by Amy Myers
‘Does Rector know you went?’
‘Officially no, but Mother did – and I’m sure she’ll tell him. It was such a lovely day.’
Mrs Isabel needed a lovely day or two in Margaret’s opinion. She was doing too much, and despite her relief at finding out Mr Robert was alive, knowing he was a prisoner of war must make her anxious. There was no knowing if he was getting enough – or anything – to eat, and it made Margaret feel all the better that she had taken the initiative about feeding Joachim. She had to admit he and his chums were well behaved for Germans, and it turned out they knew all about rectories and what was expected in them. She wondered what life was like in Germany, and if it was as hard as it was here nowadays. She couldn’t believe it was, because they had occupied all those other countries, and pinched all their food. If they were short, however, their POWs would be suffering just like Joachim.
‘Phoebe looked beautiful,’ Mrs Isabel said. ‘Caroline did well in choosing the dress, even though I wasn’t there. I was afraid Phoebe would pick some awful khaki or grey thing just because they’re fashionable, but lilac suited her. I took some photographs so I’ll show you them when they’re developed.’
‘What happens in those registry office weddings?’
‘They had a similar service.’
Margaret sniffed. ‘Without God? He wasn’t a witness, was He?’
‘I think He was there,’ Isabel replied seriously. ‘If you could have seen how happy Phoebe and Billy were, you’d think so too. I remembered my own wedding. When Robert comes home …’ she managed to laugh, ‘whenever that will be, I won’t be a young bride any more. I’ll be a middle-aged matronly mother.’
‘Not you, Mrs Isabel,’ Margaret said comfortingly. ‘You’ll stay the same whatever age you are. Some folks start out life old, and some stay young. You’re one of the latter.’
‘Oh, Mrs Dibble, what a comfort you are. I could kiss you for saying that. In fact, I think I will.’ She jumped up, planted a kiss on Margaret’s suddenly pink cheek, and sat down again. ‘Anyway, after the wedding, we went to the Carlton Hotel and had a really nice afternoon. There were only about twenty or so of us. Patricia Swinford-Browne was there, which was nice. You should see her now. She makes a terrifying policewoman. I don’t think any man would dare marry her, she’s so forceful. Billy didn’t want the London stage folk present, so there was just his family. He sang love songs to Phoebe, and then at the end Phoebe said she wanted to sing a song to him.’
‘But Miss Phoebe has a voice like a corncrake.’
‘It didn’t matter, she sang “I’ll walk beside you”, in a sort of half-speaking, half-singing voice, and Billy nearly cried with happiness. I do like him, Mrs Dibble, and I’m sure Father and Mother would if only things were different.’
‘If all the if-onlys in the world came true—’ Margaret began.
‘I know,’ Isabel finished for her, ‘Oscar would be flying.’
‘Elizabeth?’ Laurence came into the glory-hole unexpectedly to find his wife in tears. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, Laurence.’ She blew her nose and sat up straight. ‘It’s only Isabel’s photographs of the wedding.’
‘Ah.’ Laurence looked at them lying on Elizabeth’s littered table, slowly his hand stretched out to pick them up, and his heart wrenched as he saw his daughter clutching Billy’s arm, smiling up at him.
‘She looks lovely, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Laurence put the photograph down and pulled up a chair to Elizabeth’s side, a difficult manoeuvre in the glory-hole. He took her hands in his. ‘What else could I do?’ he asked quietly.
‘What else could we do? Were we wrong not to go?’
‘On balance no, but balancing is hard. I couldn’t withhold my consent, when there is the coming child to consider, but to have attended when I’ve upheld the indissolubility of marriage all my life would have been hypocritical.’
‘And for me too. And yet … Why are these decisions so difficult?’
‘I suppose because God did not promise us an easy path out of Eden.’
‘What shall we do now, though? Surely this doesn’t mean we’ll never see them again? That’s too cruel, and you liked Mr Jones.’
‘Like?’ Laurence fired up. ‘How can I like a man who seduces an underage girl?’
‘She loves him. As Caroline loves Captain Rosier.’
‘That is not enough, and you agreed with me.’
‘And suppose I’ve changed my mind? Suppose it is enough for me? Answer me, Laurence,’ Elizabeth said sharply, when he did not speak. ‘War is cruel enough. Do we have to make it worse?’
‘We cannot sanction unions unblessed by God under the Rectory roof.’
‘Under their roof, then? Can we not at least visit them?’
Laurence did not reply immediately, and when he did his voice was drained. ‘I don’t know, and if God does, then He hasn’t yet shown me the answer.’
‘You are hard, Laurence.’
He raised his face full of agony to her. ‘Do you think this is easy for me?’
‘You really must do something about your clothes, Felicia.’ When her sister did not reply, Isabel added, ‘I’m not just being big-sister-ish, I mean it. Agnes can help.’ Then it dawned on her that Felicia was looking very peaky again. ‘Are you sickening for something?’ she demanded.
‘I’m just tired.’ Felicia sat in the chair by her bedroom window, while Isabel continued to rummage through her wardrobe, as self-appointed fashion expert of the household.
‘Nearly all of these could go straight to Mother’s glory-hole for needy causes.’
‘I’m a needy cause,’ Felicia answered, with a glimmer of humour.
Isabel took her seriously. ‘I can help you. After all, you can afford it with your wages. Why don’t we go on a shopping expedition to Tunbridge Wells?’ She grimaced, picking up an ancient dinner gown with distaste. ‘I remember this from before the war.’
‘Myrtle shortened it for me.’
‘I suppose you didn’t have the nerve to ask Agnes.’ Isabel inspected the hem. ‘She’d have consigned it to the ragbag straight away. Shall we go to the Wells?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ Isabel asked indignantly.
‘Partly because you are having a baby and partly because I might as well get them in London.’
‘London?’ Slowly it began to dawn on Isabel that something really was wrong.
‘I’ve been asked to leave Ashden Manor,’ Felicia continued.
Isabel stared at her in disbelief. ‘But they are so proud to have you.’
‘The Matron isn’t. It’s my fault, I suppose. Daniel warned me it would happen, if I wasn’t diplomatic. I’ve become so used to doing things my way, and though I tried to adapt I can’t have succeeded. Matron and I didn’t see eye to eye.’
‘Surely it will blow over.’
‘It may, but I won’t. I’ve decided what I’m going to do. If I stay here I shall feel honour-bound to help Mother with the agricultural rotas, not my forte at all. So I’m going to London to join Tilly at Red Cross HQ until I’m completely fit and then I’ll go back to the front.’
‘What?’ Isabel burst into tears. ‘Oh, but you can’t. I’ll be all on my own here again and with the baby coming.’
‘You’ll be fully occupied, Bella, and you’ll have Mother to help,’ Felicia said quietly.
‘No one calls me Bella but you,’ Isabel sobbed. ‘I don’t want to lose you now. Couldn’t you take over the cinema while I’m having the baby? You’d be much better than Beatrice Ryde.’
Felicia grinned. ‘No, darling, but thank you for your confidence in me. Anyway, you’re not losing me, I’m just going to work away from the Rectory again. Trains aren’t being abolished. I can come to visit you. And when the war ends—’
‘What will you do then?’ Isabel interrupted crossly. ‘Assuming the Kaiser isn’t giving you your orders by then – sorry, defeatist talk. All the same, this
is May, and we should be out making merry. Instead it’s the gloomiest month I can remember. The grass is green, the crops are growing, but on and on goes this beastly war.’ Isabel suddenly realised that Felicia had not yet answered her question. ‘Oh, of course, you’ll get married,’ she continued. ‘Will it be Daniel or Luke? Do tell.’
Felicia burst out laughing. ‘Even if I had plans to marry either of them, which I don’t, it still wouldn’t answer your question. Marriage isn’t the automatic alternative to giving up nursing.’
‘But if you went on nursing, you’d just have a series of matrons each more formidable than the last.’
‘Eventually I’d become a matron myself, you see. That’s a temptation.’
‘You’re joking,’ Isabel said suspiciously.
‘Perhaps.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘I’ll stay here till Whitsun on 19th May. And don’t worry, I can always come down to deliver the baby if Mrs Hay isn’t about.’
Isabel laughed. ‘Now I know you’re joking. That’s something you can’t have had experience of on the front line.’
‘You are wrong,’ Felicia replied with dignity. ‘There is a pair of twins called Felix and Felicie in a small French village who owe their existence to me.’
‘Was Luke or Daniel the father?’
‘Very amusing. I delivered them.’
A party would take her mind off the gloom everywhere. Margaret was pleased. Besides her, it would cheer the Rectory up. Easter had passed in a gloomy state, despite a bit of lamb on the table, but it didn’t seem the same. Easter had been on the early side this year, and thanks to the cold weather, there weren’t even enough primroses around for the primrose pie, and they’d had to make do with Sussex pudding. But Whitsun would be a different matter. As luck would have it, Miss Felicia had to be on duty even on her last day at Ashden Manor, and wouldn’t be home until seven o’clock, leaving precious little time for a family party, but nevertheless there would be a nice little gathering. Mrs Isabel, Mr Daniel, Lady Hunney, Lady Buckford, and the Rector’s brother and his wife who would be staying for the weekend, and there was talk of Master George being home on leave.
Nanny Oates would be hobbling over from her cottage, of that Margaret was quite sure. You wouldn’t catch Nanny missing out on her exalted place at the table. She and Nanny Oates had never got on, though they tolerated each other now.
Margaret had to admit she was a game old bird; she’d recovered from her stroke and had taken up selling her eggs again for the war effort. That wasn’t bad for an old lady in her eighties. She’d even volunteered to donate Queen Berengaria for the party – her chickens were all named after queens of England – and Rector had accepted gratefully. Margaret kept to herself her suspicion that Berengaria’s laying days were over, and that was why Nanny was ready to sacrifice her. Lady Hunney was donating a nice fattened capon, and two bottles of wine from the cellar. Her ladyship liked Miss Felicia which was more than she did poor Miss Caroline, and Margaret often speculated as to whether she thought Miss Felicia (now she was famous) would make Mr Daniel a nice wife. Miss Felicia didn’t seem in a hurry to wed, though. Yes, a party was to be looked forward to, even though no party could be complete without Miss Caroline.
In Ashden the fields would be green, the hedgerows full of bluebells, the orchard gleaming pink with apple blossom. Even the Kaiser couldn’t stop that. London had its trees and flowers too, even with war restrictions, but it was not like Ashden where flowers grew to their own rules, not to ordered precision. May was a time for lovers to wander in the twilight with birds singing their spring songs, but where was hers? Caroline had not spoken to Yves, and indeed nor had Luke, and considering the pressure on the London–La Panne line it was hardly surprising. She had received several brief notes from Yves, however – much to her relief. They were, she knew, more than she deserved.
Work and more work stared her in the face daily. Luke was often away, and the daily train-watching reports from La Dame Blanche grew longer – a probable sign of the expected next push forward by the Germans.
‘I wonder if Ludendorff is playing a game with us,’ Luke complained, pushing a report over to her. ‘Look at this. Two divisions going not to Ypres but to Laon in the French sector.’
‘Do you think it’s to deceive us?’
‘That’s what the French believe.’ Luke sighed. ‘They always do. We receive intelligence, we share it with them, and they won’t believe it because it doesn’t come from their intelligence service.’
‘Yet it seems odd. They pushed so far ahead further north that surely they would try there again, not on the eastern French sector.’
‘No,’ Luke replied. ‘I think it all too likely after Amiens that they’re going for the River Marne in the east where they were so nearly successful in 1914.’
‘To take Paris?’
‘It’s the key to France. Why not one more go?’
‘The American situation is a factor.’ Last month Haig had issued his special order of the day urging the troops to fight to the end ‘with our backs to the wall’. Conscription had been extended to Ireland, and the age increased to fifty. Such was the shortage of men on the front and the dire emergency facing them that even Pershing had relented and offered some more of his precious troops to the Allied command.
‘Fortunately Pershing’s long-term intentions are as much of a mystery to Ludendorff as they are to us.’ Luke changed the subject. ‘What are you going to do for Whitsun?’
Caroline’s stomach lurched. Isabel had let the cat out of the bag about the party. ‘There’s still a week to go to the 19th. I’m hoping Yves will be back.’ At least she could celebrate it somehow.
‘You’re not going to the Rectory?’
‘How can I?’ Caroline asked wretchedly. ‘Whether Yves is here or not makes no difference really. The position is the same.’ A thought struck her. ‘Are you going?’
‘No. Daniel’s going. There’ll be plenty of chances for me to see her when she comes up to London, so I’m doing the gentlemanly thing and giving him a clear field.’
‘I don’t think Daniel would recognise a clear field, he seems determined to muddy it for himself.’
‘I can’t say I object to that.’
‘No.’ How complicated life was. Caroline decided she should shut her mind to the Rectory party and try to enjoy Whitsun in London. After all, Tilly and Penelope were in London. Ellen too might be at a loose end. And Luke would be here. She began to cheer up, although she returned home tired after a solid day of reports that produced nothing of excitement but merely contributed to the confused picture of where German reinforcements were building up. All in all, Luke was right. The French lines in the east were the destination of most of the reinforcements, who were new recruits from Germany. Any vestige of rising spirits was promptly dampened by Ellen’s cheerful announcement: ‘I’m going to see my folks at Whitsun. You can take over the cooking.’
‘A woman’s place,’ Caroline muttered savagely. Now she’d have to battle with queues at the Maypole Dairy and the ever-running campaign of attrition at the butcher’s. Rationing worked well, but you still had to queue and battle for the best. Ah well, perhaps London would be at least slightly in holiday mood. The lights had not dimmed for over two months now in London – this was another form of air raid warning to take cover in the Underground railway tunnels or house cellars.
‘Telephone call for you,’ Ellen sang out.
Caroline ran into their living room. ‘Probably a wrong number,’ she said gloomily.
But it wasn’t. It was the first time she had heard her mother’s voice since her visit to Ashden Hospital, three months ago. ‘Caroline,’ was all she said; her voice hesitant but warm.
Tears pricked at her eyes. Say something, she told herself. Anything. But she seemed frozen, and managed only a croak of ‘Mother.’
‘Caroline, do come to the party on Sunday evening. George is coming home on leave. We thought if you c
ame down with Phoebe – that’s if Billy and Yves don’t mind not coming—’ Her mother’s voice dropped as if even she realised how impossible her request was.
‘Mother, I can’t,’ Caroline stammered. ‘I’ll ask Phoebe, but I don’t imagine she would come either under that condition.’ She found herself choking. ‘I’m sorry.’
A sigh, a ‘We love you, Caroline,’ and the telephone receiver was hung up.
Caroline promptly burst into tears. How could she go? She couldn’t, and that was that.
‘Bad news?’ Ellen asked worriedly.
‘No. The old problem again.’
‘Families! Come on, let’s go out on the town.’
At twelve o’clock that Friday night, Caroline’s bedroom door opened. Always a light sleeper she turned over. ‘Ellen?’ she asked sleepily, then sensing it was a man, sat bolt upright. ‘Luke, what’s wrong?’
‘Not Luke,’ said a familiar voice.
‘Yves!’ she screamed, throwing aside the bedclothes and scrambling out. His arms enfolded her and swung her round. She could feel the buttons on his uniform pressing through her thin nightdress. He was really back and it was all right. ‘Oh, it’s going to be a wonderful Whitsun,’ she cried.
Margaret carefully turned the jelly out of the pineapple mould. Miss Felicia always liked jelly, and jelly she should have, even if pineapples were a thing of the past. Even Lady Buckford seemed in good form this evening, perhaps because his lordship, her eldest son, was here with his wife. There was another son too, Margaret had gathered, though Gerald was never spoken of, for to Lady Buckford he was even more of a black sheep than the Rector. He’d gone to America, and no one heard from him now. Families were funny things. Lady Buckford was even making the odd joke this evening, even if her idea of a joke was rarely shared by anyone else. Nanny wasn’t pleased to see Lady Buckford, for they’d crossed too many swords in their time when she was Rector’s nanny, but just for tonight it seemed they’d buried the hatchet. At the session in Tunbridge Wells yesterday, Fred had assured her they would have a lovely party this evening, and if Fred said so, who was she to disbelieve him?
