Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  ‘Don’t let it linger too long.’

  Ellen grinned. ‘Why not? A short life for a soldier, make it a merry one, say I. More ways of killing the cat for the war effort than knitting two left socks.’

  Caroline had thought about this statement for some time last night when sleep came hard through excitement. Were all men the same? Ellen had given her graphic descriptions of just how the soldiers led their merry lives while waiting to go abroad, or even convalescing after wounds, and how standards in her home area had suddenly changed with the advent of war; girls who had kept sweethearts at arm’s length rapidly decreased the distance when threatened with their departure. ‘It’s their bit towards the war effort,’ Ellen had explained. At first Caroline thought she was joking, then realised she was not, and then pondered on its morality. For men were men, and if the Tommies felt that way, what of Reggie? All she had given him was a photograph, and it was all he had asked, though she had diffidently offered more. Had there been unspoken hopes in the last passionate kisses he had given her; had she missed them, let him down? And what would her reaction have been? Had he been holding back knowing that to ask might tear her apart even further? If he were to ask now …?

  The restlessness in her body at the thought battled with all she had been led to believe in. Did war change everything? Certainly this one might, for now it reached out its dirty fingers and touched England itself. Eight days ago the country had been shaken when German warships bombarded the east coast. A girl cleaning a doorstep in Scarborough had been killed, and altogether 127 people had died in the attack with over 500 civilians injured, not to mention soldiers and sailors. The newspapers had been full of the appalling events. In Hartlepool a family of eight people had been killed – only the cat had escaped. Yet it was the girl on the doorstep whom Caroline conjured up most vividly; she had her back to approaching death, bending over her daily work. Suppose it had been Harriet or Myrtle at the Rectory, or Rosie Trott at Ashden Manor, peacefully engaged in her daily routine, only to die without warning? This was invasion just as terrible as if the German army had arrived on the beaches of southern England, perhaps it was worse because it was so insidious. In Dover there had been not panic, but an increased tension, an awareness that they too were part of the military front. Here at the harbour, on her last spell of duty, she was waiting to escort a group of patients from the boat into the waiting ambulances for Dover Priory station, for the Canterbury line.

  Full of her own thoughts about her return home, she became aware with startling suddenness that there was some sort of commotion going on, people shouting, yelling, excitement – or fear? – communicating itself like a rippling wave through the waiting groups. At last she distinguished the words: ‘Take cover, take cover.’

  Someone grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her inside the ambulance.

  ‘What happened?’ she shouted at her companion.

  ‘Air raid warning. The motor-cars have just driven along the Parade with the placards.’

  ‘Another false alarm, like that submarine, I expect.’ Caroline rushed to the window just as the clouds lifted and she glimpsed an aeroplane. Simultaneously, it seemed, there was a dull boom. No false alarm, no disappearing submarines this time. There was a moment’s pause, then shouting all around. What to do? Take cover? Go to help at the scene of whatever had happened? She yelled at two men sheltering under a nearby van. ‘Is there damage? Where is it?’

  ‘Somewhere near the Castle.’

  Was their hostel all right, was Caroline’s instant fear. Ellen might still be there, for she had been on night duty, and it was only eleven o’clock. She longed to rush over to find out, but their orders were to take cover till an all-clear. Moreover she had a job to do, even if she were uncomfortably aware that a harbour and a railway station would make good targets. Surely the harbour would scare off any more planes? They had felt so confident here, protected by all the new guns and fortifications, yet somehow an aeroplane had managed to drop what must surely have been a bomb right on Dover itself.

  When it was evident that no more bombs would fall, they resumed work, and on her arrival back from the Priory station she was relieved to find Ellen waiting for her.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Caroline demanded. ‘I’ve heard everything, from the Castle being in ruins to the entire Parade being demolished. Thank goodness you’re safe.’

  ‘It blew me out of bed.’

  ‘But was anyone killed?’

  ‘Cor blimey, no, It only got one poor devil – he was blown out of a cherry tree, and bruised, poor soul. Serve him right for being up a tree in December.’ There spoke the towns woman, Caroline thought to herself, amused, as Ellen continued, ‘Guess what the Kaiser managed to blow up, though. I went to have a look at it.’

  ‘The Castle?’

  ‘A field of blooming cabbages. That’s grand news for hostel meals. I’ll be able to go in without holding me nose.’

  ‘It’s very brave of you to come down here.’

  ‘No, it ain’t. Our lads went up in the air from Swingate, and a seaplane went from Folkestone to see off Herr Kaiser’s gents. Exciting, ain’t it?’

  ‘Did they shoot it down?’

  ‘Some hopes. They only had pistols and they probably hold water. That should teach the Kaiser a lesson.’

  Mrs Dibble was forced to acknowledge that she missed Agnes’s calm competence, odd one though she could be at times. Harriet and she were rubbing along well enough, and the girl had come on wonderfully with promotion, but, apart from the extra work for them all, and they couldn’t afford no extra help now, Harriet didn’t have Agnes’s all-round ability, able to turn a smoky fire to blazing warmth as readily as she could bake an apricot soufflé. Agnes was no mean cook; Harriet was hard put to it to mash a potato. Mrs Dibble pummelled at the basinful of potatoes to reduce them to smooth light consistency and stirred in Harriet’s unevenly chopped onion, She vigorously shook salt and pepper into it, inspected it, added more butter, and left it while she attended to the onion and sage stuffing for Mr Goose Number Two, For herself, she liked the mashed potato stuffing, but Mrs Lilley had decreed one of each, so that was that. It would be up with the lark tomorrow morning. Puddings on to boil, stoking up the range fire, which would be kept in all night to ensure no last-minute mishaps, and the oven ready for the geese. And the larders would be firmly bolted against that blessed dog. With that job done, it would begin to feel like Christmas. It hadn’t seemed natural without all the girls crowding around these last few days, and Mr George, bless him, wasn’t much use. But now the geese were stuffed she felt more Christmassy, heartened by the fact that it was up to be a family Christmas after all. Fred would like that, for not only did it upset him when people went away from the Rectory, but it was going to be a family Christmas for the Dibbles too. Lizzie was coming over in the van with the Hartfield carrier, who was going on to his usual Christmas duty of delivering chickens and turkeys cooked in the baker’s ovens for those who could not do their own, and picking up Joe’s wife and little one on the way.

  So Christmas would be Christmas after all in the Rectory, and the devil take the Kaiser, she thought daringly. The Rectory walls were too thick for the Kaiser to barge in and spoil everything – and he could keep out of the cellars, too, where the extra coal was stored, just in case. She burst out into ‘Rock of Ages Cleft for Me’, then remembered the hour and the season, and hummed ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. Bethlehem she visualised as another Ashden, where starry skies were ushering wise men and shepherds to St Nicholas.

  Upstairs at ease in her old room in the Rectory, Tilly debated on whether or not to attend the Midnight Celebration. She knew very well she had no choice, in fact. Of course she must go, if only to please Laurence. Safe in the familiar surroundings, she did not regret accepting his invitation for Christmas. Simon – Lord Banning – had asked her to stay, but as she knew very well he had invited his sister, with whom she had crossed swords in her suffragette days, Tilly had asserted her
independence. Soon she would have left for good, and he must begin growing unaccustomed to her voice and appearance again, she thought with amusement. Their bargain had been ‘until she was well again’, and now she was. It was time to fly the coop once more. On her last visit to the War Office she had yet again been told to go home and stop bothering them. So much for women’s part in the war. The Times filled a column a day with helpful ideas; the War Office was too busy to consider the vast source of employment lying virtually idle in the country. She had, like so many others, been forced to go where she could; she had chosen the FANYs, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, and after Christmas would be leaving to join them as one of their drivers in Belgium. She considered asking Caroline to come with her; yes, it was not a bad idea. She was being wasted where she was, and only fools now thought this would be a short war. She’d ask her, as soon as the opportunity arose.

  Meanwhile she’d give thanks to the Lord for Ashden, changed but unchanged by the war. She had been amused to be cheered when she arrived in the Austin this afternoon, and to find herself somewhat of a heroine. Ashden had obviously swung round to patriotism, though this hadn’t, she noticed, stopped the success of the cinema. Pragmatic as ever, Ashden saw no harm in patronising the gift while deriding its donor as Lord Tom Noddy, in their succinct phrase. She crammed on her faithful brown toque, then changed her mind and switched it for the new hat that Lord Banning had gravely presented to her this morning as she left.

  ‘It’s fully armoured,’ he explained. ‘Bullet-proof for the Western Front. Your heart has its own armour.’

  Surely enough, she could feel a thin layer of tin or some other metal between the blue felt and its bright blue silk lining. Curiously, it was not uncomfortable, and thus fully protected against outside harm she descended the Rectory stairs to join Elizabeth for the Midnight Celebration.

  ‘Are you ready, Felicia?’ Phoebe’s head shot round the door.

  Felicia had been ready for the past ten minutes, and had been sitting in the chair by the window that faced towards the Manor, thinking of her future. ‘Yes.’ She stood up and put on her hat, while Phoebe fidgeted impatiently. The time had been productive, crystallising Felicia’s thoughts into resolution; out of the deep ache of rejection and helplessness, she could now see a path. It was not a path that even a month ago she could have envisaged taking; it was a path that would cause anxiety to her parents and danger and hardship for her. But, unlike the other paths, it led out of the Slough of Despond in whose unfathomable depths she must otherwise surely choke and drown.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Phoebe cried as Felicia joined her.

  ‘Yes,’ her sister answered, though they spoke of different things.

  ‘Everyone coming home again,’ Phoebe amplified.

  And that too. Perhaps most of all, because it was a farewell to the life that had sheltered her. No matter where she was next year, this Christmas they were all together.

  George came leaping down the stairs after them, easing a finger round his tall, stiff collar. ‘Do we still get mince pies when we get home?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘We always do,’ Phoebe told him scornfully.

  ‘But there’s a war on. You never know, Mrs Dibble might not have been able to get the fruit and stuff.’

  ‘I think you will find,’ Felicia assured him gravely, ‘that she has managed to do so.’

  ‘Wizard!’ George, an angelic look on his face, rushed forward to take his aunt’s arm in his.

  Isabel had never imagined she would be looking forward so much to returning to the Rectory. She hated The Towers, and realised how big a mistake she had made in moving back here from Hop House rather than going home. Her first rebellion was to insist on Christmas luncheon at the Rectory since Robert was not coming home on leave. There were drawbacks to living under the same roof as her husband’s parents. The story of the cinema was dying down, but it was undoubtedly awkward living here while it was doing so. She had been openly laughed at in the post office. She had an uncomfortable relationship with both her mother-and father-in-law, and Patricia was away from home, leaving her to face them alone. What’s more, her allowance was negligible and all bills had to be sanctioned and paid by Edith. And lastly, at the back of her mind, was Frank Eliot. He hadn’t had the impudence to come near her since their encounter in the hop-fields, but hearing his name spoken of so approvingly in the Swinford-Browne household made her feel uncomfortable. Her second rebellion was to declare she was going to attend Midnight Mass at St Nicholas for religious reasons, and would therefore remain at the Rectory overnight. Edith had not previously noticed signs of devoutness in her daughter-in-law, but had no qualms about losing Isabel temporarily. She was a bad influence on Patricia, who had been greatly changed after Isabel’s entry into the family and showed no signs of wishing to return home. As for Robert, Edith could only conclude that Isabel’s shortcomings as a wife had driven him to volunteer. For what other reason would he do so? It had taken all William’s charm at least to find him a commission in the Public Schools’ Battalion which he had then refused. William had not mentioned his name since, and had therefore not been at all pleased to find Isabel was not to be present at Chapel. He needed her there, to emphasise he now had a son at the front, so he had informed Edith.

  Halfway down Station Road in the chauffeur-driven Daimler, Isabel passed a girl walking towards the village with the aid of a torch, carrying two bags. With railway trains arriving at odd times, this was not unusual nowadays, and even the scouts had given up challenging them, ever since one got a clip round the ear for his pains. There was something familiar about this one, though.

  ‘Stop!’ Isabel banged on the glass.

  Startled, the chauffeur instantly obliged and Isabel was precipitated forward. Without stopping to upbraid him, however, she leaped out of the motor-car in her pleasure.

  ‘Caroline! Oh darling, darling Caroline.’ She threw her arms round her. ‘No one bothered to tell me you were coming home. Oh, I’m so glad to see you. Jump in.’

  Caroline returned the embrace. Hearing her sister’s voice, seeing her again, made her want to cry. Christmas had begun. She wanted to savour every moment of it to the full. ‘Let’s walk,’ she urged. Caroline had looked forward to this solitary slow approach back into Ashden under the Christmas stars, and a Daimler was not the same.

  ‘Oh, well, if you insist. It might be fun. We’ll send the bags on alone.’

  ‘Dear Isabel, always so practical.’ Caroline laughed between tears of joy.

  ‘What are you crying for?’ Isabel asked, surprised.

  ‘Oh, just the unexpected happinesses of life.’

  St Nicholas was even fuller than usual this year, the strangers visiting Ashden Manor or relatives in the village more than compensating for the absent faces, some of which would never return. The congregation waited quietly in the dim candlelight, improvised blinds hiding the mediaeval stained glass; so far it had been a more austere Christmas then usual, with fewer celebrations. The Lord of Misrule was doing his best to ruin their lives over in Belgium and Serbia, and all the other countless countries now drawn into this war; he was too busy to preside over Christmas festivities here, in the old traditional manner. Besides, Bill Hubble, who usually did the honours dressed up in his jester’s costume, didn’t have the heart for it this year, what with Tim gone. Even the carol-singing procession had been abandoned, thanks to DORA, and carols in the church and village institute had been poor substitutes for the yearly gathering on Bankside.

  Caroline felt a deep sense of homecoming as she took her place in the pew. She vividly remembered Easter, and for some reason the petty row over the Communion cloth stuck in her mind. Were the Mutters and the Thorns still quarrelling or had war brought about a truce? A new Church year had begun since Easter. What would the rest of it bring? Looking around her, she could see so many people she was fond of, so many she loved – only Reggie was missing. No, she would try to think of happy things this evening, though he
was forever in her prayers and dreams.

  There was Philip Ryde, looking delighted to see her. Unable to volunteer because of his limp, he was a special constable, her mother told her, so far with precious little to do. Dr Jennings had now gone, but Janie was sitting with her parents, She was working with her father now, having done basic nursing training. They were expecting a temporary replacement doctor in the New Year, Janie’s older brother Timothy was away at the front. Dr Cuss was still here, probably because he was the only vet in the village. The traditional Thorn pews were still crowded, as were the Mutters’, and even dear Nanny had come this evening, sitting with her old enemy Mrs Dibble. All so dear and familiar, yet all so strange now. She was sitting between Isabel and Mother. Isabel was also looking round, as if she too were renewing acquaintance with the St Nicholas congregation. When she turned back, her cheeks were oddly flushed, and glancing round curiously Caroline saw several pews behind them was that strange hop-farm manager at Swinford-Browne’s farm, Mr Eliot. He was staring straight at her, so she turned away quickly, flustered though she couldn’t think why. Without thinking, Caroline looked round at the Hunney pew. She had avoided doing so, fearing that what she saw would fill her again with sadness, when she had decided to revel in her good fortune at coming home at all.

  No Reggie. Of course not. Had she still been hoping? If so, it had been foolish to do so. No Daniel. No wonder, poor boy. Lady Hunney, carefully not seeing her. Sir John, who bowed his head in acknowledgement, and Eleanor who waved vigorously – another sign of changing times. She would never have dared do that a few months ago.