King Rat

Most of her prayer was for Toby, her eldest son, so tall and proud in his uniform, now part of the immense armored wave that was sweeping the enemy away, devastating enemy soil. Blasted Germans. Twice we’ve had to go to war with them. Blasted Germans. Twice. Well let’s hope we do a good job this time. I lost my father and uncle in the First War—and now in the second … first my youngest, my Roger, a skyborn death; then my son-in-law, a Dunkirk death; then later, my son-in-law’s son—my grandson to be—still-born, an air raid miscarriage death. Then my husband, my John, somewhere in the East, probably dead. So many, so many deaths. Dear God in Heaven, what for, what for?

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

When the war had begun, Maisie had been glad, but only for a moment. Glad for John. Well, war is what he had been trained for. And in the regular army, peace time promotion is very slow, so slow. But in war, well, with luck a General’s crossed swords. But her first gladness had been taken away by her sons. She had seen their fire, their wanting to “serve” the holy cause. Yes, it was right for them to serve; after all, we’re a service family and you always go into the services and serve. But John was caught in Singapore, and unlucky. Unlucky because promotions were being eaten up—by juniors, very much juniors. But still, perhaps, even now he could get his General’s crossed swords. Those meant security, and the house that they had always wanted to buy—the house that was way above their possibility—but the house that she had bought anyway.

“Now, don’t be angry, John, I just had to buy it. It was going so cheap. I just had to buy it.”

Maisie was a little worried what John would say, but, well, it was bought and that was that.

When they were just engaged, years upon years ago, they had been walking in Sussex and some magic had led them to Chadlott’s Manor. They had said immediately, in the same breath, “Oh look at that!” and they had sworn that one day, somehow, that’s where they would live. Some day when all the foreign soldiering was done and the Indian army days were over, that’s where they would live. At Chadlott’s.

It was an Elizabethan house as old and ancient as the wisteria which held it up and the yew trees that kept the winds at bay and the lush sward which was its carpet. Rolling gardens and lawns and oaks and a little bridge and diamond windows peeping out so prettily. Old, old, old brick, weathered and sheened, patinaed. Oh such a pretty pretty house. Their house.

And two years ago she had met the owner of the house and had drawn out their savings, two thousand pounds, and the deed had been drawn up and the money given him and she had promised to pay six thousand more pounds over years and years but that did not matter, for there was all the time in the world and one day it would belong to Toby and his children and his children’s children. It was so cheap, the price, and the owner was selling because he was leaving England and going to America and he was so happy to leave it and the country. Strange.

Chadlott’s Manor. Just outside the little hamlet of Hawthorn-on-the-Raven. A tiny Eden. Their new home.

Oh what glorious times she had had, living in the Manor and making curtains and seeing the joy on Toby’s face when he saw it before he went overseas and the joy on his wife Carol’s face when she lived in it for a week before taking the plane for overseas, so fine in her nurse’s outfit, still not strong for the stillborn child had wracked her, but that didn’t matter, for Maisie knew that Chadlott’s would take Carol to its bosom and make Carol well once the war was history. Those wonderful days, days of heaven. John’s old pipes over the inglenook fireplace, logs burning happily, a gardener as gnarled as the wisteria molding the flower beds.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Then a year ago she had come to London to sign some more papers and give some more money, but that was good, for she could just manage if she was careful. And then she had gone back and got off the train and walked the four miles and all the yew trees were smashed down and the roots of the wisteria were torn from the earth and the house was no more and blown apart and the beams were gutted with fire and the swathes of lawn were holes, holes, and over Chadlott’s there was smoke, smoke tinged with acrid smoke, and Chadlott’s was dead. Dead. Dead.

That night she had died too, sitting on a dead tree. Her tears had watered the earth but their mixture brought forth no magic to make this nightmare just a nightmare.