Songs of Spring

by Amy Myers

  Just one more push was all it needed to end this war.

  ‘Jokey’s done us proud with them lettuces,’ Percy announced, bringing three samples into the kitchen. ‘He told me in Germany they grow different sorts.’

  ‘They’re all lettuces, aren’t they?’ Margaret said. ‘To think that over there in Germany they’re growing the same as us.’

  Joachim had been granted special permission to give Percy a hand in the garden after he’d finished his supervised work at Lake’s Farm. In theory, he had a soldier detailed to look after him while he did so, but in practice it was usually a Land Girl, and sometimes he even came on his own. Margaret had grown quite fond of him in a way; he was a quiet lad, rather like Joe. She tried not to think about Joe, for the thought of another telegram made her sick with fear. He was still with the 5th Sussex on dangerous pioneer work, and Muriel said he was up in the north of Italy somewhere. It was a long way away, and the thought of his one day coming marching home again made her so dizzy with happiness she had to dismiss it instantly in case it never happened. Over in Germany some poor woman was probably thinking the same about Jokey.

  ‘After all,’ Lizzie had said about Joachim, ‘where would he run to? He’d be mown down long before he reached the seaside.’

  ‘Mown down? Only by a steamroller,’ Margaret had snorted. ‘We don’t have no Minenwerfer in Sussex.’

  ‘There’s something Jokey wants to ask you, Margaret,’ Percy announced, and Joachim appeared nervously behind Percy.

  ‘What is that, Jokey?’

  ‘There is a shed in your garden. It has carved animals in it. And carving tools.’

  Margaret went cold. ‘You’ve been in Fred’s shed, Jokey?’ she asked grimly. No one went in there save her and Percy and the family, though even they seldom trespassed.

  ‘Nein,’ he said hastily, ‘I look through windows. I like animals. I like carving.’

  ‘You do, do you?’ Her amazement was almost rude.

  ‘Ja. At home I carve animals too.’

  ‘Like I said, that’s Fred’s shed.’ Margaret spoke so sharply that Joachim backed hastily out of the kitchen, and she had to call him back. ‘I’ll think about it, Jokey.’

  His face was so delighted she thought maybe he’d misunderstood her. ‘Only think, I said,’ she added. She was thinking very quickly, however. There were knives in there. The next Tunbridge Wells sitting, however, wasn’t for another three weeks, so she couldn’t ask Fred’s advice. Anyway, couldn’t she guess what Fred would say? He’d nod vigorously, grinning in his old way. He liked company. She remembered the way Miss Felicia had sat with him for hours on end while he carved, and helped him look after wounded birds and animals.

  ‘All right. You can go in,’ she suddenly shouted aggressively, so Jokey wouldn’t think she was soft.

  Joachim took it from the tone of her voice that he was being refused, and scuttled hastily to the door once more.

  ‘Wait a minute, young man,’ she bawled, and he stopped in his tracks. ‘You follow me.’ Margaret took the precious key and marched down the garden path towards Fred’s shed, with Joachim following nervously behind. Carefully, hands trembling slightly, she unlocked it and threw the door open. There were all Fred’s animals and birds, just as if he were still here. And perhaps he was. ‘There, see what you can do, Jokey. You’ll find some spare wood around.’

  She left him to it, for she couldn’t have stayed a second longer.

  Fred would have approved, wouldn’t he? Funnily enough, she didn’t seem so concerned as once she would have been. Perhaps it was because with Mrs Isabel’s death, creating a little happiness seemed more important. Margaret even found herself wondering if everything Raymond said could be relied on. The medium had said some very odd things, and Margaret still wasn’t quite sure why Fred couldn’t speak to her directly instead of through that Egyptian slave and the medium. The Rector had been very grateful to her for telling him about Raymond, but she had a feeling he still didn’t approve.

  Perhaps with Joachim using the shed she might come to terms with it all. Perhaps it wasn’t right to close herself up so much against the world. She should throw open her own doors like this shed, and let a bit of life into herself. See what she could do to cheer the Rectory up. Poor Mrs Lilley was like a ghost, she was so thin now. The Rector was getting greyer by the day and more silent.

  Now most families had suffered bereavement, people had given up wearing black and often they didn’t even wear armbands. Margaret wondered if people in Germany felt like they did. Odd really. When this war started, she’d only thought of Germany as the place where the Kaiser lived. She thought of it quite differently now she knew people were over there struggling to grow food to eat and battling with grief, just like they were here.

  Agnes came slowly into the kitchen, with her beeswax polish and cloth, looking as if even a touch of elbow grease was too much for her.

  ‘Sit down, Agnes. I’ll make some tea. You look all washed up.’

  ‘The baby kept me awake last night – it looks as if her good period is over. And I had another letter from Jamie, not so happy as usual. All this to and fro-ing has knocked the stuffing out of the Tommies’ morale, and it’s made worse by the miners and engineers being on strike here.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem right, does it?’ Margaret sympathised there. You never knew who was going on strike next these days. ‘There’s men out there fighting for their homeland, and there’s them exempted from call-up because of their job, then refusing to do it so that the men at the front are short of ammunition.’

  ‘I keep thinking my Jamie might be killed all because of them.’ Agnes burst into tears.

  This was something Margaret could deal with. She slid a cup of tea in front of the weeping girl. ‘Now, Agnes, you’re overtired. Anyway, I read that Winston Churchill is going to have them called up if they don’t go back to work.’

  ‘And a good job too,’ Agnes said fiercely, wiping her eyes, and managing a giggle. ‘Suppose you went on strike from your Food Economy classes?’

  George circled over base. He was keyed up and exhausted. The RFC – no, RAF – he still found it difficult to think of the force under its new name – was doing its best to slow down the enemy advance. They were still raining down bombs like Mrs Dibble’s rock cakes, and though there were Fokkers and Pfalzes around in plenty, especially in the evenings, nothing was going to stop them from raining down thousands more. Today the squadron had bombed Epinoy Aerodrome in company with 3 Squadron and two others, and George was carried away with the thrill of success. Their 25-pounders had set not only hangars on fire, but enemy machines. One of them was thanks to the Major who had dived down to within ten feet to hit a Pfalz scout, and the plumes of smoke from workshops had filled George with fierce glee.

  He landed his kite back on the bumpy grass, and to stretch his legs decided to stroll over the rough field to its perimeter. By the ditch at the far side, almost hidden by undergrowth, he stumbled across a wooden cross, and sick with horror George realised he was standing on a grave. This land had been fought over many times and there was nothing to indicate whether the occupant of this grave was British, French or German. And did it matter? George wondered wearily. Known unto God, wasn’t that the phrase? Just some soldier, who would never laugh again. Who died for what he believed was right. Or maybe he hadn’t even believed that. Soldiers fought on for they had no option, whether illusions of patriotism had died or not. The Tommies were still convinced they were fighting for right, however, and that increased their bitterness that strikers back home, so far from supporting them, were ready to starve them of the tools to fight with, for their own selfish reasons.

  George swore softly to himself, and promised this unknown soldier that the tide was beginning to turn. Soon it would all be over.

  ‘I,’ Caroline proclaimed unsteadily, ‘am twenty-six years old.’ To compensate for Felicia’s absence on Sunday, they were having a belated sisterly gathering at Monico’s.
Phoebe had not come to the picnic either in order to avoid wartime train travel.

  ‘Plus three days,’ Phoebe added practically.

  ‘Don’t be smug. Just because you’re having a baby it doesn’t mean elder sisters don’t have the right to live.’ Caroline stopped, appalled at what she had said. Two glasses of indifferent wine and she lost guard of her words so easily.

  ‘It’s all right, Caroline,’ Felicia said quickly, seeing her ashen face.

  ‘It isn’t,’ Caroline replied fiercely. ‘How could I have said that?’

  ‘As easily,’ Phoebe said comfortably, ‘as I can think of my baby with happiness. As easily as if Isabel were here with us in the flesh as well as in spirit. How’s Mother?’ she asked, to change the subject.

  ‘She did her best to be birthday-like, but I think she’s still in shock,’ Caroline replied.

  ‘What comes after the shock?’

  ‘In Mother’s case,’ Felicia said soberly, ‘the pain.’

  Caroline sighed. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Phoebe’s baby will help rouse her.’

  ‘But that’s months away,’ Phoebe objected. ‘She can’t go on like this till January—’ She looked from one stunned face to another.

  ‘You told us November.’ Felicia was the first to speak.

  ‘Yes,’ Phoebe said quickly. ‘It may be a week or two late though.’

  ‘It’s elephants take a couple of years to produce their young, not you,’ Caroline said scathingly. ‘Just when is your baby going to be born?’

  Phoebe toyed with her minuscule chop. ‘Actually,’ she finally said, ‘it’s due in mid January.’

  ‘Mathematics isn’t my strong point,’ Caroline said crossly, ‘but that means your baby started its existence in mid April?’

  ‘Yes,’ Phoebe muttered.

  ‘Which is when you were married.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you mean to say’ – Caroline was furious – ‘that when Billy went down to confess all to Father, there was no baby?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did Billy think there was?’

  ‘No,’ Phoebe retorted indignantly, ‘that wouldn’t have been fair.’

  ‘Fair!’ Felicia and Caroline shouted together, and a few curious faces turned to look at them. The level of noise in the restaurant was high, fortunately.

  ‘Phoebe,’ said Caroline grimly, ‘of all the dotty things you’ve done, this takes the cake.’

  ‘I second that,’ Felicia agreed. ‘Do you ever think of anyone else? What do you think the effect on Father and Mother will be when they find out, or are you hoping it may escape their notice that your baby is two months late?’

  ‘It was Father’s fault,’ Phoebe rejoined, looking injured. ‘He wouldn’t let me get married when I wanted to just because Billy is divorced. He was going to be foul about it whether I married in April or after my birthday in June.’

  ‘But weren’t you being a little unfair on Billy?’ Felicia asked.

  ‘It did take a lot to talk him round,’ Phoebe admitted, ‘but even he agreed there’d be an almighty row sooner or later with Father, so why not have it now and we could get married when we wanted to.’

  ‘The deceit!’ Caroline was appalled. ‘And the hurt, that’s why it’s not honest.’

  ‘Like you living with Yves as his wife and letting the parents think you were just working with him?’

  ‘That’s different,’ Caroline cried. ‘That was to save them hurt.’

  ‘Didn’t succeed, did it?’ Phoebe answered smugly.

  ‘Phoebe, shut up,’ Felicia said swiftly, seeing Caroline on the verge of tears. ‘Pick on me if you have to. I’m not so vulnerable. You’ve behaved dreadfully to us all, and what Caroline said is quite right. What were you going to do if you hadn’t got pregnant, incidentally? Invent a miscarriage?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought as far as that.’

  ‘That’s your trouble, Phoebe. You never do think,’ Felicia said sharply.

  That set Phoebe off again. ‘And you do, I suppose. Very well, what do you think you’ll do after the war? Return to Ashden?’

  ‘I don’t believe I could,’ Felicia answered calmly.

  ‘Won’t you marry Daniel then?’

  Felicia promptly lost the battle. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t damned well know. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ Phoebe said sweetly.

  ‘I’ve had a letter from home,’ Caroline said jubilantly to Yves on 1st August. ‘George has been given a bar to his DSO. Isn’t that splendid?’

  ‘Good news indeed. Much needed.’

  He was right. There still seemed to be stalemate on the Western Front. June had seen yet another big raid on the Belgian clandestine newspaper La Libre Belgique, although once more it had resurrected itself. In July the Russian royal family had disappeared and there were many dark rumours over their fate. What worse news could August bring? Caroline wondered.

  It brought not bad news, but significantly good. On 8th August in a major new assault British tanks burst through the German lines at Amiens.

  Chapter Twelve

  Front doors were frightening while you were waiting outside for agonising long minutes before knowing whether the news inside was going to be good or bad. Caroline could hear her heart beating loudly, as she tried to restrain her imagination from fearing the worst. She hadn’t seen Phoebe since their quarrel at the end of July, nearly a month, but news that she was having trouble with the baby had brought her rushing over. At long last – or so it seemed – Judith, Phoebe’s general maid, opened the door. She had not been trained to deal with emergencies, and spoke by the book in her timidity.

  ‘What name shall I say, miss?’

  Caroline brushed her aside with a kindly, ‘You know me, Judith. Mrs Jones’ sister.’

  At the sound of her voice Billy came out from the morning room to greet her. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days – and probably hadn’t. He also looked somewhat shamefaced, since he must surely know that Phoebe had told her the truth.

  ‘How is she?’ Caroline asked. ‘I came as quickly as I could.’ Not more bad news, she could not bear it after all that had happened.

  ‘She’s all right, and so will the baby be if she rests.’ Billy was crying, but with relief, not grief.

  Thank you, God. Caroline made her own silent prayer of gratitude, and now that she knew all was well, Caroline felt the tears pricking at her own eyes. Another night summons, with all its awful recollections of May, had left her expecting the worst, since only the worst ever seemed to happen now. Each telephone call seemed to spell death or disaster, and Mrs Dibble hadn’t helped when she announced gloomily – though not in Father’s hearing – ‘There’ll be more bad luck, you’ll see. Troubles never come singly.’ A little Christian optimism and rather less Sussex superstition might be in order, Caroline felt. The night telephone call had convinced Caroline that Mrs Dibble was right, however, and it took some time for relief to relax the tension in her body.

  ‘Can I see her, Billy?’

  ‘She was dozing, but she may be awake by now.’

  Caroline still found it hard to think of Phoebe as the mistress of a house. Marriage had only worked some wonders, however, for the house, run with a cook and a general maid, bore distinct signs of Phoebe’s happy-go-lucky approach to the finer details of household management. Not that she could talk. There were many times at Queen Anne’s Gate that she silently cried out for the help of Mrs Dibble, since Ellen’s household expertise was roughly on a par with Isabel’s. This unbidden recollection sent a fervent rush of gratitude through her that Phoebe’s baby was safe, and she pushed open the bedroom door quietly.

  Phoebe’s dark hair was spread out around her, and her eyes were closed. The normally pink-cheeked complexion was pale, and lying unaware of Caroline’s presence, she bore little resemblance to the sister she had grown up with. Then she opened her eyes, and Phoebe was back, grinning with pleasure.
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  ‘I saved it,’ she crowed. ‘All by myself. The midwife said I was a born mother. I didn’t need Felicia to nurse me.’

  ‘Felicia doesn’t get much call for miscarriages,’ Caroline managed to joke.

  ‘It wasn’t a miscarriage. Although,’ Phoebe admitted, ‘it was nearly. I have to stay in bed for at least two weeks. Isn’t that awful? I wanted to go on Billy’s next tour in France.’

  ‘It will be a chance to catch up on your reading.’ Caroline tried to keep a straight face. Phoebe was notorious for her lack of interest in books.

  Phoebe’s face grew even longer, then brightened. ‘I thought I might embroider some cushion covers. Mother could teach me. Is she coming up?’

  ‘I haven’t told her yet, darling. I wanted to be able to assure her you were all right.’

  ‘Oh.’ Phoebe sighed. ‘I suppose it’s selfish to expect her to come rushing up when travelling is so difficult nowadays. She could stay here though. Do you think she would? If you could persuade her, I promise I’ll confess my dastardly deed to her.’

  Caroline looked at Phoebe’s wistful face, then thought of her mother’s dazed grief over Isabel. ‘Do you know, Phoebe, I think it might be just the very thing she needs.’

  ‘Mrs Dibble!’

  Margaret looked up in astonishment. Mrs Lilley actually sounded a little like her old self. She hadn’t heard that note of excitement in her voice since it had all happened, and here was the mistress hurrying into her kitchen just like she used to.

  ‘Mrs Phoebe isn’t well, Mrs Dibble. Caroline thinks it would help if I spent a few days there to ensure she does exactly what the midwife orders. My husband agrees. Do you think you can manage without me for a little while?’ Elizabeth asked anxiously.

  It was hard for Margaret to keep a straight face. Poor Mrs Lilley was more hindrance than help nowadays; half the time she was unarranging everything that Margaret had just arranged. She had tried to help out with the shopping one day when Lady Buckford had one of her officers’ parties in the drawing room, and had managed to use a whole month’s sugar allowance. These newfangled ration books took some getting used to, even for those with all their wits about them, and Mrs Lilley was as scatterbrained as dear Mrs Phoebe at present.