Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  Mesmerised, Swinford-Browne failed to act quickly enough. He was too late to stop Matilda Lilley, in full view of the Ashden villagers, brandishing a large white feather mockingly before him and poking it in his pocket.

  Then he acted. With a roar he tore the feather out, grabbed Tilly’s arm, twisting it, and flung her viciously off. She collapsed, sprawling heavily on the ground, just as George, red in the face, leaped out from the crowd to her defence.

  ‘That’s my aunt,’ he shouted. ‘And she’s a lady. You are a coward, Mr Swinford-Browne. I’ll tell my father.’ Near to unmanly tears, he bent down to help his aunt up, and the crowd began to move in, murmuring among themselves.

  ‘A lady, laddie?’ William snarled, shaking with rage. ‘She’s a crazy lunatic who belongs in Bedlam. This time I’ll see she gets there.’

  ‘No, Father.’ White-faced and trembling, Robert tried to hold him back. ‘She’s right. I should be there.’

  ‘Hold your blasted tongue, sir,’ William shouted at his son, while Edith sobbed helplessly at his side.

  Tilly scrambled up, shook off George’s arm, picked up the discarded feather and defiantly waved it aloft. ‘I know it’s not your doing, Robert. It’s his, Mr One-rule-for-me-and-another-for-you.’

  As Swinford-Browne rushed at her, Ashden woke up to the fact that they had been proudly sending their menfolk to the front as the country needed, and a rich, able-bodied young man was still here. Before they could vent their anger, Joe Ifield pushed forward to pull Swinford-Browne back, shielding both him and Robert while Edith and Isabel screamed, keeping well away.

  ‘Let go of me, you fool,’ snarled William. ‘It’s her you’re to arrest.’

  ‘What for?’ Joe asked stolidly. ‘You hit her, I didn’t see her hit you, sir.’ His voice was raised so that everyone could hear and, purple with indignation, William heard a roar of approval from the crowd.

  ‘Reckon Joe’s right.’ Harold Mutter, the carrier, was the first to walk away from the Picture Palace, and back into the Norville Arms.

  William Swinford-Browne marched into the cinema, followed nervously by his family, and with even more trepidation by some of his estate workers, as they saw others of their fellow workers walking towards the Norville Arms; all but half a dozen of the men were near the end of their working lives, so they changed their minds and followed suit.

  The Swinford-Browne Picture Palace was formally open.

  ‘But you can’t!’ Isabel was aghast. ‘Just because of what one crazy woman says?’

  ‘No, because of my own belief which no doubt you think equally crazy,’ her husband replied coldly. ‘I ought to be out there doing my bit, just like everyone else. Just like Anthony Wilding, just like any old Joe Smith. War doesn’t choose. It takes, Isabel. You didn’t marry anybody out of the ordinary. I just feel as everyone else, that I ought to stand up to evil. I’ve been talked out of it long enough and it took one crazy woman, if that’s what you consider your aunt, to show me so.’

  ‘But what about me?’

  ‘The best way for men to protect their families is to go out and fight for them over there.’ He looked at the face he’d loved so well, at the tears welling up in her eyes, and softened in pity more than love today. ‘Don’t be sad, little puss. I’ll be back just as soon as the war’s over. And that can’t be long. I probably won’t even get through initial training. I’ll fight my war out somewhere like Lincolnshire with my luck.’

  ‘Luck?’

  He reddened. ‘It would be a pity not to get a crack at the Kaiser now I’m going.’

  ‘I think all men are mad,’ Isabel said vehemently.

  ‘Do you?’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right, but I’m still going.’

  ‘But they don’t want volunteers any more. They’ve got too many. They made the conditions harder in September, by raising the height requirement.’

  ‘I’m still going. I’m tall enough, and young enough.’

  ‘The newspapers have stopped claiming the war is nearly over. Suppose it goes on till next year?’ she continued desperately.

  ‘You’ll be all right. Your parents are here. There’s always the Rectory.’

  A terrible suspicion smote her. ‘What do you mean, there’s always the Rectory?’

  Robert braced himself. She might as well know now, she’d have to some time. ‘Father’s not too pleased that I’ve volunteered. Far from it, for I’m afraid he’s stopped our allowance, but don’t worry, I’ve enough saved –’

  ‘He can’t do that!’

  ‘He can. It isn’t fair, because I’ve worked for most of it. For the last few months, anyway,’ he added honestly.

  ‘But how am I to live?’

  ‘On my officer’s pay like everyone else.’ It occurred to him that she was showing singularly little concern for his safety, only his departure.

  ‘And how much is that?’

  ‘If I get a commission, I think about six shillings a day when I’m trained. It may be more.’ Robert tried to be nonchalant.

  ‘I can’t possibly live on that.’ Isabel was appalled.

  Nor could he, but he proposed to try.

  ‘But what am I going to do? This house eats money,’ she wailed.

  ‘You could live with your parents. Or with mine.’

  She burst into tears. ‘You don’t love me any more.’

  ‘On the contrary. But it’s apparent you think money more important than my safety, Isabel.’

  ‘How can you say such a terrible thing?’

  ‘How can you not offer me one word of encouragement? Has it occurred to you how I must feel going away and leaving a bride behind?’

  ‘Then don’t go,’ she shouted.

  He lost patience. ‘You, my mother, my father. What bally use is it for the Government to run recruiting campaigns, when you all have so little opinion of me you don’t think I’m in my right mind?’

  She ran to him, frightened she had gone too far. ‘Darling, I’ll do anything. You know silly me is just making a fuss because she doesn’t want to lose you. Forgive me?’

  He stroked the golden hair he loved so much. ‘Of course,’ he whispered as tenderly as he could. But in his heart a tiny sore spot refused to be consoled.

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Agnes sat miserably on the edge of the basket chair in Mrs Lilley’s workroom.

  ‘It’s Jamie, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth asked gently.

  ‘I’m not saying, madam.’ Agnes tried to stay as calm as she hoped she sounded.

  ‘We don’t want you to leave, Agnes.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right, madam, with me having a baby out of wedlock. This is a rectory. What would folks say?’

  ‘It is immaterial, Agnes. It is what we want. With the war now there are so many jobs you can do here to help me, without having to tire yourself with housework.’

  For a moment Agnes wavered. ‘No, madam, I’m grateful, but I’ve quite decided.’

  ‘We can’t let you go without knowing you are going to be all right, Agnes. We feel responsible for you, especially the Rector, both as your employer and as your priest.’

  She flushed. ‘He won’t think too well of me.’

  ‘God judges, Agnes. My husband and I do not. Now, where are you going? Home to your mother, or to Mrs Thorn?’

  She shook her head. Impossible, both of them.

  ‘To Nanny Oates?’

  Agnes looked surprised and almost smiled. ‘No, madam. She’s done enough for poor Ruth. I wouldn’t wish me on her too, poor old lady.’

  ‘I’m glad. I wouldn’t like it either, for it would look even more as though we had thrown you out. Agnes, we want you to stay here and so does Mrs Dibble. She’ll help you all she can.’

  ‘It’s good of you all but, besides the shame of it, I can’t answer the door when I – get bigger,’ Agnes said jerkily. ‘I’d always feel guilty, like I did something bad, and though the Bible says it is, it didn’t feel it at the time. I don’t want the village laughing at me, not like t
hey did before.’

  ‘They didn’t laugh at Ruth.’

  ‘Maybe not. But it’s not the same.’

  ‘Where in Ashden will you go to?’ Elizabeth worried, as a terrible thought struck her. ‘I hope you’ve no idea of going to London or Tunbridge Wells, and trying to support yourself?’

  ‘How would I do that, madam, when the baby comes?’ Agnes looked bewildered, and Elizabeth did not elaborate. Many girls in her position would go on the streets to earn enough money to live.

  ‘Just a foolish thought, Agnes. I wish you would tell me where you intend to go, though.’

  Agnes managed a smile at last. She told her.

  It had taken all the courage she could muster to walk up here but, after the bitterness of the last weeks since she returned from Dover, courage had been easier to find, for the simple reason that Agnes didn’t care very much about anything. Up here she felt quite different, though, literally above it all and free from the oppression of her own thoughts. With her basket of food she was Red Riding Hood on her way out of the forest. Already she was high enough to see Ashdown Forest in one direction and the hop farm and railway in the other. Down below her were the Rectory and church, and the huge elms that dotted Ashdown Manor Park. Yet so few folks ever came up Tillow Hill. Here stood the beacon to be lit in case of a Napoleonic invasion, rebuilt now by the Misses Norville ready to signal the German invasion of Ashden, and way over on her right was the Devil’s Bed, a place of superstitious evil for the villagers. It was said if you came up here after dark alone, he’d rise from his bed and tear out your soul. Well, he could do no harm to her, and if she were walking into the devil’s domain, she’d give him a run for his money.

  Ahead of her was the ruined Norville Castle, its towers and tumbled battlements looking like giant teeth, and far from friendly. Barbed wire now encircled the whole Gothic ruin, and try as she would she could find no way through it. She walked round the building on the far side in case the front entrance by the ‘moat’ wasn’t the real way in at all, and was surprised to find the building in quite good repair, solid enough to withstand the buffeting it must get from the Sussex winds, despite sheltering trees.

  Somewhere there must be a way in. She had marched round twice, stumbling over tussocks of grass and with the distinct feeling she was being watched. On her third perambulation she saw the face of old Johnson, the Norvilles’ ‘man’, balefully looking out of a small window above what must surely be the door on the far side of the ‘moat’. So there must be a way through the wire here. She scooped up handfuls of grass to protect her gloves, and prodded and pushed. Five minutes later she found a system of hooks in the barbed wire that undid with relative ease, allowing her entry like a gate. Congratulating herself on passing the first hurdle she went in, and jumped when a grinding bang in front of her brought down the drawbridge over the pond that called itself the moat. She wanted to laugh, despite her wretchedness, and she trod daintily across it only to find a locked door on the other side.

  ‘State your business.’ Johnson’s hoarse voice assailed her from above.

  ‘With the Misses Norville.’

  ‘Entry refused.’

  Agnes grew annoyed. ‘Tell them Agnes Pilbeam from the Rectory is here, with something for them.’ She pointed to her basket.

  ‘Leave it there.’

  ‘No.’ She made as if to retrace her steps, half-expecting the drawbridge to be drawn up under her, but it stayed put. She waited curiously, listening to sounds of altercation from within. Eventually the door was opened by Johnson, ancient helmet on his head and bayonet in his hand.

  ‘You can come in,’ she was told as though the greatest favour in the world was being offered.

  She walked in cautiously. It was cold and damp in this barren stone hallway but the massive wooden door on the right creaked open into a room warm enough, with blazing fire and paraffin lamps.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She jumped. She had thought the room empty, for the high back of the Chesterfield had concealed the lace-capped heads of the two sisters sitting side by side.

  ‘I’ve brought something for you.’ Taking her courage in both hands, she marched round to the Chesterfield and stood awkwardly before them, clasping her basket. They looked like a couple of Queen Victoria dolls, sitting there in black with their lace caps and hands neatly folded. Not so pleasant-looking as dolls, though; sharper, with almost birdlike eyes, and clawlike hands.

  She put her basket down and drew out a large chocolate cake, a jar of jam and some pickles. Seeing she had their attention, she took a deep breath. ‘I could cook for you every day, if you’d let me.’

  ‘We don’t need a cook. Mary cooks.’

  ‘I’m better. And she stays home every other Sunday.’

  ‘We can’t afford more staff, can I, Charlotte?’

  ‘No, Emily, and nor can I. The very idea.’

  ‘I’ll work free. Just my board,’ Agnes said quickly. ‘I’d live here, you see.’

  ‘How? Impossible.’ Their cry was in unison.

  ‘Why?’ Agnes tried to keep in control of the situation, and sound reasonably persuasive.

  ‘Who’s to do the work?’

  ‘I am. Mary can’t do all your cleaning. Look, that table needs French polish. I’m a trained parlourmaid. I could do that. And bring you tea and … and that pretty blouse needs mending.’ She spotted a tear in the lace.

  ‘I’m not going to Buckingham Palace.’ Miss Charlotte’s sudden cackle unnerved her.

  ‘It still needs it.’

  The sisters looked at each other. ‘She’s a fugitive from justice. Emily.’ There was fear in Miss Charlotte’s voice, and Agnes was quick to reassure her.

  ‘No. I’m parlourmaid at the Rectory. They’ll give me a character.’

  ‘Don’t they pay you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s something very odd about you, young woman. Go away,’ Miss Emily ordered. Her sister nodded in rather reluctant agreement, her eyes on the chocolate cake.

  ‘Oh, please.’ Agnes began to panic, she had been so sure she would succeed. ‘You’re so quiet here, and the Rectory is so busy.’

  ‘You’ll have followers, a young thing like you.’

  Agnes could keep her grief back no longer. ‘No, I won’t. I’m expecting.’ So she had no hope now. She had planned to get a job, make herself indispensable, and then tell them. It hadn’t worked out like that. ‘You won’t want me now.’

  They weren’t listening, but talking to each other. She was nearly at the door when she heard what they were talking about.

  ‘Does she mean a baby, Emily?’ Miss Charlotte’s attention was immediately deflected from cake.

  ‘A baby boy, Charlotte.’

  ‘It might be a girl, Emily.’

  ‘It might be both, Charlotte.’

  ‘We could teach it to talk.’

  ‘Her, Charlotte.’

  ‘No, you said it would be a boy. Where are you going, young woman?’

  Agnes didn’t know, so she stood still.

  ‘You can’t go anywhere. We’ve always wanted a little baby, haven’t we, Emily?’

  ‘We have, Charlotte, we have.’

  What are you doing, Reggie, while I lie here in this small bedroom, listening to the lapping of the sea and Ellen’s snores? Are you thinking of that night last June when you said you wanted to imagine yourself with me in the Rectory bedroom? How different this room is, with its bright red roses on sand-yellow wallpaper. Where are you … asleep in a trench? In billets in reserve? Or on a snatched day’s leave sleeping in a hotel? It was the not knowing that was so hard, and still the waves lapped on as if they didn’t care.

  Were you in that big battle at Ypres that the newspapers said went so well? Yet if it did, why did it take so long? It had started in mid-October, and wasn’t over till nearly the end of November. It had been a vital battle to win, of course, since if Ypres fell, then the Germans would reach the Channel. Over two thous
and officers had been killed … no, she would not think of that. His name had not appeared in casualty lists, and there might be a letter tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Like jam. Do you go into battle as one of our patients described, shouting with laughter: ‘Early doors ninepence’? He said that was the 1st King’s Own at the Aisne – Daniel’s battalion. He’s not laughing any more, Reggie. Are you?

  Are you thinking of me, Reggie, or drinking in an estaminet? Are you anywhere, Reggie? People were quieter now, no one claimed this war would be over at Christmas any more. Instead, there was talk of how they’d manage at Christmas; she wondered whether she’d get leave or not, for it was only two weeks away. Before her stretched unimaginable horrors. Up until now she had thought of it in terms of stoically enduring Reggie’s absence, filling the time with her own work, and when the war was over, everything would be as it was. Now she wondered whether that would be so. Ashden Manor, her future home, was a hospital. It could not so quickly be reconstituted into the old Ashden. A cinema stood where Ebenezer Thorn had lived. Ashden men had gone off to war and she already knew from Mother that some would never return. Ypres, the first major battle, for all its success had killed many men as well as officers. Today had been December 10. Advent carols in St Nicholas … What memories that brought back. The liturgical colours changed for the great day that proclaimed the festival was on its way. Christmas gifts, Christmas carols, Christmas puddings, Christmas in St Nicholas. She must get back, she must …

  She awoke early next morning, and was already dressed when, alarmingly, the guns of the harbour defences began to fire. Ellen, needless to say, hardly stirred, but Caroline rushed downstairs to join the huge excited crowd gathering on the Parade. Submarine was the word passed from mouth to mouth, and as the rumour came from the direction of the harbour it was passed on as truth. An hour later, when the crowd had dispersed to spread the story further, the guns fired again. This time it was the eastern entrance and three submarines. Their periscopes had been spotted, but despite all the hullabaloo and endless stories going around, no one either then or later that day could tell of damage either to harbour or to submarines; it was generally supposed that the Germans had taken fright and scurried home. She went back to the hostel that night with divided feelings. Dover’s defences were good, yet Germans had got as near as the harbour. Perhaps the Misses Norville were not so scatty with their fears of invasion. Soberly, she turned her mind to happier matters. There had been a letter from Reggie she had been saving to read, so that the pleasure was the more intense.