Free Easterleigh Hall at War by Margaret Graham

Evie felt that you were so unhappy and felt so unloved. You are not, my darling. You never will be.’
    â€˜Oh, Evie,’ Jack laughed. She smiled, but couldn’t bear to think of his hurt. He gripped both her hands, lifted them, held one against his cheek and kissed the other. ‘And did she tell you that I loved you so fiercely that sometimes I felt it burned me up?’
    Grace shrugged. ‘She said that she thought you loved me. She didn’t mention anything about burning.’
    They both laughed this time. She drew his hands to her mouth, kissing them, seeing the blue miner’s scars, the more recent wounds. They were the hands of a man, not a lad. She searched his eyes. She traced with her finger his crooked nose and swollen ear, damaged from his early bare-fist fights which had helped earn the money for the Forbes’ house. She traced his lips, longing to kiss them.
    She asked about Mart, feeling Jack’s breath on her fingers as he said against them, ‘I can’t believe he’s gone and there’ll be no more humming which drove me bloody mad, or him saying, when we were in the thick of it at Mons, “like a home from bloody home, lad”. He meant just like the pit, danger at every turn. Daft bugger must have dropped his rabbit’s foot and that’s why the shell got him. They never found him. Decapitated, Bernie said, but there was no body when they went to gather them up, just a bloody great mess of shell holes and bits.’
    He stopped for a moment. ‘I haven’t been able to talk about it properly till now. Grace, for God’s sake, why the hell did you cut me out?’
    She kissed his hands. ‘Because I hadn’t the sense I was born with. But this time, when I say if you ever need me I will come, I mean it from the bottom of this wretchedly battered and foolish heart. I will love you for the rest of my life, dearest Jack Forbes.’
    â€˜And I you.’
    Her coffee grew cold again, his beer remained untouched. They just sat gripping one another’s hands, aware of others coming and going, but taking no notice until the clock in the square chimed its tinny sound and Grace withdrew her hands. He said, ‘You’re right, your hands are not so soft now, bonny lass. And the better for it.’
    â€˜Ah Jack, I’ve scrubbed floors so clean that they would even meet with Evie’s approval and would knock Ver’s efforts into a cocked hat. I’ve helped at operations, would you believe, such has been the need for someone, anyone, who had the first idea of what to do.’ She looked at her coffee, drank it cold but didn’t taste it.
    Jack downed his beer. ‘Aye, I would believe it.’ He left francs as a tip on the table. Together they left and walked to the square, holding hands as though they’d never be prised apart. In the square she pointed to the left, he to the right.
    â€˜It’s time,’ he said, replacing his cap. Around them the market was packing up. A cart passed loaded with empty wooden boxes, and a few turnips. The wheel caught in a ruck, the driver swore, the old horse neighed and a turnip tumbled to the ground to be scooped up by a young boy who ran off with it. ‘Bravo,’ Grace whispered.
    Some VADs were heading for the café. Two officers passed on horseback, en route to heaven knew where, but she had a good idea it was the front, or perhaps a new one, because the hospital had been clearing the wards, sending the Blighty cases, those serious enough for treatment at home, to the ports by the trainload, and the walking wounded, patched up, were being sent to their units to free up beds. New beds were being delivered, and put together by swearing orderlies in the marquees. Bandages were being stockpiled, masses and masses of them. New contingents of orderlies, nurses and a few VADs were arriving. Dear God, the obscenity of war was about to blast in on them again as some wild