Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  ‘Quite a lady, your aunt.’ Penelope observed.

  ‘She is indeed.’ Caroline proceeded cautiously.

  ‘She said she’ll take me to London. You too?’

  Caroline stiffened in amazement. ‘Are you interested?’

  ‘Very. You remember the uproar last week when the debutante livened up her presentation at court by curtseying to the King and crying out, “Your Majesty, stop forcible feeding”?’

  ‘Of course.’ The whole of England knew about it, and mostly deplored the girl’s outrageousness.

  ‘She’s a good friend of mine, and a very brave soul. They say her mother fainted. I rather like Lady Blomfield, so I sympathise, but we can’t have our opinions ruled by our parents, can we?’

  ‘I can’t imagine your parents having much success,’ Caroline said frankly.

  ‘No. I’ve been spoiled by my father, because my mother’s long dead,’ Penelope announced cheerfully. ‘My aunt brought my brother James and me up and promptly left us there. James has vanished into the Army and here I am.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Caroline tried to imagine life without her own mother, the backbone of the Rectory, and could not. ‘Doesn’t your father worry, though, and try to marry you off?’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare try. I don’t see any advantage in marrying at all, save for children, and that’s not everyone’s burning ambition. I told Reggie so.’

  ‘He was very upset,’ Caroline replied, taken aback at this frank exposition.

  ‘Vanity. You’ll never make a suffragette if you feel so compassionate towards the enemy.’

  ‘But if women are equal to men, then they must acknowledge men hurt as we do, surely, and we should be as considerate to their feelings as they to ours.’

  Penelope grinned. ‘Conquer the enemy, then show compassion – with your boot on his chest.’

  ‘I can see why you’ll make a good suffragette. I wouldn’t like to be a policeman unchaining you from the railings.’

  Reggie chose this inopportune moment to stroll up self-consciously. ‘I brought you ladies some lemonade.’

  ‘Oh, Reggie, how chivalrous,’ Penelope squeaked in mock gratitude, winking at Caroline. Reggie noticed and flushed angrily, just as a tennis ball pinged at the wire fence in front of them. So he was still keen on Penelope. Well, Caroline wasn’t going to wait to be an unwelcome third at the tea heralded by George’s roar from the court ‘We won! We won!’

  ‘Oh good, it’s you, Reggie. Help Mother take round the cake, would you? I’ve got to see what’s happened to Phoebe …’ Caroline glanced back as she hurried away and saw him standing looking after her in surprise, lemonade still in his hand.

  Phoebe once again found herself bored. After tea she had wandered off. There was no one her own age there, even Patricia had disappeared with Peter Jennings. He was a silly man anyway, and it was all his fault they’d lost their match. Now she couldn’t even vent her boredom on a tennis ball. Anyway it was too hot for tennis. She felt as though she wanted to burst out of these stupid, stupid clothes; even her light girdle felt clammy and uncomfortable on her hot skin.

  She decided to take a ride on Poppy; then they might miss her and come looking for her. Even Christopher with luck. Besides, she felt good on a horse, with its moving, rippling body under her. Old Poppy didn’t move very fast, she acknowledged, but she was better than nothing.

  She came round the corner to the stables and saw there was a man standing there, lighting a cigarette. He looked up and saw her but he didn’t put the cigarette out, as he should when a lady approached – particularly as this one was Miss Lilley of the Rectory, and he was only Len Thorn, the blacksmith’s elder son. She rather admired his nerve. He straightened up in the stable doorway but didn’t move aside to let her pass. His eyes travelled down her tennis skirt and up again, disconcerting her.

  ‘Let me pass, please.’ There was an imperious note in her voice which was not feigned. She’d never before noticed how creepy his eyes were, they were almost tawny, set in his swarthy-skinned face. And the way he just stood there! She wasn’t going to give way. Why should she?

  ‘Very well, Miss Lilley.’ His voice was disconcerting too, a slow Sussex drawl, thick like his lips. She’d have to squeeze past him, because despite his words he still didn’t move. She summoned all her courage. She wasn’t going to back away in their own stable. She turned sideways to get past him, trying to ignore how close he was.

  ‘There’s an entrance fee, miss. A kiss.’ He was practically breathing in her face as he made this outrageous statement.

  Nor did he ask if she’d pay it, he merely put his hands on her shoulders, drew her closer than she was already and kissed her. She was hardly aware of the lips, only that his hands were now on her bottom and of the odd sensation she had even through her corset. Not just odd, rather frightening, like being on a horse. Only better. But frightening nonetheless.

  She tore herself free. ‘I’ll tell my father,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t want to have a baby.’ Everyone knew you had a baby if you kissed someone.

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘You won’t tell him, Miss Phoebe. You enjoyed it too much.’

  She started to run, pursued by his sibilant whisper: ‘Come back when you want to, Miss Phoebe. I’ll see there ain’t no babies.’

  She was unusually subdued as she sat with Patricia, watching Caroline and Reggie playing George and Tilly. Lucky, lucky Caroline. She was never in turmoils like this, feeling in turn sick, frightened and excited inside; Caroline was always so calm and sensible …

  Caroline was painfully aware of Reggie’s annoyance as she lost her second service game to George and Tilly. She was aware she was not playing at her best, and ‘best’ wasn’t very good anyway.

  ‘Two-love,’ he’d shouted triumphantly when he broke George’s service game. Now they were at three-four, and Reggie was looking grim, not triumphant, thanks to her.

  He promptly turned into another Anthony Wilding and, ignoring her presence on the court, completely took it upon himself to cover all return shots. It seemed to annoy him even further that he couldn’t get the better of Aunt Tilly’s service game, and, sensing Caroline’s unworthy satisfaction at this outcome, he won his own service game to love, and smashed George’s to smithereens. With a glance that said ‘beat that’ he reluctantly (or so her smarting pride told her) handed the baton back to his humble partner for her to serve. She lost. The score was five-six, and Reggie was livid. It needed only Tilly’s pounding serve to win the semi-final for herself and George.

  She didn’t dare look at Reggie. To avoid his recriminations she kept away from him as the famous punch was brought out by Percy, his own particular triumph, and felt rather as she had on Easter Day. Another special feast spoiled – only this time she had undoubtedly contributed to the disaster herself. The punchglass felt like the poisoned chalice, and as soon as she decently could she melted away from the gathering to gather her equilibrium in the orchard. She perched on the stile and gloomily surveyed the tiny apples already forming in the trees. Perhaps they could tell her what on earth the matter was with her.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Caroline?’ Reggie echoed her own thoughts uncannily, having come right up behind her unheard and put his hands on her shoulders. She jumped like one of the rabbits which were beginning their daily pre-sundown romp in the orchard.

  ‘Nothing.’ She climbed down into the orchard, but he leaped over the stile to follow her. Reggie was never one to take a hint.

  ‘There must be. Or with both of us,’ he added fairly. ‘I can’t stand this any more. I’m sorry I was so rotten to you on court.’

  ‘I was worse to you. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does. Why do you treat me like a particularly unnoticeable ghost whenever I come near you?’

  ‘I thought you’d prefer to spend the time with Penelope,’ she flung at him, and was instantly ashamed.

  ‘Penelope?’ He stared at her, then ro
ared with laughter. ‘That hop-pole? I must have been mad.’ He began to look more cheerful.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she shouted.

  ‘Yes it is. If only I could make you understand –’

  ‘We understand each other too well. We’ve grown out of each other.’

  ‘We never grew in. You don’t understand me in the slightest, and I certainly can’t make you out. You seem to have turned into a shrew.’

  ‘I have not. It’s you, it’s you. You’re stupid, obstinate and –’

  ‘Point proved.’

  Something gave, something between a laugh and a strangled sob emerged, something that might have been ‘Reggie’, something that vanished the ground between them and hurled her into his arms. She might have heard ‘Caroline’ somewhere beyond the drumming of her chest and the dizziness in her ears. In her ears?

  ‘Caroline.’ She did hear it this time, but even if there had been an answer, she could not have given it, because his lips were on hers. It was quite, quite different from feeling them on her cheek, nor did the arms around her feel like those of the man she’d gaily waltzed with through the years. But it was him, here with her in the apple orchard, and his lips, and the feelings they were arousing, were beginning to seem part of her, an inseparable part. As her lips opened, he drew her closer, and a tremor ran through her that seemed entirely answered by her closing her eyes, relaxing and enjoying feeling his hands travelling down behind her, holding her even closer. Then he broke away, and there were two of them again, not one. Was it alarm she saw in his face? Regret?

  ‘Caroline, I think I love you.’

  How did little white clouds supply themselves so conveniently to be danced upon?

  ‘I think I love you too.’ Why be shy now? Why did words never express what you were feeling inside? It sounded as if she were doubtful, but she had no doubt at all.

  She stood there, dancing inside, as he threw back his head, cupped his hands round his mouth, and yelled to the heavens: ‘I love you.’

  ‘They’ll hear you at the match.’ She wanted to cry. No she didn’t. Laugh? No, she wanted to come out of this paralysis.

  ‘I don’t care if they hear me in Timbuctoo. I love you!’ Reggie swung himself round several tree trunks, peering anxiously through the lower branches of the nearest: ‘You haven’t vanished, have you?’

  ‘I’m too solid to vanish.’ Still, paralysis. Passing time.

  ‘You’re like thistledown.’ He came at her in a run, swept her up into the air, put her down again, then ran his hands gently down the sides of her body. She felt them burning through the linen. Then, delicately, watching her to see if she’d object, over her breast, until suddenly shy of him she caught his hand. She held it there and at last was sharply aware of everything: a distant shout of victory on the tennis court, a furious shout (Farmer Lake’s sheep from Owlers Farm had met a delivery van again in Pook’s Way), a pigeon cooing continually at his mate, and that Reggie was no longer a friend. He was her lover.

  ‘You look happy, darling.’

  Caroline hugged her bliss to her as she slipped the raspberry silk over her head. Miraculously no one had heard Reggie’s shouts, so tonight was their own; tomorrow everyone could know, they had decided.

  ‘I enjoyed the afternoon.’ She could hardly keep the grin from her face.

  ‘So did I.’ Elizabeth paused curiously, speculated, and left it. ‘Your Aunt Tilly provided a surprise, didn’t she? George is still going round boasting about their success. I wonder why she’s kept so quiet about her skills?’

  ‘I suppose because Aunt Tilly is in the habit of keeping dark about everything,’ Caroline said lightly.

  A pause. ‘I understand.’ If her mother were annoyed, she did not let it show. ‘So now you’ll be expecting me to forbid you to have anything to do with those terrible women. But that would be foolish of me. You would rush away and set up house with Tilly.’

  Caroline thought this over. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ Inside she glowed, her mind not on the vote at all.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Elizabeth glanced at her. ‘I want to keep you here.’

  ‘Unmarried, like Tilly?’

  ‘Good gracious no. I should have said, here in our hearts.’

  ‘Oh!’ Caught, Caroline rushed to her mother, and threw her arms around her.

  ‘Would you like this frock buttoned up, darling?’ Elizabeth enquired after a moment. ‘I seem to be clasping your girdle.’ And what was she going to tell Laurence, Elizabeth worried, as Caroline, dutifully dressed as befitted a young woman of not quite twenty-two, bounced out of the room to find Felicia. It was quite clear that Caroline was in love, and there was no doubt at all as to with whom. Perhaps she might wait a little before telling Laurence; something told her there might be extra news to impart.

  Felicia was not in her room so Caroline hurried downstairs, afraid by her tardiness she was missing part of ‘the treat’, which now she could enjoy.

  The lamps were already lit, although it was still quite light at eight-thirty. How much nicer the glow of the oil looked than the harsh glare of The Towers’ lighting. The air was still warm, so they could dance on the terrace till midnight if they wanted, until the very last stroke of twelve told them it was Sunday and God’s day. Only Felicia was on the terrace as Caroline came out, and she turned a radiant face as her sister approached. ‘Isn’t it lovely, lovely?’ she asked fervently.

  ‘You are,’ Caroline told her sincerely. Felicia had beauty, everyone agreed that, but Caroline had never seen her look as she did tonight. She was blazing forth in splendour, her dark eyes glowing with fire and her cheeks pink with excitement. No lily maid this, no Lady of Shalott, but a rose indeed.

  ‘I had a wonderful time,’ she assured Caroline, the gardens, and a passing cat.

  ‘Do I look all right?’ Phoebe bounced out to join her sisters, reassured by their company and by the knowledge that no worse awaited her this evening than the known company of Drs Jennings and Cuss. And Curate Christopher, of course.

  Caroline surveyed her toilette. A low-cut pale green gown which didn’t suit her in the slightest but which had been a present for her sixteenth birthday, unwillingly made by Mrs Hazel with many disparaging remarks on its suitability for a young lady. Phoebe battled her way through, won it and adored it, as a symbol, Caroline thought. Surely even Phoebe could see it didn’t suit her? But naturally all she said was: ‘Apart from the pin holding your sash on, yes.’

  Phoebe giggled, and Isabel, who sauntered up in her engagement ball gown, looked disapproving. Wisely she did not comment on the reappearance of the green dress.

  ‘Is Robert here yet?’ Caroline asked.

  Isabel yawned. ‘I don’t think so. He’s coming with his parents.’

  ‘What joy,’ Caroline said without thinking.

  Isabel pounced. ‘What a cat you are. If someone’s not called Hunney, they’re of no account, are they?’

  No, something joyously agreed inside her, then jabbed her with a stab of doubt as she recalled Lady Hunney, the undoubted and substantial fly in her Zambuk ointment. Zambuk was the cure for everything, the Rectory considered. Insect bites, rashes, sunburn – everything could be charmed away with Zambuk. She feared Lady Hunney could prove the exception to the rule, but Reggie would take care of her, she thought happily.

  Inside the house it sounded as though the whole pot of Hunneys had arrived, she realised, clad now in evening attire and complete with Sir John and Lady Hunney. Informal or not, a Rectory event must be blessed by the Squire – rather like the blessing of the crops by the Rector in spring. Anyway, keeping them happy was Father and Mother’s concern, not hers. And nor were the Swinford-Brownes her concern. Nothing, no one but Reggie. George, full of importance in his first dinner suit and white tie, was bending over the gramophone putting a new needle in, a task he always treated with as much ceremony and precision as their weekly clockwinder the old moon long-case clock in the Rectory entrance hall. Being considerably less plump th
an Mr Cyril Wainwright, retired soldier and clockmaker, the effect was not so impressive. ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ blared out, and here came Reggie. Daniel and Eleanor too, of course, but she hardly saw them, hardly saw Felicia crossing shyly to greet Daniel.

  Suppose it was a dream this afternoon, suppose he laughs and says wasn’t that a fine joke, Caroline, suppose I look at him and realise it’s only Reggie again. It wasn’t, he didn’t, she didn’t. A glance at him, at the look in his eyes, and she knew it was all right. A wave of happiness engulfed her and kept her in its embrace, with only odd snatches of the evening intruding from the outside.

  ‘Your sister’s beautiful,’ Penelope nodded towards Felicia.

  ‘She is. She always kept some of it back, as if she was waiting, though.’

  ‘If so, I think she’s found it …’

  Daniel could not take his eyes from Felicia. The girl was beautiful; those eyes, the hair, her perfect skin and, most amazing of all, it was Felicia whom he’d known all his life. He soon got tired of dancing; he wanted to be alone with her. Not that he quite knew why. Curiosity, he supposed.

  ‘It’s a beautiful evening,’ she said as they walked by the tennis court.

  ‘You make it so. It could not be so presumptuous on its own.’ Because the night was warm and she was beautiful, he kissed her, not as he would have done a year ago, as the Rector’s daughter, but as he would any woman who intoxicated him. The thought did occur to him that he should not, for he was an honourable man, but he dismissed it. In a few weeks he would be gone; Cupid’s darts would not long hurt her, and such beauty as Felicia’s deserved to be reverenced. Besides, he was very fond of her.

  When he drew back, because her lips were not only tender but too trusting, he picked a rose and presented it to her to break the moment. ‘For the queen of beauty,’ he said seriously.