The village was once his parish. He became a chaplain in the thirty-eighth Welsh Division. A private project. There were lots of them at the time. But he volunteered in
1915, not long after his two younger brothers. They were beloved to him and he hoped to take care of them.’
Edith sighed, and raised eyebrows neatly drawn upon her alabaster forehead. ‘Harold, the youngest, fell at Mametz Wood. In 1916. Not long after they arrived. It was one of the battles of
the Somme. Their division was then engaged in the third battle of Ypres and Lewis fell at Pilkem one year after Harold. Poor Lewis was gassed.’
And all of the rats in the mud were Mason’s recovery, or a meticulous continuation of the nightmare. Catherine gazed again at what she had, at first, thought were little men, because so
lifelike were their postures upon their hind legs, so animate and human were their expressions of terror and pain and despair and shock, and so convincing were their little uniforms and weapons, as
was their suffering in the soil, that for a few seconds she was sure she had been looking at a crowd of tiny men mired in one of hell’s inner circles.
The black landscape itself was so convincing, wet and churned and colourless, she imagined she could smell it through the glass. The sides of the case were painted with photographic precision to
continue the vision of trenches, torn wire, shell blasts, mine craters, thick smoke and splintered trees, as if to infinity in every direction.
It was the most animate she had seen Edith too. The spiky and hostile persona she’d endured unto the threshold of this room appeared to have retreated at this chance to hold forth about
her uncle, a man cherished in her long memory. ‘After Lewis was killed, my uncle was invalided out with enteric fever and dysentery. He’d been suffering from both for some time. My
mother said it wasn’t the fever, but heartbreak that brought him home that first time. And he could have sat out the war, but he returned to his company and to action as soon as he was well
enough. To continue his duty. My mother told me, when I was old enough to understand, that he was determined to die at the front. So that he could be with his brothers.
‘But he was chosen to live, my dear. He came home again in 1918, wounded this time. At the Battle of Cambrai. When his division captured Villers-Outreaux my uncle suffered a terrible head
wound from shrapnel. It disfigured him. But may have saved his life.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Catherine swallowed the emotion that had come into her throat. ‘It’s . . .’ she didn’t know what to say. ‘It’s a terrible
and sad story.’ And it was odd, because in the Red House, it felt like she had just heard recent news. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Should such things be forgotten? My uncle didn’t think so. He wouldn’t allow himself to. After the war he lived here in seclusion with his sister. My mother, Violet. She
brought him back to the world. Because they had work to do. They did everything together. I suppose you will have to itemize them all?’
‘Yes.’
‘It cannot be dismantled. That is our only stipulation. It must remain intact.’
‘Of course. Who would even think of it?’ But many would, as well she knew. If there was not a sole buyer at the right price, each of the ten sections, or worse, would need to be sold
off piecemeal. The diorama was magnificent, but it was also dreadful, and she struggled to imagine anyone who would want to look at it for long. A museum might be interested, though their best hope
would be an art gallery. Because that’s what it was, it was art. Edith was right, M. H. Mason had been an artist. And a very great one to have affected her so profoundly. She thought she
could have stood in the room for one entire day and still not have seen half the detail inside the case.
‘Time for one more. And that will be sufficient for one afternoon.’
‘There’s another?’
‘There are
1915, not long after his two younger brothers. They were beloved to him and he hoped to take care of them.’
Edith sighed, and raised eyebrows neatly drawn upon her alabaster forehead. ‘Harold, the youngest, fell at Mametz Wood. In 1916. Not long after they arrived. It was one of the battles of
the Somme. Their division was then engaged in the third battle of Ypres and Lewis fell at Pilkem one year after Harold. Poor Lewis was gassed.’
And all of the rats in the mud were Mason’s recovery, or a meticulous continuation of the nightmare. Catherine gazed again at what she had, at first, thought were little men, because so
lifelike were their postures upon their hind legs, so animate and human were their expressions of terror and pain and despair and shock, and so convincing were their little uniforms and weapons, as
was their suffering in the soil, that for a few seconds she was sure she had been looking at a crowd of tiny men mired in one of hell’s inner circles.
The black landscape itself was so convincing, wet and churned and colourless, she imagined she could smell it through the glass. The sides of the case were painted with photographic precision to
continue the vision of trenches, torn wire, shell blasts, mine craters, thick smoke and splintered trees, as if to infinity in every direction.
It was the most animate she had seen Edith too. The spiky and hostile persona she’d endured unto the threshold of this room appeared to have retreated at this chance to hold forth about
her uncle, a man cherished in her long memory. ‘After Lewis was killed, my uncle was invalided out with enteric fever and dysentery. He’d been suffering from both for some time. My
mother said it wasn’t the fever, but heartbreak that brought him home that first time. And he could have sat out the war, but he returned to his company and to action as soon as he was well
enough. To continue his duty. My mother told me, when I was old enough to understand, that he was determined to die at the front. So that he could be with his brothers.
‘But he was chosen to live, my dear. He came home again in 1918, wounded this time. At the Battle of Cambrai. When his division captured Villers-Outreaux my uncle suffered a terrible head
wound from shrapnel. It disfigured him. But may have saved his life.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Catherine swallowed the emotion that had come into her throat. ‘It’s . . .’ she didn’t know what to say. ‘It’s a terrible
and sad story.’ And it was odd, because in the Red House, it felt like she had just heard recent news. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Should such things be forgotten? My uncle didn’t think so. He wouldn’t allow himself to. After the war he lived here in seclusion with his sister. My mother, Violet. She
brought him back to the world. Because they had work to do. They did everything together. I suppose you will have to itemize them all?’
‘Yes.’
‘It cannot be dismantled. That is our only stipulation. It must remain intact.’
‘Of course. Who would even think of it?’ But many would, as well she knew. If there was not a sole buyer at the right price, each of the ten sections, or worse, would need to be sold
off piecemeal. The diorama was magnificent, but it was also dreadful, and she struggled to imagine anyone who would want to look at it for long. A museum might be interested, though their best hope
would be an art gallery. Because that’s what it was, it was art. Edith was right, M. H. Mason had been an artist. And a very great one to have affected her so profoundly. She thought she
could have stood in the room for one entire day and still not have seen half the detail inside the case.
‘Time for one more. And that will be sufficient for one afternoon.’
‘There’s another?’
‘There are
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