"How are you?" he dropped into a caring tone. She didn't say anything. "You were quite a... machine," he said. All he could think of was that tank that he, Church and Phillipa had stumbled upon in London; an effective war beast that was unstable and came to a grinding halt. He hoped desperately that he was not one of the crew members who had stayed to defend its honour, likely to their own death.
“It was easy,” she said, looking dead ahead.
“That's troubling,” he replied.
“Why? Because I'm a woman? “
Neven thought. “I suppose so.”
Phillipa sighed, disappointed. “I tell you what, Neven; I'm tired of being rescued by you.”
“But you've needed it,” he said desperately. “Haven't you?”
“I was ready to die in London, when you found me. I wished my bed had grown teeth and swallowed me up. Life felt like it could never be good again. You saved my life, and look at what life is. Sometimes I wonder if I am dead and this is hell.”
“It will get better,” he proposed, somewhat childishly. She wanted to counter it, prove him wrong, she settled on saying nothing. So he continued. “What were you doing in the stables?”
“Isn't it obvious? I was leaving.”
“Leaving...”
“Yes, this place. The children. You.”
“Are we so bad?”
“It was my choice. I feel like I've been stripped away piece by piece, like I'm a dead sapling good only for kindling. If I went, I could finally be free, of you, of the guilt, of my old life. Maybe I wouldn't have made it far, but what is it they say? 'Die young, leave a beautiful corpse?' It's too late now, I suppose; things have progressed too much, plus the horses are dead,” she smiled briefly, morbidly.
Neven wiped the handkerchief that he was holding under his nose to-and-fro.
“Here's your revolver,” she offered it up; handle first, a retired gun-slinger.
He paused.
"No," he began. "I'm glad you took it. I'm glad you defended yourself with it. And when we move on from here, you should keep it. I don't know what I'd do if you got hurt."
“Okay,” she said, slipping it without a thought back into her waistband.
“I... I want you to know,” he said. “That I didn't save you just for you. It was for me, too. So don't be so selfish. You have responsibilities, to me and everyone else, and to yourself. You don't just get to leave. I'll be... I'll be... most disappointed if you do that again.”
There was a pause. Phillipa put her cigarette out, buying herself time. She pulled Neven in close and kissed him on the cheek. She pulled her face away and wiped the scum that had transferred to hers from his.
"Stay alive, Neven," she said, rising to her feet. "I rather like you."
"Sir?" a meek voice came from inside the house.
Neven turned, it was Polly. She was surprised from his grimy face, but comforted by the smile that was currently beaming out from him.
"I need a drink of water. Can I go to the kitchen, or is it full of dead men still?"
*
Finally, out in the garden, under a bright moon and even clearer stars, the whole group sat on the grass. A new day would soon be upon them and they would have to make a decision. But for now, they could be safe.
Brunswick stood on the wall to look out, but also to keep the Baton of Britain company. Charlie and Thornhough had patched up their differences, and between them, by lantern light, were digging four graves. Their spades ploughed heavily into the well groomed garden, overturning fresh soil and ushering a little disrepute into the proceedings. It was a comforting idea.
Church had been in the wash rooms first, and came out cleaner than Neven had ever seen him. Phillipa rose to take his place and to take her turn cleaning up.
"Neven," he said as he sat down. He was in a spare uniform, made up of composite parts of others. Over all of this he had put Major Vernon's heavy coat – and pulled it about himself. He looked positively formal.
"Jones," Neven said, shifting towards him. There was an awkward pause. "I'm sorry about before," he began. "I should have said something while they were exiling you, but it wasn't easy.”
"I understand," Church replied, his tone betrayed he was uncertain of that. "It's not an easy decision to make. Not in front of them."
"But I was so glad when you turned up in that dining room," Neven's heart beat faster just thinking about it. “Goddamn it, you've been right all along.”
“Not entirely.” Church smiled. They had nothing left to talk about. It was the closest the two had ever got to an amicable handshake or a hug.
"Frank, I didn't see you in there but I heard you're quite the hero," Church looked at the old man.
Frank shifted on the seat he had brought out with him. The well-shaped legs dug pointedly into the ground and the antique wooden frame groaned. "Well, just seeing what it's like on the other side of a gun for once."
"Something you'll be doing often?" Neven laughed.
"Not if I can help it. I think my military career was very short indeed," he scratched at his bandaged leg.
A distinct air of anger had been lifted from the property. It was refreshing, but still an ill-feeling lingered in the house. Phillipa finished her bath, and came outside swinging something in her hands.
It was the keys that Gower had previously held with a tight grasp. She walked past the sitting group and went to the gates. Neven sat up to watch her. She thumbed through the keyring, tried a few in vain in the lock, some too small, some too large, but then found one that was just right. The goldilocks gate swung ajar and the chain fell away with the padlock into the thick grass, never be seen again.
"Are we leaving?" Enoch asked.
"Well, that's up to you," Neven said. "All of you," he clarified. He had assumed that they would.
It was not that the house was no longer suitable or fit for purpose. The very opposite, in fact, it was still most defensible, if a little messy inside. The group could have lived within the walls for a while. But that was exactly it, a question of time. How long until the enemy found them again? How long would they be safe, and to what degree?
It was unspoken but they all were aware of the choice they had made. With no horses, the journey to wherever they were to go next would not be easy.
In the half-light, as the group moved, Simon began singing again.
"What do you do when you need the loo in an English country garden?"
Chapter 15
From the diary of Corporal N.E Plumsworthy (the death of Cpl. Plumsworthy)
Merely hours before our damnable conflict within the confines of Chiswell House, Frank had said to me: "I think we're finding out what you're made of."
I don't think he could have been more right.
The fight was one of the bloodiest and hardest things in which I have ever been involved. While I may not have taken a life that night, I bore the brunt of my actions for a long time afterwards. Not that I was worried about the immortal destinations of those accursed cavalry men, but rather what my previous decisions would mean for the group.
I had some decisions to make, then and there. My bloodied dress shirt hung ragged about my frame. I went to the bathroom, stripped myself naked, and threw the uniform in the bin. My normal uniform lay folded upon my cot, but I eschewed that too. Instead, I strode to a dresser, and picked out a shirt, a jumper and some loose trousers which might aid my movement. I pulled the woollen jumper over my broken nose, and looked at myself in the mirror.
The re-emergence of Cave from the shadows of my own considerably shady history was a shock to my system. I could not comprehend how he had survived the ordeal at Great Portland street, and he seemed less than encouraged in talking to me. I felt that he and the Lieutenant, whose name I will not sully these precious pages with, were more than just subordinate and leader. By taking the cavalry base from him, we had robbed him of his chance at climbing the ladder again; a reality that I think we both know was dwindling in the light of
the morning.
I faced him as he wriggled- tied up in the dining room. He had gone from catatonic and incomprehensible to some degree of communicative. It was just I and him. I no longer had a uniform, yet he wore his as a robin bears its red breast.
“Cave, I am sorry,” I told him. It was the only thing I could think the say. I don't know if I believed that I was apologising to him or to myself; apologising for allowing my person to be the quarters of an unknown, a soldier – one that certainly did not belong.
“We could have been good, you and I,” Cave said, or words to that effect, this had been hard for me, you understand – and now I have a hell of a time remembering it all.
Cave and I talked at length; he felt I had betrayed the army, by first absconding from the battle in London, and then next being complicit in the murder of three officers at the dinner table that night (and some more outside). I felt I had betrayed myself – for ever going along with the narrative of a good war.
I don't regret what we did that night; I regret that good people got hurt, and that they got hurt by bad leadership, by bad people wearing symbols of authority.
Cave could not be reasoned with, his last shot at being a somebody, an officer, had gone down in a pool of blood – his new home was a cemetery. That he could not forgive me for- bless him, he still believed in something.
Church wanted me to execute him, of course, but we did not acquiesce to him, nor did we let him be alone with the prisoner – hence my presence, hence my reckoning. Cave had no notion of this, of course, seeing us only as a band of brigands, of pirates; and so he groaned terribly when I retrieved my field knife, and presented it before him. He wept and snivelled, but did not beg. In that sense, he was a far stronger man that I ever had been.
I placed the knife a good distance away from him, upright in a table, and let him work out how to crawl there in his own time.
I went to him one final time, and bent down.
“Corporal, I will have you caught. I will have you caught, corporal!” He said to me, flipping to his side to look me in the eye from his prone position.
“I'm not a corporal anymore,” I replied. I stepped back to the door, and locked it behind me.
The army had been a hindrance; so many had died at the expense of the uniform. So many lives had been lost in the foray and stupidity of what little command there had been. Power and authority often lead two very uncommon lives, and very rarely do the twain meet.
Phillipa had displayed her usefulness in a fight; Frank had done much the same to some degree. Could I honestly go on overlooking the wishes of these people because they simply did not sport stripes, medals, or uniforms?
The world had taken another dangerous, listing turn upon its axis. The army that I had fought to defend was lying at my feet, as dead at the butchered cavalry men. I should have been fighting to defend my friends and my companions, much time had been wasted doing what was prudent.
We decided to leave the manor as we found it - as we would remember it, I am sure. We headed on foot west, towards the coast.
This is the last diary entry that I shall sign with my rank.
Chapter 16
Last Words
"EDEN VALE - 10 MILES," said the sign in front of them.
"How long is a mile?" Simon asked. He gripped Polly's hand tightly.
"I don't know, ask Mr Church," she replied. She was keeping a beady eye on their surroundings.
As the group headed west, the crops of trees had become thicker. Gone were the rolling plains, and returned were the intense woods, forests, and thickets.
The whole set-up gave Neven a little fright, but he reminding himself that they had not seen trouble in the several days since they had left Chiswell house. His new civilian boots were not fit to the task of so much walking, but he kept them on in spite of this.
"A mile is about one and a half kilometres," Jones Church said succinctly, as though that would allay the children's wide-eyed enthusiasm for knowledge.
"Don't encourage them," Phillipa said, walking in step with Neven.
"What's a kilometre?" Polly asked. The adults ignored them.
"Come on Polly, don't disturb Mr Church and everyone else," Margaret walked the children on a bit. She had given William, her baby boy (now named), to Enoch to carry for a while, but Polly and Simon followed closely at their heels.
"The leaves are turning," Frank said. He was able to walk unaided, but had slowed the group down significantly. No one wanted to say anything.
"Autumn," Toby Brunswick said, walking a pace behind Frank to make sure he did not fall too far behind, nor feel too much of a burden.
Toby Brunswick and Harold Thornhough seemed happy with Neven's decision to leave his rank behind at Chiswell. They followed suit, and had changed into new clothes as well. They understood the magnitude of their actions, but decided they would live out the rest of their days as civilians. The group had been far more harmonious since then, though they had opted to keep their guns, however.
"Indeed," Frank said.
"It's beautiful," Neven added.
"It means it will get colder," Jones Church said.
"We'll need to find a place to stay, then. At least for the winter months," Harold said.
Neven was concerned. How much longer would they be running? When did temporary become permanent? If it seemed like a pressing concern, he was actually happy that it was the biggest one in his life. Compared to recent events, planning for the long-term seemed quite agreeable.
"Look at that!" Simon couldn't contain himself at the head of the group.
Beyond the road sign which had pointed the way to Eden Vale was another one. This one was hand painted; it leaned off of the road and directed their attention to a side-track that rose up the side of a hill and disappeared into the forest.
"Broad-cast-ing cen-tre," Simon enunciated very well for someone so young. "What's that?" He couldn't help himself.
Neven actually was unsure.
"Radio Station," Frank said with a wistful sigh.
"Worth seeing about?"
"No," Church said. "We keep going this way to Eden Vale, we can't afford a detour."
"They might have maps, supplies, all sorts really. Knowledge too, if anyone still cares," Frank said.
"It couldn't hurt," Charlie said. In the time since they had met him, the large man had calmed down significantly. He had also grown up. Perhaps the lack of military presence had helped him control his temper. His initial suspicion of the army had, it turned out, been justified.
"Vote?" Brunswick asked.
"Okay, everyone who thinks we should go and see the station, please raise your hands," Neven said. He did a count of the skyward appendages. "Let's go," Neven said.
Church was speechless, he was also probably proud. The group had become quite an efficient decision-making machine.
They began to ascend the hill, slower now because of Frank's condition, but the climb was not too long, thankfully.
They passed by an abandoned house, and came to a turnstile. The hill plateaued out and through a clearing they sighted the building. It was enormous. Tall, it sat proudly up on the crest of the hill. A gigantic, metal-framed tower erupted from its roof like the stem of some great plant, and at the top, several broadcasting dishes formed its grey leaves and petals. It was mostly a windowless building, fairly shabby considering the magnitude.
"Cows!" Simon exclaimed. He ripped himself from Polly's tight grasp and fled down the hill towards the herd.
"Oh, dear," she stuttered.
"Go and retrieve him, would you?" Neven asked Phillipa. "I don't want him to spook them."
The cows shifted nervously. Across the field, they stood and huddled at an impossible angle on the slope, with only the trees and the other side of the fence for protection. The hill itself pitched along at quite a vertical veer, with only a few errant trees and thorny bushes outcropping from the side of it. The road up had actually been quite mild by comparison, havi
ng found the easiest tilt.
Phillipa and Polly raced to recover the receding child.
"An adventurous spirit will get us all killed," Charlie said. Then he grunted, unusually loudly, in an ogrish way.
"Excuse me?" Neven looked around but the man was gone. "Charlie?" then he looked down. "Oh, Christ."
At first it looked like the big man was having a seizure. But then he noticed the blood coming from his chest.
"Sniper!" Church shouted.
As one the group fell to the ground, but not Neven.
"Hey!" he yelled at the tower, where he assumed that the shot had come from. "Hey!" He waved his arms and yelled again.
"Neven, for goodness sake get down!" Church commanded. He had his rifle sticking out of his coat.
There was a long, bitter silence. Toby Brunswick rolled to Charlie and began putting him into a recovery position. Neven could see Phillipa and Polly attempting as best they could to be still within the throng of the cows.
"It's okay!" Neven said. "Look!" Despite being several hundred metres from the building, Neven saw a door open and a figure come running towards them. He looked down to Charlie. "Toby, help me get Charlie to the building."
"Are you crazy?" the man looked back at him, putting pressure on the wound. "I don't think they want to be acquainted with us, Neven!"
"Come on!" he insisted with such vigour that they could naught but take heed.
Harold Thornhough came too, bearing his gun as he ran in such a fashion that it threatened to upturn his balance. But still he tried to keep a bead upon the man approaching them. As they got closer, they realised that the figure approaching was not a man, but a teenager only a few years older than Polly.
"Oh my goodness," he said in a pre-pubescent voice. "I am so sorry, I am so sorry! I thought you were an alien!"
"Are you the only one here?" Neven shouted.
The boy took a while to answer; the incident, Neven's insistence, and Harold's trained gun were keeping him dumb.
"Well?" Neven asked.
"No!" the boy said. He couldn't take his eyes off of a groaning Charlie. "Doctor Copenhagen is in there too, and Hercule."
"Take us there!" Harold said furiously. The boy obliged, how could he not?
*
"You left the door open, you stupid dolt!" a busy-faced, thin man appeared at the opening as the group approached it. "Eh? What's going on here? Miles, who are these people?"