Dark Harvest

by Amy Myers

  ‘It’s like an army,’ she had told him. ‘Taken all at once it’s terrifying, but when you look at the trees one by one, you can see the wood is made up of individual soldiers.’

  He’d laughed at that, tripped over a root and sworn. ‘I don’t go tripping over me mates’ boots,’ he told her.

  ‘That’s an oak tree,’ she said, wanting to make him part of the life she’d always known.

  ‘Like the Royal Oak?’

  ‘The one where King Charles hid.’

  ‘Did he hide in a pub?’ He was perplexed and they had giggled when they disentangled their meanings.

  When they emerged on to open moorland, he grew more interested. His sharp brown eyes were everywhere. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed to a chaffinch. ‘And what’s that?’

  Harebells in the grass were so common that Phoebe had hardly noticed before how delicate and beautiful they were. Then, reluctantly, she broke the terrible news to him. ‘Father says I’ve got to go to Dover for a few days soon. My grandmother lives there. We hate her. She’s a monster.’ She wondered if God were listening, and added hastily, ‘She’s very generous of course. Just, well, you know.’

  Harry didn’t. His grandmother—the other was dead—had the foulest mouth and the warmest heart of any of his family. ‘Why go then?’

  ‘She’s our grandmother and Father says we have to.’

  ‘Like the Army, eh? All drill and duty. When do you leave?’

  ‘Eighth August.’

  He kicked a stone from his path. ‘We might be going overseas around then.’

  Why hadn’t it occurred to her that soldiers were in camps only temporarily? Phoebe’s face puckered up with distress. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ she cried.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you either. Will you write to me, miss—Phoebe?’

  ‘Every day,’ she promised.

  He smiled at the chaffinch, at the harebells, at the forest around him, and at Phoebe who was looking as lovely as the lady in that picture, ‘April Love’, his mother liked so much. He could see tears in her eyes, though. He’d seen them there in temper, when she quarrelled with old Ma Manning, but never before had there been tears for him. He found himself kissing her, although he had told himself he shouldn’t. He ran his hands through the muslin over the curves of her body. He could see her ankles peeping out under her skirt; and the way her breast curved before it disappeared into the white prison of her underclothes. ‘Let’s lie down, Phoebe,’ he said hoarsely.

  Amid a torrent of emotions, Phoebe realised she was lying on the grass again with a man, and liking it. She wanted to be close to Harry. His cap was lying on the ground, and she loved being able to see every detail of his short gingery hair and the freckles on his face. As his hand rested hesitantly on the dress covering her legs, she tensed, then relaxed again. She felt his hand pushing up her skirts, warm on her thigh above the stockings, and the tingling where before she had known only harshness. His fingers went on touching her, but just when she thought she would burst, he stopped and sat up, white as a sheet.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She meant what was wrong with her.

  ‘This is,’ he replied after a moment. ‘With you.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You’re a lady.’

  ‘I’m me. I’m Phoebe.’

  ‘I know, and that’s why too. I love you. So it’s wrong.’ He was staring straight ahead, very red in the face.

  Phoebe sat up beside him almost shyly, and smoothed down her skirts. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Do you? Do you, Phoebe?’

  ‘Yes!’ With a joyful shout, she hugged him again. Laughing, they tumbled around like puppies, till he rolled over a sharp stone and swore once more. He kissed her on the nose and the cheek, and she closed her eyes. Love was wonderful, life was wonderful and this moment was what happiness meant.

  Isabel had not dared invite Frank Eliot to Caroline’s dance for the same reason as Phoebe. Consequently she had been forced to rely for dancing partners on Martin Cuss, when duty prised him away from Eleanor, and Charles Pickering, or George. Even Philip Ryde was preoccupied with someone else, in his case the new doctor. Eleanor had driven her home after the dance, but had not come in, so Isabel was left to face the silence and darkness of Hop House alone.

  She woke up on Sunday morning and came to a decision. True, she then spent the morning wrestling with it, but while she was doing so she was changing into suitable attire. She dressed with care, choosing to wear an old voile dress, the only gown to accompany her from the Rectory to marriage. It suited her, was unostentatious, and presented the image she wished.

  She knew Frank Eliot had a fine baritone voice, and could therefore contribute to the Entertainment for the Troops concerts. They could sing duets. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? They’d need rehearsals of course, but she had a piano. That decided her. It was her duty to call at Hop Cottage this afternoon.

  He attended church infrequently, and Isabel’s heart leapt in confusion when she saw he was there. She avoided him after church, and chattered all the more gaily at lunch in the Rectory. When Caroline said she had to leave to return to London at three o’clock, Isabel made an excuse to leave with her, and they walked up Station Road together. She soothed her conscience by remaining to wave Caroline off, standing well back in case the smuts from the train smoke sullied the pale green gown, and then walked quickly back along the lane to Hop Cottage.

  Frank Eliot was lazing in his garden in a hammock slung between two trees. A battered old straw hat lay over his face, one hand dangled over the hammock’s edge, the other rested peacefully on his stomach. Hearing the small cough she gave to announce her arrival, he sat up with a start, the hat fell off, the hammock tipped perilously, and he slid to the ground.

  ‘Isabel!’ Pleasure was replaced by caution. ‘Do sit down.’ He brought up a deckchair. ‘Have you brought me a rota?’

  ‘No. Just myself.’ Then, realising this might be too easily misunderstood, Isabel said hastily, ‘This garden is lovely.’ It was, and, she thought, surprisingly well tended.

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes wandered round. ‘My wife taught me to love flowers and how to create a garden.’

  ‘Your wife? But I thought—’

  ‘She died ten years ago.’

  An instant vision of herself and Frank singing ‘The Ash Grove’ together flitted through Isabel’s mind. Or perhaps she would play the piano, while he sang at her side. ‘That’s very sad.’

  It had changed his life for ever. Caution steadied hope, reality optimism, and cynicism love.

  ‘You’re a strange man. You look—’ Isabel re-phrased what she had been going to say, ‘you don’t look as though you would be interested in flowers.’

  ‘You’d like some tea?’

  ‘Ginger beer would be nice.’ Isabel felt pleased with herself. This afternoon she didn’t want to be an elegant lady of fashion, but a simple country girl.

  He disappeared inside the cottage and re-emerged with two glasses full of ginger beer. ‘Why are you here, Isabel?’ he asked.

  She found herself speaking the truth. ‘I was lonely.’

  He got up from the grass beside her, pulled her to her feet and kissed her. ‘Lonely for me or for Robert?’

  ‘For you—I think.’

  ‘Isabel.’ He held her close, so close she could feel the tenseness of his body and hear his breathing deepen. ‘Come inside,’ he said after a while.

  This was what she’d expected, wasn’t it? And he’d promised she wouldn’t have a baby. He led her upstairs to a bedroom, as sweetly scented with lavender as the Rectory itself. Expertly unbuttoning her delicate dress, he brought it swiftly to the ground, and he embraced her again. Sudden panic seized her, and she drew back. She wanted to, oh how her body wanted to, but what would Father say?

  ‘What’s the matter, Isabel?’ He kept his arm round her.

  ‘I’m worried,’ she began, and broke off because she did not know how to finish.


  ‘About Robert? Because we’re here and he’s on his way to battle?’ His hand cupped one of her breasts.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Preoccupied with the odd feelings he was arousing, she was startled at hearing her husband’s name. ‘He chose to go. And he chose to go as a private soldier. Not even as an officer. He could have stayed here longer if he’d accepted a commission.’

  The hand was still. ‘Isn’t it rather admirable of him to go then?’

  ‘Why?’ she felt a sudden chill between them. ‘What’s the matter, Frank?’ She was alarmed as he released her and walked over to the window.

  ‘Do you care so little for him, Isabel?’

  ‘Of course I care for him.’

  ‘Then why are you here with me?’

  ‘You knew he was going out to the Dardanelles. You encouraged me to come here. It’s your fault.’

  ‘Yes.’ He passed a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Isabel.’

  Isabel felt vulnerable, foolish, standing in her underclothes. ‘What Robert means to me is my business,’ she said shaking.

  With an effort Frank turned round to face her. ‘He may only be a private soldier but at least he has had the courage to volunteer to fight for his country, while a skunk like me seduces his wife.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ she cried. ‘I thought you loved me.’

  He kissed her gently. ‘It’s not you, Isabel. It’s my fault. Only mine.’ He knelt down to pick up her dress and cover her.

  ‘I hate you,’ she screamed, pulling away from him. ‘You’ve insulted me. You’re not a gentleman.’ She ran from the room, still endeavouring to button the dress, then fled from the house, the scene of such humiliation.

  Shaken and concerned, Frank blamed himself for being a fool. For having let it get this far, for acting so callously, even for not making love to her the way she so obviously wanted. Then he remembered her indifference to her husband’s plight, and the remnants of desire ebbed from him. He poured himself a whisky although it was only four o’clock, and then walked out into his garden to look at the flower borders he had created. He had believed he could find love again after Jennifer, but he couldn’t. Only mutual need, and that for him seemed not to be enough.

  Mrs Dibble burst into the study between callers for Rector’s Hour, without so much as a knock. ‘It’s those Thorns, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mrs Dibble?’ Laurence was becoming irritated at being called upon to solve every crisis. Spiritual problems, village welfare, servants’ welfare—it was all laid at his door.

  ‘The Thorns are marching to protest against that new lady doctor. I thought you’d want to know.’

  Laurence was already out of the study and running for the front door, not even stopping to pull on his hat. As he raced to the gate he could see the Thorns and their supporters marching along the High Street from the Red Lion past the forge and ironmongery proudly bearing a banner: ‘Ashden says get out lady doctors. Men’s jobs for men.’ Len Thorn was swaggering along at the column’s head. Spilling down Bankside from the Norville Arms came the Mutters. As Laurence reached the Rectory gate, the two groups met; the shouting intensified and, after a struggle to seize the banner, fighting broke out.

  To his horror, Beth Parry ran past him towards the fracas. As both sides saw her, there was a moment’s pause, and Laurence heard her say, ‘If men are to go to the front, women must do their jobs. And the front is where some of you should be.’

  With a roar, Len Thorn dropped the banner and seized her by the arm, shaking her violently.

  ‘Let that lady go, Len,’ Laurence yelled, pushing his way through the fighting bodies. Two Mutters grabbed Len from behind and Beth was released.

  ‘Isn’t there enough war in the world, Len, without you stirring up more?’ He turned to Beth. ‘Has he hurt you?’

  ‘There was no need to intervene, Rector,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I can stand up for myself.’

  As she stood rubbing her arm Len Thorn brushed the Rector aside and made for Beth again. Quickly Laurence interposed himself between the two of them. ‘Come with me, Dr Parry. Into the Rectory. And don’t you dare try to prevent us, Len Thorn.’

  He hurried her into the Rectory kitchen. ‘Mrs Dibble, kindly make some tea for Dr Parry, and I want a knife, a sharp knife—’

  ‘What for?’ Beth cried, aghast.

  ‘You need have no concern, Dr Parry. I don’t intend to become Ashden’s Jack the Ripper.’ Seizing the knife, Laurence rushed out once more.

  By the time he reached the fracas, punches were being freely distributed, Len Thorn was using his banner to knock Harold Mutter senseless and more and more onlookers were threatening to join in. It was now or never if he were to remain Rector of Ashden. Laurence jumped on to the seat around the oak tree to gain height above the fighting mob.

  ‘No sermons, Rector. We know what we want,’ Len Thorn shouted.

  ‘I don’t want you to listen, I want you to watch. As Our Lord is most surely watching you.’

  Reluctantly, they all paused as Laurence turned to the trunk of the oak tree and began to carve as high up as he could reach.

  ‘There.’ He pointed as he finished carving. ‘The initials T.H. Now I’m going to carve J.H. and then P.C. What for? T.H. stands for Tim Hubble, J.H. for Johnnie Hay and P.C. for Percy Combes. These men were here a year ago drinking in the Norville Arms and now they are dead. I’m going to carve the initials of all our fallen men here. They died fighting for peace in this land and you honour them by brawling in the place they loved. From now on, every man who volunteers can carve his initials here before he leaves to remind you what’s happening overseas. Honour the dead by respecting the living—man or woman.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Too impatient to wait to buy her own copy, Caroline snatched The Times from the morning-room table, and assuaged her guilty conscience by reminding it that Simon had not been to Norland Square for some days now. She had lain awake worrying much of the night. Why hadn’t she heard from Reggie? There had been silence for three whole weeks. The last letter she received had been written on 10th July to thank her for her birthday present. It was now August 5th.

  At first she had not worried greatly since he had explained that letters could be held up, or even blown up, if the Field Post received a direct hit. Now, however, after reading in the newspapers about the terrible attack last week at Hooge, she was deeply concerned. Not content with using gas in April, the Germans had not only continued their bombardments with Moaning Minnie heavy shells but brought in a new terror, spouts of petrol and flame called flame-throwers. The slaughter had been for nothing. And the tactical objective, a mine crater, had not even been won. That hole in the ground had been a château before this war began, peopled with human beings and surrounded by gardens. Not now.

  Had Reggie been caught up in that battle? Had he died in it? Each day she turned fearfully to the officers’ roll of honour, dreading to see the familiar name leap out at her. H—she ran her eye quickly down the list, aware of her thumping heart. There was no Hunney. Yes, there was. With relief she saw the name was not Reginald Hunney, but Gerald Hunney-Beresford, another branch of the family. She remembered Reggie talking of his cousin Gerald. She had even met him ages ago when they were all children. Now he was dead—just for a mine crater.

  ‘All right?’ Angela came up beside her.

  ‘Yes, but why haven’t I heard?’ She lifted a stricken face to her cousin. Was Reggie one of the dead, but still unidentified for some reason? Carefully, she refolded the newspaper to as near a state of flat perfection as she could manage, and replaced it on the table.

  ‘My brother, Robert, is there too,’ Angela pointed out. ‘And I’m even more worried about Registration Sunday on the fifteenth.’ All men and women aged between fifty and sixty-five were to sign, stating their occupation and what they would be willing to do if called upon to serve the country. ‘Father is convinced that it’s the first step towards general conscription, and if so, what wil
l happen to Willie?’

  Caroline understood immediately. Angela’s younger brother had refused to join the regular Army, saying he was more interested in preserving life than destroying it. His passion was flowers and he worked for the Royal Horticultural Society.

  ‘He told Father he’s prepared to go to war, but not to fight,’ Angela added. ‘Still, the war can’t go on much longer, can it?’

  Caroline said nothing. It seemed to her it could. Neither side was getting anywhere. Simon had said the only hope of breaking the stalemate on the Western Front was to attack elsewhere, in Turkey for instance, in order to join up with Russia on that front. But that brought another anxiety. Although she and Simon had both had cheerful letters from Penelope in Serbia assuring them all was peaceful and the hospital growing splendidly, Simon, through his Foreign Office contacts, was concerned that another invasion, this time by Germany and Bulgaria as well as Austria, was imminent. And Penelope refused to return to Britain.

  ‘Isabel!’ Elizabeth was surprised. Isabel rarely came to the Rectory now, save for Sunday luncheon after church and perhaps once during the week. ‘Is anything wrong, darling?’ The poultry quota must wait if her eldest lamb were in trouble. And to Elizabeth’s eye, it was quite clear she was. Isabel looked strained and, worse, had that hurt look which her mother remembered from her childhood, when the world denied her what she wanted. It was not an attractive look and would one day plant bitter lines on her flawless complexion. But that was where mothers came in, in Elizabeth’s view. My child, right or wrong, and alas, with Isabel—

  ‘Tell,’ she commanded.

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ Isabel burst into tears. ‘I’m lonely. I miss Robert so much.’

  Elizabeth held her in her arms to comfort her. ‘Everyone is suffering because of this terrible war, Isabel. Now, why are you lonely? You have your friends in Tunbridge Wells and Forest Row. And here in Ashden you have Edith and William, besides us. And Janie of course.’