Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“Beautiful scenery, Mother. One can understand Mr Vaughan Williams a little more for having seen it.”

Her mama was heard to suggest that it was gloomy music and much suited to the countryside. She did prefer a dashing polka, she admitted.

That brought artistic conversation to an end.

Mr Baker was waiting at the station and escorted them the few yards to the hotel.

“A tiny town, ladies. The bare essentials are obtainable and King’s Lynn is less than an hour distant by motor. You will, of course, have a car, Miss Primrose.”

She had not considered that possibility, thought it excellent now that it was mentioned.

“Can we see the house from here, Mr Baker?”

“Almost. Across the creek, in a line with the boathouse you can see, painted pink for some reason. A clump of orchards there obscures the actual buildings. Some of the trees are yours, as is the boathouse.”

“Of course, Richard must know how to sail a small boat and will enjoy the relaxation of a yacht or what do they call it, a dinghy?”

Mr Baker did not know, having never ventured to sea himself.

They were amazed when the hotel staff pulled heavy drapes across the windows before full dusk.

“Got to, sir, ma’am. By order. It’s them Zeppelins what come across the sea with their bombs, sir, ma’am. No light to be shown on the coast nor inland for ten miles and more.”

They were amazed that the war should have spread even to the most rural parts of Britain. It had not affected the food the hotel offered, however. They ate well and long.

Mr Baker’s chauffeur had the vehicle waiting for them after breakfast, a large and solid Humber.

“Mostly going to the Army as staff cars, ma’am, Miss Primrose. Being as the steel works is producing in the national interest, armour plate for new projects especially, I have been granted a vehicle.”

They admired his importance to the country, much to his pleasure.

Less than a mile, inland, across the creek and then eastwards along a lane leading to the sea brought them to the house.

“It is larger than I thought for, sir.”

“Well, Miss Primrose, it is, I will admit, a little more than I had first intended.”

The manor stood imposing in local stone, a brownish grey, rambling over several extensions and dating from Elizabeth to Victoria by way of the Restoration and early Georgian. Each builder had been true to his times, had clung to the genius of the day. A glance at the upper storey suggested thirty bedrooms, some with tiny diamond panes, others under pointed redbrick Gothick arches, a few broadly welcoming the light of the eighteenth century. The roof line was uneven, all tiled but of differing colours and size. A part of the roof was half-mansard, most was simply steep-pitched against the snows not uncommon in Norfolk.

The entry led through double oak doors into a grand hallway, twenty feet high and as broad. At least two dozen doors led to various reception and dining rooms and to the rear offices.

“So many servants it would need, Mr Baker! Not at all practical in this day and age.”

Mr Baker showed triumphant – he had considered the servant problem.

“From Belgium in the first instance, Miss Primrose. Three families of them. Thereafter, more foreigners, ma’am. You will not mind the odd brown or yellow skin, I am sure, ma’am!”

Primrose did not know if that was the case. She felt there was little choice, particularly as she was rapidly falling into love with the house – it was warm and eccentric, much as she believed herself to be. She would happily spend her days in such a mansion. In the back of her mind was an awareness that she was spoiled, a rich brat indulging herself. That being so, she would nonetheless enjoy her existence in such luxury, the more for having a much-loved husband at her side, provided only he survived this damnable war.

“Another battle in Artois, sir. In that part of the lines where Richard is serving.”

“The figures are high again, as well.”

Her mother made her first contribution to the conversation.

“I am sure the Colonel will be well, Primrose. Men of his rank do not go headlong into battle, I believe.”

“He has already taken part in a trench raid, Mother. He believes that he must lead his men, not tell them to go in front of him. We know him to be the bravest of the brave – I could wish he were not. He must do what he knows is right. I am not to ask him to go against his nature, much though I wish he might.”

“He has come through safe so far, Miss Primrose. He has the luck with him, I much hope.”

They inspected the house, slowly over two hours, meeting the staff, finding some of the Belgians to be wholly at home in service, one family to be of a place in life that had given them their own servants prior to the war.

“I can cook, madame. My husband will mind the wine cellar and the library. My daughters are of ten and twelve and can both clean and dust and learn their English. One day, we shall return to Ciney and my husband will take back his place as attorney in the town and all will be well again. Until then, madame, we are to be thankful for a place to live, a roof over our heads, especially in so pleasant a little town. London was not for me, madame!”

“No, it is a smelly town, Mrs Bouchard. Not my favourite place.”

“I am glad to get the girls away as well. There are wicked men in London, madame, offering money to other refugees for their little girls.”

They were appalled by such vileness, had not heard of its like.

Mr Baker shook his head.

“They have been telling me to open an office in London, Miss Primrose, a place where drawings could be made and discussed easily with the War Office. I think I must do so and will send a pair of clever young men there to do the work. I do not think it will see me often if that is what happens in Town.”

“You said there was a possibility of brown or yellow men coming into our service, Mr Baker. How would that be so?”

“The servants of dead officers, Miss Primrose. Often, men who have spent years in India or on the China Station will bring favoured servants back with them. Dying in the Trenches, they leave these men at a loose end. I have taken two on at my own house, having had them recommended from the barracks at Bedford, being part of the regimental family now. I have found them good, reliable men. With your permission, I would seek more.”

It made sense, in its own way. The poor men could not be left without work in a strange land. She wondered how they would get on in the most rural county of Norfolk.

“The furniture is all old, Miss Primrose. I have it in mind to throw it all out and refurbish from top to bottom. Some of these dressers might be three hundred years old, fit for the bonfire and nothing else.”

She thought they fitted with the ambience of the house, begged that he should leave all in place, leaving it to the pair of them to decide what would stay and what must go. She debated introducing Mr Baker to the concept of the ‘antique’, decided it might be too much by the way of hard work.

“What of the gardens, sir? Are they large? You spoke of the orchard last night.”

He did not in fact know exactly what the boundaries were. The Belgian gardener offered to show him.

A vast vegetable garden to the rear, all in good order and getting better rapidly, the gardener one to value his vegetables. To the front, an acre of lawns and driveway in a semicircle between two gates. On the east side, a hedge across ten yards of lawn, looking out over the sea. The south sprawled over several acres down to the boathouse by way of thirty or more apple trees and a number of pears. Six goats presided over the grassland, led by a curly horned billy who stared at them with evil slit eyes, announcing his ownership of grass and flock.