Weyward(27)

Perhaps she could ask one of the servants about her room? But then she remembered the way that Mrs Kirkby had evaded her question about her mother’s last name. They were keeping something from her.

Violet felt sure of it.

Mrs Kirkby had outdone herself for breakfast: the serving table was piled high with an almost pre-war quantity of food – silver dishes of baked beans, scrambled eggs, kidneys and even bacon. (She had an awful feeling that the latter had been procured from one of their sows, a fleshy-nosed, clever animal that she’d taught to respond to the name Jemima.)

From the way The Times was folded at his usual chair, Violet could tell that Father had already had his breakfast. Graham was nowhere to be seen: she’d never known him to rise before 9 a.m. (much to Father’s consternation).

Frederick was sitting at the table. He wasn’t wearing his uniform today; instead, he’d donned casual trousers and a pale shirt, which made his dark hair and green eyes stand out. The first three buttons of the shirt were undone, and Violet flushed to see tiny curls of hair on his chest. She filled her plate with beans and eggs – leaving the kidneys and bacon well alone – and sat down opposite him.

‘Good morning,’ she said, looking at her plate.

‘Good morning, Violet,’ he said. She heard the grin in his voice and looked up. She smiled at him shyly. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Um – very well, thanks,’ she said. She had barely slept at all; instead she’d stared at the ceiling, listening to the rustle of bats in the attic and thinking about her mother.

They ate in silence for a while, Violet taking care to eat very neatly. Eventually Frederick put down his knife and fork.

‘Your father tells me you’re to come clay pigeon shooting with us today,’ he said. ‘I expect you’re jolly sharp with a rifle, country girl like you.’

She quickly wiped away any stray bean sauce from her mouth before answering him.

‘Oh – not really, actually,’ she said. ‘I don’t much like the idea of killing things.’

Her cheeks burned as she realised what she’d said.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean that you—’

‘That I kill things?’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, it’s part of the job description, really. What I signed up for.’

Violet looked down at the smears of bean and egg on her plate. The colours seemed very lurid on the white Wedgwood (Penny had laid out the best breakfast service in honour of Frederick’s presence). She wasn’t sure she wanted to eat any more. When she looked up, he was watching her, waiting.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, the words rushing out. ‘You’re defending your country.’ She opened her mouth again, then bit her lip.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Ask what you wanted to ask. I don’t bite.’

‘Well, I suppose I just wondered whether you had … whether you had actually ever killed anyone.’

He laughed.

‘You know, you do seem much younger than sixteen,’ he said. ‘But in answer to your question – yes, I have. More than one.’ He stopped. There was a new, dark look in his eyes when he continued.

‘You can’t imagine what it’s like. The Libyan heat sticking to you, day in, day out. Nothing but sand and rock for miles. Not a bit of green. All day, crawling in the dust, shooting and being shot at. Men dying around you. You realise, when you see a person die, that there’s nothing special about humans. We’re just flesh and blood and organs, no different to the pig that gave us this bacon.

‘So, all day, dust, death, everywhere. I went to sleep each night with dust in my mouth and the smell of blood in my nose. Even here – I’m still finding dust on me. Under my nails, in my hair, caked into the soles of my shoes. And I can still smell the blood. All so that some English girl, sitting pretty in her father’s manor house, can ask me if I ever killed anyone.’

He stopped talking. The sun was streaming through the windows onto the back of Violet’s neck. She felt prickly and hot. She was so stupid. What had possessed her to ask him a question like that? No wonder he’d got upset. She didn’t dare look at him. She kept her eyes on her hands, knotted in her lap. Then, fighting back tears, she looked to the ceiling.

She heard a sigh and then the clatter of china as he picked up his cup of tea and put it down again.

‘Ah, listen. I’ve been a brute. Sorry, Violet. Still tired from the journey, I expect.’

She had opened her mouth to say something when Father walked into the dining room, wearing his tweeds and cap and carrying his rifle bag, Cecil snarling behind him.

‘Good morning,’ he said, beaming at them. ‘Marvellous to see you two getting along so well!’

It was a beautiful day outside, and Violet hoped that Frederick would brighten at the sight of the valley. As Frederick and Father instructed Graham on how to throw the clay pigeons in high arcs, she sat on the lawn and looked out at the soft green hills. A bee buzzed nearby, hopping from dandelion to dandelion. She thought of poor Frederick stuck in Libya, without so much as a scrap of green or anything nice to look at. Seeing all those horrible things. Having to do all those horrible things.

She tried to imagine killing another person. She had no sense of what a battlefield really looked like: would you be able to see the person you’d shot? Would you have to … watch them die?