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jomiddlemarch · 2 years ago

Text

There’ll always be an England

“On leave Thursday next. Taking 4:15. Will need extra rations,” James read the telegram aloud again, holding the flimsy paper in his hand, though he might as well have left it propped on the mantle as he knew the words by heart. “You wouldn’t know it was Tristan writing—”

“The extra rations part sounds like him” Helen said, not looking up from the documents spread in front of her on the dining room table. “Only the cost of the telegram could have kept him from listing out his favorites, Mrs. H’s roast, Yorkshire pudding, sprouts, and treacle tart with custard.”

“I don’t know where she’ll find half that these days,” James said. Mrs. Hall’s cookery skills meant that the sauceless rissoles and patties she served up were tastier than they had any right to be, but it was lean times in the Dales just like everywhere in England and James would have given a great deal not to be faced with another supper of cauliflower cheese.

“She’ll find what she needs. Tris’ll be home, she’d fly to Heaven and back to make sure he got what he wanted. Siegfried won’t even grumble much, he’ll be that glad Tris is back, even for a short visit,” Helen said.

“I wonder how changed he’ll be. I still see him in his jersey and that old tweed jacket. I suppose he’ll be in uniform, all kitted out.”

“He’ll be the same in all the ways that count,” Helen said, sealing one last envelope and setting it aside, then leaning back in the high-backed chair almost as if she expected it to be comfortable. “You’ll see. It will likely only take a quarter of an hour for him to have Siegfried up in arms about something and then Tris’ll want to be away to Drover’s.”

As it turned out, it took approximately one minute for Siegfried to blow up, which was in a fair way to setting a new record, but no other denizen of Skeldale House could really blame him. It had been a shock, a very great shock, to open the front door to find Tristan standing there with a close-cropped beard, his great-coat billowing around him, peaked cap at the proper angle, without a hint of jauntiness. And beside him, an elfin-faced brunette in a near-spotless Wren’s uniform stood with her gloved hand on Tristan’s arm.

“Your wife?” Siegfried bellowed. “Your. Wife. Tristan, explain yourself!”

“But not on the doorstep for all the world to hear,” Audrey interjected. “Come in and I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea. I’m sure we’ll all appreciate that.”

“I’d appreciate some whisky,” James muttered under his breath, low enough that only Helen could hear. She squeezed his hand in mute commiseration.

Siegfried turned and stalked back inside.

Audrey moved quickly towards the kitchen where they could see her putting the kettle on and arranging cups and saucers on the large tea-tray.

James made a little waving gesture to allow Tristan and his wife to go in first, Helen offering a friendly smile in the general vicinity of Tristan’s bride, but the other woman was focused only on Tristan and made no particular attempt to keep her voice down or her remarks private.

“I said you should write a real letter and not rely on a telegram, Tristan. My father would have had my head at home if I just showed up at front door with you. Aunt Mary might have struck me off the family tree—"

“Trust me, darling, advance warning would only have made this worse,” Tristan said and then looked over his shoulder to catch James’s eye. “You know I’m right, Jim. Helen, you’re looking well.”

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Tris,” James said.

“When don’t I, when it comes to Siegfried?”

“It’s not just Siegfried,” Helen said. “Audrey—Mrs. H has been worrying over you near as much as her Edward. And I don’t know how she did it, but she’s got enough eggs for real Yorkshire pudding.”

“Mrs. H’s Yorkshire pudding,” Tristan breathed. “I know I asked for extra rations but I never thought she’d manage that. I was only hoping for treacle tart.”

“She’s got that as well,” James said. “She slapped Siegfried’s hand away when he tried to pinch a bit of the crust.”

“She must love you dearly,” Tristan’s wife said. “I shan’t worry so much, I see I’m in good company.”

“So, will you go about this properly, now?” Siegfried said, seated in his armchair, a steaming cup of tea beside him, Jess at his feet, evidently sensing Siegfried might need some soothing. Dash, perhaps showing greater wisdom, stayed in his basket by the fire.

“I’ll try,” Tristan said. “To be fair though, Siegfried, it’s not all my fault, how everything happened. The war, you know.”

“I know. Go on,” Siegfried said in a clipped tone. Audrey inclined her head in silent remonstrance and Siegfried gave her a slight nod. “Please.”

“As I started to say at the door, this dear girl is Sybil Farnon and we were married a week ago and how it happened was frankly a miracle,” Tristan said, bringing his wife’s hand up to his lips for a brief kiss. She sat beside him on the sofa and gave him a fond look before she spoke.

“What a horrid explanation, Tristan. Have you never introduced anyone before?” Sybil scolded. Tristan only smiled. “I do apologize for him—”

“You needn’t,” Audrey said. “If anyone’s to blame for his manners or lack thereof, it’s us at Skeldale House.”

“You mean me,” Siegfried said just as Tristan said, “Thereof? Pretty posh, Mrs. H—”

“You’d best just get on with it,” Helen interrupted, her remark and gaze squarely focused on young Mrs. Farnon. “If you wait for them to leave off, we’ll never find out anything about you and the dinner will be ruined.”

“Oh, I’m used to a bit of a squabble. I’ve three younger brothers at home, a father who used to be an Irish socialist, and grandfather who’s a strait-laced, dyed-in-the-wool Tory,” Sybil said.

“How does a Tory come to have an Irish socialist for a son?” James asked.

“Donk, my grandfather, that is, is the Earl of Grantham and my father was his chauffeur, even though Daddy didn’t believe in the British aristocracy. He still doesn’t, not really,” Sybil explained. “My mother was the Earl’s youngest daughter and it was a terrible scandal when they ran away together. She died when I was born and I grew up on the estate until my father remarried when I was eight. I was never called Sybil until I became a Wren. Everyone at home called me Sybbie.”

“The other Wrens, everyone on the base all called you Bran,” Tristan said.

“Except for you,” Sybil said. It was clear there was a story there, but that she’d not be telling it now and possibly not even after tart was finished down to the last crumb.

“And how did you and Tristan meet?” Audrey asked.

“After my father stopped being the chauffeur, he worked as the estate agent but then he started an auto repair shop with my uncle Henry. He’d been a race-car driver,” Sybil said. “My father says forget blue blood, I’ve got motor oil in my veins—I work as a mechanic. The first time Tristan saw me I was wearing my overall and I was up to my elbows in the guts of a transport lorry.”

“Prettiest sight you could ever imagine,” Tristan said. “I was nearly struck dumb. I could finally understand why you walked around all the time like a gormless pillock before Helen agreed to marry you, Jim.”

“Tristan!” Sybil exclaimed.

“It’s all right,” James said. “That part’s true. The part I find hard to believe is Tristan being struck dumb.”

“I did say nearly, Jim. Keep up, will you?” Tristan grinned.

“I’d like to say Tristan was a perfect gentleman,” Sybil went on, “but I’ve always been told I should begin as I mean to go on and I can’t see myself spending the next fifty-odd years lying to the lot of you.”

“That’s a wise choice, as we’d never have believed you,” Siegfried said.

“I will say that he was a gentleman when I needed one and a perfect rogue the rest of the time,” Sybil said. “He’s shockingly reliable when one least expects it—”

“And charming,” Tristan added. “That’s how we managed Chief Wren Peabody-Shaw, that lemon-faced—”

“I think the less said the better when it comes to you charming your way in or out of something involving the Royal Navy,” Audrey said, turning to Sybil. “It sounds as if you sent your family a rather more detailed letter, lass.”

“I wrote a half-dozen—one to my father and one to my step-mama so she could keep him from raving. Then ones to Aunt Mary, my grandparents, Mr. Carson, he’s the old butler, and one to my cousin George, though I don’t know when he’ll get it as he’s an RAF pilot,” Sybil said.

“So your bride was able to write six different letters despite her work as a mechanic and you couldn’t even send a dozen words, Tristan?” Siegfried said.

“We’re here, aren’t we? Do you intend to grumble at us the entire time?” Tristan said.

“I’ve every right,” Siegfried grumbled, then smiled and shrugged. “I shouldn’t like to give your Sybil the wrong impression, that I let you run roughshod over the rest of us, that you are allowed to prance about and have your own way, no matter the inconvenience to others.”

“Prance about? Am I a show pony at a gymkhana?” Tris laughed.

“A show pony would be better behaved,” Sybil said smartly. “I can’t believe you’d win a ribbon.”

“Not even honorable mention?” Tris said. James rolled his eyes and Helen snorted. “What, I can be honorable and we all know I’m widely mentioned in Darrowby.”

“Best appetite, if they were giving out an award for that,” Audrey said. “Speaking of, I shan’t like to see that roast dry out.”

“It would never dare,” Tristan said. “And you’ve probably made lashings of your delicious gravy—”

“Lashings isn’t what I’d say. There’s a war on, as you well know,” Audrey replied.

“I do. Which is why I don’t want to waste another moment of our leave debating what’s done, instead of enjoying ourselves. I can’t think when I’m likely to eat this well until my next leave,” Tristan said.

“Perhaps with Mrs. Farnon’s family,” Helen said.

“No, they’ve gone meatless and plowed up the park for a Victory garden,” Sybil said. “It’s all vegetable marrows and nut cutlets. We should tuck in, Tristan is right. We’re lucky to be here.”

“We’re lucky to have you,” James said.

“No,” Siegfried interrupted. “We’re blessed.”

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