remembering their days in the trenches, sharing fond memories of home while waiting in the tense silence for the whistle that would send them over the top and back into that rain of deadly lead.
"John! John!" Debora called, rushing to kneel at his side, her hand on his.
John blinked and looked at her, the memory cast aside for the present. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked Sir Oswald, patting Debora's hand to let her know it was alright.
"He asked for you," Sir Oswald told him, and went on to explain. "It's in his will; that should anything befall him to stop him being able to run his estate or look after his family, then you should be contacted and asked to act on his behalf in all things pertaining to him and his estate. At least until his daughter is safely married and over the age of twenty-five. That's still a good six years away I'm glad to tell you."
"Me!?" John gasped, remembering the old man's love of life, his ability to find mirth in the middle of horror. He had saved John's life innumerable times, though the old man often told it the other way round, and neither of them had seen the war through to its end, both having been struck down within an hour of each other, the Major to a number of bullets in the thigh that left him with a limp, John to shrapnel across his trunk and upper thighs from a nearby explosion.
"If you think yourself up to it, of course," Sir Oswald murmured, sipping his tea once more.
John licked his lips. The hospital had become something of a haven for him and just thinking of walking down a London street made him shake with nervousness. Loud or sharp noises startled him and threatened to bring on another of his seizures, although the doctor was forever telling him that those would ease with time, and the love of a good woman.
He turned to look at his nurse, questioning her with his eyes. "Would you come along with me?" he begged.
The Crossley drove steadily along the long drive from the gates to the manor house allowing John a moment to collect himself, his hand gripping his nurse's as if his life depended upon it. She smiled, a smile that promised him a long bout of pleasure if he managed to control himself through the difficult process of meeting Lord Bramble's family. Thoughts of how and what she might do kept the darkness at bay, yet he felt as if he were madly trading water as he stepped out of the car to gaze up at the impressive manor house, built some two hundred years before by the then Edward Bramble with money he had acquired from the Americas. The title had come some hundred years later for 'assistance to the Crown'. Richard had appeared ill at ease speaking of it and John had never pressed. Wasn't his place.
Richard was wheeled out by a stern looking nurse. His hand rose to waver unsteadily in the air while wordless grunts came from between his tense lips. John took the hand and knelt, the better to look into the old man's eyes.
"It's all right Richard. I'm here now," he told him, gripping the hand as he tried sending some of his own strength into the frail form.
There were others to meet, most notably Richard's daughter who looked at him with unconcealed dislike. "I hope you don't think to change anything," she warned him. "You'll not be around for long; I've already got my solicitors to annul father's instructions and return the estate to our own control," she told him, cigarette holding in one hand, a heavy ruby bracelet dangling from her wrist.
"Just ensure your business with your solicitors are not conducted on the estate. I would hate them to be shot for trespassing," he told her, and smiled into her angry scowl. Circumstances like her he could deal with. It was sharp and loud sounds and landscapes similar to those if Belgium that would cause him to come apart. Nonetheless Debora was there, watching him with keen eyes, ready to step in a do the necessary should he have need of her.
He took the wheelchair from the stern nurse and wheeled his friend into
"John! John!" Debora called, rushing to kneel at his side, her hand on his.
John blinked and looked at her, the memory cast aside for the present. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked Sir Oswald, patting Debora's hand to let her know it was alright.
"He asked for you," Sir Oswald told him, and went on to explain. "It's in his will; that should anything befall him to stop him being able to run his estate or look after his family, then you should be contacted and asked to act on his behalf in all things pertaining to him and his estate. At least until his daughter is safely married and over the age of twenty-five. That's still a good six years away I'm glad to tell you."
"Me!?" John gasped, remembering the old man's love of life, his ability to find mirth in the middle of horror. He had saved John's life innumerable times, though the old man often told it the other way round, and neither of them had seen the war through to its end, both having been struck down within an hour of each other, the Major to a number of bullets in the thigh that left him with a limp, John to shrapnel across his trunk and upper thighs from a nearby explosion.
"If you think yourself up to it, of course," Sir Oswald murmured, sipping his tea once more.
John licked his lips. The hospital had become something of a haven for him and just thinking of walking down a London street made him shake with nervousness. Loud or sharp noises startled him and threatened to bring on another of his seizures, although the doctor was forever telling him that those would ease with time, and the love of a good woman.
He turned to look at his nurse, questioning her with his eyes. "Would you come along with me?" he begged.
The Crossley drove steadily along the long drive from the gates to the manor house allowing John a moment to collect himself, his hand gripping his nurse's as if his life depended upon it. She smiled, a smile that promised him a long bout of pleasure if he managed to control himself through the difficult process of meeting Lord Bramble's family. Thoughts of how and what she might do kept the darkness at bay, yet he felt as if he were madly trading water as he stepped out of the car to gaze up at the impressive manor house, built some two hundred years before by the then Edward Bramble with money he had acquired from the Americas. The title had come some hundred years later for 'assistance to the Crown'. Richard had appeared ill at ease speaking of it and John had never pressed. Wasn't his place.
Richard was wheeled out by a stern looking nurse. His hand rose to waver unsteadily in the air while wordless grunts came from between his tense lips. John took the hand and knelt, the better to look into the old man's eyes.
"It's all right Richard. I'm here now," he told him, gripping the hand as he tried sending some of his own strength into the frail form.
There were others to meet, most notably Richard's daughter who looked at him with unconcealed dislike. "I hope you don't think to change anything," she warned him. "You'll not be around for long; I've already got my solicitors to annul father's instructions and return the estate to our own control," she told him, cigarette holding in one hand, a heavy ruby bracelet dangling from her wrist.
"Just ensure your business with your solicitors are not conducted on the estate. I would hate them to be shot for trespassing," he told her, and smiled into her angry scowl. Circumstances like her he could deal with. It was sharp and loud sounds and landscapes similar to those if Belgium that would cause him to come apart. Nonetheless Debora was there, watching him with keen eyes, ready to step in a do the necessary should he have need of her.
He took the wheelchair from the stern nurse and wheeled his friend into
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