The Opened Cage Read online

  ‘You have no family?’

  ‘No.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Mrs Deerman poured tea, handed him one of the absurdly dainty cups. Tom tried to hold it by the handle but his fingers became stuck, so, after wrenching them free, he held the cup by the body. Mrs Deerman appeared to be staring at him but then mused.

  ‘Thinking back, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised John wants to work on the land. For most of his childhood, we had a battle to get him interested in anything else. He was always happiest helping on the home farm. I’m afraid we had a struggle getting him to concentrate on school and studying.’

  Tom gave a warm smile.

  ‘Do you think this farm is suitable?’ she asked.

  ‘The outbuildings need a lot of renovation, but the main house only needs decorating.’

  ‘You’ll live there?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’ll live in the main house?’ Mrs Deerman looked at him directly, her eyes unblinking.

  Does she mean, together? Tom thought. Surely not.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Good. John will need someone to help him.’

  At that moment, the telephone in the hall rang and Mrs Deerman got up to answer it. There was a quick exchange and she came back in.

  ‘We must get John looking presentable,’ she said as if talking to one of her staff. ‘Mr Jameson is coming over now.’

  Tom knocked at the door of Joss’s bedroom and entered.

  ‘I do wish you’d stop knocking.’ Joss looked up from reading the farm details.

  ‘Protocol,’ said Tom. ‘How much does your mother know about us? Does she know we’re…together?’

  Joss grinned up lazily. ‘I didn’t tell her about physical side, if that’s what you mean. But she’s not stupid. Although I’m not going to tell her something that she has to remember to forget.’

  ‘She seems relieved I’ve met you.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t she be?’ Joss stared at him in question. ‘I laid out the plans for the farm, told her you had a lot of experience and said I had been saving up for this for the last ten years. Told her everything.’

  ‘I’ve been sent up to get you looking presentable as the solicitor’s on his way,’ Tom said, putting an arm around Joss’s shoulders to help him out of the bed.

  Joss waddled into the bathroom and Tom went through the chest of drawers and wardrobe to get him clean clothes and, within minutes, a washed, combed Joss came back in, walking with obvious difficulty. Tom’s mood lightened. There would be little chance of Joss being sent back to the Front for months, if ever.

  The legal meeting took about an hour. Papers were signed, plans discussed. Later that day, Tom appointed his solicitor to act on his behalf while he was away at the Front. By late afternoon, all went back to the unhurried ways of Woodham Hall. The name sounded impressive but Tom sensed it had started out as a farmhouse with land. Its fortunes had clearly improved with Joss’s ancestors, but now it was shrinking back again and the whole house had an atmosphere of waiting, an apprehension that was not entirely to do with the war.

  It was later that day when Tom met Mr Deerman. He too was older than Tom had expected, about mid-seventies, but still a handsome man with thick, straight grey hair, tall but of portly build. It was he who Joss resembled in looks, yet Mr Deerman was a man of few words. He peered at Tom through half-closed eyes as though he was short-sighted.

  ‘What do you think happened with John’s back?’ he said without any preamble at dinner that evening.

  Tom fidgeted. ‘I think some of the discs in his back have slipped because of all the carries. It doesn’t look as if he will be back at the Front for some time,’ he said. ‘In fact, going back to the stretchers is about the worst thing he could do.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so too. Might get Richard to have a word,’ he said addressing his wife, who nodded.

  The uncle, thought Tom.

  ‘This farm thing,’ said Mr Deerman.’ John should know the ropes there all right, spent most of his time mucking out the pigs or whatever. Wasn’t much point in educating that one – might just as well have set him to work on the home farm when he started walking.’

  ‘George!’

  Tom looked up, interested. ‘Did you rear pigs?’

  Mr Deerman looked at his wife. ‘Did we?’

  ‘No, dear.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Mrs Deerman gave a slight roll of her eyes.

  ‘I’d say John’s a natural,’ Mr Deerman added. ‘Better than messing about in London.’

  ‘I don’t think he was messing around,’ Mrs Deerman said. ‘John has managed to save enough to buy an 80-acre farm.’ She stared at her husband, who was spooning soup greedily into his mouth; he sat up straighter, eyes wide open. ‘Has he indeed?’ he said. ‘Well, I take my hat off to him. Never thought he had it in him.’

  ‘Well, he clearly has, when he has a mind to do something.’

  It was as though they had forgotten Tom’s presence, he thought. He cleared his throat.

  ‘When’s the middle-youngest on leave?’ Mr Deerman asked.

  Mrs Deerman winced a little. ‘I wish you would use their names.’

  ‘Roger, then.’

  ‘Not for the foreseeable future.’

  Mr Deerman gave a short nod of his head and carried on clearing his soup bowl.

  After dinner, Tom sat with Mrs Deerman in the living room.

  ‘You mustn’t take too much notice of Mr Deerman’s brusqueness,’ she said. ‘He’s worn out with worrying about this war. Having three sons involved in it is too much for him at times.’

  Tom looked at her in surprise. ‘Three?’

  ‘John’s eldest brother is out on the eastern front. He’s more behind the scenes these days, although he’s seen a fair amount of fighting in the past–’

  Mr Deerman blundered in and sat heavily in the armchair by the fire.

  ‘So you know the ropes, do you?’ he addressed Tom. ‘You’re a safe pair of hands where farms are concerned?’

  ‘I’ve worked in farming for about eight years.’

  Mr Deerman gave an ‘harrumph’ sound before asking, ‘As a farm steward?’

  ‘I began as a labourer but I was being trained up as a steward.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘I was conscripted.’

  Mr Deerman’s look darkened. ‘Farming’s a reserved occupation.’

  ‘The farm owner’s son took over from me, and I was conscripted.’

  Mr Deerman let out another harrumph, considered, then, ‘But you know your way around a farm?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Good. Now off you toddle. I have estate business to discuss with this beautiful young lady here.’ Mrs Deerman shook her head as Tom took his leave.

  ‘Mother is the one who really runs the estate,’ Joss said. ‘Father blusters away in the background, but he’s mainly interested in horse-racing.’

  ‘What, betting?’

  ‘No. Since middle age, he’s taken an avid interest in all the main race meetings but not much betting. I think he has a lot of his old friends there – it’s a cronies’ get together. Roger’s the one who bets, from what I gather.’

  Tom frowned in question.

  ‘Roger and I don’t really get on that well. We don’t talk much.’

  ‘Your mother’s unusual.’

  ‘Certainly is. She has her finger on the pulse of what makes this place run. Just as well, because father is out with the fairies most of the time.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Seventy-two and seventy-eight, or there about,’ Joss replied. ‘Don’t look so shocked – it’s not that unusual in families like this to have old parents. My sister’s 50 – she’s the eldest. That’s why I was such a surprise, most of all to my parents.’

  Tom considered this. ‘Do you realise that your sister is older than my mother would be.’

  Joss looked at him carefully. ‘Don’t yo
u ever think about tracking her down? Finding out about her?’

  Tom shrugged, his expression closed in. ‘Not much point. I wouldn’t know her, and she wouldn’t know me. That’s if she’s still alive.’

  Joss sat back. The lack of emotion in Tom’s words warned him but he continued, ‘If you ever want to find her, I could help you.’

  ‘No need. Some things are better left. If she had wanted to find me, she could have, easily. She didn’t, and that’s all the information I need.’

  Leave was over too soon. Most of his week consisted of signing papers for purchase and sale with the two solicitors. In Tom’s absence, his solicitor had had power of attorney. He advised Tom to tie up all loose ends on his part, as another period of leave would be a long way off. Too long, he thought as he held Joss tight in a painful goodbye. Before he knew it, Tom was leaving England in a troop carrier, looking out across the glassy, metallic sea, steaming relentlessly back to France.

  ‘Any post, Fielder?’ Briggs asked as soon as he saw Tom. The walk along the communication trenches had the stark familiarity of a recurrent nightmare, as shells howled overhead and explosions shook Tom’s guts.

  He looked at the pack that had been thrust at him in the support lines then handed it to Briggs who rifled through it eagerly before his shoulders visibly slumped.

  ‘Is there any more post expected today?’ Briggs asked, trying to sound casual.

  Tom paused, he wanted to say something to help, but knew he couldn’t. ‘I think that’s it for today, Sir. This is for you from Joss Deerman,’ he added pulling out of wrapped box from his kit bag. ‘It’s the stilton he promised you.’

  Briggs looked momentarily surprised and then smiled, it was an unexpectedly warm smile. ‘Oh, thank you.’ He hesitated and then added, ‘Do send Deerman my thanks and good wishes,’ and walked away.

  Tom looked after him then found the dugout and Barratt, who sat perched on a barrel, using a tray as a makeshift desk.

  ‘As you can see, it’s not quite the accommodation we expect, ‘ Barratt said. ‘But we’ll have to make do.’ Tom saluted and held out the post package to him.

  ‘Ah post’, said Barratt. ‘How’s Deerman?’

  ‘Suffering, Sir.’

  ‘How bad is the back?’

  ‘He’s virtually bedridden.’

  Barratt pulled a face. ‘Looks as if he’s out of it. We’ll miss him – he was a good worker and he cheered up the men. ‘Nothing much has happened in the last week. We were in support – we were only moved up here yesterday.’

  ‘Where’s the dog, Sir?’

  ‘Scrounging up by the cookers the last time I saw him. Might be a good idea if we sent that mutt back to England for Deerman. It will have to go into quarantine, but with his background he could well afford it.’

  Tom smiled broadly. ‘Would that be possible?’

  ‘Anything’s possible if you have money,’ said Barratt.

  That evening Tom wrote to Joss with Barratt’s suggestion. Nico sat against him and shook hands heartily with everyone who stopped by to see what was in Tom’s knapsack. The cook at Woodham had done him proud, with cakes, pastries and pasties consumed with gusto as the recipient asked after Joss. It struck Tom how they all assumed he had stayed with Joss, taken it for granted even.

  That night as he slept in a small funk hole with Nico curled against him, he heard a well-spoken voice passing in the night: ‘That’s Fielder, Deerman’s little friend.’

  Another equally well-spoken voice: ‘Is it really? I’ve seen him before, looks Jewish to me.’

  ‘Yes, looks dark enough.’

  ‘A Jew and a nancy boy – now there’s a thought.’

  Tom stared with wide eyes at the trench wall, and decided not to look out and see who was talking. He did not recognise either voice, but the fact that they knew him, and about his association with Joss, startled him. It always surprised him how easily his relationship with Joss had been accepted out here, taken as part of the life of the trench. But perhaps Joss had been the reason he had not been targeted. Rolling onto his side, he tried to go back to sleep but this new fear kept stabbing through his mind, so it was almost a relief to receive a kick on the heels for stand-to.

  The daylight of this next morning came soft and golden over the broken land, with the sun edging up over the horizon, and, for a moment, its white rays obliterated the mess of the battlefield, misted it in rose-grey light as the trench came to life. On the rusted remains of a howitzer, a field mouse stood upright on its back legs, looking around the place as if for the first time. Then it scuttled up to the top of the parapet, and, finding a scrap of discarded bread, clutched it in perfectly formed paws and then, putting it in its mouth, scuttled back to the howitzer and down the gun barrel to feed its young, curled up naked and blind in the mechanical innards. Then the sun emerged huge and flame-red from the horizon and, by degrees, the battlefield emerged in all its ugliness.

  ‘And when you’ve finished goggling at the landscape, Sonny-Jim!’ came the sergeant’s voice. ‘Stand-down was several minutes ago.’

  The soldiers close by whooped and clapped and Tom looked round.

  ‘Welcome back, Fielder mate,’ said Miller, patting him on the shoulder. Tom sat with them, an overwhelming sense of relief flooding through him.

  The next few days were taken up with the usual routine of fatigues and men on rotas for sentry duties, but not with action on the Front. Tom was called down to where the post had been dropped earlier and was handed a large, wrapped box, and, collecting friends old and new, made his way back to the funk hole. Nico took his place, manoeuvring himself into the most strategic position to be given food. Miller rubbed his hands in glee, as Tom pulled out a smoked ham, cheeses, several jars of various fruit jams, biscuits baked by the cook at Woodham, insect powder Kill that lice, Tommy!, meat powder cubes, socks, handkerchiefs, an expensive shaving soap and razor, inlaid comb, expensive cigarettes, several attractively-bound hardback Hardy novels – and finally, the item Tom had searched for eagerly: an envelope, written in Joss’s large, rather untidy handwriting. As the others helped themselves to the food cheerfully, Tom moved away and read Joss’s long letter, probably the longest things I’ve ever written, he announced. It was a resounding yes to Nico been sent back, he was putting everything in place for him being brought back, instructions to follow soon. There was a quarantine kennels Joss’s father knew about, at a place called Hackbridge in the south of England, and he was arranging for him to be taken there. But wouldn’t Tom and the rest miss him? Well, yes, thought Tom, but they could take on another from the numerous strays that roamed up to marching columns as they walked through bombed villages; creatures that were three-quarters starved and mangy, desperate for food, for companionship. Nico had been one such.

  The rest of the letter was full of news about the purchases. My father was very taken with you, you know, Joss wrote. So much so, that he’s offered to loan some of the men from the farm to help us with the renovations to the buildings. He’s been in talks with the carpenters and masons he employed in the past at Woodham. This has brought us together in a way I’ve never known before. Of course, if you have people you would rather use, then please send their addresses and I’ll meet up with them. Joss, careful as always, not to take over or push Tom to one side.

  The purchase of the farm went through in mid-May. Tom accepted an offer on his house near to the asking price in late May. At the end of the month, ‘A’ company had said goodbye to Nico who went trotting off with a RAMC doctor who promised to hand him over to the Royal Army Veterinary Corps. Tom had tied a label around his neck stating the quarantine kennels at Hackbridge in Surrey was expecting him. Joss wrote to him later that Nico had made a good journey over and was charming the staff at the kennels.

  Briggs had grown quieter and thinner in these weeks, but had been cheered intermittently by letters, which he almost snatched when they were being handed out, and he had sat alone, reading them over and over. Barratt
managed with his usual efficiency but looked strained and older than his thirty years. The sun rose higher in the sky with the passing weeks and they trudged from front line to reserve in mud which dried and stank, over harder ground which melted with rain and reeked with renewed warmth and decomposition.

  In England, a tall, fair-haired man in a private’s uniform with the white brassard of a stretcher-bearer caught the eye of a prostitute as he walked somewhat stiffly towards the railway at Victoria. Even in her overworked and jaundiced eye, she could still appreciate a handsome man.

  ‘Want some business, love?’ she asked as he passed her.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Joss and quickened his pace towards the station.

  ‘Are you sure there’s no post?’ Briggs asked as Barratt came noisily down the dugout steps on a sunny morning.

  Barratt was unstrapping his gun and its holster. ‘As I said only an hour ago, and, as I said yesterday, all the post has been and gone. Now instead of moping about in here, go and do something more useful, checking up on the sentries for a start.’ Barratt waved him away. He was getting earache from the brass hats about their lack of movement in this section of the line. He had suggested they come and see for themselves what it was like up here: a wide expanse of mud with the German line shrouded in newly replaced barbed wire emplacements, and a machine-gun post trained on them so they could not move out. By contrast, their wire was sagging and gaping in places. Barratt had stopped sending wiring parties out, as each troupe had been dispatched with minutes. When Briggs had gone, he felt under his bed for his hip flask and taking a long gulp of whisky, he promised himself he would not touch another drop until he turned in for the night.

  A runner came jogging down the trench, pushing past Briggs who stopped.

  ‘Sorry Sir. Where’s the captain?’ said the runner.

  ‘Captain Barratt’s down there,’ Briggs motioned back to the dugout, hesitated and followed the runner back. As he walked down the steps, Barratt was smacking the note down on the desk in furious disbelief.