Dark Harvest

by Amy Myers

  ‘No one likes me. Robert has disappointed everyone by refusing to be commissioned and his parents see as little of me as they can. I think it’s wonderful of Robert to be a private soldier.’ By now she had convinced herself that she did. ‘But it means he’ll be away for ever.’

  ‘He’s not missing, is he?’ Elizabeth was alarmed.

  ‘No, but he’s on the other side of the world.’ Isabel’s misery broke out anew. ‘Gallipoli—it’s so far away. And he doesn’t get home leave like the officers. Suppose I never see him again?’

  ‘You will, pet.’ Elizabeth had an idea. ‘Would Robert mind if you came back to the Rectory for a little while?’

  Isabel looked happier and plumped herself down on the old familiar sofa. ‘Oh, Mother, I’d love to.’

  ‘There’s your Mrs Bugle to consider, of course, and the Swinford-Brownes. They’ll have to be consulted.’ Already Elizabeth was planning.

  ‘None of them will care. I’ll keep Mrs Bugle on and go up there once in a while.’ Isabel dismissed that as a minor problem, now her own was solved. A deep wave of relief flooded over her. Mrs Dibble would replace Mrs Bugle’s awfulness. Mother would replace Edith Swinford-Browne’s carping comments and she, Isabel, would be safe again. Safe from the constant recollection of the humiliation of her treatment by Frank Eliot.

  Phoebe fidgeted in the train. Father was reading, George was sketching. Da, da, da, dee, da, da, da, dee… In Dover for tea. How I hate to be me, I wish I were free, Phoebe thought crossly, as the monotonous rhythm drew her ever closer to Dover. Of the five of them she got on best with Grandmother, partly because she and Isabel had been the ones to appreciate her offer to send them to finishing school in Paris. Isabel had gone with great eagerness, Caroline had refused, for Felicia the experience had been a disaster, but Phoebe had been looking forward to it when war broke out and prevented her going. It was not the school that attracted her, of course, it was merely a means of escape from Ashden.

  How long ago that time seemed! Now Phoebe wanted to stay in Ashden for ever, or at least until Harry returned. He might not, she thought with dismay. Here she was being dragged away to Dover, not even knowing when his battalion would be leaving, or from which port. It would probably be Southampton, but suppose it was Dover? How agonising to be in the same town as Harry and not even know he was there. And suppose, just suppose, Harry were killed? Soldiers were daily. Lots of them. They marched off, leaving their girls behind them, and then never came back. Phoebe had a sudden inspiration. She would ask Uncle Charles, whose favourite she was, to find out. He had a home command in Dover. And he wouldn’t tell Father.

  George was sketching, but inside he was choked up with his secret. Tim had replied to his letter, and told him to come along to the RNAS station at Guston Road. Things were quiet, so he might be lucky, and Tim could take him up. If not he’d show him round the station. George decided not to tell Father. Not yet anyway.

  In theory Laurence was reading The Times but in practice he was bracing himself for the coming ordeal. It was by no means easy for him to face his mother from whom he’d parted so bitterly when he married Elizabeth nearly thirty years ago. It said, he supposed, a lot for his mother’s strength of character that she could maintain such a rigid disapproval over so long a period. In all that time she had never met Elizabeth, and so there was as little pleasure in this visit for him as there was for Phoebe and George. Nevertheless it had to be endured; his five children were part of the Buckford family and should therefore maintain contact.

  It was at least an opportunity to see Charles, the present earl, though they had absolutely nothing in common. Laurence often hankered to visit his brother Gerald, to whom he had been closest as a child, and had occasionally toyed with the idea of visiting him in the United States if the Lord would provide him with the means to do so. So far He hadn’t made it His priority.

  Laurence’s income was becoming an increasing problem. Before the war, his living had covered their essential needs and Elizabeth’s small private income had topped it up. Even then there had been little left over for jaunts. Now, his finances were being squeezed by reduced tithes, as local farmers struggled with rising prices, and by increases in his own taxes and food bills. What with uncollectable tithes, income tax, local tax, and tenths (by which a tenth of his income was kept back by the church body, Queen Anne’s Bounty, to top up the salaries of clergy in an even worse plight than he was), country rectors were amongst the hardest hit in the land. When Caroline was a child, she had asked him why, if Queen Anne was so generous, he couldn’t ask Her Majesty for some more. If only it were that simple! Although Caroline and Isabel no longer had to be supported, and Felicia was away, this seemed to make little difference to the amounts flowing out of the Rectory on food and other living expenses. He was almost at the point of considering an appeal to his mother. But so far pride had always held him back.

  ‘Laurence, I am glad to see you.’ Black eyes, once the toast of London, snapped their attention back to Phoebe and George. ‘You have grown, Phoebe.’ Phoebe blushed, and tried to hold her chest in. ‘George,’ she continued, ‘I am glad to see you take more and more after the Buckfords.’

  George did not feel complimented. Who wanted to look like Grandmother anyway? She may have been a beauty; well, so was Mother, and she still was. Grandmother Buckford sitting so erect in her straight-backed chair, dressed in royal blue, hair beautifully coiffured, looked like a gargoyle. He had never actually seen a gargoyle, apart from the small one on the rainspout at St Nicholas, but surely Grandmother must be like the horrors he had read about in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Or perhaps she resembled She in Rider Haggard’s novel, the beautiful, immortal woman who shrivelled up into an ancient crone when her power was gone. Unfortunately Grandmother’s power had not, ancient crone though she was. ‘You’re looking well,’ he faltered.

  The eyes snapped back to him, as though she could read exactly what George was thinking. ‘We shall have a long talk this evening, children. You may go to your rooms.’

  The visit had begun.

  Under the pretext of purchasing new gloves, Phoebe, sick with mingled excitement, fear and desperation, had found her way to Dover Priory, the town station. She had had difficulty because Dover town was a military area, but mention of Major Charles Buckford had acted like a charm. Uncle Charles had been ripping: he had found out that Harry’s battalion of the London Regiment was leaving for the Western Front on the ninth from Dover, not Southampton, and since the Marine Station was in use for landing the wounded, Harry’s train would be coming in to the town station. So here she was.

  She had been waiting for an hour already and was relieved to see that others were there too, on what she assumed was the same mission. Then with a triumphant hoot of steam the train puffed in. From outside the station she could see troops beginning to pour along the bridge over the platforms and down on to the nearside. They were coming out, not through the booking hall but through the side gates, close to where she was standing, in order to assemble in the yard outside. She stood to one side, feeling vulnerable amid this crowd of khaki, despite her experience at the camp. At Crowborough she had been someone. Here she was just Phoebe Lilley, and the soldiers’ whistles of approval flustered rather than amused her.

  How could she hope to spot Harry amid these thousands of men? She was beginning to feel panicky at the sheer numbers milling around her. Suddenly, there he was, his familiarity startling her, as her dreams became fact.

  ‘Harry!’ Her voice came out as a croak but heads turned all the same as they lined up, packs on backs.

  Private Harry Darling, jerked from one world into another, couldn’t believe his eyes as he moved towards her uncertainly. They stood, looking at each other, until a stentorian shout recalled him to ranks. Boldly, he planted a kiss on her cheek, just missing her lips. Then another, only this time he found them. Another shout, roars of approval from his pals, and he was gone again. Leaving her happy, oh so happy.

>   Phoebe picked a wild rose from the hedgerow on her way back from the station, determined to press it in a book, as she had a flower from Ashdown Forest. She’d never forget today, never, not even when they were old and had babies of their own.

  George was sleeping peacefully. He was dreaming of Grandmother piloting a Fokker, flying further and further away from Dover, until she reached Gallipoli, whereupon she landed, took Uncle Charles’s knobkerry from the Boer War, and began to smash all Nanny Oates’ eggs. Only George could stop her. But where was he? ‘George!’ George!’ the cry went up.

  His father rushed into the room and George jerked awake. He was being called. ‘There’s an air raid warning,’ Laurence cried. ‘I should never have brought you here. Quick. Into your dressing gown and downstairs to take shelter.’

  Shelter? With a Zep around? Not likely, George thought. In five minutes he, Phoebe, Grandmother, helped down the stairs by Father, and the staff, were gathered by the cellar door. Grandmother’s hair was all down her back, and she didn’t look nearly so formidable in her dressing gown.

  She struck her stick on the ground. ‘I will not cower in my own cellar at the whim of Kaiser Wilhelm, Laurence,’ she declared. ‘You may all go, if you wish. I shall remain here.’ She took a seat by the window.

  ‘I’ll go and see what’s happening outside,’ Laurence said, anxious about her proximity to the glass.

  Seizing his chance, George rushed out after his father into the cool of the night. It was nearly half past twelve, according to the longcase clock in the hallway.

  ‘Look, Pa,’ he screamed. Searchlights were weaving and beaming arcs across the sky, lighting it up. Tim had told him that in May the anti-aircraft gunners had prevented Dover from being bombed to smithereens; they had driven the Zep inland and she had to drop her bombload over open country. Now it was happening all over again. Oh glory be!

  ‘Inside, George,’ his father ordered.

  ‘No fear,’ George yelled, daringly. ‘Look at that!’

  An enormous black shape nosed its way through the beams, engines droning. Immediately the sound of guns could be heard as the anti-aircraft batteries went into action. George hopped up and down with excitement, almost sure he saw something dropping from the Zep. And wasn’t that an aeroplane climbing in the sky as the beams moved again? Perhaps it was Tim? Even Father was so fascinated that he failed to order him inside.

  Then the Zep disappeared from view and all was quiet. The searchlights stayed on for half an hour or so but to George’s disappointment, they saw no more aeroplanes.

  Next morning they learned (from the postman, who had told the cook, who told the butler, who told them) that the Zep had been damaged by the guns and had limped home over the water. The gunners had holed her and she’d lost hydrogen. Good job too. And George had been right. An Avro had been sent up to finish the Zep off, but lost it. Dozens of bombs had been dropped in the harbour and on Admiralty Pier.

  ‘And some sailors feared dead,’ Laurence reminded them quietly, after George’s display of jubilation. ‘Shall we pray for them and for their families?’

  Ashamed, George shut his eyes, but a little part of him was still up there in the clouds. Earlier that day Tim had taken him up in a ‘trainer’. The aircraft had sung as the wind whistled through the wires, stinging his cheeks. Now he knew how the chap in the Avro had felt as he soared up after the enemy.

  ‘Where are you taking our baby?’ Miss Emily was fretful today, as indeed she was on many days.

  ‘Just to feed her, madam.’ Agnes tried to speak soothingly. In fact, it wasn’t nearly time to feed Elizabeth Agnes, but leaving her so long with a lady as old as Miss Emily didn’t seem natural somehow.

  Miss Emily had been very quiet since Miss Charlotte’s funeral, with no sign of the craziness of that awful morning, and often told her how grateful she was for all Agnes was doing to help her. She never mentioned Miss Charlotte. Agnes and Mary had packed up Miss Charlotte’s clothes and personal possessions, and had stored them in an unused room, just in case Miss Emily should ask for them. The clothes weren’t good enough for Mrs Swinford-Browne’s Belgian Relief Fund anyway. The Rectory had found a solicitor to sort out the legal complexities, and life at Castle Tillow was settling into a routine once more.

  After an hour or so, Miss Emily hobbled into the kitchen herself, a rare occurrence. Agnes was at the table rolling pastry, and Mary was in the scullery pummelling clothes under the one cold water tap, which ran through to the well.

  ‘Where is Elizabeth, Agnes?’ Miss Emily demanded. ‘You must have finished feeding her now.’

  ‘I like to see her as I work,’ Agnes replied truthfully.

  ‘It takes your mind off your work, young woman. I’ll take her. Besides, I want you and Johnson to go down to the village for me.’

  ‘With Johnson?’ Agnes was astounded; she hadn’t been asked to go to the village for months, let alone with Johnson.

  ‘He will explain to you why you are going,’ Miss Emily informed her loftily. ‘He’s just leaving. Baby will be quite safe with me.’

  Reluctantly and still puzzled, Agnes crossed the bridge, and caught Johnson up on the track leading to the village. Dressed in his usual black, he looked like a huge old crow walking between the hedges which were thick with rosebay willow-herb. A young thrush was banging a snail on the rough track, and flew up in alarm as Agnes reached Johnson’s side. They reacted quickly, birds. They had to, to look after themselves. It was instinctive.

  Instinct! Agnes stopped. ‘I’m going back.’

  Johnson stared at her. ‘Missus says the stores.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘The stores.’ His voice rose in alarm.

  ‘I’m going back, I tell you.’ She turned and ran, outstripping the old man who wavered, then started back after her.

  What had sent her flying back in this sudden unreasoning panic? Was she being stupid, or was she out of her mind with the loneliness of living so far away from everyone? Agnes burst through the front door, and was relieved to hear the sound of Miss Emily crooning to Elizabeth Agnes. She hesitated then, risking her mistress’s anger, followed the noise into the drawing room.

  Fear seized her by the throat, paralysing her for a moment. Miss Emily was crooning. She was also bending over Elizabeth Agnes’s cradle with a cushion in her hands. And that cushion was pressing down somewhere near where the baby’s head would be.

  With a shriek of terror, Agnes threw herself towards the cradle, pushing Miss Emily away and sending her toppling on to the sofa. She snatched her baby up; Elizabeth Agnes’s face was congested and slightly blue. Was she breathing? Was she in time? Instinctively Agnes blew air into her baby’s mouth to help her breathe, then staggered towards the door and freedom.

  ‘Charlotte wants her, Charlotte asked.’ Miss Emily struggled up in indignation. ‘You can’t take her away. I’m sending her to Charlotte, don’t you understand?’ The old lady’s screeches pursued Agnes, resounding in her head. ‘Stop her, Johnson. Miss Charlotte ordered it.’

  Johnson standing in the doorway, realised he was being given an order and lunged towards Agnes and the baby as she ran past him. He was old, but he was determined, and his bony hands reached out to bar her way.

  ‘Help!’ Agnes shouted as he tried to tug the baby away. Miraculously, Mary appeared. Mary didn’t like Agnes, but she decided the baby was coming to harm; there were babies at home and there were rules about babies. She heaved her considerable strength against Johnson and managed to push him over.

  Gasping with relief, Agnes rushed from the castle into the fresh air. She would never return, never, never. Was Elizabeth Agnes dead? Once outside she stopped, full of terror. As Mary caught up with her, tears were streaming down her face, and she was incapable of looking at her baby for fear.

  ‘I punched him. Went down like a ton of Mus Mutter’s bricks. Now hold her out so I can get to her,’ Mary commanded, coming into her own.

  Agnes obeyed like an autom
aton. Mary examined the baby with surprising gentleness, arranging her head and mouth to allow more air in; the congestion had already subsided and the sound of gasping hoarse breath could be heard. ‘Best get her to the doctor,’ Mary said.

  ‘No.’ Agnes was beyond reason. ‘The Rectory. I must get to the Rectory.’

  Elizabeth was in the kitchen with Mrs Dibble when the tradesmen’s door flew open and Agnes, wild-eyed and sobbing, hurtled in with Mary Tunstall behind her. ‘My baby, Mrs Lilley,’ she sobbed. ‘She tried to kill my baby.’ She held out Elizabeth Agnes. ‘She’s crazed. Is she alive?’

  Elizabeth rushed to look at the wheezing child. First things first. ‘She’s breathing, Agnes, but we’ll take her straight to Dr Marden, shall we? Mary, who is Agnes talking about?’ she asked gently. ‘Not you, of course?’

  ‘No. Johnson, ma’am?’

  ‘No,’ cried Agnes. Didn’t anyone understand? ‘Miss Emily. She’s gone willocky.’

  Horrified, Elizabeth thought through all the implications. ‘Mary, go to fetch Mr Pickering. You’ll find him in the church. Tell him I sent you. Ask him to call for PC Ifield at once and then both go up to the castle. I’ll ask Dr Parry to join them.’ Why, oh why did Laurence have to be away now? ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Mary looked frightened at the responsibility.

  ‘I’ll go, madam,’ Mrs Dibble announced firmly. ‘You come along with me, Mary. You can tell ’em what happened.’

  When Dr Parry, Joe Ifield and the Reverend Charles Pickering arrived at Castle Tillow they found Johnson sitting outside the door of the drawing room with an old sword in his hand. The room was bolted against them, and Joe had to break in through the window, leaving Johnson just where they had found him. Inside, they found Miss Emily, lying in a pool of blood, her father’s old shotgun at her side.