Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  Outside today the seagulls had dipped and called on the beach, oblivious of the dramatic events that had taken place earlier in the harbour. Reggie had written (when? She looked at the date, 14th November) that there was a sparrow chirping somewhere near his trench. He spent much time watching and listening to it. ‘And do you know why, my darling? When we walked in Ashdown Forest last spring you told me to listen to the Dartford warbler. I wanted to talk about me and my problems and so I pretended to take no notice. You were rightly annoyed with me, but do you know why I didn’t? Because I stupidly thought there was all the time in the world for such things as birds. Now, my love, I listen to my sparrow because I know there is not …’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  No wonder Jane Austen kept up such a voluminous and detailed correspondence with her sister whenever she was away from home. Caroline remembered her father telling her, a bored, uncomprehending fourteen-year-old child, of Sir Walter Scott’s admiring comment that Miss Austen had that ‘exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting’. In those days she could see no virtue in the recounting of tedious stillroom activities, or the detailed doings of neighbours, but now she found herself eagerly seizing on any epistle from the Rectory, welcoming each incident as of epoch-making significance, for they studded the landscape of memory with nails of fact. From Mrs Dibble’s plum heavies to Farmer Lake’s lost arm at Ypres, everything involved her and was precious.

  Today Caroline was rich indeed, for there was another letter from Mother, and yesterday she had had another one from Reggie – though the latter caused as much anxiety as comfort. Reassuring words, she told herself, might cover a nightmare of experience. He wrote with careful detail, and a touch of derring-do, of his fellows, of the cosy dug-out in the trench, of the life and character of the villages. It was part of France and Belgium he had never seen before, accustomed as he was to a France beginning at Paris and stretching south into the glorious sun. This bleaker north produced a starker view of a land where the villagers were poor and their homes primitive; they bore no resemblance to Ashden, or any life to which she could relate. It was what he didn’t say, however, that caused her concern. He did not mention Daniel, for example, though he must surely know of his brother’s fate. Had his parents underplayed what had happened to him or was the horror so great that he kept it bottled up inside himself? She had no way of knowing and she could not raise the subject. Since letters arrived at irregular intervals, sometimes two or even three together, they often commented on letters she had sent him perhaps two or three weeks previously, and it was hard to get a sense of continuity. The line was quiet, she’d read in the newspapers. There was less news in the press of what was happening in Flanders, and more of fighting in the rest of the world. Did that mean, she had wondered at first, that there would be leave for the men in the trenches? It had taken some thought to show her the ridiculousness of this notion, and when no word came from Reggie of home leave, she had sent her gifts off to him; Rupert Brooke’s poems, a copy of an extraordinary book of short stories called Dubliners by a young man called James Joyce, and a silver pencil.

  Resigning herself to his absence, however, concentrated her mind on the nagging feeling she had been doing her best to overcome. She was not, and never would be, a good nurse; therefore they had put her on general duties. Yet what, she had now realised, she was good at was making and understanding decisions, communicating them and cheering people on through their ordeals; all those qualities which as a humble VAD she was not exploiting to the full. This did not perturb her unduly in itself; she had wanted to help and help she would. But when so much needed doing with men still flocking to the colours, there must be something she, and thousands of women like her, could do apart from their traditional roles of housekeeping, teaching and nursing. The Government, however, was giving absolutely no help to encourage women to branch out. Those brave individualists like Lady Paget and Mrs St Clair Stobart won their way in defiance of the Government and not with its help. Oddly, since war broke out she had been feeling much more akin to the suffragette cause in its wider implications for women. She would write to Aunt Tilly, from whom she’d heard little in the last three months, to ask her advice. She’d heard of her of course; letters from family and friends (save from Isabel) had been full of the story of Swinford-Browne’s come-uppance. But Tilly herself had never mentioned it.

  Caroline was worried also on more practical matters. She was unpaid, and for the Rectory, with rising prices and reduced income, especially after Lloyd George’s first War Budget in November which doubled the ninepence tax rate for incomes over £500 to one shilling and sixpence, this was an increasingly significant factor. Even with her mother’s money, their income was only a little above £500 but, since her father’s was harder to gather in these days of common hardship, she felt she was a burden they could well do without. She could always be a nippy or a clippie, she told herself more cheerfully, nippies being the Lyons’ teashop waitresses, and clippies bus conductors. She’d read they were grudgingly considering women now in London to replace men who had volunteered. In any case she was resolved that. Lady Hunney or no Lady Hunney, when her first six-month contract as a VAD was concluded in February, she would think very carefully about her future, and if it lay in Belgium, then she would welcome it. Reggie would surely understand if she explained how she felt about it, but so far she had not thought it fair to worry him with her dilemmas.

  She longed to be there to experience for herself what it was like. Patients had described it to her, but all the time she had the feeling they were remembering a different place to the one their words were conjuring up for her. It was almost as if they were obliging her with words, when locked inside themselves was a place that they could share only with those who had been through the same experience.

  Christmas would be here in eight days, and still she had not heard whether she would be granted leave. She had tried to persuade herself it was her duty to remain, for obviously some of them had to, but then this morning’s letter from her mother had reminded her so vividly of Rectory Christmas that she almost wept with longing for the peaceful life she had loved so much.

  ‘We peeked at the Christmas puddings yesterday, including the one from last year which horrified your father because it had so much brandy and stout in it.’ Caroline remembered; he had only been mollified when told that it was an old family recipe of Mr Thomas Hardy, a novelist her father much admired. ‘We peeked and the alcohol had preserved it as well as an Egyptian mummy, so we’ll use that as well as Grandma Overton’s recipe, the one with the mashed potatoes you laughed about as a child. Mrs Dibble has, she says, bought sufficient currants.’ A line was heavily scored beneath the ‘bought’. ‘We missed you greatly at the Great Stirring Ceremony. Even Isabel came down for it. She is looking rather peaky; I expect she is missing Robert, unless …?’ Caroline laughed, understanding the unwritten question: could it be Isabel was not enjoying life at The Towers? ‘But she says nothing. I shall wear my old blue, shortened by Mrs Hazel. She is sadly down on new gowns this year, though I gather Edith has decided to patronise her – I suspect under orders from William in order to regain favour in the village. Poor Edith. Phoebe is losing her plumpness at last, and growing quite fashionably slim. Between you and me, I think she is growing a little bored with her job at the railway station, now the cold weather has arrived with a vengeance. I recognise in her the signs of old. How I wish you were here. It’s holly-gathering time again and you are always so clever at finding it. George is all for thieving some from the Forest by night, in the hope he won’t get caught by the Board of Conservators. They have spies everywhere, I tell him, just like the Germans, and that has put an end to his devilry. We did miss you on his birthday today. He was very pleased with the book you sent, though I doubt if such a busy young man will get round to writing to tell you so.’ (In fact he had, or rather, he had sent a drawing which arrived, like Mother’s letter, this morning.) ‘Sixteen
now, and all my chicks hopping from the nest.’ Caroline noticed the ink was heavy there, as though the fountain pen had paused – perhaps because her mother had been fearing that, if the war continued much longer, George might indeed be hopping.

  ‘And now, my love, I must tell you something. Agnes, as you know, left us suddenly; Harriet is now parlourmaid and doing very well.’ Caroline had been astounded at the news and could only put it down to rivalry between Agnes and Mrs Dibble, decreasing the tension between Harriet and the housekeeper, since there had seldom been rapport between any of them. ‘Agnes is to have a baby – I am breaking her confidence by telling you this – and, although I begged her to stay, she insisted on going. I was horrified to learn where, but she is still with the Norvilles, I hear, though she is unwed, poor girl. It is clear who the father is. Jamie is in training camp at Shornecliffe, and she told me there is no question of marriage. I tell you this, my darling, in case our Dear Lord takes you by the hand to intervene …’

  Caroline lay down the letter. How like mother to make her wishes so plain, so confident she could rely on Caroline as usual. Now she was in the same position as her father had been; questioning whether to persuade an obviously reluctant Jamie Thorn (if she could find him) to wed the mother of his unborn child. How mistaken they had all been in Jamie; she had thought he truly loved Agnes, and surely in this case there could be no doubt of his fatherhood. Back to the old question: was an unhappy marriage better than no marriage at all? Aunt Tilly had said yes, but she considered the wider issues, not the individual bitterness of two people locked for life in loveless intimacy. Quite apart from that, Mother simply did not appreciate how much there was to do here. Caroline was surrounded by human problems every day: ruined lives, anguished relatives, writing letters for those who lacked the skill – or the arms – to do so. Each of them had as much claim or more on her time and emotions as Agnes. Or did they? Agnes, who had given her so much help and loyalty, must deserve as much as any of the patients. But how was she to find Jamie?

  It took a lot of determined application to the problem; even bullying was necessary to find out which regiment Jamie was in and how she could speak to him. It took time to persuade the camp authorities that she was not an importunate sweetheart of Jamie’s but had a personal mission from his home. She wasn’t sure that a private room in the Commandant’s HQ was the best of places to bring up such a delicate matter, but she could hardly drag Jamie out into a local pub. His face was shot with sudden fear as he recognised her.

  ‘Miss Caroline, what’s wrong? Agnes? My mother?’

  ‘They’re both well,’ she reassured him quickly. ‘I’m sorry I alarmed you.’ She plunged in. ‘You love Agnes, don’t you, Jamie?’

  His face grew mutinous and her heart sank. So something was wrong. When he replied it was guardedly. ‘Reckon I do, miss.’

  ‘Then why don’t you want to marry her?’

  Jamie replied sullenly, ‘I do, miss. That is, I did, but she don’t love me no more. She’s stopped writing. She must have another sweetheart. Not my fault.’

  ‘I’m quite sure she hasn’t,’ Caroline said vigorously. ‘What on earth did you say to her last time you met?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? When the poor girl’s going to have your baby?’

  Jamie looked as if he were going to faint. He couldn’t be putting that on, Caroline reasoned. ‘Expecting? Agnes?’

  ‘She must have told you when she came here to see you, surely?’

  ‘No, miss.’ Jamie tried desperately to assimilate this. ‘Perhaps because there’s another fellow?’ He could hardly get the words out.

  Caroline was outraged. ‘I always thought you were an honourable lad, Jamie Thorn. How can you even think that of Agnes? You know she’d never do such a thing.’

  ‘She hardly spoke to me when she came,’ he said defensively. ‘She wouldn’t let me kiss her. Nothing. How was I to know she hadn’t found someone else now I’ve gone.’

  ‘Then you don’t deserve Agnes if you could think that of her. She’s having your baby. Didn’t you have an opportunity to talk?’

  With some unwillingness Jamie remembered his boasting about a medal. Several times. He’d been full of stupid talk about getting a medal, and all the time she was giving him much more than that: his baby.

  ‘Where did you track him down?’ Daniel asked with interest.

  ‘Ahab’s a very simple dog. He’s like us all; when he realised he was lost in the Forest, he simply sat down and howled. We could hear it even at Friar’s Gate, and we rushed in to find him before the Board of Conservators rounded him up as a stray. We arrived at the same time as the Forester. We got off with a stern warning to look after our dog better. I tried to pass it on to Ahab, but I’m not sure he took it in. He was too busy trying to race me back to the Rectory for supper.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘He’s a grand dog. Bring him to see me if you can sneak him past Mother.’

  ‘Better still you come to see him.’ Felicia held her breath for his reply, aware she was stepping on to dangerous ground.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a very small way from this bedside chair to the invalid chair.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I say yes.’

  He glared at her. ‘You’re not me.’

  ‘I am. I fight with you. I shall fight in you.’

  He looked at her in tired pity. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Not if you don’t let me. But you could so easily.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I won’t.’

  ‘Why not, Daniel? You know I love you.’

  ‘That’s why, Felicia. For once I’m not thinking of me. Don’t you think I like seeing your lovely face and hearing your gentle voice by me? But I won’t do it. You’re eighteen –’

  ‘Don’t say, with all my life before me, please.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I am thinking. Mine is a ruined life, Felicia, and no amount of pity and help or even love can change that. I can read, I can think, I can dream, but I can’t walk; that means I can’t travel and nothing, nothing can change that either. And don’t tell me God can.’

  ‘I won’t. You can, though.’

  His face was flushed with anger as, throwing off the rug, he pointed to his wasted leg, and then the one that was only half a leg. ‘I can change this? Or this?’

  ‘Very well,’ she said steadily, ‘we disagree.’

  She looked so calm, he thought angrily. How to reach her, make her understand?

  ‘But if you will not let me help you,’ she continued, my life too is destroyed, for I love you and nothing can change that either.’

  ‘And do you think it would help that love. Felicia,’ he seized her hand fiercely, ‘to stay with me forever, knowing I can never marry, never lead a normal life?’

  ‘You can marry when you are quite recovered.’

  ‘Felicia, don’t you understand yet? I never shall. Haven’t they told you?’

  ‘Told me what?’

  Anger made him blunt. ‘I’m paralysed and I’m impotent.’ He waited for the look of repulsion or pity he expected, but it didn’t come. What did was worse.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  He turned his head away, cursing. ‘I can’t marry you, Felicia. For heaven’s sake, you’re a sort of nurse. You should understand what that means. I’ll never be able to be a husband to you. Never love you as you deserve to be loved. Never give you children. Now do you understand?’

  A jolt went through her, and as instantly left her again, determined as she was not to show reaction. She took his hands. ‘It doesn’t matter, Daniel. I love you, the adventure of your soul.’

  ‘It matters to me, Felicia.’

  When she saw he was choking back emotion, she stood up, to be calm for both of them. Through the window she could see the grey December day of the rest of her life. How was she to say it, how make the sacrifice he was asking of her when everything in her cried out to remain here?

  She managed
it at last. ‘Very well, Daniel. I’ll go away. That’s what you want, isn’t it, so that I don’t remind you any more of the past?’ If she had hoped he might stop her, that hope was extinguished as he remained silent. ‘But if you’re casting me out because I’m the old life, then I’ll only go on one condition.’ He waited. ‘I want to see you begin your new life.’ He looked up, startled. ‘Let me see you in that invalid chair, Daniel.’

  But he turned away from her again.

  Leave, wonderful leave. Caroline performed a hop, skip and a jump. She had been one of the lucky ones. Forty-eight hours from four o’clock Thursday afternoon, Christmas Eve. Today! She would be home in time for supper if she were lucky, and certainly for Midnight Mass, the first Celebration of Christmas Day. She was the happiest girl on earth, and hugged Ellen in commiseration. Ellen was remaining on duty.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Carrie,’ she assured her valiantly. ‘It’s a lot more fun here than slaving at Shadwell for me Dad. Two dozen Tommies and a few Froggie Belgians are more than a match for a glass of port in the local back home. That young one from the Naval Reserve, Pip, he fancies giving me a Christmas present or two. I know just what he thinks it’s going to be now he’s hopping around. He’s had his eye on me.’