by Amy Myers
‘To Shooters Hill in North Kent. The Royal Herbert Hospital is one of those that will receive wounded soldiers, if there are any, and they need VADs immediately, fully trained or not.’
‘To nurse men.’ Elizabeth looked shocked.
‘I doubt if they’ll want either of us to perform operations yet a while,’ her daughter reassured her cheerfully. ‘Felicia’s the one with the cool touch on the fevered brow, anyway. It’s as much as I can do to roll a bandage. The victims run away when they see me approaching.’ The victims had been volunteers, scouts, schoolgirls, young women all eager to be bound into mummies with bandages by would-be nurses with more enthusiasm than aptitude.
Laurence relaxed. ‘Where will you live?’
‘We’ll be billeted somewhere nearby.’
‘But we don’t know anyone there,’ Elizabeth pointed out alarmed.
‘We know each other,’ Caroline said firmly, thinking how unlike her mother this anxiety was. She must be worse affected by worry about Isabel than she had realised.
‘Three of them absent,’ Elizabeth said to her husband, as though they had already left. ‘It is frightening.’ She did not say: How will I cope? for she knew somehow she would.
‘There is more worrying news,’ Laurence said soberly.
‘About the army?’ Caroline cried. She meant the British army, she meant Reggie. She had heard not a word since he had departed, though Sir John had reassured her this was natural with the army travelling.
‘The British have just had their first major confrontation with the enemy near a village called Mons. Apparently the engagement went well. Even so, the army may have to pull back a little way into France.’
Elizabeth broke the silence. ‘Withdraw? The British army withdraw?’ We shall be invaded, was Elizabeth’s immediate fear, but she did not voice it. ‘Laurence, let us pray. All of us. Caroline, please ask the servants to join us, and Felicia, find Phoebe and George.’
‘No.’ Her father spoke so firmly that Caroline stopped halfway through the door.
‘We are one family.’ Elizabeth was astounded.
‘All the more reason for us to think of them, my love. If we summoned them to prayer now, at four o’clock, they would immediately think invasion was imminent, or a catastrophe had taken place in Europe. It would be tantamount to erecting barbed wire around the Rectory itself, and that we cannot do. But we four can share our fears with our Lord, that He may give us strength.’
After some hesitation, Caroline decided to bid goodbye to Lady Hunney that very evening, and to go alone.
The Manor itself was in the process of being turned into a small, fully equipped hospital with twenty-four beds, staffed by a matron, surgical and nursing staff, and part of a VAD detachment. Some of the Ashden heirlooms were stored in the cellars, others studded the Dower House. At first sight Maud Hunney looked smaller and less formidable in the Dower House, but it proved an illusion only, at least so far as Caroline was concerned. The iron-clad figure who rose to meet her arrayed in dinner gown and diamonds was as unbending as ever. If Caroline had had any hope that she and Lady Hunney would be drawn together by their common worry she found she was greatly mistaken.
‘Could I ask if you have news of Reggie or Daniel?’
‘I have not. Soldiers, Caroline, have other thoughts to occupy them than the women they leave behind. You must bear that in mind.’
She might have been talking of some slight acquaintance for all the emotion in her voice. Caroline smarted, yet it was her sons who were so far away. Did their silence not worry Lady Hunney as it did her, did she dislike her so much that she would betray nothing of her own feelings before her, or was she so hidebound in convention that her iron self-control would not yield even at such a time?
‘I bear in mind, Lady Hunney, that letters are hard to send with an army on the move.’
‘Possibly.’ Lady Hunney paused. ‘Or indeed an army in battle.’
An arrow of fear leaped through her, stinging Caroline with fear and pain. ‘You think Reggie and Daniel are involved in this confrontation in Belgium?’
‘I cannot tell you that, for I do not know. My husband may, but he is not at liberty to discuss it with me. All I know is that Reggie left England on the 12th with the Royal Sussex, and Daniel a week or so later with the 1st King’s Own.’
‘Thank you,’ Caroline said quietly. The ice in Lady Hunney’s voice had not melted at all. Even The Times was more forthcoming, but she forced herself to grant that somewhere deep within her Lady Hunney might possibly be human. In a sudden rush of compassion, she kneeled down beside her and took the cold hands in hers. ‘We are both suffering,’ she said earnestly. ‘We both love him, can we not help each other through this terrible time?’
Wrong again, she realised immediately she had spoken. Her appeal was flung back in her face as Lady Hunney stood up, coolly disengaging herself.
‘Certainly. How good of you to call, Miss Lilley.’
The next morning, as Caroline was packing, an unaccustomed noise filled the Rectory. The Rector was shouting – shouting for his wife, his daughters, his servants, anyone and everything. It was Ahab who reached him first, and even he got a hug for which he slobbered gratefully over Laurence’s boots.
‘They are safe!’ he yelled, as startled heads shot out over the balustrade upstairs and people rushed towards him from all directions on the ground floor.
Elizabeth was already racing down the stairs. ‘Isabel?’
‘Mrs Swinford-Browne the younger and husband returning today. Sir John has just telephoned; he had been in contact with the British Embassy on our behalf, though he could not tell us that at first. The steamer arrives at Folkestone this afternoon.’
‘Oh.’ Elizabeth hurled herself into her husband’s arms, and his happiness gave him the strength to whirl her off the ground and round in the air, to Harriet and Myrtle’s gaping astonishment and Agnes’s openly displayed satisfaction.
‘At last the governments of Europe have become sufficiently concerned to arrange for British civilians to have special railway trains. The Swiss Government sent 800 people by train to Paris yesterday, and Thomas Cook have organised their onward progress to England. The train left Paris at midnight, and the Embassy arranged for it to take some stranded holiday-makers in Paris. Our Isabel is one of them. The bad news from Belgium has concentrated everyone’s minds wonderfully in Paris, thank goodness!’
‘There is panic?’
‘Apparently not; only great determination.’
‘To do what?’
Laurence gave her a warning glance, conscious of listening ears. He did not reply to her question. The Times today had revealed that, success or none, there had been two thousand casualties at Mons, and that the British and French armies had indeed stopped advancing and were pulling back a little. If they were pulling back, then the Germans would be advancing, from Belgium and from the east. Where after all would the Kaiser’s armies be moving other than to converge on Paris?
By the afternoon it was raining and Caroline and Felicia had left for Tunbridge Wells, where they had arranged to stay for two days while they finished the course and took the certificate. Elizabeth acknowledged the good sense of this, with train schedules so uncertain nowadays, but nevertheless, even the knowledge that Isabel was returning failed to make the Rectory seem other than a large and almost empty shell. This was war, Elizabeth reminded herself. Countless families were suffering so. Sons had gone to the wars for hundreds of years; now daughters, for the first time, were following too. Laurence said the war might last till Christmas. Very well then, on Christmas she would set her hopes.
Meanwhile there was Isabel to welcome home – although, Elizabeth remembered almost with surprise, the Rectory no longer was her home. She despatched Phoebe, who was most unwilling, to the railway station to find George, still hunting spies with his official badge, and meet all the late afternoon trains. The Swinford-Brownes had promised to telephone as soon as there was any news,
but Elizabeth did not trust them.
Rightly so, for it was fully an hour after Phoebe had arrived breathlessly back at the Rectory with the news that the pair had returned that the telephone call came through from The Towers. Not a happy pair, Phoebe reported with some glee. Isabel, she related, was furious because they had had to stand in the railway train from Paris and, worse, she hadn’t been allowed to bring any luggage.
‘But she’s unharmed.’ Elizabeth came anxiously to the point.
‘Oh yes. She’s just the same.’
Laurence took the unprecedented step of cancelling Rector’s Hour as they waited. At the sound of a motor-car they rushed to the front entrance. One look at Isabel’s face told them that she was indeed cross. Moreover the gown she wore was one that had left in her trousseau, not one of the Paris ensembles she had expected to acquire.
‘It was terrible,’ she told them pitifully, ensconced in pride of place in the drawing room. ‘Our honeymoon! Nothing but war, war, war talk. The couturier to whom I’d been recommended had left for the wars, the pâtissier had left for the wars, the porter at the hotel had left for the wars, even the cobbler left for the wars. Cafés shut early, restaurants, theatres – oh, there was nothing to do.’
Laurence listened grimly. ‘And yet you stayed on.’
Isabel caught his tone. ‘It was our honeymoon,’ she said defiantly. ‘It could have been a false alarm, anyway, and we knew it was impossible to get sense from the embassies. Imagine, one had to queue for ten hours for papers to leave the place.’
‘Did you see any Huns?’ George interrupted, bored with papers.
Isabel was swept away by her own grievance. ‘Then they said we were lucky to get on the train! Lucky!’
‘So you were,’ Elizabeth said thankfully.
Isabel turned a baleful eye on her mother. ‘The jet was among the luggage. Caroline’s not going to like that. Where is she, by the way?’
‘She and Felicia are training to join a VAD unit. They are in Tunbridge Wells till Friday and then leaving for the Royal Herbert Hospital at Shooters Hill.’
‘Whatever for?’
Laurence lost patience. ‘Because there is a war being fought, my dear, which you were fortunate to escape. Because wounded men are expected to arrive at the ports any day now.’
‘You mean all those rumours in Paris just as we left were true? It was said the British had been wiped out on the field of Waterloo.’
Elizabeth went white. ‘But Reggie and Daniel may have been there.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Laurence, can it be we are not being told the truth here?’
‘There are many, many regiments in the British army, Elizabeth. The Hunney boys are probably in reserve safe behind the lines. Besides, this is mere rumour.’
‘But if it is true, where will the Germans go next?’
‘Paris!’ cried Phoebe and George in unison, for once unreproved by Laurence.
Isabel digested this information. ‘Perhaps it’s as well we left when we did, then.’
Phoebe prowled round the garden, at the moment a most welcome cage. No one noticed her, for there was so much else going on. The Rectory grounds were safe; outside she might meet him, and the thought made her feel sick with fear. She was not sure whether it was fear of Len Thorn, or fear of an unknown and untraversed gap between the safety of ‘now’ and the hitherto confidently regarded future of marriage, and there was no one she could confide in. Caroline was not here, and pride had prevented her asking Patricia for enlightenment. She was in a limbo from which she could see no exit. She had tried to help in the kitchens until she grew bored, and now to her amazement found herself watching Fred carve animals. Funny, everyone said he was odd about girls, but he never bothered her and she rather enjoyed being with him, as though the world outside had beaten both of them. He missed Felicia and, though Phoebe’s hands were no substitute for her sister’s, he seemed to like her company. At least someone did, she thought ruefully.
‘I volunteer,’ he told her proudly in his hesitant speech.
‘You?’ Phoebe stared at him. She was so taken aback she forgot about being tactful.
‘Be soldier,’ he informed her, stroking the wooden squirrel that had appeared between his cupped hands. ‘Like Joe.’
‘Yes, but –’ Phoebe, torn from her own problems, and concerned for once with someone other than herself, thought quickly. ‘They won’t take men who have important war work here.’
‘What’s that?’
‘For some men the jobs they do here are more important than their going off and getting killed abroad.’
‘Killed? Joe get killed? Like rabbits?’
Bother. Now she’d done it. Not Joe, she assured him hastily. ‘Only … only … officers,’ she produced in desperation.
‘Oh. This war work?’ He held up the squirrel.
‘Yes. So they won’t let you go.’
‘You important war work?’
‘No, I’m a woman,’ she replied automatically; it occurred to her that socks and saucepans were all men wanted from women. She couldn’t boil an egg and she wasn’t going to knit socks for anyone, particularly Edith Swinford-Browne. A vision of Edith in khaki socks hit her, and she grinned. Fred obligingly grinned back. There should be something women could do, she pondered, though there’d never be anything in Ashden; she’d have to go away – well, that would be good – but at seventeen no one would take her anywhere interesting. Dark, large outside worlds loomed over her with frightening shadows. She’d never, never have the courage now to go anywhere or do anything, yet if she didn’t she’d be marooned here, imprisoned alone with Ma and Pa. Even Aunt Tilly turned out to be doing something, if it was only burning things down; Caroline and Felicia were going away; Isabel was married, which excused her from living, the way she appeared to see it. Her parents were wrapped up in home and parish. Panic began to set in. She’d have to stay here with Fred forever, two misfits left alone. She couldn’t stay, yet she didn’t have the courage to go.
Phoebe excused herself from Fred, who didn’t notice her leaving anyway. She walked over to the tennis court, which looked as lonely as she was nowadays, and found herself crying at her own predicament. She must force herself out of this limbo. She’d walk up to the station and find George, that’s what she’d do. It would take bravery – it had the other day, even though she had gone with George then, and seen all those thirsty faces staring out of the train windows. They were hop-pickers on their way to Groombridge. Train journeys took a long time now. Then her idea came to her – so simple, so important if soldiers were travelling, and refugees, and even hop-pickers. The answer was: lemonade!
Mrs Swinford-Browne appeared briskly early on the morning of the 27th, far too early for an At Home, even if the Rectory held such events. She wished to imply that this was urgent war business – as it was.
‘I do hope you will forgive my calling when you have so much else to do. I am the local organiser, you see.’
‘Of what?’ Elizabeth asked, dragged unwillingly from the kitchen, where she had become involved in a question of whether the doubling of the quantities of marrow jam was worth the rising price of the extra sugar.
‘The Belgian refugees, naturally.’ Edith produced this with pride.
‘You need money? Clothing? Blankets? I have given all I have spare to the Red Cross.’
‘My dear Mrs Lilley, perhaps you haven’t read the newspapers. Lady Lugard, Lord Hugh Cecil and the Honourable Mrs Alfred Lyttelton have formed a committee to find accommodation for Belgian and war refugees, and have requested local reception committees. Naturally I have volunteered. I believe Belgians are quite civilised.’
‘You are to have lodgers at The Towers?’
Edith hesitated. This was one point she had not yet discussed with William, awaiting the right moment, and so she avoided a direct answer. ‘I have several offers of help from most respectable houses in Hartfield and Withyham. Lady Hunney has had to refuse, of course. She has done enough for the e
ffort, poor soul. But the Rectory now, I am sure you have room.’
‘I shall discuss it with my husband.’ Elizabeth’s voice was noncommittal.
When Edith had gone, she sank back to reflect on the situation. Caroline, Felicia and Isabel had left home. Suppose the first two were sent to France, where she had now read the Red Cross were sending VAD detachments? In Ashden village, now the corn was in, more men were volunteering. Agnes had told her that Jamie Thorn had gone to training camp, and the ripple that that had caused had sent others rushing after him. The feeling seemed to be, from what she could gather, that if a no-good blackguard like Jamie could fight for King and Country, it needed a few good men to follow him to even the score for Lord Kitchener. Elizabeth’s own work in the village was increasing, as was Laurence’s. Meanwhile people still fell ill and had babies, elderly folk still died of old age. To open the doors of the Rectory as a refuge for foreigners for the sake of the country was a twist she found too much to grapple with, but it had to be done. Mrs Dibble, she supposed unenthusiastically, must be consulted.
‘Belgians?’ Mrs Dibble was doubtful. ‘Who’s to do their boots? Fred can’t. He’s doing the lamps and clocks now the clockwinder’s gone to the wars.’
‘They will wait on themselves, and cook for themselves in the kitchen.’
Mrs Dibble stiffened. ‘That they will not, Mrs Lilley. My kitchen’s my own.’
‘Of course. That was a foolish suggestion of mine.’
‘How much are they paying?’
‘Do you know, I haven’t the slightest idea.’ Trust Edith not to mention this small point. ‘I’d better find out, I suppose.’
‘I’ll do the cooking. But not for no heathen, mind. Nor no Romans.’
‘I’m sure they will be good Christians, Mrs Dibble.’
‘Praise the Lord.’ Mrs Dibble sounded unconvinced.
Phoebe shifted from foot to foot nervously at the railway station, waiting for her first train from Tunbridge Wells. The Stationmaster, Mr Eric Chaplin, had been agreeable for a trial period, and on her trestle table stood home-made lemonade essence, glasses and jugs of water, and a sign written out by herself: ‘One halfpenny a glass. Free to servicemen and refugees.’ The washing up she would do in the stationmaster’s kitchen sink with buckets of water from the well.
