Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  The weather did not help. It was chilly and miserable for early June, and fortunately this somewhat distanced the discord from Caroline, since she devoted as much time as she could to reading, taking books about the woman’s suffrage movement to her room to devour, to talking to Aunt Tilly, and just thinking over the issue for herself. Always it came back to the same point: she believed in votes for women, she believed in adult suffrage for men, regardless of who they were or what they owned, but she could not be entirely convinced by the militants’ approach to suffragism. In their discussions Aunt Tilly too always came back to the same point: ‘What will be remembered in a hundred years is not Mrs Fawcett’s history of the suffrage movement, nor even Mrs Pankhurst’s, but Emily Wilding Davison flinging herself under the King’s horse at the Derby.’

  But did living in public memory justify such violent means?

  Yes, in Tilly’s view. Not in Caroline’s, and not in Father’s. Nevertheless Caroline felt she was being shown a door out of Ashden, and one she should at least open to survey the scene. She decided to ask Tilly if she could come with her to her next rally, so that she could hear the speakers. Tilly agreed instantly, provided, she added drily, she were not re-arrested by then under the Cat and Mouse Act. Of this there was apparently every chance, since, after Mrs Pankhurst’s recent re-arrest outside Buckingham Palace, the Government had decided on tough measures, issuing summons against the main suffragette leaders, raiding their headquarters time and time again, and vainly trying to suppress their newspaper The Suffragette. So much for freedom of speech.

  I want to leave Ashden, I want to stay … The conflict constantly nagged at the back of Caroline’s mind, preventing her from throwing herself enthusiastically into the preparations for the annual Rectory tennis match next Saturday, 13th June, even though the sun at last relented and condescended to reappear at intervals two days before. Somehow the sun always did shine for the Rectory tennis match, which had thereby acquired a mystique in Ashden circles. The roses, refreshed by their ration of rain, were out in full splendour on the day before the match, as Caroline, tired of the house, sneaked into the garden to read. Who, she asked herself, could be at odds with life surrounded by roses such as these, lazily sprawling over the red-brick walls, bathing the garden in perfume by night and colour by day?

  The answer appeared to be: she could. She was forced to admit that the cause of her dissatisfaction might well be the dilemma of her future, but it was exacerbated by the fact that she hadn’t seen Reggie since Rogation Sunday several weeks ago now. He was never in the Manor when she went to the library to work and somehow the usual spontaneous visits were failing to happen, though Eleanor popped round frequently enough. Daniel of course was still up at Oxford. Not that she cared about Reggie. It was a relief, she told herself, to do without his perpetual lovelorn wails about his girlfriends, and she was glad of the respite. She could write an advice column for Peg’s Paper with her experience.

  Isabel was up first. That was Caroline’s first surprise on this momentous day. Yesterday had been baking time for pies for the buffet supper at the ‘dance’ this evening, to be held on the uneven stone terrace with a band courtesy of His Master’s Voice. Meat loaves shrank in their tins as they cooked to the sound of ‘Guide me, oh my Great Redeemer’, jellies wobbled to ‘Morning has Broken’. Tradesmen scurried in and out to ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. This morning the kitchen ovens were groaning under trays of cheese straws and anchovy paste puffs. Even Percy was much in evidence for he prided himself on holding the key to the cellar – a key all too infrequently called upon for use and guarding far too little, in Caroline’s opinion. Today a real wine punch would put in an appearance, not concocted from home-made fruit wines which Percy, when in complacent mood, could be prevailed upon to make from the fruits and vegetables painstakingly gathered by the four girls and, for once, an equally enthusiastic George. Mrs Dibble was teetotal, Mr Dibble was not.

  Caroline rapidly tired of the charms of contributing to a pile of sandwiches as high as Mont Blanc, and found herself alternating between excitement and rehearsing in her head what her greeting to Reggie could be. Careless indifference might be best. Should she leave it to him to speak first? No, why should she? She didn’t care where he’d been, after all. He probably had some other poor unfortunate woman drooling at his feet now, or even – it suddenly occurred to her – be hoping to win Penelope back. Penelope had been invited for today before Reggie and she had parted, but an apologetic telephone call, answered by Aunt Tilly, had asked whether she might still come. It was some time before Caroline wondered if it might be Aunt Tilly who was the attraction, rather than Reggie. (He would be annoyed.) Penelope had obviously been right about seeing Aunt Tilly in Kings way for that, Caroline now knew, was where the HQ of the Women’s Social and Political Union was, run by Mrs Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel (though the latter operated from Paris to avoid arrest, her aunt had told her).

  By luncheon, although promoted to cake-filling, since Felicia had taken her place building Mont Blanc, Caroline was impatient to be free of the kitchens.

  ‘No Master Dabb are you, Miss Caroline?’ Mrs Dibble grunted.

  Master Dabb was the spectre held over them in their youth, a paragon of Sussex fairies particularly gifted in the kitchen and with household tasks. It was obviously the smug Master Dabb who had unwittingly inspired this suffragette fervour in her, Caroline decided, escaping thankfully. By one-thirty she was dressed in her white linen tennis skirt, and relishing the extra freedom its ankle-length gave her. The sun was blazing out after the cloudy morning and, having crammed on her old straw boater, she ran down to the gardens where Mr Dibble’s aggrieved back was pushing the heavy roller back to its home.

  At the tennis court Robert and Isabel were already winding the net up and measuring its height with an unnecessary solemnity. Mr Dibble must have mown the court too, for the fresh scent caught at Caroline’s nostrils, a summer’s gift rewarding her early arrival. Pounding feet would dissipate it all too soon.

  She summoned her sense of social duty and went to greet Patricia Swinford-Browne, sprawled on a rug surveying the scene before her with her usual irritating air of amused superiority. It wasn’t as though Patricia had much to be superior about. She was rather clumsy, her red-brown hair was heavy and unmanageable, her face was square and somewhat pugnacious (though Caroline was frequently surprised to see she never lacked partners at dances). She was, more importantly to Caroline’s mind, ungracious and self-centred. Caroline was glad when Mrs Dibble arrived to check the china table, and she had an excuse to leave her. Mrs Dibble would be in charge of the grand silver teapot inherited by Elizabeth from her mother – grand because it was large enough to have supplied the Five Thousand and was about as old.

  Agnes was coming now – escorting someone through the terrace door. Caroline shaded her eyes, and saw Penelope, stepping as if from Vogue in a white tennis dress and dashing soft hat. Aunt Tilly was going to greet her. Then, in the way things happen, everyone seemed to arrive together – everyone, that is, save Janie Marden, the doctor’s daughter.

  Looking back later, so much later, Caroline wondered whether this day could ever have happened as she remembered it, so poignant was the image of a perfect June day, the distant thud of tennis balls rhythmically thumping away the hours of that last summer. Were they all blind to its precious gift as they scraped and chirped away like grasshoppers in the summer sun? Maybe, and perhaps the only true definition of happiness was that it was untinged with longing for the past or the shadows of an unknown future. Time provided a hazy screen, like the cheesecloth and muslin rounds Mrs Dibble so carefully cut out to protect her bowls in the larder, that no unpleasant thing could mar the perfection of her work. There must have been trifling annoyances: the sun burning even through sun-bonnets, the flies that landed in the jam, the perspiration oozing down between her breasts, the low-flying gnats gathering on the terrace to join their dance when the sun had gone down. But these ha
d all been brushed aside by memory. And no wonder, she supposed.

  ‘We won, we won.’ George’s yell echoing down the years.

  ‘Well played, Felicia.’ Daniel’s careless godlike praise.

  ‘Two-love.’ Reggie’s triumphant shout. Ah, yes.

  Everyone – that is, save Janie Marden, the doctor’s daughter.

  ‘She is unable to be here,’ Tilly told Caroline. ‘That’s what I’ve come down to tell you.’

  ‘But what are we to do?’ asked Caroline in dismay. ‘We’ll be a lady short.’

  ‘I’ll play to make up your numbers.’

  ‘But –’

  Tilly laughed. ‘I do play, you know.’

  ‘It’s very good of you, Aunt Tilly.’ There was nothing else she could say. They couldn’t be one woman short, and Mother had never lifted a tennis racket in her life.

  ‘I hope I draw you.’ Reggie gallantly leapt into the breach.

  So much for wondering how to greet him. He hadn’t come near her until he saw she was busy talking to someone else. On the other hand, he hadn’t rushed up to Penelope either, Caroline noticed. He had been talking to Isabel, with whom he’d always got on well. Not as well as with her, of course. Half of her wanted to rush up to him, as she always would have done in the past. Now she felt disinclined to do so, so she took the easy way out by chatting to Philip. Poor Philip wasn’t much of a player, because of his limp, but he always gallantly made an effort – in case he wasn’t invited again, thus depriving him of the honour of seeing Caroline, Phoebe pointed out scornfully. Caroline remained chatting to him even as her father called them together for the draw for partners. Reggie was standing right by her now, albeit with a casual arm linked in Phoebe’s, and she supposed she could not ignore him any longer.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Reggie.’ Stupid, how stupid.

  ‘I’ve been here some while talking to Penelope.’

  Liar, she thought, realising with surprise he was bent on annoying her at any cost. Well, he wasn’t going to succeed.

  Daniel reached into the Rector’s proffered panama and took out one of the screws of paper. He looked at it, then up. ‘Felicia, you’re the unlucky lady who’s drawn me,’ he announced cheerfully. Unlucky? Felicia said nothing, but inwardly she danced. Christopher Denis, safe in the knowledge that his departure was only weeks away, nevertheless took his piece of paper nervously. Relief shot through him: Miss Hunney. Eleanor mentally shrugged; it could have been worse. Dr Jennings looked even more apprehensive but failed to get relief: Miss Phoebe Lilley. Dr Cuss, with whom he shared a house on Silly Lane, had forewarned him, and he consoled himself that she couldn’t ask him embarrassing questions in broad daylight on the court, or could she? Martin Cuss himself was even less fortunate: Miss Swinford-Browne. He hardly knew her, but he’d heard about her; like Dr Jennings he told himself little harm could come of a half-hour one-set match, and as he was a bad player, they’d be knocked out after one round. Or, perhaps, he thought with alarm, he should play well, in order to stay in and avoid off-court intimacy.

  Caroline’s heart seemed to be thumping extraordinarily loudly. Why on earth hadn’t she bargained for the fact that she had had a one-in-eight chance of being partnered by Reggie? As Philip picked Penelope, it increased to a one-in-three chance, then one-in-two as Robert picked Isabel (to his mixed delight for, completely overwhelmed by Isabel’s beauty as he was, it had not escaped his notice that she was a very poor tennis player). One-in-two chance … suddenly George had never seemed so attractive as a partner. Caroline saw Reggie’s hand shoot out, hesitate, and plunge, then she saw it undo the twist of paper and with a dreadful inevitability heard him announce: Caroline. Odd that she registered not Reggie’s but George’s look of horror as he realised he’d therefore be playing with Aunt Tilly. George was the least fond of all of them of Aunt Tilly, and add to that the shame of being partnered by an old maiden aunt and his cup of chagrin was complete. If only he knew, Caroline thought with some amusement, that he was playing with someone who’d been in prison, it would send his stock up at school for the next year.

  Each couple would play a set, and the winners would play each other in the semi-finals. The final would be held after the punch break early in the evening, and the dance would follow that.

  Felicia and Daniel drew to play first against Penelope and Philip, and Caroline promptly decided to help Agnes at the tea-table, since Reggie would obviously have his nose pressed to the wire to see his lost love play. Unfortunately Agnes made it clear she could manage perfectly well by herself. For a moment Caroline wondered whether to insist, thinking the girl had refused out of pride, but the thought passed, as she saw Eleanor sitting with Martin Cuss, and went to join them. From the look of adoration Robert was giving to Isabel, gracefully reclining on a pile of cushions, he needed no company either. As she passed, she caught the romantic words ‘Hard hook volley’ and wondered with whom her sympathies should lie. With neither, she decided cheerfully. Isabel would just have to grow to like tennis.

  Penelope’s long arms and legs should have made her an excellent player, yet, like Daniel, she was too haphazard in her playing. She attempted too much, and concentrated too little. Perhaps, Caroline thought, listening to the lively banter thrown across the net almost as frequently as return strokes, it was because the Penelopes and Daniels of this world might like to win, but had no need to. Whereas Felicia … she watched the graceful arch of her sister’s body and the lightning curve as her racket hurtled down so fast that Penelope did not even see the ball coming.

  Daniel looked startled. ‘Well played, Felicia.’

  Hadn’t he ever noticed before how good a player Felicia was, Caroline thought crossly. She was always good, but today she had wings to her feet and a power engine to her elbow. Her dark hair and glowing face as she sped over the court, her linen skirt flaring out, turned her into a modern-day Atalanta, racing to avoid the attentions of Hippomenes. Only Felicia wasn’t avoiding anyone.

  ‘She’s playing for Daniel,’ Eleanor whispered in Caroline’s ear. Her heart sank.

  ‘You’ve noticed?’

  ‘It isn’t difficult. It’s hopeless, of course. Daniel’s set on becoming the next Scott of the Antarctic. Or perhaps the next Livingstone. He doesn’t like the cold. Anyway, I’m afraid Ashden doesn’t loom large in his aspirations. Or –’

  ‘Felicia,’ Caroline finished for her.

  ‘I was going to say marriage. The sooner he leaves the better. I’m surprised he’s here today. I thought he’d still be carousing the end of his time in Oxford but, no, he’s managed to tear himself away for the weekend. Not, I’m afraid, for Felicia’s sake; he needed to see Father about money. I hope once he’s gone she’ll forget him.’

  ‘Felicia isn’t very good at forgetting.’

  ‘Nor Daniel at remembering.’

  Caroline was surprised at the unusually disparaging note in Eleanor’s voice. ‘Don’t you like Daniel?’

  ‘Of course I do. He’s my brother, and he’s adorable. But those whom both the gods and the world adore, tend to adore themselves rather too much, don’t you think?’

  Caroline had never heard Eleanor speak so before. Eleanor had always been Eleanor, pleasant, good-humoured and reliable. She lacked the good looks and accomplishments of her brother and, being the youngest, it occurred to Caroline for the first time that she might feel her position keenly. First Aunt Tilly, now Eleanor. She was beginning to think that as a judge of character she was less accomplished than a two-year-old.

  Daniel and Felicia won their match six-four, and unsurprisingly Isabel and Robert all too easily won theirs against Phoebe and Peter Jennings. The time had come. She chatted eagerly to Eleanor and Christopher as they walked on to the court, leaving Reggie to walk behind them – rather to Eleanor’s puzzlement. She looked at Caroline in inquiry, but she pretended not to notice.

  Reggie was a good player and she was mediocre, but nevertheless Caroline was unreasonably annoyed when he said, having w
on the toss, ‘I’ll serve first, shall I?’ It might technically have been a question, but the fact that he strode straight to the right-hand court made it clear it wasn’t. Suddenly she could appreciate all the arguments in favour of becoming a suffragette, she fumed – and missed an easy return.

  Reggie said nothing. Usually he’d have yelled: ‘Wake up, woman.’

  I hope he’s sickening for measles, she thought crossly, brushing past him without a word as they changed court. She pulled herself together, and returned Daniel’s service with a volley almost by accident, winning a surprised, ‘Not bad,’ from his lordship, her partner. She said nothing, but when he netted Eleanor’s lob she could not resist: ‘Did they teach you that shot in the OTC?’ Reggie was always talking of his Oxford Officers’ Training Corps experiences (when he wasn’t talking about women, that is).

  ‘Yes. Just like you must have learned to serve in an army canteen.’

  That was more like it. She began to warm to the game, and they won six-four. She was pleased – until she realised this meant they’d have to play in the semi-finals. Off-court Penelope congratulated her, and from her detailed analysis of their performance Caroline realised she had been observing very closely. Perhaps she was regretting her rejection of Reggie? Perhaps that was why she was here today and it was nothing to do with Aunt Tilly. Of course it must be. How could she have been so blind?

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Penelope asked, surprised, as Caroline went to walk away, convinced that she was right, and only too pleased to let them get on with it.

  ‘To the croquet lawn.’ She said the first thing that came into her head.

  ‘Aren’t you going to watch your aunt play? Here.’ Penelope patted the rug at her side, and unwillingly Caroline sat down, surprised there was still no sign of Reggie. Anyway, in fairness to poor George, she supposed she should watch his ordeal.

  Tilly’s first stroke showed George what aunts could be made of, as her serve zinged the ball across the net and past Patricia. This was as well for George was goggling so much he’d have been incapable of movement had Patricia returned the serve.