by Amy Myers
Well, if she couldn’t ask the bees, she would ask God. She had been praying every night for news; perhaps He wanted her to do something herself. But what?
Suppose Harry had leave and he and Phoebe were together somewhere? That was the most likely explanation, in her view. Somehow she couldn’t see Phoebe going to France. But where was she, if not in Stepney? Or suppose Harry were ill or wounded?
Caroline thought this over again: if not in Stepney … The police had called there and had been told that she wasn’t there. But if Phoebe was determined not to be found that’s what they would be told. The police would not have searched the house, and in any case Phoebe might have been out.
Caroline was suddenly convinced—his family must know where Harry was, and where Harry was, it was probable Phoebe was too. It was Saturday, a half day, and she decided to postpone her visit to Ashden for a few hours and go to Stepney instead.
With its rows of small terraced houses, each with its neat white doorstep Stepney was a new land to her. But the clothes of the children playing hopscotch on the pathway would have revealed its poverty even had Caroline not known about it from Sylvia Pankhurst’s work in the area.
Consulting once again the address which she had written down on a piece of paper, she found number twenty-two Dakin Street, and knocked tentatively on the front door. Inside she could hear a child crying and for a while nothing happened. Then the door was opened by a little girl who peered curiously round it.
‘Is Mrs Darling in, please?’
Caroline realised that in her tailored suit and felt hat she must look like Authority. The door was slammed in her face though not apparently as a rebuff, since after a few moments a small bird-like woman opened it once more. She didn’t open it wide, though, nor invite her in.
Caroline decided on shock tactics. ‘I’ve called to ask how your son is, Mrs Darling.’
‘Poorly.’ The answer was sharp, suspicious.
‘I’m Phoebe Lilley’s sister.’ At least she had been right about something being wrong with Harry.
‘Who?’
‘I think you know her, don’t you, Mrs Darling? I don’t want to interfere, I just want to know she’s all right so that I can tell Father. He and Mother are very worried, and think she may have gone to France.’
‘To France?’ The woman was clearly taken aback. ‘Why’s that then?’
‘To look for your son.’
‘’E’s not in France. ‘E’s here. Shooter’s ’ill.’
Why on earth hadn’t they thought of that at the beginning? And Shooter’s Hill military hospital—of course that’s where he’d be. ‘Is Phoebe staying nearby? I’ll go there, if you give me the address. I only want to see her, not drag her away.’
‘You’d better come in.’ The woman led her into the downstairs living room, crowded with photographs, with a musty smell from the fire where a batch of kitchen rubbish had just been placed. The little girl was banished to the kitchen beyond, and the door firmly shut. ‘’Arry is bad,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s that gas. Wicked it is. Phoebe and me, we take it in turns. She’s living ’ere, not there.’
Where? Caroline wondered. In this tiny house?
‘She sleeps down here on the sofa. She don’t make a fuss, for all she’s a lady. Real fond of ’Arry, she is.’ Mrs Darling looked defiant.
Caroline looked at the photograph of Harry on the mantelpiece, sporting his newly acquired uniform. ‘Is he your only son?’ she asked gently.
‘No, there’s Tom. ’E’s out there an’ all. And there’s young Danny. Can’t wait to go ’isself, for all ’e’s only twelve. Lucky ’is dad’s forty-five, or ’e’d be off too. And what we’d do then, God only knows. You’d best wait, miss. Miss Phoebe’ll be back soon.’
Caroline waited for two hours, knowing she was in the way, but determined to stay until Phoebe returned. She was overcome with relief. Phoebe was safe.
At last there was a knock on the door.
‘That’s ’er,’ Mrs Darling said, jumping up. ‘That’s ’er special knock.’
Seeing the fear leap into Mrs Darling’s face, Caroline felt ashamed that her thoughts had been for Phoebe alone. This woman’s son was lying in hospital, gravely ill, and Phoebe would be bringing news of him. At first Caroline hardly recognised her sister as Phoebe came in. She looked thinner, older, and the pink cheeks had paled into sallowness.
Caroline stood up to greet her sister, suppressing her emotions until she had gauged what was wrong with her. But Phoebe showed no surprise or pleasure at her presence, nor even registered that there was anything odd about seeing Caroline here.
‘What’s wrong, lovie?’ Mrs Darling asked sharply.
Phoebe drew a deep trembling breath. ‘He’s dead, Mrs Darling. Oh, Caroline, he’s dead.’
She burst into tears, and hurled herself into her sister’s arms.
‘Laurence, Phoebe’s been found. She’s safe.’ The door of the study flew open and Elizabeth burst in, tears pouring down her face.
Laurence closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, Lord. Thank you.’
‘She was at Mrs Darling’s all the time.’
He groaned in exasperation for not having thought of this himself.
‘Caroline found her. That soldier friend of Phoebe’s was in the Shooter’s Hill military hospital and she’s been staying with his parents.’
‘When is Caroline bringing her home?’
‘She says she’s not.’
‘Then I must.’ He attempted to move, but his legs and arms seemed to be refusing to obey his instructions.
‘Caroline begs you not to. That poor man has died, and Phoebe’s very upset. She wants to stay until the funeral and then come home. And Caroline suggests that you might wish to take the funeral.’
The East End of London seemed an unimaginable distance away. The whole idea was impossible.
‘It would mean a lot to Phoebe, Caroline says,’ Elizabeth added, watching him.
‘After what she has done to you, Elizabeth?’
‘She is safe, Laurence. That’s the main thing. If you took the funeral service, it might help us to understand her.’
Even the prospect of walking to the station seemed unthinkable—that hot, dusty unending road.
‘Is anything wrong?’ Elizabeth’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.
‘I’m not feeling very well,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t seem able to move.’
‘You’ve a chill. I’ll ask Mrs Dibble for the nux vomica.’
‘I’m hot, not cold.’
She came over to him, felt his forehead, and said in concern, ‘You have a fever.’
He put up his hand to follow hers and she exclaimed again, ‘Spots. You’ve a rash. And look at your neck.’
Laurence took off his jacket and waistcoat and undid his shirt. He could see it himself. An ugly red rash. Already he was beginning to itch.
‘It’s chicken pox!’ Elizabeth cried in dismay. ‘Oh, Laurence, you’ve got chicken pox. And your mother is arriving next Thursday.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mrs Dibble tried to burst into seasonal Advent song. ‘Hills of the North, rejoice …’ But her efforts soon petered out. Whatever the hills of the north might have to sing about, she, Margaret Dibble, had little to rejoice over.
‘What’s to become of us, Percy, I don’t know.’ She had to talk to someone, and speaking to Myrtle was beneath her. Agnes, who was nursing the Rector, was in semi-quarantine, although she paid fleeting visits to the kitchen now and again. She was a lucky one, she was, Mrs Dibble thought grimly. She didn’t have to grapple with the recent comings and goings. ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand.’ She sighed. ‘And the Rectory, of all places.’
‘But it is still standing.’ Percy was engrossed in his Saturday morning egg.
‘Bricks and mortar, maybe,’ his wife retorted darkly.
‘The Rectory’s built on rock.’ Percy had a sudden flash of inspiration.
‘Wealden cla
y.’ It was Mrs Dibble’s turn to be literal.
‘And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.’
‘Mayhap you’re right, Percy. Mayhap. Seems to me more like the rocks are melting one by one, like that bloke with the elephants.’
‘Elephants?’ Percy looked up, puzzled.
‘Poured vinegar on them.’
‘On the elephants?’
‘The rocks, Percy.’ Her exasperation returned. ‘The Alps. And vinegar’s what we’ve had all too much of here, ever since she came.’
In Mrs Dibble’s view things were going from bad to worse. Miss Caroline, who was only here for the weekend, would be going back to London tomorrow evening and then there’d be just Mrs Lilley, George, and Her Ladyship again—the Rector being shut away in quarantine upstairs for a good while yet, so the doctor said. And there was a storm brewing between the Kitchen, as Mrs Dibble liked to term herself, and Her Ladyship. When Mrs Lilley had suggested to Her Ladyship she took her meals separately in case she caught chicken pox, the mistress hadn’t thought about how it would affect the kitchen. Twice the amount of work, and her having to do the serving herself. She couldn’t leave it to Myrtle—she’d have the gravy all over Her Ladyship in a trice, and then the balloon would go up.
And then there were Pecksniff and that Miss Lewis, otherwise known to Master George as Count Dracula and Moaning Minnie. Mrs Dibble had chuckled to herself when she heard that. At mealtimes, Peck looked as though the food the good Lord and Mrs Dibble provided was not good enough for the likes of him, and Miss Lewis who, in her mistress’s presence, was all yes your ladyship, and no your ladyship, was complaints and wails in the servants’ hall. Not that the Rectory’s old comfortable chairs and sofas constituted a servants’ hall in their High and Mighties’ opinion. After a few days she and Percy had taken to eating in the kitchen with Myrtle.
Mrs Dibble eyed the mixture in the bowl before her. Once there had been many hands to stir the Christmas pudding mix: Joe, Lizzie, Miss Caroline, Miss Phoebe—now there was only her.
At that moment the kitchen door opened and Caroline put her head in.
‘I heard it was time for pudding stirring,’ she announced. ‘I can’t let the Three Wise Men think they’re not being honoured.’
‘Never could resist a few currants, could you, Miss Caroline?’
Mrs Dibble tried not to show how pleased she was.
‘Nor sultanas.’ Caroline took up the wooden spoon with great ceremony, and poised it over one of the three basins.
‘Three times round for the Wise Men,’ Mrs Dibble instructed unnecessarily. ‘Then shut your eyes and wish.’
Caroline shut her eyes obediently and forced the spoon round in the heavy mixture.
‘I am sorry to see you taking up kitchen work, Caroline.’
Aghast, Mrs Dibble looked up to see the unthinkable: the Dowager Lady Buckford had entered her kitchen without so much as a by your leave. Even Mrs Lilley knocked in courtesy before she entered.
‘I’m stirring the Christmas pudding,’ Caroline replied brightly, seeing the ominous signs of war on Mrs Dibble’s face. ‘Would you like a stir?’
‘I would not, Caroline. You may leave. I have come to speak to the cook.’
‘About what, your ladyship?’ Mrs Dibble donned her most wooden expression and Caroline, remained where she was.
‘I have decided to prepare a broth for my son,’ her grandmother stated. ‘He is not receiving enough nourishment.’
Mrs Dibble bristled. ‘He does not like broth, your ladyship. But if you insist, I will prepare one.’
‘I shall prepare it myself.’
Mrs Dibble nerved herself for battle. ‘Not in my kitchen, madam.’ There it was, out. Said. Done. When old Boney comes straight at you, all you can do is prepare for Waterloo.
Grandmother paused. ‘I understood you are a servant here.’
‘Mrs Dibble is our valued cook and housekeeper, Grandmother, and fully capable of nursing Father,’ Caroline intervened.
‘You too are willing to jeopardise your father’s recovery?’
‘Father is recovering excellently.’
‘I do not believe in discussion before servants. Your father shall hear of your behaviour, and this cook’s.’
‘If you wish, Grandmother. But it would be more suitable to complain to my mother. She runs this household.’
‘I see few signs of it.’
It was Mrs Dibble’s turn to intervene. ‘Mrs Lilley’s who I answer to, madam, and that’s that. And now, if you’ll both excuse me, the Rector’s waiting for his egg.’
After her Pyhrric victory, Mrs Dibble made herself a cup of tea and sat down. Never in all her years at the Rectory had she made one mid-morning. Today she needed it. She had had a shock. Over the years the house had had plenty of cuckoos in its nest in the way of guests, yet somehow life had gone on as normal. Now, well, she shouldn’t say it of the Rector’s mother, but there were three black crows here, bent on taking over: Her Ladyship, Dracula, and Minnie the Moaner.
Mrs Dibble squared her shoulders. If the Germans hadn’t succeeded in conquering her domain, no mere ladyship was going to.
He would go mad closeted in this room much longer, Laurence thought to himself, as he wondered what mischief his mother was wreaking on his family. He had few clues. Elizabeth was loving, but he sensed the strain. Nothing was said overtly but, on the other hand, no one spoke to him naturally any more. They all spoke soothingly as though to a petulant child.
To a limited extent, Agnes was his companion, but he couldn’t ask her what was going on point-blank. When she brought his meals in, she sat with him while he ate, talking of this and that; sometimes she talked too while she cleaned his room. When he asked if family prayers were still being said, she guessed that what he really wanted to find out was whether his mother was attending them and worse, if she was insisting on reading them. The answer had been no on both counts: her ladyship held separate prayers for herself and her own servants. Did this relieve or perturb him? He did not know; he only wanted to be back in harness again and to take control of the Rectory’s affairs.
‘Is all well,’ he had asked, ‘in the servants’ hall with the extra work?’ Even he and Elizabeth had adopted Mrs Dibble’s rather grandiose name for the comfortable, though far from elegant, room to which the servants repaired in their free time.
Agnes had been circumspect. ‘There’s a war on, sir.’ And with that he had to be content.
Laurence’s only other visitor was Dr Parry. To his surprise, he did not find it in the least disconcerting to be attended by a woman doctor. In fact, he looked forward to her bi-weekly visits, although he was somewhat concerned for her safety, despite the curious mask she wore yashmak-style across her face.
‘Are you immune to catching this ridiculous disease?’ he enquired, looking in distaste at the scabs which were now falling off rapidly.
‘I’m immune to everything,’ she answered lightly. ‘Another three or four days and you may re-enter the world. I’ve brought some zinc lotion for your new tender skin.’
Why, of all the people in this house, Laurence fumed, had it to be him who caught chicken pox? A rector needed to be seen, to be available, not hiding in one room. It was ironic that he had so often longed for the opportunity to read through the recent revised edition of Whiston’s translation of the complete works of Flavius Josephus, and now it had come, it was proving a dull companion.
Today was his seventeenth birthday! At least, George exulted, he had reached an age when he might begin to have some control over his life. Another two years before the Army would take him under the Derby Scheme, a year before the Royal Flying Corps. Officially, that is. Amongst his birthday post there had been an interesting-looking letter, and he couldn’t wait to get breakfast over to see what it was. Father’s eagle eye would have noticed it, but Mother was less observant. Nowadays anyway. Fortunate
ly the Howitzer, as he called his grandmother, didn’t have breakfast downstairs. Moaning Minnie took it up to her, now that Mrs Dibble had declared war. Not before time in George’s opinion.
A lowering cloud now hovered over the house, partly because of Father being in quarantine, but mainly because of Grandmother. It wasn’t even so much what she said and did, though that was bad enough, but it was the effect she had on everyone around her. Still, he brightened up, surely even Grandmother couldn’t ruin his birthday luncheon.
He ripped open the envelope in the privacy of his room, and caught his breath as he saw the letter heading: Punch. He read on incredulously. They had been given his address by his printers, and had he any more cartoons like the postcard they had recently seen? Punch was actually asking him; he’d never dared approach them. ‘They would be grateful if he could call at his convenience to discuss the matter.’ Be grateful. He hugged the words to himself in excitement.
Birthday luncheon followed a ritual and, as usual, he had been allowed to choose the menu: rabbit pie and mash. Caroline had made a face, but he had insisted. It was his birthday, after all. He’d been hoping Eleanor would come, but she was ‘on duty’, she explained. He hardly ever saw her now; she always seemed to be on duty, and her visits to the Rectory, which had been as familiar to the Hunney children as Ashden Manor, were few and far between. Still, as a consolation prize he was taking her to a picture palace in Tunbridge Wells next week, to see not only a Charlie Chaplin film but Mary Pickford as well. Not that he thought much of Mary Pickford, all curls and round eyes. He liked girls like Eleanor, whom you could talk to almost as if she were a chap. It wasn’t fair that she was a few years older than him. He had a suspicion she didn’t see him as a man at all. Just wait till he was flying aeroplanes in the RFC or RNAS.
