Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘All people that on earth do dwell …’

  Here, in St Nicholas, with the organ booming out and the voices of the congregation responding, Caroline found it impossible to imagine that England could soon be at war. There hadn’t been a real war for a hundred years; wars took place in far-off lands like South Africa, India, Abyssinia; they were engravings in the Illustrated London News, or memoirs written by officers or the occasional ‘voice from the ranks’. Wars meant a column of soldiers who from time to time marched through the village bound for Aldershot or the Channel ports, not something so close at hand as France, and not to fight Austria or Germany, whose people were so friendly and welcoming. True, the village and even Father had joked about the ‘German Menace’ for years, but only in connection with Dr Marden’s dachshund.

  While her father had been taking early service, Caroline had volunteered to go in search of the newspaper which had not yet been delivered. It had not proved a difficult task to find the reason. Inside and outside Timms, the newsagent’s, a large crowd of villagers was too busy discussing the news to allow time for delivery, and Tom Timms, trying his best to be apologetic though he had been the centre of the excited circle, explained that special editions of the newspapers were to be published throughout the day as more news became available. Whether they’d reach Ashden or not, he couldn’t say, but his youngest was up at the railway station now, and his eldest was cycling into the Wells. Caroline remembered the day the news had come that the old king was passing through Ashden, and so the whole village had marched en bloc up to the railway station to cheer him as the train slowed down to acknowledge the doffed hats and shouts. Then, as now, intangible excitement leaped from person to person like signals along telegraph wires. It was evidence that Ashden was part of a larger world; something they preferred to ignore much of the time. This time it was different, however, for there was underlying anxiety evident in the group. Tom Timms, now, hadn’t he been a soldier? Perhaps he was on the reserve list, and might be recalled. And wasn’t one of the Mutters a Territorial? He too might even be involved if there were war.

  The news in the Observer had not been reassuring. Nor had family prayers, with Mother bursting into tears over Isabel’s safety half-way through the Twenty-third Psalm. Caroline had been more alarmed at that than at Isabel’s plight. ‘The editor strongly believes,’ Father said, ‘we should join the war to support France and Russia. Gavin is much respected. His views will carry weight.’ It was a measure of the seriousness of the situation that Father spoke of the news at all, especially on a Sunday.

  ‘Why should we?’ Elizabeth asked vehemently. ‘Would France do the same for us?’

  ‘If France and Germany go to war, my dear, remember Belgium and Luxembourg lie between them, and Germany’s first step would undoubtedly be to sweep through the smaller countries to attack France. We are pledged to defend Belgium’s neutrality.’

  ‘Politics,’ his wife snorted. ‘What of Isabel? What does Mr Gavin have to say on that?’ Fear made her angry.

  ‘The French government have taken over control of the railways, but they are planning to run a few trains to bring home British civilians today. The Germans are a long way from Paris, Elizabeth.’

  Caroline saw Mother took this as a reproof, for she went silent the way she did when she disagreed with what you said, but had decided to wait for a better moment to say so. In any case, it had been at that moment that Mrs Dibble had come in, ostensibly to clear the china, though the pinkness of her cheeks suggested a different story.

  ‘You look concerned, Mrs Dibble.’ Laurence laid down the Observer.

  ‘I thought you should know, Rector, the baker’s just delivered. There’s talk of the bread going up yet higher. The railway trains are packed with all those foreigners scuttling back home like rats, and, oh sir, I know my Lizzie’s Rudolf was a bandsman when she met him on that trip to Brighton, and a bad day that was, but I’m sure she said he’d been a soldier in the German army. Will he have to go?’

  ‘Is he naturalised, Mrs Dibble?’

  ‘He married my Lizzie.’

  ‘I fear that is not the same thing. But let us hope the war will be over so quickly he will not be needed.’ The Rector hesitated, but saw no point in disguising the truth. ‘He may have to leave for a little while, of course.’

  ‘Showing themselves in their true colours now,’ Mrs Dibble observed sharply. ‘I always said there was something funny about him, being a German. Nothing they like better than a good war.’ She looked at a dish of congealed eggs as though it held some kind of answer, and bore it menacingly out.

  ‘Where are you going, Laurence?’ Elizabeth asked, as he rose without finishing his toast.

  ‘To think again about my sermon, in the light of what Mrs Dibble has said. The Archbishop of Canterbury has ordered special prayers for peace to be said today. If all of England feels as Mrs Dibble does, I fear the chances are not high. I must think how best to speak to Ashden.’

  ‘“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” This is more than a text of scripture; this is my address to you, in St John’s words.’ The Rector paused, looking down at his congregation, larger than usual. He had been perturbed by the words he caught at random outside the church, some eager and excited, some anxious, as was he, for relatives abroad, but many dismissive, as though Ashden were not involved in what was happening around it. Over the centuries kings had come and gone, religions changed and politics raged. Ashden life, and that of hundreds of villages like it, had been essentially unchanged. Change had been a slow, cumbrous beast, as imperceptible as the erosion of water on stone. One day a farm might be run by Master Tom, the next day he’d become ‘the old gentleman’ and young Alfred, his son, had become the new master. Squire was Squire whether Sir John or Sir Reginald. He had heard Arthur Sharpe growling to Cyril Mutter earlier this morning: ‘Makes no difference whether it’s war or peace. Harvest is harvest, and muck is muck. Still go on, they do.’ Laurence hoped he was right, with all his heart.

  Less than a month ago some well-intentioned man had written to The Times suggesting every church used the tune ‘Austria’ to show sympathy with the Emperor for the loss of his son, the Archduke. He wondered from how many churches ‘Praise the Lord, ye Heavens Adore Him’ had rung out that day. St Nicholas was one. It had seemed a small enough gesture. Yet now, thanks to Austria, the loss of the peace of Europe was probable. The Emperor and his ally the Kaiser had struck the tinder-box to begin the conflagration. Ashden itself was an example of how easily it could happen. Take Jamie Thorn: one small incident that resulted in rough music and a reopening of the Mutter–Thorn feud. He had damped down the fires but not quenched them. They smouldered on.

  ‘Peace has a semaphore of its own. If we in Ashden heed St John’s words then Ashden will survive. “Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” If England heeds these words, she will survive, and if Europe heeds them, it too will survive. If there is a war, and there is a just cause for us to fight it, then we do so for the sake of every innocent man, woman and child, whether they be in Europe or here, Germany or Ashden. But to do so, Ashden must find its own peace. No more rough music, or the drumbeat we shall follow will bring destruction.’

  Looking round at the faces of the congregation, Caroline wondered if it understood what he was trying to say, or whether the wider implications were lost in the immediate message of ‘no more rough music’.

  ‘I quite agree with the Rector.’ A shrill voice croaked out behind, a shock-wave ran round the congregation, and two hundred necks craned round curiously to see who had dared interrupt the service.

  ‘It’s the Misses Norville,’ Phoebe hissed with excitement at Caroline’s side. ‘Look! It must be them. Who else could it be?’

  Caroline needed no bidding to turn round. In the Norville pew, empty for so long, stood the two Miss Norvilles d
ressed uniformly in black, save for white lace dotted strategically at necks and wrists; they wore the black bonnets and full skirts of the mid-Victorian period, and stood side by side like two forbidding rooks, their gloved hands gripping the front edge of the pew. Then one of them sank back almost out of sight as she sat down, and left the ‘stage’ to her sister.

  ‘My sister and I have an announcement to make.’

  ‘That must be Miss Emily, the elder of the two.’ Caroline was so fascinated by the sight of them, she hardly took in what they were saying. She hadn’t seen them in church since she was about eight.

  Miss Emily promptly sat down. Miss Charlotte stood up. ‘We understand there is some question of war with Germany. My sister and I have therefore decided to fortify Castle Tillow.’

  The Rector, as taken aback as his congregation, thought quickly. They were old, they were recluses, they should not be figures of fun. ‘The battleground is in Europe, ladies,’ he answered gently. ‘And today we pray that there will be no battleground.’

  The sisters promptly changed places again, as Miss Emily rose: ‘We may have peace in our hearts, Rector, but do the Germans?’

  The Rector saw a ripple of comprehension run round his congregation. There must be an end to this, quickly. ‘The same God is Father to all peoples, and like any father can bring peace to His children, if they but stop to listen.’

  ‘But our dear mother told us,’ Miss Charlotte retorted shrilly, rising like a jack-in-a-box, ‘that Old Boney would get us one day. This Kaiser is quite clearly another Bonaparte. There will be an invasion.’

  The mischief was done, as suddenly the congregation realised the full drift of what the Norvilles were saying. The Rector could almost see the word ‘invasion’ running along the pews.

  ‘Wire netting,’ Miss Emily cried excitedly, ‘and Johnson is digging a moat. Everyone is welcome to shelter in the Castle. We have ammunition and chickens and we will issue passwords –’

  The ripple of fear suddenly turned to laughter, as the idea of the Misses Norville defending Ashden with bows and arrows against the Germans took the congregation’s fancy. The Rector was about to seize his opportunity, when Lady Hunney, quicker still, determined to secure her position as the lady of the manor.

  ‘Unfortunately the Misses Norville dwell in the past,’ she announced from her pew, not condescending to stand. ‘The Hunneys do not. My husband is working in Whitehall trying his best to avert this crisis; that is positive, to concentrate on defence is an invitation to be attacked.’

  ‘Let us remember that this is the House of God in which He alone rules. It is time we gave Him leave to speak,’ the Rector thundered, incensed that Maud was turning this into a political debating ground. If in this church people could not be calm, what hope for Europe? ‘Let us pray. And let us all remember that in Germany and in Austria too, people are on their knees praying to the same God, the only God, for peace.’

  God sends meat, and the Devil sends cooks, the Rector thought as he made his way back to the Rectory later. Perhaps those words written in the seventeenth century could be the basis of a sermon one day. This morning had presented an extraordinary crisis, not just to his authority, but God’s. The Devil’s cooks had come in the guise of two eccentric old ladies, but their words could spread the deadly poison of fear through the community. Had God sent the laughter to dispel the poison? Did not laughter grease the wheels of daily life? He heard through the open door as he approached the sound of Caroline’s laugh followed by a bellow from George, and rejoiced at the Rectory’s normality. Could the Rectory supply the strength he needed without the sound of the girls’ voices, George’s cheerful shouts, his wife’s ever-present soothing command within these walls?

  That evening after evensong there was a concert on Bankside given by the village band; the warm evening was still with an air of expectancy and, as the last sounds of the brass died away, the band spontaneously broke into the National Anthem. With one accord the audience rose from the grass and makeshift chairs. As it finished, Cyril Mutter looked round at him from the row in front. ‘No rough music, eh, Rector?’ he said gruffly. ‘Eh, Alfred Thorn?’

  ‘The Towers has had no news.’ Laurence hung up the telephone receiver early on Monday morning. It had been a vain hope that Isabel and Robert might have returned already. Even in the best of times, they would scarcely have had time to arrive in Paris, and take a return train and steamer. With every form of transport heavily over-crowded in both directions, normal schedules would have been abandoned, he reasoned, and there would surely be more trains arranged for foreign civilians. The telegraph office at Ashden railway station had been open day and night, as was the post office, and it was some comfort to hear that no civilian telegraphs were coming in from overseas. Isabel and Robert might arrive at any moment.

  ‘No harm can come to them, Elizabeth,’ he reiterated for the umpteenth time. Common sense told him so, but sometimes sense could be outridden by emotions.

  ‘Has the newspaper anything to say, Laurence?’ was her only reply. Elizabeth stared through the window, as if she hoped to see her daughter running down the path. She had no strength of will to do anything else. All her energy was being spent on worrying about Isabel.

  ‘Germany has declared war on France. But Elizabeth, there is still Belgium to cross, and as yet Germany has not done so.’ He did not tell her German troops were already in Luxembourg, and were rumoured to be massing on the Belgian border.

  ‘There will be war, I know it. The bicycle shop has already run out of oil, and the Lettices’ stock is severely depleted. Mrs Dibble had great trouble in obtaining haricot beans. The Sharpes tell her they have sold all their cheese in advance, and Mrs Marden tells me even Harrods is running out of provisions. Women are taking dustbins in to fill with stores. And most of our sugar comes from Germany and Austria. I shall speak to –’

  The Rector interrupted, seized by sudden fear. He could not do what he might have to do for Ashden if Elizabeth, his strength and love, were not at his side in spirit as well as physically. The wheels of the Rectory had to continue turning smoothly, but there was more to that than the simply material. He too was beside himself with anxiety over Isabel, but there were other calls on him – and therefore on his wife.

  ‘Elizabeth, come back to me.’

  She turned at last. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Laurence.’ But she did, and had not the strength to face it. For the first time in twenty-seven years, the interests of Ashden, the Rectory and motherhood were not as one. There was no clear path for her, and God had chosen to flicker His lamps so that they danced confusingly over all.

  ‘If the store runs out of beans,’ Laurence continued doggedly, ‘we shall gather dandelions, if of sugar, we shall use honey and glucose, and if the bicycle shop of oil we shall make candles – together, Elizabeth. But what shall I do, what will Ashden do, if we run out of hope and purpose? You have chosen your own wise path, here, my love, avoided essentially purposeless commitments in a greater need, but if war comes, Elizabeth, the whole of Ashden will be our family and it needs you as well as me.’

  ‘I cannot, Laurence, I might not have the strength,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Together we do, my love, you and I and God.’

  She took a deep breath and tried. ‘I hear dandelion leaves are extremely nutritious.’ She thought she would not mention to Laurence that Mrs Dibble had successfully obtained the last sack of potatoes from Farmer Lake.

  Always Isabel. No one thought of her, Phoebe sulked. Even now Isabel was married, she was still managing to dominate the conversation. It was all: ‘how will Isabel get home from Paris’ and never ‘how will Phoebe get to it.’ She was still determined to go to finishing school. No rotten Kaiser was going to stop her. It simply wasn’t fair. Anyway, she consoled herself, the hullabaloo would probably be over in a week or two, and there would be plenty of time to travel to Paris in September. Meanwhile how was she going to exist through boring August?

  So
mehow, Caroline reflected gloomily, she and Reggie seemed to have got squeezed between the concentric circles she so blithely dreamed up only a few weeks ago. So far from being concentric, they now appeared to be on a head-on collision course.

  The whole village, confident that fair weather would continue for ever, and planning to embark on its usual bank holiday occupations of cricket (either discussion of the Oval match or playing in Ashden’s), lazing outside the Norville Arms, at the Tunbridge Wells fair, or on a day trip to the seaside, was prepared to indulge also in ever-mutating discussion groups on the war news. Views ranged, so far as Caroline had heard, from expectation of imminent invasion by hordes of German troops in horned helmets, up to those prepared to set off today to fight the foe with hop-dogs or hammers, and down to those who suggested Great Britain should mind its own Pygmalion business and get on with the harvest. Tension grew as news filtered through of naval reservists having already left the village. The two Tilbury brothers had departed yesterday, and what were their wives to do now? Nothing about pay, nothing about allowances, just report for duty.

  But Caroline listened with only half an ear; the other half, the more prominent of the two, told her that today she would see Reggie. There had been no sign of him yesterday, but she had not expected it, for he had warned her that his mother had commanded all three to attend what should have been Daniel’s last Sunday luncheon in the Manor. When he arrived earlier than she expected, Caroline ran downstairs eagerly. They had been planning a trip to the seaside, but to her disappointment he had different ideas. ‘I thought we might get news of Isabel quicker,’ he said to her ingenuously, ‘if we went up to London, and called on Father.’

  She acquiesced, but she had longed for a day away from Ashden, and with Reggie, not surrounded by the crowds of London, especially at such a time. Moreover, he suggested travelling by train not motor-car, and she was dressed for the seaside, not London, in a light blue voile gown which had seen several seasons but remained a firm favourite. Elegant it was not, comfortable it was.