Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  ‘Yes, Mrs Dibble,’ Harriet beamed. She wasn’t sure what the ‘it’ referred to, but accepted the offering for what it was. The Rector had given them all a glass of champagne, and that headiness combined with Bert Wilson’s hot breath, as he delivered the evening bread order and took advantage of her proximity over an armful of Viennas, had bolstered her self-esteem. ‘I’ll take one to Fred, shall I?’

  Mrs Dibble took this in her stride. ‘If you’d be so good.’ She watched, frowning, as Harriet set off to Fred and handed it to him, cool as a cucumber. She could see Fred examining it in that way he had, beaming, and then pumping Harriet’s free hand up and down, before he plastered raspberry ice cream all round his mouth. She felt like weeping. It looked like Ashden was coming to its senses at last; that rough music was over, with only Aggie and Jamie left to sort out. That too must be possible. After all, today even the threatened rain had obligingly kept away; it was a day for happiness, and she saw no reason why young Aggie shouldn’t have what her young ladies were enjoying. Mrs Isabel, Miss Caroline and Miss Felicia, eyes shining bright as good deeds in a naughty world, and Miss Phoebe – where was that dratted girl?

  Phoebe had, on her mother’s instructions, gone to the stables to release Ahab from his incarceration and take him for a short walk. She was pleased about that; she had grown tired of the endless chatter, the champagne, of which she had had two glasses more than her mother had specified, had left her feeling sick and unable to confess this to anyone, so escape seemed an excellent idea. She took Ahab into Silly Lane and down towards the Forest; that way she wouldn’t have to go past the forge. Not that he would be there late Saturday afternoon. Everyone knew you’d have to go to the Thorn cottage if your horse was lamed after five on a Saturday … He wasn’t there – he was here. Coming towards her. She stopped, as the sickness grew worse in one great lurch of her stomach; she was caught, a bright bird of paradise in her pink bridesmaid’s gown, trapped in alien land. She marched on steadily, until he barred her way.

  ‘Going somewhere, Miss Phoebe?’

  She could not answer, could not speak. The whole lane seemed to be filled by the impenetrable barrier of this one man.

  ‘I’ll set Ahab on you,’ she cried at last.

  ‘It’s not Ahab I be wanting, surely.’

  She’d heard somewhere that if you stood at the back of a ship and watched the waves long enough you’d jump in, drawn, magnetised. If she stood here, she’d be sucked in, further and further towards Len Thorn; swallowed up. With one enormous effort she let go of Ahab’s collar, commanding ‘Go boy,’ and dashed past him in Ahab’s pursuit. Silly Lane had a bend in it as it turned towards the track that led to Forest Gate. It was just as well, for she was out of his sight by the time she was violently sick in the ditch.

  ‘Time for your punch, Percy dear.’

  Daisy calling him dear? Percy grinned. The punch had been ready, and the glasses, even while the teapots were still rushing to and fro. He was glad she was enjoying herself. She’d worked hard. She always did, of course. So did Mrs Lilley, only in a different way. Percy greatly admired Elizabeth Lilley. She was a strange one, for a rector’s wife, but this were a happy household and that was her doing – however she chose to make it so.

  ‘I do so admire your gown, Mrs Lilley.’

  Elizabeth was surprised and truly grateful for the genuine warmth in Edith’s voice, and felt ashamed of her own hypocrisy as she duly admired Edith’s own quite extraordinary gown; its stark and startling combination of black and white would put a zebra in the shade and the hat with its black and white roses hardly helped. Elizabeth had spent a lot of time with a paper pattern ordered from The Lady, carefully amended by Mrs Hazel, and concocted her gown from several remnants from Weekes’, and a lot of lace, binding and flowers. This blue suited her, as did the close-fitting matching silk hat, but it was hardly like being dressed by Lucile. It occurred to her how odd it was, or perhaps it was a mother’s thankless lot, that it was Edith who had admired her toilette. Not one of her daughters, wrapped up in their own concerns, had thought to mention it.

  Mrs Dibble flew into the kitchen to begin the task of ensuring all was clear for the next battle in her masterly campaign: supper. Out of the larders should come the pies and pickles, roast hams and fowls, ready to be taken into the dining room. Preoccupied as she was, she almost didn’t hear the infernal machine ring. Annoyed at the distraction, she marched into the hall and gingerly lifted the receiver from its hook …

  ‘Laurence, what is the matter?’ Elizabeth asked sharply, seeing the expression on her husband’s face as he hung the receiver up on its hook again. ‘It’s nearly six o’clock. Isabel and Robert will be leaving at any moment. You did talk to Robert, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. His father informed him there was no need for anxiety. Robert chose to believe him and not me.’ It had not been a smooth discussion and he had not wished to upset Elizabeth with its worrying results. To his amazement, whereas Robert had clearly been anxious about the journey, Isabel had point-blank refused to be talked out of her honeymoon with Swinford-Browne (to spite him? Laurence couldn’t help wondering) pointing out that hundreds of holidaymakers had left for the Continent yesterday, without intervention by the Foreign Office, and today there was still no formal warning to cancel travel plans. Every argument Laurence put forward had been ignored, not answered, by Swinford-Browne, and with Isabel backing him and Robert neutral, there was nothing he could do.

  ‘Oh, Laurence.’ All Elizabeth’s carefully suppressed fears rose again.

  ‘Now Sir John has telephoned again. There is grave news at the Foreign Office. Germany issued mobilisation orders yesterday. Today it has declared war on Russia. He warns there may be worse to come. He wished me to advise Isabel and Robert that it would be most unwise now to travel to the Continent. We must speak to Swinford-Browne, Isabel and Robert again immediately.’

  By the time they were all gathered in his study, somewhat annoyed at the interruption to their plans, William Swinford-Browne had drunk a great deal of champagne. He had been surprised that the Rector could produce such a good one on the amount his living was worth. He was confirmed in his view that The Towers’ estate was paying over far too much in tithes.

  The Rector explained the serious position and the advice he had received, with Elizabeth anxiously at his side.

  ‘Not go?’ Isabel cried in dismay. ‘But we must.’

  ‘What do you think now, Father?’ Robert asked anxiously.

  ‘Scaremongering.’ Swinford-Browne was purple in the face. He’d already made his views plain earlier today. Now the girl had joined his family, he was in authority and he fully intended to make that clear from the beginning. Despite his triumph over Matilda Lilley, he was still smarting from the Rector’s victory over Tallow Field and the new churchyard. Candle auctions indeed. This country was archaic; it needed to look to the future, not mediaeval nonsense. The Rector was living in the past, and was no judge of the international scene.

  ‘It is better to err on the side of caution,’ Laurence said.

  ‘If every bally man thought like you, Rector, we’d have no Empire.’

  ‘William, your language,’ Edith said faintly, fastening on the one area to which she could contribute.

  ‘Keep out of this.’

  ‘I feel Edith and I as mothers have some say in this matter, Mr Swinford-Browne,’ Elizabeth declared quietly, to Edith’s undying gratitude but considerable alarm.

  ‘With respect, Mrs Lilley, it’s a matter of fact.’ William Swinford-Browne slapped his hand down on the desk to indicate this was man’s work. ‘What if Germany does declare war? She can’t fight in two directions. She’ll be fighting Serbia and Russia; she needs allies at her posterior not bayonets. You’ll excuse my language, I’m a plain-speaking man.’

  ‘You are indeed,’ the Rector agreed, the muscle in his cheek pumping furiously. ‘I too. Have you forgotten Sedan?’

  ‘That’s ancient history, man. T
he Franco–Prussian war was way back in 1870.’

  ‘France will never forget. If Russia demands they come into the war, honour would not let them refuse.’

  ‘Honour? Poppycock. Revenge maybe.’

  ‘As you like. But if France mobilises –’

  ‘Isabel and Robert are English and civilians,’ Swinford-Browne interrupted scornfully. ‘They can just come home again.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Isabel clutched gratefully at the straw being offered. ‘Your father’s so right, Robert.’ She was glad she was a Swinford-Browne now.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Robert agreed doubtfully.

  ‘You suppose so, do you. Robert?’ Father eyed son. ‘Let me tell you, it’s panic like this leads to trouble. If the Kaiser and that old fool ruling Austria–Hungary want to take on the Tsar, let them. In England we’ve got enough to do with the bally Irish problem.’

  ‘I still appeal to you not to go, Isabel.’ The Rector ignored Swinford-Browne.

  Isabel stared at her father. ‘It’s my honeymoon,’ she replied piteously, and when she saw no signs of this influencing the situation, added a petulant, ‘I’m married now, Father.’

  Swinford-Browne chuckled, well pleased now victory was assuredly his. ‘Good champagne, this.’

  The Rector could not resist. ‘Indeed it is. All paid for by my sister, Miss Matilda Lilley, who unfortunately could not be with us today.’

  Caroline could hardly believe the time had come at last, so bursting with excitement was she. Isabel and Robert had just been driven off in the Swinford-Browne Daimler to the railway station at Tonbridge, and the gathering was about to disperse to change for the informal evening dance. There would be an interval of an hour, and Reggie had teased her by refusing to tell her when he was going to make the announcement. She had promptly said that in that case she would deny it all, but for some reason he had not believed her. On frabjous day … Oh dear, how she remembered Aunt Tilly reading ‘Jabberwocky’ to her and now she couldn’t be here. Then all thoughts of her aunt passed as she saw Reggie climbing on to the terrace parapet waving a glass and stopping everyone from drifting away.

  ‘Don’t put your glasses down,’ he yelled with precious little formality. ‘You’ll be needing them again. Miss Caroline Lilley has done me the honour of agreeing to become my wife.’

  It was out, pop, like a champagne cork. And now for the fizz, she thought, somewhat dazed, as people seemed to be rushing to her from all sides, her sisters, her father (looking just a little disapproving) and her mother reaching her first. Eleanor, Daniel – hundreds of kisses that must wear her face away like the pilgrim steps in Canterbury Cathedral, and her hands pumped up and down like Nanny Oates’ well. And then came Lady Hunney, the cool cheek laid against her own, dripped poisoned honey. ‘My dear Caroline, what a –’ pause – ‘delightful surprise. How sad my husband will be to have missed such an announcement. We shall all meet to discuss it.’

  Shall, Caroline noted, as Reggie’s arms encircled her waist in flagrant challenge to his mother. ‘Thank you for wishing us well, Mother,’ he said quietly.

  It was over! She was engaged, and now she could relax and enjoy the evening with Reggie on her own cloud of happiness.

  ‘How clever to announce it now, my darling,’ Elizabeth whispered, trying only to let Caroline’s happiness dismiss her anxiety over Isabel.

  ‘What a perfect end to Isabel’s wedding,’ Felicia said.

  ‘You’ll be lady of the manor one day,’ Phoebe pointed out, agog – not a statement calculated to thrill Lady Hunney, who was well within earshot, Caroline saw with amusement.

  ‘I say, Reggie, if you’re going to be in the family, you can teach me to drive the Perry.’ George suddenly got excited.

  ‘I can keep you in order too, young man.’ Reggie aimed an amiable cuff at him. George dodged.

  Mrs Dibble did now permit a tear to fall. Such a wonderful day. The rain had held off, Miss Isabel was on her honeymoon, Miss Caroline engaged to the young lord of the manor, and the ices had held out. Only Agnes was left. The latter was becoming a point of honour.

  ‘I told Jamie he can go,’ Percy said casually, strolling up to help her fold up the trestle tables. ‘I can manage now.’

  ‘You what?’ His wife dropped the table end. ‘Get him back this minute.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Get him back, Percy, please. And tell him I want to see him in the servants’ hall.’

  If Daisy said please, it must be important, he supposed, even if it didn’t make sense, so he obeyed more promptly than usual.

  Mrs Dibble set out briskly in search of Agnes, and found her doing a load of dishes in the scullery. ‘I want you to go to the servants’ hall, Agnes, and mind you look busy.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Don’t ask why, girl. Just do it, please.’

  If Mrs Dibble said please, it must be important, so in the interests of the Rectory on this unusual days of days, Agnes went, highly puzzled.

  Two minutes later, Jamie marched in, greatly relieved that he could stay after all, and didn’t have to leave the sheltering walls of the Rectory for the unkind jungle of house and village. When he saw Agnes desultorily dusting the picture of the ‘Unseen Guest at Every Table’ which dominated the room, he stopped short. ‘Where’s Mrs Dibble?’ he demanded truculently.

  ‘She’s not here, Jamie. I am.’ Agnes in one gigantic leap seized the opportunity God or Mrs Dibble had thrown at her pain. ‘And before you go and be cruel to me again, I’m going to say something.’ She quickly manoeuvred herself between him and the door.

  The boy’s face grew mutinous, and he got away as far as possible from her. ‘I don’t want to hear nothing from you.’

  ‘Yes, you do. I’m going to tell you this even if you never speak to me again. Rosie Trott tells me she’s going to speak for Ruth, and give evidence that she saw you two going into Ebenezer’s cottage.’ Seeing he showed signs of protesting, she swept on: ‘No, don’t say nothing. I believe her, but shut up, Jamie, till I’ve finished. I’ve decided I don’t care. I love you, Jamie Thorn, and I think you love me, and that’s all that matters.’

  He said nothing, just looked at her dumbfounded.

  ‘And what’s more,’ she added quietly, ‘I’ll prove it just like you always wanted.’

  Jamie began to rock to and fro on his feet, his face crumpling as he tried to hold back tears. He managed, but only just, and by that time he found he was in Agnes’s arms and she was holding him like he’d always imagined, soft-like, not stiff.

  ‘I’ll tell you what happened, Agnes, honest then. Rosie did see us, me and Ruth. I was angry with you, you wouldn’t do nothing and Len was going on at me for being – never loving a woman like he had, and it got really hard, Aggie, what with wanting you, and Ruth was eager, she always did like me, so one day I thought why not.’

  ‘So it is your baby,’ Agnes forced herself to say. She’d told herself she could face anything and she would.

  ‘No!’ The word burst out from him. ‘I couldn’t tell you, I couldn’t. In the cottage I was all ready, I was going to, I wanted to, but at the last minute, well, I couldn’t.’ He flushed red.

  ‘You realised you loved me?’

  He swallowed, snatching at the easy way out. ‘Something like that.’ How could he explain to Agnes it wouldn’t stay up at the last moment? What if he failed like that with Agnes? What if she jeered at him like Ruth had for being no man? ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I was all ready, and then I thought of you.’

  She shuddered. ‘I believe you, Jamie.’

  ‘You said that before, Agnes.’ There was no reproach in his voice, just hope this time.

  ‘I sensed you were holding something back, I suppose. Now I know you’re not.’

  He drew a deep breath. He could be brave too. ‘Look, Agnes, this time, this place ain’t right. Someone might come in.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come for a walk bank holiday?’

  ‘I’d like t
hat, Jamie.’

  The moths were already fluttering round the oil lamps as George began his sterling work with the gramophone. Greatly daring, he started with ‘Dixie’, until Caroline laughingly came across and said: ‘Later, George, later. We’ve still got the old folks here.’ Not Lady Hunney, thank goodness. Daniel had escorted her home, and then returned himself.

  ‘Here’s your rotten old waltz then.’ George gave in cheerfully. He spotted Eleanor on her own. Now was his chance. He rushed across, bowed. ‘May I have the pleasure?’

  She curtseyed solemnly. ‘Sir, you may.’

  Caroline’s euphoria swept her through the evening in an endless succession of ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ and ‘Hitchy Koo’, interspersed with ‘The Merry Widow’ waltz and ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World’.

  ‘You are, you are.’ whispered Reggie, he and Caroline so absorbed in each other they didn’t even hear the telephone ring, late that evening, when the light had passed and only the oil lamps and their fluttering attendants illuminated the shadowy dancers of summer. There weren’t many left by then, just family and close friends, as the Rector came out on the terrace and for no discernible reason, without a word from him, the dancers stopped, silhouetted statues.

  ‘Sir John has telephoned me again in case there were still time to call back Isabel and Robert. There is not, and France mobilised late this afternoon.’

  A heart-rending cry from Elizabeth: ‘Isabel!’

  ‘There is worse.’ The Rector’s voice was steady. ‘Sir John met Lord Haldane who had just left the Admiralty. Winston Churchill has mobilised the fleet of Great Britain to protect the western shores of France. There is little doubt but that the Cabinet will ratify his decision tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What does mobilise mean, Daniel?’ Felicia whispered.

  His face was grave. ‘It means war.’