by Amy Myers
He didn’t score on this patrol and that vexed him. If he was going to die, he wanted to take a few more of the enemy with him first. He landed the aircraft skilfully, bumping over the rough grass, and then strolled over to join the mechanics. Preoccupied, he did not notice the subdued atmosphere for a while. When he did, he asked: ‘What’s up?’
‘McCudden’s gone west, sir.’
‘The McCudden?’ George repeated incredulously. ‘You mean he’s dead?’
For a moment he was sure he’d got the wrong end of the stick. James McCudden, with his scores of victories, was immortal. It was only in March he’d left 56 Squadron, where George had known him well, and then he’d been awarded the VC in April. A week or two ago he’d returned to France to join 60 Squadron. Now he too had gone. ‘How did it happen?’ he asked dully.
‘Accident, sir. Engine failure, they think. Just after he took off.’
George was angry. How could mere chance take McCudden, just as it had taken Isabel and Nanny Oates? And what right had he, George Lilley, to have contemplated death with such inevitability when death could reach out and pluck whom it wished?
From now on, he vowed, death would have a fight on its hands, and so would the enemy. After the war, which the Allies would surely win now, he would concentrate on his career as a cartoonist, take Florence to the Rectory, marry her if he were lucky enough, and have children of his own. The first daughter would be Isabel, and the first son would be called James.
Any moment now the train would be steaming out of the station, King George and Queen Mary would return to Buckingham Palace, the band stop playing and the guard of honour of the Reserve Battalion of the Scots Guards depart. Yves would cease to be in attendance on King Albert twenty-four hours a day, and life could resume some sort of normality again. Caroline Lilley was merely allowed to join the small crowd permitted within Charing Cross Station itself as the very grand Colonel Rosier’s WAAC clerk, of course. He had just been promoted by King Albert. It was less than a week since the King and Queen Elisabeth had arrived in two separate seaplanes from Calais to begin their hectic visit. Their method of arrival had been one of the best-kept secrets, as a security measure. Their visit had begun with the celebrations for the silver wedding anniversary of King George and Queen Mary on the Saturday, then they had rushed up to Scotland to review the battleship squadron in the Firth of Forth, returning yesterday to sit in on a War Committee session with Lloyd George.
Caroline had not seen Yves since their arrival until he hurried in yesterday evening to sweep her off to a superb evening concert with a Belgian band at the Albert Hall, in honour of the Belgian King and Queen in the royal box. Lord Curzon had given a speech praising King Albert as ‘a king among men and a man among kings,’ which had pleased Yves (and presumably the King) mightily. When the Belgian national anthem was played, she had even detected a tear in Yves’ eye, and saw he was beginning to relax at last. It had been vital that everything went well, since wholehearted Belgian support was essential if the Allies were to withstand the German onslaught.
‘It’s been a successful visit,’ she remarked to Yves at breakfast the next morning, ‘thanks to you.’
He had shrugged off his own sterling efforts, but was evidently pleased at her approbation, and had asked her to come today to see King George and Queen Mary bid farewell to their guests. He made his way towards her as the dignitaries left.
‘Shall we take lunch at the Ritz to celebrate? A little foie gras or caviare?’
It was a well-worn joke. A celebration meal anywhere was impossible nowadays, and a game of pretence over the deliciousness of the repast was the easiest way of making the best of things.
It wasn’t the Ritz, nor even Gambrinus. Everywhere was packed out and they ended up at a war kitchen where the cooking vied with Ellen’s for monotony.
‘What’s worrying you, Yves?’ He clearly had not completely relaxed after all.
‘You are right as always, cara. You know me well.’
Did she? Sometimes she thought so, but not often now. She could not read his silences with accuracy, for her own emotions clouded her mind.
‘His Majesty had information from Belgian forced workers who had managed to cross the Yser to the Belgian army,’ he continued, ‘and it confirms La Dame Blanche’s reports. Ludendorff is building up his forces opposite our army and your Second Army to an even greater extent than we thought. Von Arnim now has fourteen divisions, five of them facing the right of our army. His Majesty is convinced this means an imminent new assault on our lines, but I do not agree. Ludendorff must succeed further south before he tackles the north.’
Caroline had nothing to contribute to this but dismay. On and on it went. How could Yves think that the war would be over this year? If Ludendorff broke through to Paris it would indeed be over, but not with an Allied victory. And either way she would be without Yves. Her stomach lurched with love as he smiled at her. How could she live without him, either emotionally or physically? He had awakened her body, so how could she command it to sleep again and expect it to obey? ‘Suppose Ludendorff—?’
He laid his hands gently over hers, and she stared down at them, ashamed of her depression. She remembered those hands as they had first come into her life outside the Gaiety Theatre. His hands to her were like van Gogh’s painting of boots, she thought crazily. They revealed Yves’ whole life and being.
‘There are no ifs, no supposes between us, cara.’
‘But—’
‘Nor buts either.’
‘It is hard, Yves.’
‘For both of us, cara. Does that not make it easier, that we share it?’
She longed to say yes, but she could not, for it was not true.
On the following evening, Yves did not return from the office for dinner as promised, nor had he arrived by midnight. She went to bed, but lay awake wondering what new emergency might have arisen. The darkness lent fuel to her imaginings – had the King been assassinated? Had Yves had to parachute into occupied Belgium? By the time he arrived, she was wide awake. ‘Tell me what’s happened,’ she insisted.
‘Not at two o’clock in the morning,’ he pleaded.
‘Tell me.’
He surrendered. ‘There’ve been serious developments.’
A shiver ran down her despite the warmth of Yves’ arms, and she wished she had not asked. In the morning this would be work. At night, far more; it meant the survival of home and all she held dear.
‘We know Ludendorff will attack the French and American sector near Château-Thierry once more on the 15th. Some POWs have spilt the milk.’
‘Beans, actually.’
‘Je m’excuse?’
She giggled, then realised that even in bed this news should be taken seriously. ‘Then George will be safe.’
‘Von Arnim has brought in the Minenwerfer and so His Majesty fears that the Champagne assault will be a diversionary one and that the main attack will be on the Belgian and British Fronts.’
Chapter Eleven
‘You’re looking happy, Agnes. Little Isabel stay asleep all night, did she? She’s a good little girl.’
More than her namesake had been, Margaret remembered. It was true Mrs Isabel had been a year old when she and Percy came to the Rectory, but the din she used to make then suggested poor Mrs Lilley had found her a handful in the early months, and Nanny Oates couldn’t have been much help. Belatedly, Margaret remembered her old enemy had met a terrible end, and conscience-stricken, she made a silent prayer of apology. She had the uneasy thought that perhaps the fact that Nanny had already been installed here when the Dibbles arrived might have had something to do with their never seeing eye to eye. Another prayer would be in order tonight. Tragedy brought reconciliations. For the first time in living memory the Mutters and Thorns had not only sworn a truce after one of each family had been killed on Bankside, but resolved never to feud again. The Rector had been delighted, but Percy said once a Mutter, always a Mutter.
‘
Yes, she did, but that’s not the reason I’m happy.’ Agnes glowed. ‘I’ve had a letter from Jamie. I was beginning to worry because I’d heard nothing.’
‘What’s he got to say for himself?’
Jamie was still on the Western Front with the 7th Sussex. Field Marshal Haig had said they had to fight with their backs to the wall, but the way things were going they’d soon have their backs to the seaside.
‘He sounds cheerful – like he always does. He doesn’t want me to worry, he says. We’re going to win the war and that’s that.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see raisins back in the shops,’ Margaret said grimly.
Agnes was lost in her usual dream in which she lived in a home of her own with Jamie and the two kiddies. She sighed. A little confidence that the dream would come true was no bad thing, but a little evidence that Jamie was right about the war would be better. Like the troops sang, ‘Oh my, I don’t want to die, I want to go home.’
‘So will I. They’ve been saying it will be over by Christmas ever since 1914,’ she said bitterly.
Margaret had no comfort to give, though she tried. ‘Just one more push is all it needs.’
‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’
London theatre shows were hardly of the high quality of previous years. With the capital packed with every nationality under the sun, all seeking escape in entertainment, this was to be expected. Even so, Felicia’s obvious lack of interest in The Boy, which was a musical adaptation of a Pinero play, surprised Caroline. It was better than most current offerings.
Felicia shrugged apologetically as Caroline handed her her drink in the Adelphi bar. ‘The last play I saw in London was Chu Chin Chow two years ago. Remember? All I’ve seen since are the occasional travelling plays or revues for the forces if I happened to be at the right place at the right time. I even saw Phoebe’s beloved Billy once. Odd, isn’t it? Phoebe seems to have found happiness at last, and yet of all of us she seemed the least likely to do so.’
‘She’s getting very bored with staying at home as a lady-in-waiting.’
Billy had put his foot down, much to Phoebe’s annoyance, and forbidden her to continue her driving work either here or abroad. For the sake of the baby she had reluctantly agreed it was sensible.
‘She’s only been at home a week or two. She told me she was getting bored out of her mind, and certainly she still looks fit enough. You’d hardly know she was pregnant.’
‘Bored? What a surprise.’ Felicia laughed. ‘I’m glad Phoebe hasn’t changed completely. Anyway, you’re out of date. She’s got a new project.’
‘Tell me the worst,’ Caroline groaned, remembering Phoebe’s venture at Ashden. ‘What’s she doing? Serving lemonade outside Victoria Station?’
‘No. She is still driving, but she’s come to a compromise with Billy. She’s taking convalescent soldiers to wherever Billy’s singing in London. There’d be too much competition from the WVS for her to serve teas and lemonade. Not much room for individual effort now,’ Felicia added ruefully.
‘It’s the overall effort that’s the vital one.’
‘Don’t be sanctimonious,’ Felicia replied amiably.
‘Why not? You are.’
‘Am I?’ Felicia was taken aback. ‘I never used to be.’
‘I suppose,’ Caroline said thoughtfully, ‘it’s the war caused that, not just for you and me, but for most women. We began the war with a fight to gain recognition that we had a wider role to play in it than the traditional female one, and now we’ve proved we can do most things just as well as men, and we’re indispensable, smugness is the result. It will be interesting to see what everyone does after the war – retreat into the home nest or spread our fledgling wings further.’
‘In our different ways I think the home nest is ruled out for both of us, don’t you agree?’
‘I don’t know.’ Caroline felt bruised at another reminder of a future she dared not think about too deeply. Why couldn’t everyone just keep quiet about it, till it happened?
Felicia must have noticed, for she compensated with surprising openness. ‘Luke’s asked me to marry him two days after the war’s over.’
‘Ah. And have you accepted?’
‘Ever seen an ostrich?’
Caroline laughed. ‘Indeed I have. Our heads will collide in the ground. I’m as bad as you. I just daren’t think beyond the end of the war.’
‘That may not be good.’
‘Look who’s talking.’
‘I don’t know what to do, Caroline. I love Luke in one way, Daniel in quite another. He’s part of me. Luke wants to marry me, Daniel won’t.’
‘It seems obvious from that which way you would like to jump. Are you still seeing Daniel?’ Felicia never mentioned him, so Caroline could not resist this opportunity to ask.
‘I’ve seen him twice since I’ve been in London, which at least is more often than when I was at Ashden. I suppose he feels now he’s done his bit by bringing me back to England, he can walk out of my life again. I know it can’t be easy for him, because he does care for me. So much in fact that he wants me to forget all about him, and marry Luke. Whatever I say I can’t persuade him that I can live without children and without physical love; he thinks I’m just being noble. He doesn’t credit me even now for knowing my own mind.’ It was the first time Felicia had confirmed what Caroline and Luke had suspected.
‘He probably does, but he’s thinking of your best interests.’
‘I decide that,’ said Felicia firmly. ‘Not Daniel.’
‘He does have a say in it.’ Caroline felt torn by the problem, fond as she was of both Luke and Daniel. ‘Is Luke coming to Ashden for my birthday party on Sunday?’
‘Ah. I’m sorry, Caroline. I forgot to tell you. I can’t come. I’m on duty, and though I tackled the Medusa’ – her name for her bête noire at Endell Street – ‘she set the snakes on me.’
Caroline tried to hide her disappointment. This year of all years she had wanted to spend her birthday not only with Yves but with her sisters and parents at the Rectory.
‘I can’t wait for the war to end,’ Felicia continued viciously, ‘so I can tell Medusa what I really think of her. Stupid, isn’t it? Longing for it to end, and at the same time dreading it, and you must be in the same boat. When does Yves think it will be over, this year or next?’
‘This year,’ Caroline replied bleakly. ‘It looks as if Ludendorff’s latest offensive isn’t going too well. To turn the tide just needs one more push.’ It had indeed been on the Château-Thierry Front, and thanks to good intelligence and a brilliant deception thought up by the French, the initial attack had not been as successful as the Germans had planned. They were forging ahead now though, and had to be stopped.
Caroline pored over their copy of the Order of Battle compiled by GHQ Intelligence in Montreuil from the information they gathered from all quarters.
‘They think now the German attack in Champagne has failed’ – the French–American counter-attack had reclaimed the whole of the Château-Thierry area – ‘that the chances of their continuing as planned to strike in the north are nil. Do you think that’s reliable, Luke?’
‘It was partly based on the lack of troop trains and other transport reported via us from La Dame Blanche,’ Luke replied drily.
Caroline shook her head. ‘Of course. I’d forgotten.’
‘WAACs aren’t supposed to forget. Their job is to remember everything that we forget,’ Luke proclaimed. ‘Incidentally Felicia’s invited me to your birthday party.’
‘You haven’t heard, then. She’s on duty that evening.’
‘You won’t want me then.’ He looked cast down, and she hastened to reassure him.
‘It will be a family picnic, and of course you must come. It’s – it used to be great fun. We’ve abandoned picnics while the war’s been on, but I felt we should all be together, this year of all years!’ Memories of past birthdays swamped her mind, Isabel falling over the tree trunk flat on her
face into the pond, a young Isabel climbing the tree and crying out: ‘Look at me. I’m beautiful and so is the tree,’ Isabel kissing her crying, ‘Oh, I’m glad I have such a lovely sister,’ Isabel …
She stared down at the Order of Battle but she could no longer see it for the tears in her eyes. She had seen so many horrors in the last few years, and had believed nothing could touch her any more. How could Fate have had one more cruel trick up its sleeve? She knew families must be saying that all over the world, but what help was that?
George almost stumbled into the mess with tiredness. They were in action day and night on offensive patrols and bombing raids, now that the British were attacking on the Flanders Front. They were raining bombs down behind the enemy lines, and it was clear that the RAF’s contribution to the battle was crucial. The CO had said the clack was that the war wouldn’t end till 1919, but that Haig was determined to make it 1918. If there was anything George Lilley could do to help that, he would. He began to plan a cartoon of Ludendorff and the Kaiser cancelling plans to spend Christmas in Buckingham Palace. That way he could divorce himself from the grim reality of his daily life. He had not seen Florence for two weeks now, and he hardly cared, for he was so tired. Soon, they would be together for ever.
