The Victory Garden: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  “Take with you? For what occasion? Do they have a fieldworkers’ ball? Or tea dance?” And she gave a brittle laugh.

  “I am heartily sick of the uniform, that’s all,” Emily said. “It is stiff and heavy and not that warm on cold days. I’d welcome wearing something different on a day off.”

  She left the room before her mother could ask her anything more. Once up in her room, she stood, taking deep breaths to calm herself, letting the tranquillity of the soft colours wash over her. It would never work, would it? If she came back here, she would have to live with her mother’s scorn every day. She’d be told what a scoundrel Robbie had been to take advantage of her. “Now do you see why we tried to protect you?” her mother would say triumphantly. Could she endure it? She gave a big sigh. There might be no other choice.

  She opened her wardrobe and ran her hands over the delicate silks and soft woollens. How many of them would she ever wear again? She went across to her writing desk and stared out of her window. There, in the bushes—that was where Robbie had first come into the garden. She pictured it clearly, his strawberry blond hair in rakish curls, the way his eyes lit up when he saw her. It seemed impossible to believe that he’d never smile at her again. A stiff breeze blew up, sending leaves flying from the trees and leaving behind dead and bare branches.

  When she came downstairs again, her father had returned home. He had already been told that she was in the house. He was sitting in his armchair in the drawing room, the Times open on his knee. His face had that stern but just look on it that Emily was sure he practised for addressing people in his court.

  “So the penitent has returned, tail between her legs, eh?” he said. “I told your mother you’d be back soon enough. She’s been quite upset these last months, you know. Extremely upset. And now you want to carry on as if nothing has happened—all water under the bridge, is that it?”

  “No, Daddy,” Emily said. “I only came home because I have two days’ leave and I thought you might want to know how I’ve been faring.”

  “I see. Then you are not home for good?”

  “Not at the moment, no.” She took a deep breath. “We have not been discharged yet.”

  “Well, you will be soon enough.” He wagged a finger in her direction. “That devil the Kaiser is on the run, and we’re going to make him pay for what he’s put us through. It will all be over in a month or so, you mark my words. And then I suppose I can see if there might be a job for you with one of our acquaintances. I can quite understand that a bright girl like you doesn’t want to spend her life at home waiting for a husband who might never show up these days.”

  Emily didn’t know what to say. Her father took her silence to be submission. “I expect your mother will be glad to have you home again. Dashed lonely for her. Only her charity work to keep her going.”

  The gong summoned them to the dining room, where they were served a clear beef broth with croutons, followed by steamed plaice with a parsley sauce. After months of stews, it tasted heavenly. But the atmosphere at the table was still decidedly frosty. Her father slurped his soup, getting a disapproving glance from his wife. Otherwise, there was silence.

  “So what news from your friends and acquaintances, Mummy?” Emily asked eventually, finding the silence overwhelming. “Any good news?”

  “I can’t say that there is,” Mrs Bryce said. “Well, the Thomas boy has been invalided out and he’s home, so that’s a relief to Myrna Thomas. But he might have shell shock, which will be worrying.”

  “Shell shock,” her father said in a disgusted tone. “I don’t believe in this shell shock. It’s just an excuse to get out of fighting. Something no doctor can detect during an examination.”

  “I heard from a nurse that some of the patients cry at night at the convalescent home,” Emily said. “There must be something wrong with them.”

  “Weaklings, that’s what. Brought up too soft. Pampered by doting parents. Your brother would never have given in to shell shock, I can tell you that.”

  There was another awkward pause. “And what about the Morrisons? Do you see them these days?”

  She detected a hesitation, an awkwardness. Mr Bryce cleared his throat. “I suppose you’ll hear about it eventually, so I might as well tell you. Mildred Morrison has been a very stupid girl. She’s going to have a baby, can you imagine. No husband, I have to tell you.”

  “Phoebe Morrison is dying of shame,” Mrs Bryce chimed in, “but I always said the girl had a flighty look to her, didn’t I? They should never have sent her to that progressive school. All that interpretive dance and those play readings. It’s not good to fill a girl’s head with too much of that stuff. But I never thought she’d go completely off the rails like that.”

  “What’s going to happen to her?” Emily found it hard to say the words.

  Mrs Bryce shrugged. “They’ve sent her away, naturally. To one of those homes, one gathers. I mean, the scandal would ruin them. No one would ever want to do business with her father again. And if they are lucky, she can return to the fold, and her parents can claim she was off doing war work.”

  “Only the cat is already out of the bag,” Mr Bryce added. “If you know, Marjorie, then probably the whole world knows.”

  “You are not insinuating that I’m a gossip, are you?”

  “Of course not, my dear. I am merely saying that whoever told you has told other people, and you know the way word spreads in rural places like this.”

  “Anyway, I shall have to cut them from our social list,” Mrs Bryce said.

  “I don’t know why they’ve been so lenient with the girl,” Mr Bryce snapped. “Her father should have shown her the door, cast her out completely. That’s what I would have done.”

  “And what will become of the child?” Emily asked, proud of the way she was staying so composed.

  “Adopted, one presumes,” Mrs Bryce said. “Or else an orphanage. The Morrisons certainly won’t want anything to do with it.”

  Emily looked down at her plate, at the now-congealing white sauce, and swallowed back bile. She felt as if she could vomit at any moment. Well, Alice had told her to see which way the wind was blowing, and now she knew. It was not in her direction.

  Emily wasn’t sure how she got through the rest of the day. She stood in the pleasant sunlight of her room, taking in every little familiar aspect: the silk eiderdown that she used to snuggle under at night; the picture of a Swiss lake on the wall; the dolls still sitting on a shelf, observing her with their stiff, haughty expressions. How could she possibly choose what to take with her? How did you pack a whole life into a small suitcase? Be practical, she told herself. Only things you really need. She spent the afternoon in her room, going through her wardrobe and drawers and wondering which items she could wear in the future. She realized her fashionable dresses were all made to wear with a corset. Even without a spreading waistline, she doubted she could ever fit into them again. But she chose a serge two-piece and a couple of plain dresses that could be altered, as well as petticoats, stockings and warm jackets. Then she looked at her bookcase and ran her hand over the dear, familiar titles from her childhood. Of course, she couldn’t carry books with her.

  But she would take her jewellery. She had been given some nice pieces for her twenty-first, and had inherited a couple of family pieces, too. She might have to sell them one day. She took them out of the jewel case and tucked them into the toe of her slipper.

  She wondered if her parents would send her things on to her if she ever found herself settled somewhere. She realized now that she could never tell them. She’d have to make some kind of excuse. Another kind of war work that was sending her abroad—to Belgium or France, maybe, to help with the repatriation of refugees when the war ended. Yes, that would do nicely. And she’d be moving around. She’d write when she could.

  But she couldn’t say that lie to their faces. Instead, she played the dutiful daughter all through the dinner of steak and kidney pie, which she found horribly
rich. The thick red gravy and pieces of kidney were almost impossible to swallow.

  “Lost your appetite, have you?” her father asked. “I should have thought work in the fields would have given you a healthy appreciation for food.”

  “Oh, I’ve been eating lots, Daddy,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve never liked kidneys, and now I’ve been working on farms and have seen animals slaughtered, I’m afraid it’s rather put me off.”

  “Absolute nonsense. Kidneys are good for you. Lots of iron. Eat up.”

  She forced herself to chew a few bites, then hid the rest under her cabbage. The apple crumble and custard went down more easily, and the glass of port after the meal did settle her stomach a little.

  The next morning, she made the excuse of having to meet the other women at the station to get a ride back to their hostel. She had asked Florrie to bring down a suitcase from the attic and she carried this with her.

  “What’s this?” her father asked as she carried it out to the motor car. “Planning for a long stay?”

  “No, Daddy. Just some of my own clothes for days off and some of my books that I miss reading. It’s awfully boring in the evenings.”

  “I imagine it would be. I can’t see that those farm girls would have much in the way of conversation. Still”—he patted her knee as he climbed into the car beside her—“it will all be over soon, won’t it? And I’ll start fishing around for a proper job for you. You should definitely learn to operate a typewriting machine. Lady secretaries will be in demand, I suspect. And after your stint in the fields, you shouldn’t find the typing too taxing.”

  They pulled up outside the station.

  “Goodbye, Daddy,” Emily said, and kissed him on the cheek. She stood watching as he drove away, then she followed the porter out to the platform.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When Emily arrived back at the farm and was carrying her suitcase upstairs, Miss Foster-Blake appeared in the hallway below her. “A word with you, please, Miss Bryce, when you have deposited your things.”

  Emily’s heart lurched. What could she have done wrong? She was back in good time. She had had permission to go. She deposited her suitcase under the bunk, hung her mackintosh and hat on the peg and stuck the hairpins back in her hair before going downstairs.

  Miss Foster-Blake was sitting at her desk in the little room that served as her office. She motioned Emily to pull up a chair. “You had a pleasant visit home, I take it?”

  “A little strained, if you want to know,” Emily replied. “My parents still make it clear that they do not approve of my disobeying them.”

  “So what will happen when this assignment concludes?” Miss Foster-Blake asked. “Will you return home and be the dutiful daughter?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure yet,” Emily replied. “I am not sure what I am going to do.”

  “I know, Emily,” the woman said quietly.

  Emily looked up in horror.

  “Alice told me,” she went on, “and before you blame Alice, it was I who confronted her and wheedled the truth out of her. I suspected, you see. I’ve seen girls in your condition before. Those early morning rushes to the lavatory. That time you fainted.”

  Emily sat silent.

  “I want you to know that I am not judging you. God knows you loved the young man. He intended to marry you. And so many young women have found themselves in your condition. I only want to help, Emily.”

  Emily looked up in surprise. The tone was so unlike the brisk sergeant-major demeanour she associated with Miss Foster-Blake. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

  “Did you tell your parents?”

  “Fortunately no. They were talking about a girl of our acquaintance who finds herself in a similar condition, and their vitriol about her made it quite clear how my news would be received. They’d never forgive me.”

  “So what do you propose to do?”

  “I have no idea.” She stared down at her hands. “Absolutely no idea.”

  “Then maybe I can help,” Miss Foster-Blake said. “I have a friend who is on the board of governors of a home for girls like you. It’s in Somerset, in the hills, away from everywhere. And it’s run by nuns. You can keep working here as long as we are in operation and then go there until the child is born.”

  “And what happens to my baby?” Emily asked.

  “The nuns will find a suitable adoptive family for it. You can return home and nobody will ever know.”

  “But you don’t understand,” Emily said. “I am not going to give up my baby. I loved Robbie Kerr, and this child will be all I have left of him. I don’t care what it takes or what I have to do, but I am not going to give it up.”

  “But, my dear, please think logically. You have your whole life ahead of you. Such a bright future. What can you do if you are hampered by a child? How will you pay to feed it? Who will look after it when you work, and work you most certainly will.”

  “I don’t know,” Emily said. “I don’t know anything except I will not give it up. On the train back here, I wondered if I should go out to Australia. Maybe Robbie’s parents would like to meet their grandson, and might welcome me, too.”

  “And if they don’t? If they don’t accept the child is their son’s?”

  “Then I find myself some kind of employment in Australia. I can say I’m a war widow there.”

  “You certainly can’t travel in your condition,” Miss Foster-Blake said. “And how will you pay for your ticket?”

  “I brought my good pieces of jewellery with me,” Emily said. “I can sell those if I have to.”

  “I urge you to think this through carefully. Society is not kind to unmarried mothers. You don’t have friends or relatives who might take you in?”

  “My school friends have either married or are volunteering themselves. My best friend is a nurse in France.” She hesitated, wondering how Clarissa would accept her news. Surely Clarissa would not be shocked, after all she’d seen and been through. “Apart from that, it was always my parents’ friends. And no relatives, apart from aged great-aunts who would be just as disapproving as my parents.”

  “Then at least you should go to St Bridget’s home until the child is born. After that, you will have some serious decisions to make. I can’t say that I envy you.”

  Emily stood up. “I thank you for your concern,” she said, “and for trying to help, but I have to think this through for myself. I’ll let you know what I decide.” In the doorway, she turned back. “And please, I’d rather the other women didn’t know.”

  “Of course not,” Miss Foster-Blake said. “It’s up to you to tell them when you are ready. But I think you’ll find they are all on your side.”

  She went to her bedroom and climbed on to her upper bunk, where she sat, hugging her knees. Should she write to Robbie’s parents? Would they want to know about Robbie’s child? He had said he was telling his mother about her, but what exactly had he said? What if they thought she was just some girl he’d met, pleasant but not one he particularly cared about, and with no proof that the child was his? And as Miss Foster-Blake had said, she certainly couldn’t face that long sea journey alone in her condition, not knowing what might lie at the end. She’d wait until the baby was born, she decided, and then send Robbie’s parents a photograph. The absurdity of this struck her—that she should somehow have the money to have a photograph taken.

  She was about to lie down when she noticed a letter on her pillow from Clarissa. She tore it open and read swiftly down the page.

  You would expect that things might be winding down, now that the German operation has moved to the south and there is the last big push, but we are as busy as ever with an outbreak of influenza. The Spanish flu, they are calling it, and it is particularly aggressive. Grown men, healthy men catch this flu and are dead in a couple of days. The doctors are bewildered, and there seems to be little we can do to save these patients. I pray to God that it doesn’t reach England.

  The letter w
ent on, with Clarissa wanting to know more about Robbie, how he was doing and what were her wedding plans.

  If I’m to be a bridesmaid, please put me in blue. It goes so well with my eyes.

  The absurdity of this was too much for her. She closed her eyes to squeeze back tears. Could she write to Clarissa and tell her the truth? Then she decided Clarissa was someone she could tell. But not yet. Not today, when she was still overwhelmed with emotion. However her parents had behaved, they were her parents—and in spite of everything, she loved them. She knew she was walking away from the house she had grown up in, the security of her childhood. There would be no one to take care of her again.

  She was still lying on her bunk when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She looked up as a strange woman came in. Her hair was in a sleek dark pageboy bob with a straight fringe, and she was wearing red lipstick. Emily looked again, then sat up in surprise.

  “Alice?”

  “How do you like it?” Alice put her hand up to her hair. “We decided, since we were wearing bloomers, we’d go the whole hog and get our hair cut. Daisy and me went into the hairdresser in Tavistock yesterday, and then we went to the chemist and bought some lipstick and rouge.”

  “You look marvellous. So glamorous,” Emily said.

  Alice’s face became serious again. “How did it go at home then?”

  “It didn’t,” Emily replied. “It was awful, Alice.”

  “You told them then?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to. They launched into this long tirade about a friend’s daughter who is in the same condition as me. They said the most awful things. My father said if it were his daughter, he’d show her the door, cast her out . . .” Her voice quivered. “So I packed up some of my things and I left.”

  “I’m sorry, love,” Alice said. “You’ve gone through more than a human should bear. But don’t you worry, we won’t let you down.”

  “But what will we do when we leave here, Alice? You don’t have a place to go, do you?”