“Porson will see to his comfort, Peter. You must come in and sit down. You are wounded. I shall call our doctor to you – he will know better than your mere service people. Porson!”
The housekeeper, quietly in the background, having glanced out of the kitchen window as the knocker rattled, stepped forward and took charge, leading Oadby upstairs with the suitcases and sending a message to Cook to feed another servant and look to the younger son’s comfort while he remained, wounded in service. Cook must discover what, if any, special dietary needs the young man might have.
“Have you taken a luncheon yet, Peter?”
He had not. They had travelled directly from Polegate in the staff car. He had not really eaten since an early dinner on the previous evening, taken near Ypres.
“Ypres! Whatever were you doing there? That is the Salient we have heard too much of, especially in the lists in the newspapers.”
Every newspaper bore a black-bordered list on its main news pages, the names of the fallen of the previous twenty-four hours, as released by the War Office and often days out of date.
“At least, your name is not there.”
“Young Griffiths, my lieutenant, will be, Mama. He died at my side last night.”
“Poor lad! No more than a boy, surely, from the photographs I saw.”
“Barely seventeen. I cannot explain all that we were doing, Mama. I am not permitted to. Suffice it to say that we made a landing in occupied Belgium to deliver certain supplies to the brave Belgians who still defy the Germans. We were caught on the ground and Griffiths was killed by rifle fire as we made our escape. I was hit by a single bullet which did little enough injury to me – it likely spent most of its force on the woodwork of the cockpit. I am home for a fortnight, if that is convenient to you.”
“Convenient? This is your home, Peter! You are always and ever welcome.”
He supposed that to be true. He had grown away from the house at least. The people were family still.
In part it was war and the effects it had upon him – he had to be his own man, could no longer be merely his parents’ son. He wondered where he would end up, what house he would eventually purchase and in which town, where he would put roots down, assuming he ever did so.
Being wounded made him gloomy, it would seem.
He ate his lunch and talked and tried to calm his mother’s fears – he had only been a little hurt and that by bad luck.
“Should you go up to your room to rest for the afternoon, Peter?”
He agreed with little argument. Flying all night had left him tired and he had not been able to rest comfortably in the car coming up from Polegate. He allowed Oadby to assist him into pyjamas and demanded a bath for five o’clock when he must rise to be ready for the arrival of his father and brother.
Six o’clock saw him sat in working uniform, as was proper in his own home. He would not wear mess dress for dinner unless there were guests, his parents not demanding formality for family meals. His father and brother would be wearing no more than lounge suits to dine. Oadby had changed the bandages and sling, made sure everything was clean and tidy.
The elder Nasebys arrived from their normal train. His father showing surprise and some distress. Menfolk were allowed emotions, in their own home.
“Peter! I did not expect to see you, heard nothing down the grapevine. What has happened, an accident?”
“A rifle bullet, Father. On a job for Intelligence in Belgium. It went wrong.”
“How many times have we heard that said of Intelligence these last few months! They need a few businessmen in their ranks to show them how to organise themselves!”
“I lost young Griffiths, my lieutenant.”
“Bad luck that, my son. He went well, I presume?”
“Manning his Lewis. Gave me the chance to get us into the air.”
“Well done, the boy! Can’t ask for much better than that, Peter.”
“Small comfort for his parents, Father. I must discover their whereabouts and at least send them a letter.”
“Not an easy task, Peter.”
Geoffrey managed to say a few sensible words – Peter supposed he must have had practice in condolences, the way the casualty lists were mounting.
“How badly are you injured, Peter?”
“Not much. A hole in the shoulder is all. The bullet had lost much of its force when it hit me. I was lucky.”
He did not mention his growing suspicion that the bullet had passed through Griffiths to hit him – he could offer no proof, had no need to feel guilt.
Dinner was a quiet, ordinary meal, Peter’s mother taking pleasure in cutting his beef for him, her little boy again.
“A silent table without the girls, Mother.”
“It is indeed. Far too much so, Peter. Jennifer lives at the hospital now, in something called ‘Nurses Quarters’, with a proper housekeeper to watch over them. She sometimes calls upon us of a Sunday afternoon, has almost no other free time, from the little she says. She seems tired and older now.”
Geoffrey agreed – the life was not good for her and he really thought she should stand down from it.
“Done her bit now. Ought to settle back to a proper life for a girl.”
His father shook his head, gravely rebuking him.
“We must all be grateful to Jennifer for the work she does for her country and for the poor men who pass through her hands. I believe she intends to study as a doctor when the war ends – if it ever does – and she will have my wholehearted support. The days of the sheltered young miss are gone, Geoffrey.”
He could not agree – what was right and proper could not change merely to accommodate a war.
“And as for Minnie! Words fail me, Father!”
“Do they? I am rather proud of her, my son. She is in France and driving an ambulance of her own already, I am told. She is doing very well. What she will be after the war, I cannot imagine. Not a simpering, blushing debutante, that is for sure!”
“Most likely one of those damned flapper suffragettes, sir!”
“Quite possibly, Geoffrey. I am assured that women will be given the vote after the war, by the way, so we should see little more of suffragettes. They have won their cause.”
“A shocking dereliction of his duty by Asquith if that be so, sir. He should know better!”
Peter was mildly amused. He could see no reason at all why Charlie, as an example, should not have a vote; he was sure she would know far more about politics than he did. As for Josephine? She was intelligent and educated – who was he to claim superiority over her in matters of government. She had seen Imperial Russia and had thought deeply about the state of affairs there, while he knew almost nothing about England.
“I cannot see why women should not have the vote, Geoffrey. With a few women in the House of Commons and joining the government, we might not have had this damned war.”
That smacked of heresy. Geoffrey put it down to the effects of the recent wound on his younger brother’s system.
“How long are you to stay with us, Peter?”
“Two weeks at most, Geoffrey. Less if I heal quickly – it is not a major wound. I could be useful in my office even if I am not to fly for a few more days.”
It was the call of duty – no man could deny that, Geoffrey agreed.
“Can’t say I like hanging back in the City, you know, Peter. Fewer and fewer young men to be seen there these days.”
“You should serve where you are most useful, Geoffrey. You can do much more for the country in your City office than you could waving a revolver in a trench. Any young man leaving school can go as a second lieutenant. Very few can master the complexity of banking at its highest level. You should do what is best for the country – and if that means suppressing your natural urge to go out and fight, well, so be it. We must all make sacrifices in these hard times.”