Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  And now this service was beginning, the organ playing, her father already in the chancel with the servers to bless the incense. Slowly the procession began, headed by Samuel Thorn the verger, Harold Bertram, Timothy Farthing and the other churchwarden, the clerk bearing the cross, the candlebearers, the thurifer with the boat-bearer, her father in his cope and then the choir, and Charles Pickering the curate. While they waited for her father to reappear in his chasuble, Caroline let herself enjoy this special time of Christmas Eve. When she was too young to attend Midnight Mass, she would lie in bed to listen for the angels’ beating wings. It seemed to her the busy old world always paused for just a moment on Christmas evening, as if it could hear some silent music to tell it something important was happening; there was a stillness in which the faint beat of an angel’s wings could be heard if one listened hard enough, the angel bringing the Christ Child to earth.

  She slept soundly that night, tucked up in her own bed for the first time in nearly three months, feeling safe within the old brick walls. No bombs here; Dover was far away.

  When she awoke it was light and she’d missed early service. Never mind, she told herself, she’d go to Evensong and God would pardon her, she hoped. She wondered what had awakened her, for little light crept under the blinds. But – had she imagined it? Surely there was a noise at the window. To her transfixed horror a hand was visible grasping the bottom of the blind and hauling it up, and pushing the sash down with the weight of his body. His? Whoever the his belonged to, he was climbing in.

  Her first instinct was to scream, then she realised how stupid she was. It was George, of course. Trust him to play a prank like this.

  ‘Go away, Father Christmas,’ she shouted. ‘You’re supposed to be in the chimney.’

  ‘Not nearly so handy as this.’

  A huge shape half rolled and half fell over the sash even as she registered in her half-awakened state that this was not George’s voice.

  She flew out of bed, as he hauled himself painfully to his feet, and into his arms. ‘Reggie!’

  His face was buried in her hair, her breasts through the Viyella night-gown tight against his uniform. His lips were on her cheek, her eyes, her mouth, and then she could say no more, even had she wanted to.

  ‘Remember I said I’d be back down the chimney at Christmas, like Santa Claus?’ he half laughed, half cried at last. ‘I couldn’t quite manage that, this is the best I could do.’

  ‘Oh, don’t let me go. Kiss me again.’ And a few minutes later: ‘And again.’ And a long time after that: ‘Now I believe it’s really you. You’re Father Christmas.’

  ‘And a deuced painful job it is. No wonder Shakespeare didn’t bother to spout poetry about Romeo shinning on to Juliet’s balcony.’

  ‘What am I to do with you? Take you down to breakfast? When did you get here? How long are you staying? Do you have to go back?’

  ‘Not down that ivy, I don’t.’

  ‘All right. Breakfast it is,’ she said, greatly daring, wondering what on earth her father would say.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he laughed, reading her thoughts. ‘I asked your father’s permission. He won’t disown you.’

  ‘Did you?’ It struck her momentarily as odd that, in a life when all his rules were changed, Reggie still abided by convention. Then she rejoiced that he thought so much for her.

  ‘Your mother wasn’t too pleased.’

  ‘She probably remembered I had the patched night-gown on. Hardly very beautiful, is it?’

  He looked at her, not the night-gown. The starry eyes, the curly hair, and the shape of the warm body he had just held close to his. He could say nothing: he had thought of her for nearly five months and now he was here he had nothing to say. He wanted to take her again into his arms, run his hands closely over her body, tear off that night-gown and forget all about breakfast, forget about war, forget all about his guilt at the fateful toss of the coin that had pitchforked Daniel into catastrophe and himself into at least temporary safety, forget about everything save himself and Caroline. But he couldn’t. Dreams were far behind, and Ashden was here. Life in a trench concentrated the mind wonderfully, usually on mere survival, for he tried not to think of the past or future because it was too painful, but on some nights, when the men were singing ribald songs of women, then unbidden he’d think of her, dream of her, taking her like a French whore, until full of horror at himself he’d force himself to stop such thoughts. Now here in Ashden she seemed as far out of his reach as she had been to him in the trenches. Yet he was back with her, she loved him still, and he loved her. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it, for one day soon the war would end and they would be married. Not now, for how could he marry, having seen the truth of war?

  ‘There’s a soldier outside the perimeter, Emily.’ Miss Charlotte, torn between shock and excitement, peered out of their bedroom window over to the barbed wire.

  ‘He has doubtless come to announce the arrival of the Germans, Charlotte. It is typical of the Kaiser to arrive on Christmas Day. An insult to Our Lord. I shall ring for Johnson to admit this soldier.’ She drew back her head from where it was leaning out next to her sister’s.

  As the drawbridge dropped, Jamie Thorn nearly jumped out of his skin. With all this barbed wire the place looked like a training camp. What on earth was his Agnes doing here of all places, with these two witches? Were they imprisoning her? He rapped thunderously on the door. He was a soldier of the King now, and wasn’t going to take no for an answer – from anybody.

  ‘I’ve come for Miss Pilbeam.’

  ‘To take her away?’ Johnson’s face beamed in hope and he cautiously lowered the bayonet.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then you can’t see her; she’s cooking the goose.’

  ‘I’ll cook yours if you don’t let me see her.’ Talking tough was the only way to get things done.

  Johnson looked him up and down in astonishment and sniffed. ‘I know you. You’re Jamie Thorn.’

  Agnes, attracted from the primitive kitchen into the living room she’d insisted on decorating with garlands made out of old newspapers, stood still.

  ‘Jamie.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Agnes.’

  ‘What are you doing here? You never wrote.’

  ‘Nor did you.’ He disregarded the unwarm welcome and looked meaningfully at the swell of her stomach; it didn’t show very much, but Agnes wasn’t to know that. She flushed, and folded her hands over it.

  ‘What do you want?’ She sounded more belligerent than she had intended.

  ‘You, Agnes, that’s what. I got a forty-eight-hour pass, one of them special licence things, and a valiant longing to make you my wife.’

  She stiffened. ‘No, Jamie, I don’t know how you heard, but the answer’s no.’

  ‘I’m not asking, I’m telling. Now is that or is that not my baby in there?’

  ‘Jamie Thorn!’

  ‘No need to look shocked. If I’m its father, and I know I am, knowing you, Aggie, you’re going to be my wife.’

  ‘That I won’t.’

  ‘When are they coming?’ Miss Charlotte hobbled agitatedly into the living room, her stick clacking imperiously.

  ‘Who?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘The Germans, young man.’

  Jamie began to laugh.

  ‘It’s the invasion, isn’t it?’ Miss Emily followed her sister. ‘That’s what you’ve been sent to tell us.’

  Jamie stopped laughing, for he saw his chance. ‘It is, ma’am, and I’ve been sent to protect you ladies,’ he told them gravely. ‘I’m staying here tonight because they’re coming tomorrow morning, see? Though I don’t see how I rightly can, you all being unwed ladies. You’d better order Agnes to marry me. I can’t stay here without. It wouldn’t be proper. I’ll make an honest woman of her early in the morning.’

  ‘On your honour, young man?’

  ‘I won’t!’ Agnes screeched.

  ‘With this licence,’ J
amie promised, waving it aloft.

  ‘I think you’d better, dear,’ Miss Emily said firmly. ‘The Germans do terrible things to young girls. Worse than Napoleon. We do need a gentleman to protect us, if the Germans are coming tomorrow. Johnson isn’t very strong now, and a soldier would be very useful. Young man, swear on the Bible to marry her, if you please.’

  ‘I won’t marry him!’ Agnes shouted.

  ‘Swear.’ Everyone ignored her.

  ‘I swear to marry Agnes Pilbeam tomorrow morning. Hereto I plight thee my troth, Aggie.’ Jamie couldn’t hold back his grins now.

  ‘There now, you may kiss the bride, young man.’ Miss Emily clapped her hands, a little muddled.

  Jamie took Agnes firmly in his arms, as she struggled to break away.

  ‘Aggie Pilbeam, you’re a stiff-necked young witch, but I love you.’

  Her face changed. ‘Do you, Jamie?’ She looked quite surprised.

  ‘Wait till tonight – tomorrow night,’ he amended hastily.

  ‘Say what you like, there’s nothing so nice as a good turkey.’ Mrs Dibble was minded to break into ‘Now Thank We all our God’, but changed her mind. After all, it was Christmas and the Lord had heard enough singing this day, surely. Instead she rested her feet, watching Lizzie and Muriel wash up the Christmas dishes.

  ‘Had the turkey stored away, did you, ma?’ Lizzie asked, grinning.

  Percy laughed. He’d never have the courage to do that normally, but today was different. It was Christmas.

  Margaret Dibble looked round her family; Fred scoffing an apple, Muriel, Lizzie, a chip off the old block, the little one, as they still called little Freddie, for all he was two now, and even Percy wasn’t so bad. ‘None of your cheek, young man. If you must know I sold my body to old man Sharpe.’

  Fred took no notice, Lizzie and Joe and Percy gaped. Mrs Dibble’s lips, long out of practice, slowly curved into a grin. After all, it was Christmas.

  Caroline’s excitement was still growing. This was the best day ever. The geese had been carried in in procession with traditional pomp, headed by Father, singing the Boar’s Head Carol which seemed appropriate, even if it wasn’t a boar but two fat geese.

  The pudding too had disappeared into satisfied stomachs now, with all the silver threepenny pieces being found. Some years one or two mysteriously went missing, which never failed to alarm Elizabeth. Reggie had taken Christmas luncheon with his parents, but would be back any moment now with Eleanor for the event which more than anything else spelled Christmas at the Rectory: the playing of the game Family Coach, narrated by father. The door had been left on the latch since the two maids had gone home to their families, and the Dibbles’ time was now their own. They were all talking so loudly in order to be heard over Phoebe’s strumming of ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ on the piano that none of them heard the Hunneys’ arrival. Only the opening of the drawing-room door drew Caroline’s attention to it, as it was thrown wide with a crash, and the bugle call from Reggie instantly drowned the pianist.

  ‘What is it?’ Caroline laughed, hands over her ears.

  ‘Oh!’It wasn’t her, but Felicia who suddenly dived for the door to welcome the new arrivals, Reggie, Eleanor – and, in his invalid chair, Daniel, a faintly defiant air about him, but grinning nevertheless. He was hardly installed between Eleanor and Felicia before Father entered in his now traditional garb for the narrator, as Santa Claus with a long red cloak, i.e. his old dressing gown with white silk tacked round it, and partly as the Lord of Misrule with a jester’s cap on his head (i.e. Grandpa Overton’s night-cap with some tin bells sewn on, the latter always used to telling effect).

  The Rector surveyed his family, and greeted his guests. ‘And now,’ he began, ringing the bells with a toss of his head, ‘The Family Coach.’

  What would it be this year, Caroline wondered, her hand clasped in Reggie’s. Last year the Family Coach was going round the zoo, the year before travelling through the Forest. That hat came round and she drew her piece of paper. ‘I’m a poor old clergyman,’ she cried in delight, hobbling a few paces.

  ‘And I’m the bride’s mother.’ Reggie studied his. ‘I’d rather be the bridegroom.’

  Isabel drew the bride’s father, Tilly the coachman, Nanny Oates the bride (‘Me at my time of life. At last, me dream’s come true’). Elizabeth was the luggage, Felicia the doors, George the wheels (his favourite role), Eleanor the bridesmaid.

  ‘And me?’ Daniel asked. There was no paper for him.

  Caroline held her breath, but her father was equal to it. ‘You’re the little cocker spaniel Mutt. Instead of leaping up and turning around like the rest of us, you can wave your arms,’ her father told him matter-of-factly. ‘And no cheating.’

  Daniel grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he said with some effort.

  ‘There once was a wicked villain called Tom.’ They hissed. ‘And a handsome fellow called Marmaduke.’ They cheered. ‘And a beautiful lass called Appledora.’

  ‘There’s no such name,’ objected Elizabeth, supremely happy. She was come into her own kingdom again, and now knew she had the strength to rule it.

  ‘There is now. No more interruptions. Tom wanted Appledora for himself, but she and Marmaduke were greatly in love.’ They ‘aah’d’. ‘Tom had prepared a grisly death for Marmaduke, and Appledora had just three hours to seek him out and marry him to put her out of Tom’s clutches for ever. So what did she do?’

  ‘Sewed a wedding dress.’ ‘Found a clergyman.’ ‘Paid her bills.’ ‘Wrote a long letter to her best friend,’ were some of the offerings.

  ‘No, she gathered together her father –’

  Caroline nudged Isabel. ‘You’re the father.’

  ‘I forgot,’ screamed Isabel, leaping up and twisting round.

  ‘We’ll call that a dummy run. It’s a forfeit next time, though.’ Father continued, ‘Her mother –’

  Caroline dug Reggie in the ribs and he leaped up with a howl.

  ‘Her bridesmaid,’ (Eleanor leaped up) ‘a poor old clergyman,’ (Caroline was already on her feet) ‘and a thin little cocker spaniel called Mutt.’ Self-consciously, Daniel awkwardly swung his arms. ‘The bride,’ (Nanny squawked and started to clamber to her feet. ‘Sit down like Daniel,’ Elizabeth advised. ‘All agreed?’)

  ‘Pushed them all into the family coach,’ Laurence announced loudly as they all leaped up and twisted. ‘And the doors slammed.’ (Felicia jumped up) ‘and the coachman’ (Tilly’s turn) ‘shook the horses’ reins,’ (Phoebe) ‘the luggage shivered,’ (Elizabeth) ‘and the wheels’ (George jumped up) ‘turned faster and faster and faster still … And up behind the family coach’ (everyone) ‘came the villain.’ Hiss.

  And they were off. From now, the story grew faster and faster, with doors falling open, luggage falling out, wheels spinning off, wedding cakes falling on the bride, the coachman drinking too much, and spirited deeds as they made their reckless journey towards Marmaduke and happiness.

  Caroline was breathless with the constant jumping up and down and laughing, yet a small part of her was quite detached. This year they were all together. Next year, where would they be? Next month, even? Aunt Tilly was going abroad; she had a strong suspicion that Felicia would be moving away too, since clearly something had happened between her and Daniel. Isabel would be back at The Towers, perhaps with a baby if Robert came home on leave. Phoebe was, she agreed with her mother, growing restless, so was George. Eleanor had whispered her news that she was going to help Martin Cuss since she’d always wanted to be a vet (but she hadn’t told her mother!), Patricia had become a policewoman, and Penelope was in Serbia. And Reggie and herself? The thought tore at her, she lost her turn, and promptly had to pay a forfeit (one of Mrs Dibble’s prized home-made chocolates). Reggie would be back at war – and herself? Not here for sure, and not, she thought, at Dover much longer. Where then? Reggie had pleaded with her again not to go abroad; he wanted her here, knowing she was safe. She did not remind him that England
could not be counted as safe any longer. How to reconcile his wishes with her own? She turned to him suddenly, and he smiled at her, seizing her heart so completely with his love that all was well again.

  ‘And so,’ (well over an hour later) ‘the old family coach arrived, and the bride leaped out, followed by her mother, her father, bridesmaid, the poor old clergyman, the coachman, the luggage, and the little cocker spaniel Mutt. Exhausted, the wheels fell off and the doors flapped and the old family coach quietly expired.’

  ‘Until next year,’ was the traditional unison finale, as they all twirled round.

  The jester paused, and Laurence looked at his family. ‘And so may all the powers of darkness be overcome, as we rattle in our Rectory coach towards the light. O Lord, as we rush headlong forward into the unknown, give us Thy guidance and Thy love.’

  And Caroline, feeling Reggie’s hand in hers, thought she could know no greater happiness.

  Late that night, the magic of the day over, a deep peace filled Caroline. Tomorrow she would see Reggie again, tomorrow her father had agreed to solemnise Aggie and Jamie’s marriage, tomorrow she would lunch with her family before leaving once more. She no longer feared the separation. Today they had been together, and that strength would carry them forward over the threshold of the New Year and whatever it may hold for them all. Like that tree outside, where the blackbird had sung confidently till autumn had come, God would decide when life would return, and the winter be over.

  She opened the window to the chill night air, and thought of how she had done so when the tree had been coming into leaf. So much had changed, so much would change. But not her love for Reggie, nor the Rectory, for its family harvest was safely gathered in against the storms.

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 1996.

  This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2015.