The Death of Hope Andrew Wareham (book club reads TXT) 📖

had toforbid the issue of ribbons to those who have not seen frontline service?”

She had not, was inclined to be disgustedthat there had been a need for such an order.

“Yes, they have to content themselves withforeign medals now. The Belgians and Portuguese and Russians are in the habitof sending a hundred or so of gongs at a time for distribution to the worthy.None of them get further than Army or Corps Headquarters! I presume they have araffle each time they arrive. I believe the Italians and the Greeks are being tappedup for a supply as well. Can’t have a good war without the ribbons to show forit!”

She snorted her disgust, took the opportunityto raise a question she had been keeping for a proper moment. Sat in a firstclass compartment of a slowly moving train on the Norfolk coast gave her ampletime.

“That does bring the question, husband, ofyour own breast. There does seem to have been an addition or two to the display…”

He had to admit that was so.

“Give a dog a good name, Prim… You knowhow it is, once they give one a medal, they find the need to offer more, tofill up the vacant space, one might say.”

“One might say ‘balls’, Richard! What wereyou doing to collect a bar to the DSO? And that looks like a French decorationas well.”

“Belgian, actually, as the last action tookplace on Belgian soil, not keeping rigorously to the borders these days. Theyseemed to think the battalion did better than many in the last battle.”

“With you at its head, no doubt!”

“No other place I could be, Prim. It willbe different as a brigadier. Must be. No choice. I have to stay to the rearwhere I can see what is happening and give the orders.”

She was slightly mollified.

“There is the matter of no fewer thanthree Mentions as well, recorded in the Gazette, Richard.”

“Ah, yes… Well, I did happen to be up atthe front when we indulged in a little trench raiding.”

“That is an activity for subalterns, sir!”

“Well, yes, to an extent, one might say,it is. It seemed sensible to discover what the new conditions were like, infact. The only way of finding out is to get out there and do it. Add to that,Prim…”

He hesitated, trying to find the words.

She remained silent, waiting for him.

“I am in a trap, my love. I have nochoice. I made myself into a hero – and I didn’t mean to – and I have to playthe part now. I am the great Brigadier Baker, to private soldiers and generalsalike, and I must do all that is necessary to keep up the show. I have noalternative, Prim! They look up to me, in their thousands, and I must notdisappoint them. Even my father – as hardboiled a man as you could find,normally – offers me overt, and real, respect. You have seen it in London, haveyou not?”

She had, only too often having to step into prevent some hero-worshipping debutante from falling at his feet, or intohis bed as more than one had made clear was possible. She thought he might nothave noticed the females, knowing him to be utterly faithful to her.

“Spotty youths cheering when they see youin the street, Richard. An embarrassment indeed! Impossible to enter a theatreunnoticed or leave often without applause from the stage!”

“Exactly! I am the cynosure of all eyes –I have that right, do I not?”

He was always aware that she was farbetter read than him.

“You have, Richard. At least, it will notbe so bad at Wells.”

She was wrong. He was recognised at thestation and was cheered into the car waiting for them. The staff were lined upoutside the house to welcome the master and mistress, as was not unusual; theymade a far greater fuss over him than her, which was.

A few days of idleness, happy in eachother’s company and then their minds turned to the war, invisible almost intheir backwater.

“How long will you be away, Richard?”

“Months, of a certainty. I will be surprisedto see leave this year. I may be called back to London to meetings on occasion.If you are in Town, we may get a night together.”

She would not leave London if that was thecase.

“No. You must live your life as well, mylove. If you happen to be in residence here, well, that will be bad luck, that’sall. You cannot spend all of your days sat by the telephone hoping I shall appear.”

“There are things I want to do here, Iwill admit, Richard. I will spend half of my time here at Wells, making ourhouse.”

“For the rest? If the coming battlereturns us to a war of movement, which we must hope will be so, then all may befinished by the middle of ’17. If the battle fails…”

His voice tailed off. He sat silent.

“If it fails, Richard?”

“Then we both may be grey-haired before itends. It should not come to disaster. We have the finest, best-trained armythis nation has ever known. The men are young lions.”

“And the generals?”

“Old donkeys.”