Dark Harvest

by Amy Myers

  ‘Mrs Dibble will—’ Elizabeth broke off, ashamed of her instinctive reaction. Of course she must organise it. ‘Yes, Laurence, I do.’

  Laurence smiled. ‘Good. And there’s our new lady doctor. Another recruit.’ He went into the morning room to consult the huge diary that always lay open on the table. ‘We’ll hold it on Saturday the nineteenth. Perhaps Caroline will come down for it.’

  ‘I’m sure she will.’ Elizabeth knew how hard Laurence had found Caroline’s unexpected departure, and she resolved to write to her daughter. Then she went into the kitchen to tell Mrs Dibble. ‘What about the food, Mrs Dibble? What will you do without the girls’ help? I could ask Mrs Isabel—’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Lilley. I’ll manage with Harriet and Myrtle.’ Her wooden expression did not change, but Elizabeth detected some relaxation in the ramrod straight body. ‘Managing’ was, after all, Mrs Dibble’s way of doing her bit for England.

  ‘Even if we have, say, fifteen or so officers from Ashden as spectators?’

  This time the eyes glinted. ‘Nanny can give me some of her eggs, seeing it’s for the war.’ Mrs Dibble’s pleasure could only be judged by the alacrity with which she burst into song as Elizabeth left: ‘Fight the good fight …’

  The Rectory tennis match. Caroline nearly cried at the absurdity and wonder of it. She had assumed it would not take place, but here was the invitation, in Mother’s own distinctive black copperplate. Of course she’d go.

  Caroline had been in London for nearly a week, at the WSPU headquarters in Lincoln’s Inn House, and was finding it a totally different city to the one she had known from visits to the theatre and shopping in Regent Street. Now the streets were crowded with men in strange uniforms, most of whom seemed keen to enjoy the delights of London’s night life, the dancing, theatres, and the new nightclubs.

  But the night after she had arrived, on Sunday, the last day of May, Zeppelin bombers had attacked the East End of London. Seven people had been killed, and another thirty-five injured, and thousands of pounds worth of damage done. A general feeling of anger directed at anyone thought to have German links quickly spread through the whole of the capital, adding fuel to the bitterness still rippling through the country over the sinking of the Lusitania.

  To Caroline’s relief Lord Banning’s town house, in Norland Square, Holland Park, was one step removed from the daily reminders of war. On her arrival she found she was not the only temporary lodger. To her amazement, her cousin Angela had arrived two weeks earlier to work as a VAD at the newly opened Women’s Hospital Corps hospital in Endell Street, run by Dr Louisa Garrett Anderson. Caroline had no idea that Angela even knew Lord Banning or Penelope but it turned out she was a friend of Penelope’s brother James.

  Caroline had always liked her cousin, but had little in common with her. Angela was thirty-one to her twenty-two and was, in her family’s view, an old sobersides, stolid to look at and in disposition. Caroline’s surprise had been all the greater at finding her in London, since it had been assumed at the Rectory that Angela would be stepping into Aunt Tilly’s place as companion to their formidable and highly capable grandmother.

  ‘What did Grandmother say to your leaving?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘I’m afraid she was not pleased. But as I said I was going anyway, and since I’m well over age, there was little she could say except—’

  ‘Except?’ Caroline prompted.

  ‘That she’d withdraw my allowance,’ Angela finished awkwardly. ‘Fortunately Father came to the rescue, on condition Mother doesn’t know.’ She looked meaningfully at Caroline. ‘Anyway, I’m earning now,’ she pointed out with some pride.

  Despite her conviction as to its value, Caroline was finding her new work distinctly dull. Her excitement in hearing of Mrs Pankhurst’s plans for the July demonstration was quickly dissipated by the mountain of letters she had to answer, as she sorted volunteers into their designated roles and described the white dress and flowers that each member should wear. The ancient typewriting machine allotted to her seemed to be in conspiracy with Mr Asquith to interfere with the WSPU’s smooth running and her fingers spent much of each day covered in black ink.

  It had been decided that every Allied nation was to be represented by one of its countrywomen, and Caroline’s particular task was to select a suitable candidate for Belgium. So far she had put forward six names, none of whom had found favour with Mrs Pankhurst’s right-hand woman, Annie Kenney, who was in overall charge of this part of the procession. Caroline was a little downcast, but she reminded herself she had only been working there for a week.

  She had also been disappointed to see little of either Mrs Pankhurst or her fiery daughter Christabel. They tended to descend at intervals like goddesses, and then disappear again in a flash of lightning. Countless stories circulated about them, both admiring and not so admiring, and Caroline was beginning to realise that there were as many undercurrents and rifts in the office as there were in Ashden.

  Tonight, Caroline was dressing reluctantly to go out to dinner. Penelope, who was still convalescing, had telephoned to say that she didn’t feel well and asked her to accompany her father. Much as Caroline liked Simon Banning, the prospect of a diplomatic dinner on an early June evening did not appeal when London had so much else to offer. She had suggested to Angela that she might like to go, but her cousin had informed her that she disliked most social events. Still, Caroline consoled herself, she’d be going to the CarIton, and the food would be excellent. She had never been there before, and was curious to see the famous Palm Court. Her old blue gown would have to be good enough for it, simply because she didn’t have anything else. Thank goodness it was now fashionable to look neat and unostentatious rather than like a model from Vogue magazine. She inspected her image in the mirror, stuck a few more pins in her hair, perched her evening hat on top, and decided she was ready.

  By the time their cab arrived at the CarIton, Caroline found she was beginning to look forward to the evening, diplomats or no diplomats. But when she emerged from the cloakroom to rejoin Lord Banning, he appeared to have vanished. After waiting for a few minutes, she took a deep breath and plunged into the Palm Court, already crowded with dinner suits, uniforms, evening dresses and huge waving fans. She glimpsed Lord Banning talking to a small group of people. Shock hit her. She was lightheaded. She must be. For a moment she could have sworn he was talking to Aunt Tilly. And wasn’t that—

  ‘Felicia!’

  Heads turned as Caroline rushed to embrace her sister, and then Aunt Tilly. Felicia was thinner than when Caroline had last seen her, and was wearing a black evening dress which suited her dark hair and eyes magnificently, but highlighted the signs of strain on her pale face. Something looked different though; and it took Caroline a moment or two to realise it was the cut of her dress, and her hair which was twisted on top of her head in a severe style without the curls that Caroline was used to.

  Caroline hugged Felicia again. ‘What are you both doing here?’ She demanded. ‘Are you back for good?’

  ‘Two days, I’m afraid,’ Tilly said ruefully. ‘This is a FANY effort to raise money for the Belgian Hospital Lamarck at Calais. Felicia and I were only asked to come at the last moment, so Simon thought he’d surprise you.’

  ‘He certainly did that.’ Caroline gave her darling, unpredictable aunt a second hug. She looked thinner too. She was a tall woman, and had a face that commanded attention. A lived-in face, Caroline decided, delighted to see Tilly was still ignoring any call to fashion. Surely that purple monstrosity used to appear regularly at Ashden long before the war? Both of them, here and safe. Oh, life was so wonderful.

  ‘How’s Mother, Caroline? And everyone else?’ Felicia asked eagerly. ‘And Reggie?’

  ‘I saw him recently on a brief leave.’ It was too much to hope her careless tone would deceive Aunt Tilly.

  ‘Still in love?’ she rapped.

  ‘Of course.’ More, more.

  ‘Then pray explain what you a
re doing in London. I’m delighted you’re working for the WSPU, but what happened to the agricultural rota you wrote to me about so enthusiastically?’

  ‘Mother said she could manage alone. Didn’t you get my letter?’ Caroline was surprised, for her post to Reggie rarely took longer than a week.

  Even the excellent dinner now took a lower priority in her enjoyment of the evening. Their party was sitting at the head table, and she was delighted that, contrary to the ‘rules’, she had been placed next to her sister. She suspected Simon might have had something to do with this.

  ‘How’s Daniel?’ Felicia asked when Caroline had run out of Ashden news. ‘Is the paralysis lifting?’

  ‘Not yet. But they’re still hopeful. Doesn’t he write to you?’

  ‘No.’

  Quickly, Caroline changed the subject. ‘Tell me about your work, Felicia. I do remember what it’s like.’

  ‘It’s similar to what you did in Dover. Tilly drives the ambulance,’ Felicia replied immediately, ‘and I stay inside with the men.’

  Caroline was dissatisfied with her answer. It sounded too prepared. ‘How near do your ambulances go to the front line?’

  ‘Not near at all. Casualty clearing stations are miles away from action, and we drive the men back to the base hospitals, or straight to the hospital trains.’

  Caroline glanced at her sharply, but decided not to press further.

  After the dinner was concluded, the speeches began. Caroline listened enviously to the Hon Secretary of the FANY describing the work its teams were doing overseas, but the words ‘advanced dressing stations’ reminded her of Reggie, and her mind drifted off. She came to with a jump as she heard the words, ‘and His Majesty King Albert has graciously offered the decoration of the order of Leopold II to two remarkable women, Lady Matilda and Miss Felicia Lilley, for their courageous front-line work with the wounded.’

  Caroline nudged her sister accusingly. ‘Front-line work?’ she whispered. Felicia and Tilly looked as stunned as she did.

  ‘We thought it best to keep our work quiet.’ Tilly leaned across the table. ‘We weren’t the first—the credit goes to Elsie Knocker and Mairi Chisholm—the Two Women of Pervyse, as the newspapers call them. And we won’t be the last.’ She looked at Simon suspiciously. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘No.’ He held up his hands in supplication. ‘I swear it. I wouldn’t have had the courage to keep it from you.’

  ‘You, Simon, are like the hat you gave me. Steel within, and soft felt on top. Courage, indeed.’ She almost snorted her indignation.

  ‘I want to know all about it. From both of you,’ Caroline intervened.

  ‘After Tilly’s had a dance with me,’ Simon said.

  Left alone, Caroline and a much shaken Felicia managed to retreat to the Palm Court.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Caroline, having secured two seats ensuring reasonable privacy.

  ‘There’s nothing much to it,’ Felicia said defensively. ‘The Belgians need heroines to advance their cause. They want to hand out decorations. I’m young—’

  ‘Yes. You’re only nineteen.’

  ‘Mairi Chisholm is eighteen. You can’t understand what it’s like out there, Caroline. The Red Cross won’t officially let anyone serve till they’re twenty-three, but there is such a crying need for willing hands that if you have qualifications and determination, no one is going to turn you away—particularly,’ she added, ‘if Aunt Tilly has anything to do with it.’

  ‘But why did she take you with her into the front line, when FANY’s work—according to the secretary this evening—usually operates well back?’

  Felicia was indignant. ‘Do you think I am such a fragile flower that I can’t make my own decisions? Tilly did all she could to dissuade me. I simply stowed away in her ambulance the first time I knew she was visiting a regimental aid post—that’s the one nearest the front. It was at Neuve Chapelle. There was a bombardment, we were ordered back, but we refused to go because men were dying and wounded all around us. During the battle for Ypres we did the same, but we found shelter in a half destroyed farm and made that our base. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Yes, but I have another.’

  ‘You’re going to ask me why I do it?’

  It was Caroline’s turn for anger. ‘Now you’re underestimating me. Oh, Felicia, are we so driven apart by war?’

  Appalled, Felicia took her hands. ‘You’re right. We mustn’t let it divide us. It can so easily happen.’

  So easily. Was that what was happening between her and Reggie? Now it was happening with Felicia too, and she realised it was up to her to bridge the gap between them. ‘What is it like?’ she asked. ‘Please tell me.’

  Felicia took a deep breath. ‘It’s a new kind of war, Caroline. War has always been terrible, but this is an apocalypse. Men with blue faces, gasping out their lungs for the breath to live, the smell of gas gangrene, bits of bodies lying like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, blood and pain everywhere. On the field, in the ambulances, in the aid posts, doing your best to give first aid to dying men, seeing others fighting to live. It’s all pain, Caroline, pain.’

  Caroline was silent for a moment, then said urgently: ‘You mustn’t leave us, Felicia. Not in your heart at any rate.’

  ‘I’ll try. Sometimes though, out there, the heart has to be sealed off in order to survive.’

  ‘You mentioned the hat I gave you.’ Simon steered Tilly round a couple who were dancing ragtime rather too energetically.

  ‘Certainly. I am known to the troops as the Lady of the Blue Hat.’

  ‘I’d rather offer you greater protection.’

  ‘Simon!’ There was a warning note in Tilly’s voice.

  ‘I suppose,’ he continued, ‘if I kissed you—not here of course, but perhaps discreetly behind a palm tree—you would refuse to speak to me again?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I won’t. Instead you will lunch with me tomorrow. There’s a little restaurant I know in Soho, where Mama does the cooking, and Papa serves it. I am known to them as il signore degli ravioli, owing to my fondness for the dish. We shall forget we are peers of this realm and cogs in the effort to win a war, and become a man and a woman. You will be called la signora del gelato.’

  ‘Gelato?’

  ‘Ice cream. Hard outside but given time, will melt.’

  Tilly hesitated.

  ‘Are you evading my bombardment?’

  ‘Does it matter? You seem to be an expert in trench warfare.’

  He laughed. ‘My expertise lies in the timing of the offensive.’

  ‘Suppose the enemy has crept away in the meantime?’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘You’re very sure of yourself.’

  ‘Ah.’ His hand held hers a little tighter. ‘One of the many advantages of maturity.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mrs Manning had passed Father’s test; Phoebe was permitted to work in the recreation hut on condition that she conduct herself like a lady. Seated beside Private Harry Darling in the darkened cinema, she wondered both at her own daring and whether this was violating her promise. Not only was she out unchaperoned with a private soldier, but she was at a cinema showing an American film, The Squaw Man, with Indians and cowboys. Father had forbidden her to go to the Swinford-Browne picture palace in Ashden but, she consoled herself, he had said nothing about cinemas in Tunbridge Wells.

  This was the first film she had ever been to and bore no relation to the old magic lantern shows they had enjoyed when they were young. It was fast and exciting, with a dashing hero played by Dustin Farnum and the music crashing out of the piano louder than had ever been permitted at the Rectory. And because it was about America, it was educational, so Father couldn’t possibly object, even if he knew—which he wasn’t going to.

  As she came out into the sunshine afterwards, she blinked, and turned to Private Darling—Harry, as she now called him. ‘I did enjoy that.’

  He swel
led with pride. ‘I’m glad, miss.’

  He’d never stepped out with someone like Miss Lilley before. Come to that, he hadn’t stepped out with anyone much. Miss Lilley had been kind to him, and his mates assured him she was a stunner. He could see that. Full figure and a face like one of those roses he saw in the gardens in Crowborough. The only roses he saw back home grew in Victoria Park and they weren’t like the ones down here in the country, sprawling everywhere like they owned the place. His mates had dared him to ask Miss Lilley out on her afternoon off, and to their surprise he had.

  Phoebe was wondering whether he would kiss her. Half of her was enthusiastic at the prospect, the other half, remembering the fright she had had last year, was nervous. This, she reminded herself, was a soldier; a stranger. It wasn’t like teasing Christopher Denis, Charles Pickering’s predecessor as curate.

  Harry did kiss her, but not on her lips, nor even on her cheek—he didn’t dare. He kissed her hand instead.

  Phoebe bicycled home, singing ‘You are my honey-honey-suckle’, feeling like a princess, and seeing herself as a beautiful mother to the soldiers. No, not mother, sweetheart. She avoided washing her hand that night, and kissed it against her pillow to recapture her illicit pleasure.

  Agnes Thorn hauled herself out of bed to feed Elizabeth. She’d been up six times during the night and now it was time to go downstairs to light the range and the living-room fire, no matter if it was June. Living-room was an odd word for the enormous, bare baronial-type hall in which the old ladies spent their days, but they felt the cold. Jamie must be colder still in the mud of a trench in the front line. She hadn’t heard a word since he left for France with the 7th Sussex at the end of May.

  Elizabeth was her delight and her chief concern—the latter because once she had brought her downstairs, she was hardly allowed to see her save to feed her, and even then Miss Charlotte and Miss Emily wanted to watch. It embarrassed her. They were good with the baby and rocked her to sleep, but she couldn’t help noticing that Elizabeth was always ‘our’ baby. It made her uneasy, somehow.