Dark Harvest

by Amy Myers

  ‘Say what you like,’ Mrs Dibble declared. ‘The Rectory’s not the same without Miss Caroline or Miss Felicia.’

  For the second time this week Laurence was holding Matins alone. It was September now and the corn harvest was still claiming many of his regular flock. Even the war respected the harvest, and the news from the front in France at least was quiet, waiting—just as the Zeppelins too had been waiting. There had only been three raids in the whole of August, but now by mid-September there had been a further five, in two cases on successive nights. There had also been a daylight raid on Margate—a sinister development. Hitherto such attentions as they had had in Kent had probably been the unintentional results of raids on London or the East Coast. It did not bode well for Dover—or Buckford House. Stray thoughts went through his mind which he tried to push out on the grounds that Matins and the Lord’s Word must have priority.

  ‘Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep … We have left undone those things which we ought to have done …’ But those unwelcome thoughts lingered.

  He did not mind being alone this morning with God. Here, in the peace of St Nicholas, surrounded by the ornaments and symbols of his calling, war could be distanced. But still it inched its way insidiously towards him, claiming all that was most dear. When Caroline first left home it had seemed of no more importance than her taking a long holiday. The Rectory was her home, whether the holiday was of weeks or months. But how could he be sure of this now? The rift between her and Reggie might drive her away for ever. She was establishing a new kind of life in London; would she ever be content to return to Ashden now that her future was no longer tied to it?

  And what would happen to Felicia? Her shyness had always set her apart from her sisters. He remembered the disaster of the finishing school, when he had rushed to Paris and found her ill through unhappiness. Her large dark eyes seemed to him full of reproach for his having endorsed his mother’s insistence that she come to this place. He knew he had made the wrong decision, and it had haunted him in his dealings with her ever since, making him acquiesce with scarcely a word when, with equal determination, she had announced her intention of going abroad. He had never truly known what Felicia was like, for shyness hid or had developed an inner strength he had never suspected. Though neither Caroline nor the press had been specific about what her work entailed, the distraught girl who could not face a group of girls her own age had marched off to the war front and won an award for gallantry.

  At least Phoebe seemed to have settled down, even though he could wish it were elsewhere than in an Army camp. She was docile, polite, enthusiastic about her job, and if her tidiness had not improved, her manners had. He could not ask for more. Isabel was home, George seemed to be devoting himself to his studies. And that left Elizabeth.

  ‘O Lord, in Thee I have trusted. Let me never be confounded.’

  It was he who had begged her to fight the war at his side when, confused that her brood of children had been suddenly weaned from her control, she had lost her way. As a result she seemed to be becoming independent of him—though not necessarily by her choosing. She still brought some of the village problems to him for she heard much that might not necessarily reach his ears. This, he acknowledged, was good for Ashden, and perhaps some day he would see it as good for them, but for the moment he wondered where the world he had known all his life was taking him.

  After Matins he left the church, intending to visit the post office before beginning his parish visiting. Before the war, there would have been breakfast to look forward to, with Elizabeth calmly reading her post. Now it had been agreed that family prayers and breakfast should be held before Matins so that Elizabeth could make an earlier start to her day.

  Glancing up Station Road as he walked by the corner, he saw Fred walking to the station with a basket of eggs, and Len Thorn swaggering up behind him. To his horror, Len jumped up behind the lad, shouting and waving his arms, obviously with the intention of frightening him. He succeeded for Fred yelled, turned round, and head-butted Len in self-defence.

  Laurence was not in time to stop Len’s retaliation. As he ran up shouting for him to stop, the basket of eggs was torn from Fred’s hand and thrown to the ground.

  ‘Is this your way of winning the war, Len?’ Laurence shouted as he reached them.

  Len stared at him insolently. ‘Accident, Rector.’

  ‘Then you will apologise to Fred for it.’

  ‘Suppose I won’t?’

  Laurence’s anger rose. ‘Blessed are the meek, Len Thorn. God didn’t send you into this world to bully others.’

  ‘That’s right. Rector. Meek little babies like my niece you’re keeping from her rightful kin.’

  What was he doing bandying words with this hooligan, Laurence thought impatiently. ‘Come to me when you want to make your peace with God, Len. Now help me pick up these eggs.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m a working man.’ Laughing, Len marched off towards the station, leaving Laurence to console Fred who was standing at his side, tears running down his face.

  ‘There’s a good dozen here not broken, Fred,’ Laurence said, picking up an envelope which had tumbled from the bottom of the basket. To his surprise he recognised Phoebe’s handwriting. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘’Tis a secret,’ Fred informed him proudly, still gulping.

  ‘Then you must keep it, of course.’ With growing perturbation, Laurence looked to see to whom it was addressed. He should have guessed, he should have known. It was to Private Harry Darling, the young man at the tennis party. ‘Don’t worry, Fred. I’ll take care of this now.’

  Laurence felt immensely depressed. Never in the old days would a young man of Len’s age have dared speak in such a fashion to the Rector. And never would his own daughter have so blatantly ignored his authority. He thought for a long time over what he should do, and finally decided he had no alternative.

  Phoebe looked at her father warily when he put his head out of the door after Rector’s Hour and asked her to come into his study.

  ‘Can you explain this?’ He handed her the letter, keeping his voice neutral.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Through no fault of Fred’s. I take it this is not the first time he has taken your letters to Tunbridge Wells for posting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And why is that, Phoebe?’

  ‘Because I knew you’d make a fuss about it.’

  ‘And why should I do that?’

  Phoebe did not reply.

  ‘I take it this is merely a letter written in friendship?’ Laurence continued.

  ‘Yes,’ she stammered.

  ‘More than friendship?’ he asked inexorably.

  ‘Yes,’ she cried again, cornered. ‘I love him, Father. Just like Caroline does Reggie, and Isabel Robert. What’s wrong about that?’

  ‘A great deal,’ he replied, even more horrified now at how blind he had been. ‘This young soldier seemed nice enough, but he has been brought up in an entirely different background to yourself. How could there be more than friendship involved?’

  ‘Background isn’t important.’

  ‘Background is very important when it differs.’

  ‘You married Mother; she wasn’t from your background.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ he said sharply. ‘There is no comparison. Your mother came from an established country family. This soldier is uneducated—’

  ‘He’s not. He was at school till he was fourteen.’

  ‘And from the East End of London. There is nothing wrong in that. But what have you in common? Nothing. How could there ever be a marriage between you, if that is what is in your mind? How could he support you?’

  ‘East Enders marry.’

  ‘Yes, and they expect a wife who can run their home. Could you? Of course not. Would you scrub steps and wash clothes? Of course, if you had been used to doing so. But you have not. Phoebe, it grieves
me to tell you this, but you must not continue to write to him or have anything more to do with him. If you do not agree I shall be forced to write myself and explain the situation.’

  ‘You can’t,’ she cried. ‘You mustn’t.’ She ran at him, pummelling him with her fists, screaming, till he was forced to sit her down. He wished he had consulted Elizabeth before speaking to her.

  At that moment he heard the front door and, hurrying out of his study, he found Elizabeth had returned. ‘Before you go upstairs, my love, Phoebe needs you.’

  Alarmed, Elizabeth rushed straight into the study.

  Much later that evening, after a strained dinner, Phoebe opened Laurence’s study door. ‘I’ve come to say that I’ll tell Harry that we mustn’t be in love any more. On one condition.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘That I can write once a month as a friend.’

  Laurence hesitated. Eventually he said, ‘God and your conscience will watch you, Phoebe.’

  In their bedroom that night he took his wife in his arms, burying his head on her breast. ‘What magic have you wrought with Phoebe, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Nothing,’ came the muffled reply against his hair. ‘Only sense …’

  Caroline realised she could delay visiting the Rectory no longer. She usually spent every other weekend in Sussex, but had invented a reason for not going last Saturday. It would be an ordeal, even though Reggie would not be there. In London she was busy discussing moving to new premises to save money, attending meetings at the Board of Agriculture now Women’s Agricultural Committees were to be fact, not just a proposal, and helping on the WSPU newspaper the Suffragette. She had been prominent in a move to get the title changed and next month, for the October issue, it would be renamed the Britannia. They were also extra busy with Mrs Pankhurst’s plans to hold a series of meetings on ‘How to Win the War’, beginning on 5th October at the London Pavilion where Dame Clara Butt would be singing again. It all helped take her mind off Reggie.

  As she boarded the train at Victoria she felt tension rising for, at Ashden, she would have to be Caroline Lilley again instead of the bright London face she had invented. She was glad that Ellen, who it had been planned should accompany her this weekend while hop-picking was on, had had to cancel because her duty rota had been changed. Ellen’s friendly observant eye would have been the last straw. Even so, she would have to face yet more sympathy from her family.

  As she began the walk down Station Road she wondered if she should stroll up to Hop House, but remembered Isabel had moved back to the Rectory. Then she saw a familiar figure walking towards her. She laughed in pleasure: Isabel wasn’t at the Rectory, she was here. Oh, how wonderful! Caroline hugged her. Of course it was wonderful to be home.

  ‘I thought you might like company.’ Isabel seemed pleased with herself.

  ‘Provided you don’t want to dash into The Towers as we pass.’

  ‘No,’ Isabel assured her. ‘And we’d better duck as we go by in case they’re weeding the front border.’

  Caroline laughed again, not so much at the idea of Edith and William ever stooping to remove a weed from their immaculately kept gardens, but because Isabel had actually made a joke. She was obviously feeling much happier than she had done on Caroline’s last visit.

  ‘How are you?’ Isabel gave her arm an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘Busy,’ declared Caroline, ‘I’m glad to say.’

  ‘It will get better. I know.’

  Caroline watched a blackbeetle inch its way to safety in the hedgerow. How could it get better? And how could Isabel know? ‘I expect so,’ she replied lightly.

  Isabel glanced at her and did not comment.

  ‘What’s new at home?’ Caroline continued.

  ‘Nothing much. George is busy sketching cartoons, and only mentions aeroplanes fifty times a day—to me, that is, not to Father—and Phoebe has suddenly settled down. She’s growing up at last. You’d never know her.’

  So nothing had changed in the Rectory in a month or more, although everything had for her. Life was still a great wall to be climbed and even God didn’t seem to be offering a helping hand to haul her up.

  Later that night Isabel crept into her room with a candle. ‘You don’t think I’m very sympathetic, do you?’ she whispered. ‘But I am.’

  Caroline lit her candle again. ‘You’ve no idea how hard it is. Every time I think of Reggie a great pain hits me. Just here.’ She indicated her stomach and chest. ‘I can’t believe it’s true. I’ll never love anyone else, and I know he loves me still, and yet he hasn’t replied to the letter I wrote.’ The misery came pouring out. ‘Oh Isabel, I abased myself, and he hasn’t even replied.’

  Isabel clung to her. ‘I know, I do know.’

  Next morning Caroline felt stronger. Family prayers and breakfast, albeit earlier than they used to be, made everything seem normal again. ‘How’s Poppy?’ she asked, helping herself to one of Mrs Dibble’s specially made muffins.

  There was a sudden silence, and she looked up. ‘I thought I’d insist she took me out this morning.’

  ‘Darling, I’m afraid—’ Elizabeth began gently.

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘She was very old, darling, and she died peacefully. We had Eleanor come and, knowing Poppy of old, that was nice. There was nothing we could do for her any more.’

  Caroline stared at her muffin which suddenly required a great deal of chewing. Poppy had come as a foal from Ashden Manor. Poppy had been with her all her life, and now she was gone. ‘Where is she? Did you—’

  ‘George and Father took her to the pets’ cemetery in the Manor Park.’

  ‘Oh.’ She tried to eat the muffin again. So that’s what she must do this morning, after seeing Nanny. She would force herself to go to Poppy’s grave.

  The park looked frighteningly familiar yet now Caroline felt a stranger. She and Reggie had spent their childhood here: there was the wild garden where they played at being Mowgli, from The Jungle Book, and there the folly where last summer Reggie had declared his mother could never prevent their marriage.

  Stop this, she told herself. At once. And she did try. Sneaking across the path that led to the Dower House, she hurried to the rhododendron woods at the far side of the park where the pets’ cemetery lay in a specially cleared enclosure. Here General Gordon, Reggie’s first gundog, and her pet rabbit Ezekiel were buried, as well as their sheepdog Ahab’s predecessor. And here was Poppy’s newly dug grave, withered flowers still on it, and a headstone carved by Fred, reading ‘Dear Poppy, Faithful Friend, 1894–1915’.

  Suddenly it was all too much. She choked, and the tears that she had not shed over Reggie came in a rush for Poppy.

  ‘Caroline!’

  She stopped at Daniel’s shout, hesitated and reluctantly walked back to him. He was being pushed in his invalid chair by a nurse. Caroline didn’t feel like talking to anybody, but talking to Daniel was preferable to conversation at the Rectory today. In the dining room her parents lamented the 40% rise in income tax announced in last Tuesday’s budget; and, if she went into the kitchen, Mrs Dibble would be lamenting the yet heavier duty on sugar.

  ‘It’ll be donkey tea and kettle bender for us, you mark my words,’ Mrs Dibble had warned Mother gloomily, a familiar threat in times of hardship, though they had never yet descended to boiling water poured over burnt toast crumbs to drink or over bread, pepper and salt to eat.

  ‘And now you can push me back,’ Daniel announced some time later.

  ‘Shall I go to find Meg?’ Caroline suggested. Daniel had dismissed the nurse on Caroline’s arrival. ‘She’s a better driver.’ How could she say she did not want to risk seeing Lady Hunney?

  ‘Please do it, Caroline.’

  Just as she had feared. Lady Hunney opened the side windows herself, as these were easier for invalid chairs. Caroline braced herself for the ordeal, then saw it was unnecessary. Lady Hunney’s face was grey, and she seemed smaller than she remembered.


  ‘Thank you for bringing Daniel back, Caroline.’

  ‘It’s wonderful news that he’s able to walk again.’ He had given her a brief demonstration on his crutches.

  ‘Not exactly the Olympics yet,’ he joked, ‘but wait till I get the tin leg.’ Then he too saw his mother’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Your father has just telephoned. The offensive has begun. Near a small hamlet called Loos. The 2nd Royal Sussex—Reginald—is there.’

  ‘The offensive started on Saturday.’ Laurence put down The Times. ‘It wasn’t the harvest we were waiting for, it was for the French armies to re-arm with new, bigger howitzers; they are nicknamed the Conquerors. Let us pray they are right, and that they put an end to the need for further battles. We’ve attacked from Arras to Ypres, and apparently have had some success. Loos has been taken already. No word of the casualties.’

  ‘All those young boys,’ murmured Elizabeth.

  ‘You must be relieved, Isabel.’ Her father smiled at her.

  ‘What about?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘That Robert is in Gallipoli, and not the Western Front. Though there’s severe fighting there too, of course.’

  ‘Of course I’m relieved.’ In truth Isabel was rather enjoying her new life at the Rectory. The status of honoured guest, instead of merely eldest unmarried daughter, was extremely pleasant.

  In the kitchen Agnes stared at her Daily Sketch. A new offensive. And Jamie might be in it. Somehow she was sure he was, if only because of the hints he’d dropped about the rest period. The censor would have cut out any mention of where he was. She would have to wait for another letter, or some clue to the 7th Sussex being in action. She felt sick.

  ‘What’s it say, Agnes?’

  The use of her Christian name alerted her to the fact that Mrs Dibble had something on her mind. Of course, Joe—a territorial in the 5th Sussex.