Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  ‘Your mum misses you in the shop, Jamie.’

  Jamie looked at her oddly. ‘Does she? I sent her a postcard of the castle.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jamie took a gulp of tea. ‘I expect I’ll be going abroad soon. Off to shoot the Kaiser, eh? He’ll be shivering in his jackboots will Kaiser Willy when he meets us First Hundred Thousand. There’s a chap from Scotland here, he plays bagpipes.’

  When she did not comment, he went on aggressively. ‘Sound like a frog caught by a cat. You should hear ’em, screech, screech, screech. Call that music? I could do better with me penny whistle.’

  She felt tears sting her eyes. Why were they talking about penny whistles when time was so precious? She wanted to talk about things that mattered, him and her, but he didn’t seem the same Jamie. He was coarser, brasher, not her loving, shy, honest Jamie. He never said anything about getting married or leave or anything. She forced herself to mention it.

  ‘I expect you’ll be getting leave before then, Jamie? Coming back to Ashden, eh?’ she tried to sound casual.

  Jamie lay down his knife and fork and grabbed some bread and butter, stuffing it in his mouth. ‘I reckon I ought to see a bit of the world while I can, don’t you? You could come too if you like. London. I’d like to see London.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Agnes said listlessly. If she liked? Didn’t he care? He didn’t want to come home, he didn’t care whether he saw her again or not. He’d left Ashden behind, he’d left her behind, and that was that.

  ‘The Royal Sussex is going away, Leaving the girls in the family way.’ Again and again it pulsed through her mind, an endless refrain. Jamie had said he was posted to the 7th Battalion, Royal Sussex, and how fitting that was. ‘Going away, going away …’

  ‘Have another cup of tea, Jamie?’ She pulled his cup towards her with trembling fingers.

  ‘What’s up, mate? Wouldn’t let you up her skirt, eh? Quite right, too.’

  ‘Piss off!’ Jamie’s control snapped. A few weeks ago he’d hardly have known such words, let alone used them. Now they came readily enough to convey his frustration, his bewilderment and anger. All the same, Joe and his other mates were the best things about this place. Agnes had been surprised to see him in his Sunday suit, not uniform. Hardly surprising, they hadn’t got any yet. The army had run out. A few of the lads had scrounged old scarlet uniforms, but he wore some old blue makeshift stuff from which the dye ran if it rained. And weapons? The new Lee–Enfield he’d boasted about? That was a laugh. He’d a bit of lead piping to train with, and the officers swung wooden rattles to pretend they were enemy machine-guns. Some army. At least they had forks and plates here; up at the Castle Barracks, they didn’t even have those, he’d heard.

  ‘You’re a mess of bleeding nerves, mate.’ Joe Harris was more concerned than offended. Not that he cared much, but he liked things to be cheery around him.

  ‘I got things on my mind.’ Jamie calmed down; it might have been an apology.

  There was only one thing on his mind, in fact, and that was Agnes. Why did she have to be so offhand and starchy when all he wanted to do was kiss, cuddle and love her? He’d looked forward for two weeks to her visit, tried his best to make her proud of him by telling her how well he was doing, and she’d behaved like a spinster aunt paying a duty visit. Didn’t she understand how he felt far from home, that a soldier needed affection? No, all she wanted was to tell him how his ma was, and ask when he was coming back to Ashden. Didn’t she realise he couldn’t go back there till he’d proved himself? He couldn’t face his mother till he’d something to show her, a medal maybe, he thought vaguely. He’d put it on the table in his bedroom along with the wooden horse he’d carved when he was ten and the toy tin soldiers handed down through generations of Thorn children, so battered the paint had worn off most of them. He’d repaint them as soon as he’d won his medal, using the new khaki. Or maybe cast new ones. After all, he lived by a forge. Yes, he’d enjoy doing that, when he went home for good. Maybe everything would be all right then, the village, his parents – and Agnes.

  Felicia began as though she were reading a book to a child, leaving the story at a tantalising point, never too obviously, never dramatically. Her subjects were not, after all the stuff of novels, for how could Daniel be interested in fiction when fighting so much cruel fact? She talked of the small stuff of everyday life. ‘Percy has made hidey-holes for large tins of stores, and Mrs Dibble goes out by dead of night to take out what she wants. They crept out one night for some sugar, because that’s getting so expensive to buy, and Harriet heard them. She must have thought it was Fred again, up to no good, or some prowler. So she armed herself with George’s cricket bat – and – I think you’re getting tired, Daniel. I’ll tell you what happened tomorrow.’ She paused hopefully, but there was no reply. Daniel wasn’t listening. Nor was he the next day, nor even the day after, as she began the stirring tale of George and the German spy.

  ‘… Quite clearly he was sitting waiting for the railway trains to stop at the signal and would then write down details of the troops on each train. George even feared he might be planning to take over the signal box and crash the train. So he positioned himself behind a tree and very, very carefully got his home-made lasso in position. Then he … I’ll tell you what happens tomorrow.’ Felicia hardly bothered to see if there were any response, or whether as usual Daniel was staring at some unidentifiable object on the opposite wall.

  But this time to her surprise and joy there was: ‘Did Harriet hit him?’

  So he had been listening the other day. Jubilant, and careful not to betray her excitement, she replied casually, ‘No, she hit the sugar loaf by mistake and sent it flying into pieces all over the garden. But you wait till I tell you about the spy tomorrow.’

  He made no answer, but she did not mind. She was on her way and so was he.

  Gradually it came to be accepted, even if frowned upon by the Matron, that Felicia, when her duty finished, would be found at Number Three bed, Daniel Hunney of the 1st King’s Own, paralysed and minus one foot. Since she was regular in her attendance it became accepted that she would deliver and supervise suppers for all four beds in Ward Number Two.

  This evening, as she pushed the trolley of dirty dishes back to the kitchen, slightly later than usual, she met Lady Hunney outside the ward, coming to pay her evening visit to Daniel. Felicia bowed slightly and continued on her way, but was surprised to be recalled by the imperious voice. Her relationship with Lady Hunney had always been easier than Caroline’s because Lady Hunney, like many others, found Felicia’s self-containment perplexing. The obvious attraction she held for Daniel she had put down to the whim of a summer enchantment that would disappear as soon as he touched foreign soil. Now that foreign soil had proved so tragic, she had assumed that Felicia’s girlish infatuation would vanish, and had indeed encouraged her posting to Ashden. That it had not intrigued rather than dismayed her – for the time being.

  Obediently Felicia stopped and turned, waiting for Lady Hunney to approach her.

  ‘I am told you spend much time with my son.’ Lady Hunney stared with distaste at the dirty dishes and Felicia’s slightly soiled serviceable cotton gloves.

  ‘It is my own time, not the hospital’s.’

  ‘No doubt. Why are you so much with Daniel?’

  ‘That is my concern, Lady Hunney.’

  ‘And mine, Felicia. You realise I shall forbid these visits if they are upsetting him.’

  ‘The Matron can forbid me to see him, but so far she has not done so.’ The gentleness in Felicia’s voice softened the clear implication that Lady Hunney had no authority here now, but it reached her nevertheless.

  ‘Miss Lilley, my son is and will always be a cripple. If I discover you are filling his head with false hope, I shall stop these visits.’ She spoke mildly but equally firmly, but Felicia flushed.

  ‘God decides whom He will cure and in what manner.’

  ‘You see
m very certain of God’s prerogatives, Miss Lilley, but less knowledgeable of a mother’s understanding of her son’s needs.’

  ‘As his mother, then, you must know that he is tenacious, that he will not readily abandon his plans for life.’

  ‘I wish to ensure he has a life first, Miss Lilley.’ Her voice rose, outraged at such assertiveness.

  ‘That you have already done, Lady Hunney.’ Felicia’s voice was warm. ‘He owes you his life.’

  Lady Hunney bowed her head in what might have been a slight acknowledgement. Objectiveness and generosity were not qualities she was accustomed to finding in her opponents.

  Edith’s court shoes pitter-pattered with annoyance as she was directed by a subservient Mrs Bugle into Isabel’s morning room, decorated to Edith’s mind more like a boudoir with its frills and tassels than a practical place of work. But growing up with such an example as the Rectory, perhaps Isabel was not entirely to blame – save for disregarding her new mama’s advice. Isabel was disconsolately leafing through the Winter Fashions number of Vogue. The Times and the Illustrated London News lay unopened on the table. Edith sniffed. If Vogue thought winter fashions here would consist of elegant full-skirted black gowns and jackets with tigerskin trimmings and muffs, they were much mistaken. In America, perhaps, but here there was a war on, though Isabel did not seem to apreciate that fact.

  ‘Isabel!’

  Isabel looked up at the accusatory note in her mother-in-law’s voice. It was becoming distressingly frequent, and Isabel could not understand why. She had been most obliging to the Belgian refugees when they were re-housed at The Towers. She had even had them to tea once, painful ordeal though it had proved. She had imagined her own terrible experiences in Paris would make a common bond in view of their losses, but they had not shown any interest. Edith had suggested she might do more knitting, sewing and so forth. Isabel felt that as a newly married woman, accustoming herself to running her own house (a task by no means as easy as she had blithely imagined), she was doing quite enough already.

  ‘Yes, Mother?’ Isabel writhed at the need for such a designation.

  ‘Where is Patricia?’

  Isabel was astounded, though relieved that for once she was not at fault. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘She informed me she was staying with you last night.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t.’

  ‘Then where is she?’ Edith raised her voice. ‘You’re encouraging her to defy me. I know you are.’

  Isabel had several ideas on where Patricia might be, and none of them involved any encouragement of Patricia from her.

  ‘I blame the war,’ Edith continued. ‘You girls think you can do anything you please.’

  ‘She’s probably staying with a friend in the Wells.’ Isabel tried to show concern.

  ‘Nonsense. Suppose she’s gone to Serbia?’

  ‘Why on earth should she?’

  ‘There is a war on there,’ Edith snapped.

  ‘It’s far more likely she’s in London or the Wells.’

  ‘You don’t seem concerned. It seems to me, Isabel, you take your responsibilities far too lightly. Patricia is a young unmarried girl, and as much your sister now as Phoebe.’

  ‘She is an adult,’ Isabel pointed out. ‘She’s twenty-one.’

  ‘Barely. My little lamb.’ Edith burst into tears and Isabel tried ineffectually to console her.

  The little lamb arrived home at The Towers at six o’clock that evening, and announced herself a proud new member of the Women’s Police Volunteers. She arrived at Hop House precisely one hour later, two suitcases following her borne by The Towers’ chauffeur. One was for her forthcoming departure to East Grinstead, the other for an overnight stay at Hop House.

  ‘I’ve been tossed out into the snow,’ she informed Isabel gleefully, ‘and they even kept the baby.’

  ‘Baby?’ cried Isabel faintly. ‘You’ve had a baby?’

  Patricia regarded her scathingly. ‘Brace up, Issy. I was joking. I’ve become a woman policeman, and Ma and Pa don’t approve. I’ve been thrown out. I’m a refugee, just like her blessed Belgians she pretends to dote on so much. It’s your and Robert’s part in the war effort to take me in for the night. Then before I go to swing my truncheon, I’m off to the Wells. Thought I’d drop in to see your aunt.’

  ‘But perhaps we ought not to take you in if your parents disapprove,’ Isabel said instantly. ‘And what on earth do you want to see Aunt Tilly for? You’re not going to become one of those awful women, are you?’

  Patricia giggled, but did not reply since Robert came in and demanded to know what was going on.

  ‘I’m a lady policeman, Bobby, that’s what. I’m going on the march in patrols round the military camps and in the towns to prevent undesirable conduct, as they say.’

  ‘Soldiers won’t take any notice of you,’ Isabel said, in surprise.

  ‘The girls will. That’s whose most of the bad behaviour is. Won’t leave the men alone. I sympathise. I’m looking forward to going.’ She burst out raucously: ‘On Monday I go out with a soldier, on Tuesday I step out with a tar …’

  ‘Patricia!’ Isabel felt she ought to express the genuine shock she felt.

  ‘That’s jolly brave, sis,’ Robert said quickly. Brother and sister exchanged glances, and Isabel felt excluded from something she could not understand, save that it reminded her of how Robert had been in Paris. ‘I’d like to do something like that.’ he continued.

  ‘Pa will never let you. You’ll have to run away like I did. Why don’t you?’

  Robert relapsed into silence, aware of waves of hostility emanating from his wife. For Patricia’s sake, he’d avoid more acrimony tonight.

  The timing had been orchestrated carefully for the grand finale. Now that no street lighting was permitted, nature must be harnessed to man’s will. Easy enough to choose a full moonlit night, but a special visit to Chapel was necessary for William Swinford-Browne to ensure, like Mrs Dibble, that the Lord looked kindly on his enterprise and did not spoil the evening by creating unhelpful clouds. Mid-November was later than he had ordered for the grand opening of the Swinford-Browne Picture Palace, but at least at five o’clock there should still be enough light aided by the rising moon to ensure that he was seen as he stepped from the Daimler on to the red carpet. Everything was going as smoothly as beer from a barrel, he congratulated himself. As the Daimler drew up with himself, his wife, son and daughter-in-law, he could see a highly satisfactory gathering awaiting him, including that fellow from the East Sussex Courier, and Master George Blasted Lilley as representative of the parish magazine. He never made the mistake of underestimating the power of the parish magazine – or the influence of the Rectory over the village.

  He stepped down from the running board and paused, ostensibly to help Edith down, in fact to admire his own achievement from its black and white Gothic frontage to the clock he’d had made in Switzerland positioned in the imposing central gable. Fortunately the clock had been delivered before war made imports a matter of chance, and he was proud of the revolving figure that emerged each hour, of a man striking a bung into a beer cask. It spoke of himself, a self-made man, and not ashamed of what he did. Beer had paid for the cinema, which recorded his achievements for Ashden to admire for ever. Even those bally Belgians had had their compensations. He’d been able to boast in his club of his patriotism in having them under his roof, and then they’d promptly left for alternative lodgings in London (having had the bally nerve to tell him they needed peace and quiet).

  Edith had debated long over her gown for this evening, wanting to strike a balance between patriotic restraint and the need to live up to her role as new benefactress of the village, now Lady Hunney had been pushed aside into the Dower House. She had compromised on a sober dark blue gown and an ermine-edged white velvet stole to show up in the gloom. Isabel had shown no such restraint; her Empire-line brocade evening dress was embellished with a wide silk sash, lace, and appliquéd beads. She looked ch
arming, though out of place on a November night on Bankside, admired by the habitués of the Norville Arms.

  William was gratified to find that the large, expectant crowd, which sprawled not only along Bankside but halfway down the grass bank towards the pond as well, consisted of far more than the estate workers he had ordered to attend. A large part of Ashden was assembled, and would not be disappointed. He would speak.

  He paused at the entrance to the Picture Palace, as though it had just occurred to him that an address might be in order. He took Edith’s arm firmly in his to emphasise he was a family man. and ensured that on his other side stood Robert, the son, he wished to imply, who stood so steadfastly by him.

  ‘In these dark days,’ he began, ‘Ashden needs entertainment, and if my money can bring it to you, that is as much helping the war effort as my wife’s comforts for the troops. Those of you trying to overcome grief will be comforted, those of you seeking relaxation or education can find it here.’ He paused, with a careful grin. ‘I’m not going to make a long speech, so I’ll just say we’ve got a splendid opening programme for you: the secret is out. We’ve a six-reeler, the famous East Lynne to make you cry, a Charlie Chaplin to send you away laughing, and everyone’s favourite, Pimple, to start you off. Those of you who are lucky enough to have reserved seats can see it tonight, and for the rest of you it will be on for the remainder of this week. No reserved seats then, it’s every man for himself.’

  ‘It always is in your family.’

  In the sudden hush after her clarion cry, Matilda Lilley, forewarned of the occasion by Patricia’s visit, pushed her way through the crowd from Nanny Oates’ cottage to confront her enemy. Isabel gave an appalled moan at the unwelcome and familiar voice. ‘Other men go to the trenches, not your son. Why? Because you won’t let him, Mr William Swinford-Browne,’ Tilly yelled, intent on not one word escaping her large audience. Then she plunged forward. ‘What are you doing for King and Country?’ she continued. ‘Tearing your heart out like these good folk here by sending your son to fight? Not you. You’re bribing the village with this –’ she gestured at the Picture Palace – ‘hoping they won’t notice you think you’re better than them. Patriot? Swinford-Browne, you’re a coward.’