every last one of them!"
Matthew sighed. They had had this very same conversation several times before. Knowing Mary as he did, he knew she was not usually concerned about either crops or - horses apart - the welfare of livestock, so, something else must have piqued her ire. Having pulled off her riding hat - in the interests of safety Mary had a while ago ceased sporting the topper she used to wear - a moment later, she explained what had happened.
"This morning, up there on Gritstone Ridge, I ran into, not literally mind, yet another hiker. He was polite, I'll give him that. He even offered me one of his cheese sandwiches!"
"Did you accept?"
"What do you think?" Mary grimaced. "Salmon and cucumber are more my style but not at eleven o'clock in the morning! Anyway, after I had declined, politely, his kind offer, he asked the way to the nearest hostelry. When I'd given him the necessary directions, down to the Grantham Arms, do you know what he said to me?"
"I can't possibly begin to imagine".
"He said: Ta, love".
"Oh!" Matthew did his best to stifle a laugh which instead came out as something akin to a snort.
"I mean, do I look like a love?" Mary fumed.
"Darling, most of them keep to the footpaths, make use of the stiles, and properly close all of the gates. That said, I will concede that a handful don't. But while some may indeed be anarchists and communists, their political affiliations do not concern me. In any case, it seems to have escaped your notice, that the hairy kneed peasants as you term them, and their forebears, have been working the land on estates like Downton for generations. It's high time that they were permitted to enjoy some of the fruits of their labours".
"Matthew..."
"Well, think about it".
"What?"
"Have you ever looked at the earth? I mean really looked at it".
"I don't understand..."
"I didn't think you would; but the grass, the soil, the rocks, the trees, the rivers, the lakes, the streams; even, say, the rabbits in the East Field or the fish swimming in Foss Beck below the waterfall at Lightwater Spout, no-one in their right mind can ever really claim to own them".
But now it was Mary who wasn't listening.
"Why on earth can't they go and ramble somewhere else? What about the Highlands of Scotland? Or better still, Australia".
As to the young hiker whom Mary had encountered up on Gritstone Ridge, it had indeed been the opening up of the footpaths across the estate which had brought him here to Downton. Or rather this was the tale he told Josiah Fenton; this and the fact that he hailed from Balham in south London, before, engaging, at very short notice, a room at the Grantham Arms for the few days of his stay.
However, it was very far from being the truth of how things stood; for while Mr. Smith was indeed a keen hiker, his usual walking haunts were to be found in the schwarzer Wald in the Fatherland. For, Herr Schmidt, to give him his correct name, was in fact attached to the German Embassy in London, although in what capacity was not entirely clear, even to those who worked with him, and who included, Prince Louis of Hesse.
The real purpose of Schmidt's visit was to meet with Armitage and convey to him certain information from the Wilhelmstrasse which could not be trusted to be confided either in writing or even in a telephone call. After breakfast on the second day of his stay, young Mr. Smith had said to the publican that he was going to walk over in the direction of Hoarstone. He never returned.
Mindful of the still unsolved mystery of the missing reporter from The Yorkshire Post, this time the alarm was raised rather more promptly but to as little effect. For Mr. Smith seemed also to have vanished without trace. Not that any connection was made between the man Mary had encountered and the missing hiker for the very simple reason that the route he had said he was taking was completely different to the one that he did take and which had brought him face to face with Mary up on the dizzying heights of Gritstone Ridge.
As to the missing journalist, several weeks after he vanished, Daisy Mason sold a pig to the butcher's in Downton, who supplied the inn with pork pies. Not to put too fine a point upon it, one could say that, the unfortunate Mr. Harris, or at least part of him, had indeed returned to the Grantham Arms.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, late March 1937.
"So, that's settled then. Friday at two o'clock".
Edith now heard the click as Kitty promptly replaced the receiver.
Lower Hall Farm, Little Enderby, Yorkshire, England, late March 1937.
When he saw the name of the farm set into the stone wall by the gate at the top of the grass grown drive, for Billy memory stirred with him recalling to mind something Mr. Barrow had once said about the owner of Lower Hall Farm. For the life of him, he couldn't now remember; whatever it was seemed to have passed beyond recall. However, as he reached the front door of the farmhouse and raised the knocker, Billy recalled what he had been told. That the owner here was a widow who, years ago, had been in service at the abbey. That she had married some chap who, before the war, had worked there too. Mr. Barrow had made some crude comment to the effect that... William... William Mason, yes that had been his name, hadn't known what to do with his cock. And that by the time he had married his sweetheart - the widow woman that now was - he was quite beyond doing anything with it at all.
Butler's Pantry, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, November 1936.
While Mr. Barrow was checking the silver cutlery - a fish knife appeared to be missing - Billy contented himself with looking, as he often did, at the row of sepia and black and white photographs ranged on the wall behind him. The one he was looking at now was labelled Domestic Staff, Downton Abbey, June 1914; taken therefore just a matter of months before the whole world had gone mad. It showed two rows of smartly attired house servants; those in the front seated on chairs, those behind them standing, their names having been added beneath them in ink that was now much faded. A moment later, and Billy became aware, uncomfortably so, that Mr. Barrow had come to stand just behind him. Knowing Mr. Barrow's proclivities, Billy took a deep breath; it would not do to land the butler with a right hook.
"Daft as a brush that one". Mr. Barrow tapped the glass; pointed to a young man with his hair plastered firmly down on his head, wearing the buttoned, braided footman's livery of frock coat, waistcoat, and knee breeches; looking for all the world as if he had strayed off the stage of a pantomime at the London Palladium.
Billy peered again at the fading names.
"William Mason?"
"Exactly so".
"Daft? Really?"
Mr Barrow nodded; tapped the side of his temple with the tip of his forefinger to indicate that it was his considered opinion that the late William Mason had indeed been soft in the head.
"That was even before what happened," Mr. Barrow observed softly.
"What was that then?"
"During the war, he was caught in the same shell blast that injured Captain Crawley; His Lordship that now is. When they arrived back here from France, on stretchers the pair of them, to look at poor William you'd have thought there was nothing at all wrong with him. There wasn't a scratch nor a mark to be seen. But his lungs had been shattered, so when they brought him home, it was to die". Momentarily, the butler jabbed a finger towards the ceiling. "Married his sweetheart on his deathbed, upstairs, in the attics, just before he croaked. Not that she cared for him, the poor, daft bugger. Leastways not like that. But from what I hear tell, these past few years, she's more than made up for what William couldn't give her".
"Who did?"
Mr. Barrow tapped the glass of the photograph again.
"Her! Daisy Robinson that was. Face like a shrew and a temper to match!"
"What happened to her?"
"God knows! I don't". Mr. Barrow shrugged dismissively before ghosting a shamefaced grin. "Actually I do. She did quite well for herself; leastways in a manner of speaking. Got her hands on old man Mason's acres - William's father. When the old boy shuffled off this mortal coil, he left her everything. Daftness must have run in the family. Then, so I heard tell, she sold Mason's place and with the proceeds bought a farm of her own. Out near Little Enderby. Lower Hall. Back of beyond that place".
Billy nodded; fell to wondering, if Mr. Barrow had ever loved anyone - don't even go there - or anything in his entire miserable life.
Lower Hall Farm, Little Enderby, Yorkshire, England, late March 1937.
Billy was mystified.
He was certain that there had been someone else there in the farmhouse, watching him from an upstairs window, but the woman had insisted she was on her own. And, as he turned away from the front door, he was equally sure he saw the curtain of the room above the porch, move. Anyway, he had the directions he needed - to Abbot's Barn - which was all that really mattered.
And, one thing more.
Mr. Barrow had been right.
That Mason creature was a right little shrew and with a sour, pinched face to match.
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, late March 1937.
Here in the tiled hallway, in the aftermath of the truncated telephone call, Saiorse ashen faced and Bobby with tears starting, standing halfway down the stairs desperately wanting to know what had happened, Tom and Sybil regarded each other with unfriendly eyes. Only now, realising that she was still holding the telephone, did Sybil replace the receiver in its cradle.
"Ask your Da!" she snapped.
"Da..." Saiorse began. But her father seemed not to have heard her. Instead, choosing to ignore Sybil's icy demeanour, Tom tried to pour oil on troubled waters. He might just as well not have bothered for all the good it did him.
"Well, at least we know Danny made it to Spain. Thank God!"
"It's not much to thank Him for!" Sybil glowered at Tom.
"Was that Danny, Ma?" Bobby sniffed audibly.
"Bobby, I've told you a thousand times before. Don't sniff. Use your handkerchief!" his mother admonished. While all of the Branson children knew that Ma was a stickler for good manners, it was unusual for her to be so peremptory. Taken aback by his mother's unexpected brusqueness, without another word Bobby did as he had been told. Pulling a none too clean handkerchief from out of one of the pockets of his shorts, he blew his nose hard and noisily several times.
"Jaysus, Bobby, they'll be hearin' ya in Dublin!" Saiorse exclaimed, theatrically sticking both her forefingers in her ears.
"I'll thank you, young lady, not to take the Lord's Name in vain!" Saiorse flushed. This she had not expected; knew that her mother had little time for religion. She did not know, indeed none of them did, that just as she had done in the ornate chapel at Rosenberg when there had been no word of what had become of Tom and the others in Hungary during the abortive coup against Admiral Horthy, Sybil had again been spending time on her knees; this time in the stillness and sparse surroundings of Danny's empty bedroom, begging God to spare the life of her eldest son.
"Is Danny all right?" Saiorse asked.
Sybil ignored the both of them. Having adjusted her hat in the mirror, now satisfied with her appearance, she turned her attention to Tom.
"We'll be back on the five o'clock. Come on you two, or we'll miss the train".
"Ma..." began Saiorse.
"I'll tell both of you all about it on our way into Dublin. Now, do as I say!"
A moment later, the front had door slammed shut behind the three of them, leaving Tom standing alone in the hall. For a moment or so, he did nothing. Then, a sudden thought occurred to him. He reached for the telephone and when the operator answered, asked for a long distance number.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, late March 1937.
"Tell me now, honestly, what do you think?" Kitty Rothschild asked.
Edith eyed her companion thoughtfully. This visit, here to Rosenberg this afternoon, had not been her idea.
"What do I think? Why does my opinion matter in all of this? After all, I scarcely know him".
"That's precisely why it matters so much. If I may put it this way, you're outside our charmèd circle".
Edith nodded. In a way, what Kitty had just said made eminent sense; it could even be considered something of a compliment. She shaded her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun which, while it was still yet March, was, today, exceptionally bright, bathing the distant, snow capped Alps in a golden glow. Still shading her eyes, she gazed towards the spot where the family had, at Simon's urging, played Pooh Sticks. There on the brow of the bridge stood a fair haired man, smartly dressed in a double breasted suit, sporting a boldly patterned tie, and, as he always seemed to be, smoking a cigarette.
In her reply, Edith was her usual no-nonsense self; something which had endeared her to Friedrich right from the very outset.
"What I think, truthfully, is that His Royal Highness looks rather lost. Forlorn. Rather like a little boy who has had his favourite toy taken away from him and doesn't know quite what to do about it".
Kitty nodded.
"My thoughts exactly. I shouldn't be saying this to you..."
"Then don't".
"You're nothing if not direct, are you?"
"My elder sister, the countess of Grantham, says very much the same thing. However, like my younger sister, she's a matron in a hospital in Dublin, I've found that in life it's always best to be straight with people".
"Some would call that honesty".
"Perhaps".
Kitty laughed.
"If I remember rightly what you told us all the other night, that is the Yankee in you. I believe you said your mother was American?"
Edith nodded.
"Yes. From Cincinatti, in Ohio".
"I thought that's what you said. Anyway, what I was going to say is that having given up what His Royal Highness has done, crown, kingdom, empire, I wonder if she will ever be able to fill the void. It's a darned tall order. I know I wouldn't like to even try. Edward VIII, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland, and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, King, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India, etc., etc.".
"I'm very much impressed!"
"Don't be. In the last couple of months, while His Royal Highness has been staying with us, I've heard it said often enough to know all of it, from A-Z. Before the Abdication, she - Wallis - told him to his face that he was a God-damned fool to even consider doing what he has now done. That she should go away, that he should forget her. You've never met her, of course?"
Edith shook her head. It seemed an odd question.
"No, of course not. I left England in the summer of '21 and while I've been back occasionally, my life has been lived elsewhere, in circumstances far-removed from what was expected of me, mainly with my husband of course, working on a succession of archaeological excavations out in the Near East, but since the birth of our two sons also more and more here in Austria".
Kitty nodded.
"Yes, I think you said your elder boy has a disease of the blood?"
Edith nodded.
"Max. Yes, he's a... haemophiliac".
"It must be dreadful for you". Kitty paused. "And for the boy too".
"Of course".
For all of Edith's sangfroid, she was not at all comfortable discussing Max with someone she scarcely knew.
"And there's no cure".
Again, Edith shook her head.
"No, there isn't".
"Would you do something for me?"
"If I can, yes".
Kitty nodded towards the distant figure.
"Then, talk to him. In the motor, he told me he values your opinion; that he believes he you will be honest with him".
"Did he?"
"Yes".
"But, what on earth would I say to him?"
"I'm sure you'll find the right words..."
Kitty's appraisal of what the Duke of Windsor thought of Edith turned out to be very wide of the mark. What His Royal Highness actually wanted was someone new to listen to a rambling, at times almost incoherent, self pitying account of how he believed himself to be blameless in all that had come to pass and was a very much wronged man. That they had conspired against him; they being the establishment, the government in the guise of the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, and the Church of England in the person of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Cosmo Lang. The duke had some vitriolic words to say about the elderly archbishop and went so far as to repeat the ditty which had been doing the rounds in the aftermath of the Abdication.
My Lord Archbishop, what a scold you are!
And when your man is down, how bold you are!
Of Christian charity how scant you are!
And, auld Lang swine, how full of cant you are!'
The duke considered he had been backed into a corner and forced to abdicate the throne. That was the sum of it. However, he was convinced that time was very much on his side and what he perceived as an intolerable and monstrous injustice would, shortly, be put right.
"Recently, I have been informed by those in a position to know that, in the very near future, I shall be called upon to resume what is mine by right of birth".
His Royal Highness would brook neither criticism nor opposition; for the duke, both were concepts that were entirely alien.
"As for the nonsense about the Jews in Germany, my cousin, Charles Edward, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, has told me that what is being reported in the British press is completely untrue. Besides, we have no right to meddle in Germany's internal affairs and that includes the alleged mistreatment of its Jewish population".
Edith was appalled. How the man could stand there and say such a thing, when his own host here in Austria was Jewish, was incomprehensible. She was unable to stop herself from openly disagreeing with what the duke had just said.
"Alleged? Sir, forgive me, but you are very much mistaken. Here in Austria we have heard first hand from Jews who have kin in Germany, of what is happening there..." But, the duke was not prepared even to listen. Abruptly, he shook his head; held up his hand for silence.
"Alleged. That is the truth of it. Given that the British Press is in the pay of the Jews, it is only to be expected that minor incidents involving the alleged mistreatment of a small minority of their brethren in Germany should be exaggerated. This apart, it is my firm conviction that in England we need exactly the same kind of strong resolve being exhibited in Germany and in Italy. These days, dictators are decidedly à la mode. I am given to understand that it is considered by many people in England that one is desperately needed there".
Edith was incredulous. She could well imagine what Matthew and darling Tom would have to say in response to such a preposterous suggestion. Just as she had witnessed during dinner at the Rothschilds, Edith had again been privy to another side of the duke; now realised that what he wanted in all things was to have his own way. This was no more apparent than when he spoke, at some length, of Mrs. Simpson. His final remark summed up his intentions in this regard.
"They need to know that, come what may, I will marry her, whatever they or anyone else say".
It was obvious to Edith that the duke was obsessed with the woman; was besotted by and utterly dependant upon her. That kind of love, thought Edith, did not prosper. It never did.
A short while later, punctilious in their thanks for the hospitality Edith had accorded them, the duke and Kitty took their leave. To be perfectly frank, Edith was very glad to see them go.
Entrance Hall, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.
"By the way, after breakfast, before I went out riding, I went down to see young Alfie Bates in the Cottage Hospital again".
"How's the boy doing?"
"Making very good progress. He's now allowed out of bed, and is hobbling around the ward on a pair of crutches. I took him in a bag of sweets and a couple of those ghastly gobstoppers, the ones Robert and Simon liked so much when they were younger".
"Very good choice that".
"What?"
"Gobstoppers".
"I thought you might say that, what with Tom and you being so partial to them yourselves!"
Matthew laughed.
"The countess of Grantham going into the sweetshop down in the village and ordering gobstoppers! I can't imagine your mother ever doing that".
"Well, actually, it was Mama who suggested that I should buy Alfie some sweets. God knows what Anna will say! And then, after that, I called in briefly on Mrs. Hughes again".
"How was she?"
"Making about as much sense as when I saw her last".
"And just who were you this time?" Matthew asked; although it was obvious to Mary that once again he wasn't really paying attention to what she was saying.
The on going business of Armitage apart, while Matthew was only too well aware that the chances of avoiding a new war with Germany were fast slipping away, the last letter he had received from Friedrich, postmarked from Trieste in Italy, and posted just before Friedrich and the boys had sailed for Palestine, had been more disquieting than ever. Given the fact that Friedrich and Edith were certain that their correspondence from abroad was being closely monitored, if not also being opened and the contents read, Friedrich was usually very guarded in what he wrote. This time, probably because his letter had not been posted in Austria, Friedrich had been openly dire in his predictions of what he very much feared was coming - for all of them.
In his mind, Matthew was trying to decide whether to or not to set aside a considerable sum of money for the building of a large petrol store. If war did come, given what had happened during the last show when, with the unrestricted use of their U-boats, Germany had come close to starving the population of these islands, should there be another war, petrol would be in short supply too. Nonetheless, the harsh reality was that the estate simply did not have sufficient spare capital to finance the whole cost of the petrol store. However, in his letter, Manley suggested the balance might be forthcoming by way of a government loan for capital works. Prudent as he was, Matthew was averse to borrowing money but it seemed the only way that the petrol storage...
"So, you leave me with no choice but to start proceedings for divorce..."
"What? What did you just say?"
Mary sighed.
"Sometimes I wonder why I bother. I might just as well talk to myself!"
"Mea culpa! I confess, I wasn't listening. Darling, you now have my full and undivided attention".
"How kind of you!"
Matthew grinned.
"And?"
"As I was about to say, shortly, before I turned up, Mrs. Hughes had another visitor".
"Oh. And just what am I supposed to say to that?"
"Probably a very great deal when you learn who it was".
Matthew looked questioningly at his wife.
"Well then, don't keep me in suspense..."
"Mrs. Edna Braithwaite".
When for Matthew the penny still did not drop, enunciating her words clearly and precisely, as if she was dealing with a halfwit from the West Riding Lunatic Asylum, which she presumed she was not, Mary sought to explain, saying that Matthew must have forgotten that Mrs. Braithwaite was Edward Armitage's elder sister. According to Mrs. Hughes, Edna Braithwaite had let slip that she had seen her brother Edward. Apparently, this had struck a chord with Mrs. Hughes, who thought it exceeding odd because she knew that Armitage had joined up and was in foreign parts, as, when she came into Downton to visit her mother in the alms houses, Edna had, betimes, read Mrs. Hughes extracts from some of her brother's letters written home from Transjordan.
Mary definitely now had Matthew's full attention as she knew she would.
"Mrs. Hughes must have misunderstood. Unless, of course..."
"She does, you know, have moments when she is quite lucid. Perhaps this was one of them".
"Did she say when or where Armitage's sister had seen him?"
Mary shook her head.
"But she did leave Mrs. Hughes some pork sausages for her tea".
"Sausages?" Matthew's eyebrows lifted. "Do I really need to know what Mrs. Hughes is having for her tea?"
Mary nodded enthusiastically.
"Mrs Braithwaite's sausages came from Lower Hall Farm..."
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, late March 1937.
The night following the visit of the Duke of Windsor here to Rosenberg, something occurred, so strange that, as far as Edith was concerned, it defied any kind of rational explanation.
She had been fast asleep when something - Edith knew not what - had awoken her. Lying in bed, she listened intently. Evidently, at some point during the night, it had become very windy, filling the great house with all manner of sounds. Somewhere a timber creaked, then another, a latch rattled, and, far off, a dog - certainly not Fritz who was asleep in his basket down in the warm kitchen - barked.
Finding she was unable to go back to sleep, Edith arose, put on her dressing gown and slippers, crossed to the window, drew back the curtains and unfastened the shutters. Beyond the window, the terrace and that part of the garden visible from the bedroom were bathed in moonlight; the bare, black branches of the trees being tossed this way and that by the strength of the wind. Alert to all manner of sounds, Edith heard distinctly the plaintive wail of frightened child; fell to wondering if darling little Kurt had been awoken by the sound of the wind. Hurriedly, she opened the door to the bedroom, went out into the darkened passage, and hastened round the corner as far as Kurt's room. Here she put her ear to the door and listened intently; was much reassured when from within there came nothing but the regular sound of the little boy's breathing.
Edith was on the point of retracing her steps to her own bedroom when she saw, that beyond her Writing Room, the door at the far end of the passage stood ajar. This was wholly unexpected insofar, as was the case with so many of the rooms here at Rosenberg, the bedroom to which it gave access was scarcely ever used; the ornaments therein packed away and the furnishings swathed in dust sheets. This being so, none of the servants had any cause to visit it. And even if some pressing need had arisen for them to do so, never at such an unearthly hour of the morning.
Decidedly mystified, her curiosity undeniably piqued, Edith walked as far as the door; saw that between it and the frame there was a narrow sliver of silvery white; moonlight she supposed but, as she pushed the door wide, she was confronted by a chill, black darkness. Then, as she moved further into the room, she found her way barred by some sort of hanging drapery made of a diaphanous material, and much akin to a portière. Thoroughly perplexed, Edith stood before it wondering what on earth she should do but, before she had come to any decision, the drapery suddenly billowed. That this should be happening when the windows of the room were shuttered and the heavy curtains drawn did not, at the time, strike Edith as at all incongruous. No doubt there must be a draught from somewhere - like Downton, Rosenberg was prone to them, and what Edith had assumed to be hanging drapery must be one of the dust sheets. Then, just as suddenly, the drapery ceased moving; hung still and motionless before her, almost inviting to be drawn aside, which Edith now did, the filmy material slipping through her fingers like quicksilver, vanishing as if it had never even existed.
The darkness remained just as impenetrable but, as Edith continued to stand where she was wondering what to do next, she became aware that the room was growing lighter But how could this be, with the shutters barred and the curtains closed?
Then, before her eyes, instead of the commonplace, shrouded furnishings she had expected to see, to her infinite horror she saw instead a row of coffins, each resting upon a pair of trestles. While most of the coffins were full size, there were three which were much smaller, each clearly made for a child. It was now that Edith sensed figures standing there in the shadows, but at this realisation her nerves failed her. She turned and fled in terror back down the passage.
The following morning, when Martha brought her breakfast on a tray, Edith was already wide awake and sitting up in bed but with absolutely no recollection of how she came to be back here. However, now, as she thought about it, she became convinced that what she thought had happened during the night could have been nothing more than a decidedly nasty and unpleasant dream.
As she always did, Martha turned to continue with her duties but this morning, instead of crossing to the window, she paused.
"Why, you've saved me the bother of doing 'em, ma'am". Martha smiled.
"Of doing what?" Edith asked.
Martha nodded towards the bedroom window where the curtains were drawn back and the shutters stood unbarred.
Edith nodded; after all what else could she do?
Bilbao, Northern Spain, April 1937.
Here in Bilbao, Danny and his pals found that there were other nationalities who had come out to help in the fight against the Fascists, mainly British and French, but also a smattering of Belgians, Poles, and Roumanians. However, it seemed that despite their proud boast that victory was within their grasp, the Republicans held little more than a third of the country, with the ever present threat that Franco and his Fascists would, at some point, capture the government held territory here in the north before turning their attention yet again to Madrid and then to the republican areas in the south.
Following their visit, brief as it was, to government headquarters at the Hotel Carlton, Danny, Jimmy, Liam, and Develin were taken out to what served as a barracks for the foreign recruits; an old church, appropriated for a more practical use, the large building having been cleansed of any fixtures and furnishings which would have proclaimed its former use.
In a small room off what had once been the nave of the church, unceremoniously, the four of them were ordered to strip naked. Their clothing was then searched. Save for their passports, which Danny had with him in the oilskin pouch, this humiliating experience revealed nothing. But, apart from Jimmy, with the others having lost all of their own clothes and possessions, it was hardly surprising that it did not. Having been permitted to get dressed, they were then asked what Liam said openly were a whole series of feckin' fool questions. They were told that it was not as stupid as it seemed; in Bilbao, there had been several attempts by foreign Fascist sympathisers to infiltrate the Republican lines. Thereafter, having been issued with changes of underwear and socks, along with pillows and bedding, each was given a one hundred peseta note, identity papers, and had their water stained passports duly stamped.
Then they were given a meal; the kind which Danny, with a wry smile smile, thought Ma herself might have prepared. It was some kind of boiled beef - Develin said with a laugh that it was probably donkey - with large dollops of potatoes and beans, and hunks of a greyish bread, all washed down with copious amounts of thin red wine.
Over the next few weeks, Danny and the others found themselves becoming soldiers, although the training they were given was rudimentary to say the least, with most of the foreign recruits not even being issued with uniforms. Like so much else in Bilbao, these were in extremely short supply. So, they learned to march dressed in their own clothes and shoes which, despite their undoubted enthusiasm for the republican cause, gave them the appearance of being a ragtag, tatterdemalion bunch. This apart, at least to begin with, they were given no weapons; practising instead with long sticks sloped over their shoulders which did duty as rifles, marching endlessly, or so it seemed, up and down the hard packed mud of the parade ground outside the requisitioned church, in which, from time to time, they sat cross-legged on the cold, broken flagstones, listening half heartedly to lectures given by a political commissar.
In nightly chats, in the smoky blackness of the wrecked church, huddled around camp fires, over tin cups filled with some murky brown liquid said to be coffee, the only redeeming feature of which was that it was at least hot, Danny and his mates learned something of what had brought the rest of their compatriots out here to Spain. It transpired their motives were much the same as those which had inspired the Volunteers in Dublin. On that front, there had been some unexpectedly good news, for three more of the Volunteers who had been on the Pieter had now turned up in Bilbao. Two, like Jimmy, had been plucked from the sea by a trawler, and the third rescued by a Republican gunboat. But of the remainder, it seemed that they must all now be presumed dead.
Even if it didn't do to think about the use to which they were put, probably on account of his love of working with motors, Danny took to the business of taking apart rifles and machine guns like a duck to water. Much as had been the case down in the engine room of the Pieter, despite the inevitable language problem, when it was ascertained that Danny knew a great deal about motors, he found himself much in demand with, what in Bilbao, passed for the transport division of the Government forces. With most of the military's motors both ancient and decrepit, with spares hard to come by, it was often the case that parts had to be cannibalised from two vehicles to make a serviceable one, taxing Danny's ingenuity and skills to the utmost. For his pains, he found himself nicknamed el mecánico Irlandés - "the Irish Mechanic".
Eventually, when it was considered that the foreign recruits were sufficiently trained, there came the day when they were told that, on the morrow, they would be moving up to the front, on foot, since there were no lorries available and petrol was equally scarce. Exactly where the front was, no-one seemed to know or if they did, they didn't say. Nonetheless, if some reports were to be believed, it was not very far away. Of course, no-one would admit to the desperate military situation. The reality was that the Republicans - the Government forces (not of course that it made one hapeth of difference what they called themselves although it seemed to matter a very great deal to the civilian members of the government residing in the now faded splendour of the former Hotel Carlton) - were in retreat, and beginning, slowly, to fall back upon Bilbao.
With the help of the American journalist who had taken his photograph on that very first day, Danny eventually managed to put a telephone call through to Dublin. Surnamed Lincoln, his parents being great admirers of the long dead president from the era of America's own civil war, the journalist had been christened Abraham, but the reporter called himself and answered to Joe. When Ma had answered the telephone, Danny could not believe his luck. But then, just as had happened so many times before, once again, the air raid sirens began their mournful wail, and the bombs began to fall, one exploding just down the street; at which point the line went dead.
Save for a handful of bursts of anti-aircraft fire, the Nationalist planes had the skies over Bilbao to themselves. Swooping low, wreaking death and destruction, with their bombs being dropped from no great height - the piercing screams they made as they fell being short lived. As they detonated, explosion followed explosion, blast upon blast, while tongues of greedy, lurid flames erupted throughout the shattered city. Down here at the station, with the bombers directly overhead, Danny felt the ground shifting beneath his feet; watched dispassionately, even calmly, as on the far side of the railway lines, a warehouse suffered a direct hit, the building erupting in a ball of red and orange fire and a crackle and roar of flames, smelled the reek of burning, and then, faintly at first, growing louder all the while, heard the frantic bell of a fire engine.
Not that Danny, nor any of the foreign volunteers, had the slightest idea of the fact that ranged against them were not only the well equipped forces of General Franco but also the military might of Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy. This was very shortly to be brought home to all of them when, towards the end of April, they left Bilbao, on foot, heading northeast, towards a little town called... Guernica.
Somewhere Between Tulkarem and Nablus, Northern District, British Mandated Palestine, late March 1937.
Here in the cab of the lorry, even with the windows wound fully down, it was growing decidedly hot. With the road still running beside the railway, the route of the latter marked by a line of roughly hewn telegraph poles, in the distance there could now be glimpsed hills which were yet higher still than those hereabouts, running eastwards over towards Nablus, and which Friedrich said were the heights of Mount Gerizim and Mount Ebal, both of which were mentioned in the Bible.
A short while later, they passed Anabta, no more than an untidy huddle of decayed, flat roofed buildings watched over by a couple of crumbling minarets. It was near here that only last year a Jewish convoy of Egged buses, even though protected by British soldiers, had been ambushed by Arab terrorists. Then, out of the late morning heat haze, there appeared on the road ahead two dark specks which turned out to be two white clad Bedouin riding camels, and trotting towards them at a furious pace.
For both Robert and Max, the sudden appearance of the two riders was like something out of the Arabian Nights. However, for Friedrich and Otto, mindful of what was happening out here, given what had occurred earlier at the railway station at Tulkarem, they knew only too well that the two Bedouin might not be what they seemed: fellow travellers on the road. Their arrival could well spell trouble, the more so since they were now not that far from Nablus and, while they were not going there, it was known to be a hotbed of unrest against British rule; so much so that, in an attempt to root out the insurgents, the military authorities had undertaken wholesale clearance of many of the buildings in the Old Quarter of the town.
Friedrich and Otto exchanged knowing glances; a silent message passing between them that nothing should be done to alarm the two boys. Nonetheless, certain precautions needed to be taken. Friedrich nodded, Otto likewise. Given the volatility of the present situation, especially hereabouts, it did not do to take any chances. Inside the pocket of his jacket, Friedrich's fingers closed on the butt of his loaded revolver, while Otto slowed the truck to a crawl. Beside him, standing in its customary place, and so far un-remarked, was a Mauser bolt action rifle, likewise fully loaded.
With a sheer drop on one side and a rock face on the other, the winding road being so narrow, there was no room for both the truck and the camels to pass each other safely; one would have to give way. As the two Arabs drew ever closer, Horst now brought the old lorry to a stand. Then, with nothing left to do, all four of them sat patiently in the cab and waited.
When the two riders were scarce fifty yards off, they drew rein on their mounts. One of them then jumped down onto the road and pistol in hand, something which did not bode well, strode towards the now stationary truck. Horst yelled at him in Arabic to stop where he was. Surprisingly, the man did so; stood stock still. It was then that a most curious thing happened. He proceeded to unwind his white hatta wa agal and bared his head. Clearly, the unexpected arrival on the road to Nablus was no Arab.
"Herr Schönborn!"
That Friedrich should be known hereabouts came as no great surprise. After all, the excavation of the Roman villa at Samaria had received a nigh on constant stream of visitors up from Jerusalem, as well as others down from the north of the country; to the extent that, at times, their presence and repeated questions impeded progress being made on excavating the site which was extensive.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who has your best interests at heart," replied the other and in perfect English.
"Really," Friedrich observed dryly.
"We have a mutual friend".
"Do we, indeed?"
"Yes. Your brother-in-law, the earl of Grantham, Matthew Crawley. Permit me to introduce myself. Captain Tibor Csáky of the Regent's Guard in Budapest. And this is my wife, Harriet, who is also well known to your brother-in-law".
Because of what Matthew had vouchsafed several years ago regarding his activities on behalf of the British Foreign Office, let alone what had happened in Hungary, Tibor's name was well known to Friedrich. He beckoned the man forward, at the same time, taking no chances, keeping a firm grip on his own revolver. When Tibor reached the truck, he turned and pointed back up the road, in the direction from whence he and his wife had just come.
"I doubt very much if any of you would have made it through to the excavation at Samaria alive. The road is blocked by rocks and there are Arabs, fasa'il, loyal al-Hajj Muhammad, lying in wait, up on the hillside".
"Then, how did you get through?"
"We took a circuitous route". Tibor laughed.
"So, what should we do?"
"I would suggest that..."
But at this precise moment, as if to reinforce what Tibor had just said, there came a sudden burst of rifle fire from the hillside, peppering the road in the vicinity of the lorry with a stinging hail of bullets, sending up runnels of dust and wisps of dry earth. At Friedrich's urgent insistence, the four of them hurriedly clambered down out of the cab and, along with Tibor and Harriet who left with no option but to leave their camels to fend for themselves, hastily took cover behind the truck, from where they returned a ragged handful of shots.
However, with the Arabs hidden away among the rocks and caves of the hillside overlooking the road, there was little for those crouching behind the truck to shoot at. This apart, they had precious little ammunition, and with their attackers slowly beginning to make their way down the hillside, it was clear to Friedrich that, unless there was a miracle, they would soon be overrun, if not something far, far worse.
Author's Note:
The act of mass trespass committed on Kinder Scout, an area of open moorland in Derbyshire, in April 1932, by ramblers and members of the Young Communist League was to highlight the fact that walkers were regularly denied access to areas of open country and common land. It remains a controversial act. Some argue it did more harm than good; others that it led, eventually, to the creation of long distance footpaths and national parks in the United Kingdom.
Cosmo Lang (1864-1945) Archbishop of Canterbury 1928-1942.
Charles Edward, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (1884-1954) was a grandson of Queen Victoria who, in 1919, was deprived of his British peerages and honours, as well as his titles of Prince and Royal Highness for having fought (as a general) in the German Army during the Great War. Later, he joined the Nazi Party, and rose to the rank of Obergruppenführer. During the mid 1930s, Hitler made use of him in order to encourage the pro-Nazi sympathies of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Charles Edward acted as host to the couple during their private tour of Germany in 1937. Having lost most of his properties to the Soviet Army at the end of WWII, he died in poverty in 1954.
The exchange between the Duke of Windsor and Edith regarding the Jews etc., is based on what the duke (then Prince of Wales) is known to have said to Prince Louis Ferdinand - a grandson of the last Kaiser, Wilhelm II - in July 1933. "Dictators are very popular these days," to which Edward added "We might want one in England before long".
For Matthew and Tom's liking of gobstoppers, see Chapter One of The Rome Express.
The battle of Anabta, fought on 21st June 1936, between the British Army and Arab insurgents was the most serious incident of the Great Revolt during which the British had to call in reinforcements, including support from four military aircraft. Only after an entire day of fighting did the British Army finally regain control of the area.
Egged - the largest bus company in modern day Israel, but established as long ago as 1933.
Abd al-Rahim al-Hajj Muhammad (1892-1939) was a prominent Arab leader of the revolt against British rule, his attacks on the British Army and Jewish settlers took place mainly between Tulkarem, Nablus, and Jenin.
