Dark Harvest

by Amy Myers

  CHAPTER TWO

  Margaret Dibble stirred and woke up with sudden pleasure as she remembered Miss Caroline was home again. Normally the house revolved round Mrs Lilley, but today was special. She’d make a bacon pudding for luncheon, she’d got a nice swede tucked away, and the sage was growing again in the garden. Had she enough bacon left? Just about. She’d use the last of the bottled plums in a nice fool.

  Time to get going. Things were harder now Agnes was gone and expecting; Harriet was efficient enough, but somewhat less than willing and the tweeny Myrtle was willing enough but less than efficient. Talk about Jack Sprat and his wife. Harriet and Myrtle made a good couple, she supposed—for a three-legged race. That reminded her of poor Mr Daniel and she rose briskly, as if by being at her post she was helping beat the Kaiser. Every time she scrubbed the kitchen table she imagined it was the Kaiser’s face and scrubbed all the harder. He wouldn’t have no moustache by the time she’d finished with him.

  ‘Immortal, invisible …’ she hummed, then burst into song, casting a scathing look at Percy. ‘But nought changeth thee!’ He was in no hurry to beat the Kaiser. Not like her Joe. She’d say a morning prayer for him today, like she did every day. Rectory prayers were getting shorter now, what with fewer staff and the family here, there and everywhere.

  She was always in a quandary whether to pray for Rudolf—her Lizzie’s husband who had been hauled back to his native Germany to fight for his country, leaving Lizzie to face the result of being married to a German. Twice she’d had her windows broken, poor lamb. They were that nasty, the Rector had found her a cottage on the Hunney estate so she could make a new start. Hunwife, they had called her. Just as well Lizzie had no young ’uns or they’d be in trouble too. Would she ever have any? War had a lot to answer for.

  She decided, since she had nothing against Rudolf personally, she would pray for all those who were caught up in this war against their will—Rudolf wouldn’t choose to fight for the Kaiser, she was sure of that. He’d rescued a baby rabbit from a fox once and given it to Fred to mend, he wouldn’t go round nailing babies to church doors or do nasty things to nuns like the Huns in Belgium. Not Rudolf. She wondered if it were treason to think kindly of a German and decided she didn’t care if it was.

  She hurried downstairs to make a nice cup of tea before Harriet came in, but to her surprise found the housemaid there already.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Dibble.’ Harriet’s handsome face looked almost cheerful.

  ‘Morning, Harriet.’ She was guarded in her warmth. On the surface all was well between them after the unfortunate happenings of last summer, but you never knew, and she always ensured Fred was out of Harriet’s way when she could. ‘What you doing early?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Harriet shrugged. ‘It seemed a nice morning. I thought I’d take Miss Caroline a cup of tea.’

  It was on the tip of Mrs Dibble’s tongue to say she’d do that, thank you all the same, seeing it was Miss Caroline’s first morning home, but good humour made her generous. ‘Good idea, Harriet.’ The Rector had stopped early morning tea for the family now there were only the three of them, that’s if you didn’t count Percy—which she seldom did—and Fred, poor love.

  She turned her head as the door opened, and there was Mrs Lilley, still in her nightdress and old dressing gown with her dark hair flowing down her back.

  ‘I thought, if you don’t object, Mrs Dibble, I’d take Caroline a cup of tea. It is her first morning.’

  After breakfast, Caroline decided to put off the evil moment for as long as she could by walking the long way round to the Dower House. Instead of taking the garden gate out into Silly Lane, she made her way through the churchyard, with a quick visit to St Nicholas to draw strength for the coming ordeal.

  Parker, the butler, opened the door of the Dower House to her with the same degree of condescension, she noted, as he had at Ashden Manor. An imp of mischief had made her bring a calling card: she would be as formal as Lady Hunney herself. It also prevented Parker’s sniff when he asked ‘What name shall I say?’, ridiculous since she had been calling on, and indeed working for, the Hunneys all her life. She had put on her longest skirt, so that only a hint of ankle could be seen and even that was chastely hidden by her boots.

  She told herself that anyone who had braved Grandmother Buckford had nothing to fear from Lady Hunney, but was all too well aware that where she was concerned, Lady Hunney remained an implacable opponent who would not hesitate to involve Reggie in her campaign to break the engagement. She braced herself, adopted her best Grandmother Buckford walk, and sailed into the morning room to find to her surprise that Lady Hunney was not there, although she was quite sure it was her ‘At Home’ time.

  ‘Her ladyship is at her committee meeting,’ Parker informed her smugly, as though some kind of victory had been won. ‘She will be with you soon.’

  Committee? The hospital, Caroline presumed. Or had Lady Hunney started an organisation of her own for the war effort? Caroline hoped the latter; if that steely will were set to conquer the Kaiser instead of her, the war would be over and Reggie returned to her extremely quickly.

  ‘Good morning, Caroline. I am pleased to see you.’

  Caroline swung round in surprise, suddenly conscious that, despite her efforts, in this setting she still managed to feel dowdy beside Lady Hunney’s Bond Street wool costume. She could not bring herself to return the false compliment but greeted Lady Hunney politely.

  ‘Do sit down. Will you take coffee before you begin?’

  ‘Begin?’ In her confusion, Caroline sat on too low a chair. She’d forgotten Lady Hunney’s Red Queen tactics of surprise.

  ‘I assume,’ Lady Hunney rang for coffee, ‘that you’ve come to resume your duties.’

  Caroline was nonplussed. ‘The hospital is fully staffed, Lady Hunney. They have already replaced Felicia.’

  ‘Not nursing duties, Caroline. I’m glad you’ve realised you are unsuited for that. I meant, in the library.’

  Before the war she had worked in the Ashden Manor library, but that was a long time ago. Surely Lady Hunney could not be serious? ‘But the hospital staff wouldn’t want me getting in their way there now.’

  ‘I told you last autumn. Many of the books have now been transferred to the Dower House and I naturally assumed you had come to help restore some order.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Panic made Caroline abrupt. A maid brought in the coffee.

  ‘I understood you wish to work for the war effort. Reggie told me in his last letter. Why not here at Ashden? The perfect opportunity.’

  ‘I cannot agree, Lady Hunney. Books can wait until the war is over. And it will be over all the sooner if everyone, not just men, contributes to the battle.’

  Snap went the dragon’s triumphant jaws. ‘Then I have the perfect solution. You may join my committee.’

  Caroline knew she had fallen into the trap. ‘Committee?’ She fumbled with the sugar spoon, conscious of The Eye upon her, however sweetly The Face might be smiling.

  ‘Mrs Swinford-Browne and I are collaborating on entertainment for the troops at Crowborough and King’s Standing. Your sister Isabel has been kind enough to help us with her advice. However, we need someone to do typewriting and clerical work. It will give Reggie pleasure to think of us working closely together.’

  Trap? It was a pit and a pendulum, worse than anything Edgar Allan Poe could have envisaged. Refuse outright and she was dammed; accept and she was lost. She would say she would consider it. No, she wouldn’t be that hypocritical. ‘You’re very kind, Lady Hunney, but I don’t think it would suit me.’

  ‘Is being suited relevant?’ The voice was icy. ‘You must learn not to put yourself above tedious tasks just because you are Reggie’s fiancée, Caroline. It is your duty to help where you can.’

  Caroline seized at the first straw. ‘I need paid employment.’

  ‘And what paid employment, other than that which you have abandoned, will you find?’ A very slight e
mphasis on the ‘you’.

  ‘I’m sure something will present itself.’ Caroline felt like Mr Micawber.

  ‘Reggie—’ Lady Hunney began, but Caroline’s patience snapped.

  ‘I hear Eleanor is working for Dr Cuss,’ she said warmly. ‘That’s splendid news. You must be very proud of her.’

  Lady Hunney did not reply, and Caroline squirmed at her perhaps ignoble victory. She remembered how her ladyship had travelled through the war zone to find Daniel when he was believed dead and felt conscience-stricken.

  Eventually Lady Hunney spoke, and in quite a reasonable tone. ‘When this war is over, Caroline, the hospital will leave Ashden, and the Hunneys will live in the Manor again. As Reggie’s wife you will have a position to maintain. Take care that you keep the respect of the village meanwhile. Work if you wish, but at something which clearly divides you from them. If you make yourself as they are, they will treat you accordingly. We cannot allow that.’

  ‘I respect your views, but can’t agree with them.’ Caroline knew her voice was shaky.

  ‘Then I bid you good morning, Caroline.’

  Was there a grain of truth in what she said? And who were we? The royal we? Herself and Sir John? Herself and Reggie? Surely not. Deciding to take a long walk to recover, Caroline told herself that for every grain of truth, there were ninety-nine of falsehood or at least blindness. Committees might do wonderful work, but all women should be involved in the war effort, not just educated and aristocratic women. What was so terrible about honest toil that the village might no longer respect her? She found herself walking in the direction of the school-house and decided to see whether Philip Ryde were free, though she felt guilty at taking his precious time. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and ushered her into the parlour of the school-house.

  Caroline was relieved that Beatrice Ryde was out. Beatrice cosseted her younger brother like a baby chick and viewed Caroline with deep suspicion, for Philip had been in love with her. Even Reggie’s ring on her finger had not served to soften Philip’s sister. Philip had a limp which excluded him from volunteering for the Army, but if he resented this his face did not reflect it. To Caroline it looked the same: long, thin, intelligent and gentle.

  ‘So you do see, Philip,’ she finished her outpouring, ‘why I feel I have to do something to make a place for women to work in this war.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘You say women are unable to contribute save peripherally, but that’s not true, Caroline. Have you looked around you?’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘At who’s trying to run the farms. Owlers, for instance. Mr Lake’s wife has been out ploughing. And not the second or third ploughings either, but the fallowing. And did you see who was behind the counter at Naylor’s? Mrs Naylor is the draper now. My sister is helping me here in the school, and taking more and more of the responsibility now I’m away such a lot.’ There was some pride in his voice. He had told her he was a special constable in Tunbridge Wells, detailed for the areas where the troops were billeted.

  ‘Yes, but what of all those women who don’t have jobs they more or less have to take over?’

  ‘There’s always work if they seek it out.’

  Caroline thought this over as she walked home down Station Road to the Rectory. No, she wasn’t satisfied. Women weren’t used to seeking work, it wouldn’t naturally occur to many that they were as capable as men of doing most jobs. They needed to be told, to be recruited. Women needed their own Lord Kitchener to call them to factories, shops, offices and farms.

  A wagon passed her which she vaguely remembered as belonging to the Swinford-Browne estate, and its driver glanced at her as if waiting for her to acknowledge him. Did she know him? She realised she did. It was that strange man Frank Eliot, manager of the Swinford-Browne hopgardens and oasthouse. She wondered idly how the hops would fare this year. Would the pickers come down from London as usual? Already this month the hop stringing would be in progress. Or would it? She turned to shout after the wagon, then ran up to it as Frank Eliot, surprised, tugged on the reins.

  ‘Mother!’ Caroline rushed upstairs and burst into what was called ‘Mother’s boudoir’. Far from being a place of dainty lace and feminine fripperies, it was her workroom and as cheerfully untidy as a room could be. Heaps of clothing for refugees occupied most chairs, her own sewing was piled on the floor, and the desk had almost disappeared under brown paper, string, sealing wax and tissue paper.

  ‘Don’t distract me, darling, I’m busy. I can’t recall whether Edith said mark the parcels Serbia or St Omer for the woollens.’

  ‘Address some to both. I want to distract you. I’ve had the most wonderful idea and you’re going to help me.’

  Laurence had just returned home from visiting old Sammy Farthing, the bootmaker, who was laid low with a quinsy, when he heard a shriek from above. Alarmed, he dashed up the stairs, and was relieved to find Caroline looking exuberant and, though white with shock, his wife still in good health.

  She leapt up from the chair into which she had collapsed on Caroline’s announcement. ‘Laurence, Caroline has gone completely off her head. She wants to go into farming—and what’s worse, she says I’m to help her.’ Elizabeth looked despairing.

  He burst out laughing, glad it wasn’t serious. ‘I don’t see you in trousers and boots.’

  ‘Not in that way, Father,’ Caroline interrupted. ‘I’ve been talking to Frank Eliot. I asked him how he’ll manage with so many of their labourers and casual hop-pickers having volunteered. He said that he’d applied to see if any of the troops in the camps around the Forest could be spared, but it didn’t look promising. The government, you won’t be surprised to hear, is dragging its feet. So I want Mother to help me organise the women of the village, everyone doing a week or two, when and where the work is needed. It would mean going round to see the farmers to explain and sort out rates of pay, then finding volunteers and running the rota system.’

  A hard fist seemed to thump Laurence in the midriff. So soon to have to face this dilemma, and in his own household.

  ‘You see?’ Elizabeth looked in appeal at her husband. ‘Caroline doesn’t understand. It’s hard enough organising the church flower rota, let alone something like this.’

  ‘Your mother’s quite right. Can you imagine Mutters and Thorns working side by side? She’s very busy now, and—’

  Laurence knew he was temporising. That wasn’t the issue.

  ‘But she could make it the excuse to resign from Mrs Swinford-Browne’s Comfort Our Troops committee.’

  Elizabeth regarded her balefully. ‘Sometimes I think, Laurence, that Caroline has inherited your guile.’

  ‘No, Mother.’ Caroline was indignant. ‘My plan is common sense, and after all. Father, it’s only a slight extension of what Mrs Lake is doing on her husband’s farm.’ What a good thing she had visited Philip!

  ‘More than slight, Caroline.’

  ‘Ashden depends for its livelihood on its farms and this is the only way they can survive. Where is the extra labour to come from? It’s Ashden’s survival, not just the farms’.’ She was convinced she was right.

  ‘It is worth consideration, Caroline.’ He could hardly deny it, he realised. ‘But I insist you approach the farmers first and only when and if they are enthusiastic should you approach the women.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘What do you think, Laurence?’ Elizabeth turned to her husband.

  No! he wanted to shout. No. But he couldn’t. ‘If you’re convinced that Caroline is right and you have the time and are willing to help, why not?’

  ‘It’s hardly a role for the Rector’s wife,’ she said doubtfully.

  At that he had to laugh. ‘And when, Elizabeth, has that deterred you from something you felt called by Our Lord to do?’

  At last, at last, Caroline thought, as she ran down the stairs for lunch half an hour later, I have something to do. I’m on my way. She twirled the loose top of the banister at the foot before walki
ng into the dining room where she could smell Mrs Dibble’s bacon pudding.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Agnes Thorn opened her eyes. The walls of her huge bedroom at Castle Tillow looked no less bleak than they had yesterday. She didn’t feel like Agnes Thorn, she still felt like Agnes Pilbeam, despite the mound under the bedclothes which was an ever-present reminder of Jamie. Only a few weeks now; it was the middle of March, and she was due early May. Already she was ‘wriggling like a chimney sweep’, so Mrs Hay the midwife said, the first of May being chimney sweeps’ day.

  Agnes had done her best to make the room homely. The photograph of her Jamie had pride of place, taken in Dover while he’d been at Shornecliffe training to be a soldier and looking so proud of his new uniform (he’d told her later it was borrowed, there weren’t enough to go round).

  She hadn’t seen him since Boxing Day. He was one of Kitchener’s men, and was with the 7th Sussex in Aldershot. He wrote that he was longing for the order to go overseas. She couldn’t understand it. Why did he want to go and leave her? Now of all times—to have their baby alone and here. She felt like Cleopatra or some other ancient queen stuck in this huge bed in a vast bedroom with only a chest, washstand and one chair to fill it. Only she had no servants like a queen would have. She was a servant.

  She could see from the bed the dead embers of last night’s fire, but they were giving out no heat at all. She felt no inclination to hurry to wash in the cold water she’d brought up last night, then clamber into her clothes to go down to that barn of an old kitchen and struggle with the fire. Johnson would be nowhere to be seen, for all he was supposed to light it, and Mary who came in from the village would be late again. Miss Emily and Miss Charlotte may be eighty-seven and eighty-five respectively, but they still expected their breakfast sharp at nine.