by Amy Myers
‘No one informed me that you would be here, Matilda,’ Lady Buckford said ‘Naturally I would have arranged to stay with Charles, had I known.’
‘No one told me either,’ Tilly replied. Then, to Caroline’s admiration, she added, ‘However, the Rectory is large enough for both of us.’
‘It appears that Buckford House was insufficiently large for you, Matilda, so why should the Rectory prove otherwise?’ Lady Buckford regarded her daughter’s clothes with a disdainful eye. ‘I hear you are a nurse.’
‘No. I drive motor cars and carry luggage,’ came the swift reply. Nurses could be considered socially acceptable; transporting mutilated men from the mud of Flanders would not.
Grandmother did not comment, and Caroline and Tilly escaped to their room upstairs.
‘She’s like something out of the Great Exhibition of ’51,’ Caroline exploded. ‘A monstrous invention of the Victorian age. The household’s been upside down for weeks. I’m so sorry. You will stay, though?’
Tilly laughed. ‘Since Simon is galloping down here like St George, I can hardly leave him to be devoured by the dragon alone.’
‘Good. It will be like Christmas after all with you and Felicia here.’
‘Do you think Felicia has changed?’
‘She appears stronger somehow—and thinner, of course. I’m beginning to think Edith Cavell must have been very like her. Did you know her?’ Caroline asked, momentarily deflected from Felicia.
Although Edith Cavell’s execution in October had attracted only a brief mention in the newspapers, public outrage had gradually grown, and her last words to the British chaplain were quoted everywhere: ‘Patriotism is not enough.’
‘Her training school for nurses was in occupied Brussels, and so I never met her. But I do know she played a central role in the organisation which helped hundreds of British soldiers stranded or wounded behind the lines after Mons to reach the Dutch border, where they could return home. It wasn’t just Edith Cavell who was arrested, you know. The whole organisation was betrayed, and thirty-five stood trial. I think nine were acquitted but five received the death sentence. Edith Cavell and Philippe Baucq were shot immediately but, because of the outcry, the Kaiser, so it’s said, ordered that no more women should be executed. There are still clandestine groups operating in Brussels, I hear. Anyway,’ Tilly added, ‘you are right, Caroline. Felicia has Edith Cavell’s steel.’
‘And you too.’
‘No, I could turn my hand to anything, munitions, woodchopping or embroidery if it were for the war effort. Felicia is different. She has the steadfastness of a nun.’
Caroline was horrified at the comparison. Beautiful Felicia, with all the love she had to bestow, locked away in a convent? Surely God must have some other purpose for her.
‘I can’t understand it. Isabel has telephoned to say she’s decided to stay at Hop House.’ Elizabeth was greatly upset. ‘And that she’ll merely come here for Christmas Day. Naturally I told her not to be so foolish.’
‘When is she coming, then?’ Caroline hid her trembling fingers in the folds of her skirt.
‘I persuaded her to come late tomorrow evening. For the midnight service.’
So that was when she would have to face her. What would she say? It did not help that Isabel was obviously feeling as bothered as she was about their meeting. Caroline had decided that the only way of surviving Christmas was to attempt to push the sordid, ugly image of Isabel with Reggie into the back of her mind. She must tell herself that Beth Parry had been right and that was not love she had witnessed.
On Christmas Eve, Tilly and Felicia elected to go Christmas shopping in Tunbridge Wells in Tilly’s old Austin, which had made a proud reappearance from the stables where it had been housed in her absence. Caroline did not go with them. Perhaps in the kitchen, helping Mrs Dibble with mince pies and stuffings, some semblance of the joy of Christmas might come to her. In the entrance hall the Christmas tree, parcels already heaped beneath it, seemed to mock her. Last evening she and Felicia had decorated it with baubles and garlands they had made themselves and cherished over the years. Two lantern-shaped decorations had even been created out of an old Bradshaw railway timetable, its pink printed pages giving a decorative touch. Yet somehow even the shiny gold and silver stars could not succeed in making the tree look other than forlorn and tawdry.
As soon as Caroline entered the kitchen, she could see something was wrong.
‘My mince pies,’ declared Mrs Dibble without preamble, ‘are real mince pies.’
‘Of course,’ Caroline soothed.
‘They don’t need brandy in them.’
‘Of course not.’
‘My recipe’s been good enough for the Rectory for over twenty years.’
‘I love your mince pies.’
‘That Peck was sent to tell me to put brandy in the mincemeat.’
Caroline’s heart sank. Not another battle in the Campaign for the Kitchen.
‘She’d sent him out to buy a whole bottle of that Napoleon brandy. The devil’s drink. I won’t put up with it and that’s that.’
‘Quite right, Mrs Dibble. I’ll have a word with Mother.’
Mince pies were a serious matter. If Mrs Dibble refused to make them, they could not eat their ritual mince pie a day during the Twelve Days of Christmas, and that meant ill-luck for the year. Caroline found her mother, who was sitting in her outside ‘boudoir’ despite the poor heating, and told her what was happening.
Elizabeth was perturbed. The smooth organisation of the Rectory was being threatened at one of the most important times of the year. She took a deep breath.
‘She’s in the morning room, Caroline. Let’s go together, but leave me to do the talking.’
Grandmother was sitting at the desk writing letters. She looked up when Elizabeth and Caroline came in.
‘It is good of you to buy the brandy, Lady Buckford,’ Elizabeth began, ‘but we can’t ask Mrs Dibble to go against her principles.’
‘She is a servant, Mrs Lilley,’ was Grandmother’s reply. ‘These mince pies are for the family. Do you expect me to make them myself?’
‘No, but Miss Lewis is welcome to make a special batch of pies for you, provided Mrs Dibble agrees to the use of her kitchen.’
‘Louise is a lady’s maid. Not a cook.’
Elizabeth could not resist it. ‘She is a servant, Lady Buckford.’
Caroline held her breath. ‘My son shall hear of this,’ was her grandmother’s only reply.
‘No doubt. This is my concern, however, and I make it a policy not to disturb him at his work.’
‘So it would seem from the way this house is run.’
Elizabeth gasped in disbelief at this attack. ‘I would remind you you are a guest under our roof.’
‘One with eyes, Mrs Lilley.’
‘No,’ Elizabeth retorted quietly. ‘There you are mistaken. You have no eyes to see, only to perpetuate your own bigotry.’
By ten o’clock on Christmas Eve there was still no sign of Isabel. Once everyone knew Grandmother was keeping to her rooms, dinner had been enjoyable. Phoebe and George were in ebullient form, Felicia was glowing with happiness and Tilly had driven up to meet Simon at the railway station. The only fly in the ointment of peace was Father, who looked rather puzzled to see his mother missing and announced his intention of visiting her after supper.
If only Isabel were not coming at all, Caroline felt she could enjoy Christmas.
She dressed with care for the coming carol service, in a new dark blue velveteen gown with a full skirt, and a warm wrap over it. After all, the Eucharist proclaimed the beginning of Christmas, and a large part of the village would be packed into St Nicholas. Reggie would be there. With this unwelcome thought in her mind, she descended the staircase—and there was Isabel. She had been expecting it, of course, but shock still ran through her.
‘Hello, Isabel.’ Strange how normal her voice sounded.
Isabel gave a theatrical start.
‘Goodness, how you startled me. Oh, Caroline, you do look nice.’
The worst was over.
When the Rectory party arrived at the church, the choir was already singing. Caroline walked straight up the aisle with the rest of her family, avoiding even a glance at the Hunney pew. The Norville pew would be unoccupied of course—or so she thought, until she realised Grandmother was no longer with them.
Looking around, Caroline saw Lady Buckford, Peck and Miss Lewis sitting in state in the Norville pew. Then she understood. Lady Hunney would be sitting in the Hunney pew with Sir John. By taking over the rival pew, Grandmother was making a bid for power.
Try as she might, Caroline could not resist turning to look at the Hunneys’ seats. Lady Hunney and Sir John were there of course; so were Daniel and Eleanor. But Reggie was not.
I must have no bitterness, Caroline reproved herself. Not tonight. But, as she sat between Mother and Phoebe, every inch of her was aware of Isabel just a few feet away and, as her father began the Communion: ‘Because thou did give Jesus Christ, thine only son, to be borne this day for us …’ she found herself unable to forgive her sister.
On the way home she walked ahead, but Isabel soon caught up with her. Surely, Caroline thought in agony, she wouldn’t talk about it? On the contrary, Isabel seemed determined to do just that.
‘I’m sorry you came in that moment,’ she said.
Caroline cringed at the memory. ‘The door was open.’
‘It was stupid of us. You see, Caroline,’ the large blue eyes fixed on her earnestly, ‘Robert is so far away. I haven’t seen him since July, and goodness knows when I will again.’
Caroline stared at her. ‘What difference does that make?’
‘Every difference.’ Isabel managed to sound indignant. ‘You don’t understand. You’re not married. There are needs.’
What about my needs, Caroline thought. ‘And Reggie?’ She could hardly get his name out.
‘He too,’ Isabel answered in a low voice. ‘The trenches, you see.’
‘But he loves me, Isabel. I know he does, despite what happened between us. Did that not affect your “needs”?’
‘He’s been so lonely since you broke it off—’
‘Me?’
‘Refusing to do the one single thing he asked—’
‘Stop it, Isabel!’ Caroline’s voice was so sharp that Isabel obeyed instantly. How could you live all your life with someone and not know them, she wondered. She and her sisters and brother had been brought up with the same set of beliefs and values. She had tried to hold on to them, and had assumed Isabel did the same. How very foolish of her.
Mrs Dibble put her feet up on Christmas afternoon with some satisfaction. All in all, it hadn’t been too bad. And her real mince pies had gone down a treat! It was nice to have Muriel and Lizzie here, and the children. Agnes had gone home to her parents, but Peck and Miss Lewis had stayed on with them.
To her amazement, Peck was playing with the children, Fred had joined in, and Miss Lewis had shown an unexpected flair for banging out music hall songs on the old piano, in which they all joined. Irreverent, even vulgar perhaps, on a holy day, but they sang a carol or two as well to make up for it.
Muriel was looking happier too. She heard from Joe regularly—so regularly, in fact, that she reckoned he was not in the fighting line. ‘He says he might even get leave soon.’ Leave. That would be good. They were always hearing about it but it never seemed to happen.
Only one thing bothered Mrs Dibble. Lizzie was oddly quiet. Perhaps she’s regretting moving in with that Mr Eliot, she thought smugly, and missing Rudolf. One letter in over a year she’d had; it had been smuggled out by a friend sent to Switzerland on duty, and dropped in at the British Embassy. Nothing since last November. ‘He’ll be back, you mark my words,’ her mother said severely to her over the washing up, ‘and then what will you do? When folks tell him? And they will, believe me.’
Lizzie did not reply, and Mrs Dibble looked at her sharply. ‘What’s wrong, my girl? That hop man working you too hard?’
‘No, Ma.’ Lizzie’s voice trembled. ‘You’ll have to know sooner or later, I suppose. I’m expecting.’
‘You’re what?’ Mrs Dibble sat down heavily on a chair, the dish mop still in her hand.
‘Don’t look like that,’ Lizzie pleaded. ‘I’m pleased, really I am.’
‘Pleased?’ her mother cried. ‘To be having a bastard?’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Did he force you? I told Percy that’s what he’d do.’
‘No, Ma, he didn’t. It’s not his fault I’m expecting.’
‘That it should come to this,’ Mrs Dibble moaned, rocking to and fro.
Lizzie was quiet. She couldn’t believe it when Dr Parry told her what was wrong with her. After so long with Rudolf, she didn’t think she could start a baby at all, let alone so easily.
‘Don’t look so gloomy, Ma. It’s Christmas.’
‘If it weren’t, my lass, I’d turn you out here and now. Bringing disgrace on me and the Rectory. Lizzie Dibble, how could you?’
‘Stein, ma. My name’s Stein.’
‘You forgot that, my girl. Not me.’
Laurence changed into his cap and bells costume, the traditional one he always wore for the ritual game of ‘Family Coach’ on Christmas afternoon, though this was far from a normal Christmas. It was true that all his family was gathered together, but the atmosphere was strained. They had invited the Hunneys to join them for Christmas afternoon as a formality, hardly expecting them to come. Instead, to poor Caroline’s obvious horror, shortly after luncheon, not only Sir John but Lady Hunney, Daniel, Eleanor and Reggie had arrived. What could he do? He could hardly turn them away.
Now it was time for the ‘Family Coach.’ Lady Hunney had never joined in the game, and he could not envisage his mother doing so. The tradition had been inherited from Elizabeth’s family, not his. However, he decided, now that it had become a Rectory tradition, it should be played by all, no matter who was here. Luncheon had passed off reasonably amicably, thanks, he acknowledged, to Phoebe.
When the Christmas pudding had been borne into the darkened room with due ceremony, flaming its blue alcoholic flames, his mother had commented, ‘I see your cook has liberally sacrificed her scruples so far as this pudding is concerned; it is a pity that mince pies are not accorded the same status.’
‘Oh, but Grandmother,’ Phoebe had broken in immediately, wide-eyed with apparent shock. ‘On a Christmas pudding the alcohol has religious significance. Didn’t you know that?’
Laurence jangled his bells in private satisfaction as, attired to begin the game, he made his entrance into the drawing room to cheers from his family and even louder ones from Daniel and Reggie. Especially Reggie. Probably he felt awkward being here, in view of his treatment of Caroline in August, though that didn’t quite explain the odd signals Laurence’s intuition was receiving. He noticed that his mother, who had chosen the most uncomfortable chair in the room, took no part in the cheering.
‘Today, our subject is—’ he paused, as his audience waited expectantly. ‘The Mistletoe Bough.’ Cheers and claps.
Phoebe ran to the piano and began to bang out the old Victorian song.
‘This afternoon our text is drawn,’ Laurence continued in his most pompous voice, ‘from Mr Thomas Haynes Bayly’s scholarly study of the mediaeval verbal treatise on the lamentations of young Lord Lovel upon the disappearance of his beauteous bride in a game of hide and seek during the celebrations following their nuptials; and, after many years wandering the world, of his discovery of her skeleton in an old chest.’
‘The mistletoe hung in the castle hall …’ bawled Phoebe at the piano.
‘Later,’ Laurence pontificated, ‘when the house is dark and quiet and full of secrets, we shall examine the mysterious disappearance of the fair bride and the dramatic search that then took place.’ (‘Oh!’ groaned his audience.) ‘Meanwhile, we shall consider the jour
ney of the happy bridal party to the castle, unaware of the ghastly tragedy that will ensue.’ (Indrawn hiss of excitement from his flock.) ‘Had there been mishaps along the way that they should have noted as omens of disaster to come?’ (‘There had,’ Caroline shouted.) ‘Let the journey begin!’ Laurence cried. ‘Mother, you play the coachman. You and Lady Hunney and Daniel are excused from jumping up. Just wave your hands in the air.’
He held his breath, half expecting his mother to walk out of the room, but his gamble paid off. She hesitated, then barked out: ‘Kindly inform me what this entails.’
He had reasoned to himself that his mother could not refuse to lie for she had no means of knowing what Lady Hunney would do. If Lady Hunney agreed, Lady Buckford would look churlish, and Lady Hunney could now not refuse for the same reason.
Much relieved; he gave everyone else a part. (‘Bags I the wheels,’ George shouted). Once the bride, her father, her mother, the little bridesmaid; the footman; the horses; the doors and the baggage had all been distributed; and he had explained to Lady Buckford that on any mention of the word ‘coachman’ she must wave her hands in the air (in lieu of leaping up and turning round) the game started.
By the time the family coach had run through an hour of vicissitudes and finally rattled triumphantly over the drawbridge into Lord Lovel’s castle, the entire company was exhausted, and a harmonious atmosphere reigned. It even wafted around Lady Buckford—partly because Laurence had cheated and allowed her to stay in the game long after her slow reactions should have knocked her out.
‘Though we cannot know what lies before us. Lord, as our coach rattles into the future,’ Laurence concluded with his usual brief prayer, ‘grant that Thy grace which is with us now may strengthen us in the darkness outside and be a lantern to guide us to Thy everlasting light.’
Felicia drew the role of bride for the hide and seek that followed the game from the screws of paper in her father’s panama. She went to change into an old cream wedding dress from the dressing-up trunk and then disappeared to look for a place to hide. A few rooms had been declared out of bounds: Grandmother’s was one, Mrs Dibble’s stillroom another, and the servant’s hall and bedrooms were all inviolate. That still left a large part of the Rectory, not to mention the outbuildings.
